8/30/2009

Marie Antoinette Romances

Alexandre Dumas

Book One: Memoirs of a Physician

Book Two: The Queen's Necklace

Book Three: Ange Pitou (Taking the Bastille)

Book Four: Le Comtesse de Charny

Book Five: The Chevalier de Maison-Rouge

Memoirs of a Physician

Memoirs of a Physician

INTRODUCTORY.

CHAPTER I. THE STORM.

CHAPTER II. ALTHOTAS.

CHAPTER III. LORENZA FELICIANI.

CHAPTER IV. GILBERT.

CHAPTER V. THE BARON DE TAVERNEY.

CHAPTER VI. ANDREE DE TAVERNEY.

CHAPTER VII. EUREKA.

CHAPTER VIII. ATTRACTION.

CHAPTER IX. CLAIRVOYANCE.

CHAPTER X. NICOLE LEGAY.

CHAPTER XI. WAITING-MAID AND MISTRESS.

CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING.

CHAPTER XIII. PHILIP DE TAVERNEY.

CHAPTER XIV. MARIE ANTOINETTE JOSEPHE, ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA.

CHAPTER XV. MAGIC.

CHAPTER XVI. THE BARON DE TAVERNEY THINKS HE SEES AT LAST A SMALL OPENING INTO THE FUTURE.

CHAPTER XVII. NICOLE'S TWENTY-FIVE LOUIS-D'ORS.

CHAPTER XVIII. FAREWELL TO TAVERNEY.

CHAPTER XIX. GILBERT'S CROWN-PIECE.

CHAPTER XX. GILBERT RECOVERS THE LOSS OF HIS CROWN.

CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH A NEW PERSONAGE MAKES HIS APPEARANCE.

CHAPTER XXII. VISCOUNT JEAN.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE COUNTESS DUBARRY'S MORNING LEVEE.

CHAPTER XXIV. KING LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH.

CHAPTER XXV. THE SALON OF TIMEPIECES.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE COURT OF KING PETAUD.

CHAPTER XXVII. MADAME LOUISE OF FRANCE.

CHAPTER XXVIII. LOQUE, CHIFFE, AND GRAILLE.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE COUNTESS DE BEARN.

CHAPTER XXX. THE VICE.

CHAPTER XXXI. ZAMORE'S COMMISSION.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE KING GETS TIRED.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE KING IS AMUSED.

CHAPTER XXXIV. VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU.

CHAPTER XXXV. CHAPERON AND DEBUTANTE.

CHAPTER XXXVI. MARSHAL RICHELIEU'S FIFTH CONSPIRACY.

CHAPTER XXXVII. NO HAIRDRESSER, NO DRESS, NO CARRIAGE.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE PRESENTATION.

CHAPTER XXXIX. COMPIEGNE.

CHAPTER XL. THE PATRONESS AND THE PATRONIZED.

CHAPTER XLI. THE PHYSICIAN AGAINST HIS WILL.

CHAPTER XLII. THE OLD MAN.

CHAPTER XLIII. THE BOTANIST.

CHAPTER XLIV. MONSIEUR JACQUES.

CHAPTER XLV. MONSIEUR JACQUES' GARRET.

CHAPTER XLVI. WHO MONSIEUR JACQUES WAS.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE SORCERER'S WIFE.

CHAPTER XLVIII. PARISIANS.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE KING'S CARRIAGES.

CHAPTER L. THE DEMONIAC.

CHAPTER LI. THE COUNT DE FENIX.

CHAPTER LII. THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

CHAPTER LIII. THE RETURN FROM SAINT DENIS.

CHAPTER LIV. THE GARDEN PAVILION.

CHAPTER LV. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. CLAUDE.

CHAPTER LVI. THE DOUBLE EXISTENCE-SLEEP.

CHAPTER LVII. THE DOUBLE EXISTENCE-WAKING.

CHAPTER LVIII. THE VISIT.

CHAPTER LIX. GOLD

CHAPTER LX. THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

CHAPTER LXI. INQUIRIES.

CHAPTER LXII. THE APARTMENT IN THE RUE PLASTRIERE.

CHAPTER LXIII. PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.

CHAPTER LXIV. THE TWO FETES.

CHAPTER LXV. THE FIREWORKS.

CHAPTER LXVI. THE FIELD OF THE DEAD.

CHAPTER LXVII. THE RETURN.

CHAPTER LXVIII. M. DE JUSSIEU.

CHAPTER LXIX. LIFE RETURNS.

CHAPTER LXX. THE AERIAL TRIP.

CHAPTER LXXI. THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

CHAPTER LXXII. WHAT GILBERT HAD FORESEEN.

CHAPTER LXXIII. THE BOTANISTS.

CHAPTER LXXIV. THE PHILOSOPHERS IN THE TRAP.

CHAPTER LXXV. THE APOLOGUE.

CHAPTER LXXVI. THE MAKE-SHIFT OF HIS MAJESTY LOUIS XV.

CHAPTER LXXVII. HOW KING LOUIS XV. TRANSACTED BUSINESS.

CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE LITTLE TRIANON.

CHAPTER LXXIX. THE CONSPIRACY IS RENEWED.

CHAPTER LXXX. THE SORCERER CHASE.

CHAPTER LXXXI. THE COURIER.

CHAPTER LXXXII. THE EVOCATION.

CHAPTER LXXXIII. THE VOICE.

CHAPTER LXXXIV. DISGRACE.

CHAPTER LXXXV. THE DUKE D'AIGUILLON.

CHAPTER LXXXVI. THE KING DIVIDES THE SPOILS.

CHAPTER LXXXVII. THE ANTECHAMBERS OF THE DUKE DE RICHELIEU.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. RICHELIEU IS DISABUSED.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE DAUPHIN'S FAMILY REPAST.

CHAPTER XC. THE QUEEN'S HAIR.

CHAPTER XCI. M. DE RICHELIEU APPRECIATES NICOLE.

CHAPTER XCII. THE TRANSFORMATION.

CHAPTER XCIII. HOW PLEASURE TO SOME IS DESPAIR TO OTHERS.

CHAPTER XCIV. THE PARLIAMENTS.

CHAPTER XCV. IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE PATH OF A MINISTER IS NOT ALWAYS STREWN WITH ROSES.

CHAPTER XCVI. M. D'AIGUILLON TAKES HIS REVENGE.

CHAPTER XCVII. IN WHICH THE READER WILL ONCE MORE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE WHOM HE THOUGHT LOST, AND WHOM PERHAPS HE DID NOT REGRET.

CHAPTER XCVIII. THE CONFUSION INCREASES.

CHAPTER XCIX. THE BED OF JUSTICE.

CHAPTER C. THE INFLUENCE OF THE WORDS OF THE UNKNOWN UPON J. J. ROUSSEAU.

CHAPTER CI. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLATRIERE.

CHAPTER CII. THE REPORT.

CHAPTER CIII. THE BODY AND THE SOUL.

CHAPTER CIV. BODY AND SOUL.

CHAPTER CV. MARAT'S PORTRESS.

CHAPTER CVI. THE MAX AND HIS WORKS.

CHAPTER CVII. ROUSSEAU'S TOILET.

CHAPTER CVIII. THE SIDE SCENES OF TRIANON.

CHAPTER CIX. THE REHEARSAL.

CHAPTER CX. THE CASKET.

CHAPTER CXI. KING LOUIS XV.'S PETIT SUPPER.

CHAPTER CXII. PRESENTIMENTS'.

CHAPTER CXIII. GILBERT'S ROMANCE.

CHAPTER CXIV. FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER CXV. WHAT ALTHOTAS WANTED TO COMPLETE HIS ELIXIR.

CHAPTER CXVI. MONSIEUR DE RICHELIEU'S TWO DROPS OF WATER.

CHAPTER CXVII. THE FLIGHT.

CHAPTER CXVIII. DOUBLE SIGHT.

CHAPTER CXIX. CATALEPSY.

CHAPTER CXX. THE WILL.

CHAPTER CXXI. THE HOTEL OF MONSIEUR DE SARTINES.

CHAPTER CXXII. THE COFFER.

CHAPTER CXXIII. CONVERSATION.

CHAPTER CXIV. SARTINES BEGINS TO THINK BALSAMO A SORCERER.

CHAPTER CXXV. THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

CHAPTER CXXVI. THE STRUGGLE.

CHAPTER CXXVII. LOVE

CHAPTER CXXVIII. THE PHILTRE.

CHAPTER CXXIX. BLOOD.

CHAPTER CXXX. DESPAIR.

CHAPTER CXXXI. THE JUDGMENT.

CHAPTER CXXXII. DOOM.

CHAPTER CXXXIII. PERPLEXITIES.

CHAPTER CXXXIV. THE MEMORY OF KINGS.

CHAPTER CXXXV. ANDREE SWOONS

CHAPTER CXXXVI. DOCTOR LOUIS.

CHAPTER CXXXVII. MONSIEUR DE RICHELIEU'S WORD-PLAY.

CHAPTER CXXXVIII. THE RETURN.

CHAPTER CXXXVIX. BROTHER AND SISTER.

CHAPTER CXL. A MISUNDERSTANDING.

CHAPTER CXLI. AN INVESTIGATION.

CHAPTER CXLII. THE CONSULTATION.

CHAPTER CXLIII. GILBERT'S CONSCIENCE.

CHAPTER CXLIV. TWO GRIEFS.

CHAPTER CXLV. THE RIDE TO TRIANON.

CHAPTER CXLVI. THE REVELATION.

CHAPTER CXLVII. THE LITTLE GARDEN OF DOCTOR LOUIS.

CHAPTER CXLVIII. FATHER AND SON.

CHAPTER CXLIX. A CASE OF CONSCIENCE.

CHAPTER CXL. GILBERT'S PROJECTS.

CHAPTER CLI. A VAIN STRUGGLE: IN WHICH GILBERT FINDS THAT IT IS EASIER TO COMMIT A CRIME THAN TO CONQUER A PREJUDICE.

CHAPTER CLII. RESOLUTION.

CHAPTER CLIII. THE FIFTEENTH OF DECEMBER.

CHAPTER CLIV. THE LAST AUDIENCE.

CHAPTER CLV. THE CHILD WITHOUT A FATHER.

CHAPTER CLVI. THE ABDUCTION.

CHAPTER CLVII. THE VILLAGE OF HARAMONT.

CHAPTER CLVII. THE PITOU FAMILY.

CHAPTER CLIX. THE DEPARTURE.

CLX. GILBERT'S LAST FAREWELL.

CHAPTER CLXI. ON BOARD.

CHAPTER CLXII. THE AZORE ISLANDS.

EPILOGUE.

INTRODUCTORY.

NEAR the source of the Seltz, on the left bank of the Rhine, some leagues from the imperial city of Worms, there begins a range of mountains, the scattered and rugged summits of which disappear northward like a herd of wild buffaloes vanishing in a mist.

These mountains, which from their lofty summits overlook an almost desert region, and seem but to form an attendant train to one which is their chief, have each a peculiar figure, and each bears a name indicating some tradition connected with it. One is the King's Chair-another the Wild-rose Stone; this the Falcon's Rock-that the Serpent's Crest.

The highest of all, which raises to the clouds its granite top, girt with a crown of ruins, is Mont Tonnerre.

When evening deepens the shadows of the lofty oaks-when the last rays of the sun die away on the peaks of this family of giants, we might imagine that silence descended from these sublime heights to the plain-that an invisible hand unfolded from their declivities the dark blue veil through which we see the stars, to wrap it over the world, wearied with the toil and the noise of day. Waking gives place to sleep, and all the tenants of earth and air repose.

Even then is not heard the stream of the Seltz, pursuing its mysterious course by the fir-trees on its banks, stopping not by day or night, for it must hurry on to the Rhine, which to it is eternity. The sands of its current are so smooth, its reeds so flexible, its rocks so richly clothed with moss, that not one of its waves murmurs, from Morsheim, where it rises, to Freewenheim, where it finishes its course.

A little above its source, between Albisheim and Kircheim-Poland, a road, winding deep between two rugged walls of rock, leads to Danenfels. Beyond Danenfels the road becomes a path; it narrows, is lost, and the eye seeks in vain anything on which to rest, except the slopes of Mont Tonnerre, whose lightning-blasted summit is hidden by a belt of trees impenetrable to the eye.

In fact, once under those trees, leafy as the oaks of Dodona of old, the traveler may in open day continue his way unseen by anyone on the plain below. Were his horse hung with more bells than any mule in Spain, not a sound would be heard; were his trappings of gold and jewels like those of an emperor, not a ray from them would pierce through the foliage, so powerful is the density of the forest in extinguishing sound, and its darkness in dimming the brightest colors.

Even at the present day, when our highest mountains have become mere observatories for everyday tourists, on whose lips the most fearful of the legends of poetry call up a smile of doubt, even now this solitude has its terrors. A few miserable looking houses, outposts of neighboring villages, appear here and there, but at a distance from the magic belt, to show that man is to be found in that region. Their inhabitants are millers, who carry their flour to Rockenhausen or Alzey, or shepherds who herd their flocks around the mountain, they and their dogs trembling often to hear some enormous fir-tree fall with age, crashing in the unknown depths of the forest.

All the fireside tales of the country are gloomy, and that path which is lost beyond Danenfels, among the heath and furze of the mountains, has not always, they say, led good Christians to a safe shelter. Perhaps there yet may live one of those country people who has heard his father or his grandfather tell what we are now about to relate.

On the 6th of May, 1770, at that hour when the waters of the great river are tinged with a pale rose color, that is to say, when the inhabitants of the Rhingau see the setting sun sink behind the spire of Strasburg Cathedral, which divides it into two hemispheres of fire-a man who came from Mayence, having passed through Alzey and Kircheim-Poland, appeared beyond the village of Danenfels. He followed the path so long as the path was visible, then when all trace of it vanished, dismounting from his horse, he fastened its bridle to the first fir-tree of the pathless forest.

The animal neighed uneasily, and the woods seemed to start at a sound so unusual.

“Gently, gently, Djerid! -twelve leagues are enough for you-here you must wait my return.”

The traveler tried to peer into the recesses of the forest, but in vain-he could only see masses of dark shadows relieved upon shadows yet darker. Turning then to his horse, whose Arab name declared his race and swiftness, he took his head between his hands, approached his lips to the smoking nostrils of the animal and said, “Farewell, my good horse!-farewell, if it be fated that we meet not again.”

As he said these words he looked quickly around, as if he feared they might have been overheard,-or as if he desired it. The horse shook his silky mane, pawed and neighed, as he would in the desert on the approach of the lion. The traveler stroked down his head with a smile which seemed to say, “Thou art not wrong, Djerid, there is danger here.”

Then, having decided beforehand, no doubt, not to oppose force against this danger, the unknown adventurer drew from his saddlebow two richly mounted pistols, took out their balls, and sprinkled the powder on the ground. This done, he put them back in their place. Then he unbuckled a sword with a steel handle, wrapped the belt of it round it, and put all together under the saddle, so that the pummel of the sword was toward the horse's shoulder. After these formalities, the traveler shook off the dust from his boots, took off his gloves, felt in his pockets, and having found a pair of small scissors and a penknife with a tortoise-shell handle, he threw first the one and then the other over his shoulder, without looking where they fell. That done, he again stroked Djerid, breathed deeply, as if to expand his chest, feeling that his strength was about to be taxed, and sought a pathway among the trees. He found none, and at last entered the forest at a venture.

It is time that we should give our readers some idea of the traveler's appearance, as he is destined to play an important part in our history.

He was a man apparently of thirty or two-and-thirty years of age, of middle height, but admirably made, and his every movement exhibited a fine combination of strength and flexibility of limb. He was dressed in a traveling coat of black velvet, with gold buttons, under which appeared an embroidered waistcoat; tight-fitting breeches of leather, and polished boots, on limbs which might have served as a model for a sculptor, completed his costume. As to his face, whose rapid changes of expression bespoke him of a southern race, there were in it both tact and power of character. His eye, which could express every feeling, seemed to read the soul of anyone on whom it rested. His complexion, naturally dark, had been rendered darker by exposure to a warmer sun than ours. His mouth large, but well formed, showed a fine set of teeth, the whiteness of which was heightened by contrast with the darkness of his skin. His foot was long, but finely formed, and his hand small, but sinewy.

Scarcely had he advanced two steps among the dark fir trees, when he heard the quick tramp of hoofs in the direction where he had left his horse. His first movement was to turn back, but he stopped himself; however, he could not resist the wish to know the fate of Djerid -he raised himself on tiptoe and glanced through an opening. Djerid had disappeared, guided by an in visible hand which had untied his bridle. A slight frown contracted the brow of the unknown, yet something like a smile curled his chiseled lips.

Then he went on his way toward the center of the forest.

For a few steps further the twilight aided him, then it left him, and in darkness so thick, that seeing no longer where to place his foot, he stopped.

“I got on very well to Danenfels, for from Mayence to Danenfels there is a road,” said he aloud, “and from Danenfels to the Dark Heath, because there is a path, and from the Dark Heath hither, though there is neither road nor path, because I could see where I was going-but now I must stop-I see nothing.”

Scarcely had he pronounced these words, in a dialect half French, half Sicilian, when a light appeared about fifty paces from the traveler.

“Thanks,” said he, “now as the light moves I shall follow.”

The light moved steadily on, with a gliding motion, as we sometimes see a light move over the stage of a theater.

The traveler might have gone about a hundred steps farther when he thought he felt a breathing at his ear. He started.

“Turn not,” said a voice on the right, “or thou art dead!”

“Good!” replied the immovable traveler.

“Speak not,” said a voice on the left, “or thou art dead!”

The traveler bowed without speaking.

“But if thou art afraid,” said a third voice, which, like that of Hamlet's father, seemed to come from the bowels of the earth, “turn back; that will declare that thou abandonest thy scheme, and thou shalt be permitted to go.”

The traveler made a gesture of dissent with his hand, and went on.

The night was so dark and the forest so thick that he could not advance without occasionally stumbling, and his progress was slow. For nearly an hour the flame moved on, and he followed without hearing a murmur, and without showing a symptom of fear.

All at once it disappeared.

The traveler was out of the forest. He raised his eyes, and in the dark blue sky saw some twinkling stars.

He continued to advance in the direction of the place where the light had disappeared, and soon saw arise before him a ruin, the specter, as it were, of some ancient castle.

Next, his foot struck against some of its fragments. Then something cold passed his temples and sealed up his eyes, and he saw not even the shadows of outward objects.

A bandage of wet linen bound his head. This was only what he expected, no doubt, as he made no effort to remove it. He only silently stretched out his hand, like a blind man imploring a guide. His gesture was understood. A cold, dry, bony hand grasped the fingers of the traveler.

He knew that it was the hand of a skeleton, but if that hand had been endowed with sensation, it would have felt that his did not tremble.

Then the traveler felt himself rapidly drawn on for about a hundred paces. Suddenly the hand released its grasp, the bandage fell from his eyes, he stopped-he was on the summit of Mont Tonnerre.

II.-HE WHO IS.

In the midst of a glade formed by larches, bare with age, rose one of those feudal castles which the Crusaders, on their return from the Holy Land, scattered over Europe. The gateways and arches had been finely sculptured, and in their niches were statues; but these lay broken at the foot of the walls, and creeping plants and wild flowers now filled their places.

The traveler on opening his eyes found himself before the damp and mossy steps of the principal entrance; on the first of these steps stood the phantom by whose bony hand he had been led thither. A long shroud wrapped it from head to foot, and the eyeless sockets darted flames. Its fleshless hand pointed to the interior of the ruins as the termination of the traveler's journey. This interior was a hall, the lower part of which was but half seen, but from its vaults, heaped with ruins, flickered a dim and mysterious light.

The traveler bowed in assent. The phantom mounted slowly step by step to the hall and plunged into the ruins. The unknown followed calmly and slowly up the eleven steps which this specter had trodden, and entered also. With the noise of a clashing wall of brass the great gate of the portal closed behind him.

At the entrance of a circular hall, lighted by three lamps, which cast a greenish light, the phantom stopped. The traveler, ten steps farther back, stopped in his turn.

“Open thine eyes!” said the phantom.

“I see!” replied the unknown.

The phantom then drew, with a proud gesture, a two-edged sword from beneath his shroud, and struck it against a column of bronze. A hollow metallic groan responded to its blow.

Then all round the hall arose stone seats, and numerous phantoms, like the first, appeared. Each was armed with a two-edged sword, and each took his place on a seat, and seen by the pale green light of the three lamps they might have been taken, so cold and motionless were they, for statues on their pedestals. And these human statues came out in strange relief on the black tapestry of the walls.

Some seats were placed in advance of the others, on which sat six specters who seemed like chiefs-one seat was vacant.

He who sat on the middle seat arose.

“Brethren, how many are present-” he asked, turning to the assembly.

“Three hundred,” replied the phantoms with one voice. It thundered through the hall, and died away among the funereal hangings on the walls.

“Three hundred,” replied the president, “and each speaks for ten thousand companions! Three hundred swords which are equal to three millions of poniards!'

Then he turned to the traveler. “What dost thou wish-” he asked.

“To see the light,” replied the other.

“The paths which lead to the mountain of fire are rugged and difficult. Fearest thou not.”

“I fear nothing.”

“One step forward and you cannot return. Reflect!”

“I stop not till I reach the goal.”

“Wilt thou swear-”

“Dictate the oath!”

The president raised his hand, and with a slow and solemn voice, pronounced these words; “In the name of the crucified Son, swear to break all bonds of nature which unite thee to father, mother, brother, sister, wife, relation, friend, mistress, king, benefactor, and to any being whatever to whom thou hast promised faith, obedience, gratitude, or service!”

The traveler, with a firm voice, repeated these words, and then the president dictated the second part of the oath.

“From this moment thou art free from the pretended oath thou hast taken to thy country and its laws; swear thou to reveal to the new head whom thou acknowledgest all that thou hast seen or done, read or guessed, and henceforward to search out and penetrate into that which may not openly present itself to thine eyes.”

The president stopped; the unknown repeated the words.

“Honor and respect the aquatofana, as a prompt, sure, and necessary means of ridding the world by the death or idiocy of those who would degrade truth or tear it from us.”

An echo could not have been more exact than the unknown in repeating the words of the president.

“Flee from Spain, flee from Naples, flee from every accursed land; flee from the temptation of revealing aught that thou shalt now see and hear! Lightning is not more quick to strike than will be the invisible and inevitable knife, wherever thou mayest be shouldst thou fail in thy secrecy.”

Spite of the threat conveyed in these last words, no trace of emotion was seen on the face of the unknown; he pronounced the end of the oath with a voice as calm as at the beginning.

“And now,” continued the president, put on his forehead the sacred band!”

Two phantoms approached the unknown-he bowed his head-one of them bound round it a crimson ribbon covered with silver characters, placed alternately with the figure of our Lady of Loretto; the other tied it behind, just at the nape of the neck. Then they left his side.

“What wouldst thou ask-” inquired the president.

“Three things.”

“Name them!”

“The hand of iron, the sword of fire, the scales of adamant.”

“Why the hand of iron-”

“To stifle tyranny.”

“Why the sword of fire-”

“To banish the impure from the earth.”

“And why the scales of adamant-”

“To weigh the destinies of humanity.”

“Canst thou withstand the necessary trials-”

“Courage is prepared for all trials.”

“The proofs! the proofs!” cried many voices.

“Turn!” said the president.

The unknown obeyed, and found himself face to face with a man pale as death, bound and gagged.

“What seest thou-” asked the president.

“A malefactor or a victim.”

“A traitor! One who took the oath as thou hast done, and then revealed the secrets of our order.”

“A criminal, then.”

“Yes,” What penalty has he incurred-”

“Death.”

The three hundred phantoms repeated “Death!” and, in spite of all his efforts, the condemned was dragged into a darker part of the hall. The traveler saw him struggle with his executioners-he heard his choking voice-a dagger glimmered for an instant-a blow was struck-and a dead and heavy sound announced a body falling on the earthy floor.

“Justice is done!” said the unknown, turning to the ghastly assembly, who, from beneath their shrouds, had devoured the sight with greedy looks.

“Then,” said the president, “thou dost approve what hast been done-”

“Yes, if he who has fallen was really guilty.”

“Thou wilt drink to the death of every man who, like him, would betray our secrets-”

“I will!”

“Whatever be the draught-”

“Whatever be the draught.”

“Bring the cup,” said the president.

One of the two executioners brought the unknown a red tepid liquor in a human skull. He took this frightful cup, raised it above his head, saying, “I drink to the death of every man who shall betray the secrets of this holy society.”

Then, bringing it to his lips, he drained it to the last drop, and returned it calmly to him who had presented it.

A murmur of surprise ran through the assembly, and the phantoms seemed to look at each other through their half-opened shrouds.

“Good!” said the president. “The pistol!”

A phantom drew near the president, holding in one hand a pistol and in the other a ball and a charge of powder.

“Thou promisest passive obedience to our behests-”

“Yes.”

“Even if this obedience be put to the proof against thyself-”

“He who enters here is no longer his own; he belongs to all.”

“Then thou obeyest whatever order be given thee-”

“I obey.”

“This instant-”

“This instant!”

“No pause-”

“No pause!”

“Take this pistol-load it!”

The unknown took the pistol and loaded it, all the dread assembly looking on the operation in a silence only broken by the sighs of the wind among the arches of the ruin.

“The pistol is loaded,” said the unknown.

“Art thou sure-” asked the president.

A smile passed over the lips of the traveler as he tried the pistol, showing that it was loaded. The president bowed in token of being satisfied.

“Yes,” said he, “it is loaded.”

“What am I to do with it-”

“Cock it.”

The unknown cocked the pistol, and its click was distinctly heard in the intervals of silence in the dialogue.

“Now put it to thy forehead,” said the president.

He obeyed unhesitatingly. The silence seemed to deepen over the assembly, and the lamps to turn pale. These were real phantoms, for not a breath was then heard. “Fire!” said the president.

The cock was heard to snap, the flint flashed, but the powder in the pan alone took fire, and no report accompanied its quick flame.

A shout of admiration burst from every breast, and the president involuntarily extended his hand to the unknown.

But two proofs were not sufficient to satisfy all and some voices shouted, “The dagger! the dagger!”

“You demand that, also-” said the president.

“Yes-the dagger! the dagger!” replied the voices.

“Bring the dagger,” said the president.

“It is useless,” said the unknown, making a disdainful movement with his head.

“Useless!” cried the assembly.

“Yes, useless!” he replied, with a voice which drowned every other; “useless! You lose time, and it is precious.”

“What mean you-” asked the president.

“I tell you I know your secrets-that these proofs of yours are but child's play, unworthy of men. I tell you that I know the body which lies there is not dead; that I have not drunk blood; that, by a spring, the charge fell into the butt at the moment I cocked the pistol. Such things may frighten cowards. Rise, pretended corpse, thou hast no terrors for the brave.”

Another shout made the vaults ring.

“Thou knowest our mysteries, then-” said the president. “Thou art one of the illuminated or a traitor!”

“Who art thou-” demanded the three hundred voices; and on the instant, twenty swords, in the hands of the nearest phantoms, were pointed, with a motion as precise as if directed by a military signal, at the bosom of the unknown.

He smiled, shook the thick curls of his hair, which, unpowdered, were only retained by the ribbon which had been bound round his head, and said, calmly, “I am Tie who is.”

Then he turned his eyes slowly around the living wall which hemmed him in, and gradually sword after sword sank before him.

“Thou hast spoken rashly,” said the president. “Doubtless thou knowest not the import of thy words.”

The stranger shook his head and smiled.

“I have spoken the truth.”

“Whence comest thou-”

“I come whence comes the light.”

“But we have learned that thou comest from Sweden.”

“I might come from Sweden, and yet from the East.”

“Then we know thee not. Who art thou-”

“Who am I- Ay, ye shall know more. Ye pretend not to understand me; but first I will tell you who you are!”

The phantoms started, and the clang of their swords was heard as they grasped them in their right hands and raised them to the level of the stranger's breast.

“First,” said he, “thou who questionest me, who believest thyself a god, and who art but the forerunner of one, thou who representest Sweden, I shall name thee, that the rest may know I can also name them. Swedenborg, how comes it thy familiars told thee not that he whom thou waitedst for was on the road-”

“They did declare it to me,” replied the president, putting aside a fold of his shroud in order to see him better who spoke, and in doing so, contrary to all the habits of the association, he showed a white beard and the venerable face of a man of eighty.

“Good!” replied the stranger. “On thy left is the representative of England or of old Caledonia. I grant you, my lord, if the blood of your grandfather flows in your veins, England's extinguished light maybe rekindled.”

The swords sank-anger gave place to astonishment.

“Ah, captain,” said the unknown, addressing one on the left of the president, “in what port waits thy good ship- A noble frigate the Providence. Its name augurs well for America.”

Then, turning toward him on I he right-

“Look, Prophet of Zurich, thou hast carried physiognomy almost to divination -read the lines on my face, and acknowledge my mission.”

He to whom he spoke recoiled.

“Come,” said he, turning to another, “descendant of Pelago, we must drive the Moors a second time from Spain-an easy task if the Castilians yet retain the sword of the Cid!”

The fifth chief remained so still, so motionless, that the voice of the unknown seemed to have turned him to stone.

“And to me,” said the sixth; “hast thou naught to say to me-”

“Ay,” replied the traveler, turning on him a look which read his heart, “ay, what Jesus said to Judas; but not yet.”

The chief turned paler than his shroud, and a murmur running through the assembly seemed to demand the cause of this singular accusation.

“Thou forgettest the representative of France,” said the president.

“He is not here,” replied the stranger haughtily; “and that thou knowest well, since his seat is vacant. Learn, then, that snares make him smile who sees in darkness, who acts in spite of the elements, and who lives in spite of death.”

“Thou art young,” replied the president, “and thou speakest as if from divine authority. Reflect! boldness overcomes only the weak or the ignorant.”

A disdainful smile played over the lips of the stranger.

“You are all weak, since you have no power over me! you are all ignorant, since ye know not who I am! Boldness, then, alone might overcome you; but why should one all-powerful so overcome-”

“Give us the proof of your boasted power-” said the president.

“Who convoked you-” asked the unknown, becoming the interrogator instead of the interrogated.

“The grand assembly.”

“And not without a cause hast thou,” pointing to the president, “come from Sweden; thou,” and he turned from one to another of the five chiefs as he spoke, “thou from London, thou from New York, thou from Zurich, thou from Madrid, thou from Warsaw, and you all,” looking round the assembly, “from the four winds of heaven, to meet in the sanctuary of the dreaded faith.”

“No,” replied the president, “not without cause, for we came to meet him who has founded in the East a mysterious faith, joining two worlds in one belief, entwining mankind with the bonds of brotherhood.”

“Is there any sign by which you shall know him-”

“Yes,” said the president; “and an angel has revealed it to me.”

“You alone know it-”

“I alone.”

“You have revealed it to none-”

“To none.”

“Name it.”

The president hesitated.

“Name it! the hour is come.”

“He will bear on his breast a diamond star, and on it three letters, the signification of which is only known to himself.”

“Declare the letters.”

“L. P. D.”

The stranger rapidly threw open his coat and vest, and on his fine Holland shirt shone like a flaming star the diamond, and the three letters formed of rubies.

“It is he!” cried the president.

“He whom we await-” asked the chiefs.

“The Great Copt-” murmured the three hundred voices.

“Now,” cried the stranger triumphantly, “do you believe me when I say,' I am he that is'-”

“Yes,” said the phantoms, prostrating themselves before him.

“Speak, master,” said the president, “speak; we shall obey!”

III.-L. P. D.

There was silence for some moments, during which the unknown seemed to collect his thoughts. Then he began:

“Sirs, ye but weary your arms with your swords; lay them aside, and lend an attentive ear, for you shall learn much from the few words which I am about to utter.”

All were profoundly attentive.

“The sources of great rivers are sacred, therefore unknown. Like the Nile, the Ganges, the Amazon, I know to what I tend, not whence I come. All that I can reveal is that, when the eyes of my spirit first opened to comprehend external things, I was in Medina, the holy city, playing in the gardens of the Mufti Salaaym. He was a venerable man, kind as a father to me, yet not my father; for though he looked on me with love, he spoke to me with respect. Thrice a day he left me, and then came another old man, whose name I may pronounce with gratitude, yet with fear. He was called Althotas, and him the seven great spirits had taught all that the angels know, in order to comprehend God. He was my tutor, my master, my friend-a friend to be venerated indeed, for his age was double that of most among you.”

His solemn tone, his majestic deportment, deeply impressed the assembly; they seemed trembling with anxiety to hear more.

He continued:

“When I reached my fifteenth year I was initiated into the mysteries of nature. I knew botany, not as one of your learned men, who has acquired only the knowledge of the plants of his own corner of the world -to me were known the sixty thousand families of plants of the whole earth. My master, pressing his hands on my forehead, made a ray of celestial light descend on my soul; then could I perceive beneath the seas the wondrous vegetations which are tossed by the waves, in the giant branches of which are cradled monsters unknown to the eye of man.

“All tongues, living and dead, I knew. I could speak every language spoken from the Dardanelles to the Straits of Magellan. I could read the dark hieroglyphics on those granite books, the pyramids. From Sanchoniathon to Socrates, from Moses to Jerome, from Zoroaster to Agrippa, all human knowledge was mine.

“Medicine I studied, not only in Hippocrates, in Galen, and in Averrhoes, but in that great teacher, Nature. I penetrated the secrets of the Copts and the Drusi's. I gathered up the seeds of destruction and of scarcity. When the simoom or I he hurricane swept over my head, I threw to it one of those seeds, which its breath bore on, carrying death or life to whomsoever I had condemned or blessed.

“In the midst of these studies I reached my twentieth year. Then my master sought me one day in a grove, to which I had retired from the heat of the day. His face was at the same moment grave and smiling. He held a little vial in his hand. 'Acharat,' said he, 'I have told thee that nothing is born, nothing dies in the world-that the cradle and the coffin are twins; that man wants only to see into past existences to be equal to the gods, and that when that power shall be acquired by him, he will be as immortal as they. Behold! I have found the beverage which will dispel his darkness, thinking that I had found that which destroys death. Acharat, I drank of it yesterday -see, the vial is not full; drink thou the rest to-day.

“I had entire confidence in my venerable master, yet my hand trembled as it touched the vial which he offered me, as Adam's might have done when Eve presented him with the apple.

“'Drink!' said he, smiling.

“I drank.

“Then he placed his hands on my head, as he always did when he would make light penetrate to my soul.

“'Sleep!' said he.”

“Immediately I slept, and I dreamed that I was lying on a pile of sandal-wood and aloes. An angel, passing by on the behests of the Highest from the east to the west, touched the pile with the tip of his wing, and it kindled into flame. Yet I, far from being afraid-far from dreading the fire-lay voluptuous in the midst of it, like the phoenix, drawing in new life from the source of all life.

“Then my material frame vanished away; my soul only remained. It preserved the form of my body, but transparent, impalpable; it was lighter than the atmosphere in which we live, and it rose above it. Then, like Pythagoras, who remembered that in a former state he had been at the siege of Troy, I remembered the past. I had experienced thirty-two existences, and I recalled them all. I saw ages pass before me like a train of aged men in procession. I beheld myself under the different names which I had borne from the day of my first “birth to that of my last death. You know, brethren-and it is an essential article of our faith-that souls, those countless emanations of the Deity, fill the air, and are formed into numerous hierarchies, descending from the sublime to the base; and the man who, at the moment of his birth, inhales one of those pre-existing souls, gives it up at his death, that it may enter on a new course of transformations.”

He said this in a tone so expressive of conviction, and his look had something so sublime, that the assembly interrupted him by a murmur of admiration.

“When I awoke,” continued the illuminated, “I felt that I was more than man -that I was almost divine. Then I resolved to dedicate not only my present existence, but all my future ones, to the happiness of man.

“The next day, as if he had guessed my thoughts, Althotas said to me, 'My son, twenty years ago thy mother expired in giving birth to thee. Since that time, invincible obstacles have prevented thy illustrious father revealing himself to thee. We shall travel, we shall meet thy father; he will embrace thee, but thou wilt not know him.'

“Thus, in me, as in one of the elect, all was mysterious-past, present, future.

“I bade adieu to the Mufti Salaaym, who blessed me and loaded me with presents, and we joined a caravan going to Suez.,

“Pardon me, sirs, if I give way for a moment to emotion, as I recall that one day a venerable man embraced me; a strange thrill ran through me as I felt his heart beat against mine.

“He was the Cheriffe of Mecca, a great and illustrious prince, who had seen a hundred battles, and at the raising of his hand three millions of men bent their heads before him. Althotas turned away to hide his feelings, perhaps not to betray a secret, and we continued our road.

“We went into the heart of Asia; we ascended the Tigris; we visited Palmyra, Damascus, Smyrna, Constantinople, Vienna. Berlin, Dresden, Moscow, Stockholm. Petersburg, New York, Buenos Ayres, the Cape of Good Hope, and Aden; then, being near the point at which we had set out, we proceeded into Abyssinia, descended the Nile, sailed to Rhodes, and, lastly, to Malta. Before landing, a vessel came out to meet us, bringing two knights of the order; they saluted me and embraced Althotas, and conducted us in a sort of triumph to the palace of the Grand Master, Pinto.

“Now, you will ask me, sirs, how it came that the Mussulman Acharat was received with honor by those who have vowed the extermination of the infidels. Althotas, a Catholic, and himself a Knight of Malta, had always spoken to me of one only God, omnipotent, universal, who, by the aid of angels, his ministers, made the world a harmonious whole, and to this whole he gave the great name of Cosmos. I was, then, not a Mussulman but a theosophist.

“My journeyings ended; but in truth, all that I had seen had awakened in me no astonishment, because for me there was nothing new under the sun, and in my preceding thirty-two existences I had visited the cities before through which I had lately passed. All that struck me was some change in their inhabitants. Now I would hover over events and watch the progress of man. I saw that all minds tend onward, and that this tendency leads to liberty. I saw that prophets had been raised up from time to time to aid the wavering advances of the human race; and that men, half blind from their cradle, make but one step toward the light in a century. Centuries are the days of nations.

“'Then,' said I to myself, 'so much has not been revealed to me that it should remain buried in my soul; in vain does the mountain contain veins of gold, in vain does the ocean hide its pearls, for the persevering miner penetrates to the bowels of the mountain, the diver descends to the depths of the ocean, but better than the mountain or the ocean, let me be like the sun, shedding blessings on the whole earth.'

“You understand, then, that it is not to go through some masonic ceremonies I have come from the East. I have come to say to you, brethren, take the wings and the eyes of the eagle! rise above the world, and cast your eyes over its kingdoms!

“Nations form but one vast body. Men, though born at different periods, in different ranks, arrive all in turn at that goal to reach which they were created. They are continually advancing, though seemingly stationary, and if they appear to retreat a step from time to time, it is but to collect strength for a bound which shall carry” them over some obstacle in their way.

“France is the advance-guard of nations. Put a torch in her hand, and though it kindle a wide-spreading flame, it will be salutary, for it will enlighten the world.

“The representative of France is not here-it may be that he has recoiled at the task imposed on him. Well, then! we must have a man who will not shrink from it-I will go to France.”

“You are in France,” said the president.

“Yes; the most important post I take myself-the most perilous work shall be mine.”

“You know what passes in France, then-” inquired the president.

The stranger smiled.

“I know, for I myself have prepared all. An old king, weak, vicious, yet not so old, not so weak, not so vicious as the monarchy which he represents, sits on the throne of France. He has but few years to live. Events must be prepared to succeed his death. France is the keystone of the arch; let but this stone be unfixed, and the monarchial edifice will fall! Ay, the day that Europe's most arrogant sovereigns shall hear that there is no longer a king in France, bewildered, they will of themselves rush into the abyss left by the destruction of the throne of Saint Louis!”

Here, he on the right of the president spoke, and his German accent announced that he was a Swiss. “Most venerated master, hast thou then calculated all-” he asked.-”All!” replied the Great Copt.

“Your pardon if I say more-but on our mountains, in our valleys, by our lakes, our words are free as the winds and the waters-let me say, then, that a great event is on the eve of arriving, and that to it the French monarchy may owe its regeneration. I have seen, great master, a daughter of Maria Theresa traveling in state toward France to unite the blood of seventeen emperors with that of the successor of the sixty-one kings of France, and the people rejoiced blindly, as they do when their chains are slackened, or when they bow beneath a gilded joke. I would infer, then, that the crisis is not yet come!”

All turned to him who so calmly and boldly had spoken to their master.

“Speak on, brother,” said the Great Copt; “if thy advice be good, it shall be followed. We are chosen of Heaven, and we may not sacrifice the interests of a world to wounded pride.”

The deputy from Switzerland continued, amid deep silence; “My studies have convinced me of one truth, that the physiognomy of men reveals, to the eye which knows how to read it, their virtues and their vices. We may see a composed look or a smile, for these, caused “by muscular movements, are in their power, but the great type of character is still imprinted legibly on the countenance, declaring what passes in the heart. The tiger can caress, can give a kindly look, but his low forehead, his projecting face, his great occiput, declare him tiger still. The dog growls, shows his teeth, but his honest eye, his intelligent face, declare him still the friend of man. God has imprinted on each creature's face its name and nature. I have seen the young girl who is to reign in France; on her forehead I read the pride, the courage, the tenderness, of the German maiden. I have seen the young man who is to be her husband; calmness, Christian meekness, and a high regard for the rights of others, characterize him. Now France, remembering no wrongs, and forgetting no benefits, since a Charlemagne, a Louis, and a Henry have been sufficient to preserve on the throne twenty base and cruel kings; France, who hopes on, despairs never, will she not adore a young, lovely, kindly queen, a patient, gentle, economical king- and this, too, after the disastrous reign of Louis XV.-after his hateful orgies, his mean revenges, his Pompadours and Dubarries- Will not France bless her youthful sovereigns, who will bring to her as their dowry peace with Europe- Marie Antoinette now crosses the frontier; the altar and the nuptial bed are prepared at Versailles. Is this the time to begin in France your work of regeneration- Pardon if I have dared to submit these thoughts to you, whose wisdom is infallible!”

At these words, he whom the Great Copt had addressed as the apostle of Zurich bowed as he received the applause of the assembly and awaited a reply.

He did not wait long.

“If you read physiognomy, illustrious brethren, I read the future. Marie Antoinette is proud; she will interfere in the coming struggle, and will perish in it. Louis Augustus is mild; he will yield to it, and will perish with her, but each will fall through opposite defects of character. Now they esteem each other, but short will be their love; in a year they will feel mutual contempt. Why, then, deliberate, brethren, to discover whence comes the light- It is revealed; to me. I come from the East, led, like the shepherds, by a star, which foretells a second regeneration of mankind. Tomorrow I begin my work. Give me twenty years for it-that will be enough, if we are united and firm.”

“Twenty years-” murmured several voices-”the time is long.”

The Great Copt turned to those who thus betrayed impatience.

“Yes,” said he, “it is long to those who think that a principle is destroyed, as a man is killed, with the dagger of Jacques Clement or the knife of Damiens. Fools!-the knife kills the man, but, like the pruning-hook, it lops a branch that the other branches may take its place. In the stead of the murdered king rises, up a Louis XIII., a stupid tyrant-a Louis XIV., a cunning despot-a Louis XV., an idol whose path is wet with tears of blood, like the monstrous deities of India, crushing with changeless smile women and children, who cast garlands before their chariot wheels. And you think twenty years too long to efface the name of king from the hearts of thirty millions of men, who but lately offered to God their children's lives to purchase that of Louis XV.! And you think it an easy task to make France hate her lilies, which, bright as the stars of heaven, grateful as the odors of flowers, have borne light, charity, victory, to the ends of the world! Try! try, brethren! I give you, not twenty years -I give you a century. You, scattered, trembling, unknown each to the other, known only to me, who only can sum up your divided worth, and tell its value -to me, who alone can unite you in one fraternal chain-I tell you, philosophers, political economists, theorists, that in twenty years those thoughts which you whisper in your families, which you write with uneasy eye in the solitude of your old somber towers, which you tell one another with the dagger in your hands, that you may strike the traitor who would repeat them in tones louder than your own-I tell you, that these thoughts shall be proclaimed aloud in the streets, printed in the open face of day, spread through Europe by peaceful emissaries, or by the bayonets of five hundred thousand soldiers, battling for liberty, with your principles inscribed on their standards. You who tremble at the name of the Tower of London; you, who shrink at that of the prisons of the Inquisition, hear me-me, who am about to dare the Bastille! I tell you, that we shall see those dreaded prisons in ruins, and your wives and children shall dunce on their ashes. But that cannot be until, not the monarch, but the monarchy, is dead-until religious domination is despised-until social inferiority is extinguished-until aristocratic castes and unjust division of lands are no more. I ask twenty years to destroy an old world, and make a new one-twenty years! -twenty seconds of eternity!-and you say it is too long!”

The silence of admiration and of assent followed the words of this dark prophet; he had obtained the sympathy of the representatives of the hopes of Europe who surrounded him.

The Great Copt enjoyed for some minutes his triumph; then, feeling that it was complete, he went on:

“Now, brethren, now that I am going to devote myself to our cause-to beard the lion in his den-to risk my life for the freedom of mankind-now, what will you do for that to which you say you are ready to give up life, liberty, and fortune- This is what I am here to demand.”

A deeper silence fell on the assembly than when he last ceased to speak; it seemed as if the motionless phantoms around him were absorbed by a fateful thought, which, when expressed, should shake twenty thrones.

The six chiefs conversed for a moment apart, and then returned to the president. The president spoke:

“In the name of Sweden, I offer for the overthrow of the throne of Vasa the miners who established it and one hundred thousand crowns.”

The Great Copt made an entry in his tablets.

Another on the left spoke.

“I, sent by Scotland and Ireland, can promise nothing from England-our firm opponent-but from poor Scotland, from poor Ireland, I shall bring three thousand men and three thousand crowns yearly.”

He wrote again. “And you-” said he, turning to one whose vigorous frame and restless spirit seemed wearied by his phantom robe, and who replied:

“I represent America, whose stones, whose trees, whose waters, whose every drop of blood are vowed to rebellion. While we have gold we will give it-while we have blood we will shed it-let us but be free first. Though now divided, marked, and disunited, we are the links of a gigantic chain, and could some mighty hand join two of them, the rest will unite themselves. Begin then, oh, great master with us! If thou wouldst rid France of royalty, free us from a foreign yoke first.”

“It shall be so,” replied the master; “you shall first be free, and France shall help you. Wait! brother, but I promise thou shalt not wait long.”

Then he turned to the Swiss deputy, who replied to his look:

“I can promise nothing. Our republic has been long the ally of the French monarchy, to which it sold its blood at Marignan and Pavia; its sons are faithful-they will give that for which they have been paid; for the first time, I am ashamed of their fidelity.”

“So!-but we shall conquer without them, and in spite of them. And you, representative of Spain-”

“I am poor; I can offer only three thousand of my brothers, with a contribution of a thousand reals yearly. Our Spaniards are indolent; they sleep on a bed of pain-provided they sleep, they care not.”

“Good!-And you-” said he to another.

“I represent Russia and Poland. My people are either discontented nobles or wretched serfs. The serf, who owns not even his life, can offer nothing; but three thousand nobles have promised twenty louis d'ors each annually.”

Then all the representatives in turn declared what those from whom they came would give for the great cause. Some were deputies from small kingdoms, some from large principalities, some from impoverished states, but all declared that they would add something to what had been offered. Their promises were written on the tablets of the Great Copt, and they were bound by an oath to keep them.

“Now,” said he, “you have seen and recognized the initials of our watchword -let it be placed on your hearts, and in them; for we, the sovereign lord of the east and west, have decreed the downfall of the lily. Hear it, then, brethren; LILIA PEDIBUS DESTRUE.”

Loud was their shout at this explanation of the mysterious letters-so loud that the gorges of the mountains reechoed to it.

“And now, retire,” said the master, when silence had succeeded, “retire by those subterranean passages which lead to the quarries of Mont Tonnerre. Disperse, before the rising of the sun. You shall see me once more, and it will be on the day of our triumph! Go!”

His words were followed by a masonic sign, understood only by the six heads of the assembly, so that they remained around him when the rest had disappeared.

“Swedenborg,” said he, “thou art truly inspired. God thanks thee by me for thy efforts in his cause. I shall give thee an address to which thou shalt send the promised money to France.”

The president bowed, and departed, full of astonishment at that intelligence which had discovered his name.

“I grant thee, Fairfax,” continued the master, “thou art worthy of thy great ancestor. Remember me to Washington when next thou writest to him.”

Fairfax bowed and followed Swedenborg.

“Come, Paul Jones,” said the Copt, “thou spokest bravely; thou shalt be the hero of America. Let her be ready at the first signal!”

The American thrilled in every nerve, as if the breath of some divine being had passed over him, and retired also.

“And now, as to thee, Lavater, abjure thy theories; it is the time for action. Study no longer what man is, but what he may be. Go! Woe to thy countrymen if they rise against us; for our people will devour in its wrath, as the wrath of God devours.”

The trembling Swiss bowed and departed.

“Hear, Ximenes,” he went on, addressing the Spaniard, “thou art zealous, but distrustful. Thy country sleeps, but it is because none awakes her. Go! Castile is still the country of the Cid!”

The last of the six was advancing, but by a gesture the Copt forbade him.

“Scieflort of Russia, before a month thou wilt betray our cause, but in a month thou shalt be no more.”

The Russian envoy fell on his knees, but a threatening movement of the master made him rise, and with tottering steps he also departed.

And now this singular man, whom we have introduced as the hero of our drama, left alone, looked around the empty, silent hall, buttoned up his black velvet coat, fixed his hat firmly on his head, touched the spring of the great bronze gate which had closed behind him, and sallied out into the defiles of the mountain. Though he had neither guide nor light, he went on rapidly, as if lead by an invisible hand.

Having passed the thick belt of trees, he looked for his horse; but not seeing him, he listened, and soon thought he heard a distant neighing. He whistled with a peculiar modulation, and in a moment Djerid could be seen coming forward like a faithful and obedient dog. The traveler sprang to the saddle, and quickly disappeared in the darkness, which spread over the heath extending from Mont Tonnerre to Danenfels.

CHAPTER I. THE STORM.

EIGHT DAYS AFTER the scene just related, about five in the evening, a carriage with four horses and two postilions left Ponta-Mousson, a small town between Nancy and Metz. It had taken fresh horses at an inn, in spite of the recommendation of an attentive hostess who was on the lookout for belated travelers, and continued on its road to Paris. Its four horses had scarcely turned the corner of the street, when a score of children and half a score of gossips, who had watched the progress of their being put to, returned to their respective dwellings with gestures and exclamations expressive in some of great mirth, in others of great astonishment.

All this was because nothing like that carriage had for fifty years passed the bridge which good King Stanislaus threw across the Moselle to facilitate the intercourse of his little kingdom with France. We do not except even those curious vehicles of Alsace, which bring from Phalsbourg to our fairs two-headed wonders, dancing bears, and the wandering tribes of harlequins and gypsies.

In fact, without being either a child or a curious old gossip, surprise might have arrested one's steps on seeing this primitive machine, on four massive wheels, roll by with such velocity that Everyone exclaimed, “What a strange way of traveling post!”

As our readers, fortunately for them, did not see it pass, we shall describe it.

First, then, the principal carriage-we say principal, because in front it was a sort of cabriolet-the principal carriage was painted light blue, and bore on its panels a baronial scroll, surmounting a J and a B entwined. Two windows-large windows, with white muslin curtains- gave it light, only these windows, invisible to the profane vulgar, looked frontwise into the cabriolet. A grating covered them, through which one might speak to the inhabitants of the carriage.

This carriage, which was eight feet long, had no light but from the windows, and no air but from a ventilator on the top; and then, to complete its oddity, a chimney rising about a foot above the roof offered to the passers-by the pleasant sight of a light cloud of smoke lengthening into a bluish trail behind it. At the present day we should only have thought it a new invention, combining the power of steam with that of horses.

This would have seemed so much the more probable, that the carriage, preceded as we have said by four horses and two postilions, was followed by one horse fastened to it by his bridle. His tall head, slender legs, narrow chest, and silky mane and tail bespoke him of Arab race. He was ready saddled, which inferred that one of the travelers shut up in this Noah's ark sometimes enjoyed the pleasure of riding beside the carriage.

At Pont-a-Mousson the postilion who left had received, besides the pay for the horses, a double gratuity, presented by a strong but white hand, slipped through the leather curtains of the cabriolet, which shaded it as imperviously as the muslin ones did the carriage.

“Many thanks, my lord,” said the astonished postilion, quickly taking off his cap and bowing low.

A sonorous voice replied in German (for at Nancy German is still understood, though no longer spoken), “Schnell! Schneller!” which means, “Fast! faster!”

Postilions understand nearly all languages; above all, when accompanied by the sound of certain metals, of which it is said they are rather fond. So the two new postilions did their utmost to keep to a gallop, but after efforts which did more honor to their arms than to the powers of their horses, wearied out, they fell into a trot, getting on at the rate of two and a half or three leagues an hour.

Toward seven, they changed at St. Mihiel; the same hand passed through the curtains payment for the last stage, and the same voice uttered a similar injunction.

There is no doubt the strange vehicle excited there the same curiosity as at Pont-a-Mousson, for as night was fast approaching, its appearance was still more fantastic.

Beyond Saint Mihiel there is a steep hill, and travelers must be satisfied to let the horses walk. It took half-an-hour to proceed a quarter of a league.

On the top the postilions stopped a moment to breathe their horses, and the travelers in the carriage, by withdrawing the curtains, might have gazed on a wide prospect, had not the mists of evening begun to veil it slightly.

The weather had been clear and warm until three in the afternoon-toward evening, however, it became oppressive. A great white cloud from the south seemed as if intentionally to follow the carriage, threatening to overtake it before it reached Bar-le-Duc, where the postilions resolved at all risks to pass the night.

The road, shut in between the hill and a rugged declivity, descended to a valley, in which was seen the winding Meuse, and was so steep that it was dangerous to allow the horses to do anything but walk, which prudent plan the postilions adopted. The cloud advanced, and as it brooded over, and almost touched the ground, continually extended its limits by drawing the vapors arising from the soil; so was it observed in ill-boding whiteness to overwhelm the bluish clouds which seemed to take up their station to windward, like ships preparing for an engagement. Soon, with the rapidity of the floodtide, it spread, until it hid the last rays of the sun. A dim gray light struggled through upon the scene, and although no breeze swept along, the leaves shivered, and put on the dark tinge which they assume in the deepening twilight succeeding sunset.

Suddenly a flash illuminated the cloud, the heavens burst into sheets of flame, and the startled eye might penetrate the immeasurable depths of the firmament.

At the same moment the thunder rolled from tree to tree, shaking the earth, and hurrying on the vast cloud like a maddened steed. On went the carriage, sending forth its smoke, now changed in color by the changes of the atmosphere.

In the meantime the heavens grew darker and darker, but a purple light appeared from the carriage, as if the person within, careless of the storm, had lighted a lamp, and went on with some work which he had to accomplish. The vehicle was now on a level part of the mountain, and when about to begin the descent, a peal of thunder more violent than the first rent the clouds, and the rain fell, at first in large drops, then thick and smarting, like arrows darted from the heavens.

The postilions seemed to consult together, and then stopped.

“Well!” cried the voice which had before spoken, but now in excellent French; “what the devil are you doing-”

“We were consulting whether we should go on,” replied the postilions.

“I think you ought to ask me, not one another-on with you!”

The postilions obeyed, for there was that in the voice which forbade all thought of disobedience, and the carriage began to descend.

“Good!” said the voice, and the leather curtains, which had been half opened, fell between the traveler and the postilions.

But the road had become so slippery from the torrents of rain that the horses stopped of themselves.

“Sir,” said the leading postilion, “it is impossible to go any farther.”

“Why-” asked the voice within.

“Because the horses only slip-they cannot get on-they will fall.”

“How far are we from the next place where we change-”

“A good way, sir; four leagues.”

“Well, postilion, put silver shoes on your horses, and they will get on,” and as he said this the stranger opened the curtain, and held out four crowns.

“Many thanks!” said the postilion, receiving them in his broad hand, and slipping them into his great boot.

“The gentleman spoke, I think,” said the other postilion, who had heard the sound of money, and did not wish to be excluded from so interesting a conversation.

“Yes, the gentleman says we must push on.”

“Have you anything to say against that, my friend-” asked the traveler, in a kind voice, but with a firmness that showed he would brook no contradiction.

“Why, as to myself I have nothing to say; but the horses won't stir.”

“What is the use of your spurs, then-”

“I have buried them in the sides of the poor jades, and, if it has made them move a step, may Heaven-

He had not time to finish his oath, for a frightful peal of thunder interrupted him.

“This is no weather for Christians to be out in.” said the honest fellow. “See, sir, see! the carriage is going of itself; in five minutes it will go fast enough-Jesus Dieu! there we go!”

And, in fact, the heavy machine pressing on the horses, they lost their footing. It then made a progressive movement, and, according to the mathematical increase of forces, its velocity augmented, till, with the rapidity of an arrow, it was visibly nearing the edge of a precipice.

It was not now only the voice of the traveler which was heard; his head was seen thrust out of the cabriolet.

“Stupid fellow!” cried he, “will you kill us- To the left! the leaders to the left!”

“Ah, monsieur, I wish from my heart I saw you on the left,” replied the frightened postilion, vainly trying to recover the reins.

“Joseph!” cried a female voice now first heard, “Joseph! Help! Help! Oh, Holy Virgin!”

Indeed, danger so terrible and so imminent might well call forth that ejaculation. The carriage, impelled by its own weight, neared the precipice-already one of the leaders appeared suspended over it; three revolutions of the wheel, and horses, carriage, and postilions would all have been precipitated, crushed and mangled, to its base, when the traveler, springing from the cabriolet on the pole, seized the postilion by the collar, lifted him like a child, flung him two paces from him, leaped into the saddle, and, gathering up the reins, called to the second postilion:

“To the left, rascal, or I will blow out thy brains!”

The command acted like magic. By an extraordinary effort the postilion gave an impulse to the carriage, brought it to the middle of the road, on which it began to roll on rapidly, with a noise that contended with that of the thunder. “Gallop!” cried the traveler; “gallop! if you slacken your speed I will run you through the body and your horses, too!”

The postilion felt that this was no vain menace; he redoubled his efforts, and the carriage descended with frightful speed. As it thus passed in the night, with its fearful noise, its flaming chimney, and its stifled cries from within, it might have been taken for some infernal chariot drawn by phantom horses, and pursued by a hurricane.

But if the travelers escaped from one danger, they met another. The cloud which had hung over the valley was as rapid as the horses. From time to time, as a flash rent the darkness, the traveler raised his head, and then, by its gleam, anxiety, perhaps fear, might have been seen on his face-for dissimulation was not wanted then-God only saw him. Just as the carriage had reached level ground, and was only carried on by its own impetus, the cloud burst with an awful explosion. A violet flame, changing to green and then to white, wrapped the horses-the hind ones reared, snuffing the sulphurous air-the leaders, as if the ground had given way beneath their feet, fell flat; but almost instantly the horse upon which the postilion was mounted regained his feet, and, finding his traces snapped by the shock, he carried off his rider, who disappeared in the darkness, while the carriage, after proceeding ten yards farther, was stopped by encountering the dead body of the lightning-stricken horse. All this was accompanied by piercing shrieks from the female in the vehicle.

There was a moment of strange confusion in which no one knew whether he was dead or living. The traveler felt himself all over to assure himself of his own identity. He was safe and sound, but the woman had fainted. Although he suspected this from the silence which had succeeded to her shrieks, it was not to her that his first cares were directed. Scarcely had he lighted on the ground when he hastened to the back of the vehicle.

There was the beautiful Arabian horse of which we have spoken-terrified-rigid -with every hair rising as if life were in it. He tugged violently at his fastening, shaking the door to the handle of which he was secured. His eye was fixed, the foam was on his nostrils, but after vain efforts to break away, he had remained, horror-stricken by the tempest; and when his master whistled to him in his usual manner, and put out his hand to caress him, he bounded aside, neighing, as if he did not know him.

“Ay, always that devil of a horse,” muttered a broken voice from the carriage; “curse him, he has broken my wall!”

Then, with double emphasis, this voice cried in Arabic, “Be still, demon!”

“Do not be angry with Djerid, master,” said the traveler, loosing the horse, which he now tied to one of the hind wheels; “he has been frightened, that is all; and indeed one might well have been frightened at less.”

Saying this, he opened the carriage door, let down the slop, entered, and closed the door after him.

CHAPTER II. ALTHOTAS.

THE TRAVELER FOUND himself face to face with an old man with gray eyes, a hooked nose, and trembling but busy hands. He was half buried in a great chair, and turned, with his right hand, the leaves of a manuscript on parchment, called “La Chiave del Gabinetto”; in his left he held a silver skimming-dish.

His attitude, his occupation, his face, motionless and deeply wrinkled, alive only, as it were, in the eyes and mouth, may seem strange to the reader, but they were certainly very familiar to the traveler; for he scarcely cast a look on the old man, nor on all that surrounded him, and yet it was worth the trouble.

Three walls-so the old man called the sides of the carriage-were covered by shelves filled with books. These walls shut in his chair, his usual and principal seat, while above the books had been planned for his convenience several articles for holding vials, decanters, and boxes set in wooden cases as earthen and glassware are secured at sea. He could thus reach anything without assistance, for his chair was on wheels, and with the aid of a spring he could raise it and lower it to any height necessary to attain what he wanted.

The room, for so we must call it, was eight feet long, six wide, and six high. Opposite the door was a little furnace with its shade, bellows and tongs. Al that moment there boiled in a crucible a mixture which sent out by the chimney the mysterious smoke of which we have spoken, and which excited so much surprise in old and young who saw the carriage pass.

Besides the vials, boxes, books, and papers strewed around, copper pincers were seen, and pieces of charcoal which had been dipped in various liquids; there was also a large vase half full of water, and from the roof, hung by threads, were bundles of herbs, some apparently gathered the night before, others a hundred years ago. A keen odor prevailed in this laboratory, which in one less strange would have been called a perfume.

As the traveler entered, the old man wheeled his chair with wonderful ease to the furnace, and was about to skim the mixture in the crucible attentively-nay, almost respectfully-but disturbed by the appearance of the other, he grumbled, drew over his ears his cap of velvet, once black, and from under which a few locks of silver hair peeped out. Then he sharply pulled from beneath one of the wheels of his chair the skirt of his long silk robe -a robe now nothing but a shapeless, colorless, ragged covering. The old man appeared to be in a very bad humor, and grumbled as he went on with his operation.

“Afraid-the accursed animal! Afraid of what- He has shaken the wall, moved the furnace, spilled a quart of my elixir in the fire. Acharat, in Heaven's name, get rid of that brute in the first desert we come to!”

“In the first place,” said the other, smiling, “we shall come to no deserts; we are in France. Secondly, I should not like to leave to his fate a horse worth a thousand louis d'ors, or rather, a horse above all price, for he is of the race of Al Borach.”

“A thousand louis d'ors! I will give you them, or what is equal to them. That horse has cost me more than a million, to say nothing of the time, the life, he has robbed me of.”

“What has he done-poor Djerid!”

“What has he done- The elixir was boiling, not a drop escaping-true, neither Zoroaster nor Paracelsus says that none must escape, but Borri recommends it.”

“Well! dear master, in a few moments more the elixir will boil again.”

“Boil- See! there is a curse on it-the fire is going out. I know not what is falling down the chimney.”

“I know what is falling,” said the disciple, laughing; “water!”

“Water-water- Then the elixir is ruined; the operation must be begun again-as if I had time to lose! Heaven and earth!” cried the old man, raising his hands in despair, “water! What kind of water, Acharat-”

“Pure water, master-rain from the sky. Have you not seen that it rained-”

“How should I see anything when I am at my work- Water! You see, Acharat, how this troubles my poor brain! For six months-nay, for a year-I have been asking you for a funnel for my chimney! You never think of anything-yet, what have you to do, you who are young- Thanks to your neglect, it is now the rain, now the wind, which ruins all my operations; and yet, by Jupiter! I have no time to lose! You know it-the day decreed is near; and, if I am not ready for that day-if I have not found the elixir of life-farewell to the philosopher! farewell to the wise Althotas! My hundredth year begins on the 15th of July, at eleven at night, and from this time to that, my elixir must attain perfection.”

“But it is going on famously, dear master!”

“Yes, I have made some trials by absorption. My left arm, nearly paralyzed, has regained its power-then, only eating, as I do, once in two or three days, and taking a spoonful of my elixir, though yet imperfect, I have more time, and am assisted on by hope. Oh, when I think that I want but one plant, but one leaf of a plant, to perfect my elixir, and that we have perhaps passed by that plant a hundred-five hundred-a thousand times! -perhaps our horses have trodden it, our wheels crushed it, Acharat -that very plant of which Pliny speaks, and which no sage has yet found or discovered, for nothing is lost.-But stay, Acharat, you must ask its name from Lorenza in one of her trances!”

“Fear not, master! I will ask her.”

“Meantime,” said the philosopher, with a deep sigh, “my elixir remains imperfect, and three times fifteen days will be necessary to reach the point at which I was to-day. Have a care, Acharat, your loss will be as great as mine, if I die, and my work incomplete! But what voice is that- Does the carriage move-”

“No, master-you hear thunder.”

“Thunder-”

“Yes, we have nearly all been killed by a thunderbolt; but my silk coat protected me!”

“Now, see to what your childish freaks expose me, Acharat! To die by a thunderbolt, to be stupidly killed by an electric fire that I would myself bring down from heaven, if I had time, to boil my pot-this is not only exposing me to accidents which the malice or awkwardness of men bring on us, but to those which come from Heaven, and which may be easily prevented.”

“Your pardon, master; I do not understand.”

“What! did I not explain to you my system of points-my paper-kite conductor- When I have found my elixir, I shall tell it you again; but now, you see, I have not time.”

“And you believe one may master the thunderbolt of heaven-”

“Certainly-not only master it, but conduct it where you choose; and when I have passed my second half century, when I shall have but calmly to await a third, I shall put a steel bridle on a thunderbolt, and guide it as easily as you do Djerid. Meantime, put a funnel on my chimney, I beg you!”

“I shall. Rest easy.”

“I shall!-always the future, as if we could both look forward to the future! Oh, I shall never be understood!” cried the philosopher, writhing in his chair, and tossing his arms in despair. “' Be calm!'-he tells me to be calm; and in three months, if I have not completed my elixir, all will be over! But so that I pass my second half century-that I recover my powers of motion-I shall meet no one who says, 'I shall do '-I shall then myself exclaim, 'I have done!'“

“Do you hope to say that, with regard to our great work-”

“Yes! were I but as sure of -oh, heavens!-discovering the elixir as I am of making the diamond!”

“Then you are sure of that-”

“It is certain, since I have already made some.”

“Made some-”

“Yes, look!”

“Where-”

“On your right, in the little glass vase.”

The traveler anxiously seized the little crystal cup, to the bottom and sides of which adhered an almost impalpable powder.

“Diamond dust-” cried the young man.

“Yes, diamond dust-but in the middle of it-”

“Yes! yes! a brilliant of the size of a millet-seed.”

“The size is nothing; we shall attain to the union of the dust, and make the grain of millet-seed a grain of hemp-seed, and of the grain of hemp-seed a pea. But first, my dear Acharat, put a funnel on my chimney, and a conductor on the carriage, that the rain may not descend through my chimney, and that the lightning may go and sport itself elsewhere.”

“Yes, yes-doubt it not! Be calm!”

“Again, again, this eternal 'Be calm!' You make me swear. Youth! -mad youth!-presumptuous youth!” cried the old man, with a laugh of scorn, which showed all his toothless gums and made his eyes sink deeper in their hollow sockets.

“Master,” said Acharat, “your fire is going out, your crucible cooling. But what is in the crucible-”

“Look into it!”

The young man obeyed, uncovered the crucible, and found in it a heap of vitrified charcoal, about the size of a small seed.

“A diamond!” cried he; then, after a slight examination of it-” Yes, but stained, incomplete, valueless!”

“Because the fire was put out-because there is no funnel on the chimney.”

“Let me look at it again, master,” said the young man, turning in his hand the diamond, which sometimes shot forth brilliant rays, and sometimes was dull. “Good! -pardon me, and take some food.”

“It is unnecessary; I took my spoonful of elixir two hours ago.”

“You are mistaken, dear master; it was at six in the morning that you, took it.”

“Well, and what o'clock is it now-”

“Half-past eight in the evening.”

“Heaven and earth! -another day past!-gone forever! But the days are shorter than they were; there are not twenty-four hours in them now.”

“If you will not eat, sleep at least for some minutes.”

“Well, yes, I will sleep two hours-yes, just two hours. Look at your watch, and in two hours awake me.”

“I promise to do so.”

“Dost thou know, dear Acharat,” said the old man in a caressing tone, “when I sleep, I always fear it will be for eternity-so in two hours you will wake me. Will you not- Promise it-swear it!”

“I swear it, master.”

“In two hours-”

“In two hours!”

Just then something like the trampling of a horse was heard, and then a shout which indicated alarm and surprise.

“What does that mean-” cried the traveler; and hurriedly opening the carriage door, he leaped out.

CHAPTER III. LORENZA FELICIANI.

WE SHALL NOW INFORM the reader what passed outside, while the philosopher and the traveler were conversing inside the carriage.

At the noise of the thunderbolt, which struck down two of the horses and caused the other two to rear so frightfully, the lady in the cabriolet, as we have said, had fainted. She remained for some minutes motionless; then, as fear alone had caused her to swoon, by slow degrees her consciousness returned.

“Ah, Heaven!” she exclaimed, “abandoned here -helpless -with no human creature to take pity on me!”

“Madame,” replied a timid voice, “I am here, if I can be of any service to you.”

At the sound of this voice, which seemed close to her ear, the young lady rose, put her head out between the leather curtains, and found herself face to face with a young man who was standing on the step of the cabriolet.

“It was you who spoke, sir-” said she.

“Yes, madame,” answered the young man.

“And you offered me your services-”

“Yes.”

“But first tell me what has happened.”

“The thunderbolt, which fell almost on your carriage, broke the traces of the front horses, and one of them ran off with the postilion.”

The lady looked uneasily around.

“And he who rode the hinder horses-” she asked.

“He has just got into the carriage, madame.”

“Has he not been injured-”

“Not in the least.”

“Are you sure-”

“He leaped from his horse, at least, like a man all safe and sound.”

“Heaven be praised!” and the young lady breathed more freely. “But who are you, sir, who are here so opportunely to offer me assistance-”

“Madame, overtaken by the storm, I was down in that hollow, which is merely the entrance to a quarry, when all at once I heard a carriage coming with alarming speed. I at first supposed the horses had run off, but soon saw that they were managed by a powerful hand. Then the thunderbolt fell with a tremendous explosion, and I thought for an instant that all was over with me. Indeed, on recovering, all that I have related seemed but a dream.”

“Then you are not sure that the gentleman entered the carriage-”

“Oh, yes, madame; I had quite recovered, and distinctly saw him enter.”

“Make yourself certain, I entreat you, that he is in the carriage.”

“But how-”

“Listen; if he be there you will hear two voices.”

The young man jumped down from the step, and approached the door of the carriage.

“Yes, madame,” said he, returning to her, “he is there.”

The young lady, by a movement of her head, seemed to say, “It is well,” but she remained for some time as if plunged in a deep reverie.

During this time the young man had leisure to examine her appearance. She was about three or four-and-twenty years of age; a brunette in complexion, but of that rich brown which is more beautiful than the most delicate tint of the rose; her fine blue eyes, raised to heaven, from which she seemed to 'ask counsel, shone like two stars; and her black hair, which she wore without powder, notwithstanding the fashion of the day, fell in jetty curls on her neck. All at once she roused herself, as if she had decided on her part.

“Sir,” said she, “where are we now-”

“On the road from Strasbourg to Paris, madame.”

“On what part of the road-”

“Two leagues from Pierrefitte.”

“What is Pierrefitte-”

“A village.”

“And, after Pierrefitte, what is the next stage-”

“Bar-le-Duc.”

“Is it a town-”

“Yes, madame.”

“A large one-”

“About four or five thousand inhabitants.”

“Is there any cross-road by which one could get more directly to Bar-le-Duc-”

“No, madame -at least, I know of none.”

“Peccato!”

murmured she, falling back in the cabriolet.

The young man waited, expecting to be questioned further; but, as she kept silence, he moved a step or two away. This roused her, for, leaning out again, she called hurriedly, “Monsieur!”

The young man returned.

“I am here, madame,” said he, approaching her.

“One question, if you please.”

“Speak, madame.”

“There was a horse behind the carriage-”

“Yes, madame.”

“Is he there still-”

“No, madame; the person who got into the carriage untied him and fastened him to the wheel.”

“Nothing, then, has injured the horse-”

“I think not.”

“He is a valuable animal, and I should like to be sure that he is safe; but how can I reach him through this mud-”

“I can bring the horse here,” said the young man.

“Oh, yes, do so, I pray; I shall be forever grateful to you.”

The young man approached the horse, who tossed his head and neighed.

“Do not be afraid,” said the female; “he is as gentle as a lamb; “then, in a low voice, she murmured, “Djerid, Djerid!”

The animal evidently knew the voice to be that of his mistress, for he snorted, and stretched out his intelligent head toward the cabriolet. During this time the young man was untying him, but the horse no sooner felt his bridle in unpracticed hands than at one bound he was free, and twenty paces from the carriage.

“Djerid!” repeated the young woman in her most caressing tones, “Djerid! here, here!”

The Arabian tossed his head, snuffed the air, and came toward the cabriolet, pawing as if in time to some musical air.

The lady leaned out. “Come, Djerid, come,” said she.

And the obedient animal advanced toward the hand which she held out to caress him. Then with her slender hand she seized him by the mane, and sprang as lightly into the saddle as the goblin in the German ballads, who leaps behind unwary travelers and holds on by their belts. The young man hurried toward her, but she waved him off imperiously.

“Hearken!” said she; “though young, or rather, because you are young, you ought to be humane. Do not oppose my flight. I leave a man whom I love; but my religion is still dearer to me. That man will destroy my soul if I stay with him longer; he is an atheist and a necromancer. God has warned him by his thunders; may he profit by the warning. Tell him what I have said, and receive my blessing for what you have done for me. Farewell!”

At that word, light as a vapor, she disappeared, borne away by the aerial Djerid. The young man, seeing her flee, could not prevent a cry of astonishment escaping his lips. It was this cry which startled the traveler in the carriage.

CHAPTER IV. GILBERT.

THE CRY HAD, as we have said, roused the traveler. He leaped out, shut the door carefully after him, and looked uneasily around.

The first object which he beheld was the young man standing there in alarm. The lightning, which flashed incessantly, enabled him to examine him from head to foot, a practice which seemed habitual with the traveler when any unknown person or thing met his eye. He was a youth of sixteen or seventeen years old, little, thin, and muscular. His black eyes, which he fixed boldly on any object which attracted his attention, wanted mildness, but had a certain kind of beauty; his nose, small and turned up, his thin lip and projecting cheek-bones, betokened cunning and circumspection; and the strong curve of his chin announced firmness.

“Did you shout just now-” asked the traveler.

“Yes, sir.”

“And why-”

“Because”- He stopped short.

“Because-” repeated the traveler.

“Sir, there was a lady in the cabriolet.”

“Yes!”

And the eyes of Balsamo darted on the carriage as if they could have penetrated its sides.

“There was a horse tied to the wheel.”

“Yes; where the devil is he-”

“Sir, the lady has fled on the horse.” The traveler, without uttering a word, sprang to the cabriolet, undrew the curtains, and a flash of lightning showed him it was empty.

“Sang du Christ!” shouted he, loud almost as the thunder which pealed at that moment.

Then he looked round, as if for some means of recovering the fugitives, but soon felt that it was vain.

“To try to overtake Djerid,” he muttered, “with a common horse, would be to hunt the gazelle with the tortoise; but I shall know where she is, unless-

He felt hurriedly in the pocket of his vest, and drew from it a little case, opened it, and took out of a folded paper a curl of black hair. At the sight of it the traveler's face lost its anxious expression, and his manner became calm-at least, in appearance.

“Well,” said he, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, “well, and did she say nothing on leaving-”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“What did she say-”

“That she quitted you not through hatred, but fear; that she is a good Christian, and that you-”

He hesitated.

“And that I!”

“I know not how to tell it.”

“Padre! tell it.”

“That you are an atheist and an infidel; that God has given you a last warning by the storm; that she understood that warning, and conjures you not to be deaf to it.”

A smile of contempt curled the lip of the traveler. “And this was all she said-”

“Yes, this was all.”

“Well, let us speak of something else,” and all trace of disquietude passed away from the traveler's countenance.

The young man remarked all these emotions reflected on his face, with a curiosity indicating no deficiency on his side of powers of observation.

“And now,” said the traveler, “what is your name, my young friend-”

“Gilbert, sir.”

“Gilbert!-that is merely a baptismal name.”

“It is the name of our family.”

“Well! my dear Gilbert, Providence has sent you to my aid.”

“I shall be happy, if I can oblige you, sir.”

“Thank you. At your age one is obliging for the mere pleasure of the thing; but what I am going to ask is only a trifle-merely if you can direct me to a shelter for the night-”

“Why, in the first place, there is that rock under which I was sheltering just now.”

“Yes,” said the traveler, “but I should like something more like a house, where I could have a good supper and a good bed.”

“That would be very difficult to find.”

“Are we then so far from the next village-”

“From Pierrefitte-”

“It is called Pierrefitte, then-”

“Yes, sir; it is about a league and a half off.”

“A league and a half!-let us see-surely there is some habitation nearer-”

“There is the chateau of Taverney, about three hundred paces from this.”

“Well, then-”

“What, sir!” and the young man opened his eyes in astonishment.

“Why did you not say so at once-”

“The chateau of Taverney is not a hotel.”

“Is it inhabited-”

“Yes.”

“By whom-”

“Why, by the Baron de Taverney, of course.”

“What is this Baron de Taverney-”

“He is the father of Mademoiselle Andree, sir.”

“Very pleasing intelligence, indeed; but I mean what sort of a man is he-”

“An old nobleman, sir, of sixty or sixty-five years of age; he once was rich, they say.”

“Ay, and poor now!-that is the history of all those old barons. Well, show me the way to this baron's abode.”

“To the Baron de Taverney's-” he asked, in alarm.

“Then you refuse-”

“No, sir; but-”

“Well-”

“He will not receive you.”

“He will not receive a gentleman in need of shelter- -Is he a bear, your baron-”

“Dame!” said the young man, with an expression which said plainly, “not much unlike one.”

“Never mind, I'll run the risk.”

“Remember, I do not advise it.”

“Bah!” said the traveler, “bear as he is, he won't eat me!”

“No-but he may shut the door in your face.”

“Then I'll break it open; so, if you refuse to be my guide-”

“I don't refuse, sir.”

“Show me the way then.”

“Willingly, sir.”

The traveler leaped into the cabriolet and brought from it a little lantern. The young man hoped, as it was not lighted, that he should be obliged to open the carriage, and that then its interior would be disclosed. But the traveler did nothing of the kind; he put the lantern into Gilbert's hand.

“What shall I do with it, sir-”

“It will light you on the way, while I lead the horses.”

“But it is not lighted.”

“I am going to light it.”

“Oh, you have a fire in the carriage-”

“And in my pocket,” replied the traveler.

“But in this rain the tinder won't kindle.”

“Open the lantern,” said the traveler, smiling.

Gilbert obeyed.

“Hold your hat over my hands.”

Gilbert obeyed, regarding with curiosity what followed, for he knew no other means of procuring a light than with a flint and tinder.

The traveler took from his pocket a very small silver case, drew from it a match, which he rubbed in some sort of inflammable paste, and it kindled instantly, with a slight crackling.

Gilbert started; the traveler smiled at his surprise, which was natural enough at that time, when phosphorus was only known to a few chemists, who kept the secret for their own advantage. The candle in the lantern being lighted by the match, he put up the little case. The young man followed his movements with greedy eyes; it was evident he would have given a great deal for such a treasure.

“Now that we have light, lead on.”

“Follow now, then, sir;” and Gilbert advanced, while his companion, taking the horse by the bit, dragged him after.

The weather was now not so bad, the rain had ceased, and the thunder was only heard muttering at a distance. The traveler seemed to wish for more conversation.

“You know this baron, then, my good fellow-”

“Certainly, sir, since I have lived in his house from my infancy.”

“A relation-”

“No, sir.”

“Your guardian-”

“No.”

“Your master-”

The young man started and colored with anger at the word master -”I am not a servant, sir,” said he.

“Well, but you are surely something or other-”

“I am the son of an old tenant of the baron's; my mother nursed Mademoiselle Andree.”

“I understand; being the young lady's foster-brother-for I presume she is young-you live at free quarters in the house.”

“She is sixteen, sir.”

Now in the traveler's last words there-was something like two questions, but Gilbert avoided any reply to that which concerned himself. The traveler seemed to observe this, and gave his interrogations another turn.

“How did you happen to be out during such weather-”

“I was under a rock near the road.”

“What were you doing there-”

“I was reading.”

“You were reading-”

“Yes.”

“What were you reading-”

“'Le Contrat Social,' by Rousseau.”

The traveler looked at the young man with surprise.

“Did you get that book in the baron's library-”

“No, sir; I bought it.”

“Where-at Bar-le-Duc-”

“No, sir; from a peddler. They roam this way now and then, and bring us some tolerably good books.”

“Who told you 'Le Contrat Social' was a good book-”

“I soon found that out, as I read it.”

“Have you read bad books, then, that you know the difference so well-”

“Yes.”

“What do you call bad books-”

“Why, 'Le Sofa,' 'Tanza'i,' and 'Neadarne,' and books of that description.”

“But where the deuce did you get such books-”

“In the baron's library.”

“And how does the baron get new novels in this den of his-”

“They are sent him from Paris.”

“So this poor baron spends his money on that sort of trash-”

“No; they are given him.”

“Given him- By whom-”

“By one of his friends, a great nobleman.”

“A great nobleman! Do you know his name-”

“The Duc de Richelieu.”

“What!-the old marshal-”

“Yes, the marshal.”

“I take it for granted he does not leave such books in Mademoiselle Andree's way-”

“Indeed, sir, he leaves them in everybody's way.”

“Is Mademoiselle Andree of your opinion,” asked the traveler, with a sly smile, “that they are bad-”

“She does not read them, sir,” replied Gilbert, dryly.

The traveler was silent for a minute-this character, a singular mixture of shame and boldness, of good and evil, interested him in spite of himself.

“And why did you read those books when you knew they were bad-”

“Because I did not know when I began them.”

“But you soon found it out-”

“Yes.”

“And nevertheless you went on-”

“Yes.”

“But why-”

“They taught me things I did not know before.”

“And 'Le Contrat Social-'“

“It teaches me things that I have guessed.”

“How so-”

“Why, that men are brothers-that societies in which there are serfs or slaves are ill constituted-that one day we shall all he equal.”

“Oh, ho!” said the traveler. There was a short silence.

“So my good fellow,” continued the traveler in a low voice, “you wish to be instructed-”

“Yes, sir, that is my most ardent wish.”

“And what do you wish to learn-”

“Everything.”

“For what purpose-”

“To raise myself in the world.”

“And how high would you rise-”

Gilbert hesitated. No doubt he had his mind made up on that point, but it was evidently a secret, and he would not reveal it.

“As high as man can rise,” he replied.

“Well, have you studied anything-”

“Nothing. How can I study, not being rich, and living at Taverney-”

“Then you know nothing of mathematics-”'

“No.”

“Nor of natural philosophy-”

“No.”

“Nor of chemistry-”

“No; I know only how to read and write-but I shall know all those things.”

“When-”

“Some day or other.”

“But how-”

“I don't know yet.”

“Strange creature!” muttered the traveler.

“And then-!” murmured Gilbert, speaking to himself.

“Well! then-”

“Nothing.”

They had now proceeded for about a quarter of an hour; the rain had ceased, and the earth sent up those odoriferous exhalations which in spring follow a great storm.

Gilbert seemed reflecting-all at once he said, “Sir, do you know the cause of storms-”

“Certainly.”

“You really do!”

“Yes.”

“You know the cause of the thunderbolt-”

The traveler smiled. “It is the meeting of two streams of the electric fluid-one from the clouds, the other from the earth.”

Gilbert sighed. “I do not understand that,” said he.

Perhaps the traveler would have explained the matter more clearly, but just then a light appeared through the trees.

“Ah! what is that-” asked the stranger.

“It is Taverney.”

“We have reached it, then-”

“Yes; this is the gate of the back entrance.”

“Open it.”

“And do you think the gate of Taverney, sir, can be opened with a push-”

“Is it a fortified place, then- Knock.”

Gilbert approached the gate, and timidly gave one knock.

“Pardieu! they will never hear that. Knock loudly!”

Nothing, indeed, indicated that Gilbert's knock had been heard -all was silent.

“You must take the responsibility upon yourself, sir, then,” said Gilbert.

“Don't be troubled about that.”

Gilbert hesitated no longer-left the knocker, and pulled a string which made a bell sound so loud, one might have heard it a mile off.

“Ma foi! if your baron does not hear that,” said the traveler, “he must be deaf.”

“Hark! I hear Mahon barking.”

“Mahon- That is no doubt a compliment from your baron to his friend the Duc de Richelieu-”

“I don't know what you mean, sir.”

“Mahon was the last place taken by the marshal.”

“Oh, sir, I told you I know nothing,” and Gilbert sighed again.

These sighs revealed to the stranger some hidden ambition, some secret cause of pain.

A step was heard. “Here is someone at last,” said the stranger.

“It is Master la Brie,” said Gilbert.

The gate opened, but La Brie, taken by surprise at seeing the stranger and the carriage when he expected no one but Gilbert, would have shut it again.

“Excuse me, my friend, but I have come here purposely, and you must not shut the door in my face.”

“But, sir, I must tell the baron that an unexpected visitor-

“Never mind-I shall run the risk of his looking a little cross at me; but he shall not turn me out, I can tell you, until I have got warmed, dried, and fed. They say you have good wine in this part of the country-do you happen to know-”

La Brie, instead of replying, was going to make further resistance, but it was in vain; the traveler pushed in, and Gilbert closed the gate after him, the two horses and carriage being in the avenue. La Brie, seeing himself vanquished, proceeded as quickly as his old limbs would permit toward the house, to announce his own defeat, shouting with all his strength, “Nicole Legay, Nicole Legay!”

“Who is this Nicole-” asked the stranger, calmly making his way to the house.

“Nicole Legay, sir-” replied Gilbert, with symptoms of some inward emotion.

“Yes-she whom Master la Brie is calling!”

“Mademoiselle Andree's waiting-maid, sir.”

In the meantime, in answer to the calls of La Brie, a light appeared under the trees, borne by a beautiful young girl.

“What do you want, La Brie- What is all this fuss-” asked she.

“Quick, Nicole,” cried the quivering voice of the old man, “run and tell the baron a strange gentleman is come to ask shelter.”

Nicole did not wait to be told twice, but flew off toward the chateau so quickly that in a moment she was out of sight.

As to La Brie, having thus satisfied himself that the baron should not be taken by surprise, he stopped and took breath.

The message soon produced an effect. A sharp commanding voice was heard from the house, repeating, with an accent by no means indicating a wish to be hospitable-”A strange gentleman- Who is he-people don't come in that way without sending up their names!”

“Is it the baron himself-” asked he who was the cause of all the disturbance.

“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the poor frightened old man, “you hear what he says-”

“He asks my name, I think-”

“Yes. I forgot to ask it, sir.”

“Say, the Baron Joseph Balsamo. Our titles being the same, he will perhaps not be so angry.”

La Brie, a little emboldened by the rank of the stranger, announced him as he requested.

“Well,” grumbled the voice from the house, “since he is there, he must come in. Here, sir-this way-this way.”

The stranger advanced quickly; but just as he reached the foot of the stone steps leading up to the door, he turned to see whether Gilbert were there or not. Gilbert had disappeared.

CHAPTER V. THE BARON DE TAVERNEY.

ALTHOUGH IN some degree forewarned by Gilbert of the poverty of the Baron de Taverney, the person who had caused himself to be announced as the Baron Joseph Balsamo could not help being surprised at the miserable appearance of the abode called by Gilbert, with emphasis, a chateau.

The house was built in the form of an oblong square of one story in height, with a square tower at each corner. Its irregular appearance had, however, something pleasing and picturesque, seen by the pale light of the moon, shining out from between the huge masses of the clouds left by the storm. There were six windows in the low building, and two in each tower-that is, one window in each of its stories. A broad flight of steps led up to the hall-door, but they were so broken and rugged that they seemed rather a sort of precipice than a staircase.

Such was the dwelling, on the threshold of which the stranger was received by the Baron de Taverney, in his dressing-gown, and holding a candlestick in his hand. The baron was a little old man of from sixty to sixty-five years of age, with a keen eye and a high retreating forehead. He wore an old wig, which from frequent accidents with the' candles on the mantelpiece had lost all the curls which the rats, which frequented his wardrobe, had left it. He held in his hand a napkin of very dubious whiteness, which indicated that he had been disturbed when going to sit down to supper.

In his malicious countenance, which slightly resembled that of Voltaire, two expressions struggled for mastery -politeness required a smile for his guest, but vexation turned it to a rather decided atrabilious sneer. And thus lighted as he was by the candle in his hand, the flickering of which disturbed his features, the Baron de Taverney could not well be called anything but a very ugly nobleman.

“Sir,” said he, “may I know to what fortunate circumstance I owe the pleasure of seeing you-”

“Simply, sir, to the storm, which frightened my horses and caused them very nearly to destroy my carriage; one of ray postilions was thrown from his horse, the other galloped off with his, and I know not what I should have done, had I not met a young man who conducted me to your chateau, assuring me that your hospitality was well known.”

The baron raised his light to endeavor to discover the unlucky wight who had, by this piece of information, been the cause of the unwelcome visit. Balsamo also looked around for his guide, but he had retired.

“And do you know the name of the young man who pointed out my chateau-” asked the Baron de Taverney, as if he 'wanted to return him thanks.

“Gilbert, I think, is his name.”

“Ha! Gilbert! I scarcely thought him fit even for that-an idle dog!-a philosopher, you must know, sir!”

The threatening tone in which these epithets were uttered showed that there was little sympathy between the lord and his vassal.

“However, sir,” said the baron, after a moment's silence, as expressive as his words, “will you be good enough to enter-”

“Allow me first, sir, to see after my carriage, which contains some very valuable articles.”

“La Brie!” cried the baron, “La Brie! get some assistance, and put the gentleman's carriage under the shed in the yard -there are still some laths of a roof there. I can't answer for your horses, however, getting a good feed, but as they are not yours, but the postmaster's, you need not care very much.”

“In truth, sir,” said the traveler, beginning to get impatient, “I fear that I am giving you quite too much trouble.”

“Not at all, sir-not at all-no trouble to me-but you will be rather poorly lodged, I warn you.”

“Sir, I assure you I feel exceedingly grateful.”

“Pray, do not deceive yourself as to what we can do for you,” said the baron, raising his candle, so as to throw its rays in the direction where Balsamo was assisting La Brie to wheel his carriage under the shed, and elevating his voice in proportion as his guest retreated-”Pray do not deceive yourself -Taverney is a dull abode, a wretched place!”

The traveler was too busy to reply; he chose the best covered part of the shed to shelter the carriage, and having pointed it out to La Brie, slipped a louis-d'or into his hand, and returned to the baron.

La Brie put the louis in his pocket, supposing it only a crown, and thanking Heaven for his good fortune.

“Heaven forbid I should think so ill of your chateau as you speak of it!” said Balsamo, bowing to the baron, who, as the only proof of the truth of his assertion, shook his head, and lead the guest through a wide, damp antechamber, grumbling as he proceeded -” Oh, all very good! but I know what I am saying -I know, unfortunately, my own means, and I assure you they are very limited.

If you are a Frenchman, sir-but your German accent shows you are not, and yet your name is Italian, but that is no matter-if you are a Frenchman. I repeat, the name of Taverney may recall some recollections of splendor -it was once called Taverney the rich!”

Balsamo expected a sigh at this conclusion, but there was none. “Philosophy!” thought he.

“This way, this way!” cried the baron, opening the dining-room door. “Hola! M. la Brie! wait at supper, now, as if you were yourself a hundred footmen in one!”

La Brie bustled about in obedience to this command.

“I have no servant but this, sir,” said Taverney; “he is a very bad one, but I have not the means of getting a better. The fool has been with me twenty years without getting a penny of wages. I feed him about as well as he waits on me. He is an ass, you see!”

Balsamo continued to study this character. “No heart,” thought he; “yet perhaps all this was merely affectation.”

The baron shut the door of the dining-room, and then, as he held his light high above his head, the traveler saw distinctly its size and its furniture.

It was a large, low hall, which had formerly been the principal apartment of a small farm-house, raised by its owner to the rank of a chateau. It was so scantily furnished, that, at the first glance, it appeared empty. Straw chairs, with carved backs, some engravings from the battlepieces of Lebrun, framed in black varnished wood, and a large oak cupboard, dark with age and smoke, were all its ornaments. In the middle stood a little round table on which was a dish of partridges and cabbage. The wine was in a stone jar, and the plate, unpolished, worn, and battered, consisted of three covers, one tankard and one saltcellar-but this last article was very massive, exquisitely chased, and looked like a diamond among worthless pebbles.

“There, sir, there!” said the baron, offering a seat to his guest, whose scrutinizing look on all around did not escape him. “Oh, you are looking at my saltcellar. You admire it. Good taste-and very polite, too, for you fix on the only tiling here worth looking at. I assure you, sir, I am particularly obliged. But, no, I forgot-I have one other valuable commodity-my daughter! '

“Mademoiselle Andree-” said Balsamo.

“Faith, yes! Mademoiselle Andree!” said the host, surprised that his guest was so well informed. “I shall present you to her. Andree! Andree! come hither, child-don't be afraid.”

“I am not afraid, father,” answered a sweet and clear voice, and a tall and beautiful girl entered the room, in a manner perfectly unembarrassed, and yet quite free from forwardness.

Joseph Balsamo, though, as we have seen, perfectly master of himself, could not prevent an involuntary bow at sight of all-powerful beauty like hers. Andree de Taverney seemed indeed sent to adorn and brighten all around her. She had dark auburn hair, of a rather lighter shade at her temples and neck, black eyes-clear, with dilated pupils-and a steady and majesty look, like that of an eagle, yet the mildness of that look was inexpressible. Her small mouth, formed like Apollo's bow, was brilliant as coral; her tapering hands were antique in form, as were her arms, and dazzlingly fair. Her figure, flexible and firm, was like that of the statue of some pagan goddess to which a miracle had given life. Her foot might bear a comparison with that of the huntress Diana, and it seemed only by a miracle that it could support the weight of her body. Her dress was of the simplest fashion, yet suited her so well, that it seemed as if one from the wardrobe of a queen would not have been so elegant or so rich.

All these details were perceived by Balsamo in the first glance, as the young lady passed from the door to the table. On his side, the baron had not lost a single impression produced on the mind of his guest by the rare union of perfections in his daughter.

“You were right,” whispered Balsamo, turning to his host, “Mademoiselle Andree is perfection.”

“Do not flatter poor Andree, sir,” said the baron, carelessly; “she has just returned home from her convent, and she will believe all you say-not that I am afraid of her coquetry-on the contrary, the dear child is not enough of a coquette, but, like a good father, I am cultivating in her that first and most important quality for a woman.”

Andree looked down and blushed; although she tried to avoid listening, she could not but overhear her father's words.

“Did they tell mademoiselle that at the convent-” asked Joseph Balsamo, laughing; “and was that precept part of the instructions of the nuns-”

“Sir,” replied the baron, “I have my own way of thinking on particular subjects, as you may see.”

This was so self-evident that Balsamo merely bowed in assent.

“No,” continued he, “I do not imitate those fathers who say to their daughters, 'Be prudes, be rigid, be blind-think of nothing but honor, delicacy, devotion.' Fools! It is as if the fathers of the knights of old had sent those champions into the lists-after having taken off all their armor-to fight an adversary armed cap-a-pie. Pardieu! That is not the way I shall bring up my daughter Andree, though she be brought up in this miserable den.”

Although Balsamo perfectly agreed with the baron as to the propriety of this last epithet, yet he deemed it polite to contradict it.

“Oh, all very well,” resumed the old man, “but I know the place, I tell you. Yet, though now so far from the sun of Versailles, my daughter shall know the world which I formerly knew so well myself; and if she enter it, it shall be with an arsenal of weapons forged by my experience and my recollections. But I must confess, sir, the convent has ruined all my plans. As if that was what I wanted, my daughter was the first boarder who really practiced the precepts there taught, and followed the letter of the Gospel. C'orbleu! was not that being prettily served-”

“Mademoiselle is an angel,” replied Balsamo, “and in truth, sir, what you say does not surprise me.”

Andree bowed her thanks for this compliment, and sat down in obedience to a look from her father.

“Be seated, baron,” said the host, “and if you are hungry, eat. “What a horrible ragout that fool La Brie has given us!”

“Partridges! Do you call that horrible-” said the guest, smiling. “You slander your supper. Partridges in May! Are they from your own estate-”

“My estates! it is long since I had one. My respectable father left me some land indeed, but it was eaten and digested long enough ago. Oh, Heaven be praised! I have not an inch of ground. That good-for-nothing Gilbert, who can only read and dream, must have stolen a gun, powder, and shot, from someone or other, and he kills birds, poaching on the estates of my neighbors. He will be caught and sent to the galleys some day, and certainly I shall not interfere, it will be a good riddance; but Andree likes game, so I am obliged to overlook Monsieur Gilbert's freaks.”

Balsamo watched Andree's lovely fare as this was said, but not a change, not the slightest blush, disturbed it.

He was seated at table between her and the baron, and she helped him, without appearing in the least annoyed at the scantiness of the repast, to a portion of the dish procured by Gilbert and cooked by La Brie, and so heartily abused by the baron. During this time poor La Brie, who heard all the eulogiums passed on himself and Gilbert, handed the plates with a deprecating air, which became quite triumphant at each word of praise the guest bestowed on his cookery.

“He has not even salted his abominable ragout!” cried the baron, after he had devoured two wings of a partridge, which his daughter had placed before him on a tempting layer of cabbage. “Andree, pass the saltcellar to the Baron Balsamo.”

Andree obeyed, extending her arm with exquisite grace.

“Ah, you are admiring the saltcellar again!” said the host.

“No, sir, you are wrong this time,” replied Balsamo; “I was admiring mademoiselle's hand.”

“Ah! very good indeed -a perfect Richelieu! But since you have the saltcellar in your own hand, examine it; it was made for the regent “by the goldsmith Lucas. It represents the loves of the satyrs and “bacchantes-a little free, but pretty.”

Balsamo saw that the little figures so admirably executed were something worse than free, and he could not but admire the unconsciousness with which Andree had offered him the saltcellar.

But as if the baron had determined to put to the proof that innocence which carries with it such a charm, he began to point out in detail the beauties of his favorite piece of plate, in spite of all Balsamo's efforts to change the conversation.

“Come, eat, baron,” said Taverney, “for I warn you there is no other dish. Perhaps you are expecting the roast and other removes; if so, great will be your disappointment.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Andree, in her usual calm manner, “but if Nicole has rightly understood me, we shall have another dish. I have given her the receipt for one.”

“The receipt! you have given a receipt to your maid! the femme-de-chambre turned cook! It only requires one step more-turn cook yourself, I beg you! Did the Duchesse de Chateauroux or the Marchioness de Pompadour ever cook for the king- On the contrary, it was he who dressed omelets for them. Jour de Dieu! have I lived to see women cooking in my house- Baron, excuse my daughter, I beseech you.”

“But, father, “we must eat,” said Andree quietly. “Well, Legay,” added she in a louder tone, “is it done-”

“Yes, mademoiselle,” replied the maid, bringing in a dish of a very tempting odor.

“I know one at least who will not eat of that dish!” said the baron, furious, and breaking his plate as he spoke.

“Perhaps you will eat some, sir-” said Andree coldly. Then, turning to her father, “You know, sir, we have now only seven plates of that set which my mother left me;” and, so saying, she proceeded to carve the smoking viands which Mademoiselle Legay, the pretty waiting-maid, had just placed on the table.

CHAPTER VI. ANDREE DE TAVERNEY.

THE SEARCHING intellect of Balsamo found ample food for study in each detail of the strange and isolated life led by this family in a corner of Lorraine.

The saltcellar alone revealed to him one phase of the baron's character, or rather his character in all its bearings. He called up all his penetration, therefore, as he scrutinized the features of Andree while she handed him that saltcellar.

At length, whether moved by curiosity or some deeper feeling, Balsamo gazed on Andree so fixedly, that two or three times, in less than ten minutes, the eyes of the young girl met his. At first she bore his look without confusion, but its intensity became by degrees so great that a feverish impatience, which made the blood mount to her cheeks, took possession of her; then, feeling that this look had something supernatural in its power, she tried to brave it, and, in her turn, she gazed at the baron with her large, limpid, dilated eyes. But this time again she was obliged to yield, and, filled with the magnetic fluid which flowed in streams from his flaming orbs, her eyelids weighed down, sunk timidly, no longer to be raised but with hesitation.

While this silent struggle went on between the young girl and the mysterious traveler, the baron grumbled, laughed, found fault, and swore like a true country gentleman, and pinched La Brie whenever he was within his reach, feeling that he must vent his spleen on someone. He was going to do the same to Nicole, when his eyes, for the first time no doubt, rested on the hands of the young waiting-maid. The baron was an adorer of fine hands-all his youthful follies might be attributed to the power of a fine hand over him.

“Only see!” cried he, “what pretty fingers this little rogue has! how the nail tapers-it would bend over the tip! -a great beauty if washing bottles and cutting wood did not wear down the horn; for it is horn you have at the ends of your fingers, Mademoiselle Nicole.”

Not accustomed to compliments from her master, Nicole looked at him with a half smile, in which there was more astonishment than gratification.

“Yes, yes,” said the baron, who saw what passed in the mind of the young flirt, “now turn away-play the coquette, I beg of you; but I must inform you, my dear guest, that Mademoiselle Nicole Legay, this young lady here present, is not a prude like her mistress, and is not at all afraid of a compliment.”

Balsamo turned quickly toward the baron's daughter, and saw an expression of supreme disdain on her handsome features; then, thinking it right to adapt his expression to hers, he looked haughtily away, at which Andree seemed pleased, and regarded him with less sternness, or rather with less uneasiness, than before.

“Would you think, sir,” continued the baron, chucking Nicole under the chin, “would you think that this damsel had been in a convent with my daughter, and is really what one might call educated- Oh! Mademoiselle Nicole would not quit her mistress for a moment. There is a devotedness in her which would greatly delight the philosophers who maintain that these creatures have souls.”

“Sir,” said Andree, displeased, “it is not devotedness which prevents Nicole from leaving me; it is because I order her to remain.”

Balsamo rolled his eyes to Nicole, to see the effect of these contemptuous words, and he observed, from her compressed lips, that she was not insensible to the humiliations to which her position of domestic exposed her. But the emotion was transitory; for, in turning away to hide it, her eyes rested with interest on a window of the room which looked into the courtyard. Everything roused the curiosity of Balsamo, and, as he followed her eyes, he thought he saw what interested her-the face of a man at the window. “In truth,” thought he, “Everyone has a mystery in this house, and I hope soon to know Mademoiselle Andree's. I have found out the baron's, and I guess what Nicole's is.” While thus communing with himself, the baron observed his absence of mind.

“You are in a reverie, my dear guest,” said he. “Well, it is infectious here-it attacks every one. Let me reckon; first, Mademoiselle de Taverney falls into reveries; then Mademoiselle Nicole does the same; then the good-for-nothing fellow who shot the partridges is in a perpetual reverie, and very likely the partridges were in a reverie when he shot them.”

“Gilbert-” asked Balsamo.

“Yes. Oh, a philosopher like Monsieur la Brie here! But excuse me; perhaps you are a friend of theirs- If so, I warn you you will be none of mine.”

“No, sir; I am neither for them nor against them,” replied Balsamo. “I know nothing of them.”

“Ventrebleu! so much the better. They are wretches as mischievous as they are ugly; the monarchy will be ruined by their opinions. No one laughs now; they read, they read! And what, I pray you- Sentiments like this; Under a monarchical government it is difficult for a people to be virtuous; or this; Monarchy is an institution invented for the corruption of the morals of men, and the purpose of enslaving them! or else this; If the power of kings comes from God, it comes as diseases and other scourges of the human race come from him. You call that improving, I hope! A virtuous people! Now, I ask you, of what use would they be- Everything has gone wrong since the king spoke to Voltaire and read Diderot!”

At this moment Balsamo thought he saw the pale face, which he had seen before, again appear at the window; but it vanished when he looked in that direction.

“Is mademoiselle a philosopher-” asked Balsamo, turning to Andree with a smile.

“I don't even know what philosophy is,” replied Andree. “I like what is serious.”

“Ha! mademoiselle!” cried the baron, “then, in my opinion, nothing is more serious than good living -like that. I pray you.”

“But mademoiselle does not hate life, I presume-” said Balsamo.

“That depends on circumstances,” replied Andree.

“What a stupid phrase,” exclaimed the baron; “would you believe it, sir, my son once made me, word for word, a similar reply-”

“You have a son, then, sir-”

“Oh, mon Dieu! sir, yes! I have that misfortune. The Chevalier de Taverney, lieutenant in the body-guard of the Dauphin-a most excellent young man! And the baron uttered these four words as if he would have crushed each letter in them.

“I congratulate you, sir, “said Balsamo, with a bow.

“Oh yes! another philosopher, sir! Upon the honor of a gentleman, it is sickening! Did he not speak to me the other day about giving the negroes their freedom! 'And what about sugar-' asked I,' for I like my coffee very sweet, and so does Louis XV.' 'Sir,' replied he,' is it not better to go without sugar than to make a whole race suffer-' 'A race of monkeys,' said I, and I think it was saying a great deal in their praise. Well! What do you think he said next-ma foi! there must be something in the air to turn people's “heads! He replied to me, 'that all men were brothers!' I the brother of a Hottentot!”

“Oh, that was going rather far!”

“Hey! what do you think of that- I am in great luck with my two children, am I not- No one will say that I shall be truly represented in my descendants. The sister is an angel-the brother an apostle! Drink, sir, drink! The wine is detestable!”

“I think it exquisite,” said Balsamo, still looking at Andree.

“Then you are a philosopher! Take care, or I shall order my daughter to preach you a sermon. But, no, philosopher-, have no religion. Still, religion was a very convenient thing-one believed in God and the king, and all was settled. Now people believe in neither one nor the other-they must know so much-read so much-I prefer never doubting. In my time, our only study was to amuse ourselves-to play at faro and dice, and to fence -we ruined duchesses, and were ruined by opera-dancers-that was my history to a tittle! The whole of Taverney went to the opera. It is the only tiling I regret, for a ruined man is not worth the name of man. You think me old, don't you- Well, it is because I am ruined, and live in this den; because my wig is shabby, and my coat a relic of antiquity. But look at my friend, the marshal, with his coats of the newest cut, and his well-curled wig, and his ten thousand a-year. He looks young, fresh, and gay, and yet he is ten years older than I, sir! -ten years, I assure you!”

“You speak of Monsieur de Richelieu-”

“Yes, the same.”

“The duke-”

“Why, faith, not the cardinal, I think -I do not go quite so far back. Besides, the cardinal never did what his nephew did; he did not last so long.”

“I am surprised that, with such powerful friends at court, you should have left it.”

“Oh, a temporary retreat! I shall return to it some day or other,” and the old baron east a singular look on his daughter. Balsamo did not allow it to pass unnoticed.

“But,” said he, “the marshal might at least advance your son-”

“My son! He hates him.”

“Hates the son of his friend-”

“He is quite right.”

“And do you say so, sir-”

“Pardieu! I tell you he is a philosopher-he abhors him!”

“And Philip returns him the compliment,” said Andree, with perfect calmness. “Remove these things, Legay!”

The young girl, roused from her fixed contemplation of the window, hastened to obey.

“Ah,” said the baron, sighing, “one used to sit after supper till two in the morning-we had what was fit to eat thru, and when the eating was over, we drank. But how drink this stuff, when we are not occupied in eating- Legay, bring a flask of Maraschino, if there be one.”

“Do so,” said Andree, for the maid seemed to wait for her orders before obeying those of the baron.

The baron threw himself back in his chair, shut his eyes, and sighed with a grotesque sort of melancholy.

“You were speaking of the Marshal de Richelieu,” said Balsamo, who appeared not inclined to let the conversation drop.

“Yes,” said Taverney, “I was speaking of him,” and he hummed an air as melancholy as his sighs.

“If he hate your son, and if he be right to hate him because he is a philosopher, he must retain all his friendship for you, since you are not one.”

“Philosopher! no, Heaven be praised!”

“You must surely have claims on the administration! You have served the king-”

“Fifteen years. I was the marshal's aid-de-camp-we served together in the campaign of Mahon. Our friendship is of long standing-let me see; it began at the siege of Philipsbourg -that was in the year 1742 or '43.”

“So,” said Balsamo, “you were at the siege of Philipsbourg- I was there myself.” The old man sat upright in his chair and stared at the stranger.

“Excuse me; but what is your age, my respected guest-”

“Oh, I am not old,” said Balsamo, holding out his glass to be filled with Maraschino by the fair hand of Andree. The baron interpreted the stranger's answer in his own way, and concluded that Balsamo had some reason for concealing his age.

“Sir,” said he, “allow me to say that you do not appear to be old enough to have served at Philipsbourg-that siege took place twenty-eight years ago, and you seem to be about thirty.”

“Oh, anybody might be taken for thirty.”

“Pardieu, then, I wish I could; it is just thirty years since I was that age.

Mademoiselle Andree gazed with increasing and irresistible curiosity on the stranger, for every word revealed him in a new light.

“You astonish me, sir,” said the baron. “Unless you are all this time mistaken in the name, and are thinking of some other town than Philipsbourg. I should say you were not more than thirty; would not you, Andree, say the same-”

“Yes, indeed,” replied she, trying to bear the powerful eye of their guest, but this time again in vain.

“No, no,” said the latter, “I mean what I say-I mean the famous siege of Philipsbourg, at which the Due de Richelieu killed his cousin, the Prince de Lixen, in a duel. The affair took place as they were returning from the trenches, on the high road; he ran his sword right through his body! I passed just as he expired in the arms of the Prince de Deux Ponts; he was seated against the side of a ditch when Richelieu was coolly wiping his sword.”

“On my honor, you amaze me, sir,” said the baron; “it occurred precisely as you say.”

“You have heard the affair described-” asked Balsamo, coolly.

“I was there. I had the honor of being second to the marshal; he was not marshal then, but that is no matter.”

“Let me think.” said Balsamo, turning and gazing firmly on him-” Were you not then a captain-”

“Precisely.”

“You were in the queen's regiment of light horse, which was cut to pieces at Fontenoy-”

“Perhaps you were at Fontenoy, too-” asked the baron, endeavoring to jest.

“No,” replied Balsamo; “I was dead at that time.”

The baron stared-Andree started-Nicole crossed herself.

“But to return to what we were saying. You wore the uniform of the light horse, I remember perfectly, at that time; I saw you as I passed; you were holding your own and the marshal's horse, while they fought. I went up to you and asked you about the duel-you gave me the details.”

“I-”

“Yes, you, pardieu!-I recognize you now-you bore the title of chevalier-they called you the little chevalier.”

“Mordieu!” cried the baron, all amazed.

“Excuse me that I did not sooner recognize you; but thirty years change a man. Let us drink the marshal's health, my dear baron.”

He raised his glass, and drained it to the last drop.

“You saw me there-” cried the baron; “impossible!”

“I saw you,” said Balsamo.

“On the high road-”

“On the high road.”

“Holding the horses-”

“Holding the horses.”

“While the duel was going on-”

“As the prince was expiring, I said.”

“Then you are fifty.”

“I am old enough to have seen what I tell you.”

The baron threw himself back in his chair, but in so ridiculous a pet that Nicole could not help laughing. Andree, instead of laughing, seemed to be in a reverie, her eyes open, and fixed on those of Balsamo. He appeared now to have attained his object. Suddenly rising, he sent from his flaming eyeball two or three lightning flashes full on her. She started, as if from an electric shock. Her arms stiffened, her neck bent, she smiled, yet as if involuntarily, on the stranger, then closed her eyes.

“Do you, also, mademoiselle, believe I speak falsely when I say that I was present at the siege of Philipsbourg-”

“No, sir, I believe you,” she articulated, making a violent effort.

“Then it is I who am only a dotard,” said the baron; “the gentleman, no doubt, has come back from the other world!”

Nicole gazed on him with horror.

“Who knows-” replied Balsamo, in so solemn a tone that he was yet more horrified.

“Well, then, baron,” resumed the old man, “to have done with jesting, are you really more than thirty-you do not look more!”

“Sir,” said Balsamo, “would you believe me if I told you a very incredible thing-”

“I do not promise that,” said the baron, looking knowing, while Andree listened with eager attention. “I am very incredulous, I must candidly warn you.”

“What use is there, then, in putting a question, when you will not listen to my reply-”

“Well, I will believe you. There!-are you satisfied-”

“Then, sir, I have only to repeat what I have told you, and to add that I knew you personally at the siege of Philipsbourg.”

“Then you must have been a child-”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Four or five years old at most-”

“No, I was forty-one.”

The baron burst into a loud fit of laughter, which Nicole re-echoed.

“I told you you would not believe me,” said Balsamo, gravely.

“But how is it possible to believe that- at least, give me some proofs.”

“That is easy. I was forty-one then, but I do not say that I was the man I am.”

“Oh,” cried the baron, “this is going back to paganism. Was there not a philosopher-for those wretches flourished in every century-was there not a Greek philosopher who would not eat beans because he pretended they had had souls, as my son says negroes have-who was he-what the deuce was his name-”

“Pythagoras,” said Andree.

“Yes, Pythagoras; the Jesuits taught me that. Father Poree made me compose Latin verses on it, with little Arouet. I remember they thought mine much the best. Pythagoras-yes.”

“Well, how do you know that I am not Pythagoras-” replied Balsamo, quietly.

“I do not deny that you may be Pythagoras, but Pythagoras was not at the siege of Philipsbourg; at least, I did not see him there.”

“No; but you saw the Viscount Jean des Barreaux, who was in the black musketeers.”

“Yes, I knew him well, but he was no philosopher, although he did hate beans, and never ate them when he could help it.”

“Well! Do you recollect, the day after the duel, Des Barreaux was in the trenches with you-”

“Yes, perfectly well.”

“For you know the black musketeers and the light horse always mounted guard together, every seven days.”

“True enough. What next-”

“That very evening the grape-shot fell like hail, and Des Barreaux was dull; he asked you for a pinch of snuff, and you offered him your gold box.”

“On which was the likeness of a female-”

“Exactly. I see her now. She was fair, was she not-”

“Mordieu!” cried the baron, terrified, “you are right. Well, then-”

“Well, then,” continued Balsamo, “as he was taking that pinch of snuff, a ball carried off his head, just in the same way that Marshal Berwick's was carried away formerly.”

“Alas! yes, I remember,” said the baron; “poor Des Barreaux!”

“And now, sir, you see I must have seen and known you at the siege of Philipsbourg, since I was that very Des Barreaux.”

The baron fell back once more in his chair, almost stupefied at these words; but, recovering, he cried, “Why, this is sorcery-magic! A hundred years ago you would have been burned, my dear guest. Upon my honor, I think I can smell a sort of corpse-like odor!”

“Sir,” said Balsamo, “no true sorcerer or magician has ever yet been burned; it is fools who have anything to do with the faggot. But a truce to this conversation. Mademoiselle de Taverney is asleep; it seems that metaphysics and the occult sciences have few attractions for her.”

In fact, Andree, overcome by an unknown irresistible power, felt her head sink on her breast, like a flower whose cup bends under its weight of dew.

At the last words of Balsamo, she made an effort to shake off the influence that like a subtle fluid stole upon her. She shook her head, arose, seemed about to full, but, supported by Nicole, left the dining-room. At the same moment the face which had been looking in at the window, and which Balsamo had long ago recognized as Gilbert's, also disappeared. An instant after he heard Andree begin to play with vigor on her harpsichord. He had followed her with his eye as she left the room, and could not help exclaiming triumphantly, as she disappeared, “I may say, like Archimedes, Eureka!”

“Archimedes! Who was he-” asked the baron.

“A good sort of a fellow-a savant whom I knew two thousand one hundred and fifty years ago,” said Balsamo.

CHAPTER VII. EUREKA.

WHETHER THIS piece of extravagance was too much for the baron, whether he had not heard it, or whether, having heard it, he thought it best to get rid of his strange guest, we know not, but he made no reply to it; but when the sound of Andree's harpsichord proved that she was engaged in the next apartment, he offered to procure Balsamo the means of proceeding to the nearest town.

“I have an old horse who, though on his last legs, will carry you so far; and you would at least procure good lodgings. There is, indeed, a room and a bed at Taverney; but my ideas of hospitality are rather peculiar-'good or none' is my motto.”

“Then you wish to send me away!” said Balsamo, hiding his vexation under a smile. “That is treating me like an intruder.”

“No, indeed; it is treating you like a friend, my dear guest. Lodging you here would be really treating you as an enemy. I say this in all conscience, but with great regret, for I am delighted with your society.”

“Then, pray do not force me to rise when I am tired-to get on horseback when I would rather stretch my limbs in bed. Do not represent your hospitable resources as worse than they are, if you would not have me believe that I have been so unfortunate as to incur your dislike.”

“Oh!” said the baron, “since you view the matter in that light, you shall stay.”

Then looking round for La Brie, who was in a corner, he cried, “Come hither, you old rascal!” La Brie advanced a few steps timidly. “Ventrebleu! come hither, I say! Is the red room fit to accommodate a gentleman, think you-”

“Oh, certainly, sir,” replied the old servant; “you know it is occupied by M. Philip when he comes to Taverney.”

“It may do very well for a poor devil of a lieutenant who comes to pass a month with a ruined father, and at the same time very unfit for a rich nobleman who travels post with four horses!”

“I assure you.” said Balsamo, “I shall be perfectly content with it.”

The baron grinned, as if he would have said, “I know better;” then he added aloud, “La Brie, show the stranger to the red room, since he is determined to be cured of all wish to return to Taverney. Well, you have decided to stay, I suppose-” said he, turning to Balsamo.

“Yes-if you permit it.”

“Stay! there are still other means.”

“Means for what-”

“To avoid having to make the journey on horseback.”

“What journey-”

“To Bar-le-Dur.”

Balsamo waited quietly to hear this new plan developed.

“You were brought here by post horses, were you not-”

“Yes, unless Satan brought me.”

“I at first almost suspected he did, for you do not seem to be on bad terms with him.”

“You do me infinitely more honor than I deserve.”

“Well, the horses that brought your carriage could now take it away-”

“No; there are only two horses left of the four, and the carriage is heavy. Besides, post-horses must rest.”

“Ha! another reason. You are determined, I see, to remain.”

“Because I wish to see you again tomorrow, and express my gratitude to you for your hospitality.”

“That you could easily repay.”

“How-”

“Since you are on such good terms with his satanic majesty, beg him to permit me to discover the philosopher's stone.”

“Why, M, le Baron, if you really wish for it-”

“The philosopher's stone! Parbleu! if I really wish for it!”

“In that case you must apply to another individual than the devil.”

“To whom, then-”

“To me! as I heard Corneille say about a hundred years ago, when he was reciting me a part of one of his comedies.”

“Ha! La Brie, you old rascal!” cried the baron, who began to find the conversation rather dangerous at such an hour, and with such a man, “try and find a wax candle, and light the gentleman to his room.”

La Brie hastened to obey, and during this search, almost as dubious in its result as that for the philosopher's stone, he desired Nicole to precede him upstairs and air the red room. Nicole being gone, Andree was delighted to find herself alone. She felt as if she required to reflect. The baron bid Balsamo good-night and retired to bed.

Balsamo looked at his watch, for he remembered the promise he had made to Althotas-a promise now impossible to fulfill, the two hours having expired. He asked La Brie if the carriage was still in the place he had pointed out. La Brie replied that unless it would move away of itself, it must be there. He then asked what had become of Gilbert. La Brie assured him that the lazy fellow was no doubt in bed two hours ago. Then, after having studied the topography of the passage which led to the red room, Balsamo went out to waken Althotas.

The Baron de Taverney had not spoken falsely respecting the discomfort of this apartment; it was as poorly furnished as all the other rooms of the chateau.

An oaken bed with a faded green damask coverlet, and hangings of the same material looped up above it; an oaken table with twisted legs; a huge stone chimney-piece of the time of Louis XIII., to which in winter a fire might impart some appearance of comfort, but which now, wanting that, wanting all ornaments and utensils, wanting wood, and stuffed with old newspapers, only made the place look still more dreary. Such was the apartment of which Balsamo was for one night to be the fortunate possessor.

We must add that there were two chairs and a wardrobe painted of a gray color.

While La Brie was endeavoring to give a habitable appearance to the room, which Nicole had aired before retiring to her own apartment, Balsamo had wakened Althotas and returned to the house. When he reached Andree's door, he stopped to listen. From the moment Andree left the dining-room, she felt that she had escaped from the mysterious influence which the stranger exercised over her, and to rouse herself completely from its power, she continued to play on her harpsichord. Its sound reached Balsamo through the closed door, and, as we have said, he stopped to listen.

After a minute or two he made several gestures with a sweeping circular motion which might have been mistaken for a species of conjuration, since Andree, struck again by the sensation she had previously experienced, ceased to play, let her arms fill immovible by her side, and turned toward the door with a slow stiff motion, as if she were obeying a command against her own free will. Balsamo smiled in the dark as if he saw through the door. No doubt this was all he wanted, for he stretched out his left hand, and, having found the balustrade of the staircase, which was steep and broad, he ascended to the red room. In proportion as he increased his distance, Andree, with the same slow rigid motion, returned to her harpsichord, and when Balsamo reached the highest stair, he heard her resume the first notes of the air which he had interrupted.

Having entered his chamber, he dismissed La Brie. La Brie was evidently a good servant, accustomed to obey on the instant; but now, after moving a few steps toward the door, he stopped.

“Well-” said Balsamo.

La Brie slipped his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and seemed feeling for something in its silent depths, but he did not reply.

“Have you anything to say to me, my friend-” inquired Balsamo, approaching him.

La Brie made a great effort over himself, and pulled his hand out of his pocket.

“I merely wished to say, sir, that you made a mistake this evening.”

“Did I-” said Balsamo. “How so-”

“You meant to give me a crown, and you gave me a louis-d'or;” and he opened his hand and disclosed to view the new shining piece.

Balsamo looked at the old servant with an expression of admiration which indicated he had not the highest opinion of men as far as probity was concerned.

“'And honest!'” said he, “as Hamlet says; “and, feeling in his own pocket, he drew out a second louis-d'or, which he laid beside the first in La Erie's hand.

La Erie's joy at this munificence could not be described. For twenty years he had not once seen gold, and in order to convince him that he was really the happy possessor of such a treasure, Balsamo had to put the money with his own hand into La Erie's pocket. He bowed to the ground, and was retiring without turning his back on the stranger, when the latter stopped him.

“At what hour does the family usually rise in the morning-” asked he.

“Monsieur de Taverney rises late, but Mademoiselle de Taverney is always up at a very early hour.”

“At what hour-”

“About six o'clock.”

“Who sleeps above this room-”

“I do, sir.”

“And below-”

“No one; the vestibule is under this.”

“Thank you, my friend; now you may go.”

“Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night; but, by-the-by, see that my carriage be all safe.”

“You may depend on me, sir.”

“If you near any noise, or see any light, do not be alarmed; I have an old lame servant in it who travels with me everywhere. Tell M. Gilbert not to interfere with him; and tell him also, if you please, not to go out to-morrow morning until I have spoken to him. Can you remember all this-”

“Oh, certainly! But are you going to leave us so soon, sir-”

“I am not quite sure,” said Balsamo, with a smile; “yet, strictly speaking, I ought to be at Bar-le-Duc to-morrow evening.”

La Brie sighed resignedly, gave a last glance at the bed, and, taking up the candle, went toward the fireplace to give a little warmth to the great damp room by setting fire to the papers, as he had no wood.

“No, never mind,” said Balsamo, preventing him; “leave the old papers; if I do not sleep, I can amuse myself by reading them.”

La Brie bowed and retired.

Balsamo listened until the steps of the old servant had died away on the stairs, and until he heard them overhead. Then he went to the window. In the opposite tower there was a light in the window of a garret, the curtains of which were but half closed. It was Legay's room. She was thoughtfully unfastening her gown and handkerchief, and from time to time she opened her window and leaned out to see into the courtyard. Balsamo looked at her with more attention than he had chosen to bestow on her during supper. “What a singular resemblance!” he murmured to himself. At this moment the light in the garret was extinguished, although its occupant was not yet ill bed.

Balsamo leaned against the wall, listening anxiously. The notes of the harpsichord still sounded in his ears. He assured himself that its harmony alone awoke the midnight silence a round; then, opening the door, which La Brie had shut, he cautiously descended the stairs, and gently pushed open the door of the salon.

Andree heard nothing; her white hands continued to wander over the old yellow keys of the instrument. Opposite her was a mirror set in an old carved frame, the gilding of which had changed to a dull gray. The air she played was melancholy, or rather, she played merely harmonies instead of an air. No doubt it was all extempore; and she was thus reproducing in music her early recollections, or indulging in the dreams of her imagination. Perhaps her spirit, saddened by her residence at Taverney, had left the chateau to wander in the large shady gardens of the convent of the Annonciades at Nancy, ringing with the merry voices of troops of happy boarders. Whether such were her dreams or not, her vague gaze seemed to lose itself in the somber mirror before her, which reflected only indistinctly the different objects in the vast apartment, dimly lighted by the single candle placed on the harpsichord.

Sometimes she suddenly ceased. It was when she recalled the strange vision of the evening, and her unaccountable impressions; but before her thoughts had time to take any precise form, her heart beat, she felt a thrill run through her limbs, and she started as though a living being had come into contact with her. All at once, as she tried to account for these feelings, they returned. She felt a thrill as if from an electric shock. Her eye became fixed, her floating thoughts became embodied as it were, and she perceived something move over the dim mirror.

The door of the salon had opened noiselessly, and in the doorway a shadow appeared. She shuddered, her fingers wandered involuntarily over the keys; yet nothing could be more easily accounted for than the appearance of the fig tree. Might it not be her father, or Nicole, or La Brie, who, before retiring, had returned to the apartment upon some household errand- La Erie's visits of that kind were frequent; and on these occasions the faithful creature never made a sound. But no; the eyes of her soul showed her that the being whom she did not see was none of those we have named.

The shadow drew nearer, becoming more distinct in the mirror, and when within the circle of the light afforded by the candle the stranger was seen, his dress of black velvet increasing the ghastly pallor of his face; he had, for some mysterious reason, laid aside the silk one which he wore at supper.*

She would have turned and screamed, but Balsamo extended his arms, and she remained motionless. She made another effort; “Sir,” said she, “in the name of Heaven, what do you want-”

He smiled, the glass reflected his smile, and she watched it with eager gaze, but he did not reply.

She tried once more to rise, but could not; an irresistible power, a paralyzing feeling, which was not without a pleasurable sensation attending it, fixed her to her chair, while her eye never left the magic mirror. This new sensation alarmed her, for she felt that she was altogether in the power of the unknown. She made another almost supernatural effort to call for aid, but Balsamo extended both his hands above her head, and no sound escaped her lips. She continued dumb, her bosom loaded with a stupefying heat which ascended slowly in invading billows to her brain. She had no longer strength or will; her head sank on her shoulder.

At this moment Balsamo thought he heard a slight noise; he turned-the face of the man he had seen before was at the window. He frowned, and, strange to say, the frown was reflected on the young girl's face.

* It is well known that silk is a bad conductor, and repels the electric fluid. It is almost impossible to magnetize a person who wears a dress of silk.

Then, turning again to Andree, he drew down his hands, which he had hitherto held above her head; then he raised them again gently, again drew them clown, and continued thus to overwhelm her with column upon column of the electric fluid.

“Sleep!” said he.

She still struggled against his power.

“Sleep!” he repeated, in a voice of command, “sleep! it is my will!”

Then all her faculties yielded to that all-powerful will; she leaned her elbow on the harpsichord, drooped her head on her hand, and slept.

Balsamo now, without turning his face from her, left the room, closed the door, and went up to his own chamber. Scarcely had he retired when the face once more appeared at the window. It was Gilbert's.

CHAPTER VIII. ATTRACTION.

GILBERT, whose menial position in the chateau of Taverney caused him to be excluded from the salon, watched all the evening those whose rank permitted them that privilege. During supper he saw Balsamo's looks and gestures. He remarked Andree's attention to him, the baron's unusual affability, and the respectful eagerness of La Brie-.

“When the party rose from table, he hid in a clump of shrubs, lest Nicole, in closing the shutters, or in going to her own room, might see him and put an end to his espionage. Nicole had, indeed, made her round to secure all for the night, but one of the shutters of the salon she was forced to leave open, the half unfixed hinge of which would not permit it to close. Gilbert knew that such was the case, so he remained out, certain that he could continue his watchings when Legay was gone.

His watchings, have we said- What reason had Gilbert to watch- Having been brought up at Taverney, did he not know it perfectly, as well as the habits of the family- The reason was, that on that evening he had other motives than those which usually actuated him; he not only watched, but waited.

“When Nicole quitted the salon, leaving Andree there, after having slowly closed the doors and shutters, she walked for a few minutes up and down in front of the house, as if she expected someone. Then she looked furtively on all sides, peeped into the salon, waited a little longer, and at length made up her mind to go to bed.

Gilbert, motionless, bending down close to the trunk of a tree, and scarcely venturing to breathe, saw every movement and gesture of Nicole; and when she had disappeared, and when he saw a light in the windows of her apartment, he stole again on tip-toe to the window, leaned forward, and continued, although scarcely knowing why, with eager eyes to devour Andree, who was sitting at her harpsichord in a listless attitude.

Just then Joseph Balsamo entered the salon. Gilbert started, and every faculty was strained to enable him to comprehend the scene which we have just described. He thought that Balsamo complimented Andree on her musical talent, that she replied with her usual coldness; that, with a smile, he repeated his praise, and that then she stopped to reply, and to dismiss him for the night. He admired the grace with which the stranger retired backward; but he had in reality understood nothing of the scene, as it had all passed in silence. He had heard no words, he had seen the lips and hands of the pair before him move, and close observer as he was, he discovered no mystery in what appeared to pass so naturally.

Balsamo gone, Gilbert remained no longer in an attitude of observation, but apparently lost in observation of Andree, so beautiful in her careless attitude; but soon, to his amazement, he discovered that she was asleep. He remained for some moments longer in the same position, to be certain that such was the case; then, when he was quite convinced, he clasped his forehead with both hands, like one who feared for his senses in the flood of thoughts and sensations which poured on his brain. “Oh!” said he, wildly, “her hand! -that my lips might only touch her hand! Gilbert, Gilbert, rouse thee! I will do it!”

As he spoke, he rushed into the anteroom and reached the door of the salon, which, as when Balsamo entered, opened without noise. But scarcely was it open, scarcely did he find the young girl before him without anything separating them, than he felt all the importance of the step he had taken. He, the son of a fanner and a peasant woman-he, the timid young man, who in his lowness dared hardly raise his eyes to his haughty mistress-he was going to press to his lips the hem of the robe or the tip of the finger of this sleeping majesty, who, if she awoke, would with a look crush him to the dust. At this idea, all that had intoxicated him and made him bold vanished; he stopped and clung to the door-post, for he trembled and felt as if he should fall.

But Andrew's meditation or sleep (for Gilbert could not yet decide whether she slept or was only buried in thought) was so deep that he in no way disturbed her; yet one might have heard the beating of his heart, which he tried in vain to still. He remained a minute gazing on her. She stirred not; she was so beautiful, with her head gently bent forward on her hand, her long unpowdered hair falling on her shoulders, that the flame, which fear for a moment had extinguished, rekindled. His madness returned-he must at least touch something touched by her. He made a step toward her; the floor creaked under his unsteady footstep, a cold moisture stood on his forehead. But she seemed to have heard nothing.

“She sleeps!” he murmured; “oh joy! she sleeps!”

But before he advanced three steps farther he stopped again. It was the unusual brightness of the candle which alarmed him now, for it had burned down in the socket, and gave, as is usual, a larger flame just before it expired. But not a sound, not a breath in the house. La Brie had retired to bed, and no doubt to sleep, and the light in Nicole's chamber was extinguished.

“Courage!” said he, and he advanced anew. Strange, the floor creaked again; but Andree stirred not, and Gilbert himself could scarcely avoid being frightened by this mysterious repose.

“She sleeps!” repeated he again, with that varying resolution peculiar to the lover and the coward-and he who is not master of his heart is always a coward; “she sleeps! Oh, heaven! oh, heaven!”

In the midst of all these feverish altercations of fear and hope, he still advanced, and at last found himself within two paces of Andree. Then he felt as if fascinated. He would have fled, were flight possible; but once within the circle of attraction, of which she was the center, he felt himself rooted to the spot, and, conquered, subdued, he fell on both his knees.

Andree remained motionless as a statue. Gilbert took the hem of her dress in both hands, and kissed it; then he looked up slowly, breathlessly-his eyes met hers, which were wide open, yet she saw him not.

Gilbert no longer knew what to think; he was overwhelmed with astonishment. For a moment the horrible idea that she was dead flashed across his mind; he seized her hand-it was warm, and the pulse beat softly; but this hand remained unresistingly in his. Then, bewildered by having touched it, he imagined that she saw, that she felt, that she had discovered his maddening passion-poor blinded heart!-that she expected his visit, that her silence indicated consent, her immovability favor. He raised her hand to his lips, and imprinted on it a long and burning kiss. Immediately a shudder ran through her frame, and Gilbert felt that she repelled him.

“lam lost!” he murmured, relinquishing her hand, and throwing himself upon the floor.

Andree rose as if moved by a spring, and not once casting her eyes to the floor, on which Gilbert lay overcome lay shame and fear, without even strength to ask a pardon which he knew would not be granted, her head erect, her neck rigid, and with a painful and constrained step, she moved toward the door. She passed on like one drawn by a secret spell to an unseen goal, and in passing she touched Gilbert's shoulder. He raised himself on one hand, turned slowly, and followed her with eyes full of amazement. She opened the door, passed into the anteroom, and reached the foot of the stairs. Pale and trembling, Gilbert dragged himself after her en his knees.

“Oh,” thought he, “she is so indignant that she would not herself deign to show her anger. She is going to the baron to relate my shameful infatuation, and I shall be turned 'out like a disgraced lackey!”

The thought that he should be dismissed -that he should no longer see her who was his light, his life, his soul-gave him courage; he arose and hurried after her. “Oh, pardon, mademoiselle! in the name of Heaven, pardon!” murmured he.

Andree appeared not to have heard him, passed on, but did not enter her father's apartment. Gilbert breathed more freely. She advanced toward the staircase, and began to ascend.

“Great heaven!” murmured he, “where can she be going- That is the way to the red room, which the stranger occupies, and to La Erie's loft. It may be to call him-yet, she would ring; she must be going-oh, impossible, impossible!” and he wrung his hands with rage at the thought that she was going into Balsamo's apartment.

She stopped before the door. A cold perspiration trickled down Gilbert's forehead; he grasped the iron of the balustrade that he might not fall-for he had continued to follow her-and all that he saw and all that he fancied filled him with horror.

Balsamo's door was half open. Andree did not knock, but pushed it wider, and entered the room. The light within fell on her noble features, and was reflected with a golden luster from her large open eyes. Gilbert could see the stranger standing in the middle of the chamber, with his eyes fixed, his brow contracted, and one hand extended with a commanding gesture.

This was all; the door was shut again.

Gilbert felt his strength abandon him. He put his hand to his head and fell heavily on the cold stone of the upper step of the stairs, but with his eyes turned on the accursed door, which entombed his past dreams, his present happiness, his future hopes.

CHAPTER IX. CLAIRVOYANCE.

BALSAMO advanced to meet the young lady, who moved toward him in a direct line, rigid in her movement as the bronze statue in Don Juan. However strange her coming might seem to another than Balsamo, he appeared in no degree surprised at it.

“I commanded you to sleep,” said he; “do you sleep-”

She sighed, but did not answer. Balsamo drew nearer her, imparting to her still more of the electric fluid.

“It is my will that you speak,” he said.

She started.

“Have you heard my command-”

Andree assented by a gesture.

“Then why do you not speak-”

She put her hand to her throat, as if to indicate that she could not articulate.

“Well, sit down!” said Balsamo.

He took her by the hand which Gilbert had so lately kissed without her being conscious, and his touch gave her that shudder which she had then exhibited, but which had been caused by the electric fluid descending on her at that moment from the room above. Led by him, she made three steps backward and sat down in an armchair.

“Do you see-” he asked.

Her eyes dilated as if she tried to take In all the rays of light in the apartment.

“I do not mean to ask if you see with your eyes. Do you see inwardly- “and, drawing from under his embroidered coat a little rod of steel, he touched her heaving breast. She bounded as if a dart of flame had pierced her and entered her heart, and then her eyes closed.

“And now you begin to see-” he said.

She bowed in assent.

“And you will soon speak-”

“Yes!” replied Andree; but at the same moment she put her hand to her head in a manner expressive of great suffering.

“What is the matter-” asked Balsamo.

“I am in pain.”

“Wherefore-”

“Because you force me to see and speak.”

He made several movements over her head, as if to lessen the influence of the electricity.

“Do you suffer now-”

“Not so much.”

“Well, then, look where you are.”

Her eyes remained closed, but her face expressed great surprise.

“I am in the red chamber!” she murmured.

“With whom-”

“With you!” continued she, shuddering.

“What is the matter-”

“I am afraid-I am ashamed!”

“Of what-are we not united by sympathy-

“Yes, certainly.”

“And you know that I have caused you to come here with a pure intention-”

“True, true,” said she.

“That I respect you as a sister-”

“I know it, indeed!” and her face grew calm, then again was troubled.

“You do not tell me all-you do not pardon me entirely.”

“Because I see that though you would not wrong me, you would another, perhaps.”

“'Possibly,” he muttered; “but look not at that!” he added in an authoritative tone.

Her face resumed its usual expression.

“Are all asleep in the house-”

“I do not know.”

“Then look and see.”

“Where shall I look-”

“Let me see-first, in your father's room; what is he doing-”

“He is in bed.”

“Asleep-”

“No; he is reading.”

“What is he reading-”

“One of those bad books which he wishes me to read.”

“And you will not read them-”

“No;” said she, with an expression of the greatest scorn on her features.

“Well, we are safe, then-look in Nicole's room.”

“There is no light in her room.”

“But you do not want light to see.”

“Not if you command me.”

“See! it is my will.”

“Ah, I see!”

“What-”

“She is half undressed-she is opening her door softly -she is going downstairs!”

“So-where is she going-”

“She stops at the courtyard gate-she waits behind it-she watches!”

Balsamo smiled. “Is she watching to see whether you are out-”

“No.”

“Well, that is the principal matter; for when a young lady is free from her father's and her waiting-maid's eye, she has nothing to fear unless-

“No.”

“You are replying to my thought.”

“I see it.”

“Then you have no lover-”

“I-” asked she, disdainfully.

“Yes; you might he in love-young people do not leave their convents to he shut up. They give liberty to their hearts when their persons are set free!”

Andree shook her head. “My heart is free,” she said, sadly; and such an expression of candor and virgin modesty lighted her features, that Balsamo exclaimed with rapture, “A lily!-a true pupil!-a clairvoyante!”-and he clasped his hands with joy and gratitude.

Then turning again to Andree; “But if you do not love, you may be loved,” said he.

“I do not know,” replied she, softly.

“What! you do not know!” he cried, imperiously. “When I question, I expect a proper answer!” and he touched her bosom again with the steel rod. She started, but without evincing so much pain as before.

“Yes, I see,” said she, “but be gentle, or you will kill me.”

“What do you see-”

“Oh-but no! It cannot be,” said she.

“What, then, do you see!”

“A young man, who ever since my leaving the convent, has followed me, watched me, brooded on me, yet always secretly.”

“Who is this young man-”

“I do not see his face. I see his coat-it is like that of a workman.”

“Where is he-”

“At the foot of the stairs. He seems in sorrow-he weeps.”

“Why can you not see his face-”

“It is hidden in his hands.”

“Look through his hands.”

She made an effort; then exclaimed. “No-it is impossible-Gilbert!”

“Why impossible-”

“He-he dare not love me!” cried she, with a lofty expression of disdain.

Balsamo smiled like one who knows mankind, and who is aware that there is no distance the heart will not overleap, were there an abyss between it and its object.

“And what is he doing at the foot of the staircase-”

“Stay; he removes his hands from his face-he seizes the balustrade-he rises-he ascends.”

“Ascends where-”

“Up here-but no matter-he dares not come in.”

“Why not-”

“Because he is afraid,” said she, with a smile of contempt.

“But he will listen-”

“Yes; for he is now putting his ear to the door.”

“That annoys you-”

“Yes, he may hear what I say.”

“And would he use it against her whom he loves-”

“Yes, in a moment of passion or jealousy-in such a moment he would be capable of anything.”

“Then let us get rid of him,” said Balsamo, and he walked noisily to the door.

Gilbert's hour to be courageous was not yet come, for, at the noise, fearing to be caught, he jumped astride on the balustrade and slid down noiselessly to the bottom of the staircase. Andree uttered a stifled cry.

“Look no more in that direction,” said Balsamo, returning toward her; “the loves of the vulgar are of no importance. Speak to me of the Baron of Taverney, will you-”

“I will answer what you choose,” said she, sighing.

“The baron is very poor, is he not-

“Very poor.”

“Too poor to allow you any amusement-”

“Oh, yes.”

“You are heartily tired of Taverney-”

“Heartily!”

“You are ambitions, perhaps-”

“No.”

“You love your father-”

“Yes,” said the young girl with hesitation.

“Yet I thought this evening your filial love was not very apparent,” said Balsamo, smiling.

“I am vexed at him for having wasted my mother's fortune, so that poor Maison Rouge has to pass his time in garrison, and cannot worthily support the dignity of our family.”

“Who is this Maison Rouge-”

“My brother Philip.”

“Why do you call him Maison Rouge-”

“It is, or rather it was, the name of one of our castles, and the eldest of the family bears it until the death of the chief -then he is called Taverney.”

“You love your brother, then-”

“Oh, dearly, dearly!”

“More than anyone in the world-”

“More than anyone in the world!”

“Why do you love him so warmly, and your father so coldly-”

“Because he has a noble heart; he would die for me.”

“And your father-”

She was silent. Doubtless Balsamo thought it better not to force her against her will on this point; and perhaps, also, he already knew as much of the baron as he wished.

“And where is the Chevalier Maison Rogue at this moment-”

“Where is Philip-”

“Yes!”

“In the garrison at Strasbourg.”

“Do you see him there-”

“Where-”

“At Strasbourg.”

“I do not see him.”

“Do you know that town-”

“No.”

“I know it-let us visit it together-will you-”

“Yes; with pleasure!”

“Now. Is he at the theater-”

“No.”

“Is he at the coffee-house in the square with the other officers-”

“No.”

“Has he gone back to his apartment- I wish that you should look for him there.”

“I see nothing. I think he is not in Strasbourg.”

“Do you know the road from thence-”

“No.”

“I know it-follow me! Is he at Save rue-”

“No.”

“Is he at Saarbruck-”

“No.”

“Is he at Nancy-”

“Stay! -stay!” The young girl seemed collecting all her powers-her heart beat-her bosom heaved. “I see him! -I see him! -dear Philip-what joy!”

“What is he doing-”

“Dear Philip!” continued Andree, her eyes sparkling with joy.

“Where is he-”

“On horseback, riding through a town I know well.”

“What town-”

“Nancy! Nancy! where I was at the convent.”

“Are you sure that it is he-”

“Oh, yes, the torches around show his face.”

“Torches-” said Balsamo, with surprise; “why, are there torches-”

“He is on horseback, at the door of a magnificent carriage, richly gilt.”

“Ah!” cried Balsamo, who appeared to comprehend this, “who is in the carriage-”

“A young lady-oh, how majestic she is! how graceful! how beautiful! Strange, I almost fancy I have seen her before; no -it is Nicole's features which resemble hers.”

“Nicole resembles the young lady who is so beautiful and so majestic-”

“Yes, yes; but as a jasmine may be said to resemble a lily.”

“Let us see what is passing at Nancy at this moment.”

“The young lady bends forward, and makes a sign to Philip to approach; he obeys, and takes off his hat respectfully.”

“Can you hear what they say-”

“I am listening,” said Andree, impressing silence on Balsamo by a gesture. “I hear, I hear!” murmured she.

“What does the young lady say-”

“She orders him, with a sweet smile, to hasten the pace of the horses. She says she will require her escort to be ready at six in the morning, as she wishes to stop on the road.”

“To stop- Where-”

“My brother is just asking her. Heavens! she wishes to stop at Taverney, to see my father! Such a great princess at our poor house! What shall we do-without plate -almost without linen-”

“Do not be uneasy; that will be provided for.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks!” And the young girl, who had half risen from her seat, sank back with a heavy sigh, completely exhausted.

Balsamo immediately approached her, and, by some magnetic passes in an opposite direction, changed the course of the electric fluid. A calm sleep then stole over her lovely frame, which had bent down exhausted, her head sinking on her palpitating bosom.

“Recover thy strength,” said Balsamo, gazing at her with a stern delight; “I shall soon require thy light again. O Science!” continued he, with the rapture of exalted faith, “thou alone never deceivest us; to thee, then, man ought to sacrifice every feeling. This young girl is beautiful, pure as an angel; and He who made beauty and innocence knows bow dear they ought to be to us. But let the creature perish-how pure, how perfect, how beautiful soever she be-if I can but make her speak the words of truth! Let all the delights of the world-love, passion, rapture-exist no longer for me, if I can only with a firm step advance on the path of light and science. And now, young girl, now that my will has given thee strength, awake!-or rather, sink again in the sleep which reveals all things! Speak again, but now it is for me that thou must speak.”

He spread his hands over her head and forced her to sit up by breathing upon her. Seeing her ready and submissive, he took from his pocket-book a curl of jet-black hair, which he put into Andree's hand.

“See!” he commanded.

“Again!” said she, with anguish. “Oh, no, let me rest-it is too painful; and just now I felt so happy!”

“See!” replied Balsamo, pitilessly, touching her again with the steel rod.

She wrung her hands, struggling to evade the tyranny of the experimenter. The foam was on her lips, as formerly it gathered on those of the pythoness on her sacred tripod.

“I see, I see!” cried she, with the despair of a subdued will.

“What do you see-”

“A woman.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Balsamo, with wild joy, “science is not, then, a useless word, like virtue! Mesmer is greater than Brutus! Describe the woman, that I may know you really see her whom I would have you see.”

“She is a brunette, tall, with blue eyes, jet-black hair, and sinewy arms.”

“What is she doing-”

“She gallops, she flies forward, carried by a splendid horse, reeking with sweat and foam.”

“In what direction-”

“There, there!” said the young girl, pointing to the west.

“On the highway-”

“Yes.”

“Toward Chalons-”

“Yes!”

“Good!” said Balsamo; “she takes the road winch I shall take-she goes to Paris, as I do; I shall find her there. Now rest,” said he; and he took from Andree's hand the curl of hair.

Her arms fell powerless by her side.

“Now return to your harpsichord!”

Andree arose, and made a step toward the door, but, overcome by inexpressible fatigue, her limbs refused to support her. She staggered.

“Renew your strength and walk!” said Balsamo, enveloping her anew with magnetic passes; and she, like the generous steed that braces every nerve to fulfill his master's will, unjust though it be, walked erect. Balsamo opened the door, and, still sleeping, she descended the stairs.

CHAPTER X. NICOLE LEGAY.

WHILE THE SCENE of interrogation was passing in Balsamo's chamber, Gilbert remained under the railings at the foot of the staircase in a state of indescribable torture. Not daring to ascend again to listen at the door of the red chamber, he fell into despair, and this despair was increased tenfold by the feeling of his weakness and his inferiority.

Balsamo was only a man (for Gilbert, being a profound thinker, a philosopher in embryo, had small faith in sorcerers); but then this man was strong, and he was weak-this man was courageous, and Gilbert was not so yet. Twenty times he arose, determined to beard the stranger, and twenty times his trembling limbs bent under him and he sank on his knees. Then the thought struck him that he would get a ladder used by La Brie (who was at the same time cook, butler and gardener) for nailing the Jessamine and honeysuckle against the walls, and, by propping it against the balcony of the apartment, be enabled to mount to the window, and witness what he so ardently desired to discover.

He passed stealthily into the courtyard, ran to the spot where the, ladder lay, but, as he was stooping to take it up, he thought he heard a noise in the direction of the house, and he turned. He was almost certain that in the obscurity he saw a human form enter the dark frame of the open door, but moving so quickly and so noiselessly that it appeared rather a specter than a living being. He let the ladder fall, and, his heart beating audibly, hastened back toward the chateau.

Some minds are constitutionally superstitious, and these are generally the most exalted and the richest in fancy. They admit the fabulous more readily than the rational, because what is natural is too common for them, impelled as they are toward the impossible, or at least the ideal. Such spirits delight in the darkness of the forest, the depths of which they people with phantoms or genii. The ancients, who were poets in all things, saw these fantastic beings in open day; but as their sun, warmer and brighter than ours, forbade the fancy to bring forth specters and demons, they filled the forest with smiling dryads and woodnymphs. Gilbert, born in a gloomier clime, imagined he saw a spirit. This time, in spite of his incredulity, he recalled the words of the woman who had fled from Balsamo, and the idea flashed across his mind that the sorcerer might have summoned up some evil spirit to do his bad behests. But Gilbert had always, after a first impression, a second not more encouraging, for it was the result of reflection. He recalled all the arguments of powerful minds against the belief in the return of spirits to this world, and thinking of the article Specter in the “Philosophical Dictionary” restored his courage; but it was only to give him another apprehension, better founded and more alarming.

If he had indeed seen anyone, it must have been a real individual deeply interested in watching him. Fear suggested M. de Taverney; his conscience whispered another name. He looked up to Nicole's apartment; her candle was out, not a ray of light was visible; not a whisper, not a movement, not a light in all the house, except in the stranger's room. He looked, he listened; then, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he took up the ladder again, convinced that he had been deceived, and that this vision had been the result of a suspension of his observing faculties, rather than of their exercise.

Just as he was about to place his ladder, Balsamo's door opened and then shut. At this sound he hurried in, and saw Andree glide out and descend the stairs without noise, and without a light, as if guided and supported by a supernatural power. Having reached the landing place, she passed by where he had now concealed himself in the shade, her dress touching him as she passed, and continued her way. The baron was asleep, La Brie in bed, Nicole in the other turret, Balsamo's door closed; he could not be surprised by anyone. He made a violent effort and followed her, adapting his step to hers, and keeping at a distance from her. She passed through the anteroom into the salon; but, although she left the door open, he stopped just before he reached it. Should he enter- He hesitated, then resolved; but, just as his foot was on the threshold, an arm was stretched out in the darkness, and he was firmly grasped. Gilbert turned, his heart panting as if it would burst his bosom.

“So I have caught you at last!” whispered an angry voice close at his ear. “Deny now, if you can, that you have meetings-that you are in love with her!”

Gilbert had not strength to shake himself loose from the gripe which detained him, yet it was only that of a young girl -it was simply the hand of Nicole Legay that held him.

“What do you mean-” whispered he, impatiently.

“Oh, I am to speak it out, then!” and Nicole raised her voice nearly to the loudest pitch.

“No; for God's sake be quiet!” replied Gilbert, between his closed teeth, and dragging her away from the door.

“Well, come with me, then!”

This was what Gilbert wanted, for, by going away with her, he took her away from Andree. He followed Nicole, who led the way into the courtyard, shutting the door behind her when he hail passed.

“But,” said Gilbert, “mademoiselle will be retiring to her apartment; she will call you to help her to undress, and you will not be in the house.”

“Do you think I care for that now- Let her call or not, I must speak to you.”

“You might put off until to-morrow what you have got to say, Nicole. You know Mademoiselle Andree is strict.”

“Yes, I would advise her to be strict-particularly with me.”

“To-morrow, Nicole, I promise.”

“You promise! I know what your fine promises are. This very day you promised to meet me near Maison Rouge. Where were you- Why, in the very opposite direction, since you brought the traveler here! Your promises indeed! I believe them just as I did those of our confessor at the Annonciades, who swore to keep secret what we confessed, and then told all our sins to the abbess!”

“But, Nicole, you will be dismissed if you are seen.”

“And you-will you not be dismissed for being in love with my young lady- Do you think the baron too generous for that-”

“He could surely have no motive for dismissing me,” said Gilbert, endeavoring to defend himself.

“Oh, none in the world! The baron, perhaps, allows you to pay your addresses to his daughter. I really did not know he was quite so great a philosopher!”

Gilbert might easily have proved to Nicole, by relating what he had just witnessed, that, if he was to blame, at least Andree was not privy to his misconduct; and, incredible as her visit to the stranger's apartment would have appeared, Nicole, thanks to the good opinion women have of one another, would have believed him. But deeper reflection arrested the words on his lips. Andree's secret was one that might serve him, as it placed her completely in his power; and as he loved Andree infinitely more than he feared Nicole, he was silent on the singular events he had just witnessed.

“Well,” said he, “since you insist on having an explanation, let us understand each other.”

“Oh, that is easily done. But you are right-this is a bad place for it; let us go to my room.”

“To your room- Impossible!”

“Why so-”

“We might be surprised.”

“Indeed! and who would surprise us- Mademoiselle- True; she might be jealous about her sweet youth! Unfortunately for her, since her secret is discovered. I am nut afraid of her. Mademoiselle Andree jealous of Nicole! What an honor!” And the forced laugh of the young girl frightened Gilbert more than any invective or menace could possibly have done.

“It is not mademoiselle of whom I am afraid,” said he; “I am only anxious on your own account, Nicole.”

“Oh, most anxious, no doubt! But you are going to my room for no bad purpose; and you have often told me, where there is no bad intention there should be no shame. Philosophers are Jesuits sometimes; and our confessor at the Annonciades told me all that before you. Come, come, no more false reasons! Come to my room; I am resolved you shall!”

“Nicole!” said he, grinding his teeth.

“Well! what more, pray-”

“Take care!” and he raised his hand.

“Oh. I am not afraid! You struck me once; but you were jealous then. At that time you loved me, and I allowed you to strike me. But I shall not now-no, no, no! for you no longer love me, and it is I who am jealous now.”

“But what will you do-” cried Gilbert, grasping her wrist.

“I shall scream, and mademoiselle will hear me. I advise you to let go your hold of me.”

Gilbert dropped her hand; then, seizing the ladder, and dragging it cautiously after him, he placed it against the wall of the turret, so that it reached nearly to Nicole's window.

“See how things turn in this world,” said she maliciously; “the ladder which was to assist you to climb to mademoiselle's apartment must merely serve you to descend from my humble attic. Very flattering for me, is it not-”

Nicole, perceiving the advantage she had gained, declared her triumph with that precipitate eagerness which women, unless, indeed, of very superior minds, often exhibit-a victory which is often too dearly purchased.

Gilbert, who felt himself in a false position, was silent, and followed the young girl, reserving all his powers for the approaching contest.

In the first place, however, like a prudent general, he satisfied himself on two points. The first was, in passing before the window, that Mademoiselle de Taverney was still in the salon; and the second, on reaching Nicole's chamber, that, in case of necessity, he could reach the ladder without much risk of breaking his neck, and thus allow himself to slide to the ground.

Nicole's room was as simple in its furniture as the rest of the house. It was a loft, the walls of which were covered with a drab and green paper. A wooden bed, and a large geranium placed near the window, were its whole furniture and decorations, except a large bonnet-box, given her by Andree, which served both for table and wardrobe. Nicole sat down on the edge of the bed, Gilbert on a corner of the box. She had had time to calm down while ascending the stairs, and now, completely mistress of herself, she felt strong in having justice on her side. Gilbert, on the contrary, was agitated, and could not recover his coolness; his anger had increased as hers decreased.

“So,” said she, “you are in love with mademoiselle, and you have attempted to deceive me-”

“Who told you I was in love with mademoiselle-”

“Dame! were you not going to a rendezvous with her-”

“How do you know that I had a rendezvous with her-”

“How do I know- Why, there was no one else to go to but the sorcerer!”

“Well, I might have been going to him; I am ambitious.”

“Say envious.”

“It is the same word taken in a bad sense.”

“Don't let us dispute about words-you love me no longer.”

“Yes, I do-I love you still.”

“Then why do you avoid me-”

“Because you quarrel with me whenever I meet you.”

“That is because you always avoid me.”

“You know I am shy -that I love solitude.”

“Yes; and you seek solitude ladder in hand!”

Gilbert was beaten on, his first move.

“Come, come!-Be frank if you can, Gilbert, and confess that you no longer love me, or that you love two women at once.”

“Well! and if I did, what would you say-”

“I should say it was monstrous!”

“No, no! that there was an error somewhere.”

“In your heart-”

“No-in our social state. You know there are nations where every man is allowed seven or eight wives.”

“They are not Christians,” said Nicole pettishly.

“They are philosophers,” said Gilbert, with dignity.

“So, Master Philosopher, you would wish me to take a second lover, as you have done!”

“I would not be unjust and tyrannical; I should not wish to repress the impulses of your heart. Freedom, blessed freedom, respects free-will. If you change your love, Nicole, I shall not force you to a fidelity which, in my opinion, is unnatural.”

“Ah, I see plainly you no longer love me!”

Gilbert was great in argument -not that he was skillful in logic, but he was an adept in paradox, and, however little he knew, he still knew more than Nicole. She had read only what amused her-he what taught him a little also -and, as they talked, he regained his presence of mind while Nicole began to lose hers.

“Has the great philosopher any memory-” asked Nicole, with an ironical smile.

“Sometimes,” replied Gilbert.

“Then you have not forgotten, perhaps, what you said to me five months ago when I came with mademoiselle from the Annonciades-”

“I have forgotten-tell it me.”

“You said, 'I am poor;' it was the day we were reading among the old ruins.”

“Well, go on.”

“You trembled very much that day-

“Very likely-I am naturally timid; but I do all I can to correct that fault, and some others also.”

“So that when you have corrected all your faults,” said Nicole, laughing, “you will be perfect.”

“I shall be strong-wisdom gives strength.”

“Where did you read that, pray-”

“Never mind-return to what you were saying.”

Nicole felt that she was losing ground every minute.

“Well, you said to me, 'I am poor-no one loves me; yet there is something here,' and you pressed your hand on your heart.”

“No, Nicole; if I pressed my hand anywhere when I said that, it must have been on my forehead. The heart is merely a forcing-pump, which drives the blood to the extremities of the body-read the article Heart in the 'Philosophical Dictionary;'” and Gilbert drew himself up proudly. Humble before Balsamo, he gave himself the airs of a prince before Nicole.

“You are right, Gilbert; it must have been your head which you struck. Well, striking your forehead, you said, 'I am treated here worse than a dog; indeed, Mahon is in a happier condition than I.' I replied that they were wrong not to love you; that if you had been my brother I should have loved you also. I think, however, I said that from my heart, not from my head; but perhaps I am wrong, for I never read the 'Philosophical Dictionary.'

“You ought to read it, Nicole.”

“Then you threw your arms round me. You said, 'You are an orphan-I am one, too; let us love one another as if we were brother and sister-no I better than if we were; for if we were, we should be forbidden to love as I wish we should;' then you kissed me.”

“Very possibly!”

“Did you think then as you spoke-”

“Oh, yes-one generally thinks what one says at the time one says it.”

“So that now-”

“Now I am five months older than I was. I have learned things of which I knew nothing then, and I look forward to things which I do not yet know; I think differently now.”

“You are a deceiver, a hypocrite, a liar!” exclaimed she, furiously.

“No more than a traveler, should he make two different answers to the same question-if you asked him in a valley what he thought of the prospect, and again when he had got to the top of a mountain which before had closed his view.”

“So, then, you will not marry me-”

“I never said I would marry you,” said Gilbert contemptuously.

“And yet,” cried the exasperated girl, “I think Nicole Legay fully the equal of Sebastian Gilbert.”

“All human beings are equal; but nature or education makes certain faculties greater in, one man than another, and according as these faculties are more or less developed, men differ from one another.”

“So that your faculties being more developed than mine, you are raised above me-”

“Quite correct!-you do not reason yet, Nicole, but you understand.”

“Yes, yes! I understand!” cried Nicole, with redoubled passion.

“What do you understand-”

“That you are a bad man.”

“It is possible. Many are born with bad inclinations. Rousseau himself had such, but he corrected them-I shall do the same.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Nicole, “how could I ever love such a man-”

“You did not love me, Nicole,” replied Gilbert, coldly; “I pleased you -that was all. You had just come from Nancy, where you had only seen students whom you laughed at, or soldiers who frightened you; so you took a fancy to me, and for a month or two we enjoyed our dream of love. But should we therefore be tied together to be eternally miserable- You see, Nicole, if we bound ourselves for our lives in a moment of happiness, we should give up our free-will, and that would be absurd!”

“Is that philosophy-” asked Nicole.

“I think so,” replied Gilbert.

“Then there is nothing sacred in the eyes of philosophers-”

“Oh, yes!-reason is.”

“Yet I think you once said something about being faithful to the choice of the heart. You recollect your theory on marriages-”

“On unions, Nicole, for I shall never marry.”

“You will never marry-”

“No! I shall be a learned man-a philosopher. Science requires perfect freedom of the mind, and philosophy that of the body.”

“Monsieur Gilbert,” said she, “you are a wretch; and whatever I am, I am at least better than you.”

“Now,” said Gilbert, rising, “we are only losing time-you in abusing me, I in listening to you-let us _end! You loved me because you took pleasure in loving”

“Well-”

“Well!-there is no reason in the world that I should make myself unhappy, because you did a thing which gave you gratification.”

“Fool!” she exclaimed, “you think you can confound my common sense-and you pretend not to fear me.”

“Fear you! Why, Nicole, jealousy is turning your brain!”

“Jealous!” she cried, stamping her foot, “and why should I be jealous! Is there a prettier girl in the province than I- -if I had but as white hands as mademoiselle-and I shall have some day, when I do no more hard work. You are my first lover, it is true; but you are not the first man who has paid court to me. Gilbert, Gilbert! do not force me to seek revenge on you-do not make me leave the narrow path in which a last remembrance of my mother and the regular repetition of my prayers have kept me. Gilbert, if you do, you may have to reproach yourself with bringing many evils on yourself and others.”

“All in good time,” said Gilbert. “So now that you have got to the summit of your dignity, Nicole, I am perfectly satisfied on one point.”

“And what may that be-” inquired the girl.

“Simply that if I consented now to marry you-”

“What then-”

“Why, that you would refuse me.”

Nicole paused, her clenched hands and gnashing teeth showing the workings of her mind.

“You are right,” she exclaimed at length. “Yes; I also begin to ascend that mountain of which you spoke. I see a wider prospect before me. The wife of a learned man, a philosopher! No, I am destined for something greater than that! Mount your ladder! and don't, break your neck-though I begin to think it would be a blessing for many persons if you would-perhaps even a blessing for yourself.”

She turned her back on him. Gilbert stood a moment wavering and irresolute; for Nicole, excited by anger and jealousy, was truly beautiful. But he had resolved to break with her-Nicole could blast at once his love and his ambition. His decision-was made.

In a few seconds, Nicole, hearing no sound, looked behind her. She was alone in the apartment.

“Gone!” she murmured; “and mademoiselle-oh, I shall know to-morrow whether she loves him or not!”

She went to the window and looked out; all was dark, every light extinguished. She stole on tiptoe to her young lady's door and listened.

“She is in bed-she sleeps soundly,” said she, “but to-morrow I shall know all!”

CHAPTER XI. WAITING-MAID AND MISTRESS.

THE CALMNESS with which Nicole returned to her room was not affected. Young, strong, full of an uncultivated self-confidence, she was blessed with that faculty so important for those who would govern where they love -the faculty of forgetting; and she could sleep after she had arranged with the little malicious sprites that dwelt in her heart her plan of vengeance.

Mademoiselle de Taverney appeared to her even more guilty than Gilbert. This aristocratic girl, rigid in her prejudices, elevated in her pride, who at their convent would descend to familiarity with none below the daughters of marquises-this statue, outwardly so cold, but yet with feeling in its marble bosom -this statue, warming to life for a rural Pygmalion like Gilbert, became contemptible in her estimation. For Nicole felt that Gilbert was her inferior in everything but a little reading, and thought that she had condescended very much when she, the waiting-maid of the daughter of a ruined baron, put herself on a level with the son of a poor peasant.

What, then, could she think of her mistress, if she really returned Gilbert's love-

She calculated that, in relating what she had seen to the baron, she should fall into a great error; first, because he would only laugh at the affair, box Gilbert's ears, and turn him out of doors; next, because it would deprive her of her power over Gilbert and Andree. What pleasure she should have-she, the waiting-maid -in seeing them turn pale or red as her eye fell on them! This idea flattered her pride and soothed her vindictive spirit; 'and, at this idea, her reflections ceased-she slept.

It was day when she awoke, fresh, light-hearted, and her mind prepared for everything. She took her usual time to dress-that is, an hour. She looked at herself in the piece of broken glass which served as her mirror; her eyes appeared to her more brilliant than ever-her lips had not lost their brightness nor their roundness-her teeth were perfect-her neck, which she took particular care to hide from the sun, was white as a lily. Seeing herself so handsome, she began to think she could easily make her young lady jealous. Thus armed personally and mentally, she opened Andree's door, as she was authorized to do whenever, at seven o'clock, her mistress had not rung for her.

When Nicole entered the room she stopped in amazement.

Pale, her beautiful hair damp with perspiration, Andree lay on her bed in a heavy sleep, in which she sometimes writhed as if in pain. She was still in the dress which she had worn the day before. Her breathing was hurried, and now and then a low groan escaped her lips. Nicole looked at her for a minute, and shook her head, for she acknowledged to herself that there could be no beauty which could contest the palm with Andree's.

She went to the window and opened the shutters. A stream of light poured in, and made Mademoiselle Taverney's violet-veined eyelids quiver. She awoke -tried to rise, but felt, at the same time, such great weakness and such excessive pain that she fell back on her pillow with a cry of suffering.

“Oh! mademoiselle, what is the matter-” asked Nicole.

“Is it late-” said Andree, rubbing her eyes.

“Very late, madame-much later than your usual hour for rising.”

“I do not know what is the matter with me, Nicole,” said she, looking around her, “I feel so oppressed-so ill!”

Nicole fixed her eyes on her mistress before replying; “It is the commencement of a cold that you have caught, madame, last night.”

“Last night!” replied Andree, surprised; then, looking at her disordered dress, “Have I really lain down without undressing- How could that be-”

“If mademoiselle would reflect-”

“I don't recollect anything about it,” replied Andree, leaning her head on her hand; “what has happened-I am going mad-” She sat up on the bed, and looked round for the second time all bewildered. Then, after reflecting; “Oh! yes, I remember I was very much tired-very much exhausted yesterday-it was the storm, no doubt-then I fell asleep on the music-stool at my harpsichord-but, after that, I remember nothing. I must have come up to my room half asleep, and thrown myself on my bed without strength to undress.”

“You should have called me, madame,” said Nicole; “mademoiselle knows that I am always ready to wait on her.”

“I either did not think of it, or had not strength to do it.”

“Hypocrite!” muttered Nicole to herself-then she added; “But mademoiselle must have stayed very late at her harpsichord then, for before she came up to her room, hearing a noise, I went down-” She stopped, hoping to discover in Andree something like agitation-a blush, perhaps; no! -Andree was calm, and her countenance, that clear mirror of her soul, was undisturbed. “I went down,” repeated Nicole.

“Well-”

“Well, madame, your were not at your harpsichord.”

Andree looked up, but there was only surprise to be read in her lovely eyes. “Very strange!” said she.

“It is quite true, however.”

“You say I was not in the salon- but I never left it for a moment till I came to bed.”

“Mademoiselle will pardon me for contradicting her.”

“But where was I, then-”

“Mademoiselle must know that better than I,” said Nicole, shrugging her shoulders.

“You must he wrong, Nicole,” said Andree, mildly; “I only remember feeling cold and stiff, and having great difficulty in walking.”

“Oh, but when I saw mademoiselle, she walked very well,” said Nicole, almost with a sneer.

“You saw me walk-”

“Yes, indeed, madame.”

“But just now you said I was not in the salon.”

“It was not in the salon I saw mademoiselle.”

“Where, then-”

“In the vestibule, near the staircase.”

“I-”

“Yes; I think I ought to know mademoiselle when I see her,” said Nicole, with an affected laugh.

“I am certain, however,” said Andree, with great simplicity, after she had again tried to recall the events of the night, “that I did not stir out of the salon.”

“I am, however, quite as certain that I saw mademoiselle in the vestibule-I thought, indeed, she had just come in from a walk in the garden-it was a beautiful night after the storm-and it is very pleasant to walk out when the air is so cool, and when the flowers smell so sweet -is it not, madame-”

“Oh, but you know I dare not walk out at night! I am too timid.”

“Mademoiselle might have someone with her, and then she would not be afraid.”

“And whom, pray, could I have with me-” asked Andree, without the least suspicion that she was undergoing a cross-examination.

Nicole was afraid to proceed further in her investigation-Andree's coolness she thought the height of dissimulation-but she judged it best to give the conversation another turn.

“Mademoiselle was saying that she felt in pain-”

“Yes, indeed, I feel in great pain-and so weak, so low-I did nothing yesterday but what I do every day, yet I am so tired -perhaps I am going to be ill.”

“It may be some sorrow which caused that feeling of weariness-I have felt it myself.”

“Oh, you have sorrows, have you, Nicole-”

This was said with a disdainful carelessness which gave Nicole courage to speak more plainly.

“Oh yes, madame,” she replied; “yes, I have.”

Andree got slowly out of bed and, while proceeding to undress, that she might dress again, she said, “Well, let me hear them.”

“Indeed I have just come to tell mademoiselle”-she stopped.

“To tell what- You look frightened, Nicole.”

“I look frightened, and mademoiselle looks tired; so, doubtless, we are both suffering.”

This piece of familiarity displeased Andree. She smiled slightly, exclaiming, “Oh!”

The intonation of her voice might have made Nicole reflect, but she was not to be daunted.

“Since mademoiselle wishes me to speak, I shall do so.”

“Well, go on.”

“'I wish to get married, madame.”

“Oh! Is that what you are thinking of- Why, you are not seventeen, yet.”

“Mademoiselle is only sixteen, and yet does she not sometimes think of marrying-”

“What reason have you to suppose so-” asked Andree, severely.

Nicole was just opening her mouth to say something impertinent, but she knew that that would cut short the conversation, which she had no desire should end yet.

“I beg mademoiselle's pardon-I cannot certainly know her thoughts-I am but a country girl-I follow nature.”

“That is a strange expression!”

“Is it not natural for a woman to love, and to wish to be loved-”

“Perhaps so. Well-”

“Well; I am in love.”

“And the person you love loves you-”

“I think so, madame “-then reflecting that this reply was not decided enough under the circumstances, she added, “Indeed, I am sure of it.”

“You are not wasting your time at Taverney, from your own account, Mademoiselle Nicole!”

“One must think of the future, madame; you are a lady, and doubtless some rich relation will leave you a fortune. I must do the best I can for myself.”

All this appeared natural enough, and forgetting Nicole's little piece of impertinence, Andree's goodness of heart began to resume the ascendancy.

“Very true,” said she; “but I should like to know who is your choice.”

“Ah, you do know him, madame!” said Nicole, fixing her eyes on Andree.

“I know him-”

“Yes, very well.”

“Who is it, then-do not keep me in suspense.”

“I am afraid mademoiselle will be displeased.”

“I displeased-”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“Then it is some improper person whom you have chosen-”

“I dare not say that, madame.”

“Then tell it without fear. It is the duty of masters to take an interest in the welfare of their dependents who perform their duties satisfactorily-and you know I am satisfied with you.”

“You are very kind, madame.”

“Well, tell me quickly, and finish lacing me.”

Nicole collected all her firmness and all her powers of penetration, as she said, “Well, madame, it is Gilbert whom I have chosen.”

To her great surprise Andree betrayed no emotion of any kind; she only said:

“What, little Gilbert -my nurse's son!”

“Yes, madame, the same.”

“And he loves you-”

Now was the decisive moment.

“He has told me so twenty times.”

“Well, marry him,” replied Andree, calmly. “I see nothing to prevent it. You have no relations-he is an orphan-you are each of you free from control.”

“Certainly,” stammered Nicole, quite amazed at the matter ending so differently from what she had expected. “Mademoiselle gives her permission, then-”

“My full permission, only you are both very young yet.”

“We shall live longer together.”

“And you have neither one nor other any money.”

“We shall work.”

“What can he work at-he is good for nothing.”

This dissimulation was too much for Nicole. She could not contain herself.

“Mademoiselle must allow me to say that speaking so of poor Gilbert is treating him very ill!”

“It is treating him as he deserves-he is a lazy fellow.”

“Oh, mademoiselle, he reads a great deal-he wishes so to be well informed.”

“He will not work.”

“For mademoiselle he does all that he can.”

“For me-”

“Mademoiselle must know that, when she ordered him to procure game for her every day, and he does so.”

“I ordered him-”

“Yes; and he often goes twenty miles for it.”

“Indeed! I confess I never thought about it.”

“About the game-” asked Nicole, sarcastically.

“What does that witticism mean-” asked Andree, getting a little impatient, for she felt irritable and unwell.

“I have no wit, madame-wit is for great ladies. I am a poor girl, and tell things plainly as they are,” replied Nicole, “and mademoiselle is unjust to Gilbert, who is so very attentive to all her wishes.”

“He only does his duty as a servant, if he be so.”

“But Gilbert is not a servant, madame; he receives no wages.”

“He is the son of an old tenant-he is kept-he is fed, and he does nothing in return. But why defend so warmly this lad, when he was not attacked-”

“Oh, I knew very well that mademoiselle would not attack him.”

“More words that I do not understand!”

“Mademoiselle will not understand.”

“Enough! Explain this moment what you mean.”

“Mademoiselle must certainly have no difficulty to know what I mean.”

“I know nothing-and I shall not take the trouble of finding out; you ask my consent to your marriage-”

“Yes, and I would beg of you, mademoiselle, not to be angry with Gilbert for loving me.”

“What can it matter to me whether he loves you or does not love you- You are really very tiresome.”

“Perhaps mademoiselle has said the same to Gilbert-”

“I!-do I ever speak to your Gilbert- -you are crazy, I think.”

“If mademoiselle does not speak to him now, it is not very long since she did speak.”

Nicole turned on her a look of ineffable scorn. “You have been trying for an hour to let me hear some specimen of your impertinence; say it at once, I command you.”

“But-” began Nicole, a little alarmed.

“You say that I have spoken to Gilbert-”

“Yes, madame, I say so!”

A thought flashed across Andree's mind, but it was so absurd that she burst into a fit of laughter. “Heaven forgive me!” she exclaimed, “I do believe the poor girl is jealous. Be not uneasy, Legay, I know so little of your Gilbert, that I do not even know the color of his eyes!” And Andree felt quite prepared to pardon what she now thought not impertinence, but mere folly. But Nicole did not want to be pardoned, because she looked on herself as the injured person.

“It is not the way to know their color to look at them by night,” said she.

“Did you speak-” asked Andree, now beginning to understand, but scarcely willing to allow herself to entertain the thought.

“I said that if mademoiselle only speaks to Gilbert at night, she will not see very well what his features are.”

“Take care!” said Andree, turning pale, “and explain instantly what you mean.”

“That is easily done. Last night I saw-”

“Be silent-someone calls me!”

In fact, a voice just then called, from the court in front of the house, “Andree! Andree!”

“It is the baron, madame,” said Nicole, “with the strange gentleman.”

“Go down and say that I cannot appear, that I am indisposed, and then return and let me know the end of this extraordinary history of yours.”

“Andree!” cried her father again, “it is merely the Baron Balsamo, who wishes to bid you good-morning and inquire after your health.”

“Go, I tell you,” said she to Nicole, and she pointed to the door with the gesture of a queen.

But when Nicole was gone, Andree felt a strange sensation; she had resolved not to appear, yet she was impelled by an irresistible power to the window left open by her waiting-maid. She saw Balsamo below; he bowed, at the same time fixing his eyes steadily on her. She trembled, and held by the window to prevent herself from falling.

“Good-morning, sir,” said she, in reply to his salutation, and just as she pronounced the words, Nicole, whom she had sent to say she should not, appear, advanced toward the gentlemen, looking with open mouth at this instance of caprice in her mistress.

Andree had scarcely spoken, when she sank deprived of strength on a chair; Balsamo still continued to gaze on her.

CHAPTER XII. THE MORNING.

THE TRAVELER had risen early, in order to look after his carriage and inquire how Althotas had got on. No one was up at that hour in the castle but Gilbert, who followed with his eyes every movement of the stranger. But he could discover little, as Balsamo closed the carriage door too carefully for his inquisitive looks to penetrate its mystery.

Seeing the baron's abode by the clear light of a sunny morning, Balsamo was struck by the different impression it made on him from what it had done the preceding night. In fact, the little white and red chateau-for it was built of stone and brick-made a pretty picture, surrounded as it was by a grove of sycamores and laburnums of a large size, the flowers of which hung on the roof of the low building, and girt the towers with a crown of gold. In front of the court there was a small piece of water, surrounded by a broad border of turf and a hedge of acacias, on which the eye rested with pleasure, confined as the view was on this side by the tall chestnut and ash trees of the avenue.

Balsamo turned along a broad walk on the left, and had scarcely advanced twenty paces when he found himself in the midst of a thick shrubbery of maples, palms, and lindens, among which the roses and syringas, steeped by the rain of the preceding night, sent forth a delicious perfume. Through the hedge of privet which bordered the walk peeped jasmine and honeysuckle, and in the distance could be seen a long alley, lined with pink hawthorn and wild roses, leading to a wood.

Balsamo at last arrived at the extremity of the demesne. Here, on a slight elevation, stood the massive ruins of an ancient castle, one of the towers of which was still standing almost uninjured, and clothed from its base to its summit with luxuriant shoots of the ivy and wild vine. Viewed from this point, the demesne of Taverney, though but seven or eight acres in extent, wanted neither dignity nor elegance.

After having spent about an hour in examining the ruins, Balsamo was returning toward the house, when he saw the baron leave it by the side-door, his slight frame buried in an Indian flowered dressing-gown, and proceed to prune and arrange his little parterre. He hastened to meet him, and now having still further sounded the poverty of his host, his politeness was more decided in its expression than it had been the night before.

“Allow me, sir,” said he, “to offer you my excuses for the trouble I have given you, and, at the same time, my respectful thanks for your hospitality. I should not have ventured to come down before knowing that you were up, but the view of Taverney from my window was so charming, that I could not resist my desire to revisit those imposing ruins, and to see your beautiful garden.”

“The ruins,” said the baron, after having politely wished, the stranger good morning-” the ruins, sir, are fine-indeed, the only thing that is fine at Taverney.”

“It was a large castle!”

“Yes; it was mine-or rather my ancestors'. They called it Maison-Rouge, which name has long been joined to Taverney -indeed, our barony is Maison Rouge; but, my dear guest, let us not talk of things no longer in being.”

Balsamo bowed in submission.

“Allow me rather to make my excuses to you for your poor accommodation here. I told you beforehand what my house was.”

“I have been delighted with it.”

“A dog-kennel! a dog-kennel, sir! A very favorite place with the rats, since the foxes, lizards, and adders drove them from the other castle! Ah, pardieu! sir, you, who are a sorcerer or something very near it, you certainly ought to raise up with a stroke of your wand the old castle in its glory again-above all, not forgetting the two thousand acres which formerly surrounded it. I'll wager, however, that instead of thinking of doing me such a service, you have been so polite as to go to sleep in an execrable bed!”

“Oh, sir-”

“No-no-don't attempt to say anything in its favor! it is an execrable bed -it is my son's.”

“You must permit me to say, that such as the bed is, it appeared to me excellent. I cannot but feel ashamed of having intruded on you, and I am deeply indebted for the kindness with which you have received me. It would give me sincere pleasure to make a return, if it were in my power.”

“Well, there is an opportunity,” replied the old man, with a mocking smile, and pointing to La Brie, who was coming with a glass of water on a splendid plate of Dresden china, “just turn this into Burgundy, Chambertin, or any other good wine, and you will do me a most essential service.”

Balsamo smiled; the old man took the smile for a refusal, and at one draught swallowed the water presented to him.

“An excellent specific,” said Balsamo; “water is highest among the elements, for the Holy Spirit was borne on it before the creation of the world. Nothing can resist its action; it penetrates stone, and we may yet discover that the diamond can be dissolved by it.”

“I shall be dissolved by it, I fear,” replied the baron. ““Will you pledge me- The water has some advantages over my wine; it is in capital order, and it is not yet exhausted. It is not like my Maraschino.”

“If you had ordered a glass for me as well as for yourself, I might have been able to use it for your advantage.”

“Good; explain that for me-is it not still time-”

“Then tell your servant to bring me a glass of very pure water.”

“La Brie, do you hear, you old rascal-”

La Brie hastened to obey.

“How!” said the baron, turning to his guest, “does the glass of water which I drink every morning contain any properties, any secrets which are unknown to me- Have I for ten years been making chemical experiments, as Monsieur Jourdain made prose, without being aware of it-”

“I do not know what you have been doing;, but you shall see what I can do.”

“Thank you, my good fellow.” said Balsamo, taking the glass from La Brie, who had brought it with marvelous rapidity.

He held the glass on a level with his eyes, and seemed to interrogate the water which it contained; in the sunlight the little beads on its surface were bright as diamonds, and streaked with violet color.

“Oh, the deuce!” cried the baron, laughing, “can anything beautiful be seen in a glass of water-”

“Yes, baron, to-day, at least, something very beautiful.”

And Balsamo appeared doubly attentive in his occupation, the baron, in spite of himself, looking a little serious, and La Brie gazing with open mouth at what was going on.

“What do you see, pray-I am bursting with impatience to know. A good estate for me- A new Maison-Rouge to set me on foot again-”

“I see something which induces me to beg you to be on the alert.”

“Ay!-am I going to be attacked-”

“No; but this morning you will receive a visit.”

“Then, you have yourself ordered someone to meet you here. That was wrong, sir, very wrong. There may be no partridges this morning-remember that!”

“I speak seriously, my dear baron, and what I say is most important -someone is at this moment on the way to Taverney.”

“Someone- What sort of a visitor, tell me, pray-for I must confess (you must have perceived it from the rather reception I gave you) that Everyone annoys me who comes here. So, what sort of visitor- be precise, my dear sorcerer; if possible, be precise in your description.”

“I can very easily tell all you wish,” and Balsamo again raised the glass to his searching eye.

“Well, do you see anything-”

“I see everything distinctly.”

“Speak, oh speak. Sister Anne!”

“I see a lady of great consequence coming.”

“Bah! indeed!-coming without being invited-”

“She has invited herself -your son brings her.”

“Philip brings her-”

“Yes, himself.”

The baron laughed heartily.

“She is brought by my son- The great lady brought by my son.”

“Yes, baron.

“You know my son, then-”

“I never saw him in my life.”

“And my son at this moment is-

“Is about a mile off.”

“My dear sir, he is in garrison at Strasbourg, and unless he has deserted, which he has not, I can swear, he is bringing nobody hither.”

“He is bringing a great lady hither -a very exalted personage. Ah, hold! there is one thing I ought to tell you-you had better keep out of sight that little rogue with the horn at her fingerends.”

“Nicole Legay. Why, pray-”

“Because her features resemble those of the lady who is coming.”

“A great lady resemble Nicole!-that is absurd!”

“Why so- I bought a slave once who resembled Cleopatra so much that there was some idea of sending her to Rome to pass for that queen in Octavius's triumph.”

“Ah! another attack of your old malady!”

“You must surely see, my dear baron, that this matter cannot concern me-I only speak for your own good.”

“But why should Nicole's resemblance to the great lady offend her- “

“Suppose you were the king of France, which I am far from wishing, or the dauphin, which I wish still less, should you be flattered, on entering a house, to find among the servants one whose face was a counterpart of your august visage-”

“Oh, the devil!-that would be a sad dilemma! So, then, you think-

“I think that the most high and mighty lady who is coming would not be pleased to see her living image in a short petticoat and cotton handkerchief.”

“Oh, well,” said the baron, still laughing, “we must see about it; but, after all, my dear baron, what delights me most in this affair is, that my son is coming-that dear Philip!-without giving us a note of warning,” and he laughed louder than before.

“So you are pleased with my prediction-” said Balsamo gravely.

“I am glad of it; but in your place I should set about giving some orders.”

“Really-”

“Yes.”

“I shall think of it, my dear guest, I shall think of it.”

“You have very little time.”

“And you are serious, then-”

“No one could be more serious. If you wish to receive the great personage who does you the honor of visiting you properly you have not a minute to lose.”

The baron shook his head.

“Yon still doubt-” asked Balsamo.

“I warn you, you have to do with a most confirmed skeptic.” And just then he turned to call his daughter, in order to communicate his guest's prediction to her, as we have before related. We have seen how the young girl replied to her father's invitation, and how Balsamo's gaze had drawn her, as if by fascination, to the window.

Nicole stood looking with amazement at La Brie, who was making signs to her, and trying to understand what had been said.

“I am dreadfully hard of belief,” repeated the baron, “and unless I saw-”

“Then, since you must see, look there,” said Balsamo, pointing to the avenue, where a horseman appeared galloping toward them.

“Ha!” cried the baron, “there indeed is-”

“Monsieur Philip!” said Nicole, standing on tiptoe.

“My young master!” exclaimed La Brie joyfully.

“My brother, my brother!” cried Andree, stretching out her arms at the window.

“Is it your son, my dear baron-” asked Balsamo, in a careless tone.

“Yes; pardieu! it is!” exclaimed he, stupefied with astonishment.

“This is but the beginning,” said Balsamo.

“You are positively a sorcerer, then,” said the baron, more submissively than before.

A triumphant smile hovered on the stranger's lips.

The horse came on at full speed, reeking with moisture, passed the last rows of trees, and, while still in motion, the rider leaped to the ground, and hastened to embrace his father, who only muttered, “What the devil! what the devil!”

“It is really I,” said Philip, who saw his father's perplexity; “it is indeed.”

“Doubtless-I see that plainly enough; but what brought you hither at this time-”

“Father, a great honor awaits our house!”

The old man looked up inquiringly.

Philip went on; “In an hour Marie Antoinette Josephine, archduchess of Austria and dauphiness of France, will be here.”

The baron looked as deeply humbled as he had before looked sarcastic, and, turning to Balsamo, said only, “Pardon me!”

“Sir,” returned Balsamo, “I leave you with your son; it is long since you have met, and you must have much to say to each other.”

Bowing to Andree, who, full of joy at the arrival of her brother, had hastened down to meet him, he retired, making a sign to Nicole and La Brie, which they doubtless understood, for they disappeared with him among the trees of the avenue.

CHAPTER XIII. PHILIP DE TAVERNEY.

PHILIP DE TAVERNEY, Chevalier de Maison-Rouge, did not in the least resemble his sister, yet was as fine a specimen of manly beauty as she was of feminine loveliness. His features were noble and regular, his figure and carriage graceful in the extreme, and the expression of his eyes was at the same time mild and haughty.

Like all distinguished minds, wearied by the narrow and chilling forms of life, he was disposed to melancholy, without being sad. To this, perhaps, he owed his mildness of temper, for he was naturally proud, imperious, and reserved. The necessity of associating with the poor, his real equals, as with the rich, his equals in rank, had softened a character inclined to be overbearing and scornful.

Philip had scarcely embraced his father when Andree, roused from her magnetic torpor by his arrival, hastened down to throw herself on his bosom. The sobs which accompanied this action showed how dear he was to the heart of the tender girl.

Philip took her hand and his father's and drew them into the salon, where, being now alone, he sat down between them.

“You are incredulous, my dear father -you are surprised, my dear sister,” said he; “yet nothing is more true than that in a few minutes the dauphiness will be in our poor abode.”

“Ventrebleu!” cried the baron; “she must be prevented, whatever it cost! The dauphiness here!-we should be dishonored forever! This would be a specimen of the nobility of France to present her! No, no; it must not be. But tell me, 'what the deuce put my house into her head-”

“Oh, it is a complete romance.”

“A romance!” said Andree; “relate it, brother-my dear good brother!”

“My dear good brother!” repeated the baron; “she seems quite pleased.”

“Yes; for is not Philip pleased, my dear father-”

“Because Master Philip is an enthusiast. But for me, who look at things in a more serious manner, I see nothing very agreeable in it.”

“You will be of a different opinion when I relate what has occurred.”

“Well, relate it quickly,” grumbled the old man.

“Yes, yes, relate it!” exclaimed Andree impatiently.

“Well, I was in garrison at Strasbourg, as you know. Now, you are aware that it was by Strasbourg that the dauphiness was to enter France.”

“Know it! How should we know anything in this den-” asked the baron.

“Well, at Strasbourg, brother-” said Andree.

“Well, we were waiting on the glacis from six in the morning, for we did not know positively at what hour Madame la Dauphine would arrive. It rained in torrents, and our clothes were dripping. The major sent me forward to endeavor to discover the cortege. I had galloped about a league, when all at once, at a turn in the road, I found myself close to the advanced guard of the escort. I spoke a few words to them, and just then her royal highness put her head out of the carriage window, and asked who 1 was. It seems I had been called to to stop; but I had already set off at full gallop-all my fatigue, was forgotten in an instant.”

“And the dauphiness-” asked Andree.

“She is not older than you, and beautiful as an angel.”

“But, Philip,” said the baron, rather hesitatingly.

“Well, father-”

““Does she not resemble someone you have seen-”

“Someone that I have seen-”

“Yes; endeavor to recollect.”

“No, I know no one like Madame la Dauphine!” he exclaimed, enthusiastically.

“What! not Nicole, for instance-”

“Ha! that is most strange! Now you say so, I do think she is like her; but oh, so much inferior in beauty and grace! But how could you know that she was like her-”

“Faith! a sorcerer told me.”

“A sorcerer-”

“Yes; and he predicted her coming and yours this morning.”

“The stranger-” asked Andree, timidly.

“Is it he who was beside you, sir, when I arrived, and who retired so discreetly-”

“Yes, the same; but go on, Philip, go on.”

“Perhaps it would be better to make some preparations,” said Andree.

“No-the more you prepare, the more ridiculous we shall appear. Go on, Philip, I tell you!”

“I returned to Strasbourg, and told the governor, the Count de Stainville. We set out immediately to meet her royal highness, and we were at the Kehl gate when the procession came in sight. I was close to the governor.”

“Stay!” said the baron; “I once knew a Count de Stainville.”

“Brother-in-law to the prime minister, the Duke de Choiseul.”

“It is the same. Go on, then, go on.”

“The dauphiness, who is young, perhaps likes young faces, for she listened very inattentively to the governor and all the time fixed her eyes on me, although I kept respectfully in the background. Then, pointing to me, she said, 'Is not that the gentleman who was the first to meet me-' 'Yes, madame,' replied the governor. 'Approach, sir,' said she. I approached her. 'What is your name-' asked the dauphiness in the sweetest voice I ever heard. 'The Chevalier de Taverney Maison-Rouge,' I replied, stammering. 'Pray take a note of that name on your tablets, my dear friend,' said the dauphiness, turning to an old lady, who, I have since learned, is the Countess de Langershausen, her governess. My name was written. Then, turning again to me, she said, 'Ah, sir, you have suffered very much from your exposure to this frightful weather; I am extremely sorry for having been the cause of it.'“

“Oh, how good the dauphiness must be! What kindness and consideration!” said Andree, with delight.

“Very well, very well indeed,” muttered the baron, with, a smile indicative of a father's partiality, and, at the same time, of his bad opinion of women, and even of queens. “But, go on, Philip.”

“What did you say-” asked Andree.

“I said not a word; I bowed to the very ground. She passed on.”

“What! you said nothing”-” exclaimed the baron.

“I had no voice, I assure you, sir; my heart heat so rapidly-I was so much agitated.”

“What the devil! do you think I had nothing to say when, about your age, I was presented to the Princess Leczinska-”

“But, sir, you had always a great deal of wit,” Philip replied.

Andree pressed his hand.

“I profited by her royal highness's departure,” continued Philip, “to hasten to my apartment and changed my clothes; for I was wet to the skin and covered with mud from head to foot.”

“Poor dear brother!” whispered Andree.

“When the dauphiness,” Philip continued, “reached the town-hall, she had to receive the congratulations of the principal inhabitants; that being over, it was announced that dinner was served. A friend of mine, the major of my regiment, since told me that, while at table, she looked several times round on the officers who were present, and at last she said, 'I do not see the young officer who was sent to meet me this morning; has he not been told that I wished to thank him-' The major stepped forward. 'Madame,' said he, 'Lieutenant de Taverney was obliged to retire and change his dress, that he might present himself in a more suitable manner before you.' A moment after, I entered the room, and I had not been five minutes in it when the dauphiness perceived me. She made a sign to me to approach; I obeyed. 'Sir,' said she, 'should you object to follow me to Paris-' 'Oh, madame,' I cried, 'it would only make me too happy; but I am in garrison at Strasbourg, and I am not my own master.' 'Well, I shall arrange that matter with the governor;' and she made a gesture for me to retire. In the evening she said to the governor, 'Sir, I have a vow to fulfill, and you must assist me in it.' 'I shall consider it a sacred duty, madame,' he replied. 'You must know,' she continued, 'that I made a vow to take into my own service the first Frenchman, whoever he should be, whom I should meet on touching the soil of France, and that I would make him and his family happy, if, indeed, princes can make anyone happy.' 'Madame,' said the governor, 'princes are God's representatives on earth; but may I ask,' continued he, 'who was the person who had the good fortune to be first met by your royal highness”-' 'The Chevalier de Taverney Maison-Rouge, a young lieutenant.' 'We shall all be jealous of the Chevalier de Taverney, madame,' replied the governor, 'but we shall not place any obstacle in the way of his high fortune; the ties which engage him here shall be broken, and he shall depart at the same time as your highness.' So the day on which the dauphiness left Strasbourg, I was ordered to accompany her on horseback, and since then have never left the door of her carriage.”

“Oh!” said the baron, with his former singular smile, “strange enough, but not impossible!”-”What, father-”

“Oh, never mind!”

““But, brother,” said Andree, “I don't see what all this has to do with the dauphiness coming hither.”

“Wait till you hear. Yesterday morning we arrived at Nancy about eleven o'clock, and were passing through the town by torch-light. The dauphiness called me to her. 'I wish,' said she, 'to depart early to-morrow morning.' 'Your highness is going to make a long march, then-' 'No-that I wish to stop on the road, and can you guess where-' she asked, smiling. 'No, madame.' 'I mean to stop at Taverney, to see your father and sister.' 'My father and my sister! -what -your royal highness knows-' 'I have made inquiries, and know that they live only two hundred paces from the road which we are traveling.' The perspiration broke on my forehead, and trembling, as you may suppose, I hastened to reply, 'My father's house, madame, is not worthy to receive so great a princess-we are poor.' 'So much the better,' replied she; 'I shall therefore, I am certain, be received more cordially and more simply; however poor you may be, there will be always a cup of milk for a friend who wishes to forget for a moment that she is Archduchess of Austria and Dauphiness of France.' 'Oh, madame,' said I. This was all-respect forbade me to go farther.”

“Stupid fellow!” cried the baron.

“One might have thought that her royal highness guessed what was passing in my mind, for she added; 'Do not be afraid; I shall not stay long; but since you think that I shall suffer any inconvenience by this visit, it is only fair, for I caused you to suffer on my arrival at Strasbourg.' Who could resist such charming words, father-”

“Oh, it would have been impossible!” cried Andree; “she is so sweet, so good, she will be satisfied with my flowers and a cup of my milk, as she says.”

“Yes; but she will not be very well satisfied with my chairs, which will dislocate her bones, and my hangings, which will disgust her. Devil take all whims! So! France will be well governed with a woman who takes such caprices. Plague on it! A strange reign it will be, to judge from the commencement,” said the baron, angrily.

“Oh, father, how can you say such things of a princess who is honoring us so highly-”

“Who is dishonoring us, rather!” cried the old man. “Taverney was forgotten, buried under the ruins of Maison Rouge. I intended that if it came to light again it should be in a suitable manner, and now the whims of a girl are going to drag us into day-dusty, shabby, wretched I-and the gazettes, on the watch for everything absurd, will amuse their readers with the visit of a great princess to this den of Taverney. Cordieu! I have an idea-”

The young people started at the manner in which he pronounced these words.

“What do you mean, sir-” demanded Philip.

The baron muttered to himself-”If the Duke of Medina burned his palace that he might embrace a queen, I may well burn my kennel to get rid of the visit of a princess. Let her come!-let her come!”

Philip and Andree only heard the last words, and they looked at each other uneasily.

“It cannot be long before she be here, sir,” said Philip. “I took the way through the wood, in order to get some minutes in advance of the cortege; it will soon be here.”

“Then I must not lose time,” said the baron; and, with the agility of twenty, he left the salon. He hastened to the kitchen, snatched a flaming piece of wood from the hearth, and proceeded to his barns; but just as he raised his arm to throw it into a heap of straw, he was seized by Balsamo, who flung to a safe distance the burning brand.

“What are you about, sir,” cried he; “the Archduchess of Austria is not a Constable de Bourbon, whose presence contaminates, so that we should rather burn our house than permit her to enter it!”

The old man stopped, pale, trembling, and his habitual smile banished from his lips; he had gathered all his strength to enable him to resolve on making his poverty yet greater by the destruction of his dwelling, rather than be disgraced, according to his ideas, by allowing its mediocrity to be seen.

“Come, sir, come,” continued Balsamo; “you have only time to throw off your dressing-gown and put yourself in better trim. The Baron of Taverney, whom I knew at the siege of Philipsbourg, wore the grand cross of the order of St. Louis -any coat will be rich and elegant when decorated with that.”

“But, sir, shall I show to our dauphiness that poverty which I wished to hide from you-”

“Be not uneasy, we shall manage to occupy her attention so that she shall not know whether your house be new or old, poor or rich. Be hospitable, sir, it is your duty as a gentleman! What will the enemies of the dauphiness-and she has many-what will they do, if her friends burn their castles rather than receive her under their roof- Let us not thus anticipate that vengeance which is to come!-everything in its predestined time.”

The baron again showed an involuntary submission to Balsamo, and hurried to his children, who, uneasy at his absence, were seeking him on every side.

As to Balsamo, he retired in silence, like a man intent on some work which he had undertaken, and which he must complete.

CHAPTER XIV. MARIE ANTOINETTE JOSEPHE, ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA.

AS BALSAMO had said, there was no time to be lost, for now on the road-generally so peaceful-which led to the Baron of Taverney's dwelling, a great sound of carriages, horses, and voices was heard.

Three carriages, one of which was covered with gilding and mythological bas-reliefs, and which, notwithstanding its magnificence, was not less dusty and bespattered than the others, stopped at the great gate of the avenue. Gilbert held it open, his eyes distended, his whole frame trembling with feverish agitation at the sight of so much magnificence. Twenty gentlemen on horseback, all young and splendidly dressed, drew up near the principal carriage, from which a young girl of sixteen, dressed with great simplicity, but with her hair elaborately piled on her forehead, got out, assisted by a gentleman in black, who wore, saltier-wise, under his mantle, the ribbon of St. Louis.

Marie Antoinette, for it was she, brought with her a reputation for beauty which the princesses destined to share the thrones of the kings of France have not always possessed. It was difficult to say whether her eyes were beautiful or not, yet they were capable of every expression, more particularly of the opposite expressions of mildness and scorn. Her nose was finely formed, her upper lip beautiful, but the lower lip, her aristocratic inheritance from seventeen emperors, was too thick and prominent. Her complexion was lovely; her neck, shoulders, and bust were of marble whiteness and beautifully formed; her hands truly regal. At times, when roused to energy, her carriage was majestic, firm, and decided; at other times, when not excited, soft, undulating-one might almost say caressing. No woman ever made a more graceful courtesy-no queen ever bowed with more tact and discrimination. This day the most expressive sweetness shone in her countenance. She had resolved to be only the woman, and to forget the dauphiness. She wore a dress of white silk, and her beautiful bare arms supported a mantel of rich lace.

Scarcely had she touched the ground when she turned to assist one of her ladies of honor whom age had weakened a little, and, refusing the arm of the gentleman in black, she advanced, inhaling the fresh air, and looking around as if determined to enjoy to the utmost the few moments of freedom with which she was indulging herself.

“Oh, what a beautiful situation!” she exclaimed; “what magnificent trees! and such a pretty little house! How happy one might be in this healthful air, under those trees, which form so sweet a retirement!”

At this moment Philip appeared, followed by Andree, on whose arm the baron leaned. She was dressed in a simple gown of gray silk, and the baron in a coat of blue velvet, the remains of some of his old magnificence; he had not forgotten Balsamo's recommendation, and wore his ribbon of St. Louis. On seeing the three approach, the dauphiness stopped. Her escort then grouped itself around her-the officers holding their horses by the bridles, and the courtiers, hat in hand, whispering to one another. Philip drew near, pale with agitation, yet with a noble bearing.

“With your royal highness's permission,” said he, “I have the honor of presenting to you the Baron de Taverney Maison Rouge, my father, and Claire Andree de Taverney, my sister.”

The baron bowed profoundly, like a man who knew how to bow to queens. Andree showed, in her graceful timidity, the most flattering kind of politeness-sincere respect. Marie Antoinette looked at the two young people, and recalling what Philip had said of their poverty, she guessed what they suffered at that moment.

“Madame,” said the baron, with dignity, “your royal highness does too much honor to the Chateau of Taverney-such a humble abode is not worthy to receive so much rank and beauty!”

“I know that it is the abode of an old soldier of France,” replied the dauphiness, “and my mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, who was a distinguished warrior, has told me that often in your country those richest in glory are the poorest in meaner treasures,” and with ineffable grace she extended her lovely hand to Andree, who, kneeling, kissed it.

The baron was, however, still haunted by the idea which had so much tormented him, that the train of the dauphiness was about to crowd into his little house, in which there could not be found chairs for a fourth of their number. The dauphiness hastened to relieve him from all embarrassment.

“Gentlemen,” said she, turning to those who formed her escort, “I must not impose on you the trouble of following me in all my caprices. You will wait here, if you please; in half an hour I shall return. Come with me, my good Langershausen,” she added in German to the lady whom she had assisted out of the carriage, “and you sir,” said she to the gentleman in black, “have the goodness to follow us!”

This personage, though dressed thus simply, was remarkable for the elegance of his manners, and was about thirty years of age, and very handsome. He drew to one side to allow the princess to pass. Marie Antoinette took Andree for her guide, and made a sign for Philip to come near his sister.

As to the baron, he was left to the personage of high rank, doubtless, to whom the dauphiness had granted the honor of accompanying her.

“So you are a Taverney Maison-Rouge-” said he, playing with his splendid ruffles of the most expensive lace, and turning to the baron with truly aristocratic impertinence.

“Must I reply, sir, or my lord-” asked the baron, with equal impertinence.

“You may say simply prince, or your eminence, which you choose,” the other replied.

“Well, then, your eminence, I am a Taverney Maison-Rouge! a real one!” said the baron, in that tone of raillery which he so seldom abandoned.

His eminence, who had the usual tact of great nobles, felt that he had to do with no country clown, and continued, “This is your summer residence-”

“Summer and winter,” answered the baron, who wished to put an end to disagreeable queries, but accompanying each reply with a low bow.

Philip could not help turning from time to time uneasily toward his father, for the house, as they drew nearer it, wore an aspect threatening and ironical, as if pitilessly determined to show all their poverty. The baron had already resignedly extended his hand to point the way to the door of his house, when the dauphiness, turning to him, said, “Excuse me, sir, if I do not enter; these shades are so delightful that I could pass my life in them. I am tired of rooms. For fifteen days I have been received in rooms -I, who love the open air, the shade of trees, and the perfume of flowers.” Then, turning to Andree, “You will bring me a cup of milk here, under these beautiful trees-will you not-”

“Your highness,” said the baron, turning pale, “how should we dare to offer you such poor refreshment-”

“I prefer it, sir, to anything else. New laid eggs and milk formed my banquets at Schoenbrunn.”

All at once La Brie, swelling with pride, in a splendid livery and a napkin on his arm, appeared under an archway of Jessamine, the shade of which had attracted the eye of the dauphiness. In a tone in which importance and respect were strangely mixed, he announced, “Her royal highness is served!”

“Am I in the dwelling of an enchanter-” cried the princess, as she ran rather than walked to the perfumed alley.

The baron, in his uneasiness, forgot all etiquette, left the gentleman in black, and hurried after the dauphiness. Andree and Philip looked at one another with mingled astonishment and anxiety, and followed their father.

Under the clematis, Jessamine, and woodbine was placed an oval table, covered with a damask cloth of dazzling whiteness, on which was arranged, in a brilliant service of plate, a collation the most elegant and rare. There were exotic fruits made into the most delicious confections; biscuits from Aleppo, oranges from Malta, and lemons of extraordinary size, all arranged in beautiful vases. Wines, the richest and most esteemed, sparkled like the ruby and the topaz, in decanters ornamented and cut in Persia, and in the center, in a silver vase, was placed the milk for which the dauphiness had asked.

Marie Antoinette looked around and saw surprise and alarm imprinted on the face of her host, and on the countenance of his son and daughter. The gentlemen of her escort were delighted with what they saw, without understanding it, and without endeavoring to understand it.

“You expected me, then, sir-” said she to the baron.

“I, madame!” stammered he.

“Yes; you could not in ten minutes have all this prepared, and I have only been ten minutes here,” and she looked at La Brie with an expression which said, “above all, when you have only one servant!”

“Madame,” answered the baron, “your royal highness was expected, or rather, your coming was foretold to me.”

“Your son wrote to you-”

“No, madame.”

“No one knew that I was coming here, as I did not wish to give you the trouble which I see I have done. It was only late last night that I expressed my intention to your son, and he reached this but half an hour before me.”

“Scarcely a quarter of an hour, madame.

“Then some fairy must have revealed to you what was to occur. Mademoiselle's godmother, perhaps-”

“Madame,” said the baron, offering a chair to the princess, “it was not a fairy who announced my good fortune to me.”

“Who, then-” asked she, observing that he hesitated.

“An enchanter, madame!”

“An enchanter-how can that be-”

“I know nothing of the matter, for I do not meddle with magic myself, yet to that, madame, I am indebted for being able to entertain your highness in a tolerable fashion.”

“In that case we must not touch anything, since the collation is the work of sorcery. His eminence,” added she, pointing to the gentleman in black, who had fixed his eye on a Strasbourg pie, “seems in a hurry to begin, but we shall assuredly not eat of this enchanted collation, and you, dear friend,” turning to her governess, “distrust the Cyprus wine, and do as I do!” and she poured some water from a globe-formed carafe with a narrow neck into a golden goblet.

“In truth,” said Andree, with alarm, “her royal highness is perhaps right!”

Philip trembled with surprise, and ignorant of what had passed the evening before, looked alternately at his father and his sister for explanation.

“But I see,” continued the dauphiness, “his eminence is determined to sin, in spite of all the canons of the Church.”

“Madame,” replied the prelate, “we princes of the Church are too worldly to be able to believe that Heaven's wrath will fall on us about a little refreshment for the body, and, above all, too humane to feel the least inclination to burn an honest sorcerer for providing us with good things like these!”

“Do not jest. I pray, Monseigneur,” said the baron. “I swear to you that a sorcerer-a real sorcerer-foretold to me, about an hour ago, the arrival of her royal highness and my son!”

“And has an hour been sufficient for you to prepare this banquet-” demanded the dauphiness. “In that case you are a greater sorcerer than your sorcerer!”

“No, madame, it was he who did all this, and brought the table up through the ground, ready served as you see.”

“On your word, sir-”

“On the honor of a gentleman!” replied the baron.

“Ha!” said the cardinal, in a serious tone, putting back the plate which he had taken, “I thought you were jesting. Then you have in your house a real magician-”

“A real magician!-and I should not wonder if he has made all the gold on that table himself.”

“Oh, he must have found out the philosopher's stone!” cried the cardinal, his eyes sparkling with covetousness.

“See how the eyes of his eminence sparkle! He who has been seeking all his life for the philosopher's stone!” said the dauphiness.

“I confess to your royal highness,” replied his very worldly eminence, “that nothing interests me more than the supernatural-nothing is so curious, in my estimation, as the impossible.”

“Ah! I have traced the vulnerable part, it seems!” said the dauphiness; “every great man has his mysteries, particularly when he is a diplomatist-and I-I warn your eminence, know a great deal of sorcery. I sometimes find out things -if not impossible, if not supernatural, at least incredible!” and the eye of the dauphiness, before so mild, flashed as from an internal storm, but no thunder followed. His eminence alone doubtless understood what this meant, for he looked evidently embarrassed. The dauphiness went on:

“To make the thing complete, M, de Taverney, you must show us your magician-where is he- In what box have you hidden him-”

“Madame,” answered the baron, “he is much more able to put me and my house in a box, than I to put him!”

“In truth you excite my curiosity,” said Marie Antoinette. “I must positively see him!”

The tone in which this was uttered, although still retaining the charm which Marie Antoinette knew so well to assume, forbade all idea of refusal to comply with her wish.

The baron understood this perfectly, and made a sign to La Brie, who was contemplating with eager eyes the illustrious guests, the sight of whom seemed to make up to him for his twenty years of unpaid wages.

“Tell Baron Joseph Balsamo,” said his master, “that her royal highness the dauphiness deSires to see him.” La Brie departed.

“Joseph Balsamo!” said the dauphiness. “What a singular name!”

“Joseph Balsamo!” repeated his eminence, as if reflecting, “I think I know that name.”

Five minutes passed in silence-then Andree felt a thrill run through her frame-she heard, before it was perceptible to other ears, a step advancing under the shade of the trees-the branches were put aside -and Joseph Balsamo stood face to face with Marie Antoinette.

CHAPTER XV. MAGIC.

BALSAMO BOWED humbly; but no sooner had he raised his head than he fixed his bright, expressive eyes firmly but respectfully on the face of the dauphiness, and waited calmly until she should interrogate him.

“If it is you of whom the Baron de Taverney has been speaking to us, draw near, sir, that we may better see what a magician is.”

Balsamo advanced another step and bowed.

“Your profession is to foretell events, sir-” said the dauphiness, regarding him with more curiosity than she would herself have been willing to acknowledge, and sipping some milk which had been handed her.

“It is not my profession, but I do foretell events.”

“We have been brought up in an enlightened creed,” said the dauphiness, “and the only mysteries in which we believe are those of the Catholic faith.”

“They are to be venerated,” replied Balsamo, reverently; “but here is Monseigneur the Cardinal de Rohan, who will tell your royal highness, though he be a prince of the Church, that they are not the only mysteries which deserve to be regarded with respect.”

The cardinal started; he had not told his name, it had not been pronounced, yet this stranger knew it. Marie Antoinette did not appear to remark this circumstance, but continued:

“You will confess, sir, that at least they are the only mysteries which cannot be controverted-”

“Madame,” answered Balsamo, with the same respect, “as well as faith there is certainty.”

“You speak rather obscurely, sir. Although thoroughly French in heart, I am but indifferently acquainted with the niceties of the language, and must beg you to be less enigmatic if I am to comprehend you.”

“And I, madame, would entreat that all may remain unexplained. I should deeply regret to unveil to so illustrious a princess a future which might not correspond to her hopes.”

“This becomes serious,” said Marie Antoinette; “the gentleman wishes to excite my curiosity, that I may command him to tell my fortune.”

“God forbid that your royal highness should force me to do it!”

“Yes,” replied the dauphiness; “for you would be rather puzzled to do it!” and she laughed.

But the dauphiness's laugh died away without meeting an echo from any of the attendants. Everyone present seemed to submit tacitly to the influence of the singular man, who was, for the moment, the center of general attraction.

“Come, confess it frankly,” said the dauphiness.

Balsamo bowed.

“Yet it was you who predicted my arrival to the Baron de Taverney,” resumed Marie Antoinette, with a slight movement of impatience.

“Yes, madame, it was I.”

“And how did he do it-” she added, turning to the baron, as if she felt the necessity of a third party taking share in this strange dialogue.

“Very simply, madame-merely by looking in a glass of water.”

“Was it so-” she asked of Balsamo.

“Yes, madame,” answered he.

“Then, having read the future for the Baron de Taverney in a glass of water, surely you can read it for me in a decanter.”

“Perfectly well, madame.”

“And why refuse to do so-”

“Because the future is uncertain; and if I saw a cloud on it-He stopped.

“Well-”

“It would give me pain to sadden your royal highness.”

“Have you known me before, or do you now see me for the first time- “

“I have had the honor of seeing your royal highness when a child, in your native country, with your august mother.”

“You have seen my mother, then-”

“I have had that honor. She is a great and powerful queen.”

“Empress, sir.”

“I used the word queen in reference to the heart and mind; and yet-

“Reservations concerning my mother-” said the dauphiness haughtily.

“The greatest hearts have weaknesses, madame, particularly where they think the happiness of their children is concerned.”

“History, I trust, sir, will not discover one single weakness in Maria Theresa.”

“Because history will not know what is known only to the Empress Maria Theresa, to your royal highness, and to myself.”

“We have a secret, sir! we three!” said the dauphiness, smiling disdainfully.

“We three, madame!” replied Balsamo solemnly.

“Come, then, tell this secret, sir!”

“It will then be no longer one.”

“No matter; tell it!”

“Is it your royal highness's will-”

“It is.”

Balsamo bowed. “There is in the Palace of Schoenbrunn,” said he, “a cabinet, called the Dresden cabinet, on account of the splendid vases of porcelain which it contains-”

“Yes,” said the dauphiness; “go on.”

“This cabinet forms a part of the private suite of rooms of the Empress Maria Theresa; in it she writes her letters.”

“Yes.”

“On a certain day, about seven in the morning, when the empress had not yet risen, your royal highness entered this cabinet by a door through which you alone were permitted to pass; for your royal highness is the favorite daughter of her imperial majesty.”

“Well, sir-”

“Your highness approached a writing desk, on which lay open a letter which her imperial majesty had written the night before. Your royal highness read that letter; and doubtless some expressions in it must have been displeasing to you, for you took a pen, and with your own hand erased three words.”

The dauphiness blushed slightly.

“What were the words erased-” she asked anxiously.

“They were too condescending, doubtless, and showed too great affection for the person to whom they were addressed. This was a weakness, and to this it was I alluded in speaking of your august mother.”

“Then you remember the words-”

“Assuredly.”

“Repeat them to me.”

“They were; 'My dear friend.'“

Marie Antoinette bit her lip and turned pale.

“Shall I tell your royal highness to whom the letter was addressed-”

“No; but you may write the name.”

Balsamo drew out a pocket-book with gold clasps, and, having written some words on one of the leaves, he tore it out, and, bowing, presented it to the dauphiness. Marie Antoinette unfolded the leaf, read it, and looked with astonishment at the man, who, though he bowed low before her, seemed to have it in his power to direct her fate.

The letter was addressed to the mistress of King Louis XV.-”To the Marchioness de Pompadour.”

“All this is true, sir,” said Marie Antoinette, after a pause; “and although I am ignorant by what means you have become acquainted with these circumstances, I cannot speak falsely, and I must declare that what you have said is true.”

“Then,” said Balsamo, “will your royal highness permit me to retire, satisfied with this harmless proof of my art-”

“No, sir,” replied the dauphiness; “the more I know of your powers, the more desirous I become to have my fate foretold. You have spoken only of the past; let me learn what the future will be.”

The princess spoke these words with a feverish impatience, which she in vain endeavored to conceal from her auditors.

“I am ready, if your royal highness commands me, to declare it; yet let me supplicate you not to do so.”

“I have never expressed a command twice; and you will recollect, sir, that I have already commanded once.”

“Let me at least consult the oracle whether it may be revealed to your royal highness or not,” he said entreatingly.

“Good or bad, sir,” replied Marie Antoinette, “I will know it. If good, I shall take it for flattery; if bad, I shall hold it as a warning, and shall be obliged to you for it. Begin!”

Balsamo took the round carafe with the narrow neck, and placed it on a golden saucer; the rays of the sun, striking on this, shone dimly yellow in the water, and seemed to offer something worthy of deep consideration to the attentive soothsayer. Everyone was silent. At length he placed the carafe again on the table, and shook his head.

“Well, sir-” said the dauphiness.

“I cannot speak it,” replied Balsamo.

“You cannot, because you have nothing to tell me,” replied Marie Antoinette, a little contemptuously.

“There are things which must never be said to princes, madame,” replied Balsamo, in a tone which seemed to express his determination to oppose her wishes.

“Yes, when those things, I repeat, may be expressed by the word nothing.”

“It is not that which prevents me, madame; on the contrary, it is the very reverse.”

The dauphiness smiled disdainfully, Balsamo appeared embarrassed, the cardinal began to laugh outright, and the baron drew near, grumbling:

“So, my magician has exhausted himself! His powers have not lasted very long! It only remains for us to see all these fine things turned into vine-leaves, as we have read in Eastern tales.”

“I should rather have had the simple vine leaves,” said Marie Antoinette, “than these fine things displayed by the gentleman for the purpose of getting himself presented to me.”

“Deign to remember, madame,” replied Balsamo, who was deadly pale, “that I did not solicit this honor.”

“It was not difficult for you to guess, sir, that, I should ask to see you.”

“Pardon him, madame,” said Andree, in a low voice; “he thought he was doing right.”

“And I tell you he was doing wrong,” replied the princess, so as only to be heard by Andree and Balsamo. “No one can elevate himself by humiliating an old man; and when we can have the pewter goblet of a gentleman to drink in, we need not the golden one of a mountebank!”

Balsamo started, as if a viper had bitten him. “Madame,” said he, greatly agitated, “I am ready to let you know your destiny, since your blindness impels you to desire such knowledge.”

He pronounced these words in a tone so firm and so threatening, that all present felt the blood chilled in their veins.

“Gib im kein gehoer, meine Tochter,”*

said the old lady to Marie Antoinette.

“Lass sie hoeren, sie hat wissen wotten, und so sol sie wissen,”**

replied Balsamo.

*” Do not listen to him, my daughter.”

**”Let her-she wishes to know, and she shall know.”

These words spoken in German, a language which was understood by only a few present, seemed to render more mysterious what was going on.

“No,” said the dauphiness, resisting the entreaties of her venerable governess; “let him say what he deSires to say; -were I now to permit him to be silent, he would believe me afraid.”

Balsamo heard these words, and a dark furtive smile played for a second on his lips. “It is as I said,” he muttered to himself; “the courage of bravado merely.”

“Speak!” said the dauphiness; “speak, sir.”

“Then your royal highness is decided-”

“I never go back from a decision once made.”

“In that case, madame, I would entreat that we may be alone.”

She made a sign which those around understood-all retired.

“This is not a bad plan for obtaining a private audience,” said the dauphiness, turning to Balsamo; “is it not, sir-”

“I would beg your royal highness not to irritate me!” replied Balsamo; “I am but an instrument of Providence to enlighten you on those sorrows which await you. Insult fortune, if you will-she can revenge herself; but for me, I am but the gloomy herald of the misfortunes she has in store for you.”

“Then it appears that misfortunes await me-” said the dauphiness, mildly, touched by Balsamo's respectful manner.

“Yes-terrible misfortunes.”

“First-will my family be happy-”

“That which you have left, or that to which you are going-”

“Oh, my own family-my mother, my brother Joseph, my sister Caroline-”

“Your misfortunes will not reach them.”

“They are mine alone, then-”

“They are yours, and those of your new family.”

“The royal family of France includes three princes, the Duke de Berry, the Count de Provence, and the Count D'Artois, what will be their fate-”

“They will all reign.”

“Then I shall have no children-”

“You will have children.”

“Not sons-”

“Some of them sons.”

“My sorrows, then, will be caused by their death-”

“You will grieve that one is dead, but most will you grieve that the other lives.”

“Will my husband love me-”

“Yes, too well.”

“Shall I not, then, be able to bear my grief, supported by my husband and my family-”

“Neither will support you.”

“The love of my people will still be mine-”

“The people!-the ocean in a calm!-have you seen the ocean in a storm, madame-”

“By doing good I shall prevent the storm; or, if it rise, shall rise above it!”

“The higher the wave, the deeper the abyss.”

“God will defend me.”

“Alas! there are heads which he himself foredooms!”

“What mean you, sir; shall I not, then, be queen-”

“Yes, madame, but would to Heaven that you were not to be!”

She smiled disdainfully.

“Did you remark,” he continued, “the tapestry of the first room in which you slept after having entered France-”

“Yes, sir.”

““What did it represent-”

“The slaughter of the innocents.”

“Have not the grim faces of the murderers haunted your memory-”

“I confess that they have.”

“Had you not a storm on the way hither-”

“Yes; a thunderbolt fell, and nearly on my carriage.”

““Were not those omens-”

“Fatal omens-”

“It would be difficult to interpret them as happy ones!”

The dauphiness let her head fall on her bosom, and raising it after a minute's silence, “Speak!” said she; “in what manner shall I die-

He shook his head.

“Speak!”

“I dare not.”

“It is my will that you should,” she said, imperiously.

“Have mercy-have mercy on yourself!”

“Speak, sir, or I shall say that all this is but an absurd fable. Take care!-the daughter of Maria Theresa is not to be jested with!-the woman who holds in her hand the destiny of thirty millions of men is not to be trifled with!”

He continued silent.

“You know no more,” she said, contemptuously; “your imagination is exhausted.”

“My knowledge of the future is not exhausted, madame; and if you will force me-”

“Yes, I will hear all.”

He seized the carafe on the golden saucer, placed it in a dark hollow, where some rocks formed a sort of grotto; then he took the hand of the archduchess, and drew her under the vault.

“Are you ready-” he asked the princess, who was alarmed by his rapid movements.

“Yes.”

“On your knees, then!-on your knees! -and pray to God to spare you the dreadful end of all your greatness, which you are now to witness!”

She obeyed mechanically, and fell on both knees.

He pointed with a wand to the glass globe, in the center of which must have appeared some dark and terrible form, for the dauphiness, in trying to rise, trembled and sank again to the ground with a shriek of horror-she had fainted.

The baron hastened to her assistance, and in a few minutes she came to herself. She put her hand to her forehead, as if to recall her thoughts, then suddenly exclaimed, “The carafe!-the carafe!”

The baron presented it to her. The water was perfectly limpid-not a stain mingled with it. Balsamo was gone.

CHAPTER XVI. THE BARON DE TAVERNEY THINKS HE SEES AT LAST A SMALL OPENING INTO THE FUTURE.

THE BARON was the first to perceive that the dauphiness had fainted, he had kept on the watch, more uneasy than anyone else at what might take place between her and the sorcerer. Hearing her cry of terror, and seeing Balsamo spring out of the grotto, he ran to the spot.

The dauphiness's first request was to see the carafe; her second, that no injury should be done the magician; and it was well she made this request, for no sooner had Philip heard her cry than he bounded after him like an angry lion.

When her lady of honor came near, and ventured to question her in German, she only drew from her that Balsamo had in no way been wanting in respect to her-that she thought the storm of the preceding night, and her long journey, had fatigued her and brought on a nervous attack. Her replies were translated to the Cardinal de Rohan, who stood by, but dared not himself ask for information. In courts, people are obliged to be satisfied with half answers, so what the dauphiness said satisfied nobody, but Everyone appeared perfectly satisfied. Philip then drew near and said:

“I am obliged to obey your royal highness's orders, yet it is with regret that I do so-the half-hour during which you intended to stay is past, and the horses are ready.”

“Thanks, sir,” said she, with a smile full of fascinating languor, “but I must alter my determination-I do not feel able to set out just now-if I could sleep for a few hours, I should be quite restored.”

“Your royal highness knows what a poor abode ours is,” the baron stammered out.

“Oh, sir, any place will do-a little rest is all I want!” She said this as if again fainting, and her head sank again on her bosom.

Andree disappeared to prepare her room for her, and having in a few minutes returned, she stood beside the dauphiness, not daring to speak until some indication was given that she might do so. At length Marie Antoinette raised her head, smiled to Andree, and, with her hand, made a sign to her to draw nearer.

“The room is ready for your royal highness-we entreat only-

But she was not permitted to finish her apology-the dauphiness interrupted her.

“Thank you!-thank you! May I ask you to summon the Countess of Langershausen, and to lead us to the apartment-”

Andree obeyed-the old lady of honor advanced. “Give me your arm, my dear friend,” said the dauphiness to her in German, “for indeed I have scarcely strength enough to walk without support.”

The baroness obeyed; Andree approached to assist her. Turning soon after to Andree, the dauphiness asked-

“Do you understand German, then, mademoiselle-”

“Yes, madame, I even speak it a little,” replied Andree, in German.

“That is delightful!” exclaimed the dauphiness, “that makes my plan still more agreeable.”

Andree dared not ask her august guest what her plan was, although she longed to know it. The dauphiness leaned on the arm of the Countess de Langershausen, and advanced slowly, her limbs trembling under her. As she issued from the trees in front of the grotto, she heard the cardinal's voice.

“What!” said he, “Count de Stainville, do you mean to insist on speaking to her royal highness, notwithstanding her orders to the contrary-”

“I must insist on doing so.” replied the governor of Strasbourg, in a firm voice, “her royal highness will pardon me, I am certain.”

“And I, sir, on the contrary, insist-”

“Let the governor come forward,” said the dauphiness appearing at the opening of the trees, which formed a verdant arch above her head. “Come forward, Count de Stainville.”

Everyone bowed at her command, and drew back to allow free passage to the brother-in-law of the then all-powerful minister who governed France. The count looked around, as if to request a private audience. Marie Antoinette understood that he had something important to say to her, but before she could express a wish to be left alone, all had withdrawn.

“A dispatch from Versailles, madame,” said the count in a low voice, and presenting a letter which he had kept concealed under his plumed hat.

The dauphiness took it, and read the address. “It is for you, sir, not for me,” she said; “open it and read it, if it contain anything that concerns me.”

“The letter is addressed to me,” he replied, “but in the corner is a mark agreed on between my brother, Madame Choiseul, and myself, indicating that the letter is for your royal highness.”

“True; I did not observe it.”

She opened the letter, and read the following lines:

“The presentation of Madame Dubarry is decided on, if she can only procure some noble lady to present her. We still hope she may not find one; but the only sure means to prevent the presentation will be for her royal highness the dauphiness to make all speed. Her royal highness once at Versailles, no one will dare to offer such an insult to the court.”

“Very well,” said the dauphiness, folding up the letter, without the slightest symptom of emotion, or even of interest.

“Will your royal highness now retire to repose a little-” asked Andree, timidly.

“No, I thank you, mademoiselle; the air has revived me; I have quite recovered,” and abandoning the arm of her lady-of-honor, she walked forward firmly and rapidly. “My horses immediately!” said she.

The cardinal looked with inquisitive surprise at the count.

“The dauphin is becoming impatient,” whispered the latter, and this falsehood appearing a secret confided to him alone, his eminence was satisfied. As to Andree, her father had taught her to respect the whims of crowned heads, and she was not at all surprised at the change in Marie Antoinette's intentions. The latter, therefore, turning, and seeing no alteration in the sweet expression of her countenance, said:

“Thanks, mademoiselle; your hospitable reception has made a deep impression on me.”

Then, turning to the baron, she continued:

“Sir, you must know, that on leaving Vienna, I made a vow to advance the fortune of the first Frenchman whom I should meet on the frontiers of France. That Frenchman was your son. But I do not intend to stop there-your daughter shall not be forgotten either.”

“Oh, your highness!” murmured Andree.

“Yes, I mean to make you one of my maids of honor. You are noble, are you nut-” she added, again addressing the baron.

“Oh, your highness!” cried the baron with delight, for all his dreams seemed realized by what he heard; “although poor, our descent is unblemished; yet so high an honor-”

“It is only due to you. Your son will defend the king as you have done; your daughter will serve the dauphiness-the one you will inspire with every loyal sentiment, the other with every virtuous one. Shall I not be faithfully served, sir-” she said, turning to Philip, who knelt in gratitude at her feet, without words to express his emotion.

“But-” murmured the baron-for his feelings did not prevent him from reflecting.

“Yes, I understand,” said the dauphiness, “you have preparations to make, yet they cannot take long.”

A sad smile passed over the lips of Andree and Philip, a bitter one over those of the baron, and Marie Antoinette stopped, for she felt that she might unintentionally have wounded their pride.

“At least,” she resumed, “if I may judge by your daughter's desire to please me. Besides, I shall leave you one of my carriages; it will bring you after us. I must call the Count de Stainville to my aid.”

The count approached.

“I shall leave one of my carriages for the Baron de Taverney, whom I wish to accompany me to Paris with his daughter. Appoint someone to accompany their carriage, and to cause it to be recognized as belonging to my suite.”

“Come forward, Monsieur de Beausire!”

“This very moment, madame,” answered the count.

A young man, of about five-and-twenty years of age, with an easy and graceful carriage, and a lively and intelligent eye, advanced, hat in hand, from the ranks of the escort of the dauphiness.

“Let one of the carriages remain behind,” said the count, “for the Baron de Taverney; you will accompany the carriage yourself.”

“And, sir,” said the dauphiness, “join us again as soon as possible. I authorize you to have double relays of horses, if necessary.”

The baron and his children were profuse in their acknowledgments.

“This sudden departure will not put you to much inconvenience, I hope, sir,” said the dauphiness.

“We are too happy to obey your royal highness's orders,” replied the baron.

“Adieu! adieu!” said she, with a smile. “Gentlemen, conduct me to my carriage. Chevalier de Taverney, to horse!”

Philip kissed his father's hand, embraced his sister, and leaped lightly into his saddle.

The glittering train swept on, and in a quarter of an hour had disappeared like an evening vapor; there remained no human being in the avenue of Taverney but a young man, who, sitting on one of the low pillars of the gate, pale and sorrowful, followed with a longing eye the last cloud of dust which was raised by the horses' feet, and which served to show the road they had taken. The young man was Gilbert.

Meantime, the salon of Taverney presented a singular scene. Andree, with clasped hands, reflected on the unexpected and extraordinary event which had so suddenly interrupted the course of her calm life, and she believed herself in a dream. The baron was pulling some hairs, which were rather too long, out of his gray eyebrows, and settling the bosom of his shirt. Nicole, leaning against the door, looked at her master and mistress, and La Brie, with his arms hanging down and his mouth open, looked at Nicole.

The baron was the first to rouse himself from his reverie.

“Scoundrel!” cried he to La Brie, “are you standing there like a statue, and that gentleman, one of the king's body-guard, waiting without-”

La Brie made a bound toward the door, got one leg hooked in the other, staggered to his feet and disappeared. In a short time he returned.

“What is the gentleman doing-” asked the baron.

“Making his horse eat the pimpernels.”

“Leave him alone, then. And the carriage-”

“It is in the avenue.”

“The horses harnessed-”

“Yes, sir-four horses-such beautiful animals! -they are eating the pomegranates.”

“The king's horses have a right to eat whatever they like. By-the-by, the sorcerer-”

“He is gone, sir.”

“And has left all the plate on the table! It is not possible. He will return, or will send someone for it.”

“I don't think he will, sir. Gilbert saw him set out with his wagon.”

“Gilbert saw him set out with his wagon!” the baron repeated, in a thoughtful tone.

“Yes, sir.”

“That wretch, Gilbert, sees everything. Go and pack my trunk.”

“It is packed, sir.”

“What!-it is packed-”

“Yes, as soon as I heard what her royal highness the dauphiness said, I went into your room, and packed your clothes and linen.”

“Who told you to do so, you officious rascal-”

“Dame, sir! I thought I was only anticipating your orders.”

“Fool! Go, then, and help my daughter.”

“Thank you, father; but I have Nicole.”

The baron began to reflect again.

“But, zounds, scoundrel! it is impossible.”

“What is impossible, sir-”

“What you have not thought of, for you think of nothing.”

“But what is it, sir-”

“That her royal highness would go without leaving something with Monsieur de Beausire, or the sorcerer without leaving a message with Gilbert.”

At this moment a low whistle was heard from the courtyard.

“What is that-”

“It is a call for me, sir,” replied La Brie.

“And who calls, pray-”

“The gentleman, sir.”

“The gentleman left by the dauphiness-”

“Yes, sir. And here is Gilbert coming as if he had got something to say to you.”

“Go, then, stupid animal!”

La Brie obeyed with his usual alacrity.

“Father,” said Andree, approaching him, “I know what troubles you. Recollect, I have thirty louis-d'ors, and that beautiful watch set with diamonds, which Queen Marie Lezinska gave my mother.”

“Yes, my dear, yes!” replied the baron; “but keep them, keep them. You must have a handsome dress for your presentation. I may discover some means-hush! here is La Brie.”

“Sir,” cried La Brie as he came in, holding in one hand a letter, and in the other some money, “see what the dauphiness left for me-ten louis-d'ors, sir! -ten louis-d'ors!”

“And that letter, rascal-”

“Oh, the letter is for you, sir-from the sorcerer.”

“From the sorcerer- Who gave it you-”

“Gilbert, sir.”

“I told you so, stupid animal! Give it me-give it me!”

He snatched the letter, tore it open, and read these words:

“SIR -Since a hand so august has touched the plate I left with you, it belongs to you; keep it as a relic, and remember sometimes your grateful guest.

"JOSEPH BALSAMO.”

“La Brie!” cried the baron, after a moment's reflection, “is there not a good goldsmith at Bar-le-Duc-”

“Oh, yes, sir, the one who soldered Mademoiselle Andree's silver brooch!”

“Very well! Andree, lay aside the goblet out of which her royal highness drank, and let the rest of the service be put up in the carriage with us. And you, beast that you are, help the gentleman outside to a glass of what remains of our good wine.”

“One bottle, sir,” said La Brie, with deep melancholy.

“That is enough.”

“Now, Andree,” said the baron, taking both his daughter's hands, “courage, my child. We are going to court; there are plenty of titles to be given away there; rich abbeys-regiments without colonels-pensions going to waste. It is a fine country, the court! The sun shines brightly there; put yourself always in its rays, my child; for you are worthy to be seen. Go, my love go!”

Andree went out, followed by Nicole.

“Hallo! La Brie, you monster!” cried the baron; “attend to the gentleman, I tell you.”

“Yes, sir,” answered La Brie from a distant part of the cellar.

“I,” continued the baron, going toward his room, “must go and arrange my papers. We must be out of this hole in an hour. Do you hear, Andree- And we are leaving it in good style, too. What a capital fellow that sorcerer is! I am becoming as superstitious as the devil. But make haste. La Brie, you wretch!”

“I was obliged to go feeling about, sir, in the cellar; there is not a candle in the house.”

“It was time to leave it, it appears,” said the baron.

CHAPTER XVII. NICOLE'S TWENTY-FIVE LOUIS-D'ORS.

IN THE MEANTIME Andree made active preparations for her departure, and Nicole assisted her with an ardor which quickly dissipated the little cloud that had arisen between them in the morning.

“She is a good girl,” said Andree to herself, “devoted and grateful; she has faults, but what human creature has not- Let me forget them.”

Nicole was not a girl who was slow to observe the expression of her mistress's face. “Fool that I was!” said she to herself; “I was nearly quarreling with my young lady, and all about that young good-for-nothing Gilbert! and she going to Paris, and will take me with her! One is sure of making one's fortune in Paris.”

Andree was the first to speak.

“Put my lace in a bandbox,” said she.

“What bandbox, mademoiselle-”

“Really, I don't know. Have we one at all-”

“

“Oh, yes-the one you gave me; it is in my room.”

And Nicole ran to bring it with an obliging air, which disposed Andree still more in her favor.

“But this bandbox is your own,” said Andree, when she reappeared with the article in her hand, “and you may want it yourself, my poor Nicole.”

“Oh, you have more need of it, mademoiselle; and besides, it ought to be yours-you lent it me.”

“When people get married and set up housekeeping, they require many little things; so just now you have most need of the box. Keep it to put your bridal finery in.”

“Oh, mademoiselle,” said Nicole, gayly, shaking her head, “my finery will not take up much room.”

“But if you marry, Nicole, I should wish you to be happy-and rich.”

“Rich-”

“Yes, rich according to your rank.”

“Then you have found some fermier-general for me, mademoiselle-”

“No! but I have found a dowry.”

“Indeed, mademoiselle-”

“You know what is in my purse-”

“Yes, madame; twenty-five shining louis-d'ors.”

“They are yours, Nicole.”

“Twenty-five louis-d'ors!” cried Nicole with rapture; “it is indeed a fortune!”

“My poor girl! I am glad you think so.”

“And you really give them to me, madame-”

“I wish I could give you more.”

Nicole felt surprised-moved; the tears came to her eyes; she seized her young lady's hand and kissed it.

“Do you think your husband will be satisfied-”

“Oh, quite satisfied!” said Nicole. “At least. I hope so.”

She reflected that Gilbert had doubtless refused her hand through fear of poverty, and that now when she was rich matters would turn out differently. Then she determined immediately to offer him a share of her young lady's generous gift, and to attach him to her by gratitude. Such was Nicole's generous plan. Andree looked at her as she reflected. “Poor girl!” sighed she; “may she be happy in her simple life!”

Nicole heard the words and started from her reverie. They opened to her fancy a whole Eldorado of silks, diamonds, lace, and love-things of which Andree had not thought. But Nicole turned away her eyes from the gold and purple cloud brightening her horizon, and resisted the temptation. “After all, madame,” said she, “I shall be happy here-in a humble way.”

“Reflect seriously on what you are going to do.”

“Yes, mademoiselle, I shall reflect on it.”

“That is right. Make yourself happy in the way you propose, if you can; but do not be foolish.”

“You are very kind, mademoiselle. And let me say now, that I was very foolish this morning-but I hope mademoiselle will forgive me. When one is in love-

“Then you are really in love with Gilbert-”

“Yes, mademoiselle; I-I loved him,” said Nicole.

“Is it possible!” said Andree, smiling. “What can you see to admire in the young man- The first time I meet him I must take a look at this M. Gilbert who steals young girls' hearts.”

“Is he not going with us to Paris, mademoiselle-” inquired Nicole, who wished to be fully informed on every point before taking the step she meditated.

“Of what use would he be there- He is not a domestic, and could not take charge of a horse in Paris. Idle people at Taverney live like the birds; however poor the soil, it feeds them. But in Paris an idle person would cost too much-we could not support him.”

“But if I marry him-” stammered Nicole.

“Well, if you marry him, you shall live here with him at Taverney. You shall take care of this house which my mother was so fond of.”

Andree pronounced these words in so firm a voice that Nicole could no longer doubt. Yet she hesitated before speaking again. Andree, seeing her hesitation, thought that her mind was wandering from the pleasures of a Parisian life to those of the quiet country, and that she knew not how to decide. So she went on gently; “Nicole, the decision which you are now to make will affect all your future life. Be not hasty; I shall give you one hour; it is little, but you are prompt, and I think it will be sufficient to enable you to choose between continuing to serve me or having a husband-between me and Gilbert.”

“An hour! Oh, yes, mademoiselle, I can decide in a hour.”

“Collect all my clothes, and my mother's! I would not leave behind those relics so dear to me. Then go, and return in an hour fully decided; but whatever your determination be, here are your twenty-five louis-d'ors. If you marry, they shall be your dowry; if you continue in my service, your wages for two years.”

Nicole took the purse from Andree's hands and kissed it. Then she completed her task-not a great one, certainly-hurried downstairs, and Andree saw her cross the courtyard and enter the avenue. Not finding Gilbert there, she flew to a window on the ground-floor, which was that of his room, and tapped at it. He was bustling about with his back to the window; but hearing her drumming, he turned, and like a thief caught in the fact, he quickly abandoned his occupation.

“Oh, is it you, Nicole-” said he.

“Yes, it is!” she replied, smiling, but with something very decided in her tone.

“You are welcome,” said he, coming forward and opening the window.

Nicole felt that there was kindness in his reception of her, and held out her hand; he took it, pressed it-” This is a good beginning,” thought she, “farewell my journey to Paris!” and to Nicole's praise, it must be said, she did not sigh at this thought.

“You know,” said the young girl, leaning her elbows on the window; “you know, Gilbert, that the family are leaving Taverney and going to Paris-”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well, I am to go to Paris too.”

“I did not know that; but I congratulate you if you are pleased at going.”

“How you say that!”

“I say it plainly, I think-if you are pleased at going.”

“My being pleased depends-

“Why do you stop- depends-”

“My being pleased or not depends on you.”

“I don't understand you,” said Gilbert, seating himself on the window so that his knees touched Nicole's arm, and they could thus converse unseen and unheard.

Nicole looked at him tenderly-he shook his head, insinuating that he understood her look no more than her words.

“Well,” said she, “since all must be told, listen to what I am going to say.”

“I hear you,” replied Gilbert, coldly.

“In plain words, my young lady offers to take me to Paris with her-”

“Very well-go on!”

“Unless-”

“Unless what-”

“Unless I get married here.”

“Then you still think of getting married-” he answered, quite unmoved.

“Yes, more particularly since I have become rich.”

“Oh, you have become rich-” he asked, so phlegmatically, that Nicole knew not what to think.

“Very rich, Gilbert!”

“Indeed-”

“Yes, indeed!”

“And how did that miracle come about-”

“My young lady has given me a marriage portion.”

“You are very fortunate. I congratulate you, Nicole.”

“Look!” said she, pouring out of the purse into her hand the twenty-five louis d'ors, and watching Gilbert's eyes to discover some ray of pleasure or covetousness in them.

Gilbert moved not a muscle. “On my word, it is a nice little sum!” said he.

“And that is not all,” continued Nicole. “The baron will be rich once more; the old castle will be rebuilt, and the care of it given-”

“To the fortunate husband of Nicole,” said Gilbert, with an irony not so well concealed but that it grated on Nicole's fine ear; yet she restrained her anger.

“And Nicole's husband-do you not know him-”

“I- No.”

“Have you, then, grown stupid, or do I no longer speak French-” cried the young girl, who began to show symptoms, of impatience.

“I understand you, perfectly,” replied Gilbert; “you offer to make me your husband, do you not, Mademoiselle Legay-”

“Yes, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“And it is since you have become rich that you have thought of this,” returned Gilbert, hastily. “I am truly grateful to you indeed-I am indeed!”

“Well,” said Nicole, frankly, and holding out her hand, “take it!”

“I-”

“You accept it, do you not-”

“No; I refuse it!”

Nicole sprang up from her leaning position. “Gilbert,” said she, “you have a bad heart; and, trust me, what you now do will not bring you happiness. If I felt any warmer sentiment, in making the offer I have just done, than a sense of duty and honor, trust me, I would now be miserable indeed; but having become rich, I did not wish it to be said that Nicole would look down on her old friend Gilbert. However, all is now over between us.”

Gilbert made a gesture of indifference.

“What I think of your conduct in the matter, you must be well aware. I, whose character you know to be as free and independent as your own, had decided to bury myself here, from an old prepossession for you, when I had it in my power to go to Paris, which may be for me a scene of triumph! I would have borne to see before me, every day of the year, for a whole lifetime, that cold and impenetrable face, the mask of so many wicked thoughts. You have not felt that there was any sacrifice in this; so much the worse for you, Gilbert! I do not say that you will regret me; but remember, you may yet feel remorse for the contempt and scorn you have shown rue! Guided by you, I should have been a virtuous, happy, and contented woman; now, I am abandoned on the ocean of life, without a keeping or a guiding hand! Gilbert, if I fall, God will not hold you innocent of my fall! Farewell!”

And the proud young girl turned away, without anger or impatience, but having shown, as all impassioned natures do in, the time of trial, true generosity of soul.

Gilbert shut his window quietly, and returned to the mysterious occupation in which she had interrupted him.

CHAPTER XVIII. FAREWELL TO TAVERNEY.

NICOLE, before entering her mistress's apartment, stopped on the staircase to subdue some gathering emotions of resentment rising in her bosom. The baron encountered her as she stood motionless, thoughtful, her brows contracted and leaning on her hand, and, seeing her so pretty, he kissed her, as the Duke de Richelieu would have done at thirty years of age. Roused from her reverie by this piece of gallantry, Nicole hurried up to Andree's room, and found her just closing her trunk.

“Well,” said Mademoiselle de Taverney, “have your reflections ended-”

“Yes, madame,” replied Nicole, very decidedly.

“You will marry-”

“No, madame.”

“What! after all your first love-”

“My love will never do for me what the kindness of mademoiselle has done for me. I belong to you, mademoiselle, and wish always to belong to you. I know the mistress I have; I do not know the master I might have.”

Andree was touched with this unlooked-for exhibition of affectionate feeling in the giddy Nicole, and was far from suspecting that this choice had been a forced one. She smiled, pleased to find one human being better than she had expected.

“You do well, Nicole,” she replied, “to attach yourself to me. I shall not forget this trust to me; and if any good fortune befall me, you shall share it.”

“Oh, mademoiselle, I have quite decided I will go with you!”

“Without regret-”

“Blindly.”

“I do not like that answer, Nicole. I should not wish you at some future day to reproach yourself with having blindly trusted me and followed me.”

“I shall never have to reproach anyone but myself, mademoiselle.”

“Then you have had an explanation with your lover- I saw you talking with him.”

Nicole blushed, then bit her lip. She forgot that Andree's window was opposite that at which she had spoken to Gilbert.

“It is true, mademoiselle,” replied Nicole.

“And you told him all-”

Nicole thought Andree had some particular reason for this question, and, all her former suspicions returning, she answered, “I told him I would have nothing more to do with him.”

It was plain that the two women would never understand each other -the one pure as the diamond, the other without any fixed principle of conduct, though having occasional impulses of goodness.

In the meantime, the baron had completed all his arrangements. An old sword, which he had worn at Fontenoy, some parchments establishing his right to travel in his majesty's carriages, and a litter of old papers, formed the most bulky part of his baggage. La Brie followed, tottering under the weight of an almost empty trunk. In the avenue they found the gentleman of the king's bodyguard, who, while waiting, had drained to the last drop his bottle of wine. The gallant had remarked the fine waist and pretty ankle of Nicole, who was going back and forward with messages, and he had kept peeping about in the hope of exchanging a word with her. He was roused, however, to more active occupation by the “baron's request that he would order the carriage to the door; he started, bowed, and in a sonorous voice summoned the coachman.

The carriage drew up. La Brie put the trunk on behind with an indescribable mixture of joy and pride in his looks. “I am really,” murmured he, carried away by his enthusiasm, and thinking he was alone, “going to get into the king's carriage!”

“Behind it, behind it, my worthy friend!” replied Beausire, with a patronizing smile.

“What, sir, are you going to take La Brie with you-” said Andree. “Who will take care of Taverney-”

“Why, pardieu! the good-for-nothing philosopher.”

“Gilbert-”

“Yes; has he not a gun-”

“But how will he live-”

“By his gun, to be sure! Don't be uneasy-he will have excellent fare; blackbirds and thrushes are not scarce at Taverney.”

Andree looked at Nicole; the latter began to laugh. “And is that all the compassion you show for him, ungrateful girl-”

“Oh, mademoiselle,” replied Nicole, “he is very clever with his gun-he will not die of hunger!”

“But, sir,” continued Andree, “we must leave him two or three louis-d'ors.”

“To spoil him- Very fine indeed! He is vicious enough as he is!”

“He must have something to live on,” persisted Andree.

“The neighbors will help him if he is in want.”

“Don't be uneasy, madame,” said Nicole; “he will have no cause to ask their assistance.”

“At all events,” replied Andree, “leave him two or three crowns.”

“He would not accept them.”

“He would not accept them- Then he is proud, this M. Gilbert of yours.”

“Oh, mademoiselle, he is not mine, Heaven be praised!”

“Come, come!” said the baron, “let Gilbert go to the devil! The carriage is waiting; get in, my love.”

Andree did not reply. She cast a farewell look on the old chateau, and then got into the heavy and ponderous carriage. The baron seated himself beside her. La Brie, still wearing his splendid livery, and Nicole, who seemed never to have known such a person as Gilbert, mounted on the box. The coachman rode one of the horses as postilion.

“But Monsieur l'Exempt, where shall he sit-” exclaimed the baron.

“On my horse, sir, on my horse,” replied Beausire, still eying Nicole, who colored with delight at having so soon replaced a rude peasant admirer by an elegant gentleman.

The carriage, drawn by four strong horses, started into rapid motion. The trees of the avenue glided away on each side, and disappeared one by one, sadly bending before the east wind, as if to bid farewell to their owners who abandoned them. The carriage reached the gate. Gilbert stood there, upright, immovable, his hat in his hand. He did not seem to see Andree, yet he watched her least movement; her eyes were fixed on the dear home she was leaving, so as to keep it in view as long as possible.

“Stop an instant!” cried the baron to the postilion.

The carriage stopped.

“So, Monsieur Good-for-nothing, you are going to be happy-quite alone, like a real philosopher! Nothing to do-nobody to scold you. Don't let the house take fire; and, hark ye, take care of Mahon!”

Gilbert bowed, but did not reply. He felt as if Nicole's looks were a weight too great to be borne-he feared to meet her triumphant ironical smile, as he would the touch of red-hot iron.

“Go on, postilion!” cried the baron.

Nicole did not smile-it even required more than her habitual power over herself to prevent her expressing aloud her pity for the poor young man thus heartlessly abandoned. She was obliged to keep her eye on Monsieur de Beausire, who looked so well on his prancing horse.

Now, as Nicole kept her eyes fixed on M, de Beausire, she did not see that Gilbert was gazing, his soul in his eyes, on Andree. Andree saw nothing but the house in which she was born-in which her mother died. The carriage disappeared. Gilbert, a moment before of so little importance in the eyes of the travelers-was now nothing to them.

The baron, Andree, Nicole, and La Brie having passed through the gates of the avenue, entered a new world. Each had a peculiar subject for reflection. The baron thought that at Bar-le-Duc he could easily raise five or six thousand crowns on Balsamo's plate. Andree repeated a prayer her mother had taught her, to keep away the demon of pride and ambition. Nicole covered her neck more closely with her handkerchief, to the great chagrin of M, de Beausire. La Brie, with his hand in his pocket, counted over the ten louis-d'ors of the dauphiness, and the two of Balsamo. II, de Beausire galloped at the side of the carriage.

Gilbert closed the gates of Taverney, whose hinges, as usual, creaked with a melancholy sound. Then he ran to his little room, pulled out his oaken chest of drawers, behind which he found a bundle ready tied up in a napkin, and slung it on his stick. After this, pushing his hands into his hay-stuffed mattress, he drew out something wrapped in a bit of paper -it was a shining crown-piece-his savings for three or four years. He opened the paper-looked at his crown to assure himself that it had not been changed, and then put it in his pocket, still wrapped in its paper.

Mahon, on seeing Gilbert, began to howl loudly, making furious leaps the whole length of his chain. Seeing one by one his friends leave him, his fine instinct told him that Gilbert was also about to abandon him, and he howled louder and louder.

“Hush!” cried Gilbert, “hush, Mahon!”

Then smiling bitterly at the parallel which occurred to his mind, he muttered, “Have they not abandoned me like a dog- Why should not I abandon thee like a man-” But, after a minute's reflection, he added, “They abandoned me free, at least-free to seek for food. Well, then, Mahon, I will do for thee what they did for me, neither more nor less;” and going to the hook to which the dog's chain was fastened, he slipped it off. “You are free!” said he; “provide for yourself as you like!”

The dog bounded toward the house; but, finding the doors all closed, he sprang toward the ruins and disappeared.

“And now,” said Gilbert, “we shall see which has most instinct-the dog or the man!”

So saying, he went out by the small gate-closed it -double-locked it, and threw the key over the wall.

But nature speaks with the same voice in almost all hearts. Gilbert felt something like what Andree experienced in leaving Taverney, only with her sentiments mingled regret for the quiet past, with his hopes for a more stirring future.

“Farewell!” said he, turning to look for the last time at the chateau, whose pointed roof appeared peeping over the sycamores and laburnums, “farewell! abode in which I have suffered so much, where Everyone hated me and threw me food grudgingly, as if I had been a hungry hound. Be cursed!-my heart bounds with joy at my freedom, for thy walls inclose me no more! Farewell! prison! -hell!-den of tyrants! Farewell forever!”

And after this imprecation, Gilbert sprang forward on the road which the carriage had taken, fancying that he yet heard the roll of its distant wheels.

CHAPTER XIX. GILBERT'S CROWN-PIECE.

AFTER HALF an hour's headlong race, Gilbert uttered a wild shriek of joy; he saw the carriage about a quarter of a league before him, slowly ascending a hill. He felt his heart dilate with pride, as he thought that he, with only youth, strength, spirit, was about to do all that wealth, power, and rank could accomplish. Then, indeed, might the baron have called Gilbert a philosopher, had he seen him, his stick on his shoulder, his small bundle slung on it, walking on with rapid strides, leaping down every slope which could shorten his path, and stopping at every ascent, chafing with impatience, as if saying to the horses, “You do not go fast enough for me; see, I am obliged to wait for you.”

Philosopher- Yes! and he deserved the name, if it be philosophy to despise all that contributes to ease and to enjoyment. It was an interesting spectacle, one worthy of the Creator of energetic and intelligent creatures, to see the young man bounding forward on his way, all dusty and panting, for an hour or more, until he had overtaken the carriage, and then resting with delight when the horses were compelled to pause for breath. Gilbert that day must have inspired Everyone with admiration who could have followed him in spirit as we do; and who knows but that even the proud Andree might have been moved could she have seen him, and that her contempt for his indolence would have changed to admiration of his energy-

The day passed on in this manner. The baron stopped an hour at Bar-le-Duc, which gave Gilbert time to get in advance of him. He had heard the order to stop at the goldsmith's; so, having passed the town, by a detour, without entering it, he hid in a thicket until he saw the carriage coming, and when it had passed, followed it as before. Toward evening it came up with the train of the dauphiness, at the little village of Brillon, the inhabitants of which were crowded on a neighboring hill, and made the air resound with their shouts of welcome. Gilbert had not eaten a morsel during the entire day, except a morsel of bread which he had brought with him from Taverney; but, in return, he had drunk plentifully from a rivulet which crossed the road, and the water of which was so fresh and limpid, that Andree had requested that the carriage might stop, and alighted herself to fill the chased cup, the only article of Balsamo's service which the baron could be persuaded to retain. Gilbert saw all this, hidden by some trees on the roadside. Then, when the carriage had passed on, he emerged from his hiding place, and advancing to the stream, at the same spot where Mademoiselle Taverney had stood, he lifted the water in his hand, and drank from the same source.

Evening came on, shrouding the landscape in her dusty mantle, until at last he saw nothing but the light from the large lanterns which were fastened on each side of the carriage; this pale gleam, ever hurrying onward in the distance, looked like a phantom impelled forward by some strange destiny. Then night came on. They had traveled twelve leagues; they were at Combles. The equipages stopped-Gilbert was sure that it was for the night, that he should have time to stop for a couple of hours in a barn, and how vigorously should he afterward pursue his way! He approached to listen for Andree's voice -the carriage still continued stationary. He glided into a deep doorway; he saw Andree by the glare of the torch-light, and heard her asking what hour it was. A voice replied, “Eleven o'clock.” At that moment Gilbert no longer felt fatigue, and would have rejected with scorn an offer of a seat in a vehicle. Versailles already appeared in view-Versailles, all gilded, shining, the city of nobles and kings!-and beyond appeared Paris, grim, immense-the city of the people!

Two things roused him from his ecstasy -the noise of the carriages setting out again, and the complaints of his stomach, which cried “hunger!” very distinctly. On went the carriages, Gilbert following, his hunger unappeased. At midnight they stopped at, Saint Dizier. For the night- No! only to change horses; while, in the meantime, the illustrious travelers took a little refreshment by torch-light.

Gilbert had need of all his courage, and he sprang to his feet from the bank where he had seated himself, as he heard them depart, with an energy of determination which made him forget that, ten minutes before, his wearied legs had bent under him in spite of all his efforts.

“Well,” cried he, “go, go!-I shall stop also for refreshment at Saint Dizier; I shall buy some bread and a slice of bacon; I shall drink a glass of wine, and for five sous I shall be refreshed as well as the masters.”

Gilbert entered the town. The train having passed, the good folks were closing their doors and shutters; but our philosopher saw a good-looking inn not yet shut up, where the large dishes of fowls and other things showed that the attendants of the dauphiness had only had time to levy a very slight contribution. He entered the kitchen resolutely; the hostess was there, counting what her gains had been.

“Excuse me, madame; but can I have some bread and ham-” said Gilbert.

“We have no ham, but you can have fowl.”

“No, thank you; I ask for ham because I wish for ham-I don't like fowl.”

“That is a pity, my little fellow, for we have only fowl; but it shall not be dearer,” she added, smiling, “than ham. Take half a one, or, indeed, take a whole one for tenpence, and that will be provision for you for to-morrow. We thought her royal highness would have stayed all night, and that we should have sold all these things to the attendants; but, as she only just passed through, they will be wasted.”

One would have thought that, the offer being so good, and the hostess so kind, Gilbert would have gladly embraced it; but that would be to have misunderstood his character entirely.

“No, thank you,” replied he, “I shall satisfy myself in a more humble manner; I am neither a prince nor a footman.”

“Well, then,” said the good woman, “I will give you the fowl, my little Artaban.”

“I am not a beggar, either,” replied he, in a mortified tone, “I buy what I wish, and pay for it.”

And he majestically plunged his hand into his breeches' pocket; it went down to the elbow-in vain he fumbled in his vast pocket, turning paler and paler. The paper in which the crown had been, he found -but the crown was gone! Tossed about by his rapid movements, it had worn the paper, then the thin lining of his pocket, and had slipped out at his knee; for he had unfastened his garters to give freer play to his limbs.

His paleness and trembling touched the good woman. Many in her place would have rejoiced at his pride being brought down; but she felt for him, seeing suffering so powerfully expressed in the changes of his countenance.

“Come, my poor boy!” said she, “you shall sup and sleep here; then, to-morrow, if you must go on, you shall do so.”

“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Gilbert, “I must go on-not to-morrow, but now-now!”

And snatching up his bundle without waiting to hear more, he darted out of the house, to hide his shame and grief in the darkness. He rushed on, alone, truly alone in the world; for no man is more alone than he who has just parted with his last crown-more particularly if it be the only one he ever possessed.

To turn back to look for his crown would have been to begin a hopeless task -besides, it would make it impossible for him ever to come up with the carriages. He resolved to continue his way. After he had gone about a league, hunger, which his mental suffering had made him forget for a time, awoke more keen than ever. Weariness also seized on every limb-on every sinew; yet, by incredible efforts, he had once more come in sight of the carriages. But fate, it would seem, had decided against him. They stopped only to change horses, and so quickly, that he had not five minutes to rest himself.

Again he set out. The day began to dawn-the sun appeared above a broad circle of dark clouds, foretelling one of those burning days of May which sometimes precede the heats of summer. How could Gilbert bear the noon of that day- In his pride he thought that horses-men -the destinies-had united against him-him alone! Like Ajax, he shook his clenched fist at the heavens; and if he did not say, like him, “I shall escape in spite of the gods!” it was because he knew by heart “The Social Contract” better than the Odyssey. At last, however, as Gilbert had dreaded, the moment arrived when he found the utter impossibility of proceeding much farther. By a last and almost despairing effort, he summoned up all his remaining force, and once more overtook the carriages, of which he had previously lost sight, and which, under the influence of his heated and feverish imagination, he fancied were surrounded with a strange, fantastic halo.

The noise of the wheels sounded like thunder in his ears, and almost maddened his brain; he staggered on, his blackened lips wide apart-his eyes fixed and staring -his long hair clinging to his forehead, bathed in perspiration -and his movements seeming rather the effect of some clever piece of mechanism than those of a thinking being. Since the evening before he had traveled upward of twenty leagues, and his weary and fainting limbs now refused to carry him farther. A mist overspread his eyes-strange noises sounded in his ears-the earth seemed to reel under him-he endeavored to utter a cry, and staggered forward, beating the air wildly with his arms. At last his voice returned to utter hoarse cries of rage against his conquerors. Then, tearing his hair with both hands, he reeled forward, and fell heavily to the ground-with the consolation of having, like a hero of antiquity, fought the battle to the last!

“Hallo, there! Hallo, madman!” cried a hoarse voice just as he fell, accompanying his shouts with the loud cracking of a whip.

Gilbert heard him not-he had fainted.

“Hallo! I say-hallo! Morbleu! the fellow will be smashed!” And this time his words were accompanied by a vigorous lash, which reached Gilbert's waist, and cut into the flesh.

But Gilbert felt nothing-he remained immovable under the feet of the horses of a carriage, which was issuing into the high road from a by-way between Thieblemont and Vauclere.

A shrill cry was heard from the carriage, which the horses carried along like a whirlwind. The postilion made an almost superhuman effort, but could not prevent one of the horses, which was placed as a leader, from leaping over Gilbert. The other two, however, he succeeded in pulling up. A lady stretched her body half out of the carriage. “Heavens!” cried she, “you have killed the poor boy!”

“Why, faith, madame,” replied the postilion, endeavoring to discover the body amid the cloud of dust which the horses' feet had raised, “I am almost afraid we have.”

“Poor creature -poor boy. Do not move a step farther!” and opening the door of the carriage herself, she sprang out.

The postilion had already alighted, and dragging Gilbert's body from between the wheels, he expected to find it bruised and bloody; the lady assisted him with all her force.

“What an escape!” he cried, “not a scratch-not a kick!”

“But he has fainted,” said the lady.

“Only from fear. Let us place him against the bank; and, since madame is in haste, let us go on.”

“Impossible. I would not leave any creature in such a state.”

“Pooh! it's nothing, madame; he will soon recover.”

“No, no!-poor fellow! he is some runaway lad from college, and has undertaken a journey beyond his strength. See how pale he is; he might die. No; I will not leave him. Lift him into the carriage, on the front seat.”

The postilion obeyed-the lady got in-Gilbert was laid lengthways on a good cushion, his head supported by the well-stuffed side of the carriage.

“And now.” cried the lady, “we have lost ten minutes-a crown if you make up for them.”

The postilion cracked his whip above his head; the horses knew what this threatened, and set off at a gallop.

CHAPTER XX. GILBERT RECOVERS THE LOSS OF HIS CROWN.

WHEN GILBERT returned to consciousness, he was in no small degree surprised to find himself placed as he was, with a young lady watching him anxiously.

This young lady was about five-and-twenty, with large gray eyes, a nose slightly retrousse, cheeks embrowned by a southern sun, and a delicately formed little mouth, which added to the naturally cheerful and laughing expression of her face something of circumspection and finesse. Her neck and arms, which were beautifully formed, were displayed to advantage by a closely-fitting bodice of violet-colored velvet with golden buttons, while the skirt of her dress of gray silk was so enormously wide as to fill almost the entire carriage.

Gilbert continued for some time to gaze on this face, which looked on his smilingly and with much interest, and he could scarcely persuade himself that he was not in a dream.

“Well, my poor fellow,” said the lady, “are you not better now-”

“Where am I-” asked he, languidly.

“You are in safety now, my little fellow!” replied the lady, who spoke with a strong southern accent; “but just now you were in great danger of being crushed under the wheels of my carriage. What could have happened to you, to make you fall in that manner just in the middle of the highway-”

“I was overcome by weakness, madame, from having walked too much.”

“Then you have been some time on the road-”

“Since yesterday, at four in the afternoon.”

“And how far have you walked-”

“I think about eighteen leagues.”

“What! in fourteen hours-”

“Oh, I ran all the way!”

“Where are you going, then-”

“To Versailles.”

“And you came from-”

“From Taverney.”

“Taverney! Where is that-”

“It is a chateau, situated between Pierrefitte and Bar-le-Duc.”

“But you have scarcely had time to eat on the way-”

“I not only had not time, but I had not the means.”

“How so-”

“I lost my money on the way.”

“So that since yesterday you have eaten nothing-”

“Only a few mouthfuls of bread, which I brought with me.”

“Poor fellow! but why did you not beg something-”

“Because I am proud, madame,” said he, smiling scornfully.

“Proud! It is all very fine to be proud; but when one is dying of hunger-”

“Better death than dishonor.”

The lady looked at the sententious speaker with something like admiration.

“But who are you, my friend,” said she, “who speak in this style-”

“I am an orphan.”

“What is your name-”

“Gilbert.”

“Gilbert what-”

“Gilbert nothing.”

“Ah!” said the lady, still more surprised.

Gilbert felt that he had produced an effect, and felt as if he were another Rousseau.

“You are very young to wander about in this way,” continued the lady.

“I was left, deserted and alone, in an old chateau, which the family had abandoned. I did as they had done-I abandoned it in my turn.”

“Without any object in view-”

“The world is wide; there is room for all.”

“And you lost your purse- Was it well filled-”

“There was only one crown in it,” said he, divided between the shame of confessing his poverty and the fear of naming a large sum, which might have excited the suspicion that it had not been fairly obtained.

“One crown for such a journey! Why, it would scarcely have been sufficient to purchase bread for two days; and the distance! good heavens! from Bar-le-Duc to Paris is nearly sixty-five leagues!”

“I never counted the leagues, madame; I only said, I must get to Paris.”

“And, thereupon, you set out, my poor simpleton-”

“Oh, I have good legs!”

“Good as they are, they failed, you see.”

“Oh! it was not my legs-it was hope which failed me.”

“Why, indeed, you looked before you fell as if in great despair.”

Gilbert smiled bitterly.

“What was passing in your mind- You struck your forehead with your clenched hand, and tore out your hair by handfuls.”

“Indeed, madame-” asked Gilbert, rather embarrassed.

“Oh! I am certain of it; and it was that, I think, which prevented you hearing or seeing the carriage.”

Gilbert's instinct told him that he might increase his consequence, and still more awaken the interest of the lady by telling the whole truth.

“I was, indeed, in despair,” said he.

“And about what-” said the lady.

“Because I could not keep up with a carriage which I was following.”

“Indeed,” said the young lady, smiling, “this is quite a romance. Is there love in the case-”

All Gilbert's resolution could not prevent himself from blushing.

“And what carriage was it, my little Roman-”

“A carriage in the train of the dauphiness.”

“What do you tell me! Is the dauphiness before us-”

“She is, indeed.”

“I thought her scarcely yet at Nancy. Are no honors paid her on the way, that she advances so rapidly-”

“Oh, yes, madame; but her royal highness seems to have some reason for being in haste.”

“In haste- Who told you so-”

“I guessed it.”

“On what grounds-”

“Why, she said at first she would stay two or three hours at Taverney, and she only stayed three-quarters of an hour.”

“Do you know if she received any letters from Paris-”

“I saw a gentleman in a dress covered with embroidery, who had one in his hand as he entered.”

“Did you hear his name mentioned-”

“No; I merely know that he is the governor of Strasbourg.”

“What! the Count de Stainville, brother-in-law to the Duke de Choiseul! Horrible! Faster, postilion, faster!”

A vigorous lash was the reply, and Gilbert felt the speed of the carriage increase.

“But she must stop to breakfast.” said the lady, as if speaking to herself, “and then we shall pass her. Postilion, what is the next town-”

“Vitry, madame.”

“How far are we from it-”

“Three leagues.

“Where shall we change horses-”

“At Vauclere.”

“Well, drive on, and if you see a train of carriages on the road before us, let me know.”

While the lady was exchanging these words with the postilion, Gilbert had again nearly fainted. When she once more turned toward him, he was pale, and his eyes were closed.

“Poor child!” said she, “he is fainting again. It is my fault; I made him talk when he was dying of hunger, instead of giving him something to eat.”

She took from the pocket of the carriage a richly-carved flask, with a little silver goblet hanging round its neck by a chain, and poured out some of the contents for Gilbert. On this occasion he did not require to be asked twice.

“Now,” said the lady, “eat a biscuit; in an hour or so you shall breakfast more solidly.”

“Thank you, madame,” said Gilbert, gladly taking the biscuit, as he had done the wine.

“As you have now recovered a little strength,” said she, “tell me, if you are disposed to make a confidant of me, what induced you to follow a carriage in the train of the dauphiness-”

“Well, madame, you shall hear the truth. I was living with the Baron de Taverney when her royal highness came. She commanded him to follow her to Paris; he obeyed. I was an orphan' and consequently nobody thought of me; they left me there, without food and without money. So I resolved, since everybody was going to Versailles, with the assistance of good horses and fine, coaches, I, with the assistance of only my legs, would go to Versailles, and as soon as the horses. But fate was against me! If I had not lost my money, I should have had something to eat last night; and if I had eaten last night, I should have overtaken them this morning.”

“Very well. You showed courage, and I like that; but you forgot that at “Versailles people cannot live on courage alone.”

“I shall go to Paris.”

“But in that respect Paris resembles Versailles exceedingly.”

“If courage will not support me, labor will!”

“A good answer, my little fellow! But what sort of labor- Your hands do not seem those of a workman or porter.”

“I shall study.”

“I think you seem to know a great deal already.”

“Yes, for I know that I know nothing!” replied Gilbert, remembering the aphorism of Socrates.

“And may I ask, my young friend, what branch of study you would choose-”

“I think, madame, that the best is that which teaches man to be most useful to his fellows. Besides, man is so frail a being, that he should learn the cause of his weakness, in order that he may know his strength. I should like to know, some day, why my stomach prevented my legs from carrying me any farther this morning; and if it was not that weakness of my stomach which summoned up the phantoms which distressed my brain.”

“Really, you would make an excellent physician; and you speak already most learnedly on the science of medicine. In ten years you shall have me for a patient.”

“I shall try to deserve that honor, madame.”

They had now reached the place where they were to change horses. The young lady asked for information respecting the dauphiness, and found that she had passed through that place a quarter of an hour “before; she intended to stop at Vitry, to change horses and to breakfast.

A fresh postilion took the place of the former one. The lady allowed him to leave the village at the usual speed; but when they had got a little beyond the last house-

“Postilion,” said she, “will you undertake to come up with the carriages of the dauphiness-”

“Certainly, madame.”

“Before they reach Vitry-”

“Diable! they are going full trot.”

“Yes; but if you were to go at a gallop-”

The postilion looked at her.

“Treble pay,” said she.

“If you had said so at first,” replied he, “we should have been a quarter of a league farther by this time.”

“Well, here is a crown on account; make up for lost time.”

The postilion's arm was stretched back, the lady's forward, and their hands met. The horses received a sharp lash, and the carriage started off like the wind.

During the change of horses, Gilbert had alighted and washed his face and hands at a fountain, had smoothed down his hair, which was very thick, and had altogether improved his appearance very much.

“In truth,” said the lady to herself, “he is handsome enough for a physician; “and she smiled.

Having finished her dialogue with the postilion, she turned once more to Gilbert, whose paradoxes and sententious humor amused her exceedingly. From time to time she interrupted herself in a burst of laughter, which his philosophizing caused her, to lean out of the carriage and look anxiously before her. They had gone about a league in this way, when she uttered a cry of joy-she had caught a sight of the last wagons of the dauphiness's train as they were slowly ascending a steep hill, and now there appeared in advance of them about twenty carriages, from which many of the travelers had got out and were walking beside them. Gilbert slipped out his head also, desirous to catch a glimpse of Mademoiselle de Taverney in the midst of the crowd of pigmies, and thought he discovered Nicole by her high cap.

“And now, madame,” said the postilion, “what must we do-”

“We must get before them.”

“Get before them! But you know we cannot pass the carriage of the dauphiness.”

“Why not-”

“Because it is expressly forbidden. Peste! pass the king's horses! I should be sent to the galleys.”

“Now listen, my good fellow; manage it as you please, but I must positively get before those carriages.”

“I thought you belonged to the train of her royal highness-” said Gilbert, inquiringly.

“It is very proper to wish for information,” replied she, “but we should not ask indiscreet questions.”

“I beg your pardon, madame,” said he, reddening.

“Well, postilion, what are we to do-”

“Why, faith! this-keep behind till we reach Vitry, and then, if her highness stops, obtain her permission to go on before her.”

“Ay; but then it would be asked who I was-I should have to tell. No, no, that will not do; we must find out some other way.”

“Madame,” said Gilbert, “if I might give an opinion-”

“Yes, yes, my young friend; if you have any good advice., give it.”

“Could we not take some by-road which would bring us round to Vitry, and so get before the dauphiness without having been wanting in respect to her-”

“Excellent! The boy is right!” cried the young lady. “Postilion, is there a by-road-”

“To go where-”

“Where you like, provided you leave the dauphiness behind.”

“There is, in fact, a by-road leading round Vitry, and joining the high road again at Lachaussee.”

“That is it! that is the very thing!” cried the lady.

“But, madame, if I take that road, you must double the pay.”

“Two louis-d'ors for you, if we get to Lachaussee before the dauphiness.”

“Madame is not afraid, then, of her carriage being broken-”

“I care for nothing! If it breaks, I shall proceed on horseback.”

And, turning to the right, they entered a cross-road full of deep ruts, bordered by a little river, which falls into the Marne between Lachaussee and Martigny.

The postilion kept his word; he did all that human powers could do to break the carriage, but, at the same time, to arrive before the dauphiness. A dozen times Gilbert was thrown into the lady's arms, and a dozen times she into his. Intimacy springs up quickly from jolting on in the loneliness of a carriage; and, after two hours' traveling on this by-road, it seemed to Gilbert as if he had known his companion ten years, and she, on her part, would have sworn she had known him since his birth. About eleven o'clock they came again on the high road between Vitry and Chalons. A courier whom they met told them that the dauphiness was not only staying to breakfast at Vitry, but that she meant to take two hours' repose. He added that he had been sent forward to desire those who attended to the horses to have them in readiness between three and four o'clock. This news filled the lady with joy. She gave the postilion the two louis-d'ors which she promised him; and, turning to Gilbert, “So now,” said she, “we shall be able to dine at the next stopping-place!”

But fate had decided that Gilbert should not dine there.

CHAPTER XXI. IN WHICH A NEW PERSONAGE MAKES HIS APPEARANCE.

FROM THE TOP of the hill which the lady's carriage was ascending, the village of Lachaussee might be seen; it was there she was to change horses and stop to dine. It was a lovely little village, with its thatched cottages scattered here and there at the caprice of the owners; some in the very middle of the road, some half hidden under the shade of a little grove which bordered the highway, and some following the course of the little river which we have mentioned, over which the inhabitants had placed temporary and rustic bridges to reach their dwellings.

At that moment, however, the most remarkable feature in the village was a man, who, looking down the brook, was standing right in the middle of the road, as if he had been ordered to keep watch there. Sometimes he looked up, sometimes down the road; then he turned a longing eye toward a beautiful gray horse with long inane and tail, which was fastened to the window-shutter of a cabin, which he shook in his impatient tossing of his head-an impatience which was the more excusable, as, from the fact of his being saddled, it might be presumed he was waiting for his master, who was inside.

From time to time the stranger ventured to approach the horse to pat his side, or pass his hand down his slender legs; and then, when he luckily escaped the kick which was always vouchsafed him at each attempt, he returned to his occupation of watching the road. Wearied at last by his fruitless watching, he knocked on the window shutter.

“Hallo! In there!” he shouted.

“Who is there-” replied a man's voice -and the shutter was opened.

“Sir,” said the stranger, “if your horse is to be sold, the buyer is here at hand.”

“You can see he has no wisp at his tail,” answered the other, who appeared to be a countryman; and he shut the window.

This answer did not appear to satisfy the stranger, so he knocked again. He was a tall, stout man, with a ruddy complexion, a black beard, and large sinewy hands peeping out from fine lace ruffles. He wore a hat edged with gold lace, and set on crosswise, like those officers of the provinces who try to look fierce in the eyes of the poor Parisians. He knocked a third time-but no answer. He got impatient.

“Do you know, my honest fellow,” cried he, “you are not very polite- and if you don't open your shutter, I'll break it in!”

At this threat the shutter opened, and the same face as before appeared.

“But when you were told the horse is not for sale,” replied the peasant, for the second time, “what the devil-is not that enough-”

“But when I tell you that I want a fast animal!”

“Well, if you want one, can you not go to the post-house- there are sixty of the king's there; you surely can choose from among them. But leave a man who has only one that one!”

“I tell you this is the very one I want!”

“A nice proposal, indeed! An Arabian-

“That is the reason I want it.”

“Very possibly-but it is not for sale.”

“Whose is it-”

“You are very curious!”

“And you mighty discreet!”

“Well, it belongs to a person asleep in the house.”

“A man or a woman-”

“A woman.”

“Tell the woman, then, that I will give her five hundred pistoles for her horse.”

“Oh! ho!” said the peasant, staring; “five hundred pistoles! That is a sum!”

“Tell her it is the king who wants her horse.”

“The king-”

“Yes, in person!”

“Oh, come! you are not the king, are you-”

“No-but I represent him.”

“You represent him-” said the peasant, taking off his hat.

“Come, come! make haste! The king is in a hurry!” and the burly stranger cast another impatient glance toward the highway.

“Well, when the lady awakes I will tell her.”

“Yes, but I can't wait till she wakes.”

“What is to be done then-”

“Parbleu! awaken her!”

“Awaken her- certainly not.”

“Well, I shall do it myself!”

But just as the stranger who pretended to be the representative of his majesty advanced to knock at the window of the upper story with the handle of his long whip, he caught a glimpse of a carriage coming along at the utmost speed of the worn-out horses. His quick eye recognized it instantly, and he sprang forward to meet it-it was that in which were Gilbert and his guardian angel. On seeing this man, who made signs to him to stop, the postilion gladly obeyed, for he scarcely knew whether the horses could take him to the post-house.

“Chon! my dear Chon! is it you at last-”

“It is, Jean,” replied the lady addressed by this singular name. “And what are you doing here-”

“Pardieu, a pretty question! I am waiting for you.”

And he leaped on the step of the carriage, and putting in his long arms, seized her and covered her with kisses.

“Ha!” said he, all at once observing Gilbert, who looked on with surprise at these strange proceedings. “What the deuce have you here-”

“Oh, a little philosopher, and very amusing,” replied Mademoiselle Chon, little caring whether she hurt or nattered the pride of her new acquaintance.

“And where did you pick him up-”

“On the road; but that is not the question.”

“True,” said the person who was called Jean. “What about our old countess de Bearn-”

“All settled!”

“What! settled-”

“Yes, she will come.”

“But what did you say to her-”

“That I was her lawyer's daughter-that I was passing through Verdun, and that my father desired me to tell her her lawsuit was coming on. I merely added that her presence in Paris had now become indispensable for its success.”

“What did she say to that-”

“She opened her little gray eyes-took a long pinch of snuff-said that Monsieur Flageot was the cleverest man in the world, and-gave orders for her departure!”

“Admirable, Chon! I shall make you my ambassador extraordinary. And now, shall we breakfast-”

“With all my heart! for this poor child is dying of hunger. But we must be quick, for she will soon overtake us.”

“Who- the old countess- Nonsense.”

“No-the dauphiness.”

“Bah! The dauphiness is scarcely at Nancy yet.”

“She is at Vitry! three leagues off!”

“Peste! That alters the case! Drive on! drive on! postilion!”

“Where, sir-”

“To the post-house.”

The carriage drove off, with the stranger still standing on the step, and soon drew up before the inn door.

“Quick! quick!” said Chon. “Let us have some cutlets-a fowl-some eggs -and a bottle of Burgundy. We must see out again instantly.”

“Excuse me, madame,” said the innkeeper, stepping forward, “but in that case it must be with your own horses.”

“How!” said Jean, leaping heavily down from the step of the carriage. “With our own horses-”

“Certainly; or at least with those that brought you.”

“Impossible!” said the postilion; “they have already done a double stage. See what a state they are in!”

“In good earnest,” said Chon, “it would be utterly impossible to proceed farther with them.”

“But what prevents your giving us fresh horses-” asked Jean.

“Merely that I have none.”

“What the devil! you know the regulations-it is your duty to have horses.”

“By the regulations, sir, I ought to have fifteen horses; now, I have eighteen.”

“Why, all we want is three.”

“Yes, but they are all out.”

“What! all the eighteen-”

“Yes, sir.”

“Damnation!” thundered the traveler.

“Oh, viscount! viscount!” cried Chon.

“Yes, yes, Chon-don't be afraid-I will keep calm. And when will your miserable hacks be in-” continued the viscount, turning to the host.

“Faith, sir, I don't know-it all depends on the postilions. Perhaps in an hour-perhaps in two hours.”

“Now, my good fellow,” said Viscount Jean, placing his hat on one side, and setting out his right leg. “I wish you just to understand this -I never jest!”

“I am sorry for it, sir. I should like you much better if you did.”

“Now, take ray advice! Let the horses be harnessed before I get angry!”

“Go into the stable yourself, sir; and if you find a horse there, you shall have it for nothing.”

“Indeed! -and what if I should find sixty-”

“It would be just the same as if there were none; for these sixty horses are the king's.”

“Well, what then-”

“What then!-they are not to be hired out!”

“What the devil are they here for, then-”

“For the use of her royal highness the dauphiness!”

“Mon Dieu! sixty horses, and we cannot get one.”

“But you know, sir-”

“I know one thing, and that is, that I am in a hurry-

“It is a pity.”

“And,” continued the viscount, without heeding the postmaster's interruption, “as the dauphiness will not be here before the evening-

“What do you say-” exclaimed the host, all alarmed.

“I say that the horses will be back before she arrives!”

“Can it be possible you would propose-

“Parbleu!” said the viscount, going into the stable, “I will have three horses; I don't want eight, like royal personages, although I have a right to them-by alliance at least.”

“But I say you shall not have one!” said the host, throwing himself, in desperation, between the stranger and his horses.

“Scoundrel!” cried the viscount, turning pale with anger, “do you know who I am-”

“Viscount, viscount, in Heaven's name, no broils!” cried Chon.

“You are right, my good little Chon;” then, after a moment's thought, he turned with his most charming smile to the host; “my good fellow, no more words, now for deeds! I shall take the responsibility off your shoulders.”

“How so-” asked the host, by no means satisfied even with the stranger's now gracious visage.

“I shall help myself; these three horses suit me exactly.”

“And you call that freeing me from all responsibility-”

“Certainly; you have not given them to me-it was I who took them.”

“I tell you the thing is impossible!”

“We shall see that. Where is the harness-”

“Let no one stir, at his peril!” cried the host to two or three grooms loitering about.

“Scoundrels!” cried the viscount.

“Jean, my dear Jean!” exclaimed Chon, “you will only bring us into some disagreeable situation. When on a mission like this we must endure-”

“Everything except delay,” said Jean, with the utmost coolness; “and, since these rogues won't help me, I shall do the business myself.” And Jean coolly took from the wall three sets of harness, and fitted them on three of the horses.

“Jean, Jean, I entreat you, do not be rash!” cried Chon, clasping her hands.

“Do you wish to arrive in Paris or not-” said the viscount, grinding his teeth.

“Of course I do. All is lost if we do not hasten on!”

“Well, then, leave me alone.” And, separating three horses-not the worst-from the others, he led them to the carriage.

“Take care, sir, take care!” cried the host; “it is high treason to steal those horses!”

“I am not going to steal them, you fool; I'm only going to borrow them. Come on, my little pets!”

The host sprang forward to catch the reins; but before he could touch them, he was rudely repulsed by the stranger.

“Brother, brother!” cried Mademoiselle Chon.

“Ah! he is her brother!” muttered Gilbert to himself, breathing more freely.

At this moment a window was opened on the opposite side of the way, and a lovely female face was seen. She appeared quite alarmed at the noise.

“Oh, it is you, madame-” cried Jean, who immediately perceived her.

“How, sir -me-” she replied, in bad French.

“Yes; you are awake now. Will you sell your horse-”

“My horse-”

“Yes, the gray Arabian, tied to the window-shutter there. You know I offered you five hundred crowns!”

“My horse is not for sale, sir,” said she, shutting the window.

“Well, I am not in luck to-day-people will neither sell nor hire; but, corbleu! I'll take the Arabian if she won't sell it; and I'll drive these hacks to the devil, if they won't hire them. Come, Patrice!”

The footman on his sister's carriage jumped down.

“Harness them!” said Jean.

“Help! help!” shouted the host.

Two grooms ran forward.

“Jean!-viscount!” cried poor Chon, writhing in the carriage, and endeavoring in vain to open the door. “You are mad;-we shall all be slaughtered!”

“Slaughtered! It is we who shall slaughter them, I hope. We are three against three! Come out, my young philosopher!” thundered Jean, addressing Gilbert, who never stirred, so great was his astonishment; “come out, and do something-sticks, stones, or fists-anything will do! Morbleu! you look like a saint carved on stone!”

Gilbert gave an inquiring and supplicating glance at his protectress, but she held him by the arm. The host, in the meantime, bawled incessantly, dragging the horses to one side, while Jean pulled them to the other. But the struggle could not last forever. Jean, wearied and heated, dealt the defender of the horses such a blow with his clenched fist that the latter fell back into the horsepond, among his frightened ducks and geese, shouting, as he plunged in, “Help! murder! murder!”

The viscount, thus rid of his adversary, lost no time in harnessing the horses.

“Help, in the name of the king! Help!” cried the host, rising and endeavoring to rally his frightened grooms.

“Who calls for help in the name of the king-” cried a cavalier, riding at full speed into the yard of the post-house, and reining up his horse, bathed in sweat and foam, in the very midst of the actors in this tumultuous scene.

“The Chevalier Philip de Taverney!” muttered Gilbert to himself, sinking down in the carriage to escape observation.

Chon, who lost no opportunity of acquiring information, heard the young man's name.

CHAPTER XXII. VISCOUNT JEAN.

THE YOUNG LIEUTENANT of the bodyguard of the dauphin-for it was he-leaped from his horse at the aspect of this strange scene, which began to collect about the post-house all the women and children of the village. On seeing Philip, the post-master was ready to throw himself on his knees before his protector, whom Providence had sent him so opportunely.

“Sir, sir!” cried he; “do you know that this person is about to take by force some of the horses of her royal highness the dauphiness-”

Philip drew back, as if he heard what was absolutely incredible. “And who has made this attempt-” he inquired.

“I, sir!-mordieu!-I, myself!” said Jean.

“It cannot be, sir; otherwise you are either mad or not a gentleman!”

“Excuse me, sir. I am in my perfect senses, and have the entree at court.”

“How!-You are in your perfect senses, and are received at court, and yet you dare to take the horses of the dauphiness-”

“In the first place, there are sixty horses-her royal highness can only employ eight-and it would be strange, indeed, if I should unluckily pitch upon the very ones she wanted.”

“True, sir-there are sixty horses,” replied the young man, “and her royal highness will only employ eight; but that does not hinder every horse, from the first to the sixtieth, being for her service; and between these horses no distinction can be made.”

“You are mistaken, sir-it is made!” said the viscount, contemptuously, “since I have taken these three for myself. Shall I go on foot, when rascally lackeys are drawn by four horses- Mordieu! let them be satisfied, as I am, with three, and there will be enough for us all.”

“If the lackeys have four horses, sir, it is by the king's order, and now have the goodness to order your footman to take those horses back to the stable.” These words Philip pronounced firmly, but with so much politeness that none but a ruffian would have answered otherwise than respectfully.

“You may be right, my dear lieutenant,” answered Jean, “to speak in this manner, if it be a part of your duty to attend to the cattle; but I did not know that the gentlemen of the dauphin's bodyguard had been raised to the rank of grooms. Therefore, take my advice, shut your eyes-tell your people to do the same-and-a good day to you I”

“Sir, whether I have been raised or lowered to the rank of groom is not the question-what I do is my duty, and I am commanded by the dauphiness herself to attend to the relays.”

“Oh, that alters the case; but allow me to tell you that you are filling a sorry office, M. Lieutenant, and if this is the way the young lady begins to treat the army-”

“Of whom do you speak, sir-” interrupted Philip.

“Why, parbleu! of the Austrian.”

The chevalier turned as pale as death.

“Do you dare,” he exclaimed, “to speak-”

“I not only dare to speak,” interrupted Jean, “but I dare to act!-Come, Patrice -hasten, we are pressed for time.”

Philip seized the first horse by the bridle. “Sir,” said he, in a perfectly calm voice, “do me the favor to give your name.”

“Do you wish particularly to know it-”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I am the Viscount Jean Dubarry.”

“What! -you are the brother of her-”

“Who will send you to rot in the Bastille, if you say one word more; “and Jean jumped into the carriage.

Philip approached the door. “Viscount Jean Dubarry,” said he, “you will do me the honor to come out.”

“Yes, ma foi! I have a great deal of time for that!” said the viscount, endeavoring to shut the door.

“If you hesitate one instant, sir,” replied Philip, preventing him with his left hand from closing the carriage door, “I give you my word of honor I will run you through the body!” and, as he spoke, he drew his sword.

“Oh!” cried Chon, “we shall be murdered. Give up the horses, Jean-give them up!”

“What! you threaten me,” shouted Jean, grinding his teeth and snatching up his sword, which he had laid on the seat of the carriage before him.

“And the threat shall be followed up-do you hear-in a moment,” and the young man's sword glanced before Jean's eyes.

“We shall never get away,” whispered Chon, “if you do not manage this officer by gentle means.”

“Neither gentleness nor violence shall stop me in the discharge of my duty,” said Philip, who had overheard the advice, bowing; “I recommend you, madame, to advise Monsieur le Viscount to submit in time, or in the name of the king, whom I represent, I shall be forced to kill him if he resist, or to arrest him if he do not.”

“And I tell you I shall have the horses in spite of you!” shouted Jean, leaping out of the carriage and drawing his sword.

“That remains to be proved, sir,” said Philip, putting himself on his guard; “are you ready-”

“Lieutenant,” said the brigadier commanding under Philip, “there are six of our men near-shall I-”

“Do not stir!-Do not stir!-this is a personal quarrel. Now, sir, I am at your service.”

Mademoiselle Chon shrieked, and Gilbert wished the carriage had been as deep as a well, to hide him.

Jean began the attack; he was a good swordsman, but anger prevented him from turning his skill to advantage. Philip, on the contrary, was as cool as if he had been playing with a foil in the fencing-school. The viscount advanced, retired, leaped to the right, to the left, shouting in making his passes like the fencing-master of a regiment; while the chevalier, with closed teeth and steady eye, immovable as a statue, watched all his adversary's movements, and divined his intentions. Everyone in the yard was silent, attentively looking on; even Chon ceased to scream. For some minutes the combat continued without Jean's feints, shouts, and movements producing any effect, but also without his having permitted Philip, who was studying his opponent's play, to touch him once. All at once, however, the viscount sprung back, uttering a cry of pain, and at the same moment his ruffles were stained with blood, which ran down his fingers in large drops-he was wounded in the arm.

“You are wounded, sir,” said Philip.

“Sacrebleu, I feel it well enough,” said he, turning pale and letting his sword fall.

The chevalier took it up and restored it to him; “Take it, sir,” said he, “and never again be guilty of a similar folly.”

“Plague take it!-if I have my follies, I pay for them,” growled the viscount. “Come and dress this scrape, dear Chon,” added he to his sister, who sprung from the carriage and hastened to his assistance.

“You will do me the justice, madame,” said Philip, “to acknowledge that all this has not been caused by my fault. I deeply regret having been driven to such extremities before a lady,” and bowing, he retired. “Let those horses be unharnessed and taken back to the stable,” said he to the post-master.

Jean shook his fist at him.

“Oh!” cried the host, “this is just in the nick of time; three horses coming in that have been out! Courtin, Courtin! -quick! put them to the gentleman's carriage.”

“But, master-” said the postilion.

“Come, come! no reply; the gentleman is in a hurry. Don't be uneasy, sir, you shall have the horses.”

“All very fine; but your horses should have been here half an hour ago,” growled Dubarry, stamping with his foot, as he looked at his arm, pierced through and through, which Chon was binding up with her handkerchief.

Meantime Philip had mounted his horse again, and was giving his orders as if nothing had occurred.

“Now, brother, now! let us go” said Chon, leading him toward the carriage.

“And my Arabian-” said he. “Ah, ma foi! let him go to the devil, for I am in for a day of ill-luck,” and he got into the carriage.

“Oh,” said he, perceiving Gilbert. “I cannot stretch my legs with this fellow.”

“Let me out, pray,” said Gilbert, “and I will walk.”

“In the devil's name go, then,” replied Jean.

“No, no,” said Chon, “I must keep my little philosopher-sit opposite me, and you will not annoy him;” and she held Gilbert by the arm; then, bending forward, she whispered to her brother, “Hi; knows the man who wounded you.”

A gleam of joy flashed from the viscount's eyes; “Oh, very well!-let him stay-what is the fellow called-”

“The Chevalier Philip de Taverney.”

Just then the young officer passed the carriage.

“Oh, you are there, my little gendarme,” shouted the viscount; “you look wonderfully fierce just now, but my turn will come some day.”

“I shall be at your service, sir, whenever you please,” answered Philip, calmly.

“Yes, yes, we shall see that, Monsieur Philip de Taverney,” said the viscount, leaning forward to see what effect the mention of his name would have on the young man, when he must be so far from expecting to hear it.

Philip looked up with surprise, and indeed with a slight feeling of uneasiness, but immediately recovering his self-possession, and taking off his hat, with the utmost grace, “A pleasant journey, Viscount Jean Dubarry,” said he.

The carriage rolled on rapidly. “Thousand devils!” said the viscount, making a horrible grimace; “do you know, my little Chon, I am suffering dreadful pain-”

“The first place where we change I shall send for a doctor for you, while this poor fellow breakfasts, “replied Chon.

“Ah! true, true, we have not breakfasted, but the pain I suffer-and I am in agony with thirst-takes away all appetite.”

“Will you drink a glass of wine from my flask-”

“Certainly!-give it me.”

“Sir,” said Gilbert, “will you allow me to remark that wine is very bad for you in your present condition.”

“Really you are quite a physician, my little philosopher!”

“No, sir-but I hope to be so one day. I have read, however, in a treatise written for people in the army, that the first things forbidden the wounded are spirits, wine and coffee.”

“Ah, you read that! -well, I shall not drink the wine.”

“But if Monsieur le Viscount would permit me to take his handkerchief and dip it in that brook, and then wrap it 'round his arm, I am sure it would ease his pain.”

“Do, do!” said Chon; “stop, postilion!”

Gilbert got out to follow up his proposition. “This boy will be a horrid plague to us,” said the viscount, “I have a great mind to tell the postilion to drive on and leave him there, handkerchief and all.”

“You would be wrong-that boy can be very useful to us.”

“How so-”

“He has already given me some important information about the dauphiness-and did he not just now tell you the name of your adversary-”

“True!-well, let him stay.”

Gilbert returned, and the application of the wet bandage to the viscount's arm, as he had foretold, relieved him greatly.

“Faith, he was right-I feel much better,” said he, “let us have a little chat.” Gilbert opened his ears to their utmost extent. The conversation which ensued, and which was conducted in the lively and brilliant patois of Provence, would have sadly puzzled a Parisian ear, and Gilbert, master of himself as he was, could not avoid a slight movement of impatience, which Mademoiselle Chon having perceived, quieted with a gentle smile. This smile reminded the poor boy of the kindness with which he was treated. Circumstances had brought him in contact with a nobleman honored with the royal favor. “Ah!” thought he, “if Andree saw me in this magnificent carriage!”-and his heart swelled with pride. New ideas and hopes took possession of him, and Nicole no longer cost him a thought.

In the meantime, the brother and sister resumed their conversation, still however in the Provencal dialect.

Suddenly the viscount leaned forward, “See, there he is!” cried he.

“What-”

“The Arabian which I wished to buy.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Chon, “what a splendid woman the rider is!”

“Call her, Chon, she will not perhaps be so much afraid of you-I would give a thousand crowns for the horse.”

“And how much for the woman-” said Chon, laughing.

“I would give all I have for her-but call her.”

“Madame!” cried Chon, “madame!”

But the stranger appeared not to hear, or not to understand. Wrapped in a long white mantle, and her face shaded by a large beaver hat with drooping feathers, she flew past them like an arrow, crying; “Avanti, Djerid, avanti!”

“She is an Italian,” said the viscount. “Mordieu, what a splendid woman!-if it were not for the pain of my arm, I would jump out and run after her.”

“I know her!” said Gilbert.

“Why, the little fellow is a directory for the whole province; he knows every one.”

“Who is she-” asked Chon.

“Her name is Lorenza, and she is the sorcerer's wife.”

“What sorcerer-”

“The Baron Joseph Balsamo.”

The brother and sister looked at each other with an expression which said, “We did well to keep him!”

CHAPTER XXIII. THE COUNTESS DUBARRY'S MORNING LEVEE.

WHILE MADEMOISELLE Chon and Viscount Jean are traveling post on the Chalons road, let us introduce the reader to another member of the same family.

In the suite of rooms at Versailles which the Princess Adelaide, daughter of Louis XV., had once occupied, his majesty had installed his mistress, the Countess Dubarry, not without keenly studying beforehand the effect which this piece of policy would produce on his court. The favorite, with her merry whims and her careless joyous humor, had transformed that wing of the palace, formerly so quiet, into a scene of perpetual merriment and tumult, and every hour she issued thence her commands for a banquet or a party of pleasure.

But what appeared still more unusual on these magnificent staircases, was the never-ceasing stream of visitors ascending them, and crowding an antechamber filled with curiosities from all parts of the globe -certainly containing nothing so curious as the idol worshiped by this crowd.

The day after that on which the scene which we have just described occurred at the little village of Lachaussee, about nine in the morning, the countess, lovely as an eastern houri, was at the important duties of the toilet.

“No news of Chon-” asked she of one of her tiring-women.

“No, madame.”

“Nor of the viscount-”

“No, madame.”

“Do you know has Bischi received any-”

“A message was sent to your sister's, madame, this morning, but there were no letters.”

“It is very tiresome waiting in this way,” said the countess, pouting her lovely mouth; “I am in a wretched humor-I pity all who may come near me to-day. Will some means never be invented of conversing at a hundred leagues' distance- Is my antechamber passably filled this morning-”

“Can madame think it necessary to ask-”

“Dame! but listen! Doree-the dauphiness is coming!-I shall be abandoned for that sun, I, who am only a little twinkling star-but tell me, who is there this morning-”

“The Duke d'Aiguillon, madame, the Prince de Soubise, Monsieur de Sartines, the President Maupeou-

“And the Duke de Richelieu-”

“Not yet, madame.”

“How-neither to-day nor yesterday- -He is afraid of compromising himself-you must send one of my servants to the Hotel du Hanovre to inquire if the duke is ill.”

“Yes, madame; will you receive all who are waiting at once, or do you wish to give anyone a private audience-”

“Monsieur de Sartines first -I must speak to him alone.”

The order was transmitted by the countess's woman to a tall footman who waited in the corridor leading from her bed-chamber to the anterooms, and the minister of police immediately appeared, dressed in black, and endeavoring by an insinuating smile to moderate the severe expression of his gray eyes and thin lips.

“Good-morning, my dear enemy!” said the countess, without looking round, but seeing him in the mirror before her.

“Your enemy, madame!”

“Yes; my world is divided into only two classes-friends and enemies-I admit no neutrals, or class them as enemies.”

“And you are right, madame; but tell me how I, notwithstanding my well known devotion to your interests, deserve to be included in either one or other of these classes-”

“By allowing to be printed, distributed, sold, and sent to the king, a whole ocean 'of pamphlets, libels, verses-all against me. It is ill-natured-stupid-odious!”

“But, madame, I am not responsible.”

“Yes, sir, you are; for you know the wretch who wrote them.”

“Madame, if they were all written by one author, we should not have the trouble of sending him to the Bastille-Hercules himself would sink under such a labor!”

“Upon my word, you are highly complimentary to me.”

“If I were your enemy, madame. I should not speak the truth thus.”

“Well, I believe you!-we understand each other now. But one thing still gives me some uneasiness.”

“What is that, madame-”

“You are on good terms with the Choiseuls.”

“Madame, M, de Choiseul is prime minister; he issues his orders and I must obey them.”

“So if Monsieur de Choiseul orders that I am to be vexed, tortured, worried to death, you will allow me to be vexed, tortured, worried!-Thank you!”

“Let us discuss matters a little,” said Sartines, sitting down without being asked to do so, but without any displeasure being exhibited on the part of the favorite, for much must be pardoned in the man who knew better than any other all that was doing in France. “Let us discuss this a little-and first, what have I done for you these three days past-”

“You informed me that a courier had been sent from Chanteloup to hasten the arrival of the dauphiness.”

“Was that done like an enemy-”

“But about the presentation on which you know my heart is set-what have you been doing for me-”

“Doing all I possibly could.”

“Monsieur de Sartines, you are not candid!”

“Ah, madame! I assure you, you are unjust. Did I not find and bring you Viscount Jean from the back room of a tavern in less than two hours, when you wanted him in order to send him I don't know where, or rather I do know where.”

“I had much rather you had allowed my brother-in-law to stay there,” said Madame Dubarry, laughing, “a man allied to the royal family of France!”

“Well, but was that not a service to be added to my many other services-”

“Oh, very well!-but just tell me what you did for me yesterday.”

“Yesterday, madame!”

“Oh, you may well endeavor to recollect-that was your day for obliging others.”

“I don't understand you, madame.”

“Well I understand myself-answer, sir, what were you doing yesterday-”

“Yesterday morning I was occupied as usual, writing with my secretary.”

“Till what hour-”

“Till ten.”

“What did you do then-”

“I sent to invite a friend of mine from Lyons, who had made a wager he would come to Paris without my knowing, and my footman met him just at the barrier.”

“Well, after dinner-”

“I sent to the Austrian lieutenant of police information of the haunt of a famous robber whom he could not discover.”

“And where is he-”

“At Vienna.”

“So you are not only the Minister of Police at Paris, but perform the same duties for foreign courts-”

“Yes, madame -in my leisure moments.”

“Well, I shall take a note of that. Then, after having dispatched the courier to Vienna-”

“I went to the opera.”

“To see the little Guimard- Poor Soubise!”

“No-to arrest a famous pickpocket, whom I did not disturb so long as he kept to the fermiers-general, but who had the audacity to rob two or three noblemen.”

“You should say the indiscretion. Well-after the opera-”

“After the opera-”

“Yes. That seems to be rather a puzzling question-is it not-”

“No. After the opera- let me think-”

“So. How much your memory has failed of late.”

“Oh! after the opera-yes, I remember-”

“Well-”

“I went to the house of a certain lady who keeps a gaming-table, and I myself conducted her to Fort-l'Eveque.”

“In her carriage-”

“No-in a fiacre.”

“Well-”

“Well, that is all.”

“No, it is not!”

“I got into ray fiacre again.”

“And whom did you find in it-”

He reddened.

“Oh!” cried the countess, clapping her little hands, “I have really had the honor of making a minister of police blush!”

“Madame-” stammered Sartines.

“No-I shall tell you who was in the fiacre -it was the Duchesse de Grammont!”

“The Duchesse de Grammont-”

“Yes, the Duchesse de Grammont-who came to ask you to contrive to get her admitted to the king's private apartments.”

“Ma foi, madame!” said the minister, shifting uneasily in his chair. “I may give up my portfolio to you. It is you who manage the police of Paris, not I.”

“To tell the truth, sir, I have a police of my own. So beware! Oh, the Duchesse de Grammont in a fiacre with the minister of police at midnight! It was capital! Do you know what I did-”

“No, but I am afraid it was something dreadful-fortunately it was very late.”

“But night is the time for vengeance!”

“And what, then, did you do-”

“As I keep a police of my own, I keep a body of writers also-shocking, ragged, hungry scribblers!”

“Hungry- you must feed them badly.”

“I don't feed them at all. If they became fat they would be as stupid as the Prince de Soubise; fat, we are told, absorbs the gall.”

“Go on-I shudder at the thought of them.”

“I recollected all the disagreeable things you have allowed the Choiseuls to do against me, and determined to be revenged. I gave my legion of famishing Apollos the following programme; First, Monsieur de Sartines, disguised as a lawyer, visiting an innocent young girl who lives in a garret, and giving her, on the thirtieth of every month, a wretched pittance of a hundred crowns.”

“Madame, that is a benevolent action which you are endeavoring to misconstrue.”

“It is only such actions which can be misconstrued. My second scene was Monsieur de Sartines, disguised like a reverend missionary, introducing himself into the convent of the Carmelites of the Rue Saint Antoine.”

“I was taking those good nuns some news from the Indies.”

“East or West Indies-which- My third scene is Monsieur de Sartines, disguised as lieutenant of the police, driving through the streets at midnight in a fiacre with the Duchesse de Grammont.”

“No, madame,” exclaimed he. “No-you would not bring ridicule on my administration in that manner!”

“Why, do you not bring ridicule on mine-” said the countess, laughing; “but wait! I set my rogues to work, and they began like boys at college, with exordium, narration, and amplification-and I have received this morning an epigram, a song, and a ballad, of which you are the subject.”

“You are not serious-”

“Perfectly so; and to-morrow you shall receive them all three.”

“Why not to-day-”

“I must have some time first to distribute them. Is not that the way- Besides, the police ought always to hear last about any new affair. I assure you, you will be very much amused! I laughed three-quarters of an hour at them this morning, and the king was nearly dead with laughing-it was that which made him so late.”

“I am ruined!” cried Sartines, clasping his hands.

“Ruined- Nonsense! You are only celebrated in song. Am I ruined by all the verses made on me- No-I only get in a passion at them, and then for revenge I determine to put somebody else in a passion too. Ah, what delightful verses! I have ordered some wine to my literary scorpions, and I expect by this time their senses are wrapped up in happy oblivion.”

“Ah, countess, countess!”

“But, pardieu, you, must hear the epigram;

“'Oh, France, how wretched is thy fate,

When women hold the helm of state.'“

“No, no-I am wrong; that is the scandal perpetrated against myself. But there are so many, I confound them. Listen, listen! here it is;”

“'A perfumer once sought of a painter a sign,

His skill than his genius was duller,

For in a huge bottle, with knavish design,

He makes Boynes, Maupeou, and Terray to shine,

Displayed in their own proper color.

But for Sartines still room in the vessel he leaves.

And he labels the mixture the essence of thieves.'“

“Cruel woman, you will send me mad!” cried Sartines.

“Now we must look at the poem. You must know it is Madame de Grammont who speaks;

“Dear minister, you know my skin

Is to the purest snow akin;

Then grant to me this single thing-

Oh, say so, say so, to the king.'“

“Madame, madame!” cried Sartines, more furious than ever.

“Nonsense!” said the countess. “You need not be so uneasy about these little poems; I have only had ten thousand copies of them struck off.”

“You have a press, then-”

“Certainly. Has not the Duke de Choiseul one-”

“Let your printer take care!”

“Oh, it is kept in my own name-I am the printer.”

“Shocking, shocking! And the king laughs at these calumnies-”

“Laughs- He sometimes gives me rhymes himself, when my own inspiration fails.”

“You know how I serve you, and you treat me thus-”

“I know that you are betraying me-the Duchesse de Grammont wishes to ruin me.”

“Madame, I declare to you she took me quite unawares!”

“You confess, then, that I was informed correctly-”

“I am forced to confess it.”

“Why did you not tell me-”

“I came now for that purpose.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Upon my honor!”

“I bet two to one against that pledge.”

“Behold me at your feet!” and he fell on his knees. “I beg forgiveness.”

“You are in the position in which you ought to be.”

“Let us make peace, countess, in Heaven's name!”

“So you are afraid of a few bad verses -you, a man, a minister! Yet you never reflect how many wretched hours such things make me spend-I, a poor, weak woman!”

“You are a queen.”

“A queen-not presented at court!”

“I swear to you, I have never done anything hurtful to your interests!”

“No, but you have allowed others to do so. The matter, however, is now, not the doing nothing against them, but the doing all in your power to forward them. Are you on my side -yes or no-”

“Certainly, on your side.”

“Will you assist me- Will you allow nothing to interpose to hinder my presentation-”

“For myself, I promise everything.”

“No,” said the countess, stamping with her foot, “Pure faith! I will not accept that; there is a loophole in it to creep out at! You will be supposed to do nothing against me yourself, but the Duke de Choiseul will do all. Give me up the Choiseul party, bound hand and foot, or I will annihilate you-destroy you! Take care! verses are not my only weapons!”

“Do not threaten me, madame,” said Sartines, thoughtfully; “there are difficulties about this presentation which you cannot understand.”

“Obstacles have purposely been thrown in the way of it. You can remove them.”

“It would require a hundred persons to do so.”

“You shall have a million!”

“The king will not give his consent.”

“He shall give it!”

“And when you have got it, how get a lady to present you-”

“I am seeking for one now.”

“It is quite useless-there is a league against you.”

“At Versailles-”

“Yes. All the ladies have refused, in order to pay their court to the Duke de Choiseul, the Duchesse de Grammont, the dauphiness, and the whole prudish party.”

“Do not fear; I have nearly obtained what I want.”

“Ha! it was for that you sent your sister to Verdun!”

“So you know that, do you-” said she, angrily.

“Oh, I have also my police, you know!” said Sartines, laughing.

“And your spies-”

“And my spies.”

“In my apartments-”

“In your apartments.”

“In my stable, or in my kitchen-”

“In your antechamber-in your salon -in your bedroom-under your pillow.”

“Now, as the first pledge of our peace,” said the countess, “give me the names of those spies.”

“No, countess; I should not wish to embroil you with your friends.”

“But name only the last who told you a secret.”

“What would you do-”

“I would turn him out.”

“If you begin in that way, you will soon have to live in an empty house.”

“This is frightful!”

“Yet perfectly true. Oh, you know we could not govern without spies! So excellent a politician as you must have discovered that long ago.”

Madame Dubarry leaned her elbow on a table, and seemed to reflect for some minutes; then she said, “You are right. Let us say no more on the subject. What are to be the conditions of our treaty-”

“Make them yourself. You are the conqueror.”

“I am as magnanimous as Semiramis. Let me hear what you wish.”

“Well, then, you are never to speak to the king about petitions on the subject of wheat; for, traitress! you have promised your support to those petitions.”

“Very well. Take away all the petitions with you; they are in a, box there.”

“As a reward, here is a document drawn up by the peers of the kingdom respecting presentations, and the right of sitting in the royal presence.”

“A document which you were charged to give his majesty-”

“Yes.”

“But what will you say to them-”

“That I have given it. You will thus gain time; and you are too clever in your tactics not to take advantage of it.”

At this moment the folding-doors were thrown open, and a negro announced, “The king!”

The two allies hastened to hide their mutual pledges of peace and good understanding, and turned to salute his majesty, Louis-the fifteenth of that name.

CHAPTER XXIV. KING LOUIS THE FIFTEENTH.

THE KING ENTERED with head erect, with a firm step, his eye full of life, and a smile on his lips. As the doors were opened, a double file of bowing heads was seen, belonging to the courtiers, who had been long waiting in the antechamber, and who were now more desirous of admittance than ever, since they could thus pay their court to two powers at once; but the doors closed on them, for the king made a sign that no one should follow him. He found himself alone, therefore, with the countess and the minister of police (for we need not reckon the waiting-maid or the little negro boy).

“Good-morning, countess!” said the king, kissing Madame Dubarry's hand; “ha! fresh as any rose, I see! Good morning, Sartines! Is this your cabinet, where you write your dispatches- Heavens! what heaps of papers! Hide them, hide them! Ha! what a beautiful fountain, countess!”

And, with the versatile curiosity of one always in search of something to amuse him, he fixed his eyes on a large china ornament, which had been brought in since the evening before and placed in a corner of the countess's bedroom.

“Sire,” replied the countess, “it is a Chinese fountain; by turning this cock, the water comes out and makes these birds sing and these fishes swim; then the doors of the pagoda open, and there comes out a procession of mandarins.”

“Very pretty-very pretty indeed!”

At this moment the little negro walked across the room, dressed in the fantastic fashion in which, at this period, they dressed their Osmans and Othellos; he wore a little turban, ornamented with a lofty plume of feathers, on one side of his head; a vest, embroidered with gold, which permitted his ebony arms to be seen; and slashed breeches of white brocaded satin; round his waist was a scarf of various bright colors, which connected the breeches with a richly-embroidered jacket; and a dagger, ornamented with precious stones, was stuck in the scarf bound around his waist.

“Peste!” cried the king, “how splendid Zamore is to-day!”

The negro stopped to admire himself before a mirror.

“Sire, he has a favor to ask of your majesty.”

“Madame,” replied the king, with a courtly smile, “I am afraid Zamore is very ambitious.”

“How so, Sire-”

“Because he has already been granted the greatest favor he can deSire.”

“What is that-”

“The same that has been granted me.”

“I do not understand you, Sire.”

“You have made him your slave.”

“Oh, how charming, Sire!” cried the countess.

The minister of police bowed in assent, and bit his lip to prevent himself from smiling.

“But,” asked the king, “what can Zamore deSire-”

“The reward of his long and numerous services.”

“Yes; he is twelve years old.”

“His long and numerous future services.”

“Oh, very well!”

“Yes, indeed, Sire. Past services have been rewarded long enough; it is now time to begin and reward future ones. There would not then be so much ingratitude.”

“Ha! not a bad idea,” said the king. “What do you think of it, Sartines-”

“That it would benefit all devoted servants of your majesty, Sire; therefore I support it.”

“Well, countess, what does Zamore want-”

“Sire, you know my little country seat of Luciennes-”

“I have merely heard it spoken of.”

“It is your own fault; I have invited you to it a hundred times.”

“You know the etiquette, dear countess; unless on a journey, the king can only sleep in a royal chateau.”

“And for that very reason I wish you to make Luciennes a royal chateau, and Zamore its governor.”

“But, countess, that would be a burlesque.”

“I love burlesques, Sire.”

“The governors of the other castles would all exclaim, and this time with reason.”

“Let them exclaim; they have often done so without reason. Kneel down, Zamore.” The little fellow knelt.

“For what is he kneeling-” asked the king.

“For the reward you are going to give him for bearing my train, and putting all the prudes of the court in a rage.”

“He is really a hideous creature,” said the king, bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Rise, Zamore,” said the countess; “you are appointed governor of Luciennes.”

“But indeed, madame-”

“I shall send Zamore all the writings necessary for his governorship. And now, Sire, you may come to Luciennes; you have one more royal chateau from this day.”

“Is there any way of refusing her anything, Sartines-”

“There may be a way, Sire,” replied Sartines, “but it has not yet been discovered.”

“And if it should be found out, Sire, there is one thing certain-it is M, de Sartines who will be the discoverer.”

“How can you think so, madame,” asked Sartines, trembling.

“Sire, only imagine that I have requested a favor of M, de Sartines for three months past, and it is not yet granted.

“And what is it-” asked the king.

“Oh, he knows very well!”

“I!-I swear to you, madame-

“Does it fall under the duties of his office-”

“Yes; either in his or those of his successor.”

“Madame,” cried Sartines, “you really make me uneasy.”

“What is the request-” again inquired the king.

“To find me a sorcerer.”

Sartines breathed more freely.

“To burn him,” said the king. “It is rather too hot, countess; wait till the winter.”

“No, Sire; I wish to present him with a golden wand.”

“Then the sorcerer foretold you some misfortune which has not befallen you.”

“On the contrary, Sire, he predicted a piece of good fortune which has come to pass.”

“Let us hear it then, countess,” said (lie king, throwing himself back in an armchair, like one who was not quite sure whether the tale would tire him or amuse him, but who must run the chance.

“With all my heart; but if I tell the tale, you must contribute the half of the sorcerer's reward.”

“The whole, if you like!”

“Royalty said-now listen.”

“I am all attention.”

“There was once-

“It begins like a fairy tale.”

“It is one, Sire.”

“Delightful-I love enchanters!”

“There was once a poor young girl, who, at the time my story commences, had neither page, nor carriage, nor negro, nor parrot, nor monkey-

“Nor king,” added Louis.

“Oh, Sire!”

“And what did the poor young girl do-”

“She trotted about through the streets of Paris like any other common mortal, only she always went very quick; for it is said she was very pretty, and she was afraid of meeting some rude man.”

“The young girl was a Lucretia-eh-”

“Oh, your majesty knows there have been no Lucretias since the year-I don't know what-of the foundation of Rome.”

“Oh, heavens! countess, are you going to become learned-”

“No; if I were learned I should have given you a wrong date; now, I gave you none.”

“True,” said the king; “go on.”

“The young girl one day was trotting along, as usual, when all at once, while crossing the Tuileries, she discovered that a man was following her.”

“Oh, the deuce! Then she stopped, I presume.”

“Ah, Sire, what a bad opinion you have of women! It is easily seen you have only associated with marchionesses and duch-

“And princesses!-eh-”

“I am too polite to contradict your majesty; but what frightened the young girl was, that a fog came on, which became every moment denser.”

“Sartines, do you know what causes fogs-” The minister, thus taken unawares, started.

“Ma foi, no, Sire!”

“Nor I. Well, go on, dear countess.”

“She ran as fast as she could, passed through the gate, and found herself in the square which bears your majesty's name, when she found the unknown, from whom she thought she had escaped, face to face with her. She uttered a cry-”

“Was he so very ugly, then-”

“No, Sire, he was a handsome young man, of six or eight and twenty, of a dark complexion, with large speaking eyes, and a pleasing voice.”

“And the heroine was afraid! Peste! how easily she was frightened!”

“She was not quite so much so when she looked at him; still, it was not a pleasant situation in that dense fog. So, clasping her hands, she said; 'I implore you, sir, not to do me any harm.' The unknown shook his head, smiled, and replied, 'Heaven is my witness. I have no evil intentions toward you.' 'What, then do you want-' I asked. 'To obtain a promise from you.' 'What can I promise you, sir-' 'Promise to grant me the first favor I shall ask when-' 'When-' repeated the young girl likewise. 'When you are queen.'“

“And what did the young girl do-” said the king.

“Sire, she thought it would be engaging herself to nothing, so she promised.”

“And what became of the sorcerer-”

“He disappeared.”

“And Sartines refuses to find him- he is wrong.”

“Sire, I do not refuse; but I cannot find him.”

“Oh, sir,” said the countess, “that word cannot should never be in the dictionary of the police.”

“Madame, we are on his track.”

“Yes; what you always say when you are baffled.”

“It is the truth; but consider what trivial directions you have given.”

“How! -trivial! -young, handsome, dark complexion, black hair, splendid eyes, a pleasing voice.”

“Oh, the devil I how you speak of him, countess!-Sartines, I forbid you to find that young man,” said the king.

“You are wrong, Sire; for I only wish to ask one simple question.”

“Is it about yourself-”

“Yes.”

“Well, what is it-his prediction is accomplished.”

“Do you think so-”

“Yes; yon are queen.”

“Very nearly.”

“What has the sorcerer, then, to tell you more-”

“He has to tell me when the queen will be presented.”

“That is no concern of his,” and the king made a grimace which showed that he thought they were getting on dangerous ground.

“And whose concern is it-”

“Your own.”

“Mine-”

“Yes; you must find a lady to present you.”

“Oh! very likely, among the prudes of the court! Your majesty knows they are all sold to Choiseul and Prasliu.”

“What! was there not an agreement made between us that the ministers should never be named here-”

“I did not promise, Sire.”

“Well, I request you to leave them in their places, and keep your own place. Believe me, the best is yours.”

“Alas! then for foreign affairs and the navy!”

“Countess,” interrupted the king, “in Heaven's name, no politics!”

At this moment Doree entered, and whispered a word or two in her mistress's ear.

“Oh, certainly, certainly!” cried she.

“What is it-” asked the king.

“Chon, Sire, who has just returned from a journey, and wishes to pay her respects to your majesty.”

“Let her come in! let her come in. Indeed, for some days past. I felt that I wanted something, without knowing exactly what it was.”

“Thanks, Sire!” said Chon, as she entered-then, going up to her sister, she whispered; “It is all settled!”

The countess uttered an exclamation of joy.

“Well, what now!” asked the king.

“Nothing, Sire. I am only glad to see her again. '

“I am glad, too. How do you do, little Chon-”

“May I say a word or two, Sire, to my sister-”

“Yes, yes, child; and while you are talking together, I shall ask Sartines where you have been.”

“Sire,” said the minister, wishing to avoid being questioned on that point, “may I beg your majesty to allow me a few moments on business of the utmost importance-”

“Oh, I have very little time now. M, de Sartines.” said the king, beginning to yawn.

“Only two words, your majesty.”

“About what-”

“About those people with the second sight-these illuminati-these workers of miracles-”

“Pooh! jugglers! Give them permission to exercise their trade, and there will be nothing to fear from them.”

“The matter is more serious than your majesty supposes. Every day we have new masonic lodges formed -they are now a powerful sect, attracting to them all the enemies of monarchy-the philosophers, the encyclopedists. “Voltaire is to be received by them in great state.”

“He- he is dying.”

“He, Sire! Oh! no, Sire, he is not such a fool.”

“He has confessed.”

“Merely a trick.”

“In the habit of a Capuchin.”

“That was an impiety, Sire. But, with regard to these freemasons, they are always active-they write, they talk, they form associations, correspond with foreign countries-they intrigue, they threaten-even now they are full of expectation of a great chief or head of the whole body, as I have learned from some words which escaped from one of their number.”

“Well. Sartines, when this chief comes, catch him and put him in the Bastille, and the whole affair is settled.”

“Sire, these persons have great resources.”

“Have they greater than you, sir, who have the whole police of a large kingdom-”

“Your majesty was induced to expel the Jesuits-it was the philosophers whom you should have expelled.”

“Come, come!-no more about those poor quill-drivers!

“Sire, those quills are dangerous which are cut by the pen-knife of Damiens.”

Louis XV turned pale.

“These philosophers, Sire, whom you despise-”

“Well, sir-”

“Will destroy the monarchy, Sire.”

“How long will they take to do that-”

Sartines stared at this coolness.

“How can I tell, Sire- Perhaps fifteen, twenty, or thirty years.”

“Well, my dear friend, in fifteen or twenty years I shall be no more; so talk of all these things to my successor.”

And the king turned to Madame Dubarry, who, seeming to have waited for this movement, said, with a heavy sigh, “Oh, heavens! what is it you tell me, Chon-”

“Yes, what is it-” asked the king, “for you both look very wretched.”

“Oh, Sire, there is good cause for it!”

“Speak-let me hear what has happened.”

“My poor brother!”

“Poor Jean!”

“Do you think it must be cut off-”

“They hope not.”

“Cut off-what-”

“asked the king.'

“His arm, Sire!”

“Cut off the viscount's arm!-why, pray-”

“Because he has been very seriously wounded.”

“Wounded in the arm.”

“Oh, yes, Sire.”

“Ay, in some drunken squabble in a filthy tavern.”

“No, Sire; on the highway.”

“But how did that happen-”

“It happened because an enemy wished to assassinate him, Sire.”

“Ah, the poor viscount!” exclaimed the king, who had very little feeling for the sufferings of others, although he could look wonderfully compassionate. “But to assassinate him! This is a serious matter, is it not, Sartines-”

The minister looked much less moved than the king, but was, in realty, a great deal more uneasy on the subject. He drew near the sisters.

“Can it be possible,” asked he, anxiously, “that such a misfortune has occurred-”

“Oh, yes, sir, it is but too possible,” said Chon, very mournfully.

“Assassinated!-but how-”

“He was waylaid.”

“Waylaid- Ha! Sartines, this is an affair for you,” said the king.

“Relate all the circumstances, madame,” said the minister, “and do not, I entreat you, allow your just resentment to exaggerate them. We shall, by being strictly just, be most severe; and, where things are looked at closely and coolly, they are often not so very serious as we at first apprehended.”

“Oh,” cried Chon, “this is not an affair which has been related to me! I saw the whole!”

“Well, but what did you see, Chon-” inquired the king.

“I saw a man fall on my brother, and, having forced him to draw in self-defense, wound him shockingly.”

“Was the man alone-” asked Sartines.

“No, indeed he had six others with him.”

“The poor viscount!” said the king, looking at the countess, that he might know exactly what degree of grief to exhibit-”forced to fight! poor fellow I” But, seeing that she did not relish this pleasantry-”And he was wounded-” he added in a compassionate voice.

“But how did the quarrel come about-” asked the minister of police, trying if it were possible to betray her into telling the truth.

“Oh, in the most trifling way in the world! All about post-horses which I wanted in order to hasten back to my sister, as I had promised to be with her this morning.”

“Ha! Sartines, this merits punishment, does it not-” said the king.

“It does, Sire, and I shall take all the necessary information on the subject. What was the name of the aggressor, madame, his condition-his rank-”

“His rank-he is a military man-an officer in the bodyguard of the dauphin, I think. As to his name-he is called Baverney, Faverney, Taverney-yes, Taverney-that is it.”

“Madame, to-morrow he shall sleep in the Bastille.”

“Oh, no!” said the countess, who until now had very diplomatically kept silence; “Oh, no!”

“Why, oh no-” asked the king; “why should not the fellow be imprisoned- You know I detest the military.”

“And I repeat, Sire,” said the countess, doggedly, “that I am quite sure nothing will be done to the man who assassinated the viscount,”

“Ha! countess, this is very curious-explain it, if you please.”

“That is easily done-he will be protected.”

“And who will protect him-”

“The person at whose instigation he acted.”

“And that person will protect him against us- Oh, that is rather too much, countess!”

“Madame-” stammered the Count de Sartines, for he felt that a blow was coming, and he was not prepared to ward it off.

“Yes!” exclaimed the countess, “he will be protected against you, and there will be nothing said. Do you suppose you are the master, Sire-”

The king felt the blow which the minister had foreseen, and he determined to bear it.

“I see that you are going to plunge into politics,” said he, “and find out some reasons of state for a paltry duel!”

“There, now! you abandon me already; the assassination has become nothing but a duel, now that you suspect the quarter whence it comes!”

“So! I am in for it!” said the king, going to the great Chinese fountain, turning the cock, and making the birds sing, the fishes swim, and the mandarins come out.

“And you don't know who aimed this blow-” asked the countess, pulling the ears of Zamore, who was lying at her feet.

“No, on my word!” said the king.

“Or suspect-”

“I swear I don't. Do you, countess-”

“No. I don't suspect, I know positively-I am going to tell you, and it will be no news to you, I am certain!”

“Countess, countess, do you know that in what you said you gave the lie to your king-” and Louis tried to look dignified.

“Sire, I know I am a little warm, but if you think I shall quietly allow my brother to be killed by the Duke de Choiseul-

“Yes-there it is-Choiseul again!” exclaimed the king in a loud voice, as if he had not expected this name, which for the last ten minutes he had been dreading.

“Well, it is because your majesty is determined not to see that he is my worst enemy; but I see it plainly, for he does not even take the trouble to hide his hatred from me.”

“He is far from hating anyone to that degree that he would cause him to be assassinated.”

“There you see-when Choiseul is mentioned, you are on his side immediately.”

“Now, my dear countess, politics again!”

“Oh, Monsieur de Sartines!” cried she, “is it not dreadful to be treated thus-”

“No, no-if it be as you think-

“I know what I think,” she interrupted, passionately, “and what I am sure of-the affair will be given up!”

“Now, do not get angry, countess,” said the king, “it shall not be given up-you shall be defended, and so well-”

“So well what-”

“So well that he who attacked poor Jean shall pay dearly for it.”

“Yes, the instrument will be broken, but the hand that directed it will be taken and kindly pressed!”

“Well, but is it not right to punish this Monsieur Taverney, who actually committed the assault-”

“Oh, certainly, but it is not right, that what you do for me is no more than would be done to a soldier who should give a blow to a shopkeeper at the theater. I will not be treated like every common person. If you do not do more for those whom you love than for those who are indifferent to you, I had rather remain alone in obscurity like these latter -their relations, at least, are not assassinated!”

“Oh, countess!” said the king, imploringly, “I got up for once in such good spirits, disposed to be gay, happy, and pleased with every one, and now you are spoiling my morning completely.”

“Very fine, indeed! It is a delightful morning for me, of course, when my relations are being massacred!”

The king, in spite of his internal fears of the terrible storm that was gathering, could not help smiling at the word “massacred.” The countess started up in a towering passion.

“Ah! is that the way you pity me-” said she.

“Now, now-do not get angry.”

“Yes-I will get angry!”

“You are very wrong-you look lovely when you smile-but really ugly in a passion.”

“What matters it to me how I look, when my beauty does not prevent me from being sacrificed to state intrigues.”

“Now, my dear countess-

“No, no. Choose between me and Choiseul!”

“Dear creature, it is impossible to choose-you are both necessary to me.”

“Well, then, I shall retire and leave the field to my enemies; I shall die of grief, but the Duke de Choiseul will be satisfied, and that will console you.”

“I swear to you, countess, that he has not any dislike to you; on the contrary, he admires you. He is an excellent man, after all,” added the king, in a louder tone, that the minister of police might hear him.

“An excellent man! Sire, you wish to drive me to desperation. An excellent man who causes people to be assassinated-”

“Mere suspicion.” said the king.

“And, besides,” Sartines ventured to say, “a quarrel, a duel between military men is so common-so natural!”

“Ha! Monsieur le Sartines, and are you also against me-” cried the countess.

The minister of police understood this tu quoque, and retreated before her anger. There was a moment of deep and ominous silence.

“Ah, Chon!” said the king, in the midst of the general consternation, ““you see your handiwork!”

“Your majesty will pardon me,” said she, “if the grief of the sister has made me forget for a moment my duty as a subject.”

“Kind creature!” murmured the king. “Come, countess, forget and forgive!”

“Yes, Sire, I shall forgive-only I shall set out for Luciennes, and thence for Boulogne.”

“Boulogne-sur-mer-” asked the king.

“Yes, Sire; I shall quit a kingdom where the king is afraid of his minister.”

“Madame!” exclaimed Louis, with an offended air.

“Sire, that I may not any longer be wanting in respect to you, permit me to retire,” and the countess rose, observing with the corner of her eye what effect her movement had produced.

The king gave his usual heavy sigh of weariness, which said plainly, “I am getting rather tired of this.” Chon understood what the sigh meant, and saw that it would be dangerous to push matters to extremity. She caught her sister by the gown, and approaching the king:

“Sire,” said she, “my sister's affection for the poor viscount has carried her too far. It is I who have committed the fault -it is I who must repair it. As the humblest of your majesty's subjects, I beg from your majesty justice for my brother. I accuse nobody-your wisdom will discover the guilty.”

“Why, that is precisely what I wish myself,” said the king, “that justice should be done. If a man have not committed a certain crime, let him not be reproached with it; but if he have, let him be punished.” And Louis looked toward the countess as he spoke, with the hope of once more catching the hopes he had entertained of an amusing morning-a morning which seemed turning out so dismally. The good-natured countess could not help pitying the king, whose want of occupation and emptiness of mind made him feel tired and dispirited except when with her. She turned half round, for she had already made a step toward the door, and said, with the sweetest submission, “Do I wish for anything but justice-only let not my well-grounded suspicions be cruelly repulsed.”

“Your suspicions are sacred to me, countess,” cried the king; “and if they be changed into certainty, you shall see. But now I think of it-how easy to know the truth!-let the Duke de Choiseul be sent for.”

“Oh, your majesty knows that he never comes into these apartments-he would scorn to do so. His sister, however, is not of his mind-she wishes for nothing better than to be here.”

The king laughed. The countess, encouraged by this, went on; “The Duke de Choiseul apes the dauphin-he will not compromise his dignity.”

“The dauphin is religious, countess.”

“And the duke a hypocrite, Sire.”

“I promise you,-my dear countess, you shall see him here, for I shall summon him. He must come, as it is on state business, and we shall have all explained in Chon's presence, who saw all-we shall confront them, as the lawyers say. Eh, Sartines- Let someone go for the Duke de Choiseul.”

“And let someone bring me my monkey. Doree, my monkey!” cried the countess.

These words, which were addressed to the waiting-maid, who was arranging a dressing-box, could be heard in the anteroom when the door was opened to dispatch the usher for the prime minister, and they were responded to by a broken, lisping voice:

“The countess's monkey!-that must be me-I hasten to present myself.”

And with these words entered a little hunchback, dressed with the utmost splendor.

“The Duke de Tresmes!” said the countess, annoyed by his appearance; “I did not summon you, duke.”

“You asked for your monkey, madame,” said the duke, bowing to the king, the countess, and the minister, “and seeing among the courtiers no ape half so ugly as myself, I hastened to obey your call,” and the duke laughed, showing his great teeth so oddly that the countess could not help laughing also.

“Shall I stay-” asked the duke, as if his whole life could not repay the favor.

“Ask his majesty, duke-he is master here.”

The duke turned to the king, with the air of a suppliant.

“Yes, stay, duke, stay!” said the king, glad to find any additional means of amusement. At this moment the usher threw open the doors.

“Oh!” said the king, with a slight expression of dissatisfaction on his face, “is it the Duke de Choiseul already!”

“No, Sire,” replied the usher, “it is Monseigneur the dauphin, who deSires to speak to you.”

The countess almost started from her chair with joy, for she imagined the dauphin was going to become her friend; but Chon, who was more clear-sighted, frowned.

“Well, where is the dauphin-” asked the king, impatiently.

“In your majesty's apartments-his royal highness awaits your return.”

“It is fated I shall never have a minute's repose,” grumbled the king. Then, all at once remembering that the audience demanded by the dauphin might spare him the scene with M, de Choiseul, he thought better of it. “I am coming,” said he, “I am coming. Good-by, countess. See how I am dragged in all directions!”

“But will your majesty go just when the Duke de Choiseul is coming-”

“What can I do-the first slave is the king. Oh, if those rogues of philosophers knew what it is to be a king!-but above all, a king of France.”

“But, Sire, you can stay.”

“Oh, I must not keep the dauphin waiting. People say already that I have no affection except for my daughters.”

“But what shall I say to the duke-”

“Oh, tell him to come to my apartments, countess.”

And, to put an end to any farther remonstrance, he kissed her hand, and disappeared running, as was his habit whenever he feared to lose a victory gained by his temporizing police and his petty cunning. The countess trembled with passion, and clasping her hands she exclaimed, “So he has escaped once more!”

But the king did not hear those words; the door was already closed behind him, and he passed through the anterooms, saying to the courtiers, “Go in, gentlemen, go in, the countess will see you; but you will find her very dull, on account of the accident which has befallen poor Viscount Jean.”

The courtiers looked at one another in amazement, for they had not heard of the accident. Many hoped that the viscount was dead, but all put on countenances suitable to the occasion. Those who were best pleased looked the most sympathetic, and they entered.

CHAPTER XXV. THE SALON OF TIMEPIECES.

IN THAT LARGE HALL of the palace of Versailles which was called the Salon of Timepieces, a young man walked slowly up and down, with his arms hanging and his head bent forward. He appeared to be about seventeen years of age, was of a fair complexion, and his eyes were mild in their expression; but it must be acknowledged that there was a slight degree of vulgarity in his demeanor. On his breast sparkled a diamond star, rendered more brilliant by the dark violet-colored velvet of his coat; and his white satin waistcoat, embroidered with silver, was crossed by the blue ribbon supporting the cross of St. Louis.

None could mistake in this young man the profile so expressive of dignity and kindliness which formed the characteristic type of the elder branch of the House of Bourbon, of which he was at once the most striking and most exaggerated image. In fact, Louis Auguste, duke de Berry, dauphin of France (afterward Louis XVI.), had the Bourbon nose even longer and more aquiline than in his predecessors. His forehead was lower and more retreating than Louis XV. 's, and the double chin of his grandfather was so remarkable in him, that although he was at the time we speak of young and thin, his chin formed nearly one-third of the length of his face.

Although well made, there, was something embarrassed in the movement of his legs and shoulders, and his walk was slow and rather awkward. Suppleness, activity, and strength seemed centered only in his arms, and more particularly in his fingers, which displayed, as it were, that character which in other persons is expressed on the forehead, in the mouth, and in the eyes. The dauphin continued to pace in silence the Salon of Timepieces -the same in which, eight years before, Louis XV, had given to Madame de Pompadour the decree of the parliament exiling the Jesuits from the kingdom-and as he walked he seemed plunged in reverie.

At last, however, he seemed to become impatient of waiting there alone, and to amuse himself he began to look at the timepieces, remarking, as Charles V, had done, the differences which are found in the most regular clocks. These differences are a singular but decided manifestation of the inequality existing in all material things, whether regulated or not regulated by the hand of man. He stopped before the large clock at the lower end of the salon-the same place it occupies at present-which, by a clever arrangement of machinery, marks the days, the months, the years, the phases of the moon, the course of the planets-in short, exhibiting to the still more curious machine called man, all that is most interesting in his progressive movement through life to death.

The prince examined this clock with the eye of an amateur, and leaned now to the right, now to the left, to examine the movement of such or such a wheel. Then he returned to his place in front, watching how the second-hand glided rapidly on, like those flies which, with their long slender legs, skim over the surface of a pond without disturbing the liquid crystal of its waters. This contemplation naturally led him to think that a very great number of seconds had passed since he had been waiting there. It is true, also, that many had passed before he had ventured to send to inform the king that he was waiting for him.

All at once the hand on which the young prince's eyes were fixed stopped as if by enchantment., the wheels ceased their measured rotation, the springs became still, and deep silence took possession of the machine, but a moment before so full of noise and motion. No more ticking, no more oscillations, no more movement of the wheels or of the hands. The timepiece had died.

Had some grain of sand, some atom, penetrated into one of the wheels, and stopped its movements- or was the genius of the machine resting, wearied with its eternal agitation- Surprised by this sudden death, this stroke of apoplexy occurring before his eyes, the dauphin forgot why he had come thither, and how long he had waited. Above all, he forgot that hours are not counted in eternity by the beating of metal upon metal, nor arrested even for a moment in their course by the hindrance of any wheel, but that they are recorded on the dial of eternity, established even before the birth of worlds by the unchangeable hand of the Almighty. He therefore opened the glass door of the crystal pagoda, the genius of which had ceased to act, and put his head inside to examine the timepiece more closely. But the large pendulum was in his way; he slipped in his supple fingers, and took it off. This was not enough; the dauphin still found the cause of the lethargy of the machine hidden from him. He then supposed that the person who had the care of the clocks of the palace had forgotten to wind up this timepiece, and he took down the key from a hook and began to wind it up like a man quite accustomed to the “business. But he could only turn it three times-a proof that something was astray in the mechanism. He drew from his pocket a little file, and with the end of it pushed one of the wheels; they all creaked for half a second, then stopped again.

The malady of the clock was becoming serious; the dauphin, therefore, began carefully to unscrew several parts of it, laying them all in order on a console beside him. Then, drawn on by his ardor, he began to take to pieces still more and more of the complicated machine, and to search minutely into its most hidden and mysterious recesses. Suddenly he uttered a cry of joy-he discovered that a screw which acted on one of the springs had become loose, and had thus impeded the movement of the motive wheel.

He immediately began to screw it; and then, with a wheel in his left hand, and his little file in his right, he plunged his head again into the interior of the clock.

He was busy at his work, absorbed in contemplation of the mechanism of the timepiece, when a door opened, and a voice announced, “The king!”

But the dauphin heard nothing but the melodious sound of that ticking, which his hand had again awakened, as if it were the beating of a heart which a clever physician had restored to life.

The king looked around on all sides, and it was some minutes before he discovered the dauphin, whose head was hidden in the opening, and whose legs alone were visible. He approached, smiling, and tapped his grandson on the shoulder.

“What the devil are you doing there-” said he. The dauphin drew out his head quickly, but, at the same time, with all the care necessary to avoid doing any harm to the beautiful object which he had undertaken to mend.

“Sire-your majesty sees,” replied the young man, blushing at being surprised in the midst of his occupations, “I was amusing myself until you came.”

“Yes, in destroying my clock-a very pretty amusement!”

“Oh no, Sire! I was mending it. The principal wheel would not move; it was prevented by this screw. I have tightened the screw, and now it goes.”

“But you will blind yourself with looking into that thing. I would not put my head into such a trap for all the gold in the world.”

“Oh, it will do me no harm, Sire-I understand all about it. I always take to pieces, clean and put together again, that beautiful watch which your majesty gave me on my fourteenth birthday.”

“Very well; but stop now, if you please, and leave your mechanics. You wish to speak to me-”

“I, Sire-” said the young man, coloring again.

“Of course, since you sent to say you were waiting for me.”

“It is true, Sire,” replied the dauphin, with downcast eyes.

“Well, what is it- Answer me-if it is of no importance I must go, for I am just setting off for Marly.” Louis XV, as was his custom, already sought to escape.

The dauphin placed his wheel and his file on a chair, which indicated that he had really something important to say, since he interrupted his important work for it.

“Do you want money!” asked the king, sharply. “If so, I shall send you some;” and he made a step toward the door.

“Oh no, Sire; I have still a thousand crowns remaining of the sum I received last month.”

“What economy!” said the king; “and how well Monsieur de la Vauguyon has educated him! I think he has precisely all the virtues I have not.”

The young prince made a violent effort over himself. “Sire,” said he, “is the dauphiness yet very far distant-”

“Do you not know as well as I how far off she is-” replied the king.

“I-” stammered out the dauphin.

“Of course-you heard the account of her journey read yesterday. Last Monday she was at Nancy, and she ought to be now about forty-five leagues from Paris.”

“Sire, does not your majesty think her royal highness travels very slowly-”

“By no means,” replied the king; “I think she travels very fast for a woman. And then, you know, there are the receptions and the rejoicings on the road. She travels at least ten leagues every two days, one with another.”

“I think it very little, Sire,” said the dauphin, timidly.

Louis XV. was more and more astonished at the appearance of impatience, which he had been far from suspecting.

“Come, come,” said he, smiling slyly, “don't be impatient; your dauphiness will arrive soon.”

“Sire, might not these ceremonies on the road be shortened-” continued the dauphin.

“Impossible; she has already passed through two or three towns, where she should have made a stay, without stopping.”

“But these delays will be eternal; and then, Sire, I think besides-” said the dauphin, still more timidly.

“Well, what do you think- Let me hear it; speak!”

“I think that the service is badly performed.”-” How- -what service-”

“The service for the journey.”

“Nonsense! I sent thirty thousand horses to be ready on the road, thirty carriages, sixty wagons -I don't know how many carts. If carts, carriages, and horses were put in file, they would reach from this to Strasbourg. How can you say, then, there is bad attendance on the road-”

“Well, Sire, in spite of all your majesty's goodness, I am almost certain that what I say is true; but perhaps I have used an improper term, and instead of badly performed, I should have said badly arranged.”

The king raised his head, and fixed his eyes on the dauphin; he began to comprehend that more was meant than met the ear, in the few words which his royal highness had ventured to utter.

“Thirty thousand horses,” he repeated, “thirty carriages, sixty wagons, two regiments. I ask you, M. Philosopher, have you ever heard of a dauphiness entering France with such an attendance as that before-”

“I confess, Sire, that things have been royally done, and as your majesty alone knows how to do them. But has your majesty specially recommended that these horses and carriages should be employed solely for her royal highness and her train-”

The king looked at his grandson for the third time. A vague suspicion began to sting him, a slight remembrance to illuminate his mind, and a sort of confused analogy between what the dauphin was saying and a disagreeable circumstance of late occurrence began to suggest itself to him.

“A fine question!” said he. “Certainly, everything has been ordered for her royal highness, and for her alone, and therefore, I repeat, she cannot fail to arrive very soon. But why do you look at me in that way-” added he, in a decided tone, which to the dauphin seemed even threatening. “Are you amusing yourself in studying my features as you study the springs of your mechanical works-”

The dauphin had opened his mouth to speak, but became silent at this address.

“Very well,” said the king, sharply; “it appears you have no more to say-hey- Are you satisfied now- Your dauphiness will arrive soon; all is arranged delightfully for her on the road; you are as rich as Croesus with your own private purse. And now, since your mind is at ease, be good enough to put my clock in order again.”

The dauphin did not stir.

“Do you know,” said the king, laughing, “I have a great mind to make you the principal watchmaker for the palace, with a good salary-”

The dauphin looked down, and, intimidated by the king's look, took up the wheel and the file which he had laid on the chair. The king, in the meantime, had quietly gained the door.

“What the devil,” said he, looking at him, “did he mean with his badly arranged service- Well, well! I have escaped another scene, for he is certainly dissatisfied about something.”

In fact, the dauphin, generally so patient, had stamped with his foot as the king turned away from him.

“He is commencing again,” murmured the king, laughing; “decidedly, I have nothing for it but to fly.” But just as he opened the door, he saw on the threshold the Duke de Choiseul, who bowed profoundly.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE COURT OF KING PETAUD.

THE KING MADE a step backward at the sight of this new actor in the scene, come, no doubt, to prevent him from escaping as he had hoped. “Ha!” thought he, “I had forgot him; but he is welcome, and I will make him pay for what the others have made me suffer.”

“Ha! you are there!” cried he. “I sent for you-did you know that-”

“Yes, Sire,” replied the minister, coldly; “I was dressing to wait on your majesty when your orders reached me.”

“I wished to speak to you on serious matters,” said the king, frowning, in order, if possible, to intimidate his minister. Unfortunately for the king. Monsieur de Choiseul was one of the men least likely to be daunted in his dominions.

“And I also, if it please your majesty,” said he, bowing, “have serious matters to speak of.” At the same time, he exchanged a look with the dauphin, who was still half hidden by the clock.

The king stopped short. “Ha! thought he, “now I am caught between two fires; there is no escape.”

“You know, I presume,” said the king, hastily, in order to have the first word, “that poor Viscount Jean has had a narrow escape from assassination, that is to say, that he has received a wound in his arm-”

“I came to speak of that affair to your majesty.”

“I understand-you wished to prevent unpleasant reports-”

“I wished, Sire, to anticipate all remarks.”

“Then you know the whole particulars, sir-” inquired the king, in a significant manner.

“Perfectly.”

“Ha!” said the king, “I was told so in a place likely to be well-informed.”

The Duke of Choiseul seemed quite unmoved. The dauphin continued turning the screw in the clock, his head bent down, but he lost not a syllable of the conversation.

“I shall now tell you how the affair happened,” said the king.

“Does your majesty think that you have been well-informed-” asked Monsieur de Choiseul.

“Oh, as to that-

“We are all attention, Sire.”

“We!” repeated the king.

“Yes; his royal highness the dauphin and I.”

“His royal highness the dauphin-” repeated the king, turning his eyes from the respectful Choiseul to the attentive Louis Augustus, “and pray in what does this squabble concern his royal highness-”

“It concerns his royal highness,” said the duke, bowing to the young prince, “because her royal highness the dauphiness was the cause of it.”

“The dauphiness the cause-” said the king, starting.

“Certainly; if you are ignorant of that, Sire, your majesty has been very badly informed.”

“The dauphiness and Jean Dubarry!” said the king; “this is likely to be a curious tale! Come, explain this, Monsieur de Choiseul, conceal nothing, even though it were the dauphiness herself who pierced Dubarry's arm!”

“Sire, it was not the dauphiness!” replied Choiseul, still calm and unmoved; “it was one of the gentlemen of her escort.”

“Oh,” said the king, again becoming grave, “an officer whom you know.”

“No, Sire, but an officer whom your majesty ought to know, if you remember all who have served you well-an officer whose father's name was honored at Philipsbourg, at Fontenoy, at Mahon-a Taverney -Maison-Rouge.”

The dauphin seemed to draw a deeper breath, as if to inhale the name and thus preserve it in his memory.

“A Maison Rouge,” said the king; “certainly I know the name; and why did he attack Jean, whom I like so much; Perhaps because I like him!-such absurd jealousies, such discontents, are almost seditious!”

“Sire, will your majesty deign to listen to me,” said Monsieur de Choiseul.

The king saw there was no other way for him to escape from this troublesome business but by getting in a passion, and he exclaimed, “I tell you, sir, that I see the beginning of a conspiracy against my peace, an organized persecution of my family!”

“Ah, Sire,” said Monsieur de Choiseul, “is it for defending the dauphiness, your majesty's daughter-in-law, that these reproaches are cast on a brave young man-”

The dauphin raised his head and folded his arms. “For my part,” said he, “I cannot but feel grateful to the man who exposed his life for a princess who in a fortnight will be my wife.”

“Exposed his life!-exposed his life!” stammered the king; “what about- Let me know that-what about-”

“About the horses of her royal highness, the dauphiness,” replied the duke; “Viscount Jean Dubarry, who was already traveling very fast, took upon him to insist on having some of those horses which were appropriated to the use of her royal highness-no doubt that he might get on still faster.”

The king bit his lip and changed color -the threatening phantom from which he had so lately hoped to escape now reappeared in all its horrors. “It is not possible,” murmured he, to gain time. “I know the whole affair-you have been misinformed, duke.”

“No, Sire, I have not been misinformed; what I have the honor to tell your majesty is the simple truth. Viscount Jean Dubarry offered an insult to the dauphiness by insisting on taking for his use horses appointed for her service. After having ill-treated the master of the posthouse, he was going to take them by force when the Chevalier Philip de Taverney arrived, sent forward by her royal highness to have horses in readiness for her, and after he had several times summoned him in a friendly and conciliating manner-”

“Oh, oh!” grumbled the king.

“I repeat, Sire, after he had several times, in a friendly and conciliating manner, summoned the viscount to desist, he was at length obliged to draw his sword.”

“Yes,” said the dauphin, “I pledge myself for the truth of what the duke asserts.”

“Then you also know of this affair;” said the king, exceedingly surprised.

“I know all the circumstances perfectly, Sire.” replied the dauphin.

The minister bowed, delighted at having such a supporter. “Will your royal highness deign to proceed-” said he. “His majesty will doubtless have more confidence in the assertions of his august son than in mine.”

“Yes, Sire,” continued the dauphin, without testifying for the Duke de Choiseul's zeal in his cause all that gratitude which might have been expected, “yes, Sire, I know the circumstances, and I had come to tell your majesty that Viscount Dubarry has not only insulted the dauphiness in interfering with the arrangements made for her journey, but he has also insulted me in opposing a gentleman of my regiment who was doing his duty.”

The king shook his head. “We must inquire,” said he; “we must inquire.”

“I have already inquired, Sire,” said the dauphin, gently, “and have no doubt in the matter; the viscount drew his sword on my officer.”

“Did he draw first-” asked the king, happy to seize any chance of putting his adversary in fault.

The dauphin colored, and looked to the minister for assistance.

“Sire,” said the latter, “swords were crossed by two men, one of whom was insulting, the other defending, the dauphiness-that is all.”

“Yes, but which was the aggressor-” asked the king; “I know poor Jean-he is as gentle as a lamb.”

“The aggressor, in my opinion, Sire,” said the dauphin, with his usual mildness, “is he who is in the wrong.”

“It is a delicate matter to decide,” replied the king; “the aggressor he who is in the wrong-in the wrong-but if the officer was insolent-”

“Insolent!” cried the Duke de Choiseul; “insolent toward a man who wanted to take by force horses sent there for the use of the dauphiness- Is it possible you can think so, Sire-”

The dauphin turned pale, but said nothing. The king saw that he was between two fires.

“I should say warm, perhaps, not insolent,” said he.

“But your majesty knows,” said the minister, taking advantage of the king's having yielded a step, to make a step forward; “your majesty knows that a zealous servant can never be in the wrong.”

“Oh, perhaps! But how did you become acquainted with this event, sir-” said he, turning sharply to the dauphin, without ceasing, however, to observe the duke, who endeavored vainly to hide the embarrassment which this sudden question caused him.

“By a letter, Sire,” replied the dauphin.

“A letter from whom-”

“A letter from a person concerned for her royal highness, the dauphiness, and who thinks it singular that anyone should dare to affront her.”

““Ha!” cried the king, “more mysteries, secret correspondences, plots! Everyone is beginning again to plan annoyances for me, as in the time of the Marchioness de Pompadour!”

“No, Sire,” said the minister, “this affair is no plot, and can be settled very simply. It is the crime of treason in the second degree; let the guilty person be punished, and all will be settled.”

At this word, punished, Louis XV, saw in fancy the countess furious, and Chon in a rage-he saw peace flying from his dwelling (peace, which he had been seeking all his life, but had never been able to find), and intestine war with crooked nails and eyes red with tears entering in her stead.

“Punished!” cried he, “without the accused having been heard- -without knowing which side is in the right- You make a very extraordinary proposal to me, duke-you wish to draw odium on me!”

“But, Sire, who will henceforward respect her royal highness the dauphiness, if a severe example is not made of the person who first insulted her-”

“Certainly, Sire,” added the dauphin, “it would be a scandal.”

“An example-a scandal-” cried the king. “Mordieu! if I make an example of all the scandalous things that go on around me, I may pass my life in signing arrests for the Bastille! I have signed enough of them as it is, Heaven knows!”

“In this case it is necessary, Sire,” said the duke.

“Sire, I entreat your majesty,” said the dauphin.

“What! do you not think him punished already, by the wound he has received-”

“No, Sire; for he might have wounded the Chevalier de Taverney.”

“And in such a case, what would you have done-”

“I should have demanded his head.”

“But that was only what was done in the case of Monsieur de Montgomery, for killing King Henri II.,” said the king.

“He killed the king by accident, sir. Viscount Dubarry insulted the dauphiness intentionally.”

“And you, sir,” said the king, turning to the dauphin, “do you wish to have Jean's head- “

“No, Sire; I am not in favor of the punishment of death, as your majesty knows; I shall merely demand from you the viscount's banishment.”

The king started up.

“Banishment for a tavern quarrel- Louis, you are severe, notwithstanding your philanthropical notions; it is true that before becoming philanthropist you were a mathematician, and-

“Will your majesty deign to proceed-”

“A mathematician would sacrifice the universe to his problem.”

“Sire,” said the dauphin, “I have no ill-will toward the Viscount Dubarry, personally.”

“With whom, then, are you angry-”

“With the insulter of her royal highness the dauphiness.”

“What a model for husbands!” cried the king, ironically; “but I am not so easy of belief. I see very well who is attacked under all this-I see to what people would lead me with their exaggerations!”

“Sire,” said M, de Choiseul, “do not be misled-nothing has been exaggerated -the public are indignant at the insolence which has been shown in this affair.”

“The public-there is another monster with which you frighten yourself, or rather with which you would frighten me. Shall I listen to this public, which by the thousand mouths of libelists, and pamphleteers, and ballad-mongers, tells me that I am robbed, tossed in a blanket, betrayed on all hands- No, no; I let the public talk, and I laugh. Do as I do. Pardieu! close your ears-and when your great public is tired of bawling it will stop. There you are again, making your discontented bow-and Louis is putting on a sulky face! Heavens! is it not singular that what is done for the lowest individual cannot be done for me- I cannot be allowed to live quietly in my own fashion! Everybody hates what I love, and eternally loves what I hate! Am I in my senses, or am I a fool- Am I the master, or am I not-”

The dauphin took up his file, and returned to his work in the clock. The Duke de Choiseul bowed exactly as before.

“There now -no answer! Answer something, will you- Mordieu! you will kill me with vexation-first at your talk, then at your silence!-with your petty hatreds and your petty fears!”

“I do not hate the Viscount Dubarry,” said the dauphin, smiling.

“And I do not fear him, Sire,” said the minister, haughtily.

“You are both very ill-natured,” cried the king, pretending to be in a great passion, when he was in reality only out of temper; “you wish to make me the laughing-stock of all Europe-to give my cousin of Prussia something to make jests on-to make me realize the court of King Petaud, which that rascal, Voltaire, has described -but, I will not be what you wish!-no!-you shall not have that satisfaction. I know what concerns my own honor, and I shall attend to it in my own way, and only as I choose myself!”

“Sire,” said the dauphin, with that immovable mildness which characterized him, but at the same time with that constant perseverance of his, “this is not a matter which concerns your honor-it is the dignity of the dauphiness which has been attacked.”

“His royal highness is right, Sire.” said the duke, “let but your majesty speak the word, and no one will again dare to insult her.”

“And who would insult her-no one intended to insult her. Jean is a stupid fellow, but he is not malignant.”

“Well, then, Sire,” continued the minister, “let it be placed to the account of stupidity, and let him ask pardon of the Chevalier de Taverney for his mistake.”

“I said before,” cried the king, “that I have nothing to do in the affair; let Jean ask pardon, he is at liberty to do so; or let him decline, he is at liberty also.”

“The affair given up in that way, Sire, I must take the liberty to inform your majesty, will be talked about.”

“So much the better!” exclaimed the king, “let it be talked about until I am deafened with it, provided I don't hear all this nonsense of yours!'

“Then,” replied the minister, with his imperturbable coolness, “I am authorized by your majesty to say that Viscount Dubarry did right-”

“Authorized by me- -authorized by me-and in an affair of which I understand nothing! You mean, I see, to drive me to extremities; but take care, duke! -take care, and, Louis, I advise you to be more cautious how you conduct yourself toward me! I shall leave you to think of what I have said, for I am tired out-I cannot bear this any longer. Goodby, gentlemen! I am going to see my daughters, and then I shall take refuge at Marly, where I may hope for some tranquillity, if you do not follow me.”

At this moment, and as the king was going toward the door, it was opened, and an usher appeared.

“Sire,” said he, “her royal highness the Princess Louise is awaiting your majesty in the gallery to bid you farewell.”

“To bid me farewell-” exclaimed the king, in alarm, “where is she going-”

“Her royal highness says that she has had your majesty's permission to leave the palace.”

“Ha! another scene!-this is my bigot daughter going to show off some of her follies-in truth, I am the most wretched of men!”

And he left the apartment running.

“His majesty has given us no answer,” said the Duke de Choiseul; “what has your royal highness decided on-”

“Ah, there it strikes!” said the young prince, listening with either a real or a pretended joy to the clock which he had made to go once more.

The minister frowned and retired backward from the Salon of Timepieces, leaving the dauphin alone.

CHAPTER XXVII. MADAME LOUISE OF FRANCE.

THE KING'S eldest daughter awaited him in the great gallery of Lebrun, the same in which Louis XIV., in 1683, had received the Doge Imperiali and the four Genoese senators sent to implore pardon for the republic.

At the farther end of the gallery, opposite the door by which the king must enter, were three or four ladies of honor, who seemed in the utmost consternation. Louis arrived just at the moment when groups began to form in the vestibule, for the resolution which the princess had taken only that morning was now spreading on all sides through the palace.

The Princess Louise possessed a majestic figure and a truly regal style of beauty, yet a secret sadness had left its lines on her fair forehead. Her austere practice of every virtue, and her respect for the great powers of the State-powers which for the last fifty years had only obtained a semblance of respect from interest or from fear-had caused her to be regarded with veneration by the court. We must add that she was loved even by the people, although a feeling of disaffection toward their masters was now general. The word tyrants had not yet been heard.

She was loved because her virtue was not stern. She was not loudly talked of, but all knew that she had a heart. She manifested this every day by works of charity, while others only showed it by shameless self-indulgence. Louis XV, feared this daughter, for the simple reason that he esteemed her. There were even times when he went so far as to be proud of her; and she was the only one of his children whom he spared in his sharp raillery or his silly familiarities. He called her madame, while the Princesses Adelaide, Victoria, and Sophie, he named Loque, Chiffe, and Graille.* Since the period when Marshal Saxe carried with him to the tomb the soul of the Turennes and the Condes, and with the Queen Maria Leczinska passed away the governing mind of a Maria Theresa, all became mean and worthless around the throne of France. The Princess Louise, whose character was truly regal, and, compared with those around her, seemed even heroic, alone remained to adorn the crown, like a pearl of price amid false stones and tinsel. We should be wrong in concluding from this that Louis XV, loved his daughter. Louis, it is well known, loved no one but himself; we only affirm that he preferred her to all his other children.

*Tag, rag, and scrap.

When he entered, he found the princess in the center of the gallery, leaning on a table inlaid with crimson jasper and lapis lazuli. She was dressed entirely in black, and her beautiful hair, which was without powder, was covered by a double roll of lace. A deeper shade of sadness than usual rested on her brow. She looked at no one in the apartment, but from time to time her melancholy gaze wandered over the portraits of the kings of Europe which ornamented the gallery, at the head of whom were those of her ancestors, the kings of France.

The black dress which she wore was the usual traveling costume of princesses. It concealed large pockets, still worn as in the times of the good housewife-like queens, and the Princess Louise, imitating them in that also, had the numerous keys of her chests and wardrobes suspended at her waist by a gold chain.

The king's face assumed a very serious expression when he saw how silent all in the gallery were, and how attentively they awaited the result of the interview between him and his daughter. But the gallery was so long that the spectators at either end might see, but they could not hear what passed-they had a right to see-it was their duty not to hear.

The princess advanced a few steps to meet the king, and taking his hand she kissed it respectfully.

“They tell me you are setting out on a journey, madame,” said he; “are you going into Picardy-”

“No, Sire,” she replied.

“Then I presume,” said he in a louder voice, “that you are about to make a pilgrimage to Noirmontiers-”

“No, Sire. I am going to retire to the convent of the Carmelites at St. Denis, of which you know I have the right to be abbess.”

The king started, but he preserved his countenance unmoved, although in reality his heart was troubled.

“Oh, no-no! my daughter!” he said, “you will not leave me. It is impossible you can leave me!”

“My dear father, it is long since I decided on abandoning the world-your majesty permitted me to make that decision-do not now, I entreat you, my dear father, oppose my wishes.”

“Yes, certainly, you wrung from me the permission of which you speak. I gave it, but still hoped that when the moment of departure came your heart would fail you. You ought not to bury yourself in a cloister-by acting so, you forget what is due to your rank-it is grief or want of fortune which makes the convent be sought as a refuge. The daughter of the king of France is certainly not poor; and, if she be unhappy, the world ought not to know it.”

The king's thoughts and even his language seemed to become more elevated as he entered more and more into the part he was called on to play-that of a king and a father. This is, indeed, a part never played ill, when pride and regret inspire the actor.

“Sire,” replied the princess, perceiving her father's emotion, and fearful that it might affect her more deeply than she desired at that moment, “Sire, do not by your tenderness for me weaken my resolution-my grief is no vulgar grief-therefore, my resolution to retire from the world is not in accordance with the usual customs of our day.”

“Your grief-” exclaimed the king, as if from a real impulse of feeling. “Have you, then, sorrows, my poor child-”

“Heavy, heavy sorrows, Sire!”

“Why did you not confide them to me, my dearest daughter-”

“Because they are sorrows not to be assuaged by any mortal hand.”

“Not by that of a king-”

“Ah, no, Sire!”

“Not by a father's hand-”

“No, Sire, no!”

“But you are religious, Louise; does not religion give you strength-”

“Not sufficient strength yet, Sire; therefore, I retire to a cloister in order to obtain more. In silence God speaks to the heart of man-in solitude man communes with God.”

“But, in acting thus, you are making a sacrifice for which nothing can compensate. The throne of France casts a majestic shadow over the children of its kings-ought not this reflected greatness to be sufficient for you-”

“The shadow of the cell is better, Sire -it refreshes the weary spirit-it soothes the strong as well as the weak-the humble as well as the proud-the high as well as the low.”

“Do you fear any danger by remaining- In that case, Louise, cannot the king defend you-”

“Sire, may God, in the first place, defend the king!”

“I repeat, Louise, that mistaken zeal leads you astray. It is good to pray, but not to pray always; and you-so good, so pious!-can you require such constant prayer-”

“Oh, my father! never can I offer up prayers enough to avert from us the woes which threaten us. If God has given me a portion of goodness-if for twenty years my only effort has been to purify my soul, I fear, alas! that I am yet far from having attained the goodness and the purity necessary for an expiatory sacrifice.”

The king started back and gazed at the princess with surprise. “Never have I heard you speak thus before, my dear child,” said he; “your ascetic life is making your reason wander.”

“Oh, Sire, do not speak thus of a devotion the truest that ever subject offered to a king, or daughter to a father, in a time of need. Sire, that throne, of which you but now so proudly spoke as lending a protecting shade to your children-that throne totters. You feel not the blows which are dealt at its foundations, but I have seen them. Silently a deep abyss is preparing, which will engulf the monarchy! Sire, has anyone ever told you the truth-”

The princess looked around to discover whether the attendants were fur enough to be out of hearing of her words, then she resumed:

“Well, Sire, I know the truth! Too often have I heard the groans which the wretched send forth, when, as a Sister of Mercy, I visited the dark, narrow streets, the filthy lanes, the dismal garrets of the poor. In those streets, those lanes, those garrets, I have seen human beings dying of cold and hunger in winter, of heat and thirst in summer. You see not, Sire, what the country is-you, who go merely from Versailles to Marly, and from Marly to Versailles. But in the country there is not grain-I do not say to feed the people, but even to sow for a new harvest-for the land, cursed by some adverse power, has received, but has given nothing back. The people, wanting bread, are filled with discontent. The air is filled in the twilight and at night with voices telling them of weapons, of chains, of prisons, of tyranny; and at these voices they awake, cease to complain, and commence to threaten. The parliaments demand the right of remonstrance-that is, the right to say to you openly what they whisper in private-'King, you are ruining the kingdom-save it!-or we shall save it ourselves.' The soldiers, with their idle swords, furrow the land in which the philosophers have scattered the seeds of liberty. Men now see things which they formerly saw not, for our writers have laid all open to them-they know all that we do, and frown whenever their masters pass by. Your majesty's successor is soon to be married. When Anne of Austria's son was married, the city of Paris made presents to the new queen; now, it is not only silent, and offers nothing, but you have been obliged to use force to collect the taxes to pay the expense of bringing the daughter of Caesar to the palace of the son of St. Louis.

“The clergy had long ceased to pray to God; but, seeing the lands given away, privileges exhausted, coffers empty, they have begun again to pray for what they call the happiness of the people. And then, Sire, must I tell you what you know so well-what you have seen with so much bitterness, although you have spoken of it to none- The kings, your brothers, who formerly envied us, now turn away from us. Your four daughters, Sire, princesses of France, have not found husbands, and there are twenty princes in Germany, three in England, sixteen in the States of the North, without naming our relations, the Bourbons of Spain and Naples, who forget us, or turn away from us like the others. Perhaps the Turk would have taken us, had we not been daughters of his Most Christian Majesty. Not for myself, my father, do I care for this, or complain of it. Mine is a happy state, since it leaves me free; since I am not necessary to anyone of my family, and may retire from the world-in meditation and poverty may pray God to avert from your head, and from my nephew's, the awful storm I see gathering on the horizon of the future.”

“My child! my daughter! it is your fears which make the future appear so dreadful.”

“Sire, Sire, remember that princess of antiquity, that royal prophetess! She foretold to her father and to her brothers war, destruction, conflagration, and her predictions were laughed at-they called her mad! Do not treat me as she was treated! Take care, oh, my father!-reflect, my king!”

Louis XV. folded his arms, and his head sank on his bosom. “My daughter,” said he, “you speak very severely. Are those woes which you denounce caused by me-”

“God forbid that I should think so! They are the fruit of the times in which we live. You are whirled on in the career of events as we are all. Only listen, Sire, to the applause in the theater which follows any allusion against royalty. See, in the evenings, what joyous crowds descend the narrow stairs of the galleries, while the grand marble staircase is deserted. Sire, both the people and the courtiers have made for themselves pleasures quite apart from our pleasures. They amuse themselves without us; or rather, when we appear in the midst of their pleasures, they become dull. Alas!” continued the princess, her eyes swimming with tears -”alas! poor young men, affectionate young women!-love, sing, forget, be happy! Here, when I went among you, I only disturbed your happiness. Yonder, in my cloister, I shall serve you! Here, you hid your glad smiles in my presence, for fear of displeasing me. There, I shall pray-oh, God! with all my soul-for my king, for my sisters, for my nephews, for the people of France-for all whom I love with the energy of a heart which no earthly passion has exhausted.”

“My daughter,” said the king, after a melancholy silence, “I entreat you not to leave me-not at this moment, at least; you will break my heart!”

The princess seized Ms hand, and, fixing her eyes full of love on his noble features-” No!” said she, “no, my father-not another hour in this palace! No, it is time for me to pray; I feel in myself strength to redeem, by my tears, those pleasures for which you sigh-you, who are yet young. You are the kindest of fathers, you are ever ready to pardon!”

“Stay with us, Louise!-stay with us!” said the king, pressing her to his heart.

The princess shook her head. “'My kingdom is not of this world!” said she, disengaging herself from her father's embrace. “Farewell, my father!-I have told you to-day what, for ten years, has laid heavy on my heart. The burden became too great. Farewell! I am satisfied-see, I can smile; I am now, at length, happy-I regret nothing!”

“Not even me, my daughter-”

“Ah, I should regret you, were I never to see you again; but you will sometimes come to St. Denis- You will not quite forget your child-”

“Oh, never, never!”

“Do not, my dear father, allow yourself to be affected. Let it not appear that this separation is to be a lasting one. My sisters, I believe, know nothing of it yet; ray women alone have been my confidantes. For eight days I have been making all my preparations; and I wish, that the report of my departure should only be spread when the great doors of St. Denis shall have closed on me; their heavy sound will prevent me from hearing any other.”

The king read in his daughter's eyes that her resolution was irrevocable. He wished, therefore, that she should go without disturbance. If she feared that sobs might shake her resolution, he feared them still more for his nerves. Besides, he wished to go to Marly that day, and too much grief at Versailles might have obliged him to put off his journey. He reflected, also, that when issuing from some orgies unfit both for a king and a father, he should never more meet that grave, sad face, which seemed always to reproach him for the careless, worthless existence which he led; and this thought was not disagreeable to him.

“Be it, then, as you wish, my child!” said he; “but, at least, receive, before you go, the blessing of a father whom you have always made perfectly happy.”

“Give me your hand only, Sire, and let me kiss it. Bestow your precious blessing on me in thought.”

To those who knew the decision of the princess, it was a solemn spectacle to see her at every step she made advancing, yet in life, to the tombs of her ancestors-those ancestors who, from their golden frames, seemed to thank her that she hastened to rejoin them.

At the door of the gallery the king bowed, and returned without uttering a word. The court, according to etiquette, followed him.

CHAPTER XXVIII. LOQUE, CHIFFE, AND GRAILLE.

THE KING passed on to what was called the Cabinet of the Equipages. It was there that he was accustomed, before going to hunt or to drive out, to pass a few minutes in giving particular orders concerning the vehicles and attendants he should require during the rest of the day.

At the door of the gallery he bowed to the courtiers, and, by a wave of his hand, indicated that he wished to be alone. When they had left him, he passed through the cabinet to a corridor which led to the apartments of the princesses. Having reached the door, before which hung a curtain, he stopped for a moment, shook his head, and muttered between his teeth:

“There was but one of them good, and she is gone!”

This very flattering speech for those who remained was answered by a shrill chorus of voices; the curtain was raised, and the furious trio saluted their father with cries of “Thank you, father, thank you!”

“Ha, Loque!” said he, addressing the eldest of them, the Princess Adelaide. “You heard what I said-so much the worse for you. Be angry or not, just as you like-I only spoke the truth.”

“Yes,” said the Princess Victoire, “you tell us nothing new, Sire. We always knew that you preferred Louise to us.”

“In faith, quite true, Chiffe.”

“And why do you prefer Louise-” asked the Princess Sophie, in a sharp voice.

“Because Louise never gave me any trouble,” replied the king, showing that good-humored frankness of which, when he was perfectly pleased, Louis XV, was so complete a type.

“Oh, but she will give you trouble yet, rest assured!” replied the Princess Sophie, with such a peculiar emphasis that it drew the attention of the king more particularly to her. “I should be rather surprised if she did not, for she is not very fond of you.”

“And pray, what do you know about her, Graille-” said he. “Did Louise, before going away, make you her confidante-”

“I can say most truly,” answered the princess, “that I return her affection with interest.”

“Oh, very well. Hate one another-detest one another as much as you choose; I am perfectly content; only do not summon me to restore order in the kingdom of the Amazons. However, I should like to know how poor Louise is to give me trouble.”

“Poor Louise!” repeated the three princesses, making different grimaces at the words. “You wish to know how she will give you trouble- Well, I shall tell you,” said the Princess Sophie.

The king stretched himself in a large easy-chair, placed near the door, so that he could at any moment make his escape.

“Louise is retiring to a convent, because she wishes to carry on some experiments which she cannot make so well in the palace.”

“Come, come!” said the king, “no insinuations against the virtue of your sister. No one beyond these walls has ever dared to sully that, though many things are said of you for which it were well there were no grounds. Do not you begin this subject!”

“I-”

“Yes, you!”

“Oh, I was not going to attack Louise's virtue,” said the Princess Sophie, very much hurt by the peculiar accent her father had given to the you, and by the marked repetition of it; “I only said she was going to make experiments.”

“Well, and if she does make experiments in chemistry, if she does make firearms, and wheels for chairs, if she does play on the flute, the drum, or the harpsichord, or even the violin -what harm would there be in it-”

“The experiments to which I alluded were experiments in politics.”

The king started-the princess went on.

“She is going to study philosophy and theology. She will continue the commentaries on the bull 'Unigenitus'-indeed, we must seem very useless beings when compared with her-a lady who writes theories concerning governments, systems of metaphysics, and theology!”

“And if these pursuits lead your sister to heaven, what harm can you see in them-” said the king, struck, however, with the connection there was between what the Princess Sophie was saying, and the manner of the Princess Louise's departure, accompanied as it had been by a political exhortation. “If you envy her happiness you are very bad Christians.”

“No, on my honor!” said the Princess Victoire, “she has my full permission to go, but I shall take care not to follow her.”

“Nor I!” responded the Princess Adelaide.

“Nor I!” said the Princess Sophie.

“Besides, she always detested us,” said the first.

“You all-” the king asked.

“Yes, detested us all,” they replied.

“Oh, then, I see,” he said, “poor Louise has chosen to go to heaven that she may not meet any of her family again!”

This sarcasm made the three sisters laugh, but rather constrainedly, and Adelaide, the eldest, brought all her wit into play in order to deal her father a more weighty blow than he had given them.

“Ladies,” said she, with the sneering tone which was peculiar to her when roused from that habitual indolence which had procured for her the name of Loque, “you have either not found out, or you do not dare to tell the king, the real cause of Louise's departure!”

“Come, Loque-come! you have got some wicked tale to tell, I see. Let us hear it!”

“Sire, I fear it might vex you a little.”

“No, no-say you hope it will vex me, that would be nearer the truth.”

Madame Adelaide bit her lips. “Then I shall tell you the truth, Sire.”

“Very fine! If you ever do tell the truth, cure yourself of the habit. The habit- Do I ever tell it- and yet you see I am not the worse for it, Heaven be praised!” and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Speak, sister, speak,” said the other two sisters, impatient to hear anything that might wound their father.

“Sweet little creatures!” growled the king; “see how they love their father!” But he consoled himself by thinking that he returned their love in kind.

“Well,” continued the Princess Adelaide; “what Louise dreaded most-for she was very precise on the score of etiquette-was-”

“Was what-” exclaimed the king; “come, finish, since you have gone so far!”

“It was, Sire, then, the intrusion of new faces at court.”

“Do you say intrusion-” asked he, by no means pleased with this beginning, for he saw to what it tended. “Intrusion- Are there intruders, then, in my palace- Am I forced to receive persons against my will-”

By this adroit turn he hoped to change the course of the conversation. But the Princess Adelaide felt herself on the right scent, and she was too cunning and too malicious to lose it, when she had so good an end in view as the annoyance of her father.

“Perhaps I was not quite correct-perhaps I used the wrong word-instead of intrusion, I should have said introduction.”

“Oh, ah!” said the king, “that is an improvement-the other word was a disagreeable one, I confess-I like introduction better.”

“And yet,” continued the princess, “that is not the right word either.”

“What is it, then-”

“It is presentation.”

“Yes,” cried the other sisters, “yes, you have found the right word now.”

The king bit his lip. “Oh, do you think so-” said he.

“Yes,” replied the Princess Adelaide, “my sister was very much afraid of new presentations.”

“Well-” said the king, feeling what must come, and thinking it best to have done with it as speedily as possible, “well- go on!”

“Well, Sire, she was consequently afraid of seeing the Countess Dubarry presented at court.”

“Ha!” cried the king, with a burst of passion which he could not repress; “so you have been all this time getting this out! Mordieu! Madame Tell-truth, how you beat about the bush!”

“Sire,” replied the princess, “if I have so long delayed in telling your majesty this, it is because respect closed my lips, and I should not have opened them but by your own command.”

“Yes, yes; you would never have opened them, I suppose, to yawn, or to speak, or to bite!”

“I am quite certain, however, Sire, that I have discovered the real motive which has made my sister retire into a convent.”

“Well!-you are wrong!”

“Oh, Sire!” they all three repeated, shaking their heads, “oh, Sire! we are quite certain of what we say.”

“Pshaw! You are all of a tale, I see. There is a conspiracy in my family. This is the reason the presentation cannot take place-this is the reason the princesses can never be seen when persons wish to visit them-that they give no answers to petitions, or requests for an audience.”

“What petitions- What requests for an audience-” asked the Princess Adelaide.

“Oh, you know,” replied the Princess Sophie, “the petitions of Mademoiselle Jeanne Vaubernier.” (This was the Countess Dubarry's name in the days of her poverty.)

“Yes,” added the Princess Victoire, “the requests for an audience of Mademoiselle Lange.” (Another name which she had borne.)

The king started up, furious with passion; his eye, generally calm and mild, now flashed in a manner rather alarming for the three sisters, and as none of this royal trio of heroines seemed courageous enough to bear the paternal wrath, they bent their heads before the storm.

“And now,” cried he, “was I wrong when I said the best had left me-”

“Sire,” said the Princess Adelaide, “you treat us very ill-worse than you treat your dogs!”

“And justly, too. My dogs, when I go near them, receive me kindly-caress me -they are real friends. So, adieu, ladies! I shall go to Charlotte, Bellefille, and Gredinet. Poor animals! Yes, I love them! And I love them more particularly because they do not bark out the truth.”

The king left the apartment in a rage; but had not taken three steps in the anteroom, when he heard his daughters singing in chorus the first verse of a ballad ridiculing the Countess Dubarry, which was then sung through the streets of Paris.

He was about to return-and perhaps the princesses would not have fared well had he done so-but he restrained himself, and went on, calling loudly, that he might not hear them, “Hola! the captain of the greyhounds! the captain of the greyhounds!”

The officer who bore this singular title hurried forward.

“Let the dogs be loosed!”

“Oh, Sire!” cried the officer, placing himself in the king's way, “do not advance another step!”

“What now- what now-” said the king, stopping before a door, from under which was heard the sniffing of dogs, aware that their master was near.

“Sire,” said the officer, “pardon me, but I cannot permit your majesty to enter here.”

“Oh, I understand-the kennel is out of order. “Well, then, let Gredinet be brought out.”

“Sire,” continued the officer, with alarm depicted on his face, “Gredinet has neither eaten nor drunk for two days, and it is feared he is mad.”

“Oh!” cried the king, “I am really the most wretched of men! Gredinet mad! This alone was wanting to complete my vexation!”

The officer of the greyhounds thought it his duty to shed a tear to make the scene more perfect. The king turned on his heel, and retired to his private cabinet, where his valet was waiting. He, seeing the king's face so disturbed, hid himself in the recess of a window-and the king, looking upon him rather as a piece of furniture than a man, strode up and down his room talking to himself.

“Yes. I see it-I see it plainly,” said he; “the Duke de Choiseul laughs at me-the dauphin looks upon himself as already half master, and thinks he will be wholly so when he has his little Austrian beside him on the throne. Louise loves me-but so sternly, that she preaches me a sermon and leaves me. My three other daughters sing songs, in which I am ridiculed under the name of Blaise. My grandson, the Count de Provence, translates Lucretius; and his brother, the Count d'Artois, is a dissipated scapegrace. My dogs go mad, and would bite me. Decidedly, there is only the poor countess who loves me. To the devil, then, with those who would annoy her!”

Then with a sort of settled despair, he seated himself at that table on which Louis XIV, wrote his proudest letters and signed his latest treaties.

“I know now,” continued he, “why Everyone wishes to hasten the arrival of the dauphiness. They think when she shows herself, I shall become her slave, and be governed by her family. I'faith, I shall see her soon enough, that dear daughter-in-law of mine, particularly if her arrival is to be the signal for new troubles. Let me be quiet as long as I can, and for that purpose, the longer she is delayed on the road the better. She was to have passed through Rheims and Noyon without stopping, and to come immediately to Compiegne. I shall insist on the first arrangement. Three days at Rheims-and one-no, faith-two! Bah! three days at Noyon! That would be six days I should gain-yes, six good days!”

He took a pen, and wrote in person an order to the Count de Stainville to stop three days at Rheims and three days at Noyon.

Then, sending for a courier, “Don't draw bridle,” said he, “until you have delivered this according to its address.”

Then with the same pen he wrote:

“DEAR COUNTESS-To-day we install Zamore in his government. I am just setting out for Marly. This evening, at Luciennes, I shall tell you all I now think.

“FRANCE.”

“Here, Lebel,” said he to the valet, “take this letter to the countess, and keep on good terms with her-I advise you.”

The valet bowed and left the room.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE COUNTESS DE BEARN.

THE PRINCIPAL object of all the fury of the court, and their stumbling-block on this dreaded occasion-the Countess de Bearn -was, as Chon said, traveling rapidly to Paris. Her journey thither was the result of one of those bright ideas which sometimes came to Viscount Jean's Assistance in his times of trouble.

Not being able to find among the ladies of the court one who would present the Countess Dubarry, and since she could not be presented without a lady to introduce her, he cast his eye on the provinces. He examined country-seats-searched carefully in the towns-and at last found what he wanted on the banks of the Meuse, in an old Gothic-looking country seat, but one kept in good order.

Now, what he wanted was an old lady fond of law, and having a lawsuit on hand. The old lady with the lawsuit was the Countess de Bearn.

The lawsuit was an affair on which all her fortune depended, and which was to be heard before Monsieur de Maupeou, who had lately taken up the cause of the Countess Dubarry, having discovered-what had remained hidden until then-that he was related to her, and now called her cousin. Looking forward to the appointment of Lord Chancellor through her interest, he showed the king's favorite all the warmth of a friendship naturally arising from such a substantial basis. This friendship and this interest had procured for him from the king the office of vice-chancellor, and from the world in general the pithy denomination of the vice.

The Countess de Bearn was a thin, angular, agile little woman, always on the alert, always rolling her eyes like those of a frightened cat, from under her gray eyebrows. She still wore the dress which had been fashionable in her youth, and as the capricious goddess of fashion has sensible fits now and then, it so happened that the costume of the young girl of 1740 should be precisely that of the old woman of 1770.

Broad guipure, pointed mantelet, an enormous coif, an immense bag, and a neck-handkerchief of flowered silk-such was the costume in which Chon, the well-beloved sister and confidante of the Countess Dubarry, found the Countess de Bearn arrayed, when she presented herself before her as Mademoiselle Flageot, the daughter of the lawyer in Paris who had the management of her suit. The old countess wore the costume of her early days as much from taste as from economy. She was not one of those persons who blush for their poverty, because her poverty had not been caused by her own fault. She regretted, indeed, not being rich for her son's sake, to whom she would have wished to leave a fortune worthy of his name. The young man was thoroughly country-bred, timid to a fault, caring much more for what belonged to the substantial things of life than to the honors of renown.

The countess's sole consolation was in calling the lands which were contested with the Saluce family “my estate”; but as she was a woman of sense, she felt that if she wanted to borrow money on that estate, not a usurer in France-and there were some bold enough in running risks at that period-would lend it her; not an attorney-and there were some not very scrupulous then, as there have been at all times-would procure her the smallest sum on such a guarantee.

Forced, then, to live on the annual rents of those lands that were not disputed, the Countess de Bearn, having only one thousand crowns a year, kept very far from court; for there she must have spent nearly twelve livres a day in the hire of a carriage to take her to her lawyer's and to the judge's. She was still more determined in keeping aloof, since she had despaired of her cause being heard for four or five years at least. Lawsuits, even in the present day, are, in truth, tedious affairs; but still, without living to the age of the patriarchs, a person who commences one has some hope of seeing it to an end; but, formerly, a suit extended through two or three generations, and was like those fabulous plants of the Arabian tales, which blossomed only at the end of two or three centuries.

The Countess de Bearn, therefore, did not wish to lose the remains of her patrimony in recovering the ten-twelfths of it which were disputed. She was what is always called “a woman of the old school,” sagacious, prudent, firm, avaricious. She could certainly have managed her suit much better herself than any advocate, lawyer, or attorney; but she was called Bearn, and that name prevented her from doing many things which economy might have prompted. Like the divine Achilles in his tent, suffering a thousand deaths when he heard the trumpet, although feigning to be deaf to it, she, in her retirement, was devoured by regret and anguish. She passed her days in deciphering old parchments, her spectacles on her nose; and at night, on her pillow, she pleaded with such eloquence the cause of the estate claimed by the Saluces, that she was always successful -a termination of the affair which she could but wish her advocate to arrive at.

It may readily be imagined that in such a temper of mind, the arrival of Chon and the news she brought were very agreeable to Madame de Bearn.

The young count was with his regiment.

We always believe what we wish to believe; so Madame de Bearn was very easily caught by the young lady's tale.

There was, however, a shadow of suspicion in the countess's mind. She had known Master Flageot twenty years, and had visited him two hundred times in his narrow, dark street; but she had never seen a child playing on the square bit of carpet which looked so little on the floor of his large office, and had there been children there, they would surely have found their way into it to get a toy or a cake from the clients.

But what was the use of thinking about the lawyer and his office, and his carpet'; What was the use of trying to remember anything about it- Flageot's daughter was Flageot's daughter-and there she was! Moreover, she was married, and -what banished the last shadow of suspicion-she had not come on purpose to Verdun, she was going to join her husband at Strasbourg.

Perhaps the countess ought to have asked Mademoiselle Flageot for a letter from her father to assure herself of her identity; but if a father could not send his own child without a letter, to whom could he intrust a confidential mission '; Then why such fears- What could cause such suspicions- Why should anyone travel sixty leagues to tell her a tale without any foundation on fact-

If she had been rich, a banker's or a financier's wife, taking with her carriages, plate and diamonds, she might have thought it was a plot got up by robbers. But she laughed to herself when she thought what a disappointment any robbers would experience who should be so ill-advised as to attack her.

So Chon having disappeared with her plain dark dress, and her shabby little one-horse chaise which she had taken at the last post, leaving her carriage behind her, the countess, convinced that the time was come for her to make a sacrifice, got into her old coach, and urged on the postilions so well, that she passed through Lachaussee an hour before the dauphiness, and reached the gate of Saint-Denis five or six hours after Chon herself.

As she had little luggage, and as the most important thing for her was to receive information from her lawyer, she ordered her coach to drive to the Rue du Petit-Lion, and stop before Master Flageot's door. The vehicle, we may be assured, did not stop there without attracting a great number of curious spectators-and the Parisians are all curious-who stared at the venerable machine which seemed to have issued from the coachhouse of Henry IV. -so antique was it in its solidity, its monumental form, and its scalloped leather curtains, which ran with a disagreeable creaking on a copper rod, covered with verdigris.

The Rue du Petit-Lion was not wide, and the countess's equipage filled it up very majestically. Having alighted and paid the postilions, she ordered them to take it to the inn where she usually stopped-”Le Coq Chantant,” in the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres.

She ascended Monsieur Flageot's dark stairs, holding by the greasy cord which served instead of a hand-rail. The staircase was cool, and it refreshed the old lady, who was tired by her long and rapid journey. When Margaret, his servant, announced the Countess de Bearn, Master Flageot pulled up his stockings, which he had allowed to fall nearly to his ankles on account of the heat, with one hand, fixed on his wig with the other, then hastily threw on a dimity dressing-gown, and, so adorned, advanced smiling to the door. In this smile, however, there was such an expression of surprise that the countess could not help saying, “Well, well! my dear sir, it is I.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied he, “I see plainly enough, madame, that it is you!”

Then, modestly wrapping his dressing gown round him, he led the countess to a large leathern armchair, in the lightest corner of the apartment, carefully putting aside the papers which covered his desk, for he knew the old lady to be curious in the extreme.

“And now, madame,” said Master Flageot, gallantly, “permit me to express my pleasure at this agreeable surprise.”

The countess had leaned back in her chair, and raised her feet from the floor to allow Margaret to slip between it and her brocaded satin shoes a leather cushion; but at this phrase she started up hastily. “How-” exclaimed she, drawing her spectacles from their case, and putting them on, so that she might see his face the better-” surprise-”

“Most assuredly; I thought you at your estates, madame,” replied the lawyer, adroitly flattering the old lady by bestowing this title on the countess's three acres of kitchen-garden.

“Well. I was there; but, on the first intimation from you, I left them.”

“Intimation from me-” said the astonished advocate.

“Yes, at your first word, or counsel, or advice, or whatever you please to call it.”

Flageot's eyes looked as large as the countess's glasses.

“I have been very expeditious,” continued she, “and I hope you are satisfied.”

“I am delighted to see you, madame, as I always am; but allow me to say, that I do not see how I have been the cause of your visit.”

“Not the cause- Most certainly you have been the entire cause of it!”

“I-”

“Yes, you, undoubtedly. Well, have you no news to tell me-”

“Oh, yes, madame; it is said the king is meditating some great stroke of policy with regard to the parliament. But may I offer you some refreshment-”

“But what does it matter to me about the king and his strokes of policy-”

“About what, then, did you inquire, madame-”

“About my suit, of course. Is there anything new about it-”

“Oh, as to that,” said Flageot, shaking his head sorrowfully, “nothing, absolutely nothing!”

“That is to say, nothing-

“No-nothing, madame.”

“You mean nothing since your daughter spoke to me about it; but as that was only the day before yesterday, I can readily understand that there may not be much new since then.”

“My daughter, madame-”

“Yes.”

“Did you say my daughter-”

“Yes, your daughter, whom you sent to me.”

“Pardon me, madame; but it is quite impossible that I could send my daughter to you.”

“Impossible-”

“Yes, for a very simple reason-I have no daughter.”

“Are you sure-” asked the countess.

“Madame,” replied Flageot. “I have the honor to be a bachelor!”

“Come, come!” said the countess, as if she supposed him jesting.

M. Flageot became uneasy; he called Margaret to bring in some refreshment, but, more particularly, that she might watch the countess. “Poor woman!” said he to himself, “her head is turned.”

“What,” said she, returning to the charge, “you have not a daughter-”

“No, madame.”

“Not one married at Strasbourg-”

“No, madame, by no means.”

“And you did not send that daughter,” pursued the countess, “on her way thither, to tell me that my suit was called in-”

“Nothing of the kind, madame.”

The countess started from her chair, and clasped her hands.

“Drink a little of something, madame; it will do you good,” said M. Flageot, and at the same time he made a sign to Margaret to bring a tray, on which were two glasses of beer. But the old lady was not thinking of her thirst, and she pushed away the tray so rudely that Dame Margaret, who appeared to be a privileged sort of person, was affronted,

“But let us understand each other,” said the countess, eying Master Flageot over her spectacles, “explain all this, if you please.”

“Certainly, madame. Margaret, you need not go; the countess will perhaps drink something presently. Let us explain.”

“Yes, let us explain; for, upon my honor, my dear sir, you are quite incomprehensible to-day. I begin to think the hot weather has turned your brain.”

“Do not be angry, dear madame,” said Flageot, maneuvering with the hindfeet of his chair, so that he got by degrees farther from the countess, “Do not get angry, and let us talk over the matter quietly.”

“Yes, yes, certainly. You say you have not a daughter-”

“No, madame, I have not one, and I regret it deeply, since it appears you would be pleased that I had, although-

“Although what-” repeated the countess.

“Although, for my own part, I should prefer a son. Boys succeed better in the world, or rather, don't turn out so ill as girls in the present day.”

The countess looked more and more alarmed.

“What!” said she, “have you not sent for me to Paris by a sister, a niece, a cousin-by some person, in short-”

“I never thought of such a thing, madame, knowing how expensive it is staying in Paris.”

“But my suit-”

“I should always have taken care to let you know in time, before the pleading came on.”

“Before it came on-”

“Yes.”

“Has it not come on, then-”

“Not that I know of, madame.”

“It has not been called-”

“No.”

“And it is not likely to come on soon-”

“Oh, no, madame, certainly not.”

“Then,” cried the old lady, rising, “I have been tricked!-I have been most basely deceived!”

Flageot pushed back his wig, muttering. “I fear it, indeed, madame.”

“Master Flageot!” cried the countess.

The lawyer started on his seat, and made a sign to Margaret to keep near, in order to defend him.

“Master Flageot,” continued the countess, “I will not submit to such an indignity as this; I will address the minister of police, to discover the impudent creature who insulted me thus!”

“Oh.” said Flageot, “it is a very doubtful affair.”

“And when she is found,” continued the countess, almost speechless with anger, “I shall bring an action against her.”

“Another lawsuit!” said the lawyer, sorrowfully.

These words made the poor lady fall from the height of her passion, and a heavy fall it was.

“Alas,” said she, “I came here so happy!”

“But what did that woman say to you, madame-”

“First, that she was sent by you.”

“Shocking intriguer!”

“That you desired her to say that the trial was coming on-was very near-that I could scarcely be in time with all the speed I could make.”

“Alas! madame,” repeated Flageot, in his turn, “the trial is very far from coming on.”

“Yes, so far from it, I suppose, that it is quite forgotten.”

“Forgotten!-sunk, buried, madame; and unless a miracle were to happen-and you know miracles are very rare nowadays-”

“Oh, yes!” murmured the countess, with a sigh.

M. Flageot replied by another sigh, a faithful echo of the countess's.

“Well, sir, one thing is certain,” she added.

“What is it, madame-”

“I shall not survive this.”

“Oh, don't say so! you would be quite wrong.”

“Oh, heaven!-oh, heaven!” exclaimed the poor countess; “my strength is completely exhausted.”

“Courage, madame, courage!” said Flageot.

“But have you no advice to give me- -none-”

“Oh, yes!-my advice is to return to your estates, and after this never believe anybody who does not bring you a letter from me, in my own hand.”

“I must return, indeed.”

“It will be the wisest plan.”

“Well, sir,” said the countess, with a groan, “believe me, we shall never meet again-at least, not in this world.”

“What an infamous affair!”

“I must have some very cruel enemies.”

“It has been a trick of the opposite party, I would swear!”

“It is a very mean trick, I must say.”

“A mean, sorry trick, indeed!”

“Justice!-justice!” cried the countess, “my dear sir, she is the cave of Cacus!”

“And why is it-” he replied; “because justice is not what it was-because the parliament is opposed-because Monsieur de Maupeou must be chancellor, forsooth, instead of remaining what he ought to be, president.”

“M. Flageot, I think I could drink something now.”

“Margaret!” cried the lawyer -for Margaret had left the room, seeing the peaceable turn affairs were taking. She now entered with the tray and the two glasses which she; had carried away. The countess drank her glass of beer very slowly, after having touched the lawyer's glass with hers, then she gained the anteroom, after a sad and solemn curtsey and a still more sorrowful leave-taking.

The lawyer followed her, his wig in his hand. She was in the lobby, and was reaching out her hand for the cord to aid her in her descent, when a hand was laid on hers, and a head gave her a thump on the chest. The head and the hand were those of a clerk, who was mounting the stairs four steps at a time.

The old lady, muttering and grumbling, arranged her petticoats and continued on her way, while the clerk, having reached the lobby, pushed open the lawyer's door, and with the open and joyous voice for which the clerks of the parliament were noted, cried out, “Here, Master Flageot!-here! -it is about the Bearn business;” and he held out a paper.

To rush up the stairs at that name-push by the clerk-to throw herself on Flageot-to snatch the paper from him-to shut herself up with him in his office-all this was effected by the countess before the clerk had recovered from two boxes on the ear which Margaret bestowed, or seemed to bestow on him, in return for two kisses.

“Well!” cried the old lady, “what is it- Master Flageot-what is it-”

“Faith, I can't tell, madame; but if you will give me back the paper, I shall let you know.”

“True, true, my good Muster Flageot! Read it-read it!”

He looked at the signature.

“It is from Guildon, our attorney,” said he.

“Good heavens!”

“He deSires me,” continued Flageot, with surprise amounting almost to bewilderment-”he deSires me to be ready to plead on Tuesday, for your affair is to come on!”

“To come on-” cried the countess; “take care, Master Flageot, take care!-no more tricks-I should never recover from another.”

“Madame,” replied Flageot, still bewildered at the intelligence, “if there be any trick, any jest in this, Guildon is the author of it; and it is certainly the first time in his life that he has jested.”

“But are you certain the letter is from him-”

“It is signed Guildon-see!”

“I see it is. To be called this morning and pleaded on Tuesday. Well, then, you see, my dear sir, the lady who came to me was not a cheat.”

“It appears not.”

“Then, since she was not sent by you -but are you sure she was not-”

“Pardieu!-am I sure of it-”

“By whom was she sent, then-”

“Yes, by whom-”

“For she must have been sent by someone.”

“It is a complete riddle to me.”

“And to me also. Let me read the paper again. Yes, my dear Master Flageot, the pleading is to come on-it is written so-and before the president, Maupeou.”

“The devil!-is that there-”

“Yes, certainly.”

“That is vexatious.”

“How so-”

“Because M. Maupeou is a great friend of your opponents.”

“You know that!

“He is always with them.”

“Ha!-I am truly unfortunate! Now we are more embarrassed than ever!”

“But, for all that,” said the lawyer, “you must wait on him.”

“He will receive me very badly!”

“That is probable.”

“Oh, Master Flageot, what do you tell me-”

“The truth, madame.”

“What! you not only lose courage yourself, but you try to deprive me of mine-”

“With the Chancellor Maupeou you must not hope for anything favorable.”

“You, so timid!-you, a Cicero!”

“Cicero would have lost the cause of Ligarius had he pleaded before Verres instead of Caesar,” replied Master Flageot, finding nothing more humble to say in return for the high compliment of his client.

“Then you advise me not to wait on him-”

“Heaven forbid, madame, I should advise anything so irregular; but I pity you sincerely for having to undergo such an interview.”

“You really speak like a soldier who meant to desert his post. One would think you feared to, undertake the business.”

“Madame.” replied the lawyer, “I have lost causes which seemed much more likely to be gained by me than this of yours does.”

The countess sighed, but summoning all her energy, she said, with a kind of dignity which made a complete contrast to all that had been comic in the scene. “I shall carry the matter through-it shall not be said that having right on my side I gave way before a cabal. I shall lose my cause, but I shall, at least, act as a woman of rank and character-such as there are few at court in the present day. You will accompany me, will you not. M. Flageot, in my visit to the vice-chancellor-”

“Madame.” replied the lawyer, also calling up all his dignity to his aid, “we opposition members of the parliament of Paris have sworn to have no intercourse beyond necessary audiences with those who betrayed the parliament in the affair of Monsieur d'Aiguillon. 'Union is strength.' and as the vice-chancellor tacked about perpetually in that business, we have determined to keep aloof until he shows his real colors.”

“My suit is doomed, I see,” sighed the countess; “the lawyers quarrel with the judges-the judges with the clients. No matter! I shall persevere to the end!”

“May Heaven assist you, madame!” said Flageot, flinging his dressing-gown over his left arm as a Roman senator might have done his toga.-

“This is but a poor sort of an advocate,” murmured she to herself. “I am afraid I shall have less chance with him before the parliament than I had at home on my pillow;” then aloud, with a smile, under which she strove to hide her uneasiness, “Adieu, M. Flageot, adieu-study the case thoroughly, I entreat you-we know not how things may turn out.”

“Oh, madame,” said Master Flageot, “do not fear as to the pleading-I shall do you justice-I shall make some terrible allusions.”

“Allusions to what, sir-”

“To the corruption of Jerusalem, madame, which I shall compare to the accursed cities on which the fire of Heaven descended. You understand -no one can mistake-by Jerusalem I mean Versailles.”

“M. Flageot,” exclaimed the old lady, “do not compromise yourself-or rather, do not compromise my cause.”

“Oh, madame, with Monsieur de Maupeou for judge, your cause is lost. But then, let the world hear of us; since we cannot obtain justice, let us at least strike terror to the wicked.”

“Sir, sir!-”

“Let us be philosophic-let us thunder-”

“Deuce take you, with your thunder!” muttered the countess; “fool of a lawyer-you are thinking only of making a figure with your fag-ends of philosophy. Come, I will go to the vice-chancellor-he at least is no philosopher. I may do better with him than with you, after all.”

And the countess left M. Flageot, having, poor old lady, in two days, mounted all the degrees of the scale of hope, and descended all those in that of disappointment.

CHAPTER XXX. THE VICE.

THE OLD COUNTESS trembled in every limb as she proceeded toward Monsieur de Maupeou's residence. However, one thought had quieted her a little on the road-it was so late that in all probability she would not be admitted, and she should merely have to tell the porter when she should come again.

In fact, it was about seven in the evening, and although it was still light, the habit of dining at four, which the nobility had adopted, had caused all business to be suspended from dinner until the next day. Although Madame de Bearn anxiously longed to see the chancellor, she was, nevertheless, consoled by the thought that she should not see him. This is one of the frequent contradictions of the human mind which we can always understand but never explain.

The countess presented herself, therefore, quite certain that the porter would refuse her admittance; and had even prepared a crown to offer the Cerberus to induce him to put her name on the list of those who requested an audience. On reaching the house, she found an usher talking to the porter, as if giving him an order. She waited discreetly, that she might not interrupt these two personages; but, on perceiving her in her hackney-coach, the usher withdrew. The porter approached and demanded her name.

“Oh, I know.” said she, “that it is not probable I shall have the honor of seeing his excellency.”

“No matter, madame,” replied the porter; “have the goodness to tell me your name.”

“The Countess de Bearn,” she replied.

“My lord is at home,” answered he.

“What did you say-” asked the countess, almost dumb with astonishment.

“I say that my lord is at home,” repeated he.

“But of course he will not receive visitors-”

“He will receive you, madame.”

Madame de Bearn got out of the coach, hardly knowing whether she was asleep or awake.

The porter pulled a cord-a bell rang twice. The usher appeared at the top of the steps, and the porter made a sign to the countess to enter.

“You wish to speak to my lord-” asked the usher.

“I wish for that honor, but I scarcely hoped to obtain it.”

“Have the goodness to follow me, madame.”

“And yet people speak so ill of this chancellor,” said the countess to herself, as she went along, following the usher-” yet he has certainly one good quality-he admits persons on business at all hours. A chancellor-it is strange!”

Yet still she shuddered at the idea that she should find him so much the more stern, so much the more ungracious, because he was assiduous at his duties. M, de Maupeou, buried under a great wig, and dressed in a suit of black velvet, was waiting in his cabinet, with the doors open. The countess, on entering, cast a rapid glance around. She saw with surprise that he was alone-that the mirrors reflected no other face than her own and that of the meager, yellow, busy chancellor.

The usher announced-” Madame the Countess de Bearn.” The chancellor rose up stiffly, as if he had no joints, and, by the same movement, leaned his back against the chimney piece.

The countess made the necessary three curtseys.

hit short, complimentary speech which followed the curtseys was rather embarrassed-she did not expect the honor-she did not think that a minister who had so much to do would deprive himself of the hours necessary for recreation, etc., etc.

The chancellor replied that time was, no doubt, as precious to his majesty's subjects as to his majesty's ministers-that, nevertheless, he admitted, there were distinctions to be made as to the importance of the affairs brought before him; consequently, he always gave the greater part of his time to those whose business was most urgent.

Fresh curtseys on the part of the countess, then an embarrassed silence, for compliments were ended, and her request must now be made.

The chancellor waited, stroking his chin.

“My lord,” said she, “I have presented myself before you, to explain to you an affair on which my whole fortune depends.”

The chancellor bowed, as if to intimate that she should go on.

“My lord,” she continued, “you must know that all my property, or rather my son's, is at stake in a suit now pending between us and the family of the Saluces.”

The vice-chancellor continued to stroke his chin.

“But your equity is so well known to me, my lord, that although I am aware of your interest in-indeed, I may say your friendship for-the adverse party, I have not hesitated an instant in coining to entreat you to hear me.”

The chancellor could not help smiling on hearing himself praised for his equity, a quality for which he was about as famous as Dubois was for the apostolical virtues on which he had been complimented fifty years before.

“You are right, madame,” said he, “in saying that I am a friend of your opponents, but you are also right in thinking that, when I accepted the seals, I laid aside all friendship. I shall reply to you, then, without any bias, as becomes the supreme head of justice.”

“Heaven bless you, my lord!” cried the old countess.

“I shall examine your affair as a simple jurisconsult,” continued the chancellor.

“I thank your lordship-your skill in these matters is well known.”

“Your cause comes on soon, I think.”

“Next week, my lord!”

“In the meantime, what are your wishes respecting it-”

“That your lordship would look into the documents.”

“I have already done so.”

“Well,” asked the old countess, trembling, “and what do you think of it, my lord-”

“I think that there is not a doubt on the subject.”

“Not a doubt of my gaining-”

“No-of your losing.”

“Then you think, my lord, I shall lose-”

“Undoubtedly-I shall, therefore, give you one piece of advice.”

“What is it-” asked the countess, with a last ray of hope.

“It is-if you have any payments to make, the cause being tried, and sentence pronounced, to have your funds ready.”

“Oh, my lord, we shall be ruined then!”

“Surely you know, madame, that justice never takes into account anything respecting the consequences of her decrees.”

“But, my lord, there should be mercy as well as justice.”

“And, for fear of justice being influenced by mercy, she is made blind, madame.”

“But your lordship will not refuse me your advice-”

“Certainly not -ask it, madame. I am ready.”

“Is there no means of entering into an arrangement, by which the sentence might not be so harsh-”

“Do you know any of your judges-”

“Not one of them, my lord.”

“That is unfortunate. Messieurs de Saluces, your opponents, are connected with three-fourths of the parliament.”

The countess shuddered.

“But observe,” continued the chancellor, “that that does not alter the main grounds of the question, for a judge does not permit himself to be influenced by private feelings.”

This was about as true as that he possessed the virtue of equity, or Dubois the apostolic virtues, but it made the poor countess nearly faint.

“But, after all,” continued the chancellor, “the judge having done all that integrity demands, of course leans more to a friend than to a person about whom he is indifferent-that is only just, when it is just-and as it will be just that you should lose your cause, they may in their sentence make the consequences of that loss very unpleasant to you.”

“But all that your lordship says is very alarming.”

“As far as I am concerned, I shall refrain from saying anything that might have an influence on the minds of others; but, as I am not a judge myself, I may speak to you of the state of affairs.”

“Alas, my lord, I suspected one thing!”

The vice-chancellor fixed on her his little gray eyes.

“I suspected that, the adverse party living in Paris, they might become connected with the judges, and thus be all-powerful.”

“Because, in the first place, they have justice on their side.”

“How painful it is, my lord, to hear such words from the lips of a man infallible as you are!”

“I merely say all this to you because it is the truth, and yet,” continued II, de Maupeou, with an affected frankness, “I should like, upon my word, to serve you.”

The countess started; she thought that she saw some hidden meaning, if not in the chancellor's words, at least in his thoughts, which concealed behind it something favorable to her.

“Besides,” he proceeded, “the name you bear is one of the noblest in France, and that is in itself a powerful recommendation to me.”

“Ah, my lord, it will not prevent me from losing my suit.”

“As to that, I have no power either one way or the other.”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!” cried the countess, shaking her head, “how things go in this world now!”

“You seem to infer, madame, that in the good old times they went better.”

“Alas, my lord, I cannot but think so. I recall with pleasure the time when you were merely a king's advocate in the parliament, and when you made those “beautiful speeches which I, then a young woman, went to listen to, and which I applauded with such enthusiasm. What fire!-what eloquence!-what virtue! Ah, my lord, in those times there were no plots, no cabals, no favoritism! I should have gained my suit then.”

“Yet we had Madame de Phalaris then, who tried to reign occasionally when the regent shut his eyes, and we had too La Souris, who went about picking up what crumbs she could manage to gather.”

“Oh, my lord, but Madame de Phalaris was really a lady of rank, and La Souris was such a good-natured girl.”

“Yes; so nothing was refused them.”

“Or, rather, they could refuse no one.”

“Come, madame,” said the chancellor, laughing in a manner that astonished the old lady more and more, it was so open and natural, “come, do not make me speak ill of my own administration, through affection for my youthful days.”

“But, my lord, when I think of those days I must lament my lost fortune, my ruined family.”

“You see, countess, what it is not to go with the times, not to sacrifice to the idols of the day.”

“Alas, my lord, those idols care not for worshipers who come with empty hands!”

“What can you know about them-”

“I-”-”Yes; you have never tried them, I think.”

“My lord, you speak to me really like a friend.”

“Well-are we not about the same age, countess-”

“Oh! why am I not twenty! and you, my lord, a simple advocate again-you would plead for me, and I should gain my suit.”

“Unhappily, we are not twenty, countess,” said the vice chancellor, with a gallant sigh; “we must only; therefore, beg those who are twenty to assist us, since you confess that that is the age to have influence. What!-do you know no one at court-”

“Some old noblemen who have left it now, I once knew, but they would blush for their old friend in her poverty. Stay, my lord, I have still the privilege of being received at court! I might go to Versailles-yet of what use would it be- Oh, had I again only my two hundred thousand crowns of income, people would come to visit me!-perform that miracle for me, my lord!”

The chancellor pretended not to hear this last phrase. “In your place,” said he, “I should forget the old, as they have forgotten me. I should apply to the young, and beat up for recruits among them. Do you happen to know the princesses at all-”

“

“They must have forgotten me.”

“And besides, they have no influence. Do you know the dauphin-”

“No.”

“And after all, he is so busy about his archduchess, who is about to arrive, that he can think of nothing else. Let me see -among the favorites -is there anyone-

“I don't even know their names.”

“Monsieur d'Aguillim-”

“A coxcomb of whom such shameful things are said!-that he hid in a well while others were fighting!-Fie! fie!”

“Pooh I we must not believe the half of what we hear-but stay-let me think-

“Do -do, my lord; think of someone!”

“Yes; why not- Yes! ha!-yes!”

“Who, my lord-who-”

“Why not apply to the countess herself-”

“To the Countess Dubarry-” said the old lady, spreading out her fan.

“Yes; she is really a kind creature.”

“Indeed!”

“And anxious to be useful.”

“I am of too ancient a family to please her, my lord.”

“You are mistaken, countess; she tries to attach high families to her.”

“Do you think so-” asked the old countess, already beginning to waver in her opposition.

“Do you know her-” asked the chancellor.

“Oh, good heavens! no!”

“Ah, there is the mischief! She is the person who has real influence.”

“Yes, yes, she has influence; but I never saw her.”

“Nor her sister Chon-”

“No.”

“Nor her sister Bischi-”

“No.”

“Nor her brother Jean-”

“No.”

“Nor her negro Zamore-”

“What-her negro, my lord-”

“Yes, her negro is one of the governing powers.”

“What!-that little fright, whose picture is sold in the streets, which looks like that of a dressed-up pug-dog- '

“Yes, the same.”

“I know that African!” cried the countess, with offended dignity. “How should I know him, my lord-”

“Well, well! I see you do not wish to keep your estates, countess.”

“How is that-”

“Because you speak contemptuously of Zamore.”

“But what has Zamore to do in the matter-”

“He might gain your suit for you-that is all.”

“He- That Moor-that Hottentot! How could he gain it for me-”

“By saying to his mistress that you wished to gain it. You know what influence is; he makes his mistress do what he chooses, and she makes the king do what she chooses.”

“Then Zamore governs France, my lord-”

“Hum!” replied the chancellor, nodding his head. “He has a great deal of influence; and I had rather quarrel with-with the dauphiness, for instance-than with Zamore.”

“Great Heaven!” exclaimed the countess, “if it were not a grave person like your lordship who told me such things, I could not believe them.”

“Oh, I am not the only one who will tell them you. Everybody can tell them. Ask any of the dukes and peers if they ever forget, when going to Marly or Luciennes, to take comfits for Zamore to put in his mouth, or pearls for him to hang in his ears. I, who speak to you, am I not the chancellor of France, or something very near it- Well, what was I doing when you came in- I was drawing up a governor's commission for Zamore.”

“A governor's commission-”

“Yes; Monsieur Zamore is appointed governor of the castle of Luciennes.”

“The very same title with which they rewarded the Count de Bearn after twenty years' service.”

“Yes; he was made governor of the castle of Blois. I remember that.”

“But what a degradation! Good heavens! the monarchy is dead!”

“It is very ill, at least; and you know, countess, when an invalid draws near his end, people try to get all they can from him!”

“No doubt-no doubt; but the question is how to get near this invalid.”

“Do you know what you must do to be well received by the Countess Dubarry-”

“What-”

“You must get admitted by being the bearer of this commission for her negro.”

“I-”

“It will be an excellent beginning.”

“Do you think so, my lord-” said the poor countess, all alarmed.

““I am sure of it; but-

“But what-”

“Do you know anyone acquainted wit h her-”

“No one but yourself, my lord.”

“Oh, as for me, it would be difficult for me to introduce you.”

“Assuredly,” said the poor old lady, tossed to and fro by alternate hopes and fears, “assuredly, fortune is hostile to me! Your lordship has received me in a manner quite unexpected, for indeed I did not expect to be admitted to an audience; then, you have inclined me to pay my court to Madame Dubarry-I, a Bearn! -and I am ready to undertake the hateful task of delivering the commission for her wretch of a negro, and now I cannot even get an introduction to her!”

The chancellor began again to stroke his chin, and appeared very thoughtful, when suddenly the usher announced, “M, le Viscount Jean Dubarry!”

At this name the chancellor made a gesture of amazement, and the countess sank back breathless in her chair.

“Now, say that fortune has abandoned you! Ah! countess, countess, Heaven is working in your favor.”

Then, turning to the usher, without giving the old lady time to recover, he desired that the viscount should be admitted instantly. The usher withdrew, and in a moment after our old acquaintance Jean Dubarry entered, with his arm in a sling.

After the usual number of bows were made on both sides, and as the countess, trembling and undecided, was trying to rise in order to take leave-for the chancellor by a slight movement of the head had indicated to her that her audience was ended-” Pardon me, my lord,” said the viscount; “pardon me, madame-I interrupt you, I fear-but I beg of you not to go away; I have only two words to say to his lordship.”

The countess sat down again without requiring to be pressed, her heart full of joy and expectation.

“But, perhaps, sir, I shall be in your way-” she stammered.

“Oh, madame, not at all-not at all. I merely wish to lodge a short complaint with his lordship.”

“A complaint!-Against whom-” exclaimed the chancellor.

“An attack upon me, my lord!-an assassination! One cannot pass over such things as that. Let them abuse us, make ballads about us, blacken us, we can survive all that; but when it comes to cutting our throats-mordieu! we die!”

“Explain the affair, I beg,” said the chancellor, pretending to be very much horrified.

“It is easily done-but I fear I am interrupting this lady's audience.”

“The Countess de Bearn,” said the chancellor, introducing the old lady to the Viscount Jean Dubarry.

Dubarry retreated gracefully to make his bow, the countess to make her curtsey; and both saluted as ceremoniously as if they had been at court.

“After you, sir,” said she.

“Madame, I would not be guilty of such treason against gallantry for the world.”

“Oh, sir, my business only concerns money, in yours honor is concerned; yours is therefore more urgent.”

“Then, madame,” said the viscount, “since it is your wish, I shall take advantage of your obliging permission.” And he related his tale to the chancellor, who listened very gravely.

“You will require witnesses,” said Monsieur de Maupeou, after a moment's reflection.

“Ah,” cried Dubarry, “how easily one discovers, even in those words, the upright judge who can only be influenced by irrefutable truth! Well, I can procure witnesses.”

“My lord,” said the countess, “the viscount has found one already.”

“What witness-” they both asked.

“I, myself,” the countess replied.

“You-” exclaimed the chancellor.

“Sir,” said she, addressing the viscount, “did not this affair happen at the village of Lachaussee-”

“Yes, madame.”

“At the post-house-”

“Yes.”

“Well, I shall be your witness. I passed through the place where the attack was made on you two hours after it happened.”

“Really, madame-” said the chancellor.

“Yes,” continued the countess, “and everybody was talking of what had just taken place.”

“Take care!” said the viscount, “take care, madame!-if you consent to aid me in this matter, very likely the Choiseuls will find some means of making you repent of it.”

“Ah!” said the chancellor, “and the more easily that the Countess de Bearn is engaged in a lawsuit, her chance of gaining which is very doubtful, I am afraid.”

“Oh, my lord,” cried the old lady, putting her hand to her head, “I sink from one difficulty to another!”

“Lean upon the viscount,” said the chancellor, in a half whisper; “he has a powerful arm to assist you.”

“Only one at present,” said Dubarry, with a simper. “But I know a certain person who has two good arms-they can reach far, and I offer you their aid.”

“Oh, Monsieur le Viscount, are you serious in making me such an offer-”

“It is only service for service, madame. I accept your aid-you accept mine. Is it agreed-”

“Do I accept yours- Oh, sir, you do me too much honor!”

“Then, madame, will you take a seat in my carriage; I am just going to pay a visit to my sister-”

“Without any reason -without any preparations- Oh, sir, I dare not-

“You have a reason, madame,” said the chancellor, slipping into her hand Zamore's commission.

“My lord, you are my tutelary genius!” cried the old lady, taking the document. “Monsieur le Viscount, you are the flower of the French nobility.”

“At your service,” said the viscount, pointing the way to the countess, who was as quick as a bird to take it.

“Thanks for my sister,” whispered Jean in the chancellor's ear; “thank you, cousin! But did I play my part well-eh-”

“Admirably,” said Maupeou; “but pray make the countess laugh by telling her how I played mine. But, take care! the old lady is as sharp as a needle!”

At that moment the countess turned; the two gentlemen bowed formally to one another, as if taking a ceremonious adieu.

A splendid carriage, with attendants in the royal livery, waited at the door; the old lady took her place in it quite elated; Jean seated himself beside her, and they departed.

After the king left Madame Dubarry, as we have formerly related, after a very cold and constrained reception, the countess was left alone with Chon and her brother, who had not appeared at first for fear of his wound being examined, it being, in reality, very trifling. The result of this family council was, that the countess, instead of going to Luciennes as she had told the king, set off for Paris. She had there, in the Rue de Valois, a snug little house which served as a place of rendezvous for all her family, every member of which was constantly running backward and forward, hither and thither, as business or pleasure led them.

The countess being installed in this domicile of hers, took a book and waited. Meantime the viscount prepared his battery.

It might be about half-past seven by the large dial of the church of St. Eustache, when the Countess de Bearn and Viscount Dubarry passed by on their way to his sister's.

The conversation on her side expressed great reluctance to avail herself of the good fortune which had fallen in her way. On his, there was the assumption of a sort of dignity in being her patron, with repeated exclamations at the happy chance which enabled him to introduce her to the Countess Dubarry. In return, the old lady never ceased praising the politeness and affability of the chancellor. All these fits on both sides, however, did not prevent the horses from going as fast as they could, and they reached their place of destination a little before eight.

“Permit me, madame,” said the viscount, leaving the old lady in an anteroom, “to inform the Countess Dubarry of the honor you have done her.”

“Oh, sir!” said the countess, “do not, I entreat you, allow my unseasonable visit to disturb her.”

Jean approached Zamore, who was watching for his return out of one of the windows, and whispered something in his ear.

““What a dear little negro!” cried the countess; “is he your sister's, sir-”

“Yes; he is one of her favorites, madame.”

“I congratulate her on having such a one.”

At this moment a footman opened the folding-doors of the salon where Madame Dubarry usually granted audiences, and requested the countess to walk in there. While the old lady was sighing over the luxurious furniture of the apartment, Jean was with his sister announcing his prize. “Is it really she-” asked Madame Dubarry.

“Flesh and blood!”

“Does she suspect anything-”

“Nothing in the world.”

“And how did the Vice behave-”

“Admirably!-everything conspired to favor us.”

“Do not let us leave her too long alone, lest she should suspect something.”

“You are right; for I assure you, she seems to me cunning enough.”

“Where is Chon-”

“At Versailles, you know.”

“Well, she must not by any means let herself be seen.”

“Oh, I warned her!”

“Now, princess, enter.”

Madame Dubarry gently pushed open the door of her boudoir and entered the salon.

All the ceremonial necessary to the l'etiquette of those days was scrupulously gone through by the two actresses, mutually desirous of pleasing. Madame Dubarry was the first to speak.

“I have already thanked my brother, madame, for having procured me the honor of this visit, allow me now to thank you also for having consented to his wish.”

“I know not, madame.” replied the old lady, “in what terms to thank you for this gracious reception of me.”

“Madame,” said the countess, in her turn, with a curtsey of profound respect, “it is only due to a lady of your rank to place myself at your disposal, if I can be of service to you in any way.”

And three more curtseys having been made on each side, the countess invited Madame de Bearn to be seated.

CHAPTER XXXI. ZAMORE'S COMMISSION.

“MADAME,” SAID the favorite, “pray let me hear your wishes-I am all attention.”

“Permit me, sister,” said Jean, who continued standing, “to disabuse your mind of the idea that the Countess de Bearn comes with a petition-not at all-the chancellor has simply asked her to perform a little office for him.”

The old lady turned a grateful look on the viscount, and held out to the countess the patent signed by the vice-chancellor declaring Luciennes a royal castle, and Zamore its governor.

“Then it is I who, am the person obliged,” said the countess, glancing at the document; “if I could only be so fortunate, madame, as to be of any service to you in return.”

“Oh, that you can readily be!” exclaimed the old lady, with a frankness which enchanted the brother and sister.

“Pray let me know how, madame-”

“You were kind enough to say that my name is not quite unknown to you, madame.”

“Unknown-a Bearn!”

“Then you have perhaps heard of a lawsuit which threatens my whole property.”

“Oh, yes!-a suit between you and the family of the Saluces-”

“Alas, madame, yes!”

“I know all about it, madame, I heard his majesty the other evening speak of it to my cousin the chancellor.”

“His majesty speak of my lawsuit-”

“Yes, madame.”

“And in what terms, pray-”

“Alas! my dear madame!”-and Madame Dubarry shook her head.

“As lost, as lost-was it not-” exclaimed the old lady, with anguish.

“If I must speak the truth, madame, it was.”

“His majesty said so-”

“His majesty had too much prudence and delicacy to pronounce sentence decidedly, but he seemed to look upon the adverse party as already in possession of the estate.”

“Oh, heavens! madame, if his majesty were but rightly informed on the subject -if he knew that all this was about a bond really discharged! yes, madame, the two hundred thousand francs have been paid. I have not a receipt for the money, certainly; but I have a moral certainty that it was paid. I could, if I was allowed to plead in person before the parliament, demonstrate it by inference.”

“By inference-” exclaimed Madame Dubarry, who did not understand one word of what she said, but who appeared to pay the most serious attention.

“Yes, madame, by inference”

“The proof by inference is admissible,” said Jean.

“Do you think so, sir-” asked the old lady.

“Yes, I think it is,” replied the viscount, with profound gravity.

“Well, then, by inference I could prove that the bond for two hundred thousand francs with the interest accumulated, amounting to a total of about one million -I could prove that this bond, bearing date 1406, was discharged by Guy Gaston, the fourth Count of Bearn, on his deathbed in 1417; for there it is written by his own hand in his will-'Being on my deathbed, and owing nothing to any man, and ready to appear before God-”

“Well-” said Madame Dubarry.

“Well, madame, if he owed nothing to any man, he owed nothing to the family of the Saluces, otherwise he would have said -'owing two hundred thousand francs,' instead of saying, 'owing nothing to any man.'“

“Most undoubtedly he would have said so,” exclaimed Jean.

“But have you no other proof-” asked the favorite.

“Than his word-none, madame; but he was called Gaston the Irreproachable.”

“And your opponents have the bond-”

“Yes; they have, and that is just what makes the affair more intricate.”

She should have said, “That is just what clears up the matter;” but she looked at things in her own point of view.

“So your conviction is, madame, that the bond was discharged,” said Jean.

“Yes, sir, that is my decided conviction,” exclaimed Madame de Bearn, warmly.

“Do you know,” said the countess, turning to her brother, as if deeply penetrated by that conviction, “the proof by inference, as the Countess de Bearn calls it, changes the face of things wonderfully.”

“Oh, wonderfully!” returned Jean.

“And very unpleasantly for my opponents,” continued the countess; “the terms of Gaston IV.'s will are most positive- 'owing nothing to any man-'

“It is not only clear, it is logical,” said Jean; “he owed nothing to any man, therefore, of course he had paid what he owed.”

“Therefore he had paid what he owed,” repeated the Countess Dubarry.

“Oh, madame, why are you not my judge-” ejaculated the old lady.

“Formerly.” said the viscount, “we should not have had recourse to the tribunals to settle an affair of that kind-the judgment of Heaven would have been enough. For my part, I am so convinced of the goodness of your cause, that, did the old custom still exist, I should willingly offer myself for your champion.”

“Oh, sir!”

“Yes, I should act as did my grandfather, Dubarry Moore, who had the honor of being connected with the royal family of the Stuarts, when he fought in the lists for the beautiful Edith of Scarborough, and made his adversary confess that he lied in his throat. But unhappily,” continued the viscount, with a sigh of disdain for the degeneracy of the age, “we live not in those glorious times, and gentlemen, when they claim their rights, must submit their causes to the judgment of a set of pettifoggers who have not the sense to understand a phrase so clear as -'owing nothing to any man.'“

“But, brother,” said the countess, “it is three hundred years since those words were written, so you must allow that the gentlemen of the long robe may well pause a little before deciding on them.”

“Oh, no matter-no matter-I am certain that if his majesty heard the Countess de Bearn state her case herself as she has done to us-”

“I should convince his majesty-should I not, sir-”

“I am certain of it.”

“Yes; but how am I to obtain an audience of his majesty-”

“You must come and visit me at Luciennes; and as his majesty does me the honor of coming sometimes to see me then-

“My dear,” interrupted the viscount, “that is all very well, but it depends on chance.”

“Viscount,” replied the favorite, with a sweet smile, “you know that I depend a good deal on chance, and I have no reason to complain.”

“Yes, but the Countess de Bearn might go to Luciennes for a week or a fortnight, and yet not meet his majesty.”

“That is true.”

“In the meantime, her cause is to come on on Monday or Tuesday.”

“On Tuesday, sir.”

“And this is Friday evening.”

“Ah, then,” said Madame Dubarry, with a countenance all disappointment, “we must not reckon upon that.”

“What shall we do-” said the viscount, as if in deep thought. “What a devil of a business!”

“I might have an audience at Versailles,” suggested the old lady, timidly.

“Oh, you will not obtain it.”

“But through your influence, madame-”

“Oh, my influence would be of no avail. His majesty detests business matters-and, besides, his mind is now full of one thing only.”

“The parliaments-” asked Madame de Bearn.

“No-my presentation.”

“Ah!” said the old lady.

“For you know, madame, in spite of the opposition of Monsieur de Choiseul and Madame de Grammont, the king has decided that I shall be presented.”

“I was not aware, madame.”

“It is a settled affair,” said Jean.

“And when will the presentation take place, madame-”

“Oh! very soon.”

“You see the king wishes it to be before the arrival of the dauphiness, that he may invite my sister to share the festivities at Compiegne.”

“Ah-I understand. Then you have all the arrangements made for your presentation,” said the old countess, sighing.

“Oh, yes,” replied the viscount, “the Baroness d'Alogny-do you know the Baroness d'Alogny-”

“No, sir. Alas! I scarcely know anyone now. It is twenty years since I was at court.”

“Well, it is the Baroness d'Alogny who is to present my sister. The king loads her with favors-her husband is chamberlain-he is to be raised from a baron to a count-the son is to go into the guards-her orders on the king's privy purse are to be made payable by the city of Paris, and the day of the presentation she is to receive twenty thousand crowns paid down; so she is eager for it, you may be sure!”

“Yes, I can readily understand that,” said the old lady, smiling.

“Oh, but now I think of it-” cried Jean.

“Of what-” asked the Countess Dubarry.

“What a misfortune!-what a misfortune!” continued he, “that I did not meet madame a week sooner at our cousin the vice-chancellor's.”

“Why, pray-”

“Why, we had no positive engagement then with the Baroness d'Alogny.”

“Dear brother, you speak like a sphinx -I do not understand you.”

“You do not understand-”

“No.”

“I will wager something the Countess de Bearn understands!”

“No, sir, I do not, indeed.”

“Last week you had not decided who should present you-”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Well-the Countess de Bearn -but perhaps, madame, I am taking too great a liberty-”

“No, sir-no.”

“Then madame could have presented you, and the king would have done for her what he is going to do for the Baroness d'Alogny.”

“Alas!” said the old lady, opening her eyes to their utmost extent.

“Oh, if you knew,” continued Jean, “all the favors his majesty heaped on the family of the baroness, as soon as he knew she had offered to introduce Jeanne! There was only one thing in the affair that vexed him-

“Ah, one thing vexed him-”

“Yes-one single thing-'One thing vexes me,' said he. 'The lady who presents the Countess Dubarry I should have wished to bear an historical name,' and as he said that, he looked at the picture of Charles I., by Vandyck.”

“Yes, I understand,” said the old lady; “his majesty turned to that picture on account of the alliance between the Dubarry-Moores and the Stuarts, of which you spoke just now.”

“Precisely.”

“The fact is,” said the old lady, with a slight air of hauteur, “I never heard of the family of D'Alogny.”

“A good family, however,” said the countess; “they have brought forward all the necessary proofs, or nearly all.”

“Pardieu!” cried Jean, suddenly starting in his chair.

“Well, what is the matter-” said Madame Dubarry, scarcely able to refrain from laughing outright at the contortions of her brother-in-law.

“Monsieur has hurt himself, perhaps-” asked the old lady anxiously.

“No,” said Jean, sinking slowly back again into his chair, “it was an idea which just then occurred to me.”

“What idea-” said the countess, laughing; “it almost overturned you.”

“It must certainly have been a good one,” said Madame de Bearn.

“Excellent!”

“Well- we are all anxiety to hear it.”

“It has only one fault.”

“Well-”

“It is impossible.”

“No matter; let us hear it.”

“Suppose you were to tell the Baroness d'Alogny the king's remark when he looked at Charles I.'s portrait-”

“Oh, brother, that would not be polite, we cannot think of it.”

The old lady sighed.

“It is vexatious too,” continued the viscount, as if speaking to himself; “the affair could have been so easily arranged; -the Countess de Bearn, who not only bears such an ancient name, but is besides a woman of distinguished talent, would offer herself in the place of the Baroness d'Alogny; she would have gained her lawsuit; her son would have got a commission as lieutenant in the guards, and as madame must, of course, have been put to considerable expense in her frequent visits to Paris, there would have been adequate compensation allowed. Such an opportunity does not occur twice in a lifetime!”

“Alas, no!” exclaimed the old lady, quite overcome by this unforeseen blow.

The fact is, that anyone in the position of the old litigant would have felt inclined to echo her exclamation, and like her would have sunk back, overwhelmed, in the easy chair.

“Now, brother,” said the countess, in a tone of great compassion, “you see you are giving pain to Madame de Bearn; was it not enough that I was forced to tell her I could do nothing for her with the king before my presentation-”

“Oh, if I could delay my suit,” sighed the countess.

“For only eight days,” said Dubarry.

“Yes, in eight days,” resumed Madame de Bearn, “in eight days madame will be presented.”

“Yes; but the king will be at Compiegne in eight days-he will be in the midst of festivities-the dauphiness will have arrived.”

“Stop! I have another idea. No-yes -no-yes, yes!-I have hit it!”

“What is it, sir-” said Madame de Bearn, whose whole soul seemed to hang upon the viscount's lips, and who repeated mechanically the monosyllables he uttered.

“Your presentation is still a secret; no one knows that you have got a lady to present you-”

“No; for the king wishes it to fall like a thunderbolt on the court.”

“Well, the Countess de Bearn will demand an audience of the king, as she is not supposed to know any more about your presentation than others, for the purpose of offering to present you. The king, at such an offer from a lady of her rank, will be delighted; he will receive her, thank her, will ask her what he can do for her. She will introduce the subject of her lawsuit, and explain her views respecting it-his majesty will give them a favorable consideration, and the suit which she thought lost-is gained!”

The favorite fixed her eager gaze on the old lady, who probably began to suspect that there was some snare laid for her. “I am a poor unknown creature,” said she; “his majesty would not, perhaps-

“Enough. I merely wished to give you a friendly advice on the matter,” said Jean.

“Oh, sir, I am only too sensible-” said the countess, hesitating.

“It is not a bad idea,” replied Madame Dubarry, smiling; “but perhaps madame would not like to descend to anything like a trick, even to gain her lawsuit.”

“Quite true, madame,” said the old lady, hoping to get off by this means; “I had much rather do you some real service to obtain your friendship.”

“Indeed, nothing could be more condescending,” said the favorite, with a slight shade of irony which did not escape the penetration of Madame de Bearn.

“Well, I have still another means,” said Jean. The old lady listened anxiously.

“Really, brother, your imagination is as fertile in resources as that of M, de Beaumarchais. Let us hear this last idea.”

“It is that the Countess de Bearn shall render you the real service which she wishes to do. Can you not persuade the Baroness d'Alogny to yield her rights to the countess- -you need not tell her plumply the king's observation, but you could, with your tact, make her understand that he preferred the countess's ancient name.”

This time the attack was direct; he thought there could be no evasive answer, but the countess found one.

“I should not like to interfere with that lady's arrangements,” said she; “among persons of quality a certain attention to these engagements must be observed.”

Madame Dubarry made a gesture of anger and disappointment, but the viscount by a look restrained her.

“Observe, madame,” said Jean, “I insist on nothing. Like many in the world, you have a lawsuit, which very naturally you wish to gain. It appears, however, that, on the contrary, you are likely to lose it; you are in despair; just at that moment I arrive; I feel for you; I take an interest in an affair which does not in the remotest degree concern me; I endeavor to make it turn out favorably for you. I am wrong-let us say no more about it!” and Jean rose from his seat.

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the old lady in despair, for she now saw that the Dubarrys, who had been till then indifferent, were going to use their influence against her; “oh, sir, believe me, I am truly grateful to you! I feel how benevolent have been your intentions.”

“As for myself,” replied Jean, playing to the life the part of a person perfectly unconcerned, “it matters not whether my sister be presented by the Baroness d'Alogny, the Countess de Polastron, or the Countess de Bearn.”

“Oh, certainly, sir.”

“Only I confess I felt annoyed that the royal favor should be bestowed on some mean spirit, actuated by sordid interest -a spirit yielding to our power, because it is impossible to undermine it.”

“Oh, that is what will most probably happen.” said the favorite.

“While,” continued Jean, “the Countess de Bearn, almost an entire stranger to us, and coming forward without any solicitation on our part, and prompted solely by her kindness and good nature to offer her services, appears to me worthy of all the advantages which would thereby accrue to her.”

The old lady was probably about to disclaim that goodwill which the viscount did her the honor to attribute to her, but Madame Dubarry did not give her time.

“The fact is,” said she, “the king would not refuse anything to a lady who would act as you describe.”

“What- the king would not refuse anything, do you say-”

“Even more-he would say with his own lips to the vice-chancellor, 'M, de Maupeou, I wish that everything should be settled about the lawsuit as the Countess de Bearn wishes;' but it seems, however, as if you saw some difficulty in the matter. Very good. But you will at least do me the justice, I hope, to believe that I was actuated by a sincere wish to serve you, madame,” and the viscount bowed.

“Indeed, sir, my heart is filled with gratitude to you!”

“Pray do not speak of it,” said the gallant viscount.

“But the Baroness d'Alogny would not yield up her right-” resumed the old lady, after a short pause.

“Still, his majesty would not be the less grateful to you for your offer.”

“But supposing,” persisted the old lady, who was determined to view the matter in the worst light, in order to see to the bottom of the affair-”supposing the baroness would yield her privilege to me, she would not so readily give up the accompanying advantages.”

“The king's kindness is inexhaustible, madame,” said the favorite.

“If I offered my services, madame,” replied the old lady, drawn on more and more both by her interest and the clever manner in which they played their parts, “I should leave out of view the gaining of my cause-for, to say the truth, a suit which Everyone thinks lost to-day, will not be easily gained to-morrow.”

“Oh-but if the king were favorable!” exclaimed Jean, eager to combat her new doubts.

“Well,” said the favorite. “I confess I am of the countess's opinion, viscount.”

“You are-” said he, staring at her with open eyes.

“Yes-I think it would be more honorable for a lady of her ancient name to allow her suit to go as it may. Then there would be nothing binding on the king-nothing to impede his munificence to her; and if he did not wish, in the present state of the parliaments, to interfere with the course of justice, he might offer her compensation for the loss of the suit.”

“Ah,” sighed the old lady, “how could he offer anything to compensate for the loss of two hundred thousand francs-”

“Why, in the first place,” replied Madame Dubarry, “there might, for instance, be a royal gift of one hundred thousand francs.”

The partners in this scheme looked at their victim with eager eyes.

“I have a son-” said she.

“So much the better! One more loyal servant of the State.”

“But do you think, madame, there would be anything done for my son-”

“I can answer for it,” said Jean, “that the least he might expect would be a lieutenancy in the guards.”

“Have you any other relations-” inquired the Countess Dubarry.

“I have a nephew.”

“Well, we should find out something for your nephew,” said the viscount.

“I think we may leave that in your hands, viscount,” said the favorite, laughing, “as you have just given us proofs of so brilliant an imagination!”

“Well,” continued the viscount, apparently determined to bring matters to an issue, “if his majesty did all these things for you, would you think it tolerably well-”

“I should think him extremely generous, and should offer you, madame, all my thanks-convinced that it was to you alone I should be indebted for his generosity.”

“Then,” asked the favorite, “you really take our proposal seriously into consideration-”

“Yes, madame-most seriously,” replied the old lady, turning pale at the very thought of the obligation to which she pledged herself.

“And you permit me to mention you to his majesty-”

“Pray do me that honor,” replied she, with a deep sigh.

“Madame, I shall do so with the least possible delay-indeed, this very evening,” said the favorite, rising to terminate the interview. “And in the meantime, I trust that I have secured your friendship.”

“I feel so highly honored by yours, madame,” said the old lady, beginning her curtseys again, that I almost feel as if all this were a dream.”

“Let us see, once more,” said Jean, wishing to fix the matter so firmly in the old countess's mind that it might be secure from all change. “One hundred thousand francs first, to make up for the loss of the suit; a lieutenancy for the young count; and something for a nephew.”

“Something-”

“I shall find out something good-that is my affair.”

“And when shall I have the honor of seeing you again, madame-” asked the old lady.

“To-morrow morning my carriage shall be at your door to take you to Luciennes -the king will be there. To-morrow, at ten o'clock, I shall have fulfilled my promise-his majesty will be informed, and will expect you.”

“Allow me to accompany you, madame,” said Jean, offering his arm.

“By no means, sir!”

“Well, then, to the top of the stairs-”

“Since you insist on it-” and she took the viscount's arm.

“Zamore!” cried the countess.

Zamore appeared.

“Light this lady downstairs, and order my brother's carriage forward to the door.”

The two ladies exchanged a last curtsey. At the top of the staircase Jean bade the old countess adieu, and returned to his sister, while Madame de Bearn majestically descended the grand staircase. Zamore marched first-then came two footmen with lights-and then the old lady, her train (rather a short one) borne by a third footman.

The brother and sister watched at the window, following with their eyes to the very carriage the precious chaperone, sought with so much care, and found with so much difficulty. Just as she reached the door a chaise entered the courtyard, and a young lady sprang out.

“Ah, Mistress Chon!” cried Zamore, opening his enormous mouth to its widest extent with delight. “How do you do this evening, Mistress Chon-”

The Countess de Bearn stood petrified! In the new arrival she recognized her visitor-the false daughter of Master Flageot. Dubarry hurriedly opened a window, and made frantic signs to his sister-but she did not see them.

“Has that little fool, Gilbert, been here-” inquired Chou of a lackey, without perceiving the countess.

“!No, madame,” replied one of the footmen; “we have not seen him.”

It was just then that, looking up, she saw her brother-and following the direction of his hand, discovered Madame de Bearn. Chon recognized her -hastily pulled down her hood, and rushed into the vestibule.

The old lady, without appearing to have remarked anything, got into the carriage and gave her address to the coachman.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE KING GETS TIRED.

THE KING, WHO had gone to Marly, as he had said he would, ordered his carriage at three o'clock in the afternoon, and drove from that to Luciennes. He supposed that Madame Dubarry, on receiving his note, would immediately leave Versailles, and hasten there to wait for him.

He was rather surprised, therefore, on entering the chateau, to find Zamore-looking very little like a governor-occupied in plucking out the feathers of a parrot, which, in return, was endeavoring to bite him.

The two favorites were rivals, like the Duke de Choiseul and the Countess Dubarry.

The king installed himself in the small salon, and dismissed his attendants. Although the most inquisitive gentleman in his kingdom, he was not in the habit of questioning servants or lackeys; but Zamore was neither a servant nor a lackey; he occupied a middle place between the monkey and the parrot. The king, therefore, questioned Zamore.

“Is the countess in the garden-”

“No, master.” This word the favorite, in one of her whims, had ordered to take the place of majesty at Luciennes.

“Is she at the lake, feeding the carp-” This lake had been dug at a vast expense out of the side of the hill. It was fed with water from the aqueduct, and filled with great numbers of the finest carp, brought from Versailles.

“No, master,” again answered Zamore.

“Where is she, then-”

“In Paris, master.”

“What! Did the countess not come to Luciennes-”

“No, master-but she sent Zamore.”

“What to do-”

“To wait for the king.”

“Ah ha! so you are delegated to receive me- Very agreeable indeed! Thank you, countess! Thank you! I am to have the society of Zamore!” And he rose from his chair rather piqued.

“Oh, no, the king is not to have the society of Zamore,” said the negro.

“Why not-”

“Because Zamore is going away.”

“Where are you going-”

“To Paris.”

“Then I am to be left alone- Better and better. But why go to Paris-”

“To find Mistress Barry and tell her the king is at Luciennes.”

“Oh, the countess desired you to tell me that, then-”

“Yes, master.”

“And did she tell you what I was to do till she came-”

“She said you were to sleep.”

“Ah!” said the king to himself, “she will not be long, and she has some surprise for me; “then he added aloud, “Go then and bring back the countess. But how will you travel-”

“On the great white horse with the scarlet housings.”

“And how long does it take for the great white horse to go to Paris-”

“I do not know,” said the negro boy; “but he goes fast, fast, fast! Zamore likes to go fast!”

“Indeed! I am extremely fortunate to find that Zamore likes to go fast.”

And he stationed himself at the window to see Zamore depart.

A tall footman lifted him on the horse, and with the happy ignorance of childhood, the little negro set off at a gallop on his gigantic steed.

The king, being left alone, asked a footman at last if there were anything new at Luciennes. The servant replied that there was only Monsieur Boucher, who was painting the countess's boudoir.

“Oh, Boucher, poor Boucher, is he here-” said the king, with a slight appearance of satisfaction; “and where is he-”

“In the summer-house; shall I show your majesty the way to it-”

“No, no; I should rather go and see the carps. Give me a knife.”

“A knife, Sire-”

“Yes, and a large loaf.” The valet returned carrying a large loaf, with a long knife stuck in it, on a china plate. The king made a sign to the valet to accompany him, and with a pleased air led the way to the pond.

The feeding of carps was a traditional occupation in the Bourbon family, the Grand Monarque never missing it for a single day. Louis XV, seated himself on a mossy bank, from which the view before him was charming.

There lay the little lake, with its velvet slopes of turf; beyond it a village nestled between two hills; further off, the towers of Saint Germain, with their wooded terraces, and further still the blue declivities of Saunois and Cormeilles; while, above all this, the gray and rose-tinged sky hung like a magnificent cupola. The weather had been stormy, and the foliage of the trees looked dark and heavy against the pale green of the meadows; the waters of the lake, glassy and immovable as a vast surface of oil, were disturbed from time to time by some silvery lashing fish springing up to seize the unwary fly, and checkering it with wide-spreading circles of alternate black and white. At the margin might be perceived the enormous snouts of a number of fish, which, fearless of hook or net, sucked the leaves of pendant plants, and with their huge fixed eyes, which seemed incapable of sight, stared at the gray lizards and green frogs sporting among the bulrushes.

When the king, like a man profoundly skilled in the art of killing time, had looked at the landscape on all sides, when he had counted the houses in the village, and the villages in the distance, he took the plate with the loaf, placed it beside him, and began to cut off large pieces of the bread.

The carps heard the sound of the knife in the crust, and accustomed to that noise, which announced their dinner hour, they immediately flocked as close as possible to the bank, to show themselves to his majesty and solicit their daily meal. They would have done the same for any footman in his service, but the king naturally thought that all this trouble was for him alone.

He threw in one after another the pieces of bread, which first disappearing for an instant, and then, returning to the surface, were contended for for some time, then, gradually crumbling away by the action of the water, were seized and seen no more. It was indeed a curious and amusing enough sight to see all these crusts pushed hither and thither by the invisible snouts, and tossed on the surface of the water, until the moment when they were swallowed.

At the end of about half an hour, his majesty, having in that time patiently cut one hundred bits of crust, had the satisfaction of seeing that not one remained floating. He began now, however, to feel rather tired of the sport, and he remembered that Monsieur Boucher might amuse him a little; he would not certainly be as good a resource as the carps, but in the country we must take what we can get.

Louis, therefore, turned toward the summer-house. Boucher had heard that he was at Luciennes, and though he went on painting, or seeming to paint, he followed the king with his eyes, saw him turn in the direction of the summer-house, and radiant with joy, he adjusted his ruffles and mounted on his ladder, for he had been warned not to appear to know that the king was there. He heard a step on the floor of the room, and began to daub a fat Cupid stealing a rose from a shepherdess in a blue satin gown and straw hat. His hand trembled, his heart beat. The king stopped on the threshold.

“All, Boucher,” cried he; “how you smell of turpentine!” and he walked on.

Poor Boucher, although he knew the king had no taste for the fine arts, did expect some other kind of compliment, and was nearly falling from his ladder. He came down and went away with the tears in his eyes, without scraping his palette or washing his brushes, which, in general, he was so careful to do.

His majesty pulled out his watch-it was seven o'clock.

Louis returned to the house, teased the monkey, made the parrot speak, pulled out all the drawers of the cabinets, one after the other, and ransacked their contents.

Evening drew on. The king was not fond of darkness, and the apartments were lighted up. But he did not like solitude either.

“My horses in a quarter of an hour!” said he. “Ma foi!” added he, “I shall just give her one quarter of an hour; not a minute longer.”

As he said this, he stretched himself on a sofa opposite the fireplace, to watch the course of the fifteen minutes, that is, of nine hundred seconds. At the four hundredth beat of the timepiece, which represented a blue elephant carrying a pink sultana, he was asleep.

As may be supposed, the footman who came to announce his majesty's carriage took care not to awake him. The result of this attention to his august slumber was, that when he awoke of his own accord, he found himself face to face with the Countess Dubarry, who was looking at him with her eyes wide open. Zamore stood in a corner waiting for orders.

“Ah! you are here at last, countess,” said the king, sitting up on the sofa.

“Yes, Sire, here I am,” said the countess, “and here I have been a pretty longtime.”

“Oh! a pretty longtime-”

“An hour and a half at least. But how your majesty does sleep!”

“Faith, countess, you were not here, and I was getting shockingly tired; and then I sleep so badly at night. Do you know, I was on the point of going away!”

“Yes, I saw your majesty's carriage at the door.”

The king looked at his watch.

“Half-past ten -then I have slept nearly three hours!”

“After that, Sire, say that you cannot sleep well at Luciennes!”

“Oh, faith, very well; but what the devil do I see there-” said he, looking at Zamore.

“You see the governor of Luciennes, Sire.”

“Not yet, not yet,” said the king, laughing. “The little wretch has put on his uniform before having been appointed; he reckons on my word, then-”

“Sire, your word is sacred, and he is right in reckoning on it. But Zamore has something more than your word, or rather something less-he has his commission; the vice-chancellor sent it to me. The oath is now the only formality which is wanting; make him swear quickly, and then betake himself to his post.”

“Approach, governor,” said the king.

Zamore came forward. He was dressed in a uniform, with an embroidered collar and a captain's epaulettes, with short breeches, silk stockings, and a sword like a spit. He walked with a stiff, measured step, an enormous three-cornered hat under his arm.

“Can he swear-” asked the king.

“Oh, yes, Sire; try him.”

“Advance,” cried he, looking curiously at the black puppet.

“On your knees!” said the countess.

“Swear!” said the king.

The child placed one hand on his heart, the other in the king's hand, and said, “I swear fealty and homage to my master and mistress; I swear to defend to the death the castle in my keeping, and to eat the last pot of sweetmeats rather than surrender, should I be attacked.”

The king laughed as much at the form of the oath as at the gravity with which Zamore pronounced it.

“In return for this oath,” he replied with suitable gravity, “I confer on you the sovereign rights of justice on high and low, on all inhabiting air, earth, fire, and water, in this castle.”

“Thank you, master,” said Zamore, rising.

“And now,” said the king, “go and show off your fine clothes in the kitchens, and leave us alone; go!”

As Zamore went but at one door, Chon entered by another.

“Ah, and you there, too, my little Chon! Come, I shall hear the truth from you.”

“Take care, Sire, that you are not disappointed in your expectations!” said Chon; “the truth is, it would be for the first time in my life. If you wish to learn the truth, apply to my sister-she is incapable of speaking falsely.”

“Is that true, countess-”

“Sire, Chon has too flattering an opinion of me-bad example has ruined me-and from this evening forth I am determined to lie like a real countess, if the truth will not serve me.”

“Oh, ho!” said the king; “I suspect Chon has something to conceal from me. I must get from the police a report of what has occurred to-day.”

“From which police, Sire-Sartines' or mine-”

“Oh, from Sartines!”

“What will you pay him for it-”

“If he tell me anything worth hearing, I shall not be niggardly.”

“Well, then, give my police the preference, and take my report. I shall serve you-royally.”

“You will even sell your own secrets-”

“Why not, if I am well paid-”

“Come, then, let me hear the report-but no fibs, remember!”

“Sire, you insult me.”

“I mean, no equivocations.”

“Well, Sire, get your funds ready-I am about to begin my report.”

“They are ready,” said the king, jingling some money in his pocket.

“In the first place, the Countess Dubarry was seen in Paris, in the Rue de Valois, about two o'clock in the afternoon.”

“Well, I know that-go on!”

“About six o'clock Zamore proceeded to join her there.”

“Very possibly; but what did Madame Dubarry go to Paris for-”

“Sire, to meet the lady who is to present her.”

“Pooh!” said the king, with a grimace which he could not altogether conceal, “she is very well as she is, without being presented.”

“You know the proverb, Sire, nothing is so dear to us as that which we have not.”

“So she is absolutely determined to find this lady to present her-”

“We have found her, Sire.”

The king started, and shrugged his shoulders.

“I like that movement, Sire; it shows that your majesty would be annoyed at the defeat of the Grammonts, the Guemenees, and all the hypocrites of the court,” said the countess.

“I beg your pardon; did you speak-”

“Yes-I am sure you are in league with those persons.”

“In league-countess, learn one thing, that the king only leagues with kings.”

“True-but all your kings are friends of the Duke de Choiseul.”

“Let us return to your chaperone, countess.”

“With all my heart, Sire.”

“You have succeeded in manufacturing a lady, then-”

“I found one readymade, and very well made-a Countess de Bearn-a family who have numbered princes among their ranks. She will not dishonor the relative of the relatives of the Stuarts, I hope!”

“The Countess de Bearn!” exclaimed the king, with surprise. “I know only of one, who lives somewhere near Verdun.

“It is the very same-she has come to Paris on purpose to present me.”

“Ha! and when is the affair to take place-”

“To-morrow, at eleven o'clock in the morning, I am to give her a private audience, and, at the same time, if it be not too presumptuous, she will request the king to name a day-and you will name the earliest-will you not, dear France-”

The king burst into a forced laugh.

“Certainly, certainly,” said he, kissing the countess's hand. Then all at once. “To-morrow, at eleven-” added he.

“Yes-at breakfast.”

“Impossible! my dear countess.”

“Impossible!-why-”

“I shall not breakfast here-I must return this evening.”

“What!” said the countess, who felt an icy pang shoot through her heart at these words; “you are going to leave us, Sire-”

“I am forced to do so, dear countess-I have to meet Sartines on very important business.”

“As you please, Sire; but you will at least sup here, I hope-”

“Oh, yes, I shall sup, I think-yes, I am rather hungry-I shall sup.”

“Order supper, Chon,” said the countess, making at the same time a private signal to her, which no doubt referred to some previous arrangements. Chon left the room. The king had seen the signal in a mirror, and although he could not comprehend its meaning, he suspected some snare.

“Ah!” said he, “on second thoughts I think it will be impossible to stay even for supper-I must not lose a moment-I have some papers to sign-to-day is Saturday.”

“As you please, Sire-shall I order the horses-”

“Yes, fairest.”

“Chon!”

Chon reappeared.

“His majesty's horses!” said the countess.

“Very well,” said Chon, with a smile, and she left the room again.

A moment afterward her voice was heard in the anteroom, ordering the king's carriage.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE KING IS AMUSED.

THE KING, delighted at this exercise of his authority, which punished the countess for leaving him alone so long, at the same time that it freed him from the trouble of settling the affair of her presentation, walked toward the door of the salon.

Chon entered.

“Well, are my attendants there-”

“No, Sire, there is not one of them in the anteroom.”

The king advanced into the anteroom himself-” My attendants!” cried he. No one answered; there seemed not to be even an echo in the silent chateau.

“Who the deuce would believe,” said the king, returning to the salon, “that I am the grandson of the man who once said, 'I was very near having to wait!” and he went to a window, opened it, and looked out.

The space in front of the chateau was as deserted as the anterooms-no horses, no attendants, no guards. Night alone displayed to the eyes and to the soul all its calmness and all its majesty. The lovely moon shone brightly on the woods of Chatou, whose lofty summits rustled gently like the waves of the sea rippled by a breeze. The Seine, on whose bosom glittered a long line of light, looked like a gigantic serpent trailing its slow length along, its windings being visible from Bougival to Maisons, that is, for four or five leagues; and then, in the midst of this heavenly scene, a nightingale burst forth with such a sweet and varied song as she only gives in the month of May, as if she felt that nature was worthy of her music in the early days of spring alone-days which are scarcely come ere they are gone.

All this beauty and harmony were lost on Louis XV.-a king not much of a dreamer, a poet, or an artist, but, on the contrary, a good deal of a sensualist.

“Come, countess!” said he, considerably annoyed, “give the necessary orders, I entreat-what the deuce!-this jest must have an end.”

“Sire,” replied the countess, with that charming pouting air which became her so well, “I do not command here.”

“Nor do I,” replied the king, “for you see how I am obeyed.”

“It is neither you nor I who command.”

“Who is it, then-Is it you, Chon-”

“I-” said the young lady, who was seated on a couch on the other side of the apartment exactly opposite the countess, who occupied a similar one on the near side-”I find the task of obeying so difficult that I have no inclination for that of commanding.”

“But who is the master, then-”

“The governor, Sire, certainly.”

“Monsieur Zamore-”

“Yes.”

“Ah, very true! Well, let someone ring for him.”

The countess stretched out her arm with a most graceful air of nonchalance to a silken cord ending in a tassel of beads. A footman, who had no doubt received his lesson beforehand, was ready in the anteroom and appeared.

“The governor,” said the king.

“The governor,” replied the valet, respectfully, “is on guard, watching over his majesty's precious life.”

“Where is he-”

“Going his rounds, Sire.”

“Going his rounds-” repeated the king.

“Yes, with four officers, Sire.”

The king could not help smiling.

“That is droll enough,” said he; “but it need not prevent my horses from being harnessed immediately.”

“Sire, the governor ordered the stables to be closed, lest some marauder might enter them.”

“And where are my grooms-”

“Gone to bed, Sire.”

“Gone to bed!-by whose orders-”

“The governor's, Sire.”

“And the gates of the castle-”

“Are locked, Sire.”

“Very well-then you must get the keys.”

“The governor has them at his belt, Sire.”

“A well-guarded castle, indeed-Peste! what order is kept!”

The footman, seeing that the king ceased to question him, retired. The countess, reclining gracefully on a couch, continued to bite off the leaves of a beautiful rose, beside which her lips seemed like coral. “Come, Sire,” said she, at length, with a fascinating smile, “I must take compassion on your majesty-give me your arm and let us set out in search of someone to help you-Chon, light the way.”

Chon went before, ready to apprise them of any dangers which they might encounter. At the very first turn in the corridor the king's nose was saluted by an odor quite, sufficient to awaken the appetite of the most fastidious epicure.

“Ah, ha! what is that, countess-” said he, stopping.

“Oh, only supper, Sire! I thought your majesty intended doing me the honor of supping at Luciennes, and I made arrangements accordingly.”

The king inhaled the gastronomic perfume two or three times, while he called to mind that his stomach had already given him certain tokens of its existence; then he thought what a fuss there must be before his grooms could be awakened, that would take half an hour at least; a quarter more to harness the horses; ten minutes to reach Marly -and when at Marly, where he was not expected, he should only get a put-off of a supper. All these things passed through his mind as he stood at the dining-room door, inhaling the seductive steam of the viands. Two covers were placed on the table, which was splendidly lighted and sumptuously laid out.

“Peste!” said Louis, “you have a good cook, countess.”

“Oh, Sire, this is merely his first effort; the poor devil has been doing wonders to deserve your majesty's approbation. Indeed, he is so sensitive, that he might perhaps, in his disappointment, cut his throat, as poor Vatel did.”

“Really-do you think so-”

“There was to be an omelet of pheasants' eggs on which he especially prided himself.”

“An omelet of pheasants' eggs- -I adore omelets of pheasants' eggs.”

“What a pity you must go.”

“Well, countess, we must not vex your cook,” said the king, laughing; “and perhaps, while we are supping, Master Zamore may return from his rounds.”

“Ah! Sire, a capital idea,” said the countess, unable to conceal her delight at having gained this first step. “Come, Sire, come!”

“But who will wait on us-” said the king, looking round in vain for an attendant.

“Ah! Sire,” said Madame Dubarry, “is your coffee less grateful when presented to you by me-”

“No, countess; and still more when you make it for me.”

“Well, come then, Sire.”

“Two covers only! Has Chon supped, then-”

“Sire. I did not venture without your majesty's express command-

“Come, come,” said the king, taking a plate and cover from a sideboard himself, “come, my little Chon; sit there opposite us.”

“Oh, Sire!” said Chon.

“Yes, yes! play the very humble and very obedient subject, you little hypocrite. Sit here, countess, near me-beside me. What a beautiful profile you have!”

“Is this the first time you have observed it, dear France-”

“How should I observe it, when I am so happy in looking at your full countenance- Decidedly, countess, your cook is first-rate. What soup!”

“Then I was right in sending away the other-”

“Quite right-quite right.”

“Sire, follow my example-you see it will be to your advantage.”

“I do not understand you.”

“I have turned off my Choiseul-turn off yours.”

“Countess, no politics. Give me some Madeira.”

The king held out his glass; the countess took up a decanter to help him, and as she raised it up, her white fingers and rosy nails were seen to advantage.

“Pour gently and slowly,” said the king.

“Not to shake the wine, Sire-”

“No, to give me more time to admire your hand.”

“Assuredly, Sire,” said the countess, laughing; “your majesty is in the vein of making discoveries!”

“Faith, yes,” said the king, now in perfect good humor again, “and think I am in the fair way of discovering-

“A new world-”

“No, I am not so ambitious; besides, I find a kingdom as much as I can manage. No, only an isle-a little nook-an enchanted mountain-a palace of which a certain fair lady will be the Armida, and the entrance to which will be defended by all kinds of monsters.”

“Sire,” said the countess, presenting the king with a glass of iced champagne, a luxury quite new at that period, “here is some water just drawn from the river Lethe.”

“The river Lethe, countess- are you sure-”

“Yes, Sire; it was poor Jean who brought it from the shades below, from which you know he has just narrowly escaped.”

“Countess, I drink to his happy resurrection. But no politics, I beg.”

“Then I don't know what to talk about, Sire. If you would relate something-you who have such a happy gift of telling a story.”

“No-but I shall repeat you some verses.”

“Verses-”

“Yes, verses. Is there anything surprising in that word-”

“I thought your majesty detested them.”

“Parbleu! out of each hundred thousand manufactured, ninety thousand are against myself!”

“And those which your majesty is going to give me, belong to the ten thousand which cannot even make you look favorable on the ninety thousand.”

“No, countess-these are addressed to you.”

“To me- By whom-”

“By M, de Voltaire.:

“He charged your majesty to deliver them-”

“Not at all; he sent them direct to your highness.”

“How-without a cover-”

“No; inclosed in a charming letter.”

“Ah, I understand; your majesty has been at work this morning with the postmaster. But read the verses, Sire; read Monsieur de Voltaire's verses.”

Louis XV, opened the paper and read;

“Goddess of pleasure, soft queen of the graces,

“Why blend, with the fetes which make Paphos to ring,

Foul threat'ning suspicions and hideous disgraces-

The fate of a hero, oh! why should'st thou bring-

Still dear our Ulysses his country shall hold.

The State's mighty bulwark-the monarch's delight,

None wiser in counsel, in battle more bold,

And Ilion can tell how resistless his might!

“Fair Venus, thy throne all the gods shall surround,

Thy beauty celestial all tongues shall declare,

The roses of joy in thy path shall abound-

Then calm the rough waters and smile on our prayer.

Ah! why should thy anger burn fiercely and high

'Gainst the hero whom foemen still tremble to meet,

For, how can he draw from such beauty a sigh,

Save in breathing his vows as he kneels at her feet-”

“Decidedly, Sire,” said the countess, more piqued than gratified by this poetical offering, “Monsieur de Voltaire wishes to recommend himself to your favor.”

“He loses his pains, then,” said the king. “He is a firebrand who would burn Paris if he returned to it. Let him stay with his friend, my cousin Frederick II.; we can do very well with Monsieur Rousseau. But take the verses, countess, and study them.”

She took the paper, made a match of it, and laid it beside her plate.

“Some tokay, Sire,” said Chon.

“From the vaults which supply his majesty the emperor of Austria,” said the countess.

“From the emperor's vaults-” said the king. “Pardieu! no one is supplied from them but myself.”

“Very true, Sire,” said the countess; “so I had it from your butler.”

“Ah!” said the king, “and you have seduced-”

“No, Sire, I have ordered.”

“Well answered, countess! I was a fool.”

“Will the king take coffee-” asked Chon.

“Oh, certainly.”

“And will his majesty burn it, as usual-” asked the countess.

“If the lady of the castle permit.” The countess rose. “But what are you doing-”

“I am going to wait on you myself.”

“Well,” said the king, leaning back in his chair like a man who had made an excellent supper, and whose humors were, therefore, in a happy state of equilibrium. “Well, I see that my best plan is to let you do as you like, countess.”

The countess brought a silver stand, with a little coffee pot containing the boiling mocha; she then placed before the king a plate on which was a silver cup and a carafe of Bohemian glass, and beside the plate she laid the match which she had just folded.

The king, with that profound attention which he always bestowed on this operation, calculated his sugar, measured his coffee, and, having gently poured on it the brandy, so that it swam on the surface, he took the little roll of paper, lighted it at a candle, and communicated the flame to the liquor. Five minutes afterward he enjoyed his coffee with all the delight of a finished epicure.

The countess looked on till he had finished the last drop; then she exclaimed, “Oh, Sire, you have burned your coffee with M, de “Voltaire's verses. That is a bad omen for the Choiseuls!”

“I was wrong,” said he, laughing; “you are not a fairy-you are a demon.”

The countess rose.

“Does your majesty wish to know whether the governor has returned-”

“Zamore-Bah! for what purpose-”

“To allow you to go to Marly, Sire.”

“True,” said the king, making a great effort to rouse himself from that state of comfort in which he found himself. “Well, countess, let us see-let us see!”

The countess made a sign to Chon, who vanished.

The king began his search for Zamore again; but, it must be confessed, with very different feelings from those which had before influenced him. Philosophers say that we behold things either dark or bright, according to the state of our stomachs, and, as kings have stomachs like other men-in general, indeed, not so good as other men, but still communicating the sensation of comfort or discomfort to the rest of the body in the same manner-our king appeared in the most charming humor which it was possible for a king to be in; and his search ended without his discovering Zamore, and without his being displeased at his want of success.

CHAPTER XXXIV. VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU.

AT TEN O'CLOCK THE NEXT morning, the king, though he had supped so well, began to think of breakfast; but, going to a window, he saw his carriage and all his attendants ready for his departure. Zamore, with folded arms, was giving, or pretending to give, orders.

“What is this, countess-” said he; “are we not to breakfast- One would' think you were going to send me away fasting!”

“Heaven forbid, Sire! but I thought your majesty had to meet Monsieur de Sartines at Marly.”

“Pardieu!” said the king, “could not Sartines be told to come here-it is so near!”

“Your majesty will do me the honor to believe that that idea occurred to me before your majesty.”

“And, besides, the morning is too fine for work; let us breakfast.”

“Your majesty must first give me a few signatures for myself.”

“For the Countess de Bearn-”

“Yes; and then name the day and the hour.”

“What day and hour-”

“The day and hour for my presentation.”

“Ma for!” said the king, “it must be so, I suppose; fix the day yourself.”

“Sire, the sooner the better.”

“Is all ready-”

“Yes.”

“You have learned to make your three curtseys-”

“I have practiced them for more than a year.”

“You have your dress-”

“In twenty-four hours it will be ready.”

“And you have your chaperon-”

“In an hour she will be here.”

“And now, countess, for a bargain!

“What is it-”

“That you will never again speak of that affair of the Viscount Jean with the Baron de Taverney.”

“Must I sacrifice the poor viscount-”

“Yes, faith!”

“Well, Sire, I shall speak no more of it. The day-”

“The day after to-morrow.”

“The hour-”

“Half-past ten at night, as usual.”

“It is settled-”

“It is settled.”

“On your royal word-”

“On the word of a gentleman.”

“Give me your hand on it, France!” and Madame Dubarry held out her pretty little hand, in which the king placed his own.

This morning all Luciennes felt the gayety of its master. He had yielded on one point on which he had long before determined to yield; but then he had gained another. This was certainly a decided advantage. He would give one hundred thousand crowns to Jean on condition that he went to drink the waters of the Pyrenees, in Auvergne; that would pass for banishment in the eyes of the Choiseul party. There were louis-d'ors that morning for the poor, cakes for the carps, and praises for Boucher's paintings.

Eleven o'clock struck. The countess, although attending assiduously to the king at his breakfast, could not help looking, from time to time, at the clock, which moved too slowly for her wishes. His majesty had taken the trouble to say, that when the Countess de Bearn arrived, she was to be shown into the breakfast room. The coffee was served, tasted, drunk, still she came not. Suddenly the tramping of a horse's feet was heard. The countess ran to a window. It was a messenger from the viscount, who leaped from his horse reeking with foam. At sight of him she felt a chill run through her veins, for she knew all could not be right; but it was necessary to hide her uneasiness in order to keep the king in good humor. She returned to his side and sat down.

A moment afterward, Chon entered with a note in her hand. There was no means of escape; it must be read before the king.

“What is that, sweet Chon-” said the king; “a love-letter-”

“Oh, certainly, Sire.”

“From whom-”

“From the poor viscount.”

“Are you quite certain-”

“Look at it, Sire.”

The king recognized the writing, and thinking the note might contain something about the Lachaussee affair, “Very well,” said he, pushing it aside, “very well-that is enough.”

The countess was on thorns.

“Is the note for me-” she asked.

“Yes, countess.”

“Will your majesty permit me-

“Oh, yes-read it-read it; and, in the meantime, Chon will repeat 'Maitre Corbeau' to me.” So saying, he pulled her on his knee, and began to sing-sadly out of tune, indeed-for Rousseau has recorded that Louis had the worst ear in his kingdom.

The countess retired into the recess of a window, and read the following epistle;

“Do not expect the old wretch; she pretends that she scalded her foot yesterday, and is obliged to keep her room. You may thank Chon's most opportune arrival yesterday for this. The old wretch recognized her immediately, and so put an end to our little comedy.

“It was fortunate that that little wretch, Gilbert, who is the cause of this misfortune, was lost. I would have wrung his neck about! However, he may be assured it is in store for him, if ever he cross my path.

“But to return to the point -on to Paris at once, or we are lost. JEAN.”

“What is the matter-” inquired the king, surprised at the sudden paleness which overspread the countess's face.

“Nothing, Sire; it is only a bulletin of Jean's health.”

“Does not the dear viscount get better, then-”

“Oh, yes, thank you, Sire, much better,” said the countess. “But I hear a carriage enter the courtyard.”

“Oh, our old countess, I suppose!”

“No, Sire, it is M, de Sartines.”

“Well, what then-” exclaimed the king, seeing that Madame Dubarry was moving toward the door.

“Well, Sire, I shall leave you with him and go to dress.”

“And what about Bearn-”

“When she comes, Sire, I shall let your majesty know,” replied the countess, crumpling the viscount's note in the pocket of her dressing-gown.

“Then you abandon me-” said the king, with a melancholy air.

“Sire, remember this is Sunday; you have papers to sign.” So saying she presented her fresh and rosy cheeks to the king, who kissed them, and she left the room.

“Devil take all signatures,” said the king, “and those who bring them! Who was it that invented ministers and portfolios-”

He had scarcely finished this malediction, when the minister and the portfolio entered by a door opposite that lay which the countess had departed. The king sighed again, more deeply than before.

“Ah! are you there, Sartines-” said he. “How very punctual you are.”

This was said in a tone which left it very doubtful whether the words were intended as a eulogium or a reproach. The minister opened his portfolio, and busied himself in taking out and arranging his papers. Just then the sound of the wheels of a carriage was heard, grating on the sand of the avenue.

“Wait a little, Sartines,” said the king, and he ran to the window.

“What!” said he, “the countess is driving off!”

“It is she, indeed, Sire,” said the minister.

“But is she not going to wait for the Countess de Bearn-”

“Sire. I am inclined to think she is tired of waiting, and goes to find her.”

“Yet the old lady had decided on coming this morning.”

“Sire, I am almost certain that she will not come.”

“Then you know something about the matter, Sartines-”

“Sire, I am obliged to know a little about everything, otherwise your majesty would be dissatisfied with me.”

“Well, what has happened- Tell me, Sartines.”

“To the old countess, Sire-”

“Yes.”

“A very common case, Sire-difficulties have arisen.”

“Then the Countess de Bearn really will not come-”

“Hmm! there was rather more certainty of it yesterday evening than there is this morning.”

“Poor countess!” said the king, unable, in spite of himself, to conceal a gleam of satisfaction which sparkled in his eyes.

“Ah, Sire, the quadruple alliance and the family compact were trifles in comparison with this presentation!”

“Poor countess!” repeated the king, shaking his head, “she will never accomplish her purpose.”

“I fear it, Sire, unless your majesty concerns yourself about it.”

“She was so certain that now all was in the right train.”

“And what makes the matter worse for the countess,” said M, de Sartines, “is, that if she be not presented before the arrival of the dauphiness, it is probable she never will be presented at all.”

“More than probable! Sartines, you are right. They say that my daughter-in-law is very strict, very devout, very prudish. Poor countess!”

“It will certainly annoy her very much, Sire, if she be not presented; but, on the other hand, it will relieve your majesty from many annoyances.”

“Do you think so, Sartines-”

“Oh, yes, Sire! The envious, the libelers, the ballad-mongers, the flatterers, the journalists, will not have so much to say. If she was presented, Sire, it would cost us at least one hundred thousand francs additional for the police.”

“Indeed- poor countess! and yet she wishes so much to be presented.”

“Your majesty knows you have only to command, and her wishes will be gratified.”

“What do you mean, Sartines- Do you imagine that I could meddle in such an affair- Can I, by signing an order, make people polite to Madame Dubarry- Is it you, Sartines, a man of sense, who advise such an innovation to satisfy the whims of the countess-”

“Oh, by no means, Sire! I merely say, as your majesty says, poor countess!”

“Besides,” said the king, “her position is not so desperate, after all. You always look at things on the dark side, Sartines. Who can tell, whether the Countess de Bearn may not change her mind- Who can be certain that the dauphiness will arrive so soon- It will take four days yet before she can reach Compiegne, and in four days much may be done. Let me see. Have you anything for me to do this morning, Sartines-”

“Oh, your majesty, only three papers to sign;” and the minister of police drew out the first from his portfolio.

“Oh!” said the king, “a lettre-de-cachet.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And against whom!”

“Your majesty may see.”

“Oh! against the Sieur Rousseau- What Rousseau is that, Sartines, and what has he done-”

“Done, Sire! -written 'Le Contrat Social.'“

“Oh, then, it is Jean-Jacques whom you wish to shut up in the Bastille-”

“Sire, he disturbs the public peace.”

“And what the deuce did you expect he would do-”

“Besides, I don't propose to shut him up.”

“Of what use is this letter, then-”

“Sire, merely to have a weapon ready.”

“-Not that I am at all fond of your philosophers, mark ye.”

“Your majesty has good cause not to love them.”

“But people will exclaim against us. Besides, I think we authorized him to come to Paris.”

“No, Sire; we said we should tolerate him on condition that he did not appear in public.”

“And does he appear in public-”

“He is always to be seen.”

“In his Armenian dress-”

“Oh no, Sire. We ordered him to lay it aside.”

“And he obeyed-”

“Yes, but complaining loudly all the time of our persecution.”

“And how does he dress now-”

“Oh, like other people, Sire.”

“Then he cannot be so much remarked-”

“What, Sire! a man who has been forbidden to appear in public not remarked! And then, only guess where he goes every day!”

“To the Marshal de Luxembourg's, to Monsieur d'Alembert's, to Madame d'Epinay's-”

“To the Cafe de la Regence, Sire! He plays chess there every evening. He must be mad upon that point, for he always loses; and it requires every evening a company of soldiers to keep order among the crowds around the house.”

“Well,” said the king, “the Parisians are even greater fools than I thought them. Let them go on amusing themselves in that way, Sartines; while they do so, they will not shout starvation!”

“But, Sire, if some fine day he should take it into his head to make a speech, as he did in London-”

“Oh! in that case, as there would be criminality and public infringement of the laws, you would not require a lettre-de-cachet, Sartines.”

The minister saw that the king did not wish the arrest of Rousseau to rest on the royal responsibility, so he did not press the matter farther.

“But, Sire,” said he, “there is another philosopher.”

“Another!” replied the king, languidly, “shall we never have done with them-”

“Ah, Sire, it is they who have never done with us!”

“And who is this one-”

“Monsieur de Voltaire.”

“Has he also returned to Prance-”

“No, Sire; it would be much better, perhaps, that he had, for then we could watch him.”

“What has he been doing-”

“It is not he who has been doing anything, it is his partisans; they are actually going to have a statue erected in his honor!”

“Equestrian, I suppose-”

“No, Sire; and yet I assure you he is a famous captor of towns!”

The king shrugged his shoulders.

“Sire, there has not been seen such a one since Poliorcetes,” continued Sartines. “He obtains information from all quarters; his writings reach all quarters; the highest persons in your kingdom turn smugglers for the sake of his books. I seized, the other day, eight boxes full of them; two were addressed to the Duke de Choiseul.”

“It is very amusing!”

“Sire, only reflect that they are now doing for him what is only done for kings -they are decreeing him a statue.”

“Sartines, statues are not decreed by others for kings, they decree them to themselves. And who is to make this fine work of art-”

“The sculptor Pigale. He has set out for Ferney to execute the model. In the meantime, subscriptions are pouring in; and observe, Sire, it is only authors who are permitted to subscribe. All come with their offerings; they make quite a procession every day. Even Rousseau brought his two louis-d'ors.”

“Well,” said the king, “what can I do in the matter- I am not an author, it does not concern me.”

“Sire, I thought of proposing to your majesty to put an end, by royal command, to this demonstration.”

“I shall take good care not to do any such thing, Sartines. Instead of decreeing him a bronze statue, they would then decree him one of gold. Let them alone. Mon Dieu! he will look even uglier in bronze than in flesh and blood!”

“Then your majesty deSires that the matter should take its own course!”

“Let us understand one another, Sartines! Desire is not the word. I should be very glad to put an end to these things, certainly; but how can I-it is impossible. The time is passed when royalty could say to the spirit of philosophy, as God says to the ocean, 'Thus far shalt thou go and no farther!' To blame loudly but uselessly; to aim a blow, but strike short of our aim; that would only serve to show our own weakness. Let us turn away our eyes, Sartines, and pretend not to see.” The minister sighed.

“At least, Sire,” said he, “if we do not punish the men, let us suppress their works. Here is a list of books which, in my opinion, should instantly be proscribed; some attack the throne, some the altar; some teach rebellion, others sacrilege.”

The king took the list, and read in a languid voice-

“'The Sacred Contagion; or, the Natural History of Superstition.'

“'The System of Nature; or, Laws of the Physical and Moral World.'“

“'Instructions of the Capuchin at Ragusa, to Brother Pediculoso, on his setting out for the Holy Land.'“

He had not read one-fourth of the list when he let it fall, while an expression of sadness and dejection overspread his usually unmoved countenance. He remained thoughtful, and for some minutes seemed quite overcome.

“Sartines,” said he at last, “one might as well undertake to move the world. Let others try it.”

The minister looked at him with that perfect understanding of his wishes which the king loved in those who approached him, as it saved him the trouble of thinking and acting.

“A tranquil life, Sire,” said he, “a tranquil life-is not that what your majesty wishes-”

The king nodded.

“Oh, yes!” said he. “I ask for nothing else from your philosophers, encyclopedists, thaumaturgi, illuminati, poets, economists, journalists-tribes that come one knows not whence-that are always bustling, writing, croaking, calumniating, calculating, preaching, complaining. Let them be crowned-let statues be raised to them-let temples be built to them-but let them leave me in peace.”

Sartines arose, bowed, and left the apartment, muttering, as he went. “It is fortunate we have on our money-'Domine salvum fac regem.'“

Then the king, now left to himself, took a pen, and wrote to the dauphin the following lines:

“You have requested me to hasten the arrival of her royal highness the dauphiness, and I wish to gratify you.

“I have ordered that there shall be no stay made at Noyon-consequently, on Tuesday morning she will be at Compiegne.

“I shall be there myself precisely at ten o'clock-that is to say, a quarter of an hour before her.”

“Thus,” said he to himself, “I shall get rid of that foolish affair of the presentation, which annoys me more than Voltaire and Rousseau, and all the philosophers, past, present, and to come. The affair will then be between the poor countess, the dauphin and dauphiness. Ma foi, it is only fair that young minds, with strength for it, should contend with these vexations, hatreds, and revenges! Children should early learn to suffer-it is an excellent part of education.”

Delighted at having thus got rid of the difficulty, and certain that he would not be reproached with either favoring or hindering this presentation, about which all Paris was occupied, the king entered his carriage and drove off to Marly, where the court was waiting for him.

CHAPTER XXXV. CHAPERON AND DEBUTANTE.

THE POOR COUNTESS-let us continue to apply the epithet which the king had given her, for at this moment she truly deserved it-the poor countess hurried like one in despair to Paris. Chon, terrified by Jean's paragraph concerning Gilbert, shut herself up in the boudoir at Luciennes to hide her grief and anxiety, lamenting the fatal whim which induced her to pick up Gilbert on the high road.

Having reached the outskirts of Paris, the countess found a coach awaiting her. In the coach were Viscount Jean and a lawyer, with whom he seemed to be arguing in the most energetic manner. The moment he perceived the countess he leaped out, and made a sign to his sister's coachman to stop.

“Quick, countess!” said he. “Quick, get into my carriage, and drive to the Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres!”

“Is the old lady going to give us the slip-” said Madame Dubarry, changing carriages, while the lawyer, on a sign from the viscount, followed her example.

“I fear it, countess,” replied Jean. “I fear she is giving us a Roland for our Oliver.”

“But what has happened-”

“You shall hear. I staved in Paris because I am always suspicious, and in this case I was not wrong, as you will see. At nine last night I went prowling about the inn of the Coq Chantant. All quiet -no movement -no visitors; all looked well. Consequently, I thought I might go home to bed-and to bed I went. This morning I awoke at break of day. I roused Patrice, and ordered him to go and keep watch at the corner of the street. Well, at nine-observe, that was an hour sooner than I had appointed-I drove up to the hotel. Patrice had seen nothing to cause the least anxiety, so I boldly walked upstairs. At the door of the countess's room a maid-servant stopped me, and told me that the countess could not leave the house to-day, and perhaps it would be eight days before she could move from her apartment. I confess that, although prepared for some rebuff, I was not for that! 'What,' cried I,' she cannot go out! What is the matter-' 'She is ill.' 'Ill- Impossible! Yesterday she was perfectly well.' 'Yes, sir, but madame likes to make her own chocolate; and tins morning, when it was boiling, she spilled it over her foot, and she is scalded. On hearing the countess's cries I hastened in, and I found her nearly fainting. I carried her to her bed, and I think she is at present asleep.' I was as white as your lace, countess, and could not help crying out, 'It is a lie!' 'No, my dear Viscount Dubarry,' replied a sharp voice, which seemed to pierce the very wall, 'it is not a lie! I am in horrible pain.' I sprang to the side whence the voice came, and burst through a glass door which I could not open-the old countess was really in bed. 'Ah, madame!' I exclaimed-but it was all I could utter; I was in such a rage! I could have strangled her with pleasure. 'Look there,' said she, pointing to an old kettle which was lying on the floor, 'there is the coffee-pot that did all the mischief.' I flew to the coffee-pot, and stamped on it with both feet; it will make no more chocolate, I can answer for it. 'What a misfortune!' cried the old lady, piteously; 'it must be the Baroness d'Alogny who will present your sister. But what can we do- It was so written, as the Easterns say.' “Heavens! Jean, you drive me to despair!” exclaimed the countess.

“Oh! I do not despair yet, if you go to her; it was for that that I sent for you.”

“But why do you not despair-”

“Why! because you are a woman, and can do what I cannot; you can make the dressing be taken off; and, if you discover that it is an imposture, you can tell her that her son shall never be anything but a clown-that she shall never touch a farthing from the estate of the Saluces-in short, you can play off the imprecations of Camilla on her, much better than I the fury of Orestes.”

“Is this all a jest-” cried the countess.

“No, I assure you.”

“And where does our sibyl lodge-”

“At the Coq Chantant, Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres, a great black house, with a monstrous cock painted on an iron plate -when the iron creaks, the cock crows.”

“I shall have a dreadful scene with her.”

“No doubt of it; but you must take your chance. Shall I go with you-”

“No; you would spoil all.”

“Just what our lawyer said; I was consulting him on that point when you drove up. For your information, I may tell you that he says to beat a person in his own house renders you liable to fine and imprisonment, while to beat him out of it-”

“Is nothing!” said the countess. “You know that better than anyone else.”

Jean grinned an ugly smile.

“Debts,” said he, “that are long in being paid, are paid with interest; and if ever I meet my man again-

“I would much rather, at present, speak of my woman!”

“I have nothing more to tell you, so be off!”

“But where will you wait for me-”

“In the inn itself. I shall ask for a bottle of wine, and sit there, in case you want a helping hand.”

“Drive on, coachman,” cried the countess.

“Rue Saint-Germain-des-Pres, at the sign of the Coq Chantant,” added the viscount.

In a quarter of an hour they where in the street honored by possessing the Coq Chantant. At some distance from the inn Madame Dubarry left her carriage and proceeded on foot. She feared that the noise of the wheels might put the old lady on the alert-that she might suspect what visitor was coining -and might have time to hide.

Alone, then, she entered the gaping porch of the inn. No one saw her until she was at the foot of the staircase; there she encountered the hostess.

“The Countess de Bearn-” said she.

“She is very ill, madame, and cannot see anyone.”

“Yes, I am aware; and I came to know exactly how she is.”

And, light as a bird, she was at the top of the stairs in a moment.

“Madame, madame!” cried the hostess, “a lady is going to force her way into your room.”

“Who is she-” asked the old lady, from a distant part of the room.

“I,” said the favorite, appearing on the threshold with a face perfectly suited to the occasion, for she first smiled out of compliment, and then looked sad, by way of condolence.

“You here, madame-” exclaimed the old lady, turning pale.

“Yes, dear madame, I came to express my sympathy for your misfortune, of which I have just heard. Pray tell me how this accident happened.”

“But, madame, I dare not ask you to sit down in such a miserable place as this.”

“I know, madame, that you have a castle in Touraine, and can excuse your being obliged to receive your friends here in an inn.” And she sat down so determinedly that the old lady saw she must allow her to have her way.

“You seem in great pain, madame,” said the favorite.

“Oh, in dreadful pain!' “The right leg- But, good heavens, how did you manage to scald it-”

“Nothing more simple -I held the chocolate kettle in my hand, the handle gave way, and I received the boiling water on my ankle.”

“How shocking!”

The old lady sighed. “Yes, shocking, indeed,” said she; “but this is always the case; misfortunes never come singly.”

“You are aware that the king expected you this morning-”

“Oh! madame, that intelligence makes my sufferings infinitely greater.”

“His majesty is far from satisfied, madame, that you did not pay your visit.”

“But the pain I am in will be a sufficient apology; and I trust yet to be able to offer to his majesty my very humble excuses.”

“I do not tell you that to cause you any vexation,” said the countess, seeing that the old lady was assuming a little formality, “but merely to let you know that his majesty felt grateful for the offer you made me.”

“You see, madame, that it is now impossible for me to fulfill it.”

“Certainly; but may I ask you a question-”

“I shall be delighted to hear it.”

“Does not your present state arise from having experienced some sudden agitation-”

“Very possibly,” said the old lady, bowing slightly; “I must acknowledge that I was deeply moved by your gracious reception of me.”

“Yes; but there was another thing besides.”

“Another thing- nothing that I know of, madame.”

“Oh, yes; an unexpected meeting with a person on leaving my house.”

“I did not meet anyone; I was in your brother's carriage.”

“Before getting into the carriage-”

The old lady seemed to be tasking her memory.

“Just as you were going down the stairs to the vestibule-”

The old lady seemed more intent in trying to recall the events of yesterday.

“Yes,” said the favorite, rather impatiently; “someone entered the court as you left my house.”

“I am so unfortunate, madame, as not to be able to recollect anyone entering.”

“A lady-now you remember.”

“I am so short-sighted that at two paces from me, madame, I cannot distinguish anyone.”

“Oh, ho!” said the favorite to herself; “she is too cunning for me! I shall never succeed by these means. Come-to the point at once. Then since you did not see the lady,” she continued aloud. “I must tell you that she is my sister-in-law, Mademoiselle Dubarry.”

“Oh, very well, madame; but as I have never had the pleasure of seeing her-”

“Yes,” interrupted the other, “you have seen her-only when you saw her it was under the name of Flageot.”

“So!” cried the old lady, with a bitterness which she could not dissemble-”So that pretended Mademoiselle Flageot, who caused me to undertake the journey to Paris, is your sister-in-law-”

“She is, madame.”

“And who sent her to me-”

“I did.”

“To mystify me-”

“No, to serve you, while at the same time you should serve me.”

The old lady bent her thick gray eyebrows. “I do not think,” said she, “her visit will turn out very profitable to me.”

“Did the vice-chancellor receive you ill, then, madame-”

“Empty promises.”

“But it seems to me that I offered you something more tangible than promises.”

“Madame, God disposes, though man proposes.”

“Come, madame, let us view the matter seriously. You have scalded your foot!”

“Scalded it very badly.”

“Could you not, in spite of this accident-painful, no doubt, but after all, nothing dangerous -make an effort to bear the journey to Luciennes in my carriage, and stand before his majesty for one minute-”

“It is quite impossible, madame.”

“Is the injury so very serious-”

“Serious, indeed.”

“And pray who dresses it for you, and nurses you-”

“Like all housekeepers, I have excellent recipes for burns, and I dress it myself.”

“Might I take the liberty of requesting to see your specific-”

“Oh, yes, it is in that phial on the table.”

“Hypocrite!” thought the countess, “to carry her dissimulation to such a point! She is as cunning as a fox, but I shall match her. Madame,” added she, aloud, “I also have an excellent oil for accidents of this kind; but, before applying it, it is necessary to know what kind of scald it is-whether it is inflamed, or blistered, or the skin broken.”

“Madame, the skin is broken,” said the old lady.

“Oh, heavens! how you must suffer. Shall I apply my oil to it-”

“With all my heart, madame. Have you brought it-”

“No, but I shall send for it. In the meantime, I must see the state of your leg.”

“Oh, madame!” exclaimed the old lady, “I could not think of permitting you to see such a spectacle. I know too well what is due to good manners.”

“Delightful!” thought Madame Dubarry, “she is now fairly caught.” Then she added, “Where we can serve our fellow-beings, madame, we must not stand upon etiquette,” and she stretched out her hand toward the old lady's leg, which was extended on the sofa.

Madame de Bearn uttered a scream of pain.

“Very well acted,” said Madame Dubarry to herself, watching her every feature distorted with anguish.

“How you frightened me, madame,” said the old lady; “it is almost death to me to touch it;” and, with pale cheeks and half-closed eyes, she leaned back as if nearly fainting.

“Do you allow me to look at it-”

“If you choose, madame,” said the old lady, in a weak and suffering voice.

Madame Dubarry did not lose an instant; she took out the pins in the bandages, and rapidly unrolled them. To her great surprise, she was permitted to go on. “When it comes to the last covering,” thought she, “she will scream, and try to prevent me from seeing it; but, though she kill herself calling on me to stop, I will see the leg!” and she proceeded in her task.

Madame de Bearn groaned, but offered no resistance.

At last the bandages were untied, the last covering was removed, and a real wound caused by a scald lay before Madame Dubarry's eyes. Here ended the old lady's diplomacy. Livid and inflamed, the wound spoke for itself. The Countess de Bearn might have seen and recognized Chon; but if so, her courage and determination raised her far above Portia and Mutius Scevola. Madame Dubarry gazed at her in silent admiration. The old lady, now somewhat recovered, enjoyed her victory to the utmost; her inflamed eye brooded with satisfaction on the countess kneeling at her feet. Madame Dubarry replaced the bandages with that delicate care which women exercise toward the suffering, placed the limb once more on its cushion, and took her seat beside the couch.

“Come, madame,” said she, “I see of what you are capable, and I beg your pardon for not having begun this subject in the way in which I ought with such a woman as you. Make your own conditions.”

The eyes of the old lady sparkled, but it was only for a moment. “In the first place,” said she, “state what your wishes are, and then I shall see if I can be of any service to you.”

“Madame, I wish to be presented at Versailles by you, though it cost you another hour of the horrible suffering which you have endured this morning.”

The Countess de Bearn listened unflinchingly. “Anything else, madame-” said she.

“That is all. Now for your turn.”

“I must have,” replied Madame de Bearn, with a decision which showed clearly that she treated with the countess as one power with another, “I must have two hundred thousand francs of my lawsuit secured to me.”

“But if you gain your cause, you will then have four hundred thousand.”

“No; for I look on the disputed two hundred thousand as mine already, and the other two hundred thousand I shall reckon as merely an additional piece of good fortune to that of possessing the honor of your acquaintance.”

“You shall have them, madame -well-”

“I have a son, whom I love tenderly, madame. Our house has already been distinguished by military genius; but, born to command, we make but indifferent subalterns. My son must have a company immediately, and next year a colonel's commission.”

“Who will pay all the necessary expenses, madame-”

“The king. You perceive that if I expended on my son the sum which I am to receive from you, I should be as poor tomorrow as I am to-day.”

“At the lowest, I may reckon that at six hundred thousand francs.”

“Four hundred thousand, supposing the commission worth two hundred thousand, which is a high estimate.”

“This shall be granted you also.”

“I have now to request from the king payment for a vineyard in Touraine, containing four acres, which the engineers deprived me of eleven years ago in making a canal.”

“But they paid you then-”

“Yes, they paid me according to the valuator's estimate; but I value it at just double the sum.”

“Well, you shall be paid a second time. Is that all-”

“Excuse me. I am out of cash, as you may suppose, madame, and I owe Master Flageot something about-nine thousand francs.”

“Nine thousand francs!”

“Yes; it is absolutely necessary to pay him; he is an excellent lawyer.”

“I have not the least doubt of it, madame. Well, I shall pay these nine thousand francs out of my own private purse. I hope you will acknowledge that I am accommodating.”

“Perfectly accommodating. But I think I have also proved that I wish to serve you.”

“I have only to regret that you scalded yourself,” replied the favorite, with a smile.

“I do not regret it, madame, since, in spite of the accident, my devotion to your interests will, I trust, give me strength to be useful to you.”

“Let us sum up,” said Madame Dubarry.

“Pardon me one moment. I had forgotten one thing. Alas, it is so long since I have been at court that I have no dress fit for it.”

“I foresaw that, madame, and yesterday, after your departure, I ordered a dress for you. To-morrow, at noon, it will be ready.”

“I have no diamonds.”

“Boemer amp; Bossange will give you tomorrow, on my order, a set of ornaments worth two hundred and ten thousand livres, which, the following day, they will take back at two hundred thousand. Thus your indemnity will be paid.”

“Very well, madame; I have nothing more to wish.”

“I am delighted to hear it.”

“However, about my son's commission-”

“His majesty will give it you himself.”

“And for the attendant expenses-”

“The order will be given with the commission.”

“Quite right. There now only remains about the vineyard-four acres-

“How much were they worth-”

“Six thousand livres an acre; it was excellent land.”

“I will now subscribe an obligation to pay you twenty-four thousand livres, which will be about the whole.”

“There is the writing-desk, madame.”

“I shall do myself the honor to hand the desk to you.”

“To me-”

“Yes, that you may write a little letter to his majesty which I shall dictate-a fair return, you know.”

“Very true,” replied the old lady; and arranging her paper, and taking a pen, she waited. Madame Dubarry dictated:

“SIRE-The happiness which I feel on learning that your majesty has accepted my offer to present my dear friend, the Countess Dubarry-”

The old lady made a grimace and her pen began to spit.

“You have a bad pen,” said the favorite; “you must change it.”

“It is unnecessary, madame; I shall get accustomed to it.”

“Do you think so-”

“Yes.”

Madame Dubarry continued:

— ”Emboldens me to solicit your majesty to look on me with a favorable eye, when I shall appear at Versailles to-morrow, as you have deigned to permit me to do. I venture to hope, Sire, that I merit your majesty's favor, inasmuch as I am allied to a house, every chief of which has shed his blood for the princes of your august race.”

“Now sign, if you please,” said the favorite.

And the countess signed:

“ANASTASIE EUPHEMIE RODOLPHE, COUNTESS DE BEARN.”

The old lady wrote with a firm hand, in great letters, half an inch long, and sprinkled her letter with a sufficient quantity of aristocratic mistakes in orthography.

When she had signed, still holding the letter fast with one hand, she passed with the other the paper, pen and ink to Madame Dubarry, who in a little straight sharp hand signed the obligation to pay the sums above stated.

Then she wrote a letter to Boemer amp; Bossange, the crown jewelers, requesting them to give the bearer the set of diamond and emerald ornaments called Louise, because they had belonged to the Princess Louise, aunt to the dauphin, who sold them to obtain funds for her charities.

That done, the ladies exchanged their papers.

“Now,” said Madame Dubarry, “give me a proof of your friendship, my dear countess.”

“With all my heart, madame.”

“I am sure that if you come to me, Tronchin will cure you in less than three days. Come then, and you can at the same time try my oil, which is really excellent.”

“Well, but do not let me detain you, madame,” said the prudent old lady; “I have some matters to settle here before I can set out.”

“Then you refuse me-”

“On the contrary, madame, I accept your invitation, but not at this moment. It is just now striking one o'clock by the abbey clock; give me until three, and at five precisely I shall be at Luciennes.”

“Permit my brother then to return with the carriage at three.”

“Certainly.”

“In the meantime take care of yourself.”

“Fear nothing; you have my word, and though my death should be the consequence, I shall present you to-morrow at Versailles.”

“Good-by, then, my dear madame.”

“Good-by, my charming friend.”

And so saying they parted, the old lady, with her foot still on the cushion, and her hand on her papers; the countess in better spirits than on her arrival, but certainly rather vexed that she had not been able to make better terms with an old woman from the country-she, who could outwit the king of France when she chose.

Passing by the door of the principal salon, she saw Jean, who, doubtless merely to prevent anyone harboring suspicions as to the cause of his long stay, was taking a second bottle of wine. Perceiving his sister, he jumped up from his chair and ran after her.

“Well-” cried he.

“Well. I may say as Marshal Saxe once said to his majesty in the battlefield of Fontenoy, 'Sire, learn from this spectacle how dearly a victory may be purchased.'“

“Then we have conquered-”

“Yes-only it costs us about a million.”

Jean made a frightful grimace.

“Why, I had no chance; I must either take her at that or give her up.”

“But it is abominable.”

“It is as I tell you; and perhaps, if you make her angry, she will make us pay double.”

“Pardieu! what a woman!”

“She is a Roman!”

“She is a Greek!”

“Never mind! Greek or Roman, be ready to bring her to Luciennes at three o'clock. I shall never be easy until I have her under lock and key.”

“I shall not stir from this,” said Jean.

“And I, on my side, shall hasten to prepare everything,” said the countess.

She sprang into her carriage.

“To Luciennes!” said she. “To-morrow I shall say, to Marly!”

Jean followed the carriage with his eyes. “We cost France a pretty little sum,” said he. “No matter! it is very flattering for the Dubarrys!”

CHAPTER XXXVI. MARSHAL RICHELIEU'S FIFTH CONSPIRACY.

THE KING returned to hold his court at Marly as usual. Less the slave of etiquette than Louis XIV., who sought, even in the evening parties of his courtiers, means of exhibiting his power, Louis XV, sought in them only news, of which he was inordinately fond, and, above all, a variety of faces around him, a gratification which he preferred to all others, particularly if they were smiling ones.

In the evening of the day on which the interview just related took place, and two hours after the Countess de Bearn (who this time kept her promise faithfully) was comfortably installed in Madame Dubarry's cabinet, the king was playing cards at Marly, in the blue drawing-room.

On his left sat the Duchesse d'Ayen, on his right the Princess de Guemeuee. His majesty appeared very absent, losing, in consequence of inattention to his game, eight hundred louis d'ors. Rather sobered by his loss-for, like a true descendant of Henry IV., Louis loved to win-the king left his cards, and retired into the recess of a window to talk to Monsieur de Malesherbes, son of the ex-chancellor, while Monsieur de Maupeou, who was conversing with the Duke de Choiseul in an opposite window, watched the interview with an anxious eye. In the meantime, after the king left the card-table a circle was formed near the fireplace. The Princesses Adelaide, Sophie, and Victoire, attended by their ladies of honor and their equerries, had placed themselves there on their return from a walk in the gardens.

Around the king, who must certainly have been talking of some matter of importance, as the gravity of Monsieur de Malesherbes was well known, were grouped, but at a respectful distance, generals, admirals, great dignitaries of the state, noblemen, and judges. The little court at the fireplace, therefore, was left a good deal to itself, and seemed bent on more lively conversation, if one might judge by the skirmishing with which they began.

The principal bodies of the group, besides the three princesses, were the Duchesse de Grammont, the Princess de Guemenee, the Duchesse de Choiseul, the Marchioness de Mirepoix, and the Duchesse de Polastron.

At the moment when we approach this group, the Princess Adelaide had just ended an anecdote of a bishop banished from his diocese by the grand penitentiary. It was tolerably scandalous, and it is as well unrelated here.

“Well,” said the Princess Victoire, “it is only a month since that bishop was sitting here among us!”

“Oh, we shall have worse than he sitting among us,” said the Duchesse de Grammont, “if his majesty receive those who, not having been yet received, are now determined to be received.”

Everyone understood from the tone in which these words were uttered who was meant, and at once felt what turn the conversation was taking.

“Fortunately, wishing to be received, and being received, are two different things, duchesse,” said a little elderly man, joining in the conversation. He was seventy-four years of age, but looked only fifty, so elegant was his shape, his voice so unbroken, his leg so well shaped, his eye so lively, his skin so fair, and his hand so beautiful.

“Ah, here is M, de Richelieu,” said the duchess, “advancing his scaling ladders, and going to take our conversation by assault, as he did Mahon. Still something of the soldier, my dear marshal!”

“Still something of the soldier! Ah! duchesse, you are very severe!”

“Well! But did I not speak the truth-”

“The truth! When-”

“Just now, when I said that a certain person wished to force the king's doors-”

“Oh, you know, countess, I am always of your opinion, even when you speak ill of all my friends!”

Some laughed, although it had already been whispered that the marshal's wit was on the wane.

“If you say such things,” continued the duchess, “I shall not go on with my history, and you will lose a great deal, I assure you.”

“Heaven forbid that I should interrupt it! I am all attention!

The circle drew closer around the duchess. She cast a glance toward the window to be certain that the king was still there. He was still in the same position; but, although he continued to converse with Monsieur de Malesherbes, he kept a watchful eye on the group at the fireplace, and just at that moment his eye met that of Madame de Grammont. The duchess felt somewhat intimidated by its expression, but she had made a beginning, and would not be stopped.

“You must know,” she continued, addressing herself particularly to the three princesses, “that a certain lady-her name is of no consequence, is it-has lately taken it into her head that she will see us, the privileged of the land, sitting in our glory.”

“See us-where-” asked the marshal.

“Oh, at Versailles, at Marly, at Fontainebleau.”

“Very well-very well!”

“The poor creature knows nothing of our meetings except from having seen, with the rest of the mob, the king at dinner with his guests. How disagreeable, with a barrier between them and the great, and an usher with his rod driving them before him!”

The marshal took snuff noisily out of his box of Sevres porcelain. “But,” said he, “in order to join our circle at Versailles, at Marly, at Fontainebleau, one must be presented.”

“Precisely; the lady in question has requested to be presented.”

“Then I'll wager the king has consented; he is so kind.”

“Unfortunately, something more is necessary than the king's permission; there must be a chaperon to present the lady.”

“Yes; but chaperons are rather scarce,” said the Marchioness de Mirepoix, “witness the fair Bourbonnais, who has sought but has not found one.”

“Pardon me,” replied the duchess; “she has sought so well that she has found what she wants. But what a chaperon! a frank, sincere, real, country dame! She was brought away from her dovecot, petted, and caressed, and dressed-”

“It is perfectly shocking,” interrupted the Princess de Guemenee, “but just when the dear dame had been sufficiently petted, and caressed, and dressed, she fell downstairs from the top to the bottom and broke her leg.”

“So there can be no presentation-” exclaimed the Princess de Guemenee.

“Not a shadow,” said the duchess.

“See how gracious Providence is!” said the marshal, raising his hands and eyes to heaven.

“Gracious!” said the Princess Victoire, “not to the poor country dame; I really pity her.”

“On the contrary, your royal highness may congratulate her,” said the duchess; “of two evils she has chosen the least.” She stopped short, for again her eye met the king's.

“If the ladies who have been presented,” said the Princess de Guemenee, “were courageous and faithful to the sentiments of honor of the ancient nobility of France, they would go in a body to return thanks to the lady from the country who showed so much sublimity of mind as to break her leg.”

“Yes, faith,” said the marshal, “that is a great idea! But what is the name of the excellent lady who has saved us in this great danger- We have nothing now to fear; have we, duchesse-”

“Oh, nothing; she is in her bed, her leg bound up, and unable to move a step.”

“But if the lady should find another chaperon-” said the princess; “she is so indefatigable.”

“Oh, do not be afraid; it is not so easy to find chaperons.”

At this moment the throng of courtiers separated, and the king approached; the group became silent. A moment afterward his clear and well-known voice was heard; “Adieu, ladies. Good-night, gentlemen.”

Everyone rose.

The king advanced toward the door, then, turning before leaving the room, he said, “By-the-by, there will be a presentation to-morrow at Versailles.”

These words fell like a thunderbolt on the assembly. The king glanced round the group of ladies, who looked at each other and turned pale; then he left the apartment without adding another word. Scarcely had he crossed the threshold with the long train of gentlemen attending him, when there was a general explosion among the princesses and the ladies around them.

“A presentation!” stammered the Duchesse de Grammont, her lips quite livid. “What does his majesty mean-”

“Eh! duchesse,” said the marshal, with one of those smiles which even his best friends could not pardon; “can this be the presentation you have just been speaking of-”

The princesses bit their lips with vexation.

“Oh, it is impossible,” murmured the duchess.

“Ah, duchesse,” said the marshal, “they do set legs so well nowadays!”

The Duke de Choiseul approached his sister, the Duchesse de Grammont, and pressed her arm as a warning; not to go too far; but she was too deeply wounded to attend to him.

“It would be an insult to us all,” she exclaimed.

“Yes; an insult indeed!” repeated the Princess de Guemenee.

Monsieur de Choiseul saw he could do nothing more, and walked a short distance off.

“Oh, your royal highnesses,” cried the duchess, addressing the king's three daughters, “there is no resource for us now but in you! You, the highest ladies in the kingdom, will you endure it- Must we be exposed, in the only asylum remaining for ladies of rank, to meet a person with whom we should not allow our chambermaids to associate-”

The princesses, instead of replying, hung down their heads.

“Oh, your royal highnesses, in Heaven's name!” exclaimed she, “save us.”

“The king is master in this as in everything else,” said the Princess Adelaide, sighing.

“That is true,” said the Duke de Richelieu.

“But the entire court of France will be compromised in the affair,” cried the duchess. “Gentlemen, have you then no regard for the honor of your families-”

“Ladies,” said the Duke de Choiseul, trying to laugh, “as this seems bordering on a conspiracy, you must allow me to retire, and to take with me M, de Sartines. Will you come, marshal-”

“I-faith, I adore conspiracies!-I shall certainly stay,” replied Marshal Richelieu. The two ministers departed.

There now remained around the princesses eight or ten of the ladies who had espoused most warmly the league against the presentation. Richelieu was the only gentleman. The ladies looked at him suspiciously, as if he had been a Trojan in the Grecian camp.

“I represent my daughter, the Countess d'Egmont,” said he; “go on, ladies, go on.”

“Your royal highnesses,” the Duchesse de Grammont began, “there is a means by which we can show our sense of the infamous nature of the proceedings, and for my part I shall make use of the means.”

“What is it-” all exclaimed.

“We have been told that the king is master,” she continued.

“And I reply it is just and right that he should be,” said the marshal.

“He is master in his own palace, but we are mistresses in our own houses. Now, what is to prevent me from giving my coachman directions to drive to Chanteloup to-night, instead of to Versailles-”

“Or what is to prevent others from imitating you-” said the Princess de Guemenee.

“Why should we not all imitate the duchesse-” asked the Marchioness de Mirepoix.

“Oh, your royal highnesses,” exclaimed the duchess, again addressing the princesses; “what a noble example it would be for you to give the court!”

“The king would be angry with us,” said the Princess Sophie.

“No, your royal highness; I am certain he would not. On the contrary, it would make him reflect; and he has such exquisite sense, such perfect tact, that he will afterward acknowledge you to be in the right, and he will be grateful to you.”

“It is true,” said the Princess Victoire, encouraged by the general spirit of rebellion; “the king said nothing when we refused to admit the visits of the countess, but on a public occasion like this he might not be disposed to forgive us.”

“No, certainly.” replied the duchess; “if you were the only ladies who absented yourselves, but when he sees that we have all left the court-”

“All!” exclaimed the party.

“Yes, all!” replied the old marshal.

“Then you are of the plot-” said the Princess Adelaide.

“Certainly I am, and therefore I wish to speak.”

“Speak, marshal, speak!” said Madame de Grammont.

“We must proceed methodically,” said he. “It is not enough all to shout in chorus this or that. I have known people say, 'This is what I shall do,' but at the moment of action they have done the very contrary. Now, as I have the honor to make one in this conspiracy, I do not wish to he left by myself, as I always was when I took part in the conspiracies under the late king and under the regency.”

“Upon my word, marshal, you forget yourself. Among the Amazons you take upon you the airs of a leader,” said the duchess.

“Madame, I beg you to consider that I may have some right to that position. You hate Madame Dubarry-there I have let the name slip out, but nobody heard it!-you hate her more than I; but I am more compromised than you.”

“How is that-”

“I have not been at Luciennes for eight days, nor at her apartments at Versailles for four. The affair has gone so far that a footman was sent to ask if I was ill; so I a in already looked on with suspicion. However, I am not ambitious-I yield the leadership to you; you have set the affair on foot, you have stirred us all, you revolutionize our consciences-yours must be the baton of command.”

“No, I must follow their royal highnesses,” said the duchess, respectfully.

“Oh, pray let us remain passive,” said the Princess Adelaide; “we are going to Saint Denis to see our sister Louise; she will keep us there, and of course there can be nothing said.”

“Nothing, nothing at all, unless by some very ill-disposed person,” said the marshal.

“As for me,” said the Duchesse de Grammont, “I have to go to Chanteloup, because it is hay-making season.”

“Bravo!” cried the duke; “an excellent reason.”

“I must stay at home; one of my children is ill, and I have to nurse him,” said the Princess de Guemenee.

“I,” said the Duchesse de Polastron, “have felt a giddiness all this evening; I am sure I shall be dangerously ill if Tronchin do not bled me to-morrow.”

“And I!” said the Marchioness de Mirepoix, majestically, “I shall not go to Versailles, because I shall not -that is my reason.”

“Excellent! excellent!” said the marshal; “all this is quite logical; but we must swear.”

“What! we must swear-”

“Yes; conspirators always swear, from the plot of Catiline down to that of Cellamare, in which I had the honor of participating. We always swore; it is true the thing did not succeed at all the better for it, still, let us respect old customs. Let us swear, then-you shall see how solemn it is!”

He extended his hand in the midst of the group of ladies, and said with proper dignity, “I swear.”

All the ladies repeated the oath, with the exception of the princesses, who slipped away.

“Now that all is over,” said the marshal, “when once people have sworn in conspiracies, they never do anything more.”

“Oh, what a fury she will be in,” said the Duchesse de Grammont, “when she finds herself all alone in the grand salon!”

“Hum!” said the marshal; “the king will most probably banish us for a little.”

“Ah!” cried the Princess de Guemenee, “what kind of court would it be if we were banished- The king of Denmark is expected; who will be presented to him- The dauphiness is expected; to whom will she be presented- Besides, a whole court is never exiled-a selection is made.”

“I know that very well, and I fear I run a great risk of being chosen for the distinction of banishment!” said the marshal. “I have always been distinguished in that way. Four times have I been selected for it, at the lowest reckoning-this is my fifth conspiracy, ladies.”

“Do not be afraid, marshal,” said the Duchesse de Grammont; “if anyone be marked out for banishment. I shall be the person.”

“Or your brother, the Duke de Choiseul-take care, duchesse!” replied the marshal.

“My brother is of my mind -he could submit to misfortune, not to an insult.”

“It will be neither you, marshal, nor you, duchesse, who will be banished, “said the Marchioness de Mirepoix; “I shall be the victim. The king will never pardon me for being less condescending to the countess than I was to the marchioness.”

“That is true,” said the marshal; “you were always called the favorite of the favorite. I am sorry for you now-we shall be banished together.”

“Let him banish us all,” said the Princess de Guemenee, rising; '-'for I trust none of us will draw back from the resolution which we have taken.”

“We cannot draw back after our oath,” said the marshal.

“Besides,” said the Duchesse de Grammont, “I have still other resources.”

“You-”

“Yes; she cannot be presented to-morrow evening without three things.”

“What three-”

“A hairdresser, a dress, and a carriage.”

“Certainly.”

“Well, she shall not be at Versailles at ten o'clock-the king will become impatient-he will dismiss the court, and the presentation will be postponed till the Greek Kalends, on account of the arrival of the dauphiness.”

A burst of delight followed this new episode in the conspiracy, but while applauding even more loudly than the others, the Duke de Richelieu and the Marchioness de Mirepoix exchanged glances-the same idea had occurred simultaneously to the two old courtiers.

At eleven o'clock all the conspirators, lighted by a lovely moon, were speeding along the roads to Versailles and Saint Germain.

Marshal Richelieu, however, mounted his groom's horse, and while his carriage, with the blinds drawn closely down, bore him ostensibly to Versailles, he reached Paris by a cross-road.

CHAPTER XXXVII. NO HAIRDRESSER, NO DRESS, NO CARRIAGE.

IT WOULD have been in bad taste for the Countess Dubarry to have gone merely from her apartments in the palace of Versailles to the grand salon where the presentations took place. Besides, at Versailles there were not the necessary appliances and means for such an important day.

But a better reason than any of these was, that it was not the custom. The highly favored being who was to be presented always arrived with the noise and state of a foreign ambassador, whether it were from her house in the town of Versailles, or in Paris. Madame Dubarry chose to arrive from the latter place.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, therefore, she was at her house in the Rue de Valois with the Countess de Bearn, whom she kept under lock and key when she did not keep her under her smiles, and whose burn was attended to most carefully-every secret of medicine and chemistry being exhausted on it.

From the preceding evening Jean, Chon, and Doree had been at work; and anyone-who could have seen them at their work, would have formed an exalted idea of the power of gold, or the greatness of human intellect.

The one made sure of the hairdresser, the other harassed the seamstress. Jean took the department of the carriage to himself, but also cast an eye occasionally on the hairdresser and the dressmakers. The countess, occupied with flowers, diamonds, and lace, was buried in boxes, cases, and caskets, and gave audiences every hour to couriers from Versailles, who informed her how matters were going on. Orders had been given for lighting the queen's drawing-room, and no change had taken place in the king's intentions.

About four the viscount came in, pule, agitated, but joyful.

“Well-” asked the countess.

“Well, all will be ready!”

“The hairdresser-”

“I went to him myself; Doree was with him; but, to make sure of him, I slipped fifty louis-d'ors into his hand. He will dine here at six o'clock precisely, so you may be quite easy on that score.”

“My dress-”

“It will be a perfect wonder! Chon is superintending it; there are six-and-twenty workwomen at it, sewing on the pearls, the ribbons, and the trimmings. They go on breadth by breadth at the work, and it would certainly require eight days for any other persons than ourselves to have it finished. It is a prodigious undertaking!”

“But do you say they are doing it breadth by breadth-”

“Yes, my dear -there are thirteen breadths of the stuff; two workwomen at each breadth-one works at the right, the other at the left, putting on the jewels and trimmings; then at the last they will all be joined together. It will take them two hours yet; at six you will have it.”

“Are you quite sure, Jean-”

“Yesterday I made a calculation with an engineer about it. There are ten thousand stitches in each breadth; that is, five thousand for each workwoman. In such thick stuff, a woman can only make one stitch in five seconds; that is, twelve in one minute, seven hundred and twenty in one hour, and seven thousand two hundred in ten hours. I leave out two thousand two hundred for needle-threading and slipped stitches, and this leaves four good hours about work.”

“And what about the carriage-”

“Oh, I'll answer for it. The varnish is now getting dry in a large store heated to fifty degrees. It is an elegant vis-a-vis, compared with which the carriages sent for the dauphiness are a mere trifle. Besides the coats of arms on the four panels there is the war cry of the Dubarrys; 'Boutes en avaut!' on each side. Besides that, I made them paint on one place two doves billing and cooing, and in another a heart pierced with a dart-the whole surrounded by bows and arrows, quivers and torches. There is such a crowd of people at Francian's to see it! It will be here exactly at eight.”

At this moment Chon and Doree came in and confirmed all that Jean had said.

“Thank you, my brave aides-de-camp!” said the countess.

“My sweet sister.” said the viscount, “your eyes look a little dim-had you not better sleep for an hour-it would quite revive you.”

“Sleep!-no! I shall sleep to-night, and that is more than some will do.”

While these preparations were going on, the report of the intended presentation had spread through all Paris. Idle and careless as they appear, no people love news more than the Parisians. None knew better all the courtiers and all the intrigues of Versailles than the Parisian cockney of the eighteenth century, though debarred from the festivities of the palace, and seeing only the hieroglyphics on the carriages and the curious liveries of the footmen. At that period such or such a nobleman was known to the whole city. The reason was simple. The court at that period formed the principal attraction in the theaters and in the gardens. Marshal Richelieu in his place at the Italian opera, Madame Dubarry in a coach rivaling that of royalty itself, were constantly before the public, like some favorite comedian or admired actress of the present day.

People are much more interested in faces that are well known to them. Everyone in Paris knew Madame Dubarry's face, constantly shown where a rich and pretty woman likes to be seen-in the theaters, in the public walks, in the shops. Besides, she was easily recognized by means of portraits, caricatures, and by her negro page, Zamore. The affair of the presentation, therefore, occupied the city nearly as much as the court. This day there was a crowd near the Palais Royal; but, poor Philosophy! it was not to see Rousseau playing chess at the Cafe de la Regence; it was to see the favorite in her fine coach and her handsome dress, of which they had heard so much. There was something deep in Jean Dubarry's expression, “We cost a pretty little sum to France!” And it was natural that France, represented by Paris, should wish to enjoy the sight for which they had paid so dearly. Madame Dubarry knew her people well, for they we're much more her people than they had been Queen Maria Leczinska's. She knew that they loved to be dazzled by magnificence; and, as she was good-natured, she labored to make the spectacle correspond to the expense to which she put them.

Instead of sleeping, as her brother advised her, she took a bath about five o'clock. Then, about six o'clock, she began to expect her hairdresser; and, while she waits, we shall explain, if we can, what hairdressing then was.

It was building a complete edifice. This was the commencement of the castles which the ladies of the court of the young king, Louis XVI., erected with towers and bastions on their heads. May we not, even in this frivolity of fashion, discover something presaging that a mine was dug beneath the feet of all who were, or all who pretended to be, great- (›r that by some mysterious divination, the women of the aristocracy had learned they should have a short time to enjoy their titles-that they, therefore, made the most of them, bearing them aloft on their heads; and as if -fatal omen!-not having long to keep their heads, they must decorate those heads to the utmost point which extravagance can attain, and raise them as high as possible above the vulgar!

To plait the hair; to elevate it on a silken cushion; to roll it about a hoop of whalebone; to adorn it with diamonds, pearls, and flowers; to sprinkle it with powder, which made the eyes brilliant and the complexion fresh; to blend into harmony with the complexion pearl, ruby, opal, diamond, flowers of all hues and of all forms-to do all this, a man must be not only a great artist, but the most patient of his race.

As a proof that such a man was esteemed great, the hairdresser was the only tradesman allowed to wear a sword.

This explanation may account for the fifty louis-d'ors given by Jean Dubarry to the hairdresser of the court. It may account, also, for some fears lest the great Lubin (the court hairdresser of that day was called Lubin) might not be so punctual or so skillful on the occasion as was desirable.

The fears about his punctuality were, alas! too well founded. Six o'clock struck, and the hairdresser did not appear; then half-past six came; then a quarter to seven. One thought inspired some hope in the anxious hearts of all; it was, that a man of Monsieur Lubin's importance would naturally make people wait a little. But seven struck. The viscount feared that the dinner prepared for the hairdresser might be cold when he came, and the great artist might be dissatisfied. He sent a servant to say that dinner waited.

The servant returned in a quarter of an hour. Those only who have waited under similar circumstances can tell how many seconds there are in such a quarter of an hour.

The servant had spoken to Madame Lubin herself, who assured him that Monsieur Lubin had set out for the countess's, that if he were not then there, he must be on the way.

“Perhaps,” said Jean, “he has been delayed in consequence of not getting a carriage. We will wait a little.”

“Besides,” said the countess, “there will be no time lost; my hair can be attended to when I am half dressed; the presentation does not take place until ten; we have still three hours, it will only take one to go to Versailles. In the mean time, to employ me, Chon, show me my dress. Where is Chon- Chon! Chon! my dress, my dress!”

“Your dress has not come yet, madame,” said Doree, “and your sister went ten minutes ago to see about it herself.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the viscount, “I hear a noise of wheels! It is the carriage brought home, no doubt.”

The viscount was mistaken; it was Chon, who had come back full speed.

“My dress!” cried the countess, while Chon was still in the vestibule; “my dress!”

“Has it not come-” asked Chon, terror-stricken.

“No.”

“Oh, well, it can't be long. When I got to the dressmaker's she had just set out in a fiacre with two of her women, bringing the dress to fit it on.”

“It is a good way from her house to this, and as you drove very fast no doubt you have passed her,” said Jean.

“Yes, yes! certainly!” replied Chon, yet she could not suppress a vague feeling of apprehension.

“Viscount,” said the countess, “you had better send about the carriage, that there may be no disappointment on that side at least.”

“You are right, Jeanne,” and Dubarry opened the door. “Let some of you,” cried he, “take the new horses to Francian's for the carriage, so that they may be all ready harnessed when it arrives.”

The coachman and the horses set off. As the sound of their trampling died away, Zamore entered with a letter.

“A letter for Mistress Barry,” said he.

“Who brought it-”

“A man.”

“A man- What sort of man-”

“A man on horseback.”

“And why did he give it to you-”

“Because Zamore was at the door.”

“But read it! Read it rather than question him!” cried Jean.

“You are right, viscount.”

“Ay, provided there be nothing annoying in the letter,” he muttered.

“Oh, no! it is some petition for his majesty.”

“It is not folded like a petition.”

“Really, viscount, you are full of fears,” said the countess, smiling, and she broke the seal. At the first line she shrieked, and fell back in her chair half-dead.

“No hairdresser, no dress, no carriage!” she cried. Chon sprang toward her. Jean seized the letter. It was evidently the writing of a woman, and ran thus:

“MADAME-Be not too confident. This evening you shall have no hairdresser, no dress, no carriage. I hope this information will reach you in time to be useful to you. As I do not desire your gratitude, I do not give you my name. Guess who I am, and you will have discovered

“A sincere friend.”

“Oh!” shouted Dubarry, “all is over! Sang bleu! I must kill somebody! By all the devils! I'll run Lubin through the body! It is half-past seven, and he not here! Confound him! Damn him!”

And as Dubarry was not to be presented that evening, he did not care about his hair, but tore it out unmercifully in handfuls.

“But the dress! Good heavens! the dress!” cried Chon; “a hairdresser could easily be found!”

“Oh, I defy you to find one! What sort of wretch would he be- A murderer! A slaughterer! Oh, death and damnation!”

The countess said nothing, but sighs burst from her bosom, which might have softened the Choiseuls themselves could they but have heard them.

“Let us think, let us think!” said Chou, “a little calmness only. Let us find out another hairdresser, and send to the dressmaker to know what has become of the dress!;'

“No hairdresser!” murmured the almost fainting countess; “no dress! no carriage!”

“Yes, no carriage!” cried Jean; “it does not come either! It is a plot, countess, it is a plot! Cannot Sartines find out the authors of it- Cannot Maupeou hang them- Can they not with their accomplices be burned in the marketplace- I will have the hairdresser broken on the wheel! the dressmaker torn to pieces with pincers! the coachmaker flayed alive!”

At length the countess recovered a little from her state of stupefaction, but it was only to feel more poignantly all the horror of her situation.

“All is lost!” she exclaimed. “Those who have bought over Lubin are rich enough to remove all the good hairdressers from Paris. None are left me but wretches who would destroy my hair! -and my dress!-my poor dress!-and my new carriage! I thought the sight of it would have made them burst with envy!”

Dubarry did not answer-but, rolling his eyes fearfully, strode up and down the room, striking himself against the angles of the apartment; and as often as he encountered any ornament or small article of furniture, abandoning his hair, he dashed them into the smallest morsels possible, and then stamped on them with his feet.

In the midst of this scene of horror, which, spreading from the boudoir to the anterooms, and from the anterooms to the court, caused all the domestics to run hither and thither with twenty different and contradictory orders, a young man in a light green coat, a satin waistcoat, lilac breeches, and white silk stockings, got out of a cabriolet, crossed the court, stepping from stone to stone on the tips of his toes, entered the open door abandoned by all the servants, mounted the stairs, and tapped at the countess's dressing-room door.

Jean was just stamping on a tray with a set of Sevres porcelain, which he had pulled down with the tail of his coat while he was dealing a blow with his fist to a great Chinese mandarin. When the noise of these feats had subsided a little, three gentle, discreet, modest taps were heard.

Then followed profound silence; all were in such a state of expectation that no one could ask who was there.

“Excuse me,” said an unknown voice, “but I wish to speak to the Countess Dubarry.”

“Sir, people do not enter here in that way!” cried a servant, who had discovered the stranger, and had run after him to prevent his farther advance.

“Never mind! never mind!” cried Jean, flinging open the door with a hand which might have driven in the gates of Gaza. “Worse cannot happen to us now. What do you want with the countess-”

The stranger avoided the shock of this sudden meeting by springing backward, and falling into the third position.

“Sir,” said he, “I came to offer my services to the Countess Dubarry.”

“What services, sir-”

“My professional services, sir.”

“What is your profession-”

“I am a hairdresser!” and the stranger bowed a second time.

“Oh,” cried Jean, falling on his neck, “a hairdresser! Come in! come in!”

“Come in! Come in, my dear sir!” cried Chon, almost taking the astonished young man in her arms.

“A hairdresser!” cried Madame Dubarry, raising her hands to heaven. “A hairdresser- An angel! Were you sent by Monsieur Lubin, sir-”

“I was not sent by anyone. I read in the gazette that the Countess Dubarry was to be presented this evening; then, said I to myself, suppose that the Countess Dubarry had no dressmaker-it is nut probable, but it is possible-so I think I shall try.”

“What is your name, sir-” asked the countess, a little cooled by this account.

“Leonard, madame.”

“Leonard- You are not known to anyone ':

“If you accept my services, madame, to-morrow Everyone will know me.”

“Hum!” said Jean, “there are two kinds of hairdressing.”

“If madame distrusts my skill, I shall retire.”

“We have no time to try you,” said Chon.

“Why make any trial-” cried the young man, walking round the countess in a fit of enthusiasm. “I know, madame, that all eyes must be drawn to you by the style of your hair, and already in contemplating you I have invented a head which will have a most powerful effect.”

And the young man made a gesture with his hand, so full of confidence in himself, that the countess's resolution was a little shaken, and hope sprang up in the hearts of Chon and Jean.

“Have you, really-” said she, quite astonished at the young man's ease-for he was now leaning back, hand on hip, as the great Lubin himself would have done.

“Yes-but, madame, I must see your dress, that I may make the ornaments harmonize with it.”

“Oh, my dress! my dress!” cried the countess, recalled by his words to the terrible reality.

Jean struck his forehead fiercely. “Oh, imagine, sir,” cried he-” imagine what a horrid trick! They have carried off dress -dressmaker-all! Chon, Chon, dear Chon!” and Dubarry, tired of tearing out his hair, gave way to a downright fit of sobbing.

“Suppose you were to go back to the dressmaker's, Chon-” said the countess,

“For what purpose- You know she had set out to come hither.”

“Alas! alas!” murmured the countess, falling back in her chair, “of what use is a hairdresser when I have no dress-”

At this moment the door-bell rung; all the doors had been carefully shut, and even bolted, by the porter, lest any other should slip in as the hairdresser had done.

“Someone rings,” said the countess.

Chon sprang to a window.

“A bandbox!” cried she.

“A bandbox!” cried the countess.

“Coming in-” cried Jean.

“Yes-no-yes. It is given to the porter-run, Jean, run!”

He dashed down the stairs, got before all the footmen, and snatched the bandbox from the porter.

Chon looked through the window.

He pulled off the lid, plunged his hand into the depths of the bandbox, and uttered a yell of joy. It contained a beautiful dress of Chinese satin, with flowers put on, and a complete trimming of lace of immense value.

“A dress! A dress!” shouted Chon, clapping her hands.

“A dress-” repeated the countess, almost sinking under her joy, as she had before under her grief.

“Who gave it you, rogue-” asked the viscount of the porter.

“A woman, sir, whom I don't know.”

“Where is she-”

“Sir, she laid it on the step of the door, cried 'For the countess,' and disappeared.”

“Well, we have got a dress-that is the main thing!”

“Come up, Jean, come up!” called Chon, “my sister is dying with impatience.”

“Look!” said Jean, returning to the room, “look!-admire! See what fate sends you!”

“But it will not go on-it will not fit -it was not made for me. Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! what a misfortune, for it is beautiful!”

Chon quickly measured it.

“The same length, the same width in the waist!” she exclaimed.

“What admirable stuff!” said Jean.

“It is miraculous!” said Chon.

“It is terrible!” said the countess.

“Not at all,” replied the viscount, “for it proves, that although you have great enemies, you have also devoted friends.”

“It cannot be sent by a friend,” said Chon, “for how should a friend know of the plot formed against us- It must be sent by a sylph.”

“Let it be sent by his Satanic Majesty!” exclaimed the countess, “I care not, provided it assists me to oppose the Choiseuls! Whoever sent it, he cannot be so much of a demon as they.”

“And now,” said Jean, “I am sure that you may confidently submit your head to this gentleman.”

“Why do you think so-”

“Because he has been sent by the same person who sent the dress.”

“I-” said Leonard, with the most innocent surprise.

“Come, come, my dear sir! acknowledge that it was all a tale about the gazette!”

“The simple truth, sir. Here is the paper-I kept it for curl-papers,” and he drew out the gazette in which the presentation was announced.

“Now,” said Chon, “let him set to work-it is eight o'clock.”

“Oh, we have time enough!” said the hairdresser, “it will only take an hour to go to Versailles.”

“Yes, if we have a carriage,” said the countess.

“Oh, mordieu! that is true!” exclaimed Jean. “That wretch, Francian, does not come.”

“You know we have been warned; no hairdresser, no dress, no carriage!” repeated the countess.

“Now, if the coachmaker should not keep his word-” said Chon…

“No; here he is, here he is!” cried Jean.

“And the carriage, the carriage-” exclaimed the countess.

“It is at the door, no doubt. But what is the matter with the coachmaker-”

At that moment Francian rushed in, all in alarm.

“Oh, viscount!” cried he, “the carriage was on its way hither, when at the corner of a street it was seized by four men; they knocked down my young man, who was bringing it, seized the reins, and set off with it at a gallop.”

“I told you so!-I told you so!” said Dubarry, sitting down resignedly in his chair.

“But, brother,” exclaimed Chon, “exert yourself!-do something!”

“What for-”

“To get a carriage! the horses here are done out, and the carriages dirty. Jeanne cannot go in any of them.”

“Bah! the little birds find food when they don't expect it, and we got a hairdresser and a dress in our need. Yes, our unknown friend will not forget a carriage!”

“Hush!” cried Chon, “surely I heard carriage wheels.”

“Yes, it is stopping,” he replied.

Then, springing to a window which he opened, he shouted to the servants, “Run, rascals, run! Quick, quick! Find out our benefactor!”

A carriage, lined with white satin, and drawn by two splendid bay horses, stood before the door. But neither coachman nor footman was to be seen; a common street porter held the horses by the head. A crown had been given to him by a person unknown to him at the end of the street, with orders to lead the carriage to the countess's door.

They looked at the panels; the arms were replaced by a simple rose.

The whole of this counterplay against the miseries with which the evening had commenced lasted about an hour.

Jean had the carriage taken into the yard, and the gates locked on it; he carried up the key with him. On returning to the dressing-room, he found the hairdresser about to give the countess the first proof of his profound knowledge of his art.

“Sir,” cried the viscount, seizing him by the arm, “if you do not declare who is our protecting genius, that we may make known our eternal gratitude to him, I swear-”

“Allow me,” said the young man, interrupting him very phlegmatically, “allow me to say, sir, that you are doing me the honor of squeezing my arm so tight, that I fear my hand will be quite stiff when I shall have to dress the countess's hair, and it is now eight o'clock.”

“Leave him alone, Jean, leave him alone!” cried the countess.

Jean sank down in his chair.

“A miracle!” exclaimed Chon; “it is a perfect fit-only an inch too long in front; but ten minutes will alter that!”

“And what is the carriage like-” asked the countess.

“It is in the best style,” replied Jean; “I got into it; it is lined with white satin and perfumed with essence of roses.”

“All is right-all is right!” cried the countess, clapping her little hands with delight. “Now, Monsieur Leonard, if you succeed on this occasion, your fortune is made!”

Leonard took possession of her head, and the very first touch of the comb revealed a skillful hand. Rapidity, taste, marvelous precision, a complete knowledge of the relation between the moral and the physical-all these he displayed in the accomplishment of his important duty.

When he had, at the end of three-quarters of an hour, given the finishing touch to the splendid edifice which he had reared on the countess's head, he would have modestly retired, after having washed his hands in a basin which Chon presented to him, as if he had been a king.

“Now, sir,” said Dubarry, “you must know that I am as ardent in my loves as in my hatreds-as you have gained my esteem, pray tell me who you are.”

“You know already, sir, who I am-my name is Leonard-I am only a beginner.”

“A beginner-Sang bleu! you are a thorough master of your profession.”

“You shall be my hairdresser, Monsieur Leonard,” said the countess, looking at herself in a little glass which she had in her hand; “and I shall pay you on each occasion like this fifty louis-d'ors. Chon, count out one hundred for this time-he shall have fifty of earnest money.”

“I told you, madame, that you would make my reputation.”

“But you must dress no one's hair but mine.”

“Keep your hundred louis-d'ors, then, madame-I prefer my liberty-to it I owe the honor of having this evening dressed your hair. Liberty is the first of human blessings.”

“A philosophical hairdresser!” exclaimed Dubarry, raising his hands to heaven; “to what shall we come at last- Well, my dear Monsieur Leonard. I shall not quarrel with you-take your hundred louis-d'ors and keep your secret and your liberty. Now, countess, to your carriage!”

The last words were addressed to the Countess de Bearn, who entered stiff and stately, and dressed like an image in a shrine, She was brought out of her room just when she was to be made use of.

“Now,” cried Jean to the servants, “let four of you take her, and carry her downstairs, and if you hurt her, so as to make her heave one sigh, I'll flay you alive!”

While he was superintending this delicate and important operation, assisted by Chon, the countess turned to seek for Monsieur Leonard; he had disappeared.

“But how did he go-” murmured Madame Dubarry, who had not yet quite recovered from the influence of the many surprises of the evening.

“How did he go- Why, through the floor, or up through the ceiling, of course, as all genii do. Take care, countess, that your head-dress does not turn into a heap of mud, your dress into a spider's web, and your coach into a pumpkin, drawn by two rats!”

Having given utterance to this last fear, Jean took his place beside the Countess de Bearn, and her fortunate goddaughter.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE PRESENTATION.

VERSAILLES, LIKE EVERYTHING really great, is and will long be a fair and lovely scene. Though moss should cover its mouldering walls-though its gods of marble, bronze and lead should lie shattered around their broken fountains-though its broad alleys of clipped trees should remain in all the wild luxuriance of nature-though it should become but a heap of ruins-it will always present to the thinker and the poet a great and touching spectacle. Let such look from its circle of ephemeral splendor to the eternal horizon beyond, and it will be long ere thought and fancy sink to rest again!

But it was, above all, in its days of pomp and splendor that Versailles was fairest to look upon; when its gay and thoughtless population, restrained by a crowd of soldiers still more gay than themselves, thronged its gilded gates-when carriages lined with velvet and satin, blazoned with armorial bearings, thundered over its pavements at the full speed of their prancing steeds-when every window, blazing with light like those of an enchanted palace, exposed to view the moving throng, radiant with diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and bending to the gesture of one man, as bends before the wind a field of golden corn, with its bright flowers of crimson, white and blue; yes, Versailles was brilliant indeed, when its gates sent forth couriers to all the powers of the earth-when kings, princes, nobles, generals, learned men, from all parts of the civilized world, trod its rich carpets and its inlaid floors!

But when, for some great ceremony, all its sumptuous furniture was displayed, and its sumptuousness doubled by the magic of a thousand lights, even the coldest imagination must have glowed on beholding what human invention and human power could do. Such was the ceremony observed on the reception of an ambassador, or the presentation of the nobles attending the court.

Louis XIV., the creator of etiquette, a system which shut up each individual within bounds beyond which he could not pass, desired that the favored few initiated into the magnificence of his regal life should be struck with such veneration that ever afterward they could only regard the palace as a temple, and the king as its presiding deity, to whose presence some had the right of approaching nearer than others.

Versailles, then, still magnificent, although already showing symptoms of degeneration, had opened all its doors, lighted all its chandeliers, and exhibited all its splendor for the presentation of Madame Dubarry. The people, inquisitive, though hungry and wretched, forgetting, strange anomaly, both their hunger and wretchedness, that they might gaze on so much grandeur, filled the Place d'Armes and the avenues leading to the palace. Every window of the chateau poured out floods of light, and the lusters from a distance looked like stars gleaming in an atmosphere of golden dust.

The king left his private apartments exactly at ten. He was dressed rather more richly than usual; that is, his lace was finer, and the buckles alone of his garters and his shoes were worth a million.

The Count de Sartines had informed him of the conspiracy entered into by the ladies the evening before, so that there was a shade of anxiety on his brow, and he trembled lest he should see only gentlemen in the grand salon. But he was soon reassured, when on entering the salon set apart for presentations, he saw, amid a cloud of lace and powder mingled with the blaze of diamonds, first, his three daughters, then the Marchioness de Mirepoix, who had talked so loudly among the plotters-in short, all the turbulent spirits who had sworn not to come were there.

Marshal Richelieu, like a general on the eve of an engagement, hurried from one to another, saying to this one, “Ah, I have caught you, perfidious one!” whispering to another, “I was certain you would not keep your oath!” and to a third, “Remember what I told you about conspiracies!”

“But, marshal,” replied the ladies, “you are here yourself!”

“Oh, I represent my daughter! I represent the Countess d'Egmont. Look around, you will not find Septimanie! She alone has kept faith with the Duchesse de Grammont and the Princess de Guemenee, so I am pretty certain what my fate will be. To-morrow I shall enter on my fifth banishment, or my fourth trip to the Bastille. Most certainly I shall never again conspire.”

The king entered. There was a profound silence, during which ten o'clock struck-the hour fixed for the ceremony. His majesty was surrounded by a numerous court, and was attended by about fifty gentlemen, who, not having sworn to come to the presentation, were, probably, for that reason present.

The king observed, at the first glance, that the Duchesse de Grammont, the Princess de Guemenee, and the Countess d'Egmont were wanting in this splendid assembly.

He approached the Duke de Choiseul, who affected great calmness, but in spite of all his efforts was somewhat disturbed.

“I do not see the Duchesse de Grammont here,” said the king.

“Sire, my sister is ill,” replied the Duke de Choiseul, “and desired me to present her very humble respects to your majesty.”

“So much the worse!” said the king, and he turned his back on the duke. In doing so, he found himself face to face with the Prince de Guemenee.

“And the Princess do Guemenee,” said he, “where is she- have you not brought her, prince-”

“It was impossible, Sire; when I called at her hotel in order to accompany her here, I found her in bed.”

“Oh! so much the worse! so much the worse!” said the king. “Ah, here is the marshal! Good-evening, marshal.”

The old courtier bowed with all the suppleness of a youth.

“You

are not ill, at least!” said the king, loud enough for De Choiseul and De Guemenee to hear him.

“Whenever, Sire, I have in prospect the happiness of seeing your majesty, I am perfectly well,” replied Richelieu.

“But,” said the king, looking round, “I do not see your daughter, the Countess d'Egmont; how comes it that she is not here-”

The duke's features assumed an expression of deep regret.

“Alas! Sire, my poor daughter is really not able to lay her humble homage at your majesty's feet-this evening, above all others-ill, Sire, ill!”

“So much the worse,” said the king. “Ill! The Countess d'Egmont, who enjoys the finest health in France- So much the worse! so much the worse!” And the king left the marshal as he had left M, de Choiseul and M, de Guemenee.

Then he completed the circuit of the salon, and particularly complimented the Marchioness de Mirepoix, who did not feel altogether at her ease.

“You see what the price of treachery is,” whispered the marshal in her ear; “to-morrow you will be loaded with honors, while we-I shudder to think of it-” and he sighed,

“But I think you have rather betrayed the Choiseuls yourself, since you are here, and yet you swore-

“For my daughter, for my poor Septimanie, marchioness; she will be disgraced for being too faithful!”

“To her father,” replied the marchioness.

The marshal pretended not to hear this remark, which might have passed for an epigram.

“Do you not think,” said he, “that the king is uneasy-”

“I think he has reason to be so; it is a quarter past ten.”

“True; and the countess not here! Shall I tell you what I think-”

“Yes.”

“I have some fears.”

“Fears about what-”

“Fears that something disagreeable may have happened to that poor countess. You know whether I am right or not, marchioness.”

“I! how should I know-”

“Yes; you were up to the neck in the conspiracy.”

“Well, I may tell you in confidence, marshal, that I cannot help sharing your fears.”

“Oh! our friend the duchesse is a fierce antagonist; she has fled, and like the Parthians, she wounds in fleeing. See how restless the Duke de Choiseul is, although he wishes to appear calm; he cannot stay a moment in one position, and he keeps his eyes always on the king. Come! confess that there is some plot in the wind.”

“I know nothing of it, duke; but, like you, I have suspicions.”

“But what can they gain by their plot-”

“Time, my dear marshal, and you know the proverb, 'He who gains time, gains all.' To-morrow something may occur to put off the presentation sine die. The dauphiness may reach Compiegne to-morrow instead of four days hence; perhaps they only wished to gain to-morrow.”

“Do you know, marchioness, this little tale of yours has all the appearance of truth. There is no sign of her coming.”

“And see, the king is becoming impatient!”

“That is the third time he has approached the window; he is really annoyed.”

“Things will be much worse presently.”

“How so-”

“It is twenty minutes past ten, is it not-”

“Yes.”

“Then I may now tell you-”

“What-”

The marchioness looked around, then whispered, “She will not come.”

“Oh, heavens! but, marchioness, it will he a scandalous affair.”

“It will perhaps cause a lawsuit-a criminal suit. I know from good authority that there will be in the case robbery, abduction, treason. The Choiseuls have played a bold game.”

“Very imprudent in them.”

“Passion rendered them blind.”

“You see what an advantage we have over them, in not being governed by our passions; we are cool, and can look at things calmly.”

“Observe, the king is going again to the window.”

Gloomy, anxious, and irritated, Louis had drawn near a window, leaned his head on a carved frame, and pressed his forehead to the cool glass.

During this time the conversation of the courtiers sounded like the rustling of the leaves of a forest before a tempest. All eyes wandered from the king to the timepiece, and from the timepiece to the king. The half-hour struck, the clear vibrating sound died away in the vast salon.

Monsieur de Maupeou approached the king.

“Delightful weather, Sire,” said he, timidly.

“Very fine, very fine! Do you understand anything of this matter, Monsieur de Maupeou-”

“Of what, Sire-”

“About this delay -the poor countess.”

“She must be ill, Sire,” replied the chancellor.

“I can comprehend that the Duchesse de Grammont may be ill, that the Princess de Guemenee may be ill, that the Countess d'Egmont may be ill, but not that she should be ill.”

“Sire, very great emotion often causes illness, and the countess's joy was so great.”

“Ah! there is no longer any hope,” said Louis, shaking his head; “she will not come now.”

Although the king had uttered these words in a low voice, there was so profound a silence in the salon that Everyone heard them. No one, however, had time to reply, even in thought, for just then the noise of a carriage was heard in the court of the palace. All heads moved; eyes interrogated eyes.

The king came forward to the middle of the salon, that through the open doors he might see the whole length of the gallery.

“I am afraid,” whispered the marchioness to the marshal, with a meaning smile, “that some bad news is coming.”

But suddenly the king's face brightened, and his eyes flashed with pleasure.

“The Countess Dubarry! the Countess de Bearn!” cried the usher to the grandmaster of the ceremonies.

These two names made all hearts beat, many with very opposite emotions. A crowd of courtiers, impelled by ungovernable curiosity, drew near the king.

The Marchioness de Mirepoix was nearest him; clasping her hands, she exclaimed, as if ready to fall down and worship, “Oh, how beautiful she is! how beautiful she is!”

The king turned a gracious smile on her.

“She is not a woman,” said Richelieu; “she is a fairy.”

The king sent the remainder of the smile in the direction of the old courtier.

In fact, the countess never had appeared more lovely; never had such a perfect representation of gentle agitation and modesty, never had a more charming figure or more noble carriage, graced the queen's salon at Versailles, which, nevertheless, as we have said, was the salon of presentations.

Lovely in the extreme, dressed with the most perfect taste, and above all, her hair dressed exquisitely, the countess advanced, conducted by Madame de Bearn, who, notwithstanding her suffering, did not betray it by the slightest gesture; yet every movement caused each fiber of her frame to quiver, while from her dry and fevered cheeks the rouge dropped off atom by atom.

Every eye was fixed upon the pair who presented such a strange contrast. The did lady, her neck uncovered as in the time of her youth, her headdress standing up a foot above her head, and her large eyes glittering in their deep sockets, like those of an osprey, seemed, in her splendid dress and with her skeleton appearance, the type of the past leading forward the present.

So striking was the contrast, that it seemed to the king as if his favorite had never looked so beautiful as now, when receiving her from the hand of the old Countess de Bearn.

Just as the countess, according to the etiquette, sank on her knee to kiss the king's hand, Louis seized her arm, raised her up, and in a few words rewarded her for all she had suffered during the last fortnight.

“You are at my feet, countess!” said he. “It is I who should be, and who always wish to be, at yours.”

Then he extended his arms to her, following the usual ceremonial, but on this occasion the embrace was not a pretended but a real one.

“You have a lovely god-daughter, madame,” said the king to the Countess de Bearn; “but she has as noble a chaperon, and one whom I rejoice to see again in my court.” The old lady bowed.

“Go and pay your respects to my daughters,” whispered the king to Madame Dubarry, “and show them that you know how to make a curtsey. I hope you will have cause to be satisfied with their reception of you.”

The two ladies advanced in the space which was formed around them, while the eager looks of all followed every movement which they made.

The king's three daughters, seeing them approach, rose as if moved by springs, and remained standing. Their father fixed a look on them which commanded them to be polite.

The princesses, a little agitated, returned Madame Dubarry's curtsey, which she made much lower than etiquette demanded, and this they thought such good taste that they embraced her as the king had done, and delighted him by their cordiality.

From that moment the countess's success became a triumph, and the slower and less adroit courtiers had to wait an hour before they could get their bow made to the queen of the night.

She, free from coldness or any feelings of recrimination, received all advances favorably, and seemed to forget all the treachery used against her. Nor was this mere pretense; for her heart was too full of joy to be anything but magnanimous, or to have room for a single unamiable feeling.

Marshal Richelieu showed a knowledge of tactics worthy of the victor of Mahon. While vulgar courtiers waited in their places the result of the presentation, in order to decide whether they should offer incense to the idol or turn their backs on her, he took up a position behind the countess's chair, like a fugleman who serves as a guide by which to deploy a troop of cavalry on a given point. The result was that at last he found himself close to Madame Dubarry, without being troubled by the crowd. The Marchioness de Mirepoix knew that her old friend had been successful in war; she therefore imitated his tactics, and gradually drew her seat near that of the favorite.

Conversation now commenced among the different groups. The countess was criticised from head to foot. She, supported by the love of the king, by the gracious reception of the princesses, and by the high rank of the lady who had presented her, looked round less timidly on the men, and sought out her enemies among the women.

An opaque body obscured her view.

“Ah! Marshal Richelieu,” said she, “I was obliged to come here in order to meet you.”

“How so, madame-”

“Is it not eight days since I have seen you, either at Versailles, or in Paris, or at Luciennes.”

“I wished to render the pleasure greater of seeing you here this evening,” replied the old courtier.

“You guessed that I should be here-”

“I was certain of it.”

“Oh, marshal, you knew it, and you did not tell your poor friend who knew nothing about it.”

“What! madame, you did not know that you were to be here-”

“No; I was like Aesop when a magistrate arrested him in the street; 'Where are you going-' said he. 'I don't know,' replied the fabulist. 'Then you shall go to prison,' the other replied. 'You see plainly,' said Aesop, 'that I did not know where I was going.' In like manner, duke, I had some idea that I should go to Versailles, but I was not sure. That is why you would have done me a great service had you come and told me that I should be here. But you will come to see me now-will you not-”

“Madame,” replied Richelieu, without being moved by her raillery, “I really do not understand how it was that you were not sure of being here.”

“I shall tell you; it was because snares were laid on all sides for me,” and she looked steadily at him; but he bore her look without wincing.

“Snares! Good heavens! How could that be-”

“First, they stole my hairdresser.”

“Stole your hairdresser!”

“Yes.”

“But why did you not inform me- I could have sent you-(but let us speak low, if you please)- could have sent you a treasure; my daughter, Madame d'Egmont, found him out. He is quite a superior artist to all others, even the royal hairdressers-my little Leonard.”

“Leonard-” cried Madame Dubarry.

“Yes, a young man whom she hides from every one. But you have no reason to complain, countess; your hair is charmingly dressed; and, singularly enough, the design is exactly like the sketch which the Countess d'Egmont ordered from Boucher for her own head-dress, and which she intended to have used this evening had she not been ill. Poor Septimanie!”

The countess started, and again fixed a searching look upon the marshal; but he continued, smiling and impenetrable.

“But pardon me, countess, for interrupting you,” said he; “you were speaking of snares.”

“Yes, after having carried off my hairdresser, they stole my dress -a most beautiful dress.”

“How shocking! However, it was not of much consequence, as you had another dress so wonderfully beautiful as that you wear. It is Chinese silk, with flowers embroidered on it. Well, if you had applied to me in your trouble, as you must always do for the future. I could have sent you a dress, which my daughter had ordered, so like that, that I could swear it was the same.”

Madame Dubarry seized both the duke's hands, for she now began to suspect who was the enchanter who had befriended her in her difficulties.

“Do you know in whose carriage I came, marshal-” said she.

“In your own, no doubt.”

“No; they stole my carriage as well as my hairdresser.”

“Why, it was a regular ambuscade! In whose carriage, then, did you come-”

“Will you tell me first what the Countess d'Egmont's carriage is like-”

“I think that for this evening she had ordered one lined with white satin; but there was not time to paint the coat of arms.”

“Yes,” exclaimed the countess, “and they substituted a rose instead! Marshal, marshal, you are an adorable man!” and she held out to him both her hands, which he covered with kisses. All at once he felt her start.

“What is the matter, countess-” inquired he, looking round.

“Marshal,” said the countess, with an alarmed air, “who is that man near the Prince de Guemenee-”

“In a Prussian uniform-”

“Yes-the dark man with black eyes, and such an expressive countenance.”

“He is some officer of rank, countess, whom his Prussian majesty has sent, no doubt, to do honor to your presentation.”

“Do not jest, marshal; I know that man. He was in France three or four years ago; I have sought him everywhere, but could never discover him.”

“I think you must be mistaken, countess. He is the Count de Fenix, a foreigner, and only arrived in France yesterday or the day before.”

“Observe how he looks at me.”

“Everyone looks at you, you are so beautiful.”

“He bows to me!-lie bows to me!-do you see him-”

“Everyone bows to you-at least, all who have not already done so.”

But the countess, who seemed greatly agitated, paid no attention to the duke's gallant speeches, but kept her eyes riveted on the stranger who had attracted her attention. Then rising, as if involuntarily, she advanced a few steps toward the unknown.

The king, who kept his eye fixed on her, observed this movement, and thought that she desired to be near him; and us etiquette had been sufficiently attended to in keeping so long from her side, he approached to congratulate her on her success. Her thoughts, were, however, too much engaged to be turned from their object.

“Sire,” said she, “who is that Prussian officer with his back to the Prince de Guemenee-”

“And who is looking at us at this moment-” asked the king.

“Yes.”

“That strongly marked face, that square head, framed as it were in the gold collar-”

“Yes-yes-the same.”

“He is an accredited agent of my cousin of Prussia-some philosopher like himself, I think. I desired him to be here this evening, as I wished Prussian philosophy to enhance, by its ambassador, the triumph of Cotillon III.”

“But what is his name, Sire-”

“Let me think-ah I-yes-the Count de Fenix.”

“It is the same,” murmured she to herself; “yes, I am sure it is he.”

The king waited a few moments, in order to give Madame Dubarry time to ask further questions if she wished to do so; but finding that she did not speak, he said in a loud voice, “Ladies, her royal highness the dauphiness will arrive tomorrow at Compiegne; we shall meet her precisely at noon. All the ladies who have been presented will go, except, however, those who are ill, for the journey might be fatiguing, and her royal highness would be sorry to aggravate their indisposition.”

As the king pronounced these words, he looked sternly at the Duke de Choiseul, the Prince de Guemenee, and the Marshal de Richelieu.

There was a profound silence; Everyone understood the meaning of the royal words -they carried disgrace in their front.

“Sire,” said Madame Dubarry, who had remained near the king, “may I request your gracious pardon for the Countess d'Egmont-”

“Why so, may I ask!”

“Because she is the daughter of Marshal Richelieu, who is my most faithful friend.”

“Richelieu-”

“I am certain he is, Sire.”

“I shall do what you wish, countess,” said the king.

The king then approached the marshal, who had watched every movement of the countess's lips, and, if he had not heard her words, had at least guessed their meaning.

“I hope, my dear marshal,” said he, “that the Countess d'Egmont will be better to-morrow-”

“Certainly, Sire; if your majesty desire it, she will even come out this evening.”

And Richelieu made a bow which expressed at once respect and gratitude.

The king then whispered a word in the countess's ear.

“Sire,” replied she, with a curtsey accompanied by a charming smile, “I am your majesty's obedient servant.”

The king, by a wave of his hand, saluted all the assembly and retired.

Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when the countess's eyes turned again on the singular man who had before attracted her so strongly.

This man bowed like the rest as the king passed along, but even as he bowed there was something haughty, almost threatening, in the expression of his countenance. When Louis XV, had disappeared, he made way for himself through the different groups, and stopped within two paces of Madame Dubarry. The countess, attracted by an inexplicable curiosity, made one step forward, so that, as the unknown bowed to her, he could say in a low voice and so as not to be overheard, ““Do you know me again, madame-”

“Yes, sir; you are the prophet whom I met in the Place Louis XV.”

The stranger fixed his clear and penetrating glance on her.

“Well, did I speak falsely, madame, when I predicted you should be queen of Franc,'-”

“No, sir; your prediction is accomplished, or at least nearly so, and I am ready to fulfill my part of the engagement. Speak, sir, what do you deSire-”

“This place is ill chosen for such a purpose; besides, the moment for me to make my request is not yet come.”

“Whenever it does come, you will find me ready to grant it.”

“May I, at any time, in any place, at any hour, have liberty to be admitted to your presence-”

“I promise it.”

“Thanks.”

“But under what name shall I expect you- Under that of the Count de Fenix-”

“No, under that of Joseph Balsamo.”

“Joseph Balsamo,” repeated the countess to herself, while the mysterious stranger disappeared among the groups of courtiers-”Joseph Balsamo!-I shall not forget it!”

CHAPTER XXXIX. COMPIEGNE.

THE FOLLOWING morning Compiegne awoke transported, intoxicated with joy; or rather to be more exact, Compiegne never went to rest.

The evening before, the first detachment of the king's guards had entered the town, and while the officers took up their position, the magistrates, assisted by the lord high steward and other functionaries, prepared the town for the distinguished honor which was to be conferred on it. Triumphal arches composed of evergreens, roses, and lilacs; inscriptions in Latin, French, and German; compositions in verse and prose, occupied all the sub-magistracy of Picardy from night till morn.

Young girls dressed in white, according to immemorial usage; municipal officers clad in black; monks attired in gray; the clergy in their richest vestures; officers and soldiers in their new uniforms-all were at their posts, ready to advance on the first signal of the arrival of the dauphiness.

The dauphin had arrived incognito with his two brothers about eleven o'clock the night before. Very early in the morning he mounted his horse, as if he had been a private gentleman, and, followed by his brothers, the Count de Provence and the Count d'Artois, the one fifteen and the other thirteen years of age, he galloped off in the direction of Ribecourt, the road by which the princess was to approach. It was not to the young prince, we must confess, that this gallant idea had first occurred; it was suggested by his tutor, Monsieur de Lavanguyon, who had been desired by the king to instruct his august pupil in all the duties which the next twenty-four hours would impose upon him. The tutor, therefore, had thought it right, in order to maintain the honor of the monarchy, to cause him to follow the traditional example of the kings of his race-Henry IV., Louis XIII., Louis XIV., and Louis XV.-who desired to see their future wives without any of the illusions of dress and ornament, and therefore met them when not expected on the road.

Mounted on swift horses, the three brothers accomplished three or four leagues in half an hour; the eldest had set out serious, the two others laughing. At half-past eight they returned; the dauphin still serious, the Count de Provence almost ill-tempered, the Count d'Artois more gay than before. The dauphin was uneasy, the Count de Provence envious, and the Count d'Artois enchanted, about one and the same thing-the beauty of the dauphiness. The grave, jealous, and careless character of each prince respectively was written on his face.

At ten o'clock the look-out employed to watch for the expected train announced that a white flag was displayed on the steeple of the church of Cleves, which was to be the signal that the dauphiness was approaching. The bells of the church commenced to ring, and were answered by the firing of cannon.

At that instant, as if he had only waited for this signal, the king entered Compiegne in a carriage drawn by eight horses, between a double file of his body-guards, and followed by the immense train of the carriages of the court. The guards and dragoons, at a gallop, opened a passage through the crowd, which was divided between two feelings, desire to see the king and curiosity with regard to the, dauphiness. One hundred carriages, drawn by four horses each, extending nearly a league in length, contained four hundred ladies, and as many lords, of the noblest families of France. These hundred carriages were escorted by outriders, heyducks, footmen, and pages. The gentlemen of the king's household were on horseback, and formed a brilliant army, glittering like a sea of velvet and gold, waving plumes, and silk, in the midst of the dust raised by the horses' feet.

They halted an instant at Compiegne, then slowly proceeded to the spot agreed on for the meeting, and marked by a cross near the village of Magny. All the young nobility thronged around the-dauphin, and all the old around the king.

On the other side the dauphiness was also slowly approaching the appointed place.

At length the two parties met. On both sides the courtiers left their carriages; two only remained occupied-that of the king and that of the dauphiness. The door of the dauphiness's carriage was open, and the young archduchess sprang lightly to the ground, and advanced to the royal carriage. The king, on perceiving his daughter-in-law, ordered the door to be opened, and hurriedly got out.

The dauphiness had calculated her time so well, that just as the king put his foot to the ground she was close to him, and she sank on her knee. He raised the young princess and embraced her tenderly, yet casting a look upon her which made her blush.

“His royal highness the dauphin,” said the king, introducing his grandson, who had kept behind the dauphiness without being perceived by her, at least ostensibly.

The dauphiness made him a graceful curtsey; he bowed, blushing in his turn.

Then after the dauphin came his two brothers, then the three princesses; the dauphiness had something gracious to say to each.

“While these introductions were going on, Madame Dubarry stood anxiously behind the princesses. Would she be thought of-would she be forgotten-

After the introduction of the Princess Sophie, the last of the king's daughters, there was a pause; every breath was suspended. The king seemed to hesitate; the dauphiness seemed to expect some incident concerning which she had been previously informed.

The king looked round, and seeing the countess within reach, took her hand; all near him stepped back, and he found himself in the midst of a circle with the dauphiness.

“The Countess Dubarry,” said he, “my very dear friend.”

The dauphiness turned pale, yet a gracious smile appeared on her white lips, “Your majesty is happy,” said she, “in possessing so charming a friend; and I am not surprised at the attachment which she inspires.”

Everyone heard these words with astonishment amounting to stupefaction. It was evident that the dauphiness followed the instructions of the court of Austria; perhaps the very words she repeated were dictated by Maria Theresa.

The Duke de Choiseul then thought that his presence was necessary. He advanced to be presented in his turn; but the king made a sign with his head, the trumpets sounded, the drums beat, the cannon were fired. His majesty took the young princess's hand, to conduct her to her carriage. She passed close to the Duke de Choiseul. Did she see him or did she not- It was impossible to see; but it is certain that she made no sign of recognition. At the moment when she entered her carriage, the bells of the town pealed out, and their clear tones were heard above all the other festive sounds.

The countess returned to her carriage, all radiant with delight and pride.

There was a halt for about ten minutes while the king was reentering his carriage and giving his orders to return to Compiegne. During this time, conversation, which had been suspended from respect or by the interest of the scene, again became general. Dubarry drew near his sister's carriage-she received him with smiles, expecting his congratulations.

“Jeanne,” said he, pointing to a gentleman on horseback, who was talking at the door of a carriage in the train of the dauphiness;” do you know that young man-”

“No,” replied the countess; “but do you know what the dauphiness said when the king presented me to her-”

“I am not thinking of that. That young man is the Chevalier Philip de Taverney.”

“He who wounded you-”

““Yes; and do you know who that beautiful creature is with whom he is talking-”

“The young girl so pale and so majestic-”

“Yes, she at whom the king is looking at this moment-I think he is asking the dauphiness her name.”

“Well, what then-”

“That young girl is Taverney's sister.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the countess.

“Jeanne, I don't know why, but I think you have as much reason to fear the sister as I the brother.”

“You are a fool!”

“No, I am tolerably wise; and I shall, at all events, look after the youth.”

“Well, then, I shall keep an eye on the girl.”

“Hush! He is your friend. Marshal Richelieu!” The marshal drew near, shaking his head.

“What is the matter, my dear marshal-” inquired the countess, with her most fascinating smile; “you seem dissatisfied with something.”

“Don't you think, countess,” said the duke, “that we all seem very grave, not to say sorrowful, for such a joyous occasion- Formerly, I know, we were much more gay when we went to meet a princess as amiable and as beautiful as this, the mother of his royal highness the dauphin. Was it because we were younger then-”

“No,” answered a voice behind the marshal; “no, my dear marshal, but because the monarchy was not so old.”

“Heaven and earth!” exclaimed the marshal, “it is the Baron de Taverney! Countess, one of my oldest friends, for whom I solicit your kindness-the Baron de Taverney Maison-Rouge.”

“The father,” whispered Jean and the countess to each other, as they stooped to salute the baron.

“To your carriages, gentlemen -to your carriages!” cried the major of the guards commanding the escort.

The two old gentlemen bowed to the countess and to the viscount, and both entered the same carriage, delighted to meet once more after so long a separation.

“And now,” said the viscount, “shall I tell you another thing, my dear- I have as little love for the father as for the children.”

“What a pity,” replied the countess, “that that little wretch, Gilbert, ran away! He was brought up in their house, and could have told us so much about them.”

“Pshaw! I shall find him again, now that I have nothing else to think about.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the carriages being again put in motion.

After having passed the night in Compiegne, the two courts-the one the sunset, the other the dawn, of an age-set out on the following day for Paris-that yawning gulf which was to entomb them both!

CHAPTER XL. THE PATRONESS AND THE PATRONIZED.

IT IS NOW TIME that we should return to Gilbert, of whose flight the reader has been made aware by an imprudent exclamation of his protectress, Mademoiselle Chon, but of whom we have since heard nothing.

Our philosopher had cooled very much in his admiration of his patroness from the moment that he had, during the preliminaries of the duel between Philip de Taverney and Viscount Jean, become aware that her name was Dubarry.

Often at Taverney, when, hidden by some hedge, he had followed Andree and her father in their walks, he had heard the baron explain, at great length, all about the Dubarry family. The hatred of the old baron to Madame Dubarry-a feeling which in him, however, sprang from no dislike to what was in itself vicious-found a ready echo in Gilbert's heart, arising principally from her conduct being regarded by Andree with contempt and reprobation, sentiments which may be taken as expressing the general opinion of the nation toward her whole family.

During the journey Chon was too much occupied with matters of a more serious import to pay any attention to the change of feeling which the knowledge of who were his traveling companions had produced in Gilbert. She reached Versailles, therefore, only thinking of how the viscount's wound, since it would not redound to his honor, might be turned to his greatest profit.

As to Gilbert, scarcely had he entered the capital-if not of France, at least of the French monarchy -than he forgot every unpleasant thought, and gave free scope to his undisguised admiration. Versailles, so majestic and stately, with its lofty trees already beginning to show symptoms of decay, touched his heart with that religious sadness which poetic minds always experience in contemplating the mighty works of nature, or those erected by the perseverance of man.

From this impression -a very novel one to Gilbert, and one against which his innate pride struggled in vain-he became silent and submissive, overcome by wonder and admiration.

The feeling of his inferiority crushed him to the earth. When the great lords in their stars and ribbons passed by him, how deeply did he feel the wretchedness of his attire! How inferior did he feel, even to the porters and footmen! How did he tremble when, in his hob-nailed shoes, he had to walk over the shining marble or polished inlaid floors!

At such times he felt that the protection of his patroness was indispensable to him, unless he wished to sink into absolute nothingness. He drew near her, that it might be seen he belonged to her; yet it was for the very reason that he needed her that he disliked her.

We are already aware that Madame Dubarry occupied at Versailles the magnificent suite of rooms formerly inhabited by the Princess Adelaide. The gold, the marble, the perfumes, the carpets, the hangings, at first intoxicated Gilbert; and it was only after these had become somewhat familiar to him that this understanding-dazzled by the reflected light which so many marvels cast on it-roused itself in the end to a clear perception of surrounding objects, and he found that he was in a little attic room, hung with serge-that there had been placed before him a basin of soup, some cold mutton, and a custard. The servant who brought these eatables had said, with the tone of a master, “Remain here!” and then left him.

But Gilbert soon found that the picture had its sunny side. From the window of his garret he could see the park of Versailles, studded with marble statues, and ornamented with fountains. Beyond were the dense and lofty summits of the trees, rolling like a sea of verdure; and farther still, the checkered plains, and the blue horizon of the neighboring mountains. The only subject which occupied Gilbert's mind while eating his dinner was that, like the greatest lords of France, without being either a courtier or a lackey, without having been introduced there either by birth or baseness, he was living in Versailles, in the palace of the king.

His dinner, too, was an excellent one, when compared with those to which he had been accustomed. When it was over, he returned to his contemplation at the window. Meantime Chon had, as the reader may remember, joined her sister -had whispered that her business with Madame de Bearn was happily executed -and then related aloud the accident which their brother met with at Lachaus, see. This accident, although it made a great noise at first, was lost, as the reader has seen, in that great gulf which swallowed up so many things much more important-the king's indifference.

Gilbert had fallen into one of those reveries to which he often gave way while meditating on what was beyond his comprehension, or on what was impracticable for him to accomplish, when he was told that his patroness requested his presence. He took his hat, brushed it, compared by a glance his old worn coat with the new one of the footman, and saying to himself that that of the latter was a livery coat, he followed him. Yet, notwithstanding this philosophic reflection, he could not help blushing with shame to observe how little he resembled the men who elbowed him, and how much out of keeping he was with everything around him.

Chon was descending to the court at the same time as himself, with this difference, that she took the grand staircase, he a little back one more resembling a ladder. A carriage was waiting for them. It was a kind of low phaeton, containing seats for four persons, and resembled that historical vehicle in which the great king used to drive out with Madame de Montespan, Madame de Foutanges, and frequently with them the queen.

Chon got in and took the front seat, with a large box and a little dog beside her; the other seat was for Gilbert and a kind of steward called Monsieur Grange. Gilbert hastened to take the place behind Chon, in order to keep up his dignity; the steward, without thinking there was any degradation in the matter, placed himself behind the box and the dog.

As Mademoiselle Chon, like all who inhabited Versailles, felt joyous on leaving the great palace to inhale the air of the woods and the meadows, she became communicative, and was scarcely out of the town, when she turned half round and said, “Well, what do you think of Versailles, M. Philosopher-”

“It is very beautiful, madame; but are we quitting it already-”

“Yes-now we are going to our own home.”

“That is to say, to your home, madame,” said Gilbert, with the tone of a half-tamed bear.

“That is what I meant. I shall introduce you to my sister; try to please her. All the greatest noblemen in France are only too happy if they can succeed in doing so. By-the-by, Grange, you must order a complete suit for this boy.”

Gilbert blushed up to the eyes.

“What kind of suit, madame-” asked the steward. “The usual livery-”

Gilbert half started from his seat.

“Livery-” cried he, with a fierce look at the steward.

Chon burst into a laugh.

“No,” said she; “you will order-but no matter, I will tell you another time. I have an idea, on which I wish for my sister's opinion. But take care to have the suit ready at the same time as Zamore's.”

“Very well, madame.”

“Do you know Zamore-” asked Chon, turning to Gilbert, who began to be very much alarmed by the conversation.

“No, madame, I have not that honor,” replied he.

“He will be a young companion of yours; he is going to be governor of the chateau of Luciennes. Endeavor to gain his friendship-for Zamore is a good creature, in spite of his color.”

Gilbert was about to ask of what color he was; but recollecting the reproof he had already received on the subject of curiosity, he refrained, for fear of another reprimand.

“I shall try,” he answered, with a dignified smile.

They reached Luciennes. The philosopher saw everything; the road, lately planted-the shady slopes -the great aqueduct, which resembled a work of the Romans-the dense wood of chestnut trees -the varied and magnificent prospect of plains and woods stretching away on both sides of the Seine to Maisons.

“This, then,” said he to himself, “is the country-seat which cost France so much, and of which I have heard the baron often speak!”

Bounding dogs and eager domestics ran out to welcome Chon, and interrupted Gilbert in the midst of his aristocratico-philosophical reflections.

“Has my sister arrived-” asked Chon.

“No, madame, but there are visitors waiting for her.”

“Who are they-”

“The chancellor, the minister of police, and the Duke d'Aiguillon.”

“Well, run quickly and open my sister's private cabinet, and tell her when she arrives that I am there; do you understand- Oh, Sylvia,” added she, addressing a femme-de-chambre who had taken from her the box and the little dog, “give the box and Misapouf to Grange, and take my little philosopher to Zamore.”

Sylvia looked all round, doubtless to find out what sort of animal Chon was speaking of; but her eyes and those of her mistress happening to rest on Gilbert at the same moment, Chon made a sign that the young man was the person in question.

“Come!” said Sylvia.

Gilbert, still more and more surprised at all that he saw, followed the femme-de-chambre, while Chon, light as a bird, disappeared by a side-door of the pavilion.

Had it not been for the commanding tone in which Chon addressed her, Gilbert would have taken Mademoiselle Sylvia to be a great lady rather than a femme-de-chambre, as her dress resembled Andree's much more than Nicole's. The young and handsome waiting woman took him by the hand with a gracious smile; for her mistress's words showed that, if not an object of affection, he was chosen at least through some new whim.

“What is your name, sir-” said she.

“Gilbert, mademoiselle,” replied the young man, in a gentle voice.

“Well, sir, I am going to introduce you to my lord Zamore.”

“To the governor of the chateau of Luciennes-”

“Yes, to the governor.”

Gilbert pulled down his sleeves, dusted his coat a little, and wiped his hands with his handkerchief. He was in reality rather intimidated at the idea of appearing before so important a personage; but he recalled Chon's remark, “Zamore is a good creature,” and recovered his courage. He was already the friend of a countess and a viscount; he was going to be the friend of a governor. “Well,” thought he, “surely people calumniate the court; it is certainly easy enough to find friends in it; at least, as far as my experience goes, I have found Everyone kind and hospitable.”

Sylvia threw open the door of an anteroom, which, from its splendor, might rather have been supposed a boudoir. The panels of the walls were of tortoiseshell, inlaid with copper gilt; and one might have imagined himself in the atrium of Lucullus, but that that ancient Roman used pure gold to decorate his walls.

There, in an immense armchair, half-buried in cushions, sitting cross-legged and gnawing chocolate cakes, reposed my lord Zamore, whom we already know, but whom Gilbert till now had never seen. The effect, therefore, which the governor of Luciennes produced on the mind of the philosopher was rather curiously depicted in his face. He stared with all his might “at the strange being, for it was the first time he had ever seen a negro.

“Oh, oh!” cried he, “what is that-”

As for Zamore, he never raised his head, but continued to munch his cakes, rolling his eyes and showing the whites of them in the excess of his enjoyment.

“That,” said Sylvia, “is my lord Zamore.”

“That person-” said Gilbert, almost dumb with amazement.

“Yes, to be sure,” answered Sylvia, laughing in spite of herself at the turn the scene was taking.

“He the governor-” continued Gilbert. “That ape the governor of the chateau of Luciennes- Oh, mademoiselle, you are certainly jesting with me!”

At these words Zamore raised his hi-ad and showed his white teeth.

“Me governor,” said he, “me not ape.”

Gilbert looked from Zamore to Sylvia, and his glance, at first uneasy, became wrathful, when the young woman, in spite of all her efforts, burst into a fit of laughter. As for Zamore, grave and solemn as an Indian fetish, he plunged his black claw in a satin bag, and took out a handful of his cakes.

At this moment the door opened, and the steward entered, followed by a tailor.

“Here,” said he, pointing to Gilbert, “is the person for whom you are to make the suit; take the measure according to the directions I gave you.”

Gilbert mechanically submitted his arms and shoulders to be measured, while Sylvia and Grange were talking in another part of the room, and at every word of the steward the chambermaid laughed louder and louder.

“Oh, it will be delightful!” she said. “And will he wear a pointed cap, like Sganarello-”

Gilbert heard no more; he rudely pushed the tailor aside, and absolutely refused to submit to the rest of the ceremony. He knew nothing about Sganarello; but the name, and particularly Sylvia's mirth, plainly declared that he was some pre-eminently ridiculous personage.

“It is of no consequence,” said the steward to the tailor; “don't hurt him! I suppose you can do very well with the measure you have taken.”

“Certainly,” replied the tailor, “for width does no harm in such suits. I shall make it very wide.”

“Whereupon Sylvia, the steward, and the tailor, walked off, leaving Gilbert with the little negro, who continued to gnaw his cakes and roll his great eyes. What an enigma was all this to the poor country lad! What fears, what anguish, did the philosopher experience, in seeing his dignity as a man evidently more compromised at Luciennes than ever it had been at Taverney!

However, he tried to talk to Zamore. It occurred to him that he might be some Indian prince, such as he had read of in the romances of M. Crebillon the younger. But the Indian prince, instead of replying, made the circuit of the apartment from mirror to mirror, admiring his splendid clothes like a bride in her wedding-dress. After that he got astride on a chair with wheels, and impelling it with his feet, he whirled round the antechamber some dozen times with a velocity which showed that he had made a profound study of that ingenious exercise.

Suddenly a bell rang. Zamore jumped up from his chair, and hurried through one of the doors in the direction of the sound. This promptness in obeying the silvery tinkling convinced Gilbert that Zamore was not a prince.

For a moment he entertained the idea of following him; but on reaching the end of the passage which led into a salon, he saw so many blue ribbons and red ribbons, guarded by lackeys so bold, impudent, and noisy, that he felt a chill run through his veins, and, with the cold perspiration on his forehead, he returned to his anteroom.

An hour passed. Zamore did not return; Sylvia was seen no more. Any human face would have seemed then to Gilbert better than none, were it even that of the dreaded tailor who was to complete the mystification with which he was threatened.

Just at that moment the door by which he had entered the room opened, and a footman appeared and said, “Come!”

CHAPTER XLI. THE PHYSICIAN AGAINST HIS WILL.

GILBERT FELT IT rather disagreeable to be obliged to obey a footman; nevertheless, he lost no time in following him, for he thought that now there was some prospect of a change in his condition, and it seemed to him that any change must be for the better.

Chon, now completely her own mistress, after having initiated her sister into the whole affair of the Countess de Bearn, was breakfasting very much at her ease in a charming morning-dress, beside a window shaded with acacias and chestnut trees.

She was eating with an excellent appetite, and Gilbert remarked that a pheasant and truffles justified the relish with which she enjoyed her breakfast.

The philosopher, having entered the apartment, looked around to discover his place at the table, but there was no plate for him, and he was not even asked to sit down.

Chon merely cast a glance on him; then, after swallowing a little glass of wine, as clear and yellow as a topaz:

“Well, my dear doctor,” said she, “how have you got on with Zamore-”

“How have I got on with him-”

“Yes; I hope you have become acquainted with him-”

“How could one make acquaintance with an animal like that, who never speaks, and who, when one speaks to him, only rolls his eyes-”

“Really you frighten me!” said Chon, without stopping one moment in her repast, and without her countenance showing any expression at all corresponding to her words. “Your friendship is difficult to gain, then-”

“Friendship presupposes equality, madame.”

“A noble maxim,” said Chon. “Then you don't think yourself the equal of Zamore-”

“That is to say, that I do not think him my equal,” replied Gilbert.

“In truth,” said Chon, as if talking to herself, “he is charming!”

Then turning to Gilbert, she remarked his stately air.

“So, my dear doctor,” said she, “you do not easily bestow your affections-”

“No, madame, not easily.”

“Then I was mistaken when I thought you held me as your friend, and as a good friend, too-”

“Madame,” said Gilbert, very stiffly, “I feel for you naturally a liking, but-”

“Oh! a thousand thanks for your condescension! you really overwhelm me! and how long do you think, my scornful young gentleman, it would require to gain your affection-”

“A long time, madame; and there are even persons who, whatever they did, could never obtain it.”

“Oh! then that explains the reason why, after having been eighteen years in the Baron de Taverney's house, you left it all at once. The Taverneys were not so fortunate as to obtain your affections -that was it, was it not-”

Gilbert blushed.

“Well- you don't answer,” continual Chon.

“I have nothing to reply, madame, but that friendship and confidence must be merited.”

“Oh! it appears, then, that your friends at Taverney did not merit your friendship and confidence-”

“Not all of them, madame.”

“Ah! and what had those done who were so unfortunate as not to please you-”

“I do not complain of them, madame.” answered he, proudly.

“Well, well. I perceive, M. Gilbert, that I am also one of the unfortunates excluded from your confidence; yet, believe me, it is not from any want of a desire to obtain it, but from my not knowing the right means of doing so!”

Gilbert bit his lip.

“But to shorten the matter,” added she with an inquisitiveness which he felt must be for some object, “the Taverneys did not behave quite satisfactorily to you. Tell me, if you please, what was your occupation in their establishment-”

This was rather an embarrassing question, as Gilbert certainly could not say that he held any particular office at Taverney.

“Madame,” said he, “I was-I was their confidential adviser.”

At these words, which he pronounced most phlegmatically and philosophically, Chon was seized with such a fit of laughter that she threw herself back in her chair.

“Do you doubt my words-” asked Gilbert, frowning.

“Heaven preserve me from such a rash act, my dear friend I Really, you are so fierce, that one can scarcely venture to speak to you. I merely asked what sort of people the Taverneys were. Believe me, it was with no other intention than that of serving you, by assisting you to be revenged' on them.”

“If I am revenged, madame, it must be by myself.”

“All very well; but we have a cause of complaint against the Taverneys ourselves; and, as you have one, or perhaps indeed several, we are naturally allies in our wish for revenge.”

“You are quite mistaken, madame. Should I think of vengeance, mine could have no connection with yours. You speak of all the Taverneys, while I have different shades of feeling toward different members of the family.”

“The Chevalier Philip de Taverney, for instance, is he in the number of your friends or enemies-”

“I have nothing to say against the chevalier. He never did me either good or ill. I neither love him nor hate him; I am quite indifferent to him.”

“Then you would not give evidence before the king, or before the Duke de Choiseul, against M. Philip de Taverney-”

“Give evidence about what-”

“About the duel with my brother.”

“I should say all that I know about it, if I were called upon to give evidence.”

“And what do you know about it-”

“The truth.”

“But what do you call truth- That is a word whose meaning is very vague.”

“No; not to the man who can distinguish between good and evil-between justice and injustice.”

“I understand you; justice is on the side of the Chevalier de Taverney, injustice on that of Viscount Dubarry-”

“Yes, madame, so I think, if I must speak conscientiously.”

“So this is the creature I picked up on the highway!” said Chon, sharply; “I am rewarded in this way by one who owes it to me that he is living!”

“That is to say, madame, who does not owe you his death.”

“It is all the same.”

“On the contrary, madame, it is very different.”

“How different-”

“I do not owe my life to you; you merely prevented your horses from depriving me of it; besides, it was not you, but the postilion.”

Chon fixed a penetrating look on the young logician, who showed so little scruple in the choice of his terms.

“I should have expected,” said she, in a milder tone, and allowing a smile to steal over her features, “a little more gallantry from you. Come, come! you will give evidence against the chevalier, will you not-”

“No, madame-never.”

“And why not, you foolish fellow-”

“Because the viscount was in the wrong.”

“And, pray, how was he in the wrong-”

“By insulting the dauphiness; while, on the contrary, the chevalier-”

“Well, what-”

“Was right in defending her.”

“Oh, ho! then it appears you belong to the dauphiness's party-”

“No; I am only for justice.”

“Hold your tongue, Gilbert, you are a fool! Do not let anyone hear you talk in that way here.”

“Then permit me to remain silent when I am questioned.”

“In that case, let us change the subject.”

Gilbert bowed, in token of assent.

“And now, my little friend,” said the young lady, in rather a harsh tone of voice, “what do you intend to do here, if you refuse to make yourself agreeable-”

“Must I perjure myself in order to make myself agreeable-”

“Perjure! where did you learn all those grand words-”

“In the knowledge that I have a conscience to which I must be faithful.”

“Pshaw!” said Chon; “when we serve a master, the master takes all the responsibility from our conscience.”

“But I have no master,” growled Gilbert.

“Indeed-well, answer my question. What do you mean to do here-”

“I did not think that I required to study to be agreeable when I could be useful.”

“You are mistaken, we can get useful people anywhere; we are tired of them.”

“Then I shall go away.”

“You will go away-”

“Yes, of course. I did not ask to come here; I am therefore free.”

“Free-” exclaimed Chon, who began to get angry at this resistance to her will, a thing to which she was by no means accustomed. “Free- indeed you are not!”

Gilbert's brow contracted.

“Come, come!” said she, seeing by his frown that he would not easily renounce his freedom, “let us be friends. You are a handsome lad, and very virtuous, which makes you very amusing, were it only for the contrast which you will present to everybody else about us. Only keep a guard upon that love of truth of yours.”

“I shall take care to keep it,” said Gilbert.

“Yes; but we understand the word in two different senses; I mean to keep it to yourself. You need not exhibit it in the lobbies and anterooms of Luciennes or Versailles.”

“Hum!” said Gilbert.

“There is no occasion for 'hum!' You are not so learned, M. Philosopher, but that you may learn something from a woman; and let this be your first maxim, 'to hold your tongue is not to lie'-remember that!”

“But if anyone questions me-”

“Who would question you-are you mad, my friend- Who in the world would ever think about you but myself- You have not yet founded a school, M. Philosopher, I presume. It will require some little searching and trouble before you happen upon a body of followers. You shall live with me; and before four times four-and-twenty hours, I shall transform you into a perfect courtier.”

“I doubt that,” replied Gilbert majestically. Chon shrugged her shoulders.

Gilbert smiled.

“Now,” said Chon, “to settle the matter at once, you have only to endeavor to please three persons.”

“What three-”

“The king, my sister, and myself.”

“What must I do to please-”

“Have you not seen Zamore-” asked the young lady, avoiding a direct reply.

“The negro-” said Gilbert, with the utmost contempt.

“Yes, the negro.”

“What similarity is there between him and me-”

“Try to make a similarity of fortune, my good friend. That negro has already two thousand livres per annum from the king's privy purse. He is to be appointed governor of Luciennes; and even those that laugh at his thick lips and his black face call him sir, and even my lord!”

“I shall not be one of those,” said Gilbert.

“Oh! I thought that the first principle of you philosophers was that all men are equal.”

“That is the very reason that I shall not call Zamore my lord.”

Chon was beaten with her own weapons. It was her turn to bite her lips.

“So you are not ambitious-” said she.

“Oh, yes, I am!” replied Gilbert, with sparkling eyes.

“And if I remember rightly your ambition was to be a physician.”

“I look upon the mission of soothing the pain and suffering of our fellow creatures as the noblest in the world.”

“Well, your dream shall be realized.”

“How so-”

“You shall be a physician -and the king's physician to boot.”

“I-” cried Gilbert, “I, who know not even the first principles of medical science- You jest, madame.”

“Well, and what does Zamore know about portcullises, and drawbridges, and counterscarps- He does not trouble his head about such things, yet that does not prevent him from being governor of Luciennes with all a governor's privileges.”

“Ah, yes, yes, I understand!” said Gilbert, bitterly. “You have only one buffoon, and that is not sufficient. The king is getting tired and wishes for another.”

“There,” said Chon, “you are putting on your long face again. You make yourself so ugly, my little man, it is really quite delightful to see you. Keep all those ridiculous faces till the wig is on your head and the sugar-loaf hat over the wig, then, instead of being ugly, they will be comical.”

Gilbert frowned more darkly still.

“I should think you might be glad of the post of the king's physician, when the Duc de Tresmes solicits that of my sister's monkey.”

Gilbert made no answer. Chon thought of the proverb, “Silence gives consent.”

“As a proof that you are in favor,” said she, “you shall not eat with servants.”

“Ah! thank you, madame,” replied Gilbert.

“I have already given orders to that effect.”

“And where shall I eat-”

“Along with Zamore.”

“I-”

“Yes, the king's governor and his physician may surely eat together; go now to your dinner.”

“I am not hungry,” answered Gilbert, rudely.

“Very well,” said Chon, quietly; “you are not hungry now, but you will be in the evening.”

Gilbert shook his head.

“To-morrow, then, or the day after tomorrow you may be. Oh, we know how to tame rebels here; and if you continue obstinate we have besides the corrector of our pages to do our will!”

Gilbert shuddered and turned pale.

“Go to my lord Zamore now,” she added, sharply; “you will be very well treated with him; his table is excellent. But no ingratitude, remember, or we shall teach you to be grateful.”

Gilbert let his head fall on his breast, an invariable symptom that instead of going to reply, he was going to act.

The footman who had showed him to Chon's apartment waited at the door, and on his dismissal conducted him to a little dining-room adjoining the anteroom.

Zamore was at table. Gilbert took his place at the table, but he could not be made to eat.

Three o'clock struck, Madame Dubarry set off for Paris. Chon, who was to join her there a short time after, left instructions for the taming of her bear. Plenty of sweetmeats were to be his reward if he became docile; plenty of threats, and at last the dungeon, if he continued rebellious.

At four o'clock a complete suit, such as that worn by the “medecin malgre lui,” was brought into Gilbert's apartment. There was the pointed cap, the wig, the black jacket, and the long black robe; in addition to these, they sent him a collar, a wand, and a large book. The footman who carried them in exhibited the various articles one by one. Gilbert no longer manifested any disposition to rebel. Grange entered after the footman, and instructed him how all the different parts of the dress should be worn. Gilbert listened most patiently.

“I thought,” said he, at length, “that doctors formerly carried a little writing-case and a roll of paper-”

“Yes, faith, he is right,” replied the steward; “go and bring him a long writing-case, which he can hang at his girdle.”

“With pen and paper,” added Gilbert, “I must have every part of my costume complete.”

The footman hastened to execute the order, and at the same time to tell Chon how obliging Gilbert had become. Chon was so much delighted, that she gave the messenger a little purse with eight crowns in it, to hang with the writing-case at the girdle of this model of a physician.

“Thank you,” said Gilbert to the person who brought it, “now may I be left alone to dress-”

“Well, make haste,” replied Grange, “so that mademoiselle may see you before she goes to Paris.”

“Half an hour,” said Gilbert, “I only ask half an hour!”

“You may take three-quarters, if you like, my dear doctor,” said the steward, shutting the door carefully, as if it had been that of his money-box.

Gilbert stole on tip-toe to the door, to be certain that the footsteps were dying away in the distance; then he glided to the window and looked down. There was a terrace about eighteen feet below him, covered with fine gravel, and bordered by lofty trees, which shaded the balconies of the windows.

Gilbert tore his long robe into three pieces which he tied lengthwise together, placed the hat on the table, and near it the purse and the following note:

“MADAME-Liberty is the first of blessings. Man's most sacred duty is to preserve it. You endeavored to enslave me -I set myself free.-GILBERT.”

This letter he folded and addressed to Mademoiselle Chon; then he tied his twelve feet of serge to the bars of the window, slipped between them with the suppleness of an eel, and when at the end of his cord, dropped down to the terrace at the risk of breaking his neck. Though a little stunned by the fall, he lost not a moment in gaining the trees, among which he glided stealthily, and running as fast as his limbs would carry him, he disappeared in the direction of Villa d'Avray.

When, at the end of half an hour, they came to seek for him, he was already far beyond their reach.

CHAPTER XLII. THE OLD MAN.

GILBERT had avoided the highway through fear of pursuit; he glided from one plantation to another, until he reached a sort of forest, and there he stopped. He had traveled a league and a half in about three-quarters of an hour.

The fugitive looked around him, and finding himself quite alone, he felt so much courage that he thought he might venture nearer the high-road. He therefore turned in the direction which, according to his calculation of his position, he supposed would lead to Paris.

But some horses which he saw near the village of Roquencourt, led by grooms in orange liveries, frightened him so much, that he was cured of all desire to be on the public road, and he returned to the woods.

“Let me keep in the shade of the trees,” said he to himself; “if I am pursued, it will certainly be on the high-road. In the evening, from tree to tree, from one opening to another, I shall steal on to Paris. They say Paris is very large, and as I am little, I can easily hide there.”

This idea was rendered still more agreeable to him by the fineness of the weather, the shade of the forest, and the softness of the mossy sward. The sun was now disappearing behind the hills of Marly, and the vegetation, dried by the scorching heat of the day, exhaled the sweet perfume of the spring-a mingled odor of the plant and of the flower.

Evening came on. It was the hour when, beneath the darkening skies, silence falls more softly and more deeply on all things, when the closing flower-cup shuts in the insect sleeping on its bosom. The gilded flies return with ceaseless hum to the hollow oak which serves them as an asylum; the birds hurry silently to their nests, their wings rustling through the foliage; and the only sung which is heard is the clear whistle of the blackbird, and the timid warble of the redbreast.

Gilbert was familiar with the woods; he was well acquainted both with their sounds and with their silence. Without giving way, therefore, to reflection, or to idle fear, he threw himself at full length on the heath, on which there yet remained here and there a red leaf of the preceding winter.

Far from feeling anxious or disturbed, he experienced rather a vague and boundless sense of joy. He inhaled with rapture the pure and free air, feeling, with the pride of a stoic, that he had once more triumphed over the snares laid for human weakness. What though he had neither bread, nor money, nor shelter-had he not his beloved liberty- Was he not the free and uncontrolled master of his destiny-

He stretched himself, therefore, at the foot of a gigantic chestnut tree, where between two of its moss-covered roots he found a luxurious couch; then, gazing up at the calm and smiling heavens, he gradually sank to sleep.

The warbling of the birds awoke him; it was scarcely day. Raising himself on his elbow, stiff and painful from contact with the hard wood, he saw, in the dawning light, an opening from which three paths branched off through the wood. Here and there a rabbit scudded past him with its ears drooping, and brushing away the dew in its course, or a stag bounded past, with its sharp quick leaps, stopped to gaze at the unknown object under the tree, and then, alarmed, darted off with a more rapid flight.

Gilbert jumped to his feet, but no sooner had he done so than he felt he was hungry. The reader may remember that he had refused to dine with Zamore, so that since his breakfast in the attic at Versailles he had eaten nothing. On finding himself once more under the leafy arches of a forest, he who had so boldly traversed the great woods of Lorraine and Champagne, he almost thought himself beneath the trees of Taverney or among the brakes of Pierrefitte, surprised by the morning beams after a nocturnal expedition to procure game for his fair mistress.

But at Taverney he had always found by his side a partridge or a pheasant which he had shot, while here he found only his hat, rather the worse for his journey, and now nearly unfit to wear after the damps of the night.

It was not, then, all a dream, as he had on first awakening supposed. Versailles and Luciennes were realities, from his triumphal entry into the first till his forcible escape from the last.

But what more than all else served to recall him to his real position was his hunger, now becoming sharper and sharper every moment.

Then he mechanically sought around for some of those delicious mulberries, those, wild cherries, or pungent roots, which, though acrid like the radish, the woodman loves to find as he plods in the morning to his labor with his tools on his shoulder. But this was not the season for such things, and besides, he saw around him only the ash, the beech, and other trees which bear no fruit.

“Well,” said he to himself, “I will go direct to Paris. I cannot be more than three or four leagues from it-five, at the most-I can be there in two hours. What matter is it to suffer for a couple of hours, when I am sure after that of not having to suffer any longer- In Paris Everyone has bread, and the first artisan whom I meet will not refuse me bread for my work, when he knows that I am honest and industrious. In Paris I shall be able in one day to procure food for the next. What do I want more- Nothing, except that every succeeding day may see me increase in strength, in elevation of character, in greatness of mind, and approach nearer and nearer the object of my wishes.”

Gilbert redoubled his speed; he now wished to find the high-road, but he had lost all means of directing his course. At Taverney, and in the woods around it, he knew the east and the west; every ray of light was to him an index of the hour. At night every star, although unknown to him by its name of Venus, Lucifer, or Saturn, served him as a guide. But her he was in a new world; he knew neither places nor objects, and was forced to seek his way, groping by chance.

“Fortunately,” said he, “I saw fingerposts, on which the roads were pointed out.”

He proceeded toward an opening where one of these directing-posts was placed. It pointed to three roads; one road led to Marais-Jaune, another to Champ-de-l'Alouette, a third to Trou-Sale. Gilbert was not much assisted by this; he ran for three hours from one place to another, very often finding himself in the same spot from which he set out, and as far from the high-road as ever.

The perspiration poured down his face. A dozen times he threw off his coat and vest to climb some colossal chestnut-tree; but when he had reached its summit, he saw nothing but Versailles -Versailles now on his right, now on his left-Versailles, toward which, by some fatality, he seemed constantly impelled. He was half frantic with rage; but at last his efforts were so far successful that he first passed Viroflay, then Chaville, then Sevres.

Half-past five sounded from the clocktower of Heudon when he reached the Capuchin convent between Sevres and Bellevue; there, climbing on a cross at the risk of breaking it, and of being himself broken on the wheel by order of the parliament, as Sirven had been, he saw from that height the Seine, the village, and the smoke of the nearest houses. Beyond this he saw a great mass of buildings on the horizon, dimly distinguished in the morning vapors. That must be Paris, he thought; so feeling no longer either fatigue or hunger, he directed his course thither, and only stopped when out of breath from his excessive speed.

He was now in the woods of Meudon, between Fleury and Plessis-Piquet.

“Come,” said he, looking around, “no false shame! I shall no doubt soon meet some early workman going to his day's labor with a loaf under his arm. I shall say to him, 'All men are brethren, and ought to help one other. You have more bread there than you will want this day, while I am dying of hunger,' and then he will give me the half of his loaf.”

Hunger rendering Gilbert more and more philosophical, he continued his reflections.

“In truth,” said he, “should not everything be in common among men on this earth- Has the Eternal Source of all things given to this man or to that the air which fertilizes the soil, or the soil which produces the fruit- No. Some, it is true, have usurped a power over these things; but in the eyes of their Maker, in the eyes of the philosopher, no one possesses them. He who holds them is only the man to whom the Creator has lent them.”

Gilbert, in all this, was but condensing by a natural instinct the vague and indefinite ideas of the period which men felt, as it were, floating in the air and hovering above their heads, like clouds impelled in one direction, and forming a threatening mass, from which at length the tempest would burst.

“Some, “continued he, “retain by force what should belong to all. Well, then, from such we should tear by force what by right they should share with us. If my brother, who has too much bread, refuse me a portion of that bread, why, then, I shall take it from him by force; I shall follow the law of nature, the source of all sound sense and of all justice, since it arises from our natural wants. But I must yield if my brother say to me, 'The portion you ask for is that of my wife and of my children,' or if he should say,' I am stronger than you, and I shall keep what I have in spite of you.'“

He was in this temper of mind, which bore a striking resemblance to that of a hungry wolf, when he reached an open space among the trees; in its center was a pond of muddy water, margined with reeds and water-lilies, on the surface of which sported myriads of flies, dotting its glassy bosom with innumerable circles. The grassy slope which descended to the water's edge was closely studded with bunches of myosotis, and resembled a bed of turquoises and emeralds. The background of the picture, that is, the circle around the pool and the bank, was formed of a hedge of tall aspens, the interstices between whose golden trunks was filled up with the thick and leafy branches of the alder. Six paths led down to this spot; two of which, radiant with golden light, might have seemed to the imagination avenues to the palace of the glorious luminary of day; the four others, diverging like rays of a star, were lost in the blue depths of the forest.

This verdant salon seemed fresher and more flowery than any other part of the wood. Gilbert entered it by one of the dark alleys.

The first object which he perceived, when, after having at a glance taken in its extent and circumference, his eyes rested on nearer objects, was a man seated on the fallen trunk of a tree, near a deep ditch. The expression of his face was mild, yet refined and penetrating, and he was dressed in a coat of coarse brown cloth, breeches of the same, and a waistcoat of gray jean. His well-made sinewy legs were incased in gray cotton stockings, and his shoes with buckles were dusty here and there, yet showed on the soles and points traces of the morning dew.

Near him on the grass was placed a box, painted green, wide open, and filled with plants recently gathered. He had between his legs a stout stick, with a smooth round handle, and terminated at the opposite end by a little spade about two inches broad and three long.

Gilbert embraced in one rapid glance all these details which we have given; but what first drew his attention was a piece of bread, from which the old man from time to time broke off small pieces to eat, sharing them benevolently with the linnets and the wrens, who fixed from afar a longing eye on the food, stooped on it the moment it was thrown to them, and then, flew with joyful twittering to their thick foliage above.

The old man watched them with an eye at once gentle and animated, then, extending his hand to a checked handkerchief beside him, he drew from it a cherry from time to time, as a relish with his mouthful of bread.

“Ha! this is the man for me!” said Gilbert, brushing aside the branches of the trees and making four steps toward the solitary man, who looked up as he approached; but he had not advanced a third of the distance which separated them, when, perceiving the calmness and gentleness of the old man's countenance, he stopped and took off his hat.

The old man, finding himself no longer alone, cast a hurried glance on his box and then on his coat. He shut the former and buttoned up the latter.

CHAPTER XLIII. THE BOTANIST.

GILBERT TOOK COURAGE and walked close up; but he opened his mouth and shut it again before he could utter a word. His philosophy wavered, and it seemed to him that he was about to entreat alms, and not to demand a right.

The old man observed this timidity, and it seemed to banish on his side all feelings of apprehension.

“Do you wish to speak to me, my friend-” said he, smiling, and laying down his bread on the trunk of the tree on which he sat.

“Yes, sir,” replied Gilbert.

“What do you wish to say-”

“Sir, I see you throw your bread to the birds as if we were not told that God feeds them.”

“Doubtless he does feed them, young man; but the hand of man is one of the means which he employs for that purpose. If you mean your words as a reproach, you are wrong; for neither in the silent wood nor in the crowded street is the bread ever lost which we cast from our hand. In the one place the birds pick it up, in the other the poor.”

“Well, sir,” said Gilbert, singularly moved by the soft penetrating voice of the old man, “although we are in the woods, I know a man who would dispute your bread with the birds.”

“Can it be you, my friend!” cried the old man; “are you, then, hungry-”

“Very, very hungry, sir, and if you will permit me-

The old man seized his bread at once with eager compassion. Then reflecting for a moment, ho looked at Gilbert with a keen and searching glance.

In fact, Gilbert so little resembled a starving man, that some consideration might be permitted. His coat was clean, except where it was in some places stained by its contact with the ground; his shirt was white, for at Versailles the evening before he had taken a clean one from his bundle, yet it was rendered damp by the den-s; it was quite evident that he had passed the night in the wood.

Besides all this, his hands were white and slender, like those of a man of thought rather than of labor.

Gilbert did not want tact; he read the stranger's distrust and hesitation in his countenance, and hastened to anticipate further conjectures which he readily saw would not be favorable to him.

“We are always hungry, sir,” he said, “when we have not eaten for twelve hours, and it is now twenty-four since I have had any food.”

The emotion expressed on the young man's face, his tremulous voice, and his extreme paleness, all declared that his words were true. The old man hesitated, or rather feared, no longer; he held out to Gilbert his bread arid the handkerchief containing his cherries.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” said Gilbert, gently pushing aside the handkerchief containing the cherries; “nothing but the bread, it is quite sufficient.”

And he broke it in two, keeping one half for himself and returning the other to the old man; then he sat down on the grass a couple of paces from his companion, who looked at him with increasing wonder.

The repast did not last very long. There was but little bread, and Gilbert was very hungry. The old man did not disturb his occupation by a word; he continued to observe him furtively but silently, bestowing apparently great attention on the plants and flowers in his box, which, when he opened it again, raised their odoriferous heads to the level of the edge, as if to inhale the air. But seeing Gilbert approach the pond, he cried hastily, “Do not drink that water, young man; it is rendered unwholesome by the remains of last year's plants, and by the spawn of frogs now on its surface. Take instead a few of these cherries, they will refresh you as much as the water. Take them, I beg of you, for you are not a forward guest, I see.”

“It is true, sir, forwardness is the reverse of my nature, and I fear nothing so much as being intrusive. I have just experienced that at Versailles.”

“Oh, you come from Versailles-” said the stranger, eying Gilbert with a strong expression of curiosity.

“Yes, sir.”

“It is a rich town; one must be either very poor or very proud to be starving there.”

“I am both, sir.”

“You have had a quarrel with your master, perhaps-” said the stranger, while ho apparently arranged the plants in his box, yet giving Gilbert a rapid interrogating glance.

“I have no master, sir.”

“My friend,” replied the old man, putting on his hat, “that is too ambitious a reply.”

“It is the truth, however.”

“No, young man. Everyone has his master here below; we do not place our pride on a proper object when we say that we have no master.”

“How-”

“Yes. Whether old or young, it is so ordered that we must submit to some ruling power. Some are ruled by men, others by principles; and the severest masters are not always those who order with the voice or strike with the hand.”

“Be it so,” said Gilbert. “Then I am governed by principles. I confess. Principles are the only masters which a reflecting mind can recognize without shame.”

“And what are your principles- Let me hear them- You seem to be very young, my friend, to have any decided principles.”

“Sir, I know that all men are brethren, and that every man from his birth is bound to fulfill certain duties toward his fellowmen. I know that God has bestowed on me a certain amount of value in society; and as I acknowledge the worth of other men. I have a right to exact from them that they should acknowledge mine, If I do not exaggerate its importance. So long as I do nothing unjust and dishonorable, I merit some regard, even were it only as a human being.”

“Oh, oh!” said the stranger, “you have studied, I perceive.”

“Alas! sir, I have not; but I have read the 'Discours sur l'Inegalite des Conditions,' and 'Le Contrat Social!' From those two books I have learned all that I know, and even all that I have dreamed.”

At these words the eyes of the stranger flashed, and by an involuntary movement he was nearly destroying a beautiful xeranthemum, which he was trying to place securely in his box.

“And such are the principles which you profess-” said he.

“They may not be yours, sir,” replied the young man; “but they are those of Jean Jacques Rousseau.”

“But,” said the stranger, with a distrust so apparent that it was rather humbling to Gilbert's vanity; “but are you sure you have rightly understood those principles-”

“I understand French, I think, sir, particularly when it is pure and poetical.”

“You see that you do not,” said the old man, smiling; “for what I ask you, if not poetical, is at least quite plain. I mean, have your philosophical studies enabled you to understand the groundwork of the system of-”

He stopped, almost blushing.

“Of Rousseau, sir-” continued Gilbert. “Oh, sir! I have not studied my philosophy in a college; but there is an instinct within me which revealed the excellence and utility of 'Le Contrat Social' above all other books that I had read.”

“A dry book for a young man, sir-a barren subject for reverie at twenty years of age-a bitter and unfragrant flower for fancy in its springtime!” said the old man with gentle sadness.

“Misfortune ripens man before his time, sir,” answered Gilbert; “and as to reverie, if we give it a free and unrestrained course, it very often leads to ill.”

The stranger opened his eyes, which he usually kept half closed in his moments of calmness and reflection, a peculiarity which gave an indefinable charm to his countenance.

“To whom do you allude-” asked he, reddening.

“Not to anyone, sir,” said Gilbert.

“Oh, yes, you do.”

“No-I assure you I do not.”

“You appear to have studied the philosopher of Geneva. Do you not allude to his life-”

“I know nothing of his life,” replied Gilbert, frankly.

“Do you not-” and the stranger sighed. “Young man, he is a wretched creature.”

“Impossible! Jean Jacques Rousseau wretched- Then there is no justice on earth. Wretched- The man who has devoted his life to the happiness of mankind-”

“Well, well! I see that you know nothing about him. Let us speak of yourself, my friend, if you please.”

“I should prefer going on with our present subject. What can I tell you of myself worth hearing, sir, I, who am a mere nobody-”

“And besides, you do not know me, and are afraid of trusting a stranger.”

“Oh, sir, what have I to fear from anyone- Who can make me more wretched than I am- Recollect in what guise I came before you-alone, poor, hungry.”

“Where were you going-”

“I was going to Paris. Are you a Parisian, sir-”

“Yes-that is to say-no.”

“Which of the two am I to believe-” asked Gilbert, smiling.

““I abhor falsehood, and every moment I perceive how necessary it is to reflect before speaking. I am a Parisian, if by that is meant a man who has lived in Paris for a long time, and has mixed in its society; but I was not born in that city. But why do you ask-”

“It was from an association of ideas, arising out of our conversation. I thought if you lived in Paris you might have seen Rousseau, of whom we were speaking just now.”

“I have indeed seen him sometimes.”

“People look at him as he passes by -do they not- He is admired, and pointed out as the benefactor of the human race-”

“No; children, incited by their parents, follow him, and throw stones at him!”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Gilbert, with the most painful astonishment, “but at least he is rich-”

“He has sometimes to ask himself, as you asked yourself this morning, 'Where shall I procure a breakfast-”

“But poor as he is, he is esteemed-has influence-is respected-”

“He knows not at night, when he lies down, whether he may not in the morning awake in the Bastille.”

“Oh, how he must hate mankind!”

“He neither loves them nor hates them; he is disgusted with them-that is all.”

“How can we avoid hating people who treat us ill-” cried Gilbert; “I cannot comprehend that.”

“Rousseau has always been free, sir-Rousseau has always been strong enough to rely on himself alone. It is strength and freedom which make men mild and kind-slavery and weakness alone make them malevolent.”

“Those are my reasons for wishing to be free,” said Gilbert, proudly. “I have long thought what you have just so well explained to me.”

“But one may tie free even in prison, my friend,” replied the stranger. “Suppose Rousseau were in the Bastille to-morrow-and he certainly will be in it one day or other-he would think and write as freely as among the mountains of Switzerland. I have never thought, for my part, that man's freedom consists in his being able to do whatever he wills, but that he should not, by any human power, be forced to do what is against his will.”

“Has Rousseau written what you have just said, sir-”

“I think he has.”

“It is not in 'The Social Contract-'“

“No, it is in a new work of his, called 'The Reveries of a Solitary Walker.' '

“Sir,” said Gilbert, warmly, “I think we shall agree on one point.”

“What is that-”

“That we both love and admire Rousseau.”

“Speak for yourself, young man; you are still in the age of illusions.”

“We may be deceived about things, but not about men.”

“Alas! you will learn at a later period that it is in the characters of men more than in aught else that we are deceived. Rousseau may be a little more just than other men, but believe me, he has faults, and very great ones.”

Gilbert shook his head in a way which showed that he was far from being convinced; but notwithstanding this rather uncivil demonstration, the stranger continued to treat him with the same kindness.

“Let us return to the point at which we set out,” said the stranger. “I was saying that you had quitted your master at Versailles.”

“And I,” replied Gilbert, but more mildly than before, “I answered that I had no master; I should have added that it depended entirely on myself to have one, and a very illustrious one too, and that I had refused a situation which many would have sought eagerly.”

“A situation-”

“Yes; one in which I should only have had to talk for the amusement of great lords in want of such an occupation; but I thought that being young and able to study and push my way in life, I ought not to lose my most precious years, and compromise in my person the dignity of man.”

“And you decided well. But have you any fixed plan of pursuing your career-”

“Sir, I should wish to be a physician.”

“A noble profession. In it you may choose between real science, ever modest and self-sacrificing, and quackery, ever noisy and empty. If you would become a physician, young man, study; if a quack, nothing but impudence and effrontery are necessary.”

“But it requires a great deal of money to study, does it not, sir-”

“It certainly requires some money; I should not say a great deal.”

“In fact, I believe that Jean Jacques Rousseau, who knows everything, studied at no expense.”

“At no expense- Oh, young man!” said the stranger, with a sad smile, “do you call it no expense when we expend the most precious of God's gifts-innocence, health, sleep- These are what it has cost the philosopher of Geneva to acquire the little that he knows.”

“The little-” repeated Gilbert, almost angrily.

“Yes; ask anyone about him, and you will hear him spoken of as I speak of him.”

“In the first place, he is a great musician.”

“Oh, because King Louis XV, sang a song out of an opera of Rousseau's composing, that does not make it a good opera.”

“But he is a great botanist; I have only seen a few odd sheets of his letters on botany, but you, who gather plants in the woods, have read them, I dare say.”

“Oh, sometimes a person thinks himself a botanist, and is only-”

“Only what-”

“Only an herborist-and even-”

“And which are you -herborist or botanist-”

“A very humble herborist, and a very ignorant one, when I contemplate those marvels of God's creation-plants and flowers!”

“He is a Latin scholar.”

“A very bad one.”

“But I read in a newspaper that he translated an ancient author called Tacitus.”

“Because, in his pride -alas! every man has his moment of pride-because, in his pride, he thought he could undertake anything. In the preface, however, to the first book-the only one which he translated-he says he does not understand Latin well; and Tacitus, who is a rude antagonist, soon wearied him. No, no, my good young man, in spite of your admiration, there is no such thing as a man of universal knowledge; and believe me, almost all men lose in depth what they gain in superficies. A little river, when swollen by the rains, may overflow its banks till it looks like a lake, but try to sail on it, and your boat will soon touch the ground.”

“Then you think Rousseau a superficial man-”

“Yes; perhaps he presents a greater superficies than other men, but that is all.”

“There are some, I think, who would be very glad to be superficial in his fashion.”

“Do you intend that for me-” asked the stranger, with a good-natured frankness which quite disarmed Gilbert.

“Oh, no, sir! I am too much delighted to converse with you to say anything disagreeable to you.”

“In what way does my conversation delight you- Let me hear, for I do not think you would flatter me for a morsel of bread and a few cherries.”

“You do me justice; I would not flatter to obtain the empire of the world. You shall hear why I am pleased; you are the first person who has ever spoken to me without haughtiness-who has reasoned with me in a tone of kindness-as if speaking to a young man, and not a child-Although we did not agree about Rousseau, there has been in all that you have said something so calm and elevated, that it attracted me. I seem, when talking to you, to be in a richly furnished salon, the window-shutters of which are closed, but of which, notwithstanding the darkness, I can guess the richness and magnificence. I know that you could, if you wished, permit a ray of light to penetrate into your conversation which would dazzle me.”

“But you yourself speak with a certain degree of refinement, which might lead me to think that you had received a better education than you have confessed.”

“It is the first time, sir, that I have spoken so, and I am surprised myself at the terms which I have employed; there are even some of them of which I do not quite understand the signification, and which I have only heard once. I have met with them in books, but I did not comprehend them.”

“Have you read much-”

“Too much; but I shall re-read.”

The old man looked at Gilbert in astonishment.

“Yes. I read all that fell in my way, whether good or bad; I devoured all. Ah, if I had only had someone to direct me what I ought to forget and what I ought to remember.' But excuse me, sir; I was forgetting that although your conversation is delightful to me, it does not therefore follow that mine must be so to you. You are herborizing, and I perhaps interfere with your occupation.”

Gilbert made a movement as if to withdraw, but at the same time with the greatest desire to be detained. The little gray eyes of the stranger were fixed on him, and they seemed to read his heart.

“No,” said he, “ray box is almost full; I only want a few mosses; I have been told there are some very beautiful hair-mosses in this quarter.”

“Stay, stay,” said Gilbert, “I think I have seen what you want on a rock just now.”

“Far from this-”

“No, not more than fifty paces.”

“But how do you know that description of moss-”

“I have lived almost all my life in the woods, sir; and then the daughter of the gentleman at whose house I was brought up was fond of botany; she had an herbal, and under each plant the name was written in her own hand. I have often looked at the plants and the writing, and then I knew them when I saw them again in the woods.”

“Then you felt a taste for botany-”

“Oh, sir, whenever I heard Nicole say -Nicole was the waiting-maid of Mademoiselle Andree-when I heard Nicole say that her mistress had been trying in vain to find some particular plant, I asked her to get me the form of that plant. Then, without knowing that I had asked for it, Mademoiselle Andree would frequently sketch it in a moment, and Nicole would bring the drawing to me. I would then scour the fields, meadows, and woods until I had found the plant in question. When found, I dug it up and planted it in the lawn, where Mademoiselle Andree could see it, and, full of joy, she would exclaim on discovering it, 'How strange! Here is the very plant which I have been searching for everywhere!'“

The old man looked at Gilbert with even more attention than he had yet bestowed on him; and if Gilbert, on reflecting on the purport of what he had said, had not cast down his eyes and blushed, he would have seen that this attention was mingled with an expression of tender interest.

“Well, young man,” said he, “continue to study botany; it will lead by a short route to a knowledge of medicine. God has made nothing in vain, and one day or other the utility of each plant will be distinctly marked in the book of science. Learn first to know simples, afterward you can study their properties.”

“Are there not schools in Paris-”

“Yes, and even some gratuitous ones. The school of surgery, for instance, is one of the benefits which we owe to the present reign.”

“I shall follow the course prescribed in it.”

“Nothing can be more easy, for your parents, seeing your inclinations, will no doubt provide you an adequate maintenance.”

“I have no parents; but I am not afraid; I can provide for myself by my labor.”

“Certainly, and as you have read Rousseau's works, you know that he says that every man, even a prince, ought to be taught some manual trade.”

“I have not read 'Emile.' I think it is in 'Emile' he has given that recommendation-”

“It is.”

“I have heard the Baron de Taverney turn that advice into ridicule, and regret that he had not made his son a carpenter.”

“And what did he make him-”

“An officer.”

The old man smiled.

“Yes, our nobles are all so. Instead of teaching their children any trade by which life might be preserved, they teach them the trade of killing. When a revolution comes, and exile after revolution, they will be forced to beg their bread from foreigners, or to sell them their swords, which is still worse. You, however, are not the son of a noble; you know a trade, I presume-”

“Sir, I have already told you I know nothing. Besides, I must confess that I have always had an invincible repugnance for all labors requiring strong rough movements of the body.”

“Ah.” -aid the old man, “you are lazy.”

“Oh, no; I am not lazy. Instead of putting me to the labor of a mechanic, place me in a room half dark, and give me books, and you shall see whether I will not work day and night at the labor of my own choosing.”

The stranger looked at the young man's white and slender hands.

“It is a sort of predisposition or instinct,” said he. “Sometimes this repugnance for manual labor leads to a good result; but it must be well directed. Well,” continued he, “if you have not been at college, you have at least been at school-”

Gilbert shook his head.

“You can read and write-”

“My mother had just time before she died to teach me to read. My poor mother, seeing that I was not strong, always said, 'He will never make a good workman; he must be a priest or a learned man.' When I showed any distaste for my lessons, she would say, 'Learn to read, Gilbert, and you will not have to cut wood, drive a team, or break stones.' So I commenced to learn, but unfortunately I could scarcely read when she died.”

“And who taught you to write-”

“I taught myself.”

“You taught yourself-”

“Yes, with a stick which I pointed, and with some sand which I made fine by putting it through a sieve. For two years I wrote the letters which are used in printing, copying them from a book. I did not know that there were any others than these, and I could soon imitate them very well. But one day, about three years ago, when Mademoiselle Andree had gone to a convent, the steward handed me a letter from her for her father, and then I saw that there existed other characters. M, de Taverney, having broken the seal, threw the cover away; I picked it up very carefully, and when the postman came again, I made him read me what was on it. It was. 'To the Baron de Taverney-Maison-Rouge, at his chateau, near Pierrefitte.' Under each of these letters I put its corresponding printed letter, and found that I had nearly all the alphabet. Then I imitated the writing; and in a week had copied the address ten thousand times perhaps, and had taught myself to write. You see, sir, that I am not extravagant in my expectations; since I can read and write-have read all that I could-have reflected on all that I read-why may I not perhaps find a man who requires my pen, a blind man who wants eyes, or a dumb man who wants a tongue-”

“But you forget that then you will have a master, and that is what you do not want. A secretary or a reader is only a sort of upper servant, after all.”

“That is true,” replied Gilbert, a little downcast; “but no matter, I must accomplish my object. I shall stir the paving-stones of Paris; I shall turn water-carrier if necessary, but I will attain my object, or I shall die in attempting it -and that will also be accomplishing an object.”

“Well,” replied the stranger, “you seem indeed full of ardor and courage -excellent qualities.”

“But have you not a profession yourself, sir- You are dressed like a man employed in the finances.”

The old man smiled sadly.

“I have a profession,” said he; “every man ought to have one, but mine is a complete stranger to everything connected with finance. A financier would not come out herborizing.”

“Are you an herborist by profession, then-”

“Almost.”

“Then you are poor-”

“Yes.”

“It is the poor who are charitable, for poverty makes them wise, and good advice is better than a louis-d'or. Give me your advice then.”

“I shall do more than that.”

Gilbert smiled.

“I suspected that,” said he.

“On how much do you think you could live-”

“Oh, very little!”

“But perhaps you do not know how expensive living is in Paris-”

“Yesterday I saw Paris for the first time from the hills near Luciennes.”

“Then you are not aware that living in great towns is dear-”

“How much does it cost- Give me an idea.”

“Willingly. For instance, what costs a sou in the country, costs three sous in Paris.”

“Well,” said Gilbert, “if I got any kind of shelter to rest in after my work; I should only need for my food six sous a day.”

“Ah!” cried the stranger, “that is what I like, young man! Come with me to Paris, and I shall find you an independent profession by which you may live.”

“Oh, sir!” cried Gilbert, with rapture; then, after a moment's reflection, “But it must really be an occupation; I must not live on alms.”

“Do not be afraid of that, my child. I am not rich enough to bestow much in charity, and not foolish enough to do it without knowing the object better.”

This little sally of misanthropy pleased Gilbert, instead of giving him offense. “That is right!” said he; “I like such language. I accept your offer and thank you for it.”

“So you decide upon coming to Paris with me-”

“Yes, sir, if you have no objection.”

“Of course I have no objection, since I make you the offer.”

“What shall I have to do with you-”

“Nothing-but to work. But you shall regulate the quantity of your work yourself. You are young, you ought to be happy and free -even idle if you like, after you have gained the privileges of leisure,” said the stranger, smiling in spite of himself; then, raising his eyes to heaven, he exclaimed with a deep sigh, “O youth! O vigor! O freedom!” Then he rose with the assistance of his stick.

As he said these words, an expression of deep and poetic melancholy overspread his fine features.

“And now,” he continued, in a more cheerful voice, “now that you have got an employment, will you object to help me to fill another box with plants- I have some sheets of paper here in which we can class the others according to their orders. But, by-the-by, are you hungry-

“I have still some bread.”

“Keep it for the afternoon, if you please, sir.”

“Well, but at least eat the cherries; they will be troublesome to carry with us.”

“On that account I shall eat them. But allow me to carry your box; you will then be more at your ease, and I think, thanks to habit, my legs will tire yours.”

“Ah, see! you bring me good fortune. There is the vicris hieracioides, which I sought in vain until now, and just under your foot-take care!-the cerastium aquaticum. Stop, stop! Do not gather them! Oh! you are not an herborist yet. The one is too moist to be gathered now, the other not advanced enough. We can get the vicris hieracioides in the afternoon when we pass this way, and the cerastium a week hence. Besides, I wish to show it growing to a friend whose patronage I mean to solicit for you. And now, show me the place where you saw the beautiful mosses.”

Gilbert walked on, the old man followed him, and both disappeared in the shades of the forest.

CHAPTER XLIV. MONSIEUR JACQUES.

GILBERT, DELIGHTED AT his good fortune, which had hitherto befriended him in his utmost need, walked on, turning from time to time toward the stranger who had by a few words made him at once so submissive and docile. In this manner he led him to the spot where the mosses grew; they were really splendid specimens, and when the old man had made a collection of them, they went in search of other plants.

Gilbert was a much better botanist than he thought himself. Accustomed to the woods from his infancy, he was familiar with all the plants that grew in them; but he knew them only by their vulgar names. When he named them in that manner, his companion told him the corresponding scientific term, which Gilbert, on finding another plant of the same family, would endeavor to repeat. If he miscalled the Greek or Latin term, the stranger repeated it in syllables, and gave him its derivation. Then he explained how it was adapted to the nature of the plant; and thus Gilbert learned not only its botanical name, but the Greek or Latin one by which Pliny, Linnaeus, or Jussieu had distinguished it.

From time to time he said, “What a pity, sir, that I cannot gain my six sous by botanizing every day with you! Oh, I should never rest a moment, and indeed I should not want even the six sous; a piece of bread such as you gave me this morning would be sufficient for a whole day. I have just drunk from a spring of excellent water, as good as that at Taverney, and last night I slept under a tree here, and I am sure I slept better than I should have done under the roof of a chateau.”

“My friend,” replied the stranger, with a smile, “winter will come; the plants will be withered and the spring frozen; the north wind will whistle through the naked trees instead of this gentle breeze which agitates their leaves. You will then require a shelter, clothes, and fire, and you must be economical with your six sous that you may obtain them.”

Gilbert sighed, gathered more plants, and asked more questions.

They spent thus the greater part of the day in the woods of Alnay, Plessis-Piquet, and Clamart-sous-Meudon.

Gilbert, according to his usual custom, soon became familiar with his companion, who questioned him with admirable address; but there was in the young man something distrustful and circumspect, and he revealed as little as possible of his past life.

At Chatillon the stranger bought some bread and milk, but it was with difficulty he prevailed upon Gilbert to take the half of his purchase. Then, refreshed, they set out for Paris, that they might enter it while it was yet daylight.

The young man's heart beat high at the mere thought of being in Paris, and he could not conceal his emotion when, from the hill of Vanvres, he perceived St. Genevieve, the Invalides, Notre-Dame, and that vast sea of houses whose rolling billows seemed to lave the declivities of Montmartres, Belleville, and Menil Montant.

“O, Paris! Paris!” murmured he.

“Yes, Paris, a mass of houses, an abyss of ills!” said the old man. “If the griefs and crimes which those houses inclose were to appear on their exteriors, from every stone would ooze a tear or a drop of blood!”

Gilbert heard, and repressed his enthusiasm, and thus checked, it soon died away of itself.

The suburb by which they entered the city was filthy and squalid; sick persons on litters were carried past him to the hospitals; children, half-naked, were playing in the dirt among dogs, cows, and pigs. His brow grew dark.

“You think all this hideous,” said the stranger; “well, in a short time you will not even see these things! People are rich who have a pig or a cow; they will soon have neither one nor other. Their children give them pleasure; soon they will bring them only sorrow. As to filth, you will always find that everywhere.”

Gilbert had been inclined to look on Paris with a gloomy eye; the picture of it which his companion drew did not, therefore, displease him. The old man, at first prolix in his declamation, gradually sunk into abstraction and silence as they approached the center of the city. He seemed so full of anxious thoughts, that Gilbert had not courage to ask him the name of a large garden which he saw through a railing, nor of a bridge by which the Seine was crossed. The garden was the Luxembourg -the bridge the Pont Neuf. At last, however, as they still proceeded onward, and as the stranger's meditation appeared to have changed into uneasiness, he ventured to say, “Do you live far from this, sir-”

“Not very far,” answered the stranger, whom this question evidently made more morose.

They proceeded along the Rue du Four, passing the magnificent Hotel de Soissons, the windows and the principal entrance of which look on the street, but whose splendid gardens extend to the streets of Grenelle and Deux-Ecus.

They passed by a church which Gilbert thought very beautiful-he stopped a moment to gaze at it.

“That is a beautiful building,” said he.

“It is Saint Eustache,” replied the old man; then, looking up, “Eight o'clock! Good heavens! make haste, young man, make haste!”

The stranger strode on faster; Gilbert followed him.

“By-the-by,” said he, after some minutes of a silence so ungenial that Gilbert began to feel uneasy, “I forgot to tell you that I am married.”

“Oh!” said Gilbert.

“Yes; and my wife, like a true Parisian housekeeper, will scold us, I dare say, for coming in so late. Besides, I must tell you, she is very suspicious of strangers.”

“Do you wish me to leave you, sir-” said Gilbert, whose heart was chilled by these words.

“Not at all, not at all! I invited you to come home with me, and you shall come.”

“I follow you, then,” answered the young man.

“Now, here we are!-down this street -to the right!”

Gilbert raised his eyes, and, by the last gleams of expiring day, he read at the corner of the street, above a grocer's shop, the words-”Rue Plastriere.”

The old man continued to hurry on faster, and as he approached nearer his house, his feverish agitation seemed to increase. Gilbert feared to lose sight of him, and, in his haste, knocked against the passers-by, the burdens of the porters, and the poles of carriages and litters. His companion seemed to have completely forgotten him in his hurried progress, absorbed as he was by one disagreeable thought.

At last he stopped before a door, in the upper part of which was a grating. A little string hung out through a hole-the stranger pulled it, and the door opened. He then turned, and seeing Gilbert standing undecided whether to enter or not, he said, “Come on!” Gilbert obeyed, and the old man shut the door.

After a few steps forward in the dark, Gilbert's foot struck against a narrow, steep staircase; but the old man, accustomed to the place, had already mounted half the flight. Gilbert overtook him, ascended with him, and stopped when he stopped. This was on an old half worn-out mat, in a lobby with two doors in it.

The stranger pulled a cord near one of these doors, and a sharp tinkling bell rang; then, from the interior of one of the rooms was heard the shuffling of slipshod feet dragging along the floor. The door opened, and a woman of from fifty to fifty-five years of age appeared.

Two voices immediately arose together -one, that of the stranger; the other, that of the woman who opened the door.

“Am I too late, dear Therese-” he murmured, timidly.

“A pretty hour, Jacques, to sup at!” she replied, rudely.

“Come, come, we shall soon make all that right!” replied the stranger, affectionately, shutting the door, and then turning to receive the tin box from Gilbert's hands.

“Oh, a porter to carry your box!” cried the old woman; “it only wanted that! So you could not carry all that nasty stuff of grass and herbs yourself. Indeed! a porter for Monsieur Jacques! I beg pardon, he is becoming quite a great gentleman!”

“Well, well, be calm, Therese,” quietly replied he whom she addressed so insolently by the name of Jacques, arranging his plants on the mantelpiece.

“Pay him, then, and send him away; we don't want a spy here.”

Gilbert, turned as pale as death, and sprang to the door. Jacques stopped him.

“This gentleman,” said he, with less timidity than he had shown at first, “is not a porter, still less a spy. He is a guest whom I have brought.”

The old woman's arms fell powerless by her side.

“A guest-” said she. “Certainly we are in great need of guests.”

“Come, Therese,” said the stranger, in a tone still affectionate, but in which a shade of derision might be detected; “light a candle-I am heated, and we are thirsty.”

The old woman still grumbled, loudly at first, but gradually subsiding. Then she proceeded to strike a light.

While the dialogue lasted, and the murmurs succeeding it, Gilbert remained silent and immovable, nailed to the floor within a step or two of the door, which he deeply regretted having entered.

Jacques perceived what the young man was suffering.

“Come forward. Monsieur Gilbert,” said he; “come forward, I beg of you.”

The old woman turned to see the person to whom her husband spoke with this affected politeness, and Gilbert had thus an opportunity of seeing her yellow, morose face, by the first light of the miserable candle which she had placed in a copper candlestick.

That face awoke in him, at the first glance, a violent antipathy. It vas wrinkled, pimpled, and filled, as it were, with gall; the eyes were sharp but meaningless; there was also a pretended softness spread over those vulgar features at that moment, which the old woman's voice and manner so completely contradicted, that Gilbert's dislike was if possible increased.

The old woman, on her side, found the thin pale face, circumspect silence, and stiff demeanor of the young man little to her taste.

“I see, gentlemen,” said she, “that you are hot, and I am sure you must be thirsty. Indeed, passing a day in the shade of the woods is so fatiguing, and stooping from time to time to gather a plant so laborious an occupation!-for this gentleman is a botanist also, no doubt -that is the trade of people who have no trade!”

“The gentleman,” replied Jacques, in a voice becoming every moment firmer, “is a kind, good young man, who did me the honor to bear me company all the day, and whom my Therese will, I am sure, receive like a friend.”

“There is enough of supper for two, but not for three,” grumbled she.

“He is easily satisfied, and so am I.”

“Oh, yes-all very fine!-I know what that means. I tell you plainly, there is not bread enough for your double moderation, and I am not going down three flight s of stairs to get any more, I assure you. Besides, at this hour the baker's would be shut.”

“Then I shall go down myself,” replied Jacques, frowning; “open the door Therese.”

“Oh, but-”

“I will go down, I tell you!”

“Well, well,” said the old woman, in a discontented voice, but at the same time yielding to the absolute tone which her opposition had called forth from Jacques; “am I not always ready to satisfy your whims- I think we can do with what we have. Come to supper.”

“Sit by me,” said Jacques, leading Gilbert into the next room, where a little table was prepared for the master and mistress of the house. On it were laid two plates, beside one of which a napkin folded and tied with a red ribbon, and beside the other, one tied with white, pointed out where each took his seat.

The walls of the room, which was small and of a square shape, were covered with a pale blue paper, with a white pattern, and its only ornaments were two large maps. The rest of the furniture consisted of six straw-seated chairs, the aforesaid table, and a kind of cabinet filled with stockings to be mended.

Gilbert sat down. The old woman placed a plate before him, then she brought a spoon, worn thin by use, a knife and fork, and a brightly polished pewter goblet.

“Are you not going down-” asked Jacques.

“It is not necessary,” she replied, in a sharp tone, showing the spite which filled her heart at his having gained a victory over her. “It is not necessary. I found half a loaf in the pantry. That makes a pound and a half of bread for us all-we must make it do.”

So saying, she put the soup on the table.

Jacques was helped first, then Gilbert, and the old woman ate out of the tureen. All three were very hungry. Gilbert, intimidated by the discussion on domestic economy to which he had given rise, kept his appetite as much within bounds as possible; but, notwithstanding, he had finished his soup first. The old woman cast a wrathful look on his plate, so prematurely empty.

“Who called to-day-” asked Jacques, in order to change the current of her thoughts.

“Oh, everybody, as usual!” replied she. “You promised Madame de Boufflers her four pieces, Madame d'Escars two airs, Madame de Penthievre a quartet with an accompaniment -some persons came themselves, others sent for what they wanted. But what of that- Monsieur was botanizing; and as people cannot amuse themselves and do their work at the same time, the ladies had to go without their music!”

Jacques did not say a word, to the great astonishment of Gilbert, who expected to see him get angry; but as it only concerned himself, it did not disturb him.

To the soup succeeded a morsel of boiled beef, served on a common earthenware dish, scraped and cracked by the edge of the knife. Jacques helped Gilbert moderately enough, for Therese had her eye upon him; then he took a piece about the same size for himself, and handed the dish to her.

The old woman seized on the loaf and cut a slice for Gilbert-so small a slice that Jacques blushed. He waited until she had helped him and herself-then he took the loaf into his own hands.

“You shall cut your own bread, my young friend,” said he; “and cut it according to your appetite, I beg of you. Bread ought to be doled out only to those who waste it.”

A moment afterward appeared a dish of kidney-beans stewed in butter.

“Look how green they are!” said Jacques. “They are of our own keeping -we have an excellent method for that.” And he passed the dish to Gilbert.

“Thank you, sir,” said the latter, “but I have eaten quite enough -I am not hungry.”

“The young gentleman is not of your opinion about my kidney-beans,” said Therese, angrily. “He prefers, no doubt, fresh gathered ones; but they are early vegetables, and rather above our means.”

“No, madame. On the contrary, I think these appear very nice indeed, and I am sure I should like them; but I never eat of more than one dish.”

“And you drink water-” said Jacques, handing him the jug.

“Always, sir.”

Jacques poured out a small glass of wine for himself.

“And now, wife,” said he, “you will begin and get this young man's bed ready-he must be tired, I am sure.”

Therese let her knife and fork fall from her hands, and fixed her angry eyes on her husband.

“Bed- Are you mad- If you bring anyone to sleep here, he must sleep in your own bed, I can tell you. You are really becoming deranged! Or perhaps you are going to take up a boarding house- If you are, you may get a cook and waiting maid; it is quite enough for me to be your servant, without being servant to other people!”

“Therese,” replied Jacques, resuming his serious and firm tone; “Therese, pray listen to me. It is only for one night. This young man has never set foot in Paris before. He came under my protection, and I will not permit him to sleep in an inn; I will not, though I should, as you say, have to resign to him my own bed.” After this second exhibition of firmness and resolution, the old man awaited the result.

Therese, who had watched him while he spoke, appearing to study every muscle of his face, seemed now to understand that she must give up the contest -and she suddenly changed her tactics. She was certain of being beaten if she continued Gilbert's enemy; she therefore began to fight for him, but certainly like an ally who intended treachery.

“Well, well,” said she; “since the young gentleman has come home with you, he must be a friend of yours; and it is better, as you say, that he should remain under our roof. I shall make him a bed as well as I can in your study, near the bundles of papers.”

“No, no,” said Jacques, quickly. “A study is not a fit place to sleep in-he might set fire to the papers.”

“A great misfortune, truly!” muttered Therese to herself. Then she added aloud; “In that case, I can put him in front of the cupboard in the anteroom.”

“No, no!”

“Well, you see, however much I wish it, I can't manage it, unless he take your bed or mine.”

“I do not think, Therese, you are looking in the right quarter.”

“What do you mean-”

“Why, we have the garret, you know.”

“The garret- The loft, you mean.”

“No, it is not a loft. It is a room, a little garret-like I confess, but wholesome, and with a splendid view of the neighboring gardens-a thing very unusual in Paris.”

“Oh, what matters it, sir,” exclaimed Gilbert, “whether it be a loft or not- Even if it were, I should be but too glad of it, I assure you.”

“But stay-that cannot be,” cried Therese; “it is there that I dry our linen.”

“The young man will not disturb it, Therese. You will take care, will you not, my young friend, that no accident happens to my good housekeeper's linen- We are poor, and any loss is serious to us.”

“Oh, do not be afraid, sir.”

Jacques rose and approached Therese. “I do not wish, my dear Therese,” said he, “that this young man should be ruined. Paris is a dangerous place for a stranger; while here, we can watch over his conduct.”

“Then you have taken him to educate- He will pay for his board, this pupil of yours-”

“No; but I answer for it he shall cost you nothing. From to-morrow he will provide for himself. As for lodging, since the garret is almost useless to us, let us do him this slight service.”

“How well idle people understand each other!” muttered Therese, shrugging her shoulders.

“Sir,” said Gilbert, more wearied even than his host of this struggle for a hospitality which was so humbling to him, and which was only gained by fighting for every inch of ground-” Sir, I have never yet given trouble to anyone, and I shall certainly not begin with you, who have been so good to me. Permit me, therefore, to leave you, if you please. I saw, near the bridge which we crossed, some trees with benches under them. I shall sleep very well, I assure you, on one of those benches.”

“Yes,” said Jacques, “to be taken up by the watch as a vagabond.”

“Which he is,” muttered Therese to herself, as she removed the supper things.

“Come, come, young man,” Jacques added, “there is, as well as I can remember, a very good straw mattress upstairs, and that is surely better than a bench-”

“Oh, sir, I have never slept on anything but a straw mattress,” said Gilbert; then correcting this truth by a slight fib, “a feather bed always overheated me,” added he.

Jacques smiled. “Straw is certainly cool and refreshing,” said he. “Take that bit, of candle which is on the table, and follow me.”

Therese did not even look at them. She sighed-she was defeated.

Gilbert rose gravely and followed his protector. Passing through the anteroom he saw a cistern of water. “Sir,” asked he, “is water dear in Paris-”

“No, my friend; but were it dear, water and bread are two things which no man has a right to refuse his fellowman who begs for them.”

“Oh, the reason I asked is, that at Taverney water cost nothing, and cleanliness is the luxury of, the poor.”

“Take some, my friend,” said Jacques, pointing to a large earthenware pitcher; and he preceded the young man to his sleeping apartment, surprised to find united in a youth of his age all the strength of mind of the lower classes with all the refined tastes of the higher.

CHAPTER XLV. MONSIEUR JACQUES' GARRET.

THE STAIRCASE, narrow and steep even at its commencement in the hall below, became still more narrow and more steep from the third story, on which Jacques lived, to the rooms above. It was therefore with considerable difficulty that they reached what was really a loft. Therese was right for once; it was neither more nor less than a loft, divided into four compartments, three of which were uninhabited.

To say the truth, they were all, except the one destined for Gilbert, uninhabitable.

The roof sloped precipitately down and formed an acute angle with the floor. In the middle of the slope, a skylight in a broken frame, without glass, admitted both light and air; the former rather scantily, the latter superabundantly, particularly during high winds in winter.

Fortunately summer was near; and yet, in spite of the approaching warm weather, the candle which Jacques held was nearly blown out on entering the loft.

The mattress of which Jacques had spoken so boastingly lay on the floor, and at the first glance seemed to be in itself the whole furniture of the place. Here and there were piles of old printed papers, which had turned yellow at the edges from age, and in the midst of them were some books half gnawed away by rats.

From two cords which were stretched from one side of the loft to the other, and the first of which was nearly strangling Gilbert, hung, dancing in the night breeze, several paper bags containing kidney-beans dried in their pods, a few bundles of aromatic herbs, some household linen, and several articles of female attire almost in rags.

“It is not a very handsome place,” said Jacques, “but sleep and darkness make a humble cabin equal to a sumptuous palace. Sleep, my young friend, as you ought to sleep at your age, and tomorrow morning you may believe I hat you have slept in the Louvre. But, above all things, take care of fire.”

“Yes, sir,” said Gilbert, a little bewildered at ail that he had heard and seen.

Jacques left the room smiling, then returned.

“To-morrow we shall have some conversation,” said he; “you will have no objection to work, will you-”

“You know, sir, that on tin; contrary, to work is my strongest wish.”

“That is right,” said Jacques, and he turned away.

“To work in an honorable way, you understand, sir,” added the punctilious Gilbert.

“I know of no other, my young friend; so then, good-night.”

“Good-night, and thank you, sir.”

Jacques retired, closed the door, and Gilbert was left alone in his garret.

At, first amazed, then stupefied at the thought that he was in Paris, he asked himself could this really be Paris- could there be in Paris such rooms as his-

He then reflected that, in reality. Monsieur Jacques was bestowing charity on him, and as he had seen alms bestowed at Taverney, not only did his surprise subside, but gradually gave way to gratitude, so much difference was there in the manner of performing the two, acts.

Then, candle in hand, and taking every precaution against fire, as recommended by Jacques, he went over all parts of his garret; thinking so little of Therese's clothes that he would not take even an old gown to serve him for a quilt.

Hi; stopped at the piles of printed papers. They roused his curiosity to the utmost; but they were tied up, and he did not touch them.

With outstretched neck and eager eye he passed from these parcels to the bags of kidney-beans. The bags were made of very white paper also printed, and were fastened together by pins.

In making rather a hurried movement, he touched the rope with his head and one of the bags fell. Paler and more frightened than if he had been discovered breaking open a strong bag, Gilbert hastened to gather up the beans scattered on the floor and to return them to the bag.

During this process he naturally looked at the paper, and mechanically read a few words. These words excited his interest; he pushed aside the beans, and sitting down on his mattress he read with eagerness, for the words were so completely in unison with his own character and feelings that he could almost imagine them to have been written, not only for, but by himself. They were as follows:

“Besides, grisettes, tradesmen's daughters, and filles-de-chambre never presented any temptation to me-I was influenced by ladies alone. Everyone has his whim, and this was mine. I do not agree with Horace on this point. It is not, however, mere admiration of rank or wealth which induces tins preference; it is the superior delicacy of complexion, the soft white hands, the becoming attire, the air of delicacy and order exhibited in the whole person, the taste which appears in every gesture and every expression, the dress so much finer and better formed, the shoes of more delicate workmanship, the more judicious blending of ribbons and laces, the hair arranged with superior care. Thus adorned, I should prefer the plainest features to beauty without them. This preference may be-and I feel that it is-very ridiculous, but my heart has made it almost in spite of me.”

Gilbert started, and the perspiration burst from his forehead -his thoughts could not be better expressed, his deSires more clearly defined, nor his tastes more perfectly analyzed. But Andree, though thus adorned, did not require these auxiliaries to set off “the plainest features.” All these were subservient to her peerless beauty.

After this came a delightful adventure of a young man with two young girls. Their setting out all together on horseback was related, and all the pretty little fears of the ladies were described. Then their nocturnal return was told in the most charming style.

Gilbert's interest increased; he unfolded the bag and read all that was in it; then he looked at the pages that he might if possible go on regularly with what was so interesting. The paging was not regular, but he found seven or eight bags which seemed in the narrative to have some connection. He took out the pins, emptied the beans on the floor, put the sheets together, and proceeded to read.

He was thinking of the happiness he should have, passing the whole night w reading, and the pleasure he should find in unpinning the long file of bags yet untouched, when suddenly a slight crackling was heard; the candle, being low, had heated the copper around it, it sank in the melted grease, a disagreeable odor filled the loft, and in a moment all was darkness.

This event took place so quickly that Gilbert had no time to prevent it, and he could have wept with vexation at being interrupted in the middle of his reading. He allowed the papers to slip from his hands on the heap of beans near his bed, throw himself on his mattress, and in spite of his disappointment soon slept profoundly.

He did not wake until roused by the noise of taking off the padlock with which Jacques had closed the door the night before. It was broad daylight, and as Gilbert opened his eyes he saw his host enter softly.

His eyes immediately rested on the kidney-beans scattered on the floor, and the bags turned into their original form. Jacques' glance had taken the same direction.

Gilbert felt the blush of shame covering his cheeks, and scarcely knowing what he said, he murmured, “Good-morning, sir.”

“Good morning, my friend,” said Jacques; “have you slept well-”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you a somnambulist-”

Gilbert did not know what a somnambulist was, but he understood that the question referred to the beans no longer in their bags, and to the bags despoiled of their contents.

“Ah, sir,” said he, “I understand why you ask me that question. Yes, I have been guilty of this misconduct; I humbly confess it, but I think I can repair it.”

“Yes. But why is your candle burned out-”

“I sat up too late.”

“But why sit up-” asked Jacques distrustfully.

“To read, sir.”

The old man's eyes wandered with increasing interest all round the garret.

“This first leaf,” said Gilbert, taking up the first page which he had unpinned and read, “this first leaf, which I looked at by chance, interested me so much; but, sir, you, who know so much, do you know what book this is taken from-”

Jacques glanced careless at it and said, “I don't know.”

“It is a romance, I am sure,” said Gilbert, “and a charming romance too.”

“A romance- Do you think so-”

“Yes; for love is spoken of here as in romances, only much better.”

“Well, as I see at the foot of this page the word 'confessions,' I think that it may be a true history.”

“Oh no! The man who speaks thus does not speak of himself. There is too much frankness in his avowals, too much impartiality in his judgments.”

“You are wrong,” answered the old man quickly; “the author wished to give an example of that kind to the world.”

“Do you know who is the author-”

“The author is Jean Jacques Rousseau.”

“Rousseau-” cried the young man impetuously.

“Yes; these are some leaves from his last work.”

“So this young man, as he speaks of himself here, poor, unknown, almost begging on the highway, was Rousseau, that is to say, the man who was one day to write 'Le Contrat Social,' and 'Emile'-”

“The same-or rather not the same,” said the old man, with an expression of deep melancholy-” no, not the same; the author of the 'Le Contrat' and 'Emile' is the man disenchanted with the world, life, glory, almost with the Deity himself; the other -the other Rousseau is the child entering a world rosy as the dawn -a child with all the joys and all the hopes of that happy age! Between the two Rousseaus lies an abyss which will forever prevent them from being one-thirty years of misery!”

The old man shook his head, let his arms sink by his side, and appeared lost in reverie.

Gilbert was delighted, not saddened, by what he heard. “Then,” said he, “all that I read last night was not a charming fiction-”

“Young man, Rousseau has never lied; remember his motto, 'Vitam impendere vero!'“

“I have seen it, but as I do not know Latin I did not understand it.”

“It means to give one's life for the truth. But my wife must have risen by this time; let us go down; a man determined to work can never begin the day too early. Rouse, young man, rouse.”

“And so,” said Gilbert, “it is possible that a man of such an origin as Rousseau may be loved by a lady of rank- Oh heavens! what it is to inspire with hope those who, like him, have dared to raise their eyes above them!”

“You love,” said Jacques, “and you find an analogy between your situation and that of Rousseau-”

Gilbert blushed, but did not answer this interrogation.

“But all women,” said he, “are not like those of whom I read; how many are proud, haughty, disdainful, whom it would be only folly to love!”

“And yet, young man,” replied the other, “such occasions have more than once presented themselves to Rousseau.”

“That is true, sir; pardon me for having detained you; but there are some subjects which intoxicate me, and some thoughts which make me almost mad.”

“Come, come! I fear you are in love!” said the old man.

Instead of replying, Gilbert commenced to make up the bags again with the help of the pins, and fill them with the kidney beans. Jacques looked on.

“You have not been very splendidly lodged,” said he; “but, after all, you have had what “was necessary, and if you had been earlier up you might have inhaled through your window the perfume of the garden trees, which, in the midst of the disagreeable odors that infest a great town, is certainly very agreeable. The gardens of the Rue Jussienne are just below, and to breathe in the morning the fragrance of their flowers and shrubs is to a poor captive a happiness for all the rest of the day.”

“It certainly conveys an agreeable sensation to me,” said Gilbert; “but I am too much accustomed to those things to pay any particular attention to them.”

“Say rather that you have not yet been long enough the inhabitant of a town to know how much the country is to be regretted. But you have done; let us go down.”

And motioning Gilbert to precede him, he shut the door and put on the padlock.

This time, Jacques led his companion directly to the room which Therese the evening before had named the study. Its furniture was composed of glass cases containing butterflies, plants, and minerals, a book-case of walnut-tree wood, a long narrow table, with a green and black baize cover worn out by constant use, on which were a number of manuscripts arranged in good order, and four arm-chairs stuffed and covered with hair-cloth. Every article was waxed and shining, irreproachable as to neatness and cleanliness, but chilling to the eye and the heart, so dim and gray was the light admitted through the drab curtains, and so far removed from comfort were the cold ashes on the black hearth.

A little harpsichord of rosewood on four straight legs, the strings of which vibrated as the carriages passed in the street, and the slight ticking of a timepiece placed over the fireplace, were all that seemed to give life to this species of tomb.

But Gilbert entered it with profound respect. The furniture seemed to him almost sumptuous, since it was, as nearly as possible, the same as that of the chateau of Taverney, and the polished floor, above all, struck him with awe.

“Sit down,” said Jacques, pointing to a second little table placed in the recess of a window, “and I shall explain what occupation I intend for you.”

Gilbert eagerly obeyed.

“Do you know what this is-” asked the old man, showing him some paper ruled with lines at equal distances.

“Certainly,” said he; “it is music paper.”

“Well, when one of these leaves has been filled up properly by me, that is, when I have copied on it as much music as it will contain, I have earned ten sous; that is the price which I fixed myself. Do you think you can learn to copy music-”

“Oh yes, sir! I think so.”

“But does not all this little black dotting of spots joined together by single, double, and triple strokes, swim before your eyes-”

“Yes, sir. At the first glance I cannot distinguish them well, but on looking more closely I shall be able to separate one note from another; for instance, here is a Fa.”

“And the note above that, crossing the second line-”

“That is Sol.”

“Then you can read music-”

“I know only the names of the notes; I do not understand their value.”

“Do you know when they are minimes, crotchets, quavers, and semi-quavers-”

“Oh yes; I know that.”

“And that mark-”

“It is a rest.”

“And that-”

“A sharp.”

“And that-”

“A flat.”

“Very well! And so, with this ignorance of yours,” said Jacques, his eye beginning to darken with the distrust which seemed natural to him, “with this ignorance of yours, you speak of music as you spoke of botany, and as you would have spoken of love had I not cut you short.”

“Oh, sir,” replied Gilbert, blushing, “do not ridicule me!”

“No, my child; I am only surprised at you. Music is an art which is seldom learned until after other studies, and you told me you had received no education; in fact, that you had been taught nothing.”

“That is the truth, sir.”

“But you could not have found out of yourself that this black point was a Fa.”

“Sir,” said Gilbert, looking down with an embarrassed air, “in the house where I lived there was a-a-young lady-who played on the harpsichord.”

“Oh! the same who studied botany-”

“Yes, sir; and she played very well.”

“Indeed-”

“Yes, and I adore music!”

“All that does not account for your knowing the notes-”

“Sir, Rousseau says that the man who enjoys the effect without seeking to know the cause, allows half his powers to lie dormant.”

“Yes; but he also says that man in acquiring that knowledge loses his joyousness, his innocence, and his natural instincts.”

“What matters it, if he find in the search itself an enjoyment equal to all the pleasures which he loses-”

Jacques turned toward him, still more surprised. “Ha!” said he, “you are not only a botanist and a musician, but also a logician.”

“Ah, sir, I am unfortunately neither a musician, a botanist, nor a logician! I can distinguish one note from another, one sign from another, that is all.”

“You can sol-fa, then-”

“No-not in the least, sir.”

“Well, no matter. Will you try to copy this- Here is some ruled paper, but take care of wasting it; it is very dear; and now I think of it, it would be better for you to take some common paper, rule it yourself, and make a trial on it.”

“Oh! sir, I shall do whatever you recommend. But allow me to say, that this is not an occupation for my whole lifetime. It would be much better to become a public writer than copy music which I do not understand.”

“Young man, young man, you speak without reflection. Is it by night that a public writer gains his bread-”

“No, certainly.”

“Well, listen to me; with practice a man can copy in two or three hours at night five or even six of these pages; for that he will get three francs. A man can live on that sum; you will not contradict that, you, who would be content with six sous- Thus, you see, with two hours' work at night you could earn sufficient to enable you to attend the school of surgery, of medicine, and of botany.”

“Oh,” cried Gilbert, “now I understand, and I thank you from my very heart.” And so saying, he seized eagerly the paper which the old man offered him.

CHAPTER XLVI. WHO MONSIEUR JACQUES WAS.

GILBERT SET TO work with the greatest ardor, and his paper was soon covered with careful copies of what was placed before him. The old man looked at him for some time, and then sat down at the other table to correct printed sheets like those of which the bags containing the kidney-beans had been made.

They had passed three hours in this way, and the timepiece had just struck nine, when Therese entered hurriedly. Jacques raised his head.

“Quick, quick!” said she, “come into the other room! Here is another prince come to visit you. When will this procession of grandees be over- I only hope he will not take it into his head to breakfast with us, as the Duke de Chartres did the other day.”

“Who is this prince-” asked Jacques, in a low voice.

“Monseigneur the Prince de Conde.”

At this name Gilbert let fall on his paper a sol which looked much more like a dinner plate than a note.

“A prince! A grandee!” he muttered to himself.

Jacques left the study smiling; Therese followed, and closed the door behind her.

Then Gilbert looked around, and finding that he was alone, sat bolt upright with astonishment.

“But where am I then-” exclaimed he. “Princes, highnesses, calling on Monsieur Jacques. The Duke de Chartres, the Prince de Conde, calling on a copier of music!”

He approached the door to listen; his heart beat strangely.

The first greetings were over between Jacques and the prince, and the latter was speaking.

“I should have liked,” he said, “to take you with me.”

“Why so, Monseigneur-” said Jacques.

“To introduce you to the dauphiness. A new era is opening for philosophy, my dear philosopher.”

“A thousand thanks for your kindness, my lord, but it is impossible for me to accompany you.”

“Yet, six years ago, you accompanied Madame de Pompadour to Fontainebleau-”

“I was six years younger then. Now I am chained to my armchair by infirmities.”

“And by misanthropy.”

“And if it were so, my lord, you must allow that the world is not worth the trouble of putting one's self out of the way for it.”

“Well, I shall let you off for St. Denis, and the grand ceremonial; but I must take you to Muette, where her royal highness will sleep the night after tomorrow.”

“Then her royal highness arrives at Saint Denis the day after to-morrow-”

“Yes, with all her retinue. Come, two leagues are easily traveled. Report bespeaks her highness an excellent musician; a pupil of Gluck's.”

Gilbert heard no more.

The day after to-morrow the dauphiness and all her retinue would be at St. Denis; these words suggested only one idea to him, that the next day but one Andree would be two leagues distant from him.

Of the two feelings which he experienced, the stronger overcame the weaker. Love put an end to curiosity. For a moment it seemed to him as if he had not room to breathe. He ran to a window to open it, but it was fastened inside with a padlock, no doubt to pi-event those on the opposite side of the street from ever having an opportunity of seeing what passed in the study.

He sank on his chair.

“Oh, I will never listen at doors again,” said he; “I must not try to penetrate the secrets of this man, apparently so humble, whom a prince calls his friend and wishes to present to the future queen of France-to the daughter of emperors-whom Mademoiselle Andree addressed almost kneeling at her feet. And yet perhaps I might hear something of Mademoiselle Andree. No, no! I should seem like a lackey; La Brie used to listen at doors.”

And he courageously retired from the door. But his hands trembled so much that he could not write, and indeed he required some more exciting pursuit to divert his thoughts; he therefore seized a book on the other table.

“'The Confessions!'“ he read with joyful surprise, “'embellished with a likeness of the author, Jean Jacques Rousseau,' and I have never yet seen a likeness of Rousseau!” and he hastily turned the silk paper which covered the engraving.

No sooner did it meet his eye than he uttered a cry of amazement. At that moment Jacques opened the doors.

Gilbert compared his face with the likeness in the book, which he held in his hand, then, pale and trembling, he let the volume fall, exclaiming, “I am in the house of Jean Jacques Rousseau!”

“Let me see, my child, how you have copied your music,” said Rousseau, smiling, and inwardly better pleased with this involuntary homage than with many of the thousand triumphs of his glorious life. And passing by the trembling Gilbert, he approached the table and commenced to examine his work.

“Your notes are not badly formed,” said he, “but they are carelessly joined together. Here, there should be a rest to make the time complete. Then, see, the bars which divide it are not quite straight. Make the semi-breves by two semi-circles; it is not important that they should join. The note made perfectly round is ungraceful, and the stalk does not join with it so well. Yes, my friend, you are indeed in the house of Jean Jacques Rousseau.”

“Oh, pardon me, sir, for all the foolish words which I have uttered!” exclaimed Gilbert, clasping his hands and ready to fall on his knees.

“Was it necessary that a prince should come to visit me,” said Rousseau, shrugging his shoulders, “to enable you to discover in me the unhappy persecuted philosopher of Geneva- Poor child! Happy in your ignorance of persecution-”

“Oh, yes. I am happy, very happy! But it is in seeing you, in knowing you, in being near you!”

“Thanks, my child, thanks. But it is not enough to be happy, you must work. Now that you have made a trial, take this rondeau and copy it on some proper music-paper; it is short and easy-above all things observe neatness. But how did you discover-”

Gilbert, with a swelling heart, took up the volume and pointed to the portrait.

“Oh yes, my likeness burned in effigy on the first page of the 'Emile!' However, the auto-da-fe diffuses light as well as the rays of the sun.”

“Ah! sir, my wildest dreams never exceeded this! To live with you! My highest ambition never hoped for more!”

“You cannot live with me, my friend,” said Jean Jacques, “for I do not take pupils; as for guests, you perceive that I am not rich enough to entertain them, certainly not to receive them as regular inmates.”

A cold perspiration stood on Gilbert's forehead. Rousseau took his hand.

“However,” said he, “do not despair. From the moment I first saw you, I have been studying your character. In it there is much which requires to be corrected, but there is also much to esteem. Learn to subdue your inclinations. Distrust your pride, that gnawing worm, which is the bane of philosophy. Copy music, and wait patiently for better times.'“

“Oh, heavens!” said Gilbert, “I feel bewildered when I think of what has happened to me.”

““What has happened to you is very simple and very natural, my child; you were flying I know not whence, for I did not seek to know your secret, and in your flight you met a man gathering plants in a wood. He had bread, you had none; he shared his with you. You did not know where to seek an asylum for the night, he offered you the shelter of his roof. The man might have been called by any name, he happened to be called Rousseau. That is the whole affair. This man said to you, the first precept of philosophy is -man, suffice for thyself. Now, my friend, when you have copied your rondeau, you will have gained your bread for this day. Copy your rondeau, therefore.”

“Oh, sir, what kindness!”

“As for your lodging, that is yours into the bargain; only, no reading at night, or if you must have a candle, let it be your own; otherwise, Therese will scold. In the meantime, are you hungry-”

“Oh, no, sir,” replied Gilbert, in a choking voice.

“There is enough left from our supper of last night to serve for this morning's breakfast. Do not stand on ceremony; this repast is the last you will get at my table, unless by invitation, if we remain friends.”

Gilbert made a movement as if to speak, but Rousseau interrupted him.

“There is in the Rue Plastriere,” continued he, “a modest eating-house for mechanics; you can dine there on moderate terms, for I shall recommend you to the proprietor. In the meantime, come and breakfast.”

Gilbert followed Rousseau without daring to reply. He was completely subdued; but at least it was by a man superior to most other men.

After a few mouthfuls he left the table and returned to his task. He spoke truly; his emotion was so great that it had taken away his appetite. During the whole day he never raised his eyes from the paper, and at eight in the evening, after having torn three sheets, he had succeeded in copying legibly and neatly a rondeau of four pages.

“I will not flatter you,” said Rousseau, “it is not yet well done, but it is legible; what you have done is worth ten sous; here is the money.”

Gilbert took it with a low bow.

“There is some bread in the cupboard, M. Gilbert,” said Therese, on whom the young man's modest demeanor, mildness, and industry, had produced a favorable impression.

“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Gilbert, “believe me, I shall never forget your kindness.”

“Here,” said she, holding the bread out to him.

He was about to refuse, but looking at Rousseau he saw, by the slight frown which contracted his piercing eye, and the curl which hovered on his delicately formed lips, that the refusal would wound him.

“I accept your kind offer,” said he.

He then withdrew to his little chamber, holding in his hand the six silver sous and the four copper ones which he had just received.

“At last,” said he, on entering his garret, “I am my own master. But stay -not yet, since I hold in my hand the bread of charity.”

And although he felt hungry, he laid down the piece of bread on the sill of the skylight, and did not eat it. Then, fancying that sleep would enable him to forget his hunger, he blew out his candle and stretched himself on his straw pallet.

He was awake before daybreak on the following morning, for in truth he had slept very little during the night. Recollecting what Rousseau had said about the gardens, he leaned out of the skylight, and saw below him the trees and shrubs of a very beautiful garden, and beyond the trees the hotel to which the garden belonged, the entrance to which was from the Rue Jussienne.

In one corner of the garden, quite surrounded by shrubs and flowers, there stood a little summer-house, the windows of which were closed. Gilbert at first thought that the windows were closed on account of the earliness of the hour; but observing that the foliage of the trees had grown up against the shutters, he was convinced that the summer-house must have been unoccupied since the preceding winter at least. He returned, therefore, to his admiring contemplation of the noble lime-trees, which partially concealed from view the main body of the hotel.

Two or three times, during his survey, Gilbert's eyes had turned toward the piece of bread which Therese had cut for him the evening before; but although hunger pleaded loudly, he was so much the master of himself that he refrained from touching it.

Five o'clock struck. Gilbert was persuaded that the door of the passage must now be open; and washed, brushed and combed, for Rousseau had furnished his garret with all that was necessary for his modest toilet, he descended the stairs, with his piece of bread under his arm.

Rousseau, who this time was not the first a-foot, and who from a lingering suspicion perhaps, and the better to watch his guest, had left his door open, heard him descend, and narrowly observed his movements. He saw Gilbert leave the house with 'the bread under his arm; a poor man came up to him, and he saw Gilbert give him the bread, and then enter a baker's shop which was just opened and buy some more.

“Now,” said Rousseau, “he will go to a tavern and his poor ten sous will soon vanish.”

But he was mistaken. Gilbert ate his bread as he walked along; then, stopping at a fountain at the corner of the street, he took a long draught; ate the rest of his bread; drank again, rinsed his mouth, washed his hands, and returned toward the house.

“Ha!” said Rousseau, “I fancy that I am luckier than Diogenes, and have found a man!” And hearing Gilbert's footsteps on the stairs, he hastened to open the door.

The entire day was spent in uninterrupted labor Gilbert brought to his monotonous task activity, intelligence, and unshrinking assiduity. What he did not perfectly comprehend he guessed, and his hand, the slave of his iron will, traced the notes without hesitation and without mistake. By evening he had copied seven pages, if not elegantly, at least with scrupulous correctness.

Rousseau examined his work with the eye both of a critical judge and a philosopher. As a critical judge he criticised the forms of the notes, the fineness of the joinings, the spaces for the rests and dots; but he acknowledged that there was a decided improvement since the day before, and he gave Gilbert twenty-five sous.

As a philosopher he admired the strength of resolution which could bend the ardent temperament and active and athletic frame of a young man of eighteen to such constant and unceasing labor.

For Rousseau had discovered that in that young heart there lurked an ardent passion; but whether ambition or love he had not yet ascertained.

Gilbert gazed thoughtfully at the money which he had received, it was a piece of twenty-four sous and a single sou. He put the sou in his waistcoat pocket, probably with the other sous which were remaining from the little sum of the day before, and grasping the silver with evident satisfaction in his right hand, he said:

“Sir, you are my master, since you give me work and also lodge me in your house gratis. I think it only right, therefore, that I should communicate to you all my intentions, otherwise I might lose your regard.”

Rousseau looked at him with a lowering eye. “What are you going to do-” said he. “Have you any other intention than that of working to-morrow-”

“Sir-for to-morrow, yes. With your permission, I should like to be at liberty to-morrow.”

“What to do-” said Rousseau, “to idle-”

“Sir,” said Gilbert, “I wish to go to St. Denis.”

“To St. Denis-”

“Yes; her highness the dauphiness is to arrive there to-morrow.”

“Ah!-true; there are to be festivities in honor of her arrival.”

“That is it, sir.”

“I thought you less of a sight-seer, my young friend,” said Rousseau. “I gave you credit, at first, on the contrary, for despising the pomps of absolute power.”

“Sir-”

“Look at me-me, whom you pretend to take for a model. Yesterday one of the royal princes came to invite me to court. Well, observe, citizen as I am, I refused his invitation; not to go as you would go, my poor lad, on foot, and standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse, over the shoulder of a guardsman, of the king's carriage as it passes, but to appear before princes-to be honored by a smile from princesses.”

Gilbert nodded his approbation.

“And why did I refuse-” continued Rousseau, with vehemence. “Because a man ought not to have two faces; because the man who has written that royalty is an abuse ought not to be seen bending before a king. Because I-who know that every festivity of the great robs the people of some portion of that comfort which is now scarcely sufficient to keep them from revolt-I protest by my absence against all such festivities.”

“Sir,” said Gilbert, “believe me, I comprehend all the sublimity of your philosophy.”

“Doubtless; and yet, since you do not practice it, permit me to tell you-'

“Sir,” said Gilbert, “I am not a philosopher.”

“Tell me, at least, what you are going to do at St. Denis.”

“Sir. I am discreet.”

Rousseau was struck by these words; he saw that there was some mystery concealed under this obstinate deSire, and he looked at this young man with a sort of admiration which his character inspired.

“Oh, very well!” said he, “I see you have a motive; I like that better.”

“Yes, sir. I have a motive; one, I assure you, in no way connected with an idle love for pomp or show.”

“So much the better.-Or, perhaps, I should say, so much the worse. There is something unfathomable in your look, young man, and I seek in vain in its expression for the frankness and calm of youth.”

“I told you, sir, that I have been unhappy,” replied Gilbert, sorrowfully, “and for the unhappy there is no youth. Then, you consent to give me to-morrow to myself.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Remember, however,” said Rousseau, “that while you are gazing at the vain pomps of the world defiling in procession before you, I shall, in one of my herbals, be passing in review the splendor and variety of nature.”

“Sir,” said Gilbert, “would you not have left all the herbals in the world the day when you went to visit Mademoiselle Galley after having presented her with the bouquet-”

“Good!” said Rousseau. “True, you are young. Go to St. Denis, my child.”

Then, when Gilbert, with a joyful countenance, had left the room:

“It is not ambition,” said he, “it is love.”

CHAPTER XLVII. THE SORCERER'S WIFE.

AT THE MOMENT WHEN Gilbert, after his hard day's labor, was munching in his loft his bread dipped in cold water, and inhaling with delight the pure air of the gardens below him, a woman mounted on a magnificent Arabian horse was advancing at full gallop toward Saint-Denis, along that road which was now deserted, but which on the morrow was to be crowded with so much rank and fashion. She was dressed with elegance, but in a strange and peculiar style, and her face was hidden by a thick veil. On entering the town she proceeded straight to the Carmelite Convent, and dismounting, she knocked with her delicately-formed finger at the wicket, while her horse, which she held by the bridle, snorted and pawed the ground with impatience.

Several inhabitants of the town, struck with curiosity, gathered around her. They were attracted in the first place by her foreign attire, then by her perseverance in knocking.

“What is it you want, madame-” said one of them at length.

“You see, sir,” she replied, with a strongly marked Italian accent, “I wish to obtain admittance.”

“In that case, you are taking the wrong way. This gate is only opened once a day to the poor, and the hour is now past.”

“What must I do, then, to gain an audience of the superior-”

“You must knock at that little door at the extremity of the wall, or else ring at the grand entrance.”

Another person now approached.

“Do you know, madame,” said he, “that the present abbess is her royal highness, Madame Louise of France-”

“I know it, sir, thank you,” she replied.

“Vertudieu! What a splendid animal!” exclaimed a dragoon, gazing in admiration at the foreigner's steed. “Now, that horse, if not too old, is worth five hundred louis-d'ors, as sure as mine is worth a hundred pistoles!”

These words produced a great effect on the crowd.

At that moment, a canon, who, unlike the dragoon, looked only at the rider to the exclusion of her steed, made his way toward her, and by some secret known to himself alone, opened, the wicket of the tower.

“Enter, madame,” said he, “and lead in your horse, if you please.”

The woman, eager to escape from the gaze of the crowd, which seemed to terrify her, hurried in, and the gate was closed behind her.

The moment the foreigner found herself alone in the large courtyard, she shook the bridle loose on the horse's neck, and the noble animal, rejoiced to feel himself at liberty, made his trappings clash, and pawed the ground so loudly that the portress, who happened for the moment to be off her post, hastened out from the interior of the convent.

“What do you want, madame-” cried she, “and how did you gain admittance here-”

“A charitable canon opened the gate for me,” said the stranger. “As for my business, I wish if possible to speak to the superior.”

“Madame will not receive anyone this evening.”

“Yet I have been told that it is the duty of superiors of convents to admit, at any hour of the day or of the night, their sisters of the world who come to implore their succor.”

“Possibly so, in ordinary circumstances; but her royal highness, who only arrived the day before yesterday, is scarcely installed in her office yet, and holds this evening a

chapter of our order.”

“Oh, madame!” replied the stranger, “I come from a great distance-I come from Rome. I have traveled sixty leagues on horseback, and am almost exhausted.”

“What can I do- The orders of the superior are positive.”

“My sister, I have to reveal to your abbess matters of the highest importance.”

“Return to-morrow.”

“It is impossible. I have stayed one day in Paris, and already during that day-besides, I cannot sleep at an inn.”

“Why so-”

“Because I have no money.”

The nun gazed in amazement at this woman, covered with jewels, and mistress of a flue horse, who pretended that she had no money to pay for a night's lodging.

“Oh, do not heed my words! Do not examine my dress!” said the young woman; “perhaps I did not speak the precise truth when I said I had no money, for no doubt I could obtain credit in any inn. But what I want is not a lodging but a, refuge.”

“Madame, this is not the only convent in St. Denis, and each convent has an abbess.”

“Yes, yes! I know that well; but it is not a common abbess who can protect me.”

“I think you are wrong in persisting thus. The Princess Louise no longer takes any interest in affairs of this world.”

“What matters it to you- Only just tell her that I wish to speak to her.”

“She is holding a

chapter, I tell you.”

“After it is over, then-”

“It has scarcely begun.”

“I can go into the church and wait there in prayer.”

“I am sorry, madame, that I cannot permit you to wait there.”

“Oh, then I am mistaken! I am not in the house of God!” cried the stranger, with such vehemence of voice and look, that the nun, alarmed, dared no longer oppose her wishes.

“If you be really in great distress,” said she, “I shall try what I can do.”

“Oh! tell her royal highness,” added the foreigner, “that I come from Rome, that I have made only two halts on the road, one at Mayence, the other at Strasbourg; that during the last four days I have only taken the time absolutely necessary for myself and my horse to regain strength to continue our journey.”

“I shall tell her, sister,” and the nun hastened off.

A moment after a lay sister appeared, followed by the portress.

“Well-” exclaimed the stranger, impatient to know what reply had been sent.

“Her royal highness says, madame,” replied the lay sister, “it is quite impossible to give you an audience this evening; but that nevertheless the hospitality of the convent shall be extended to you, since you are in such urgent want of an asylum. You may follow me, therefore, sister, and if you have made so long a journey as you say, and are fatigued, you can retire to rest at once.”

“But my horse-”

“Rest assured he shall be taken care of, my sister.”

“He is as gentle as a lamb. He is called Djerid, and comes when addressed by that name. I entreat you will take care of him, for he is a most valuable animal.”

“He shall be treated as if he were one of the king's horses.”

“Thanks.”

“In the meantime, conduct madame to her apartment,” said the lay sister to the portress.

“Not to my apartment-to the church! I do not require sleep, but prayer.”

“The chapel is open, my sister,” said the nun, pointing to a little side door which gave admittance to the church.

“And I shall see the superior in the morning-” asked the stranger.

“To-morrow morning- That is also impossible.”

“Why so-”

“Because to-morrow morning there will be a grand reception.”

“And for whom can a reception be more necessary than for an unfortunate like me-”

“Her royal highness the dauphiness will do us the honor to spend two hours here on her way through town to-morrow. It is a great honor for our convent, and a high solemnity for us poor nuns; so that, you understand, the abbess is most anxious that everything should be worthy of the royal guests we expect.”

“But in the meantime,” said the stranger, looking around with a shudder, “while I wait the leisure of your august superior, shall I be in safety here-”

“Undoubtedly, my sister. Our house is a refuge even for the guilty, much more for-”

“For fugitives,” said the stranger. “It is well; then no one can enter here-”

“No one-that is, not without an order.”

“Oh, but if he procures an order! Good heavens! He who is so powerful that his power at times terrifies me.”

“He-who-” asked the nun.

“Oh, no one-no one.”

“The poor creature is deranged, I fear,” murmured the nun to herself.

“The church! The church!” repeated the stranger, so wildly as in some degree to justify this suspicion.

“Come, my sister, let me lead you to it.”

“Yes, yes, I am pursued, look you-quick! The church!”

“Oh, the walls of St. Denis are strong!” said the nun, with a compassionate smile. “Believe me, after such a journey as you have described, you had much better go and rest in a good bed than bruise your knees on the stones of our chapel.”

“No, no! I wish to pray-I wish to pray that God will rescue me from my pursuers!” cried the young woman, hurriedly entering the church by the door which the nun pointed out, and shutting the door behind her.

The nun, curious as all nuns are, hastened round to the principal entrance, and, advancing softly, saw the unknown praying and sobbing before the altar, her face bowed to the ground.

CHAPTER XLVIII. PARISIANS.

THE NUNS had informed the stranger correctly, when they told her that the

chapter of the convent was assembled in conclave. Madame Louise of France presided at the meeting, her first exercise of supreme authority, and assisted in their deliberation as to the best means of giving the daughter of the Cassars a reception worthy of her august character and station.

The funds of the convent were rather low. The late abbess, on resigning her functions, had carried away with her a large portion of the lace, which was her private property, as well as the reliquaries and ostensoirs, which it was the practice of superiors, who were all taken from the highest families, to lend to their convents, on devoting themselves to the service of God from the most worldly motives.

Madame Louise, on learning of the intended visit of the dauphiness, had sent an express to Versailles, and the same night a wagon had arrived loaded with hangings, lace, and ornaments, to the value of six hundred thousand livres.

Consequently, when the tidings were spread of the royal splendor which was to be exhibited at the reception of the dauphiness, all the ardent curiosity of the Parisians was redoubled-those same Parisians whom Mercier describes as provoking only a smile when seen in private life, but when assembled in masses arousing reflections more calculated to make us weep and tremble.

Therefore, from earliest dawn, the citizens of the capital, having learned from public report the route which the dauphiness was to take, began to issue from their dens, and, at first in parties of ten or twenty, then in hundreds, and finally in thousands, poured out toward St. Denis.

The French and Swiss guards, and the regiments stationed at St. Denis, were under arms, and formed a line on each side of the road to keep back the waves of the living tide which rolled on toward the gates of the cathedral, and mounted even to the sculptured projections of the building. A sea of heads appeared everywhere, children's peeping from above the porches of doors, men's and women's thronging the windows. Besides these, thousands of curious spectators, who had arrived too late to secure places, or who, like Gilbert, preferred their liberty to the constraint and inconvenience of being shut up during the whole day in one spot, swarmed like ants on every side, climbing the trees which bordered the road from St. Dem's to Muette, or dispersed here and there wailing for the procession.

The cortege, although still possessing a numerous train of sumptuous equipages, and troops of domestics in splendid liveries, had considerably diminished after leaving Compiegne; for, except for the great lords, it was found impossible to keep pace with the king, who doubled and tripled the usual stages, by means of relays posted on the road.

Those of lesser note had therefore remained at Compiegne, or had taken post-horses and returned to Paris to give their stud a breathing interval. But after a day's repose at their own domiciles, masters and domestics now thronged toward St. Denis both to witness the preparations and to get another glimpse of the dauphiness, whom they had already only partially seen. And then, besides the court carriages, were there not those of the parliament, the financiers, the rich merchants, the ladies of fashion and those of the opera- Were there not, in addition, hired horses and carriages, as well as the caravans, which rolled toward St. Denis, crammed with the good citizens of Paris, both male and female, who managed to arrive by this means somewhat later than they could have accomplished the distance on foot- It may easily be imagined, therefore, what a formidable army directed its march toward St. Denis on the morning of the day when the gazettes and placards announced that the dauphiness was to arrive, forming into a dense mass before the convent of the Carmelites, and, when no more room could be obtained within the privileged inclosure, stretching away in long lines on the roads by which the dauphiness and her suite were to arrive and depart. Now, let anyone picture to himself in this crowd, which was the terror even of the Parisian, Gilbert, insignificant in appearance, alone, undecided, ignorant of the localities, and too proud even to ask a question-for since he was in Paris he had determined to pass for a Parisian-he who had never seen a hundred people assembled together in his life.

At first he saw pedestrians thinly scattered along the road; at La Chapelle they began to increase, and at St. Denis they seemed to rise out of the ground, and presented much the appearance of an immense field bristling with ears of corn. For a longtime past Gilbert had seen nothing, lost as he was in the crowd; he could not look over the heads of those around him, and, swept along in the throng, he blindly followed where the concourse of spectators led him.

At last he saw some children perched on a tree, and longed to imitate their example, but he dared not take off his coat. He made his way, however, to the foot of the tree, just as one of those unfortunates, who like himself were deprived of all view of the horizon, and who staggered onward, trampling others and being trampled on themselves, was struck by the bright idea of questioning their lucky neighbors perched in safety on the branches, and learned from one of them that there was a large space vacant between the convent and the guards. Gilbert, emboldened by this intelligence, ventured in his turn to ask whether the carriages were yet in sight.

They had not yet appeared-but on the road, about a quarter of a league beyond St. Denis, a great cloud of dust was plainly visible. This was what Gilbert wished to know; the carriages not being in sight, it was now his business to ascertain precisely by what route they would approach; but nevertheless he held on his way, traversing the crowd in perfect silence -a mode of procedure which in Paris leads irresistibly to the conclusion that the person practicing it is either an Englishman or deaf and dumb.

Scarcely had Gilbert extricated himself from the multitude, when he perceived, seated behind a ditch, the family of a humble tradesman at breakfast.

There was a blue-eyed daughter, tall and fair, modest and timid.

There was the mother, a fat, laughing little woman, with white teeth and rosy cheeks.

There was an aunt, tall, bony, dry, and harsh.

There was the father, half-buried in an immense camlet coat, which was usually brought out of his chest only on Sundays, but which he ventured to put on on so grand an occasion as the present, and of which he took more care than he did of his wife and daughter, being certain that the latter could take care of themselves.

There was the servant-maid, who did nothing but laugh. She carried an enormous basket containing everything necessary for breakfast, and even under its weight the stout lass had never ceased laughing and singing, encouraged as she was by her master, who took the burden when she was fatigued.

In those days a domestic was one of the family, and occupied a position in it very analogous to that of the house-dog, beaten sometimes, excluded never.

Gilbert contemplated by stealth this group which was so new to him. Shut up at Taverney from his birth, he had hitherto seen only the lord and the lackey, the citizen was altogether a novelty to him.

He saw these honest people employ in their domestic economy a system of philosophy, which, although not drawn from the teachings of Plato and Socrates, was modeled much after that of Bias, a little extended.

They had brought with them as much food as they possibly could, and were determined to make the most of it.

The father was carving one of those appetizing pieces of roast veal, so much in vogue with the Parisian tradesmen. Nicely browned, dainty, and tempting, it reposed amid a bed of carrots, onions, and bacon, in the dish in which the day before it had been baked, carefully placed there by the good housekeeper. The maid had then carried it to the baker, who, while baking his loaves, had given it an asylum in his oven along with a score of such dishes destined to assist the enjoyments of the following day.

Gilbert chose out a place for himself at the foot of a neighboring elm, and dusted it carefully with his checked pocket-handkerchief. He then took off his hat, spread his handkerchief on the ground, and seated himself. He paid no attention to his neighbors, which they remarking, naturally directed a good deal of their own to him.

“That is a careful young man,” said the mother.

The daughter blushed. She always did so when a young man was mentioned before her, a trait in her character which grave the highest gratification to her parents.

The father turned, “And a handsome lad, too,” said he.

The daughter blushed still more deeply than before.

“He looks tired.” said the servant-maid, “and yet he has not been carrying anything.”

“Rather say lazy.” said the aunt.

“Sir,” said the mother, addressing Gilbert, with that familiarity which is found nowhere but among the Parisians, “are the carriages still far off-”

Gilbert turned, and seeing that these words were addressed to him, rose and bowed.

“A most polite young man,” said the mother.

This remark added a still deeper dye to the daughter's cheeks.

“I do not know, madame,” answered Gilbert; “I only heard that a cloud of dust was seen about a quarter of a league off.”

“Draw nearer, sir,” said the honest tradesman, “and if you have not breakfasted-” and he pointed to the excellent repast which was spread on the grass.

Gilbert approached the group. He had not breakfasted, and the seducing odor of the viands tempted him strongly; but he jingled his twenty-five sous in his pocket, and reflecting that for the third of this sum be could purchase a breakfast almost as good as that which was offered to him, he would not accept any favor from people whom he saw for the first time.

“Thank you, sir,” said he, “a thousand thanks; but I have already breakfasted.”

“Ah!” said the good woman, “I see that you are a prudent young man. But from where you are seated you will see nothing.”

“Why,” replied Gilbert, smiling, “in that case you will not see anything yourselves, as you are in the same position as myself.”

“Oh, it is a very different matter with us! We have a nephew a sergeant in the French guards.”

The young girl looked like a peony.

“His post this morning will be before Le Paon Bleu.”

“If I am not taking too great a liberty,” said Gilbert, “may I ask where Le Paon Bleu is-”

“Just opposite the Carmelite Convent,” replied the mother. “He has promised to keep places for us behind his detachment. He will then give us his bench, and we shall see at our ease all the company get out of their carriages.”

It was now Gilbert's turn to redden; he had refused to eat with the good people, but he longed to be of their party.

Nevertheless, his philosophy, or rather his pride, whispered; “It is very well for women to require someone to assist them, but I, a man, have arms and shoulders of my own.”

“All those who do not get placed like us,” continued the mother, as if guessing his thoughts, “will only see empty carriages-no great sight in truth, for empty carriages can be seen everywhere, and certainly not worth the trouble of coming as far as St. Denis for.”

“But, madame,” said Gilbert, “it seems to me that many besides yourself will endeavor to secure the place you speak of.”

“Yes; but Everyone has not a nephew in the guards to assist them.”

“Ah! true!” murmured Gilbert.

As he said this, his face wore an expression of disappointment which did not escape Parisian penetration.

“But,” said the husband, well skilled in divining the wishes of his wife, “this gentleman can accompany us if he pleases.”

“Oh, sir. I fear I should be troublesome,” replied Gilbert.

“Bah! not at all,” said the good woman; “on the contrary, you will assist us in reaching our places. We have only one man now to depend on, and then we should have two.”

No other argument could have had so much weight in determining Gilbert. The idea that he could be useful, and by so doing pay for the favor which was offered him, put him quite at his ease and relieved every scruple.

He accepted the offer.

“We shall see to whom he will offer his arm,” said the aunt.

This assistance was indeed a real Godsend to Gilbert. How, without it, could he have passed through a barrier of thirty thousand persons, each more favored than himself by rank, wealth, or strength, and, above all, by the practice they had acquired in obtaining places at fetes, where Everyone seizes the best he can procure-

Had our philosopher “been less of a theoretical and more of a practical man, the present occasion would have furnished him with an admirable opportunity for studying the dynamics of society.

The carriage with four horses burst like a cannon-ball through the mass; all fell back on each side before its running footman, with his plumed hat, his gayly striped jacket, and his thick stick, who rushed on in advance, frequently preceded by two formidable coach-dogs.

The carriage with two horses advanced more slowly, and whispered a sort of password in the ear of' a guardsman, after which it proceeded to take its place in the cortege before the convent.

Single horsemen, although overlooking the crowd from their elevated position, were forced to advance at a foot-pace, and only gained a good position after a thousand jostlings, interruptions, and oaths.

Lastly, the poor pedestrian, trodden, trampled on, and tossed about, was driven forward like the foam of the wave by a thousand waves rolling on behind. Sometimes raising himself on tiptoe to see over the heads of his neighbors; sometimes wrestling like Antaeus, to fall like him to his mother earth; seeking his way through the multitude, and when he had found it, dragging after him his family-almost always a troop of women-whom the Parisian alone ventures to attempt, conducting through such scenes.

Lowest of all, or rather, superior to all, in such circumstances, was the man of the very dregs of the people. With unshaven beard and ragged cap, his arms naked to the elbow, and his garments held together by some fragment of a cord, indefatigably working with elbows, with shoulders, and with feet, and ever and anon uttering a savage and sardonic laugh, he made his way among the crowd as easily as Gulliver amid the Lilliputians.

Gilbert, who was neither a great lord with a carriage-and-four, nor a member of parliament with two, nor a soldier on horseback, nor a Parisian, nor a man of the people, must have infallibly been trampled under foot by the throng, had he not been under the protection of the tradesman. Backed by him he felt powerful, and boldly offered his arm to the mother of the family.

“Impertinent fellow!” said the aunt.

They set out; the father gave his sister and his daughter each an arm, and the maid-servant followed behind with the huge basket.

“Gentlemen, may I trouble you-” said the good woman, with her ready laugh. “Gentlemen, if you please, a little room. Gentlemen, be good enough-”

And Everyone fell back and yielded a passage to her and Gilbert, while in their wake glided the rest of the party.

Foot by foot, step by step, they managed to advance five hundred paces, and then found themselves close to that formidable line of French guards on which the tradesman and his family rested all their hopes. The daughter had by this time regained her natural color. Once there, the citizen mounted on Gilbert's shoulders to look over the soldier's heads, and perceived at twenty yards' distance from him his wife's nephew twisting his mustaches. The good man made such outrageous gestures with his hat, that at last his nephew's attention was attracted to him; he came forward, asked his comrades to make way a little, and obtained a slight opening in their ranks.

Through this chink slipped Gilbert and the good woman, then the citizen himself, the sister and daughter, and after them the stout lass with the basket. Their troublesome journey was over, and mutual thanks were exchanged between Gilbert and the head of the family. The mother endeavored to detain him by their side, the aunt said he had better go, and they separated, not to meet again.

In the open space in which Gilbert now found himself, none but privileged persons were admitted, and he therefore easily reached the trunk of a large linden-tree, mounted upon a stone near it, and, supporting himself by a low branch, waited patiently.

About half an hour after he had thus installed himself, the cannon roared, the rattling of the drums was heard, and the great bell of the cathedral sent forth its first majestic peal.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE KING'S CARRIAGES.

A DULL HEAVY SOUND was heard in the distance, which became stronger and deeper as it advanced. As Gilbert listened, he felt every nerve in his body vibrate painfully.

The people were shouting “God save the king!” It was the fashion then.

Onward came a cloud of prancing horses covered with housings of gold and purple; these were the musketeers, the gendarmes, and Swiss horse-guards. Then followed a massive carriage magnificently decorated.

Gilbert perceived in it a blue ribbon and a majestic head not uncovered. He saw the cold penetrating light of the royal look, before which every form bent and every head was uncovered. Fascinated-motionless-breathless, he forgot to take oil his hat.

A violent blow roused him from his trance; his hat rolled on the ground.

He sprang forward, lifted it up, and looking round, saw the tradesman's nephew looking at him with that truculent smile which is peculiar to the soldier.

“Well,” said he, “so you don't take off your hat to the king-”

Gilbert turned pale, and looked at his hat covered with dust.

“It is the first time I ever saw the king,” said he, “and I forgot to salute him, it is true. But I did not know-'

“You did not know-” said the soldier, frowning.

Gilbert feared that he should be driven from the spot where he was so well placed for seeing Andree, and love conquered pride.

“Pardon me,” said he, “I am from the country.”

“And you have come to Paris to be educated, my little man-”

“Yes, sir,” replied Gilbert, swallowing his rage.

“Well, since you are seeking instruction,” said the sergeant, arresting Gilbert's hand as he was just going to put his hat on his head, “learn this; you must take off your hat to the dauphiness as well as to the king, and to their royal highnesses the princes as well as to the dauphiness; in short, you must take it off to all the carriages on which you see the fleur-de-lis. Do you know the fleur-de-lis, my little fellow, or must I show you what it is-”

“Quite unnecessary, sir; I know it.”

“It is well you know even that much.” grumbled the sergeant.

The royal carriages continued to file past. As each reached the door of the convent, it stopped to permit its occupants to alight. This operation caused every five minutes a general halt along the whole line.

At one of these halts, Gilbert felt as if a fiery sword had pierced his heart. He became giddy, everything swam before his eyes, and he trembled so violently that he was forced to grasp his branch more firmly to prevent himself from falling.

About ten paces from him, in one of the carriages with the fleur-de-lis to which the sergeant had desired him to take off his hat, he had just perceived Andree. Dressed in white, and dazzling with beauty, she seemed to his excited eyes some angelic being from a higher sphere.

He uttered a stifled cry; but immediately afterward, conquering his agitation, he commanded his heart to be still and his gaze steady; and so great was his self-control, that he succeeded.

Andree, on her side, wishing to know why the procession had stopped, leaned forward out of the carriage, and directing her clear and limpid gaze around, she perceived Gilbert, and at once recognized him. Gilbert feared that on seeing him she would be surprised and would point him out to her father.

He was not mistaken. With an air of astonishment she turned toward the Baron de Taverney, who, decorated with his red ribbon, sat with great dignity beside her, and directed his attention to Gilbert.

“Gilbert-” cried the baron, starting, “Gilbert here- And who, pray, will take care of Mahon at Taverney-”

The young man heard these words distinctly, and with the most studied respect he bowed to Andree and the baron. It required all his strength to accomplish this feat.

“It is really he!” continued the baron, on perceiving our philosopher. “It is the little rascal himself!”

The idea of Gilbert being in Paris was one so far removed from his thoughts, that, at first he would not believe his daughter's assertions, and could hardly credit even his own eyes. As for Andree, whom Gilbert examined closely, after the first slight shade of surprise had passed away, her countenance resumed an expression of most perfect calm. The baron leaned out of the carriage window and signed to Gilbert to approach; but as he attempted to obey, the sergeant stopped him.

“You see that I am called,” said he.

“By whom-” demanded the sergeant.

“The gentleman in that carriage.”

The sergeant's eye followed the direction of Gilbert's finger, and rested on the Baron de Taverney's carriage.

“Pray allow him to come this way, sergeant, “said the baron. “I wish to speak to the lad-two words only.”

“Four, sir, four, if you like,” replied the soldier. “You have plenty of time; they are now reading an address at the gate, and I dare say it will occupy half an hour. Pass through, young man.”

“Come hither, you rascal!” said the baron to Gilbert, who affected to walk at his usual pace, “and tell me by what accident it happens you are here when you ought to be at Taverney!”

Gilbert saluted Andree and the baron a second time and replied:

“It was no accident which brought me to Paris, sir; I came hither of my own free will.”

“Your free will, you scoundrel-Do you talk of your will to me-”

“Why not- Every free man has the right to possess it.”

“Oh, ho! Free man! You imagine yourself free, do you, you little wretch-”

“Certainly I am; I have never sold my freedom to anyone.”

“Upon my word, this is an amusing sort of scoundrel!” exclaimed the baron, confounded at the coolness with which Gilbert spoke. “Your freewill led you to Paris!-And how did you travel, pray! -What assistance had you, may I ask-”

“I came on foot.”

“On foot!” said Andree, with a sort of pity in her tone.

“And pray what do you intend to do in Paris-” inquired the baron.

“To get educated first-then make my fortune.”

“Educated-”

“Yes, I am certain of being educated.”

“Make your fortune-”

“I hope to make it.”

“And in the meantime what do you do- Beg-”

“Beg!” exclaimed Gilbert, with lofty scorn.

“You steal, then-”

“Sir,” said Gilbert, with a look so proud and fierce that it fixed Andree's attention on him for a moment, “sir, did I ever steal from you-”

“What can your idle hands do but steal-”

“What those of a man of genius do-a man whom I wish to imitate, were it only in his perseverance,” replied Gilbert. “They copy music.”

Andree turned toward him; “Copy music-” said she.

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“You know music, then-” inquired she, with the same contemptuous tone in which she would have said, “It is false.”

“I know my notes, and that is enough for a copyist.”

“And how the devil did you learn your notes, you rascal-” cried the baron.

“Yes, how-” added Andree, smiling.

“I love music, sir, passionately, and when Mademoiselle Andree played on the harpsichord every day, I hid myself that I might listen.”

“Good-for-nothing fellow!”

“At first I remembered the airs; then, as they were written in a music-book, by degrees I learned to read the notes from the book.”

“From my music-book-” exclaimed Andree, with the utmost indignation; “did you dare to touch my music-book-”

“No, mademoiselle, I did not permit myself to do so; but as it remained open on the harpsichord, sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, I endeavored to read in it, but without touching it. My eyes would not soil the pages.”

“You will see,” cried the baron, “that the fellow will assert next that he plays on the piano like Haydn.”

“I should probably have been able by this time to play,” said Gilbert, “had I dared to place my fingers on the keys.”

Andree again glanced at that face which was animated by a sentiment only to be compared to the fanaticism of a martyr eager for the stake; but the baron, who did not possess his daughter's clear and comprehensive intellect, felt his choler rise on reflecting that the young man was in the right, and that he had been treated inhumanly in being left with Mahon at Taverney. It is not easy to pardon in an inferior the wrong which he proves you have done him, and the baron therefore became more furious in proportion as his daughter became calm.

“Wretch!” cried he, “you steal away; you go running about like a vagabond, and when questioned about your mode of life, you utter such a tissue of absurdities as those which we have just heard! But it shall not be my fault if rogues and pickpockets infest the king's highways.”

Andree by a gesture entreated her father to be calm; she felt that ungoverned anger destroys all superiority in the person giving way to it. But the baron thrust aside her hand, which she had placed on his arm, and continued; “I shall recommend you to the notice of the Count de Sartines, and you shall speedily take a turn in the Bicetre, you scarecrow of a philosopher.”

Gilbert stepped back, crushed his hat under his arm, and pale with anger, exclaimed: “Learn, my lord baron, that since I arrived in Paris I have found protectors in whose antechambers your Count de Sartines would be glad to wait.”

“Indeed-” said the baron. “In that case I shall take care, if you escape a prison, that you do not escape a good caning-Andree, call your brother!”

Andree leaned forward out of the carriage and said in a low voice to Gilbert -”Take my advice, M. Gilbert, and retire.”

“Philip, Philip!” shouted the old man.

“Leave us!” said Andree again to the young man, who remained silent and motionless in his place, as if in ecstatic contemplation.

An officer, summoned by the baron's cries, hurried forward to the carriage door; it was Philip, dressed in his captain's uniform. The young man was splendidly attired, and seemed in high spirits.

“How! Gilbert-” he exclaimed with a good-humored smile on recognizing the young man. “Gilbert here! How do you do. Gilbert- Well, what do you want with me, my dear father-”

“How do you do, M. Philip-” replied Gilbert.

“What do I want-” said the baron furiously. “I want you, to take the sheath of your sword and chastise this scoundrel!”

“But what has he done-” asked Philip, gazing by turns, with increasing astonishment, at the angry face of his father and the rigid and motionless features of Gilbert.

“Done- he-he-has-beat him, Philip, -beat him like a dog!” cried the baron. Taverney turned to his sister.

“What has he done, Andree- has he insulted you-”

“Insulted her!” repeated Gilbert.

“No. Philip, no!” replied Andree, “he has done nothing wrong; my father is in error. Gilbert is no longer in our service, and has a perfect right to go where he pleases; but my father will not understand this, and is angry at finding him here.”

“Is that all-” said Philip.

“Nothing more, brother; and I cannot imagine why my father should be so angry, particularly on such a subject, and about things and persons that do not deserve even a thought. Philip, look whether the train is moving on.”

The baron was silent, overcome by the lofty serenity of his daughter. Gilbert's heart sank in his breast, crushed and withered under her contempt. For a moment a feeling akin to hatred darted though his heart. He would have preferred the mortal thrust of Philip's sword -ay, even a lash of his whip, to her insulting scorn.

He was almost fainting; fortunately the address had now ended, and the cortege once more moved on. The baron's carriage advanced with the rest, and Andree disappeared from before his eyes like a vision. Gilbert remained alone-he could have wept-he could have groaned aloud-he thought that he could no longer bear the weight of his sufferings

Just then a hand rested on his shoulder. He turned and saw Philip, who, having given his horse to a soldier of his regiment to hold, returned smiling toward him.

“Come, let me hear what has happened, my poor Gilbert,” said he, “and why you have come to Paris.”

His frank and cordial tone touched the young man's heart.

“Oh, sir,” replied he, with a sigh, his stern stoicism melting at once, “what would I have done at Taverney, I ask you- I must have died of despair, ignorance, and hunger.”

Philip started; his generous heart was struck, as Andree's had been, by the misery and destitution in which Gilbert had been left.

“And you think, my poor fellow, to succeed in Paris without money, protectors, or resources-”

“I trust so, sir. A man who is willing to work rarely dies of hunger, where there are other men who wish to do nothing.”

Philip was struck by this reply; until then he had always looked on Gilbert as a commonplace domestic.

“But have you any means of buying food-” said he.

“I can earn my daily bread, M. Philip. That is sufficient for one who has never had any cause for self-reproach, but that of having eaten bread not gained by his toil.”

“I hope you do not say so with reference to that which you received at Taverney, my poor lad. Your father and mother were faithful servants, and you were always willing to make yourself useful.”

“I only did my duty, sir.”

“Listen to me, Gilbert. You are aware that I always liked you. I have always looked upon you in a more favorable light than others, whether justly or the reverse the future will show. What others called haughty pride, I termed delicacy; where others saw rudeness and ill-breeding, I perceived only honest bluntness.”

“Ah, chevalier!” said Gilbert, breathing more freely.

“I really wish you well, Gilbert.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Young like you, and like you also in an unhappy position. I was perhaps on that account more disposed to feel for and pity you. Fortune has blessed me with abundance; let me assist you until fortune smiles on you in your turn.”

“Thanks, sir, many thanks.”

“What do you think of doing- You're too proud to accept of a situation as servant.”

Gilbert shook his head with a scornful smile. “I wish to study,” said he.

“But in order to study you must have masters, and to pay them you must have money.”

“I can earn money, sir.”

“Earn money- How much can you earn-”

“Twenty-five sous a day, and in a short time perhaps thirty and even forty sous.”

“But that is barely enough for food.”

Gilbert smiled.

“Perhaps,” continued Philip. “I am not taking the right way of offering you my services.”

“Your services to me, M. Philip!”

“Yes, my services. Are you ashamed to accept them-”

Gilbert made no answer.

“Men are sent on earth to aid one another,” continued Maison-Rouge. “Are we not all brethren-”

Gilbert raised his head and fixed his intelligent gaze on the chevalier's noble countenance.

“Does this language surprise you-” said he.

“No, sir,” said Gilbert, “it is the language of philosophy; but it is not usual to hear such from persons of your rank.”

“Yet it is the language of the times. The dauphin himself shares in these sentiments. Come, do not be proud with me,” continued Philip. “What I lend you, you can repay me one day or other. Who knows but you may yet be a Colbert or a Vauban-”

“Or a Tronchin.” said Gilbert.

“Yes, or a Tronchin. Here is my purse, let me share its contents with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the indomitable Gilbert, moved in spite of himself by Philip's genial kindness; “but I do not want anything-only-only-believe me, I am as grateful to you as if I had accepted your offer.”

And, bowing, he disappeared in the crowd, leaving the young captain lost in astonishment. The latter waited a few minutes, as if he could not believe his eyes or ears, but finding that Gilbert did not return, he mounted his horse and returned to his post.

CHAPTER L. THE DEMONIAC.

THE NOISE of the carriages, the prolonged and merry peal of the bells, the joyful beating of the drums, all the pomp and ceremony of the day-a faint reflection of that world, now lost to her forever -faded from the Princess Louise's mind like an idle wave which had rolled up to the walls of her cell and then retreated.

When the king had departed, after having once more endeavored, but in vain, to win his daughter back to the world by a mixture of paternal entreaty and royal command, and when the dauphiness, who had been at the first glance struck by the real greatness of soul displayed by her august aunt, had also disappeared with her gay throng of courtiers, the superior of the Carmelites gave orders that the hangings should be taken down, the flowers removed, and the lace with which the convent had been decorated once more placed in its usual repository.

Of all the sisterhood of the Carmelites she alone was unmoved when the massive gates of the convent, which had for a moment opened to the world, closed heavily again on their solitude.

Then she summoned the sister who acted as treasurer of the convent.

“During these two noisy and bustling days,” asked she, '-'have the poor received their usual alms-”

“Yes, madame.”

“Have the sick been visited-”

“Yes, madame.”

“Did the soldiers receive some refreshment before they departed-”

“They received the wine and the bread which you ordered, madame.”

“Then no one is ill or sick in the convent-”

“No one, madame.”

The princess approached a window and softly inhaled the cool and perfumed breeze which was wafted toward her on the humid wings of evening. The treasurer waited respectfully until her august superior should give her an order or dismiss her. Madame Louise commenced to pluck off the leaves of the roses and Jessamine which twined around the windows and climbed up the walls of the building. Heaven alone knows what were the thoughts of the poor royal recluse at that moment.

Suddenly the door of a detached building in the courtyard, close at hand, was shaken by the violent kick of a horse. Madame Louise started.

“What nobleman of the court has remained after the rest at St. Denis-” asked she.

“His eminence the Cardinal de Rohan, madame.”

“Are his horses here, too-”

“No, madame; they are at the

chapter-house of the abbey, where he is to pass the night.”

“What noise was that, then-”

“Madame, it was caused by the foreign woman's horse.”

“What woman-” asked Madame Louise, endeavoring to recollect.

“The Italian who came yesterday to request the protection of your royal highness.”

“Ah! true, I remember now. Where is she-”

“In her chamber, or in the church.”

“How has she conducted herself since she came-”

“Since yesterday she has refused all nourishment except dry bread, and has spent the entire night praying in the chapel.”

“Some great criminal, doubtless-” said the superior, frowning.

“I do not know, madame; she has spoken to no one since she arrived.”

“What sort of a woman is she-”

“Extremely handsome, and with an expression at once gentle and haughty.”

“This morning, during the ceremony, where was she-”

“In her chamber, close to the window, where I saw her, half hidden by the curtain, watching with anxious eyes every person who entered, as if in each she feared an enemy.”

“She is some poor erring creature of he world in which I once lived and reigned. Admit her.” The nun made a movement to retire. “Ah! By-the-by, what is her name-” asked the princess.

“Lorenza Feliciani.”

“I know no one of that name,” said Madame Louise, reflecting; “no matter, introduce her.”

The superior seated herself in her chair of state, which was of carved oak, made in the reign of Henry II., and had been used by the last nine abbesses of the Carmelites. It was a formidable judgment-seat, before which had trembled many a poor novice caught on the slippery path between spiritual and temporal things.

A moment afterward the nun entered, leading in the strange lady, who was covered from head to foot with the long veil we have before mentioned.

The Princess Louise possessed the piercing eye peculiar to her family, and as Lorenza Feliciani appeared before her, she fastened a stern and searching glance on her. But she saw in the young woman's demeanor so much humility, grace, and beauty, and in the large eyes, filled with tears, which she turned on her, such an innocent and supplicating expression, that her feeling of harshness gave place immediately to one of compassion and kindness.

“Draw near, madame,” said the princess.

The stranger advanced hesitatingly, and was about to kneel, when the princess prevented her.

“Is not your name, madame,” said she, “Lorenza Feliciani-”

“Yes, madame.”

“And you wish to confide a secret to me-”

“Oh! I burn to do so.”

“But why had you not recourse to the tribunal of penance- I have only power to console; a priest can not only console, but pardon.”

“I require only consolation, madame,” replied Lorenza; “and, besides, it is to a woman alone that I dare relate what I have to tell you.”

“Then it is a strange story which you are about to narrate-”

“Yes, strange indeed. But hear me patiently, madame; it is to you alone, I repeat, that I dare confide it, both because you are a woman, and because you are all-powerful to protect me.”

“Protect you- Are you pursued, then- Are you in danger-”

“Oh, yes, madame, yes!” cried the stranger, with wild alarm.

“But reflect, madame,” said the princess, “that this is a convent, and not a fortress; that those worldly thoughts which agitate the breasts of men penetrate not here; that strife and combat are here extinguished; that this is not a house of justice, of force, or repression, but simply the house of God.”

“Oh! that is what I seek!” said Lorenza. “Yes, I seek the house of God, for there alone can I find shelter and repose.”

“But God admits not of revenge. How then do you ask his servant to avenge you- Address yourself to the magistrates.”

“They can do nothing against him whom I dread.”

““Who is he, then-” asked the abbess, with a mysterious and involuntary dread.

Lorenza approached close to the princess in a nervous and excited manner.

“Who is he, madame-” said she. “He is, I firmly believe, one of those demons who war against man, and whom Satan, their prince, has gifted with superhuman power.”

“How- what mean you-” exclaimed the princess, recoiling as if to satisfy herself that she was not addressing a lunatic.

“And I-I-wretch that I am!” continued Lorenza, writhing her snow-white and rounded arms, which seemed modeled from those of some antique statue, “I crossed the path of that man-and now-I am-I am-”

“What- What-”

Lorenza again approached the princess, and, as if terrified herself at what she was about to utter, she whispered hoarsely, “I am possessed by the demon!”

“Possessed-” cried the princess. “Take care, madame! Are you sure you are in your senses- Are you not-

“Mad-you would say-no, no, I am not mad-but I may become so if you abandon me.”

“But, madame,” said the princess, recovering her firmness, “permit me to observe that you seem to me in all respects one of the favored of Heaven; you are rich and beautiful, you express yourself rationally, and I see in your countenance nothing betokening that terrible and mysterious disease called possession.”

“Madame, it is in my life, it is in the adventures winch have befallen me, that the baleful secret lies which I would willingly conceal even from myself.”

“Explain yourself calmly. Am I the first to whom you have disclosed your sufferings- Your parents, your friends-”

“My parents!” exclaimed the young woman, clasping her hands with agony, “my poor parents! Shall I never see you again- Friends-” added she, bitterly, “alas, madame, have I any friends-”

“Come, let us proceed regularly, my poor child,” said Madame Louise, endeavoring to restore order to the stranger's incoherent words; “tell me all. Who are your parents- How came you to abandon them-”

“Madame, I am a native of Rome, and I lived in Koine with them. My father belongs to the ancient nobility, but, like all our patricians, he is poor. I have also a mother, and a brother older than myself. In France, I believe, when a family such as mine has a son and daughter, the portion of the daughter is sacrificed to purchase the son's sword; with us the daughter is sacrificed to put the son forward in the church. Consequently I received no education, as all our patrimony was required to pay for my brother's education, that, as my poor brother innocently said, he might one day be a cardinal; and for this purpose my parents submitted to every privation, and decided on making me take the veil in the Carmelite Convent at Subiaco.”

“And you-what did you say-”

“Nothing, madame. From childhood I had been taught to look forward to such an event as inevitable. Besides, I was not consulted; my parents commanded-I had only to obey.”

“But yet-”

“Ah! madame, we Roman girls are helpless instruments in the hands of others. Almost all my young friends, who had brothers, had paid this debt for the advancement of their families. I had therefore no reason to complain; all that was done was in the ordinary course of things. My mother merely caressed me a little more than usual as the time for my leaving her approached. At last the day for the commencement of my novitiate arrived; my father prepared his five hundred crowns, my dowry for the convent, and we set out for Subiaco. It is only about nine leagues from Rome to Subiaco, but the roads are bad, and our journey was slow and fatiguing. Nevertheless, it pleased me. I welcomed it as a last enjoyment, and whispered adieu to the trees, the shrubs, the rocks, and even to the withered grass which lined the road. How could I tell if at the convent I should see trees, rocks, or shrubs- Suddenly, in the midst of my fancies, as we wound along between a wood and a mass of overhanging rock, the carriage stopped. My mother shrieked-my father seized his pistols, My thoughts descended suddenly to earth, for those who had stopped us were bandits.”

“My poor child!” said the princess, becoming more and more interested in the narrative.

“Well-shall I confess it, madame-I was not much terrified, for these men had stopped us to take our money, and this money was the sum destined for my dowry to the convent. Consequently, if there was no dowry, my entrance into the convent would be delayed until my father could collect five hundred crowns more, and I knew well the time and trouble it had taken to amass these. But when the robbers, after having shared the booty, instead of permitting us to continue our journey, turned and seized me, regardless of the tears of my mother and the efforts of my father to defend me, I was struck with a sort of nameless terror, and shrieked aloud. They bound my hands, in spite of my struggles, and held me there while they threw the dice to ascertain to whom I should belong. I had abandoned all hope; my mother had fainted away, and my father lay writhing on the earth. At this moment a man mounted on horseback appeared among the robbers. He had spoken in a low voice to one of the sentinels on passing him, and the man had allowed him to proceed, exchanging a sign with him as he did so. He was of the middle height, of commanding features, and with a fixed and resolute glance; he continued to advance calmly at the usual pace of his steed, and when he had arrived opposite me he stopped. The bandit who was holding me bound, turned suddenly at the first blast which the stranger gave on a little whistle fixed to the end of his whip, and allowed me to slip from his hands. 'Come hither,' said the unknown; and, as the man appeared to hesitate, he leaned forward and whispered in his ear the single word 'Mac.' 'Benac,' replied the bandit; and then, like a lion subdued and crouching under the lash, he proceeded to untie my hands, as well as those of my father and mother. Then, as the money had been already divided, each man of the troop came forward in his turn to lay his share on a stone. Not a crown of the entire sum was wanting. 'Now, go!' said he to the banditti, and instantly every man disappeared among the surrounding woods.

“'Lorenza Feliciani,' said the stranger then, addressing me and fixing on me a look which had more than human power in it, 'proceed on your way; you are free!' My father and mother thanked this stranger, who knew me, but whom we did not know, and entered the carriage again. I accompanied them with a sort of regret; for some strange, irresistible power seemed to attract me to the man who had thus saved me. He remained immovable in the same spot, as if to protect our retreat, and as long as I could distinguish his form my eyes were fixed on him, and it was only when he was lost to view that the oppressive feeling which weighed upon my bosom was removed.”

“But who was this extraordinary man-” asked the princess, interested by the simplicity of the narrative.

“Deign to hear me farther, madame,” said Lorenza. “Alas! all is not yet told.”

“I listen.” said Madame Louise.

The young woman proceeded:

“Two hours afterward we reached Subiaco. During the rest of our journey we never ceased conversing about this mysterious protector, who had come so suddenly, like an angelic messenger, to our assistance, and whose power seemed so inexplicable and unbounded. My father, less credulous than I, thought that he must be the captain of one of the numerous troops of robbers which infest the neighborhood of Rome; but in this I could not agree, although I dared not openly oppose my opinion to my father's, which was the result of years and experience. My instinctive feeling of gratitude toward this man who had so wonderfully saved me revolted against the idea that he was a bandit; and every evening, in my devotions, I offered up a prayer to the Virgin for my unknown protector.

“The same day I entered the convent. I felt sadder, but also more resigned. An Italian, and consequently superstitious, I believed that God, by delivering me from the bandits, had wished to preserve me pure and unsullied for his service. I therefore gave myself up with ardor to the fulfillment of every duty of religion; and my father, learning this, drew up a petition to the Sovereign Pontiff to entreat him to shorten the period of my novitiate. I signed this document, which was expressed in terms so warm and earnest, that his holiness, seeing in it only the aspirations of a soul disgusted with the world, granted me a dispensation which fixed the term of my novitiate at a month instead of a year.

“This news, when announced to me, inspired me with neither joy nor grief. I was like one already dead to the world. For fifteen days I was kept closely confined, lest any worldly deSires might arise in my breast. At the end of that time I was allowed to descend with the other sisters to the chapel. I entered and took my place behind the curtain which separated, or affected to separate, the nuns from the congregation. Looking through one of the openings, which seemed to me, as it were, a loophole from which I could obtain a last glance at the world I was leaving, I saw a man standing up alone in the middle of the kneeling crowd. He seemed to devour me with his eyes, and I felt again that strange sensation of uneasiness which I had before experienced, and which seemed to draw me, as it were, away from myself, as I had seen my brother draw a needle after the loadstone, even through a leaf of paper or a piece of wood.

“Overcome, subdued, without force to struggle against my feelings, I leaned forward, and with clasped hands, I murmured, 'Thanks, thanks!' The nuns looked at me with surprise. They could not comprehend my words or gestures, and, following my glance, they rose on their seats and gazed down into the body of the church. I also gazed, trembling. The stranger had disappeared. They questioned me, but I only turned pale and red by turns, and stammered out some incoherent words. From that moment, madame,” cried Lorenza, in a despairing voice, “the demon possessed me!”

“Nevertheless,” replied the princess, smiling, “I see nothing supernatural in all that you have related. Calm yourself, my sister, and proceed.”

“Ah, madame! it is because you cannot understand what I felt. Heart, soul, mind-the demon possessed all!”

“My sister, I fear greatly that this demon was only love,” said Madame Louise.

“Oh, love could not have made me suffer thus! Love would not so have oppressed my heart-it would not have shaken my frame as the storm shakes a slender reed! Love would not have whispered in my ear the sinful thought which haunted me at that moment.”

“What thought, my child-”

“Ought not I to have disclosed all to my confessor, madame-”

“Doubtless.”

“Well, the demon that possessed me whispered me, on the contrary, to keep it secret. I feared what he would think of me.”

“An evil thought, indeed; but it is often a very innocent demon which puts such thoughts in the heart of a woman. -Proceed.”

“On the following day I was summoned to the parlor. I found there one of my neighbors of the Via Frattina at Rome, a young married lady, who regretted very much the loss of my society, because every evening we used to meet to talk and sing together. Behind her, close to the door, stood a man wrapped in a cloak, who seemed her servant. He did not turn toward me, but I turned toward him; he did not speak, yet I knew him. He was my unknown protector. The same thrilling sensation I had already experienced shot through my frame. I felt my whole being subdued by the power of this man. Had it not been for the bars which held me captive, I should certainly have followed him. Although enveloped closely in his mantle, rays of light seemed to shoot from him which dazzled me; profound as was his silence, it had sounds which spoke to me a harmonious language. I made a violent effort to subdue my feelings, and asked my friend who the man was who accompanied her. She did not know him. Her husband, who had purposed accompanying her, had been prevented by some engagement, and had brought this friend of his, a stranger to her, to be her companion.

“My friend was religious, and, seeing in a corner of the parlor a Madonna who had the reputation of possessing miraculous powers, she would not depart without offering up a prayer before her. While she was engaged in her devotions, the man entered the room, approached close to me, uncovered his face, and fixed his glowing eyes on mine. I waited for him to speak-my bosom heaved as if in expectation of his words, but he contented himself with putting his arms through the bars which separated us, and extended them above my head. Immediately an inexpressible feeling of delight seized on my whole frame. He smiled; I returned his smile, closing my eyes, which seemed weighed down by an overpowering languor, as I did so. Then, as if he had merely wished to assure himself of his power over me, he immediately retired. As he disappeared I recovered by degrees the use of my senses; but I was still under the dominion of this strange hallucination, when my friend, having finished her prayer, rose, and, embracing me, took her leave. When I was undressing at night, I found in my bosom a note containing these words; 'In Rome, the man who loves a nun is punished by death. Will you kill him to whom you owe your life-' From that moment the demon possessed me entirely, for I lied before Heaven, madame, in not confessing that I thought of this man much more than of my salvation!”

Lorenza, terrified at what she had disclosed, paused to discover what impression it had produced on the mild and intelligent countenance of the princess.

“Still, “replied the princess, firmly, “all this is not possession by the evil one; it is merely the result of an unhappy passion, and I must again repeat that such thoughts cannot be spoken of here, except to express regret for them.”

“Regret- madame,” cried Lorenza. “What! you behold me in tears at your feet, beseeching you to rescue me from the power of this fearful man, and yet you doubt my regret- Oh! I feel more than regret-I feel remorse.”

“And yet,” said Madame Louise, “up to this point-”

“Ah, madame, you have not yet heard all. Wait till I have finished, and then. I beseech you, judge me mercifully. Three days in the week we attended divine service in the chapel. The unknown was always present. I wished to resist him-I pretended that I was ill-I resolved not to go down. Alas for human weakness! -When the hour arrived, I descended with the nuns, as it were in despite of my own will. If he were not in the church when I entered, I had some moments of calm; but, as he drew near, I felt him coming. I could have said, 'Now he is a hundred paces off; now he is at the door; now he is in the church,' and that without even looking in the direction by which he came. Then, when he had reached his accustomed place, although my eyes had been fastened on my prayer-book, while I murmured the words before me, they turned involuntarily and rested on him. I could neither read nor pray; my whole looks -my whole thoughts -my whole being-were engrossed by this man. At first I could not look at him without fear; then I longed to see him; then my thoughts seemed to meet his; and often I saw him as in a dream in the night, and felt him pass beneath my window.

“The state of my mind did not escape the notice of my companions. The abbess was informed of it, and she in turn informed my parents. Three days before I was to pronounce my vows, my father, my mother, and my brother-the only relations I had in the world-entered my cell. They came ostensibly to bid me farewell, but I saw plainly that they had some other motive, and when my mother was left alone with me, she questioned me closely. And here the power of the evil one may clearly be seen; for instead of telling all, as I ought to have done, I denied everything obstinately.

“On the day when I was to take the veil, a strange struggle took place within me. I both dreaded and wished for the moment which was to give me up entirely to the service of God; and I felt that if the demon meditated a last effort to subdue me to his will, it would be at this solemn moment that he would attempt its execution.”

“And had that strange man never written to you since the first letter which you found in your bosom-” asked the princess.

“Never, madame.”

“And at that time you had never spoken to him-”

“Never, except in thought.”

“Nor written to him-”

“Oh, never!”

“Proceed; you were at the day when you were to take the veil.”

“That day, as I have told your highness, I hoped was to end my tortures, and I was impatient for the ceremony. 'When I belong to God entirely,' I thought, 'He will defend me against the demon who now wrestles with me for the possession of my soul.' In the meantime the hour arrived. I descended to the church, pale, restless, but yet less agitated than usual. My father, my mother, my brother, my friend from the Via Frattina who had come before to see me, and many other of our friends, were there. The inhabitants of the neighboring villages also thronged the church, for the report had been spread that I was lovely, and a lovely victim, they say, is most acceptable to the Lord.

“The service began. I would have hastened it by my prayers; for he was not present, and in his absence I felt that I was mistress of myself. Already the priest had raised the crucifix before me, and I was just about to extend my arm toward it, when the trembling which invariably announced the approach of my persecutor seized me. Forced by an irresistible attraction, I turned round and saw him standing near the pulpit, gazing at me more fixedly than he had ever yet done. In vain I endeavored to keep my eyes on the priest-service, ceremony, prayers, faded from my sight. I believe I was questioned concerning the rite; I remember I was pulled by the arm to arouse me, but I tottered like some inanimate object trembling on its base. I was shown the scissors, from which a ray of sunlight was reflected back with dazzling brightness, but I did not even wink. Then I felt the cold steel on my neck, and heard its sharp point in my hair.

“From that moment it seemed to me as if all strength left me; my soul rushed from my body to meet his, and I fell motionless on the pavement; yet, strange to say, not like one who had fainted, but like one overcome by sleep. I heard a loud murmur, and almost immediately after became insensible. The ceremony was interrupted with frightful tumult.”

The princess clasped her hands with a gesture of compassion.

“Ah, madame, was not that terrible-” said Lorenza; “and is it not easy to see in such an event the intervention of the enemy of man-”

“Take care, my poor girl,” said the princess, in a tone of tenderness and pity; “I think you are too much disposed to attribute to miraculous power that which is simply the result of human weakness. On seeing that man you fainted, that is all.-Proceed.”

“Oh, madame, do not say so, or at least, wait till you have heard all before you judge. Had I fainted, should I not have come to myself in ten minutes, or a quarter of an hour, or an hour at most- Should I not have been surrounded by my sister nuns, and have resumed courage and faith on seeing them-”

“Doubtless,” said Madame Louise. “Well, was it not so-”

“Madame,” said Lorenza, in a low, hurried whisper, “when I was restored to consciousness it was night. I felt a rapid, jolting motion, which fatigued me, and I raised my head, thinking that I was under the vaulted roof of the chapel, or within the curtains of my cell. I saw rocks, trees, clouds; then I felt a warm breath fanning my cheeks. I thought that it was the sick nurse who was endeavoring to restore me, and I made an effort to thank her. Madame, my head was resting on the bosom of a man-that man my persecutor! I felt myself to ascertain whether I was really alive, or if I was awake. I could not restrain a cry of terror. I was dressed in white, and wore on my head a crown of white roses like a bride, or like a maiden dressed for the tomb.”

The princess uttered an exclamation of astonishment. Lorenza hid her face in her hands.

“The next day,” continued Lorenza, sobbing, “I made inquiries, and ascertained that it was Wednesday. For three days, therefore, I had remained insensible. I am ignorant of all that happened during that time.”

CHAPTER LI. THE COUNT DE FENIX.

A LONG and painful silence succeeded to this narrative, during which each of the two ladies seemed absorbed in her reflections. The princess was the first to break it.

“And you lent no assistance to this man to carry you off-” said she.

“None, madame.”

“You are ignorant how you left the convent-”

“I am quite ignorant.”

“Yet a convent is kept carefully guarded; there are bars to the windows; the walls are very high; there is a portress who keeps the keys of the grates always at her side. That is especially the case in Italy, where the rules are even more severe than in France.”

“Madame. I can only reply, that from the moment of my awaking from my trance until now, I have searched my memory to discover any trace of what must have occurred; but in vain.”

“But did you not reproach him for what he had done-”

“Oh yes, madame!”

“What was his excuse-”

“That he loved me.”

“And what did you reply to that-”

“That I had a horror of him.”

“Then you did not love him-”

“Oh no, no!”

“Are you quite certain-”

“Alas, madame, what I felt for that man was singular indeed! When he was present I was no longer myself; what he willed, I willed; what he commanded. I did; my soul had no power, my mind no will; a look from him subdued and fascinated me. Sometimes he seemed to inspire me with thoughts which were not mine; sometimes he seemed to draw from me ideas so deeply hidden that I had never even guessed that I possessed them. Oh! do you not see, madame, that there was magic in all this-”

“It is certainly strange, if not supernatural,” said the princess. “But after you had been carried off, how did you live with that man-”

“He displayed the warmest affection for me, the sincerest attachment.”

“He was a vicious man, no doubt-

“I do not think he was, madame; there was, on the contrary, something lofty and inspired in his manner of speaking.”

“Come, come! you loved him; confess it!”

“No, no, madame,” said the young woman, with mournful bitterness; “no. I did not love him.”

“Then you ought to have left him; you ought to have appealed to the public authorities, and demanded to be restored to your parents.”

“Madame, he watched me so closely that I could not fly.”

“But why not write, then-”

“Wherever we stopped on the road, the house seemed to belong to him alone, and Everyone obeyed him. Several times I asked for pen, ink, and paper, but those to whom I applied were doubtless desired by him not to obey me, for they never even answered me.”

“And how did you travel-”

“At first in a post-chaise; but at Milan, instead of a carriage we entered a kind of moving house, in which we continued our journey.”

“But he must have sometimes left you alone-”

“Yes; but at these times, before leaving me, he approached me and said, 'Sleep!' I slept, and did not awake until his return.”

The princess shook her head incredulously.

“You would have been able to escape,” said she, “had you endeavored to do so with energy.”

“Alas! madame, and yet it seemed to me as if I did; but perhaps I was fascinated.”

“Yes; fascinated by words of love, and by his caresses.”

“He seldom spoke of love, madame, and except a kiss imprinted on my forehead in the morning and one in the evening, he bestowed no caresses on me.”

“Strange, strange indeed!” murmured the princess; then, as if some suspicion had crossed her mind, she said aloud; “And you are ready to assert again that you do not love him-”

“I do assert it again, madame.”

“And no earthly bond unites you to him-”

“None, madame.”

“Then should he claim you, he would have no right over you-”

“None, madame, none.”

“But,” added the princess, after a moment's reflection. “How did you escape at last- I do not understand that.”

“Madame. I took advantage of a violent storm which occurred while we were near a town called Nancy, I think. He left the part of the carriage in which I was, to go into another compartment of it, to talk to an old man who was with us. Then I leaped on his horse and fled.”

“And why did you prefer remaining in France to returning to Italy-”

“I reflected that I could not return to Rome, since my parents and friends there would certainly imagine I had been the accomplice of that man, and perhaps refuse to receive me. I resolved therefore to come to Paris, and to endeavor to remain concealed; or to try and reach some other great city, where no eye-and, above all, his -could discover me. When I reached Paris, madame, Everyone was speaking of your retirement into the Convent of the Carmelites. They lauded your piety, your charity toward the wretched, your pity for the afflicted. A ray of hope darted through my soul, and I was struck with the conviction that you would be generous enough to receive me, and powerful enough to protect me.”

“You appeal always to my power, my poor child. Is he, then, so powerful-”

“Oh, yes, madame!”

“But who is he, then- Through delicacy I have until now refrained from asking his name; but if I am to defend you, I must know against whom.”

“Oh, madame, even on that point I cannot enlighten you. I know neither who he is nor what he is. All that I know is, that a king could not inspire more respect, a deity could not receive greater adoration, than he, from those to whom he deigns to reveal himself.”

“But how do they address him- What is his name-”

“I have heard him addressed by different names; at present, however, I remember only two of them. One is given him by the old man, who, as I told you, traveled with us from Milan; the other he gives himself.”

“What does the old man call him-”

“Acharat-is not that a heathenish name, madame-”

“And what is his other name-”

“Joseph Balsamo.”

“And what can you tell me of him-”

“That he seems to know all persons, to penetrate into all things; he is contemporary with all times, has lived in all ages. He speaks-may Heaven pardon such blasphemies!-he speaks of Alexander, Caesar, and Charlemagne, as if he had known them, yet I am sure they have been dead a very long time. But what is worse, he will talk of Caiaphas, Pilate, and our blessed Saviour, as if he had been present at the crucifixion.”

“He is same charlatan, I perceive,” said the princess.

“I do not know exactly what that means, madame; but what I do know is, that he is a dangerous, terrible man. All yield to him, all bend before him, all fall prostrate at his word. You think him defenseless, he is armed; you think him alone, and he causes men to rise out of the earth; and that without an effort; by a gesture, a word, a smile.”

“It is well,” said the princess. “Whoever he be, take courage, my child, you shall be protected from him.”

“By you, madame, by you-”

“Yes, by me; so long as you yourself do not abandon my protection. But cease from this time to believe, and above all cease to endeavor to make me believe, in the superstitious visions which are the offspring of your diseased imagination. The walls of St. Denis will guard you securely against infernal powers, and against powers even more to be feared, those of wicked men. And now, madame, what are your intentions-”

“With these jewels, which belong to me, madame, I wish to pay my dowry to some convent-to this convent, if possible.”

And Lorenza laid on a table precious bracelets, valuable rings, a magnificent diamond and other jewels, the whole worth about twenty thousand crowns.

“Are those ornaments your own-” asked the princess.

“Yes, madame. He gave them to me, and I devote them to the church. I have only one wish with regard to his property.”

“What is that-”

“That his Arabian horse, Djerid, the instrument of my deliverance, be restored to him if he demand it.”

“But with regard to yourself, you will on no account return to him-”

“On no account.”

“Then what will you do- Am I to assume that it is your wish to enter this convent and continue in the practice of those duties which were interrupted at Subiaco by the extraordinary circumstances you have related to me-”

“It is my dearest wish, madame; at your feet I supplicate its fulfillment.”

“Be tranquil, my child; from this day you shall live with us; and when, by the exemplary conduct which I expect from you, you have shown that you deserve that favor, you shall take the vows, and I answer for it, no one shall carry you away from St. Denis while your abbess watches over you.”

Lorenza threw herself at the feet of her benefactress, and poured forth expressions of gratitude the most tender and the most sincere; but all at once, rising on one knee, she listened, turned pale, and trembled.

“Oh, heavens! Oh, heavens!” she exclaimed.

“What is the matter-” asked Madame Louise.

“My whole frame trembles. He is coming! He is coming!”

“Who is coming-”

“He who has sworn to destroy my soul.”

“That man-”

“Yes, that man-do you not see how my hand trembles. Oh!” continued she, in a tone of anguish, “he approaches!-he is near!”

“You are mistaken.”

“No, madame, no! Hold me! He draws me to him against my will. Hold me! Hold me!”

Madame Louise seized her by the arm.

“Courage! courage! my poor child,” said she; “were it even he, you are in safety here.”

“He approaches! He approaches!” cried Lorenza, with despair and horror in her voice, her eyes fixed, and her arms extended toward the door of the room.

“This is madness. Dare anyone, think you, enter unannounced the apartment of Madame Louise of France- To obtain admittance, he must be the bearer of an order from the king.”

“Oh, madame, I know not how he procured an entrance,” cried Lorenza, recoiling with terror; “but I do know that he is ascending the stairs-that he is scarcely ten paces distant-that he is here.”

At that moment the door opened. Alarmed at such a strange coincidence, the princess could not prevent herself from starting back. A nun appeared.

“Who is there-” asked the abbess, hurriedly, “and what do you want-”

“Madame, a gentleman has just arrived who wishes to speak to your royal highness-”

“His name-”

“The Count de Fenix.”

“Is that he-” asked the princess, turning to Lorenza, “and do you know that name-”

“I do not know that name-but it is he, madame-it is he!”

“What does this gentleman want-” inquired the princess, addressing the nun.

“Having been sent on a mission to the king of France by his majesty the king of Prussia, he wishes, he says, to have the honor of a moment's conversation with your royal highness.”

The princess reflected for a moment; then, turning to Lorenza, “Retire into that cabinet,” said she. Lorenza obeyed. “And you, sister,” continued the princess, “admit this gentleman.” The nun curtseyed low and left the room.

Having ascertained that the door of the cabinet was securely fastened, the princess seated herself in her armchair, and awaited the termination of the strange scene in which she found herself involved. Yet she could not subdue a certain degree of agitation.

Almost immediately the nun reappeared, followed by the person whom we have already seen, on the day of the presentation, announce himself as the Count de Fenix.

He was dressed in the same costume, a Prussian uniform, with the military wig and black stock. His large expressive eyes were cast down at first in the presence of the royal abbess, but only in a manner to indicate the respect which any gentleman, how high soever his rank, was called on to exhibit before a princess of France. But immediately raising them again, with a look which almost implied that he had already shown too great humility.

“Madame,” said he, “I thank your royal highness for the favor you have shown me; but I did not doubt that I should obtain this favor, knowing that your royal highness is the generous patron of the unhappy.”

“Sir, I endeavor to assist all such,” replied the princess, with dignity; for she felt certain that she should, before the lapse of many minutes, put to shame this man, who so impudently dared to claim her protection, after having deceived and ill-treated one confided to his care.

The count bowed, without betraying any consciousness of understanding the double meaning of her words.

She then continued, with something of irony in her tone; “In what way can I render you any assistance, sir-”

“You can aid me in a matter of the greatest moment, madame.”

“Speak, sir!”

“None but weighty considerations could have induced me, madame, to intrude on your royal highness in this retreat which you have chosen; but you have, I believe, given shelter here to a person in whom I am deeply interested.”

“The name of that person, sir-”

“Lorenza Feliciani.”

“And how does her fate concern you- Is she your relation, your sister-”

“She is my wife.”

“Your wife-” said the princess, raising her voice so that she might be heard in the cabinet. “Lorenza Feliciani is the Countess de Fenix-”

“Yes, madame, Lorenza Feliciani is the Countess de Fenix,” replied the count with the utmost coolness.

“I have no Countess de Fenix in this convent, sir,” replied the princess.

But the count was not to be so repulsed. “Perhaps, madame,” said he, “your royal highness is not convinced that Lorenza Feliciani and the Countess de Fenix are one and the same person;”

“I confess, sir, that you have guessed my thoughts; I am not well convinced on that point.”

“If your royal highness will but command Lorenza Feliciani to be brought hither, you will soon have all doubts on that head cleared away. I entreat your highness's pardon for urging the matter thus, but I am tenderly attached to the young lady, and she herself, I think, regrets being separated from me.”

“Do you think so, sir-”

“Yes, madame, unworthy as I am, I think so.

“Ah!” thought the princess, “Lorenza was right; this is indeed a most dangerous man.”

The count preserved the most perfect calmness of demeanor, and adhered to the most courtly politeness.

“I must temporize,” thought the princess to herself.

“Sir,” said she. “I cannot give up to you a woman who is not here. If you love, as you say you do, the person whom you seek, I can easily understand why you thus persist in endeavoring to find her; but believe me, to be successful you must seek elsewhere.”

The count, on entering the room, had cast a rapid glance on every article in it, and his eyes had rested for a single instant only, but that had been sufficient, on a table in a dark corner, on which Lorenza had placed those jewels which she had offered to pay as her dowry to the convent. He knew them again instantly.

“If your royal highness would have the goodness to recollect, and I venture to entreat you to do so, you will remember that Lorenza Feliciani was very lately in this room, that she placed on that table those jewels, and that, after having had the honor of conversing with your royal highness, she withdrew.”

Just then he caught the eye of the princess turning unconsciously toward the cabinet. “She withdrew,” he continued, “into that cabinet, so that now I only wait for the permission of your royal highness to order her to return hither, which she will do immediately, I feel certain.”

The princess colored with shame at the thought that she had lowered herself so far as to attempt to deceive this man, from whom, as it seemed, nothing could be hidden; and she could not conceal her vexation at the uselessness of all her efforts. She recollected, however, that Lorenza had fastened the door from within, and that, consequently, nothing but the impulse of her own free will could induce her to leave the cabinet.

“But even suppose she were here,” said she, “what would she do-”

“Nothing, madame; she would merely tell your highness that she wishes to go with me, being my wife.”

This last word reassured the princess, for she recollected the protestations of Lorenza.

“Your wife!” exclaimed she, with indignation. “Are you sure of that-”

“Your highness does not seem to believe me. Nevertheless, it is not quite incredible that the Count de Fenix should have married Lorenza Feliciani, and that, having married her, he demands back his wife.”

“His wife!” she repeated impatiently; “you dare to say Lorenza Feliciani is your wife-”

“Yes, madame, I dare to say so,” answered the count, with the most natural air in the world, “because it is true.”

“You are married to her-”

“I am.”

“Legitimately-”

“Certainly, and if your royal highness thus persists in doubting my word, I shall place before your eyes the register of my marriage, signed by the priest who united us.”

The princess started; so much coolness and self-possession shook all her convictions.

The count opened his pocket-book and unfolded a paper. “This is the register of my marriage, madame, and the proof that I have a right to claim that woman us my wife; if your royal highness will read it and note the signature-”

“The signature!” repeated the princess, in a tone of doubt more insulting to the stranger than her indignation had been, “but if this signature-

“This signature is that of the vicar of Saint Jean de Strasbourg, who is well known to Prince Louis, Cardinal de Rohan, and if his highness were here-

“His highness is here!” cried the princess, fixing her flashing eyes on the count. “He has not yet left St. Denis, and is now with the canons of the cathedral; so that nothing is easier for us than to ascertain the truth of what you assert.”

“That is indeed a fortunate circumstance for me.” replied the count, coolly putting up the paper again in his pocketbook. “When your royal highness has heard the cardinal's testimony, I trust that your highness's unjust suspicions will be dispelled.”

“Sir, this impudent perseverance is most revolting to me,” said the princess, ringing her bell violently.

The nun who had introduced the count appeared.

“Let my groom mount his horse instantly, and carry this note to his highness the Cardinal de Rohan; he will be found at the

chapter of the cathedral. Let him come hither without a moment's delay-I wait his arrival anxiously.”

While giving these directions, the princess wrote hastily a few words on a slip of paper, and, handing it to the nun, she added in a whisper-”Let a couple of archers of the guard he placed in the corridor, and take care that no one leave the convent without my permission.”

The count had followed all the movements of the princess, whom he now saw determined to contest the point with him to the very last; but, evidently decided not to yield the victory to her, he drew nearer to the door of the cabinet while she was writing, fixed his eyes on it, pronounced some words in a low voice, and extending his hands toward it, moved them to and fro with a regular and steady motion.

The princess, turning, saw him in this attitude, and exclaimed-”What are you doing there, sir-”

“Madame,” said the count, “I am adjuring Lorenza Feliciani to appear, and declare to you of her own free will that I am not an impostor nor a forger. But this is not to prevent your royal highness from requiring the other proofs you have mentioned.”

“Sir!”

“Lorenza Feliciani,” cried the count, overpowering all opposition, even that of the princess, “leave that cabinet and come hither-come!”

But the door remained closed.

“Come forth!-it is my will!” repeated the count.

Then the key was heard turning in the lock, and the princess, with inexpressible alarm, saw the young girl enter, her eyes fixed on the count without any expression either of anger or hatred.

“What are you doing, my child-” cried the princess. “Why do you return to the man from whom you fled- You were in safety here-I told you so.”

“She is also in safety in my house, madame,” answered the count. “Are you not, Lorenza- Are you not safe with me-”

“Yes!” replied the young girl.

The princess, overcome with astonishment, clasped her hands and sank back in her chair.

“And now. Lorenza,” added the count, quietly, but yet with a tone of command, “I am accused of having made you act contrary to your wishes. Say, have I ever done so-”

“Never,” answered the young girl, clearly and distinctly, yet without accompanying the denial by any movement.

“In that case!” cried the princess, “what do you mean by all that tale of your having been carried off-”

Lorenza remained silent, and looked at the count as if life and speech hung on his lips.

“Her highness wishes doubtless to know how you left the convent, Lorenza. Relate to her all that happened, from the moment of your fainting until you awoke in the post-chaise.”

Lorenza was still silent.

“Relate all that occurred from first to last-do not omit anything,” continued the count; “it is my will that you should do so.”

“I do not remember,” she replied.

“Search your memory, and you will recollect all.”

“Ah, yes, yes!” said Lorenza, in the same monotonous tone, “now I remember.”

“Speak, then.”

“When I fainted, at the very moment that the scissors touched my hair, I was carried back to my cell and laid on my bed. My mother remained with me until night, then, seeing that I continued in the same state of insensibility, they sent for the village surgeon. He felt impulse, passed a looking-glass before my lips, and, discovering no sign of life in me, pronounced me dead.”

“But how do you know all that-” asked the princess.

“Her highness wishes to know how you know that,” repeated the count.

“Strange!” replied Lorenza, “I was able to see and hear, but I could not open my eyes, nor speak, nor move. I was in a sort of lethargy.”

“In fact,” said the princess, “Tronchin has sometimes spoken to me of persons who had fallen into a lethargy, and who, being to all appearance dead, were interred alive.”

“Proceed, Lorenza.”

“My mother was in despair, and would not believe that I was dead; she said that she would pass that night and the following day by my side. She did so; but the thirty-six hours during which she watched over me passed away without my making the slightest movement, or without a sigh having escaped my lips. Thrice a priest came to visit my mother; and each time he told her that it was rebelling against the will of God thus to persist in keeping my body on earth when He possessed my soul; for, as I had died at the moment when I was pronouncing my vows, he did not doubt, he said, but that my soul had winged its flight to heaven. My mother, by her entreaties, prevailed on him to allow her to watch by me another night-that of Monday. On Tuesday morning they found me still insensible.

“My mother withdrew, vanquished, leaving me to the nuns, who by this time were loud in their exclamations against her impiety. The tapers were lighted in the chapel, in which, according to custom. I was to be laid out during one day and night. As I had not pronounced my vows, the sisters dressed me in a white robe, put a crown of white roses on my head, crossed my arms on my bosom, and placed my coffin on a bier. During this last operation a thrill of horror ran through my veins; for I repeat, although my eyelids were closed. I saw everything as if they had been wide open.

“The bier was carried into the church, and there-my face still uncovered, as is the custom in Italy-I was placed in the middle aisle, with lighted tapers around me, and a vase of holy water at my feet. During the day the peasants of Subiaco entered the church, prayed for me, and sprinkled my body with the holy water. Night came on; and, as the visitors had ceased, the doors of the church were closed, except a little side door, and the nun who took care of the sick remained alone beside me.

“One terrible thought never left me during my trance, and now it became more dreadful; on the morrow I was to be buried-buried alive, if some unknown power did not come to my aid! I heard the hours strike, one after another; first nine, then ten, then eleven. Each stroke found an echo in my trembling heart; for, oh, horror! I listened to my own death-knell.

“What efforts did I not make to break my icy sleep-to burst the iron bonds which held me down in my coffin! But Heaven at last had pity on me. Midnight struck. At the very first stroke, my frame was shaken by a convulsive shudder, like that which I always experienced when Acharat approached me; then my heart was stirred, and I beheld him appeal at the door of the church.”

“Were your feelings at that moment those of fear-” asked the Count de Fenix.

“No; they were feelings of happiness, joy, ecstasy! For I knew that he came to snatch me from the dreadful death which seemed before inevitable. He advanced slowly toward my coffin, looked on me for a moment with a melancholy smile-then he said, 'Arise, follow me!' The bonds which fastened me were broken at that powerful voice; I rose, and I put one foot out of the coffin. 'Are you glad to live-' he asked. 'Oh, yes!' I replied. 'Follow me, then,' said he.

“The sister who was appointed to watch the dead had fulfilled this duty toward so many of the nuns that she had become careless and indifferent, and slept soundly in her chair. I passed close by her without awaking her, as I followed him, who, for the second-time, had saved me from death. We reached the outer court and once more saw the cloudless firmament, studded with stars, and felt the cool night-breeze, which the dead feel not, but which is so grateful to the living.

“'And now,' said he, 'before leaving the convent, choose for yourself. Do you wish to be a nun or to follow me-' 'I will follow you,' I replied. We reached the entrance gate; it was locked. 'Where are the keys-' he asked. 'In the pocket of the portress, on a chair near her bed,' I replied. 'Enter the lodge,' said he, 'and bring them without making any noise to awake her.' I obeyed, entered the lodge, found the key, and brought it to him.

“Five minutes afterward the gate was opened, and we were in the street. I took his arm, and we hurried toward the outskirts of the village of Subiaco. About a hundred paces from its last house, a postchaise was in waiting; we entered it and drove off at a rapid pace.”

“And no force was used-no threat was uttered-you followed him voluntarily-”

Lorenza remained mute.

“Her royal highness asks you, Lorenza, if by any threat, any violence, you were forced to accompany me-”

“No.”

“And why did you do so-”

“Say, why did you accompany me-”

“Because I loved you,” said Lorenza.

The Count de Fenix turned toward the princess with a triumphant smile.

CHAPTER LII. THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

STRONG AS was the mind of the Princess Louise, all that she had just heard seemed so extraordinary to her, that she could not help asking herself whether the man who stood before her were not a real magician, disposing of hearts and understandings at his will.

But the Count de Fenix was not yet satisfied.

“That is not all, madame,” said he, “and your royal highness has only heard a part of our history. Some doubts might remain on your mind did you not hear the rest from her own lips.”

Then, turning toward the young woman-

“Do you remember, dear Lorenza.” said he, “the rest of our journey-and how we visited Milan, the lake Maggiore the Oberland, the Righi, and the magnificent Rhine-the Tiber of the north-”

“Yes,” answered she, still in the same monotonous voice-”yes; Lorenza saw all that.”

“Dragged onward by that man, was it not, my child-yielding to an irresistible power which you did not yourself comprehend-” asked the princess.

“Why should you think so, madame, after what your highness has heard- But if you wish for yet more palpable and material proofs, here is a letter written by Lorenza to me. I was obliged to leave her alone for a short time at Mayence. Well! she regretted me and longed for my return; for in my absence she wrote me these lines, which your highness may read.”

The count took out of his pocket-book a note, which he handed to the princess. She read as follows:

“Return, Acharat! When you leave me, all hope and joy depart. Ah, when shall I be yours through all eternity-

“LORENZA.”

The princess rose, auger flashing in her eyes, and approached Lorenza with the note in her hand. The young woman appeared neither to see nor hear her. Her whole soul seemed to hang on the count's lips.

“I understand.” said the count, quickly, before the princess could utter a word; “your highness doubts whether this note be really written by her or not. That point can easily be settled. Lorenza, speak! Who wrote this note-”

He took the note, placed it in her hand, and she immediately pressed it to her heart.

“Lorenza wrote it,” said she.

“Does Lorenza know what it contains-”

“Yes.”

“Then tell the princess what is in the letter, that she may believe me when I say you love me. Tell her -it is my

will.”

Lorenza appeared to make an effort; then without opening the note, or turning her eves on it, she read its contents.

“This is incredible.” said the princess; “I cannot trust the evidence of my own senses; there is something inexplicable and supernatural in all this.”

“It was this letter,” continued the Count de Fenix, as if he had not heard what the princess said, “which determined me to hasten our marriage. I loved Lorenza as much as she loved me. We were in a position which might have given rise to unfounded suspicions. Besides, in the adventurous life which I led, some accident might happen to me-I might be killed-I might die, and I wished, in case of such an event, that all my fortune should belong to Lorenza. On arriving at Strasbourg, therefore, we were married-”

“You were married-”

“Yes, madame.”

“It is impossible!”

“Why so, madame-” said the count, smiling. “What is there impossible in the fact that the Count de Fenix should marry Lorenza Feliciam!”

“But she told me that she is not your wife.”

The count, without replying, turned to Lorenza; “Do you remember on what day we were married-” asked he.

“Yes.” she replied; “it was the third of May.”

“Where-”

“At Strasbourg.”

“In what church-”

“In the cathedral; in the chapel of St. John.”

“Did you offer any opposition to our union.”

“No; I was only too happy.”

“Because, Lorenza,” continued the count, “the princess thinks that the marriage was forced on you-that you hate me.” As he said these words he took renza's hand; a thrill of rapture seemed to run through her whole frame.

“I hate you!” she exclaimed; “oh, no! I love you; you are good, you are generous, you are powerful!”

The count turned toward the princess, as if he had said, “You hear.”

Seized with a kind of horror, the princess had recoiled from the pair before her, and sank at the foot of an ivory crucifix which was fastened against the black velvet hangings of the room.

“Does your royal highness wish for any further information-” asked the count, as be released Lorenza's hand.

“Sir,” cried the princess, “do not approach me!-nor she either!”

At this moment the noise of wheels was heard in the courtyard, and a carriage stopped at the entrance door.

“Ah!” exclaimed the princess, “here comes the cardinal, and we shall now know the truth.”

The Count de Fenix bowed, said a few words to Lorenza in a low voice, and waited with the patience of a man perfectly secure of his position. A moment afterward the door opened, and his eminence the Cardinal de Rohan was announced.

The princess, reassured by the presence of a third person, resumed her seat, and desired him to be admitted. The cardinal entered; but scarcely had he made his salutation to the princess, when, perceiving the count, he exclaimed with surprise, “You here, sir!”

“Do you know this person-” asked the princess, more and more astonished.

“Yes, madame,” said the cardinal.

“Then,” cried she, “you will tell me what he is.”

“Nothing is more easy.” replied the cardinal; “the gentleman is a sorcerer.”

“A sorcerer!” murmured the princess.

“Pardon me, madame,” said the count; “but I trust that his highness will explain his words to your satisfaction.”

“Has the gentleman been making any predictions to your royal highness, that I see you with a countenance of so much alarm-” asked M, de Rohan.

“The register of the marriage! The register, immediately!” exclaimed the princess.

The cardinal stared with the utmost surprise, not comprehending what this exclamation meant.

“Here it is,” said the count, presenting it to the cardinal.

“Sir, what is this-” said he.

“I wish to know,” said the princess, “whether the signature to that document be genuine or not.”

The cardinal took the paper and read it.

“Yes,” said he, “it is a perfectly legal register of a marriage, and the signature is that of Monsieur Remy, vicar of St. John's, in Strasbourg. But in what way does that concern your royal highness-”

“Oh, it concerns me deeply, sir!-So the signature is correct-”

“Certainly; but I will not guarantee that it may not have been extorted-”

“Extorted!” cried the princess. “Yes, that is possible.”

“And the consent of Lorenza, also-” said the count, with a tone of irony which was aimed directly at the princess.

“But by what means, cardinal -by what means could this signature have been extorted- Do you know-”

“By means which this gentleman has at his disposal-by means of magic!

“Magic- Is it you, cardinal, who speak to me of magic-”

“Yes, I have said that this gentleman is a sorcerer; and I shall not unsay it.”

“Your eminence must be jesting!”

“By no means; and the proof is, that I am going, in the presence of your highness, to have a very serious explanation with him.”

“I was myself going to request it from your highness,” said the count.

“Excellent! But pray, do not forget,” said the cardinal, haughtily, “that it is I who am the questioner.”

“And do not forget, also,” said the count, “that I will answer all your questions before her royal highness, if you insist upon it; but I feel certain that you will not insist.”

The cardinal smiled contemptuously.

“Sir,” said he, “to play the magician well is, in our times, rather a difficult task. I have seen you at work, and, to do you justice, you were very successful; but Everyone will not show the patience, and, above all, the generosity, of her royal highness the dauphiness.”

“The dauphiness!” exclaimed the princess.

“Yes, madame,” said the count; “I have had the honor of being presented to her royal highness.”

“And how did you repay that honor, sir- Come! Speak.”

“Alas! much worse than I could have wished; for I have no personal hatred against men, and above all none against women.”

“But what did he really do before my august niece-” asked the princess.

“I had the misfortune, madame, to tell her the truth, which she demanded of me.”

“Yes,” said the cardinal, “a truth which made her swoon!”

“Was it my fault,” cried the count, in that commanding tone which he could at times assume, “was it my fault that the truth was so terrible that it produced such effects- Was it I who sought the princess- Did I request to be presented to her- On the contrary, I avoided her; I was brought before her almost by force, and she positively commanded me to reply to her questions.”

“But what, then, sir, was that truth which you declare to have been so terrible-” asked the princess.

“The truth which was hidden by the veil of futurity. I raised the veil, and then she beheld that future which appeared so alarming to your royal highness, that you fled for shelter from it to a cloister to offer up tears and prayers before the altar-”

“Sir! sir!” cried the princess.

“Is it my fault, if the future, which was revealed to her as one of the sainted, was shadowed forth to me as a prophet, and if the dauphiness, whom it threatens personally, terrified at the sight, fainted when I declared it to her-”

“You hear him acknowledge it!” said the cardinal.

“Alas!” sighed the princess.

“For her reign is doomed.” continued the count, “as the most fatal and disastrous to the monarchy of any on record.”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed the princess.

“For yourself, madame,” continued the count, “your prayers have perhaps obtained favor, for you will not see those events which I foretell; you will be in the bosom of the Lord when they come to pass. But pray! Pray always!”

The princess, overcome by his prophetical words, which agreed too well with the terrors of her own soul, sank again on her knees at the foot of the crucifix, and commenced to pray fervently.

The count turned to the cardinal, and, preceding him toward the embrasure of a window, “Now that we are alone,” said he, “what does your eminence wish with me-”

The cardinal hastened to join him. The princess seemed wholly absorbed in her prayers, and Lorenza remained silent and motionless in the middle of the room. Her eyes were wide open, but she seemed to see nothing. The two men stood apart in the embrasure of the window, half concealed by the curtains.

“What are your highness's wishes-” repeated the count.

“First, I wish to know who you are,” replied the cardinal.

“Yet you seem to know. Did you not say that I was a sorcerer-”

“Yes; but when I met you formerly you were called Joseph Balsamo, and now you are called the Count de Fenix.”

“Well, that only proves that I have changed my name, nothing more.”

“Very true; but are you aware that such changes may make M. de Sartines, the minister of police, rather inquisitive about you-”

The count smiled.

“Oh, sir,” said he, “this is a petty warfare for a Rohan! What! your eminence quibbles about names- Verba et voces, as the Latin has it. Is there nothing worse with which I can be reproached-”

“You seem to have become satirical,” said the cardinal.

“I have not become so; it is my character.”

“In that case I shall do myself the pleasure of lowering your tone a little.”

“Do so, sir.”

“I am certain I shall please the dauphiness by so doing.”

“Which may be not altogether useless to you, considering the terms on which you stand at present with her,” answered Balsamo, with the greatest coolness.

“And, suppose, most learned dealer in horoscopes, that I should cause you to be arrested-” said the cardinal.

“I should say that your eminence would commit a very grave mistake in doing so.”

“Indeed-” said the prince-cardinal, with withering contempt, “And, pray, who will suffer from my mistake-”

“Yourself, my lord cardinal.”

“Then I shall give the order for your arrest this moment, sir; and we shall soon know who this Baron Balsamo, Count de Fenix, is, this illustrious branch of a genealogical tree not to be discovered in any field of heraldry in Europe!”

“But why has your highness not asked for information respecting me from your friend the Count de Breteuil-”

“M, de Breteuil is no friend of mine.”

“That is to say, he is no longer so. Yet he must have been one of your best friends when you wrote him a certain letter-

“What letter-” asked the cardinal, drawing nearer to the count.

“A little closer, M, le Cardinal. I do not wish to speak loud, for fear of compromising you-that letter which you wrote from Vienna to Paris, to endeavor to prevent the marriage of the dauphin.”

The prelate could not repress a gesture of alarm.

“I know that letter by heart,” continued the count, coldly.

“Then Breteuil has turned traitor-”

“How so-”

“Because when the marriage was decided on, I demanded back my letter, and he told me he had burned it.”

“Ah! he dared not tell you he had lost it!”

“Lost it-”

“Yes, and you know that a lost letter may be found by someone.”

“And so my letter-”

“Was found by me. Oh! by the merest chance, I assure you, one day, when crossing the marble court at Versailles.”

“And did you not return it to the Count de Breteuil-”

“I took good care not to do so.”

“Why so-”

“Because, being a sorcerer, I knew that although I wished to be of all the service I could to your highness, you wished to do me all the harm you could. So, you understand- A disarmed man who journeys through a wood, where he knows he will be attacked, would be a fool not to pick up a loaded pistol which he found at his foot.”

The cardinal's head swam, and he was obliged to lean against the window-frame for a few minutes; but after an instant's hesitation, during which the count eagerly watched every variation of his countenance:

“So be it,” said he. “It shall never be said that a prince of my house gave way before the threats of a charlatan. Though that letter should be shown to the dauphiness herself-though, in a political point of view, it ruin me. I shall maintain my character as a loyal subject and faithful ambassador. I shall say what is the truth, that I thought the alliance hurtful to the interests of my country, and my country will defend me, and weep for my fate.”

“But if someone should happen to relate how the young, handsome, gallant ambassador, confident in the name of Rohan and the title of prince, and being most graciously received by the Archduchesse Marie Antoinette, said so, not because he saw anything in the marriage hurtful to France, but because in his vanity he imagined he saw something more than affability in her manner toward him- What would the loyal subject and faithful ambassador reply then-”

“He would deny, sir, that there ever had existed the sentiment that your words imply; there is no proof that it did exist.”

“Yes, sir, you mistake. There is the strongest proof, in the coldness of the dauphiness toward you.”

The cardinal hesitated.

“My lord,” said the count, “trust me it is better for us to remain good friends than to quarrel-which we should have done before this, had I not been more prudent than you.”

“Good friends-”

“Why not- Our friends are those who render us good offices.”

“Have I ever asked you for any-”

“No, and that is where you have been wrong; for during the two days you were in Paris-”

“I in Paris-”

“Yes, you. Why attempt to hide that from me, who am a sorcerer- You left the dauphiness at Soissons, you came post to Paris by Villers-Cotterets, and Dammartin-that is to say, the shortest road-and you hastened to request your kind friends there for assistance, which they all refused. After their refusals you once more set out post for Compiegne in despair.”

The cardinal seemed overwhelmed. “And what sort of assistance might I have expected from you,” he asked, “had I addressed myself to you-”

“That assistance which a man who makes gold can grant.”

“And what matters it to me that you can make gold-”

“Peste! when your highness has to pay five hundred thousand francs within forty-eight hours! Am I not right-Is not that the sum-”

“Yes; that is indeed the sum.”

“And yet you ask what matters it to have a friend who can make gold- It matters just this, that the hundred thousand francs which you cannot procure elsewhere, you may procure from him.”

“And where-” asked the cardinal.

“In the Rue St. Claude.”

“How shall I know your house-”

“By a griffin's head in bronze, which serves as knocker to the gate.”

“When may I present myself-”

“The day after to-morrow, my lord, and afterward you may come as often and whenever you please. But stay; we have just finished our conversation in time, for the princess, I see, has ended her prayers.”

The cardinal was conquered, and, no longer attempting to resist, he approached the princess; “Madame,” said he, “I am obliged to confess that the Count de Fenix is perfectly correct; his register of marriage is authentic and valid, and he has explained all the circumstances to my perfect satisfaction.”

The count bowed. “Has your royal highness any further commands for me-” he asked.

“I wish to speak once more to the young woman,” she replied. Then, turning to Lorenza, “Is it of your own free and unrestrained will that you leave this convent, in which you sought refuge-”

“Her highness asks you,” said Balsamo, quickly, “whether it is of your own free and unfettered choice that you leave this convent. Answer, Lorenza.”

“Yes,” said the young woman, “it is of my own free and unfettered will.”

“And to accompany your husband, the Count de Fenix-”

“And to accompany me-” repeated the count.

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Lorenza.

“In that case,” said the princess, “I wish to retain neither one nor other; for it would be doing violence to your feelings. But if there is in all this anything out of the common order of events, may the vengeance of Heaven fall on him who, for his own advantage or profit, troubles the harmony, the proper course of nature! Go, Count de Fenix! Go, Lorenza Feliciani!-only take with you your jewels.”

“They are for the use of the poor, madame,” said the count, “and distributed by your hands, the alms will be doubly acceptable to God. I only demand back my horse, Djerid.”

“You can claim him as you pass, sir. Go.”

The count bowed low, and gave his arm to Lorenza, who took it and left the room without uttering a word.

“Ah, my lord cardinal,” said the princess, shaking her head sorrowfully, “there are incomprehensible and fatal omens in the very air which we breathe!”

CHAPTER LIII. THE RETURN FROM SAINT DENIS.

AFTER LEAVING Philip, Gilbert, as we have said, had re-entered the crowd. But not now with a heart bounding with joyful anticipation did he throw himself into the noisy billow of human beings; his soul was wounded to the quick, and Philip's kind reception of him, and all his friendly offers of assistance, had no power to soothe him.

Andree never suspected that she had been cruel to Gilbert. The lovely and serene young girl was entirely ignorant that there could be between her and the son of her nurse any point of contact either for pain or for pleasure. She revolved above all the lower spheres of life, casting light or shadow on them according as she herself was gay or sad. But now the shadow of her disdain had fallen on Gilbert and frozen him to the soul, while she, following only the impulse of her nature, knew not even that she had been scornful. But Gilbert, like a gladiator disarmed, had offered his naked breast to the full brunt of her haughty looks and disdainful words, and now, bleeding at every pore, his philosophy suggested nothing better than the consolation of despair.

From the moment that he once more plunged into the crowd, he cared neither for horses nor men. Collecting all his strength, he dashed forward like a-wild boar with a spear in its side, and, at the risk of being crushed or trodden under foot, he opened a passage for himself through the multitude. When the denser mass of the people had been crossed, he began to breathe more freely, and looking round, he discovered that he was alone, and that around him was the green grass, the cool water, and solitude.

Without knowing whither he was going, he had advanced toward the Seine, and he now found himself opposite the isle of St. Denis. Exhausted, not from fatigue of body but from anguish of mind, he sunk on the turf, and grasping his head with both hands, he began to roar hoarsely, as if by these inarticulate sounds alone could he express his rage and grief.

All those vague and senseless hopes which until then had shed a glimmering light on the darkness of his soul, and whose existence he scarcely ventured to confess even to himself, were now at one blow utterly annihilated. To whatsoever height genius, science, or study might raise him in the social scale, he must to Andree always remain the Gilbert that he had been; a thing or a man-to use her own words to her father-not worth the slightest regard, not worth even the trouble of being looked down on.

For a moment he had thought that, seeing him in Paris, learning that he had come on foot, knowing that he had determined to struggle out of obscurity into light-he had thought that Andree would applaud his resolution; but, instead of applause, what had he met with as the reward of so much fatigue and of Such firm determination- The same scornful indifference with which he had been treated at Taverney. Even more -was she not almost angry when she heard that his eyes had had the audacity to look on her music-book- Had he only touched that music-book with the tip of his finger, he would have been doubtless considered only worthy to be burned at the stake.

By weak characters, any deception, any mistake, with regard to those they love, is quickly forgotten, and they bend under the blow only to rise again stronger and more persevering than before. They vent their sufferings in complaints and tears, but their resistance is only passive; nay, their love often increases by that which should destroy it, and they whisper to themselves that their submissiveness will at last have its reward. Toward that reward they steadfastly advance, whether the road be easy or the reverse; if it be unfavorable, they will be longer in attaining their end, that is all, but they will attain it at last.

It is not thus with strong minds, obstinate natures, and powerful wills. They are indignant when they see their own blood flowing; at the sight their energy augments so furiously that they seem to hate rather than to love. Indeed, with them love and hate are so closely allied that they often are not aware of the transition from one to the other. So it was with Gilbert. When he flung himself on the ground, overcome by his feelings, did he love or hate Andree- He knew not; he suffered intensely, that was all. But, not having the virtue of long-suffering, he shook off his dejection of soul, and determined to carry into practice some energetic resolution.

“She does not love me!” thought he, “it is true; but had I any right to hope that she would- The only feeling that I had a right to hope for was that kindly interest which attaches to the unfortunate who strive with energy to rise above their wretchedness. Her brother felt this; she did not feel it. He said, 'Who knows- perhaps you may become a Colbert, a Vauban!' If I became either one or other he would do me justice; he would give me his sister as a reward for the glory I had won for myself, as he would now give her in exchange for my personal nobility, had I been born his equal. But as for her-oh yes! I feel it-yes, although Colbert or Vauban, I should never be to her other than Gilbert! What she despises in me is what nothing can efface, nothing gild, nothing cover-it is the lowness of ray birth. As if, supposing I attain my object, I should not then be greater, having risen to her level, than if I had been born beside her! Ah, senseless, unthinking creature! Woman! -woman!-that is, imperfection! Do you trust in her open look, her expansive forehead, her beaming smile, her queenly carriage, her beauty which makes her worthy to be an empress- Fool! she is an affected, starched country girl, bound up, swathed, in aristocratic prejudices. The gay and showy young noblemen with empty heads -mere weathercocks-who have all the means and appliances for learning, but who know nothing-they are her equals; they are things and men on whom she may bestow attention! But Gilbert- -Gilbert is a dog -nay, lower than a dog I She asked, I think, for news of Mahon; she did not ask how it had fared with Gilbert. Oh, she knows not then that I am as strong as they!-That, if clothed like them, I should be as handsome!-that I have what they have not, an inflexible will; and that if I wished-”

A threatening smile curled his lip, and he left the sentence unfinished; then slowly, and with a deep frown, his head sank on his breast. What passed at that moment in his dark and gloomy soul- Under what terrible idea did that pale forehead, already furrowed with painful thoughts, droop- Who shall tell- Is it the boatman who slowly glides down the river in his skiff, humming the song of Henri-Quatre- Is it the laughing washerwoman who is returning from the splendid scene at St. Denis, and who, turning aside from her path to avoid him, probably takes the young loiterer for a thief, lying as he is at full length on the grass amid the lines hung with linen.

After half an hour's reflection, Gilbert arose, calm and resolved. He approached the bank of the Seine, and refreshed himself with a deep draught of water; then, looking around, he saw on his left the distant waves of people pouring out of St. Denis. Amid the throng he could distinguish the principal carriages forced to go slowly from the crowd of spectators that pressed on them, and taking the road to St. Ouen.

The dauphiness had expressed a desire that her entrance into the kingdom should be a family festival, and the good Parisians had taken advantage of this kind wish to place their families so near the royal train, and many of them had mounted on the seats of the footmen, and some held on by the heavy springs which projected from the carriages, without manifesting the least fear.

Gilbert soon recognized Andree's carriage; Philip was galloping, or rather, we should say, reining in his prancing horse, close beside it.

“It is well,” said he; “I must know whither she is going, and for that purpose I must follow her.”

The dauphiness was to sup at Muette in private with the king, the dauphin, the Count de Provence, and the Count d'Artois. At St. Denis the king had invited the dauphiness, and had given her a list of the guests and a pencil, desiring her to erase the name of anyone whom she did not wish to be present. Now, it must be confessed that Louis carried his forgetfulness of the respect due to her so far as to include in it the name of Madame Dubarry. It was the last on the list, and when the dauphiness reached it her cheek turned pale and her lip quivered; but, following the instructions of the empress her mother, she recovered her self-possession, and with a sweet smile returning the list and the pencil to the king, she expressed herself most happy to be admitted thus from the first to the intimacy of his family circle.

Gilbert knew nothing of all this, and it was only at Muette that he discovered the equipage of the countess, followed by Zamore on his tall white charger. Fortunately it was dark; and, concealing himself behind a clump of trees, he lay down and waited.

The king supped with his daughter-in-law and his mistress, and was in charming spirits; more especially when he saw the dauphiness receive the countess even more graciously than she had done at Compiegne. But the dauphin seemed grave and anxious, and, pretending that he suffered from a violent headache, retired before they sat down to supper. The entertainment was prolonged until eleven o'clock.

In the meantime the retinue of the dauphiness -and the haughty Andree was forced to acknowledge that she formed one of them-supped in tents to the music of the king's private band, who had been ordered to attend for that purpose. Besides these-as the tents could not accommodate all -fifty gentlemen supped at tables spread in the open air, waited on by fifty lackeys in the royal livery.

Gilbert, still hidden in the clump of trees, lost nothing of this spectacle; while he supped at the same time as the others on a piece of bread which he had bought at Clichy-la-Garenne.

After supper, the dauphiness and the king appeared on a balcony to take leave of their guests. As each person departed, he passed below the balcony to salute his majesty and her royal highness. The dauphiness already knew many who had accompanied her from Compiegne, and those whom she did not know the king named to her. From time to time, a gracious word, or a well-turned compliment fell from her lips, diffusing joy in the breasts of those to whom it was addressed.

Gilbert, from his distant post, saw the meanness of their homage, and murmured, “I am greater than those people, since for all the gold in the world I would not do what they are doing.”

At last the turn of the Baron de Taverney and his family came. Gilbert rose on one knee.

“M. Philip,” said the dauphiness, “I give you leave of absence, in order that you may accompany your father and your sister to Paris.”

Gilbert heard these words distinctly, which, in the silence of the night, and amid the respectful attention of all around, vibrated in his ears.

Then she added; “Monsieur de Taverney, I cannot promise you apartments until I install my household at Versailles. You can, therefore, in the meantime, accompany your daughter to Paris. Do not forget me, mademoiselle.”

The baron passed on with his son and daughter. They were succeeded by many others, to whom the dauphiness made similar speeches, but Gilbert cared no longer for her words. He glided out of the clump of trees and followed the baron amid the confused cries of two hundred footmen running after their masters and calling to a hundred coachmen, while their shouts were accompanied by the thundering of numerous carriages rolling along the paved road.

As the baron had one of the carriages of the court at his command, it waited for them apart from the general crowd. When, accompanied by Andree and Philip, he had entered it, the latter said to the footman who was closing the door, “Mount on the seat beside the coachman, my friend.”

“Why so- why so-” asked the baron, hastily.

“Because the poor devil has been on his legs since morning, and must be tired by this time.”

The baron grumbled something which Gilbert did not hear, while the footman mounted beside the coachman.

Gilbert drew nearer. At the moment when they were about to start, it was perceived that the trace had become unbuckled. The coachman jumped down, and the coach remained for a few moments stationary.

“It is very late,” said the baron.

“I am dreadfully fatigued,” said Andree. “Are you sure we shall get beds-”

“I hope so.” said Philip; “I sent on La Brie and Nicole from Soissons with a letter to a friend of mine, desiring him to engage a small garden pavilion for us, which his mother and sister occupied last year. It is not a very splendid abode, but it is suitable enough; you do not wish to receive company-you only want a stopping-place for the present.”

“Faith,” exclaimed the baron, “whatever it is, it will be better than Taverney.”

“Unfortunately, father, that is true,” replied Philip, in a melancholy tone.

“Are there any trees-” asked Andree.

“Oh yes; and very fine ones too. But, in all probability, you will not have long to enjoy them, for as soon as the marriage is over, you will be presented at court.”

“Well, this is all a dream, I fear.” said the baron; “do not awake us too soon, Philip. Have you given the proper direction to the coachman-”

Gilbert listened anxiously.

“Yes, father.”

Gilbert, who had heard all this conversation, had for a moment hoped to discover the address.

“No, matter,” said he, “I shall follow them; it is only a league to Paris.”

The trace was fastened, the coachman mounted his seat, and the carriage was again in motion.

But the king's horses go fast when they are not in a procession which obliges them to go slowly, and now they darted forward so rapidly that they recalled to poor Gilbert's recollection the road to Lachaussee, his weakness, and his fainting. He made an effort and reached the footboard behind, which was vacant, as the weary footman was seated beside the coachman. Gilbert grasped it, sprang up, and seated himself. But scarcely bad he done so, when the thought struck him that he was behind Andree's carriage, and in the footman's place.

“No, no,” muttered the inflexible young man, “it shall never be said that I did not struggle to the last; my legs are tired, but my arms are strong.”

Then seizing the footboard with his hands, he followed at full speed, supported by the strength of his arms, and keeping his hold in spite of jolts and shocks, rather than capitulate with his conscience.

“At least I shall know her address,” murmured he. “True, I shall have to pass one more bad night; but to-morrow I shall rest while I copy my music. Besides, I have still some money, and I may take two hours for sleep if I like.”

Then he reflected that as Paris was such a large place, and as he was quite unacquainted with it, he might lose his way after the baron and his daughter should have entered the house chosen for them by Philip. Fortunately it was then near midnight, and day would break at halfpast three.

As all these reflections passed through Gilbert's mind, he remarked that they were passing through a spacious square, in the center of which was a large equestrian statue.

“Ha! This looks like the Place des Victoires,” cried he, with a mingled sensation of surprise and joy.

The carriage turned. Andree put her head out of the window and looked back. “It is the statue of the late king,” said Philip; “we are now near the house.”

They descended a steep street so rapidly that Gilbert was nearly thrown under the wheels.

“Here we are, at last!” cried Philip.

Gilbert sprang aside, and hid himself behind the corner of the neighboring street.

Philip leaped out, rang the bell, and turning, received Andree in his arms.

The baron got out last.

“Well, “cried he, “are those scoundrels going to keep us here all night!”

At that moment the voices of La Brie and Nicole were heard, and a gate was opened. The three travelers disappeared in a dark court, and the gate closed behind them.

The carriage drove off on its way to the king's stable. The house which had received the strangers was in no way remarkable in, its appearance; but the lamps of the carriage, in passing, had flashed on that next to it, and Gilbert read over the gateway the words;' Hotel d'Annenonville.”

It only remained for him to discover the name of the street. He gained the nearest extremity, that by which the carriage had disappeared, and to his great surprise, he found himself close to the fountain at which he was in the habit of drinking. He advanced a few steps farther in a street parallel to that which he had left, and discovered the baker's shop where he usually bought his loaf. Doubting still, he went back to the corner of the street; and there, by the light of a neighboring lamp, he read the words which had struck him when returning with Rousseau from their botanical excursion in the forest of Meudon three days before-Rue Plastriere! Andree, consequently, was not one hundred paces distant from him-not so far off as she had been at Taverney, when he slept in his little room at the castle gate!”

Then he regained his domicile, scarcely daring to hope to find the end of the cord left out, by which the latch of the door was lifted. But Gilbert's star was in the ascendant; a few raveled threads were hanging out, by which he pulled the whole, and the door opened gently at his touch.

He felt his way to the stairs, mounted step by step without making the least noise, and at last put his hand on the padlock of the garret door, in which Rousseau had kindly left the key.

Ten minutes afterward, fatigue asserted its power over his disquieted thoughts, and he slept soundly, although longing for the morrow.

CHAPTER LIV. THE GARDEN PAVILION.

HAVING COME in late, and thrown himself hastily on his bed, Gilbert had forgotten to place over his window the blind which intercepted the light of the rising sun. At five o'clock, therefore, the rays of light beaming through the window awoke him. He sprang up, fearing that he had slept too long.

Accustomed as he had been to a country life, Gilbert could guess the hour at all times with the utmost precision by the direction of the shadows, and by the paler or warmer tints of light. He ran, therefore, to consult his clock.

The faintness of the morning beams, barely tinging with their light the topmost boughs of the trees, reassured him; and he found that instead of having risen too late, he had risen too early. He finished his toilet at the garret window, thinking over the events of the preceding day, and exposing with delight his burning and oppressed forehead to the refreshing morning breeze. Then he remembered that Andree lodged in the next street, near the Hotel d'Armenonville, and he tried to guess in which of all the houses that he saw she might be.

The sight of the lofty trees on which he looked down, recalled her question to Philip-'Are there any trees there-”

“Might they not have chosen that uninhabited house in the garden-” said Gilbert to himself.

This idea naturally led him to fix his attention on the garden pavilion, where, by a singular coincidence, a sort of noise and stir began to be apparent.

One of the window-shutters of the little abode, which had not been opened apparently for a considerable time, was shaken by an awkward or feeble hand. The wood yielded above, but held fast, by the damp no doubt, to the frame at the bottom, it resisted the effort made to open it. A second shake more violent than the first had a better effect; the two shutters creaked, gave way, and falling back quickly, exposed to view a young girl all in a glow with her exertions, and beating off the dust from her hands.

Gilbert uttered a cry of surprise, and stepped back. The young girl whose face was still flushed with sleep, and who was stretching herself in the fresh air, was Mademoiselle Nicole.

There was no longer any room for doubt. The lodging which Philip had said La Brie and Nicole were preparing was the house before him, and the mansion through whose gateway he had seen the travelers disappear must have its gardens adjoining the rear of the Rue Plastriere. Gilbert's movement was so abrupt, that if Nicole had not been completely absorbed in the lazy meditations so delightful at the moment of waking, she must have discovered our philosopher at his skylight.

But Gilbert had retired all the more speedily, as he had no intention that Nicole, of all persons in the world, should spy him out in so elevated a situation. Had he been on a first-floor, and had his open window showed a background of rich hangings or sumptuous furniture, he would not have been so anxious to avoid her eye; but a garret on the fifth story declared him to be still so low in the social scale, that he took the greatest care to hide himself. Moreover, there is always, in this world, a great advantage in seeing without being seen. And then, if Andree should discover that he watched her, would it not be sufficient either to induce her to change her abode, or prevent her walking in the garden-

Alas! Gilbert's pride still made him of too great importance in his own eyes. What was Gilbert to Andree- Would she have moved her finger, either to approach or to avoid him- But these were far from being Nicole's sentiments, and her, consequently, he must shun.

He hid himself carefully therefore; but as he did not wish to withdraw from the window entirely, he ventured to peep out cautiously at one corner.

A second window on the ground-floor of the pavilion, exactly below the first, just then opened, and a white form appeared at it. It was Andree, seemingly just awakened. She was enveloped in a dressing-gown, and was occupied in searching for the slipper which had escaped from her tiny foot, and was lying beneath a chair. It was in vain that Gilbert, each time that he saw Andree, vowed to build up between them a barrier of hatred instead of giving way to love; the same effect was produced by the same cause. He was obliged to lean against the wall for support; his heart palpitated as if it would have burst, and sent the blood in boiling currents through his whole frame. However, by degrees, his throbbing arteries beat with a calmer motion, and reflection resumed her sway. The problem he had to solve was, as we have said, to see without being seen. He took one of Therese's gowns and fastened it with a pin to one of the cords which crossed his window; and, sheltered by this impromptu curtain, he could watch Andree without running any risk of being discovered by her. The lovely young girl, following Nicole's example, stretched out her snowy arms, and then, folding them on the window, she looked out on the garden. Her countenance expressed the liveliest satisfaction at all she saw. Lofty trees shaded the walks with their drooping branches, and everywhere verdure cheered her eye. She, who smiled so seldom on human beings, smiled on the inanimate objects around her.

The house in which Gilbert lived attracted her eye for a moment, like all the others which surrounded the garden; but as from her apartment only the garrets of the houses were visible, and, consequently, from them alone could she be seen, she paid no farther attention. How could the proud young girl take any interest in the concerns of a race so far removed from her sphere- Andree felt convinced, therefore, that no one saw her by whom it was of the least importance that she should not be seen, and that within the bounds of her tranquil retreat there appeared none of those prying or satirical Parisian faces so much dreaded by ladies from the provinces.

The effect was immediate. Leaving her window wide open, so that the fresh and perfumed air might penetrate to the farthest extremity of her apartment, she proceeded toward the mantelpiece and rang a bell.

Nicole appeared, undid the straps of a shagreen dressing-case of the reign of Queen Anne, took from it a tortoise-shell comb, and began to comb out Andree's hair. In a moment the long tresses and shining curls spread like a glossy veil over her shoulders.

Gilbert gave a stifled sigh. At that distance he scarcely saw the beauty of her locks, but he saw Andree herself, a thousand times more lovely in this deshabille than she would have been in the most splendid attire. He grazed, his whole soul in his eyes.

By chance, as Nicole continued to dress her hair, Andree raised her eyes and fixed them on Gilbert's garret.

“Yes, yes!” said he, “look-gaze, as much as you please-it is all in vain-you can see nothing, and I see all.”

But Gilbert was mistaken; Andree did see something. It was the gown which he had hung up, and which, being blown about, had got wrapped round his head like a turban. She pointed out this strange object to Nicole.

Nicole, stopping in her complicated task, pointed with the comb which she held in her hand toward the skylight, and seemed to ask her mistress if that were the object which she meant.

All these gestures, which Gilbert devoured with the greatest eagerness, had, without his suspecting it, a third spectator. Suddenly a rude hand snatched Therese's gown from his head, and he was ready to sink with shame on seeing Rousseau beside him.

“What the devil are you doing there, sir-” cried the philosopher, with a terrible frown, and a scrutinizing glance at the gown borrowed, without leave asked, from his wife.

“Nothing, sir, nothing at all,” replied Gilbert, endeavoring to turn Rousseau's attention from the window.

“Nothing- Then why did you hide yourself with the gown-”

“The sun hurts my eyes.”

“This window looks toward the west, and the sun dazzles you when rising- You have very delicate eyes, young man!”

Gilbert stammered out some unconnected words, but, feeling that he was only getting deeper in the mire, he at last hid his head in his hands.

“You are speaking falsely, and you are afraid,” said Rousseau; “therefore you have been doing wrong.”

After this terrible syllogism, which seemed to complete Gilbert's confusion. Rousseau planted himself exactly opposite the window.

From a feeling too natural to require explanation, Gilbert, who so lately trembled to be discovered at the window, rushed forward when he saw Rousseau standing before it.

“Ah, ah!” said the latter, in a tone which froze the blood in Gilbert's reins; “the garden-house is inhabited now.”

Gilbert was dumb.

“And by persons,” continued the philosopher, “who seem to know my house, for they are pointing to it.”

Gilbert, trembling lest he had advanced too far, stepped back quickly; but neither his movement, nor the cause which produced it, escaped the jealous eye of Rousseau; he saw that Gilbert feared to be seen.

“No.” cried he, seizing the young man by the arm, “you shall not escape, my young friend; there is some plot under this, I know by their pointing to your garret. Place yourself here, if you please; “and he dragged him opposite the skylight, in the full view of those beneath.-”Oh! no, sir; no-have mercy!” cried Gilbert, struggling to escape.

But to escape, which for a young and active man like Gilbert would have been an easy task, he must have engaged in a contest with Rousseau-Rousseau, whom he venerated like some superior being-and respect restrained him.

“You know those women,” said Rousseau; “and they know you-”

“No, no, no, sir!”

“Then, if you do not know them, and if they do not know you, why not show yourself-”

“Monsieur Rousseau, you have sometimes had secrets yourself. Show some pity for mine.”

“Ah! traitor!” cried Rousseau. “Yes, I know what sort of a secret yours is. You are a creature of Grimm or Holbach's-you have been tutored to act a part in order to impose upon my benevolence-you have gained admittance into my house, and now you betray me to them. Oh, thrice-sodden fool that I am! Silly lover of nature! I thought I was aiding a fellow-creature, and I was bringing a spy into my house!”

“A spy!” exclaimed Gilbert, indignantly.

“Come, Judas, on what day am I to be sold-” continued Rousseau, folding Therese's gown tragically about him, and thinking himself sublime in his grief, when unfortunately he was only ridiculous.

“Sir, you calumniate me,” said Gilbert.

“Calumniate you, you little serpent!” exclaimed Rousseau. “Did I not find you corresponding with my enemies by signs- Making them understand, perhaps, what is the subject of my new work-”

“Sir, had I gained admittance to your house in order to betray the secret of your work, it would have been easier for me to copy some of the manuscripts in your desk than to inform others of the subject by signs.”

This was true; and Rousseau felt so plainly that he had given utterance to one of those absurdities which escaped him when his monomania of suspicion was at its height, that he got angry.

“Sir,” said he, “I am sorry for you, but experience has made me severe. My life has been one long series of deceptions. I have been ever the victim of treachery; I have been betrayed, sold, made a martyr, by Everyone that surrounded me. I am, you must be aware, one of those illustrious unfortunates on whom government has put its ban. In such a situation it is pardonable to be suspicious. Now, I suspect you, therefore you shall leave my house.”

Gilbert was far from expecting this peroration. To be turned out- He clenched his hands tightly, and a flash of anger, which almost made Rousseau tremble, lighted up his eyes. The flash was only momentary, however, for the thought occurred to him, that in leaving Rousseau's house he should lose the happiness of seeing Andree every hour of the day, as well as forfeit the friendship of Rousseau; this would be to add misery to shame. His untamable pride gave way, and, clasping his hands; “Sir,” said he, “listen to me! One word, only one word!”

“I am pitiless,” said Rousseau; “men have made me by their injustice more cruel than the tiger. You are in correspondence with my enemies. Go to them. I do not prevent you. League with them, I do not oppose your doing so. Only leave my house!”

“Sir, those two young girls are not your enemies; they are Mademoiselle Andree and Nicole.”

“And who is Mademoiselle Andree-” said Rousseau, who had heard Gilbert pronounce this name twice or thrice before, and was, consequently, not entirely unacquainted with it; “come! who is Mademoiselle Andree- Speak!”

“Mademoiselle Andree, sir, is the daughter of the Baron de Taverney. Oh, pardon me, sir, for daring to say so to you, but I love her more than you ever loved Mademoiselle Galley or Madame de Warens! It is she; whom I have followed on foot to Paris, without money and without bread, until I fell down on the road exhausted with hunger and fatigue. It is she whom I went to see yesterday at St. Denis, whom I followed, unseen by her, to Muette, and from that to a street near this. It is she whom by chance I discovered this morning to be the occupant of this garden-house; and it is she for whose sake I burn to be a Turenne, a Richelieu, or a Rousseau!”

Rousseau knew the human heart; and felt assured that no one acting a part could speak with the trembling and impassioned accents of Gilbert, or accompany his words with gestures so true to nature.

“So,” said he, “this young lady is Mademoiselle Andree-”

“Yes, Monsieur Rousseau.”

“Then you know her-”

“Sir, I am the son of her nurse.”

“Then you lied just now when you said you did not know her; and if you are not a traitor, you are a liar.”

“Sir, you tear my very heart. Indeed, you would hurt me less were you to kill me on the spot.”

“Pshaw! Mere phrases! Style of Diderot and Marmontel. You are a liar, sir.”

“Well; yes, yes!” said Gilbert, “I am a liar, sir; and so much the worse for you if you do not feel for one so forced to lie. A liar! a liar! I leave you, sir, but I leave you in despair, and my misery will one day weigh heavy on your conscience.”

Rousseau stroked his chin as he looked at this young” man, in whom he found so many points of character resembling his own.

“He has either a great soul, or he is a great rogue,” said he to himself; “but if they are plotting against me, “why not hold in my hand a clew to the plot-”

Gilbert had advanced toward the door, and now, with his hand on the lock, stood waiting for the flat which was to banish or recall him.

“Enough on this subject, my son,” said Rousseau. “If you are as deeply in love as you say, so much the worse for you. But it is now late; you lost the whole of yesterday, and we have to-day thirty pages to copy. Quick, Gilbert. Be on the alert!”

Gilbert seized the philosopher's hand, and pressed it to his lips; he would not certainly have done so much for a king's. But before leaving the room, and while Gilbert, still deeply moved, stood leaning against the door, Rousseau again placed himself at the window to take a last look at the young girls. Andree had just thrown off her dressing-gown, and taken her gown from Nicole's hands. She saw his pallid countenance and searching eye, and, starting back, she ordered Nicole to close the window. Nicole obeyed.

“So,” said Rousseau, “my old face frightens her; his young one would not have had the same effect. Oh, lovely youth!” added he, sighing:

“'O gioventu primavera dell' eta!

O primavera gioventu dell' anno!'“

and, once more hanging up Therese's gown on its nail, he went downstairs in a melancholy mood, followed by Gilbert, for whose youth he would, perhaps, at that moment have exchanged his renown, which then rivaled that of Voltaire, and shared with it the admiration of the world.

CHAPTER LV. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE ST. CLAUDE.

THE RUE ST. CLAUDE, in which the Count de Fenix had appointed to meet the Cardinal de Rohan, was not so different at that period from what it is at the present day but that some vestiges of the localities we are about to describe may yet be discovered. It abutted then, as it does now, on the Rue St. Louis and the boulevard, to the latter of which it descended with rather a steep inclination. It boasted of fifteen houses and seven lanterns, and was remarkable besides for two lanes, or culs de sac, which branched off from it, the one on the left, the other on the right; the former serving as the boundary of the Hotel de Voysins, while the latter took a slice off the large garden of the Convent of St. Sacrament. This last-mentioned lane, shaded on one side by the trees of the convent garden, was bordered on the other by the high dark wall of a house, the front of which looked toward the Rue St. Claude.

This wall, resembling the visage of a Cyclops, had only one eye, or if the reader like it better, only one window; and even that, covered with bars and grating, was horribly gloomy.

Just below this window, which was never opened, as one might perceive from the spiders' webs that curtained it over, was a door studded with large nails, which indicated, not that the house was entered, but that it might be entered, on this side.

There were no dwellings in this lane, and only two inhabitants. These were a cobbler in a wooden box, and a stocking-mender in a cask, both shading themselves from the heat under the acacias of the convent garden, which threw their broad shadow on the dusty lane from nine in the morning. In the evening the stocking-mender returned to her domicile, the cobbler put a padlock on his castle, and no guardian watched over the lonely street, save the stern and somber eye of the window we have spoken of.

Besides the door just mentioned, the house which we have undertaken to describe so accurately had another and the principal entrance in the Rue St. Claude. This entrance was a large gateway surmounted with carved figures in relief, which recalled the architecture of the times of Louis XIII., and was adorned with the griffin's head for a knocker which the Count de Fenix had indicated to the Cardinal de Rohan as distinguishing his abode.

As for the windows, they looked on the boulevard, and were opened early in the morning to admit the fresh air. But as Paris, at that period, and above all in that quarter, was far from safe, it occasioned no astonishment to see them grated, and the walls near them bristling with iron spikes. Indeed, the whole appearance of the house, at the first glance, suggested the idea of a fortress. Against enemies, thieves, or lovers, it presented iron balconies with sharp points; a deep moat separated the building from the boulevard, and to obtain entrance on this side it would have required ladders at least thirty feet long, for the wall which inclosed, or rather buried, the courtyard was fully that height.

This house, before which in the present day a spectator would be arrested by curiosity on beholding its singular aspect, was not very remarkable in 1770. On the contrary, it seemed to harmonize with the quarter of the city in which it stood, and if the worthy inhabitants of the Rue St. Louis, and the not less worthy denizens of the Rue St. Claude, shunned its neighborhood, it was not on account of its reputation, which was then intact, but on account of the lonely boulevard of the Porte St. Louis, and the Pont-aux-Choux, both of which were in very bad odor with the Parisians. In fact, the boulevard on this side led to nothing but the Bastille, and as there was not more than a dozen houses in the space of a quarter of a league, the city authorities had not thought it worth their while to light such a desert region. The consequence was, that after eight o'clock in summer, and four in winter, the vacuum became a sort of chaos, with the agreeable addition of robbers.

It was, however, on this very boulevard, toward nine o'clock in the evening, and about three quarters of an hour after the visit to St. Denis, that a carriage drove rapidly along. It bore the coat of arms of the Count de Fenix on its panels. The count himself, mounted on Djerid, who whisked his long and silky tail as he snuffed the stifling atmosphere, rode about twenty paces in advance. Within it, resting on cushions, and concealed by the closed blinds, lay Lorenza fast asleep. The gate opened, as if by enchantment, at the noise of the wheels, and the carriage, after turning into the dark gulf of the Rue St. Claude, disappeared in the courtyard of the house we have just described, the gate of which seemed to close behind it without the aid of human hands.

There was most assuredly no occasion for so much mystery, since no one was there to see the Count de Fenix return, or to interfere with him had he carried off in his carriage the treasures of the Abbey of St. Denis.

In the meantime we shall say a few words respecting the interior of this house, of which it is of importance that our readers should know something, since it is our intention to introduce them to it more than once.

In the courtyard of which we have spoken, and in which the springing grass labored by a never-ceasing effort to displace the pavement, were seen on the right the stables, on the left the coachhouses, while at the back a double flight of twelve steps led to the entrance door.

On the ground-floor, the house, or at least as much of it as was accessible, consisted of a large antechamber, a dining-room remarkable for the quantity of massive plate heaped on its sideboards, and a salon, which seemed quite recently furnished, probably for the reception of its new inmates.

From the antechamber a broad staircase led to the first floor, which contained three principal apartments. A skillful geometrician, however, on measuring with his eye the extent of the house outside, and observing the space within it, would have been surprised to find it contain so little accommodation. In fact, in the outside apparent house there was a second hidden house, known only to those who inhabited it.

In the antechamber, close beside a statue of the god Harpocrates-who, with his finger on his lips, seemed to enjoin the silence of which he is the symbol -was concealed a secret door opening with a spring, and masked by the ornaments of the architecture. This door gave access to a staircase which, ascending to about the same height as the first floor on the other staircase, led to a little apartment lighted by two grated windows looking on an inner court. This inner court was the box, as it were, which enclosed the second house and concealed it from all eyes.

The apartment to which this staircase led was evidently intended for a man. Beside the bed, and before the sofas and couches, were spread instead of carpets the most magnificent furs which the burning climes of Africa and India, produced. There were skins of lions, tigers, and panthers, with their glaring eyes and threatening teeth. The walls, hung with Cordova leather stamped in large and flowing arabesques, were decorated with weapons of every kind, from the tomahawk of the Huron to the crid of the Malay; from the sword of the crusader to the kandjiar of the Arab; from the arquebuse, incrusted with ivory, of the sixteenth century, to the damasked barrel inlaid with gold of the eighteenth. The eye in vain sought in this room for any other outlet than that from the staircase; perhaps there were several, but, if so, they were concealed and invisible.

A German domestic, about five-and-twenty or thirty years of age, the only human being who had been seen wandering to and fro in that vast mansion for several days, bolted the gate of the courtyard; and, opening the carriage-door while the stolid coachman unharnessed his horses, he lifted out Lorenza in his arms and carried her into the antechamber. There he laid her on a table, covered with red cloth, and drew down her long white veil over her person.

Then he left the room to light at the lamps of the carriage a large chandelier, with seven branches, and returned with all its lights burning. But in that interval, short as it was, Lorenza had disappeared.

The Count de Fenix had followed close behind the German, and had no sooner been left alone with Lorenza than he took her in his arms and carried her by the secret staircase we have described to the chamber of arms, after having carefully closed both the doors behind him. Once there, he pressed his foot on a spring in the corner of the lofty mantelpiece, and immediately a door, which formed the back of the fireplace, rolled back on its noiseless hinges, and the count with his burden again disappeared, carefully closing behind him with his foot the mysterious door.

At the back of the mantelpiece was a second staircase, consisting of a flight of fifteen steps covered with Utrecht velvet, after mounting which he reached a chamber elegantly hung with satin, embroidered with flowers, of such brilliant colors and so naturally designed, that they might have been taken for real. The furniture was richly gilt. Two cabinets of tortoiseshell inlaid with brass; a harpsichord, and a toilet-table of rosewood, a beautiful bed, with transparent curtains, and several vases of Sevres porcelain, formed the principal articles; while chairs and couches, arranged with the nicest order in a space of thirty feet square, served to complete the decoration of the apartment, to which was attached a dressing-closet and a boudoir. These latter had no windows; but lamps filled with perfumed oil burned in them day and night, and, let down from the ceiling, we're trimmed by invisible hands. The sleeping-chamber, however, had two windows hung with rich and heavy curtains;, but, as it w-as now night, the curtains had nothing to conceal.

Not a sound, not a breath was heard in this chamber, and an inhabitant might have thought himself a hundred miles from the world. But gold, cunningly wrought, shone on every side; beautiful paintings smiled from the walls; and lusters of Bohemian glass glittered and sparkled like eyes looking on the scene, when, after having placed Lorenza on a sofa, the count, not satisfied with the trembling radiance of the boudoir, proceeded to light the rose-colored wax-candles of two candelabra on the chimney-piece.

Then, returning to Lorenza and placing himself before her, he knelt with one knee on a pile of cushions, and exclaimed softly, “Lorenza!”

The young girl, at this appeal, raised herself on her elbow, although her eyes remained closed. But she did not reply.

“Lorenza,” he repeated, “do you sleep in your ordinary sleep, or in the magnetic sleep-”

“In the magnetic sleep,” she answered.

“Then, if I question you, you can reply-”

“I think so.”

The Count de Fenix was silent for a moment, then he continued:

“Look in the apartment of the Princess Louise, whom we left three-quarters of an hour ago.”

“I am looking.”

“What do you see-”

“The princess is praying before retiring to bed.”

“Do you see the Cardinal de Rohan in the convent-”

“No.”

“In any of the corridors or courts-”

“No.”

“Look whether his carriage be at the gate-”

“I do not see it.”

“Pursue the road by which we came. Do you see carriages on it-”

“Yes; several.”

“Do you see the cardinal's among them-”

“No.”

“Come nearer Paris-now-”

“Now I see it.”

“Where-”

“At the gate of the city.”

“Has it stopped-”

“Yes; the footman has just got down.”

“Does the cardinal speak to him-”

“Yes; he is going to speak.”

“Lorenza, attend! It is important that I should know what the cardinal says.”

“You should have told me to listen in time. But, stop!-the footman is speaking to the coachman.”

“What does he say-”

“The Rue St. Claude, in the Marais, by the boulevard.”

“Thanks, Lorenza.”

The count wrote some words on a piece of paper, which he folded round a plate of copper, doubtless to give it weight; then he pulled a bell, pressed a string, and, a small opening appearing in the wall, he dropped the note down. The opening closed again instantly. It was in this way that the count, in the inner apartments of his house, gave his orders to Fritz, his German servant.

CHAPTER LVI. THE DOUBLE EXISTENCE-SLEEP.

RETURNING to Lorenza, Balsamo said, “Will you converse with your friend now-”

“Oh, yes!” she replied. “But speak yourself the most-I love so to hear your voice.”

“Lorenza, you have often said that you would be happy if you could live with me, shut out from all the world.”

“Yes; that would be happiness indeed!”

““Well, your wish is realized. No one can follow us to this chamber-no one can enter here; we are alone, quite alone.”

“Ah, so much the better.”

“Tell me, is this apartment to your taste-”

“Order me to see it, then!”

“I order you.”

“Oh, what a charming room!”

“You are pleased with it, then-” asked the count, tenderly.

“Oh, yes! There are my favorite flowers-my vanilla heliotropes, my crimson roses, my Chinese Jessamines!-Thanks, my sweet Joseph; how kind and good you are!”

“I do all I can to please you, Lorenza.”

“Oh! you do a hundred times more than I deserve.”

“You think so!”

“Yes.”

“Then you confess that you have been very ill-natured.”

“Very ill-natured-Oh, yes. But you forgive me, do you not-”

“I shall forgive you when you explain to me the strange mystery which I have sought to fathom ever since I knew you.”

“It is this, Balsamo. There are in me two Lorenzas, quite distinct from each other; one that loves and one that hates you. So there are in me two lives; in one I taste all the joys of paradise, in the other experience all the torments of hell.”

“And those two lives are sleep and waking-”

“Yes.”

“You love me when you sleep, and you hate me when you are awake-”

“Yes.”

“But why so-”

“I do not know.”

“You must know.”

“No.”

“Search carefully; look within yourself; sound your own heart.”

“Yes, I see the cause now.”

“What is it-”

“When Lorenza awakes, she is the Roman girl, the superstitious daughter of Italy; she thinks science a crime, and love a sin. Her confessor told her that they were so. She is then afraid of you, and would flee from you to the confines of the earth.”

“And when Lorenza sleeps-”

“Ah! then she is no longer the Roman, no longer superstitious; she is a woman. Then she reads Balsamo's heart and mind; she sees that his heart loves her, that his genius contemplates sublime things. Then she feels her littleness compared with him. Then she would live and die beside him, that the future might whisper softly the name of Lorenza, when it trumpets forth that of Cagliostro!”

“It is by that name then that I shall become celebrated-”

“Yes, by that name.”

“Dear Lorenza! Then you will love this new abode, will you not-”

“It is much more splendid than any of those you have already given me, but it is not on that account that I shall love it.”

“For what, then-”

“I shall love it because you have promised to live in it with me.”

“Then, when you sleep, you see clearly that I love you; ardently love you-”

The young girl smiled faintly. “Yes,” said she, “I do see that you love me, and yet,” added she, with a sigh, “there is something which you love better than Lorenza.”

“What is it-” asked Balsamo, starting.

“Your dream.”

“Say, my task.”

“Your ambition.”

“Say, my glory.”

“Ah, heaven! Ah, heaven!” and the young girl's breast heaved, while the tears forced their way through her closed eyelids.

“What do you see-” asked Balsamo, with alarm; for there were moments when her powers of seeing the unseen startled even him.

“Oh, I see darkness, and phantoms gliding through it; some of them hold in their hands their crowned heads, and you -you are among them, like a general in the thick of the battle! You command, and they obey.”

“Well,” said Balsamo, joyfully, “and does that not make you proud of me-”

“Oh, no, for I seek my own figure amid the throng which surrounds you, and I cannot see myself!-I shall not be there,” murmured she sadly. “I shall not be there!”

“Where will you be then-”

“I shall be dead.”

Balsamo shuddered.

“Dead- my Lorenza!” cried he, “dead- -no, no!-we shall live long together to love one another.”

“You love me not.”

“Oh, yes!”

“Ah,” continued she, “I feel that I am nothing to you!”

“You, my Lorenza, nothing- -You are my all, my strength, my power, my genius! Without you I should be nothing. You possess my whole soul-is not that enough to make you happy-”

“Happy-” repeated she, contemptuously, “do you call this life of ours happy-”

“Yes; for in my mind to be happy is to be great.”

She sighed deeply.

“Oh, could you but know, dearest Lorenza, how I love to read the uncovered hearts of men, and govern them within their own passions!”

“Yes, I serve you in that, I know.”

“That is not all. Your eyes read for me the hidden book of the future. What I could not learn with twenty years of toil and suffering, you, my gentle dove, innocent and pure, you teach me when you wish. Foes dog my steps, and lay snares for me-you inform me of every danger. On my understanding depend my life, my fortune, my freedom-you give that understanding the eye of the lynx, which dilates and sees clearly in the darkness. Your lovely eyes, closing to the light of this outward world, open to supernatural splendors which they watch for me. It is you who make me free, rich, powerful.”

“And you in return make me wretched,” she exclaimed, in a tone of despair, “for all that is not love.”

“Yes, it is,” he replied, “a holy and pure love.”

“And what happiness attends it- Why did you force me from my country, my name, my family-why obtain this power over me-why make me your slave, if I am never to be yours in reality-”

“Alas! why, rather,” asked he, “are you like an angel, infallible in penetration, by whose help I can subject the universe- Why are you able to read all hearts within their corporeal dwelling, as others read a book behind a pane of glass- It is because you are an angel of purity, Lorenza -because your spirit, different from those of the vulgar, sordid beings who surround you, pierces through every obstacle.”

“And thus you regard my love less than the vain chimeras of your brain- Oh! Joseph, Joseph,” added she passionately, “you wrong me, cruelly!”

“Not so, for I love you; but I would raise you with myself to the throne of the world.”

“Oh! Balsamo,” murmured she, “will your ambition ever make you happy as my love would-”

As she spoke she threw her arms around him. He struggled to release himself, beat back the air loaded with the magnetic fluid, and at length exclaimed. “Lorenza, awake!-Awake!-It is my will.”

At once her arms released their hold, the smile which had played on her lips died away, and she sighed heavily. At length her closed eyes opened; the dilated pupils assumed their natural size; she stretched out her arms, appeared overcome with weariness, and fell back at full length, but awake, on the sofa.

Balsamo, seated at a little distance from her, heaved a deep sigh. “Adieu, my dream!” murmured he to himself. “Farewell happiness!”

CHAPTER LVII. THE DOUBLE EXISTENCE-WAKING.

AS SOON AS Lorenza had recovered her natural powers of sight, she cast a hurried glance around her. Her eyes roamed over all the splendid trifles which surrounded her on every side, without exhibiting any appearance of the pleasure which such things usually give to women.

At length they rested with a shudder on Balsamo, who was seated at a short distance, and was watching her attentively.

“You again!” said she, recoiling; and all the symptoms of horror appeared in her countenance. Her lips turned deadly pale, and the perspiration stood in large drops on her forehead. Balsamo did not reply.

“Where am I-” she asked.

“You know whence you come, madame,” said Balsamo; “and that should naturally enable you to guess where you are.”

“Yes; you are right to remind me of that;-I remember now. I know that I have been persecuted by you, pursued by you, torn by you from the arms of the royal lady whom I had chosen to protect me.”

“Then you must know also, that this princess, all-powerful though she be, could not defend you-”

“Yes; you have conquered her by some work of magic!” cried Lorenza, clasping her hands. “Oh, Heaven, deliver me from this demon!”

“In what way do I resemble a demon, madame-” said Balsamo, shrugging his shoulders. “Once for all, abandon, I beg of you, this farrago of childish prejudices which you brought with you from Rome; have done with all those absurd superstitions which you learned in your convent, and which have formed your constant traveling companions since you left it.”

“Oh, my convent! Who will restore me my convent-” cried Lorenza, bursting into tears.

“In fact,” said Balsamo, ironically, “a convent is a place very much to be regretted!”

Lorenza darted toward one of the windows, drew aside the curtains, and, opening it, stretched out her hand. It struck against a thick bar supporting an iron grating, which, although hidden by flowers, was not the less efficacious in retaining a prisoner.

“Prison for prison,” said she; “Hike that better which conducts toward heaven than that which sends to hell.”

And she dashed her delicate hands against the iron bars.

“If you were more reasonable, Lorenza, without you would find only the flowers, the bars, at your windows.”

“Was I not reasonable when you shut me up in that other moving prison, with that vampire whom you called Althotas- And yet you kept me a prisoner, you watched me like a lynx, and, whenever you left me, you breathed into me that spirit which takes possession of me, and which I cannot overcome. Where is he, that horrible old man, whose sight freezes me with terror- In some corner here, is he not- Let us keep silent, and we shall hear his unearthly voice issue from the depths of the earth.”

“You really give way to your imagination like a child, madame. Althotas, my teacher, my friend, my second father, is an inoffensive old man, who has never seen or approached you; or, if he has seen you, has never paid the least attention to you, immersed as he is in his task.”

“His task-” murmured Lorenza. “And what is his task, pray-”

“He is trying to discover the elixir of life-what all the greatest minds have been in search of for the last six thousand years.”

“And you -what are you trying to discover-”

“The means of human perfectibility.”

“Oh, demons! demons!” said Lorenza raising her hands to heaven.

“Ah!” said Balsamo, rising, “now your fit is coming on again.”

“My fit-”

“Yes; your fit. There is one thing, Lorenza, which you are not aware of; it is, that your life is divided into two equal periods. During one you are gentle, good, and reasonable; during the other you are mad.”

“And it is under this false pretext of madness that you shut me up-”

“Alas! I am obliged to do so.”

“Oh, be cruel, barbarous, pitiless, if you will-shut me up, kill me-but do not play the hypocrite; do not pretend to compassionate while you destroy me!”

“But only reflect a moment,” said Balsamo, without anger, and even with a caressing smile; “is it torture to live in an elegant, commodious apartment like this-”

“Grated windows -iron bars on all sides-no air-no air.”

“The bars are for the safety of your life, I repeat. Lorenza.”

“Oh!” cried she, “he destroys me piecemeal, and tells me he cares for my life!”

Balsamo approached the young girl, and, with a friendly gesture, endeavored to take her hand; but, recoiling as if from the touch of a serpent:

“Oh! do not touch me!” said she.

“Do you hate me, then, Lorenza-”

“Ask the sufferer if he hates his executioner.”

“Lorenza! Lorenza! it is because I do not wish to be your executioner that I deprive you of a little of your liberty. If you could go and come as you liked, who knows what you might do in the moments of your madness-”

“What I might do- Oh, let me once be free, and you shall see what I would do!”

“Lorenza, you treat the husband whom you have chosen in the sight of heaven very strangely.”

“I chose you- Never! never!”

“You are my wife, notwithstanding.”

“Yes; that indeed must have been the work of the demon.”

“Poor insensate!” said Balsamo, with a tender look.

“But I am a Roman woman.” murmured Lorenza; “and one day I shall be revenged.”

Balsamo shook his head gently.

“You only say that to frighten me, Lorenza, do you not-” said he, smiling.

“No, no; I shall do what I say.”

“Woman!” exclaimed Balsamo, with a commanding voice, “you pretend to be a Christian; does not your religion teach you to render good for evil- What hypocrisy is yours, calling yourself a follower of that religion, and vowing to yourself to render evil for good-”

Lorenza appeared for an instant struck by these words. “Oh!” said she, “it is not vengeance to denounce to society its enemies; it is a duty.”

“If you denounce me as a necromancer, as a sorcerer, it is not society whom I offend, but God; but if I be such, the Deity by a sign can destroy me. He does not do so. Does He leave my punishment weak to men, subject to error like myself-”

“He bears with you,” murmured the young girl; “He Avails for you to reform.”

Balsamo smiled.

“And in the meantime,” said he, “He counsels yon to betray your friend, your benefactor, your husband-”

“My husband- Ah! thank Heaven -your hand has never touched mine that I have not blushed or shuddered at its contact.”

“O mystery! Impenetrable mystery!” murmured Balsamo to himself, replying rather to his own thoughts than to Lorenza's words.

“Once for all,” said Lorenza, “why do you deprive me of my liberty-”

“Why, after having given yourself voluntarily to me, do you now wish for liberty- Why do you flee from him who protects you- Why do you ask a stranger for protection against him who loves you- Why do you threaten him who has never yet threatened you; and say you will reveal secrets which are not yours, and of which you do not comprehend the import-”

“Oh!” said Lorenza, without replying to his questions, “the prisoner who has firmly determined to be free, will be so, sooner or later, and your bars of iron shall not keep me, any more than your moving cage kept me!”

“Fortunately for you, Lorenza, the bars are strong,” answered Balsamo with a threatening calmness.

“God will send me some storm like that of Lorraine-some thunderbolt which will break them.”

“Trust me, you had better pray to Heaven to avert such an occurrence. Do not give way, I advise you, to the fancies of your overheated brain. Lorenza. I speak to you as a friend.”

There was such an expression of concentrated anger in Balsamo's voice, such a gloomy and threatening fire darted from his eyes, such a strange and nervous movement in his white and muscular hand, as he pronounced each word slowly and solemnly, that Lorenza, subdued in the very height of her rebellion, listened to him in spite of herself.

“You see, my child,” continued he, in the same calm and threatening tone, “I have endeavored to make this prison a habitation fit for a queen. Were you a queen, you could here want for nothing. Calm, then, this wild excitement. Live here as you would have lived in your convent. Accustom yourself to my presence; love me as a friend, as a brother. I have heavy sorrows; I shall confide them to you; I am often and deeply deceived; a smile from you will console me. The more I see you kind, attentive, patient, the more I shall lighten the rigor of your imprisonment. Who knows but that in a year, nay, in six months perhaps, you may be as free as I am, always supposing that you no longer entertain the wish to steal your freedom.”

“No, no!” cried Lorenza, who could not comprehend that so terrible a resolve should be expressed in a voice so gentle; “no! More promises! More falsehoods! You have carried me off, and by violent means. I belong to myself, and to myself alone; restore me therefore to the house of God, at least, if you will not grant me my full liberty. I have until now submitted to your tyranny, because I remembered that you once saved me from robbers; but my gratitude is already weakened. A few days more of this insulting imprisonment, and it will expire; and then -take care!-I may begin to suspect that you had some secret connection with those robbers!”

“You do me the honor, then, to take me for a captain of banditti-” said Balsamo, ironically.

“I know not what you are, but I have perceived signs; I have heard strange words.”

“You have perceived signs and words-” exclaimed Balsamo, turning pale.

“Yes, yes; I have intercepted them; I know them; I remember them.”

“But you will never tell them to any living soul- You will shut them up in the depths of your heart-”

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Lorenza, full of delight, in her anger, that she had found the vulnerable point of her antagonist, “I shall treasure them up religiously in my memory; I shall murmur them over to myself, and on the first opportunity shall say them aloud to others. I have already told them.”

“To whom-”

“To the princess.”

“Well, Lorenza, listen!” said Balsamo, clenching; his hands till the nails entered the flesh. “If you have told them once, you shall never tell them again; never shall the words you have spoken again cross your lips, for I shall keep every door closely shut; I shall sharpen the points on those bars, and raise the walls around this house, if need be, as high as those of Babel.”

“I have already told you, Balsamo,” exclaimed Lorenza, “that no prison can hold a captive forever, especially when the love of liberty is aided by hatred of the tyrant.”

“Very well, leave your prison, then; but mark me, you have only twice to do so. The first time I shall chastise you so cruelly that your eyes will have no more tears to shed, the second time that your veins shall have no more blood to pour out.”

“Great heavens! He will murder me!” screamed the young girl, in the highest paroxysm of fury, tearing her hair and writhing on the carpet.

He looked at her for an instant with a mixture of anger and compassion. At length compassion seemed to prevail.

“Come. Lorenza,” said he, “be calm; some future day you will be well rewarded for all you surfer now, or think you suffer.”

“Imprisoned! imprisoned!” cried Lorenza, without listening to him.

“Be patient.”

“Struck!”

“It is a period of probation.”

“Mad! mad!”

“You shall be cured.”

“Oh, put me in a madhouse at once! Shut me up at once in a real prison!”

“No; you have too well prepared me for what you would do in such a case.”

“Death! then.” screamed Lorenza, “instant death!” And bounding up with the suppleness and rapidity of some wild animal, she rushed forward to dash her head against the wall.

Balsamo had only to extend his hand toward her and to pronounce, by his will rather than his lips, one single word, to arrest her progress; Lorenza, checked in her wild career, staggered and fell into Balsamo's arms.-She was asleep.

The strange enchanter, who seemed to have subdued in this woman all that belonged to her physical existence, without having been able to triumph over the moral life, raised her, and carried her to her couch; then, having laid her on it, he imprinted a long kiss on her forehead, drew the curtains, and retired.

A soft and soothing sleep wrapped her in its embrace, as the mantle of a kind mother wraps the froward child after it has long suffered and wept.

CHAPTER LVIII. THE VISIT.

LORENZA WAS not mistaken. A carriage, after having entered Paris by the Barriere St. Denis, and traversing the faubourg of that name throughout its entire length, had turned the angle formed by the last house and the Porte St. Denis, and was rapidly advancing along the boulevard. This carriage contained Monsieur Louis de Rohan, bishop of Strasbourg, whose impatience led him to anticipate the time fixed upon for seeking the sorcerer in his den.

The coachman, a man of mettle, and well accustomed to aid the handsome prelate in his gallant adventures amid the darkness and perils of certain mysterious streets, was by no means discouraged, when, after having passed the boulevards of St. Denis and St. Martin, still thronged with people and well lighted, he received the order to proceed along the lonely and dismal boulevard of the Bastille. The carnage stopped at the corner of the Rue St. Claude, on the boulevard itself, and, after a whispered order from its master, took up a concealed position under the trees about twenty paces off.

Then M, de Rohan, who was dressed in the ordinary costume of a civilian, glided down the street, and knocked at the door of the house, which he easily recognized by the description of it given to him by the Count de Fenix.

Fritz's footsteps echoed in the courtyard, and the door was opened.

“Is it not here that the Count de Fenix resides-” asked the prince.

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Is he at home-”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Well, say that a gentleman wishes to see him.”

“His highness the Cardinal de Rohan, is it not-” asked Fritz.

The prince stood perfectly confounded. He looked all around him, and at his dress, to see whether anything in his retinue or costume had revealed his rank; but he was alone, and in the dress of a layman.

“How do you know my name-” said he.

“My master has just told me this very instant that he expected your eminence.”

“Yes-but to-morrow, or the day after.”

“No, Monseigneur-this evening.”

“Your master told you that he expected me this evening-”

“Yes, Monseigneur.”

“Very well; announce me, then,” said the cardinal, putting a double louis-d'or into Fritz's hand.

“In that case,” said Fritz, “will your eminence have the goodness to follow me-”

The cardinal made a gesture in the affirmative.

Fritz then advanced with a rapid step toward the antechamber, which was lighted by a massive bronze candelabrum, containing twelve wax tapers. The cardinal followed, surprised and thoughtful.

“My friend,” said he, stopping at the door of the salon, “there must be a mistake, I think, and in that case I do not wish to intrude on the count. It is impossible that he can expect me, for he was not aware that I intended to come tonight.”

“Monseigneur is the Prince-Cardinal de Rohan, bishop of Strasbourg, is he not-” inquired Fritz.

“Yes, my friend.”

“Well, then, it is Monseigneur whom my master, the count, expects.”

And lighting successively the candles of two other candelabra in the salon. Fritz bowed and retired.

Five minutes elapsed, during which the cardinal, agitated by a strange emotion, gazed at the elegant furniture of this salon, and at the eight pictures by the first masters which hung from the walls. The door opened, and the Count de Fenix appeared on the threshold.

“Good-evening, my lord!” said he, simply.

“I am told that you expected me,” exclaimed the cardinal, without replying to this salutation-”that you expected me this evening- It is impossible!”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I did expect you,” replied the count. “Perhaps you doubt the truth of my words on seeing the poor reception I give you- But I have only very lately arrived in Paris, and can scarcely call myself installed here yet; your eminence must, therefore, be good enough to excuse me.”

“You expected me! But who could have told you that I was coming-”

“Yourself, my lord.”

“How so-”

“Did you not stop your carriage at the Barriere St. Denis-”

“Yes.”

“Did you not summon your footman to the carriage-door, and give him the order, 'Rue St. Claude, in the Marais, by the Faubourg St. Denis and the boulevard'-words which he repeated to the coachman-”

“Yes, certainly; but you must have seen and heard me.”

“I did see and hear you, my lord.”

“Then you were there.”

“No, my lord, I was not there.”

“And where were you-”

“I was here.”

“You saw me and heard me from this-”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Come, come!”

“Monseigneur forgets that I am a sorcerer.”

“Ah, true, I did forget that! Bui, monsieur, what am I to call you-The Baron Balsamo, or the Count de Fenix-”

“In my own house, my lord, I have no name; I am called the master.”

“Yes, that is the hermetical title. So then, master, you expected me-”

“I did expect you.”

“And your laboratory is heated-”

“My laboratory is always heated, my lord.”

“And you will permit me to enter it-”

“I shall have the honor of conducting your eminence there.”

“And I shall follow you, but only on one condition.”

“What is that-”

“That you promise not to place me personally in contact with the devil. I am terribly afraid of his majesty Lucifer.”

“Oh, my lord!”

“Yes, for in general you employ for such a purpose the greatest rogues unhanged-discarded soldiers of the guards, or fencing-masters without pupils, who, in order to play the part of Satan naturally, treat their dupes to sundry fillips and tweaks of the nose, after first putting out the lights.”

“My lord.” said Balsamo, smiling, “my devils never forget that they have the honor of dealing with princes, and ever bear in mind the Prince de Conde's speech to one of them who would not keep still, viz., that if he did not conduct himself more decently, he would so rub him down with an oaken towel that he should never need washing again.”

“I am delighted to hear that you manage your imps so well. Let us proceed to the laboratory, then.”

“Will your eminence have the goodness to follow me-”

“Proceed!”

CHAPTER LIX. GOLD

THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN and Balsamo wound along a narrow staircase which ran parallel with the great staircase, and, like it, led to the apartments on the first floor. There, in a vaulted apartment, appeared a door which Balsamo opened, and a very gloomy corridor was disclosed to the cardinal's views, who entered it resolutely.

Balsamo closed the door behind them. At the noise which this door made in closing, the cardinal looked back with a slight feeling of trepidation.

“My lord,” said Balsamo, “we have now arrived. We have but one more door to open and close; but let me warn you not to be alarmed at the sound it will make, for it is of iron.”

The cardinal, who had started at the sound of the first door, was glad to be thus prepared in time, for otherwise the grating noise of its hinges and lock would have jarred disagreeably on nerves even less susceptible than his. They descended three steps and entered the laboratory.

The first aspect of this new apartment was that of a large room with the beams and joists of the ceiling left in their original state, and containing a huge lamp with a shade, several books, and a great number of chemical and other philosophical instruments.

After a few seconds the cardinal began to feel that he breathed with difficulty.

“What is the meaning of this-” said he, “I am stifling here, master; the perspiration pours from my forehead- What noise is that-”

“Behold the cause, my lord,” said Balsamo, drawing back a large curtain of asbestos cloth, and disclosing to view an immense brick furnace, in the center of which two holes glared in the darkness like the gleaming eyes of a panther.

This furnace was situated in the middle of a second apartment, double the size of the first, which the prince had not perceived, hidden as it was by the asbestos curtain.

“Ah-ha!” cried the prince, retreating two or three steps, “that looks a little alarming.”-”It is a furnace, my lord.”

“Yes, but this furnace of yours has a very diabolical sort of a look. What are you cooking in it-”

“What your eminence asked from me.”

“What I asked from you-”

“Yes. I think your eminence said you wished for a specimen of my handiwork. I had not intended beginning the operation till to-morrow evening, as you were not to visit me till the day following; but your eminence having changed your intention, as soon as I heard you set out for my abode, I kindled the furnace and put in the ingredients for amalgamation; so that now the furnace is boiling, and in ten minutes you will have your gold. Permit me to open this ventilator to give a current of fresh air.”

“What! those crucibles on the furnace-”

“Will in ten minutes give your highness gold as pure as that of the sequins of Venice, or the florins of Tuscany.”

“I should like to see it, if it is at all practicable.”

“Certainly. But you must use some necessary precautions.”

“What precautions-”

“Cover your face with this mask of asbestos with glass eyes; otherwise your sight might be injured by the glowing heat.”

“Peste! I must take care of that. I attach a good deal of value to my eyes, and would not give them for the hundred thousand crowns which you have promised me.”

“I thought so, for your eminence's eyes are very fine.”

This compliment was by no means displeasing to the cardinal, who was not a little vain of his person.

“Ha!” said he, putting on his mask, “so it seems we are to see what gold is-”

“I trust so, my lord.”

“Gold, to the value of one hundred thousand crowns-”

“Yes, my lord, perhaps even a little more; for I made a very abundant mixture.”

“Upon my honor, you are a most generous sorcerer,” said the prince, with a joyous palpitation of the heart.

“Less so than your highness, who so kindly compliments me. In the meantime, my lord, may I beg you to keep back a little while I take off the lid of the crucible-”

And Balsamo, having put on a short shirt of asbestos, seized with a vigorous arm a pair of iron pincers, and raised the cover, now red hot, which revealed to view four crucibles of a similar form, some containing a mixture of a vermilion color, others a whitish matter, although still retaining something of a purple transparent hue.

“And that is gold!” said the prelate in a half whisper, as if he feared to disturb the mystery which was being accomplished before him.

“Yes, my lord. These four crucibles contain the substance in different stages, some of them having been subject to the process twelve, others only eleven hours. The mixture-and this is a secret which I reveal only to a friend of the hermetic science-is thrown into the matter at the moment of ebullition. But, as your eminence may see, the first crucible is now at a white heat; it has reached the proper stage, and it is time to pour it out. Be good enough to keep back, my lord.”

The prince obeyed with the promptitude of a soldier at the command of his captain, and Balsamo, laying aside the pincers already heated by contact with the crucibles, rolled forward to the furnace a sort of movable anvil in which were hollowed eight cylindrical molds of equal caliber.

“What is this, my dear sorcerer-” asked the prince.

“This, my lord, is the mold in which your ingots are to be cast.”

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed the cardinal, and he redoubled his attention.

Balsamo spread over the floor a thick layer of white tow as a sort of protection against accidents; then, placing himself between the furnace and the anvil, he opened a huge book, and, wand in hand, repeated a solemn incantation. This ended, he seized an enormous pair of tongs intended for grasping the weighty crucibles.

“The gold will be splendid, my lord,” said he; “of the very finest quality.”

“What! Are you going to lift off that flaming pot-”

“Which weighs fifty pounds- Yes, my lord; few founders, I may say it without boasting, possess my muscles and my dexterity. Fear nothing, therefore.”

“But if the crucible were to break-”

“Yes, that happened with me once, my lord-in the year 1399. I was making an experiment with Nicolas Flamel, in his house in the Rue des Ecrivains, near the church of St. Jacques-la-Boucherie. Poor Flamel was nearly losing his life; and I lost twenty-seven marks of a substance even more precious than gold.”

“What the devil is that you are saying; master-”

“The truth.”

“Do you mean to make me believe that you pursued the great work in 1399, along with Nicolas Flamel-”

“Precisely so, my lord. We found out the secret together, about fifty or sixty years before, when experimenting with Pierre le Bon in the town of Pola. He did not shut up the crucible quickly enough, and I lost the use of my right eye for nearly twelve years in consequence of the evaporation.”

“Pierre le Boil, who composed that famous book, the 'Margarita Pretiosa,' printed in 1330-”

“The very same, my lord.”

“And you knew Pierre le Bon and Flamel-”

“I was the pupil of the one and the teacher of the other.”

And while the terrified prelate asked himself whether the personage at his side was not the devil in person and not one of his satellites, Balsamo plunged his long tongs into the furnace. The alchemist's grasp was sure and rapid. He seized the crucible about four inches from the top, satisfied himself, by raising it up a little, that his hold was firm; then, by a vigorous effort, which strained every muscle in his frame, he heaved up the terrible pot from the glowing furnace. The handle of the tongs turned glowing red immediately; then, rippling over the fused matter within, were seen white furrows like lightning streaking a black sulphureous cloud; then the edges of the crucible turned a brownish red, while the conical base appeared still rose-colored and silver beneath the shade of the furnace; then the metal, on the surface of which had formed a violet-colored scum, crusted here and there with gold, hissed over the mouth of the crucible, and fell flashing into the dark mold, around the top of which the golden wave, angry and foaming, seemed to insult the vile metal with which it was forced into contact.

“Now for the second,” said Balsamo, seizing another crucible; and another mold was filled with the same strength and dexterity as the first. The perspiration poured from the operator's forehead; and the cardinal, standing back in the shade, crossed himself. In fact, the scene was one of wild and majestic horror.

Balsamo, his features lighted by the reddish glare of the glowing metal, resembled one of the damned of Michael Angelo or Dante, writhing in the depths of their flaming caldrons; while over all brooded the feeling of the mysterious and unknown.

Balsamo took no breathing time between the two operations; time pressed.

“There will be a slight loss,” said he, after having filled the second mold. “I have allowed the mixture to boil the hundredth part of a minute too long.”

“The hundredth part of a minute!” exclaimed the cardinal, no longer seeking to conceal his stupefaction.

“It is enormous in alchemy,” replied Balsamo, quietly; “but in the meantime, your eminence, here are two crucibles emptied, and two molds filled with one hundred pounds' weight of pure gold.”

And, seizing the first mold with his powerful tongs, he plunged it into water, which hissed and bubbled around it for some time. Then he opened it and took out a lump of solid gold in the form of a sugar-loaf flattened at each extremity.

“We shall have some time to wait for the other crucibles,” said Balsamo. “Will your eminence in the meantime be seated, or would you prefer to breathe for a few moments a cooler atmosphere than this-”

“And that is really gold-” asked the cardinal, without replying to the operator's question.

Balsamo smiled. The cardinal was his.

“Do you doubt it, my lord-”

“Why-you know-science is so often mistaken-”

“Prince, your words do not express your whole meaning,” said Balsamo. “You think that I am deceiving you, and deceiving you wittingly. My lord, I should sink very low in my own opinion could I act such a part, for my ambition in that case would not extend beyond the walls of my cabinet, which you would leave filled with wonder, only to be undeceived on taking your ingot to the first goldsmith you should meet. Come, come, my lord! Do not think so meanly of me, and be assured that, if I wished to deceive you, I should do it more adroitly, and with a higher aim. However, your eminence knows how to test gold-”

“Certainly. By the touchstone.”

“You have doubtless had occasion, my lord, to make the experiment yourself, were it only on Spanish doubloons, which are much esteemed in play because they are of the purest gold, but which, for that very reason, are frequently counterfeited.”

“In fact, I have done so before now.”

“Well, my lord, here are the stone and the acid.”

“By no means; I am quite convinced.”

“Milord, do me the favor to assure yourself that these ingots are not only gold, but gold without alloy.”

The cardinal appeared unwilling to give this proof of his incredulity, and yet it was evident that he was not convinced. Balsamo himself tested the ingots, and showed the result of the experiment to his guest.

“Twenty-eight carats,” said he; “and now I may pour out the two others.”

Ten minutes afterward the four ingots lay side by side on the tow, heated by their contact.

“Your eminence came here in a carriage, did you not- At least when I saw you you were in one.”

“Yes.”

“If your lordship will order it to the door, my servants shall put the ingots into it.”

“One hundred thousand crowns!” murmured the cardinal, as he took off his mask to feast his eyes on the gold lying at his feet.

“And as for this gold, your highness can tell whence it comes, having seen it made!”

“Oh, yes; I shall testify-

“Oh, no!” said Balsamo, hastily; “savants are not much in favor in France! Testify nothing, my lord. If instead of making gold I made theories, then, indeed, I should have no objection.”

“Then, what can I do for you-” said the prince, lifting an ingot of fifty pounds with difficulty in his delicate hands.

Balsamo looked at him steadily, and without the least respect began to laugh.

“What is there so very ludicrous in what I have said-” asked the cardinal.

“Your eminence offers me your services, I think. Would it not be much more to the purpose were I to offer mine to you-”

The cardinal's brow darkened.

“You have obliged me, sir,” said he, “and I am ready to acknowledge it; but if the gratitude I am to bear you proves a heavier burden than I imagined, I shall not accept the obligation. There are still, thank Heaven, usurers enough in Paris from whom I can procure, half on some pledge and half on my bond, one hundred thousand crowns, the day after to-morrow. My episcopal ring alone is worth forty thousand livres.” And the prelate held out his hand, as white as a woman's, on which shone a diamond the size of a small nut.

“Prince,” said Balsamo, bowing, “it is impossible that you can for a moment imagine that I meant to offend you.” Then, as if speaking to himself, he proceeded; “It is singular that the truth should always produce this effect on those who bear the title of prince.”

“What mean you-”

“Your highness proposes to serve me; now I merely ask you, my lord, of what nature could those services be which your eminence proposes to render me-”

“Why, in the first place, my credit at court.”

“My lord, my lord, you know too well that that credit is much shaken; in fact, I should almost as soon take the Duke de Choiseul's, and yet he has not perhaps a fortnight to hold his place. Take my word for it, prince, as far as credit goes, depend on mine. There is good and sterling gold. Every time that your eminence is in want of any, let me know the night before, and you shall have as much as you like. And with gold, my lord, cannot all things be procured-”

“Not all,” murmured the cardinal, sinking into the grade of a protege, and no longer even making an effort to regain that of patron.

“Ah! true. I forgot that your lordship deSires something more than gold-something more precious than all the riches of the earth. But in this, science cannot assist you; it is the province of magic. My lord, say the word, and the alchemist is ready to become the magician.”

“Thank you, sir; but I want for nothing more; I desire nothing farther,” said the cardinal, in a desponding voice.

Balsamo approached him.

“My lord,” said he, “a prince, young, handsome, ardent, rich, and bearing the name of Rohan, ought not to make such a reply to a magician.”

“Why not, sir-”

“Because the magician reads his heart, and knows the contrary.”

“I wish for nothing; I desire nothing.” repeated the cardinal, almost terrified.

“I should have thought, on the contrary, that your eminence's wishes were such as you dared not avow, even to yourself, since they are those of a-king!”

“Sir,” said the cardinal, with a start, “you allude, I presume, to a subject which you introduced before, when I saw you at St. Denis-”

“I confess it, my lord.”

“Sir, you were mistaken then, and you are equally mistaken now.”

“Do you forget, my lord, that I can read as plainly what is passing at this moment in your heart as, a short time ago, I saw your carriage enter the city, drive along the “boulevard, and stop beneath the trees, about fifty paces from my house.”

“Then explain yourself; tell me what you mean.”

“My lord, the princes of your family have always aimed at a high and daring passion; you have not degenerated from your race in that respect.”

“I do not know what you mean, count,” stammered the prince.

“On the contrary, you understand me perfectly. I could have touched many chords which vibrate in your heart, but why do so uselessly- I have touched the one which was necessary, and it vibrates deeply. I am certain.”

The cardinal raised his head, and with a last effort at defiance met the clear and penetrating glance of Balsamo. Balsamo smiled with such an expression of superiority that the cardinal cast down his eyes.

“Oh! you are right, my lord; you are right; do not look at me, for then I read too plainly what passes in your heart-that heart, which, like a mirror, gives back the form of the objects reflected in it.”

“Silence! Count de Fenix-silence!” said the cardinal, completely subdued.

“Yes, you are right; it is better to be silent, for the moment has not yet come to let such a passion be seen.”

“Not yet, did you say-”

“Not yet.”

“Then that love may, in some future time, bear fruit-”

“Why not-”

“And can you tell me, then, if this love be not the love of a madman, as it often seems to myself, and as it ever will seem, until I have a proof to the contrary-”

“You ask much, my lord. I can tell you nothing without being placed in contact with the person who inspires your love; or, at least, with something belonging to her person.”

“What would be necessary-”

“A ringlet, however small, of her beautiful golden hair, for example.”

“Yes; you are a man profoundly skilled in the human heart; you read it as I should read an open book.”

“Alas! that is just what your great grand-uncle, the Chevalier Louis de Rohan, said to me when I bade him farewell on the platform of the Bastille, at the foot of the scaffold which he ascended so courageously!”

“He said that to you-that you were profoundly skilled in the human heart-”

“Yes; and that I could read it; for I had forewarned him that the Chevalier de Preault would betray him. He would not believe me, and the Chevalier de Preault did betray him.”

“But what a singular analogy you draw between my ancestor and myself!” said the cardinal, turning pale in spite of himself.

“I did so merely to remind you of the necessity of being prudent, my lord, in obtaining a tress of hair whose curling locks are surmounted by a crown.”

“No matter how obtained; you shall have the tress, sir.”

“It is well. In the meantime, here is your gold, my lord; I hope you no longer doubt its being really gold-”

“Give me a pen and paper.”

“What for, my lord-”

“To give you a receipt for the hundred thousand crowns which you are so good as to lend me.”

“A receipt to me, my lord- For what purpose-”

“I borrow often, my dear count; but I tell you beforehand, I never take gifts.”

“As you please, prince.”

The cardinal took a pen from the table, and wrote a receipt for the money in an enormous illegible hand, and in a style of orthography which would shock a poor curate's housekeeper of the present day.

“Is that right-” asked he, as he handed it to Balsamo.

“Perfectly right,” replied the count, putting it in his pocket without even looking at it.

“You have not read it, sir!”

“I have your highness's word; and the word of a Rohan is better than any pledge.”

“Count de Fenix,” said the cardinal, with a slight inclination, very significant from a man of his rank, “you speak like a gentleman; and if I cannot lay you under any obligation to me, I am at least fortunate in being obliged to such a man.”

Balsamo bowed in his turn, and rang a bell, at the sound of which Fritz appeared.

The count spoke a few words to him in German. He stooped, and like a child carrying a handful of oranges-a little embarrassed, to be sure, but by no means oppressed with the burden-he carried off the eight ingots wrapped up in tow.

“He is a perfect Hercules, that fellow,” said the cardinal.

“He is tolerably strong, indeed, my lord; but since he has been in my service, I give him every day three drops of an elixir compounded by my learned friend, the doctor Althotas. So you see the rogue profits by it; in a year he will be able to carry a hundred weight with one hand.”

“Wonderful! incomprehensible!” murmured the cardinal, “I shall never be able to resist speaking of all this!”

“Oh! speak of it by all means,” replied Balsamo, laughing; “but remember that, by so doing, you bind yourself to come in person and extinguish the flame of the fagots, if by chance the parliament should take it in their heads to burn me alive in the Place de Greve.”

And, having escorted his illustrious visitor to the outer gate, Balsamo took leave of him with a respectful bow.

“But I do not see your servant-” said the cardinal.

“He has gone to carry the gold to your carriage, my lord.”

“Does he know where it is-”

“Under the fourth tree to the right, on the boulevard; that was what I said to him in German, my lord.”

The cardinal raised his hands in astonishment, and disappeared in the darkness.

Balsamo waited for Fritz's return, and then entered the house, closing all the doors carefully behind him.

CHAPTER LX. THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

BALSAMO BEING now alone, proceeded to listen at Lorenza's door. She was still sunk in a soft and gentle sleep. He half opened a wicket in the door, and contemplated her for some time in a sweet and tender reverie. Then, shutting the wicket, he crossed the apartment which we have described, and which separated Lorenza's apartment from the laboratory, and hastened to extinguish the fire in the furnace by throwing open an immense conduit, which allowed the heat to escape into the chimney, and at the same time gave passage to the water of a reservoir on the roof.

Then, carefully placing the cardinal's receipt in a black morocco case:

“The word of a Rohan is good, murmured he; “but for myself alone; and it is well that the brethren yonder should know how I employ their gold.”

As these words died away on his lips, three short, quick taps on the ceiling made him raise his head.

“Oh, oh!” said he, “there is Althotas calling me.”

Then, while he continued his task of giving air to the laboratory, and arranging everything in order, the taps were repeated louder than before.

“So, he is getting impatient; it is a good sign.”

And Balsamo took a long iron rod and knocked on the ceiling in answer. He then proceeded to move an iron ring fixed in the wall; and, by means of a spring which was disclosed to view, a trap-door was detached from the ceiling and descended to the floor of the laboratory. Balsamo placed himself in the center of this machine, which, by means of another spring, gently rose with its burden-with as much ease as in the opera the gods and goddesses are carried up to Elysium-and the pupil found himself in the presence of the master.

The new dwelling of the old alchemist might be about eight or nine feet high and sixteen in diameter; it was lighted from the top like a well, and hermetically closed on the four sides. This apartment, as the reader may observe, was a perfect palace when compared with his habitation in the vehicle.

The old man was seated in his armchair on wheels, in the center of a marble table formed like a horseshoe, and heaped up with a whole world, or rather a whole chaos, of plants, phials, tools, books, instruments, and papers covered with cabalistic characters.

He was so absorbed that he never raised his head when Balsamo appeared. The light of an astral lamp, suspended from the culminating point of the window in the roof, fell on his bald, shining head. He was turning to and fro in his fingers a small white bottle, the transparency of which he was trying before his eye, as a good housekeeper tries the eggs which she buys at market. Balsamo gazed on him at first in silence; then, after a moment's pause:

“Well,” said he, “have you any news-”

“Yes, yes; come hither, Acharat, you see me enchanted-transported with joy! I have found-I have found-

“What-”

“Pardieu! what I sought.”

“Gold-”

“Gold, indeed! I am surprised at you!”-”The diamond-”

“Gold- diamonds- The man raves! A fine discovery, forsooth, to be rejoiced at;”

“Then what you have found is your elixir-”

“Yes, my son, yes!-the elixir of life! Life-what do I say-the eternity of life!”

“Oh!” said Balsamo, in a dejected voice (for he looked on this pursuit as mere insanity), “so it is that dream which occupies you still-”

But Althotas, without listening, continued to gaze delightedly at his phial.

“At last,” said he, “the combination is complete; the elixir of Aristaeus, twenty grains; balm of Mercury, fifteen grains; precipitate of gold, fifteen grains; essence of the cedar of Lebanon, twenty-five grains.”

“But it seems to me, that, with the exception of the elixir of Aristaeus, this is precisely your last combination, master-”

“Yes; but I had not then discovered one more ingredient, without which all the rest are as nothing.”

“And have you discovered it now-”

“Yes.”

“Can you procure it-”

“I should think so!”

“What is it-”

“We must add to the several ingredients, already combined in this phial, the three last drops of the life-blood of an infant.”

“Well, but where will you procure this infant-” said Balsamo, horror-struck.

“I trust to you for that.”

“To me- You are mad, master!”

“Mad- And why-” asked the old man, perfectly unmoved at this charge, and licking with the utmost delight a drop of the fluid which had escaped from the cork of the phial and was trickling down the side.

“Why, for that purpose, you must kill the child.”

“Of course, we must kill him; and the handsomer he is, the better.”

“Impossible!” said Balsamo, shrugging his shoulders; “children are not taken in that way to be killed.”

“Bah!” cried the old man, with hideous coolness, “and what do they do with them, then-”

“Pardieu! They rear them.”

“Oh! Then the world is changed lately- It is only three years ago since we were offered as many infants as we chose for four charges of powder and half a bottle of eau-de-vie.”

“Was that in Congo, master-”

“Yes, yes, in Congo! It is quite the same to me whether the child be black or white. Those who were offered to us. I remember, were sweet, playful, curly-headed little things.”

“Ah! Yes,” said Balsamo; “but unfortunately, my dear master, we are not in Congo.”

“Oh! we are not in Congo-” said Althotas. “And where are we, then-”

“In Pans.”

“In Paris- Well, if we were to embark from Marseilles, we could be in Congo in six weeks.”

“Yes, no doubt. But I am obliged to remain in France.”

“You are obliged to remain in France- And why so, may I ask!”

“Because I have business here.”

“Business-”

“Yes; important business.”

The old man burst into a prolonged and ghastly laugh.

“Business!” said he; “business in France! True, I forgot, you have your clubs to organize!”

“Yes, master.”

“Conspiracies to set on foot-”

“Yes, master.”

“And you call that business-” And the aged man again commenced to laugh, with an air of mockery and sarcasm. Balsamo remained silent, collecting his forces for the storm which was brewing, and which he felt approach.

“Well, and how is this business of yours getting on-” said the old man, turning with difficulty in his chair, and fixing his large gray eyes on his pupil.

Balsamo felt his glance pierce him like a ray of light.

“How far have I advanced-” asked he.

“Yes.”

“I have thrown the first stone, and the waters are troubled.”

“Troubled- And what slime have you stirred up-eh-”

“The best-the slime of philosophy.”

“Oh! so you are setting to work with your Utopias, your baseless visions, your fogs and mists! Fools! Ye discuss existence or non-existence of God, instead of trying like me to make gods of yourselves. And who are these famous philosophers with whom you are connected- Let me hear.”

“I have already gained over the greatest poet and the greatest atheist of the age. He is soon expected in France, whence he has been in a manner exiled, and he is to be made a freemason at the lodge which I have established in the old monastery of the Jesuits, in the Rue Pot-de-Fer.”

“What is his name-”

“Voltaire.”

“I never heard of him. Well, who else have you-”

“I am very soon to have a conference with the man who has done more to overturn established ideas than any other in this age-the man who wrote 'Le Contrat Social.'“

“What is he called-”

“Rousseau.”

“I never heard of him.”

“Very probably, as you read only Alphonso the Tenth, Raymond Sully, Peter of Toledo, and Albertus Magnus.”

“They are the only men who really lived, because all their lives they were occupied by that great question; to be, or not to be.”

“There are two methods of living, master.”

“I know only one, for my part, viz., to exist. But let us return to your philosophers. You called them, I think-”

“Voltaire and Rousseau.”

“Good. I shall remember those names. And you propose by means of these men-”

“To make myself master of the present, and to undermine the future.”

“Then, it appears the people in this country are very stupid, since they can be led by ideas!

“On the contrary, it is because they have too much mind that ideas have more power over them than facts. Besides, I have an auxiliary more powerful than all the philosophers on earth.”

“What is that-”

“Love of change. It is now some sixteen hundred years since monarchy was established in France, and the people are wearied of it.”

“So that you think they will overthrow it-”

“I am sure of it.”

“And you would help them to begin the work-”

“Ay! With all my strength.”

“Fool;”

“How so-”

“What will you gain by the overthrow of this monarchy-”

“I- Nothing. But the people will gain happiness.”

“Come, as I am satisfied with what I have done to-day, I am willing to waste a little time on you. Explain then, first, how you are to attain to this happiness, and afterward what happiness is.”

“How I am to attain to it-”

“Yes, to this universal happiness of yours, or to the overthrow of the monarchy, which in your eyes seems to be the same thing.”

“Well, there exists at this moment a ministry which is the last rampart of the monarchy, intelligent, industrious, courageous, and which might perhaps maintain this tottering and worn-out machine for twenty j-ears longer; but they will assist me to overturn it.”

“Who- Your philosophers-”

“No. The philosophers support it, on the contrary.”

“What! Your philosophers support a ministry which supports a monarchy to which they themselves are hostile- What fools these philosophers of yours are!”

“It is because the prime minister is himself a philosopher.”

“So! I understand-they mean to govern in the person of this minister. They are not fools, then; they are selfish.”

“I do not wish to discuss what they are,” exclaimed Balsamo, who began to get impatient. “All I know is, that this ministry overturned, Everyone will cry havoc, and let slip the dogs of war on their successors. First, there will be against them the philosophers, then the parliament. The philosophers will blame, the parliament will blame; the ministry will persecute the philosophers, and will dissolve the parliament. Then both mind and matter will combine, and organize a silent league-an opposition, obstinate, tenacious, incessant, which will attack, undermine, shake all. Instead of parliaments, judges will be appointed; these judges, nominated by the king, will move heaven and earth in defense of royalty. They will be accused, and with truth, of venality, of connivance, of injustice. The nation will arise, and then 'the monarchy will have against it the philosophers-that is, mind; the parliaments-that is, the middle class; the people-that is, the lever, which Archimedes sought, and with which he could have raised the world.”

“Well, when you have raised the world, you can only let it fall back again into its old place.”

“Yes; but in falling back it will crush the monarchy to atoms.”

“And when the monarchy is crushed to atoms-to adopt your false metaphors and inflated language-what will arise on its ruins-”

“Liberty!”

“Ah! the French will then be free-”

“They cannot fail to be so soon.”

“All free-”

“All.”

“There will then be in France thirty millions of free men-”

“Yes.”

“And among those thirty millions of free men, has it never occurred to you that there might be one, with a little more brains than the rest, who, some fine morning, will seize on the liberty of the twenty-nine millions nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine, in order that he might have a little more liberty himself- You remember that dog we had at Medina, who ate up what was intended for all the other dogs-”

“Yes; but you may remember also, that one day the others combined together and strangled him.”

“Because they were dogs; in such a case men would have done nothing.”

“Then you place man's intelligence below that of a dog, master-”

“All examples prove it.”

“What examples-”

“I think you may recall among the ancients a certain Caesar Augustus, and among the moderns a certain Oliver Cromwell, who bit rather deeply into the Roman cake and the English cake, without any great resistance having been offered by those from whom they snatched it.”

“Well; and supposing that the man of whom you speak should arise, he will be mortal, he will die; and before dying he will have done good even to those whom he may have oppressed; for he will have changed the nature of the aristocracy. Being obliged to lean for support on something, he will choose that which is strongest-the people. Instead of an equality which degrades, he will establish an equality which elevates; for equality has no fixed range; it adapts itself to the level of him who makes it. Now, in elevating the people in the social scale, he will have introduced a principle unknown until his time. A revolution will make the French free; a protectorate under another Caesar Augustus, or another Oliver Cromwell, will make them equal.”

Althotas wheeled round in his armchair.

“Oh, the stupidity of man!” he cried. “Busy yourself for twenty years in educating a child-teach him all that you know-that at thirty he may come and tell you-'Men will be equal!'“

“Certainly, men will be equal-equal before the law.”

“And before death, fool-before death, that law of laws, will they be equal, when one shall die at three days old and another at one hundred years- Equal- Men equal as long as they are subject to death-Oh, fool! Tin-ice sodden fool!”

And Althotas threw himself back in his chair to laugh at his ease, while Balsamo, grave and sad, sat with his head leaning on his hand.

The old man at length turned a look of pity on him.

“Am I,” said he, “the equal of the workman who munches his coarse bread- of the sucking babe- of the driveling old man sunk in second childhood- Wretched sophist that you are! Men can be equal only when they are immortal; for, when immortal, they will be gods, and gods alone are on an equality with one another.”

“Immortal!” murmured Balsamo. “Immortal!-'Tis a chimera.”

“A chimera- Yes; a chimera like steam-a chimera like the electric fluid-a chimera like everything which is sought -which is not yet discovered-but which will be discovered. Rake up the dust of by-gone worlds, lay bare one after another the superincumbent strata, each of which represents a social state now passed away; and in these human strata-in this detritus of kingdoms-in these slimy deposits of time, into which modern investigation has pierced like an iron plowshare-what do you read- Is it not that men have, in all ages, sought what I seek, under the various names of the highest good, human happiness, perfection- When did they not seek it- They sought it in the days of Homer, when men lived two hundred years-they sought it in the days of the patriarchs, when they lived eight centuries. They did not find that highest good-that well-being-that perfection; for, if they had, this decrepit world would now be fresh, youthful, roseate as the morning dawn. Instead of that we have suffering, death, decay. Is suffering good- Is death lovely- Is decay fair to look upon-”

Here the old man was interrupted by his short, dry cough, and Balsamo had a moment to reply.

“You acknowledge,” said he, “that no one has yet discovered that elixir of life which you seek. I tell you that no one will ever discover it. Submit to God.”

“Fool! No one has discovered it; therefore no one will discover it! By that mode of reasoning we should never have made any discoveries. But do you think that all discoveries are new things, inventions- Far from it; they are forgotten things found again. Why should things, once found, be forgotten- Because life is too short for the discoverer to draw from his discovery all the deductions which belong to it. Twenty times has man been on the point of grasping the elixir of life. Do you think that the Styx was merely a dream of Homer's- Do you think that Achilles, almost immortal, because vulnerable in his heel alone, was a fable- No; Achilles was the pupil of Chiron, as you are my pupil. That word Chiron means either best or worst. Chiron was a sage whom they have depicted as a Centaur, because by his learning he had endowed man with the strength and swiftness of the horse. Well, like me, he had almost found the elixir of immortality. Perhaps, like me, he wanted only three drops of blood. The want of those three drops of blood rendered Achilles vulnerable in his heel; death found a passage-it entered. Well, what have you to say to that-”

“I say,” replied Balsamo, visibly shaken, “that I have my task and you have yours; let each fulfill his own at his own personal risk and danger. I will not second yours by a crime.”

“By a crime-”

“Yes; and by such a crime-as would raise a whole people, with cries of indignation in pursuit of you-a crime which would cause you to hang on one of those infamous gibbets from which your science has not secured the best men any more than the worst.”

Althotas struck the marble table with his dry and fleshless hands. “Come!” said he, “be not a humane idiot-the worst race of idiots which exist in the world! Let us just converse a little on these laws of yours -these brutal and absurd laws, written by animals of your species who shudder at a drop of blood shed for a wise purpose, but gloat over torrents of the vital fluid shed on scaffolds, before the ramparts of cities, or on those plains which they call fields of battle! Your laws, ignorant and selfish, sacrificing the future generation to the present, and which have taken for their motto; 'Live to-day; for to-morrow we die!' Let us speak of them, I say.”

“Say what you have to say-I am listening,” said Balsamo, becoming more and more gloomy.

“Have you a pencil- I wish you to make a little calculation.”

“I can calculate without pen or pencil -proceed with what you have to say.”

“What was this that your project was- Oh! I remember. You are to overturn a ministry, dissolve the parliament, establish venal judges, cause a national bankruptcy, stir up rebellion, kindle a revolution, overturn the monarchy, raise up a protectorate, and hurl down the protector. The revolution is to bring freedom-the protectorship equality. Then, the French being free and equal, your task will be accomplished- Is not that it-”

“Yes; do you look on the thing as impossible-”

“I do not believe in impossibility. You see I play fairly with you.”

“Well, what then-”

“In the first place, France is not England, where what you wish to do has already been done-plagiarist that you are! France is not an isolated land, where ministers may be dismissed, parliaments dissolved, iniquitous judges established, bankruptcy brought about, revolt fomented, revolution kindled, the monarchy overturned, a protectorship established, and the protector then overthrown, without other nations interfering a little in these movements. France is soldered to Europe as the liver to the frame of man. It has roots in all nations; its fibers extend through every people. Try to tear up the liver of this great machine which is called the European continent, and for twenty, thirty, forty years perhaps, the whole body will quiver. But I shall take the lowest number, I shall say twenty years. Is that too much, oh sage philosopher-”

“No, it is not too much.” said Balsamo; “it is not even enough.”

“However, I am satisfied with it. Twenty years of war, of a bloody, mortal, incessant strife-let me see-I put down that at two hundred thousand dead each year. That is not too high a calculation, considering that there will be fighting at the same time in Germany. Italy, Spain, and Heaven knows where else! Two hundred thousand men a year, in twenty years make four millions. Allowing each man seventeen pounds of blood, which is nearly the natural quantity, that will make-seventeen multiplied by four-let me see-that will make sixty-eight millions of pounds of blood, shed for the attainment of your object. I, for my part, ask but three drops! Say, now, which of us is mad-which of us is the savage-which of us the cannibal- Well, you do not answer-”

“Yes, master, I do answer, that three drops of blood would be nothing were you sure of success.”

“And you, who would shed sixty-eight millions of pounds, are you sure of success- Speak- If you be sure, lay your hand on your heart and say, 'Master, for these four millions of dead, I guarantee the happiness of the human race!'“

“Master,” said Balsamo, evading a direct reply, “in the name of Heaven seek for some other means than this!”

“Ah, you dare not answer me! You dare not answer me!” exclaimed Althotas, triumphantly.

“You are deceived, master, about the efficacy of the means-it is impossible.”

“Ay- So you give advice, so you contradict me, so you give me the lie, do you-” said Althotas, rolling his gray eyes from beneath his white and shaggy eyebrows with au expression of concentrated anger.

“No, master-but I cannot help reflecting on the difficulties in your way-I, who am brought every day into contact with the world, in opposition to men-who have to struggle against princes, and who do not live like you, secluded in a corner, indifferent to all that passes around you, and careless whether your actions are forbidden or authorized by the laws-a pure abstraction, in short, of the savant and the scholar. I, in short, who see the difficulties, warn you of them. That is all.”

“You could easily set-aside all those difficulties if you chose.”

“Say rather if I believed that you were in the right.”

“You do not believe so, then-”

“No,” said Balsamo.

“You are only tempting me!” cried Althotas.

“No, I merely express my doubts.”

“Well-come; do you believe in death-”

“I believe in what is. Now death is.”

Althotas shrugged his shoulders.

“Death is,” continued Balsamo; “that is one point which you will not contest.”

“No, it is incontestable. It is omnipresent, invincible, too-is it not-” added the old man with a smile which made his adept shudder.

“Oh, yes, master; omnipresent, and, above all, invincible!”

“And when you see a corpse, the cold sweat bedews your forehead, regret pierces your heart-”

“No-the cold sweat does not bedew my forehead, because I am familiar with every form of human misery; grief does not pierce my heart, because I attach little value to life. I only say in the presence of a corpse; 'Death! death! thou art as powerful as God. Thou reignest as a sovereign, O death, and none can prevail against thee! '

Althotas listened to Balsamo in silence, giving no other sign of impatience than that of turning a scalpel eagerly in his fingers; but when the pupil had ended his painful and solemn invocation, the master looked around him with a smile, and his piercing eyes, which seemed to penetrate nature's most hidden secrets, rested on a poor black dog, which lay trembling in a, corner of the room on a little heap of straw. It was the last of three animals of the same species which Althotas had demanded for his experiments, and which Balsamo had procured for him.

“Take that dog,” said Althotas, “and place it on the table.”

Balsamo obeyed.

The creature, which seemed to have a presentiment of its fate, and which had, no doubt, already been in the hands of the experimenter, began to tremble, struggle, and howl, as soon as it felt the contact of the marble table.

“And so,” said Althotas, “you believe in life, do you not, since you believe in death-”

“Certainly.”

“There is a dog which appears to me quite alive. What do you think-”

“He is alive, assuredly, because he howls, struggles, is terrified.”

“How ugly black dogs are! By-the-by, remember the first opportunity to get me some white ones.”

“I will endeavor to do so.”

“Well, you say this one is alive- Bark, my little fellow, bark!” said the old man with his frightful laugh, “we must convince my Lord Acharat that you are alive.” And he touched the dog on a certain muscle, which made him bark or rather howl immediately.

“Very well; now bring forward the air-pump, and put the dog under the receiver. But I forgot to ask you in which death you have the firmest belief.”

“I do not know what you mean, master; death is death.”

“Very just; that is my opinion also. Then, since death is death, make a vacuum, Acharat.”

Balsamo turned a handle, and the air which was inclosed with the dog in the receiver rushed out by means of a tube with a sharp whistling sound. The little dog seemed at first restless, then looked around, snuffed the air uneasily, raised its head, breathed noisily and hurriedly, and at last sunk down-suffocated, swollen, senseless.

“Now, the dog is dead of apoplexy, is he not-” said Althotas; “a very good kind of death, as it does not cause much suffering.”

“Yes.”

“Is he really dead-”

“Certainly he is.”

“You do not seem quite convinced. Acharat.”

“Yes, I assure you I am.”

“Oh, you know my resources, do you not- You suppose that I have discovered the art of insufflation, do you not- -that other problem which consists in restoring life by making the vital air circulate in a body which has not been wounded, as in a bladder which has not been pierced-”

“No; I suppose nothing. I simply believe that the dog is dead.”

“However, for greater security, we shall kill him twice. Lift up the receiver, Acharat.”

Acharat raised the glass shade. The dog did not stir; his eyelids were closed, and his heart had ceased to beat.

“Take this scalpel, and without wounding the larynx, divide the vertebral column.”

“I do so only to satisfy you.”

“And also to put an end to the poor animal in case it should not be quite dead,” replied Althotas, smiling with that kind of obstinate pertinacity peculiar to the aged.

Balsamo made an incision with the keen blade, which divided the vertebral column about two inches below the brain, and laid bare a large bloody wound. The animal, or rather the dead body of the animal, remained motionless.

“Ha! by my faith, he was quite dead,” said Althotas. “See! not a fiber moves, not a muscle stirs, not one atom of his flesh recoils at this second attempt.”

“I shall acknowledge all that as often as you like,” said Balsamo, impatiently.

“Then you are certain that you behold an animal, inert, cold, forever incapable of motion. Nothing can prevail against death, you say. No power can restore life, or even the semblance of life to this poor creature-”

“No power, except that of God.”

“Yes, but God turns not aside from his established laws. When God kills, as He is supreme wisdom, He has a reason for doing so; some benefit is to result from it. An assassin, I forget his name, said that once, and it was well said. Nature has an interest in Death. Then you see before you a dog as dead as it is possible to be. Nature has taken possession of her rights over him.”

Althotas fixed his piercing eye on Balsamo, who, wearied by the old man's dotage, only bowed in reply.

“Well,” continued Althotas, “what would you say if this dog opened his eye and looked at you!”

“I should be very much surprised, master.”

“You would be surprised- Ha! I am delighted to hear it.” On uttering these words with his dreary hollow laugh, the old man drew near the dog a machine composed of plates of metal separated by dampers of cloths; the center of this apparatus was swimming in a mixture of acidulated water; the two extremities, or poles, as they are called, projected from the trough.

“Which eye do you wish him to open, Acharat-” asked the old man.

“The right.”

He placed the two poles of the machine in juxtaposition, separated, however, from each other by a small piece of silk, and fixed them on a muscle in the neck. Instantly the dog opened the right eye and looked steadily at Balsamo, who recoiled with horror.

“Shall we now pass to the jaw-” asked Althotas.

Balsamo made no reply; he was overpowered with astonishment.

Another muscle was touched; and the eye having closed, the jaws opened, showing the sharp white teeth, and below them the gums red and quivering apparently with life.

“This is, in truth, strange!” murmured Balsamo, unable to conceal his agitation.

“You see that death is not so powerful after all,” said Althotas, triumphing at the discomfiture of his pupil, “since a poor old man like me, who must soon be its prey, can turn it-the inexorable one-from its path.” Then, with a sharp ringing laugh, he suddenly added; “Take care. Acharat, the dog who just now seemed as if he would bite you, is going to give you chase. Take care!”

And, in fact, the dog, with its neck laid open, its gaping mouth, and quivering eye, rose suddenly on its four legs, and staggered for a moment, its head hanging down hideously. Balsamo felt his hair stand on end, and he recoiled to the wall of the apartment, uncertain whether to fly or remain.

“Come, come, I do not wish to kill you with fright in trying to instruct you,” said Althotas, pushing aside the dead body and the machine. “Enough of experiments like that.”

Immediately the body, ceasing to be in contact with the battery, fell down, stiff and motionless, as before.

“Could you have believed that of death, Acharat- Did you think it so kindly disposed-”

“It is strange, in truth-very strange!” replied Balsamo, drawing nearer.

“You see, my child, that we may arrive at what I seek, for the first step toward it is made. What is it to prolong life, when we have already succeeded in annihilating death-”

“But we must not assume that yet,” objected Balsamo; “for the life which you have just restored is only factitious.”

“With time we shall discover the real life. Have you not read in the Roman poets that Cassidaeus restored life to dead bodies-”

“Yes; in the works of the poets.”

“Do not forget, my friend, that the Romans called poets vates.”

“But I have still an objection to offer.”

“Let me hear it! Let me hear it!”

“If your elixir of life were made, and if you caused this dog to swallow some of it, he would live eternally-”

“Without doubt.”

“But suppose he fell into the hands of an experimenter like you, who cut his throat-what then-”

“Good! good!” cried the old man, joyfully, and rubbing his hands together; “this is what I expected from you.”

“Well, if you expected it, reply to it.”

“I ask no better.”

“Will your elixir prevent a chimney from falling on a man's head, a pistol-ball from going through his heart, a horse from giving him a kick that shall destroy him-”

Althotas looked at Balsamo with the eye of a bravo who feels that he has exposed himself to his adversary's blow.

“No, no, no!” said he; “you are a real logician, my dear Acharat. No, I cannot prevent the effects of the chimney, or of the ball, or of the horse, while there are houses, firearms, and horses.”

“However, you can bring the dead to life-”

“Why, yes-for a moment-not for an indefinite period. In order to do that I must first discover the spot where the soul is lodged, and that may be rather tedious-but I can prevent the soul from leaving the body by a wound.”

“How so-”

“By causing the wound to close up.”

“Even if an artery be divided.”

“Certainly.”

“Ah! I should like to see that done.”

“Very well, look!” And before Balsamo could prevent him, the old man opened a vein in his left arm with a lancet. There was so little blood in his body, and it circulated so slowly, that it was some time before it issued from the wound, but at last it did flow abundantly.

“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Balsamo.

“Well, what is the matter-” said Althotas.

“You have wounded yourself seriously.”

“That is because you are so skeptical; you must see and touch before you will believe.”

He then took a little phial which he had placed near him, and poured a few drops of its contents on the wound.

“Look!” said he.

At the touch of this magic fluid the blood ceased to flow, the flesh contracted, closing up the vein, and the wound became merely like the prick of a pin, too small an opening for the vital stream to issue from.

This time Balsamo gazed at the old man in amazement.

“That is another of my discoveries, Achurat. What do you think of it-”

“Oh, master, you are the most learned of men.”

“Yes, acknowledge that if I have not conquered death, I have at least dealt it a blow from which it will not readily recover. The bones of the human body are easily broken; I shall render them, my son, as hard as steel. It has blood, which when it is shed carries life along with it. I shall prevent the blood from leaving the body. The flesh is soft and can be pierced without difficulty; I shall make it invulnerable as that of the paladins of the middle ages, which blunted the edge of swords and axes. But to do all that it requires an Althotas who shall live three hundred years. Well, give me then what I ask, and I shall live one thousand! Oh, my dear Acharat, all depends on you! Give me back my youth! give me back the vigor of my body; give me back the freshness of my ideas; and you shall see whether I fear the sword, the ball, the tottering wall, or the stupid beast which bites or kicks. In my fourth youth, Acharat, that is, before I have lived to the age of four men, I tell you I shall have renewed the face of the world-I shall have made for myself and for a regenerated race of men a new world, without falling chimneys, without swords, without musket-balls, without kicking horses; for men will then understand that it is better to live to help and love one another than to tear each other to pieces, and to destroy each other.”

“It is true, master; or, at least, it is, possible.”

“Well, bring me the child, then.”

“Give me time to reflect on the matter, and reflect on it yourself.”

Althotas darted on his adept a glance of sovereign scorn.

“Go,” said he, “go! I shall yet convince you that I am right. And, in truth, the blood of man is not so precious an ingredient that a substitute for it may not be found. Go! I shall seek-I shall find. Go! I need you not.”

Balsamo struck the trap-door with his foot, and descended into the lower apartment, mute, melancholy, and wholly subdued by the genius of this man, who compelled him to believe in impossibilities, by accomplishing them before his eyes.

CHAPTER LXI. INQUIRIES.

THIS NIGHT, so long and so fertile in events, during which we have been borne about, as in the cloud of the mythological deities, from St. Denis to Muette, from Muette to the Rue Coq-Heron, from the Rue Coq-Heron to the Rue Plastriere, and from thence to the Rue St. Claude, bad been employed by Madame Dubarry in efforts to bend the king's mind to her new political views. She insisted in particular on the danger there would be in allowing the Choiseuls to gain ground with the dauphiness.

The king replied to this with a shrug, “That the dauphiness was a child, and the Duke de Choiseul was an elderly minister, and that consequently there was no danger, seeing that he could not amuse her, and she would not understand him.” Then, enchanted with this bon mot, the king cut short all further explanations.

But if the king was enchanted, the countess was far from being so, as she thought she perceived symptoms of his majesty's throwing off her yoke.

Louis XV, was a male coquette. His greatest happiness consisted in his making his mistresses jealous, providing always that their jealousy did not assume the form of obstinate quarrels and prolonged sulkiness.

Madame Dubarry was jealous; in the first place from vanity, secondly, from fear. It had cost her too much pains to attain her present elevated position, and it was too far removed from her point of departure, for her to dare, like Madame de Pompadour, to tolerate other favorites near the king. Madame Dubarry, then, being jealous, was determined to probe to the bottom this sudden change in the king's manner.

The king replied to her in these memorable words, in which there was not one particle of truth; “I am thinking very seriously about the happiness of my daughter-in-law; I really do not know whether the dauphin will make her happy or not.”

“Why not, Sire-”

“Because Louis, at Compiegne. St. Denis, and Muette, seemed to me much more occupied with any other woman than his own wife.”

“In truth, Sire, if your majesty had not told me this yourself, I should not have believed it; for the dauphiness is lovely.”

“She is rather thin.”

“She is so young.”

“Oh, as for that, look at Mademoiselle de Taverney; she is the same age as the archduchess!”

“Well, Sire-”

“Well, she is a faultless beauty.”

A flash from the countess's eye warned the king of his mistake.

“And you yourself, dear countess,” he added quickly, “you yourself, at sixteen, were as round as one of our friend Boucher's shepherdesses, I am sure.”

This little bit of adulation smoothed matters in some degree, but the blow had taken effect. Madame Dubarry therefore assumed the offensive.

“Ah!” said she, bridling, “so she is very handsome, this Mademoiselle de Taverney-”

“Handsome! How should I know-” replied the king.

“What- You praise her, and yet you do not know, you say, whether she is handsome or not-”

“I know that she is not thin, that is all.”

“Then you have seen her, and looked rather narrowly at her-”

“Ah! my dear countess, you push me rather closely. You know that I am short-sighted; a mass strikes me, but deuce take the details! In looking at the dauphiness I saw bones and nothing more.”

“And in looking at Mademoiselle de Taverney you saw masses, to use your own expression; for the dauphiness is an aristocratic beauty, Mademoiselle de Taverney a vulgar one.”

“Oh, ho!” said the king, “by this mode of reckoning, Jeanne, you will never be an aristocratic beauty! Come, you must be jesting, I think.”

“Very good; a compliment!” thought the countess to herself. “Unfortunately this compliment only serves as the outer covering of another compliment which is not intended for me.” Then aloud:

“On my honor,” said she. “I shall be very glad if her royal highness the dauphiness chooses for her ladies of honor those that are a little attractive; a court of old women is frightful.”

“My fairest one, you need not tell that to me. I said the same thing to the dauphin yesterday; but our newly fledged husband seems quite indifferent about the matter.”

“And suppose for a beginning she were to take this Mademoiselle de Taverney-”

“I think she has already chosen her,” replied Louis.

“Ah! you know that, Sire-”

“At least, I fancy I heard someone say so.”

“She has no fortune, I hear.”

“No, but she is of an old family. The Taverneys-Maison-Rouge are of ancient descent, and have served the state honorably.”

“Who patronizes them-”

“I have no idea. But I think they are beggars, as you say.”

“In that case it cannot be the Duke de Choiseul; otherwise they would actually burst with pensions.”

“Countess, countess, I beseech you, no politics!”

“Do you call it politics to say that the Choiseuls are robbing you-”

“Certainly it is,” said the king, rising.

An hour afterward, the king arrived at the great Trianon, delighted at having awakened the countess's jealousy, but repeating to himself, in a half-whisper, as the Duke de Richelieu might have done at thirty, “Really, jealous women are very tiresome!”

No sooner had his majesty left Madame Dubarry, than she also rose and passed into her boudoir, where Chon awaited her, impatient to near the news.

“Well!” said she, “your star has been in the ascendant these last few days -presented to the dauphiness the day before yesterday -invited to her table yesterday!”

“A great triumph, truly!”

“What! Do you speak in that tone- Are you aware that, at this moment, a hundred carriages are hastening to Luciennes, that their occupants may obtain a smile from you-”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“Why so-”

“Because they are losing their time. Neither the carriages nor their owners shall have a smile from me this morning.”

“Ah! this is a cloudy morning, then, countess-”

“Yes; very cloudy! My chocolate, quick-ray chocolate!”

Chon rang the bell, and Zamore appeared.

“My chocolate!” said the countess.

Zamore retired, walking very slowly and with a most majestic strut.

“The wretch intends that I should die of hunger!” cried the countess. “A hundred blows of the whip if you do not run.”

“Me not run-me governor,” said Zamore majestically.

“Ah! You governor-” exclaimed the countess, seizing a little riding-whip with a silver handle, which she used for keeping peace among the spaniels and monkeys; “governor, indeed! Wait, governor, and you shall see!”

At this spectacle Zamore took to flight, slamming the doors behind him and uttering loud cries.

“Really. Jeanne, you are perfectly ferocious to-day,” said Chon.

“I am at liberty to be so if I please, am I not-”

“Oh, very well; but in that case you must permit me to leave you, my dear!”

“Why so-”

“I am afraid of being devoured.”

Three taps were heard at the door.

“Well, who is knocking now-” said the countess impatiently.

“Whoever he is, he will get a warm reception,” muttered Chon.

“Oh! I should advise you to give me a bad reception!” said Jean, throwing open the door with a majestic air.

“Well, and what would happen if you were ill received- For, after all, the thing is possible.”

“It would happen,” said Jean, “that I should never come back.”

“Well-”

“And that you would lose a great deal more than I should by receiving me badly.”

“Impertinent fellow!”

“Ah! I am impertinent, because I do not flatter. What is the matter with her this morning, Chon, my beauty-”

“Don't speak to me about her, Jean. She is perfectly insufferable. Oh, here is the chocolate.”

“Oh, well, never mind her, then. How do you do, chocolate- I am very glad to see you, my dear chocolate!” continued Jean, taking the tray from the servant, placing it on a little table in the corner, and seating himself before it.

“Come, Chon-come!” said he; “those who are too proud to speak shall not have any.”

“You are quite delightful, you two!” said the countess, seeing that Chon by a sign gave Jean to understand that he might breakfast alone. “You pretend to be hurt, and yet you do not see that I am suffering.”

“What is the matter, then-” said Chon, approaching her.

“No!” exclaimed the countess, pettishly. “Neither of them bestow a thought on what torments me.”

“And what does torment you-” asked Jean, coolly cutting a slice of bread and butter.

“Do you want money-” asked Chon.

“Oh! as for money, the king shall want before I.”

“I wish you would lend me a thousand louis-d'ors, then,” said Jean; “I require them very much.”

“A thousand fillips on your great red nose!”

“The king has positively decided on keeping that abominable Choiseul, then-” asked Chon.

“Great news that! You know very well that the Choiseuls are immovable.”

“Then the king has fallen in love with the dauphiness.”

“Now you are coming nearer it. But look at that beast stuffing himself with chocolate! He would not move his little finger to save me from destruction. Oh, those two creatures will be the death of me!”

Jean, without paying the least attention to the storm which was raging behind him, cut a second slice, buttered it carefully, and poured out another cup of chocolate.

“How! The king is really in love-” cried Chon, clasping her hands and turning pale.

Madame Dubarry nodded, as much as to say, “You have hit it.”

“Oh! if it be so, we are lost!” continued Chon; “and will you suffer that, Jeanne- But whom has he fancied-”

“Ask your brother there, who is purple with chocolate, and who looks as if he was just going to burst. He will tell you, for he knows, or at least he suspects.” Jean raised his head.

“Did you speak-” said he.

“Yes, most obliging brother!-most useful ally!” said Jeanne, “I was asking you the name of the person whom the king has fancied.”

Jean's mouth was so well filled that it was with great difficulty he sputtered out, “Mademoiselle de Taverney.”

“Mademoiselle de Taverney! Oh, mercy on us!” cried Chon.

“He knows it, the wretch!” shrieked the countess, throwing herself back in her chair, and clasping her hands-” he knows it, and he eats!”

“Oh!” said Chon, visibly deserting from her brother's camp to enter that of her sister.

“I wonder,” cried the countess, “what prevents me from tearing out his two great ugly eyes! Look at them, all swollen with sleep, the lazy wretch! He has just got up, my dear, just got up!”

“You are mistaken,” said Jean, “I have not been in bed at all.”

“And what were you doing, then, you glutton-”

“Why, faith, I have been running up and down all night and all morning, too.”

“I told you so. Oh, who is better served than I am- No one-no one to tell me where that girl is!”

“Where she is-” asked Jean.

“Yes.”

“Where should she be but in Paris-”

“In Paris- But whereabouts in Paris.”

“Rue Coq-Heron.”

“Who told you so-”

“The coachman who drove her; I waited for him at the stables and questioned him.”

“He told you-”

“That he had just driven the entire Taverney family to a little hotel in the Rue Coq-Heron, situated in a garden adjoining the Hotel d'Armenonville.”

“Oh, Jean, Jean!” cried the countess, “this reconciles me to you, my dear. But now what we want is to know the particulars. How she lives- Whom she sees- What she does- Does she receive any letters- These are the important points.”

“Well, you shall know all that.”

“But how- But how-”

“Ah! Just so. Now try to find out how yourself. I have found out a great deal for my share.”

“Oh,” said Chon, “there might be lodgings to let in the Rue Coq-Heron.”

“An excellent idea!” exclaimed the countess. “You must hasten to the Rue Coq-Heron, Jean, and hire a house. We will conceal someone there who can see Everyone that goes in or comes out. We shall know all. Quick! Order the carriage.”

“It is useless-there is neither house nor lodging to be let in that street.”

“How do you know-”

“Faith, in the surest way that one can know!-I have inquired; but there are apartments-”

“Where-where-”

“In the Rue Plastriere-”

“And where is the Rue Plastriere-

“It is a street whose rear looks toward the garden of the hotel.”

“Well! quick, quick!” said the countess, “let us hire an apartment in the Rue Plastriere.”

“It is already hired,” said Jean.

“Admirable man!” cried the countess; “kiss me, Jean.”

Jean wiped his mouth, kissed Madame Dubarry on both cheeks, and then made a ceremonious bow of thanks for the honor that had been done him.

“Was it not luck-” said he.

“But I hope no one recognized you-”

“Who the devil should recognize me in a street like that-”

“And what have you engaged-”

“A little apartment in an obscure out-of-the-way house.”

“But they must have asked for whom-”

“Certainly they did.”

“And what did you say-”

“That it was for a young widow-are you a widow, Chon-”

“Of course I am!” said Chon.

“Excellent!” said the countess. “Then it is Chon who shall be installed in the apartment; she will watch, she will spy -but not a moment must be lost.”

“Therefore I shall set off at once,” said Chon. “The carriage! the carriage!”

“The carriage!” repeated Madame Dubarry, ringing loud enough to have awakened the whole household of the Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.

Jean and the countess knew perfectly what they had to dread from Andree's presence. She had, even on her first appearance, attracted the king's attention, therefore she was dangerous.

“This girl,” said the countess, while the horses were being put to, “is not a true provincial if she have not brought some rustic lover with her from her dovecot at Taverney; let us but discover the swain, and patch up a marriage at once. Nothing would cool the king like a marriage between country lovers.”

“Oh, the devil! I am not quite so sure of that,” said Jean; “I rather distrust his Most Christian Majesty. But the carriage is ready.”

Chon sprang into it, after having embraced her sister and pressed Jean's hand.

“But why not take Jean-” asked the countess.

“No, no; I shall go my own way.” replied Jean. “Wait for me in the Rue Plastriere; I shall be your first visitor in your new domicile.”

Chon drove off. Jean seated himself at his table again, and poured out a third cup of chocolate.

Chon called first at the family residence and changed her dress, studying as much as possible to assume the costume and appearance of a tradesman's wife. Then, when she was satisfied with her labors, she threw over her aristocratic shoulders a meager black silk mantle; ordered a sedan chair to the door, and about half an hour afterward, she and Sylvie were mounting the steep, narrow staircase leading up to' the fourth story of a house in the Rue Plastriere. For in a fourth story was situated that lodging so fortunately procured by the viscount.

When she reached the landing of the second story, Chon turned, for she heard someone following her. It was the old proprietress of the house, who lived on the first floor, and who, hearing a noise, had come out to see what caused it, and was rather puzzled at beholding two women, so young and pretty, enter her abode. Raising her snappish countenance to the landing above her, her gaze was met by two faces whose smiling expression formed a strong contrast to her own.

“Stop, ladies, stop!” cried she; “what do you want here-”

“The lodging which my brother was to engage for us, ma'am,” said Chon, assuming the serious air of a widow. “Have you not seen him, or can we have made a mistake in the house-”

“Oh, no.” replied the old proprietress; “you are quite right; it is on the fourth story. Poor young creature! A widow at your age!”

“Alas! alas!” sighed Chon, raising her eyes to heaven.

“But do not grieve; you will be very pleasantly situated in the Rue Plastriere. It is a charming street; you will hear no noise, and your apartment looks into the gardens.”

“That is just what I wished, ma'am.”

“And besides, by means of the corridor, you can see into the street when any procession is passing, or when the learned dogs are exhibited.”

“Thank you; that will be a great relief to me,” sighed Chon, and she continued to ascend.

The old proprietress followed her with her eyes until she reached the fourth story. Then Chon, after shutting the door, hurried to the window which looked on the garden.

Jean had committed no mistake; almost immediately below the window of the apartment which he had engaged was the garden pavilion which the coachman had described to him.

Soon, however, all doubts were removed; a young girl came forward to the window of the pavilion, and seated herself before a little embroidery frame. It was Andree.

CHAPTER LXII. THE APARTMENT IN THE RUE PLASTRIERE.

CHON HAD not scrutinized the young girl many seconds, before Viscount Juan, ascending the stairs four at a time, like a lawyer's clerk, appeared on the threshold of the pretended widow's apartment.

“Well-” said he, inquiringly.

“Is it you, Jean- In truth, you frightened me.”

“Well, what do you say to if-”

“Why, that I shall be admirably situated here for seeing all that passes; unluckily, I shall not be able to hear everything.”

“Ah! faith, you want too much. By-the-by, I have another piece of news for you.”

“What is it-”

“Wonderful!”

“Pooh!”

“Incomparable!”

“What a bore the man is with his exclamations!”

“The philosopher-”

“Well, what of the philosopher-”

“It is commonly said, 'The wise man is for all events prepared.' Now. I am a wise man, but I was not prepared for this.”

“I should like to know when you will finish. Perhaps this girl is in the way. In that case, Mademoiselle Sylvie, step into the next room.”

“Oh, there is no occasion whatever. That charming girl is not in the way; quite the contrary. Remain. Sylvie, remain.” And the viscount chucked the handsome waiting-maid's chin, whose brow began already to darken at the idea that something was about to be said which she was not to hear.

“Let her stay, then; but speak.”

“Why, I have done nothing else since I have been here.”

“And said nothing. So hold your tongue, and let me watch; that will be more to the purpose.”

“Don't be out of temper! As I was saying, then, I was passing the fountain-”

“Positively, you never said a word about it.”

“Why, there you interrupt me again.”

“No.”

“I was passing the fountain, then, and bargaining for some old furniture for this frightful lodging, when all at once I felt a stream of water plashing my stockings.”

“How very interesting all this is!”

“Only wait; you are in too great a hurry, my dear. Well, I looked, and I saw-guess what-I will give you a hundred guesses-”

“Do go on.”

“I saw a young gentleman obstructing the jet of the fountain with a piece of bread, and by means of this obstacle causing the water to diverge and to spurt upon me.”

“I can't tell you how much your story interests me,” said Chon, shrugging her shoulders.

“Only wait. I swore lustily on feeling myself splashed; the bread-soaker turned round, and I saw-”

“Who- Gilbert-”

“Himself -bare-headed, his waistcoat open, stockings dangling about his heels -slices unbuckled-in complete undress, in short.”

“Gilbert!-And what did he say-”

“I recognized him at once, and he recognized me. I advanced; he retreated. I stretched out my arm; he stretched his legs; and off he scampered, like a greyhound, among the carriages and the waterporters.”

“You lost sight of him, then-”

“Parbleu! I believe so. You surely do not suppose that I would start off and run, too-”

“True; it was impossible, I admit. And so we have lost him.”

“All! what a pity!” ejaculated Mademoiselle Sylvie.

“Oh! most certainly,” said Jean; “I owe him a sound thrashing; and if I had once laid hands upon him, he should have lost nothing for waiting, I promise you; but he guessed my kind intentions toward him, and made good use of his legs.”

“No matter; here he is in Paris; that is the essential point; and, in Paris, if you are not on very bad terms with the lieutenant of police, you may find whatever you seek.”

“We must find him.”

“And when we have got him, we must keep him, too.”

“He must be shut up,” said Mademoiselle Sylvie; “only, this time, a safer place must be chosen for the purpose.”

“And Sylvie will carry his bread and water to that safe place-will you not, Sylvie-” said the viscount.

“It is no subject for jesting, brother,” said Chon; “that lad saw the affair of the post-horses, and if he had motives for bearing us a grudge, we might have reason to fear him.”

“And therefore,” replied Jean, “I made up my mind, while ascending your stairs, to call on M, de Sartines and inform him of my discovery. M. de Sartines will reply, that a man, bare-headed, his stockings about his heels, his shoes unbuckled, soaking his bread at a fountain, must live near the spot where he has been seen in such a plight, and he will then engage to find him for us.”

“What can he do here without money-”

“Go errands.”

“He! A philosopher of that wild breed! I am surprised at you!”

“He has perhaps found out a relation,” said Sylvie; “some old devotee, who gives him the crusts that are too stale for her lapdog.”

“Enough, enough, Sylvie! Put the house linen into that old chest; and come you, brother, to our observatory.”

Accordingly the pair approached the window with the greatest caution. Andree had quitted her embroidery, and extended her limbs carelessly upon an armchair; then stretched out her hand to a book lying on another chair within her reach, opened it, and was soon absorbed in what the spectators supposed must be a most interesting subject, for the young girl remained motionless from the moment that she commenced to read.

“Oh! the studious creature!” said Mademoiselle Chou; “what can she be reading there-”

“First indispensable article of furniture,” replied the viscount, taking from his pocket an opera-glass, which he drew out and pointed at Andree, resting it upon the angle of the window for the purpose of steadying it. Chon watched his movements with impatience.

“Well, let us see; is the creature really handsome-” asked she.

“Admirable! She is an exquisite girl! What arms! what hands! what eyes!-lips too tempting for St. Anthony-feet, oh! divine feet! and the ankle-what an ankle under that silk stocking!”

“Oh! I should advise you to fall in love with her; that would complete the affair,” said Chon, peevishly.

“Well, after all, that would be no bad idea either, especially if she would grant me a little love in return; that would somewhat cheer our poor countess.”

“Come, hand me that glass, and a truce to your gabble, if that is possible. Yes, in truth, the girl is handsome, and it is impossible that she should not have a lover. She is not reading-look, the book is slipping out of her hand! There, it drops!-slay-I told you, Jean, she was not reading-she is lost in thought.”

“Or sleep.”

“With her eyes open! Lovely eyes, upon my word.”

“At any rate,” said Jean, “if she have a lover, we shall have a good view of him here.”

“Yes, if he comes in the daytime; but if he should come at night-”

“The deuce! I did not think of that; and yet it is the first thing that I ought to have thought of; that proves how very simple I am.”

“Yes; simple as a lawyer.”

“However, now that I am forewarned. I shall devise something.”

“What an excellent glass this is!” said Chon. “I can almost read the characters in the book.”

Chon had leaned forward out of the window, attracted by her curiosity; but she pulled back her head faster than she had advanced it.

“Well, what is the matter-” asked the viscount.

Chon grasped his arm. “Look cautiously, brother,” said she; “look, who is that person leaning out of yonder garret-window on the left- Take care not to be seen.”

“Oh, ho!” cried Dubarry, in a low tone; “it is my crust-soaker, God forgive me!”

“He is going to throw himself out!”

“No; he has fast hold of the parapet.”

“But what is he looking at with those piercing eyes, with that wild eagerness-”

“He is watching somebody.” The viscount struck his forehead. “I have it!” he exclaimed.-”What-”

“By heavens, he is watching the girl!”

“Mademoiselle de Taverney-”

“Yes, yes; that's the inamorato of the dove-cot. She comes to Paris-he hastens hither too; she takes lodgings in the Rue Coq-Heron-he sneaks away from us to go and live in the Rue Plastriere. He is looking at her, and she is musing.”

“Upon my word, it is true,” said Chon. “Observe that look, how intently fixed. That lurid fire of his eyes. He is distractedly in love.”

“Sister,” said Jean, “let us not give ourselves any further trouble to watch the lady; he will do our business.”

“Yes; for his own interest.”

“No; for ours. Now let me go and see that dear Sartines. Pardieu! we have a chance. But take care, Chon, not to let the philosopher see you; you know how quickly he decamps!”

CHAPTER LXIII. PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.

M, DE SARTINES had returned home at three in the morning, extremely fatigued, but at the same time highly pleased, with the entertainment which he had got up on the spur of the moment for the king and Madame Dubarry. Rekindled by the arrival of the dauphiness, the popular enthusiasm had greeted his majesty with sundry shouts of “Vive le Roi!” greatly diminished in volume since that famous illness at Metz, during which all France had been seen in the churches or on pilgrimage, to obtain the restoration to health of the young Louis XV., called at that time the well-beloved. On the other hand, Madame Dubarry, who scarcely ever failed to be insulted in public by curtain exclamations of a particular kind, had, contrary to her expectation, been graciously received by several rows of spectators judiciously placed in front; so that the pleased monarch had smiled graciously on M, de Sartines, and the lieutenant of police reckoned upon a handsome acknowledgment. In consequence, he thought that he might lie till noon, which he had not done for a very longtime; and, on rising, he had taken advantage of this kind of holiday which he gave himself, to try on some dozen or two of new wigs, while listening to the reports of the night. At the sixth wig, and when about a third through the reports, the Viscount Jean Dubarry was announced.

“Good!” thought M, de Sartines, “here come my thanks. But who knows- women are so capricious. Show M, le Vicomte into the drawing-room.”

Jean, already fatigued with his forenoon's work, seated himself in an armchair, and the lieutenant of police, who speedily joined him, felt convinced that there would be nothing unpleasant in this interview. Jean appeared in fact in the highest spirits. The two gentlemen shook hands.

“Well, viscount,” said M, de Sartines; “what brings you so early-”

“In the first place,” replied Jean, who was accustomed above all things to flatter the self-love of those whose good offices he needed, “in the first place, I was anxious to congratulate you on the capital arrangements of your fete yesterday.”

“Ah! many thanks. Is it officially-”

“Officially, as far as regards Luciennes.”

“That is all I want. Is it not there that the sun rises-”

“Ay, and retires to rest occasionally.”

And Dubarry burst into a loud and rather vulgar laugh, but one which gave his physiognomy that good-natured look which it frequently required. “But,” said he, “besides the compliments which I have to pay you, I have come to solicit a service also.”

“Two, if they are possible.”

“Not so fast; I hope to hear you say so, by-and-by. When a thing is lost in Paris, is there any hope of finding it again-”

“If it is either worth nothing, or worth a great deal, there is.”

“What I am seeking is of no great value,” said Jean, shaking his head.

“And what are you in search of-”

“I am in search, of a lad about eighteen years old.”

M, de Sartines extended his hand to a paper, took a pencil, and wrote.

“Eighteen years old; what is your lad's name-”

“Gilbert.”

“What does he do-”

“As little as he can help, I suppose.”

“Where does he come from-”

“From Lorraine.”

“With whom was he-”

“In the service of the Taverneys.”

“They brought him with them-”

“No, my sister Chon picked him up on the high-road, perishing with hunger; she took him into her carriage and brought him to Luciennes, and there-”

“Well, and there-”

“I am afraid the rogue has abused the hospitality he met with.”

“Has he stolen anything-”

“I do not say that. But, in short, he absconded in a strange way.”

“And you would now like to get him back-”

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea where he can be-”

“I met him yesterday at the fountain which forms the corner of the Rue Plastriere, and have every reason to think that he lives in the street. In fact, I believe, if necessary, that I can point out the house.”

“Well, but if you know the house, nothing is easier than to have him seized there. What do you wish to do with him when you have caught him- Have him shut up at Charentou-in the Bicetre-”

“Not precisely that.”

“Oh! whatever you please, my dear fellow. Don't stand on ceremony.”

“No, on the contrary, this lad pleased my sister, and she would have liked to keep him about her, as he is intelligent. If one could get him back for her by fair means, it would be more desirable.”

“We must try. You have not made any inquiry in the Rue Plastriere to learn with whom he is-”

“Oh, no! You must understand that I did not wish to attract attention, for fear of losing the advantage I had observed. He had already perceived me, and scampered off as if the devil was at his heels; and, if he had known that I was aware of his retreat, he would perhaps have decamped.”

“Very likely. Rue Plastriere, you say. At the end, the middle, or the beginning of the street.”

“About one-third down.”

“Rest satisfied, I will send a clever fellow thither for you.”

“Ah, my dear lieutenant, a man, let him be ever so clever, will always talk a little.”

“No, our people never talk.”

“The young one is cunning as a fox.”

“Ah! I comprehend. Pardon me for not having seen your drift sooner. You wish me to go myself- In fact, you are right; it will be better, for there are perhaps difficulties in the way which you are not aware of.”

Jean, though persuaded that the magistrate was desirous to assume a little consequence, was not disposed to diminish in the slightest degree the importance of his part. He even added, “It is precisely on account of these difficulties which you anticipate that I am desirous to have your personal assistance.”

M, de Sartines rang for his valet-de-chambre. “Let the horses be put to,” said he.

“I have a carnage,” said Jean.

“Thank you, but I had rather have my own. Mine is without arms, and holds a middle place between a hackney-coach and a chariot. It is freshly painted every month, and for that reason is scarcely to be recognized again. In the meantime, while they are putting the horses to, permit me to try how my new wigs fit me.”

“Oh! by all means,” said Jean.

M, de Sartines summoned his wigmaker. He was an artist of the first water, and brought his client a perfect assortment of wigs; they were of all forms, of all colors, of all dimensions, and of all denominations. M, de Sartines occasionally changed his dress three or four times a day for the purpose of his exploring visits, and he was most particular with regard to the regularity of his costume. While the magistrate was trying on his twenty-fourth wig, a servant came to tell him that the carriage was ready.

“You will know the house again-” said M, de Sartines to Jean, when they were in the carriage.

“Certainly; I see it from this place.”

“Have you examined the entrance-”

“That was the first thing I looked to.”

“And what sort of an entry is it-”

“An alley.”

“Ah! an alley; one-third down the street, you say-”

“Yes, with a private door.”

“With a private door- The deuce! Do you know on what floor your runaway lives-”

“In the attics. But you will see it directly; I perceive the fountain.”

“At a foot-pace, coachman,” said M, de Sartines.

The coachman moderated his speed; M, de Sartines drew up the glasses.

“Stop,” said Jean; “it is that dingy-looking house.”

“Ah, precisely,” exclaimed M, de Sartines, clasping his hands; “that is just what I feared.”

“What! Are you afraid of something-”

“Alas! Yes.”

“And what are you afraid of-

“You are unlucky.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Why, that dingy house where your runaway lives is the very house of Monsieur Rousseau, of Geneva.”

“Rousseau, the author-”

“Yes.”

“Well, and how does that concern you-”

“How does that concern me- Ah! it is plain enough that you are not lieutenant of police, and that you have nothing to do with philosophers.”

“Pooh, pooh! Gilbert at Monsieur Rousseau's-what an improbable story!”

“Have you not said that your youth is a philosopher-”

“Yes.”

“Well-'birds of a feather'-you know.”

“And supposing that he should be at Monsieur Rousseau's-”

“Yes, let us suppose that.”

“What would be the consequence-”

“That you would not have him.”

“Pardieu! Why not-”

“Because Monsieur Rousseau is a man who is much to be dreaded.”

“Why not shut him up in the Bastille, then-”

“I proposed it the other day to the king, but he dared not.”

“What! dared not-”

“No, no; he wanted to leave the responsibility of his arrest to me; and by my faith, I was not bolder than the king.”

“Indeed!”

“It is as I tell you. We have to look twice, I assure you, before we bring all those philosophers about our ears. Peste! Take a person away from Monsieur Rousseau's- No, my dear friend, it will not do.”

“In truth, my dear magistrate, you appear to be excessively timorous. Is not the king the king- Are you not his lieutenant of police-”

“And, in truth, you citizens are charming fellows. When you have said, 'Is not the king the king-' you fancy that you have said all that is necessary. Well, listen to me, my dear viscount. I would rather arrest you at Madame Dubarry's than remove your Monsieur Gilbert from Monsieur Rousseau's.”

“Really! Many thanks for the preference.”

“Yes, upon my honor-there would be less outcry. You have no idea what delicate skins those literary men have; they cry out at the slightest scratch, as if you were breaking them upon the wheel.”

“But let us not conjure up phantoms; look you, is it quite certain that Monsieur Rousseau has harbored our fugitive- This house has four floors. Does it belong to him, and does he alone live in it-”

“Monsieur Rousseau is not worth a denier, and, consequently, has no house in Paris; there are probably from fifteen to twenty other inmates besides himself in yonder barrack. But take this for a rule of conduct; whenever ill luck appears at all probable, reckon upon it; whenever good luck, never reckon upon that. There are always ninety-nine chances for the ill and one for the good. But, however, wait a moment. As I suspected what would happen, I have brought my notes with me.”

“What notes-”

“My notes respecting Monsieur Rousseau. Do you suppose that he can take a step without our knowing whither he is gone-”

“Ha! indeed! Then he is really dangerous-”

“No; but he makes us uneasy. Such a madman may at any time break an arm or a leg, and people would say it was we who had broken it.”

“A good thing if he would break his neck some day.”

“God forbid!”

“Permit me to tell you that this is quite incomprehensible to me.”

“The people stone this honest Genevese from time to time, but they allow no one else to do so; and if the smallest pebble were flung at him by us, they would stone us in return.”

“Excuse me, but in truth, I know not what to make of all these doings.”

“And so we must use the most minute precautions. Now let us verify the only chance which is left us; viz., that he does not lodge with Monsieur Rousseau. Keep yourself out of sight, at the back of the carriage.”

Jean obeyed, and M, de Sartines ordered the coachman to walk the horses a few paces to and from the street.

He then opened his portfolio, and took some papers out of it. “Let me see,” said he, “if your youth is with Monsieur Rousseau. Since what day do you suppose him to have been there-”

“Ever since the sixteenth.”

“'17th.-Monsieur Rousseau was seen herborizing at six o'clock in the morning in the wood of Meudon; he was alone.'“

“He was alone!”

“Let us proceed. 'At two o'clock in the afternoon, he was herborizing again, but with a young man.'“

“Ah, ha!” cried Jean.

“With a young man,” repeated M, de Sartines, “do you understand-”

“That's he, mordieu! that's he!”

“The young man is mean-looking-

“That is he!”

“'The two individuals pick up plants, and dry them in a tin box.'“

“The devil! the devil!” exclaimed Dubarry.

“That is not all. Listen further; 'In the evening he took the young man home; at midnight the young man had not left the house.'“

“Well.”

“'18th.-The young man has not left the house, and appears to be installed at Monsieur Rousseau's.'“

“I have still a gleam of hope.”

“You are decidedly an optimist! No matter, tell me your hope.”

“It is that he has some relation in the house.”

“Come! we must satisfy you, or rather, utterly destroy your hopes. Halt, coachman.”

M, de Sartines alighted. He had not taken ten steps before he met a man in gray clothes, and of very equivocal aspect. This man, on perceiving the illustrious magistrate, took off his hat and replaced it, without appearing to attach further importance to his salutation, although respect and attachment had been expressed in his look. M, de Sartines made a sign; the man approached, received some whispered instructions, and disappeared in Rousseau's alley. The lieutenant of police returned to his carriage. Five minutes after, the man in gray made his appearance again and approached the door.

“I shall turn my head to the right,” said Dubarry, “that I may not be seen.”

M, de Sartines smiled, received the communication of his agent, and dismissed him.

“Well-” inquired Dubarry.

“Well! the chance was against you, as I apprehended; it is with Rousseau that your Gilbert lodges. You must give him up, depend upon it.”

“Give him up-”

“Yes. You would not, for a whim, raise all the philosophers in Paris against us, would you-”

“Oh, heavens! and what will my sister Jeanne say-”

“Is she so much attached to Gilbert-” asked M, de Sartines.

“Indeed she is.”

“Well, in that case, you must resort to gentle means, coax M. Rousseau, and, instead of letting Gilbert be taken from him by force, he will give him up voluntarily.”

“As well set us to tame a bear.”

“It is perhaps not so difficult a task as you imagine. Do not despair; he is fond of pretty faces; that of the countess is very handsome, and Mademoiselle Chon's is not unpleasing. Let me see-the countess will make a sacrifice for her whim-”

“She will make a hundred.”

“Would she consent to fall in love with Rousseau-”

“If it is absolutely necessary.”

“It will perhaps be useful; but to bring the parties together, we shall need a third person. Are you acquainted with anyone who knows Rousseau-”

“M, de Conti.”

“Won't do; he distrusts princes. We want a nobody, a scholar, a poet.”

“We never see people of that sort.”

“Have I not met M, de Jussieu at the countess's-”

“The botanist-”

“Yes.”

“I' faith, I believe so; he comes to Trianon, and the countess lets him ravage her flower-beds.”

“That is your affair; and Jussieu is a friend of mine too.”

“Then the thing is done.”

“Almost.”

“I shall get back my Gilbert, then-”

M, de Sartines mused for a moment. “I begin to think you will,” said he, “and without violence, without noise. Rousseau will deliver him up to you, bound hand and foot.”

“Do you think so-”

“I am sure of it.”

“And what must be done to bring this about-”

“The merest trifle. You have, no doubt, a piece of vacant ground toward Meudon or Marly-”

“Oh! no want of that. I know ten such between Luciennes and Bougival.”

“Well, get built upon it-what shall I call the thing-a philosopher's trap.”

“Excuse me, what was it you said-”

“I said, a philosopher's trap.”

“Pardieu! and how is that built-”

“I will give you a plan of it; rest satisfied. And now, let us be off; we begin to be noticed. To the hotel, coachman.”

CHAPTER LXIV. THE TWO FETES.

THE IMPORTANT events of history are to the novelist what gigantic mountains are to the traveler. He surveys them, he skirts their foot, he salutes them as he passes, but he does not climb them. In like manner we shall survey, skirt, and salute that august ceremony, the marriage of the dauphiness at Versailles. The ceremonial of France is the only chronicle that ought to be consulted in such a case. It is not, in fact, in the splendor of the Versailles of Louis XV., in the description of the court-dresses, the liveries, the pontifical ornaments, that our particular history, that modest follower who takes a by-path leading along the high road of the history of France, would find anything to pick up. Let us leave the ceremony to be performed amid the brilliant sunshine of a fine day in May; let us leave the illustrious spectators to retire in silence, and to describe or comment on the marvels of the exhibition which they had just witnessed;, and let us return to our peculiar events and personages, which also have, historically speaking, a certain value.

The king, weary of the ceremonies, and especially of the dinner, which had been long and was an exact imitation of that given on the marriage of the great dauphin, son of Louis XIV.-the king retired to his apartments at nine o'clock and dismissed everybody. The dauphin and his bride had also retired to their apartments; and the immense crowd of spectators of the ceremony thronged the courtyard and the terraces of Versailles, now one blaze of light, and waited anxiously for the fireworks, which were to be exhibited on a scale of unusual magnificence.

The evening, at first lovely and serene, by degrees became overcast, and gusts of wind, gradually increasing in violence, tossed the branches wildly to and fro, as if they had been shaken by some giant arm; while immense masses of clouds hurried across the heavens, like squadrons rushing to the charge. The illuminations were suddenly extinguished, and, as if fate had determined to turn the general rejoicings into gloom, no sooner had the first rockets been discharged than the rain descended in torrents, as if the heavens had opened, and a loud and startling peal of thunder announced a terrible convulsion of the elements.

Meanwhile, the people of Versailles and Paris fled like a flock of frightened birds, scattered over the gardens, in the roads, in the woods, pursued in all directions by thick hail, which beat down the flowers in the gardens, the foliage in the forest, the wheat and the barley in the fields. By morning, however, all this chaos was reduced to order, and the first rays of light, darting from between copper-colored clouds, displayed to view the ravages of the nocturnal hurricane.

Versailles was no longer to be recognized. The ground had imbibed that deluge of water, the trees had absorbed that deluge of fire; everywhere were seas of muddy water, and trees broken, twisted, calcined, by that serpent with burning gripe called lightning. As soon as it was light Louis XV., whose terror was so great that be could not sleep, ordered Lebel, who had never left him during the night, to dress him. He then proceeded to the bridal-chamber, and, pushing open the door, shuddered on perceiving the future queen of France reclining on a prie-Dieu, pale, and with eyes swollen and violet colored, like those of the sublime Magdalene of Rubens. Her terror, caused by the hurricane, had at length been suspended by sleep, and the first dawn of morning which stole into the apartment tinged with religious respect her long white robe with an azure hue. At the further end of the chamber, in an armchair pushed back to the wall, and surrounded by a pool of water which had forced its way through the shattered windows, reposed the dauphin of France, pale as his young bride, and, like her, having the perspiration of nightmare on his brow. The nuptial bed was in precisely the same state as on the preceding evening.

Louis XV, knit his brow; a pain, keener than any he had yet felt, darted through that brow like a red-hot iron. He shook his head, heaved a deep sigh, and returned to his apartments, more gloomy and more affrighted, perhaps, at that moment than he had been during the night.

On the 30th of May, that is, on the second day after that tremendous night, that night fraught with presages and warnings, Paris celebrated in its turn the marriage festival of its future sovereign. The whole population poured, in consequence, toward the Place Louis XV., where were to be exhibited the fireworks, that necessary accompaniment to every great public solemnity, which the Parisian accepts scoffingly, but which he cannot dispense with. The spot was judiciously chosen. Six hundred thousand spectators could move about there at their ease. Around the equestrian statue of Louis XV, had been erected a circular scaffolding, which, by raising the fireworks ten or twelve feet above the ground, enabled all the spectators in the place to see them distinctly. The Parisians arrived, according to custom, in groups, and spent some time in choosing the best places, an inalienable privilege of the first comers. Boys found trees, grave men posts, women the railings of fences and temporary stands, erected in the open air, as usual at all Parisian festivities, by gypsy speculators, whose fertile imagination allows them to change their mode of speculation every day. About seven o'clock, along with the earliest of the spectator's, arrived several parties of police.

The duty of watching over the safety of Paris was not performed by the French Guards, to whom the city authorities would not grant the gratuity of a thousand crowns demanded by their colonel, the Marshal Duke de Biron.

That regiment was both feared and liked by the population, by whom each member of the corps was regarded at once as a Caesar and a Mandarin. The French Guards, terrible on the field of battle, inexorable in the fulfillment of their functions, had, in time of peace and out of service, a frightful character for brutality and misconduct. On duty they were handsome, brave, intractable; and their evolutions delighted women and awed husbands; but, when dispersed among the crowd as mere individuals, they became the terror of those whose admiration they had won the day before, and severely persecuted the people whom they would have to protect on the morrow. Now, the city, finding in its old grudge against these night-brawlers and sharpers a reason for not giving a thousand crowns to the French Guards-the city, we say, sent merely its civil force, upon the specious pretext that in a family festivity, like that in preparation, the usual guardians of the family ought to be sufficient. The French Guards, on leave therefore, mingled among the groups mentioned above, and, as licentious as they would under other circumstances have been severe, they produced among the crowd, in their quality of soldier-citizens, all those little irregularities which they would have repressed with the butts of their muskets, with kicks and cuffs, nay even with taking the offenders into custody, if their commander, their Caesar Biron, had had a right to call them on that evening soldiers.

The shrieks of the women, the grumbling of the citizens, the complaints of the hucksters, whose cakes and ginger-bread were eaten without being paid for, raised a sham tumult preparatory to the real commotion, which could not fail to take place when six hundred thousand sight-loving persons should be assembled on that spot, and constituted so animated a scene, that the Place Louis XV., about eight o'clock in the evening, presented much the appearance of one of Tenier's pictures on a large scale, and with French instead of Dutch merrymakers. After the gamins, or street boys of Paris, at once the most impatient and the idlest in the known world, had taken or clambered up to their places; after the citizens and the populace had settled themselves in theirs, the carriages of the nobility and the financiers arrived. No route had been marked out for them; and they therefore entered the place at random by the Rue de la Madeline and the Rue St. Honore, setting down at the new buildings, as they were called, those who had received invitations for the windows and balconies of the governor's house, from which an excellent view could be obtained of the fireworks.

Such of the persons in carriages as had not invitations, left their equipages at the corner of the place, and, preceded by their footmen, mingled in the crowd, already very dense, but in which there was still room for anyone who knew how to conquer it. It was curious to observe with what sagacity those lovers of sights availed themselves, in their ambitious progress, of every inequality of ground. The very wide, but as yet unfinished, street which was to be called the Rue Royale, was intersected here and there by deep ditches, on the margins of which had been heaped the mould thrown out of them and other rubbish. Each of these little eminences had its group, looking like a loftier billow rising above the level of that human ocean.

From time to time this wave, propelled by other waves behind it, toppled over, amid the laughter of the multitude, not yet so crowded, is to cause such falls to be attended with danger, or to prevent those who fell from scrambling to their feet again.

About half-past eight, all eyes, hitherto wandering in different directions, began to converge toward the same point, and to fix themselves on the scaffolding which contained the fireworks. It was then that elbows, plied without ceasing, commenced to maintain in good earnest the position they had gained, against the assaults of incessantly re-enforced invaders.

These fireworks, designed by Ruggieri, were intended to rival (a rivalship, by the way, which the storm two evenings before had rendered easy)-those executed at Versailles by Torre, the engineer. It was known in Paris that Versailles had derived little pleasure from the royal liberality, which had granted fifty thousand livres for their exhibition, since the very first discharges had been extinguished by the rum, and, as the weather was fine on the evening of the 30th of May, the Parisians reckoned upon a certain triumph over their neighbors of Versailles.

Besides, Paris expected much more from the old established popularity of Ruggieri, than from the recent reputation of Torre.

Moreover, the plan of Ruggieri, less capricious and less vague than that of his colleague, bespoke pyrotechnical intentions of a highly distinguished order. Allegory, which reigned supreme at that period, was coupled with the most graceful architectural style, and the scaffolding represented the ancient temple of Hymen, which, with the French, rivals in ever-springing youth the temple of Glory. It was supported by a gigantic colonnade, and surrounded by a parapet, at the angles of which dolphins, open-mouthed, only awaited the signal to spout forth torrents of flames. Facing the dolphins rose, majestically upon their urns, the Loire, the Rhone, the Seine, and the Rhine-that river which we persist in naturalizing and accounting French in spite of all the world, and, if we may believe the modern lays of our friends the Germans, in spite even of itself,-all four-we mean the rivers-ready to pout-forth, instead of water, blue, white, green and rose-colored flames, at the moment when the colonnade should be fired.

Other parts of the works, which were to be discharged at the same time, were to form gigantic vases of flowers on the terrace of the temple of Hymen.

Lastly, still upon this same palace, destined to support so many different things, rose a luminous pyramid, terminated by the terrestrial globe. This globe, after emitting a rumbling noise like distant thunder, was to burst with a crash and to discharge a mass of colored girandoles.

As for the bouquet-so important and indeed indispensable an accompaniment that no Parisian ever judges of fireworks but by the bouquet-Ruggieri had separated it from the main body of the structure. It was placed toward the river, close to the statue, in a bastion crammed with spare rockets, so that the effect would be greatly improved by this additional elevation of six or eight yards, which would place the foot of the sheaf as it were upon a pedestal.

Such were the details which had engrossed the attention of all Paris for a fortnight previous. The Parisians now watched with great admiration Ruggieri and his assistants passing like shades amid the lurid lights of their scaffolding, and pausing, with strange gestures, to fix their matches and to secure their priming.

The moment, therefore, that the lanterns were brought upon the terrace of the building-an appearance which indicated the approach of the discharge-it produced a strong sensation in the crowd, and some rows of the most courageous recoiled, producing a long oscillation which extended to the very extremities of the assembled multitude.

Carriages now continued to arrive in quick succession, and began to encroach more and more upon the place; the horses resting their heads upon the shoulders of the rearmost spectators, who began to feel uneasy at the close vicinity of these dangerous neighbors. Presently the crowd, every moment increasing, collected behind the carriages, so that it was not possible for them to withdraw from their position even had they been desirous to do so, embedded as they were in this compact and tumultuous throng. Then might be seen-inspired by that audacity peculiar to the Parisians when in an encroaching mood, and which has no parallel except the long-suffering of the same people when encroached upon -French guards, artisans, and lackeys, climbing upon the roofs of these carriages, like shipwrecked mariners upon a rocky shore.

The illumination of the boulevards threw from a distance its ruddy glare upon the heads of the thousands of spectators, amid whom the bayonet of a city official, flashing like lightning, appeared as rare as the ears of corn left standing in a field leveled by the reaper.

On either side of the new buildings, now the Hotel Crillon and the Garde Meuble of the Crown, the carriages of the invited guests-between which no precaution had been taken to leave a passage-had formed a triple rank which extended on one side from the boulevard to the Tuileries, and on the other from the boulevard to the Rue des Champs Elysees, turning like a serpent thrice doubled upon itself.

Along this triple row of carriages were seen wandering, like specters on the banks of the Styx, such of the invited as were prevented by the carriages of those earlier on the ground from reaching the principal entrance. Stunned by the noise, and unwilling, especially the ladies, who were dressed in satin from head to foot, to step upon the pavement, they were hustled to and fro by the waves of the populace, who jeered them for their delicacy, and, seeking a passage between the wheels of the carriages and the feet of the horses, crept onward as well as they could to the place of their destination-a goal as fervently desired as a haven of refuge by mariners in a storm.

One of these carriages arrived about nine o'clock, that is to say, a very few minutes before the time fixed for the commencement of the fireworks, in expectation of making its way toward the governor's door; but the attempt, so warmly disputed for some time back, had at this moment become extremely hazardous, if not impracticable. A fourth row of carriages had begun to form, re-enforcing the first three, and the mettled horses, tormented by the crowd, had become furious, lashing out right and left upon the slightest provocation, and already causing several accidents unnoticed amid the noise and bustle of the crowd.

Holding by the springs of this carriage, which was attempting to force its way through the concourse, walked a youth, pushing aside all comers who endeavored to avail themselves of this means of locomotion, which he seemed to have confiscated for his exclusive use. When the carriage stopped, the youth stepped aside, but without losing his hold of the protecting spring, which he continued to grasp with one hand. He could thus overhear, through the open door, the animated conversation of the party in the vehicle.

A female head, attired in white and adorned with a few natural flowers, leaned forward out of the carriage door. Immediately a voice exclaimed:

“Come, Andree, provincial that you are, you must not lean out in that manner, or, mordieu! you run a great risk of being kissed by the first bumpkin that passes. Don't you see that our carriage is swimming as it were in the middle of this mob, just as if it were in the middle of the river. We are in the water, my dear, and dirty water it is; let us not soil ourselves by the contact.”

The young lady's head was drawn back into the carriage.

“We cannot see anything from this, sir,” said she; “if our horses were to make a half turn, we could see from the door of the carriage, and be almost as well off as if we were at the governor's window.”

“Turn about a little, coachman,” cried the baron.

“It is impossible, Monsieur le Baron; I should be obliged to crush ten persons.”

“Well, pardieu! crush away.”

“Oh, sir!” exclaimed Andree.

“Oh, father!” cried Philip.

“Who is that baron that talks of crushing poor folk-” cried several threatening voices.

“Parbleu!” it is I,” said Taverney, leaning out, and exhibiting as he did so a broad red ribbon crossed over his breast.

At that time people still paid some respect to broad ribbons-even to red ones. There was grumbling, but on a descending scale.

“Wait, father. I will alight,” said Philip, “and see if there is any possibility of advancing.”

“Take care, brother, or you will be killed. Hark to the neighing of the horses, which are fighting with one another!”

“Say rather the roaring,” resumed the baron. “Stay! we will alight. Tell them to make way, Philip, and let us pass.”

“Ah, father!” said Philip, “you are quite a stranger to the Paris of the present day. Such lordly airs might have passed current formerly, but nowadays they are but little heeded; and you have no wish to compromise your dignity, I am sure.”

“Still, when these saucy fellows know who I am-”

“My dear father,” said Philip, smiling, “were you the dauphin himself they would not stir an inch for you. At this moment, particularly, I should fear tile consequences of such a step, for I see the fireworks are about to commence.”

“Then we shall see nothing!” said Andree, with vexation.

“It is your own fault, pardieu!” replied the baron; “you were upward of two hours at your toilet.”

“Brother,” said Andree, “could I not take your arm and place myself among the crowd-”

“Yes, yes, my sweet lady,” exclaimed several voices, touched with her beauty; “yes, come along; you are not very large and we'll make room for you.”

“Should you like to come, Andree-” asked Philip.

“Oh! yes,” said Andree; and she sprang lightly from the carriage without touching the steps.

“Very well,” said the baron; “but I, who care not a straw about fireworks, will stay where I am.”

“Yes, remain here,” said Philip; “we will not go far, my dear father.”

In fact, the mob, ever respectful when not irritated by any passion, ever paying homage to that sovereign goddess called beauty, opened to make way for Andree and her brother; and a good-natured citizen, who with his family occupied a stone bench, desired his wife and daughter to make room for Andree between them. “Philip placed himself at his sister's feet, who leaned with one hand on his shoulder. Gilbert had followed them, and was stationed about four paces off, with his eyes riveted upon Andree.

“Are you comfortably placed, Andree-” asked Philip.

“Excellently,” replied the young girl.

“See what it is to be handsome!” said the viscount, smiling.

“Yes, yes, handsome -very handsome!” murmured Gilbert.

Andree heard those words; but as they proceeded doubtless from the lips of one of the populace, she cared no more about them than an Indian god cares for the offering which a poor pariah lays at his feet.

CHAPTER LXV. THE FIREWORKS.

ANDREE AND her brother had scarcely settled themselves in their new position when the first rockets pierced the clouds, and a prodigious shout arose from the crowd, thenceforward alive only to the spectacle which was exhibiting in the center of the place.

The commencement of the fireworks was magnificent, and in every respect worthy of the high reputation of Ruggieri. The decorations of the temple were progressively lighted up, and soon presented one sheet of flame. The air rang with plaudits; but these plaudits were soon succeeded by frantic cheers, when the gaping mouths of the dolphins and the urns of the rivers began to spout forth streams of fire of different colors, which crossed and intermingled with each other.

Andree, transported with astonishment at this sight, which has not its equal in the world-that of a population of seven hundred thousand souls, frantic with delight in front of a palace in flames-did not even attempt to conceal her feelings.

At three paces distant from her, hidden by the herculean shoulders of a porter who held his child aloft over his head, stood Gilbert, gazing at Andree for her own sake, and at the fireworks because she was looking at them. Gilbert's view of Andree was in profile; every rocket lighted up that lovely face, and made him tremble with delight. It seemed to him that the whole crowd shared in his admiration of the heavenly creature whom he adored. Andree had never before seen Paris, or a crowd, or the splendors of a public rejoicing; and her mind was stunned by the multiplicity of novel sensations which beset it at once.

On a sudden, a bright light burst forth and darted in a diagonal line toward the river. It was a bomb, which exploded with a crash, scattering the various colored fires which Andree admired.

“Look, Philip, how beautiful that is!” said she.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed her brother, without making her any reply, “how ill that last rocket was directed! It must certainly have deviated from its course; for, instead of describing a parabola, it went off almost horizontally.”

Philip had scarcely finished this expression of an uneasiness which began to be manifested in the agitation of the crowd, when a hurricane of flame burst from the bastion upon which were placed the bouquet and the spare fireworks. A crash equal to that of a hundred peals of thunder, crossing in all directions, bellowed through the place; and, as if the fire had contained a discharge of grape-shot, it put to the rout the nearest spectators, who for a moment felt the unexpected flame scorch their faces.

“The bouquet already! the bouquet already!” cried the more distant of the crowd. “Not yet! it is too early!”

“Already-” repeated Andree. “Ah, yes; it is too early!”

“No,” said Philip, “no; it is not the bouquet, it is an accident, which in a moment will agitate this prodigious crowd, now so calm, like the ocean in a storm. Come, Andree, let us return to our carriage-come along!”

“Oh! let me stay a little longer, Philip -it is so beautiful!”

“Andree, we have not a moment to lose; follow me. It is the misfortune which I feared. Some stray rocket has set fire to the bastion. Hark! they are crushing one another yonder! Don't you hear their cries- Those are not cries of joy, but shrieks of distress. Quick! quick! to the carriage. Gentlemen, gentlemen, allow us to pass.”

And Philip, throwing his arm round his sister's waist, drew her toward the place where he had left his father, who, uneasy on his side, and dreading, from the noise which he heard, a danger of the nature of which he could form no conception, although he was thoroughly convinced of its existence, put his head out of the carriage door, and looked about for his children. It was already too late, and the prediction of Philip was verified. The bouquet, composed of fifteen thousand fusees, exploded, scattering about in all directions, and pursuing the spectators like those fiery darts which are flung at the bulls in the arena to provoke them to fight.

The people, at first astonished, then terrified, recoiled from the force of mere instinct with resistless impetus, communicating the same movement to the myriads of spectators in the rear, who, breathless and suffocated, pressed backward in their turn on those behind them. The scaffolding took fire; children shrieked; squalling women, almost stifled, raised them in their arms; and the police, thinking to silence the screamers and to restore order by violence, struck right and left at random.

All these combined causes made the waving sea of people which Philip spoke of fall like a water-spout on that corner of the Place where he was; and instead of rejoining the baron's carriage, as he calculated upon doing, the youth was hurried away by the mighty and irresistible current, of which no description could convey any idea; for individual strength, increased tenfold by terror and anxiety, was again augmented a hundred-fold by the junction of the general strength.

At the moment when Philip drew Andree away, Gilbert had resigned himself to the stream which carried them along; but he had not gone above twenty paces before a band of fugitives, turning to the left into the Rue de la Madeleine, surrounded Gilbert and swept him away, foaming with rage on finding himself separated from Andree.

Andree, clinging fast to Philip's arm, was inclosed in a group which was striving to get out of the way of a carriage dragged along by a pair of furious horses. Philip saw it approaching swiftly and threateningly; the horses' eyes flashed fire, and they snorted foam from their nostrils. He made superhuman efforts to avoid it, but all in vain. He saw the crowd open behind him; he perceived the foaming heads of the two ungovernable animals; he saw them rear, like the two marble horses which guard the entrance of the Tuileries, and, like the slave who is striving to subdue them, letting go Andree's arm, and pushing her as far as he could out of the way of danger, he sprang up to seize the rein of the horse that was next to him. The animal reared a second time; Andree saw her brother sink back, fall, and disappear from her sight. She shrieked, extended her arms, was hustled to and fro in the crowd, and in a moment found herself alone, tottering, borne along like a feather by the wind, and just as incapable of resisting the force that was hurrying her away.

The stunning cries, far more terrible than those of the battlefield; the neighing of horses; the frightful noise of wheels, grinding now the pavement, now the bodies of the slain, the lurid flames of the scaffolds-which were on fire; the sinister gleaming of swords drawn by some of the infuriated soldiers; and over all this ensanguined ciaos, the bronze statue, tinged by the ruddy reflections, and seeming to preside over the carnage-were more than was needed to disturb Andree's reason, and paralyze her strength. Besides, the power of a Titan would have been impotent in such a struggle-a struggle for life and limb-of one against all. Andree uttered a piercing shriek; a soldier, opening himself a passage through the crowd, was striking the people with his sword, and the weapon flashed over her head. She clasped her hands, like a shipwrecked mariner when the last wave is passing over him, and exclaiming; “Oh, my God!” sunk to the ground. Whoever fell in that scene might give himself up for lost!

But that terrible, that despairing shriek, was heard and answered. Gilbert, carried to a distance from Andree, had by dint of struggling once more approached her. Bending beneath the same wave which had engulfed Andree, he raised himself again, made a frantic leap at the sword which had unwittingly threatened her, grasped the throat of the soldier who was going to strike, and hurled him to the ground. Beside the soldier lay a female form dressed in white; he raised her up and bore her off as though he had been a giant.

When he felt that lovely form, that corpse perhaps, pressed to his heart, a gleam of pride lighted up his countenance -his force and courage rose with the circumstances-he felt himself a hero! He flung himself and his burden into a stream of people, whose torrent would certainly have leveled a wall in their flight. Supported by this group, which lifted him up and bore him along with his lovely burden, he walked or rather rolled onward for some minutes. All at once the torrent stopped, as if broken by some opposing obstacle. Gilbert's feet touched the ground, and not till then was he sensible of the weight of Andree. He looked up to ascertain what the obstacle might be, and perceived that he was within a few steps of the Garde-Meuble. That mass of stone had broken the mass of flesh.

During that momentary and anxious halt, he had time to look at Andree. Overcome by a sleep heavy as that of death, her heart had ceased to beat, her eyes were closed, and her face was of a violet tinge, like a white rose that is fading. Gilbert thought that she was dead. He shrieked in his turn, pressed his lips at first to her dress, to her hand, then, emboldened by her insensibility, he covered with kisses that cold face, those eyes swollen beneath their sealed lids. He blushed, wept, raved, strove to transfuse his soul into the bosom of Andree, feeling astonished that his kisses, which might have warmed a marble statue, had no effect upon that inanimate form. All at once Gilbert felt her heart beat under his hand.

“She is saved!” exclaimed he, on perceiving the swart and blood-stained mob dispersing, and hearing the imprecations, the shrieks, the sighs, the agony of the victims die 'away in the distance. “She is saved, and it is I who have saved her!”

The poor fellow, who stood leaning with his back against the wall, and his eyes turned toward the bridge, had not looked to his right. Before the carriages, which, long detained by the crowd, but now hemmed in less closely, began once more to move, and soon came on galloping as if coachmen and horses had been seized with a general frenzy, fled twenty thousand unfortunate creatures, mutilated, wounded, bruised one against the other. Instinctively they fled close to the walls, against which the nearest of them were crushed. This mass swept away or suffocated all those who, having taken up their position near the Garde-Meuble, imagined that they had escaped the wreck. A fresh shower of blows, of living and dead bodies, rained on Gilbert. He found one of the recesses formed by the iron gates, and stationed himself there. The weight of the fugitives made the wall crack.

Gilbert, nearly stifled, felt ready to lose his hold, but with a last desperate effort, mustering all his strength, he encompassed Andrew's body with his arms, resting his head on the bosom of the young girl. One would have supposed that he meant to suffocate her whom he was protecting.

“Farewell,” murmured he, biting rather than kissing her dress; “farewell!” And he raised his eyes to Heaven, as if directing a last supplicating glance to it for assistance. Then a strange sight met his vision.

Mounted on a post, holding with his right hand by a ringlet into the wall, while with his left hand he seemed to be rallying an army of fugitives, was a man, who, looking at the furious sea raging at his feet, sometimes dropped a word, sometimes made a gesture. At that word, at that gesture, some individual among the crowd might be seen to pause, struggle, and by a violent effort strive to reach the man. Others who had already reached him seemed to recognize the newcomers as brothers, and assisted to drag them out of the crowd, raising, supporting, and drawing them toward them.

In this manner, by acting together, this knot had like the pier of a bridge which divides and resists the water, succeeded in dividing the crowd and holding in check the flying masses.

Every moment fresh stragglers, seeming to rise out of the ground at those strange words and singular gestures, swelled the retinue of this man. Gilbert raised himself by a last effort; he felt that there was safety, for there was calmness and power. A last dying gleam from the burning scaffold, leaping up only to expire, fell upon his face. Gilbert uttered a cry of amazement; “Oh! let me die!” he murmured; “let me die, but save her!”

Then, with a sublime forgetfulness of self, raising the young girl in both his arms, he exclaimed, “Baron de Balsamo, save Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney!”

Balsamo heard that voice which cried to him, like that in the Bible, from the depths, he beheld a white figure raised above the devouring waves, he leaped from his post to the ground, crying, “This way!” His party overturned all that obstructed their course, and, seizing Andree, still supported in Gilbert's sinking arms, he lifted her up, and, impelled by a movement of that crowd which he had ceased to repress, he bore her off without once turning to look behind.

Gilbert endeavored to utter a last word. Perhaps, after imploring the protection of this strange man for Andree, he might have solicited it for himself; but he had only strength to press his lips to the drooping arm of the young girl, and to snatch, with a wild and despairing grasp, a portion of her dress.

After that last kiss, after that final farewell, the young man had nothing left to live for; he made no further struggle, but closing his eyes, sunk dying upon a heap of dead.

CHAPTER LXVI. THE FIELD OF THE DEAD.

GREAT STORMS are always succeeded by calms, fearful in their very stillness, but bearing healing on their wings.

It was about two o'clock in the morning. The moon, wading between large white clouds which hovered over Paris, showed in strong relief by her wan and sickly light the inequalities of this sad spot, and the pits and holes in which so many of the fleeing crowd had found an untimely grave.

Here and there in the moonlight, which was obscured from time to time by the large white floating clouds we have mentioned, might be seen, on the margin of the slopes and in the ditches, heaps of corpses with disordered attire, stiffened limbs, livid and discolored faces, and hands stretched out in an attitude of terror or of prayer.

In the center of this place, a heavy tainted smoke, emitted from the burning embers of the timber, contributed to give to the Place Louis XV. the appearance of a battlefield.

Over this bloody and desolate plain flitted, with rapid and mysterious steps, shadowy figures, who stopped, looked stealthily round, bent down, and then fled. They were the robbers of the slain, attracted to their prey like vultures to the decaying carrion. They had not been able to rob the living, and they came to despoil the dead. Surprised at seeing themselves anticipated by their fellow robbers, they might be seen escaping sullenly and fearfully at the sight of the tardy baronets which menaced them. But the robber and the lazy watchman were not the only persons moving among the long ranks of the dead.

There were some there who, furnished with lanterns, might have been taken for curious lookers-on. Sad lookers-on, alas! for they were parents and anxious friends, whose children, brothers, friends, or lovers had not returned home. They had come from great distances, for the dreadful news had already spread over Paris like a hurricane, scattering dismay and horror, and their anxiety had been quickly changed into active search. It was a sight perhaps more dreadful to behold than the catastrophe, itself. Every expression was portrayed on these pale faces, from the despair of those who discovered the corpse of the beloved being, to the gloomy uncertainty of those who had found nothing, and who cast an anxious and longing glance toward the river, which flowed onward with a monotonous murmur.

It was reported that many corpses had already been thrown into the river by the provostry of Paris, who wished to conceal the fearful number of deaths their guilty imprudence had occasioned.

Then, when they had satiated their eyes with this fruitless spectacle, and standing ankle deep in the Seine, had watched with anguished hearts its dark waters flow past unburdened with the loved bodies of those whom they sought, they proceeded, lantern in hand, to explore the neighboring streets, where it was said many of the wounded had dragged themselves, to seek for help, or at least to flee from the scene of their sufferings.

“When unfortunately they found among the dead the object of their search-the lost and wept-for friend-then cries succeeded to their heartrending surprise, and their sobs, rising from some new point of the bloody scene, were responded to by other and distant sobs.

At times the place resounded with noises of a different kind. All at once a lantern falls and is broken-the living has fallen senseless on the dead, to embrace him for the last time.

There are yet other noises in this vast cemetery. Some of the wounded, whose limbs have been broken by the full, whose breast has been pierced by the sword, or crushed by the weight of the crowd, utters a hoarse cry, or groans forth a prayer, and then those who hope to find in the sufferer a friend, hastily approach, but retire when they do not recognize him.

In the meantime, at the extremity of the place, near the garden, a field-hospital is formed by the kindness and charity of the people. A young surgeon, known as such by the profusion of instruments which surround him, has the wounded men and women brought to him; he bandages their wounds, and while he tends them, he speaks to them in words winch rather express hatred for the cause than pity for the effect.

To his two robust assistants, who pass the sufferers in bloody review before him, he cries incessantly;

“The women of the people, the men of the people, first! They can be easily recognized; they are almost always more severely wounded, certainly always less richly dressed.”

At these words, repeated after each dressing with a shrill monotony, a young man who, torch in hand, is seeking among the dead, has twice already raised his head. From, a large wound which furrows his forehead a few drops of crimson blood are falling. One of his arms is supported by his coat, which he has buttoned over it; and his countenance, covered with perspiration, betrays deep and absorbing emotion.

At these words of the surgeon, which he has heard as we have said for the second time, he raises his head, and looking sadly on the mutilated limbs which the operator seems almost to gloat over:

“Oh, sir,” said he, “why do you make a choice among the victims-”

“Because,” replied the surgeon, raising his head at this interruption, “because no one will care for the poor if I do not think of them, and the rich are always well looked after. Lower your lantern, and search upon the ground; you will find a hundred poor people for one rich or noble. In this catastrophe, with a good fortune which will in the end weary even Providence, the noble and the rich have paid the tribute they generally pay-one in a thousand.”

The young man raised his torch to a level with his bleeding forehead.

“Then I am that one,” said he, without the least anger; “I, a gentleman, lost among so many others in the crowd, wounded in the forehead by a horse's hoof, and my left arm broken by falling into a pit. You say that the noble and the rich are sought after and cared for; you see plainly, however, that my wounds are not yet dressed.”

“You have your hotel; your physician. Return home, since you can walk.”

“I do not ask for your cares, sir; I seek my sister, a beautiful young girl of sixteen -killed probably, alas! though she is not of the people. She wore a white dress, and a chain with a cross round her neck. Though she has her hotel and her physician, answer me, for pity's sake, sir, have you seen her whom I seek-”

“Sir,” said the young surgeon, with a feverish vehemence which showed that the ideas he expressed had long boiled within his breast, “sir, humanity is my guide. It is to her service I devote myself; and, when I leave the noble on their bed of death to assist the suffering people, I obey the true laws of humanity, who is my goddess. All this day's misfortunes have been caused by you. They arose from your abuses, from your usurpations. Therefore, bear the consequences. No, sir, I have not seen your sister.”

And after this harsh apostrophe, the operator returned to his task. A poor woman had just been brought to him, whose two legs were fractured by a carriage.

“See!” he exclaimed, calling after Philip, who was rushing away, “see! Do the poor bring their carriages to the public festivals to break the legs of the rich-”

Philip, who belonged to that class of the young nobility from which sprung the Lafayettes and Lamoths, had often professed the same maxims which terrified him in the mouth of this young man, and their application recoiled upon him like a judgment. His heart bursting with grief, he left the neighborhood of the hospital and continued his sad search. He had not proceeded many steps, when, carried away by his grief, he could not repress a heartrending cry of:

“Andree! Andree!”

At that moment there passed by him, walking with hasty steps, a man already advanced in years, dressed in a gray cloth coat and milled stockings, his right hand resting on a stick, while with the left he held one of those lanterns made of a candle inclosed in oiled paper.

Hearing Philip's cry of grief, he guessed what he must be suffering, and murmured:

“Poor young man!”

But as he seemed to have come for the same purpose as himself, he passed on. Then all at once, as if he reproached himself for having passed unheeding by so much suffering, without attempting to console it:

“Sir,” said he, “pardon me for mingling my grief with yours; but those who are struck by the same blow should lean on each other for support. Besides, you may be useful to me. You have already sought for a considerable time. I see, as your light is nearly extinguished, and you must therefore be acquainted with the most fatal localities of the place.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I know them!”

“Well, I also seek someone.”

“Then look first in the great ditch; you will find more than fifty corpses there.”

“Fifty! Just Heaven! So many victims killed at a fete!”

“So many! Sir, I have already looked at a thousand faces, and have not yet found my sister.”

“Your sister-”

“It was yonder, in that direction, that she was. I lost her near the bench. I have found the place since, but no trace of her was visible. I am about to recommence the search, beginning with the bastion.”

“To which side did the crowd rush, sir-”

“Toward the new buildings, in the Rue de la Madeleine.”

“Then it must have been toward this side-”

“Yes, and I therefore searched on this side first; but there were dreadful scenes here. Besides, although the tide flowed in that direction, a poor bewildered woman soon loses her senses in such a scene; she knows not whither she goes, and endeavors to escape in the first direction that presents itself.”

“Sir, it is not probable that she would struggle against the current. I am about to search the streets on this side; come with me, and, both together, we may perhaps find-”

“And whom do you seek- Your son-” asked Philip, timidly.

“No, sir; but a child whom I had almost adopted.”

“And you allowed him to come alone-”

“Oh! he is a young man of eighteen or nineteen. He is master of his own actions; and as he wished to come, I could not hinder him. Besides, we were far from expecting this horrible catastrophe! But your light is going out.”

“Yes, sir, I see it.”

“Come with me; I will light you.”

“Thank you-you are very good; but I fear I shall incommode you.”

“Oh, do not fear, since I must have searched for myself. The poor child generally came home very punctually,” continued the old man, proceeding in the direction of the streets; “but this evening I felt a sort of foreboding. I waited up for him; it was already eleven o'clock, when my wife heard of the misfortunes of this fete from a neighbor. I waited for two hours longer, still hoping that he would return. Then, as he did not appear, I thought it would be base and cowardly in me to sleep without having news of him.”

“Then we are going toward the houses-” asked the young man.

“Yes; you said the crowd must have rushed to this side, and it certainly has done so. The unfortunate boy had doubtless been carried this way also! He is from the provinces, and is alike ignorant of the usages and the localities of this great town. Probably this was the first time he had ever been in the Place Louis XV.”

“Alas! my sister is also from the provinces, sir.”

“What a fearful sight!” said the old man, turning away from a group of corpses clasped together in death.

“Yet it is there we must look.” replied the young man, resolutely holding his light over the heap of dead.

“Oh! I shudder to look at it, for I am a simple and unsophisticated man, and the sight of destruction causes in me an unconquerable horror.”

“I had the same horror; but this evening I have served my apprenticeship to butchery and death! Hold, here is a young man of about eighteen; he has been suffocated, for I see no wounds. Is it he whom you seek-”

The old man made an effort, and held his lantern close to the body.

“No, sir,” said he, “no; my child is younger, has black hair, and pale complexion.”

“Alas! all are pale to-night,” replied Philip.

“Oh! see,” said the old man, “here we are, at the foot of the Garde-Meuble. Look at these tokens of the struggle. This blood upon the walls, these shreds of garments upon the iron bars, these torn dresses on the points of the railing!”

“It was here-it was certainly here,” murmured Philip.

“What sufferings!”

“Oh, heavens!”

“What-”

“Something white under these corpses! My sister had a white dress on. Lend me your lamp, sir. I beseech you.”

In fact, Philip had seen and snatched a shred of white cloth. He let go his hold, having but one hand to take the lamp.

“It is a fragment of a woman's dress, held firmly in a young man's hand,” cried he; “of a white dress like my sister's. Oh! Andree! Andree!” And the young man uttered heartrending sobs. The old man now approached.

“It is he!” exclaimed he, opening his arms.

This exclamation attracted the young man's attention.

“Gilbert!” exclaimed Philip in his turn.

“You know Gilbert, sir-”

“Is it Gilbert whom you seek-”

These two questions were uttered simultaneously. The old man seized Gilbert's hand; it was as cold as death. Philip opened the young man's dress, pushed aside the shirt, and placed his hand upon his heart.

“Poor Gilbert!” said he.

“My dear child!” subbed the old man.

“He breathes!-he lives. He lives, I tell you!” exclaimed Philip.

“Oh! do you think so-”

“I am certain of it-his heart beats.”

“It is true,” replied the old man. “Help! help! There is a surgeon yonder.”

“Oh! let us succor him ourselves, sir; just now I asked that man for help, and he refused me.”

“He must help my child!” cried the old man, indignantly. “He must. Assist me, sir, to carry Gilbert to him.”

“I have only one arm, but it is at your service, sir,” replied Philip.

“And I, old as I am, feel strong again! Come!”

The old man seized Gilbert by the shoulders; the young man took his two feet under his right arm, and in this manner they advanced toward the group in the midst of which the surgeon was operating.

“Help! help!” cried the old man.

“The men of the people first! The men of the people first!” replied the surgeon, faithful to his maxim, and sure, each time he replied thus, of exciting a murmur of applause among the group which surrounded him.

“It is a man of the people whom I am bringing,” replied the old man, with vehemence, but beginning to share in the general admiration which the firm and resolute tone of the young operator excited.

“After the women, then,” said the surgeon; “men have more strength to support pain than women.”

“A simple bleeding will suffice, sir,” replied the old man.

“Oh! is it you again, my young nobleman-” said the surgeon, perceiving Philip before he saw the old man.

Philip did not reply. The old man thought that these words were addressed to him.

“I am not a nobleman,” said he, “I am a man of the people; my name is Jean Jacques Rousseau.”

The doctor gave a cry of astonishment, and making an imperative gesture:

“Give place,” said he, “to the man of nature! Make room for the emancipator of the human race! Place for the citizen of Geneva!”

“Thanks, sir,” said Rousseau, “thanks!”

“Has any accident happened to you-” asked the young doctor.

“Not to me, but to this poor child. See!”

“Ah! you too,” cried the physician, “you too, like myself, represent the cause of humanity.”

Rousseau, deeply moved by this unexpected triumph, could only stammer forth some almost unintelligible words. Philip, dumb with astonishment at finding himself in the presence of the philosopher whom he admired so highly, remained standing apart. Those who stood around assisted Rousseau to lay the fainting Gilbert upon the table. It was at this moment that the old man glanced at the person whose assistance he was imploring. He was a young man about Gilbert's age, but his features presented no appearance of youth. His sallow complexion was withered like that of an old man; his heavy and drooping eyelids covered an eye like a serpent's, and his mouth was distorted as if in an epileptic fit.

His sleeves turned back to the elbow, his arms covered with blood, surrounded by lifeless and bleeding limbs, he seemed more like an executioner at work, and glorying in his task, than a physician accomplishing his sad and holy mission.

Nevertheless, Rousseau's name seemed to have had so much influence over him as to cause him to lay aside for an instant his usual brutality; he gently opened Gilbert's sleeve, tied a band of linen round his arm, and opened the vein.

The blood flowed at first drop by drop, but after some moments the pure and generous current of youth spouted forth freely.

“Ha! we shall save him,” said the operator. “But he will require great care; his chest has been rudely pressed.”

“I have now to thank you, sir,” said Rousseau, “and praise you, not for the exclusive preference you show for the poor, but for your care and kindness toward them. All men are brothers.”

“Even the noble, even the aristocrats, even the rich-” asked the surgeon, his piercing eye flashing from beneath his heavy eyelid.

“Even the noble, the aristocrats, the rich, when they suffer,” said Rousseau.

“Sir,” said the operator, “excuse me. I am from Baudry, near Neufchatel; I am a Switzer like yourself, and therefore a democrat.”

“A countryman-” cried Rousseau, “a native of Switzerland! Your name, sir, if you please-”

“An obscure name, sir; the name of a retiring man who devotes his life to study, waiting till he may, like yourself, devote it to the good of humanity. My name is Jean Paul Marat.”

“Thanks, Monsieur Marat,” said Rousseau. “But while enlightening the people as to their rights, do not excite them to vengeance; for if they should ever revenge themselves, you will perhaps be terrified at their reprisals.”

Marat smiled a fearful smile. “Oh! if that day should happen during my life!” said he; “if I could only have the happiness to witness it!”

Rousseau heard these words, and, alarmed at the tone in which they were uttered, as a traveler trembles at the first mutterings of the far-distant thunder, he took Gilbert in his arms, and attempted to carry him away.

Two volunteers to help Monsieur Rousseau! Two men of the people!” cried the surgeon.

“Here! here! here!” cried twenty voices simultaneously.

Rousseau had only to choose; he pointed to the two strongest, who took the youth up in their arms.

As be was leaving the place he passed Philip.

““Here, sir,” said he, “I have no more use for the lantern; take it.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Philip; “many thanks.”

He seized the lantern, and while Rousseau once more took the way to the Rue Plastriere, he continued his search.

“Poor young man!” murmured Rousseau, turning back, and seeing Philip disappear in the blocked-up and encumbered streets. He proceeded on his way shuddering, for he still heard the shrill voice of the surgeon echoing over the field of blood, and crying:

“The men of the people! None but the men of the people! Woe to the noble, to the rich, to the aristocrats!”

CHAPTER LXVII. THE RETURN.

WHILE THE countless catastrophes we have mentioned were rapidly succeeding each other, M. de Taverney escaped all these dangers as if by a miracle.

Unable to oppose any physical resistance to the devouring force which swept away everything in its passage, but at the same time calm and collected, he had succeeded in maintaining his position in the center of a group which was rolling onward toward the Rue de la Madeleine. This group, crushed against the parapet walls of the place, ground against the angles of the Garde-Meuble, had left a long trail of wounded and dead in its path; but, decimated as it was, it had yet succeeded in conducting the remnant of its number to a place of safety. When this was accomplished, the handful of men and women who had been left dispersed themselves over the boulevards with cries of joy, and M. de Taverney found himself, like his companions, completely out of danger.

What we are about to say would be difficult to believe, had we not already so frankly sketched the character of the baron. During the whole of this fearful passage, M. de Taverney-may God forgive him!-had absolutely thought only of himself. Besides that he, was not of a very affectionate disposition, he was a man of action; and, in the great crises of life, such characters always put the adage of Caesar's, “age quod agis,” in practice. We shall not say, therefore, that M. de Taverney was utterly selfish, we shall merely admit that he was absent. But once upon the pavement of the boulevards, once more master of his actions, sensible of having escaped from death to life, satisfied, in short, of his safety, the baron gave a deep sigh of satisfaction, followed by a cry-feeble and wailing-a cry of grief.

“My daughter!” said he, “my daughter!” and he remained motionless, his hands fell by his side, his eyes were fixed and glassy, while he searched his memory for all the particulars of their separation.

“Pour dear man!” murmured some compassionate women.

A group had collected around the baron, ready to pity, but above all to question. But M. de Taverney had no popular instincts; he felt ill at ease in the center of this compassionate group, and making a successful effort, he broke through them, and, we say it to his praise, made a few steps toward the place.

But these few steps were the unreflecting movement of paternal love, which is never entirely extinguished in the heart of man. Reason immediately came to the baron's aid and arrested his steps.

We will follow, with the reader's permission, the course of his reasoning. First, the impossibility of returning to the Place Louis XV. occurred to him. In it there was only confusion and death, and the crowds which were still rushing from it would have rendered any attempt to pass through them as futile as for the swimmer to seek to ascend the fall of the Rhine at Schaffhausen. Besides, even if a Divine arm enabled him to reach the place, how could he hope to find one woman among a hundred thousand women- And why should he expose himself again, and fruitlessly, to a death from which he had so miraculously escaped-

Then came hope, that light which ever gilds the clouds of the darkest night. Was not Andree near Philip, resting on his arm, protected by his manly strength and his brother's heart-

That he, the baron, a feeble and tottering old man, should have been carried away, was very natural; but that Philip, with his ardent, vigorous, hopeful nature -Philip, with his arm of iron-Philip, responsible for his sister's safety-should be so, was impossible. Philip had struggled and must have conquered.

The baron, like all selfish men, endowed Philip with those qualities which his selfishness denied to himself, but which nevertheless he sought in others-strength, generosity, and valor. For one selfish man regards all other selfish men as rivals and enemies, who rob him of those advantages which he believes he has the right of reaping from society.

M. de Taverney, being thus reassured by the force of his own arguments, concluded that Philip had naturally saved his sister; that he had perhaps lost some time in seeking his father to save him also, but that probably, nay, certainly, he had taken the way to the Rue Coq-Heron, to conduct Andree, who must be a little alarmed by all the scene, home.

He therefore wheeled round, and descending the Rue des Capucines, he gained the Place des Conquetes, or Louis le Grand, now called the Place des Victoires.

But scarcely had the baron arrived within twenty paces of the hotel, when Nicole, placed as sentinel on the threshold, where she was chattering with some companions, exclaimed; “And Monsieur Philip- and Mademoiselle Andree- What has become of them! “For all Paris was already informed by the earliest fugitives of the catastrophe, which their terror had even exaggerated.

“Oh heavens!” cried the baron, a little agitated, “have they not returned, Nicole-”

“No, no, sir, they have not been seen.”

“They most probably have been obliged to make a detour,” replied the baron, trembling more and more in proportion as the calculations of his logic were demolished; and he remained standing in the street waiting in his turn along with Nicole, who was sobbing, and La Brie, who raised his clasped hands to heaven.

“Ah! here is M. Philip!” exclaimed Nicole, in a tone of indescribable terror; for Philip was alone.

And in the darkness of the night, Philip was seen running toward them, breathless and despairing.

“Is my sister here-” cried he, while yet at a distance, as soon as he could see the group assembled at the door of the hotel.

“Oh, my God!” exclaimed the baron, pale and trembling.

“Andree! Andree!” cried the young man, approaching nearer and nearer; “where is Andree-”

“We have not seen her; she is not here, Monsieur Philip. Oh, heavens! my dear young lady!” cried Nicole, bursting into tears.

“And yet you have returned-” said the baron, in a tone of anger, which must seem to the reader the more unjust, that we have already made him acquainted with the secrets of his logic.

Philip, instead of replying, approached and showed his bleeding face, and his arm, broken and hanging at his side like a withered branch.

“Alas! alas!” sighed the old man, “Andree! my poor Andree!” and he sunk back upon the stone bench beside the door.

“I will find her, living or dead!” exclaimed Philip gloomily. And he again started off with feverish activity. Without slackening his pace, he secured his left arm in the opening of his vest, for this useless limb would have fettered his movements in the crowd, and if he had had a hatchet at that moment, he would have struck it off. It was then that he met on that fatal field of the dead, Rousseau, Gilbert, and the fierce and gloomy operator who, covered with blood, seemed rather an infernal demon presiding over the massacre, than a beneficent genius appearing to succor and to help. During a great portion of the night Philip wandered over the Place Louis XV., unable to tear himself away from the walls of the Garde-Meuble, near which Gilbert had been found, and incessantly gazing at the piece of white muslin which the young man had held firmly grasped in his hand.

But when the first light of day appeared, worn-out, ready to sink among the heaps of corpses scarcely paler than himself, seized with a strange giddiness, and hoping, as his father had hoped, that Andree might have returned or been carried back to the house, Philip bent his steps once more toward the Rue Coq-Heron. While still at a distance he saw the same group he had left there, and guessing at once that Andree had not returned, he stopped. The baron, on his side, had recognized his son.

“Well-” cried he.

“What! has my sister not returned-” asked the young man.

“Alas!” cried, with one voice, the baron, Nicole, and La Brie.

“Nothing-no news-no information-no hope-”

“Nothing-”

Philip fell upon the stone bench of the hotel; the baron uttered a savage exclamation.

At this very moment a hackney-coach appeared at the end of the street; it approached slowly, and stopped in front of the hotel. A woman's head was seen through the door, resting on her shoulders, as if she had fainted. Philip, roused by this sight, hastened toward the vehicle. The door of the coach opened, and a man alighted, bearing the senseless form of Andree in his arms.

“Dead! dead! -They bring us her corpse!” cried Philip, falling on his knees.

“Dead!” stammered the baron, “oh, sir, is she indeed dead-”

“I think not, gentlemen,” calmly replied the man who carried Andree; “Mademoiselle de Taverney, I hope, is only in a swoon.”

“Oh! the sorcerer, the sorcerer!” cried the baron.

“The Count de Balsamo-” murmured Philip.

“The same, sir, and truly happy in having recognized Mademoiselle de Taverney in this frightful melee.”

“In what part of it, sir-” asked Philip.

“Near the Garde-Meuble.”

“Yes,” said Philip. Then his expression of joy changing suddenly to one of gloomy distrust-

“You bring her back very late, count,” said he.

“Sir,” replied Balsamo, without seeming in the least surprised, “you may easily comprehend my embarrassing situation. I did not know your sister's address, and I had no resource but to take her to the Marchioness de Sevigny's, a friend of mine who lives near the royal stables. Then this honest fellow whom you see, and who assisted me to rescue the young lady-come hither, Courtois.” Balsamo accompanied these last words by a sign, and a man in the royal livery appeared from the coach. “Then,” continued Balsamo, “this worthy fellow, who belongs to the royal stables, recognized the young lady as having one evening driven her from Muette to your hotel. Mademoiselle Taverney owes this lucky recognition to her marvelous beauty. I made him accompany me in the coach, and I have the honor to restore Mademoiselle de Taverney to you with all the respect due to her, and less injured than you think.” And as he concluded he gave the young girl into the care of her father and Nicole.

For the first time, the baron felt a tear trembling on his eyelids, and though, no doubt, inwardly surprised at this mark of feeling, he permitted it to roll unheeded down his wrinkled cheeks. Philip held out the only hand he had at liberty to Balsamo.

“Sir,” he said, “you know my name and my address. Give me an opportunity of showing my gratitude for the service you have rendered us.”

“I have only fulfilled a duty,” replied Balsamo. “Do I not owe you hospitality-” And bowing low, he made a few steps to retire, without replying to the baron's invitation to enter. But returning:

“Excuse me,” said he, “but I omitted to give you the exact address of the Marchioness de Sevigny. She lives in the Rue St. Honore, near the Fueillants. I thought it necessary to give you this information, in case Mademoiselle de Taverney should think proper to call on her.”

There was in this precision of details, in this accumulation of proofs, a delicacy which touched Philip deeply, and affected even the baron.

“Sir,” said the baron, “my daughter owes her life to you.”

“I know it, sir, and I feel proud and happy at the thought,” replied Balsamo.

And this time, followed by Courtois, who refused Philip's proffered purse, he entered the fiacre, which drove off rapidly.

Almost at the same moment, and as if Balsamo's departure had put an end to her swoon. Andree opened her eyes, but she remained for some moments mute, bewildered, and with a wild and staring look.

“Oh, heavens!” murmured Philip; “has Providence only half restored her to us- Has her reason fled-”

Andree seemed to comprehend these words, and shook her head; but she remained silent, and as if under the influence of a sort of ecstasy. She was still standing, and one of her arms was extended in the direction of the street by which Balsamo had disappeared.

“Come, come,” said the baron; “it is time to put an end to all this. Assist your sister into the house, Philip.”

The young man supported Andree with Ins uninjured arm, Nicole sustained her on the other side; and, walking on, but after the manner of a sleeping person, she entered the hotel and gained her apartments. There, for the first time, the power of speech returned.

“Philip! My father!” said she.

“She recognizes us! she knows us again!” exclaimed Philip.

“Of course, I know you again; but oh, heavens! what has happened-”

And Andree closed her eyes, but this time not in a swoon, but in a calm and peaceful slumber.

Nicole, left alone with her young mistress, undressed her and put her in bed.

When Philip returned to his apartments, he found there a physician whom the thoughtful La Brie had run to summon, as soon as the anxiety on Andree's account had subsided.

The doctor examined Philip's arm. It was not broken, but only dislocated, and a skillful compression replaced the shoulder in the socket from which it had been removed. After the operation, Philip, who was still uneasy on his sister's account, conducted the doctor to her bedside.

The doctor felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, and smiled.

“Your sister sleeps as calmly as an infant.” said he. “Let her sleep, chevalier; there is nothing else necessary to be done.”

As for the baron, sufficiently reassured on his children's account, he had long been sound asleep.

CHAPTER LXVIII. M. DE JUSSIEU.

WE MUST again transport the reader to the house in the Rue Plastriere where M. de Sartines had sent his agent, and there, on the morning of the 31st of May, we shall once more find Gilbert stretched upon a mattress in Therese's room, and, standing around him, Therese and Rousseau with several of their neighbors, contemplating this specimen of the dreadful event at the remembrance of which all Paris still shuddered.

Gilbert, pale and bleeding, opened his eyes; and, as soon as he regained his consciousness, he endeavored to raise himself and look round as if he were still in the Place Louis XV. An expression of profound anxiety, followed by one of triumphant joy, was pictured in his features; then a second cloud flitted across his countenance, which resumed its somber hue.

“Are you suffering, my dear child-” inquired Rousseau, taking his hand affectionately.

“Oh! who has saved me-” asked Gilbert. “Who thought of me, lonely and friendless being that I am-”

“What saved you, my child, was the happy chance that you were not yet dead. He who thought of you was the same Almighty Being who thinks of all.”

“No matter; it is very imprudent,” grumbled Therese, “to go among such a crowd.”

“Yes, yes, it is very imprudent,” repeated all the neighbors with one voice.

“Why, ladies,” interrupted Rousseau, “there is no imprudence when there is no manifest danger, and there is no manifest danger in going to see fireworks. When danger arrives under such circumstances, you do not call the sufferer imprudent, but unfortunate. Any of us present would have done the same.”

Gilbert looked round, and seeing himself in Rousseau's apartment, endeavored to speak; but the effort was too much for him, the blood gushed from his mouth and nostrils, and he sank back insensible. Rousseau had been warned by the surgeon of the Place Louis XV., and was therefore cot alarmed. In expectation of a similar event, he had placed the invalid on a temporary mattress without sheets.

“In the mean time,” said he to Therese, “you may put the poor lad to bed.”

“Where-”

“Why here, in my bed.”

Gilbert heard these words. Extreme weakness alone prevented his replying immediately, but he made a violent effort, and, opening his eyes, said, slowly and painfully, “No, no; upstairs.”

“You wish to return to your own room-”

“Yes, yes, if you please; “and he completed with his eyes, rather than with his tongue, this wish, dictated by a recollection still more powerful than pain, and which with him seemed to survive even his consciousness.

Rousseau, whose own sensibility was so extreme, doubtless understood him, for he added:

“It is well, my child; we will carry you up. He does not wish to inconvenience us,” said he to Therese, who had warmly applauded the resolution. It was therefore decided that Gilbert should be instantly installed in the attic he preferred.

Toward the middle of the day, Rousseau came to pass the hours he usually spent in collecting his favorite plants by the bedside of his disciple; and the young man, feeling a little better, related to him, in a low and almost inaudible voice, the details of the catastrophe. But he did not mention the real cause why he went to see the fireworks. Curiosity alone, he said, led him to the Place Louis, XV. Rousseau could not suspect anything farther, unless he had been a sorcerer, and he therefore expressed no surprise at Gilbert's story, but contented himself with the questions he had already put, and only recommended patience. He did not speak either of the fragment of muslin which had been found in Gilbert's hand, and of which Philip had taken possession.

Nevertheless, this conversation, which, on both sides, bordered so narrowly on the real feelings of each, was no less attractive on that account; and they were still deeply absorbed in it, when, all at once, Therese's step was heard upon the landing.

“Jacques!” said she, “Jacques!”

“Well, what is it-”

“Some prince coming to visit me, in my turn,” said Gilbert, with a feeble smile.

“Jacques!” cried Therese, advancing and still calling.

“Well! What do you want with me-”

Therese entered.

“M. de Jussieu is below,” said she; “he heard that you were in the crowd during that night, and he has come to see if you have been hurt.”

“The good Jussieu!” said Rousseau. “Excellent man, like all those who, from taste or from necessity, commune with nature, the source of all good. Be calm, do not move, Gilbert; I will return.”

“Yes, thank you,” said the young man,

Rousseau left the room.

But scarcely was he gone when Gilbert, raising himself as well as he could, dragged himself toward the skylight from which Andree's window could be seen.

It was a most painful effort for a young man without strength, almost without the power of thought, to raise himself upon the stool, lift the sash of the skylight, and prop himself upon the edge of the roof. Gilbert, nevertheless, succeeded in effecting this, but once there, his eyes swam, his hand shook, the blood rushed to his lips, and he fell heavily upon the floor.

At that moment the door of the garret was opened, and Rousseau entered, followed by Jussieu, to whom he was paying great civility.

“Take care, my dear philosopher; stoop a little here,” said Rousseau. “There is a step there-we are not entering a palace.”

“Thank you; I have good eyes and stout limbs,” replied the learned botanist.

“Here is someone come to visit you, my little Gilbert,” said Rousseau, looking toward the bed. “Oh! good heavens! where is he- He has got up, the unfortunate lad!”

And Rousseau, seeing the window open, commenced to vent his displeasure in affectionate grumblings. Gilbert raised himself with difficulty, and said, in an almost inaudible voice, “I wanted air.”

It was impossible to scold him, for suffering was plainly depicted in his pale and altered features.

“In fact,” interrupted M. de Jussieu, “it is dreadfully warm here. Come, young man, let me feel your pulse; I am also a doctor.”

“And better than many regular physicians,” said Rousseau, “for you are a healer of the mind as well as of the body.”

“It is too much honor-” murmured Gilbert feebly, endeavoring to shroud himself from view in his humble pallet.

“M. de Jussieu insisted on visiting you,” said Rousseau, “and I accepted his offer. Well, dear doctor, what do you think of his chest-”

The skillful anatomist felt the bones, and sounded the cavity by an attentive auscultation.

“The vital parts are uninjured.” said he. “But who has pressed you in his arms with so much force-”

“Alas! sir, it was death!” said Gilbert.

Rousseau looked at the young man with astonishment.

“Oh! you are bruised, my child, greatly bruised; but tonics, air, leisure will make all that disappear.”

“So leisure; I cannot afford it,” said the young man, looking at Rousseau.

“What does he mean-” asked Jussieu.

“Gilbert is a determined worker, my dear sir,” replied Rousseau.

“Agreed; but he cannot possibly work for a day or two yet.”

“To obtain a livelihood,” said Gilbert, “one must work every day; for every day one eats.”

“Oh! you will not consume much food for a short time, and your medicine will not cost much.”

“However little they cost, sir,” said Gilbert, “I never receive alms.”

“You are mad,” said Rousseau, “and you exaggerate. I tell you that you must be governed by M. de Jussieu's orders, who will be your doctor in spite of yourself. Would you believe it,” continued he, addressing M. de Jussieu, “he has begged me not to send for one-”

“Why not-”

“Because it would have cost me money, and he is proud.”

“But,” replied M. de Jussieu, gazing at Gilbert's fine expressive features with growing interest, “no matter how proud; he is, he cannot accomplish impossibilities. Do you think yourself capable of working, when you fell down with the mere exertion of going to the window-”

“It is true,” sighed Gilbert, “I am weak; I know it.”

“Well, then, take repose, and, above all, mentally. You are the guest of a man whom all men obey, except his guest.”

Rousseau, delighted at this delicate compliment from so great a man, took his hand and pressed it.

“And, then,” continued M. de Jussieu, “you will become an object of particular care to the king and the princes.”

“I!” exclaimed Gilbert.

“You, a poor victim of that unfortunate evening. The dauphin, when he heard the news, uttered cries of grief; and the dauphiness, who was going to Marly, remained at Trianon to be more within reach of the unfortunate sufferers.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Rousseau.

“' Yes, my dear philosopher; and nothing is spoken of but the letter written by the dauphin to M. de Sartines.”

“I have not heard of it.”

“'It is at once simple and touching. The dauphin receives a monthly pension of two thousand crowns. This morning his month's income had not be›-n paid. The prince walked to and fro quite alarmed, asked for the treasurer several times, and as soon as the latter brought him the money, sent it instantly to Paris with two charming lines to M. de Sartines, who has just shown them to me.”

“Ah, then you have seen M. de Sartines to-day-” said Rousseau, with a kind of uneasiness, or rather distrust.

“Yes; I have just left him,” replied M. de Jussieu, rather embarrassed. “I had to ask him for some seeds. So that,” added he quickly, “the dauphiness remained at Versailles to tend her sick and wounded.”

“'Her sick and wounded-” asked Rousseau.

“Yes; Monsieur Gilbert is not the only one who has suffered. This time the lower classes have only paid a partial quota to the accident; it is said that there are many noble persons among the wounded.”

Gilbert listened with inexpressible eagerness and anxiety. It seemed to him that every moment the name of Andree would be pronounced by the illustrious naturalist. But M. de Jussieu rose.

“So our consultation is over-” said Rousseau.

“' And henceforward our science will be useless with regard to this young invalid; air, moderate exercise, the woods-ah! by-the-by, I was forgetting-”

“What-”

“Next Sunday I am to make a botanical excursion to the forest of Marly; will you accompany me, my illustrious fellow laborer-”

“Oh!” replied Rousseau, “say rather your unworthy admirer.”

“Parbleu! that will be a fine opportunity for giving our invalid a walk. Bring him.”

“So far-”

“The distance is nothing; besides, my carriage takes me as far as Bougival, and I can give you a seat. We will go by the Princess's Road to Luciennes, and from thence proceed to Marly. Botanists stop every moment; our invalid will carry our camp-stools; you and I will gather samples; he will gather health.”

“What an amiable man you are, my dear Jussieu!” said Rousseau.

“Never mind; it is for my own interest. You have, I know, a great work ready upon mosses, and as I am feeling my way a little on the same subject you will guide me.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Rousseau, whose satisfaction was apparent in spite of himself.

“And when there,” added the botanist, “we shall have a little breakfast in the open air, and shall enjoy the shade and the beautiful flowers. It is settled-”

“Oh, certainly.”

“For Sunday, then-”

“Delightful. It seems to me as if I were fifteen again. I revel beforehand in all the pleasure I have in prospect,” replied Rousseau, with almost childish satisfaction.

“And you, my young friend, must get stronger on your legs in the meantime.”

Gilbert stammered out some words of thanks, which M. Jussieu did not hear, and the two botanists left Gilbert alone with his thoughts, and above all with his fears.

CHAPTER LXIX. LIFE RETURNS.

IN THE MEANTIME, while Rousseau believed his invalid to be on the high road to health, and while Therese informed all her neighbors that, thanks to the prescriptions of the learned doctor, M. de Jussieu. Gilbert was entirely out of danger, during this period of general confidence the young man incurred the worst danger he had yet run, by his obstinacy and his perpetual reveries. Rousseau could not be so confident, but that he entertained in his inmost thoughts a distrust solidly founded on philosophical reasonings.

Knowing Gilbert to be in love, and having caught him in open rebellion to medical authority, he judged that he would again commit the same faults if he gave him too much liberty. Therefore, like a good father, he had closed the padlock of Gilbert's attic more carefully than ever, tacitly permitting him meanwhile to go to the window, but carefully preventing his crossing the threshold. It may easily be imagined what rage this solicitude, which changed his garret into a prison, aroused in Gilbert's breast, and what hosts of projects crowded his teeming brain. To many minds constraint is fruitful in inventions. Gilbert now thought only of Andree, of the happiness of seeing and watching over the progress of her convalescence, even from afar; but Andree did not appear at the windows of the pavilion, and Gilbert, when he fixed his ardent and searching looks on the opposite apartments, or surveyed every nook and corner of the building, could only see Nicole carrying the invalid's draught on a porcelain plate, or M. de Taverney surveying the garden, and vigorously taking snuff, as if to clear and refresh his intellect. Still these details tranquilized him, for they betokened illness, but not death.

“There,” thought he, “beyond that door, behind that blind, breathes, sighs, and suffers, she whom I adore, whom I idolize-she whose very sight would cause the perspiration to stand upon my forehead and make my limbs tremble-she to whose existence mine is forever riveted-she for whom I alone breathe and live!;”

And then, leaning forward out of his window -so that the inquisitive C'hon thought, twenty times in an hour, that he would throw himself out-Gilbert, with his practiced eye, look the measure of the partitions, of the floors, of the depth of the pavilion, and constructed an exact plan of them in his brain. There M. de Taverney slept; there must be the kitchen; there Philip's apartments; there the cabinet occupied by Nicole; and, last of all, there must be Andree's chamber-the sanctuary at the door of which he would have given his life to remain for one day kneeling.

This sanctuary, according to Gilbert's plan, was a large apartment on the ground floor, guarded by an antechamber, from which opened a small cabinet with a glass door, which, agreeably to Gilbert's arrangement, served as Nicole's sleeping chamber.

“Oh'!” exclaimed the excited youth in his fits of jealous fury, “how happy are the beings who are privileged to walk in the garden on which my window and those of the staircase look. How happy those thoughtless mortals who tread the gravel of the parterre! For there, during the silence of night, may be heard Mademoiselle Andree's plaints and sighs.”

Between the formation of a wish and its accomplishment there is a wide gulf; but fertile imaginations can throw a bridge across. They can find the real in the impossible; they know how to cross the broadest rivers and scale the highest mountains, by a plan peculiarly their own.

For the first few days Gilbert contented himself with wishing. Then he reflected that these much envied, happy beings were simple mortals, endowed, as he was, with limbs to tread the soil of the garden, and with arms to open the doors. Then, by degrees, he pictured to himself the happiness there would be in secretly gliding into this forbidden house-in pressing his ears against the Venetian blinds, through which the sounds from the interior were, as it were, filtered. With Gilbert, wishing did not long suffice; the fulfillment must be immediate.

Besides, his strength returned rapidly; youth is fruitful and rich. At the end of three days, his veins still throbbing with feverish excitement, Gilbert felt himself as strong as he had ever been in his life.

He calculated that, as Rousseau had locked him in, one of the greatest difficulties-that of obtaining an entrance into the hotel of the Taverneys by the street door-was placed out of the question; for, as the entrance-door opened upon the Rue Coq-Heron, and as Gilbert was locked up in the Rue Plastriere, he could not of course reach any street, and had therefore no need to open any doors. There remained the windows. That of his garret looked down upon a perpendicular wall of forty-eight feet in depth.

No one, unless he were drunk or mad, would venture to descend it. “Oh! those doors are happy inventions after all,” thought he, clenching his hands, “and yet Monsieur Rousseau, a philosopher, locks them!”

To break the padlock! That would be easily done; but if so, adieu to the hospitable roof which had sheltered him.

To escape from Luciennes, from the Rue Plastriere, from Taverney-always to escape, would be to render himself unable to look a single creature in the face without fearing to meet the reproach of ingratitude.

“No!” thought he, “Monsieur Rousseau shall know nothing of it.”

Leaning out of his window. Gilbert continued:

“With my hands and my legs, those instruments granted to free men by nature, I will creep along the tiles, and, keeping in the spout-which is narrow indeed, but straight, and therefore the direct road from one end to the other-I shall arrive, if I get on so far, at the skylight parallel to this. Now, this skylight belongs to the stairs. If I do not reach so far, I shall fall into the garden; that will make a noise, people will hasten from the pavilion, will raise me up, will recognize me, and I die nobly, poetically, pitied! That would be glorious!

“If I arrive, as everything leads me to believe I shall, I will creep in under the skylight over the stairs, and descend barefooted to the first story, the window of which also opens in the garden, at fifteen feet from the ground. I jump. Alas, my strength, my activity are gone! It is true that there is an espalier to assist me. Yes, but this espalier with its rotten framework will break, I shall tumble down, not killed nobly and poetically, but whitened with plaster, my clothes torn, ashamed, and looking as if I had come to rob the orchard! Odious thought! M. de Taverney will order the porter to flog me, or La Brie to pull my ears.

“No! I have here twenty pack-threads, which, twisted together, will make a rope, according to Monsieur Rousseau's definition that many straws make a sheaf. I shall borrow all these pack-threads from Madame Therese for one night, I shall knot them together, and when I have reached the window on the first floor, I shall tie the rope to the little balcony, or even to the lead, and slip down into the garden.”

When Gilbert had inspected the spout, attached and measured the cords, and calculated the height by his eye, he felt himself strong and determined.

He twisted the pieces of twine together and made a tolerably strong rope of them, then tried its strength by hanging to a beam in his garret, and, happy to find that he had only spat blood once during his efforts, he decided upon the nocturnal expedition.

The better to hoodwink Monsieur Jacques and Therese, he counterfeited illness, and kept his bed until two o'clock, at which time Rousseau went out for his after-dinner walk and did not return till the evening. When Rousseau paid a visit to his attic, before setting out, Gilbert announced to him his wish of sleeping until the next morning; to which Rousseau replied, that as he had made an engagement to sup from home that evening, he was happy to find Gilbert inclined to rest.

With these mutual explanations they separated. When Rousseau was gone, Gilbert brought out his pack-threads again, and this time he twisted them permanently.

He again examined the spout and the tiles; then placed himself at the window to keep watch on the garden until evening.

CHAPTER LXX. THE AERIAL TRIP.

GILBERT WAS now prepared for his entrance into the enemy's camp, for thus he mentally termed M. de Taverney's grounds, and from his window he explored the garden with the care and attention of a skillful strategist who is about to give battle, when, in this calm and motionless mansion, an incident occurred which attracted the philosopher's attention.

A stone flew over the garden wall and struck against the angle of the house. Gilbert, who had already learned that there can be no effect without a cause, determined to discover the cause, having seen the effect.

But although he leaned out as far as possible, he could not discover the person in the street who had thrown the stone. However, he immediately comprehended that this maneuver had reference to an event which just then took place; one of the outside shutters of the ground-floor opened cautiously, and through the opening appeared Nicole's head.

On seeing Nicole, Gilbert made a plunge back in his garret, but without losing sight of the nimble young girl. The latter, after throwing a stealthy glance at all the windows, particularly at those of the pavilion, emerged from her hiding-place and ran toward the garden, as if going to the espalier where some lace was drying in the sun. It was on the path which led toward the espalier that the stone had fallen, and neither Nicole nor Gilbert lost sight of it. Gilbert saw her kick this stone, which, for the moment, became of such great importance, before her several times, and she continued this maneuver until she readied the flower border, in which the espalier stood. Once there, Nicole raised her hands to take down the lace, let fall some of it, and, in picking it up again, seized the stone.

As yet Gilbert could understand nothing of this movement, but seeing; Nicole pick up the stone as a greedy school-boy picks up a nut, and unroll a slip of paper, which was tied round it, he at once guessed the degree of importance which was attached to this aerolite.

It was, in fact, neither more nor less than a note which Nicole had found rolled round the stone. The cunning girl quickly unfolded it, read it, and put it into her pocket, and then immediately discovered that there was no more occasion for looking at the lace; it was dry.

Meanwhile Gilbert shook his head, saying to himself, with the blind selfishness of men who entertain a bad opinion of women, that Nicole was in reality a viciously inclined person, and that he, Gilbert, had performed an act of sound and moral policy in breaking off so suddenly and so boldly with a girl who had letters thrown to her over the wall.

Nicole ran back to the house, and soon reappeared, this time holding her hand in her pocket. She drew from it a key, which Gilbert saw glitter in her hand for a moment, and then the young girl slipped this key under a little door which served to admit the gardener, and which was situated at the extremity of the wall opposite the street, and parallel to the great door which was generally used.

“Good!” said Gilbert, “I understand -a love-letter and a rendezvous. Nicole loses no time; she has already a new lover.”

And he frowned with the disappointment of a man who thinks that his loss should cause an irreparable void in the heart of the woman he abandons, and who finds this void completely filled.

“This may spoil all my projects,” he continued, seeking a factitious cause for his ill-humor. “No matter,” resumed he, after a moment's silence, “I shall not be sorry to know the happy mortal who succeeds me in Mademoiselle Nicole's good graces.”

But Gilbert, on certain subjects, had a very discerning judgment. He calculated that the discovery which he had made, and which Nicole was far from suspecting, would give him an advantage over her which might be of use to him, since he knew her secret, with such details as she could not deny, while she scarcely suspected his, and, even if she did, there existed no facts which could give a color to her suspicions-. During all these goings and comings, the anxiously expected night had come on.

The only thing which Gilbert now feared was the return of Rousseau, who might surprise him on the roof or on the staircase, or might come up and find his room empty. In the latter case, the anger of the philosopher of Geneva would be terrible, but Gilbert hoped to avert the blow by means of the following note, which he left upon his little table, addressed to the philosopher:

“'MY DEAR AND ILLUSTRIOUS PROTECTOR-Do not think ill of me, if, notwithstanding your recommendations, and even against your order, I have dared to leave my apartment. I shall soon return, unless some accident, similar to that which has already happened to me, should again take place; but at the risk of a similar, or even a worse accident, I must leave my room for two hours.”

“'I do not know what I shall say when I return,” thought Gilbert; “but at least Monsieur Rousseau will not be uneasy or angry.”'

The evening was dark. A suffocating heat prevailed, as it often does during the first warmths of spring. The sky was cloudy, and at half-past eight the most practiced eye could have distinguished nothing at the bottom of the dark gulf into which Gilbert peered.

It was then, for the first time, that the young man perceived that he breathed with difficulty, and that sudden perspirations bedewed his forehead and breast-unmistakable signs of a weak and unhinged system. Prudence counseled him not to undertake, in his present condition, an expedition for which strength and steadiness in all his members were peculiarly necessary, not only to insure success, but even for the preservation of his life; but Gilbert did not listen to what his physical instincts counseled.

His moral will spoke more loudly; and to it, as ever, the young man rowed obedience.

The moment had come. Gilbert rolled his rope several times round his neck, and commenced, with beating heart, to scale the skylight; then, firmly grasping the casement, he made the first, step in the spout toward the skylight on the right, which was, as we have said, that of the staircase, and about two fathoms distance from his own.

His feet in a groove of lead, at the utmost eight inches wide, which groove, though it was supported here and there by holdfasts of iron, yet, from the pliability of the lead, yielded to his steps; his hands resting against the tiles, which could only be a point of support for his equilibrium, but no help in case of falling, since the fingers could take no hold of them; this was Gilbert's position during this aerial passage, which lasted two minutes, but which seemed to Gilbert to occupy two centuries.

But Gilbert determined not to be afraid; and such was the power of will in this young man that he succeeded. He recollected to have heard a rope-dancer say, that to walk safely on narrow ways one ought never to look downward, but about ten feet in advance, and never think of the abyss beneath, but as an eagle might, that is, with the conviction of being able to float over it at pleasure. Besides, Gilbert had already put these precepts in practice in several visits he had paid to Nicole-that Nicole who was now so bold that she made use of keys and doors instead of roofs and chimneys. In this manner he had often passed the sluices of the mill at Taverney, and the naked beams of the roof of an old barn. He arrived, therefore, at the goal without a shudder, and once arrived there, he glided beneath the skylight, and with a thrill of joy alighted on the staircase. But on reaching the landing-place he stopped short. Voices were heard on the lower stories; they were those of Therese and certain neighbors of hers, who were speaking of Rousseau's genius, of the merit of his books, and of the harmony of his music.

The neighbors had read “La Nouvelle Heloise,” and confessed frankly that they found the book obscure. In reply to this criticism Madame Therese observed that they did not understand the philosophical part of this delightful book. To this the neighbors had nothing to reply, except to confess their incompetence to give an opinion on such a subject.

This edifying conversation was held from one landing-place to another; and the fire of discussion, ardent as it was, was less so than that of the stoves on winch the savory suppers of these ladies were cooking. Gilbert was listening to the arguments, therefore, and snuffing the smell of the viands, when his name, pronounced in the midst of the tumult, caused him to start rather unpleasantly. “After my supper,” said Therese,” I must go and see if that dear child does not want something in his attic.”

This dear child gave Gilbert less pleasure than the promise of the visit gave him alarm. Luckily, he remembered that Therese, when she supped alone, chatted a long time with her bottle, that the meat seemed savory, and that after supper meant-ten o'clock. It was now only a quarter to nine. Besides, it was probable that, after supper, the course of ideas in Therese's brain would take a change, and that she would then think of anything else rather than of the dear child.

But time was slipping past, to the great vexation of Gilbert, when all at once one of the joints of the allied dames began to burn.

The cry of the alarmed cook was heard, which put an end to all conversation, for Everyone hurried to the theater of the catastrophe. Gilbert profited by this culinary panic among the ladies to glide down the stairs like a shadow.

Arrived at the first story, he found the leading of the window well adapted to hold his rope, and, attaching it by a slipknot, he mounted the window-sill and began rapidly to descend.

He was still suspended between the window and the ground, when a rapid step sounded in the garden beneath him. He had sufficient time, before the step readied him, to return, and holding fast by the knots he watched to see who this untimely visitor was.

It was a man, and as he proceeded from the direction of the little door, Gilbert did not doubt for an instant but that it was the happy mortal whom Nicole was expecting.

He fixed ail his attention therefore upon this second intruder, who had thus arrested him in the midst of his perilous descent. By his walk, by a glance at his profile, seen from beneath his three-cornered hat, and by the particular mode in which this hat was placed over the corner of his attentive ear, Gilbert fancied he recognized the famous Beausire, that exempt whose acquaintance Nicole had made in Taverney.

Almost immediately he saw Nicole open the door of the pavilion, hasten into the garden, leaving the door open, and light and active as a bird, direct her steps toward the greenhouse, that is to say, in the direction in which M. Beausire was already advancing.

This was most certainly not the first rendezvous which had taken place, since neither one nor other betrayed the least hesitation as to their place of meeting.

“Now I can finish my descent,” thought Gilbert; “for if Nicole has appointed this hour for meeting her lover, it must be because she is certain of being undisturbed. Andree must be alone then-oh heavens! alone.”

In fact, no noise was heard in the house, and only a faint light gleamed from the windows of the ground-floor. Gilbert alighted upon the ground without any accident, and, unwilling to cross the garden, he glided gently along the wall till he came to a clump of trees, crossed it in a stooping posture, and arrived at the door which Nicole had left open without having been discovered. There, sheltered by an immense aristolochia, which was trained over the door and hung down in large festoons, he observed that the outer apartment, which was a spacious antechamber, was, as he had guessed, perfectly empty. This antechamber communicated with the interior of the house by means of two doors, one open, the other closed; Gilbert guessed that the open one was that belonging to Nicole's chamber. He softly entered this room, stretching out his hands before him for fear of accident, for the room was entirely without light; but, at the end of a sort of corridor, was seen a glass door whose framework was clearly designed against the light of the adjoining apartment. On the inner side of this glass door was drawn a muslin curtain.

As Gilbert advanced along the corridor, he heard a feeble voice speaking in the lighted apartment; it was Andree's, and every drop of Gilbert's blood rushed to his heart. Another voice replied to hers; it was Philip's. The young man was anxiously inquiring after his sister's health.

Gilbert, now on his guard, proceeded a few steps farther, and placed himself behind one of those truncated columns surmounted by a bust, which, at that period, formed the usual ornament of double doors. Thus concealed, he strained his eyes and ears to the utmost stretch; so happy, that his heart melted with joy; so fearful, that the same heart shrunk together till it seemed to become only a minute point in his breast.

He listened and gazed.

CHAPTER LXXI. THE BROTHER AND SISTER.

GILBERT, AS we have said, gazed and listened. He saw Andree stretched on a reclining chair, her face turned toward the glass door, that is to say, directly toward him. This door was slightly ajar.

A small lamp with a deep shade was placed upon an adjoining table-which was covered with books, indicating the only species of recreation permitted to the invalid-and lighted only the lower part of Mademoiselle de Taverney's face. Sometimes, however, when she leaned back, so as to rest against the pillow of the reclining chair, the light overspread her marble forehead, which was veiled in a lace cap. Philip was sitting at the foot of her chair with his back toward Gilbert; his arm was still in a sling, and all exercise of it was forbidden.

It was the first time that Andree had been up, and the first time also that Philip had left his room. The young people, therefore, had not seen each other since that terrible night, but each knew that the other was recovering, and hastening toward convalescence. They had only been together for a few moments, and were conversing without restraint, for they knew that even if anyone should interrupt them, they would be warned by the noise of the bell attached to the door which Nicole had left open. But of course they were not aware of the circumstance of the door having been left open, and they calculated upon the bell.

Gilbert saw and heard all, therefore; for through this open door, he could seize every word of their conversation.

“So now,” Philip was saying, just as Gilbert took his place behind a curtain hung loosely before the door of a dressing-room, “so now you breathe more easily, my poor sister-”

“Yes, more easily; but still with a slight pain.”

“And your strength-”

“Returns but slowly; nevertheless, I have been able to walk to the window two or three times to-day. How sweet the fresh air is, how lovely the flowers! It seems to me that, surrounded with air and flowers, it is impossible to die.”

“But still you are very weak; are you not. Andree-”

“Oh, yes! for the shock was a terrible one! Therefore,” continued the young girl, smiling and shaking her head, “I repeat that I walk with difficulty, and am obliged to lean on the tables and the projecting points of the wainscoting. Without this support my limbs bend under me, and I feel as if I should every moment fall.”

“Courage, Andree! The fresh air and the beautiful flowers you spoke of just now will cure you, and in a week you will be able to pay a visit to the dauphiness, who, I am informed, sends to inquire so kindly for you.”

“Yes, I hope so, Philip; for the dauphiness in truth seems most kind to me.”

And Andree, leaning back, put her hand upon her chest and closed her lovely eyes.

Gilbert made a step forward with outstretched arms.

“You are in pain, my sister-” asked Philip, taking her hand.

“Yes, at times I have slight spasms, and sometimes the blood mounts to my head, and my temples throb; sometimes again I feel quite giddy, and my heart sinks within me.”

“Oh,” said Philip dreamily, “'that is not surprising; you have met with a dreadful trial, and your escape was almost miraculous.”

“Miraculous is in truth the proper term, brother.”

“But, speaking of your miraculous escape, Andree.” said Philip, approaching closer to his sister, to give more emphasis to the question, “do you know I have never yet had an opportunity of speaking to you of this catastrophe-”

Andree blushed and seemed uneasy, but Philip did not remark this change of color, or at least did not appear to remark it.

“I thought, however,” said the young girl, “that the person who restored me to you gave all the explanations you could wish; my father, at least, told me he was quite satisfied.”

“Of course, my dear Andree; and this man, so far as I could judge, behaved with extreme delicacy in the whole affair; but still, some parts of his tale seemed to me, not suspicious, indeed, but obscure-that is the proper term.”

“How so, and what do you mean, brother-” asked Andree, with the frankness of innocence.

“For instance,” said Philip, “there is one point which did not at first strike me, but which has since seemed to me to bear a very strange aspect.”

“Which-” asked Andree.

“Why, the very manner in which you were saved. Can you describe it to me-”

The young girl seemed to make an effort over herself.

“Oh! Philip,” said she, “I have almost forgotten-I was so much terrified.”

“No matter, my sweetest Andree; tell me all you remember.”'

“Well, you know, brother, we were separated about twenty paces from the Garde-Meuble. I saw you dragged away toward the garden of the Tuileries, while I was drawn toward the Rue Royale. For an instant I could distinguish you making fruitless attempts to rejoin me. I stretched out my arms toward you, crying, Philip! Philip! when all at once I was, as it were, seized by a whirlwind, which raised me aloft and bore me in the direction of the railings. I felt the living tide carrying me toward the wall, where I must be dashed to atoms; I heard the cries of those who were crushed against the railings; I felt that my turn would come to be crushed and mangled; I could almost calculate the number of seconds I had yet to live, when, half dead and almost frantic, raising my hands and eyes to Heaven in a last prayer, I met the burning glance of a man who seemed to govern the crowd and whom the crowd seemed to obey.”

“And this man was the Count Joseph Balsamo-”

“Yes; the same whom I had already seen at Taverney-the same who, even there, inspired me with such a strange terror; he, in short, who seems to be endowed with some supernatural power, who has fascinated my sight with his eyes, my ears with his voice; who has made my whole being tremble by the mere touch of his finger on my shoulder.”

“Proceed, proceed, Andree,” said Philip, his features and voice becoming gloomier as she spoke.

“Well, this man seemed to tower aloft above the catastrophe, as if human suffering could not reach him. I read in his eyes that he wished to save me-that he had the power to do so. Then something extraordinary took place in me and around me. Bruised, powerless, half dead as I was, I felt myself raised toward this man as if some unknown, mysterious, invincible power drew me to him. I felt as if some strong arm, by a mighty effort, was lifting me out of the gulf of mangled flesh in which so many unhappy victims were suffocating, and was restoring me to air, to life. Oh, Philip!” continued Andree, with a sort of feverish vehemence, “I feel certain it was that man's look which attracted me to him. I reached his hand; I was saved!

“'Alas!” murmured Gilbert, “she had eyes only for him; and I-I-who was dying at her feet-she saw me not!”

He wiped his brow, bathed in perspiration.

“That is how the affair happened, then-” asked Philip.

“Yes; up to the moment when I felt myself out of danger. Then, whether all my force bad been exhausted in the last effort I had made, or whether the terror I had experienced had outstripped the measure of my strength, I do not know, but I fainted-”

“And at what time do you think you fainted-”

“About ten minutes after we were separated, brother.”

“Yes,” pursued Philip, “that was about midnight. How then did it happen that you did not return till three o'clock- Forgive me this catechizing, which may seem ridiculous to you, dear Andree, but I have a good reason for it.”

“Thanks. Philip,” said Andree, pressing her brother's hand. “Three days ago I could not have replied to you as I have now done; but to-day-it may seem strange to you what I am about to say-but to day my mental vision is stronger; it seems to me as if some will stronger than my own ordered me to remember, and I do remember.”

“Then tell me, dear Andree, for I am all impatience to know, did this man carry you away in his arms-”

“'In his arms-” said Andree, blushing; “I do not well recollect. All I know is, that he extricated me out of the crowd. But the touch of his hand caused me the same feeling as at Taverney, and scarcely had he touched me when I fainted again, or rather, I sunk to sleep; for fainting is generally preceded by a painful feeling, and on this occasion I only felt the pleasing sensation attendant on sleep.”

“In truth, Andree, what you tell me seems so strange, that if any other related these things, I should not believe them. But proceed,” continued he, in a voice which betrayed more emotion than he was willing to let appear.

As for Gilbert, he devoured Andree's every word, for he knew that, so far at least, each word was true.

“When I regained my consciousness,” continued the young girl, “I was in a splendidly furnished salon. A femme-de-chambre and a lady were standing beside air, but they did not seem at all uneasy, for when I awoke they were smiling benevolently.”

“Do you know what time this was. Andree-”

“The half-hour after midnight was just striking.”

“Oh!” said the young man, breathing freely, “that is well. Proceed, Andree, with your narrative.”

“I thanked the ladies for the attentions they lavished on me; but knowing how uneasy you would be, I begged them to send me home immediately. Then they told me that the count had returned to the scene of the accident to assist the wounded, but that he would return with a carriage and convey me back himself to our hotel. In fact, about two o'clock I heard a carriage roll along the street; then the same sensation which I had formerly felt on the approach of that man overpowered me; I fell back trembling and almost senseless upon a sofa. The door opened. In the midst of my confusion I could still recognize the man who had saved me; then for a second time I lost all consciousness. They must then have carried me down, placed me in the carriage, and brought me here. That is all I can remember, brother.”

Philip calculated the time, and saw that his sister must, have been brought direct from the Rue des Ecuries-du-Louvre to the Rue Coq-Heron, as she had been from the Place Louis XV. to the Rue des Ecuries-du-Louvre; and, joyfully pressing her hands, he said in a frank, cheerful voice:

“Thanks, my dear sister, thanks; all the calculations correspond exactly. I will call upon the Marchioness de Sevigny and thank her in person. In the meantime, one word more upon a subject of secondary importance.”

“Speak.”

“Do you remember seeing among the crowd any face with which you were acquainted-”

“No; none.”

“The little Gilbert's, for example-”

“In fact,” said Andree, endeavoring to recall her thoughts, “I do remember to have seen him. At the moment when we were separated, he was about ten paces from me.”

“She saw me!” murmured Gilbert.

“Because, while searching for you, Andree. I discovered the poor lad.”

“Among the dead-” asked Andree, with that peculiar shade of interest which the great testify for their dependents.

“No, he was only wounded; he was saved, and I hope he will recover.”

“Oh! I am glad to hear it,” said Andree; “and what injury had he received-”

“His chest was greatly bruised.”

“Yes, yes, against thine, Andree!” murmured Gilbert.

“But,” continued Philip, “the strangest circumstance of all, and the one which induced me to speak of the lad, was, that I found in his hand, clenched and stiffened by pain, a fragment of your dress.”

“That is strange, indeed.”

“Did you not see him at the last moment-”

“At the last moment, Philip, I saw so many fearful forms of terror, pain, selfishness, love, pity, avarice, and indifference, that I felt as if I had passed a year in the realms of torment, and as if these figures were those of the damned passing in review before me. I may, therefore, have seen the young man, but I do not remember him.”

“And yet the piece of stuff torn from your dress-and it was your dross, Andree, for Nicole has examined it.”

“Did you tell the girl for what purpose you questioned her-” asked Andree; for she remembered the singular explanation she had had at Taverney with her waiting-maid on the subject of this same Gilbert.

“Oh no. However, the fragment was in his hand. How can you explain that-”

“Oh! very easily!” said Andree, with a calmness which presented a strange contrast to the fearful beating of Gilbert's heart; “if he was near me when I felt myself raised aloft, as it were, by this man's look, he has probably clung to me to profit by the help I was receiving, in the same manner as a drowning man clings to the belt of the swimmer.”

“Oh!” said Gilbert, with a feeling of angry contempt at this explanation of the young girl; “oh, what an ignoble interpretation of my devotion! How these nobles judge us sons of the people! Monsieur Rousseau is right; we are worth more than they; our hearts are purer, and our arms stronger.”

As he once more settled himself to listen to the conversation of the brother and sister, which he had for a moment lost during this aside, be heard a noise behind him.

“Oh, heavens!” murmured he, “someone in the anteroom!”

And hearing the step approach the corridor. Gilbert drew back into the dressing-room, letting the curtain fall before him.

“Well! Is that madcap Nicole not here-” said the Baron de Taverney's voice, as he entered his daughter's apartment, touching Gilbert with the flaps of his coat as he passed.

“I dare say she is in the garden,” said Andree, with a tranquillity which showed that she had no suspicion of the presence of a third person; “'good-evening, my dear father.”

Philip rose respectfully; the baron motioned him to remain where he was, and taking an armchair, sat down near his children.

“Ah! my children,” said the baron, “it is a long journey from the Rue Coq-Heron to Versailles, when, instead of going in a good court carriage, you have only a fiacre drawn by one horse. However, I saw the dauphiness, nevertheless.”

“Ah!” said Andree, “then you have just arrived from Versailles, my dear father-”

“Yes; the princess did me the honor to send for me, having heard of the accident which had happened to my daughter.”

“Andree is much better, father,” said Philip.

“I am perfectly aware of it, and I told her royal highness so, who was kind enough to promise that, as soon as your sister is completely restored, she will summon her to Petit-Trianon, which she has fixed upon for her residence, and which she is now having decorated according to her taste.”

“I!-I at court!” said Andree, timidly.

“It is not the court, my child. The dauphiness has quiet and unobtrusive habits, and the dauphin hates show and noise. They will lire in complete retirement at Trianon. However, from what I know of her highness the dauphiness's disposition, her little family parties will turn out in the end much better than Beds of Justice and meetings of States-General. The princess has a decided character, and the dauphin. I am told, is learned.”

“Oh, it will always be the court! Do not deceive yourself, sister,” said Philip, mournfully.

“The court!” said Gilbert to himself, with an emotion of concentrated rage and despair. “The court! that is a summit which I cannot reach, or a gulf into which I cannot dash myself. In that case, farewell, Andree! Lost! -lost to me forever!”

“But, my father,” replied Andree, “we have neither the fortune which would warrant our choosing such a residence, nor the education necessary for those who move in its lofty circle. What shall I, a poor girl, do among those brilliant ladies, whose dazzling splendor I on one occasion witnessed, whose minds I thought so empty, but at the same time so sparkling- Alas! my brother, we are too obscure to mingle among so many dazzling lights.”

The baron knit his brow.

“Still the same absurd ideas!” said he. “In truth, I cannot understand the pains which my family take to depreciate everything which they inherit from me, or which relates to me. Obscure! Really, mademoiselle, you are mad. Obscure!-a Taverney-Maison-Rouge obscure! And who will shine, pray, if you do not! Fortune- -pardieu! we know what the fortunes of the court are- The sun of royalty fills them, the same sun makes them blow-it is the great vivifier of court nature. I have ruined myself at court and no w I shall grow rich again at court, that's all. Has the king no more money to bestow upon his faithful servants- And do you really think I would blush at a regiment being offered to my eldest son, at a dowry being granted to you, Andree, at a nice little appanage conferred on myself, or at finding a handsome pension under my napkin some day at dinner- No, no, fools alone have prejudices; I have none. Besides, it is only my own property which is given back to me. Do not, therefore, entertain these foolish scruples. There remains only one of your objections-your education, of which you spoke just now. But, mademoiselle, remember, that no young lady of the court has been educated as you have been. Nay, more; you have, besides the education usually given to the daughters of the noblesse, the solid acquirements more generally confined to the families of lawyers or financiers. You are a musician, and you draw landscape's, with sheep and cows, which Berghem need not disclaim. Now, the dauphiness absolutely dotes on cows, on sheep, and on Berghem. You are beautiful; the king cannot fail to notice it. You can converse; that will charm the Count d'Artois and the Count de Provence; you will not only be well received, therefore, but adored. Yes, yes,” continued the baron, rubbing his hands, and chuckling in so strange a manner that Philip gazed at his father to see if the laugh was really produced by a human mouth, “adored! I have said the word.”

Andree cast down her eyes, and Philip, taking her hand, said:

“Our father is right, Andree, you are everything he described. None can be more worthy to enter Versailles than you.”

“But I shall be separated from you.” replied Andree.

“By no means, by no means,” interrupted the baron; “Versailles is large, my dear.”

“Yes, but Trianon is little,” replied Andree, haughty and rather unmanageable when she was opposed.

“Trianon will always be large enough to provide a chamber for M. de Taverney. A man such as I am always finds room,” added he, with a modesty which meant-always knows how to make room for himself.

Andree, not much comforted by this promised proximity of her father, turned to Philip.

“My sister,” said the latter, “you will certainly not belong to what is called the court. Instead of placing you in a convent and paying your dowry, the dauphiness, who wishes to distinguish you, will keep you near herself in some employment. Etiquette is not so rigid now as m the time of Louis XIV. Offices are more easily fused together and separated. You can occupy the post of reader or companion to the dauphiness; she will draw with you, she will always keep you near her; probably you will never appear in public, but you will enjoy her immediate protection, and consequently, will inspire envy. That is what you fear, is it not-”

“Yes, my brother.”

“However,” said the baron, “we shall not grieve for such a trifle as one or two envious persons. Get better quickly, therefore, Andree, and I shall have the pleasure of taking you to Trianon myself; it is the dauphiness's commands.”

“Very well, father, I shall go.”

“Apropos, Philip, have you any money-” asked the baron.

“If you want some, sir,” replied the young man, “I have not enough to offer you; if you wish to give me some, I shall answer you, on the contrary, that I have enough for myself.”

“True, you are a philosopher,” said the baron, laughing sarcastically. “Are you a philosopher, also, Andree, who have nothing to ask from me, or is there anything you wish for-”

“I am afraid of embarrassing you, father.”

“Oh I we are not at Taverney now. The king has sent me five hundred louis-d'ors; on account, his majesty said. Think of your wardrobe, Andree.”

“Thank you, my dear father,” said the young girl, joyously.

“There, there,” said the baron, “see the extremes -only a minute ago she wanted nothing, now she would ruin the emperor of China. But no matter, ask -fine dresses will become you well, Andree.”

Then, giving her a very affectionate kiss, the baron opened the door of an apartment which separated his own from his daughter's chamber, and left the room, saying:

“That cursed Nicole is not here to show me light.”

“Shall I ring for her, father-”

“No, I have La Brie, who is sleeping in some armchair or other; good-night, my children.”

Philip now rose in his turn.

“Good-night, brother,” said Andree. “I am dreadfully tired. It is the first time I have spoken so much since my accident. Good-night, dear Philip.”

And she gave her hand to the young I man, who kissed it with brotherly affection, but at the same time with a sort of respect with which his sister always inspired him, and retired, touching, as he passed, the door behind which Gilbert was concealed.

“Shall I call Nicole-” asked he, as he left the room.

“No, no,” said Andree, “I can undress alone; adieu, Philip.”

CHAPTER LXXII. WHAT GILBERT HAD FORESEEN.

WHEN ANDREE was alone she rose from the chair, and a shudder passed through Gilbert's frame.

The young girl stood upright, and with her hands, white as alabaster, she took the hair-pins one by one from her headdress, while the light shawl in which she was wrapped slipped from her shoulders, and showed her snowy graceful neck, and her arms, which, raised carelessly above her head, displayed to advantage the muscles of her exquisite throat and bosom, palpitating under the cambric.

Gilbert, on his knees, breathless intoxicated, felt the blood rush furiously to his heart and forehead. Fiery waves circulated in his veins, a cloud of flame descended over his sight, and strange feverish noises boiled in his ears. His state of mind bordered on madness. He was on the point of crossing the threshold of Andree's door, and crying:

“Yes, thou art beautiful! thou art, indeed, beautiful! But be not so proud of thy beauty, for thou owest it to me -I saved thy life!”

All at once, a knot in her waistband embarrassed the young girl; she became impatient, stamped with her foot, and sat down weak and trembling on her bed, as if this slight obstacle had overcome her strength. Then, bending toward the cord of the bell, she pulled it impatiently.

This noise recalled Gilbert to his senses. Nicole had left the door open to hear, therefore she would come.

“Farewell, my dream!” murmured he. “Farewell, happiness! henceforth only a baseless vision -henceforth only a remembrance, ever burning in my imagination, ever present to my heart!”

Gilbert endeavored to rush from the pavilion, but the baron on entering had closed the doors of the corridor after him. Not calculating on this interruption, he was some moments before he could open them.

Just as he entered Nicole's apartment, Nicole reached the pavilion. The young man heard the gravel of the garden walk grinding under her steps. He had only time to conceal himself in the shade, in order to let the young girl pass him; for after crossing the antechamber, the door of which she locked, she flew along the corridor as light as a bird.

Gilbert gained the antechamber and attempted to escape into the garden, but Nicole, while running on and crying; “I am coming, mademoiselle! I am coming! I am just closing the door!” had closed it indeed, and not only closed it and double-locked it, but in her confusion had put the key into her pocket.

Gilbert tried in vain to open the door. Then he had recourse to the windows, but they were barred, and after five minutes' investigation, he saw that it was impossible to escape.

The young man crouched into a corner, fortifying himself with the firm resolve to make Nicole open the door for him.

As for the latter, when she had given the plausible excuse for her absence, that she had gone to close the windows of the greenhouse, lest the night air might injure her young lady's flowers, she finished undressing Andree, and assisted her to bed.

There was a tremulousness in Nicole's voice, an unsteadiness in her hands, and an eagerness in all her attentions, which were very unusual, and indicated some extraordinary emotion. But from the calm and lofty sphere in which Andree's thoughts revolved, she rarely looked down upon the lower earth, and when she did so, the inferior beings whom she saw seemed like atoms in her eyes. She therefore perceived nothing. Meanwhile Gilbert was boiling with impatience, since he found the retreat thus cut off. He now longed only for liberty.

Andree dismissed Nicole after a short chat, in which the latter exhibited all the wheedling manner of a remorseful waiting maid.

Before retiring, she turned back her mistress's coverlet, lowered the lamp, sweetened the warm drink which was standing in a silver goblet upon an alabaster night lamp, wished her mistress good-night in her sweetest voice, and left the room on tip-toe. As she came out she closed the glass door. Then, humming gayly, as if her mind was perfectly tranquil, she crossed the antechamber and advanced toward the door leading into the garden.

Gilbert guessed Nicole's intention, and for a moment he asked himself if he should not, in place of making himself known, slip out suddenly, taking advantage of the opportunity to escape when the door should be opened. But in that case he would be seen without being recognized, and he would be taken for a robber. Nicole would cry for help, he would not have time to reach the cord, and even if he should reach it, he would be seen in his aerial flight, his retreat discovered, and himself made the object of the Taverneys' displeasure, which could not fail to be deep and lasting, considering the feeling evinced toward him by the head of the house.

True, he might expose Nicole, and procure her dismissal; but of what use would that be to him- He would in that case have done evil without reaping any corresponding advantage, in short, from pure revenge; and Gilbert was not so feebleminded as to feel satisfied when he was revenged. Useless revenge was to him worse than a bad action, it was folly.

As Nicole approached the door where Gilbert was in waiting, he suddenly emerged from the shadow in which he was concealed, and appeared to the young girl in the full rays of the moonlight which was streaming through the window. Nicole was on the point of crying out, but she took Gilbert for another, and said, after the first emotion of terror was past:

“You here! What imprudence!”

“Yes, it is I.” replied Gilbert, in a whisper; “but do not cry out for me more than you would do for another.”

This time Nicole recognized her interlocutor.

“Gilbert!” she exclaimed, “oh, Heaven!”

“I requested you not to cry out.” said the young man, coldly.

“But what are you doing here, sir-” exclaimed Nicole, angrily.

“Come,” said Gilbert, as coolly as before, “a moment ago you called me imprudent, and now you are more imprudent than I.”

“I think I am only too kind to you in asking what you are doing here,” said Nicole; “for I know very well.”

“What am I doing, then-”

“You came to see Mademoiselle Andree.”

“Mademoiselle Andree-” said Gilbert, as calmly as before.

“Yes, you are in love with her; but, fortunately, she does not love you.”

“Indeed-”

“But take care, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Nicole, threateningly.

“Oh, I must take care-”

“Yes.”

“Of what-”

“Take care that I do not inform on you.”

“You, Nicole-”

“Yes, I; take care I don't get you dismissed from the house.”

“Try,” said Gilbert, smiling.

“You defy me.”

“Yes, absolutely defy you.”

“What will happen, then, if I tell mademoiselle, Monsieur Philip, and the baron, that I met you here-”

“It will happen as you have said-not that I shall be dismissed-I am, thank God, dismissed already-but that I shall be tracked and hunted like a wild beast. But she who will be dismissed will be Nicole.”

“How Nicole-”

“Certainly; Nicole, who has stones thrown to her over the walls.”

“Take care, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Nicole, in a threatening tone, “a piece of mademoiselle's dress was found in your hand upon the Place Louis XV.”

“You think so-”

“Monsieur Philip told his father so. He suspects nothing as yet, but if he gets a hint or two, perhaps he will suspect in the end.”

“And who will give him the hint-”

“I shall.”

“Take care, Nicole! One might suspect, also, that when you seem to be drying lace, you are picking up the stones that are thrown over the wall!”

“It is false!” cried Nicole. Then, retracting her denial, she continued; “At all events, it is not a crime to receive a letter -not like stealing in here while mademoiselle is undressing. Ah! what will you say to that, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“I shall say, Mademoiselle Nicole, that it is also a crime for such a well-conducted young lady as you are to slip keys under the doors of gardens.”

Nicole trembled.

“I shall say,” continued Gilbert, “that if I, who am known to M. de Taverney, to Monsieur Philip, to Mademoiselle Andree, have committed a crime in entering here, in my anxiety to know how the family I so long served were, and particularly Mademoiselle Andree, whom I endeavored so strenuously to save on the evening of the fireworks that a piece of her dress remained in my hand-I shall say that if I have committed this pardonable crime, you have committed the unpardonable one of introducing a stranger into your master's house, and are now going to meet him a second time, in the greenhouse, where you have already spent an hour in his company-”

“Gilbert! Gilbert!”

“Oh! how virtuous we are, all of a sudden, Mademoiselle Nicole! You deem it very wicked that I should be found here, while-”

“Gilbert!”

“Yes, go and tell mademoiselle that I love her. I shall say that it is you whom I love, and she will believe me, for you were foolish enough to tell her so at Taverney.”

“Gilbert, my friend!”

“And you will be dismissed, Nicole; and in place of going to Trianon, and entering the household of the dauphiness with mademoiselle-instead of coquetting with the fine lords and rich gentlemen, as you will not fail to do if you remain with the family-instead of nil this, you will be sent to enjoy the society of your admirer, M. Beausire, an exempt, a soldier! Oh! what a direful fall! What a noble ambition Mademoiselle Nicole's is-to be the favored fair one of a guardsman!” And Gilbert began to hum, in a low voice, with a most malicious accent:

“'In the Garde Francaise I had a faithful lover.'“

“In mercy, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Nicole, “do not look at me in that ill-natured manner. Your eyes pierce me, even in the darkness. Do not laugh either-your laugh terrifies me.”

“Then open the door,” said Gilbert, imperatively; “open the door for me, Nicole, and not another word of all this.”

Nicole opened the door with so violent a nervous trembling that her shoulders and head shook like those of an old woman.

Gilbert tranquilly stepped out first, and seeing that the young girl was leading him toward the door of the garden, he said:

“No, no; you have your means for admitting people here, I have my means for leaving it. Go to the greenhouse, to M. Beausire, who must be waiting impatiently for you, and remain with him ten minutes longer than you intended to do. I will grant you this recompense for your discretion.”

“Ten minutes, and why ten minutes-” asked Nicole, trembling.

“Because I require ten minutes to disappear. Go, Nicole, go; and, like Lot's wife, whose story I told you at Taverney, when you gave me a rendezvous among the hay-stacks, do not turn round, else something worse will happen to you than to be changed into a statue of salt. Go, beautiful Siren, go; I have nothing else to say to you.”

Nicole, subdued, alarmed, conquered, by the coolness and presence of mind shown by Gilbert, who held her future destiny in his hands, turned with drooping head toward the greenhouse, where Beausire was already uneasy at her prolonged absence.

Gilbert, on his side, observing the same precautions as before to avoid discovery, once more reached the wall, seized his rope, and, assisted by the vine and trelliswork, gained the first story in safety, and quickly ascended the stairs. As luck would have it, he met no one on his way up; the neighbors were already to bed, and Therese was still at supper.

Gilbert was too much excited by his victory over Nicole to entertain the least fear of missing his foot in the leaden gutter. He felt as if he could have walked on the edge of a sharpened razor, had the razor been a league long. He regained his attic in safety therefore, closed the window, seized the note, which no one had touched, and tore it in pieces. Then he stretched himself with a, delicious feeling of languor upon his bed.

Half an hour afterward Therese kept her word, and came to the door to inquire how he was.; Gilbert thanked her, in a voice interrupted by terrific yawns, as if he were dying of sleep. He was eager to be alone, quite alone, in darkness and silence, to collect his thoughts, and analyze the varied emotions of this ever-memorable day.

Soon, indeed, everything faded from his mind's eye; the baron, Philip, Nicole, Beausire, disappeared from view, to give place to the vision of Andree at her toilet, her arms raised above her head, and detaching the pins from her long and flowing hair.

CHAPTER LXXIII. THE BOTANISTS.

THE EVENTS which we have just related happened on Friday evening; so that it was the second day after that the excursion which Rousseau looked forward to with so much pleasure was to take place.

Gilbert, indifferent to everything since he had heard that Andree was so soon to depart for Trianon, had spent the entire day leaning on his window-sill. During this day the window of Andrew's room remained open, and once or twice the young girl had approached it as if to breathe the fresh air. She was pale and weak; but it seemed to Gilbert as if he would wish for nothing more than that Andree should always inhabit that pavilion, that he should always have his attic, and that, once or twice every day, Andree should come to the window as he had seen her that day.

The long-looked-for Sunday at last arrived. Rousseau had already made his preparations the day before; his shoes were carefully blackened, and his gray coat, at once light and warm, was taken from the chest, to the great annoyance of Therese, who thought a blouse or a linen frock quite good enough for such a purpose. But Rousseau had completed his toilet without replying. Not only his own clothes, but Gilbert's also had been passed in review with the greatest care, and the latter's had even been augmented by a pair of irreproachable stockings and new shoes, which Rousseau had presented with him as an agreeable surprise.

The herbal also was put in the nicest trim. Rousseau had not forgotten his collection of mosses, which was to play a part in the proceedings of the day. Impatient as‹i child, he hastened more than twenty times to the window to see if the carriage that was passing was not M. de Jussieu's. At last he perceived a highly varnished chariot, a pair of splendid horses with rich harness, and an immense powdered footman standing at his door. He ran instantly to Therese, exclaiming:

“Here it is! here it is!”

And crying to Gilbert:

“Quick, quick, the carnage is waiting.”

“Well,” said Therese, sharply, “if you are so fond of riding in a coach, why did you not work in order to have one of your own, like M. de Voltaire-”

“Be quiet!” grumbled Rousseau.

“Dame! you always say you have as much talent as he.”

“I do not say so, hark you!” cried Rousseau, in a rage; “I say-I say nothing!”

And all his joy fled, as it invariably did, at the mention of that hated name. Luckily M. de Jussieu entered.

He was pomatumed, powdered, fresh as the spring. His dress consisted of a splendid coat of ribbed Indian satin, of a light gray color, a vest of pale lilac silk, white silk stockings of extraordinary fineness, and bright gold buckles.

On entering Rousseau's apartment he filled the room with a delightful perfume, which Therese inhaled without concealing her admiration.

“How handsome you are!” said Rousseau, looking askance at Therese, and comparing his modest dress and clumsy equipment with the elegant toilet of M. de Jussieu.

“Oh, I am afraid of the heat,” said the elegant botanist.

“But the wood is damp. If we botanize in the marshes, your silken stockings-

“Oh, we can choose the driest places.”

“And the aquatic mosses- Must we give them up for to-day-”

“Do not be uneasy about that, my dear colleague.”

“One would think you were going to a ball, or to pay your respects to ladies.”

“Why should we not honor Dame Nature with a pair of silk stockings-” replied M. do Jussieu, rather embarrassed; “does she not deserve that we should dress ourselves for her-”

Rousseau said no more; from the moment that M. de Jussieu invoked Nature, he agreed with him that it was impossible to honor her too highly.

As for Gilbert, notwithstanding his stoicism, he gazed at M. do Jussieu with envious eyes. Since he had observed so many young exquisites enhance their natural advantages with dress, he had seen the utility, in a frivolous point of view, of elegance, and whispered to himself that this silk, this lace, this linen, would add a charm to his youth; and that if Andree saw him dressed like M. de Jussieu instead of as he was, she would then deign to look at him.

The carriage rolled off at the utmost speed of two fine Danish horses, and an hour after their departure the botanists alighted at Bougival, and turned to the left by the chestnut walk.

This walk, which at present is so surpassingly beautiful, was then at least quite as much so; for the portion of the rising ground which our explorers had to traverse, already planted by Louis XIV., had been the object of constant care since the king had taken a fancy to Marly.

The chestnut-trees, with their ruddy bark, their gigantic branches, and their fantastic forms-sometimes presenting in their knotty circumvolutions the appearance of a huge boa twining itself round the trunk-sometimes that of a bull prostrate upon the butcher's block and vomiting a stream of black and clotted blood-the moss-covered apple-trees and the colossal walnuts, whose foliage was already assuming the dark-blue shade of summer-the solitude, the picturesque simplicity and grandeur of the landscape, which, with its old shadowy trees, stood out in bold relief against the clear blue sky;-all this, clothed with that simple and touching charm which Nature ever lends to her productions, plunged Rousseau into a state of ecstasy impossible to be described.

Gilbert was calm, but moody; his whole being was absorbed in this one thought:

“Andree leaves the garden pavilion and goes to Trianon.”

Upon the summit of the little hill, which the three botanists were climbing on foot, was seen the square tower of Luciennes.

The sight of this building, from which he had fled, changed the current of Gilbert's thoughts, and recalled rather unpleasant recollections, unmingled, however, with fear. From his position in the rear of the party he saw two protectors before him; and, feeling himself in safety, he gazed at Luciennes as a shipwrecked sailor from the shore looks upon the sandbank upon which his vessel has struck.

Rousseau, spade in hand, began to fix his looks on the ground; M. de Jussieu did the same, but with this difference, that the former was searching for plants, while the latter was only endeavoring to keep his stockings from the damp.

“What a splendid Lepopodium!” exclaimed Rousseau.

“Charming,” replied M. de Jussieu; “but let us pass on, if you have no objection.”

“Ah! the Lysimachia Fenella! it is ready for culling; look!'

“Pluck it, then, if it gives you pleasure.”

“Oh! just as you please. But are we not botanizing, then-”

“Yes, yes; but I think we shall find better upon that height, yonder.”

“As you please-let us go, then.”

“What hour is it-” asked M. de Jussieu; “in my hurry I forgot my watch.”

Rousseau pulled a very large silver watch from his pocket.

“Nine o'clock,” said he.

“Have you any objection that we should rest a little-” continued M. de Jussieu.

“Oh! what a wretched walker you are,” said Rousseau. “You see what it is to botanize in fine shoes and silk stockings.”

“Perhaps I am hungry.”

“Well, then, let us breakfast; the village is about a quarter of a mile from this.”

“Oh, no; we need not go so far.”

“How so- Have you our breakfast in your carriage-”

“Look yonder-into that «thicket-” said M. de Jussieu, pointing with his hand toward the part of the horizon he indicated.

Rousseau stood upon tiptoe, and shaded his eyes with his hand.

“I can see nothing,” said he.

“What! Do you not see that little rustic roof-”

“No.”

“Surmounted by a weather-cock, and the walls thatched with red and white straw-a sort of rustic cottage, in short-”

“Yes, I see it now; a little building seemingly newly erected.”

“A kiosk, that is it.”

“Well-”

“Well! we shall find there the little luncheon I promised you.”

“Very good,” said Rousseau. “Are you hungry, Gilbert-”

Gilbert, who had not paid any attention to this debate, and was employed in mechanically knocking off the heads of the wild flowers, replied:

“Whatever you please, sir.”

“Come, then, if you please,” said M. de Jussieu; “besides, nothing need prevent our gathering simples on the way.”

“Oh,” said Rousseau, “your nephew is a more ardent botanist than you. I spent a day with him botanizing in the woods of Montmorency, along with a select party. He finds well, he gathers well, he explains well.”

“Oh! he is young; he has his name to make yet.”

“Has he not yours already made- Oh! comrade, comrade, you botanize like an amateur.”

“Come, do not be angry, my dear philosopher; hold! here is the beautiful Planlago Monanthos. Did you find anything like that at your Montmorency-”

“No, indeed,” said Rousseau, quite delighted; “I have often searched for it in vain. Upon the faith of a naturalist it is magnificent!”

“Oh, the beautiful pavilion!” said Gilbert, who had passed from the rear-guard of the party into the van.

“Gilbert is hungry,” replied M. de Jussieu.

“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon; I can wait patiently until you are ready.”

“Let us continue our task a little longer,” said Rousseau, “inasmuch as botanizing after a meal is bad for digestion; and besides, the eye is then heavy, and the back stiff. But what is this pavilion called-”

“The House-trap,” answered M. de Jussieu, remembering the name invented by M. de Sartines.

“What a singular name!”

“Oh! the country, you know, is the place for indulging all sorts of caprices.”

“To whom do those beautiful grounds belong-”

“I do not exactly know.”

“You must know the proprietor, however, since you are going to breakfast there,” said Rousseau, pricking up his ears with a slight shade of suspicion.

“Not at all-or rather, I know Everyone here, including the game-keepers, who have often seen me in their inclosures, and who always touch their hats, and sometimes offer me a hare or a string of woodcocks as a present from their masters. The people on this and the neighboring estates let me do here just as if I were on my own grounds. I do not know exactly whether this summer-house belongs to Madame de Mirepoiz or Madame d'Egmont, or-in short, I do not know to whom it belongs. But the most important point, my dear philosopher, I am sure you will agree with me, is, that we shall find there bread, fruit, and pastry.”

The good-natured tone in which M. de Jussieu spoke dispelled the cloud of suspicion which had already begun to darken Rousseau's brow. The philosopher wiped his feet on the grass, rubbed the mould off his hands, and, preceded by M. de Jussieu, entered the mossy walk which wound gracefully beneath the chestnut trees leading up to the hermitage.

Gilbert, who had again taken up his position in the rear, closed the march, dreaming of Andree, and of the means of seeing her when she should be at Trianon.

CHAPTER LXXIV. THE PHILOSOPHERS IN THE TRAP.

ON THE SUMMIT of the hill, which the three botanists were ascending with some difficulty, stood one of those little rustic retreats, with gnarled and knotty pillars, pointed gables, and windows festooned with ivy and clematis, which are the genuine offspring of English architecture, or to speak more correctly, of English gardening, which imitates Nature, or rather invents a species of nature for itself, thus giving a certain air of originality to its creations.

This summer-house, which was large enough to contain a table and six chairs, was floored with tiles and carpeted with handsome matting. The walls were covered with little mosaics of flint, the product of the river's beach, mingled with foreign shells of the most delicate tints, gathered from the shores of the Indian Ocean.

The ceiling was in relief, and was composed of fir-cones and knotty excrescences of bark, arranged so as to imitate hideous profiles of fauns or savage animals, who seemed suspended over the heads of the visitors. The windows were each stained with some different shade, so that, according as the spectator looked out of the violet, the red, or the blue glass, the woods of Vesinet seemed tinted by a stormy sky, bathed in the burning rays of an August sun, or sleeping beneath the cold and frosty atmosphere of December. The visitor had only to consult his taste, that is to say, choose his window, and look out.

This sight pleased Gilbert greatly, and he amused himself with looking through the different tinted windows at the rich valley which lies stretched beneath the feet of a spectator situated on the hill of Luciennes, and at the noble Seine winding in the midst.

A sight nearly as interesting however, at least in M. de Jussieu's opinion, was the tempting breakfast spread in the center of the summer-house, upon a table formed of gnarled and fantastic woodwork, on which the bark had been allowed to remain.

There was the exquisite cream for which Marly is celebrated, the luscious apricots and plums of Luciennes, the crisp sausages of Nanterre smoking upon a porcelain dish, without the least trace being seen of anyone who could have brought them thither; strawberries peeping from a graceful little basket lined with vine leaves, and, besides the fresh and glistening pats of butter, were rolls of homely peasant bread, with its rich brown crust, so dear to the pampered appetite of the inhabitant of towns. This sight drew an exclamation of admiration from Rousseau, who, philosopher as he was, was not the less an unaffected gourmand, for his appetite was as keen as his taste was simple.

“What folly!” said he to M. de Jussieu; “bread and fruit would have been sufficient, and even then, as true botanists and industrious explorers, we ought to have eaten the bread and munched the plums without ceasing our search among the grass or along the hedge-rows. Do you remember, Gilbert, our luncheon at Plessis-Piquet-”

“Yes, sir; the bread and cherries which appeared to me so delicious-”

“Yes, that is how true lovers of nature should breakfast.”

“But, my dear master,” interrupted M. de Jussieu, “if you reproach me with extravagance, you are wrong; a more modest meal was never-”

“Oh!” cried the philosopher, “you do your table injustice, my Lord Lucullus.”

“My table-by no means,” said Jussieu.

“Who are our hosts, then-” resumed Rousseau, with a smile which evinced at once good humor and constraint, “Sprites-”

“Or fairies!” said M. de Jussieu, rising and glancing stealthily toward the door.

“Fairies-” exclaimed Rousseau, gayly; “a thousand blessings on them for their hospitality! I am excessively hungry. Come, Gilbert, fall to.”

And he cut a very respectable slice from the brown loaf, passing the bread and the knife to his disciple. Then, while taking a huge bite, he chose out some plums from the dish. Gilbert hesitated.

“Come, come!” said Rousseau. “The fairies will be offended by your stiffness, and will imagine you are dissatisfied with their banquet.”

“Or that it is unworthy of you, gentlemen,” uttered a silvery voice from the door of the pavilion, where two young and lovely women appeared arm in arm, smiling, and making signs to M. de Jussieu to moderate his obeisances.

Rousseau turned, holding the half-tasted bread in his right hand and the remains of a plum in his left, and beholding these two goddesses, at least such they seemed to him by their youth and beauty, he remained stupefied with astonishment, bowing mechanically, and retreating toward the wall of the summer-house.

“Oh, countess!” said M. de Jussieu, “you here- What a delightful surprise!”

“Good-day, my dear botanist,” said one of the ladies, with a grace and familiarity perfectly regal.

“Allow me to present M. Rousseau to you,” said Jussieu, taking the philosopher by the hand which held the brown bread.

Gilbert also had seen and recognized the ladies. He opened his eyes to their utmost width, and, pale as death, looked out of the window of the summer-house, with the idea of throwing himself from it. “Good-day, my little philosopher,” said the other lady to the almost lifeless Gilbert, patting his cheek with her rosy fingers.

Rousseau saw and heard-he was almost choking with rage. His disciple knew these goddesses, and was known to them. Gilbert was almost fainting.

“Do you not know her ladyship, the countess, M. Rousseau-” asked Jussieu.

“No,” replied he, thunderstruck; “it is the first time, I think-

“Madame Dubarry,” continued M. de Jussieu.

Rousseau started up, as if he stood on a red-hot plowshare.

“Madame Dubarry!” he exclaimed.

“The same, sir.” said the young lady with surpassing grace, “who is most happy to have received in her house, and to have been favored with a nearer view of, the most illustrious thinker of the age.”

“Madame Dubarry!” continued Rousseau, without remarking that his astonishment was becoming a grave offense against good breeding. “She! and doubtless this pavilion is hers, and doubtless it is she who has provided this breakfast.”

“You have guessed rightly, my dear philosopher; she and her sister,” continued Jussieu, ill at ease in presence of this threatening storm.

“Her sister, who knows Gilbert!”

“Intimately,” replied Chon, with that saucy boldness which respected neither royal whims nor philosophers' fancies.

Gilbert looked as if he wished the earth would open and swallow him, so fiercely did Rousseau's eye rest upon him.

“Intimately!” repeated Rousseau; “Gilbert knew madame intimately, and I was not told of it- But in that case I was betrayed, I was sported with.”

Chon and her sister looked at each other with a malicious smile.

M. de Jussieu in his agitation tore a Malines ruffle worth forty louis-d'ors. Gilbert clasped his hands as if to entreat Chon to be silent, or Monsieur Rousseau to speak more graciously to him. But, on the contrary, it was Rousseau who was silent, and Chon who spoke.

“Yes,” said she, “Gilbert and I are old friends; he was a guest of mine. Were you not, little one-”

— What! are you already ungrateful for the sweetmeats of Luciennes and Versailles-”

This was the final blow; Rousseau's arms fell stiff and motionless.

“Oh!” said he, looking askance at the young man, “that was the way, was it, you little scoundrel-”

“Monsieur Rousseau!” murmured Gilbert.

“Why, one would think you were weeping for the little tap I gave your cheek,” continued Chon, “Well, I always feared you were ungrateful.”

“Mademoiselle!” entreated Gilbert.

“Little one,” said Madame Dubarry, “return to Luciennes; your bon-bons and Zamore await you, and though you left it in rather a strange manner, you shall be well received.”

“Thank you, madame,” said Gilbert, dryly; “when I leave a place, it is because I do not like it.”

“And why refuse the favor that is offered to you-” interrupted Rousseau, bitterly. “You have tasted of wealth, my dear Monsieur Gilbert, and you had better return to it.”

“But, sir, when I swear to you -”

“Go! -go! I do not like those who blow hot and cold with the same breath.”

“But you will not listen to me, Monsieur Rousseau.”

“Well-”

“I ran away from Luciennes, where I was kept locked up.”

“A trap! -I know the malice of men.”

“But, since I preferred you to them, since I accepted you as my host, my protector, my master -

“But, Monsieur Rousseau, if I wished for riches, I should accept the offer these ladies have made me.”

“Monsieur Gilbert, I have been often deceived, but never twice by the same person; you are free, go where you please.”

“But where- Good heavens!” cried Gilbert, plunged in an abyss of despair, for he saw his window, and the neighborhood of Andree, and his love, lost to him forever-for his pride was hurt at being suspected of treachery; and the idea that his self-denial, his long and arduous struggle against the indolence and the passions natural to his age, was misconstrued and despised, stung him to the quick.

“Where-” said Rousseau. “Why, in the first place, to this lady, of course; where could you meet a lovelier or more worthy protector-”

“Oh! my God!-my God!” cried Gilbert, burying his head in his hands.

“Do not be afraid,” said M. de Jussieu, deeply wounded, as a man of the world, by Rousseau's strange sally against the ladies; “you will be taken care of, and whatever you may lose in one way, you will be amply compensated for.”

“You see,” said Rousseau, bitterly, “there is M. de Jussieu, a learned man, a lover of nature, one of your accomplices,” added he, with a grin which was meant for a smile, “who promises you assistance and fortune, and you may be sure that what M. de Jussieu promises he can perform.”

As he spoke, Rousseau, no longer master of himself, bowed to the ladies with a most majestic and did the same to M. de Jussieu, and then, without even looking at Gilbert, he calmly left the pavilion.

“Oh! what an ugly animal a philosopher is!” said Chon, coolly looking after the Genevese, who walked, or rather stumbled, down the path.

“Ask what you wish,” said M. de Jussieu to Gilbert, who still kept his face buried in his hands.

“Yes, ask, Monsieur Gilbert,” added the countess, smiling on the abandoned disciple.

The latter raised his pale face, pushed back the hair which perspiration and tears had matted over his forehead, and said with a firm voice:

“Since you are kind enough to offer me an employment, I would wish to be assistant gardener at Trianon.”

Chon and the countess looked at each other, and the former, with her tiny little foot, touched her sister's with a triumphant glance. The countess made a sign with her head that she understood perfectly.

“Is that practicable, M. de Jussieu-” asked the countess; “I should wish it very much.”

“If you wish it, madame,” replied he, “it is done.”

Gilbert bowed, and put his hand upon his heart, which now bounded with joy as a few moments before it had been overwhelmed with grief.

CHAPTER LXXV. THE APOLOGUE.

IN THAT LITTLE cabinet at Luciennes, where we have seen the Count Jean Dubarry imbibe so much chocolate, to the great annoyance of the countess, the Marshal de Richelieu was lunching with Madame Dubarry, who, while amusing herself with pulling Zamore's ears, carelessly reclined at full length upon a couch of brocaded satin, while the old courtier uttered sighs of admiration at each new position the charming creature assumed.

“Oh, countess!” said he, smirking like an old woman, “your hair is falling down; look, there is a ringlet drooping on your neck. Ah! your slipper is falling off, countess.”

“Bah! my dear duke, never mind,” said she, absently, and pulling a handful of hair from Zamore's head while she took a fresh position on the couch, more lovely and fascinating than that of Venus in her shell.

Zamore, entirely insensible to these graceful attitudes, bellowed with anger. The countess endeavored to quiet him by taking a handful of sugar-plums from the table, and filling his pockets with them. But Zamore was sulky, turned his pocket inside out, and emptied his sugar-plums upon the carpet.

“Oh, the little scoundrel!” continued the countess, stretching out her tiny foot till it came in contact with the fantastic hose of the little negro.

“Oh, have mercy!” cried the old marshal; “upon my faith, you will kill him.”

“Why cannot I kill everything which angers me to-day!” said the countess; “I feel merciless!”

“Oh!” said the duke, “then perhaps I displease you.”

“Oh, no! quite the contrary; you are an old friend, and I perfectly adore you; but the fact is, I believe I am going mad.”

“Can it be that those whom you have made mad have smitten you with their complaint-”

“Take care! you provoke me dreadfully with your gallant speeches, of which you do not believe one word.”

“Countess, countess! I begin to think you are not mad, but ungrateful.”

“No, I am neither mad nor ungrateful; I am-”

“Well! confess. What are you-”

“I am angry, duke.”

“Indeed-”

“Are you surprised at that-”

“Not in the least, countess; and upon my honor you have reason to be so.”

“Ah! that is what annoys me in you, marshal.”

“Then there is something in my conduct which annoys you, countess-”

“Yes.”

“And what is this something, pray- I am rather old to begin to correct my faults, and yet there is no effort I would not make for you.”

“Well, it is that you do not even know what is the cause of my anger, marshal.”

“Oh, is that all-”

“Then you know what vexes me-”

“Of course! Zamore has broken the Chinese fountain.”

“An imperceptible smile played around the young countess's mouth; but Zamore, who felt himself guilty, drooped his bead humbly, as if the skies were pregnant with clouds of blows and kicks.

“Oh, yes!” said the countess, with a sigh; “yes, duke, you are right; that is it, and in truth you are a very deep politician.”

“I have always been told so,” replied M. de Richelieu, with an air of profound modesty.

“Oh, I can see that without being told, duke. Have you not guessed the cause of my annoyance immediately, without looking to the right or left- It is superb.”

“Superb, indeed; but still that is not all.”

“Indeed!”

“No, I can guess something else.”

“And what can you guess-”

“That you expected his majesty yesterday evening.”

“Where-”

“Here.”

“Well! what then-”

“And that his majesty did not come.”

The countess reddened, and raised herself slightly upon her elbow.

“Oh!” said she.

“And yet,” said the duke, “I have just arrived from Paris.”

“Well, what does that prove-”

“Pardieu! that I could not of course know what passed at Versailles; and yet-”

“My dear duke, you are full of mystery to-day. When a person begins, he should finish, or else not have commenced.”

“You speak quite at your ease, countess. Allow me, at least, to take breath. Where was I-”

“You were at-'and yet.'“

“Oh, yes! true; and yet I not only know that his majesty did not come, but also why he did not come.”

“Duke, I have always thought you a sorcerer; and only wanted proof to be certain of the fact.”

“Well! that proof I will now give you.”

The countess, who attached much more interest to this conversation than she wished to let appear, relinquished her hold of Zamore's head, in whose hair her long taper fingers had been carelessly playing.

“Give it, duke, give it,” said she.

“Before my lord governor-” asked the duke.

“Vanish, Zamore,” said the countess to the negro boy, who, mad with delight, made only one bound from the boudoir to the antechamber.

“An excellent stop.” murmured Richelieu; “then I must tell you all, countess-”

“What! did that monkey Zamore embarrass you, duke-”

“To tell the truth, countess, anyone can embarrass me.”

“Yes, I can understand that. But is Zamore anyone-”

“Zamore is neither blind, deaf, not dumb; therefore he is someone. I distinguish by the title of someone, every person who is my equal in the hearing, seeing, and speaking faculties, every person who can see what I do, hear and repeat what I say; every person, in short, who might betray me. This theory explained, I proceed.”

“Yes, yes, duke, proceed; you will gratify me exceedingly.”

“Gratify! I think not, countess; but no matter, I must go on. Well, the king was at Trianon yesterday.”

“The little or the great Trianon-”

“The little. The dauphiness was leaning on his arm.”-”Ah!”

“And the dauphiness, who is charming as you know-”

“Alas!”

“Coaxed him so much, with dear papa here, and dear papa there, that his majesty, who has a heart of gold, could not resist her. So after the walk came supper, and after supper amusing games; so that, in short-”

“In short,” said Madame Dubarry, pale with impatience, “in short, the king did not come to Luciennes-that is what you would say-”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, it is perfectly easily explained; his majesty found there all that he loves.”

“Ah! by no means, and you are far from believing one word of what you say; all that pleases him he found, no doubt.”

“Take care, duke, that is much worse; to sup, chat, and play is all that he wants. And with whom did he play-”

“With M. de Choiseul.”

The countess made an angry gesture.

“Shall I not pursue the subject further, countess-” asked Richelieu.

“On the contrary, sir, speak on.”

“You are as courageous, madame, as you are witty; let me therefore take the bull by the horns, as the Spaniards say.”

“Madame de Choiseul would not forgive you for that proverb, duke.”

“Yet it is not inapplicable. I told you then, madame, that M. de Choiseul, since I must name him, held the cards; and with so much good fortune, so much address-”

“That he won.”

“By no means; that he lost, and that his majesty won a thousand louis-d'ors at piquet, a game on which his majesty piques himself very much, seeing that he plays it very badly.”

“Oh! that Choiseul, that Choiseul!” murmured Madame Dubarry. “But Madame de Grammont was of the party also, was she not-”

“That is to say, countess, she was paying her respects before her departure.”

“The duchess!”

“Yes; she is very foolish, I think.”

“Why so-”

“Finding that no one persecutes her, she pouts; finding that no one exiles her, she exiles herself.”

“Where to-”

“To the provinces.”

“She is going to plot.”

“Parbleu, what else would you expect her to do- Well, as she is about to set out, she very naturally wished to take leave of the dauphiness, who, naturally, is very fond of her. That is why she was at Trianon.”

“The great-”

“Of course. The little Trianon is not yet furnished.”

“Ah! her highness the dauphiness, by surrounding herself with all these Choiseuls, shows plainly which party she intends to embrace.”

“No, countess, do not let us exaggerate; to-morrow the duchess will be gone.”

“And the king was amused where I was absent!” cried the countess, with indignation not unmixed with terror.

“Yes; it is perfectly incredible, countess; but still it is so. Well, what do you conclude from it-”

“That you are well-informed, duke.”

“Is that all-”

“No.”

“Finish, then.”

“I gather from it that we shall all be lost if we do not rescue the king from the clutches of these Choiseuls, either with his consent or without it.”

“Alas!”

“I say we,” resumed the countess; “but do not fear, duke; I speak only of our own family.”

“And your friends, countess; permit me to claim that title. So then-”

“Then you are one of my friends-”

“I think I have said so, madame.”

“That is not enough.”

“I think I have proved it.”

“That is better. And you will assist me-”

“With all my power, countess; but-”

“But what-”

“I cannot conceal from you that the task is difficult.”

“Are these Choiseuls positively not to be rooted out then-”

“They are firmly planted, at least,”

“Then, whatever our friend La Fontaine may say, neither wind nor storm can prevail against this oak-”

“The minister is a lofty genius.”

“Bah! you speak like an encyclopedist!”

“Am I not a member of the Academy-”

“Oh! you are so slightly so.”

“True, you are right; my secretary is the member, not I. But, nevertheless, I maintain my opinion.”

“But may I ask in what does this mighty genius shine-”

“In this, madame, that he has made such a piece of work with the parliament and the English, that the king cannot do without him.”

“The parliament- Why, he excites it against his majesty.”

“Of course; therein lies his cleverness.”

“He provokes the English to war.”

“Of course. Peace would ruin him.”

“That is not genius, duke.”

“What is it then, countess-”

“It is high treason.”

“When high treason is successful, countess, it is genius, and a lofty description of genius too.”

“Then, by that mode of reasoning, I know someone who is as great a genius as M. de Choiseul.”

“Bah!”

“Why, he has at least caused the parliament to revolt.”

“You puzzle me exceedingly, countess.”

“Do you not know him, duke- He belongs to your own family.”

“Can I have a man of genius in my family- Do you speak of my uncle, the cardinal duke, madame-”

“No; I mean the Duke d'Aiguillon, your nephew.”

“Ah! Monsieur d'Aiguillon. Yes, true, it was he who set that affair of La Chalotais moving. 'Pon honor, he is a brave youth. Yes, true; that was a tough piece of work. Countess, there is a man whom a woman of spirit should gain over to her cause.”

“Are you aware, duke,” said the countess, “that I do not know your nephew-”

“Indeed, madame- You don't know him-”

“No; I have never seen him.”

“Poor fellow! In fact, I now remember that since you came to court, he has always been at Brittany. Let him look to himself when he first sees you; he has not latterly been accustomed to the sun.”

“What does he do among all those black gowns-a nobleman of spirit like him-”

“He revolutionizes them, not being able to do better. You understand, countess, Everyone takes pleasure where they can find it, and there is not much to be had in Brittany. Ah! he is an active man. Peste! what a servant the king might have in him, if he wished. Parliament would not be insolent to him. Oh! he is a true Richelieu. Permit me, therefore, countess-”

“What-”

“To present him to you on his first appearance.”

“Does he intend to visit Paris soon-”

“Oh! madame, who knows- Perhaps he will have to remain another luster in Brittany, as that scoundrel, Voltaire, says; perhaps he is on his way hither; perhaps two hundred leagues off; or perhaps at the barrier.”

And while he spoke, the marshal studied the lady's features to see what effect his words produced. But after having reflected for a moment, she said:

“Let us return to the point where we left off.”

“Wherever you please, countess.”

“Where were we-”

“At the moment when his majesty was enjoying himself so much at Trianon in the company of M. de Choiseul.”

“And when we were speaking of getting rid of this Choiseul, duke.”

“That is to say, when you were speaking of getting rid of him, countess.”

“Oh! I am so anxious that he should go,” said the favorite, “that I think I shall die if he remains. Will you not assist me a little, my dear duke-”

“Oh!” said Richelieu, bridling, “in politics, that is called an overture.”

“Take it as you will, call it what you please, but answer categorically.”

“Oh! what a long ugly adverb, in such a pretty little mouth.”

“Do you call that answering, duke-”

“No, not exactly; I call that preparing my answer.”

“Is it prepared-”-” Wait a little.”

“You hesitate, duke-”

“Oh, no!”

“Well, I am listening.”

“What do you think of apologues, countess-”

“Why, that they are very antiquated.”

“Bah! the sun is antiquated also, and yet we have not invented any better means of seeing.”

“Well, let me hear your apologue, then; but let it be clear.”

“As crystal, fair lady. Let us suppose then, countess-you know one always supposes something in an apologue.”

“How tiresome you are, duke.”

“You do not believe one word of what you say, countess, for you never listened to me more attentively.”

“I was wrong, then; go on.”

“Suppose, then, that you were walking in your beautiful garden at Luciennes, and that you saw a magnificent plum, one of those Queen Claudes which you are so fond of, because their vermilion and purple tints resemble your own.”

“Go on, flatterer.”

“Well, I was saying, suppose you saw one of these plums at the extremity of one of the loftiest branches of the tree, what would you do, countess-”

“I would shake the tree, to be sure!”

“Yes, but in vain, for the tree is large and massive, and not to be rooted out, as you said just now; and you would soon perceive that without even succeeding in shaking it, you would tear your charming little hands against its rough bark. And then you would say, reclining your head to one side in that adorable manner which belongs only to you and the flowers; “Oh! how I wish I had this plum upon the ground!' and then you would get angry.”

“That is all very natural, duke.”

“I shall certainly not be the person to contradict you.”

“Go on, my dear duke; your apologue is exceedingly interesting.”

“All at once, when turning your little head from side to side, you perceive your friend the Duke de Richelieu, who is walking behind you, thinking.”

“Of what-”

“What a question! Pardieu! of you; and you say to him with your heavenly voice; 'Oh! duke, duke!'“

“Well-”

“'You are a man; you are strong; you took Mahon; shake this devil of a plum-tree for me, that I may pluck this provoking plum!' Is not that it, countess-”

“Exactly, duke; I repeated that to myself while you were saying it aloud. But what did you reply-”

“Reply- Oh! I replied; 'How you run on, countess! Certainly nothing could give me greater pleasure; but only look how firm the tree is, how knotty the branches. I have a sort of affection for my hands as well as you, though they are fifty years older than yours.'“

“Ah!” said the countess, suddenly, “yes, yes; I comprehend.”

“Then finish the apologue. What did you say to me-”

“I said, 'My little marshal, do not look with indifferent eyes upon this plum, which you look at indifferently only because it is not for you. Wish for it along with me, my dear marshal; covet it along with me; and if you shake the tree properly, if the plum falls, then we will eat it together.'“

“Bravo!” exclaimed the duke, clapping his hands.

“Is that it-”

“Faith, countess, there is no one like you for finishing an apologue. By mine honor, as my deceased father used to say, it is right well tricked out.”

“You will shake the tree, duke-”

“With two hands and three hearts, countess.”

“And the plum was really a Queen Claude-”

“I am not quite sure of that, countess.”

“What was it, then-”

“Do you know it seemed much more like a portfolio dangling from the tree.”

“Then we will divide the portfolio.”

“Oh no! for me alone. Do not envy me the morocco, countess. There will fall so many beautiful things from the tree along with the portfolio when I shake it, that you will not know how to choose.”

“Then, marshal, it is a settled affair-”

“I am to have M. de Choiseul's place-”

“If the king consents.”

“Does not the king do all you wish-”

“You see plainly he does not, since he will not send this Choiseul away.”

“Oh! I trust the king will gladly recall his old companion.”

“And you ask nothing for the Duke d'Aiguillon-”

“No, faith. The rascal can ask for himself.”

“Besides, you will be there. And now it is my turn to ask.”

“That is but just.”

“What will you give me-”

“Whatever you wish.”

“I want everything.”

“That is reasonable.”

“And shall I have it-”

“What a question! But will you be satisfied, at least, and ask me for nothing farther.”

“Except the merest trifle. You know M. de Taverney-”

“He is a friend of forty years' standing.”

“He has a son-”

“And a daughter. Well-”

“That is all.”

“How! all-”

“Yes; the other demand I have to make shall be made in proper time and place. In the meantime, we understand each other, duke-”

“Yes, countess.”

“Our compact is signed.”

“Nay more-it is sworn.”

“Then shake the tree for me.”

“Oh, rest satisfied; I have the means.”

“What are they-”

“My nephew.”

“What else-”

“The Jesuits.”

“Oh! ho!”

“I have a very nice little plan cut and dry.”

“May I know it-”

“Alas! countess-”

“Well, you are right.”

“You know, secrecy-”

“Is half the battle. I complete your thought for you.”

“You are charming.”

“But I wish to shake the tree also.”

“Oh, very well; shake away, countess; it can do no harm.”

“But when will you begin to undermine, duke-” asked the countess.

“To-morrow. And when do you commence to shake-”

A loud noise of carriages was heard in the courtyard, and almost immediately cries of “Long live the king!” rose on the air.

“I-” said the countess, glancing at the window, “I shall commence directly.”

“Bravo!”

“Retire by the little staircase, duke, and wait in the courtyard. You shall have my answer in an hour.”

CHAPTER LXXVI. THE MAKE-SHIFT OF HIS MAJESTY LOUIS XV.

LOUIS XV. was not so easy tempered that one could talk politics wit h him every day; for in truth politics were his aversion, and when he was in a bad temper he always escaped from them with this argument, which admitted of no reply:

“Bah! the machine will last out my time.”

When circumstances were favorable, it was necessary to take advantage of them; but it rarely happened that the king did not regain the advantage which a moment of good humor had caused him to lose.

Madams Dubarry knew her king so well that, like fishermen well skilled in the dangers of the sea, she never attempted to start in bad weather.

Now the present visit of his majesty to Luciennes was one of the best opportunities possible. The king had done wrong the previous day, and knew beforehand that he should receive a scolding; he would therefore be an easy prey.

But however confiding the game which the hunter lies in wait for in his lurking place, it has always a certain instinct which must be guarded against. But this instinct is set at naught if the sportsman knows how to manage it.

The countess managed the royal game she had in view and which she wished to capture, in the following manner;

We have said that she was in a most becoming morning dress, like those in which Boucher represents his shepherdesses. Only she had no rouge on, for Louis XV. had a perfect antipathy to rouge.

The moment his majesty was announced, the countess seized her pot of rouge and began to rub her cheeks with it vigorously.

The king saw what the countess was doing from the anteroom.

“Fie!” said he, as he entered, “how she daubs herself!”

“Ah! good-day, Sire,” said the countess, without interrupting her occupations even when the king kissed her on the neck.

“You did not expect me, it seems, countess-” asked the king.

“Why do you think so, Sire-”

“Because you soil your face in that manner.”

“On the contrary, Sire, I was certain that I should have the honor of receiving your majesty in the course of the day.”

“How you say that, countess!”

“Indeed-”

“Yes, you are as serious as Monsieur Rousseau when he is listening to his own music.”

“That is because I have serious things to say to your majesty.”

“Oh! I see what is coming, countess-reproaches.”

“I reproach you, Sire- -and why, pray-”

“Because I did not come yesterday.”

“Oh, Sire, do me the justice not to imagine that I pretend to monopolize your majesty.”

“My little Jeanne, you are getting angry.”

“Oh! no, Sire, I am angry already.”

“But hear me, countess; I assure you I never ceased thinking of you the whole time.”

“Pshaw!”

“And the evening seemed interminable to me.”

“But, once more, Sire, I was not speaking of that at all. Your majesty may spend your evenings where you please, without consulting anyone.”

“Quite a family party, madame; only my own family.”

“Sire, I did not even inquire.”

“Why not-”

“Dame! you know it would be very unbecoming for me to do so.”

“Well,” said the king, “if that is not what you are displeased with me for, what is it, then- We must be just in this world.”

“I have no complaint to make against you, Sire.”

“But since you are angry-

“Yes, I am angry, Sire; that is true but it is at being made a make-shift.”

“You a make-shift- Good heavens!”

“Yes. I! The Countess Dubarry! The beautiful Jeanne, the charming Jeaunette, the fascinating Jeauneton, as your majesty calls me; I am a make-shift.”

“But how-”

“Because I have my king, my lover, only when Madame de Choiseul and Madame de Grammont do not want him.”

“Oh! oh! countess-”

“Oh, I give you my honor, Sire, I say what I think. But what can you expect from me- I am an uneducated woman. I am the mistress of Blaise-the beautiful Bourbonnaise, you know.”

“Countess, the Choiseuls will be revenged.”

“What matter, if they revenge-e themselves with my vengeance-”

“They will despise us.”

“You are right. Well, I have an excellent plan which I shall carry into execution at once.”

“And that is-” asked the anxious king.

“Simply to go at once.”

The king shrugged his shoulders.

“Ah! you do not believe me, Sire-”

“No, indeed!”

“That is because you do not take the trouble to reason-you confound me with others.”

“How so-”

“Madame de Chateauroux wanted to be a goddess, Madame de Pompadour aimed at being a queen. Others wished to be rich, powerful, or to humiliate the ladies of the court by the weight of their favors. I have none of these defects.”

“That is true.”

“But yet I have many good qualities.”

“That is also true.”

“Mere words, of course.”

“Oh, countess! no one knows your worth better than I do.”

“Well, but listen. What I am going to say will not alter your conviction.”

“Speak.”

“In the first place, I am rich, and independent of every one.”

“Do you wish to make me regret that, countess-”

“Then I have not the least ambition for all that flatters these ladies, the least desire for what they aim at; my only wish is to love sincerely him whom I have chosen, whether he be a soldier or a king. When I love him no longer, I care for nothing else.”

“Let me trust you care a little for me yet, countess.”

“I have not finished, Sire.”

“Proceed, madame.”

“I am pretty, I am young, and may reasonably hope for ten years more of beauty; and the moment I cease to be your majesty's favorite, I shall be the happiest and most honored woman in the world. You smile, Sire-I am sorry to tell you it is because you do not reflect. When you had had enough, and your people too much, of your other favorites, you sent them away, and your people blessed you and execrated the disgraced favorite more than ever; but I shall not wait until I am sent away. I shall leave the place, and make it known publicly that I have left it. I shall give a hundred thousand livres to the poor, I shall retire to a convent for a week, and in less than a month my portrait will be hung up in all the churches as that of a converted sinner.”

“Oh! countess, you do not speak seriously-” said the king.

“Look at me, Sire, and see if I am serious or not. I swear to you that I never was more serious in my life.”

“Then you will commit this folly. Jeanne- But do you not see that by so doing you place yourself at the mercy of my whim, my lady the countess-”

“No, Sire; to do so would be to say, 'choose between this and that;' whereas I say, 'adieu, Sire!'-nothing more.”

The king turned pale, but this time with anger.

“If you forget yourself so far, madame, take care.”

“Of what, Sire-”

“I shall send you to the Bastille, and you will find the Bastille rather more tiresome than a convent.”

“Oh! Sire,” said the countess, clasping her hands, “if you would but do me that favor it would delight me!”

“Delight you- How so-”

“Yes, indeed. My secret ambition has always been to be popular, like M. de la. Chalotais, or M. de Voltaire. I only want the Bastille for that. A little of the Bastille, and I shall be the happiest of women. I can then write memoirs of myself, of your ministers, of your daughters, of yourself, and transmit the virtues of Louis the Well-Beloved to the remotest posterity. Give me the lettre-de-cachet, Sire. Here, I will provide the pen and ink.”

And she pushed a pen and an inkstand which were upon the work-table toward the king.

The king, thus braved, reflected a moment; then, rising:

“Very well, madame,” said he. “Adieu.”

“My horses!” cried the countess, “Adieu, Sire.”

The king made a step toward the door.

“Chon!” said the countess.

Chon entered.

“My trunks, my traveling equipage, and post-horses,” said she; “quick! lose no time!”

“Post-horses!” said Chon, startled. “Good heavens! what is the matter-”

“We must leave this as quickly as possible, my dear, else the king will send us to the Bastille. There is no time to be lost. Make haste, Chon, make haste.”

This reproach stung Louis to the heart. He approached the countess and took her hand.

“Forgive my warmth, countess,” said he.

“In truth, Sire, I am surprised you did not threaten me with the gibbet.”

“Oh! countess!”

“Of course. Thieves are always hanged.”

“Thieves-”

“Yes; do I not steal the Countess de Grammont's place-”

“Countess!”

“Dame! that is my crime, Sire.”

“Be just, countess; you irritated me.”

“And how-”

The king took her hands. “We were both wrong. Let us forgive each other.”

“Are you serious in your wish for a reconciliation, Sire-”

“On my honor.”

“Go, Chon.”

“Without ordering anything-” asked Chon.

“No; order what I told you.”

“Countess!”

“But let them wait for fresh orders.”

“Ah!” Chon left the room.

“Then you wish me to remain-” said the countess.

“Above all things.”

“Reflect on what you say, Sire.”

The king reflected, but he could not retract; besides, he wanted to see how far the requirements of the victor would go.

“Go,” said he.

“Immediately. Mark, Sire! I go without asking anything.”

“I observed it.”

“But if I remain, I shall ask for something.”

“Well, what is it- I merely ask for information.”

“Ah! you know very well.”

“No.”

“Yes, for you make a grimace.”

“M. de Choiseul's dismissal, is it-”

“Exactly.”

“It is impossible, countess.”

“My horses, then.”

“But, ill-natured creature that you are-”

“Sign my lettre-de-cachet for the Bastille, or the letter which dismisses the minister.”

“There is an alternative,” said the king.

“Thanks for your clemency, Sire; it seems I shall be permitted to go without being arrested.”

“Countess, you are a woman.”

“Fortunately I am.”

“And you talk politics like an angry rebellious woman. I have no grounds for dismissing M. de Choiseul.”

“I understand he is the idol of the parliament; he encourages them in their revolt.”

“But there must be some pretext.”

“A pretext is the reason of the weak.”

“Countess, M. de Choiseul is an honest man, and honest men are rare.”

“Honest! he sells you to the gentlemen of the black robe, who swallow up all the gold in the kingdom.”

“No exaggeration, countess.”

“Half, then.”

“Good heavens!” cried Louis XV.

“But I am talking folly. What are parliaments, Choiseuls, governments to me- What is the king to me, when I am only his make-shift-”

“Once more that word!”

“Always.”

“Give me two hours to consider, countess.”

“Ten minutes, Sire. I will retire into my apartment; slip your answer under the door-there are pen, ink, and paper. If in ten minutes you have not replied, and replied as I wish, adieu. Think no more of me, I shall be gone. If not-”

“If not-”

“Then you have once more your Jeanne.”

Louis XV. kissed the hands of the countess, who, like the Parthian, threw back her most fascinating smile on him as she left the room.

The king made no opposition, and the countess locked herself into the next apartment.

Five minutes afterward a folded paper grazed the silken mat and the rich carpet beneath the door.

The countess eagerly devoured the contents of the letter, hastily wrote some words with a pencil on a scrap of paper, and, opening the window, threw the paper to M. de Richelieu, who was walking in the little courtyard under an awning, in great trepidation lest he should be seen, and therefore keeping himself out of view as much as possible.

The marshal unfolded the paper, read it, and, in spite of his five-and-sixty years, hastily ran to the large courtyard, and jumped into his carriage.

“Coachman,” said he, “to Versailles, as quick as possible!”

The paper which was thrown to M. de Richelieu from the window merely contained these words; “I have shaken the tree-the portfolio has fallen!”

CHAPTER LXXVII. HOW KING LOUIS XV. TRANSACTED BUSINESS.

THE NEXT DAY there was a great commotion at Versailles. Whenever two courtiers met there, there was nothing but mysterious signs and significant shakes of the hand, or else folded arms, and looks upward, expressive of their grief and surprise.

M. de Richelieu, with a number of his partisans, was in the king's antechamber at Trianon, about ten o'clock.

The Count Jean, all bedizened with lace and perfectly dazzling, conversed with the old marshal, and conversed gayly, if his joyous face could be taken as testimony of the fact.

About eleven o'clock the king passed quickly through the gallery, and entered the council-chamber without speaking to anyone.

At about five minutes past eleven, M. de Choiseul alighted from his carriage and crossed the gallery with his portfolio under his arm.

As he passed through the throng there was a hurried movement among the courtiers, who all turned round as if talking among themselves, in order to avoid bowing to the minister.

The duke paid no attention to this maneuver; he entered the closet where the king was turning over some papers while sipping his chocolate.

“Good-morning, duke,” said the king familiarly; “are we charmingly this morning-”

“Sire, M. de Choiseul is quite well, but the minister is very ill, and comes to request that your majesty, since you have not yet spoken, will accept his resignation. I thank the king for permitting me to take the initiative in this matter; it is a last favor, for which I am deeply grateful.”

“How, duke- Your resignation- what does all that mean-”

“Sire, your majesty yesterday signed for Madame Dubarry an order which deposes me. This news is already spread all over Paris and Versailles. The evil is done; nevertheless, I was unwilling to leave your majesty's service without receiving a formal order with the permission. For, nominated officially, I can consider myself dismissed only by an official act.”

“What! duke,” exclaimed the king, laughing, for the severe and lofty attitude of M. de Choiseul made him almost tremble, “did you, a man of genius and skilled in official forms, did you believe that-”

“But, Sire,” said the surprised minister, “you have signed.”

“What-”

“A letter, in the possession of Madame Dubarry.”

“Ah! duke, have you never felt the want of peace- You are most fortunate! Madame de Choiseul must indeed be a model.”

The duke, offended by the comparison, frowned.

“Your majesty,” said he, “has too much firmness of character, and above all, too much tact and discretion, to mix up affairs of state with what you deign to call household matters.”

“Choiseul, I must tell you how that affair happened; it is very amusing. You are aware that you are very much feared in that quarter.”

“Rather say hated, Sire.”

“Hated if you will. Well! this madcap countess left me no alternative but to send her to the Bastille, or to thank you for your services.”-”A Veil, Sire-”

“Well, duke, you must confess that it would have been a pity to lose the sight which Versailles presents this morning. I have been amused since yesterday with seeing the courtiers depart in all directions and watching the faces brighten up or lengthen. Since yesterday Cotillon III. is queen of France. It is exceedingly amusing.”

“But the end of all this, Sire-”

“The end, my dear duke,” said the king, seriously, “the end will always remain the same. You know me; I always seem to yield, but I never yield in reality. Let the women swallow the honored morsel I throw them now and then, as to another Cerberus; but let us live quietly, uninterruptedly, always together. And since we are on the chapter of explanations, keep this one for yourself. Whatever report you may hear, whatever letter you may receive from me, do not absent yourself from Versailles. As long as I continue to say to you what I now do, duke, we shall be good friends.”

The king extended his hand to his minister, who bowed over it, without gratitude and without anger.

“And now, my dear duke, let us to business.”

“At your majesty's pleasure,” replied the minister, opening his portfolio.

“Well, tell me something of these fireworks to begin with.”

“Ah, that was a great disaster, Sire.”

“Whose fault was it-”

“M. Bignon's, the provost of the merchants.”

“Did the people cry out very much-”

“Oh! very much.”

“Then, perhaps we had better dismiss this M. Bignon.”

“One of the members of parliament was nearly killed in the melee, and his colleagues therefore took the matter up warmly. But the advocate general, Seguier, made a very eloquent speech to prove that this misfortune was the work of fate alone. His speech was applauded, and so the affair is over for the present.”

“So much the better! Let us pass to the parliament, duke. Ah! we are reproached for that.”

“I am blamed, Sire, for not supporting M. d'Aiguillon against M. de la Chalotais. But who blames me- The very people who carried your majesty's letter about with all the demonstrations of joy. Remember, Sire, that M. d'Aiguillon overstepped the bounds of his authority in Brittany, that the Jesuits were really exiled, and that 1L de la Chalotais was right. Your majesty has publicly acknowledged the innocence of the attorney-general. The king cannot thus be made to stultify himself. To his minister that is nothing, but in presence of his people-!”

“In the meantime the parliament feels itself strong.”

“And it is strong. Hove can it be otherwise- The members are reprimanded, imprisoned, persecuted, and then declared innocent! I do not accuse M. d'Aiguillon of having commenced this affair of La Chalotais, but I can never forgive him for having been in the wrong in it.”

“Oh! come, duke, the evil is done, think of the remedy. How can we bridle these insolent minions-”

“Let the intrigues of the chancellor cease-let M. d'Aiguillon have no more support, and the anger of the parliament will at once subside.”

“But that would be to yield, duke.”

“Then your majesty is represented by M. d'Aiguillon, and not by me-”

This was a home thrust, and the king felt it.

“You know,” said he, “I do not like to affront my servants, even when they have been in the wrong. But no more of this unfortunate business; time will decide who is right. Let us speak of foreign affairs. I am told we shall have a war-”

“Sire, if there be war, it will be a just and necessary war.”

“With the English-”

“Does your majesty fear the English-”

“Oh! upon the sea.”

“Your majesty may rest tranquil. My cousin the Duke de Praslin, your Minister of Marine, will tell you that he has sixty-four men-of-war, not including those which are on the stocks. Besides, there are materials sufficient to construct twelve more in a year. Then there are fifty first-rate frigates-a respectable force with which to meet a naval war. For a continental war we have more than all that, we have the remembrance of Fontenoy.”

“Very well; but why must I fight the English, my dear duke- A much less skillful minister than you, the Abbe Dubois, always avoided a war with England.”

“I dare say, Sire. The Abbe Dubois received six hundred pounds sterling per month from the English.”

“Oh, duke!”

“I have the proof, Sire.”

“Well, be it so. But where are the grounds for war-”

“England covets all the Indies; I have been obliged to give the most stringent and hostile orders to your officers there. The first collision will call forth demand for redress from England; my official advice is that we do not listen to them. Your majesty's government must make itself respected by force, as it used to do by corruption.”

“Oh, let us pocket the affront. Who will know what happens in India- It is so far from here!”

The duke bit his lips.

“There is a casus belli nearer home, Sire,” said he.

“Another- What is that-”

“The Spaniards claim the Malouine and Falkland islands. The port of Egmont was arbitrarily occupied by the English; the Spaniards drove them from it by main force. The English are enraged; they threaten the Spaniards with instant war if they do not give them satisfaction.”

“Well! but if the Spaniards are in the wrong, let them unravel the knot themselves.”

“And the family compact, Sire- Why did you insist on the signing of this compact, which allies so closely all the Bourbons in Europe against English encroachment-”

The king hung his head.

“Do not be uneasy, Sire.” continued Choiseul; “you have a formidable army, an imposing fleet, and sufficient money. I can raise enough without making the people cry out. If we have a war, it will be an additional glory to your majesty's reign, and it will furnish the pretext and excuse for several aggrandizements which I have in project.”

“But in that case, duke, we must have peace in the interior; let there not be war everywhere.”

“But the interior is quiet, Sire,” replied the duke, affecting not to understand.

“No! no! you see plainly it is not. You love me and serve me well. Others say they love me, and their conduct does not at all resemble yours. Let there be concord between all shades of opinion; let me live happily, my dear duke.”

“It is not my fault, Sire, if your happiness is not complete.”

“That is the way to speak. Well! come, then, and dine with me to-day.”

“At Versailles, Sire-”

“No; at Luciennes.”

“I regret exceedingly, Sire, that I cannot, but my family is in great alarm on account of the reports which were spread yesterday. They think I am in disgrace with your majesty, and I cannot let so many loving hearts suffer.”

“And do those of whom I speak not suffer, duke- Remember how happily we three used to live together in the time of the poor marchioness.”

The duke drooped his head, his eyes dimmed, and he uttered a half-suppressed sigh.

“Madame de Pompadour was extremely jealous of your majesty's glory, and had lofty political ideas, Sire. I confess that her character sympathized strongly with my own. I often emulated and strove along with her in the great enterprises she undertook; yes, we understood each other.”

“But she meddled with politics, duke, and Everyone blamed her for it.”

“True!”

“The present one, on the contrary, is mild as a lamb; she has never yet asked me for a single lettre-de-cachet, even against the pamphleteers and sonnet writers. Well, they reproach her as if she followed in the other's footsteps. Oh, duke! it is enough to disgust one with progress.-Come, will you make your peace at Luciennes-”

“Sire, deign to assure the Countess Dubarry that I esteem her as a charming woman, and well worthy of the king's love, but-”

“Ah! a but, duke-

“But,” continued M. de Choiseul, “that my conviction is, that if your majesty is necessary for the welfare of France, a good minister is of more importance to your majesty in the present juncture than a charming mistress.”

“Let us speak no more of it, duke, and let us remain good friends. But calm Madame de Grammont, and let her not lay any more plots against the countess; the women will embroil us.”

“Madame de Grammont, Sire, is too anxious to please your majesty; that is her failing.”

“But she displeases me by annoying the countess, duke.”

“Well, Madame de Grammont is going, Sire; we shall see her no more. That will be an enemy the less.”

“I did not mean that; you go too far. But my head burns, duke; we have worked this morning like Louis XIV. and Colbert -quite in the style of the Grand Siecle, as the philosophers say. Apropos, duke, are you a philosopher-”

“I am your majesty's humble servant,” replied M. de Choiseul.

“You charm me; you are an invaluable man. Give me your arm, I am quite giddy.”

The duke hastened to offer his arm to his majesty.

He guessed that the folding doors would be thrown open, that the whole court was in the gallery, and that he should be seen in this triumphant position. After having suffered so much, he was not sorry to make his enemies suffer in their turn.

The usher, in fact, now opened the doors, and announced the king in the gallery.

Louis XV. crossed the gallery, leaning heavily on M. de Choiseul's arm, talking and smiling, without remarking, or seeming to remark, how pale Jean Dubarry was and how red M. de Richelieu.

But M. de Choiseul saw these shades of expression very well. With elastic step, lofty head, and sparkling eyes, he passed before the courtiers, who now approached as eagerly as they had before kept away.

“There,” said the king, at the end of the gallery, “wait for me, I will take you with me to Trianon. Remember what I have told you.”

“I have treasured it up in my heart,” replied the minister, well knowing what a sting this cutting sentence would inflict on his enemies.

The king once more entered his apartments.

M. de Richelieu broke the file, and hastened to press the minister's hand between his meager fingers, exclaiming; “It is long since I knew that a Choiseul bears a charmed life.”

“Thank you,” said the duke, who knew how the land lay.

“But this absurd report-” continued the marshal.

“The report made his majesty laugh very heartily,” said Choiseul.

“I heard something of a letter-”

“A little mystification of the king's,” replied the minister, glancing while he spoke at Jean, who lost countenance.

“Wonderful! wonderful!” repeated the marshal, turning to the viscount as soon as the Duke de Choiseul was out of sight.

The king ascended the staircase, calling the duke, who eagerly followed him.

“We have been played upon.” said the marshal to Jean.

“Where are they going-”

“To the Little Trianon, to amuse themselves at our expense.”

“Hell and furies!” exclaimed Jean.-”Ah! excuse me, marshal.”

“It is now my turn,” said the latter. “We shall see if my plans are more successful than those of the countess.”

CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE LITTLE TRIANON.

WHEN LOUIS XIV. had built Versailles, and had felt the inconvenience of grandeur, when he saw the immense salons full of guards, the anterooms thronged with courtiers, the corridors and entresols crowded with footmen, pages and officers, he said to himself that Versailles was indeed what Louis XIV. had planned, and what Mansard, Le Brun, and Le Notre had executed-the dwelling of a deity, but not of a man. Then the Grand Monarque, who deigned to be a man in his leisure moments, built Trianon that he might breathe more freely, and enjoy a little retirement. But the sword of Achilles, which had fatigued even Achilles himself, was an insupportable burden to his puny successor.

Trianon, the miniature of Versailles, seemed yet too pompous to Louis XV., who caused the Little Trianon, a pavilion of sixty feet square, to be built by the architect Gabriel.

To the left of this building was erected an oblong square, without character and without ornament; this was the dwelling of the servants and officers of the household. It contained about ten lodgings for masters, and had accommodation for fifty servants. This building still remains entire, and is composed of a ground-floor, a first story, and attic. This ground floor is protected by a paved moat, which separates it from the planting; and all the windows in it, as well as those of the first-floor, are grated. On the side next Trianon the windows are those of a long corridor, like that of a convent.

Eight or nine doors opening from the corridor gave admittance to the different suites of apartments, each consisting of an anteroom and two closets, one to the left, the other to the right, and of one, and sometimes two, underground apartments, looking upon the inner court of the building. The upper story contains the kitchens and the attics, the chambers of the domestics. Such is the Little Trianon.

Add to this a chapel about six or seven perches from the chateau, which we shall not describe, because there is no necessity for our doing so, and because it is too small to deserve our notice.

The topography of the establishment is, therefore, as follows; a chateau looking with its large eyes upon the park and wood in front; and, on the left, looking toward the offices, which present to its gaze only the barred windows of the corridors and the thickly trellised ones of the kitchens above.

The path leading from the Great Trianon, the pompous residence of Louis XIV., to the little, was through a kitchen garden which connected the two residences by means of a wooden bridge.

It was through this kitchen and fruit garden, which La Quintinie had designed and planted, that Louis XV. conducted M. de Choiseul to the Little Trianon after the laborious council we have just mentioned. He wished to show him the improvements he had made in the new abode of the dauphin and dauphiness.

M. de Choiseul admired everything, and commented upon everything, with the sagacity of a courtier. He listened while the king told him that the Little Trianon became every day more beautiful, more charming to live in; and the minister added that it would serve as his majesty's private residence.

“The dauphiness,” said the king, “is rather wild yet, like all young Germans; she speaks French well, but she is afraid of a slight accent, which to French ears betrays the Austrian. At Trianon she will see only friends, and will speak only when she wishes. The result will be that she will speak well.”

“I have already had the honor to remark,” said M. de Choiseul, “that her royal highness is accomplished, and requires nothing to make her perfect.”

On the way, the two travelers found the dauphin standing motionless upon a lawn, measuring the sun's altitude.

M. de Choiseul bent low, but as the dauphin did not speak to him, he did not speak either.

The king said, loud enough to be heard by his grandson:

“Louis is a finished scholar, but he is wrong thus to run his head against the sciences; his wife will have reason to complain of such conduct.”

“By no means, Sire,” replied a low, soft voice issuing from a thicket.

And the king saw the dauphiness running toward him. She had been talking to a man furnished with papers, compasses, and chalks.

“Sire,” said the princess. “M. Mique, my architect.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “then you too are bitten by that mania, madame-”

“Sire, it runs in the family.”

“You are going to build-”

“I am going to improve this great park, in which Everyone gets wearied.”

“Oh! oh! my dear daughter, you speak too loud; the dauphin might hear you.”

“It is a matter agreed upon between us, my father,” replied the princess.

“To be wearied-”

“No; but to try to amuse ourselves.”

“And so your highness is going to build-” asked M. de Choiseul.

“I intend making a garden of this park, my lord duke.”

“Ah! poor Le Notre!” said the king.

“Le Notre was a great man, Sire, for what was in vogue then, but for what I love-”

“What do you love, madame-”

“Nature.”

“Ah! like the philosophers.”

“Or like the English.”

“Good! Say that before Choiseul, and you will have a declaration of war immediately. He will let loose upon you the sixty-four ships and forty frigates of his cousin, M. de Praslin.”

“Sire.” said the dauphiness, “I am going to have a natural garden laid out here by Monsieur Robert, who is the cleverest man in the world in that particular branch of horticulture.”

“And what do you call a natural garden-” asked the king. “I thought that trees, and flowers, and even fruit, such as I gathered as I came along, were natural objects.”

“Sire, you may walk a hundred years in your grounds, and you will see nothing but straight alleys, or thickets cut off at an angle of forty-five degrees, as the dauphin says, or pieces of water wedded to lawns, which in their turn are wedded to perspectives, parterres, or terraces.”

“Well, that is ugly, is it!”

“It is not natural.”

“There is a little girl who loves nature!” said the king, with a jovial rather than a joyous air. “Well, come; what will you make of my Trianon-”

“Rivers, cascades, bridges, grottoes, rocks, woods, ravines, houses, mountains, fields.”-”For dolls-” said the king.

“Alas! Sire, for kings such as we shall be,” replied the princess, without remarking the blush which overspread her grandfather's face, and without perceiving that she foretold a sad truth for herself.

“Then you will destroy; but what will you build-”

“I shall preserve the present buildings.”

“Ah! your people may consider themselves fortunate that you do not intend to lodge them in these woods and rivers you speak of, like Hurons, Esquimaux, and Greenlanders. They would live a natural life there, and M. Rousseau would call them children of nature. Do that, my child, and the encyclopedists will adore you.”

“Sire, my servants would be too cold in such lodgings.”

“Where will you lodge them, then, if you destroy all- Not in the palace; there is scarcely room for you two there.”

“Sire, I shall keep the offices as they are.”

And the dauphiness pointed to the windows of the corridor which we have described.

“What do I see there-” said the king, shading his eyes with his hand.

“A woman, Sire,” said M. de Choiseul.

“A young lady whom I have taken into my household,” replied the dauphiness.

“Mademoiselle de Taverney,” said Choiseul, with his piercing glance.

“Ah!” said the king, “so you have the Taverneys here-”

“Only Mademoiselle de Taverney, Sire.”

“A charming girl! What do you make of her-”

“My reader.”

“Very good,” said the king, without taking his eye from the window through which Mademoiselle de Taverney, still pale from her illness, was looking very innocently, and without in the least suspecting that she was observed.

“How pale she is,” said M. de Choiseul.

“She was nearly killed on the 31st of May, my lord duke.”

“Indeed- Poor girl!” said the king. “That M. Bignon deserves to be disgraced.”

“She is quite convalescent again,” said M. de Choiseul, hastily.

“Thanks to the goodness of Providence, my lord.”

“Ah!” said the king, “she has fled.”

“She has perhaps recognized your majesty; she is very timid.”

“Has she been with you long-”

“Since yesterday, Sire; I sent for her when I installed myself here.”

“What a melancholy abode for a young girl,” said Louis. “That Gabriel was a clumsy rogue. He did not remember that the trees, as they grew, would conceal and darken this whole building.”

“But I assure you, Sire, that the apartments are very tolerable.”

“That is impossible,” said Louis XV.

“Will your majesty deign to convince yourself-” said the dauphiness, anxious to do the honors of her palace.

“Very well. Will you come, Choiseul-”

“Sire, it is two o'clock. I have a parliamentary meeting at half-past two. I have only time to return to Versailles.”

“Well, duke, go; and give those black gowns a shake for me. Dauphiness, show me these little apartments, if you please; I perfectly dote upon interiors.”

“Come, M. Mique,” said the dauphiness to her architect, “you will have an opportunity of profiting by the opinion of his majesty, who understands everything so well.”

The king walked first, the dauphiness followed.

They mounted the little flight of steps which led to the chapel, avoiding the entrance of the courtyard, which was at one side. The door of the chapel is to the left; the staircase, narrow and unpretending, which leads to the corridor, on the right.

“Who lives here-” asked Louis XV.

“No one yet, Sire.”

“There is a key in the door of the first suite of apartments.”

“Ah, yes, true. Mademoiselle de Taverney enters it to-day.”

“Here-” said the king, pointing to the door.

“Yes, Sire.”

“And is she there at present- If so, let us not enter.”

“Sire, she has just gone down; I saw her walking under the veranda of the court.”

“Then show me her apartments as a specimen.”

“As you please,” replied the dauphiness.

And she introduced the king into the principal apartment, which was preceded by an anteroom and two closets.

Some articles of furniture which were already arranged, several books, a pianoforte, and, above all, an enormous bouquet of the most beautiful flowers, which Mademoiselle de Taverney had placed in a Chinese vase, attracted the king's attention.

“Ah!” said he, “what beautiful flowers! And yet you wish to change the garden. Who supplies your people with such splendid flowers- Do they keep some for you-”

“It is in truth a beautiful bouquet.”

“The gardener takes good care of Mademoiselle de Taverney. Who is your gardener here-”

“I do not know, Sire. M. de Jussieu undertook to procure them for me.”

The king gave a curious glance around the apartments, looked again at the exterior, peeped into the courtyard, and went away. His majesty crossed the park, and returned to the Great Trianon, where his equipages were already in waiting for a hunt which was to take place after dinner, in carriages, from three till six o'clock.

The dauphin was still measuring the sun's altitude.

CHAPTER LXXIX. THE CONSPIRACY IS RENEWED.

WHILE THE KING, in order to reassure M. de Choiseul and not to lose any time himself, was walking in Trianon till the chase should commence, Luciennes was the center of a reunion of frightened conspirators, who had flown swiftly to Madame Dubarry, like birds who have smelled the sportsman's powder.

Jean and Marshal Richelieu, after having looked at each other ill-humoredly for some time, were the first to take flight. The others were the usual herd of favorites, whom the certain disgrace of the Choiseuls had allured, whom his return to favor had alarmed, and who, no longer finding the minister there to fawn upon, had returned mechanically to Luciennes, to see if the tree was yet strong enough for them to cling to as before.

Madame Dubarry was taking a siesta after the fatigues of her diplomacy, and the deceptive triumph which had crowned it, when Richelieu's carriage rolled into the court with the noise and swiftness of a whirlwind.

“Mistress Dubarry is asleep,” said Zamore, without moving.

Jean sent Zamore rolling on the carpet with a scientific kick, inflicted upon the most highly ornamented portion of his governor's uniform.

Zamore screamed, and Chon hastened to inquire the cause.

“You are beating that little fellow again, you brute!” said she.

“And I shall exterminate you, too,” continued Jean, with kindling eyes, “if you do not immediately awaken the countess.”

But there was no need to awaken the countess; at Zamore's cries, at the growling tones of Jean's voice, she had suspected some misfortune, and hastened into the room, wrapped in a dressing gown.

“What is the matter-” exclaimed she, alarmed at seeing Jean stretched at full length upon the sofa to calm the agitation of his bile, and at finding that the marshal did not even kiss her hand.

“The matter! the matter!” said Jean. “Parbleu! what is always the matter-the Choiseuls!”

“How!”

“Yes! mille tonnerres! firmer than ever.”

“What do you mean-”

“The Count Dubarry is right,” continued Richelieu; “Monsieur the Duke de Choiseul is firmer than ever.”

The countess drew the king's letter from her bosom.

“And this-” said she, smiling.

“Have you read it aright, countess-” asked the marshal.

“Why, I fancy I can read, duke,” replied Madame Dubarry.

“I do not doubt it, madame. Will you allow me to read it also-”

“Oh, certainly; read.”

The duke took the paper, unfolded it slowly, and read:

“To-morrow I shall thank M. de Choiseul for his services. I promise it positively.-Louis.”

“Is that clear-” said the countess.

“Perfectly clear,” replied the marshal, with a grimace.

“Well! what-” said Jean.

“Well! It is to-morrow that we shall be victorious, and nothing is lost as yet.”

“How! To-morrow- The king signed that yesterday, therefore to-morrow is to-day.”

“Pardon me, madame,” said the duke; “as there is no date to the note, to-morrow will always be the day after you wish to see M. de Choiseul dismissed. In the Rue de la Grange-Bataliere, about one hundred paces from my house, there is a tavern, on the signboard of which is written in red characters, 'Credit given tomorrow.' To-morrow-that is never.”

“The king mocks us!” said Jean, furiously.

“Impossible,” said the alarmed countess; “impossible. Such a trick would be unworthy-”

“Ah, madame, his majesty is so merry,” said Richelieu.

“He shall pay for this, duke.” said the countess, in a tone of anger.

“After all, countess, we must not be angry with the king; we cannot accuse his majesty of cheating or tricking us, for the king has performed what he promised.”

“Oh,” said Jean, with a more than vulgar shrug of his shoulders.

“What did he promise-” cried the countess. “To thank Choiseul for his services.”

“And that is precisely what he has done, madame. I heard his majesty myself thank the duke for his services. The word has two meanings; in diplomacy, each takes the one he prefers. You have chosen yours, the king has chosen his. Therefore there is no more question of tomorrow. It is to-day, according to your opinion, that the king should have kept his promise, and he has done so. I who speak to you heard him thank Choiseul.”

“Duke, this is no time for jesting, I think.”

“Do you think I am jesting, countess- Ask Count Jean.”

“No, by Heaven! We were in no humor for laughing this morning when Choiseul was embraced, flattered, feasted by the king, and even now he is walking arm in arm with him in Trianon.”

“Arm in arm!” exclaimed Chon, who had slipped into the room, and who raised her snowy arms like a second Niobe in despair.

“Yes, I have been tricked,” said the countess; “but we shall see. Chon, countermand my carriage for the chase. I shall not go.”

“Good!” said Jean.

“One moment,” cried Richelieu. “No hurry, no pouting. Ah! forgive me, countess, for daring to advise you; I entreat you to pardon me.”

“Go on, duke; do not apologize. I think I am losing my senses. See how I am placed; I did not wish to meddle with politics, and the first time I touch upon them, self-love launches me so deeply. You were saying-”

“That pouting would not be wise now. The position is difficult, countess. If the king is so decidedly in favor of these Choiseuls, if the dauphiness has so much influence over him, if he thus openly breaks a lance with you, you must-”

“Well, what-”

“You must be even more amiable than you are at present, countess. I know it is impossible; but in a position like ours the impossible becomes necessary. Attempt the impossible, then.”

The countess reflected.

“For, in short,” said the duke, “if the king should adopt German manners-”

“If he should become virtuous!” exclaimed Jean, horrified.

“Who knows, countess-” said Richelieu; “novelty is such an attractive thing.”

“Oh! as for that,” replied the countess, with a nod of incredulity, “I do not believe it.”

“More extraordinary things have happened, countess. You know the proverb of the devil turning hermit. So you must not pout.”

“But I am suffocating with rage.”

“Parbleu! countess, I can believe you; but suffocate before us, breathe freely before the enemy. Do not let the king, that is to say, M. de Choiseul, perceive your anger.”

“And shall I go to the chase-”

“It would be most politic.”

“And you, duke-”

“Oh. I- If I should have to crawl on all-fours, I shall go.”

“Come in my carriage, then!” cried the countess, to see what face her ally would put on.

“Oh, countess,” replied the duke, smirking to hide his vexation, “it is such an honor-”

“That you refuse-”

“I- Heaven forbid! But, take care; you will compromise yourself.”

“He confesses it-he dares to confess it,” cried Madame Dubarry.

“Countess! countess! M. de Choiseul will never forgive me.”

“Are you already on such good terms with M. de Choiseul-”

“Countess. I shall get into disgrace with the dauphiness.”

“Would you rather we should each continue the war separately, without sharing the spoil- It is still time. You are not compromised, and you may yet withdraw from the association.”

“You misunderstand me, countess,” said the duke, kissing her hands. Did I hesitate on the day of your presentation to send you a dress, a hair-dresser, and a carriage- Well, I shall not hesitate any more to-day. I am bolder than you imagine, countess.”

“Then it is agreed. We will go to this hunt together, and that will serve me as a pretext for not seeing or speaking to anyone.”

“Not even to the king-”

“Oh! on the contrary, I shall give him such sweet words that he will be in despair.”

“Bravo! that is good tactics.”

“But you, Jean, what are you doing there- Do endeavor to rise from those cushions; you are burying yourself alive, my good friend.”

“You want to know what I am doing, do you- Well. I am thinking-”

“Of what-”

“I am thinking that all the ballad-writers of the town and the parliament are setting us to all possible tunes; that the 'Nouvelles a la main' is cutting us up like meat for pies; that the 'Guzetier Cuirasse' is piercing us for want of a cuirass; that the 'Journal des Observateurs' observes us even to the marrow of our bones; that, in short, to-morrow we shall be in so pitiable a state that even a Choiseul might pity us.

“And what is the result of your reflections-” asked the duke.

“Why, that I must hasten to Paris to buy a little lint and no inconsiderable quantity of ointment to put upon our wounds. Give me some money, my little sister.”

“How much-” asked the countess.

“A trifle; two or three hundred louis.”

“You see, duke,” said the countess, turning to Richelieu, “that I am already paying the expenses of the war.”

“That is only the beginning of the campaign, and what you sow to-day, tomorrow you will reap.”

The countess shrugged her shoulders slightly, rose, went to her chiffoniere, and, opening it, took out a handful of bank-notes, which, without counting them, she handed to Jean, who, also without counting them, pocketed them with a deep sigh.

Then, rising, yawning, and stretching himself like a man overwhelmed with fatigue, he took a few steps across the room.

“See,” said he, pointing to the duke and the countess, “these people are going to amuse themselves at the chase, while I have to gallop to Paris. They will see gay cavaliers and lovely women, and I shall see nothing but hideous faces of scribbling drudges. Certainly, I am the turnspit of the establishment.”

“Mark me, duke,” said the countess, “he will never bestow a thought on us. Half my bank-notes will be squandered on some opera girl, and the rest will disappear in a gambling-house. That is his errand to Paris, and yet he bemoans himself, the wretch! Leave my sight, Jean, you disgust me.”

Jean emptied three plates of bonbons, stuffed the contents into his pocket, stole a Chinese figure with diamond eyes from the landing, and stalked off with a most majestic strut, pursued by the exclamations of the countess.

“What a delightful youth!” said Richelieu, in the tone of a parasite who praises a spoiled brat, while all the time he is inwardly devoting him to the infernal regions; “he is very dear to you, I suppose, countess-”

“As you say, duke, he has fixed all his happiness in me, and the speculation brings him three or four hundred thousand livres a-year.”

The clock struck.

“Half-past twelve, countess,” said the duke. “Luckily you are almost dressed. Show yourself a little to your courtiers, who might otherwise think there was an eclipse, and then let us to our carriages. You know how the chase is ordered-”

“His majesty and I arranged it yesterday; they were to proceed to the forest of Marly, and take me up in passing.”

“Oh! I am very sure the king has not changed the programme.”

“In the meantime, duke, let me hear your plan; it is your turn now.”

“Madame, I wrote yesterday to my nephew, who, if I may believe my presentiments, is already on his way hither.”

“M. d'Aiguillon-”

“I should not be surprised if he crosses my letter on the road, and if he were here to-morrow or the day after, at the latest.”

“Then you calculate upon him-”

“Oh! madame, he does not want for sense.”

“No matter who it is, for we are at the last extremity. The king might perhaps submit, but he has such a dreadful antipathy to business.”

“So that-”

“So that I fear he will never consent to give up M. de Choiseul.”

“Shall I speak frankly to you, countess-”

“Certainly.”

“Well! I think so, too. The king will find a hundred stratagems like that of yesterday. His majesty has so much wit! And then, on your side, countess, you will never risk losing his love for the sake of an unaccountable whim.”

And while he spoke the marshal fixed a searching glance on Madame Dubarry.

“Dame!

I must reflect upon that.”

“You see, countess, M. de Choiseul is there for an eternity; nothing but a miracle can dislodge him.”

“Yes, a miracle,” repeated Jeanne.

“And, unfortunately, we are not now in the age of miracles.”

“Oh!” said Madame Dubarry, “I know someone who can work miracles yet.”

“You know a man who can work miracles, and yet you did not tell me so before-”

“I only thought of it this moment, duke.”

“Do you think he could assist us in this affair-”

“I think he can do everything.”

“Oh! indeed- And what miracle has he worked- Tell me, that I was judge of his skill by the specimen.”

“Duke,” said Madame Dubarry, approaching Richelieu and involuntarily lowering her voice, “he is a man who, ten years ago, met me upon the Place Louis XV. and told me I should be queen of France.”

“Indeed! that is in truth miraculous; and could he tell me, think you, if I shall die prime minister-”

“Don't you think so-”

“Oh, I don't doubt it in the least. What is his name-”

“His name will tell you nothing.”

“Where is he-”

“Ah! that I don't know.”

“He did not give you his address-”

“No; he was to come to me for his recompense.”

“What did you promise him-”

“Whatever he should ask.”

“And he has not come-”

“No.”

“Countess, that is even more miraculous than his prediction. We must certainly have this man.”

“But how shall we proceed-”

“His name, countess-his name-”

“He has two.”

“Proceed according to order -the first-”

“The Count de Fenix.”

“What! the man you pointed out to me on the day of your presentation-”

“Yes; the Prussian officer.”

“Oh! I have no longer any faith in him. All the sorcerers I have ever known had names ending in i or o.”

“That exactly suits, duke; for his second name is Joseph Balsamo.”

“But have you no means of finding him out-”

“I shall task my brain, duke. I think I know someone who knows him.”

“Good! But make haste, countess. It is now a quarter to one.”

“I am ready. My carriage, there!”

Ten minutes afterward Madame Dubarry and M. de Richelieu were seated side by side, and driving rapidly on their way to the hunting party.

CHAPTER LXXX. THE SORCERER CHASE.

A long train of carriages filled the avenues of the forest of Marly, where the king was hunting. It was what was called the afternoon chase.

In the latter part of his life, Louis XV. neither shot at nor rode after the game; he was content with watching the progress of the chase.

Those of our readers who have read Plutarch, will perhaps remember that cook of Mark Antony's, who put a boar on the spit every hour, so that among the six or seven boars which were roasting, there might always be one ready whenever Mark Antony wished to dine.

The reason of this was that Mark Antony, as governor of Asia Minor, was overwhelmed with business; he was the dispenser of justice, and as the Sicilians are great thieves (the fact is confirmed by Juvenal), Mark Antony had abundance of work on his hands. He had therefore always five or six roasts in various degrees of progress on the spit, waiting for the moment when his functions as judge would permit him to snatch a hasty morsel.

Louis XV. acted in a similar manner. For the afternoon chase there were three or four stags started at different hours, and accordingly as the king felt disposed he chose a nearer or more distant “view halloo.”

On this day his majesty had signified his intention of hunting until four o'clock. A stag was therefore chosen which had been started at twelve, and which might consequently be expected to run until that hour.

Madame Dubarry, on her side, intended to follow the king as faithfully as the king intended to follow the stag. But hunters propose and fate disposes. A combination of circumstances frustrated this happy project of Madame Dubarry's, and the countess found in fate an adversary almost as capricious as herself.

While the countess, talking politics with M. de Richelieu, drove rapidly after the king, who in his turn drove rapidly after the stag, and while the duke and she returned in part the bows which greeted them as they passed, they all at once perceived about fifty paces from the road, beneath a magnificent canopy of verdure, an unfortunate caleche revolving its wheels in the air, while the two black horses which should have drawn it were peacefully munching; the one the bark of a beech-tree, the other the moss growing at his feet.

Madame Dubarry's horses, a magnificent pair presented to her by the king, had outstripped all the other carriages, and were the first to arrive in sight of the broken carriage.

“Ha! an accident!” said the countess, calmly.

“Faith, yes!” said the Duke de Richelieu, with equal coolness, for sensibility is little in fashion at court; “the carriage is broken to pieces.”

“Is that a corpse upon the grass-” asked the countess. “Look, duke.”

“I think not, it moves.”

“Is it a man or a woman-”

“I don't know. I cannot see well.”

“Ha! it bows to us.”

“Then it cannot be dead.”

And Richelieu at all hazards took off his hat.

“But, countess,” said he, “it seems to me-”

“And to me also-

“That it is his eminence Prince Louis.”

“The Cardinal de Rohan in person!”

“What the deuce is he doing there-” asked the duke.

“Let us go and see,” replied the countess. “Champagne, drive on to the broken carriage.”

The coachman immediately left the high road and dashed in among the lofty trees.

“Faith, yes, it is my lord cardinal,” said Richelieu.

It was in truth his eminence, who was lying stretched upon the grass, waiting until some of his friends should pass.

Seeing Madame Dubarry approach, he rose.

“A thousand compliments to the countess!” said he.

“How, cardinal! is it you-”

“Myself, madame.”

“On foot-”

“No, sitting.”

“Are you wounded-”

“Not in the least.”

“And how in all the world do you happen to be in this position-”

“Do not speak of it, madame; that brute of a coachman, a wretch whom I sent for to England, when I told him to cut across the wood in order to join the chase, turned so suddenly, that he upset me and broke my best carriage.”

“You must not complain, cardinal,” said the countess; “a French coachman would have broken your neck, or at least your ribs.”

“Very possibly.”

“Therefore, be consoled.”

“Oh! I am a little of a philosopher, countess; only I shall have to wait, and that is fatal.”

“How, prince! to wait- A Rohan wait-”

“There is no resource.”

“Oh, no! I would rather alight and leave you my carriage.”

“In truth, madame, your kindness makes me blush.”

“Come, jump in, prince-jump in.”

“No, thank you, madame, I am waiting for Soubise, who is at the chase, and who cannot fail to pass in a few moments.”

“But if he should have taken another road-”

“Oh! it is of no consequence.”

“My lord, I entreat you will.”

“No, thank you.”

“But why not-”

“I am unwilling to incommode you.”

“Cardinal, if you refuse to enter, I shall order one of the footmen to carry my train, and I shall roam through the woods like a Dryad.”

The cardinal smiled, and thinking that a longer resistance might be interpreted unfavorably by the countess, he consented to enter the carriage. The duke had already given up his place, and taken his seat upon the bench in front. The cardinal entreated him to resume his former position, but the duke was inflexible.

The countess's splendid horses soon made up for the time which had thus been lost.

“Excuse me, my lord,” said the countess, addressing the cardinal, “has your eminence been reconciled to the chase-”

“How so-”

“Because this is the first time I have had the pleasure of seeing you join in that amusement.”

“By no means, countess. I had come to Versailles to have the honor of paying my respects to his majesty, when I was told he was at the chase. I had to speak to him on some important business, and therefore followed, hoping to overtake him; but, thanks to this cursed coachman, I shall not only lose his majesty's ear, but also my assignation in town.”

“You see, madame.” said the duke, laughing, “Monseigneur makes a free confession!-he has an assignation.”

“In which I shall fail, I repeat,” replied the cardinal.

“Does a Rohan, a prince, a cardinal, ever fail in anything-” said the countess.

“Dame!” said the prince, “unless a miracle comes to my assistance.”

The duke and the countess looked at each other; this word recalled their recent conversation.

“Faith! prince.” said the countess, “speaking of miracles, I will confess frankly that I am very happy to meet a dignitary of the church, to know if he believes in them.”

“In what, madame-”

“Parbleu! in miracles.” said the duke.

“The Scriptures give them as an article of faith, madame,” said the cardinal, trying to look devout.

“Oh! I do not mean those miracles,” replied the countess.

“And of what other miracles do you speak, madame-”

“Of modern miracles.”

“Those indeed, I confess, are rather more rare,” said the cardinal. “But still-”

“But still, what-”

“Faith, I have seen things, which, if they were not miraculous, were at least very incredible.”

“You have seen such things, prince-”

“On my honor.”

“But you know, madame,” said Richelieu, laughing, “that his eminence is said to be in communication with spirits, which, perhaps, is not very orthodox.”

“No, but which must be very convenient,” said the countess. “And what have you seen, prince-”

“I have sworn not to reveal it.”

“Oh! that begins to look serious.”

“It is a fact, madame.”

“But if you have promised to observe secrecy respecting the sorcery, perhaps you have not done so as regards the sorcerer-”

“No.”

“Well, then, prince, I must tell you that the duke and myself came out to-day with the intention of seeking some magician.”

“Indeed-”-” Upon my honor.”

“Take mine.”

“I desire no better.”

“He is at your disposal, countess.”

“And at mine also, prince-”

“And at yours also, duke.”

“What is his name-”

“The Count de Fenix.”

The countess and the duke looked at each other and turned pale.

“That is strange,” said they, both together.

“Do you know him-” asked the prince.

“No. And you think him a sorcerer-”

“I am positive of it.”

“You have spoken to him, then-”

“Of course.”

“And you found him-”

“Perfect.”

“On what occasion, may I ask-”

The cardinal hesitated.

“On the occasion of his foretelling my fortune.”

“Correctly-”

“He told me things of the other world.”

“Has he no other name than the Count de Fenix-”

“I think I have heard him called-”

“Speak, sir,” said the countess, impatiently.

“Joseph Balsamo, madame.”

“Is the devil very black-” asked Madame Dubarry all at once.

“The devil, countess- I have not seen him.”

““What are you thinking of, countess-” cried Richelieu. “Pardieu! that would be respectable company for a cardinal.”

“And did he tell you your fortune without showing you the devil-”

“Oh! certainly,” said the cardinal, “they only show the devil to people of no consideration; we can dispense with him.”

“But say what you will, prince,” continued Madame Dubarry, “there must be a little devilry at the bottom of it.”

“Dame! I think so.”

“Blue fire, specters, infernal caldrons which smell horribly while they burn, eh-”

“Oh, no! my sorcerer is most polite and well-bred; he is a very gallant man, and receives his visitors in good style.”

“Will you not have your horoscope drawn by this man, countess-” said Richelieu.

“I long to do so, I confess.”

“Do so, then, madame.”

“But where is all this accomplished-” asked Madame Dubarry, hoping that the cardinal would give her the wished-for address.

“In a very handsome room, fashionably furnished.”

The countess could scarcely conceal her impatience.

“Very well,” said she; “but the house-”

“A very fine house, though in a singular style of architecture.”

The countess stamped with rage at being so ill understood. Richelieu came to her assistance.

“But do you not see, my lord,” said he, “that madame is dying to know where your sorcerer lives-”

“Where he lives, you say- Oh! well.” replied the cardinal, “eh! faith-wait a moment -no -yes-no. It is in the Marais, near the corner of the boulevard, Rue St. Francois -St. Anastasie -no. However, it is the name of some saint.”

“But what saint. You must surely know them all-”

“No, faith. I know very little about them,” said the cardinal; “but stay-my fool of a footman must remember.”

“Oh! very fortunately he got up behind,” said the duke. “Stop, Champagne, stop.”

And the duke pulled the cord which was attached to the coachman's little finger, who suddenly reined in the foaming horses, throwing them on their sinewy haunches.

“Olive,” said the cardinal, “are you there, you scoundrel-”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Where did I stop one evening in the Marais-a long time back-”

The lackey had overheard the whole conversation, but took care not to appear as if he had done so.

“In the Marais-” said he, seeming to search his memory.

“Yes, near the boulevards.”

“What day, my lord-”

“One day when I was returning from. St. Denis. The carriage, I think, waited for me in the boulevards.”

“Oh, yes, my lord,” said Olive, “I remember now. A man came and threw a very heavy parcel into the carriage; I remember it perfectly.”

“Very possibly,” replied the cardinal, “but who asked you about that, you scoundrel-”

“What does your eminence wish, then-”

“To know the name of the street.”

“Rue St. Claude, my lord.”

“Claude, that is it!” cried the cardinal. “I would have laid any wager it was the name of a saint.”

“Rue St. Claude!” repeated the countess, darting such an expressive glance at Richelieu, that the marshal, fearing to let anyone guess his secrets, above all when it concerned a conspiracy, interrupted Madame Dubarry by these words:

“Ha! countess-the king!”

“Where-”

“Yonder.”

“The king! the king!” exclaimed the countess. “To the left, Champagne, to the left, that his majesty may not see us.”

“And why, countess-” asked the astonished cardinal. “I thought that, on the contrary, you were taking me to his majesty.”

“Oh! true, you wish to see the king, do you not-”

“I came for that alone, madame.”

“Very well! you shall be taken to the king-”

“But you-”

“Oh! we shall remain here.”

“But, countess-

“No apologies, prince, I entreat; Everyone to his own business. The king is yonder, under those chestnut-trees; you have business with the king; very well, the affair is easily arranged. Champagne!”

Champagne pulled up.

“Champagne, let us alight here, and take his eminence to the king.”

“What! alone, countess-”

“You wished to have an audience of his majesty, cardinal-”

“It is true.”

“Well! you shall have his ear entirely to yourself.”

“All! this kindness absolutely overwhelms me.” And the prelate gallantly kissed Madame Dubarry's hand.

“But where will you remain yourself, madame-” inquired he.

“Here, under these trees.”

“The king will be looking for you.”

“So much the better.”

“He will be uneasy at not seeing you.”

“And that will torment him-just what I wish.”

“Countess, you are positively adorable,”

“That is precisely what the king says when I have tormented him. Champagne, when you have taken his eminence to the king, you will return at full gallop.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Adieu, duke,” said the cardinal.

“Au revoir, my lord,” replied the duke.

And the valet having let down the step, the duke alighted and handed out the countess, who leaped to the ground as lightly as a nun escaping from a convent, while the carriage rapidly bore his eminence to the hillock from which his Most Christian Majesty was seeking, with his short-sighted eyes, the naughty countess whom Everyone had seen but himself.

Madame Dubarry lost no time. She took the duke's arm, and drawing him into the thicket-

“Do you know.” said she, “that it must have been Providence who sent that dear cardinal to us, to put us on the trace of our man!”

“Then we are positively to go to him-”

“I think so; but-”

“What, countess-”

“I am afraid, I confess it.”

“Of whom-”

“Of the sorcerer. Oh, I am very credulous.”

“The deuce!”

“And you, do you believe in sorcerers-”

“Dame! I can't say no, countess.”

“My history of the prediction-

“Is a startling fact. And I myself,” said the old marshal, scratching his ear, “once met a certain sorcerer.”

“Bah!”

“Who rendered me a very important service.”

“What service, duke-”

“He resuscitated me.”

“He resuscitated you!”

“Certainly; I was dead, no less.”

“Oh! tell me the whole affair, duke.”

“Let us conceal ourselves, then.”

“Duke, you are a dreadful coward.”

“Oh, no, I am only prudent.”

“Are we well placed here-”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well! the story! the story!”

“Well, I was at Vienna-it was the time when I was ambassador there-when one evening, while I was standing under a lamp, I received a sword thrust through my body. It was a rival's sword, and a very unwholesome sort of thing it is, I assure you. I fell-I was taken up-I was dead.”

“What- you were dead-”

“Yes, or close upon it. A sorcerer passes, who asks who is the man whom they are carrying. He is told it is I; he stops the litter, pours three drops of some unknown liquid into the wound, three more between my lips, and the bleeding stops, respiration returns, my eyes open, and I am cured.”

“It is a miracle from heaven, duke.”

“That is just what frightens me; for, on the contrary, I believe it is a miracle of the devil.”

“True, marshal, Providence would not have saved a dissipated rake like you. Honor to whom honor is due. And does your sorcerer still live-”

“I doubt it, unless he has found the elixir of life.”

“Like you, marshal-”

“Do you believe these stories, then-”

“I believe everything. He was very old-”

“Methuselah in person.”

“And his name-”

“All! a magnificent Greek name-Althotas.”

“What a terrible name, marshal!”

“Is it not, madame-”

“Duke, there is the carriage returning. Are we decided- Shall we go to Paris and visit the Rue St. Claude-”

“If you like. But the king is waiting for you.”

“That would determine me, duke, if I had not already determined. He has tormented me. Now, France, it is your turn to suffer!”

“But he will think you are lost-carried off.”

“And so much the more that I have been seen with you, marshal.”

“Stay, countess, I will be frank with you; I am afraid.”

“Of what-”

““I am afraid that you will tell all this to someone, and that I shall be laughed at.”

“Then we shall both be laughed at together, since I go with you.”

“That decides me, countess. However, if you betray me, I shall say-”

“What will you say-”

“I shall say that you came with me tete-a-tete.”

“No one will believe you, duke.”

“Ah! countess, if the king were not there!”

“Champagne! Champagne! Here, behind this thicket, that we may not be seen. Germain, the door. That will do. Now to Paris, Rue St. Claude, in the Marais, and let the pavement smoke for it.”

CHAPTER LXXXI. THE COURIER.

IT WAS SIX o'clock in the evening. In that chamber in the Rue Saint Claude into which we have already introduced our readers, Balsamo was seated beside Lorenza, now awake, and was endeavoring by persuasion to soften her rebellious spirit, which refused to listen to all his prayers.

But the young girl looked askance at him, as Dido looked at AEneas when he was about to leave her, spoke only to reproach him, and moved her hand only to repulse his.

She complained that she was a prisoner, a slave; that she could no longer breathe the fresh air, nor see the sun. She envied the fate of the poorest creatures, of the birds, of the flowers. She called Balsamo her tyrant.

Thru, passing from reproaches to rage, she tore into shreds the rich stuffs which her husband had given her, in order by this semblance of gayety and show to cheer the solitude he imposed on her.

Balsamo, on the other hand, spoke gently to her, and looked at her lovingly. It was evident that this weak, irritable creature filled an immense place in his heart, if not in his life.

“Lorenza,” said he to her, “my beloved, why do you display this spirit of resistance and hostility- Why will you not live with me, who love you inexpressibly, as a gentle and devoted companion- You would then have nothing to wish for; you would be free to bloom in the sun, like the flowers of which you spoke just now; to stretch your wing like the birds whose fate you envy. We would go everywhere together. You would not only see the sun which delights you so much, but the factitious sun of splendor and fashion-those assemblies to which the women of this country resort. You would be happy according to your tastes, while rendering me happy in mine. Why will you refuse this happiness, Lorenza-you who, with your beauty and riches, would make so many women envious-”

“Because I abhor you,” said the haughty young girl.

Balsamo cast on Lucrenza a glance expressive at once of anger and pity.

“Live, then, as you condemn yourself to live,” said he; “and since you are so proud, do not complain.”

“I should not complain, if you would leave me alone. I should not complain, if you did not force me to speak to you. Do not come into my presence, or when you do enter my prison, do not speak to me, and I shall do as the poor birds from the south do when they are imprisoned in cages-they die, but do not sing.”

Balsamo made an effort to appear calm.

“Come, Lorenza,” said he, “a little more gentleness and resignation. Look into a heart which loves you above all things. Do you wish for books-”

“No.”

“Why not- Books would amuse you.”

“I wish to weary myself until I die.”

Balsamo smiled, or rather endeavored to smile.

“You are mad,” said he; “you know very well that you cannot die while I am here to take care of you, and to cure you when you fall ill.”

“Oh!” cried Lorenza, “you will not cure me when you find me strangled with this scarf against the bars of my window.”-Balsamo shuddered.

“Or when,” continued she, furiously, “I have opened this knife and stabbed myself to the heart.”

Balsamo, pale as death, and bathed in cold perspiration, gazed at Lorenza, and with a threatening voice:

“No, Lorenza.” said he, “you are right; I shall not cure you, then, I shall bring you back to life.”

Lorenza gave a cry of terror. She knew no bounds to Balsamo's power, and believed his threat. Balsamo was saved. While she was plunged in this fresh abyss of suffering which she had not foreseen, and while her vacillating reason saw itself encircled by a never-ceasing round of torture, the sound of the signal bell pulled by Fritz reached Balsamo's ear. It struck three times quickly, and at regular intervals.

“A courier,” said he.

Then after a pause another ring was heard.

“And in haste,” he said.

“Ah!” said Lorenza, “you are about to leave me, then!”

He took the young girl's cold hand in his. “Once more and for the last time, Lorenza,” said he, “let us live on good terms with each other, like brother and sifter. Since destiny unites us to each other, let us make it a friend and not an executioner.”

Lorenza did not reply. Her eye, motionless and fixed in a sort of dreamy melancholy, seemed to seek some thought which was ever flying from her into infinite space, and which perhaps she could not find because she had sought it too long and too earnestly, like those who, after having lived in darkness, gaze too ardently on the sun, and are blinded by excess of light. Balsamo took her hand and kissed it without her giving any sign of life. Then he advanced toward the chimney. Immediately Lorenza started from her torpor, and eagerly fixed her gaze upon him.

“Oh!” said he, “you wish to know how I leave this, in order to leave it one day after me and flee from me as you threatened. And therefore you awake-therefore you look at me.”

Then, passing his hand over his forehead, as if he imposed a painful task on himself, he stretched his hand toward the young girl, and said, in a commanding voice, looking at her as if he were darting a javelin against her head and breast:

“Sleep!”

The word was scarcely uttered when Lorenza bent like a flower upon its stem; her head, for a single moment unsteady, drooped and rested against the cushion of the sofa; her hands, of an opaque and waxen whiteness, glided down her side, rustling her silken dress.

Balsamo, seeing her so beautiful, approached her and pressed his lips upon her lovely forehead.

Then Lorenza's features brightened, as if a breath from the God of Love himself had swept away the cloud which rested on her brow. Her lips opened tremulously, her eyes swam in voluptuous tears, and she sighed as the angels must have sighed when in earth's youthful prime they stooped to love the children of men.

Balsamo looked upon her for a moment, as if unable to withdraw his gaze; then, as the bell sounded anew, he turned toward the chimney, touched a spring, and disappeared behind the flowers.

Fritz was waiting for him in the salon, with a man dressed in the closely-fitting jacket of a courier, and wearing thick boots armed with longspurs.

The commonplace and inexpressive features of this man showed him to be one of the people; but his eye had in it a spark of sacred fire, which seemed to have been breathed into him by some superior intelligence.

His left hand grasped a short and knotty whip, while with his right hand he made some signs to Balsamo, which the latter instantly recognized, and to which, without speaking, he replied by touching his forehead with his forefinger.

The postilion's hand moved upward to his breast, where it traced another sign, which an indifferent observer would not have remarked, so closely did it resemble the movement made in fastening a button.

To this sign the master replied by showing a ring which he wore upon his finger.

Before this powerful signet the messenger bent his knee.

“Whence come you-” asked Balsamo.

“From Rouen, master.”

“What is your profession-”

“I am a courier in the service of the Duchesse de Grammont.”

“Who placed you there-”

“The will of the Great Copt.”

“What orders did you receive when you entered the service-”

“To have no secret from the master.”

“Whither are you going-”

“To Versailles.”

“What are you carrying-”

“A letter.”

“For whom-”

“For the minister.”

“Give it me.”

The courier took a letter from a leathern bag fastened upon his shoulders behind, and gave it to Balsamo.

“Shall I wait-” asked he.

“Yes.”

“Very well.”

“Fritz!”

The German appeared.

“Keep Sebastian concealed in the offices.”

“He knows my name,” murmured the adept, with superstitious fear.

“He knows everything,” said Fritz, drawing him away.

When Balsamo was once more alone, he looked at the unbroken, deeply cut seal of the letter, which the imploring glance of the messenger had entreated him to respect as much as possible. Then, slowly and pensively, he once more mounted toward Lorenza's apartment, and opened the door of communication.

Lorenza was still sleeping, but seemingly tired and enervated by inaction. He took her hand, which she closed convulsively, and then he placed the letter, sealed as it was, upon her heart.

“Do you see-” he asked.

“Yes, I see,” replied Lorenza.

“What is the object which I hold in my hand-”

“A letter.”

“Can you read it-”

“I can.”

“Do so, then.”

With closed eyes and palpitating bosom, Lorenza repeated, word for word, the following lines, which Balsamo wrote down as she spoke:

“DEAR BROTHER-As I had foreseen, my exile will be at least of some service to us. I have this morning seen the president of Rouen; he is for us, but timid. I urged him in your name; he has at last decided, and the remonstrance of his division will be in Versailles within a week. I am just about setting off for Rennes to rouse Karadeuc and La Chalotais, who are sleeping on their post. Our agent from Cauilebec was in Rouen. I have seen him. England will not stop midway; she is preparing a sharp notification for the cabinet of Versailles. X-asked me if he should produce it, and I authorized him to do so. You will receive the last pamphlets of Morando and Delille against the Dubarry. They are petards which might blow up a town. A sad report reached me, that there was disgrace in the air; but as you have not written to me, I laugh at it. Do not leave me in doubt, however, and reply courier for courier. Your message will find me at Caen, where I have some of our gentlemen riding quarantine. Adieu, I salute you.-DUCHESSE DE GRAMMONT.”

After reading thus far, Lorenza stopped.

“You see nothing more-” asked Balsamo.

“I see nothing.”

“No postscript-”-”No.”

Balsamo, whose brow had gradually smoothed as Lorenza read the letter, now took it from her.

“A curious document,” said he, “and one for which I would be well paid. Oh! how can anyone write such things-” he continued. “Yes, it is always women who are the ruin of great men. This Choiseul could not have been overthrown by an army of enemies, by a world of intrigues, and now the breath of a woman crushes while it caresses him. Yes, we all perish by the treachery or the weakness of women. If we have a heart, and in that heart a sensitive chord, we are lost.”

And, as he spoke, Balsamo gazed with inexpressible tenderness at Lorenza, who palpitated under his glance.

“Is it true, what I think-” said he.

“No, no, it is not true!” she replied eagerly; “you see plainly that I love you too dearly to do you any hurt, like those women you spoke of without sense and without heart.”

Balsamo allowed himself to be caressed by the arms of his enchantress;-all at once a double ring of Fritz's bell was repeated twice.

“Two visits,” said Balsamo.

A single violent ring completed the telegraphic message.

“Important ones,” continued the master; and, disengaging himself from Lorenza's arms, he hastened from the apartment, leaving the young girl still asleep. On his way he met the courier, who was waiting for orders.

“Here is your letter,” said he.

“What am I do with it-”

“Deliver it as addressed.”

“Is that all-”

“Yes.”

The courier looked at the envelope and at the seal, and seeing them as intact as when he had brought them, expressed his satisfaction, and disappeared in the darkness.

“What a pity not to keep such an autograph,” said Balsamo, “and, above all, what a pity not to be able to forward it by a safe hand to the king.”

Fritz now appeared.

“Who is there-” he asked.

“A man and a woman.”

“Have they been here before-”

“No.”

“Do you know them-”

“No.”

“Is the woman young-”

“Young and handsome.”

“The man-”

“From sixty to sixty-five years of age.”

“Where are they-”

“In the salon.”

Balsamo entered.

CHAPTER LXXXII. THE EVOCATION.

THE COUNTESS had completely concealed her face in a hood. As she had found time in passing to call at the family residence, she had assumed the dress of a citizen's wife. She had come in a hackney-coach with the marshal, who, even more timid than she, had donned a gray dress like that of a superior servant in a respectable household.

“Do you recognize me, count-” said Madame Dubarry.

“Perfectly, Madame la Comtesse.”

Richelieu had remained in the background.

“Deign to be seated, madame, and you, also, monsieur.”

“This is my steward,” said the countess.

“You err, madame,” said Balsamo, bowing; “the gentleman is the Marshal Duke de Richelieu, whom I recognize easily, and who would be very ungrateful if he did not recognize me.”

“How so-” asked the duke, quite confounded, as Tallemant des Reaux would say.

“My lord duke, a man owes a little gratitude, I think, to those who have saved his life.”

“Ah, ah! duke,” said the countess, laughing; “do you hear, duke-”

“What! you have saved my life, count-” asked Richelieu, quite astounded.

“Yes, my lord; at Vienna, in the year 1725, when you were ambassador there.”

“In 1725! But you were not born then, my dear sir.”

Balsamo smiled.

“It seems to me that I was, my lord duke,” said he, “since I met you, dying, or rather dead, upon a litter; you had just received a sword-thrust right through your body, and I poured three drops of my elixir upon the wound. There, hold! -the place where you are ruffling your Alencon lace-rather fine, I must say, for a steward.”

“But,” interrupted the marshal, “you are scarcely thirty-five years of age, count.”

“There, duke,” cried the countess, laughing heartily, “there, you are before the sorcerer; do you believe now-”

“I am stupefied, countess. But at that period,” continued the duke, addressing Balsamo, “you called yourself-”

“Oh! duke, we sorcerers change our name in each generation. Now, in 1725, names ending in us, os, or as, were the fashion; and I should not be surprised if, at that time, I had been seized with the whim of bartering my name for some Latin or Greek one. This being premised, I wait your commands, countess, and yours also, my lord.”

“Count, the marshal and I have come to consult you.”

“You do me too much honor, madame, especially if this idea arose naturally in your minds.”

“Oh! in the most natural manner in the world, count; your prediction still haunts my thoughts, only I fear it will not be realized.”

“Fever doubt the dictates of science, madame.”

“Oh! oh!” said Richelieu; “but our crown is a hazardous game, count. It is not here an affair of a wound which three drops of elixir can cure.”

“No; but of a minister whom three words can ruin,” replied Balsamo. “Well, have I guessed rightly- Tell me.”

“Perfectly,” said the trembling countess. “Tell me, in truth, what think you of all this, duke-”

“Oh! do not let such a trifle astonish you, madame,” said Balsamo; “whoever sees Madame Dubarry and Richelieu uneasy, may guess the cause without magic.”

“But,” added the marshal, “if you can give us the remedy, I will perfectly adore you.”

“The remedy for your complaint-”

“Yes; we are ill of the Choiseul.”

“And you wish to be cured-”

“Yes, great magician.”

“Count, you will not leave us in our embarrassment,” said the countess; “your honor is engaged.”

“My best services are at your command, madame; but I first wish to know if the duke had not some definite plan formed when he came here-”

“I confess it, count. Really it is delightful to have a count for a sorcerer; we do not need to change our modes of speech.”

Balsamo smiled.

“Come,” said he, “let us be frank.”

“'Pon honor. I wish for nothing else,” replied the duke.

“You had some consultation to hold with me!”

“That is true.”

“Ah, deceiver!” said the countess, “you never spoke of that to me.”

“I could only speak of it to the count, and that in the most secret corner of his ear,” replied the marshal.

“Why, duke-”

“Because you would have blushed, countess, to the whites of your eyes.”

“Oh! tell it now, marshal, just to satisfy my curiosity. I am rouged, so you shall see nothing;.”

“Well!” said Richelieu, “this is what I thought. Take care, countess. I am going to take a most extravagant flight.”

“Fly as high as you will, duke, I am prepared.”

“Oh, but I fear you will beat me the moment you hear what I am about to say.”

“You are not accustomed to be beaten, my lord duke,” said Balsamo to the old marshal.

“Well,” continued he, enchanted with the compliment, “here it is. Saving the displeasure of madame, his maj-how am I to express it-”

“How tiresome he is!” cried the countess.

“You will have it, then-”

“Yes, yes; a hundred times, yes!”

“Then I will venture. It is a sad thing to say, count, but his majesty is no longer amusable. The word is not of my originating, countess; it is Madame de Maintenon's.”

“There is nothing in that which hurts me, duke,” said Madame Dubarry.

“So much the better; then I shall feel at my ease. Well, the count, who discovers such precious elixirs, must-

“Find one which shall restore to the king the faculty of being amused.”

“Exactly.”

“Oh! duke, that is mere child's play-the a b c of our craft. Any charlatan can furnish you with a philter-

“Whose virtue,” continued the duke, “would be put to the account of madame's merit.”

“Duke!” exclaimed the countess.

“Oh! I knew you would be angry; but you would have it.”

“My lord duke,” replied Balsamo, “you were right. Look! the countess blushes. But just now we agreed that neither wounds nor love were to be treated of at present. A philter will not rid France of M. de Choiseul. In fact, if the king loved madame ten times more than he does, and that is impossible, M. de Choiseul would still retain the same influence over his mind which madame exerts over his heart.”

“Very true,” said the marshal; “but it was our only resource.”

“You think so-”

“Dame! find another.”

“Oh! that would be easy.”

“Easy! do you hear, countess-these sorcerers stop at nothing.”

“Why should I stop, where the only thing necessary is simply to prove to the king that M. de Choiseul alone betrays him-that is to say, what the king would think betraying; for of course M. de Choiseul does not think he betrays him in acting as he does.”

“And what does he do-”

“You know as well as I do, countess; he supports the parliament in their revolt against the royal authority.”

“Certainly; but we must know by what means.”

“By the means of agents who encourage them by promising them impunity.”

“Who are the agents- We must know that.”

“Do you believe, for example, that Madame de Grammont is gone for any other purpose than to sustain the ardent, and warm the timid-”

“Certainly; she left for no other reason,” exclaimed the countess.

“Yes; but the king thinks it a simple exile.”

“It is true.”

“How can you prove to him that in this departure there is any tiling more than he supposes-”

“By accusing Madame de Grammont.”

“Ah! if there were nothing necessary but to accuse her, count!” said the marshal.

“But, unfortunately, the accusation must be proved,” added the countess.

“And if this accusation were proved, incontrovertibly proved, do you think M. de Choiseul would still be minister-”

“Certainly not,” said the countess.

“Nothing is necessary then but to discover the treachery of M. de Choiseul,” pursued Balsamo, with assurance; “and to display it clearly, precisely, and palpably before the eyes of his majesty.”

The marshal threw himself back upon an armchair, and laughed loud and long.

“Charming!” he exclaimed; “he stops at nothing! Discover M. de Choiseul in the act of committing treason!-that is all, nothing more!”

Balsamo remained calm and unmoved, waiting until the marshal's mirth had subsided.

“Come,” said Balsamo, “let us speak seriously, and recapitulate.”

“So be it.”

“Is not M. de Choiseul suspected of encouraging the revolt of the parliament-”

“Granted; but the proof-”

“Is not M. de Choiseul supposed,” continued Balsamo, “to be attempting to bring about a war with England, in order that he may become indispensable-”

“It, is so believed; but the proof-”

“Is not M. de Choiseul the declared enemy of the countess, and does he not seek, by all possible means, to drag her from the throne I promised her-”

“Ah! all this is very true,” said the countess; “but once more I repeat, it must be proved. Oh! that I could prove it!”

“What is necessary for that- A mere trifle.”

The marshal gave a low whistle.

“Yes, a mere trifle!” said he, sarcastically.

“A confidential letter for example,” said Balsamo.

“Yes; that is all-a mere nothing.”

“A letter from Madame de Grammont would do, would it not, marshal-” continued the count.

“Sorcerer, my good sorcerer, find me such a one!” cried Madame Dubarry. “I have been trying for five years; I have spent a hundred thousand livres per annum, and have never succeeded.”

“Because you never applied to me, madame,” said Balsamo.

“How so-” said the countess.

“Without doubt, if you had applied to me, I could have assisted you.”

“Could you- Count, is it yet too late-”

The count smiled.

“It is never too late,” said he.

“Oh, my dear count!” said Madame Dubarry, clasping her hands.

“You want a letter, then-”

“Yes.”

“From Madame de Grammont-”

“If it is possible.”

“Which shall compromise M. de Choiseul on the three points which I have mentioned-”

“I would give-one of my eyes to see it.”

“Oh! countess, that would be too dear; inasmuch as this letter-I will give it you for nothing.”

And Balsamo drew a folded paper from his pocket.

“What is that-” asked the countess, devouring the paper with her eyes.

“Yes, what is that-” repeated the duke.

“The letter you wished for.”

And the count, amid the most profound silence, read the letter, with which our readers are already acquainted; to his two astonished auditors.

As he read, the countess opened her eyes to their utmost width, and began to lose countenance.

“It is a forgery,” said Richelieu, when the letter had been read. “Diable! we must take care.”

“Monsieur, it is the simple and literal copy of a letter from the Duchesse de Grammont, which a courier, dispatched this morning from Rouen, is now carrying to the Duke de Choiseul at Versailles.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried the marshal, “do you speak truly, Count Balsamo-”

“I always speak the truth, marshal.”

“The duchesse has written such a letter-”

“Yes, marshal.”

“She could not be so imprudent.”

“It is incredible, I confess; but so it is.”

The old duke looked at the countess, who had not the power to utter a single word.

“Well,” said she, at last, “I am like the duke, I can scarcely believe-excuse me, count-that Madame de Grammont, a woman of sense, should compromise her own position, and that of her brother, by a letter so strongly expressed. Besides, to know of such a letter, one must have read it-”

“And then,” said the marshal, quickly, “if the count had read this letter, he would have kept it; it is a precious treasure.” Balsamo gently shook his head.

“Oh,” said he, “such a plan might suit those who have to break open letters in order to ascertain their contents-but not those who, like myself, can read through the envelopes. Fie upon you! Besides, what interest could I have in ruining M. de Choiseul and Madame de Grammont- You come to consult me, as friends, I presume, and I answer you in the same manner. You wish me to render you a service. I do so. You do not mean I suppose, to ask me the price of my consultation, as you would the fortune-tellers of the Quai de la Ferraille-”

“Oh, count!” said Madame Dubarry.

“Well, I give you this advice, and you seem not to comprehend it. You express a wish to overthrow M. de Choiseul, and you seek the means. I tell you one. You approve of it. I put it into your hands, and-you do not believe it.”

“Because-because-count-I-”

“The letter exists, I tell you, for I have the copy.”

“But who told you of its existence, count-” cried Richelieu.

“Ah! that is a great word-who told me! You wish to know, in one moment, as much as I know; I, the worker, the sage, the adept who has lived three thousand seven hundred years.”

“Oh! oh!” said Richelieu, discouraged; “you are going to alter the good opinion I had formed of you, count.”

“I do not ask you to believe me, my lord duke, it is not I who brought you hither from the chase.”

“Duke, he is right,” said the countess. “Monsieur de Balsamo, pray do not be hasty.”

“He who has time never gets impatient, madame.”

“Will you be so good as to add another favor to those you have already conferred upon me, and tell me how these secrets are revealed to you.”

“I shall not hesitate, madame.” said Balsamo, speaking as if he was searching for each word separately; “the revelation is made to me by a voice.”

“By a voice!” cried the duke and the countess, simultaneously; “a voice tells you all-”

“Everything I wish to know.”

“Was it a voice that told you what Madame de Grammont has written to her brother-”

“I repeat, madame, it is a voice which tells me.”

“Miraculous!”

“Why, do you not believe it-”

“Well, no, count,” said the duke; “how do you imagine I can believe such things-”

“Would you believe it if I told you what the courier who carries the letter to M. de Choiseul is doing at this moment-”

“Dame!” exclaimed the countess.

“I would believe it,” cried the duke, “if I heard the voice; but messieurs the necromancers and magicians have the sole privilege of seeing and hearing the supernatural.”

Balsamo looked at Richelieu with a singular expression, which made a shudder pass through the veins of the countess, and even sent a slight chill to the heart of the selfish skeptic called the Duke de Richelieu.

“Yes,” said he, after a long silence, “I alone see and hear supernatural objects and sounds, but when I am in the society of people of rank-of your talent, duke, and of your beauty, countess, I display my treasures and share them. Would you wish greatly to hear the mysterious voice which speaks to me-”

“Yes,” said the duke, clenching his hands tightly that he might not tremble.

“Yes,” stammered the countess, trembling.

“Well, duke-well, countess, you shall hear it. What language shall it speak-”

“French, if you please,” said the countess. “I know no other; any other would frighten me.”

“And you, duke-”

“As madame said, French; for then I shall be able to repeat what the devil says, and to discover if he speaks the language of my friend, M. de Voltaire, correctly.”

Balsamo, his head drooping on his breast, crossed over to the door leading into the salon, which opened, as we are aware, on the stairs.

“Permit me,” said he, “to conceal you here, in order not to expose you to the risk of discovery.”

The countess turned pale, approached the duke, and took his arm.

Balsamo, almost touching the door leading to the stairs, made a step toward that part of the house in which Lorenza was, and pronounced in a low voice the following words, in the Arabic tongue, which we translate:

“My friend-do you hear me- If so, pull the cord of the bell twice.”

Balsamo waited to see the effect of these words, and looked at the duke and countess, who opened their eyes and ears, and the more so that they could not understand what the count said.

The bell sounded twice distinctly.

The countess started from her sofa, and the duke wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Since you hear me,” continued Balsamo in the same language, “press the marble button which forms the right eye of the sculptured figure on the chimneypiece; the back will open; pass out by this opening, cross my room, descend the stairs, and enter the apartment adjoining the one in which I am.”

Immediately a faint noise, like a scarcely audible breath, told Balsamo that his order had been understood and obeyed.

“What language is that-” asked the duke, pretending assurance. “The cabalistic language-”

“Yes, duke; the language used for the summoning of spirits.”

“You said we should understand it…”

“What the voice said, but not what I say.”

“Has the devil appeared yet-”

“Who spoke of the devil, duke-”

“Whom do you evoke but the devil-”

“Every superior spirit, every supernatural being, can he evoked.”

“And the superior spirit, the supernatural being-”

Balsamo extended his hand toward the tapestry which closed the door of the next apartment.

“Is in direct communication with me, my lord.”

“I am afraid,” said the countess; “are you, duke-”

“Faith, countess, I confess to you that I would almost as soon be at Mahon or at Philipsbourg.”

“Madame la comtesse, and you, my lord duke, listen, since you wish to hear,” said Balsamo, severely, and he turned toward the door.

CHAPTER LXXXIII. THE VOICE.

THERE WAS a moment of silence, then Balsamo asked in French:

“Are you there-”

“I am,” replied a clear, silvery voice, which, penetrating through the hangings and the doors, seemed to those present rather like a metallic sound than a human voice.

“Peste! it is becoming interesting,” said the duke; “and all without torches, magic, or Bengal lights.”

“It is fearful,” whispered the countess.

“Listen attentively to my questions,” continued Balsamo.

“I listen with my whole being.”

“First tell me how many persons are with me at this moment-”

“Two.”

“Of what sex-”

“A man and a woman.”

“Read the man's name in my thoughts.”

“The Duke de Richelieu.”

“And the woman's-”

“Madame, the Countess Dubarry.”

“Ha!” said the duke, “this is becoming serious.”

“I never saw anything like it,” murmured the trembling countess.

“Good!” said Balsamo; “now read the first sentence of the letter I hold in my hand.”

The voice obeyed.

The duke and the countess looked at each other with astonishment bordering upon admiration.

“What has become of the letter I wrote at your dictation-”

“It is hastening on.”

“In which direction-”

“Toward the East.”

“Is it far-”-”Yes, very far.”

“Who is carrying it-”

“A man dressed in a green vest, leathern cap, and large boots.”

“On foot or on horseback-”

“On horseback.”

“What kind of a horse-”

“A piebald horse.”

“Where do you see him-”

There was a moment's silence.

“Look,” said Balsamo, imperatively.

“On a wide road, planted with trees.”

“But on which road-”

“I do not know; all the roads are alike.”

“What! does nothing indicate what road it is-no post nor inscription-”

“Slay! stay! A carriage is passing near the man on horseback; it crosses his course, coming toward me.”

“What kind of carriage-”

“A heavy carriage, full of abbes and soldiers.”

“A stage coach,” said Richelieu.

“Is there no inscription upon the carriage-” asked Balsamo.

“Yes.” said the voice.

“Read it.”

“Versailles is written in yellow letters upon the carriage, but the word is nearly effaced.”

“Leave the carriage and follow the Conner.”

“I do not see him now.”

“Why do you not see him-”

“Because the road turns.”

“Turn the corner, and follow him.”

“Oh! he gallops as quickly as his horse can fly! He looks at his watch.”

“What do you see in front of the horse-”

“A long avenue, splendid buildings, a large town.”

“Follow him still.”

“I follow.”

“Well-”

“The courier redoubles his blows, the animal is bathed in perspiration; its ironshod hoofs strike the pavement so loudly that all the passers-by look round. Ah! the courier dashes into a long street which descends. He turns to the right. He slackens his horse's speed. He stops at the door of a large hotel.”

“Now you must follow him attentively, do you hear-”

The voice heaved a sigh.

“You are tired. I understand.”

“Oh! crushed with weariness.”

“Cease to be fatigued, I will it.”

“Ah! Thanks.”

“Are you still fatigued-”

“No.”

“Do you still see the courier-”

“Yes, yes; he ascends a large stone staircase. He is preceded by a valet in blue and gold livery. He crosses large salons full of splendid gilt ornaments. He stops at a small lighted closet. The valet opens the door and retires.”

“What do you see-”

“The courier bows.”

“To whom does he bow-”

“He bows to a man seated at a desk, with his back toward the door.”

“How is the man dressed-”

“Oh, in full dress, as if he were going to a ball.”

“Has he any decoration-”

“He wears a broad blue ribbon crosswise on his breast.”

“His face-”

“I cannot see. Ah!-”

“What-”-” He turns.”

“What sort of features has he-”

“A keen glance, irregular features, beautiful teeth.”

“What age-”

“From fifty-five to fifty-eight years of age.”

“The duke!” whispered the countess to the marshal; “it is the duke!”

The marshal made a sign as if to say, “Yes, it is he; but listen.”

“Well-” asked Balsamo.

“The courier gives a letter to the man with the blue ribbon-”

“You may say to the duke; he is a duke.”

“The courier,” repeated the obedient voice, “takes a letter from a leathern bag behind him, and gives it to the duke. The duke breaks the seal, and reads it attentively.”

“Well-”

“He takes a pen and a sheet of paper and writes.”

“He writes!” said Richelieu. “Diable! if we could only know what he writes-”

“Tell me what he writes,” commanded Balsamo.

“I cannot.”

“Because you are too far away. Enter the room. Are you there-”

“Yes.”

“Look over his shoulder.”

“I am doing so.”

“Now read.”

“The writing is bad, small, irregular.”

“Read it; I will it.”

The countess and Richelieu held their breaths.

“Read,” repeated Balsamo, more imperatively still.

“My sister,” said the voice, trembling and hesitating.

“It is the reply,” said the duchess and Richelieu in the same breath.

“My sister,” continued the voice, “do not be uneasy. The crisis took place, it is true; it was a dangerous one; that is true also; but it is over. I am anxiously awaiting to-morrow, for to-morrow it will be my turn to act on the offensive, and everything leads me to expect a decisive triumph.

“The parliament of Rouen, Milord X-, the petards, are all satisfactory.

“To-morrow, after my interview with the king, I shall add a post scriptum to my letter, and send it you by the same courier.”

Balsamo, with his left hand extended, seemed to drag each word painfully from the voice, while with the right hand he hastily took down those lines which M. de Choiseul was at the same time writing in his closet at Versailles.

“Is that all-” asked Balsamo.

“That is all.”

“What is the duke doing now-”

“He folds the paper on which he has just written, and puts it into a small portfolio, which he takes from the pocket in the left side of his coat.”

“You hear,” said Balsamo, to the almost stupefied countess.-” Well-”

“Then he sends away the courier.”

“What does he say to him-”

“I only heard the end of the sentence.”

“What was it-”

“'At one o'clock at the postern gate of Trianon.' The courier bows and retires.”

“Yes,” said Richelieu, “he makes an appointment to meet the courier when his audience is over, as he says in his letter.”

Balsamo made a sign with his hand to command silence.

“What is the duke doing now-” he asked.

“He rises. He holds the letter he has received in his hand. He goes straight toward his bed, enters the passage between it and the wall, and presses a spring which opens an iron box. He throws the letter into the box and closes it.

“Oh!” cried the countess and the duke, turning pale, “this is in truth magical.”

“Do you know now what you wish to know, madame-” asked Balsamo.

“Count,” said Madame Dubarry, approaching him with terror, “you have rendered me a service which I would pay with ten years of my life, or rather, which I can never pay. Ask what you wish.”

“Oh! madame, you know we have already an account.”

“Speak; say what you wish.”

“The time has not yet come.”

“Well, when it comes, if it were a million-”

Balsamo smiled.

“Oh! countess,” exclaimed the marshal, “you should rather ask the count for a million. Cannot a man who knows what he knows, and who sees what he sees, discover diamonds and gold in the bosom of the earth as easily as he discovers the thoughts in the heart of man-”

“Then, count,” said the countess, “I bow myself before you in my weakness.”

“No, countess, one day you will acquit your debt toward me. I shall give you the opportunity.”

“Count,” said Richelieu to Balsamo, “I am conquered-crushed. I believe.”

“As Saint Thomas believed, duke. I do not call that believing, but seeing.”

“Call it what you will. I will make the amends honorable; and, in future, if I am asked about sorcerers, I shall know what to say.”

Balsamo smiled.

“Madame,” said he to the countess, “will you permit me to do one thing now-”

“Speak.”

“My spirit is wearied. Let me restore it to liberty by a magic formula.”

“Do so, sir.”

“Lorenza.” said Balsamo, in Arabic, “thanks, I love you; return to your apartment by the same way you came, and wait for me. Go, my beloved.”

“I am very tired,” replied in Italian the voice, softer still than even during the evocation. “Hasten, Acharat.”

“I come,” and the footsteps died away in the distance with the same rustling noise with which they had approached.

Then Balsamo, after a few moments' interval, during which he convinced himself of Lorenza's departure, bowed profoundly but with majestic dignity to his visitors, who returned to their fiacre more like intoxicated persons than human beings gifted with reason, so much were they staggered and absorbed by the crowd of tumultuous ideas which assailed them.

CHAPTER LXXXIV. DISGRACE.

THE NEXT MORNING, as the great clock of Versailles struck eleven, King Louis XV. issued from his apartment, and crossing the adjoining gallery, called in a loud and stern voice:

“Monsieur de la Varilliere!”

The king was pale, and seemed agitated. The more he endeavored to hide his emotion, the more evident it became from the embarrassment of his looks, and the rigid tension of his usually impassible features.

A death-like stillness pervaded the long ranks of courtiers, among whom the Duke de Richelieu and Count Jean Dubarry might be seen, both seemingly calm, and affecting indifference or ignorance as to what was going on.

The Duke de la Varilliere approached, and took a lettre-de-cachet from the king's hand.

“Is the Duke de Choiseul at Versailles-” asked the king.

“Yes, Sire. He returned from Paris yesterday, at two o'clock in the afternoon.”

“Is he in his hotel, or in the chateau-”

“In the chateau, Sire.”

“Carry this order to him, duke,” said the king.

A shudder ran through the whole file of spectators, who bent down whispering, like ears of corn under the blast of a tornado.

The king, frowning, as if he wished to add terror to this scene, haughtily entered his closet, followed by the captain of the guard and the commandant of the Light Horse.

All eyes followed M. de la Varilliere, who slowly crossed the courtyard, and entered M. de Choiseul's apartments, rather uneasy at the commission with which he was charged.

During this time, loud and eager conversations, some threatening, some timid, burst forth on all sides around the old marshal, who pretended to be even more surprised than the others, but who, thanks to his cunning smile, duped no one.

M. de Varilliere returned, and was immediately surrounded.

“Well-” cried every one.

“Well- It was an order of banishment.”

“Of banishment-”

“Yes; in due form.”

“Then you have read it, duke- '

“I have.”

“Positively-”

“Judge for yourselves.”

And the Duke de la Varilliere repeated the following lines which he had treasured up with the retentive memory which marks the true courtier:

“My cousin-The displeasure which your conduct causes me obliges me to exile you to Chanteloup, whither you must repair in four-and-twenty hours from this time. I should have sent you further, had it not been for the particular esteem I feel for Madame de Choiseul, whose health is exceedingly interesting to me. Take care that your conduct does not force me to proceed to ulterior measures.”

A long murmur ran through the group which surrounded M. de la Varilliere.

“And what did he reply to you, M. de St. Florentin-” asked Richelieu, affecting not to give to the duke either his new name or his new tide.

“He replied, 'Duke, I feel convinced of the great pleasure you feel in being the bearer of this letter.'“

“That was harsh, my poor duke,” said Jean.

“What could you expect, count- A man does not receive such a tile thrown upon his head without crying out a little.”

“Do you know what he will do-” asked Richelieu.

“Most probably obey.”

“Hum!” said the marshal.

“Here is the duke coming!” said Jean, who stood as sentinel at the window.

“Coining here-” exclaimed the Duke de la Varilliere.

“I told you so, M. de St. Florentin.”

“He is crossing the courtyard,” continued Jean.

“Alone-”

“Quite alone; his portfolio under his arm.”

“Oh! good heavens!” said Richelieu, “if yesterday's scene should be repeated!”

“Do not speak of it; I shudder at the thought,” replied Jean.

He had scarcely spoken, when the Duke de Choiseul appeared at the entrance of the gallery with head erect and confident look, alarming his enemies, or those who would declare themselves such on his disgrace, by his calm and piercing glance.

As no one expected this step after what had happened, no one opposed his progress.

“Are you sure you read correctly, duke-” asked Jean.

“Parbleu!”

“And he returns after such a letter as you have described-”

“Upon my honor, I cannot understand it.”

“The king will, send him to the Bastille.”

“That would cause a fearful commotion!”

“I should almost pity him.”

“Look! he is going to the king. It is incredible.”

In fact, without paying attention to the show of resistance which the astounded usher offered, M. de Choiseul entered the king's closet. Louis, on seeing him, uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

The duke held his lettre-de-cachet in his hand, and showed it to the king almost smilingly.

“Sire,” said he, “as your majesty had the goodness to forewarn me yesterday, I have, indeed, received a letter to-day.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the king.

“And as your majesty had the goodness yesterday to tell me not to look upon any letter as serious which was not ratified by the express words of the king, I have come to request an explanation.”

“It will be very short, my lord duke.” replied the king. “To-day, the letter is valid.”

“Valid-” said the duke. “So offensive a letter to so devoted a servant-”

“A devoted servant, sir, does not make his master play a ridiculous part.”

“Sire.” replied the minister, haughtily. “I was born near the throne, that I might comprehend its majesty.”

“Sir,” replied the king, in a severe voice, “I will not keep you in suspense. Yesterday evening you received a courier from Madame de Grammont in your closet at Versailles.”

“It is true, Sire.”

“He brought you a letter.”

“Are a brother and sister forbidden to correspond-”

“Wait a moment, if you please. I know the contents of that letter.”

“Oh, Sire!”

“Here it is. I took the trouble to copy it with my own hand.”

And the king handed to the duke an exact copy of the letter he had received.

“Sire!”

“Do not deny it, duke; you placed the letter in an iron coffer standing at your bedside.”

The duke became pale as a specter.

“That is not all,” continued the king, pitilessly; “you have replied to Madame de Grammont's letter. I know the contents of that letter also. It is there in your portfolio, and only wants the post scriptum, which you are to add when you leave me. You see I am well informed, am I not-”

The duke wiped his forehead, on which the large drops of perspiration were standing, bowed without uttering a word, and left the closet, tottering as if he had been struck with apoplexy. Had it not been for the fresh air which fanned his face, he must have fallen.

But he was a man of strong will. When he reached the gallery he had regained his strength, and with erect forehead passed the hedge of courtiers, and entered his apartments in order to burn and lock up several papers. A quarter of an hour afterward, he left the chateau in his carriage.

M. de Choiseul's disgrace was a thunderbolt which set all France in flames.

The parliament, sustained in reality by the tolerance of the minister, proclaimed that the State had lost its firmest pillar. The nobility supported him as being one of themselves. The clergy felt themselves soothed by this man, whose personal dignity, often carried even to the extent of pride, gave almost an appearance of sanctity to his ministerial functions.

The encyclopedist or the philosophical party, who were very numerous, and also very strong, because they were re-en forced by all the enlightened, clever, and caviling spirits of the age, cried out loudly when the government was taken from the hands of a minister who admired Voltaire, pensioned the encyclopedia, and preserved, by developing them in a more useful manner, the traditions of Madame de Pompadour, the female Mecaenas of the writers of the “Mercure” and of philosophy in general.

The people had far better grounds for complaint than any of the other malcontents. They also complained, but without reasoning, and, as they always do, they hit the truth and laid bare the bleeding wound.

M. de Choiseul, absolutely speaking, was a bad minister and a bad citizen, but relatively he was a paragon of virtue, of morality, and of patriotism. When the people, dying of hunger in the fields, heard of his majesty's prodigality and of Madame Dubarry's ruinous whims, when open warnings were sent him, such as “L'homme aux quarante ecus,” or advices like “Le Contrat Social,” and secret revelations like the “Nouvelles a la main,” and the “Idees singulieres d'un bon citizen.” they were terrified at the prospect of falling back into the impure hands of the favorite, less respectable than a collier's wife, as Bauveau said, and into the hands of the favorite's favorites; and wearied with so much suffering, they were alarmed to behold the future looking even blacker than the past.

It was not that the people, who had strong antipathies, had also strong sympathies. They did not like the parliament, because they who ought to have been their natural protectors had always abandoned them for idle inquiries, questions of precedence, or selfish interests; and because, dazzled by the borrowed light of the royal omnipotence, they imagined themselves something like an aristocracy, occupying an intermediate place between the nobility and the people.

They disliked the nobility from instinct, and from memory. They feared the sword as much as they hated the church. Their position could not therefore be affected by the disgrace of M. de Choiseul, but they heard the complaints of the nobility, of the clergy, of the parliament, and this noise joined to their own murmurs made an uproar which intoxicated them. The consequence of these feelings was regret, and a sort of a quasi popularity for the name of Choiseul.

All Paris-the word in this case can be justified by the facts -accompanied the exile on his way to Chanteloup as far as the town gates.

The people lined the road which the carriage was to take, while the members of the parliament and the court, who could not be received by the duke, stationed themselves in their carriages in front of the crowd of people, that they might salute him as he passed, and bid him adieu.

The procession was the densest at the Barriere d'Enfer, which is on the road to Touraine, at which place there was such a conflux of foot passengers, horsemen, and carriages, that the traffic was interrupted for several hours.

When the duke had crossed the barrier, he found himself escorted by more than a hundred carriages, which formed a sort of triumphal procession around him.

Acclamations and sighs followed him on all sides, but he had too much sense and penetration not to know that all this noise was not so much occasioned by regret for him personally, as by the fear of those unknown people who were to rise upon his ruin.

A short way from the barrier a postchaise, galloping along the crowded road, met the procession, and had it not been for the skill of the postilion, the horses, white with foam and dust, would have dashed against M. de Choiseul's equipage.

A head bent forward out of the carriage window, and II. de Choiseul leaned out also from his.

M. d'Aiguillon bowed profoundly to the fallen minister whose heritage he had come to canvass. M. de Choiseul threw himself back in the carriage; a single second had sufficed to wither the laurels which had crowned his disgrace.

But at the same moment, as a compensation no doubt, a carriage drawn by eight horses and bearing the royal arms of France, which was seen advancing along the cross-road from Sevres to St. Cloud, and which, whether by accident, or on account of the crowd, did not turn into the high-road, also crossed before M. de Choiseul's carriage. The dauphiness, with her lady of honor, Madame de Xnailles, was on the back seat of the carriage, on the front was Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney. M. de Choiseul, crimson with exultation and joy, bent forward out of the door, and bowed profoundly.

“Adieu, madame,” said he, in a low voice.

“Au revoir, M. de Choiseul,” replied the dauphiness, with an imperial smile, and a majestic contempt of all etiquette.

“Long live M. de Choiseul!” cried a voice, enthusiastically, after the dauphiness had spoken.

At the sound of the voice, Mademoiselle Andree turned round quickly.

“Make way! make way!” cried her highness's grooms, forcing Gilbert, pale as death, and pressing forward in his eagerness, to range himself with the other people on the road.

It was indeed our hero, who, in his philosophical enthusiasm, had cried out, “Long live M. de Choiseul!”

CHAPTER LXXXV. THE DUKE D'AIGUILLON.

WHILE MELANCHOLY visages and red eyes were the order of the day on the road from Paris to Chanteloup, Luciennes was radiant with blooming faces and charming smiles.

It was because at Luciennes was enthroned, not a mere mortal, although the most beautiful and most adorable of mortals, as the poets and courtiers declared, but the real divinity which governed France.

The evening after M. de Choiseul's disgrace, therefore, the road leading to Luciennes was thronged with the same carriages which, in the morning, had rolled after the exiled minister. There were, besides, the partisans of the chancellor, and the votaries of corruption and self-interest, and altogether they made an imposing procession.

But Madame Dubarry had her police, and Jean knew, to a baron, the names of those who had strewn the last flowers over the expiring Choiseuls. He gave a list of these names to the countess, and they were pitilessly excluded, while the courage of the others in braving public opinion was rewarded by the protecting smile and the complete view of the goddess of the day. What joy and what congratulations echoed on all sides! Pressings of the hand, little smothered laughs, and enthusiastic applause, seemed to have become the habitual language of the inhabitants of Luciennes.

After the great throng of carriages, and the general crowd, followed the private receptions. Richelieu, the secret and modest hero, indeed, but yet the real hero of the day, saw the crowd of visitors and petitioners pass away, and remained the last in the countess's boudoir.

“It must be confessed,” said the countess, “that the Count Balsamo, or De Fenix, whichever name you give him, marshal, is one of the first men of the age. It would be a thousand pities if such sorcerers were still burned.”

“Certainly, countess, he is a great man,” replied Richelieu.

“And a very handsome man, too; I have taken quite a fancy for him, duke.”

“You will make me jealous,” said Richelieu laughing, and eager besides to direct the conversation to a more positive and serious subject. “The Count de Fenix would make a dreadful minister of police.”

“I was thinking of that,” replied the countess; “only it is impossible.”

“Why, countess-”

“Because he would render colleagues impossible.”

“How so-”

“Knowing everything -seeing into their hand-

Richelieu blushed beneath his rouge.

“Countess,” replied he, “if he were my colleague. I would wish him to see into mine always, and communicate the cards to you; for you would ever see the knave of hearts on his knees before the queen, and prostrate at the feet of the king.”

“Your wit puts us all to the blush, my dear duke,” replied the countess. “But let us talk a little of our ministry. I think you mentioned that you warned your nephew d'Aiguillon of what would take place.”

“He has arrived, madame, and with what Roman augurs would have called the best conjunction of omens possible; his carriage met Choiseul's leaving Paris.”

“That is indeed a favorable omen,” said the countess. “Then he is coming here-”

“Madame, I thought that if M. d'Aiguillon was seen at Luciennes at such a time, it would give rise to unpleasant comment; I begged him, therefore, to remain in the village, until I should send for him according to your orders.”

“Send for him immediately, then, marshal, for we are alone, or very nearly so.”

“The more willingly that we quite understand each other; do we not, countess-”

“Certainly, duke. You prefer war to finance, do you not- or do you wish for the marine-”

“I prefer war, madame; I can be of most service in that department.”

“True; I will speak of it to the king. You have no antipathies-”

“For whom-”

“For any colleagues his majesty might present to you.”

“I am the least difficult man in the world to live with, countess; but allow me to send for my nephew, since you are good enough to grant him the favor of an audience.”

Richelieu approached the window and looked into the courtyard, now illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun. He made a, sign to one of his footmen who was keeping his eye fixed upon the window, and who darted off as soon as he received the signal. Lights were now brought in.

Ten minutes after the footman had disappeared, a carriage rolled into the courtyard. The countess turned quickly toward the window.

Richelieu saw the movement, which seemed to him an excellent prognostic for M. d'Aiguillon's affairs, and consequently for his own.

“She likes the uncle,” said he to himself, “and she is in a fair way to like the nephew. We shall be masters here.”

While he was feasting on these chimerical visions, a slight noise was heard at the door, and the confidential valet-de-chambre, throwing it open, announced the Duke d'Aiguillon.

He was an extremely handsome and graceful nobleman, richly, and at the same time elegantly and tastefully, dressed. M. d'Aiguillon had passed his earliest prime, but he was one of those men who, whether judged by their looks or minds, seem young until old age renders them infirm.

The cares of government had traced no wrinkles on his brow; they had only enlarged the natural fold which seems to be the birthplace of great thoughts both in statesmen and in poets. His air and carriage were lofty and commanding, and his handsome features wore an expression at once of intelligence and melancholy, as if he knew that the hatred of ten millions of men weighed upon his head, but at the same time wished to prove that the weight was not beyond his strength.

M. d'Aiguillon had the most beautiful hands in the world; they looked white and delicate, even when buried in the softest folds of lace. A well-turned leg was prized very highly at that period, and the duke's was a model of manly elegance and aristocratic form. He combined the suavity of the poet with the nobility of the lord and the suppleness and ease of the dashing guardsman. He was thus a beau ideal for the countess in the three several qualities which the instinct of this beautiful sensualist taught her to love.

By a remarkable coincidence, or rather by a chain of circumstances skillfully contrived by M. d'Aiguillon, these two objects of public animadversion, the favorite and the courtier, had, with all their mutual advantages, never yet met each other face to face at court.

For the last three years M. d'Aiguillon had managed to be very busy either in Brittany or in his closet, and had not once shown himself at court, knowing well that a favorable or unfavorable crisis must soon take place. In the first case, it would be better to be comparatively unknown; in the second, to disappear without leaving any trace behind, and thus be able easily to emerge from the gulf under new auspices, and in a new character.

Another motive influenced his calculations-a motive winch is the main-spring of romance, but which nevertheless was the most powerful of all.

Before Madame Dubarry was a countess, and every evening touched the crown of France with her lips, she had been a lovely, smiling, and adored creature-she had been loved, a happiness she could no longer hope for, since she was feared.

Among all the young, rich, powerful, and handsome men who had paid court to Jeanne Vaubernier, among all the rhymers who had coupled her in their verses with the epithets of angel and divinity, the Duke d'Aiguillon had formerly figured in the first rank; but whether it was that the duke was not sufficiently ardent, or whether Mademoiselle Lange was not so easily pleased as her detractors pretended, or lastly, whether the sudden attachment of the king had separated two hearts ready to unite, is not known, but the fact remains that M. d'Aiguillon got his verses, acrostics, bouquets, and perfumes returned, and Mademoiselle Lange closed her door in the Rue des Petits Champs against him. The duke hastened to Brittany, suppressing his sighs; Mademoiselle Lange wafted all hers toward Versailles, to the Baron de Gonesse, that is, the king of France.

d'Aiguillon's sudden disappearance had troubled Madame Dubarry very little, for she feared the remembrances of the past; but when subsequently she saw the silent attitude of her former admirer, she felt at first perplexed, then astonished, and, being in a good position for judging of men, she ended by thinking him a man of profound tact and discretion.

For the countess this was a great distinction, but it was not all, and the moment was perhaps come when she might think d'Aiguillon a man of heart.

We have seen that the marshal, in all his conversations with Madame Dubarry, had never touched upon the subject of his nephew's acquaintance with Mademoiselle Lunge. This silence, from a man accustomed, as the old duke was, to say the most difficult things in the world, had much surprised and even alarmed the countess. She, therefore, impatiently awaited M. d'Aiguillon's arrival, to know how to conduct herself, and to ascertain whether the marshal had been discreet or merely ignorant.

The duke entered, respectful, but at the same time easy, and sufficiently master of himself to draw the distinction in his salutation between the reigning sultana and the court lady. By this discriminating tact he instantly gained a protectress quite disposed to find good perfect, and perfection wonderful.

M. d'Aiguillon then took his uncle's hand, and the latter, advancing toward the countess, said in his most insinuating voice:

“The Duke d'Aiguillon, madame. It is not so much my nephew as one of your most ardent servants whom I have the honor to present to you.”

The countess glanced at the duke as the marshal spoke, and looked at him like a woman, that is to say, with eyes which nothing can escape. But she saw only two heads bowing respectfully before her, and two faces erect, serene, and calm after the salutation was over.

“I know, marshal, that you love the duke,” said the countess. “You are my friend. I shall request M. d'Aiguillon, therefore, in deference to his uncle, to imitate him in all that will be agreeable to me.”

“That is the conduct I had traced out beforehand for myself, madame,” said d'Aiguillon, with another bow.

“You have suffered much in Brittany-” asked the countess.

“Yes, madame, and it is not yet over,” replied d'Aiguillon.

“I believe it is, sir; besides, there is M. de Richelieu, who will be a powerful assistance to you.”

d'Aiguillon looked at Richelieu as if surprised.

“Ah.” said the countess, “I see that the marshal has not yet had time to have any conversation with you. That is very natural, as you have just arrived from a journey. Well, you must have a thousand things to say to each other, and I shall therefore leave you, marshal, for the present. My lord duke, pray consider yourself at home here.”

So saying, the countess retired; but she did not proceed far. Behind the boudoir there opened a large closet filled with all sorts of fantastic baubles with which the king was very fond of amusing himself when he came to Luciennes. He preferred this closet to the boudoir, because in it one could hear all that was said in the next room. Madame Dubarry, therefore, was certain to hear the whole conversation between the duke and his nephew, and she calculated upon forming from it a correct and irrevocable opinion of the latter.

But the duke was not duped; he knew most of the secrets of every royal and ministerial residence. To listen when people were speaking of him was one of his means; to speak while others were overhearing him was one of his ruses.

He determined, therefore, still joyous at the reception which d'Aiguillon had met with, to proceed in the same vein, and to reveal to the favorite, under cover of her supposed absence, such a plan of secret happiness and of lofty power complicated with intrigues, as would present a double bait too powerful for a pretty woman, and above all for a court lady, to resist.

He desired the duke to be seated, and commenced:

“You see, duke, I am installed here.”

“Yes, sir, I see it.”

“I have had the good fortune to find the favor of this charming woman, who is looked upon as a queen here, and who is one in reality.” d'Aiguillon bowed.

“I must tell you, duke,” continued Richelieu, “what I could not say in the open street-that Madame Dubarry has promised me a portfolio!”

“Ah!” said d'Aiguillon, “that is only your desert, sir.”

“I do not know if I deserve it or not, but I am to have it-rather late in the day, it is true. Then, situated as I shall be. I shall endeavor to advance your interests, d'Aiguillon.”

“Thank you, my lord duke; you are a kind relative, and have often proved it.”

“You have nothing in view, d'Aiguillon-”

“Absolutely nothing, except to escape being degraded from my title of duke and peer, as the parliament insist upon my being.”

“Have you supporters anywhere-”

“Not one.”

“You would have fallen, then, had it not been for the present circumstances-”

“I should have bit the dust, my lord duke.”

“Ah! you speak like a philosopher. Diable! that is the reason I am so harsh, my poor d'Aiguillon, and address you more like a minister than an uncle.”

“My uncle, your goodness penetrates me with gratitude.”

“When I sent for you in such a hurry, you may be certain it was because I wished you to play an important part here. Let me see; have you reflected on the part M. de Choiseul played for ten years-”

“Yes; certainly his was an enviable position.”

“Enviable! Yes, enviable, when along with Madame de Pompadour he governed the king, and exiled the Jesuits; but very sad when, having quarreled with Madame Dubarry, who is worth a hundred Pompadours, he was dismissed from office in four and twenty hours. You do not reply.”

“I am listening, sir, and am endeavoring to discover your meaning.”

“You like M. de Choiseul's first part best, do you not-”

“Certainly.”

“Well, my dear duke, I have decided upon playing this part.”

d'Aiguillon turned abruptly toward his uncle:

“Do you speak seriously-” said he.

“Yes. Why not-”

“You intend to be a candidate for Madame Dubarry's favor-”

“Ah! diable! you proceed too fast. But I see you understand me. Yes, Choiseul was very lucky; he governed the king, and governed his favorite also. It is said he was attached to Madame de Pompadour -in fact, why not- Well, no, I cannot act the lover; your cold smile tells me plainly so! You, with your young eyes, look compassionately at my furrowed brow, my bending knees, and my withered hands, which were once so beautiful. In place of saying, when I was speaking of Choiseul's part, that I would play it, I should have said we will play it,”

“Uncle!”

“No, she cannot love me, I know it; nevertheless-I may confess it to you without fear, for she will never learn it! -I could have loved this woman beyond everything-but -”

D'Aiguillon frowned. “But-” said he.

“I have a splendid project,” continued the marshal. “This part, which my age renders impossible for me, I will divide into two.”

“Ha!” said d'Aiguillon.

“Someone of my family,” continued Richelieu, “will love Madame Dubarry. Parbleu! a glorious chance-such an accomplished woman!”

And Richelieu, in saying these words, raised his voice.

“You know it cannot be Fronsac. A degenerate wretch, a fool, a coward, a rogue, a gambler-duke, will you be the man-”

“I-” cried d'Aiguillon; “are you mad, uncle-”

“Mad! What! you are not already on your knees before him who gives you this advice- What! you do not bound with joy- You do not burn with gratitude- You are not already out of your senses with delight at the manner in which she received you- You are not yet mad with love- Go, go!” cried the old marshal, “since the days of Alcibiades there has been but one Richelieu in the world, and I see there will be no more after him.”

“My uncle,” replied the duke, with much agitation, either feigned, and in that case it was admirably counterfeited, or real, for the proposition was sudden, “my uncle. I perceive all the advantage you would gain by the position of which you speak; you would govern with the authority of M. de Choiseul, and I should be the lover who would constitute that authority. The plan is worthy of the cleverest man in France, but you have forgotten one thing in projecting it.”

“What!” cried Richelieu uneasily, “is it possible you do not lore Madame Dubarry- Is that it-fool!-triple fool! -wretch!-is that it-”

“Ah! no, that is not it, my dear uncle,” cried d'Aiguillon, as if he knew that not one of his words was lost; “Madame Dubarry, whom I scarcely know, seems to me the most charming of women. I should, on the contrary, love Madame Dubarry madly, I should love her only too well; that is not the question.”

“What is it, then-”

“This, my lord duke. Madame Dubarry will never love me, and the first condition of such an alliance is love. How do you imagine the beautiful countess could distinguish among all the gentlemen of this brilliant court-surrounded as she is by the homage of so much youth and beauty -how should she distinguish one who has no merit, who is already no longer young, who is overwhelmed with sorrows, and who hides himself from all eyes because he feels that he will soon disappear forever- My uncle, if I had known Madame Dubarry in the period of my youth and beauty, when women admired in me all that is lovable in a man, then she might have given me a place in her memory. That would have been much. But now there is no hope-neither past, nor present, nor future. No, uncle, we must renounce this chimera. You have pierced my hart by presenting it to me in such bright and glowing colors.”

During this tirade, which was delivered with a fire which Mole might have envied, and Lekain would have thought worthy of imitation, Richelieu bit his lips, muttering to himself:

“Has the man guessed that the countess is listening- Peste! he is a clever dog. He is a master of his craft. In that case, I must take care!”

Richelieu was right; the countess was listening, and every word d'Aiguillon spoke sunk deep into her heart. She eagerly drank in the charm of this confession, and appreciated his exquisite delicacy in not betraying the secret of their former intimacy to his nearest confidant, for fear of throwing a shadow over a perhaps still dearly cherished portrait.

“Then you refuse-” said Richelieu.

“Oh! as for that, yes, my uncle, for unfortunately I see it is impossible.”

“But try, at least, unfortunate that you are!”

“And how-”

“You are here one of us -you will see the countess every day; please her, morbleu!”

“With an interested aim- Never! If I should be so unfortunate as to please her with this unworthy view, I should flee to the end of the world, for I should be ashamed of myself.”

Richelieu scratched his chin.

“The thing is settled,” said he to himself, “or d'Aiguillon is a fool.”

All at once a noise was heard in the courtyard, and several voices cried out, “The king!”

“Diable!” cried Richelieu, “the king must not see me here; I shall make my escape.”

“And I-” said the duke.

“It is different with you; he must see you. Remain; and, for God's sake, do not throw the handle after the ax.”

With these words Richelieu stole out by the back stairs, saying, as he left the room:

“Adieu till to-morrow.”

CHAPTER LXXXVI. THE KING DIVIDES THE SPOILS.

WHEN THE Duke d'Aiguillon was left alone, he felt at first somewhat embarrassed. He had perfectly understood all his uncle had said to him-perfectly understood that Madame Dubarry was listening-perfectly understood, in short, that, for a clever man, it was necessary in this conjuncture to seem a man of heart and to play alone that part in which the old marshal sought to obtain a share.

The king's arrival luckily interrupted the explanation which must have resulted from the puritanical declaration of M. d'Aiguillon.

The marshal was not a man to remain long a dupe, nor above all one who would make another's virtue shine with exaggerated brilliancy at the expense of his own.

But, being left alone, d'Aiguillon had time to reflect.

The king had in truth arrived. Already his pages had opened the door of the antechamber, and Zamore had darted toward the monarch, begging for bonbons-a touching familiarity which Louis, when he was in a bad temper, punished by sundry fillips on the nose or boxes on the ears, both exceedingly disagreeable to the young African.

The king installed himself in the Chinese cabinet; and what convinced d'Aiguillon that Madame Dubarry had not lost a word of his conversation with his uncle, was the fact that he, d'Aiguillon, overheard the entire interview between Madame Dubarry and the king.

His majesty seemed fatigued, like a man who has raised an immense weight. Atlas was less enfeebled when his day's work was done, and when he had held the world suspended on his shoulders for twelve hours.

Louis XV. allowed his favorite to thank, applaud, and caress him, and tell him the whole particulars of M. de Choiseul's departure, which amused him exceedingly.

Then Madame Dubarry ventured. It was fair weather for politics; and besides, she felt herself strong enough at that moment to have raised one of the four quarters of the world.

“Sire,” said she, “you have destroyed, that is well; you have demolished, that is superb; but now you must think about rebuilding.”

“Oh! it is done,” said the king, carelessly.

“You have a ministry!”

“Yes.”

“What! all at once, without breathing-”

“See what it is to want common sense. Oh!-woman that you are!-before sending away your cook, must you not, as you said the other day, have a new one in readiness-”

“Repeat to me that you have formed the cabinet.”

The king raised himself upon the immense sofa on which he was lying rather than sitting, using the shoulders of the beautiful countess for his principal cushion.

“One would think, Jeannette,” said he, “to hear you making yourself so uneasy, that you know my ministry, and wish to find fault with them, or propose another.”

“Well,” said the countess, “that would not be so absurd as you seem to imagine.”

“Indeed! Then you have a ministry-”

“You have one, have you not-” replied she.

“Oh! it is my place to have one, countess. Let me see your candidates.”

“By no means; tell me yours.”

“Most willingly, to set you the example.”

“In the first place, then, who have you for the navy, where that dear M. de Praslin was-”

“Ah! something new, countess; a charming man, who has never seen the sea.”

“Who is it-”

“'Pon honor, it is a splendid idea. I shall make myself very popular, and I shall be crowned in the most distant seas -in effigy, of course.”

“But who, Sire- Who is it-”

“I would wager you do not guess in a thousand attempts. It is a member of parliament, my dear; the first president of the parliament of Besancon.”

“M. de Boynes-”

“The same. Peste! how learned you are! You know all these people!”

“I cannot help it; you talk parliament to me the whole day. Why, the man would not know an oar if he saw it.”

“So much the better. M. de Praslin knew his duties too well, and made me pay dearly for all his naval constructions.”

“Well, the finance department, Sire-”

“Oh! that is a different affair; I have chosen a special man.”

“A financier-”

“No; a soldier. The financiers have crushed me too long already.”

“Good heavens! And the war department-”

“Do not be uneasy; for that I have chosen a financier, Terray. He is a terrible scrutinizer of accounts! He will find errors in all Uncle Choiseul's additions. I may tell you that I had some idea of putting a wonderful man in the war department-every inch a man, as they say. It was to please the philosophers.”

“Good. But who- Voltaire-”

“Almost. The Chevalier de Muy-a Cato.”

“Oh, heaven! You alarm me.”

“It was all arranged. I had sent for the man, his commission was signed, he had thanked me, when my good or my evil genius-judge which-prompted me to ask him to come to Luciennes this evening to sup and chat with us.”

“Fie! Horrible!”

“Well, countess, that was exactly what de Muy replied.”

“He said that to you-”

“Expressed in other words, countess. He said that his most ardent wish was to serve the king, but as for serving Madame Dubarry, it was impossible.”

“Well, that was polite of your philosopher.”

“You must know, countess, I held out my hand to him-for his brevet, which I tore in pieces with a most patient smile, and the chevalier disappeared. Louis XIV. would have let the rascal rot in one of those ugly dens in the Bastille; but I am Louis XV., and I have a parliament which gives me the whip, in place of my giving it to the parliament. Ha!”

“No matter, Sire,” said the countess, covering her royal lover with kisses, “you are not the less a clever man.”

“That is not what the world in general says. Terray is execrated.”

“Who is not- And for foreign affairs-”

“That honest fellow, Berlin, whom you know.”

“No.”

“Then whom you do not know.”

“But, among them all, I cannot find one good minister.”

“So be it; now tell me yours.”

“I will only tell you one.”

“You dare not tell me; you are afraid.”

“The marshal.”

“The marshal! What marshal-” said the king, making a wry face.

“The Duke de Richelieu.”

“That old man- That chicken-hearted wretch-”

“Good! The conqueror of Mahon a chicken-hearted wretch!”

“That old debauchee-”

“Sire, your companion.”

“An immoral man, who frightens all the women.”

“That is only since he no longer runs after them.”

“Do not speak to me of Richelieu; he is my raw-head-and-bloody-bones. The conqueror of Mahon took me into all the gaming-houses in Paris. We were lampooned. No! no!-Richelieu! The very name puts me beside myself.”

“You hate them so much-”

“Whom-”

“The Richelieus.”

“I abhor them.”

“All-”

“All. What a worthy duke and peer M. Fronsac makes. He has deserved the rack twenty times.”

“I give him up; but there are more Richelieus in the world than he.”

“Ah! yes; d'Aiguillon.”

“Well-”

The reader may judge if, at these words, the ears of the nephew were not strained in the boudoir.

“I ought to hate him more than all the others, for he hounds all the bawlers in France upon me; and yet-it is a weakness which I cannot conquer-he is bold and does not displease rue.”

“He is a man of spirit!” cried the countess.

“A brave man, and zealous in the defense of the royal prerogative. Hs is a model of a peer!”

“Yes, yes-a hundred times, yes! Make something of him.”

The king looked at the countess and folded his arms.

“What, countess! Is it possible that you propose such a thing to me, when all France demands that I should exile and degrade this man-”

Madame Dubarry folded her arms in her turn.

“Just now,” said she, “you called Richelieu chicken-hearted-the name belongs more properly to yourself.”

“Oh, countess!”

“You are very proud because you have dismissed M. de Choiseul.”

“Well, it was not an easy task.”

“You have done it, and you have done well; but you are afraid of the consequences.”

“I!”

“Of course. What do you accomplish by sending away M. de Choiseul-”

“Give the parliament a kick in the seat of honor.”

“And you will not give them two- Diable! Raise both your feet-one after the other, be it understood. The parliament wished to keep Choiseul; you send him away. They want to send away d'Aiguillon; keep him.”

“I do not send him away.”

“Keep him-improved and considerably enlarged.”

“You want an office for this firebrand-”

“I want a recompense for him who defended you at the risk of his position and fortune.”

“Say of his life, for he will be stoned some fine morning, along with your friend Maupeou.”

“You would encourage your defenders very much, if they could only hear you.”

“They pay me back with interest, countess.”

“Do not say so; facts contradict you in this case.”

“Ah, well! But why this eagerness for d'Aiguillon-”

“Eagerness! I do not know him; I have seen and spoken to him to-day for the first lime.”

“Ah! that is a different affair. Then it is from conviction of his merit -and I respect conviction in others, because I never have it myself.”

“Then give Richelieu something in d'Aiguillon's name, since you will not give d'Aiguillon anything in his own.”

“Richelieu- nothing! Never, never, never!”

“Then something to M. d'Aiguillon, since you refuse Richelieu-”

“What! give him a portfolio! That is impossible at present.”

“I understand that; but after some time, perhaps. Remember that he is a man of resources and action, and that with Terray, d'Aiguillon, and Maupeou you will have the three heads of Cerberus. Remember, too, that your minister is only a jest which cannot last.”

“You are mistaken, countess, it will last three months.”

“In three months, then, I have your promise-”

“Oh! oh! countess.”

“That is enough; in the meantime, something for the present.”

“But I have nothing.”

“You have the light horse; M. d'Aiguillon is an officer -what is called a sword; give him your light horse.”

“Very well, he shall have them.”

“Thanks!” exclaimed the countess, transported with joy, “a thousand thanks!”

And M. d'Aiguillon could hear a very plebeian kiss resound on the cheeks of his majesty Louis XV.

“In the meantime,” said the king, “order supper to be served, countess.”

“No,” said she, “there is nothing here; you have overpowered me with politics. My people have made speeches and fireworks, but no supper.”

“Then come to Marly. I will take you with me.”

“Impossible! My poor head is splitting in pieces.”

“With headache-”

“Dreadful headache.”

“You must go to bed, countess.”

“I am just going to do so, Sire.”

“Adieu! then.”

“Au revoir, rather.”

“I am somewhat like M. de Choiseul; I am dismissed.”

“Yes, but accompanied, feasted, cajoled,” said the giddy creature, pushing the king gently toward the door, and from thence to the foot of the stairs, laughing loudly, and turning round at each step.

On the peristyle the countess stopped, candle in hand.

“Countess,” said the king, turning round and ascending a step.

“Sire-”

“I trust the poor marshal will not die of it.”

“Of what-”

“Of the portfolio which he has missed.”

“How ill-natured you are!” said the countess, escorting him with another loud laugh.

And his majesty drove off, very much delighted with his last quolibot upon the duke, whom he really hated.

When Madame Dubarry returned to her boudoir, she found d'Aiguillon on his knees before the door, his hands clasped, his eyes ardently fixed upon her. She blushed.

“I have failed,” said she. “The poor marshal!”

“Oh, I know all!” said he; “I could hear-thanks, madame-thanks!”

“I thought I owed you that,” she replied, with a sweet smile; “but rise, duke, else I shall think your memory is as retentive as your mind is highly cultivated.”

“That may well be, madame; my uncle has told you I am nothing but your admiring and zealous servant.”

“And the king's; tomorrow you must go and pay your respects to his majesty -rise, I beg.” And she gave him her hand, which he kissed respect fully.

The countess seemed to be deeply moved, for she did not add a single word.

M. d'Aiguillon was also silent, as deeply moved as she. At last, Madame Dubarry, raising her head, said:

“Poor marshal, he must know this defeat.”

M. d'Aiguillon looked upon these words as a dismissal, and bowed.

“Madame,” said he, “I am going to him.”

“Oh, duke! unpleasant news is always soon enough told; do something better-sup with me!”

The day was gained. d'Aiguillon, as we have seen, was a lucky man.

CHAPTER LXXXVII. THE ANTECHAMBERS OF THE DUKE DE RICHELIEU.

M. DE RICHELIEU, like all the courtiers, had a hotel at Versailles, one at Paris, a house at Marly, and another at Luciennes; a residence, in short, near each of the palaces or residences of the king.

Louis XIV., when he multiplied his places of residence so much, had imposed on all men of rank-on all those privileged to attend at the grand and little receptions and levees, the obligation of being very rich, that they might keep pace at once with the splendor of his household, and the flights of his whims.

At the period of the disgrace of MM. de Choiseul and de Praslin, M. de Richelieu was living in his house at Versailles; and it was there that he returned after having presented his nephew to Madame Dubarry at Luciennes.

Richelieu had been seen in the forest of Marly with the countess, he had been seen at Versailles after the minister's disgrace, his long and secret audience at Luciennes was known; and this, with the indiscretions of Jean Dubarry, was sufficient for the whole court to think themselves obliged to go and pay their respects to M. de Richelieu.

The old marshal was now going in his turn to inhale that delightful incense of praises, flatteries, and caresses, which every interested person offered without discrimination to the idol of the day.

M. de Richelieu, however, was far from expecting all that was to happen to him; but he rose that morning with the firm resolution of closing his nostrils against the incense, as Ulysses closed his ears with wax against the songs of the Sirens. The result which he expected could not be known until next day, when the nomination of the new minister would be announced by the king himself.

Great was the marshal's surprise therefore when he awoke, or rather, was awakened by the loud noise of carriages, to hear from his valet that the courtyards of the hotel, as well as the anterooms and salons, were filled with visitors.

“Oh!” said he, “it seems I make some noise already.”

“It is still early, my lord marshal,” said his valet-de-chambre, seeing the duke's haste in taking off his nightcap.

“Henceforward,” replied the duke, “there will be no such word as early for me, remember that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you reply to the visitors-”

“That you were not up yet.”

“Nothing more-”

“Nothing more.”

“That was exceedingly stupid. You should have added that I was late up last night, or better still, you should have-let me see, where is Rafte-”

“M. Rafte is asleep,” said the valet.

“What! asleep! let him be called, the wretch!”

“Well,” said a fresh and smiling old man, who appeared at the door, “here is Rafte; what is he wanted for-”

All the duke's bombast ceased at these words.

“Ah! I was certain that you were not asleep.”

“And if I had been asleep, where would have been the wonder- It is scarcely daylight.”

“But, my dear Rafte, you see that I do not sleep.”

“That is another thing, you are a minister-how should you sleep-”

“Oh! now you are going to scold me,” said the marshal, making a wry face before the glass; “are you not satisfied-”

“I! What benefit is it to me- You will fatigue yourself to death and then you will be ill. The consequence will be that I shall have to govern the state, and that is not so amusing, sir.”

“How old you are gelling, Rafte!”

“I am just four years younger than yourself, sir. Yes. I am getting old.”

The marshal stamped with impatience.

“Did you come through the antechambers-” asked he.

“Yes.”

“Who is there-”

“All the world.”

“What do they speak of-”

“Everyone is telling what favors he is going to ask from you.”

“That is very natural. But what did you hear about my appointment-”

“Oh! I would much rather not tell you that.”

“What! Criticisms already-”

“Yes, and from those who have need of your assistance! What will they say, sir, whose assistance you need-”

“Ah! Rafte,” said the old man, affecting to laugh, “those who would say you flatter me-”

“Well, sir,” said Rafte, “why the devil did you harness yourself to this wagon called a ministry- Are you tired of living and of being happy-”

“My dear fellow, I have tasted everything but that.”

“Corbleu! you have never tasted arsenic! Why do you not take some in your chocolate, from curiosity-”

“Rafte, you are an idle dog; you think that, as my secretary, you will have more work, and you shrink-you confessed as much, indeed.”

The marshal dressed himself with care.

“Give me a military air,” said he to his valet, “and hand me my military orders.”

“It seems we are in the war department-” said Rafte.

“Good heavens! yes. It seems we are there.”

“Oh I But I have not seen the king's appointment,” continued Rafte; “it is not confirmed yet.”

“The appointment will come in good time, no doubt.”

“Then, no doubt is the official word to-day-”

“You become more disagreeable, Rafte, as you get older. You are a formalist, and superstitiously particular. If I had known that, I would not have allowed you to deliver my inauguration speech at the Academic; that made you pedantic.”

“But listen, my lord; since we are in the government, let us be regular. This is a very odd affair.”

“What is odd-”

“Monsieur the Count de la Vaudraye, whom I met just now in the street, told me that nothing had yet been settled about the ministry.”

Richelieu smiled.

“M. de la Vaudraye is right.” said he. “But have you already been out, then-”

“Pardieu! I was obliged. This cursed noise of carriages awoke me; I dressed, put on my military orders also, and took a turn in the town.”

“Ah! M. Rafte makes merry at my expense.”

“Oh! my lord, God forbid. But-

“But what-”

“On my walk. I met someone.”

“Whom-”

“The secretary of the Abbe Terray.”

“Well-”

“Well! he told me that his master was appointed to the war department.”

“Oh! ho!” said Richelieu, with his eternal smile.

“What does Monseigneur conclude from this-”

“That if M. Terray is appointed to the war department. I am not; that if he is not, I may perhaps be.”

Rafte had satisfied his conscience; he was a bold, indefatigable, ambitious man, as clever as his master, and much better armed than he, for he knew himself to be of low origin and dependent, two defects in his coat of mail which for forty years he had exercised all his cunning, strength, and acuteness to obviate. When Rafte saw his master so confident, he believed he had nothing more to fear.

“Come, my lord,” said he, “make haste; do not oblige them to wait too long; that would be a bad commencement.”

“I am ready; but tell me once more who is there-”

“Here is the list.”

He presented a long list to his master, who saw with increasing satisfaction the names of the first among the nobility, the law, and the finance.

“Suppose I should be popular, hey. Rafte-”

“We are in the age of miracles,” replied the latter.

“Ha! Taverney!” said the marshal, continuing to peruse the list. “What does he come here for-”

“I have not the least idea, my lord marshal; but come, make your entree,” and the secretary, with an authoritative air, almost pushed his master into the grand salon.

Richelieu ought to have been satisfied; his reception might have contented the ambition of a prince of the blood royal. But the refined cunning and craft which characterized the period, and particularly the class of society we are speaking of, only too well assisted Richelieu's unlucky star, which had such a disagreeable contretemps in store for him.

From propriety and respect for etiquette, all this crowded levee abstained from pronouncing the word minister before Richelieu; some were bold enough to venture as far as the word congratulation, but they knew that they must pass quickly over the word, and that Richelieu would scarcely reply to it.

For one and all, this morning visit was a simple demonstration of respect, a mere expression of good-will; for at this period such almost imperceptible shades of policy were frequently understood and acted upon by the general mass of the community. There were certain of the courtiers who even ventured, in the course of conversation, to express some wish, deSire, or hope.

The one would have wished, he said, to have his government rather nearer Versailles; and it gratified him to have an opportunity of speaking on the subject to a man of such great influence as M. de Richelieu.

Another said he had been three times forgotten by M. de Choiseul in the promotions of the knights of the order, and he reckoned upon M. de Richelieu's obliging memory to refresh the king's, now that there existed no obstacle in the way of his majesty's good-will. In short, a hundred requests more or less grasping, but all veiled by the highest art, were preferred to the delighted ears of the marshal.

Gradually the crowd retired; they wished, as they said, to leave the marshal to his important occupations.

One man alone remained in the salon; he had not approached as the others had; he had asked for nothing; he had not even presented himself.

When the courtiers had gone, this man advanced toward the duke with a smile upon his lips.

“Ah! Monsieur de Taverney!” said the marshal; “I am enchanted to see you, truly enchanted.”

“I was waiting, duke, to pay you my compliments, and to offer you my sincere congratulations.”

“Ah! indeed- and for what-” replied Richelieu, for the cautious reserve of his visitors had imposed upon him the necessity of being discreet, and even mysterious.

“On your new dignity, duke.”

“Hush, hush!” said the marshal, “let us not speak of that; nothing is settled; it is a mere rumor.”

“Nevertheless, my dear marshal, there are many people of my opinion, for your salons were full.”

“In truth, I do not know why.”

“Oh! I know very well.”

“Why then- Why-”

“One word from me.”

“What word-”

“Yesterday I had the honor of paying my respects to the king at Trianon. His majesty spoke to me of my children, and ended by saying; “You know M. de Richelieu, I think; pay your compliments to him.”

“Ah! his majesty said that-” replied Richelieu, with a glow of pride, as if these words had been the official brevet, the destination of which Rafte doubted, or at least deplored its delay.

“So that,” continued Taverney, “I soon suspected the truth; in fact, it was not difficult to do so, when I saw the eagerness of all Versailles; and I hastened to obey the king by paying my compliments to you, and to gratify my own feelings by reminding you of our old friendship.”

The duke had now reached a pitch of intoxication. It is a defect in our nature from which the highest minds cannot always preserve themselves. He saw in Taverney only one of those expectants of the lowest order-poor devils who had fallen behind on the road of favor, who are useless even as proteges, useless as acquaintances, and who are reproached with coming forth from their obscurity, after a lapse of twenty years, to warm themselves at the sun of another's prosperity.

“I see what you are aiming at,” said the marshal, harshly; “you have some favor to ask of me.”

“You have said it, duke.”

“Ah!” grumbled Richelieu, seating himself on, or rather plumping into, the sofa.

“I told you I had two children,” continued Taverney, pliant and cunning, for he perceived the coolness of his great friend, and therefore only advanced the more eagerly; “I have a daughter whom I love very dearly, and who is a model of virtue and beauty. She is placed with her highness the dauphiness, who has been condescending enough to grant her her particular esteem. Of my beautiful Andree, therefore, I need not speak to you. Her path is smoothed; her fortune is made. Have you seen my daughter- Did I not once present her to you somewhere- Have you not heard of her-”

“Pshaw!-I don't know,” said Richelieu, carelessly, “perhaps so.”

“No matter,” pursued Taverney, “there is my daughter settled. For my own part, I want nothing; the king grants me a pension upon which I can live. I confess I would like to have some emolument to enable me to rebuild Maison-Rouge, where I wish to end my days, and with your interest and my daughter's-”

“Ha!” thought Richelieu, who until now had not listened, so lost was he in contemplation of his grandeur, but whom the words, “my daughter's interest,” had roused from his reverie. “Oh! ho! your daughter! Why, she is a young beauty who annoys our good countess; she is a little scorpion who is sheltering herself under the wings of the dauphiness, in order to bite someone at Luciennes. Come, I will not be a bad friend, and as for gratitude, this dear countess who has made me a minister shall see if I am wanting in time of need.” Then aloud:

“Proceed,” said he to the Baron de Taverney in a naughty tone.

“Faith, I am near the end,” replied the latter, promising himself to laugh in his sleeve at the vain marshal if he could only get what he wanted from him.

“I am anxious, therefore, only about my son Philip, who bears a lofty name, but who will never be able to support it worthily unless someone assists him. Philip is a bold and thoughtful youth; rather too thoughtful, perhaps, but that is the result of his embarrassed position. You know, the horse which is reined in too tightly droops its head.”

“What is all this to me-” thought Richelieu, giving most unequivocal signs of weariness and impatience.

“I want someone,” continued Taverney remorselessly, “someone in authority like yourself, to procure a company for Philip. Her highness the dauphiness, on entering Strasbourg, raised him to the rank of captain, but he still wants a hundred thousand livres to enable him to purchase a company in some privileged regiment of cavalry. Procure that for me, my powerful friend.”

“Your son,” said Richelieu, “is the young man who rendered the dauphiness a service, is he not-”

“A most essential service,” replied Taverney; “it was he who forced the last relay for her royal highness from that Dubarry who wanted to seize it by force.”

“Oh! oh!” thought Richelieu, “that is just it; the most violent enemies of the countess. He comes at the right time, this Taverney! He advances claims which are sufficient to damn him forever.”

“You do not answer, duke-” said Taverney, Fathered soured by the marshal's obstinate silence.

“It is perfectly impossible, my dear M. de Taverney,” replied the marshal, rising to show that the audience was over.

“Impossible- Such a trifle impossible- An old friend tell me that-”

“Why not- Is it any reason, because you are a friend, as you say, that you should seek to make me commit treason both against friendship and justice- You never came to see me for twenty years, for during that time I was nothing; now that I am a minister, you come.”

“M. de Richelieu, it is you who are unjust at this moment.”

“No, my dear friend, no; I do not wish to see you dangling in my antechambers; I am a true friend, and therefore-

“You have some reason for refusing me, then-”

“I!” exclaimed Richelieu, much alarmed at the suspicion Taverney might perhaps form; “I! a reason!”

“Yes; I have enemies.”

The duke might have replied what he thought, but that would have been to discover to the baron that he tried to please Madame Dubarry from gratitude-it would have been to confess that he was the minister of the favorite; and that the marshal would not have confessed for an empire. He therefore hastily replied:

“You have no enemy, my dear friend; but I have many. To grant requests at once, without examining claims, would expose me to the accusations of continuing the Choiseul system. My dear sir, I wish to leave behind some trace of my administration of affairs. For twenty years I have projected reforms, improvements, and now they shall blossom. Favoritism is the ruin of France; I will protect merit. The writings of our philosophers are bright torches, whose light has not shone for me in vain; they have dissipated all the mists of ignorance and superstition which brooded over the past, and it was full time it should be so, for the well-being of the state. I shall therefore examine your son's claims neither more nor less than I should do those of any other citizen. I must make this sacrifice to my conscience-a grievous sacrifice, no doubt, but which, after all, is only that of one man for the benefit of three hundred thousand. If your son, M. Philip de Taverney, proves that, he merits my favor, he shall have it, not because his father is my friend, not because he bears the name he does, but because he is a man of merit. That is my plan of conduct.”

“You mean your system of philosophy,” replied the old baron, biting his nails with rage, and adding to his anger by reflecting how much humiliation and how many petty cowardices this interview had cost him.

“Philosophy, if you will, sir; it is a noble word.”

“Which dispenses good things, marshal, does it not-”

“You are a bad courtier!” said Richelieu, with a cold smile.

“Men of my rank are courtiers only of the king.”

“Oh! M. Rafte, my secretary, has a thousand of your rank in my antechambers everyday,” replied Richelieu; “they generally come from some obscure den or other in the provinces, where they have learned to be rude to their pretended friends while they preach concord.”

“Oh! I am well aware that a Maison-Rouge, a title which dates from the crusades, does not understand concord so well as a Vignerol fiddler.”

The marshal had more tact than Taverney. He could have had him thrown out of the windows, but he only shrugged his shoulders and replied:

“You are rather behind the time, most noble scion of the crusades; you only remember the calumnious memoir presented by parliament in 1720, and have not read that of the peers and dukes in reply. Be kind enough to walk into my library, my dear sir; Rafte will give it to you to read.”

As he was bowing his antagonist out with this apt repartee, the door opened, and a man entered noisily, crying:

“Where is my dear duke-”

This man, with ruddy visage, eyes dilated with satisfaction, and joyous air, was neither more nor less than Jean Dubarry.

On seeing this new-comer, Taverney started back with surprise and vexation.

Jean saw the movement, recognized the face, and turned his back.

“I understand,” said the baron, quietly, “and I shall retire. I leave the minister in most distinguished company.”

And he left the room with dignity.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. RICHELIEU IS DISABUSED.

FURIOUS AT this extremely provoking exit, Jean made two steps after the baron; then, returning to the marshal, he said, shrugging his shoulders:

“You receive such people here-”

“Oh! my dear sir, you mistake; on the contrary, I send such people away.”

“Do you know who this gentleman is-”

“Alas! Yes.”

“No, but do you know really-”

“He is a Taverney.”

“He is a man who wishes to make his daughter the king's favorite-

“Oh, come!”

“A man who wishes to supplant us, and who takes all possible means to do so. But Jean is there, and Jean has his eyes about him.”

“You think he wishes-”

“It is a very difficult matter to see what he wishes, is it not- One of the dauphin's party, my dear sir;-and they have their little stabber too.”

“Bah!”

“A young man, who looks quite ready to fly at people's throats-a bully, who pinks Jean's shoulder-poor Jean!”

“Yours- Is it a personal enemy of yours, my dear count-” asked Richelieu, feigning surprise.

“Yes; he was my adversary in that affair of the relay, you know.”

“Indeed! What a strange sympathy. I did not know that, and yet I refused all his demands; only, if I had known, I should not only have refused him but kicked him out. But do not be uneasy, count, I have now this worthy bully under my thumb, and he shall find it out to his cost.”

“Yes, you can cure him of his taste for attacking people on the highway. For in fact-hah! by-the-by, I have not yet congratulated you.”

“Why, yes, count; it seems the affair is definitely settled.”

“Oh! it is all completed. Will you permit me to embrace you-”

“With all my heart.”

“Faith, there was some trouble; but the trouble is nothing when you succeed. You are satisfied, are you not-”

“Shall I speak frankly- Yes; for I think I can be useful.”

“No doubt of that. But it is a bold stroke; there will be some growling.”

“Am I not liked by the public-”

“You- Why, there is no question of you, either one way or other; it is he who is execrated.”

“He-” said Richelieu, with surprise; “who- he-”

“Of course,” interrupted Jean. “Oh! the parliament will revolt, it will be a second edition of the flagellation of Louis XIV. They are whipped, duke, they are whipped.”

“Explain.”

“Why, it explains itself. The parliament of course hate the author of their persecutions.”

“Ah! you think that-”

“I am certain of it, as all France is. No matter, duke, it was a capital stroke of you to send for him that way, just at the very heat of the affair.”

“Whom- Whom, duke- I am on thorns-I do not understand one word of what you say.”

“Why, I speak of M. d'Aiguillon, your nephew.”

“Well! what then-”

“Well, I say it was well-advised of you to send for him.”

“Ah! very good, very good. You mean to say he will assist me-”

“He will assist us all. Do you know he is on the best terms with little Jeanne-”

“Oh! indeed-”

“On the best terms. They have already had a chat together, and understand each other perfectly, as it seems to me.”-”You know that-”

“Why, I saw D'Aiguillon's carriage leave Luciennes late yesterday evening, and as he only arrived yesterday morning in Paris, it seems to me that he must be a great favorite with Jeanne to obtain an audience so early.”

“Yes, yes,” said Richelieu, rubbing his hands; “he must have supped there. Bravo, d'Aiguillon!”

“And so there you are all three, like Orestes and Pylades, with the addition of another Pylades.”

At this moment, and as the marshal was rubbing his hands with great glee, d'Aiguillon entered the salon.

The nephew saluted his uncle with an air of condolence which was sufficient to enable Richelieu, without understanding the whole truth, at least to guess the greatest part of it.

He turned pale, as though he had received a mortal wound. It flashed across his mind that at court there exist neither friends nor relatives, and that Everyone seeks only their own aggrandizement.

“I was a great fool!” thought he. “Well, d'Aiguillon-” continued he aloud, repressing a deep sigh.

“Well, marshal-”

“It is a heavy blow to the parliament,” said Richelieu, repeating Jean's words.

d'Aiguillon blushed.

“You know it-” said he.

“The count has told me all,” replied Richelieu; “even your late stay at Luciennes last night. Your appointment is a triumph for my family.”

“Be assured, marshal, of my extreme regret.”

“What the devil does he mean by that-” said Jean, folding his arms.

“Oh, we understand each other.” interrupted Richelieu; “we understand each other.”

“That is a different affair; but for my part, I do not understand you. Regret! Ah! yes, because he will not be recognized as minister immediately-yes, yes, I see.”

“Oh! there will be an interim!” said the marshal, feeling a ray of hope-that constant guest in the heart of the ambitious man and the lover -once more dawn in his breast.

“Yes, marshal, an interim.”

“But, in the meantime,” cried Jean, “he is tolerably well paid; the finest command in Versailles.”

“Ah! a command-” said Richelieu, pierced by a new wound.

“M. Dubarry perhaps exaggerates a little,” said the Duke d'Aiguillon.

“But, in one word, what is this command-”

“The king's light horse.”

Richelieu again felt his furrowed cheeks grow pale.

“Oh! yes,” said he, with a smile which it would be impossible to describe; “yes, it is indeed a trifling appointment for such a charming man. But what can you expect, duke-the loveliest woman in the world, were she even the king's favorite, can only give what she has.”

It was now d'Aiguillon's turn to grow pale.

Jean was scrutinizing the beautiful Murillus which adorned Richelieu's walls.

Richelieu slapped his nephew on the shoulder.

“Luckily,” said he, “you have the promise of approaching advancement. Accept my congratulations, duke-my sincere compliments. Your address, your cleverness in negotiations, is only equaled by your good fortune. Adieu, I have some business to transact. Do not forget me in the distribution of your favors, my dear minister.”

d'Aiguillon only replied:

“Your interests and mine, my lord marshal, are henceforth one and the same.”

And, saluting his uncle, he left the room with the dignity which was natural to him; thus escaping from one of the most embarrassing positions he had ever experienced in a life strewn with so many difficulties.

“An admirable trait in d'Aiguillon's character,” said Richelieu, the moment the former had disappeared, to Jean, who was rather at a loss to know what to think of this exchange of politeness between the nephew and uncle, “and one that I admire particularly, is his artlessness. He is at once frank and high-spirited; he knows the court, and is withal as simpleminded as a girl.”

“And then he loves you so well!” said Jean.-” Like a lamb.”

“Oh.” said Jean, “he is more like your son than M. de Fronsac.”

“By my faith, yes, count-by my faith, yes.”

While replying thus, Richelieu kept walking round his chair in great agitation; he sought but could not find.

“Ah, countess,” he muttered, “you shall pay me for this!”

“Marshal,” said Jean, with a cunning look, “we four will realize that famous fagot of antiquity; you know, the one that could not be broken.”

“We four, my dear M. Jean! how do you understand that-”

“My sister as power. d'Aiguillon as authority, you as advice, and I as vigilance.”

“Very good! very good!

“And now let them attack my sister; I defy them all.”

“Pardieu!” said Richelieu, whose brain was boiling.

“Let them set up rivals now!” exclaimed Jean, in ecstasies with his plans and his visions of triumph.

“Oh!” said Richelieu, striking his forehead.

“Well, my dear marshal, what is the matter-”

“Nothing! I think your idea of a league admirable.”

“Is it not-”

“And I enter body and soul into your plans.”

“Bravo!”

“Does Taverney live at Trianon with his daughter-”

“No; he lives in Paris.”

“The girl is very handsome, my dear count.”

“If she were as beautiful as Cleopatra or-my sister, I do not fear her, now that we are leagued together.”

“You said Taverney lives in Paris, in the Rue St. Honore. I think-”

“I did not say Rue St. Honore; it is the Rue Coq-Heron in which he lives. Have you any plan of chastising these Taverneys, that you ask-”

“Yes, count, I think I have found a capital plan.”

“You are an incomparable man, but I must leave you now; I will to see what they say in town.”

“Adieu, then, count. Apropos, you have not told me who the new ministers are.”

“Oh, mere birds of passage; Terray, Berlin, and I know not who else. Mere counters in the hands of d'Aiguillon-the real minister, though his appointment is deferred for a short time.”

“And perhaps indefinitely adjourned,” thought the marshal, directing his most gracious smile to Jean as an affectionate adieu.

Jean retired, Rafte entered. He had heard all, and knew how to conduct himself; all his suspicions were now realized. He did not utter a word to his master, he knew him too well. He did not even call the valet-de-chambre; he assisted him with his own hands to undress, and conducted him to his bed, in which the old marshal, shivering with fever, immediately buried himself, after taking a pill which his secretary made him swallow.

Rafte drew the curtains and retired. The antechamber was thronged with eager listening valets. Rafte took the head valet aside.

“Attend to the marshal carefully,” said he, “he is ill. He has had a serious vexation this morning; he was obliged to disobey the king.”

“Disobey the king!” exclaimed the alarmed valet.

“Yes, his majesty sent a portfolio to my lord, but as he was aware that he owed it to the solicitations of the Dubarry, he refused. Oh! it was a noble resolve, and the Parisians ought to build him a triumphal arch; but the shock was great, and our master is ill. Look to him carefully!”

After these words, whose circulating power he knew beforehand, Rafte returned to his closet.

A quarter of an hour afterward all Versailles was informed of the noble conduct and lofty patriotism of the marshal, who in the meantime slept soundly upon the popularity his secretary had gained for him.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE DAUPHIN'S FAMILY REPAST.

THE SAME DAY, about three o'clock, Mademoiselle Taverney left her apartment to attend upon the dauphiness, who was in the habit of being read to for a short time before dinner.

The abbe who had held the post of first reader to her royal highness no longer exercised his functions, as, for some time previous, ever since certain diplomatic intrigues in which he had displayed a very great talent, for business, he had employed himself entirely in important political affairs.

Mademoiselle Taverney therefore set out, dressed as well as circumstances would permit, to fulfill her office. Like all the guests at Trianon, she still suffered considerable inconvenience from the rather sudden installation in her new abode, and had not yet been able to arrange her furniture, or make the necessary provisions for establishing her modest household. She had therefore, on the present occasion, been assisted in her toilet by one of the femmes-de-chambre of Madame de Noailles, that starched lady of honor whom the dauphiness nicknamed Madame Etiquette.

Andree was dressed in a blue silk robe, with long waist, which fitted admirably to her slender figure. This robe opened in front, and displayed beneath a muslin skirt relieved with three falls of embroidery. Short sleeves, also of muslin, embroidered in the same manner as the dress, and festooned and tapering to the shoulder, were admirably in keeping with a habit shirt, worked a la paysanne, which modestly concealed her neck and shoulders. Her beautiful hair, which fell in long and luxuriant ringlets upon his shoulders, was simply tied with a ribbon of the same color as her dress, a mode of arrangement which harmonized infinitely better with the noble, yet modest and retiring air of the lovely young girl, and with her pure and transparent complexion never yet sullied by the touch of rouge, than the feathers, ornaments, and laces which were then in vogue.

As she walked, Andree drew on a pair of white silk mittens upon the slenderest and roundest fingers in the world, while the tiny points of her high-heeled shoes of pale blue satin left their traces on the gravel of the garden walk.

When she readied the pavilion of Trianon, she was informed that the dauphiness was taking a turn in the grounds with her architect and her head gardener. In the apartment of the first story overhead she could hear the noise of a turning lathe with which the dauphin was making a safety-lock for a coffer which he valued very highly.

In order to rejoin the dauphiness Andree had to cross the parterre, where, notwithstanding the advanced period of the season, flowers carefully covered through the night raised their pale beads to bask in the setting rays of a sun even paler than themselves. And as the evening was already closing in, for in that season it was dark at six o'clock, the gardener's apprentices were employed in placing the bell-glasses over the most delicate plants in each bed.

While traversing a winding alley of evergreens clipped into the form of a hedge, bordered on each side by beds of Bengal roses, and opening on a beautiful lawn, Andree all at once perceived one of these gardeners, who, when, he saw her, raised himself upon his spade, and bowed with a more refined and studied politeness than was usual in one of his station.

She looked, and in this workman recognized Gilbert, whose hands, notwithstanding his labor, were yet white enough to excite the envy of M. de Taverney.

Andree blushed in spite of herself; it seemed to her that Gilbert's presence in this place was too remarkable a coincidence to be the result of chance.

Gilbert repeated his bow, and Andree returned it, but without slackening her pace.

She was too upright and too courageous, however, to resist the promptings of her heart, and leave the question of her restless soul unanswered. She turned back, and Gilbert, whose cheek had already become as pale as death, and whose dark eye followed her retreating steps with a somber look, felt as if suddenly restored to life, and bounded forward to meet her.

“You here, M. Gilbert-” said Andree, coldly.

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

“By what chance-”

“Mademoiselle, one must live, and live honestly.”

“But do you know that you are very fortunate-”

“Oh! yes, mademoiselle, very fortunate,” said Gilbert.

“I beg your pardon; what did you say-”

“I said, mademoiselle, that I am, as you think, very fortunate.”

“Who introduced you here-”

“M. de Jussieu, a protector of mine.”

“Ah!” said Andree, surprised; “then you know M. de Jussieu-”

“He is the friend of my first protector -of my master. M. Rousseau.”

“Courage, then, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Andree, making a movement to proceed.

“Do you find yourself better, mademoiselle-” asked Gilbert, in a trembling voice.

“Better- How so-” said Andree, coldly.

“Why-the accident-”

“Oh, yes, thank you. Monsieur Gilbert. I am better; it was nothing.”

“Oh! you wore nearly perishing,” said Gilbert, almost speechless with emotion, “the danger was terrible.”

Andree now began to think that it was high time to cut short this interview with a workman in the most public part of the royal park.

“Good-day, Monsieur Gilbert,” said she.

“Will mademoiselle not accept a rose-” said Gilbert, trembling, and the drops of perspiration standing on his forehead.

“But, sir,” replied Andree, “you offer me what is not yours to give.”

You Offer Me What Is Not Yours To Give

Gilbert, surprised and overwhelmed by this reply, could not utter a word. His head drooped, but as he saw Andree looking at him with something like a feeling of joy at having manifested her superiority, he drew himself up, tore a branch covered with flowers from the finest of the rose-trees, and began to pull the roses to pieces with a coolness and dignity which surprised and startled the young girl.

She was too just and too kind-hearted not to see that she had gratuitously wounded the feelings of an inferior who had unthinkingly committed a breach of propriety. But like all proud natures who feel themselves in the wrong, she preserved silence when perhaps an apology or a reparation was hovering upon her lips.

Gilbert added not a word either; he threw away the branch and resumed his spade; but his character was a mixture of pride and cunning, and while stooping to his work, he kept his eye stealthily fixed on Andree's retreating figure. At the end of the walk she could not help looking round. She was a woman.

This weakness was sufficient for Gilbert; he said to himself that in this last struggle he had been victorious.

“She is weaker than I am,” thought he, “and I shall govern her. Proud of her beauty, of her name, of her advancing fortunes, indignant at my love, which she perhaps suspects, she is only the more an object of adoration to the poor working man who trembles while he looks at her. Oh! this trembling, this emotion, unworthy of a man! Oh! these acts of cowardice which she makes me commit, she shall one day repay me for them all! But to-day I have worked enough,” added he; “I have conquered the enemy. I, who ought to have been the weakest, since I love, have been a hundred times stronger than she.”

He repeated these words once more with a wild burst of joy, as he convulsively dashed back the dark hair from his thoughtful brow. Then he stuck his spade deep into the flower-bed, bounded through the hedge of cypress and yew-tree with the speed of a roebuck, and, light as the wind, threaded a parterre of plants under bell-glasses, not one of which he touched, notwithstanding the furious rapidity of his career, and posted himself at the extremity of a turn, which he had reached, by describing a diagonal course, before Andree, who followed the winding of the path.

From his new position he saw her advancing, thoughtful and almost humbled, her lovely eyes cast down, her moist and motionless hand gently rustling her dress as she walked. Concealed behind the thick hedge. Gilbert heard her sigh twice as if she were speaking to herself. At last she passed so close to the trees which sheltered him that had he stretched out his arm he might have touched hers, as a mad and feverish impulse prompted him to do.

But he knit his brow with an energetic movement almost akin to hatred, and, placing his trembling hand upon his heart:

“Coward again!” said he to himself. Then he added softly, “but she is so beautiful!”

Gilbert might have remained for a considerable time sunk in contemplation, for the walk was long and Andree's step was slow and measured, but this walk was crossed by others, from which some troublesome visitor might at any moment make his appearance, and fate treated Gilbert so scurvily that a man did in fact advance from the first alley upon the left -that is to say, almost opposite the clump of evergreens behind which he was concealed.

This intruder walked with a methodic and measured step; he carried his head erect, held, his hat under his right arm, and his left hand resting upon his sword. He wore a velvet coat underneath a pelisse lined with sable fur, and pointed his foot as he walked, which he did with the easy grace of a man of high rank and breeding.

This gentleman as he advanced perceived Andree, and the young girl's figure evidently pleased him, for he quickened his pace and crossed over in an oblique direction, so as to reach as soon as possible the path on which Andree was walking and intercept her course.

When Gilbert perceived this personage, he involuntarily gave a slight cry, and took to flight like a startled lapwing. The intruder's maneuver was successful; he was evidently accustomed to it, and in less than three minutes he was in advance of Andree, whom three minutes before he had been following at some distance.

When Andree heard his footstep behind her she moved aside a little to let the man pass, and when he had passed she looked at him in her turn. The gentleman looked also, and most eagerly; he even stopped to see better, and, returning after he had seen her features:

“Ah! mademoiselle,” said he, in a very kind voice; “whither are you hastening so quickly, may I ask-”

At the sound of this voice Andree raised her head, and saw about twenty paces behind her two officers of the guards following slowly; she spied a blue ribbon peeping from beneath the sable pelisse of the person who addressed her, and pale and startled at this unexpected rencontre, and at being accosted thus graciously, she said, bending very low:

“The king!”

“Mademoiselle-” replied Louis XV., approaching her; “excuse me, I have such bad eyes that I am obliged to ask your name.”

“Mademoiselle de Taverney,” stammered the young girl, so confused and trembling that her voice was scarcely audible.

“Oh! yes; I remember. I esteem myself fortunate in meeting you in Trianon, mademoiselle,” said the king.

“I was proceeding to join her royal highness the dauphiness, who expects me,” said Andree, trembling more and more.

“I will conduct you to her, mademoiselle,” replied Louis XV., “for I am just going to pay a visit to my daughter in my quality of country neighbor. Be kind enough to take my arm, as we are proceeding in the same direction.”

Andree felt a cloud pass before her eyes, and the blood flow in tumultuous waves to her heart. In fact, such an honor for the poor girl as the king's arm, the sovereign lord of all France, such an unhoped-for, incredible piece of good fortune, a favor which the whole court might envy, seemed to her more like a dream than a reality.

She made such a deep and reverential curtsey that the king felt himself obliged to bow a second time. When Louis XV. was inclined to remember Louis XIV., it was always in matters of ceremonial and politeness. Such traditions, however, dated further back, and were handed down from Henry IV.

He offered his hand therefore to Andree, who placed the burning points of her fingers upon the king's glove, and they both continued to advance toward the pavilion, where they had been informed that the dauphiness with her architect and her head gardener would be found.

We can assure the reader that Louis XV., although not particularly fond of walking, chose the longest road to conduct Andree to the little Trianon. Although the king was apparently unaware of his error, the two officers who walked behind perceived it but too plainly, and bemoaned themselves bitterly, as they were lightly clad and the weather was cold.

They arrived too late to find the dauphiness where they had expected, as Marie Antoinette had just set out for Trianon, that she might not keep the dauphin waiting, for he liked to sup between six and seven o'clock.

Her royal highness arrived therefore at the exact hour, and as the punctual dauphin was already upon the threshold of the salon that he might lose no time in reaching the dining-room the moment the maitre d'hotel appeared, the dauphiness threw her mantle to a femme-de-chambre, took the dauphin's arm with a winning smile, and drew him into the dining-room.

The table was laid for the two illustrious hosts. They occupied each, the center of the table, so as to leave the place of honor vacant, which, since several unexpected visits of the king, was never occupied in his majesty's absence, even when the room was filled with guests.

At this end of the table, the king's cover and cadenas occupied a considerable space; but the maitre d'hotel, not calculating upon it being occupied this evening, was conducting the service on this side.

Behind the dauphiness's chair, leaving the necessary space between for the valets to pass, was stationed Madame de Noailles, stiff and upright, and yet wearing as amiable an expression on her features as she could conjure up for the festive occasion.

Near Madame de Noailles were some other ladies, whose position at the court gave them the right, or merited the privilege, of being present at the supper of their royal highnesses.

Three times a week Madame de Noailles supped at the same table with the dauphin and dauphiness; but on the days when she did not sup with them, she would not for anything in the world have missed being present. Besides, it was a delicate mode of protesting against the exclusion of the four days out of seven.

Opposite the Duchesse de Noailles, surnamed by the dauphiness Madame Etiquette, was the Duke de Richelieu, on a raised seat very similar to her own.

He was also a strict observer of forms; but his etiquette was undistinguishable to a casual observer, being always veiled beneath the most perfect elegance and sometimes beneath the wittiest raillery.

The result of this antithesis between the first gentleman of the bed-chamber and the first lady of honor of the dauphiness was that the conversation, always dropped by the Duchesse de Noailles, was incessantly renewed by M. de Richelieu.

The marshal had traveled through all the courts of Europe, and had adopted the tone of elegance in each which was best suited to his character; so that, from his admirable tact and propriety, he knew exactly what anecdotes to relate at the table of the youthful couple, and what would be suitable to the private suppers of Madame Dubarry.

Perceiving this evening that the dauphiness had a good appetite, and that the dauphin was voracious, he concluded that this would give no heed to the conversation going on around them, and that he had consequently only to make Madame de Noailles suffer an hour of purgatory in anticipation.

He began therefore to speak of philosophy and theatrical affairs, a twofold subject of conversation doubly obnoxious to the venerable duchess. He related the subject of one of the last philanthropic sallies of the philosopher of Ferney, the name already given to the author of the “Henriade.” and when he saw the duchess on the tenterhooks, he changed the text and detailed all the squabbles and disputes which, in his office of gentleman of the chamber, he had to undergo in order to make the actresses in ordinary to the king play more or less badly.

The dauphiness loved the arts, and above all the theater; she had sent a complete costume for Clytemnestra to Mademoiselle Raucourt, and she therefore listened to M. de Richelieu not only with indulgence but with pleasure.

Then the poor lady of honor, in violation of all etiquette, was forced to fidget on her bench, blow her nose noisily, and shake her venerable head, without thinking of the cloud of powder which at each movement fell upon her forehead, like the cloud of snow which surrounds the summit of Mont Blanc at every gust of the east wind.

But it was not enough to amuse the dauphiness -the dauphin must also be pleased. Richelieu abandoned the subject of the theater, for which the heir to the crown had never displayed any great partiality, to discourse of humanity and philosophy. When he spoke of the English, he did so with all the warmth and energy which Rousseau displays in drawing the character of Edward Bromston.

Now Madame de Noailles haled the English as much as she did the philosophers. To admit a new idea was a fatiguing operation for her, and fatigue deranged the economy of her whole person. Madame de Noailles, who felt herself intended by nature for a conserver, growled at all new ideas like a dog at a frightful mask.

Richelieu, in playing this game, had a double end in view; he tormented Madame Etiquette, which evidently pleased the dauphiness, and he threw in, here and there, some virtuous apophthegm, some axiom in mathematics, which was rapturously received by the dauphin, the royal amateur of exact sciences.

He was paying his court, therefore, with great skill and address, and from time to time directing an eager glance toward the door, as if he expected someone who had not yet arrived, when a cry from the foot of the staircase echoed along the arched corridors, was repeated by two valets stationed at regular intervals from the entrance door, and at last reached the dining salon:

“The king!”

At this magic word Madame de Noailles started bolt upright from her seat, as if moved by a spring; Richelieu rose more slowly, and with easy grace; the dauphin hastily wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood up before his seat, his face turned toward the door.

As for the dauphiness, she hastened toward the staircase to meet the king, and do the honors of her mansion to him.

CHAPTER XC. THE QUEEN'S HAIR.

THE KING STILL held Mademoiselle de Taverney by the hand when they reached the landing-place, and it was only on arriving there that he bowed to her, so courteously and so low, that Richelieu had time to see the bow, to admire its grace, and to ask himself to what lucky mortal it was addressed.

His ignorance did not last long. Louis XV. took the arm of the dauphiness, who had seen all that passed, and had already perfectly recognized Andree.

“My daughter,” said he, “I come without ceremony to ask you for my supper. I crossed the entire park in my way hither, and happening to meet Mademoiselle de Taverney, requested her to accompany me.”

“Mademoiselle de Taverney!” murmured Richelieu, almost, dizzy at this unexpected stroke. “On my faith, I am almost too fortunate!”

“I shall not only be not angry with mademoiselle, who is late,” replied the dauphiness graciously, “but I have to thank her for bringing your majesty to us.”

Andree, whose cheeks were dyed with as deep a red as the ripe and tempting cherries which graced the epergne in the center of the table, bowed without replying.

“Diable! diable! she is indeed beautiful,” thought Richelieu; “and that old scoundrel Taverney said no more for her than she deserves.”

The king had already taken his seat at the table after having saluted the dauphin. Gifted like his grandfather with an obliging appetite, the monarch did justice to the improvised supper which the maitre d'hotel placed before him as if by magic. But while eating, the king, whose back was turned toward the door, seemed to seek something, or rather someone.

In fact, Mademoiselle de Taverney had enjoyed no privilege, as her position in the dauphiness's household was not yet fixed, had not entered the dining-room, and after her profound reverence in reply to the king's salutation, had returned to the dauphiness's apartment, lest her services might be required, as they had been once or twice already, to read to her highness after she had retired to bed.

The dauphiness saw that the king was looking for the beautiful companion of his walk.

“M. de Coigny,” said she to a young officer of the guards who was standing behind the king, “pray request Mademoiselle de Taverney to come up; with Madame de Noailles' permission, we will discard etiquette for this evening!”

M. de Coigny left the room, and almost immediately afterward returned, introducing Andree, who, totally at a loss to comprehend the reason for such a succession of unusual favors, entered trembling.

“Seat yourself there, mademoiselle,” said the dauphiness, “beside Madame de Noailles.”

Andree mounted timidly on the raised seat, but she was so confused that she had the audacity to seat herself only about a foot distant from the lady of honor. She received, in consequence, such a terrific look that the poor child started back at least four feet, as if she had come in contact with a Leyden jar highly charged.

The king looked at her and smiled.

“Ah! ca,” said the duke to himself, “it is scarcely worth my while to meddle with the affair; everything is progressing of itself.” The king turned and perceived the marshal, who was quite prepared to meet his look.

“Good-day, duke,” said Louis; “do you agree well with the Duchesse de Noailles-”

“Sire,” replied the marshal, “the duchesse always does me the honor to treat me as a madcap.”

“Oh! Were you also on the road to Chanteloup, duke-”

“I, Sire! Faith no; I am too grateful for the favors your majesty has showered on my family.”

The king did not expect this blow; he was prepared to rally, but he found himself anticipated.

“What favors have I showered, duke-”

“Sire, your majesty has given the command of your light horse to the Duke d'Aiguillon.”

“Yes; it is true, duke.”

“And that is a step which must have put all the energy, all the skill of your majesty to the task. It is almost a coup d'etat.”

The meal was now over; the king waited for a moment, and then rose from table.

The conversation was taking an embarrassing turn, but Richelieu was determined not to let go his prey. Therefor-, when the king began to chat with Madame de Noailles, the dauphiness, and Mademoiselle de Taverney. Richelieu maneuvered so skillfully that he soon found himself in the full fire of a conversation which he directed according to his pleasure.

“Sire,” said he, “your majesty knows that success emboldens.”

“Do you say so for the purpose of informing us that you are bold, duke-”

“Sire, it is for the purpose of requesting a new favor from your majesty, after the one the king has already deigned to grant. One of my best friends, an old servant of your majesty, has a son in the gendarmes; the young man is highly deserving, but poor. He has received from an august princess the brevet title of captain, but he has not yet got the company.”

“The princess- my daughter-” asked the king, turning toward the dauphiness.

“Yes, Sire,” said Richelieu, “and the father of this young man is called the Baron de Taverney.”

“My father!” involuntarily exclaimed Andree. “Philip! Is it for Philip, my lord duke, that you are asking for a company '!”

Then, ashamed of this breach of etiquette, Andree made a step backward, blushing, and clasping her hands with emotion.

The king turned to admire the blush which mantled on the cheek of the lovely girl, and then glanced at Richelieu-with a pleased look, which informed the courtier how agreeable his request had been.

“In truth,” said the dauphiness, “he is a charming young man, and I had promised to make his fortune. How unfortunate princes are! When God gives them the best intentions, he deprives them of the memory and reasoning powers necessary to carry their intentions into effect. Ought I not to have known that this young man was poor, and that it was not sufficient to give him the epaulet without at the same time giving him the company-”

“Oh, madame! how could your royal highness have known that '!”

“Oh, I knew it!” replied the dauphiness quickly, with a gesture which recalled to Andree's memory the modest but yet happy home of her childhood; “yes, I knew it, but I thought I had done everything necessary in giving a step to M. Philip de Taverney. He is called Philip, is he not, mademoiselle-”

“Yes, madame.”

The king looked round on these noble and ingenuous faces, and then rested his graze on Richelieu, whose face was also brightened by a ray of generosity, borrowed doubtless from his august neighbor.

“Duke,” said he, in a low voice, “I shall embroil myself with Luciennes.”

Then, addressing Andree, he added quickly; “Say that it will give you pleasure, mademoiselle.”

“Ah! Sire,” said Andree, clasping her hands, “I request it as a boon from your majesty.”

“In that case, it is granted,” said Louis. “You will choose a good company for this young man, duke; I will furnish the necessary funds, if the charges are not already paid and the post vacant.”

This good action gladdened all who were present. It procured the king a heavenly smile from Andree, and Richelieu a warm expression of thanks from those beautiful lips, from which, ii. Ins youth, he would have asked for even more.

Several visitors arrived in succession, among whom was the Cardinal de Rohan, who since the installation of the dauphiness at Trianon had paid his court assiduously to her.

But during the whole evening the king had kind looks and pleasant words only for Richelieu. He even commanded the marshal's attendance, when, after bidding farewell to the dauphiness, he set out to return to his own Trianon. The old marshal followed the king with a heart bounding with joy.

While the king, accompanied by the duke and his two officers, gained the dark alleys which lead from the palace, the dauphiness had dismissed Andree.

“You will be anxious to write this good news to Paris, mademoiselle,” said the princess, “you may retire.”

And preceded by a footman carrying a lantern, the young girl traversed the walk of about a hundred paces in length which separates Trianon from the offices.

Also, in advance of her, concealed by the thick foliage of the shrubbery, bounded a shadowy figure which followed all her movements with, sparkling eyes. It was Gilbert.

When Andree had arrived at the entrance, and began to ascend the stone staircase, tin; valet left her and returned to the antechambers of Trianon.

Then Gilbert, gliding into the vestibule, reached the courtyard, and climbed by a small staircase as steep as a ladder into his attic, which was opposite Andree's windows and was situated in a corner of the building.

From this position he could see Andree call a femme-de-chambre of Madame de Noailles to assist her, as that lady had her apartments in the same corridor. But when the girl had entered the room, the window curtains fell like an impenetrable veil between the ardent eyes of the young man and the object of his wishes.

At the palace there now only remained M. de Rohan, redoubling his gallant attentions to the dauphiness, who received them but coldly.

The prelate, fearing at last to be indiscreet, inasmuch as the dauphin had already retired, took leave of her royal highness with the expression of the deepest and most tender respect. As he was entering his carriage, a waiting-woman of the dauphiness approached, and almost leaned inside the door.

“Here,” said she.

And she put into his hand a small paper parcel, carefully folded, the touch of which made the cardinal start.

“Here,” he replied hastily, thrusting into the girl's hand a heavy purse, the contents of which would have been a handsome salary. Then, without losing time, the cardinal ordered the coachman to drive to Paris, and to ask for fresh orders at the barrier. During the whole way, in the darkness of the carriage, he felt the paper, and kissed the contents like some intoxicated lover. At the barrier he cried, “Rue St. Claude.” A short time afterward he crossed the mysterious courtyard, and once more found himself in the little salon occupied by Fritz, the silent usher.

Balsamo kept him waiting about a quarter of an hour. At last he appeared, and gave as a reason for his delay the lateness of the hour, which had prevented him from expecting the arrival of visitors.

In fact, it was now nearly eleven o'clock at night.

“That is true, baron,” said the cardinal; “and I must request you to excuse my unseasonable visit. But you may remember you told me one day, that to be assured of certain secrets-

“I must have a portion of the person's hair of whom we were speaking on that day,” interrupted Balsamo, who had already spied the little paper which the unsuspecting prelate held carelessly in his hand.

“Precisely, baron.”

“And you have brought me this hair, sir; very well.”

“Here it is. Do you think it would be possible to return it to me again after the trial-”

“Unless fire should be necessary; in which case-”

“Of course, of course,” said the cardinal. “However, I can procure some more. Can I have a reply-”

“To-day-”

“You know I am impatient.”

“I must first ascertain, my lord.”

And Balsamo took the packet of hair, and hastily mounted to Lorenza's apartment.

“I shall now know,” said he, on the way, “the secret of this monarchy; the mysterious fate which destiny has in store for it!”

And from the other side of the wall, even before opening the secret door, he plunged Lorenza into the magnetic sleep. The young girl received him therefore with an affectionate embrace. Balsamo could scarcely extricate himself from her arms. It would be difficult to say which was the most grievous for the poor baron, the reproaches of the beautiful Italian when she was awake, or her caresses when she slept. When he had succeeded in loosening the chain which her snowy arms formed around his neck:

“My beloved Lorenza,” said he, putting the paper in her hand, “can you tell me to whom this hair belongs-”

Lorenza took it and pressed it against her breast, and then to her forehead. Though her eyes were open, it was only by means of her head and breast that she could see in her sleep.

“Oh!” said she, “it is an illustrious head from which this hair has been taken.”

“Is it not-and a happy head too- Speak.”

“She may be happy.”

“Look well, Lorenza.”

“Yes, she may be happy; there is no shadow as yet upon her life.”

“Yet she is married.”

“Oh!” said Lorenza, with a sigh.

“Well!-what- What means my Lorenza-”

“Strange!” said she, “strange indeed! She is married like myself, pure and spotless as I am; but unlike me, dear Balsamo, she does not love her husband.”

“Oh, fate!” said Balsamo. “Thanks, Lorenza, I know all I wished to know.”

He embraced her, put the hair carefully into his pocket, and then, cutting a lock off the Italian's black tresses, he burned it at the wax-light and inclosed the ashes in the paper which had been wrapped round the hair of the dauphiness.

Then he left the room, and while descending the stairs he awoke the young woman.

The prelate, agitated and impatient, was waiting and doubting.

“Well, count-” said he.

“Well, my lord, the oracle has said you may hope.”

“It said so!” exclaimed the prince, transported with joy.

“Draw what conclusion you please, my lord; the oracle said that this woman, did not love her husband.”

“Oh!” said M. de Rohan, with a thrill of joy.

“I was obliged to burn the hair to obtain the revelation by its essence. Here are the ashes, which I restore to you most scrupulously, after having; gathered them up as if each atom were worth a million.”

“Thanks, sir, a thousand thanks; I can never repay you.”

“Do not speak of that, my lord. I must recommend you, however, not to swallow these ashes in wine, as lovers sometimes do; it causes such a dangerous sympathy that your love would become incurable, while the lady's heart would cool toward you.”

“Oh! I shall take care,” said the prelate, almost terrified. “Adieu, count, adieu.”

Twenty minutes afterward his eminence's carriage crossed M. de Richelieu's at the corner of the Rue des Petits Champs so suddenly that it was nearly upset in a deep trench which had been dug for the foundation of a new building.

The two noblemen recognized each other.

“Ha! prince,” said Richelieu with a smile.

“Ha! duke,” replied Louis de Rohan, with his finger upon his lips.

And they disappeared in opposite directions.

CHAPTER XCI. M. DE RICHELIEU APPRECIATES NICOLE.

M. DE RICHELIEU drove straight to M. de Taverney's modest hotel in the Rue Coq-Heron.

Thanks to the privilege we possess, in common with the devil on two sticks, of entering every house, be it ever so carefully locked, we are aware before M. de Richelieu that the baron was seated before the fireplace, his feet resting upon the immense andirons which supported a smoldering log, and was lecturing Nicole, sometimes pausing to chuck her under the chin, in spite of the rebellious and scornful poutings of the young waiting-maid. But whether Nicole would have been satisfied with the caress without the sermon, or whether she would have preferred the sermon without the caress, we can give no satisfactory information.

The conversation between the master and the servant turned upon the very important point, that at a certain hour of the evening Nicole never came when the bell was rung; that she had always something to do in the garden or, in the greenhouse; and that everywhere but in these two places she neglected her business.

Nicole, turning backward and forward with a charming and voluptuous grace, replied:

“So much the worse! I am dying with weariness here; you promised I should go to Trianon with mademoiselle.”

It was thereupon that the baron thought it proper in charity to pat her cheeks and chuck her chin, no doubt to distract her thoughts from dwelling on so unpleasant a subject; but Nicole continued in the same vein, and, refusing all consolation, deplored her unhappy lot.

“Yes,” sighed she, “I am shut up within four horrible walls; I have no company; I have no air; while I had the prospect of a pleasant and fortunate future before me.”

“What prospect-” said the baron.

“Trianon,” replied Nicole; “Trianon, where I should have seen the world-where I should have looked about me -where I should have been looked at.”

“Oh! oh! my little Nicole,” said the baron.

“Well, sir, I am a woman, and as well worth looking at as another, I suppose-”

“Cordieu! how she talks,” said the baron to himself. “What fire! what ambition!”

And he could not help casting a look of admiration at so much youth and beauty. Nicole seemed at limes thoughtful and impatient.

“Come, sir,” said she, “will you retire to bed, that I may go to mine!”

“One word more, Nicole.”

All at once the noise of the street-bell made Taverney start and Nicole jump.

“Who can be coming,” said the baron, “at half-past eleven o'clock at night- Go, child, and see.”

Nicole hastened to open the door, asked the name of the visitor, and left the street door half open. Through this lucky opening a, shadow, which bad apparently emerged from the courtyard, glided out, nut without making noise enough to attract the attention of the marshal, for it was he who hurried and saw the flight. Nicole preceded him, candle in hand, with a beaming look.

“Oh! oh!” said the marshal, smiling, and following her into the room, “this old rogue of a Taverney only spoke to me of his daughter.”

The duke was one of those men who do not require a second glance to see, and see completely. The shadowy figure which he had observed escaping made him think of Nicole, and Nicole of the shadow. When he saw her pretty face, he guessed what errand the shadow had come upon, and, judging from her saucy and laughing eye, her white teeth, and small waist, he drew a tolerably correct picture of her character and tastes.

At the door of the salon, Nicole, not without a palpitation of the heart, announced:

“His lordship the Duke de Richelieu.”

This name was destined to cause a sensation that evening. It produced such an effect upon the baron, that he arose from his armchair and walked straight to the door, not being able to believe the evidence of his ears.

But before he reached the door, he perceived M. de Richelieu in I he shadow of the corridor.

“The duke!” He stammered.

“Yes, my dear friend, the duke himself.” replied Richelieu, in his most whining voice. “Oh! that surprises you, after your visit the other day- Well, nevertheless, nothing can be more real. In the meantime, your hand, if you please.”

“My lord duke, you overwhelm me.”

“Where have your wits fled to, my dear friend-” said the old marshal, giving his hat and cane to Nicole, and seating himself comfortably in an armchair, “you are getting rusty, you dote; you seem no longer to know the world!”

“But yet, duke,” replied Taverney, much agitated, “it seems to me that the reception you gave me the other day was so significant that I could not mistake its purport.”

“Hark ye, my old friend.” answered Richelieu, “the other day you behaved like a school-boy, and I like a pedant. Between us there was only the difference of the ferula. You are going to speak-I will save you the trouble; you might very probably say some very foolish things to me, and I might reply in the same vein. Let us leave the other day aside, therefore, and come direct to the present time. Do you know what I have come for this evening-”

“No, certainly.”

“I have come to bring you the company which you asked me for your son the other day, and which the king has granted. Diable! can you not understand the difference- The day before yesterday I was a quasi-minister, and to ask a favor was an injustice; but to-day, when I am simply Richelieu and have refused the portfolio, it would be absurd not to ask; I have therefore asked and obtained, and I now bring it to you.”

“Duke, can this be true- And is this kindness on your part-”

“It is the natural consequence of my duty as your friend. The minister refused, Richelieu asks and gives.”

“Ah, duke, you enchant me-you are a true friend!”

“Pardieu!”

“But the king-the king, who confers such a favor on me-”

“The king scarcely knows what he has done; or perhaps I am mistaken, and he knows very well.”

“What do you mean-”

“I mean that his majesty has, no doubt, some motive for provoking Madame Dubarry just now; and you owe this favor which he bestows upon you more to that motive than to my influence.”

“You think so-”

“I am certain of it, for I am aiding and abetting. You know it is on account of this creature that I refused the portfolio-”

“I was told so, but-”

“But you did not believe it. Come, say it frankly.”

“Well, I confess that-

“You always thought me not likely to be troubled by many scruples of conscience -is that it-”

“At least, that I thought you without prejudices.”

“My friend, I am getting old, and I no longer care for pretty faces except when they can be useful to me. And besides I have some other plans. But, to return to your son; he is a splendid fellow!”

“But on bad terms with that Dubarry who was at your house when.1 had the folly to present myself.”

“I am aware of it, and that is why I am not a minister.”

“Oh! you refused the portfolio in order not to displease my son-”

“If I told you so you would not believe me. No, that is not the reason. I refused it because the requirements of the Dubarrys, which commenced with the exclusion of your son, would have ended in enormities of all kinds.”

“Then you have quarreled with these creatures-”

“Yes and no. They fear me-I despise them; it is tit for tat.”

“It is heroic, but imprudent.”

“Why-”

“The countess has still some power.”

“Pooh!” said Richelieu.

“How you say that!”

“I say it like a man who feels the weakness of his position, and who, if necessary, would place the miner in a good position to blow up the whole place.”

“I see the true state of the case; you do my son a favor partly to vex the Dubarrys.”

“Principally for that reason, and your perspicacity is not at fault. Your son serves me as a grenade; I shall cause an explosion by his means. But, apropos, baron, have you not also a daughter-”

“Yes.”

“Young-lovely as Venus-and who lives at present at Trianon-”

“Ah! then you know her-”

“I have spent the evening in her company, and have conversed about her for a full hour with the king.”

“With the king-” cried Taverney, his cheeks in a flame. “The king has spoken of my daughter-of Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney-”

“The king himself, my friend. Do I vex you in telling you this-”

“Vex me- No, certainly not. The king honors me by looking at my daughter-but-the king-

“Is immoral, is that what you were going to say-”

“Heaven forbid that I should talk evil of his majesty. He has a right to adopt whatever morals he chooses.”

“Well! what does this astonishment mean, then- Do you pretend to say that Mademoiselle Andree is not an accomplished beauty, and that therefore the king may not have looked upon her with admiration-”

Taverney did not reply; he only shrugged his shoulders and fell into a reverie, during which the unrelenting inquisitorial eye of the Duke de Richelieu was still fixed upon him.

“Well, I guess what you would say, if, instead of thinking to yourself, you would speak aloud,” continued the old marshal, approaching his chair nearer the baron's. “You would say that the king is accustomed to bad society, that he mixes with low company, and that therefore he is not likely to admire this noble girl, so modest in her demeanor and so pure and lofty in her ideas, and is not capable of appreciating the treasures of her grace and beauty.”

“Certainly, you are a great man, duke; you have guessed my thoughts exactly,” said Taverney.

“But confess, baron,” continued Richelieu, “that our master should no longer force us gentlemen, peers and companions of the king of France, to kiss the vile, open hand of a creature like Dubarry. It is time that he should restore us to our proper position. After having sunk from La Chateauroux, who was a marquise and of stuff to make duchesses, to La Pompadour, who was the daughter and the wife of a farmer of the public revenues, and from La Pompadour to the Dubarry, who calls herself simply Jeanneton, may he not fall still farther and plunge us into the lowest pitch of degradation- It is humiliating for us, baron, who wear a coronet on our caps, to bow the head before such trumpery creatures.”

“Oh! you only speak the truth,” said Taverney. “How evident is it that the court is deserted on account of these new fashions!”

“No queen, no ladies; no ladies, no courtiers. The king elevates a grisette to the rank of a consort, and the people are upon the throne, represented, by Mademoiselle Jeanne Vaubernier, a seamstress of Paris.”

“It is so, and yet-”

“You see then, baron!” interrupted the marshal, “what a noble career there is open for a woman of mind who should reign over France at present.”

“Without doubt,” said Taverney, whose heart was beating fast; “but unluckily the place is occupied.”

“For a woman,” continued the marshal, “who would have the boldness of these creatures without their vice, and who would direct her views and calculations to a loftier aim. For a woman who would advance her fortune so high, that she should be talked of when the monarchy itself should no longer exist. Do you know if your daughter has intellect, baron-”

“Lofty intellect, and above all, good sense.”

“She is very lovely.”

“Is she not-”

“Her beauty is of that soft and charming character which pleases men so much, while her whole being is stamped with that air of candor and virgin purity which imposes respect even upon women. You must take great care of that treasure, my old friend.”

“You speak of her with such fire-

“I! I am madly in love with her, and would marry her to-morrow were I twenty instead of seventy-four years of age! But is she comfortably placed- Has she the luxury which befits such a lovely flower- Only think, baron! this evening she returned alone to her apartments, without waiting-women or lackey. A servant of the dauphin carried a lantern before her! That looks more like a servant than a lady of her rank.”

“What can I do, duke- you know I am not rich.”

“Rich or not, your daughter must at least have a waiting-maid.”

Taverney sighed.

“I know very well,” said he, “that she wants one, or at least, that she ought to have one.”

“Well! have you none-”

The baron did not reply.

“Who is that pretty girl you had here just now-” continued Richelieu. “A fine spirited looking girl, i'faith.”

“Yes, but-I-I cannot send her to Trianon.”

“Why not, baron- On the contrary, she seems to me perfectly suited for the post; she would make a capital femme-de-chambre.”

“You did not look at her face then, duke-”

“I!-I did nothing else.”

“You looked at her and did not remark her strange resemblance-”

“To whom-”

“To-guess. Come hither, Nicole.”

Nicole advanced; like a true waiting woman, she had been listening at the door. The duke took her by both hands and looked her steadily in the face, but the impertinent gaze of this great lord and debauchee did not alarm or embarrass her for a moment.

“Yes,” said he, “it is true; there is a resemblance.”

“You know to whom, and you see therefore that it is impossible to expose the fortunes of our house to such an awkward trick of fate. Would it be thought agreeable that this little minx of a Nicole should resemble the most illustrious lady in France-”

“Oh, no!” replied Nicole sharply, and disengaging herself from the marshal's grasp, the better to reply to M. de Taverney, “is it so certain that this little minx resembles this illustrious lady so exactly- Has this lady the low shoulder, the quick eye, the round ankle, and the plump arm of the little minx-”

Nicole was crimson with rage, and therefore ravishingly beautiful.

The duke once more took her pretty hands in his, and with a look full of caresses and promises:

“Baron,” said he, “Nicole has certainly not her equal at court, at least in my opinion. As for the illustrious lady to whom she has, I confess, a slight resemblance, we shall know how to spare her self-love. You have fair hair of a lovely shade, Mademoiselle Nicole; you have eyebrows and nose of a most imperial form; well, in one quarter of an hour employed before the mirror, these imperfections, since the baron thinks them such, will disappear. Nicole, my child, would you like to be at Trianon-”

“Oh!” said Nicole, and her whole soul full of longing was expressed in this monosyllable.

“You shall go to Trianon, then, my dear, and without prejudicing in any way the fortunes of others. Baron, one word more.”

“Speak, my dear duke.”

“Go, my pretty child,” said Richelieu, “and leave us alone a moment.”

Nicole retired. The duke approached the baron.

“I press you the more to send your daughter a waiting-maid, because it will please the king. His majesty does not like poverty, and pretty faces do not frighten him. Let me alone, I understand what I am about.”

“Nicole shall go to Trianon, if you think it will please the king,” replied the baron, with a meaning smile.

“Then, if you will allow me, I will bring her with me; she can take advantage of the carriage.”

“But still, her resemblance to the dauphiness! We must think of that, duke.”

“I have thought of it. This resemblance will disappear in a quarter of an hour under Rafte's hands, I will answer for it. Write a note to your daughter to tell her of what importance it is that she should have a femme-de-chambre, and that this femme-de-chambre should be Nicole.”

“You think it important that it should be Nicole.”

“I do.”

“And that no other than Nicole would do-”

“Upon my honor, I think so.”

“Then I will write immediately.”

And the baron sat down and wrote a letter, which he handed to Richelieu.

“And the instructions, duke-”

“I will give them to Nicole. Is she intelligent-”

The baron smiled.

“Then you confide her to me, do you not-” said Richelieu.

“That is your affair, duke; you asked me for her, I give her to you; make of her what you like.”

“Mademoiselle, come with me,” said the duke, rising and calling into the corridor, “and that quickly.”

Nicole did not wait to be told twice. Without asking the baron for his consent, she made up a packet of clothes in five minutes, and light as a bird, she flew downstairs and took her place beside the coachman.

Richelieu took leave of his friend, who repeated his thanks for the service he had rendered Philip. Of Andree not a word was said; it was necessary to do more than speak of her.

CHAPTER XCII. THE TRANSFORMATION.

NICOLE WAS overjoyed. To leave Taverney for Paris was not half so great a triumph as to leave Paris for Trianon. She was so gracious with M. de Richelieu's coachman, that the next morning the reputation of the new femme-de-chambre was established throughout all the coach-houses and antechambers, in any degree aristocratic, of Paris and Versailles.

When they arrived at the Hotel de Hanover, M. de Richelieu took the little waiting-maid by the hand and led her to the first story, where M. Rafte was waiting his arrival, and writing a multitude of letters, all on his master's account.

Amid the various acquirements of the marshal, war occupied the foremost rank, and Rafte had become, at least in theory such a skillful man of war, that Polybius and the Chevalier de Fobard, if they had lived at that period, would have esteemed themselves fortunate could they have perused the pamphlets on fortifications and maneuvering, of which Rafte wrote one every week. M. Rafte was busy revising the plan of a war against the English in the Mediterranean when the marshal entered, and said:

“Rafte, look at this child, will you-”

Rafte looked.

“Very pretty,” said he, with a most significant movement of the lips.

“Yes, but the likeness, Rafte- It is of the likeness I speak.”

“Oh! true. What the deuce!”

“You see it, do you not-”

“It is extraordinary; it will either make or mar her fortune.”

“It will ruin her in the first place; but we shall arrange all that. You observe she has fair hair, Rafte; but that will not signify much, will it-”

“It will only be necessary to make it black, my lord,” replied Rafte, who had acquired the habit of completing his master's thoughts, and sometimes even of thinking entirely for him.

“Come to my dressing table, child,” said the marshal, “this gentleman, who is a very clever man, will make you the handsomest and the least easily recognized waiting-maid in France.”

In fact, ten minutes afterward, with the assistance of a composition which the marshal used every week to dye the white hairs beneath his wig black, a piece of coquetry which he often affected to confess by the bedside of some of his acquaintances, Rafte had dyed the beautiful auburn hair of Nicole a splendid jet black.

Then he passed the end of a pin, blackened in the flame of a candle, over her thick fair eyebrows, and by this means gave such a fantastic look to her joyous countenance, such an ardent and even somber fire to her bright clear eyes, that one would have said she was some fairy bursting by the power of an incantation from the magic prison in which her enchanter had held her confined.

“Now, my sweet child,” said Richelieu, after having handed a mirror to the astonished Nicole, “look how charming you are, and how little like the Nicole you were just now. You have no longer a queen to fear, but a fortune to make.”

“Oh, my lord!” exclaimed the young girl.

“Yes, and for that purpose it is only necessary that we understand each other.”

Nicole blushed and looked down; the cunning one expected, no doubt, some of those flattering words which Richelieu knew so well how to say.

The duke perceived this, and, to cut short all misunderstandings, said:

“Sit down in this armchair beside M. Rafte, my clear child. Open your ears wide, and listen to me. Oh! do not let M. Rafte's presence embarrass you; do not be afraid; he will, on the contrary, give us his advice. You are listening, are you not-”

“Yes, my lord,” stammered Nicole, ashamed at having thus been led away by her vanity.

The conversation between M. de Richelieu, M. Rafte, and Nicole lasted more than an hour, after which the marshal sent the little femme-de-chambre to sleep with the other waiting-women in the hotel.

Rafte returned to his military pamphlet, and Richelieu retired to bed, after having looked over the different letters which conveyed to him intelligence of all the acts of the provincial parliaments against M. d'Aiguillon and the Dubarry clique.

Early the next day, one of his carriages without his coat of arms conducted Nicole to Trianon, set her down at the gate with her little packet, and immediately disappeared. Nicole, with head erect, mind at ease, and hope dancing in her eyes, after having made the necessary inquiries, knocked at the door of the offices.

It was ten o'clock in the morning. Andree, already up and dressed, was writing to her father to inform him of the happy event of the preceding day, of which M. de Richelieu, as we have already seen, had made himself the messenger. Our readers will not have forgotten that a flight of stone steps led from the garden to the little chapel of Trianon; that on the landing-place of this chapel a staircase branched off toward the right to the first story, which contained the apartments of the ladies-in-waiting, which apartments opened off a long corridor, like an alley, looking upon the garden.

Andree's apartment was the first upon the left hand in this corridor. It was tolerably large, well-lighted by windows looking upon the stable court, and preceded by a little bedroom with a closet on either side. This apartment, however insufficient, if one considers the ordinary household of the officers of a brilliant court, was yet a charming retreat, very habitable, and very cheerful as an asylum from the noise and bustle of the palace. There an ambitious soul could fly to devour the affronts or the mistakes of the day, and there, too, a humble and melancholy spirit could repose in silence and in solitude, apart from the grandeur of the gay world around.

In fact, the stone steps once ascended and the chapel passed, there no longer existed either superiority, duty, or display. There reigned the calm of a convent, and the personal liberty of prison life. The slave of the palace was a monarch when she had crossed the threshold of her modest dwelling. A gentle yet lofty soul such as Andree's found consolation in this reflection; not that she flew here to repose after the fatigues of a disappointed ambition, or of unsatisfied longings; but she felt that she could think more at her ease in the narrow bounds of her chamber than in the rich salons of Trianon, or those marble halls which her feet trod with a timidity amounting almost to terror.

From this sequestered nook, where the young girl felt herself so well and so appropriately placed, she could look without emotion on all the splendor which, during the day, had met her dazzled eye. Surrounded by her flowers, her harpsichord, and her German books-such sweet companions to those who read with the heart -Andree defied fate to inflict on her a single grief, or to deprive her of a single joy.

“Here,” said she, when in the evening, after her duties were over, she returned to throw around her shoulders her dressing-gown with its wide folds, and to breathe with all her soul, as with all her lungs; “here I possess nearly everything I can hope to possess till my death. I may one day perhaps be richer, but I can never be poorer than I now am. There will always be flowers, music, and a consoling page to cheer the poor recluse.”

Andree had obtained permission to breakfast in her own apartment when she felt inclined. This was a precious boon to her, for she could thus remain in her own domicile until twelve o'clock, unless the dauphiness should command her attendance for some morning reading or some early walk. Thus free, in fine weather she set out every morning with a book in her hand, and traversed alone the extensive woods which lie between Versailles and Trianon; then, after a walk of two hours, during which she gave full play to meditation and reverie, she returned to breakfast, often without having seen either nobleman or servant, man or livery.

When the heat began to pierce through the thick foliage, Andree had her little chamber fresh and cool with the double current of air from the door and the window. A small sofa covered, with Indian silk, four chairs to match, a simple yet elegant bed with a circular top, from which the curtains of the same material as the covering of the furniture fell in deep folds, two china vases placed upon the chimneypiece, and a square table with brass feet, composed her little world, whose narrow confines bounded all her hopes and limited all her wishes.

Andree was seated in her apartment, therefore, as we have said, and busily engaged in writing to her father, when a little modest knock at the door of the corridor attracted her attention.

She raised her head on seeing the door open, and uttered a slight cry of astonishment when the radiant face of Nicole appeared, entering from the little antechamber.

CHAPTER XCIII. HOW PLEASURE TO SOME IS DESPAIR TO OTHERS.

“GOOD-DAY, mademoiselle, it is I,” said Nicole, with a joyous curtsey, which nevertheless, from the young girl's knowledge of her mistress's character, was not unmixed with anxiety.

“You! And how do you happen to be here-” replied Andree, putting down her pen, the better to follow the conversation which was thus commenced.

“Mademoiselle had forgotten me, so I came-

“But if I forgot you, mademoiselle, it was because I had my reasons for so doing. Who gave you permission to come-”

“Monsieur the baron, of course, mademoiselle,” said Nicole, smoothing the handsome black eyebrows which she owed to the generosity of M. Rafte with a very dissatisfied air.

“My father requires your services in Paris, and I do not require you here at all. You may return, child.”

“Oh, then, mademoiselle does not care -I thought mademoiselle had been more pleased with me. It is well worth while loving,” added Nicole, philosophically, “to meet with such a return at last.”

And she did her utmost to bring a tear to her beautiful eyes.

There was enough of heart and feeling in this reproach to excite Andree's compassion.

“My child,” said she, “I have attendance here already, and I cannot permit myself unnecessarily to increase the household of the dauphiness by another mouth.”

“Oh! as if this mouth was so large!” said Nicole, with a charming smile.

“No matter, Nicole, your presence here is impossible.”

“On account of this resemblance-” said the young girl. “Then you have not looked at my face, mademoiselle-”

“In fact, you seem changed.”

“I think so! A fine gentleman, he who got the promotion for M. Philip, came to us yesterday, and as he saw the baron quite melancholy at your being here without a waiting-maid, he told him that nothing was easier than to change me from fair to dark. He brought me with him, dressed me as you see, and here I am.”

Andree smiled.

“You must love me very much,” said she, “since you are determined at all risks to shut yourself up in Trianon, where I am almost a prisoner.”

Nicole cast a rapid but intelligent glance round the room.

“The chamber is not very gay,” said she, “but you are not always in it-”

“I- Of course not,” replied Andree; “but you-”

“Well, I-”

“You, who will never enter the salons of madame the dauphiness; you, who will have neither the resource of the theater, nor the walk, nor the evening circle, but will always remain here-you will die of weariness.”

“Oh!” said Nicole, “there is always some little window or other; one can surely see some little glimpse of the gay world without, were it only through the chinks of the door. If a person can see, they can also be seen -that is all I require, so do not be uneasy on my account.”

“I repeat, Nicole, that I cannot receive you without express orders from my father.”

“Is that your settled determination-”

“It is.”

Nicole drew the Baron de Taverney's letter from her bosom.

“There,” said she, “since my entreaties and my devotion to you have had no effect, let us see if the order contained in this will have more power.”

Andree read the letter, which was in the following terms:

“I am aware, and indeed it is already remarked, my dear Andree, that you do not occupy the position at Trianon which your rank imperatively requires. You ought to have two femmes-de-chambre and a valet, as I ought to have clear twenty thousand pounds per annum; but as I am satisfied with one thousand pounds, imitate my example, and content yourself with Nicole, who in her own person is worth all the servants you ought to have.

“Nicole is quick, intelligent, and devoted to you, and will readily adopt the tone and manners of her new locality. Your chief care indeed will he not to stimulate her, but to repress her anxiety. Keep her, then; and do not imagine that I am making any sacrifice in depriving myself of her services. Incase you should think so, remember that his majesty, who had the goodness to think of us, remarked on seeing you (this was confided to me by a good friend), that you required a little more attention to your toilet and general appearance. Think of this; it is of great importance.

“YOUR AFFECTIONATE FATHER.”

This letter threw Andree into a state of grief and perplexity. She was then to be haunted, even in her new prosperity, by the remembrance of that poverty which she alone did not feel to be a fault, while all around seemed to consider it as a crime.

Her first impulse was to break her pen indignantly, to tear the letter she had commenced, and to reply to her father's epistle by some lofty tirade expressive of philosophical self-denial, which Philip would have approved of with all his heart. But she imagined she saw the baron's satirical smile on reading this chef-d'oeuvre, and her resolution vanished. She merely replied to the baron's order, therefore, by a paragraph annexed to the news of Trianon which she had already written to him according to his request.

“My father,” she added, “Nicole has this moment arrived, and I receive her, since you wish it; but what you have written on this subject has vexed me. Shall I be less ridiculous with this village girl as waiting-maid, than when I was alone amid this wealthy court- Nicole will be unhappy at seeing me humbled; she will be discontented; for servants feel proud or humbled in proportion to the wealth or poverty of their masters. As to his majesty's remark, my father, permit me to tell you that the king has too much good sense to be displeased at my incapacity to play the grand lady, and, besides, his majesty has too much heart to have remarked or criticized my poverty without transforming it into a wealth to which your name and services would have had a legitimate claim in the eyes of all.”

This was Andree's reply, and it must be confessed that her ingenuous innocence, her noble pride, had an easy triumph over the cunning and corruption of her tempters.

Andree said no more respecting Nicole. She agreed to her remaining, so that the latter, joyous and animated, she well knew why, prepared on the spot a little bed in the cabinet on the right of the antechamber, and made herself as small, as aerial, and as exquisite as possible, in order not to inconvenience her mistress by her presence in this modest retreat. One would have thought she wished to imitate the rose-leaf which the Persian sages let fall upon a vase filled with water to show that something could be added without spilling the contents.

Andree set out for Trianon about one o'clock. She had never been more quickly or more gracefully attired. Nicole had surpassed herself; politeness, attention, and zeal-nothing had been wanting in her services.

When Mademoiselle de Taverney was gone, Nicole felt herself mistress of the domicile, and instituted a thorough examination of it. Everything was scrutinized, from the letters to the smallest knickknack on the toilet-table, from the mantelpiece to the most secret corners of the closets. Then she looked out of the windows to take a survey of the neighborhood.

Below her was a large courtyard, in which several hostlers were dressing and currying the splendid horses of the dauphiness. Hostlers! pshaw! Nicole turned away her head.

On the right was a row of windows on the same story as those of Andree's apartment. Several heads appeared at these windows, apparently those of chambermaids and floor-scrubbers. Nicole disdainfully proceeded in her examination.

On the opposite side, in a large apartment, some music-teachers were drilling a class of choristers and instrumentalists for the mass of St. Louis. Without ceasing her dusting operations, Nicole commenced to sing; after her own fashion, thus distracting the attention of the masters, and causing the choristers to sing false.

But this pastime could not long satisfy Mademoiselle Nicole's ambition. When the masters and the singers had quarreled, and been mystified sufficiently, the little waiting-maid proceeded to the inspection of the higher story. All the windows were closed, and, moreover, they were only attics, so Nicole continued her dusting. But a moment afterward, one of these attic windows was opened without her being able to discover by what mechanism, for no one appeared. Some person however must have opened this window; this some person must have seen Nicole and yet nut have remained to look at her, thereby proving himself a most impertinent some person. At least, such was Nicole's opinion. But she, who examined everything so conscientiously, could not avoid examining the features of this impertinent; and she therefore returned every moment from her different avocations to the window to give a glance at this attic-that is, at this open eye from which the eyeball was so obstinately absent. Once she imagined that the person fled as she approached; but this was incredible, and she did not believe it.

On another occasion she was almost certain of the fact, having seen the back of the fugitive, surprised, no doubt, by a prompter return than he had anticipated. Then Nicole had recourse to stratagem. She concealed herself behind the curtain, leaving the window wide open to drown all suspicion.

She waited a long time, but at last a head of black hair made its appearance; then came two timid hands, which supported, buttress like, a body bending over cautiously; and, finally, a face showed itself distinctly at the window. Nicole almost fell, and grasped the curtain so tightly, in her surprise, that it shook from top to bottom.

It was Monsieur Gilbert's face which was looking at her from this lofty attic. But the moment Gilbert saw the curtain move, he comprehended the trick, and appeared no more. To mend the matter, the attic window was closed.

No doubt Gilbert had seen Nicole; he had been astonished, and had wished to convince himself of the presence of his enemy; and when he found himself discovered instead, he had fled in agitation and in anger. At least, Nicole interpreted the scene thus, and she was right, for this was the exact state of the case.

In fact, Gilbert would rather have seen his Satanic majesty in person than Nicole. The arrival of this spy caused him a thousand terrors. He felt an old leaven of jealousy against her, for she knew his secret of the garden in the Rue Coq-Heron.

Gilbert had fled in agitation, but not in agitation alone, but also in anger, and biting his nails with rage.

“Of what use now is my foolish discovery, of which I was so proud-” said he to himself. “Even if Nicole had a lover in Paris, the evil is done, and she will not be sent away from this on that account; but if she tells what I did in the Rue Coq-Heron, I shall be dismissed from Trianon. It is not I who govern Nicole-it is she who governs me. Oh, fury!”

And Gilbert's inordinate self-love, serving as a stimulant to his hatred, made his blood boil with frightful violence. It seemed to him that Nicole, in entering that apartment, had chased from it, with a diabolical smile, all the happy dreams which Gilbert from his garret had wafted thither every night along with his vows, his ardent love, and his flowers. Had Gilbert been too much occupied to think of Nicole before, or had he banished the subject from his thoughts on account of the terror with which it inspired him- We cannot determine; but this we do know, at least, that Nicole's appearance was a most disagreeable surprise for him.

He saw plainly that, sooner or later, war would be declared between them; but, as Gilbert was prudent and politic, he did not wish the war to commence until he felt himself strong enough to make it energetic and effective. With this intention he determined to counterfeit death until chance should present him with a favorable opportunity of reviving, or until Nicole, from weakness or necessity, should venture on some step which would deprive her of her present vantage ground. Therefore, all eye, all ear, when Andree was concerned, but at the same time ceaselessly vigilant, he continued to make himself acquainted with the state of affairs in the first apartment of the corridor, without Nicole ever having once met him in the gardens.

Unluckily for Nicole, she was not irreproachable, and even had she been so for the present, there was always one stumbling-block in the past over which she could be made to fall.

At the end of a week's ceaseless watching, morning, noon, and night, Gilbert at last saw through the bars of his window a plume which he fancied he recognized. This plume was a source of constant agitation to Nicole, for it belonged to M. Beausire, who, following the rest of the court, had emigrated from Paris to Trianon.

For a long time Nicole was cruel; for a long time she left M. Beausire to shiver in the cold, and melt in the sun, and her prudence drove Gilbert to despair; but one fine morning, when M. Beausire had, doubtless, overleaped the barrier of mimic eloquence, and found an opportunity of bringing persuasive words to his aid, Nicole profited by Andree's absence to descend to the courtyard and join M. Beausire, who was assisting his friend, the superintendent of the stables, to train a little Shetland pony.

From the court they passed into the garden, and from thence into the shady avenue which leads to Versailles. Gilbert followed the amorous couple with the ferocious joy of a tiger who scents his prey. He counted their steps, their sighs, learned by heart all he heard of their conversation, and it may be presumed that the result pleased him, for the next day, freed from all embarrassment, he displayed himself openly at his attic window, humming a song and looking quite at ease, and so far from fearing to be seen by Nicole, that, on the contrary, he seemed to brave her look.

Nicole was mending an embroidered silken mitten belonging to her mistress; she heard the song, raised her head, and saw Gilbert. The first evidence she gave of Ids presence was a contemptuous pouting, which bordered on the bitter, and breathed of hostility at a league's distance. But Gilbert sustained this look with such a singular smile, and there was such provoking intelligence in his air and in his manner of singing, that Nicole looked down and blushed.

“She understands me,” thought Gilbert; “that is all I wished.” On subsequent occasions Gilbert continued the same behavior, and it was now Nicole's turn to tremble. She went so far as to long for an interview with him, in order to free her heart from the load with which the satirical looks of the young gardener had burdened it.

Gilbert saw that she sought him. He could not misunderstand the short dry coughs which sounded near the window whenever Nicole knew him to be in his attic, nor the goings and comings of the young girl in the corridor when she supposed he might be ascending or descending the stairs. For a short time he was very proud of this triumph, which he attributed entirely to his strength of character and wise precautions. Nicole watched him so well that once she spied him as he mounted to his attic. She called him, but he did not reply.

Prompted either by curiosity or fear, Nicole went still farther. One evening she took off her pretty high-heeled slippers, a present from Andree, and with a trembling and hurried step she ventured into the corridor, at the end of which she saw Gilbert's door. There was still sufficient daylight to enable Gilbert, aware of Nicole's approach, to see her distinctly through the joining, or rather through the crevices of the panels. She knocked at the door, knowing well that he was in his room, but Gilbert did not reply.

It was, nevertheless, a dangerous temptation for him. He could, at his ease, humble her who thus came to entreat his pardon, and prompted by this thought, he had already raised his hand to draw the bolt which, with his habitual precaution and vigilance, he had fastened to avoid surprise.

“But no,” thought he, “no. She is all calculation; it is from fear or interest alone that she comes to seek me. She therefore hopes to gain something by her visit; but if so, what may I not lose-”

And with this reasoning he let his hand fall again by his side. Nicole, after having knocked at the door two or three times, retired frowning. Gilbert therefore kept all his advantage, and Nicole had only to redouble her cunning in order not to lose hers entirely. At last, all these projects and counter-projects reduced themselves to this dialogue, which took place between the belligerent parties one evening at the chapel door, where chance had brought them together.

“Ha! good-evening, Monsieur Gilbert; you are here, then, are you-”

“Oh! good-evening, Mademoiselle Nicole; you are at Trianon-”

“As you see-waiting-maid to mademoiselle.”

“And I am assistant-gardener.”

Then Nicole made a deep curtsey to Gilbert, who returned her a most courtly bow, and they separated. Gilbert ascended to his attic as if he had been on his way thither, and Nicole left the offices and proceeded on her errand; but Gilbert glided down again stealthily, and followed the young femme-de-chambre, calculating that she was going to meet M. Beausire.

A man was indeed waiting for her beneath the shadows of the alley; Nicole approached him. It was too dark for Gilbert to recognize M. Beausire; rind the absence of the plume puzzled him so much, that he let Nicole return to her domicile, and followed the man as far as the gate of Trianon.

It was not M. Beausire, but a man of a certain age, or rather certainly aged, with a distinguished air, and a brisk gait, notwithstanding his advanced years. When he approached, Gilbert, who carried his assurance so far as almost to brush past him, recognized M. de Richelieu.

“Peste!” said he, “first an officer, now a marshal of France! Mademoiselle Nicole ascends in the scale.”

CHAPTER XCIV. THE PARLIAMENTS.

WHILE ALL THESE minor intrigues, hatched and brought to light beneath the linden trees and amid the alleys of Trianon, formed a sufficiently animated existence for the insects of this little world, the great intrigues of the town, like threatening tempests, spread their vast wings over the palace of Themis, as M. Jean Dubarry wrote in mythological parlance to his sister.

The parliaments, those degenerate remains of the ancient French opposition, had taken breath beneath the capricious government of Louis XV.; but since their protector, M. de Choiseul, had fallen, they felt the approach of danger, and they prepared to meet it by measures as energetic as their circumstances would permit.

Every general commotion is kindled at first lay some personal quarrel, as the pitched battles of armies commence by skirmishes of outposts. Since M. de la Chalotais had attacked M. d'Aiguillon, and in so doing had personified the struggle of the tiers-etat with the feudal lords, the public mind had taken possession of the question, and would not permit it to be deferred or displaced.

Now the king-whom the parliament of Brittany and of all France had deluged with a flood of petitions, more or less submissive and foolish-the king, thanks to Madame Dubarry, had just given his countenance to the feudal against the tiers party, by nominating M. d'Aiguillon to the command of his light horse.

M. Jean Dubarry had described it very correctly; it was a smart fillip to “the dear and trusty counselors, sitting in high court of parliament.”

“How would the blow be taken-”

Town and court asked itself this question every morning at sunrise; but members of parliament are clever people, and where others are much embarrassed they see clearly. They began with agreeing among themselves as to the application and the result of this blow, after which they adopted the following resolution, when it had been clearly ascertained that the blow had been given and received:

“The court of parliament will deliberate upon the conduct of the ex-governor of Brittany, and give its opinion thereon.”

But the king parried the blow by sending a message to the peers and princes, forbidding them to repair to the palace, or be present at any deliberation which might take place concerning M. d'Aiguillon. They obeyed to the letter.

Then the parliament, determined to do its business itself, passed a decree, in which, after declaring that the Duke d'Aiguillon was seriously inculpated and tainted with suspicion, even on matters which touched his honor, it proclaimed that that peer was suspended from the functions of the peerage, until, by a judgment given in the court of peers, with the forms and solemnities prescribed by the laws and customs of the kingdom, the place of which nothing can supply, he had fully cleared himself from the accusations and suspicions now resting on his honor.

But such a decree passed merely in the court of parliament before those interested, and inscribed in their reports, was nothing; public notoriety was wanting, and, above all, that uproar which song alone ventures to raise in France, and which makes song the sovereign controller of events and rulers. This decree of parliament must be heightened and strengthened by the power of song.

Paris desired nothing better than to take part in this commotion. Little disposed to view either court or parliament with favor, Paris in its ceaseless movement was waiting for some good subject for a laugh, as a transition from all the causes for tears which had been furnished it for centuries.

The decree was therefore properly and duly passed, and the parliament appointed commissioners, who were to have it printed under their own eyes. Ten thousand copies of the decree were to be struck off, and the distribution organized without delay.

Then, as it was one of their rules that the person interested should be informed of what the court had done respecting him, the same commissioners proceeded to the hotel of the Duke d'Aiguillon, who had just arrived in Paris for an important interview, no less indeed than to have a clear and open explanation, which had become necessary between the duke and his uncle, the marshal.

Thanks to Rafte, all Versailles had been, informed within an hour of the noble resistance of the old duke to the king's orders, touching the portfolio of M. de Choiseul. Thanks to Versailles, all Paris and all France had learned the same news; so that Richelieu had found himself for some time past on the summit of popularity', from which he made political grimaces at Madame Dubarry and his clear nephew.

The position was unfavorable for M. d'Aiguillon, who was already so unpopular. The marshal, hated, but at the same time feared, by the people, because he was the living type of that nobility which was so respected and so respectable under Louis XV.-the marshal, so Protean in his character, that, after having chosen a part, he was able to withdraw from it without difficulty when circumstances required it, when a bon-mot might be the result-Richelieu, we repeat, was a dangerous enemy; the more so as the worst part of his enmity was always that which he concealed, in order, as he said, to create a surprise.

The Duke d'Aiguillon, since his interview with Madame Dubarry, had two flaws in his coat of mail. Suspecting how much anger and thirst for revenge Richelieu concealed under the apparent equality of his temper, he acted as mariners do in certain cases of difficulty-he burst the waterspout with his cannon, assured that the danger would be less if it were faced boldly. He set about looking everywhere for his uncle, therefore, in order to have a serious conversation with him; but nothing was more difficult to accomplish than this step, since the marshal had discovered his wish. Marches and countermarches commenced. When the marshal saw his nephew at a distance, he sent him a smile, and immediately surrounded in itself by people who rendered all communication impossible, thus putting the enemy at defiance as from an impregnable fort.

The Duke d'Aiguillon burst the waterspout. He simply presented himself at his uncle's hotel at Versailles; but Rafte, from his post at the little window of the hotel looking upon the Court, recognized the liveries of the duke, and warned his master. The duke entered the marshal's bedroom, where he found Rafte alone, who, with a most confidential smile, was so indiscreet as to inform the nephew that his uncle had not slept at home that night.

M. d'Aiguillon bit his lips and retired. When he returned to his hotel, he wrote to the marshal to request an audience. The marshal could not refuse to reply. If he replied, he could not refuse an audience; and if he granted the audience, how could he refuse a full explanation; M. d'Aiguillon resembled too much those polite and engaging duelists, who hide their evil designs under a fascinating and graceful exterior, lead their man upon the ground with bows and reverences, and there put him to death without pity.

The marshal's self-love was not so powerful as to mislead him; he knew his nephew's power. Once in his presence, his opponent would force from him either a pardon or a concession. Now, Richelieu never pardoned anyone, and concessions to an enemy are always a dangerous fault in politics. Therefore, on receipt of M. d'Aguillon's letter, he pretended to have left Paris for several days.

Rafte, whom he consulted upon this point, gave him the following advice:

“We are on the fair way to ruin M. d'Aiguillon. Our friends of the parliament will do the work. If M. d'Aiguillon, who suspects this, can lay his hand upon you before the explosion, he will force from you a promise to assist him in case of misfortune; for your resentment is of that kind that you cannot openly gratify it at the expense of your family interest. If, on the contrary, you refuse, M. d'Aiguillon will leave you knowing you to he his enemy and attributing all his misfortunes to you; and he will go away comforted, as people always are when they have found out the cause of their complaint, even although the complaint itself be not removed.”

“That is quite true.” replied Richelieu; “but I cannot conceal myself forever. How many days will it be before the explosion takes place-”

“Six days, my lord.”

“Are you sure-”

Rafte drew from his pocket a letter from a counselor of the parliament. This letter contained only the following lines:

“It has been decided that the decree shall be passed. It will take place on Thursday, the final day fixed on by the company.”

“Then the affair is very simple,” replied the marshal; “send the duke back his letter with a note from your own hand:

“MY LORD DUKE-You have doubtless heard of the departure of my lord marshal for… Change of air has been judged indispensable by the marshal's physician, who thinks him rather overworked. If, as I believe is the case, after what you did me the honor to tell me the other day, you wish to have an interview with my lord, I can assure you that on Thursday evening next the duke, on his return from… will sleep in his hotel in Paris, where you will certainly find him.”

“And now,” added the marshal, “hide me somewhere until Thursday.”

Rafte punctually fulfilled these instructions; the letter was written and sent, the hiding-place was found. Only one evening. Richelieu, who began to feel very much wearied, slipped out and proceeded to Trianon to speak to Nicole. He risked nothing, or thought he risked nothing, by this step, knowing the Duke d'Aiguillon to be at the pavilion of Luciennes. The result of this maneuver was, that even if M. d'Aiguillon suspected something, he could not foresee the blow which menaced him until he had actually met his enemy's sword.

The delay until Thursday satisfied him; on that day he left Versailles with the hope of at last meeting and combating this impalpable antagonist. This Thursday was, as we have said, the day on which parliament was to proclaim its decree.

An agitation, low and muttering as yet, but perfectly intelligible to the Parisian, who knows so well the level of these popular waves, reigned in the wide streets through which M. d'Aiguillon's carriage passed. No notice was taken of him, for he had observed the precaution of coming in a carriage without a coat of arms or other heraldic distinctions.

Here and there he saw busy-looking crowds, who were showing each other some paper which they read with many gesticulations, and collecting in noisy groups, like ants round a piece of sugar fallen to the ground. But this was the period of inoffensive agitation; the people were then in the habit of congregating together in this manner for a corn tax, for an article in the “Gazette de Holland,” for a verse of Voltaire's, or for a song against Dubarry or Maupeou.

M. d'Aiguillon drove straight to M. de Richelieu's hotel. He found there M. Rafte.

“The marshal,” the secretary said, “was expected every moment; some delay of the post must have detained him at the barrier.”

M. d'Aiguillon proposed waiting, not without expressing some impatience to Rafte, for he took this excuse as a new defeat. His ill-humor increased however when Rafte told him that the marshal would be in despair on his return to find that M. d'Aiguillon had been kept waiting; that besides, he was not to sleep in Paris, as he had at first intended; and that, most probably, he would not return from the country alone, and would just call in passing at his hotel to see if there was any news; that therefore M. d'Aiguillon would be wiser to return to his house, where the marshal could call as he passed.

“Listen, Rafte,” said d'Aiguillon, who had become more gloomy during this mysterious reply; “you are my uncle's conscience, and I trust you will answer me as an honest man. I am played upon, am I not, and the marshal does not wish to see me- Do not interrupt me, Rafte; you have been a valuable counselor to me, and I might have been, and can yet be, a good friend to you; must I return to Versailles-”

“My lord duke, I assure you, upon my honor, you will receive a visit at your own house from the marshal in less than an hour.”

“Then I can as well wait here, since he will come this way.”

“I have had the honor of informing you that he will probably not be alone.”

“I understand. And I have your word, Rafte-”

At these words the duke retired deep in thought, but with an air as noble and graceful as the marshal's was the reverse, when, after his nephew's departure, he emerged from a closet, through the glass door of which he had been peeping.

The marshal smiled like one of those hideous demons which Callot has introduced in his “Temptations.”

“He suspects nothing, Rafte-” said he.

“Nothing, my lord.”

“What hour is it-”

“The hour has nothing to do with the matter, my lord. You must wait until our little procureur of the chatelet makes his appearance. The commissioners are still at the printer's.”

Rafte had scarce finished, when a footman opened a secret door, and introduced a personage, very ugly, very greasy, very black-one of those living pens for which Monsieur Dubarry professed such a profound antipathy.

Rafte pushed the marshal into a closet, and hastened, smiling, to meet this man.

“Ah! it is you, M. Flageot-” said he; “I am delighted to see you!”

“Your servant, Monsieur Rafte. Well! the business is done.”

“Is it printed-”

“Five thousand are struck off. The first proofs are already scattered over the town, the others are drying.”

“What a misfortune, my dear M. Flageot! What a blow to the marshal's family!”

M. Flageot, to avoid the necessity of answering-that is, of telling a lie -drew a large silver box from his pocket, and slowly inhaled a pinch of Spanish snuff.

“Well, what is to be done now-” asked Rafte.

“The forms, my dear sir, the forms. The commissioners, now that they are sure of the printing and the distribution, will immediately enter their carriages, which are waiting at the door of the printing-office, and proceed to make known the decree to M. the Duke d'Aiguillon, who happens luckily -I mean unfortunately, M. Rafte-to be in his hotel in Paris, where they can have an interview with him in person.”

Rafte hastily seized an enormous bag of legal documents from a shelf, which he gave to M. Flageot, saying:

“These are the suits which I mentioned to you, sir; the marshal has the greatest confidence in your abilities, and leaves this affair, which ought to prove most remunerative, entirely in your hands. I have to thank you for your good offices in this deplorable conflict of M. d'Aiguillon's with the all-powerful parliament of Paris, and also for your very valuable advice.”

And he gently, but with some haste, pushed M. Flageot, delighted with the weight of his burden, toward the door of the antechamber. Then, releasing the marshal from his prison:

“Quick, my lord, to your carriage! You have no time to lose if you wish to be present at the scene. Take care that your horses go more quickly than those of the commissioners.”

CHAPTER XCV. IN WHICH IT IS SHOWN THAT THE PATH OF A MINISTER IS NOT ALWAYS STREWN WITH ROSES.

THE MARSHAL DE RICHELIEU'S horses did go more quickly than those of the commissioners, for the marshal entered first into the courtyard of the Hotel d'Aiguillon.

The duke did not expect his uncle, and was preparing to return to Luciennes to inform Madame Dubarry that the enemy had been unmasked, when the announcement of the marshal's arrival roused his discouraged mind from its torpor.

The duke hastened to meet his uncle, and took both his hands in his with a warmth of affection proportionate to the fear he had experienced. The marshal was as affectionate as the duke; the tableau was touching. The Duke d'Aiguillon, however, was manifestly endeavoring to hasten the period of explanation, while the marshal, on the contrary, delayed it as much as possible, by looking at the pictures, the bronzes, or the tapestry, and complaining of dreadful fatigue.

The duke cut off the marshal's retreat, imprisoned him in an armchair, as M. de Villars imprisoned the Prince Eugene in Marchiennes, and commenced the attack.

“Uncle,” said he, “is it true that you, the most discriminating man in France, have judged so ill of me as to think that my self-seeking did not extend to us both-”

There was no longer room for retreat; Richelieu decided on his plan of action.

“What do you mean by that-” replied he, “and in what do you perceive that I judged unfavorably of you or the reverse, my dear nephew-”

“Uncle, you are offended with me.”

“But for what and how-”

“Oh! these loopholes, my lord marshal, will not serve you; in one word, you avoid me when I need your assistance.”

“Upon my honor, I do not understand you.”

“I will explain, then. The king refused to nominate you for his minister, and because I, on my part, accepted the command of the light horse, you imagine that I have deserted and betrayed you. That dear countess, too, who loves you so well!”

Here Richelieu listened eagerly, but not to his nephew's words alone.

“You say she loves me well, this dear countess-” he added.

“And I can prove it.”

“But, my dear fellow, I never doubted it. I send for you to assist me to push the wheel; you are younger, and therefore stronger than I am; you succeed, I fail. That is in the natural course of things, and on my faith I cannot imagine why you have all these scruples. If you have acted for my interest, you will be a hundred-fold repaid, if against me-well! I shall only return the fisticuff. Does that require explanation-”

“In truth, uncle-

“You are a child, duke. Your position is magnificent; a peer of France, a duke, a commander of the light horse, minister in six weeks-you ought to be beyond the influence of all futile intrigues. Success absolves, my dear child. Suppose-I like apologues-suppose that we are the two mules in the fable. But what noise is that-”

“Nothing, my dear uncle, proceed.”

“There is something; I hear a carriage in the courtyard.”

“Do not let it interrupt you, uncle, pray; your conversation interests me extremely. I like apologues, too.”

“Well, my friend, I was going to say that when you are prosperous you will never meet with reproaches, nor need you fear the spite of the envious; but if you limp, if you fall-Diable! you must take care-then it is that the wolf will attack you. But you see I was right; there is a noise in the antechamber; it is the portfolio which they are bringing you, no doubt. The little countess must have exerted herself for you.”

The usher entered.

“Messieurs the commissioners of the parliament!” said he, uneasily.

“Ha!” exclaimed Richelieu.

“The commissioners of the parliament here- What do they want with me-” replied the duke, not at all reassured by his uncle's smile.

“In the king's name!” cried a sonorous voice at the end of the antechamber.

“Oh, ho!” cried Richelieu.

M. d'Aiguillon turned very pale; he rose, however, and advanced to the threshold of the apartment to introduce the two commissioners, behind whom were stationed two motionless ushers, and in the distance a host of alarmed footmen.

“What is your errand here-” asked the duke, in a trembling voice.

“Have we the honor of speaking to the Duke d'Aiguillon-” said one of the commissioners.

“I am the Duke d'Aiguillon, gentlemen.”

The commissioner, bowing profoundly, drew from his belt the act in proper form, and read it in a loud and distinct voice.

It was the decree, detailed, complete, and circumstantial, which declared d'Aiguillon gravely arraigned and prejudiced by suspicions even regarding matters which affected his honor, and suspended him from his functions as peer of the realm.

The duke listened to the reading like a man thunderstruck. He stood motionless as a statue on its pedestal, and did not even hold out his hand to take the copy of the decree which the commissioners of the parliament offered him.

It was the marshal who, also standing, but alert and nimble, took the paper, read it, and returned the bow of messieurs the commissioners. They were already at; some distance from the mansion, before the Duke d'Aiguillon recovered from his stupor.

“This is a severe blow,” said Richelieu; “you are no longer a peer of France; it is humiliating.”

The duke turned to his uncle as if he had only at that moment recovered the power of life and thought.

“You did not expect it-” asked Richelieu, in the same tone.

“And you, uncle-” rejoined d'Aiguillon.

“How do you imagine anyone could suspect that the parliament would strike so cold a blow at the favored courtier of the king and his favorite; these people will ruin themselves.”

The duke sat down, and leaned his burning cheek on his hand.

“But if,” continued the old marshal, forcing the dagger deeper into the wound, “if the parliament degrades you from the peerage because you are nominated to the command of the light horse, they will decree you a prisoner and condemn you to the stake when you are appointed minister. These people hate you, d'Aiguillon; do not trust them.”

The duke bore this cruel irony with the fortitude of a hero; his misfortune raised and strengthened his mind. Richelieu thought this fortitude was only insensibility, or want of comprehension perhaps, and that the wound had not been deep enough.

“Being no longer a peer,” said he, “you will be less exposed to the hatred of these lawyers. Take refuge in a few years of obscurity. Besides, look you, this obscurity, which will be your safeguard, will come without your seeking it. Deprived of your functions of peer, you will have more difficulty in reaching the ministry, and may perhaps escape the business altogether. But if you will struggle, my dear fellow, why, you have Madame Dubarry on your side; she loves you, and she is a powerful support.”

M. d'Aiguillon rose. He did not even cast an angry look upon the marshal in return for all the suffering the old man had inflicted upon him.

“You are right, uncle,” he replied calmly, “and your wisdom is shown in this last advice. The Countess Dubarry, to whom you had the goodness to present me, and to whom you spoke so favorably of me and with so much zeal, that Everyone at Luciennes can bear witness to it, Madame Dubarry will defend me. Thanks to Heaven, she likes me; she is brave, and exerts an all-powerful influence over the mind of the king. Thanks, uncle, for your advice; I fly thither as to a haven of safety. My horses! Bourgignon -to Luciennes!”

The marshal remained in the middle of an unfinished smile. M. d'Aiguillon bowed respectfully to his uncle and quitted the apartment, leaving the marshal very much perplexed, and above all very much confused, at the eagerness with which he had attacked this noble and feeling victim.

There was some consolation for the old marshal in the mad joy of the Parisians when they read in the evening the ten thousand copies of the decree, which was scrambled for in the streets. But he could not help sighing when Rafte asked for an account of the evening. Nevertheless, he told it without concealing anything.

“Then the blow is parried-” said the secretary.

“Yes and no, Rafte; but the wound is not mortal, and we have at Trianon something better, which I reproach myself for not having made my sole care. We have started two mares, Rafte; it was very foolish.”

“Why-if you seize the best-” replied Rafte.

“Oh, my friend, remember that the best is always the one we have not taken, and we would invariably give the one we hold for the one which has escaped.”

Rafte shrugged his shoulders, and yet M. de Richelieu was in the right.

“You think,” said he, “that M. d'Aiguillon will escape-”

“Do you think the king will, simpleton-”

“Oh! the king finds an opening everywhere; but this matter does not concern the king, that I know of.”

“Where the king can pass, Madame Dubarry will pass, as she holds fast by his skirts; where Madame Dubarry has passed. d'Aiguillon will pass also-but you understand nothing of politics, Rafte.”

“My lord. M. Flageot is not of your opinion.”

“Well, what does this M. Flageot say- But first of all, tell me what he is.”

“He is a procureur, sir.”

“Well-”

“Well! M. Flageot thinks that the king cannot get out of this matter.”

“Oh! ho!-and who will stop the lion-”

“Faith, sir, the rat!”

“And you believe him-”

“I always believe a procureur who promises to do evil.”

“We shall see what means M. Flageot intends to employ, Rafte.”

“That is what I say, my lord.”

“Come to supper then, that I may get to bed. It has quite upset me to see that my poor nephew is no longer peer of France, and will not be minister. I am an uncle, Rafte, after all!”

M. de Richelieu sighed, and then commenced to laugh.

“You have every quality, however, requisite for a minister,” replied Rafte.

CHAPTER XCVI. M. D'AIGUILLON TAKES HIS REVENGE.

THE MORNING SUCCEEDING the day on which the terrible decree had thrown Paris and Versailles into an uproar, when Everyone was anxiously awaiting the result of this decree, the Duke de Richelieu, who had returned to Versailles and had resumed his regularly irregular life, saw Rafte enter his apartment with a letter in his hand. The secretary scrutinized and weighed this letter with such an appearance of anxiety that his emotion quickly communicated itself to his master.

“What is the matter now-” asked the marshal.

“Something not very agreeable, I presume, my lord, and which is inclosed in this letter.”

“Why do you imagine so-”

“Because the letter is from the Duke d'Aiguillon.”

“Ha!” said the duke, “from nephew-”

“Yes, my lord marshal; after the king's council broke up, an usher of the chamber called on me and handed me this paper for you. I have been turning it over and over for the last ten minutes, and I cannot help suspecting that it contains some evil tidings.”

The duke held out his hand.

“Give it me,” said he, “I am brave.”

“I warn you,” interrupted Rafte, “that when the usher gave me the paper, he chuckled outrageously.”

“Diable! that bodes ill,” replied the marshal; “but give it me, nevertheless.”

“And he added; 'M. d'Aiguillon wishes the marshal to have this immediately.'“

“Pain! thou shalt not make me say that thou art an evil,” said the marshal, breaking the seal with a firm hand. And he read it.

“Ha! you change countenance,” said Rafte, standing with his hands crossed behind him, in an attitude of observation.

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Richelieu, continuing to read.

“It seems, then, that it is serious-”

“You look quite delighted.”

“Of course-I see that I was not mistaken.”

The marshal read on.

“The king is good,” said he, after a moment's pause.

“He appoints M. d'Aiguillon minister-”

“Better than that.”

“Oh! What then-”

“Read and ponder.”

Rafte in his turn read the note. It was in the handwriting of d'Aiguillon, and was couched in the following terms:

“MY DEAR UNCLE-Your good advice has borne its fruit; I confided my wrongs to that excellent friend of our house, the Countess Dubarry, who has deigned to lay them at his majesty's feet. The king is indignant at the violence with which the gentlemen of the parliament pursue me, and in consideration of the services I have so faithfully rendered him, his majesty, in this morning's council, has annulled the decree of parliament, and has commanded me to continue my functions as peer of France.

“Knowing the pleasure this news will cause you, my dear uncle, I send you the tenor of the decision, which his majesty in council came to to-day. I have had it copied by a secretary, and you have the announcement before anyone else.

“Deign to believe in my affectionate respect, my dear uncle, and continue to bestow on me your good will and advice.

“(Signed)-DUKE D'AIGUILLON.”

“He mocks at me into the bargain!” cried Richelieu.

“Faith, I think so, my lord.”

“The king throws himself into the hornet's nest!”

“You would not believe me yesterday, when I told you so.”

“I did not say he would not throw himself into it, Rafte; I said he would contrive to get out of it. Now, you see, he does get out of it.”

“The fact is, the parliament is beaten.”

“And I also.”

“For the present, yes.”

“Forever! Yesterday I foresaw it, and you consoled me so well, that some misfortune could not fail to ensue.”

“My lord, you despair a little too soon, I think.”

“Master Rafte, you are a fool. I am beaten, and I must pay the stake. You do not fully comprehend, perhaps, how disagreeable it is to me to be the laughingstock of Luciennes; at this moment, 1 he duke is mocking me in company with Madame Dubarry; Mademoiselle Chon, and Monsieur Jean are roaring themselves hoarse at my expense, while the little negro ceases to stuff himself with sweetmeats to make game of me. Parbleu! I have a tolerably good temper, but all this makes me furious.”

“Furious, my lord-”

“I have said it-furious!”

“Then you have done what you should not have done,” said Rafte, philosophically.

“You urged me on. Master Secretary.”

“I-”

“Yes, you.”

“Why, what is it to me whether M. d'Aiguillon is a peer of France or not-I ask you, my lord- Your nephew does me no injury, I think.”

“Master Rafte, you are impertinent.”

“You have been telling me so for the last forty-nine years, my lord.”

“Well, I shall repeat it again.”

“Not for forty-nine years more, that is one comfort.”

“Rafte, if this is the way you care for my interests-”

“The interests of your little passions- No, my lord duke, never! Man of genius as you are, you sometimes commit follies which I could not forgive even in an understrapper like myself.”

“Explain yourself, Rafte, and if I am wrong. I will confess it.”

“Yesterday you thirsted for vengeance, did you not- You wished to behold the humiliation of your nephew; you wished, as it were, to be the bearer of the decree of parliament, and gloat over the tremblings and palpitations of your victim, as M. Crebillon the younger says. Well! my lord marshal, such sights as these must be well paid for; such pleasures cost dear. You are rich-pay, pay, my lord marshal!”

“What would you have done in my place, then, O most skillful of tacticians- Come, let me see.”

“Nothing! I would have waited without giving any sign of life. But you itched to oppose the parliament to the Dubarry, from the moment she found that M. d'Aiguillon was a younger man than yourself.”

A groan was the marshal's only reply.

“Well!” continued Rafte, “the parliament was tolerably well prompted by you before it did what it has done. The decree once passed, you should have offered your services to your nephew, who would have suspected nothing.”

“That is all well and good, and I admit that I did wrong, but you should have warned me.”

“I hinder any evil! You take me for someone else, my lord marshal; you repeat to Everyone that comes that I am your creature, that you have trained me, and yet you would have me not in-lighted when I see a folly committed, or a misfortune approaching! Fie! fie!”

“Then a misfortune will happen. Master Sorcerer-”-”Certainly.”

“What misfortune-”

“You will quarrel, and M. d'Aiguillon will become the link between the parliament and Madame Dubarry; then he will be minister, and you exiled, or at the Bastille.”

The marshal in his anger upset the contents of his snuff-box upon the carpet.

“In the Bastille!” said he, shrugging his shoulders; “is Louis XV., think you, Louis XIV.-”

“No, but Madame Dubarry, supported by M. d'Aiguillon, is quite equal to Madame de Maintenon. Take care; I do not know any princess in the present day who would bring you bonbons and eggs.”

“These are melancholy prognostics,” replied the marshal, after a long silence. “You read the future; but what of the present, if you please-”

“My lord marshal is too wise for me to give him advice.”

“Come, master witty-pate, are you too not mocking me-”

“I beg you to remark, my lord marshal, that you confound dates; a man is never called a witty-pate after forty; now, I am sixty-seven.”

“No matter, assist me out of this scrape-and quickly too-quickly!”

“By an advice-”

“By anything you please.”

“The time has not come yet.”

“Now you are certainly jesting.”

“Would to Heaven I were! When I jest, the subject shall be a jesting matter -and unfortunately this is not.”

“What do you mean by saying that it is not yet time-”

“No, my lord, it is not time. If the announcement of the king's decree were known in Paris beforehand. I would not say. Shall we send a courier to the President d'Aligre-”

“That they may laugh at us all the sooner-”

“What a ridiculous self-love, my lord marshal! You would make a saint lose patience. Stay, let me finish my plan of a descent on England, and you can finish drowning yourself in your portfolio intrigue, since the business is already half done.”

The marshal was accustomed to these sullen humors of his secretary. He knew that when his melancholy had once declared itself he was dangerous to touch with ungloved fingers.

“Come,” said he, “do not pout at me, and if I do not understand, explain yourself.”

“Then my lord wishes me to trace out a line of conduct for him-”

“Certainly, since you think I cannot conduct myself.”

“Well then, listen.”

“I am all attention.”

“You must send by a trusty messenger to M. d'Aligre,” said Rafte, abruptly, “the Duke d'Aiguillon's letter, and also the decree of the king in council. You must then wait till the parliament has met and deliberated upon it, which will take place immediately; whereupon you must order your carriage, and pay a visit to your little procureur, M. Flageot.”

“Eli!” said Richelieu, whom this name made start as it had done on the previous day; “M. Flageot again! What the deuce has M. Flageot to do with all this, and what am I to do at his house-”

“I have had the honor to tell you, my lord, that M. Flageot is your procureur.”

“Well! what then-”

“Well, if he is your procureur, he has certain bags of yours-certain lawsuits on hand; you must go and ask him about them.”

“To-morrow-”

“Yes, my lord marshal, to-morrow.”

“But all this is your affair, M. Rafte.”

“By no means! by no means! When M. Flageot was a simple scribbling drudge, then I could treat with him as an equal; but as, dating from to-morrow, M. Flageot is an Attila, a scourge of kings-neither more nor less-it is not asking too much of a duke, a peer, a marshal of France, to converse with this all-powerful man.”

“Is this serious, or are we acting a farce-”

“You will see to-morrow if it is serious, my lord.”

“But tell me what will be the result of my visit to your M. Flageot.”

“I should be very sorry to do so; you would endeavor to prove to me to-morrow that you had guessed it beforehand. Good-night, my lord marshal. Remember; a courier to M. d'Aligre immediately-a visit to M. Flageot to-morrow. Oh! the address-The coachman knows it; he has driven me there frequently during the last week.”

CHAPTER XCVII. IN WHICH THE READER WILL ONCE MORE MEET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE WHOM HE THOUGHT LOST, AND WHOM PERHAPS HE DID NOT REGRET.

THE READER will no doubt ask why M. Flageot, who is about to play so majestic a part in our story, was called procureur instead of avocat; and as the reader is quite right, we shall satisfy his curiosity.

The vacations had, for some time, been frequent in parliament, and the lawyers spoke so seldom that their speeches were not worth speaking of. Master Flageot, foreseeing the time when there would be no pleading at all, made certain arrangements with Master Guildou, the procureur, in virtue of which the latter yielded him up office and clients on consideration of the sum of twenty-five thousand livres paid down. That is how Master Flageot became a procureur. But if we are asked how he managed to pay the twenty-five thousand livres, we reply, by marrying Madame Marguerite, to whom this sum was left as an inheritance about the end of the year 1770-three months before M. de Choiseul's exile.

Master Flageot had been long distinguished for his persevering adherence to the opposition party. Once a procureur, he redoubled his violence, and by this violence succeeded in gaining some celebrity. It was this celebrity, together with the publication of an incendiary pamphlet on the subject of the conflict between M. d'Aiguillon and M. de la Chalotais, which attracted the attention of M. Rafte, who had occasion to keep himself well informed concerning the affairs of parliament.

But, notwithstanding his new dignity and his increasing importance, Master Flageot did not leave the Rue du Petit-Lion-Saint-Sauveur. It would have been too cruel a blow for Madame Marguerite not to have heard the neighbors call her Madame Flageot, and not to have inspired respect in the breasts of M. Guildoirs' clerks, who had entered the service of the new procureur.

The reader may readily imagine what M. de Richelieu suffered in traversing Paris-the filthy Paris of that region-to reach the disgusting hole which the Parisian magistrature dignified with the name of street.

In front of M. Flageot's door, M. de Richelieu's carriage was stopped by another carriage which pulled up at the same moment. The marshal perceived a woman's headdress protruding from the window of this carriage; and as his sixty-five years of age had not quenched the ardor of his gallantry, he hastily jumped out on the muddy pavement, and proceeded to offer his hand to the lady, who was unaccompanied.

But this day the marshal's evil star was in the ascendant. A long, withered leg which was stretched out to reach the step betrayed the old woman. A wrinkled face, adorned with a dark streak of rouge, proved further that the old woman was not only old but decrepit.

Nevertheless there was no room for retreat; the marshal had made the movement, and the movement had been seen. Besides, M. de Richelieu himself was no longer young. In the meantime, the litigant-for what woman with a carriage would have entered that street had she not been a litigant-the litigant, we say, did not imitate the duke's hesitation; with a ghastly smile she placed her hand in Richelieu's.

“I have seen that face somewhere before,” thought Richelieu; then he added:

“Does madame also intend to visit M. Flageot-”

“Yes, duke,” replied the old lady.

“Oh, I have the honor to be known to you, madame!” exclaimed the duke, disagreeably surprised, and stopping on the threshold of the dark passage.

“Who does not know the Duke de Richelieu-” was the reply. “I should not be a woman if I did not.”

“This she-ape thinks she is a woman!” murmured the conqueror of Mahon, and he made a most graceful bow.

“If I may venture to ask the question,” added he, “to whom have I the honor of speaking-”

“I am the Countess de Bearn, at your service,” replied the old lady, curtseying with courtly reverence upon the dirty floor of the passage, and about three inches from the open trap-door of a cellar, into which the marshal wickedly awaited her disappearance at the third bend.

“I am delighted, madame-enchanted,” said he, “and I return a thousand thanks to fate. You also have lawsuits on hand, countess-”

“Oh! duke, I have only one; but what a lawsuit! Is it possible that you have never heard of it-”

“Oh, frequently, frequently-that great lawsuit. True; I entreat your pardon. How the deuce could I have forgotten That-”

“Against the Saluces!”

“Against the Saluces, yes, countess; the lawsuit about which the song was written.”

“A song-” said the old lady, piqued, “what song-”

“Take care, madame, there is a trapdoor here,” said the duke, who saw that the old woman was decided not to throw herself into the cellar; “take hold of the balustrade-I mean the cord.”

The old lady mounted the first steps. The duke followed her.

“Yes, a very humorous song,” said he.

“A humorous song on my lawsuit!”

“Dame! I shall leave you to judge-but perhaps you know it-”

“Not at all.”

“It is to the tune of the Bourbonnaise; it runs so:

“Embarrassed, countess, as I stand,

Give me, I pray, a helping hand,

And I am quite at your command.'

It is Madame Dubarry who speaks, you must understand.”

“That is very impertinent toward her.”

“Oh! what can you expect-the ballad-mongers respect no one. Heavens! how greasy this cord is! Then you reply as follows:

“I'm very old and stubborn, too; I'm forced at law my rights to sue; Ah, who can help me- tell me who!”

“Oh! sir, it is frightful!” cried the countess; “a woman of quality is not to be insulted in this manner.”

“Madame, excuse me if I have sung out of tune; these stairs heat me so. Ah! here we are at last. Allow me to pull the bell.”

The old lady, grumbling all the time, made way for the duke to pass.

The marshal rang, and Madame Flageot, who in becoming a procureur's wife had not ceased to fill the functions of portress and cook, opened the door. The two litigants were ushered into M. Flageot's study, where they found that worthy in a state of furious excitement, and with a pen in his mouth, hard at work dictating a terrible plea to his head clerk.

“Good heavens, Master Flageot! what is the matter-” cried the countess, at whose voice the attorney turned round.

“Ah! madame, your most humble servant-a chair here for the Countess de Bearn. This gentleman is a friend of yours, madame, I presume. But surely-oil! I cannot be mistaken-the Duke de Richelieu in my house! Another chair. Bernardet-another chair.”

“Master Flageot,” said the countess, “how does my lawsuit get on, pray-”

“Ah, madame! I was just now working for you.”

“Very good, Master Flageot, very good.”

“And after a fashion, my lady, which will make some noise, I hope.”

“Hum! Take care!”

“Oh! madame, there is no longer any occasion for caution.”

“Then if you are busy about my affair, you can give an audience to the duke.”

“Excuse me, my lord duke,” said Master Flageot; “but you are too gallant not to understand-”

“I understand. Master Flageot; I understand.”

“But now I can attend to you exclusively.”

“Don't be uneasy; I shall not abuse your good-nature; you are aware what brings me here-”

“The bags which M. Rafte gave me the other day.”

“Some papers relative to my lawsuit of-my suit about-deuce take it! You must know what suit I mean, Master Flageot-”

“Your lawsuit about the lands of Chapenal.”

“Very probably; and will you gain it for me- That would be very kind on your part.”

“My lord, it is postponed indefinitely.”

“Postponed! And why-”

“It will not be brought forward in less than a year, at the earliest.”

“For what reason, may I ask-”

“Circumstances, my lord, circumstances; you have heard of his majesty's decree-”

“I think so; but which one- His majesty publishes so many.”

“The one which annuls ours.”

“Very well; and what then-”

“Well! my lord duke, we shall reply by burning our ships.”

“Burning your ships, my dear friend- -you will burn the ships of the parliament- I do not quite comprehend you; I was not aware that the parliament had ships.”

“The first chamber refuses to register, perhaps-” inquired the Countess de Bearn, whom Richelieu's lawsuit in no way prevented from thinking of her own.

“Better than that.”

“The second one also-”

“That would be a mere nothing. Both chambers have resolved not to give any judgments until the king shall have dismissed M. d'Aiguillon.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the marshal, rubbing his hands.

“Not adjudicate! on what-” asked the countess, alarmed.

“On the lawsuits, madame.”

“They will not adjudicate on my lawsuit,” exclaimed the Countess de Bearn, with a dismay which she did not even attempt to conceal.

“Neither on yours, madame, nor the duke's.”

“It is iniquitous! It is rebellion against his majesty's orders, that!

“Madame,” replied the procureur majestically, “the king has forgotten himself; we shall forget also.”

“Monsieur Flageot, you will be sent to the Bastille; remember, I warn you.”

“I shall go singing, madame, and if I am sent thither, all my fellow-members of parliament will follow me, carrying palms in their hands.”

“He is mad!” said the countess to Richelieu.

“We are all the same,” replied the procureur.

“Oh, oh!” said the marshal, “that is becoming rather curious.”

“But, sir, you said just now that you were working for me,” replied Madame de Bearn.

“I said so, and it is quite true. You, madame, are the first example I cite in my narration; here is the paragraph which relates to you.”

He snatched the draft from his clerk's hand, fixed his spectacles upon his nose, and read with emphasis:

“Their position ruined, their fortune compromised, their duties trampled under foot! His majesty will understand how much they must have suffered. Thus the petitioner had intrusted to his care a very important suit, upon which the fortune of one of the first families in the kingdom depends; by his zeal, his industry, and, he ventures to say, his talents, this suit was progressing favorably, and the rights of the most noble and most powerful lady, Angelique Charlotte Veronique, Countess de Bearn, were on the point of being recognized, proclaimed, when the breath of discord -engulfing-”

“I had just got so far, madame,” said the procureur, drawing himself up; ““but I think the simile is not amiss.”

“M. Flageot,” said the countess, “it is forty years ago since I first employed your father, who proved most worthy of my patronage; I continued that patronage to you; you have gained ten or twelve thousand livres by my suit, and you would probably have gained as many more.”

“Write down all that,” said M. Flageot eagerly to his clerk; “it is a testimony, a proof. It shall be inserted in the confirmation.”

“But now,” interrupted the countess, “I take back all my papers from your charge; from this moment you have lost my confidence.”

Master Flageot, thunderstruck with this disgrace, remained for a moment almost stupefied; but, all at once, rising under the blow like a martyr who dies for his religion:

“Be it so,” said he. “Bernadet, give the papers back to madame; and you will insert this fact,” added he, “that the petitioner preferred his conscience to his fortune.”

“I beg your pardon, countess,” whispered the marshal in the countess's ear, “but it seems to me that you have acted without reflection.”

“In what respect, my lord duke-”

“You take back your papers from this honest procureur, but for what purpose-”

“To take them to another procureur, to another avocat!” exclaimed the countess.

Master Flageot raised his eyes to heaven, with a mournful smile of self-denial and stoic resignation.

“But,” continued the marshal, still whispering in the countess's ear, “if it has been decided that the chambers will not adjudicate, my dear madame, another procureur can do no more than Master Flageot.”

“It is a league, then-”

“Pardieu! do you think Master Flageot fool enough to protest alone, to lose his practice alone, if his fellow lawyers were not agreed to do the same, and consequently support him-”

“But you, my lord duke, what will you do-”

“For my part, I declare that I think Master Flageot a very honest procureur, and that my papers are as safe in his possession as in my own. Consequently I shall leave them with him, of course paying him as if my suit were going on.”

“It is well said, my lord marshal, that you are a generous, liberal-minded man!” exclaimed Master Flageot; “I shall spread your fame far and wide, my lord.”

“You absolutely overwhelm me, my dear procureur.” replied Richelieu, bowing.

“Bernadet,” cried the enthusiastic procureur to his clerk, “you will insert in the peroration a eulogy on the Marshal de Richelieu.”

“No, no! by no means, Master Flageot! I beg you will do nothing of the kind,” replied the marshal hastily. “Diable! that would be a pretty action! I love secrecy in what it is customary to call good actions. Do not disoblige me, Master Flageot-I shall deny it, look you -I shall positively contradict it-my modesty is susceptible. Well, countess, what say you-”

“I say my suit shall be judged. I must have a judgment, and I will.”

“And I say, madame, that if your suit is judged, the king must first send the Swiss guards, the light horse, and twenty pieces of cannon into the great hall,” replied Master Flageot with a belligerent air, which completed the consternation of the litigant.

“Then you do not think his majesty can get out of this scrape.” said Richelieu in a low voice to Flageot.

“Impossible, my lord marshal. It is an unheard-of case. No more justice in France! It is as if you were to say no more bread!”

“Do you think so-”

“You will see.”

“But the king will be angry.”

“We are resolved to brave everything.”

“Even exile-”

“Even death, my lord marshal! We have a heart, although we wear the gown.”

And M. Flageot struck his breast vigorously.

“In fact, madame,” said Richelieu to his companion, “I believe that this is an unfortunate step for the ministry.”

“Oh, yes!” replied the old countess, after a pause; “it is very unfortunate for me, who never meddle in anything that passes, to be dragged into this conflict.”

“I think, madame,” said the marshal, “there is someone who could help you in this affair-a very powerful person. But would that person do it-”

“Is it displaying; too much curiosity, duke, to ask the name of this powerful person-”

“Your goddaughter!” said the duke.

“Oh! Madame Dubarry!”

“The same.”

“In fact, that is true; I am obliged to you for the hint.”

The duke bit his lips.

“Then you will go to Luciennes-” asked he.

“Without hesitation.”

“But the Countess Dubarry cannot overcome the opposition of parliament.”

“I will tell her I must have my suit judged, and as she can refuse me nothing, after the service I have rendered her, she will tell the king she wishes it. His majesty will speak to the chancellor, and the chancellor has a long arm, duke. Master Flageot, be kind enough, to continue to study my case well; it may come on sooner than you think. Mark nay words.”

Master Flageot turned away his head with an air of incredulity which did not shake the countess in the least. In the meantime the duke had been reflecting.

“Well, madame, since you are going to Luciennes, will you have the goodness to present my most humble respects-”

“Most willingly, duke.”

“We are companions in misfortune; your suit is in abeyance, and mine also. In supplicating for yourself you will do so for me too. Moreover, you may express yonder the sort of pleasure these stubborn-headed parliament men cause me; and you will add that it was I who advised you to have recourse to the divinity of Luciennes.”

“I will not fail to do so, duke. Adieu, gentlemen.”

“Allow me the honor of conducting you to your carriage.”

“Once more, adieu, Monsieur Flageot; I leave you to your occupations.” The marshal handed the countess to her carriage.

“Rafte was right.” said he, “the Flageots will cause a revolution. Thank Heaven! I am supported on both sides-I am of the court, and of the parliament. Madame Dubarry will meddle with politics and fall, alone; if she resists, I have my little pretty-face at Trianon. Decidedly Rafte is of my school, and when I am minister he shall be my chief secretary.”

CHAPTER XCVIII. THE CONFUSION INCREASES.

MADAME DE BEARN followed Richelieu's advice literally. Two hours and a half after the duke had left her, she was waiting in the antechamber at Luciennes, in the company of M. Zamore.

It was some time since she had been seen at Madame Dubarry's, and her presence therefore excited a feeling of curiosity in the countess's boudoir when her name was announced.

M. d'Aiguillon had not lost any time either, and he was plotting with the favorite when Chon entered to request an audience for Madame de Bearn. The duke made a movement to retire, but the countess detained him.

“I would rather you would remain,” said she. “In case my old alms-giver comes to ask a loan, you would be most useful to me, for she will ask less.”

The duke remained. Madame de Bearn, with a face composed for the occasion, took the chair opposite the countess, which the latter offered to her, and after the first civilities were exchanged:

“May I ask to what fortunate chance I am indebted for your presence, madame-” said Madame Dubarry.

“Ah! madame,” said the old litigant, “a great misfortune.”

“What! madame-a misfortune-”

“A piece of news which will deeply afflict his majesty.”

“I am all impatience, madame-”

“The parliament-

“Oh, ho!” grumbled the Duke d'Aiguillon.

“The Duke d'Aiguillon,” said the countess, hastily introducing her guest to her lady visitor, for fear of some unpleasant contretemps. But the old countess was as cunning as all the other courtiers put together, and never caused a misunderstanding, except wittingly, and when the misunderstanding seemed likely to benefit her.

“I know,” said she, “all the baseness of these lawyers, and their want of respect for merit of high birth.”

This compliment, aimed directly at the duke, drew a most graceful bow from him, which the litigant returned with an equally graceful curtsey.

“But,” continued she, “it is not the duke alone who is now concerned, but the entire population; the parliament refuse to act.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Madame Dubarry, throwing herself back upon the sofa; “there will be no more justice in France! Well! What change will that produce-”

The duke smiled. As for Madame de Bearn, instead of taking the affair pleasantly, her morose features darkened still more. “It is a great calamity, madame,” said she.

“Ah! indeed-” replied the favorite.

“It is evident, madame, that you are happy enough to have no lawsuits.”

“Hem!” said d'Aiguillon, to recall the attention of Madame Dubarry, who at last comprehended the insinuation of the litigant.

“Alas! madame,” said she, “it is true; you remind me that if I have no lawsuit, you have a very important one.”

“Ah, yes! madame, and delay will be ruinous to me.”

“Poor lady!”

“Unless, countess, the king takes some decided step.”

“Oh! madame, the king is right well inclined to do so. He will exile messieurs the councilors, and all will be right.”

“But, madame, that would be an indefinite adjournment.”

“Do you see any remedy, then- Will you be kind enough to point it out to us-”

The litigant concealed her face beneath her hood, like Caesar expiring under his toga.

“There is one remedy, certainly,” said d'Aiguillon; “but perhaps his majesty might shrink from employing it.”

“What is it-” asked the plaintiff, with anxiety.

“The ordinary resource of royalty in France, when it is rather embarrassed. It is to hold a bed of justice, and to say, 'I will!' when all the opponents say, 'I will not.'“

“An excellent idea!” exclaimed Madame de Bearn, with enthusiasm.

“But which must not be divulged.” replied d'Aiguillon, diplomatically, and with a gesture which Madame de Bearn fully comprehended.

“Oh! madame!” said she instantly, “you who have so much influence with the king, persuade him to say, 'I will have the suit of Madame de Bearn judged.' Besides, you know, it was promised long ago.”

M. d'Aiguillon bit his lips, glanced an adieu to Madame Dubarry, and left the boudoir. He had heard the sound of the king's carriage in the courtyard.

“Here is the king!” said Madame Dubarry, rising to dismiss her visitor.

“Oh! madame, why will you not permit me to throw myself at his majesty's feet-”

“To ask him for a bed of justice-” replied the countess, quickly. “Most willingly! Remain here madame, since such is your deSire.”

Scarcely had Madame de Bearn adjusted her head-dress when the king entered.

“Ah!” said he, “you have visitors, countess!”

“Madame de Bearn, Sire.”

“Sire, justice!” exclaimed the old lady, making a most profound reverence.

“Oh!” said Louis XV. in a bantering tone, imperceptible to those who did not know him; “has anyone offended you, madame-”

“Sire, I ask for justice.”

“Against whom-”

“Against the parliament.”

“Ah! good,” said the king, rubbing his hands; “you complain of my parliament. Well! do me the pleasure to bring them to reason. I too have to complain of them, and I beg you to grant me justice also,” added he, imitating the curtseys of the old countess.

“But, Sire, you are the king-the master.”

“The king-yes; the master -not always.”-”Sire, proclaim your will.”

“I do that every evening, madame; and they proclaim theirs every morning. Now, as these two wills are diametrically opposed to each other it is with us as with the earth and the moon, which are ever running after each other without meeting.”

“Sire, your voice is powerful enough to drown all the bawlings of these fellows.”

“There you are mistaken. I am not a lawyer, as they are. If I say yes, they say no; it is impossible for us to come to any arrangement. If, when I have said yes, you can find any means to prevent their saying no, I will make an alliance with you.”

“Sire, I have the means.”

“Let me hear it quickly.”

“I will, Sire. Hold a bed of justice.”

“That is another embarrassment,” said the king; “a bed of justice-remember, madam-is almost a revolution.”

“It is simply telling these rebellious subjects that you are the master. You know, Sire, that when the king proclaims his will in this manner, he alone has a right to speak; no one answers. You say to them, I will, and they bow their assent.”

“The fact is,” said the Countess Dubarry, “the idea is a magnificent one.”

“Magnificent it may be, but not good,” replied Louis.

“But what a noble spectacle!” resumed Madame Dubarry, with warmth; “the procession, the nobles, the peers, the entire military staff of the king! Then the immense crowd of people; then the bed of justice, composed of five cushions embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lis-it would be a splendid ceremony!”

“You think so-” said the king, rather shaken in his resolution.

“Then the king's magnificent dress-the cloak lined with ermine, the diamonds in the crown, the golden scepter-all the splendor which so well suits an august and noble countenance! Oh! how handsome you would look, Sire!”

“It is a long time since we had a bed of justice,” said Louis, with affected carelessness.

“Not since your childhood, Sire,” said Madame de Bearn. “The remembrance of your brilliant beauty on that occasion has remained engraven on the hearts of all.”

“And then,” added Madame Dubarry, “there would be an excellent opportunity for the chancellor to display his keen and concise eloquence-to crush these people with his truth, dignity, and power.”

“I must wait for the parliament's next misdeed,” said Louis; “then I shall see.”

“What can you wait for, Sire, more outrageous than what they have just committed-”

“Why, what have they done-”

“Do you not know-”

“They have teased M. d'Aiguillon a little, but that is not a hanging offense; although,” said the king, looking at Madame Dubarry, “although this dear duke is a friend of mine. Besides, if the parliament has teased the duke a little, I have punished them for their ill-nature by my decree of yesterday or the day before-I do not remember which. We are now even.”

“Well, Sire,” said Madame Dubarry, with warmth, “Madame de Bearn has just informed us that this morning these black-gowned gentlemen have taken the start of you.”

“How so-” said the king, frowning.

“Speak, madame, the king permits it,” said the favorite.

“Sire, the councilors have determined not to hold a court of parliament until your majesty yields to their wishes.”

“What say you-” said the king. “You mistake, madame; that would be an act of rebellion, and my parliament dares not revolt, I hope.”

“Sire, I assure you-”

“Oh! Madame, it is a mere rumor.”

“Will your majesty deign to hear me-”

“Speak, countess.”

“Well, my procureur has this morning returned me all the papers relating to my lawsuit. He can no longer plead, since they will no longer judge.”

“Mere reports, I tell you-attempts at intimidation.”

But while he spoke, the king paced up and down the boudoir in agitation.

“Sire, will your majesty believe M. de Richelieu, if you will not believe me- In my presence his papers were returned to him also, and the duke left the house in a rage.”

“Someone is tapping at the door,” said the king, to change the conversation.

“It is Zamore, Sire.”

Zamore entered.

“A letter, mistress,” said he.

“With your permission, Sire,” said the countess. “Ah! good heavens!” exclaimed she, suddenly.

“What is the matter-”

“From the chancellor, Sire. M. de Maupeou, knowing that your majesty has deigned to pay me a visit, solicits my intervention to obtain an audience for him.”

“What is in the wind now-”

“Show the chancellor in,” said Madame Dubarry. The Countess de Bearn rose to take her leave.

“You need not go, madame,” said the king. “Good-day, M. de Maupeou. What news-”

“Sire,” said the chancellor, bowing, “the parliament embarrassed you; you have no longer a parliament.”

“How so- Are they all dead- Have they taken arsenic-”

“Would to Heaven they had! No, Sire, they live; but they will not sit any longer, and have sent in their resignations. I have just received them in a mass.”

“The counselors-”

“No, Sire, the resignations.”

“I told you, Sire, that it was a serious matter,” said the countess, in a low voice.

“Most serious,” replied Louis, impatiently. “Well, chancellor, what have you done-”

“Sire, I have come to receive your majesty's orders.”

“We shall exile these people, Maupeou.”

“Sire, they will not judge any better in exile.”

“We shall command them to judge. Bah! injunctions are out of date-letters-of-order likewise-”

“Ah! Sire, this time you must be determined.”

“Yes, you are right.”

“Courage!” said Madame de Bearn aside to the countess.

“And act the master, after having too often acted only the father,” said the countess.

“Chancellor,” said the king, slowly. “I know only one remedy; it is serious, but efficacious. I will hold a bed of justice; these people must be made to tremble once for all.”

“Ah! Sire.” exclaimed the chancellor, “that is well spoken; they must bend or break!”

“Madame,” added the king, addressing Madame de Bearn, “if your suit be not judged, you see it will not be my fault.”

“Sire, you are the greatest monarch in the world!”

“Oh! yes,” echoed the countess, Chon, find the chancellor.

“The world does not say so, however,” murmured the king.

CHAPTER XCIX. THE BED OF JUSTICE.

THIS FAMOUS BED of justice took place with all the ceremonies which royal pride, on the one hand, and the intrigues which drove the master to this step, on the other, demanded.

The household of the king was placed under arms; an abundance of short-robed archers, soldiers of the watch, and police officers were commissioned to protect the lord chancellor, who, like a general upon the decisive day, would have to expose his sacred person to secure the success of the enterprise.

The chancellor was execrated. Of this he was well aware, and if his vanity made him fear assassination, those better versed in the sentiments of the public toward him could without exaggerating have predicted some downright insults, or at least hootings, as likely to fall to his share. The same perquisites were promised to M. d'Aiguillon, who was equally obnoxious to the popular instincts, improved perhaps by parliamentary debates. The king affected serenity, yet he was not easy. But he donned with great satisfaction his magnificent robes, and straightway came to the conclusion that nothing protects so surely as majesty. He might have added, “and the love of the people.” But this phrase had been so frequently repeated to him at Metz during his illness, that he imagined he could not repeat it now without being guilty of plagiarism.

The dauphiness, for whom the sight was a new one, and who at heart perhaps wished to see it, assumed her plaintive look, and wore it during the whole way to the ceremony -which disposed public opinion very favorably toward her.

Madame Dubarry was brave. She possessed that confidence which is given by youth and beauty. Besides, had not everything been said that could be said of her- What could be added now- She appeared radiant with beauty, as if the splendor of her august lover had been reflected upon her.

The Duke d'Aiguillon marched boldly among the peers who preceded the king. His noble and impressive countenance betrayed no symptoms of grief or discontent, nor did he bear himself triumphantly. To see him walking thus, none would have guessed that the struggle of the king with his parliament was on his account.

The crowd pointed him out in the crowd, terrible glances were darted at him from the parliament, and that was all. The great hall of the Palais was crammed to overflowing; actors and spectators together made a total of more than three thousand persons.

Outside the Palais the crowd, kept in order by the staves of the officers, and the batons and maces of the archers, gave token of its presence only by that indescribable hum which is not a voice, which articulates nothing, but which nevertheless makes itself heard, and which may justly be called the sound of the popular flood.

The same silence reigned in the great hall, when, the sound of footsteps having ceased, and Everyone having taken his place, the king, majestic and gloomy, had commanded his chancellor to begin the proceedings.

The parliament knew beforehand what the bed of justice held in reserve for them. They fully understood why they had been convoked. They were to hear the unmitigated expression of the royal will; but they knew the patience, not to say the timidity, of the king, and if they feared, it was rather for the consequences of the bed of justice than for the sit ting itself.

The chancellor commenced his address. He was an excellent orator; his exordium was clever, and the amateurs of a demonstrative style found ample scope for study in it. As it proceeded, however, the speech degenerated into a tirade so severe, that all the nobility had a smile on their lips, while the parliament felt very ill at ease.

The king, by the mouth of his chancellor, ordered them to cut short the affairs of Brittany, of which he had had enough. He commanded them to be reconciled to the Duke d'Aiguillon, whose services pleased him; and not to interrupt the service of justice, by which means everything should go on as in that happy period of the golden age, when the flowing streams murmured judicial or argumentative discourses, when the trees were loaded with bags of law papers, placed within reach of the lawyers and attorneys, who had the right to pluck them as fruit belonging to them.

These flippancies did not reconcile the parliament to the lord chancellor, nor to the Duke d'Aiguillon. But the speech had been made, and all reply was impossible.

The members of the parliament, although scarcely able to contain their vexation, assumed, with that admirable unity which gives so much strength to constituted bodies, a calm and indifferent demeanor, which highly displeased his majesty and the aristocratic world upon the platform.

The dauphiness turned pale with anger. For the first time she found herself in the presence of popular resistance, and she coldly calculated its power. She had come to this bed of justice with the intention of opposing, at least by her look, the resolution which was about to be adopted there, but gradually she felt herself drawn to make common cause with those of her own caste and race, so that in proportion as the chancellor attacked the parliament more severely, this proud young creature was indignant to find his words so weak. She fancied she could have found words which would have made this assembly start like a troop of oxen under the goad. In short, she found the chancellor too feeble and the parliament too strong.

Louis XV. was a physiognomist, as all selfish people would be if they were not sometimes idle as well as selfish. He cast a glance around to observe the effect of his will, expressed in words which he thought tolerably eloquent. The paleness and the compressed lips of the dauphiness showed him what was passing in her mind. As a counterpoise, he turned to look at Madame Dubarry; but instead of the victorious smile he hoped to find there, he only saw an anxious desire to attract the king's looks, as if to judge what he thought.

Nothing intimidates weak minds so much as being forestalled by the wills and minds of others. If they find themselves observed by those who have already taken a resolution, they conclude that they have not done enough-that they are about to be, or have been, ridiculous -that people had a right to expect more than they have done.

Then they pass to extremes; the timid man becomes furious, and a sudden manifestation betrays the effect of this reaction produced by fear upon a fear less powerful than itself.

The king had no need to add a single word to those his chancellor had already spoken; it was not according to etiquette -it was not even necessary. But on this occasion he was possessed of the babbling demon, and, making a sign with his hand, he signified that he intended to speak.

Immediately attention was changed to stupor.

The heads of the members of parliament were all seen to wheel round toward the bed of justice, with the precision of a file of soldiers upon drill. The princes, peers, and military felt uneasy. It was not impossible that after so many excellent things had been said, his Most Christian Majesty might add something which, to say the least, would be quite useless. Their respect prevented them from giving any other title to the words which might fall from the royal lips.

M. de Richelieu, who had affected to keep aloof from his nephew, was now seen to approach the most stubborn of the parliamentarians, and exchange a glance of mysterious intelligence. But his glances, which were becoming rebellious, met the penetrating eye of Madame Dubarry. Richelieu possessed, as no one else did, the precious power of transition; he passed easily from the satirical to the admiring tone, and chose the beautiful countess as the point of intersection between these two extremes. He sent a smile of gallantry and congratulation, therefore, to Madame Dubarry in passing, but the latter was not duped by it; the more so that the old marshal, who had commenced a correspondence with the parliament and the opposing princes, was obliged to continue it, that he might not appear what he really was.

What sights there are in a drop of water-that ocean for an observer! What centuries in a second-that indescribable eternity! All we have related took place while Louis was preparing to speak, and was opening his lips.

“You have heard,” said he, in a firm voice, “what my chancellor has told you of my wishes. Prepare, therefore, to execute them, for such are my intentions, and I shall never change them!”

Louis XV. uttered these last words with the noise and force of a thunderbolt. The whole assembly was literally thunderstruck.

A shudder passed over the parliament, and was quickly communicated like an electric spark to the crowd. A like thrill was felt by the partisans of the king. Surprise and admiration were on every face and in every heart.

The dauphiness involuntarily thanked the king by a lightning glance from her beautiful eyes. Madame Dubarry, electrified, could not refrain from rising, and would have clapped her hands but for the very natural fear of being stoned as she left the house, or of receiving hundreds of couplets the next morning, each more odious than the other.

Louis could from this moment enjoy his triumph. The parliament bent low, still with the same unanimity. The king rose from his embroidered cushions. Instantly the captain of the guards, the commandant of the household, and all the gentlemen of the king's suite, rose. Drums beat and trumpets sounded outside. The almost silent stir of the people on the arrival was now changed into a deep murmur, which died away in the distance, repressed by the soldiers and archers.

The king proudly crossed the hall, without seeing anything on his way but humbled foreheads. The Duke d'Aiguillon still preceded his majesty, without abusing his triumph.

The chancellor, having reached the door of the hall, saw the immense crowd of people extending on all sides, and heard their execrations, which reached his ears notwithstanding the distance. He trembled, and said to the archers:

“Close around me.”

M. de Richelieu bowed low to the Duke d'Aiguillon as he passed, and whispered:

“These heads are very low, duke, some day or other they will rise devilish high. Take care!”

Madame Dubarry was passing at the moment, accompanied by her brother, the Marchioness de Mirepoix, and several ladies. She heard the marshal's words, and as she was more inclined to repartee than malice, she said:

“Oh, there is nothing to fear, marshal; did you not hear his majesty's words- The king, I think, said he would never change.”

“Terrible words, indeed, madame,” replied the duke with a smile; “but happily for us, these poor parliament men did not remark that while saying he would never change, the king looked at you.”

And he finished this compliment with one of those inimitable bows which are no longer seen, even upon the stage.

Madame Dubarry was a woman, and by no means a politician. She only saw the compliment, where d'Aiguillon detected plainly the epigram and the threat. Therefore she replied with a smile, while her ally turned pale and bit his lips with vexation, to see the marshal's anger endure so long.

The effect of the bed of justice was for the moment favorable to the royal cause. But it frequently happens that a great blow only stuns, and it is remarked that after the stunning effect has passed away the blood circulates with more vigor and purity than before. Such at least were the reflections made by a little group of plainly-dressed persons, who were stationed as spectators at the corner of the Quai aux Fleurs and the Rue de la Barillerie, on seeing the king attended by his brilliant cortege leave the hall.

They were three in number. Chance had brought them together at this corner, and from thence they seemed to study with interest the impressions of the crowd; and, without knowing each other, after once exchanging a few words, they had discussed the sitting even before it was over.

“These passions are well ripened,” said one of them, an old man with bright eyes, and a mild and honest expression. “A bed of justice is a great work.”

“Yes,” replied a young man, smiling bitterly; “yes, if the work realize the title.”

“Sir,” replied the old man, turning round, “I think I should know you-I fancy I have seen you before-”

“On the night of the 31st May. You are not mistaken. Monsieur Rousseau.”

“Oh! you are that young surgeon-my countryman, Monsieur Marat!”

“Yes, sir; at your service.”

The two men exchanged salutations. The third had not yet spoken. He was also young, eminently handsome, and aristocratic in his appearance, and during the whole ceremony had unceasingly observed the crowd. The young surgeon moved away the first, and plunged into the densest masses of the people, who, less grateful than Rousseau, had already forgotten him, but whose memory he calculated upon refreshing one day or other.

The other young man waited until he was gone, and then, addressing Rousseau:

“Sir,” said he, “you do not go!”

“Oh! I am too old to venture among such a mob.”

“In that case,” said the unknown, lowering his voice, “I will see you again this evening in the Rue Platriere. Monsieur Rousseau-do not fail.”

The philosopher started as if a phantom had risen before him. His complexion, always pale, became livid. He made an effort to reply to this strange appeal, but the man had already disappeared.

CHAPTER C. THE INFLUENCE OF THE WORDS OF THE UNKNOWN UPON J. J. ROUSSEAU.

ON HEARING these singular words spoken by a man whom he did not know, Rousseau, trembling and unhappy, plunged into the crowd; and without remembering that he was old and naturally timid, elbowed his way through it. He soon reached the bridge of Notre-Dame; then, still plunged in his reverie, and muttering to himself, he crossed the quarter of La Greve, which was the shortest way to his own dwelling.

“So,” said he to himself, “this secret, which the initiated guard at the peril of their lives, is in possession of the first comer. This is what mysterious associations gam by passing through the popular sieve. A man recognizes me, who knows that I shall be his associate, perhaps his accomplice, yonder. Such a state of things is absurd and intolerable.”

And, while he spoke, Rousseau walked forward quickly-he, usually so cautious, especially since his accident in the Rue Menil-Montant.

“Thus,” continued the philosopher, “I must wish, forsooth, to sound to the bottom these plans of human regeneration which some spirits who boast of the title of 'illuminati' propose to carry out. I was foolish enough to imagine that any good ideas could come from Germany-that land of beer and fog-and may have compromised my name by joining it to those of fools or plotters, whom it will serve as a cloak to shelter their folly. Oh, no! it shall not be thus. No; a flash of lightning has shown me the abyss, and I will not cheerfully throw myself ml o it.”

And Rousseau paused to take breath, resting upon his cane, and standing motionless for a moment.

“Yet it was a beautiful chimera,” pursued the philosopher. “Liberty in the midst of slavery-the future conquered without noise and struggle -the snare mysteriously woven while earth's tyrants slept. It was too beautiful! I was a fool to believe it! I will not be the sport of fears, of suspicions, of shadows, which are unworthy of a free spirit and an independent body.”

He had got thus far, and was continuing his progress, when the sight of some of M. de Sartines' agents gazing round with their ubiquitous eyes frightened the free spirit, and gave such an impulse to the independent body, that it plunged into the deepest shadows of the pillars under which it was walking.

From these pillars it was not far to the Rue Platriere. Rousseau accomplished the distance with the speed of lightning, ascended the stairs to his domicile -breathing like a stag pursued by the hunters-and sank upon a chair, unable to utter a word in answer to all Therese's questions.

At last he recovered sufficiently to account for his emotion; it was the walk, the heat, the news of the king's angry remarks at the bed of justice, the commotion caused by the popular terror-a sort of panic, in short, which had spread among all who witnessed what had happened.

Therese grumblingly replied that all that was no reason for allowing the dinner to cool; and, moreover, that a man ought not to be such a soft chickenhearted wretch as to be frightened at the least noise.

Rousseau could make no reply to this last argument, which he himself had so frequently stated in other terms.

Therese added, that these philosophers, these imaginative people, were all the same; that they always talked very grandly in their writings; they said that they feared nothing; that God and man were very little to them; but, at the slightest barking of the smallest poodle, they cried, “Help!”-at the least feverishness they exclaimed, “Oh, heavens! I am dead.”

This was one of Therese's favorite themes, that which most excited her eloquence, and to which Rousseau, who was naturally timid, found it most difficult to reply. Rousseau, therefore, pursued his own thoughts to the sound of this discordant music-thoughts which were certainly well worth Therese's, notwithstanding the abuse the latter showered so plentifully on him.

“Happiness,” said he, “is composed of perfume and music; now, noise and odor are conventional things. Who can prove that the onion smells less sweet than the rose, or the peacock sings less melodiously than the nightingale-”

After which axiom, which might pass for an excellent paradox, they sat down to table.

After dinner, Rousseau did not, as usual, sit down to his harpsichord. He paced up and down the apartment, and stopped a hundred times to look out of the window, apparently studying the physiognomy of the Rue Platriere. Therese was forthwith seized with one of those fits of jealousy which peevish people-that is to say, the least really jealous people in the world-often indulge in for the sake of opposition. For if there is a disagreeable affectation in the world, it is the affectation of a fault, the affectation of virtue may be tolerated.

Therese, who held Rousseau's age, complexion, mind, and manners in the utmost contempt-who thought him old, sickly, and ugly-did not fear that anyone should run off with her husband; she never dreamed that other women might look upon him with different eyes from herself. But as the torture of jealousy is woman's most dainty punishment, Therese sometimes indulged herself in this treat. Seeing Rousseau, therefore, approach the window so frequently, and observing his dreaming and restless air, she said:

“Very good! I understand your agitation-you have just left someone.”

Rousseau turned to her with a startled look which served as an additional proof of the truth of her suspicions.

“Someone you wish to see again.” she continued.

“What do you say-” asked Rousseau.

“Yes, we make assignations, it seems!”

“Oh!” said Rousseau, comprehending that Therese was jealous; “an assignation! You are mad, Therese!”

“I know perfectly well that it would be madness in you,” said she; “but you are capable of any folly. Go-go, with your papier-mache complexion, your palpitations, and your coughs-go, and make conquests. It is one way of getting on in the world!”

“But, Therese, you know there is not a word of truth in what you are saying,” said Rousseau, angrily; “let me think in peace.”

“You are a libertine,” said Therese, with the utmost seriousness.

Rousseau reddened as if she had hit the truth, or as if he had received a compliment.

Therese forthwith thought herself justified in putting on a terrible countenance, turning the whole household upside down, slamming the doors violently, and playing with Rousseau's tranquillity, as children with those metal rings which they shut up in a box and shake to make a noise. Rousseau took refuge in his closet; this uproar had rather confused his ideas.

He reflected that there would doubtless be some danger in not being present at the mysterious ceremony of which the stranger had spoken at the corner of the Quai.

“If there are punishments for traitors, there will also be punishments for the lukewarm or careless,” thought he. “Now I have always remarked that great dangers mean in reality nothing, just like loud threats. The cases in which either are productive of any result are extremely rare; but petty revenges, underhand attacks, mystifications, and other such small coin-these we must be on our guard against. Some day the masonic brothers may repay my contempt by stretching a string across my staircase; I shall stumble over it and break a leg or the six or eight teeth I have left. Or else they will have a stone ready to fall upon my head when I am passing under a scaffolding; or, better still, there may be some pamphleteer belonging to the fraternity, living quite near me, upon the same floor perhaps, looking from his windows into my room. That is not impossible, since the reunions take place even in the Rue Platriere. Well, this wretch will write stupid lampoons on me, which will make me ridiculous all over Paris. Have I not enemies every where-”

A moment afterward, Rousseau's thoughts took a different turn.

“Well,” said he to himself, “but where is courage- where is honor- Shall I be afraid of myself! Shall I see in my glass only the face of a coward-a, slave- No, it shall not be so. If the whole world should combine to ruin me-if the very street should fall upon me-I will go. What pitiable reasoning does fear produce! Since I met this man, I have been continually turning in a circle of absurdities. I doubt every one, and even myself! That is not logical-I know myself, I am not an enthusiast; if I thought I saw wonders in this projected association, it is because there are wonders in it.

Who will say I may not be the regenerator of the human race, I, who am sought after. I, whom on the faith of my writings the mysterious agents of an unlimited power have eagerly consulted- Shall I retreat when the time has come to follow up my work, to substitute practice for theory-”

Rousseau became animated.

“What can be more beautiful! Ages roll on; the people rise out of their brutishness; step follows step into the darkness, hand follows hand into the shadows; the immense pyramid is raised, upon the summit of which, as its crowning glory, future ages shall place the bust of Rousseau, citizen of Geneva, who risked his liberty, his life, that he might act as he had spoken-that he might be faithful to his motto; 'Vitam impendere vero.'“

Thereupon Rousseau, in a fit of enthusiasm, seated himself at his harpsichord, and exalted his imagination by the loudest, the most sonorous, and the most warlike melodies he could call forth from its sounding cavity.

Night closed in. Therese, wearied with her vain endeavors to torment her captive, had fallen asleep upon her chair. Rousseau, with beating heart, took his new coat, as if to go out on a pleasure excursion, glanced for a moment in the glass at the play of his black eyes, and was charmed to find that they were sparkling and expressive.

He grasped his knotted stick in his hand, and slipped out of the room without awakening Therese. But when he arrived at the foot of the stairs, and had drawn back the bolt of the street-door, Rousseau paused and looked out, to assure himself as to the state of the locality.

No carriage was passing; the street, as usual, was full of idlers gazing at each other, as they do at this day, while many stopped at the shop windows to ogle the pretty girls. A new-comer would therefore be quite unnoticed in such a crowd. Rousseau plunged into it; he had not far to go. A ballad-singer, with a cracked violin, was stationed before the door which had been pointed out to him. This music, to which every true Parisian's ear is extremely sensitive, filled the street with echoes which repeated the last bars of the air sung by the violin or by the singer himself. Nothing could be more unfavorable, therefore, to the free passage along the street than the crowd gathered at this spot, and the passers-by were obliged to turn either to the right or left of the group. Those who turned to the left took the center of the street, those to the right brushed along the side of the house indicated, and vice versa.

Rousseau remarked that several of these passers-by disappeared on the way as if they had fallen into some trap. He concluded that these people had come with the same purpose as himself, and determined to imitate their maneuver. It was not difficult to accomplish. Having stationed himself in the rear of the assembly of listeners, as if to join their number, he watched the first person whom he saw entering the open alloy, more timid than they, probably because he had more to risk, he waited until a particularly favorable opportunity should present itself.

He did not wait long. A cabriolet which drove along the street divided the circle, and caused the two hemispheres to fall back upon the houses on either side. Rousseau thus found himself driven to the very entrance of the passage; he had only to walk on. Our philosopher observed that all the idlers were looking at the cabriolet and had turned their backs on the house; he took advantage of this circumstance, and disappeared in the dark passage.

After advancing a few steps he perceived a lamp, beneath which a man was seated quietly, like a stall-keeper after the day's business was over, and read, or seemed to read, a newspaper. At the sound of Rousseau's footsteps this man raised his head and visibly placed his finger upon his breast, upon which the lamp threw a strong light. Rousseau replied to this symbolic gesture by raising his finger to his lips.

The man then immediately rose, and, pushing open a door at his right hand, which door was so artificially concealed in the wooden panel of which it formed a part as to be wholly invisible, he showed Rousseau a very steep staircase, winch descended underground. Rousseau entered, and the door closed quickly but noiselessly after him.

The philosopher descended the steps slowly, assisted by his cane. He thought it rather disrespectful that the brothers should cause him, at this, his first interview, to run the risk of breaking his neck or his legs. But the stair, if steep, was not long. Rousseau counted seventeen steps, and then felt as if suddenly plunged into a highly-heated atmosphere.

This moist heat proceeded from the breath of a considerable number of men who were assembled in the low hall. Rousseau remarked that the walls were tapestried with red and white drapery, on which figures of various implements of labor, rather symbolic doubtless than real, were depicted. A single lamp hung from the vaulted ceiling, and threw a gloomy light upon the faces of those present, who were conversing with each other on the wooden benches, and who wore the appearance of honest and respectable citizens.

The floor was neither polished nor carpeted, but was covered with a thick mat of plaited rushes, which deadened the sound of the footsteps. Rousseau's entrance, therefore, produced no sensation. No one seemed to have remarked it.

Five minutes previously Rousseau had longed for nothing so much as such an entrance; and yet, when he had entered, he felt annoyed that he had succeeded so well. He saw an unoccupied place on one of the back benches, and installed himself as modestly as possible on this seat, behind all the others.

He counted thirty-three heads in the assembly. A desk, placed upon a platform, seemed to wait for a president.

CHAPTER CI. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLATRIERE.

ROUSSEAU REMARKED that the conversation of those present was very cautious and reserved. Many did not open their lips; and scarcely three or four couples exchanged a few words.

Those who did not speak endeavored even to conceal their faces, which was not difficult-thanks to the great body of shadow cast by the platform of the expected president. The refuge of these last, who seemed to be the timid individuals of the assembly, was behind this platform. But, in return, two or three members of this corporation gave themselves a great deal of trouble to recognize their colleagues. They came and went, talked among themselves, and frequently disappeared through a door before which was drawn a black curtain, ornamented with red flames.

In a short time a bell was rung. A man immediately rose from the end of the bench upon which he was seated, and where he was previously confounded with the other freemasons, and took his place upon the platform.

After making some signs with the hands and fingers, which were repeated by all those present, and adding a last sign more explicit than the others, he declared the sitting commenced.

This man was entirely unknown to Rousseau. Beneath the exterior of a working man in easy circumstances, he concealed great presence of mind, aided by an elocution as flowing as could have been wished for in an orator.

His speech was brief, and to the point. He declared that the lodge had been assembled to proceed to the election of a new brother.

“You will not be surprised,” said he, “that we have assembled you in a place where the usual trials cannot be attempted. These trials have seemed useless to the chiefs; the brother whom we are to receive to-day is one of the lights of contemporary philosophy-a thoughtful spirit who will be devoted to us from conviction, not from fear. One who has discovered all the mysteries of nature and of the human heart cannot be treated in the same manner as the simple mortal from whom we demand the help of his arm, his will, and his gold. In order to have the co-operation of his distinguished mind, of his honest and energetic character, his promise and his assent are sufficient.”

The speaker, when he had concluded, looked round to mark the effect of his words.

Upon Rousseau the effect had been magical; the Genevese philosopher was acquainted with the preparatory mysteries of freemasonry, and looked upon them with the repugnance natural to enlightened minds. The concessions, absurd because they were useless, which the chiefs required from the candidates, this simulating fear when Everyone knew there was nothing to fear, seemed to him to be the acme of puerility and senseless superstition.

Besides this, the timid philosopher, an enemy to all personal exhibitions and manifestations, would have felt most unhappy had he been obliged to serve as a spectacle for people whom he did not know, and who would have certainly mystified him more or less.

To dispense with these trials in his case was therefore more than a satisfaction to him. He knew the strictness with which equality was enforced by the masonic principles, therefore an exception in his favor constituted a triumph.

He was preparing to say some words in reply to the gracious address of the president, when a voice was heard among the audience.

“At least,” said this voice, which was sharp and discordant, “since you think yourself obliged to treat in this princely fashion a man like ourselves, since you dispense in his case with physical pains, as if the pursuit of liberty through bodily suffering were not one of our symbols, we hope you will not confer a precious title upon an unknown person without having questioned him according to the usual ritual, and without having received his profession of faith.”

Rousseau turned round to discover the features of the aggressive person who so rudely jostled his triumphant car, and with the greatest surprise recognized the young surgeon whom he had that morning met upon the Quai-aux-Fleurs. A conviction of his own honesty of purpose, perhaps also a feeling of disdain for the precious title, prevented him from replying.

“You have heard-” said the president, addressing Rousseau.

“Perfectly,” replied the philosopher, who trembled slightly at the sound of his voice as it echoed through the vaulted roof of the dark hall, “and I am the more surprised at the interpolation when I see from whom it proceeds. What! A man whose profession it is to combat what is called physical suffering, and to assist his brethren, who are common men as well as freemasons, preaches the utility of physical suffering. He chooses a singular path through which to lead the creature to happiness, the sick to health.”

“We do not here speak of this or that person.” replied the young man warmly; “I am supposed to be unknown to the candidate, and he to me. I am merely the utterer of an abstract truth, and I assert that the chief has done wrong in making an exception in favor of anyone. I do not recognize in him,” pointing to Rousseau, “the philosopher, and he must not recognize the surgeon in me. We shall perhaps walk side by side through life, without a look or gesture betraying our intimacy, which nevertheless, thanks to the laws of the association, is more binding than all vulgar friendships. I repeat, therefore, that if it has been thought well to spare this candidate the usual trials, he ought at least to have the usual questions put to him.”

Rousseau made no reply. The president saw depicted on his features disgust at this discussion, and regret at having engaged in the enterprise.

“Brother,” said he authoritatively to the young man, “you will please be silent when the chief speaks, and do not venture on light grounds to blame his actions, which are sovereign here.”

“I have a right to speak,” replied the young man, more gently.

“To speak, yes; but not to blame. The brother who is about to enter our association is so well known that we have no wish to add to our masonic relations a ridiculous and useless mystery. All the brothers here present know his name, and his name itself, is a perfect guarantee. But as he himself, I am certain, loves equality, I request him to answer the question which I shall put to him merely for form:

“What do you seek in this association-”

Rousseau made two steps forward in advance of the crowd, and his dreamy and melancholy eye wandered over the assembly.

“I seek,” said he, “that which I do not find-truths, not sophisms. Why should you surround me with poniards which do not wound, with poisons which are only clear water, and with traps under which mattresses are spread- I know the extent of human endurance. I know the vigor of my physical frame. If you were to destroy it, it would not be worth your while to elect me a brother, for when dead I could be of no use to you. Therefore you do not wish to kill me, still less to wound me; and all the doctors in the world would not make me approve of an initiation in the course of which my limbs had been broken. I have served a longer apprenticeship to pain than any of you; I have sounded the body, and probed even to the soul. If I consented to come among you when I was solicited”-and he laid particular emphasis on the word-”it was because I thought I might be useful. I give, therefore; I do not receive. Alas! before you could do anything to defend me, before you could restore me to liberty were I imprisoned-before you could give me bread if I were starving, or consolation if I were afflicted -before, I repeat, you could do anything -the brother whom you admit to-day, if this gentleman,” turning to Marat, “permits it-this brother will have paid the last tribute of nature; for progress is halting, light is slow, and from the grave into which he will be thrown, none of you can raise him.”

“You are mistaken, illustrious brother,” said a mild and penetrating voice which charmed Rousseau's ear; “there is more than you think in the association into which you are about to enter; there is the whole future destiny of the world. The future, you are aware, is hope-is science; the future is God, who will give His light to the world, since He has promised to give it, and God cannot lie.”

Astonished at this elevated language, Rousseau looked around and recognized the young man who had made the appointment with him in the morning at the bed of justice. This man, who was dressed in black with great neatness, and, above all, with a marked air of distinction in his appearance, was leaning against the side of the platform, and his face, illumined by the lamp, shone in all its beauty, grace and expressiveness.

“Ah!” said Rousseau, “science-the bottomless abyss! You speak to me of science, consolation, futurity, hope; another speaks of matter, of rigor, and of violence; whom shall I believe- Shall it be, then, in this assembly of brothers, as it is among the devouring wolves of the world which stirs above us! Wolves and sheep! Listen to my profession of faith, since you have not read it in my books.”

“Your books!” exclaimed Marat. “They are sublime-I confess it-but they are Utopias. You are useful in the same point of view as Pythagoras, Solon, and Cicero the sophist. You point out the good, but it is an artificial, unsubstantial, unattainable good. You are like one who would feed a hungry crowd with air bubbles, more or less illumined by the sun.”

“Have you ever seen,” said Rousseau, frowning, “great commotions of nature take place without preparation- Have you seen the birth of a man-that common and yet sublime event- Have you not seen him collect substance and life in the womb of his mother for nine months- Ah! you wish me to regenerate the world with actions. That is not to regenerate, sir; it is to revolutionize!”

“Then,” retorted the young surgeon, violently, “you do not wish for independence; you do not wish for liberty!”

“On the contrary,” replied Rousseau, “independence is my idol-liberty is my goddess. But I wish for a mild and radiant liberty-a liberty which warms and vivifies. I wish for an equality which will connect men by ties of friendship, not by fear. I wish for education, for the instruction of each element of the social body, as the mechanic wishes for harmonious movement-as the cabinet-maker wishes for the perfect exactness, for the closest fitting, in each piece of his work. I repeat it, I wish for that which I have written-progress, concord, devotion.”

A smile of disdain flitted over Marat's lips.

“Yes,” he said, “rivulets of milk and honey, Elysian fields like Virgil's poetic dreams, which philosophy would make a reality.”

Rousseau made no reply. It seemed to him too hard that he should have to defend his moderation-he, whom all Europe called a violent innovator.

He took his seat in silence, after having satisfied his ingenuous and timid mind by appealing for and obtaining the tacit approbation of the person who had just before defended him.

The president rose.

“You have all heard-” said he.

“Yes,” replied the entire assembly.

“Does the candidate appear to you worthy of entering the association, and does he comprehend its duties-”

“Yes,” replied the assembly again; but this time with a reserve which did not evince much unanimity.

“Take the oath,” said the president to Rousseau.

“It would be disagreeable to me.” said the philosopher, with some pride, “to displease any members of this association; and I must repeat the words I made use of just now, as they are the expression of my earnest conviction. If I were an orator, I would put them in a more eloquent manner; but my organ of speech is rebellious, and always betrays my thoughts when I ask it for an immediate translation. I wish to say that I can do more for the world and for you out of this assembly, than I could were I strictly to follow your usages. Leave me, therefore, to my work, to my weakness, to my loneliness. I have told you I am descending to the grave; grief, infirmity, and want hurry me on. You cannot delay this great work of nature. Abandon me; I am not made for the society of men; I hate and fly them. Nevertheless, I serve them, because I am a man myself; and in serving them I fancy them better than they are. Now you have my whole thoughts; I shall not say another word.”

“Then you refuse to take the oath-” said Marat, with some emotion.

“I refuse positively; I do not wish to join the association. I see too many convincing proofs to assure me that I should be useless to it.”

“Brother,” said the unknown personage with the conciliatory voice, “allow me to call you so, for we are brothers, independently of all combinations of the human mind-brother! do not give way to a very natural feeling of irritation; sacrifice your legitimate pride; do for us what is repulsive to yourself. Your advice, your ideas, your presence, are light to our paths. Do not plunge us in the twofold darkness of your absence and your refusal.”

“You are in error,” said Rousseau; “I take nothing from you, since I should never have given you more than I have given to the whole world-to the first chance reader-to the first consulter of the journals. If you wish for the name and essence of Rousseau-

“We do wish for them!” said several voices, politely.

“Then make a collection of my books; place them upon the table of your president; and when you are taking the opinions of the meeting, and my turn to give one comes, open my books-you will find my counsel and my vote there.”

Rousseau made a step toward the door.

“Stop one moment,” said the surgeon; “mind is free, and that of the illustrious philosopher more than any other; but it would not be regular to have allowed a stranger even to enter our sanctuary, who, not being bound by any tacit agreement, might, without dishonesty, reveal our mysteries.”

Rousseau smiled compassionately.

“You want an oath of secrecy-” said he.

“You have said it.”

“I am ready.”

“Be good enough to read the formula, venerable brother,” said Marat.

The venerable brother read the following form of oath:

“I swear, in the presence of the Eternal God, the Architect of the Universe, and before my superiors, and the respectable assembly which surrounds me, never to reveal, or to make known, or write anything which has happened in my presence, under penalty, in case of indiscretion, of being punished according to the laws of the Great Founder, of my superiors, and the anger of my fathers.”

Rousseau had already raised his hand to swear, when the unknown, who had followed the progress of the debate with a sort of authority which no one seemed to dispute, although he was not distinguished from the crowd, approached the president, and whispered some words in his ear.

“True,” said the venerable chief, and he added; “You are a man, not a brother; you are a man of honor, placed toward us only in the position of a fellow-man. We here abjure, therefore, our distinguishing peculiarity, and ask from you merely your word of honor to forget what has passed between us.”

“Like a dream of the morning-I swear it upon my honor.” said Rousseau, with emotion.

With these words he retired, and many of the members followed him.

CHAPTER CII. THE REPORT.

WHEN THE MEMBERS of the second and third orders had gone, seven associates remained in the lodge. They were the seven chiefs. They recognized each other by means of signs which proved their initiation to a superior degree.

Their first care was to close the doors. Then their president made himself known by displaying a ring, on which were engraved the mysterious letters, L. P. D.”

This president was charged with the most important correspondence of the order. He was in communication with the six other chiefs, who dwelt in Switzerland. Russia, America, Sweden, Spain, and Italy.

He brought with him some of the most important documents he had received from his colleagues, in order to communicate their contents to the superior circles of initiated brothers, who were above the others but beneath him.

We have already recognized this chief; it was Balsamo.

The most important of the letters contained a threatening advice. It was from Sweden, and written by Swedenborg.

“Watch the south, brothers,” he said; “under its burning rays has been hatched a traitor who will ruin you.

“Watch in Paris, brothers-the traitor dwells there; he possesses the secrets of the order, a feeling of hatred urges him on.

“A murmuring voice, a rustling flight, whispers the denunciation in my ear. I see a terrible vengeance coming, but perhaps it will be too late. In the meantime, brothers, watch! watch! A traitorous tongue, even though it be uninstructed, is sometimes sufficient to overthrow our most skillfully constructed plans.”

The brothers looked at each other in mute surprise. The language of the fierce old sage, his prescience, which had acquired an imposing authority from many striking examples, contributed in no small degree to cast a gloom over the meeting at which Balsamo presided. Balsamo himself, who placed implicit faith in Swedenborg's second sight, could not resist the saddening influence which this letter had on the assembly.

“Brothers,” said he, “the inspired prophet is, rarely deceived. Watch, then, as he bids you. You know now, as I do, that the struggle commences. Let us not be conquered by these ridiculous enemies, whose power we sap in the utmost security. You must not forget that they have mercenary swords at their command. It is a powerful weapon in this world, among those who do not see beyond the limits of our terrestrial life. Brothers, let us distrust these hired traitors.”

“These fears seem to me puerile,” a voice; “we gather strength daily, and we are directed by brilliant genius and powerful hands.”

Balsamo bowed his thanks for the flattering eulogy.

“Yes, but as our illustrious president has said, treason creeps everywhere,” replied a brother, who was no other than the surgeon Marat, promoted, notwithstanding his youth, to a superior grade, in virtue of which he now sat for the first time on a consulting committee. “Remember, brothers, that by doubling the bait, you make a more important capture. If M. de Sartines with a bag of crownpieces can purchase the revelations of one of our obscurer brothers, the minister, with a million, or with holding out the hope of advancement, may buy over one of our superiors. Now, with us the obscurer brother knows nothing. At the most he is cognizant of the names of some of his colleagues, and these names signify nothing. Ours is an excellent constitution, but it is an eminently aristocratic one; the inferiors know nothing, can do nothing. They are called together to say or to hear trifles, and yet they contribute their time and their money to increase the solidity of our edifice. Reflect that the workman brings only the stone and the mortar, but without stone and mortar could you build the house- Now, the workman receives a very small salary, but I consider him equal to the architect who plans, creates, and superintends the whole work; and I consider him equal because he is a man, and in the eyes of a philosopher, one man is worth as much as another, seeing that he bears his misfortunes and his fate equally, and because, even more than another man, he is exposed to the fall of a stone or the breaking of a scaffold.”

“I must interrupt you, brother,” said Balsamo. “You diverge from the question which alone ought to occupy our thoughts. Your failing, brother, is that you are over zealous, and apt to generalize discussions. Our business on the present occasion is not to decide whether our constitution be good or bad, but to uphold the integrity of that constitution in all its strength. If I wished, however, to discuss the point with you, I would answer, no; the instrument which receives the impulse is not equal to the architect; the brain is not the equal of the arm!”

“Suppose M. de Sartines should seize one of our least important brethren!” cried Marat warmly, “would he not send him to rot in the Bastille equally with you or me-”

“Granted; but the misfortune in that case is for the individual only, not for the order, which is with us the all-important point. If, on the contrary, the chief were imprisoned, the whole conspiracy is at an end. When the general is absent, the army loses the battle. Therefore, brother, watch over the safety of the chiefs!”

“Yes, but let them in return watch over ours.”

“That is their duty.”

“And let their faults be doubly punished.”

“Again, brother, you wander from the constitution of the order. Have you forgotten that the oath which binds all the members of the associations is the same, and threatens all with the same punishment-”

“The great ones always escape!”

“That is not the opinion of the great themselves, brother. Listen to the conclusion of the letter which one of the greatest among us, our prophet Swedenborg, has written. This is what he adds:

“The blow will come from one of the mighty ones, one of the mightiest of the order; or, if it comes not directly from him, the fault will be traceable to him. Remember that fire and water may be accomplices; one gives light, the other revelation.

“Watch, brothers, over all and over each, watch!”

“Then,” said Marat, seizing upon those points in Balsamo's speech and Swedenborg's letter which suited his purpose, “let us repeat the oath which binds us together, and let us pledge ourselves to maintain it in its utmost vigor, whosoever he may be who shall betray us, or be the cause of our betrayal.”

Balsamo paused for a moment, and then, rising from his seat, he pronounced the consecrated words, with which our readers are already acquainted, in a slow, solemn, terrible voice:

“In the name of the crucified Son, I swear to break all the bonds of nature which unite me to father, mother, brother, sister, wife, relation, friend,, mistress, king, benefactor, and to any being whatsoever to whom I have promised faith, obedience, gratitude, or service.

“I swear to reveal to the chief, whom I acknowledge according to the statutes of the order, all that I have seen or done, read or guessed, and even to search out and penetrate that which may not of itself be openly present to my eyes.

“I will honor poison, steel, and fire, as a means of ridding the world, by death or idiocy, of the enemies of truth and liberty.

“I subscribe to the law of silence. I consent to die, as if struck by lightning, on the day when I shall have merited this punishment, and I await, without murmuring, the knife which will reach me in whatsoever part of the world I may be.”

Then, the seven men who composed this solemn assembly repeated the oath, word for word, standing, and with uncovered heads.

When the words of the oath had been repeated by all:

“We are now guaranteed against treachery,” said Balsamo; “let us no longer mingle extraneous matter with our discussion. I have to make my report to the committee of the principal events of the year.

“My summary of the affairs of France may have interest for enlightened and zealous minds like yours; I will commence with it.

“France is situated in the center of Europe, as the heart in the center of the body; it lives and radiates life. It is in its palpitations that we must look for the cause of all the disorder in the general organization.

“I came to France, therefore, and approached Paris as a physician approaches the heart. I listened, I felt, I experimented. When I entered it a year ago, the monarchy harassed it; to-day, vices kill it. I required to hasten the effect of these fatal debauches, and therefore I assisted them.

“An obstacle was in my way; this obstacle was a man, not only the first, but the most powerful man in the state, next to the king.

“He was gifted with some of those qualities which please other men. He was too proud, it is true, but his pride was applied to his works. He knew how to lighten the hardships of the people by making them believe and even feel sometimes that they were a portion of the state; and by sometimes consulting them on their grievances, he raised a standard around which the mass will always rally -the spirit of nationality.

“He hated the English, the natural enemies of the French; he hated the favorite, the natural enemy of the working classes. Now, if this man had been a usurper-if he had been one of us-if he would have trodden in our path, acted for our ends-I would have assisted him, I would have kept him in power, I would have upheld him by the resources I am able to create for my proteges; for, instead of patching up decayed royalty, he would have assisted us in overthrowing it on the appointed day. But he belonged to the aristocracy; he was born with a feeling of respect for that first rank to which he could not aspire, for the monarchy, which he dared not attack; he served royalty while despising the king; he did worse-he acted as a shield to this royalty against which our blows were directed. The parliament and the people, full of respect for this living dyke which opposed itself to any encroachment on the royal prerogative, limited themselves to a moderate resistance, certain as they were of having in him a powerful assistant when the moment should arrive.

“I understood the position-I undertook M. de Choiseul's fall.

“This laborious task, at which for ten years so much hatred and interest had labored in vain, I commenced and terminated in a few months, by means which it would be useless to reveal to you. By a secret, which constitutes one of my powers-a power the greater, because it will remain eternally hidden from the eyes of all, and will manifest itself only by its effects-I overthrew and banished M. de Choiseul, and attached to his overthrow a long train of regret, disappointment, lamentation, and anger.

“You see now that my labor bears its fruit; all France asks for Choiseul, and rises to demand him back, as orphans turn to heaven when God has taken away their earthly parents.

“The parliament employs the only right it possesses-inertia; it has ceased to act. In a well-organized body, as a state of the first rank ought to be, the paralysis of any essential organ is fatal. Now, the parliament in the social is what the stomach is in the human body. When the parliament ceases to act, the people-the intestines of the state -can work no longer; and, consequently, must cease to pay, and the gold-that is, the blood-will be wanting.

“There will be a struggle, no doubt; but who can combat against the people- Not the army-that daughter of the people-which eats the bread of the laborer, and drinks the wine of the vine-grower. There remain then the king's household, the privileged classes, the guards, the Swiss, the musketeers-in all, scarce five or six thousand men. What can this handful of pigmies do when the nation shall rise like a giant-”

“Let them rise, then-let them rise!” cried several voices.

“Yes, yes! to the work!” exclaimed Marat.

“Young man, I have not yet consulted you!” said Balsamo, coldly. “This sedition of the masses,” continued he, “this revolt of the weak, become strong by their number, against the powerful single-handed-less thoughtful, less ripened, less experienced minds would stimulate immediately, and would succeed with a facility which terrifies me; but I have reflected and studied-I have mixed with the people, and, under their dress, with their perseverance, even their coarseness, I have viewed them so closely, that I have made myself, as it were, one of themselves. I know them now; I cannot be deceived in them. They are strong, but ignorant; irritable, but not revengeful. In a word, they are not yet ripe for sedition such as I mean and wish for. They want the instruction which will make them see events in the double light of example and utility; they want the memory of their past experience.

“They resemble those daring young men whom I have seen in Germany, at the public festivals, eagerly climb a vessel's mast, at the top of which hung a ham and a silver cup. They started at first burning with eagerness, and mounted with surprising rapidity; but when they had almost reached the goal-when they had only to extend the arm to seize their prize-their strength abandoned them, and they slipped to the bottom amid the hootings of the crowd.

“The first time it happened as I told you; the second time they husbanded their strength and their breath; but, taking more time, they failed by their slowness as they had before failed from too great haste. At last-the third time -they took a middle course between precipitation and delay, and this time they succeeded. This is the plan I propose; efforts -never ceasing efforts -which gradually approach the goal, until the day arrives when infallible success will crown our attempts.”

Balsamo ceased and looked around upon his audience, among whom the passions of youth and inexperience were boiling over.

“Speak, brother,” said he to Marat, who was more agitated than the others.

“I will be brief,” said he. “Efforts soothe the people when they do not discourage them. Efforts! that is the theory of M. Rousseau, citizen of Geneva, a great poet, but a slow and timid genius-a useless citizen, whom Plato would have driven from his republic! Wait! Ever wait! Since the emancipation of the commons, since the revolt of the muillotins-for seven centuries we have waited! Count the generations which have died in the meantime, and then dare to pronounce the fatal word wait! as your motto of the future! M. Rousseau speaks to us of opposition, as it was practiced in the reign of the Grand Monarque-as Moliere practiced it in his comedies, Boileau in his satires, and La Fontaine in his fables-whispering it in the ears of marchionesses, and prostrating it at the feet of kings. Poor and feeble opposition, which has not advanced the cause of humanity one jot! Lisping children recite these hidden theories without understanding them, and go to sleep while they recite. Rabelais also was a politician in your sense of the word; but at such politics people laugh, and correct nothing. Have you seen one single abuse redressed for the last three hundred years- Enough of poets and theoreticians! Let us have deeds, not words. We have given France up to the care of physicians for three hundred years, and it is time now that surgery should enter in its turn, scalpel and saw in hand. Society is gangrened; let us stop the gangrene with the steel. He may wait who rises from his table to recline upon a couch of roses, from which the ruffled leaves are blown by the breath of his slaves; for the satisfied stomach exhales grateful vapors which mount into the brain, and recreate and vivify it. But hunger, misery, despair, are not satiated nor consoled with verses, with sentences and fables. They cry out loudly in their sufferings; deaf, indeed, must he be who does not hear their lamentations-accursed he who does not reply to them! A revolt, even should it be crushed, will enlighten the minds more than a thousand years of precepts, more than three centuries of examples. It will enlighten the kings, if it do not overthrow them. That is much!-that is enough!”

A murmur of admiration rose from several lips.

“Where are our enemies-” pursued Marat. “Above us! Above us! They guard the doors of the palaces, they surround the steps of the throne. Upon this throne is their palladium, which they guard with more care and with more fear than the Trojans did theirs. This palladium, which makes them all-powerful, rich and insolent, is royalty. This royalty cannot be reached, save by passing over the bodies of those who guard it, as one can only reach the general by overthrowing the battalion by which he is surrounded. Well! History tells us of many battalions which have been captured -many generals who have been overthrown-from Darius to King John, from Regulus down to Duguesclin.

“If we overthrow the guard, we reach the idol. Let us begin by striking down the sentinels -we can afterward strike down the chief. Let the first attack be on the courtiers, the nobility, the aristocracy; the last will be upon the kings. Count the privileged heads; there are scarcely two hundred thousand. Walk through this beautiful garden called France, with a sharp switch in your hand, and cut down these two hundred thousand heads as Tarquin did the poppies of Latium, and all will be done. There will then be only two powers opposed to each other, the people and the kingship. Then let this kingship, the emblem, try to struggle with the people, this giant -and you will see! Where dwarfs wish to overthrow a colossus, they commence with the pedestal. When the woodmen wish to cut down the oak, they attack it at the foot. Woodmen! woodmen! seize the hatchet-attack the oak at its roots-and the ancient tree with its proud branches will soon bite the dust!”

“And will crush you like pigmies in its fall, unfortunate wretches that you are!” exclaimed Balsamo, in a voice of thunder. “Ah! you rail against the poets, and you speak in metaphors even more poetical and more imaginative than theirs! Brother! brother!” continued he, addressing Marat, “I tell you, you have quoted these sentences from some romance which you are composing in your garret!” Marat reddened.

“Do you know what a revolution is-” continued Balsamo; “I have seen two hundred, and can tell you. I have seen that of ancient Egypt, that of Assyria, those of Rome and Greece, and that of the Netherlands. I have seen those of the Middle Ages, when the nations rushed one against the other-East against West, West against East-and murdered without knowing why. From the Shepherd Kings to our own time there have been perhaps a hundred revolutions, and yet now you complain of being slaves. Revolutions, then, have done no good. And why- Because those who caused the revolution were all struck with the same vertigo-they were too hasty. Does God, who presides over the revolutions of the world, as genius presides over the revolutions of men-does He hasten-

“'Cut down the oak!' you cry. And you do not calculate that the oak, which needs but a second to fall, covers as much ground when it falls as a horse at a gallop would cross in thirty seconds. Now, those who throw down the oak, not having time to avoid the unforeseen fall, would be lost, crushed, killed, beneath its immense trunk. That is what you want, is it not- You will never get that from me. I shall be patient. I carry my fate -yours -the world's-in the hollow of this hand. No one can make me open this hand, full of overwhelming truth, unless I wish to open it. There is thunder in it, I know. Well! the thunderbolt shall remain in it, as if hidden in the murky cloud. Brethren! brethren! descend from these sublime heights, and let us once more walk upon the earth.

“Sirs, I tell you plainly, and from my inmost soul, that the time has not yet come. The king who is on the throne is the last reflection of the great monarch whom the people still venerate; and in this fading monarchy there is yet something dazzling enough to outweigh the lightning shafts of your petty anger. This man was born a king and will die a king. His race is insolent but pure. You can read his origin on his brow, in his gestures, in his words-he will always be king. Overthrow him, and the same will happen to him as happened to Charles the First-his executioners will kneel before him, and the courtiers who accompanied him in his misfortune, like Lord Capel, will kiss the ax which struck off the head of their master.

“Now, sirs, you all know that England was too hasty. King Charles the First died upon the scaffold, indeed; but King Charles the Second, his son, died upon the throne.

“Wait, wait, brethren! for the time will soon be propitious. You wish to destroy the lilies. That is our motto-'Lilia pedibus destrue.' But not a single root must leave the flower of Saint Louis the hope of blooming again. You wish to destroy royalty! to destroy royalty forever! You must first weaken her prestige as well as her essence. You wish to destroy royalty! Wait till royalty is no longer a sacred office, but merely a trade-till it is practiced in a shop, not in a temple. Now, what is most sacred in royalty-viz., the legitimate transmission of the throne, authorized for centuries by God and the people -is about to be lost forever. Listen, listen! This invincible, this impervious barrier between us nothings and these quasi-divine creatures-this limit which the people have never dared to cross, and which is called legitimacy -this word, brilliant as a lighted watch-tower, and which until now has saved the royal family from shipwreck -this word will be extinguished by the breath of a mysterious fatality!

“The dauphiness-called to France to perpetuate the race of kings by the admixture of imperial blood-the dauphiness, married now for a year to the heir of the French crown-approach, brethren, for I fear to let the sound of my words pass beyond your circle-”

“Well-” asked the six chiefs, with anxiety.

“Well, brethren, the dauphiness will never have an heir, or if one be born to her, he will die early!”

A sinister murmur, which would have frozen the monarchs of the world with terror had they heard it-such deep hatred, such revengeful joy, did it breathe-escaped like a deadly vapor from the little circle of six heads, which almost touched each other, Balsamo's being bent over them from his rostrum.

“Now, gentlemen, you know this year's work; you see the progress of our mines. Be assured that we shall only succeed by the genius and the courage of some, who will serve as the eyes and the brain-by the perseverance and labor of others, who will represent the arms-by the faith and the devotion of others again, who will be the heart.

“Above all, remember the necessity of a blind submission, which ordains that even your chief must sacrifice himself to the will of the statutes of the order, whenever those statutes require it.

“After this, gentlemen and beloved brothers, I would dissolve the meeting, if there were not still a good act to perform, an evil to point out.

“The great writer who came among us this evening, and who would have been one of us but for the stormy zeal of one of our brothers who alarmed his timid soul-this great author proved himself in the right before our assembly, and I deplore it as a misfortune that a stranger should be victorious before a majority of brothers who are imperfectly acquainted with our rules, and utterly ignorant of our aim.

“Rousseau, triumphing over the truths of our association with the sophisms of his books, represents a fundamental vice which I would extirpate by steel and fire, if I had not the hope of curing it by persuasion. The self-love of one of our brothers has developed itself most unfortunately. He has given us the worst in the discussion. No similar fact, I trust, will again present itself, or else I shall have recourse to the laws of discipline.

“In the meantime, gentlemen, propagate the faith by gentleness and persuasion. Insinuate it, do not impose it-do not force it into rebellious minds with wedges and blows, as the inquisitors tortured their victims. Remember that we cannot be great until after we have been acknowledged good; and that we cannot be acknowledged good but by appearing better than those who surround us. Remember, too, that among us the great, the good, the best, are nothing without science, art, and faith; nothing, in short, compared with those whom God has marked with a peculiar stamp, as if giving them an authority to govern over men and rule empires.

“Gentlemen, the meeting is dissolved.” After pronouncing these words. Balsamo put on his hat and folded himself in his cloak.

Each of the initiated left in his turn, alone and silently, in order not to awaken suspicion.

CHAPTER CIII. THE BODY AND THE SOUL.

THE LAST WHO remained beside the master was Marat, the surgeon. He was very pale, and humbly approached the terrible orator, whose power was unlimited.

“Master,” said he, “have I indeed committed a fault-”

“A great one, sir,” said Balsamo; “and, what is worse, you do not believe that you have committed one.”

“Well! yes, I confess that not only do I not believe that I committed a fault, but I think that I spoke as I ought to have done.”

“Pride, pride!” muttered Balsamo; “pride-destructive demon! Men combat the fever in the blood of the patient-they dispel the plague from the water and the air-but they let pride strike such deep roots in their hearts that they cannot exterminate it.”

“Oh, master!” said Marat, “you have a very despicable opinion of me. Am I indeed so worthless that I cannot count for anything among my fellows- Have I gathered the fruits of my labor so ill that I cannot utter a word without being taxed with ignorance- Am I such a lukewarm adept that my earnestness is suspected- If I had no other good quality, at least I exist through my devotion to the holy cause of the people.”

“Sir,” replied Balsamo, “it is because the principle of good yet struggles in you against the principle of evil, which appears to me likely to carry you away one day, that I will try to correct these defects in you. If I can succeed-if pride has not yet subdued every other sentiment in your breast-I shall succeed in one hour.”

“In one hour-” said Marat.

“Yes; will you grant me that time-”

“Certainly.”

“Where shall I see you-”

“Master, it is my place to seek you in any place you may choose to point out to your servant.”

“Well!” said Balsamo, “I will come to your house.”

“Mark the promise you are making, master. I live in an attic in the Rue des Cordeliers. An attic, remember!” said Marat, with an affectation of proud simplicity, with a boasting display of poverty, which did not escape Balsamo; “while you-”

“Well! while I-”

“While you, it is said, inhabit a palace.”

Balsamo shrugged his shoulders, as a giant who looks down with contempt on the anger of a dwarf.

“Well, even so, sir,” he replied; “I will come to see you in your garret.”

“And when, sir-”-”To-morrow.”

“At what time-”

“In the morning.”

“At daybreak I go to my lecture-room, and from thence to the hospital.”

“That is precisely what I want. I would have asked you to take me with you, had you not proposed it.”

“But early, remember,” said Marat; “I sleep little.”

“And I do not sleep at all,” replied Balsamo. “At daybreak, then.”

“I shall expect you.”

Thereupon they separated, for they had reached the door opening on the street, now as dark and solitary as it had been noisy and populous when they entered. Balsamo turned to the left, and rapidly disappeared, Marat followed his example, striding toward the right with his long meager limbs.

Balsamo was punctual; the next morning, at six o'clock, he knocked at Marat's door, which was the center one of six, opening on a long corridor which formed the top most story of an old house in the Rue des Cordeliers.

It was evident that Marat had made great preparations to receive his illustrious guest. The small bed of walnut-tree, and the wooden chest of drawers beside it, shone bright beneath the sturdy arm of the charwoman, who was busily engaged scrubbing the decayed furniture.

Marat himself lent a helping hand to the old woman, and was refreshing the withered flowers which were arranged in a blue delft pot, and which formed the principal ornament of the attic. He still held a duster underneath his arm, which showed that he had not touched the flowers until after having given a rub to the furniture.

As the key was in the door, and as Balsamo had entered without knocking, he interrupted Marat in his occupation. Marat, at the sight of the master, blushed much more deeply than was becoming in a true stoic.

“You see, master,” said he, stealthily throwing the tell-tale cloth behind a curtain, “I am a domestic man, and assist this good woman. It is from preference that I choose this task, which is, perhaps, not quite plebeian, but it is still less aristocratic.”

“It is that of a poor young man who loves cleanliness,” said Balsamo, coldly, “nothing more. Are you ready, sir- You know my moments are precious.”

“I have only to slip on my coat, sir. Dame Grivette, my coat! She is my portress, sir-my footman, my cook, my housekeeper, and she costs me one crown a month.”

“Economy is praiseworthy,” said Balsamo; “it is the wealth of the poor, and the wisdom of the rich.”

“My hat and cane!” said Marat.

“Stretch out your hand,” said Balsamo; “there is your hat, and no doubt this cane which, hangs beside your hat is yours.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, sir; I am quite confused.”

“Are you ready-”

“Yes, sir. My watch. Dame Grivette!”

Dame Grivette bustled about the room as if in search of something, but did not reply.

“You have no occasion for a watch, sir, to go to the amphitheater and the hospital; it will perhaps not be easily found, and that would cause some delay.”

“But, sir, I attach great value to my watch, which is an excellent one, and which I bought with my savings.”

“In your absence, Dame Grivette will look for it,” replied Balsamo with a smile; “and if she searches carefully, it will be found when you return.”

“Oh, certainly,” said Dame Grivette. “It will be found unless monsieur has left it somewhere else. Nothing is lost here.”

“You see,” said Balsamo. “Come, sir, come!”

Harat did not venture to persist, and followed Balsamo, grumbling.

When they reached the door. Balsamo said:

“Where shall we go first-”

“To the lecture-room, if you please, master; I have marked a subject which must have died last night of acute meningitis. I want to make some observations on the brain, and I do not wish my colleagues to take it from me.”

“Then let us go to the amphitheater, Monsieur Marat.”

“Moreover, it is only a few yards from here; the amphitheater is close to the hospital, and I shall only have to go in for a moment; you may even wait for me at the door.”

“On the contrary, I wish to accompany you inside, and hear your opinion of this subject.”

“When it was alive, sir-”

“No, since it has become a corpse.”

“Take care,” said Marat, smiling; “I may gain a point over you, for I am well acquainted with this part of my profession and am said to be a skillful anatomist.”

“Pride! pride! ever pride!” murmured Balsamo.

“What do you say-” asked Marat.

“I say that we shall see, sir,” replied Balsamo. “Let us enter.”

Marat preceded Balsamo in the narrow alley lending to the amphitheater, which was situated at the extremity of the Rue Hautefeuille. Balsamo followed him unhesitatingly until they reached a long narrow room, where two corpses, a male and a female, lay stretched upon a marble table.

The woman had died young; the man was old and bald. A soiled sheet was thrown over their bodies, leaving their faces half uncovered.

They were lying side by side upon this cold bed; they who had perhaps never met before in the world, and whose souls, then voyaging in eternity, must, could they have looked down on earth, have been struck with wonderment at the proximity of their mortal remains.

Marat, with a single movement, raised and threw aside the coarse linen which covered the two bodies, whom death had thus made equal before the anatomist's scalpel.

“Is not the sight of the dead repugnant to your feelings-” asked Marat in his usual boasting manner.

“It makes me sad.” replied Balsamo.

“Want of custom,” said Marat. “I, who see this sight daily, feel neither sadness nor disgust. We practitioners live with the dead, and do not interrupt any of the functions of our existence on their account.”

“It is a sad privilege of your profession, sir.”

“Besides,” added Marat, “why should I be sad, or feel disgust- In the first case, reflection forbids it; in the second, custom.”

“Explain your ideas,” said Balsamo; “I do not understand you clearly. Reflection first.”

“Well, why should I be afraid- Why should I fear an inert mass-a statue of flesh instead of stone, marble, or granite-”

“In short, you think there is nothing in a corpse.”

“Nothing-absolutely nothing.”

“Do you believe that-”

“I am sure of it.”

“But in the living body.”

“There is motion,” said Marat, proudly.

“And the soul-you do not speak of it, sir.”

“I have never found it in the bodies which I have dissected.”

“Because you have only dissected corpses.”

“Oh no, sir! I have frequently operated upon living bodies.”

“And you have found nothing more in them than in the corpses-”

“Yes, I have found pain. Do you call pain the soul-”

“Then you do not believe in it-”

“In what-”

“In the soul-”

“I believe in it, because I am at liberty to call it motion if I wish.”

“That is well. You believe in the soul; that is all I asked; I am glad you believe in it.”

“One moment, master. Let us understand each other, and above all, let us not exaggerate,” said Marat, with his serpent smile. “We practitioners are rather disposed to materialism.”

“These bodies are very cold,” said Balsamo, dreamily, “and this woman was very beautiful.”

“Why, yes.”

“A lovely soul would have been suitable in this lovely body.”

“Ah! there is the mistake in Him who created her. A beautiful scabbard, but a vile sword. This corpse, master, is that of a wretched woman who had just left Saint Lazarus, when she died of cerebral inflammation in the Hotel Dieu. Her history is long, and tolerably scandalous. If you call the motive power which impelled this creature soul you wrong our souls, which must be of the same essence, since they are derived from the same source.”

“Her soul should have been cured,” said Balsamo; “it was lost for want of the only Physician who is indispensable-the Physician of the Soul.”

“Alas, master, that is another of your theories. Medicine is only for the body,” replied Marat, with a bitter smile. “Now you have a word on your lips which Moliere has often employed in his comedies, and it is this word which makes you smile.”

“No.” said Balsamo, “you mistake; you cannot guess why I smile. What we concluded just now was, that these corpses are void, was it not-”

“And insensible,” added Marat, raising the young woman's head, and letting it fall noisily upon the marble, while the body neither moved nor shuddered.

“Very well,” said Balsamo; “let us now go, to the hospital.”

“Wait one moment, master. I entreat you, until I have separated from the trunk this head, which I am most anxious to have, as it was the seat of a very curious disease. Will you allow me-”

“Do you ask-” said Balsamo.

Marat opened his case, took from it a bistoury, and picked up in a corner a large wooden mallet stained with blood. Then with a practiced hand he made a circular incision which separated all the flesh and the muscles of the neck, and having thus reached the bone, he slipped his bistoury between the juncture of the vertebral column, and struck a sharp blow upon it with the mallet.

The head rolled upon the table, and from the table upon the floor; Marat was obliged to seize it with his damp hands. Balsamo turned away, not to give too much joy to the triumphant operator.

“One day.” said Marat, who thought he had hit the master in a weak point-” one day some philanthropist will occupy himself with the details of death as others do of life, and will invent a machine which shall sever a head at a single blow, and cause instantaneous annihilation, which no other instrument of death does. The wheel, quartering, and hanging, are punishments suitable for savages, but not for civilized people. An enlightened nation, as France is, should punish, but not revenge. Those who condemn to the wheel, who hang or quarter, revenge themselves upon the criminal by inflicting pain before punishing him by death, which, in my opinion, is too much by half.”

“And in mine also, sir. But what kind of an instrument do you mean-”

“I can fancy a machine cold and impassible as the law itself. The man who is charged with fulfilling the last office is moved at the sight of his fellow man, and sometimes strikes badly, as it happened to the Duke of Monmouth and to Chalais. This could not be the case with a machine-with two arms of oak wielding a cutlass, for instance.”

“And do you believe, sir, that because the knife would pass with the rapidity of lightning between the base of the occiput and the trapezoid muscles, that death would be instantaneous, and the pain momentary-”

“Certainly; death would be instantaneous, for the iron would sever the nerves which cause motion at a blow. The pain would be momentary, for the blade would separate the brain, which is the seat of the feelings, from the heart, which is the center of life.”

“Sir,” said Balsamo, “the punishment of decapitation exists in Germany.”

“Yes, but by the sword; and, as I said before, a man's hand may tremble.”

“Such a machine exists in Italy; an arm of oak wields it. It is called the mannaja.”

“'Well-”

“Well, sir. I have seen criminals, decapitated by the executioner, raise their headless bodies from the bench on which they were seated, and stagger five or six paces off where they fell. I have picked up heads which had rolled to the foot of the mannaja, as that head you are holding by the hair has just rolled from the marble table, and on pronouncing in their ears the name by which those persons had been called, I have seen the eyes open again and turn in their orbit, in their endeavors to see who had called them back again to earth.”

“A nervous movement-nothing else.”

“Are the nerves not the organs of sensibility-”

“What do you conclude from that, sir-”

“I conclude that it would be better, instead of inventing a machine which kills to punish, that man should seek a means of punishing without killing. The society which will invent this means will assuredly be the best and the most enlightened of societies.”

“Utopias again! always Utopias!” said Marat.

“Perhaps you are right,” said Balsamo; “time will show. But did you not speak of the hospital- Let us go!”

“Come, then,” said Marat; and he tied the woman's head in his pocket-handkerchief, carefully knotting the four corners. “Now I am sure, at least,” said he, as he left the hall, “that my comrades will only have my leavings.”

They took the way to the Hotel Dieu-the dreamer and the practician, side by side.

“You have cub off this head very coolly and very skillfully, sir,” said Balsamo; “do you feel less emotion when you operate upon the living than the dead- Does the sight of suffering affect you more than that of immobility- Have you more pity for living bodies than for corpses-”

“No; that would be as great a fault as for the executioner to be moved. You may kill a man by cutting his thigh unskillfully, just as well as by severing the head from the body. A good surgeon operates with his hand, not with his heart; though he knows well at the same time, in his heart, that for one moment of suffering he gives years of life and health. That is the fair side of our profession, master.”

“Yes, sir; but in the living bodies you meet with the soul, I hope.”

“Yes, if you will agree with me that the soul is motion, or sensibility. Yes, certainly, I meet with it; and it is very troublesome, too; for it kills far more patients than any scalpel.”

They had by this time arrived at the threshold of the Hotel Dieu, and now entered the hospital. Guided by Marat, who still carried his ominous burden, Balsamo penetrated to the hall where the operations were performed, in which the head-surgeon and the students in surgery were assembled. The attendant had just brought in a young man who had been run over the preceding week by a heavy carriage, the wheel of which had crushed his foot. A hasty operation, performed upon the limb when benumbed by pain, had not been sufficient; the inflammation had rapidly extended, and the amputation of the leg had now become urgent.

The unfortunate man, stretched upon his bed of anguish, looked with a horror which would have melted tigers at the band of eager students who were watching for the moment of his martyrdom, perhaps of his death, that they might study the science of life-that marvelous phenomenon behind which lies the gloomy phenomenon of death.

He seemed to implore a pitying look, a smile, a word of encouragement from each of the students and attendants, but the beatings of his heart were responded to only by indifference, his beseeching looks with glances of iron. A surviving emotion of pride kept him silent. He reserved all his strength for the cries which pain would soon ring from him. But when he felt the heavy hand of the attendant upon his shoulder, when the arms of the assistants twined around him like the serpents of Laocoon, when he heard the operator's voice cry, “Courage!” the unfortunate man ventured to break the silence, and asked in a plaintive voice:

“Shall I suffer much-”

“Oh, no, make your mind easy,” replied Marat, with a, hypocritical smile, which was affectionate to the patient, but ironical to Balsamo.

Marat saw that Balsamo had understood him; he approached and whispered:

“It is a dreadful operation. The bone is full of cracks and fearfully sensitive. He will die, not of the wound, but of the pain. That is what the soul does for this poor man.”

“Then why do you operate- why do you not let him die in peace-”

“Because it is the surgeon's duty to attempt a cure, even when the cure seems impossible.”

“And you say he will suffer-”

“Fearfully.”

“

“And that his soul is the cause-”

“His soul, which has too much sympathy with the body.”

“Then, why not operate upon the soul- Perhaps the tranquillity of the one would cause the cure of the other.”

“I have done so,” said Marat, while the attendants continued to bind the patient.

“You have prepared his soul-”

“Yes.”

“How so-”

“As one always does, by words. I spoke to his soul, his intelligence, his sensibility-to that organ which caused the Greek philosopher to exclaim, 'Pain, thou art no evil'-the language suitable for it. I said to him; 'You will not suffer.' That is the only remedy hitherto known, as regards the soul-falsehood! Why is this she-devil of a soul connected with the body- When I cut off this head just now, the body said nothing, yet the operation was a serious one. But motion had ceased, sensibility was extinguished, the soul had fled, as you spiritualists say. This is the reason why the head I severed said nothing, why the body which I mutilated allowed me to do so; while this body which is yet inhabited by a soul-for a short time indeed, but still inhabited-will cry out fearfully. Stop your ears well, master, you who are moved by this union of body and soul, which will always destroy your theory until you succeed in isolating the body from the soul.”

“And you believe we shall never arrive at this isolation-”

“Try,” said Marat, “this is an excellent opportunity.”

“Well, yes, you are right,” said Balsamo; “the opportunity is a good one, and I will make the attempt.”

“Yes, try.”

“I will.”

“How so-”

“This young man interests me; he shall not suffer.”

“You are an illustrious chief,” said Marat, “but you are not the Almighty, and you cannot prevent this wretch from suffering.”

“If he were not to feel the pain, do you think he would recover-”

“His recovery would be more probable, but not certain.”

Balsamo cast an inexpressible look of triumph upon Marat, and placing himself before the young patient, whose frightened eyes, already dilated with the anguish of terror, met his;

“Sleep,” said he, not alone with his lips, but with his look, with his will-with all the heat of his blood, all the vital energy of his body.

The head surgeon was just commencing to feel the injured leg, and to point out the aggravated nature of the case to his students; but, at Balsamo's command, the young man, who had raised himself upon his seat, oscillated for a moment in the arms of his attendants, his head drooped, and his eyes closed.

“He is ill.” said Marat.

“No, sir.”

“But do you not see that he loses consciousness-”

“He is sleeping.”

“What! he sleeps-”

“Yes.”

Everyone turned to look at the strange physician, whom they took for a madman. An incredulous smile hovered on Marat's lips.

“Is it usual for people to talk while in a swoon-” asked Balsamo.

“No.”

“Well! question him-he will reply.”

“Hallo! young man!” cried Marat.

“You need not speak so loud,” said Balsamo; “speak in your usual voice.”

“Tell us what is the matter with you.”

“I was ordered to sleep, and I do sleep,” replied the patient.

His voice was perfectly calm, and formed a strange contrast to that they had heard a few moments before.

All the attendants looked at each other.

“Now,” said Balsamo, “release him.”

“That is impossible.” said the head surgeon; “the slightest movement will spoil the operation.”

“He will not stir.”

“Who can assure me of that-”

“I and he also-ask him.”

“Can you be left untied, my friend-”

“Yes.”

“And will you promise not to move-”

“I will promise it, if you command me.”

“I command it.”

“Faith! sir, you speak so positively that I am tempted to make the trial.”

“Do so, sir; and fear nothing.”

“Untie him.”

The assistants obeyed.

Balsamo advanced to the bedside.

“From this moment,” said he, “do not stir until I order you.”

A carved statue upon a tombstone could not have been more motionless than the patient, upon this injunction.

“Now operate, sir,” said Balsamo; “the patient is quite ready.”

The surgeon took his bistoury; but, when upon the point of using it, he hesitated.

“Cut, sir! cut!” said Balsamo, with the air of an inspired prophet.

And the surgeon, yielding-like Marat, like the patient, like Everyone present-to the irresistible influence of Balsamo's words, raised the knife. The sound of the knife passing through the flesh was heard, but the patient never stirred, nor even uttered a sigh.

“From what country do you come, my friend-” asked Balsamo.

“I am a Breton, sir.” replied the patient, smiling.

“And you love your country-”

“Oh! sir, it is so beautiful!”

In the meantime the surgeon was making the circular incisions in the flesh, by means of which, in amputations, the bone is laid bare.

“You quitted it when young-” asked Balsamo.-”At ten years of age, sir.”

The incisions were made-the surgeon placed the saw on the bone.

“My friend,” said Balsamo, “sing me that song which the salt-makers of Batz chant as they return to their homes after the day's work is over. I can only remember the first line; “'My salt covered o'er with its mantle of foam.'“

The saw was now severing the bone; but at Balsamo's command the patient smiled, and commenced, in a low, melodious, ecstatic voice, like a lover or like a poet, the following verses:

“'My salt covered o'er with its mantle of foam,

The lake of pure azure that mirrors my home,

My stove where the peats ever cheerfully burn,

And the honeyed wheat-cake which awaits my return.-

“'The wife of my bosom-my silver-haired Sire-

My urchins who sport round the clear evening fire-

And there, where the wild flowers, in brightest of bloom.

Their fragrance diffuse round my loved mother's tomb.-

“'Blest, blest be ye all!-Now the day's task is o'er,

And I stand once again at my own cottage door;

And richly will love my brief absence repay.

And the calm joys of eve the rude toils of the day.'“

The leg fell upon the bed while the patient was singing.

CHAPTER CIV. BODY AND SOUL.

EVERYONE looked with astonishment at the patient-with admiration at the surgeon. Some said that both were mad. Marat communicated this opinion to Balsamo in a whisper.

“Terror has made the poor devil lose his senses,” said he; “that is why he feels no pain.”

“I think not,” replied Balsamo; “and far from having lost his senses, I am sure that if I asked him he could tell us the day of his death, if he is to die, or the period of his convalescence, if he is to recover.”

Marat was almost inclined to adopt the general opinion-that Balsamo was as mad as his patient. In the meantime, however, the surgeon was tying up the arteries, from which spouted streams of blood.

Balsamo drew a small phial from his pocket, poured a few drops of the liquid it contained upon a little ball of lint, and begged the chief surgeon to apply the lint to the arteries. The latter obeyed with a certain feeling of curiosity. He was one of the most celebrated practitioners of that period-a man truly enamored of his profession, who repudiated none of its mysteries, and for whom chance was but the makeshift of doubt.

He applied the lint to the artery, which quivered, bubbled, and then only allowed the blood to escape drop by drop. He could now tie up the artery with the greatest facility.

This time Balsamo obtained an undoubted triumph, and all present asked him where he had studied, and of what school he was.

“I am a German physician of the school of Gottingen,” replied he, “and I have made this discovery you have just witnessed. However, gentlemen and fellow practitioners, I wish this discovery to remain a secret for the present, as I have a wholesome terror of the stake, and the parliament of Paris might perhaps resume their functions once more for the pleasure of condemning a sorcerer.”

The chief surgeon was still plunged in a reverie. Marat also seemed thoughtful, but he was the first to break the silence.

“You said just now,” said he, “that if you were to question this man about the result of this operation he would reply truly, though the result is still veiled in futurity.”

“I assert it again,” replied Balsamo.

“Well, let us have the proof.”

“What is this poor fellow's name-”

“Havard,” replied Marat.

Balsamo turned to the patient, whose lips were yet murmuring the last words of the plaintive air.

“Well, my friend,” asked he, “what do you augur from the state of this poor Havard-”

“What do I augur from his state-” replied the patient; “stay, I must return from Brittany, where I was, to the Hotel Dieu, where be is.”

“Just so; eater, look at him and tell me the truth respecting him.”

“Oh! he is very ill; his leg has been cut off.”

“Indeed-” said Balsamo. “And has the operation been successful-”

“Exceedingly so; but-

The patient's face darkened.

“But what-” asked Balsamo.

“But,” resumed the patient, “he has a terrible trial to pass through. The fever-”

“When will it commence-”

“At seven o'clock this evening.”

All the spectators looked at each other.

“And this fever-” asked Balsamo.

“Oh! it will make him very ill; but he will recover from the first attack.”

“Are you sure-”

“Oh, yes!”

“Then, after this first attack, will he be saved-”

“Alas! no,” said the wounded man, sighing.

“Will the fever return, then-”

“Oh, yes! and more severely than before. Poor Havard! poor Havard!” he continued, “he has a wife and several children.” And his eyes filled with tears.

“Must his wife be a widow, then, and his children orphans-” asked Balsamo.

“Wait! wait!”

He clasped his hands.

“No, no,” he exclaimed, his features lighting up with an expression of sublime faith; “no, his wife and children have prayed, and their prayers have found favor in the sight of God!”

“Then he will recover-”

“Yes.”

“You hear, gentlemen.” said Balsamo, “he will recover.”

“Ask him in how many days.” said Marat.

“In how many days, do you say-”

“Yes; you said he could indicate the phases, and the duration of his convalescence.”

“I ask nothing better than to question him on the subject.”

“Well, then, question him now.”

“And when do you think Havard will recover-” said Balsamo.

“Oh! his cure will take a long time-a month, six weeks, two months. He entered this hospital five days ago, and he will leave it two months and fourteen days after having entered.”

“And he will leave it cured-”

“Yes.”

“But,” said Marat, “unable to work, and consequently to maintain his wife and children.”

Havard again clasped his hands.

“Oh! God is good; God will provide for him!”

“And how will God provide for him-” asked Marat. “As I am in the way of hearing something new to-day, I might as well hear that.”

“God has sent to his bedside a charitable man who has taken pity upon him, and who has said to himself, 'Poor Havard shall not want.'“

The spectators were amazed; Balsamo smiled.

“Ha! this is in truth a strange scene,” said the chief surgeon, at the same time taking the patient's hand, feeling his chest and forehead; “this man is dreaming.”

“Do you think so-” said Balsamo.

Then, darting upon the sick man a look of authority and energy:

“Awake, Havard!” said he.

The young man opened his eyes with some difficulty, and gazed with profound surprise upon all these spectators, who had so soon laid aside their threatening character, and assumed an inoffensive one toward him.

“Well,” said he sadly, “have you not operated yet- Are you going to make me suffer still more-”

Balsamo replied hastily. He feared the invalid's emotion. But there was no need for such haste; the surprise of all the spectators was so great that none would have anticipated him.

“My friend,” said he, “be calm. The head-surgeon has operated upon your leg in such a manner as to satisfy all the requirements of your position. It seems, my poor fellow, that you are not very strong-minded, for you fainted at the first incision.”

“Oh! so much the better,” said the Breton smilingly; “I felt nothing, and my sleep was even sweet and refreshing. What happiness-my leg will not be cut off!”

But just at that moment the poor man looked down, and saw the bed full of blood, and his amputated leg lying near him. He uttered a scream, and this time fainted in reality.

“Now question him,” said Balsamo coldly to Marat; “you will see if he replies.”

Then, taking the head-surgeon aside, while the nurses carried the poor young man back to his bed:

“Sir,” said Balsamo, “you heard what your poor patient said-”

“Yes, sir, that he would recover.”

“He said something else; he said that God would take pity upon him, and would send him wherewithal to support his wife and children.”

“Well-”

“Well, sir, he told the truth on this point, as on the others. Only you must undertake to be the charitable medium of affording him this assistance. Here is a diamond, worth about twenty thousand livres; when the poor man is cured, sell it and give him the proceeds. In the meantime, since the soul, as your pupil M. Marat said very truly, has a great influence upon the body, tell Havard as soon as he is restored to consciousness that his future comfort and that of his children is secured.”

“But, sir,” said the surgeon, hesitating to take the ring which Balsamo offered him, “if he should not recover-”

“He will recover.”

“Then allow me at least to give you a receipt.”-”Sir!”

“That is the only condition upon which I can receive a jewel of such value.”

“Do as you think right, sir.”

“Your name, if you please-”

“The Count de Fenix.”

The surgeon passed into the adjoining apartment, while Marat, overwhelmed, confounded, but still struggling against the evidence of his senses, approached Balsamo.

In five minutes the surgeon returned, holding in his hand the following receipt, which he gave Balsamo:

“I have received from the Count de Fenix a diamond, which he affirms to be worth twenty thousand livres, the price of which is to be given to the man Havard when he leaves the Hotel Dieu.

“This 15th of September, 1771.

“GUILLOTIN. M.D.”

Balsamo bowed to the doctor, took the receipt, and left the room, followed by Marat.

“You are forgetting your head.” said Balsamo, for whom the wandering of the young student's thoughts was a great triumph.-”Ah! true,” said he.

And he again picked up his dismal burden. When they emerged into the street, both walked forward very quickly without uttering a word; then, having reached the Rue des Cordeliers, they ascended the steep stairs which led to the attic.

Marat, who had not forgotten the disappearance of his watch, stopped before the lodge of the portress, if the den which she inhabited deserved that name, and asked for Dame Grivette.

A thin, stunted, miserable-looking child, of about seven years old, replied in a whining voice:

“Mamma is gone out; she said that when you came home I was to give you this letter.”

“No, no, my little friend,” said Marat; “tell her to bring it me herself.”

“Yes, sir.”

And Marat and Balsamo proceeded on their way.

“Ah!” said Marat, pointing out a chair to Balsamo, and falling upon a stool himself, “I see the master has some noble secrets.”

“Perhaps I have penetrated farther than most men into the confidence of nature and into the works of God,” replied Balsamo.

“Oh!” said Marat, “how science proves man's omnipotence, and makes us proud to be a man!”

“True; and a physician, you should have added.”

“Therefore, I am proud of you, master.” said Marat.

“And yet,” replied Balsamo, smiling, “I am but a poor physician of souls.”

“Oh! do not speak of that, sir-you, who stopped the patient's bleeding by material means.”

“I thought my best cure was that of having prevented him from suffering. True, you assured me he was mad.”

“He was so for a moment, certainly.”

“What do you call madness- Is it not an abstraction of the soul-”

“Or of the mind,” said Marat.

“We will not discuss the point. The soul serves me as a term for what I mean. When the object is found, it matters little how you call it.”

“There is where we differ, sir; you pretend you have found the thing and seek only the name; I maintain that you seek both the object and the name.”

“We shall return to that immediately. You said, then, that madness was a temporary abstraction of the mind-”

“Certainly.”

“Involuntary, is it not-”

“Yes; I have seen a madman at Bicetre, who bit the iron bars of his cell, crying out all the time, 'Cook, your pheasants are very tender, but they are badly dressed.'“

“But you admit, at least, that this madness passes over the mind like a cloud, and that when it has passed, the mind resumes its former brightness-”

“That scarcely ever happens.”

“Yet you saw our patient recover his senses perfectly after his insane dream.”

“I saw it, but I did not understand what I saw. It is an exceptional case-one of those strange events which the Israelites called miracles.”

“No, sir,” said Balsamo; “it is simply the abstraction of the soul-the twofold isolation of spirit and matter. Matter-that inert thing-dust-which will return to dust; and soul, the divine spark which was inclosed for a short period in that dark lantern called the body, and which, being the child of heaven, will return to heaven after the body has sunk to earth.”

“Then you abstracted the soul momentarily from the body-”

“Yes, sir; I commanded it to quit the miserable abode which it occupied. I raised it from the abyss of suffering in which pain had bound it, and transported it into pure and heavenly regions. What, then, remained for the surgeon- The same that remained for your dissecting knife, when you severed that head you are carrying from the dead body-nothing but inert flesh, matter, clay.”

“And in whose name did you command the soul-”

“In His name who created all the souls by His breath-the souls of the world, of men-in the name of God.”

“Then.” said Marat, “you deny free will-”

“I!” said Balsamo; “on the contrary, what am I doing at this moment- I show you, on the one hand, free will; on the other, abstraction. I show you a dying man a prey to excruciating pain; this man has a stoical soul, he anticipates the operation, he asks for it, he bears it, but he suffers. That is free will. But when I approach the dying man-I, the ambassador of God, the prophet, the apostle-and taking pity upon this man who is my fellow-creature, I abstract, by the powers which the Lord has given me, the soul from the suffering body, this blind, inert, insensible body becomes a spectacle which the soul contemplates with a pitying eye from the height of its celestial sphere. Did you not hear Havard, when speaking of himself, say, 'This poor Havard'- He did not say 'myself.' It was because this soul had in truth no longer any connection with the body-it was already winging its way to heaven.”

“But, by this way of reckoning, man is nothing,” said Marat, “and I can no longer say to the tyrant, 'You have power over my body, but none over my soul.'“

“Ah! now you pass from truth to sophism; I have already told you, sir, it is your failing. God lends the soul to the body, it is true; but it is no less true that during the time the soul animates this body, there is a union between the two-an influence of one over the other-a supremacy of matter over mind, or mind over matter, according as, for some purpose hidden from us, God permits either the body or the soul to be the ruling power. But it is no less true that the soul which animates the beggar is as pure as that which reigns in the bosom of the king. That is the dogma which you, an apostle of equality, ought to preach. Prove the equality of the spiritual essences in these two cases, since you can establish it by the aid of all that is most sacred in the eyes of men, by holy books and traditions, by science and faith. Of what importance is the equality of matter- With physical equality you are only men; but spiritual equality makes you gods. Just now, this poor wounded man, this ignorant child of the people, told you things concerning his illness which none among the doctors would have ventured to pronounce. How was that- It was because his soul, temporarily freed from earthly ties, floated above this world, and saw from on high a mystery which our opaqueness of vision hides from us.”

Marat turned his dead head back and forward upon the table, seeking a reply which he could not find. “Yes,” muttered he at last; “yes; there is something supernatural in all this.”

“Perfectly natural, on the contrary, sir. Cease to call supernatural what has its origin in the functions and destiny of the soul. These functions are natural, although perhaps not known.”

“But though unknown to us, master, these functions cannot surely be a mystery to you. The horse, unknown to the Peruvians, was yet perfectly familiar to the Spaniards, who had tamed him.”

“It would be presumptuous in me to say 'I know.' I am more humble, sir; I say, 'I believe.'“

“Well! what do you believe-”

“I believe that the first, the most powerful, of all laws is the law of progress. I believe that God has created nothing without having a beneficent design in view; only, as the duration of this world is uncalculated and incalculable, the progress is slow. Our planet, according to the Scriptures, was sixty centuries old, when printing came like some vast lighthouse to illuminate the past and the future. With the advent of printing, obscurity and forgetfulness vanished. Printing is the memory of the world. Well! Guttenberg invented printing, and my confidence returned.”

“Ah!” said Marat, ironically, “you will, perhaps, be able at last to read men's hearts.”

“Why not-”

“Then you will open that little window in men's breasts which the ancients so much desired to see-”

“There is no need for that, sir. I shall separate the soul from the body; and the soul-the pure, immaculate daughter of God-will reveal to me all the turpitudes of the mortal covering it is condemned to animate.”

“Can you reveal material secrets-”

“Why not-”

“Can you tell me, for instance, who has stolen my watch-”

“You lower science to a base level, sir. But, no matter. God's greatness is proved as much by a grain of sand as by the mountain-by the flesh-worm as by the elephant. Yes. I will tell you who has stolen your watch.”

Just then a timid knock was heard at the door. It was Marat's servant who had returned, and who came, according to the young surgeon's order, to bring; the letter.

CHAPTER CV. MARAT'S PORTRESS.

THE DOOR opened and Dame Grivette entered. This woman, whom we have not before taken the trouble to sketch, because she was one of those characters whom the painter keeps in the background, so long as he has no occasion for them-this woman now advances in the moving picture of this history, and demands her place in the immense picture we have undertaken to enroll before the eyes of our readers, in which, if our genius equaled our good will, we would introduce all classes of men, from the beggar to the king, from Caliban to Ariel.

We shall now therefore attempt to delineate Dame Grivette, who steps forth out of the shade, and advances toward us.

She was a tall withered creature, of from thirty to five-and-thirty years of age, with dark, sallow complexion, and blue eyes encircled with black rings-the fearful type of that decline, that wasting away, which is produced in densely-populated towns by poverty, bad air, and every sort of degradation, mental as well as bodily, among those creatures whom God created so beautiful, and who would otherwise have become magnificent in their perfect development, as all living denizens of earth, air, and sky are when man has not made their life one long punishment-when he has not tortured their limbs with chains and their stomachs with hunger, or with food almost as fatal.

Thus Marat's portress would have been a beautiful woman, if, from her fifteenth year, she had not dwelt in a den without air or light-if the fire of her natural instincts, fed by this oven-like heat, or by the icy cold, had not ceaselessly burned. She had long, thin hands, which the needle of the seamstress had furrowed with little cuts, which the suds of the wash-house had cracked and softened-which the burning coals of the kitchen had roasted and tanned-but in spite of all, hands which, by their form, that indelible trace of the divine mold, would have been called royal, if, instead of being blistered by the broom, they had wielded the scepter. So true is it that this poor human body is only the outward sign of our profession.

But in this woman, the mind, which rose superior to the body, and which consequently had resisted external circumstances better, kept watch like a lamp; it illumined, as it were, the body by a reflected light, and at times a ray of beauty, youth, intelligence, and love was seen to glance from her dulled and stupid eyes-a ray of all the finest feelings of the human heart.

Balsamo gazed attentively at the woman, or rather at this singular nature, which had from the first struck his observing eye.

The portress entered holding the letter in her hand, and in a soft insinuating voice, like that of an old woman-for women condemned to poverty are old at thirty-said:

“M. Marat, here is the letter you asked for.”

“It was not the letter I wanted,” said Marat; “I wished to see you.”

“Well! here I am at your service. Monsieur Marat,” (Dame Grivette made a curtsey), “what do you want with me-”

“You know very well what I want. I wish to know something about my watch.”

“Ah, dame! I can't tell what has become of it. I saw it all day yesterday hanging from the nail over the mantelpiece.”

“You mistake; all day yesterday it was in my fob; but when I went out at six o'clock in the evening I put it under the candlestick, because I was going among a crowd, and I feared it might be stolen.”

“If you put it under the candlestick, it must be there yet.”

And with feigned simplicity, which she was far from suspecting to be so transparent, she raised the very candlestick, of the pair which ornamented the mantelpiece, under which Marat had concealed his watch.

“Yes, that is the candlestick, sure enough,” said the young man; “but where is the watch-”

“No; I see it is no longer there. Perhaps you did not put it there, M. Marat.”

“But when I tell you I did.”

“Look for it carefully.”

“Oh. I have looked carefully enough,” said Marat, with an angry glance.

“Then you have lost it.”

“But I tell you that yesterday I put it under that candlestick myself.”

“Then someone must have entered,” said Dame Grivette; “you see so many people, so many strangers.”

“All an excuse!” cried Marat, more and more enraged. “You know very well that no one has been here since yesterday. No, no; my watch is gone where the silver top of my last cane went, where the little silver spoon you know of is gone to, and my knife with the six blades. I am robbed, Dame Grivette! I have borne much, but I shall not tolerate this; so take notice.”

“But, sir,” said Dame Grivette, “do you mean to accuse me-”

“You ought to take care of my effects.”

“I have not even the key.”

“You are the portress.”

“You give me a crown a month, and you expect to be as well served as if you had ten domestics.”

“I do not care about being badly served; but I do care whether I am robbed or not.”

“Sir, I am an honest woman.”

“Yes, an honest woman whom I shall give in charge to the police, if my watch is not found in an hour.”

“To the police-”

“Yes.”

“To the police-an honest woman like me-”

“An honest woman do you say- Honest! that's good.”

“Yes; and of whom nothing bad can be said! do you hear that-”

“Come, come! enough of this. Dame Grivette.”

“Ah! I thought that you suspected me, when you went out.”

“I have suspected you ever since the top of my cane disappeared.”

“Well! M. Marat, I will tell you something, in my turn.”

“What will you tell me-”

“While you were away I have consulted my neighbors.”

“Your neighbors!-for what purpose-”

“Respecting your suspicions.”

“I had said nothing of them to you at the time.”

“But I saw them plainly.”

“And the neighbors- I am curious to know what they said.”

“They said that if you suspect me, and have even gone so far as to impart your suspicions to another, you must pursue the affair to the end.”

“Well!”

“That is to say, you must prove that the watch has been taken.”

“It has been taken, since it was there and is now gone.”

“Yes, but taken by me-taken by me; do you understand- Oh! justice requires proofs; your word will not be sufficient. M. Marat; you are no more than one of ourselves, M. Marat.”

Balsamo, calm as ever, looked on during this scene. He saw that though Marat's conviction was not altered, he had, nevertheless, lowered his tone.

“Therefore,” continued the portress, “if you do not render justice to my probity-if you do not make some reparation to my character-it is I who will send for the police, as our landlord just now advised me to do.”

Marat bit his lips. He knew there was a real danger in this. The landlord was an old, rich, retired merchant. He lived on the third story; and the scandal-mongers of the quarter did not hesitate to assert that, some ten years before, he had not been indifferent to the charms of the portress, who was then kitchen-maid to his wife.

Now, Marat attended mysterious meetings. Marat was a young man of not very settled habits, besides being addicted to concealment and suspected by the police; and, for all these reasons, he was not anxious to have an affair with the commissary, seeing that it might tend to place him in the hands of M. de Sartines, who liked much to read the papers of young men such as Marat, and to send the authors of such noble writings to houses of meditation, such as Vincennes, the Bastille, Charenton, and Bicetre.

Marat, therefore, lowered his tone; but, in proportion as he did so, the portress raised hers. The result was that this nervous and hysterical woman raged like a flame which suddenly meets with a current of fresh air.

Oaths, cries, tears-she employed all in turn; it was a regular tempest.

Then Balsamo judged that the time had come for him to interfere. He advanced toward the woman, and looking at her with an ominous and fiery glance, he stretched two fingers toward her, uttering, not so much with his lips as with his eyes, his thought, his whole will, a word which Marat could not hear.

Immediately Dame Grivette became silent, tottered, and, losing her equilibrium, staggered backward, her eyes fearfully dilated, and fell upon the bed without uttering a word.

After a short interval her eyes closed and opened again, but this time the pupil could not be seen; her tongue moved convulsively, but her body was perfectly motionless, and yet her hands trembled as if shaken by fever.

“Ha!” said Marat; “like the wounded man in the hospital!”

“Yes.”

“Then she is asleep-”

“Silence!” said Balsamo.

Then addressing Marat:

“Sir,” said he, “the moment has now come when all your incredulity must cease. Pick up that letter which this woman was bringing you, and which she dropped when she fell.”

Marat obeyed.

“Well-” he asked.

“Wait!”

And taking the letter from Marat's hands:

“You know from whom this letter comes-” asked Balsamo of the somnambulist.

“No, sir,” she replied.

Balsamo held the sealed letter close to the woman. “Read it to M. Marat, who wishes to know the contents.”

“She cannot read,” said Marat.

“Yes, but you can read-”

“Of course.”

“Well, read it, and she will read it after you in proportion as the words are engraven upon your mind.”

Marat broke the seal of the letter and read it, while Dame Grivette, standing, and trembling beneath the all-powerful will of Balsamo, repeated word for word, as Marat read them to himself, the following words:

“MY DEAR HIPPOCRATES-Apellas has just finished his portrait; he has sold it for fifty francs, and these fifty francs are to be eaten to-day at the tavern in the Rue Saint Jacques. Will you come-

“P. S.-It is understood that part is to be drunk.-Your friend,

“L. DAVID.”

It was word for word what was written.

Marat let the paper fall from his hand.

“Well,” said Balsamo, “you see that Dame Grivette also has a soul, and that this soul wakes while she sleeps.”

“And a strange soul,” said Marat; “a soul which can read when the body cannot.”

“Because the soul knows everything-because the soul can reproduce by reflection. Try to make her read this when she is awake-that is to say, when the body has wrapped the soul in its shadow -and you will see.”

Marat was dumb; his whole material philosophy rebelled within him, but he could not find a reply.

“Now,” continued Balsamo, “we shall pass on to what interests you most; that is to say, as to what has become of your watch. Dame Grivette,” said he, turning to her, “who has taken M. Marat's watch-”

The somnambulist made a violent gesture of denial.

“I do not know,” said she.

“You know perfectly well,” persisted Balsamo, “and you shall tell me.”

Then, with a more decided exertion of his will:

“Who has taken M. Marat's watch-speak! Dame Grivette has not stolen M. Marat's watch. Why does M. Marat believe she has-”

“If it is not she who has taken it, tell me who has-”

“I do not know.”

“You see,” said Marat, “conscience is an impenetrable refuge.”

“Well, since you have only this last doubt,” said Balsamo, “you shall be convinced.”

Then, turning again to the portress:

“Tell me who took the watch; I insist upon it.”

“Come, come,” said Marat, “do not ask an impossibility!

“You heard-” said Balsamo; “I have said you must tell me.”

Then, beneath the pressure of this imperious command, the unhappy woman began to wring her hands and arms as if she were mad; a shudder like that of an epileptic fit ran through her whole body; her mouth was distorted with a hideous expression of terror and weakness; she threw herself back, rigid as if she were in a painful convulsion, and fell upon the bed.

“No, no,” said she; “I would rather die!”

“Well,” said Balsamo, with a burst of anger which made the fire flash from his eyes, “you shall die if necessary, but you shall speak. Your silence and your obstinacy are sufficient indications for me; but for an incredulous person we must have irrefragable proofs. Speak!-I will it; who has taken the watch-”

The nervous excitement was at its height; all the strength and power of the somnambulist struggled against Balsamo's will, inarticulate cries escaped from her lips, which were stained with a reddish foam.

“She will fall into an epileptic fit,” said Marat.

“Fear nothing; it is the demon of falsehood who is in her, and who refuses to come out.”

Then, turning toward the woman, and throwing in her face as much fluid as his hands could contain:

“Speak,” said he; “who has taken the watch-”

“Dame Grivette,” replied the somnabulis in an almost inaudible voice.

“When did she take it-”

“Yesterday evening.”

“Where was it-”

“Underneath the candlestick.”

“What has she done with it-”

“She has taken it to the Rue Saint Jacques.”

“Where in the Rue Saint Jacques-”

“To No, 29.”

“Which story-”

“The fifth.”

“To whom did she give it-”

“To a shoemaker's apprentice.”

“What is his name-”

“Simon.”

“What is this man to her-”

The woman was silent.

“What is this man to her-”

The somnambulist was again silent.

“What is this man to her-” repeated Balsamo.

The same silence.

Balsamo extended toward her his hand, impregnated with the fluid, and the unfortunate woman, overwhelmed by this terrible attack, had only strength to murmur:

“Her lover!”

Marat uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

“Silence!” said Balsamo; “allow conscience to speak.”

Then, continuing to address the woman, who was trembling all over, and bathed in perspiration:

“And who advised Dame Grivette to steal the watch-” asked he.

“No one. She raised the candlestick by accident, she saw the watch, and the demon tempted her.”

“Did she do it from want-”

“No; for she did not sell the watch.”

“She gave it away, then-”

“Yes.”-”To Simon-”

The somnambulist made a violent effort.

“To Simon,” said she.

Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a flood of tears.

Balsamo glanced at Marat, who, with gaping mouth, disordered hair, and dilated eyes, was gazing at the fearful spectacle.

“Well, sir!” said he; “you see, at last, the struggle between the body and the soul. You see conscience forced to yield, even in a redoubt which it had believed impregnable. Do you confess now that God has forgotten nothing in this world, and that He is in everything. Then deny no longer that there is a conscience-deny no longer that there is a soul-deny no longer the unknown, young man! Above all, do not deny faith, which is power supreme; and since you are ambitious, M. Marat, study; speak little, think much, and do not judge your superiors lightly. Adieu; my words have opened a vast field before you; cultivate this field, which contains hidden treasures. Adieu! Happy will you be if you can conquer the demon of incredulity which is in you, as I have conquered the demon of falsehood which was in this woman.”

And with these words, which caused the blush of shame to tinge the young man's cheeks, he left the room.

Marat did not even think of taking leave of him. But after his first stupor was over, he perceived that Dame Grivette was still sleeping. This sleep struck terror to his soul. Marat would rather have seen a corpse upon his bed, even if M. de Sartines should interpret the fact after his own fashion.

He gazed on this lifeless form, these turned-up eyes, these palpitations, and he felt afraid. His fear increased when the living corpse rose, advanced toward him, took his hand, and said:

“Come with me, M. Marat.”

“Where to-”

“To the Rue St. Jacques.”

“Why-”

“Come, come; he commands me to take you.”

Marat, who had fallen upon a chair, rose.

Then Dame Grivette, still asleep, opened the door, and descended the stairs with the stealthy pace of a cat, scarcely touching the steps.

Marat followed, fearing every moment that she would fall, and in falling break her neck.

Having reached the foot of the stairs, she crossed the threshold, and entered the street, still followed by the young man, whom she led in this manner to the house and the garret she had pointed out.

She knocked at the door; Marat felt his heart beat so violently that he thought it must be audible.

A man was in the garret; he opened the door. In this man Marat recognized a workman of from five-and-twenty to thirty years of age, whom he had several times seen in the porter's lodge.

Seeing Dame Grivette followed by Marat, he started back.

But the somnambulist walked straight to the bed, and putting her hand under the thin bolster, she drew out the watch, which she gave to Marat, while the shoemaker Simon, pale with terror, dared not utter a word, and watched with alarmed gaze the least movements of this woman, whom he believed to be mad.

Scarcely had her hand touched Marat's, in returning him the watch, than she gave a deep sigh and murmured:

“He awakes me! He awakes me!” Her nerves relaxed like a cable freed from the capstan, the vital spark again animated her eyes, and finding herself face to face with Marat, her hand in his, and still holding the watch-that is to say, the irrefragable proof of her crime-she fell upon the floor of the garret in a deep swoon.

“Does conscience really exist, then-” asked Marat of himself, as he left the room, doubt in his heart and reverie in his eyes.

CHAPTER CVI. THE MAX AND HIS WORKS.

WHILE MARAT was employing his time so profitably in philosophizing on conscience and a dual existence, another philosopher in the Rue Platriere was also busy in reconstructing, piece by piece, every part of the preceding evening's adventures, and asking himself if he were or were not a very wicked man. Rousseau, with his elbows leaning upon the table, and his head drooping heavily on his left shoulder, was deep in thought.

His philosophical and political works, “Emilius” and the “Social Contract,” were lying open before him.

From time to time, when his reflections required it, he stooped down to turn over the leaves of these books, which he knew by heart.

“Ah! good heavens!” said he, reading a paragraph from “Emilius” upon liberty of conscience, “what incendiary expressions! What philosophy! Just Heaven! was there ever in the world a firebrand like me-

“What!” added he, clasping his hands above his head, “have I written such violent outbursts against the throne-the altar of society- I can no longer be surprised if some dark and brooding minds have outstripped my sophisms, and have gone astray in the paths which I have strewed for them with all the flowers of rhetoric. I have acted as the disturber of society!”

He rose from his chair, and paced the room in great agitation.

“I have,” continued he, “abused those men in power who exercise tyranny over authors. Fool! barbarian that I was! Those people are right-a thousand times right! What am I, if not a man dangerous to the state- My words, written to enlighten the masses-at least, such was the pretext I gave myself-have become a torch which will set the world on fire. I have sown discourses on the inequality of ranks, projects of universal fraternity, plans of education-and now I reap a harvest of passions so ferocious that they would overturn the whole framework of society, of intestine wars capable of depopulating the world, and of manners so barbarous that they would roll back the civilization of ten centuries!-Oh! I am a great criminal!

He read once more a page of his “Savoyard Vicar.”

“Yes, that is it! Let us unite to form plans for our happiness.

“I have written it! Let us give our virtues the force which others give their vices. I have written that also.”

And Rousseau became still more agitated and unhappy than before.

“Thus, by my fault.” said he, “brothers are united to brothers, and one day or other some of these concealed places of meeting will be invaded by the police; the whole nest of these men, who have sworn to eat one another in case of treachery, will be arrested, and one bolder than the others will take my book from his pocket and will say-'What do you complain of- We are disciples of M. Rousseau; we are going through a course of philosophy!' Oh! how Voltaire will laugh at that! There is no fear of that courtier's ever getting into such a wasp's nest!”

The idea that Voltaire would ridicule him put the Genevese philosopher into a violent rage.

“La conspirator!” muttered he; “I must be in my dotage, certainly! Am I not, in truth, a famous conspirator-”

He was at this point when Therese entered with the breakfast, but he did not see her. She perceived that he was attentively reading a passage in the “Reveries of a Recluse.”

“Very good,” said she, placing the hot milk noisily upon the very book; “my peacock is looking at himself in the glass! Monsieur reads his books! M. Rousseau admires himself!”

“Come, Therese,” said the philosopher, “patience-leave me; I am in no humor for laughing.”

“Oh yes, it is magnificent! is it not-” said she, mockingly. “You are delighted with yourself. What vanity authors have! -and how angry they are to see it in us poor women!-If I only happen to look in my little mirror, monsieur grumbles and calls me a coquette.”

She proceeded in this strain, making him the most unhappy man in the world, as if Rousseau had not been richly enough endowed by nature in this respect. He drank his milk without steeping his bread. He reflected.

“Very good,” said she; “there you are, thinking again. You are going to write another book full of horrible things.”

Rousseau shuddered.

“You dream,” continued Therese, “of your ideal women, and you write books which young girls ought not to read, or else profane works which will be burned by the hands of the common executioner.”

The martyr shuddered again. Therese had touched him to the quick.

“No,” replied he; “I will write nothing more which can cause an evil thought. On the contrary, I wish to write a book which all honest people will read with transports of joy.”

“Oh! oh!” said Therese, taking away the cup; “that is impossible; your mind is full of obscene thoughts. Only the other day I heard you read some passage or other, and in it you spoke of women whom you adored. You are a satyr! a magus!”

This word “magus” was one of the most abusive in Therese's vocabulary; it always made Rousseau shudder.

“There, there now!” said he; “my dear woman, you will find that you shall be satisfied. I intend to write that I have found the means of regenerating the world without causing pain to a single individual by the changes which will be effected. Yes, yes; I will mature this project. No revolutions! Great heavens! my good Therese, no revolutions!”

“Well, we shall see,” said the housekeeper.

“Stay! someone rings.”

Therese went out and returned almost immediately with a handsome young man, whom she requested to wait in the outer apartment. Then, rejoining Rousseau, who was already taking notes with his pencil:

“Be quick,” said she, “and lock all these infamous things fast. There is someone who wishes to see you.”

“Who is it-”

“A nobleman of the court.”

“Did he not tell you his name-”

“A good idea! as if I would receive a stranger!”

“Tell it me, then.”

“M de Coigny.”

“M. de Coigny!”exclaimed Rousseau; “M. de Coigny, gentleman-in-waiting to the dauphin-”

“It must be the same; a charming youth, a most amiable young man.”

“I will go, Therese.”

Rousseau gave a glance at himself in the mirror, dusted his coat, wiped his slippers, which were only old shoes, trodden down in the heels by long wear, and entered the dining-room, where the gentleman was waiting.

The latter had not sat down. He was looking, with a sort of curiosity, at the dried plants pasted by Rousseau upon paper, and inclosed in frames of black wood. At the noise Rousseau made in entering, he turned, and bowing most courteously:

“Have I the honor,” said he “of speaking to M. Rousseau-”

“Yes, sir,” replied the philosopher, in a morose voice, not unmingled however with a kind of admiration for the remarkable beauty and unaffected elegance of the person before him.

M. de Coigny was, in fact, one of the handsomest and most accomplished gentlemen in France. It must have been for him, and such as him, that the costume of that period was invented. It displayed to the greatest advantage the symmetry and beauty of his well-turned leg, his broad shoulders and deep chest; it gave a majestic air to his exquisitely-formed head, and added to the ivory whiteness of his aristocratic hands.

His examination satisfied Rousseau, who, like a true artist, admired the beautiful wherever he met with it.

“Sir,” said he, “what can I do for you-”

“You have been perhaps informed, sir,” replied the young nobleman, “that I am the Count de Coigny. I may add that I come from her royal highness the dauphiness.”

Rousseau reddened and bowed. Therese, who was standing in a corner of the dining-room, with her hands in her pockets, gazed with complacent eyes at the handsome messenger of the greatest princess in France.

“Her royal highness wants me-for what purpose-” asked Rousseau. “But take a chair, if you please, sir.”

Rousseau sat down, and M. de Coigny drew forward a straw-bottomed chair, and followed his example.

“Monsieur, here is the fact. The other day, when his majesty dined at Trianon, he expressed a good deal of admiration for your music, which is indeed charming. His majesty sang your prettiest airs, and the dauphiness, who is always anxious to please his majesty in every respect, thought that it might give him pleasure to see one of your comic operas performed in the theater at Trianon.”

Rousseau bowed low.

“I come, therefore, to ask you, from the dauphiness-”

“Oh, sir,” interrupted Rousseau, “my permission has nothing to do in the matter. My pieces, and the airs belonging to them, are the property of the theater where they are represented. The permission must therefore be sought from the comedians, and her royal highness will, I am assured, find no obstacles in that quarter. The actors will be too happy to play and sing before his majesty and the court.”

“That is not precisely what I am commissioned to request, sir,” said M. de Coigny. “Her royal highness the dauphiness wishes to give a more complete and more recherche entertainment to his majesty. He knows all your operas, sir.”

Another bow from Rousseau.

“And sings them charmingly.”

Rousseau bit his lips.

“It is too much honor,” stammered he.

“Now,” pursued M. de Coigny, “as several ladies of the court are excellent musicians, and sing delightfully, and as several gentlemen also have studied music with some success, whichever of your operas the dauphiness may choose shall be performed by this company of ladies and gentlemen, the principal actors being their royal highnesses.”

Rousseau bounded in his chair.

“I assure you, sir.” said he, “that this is a signal honor conferred upon me, and I beg you will offer my most humble thanks to the dauphiness.”

“Oh! that is not all.” said M. de Coigny, with a smile.

“Ah!”

“The troupe thus composed is more illustrious, certainly, than that usually employed, but also more inexperienced. The superintendence and the advice of a master are therefore indispensable. The performance ought to be worthy of the august spectator who will occupy the royal box, and also of the illustrious author.”

Rousseau rose to bow again. This time the compliment had touched him, and he saluted M. de Coigny most graciously.

“For this purpose, sir,” continued the gentleman-in-waiting, “her royal highness requests your company at Trianon, to superintend the general rehearsal of the work.”

“Oh.” said Rousseau, “her royal highness cannot surely think of such a thing. I at Trianon-”

“Well!” said M. de Coigny, with the most natural air possible.

“Oh! Sir, you are a man of taste and judgment, you have more tact than the majority of men; answer me, on your conscience, is not the idea of Rousseau, the philosopher, the outlaw, the misanthrope, attending at court, enough to make the whole cabal split their sides with laughter-”

“I do not see,” replied M. de Coigny, coldly, “how the laughter and the remarks of that foolish set which persecutes you should disturb the repose of a gallant man, and an author who may lay claim to be the first in the kingdom. If you have this weakness, M. Rousseau, conceal it carefully; it alone would be sufficient to raise a laugh at your expense. As to what remarks may be made, you will confess that those making them had better be careful on that point, when the pleasure and the wishes of her royal highness the dauphiness, presumptive heiress of the French kingdom, are in question.”

“Certainly,” said Rousseau; “certainly.”

“Can it be, possibly, a lingering feeling of false shame-” said M. de Coigny, smiling. “Because you have been severe upon kings, do you fear to humanize yourself- Ah! Monsieur Rousseau, you have given valuable lessons to the human race, but I hope you do not hate them. And, besides, you certainly except the ladies of the blood-royal.”

“Sir, you are very kind to press me so much; but think of my position-I live retired, alone, unhappy.”

Therese made a grimace.

“Unhappy!” said she; “he is hard to please!”

“Whatever effort I may make, there will always be something in my features and manner unpleasing to the eyes of the king and the princesses, who seek only joy and happiness. What should I do there-what should I say-”

“One would think you distrusted yourself. But, sir, do you not think that he who has written the 'Nouvelle Heloise' and the 'Confessions,' must have more talent for speaking and acting than all of us others put together, no matter what position we occupy-”

“I assure you, sir, it is impossible.”

“That word, sir, is not known to princes.”

“And for that very reason, sir, I shall remain at home.”

“Sir, you would not inflict the dreadful disappointment of returning vanquished and disgraced to Versailles on me, the venturous messenger who undertook to satisfy her royal highness- It would be such a blow to me, that I should immediately retire into voluntary exile. Come, my dear M. Rousseau, grant to me, a man full of the deepest sympathy for your works, this favor-a favor which you would refuse to supplicating kings.”

“Sir, your kindness gains my heart; your eloquence is irresistible; and your voice touches me more than I can express.”

“Will you allow yourself to be persuaded-

“No. I cannot -no, decidedly; my health forbids such a journey.”

“A journey! oh, Monsieur Rousseau, what are you thinking of- An hour and a quarter in a carriage!”

“Yes; for you and your prancing horses.”

“But all the equipages of the court are at your disposal, M. Rousseau. The dauphiness charged me to tell you that there is an apartment prepared for you at Trianon; for she is unwilling that you should have to return so late to Paris. The dauphin, who knows all your works by heart, said, before the whole court, that he would be proud to show the room in his palace where M. Rousseau had slept.”

Therese uttered a cry of admiration, not for Rousseau, but for the good prince.

Rousseau could not withstand this last mark of good-will.

“I must surrender,” said he, “for never have I been so well attacked.”

“Your heart only is vanquished, sir,” replied De Coigny; “your mind is impregnable.”

“I shall go, then, sir, in obedience to the wishes of her royal highness.”

“Oh! sir, receive my personal thanks. As regards the dauphiness's, permit me to abstain. She would feel annoyed at being forestalled, as she means to pay them to you in person this evening. Besides, you know, it is the man's part to thank a young and adorable lady who is good enough to make advances to him.”

“True, sir,” replied Rousseau, smiling; “but old men have the privilege of pretty women-they are sought after.”

“If you will name your hour, M. Rousseau, I shall send my carriage for you; or, rather, I will come myself to take you up.”

“No, thank you, sir. I must positively refuse your kind offer. I will go to Trianon, but let me go in whatever manner I may choose. From this moment leave me to myself. I shall come, that is all. Tell me the hour.”

“What, sir! you will not allow me to introduce you- I know I am not worthy of the honor, and that a name like yours needs no announcement-

“Sir, I am aware that you are more at court than I am anywhere in the world. I do not refuse your offer, therefore, from my motives personal to yourself; but I love my liberty. I wish to go as if I were merely taking a walk, and-in short, that is my ultimatum.”

“Sir, I bow to your decision, and should be most unwilling to displease you in any particular. The rehearsal commences at six o'clock.”

“Very well. At a quarter before six I shall be at Trianon.”

“But by what conveyance-”

“That is my affair; these are my horses.”

He pointed to his legs, which were still well formed, and displayed with some pretension.

“Five leagues!” said M. de Coigny, alarmed, “you will be knocked up-take care, it will be a fatiguing evening!”

“In that case, I have my carriage and my horses also-a fraternal carriage-the popular vehicle -which belongs to my neighbor as well as to myself, and which costs only fifteen sous.”

“Oh! good heavens! The stagecoach! You make me shudder.”

“Its benches, which seem to you so hard, are to me like the Sybarite's couch.

To me they seem stuffed with down or strewn with rose-leaves. Adieu, sir, till this evening.”

M. de Coigny, seeing himself thus dismissed, took his leave after a multitude of thanks, indications more or less precise, and expressions of gratitude for his services. He descended the dark staircase, accompanied by Rousseau to the landing, and by Therese half way down the stairs.

M. de Coigny entered his carriage, which was waiting in the street, and drove back to Versailles, smiling to himself.

Therese returned to the apartment, slamming the door with angry violence, which foretold a storm for Rousseau.

CHAPTER CVII. ROUSSEAU'S TOILET.

WHEN M. DE COIGNY was gone, Rousseau, whose ideas this visit had entirely changed, threw himself into a little armchair, with a deep sigh, and said in a sleepy tone:

“Oh! how tiresome this is! How these people weary me with their persecutions!”

Therese caught the last words as she entered, and placing herself before Rousseau:

“How proud we are!” said she.

“I-” asked Rousseau, surprised.

“Yes; you are a vain fellow-a hypocrite!”

“I-”

“Yes, you! you are enchanted to go to court, and you conceal your joy under this false indifference.”

“Oh! good heavens!” replied Rousseau, shrugging his shoulders, and humiliated at being so truly described.

“Do you not wish to make me believe that it is not a great honor for you to perform for the king the airs you thump here upon your spinet, like a good-for-nothing as you are-”

Rousseau looked angrily at his wife.

“You are a simpleton,” said he; “it is no honor for a man such as I am to appear before a king. To what does this man owe that he is on the throne- To a caprice of nature, which gave him a queen as his mother; but I am worthy of being called before the king to minister to his recreation. It is to my works I owe it, and to the fame acquired by my works.”

Therese was not a woman to be so easily conquered.

“I wish M. de Sartines heard you talking in this style; he would give you a lodging in Bicetre, or a cell at Charenton.”

“Because this M. de Sartines is a tyrant in the pay of another tyrant, and because man is defenseless against tyrants with the aid of his genius alone. But if M. de Sartines were to persecute me-”

“Well, what then-” asked Therese.

“Ah! yes,” sighed Rousseau; “yes, I know that would delight my enemies.”

“Why have you enemies-” continued Therese. “Because you are ill-natured, and because you have attacked every one. Ah, M. de Voltaire knows how to make friends, he does!”

“True,” said Rousseau, with an angelic smile.

“But, dame! M. de Voltaire is a gentleman-he is the intimate friend of the king of Prussia-he has horses, he is rich, and lives in his chateau at Ferney. And all that he owes to his merit. Therefore, when he goes to court, he does not act the disdainful man-he is quite at home.”

“And do you think,” said Rousseau, “that I shall not be at home there- Think you that I do not know where all the money that is spent there comes from, or that I am duped by the respect which is paid to the master- Oh! my good woman, who judgest everything falsely, remember, if I act the disdainful, it is because I really feel contempt-remember that if I despise the pomp of these courtiers, it is because they have stolen their riches.”

“Stolen!” said Therese, with inexpressible indignation.

“Yes, stolen from you-from me-from every one. All the gold they have upon their fine clothes should be restored to the poor wretches who want bread. That is the reason why I, who know all these things, go so reluctantly to court.”

“I do not say that the people are happy-but the king is always the king.”

“Well, I obey him; what more does he want-”

“Ah! you obey because you are afraid. You must not say in my hearing that you go against your will, or that you are a brave man, for if so, I shall reply that you are a hypocrite, and that you are very glad to go.”

“I do not fear anything,” said Rousseau, superbly.

“Good! Just go and say to the king one quarter of what you have been telling me the last half hour.”

“I shall assuredly do so, if my feelings prompt me.”

“You-”

“Yes. Have I ever recoiled-”

“Bah! You dare not take a bone from a cat when she is gnawing it, for fear she should scratch you! What would you be if surrounded by guards and swordsmen- Look you, I know you as well as if I were your mother. You will just now go and shave yourself afresh, oil your hair, and make yourself beautiful; you will display your leg to the utmost advantage; you will put on your interesting little winking expression, because your eyes are small and round, and if you opened them naturally that would be seen, while, when you wink, you make people believe that they are as large as carriage entrances. You will ask me for your silk stockings, you will put on your chocolate-colored coat with steel buttons and your beautiful new wig; you will order a coach, and my philosopher will go and be adored by the ladies! And to-morrow-ah!-to-morrow, there will be such ecstatic reveries, such interesting languor! You will come back amorous, you will sigh and write verses, and you will dilute your coffee with your tears. Oh! how well I know you!”

“You are wrong, my dear,” Rousseau replied. “I tell you I am reluctantly obliged to go to court. I go because, after all, I four to cause scandal, as every honest citizen should do. Moreover, I am not one of those who refuse to acknowledge the supremacy of one citizen in a republic; but as to making advances, as to brushing my new coat against the gold spangles of these gentlemen of the Oeil-de-Boeuf-no, no-I shall do nothing of the sort, and if you catch me doing so, laugh at me as much as you please.”

“Then you will not dress-” said Therese, sarcastically.

“No.”

“You will not put on your new wig-”

“No.”

“You will not wink with your little eyes-”

“I tell you I shall go like a free man, without affectation and without fear. I shall go to court as if I were going to the theater, and let the actors like me or not, I care not for them.”

“Oh! you will at least trim your beard,” said Therese; “it is half a foot long!”

“I tell you I shall make no change.”

Therese burst into so loud and prolonged a laugh that Rousseau was obliged to take refuge in the next room. But the housekeeper had not finished her persecutions; she had them of all colors and kinds.

She opened the cupboard and took out his best coat, his clean linen, and beautifully polished shoes. She spread all these articles out upon the bed and over the chairs in the apartment; but Rousseau did not seem to pay the least attention.

At last Therese said:

“Come, it is time you should dress. A court toilet is tedious. You will have barely time to reach Versailles at the appointed hour.”

“I have told you, Therese, that I shall do very well as I am. It is the same dress in which I present myself every day among my fellow-citizens. A king is but a citizen like myself.”

“Come, come!” said Therese, trying to tempt him and bring him to her purpose by artful insinuation; “do not pout, Jacques, and don't be foolish. Here are your clothes. Your razor is ready; I have sent for the barber, in case you have your nervousness to-day.”

“Thank you, my dear,” replied Rousseau; “I shall only just give myself a brush, and take my shoes because I cannot go out in slippers.”

“Is he going to be firm. I wonder-;' thought Therese.

She tried to coax him, sometimes by coquetry, sometimes by persuasion, and sometimes by the violence of her raillery. But Rousseau knew her, and saw the snare. He felt that the moment he should give way, he would be unmercifully disgraced and ridiculed by his butter-half. He determined, therefore, not to give way, and abstained from looking at the fine clothes, which set off what he termed his natural advantages.

Therese watched him. She had only one resource left; this was the glance which Rousseau never failed to give in the glass before he went out; for the philosopher was neat to an extreme, if there can be an extreme in neatness.

But Rousseau continued to be on his guard, and as he had caught Therese's anxious look, he turned his back to the looking-glass. The hour arrived; the philosopher had filled Ins head with all the disagreeable remarks he could think of to say to the king.

He repeated some scraps of them to himself while he buckled his shoes, then tucked his hat under his arm, seized his cane, and taking advantage of a moment when Therese could not see him, he pulled down his coat and his waistcoat with both hands, to smooth the creases.

Therese now returned, handed him a handkerchief, which he plunged into his huge pocket, and then accompanied him to the landing-place, saying:

“Come, Jacques, be reasonable; you look quite frightful; you have the air of some false moneyer.”

“Adieu!” said Rousseau.

“You look like a thief, sir,” said Therese; “take care!”

“Take care of fire,” said Rousseau, “and do not touch my papers.”

“You have just the air of a spy, I assure you!” said Therese in despair.

Rousseau made no reply; he descended the steps singing, and favored by the obscurity, he gave his hat a brush with his sleeve, smoothed his shirt-frill with his left hand, and touched up his toilet with a rapid but skillful movement.

Arrived at the foot of the stairs, he boldly confronted the mud of the Rue Platriere, walking upon tiptoe, and reached the Champs-Elysees, where those honest vehicles which some rather affectedly call pataches were stationed, and which, so late as ten years ago, still carried, or rather bundled, from Paris to Versailles, those travelers who were obliged to use economy.

CHAPTER CVIII. THE SIDE SCENES OF TRIANON.

THE ADVENTURES OF the journey are of no importance. A Swiss, an assistant clerk, a citizen, and an abbe, were of course among his traveling companions.

He arrived at half-past five. The court was already assembled at Trianon, and the performers were going over their parts while waiting for the king; for as to the author, no one thought of him. Some were aware that M. Rousseau of Geneva was to come to direct the rehearsal; but they took no greater interest in seeing it. Rousseau than M. Rameau, or M. Marmontel, or any other of those singular animals, to a sight of which the courtiers sometimes treated themselves in their drawing-rooms or country-houses.

Rousseau was received by the usher-in-waiting, who had been ordered by it. de Coigny to inform him as soon as the philosopher should arrive.

This young nobleman hastened with his usual courtesy, and received Rousseau with the most amiable empressement. But scarcely had he cast his eyes over his person, than he stared with astonishment, and could not prevent himself from recommencing the examination.

Rousseau was dusty, pale, and disheveled, and his paleness rendered conspicuous such a beard as no master of the ceremonies had ever seen reflected in the mirrors of Versailles.

Rousseau felt deeply embarrassed under M. de Coigny's scrutiny, but more embarrassed still when, approaching the hall of the theater, he saw the profusion of splendid dresses, valuable lace, diamonds, and blue ribbons, which, with the gilding of the hall, produced the effect of a bouquet of flowers in an immense basket.

Rousseau felt ill at ease also when he breathed this perfumed atmosphere, so intoxicating for plebeian nerves. Yet he was obliged to proceed and put a bold face on the matter. Multitudes of eyes were fixed upon him who thus formed a stain, as it were, on the polish of the assembly. M. de Coigny, still preceding him, led him to the orchestra, where the musicians were awaiting him.

When there, he felt rather relieved, and while his music was being performed, he seriously reflected that the worst danger was past, that the step was taken, and that all the reasoning in the world could now be of no avail.

Already the dauphiness was on the stage, in her costume as Colette; she waited for Colin.

M. de Coigny was changing his dress in his box.

All at once the king entered, surrounded by a crowd of bending heads. Louis smiled, and seemed to be in the best humor possible.

The dauphin seated himself at his right hand, and the Count de Provence, arriving soon after, took his place on the left. On a sign from the king, the fifty persons who composed the assembly, private as it was, took their seats. “Well, why do you not begin-” asked Louis.

“Sire,” said the dauphiness, “the shepherds and shepherdesses are not yet dressed; we are waiting for them.”

“They can perform in their evening dresses,” said the king.

“No, Sire,” replied the dauphiness, “for we wish to try the dresses and costumes by candle-light, to be certain of the effect.”

“You are right, madame,” said the king; “then let us take a stroll.”

And Louis rose to make the circuit of the corridor and the stage. Besides, he was rather uneasy at not seeing Madame Dubarry.

When the king had left the box, Rousseau gazed in a melancholy mood and with an aching heart at the empty hall and his own solitary position; it was a singular contrast to the reception he had anticipated.

He had pictured to himself that on his entrance all the groups would separate before him; that the curiosity of the courtiers would be even more importunate and more significative than that of the Parisians; he had feared questions and presentations; and, lo! no one paid any attention to him!

He thought that his long beard was not yet long enough, that rags would not have been more remarked than his old clothes, and he applauded himself for not having been so ridiculous as to aim at elegance. But in the bottom of his heart he felt humiliated at being thus reduced to the simple post of leader of the orchestra. Suddenly an officer approached and asked him if he was not M. Rousseau-

“Yes, sir,” replied he.

“Her royal highness the dauphiness wishes to speak to you, sir,” said the officer.

Rousseau rose, much agitated.

The dauphiness was waiting for him. She held in her hand the air of Colette:

“My happiness is gone.”

The moment she saw Rousseau, she advanced toward him. The philosopher bowed very humbly, saying to himself, “that his bow was for the woman, not for the princess.”

The dauphiness, on the contrary, was as gracious toward the savage philosopher as she would have been to the most finished gentleman in Europe.

She requested his advice about the inflection she ought to give to the third strophe-

“Colin leaves me.”

Rousseau forthwith commenced to develop a theory of declamation and melody, which, learned as it was, was interrupted by the noisy arrival of the king and several courtiers.

Louis entered the room in which the dauphiness was taking her lesson from the philosopher. The first impulse of the king's, when he saw this carelessly dressed person, was the same that M. de Coigny had manifested, only M. de Coigny knew Rousseau, and the king did not.

He stared, therefore, long and steadily, at our freeman, while still receiving the thanks and compliments of the dauphiness.

This look, stamped with royal authority-this look, not accustomed to be lowered before anyone -produced a powerful effect upon Rousseau, whose quick eye was timid and unsteady.

The dauphiness waited until the king had finished his scrutiny, then, advancing toward Rousseau, she said:

“Will your majesty allow me to present, our author to you-”

“Your author-” said the king, seeming to consult memory.

During this short dialogue Rousseau was upon burning coals. The king's eye had successively rested upon and burned up-like the sun's rays under a powerful lens, the long beard, the dubious shirt frill, the dusty garb, and the old wig of the greatest writer in his kingdom.

The dauphiness took pity on the latter.

“M. Jean Jacques Rousseau, Sire,” said she, “the author of the charming opera we are going to execute before your majesty.”

The king raised his head.

“Ah!” said he, coldly, “M. Rousseau, I greet you.”

And he continued to look at him in such a manner as to point out all the imperfections of his dress.

Rousseau asked himself how he ought to salute the king of France, without being a courtier, but also without impoliteness, for he confessed that he was in the prince's house.

But while he was making these reflections, the king addressed him with that graceful ease of princes who have said everything when they have uttered an agreeable or a disagreeable remark to the person before them. Rousseau, petrified, had at first stood speechless. All the phrases he had prepared for the tyrant were forgotten.

“Monsieur Rousseau,” said the king, still looking at his coat and wig, “you have composed some charming music, which has caused me to pass several very pleasant moments.”

Then the king, in a voice which was diametrically opposed to all diapason and melody, commenced singing:

“Had I turned a willing; ear,

The gallants of the town to hear,

Ah! I had found with ease

Other lovers then to please.”

“It is charming!” said the king, when he had finished.

Rousseau bowed.

“I do not know if I shall sing it well,” said the dauphiness.

Rousseau turned toward the dauphiness to make some remark in reply; but the king had commenced again, and was singing the romance of Colin:

“From my hut, obscure and cold,

Care is absent never;

Whether storm, or sun, or cold,

Suffering, toil, forever.”

His majesty sang frightfully for a musician. Rousseau, half flattered by the monarch's good memory, half-wounded by his detestable execution, looked like a monkey nibbling an onion-crying on one side of his face and laughing on the other.

The dauphiness preserved her composure with that imperturbable self-possession which is only found at court.

The king, without the least embarrassment, continued:

“If thou'lt come to cast thy lot

In thy Colin's humble cot.

My sweet shepherdess Colette,

I'd bid adieu to all regret.”

Rousseau felt the color rising to his face.

“Tell me, M. Rousseau,” said the king, “is it true that you sometimes dress in the costume of an Armenian-”

Rousseau blushed more deeply than before, and his tongue was so glued to his throat that not for a kingdom could he have pronounced a word at this moment.

The king continued to sing, without waiting for a reply:

“Ah! but little, as times go.

Doth love know

What he'd let, or what he'd hinder.”

“You live in the Rue Platriere, I believe, M. Rousseau-” said the king.

Rousseau made a gesture in the affirmative with his head, but that was the ultima thule of his strength. Never had he called up so much to his support. The king hummed:

“She is a child,

She is a child.”

“It is said you are on bad terms with Voltaire, M. Rousseau-”

At this blow Rousseau lost the little presence of mind he had remaining, and was totally put out of countenance. The king did not seem to have much pity for him, and, continuing his ferocious melomania, he moved off, singing:

“Come, dance with me beneath the elms;

Young maidens, come, be merry,”

with orchestral accompaniments which would have killed Apollo, as the latter killed Marsyas.

Rousseau remained alone in the center of the room. The dauphiness had quitted it to finish her toilet.

Rousseau, trembling and confused, regained the corridor; but on his way he stumbled against a couple dazzling with diamonds, flowers, and lace, who filled up the entire width of the corridor, although the young man squeezed his lovely companion tenderly to his side.

The young woman, with her fluttering laces, her towering head-dress, her fan, and her perfumes, was radiant as a star. It was she against whom Rousseau brushed in passing.

The young man, slender, elegant, and charming, with his blue ribbon rustling against his English shirt-frill, every now and then burst into a laugh of most engaging frankness, and then suddenly interrupted it with little confidential whispers, which made the lady laugh in her turn, and showed that they were on excellent terms.

Rousseau recognized the Countess Dubarry in this beautiful lady, this seducing creature; and the moment he perceived her, true to his habit of absorbing his whole thoughts on a single object, he no longer saw her companion.

The young man with the blue ribbon was no other than the Count d'Artois, who was merrily toying with his grandfather's favorite.

When Madame Dubarry perceived Rousseau's dark figure, she exclaimed:

“Ah, good heavens!”

“What!” said the Count d'Artois, also looking at the philosopher; and already he had stretched out his hand to make way for his companion.

“M. Rousseau!” exclaimed Madame Dubarry.

“Rousseau of Geneva-” said the Count d'Artois, in the tone of a schoolboy in the holidays.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the countess.

“Ah! good-day, M. Rousseau,” said the young fop, seeing Rousseau making a despairing effort to force a passage-”good-day; we are going to hear your music.”

“My lord!”-stammered Rousseau, seeing the blue ribbon.

“Ah! most charming music!” exclaimed the countess; “and completely in harmony with the heart and mind of the author.”

Rousseau raised his head, and his eyes met the burning gaze of the countess.

“Madame!” said he, ill-humoredly.

“I will play Colin, madame,” cried the Count d'Artois, “and I entreat that you, Madame la Comtesse, will play Colette.”

“With all my heart, my lord; but I would never dare-I, who am not an artist-to profane the music of a master.”

Rousseau would have given his life to look again at her; but the voice, the tone, the flattery, the beauty, had each planted a baited hook in his heart. He tried to escape.

“Monsieur Rousseau,” said the prince, blocking up the passage, “I wish you would teach me the part of Colin.”

“I dare not ask Monsieur Rousseau to give me his advice respecting Colette,” said the countess, feigning timidity, and thus completing the overthrow of the philosopher.

But yet his eyes inquired why.

“Monsieur Rousseau hates me,” said she to the prince, with her enchanting voice.

“You are jesting!” exclaimed the Count d'Artois. “Who could hate you, madame-”

“You see it plainly,” replied she.

“M. Rousseau is too great a man, and has written too many noble works, to fly from such a charming woman,” said the Count d'Artois.

Rousseau heaved a sigh as if he were ready to give up the ghost, and made his escape through a narrow loophole which the Count d'Artois had imprudently left between himself and the wall. But Rousseau was not in luck this evening. He had scarcely proceeded four steps when he met another group, composed of two men, one old, the other young. The young one wore the blue ribbon; the other, who might be about fifty years of age, was dressed in red, and looked austere and pale. These two men overheard the merry laugh of the Count d'Artois, who exclaimed loudly:

“Ah! Monsieur Rousseau, Monsieur Rousseau! I shall say that the countess put you to flight; and, in truth, no one would believe it.”

“Rousseau!” murmured the two men.

“Stop him, brother!” said the prince, still laughing; “stop him, M. de Vauguyon!”

Rousseau now comprehended on what rock his evil star had shipwrecked him. The Count de Provence and the governor of the royal youths were before him.

The Count de Provence also barred the way.

“Good-day, sir,” said he, with his dry pedantic voice.

Rousseau, almost at his wits' end, bowed, muttering to himself:

“I shall never get away!”

“Ah! I am delighted to have met you!” said the prince, with the air of a schoolmaster who finds a pupil in fault.

“More absurd compliments!” thought Rousseau. “How insipid these great people are!”

“I have read your translation of Tacitus, sir.”

“Ah! true,” thought Rousseau; “this one is a pedant, a scholar.”

“Do you know that, it is very difficult to translate Tacitus-”

“My lord, I said so in a short preface.”

“Yes, I know, I know; you said in it that you had only a slight knowledge of Latin.”

“It is true, my lord.”

“Then. M. Rousseau, why translate Tacitus-”

“My lord, it improves one's style.”

“Ah! M. Rousseau, it was wrong to translate 'imperatoria brevitate' by a grave and concise discourse.”

Rousseau, uneasy, consulted his memory.

“Yes,” said the young prince, with the confidence of an old savant who discovers a fault in Saumaise; “yes, you translated it so. It is in the paragraph where Tacitus relates that Pison harangued his soldiers.”

“Well, my lord-”

“Well, M. Rousseau, 'imperatoria brevitate' means, with the conciseness of a general, or of a man accustomed to command. With the brevity of command; that is the expression, is it not, Monsieur de la Vauguyon-”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the governor.

Rousseau made no reply. The prince added:

“That is an evident mistake, Monsieur Rousseau. Oh! I will find you another.”

Rousseau turned pale.

“Stay. Monsieur Rousseau, there is one in the paragraph relating to Cecina. It commences thus; 'At in superiore Germania.' You know he is describing Cecina, and Tacitus says, 'Cito sermone':

“I remember it perfectly, my lord.”

“You translated that by speaking well.”

“Yes, my lord, and I thought-”

“'Cito sermone' means speaking quickly, that is to say easily.”

“I said speaking well.”

“Then it should have been 'decoro,' or 'ornato,' or 'eleganti sermone;' 'cito' is a picturesque epithet, Monsieur Rousseau. Just as, in portraying the change in Otho's conduct, Tacitus says-'Delata voluptate, dissimulata luxuria, cuncta que ad imperii decorem composita.”

“I have translated that-Dismissing luxury and effeminacy to other times, he surprised the world by industriously applying himself to re-establish the glory of the empire.”

“Wrong, M. Rousseau, wrong! In the first place, you have run the three little phrases into one, which obliges you to translate 'dissimulata luxuria' badly. Then you made a blunder in the last portion of the phrase. Tacitus did not mean that the emperor Otho applied himself to reestablishing the glory of the empire; he meant to say that, no longer gratifying his passions, and dissimulating his luxurious habits, Otho accommodated all, made all turn-all, you understand, M. Rousseau-that is to say, even his passions and his vices-to the glory of the empire. That is the sense-it is rather complex; yours, however, is too restricted, is it not, Monsieur de la Vauguyon-”

“Yes, my lord.”

Rousseau perspired and panted under this pitiless infliction.

The prince allowed him a moment's breathing time, and then continued:

“You are much more in your element in philosophy, sir.”

Rousseau bowed.

“But your 'Emilius' is a dangerous book.”

“Dangerous, my lord-”

“Yes, from the quantity of false ideas it will put into the small citizens' heads!”

“My lord, as soon as a man is a father, he can enter into the spirit of my book, whether he be the first or the last in the kingdom. To be a father-is-is-”

“Tell me, Monsieur Rousseau,” asked the satirical prince, all at once, “your 'Confessions' form a very amusing book. How many children have you had-”

Rousseau turned pale, staggered, and raised an angry and stupefied glance to his young tormentor's face, the expression of which only increased the malicious humor of the Count de Provence.

It was only malice, for, without waiting for a reply, the prince moved away arm-in-arm with his preceptor, continuing his commentaries on the works of the man whom he had so cruelly crushed.

Rousseau, left alone, was gradually recovering from his stupefaction, when he heard the first bars of his overture executed by the orchestra.

He proceeded in that direction with a faltering step, and when he had reached his seat, he said to himself:

“Fool! coward! stupid ass that I am! Now only do I find the answer I should have made the cruel little pedant. 'My lord,' I should have said, 'it is not charitable in a young person to torment a poor old man!”

He had just reached this point, quite content with his phrase, when the dauphiness and M. de Coigny commenced their duet. The pre-occupation of the philosopher was disturbed by the suffering of the musician-the ear was to be tortured after the heart.

CHAPTER CIX. THE REHEARSAL.

THE REHEARSAL, once fair commenced, and the general attention drawn to the stage, Rousseau was no longer remarked, and it was he, on the contrary, who became the observer. He heard court lords who sang completely out of tune in their shepherd's dresses, and saw ladies arrayed in their court dresses coquetting like shepherdesses.

The dauphiness sang correctly, but she was a bad actress, and her voice, moreover, was so weak that she could scarcely be heard. The king, not to intimidate anyone, had retired to an obscure box, win-re he chatted with the ladies. The dauphin prompted the words of the opera, which went off royalty badly.

Rousseau determined not to listen, but he felt it very difficult to avoid overhearing what passed. He had one consolation, however, for he had just perceived a charming face among the illustrious figurantes, and the village maiden who was the possessor of this charming face had incomparably the most delightful voice of the entire company.

Rousseau's attention became at once completely riveted, and from his position behind his desk, he gazed with his whole soul at the charming figurante, and listened with all his ears to drink in the enchanting melody of her voice.

When the dauphiness saw the author so deeply attentive, she felt persuaded, from his smile and his sentimental air, that he was pleased with the execution of his work, and, eager for a compliment-for she was a woman-she leaned forward to the desk, saying-

“Is our performance very bad. Monsieur Rousseau-”

But Rousseau, with lips apart and absent air, did not reply.

“Oh! we have made some blunders,” said the dauphiness, “and M. Rousseau dares not tell us! Pray do. Monsieur Rousseau!”

Rousseau's gaze never left the beautiful personage, who on her side did not perceive in the least the attention which she excited.

“Ah!” said the dauphiness, following the direction of our philosopher's eyes, “it is Mademoiselle Taverney who has been in fault!”

Andree blushed; she saw all eyes directed toward her.

“No! no!” exclaimed Rousseau; “it was not mademoiselle, for mademoiselle sings like an angel!”

Madame Dubarry darted at the philosopher a look keener than a javelin.

The Baron de Taverney, on the contrary, felt his heart bound with joy, and greeted Rousseau with a most enchanting smile.

“Do you think that young girl sings well-” said Madame Dubarry to the king, who was evidently struck by Rousseau's words.

“In a chorus I cannot hear distinctly,” said Louis XV.; “it requires a musician to be able to distinguish.”

Meanwhile Rousseau was busy in the orchestra directing the chorus:

“Colin revient a sa bergere

Celebrons un retour si beau.”

As he turned to resume his seat, he saw M. de Jussieu bowing to him graciously.

It was no slight pleasure for the Genevese to be seen thus giving laws to the court by a courtier who had wounded him a little by his superiority. He returned his bow most ceremoniously, and continued to gaze at Andree, who looked even more lovely for the praises she had received.

As the rehearsal proceeded, Madame Dubarry became furious; twice had she surprised Louis XV.'s attention wandering, distracted by the spectacle before him from the sweet speeches she whispered.

The spectacle in the eyes of the jealous favorite meant Andree alone, but this did not prevent the dauphiness from receiving many compliments and being in charmingly gay spirits. M. de Richelieu fluttered around her with the agility of a young man, and succeeded in forming at the extremity of the stage, a circle of laughers, of which the dauphiness was the center, and which rendered the Dubarry party extremely uneasy.

“It appears.” said he aloud, “that Mademoiselle de Taverney has a sweet voice.”

“Charming!” said the dauphiness; “and had I not been too selfish, I should have allowed her to play Colette; but as it is for my amusement that I undertook the character, I will give it up to no one.”

“Oh! Mademoiselle de Taverney would not sing it better than your royal highness,” said Richelieu, “and-

“Mademoiselle is an excellent musician,” said Rousseau, with enthusiasm.

“Excellent!” responded the dauphiness; “and, to confess the truth, it is she who teaches me my part; besides, she dances enchanting, and I dance very badly.”

The effect of this conversation upon the king, upon Madame Dubarry, and the whole crowd of curious newsmongers and intriguers, may be imagined. All either tasted the pleasure of inflicting a wound, or received the blow with shame and grief. There were no indifferent spectators, except perhaps Andree herself.

The dauphiness, incited by Richelieu, ended by making Andree sing the air:

“I have lost my love-Colin leaves me.”

The king's head was seen to mark the time with such evident tokens of pleasure, that Madame Dubarry's rouge fell off from her agitation, in little flakes, as paintings fall to pieces from damp.

Richelieu, more malicious than a woman, enjoyed his revenge. He had drawn near the elder Taverney, and the two old men formed a tableau which might have been taken for Hypocrisy and Corruption sealing a project of union.

Their joy increased the more as Madame Dubarry's features grew by degrees darker and darker. She added the finishing stroke to it by rising angrily, which was contrary to all etiquette, as the king was still seated.

The courtiers, like ants, felt the storm approach, and hastened to seek shelter with the strongest. The dauphiness was more closely surrounded by her own friends, Madame Dubarry was more courted by hers.

By degrees the interest of the rehearsal was diverted from its natural course, and was turned in quite a different direction. Colin and Colette were no more thought of, and many spectators thought it would soon be Madame Dubarry's turn to sing:

“I have lost my love-Colin leaves me.”

“Do you mark,” whispered Richelieu to Taverney, “your daughter's immense success-”

And he drew him into the corridor, pushing open a glass door, and causing a looker-on, who had been clinging to the framework in order to see into the hall, to fall backward.

“Plague take the wretch!” grumbled Richelieu, dusting his sleeve, which the rebound of the door had brushed against, and seeming still more angry when he saw that the looker-on was dressed like a workman of the chateau.

It was, in fact, a workman with a basket of flowers under his arm, who had succeeded in climbing up behind the glass, from which position he commanded a view of the entire salon.

He was pushed back into the corridor, and almost overturned; but, although he himself escaped falling, his basket was upset.

“Ah! I know the rascal,” said Taverney, angrily.

“Who is it-” asked the duke.

“What are you doing here, scoundrel-” said Taverney.

Gilbert-for the reader has doubtless already recognized him-replied haughtily:

“You see-I am looking.”

“Instead of being at your work-” said Richelieu.

“My work is done,” said Gilbert, humbly addressing the duke, without deigning to look at Taverney.

“Am I fated to meet this lazy rascal everywhere-” said Taverney.

“Gently, sir,” interrupted a voice; “gently. My little Gilbert is a good workman and an industrious botanist.”

Taverney turned, and saw M. de Jussieu, who was patting Gilbert on the head. The baron reddened with anger and moved off.

“Valets here!” muttered he.

“Hush!” said Richelieu, “there is Nicole!-look-up there, at the corner of the door. The little buxom witch! she is not making bad use of her eyes either.”

The marshal was correct. Partially concealed behind a score of the domestics of Trianon, Nicole raised her charming head above all the others, and her eyes, dilated with surprise and admiration, seemed to devour everything she saw.

Gilbert perceived her, and turned another way.

“Come, come!” said the duke to Taverney; “I fancy the king wishes to speak to you. He is looking this way.”

And the two friends disappeared in the direction of the royal box.

Madame Dubarry was standing behind the king, and interchanging signs with M. d'Aiguillon, who was also standing, and who did not lose one of his uncle's movements.

Rousseau, now left alone, admired Audree; he was endeavoring, if we may use the expression, to fall in love with her.

The illustrious actors proceeded to disrobe in their boxes, which Gilbert had decorated with fresh flowers.

Taverney, left alone in the passage by M. de Richelieu, who had gone to rejoin the king, felt his heart alternately chilled and elated. At last the duke returned and placed his finger upon his lips. Taverney turned pale with joy and advanced to meet his friend, who drew him beneath the royal box. There they overheard the following conversation, which was quite inaudible to the rest of the company. Madame Dubarry was saying to the king:

“May I expect your majesty to supper this evening-”

And the king replied:

“I feel fatigued, countess; excuse me.”

At the same moment, the dauphin entered, treading almost on Madame Dubarry's toes, without seeming to see her.

“Sire,” said he, “will your majesty do us the honor of supping with us at Trianon-”

“No, my son; I was just this moment saying to the countess that I feel fatigued. Our young people have made me giddy; I shall sup alone.”

The dauphin bowed and retired. Madame Dubarry curtseyed almost to the ground, and, trembling with rage, left the box. When she was gone, the king made a sign to the Duke de Richelieu.

“Duke.” said he, “I wish to speak to you about an affair which concerns you.”

“Sire-”

“I am not satisfied. I wish you to explain-stay, I shall sup alone; you will keep me company.”

And the king looked at Taverney.

“You know this gentleman, I think, duke-”

“Monsieur de Taverney- Yes, Sire.”

“All! the father of the charming singer-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Listen, duke!”

And the king stooped to whisper in Richelieu's ears. Taverney clenched his hands till the nails entered the flesh, to avoid showing any emotion. Immediately afterward Richelieu brushed past Taverney, and said:

“Follow me without making any remark.”

“Whither-” asked Taverney, in the same tone.

“No matter; follow me.”

The duke moved away. Taverney followed him at a little distance to the king's apartment. The duke entered; Taverney waited in the anteroom.

CHAPTER CX. THE CASKET.

M. DE TAVERNEY had not to wait long. Richelieu, having asked the king's valet for something his majesty had left upon his dressing-table, soon returned, carrying something the nature of winch the baron could not distinguish, on account of the covering of silk which enveloped it.

But the marshal soon relieved his friend from all anxiety. Drawing him into a corner of the gallery;

“Baron,” said he, as soon as he saw that they were alone, “you have at times seemed to doubt my friendship for you-”

“Never since our reconciliation,” replied Taverney.

“At least, you doubted your own good fortune and that of your children-”

“Oh! as for that-yes.”

“Well, you were wrong! Your children's fortune and your own is made with a rapidity which might make you giddy.”

“Bah!” said Taverney, who suspected part of the truth, but who, as he was not quite certain, took care to guard against mistakes, “what do you mean-”

“M. Philip is already a captain, with a company paid for by the king.”

“It is true-I owe that to you.”

“By no means. Then we shall have Mademoiselle de Taverney a marchioness, perhaps!”

“Come, come!” exclaimed Taverney; “how!-my daughter!”

“Listen, Taverney! the king has great taste; and beauty, grace, and virtue, when accompanied by talent, delight his majesty. Now Mademoiselle de Taverney unites all these qualities in a very high degree. The king is therefore delighted with Mademoiselle de Taverney.”

“Duke,” replied Taverney, assuming an air of dignity at which the marshal could scarcely repress a smile; “duke, what do you mean by 'delighted'-”

Richelieu did not like airs, and replied dryly:

“Baron, I am not a great linguist. I am not even well versed in orthography. I have always thought that 'delighted' signified 'content beyond measure.' If you are grieved beyond measure to see the king pleased with the beauty, the talent, the merit of your children, you have only to say so. I am about to return to his majesty.”

And Richelieu turned on his heel;ind made a pirouette with truly juvenile grace.

“You misunderstand me, duke.” exclaimed the baron, stopping him. “Ventre bleu! how hasty you are!”

“Why did you say that you were not satisfied-”

“I did not say so.”

“You asked for explanations of the king's pleasure-plague take the fool!”

“But, duke, I did not breathe a syllable of that. I am most certainly content.”

“Ah! you -well, who will be displeased- Your daughter-”

“Oh! oh!”

“My dear friend, you have brought up your daughter like a savage, as you are.”

“My dear friend, the young lady educated herself; you may easily imagine that I could not possibly trouble myself with any such matter. I had enough to do to support life in your den at Taverney. Virtue in her has sprung up spontaneously.”

“And yet people say that country folks know how to pull up weeds!-In short, your daughter is a prude.”

“You mistake; she is a dove.”

Richelieu made a grimace. “Well,” said he, “the poor child must only look out for a good husband, for opportunities of making a fortune happen rarely with this defect.”

Taverney looked uneasily at the duke.

“Fortunately for her,” continued he, “the king is so desperately in love with the Dubarry that he will never think seriously of another.”

Taverney's alarm was changed to anguish.

“Therefore,” continued Richelieu, “you and your daughter may make your minds easy. I will state the necessary objections to his majesty, and the king will never bestow another thought on the matter.”

“But objections to what-good heavens!” exclaimed Taverney, turning pale, and holding his friend's arm.

“To his making a little present to Mademoiselle Andree, my dear baron.”

“A little present!-What is it-” asked the baron, brimful of hope and avarice.

“Oh! a mere trifle,” said Richelieu, carelessly, and he took a casket from its silken covering.-”A casket!”

“A mere trifle-a necklace worth a few millions of livres, which his majesty, flattered at hearing her sing his favorite air, wished to present to the fair singer. It is the usual custom. But if your daughter is proud, we will say no more about it.”

“Duke, you must not think of it-that would be to offend the king!”

“Of course it would; but is it not the attribute of virtue always to offend some person, or some thing-”

“But, duke, consider-the child is not so unreasonable.”

“That is to say it is you, and not your child, who speaks-”

“Oh! I know so well what she will do and say.”

“The Chinese are a very fortunate nation,” said Richelieu.

“Why-” asked Taverney, astonished.

“Because they have so many rivers and canals in the county.”

“Duke, you turn the conversation-do not drive me to despair; speak to me.”

“I am speaking to you, baron, and am not changing the conversation at all.”

“Then why do you speak of China-what have its rivers to do with my daughter-”

“A great deal. The Chinese, I repeat, have the happiness of being able to drown their daughters when they are too virtuous, and no one can forbid it.”

“Come, duke, you must be just. Suppose you had a daughter yourself.”

“Pardieu! I have one; and if anyone were to tell me that she is too virtuous, it would be very ill-natured of him-that's all.”

“In short, you would like her better otherwise, would you not-”

“Oh! for my part, I don't meddle with my children after they are eight years old.”

“Listen to me, at least. If the king were to commission me to offer a necklace to your daughter, and if j-our daughter were to complain to you-”

“Oh, my dear sir, there is no comparison. I have always lived at court, you have lived like a North American Indian; there is no similarity. What you call virtue, I think folly. Remember, for the future, that nothing is more ill-bred than to say to people-'What would you do in this or that case-' And besides, your comparisons are erroneous, my friend. It is not true that I am about to present a necklace to your daughter.”

“You said so.”

“I said nothing of the sort. I said that the king had directed me to bring him a casket for Mademoiselle de Taverney, whose voice had pleased him; but I did not say that his majesty had charged me to give it to her.”

“Then, in truth,” said the baron, in despair, “I know not what to think. I do not understand a single word-you speak in enigmas. Why give this necklace, if it is not to be given- Why do you take charge of it, if not to deliver it-”

Richelieu uttered an exclamation as if he had seen a spider.

“Ah!” said he; “pouah!-pouah! the Huron-the ugly animal.'“

“Who-”

“You, my good friend-you, my trusty comrade-you seem as if you had fallen from the clouds, baron!”

“I am at my wits' end.”

“No, you never had any. When a king makes a lady a present, and when he charges M. de Richelieu with the commission, the present is noble and the commission well executed-remember that. I do not deliver caskets, my dear sir-that was M. Lebel's office. Did you know M. Lebel-”

“What is your office, then-”

“My friend,” said Richelieu, tapping Taverney on the shoulder, and accompanying this amicable gesture by a sardonic smile, “when I have to do with such paragons of virtue as Mademoiselle Andree, I am the most moral man in the world. When I approach a dove, as you call your daughter, I do not display the talons of the hawk. When I am deputed to wait on a young lady, I speak to her father. I speak to you, therefore, Taverney, and give you the casket to present to your daughter. Well! are you willing-”-And he offered the casket. “Or do you decline-”-And he drew it back.

“Oh! say at once,” exclaimed the baron, “say at once that I am commissioned by his majesty to deliver the present! If so, it assumes quite a correct and paternal character-it is, so to speak, purified from-

“Purified! Why, you must have suspected his majesty of evil intentions!” said Richelieu, seriously. “Now, you cannot have dared to do that-”

“Heaven forbid! But the world-that is to say, my daughter-”

Richelieu shrugged his shoulders.

“Will you take it-yes, or no-” asked he.

Taverney rapidly held out his hand.

“You are certain it is moral-” said he to the duke, with a smile, the counterpart of that which the duke had just addressed to him.

“Do you not think it pure morality, baron,” said the marshal, “to make the father, who, as you have just said, purifies everything, an intermediate party between the king's delight and your daughter's charms- Let M. Rousseau, of Geneva, who was hovering about here just now, be the judge; he would say that Cato of happy memory was impure compared to me.”

Richelieu pronounced these few words with a calmness-an abrupt haughtiness -a precision-which silenced Taverney's objections, and assisted to make him believe that he ought to be convinced. He seized his illustrious friend's hand, therefore, and pressing it:

“Thanks to your delicacy,” said he, “my daughter can accept this present.”

“The source and origin of the good fortune to which I alluded at the commencement of our tiresome discussion on virtue.”

“Thanks, dear duke; most hearty thanks!”

“One word more. Conceal this favor carefully from the Dubarrys. It might make Madame Dubarry leave the king and take flight.”

“And the king would be displeased-”

“I don't know, but the countess would not thank us. As for me, I should be lost! Be discreet, therefore-”

“Do not fear. But at least present my most humble thanks to the king.”

“And your daughter's-I shall not fail. But you have not yet reached the limits of the favors bestowed upon you. It is you who are to thank the king, my dear sir; his majesty invites you to sup with him this evening.”

“Me-”

“You, Taverney. We shall be a select party. His majesty, you, and myself. We will talk of your daughter's virtue. Adieu, Taverney, I see Dubarry with Monsieur d'Aiguillon. We must not be perceived together.”

And, agile as a page, he disappeared at the further end of the gallery, leaving Taverney gazing at his casket, like a Saxon child who awakens and finds the Christmas gifts which have been placed in his hands while he slept.

CHAPTER CXI. KING LOUIS XV.'S PETIT SUPPER.

THE MARSHAL found the king in the little salon whither several of the courtiers had followed him, preferring rather to lose their supper than to allow the wandering glance of their sovereign to fall on any others than themselves. But Louis XV. seemed to have something else to do this evening than to look at these gentlemen. He dismissed every one, saying that he did not intend to sup, or that, if he did, it would be alone. All the guests having thus received their dismissal, and fearing to displease the dauphin if they were not present at the fete which he was to give at the close of the rehearsal, instantly flew off like a cloud of parasite pigeons, and winged their way to him whom they were permitted to see, ready to assert that they had deserted his majesty's drawing-room for him.

Louis XV. whom they left so rapidly, was far from bestowing a thought on them. At another time, the littleness of all this swarm of courtiers would have excited a smile, but on this occasion it awoke no sentiment in the monarch's breast-a monarch so sarcastic that he spared neither bodily nor mental defect in his best friends, always supposing that Louis XV. ever had a friend.

No; at that moment Louis XV. concentrated his entire attention on a carriage which was drawn up opposite the door of the offices of Trianon, the coachman seeming to wait only for the step which should announce the owner's presence in the gilded vehicle to urge on his horses. The carriage was Madame Dubarry's, and was lighted by torches. Zamore, seated beside the coachman, was swinging his legs backward and forward like a child at play.

At last, Madame Dubarry, who had no doubt delayed in the corridors in the hope of receiving some message from the king, appeared, supported on M. d'Aiguillon's arm. Her anger, or at least her disappointment, was apparent in the rapidity of her gait. She affected too much resolution not to have lost her presence of mind.

After Madame Dubarry followed Jean, looking gloomy in the extreme, and absently crushing his hat beneath his arm. He had not been present at the representation, the dauphin having forgotten to invite him; but he had stolen into the anteroom somewhat after the fashion of a lackey, and stood pensive as Hippolytus, with his shirt-frill falling over his vest embroidered with silver and red flowers, and not even looking at his tattered ruffles, which seemed in harmony with his sad thoughts. Jean had seen his sister look pale and alarmed, and had concluded from this that the danger was great. Jean was brave in diplomacy only when opposed to flesh and blood, never when opposed to phantoms.

Concealed behind the window-curtain, the king watched this funereal procession defile before him and engulf themselves in the countess's carriage like a troop of phantoms. Then, when the door was closed, and the footman had mounted behind the carriage, the coachman shook the reins, and the horses started forward at a gallop.

“Oh!” said the king, “without making an attempt to see me-to speak to me- the countess is furious!”

And he repeated aloud:

“Yes, the countess is furious!”

Richelieu, who had just glided into the room like an expected visitor, caught these last words:

“Furious, Sire! and for what- Because your majesty is amused for a moment- Oh! that is not amiable of the countess.”

“Duke,” replied Louis XV… “I am not amused; on the contrary, I am wearied and wish for repose. Music enervates me. If I had listened to the countess, I ought to have supped at Luciennes; I ought to have eaten, and, above all, to have drunk. The countess's wines are too strong; I do not know from what vineyards they come, but they overpower me.”

“S'death! I prefer to take my ease here.”

“And your majesty is perfectly in the right,” said the duke.

“Besides, the countess will find amusement elsewhere. Am I such an amiable companion- She may say so as much as she likes, but I do not believe her.”

“Ah! this time your majesty is in the wrong!” exclaimed the marshal.

“No, duke; no, in truth. I count my years, and I reflect.”

“Sire, the countess is well aware that she could not possibly have better company, and it is that which makes her furious.”

“In truth, duke. I do not know how you manage. You still lead the women as if you were twenty. At that age it is for a man to choose; but at mine, duke-”

“Well, Sire-”

“It is for the woman to make her calculations.”

The marshal burst into a laugh.

“Well, Sire,” said he, “that is only an additional reason; if your majesty thinks the countess is amused, let us console ourselves as well as we can.”

“I do not say she is amused, duke; I only say that she will, in the end, be driven to seek amusement.”

“Ah! Sire, I dare not assert that such things have never happened.”

The king rose, much agitated.

“Who waits outside-” inquired he.

“All your suite, Sire.”

The king reflected for a moment.

“But have you anyone there-”

“I have Rafte.”

“Very good.”

“What shall he do, Sire-”

“He must find out if the countess really returned to Luciennes.”

“The countess is already gone, I fancy, Sire.”

“Yes, ostensibly.”

“But whither does your majesty think she is gone-”

“Who can tell- Jealousy makes her frantic, duke.”

“Sire, is it not rather your majesty-”

“How-what-”

“Whom jealousy-”

“Duke!”

“In truth, it would be very humiliating for us all, Sire.”

“I jealous-” said Louis, with a forced laugh; “are you speaking seriously, duke-”

Richelieu did not in truth believe it. It must even be confessed that he was very near the truth in thinking that, on the contrary, the king only wished to know if Madame Dubarry was really at Luciennes, in order to be sure that she would not return to Trianon.

“Then, Sire,” said he aloud, “it is understood that I am to send Rafte on a voyage of discovery-”

“Send him, duke.”

“In the meantime, what will your majesty do before supper-”

“Nothing; we shall sup instantly. Have you spoken to the person in question-”

“Yes, he is in your majesty's antechamber.”

“What did he say-”

“He expressed his deep thanks.”

“And the daughter-”

“She has not been spoken to vet.”

“Duke. Madame Dubarry is jealous, and might readily return.”

“Ah! Sire, that would be in very bad taste. I think the countess would be incapable of committing such an enormity.”

“Duke, she is capable of anything in such moods, especially when hatred is combined with jealousy. She execrates you; I don't know if you were aware of that-”

Richelieu bowed.

“I know she does me that honor, Sire.”

“She execrates M. de Taverney also.”

“If your majesty would be good enough to reckon, I am sure there is a third person whom she hates even more than me-even more than the baron.”

“Whom-”

“Mademoiselle Andree.”

“Ah!” said the king. “I think that is natural enough.”

“Then-”

“Yes, but that does not prevent its being necessary to watch that Madame Dubarry does not cause some scandal this evening.”

“On the contrary, it proves the necessity of such a measure.”

“Here is the maitre-d'hotel; hush! give your orders to Rafte and join me in the dining-room with-you know whom!”

Louis rose and passed into the dining room, while Richelieu made his exit by the opposite door. Five minutes afterward, he rejoined the king, accompanied by the baron.

The king in the most gracious manner bade Taverney good-evening. The baron was a man of talent, and replied in that peculiar manner which betokens a person accustomed to good society, and which puts kings and princes instantly at their ease. They sat down to table. Louis XV. was a bad king, but a delightful companion; when he pleased, his conversation was full of attraction for boon companions, talkers, and voluptuaries. The king, in short, had studied life carefully, and from its most agreeable side.

He ate heartily, made his guests drink, and turned the conversation on music.

Richelieu caught the ball at the rebound.

“Sire,” says he, “if music makes men agree, as our ballet-master says, and as your majesty seems to think, will you say as much of women-”

“Oh, duke!” replied the king, “let us not speak of women. From the Trojan war to the present time, women have always exercised an influence the contrary of music. You, especially, have too many quarrels to compound with them, to bring such a subject on the tapis. Among others, there is one, and that not the least dangerous, with whom you are at daggers drawn.”

“The countess, Sire! Is that my fault-”

“Of course it is.”

“Ah! indeed! Your majesty, I trust, will explain.”

“In two words, and with the greatest pleasure,” said the king, slyly.

“I am all ears, Sire.”

“What! she offers you the portfolio of I don't know which department, and you refuse, because, you say, she is not very popular!”

“I-” exclaimed Richelieu, a good deal embarrassed by the turn the conversation was taking.

“Dame! the report is quite public,” said the king, with that feigned off-hand good-nature which was peculiar to him. “I forget now who told it to me-most probably the gazette.”

“Well, Sire!” said Richelieu, taking advantage of the freedom which the unusual gayety of the august host afforded his guests, “I must confess that on this occasion rumors and even the gazettes have reported something not quite so absurd as usual.”

“What!” exclaimed Louis XV., “then you have really refused a portfolio, my dear duke-”

Richelieu, it may easily be imagined, was in an awkward position. The king well knew that he had refused nothing; but it was necessary that Taverney should continue to believe what Richelieu had told him. The duke had therefore to frame his reply so as to avoid furnishing matter for amusement to the king, without at the same time incurring the reproach of falsehood, which was already hovering on the baron's lips, and twinkling in his smile.

“Sire,” said Richelieu, “pray let us not speak of effects, but of the cause. Whether I have, or have not refused a portfolio, is a state secret which your majesty is not bound to divulge over the bottle; but the cause for which I should have refused the portfolio had it been offered to me is the important point.”

“Oh! oh! duke,” said the monarch, laughing; “and this cause is not a state secret-”

“No, Sire, and certainly not for your majesty, who is at this moment, I beg pardon of the divinity, the most amiable earthly Amphytrion in the universe for my friend the Baron de Taverney and myself. I have no secrets, therefore, from my king. I give my whole soul up to him, for I do not wish it to be said that the king of France has not one servant who would tell him the entire truth.”

“Let us hear the truth, then, duke,” said the king, while Taverney, fearing that Richelieu might go too far, pinched up his lips and composed his countenance scrupulously after the king's.

“Sire, in your dominions there are two powers which a minister must obey; the first is, your will; the second, that of your majesty's most intimate friends. The first power is irresistible; none dare to rebel against it; the second is yet more sacred, for it imposes duties of the heart on whosoever serves you. It is termed “your confidence.” To obey it, a minister must have the most devoted regard for the favorite of the king.”

Louis XV. laughed.

“Duke,” said he, “that is a very good maxim, and one I am delighted to hear from your lips; but I dare you to proclaim it aloud by sound of trumpet upon the Pont Neuf.”

“Oh, I know, Sire,” said Richelieu, “that the philosophers would be up in arms; but I do not think that their objurgations would matter much to your majesty or to me. The chief point is that the two preponderating influences in the kingdom be satisfied. Well! the will of a certain person-I will confess it openly to your majesty, even should my disgrace, that is my death, be the consequence-Madame Dubarry's will I could not conform to.”

Louis was silent.

“It occurred to me the other day.” continued Richelieu, “to look around among your majesty's court, and in truth I saw so many noble girls, so many women of dazzling beauty, that had I been king of France I should have found it almost impossible to choose.”

Louis turned to Taverney, who, seeing things take such a favorable turn for him, sat trembling with hope and fear, aiding the marshal's eloquence with eyes and breath, as if he would waft forward the vessel loaded with his fortunes to a safe harbor.

“Come, baron, what is your opinion-” said the king.

“Sire,” replied Taverney, with swelling heart, “the duke, as it seems to me, has been discoursing most eloquently, and at the same time with profound discernment, to your majesty for the last few minutes.”

“Then you are of his opinion, in what he says of lovely girls-”

“In fact, Sire, I think there are indeed very lovely girls at the French court.”

“Then you are of his opinion-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And, like him, you advise me to choose among the beauties of the court-”

“I would venture to confess that I am of the marshal's opinion, if I dared to believe that it was also your majesty's.”

There was a short silence, during which the king looked complaisantly at Taverney.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “no doubt I would follow your advice, if I were only thirty years of age. I should have a very natural predilection for it, but I find myself at present rather too old to be credulous.”

“Credulous I pray, Sire, explain the meaning of the word.”

“To be credulous, my dear duke, means to believe. Now, nothing will make me believe certain things.”

“What are they-”

“That at my age it would be possible to inspire love.”

“Ah, Sire,” exclaimed Richelieu, “until this moment I thought your majesty was the most polite gentleman in your dominions, but with deep regret I see that I have been mistaken.”

“How so-” asked the king, laughing.

“Because, in that case, I must be old as Methuselah, as I was born in '94. Remember, Sire, I am sixteen years older than your majesty.”

This was an adroit piece of flattery on the duke's part. Louis XV. had always admired this man's age, who had outlived so many younger men in his service; for, having this example before him, he might hope to reach the same advanced period.

“Granted.” said Louis; “but I hope you no longer have the pretension to be loved for yourself, duke-”

“If I thought so, Sire, I would instantly quarrel with two ladies who told me the contrary only this very morning.”

“Well! duke,” said Louis, “we shall see; M. de Taverney, we shall see! youth is certainly catching, that is very true.”

“Yes, yes, Sire; and we must not forget that a powerful constitution like your majesty's always gains and never loses.”

“Yet I remember,” said Louis, “that my predecessor, when he became old, thought not of such toys as woman's love, but became exceedingly devout.”

“Come, come, Sire!” said Richelieu; “your majesty knows my great respect for the deceased king, who twice sent me to the Bastille, but that ought not to prevent me from saying that there is a vast difference between the ripe age of Louis XV. and that of Louis XIV. Diable! your Most Christian Majesty, although honoring fully your title of eldest son of the Church, need not carry asceticism so far as to forget your humanity.”

“Faith, no!” said Louis. “I may confess it, since neither my doctor nor confessor is present.”

“Well, Sire! the king, your grandfather, frequently astonished Madame de Maintenon, who was even older than he, by his excess of religious zeal and his innumerable penances. I repeat it, Sire, can there be any comparison made between your two majesties-”

The king this evening was in a good humor. Richelieu's words acted upon him like so many drops of water from the fountain of youth.

Richelieu thought the time had come; he touched Taverney's knee with his.

“Sire,” said the latter, “will your majesty deign to accept my thanks for the magnificent present you have made my daughter-”

“You need not thank me for that, baron,” said the king. “Mademoiselle de Taverney pleased me by her modest and ingenuous grace. I wish my daughters had still their households to form; certainly, Mademoiselle Andree-that is her name, is it not-”

“Yes, Sire,” said Taverney, delighted that the king knew his daughter's Christian name.

“A very pretty name-certainly Mademoiselle Andree should have been the first upon the list; but every post in my house is filled up. In the meantime, baron, you may reckon upon my protection for your daughter. I think I have heard she has not a rich dowry-”

“Alas! no, Sire.”

“Well, I will make her marriage my especial care.”

Taverney bowed to the ground.

“Then your majesty must be good enough,” said he, “to select a husband; for I confess that, in our confined circumstances-our almost poverty-”

“Yes, yes; rest easy on that point,” said Louis; “but she seems very young -there is no haste.”

“The less, Sire, that I am aware your majesty dislikes marriage.”

“Ha!” said Louis, rubbing his hands and looking at Richelieu. “Well! at all events, M. de Taverney, command me whenever you are at all embarrassed.”

Then, rising, the king beckoned the duke, who approached.

“Was the little one satisfied-” asked he.

“With what-”

“With the casket.”

“Your majesty must excuse my speaking low, but the father is listening, and he must not overhear what I have to tell you.”

“Bah!”

“No, I assure you, Sire.”

“Well, speak!”

“Sire, the little one has indeed a horror of marriage; but of one thing I am certain-viz., that she has not a horror of your majesty.”

Uttering these words in a tone of familiarity which pleased the king from its very frankness, the marshal, with his little pattering steps, hastened to rejoin Taverney, who, from respect, had moved away to the doorway of the gallery.

Both retired by the gardens. It was a lovely evening. Two servants walked before them, holding torches in one hand, and with the other pulling aside the branches of the flowering shrubs. The windows of Trianon were blazing with light, and, flitting across them, could be discerned a crowd of joyous figures, the honored guests of the dauphiness.

His majesty's band gave life and animation to the minuet, for dancing had commenced after supper, and was still kept up with undiminished spirit.

Concealed in a dense thicket of lilac and snowball shrubs, Gilbert, kneeling upon the ground, was gazing at the movements of the shadows through the transparent curtains. A thunderbolt cleaving the earth at Ins feet would scarcely have distracted the attention of the gazer, so much was he entranced by the lovely forms he was following with his eyes through all the mazes of the dance. Nevertheless, when Richelieu and Taverney passed, and brushed against the thicket in which this night-bird was concealed, the sound of their voices, and, above all, a certain word, made Gilbert raise his head; for this word was an all-important one for him.

The marshal, leaning upon his friend's arm, and bending down to his ear, was saying:

“Everything well-weighed and considered, baron-it is a hard thing to tell you -but, you must at once send your daughter to a convent.”

“Why so-” asked the baron.

“Because I would wager,” replied the marshal, “that the king is madly in love with Mademoiselle de Taverney.”

At these words Gilbert started and turned paler than the flaky snow-berries which, at his abrupt movement, showered down upon his head and shoulders.

CHAPTER CXII. PRESENTIMENTS'.

THE NEXT DAY, as the clock at Trianon was striking twelve. Nicole's voice was heard calling Andree, who had not yet left her apartment;

“Mademoiselle, mademoiselle, here is M. Philip!”

The exclamation came from the bottom of the stairs.

Andree, at once surprised and delighted, drew her muslin robe closely over her neck and shoulders, and hastened to meet the young man, who was in fact dismounting in the courtyard of Trianon, and inquiring from the servants at what time he could see his sister.

Andree therefore opened the door in person, and found herself face to face with Philip, whom the officious Nicole had ran to summon from the courtyard, and was accompanying up the stairs.

The young girl threw her arms round her brother's neck, and they entered Andree's apartments together, followed by Nicole.

It was then that Andree for the first time remarked that Philip was more serious than usual-that his smile was not free from sadness-that he wore his elegant uniform with the most scrupulous neatness, and that he held a traveling-cloak over his arm.

“What is the matter, Philip-” asked she, with the instinct of tender affection, of which a look is a sufficient revelation.

“My sister,” said Philip, “this morning I received an order to join my regiment.”

“And you are going-”

“I must.”

“Oh!” said Andree; and with this plaintive exclamation all her courage, and almost all her strength, seemed to desert her.

And although this departure was a very natural occurrence, and one which she might have foreseen, yet she felt so overpowered by the announcement that she was obliged to lean for support on her brother's arm.

“Good heavens!” asked Philip, astonished, “does this departure afflict you so much, Andree- You know, in a soldier's life, it is a most commonplace event.”

“Yes, yes; it is in truth common,” murmured the young girl. “And whither do you go, brother-”

“My garrison is at Rheinis. You see. I have not a very long journey to undertake. But it is probable that from thence the regiment will return to Strasbourg.”

“Alas!” said Andree; “and when do you set out-

“The order commands me to start immediately.”

“You have come to bid me good-by, then-”

“Yes, sister.”

“A farewell!”

“Have you anything particular to say to me, Andree-” asked Philip, fearing that this extreme dejection might have some other cause than his departure.

Andree understood that these words were meant to call her attention to Nicole, who, astonished at Andree's extreme grief, was gazing at this scene with much surprise; for, in fact, the departure of an officer to his garrison was not a catastrophe to cause such a flood of tears.

Andree, therefore, saw at the same instant Philip's feelings and Nicole's surprise. She took up a mantle, threw it over her shoulders, and, leading her brother to the staircase:

“Come,” said she, “as far as the park, gates, Philip. I will accompany you through the covered alley. I have, in truth, many things to tell you, brother.”

These words were equivalent to a dismissal for Nicole, who returned to her mistress's chamber, while the latter descended the staircase with Philip.

Andree led the way to the passage which still, even at the present day, opens from the chapel into the garden; but although Philip's look anxiously questioned her, she remained for a longtime silent, leaning upon his arm, and supporting her head upon his shoulder.

But at last her heart was too full; her features were overspread with a deathlike paleness, a deep sigh escaped her lips, and tears rushed from her eyes.

“My dear sister-my sweet Andree!” exclaimed Philip, “in the name of Heaven, what is the matter-”

“My friend-my only friend!” said Andree, “you depart-you leave me alone in this great world, which I entered but yesterday, and yet you ask me why I weep- Ah! remember, Philip, I lost my mother at my birth; it is dreadful to acknowledge it, but I have never had a father. All my little griefs-all my little secrets-I could confide to you alone. Who smiled upon me- Who caressed me- Who rocked me in my cradle- It was you. Who has protected me since I grew up- You. Who taught me that God's creatures were not cast into the world only to suffer- You, Philip-you alone. For, since the hour of my birth, I have loved no one in the world but you, and no one but you has loved me in return. Oh! Philip, Philip,” continued Andree, sadly, “you turn away your head, and I can read your thoughts. You think I am young-that I am beautiful-and that I am wrong not to trust to the future and to love. And yet you see, alas! Philip, it is not enough to be young and handsome, for no one thinks of me.

“You will say the dauphiness is kind, and she is so. She is all perfection; at least, she seems so in my eyes, and I look upon her as a divinity. But it is exactly because she holds this exalted situation that I can feel only respect for her, and nut affection. Yet, Philip, affection is necessary for my heart, which if always thrust back on itself must at last break. My father-I tell you nothing new, Philip -my father is not only no protector or friend, but I cannot even look at him without feeling terror. Yes, yes, I fear him. Philip, and still more now, since you are leaving me.

“You will ask, why should I fear him- I know not. Do not the birds of the air and the flocks of the field feel and dread the approaching storm- You will say they are endowed with instinct; but why will you deny the instinct of misfortune to our immortal souls- For some time past everything has prospered with our family; I know it well. You are a captain; I am in the household, and almost in the intimacy, of the dauphiness; my father, it is said, supped last night almost tete-a-tete with the king. Well! Philip, I repeat it, even should you think me mad, all this alarms me more than our peaceful poverty and obscurity at Taverney.”

“And yet, dear sister,” said Philip sadly, “you were alone there also; I was not with you there to console you.”

“Yes, but at least I was alone-alone with the memories of childhood. It seemed to me as if the house where my mother lived and breathed her last owed me, if I may so speak, a protecting care. All there was peaceful, gentle, affectionate. I could see you depart with calmness, and welcome you back with joy. But whether you departed or returned, my heart was not all with you; it was attached also to that dear house, to my gardens, to my flowers, to the whole scene of which formerly you were but a part. Now you are all to me, Philip, and when you leave me I am indeed alone.”

“And yet, Andree, you have now a protector far more powerful than I am.”

“True.”

“A happy future before you.”

“Who can tell-”

““Why do you doubt it-”

“I do not know.”

“This is ingratitude toward God, my sister.”

“Oh! no, thank Heaven, I am not ungrateful to God. Morning and evening I offer up thanks to Him; but it seems to me as if, instead of receiving my prayers with grace, every time I bend the knee, a voice from on high whispers to my heart; 'Take care, young girl, take care!'

“But against what are you to guard- Answer me. I will admit that a danger threatens you. Have you any presentiment of the nature of this misfortune- Do you know how to act so as best to confront it, or how to avoid it-”

“I know nothing, Philip, except that my life seems to hang by a thread, that nothing will look bright to me from the moment of your departure. In a word, it seems as if during my sleep I had been placed on the declivity of a precipice too steep to allow me to arrest my progress when roused to a sense of my danger; that I see the abyss, and yet am dragged down; and that, you being far away, and your helping hand no longer ready to support me, I shall be dashed down and crushed in the fall.”

“Dear sister! my sweet Andree!” said Philip, agitated in spite of himself by the expression of deep and unaffected terror in her voice and manner, you exaggerate the extent of an affection for which I feel deeply grateful. Yes, you will lose your friend, but only for a time; I shall not be so far distant but that you can send for me if necessity should arise. Besides, remember that except chimerical fears, nothing threatens you.”

Andree placed herself in her brother's way.

“Then, Philip,” said she, “how does it happen that you, who are a man, and gifted with so much more strength, are at this moment as sad as I am- Tell me, my brother, how do you explain that-”

“Easily, dear sister,” said Philip, arresting Andree's steps, for she had again moved forward on ceasing to speak. “We are not only brother and sister by blood, but in heart and affection; therefore we have lived in an intimate communion of thoughts and feelings, which, especially since our arrival in Paris, has become to me a delightful necessity. I break this chain, my sweet love, or rather it is broken by others, and I feel the blow in my inmost heart. I am sad, but only for the moment, Andree. I can look beyond our separation; I do not believe in any misfortune, except in that of not seeing you for some months, perhaps for a year. I am resigned, and do not say, 'farewell,' but rather, “we shall soon meet again.”

In spite of these consolatory words. Andree could only reply by sobs and tears.

“Dearest sister,” exclaimed Philip, grieved at this dejection, which seemed so incomprehensible to him, “dearest sister, you have not told me all-you hide something from me. In Heaven's name, speak!”

And he took her in his arms, pressing her to his heart, and gazing earnestly in her eyes.

“I!” said she. “No, no, Philip, I assure you solemnly. You know all the most secret recesses of my heart are open before you.”

“Well, then, Andree, for pity's sake, take courage; do not grieve me so.”

“You are right,” said she, “and I am mad. Listen; I never had a strong mind, as you, Philip, know better than anyone; I have always been a timid, dreaming, melancholy creature. But I have no right to make so tenderly beloved a brother a sharer in my fears, above all when he labors to give me courage, and proves to me that I am wrong to be alarmed. You are right, Philip; it is true, everything here is conducive to my happiness. Forgive me, Philip! You see, I dry my tears-I weep no longer-I smile, Philip-I do not say 'adieu,' but rather, 'we shall soon meet again.'“

And the young maiden tenderly embraced her brother, hiding her head on his shoulder to conceal from his view a tear which still dimmed her eye, and which dropped like a pearl upon the golden epaulet of the young officer.

Philip gazed upon her with that infinite tenderness which partakes at the same time of a father's and a brother's affection.

“Andree,” said he, “I love to see you bear yourself thus bravely. Be of good courage; I must go, but the courier shall bring you a letter every week. And every week let me receive one from you in return.”

“Yes, Philip,” said Andree; “yes, it will be my only happiness. But you have informed my father, have you not-”

“Of what-”

“Of your departure.”

“Dear sister, it was the baron himself who brought me the minister's order this morning. M. de Taverney is not like you, Andree, and it seems will easily part with me. He appeared pleased at the thought of my departure, and in fact he was right. Here I can never get forward, while there many occasions may present themselves.”

“My father is glad to see you go-” murmured Andree. “Are you not mistaken, Philip-”

“He has you,” replied Philip, eluding the question; “that is a consolation for him, sister.”

“Do you think so, Philip- He never sees me.”

“My sister, he bade me tell you that this very day, after my departure, he would come to Trianon. Believe me, he loves you; only it is after his own fashion.”

“What is the matter now, Philip- you seem embarrassed.”

“Dearest Andree, I heard the clock strike-what hour is it-”

“A quarter to one.”

“Well, dear sister, I seem embarrassed because I ought to have been on the road an hour ago, and here we are at the gate where my horse is waiting. Therefore-”

Andree assumed a calm demeanor, and taking her brother's hand:

“Therefore,” said she, in a voice too firm to be entirely natural, “therefore, brother, adieu!”

Philip gave her one last embrace.

“To meet soon again,” said he; “remember your promise.”

“What promise-”

“One letter a week, at least.”

“Oh! do you think it necessary to ask it-”

She required a violent effort to pronounce these last words. The poor girl's voice was scarcely audible.

Philip waved his hand in token of adieu, and walked quickly toward the gate. Andree followed his retreating form with her eyes, holding in her breath in the endeavor to repress her sighs. Philip bounded lightly on horseback, shouted a last farewell from the other side of the gate, and was gone. Andree remained standing motionless till he was out of sight, then she turned, darted, like a wounded fawn among the shady trees, perceived a bench, and had only strength sufficient to reach it, and to sink on it powerless and almost lifeless. Then, heaving a deep and heartrending sigh, she exclaimed:

“Oh, my God! do not leave me quite alone upon earth.”

She buried her face in her hands, while the big tears she did not seek to restrain made their way through her slender fingers. At this instant a slight rustling was heard amid the shrubs behind her. Andree thought she heard a sigh. She turned, alarmed; a melancholy form stood before her.

It was Gilbert.

CHAPTER CXIII. GILBERT'S ROMANCE.

AS PALE, as despairing as Andree, Gilbert stood downcast before her. At the sight of a man, and of a stranger, for such he seemed at first sight through the thick veil of tears which obscured her gaze, Andree hastily dried her eyes, as if the proud young girl would have blushed to be seen weeping. She made an effort to compose herself, and restored calmness to her marble features, only an instant before agitated with the shudder of despair. Gilbert was much longer in regaining his calmness, and his features still wore an expression of grief when Mademoiselle de Taverney, looking up, at last recognized him.

“Oh! Monsieur Gilbert again!” said Andree with that trifling tone which she affected to assume whenever chance brought her in contact with the young man.

Gilbert made no reply; his feelings were still too deeply moved. The grief which had shaken Andree's frame to the center had violently agitated his own. It was Andree, therefore, who again broke the silence, wishing to have the last word with this apparition.

“But what is the matter, Monsieur Gilbert-” inquired she. “Why do you gaze at me in that woebegone manner- Something must grieve you. May I ask what it is-”

“Do you wish to know-” asked Gilbert, mournfully, for he felt the irony concealed beneath this appearance of interest.

“Yes.”

“Well, what grieves me, mademoiselle, is to see you suffer,” replied Gilbert.

“And who told you that I am suffering-”

“I see it.”

“You mistake, sir; I am not suffering,” said Andree, passing her handkerchief over her face.

Gilbert felt the storm rising, but he resolved to turn it aside by humility.

“I entreat your pardon, mademoiselle,” said he, “but the reason I spoke was that I heard your sobs.”

“Ah! you were listening; better and better!”

“Mademoiselle, it was by accident!” stammered Gilbert, for he felt that he was telling a falsehood.

“Accident! I regret exceedingly, Monsieur Gilbert, that chance should have brought you here. But even so, may I ask in what manner these sobs which you heard me utter grieved you- Pray inform me.”

“I cannot bear to see a woman weep,” said Gilbert, in a tone which highly displeased Andree.

“Am I then a woman in M. Gilbert's eyes-” replied the haughty young girl. “I sue for no one's sympathy, but M. Gilbert's still less than any other's.”

“Mademoiselle,” said Gilbert, sadly, “you do wrong to taunt me thus. I saw you sad, and I felt grieved. I heard you say, that now M. Philip was gone, you would be alone in the world. Never, mademoiselle! for I am beside you, and never did a heart beat more devoted to you. I repeat it, Mademoiselle de Taverney cannot be alone in the world while my head can think, my heart beat, or my arm retains its strength.”

While he spoke these words, Gilbert was indeed a model of manly elegance and beauty, although he pronounced them with all the humility which the most sincere respect commanded.

But it was fated that everything which the young man did should displease Andree, should offend her, and urge her to offensive retorts-as if his very respect were an insult, and his prayers a provocation. At first she attempted to rise, that she might second her harsh words with as harsh gestures; but a nervous shudder retained her on her seat. Besides, she reflected that if she were standing, she could be seen from a distance, and seen talking to Gilbert. She therefore remained seated; for she was determined, once for all, to crush the importunate insect before her under foot, and replied:

“I thought I had already informed you. Monsieur Gilbert, that you are highly displeasing to me, that your voice annoys me, that your philosophical speeches disgust me. Then why, when you know this, do you still persist in addressing me-”

“Mademoiselle,” replied Gilbert, pale, but self-possessed, “an honest-hearted woman is never disgusted by sympathy. An honest man is the equal of every human being; and I, whom you maltreat so cruelly, deserve, more than any other, perhaps, the sympathy which I regret to perceive you do not feel for me.”

At this word sympathy, thus twice repeated, Andree opened her large eyes to their utmost extent, and fixed them impertinently upon Gilbert.

“Sympathy!” said she; “sympathy between you and me, Monsieur Gilbert! In truth I was deceived in my opinion of you. I took you for insolent, and I find you are even less than that-you are only a madman.”

“I am neither insolent nor mad,” said Gilbert with an apparent calm which it must have caused his proud disposition much to assume. “No, mademoiselle; nature has made me your equal, and chance has made you my debtor.”

“Chance again!” said Andree, sarcastically.

“Perhaps I should have said Providence. I never intended to have spoken to you of this, but your insults refresh my memory.”

“I your debtor, sir- Your debtor. I think you said- Explain yourself.”

“I should be ashamed to find you ungrateful, mademoiselle; God, who has made you so beautiful, has given you, to compensate for your beauty, sufficient defects without that.” This time Andree rose. “Stay! pardon me!” said Gilbert; “at times you irritate me too much also, and then I forget for a moment the interest with which you inspire me.”

Andree burst into a fit of laughter so prolonged that it was calculated to rouse Gilbert's anger to the utmost; but to her great surprise Gilbert did not take fire. He folded his arms on his breast, retained the same hostile and determined expression in his fiery glance, and patiently awaited the end of this insulting laugh.

When she had finished:

“Mademoiselle,” said Gilbert coldly, “will you condescend to answer one question- Do you respect your father-”

“You take the liberty of catechising me, it seems, Monsieur Gilbert-” replied the young girl with sovereign hauteur.

“Yes, you respect your father,” continued Gilbert; “and it is not on account of his good qualities or his virtues, but simply because he gave you life. A father, unfortunately -and you must know it, mademoiselle -a father is respected only in one relation, but still it gives him a claim. Even more; for this sole benefit”-and Gilbert, in his turn, felt himself animated by an emotion of scornful pity-” you are bound to love your benefactor. Well, mademoiselle, this being established as a principle, why do you insult me- why do you scorn me- why do you hate him who did not indeed give you life; but who saved it-”

“You!” exclaimed Andree; “you saved my life-”

“Ah! you did not even dream of that.” said Gilbert, “or rather you have forgotten it. That is very natural; it occurred nearly a year ago. Well, mademoiselle, I must only therefore inform you of it, or recall it to your memory. Yes, I saved your life at the risk of my own.”

“At least. Monsieur Gilbert,” said Andree, deadly pale, “you will do me the favor of telling me when and where.”

“The day, mademoiselle, when a hundred thousand persons, crushed one against the other, fleeing from the fiery horses, and the sabers which thinned the crowd, left a long train of dead and dying upon the Place Louis XV.”

“Ah! the 31st of May-”

“Yes, mademoiselle.”

Andree seated herself, and her features again assumed a pitiless smile.

“And on that day, you say you sacrificed your life to save mine, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“I have already told you so.”

“Then you are the Baron Balsamo; I beg your pardon. I was not aware of the fact.”

“No, I am not the Baron Balsamo,” replied Gilbert, with flashing eye and quivering lip; “I am the poor child of the people-Gilbert, who has the folly, the madness, the misfortune to love you; who, because he loved you like a madman, like a fool, like a sot, followed you into the crowd; who, separated from you for a moment, recognized you by the piercing shriek you uttered when you lost your footing; who, forcing his way to you, shielded you with his arms until twenty thousand arms, pressing against his, broke their strength; who threw himself upon the stone wall against which you were about to be crushed, to afford you the softer repose of his corpse; and, perceiving among the crowd that strange man who seemed to govern his fellowmen, and whose name you have just pronounced, collected all his strength, all his energy, and raised you in his exhausted arms that this man might see you, seize hold of you, and save you!-Gilbert, who in yielding you up to a more fortunate protector than himself, retained nothing but a shred of your dress, which he pressed to his lips! And it was time, for already the blood was rushing to Ins heart, to his temples, to his brain. The rolling tide of executioners and victims swept over him, and buried him beneath its waves, while you ascended aloft from its abyss to a haven of safety!”

Gilbert in these hurried words had shown himself as he was-uncultivated, simple, almost sublime, in his resolution as in his love. Notwithstanding her contempt. Andree could not refrain from gazing at him with astonishment. For a moment he believed that his narrative had been as irresistible as truth -as love. But poor Gilbert did not take into his calculations incredulity, that demon prompted by hatred. Andree, who hated Gilbert, did not allow herself to be moved by any of the forcible arguments of her despised lover.

She did not reply immediately, but looked at Gilbert, while something like a struggle took place in her mind. The young man, therefore, ill at ease during this freezing silence, felt himself obliged to add, as a sort of peroration:

“And now, mademoiselle, do not detest me as you did formerly, for now it would not only be injustice, but ingratitude, to do so. I said so before, and I now repeat it.”

At these words Andree raised her haughty brow, and in a most indifferent and cutting tone, she asked:

“How long, Monsieur Gilbert, did you remain under M. Rousseau's tutelage-”

“Mademoiselle,” said Gilbert, ingenuously, “I think about three months, without reckoning the few days of my illness, which was caused by the accident on the 31st of May.”

“You misunderstand me,” said she; “I did not ask you whether you had been ill or not, or what accidents you may have received. They add an artistic finish to your story, but otherwise they are of no importance to me. I merely wished to tell you that, having resided only three months with the illustrious author, you have profited well by his lessons, and that the pupil at his first essay composes romances almost worthy of his master.”

Gilbert had listened with calmness, believing that Andree was about to reply seriously to his impassioned narration; but at this stroke of cutting irony, he fell from the summit of his buoyant hopes to the dust.

“A romance!” murmured he, indignantly; “you treat what I have told you as a romance!”

“Yes, sir,” said Andree, “a romance-I repeat the word; only you did not force me to read it-for that I have to thank you. I deeply regret that, unfortunately, I am not able to repay its full value; but I should make the attempt in vain -the romance is invaluable.”

“And this is your reply-” stammered Gilbert, a pang darting through his heart, and his eyes becoming dim from emotion.

“I do not reply at all, sir,” said Andree, pushing him aside to allow her room to pass on. The fact was, that Nicole had at that moment made her appearance at the end of the alley, calling her mistress while still a considerable distance off, in order not to interrupt this interview too suddenly, ignorant as she was as to whom Andree's companion might be, for she had not recognized Gilbert through the foliage. But as she approached she saw the young man, recognized him, and stood astounded. She then repented not having made a detour in order to overhear what Gilbert had to say to Mademoiselle de Taverney. The latter addressed her in a softened voice, as if to mark more strongly to Gilbert the haughtiness with which she had spoken to him.

“Well, child,” said she, “what is the matter-”

“The Baron de Taverney and the Duke de Richelieu have come to present their respects to mademoiselle,” replied Nicole.

“Where are they-”

“In mademoiselle's apartments.”

“Come, then.”

And Andree moved away. Nicole followed, not without throwing, as she passed, a sarcastic glance back at Gilbert, who, livid with agitation, and almost frantic with rage, shook his clenched hand in the direction of his departing enemy, and, grinding his teeth, muttered:

“Oh! creature without heart, without soul! I saved your life, I concentrated all my affection on you, I extinguished every feeling which might offend your purity, for in my madness I looked upon you as some superior being-the inhabitant of a higher sphere! Now that I have seen you more nearly, I find you are no more than a woman-and I am a man! But one day or other, Andree de Taverney, I shall be revenged!”

He rushed from the spot, bounding through the thickest of the shrubs like a young wolf wounded by the hunter, who turns and shows his sharp teeth and his bloodshot eyeballs.

CHAPTER CXIV. FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

WHEN SHE REACHED the opposite extremity of the alley, Andree saw her father and the marshal walking up and down before the vestibule, waiting for her. The two friends seemed in high spirits, and, as they stood with their arms interlaced, presented the most perfect representation of Orestes and Pylades the court had ever witnessed. As Andree approached, the two old men seemed still more joyous, and remarked to each other on her radiant beauty, heightened by her walk and by the emotion she had previously undergone.

The marshal saluted Andree as he would have done a declared Madame Pompadour. This distinction did not escape Taverney, who was delighted at it, but it surprised Andree, from its mixture of respect and gallantry; for the cunning courtier could express as many shades of meaning in a bow as Covielle could French phrases by a single Turkish word.

Andree returned the marshal's salutation, made one equally ceremonious to her father, and then, with fascinating grace, she invited both to follow her to her apartment.

The marshal admired the exquisite neatness which was the only ornament of the furniture and architecture of this retreat. With a few flowers and a little white muslin, Andree had made her rather gloomy chamber, not a palace indeed, but a temple.

The duke seated himself upon an armchair covered with green chintz, beneath a Chinese cornucopia from which drooped bunches of perfumed acacia and maple, mingled with iris and Bengal roses.

Taverney occupied a similar chair; and Andree sank upon a folding stool, her arm resting on a harpsichord also ornamented with flowers, arranged in a large Dresden vase.

“Mademoiselle,” said the marshal, “I come as the bearer, on the part of his majesty, of the compliments which your charming voice and your musical talents drew from every auditor of yesterday's rehearsal. His majesty feared to arouse jealousy by praising you too openly at the time, and he therefore charged me to express to you the pleasure you have caused him.”

Andree blushed, and her blush made her so lovely that the marshal proceeded as if speaking on his own account.

“The king has assured me.” said he, “that he never saw anyone at his court who united to such a high degree the gifts of mind and the charms of personal beauty.”

“You forget those of the heart!” said Taverney, with a gush of affection; “Andree is the best of daughters.”

The marshal thought, for a moment, that his old friend was about to weep. Admiring deeply this display of paternal sensibility, he exclaimed:

“The heart! alas, my dear friend! you alone can judge of the tenderness of which mademoiselle's heart is capable. Were I only five-and-twenty years of age, I would lay my life and my fortune at her feet!”

Andree did not know how to receive coolly the full fire of a courtier's homage. She could only murmur some almost inaudible words.

“Mademoiselle,” continued he, “the king requests you will accept a slight testimony of his satisfaction, and he has charged the baron, your father, to transmit it to you. What reply shall I make to his majesty from you-”

“Sir,” replied Andree, animated by no feeling but that respect which is due to a monarch from all his subjects, “assure his majesty of my deep gratitude; tell him that he honors me too highly by deigning to think of me, and that I am not worthy the attention of so powerful a monarch.”

Richelieu seemed in raptures at this reply, which Andree pronounced with a firm voice, and without hesitation. He took her hand, kissed it respectfully, and devouring her with his eyes:

“A royal hand.” said he, “a fairy foot -mind, purity, resolution!-ah! baron, what a treasure! It is not a daughter whom you have-it is a queen!”

With these words he retired, leaving Taverney alone with Andree, his heart swelling with pride and hope.

Whoever had seen this advocate of antiquated theories, this skeptic, this scoffer, inhaling with delight the air of favoritism in its most disreputable channel, would have said that God had blinded at the same moment both his intellect and heart. Taverney alone might have replied, with reference to this change:

“It is not I who have changed-it is the times.”

He remained, then, seated beside Andree, and could not help feeling somewhat embarrassed; for the young girl, with her air of unconquerable serenity, and her clear, limpid, unfathomable look, seemed as if she would penetrate his most secret thoughts.

“Did not M. de Richelieu, sir, say that his majesty had intrusted you with a testimony of his satisfaction- May I ask what it is-”

“Ah!” thought Taverney, “she is curious-so much the better! I could not have expected it. So much the better!”

He drew the casket, which the marshal had given him the evening before, slowly from his pocket, just as a kind papa produces a paper of sweetmeats or a toy, which the children have devoured with their eyes before their hands can reach them.

“Here it is.” said he.

“Ah! jewels!” said Andree.

“Are they to your taste-”

It was a set of pearls of great value. Twelve immense diamonds connected together the rows of pearls, while a diamond clasp, earrings, and a tiara of the same precious material, made the present worth at least thirty thousand crowns.

“Good heavens, father!” exclaimed Andree.

“Well-”

“It is too handsome. The king has made some mistake. I should be ashamed to wear that. I have no dresses suitable to the splendor of these diamonds.”

“Oh! complain of it. I beg!” said Taverney, ironically.

“You do not understand me, sir. I regret that I cannot wear these jewels, because they are too beautiful.”

“The king, who gives the casket, mademoiselle, is generous enough to add the dresses.”

“But, sir, this is goodness on the king's part-

“Do you not think I have deserved it by my services-”

“Ah! pardon me, sir; that is true,” said Andree, drooping her head, but not quite convinced.

After a moment's reflection, she closed the casket.

“I shall not wear these diamonds,” said she.

“And why not-” said Taverney, uneasily.

“Because, my dear father, you and my brother are in want of necessaries, and this superfluity offends my eyes when 1 think of your embarrassments.”

Taverney smiled and pressed her hand.

“Oh!” said he, “do not think of that, my daughter. The king has done more for rue than for you. We are in favor, my dear child. It would neither be respectful as a subject, nor grateful as a woman, to appear before his majesty without the present he has made you.”

“I shall obey, sir.”

“Yes, but you must obey as if it gave you pleasure to do so. These ornaments seem not to be to your taste.”

“I am no judge of diamonds, sir.”

“Learn, then, that the pearls alone are worth fifty thousand livres.”

Andree clasped her hands.

“Sir,” said she, “it is most strange that his majesty should make me such a present; reflect!”

“I do not understand you, mademoiselle,” replied Taverney, dryly.

“If I wear these jewels, I assure you, sir, Everyone will be greatly surprised.”

“Why-” asked Taverney, in the same tone, and with a cold and imperious glance which made Andree lower her eyes.

“I feel a scruple.”

“Mademoiselle, you must confess that it is strange you should entertain scruples, when even I, your father, feel none. Give me your young modest girls for seeing evil and finding it out, however closely hidden it is, and when none other had remarked it! None like maidenly and simple girls for making old grenadiers like myself blush!”

Andree hid her blushing face in her lovely white hands.

“Oh! my brother,” she murmured to herself, “why are you already so far from me-”

Did Taverney hear these words, or did he guess their purport with that wonderful perspicacity which we know he possessed- We cannot tell, but he immediately changed his tone, and, taking Andree's hand in his:

“Come, my child,” said he, “is not your father your friend-”

A heavenly smile chased the shadow from Andree's brow.

“Shall I not be here to love you-to advise you- Are you not proud to contribute to my happiness and that of your brother-”

“Oh, yes!” said Andree.

The baron fixed a caressing look upon his daughter.

“Well!” said he, “you shall be, as M. de Richelieu said just now, the queen of Taverney. The king has distinguished you, and the dauphiness also.” added he, hastily. “In your intimacy with these two august personages, you will found our future fortunes by making them happy. The friend of the dauphiness, and-of the king! What a glorious career! You have superior talents and unrivaled beauty, a pure and healthy mind untainted by avarice and ambition. Oh! my child, what a part you might play! Do you remember the maiden who soothed the last moments of Charles VI.- Her name is cherished in France. Do you remember Agnes Sorel, who restored the honor of the French crown- All good Frenchmen respect her memory. Andree, you will be the support of the old age of our glorious monarch. He will cherish you as his daughter, and you will reign in France by the divine right of beauty, courage, and fidelity!”

Andree opened her eyes wide with astonishment. The baron resumed, without giving her time to reflect.

“With a single look you will drive away these wretched creatures who dishonor the throne; your presence will purify the court. To your generous influence the nobility of the kingdom will owe the return of pure morals, politeness, and real gallantry. My daughter, you may be, you must be, the regenerating star of your country, and a crown of glory to your name.”

“But,” said Andree, all bewildered, “what must I do to effect all this-”

The baron reflected for a moment.

“Andree,” said he, “I have often told you that in this world you must force men to be virtuous by making them love virtue. Sullen, melancholy, sermonizing virtue makes even those fly who wish most to approach her. Lend to your virtue all the allurements of coquetry-I had almost said of vice. It is an easy task for a talented and high-minded girl such as you are. Make yourself so lovely that the court shall talk only of you; make yourself so agreeable to the king that he cannot do without you. Be so reserved and discreet toward all, except his majesty, that people will soon attribute to you all that power which you cannot fail ultimately to obtain.”

“I do not exactly understand your last advice,” said Andree.

“Trust yourself to my guidance-you will fulfill my wishes without understanding them; the best plan for such a wise and generous creature as you are. But, by-the-by, to enable you to put in practice my first counsel, I must furnish your purse. Take these hundred louis-d'ors and dress in a manner worthy of the rank to which you belong, since his majesty has distinguished you.”

Taverney gave the hundred louis to his daughter, kissed her hand, and left her.

He returned with rapid steps along the alley by which be had come, so much engrossed in his reflections that he did not perceive Nicole in eager conference with a nobleman at the extremity of the Bosquet ties Amours.

CHAPTER CXV. WHAT ALTHOTAS WANTED TO COMPLETE HIS ELIXIR.

On the day after that on which this conversation took place, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, Balsamo was seated in his cabinet, in the Rue Saint Claude, occupied in reading a letter which Fritz had just brought him. The letter was without signature. He turned it over and over in his hands.” I know this writing,” said he-” large, irregular, slightly tremulous, and full of faults in, orthography;” and he read it once more. It ran as follows:

Monsieur Le Comte,

A person who consulted you sometime before the fall of the late ministry, and who had consulted you a long time previously, will wait upon you to-day, in order to have another consultation. Will your numerous occupations permit you to grant this person a quarter of an hour between four and five this evening-

After reading this for the second or third time, Balsamo fell back into his train of reflection. “It is not worthwhile to consult Lorenza for such a trifle,” said he; “besides, can I no longer divine anything by myself- The writing is large, a sign of aristocracy; irregular and trembling, a sign of age, full of faults in orthography, it must be a courtier. Ah, stupid creature that I am! It is the Duc de Richelieu. Most certainly I shall have an hour at your service, Monsieur le Duc, an hour did I say- A day! Make my time your own. Are you not, without knowing it, one of my mysterious agents, one of my familiar demons! Do we not both pursue the same task- Do we not both shake the monarchy at the same time, you by making yourself its presiding genius, I by declaring myself its enemy- Come, then, Duke, I am ready!” and Balsamo consulted his watch, to see how long he must yet wait for the duke.

At that moment a bell sounded in the cornice of the ceiling.” What can be the matter!” said Balsamo, starting.” Lorenza calls me, she wishes to see me. Can anything unpleasant have happened to her! or is it a return of those fits of passion which I have so often witnessed, and of which I have been at times the victim- Yesterday she was thoughtful, gentle, resigned; she was as I love to see her. Poor child! I must go to her.” He arranged his dress, glanced at the mirror, to see if his hair was not too much in disorder, and proceeded toward the stairs, after having replied to Lorenza's request as she had made it, by ringing a bell.

But, according to his custom, Balsamo paused in the apartment adjoining that occupied by the young woman; and turning, with his arms crossed, toward the place where he supposed her to be, he commanded her to sleep, with that powerful will which recognized no obstacles. Then, as if doubting his own power, or as if he thought it necessary to redouble his precautions, he looked into the apartment through an almost imperceptible crevice in the woodwork.

Lorenza was sleeping upon a couch, where, no doubt, tottering under the influence of her master's will, she had sought a support for her sinking limbs. A painter could not have suggested a more poetic attitude. Panting and subdued beneath the power of the subtle fluid which Balsamo had poured upon her, Lorenza seemed like one of those beautiful Ariadnes of Vanloo, with rounded breasts, and features expressive of fatigue or despair.

Balsamo entered by his usual passage, and stopped for a moment before her, to contemplate her sleeping countenance. He then awoke her; she was too dangerous thus.

As she opened her eyes, a piercing glance escaped from between the half-closed lids; then, as if to collect her scattered thoughts, she smoothed back her long hair with her hands, dried her lips, moist with slumber, and searching deeply her memory, she brought together her scattered recollections.

Balsamo looked at her with some anxiety. He had been long accustomed to the sudden transition from winning love to outbursts of auger and hatred; but this appearance, to which he was entirely unused, the calmness with which Lorenza on this occasion received him, instead of with one of her customary bursts of hatred, announced something more serious, perhaps, than he had yet witnessed.

Lorenza sat up on the couch and fixing her deep, soft eyes upon Balsamo, she said,” Pray be good enough to take a seat near me.”

Balsamo started at the sound of her voice, expressing, as it did, such unusual mildness.

“Near you!” said he.” You know, my Lorenza, that I have but one wish, to pass my life at your feet.”

“Monsieur,” replied Lorenza, in the same tone,” I pray you to be seated, although, indeed, I have not much to say to you; but, short as it is, I shall say it better, I think, if you are seated.”

“Now, as ever, my beloved Lorenza, I will do as you wish.” and he took a chair near Lorenza, who was still seated upon the couch.

“Monsieur,” said she, fixing her heavenly eyes upon Balsamo,” I have summoned you to request from you a favor.”

“Oh, my Lorenza!” exclaimed Balsamo, more and more delighted,” anything you wish! Speak, you shall have everything!”

“I wish for only one thing, but I warn you that I wish for that most ardently.”

“Speak, Lorenza, speak! should it cost my fortune, or half my life!”

“It will cost you nothing, Monsieur, but a moment of your time,” replied the young woman.

Balsamo, enchanted with the turn the conversation was taking, was already tasking his fertile imagination to supply a list of those wishes which Lorenza was likely to form, and above all, those which he could satisfy.” She will, perhaps,” thought he,” ask for a servant or a companion. Well, even this immense sacrifice, for it would compromise my secret and my friends, I will make, for the poor child is in truth very unhappy in her solitude. Speak quickly, my Lorenza!” said he aloud, with a smile full of love.

“Monsieur,” said she,” you are aware that I am dying of melancholy and weariness.” Balsamo sighed, and bent his head in token of assent. ''My youth,” continued Lorenza, “is wasting; my days are one long sigh- my nights a continual terror. I am growing old in solitude and anguish.”

“Your life is what you have made it, Lorenza,” said Balsamo,” it is not my fault that this life which you have made so sad is not one to make a queen envious.”

“Be it so. Therefore, you see, I have recourse to you in my distress.”

“Thanks, Lorenza!”

“You are a good Christian, you have sometimes told me, although-”

“Although you think me a lost soul, you would say. I complete your thought, Lorenza!”

“Suppose nothing except what I tell you, Monsieur; and I beg you will conjecture nothing.”

“Proceed, then.”

“Well, instead of leaving me buried in these angers and despairs, grant me, since I am of no service to you-” She stopped to glance at Balsamo; but he had regained his command over himself, and she saw only a cold look and contracted brow. She became animated as she met his almost threatening eye.” Grant me,” she continued,” not liberty- for I know that the will of God, or rather your will, which seems all-powerful to me, condemns me to perpetual captivity, but at least to see human faces, to hear other voices than yours; permit me, in short, to go out, to walk, to have a part in life.”

“I had foreseen this request, Lorenza,” said Balsamo, taking her hand; “and you know that long since your wish has been also my own.”

“Well, then!” exclaimed Lorenza.

“But,” resumed Balsamo,” you have yourself prevented it. Like a madman that I was; and every man who loves is a madman; I allowed you to penetrate into some of my secrets, both of science and politics. You know that Althotas has discovered the philosopher's stone p and seeks the elixir of life. You know that I and my companions conspire against the monarchies of the work! The first of these secrets would cause me to be burned as a sorcerer; the other would be sufficient to condemn me to, be broken on the wheel for high treason. Besides, you have threatened me, Lorenza; you have told me that you would try every means to regain your liberty, and this liberty once regained, that the first use you would make of it would be to denounce me to Monsieur de Sartines. Did you not say so!”

“What can you expect- At times I lash myself to fury, and then I am half-mad.”

“Are you calm and sensible now, Lorenza; and can we converse quietly together-”

“I hope so.”

“If I grant you the liberty you desire, shall I find in you a devoted and submissive wife, a faithful and gentle companion- You know, Lorenza, this is my most ardent wish.” The young woman was silent. “In one word, will you love me!” asked Balsamo, with a sigh.

“I am unwilling to-promise what I cannot perform,” said Lorenza; “neither love nor hatred depends upon ourselves. I hope that God, in return for your good actions, will permit my hatred toward you to take flight, and love to return.”

“Unfortunately, Lorenza, such a promise is not a guarantee which will enable me to trust you. I require a positive, sacred oath, to break which would be a sacrilege; an oath which binds you in this world as in the next; which involves your death in this world and your damnation in that which is to come.”

Lorenza was silent. “Will you take this oath-” Lorenza hid her face in her hands, and her breast heaved Tinder the influence of contending emotions. “Take this oath, Lorenza, as I shall dictate it, with the solemnity in which I shall clothe it, and you shall be free.”

“What must I swear, Monsieur-”

“Swear that you will never, under any pretext, betray what has come to your knowledge relative to the secrets of Althotas.”

“Yes, I will swear it.”

“Swear that you will never divulge what you know of our political meetings-”

“I will swear that also.”

“With the oath and in the form which I shall dictate-”

“Yes. Is that all-”

“No; swear, and this is the principal thing, Lorenza! for the other matters would endanger only my life, while upon what I am about to say depends my entire happiness- swear that you will never leave me, Lorenza! Swear this, and you are free!”

The young woman started as if cold steel had pierced her heart. “And in what form must the oath be taken!”

“We will enter a church together, and communicate at the same altar. You will swear on the host never to betray anything relating to Althotas or my companions. You will swear never to leave me. We will then divide the host in two, and each will take the half, you swearing before God that you will never betray me, and I that I will ever do my utmost to make you happy.”

“No!” said Lorenza; “Such an oath is a sacrilege.”

“An oath, Lorenza, is never a sacrilege,” replied Balsamo, sadly,” but when you make it with the intention of not keeping it.”

“I will not take this oath,” said Lorenza;” I should fear to imperil my soul.”

“It is not; I repeat it; in taking an oath that you imperil your soul; it is in breaking it.”

“I will not do it.”

“Then have patience, Lorenza,” said Balsamo, without anger, but with the deepest sadness.

Lorenza's brow darkened like an overshadowed plain when a cloud passes between it and the sun.

“Ah! you refuse-” said she.

“Not so, Lorenza; it is you who refuse.” A nervous movement indicated all the impatience the young woman felt at these words. “Listen, Lorenza!” said Balsamo.” This is what I will do for you, and, believe me, it is much.”

“Speak,” said the young girl, with a bitter smile. '“Let me see how far that generosity of which you make so much will extend.”

“God, chance, or fate- call it what you will, Lorenza- has united us by an indissoluble bond; do not attempt to break this bond in this life, for death alone can accomplish that.”

“Proceed; I know that,” said Lorenza, impatiently. “Well, in one week, Lorenza, whatever it may cost me, and however great the sacrifice I make- in one week you shall have a companion.”

“Where-”' asked she. “Here!”

“Here!” she exclaimed,” behind these bars; behind these inexorable doors, these iron doors- a fellow prisoner- Oh! you cannot mean it, Monsieur; that is not what I ask”

“Lorenza, it is all that I can grant.” The young woman made a more vehement gesture of impatience. “My dear child,” resumed Balsamo, mildly,” reflect a little; with a companion you will more easily support the weight of this necessary misfortune.”

“You mistake. Monsieur, Until now I have grieved only for myself, not for others. This trial only was wanting, and I see that you wish to make me undergo it. Yes, you will immure beside me a victim like myself; I shall see her grow thinner and paler, and pine away with grief, even as I do. I shall see her beat, as I do, these walls, that hateful door, which I examine twenty times each day to see where it opens to give you egress; and when my companion, your victim, has, like me, wounded her hands against the marble blocks in her endeavors to disjoin them; when, like me, she has worn out her eyelid with her tears; when she is dead as I am, in soul and mind, and you have two corpses in place of one, you will say, in your infernal benevolence: 'These two young creatures amuse themselves; they Keep each other company; they are happy!' Oh! no, no, no!- a thousand times no!” And she passionately stamped her foot upon the floor, while Balsamo endeavored in vain to calm her.

“Come, Lorenza,” said he,” I entreat you to show a little more mildness and calmness. Let us reason on the matter.”

“He asks me to be calm, to be gentle, to reason! The, executioner tells the victim whom he is torturing, to be gentle, and the innocent martyr to be calm!”

“Yes, Lorenza, I ask you to be gentle and calm, for your anger cannot change our destiny; it only embitters- it. Accept what I offer you, Lorenza; I will give you a. companion who will hug her chains, since they have procured for her your friendship. You shall not see a sad: and tearful face, such as you fear, but smiles and gayety which will smooth your brow. Come, dear Lorenza, accept what I offer; for I swear to you that I cannot offer you more.”

“That means that you will place near me a hireling, to whom you will say: ' I give you in charge a poor insane creature, who is ill and about to die; soothe her, share her confinement, attend to her comforts, and I will recompense you when she is no more.”

“Oh, Lorenza! Lorenza!”

“No, that is not it; I am mistaken,” continued Lorenza, with bitter irony; “I conjecture badly. But what can you expect- I am so ignorant, I know so little of the world. You will say to the woman: ' Watch over the madwoman, she is dangerous; report all her actions, all her thoughts, to me. Watch over her, waking and sleeping.' And you will give her as much gold as she requires, for gold costs you nothing, you make it!”

“Lorenza, you wander; in the name of Heaven, Lorenza, read my heart more truly! In giving you a companion, my beloved, I compromise such mighty interests that you would tremble for me if you did not hate me. In giving you a companion, I endanger my safety, my liberty, my life; and yet I will risk all that to save you a little weariness.”

“Weariness!” exclaimed Lorenza, with a wild and frantic laugh which made Balsamo shudder.” He calls it weariness!”

“Well, suffering! Yes, you are right, Lorenza; they are poignant sufferings. I repeat, Lorenza, have patience. A day will come when all your sufferings will cease; a day will come when you shall be free and happy.”

“Will you permit me to retire to a convent and take the vows-”

“To a convent-”

“I will pray, first for you, and then for myself. I shall be closely confined, indeed, but I shall at least have a garden, air, space. I shall have a cemetery to walk in, and can seek beforehand among the tombs for the place of my repose. I shall have companions who grieve for their own sorrows, and not for mine. Permit me to retire to a convent, and I will take any vows you wish. A convent, Balsamo! I implore you on my knees to grant this request.”

“Lorenza, Lorenza! we cannot part. Mark me well, we are indissolubly connected in this world! Ask for nothing which exceeds the limits of this house.” Balsamo pronounced these last words in so calm and determined a tone that Lorenza did not even repeat the request.

“Then you refuse me-” said she, dejectedly.

“I cannot grant it.”

“Is what you say irrevocable-”

“It is.”

“Well, I have something else then to ask,” said she, with a smile.

“Oh! my dear Lorenza, smile again, and still again. With such a smile you will compel me to do all you wish!”

“Oh, yes! I shall make you do all that I wish, provided I do everything that pleases you. Well! be it so; I will be as reasonable as possible.”

“Speak, Lorenza, speak!”

“Just now you said: 'One day, Lorenza, your sufferings shall cease; one day you shall be free and happy.'“

“Oh, yes! I said so; and I swear before Heaven that I await that day as impatiently as yourself.”

“Well, this day may arrive immediately, Balsamo,” said the young Italian, with a caressing smile, which her husband had hitherto seen only in her sleep. “I am weary, very weary- you can understand my feelings; I am so young, and have already suffered so much! Well, my friend- for you say you are my friend- listen to me: grant me this happy day immediately.”

“I hear you,” said Balsamo, inexpressibly agitated.

“I end my appeal by the request I should have made at the commencement, Acharat.” The young woman shuddered.

“Speak, my beloved!”

“Well, I have often remarked, when you. made experiments on some unfortunate animal, and when you told me that these experiments were necessary to the cause of humanity- I have often remarked that you possessed the secret of inflicting death, sometimes by a drop of poison, sometimes by an opened vein; that this death was calm, rapid as lightning, and that these unfortunate and innocent creatures, condemned, as I am, to the miseries of captivity, were instantly liberated by death, the first blessing they had received since their birth. Well-” She stopped, and turned pale.

“Well, my Lorenza-” repeated Balsamo.

“Well, what you sometimes do to these unfortunate animals for the interest of science, do now to me in the name of humanity. Do it for a friend, who will bless you with her whole heart, who will kiss your hands with the deepest gratitude, if you grant her what she asks. Do it, Balsamo, for me, who kneel here at your feet, who promise you with my last sigh more love and happiness than you have awakened in me during my whole life- for me, Balsamo, who promise you a frank and beaming smile as I leave this earth! By the soul of your mother, by the sufferings of our Blessed Lord, by all that is holy and solemn and sacred in the world of the living and of the dead, I implore you, kill me, kill me!”

“Lorenza!” exclaimed Balsamo, taking her in his arms as she rose after uttering these last words, “Lorenza, you are delirious. Kill you- you! my love! my life!”

Lorenza disengaged herself by a violent effort from Balsamo's grasp and fell on her knees.

“I will never rise,” said she,” until you have granted my request. Kill me without a shock, without violence, without pain. Grant me this favor, since you say you love me; send me to sleep as you have often done- only, take away the awaking; it is despair!”

“Lorenza, my beloved!” said Balsamo.” 0 God f do you not see how you torture my heart- What! you are really so unhappy, then- Come, my Lorenza, rise; do not give way to despair. Alas! do you hate me then, so very much!”

“I hate slavery, constraint, solitude; and as you mate me a slave, unhappy, and solitary; well, yes, I hate you!!!”

“But I love you too dearly to see you die, Lorenza… You shall not die, therefore; I will affect the most difficult cure I have yet undertaken, my Lorenza- I will make you love life.”

“No, no, that is impossible; you have made me long for death.”

“Lorenza, for pity's sake! I promise that soon.”

“Life or death!” exclaimed the young woman, becoming more and more excited. “This is the decisive day. Will you give me life- that is to say, liberty- Will you give me death- that is to say, repose-”

“Life, my Lorenza, life!”

“Then that is liberty.” Balsamo was silent. “If not, death, a gentle death; by a draught, a needle's point- death during sleep! Repose, repose, repose!”

“Life and patience, Lorenza!”

Lorenza burst into a terrible laugh, and making a spring backward, drew from her bosom a knife, with a blade so fine and sharp that it glittered in her hand like a flash of lightning. Balsamo cried out, but he was too late. When he rushed forward, when he reached the hand, the arm had already described its course, and had fallen on Lorenza's breast. Balsamo had been dazzled by the flash; he was blinded by the sight of blood. In his turn he uttered a terrible cry, and seized Lorenza round the waist, meeting midway her arm descending to deal a second blow, and grasping the weapon in his undefended hand. Lorenza with a mighty effort drew the weapon away, and the sharp blade glided through Balsamo's fingers. The blood streamed from his mutilated hand. Then, instead of continuing the struggle, Balsamo extended his bleeding hand toward the young woman, and said, with a voice of irresistible command, “Sleep, Lorenza, sleep! I will it.” But on this occasion her irritation was such that her obedience was not as prompt as usual.

“No, no,” murmured Lorenza, tottering and attempting to strike again.” No, I will not sleep!”

“Sleep, I tell you!” said Balsamo, a second time, advancing a step toward her; “sleep, I command it!”

This time the power of Balsamo's will was so great that all resistance was in vain. Lorenza heaved a sigh, let the knife fall from her hand, and sank back upon the cushions. Her eyes still remained open, but their threatening glare gradually died away, and finally they closed; her stiffened neck drooped; her head fell upon her shoulder like that of a wounded bird; a nervous shudder passed through her frame- Lorenza was asleep. Balsamo hastily opened her robe, and examined the wound, which seemed to him slight, although the blood flowed from it freely. He then pressed the lion's eye, the spring acted, and the back of the fireplace opened; then, detaching the counterpoise which made the trap-door of Althotas' chamber descend, he leaped upon it, and mounted to the old man's laboratory.

“Ah! it is you, Acharat” said the latter, who was still seated in his armchair. “You are aware that in a week I shall be a hundred years old. You are aware that before that time I must have the blood of a child, or of a virgin.”

But Balsamo heard nothing. He hastened to the cupboard in which the magic balsams were kept, seized one of the phials of which he had often proved the efficacy, again mounted upon the trap, stamped his foot, and descended to the lower apartment. Althotas rolled his armchair to the mouth of the trap, with the intention of seizing Balsamo by his garments.

“Do you hear, unhappy man-” said he, “ do you hear- If in a week I have not a child or a virgin to complete my elixir, I am a dead man!”

Balsamo turned; the old man's eyes seemed to glare in the midst of his unearthly and motionless features, as if they alone were alive.

“Yes, yes,” he replied- “yes, be calm; you shall have what you want.” He touched the spring, and the trap mounted again, fitting like an ornament in the ceiling of the room. Then he rushed into Lorenza's apartment, which he had just reached when Fritz's bell rang.

“Monsieur de Richelieu!” muttered Balsamo.” Oh! duke and peer as he is, he must wait.”

CHAPTER CXVI. MONSIEUR DE RICHELIEU'S TWO DROPS OF WATER.

Monsieur De Richelieu left the house in the Rue Saint Claude at half-past four. What his errand with Balsamo was, will appear in what follows. Monsieur de Taverney had dined with his daughter, as the dauphiness had given her leave to absent herself on this day in order that she might receive her father. They were at dessert, when Monsieur de Richelieu, ever the hearer of good news, made his appearance to announce to his friend that the king had declared that very morning that he would give not merely a company to Philippe, hut a regiment. Taverney was exuberant in his expressions of joy, and Andree warmly thanked the marshal. The conversation took a turn which may be easily imagined after what had passed; Richelieu spoke of nothing but the king, Andree of nothing but her brother, and Taverney of nothing but Andree.

The latter announced in the course of conversation that she was set at liberty from her attendance on the dauphiness; that her Royal Highness was receiving a visit from two German princes, her relations; and that in order to pass a few hours of liberty with them, which might remind her of the court of Vienna, Marie Antoinette had dismissed all her attendants, even her lady of honor- which had so deeply shocked Madame de Noailles that she had gone to lay her grievances at the king's feet. Taverney was, he said, delighted at this freedom of Andree, since he had thus an opportunity of conversing with her about many things relating to their fortune and name. This observation made Richelieu propose to retire, in order to leave the father and daughter quite alone: but Mademoiselle de Taverney would not permit it: he therefore remained. Richelieu was in a vein of moralizing; he painted most eloquently the degradation into which the French nobility had fallen, forced as they were to submit to the ignominious yoke of those favorites of chance, those contraband queens, instead of burning incense to the favorites of the olden times, who were almost as noble as their august lovers- women who reigned over the sovereign by their beauty and their love, and over his subjects by their rank, their strength of mind, and their loyal and pure patriotism. Andree was surprised at the close analogy between Richelieu's words and those she had heard from the Baron- de Taverney a few days previously. Richelieu then launched into a theory of virtue so spiritual, so pagan, so French that Andree was obliged to confess that she was not at all virtuous according to Monsieur de Richelieu's theories, and that true virtue, as the marshal understood it, was the virtue of Madame de Chateauroux, Mademoiselle de la Valliere, and Mademoiselle de Fosseuse. From argument to argument, from proof to proof, Richelieu at last became so clear that Andree no longer understood a word of what he said. On this footing the conversation continued until about seven o'clock in the evening, when the marshal rose, being obliged, as he said, to pay his court to the king at Versailles. In passing through the apartment to take his hat, he met Nicole, who had always something to do wherever Monsieur de Riche lieu was.

“My girl,” said he, tapping her on the shoulder,” you shall see me out. I want you to carry a bouquet which Madame de Noailles cut for me in her garden, and which she commissioned me to present to the Comtesse d'Egmont.”

Nicole bowed like the peasant girls in Monsieur Rousseau's comic operas, whereupon the marshal took leave of father and daughter, exchanged a significant glance with Taverney, made a bow to Andree which was quite juvenile in its graceful ease, and retired. With the reader's permission we will leave the baron and Andree conversing about the fresh mark of favor conferred on Philippe, and follow the marshal. In this way we shall discover what was his errand at the Rue Saint Claude, where he arrived at such a fearful moment. Besides, the moralizing of the baron even surpassed that of his friend the marshal, and might startle ears less pure than Andree's, which would perhaps partly understand it.

Richelieu descended the stairs leaning on Nicole's shoulder; and as soon as they were in the garden he stopped, and looking her in the face said, “Ah! little one, so we have a lover!”

“I, Monsieur le Marechal!” exclaimed Nicole, blushing crimson, and retreating a step.

“Oh! perhaps you are not called Nicole Legay-”

“Yes, Monsieur le Marechal.”

“Well, Nicole Legay has a lover.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“Yes, faith! a certain good-looking rascal whom she used to meet in the Rue Coq-Heron, and who has followed her to Versailles.”

“Monsieur le Duc, I swear to you-”

“A sort of officer, called- Shall I tell you, child, the name of Mademoiselle Legay's lover-”

Nicole's last hope was that the marshal was ignorant of the name of that happy mortal. “Oh, yes, Monsieur le Marechal! tell me, since you have made a beginning.”

“Who is called Monsieur de Beausire,” repeated the marshal,” and who in truth does not belie his name.”

Nicole clasped her hands with an affectation of prudery which did not in the least impose on Richelieu.

“It seems,” said he,” we make appointments with him at Trianon. Peste! in a royal chateau, that is a serious matter. One may be discharged for these freaks, my sweet one; and Monsieur de Sartines sends all young ladies who are discharged from the royal chateau to the Salpetriere.”

Nicole began to be uneasy. “Monseigneur,” said she,” I swear to you that if Monsieur Beausire boasts of being my lover, he is a fool and a villain; for indeed I am innocent.”

“I shall not contradict you,” said Richelieu;” but have you made appointments with him, or not”

“Monseigneur, a rendezvous is no proof of-”

“Have you, or have you not! Answer me.”

“Monseigneur-”

“You have. Very well; I do not blame you, my dear child. Besides, I like pretty girls who make use of their attractions, and I have always assisted them in so doing to the utmost of my power. Only, as your friend and protector, I warn you.”

“But have I been seen, then-” asked Nicole. “It seems so, since I know about it.”

“Monseigneur,” said Nicole, resolutely,” I have not been seen; it is impossible!”

“As to that, I know nothing; but the report is very prevalent, and must tend to fasten attention on your mistress. Now, you must be aware that being more the friend of the Taverneys than of the Legays, it is my duty to give the baron a hint.”

“Oh, Mouseigueur!” exclaimed Nicole, terrified at the turn the conversation was taking,” you will ruin me! Although innocent, I shall be discharged on the mere suspicion.”

“Well, my poor child, you will be discharged, then; for even now some evil-minded person or other, having taken offence at these meetings, innocent though they be, has informed Madame de Noailles of them.”

“Madame de Noailles- good heavens I”

“Yes; you see the danger is urgent.” Nicole clasped her hands in despair. “It is unfortunate, I am aware,” said Richelieu;”but what the devil can you do about it-”

“And you, who said just now you were my protector- you, who have proved yourself to be such- can you no longer protect me-” asked Nicole, with a wheedling cunning worthy of a woman of thirty years. “Yes, pardieu! I can protect you.”

“Well, Monseigneur l”

“Yes; but I will not.”

“Oh, Monsieur le Duc!”

“Yes, you are pretty, I know that, and your beautiful eyes say all sorts of things to me; but I have lately become rather blind, my poor Nicole, and I no longer understand the language of lovely eyes. Once I would have offered you an asylum in my pavilion of Hanovre; but now it would be of no use- it is not even to be spoken of.”

“Yet you have once already taken me there,” said Nicole, angrily. “Ah! that is ungrateful in you, Nicole, to reproach me with having taken you there, when I did so to render you a service; for, confess that without Monsieur Rafte's assistance, who made you a charming brunette, you would never have entered Trianon- which, after all, perhaps, would have been better than to be dismissed from it now. But why the devil did you give a rendezvous to Monsieur de Beausire, and at the very gate of the stables too!”

“So you know that also-” said Nicole, who saw that she must change her tactics, and place herself at the marshal's discretion. “Parbleu! you see that I know it, and Madame de Noailles too. This very evening you have a rendezvous-”

“That is true, Monsieur le Duc; but, on my faith, I will not go.”

“Of course, you are warned; but Monsieur de Beausire will go. He is not warned, and he will be seized. Then, as he will not like, of course, to be taken for a thief and be hanged, or for a spy and be whipped, he will prefer to say- especially as there is no disgrace in confessing it- Unhand me; I am the lover of the pretty Nicole!'““Monsieur le Duc, I will send to warn him.”

“Impossible, my poor child! by whom could you send- By him who betrayed you, perhaps-”

“Alas! that is true,” said Nicole, feigning despair. “What a becoming thing remorse is!” exclaimed Richelieu. Nicole covered her face with her hands, taking care, however, to leave space enough between her fingers to allow her to observe every look and gesture of Richelieu. “You are really adorable!” said the duke, whom none of these little tricks could escape.” Why am I not fifty years younger!No matter, parbleu I Nicole, I will bring you out of the scrape.”

“Oh, Monseigneur! if you do that, my gratitude-”

“I don't want it, Nicole. On the contrary, I shall give you most disinterested assistance.”

“Oh, how good of you, Monseigneur! I thank you from the bottom of my heart!”

“Do not thank me yet; as yet you know nothing. What the devil! wait till you hear more.”

“I will submit to anything, provided Mademoiselle Andree does not dismiss me.”

“Ah! then your heart is set on remaining at Trianon-”

“By all means, Monseigneur.”

“Well, Nicole, in the very first place, get rid of this feeling.”

“But why so, if I am not discovered, Monsieur le Duc!”

“Whether you are discovered or not, you must leave Trianon.”

“Oh! why-”

“I will tell you: because if Madame de Noailles has found you out, no one, not even the king, can save you.”

“Ah, if I could only see the king!”

“Well, really, little one, that indeed would be sufficient. In the second place, even if you are not found out, I myself shall cause your departure.”

“Immediately.”

“In truth, Monsieur le Marechal, I do not understand you.”

“It is as I have had the honor of telling you.”

“And that is your protection, is it-”

“If you do not wish for it, there is yet time; you have only to say the word, Nicole.”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur le Duc! on the contrary, I do wish for it.”

“And I will grant it.”

“Well-”

“'Well, this is what I will do for you. Hark ye!”

“Speak, Monseigneur!”

“Instead of getting you discharged, and perhaps imprisoned, I will make you free and rich.”

“Free and rich-”

“Yes.”

“And what must I do in order to be free and rich- Tell me quickly, Monsieur le Marechal!”

“Almost nothing.”

“But what-”

“What I am about to tell you.”

“Is it difficult-”- Mere child's play.”

“Then,” said Nicole,” there is something to do-”

“Ah, of course! you know the motto of the world, Nicole- ' Nothing for nothing.'““And that which I have to do, is it for myself, or for you-” The Duke looked at Nicole.”Tudieu!” said he;” the little masker, how cunning she is!”

“Well, finish, Monsieur le Duc.”

“Well! it is for yourself,” replied he, boldly. “Alt!” said Nicole, who, perceiving that the marshal had need of her services, already feared him no longer, while her ingenious brain was busily endeavoring to discover the truth amid the windings which, from habit, her companion always used;” what shall I have to do for myself, Monsieur Je Due-” '' This: Monsieur de Beausire comes at half-past seven does he not-”

“Yes, Monsieur le Marechal, that is his time.' “It is now ten minutes past seven.”

“That is also true.”

“If I say the word he will be arrested.”

“Yes, but you will not say it.”

“No. You will go to him and tell him. But in the first place, Nicole, do you love this young man-”

“Why, I have given him a rendezvous.”

“That is no reason; you may wish to marry him. Women take such strange caprices.” Nicole burst into a loud laugh.” I marry him!” said she.” Ha! ha! ha I” Richelieu was astounded: he had not, even at court, met many women of this stamp. “Well,” said he,” so be it. You do not wish to marry him, but you love him. So much the better.”

“Agreed! I love Monsieur de Beausire. Let us take that for granted, Monseigneur, and proceed!”

“Peste! what strides you make!”

“Of course. You may readily imagine that I am anxious to know what remains for me to do.”

“In the first place, since you love him, you must fly with him.”

“Oh! if you absolutely insist upon it, I suppose I must.”

“Oh, oh! I insist upon nothing; not so fast, little one.” Nicole saw that she was going too far, and that as yet she had neither the secret nor the money of her cunning opponent. She stooped, therefore, only to rise again afterward. “Monseigneur,” said she,” I await your orders.”

“Well! you must go to Monsieur de Beausire and say to him: ' We are discovered; but I have a protector who will save you from Saint Lazare. and me from the Salpetriere. Let us fly.” Nicole looked at Richelieu.” Fly-” she repeated. Richelieu understood her cunning and expressive look.” Parbleu!” said he,” of course I shall pay the expenses.” Nicole asked for no further explanation. It was plain that she would know all, since she was to be paid. The marshal saw what an important point Nicole had gained, and hastened to say all he had to say, just as a gambler is eager to pay when he has lost, in order to get through the disagreeable task. “Do you know what you are thinking of, Nicole-” said he. “Faith, no,” replied the girl;”but I suppose you, Monsieur le Marechal, who know so many things, have divined it.”

“Nicole,” he replied,” you were reflecting that if you fled, your mistress might require you during the night; and not finding you, might give the alarm, which would expose you to the risk of being overtaken and seized.”

“No,” said Nicole, “I was not thinking of that; because, on reflection, Monseigneur, I would prefer remaining here.”

“But if Monsieur de Beausire is taken!”

“Well, I cannot help it.”

“But if he confess-”

“Let him confess.”

“Ah!” said Richelieu, beginning to be uneasy,” but in that case you are lost.”

“No; for Mademoiselle Andres is kindness itself, and as she loves me at heart, she will speak to the king for me. So, even if Monsieur de Beausire is punished, I shall not share his punishment.” The marshal bit his lips. “Nicole,” said he,” I tell you, you are a fool. Mademoiselle Andree is not on good terms with the king, and I will have you arrested immediately if you do not listen to me as I wish. Do you hear, you little viper!”

“Oh, oh! Monseigneur, my head is neither flat nor horned. I listen, but I form my own conclusions.”

“Good! Then you will go at once and arrange your plan of flight with Monsieur de Beausire.”

“But how- Do you imagine, Monsieur le Marechal, that I shall expose myself to the risk of flight, when you tell me yourself that Mademoiselle might awake, might ask for me, give the alarm, and a great deal more which I did not think of, but which you, Monseigneur, who are a man of experience, have foreseen!” Richelieu bit his lip again; but this time more deeply than before.” Well, you rogue,” said he,” if I have thought of these consequences, I have also thought of how to avoid them.”

“And how will you manage to prevent Mademoiselle from calling me!”

“By preventing her awaking.”

“Bah! she awakes ten times during the night; impossible!”

“Then she has the same malady that I have!” said Richelieu, calmly. “The same that you have!” said Nicole, laughing. “Yes. I also awake ten times every night, only I have a remedy for this sleeplessness. She must do as I do, or if not, you must do it for her.”

“What do you mean, Monseigneur.”

“What does your mistress take in the evening before she goes to bed-”

“What does she take!”

“Yes, it is the fashion now to guard thus against thirst. Some take orangeade or lemonade; others eau-de-melisse; others-”

“Mademoiselle drinks only a glass of pure water in the evening before going to bed- sometimes sweetened and flavored with orange-water, if her nerves are weak.”

“An, excellent!” said Richelieu;”just as I do myself. My remedy will suit her admirably.”

“How so!”

“I pour one drop of a certain liquid into my beverage, and I then sleep all night.” Nicole tasked her brain to discover to what end the marshal's diplomacy tended. “You do not answer!” said he. “I was just thinking that Mademoiselle has not your cordial.”

“I will give you some.”

“Ah!” thought Nicole, seeing at last a ray of light through the darkness. “You must put two drops of it in your mistress's glass- neither more nor less, remember; and she will sleep soundly, so that she will not call you, and consequently you will have time to escape.”

“Oh! if that is all, it is very simple.”

“You will give her the two drops-”

“Certainly.”

“You promise me-”

“I presume it is for my own interest to do so; besides, I will lock the door so carefully-”

“By no means,” said Richelieu, hastily;”that is exactly what you must not do. On the contrary, you must leave the door of her chamber open.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Nicole, with an inward illumination; she now understood all. Richelieu saw it plainly.” Is that all-” she inquired. “Absolutely all. Now you may go and tell your soldier to pack up his trunks.”

“Unfortunately, Monsieur, it would be useless to tell him to fill his purse.”

“You know that is my affair.”

“Yes, I remember your lordship was kind enough to say-”

“Come, Nicole, how much do you want-”

“For what-”

“For pouring out those two drops of water.”

“For that, nothing, Monseigneur, since you assure me I pour them out for my own advantage; it would not be just that you should pay me for attending to my own interest. But for leaving Mademoiselle's door open- ah! for that, I warn you, I must have a good round sum.”

“In one word, how much!”

“I must have twenty thousand francs, Monseigneur.” Richelieu started.” Nicole,” said he, with a sigh, “you will go far.”

“I ought to do so, Monseigneur, for I begin to believe, with you, that they will pursue me; but with your twenty thousand francs I shall make the journey.”

“Go and warn Monsieur de Beausire, Nicole; and when you return, I will give you the money.”

“Monseigneur, Monsieur de Beausire is very incredulous, and he will not believe what I tell him, unless I can give him proofs.” Richelieu pulled out a handful of bank-notes from his pocket.” Here is something on account,” said he;” and in this purse there are a hundred double louis.”

“Monseigneur will settle the account in full and give me the balance then when I have spoken to Monsieur de Beausire-”

“No, pardieu! I will settle it on the spot. You are a careful girl, Nicole; it will bring you good fortune.” And Richelieu handed her the promised sum, partly in bank-notes, and partly in louis-d'or and half-louis. “There!” said he; ” is that right-”

“I think so,” said Nicole.”And now, Monseigneur, I want only the principal thing.”

“The cordial-”

“Yes; of course your lordship has a flask-” '' I have my own, which I always carry about with me.” Nicole smiled.” And then,” said she,” Trianon is locked every night, and I have not a key.”

“But I have one, as first gentleman of the chamber.”

“Ah, really-”

“Here it is.”

“How fortunate all this is!” said Nicole; ” it is one succession of miracles. And now, Monsieur le Duc, adieu!” '' Why adieu-”

“Certainly. I shall not see your lordship again, since I shall go as soon as Mademoiselle is asleep.”

“Quite right. Adieu, then, Nicole!”

And Nicole, laughing in her sleeve, disappeared in the increasing darkness. -' I shall still succeed,” said Richelieu.” But in truth it would seem that I am getting old, and fortune is turning against me. I have been outwitted by this little one. But what matters it, if I return the blow!”

CHAPTER CXVII. THE FLIGHT.

Nicole was a conscientious girl. She bad received Monsieur de Richelieu's money, and received it in advance too; and she felt anxious to prove herself worthy of this confidence by earning her pay. She ran, therefore, as quickly as possible to the gate, where she arrived at forty minutes past seven, instead of at half-past. Now, Monsieur de Beausire, who. being accustomed to military discipline, was a punctual man, had been waiting there for ten minutes. About ten minutes before, too, Monsieur de Taverney had left his daughter, and Andree was consequently alone. Now, being alone, the young girl had closed the blinds. Gilbert, as usual, was gazing eagerly at Andree from his attic; but it would have been difficult to say whether his eyes sparkled with love or with hatred. When the blinds were closed, Gilbert could see nothing. Consequently, he looked in another direction; and thus looking, he perceived Monsieur de Beausire's plume, and recognized the officer, who was walking up and down, whistling an air to kill time while he was waiting. In about ten minutes that is to say, at forty minutes past seven Nicole made her appearance. She exchanged a few words with Monsieur de Beausire, who made a gesture with his head as a sign that he understood her, and disappeared by the shady alley which led to Petit Trianon. Nicole, light as a bird, returned in the: direction from which she had come.

“Oh, oh I” thought Gilbert.”Monsieur the officer,, and Mademoiselle the waiting-maid, have something to. do or to say which they fear to have witnessed. Very good!”

Gilbert no longer felt any interest in respect to Nicole's movements; but actuated by the idea that the young girl was his natural enemy, he merely sought to collect a mass of proofs against her morality, with which he might successfully repulse any attack, should she attempt one- against him. And as he knew the campaign might begin at any moment, like a prudent soldier he collected his munitions of war. A rendezvous with a man in the very grounds of Trianon was one of the weapons which a cunning enemy such as Gilbert could not neglect, especially when it was imprudently placed under his very eyes. He consequently wished to have the testimony of his ears as well as that of his eyes, and to catch some fatally compromising phrase which would completely floor Nicole at the first onset.

He quickly descended from his attic, therefore, hastened along the passage-way, and gained the garden by the chapel 'Stairs. Once in the garden, he had nothing to fear, for he knew all its hiding-places as a fox knows his cover. He glided beneath the linden-trees, then along the espalier, until he reached a small thicket situated about twenty paces from the spot where he counted upon seeing Nicole. As he had foreseen, Nicole was there. Scarcely had he installed himself in the thicket when a strange noise reached his ears. It was the chink of gold upon stone that metallic sound of which nothing except the reality can give a correct idea. Like a serpent Gilbert glided along to a raised terrace, surmounted by a hedge of lilacs, which at that season (early in May) diffused their perfume around, and showered down their flowers upon those who took the shady alley on their way from Grand to Petit Trianon. Having reached this retreat, Gilbert, whose eyes were accustomed to pierce the darkness, saw Nicole emptying the purse, which Monsieur de Richelieu had given her, upon a stone on the inner side of the gate, and prudently placed out of Monsieur de Beausire's reach. The large louis-d'or came forth from it in bright profusion, while Monsieur de Beausire, with sparkling eye and trembling hand, looked at Nicole and her louis-d'or as if he could not comprehend how the one should possess the other.

Nicole spoke first.”You have more than once, my, dear Monsieur de Beausire,” said she,” proposed to elope with me.”

“And even to marry you,” exclaimed the enthusiastic -officer. “Oh, my dear Monsieur! that is a matter of course; Just now flight is the most important point. Can we fly in two hours-”

“In ten minutes, if you like.”

“No; I have something to do first, which will occupy me two hours.”

“In two hours, as in ten minutes, I shall be at your orders, my love.”

“Very well. Take these fifty louis.” Nicole counted out the fifty louis, and handed them through the gate to Monsieur de Beausire, who, without counting them, stuffed them into his waistcoat pocket.” And in an hour and a half,” she continued,” be here with a carriage.”

“But-” objected Beausire. “Oh! if you do not wish, forget what has passed between us, and give me back my fifty louis.”

“I do not shrink, dear Nicole, but I fear the future.”

“For whom-”

“For you.”

“For me!”

“Yes; the fifty louis once vanished- and vanished they will soon be- you will complain, you will regret Trianon, you will-”

“Oh, how thoughtful you are, dear Monsieur de Beau- Sire! But fear nothing; I am not one of those women who are easily made miserable. Have no scruples on that score; when the fifty louis are gone, we shall see;” and she shook the purse which contained the other fifty. Beausire's eyes were absolutely phosphorescent.

“I would charge through a blazing furnace for your sake!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, well, well, I shall not require so much from you Monsieur de Beausire! Then it is agreed that you will be here with the chaise in an hour and a half, and in two hours we will fly-”

“Agreed!” exclaimed Beausire, seizing Nicole's hand, and drawing it through the gate to kiss it.

“Hush!” said Nicole, “are you mad-”

“No, I am in love.”

“Hum!” muttered Nicole. “Do you not believe me, sweetheart-”

“Yes, yes, I believe you. Above all, be sure to have good horses.”

“Oh, yes!” They separated. But a moment afterward Beausire returned, quite alarmed.

“Hist!” he whispered.

“Well, what is it!” asked Nicole, already some distance off, and putting her hand to her mouth, so as to convey her voice farther.

“And the gate-” asked Beausire, “will you creep under it.”

“How stupid he is!” murmured Nicole, who at this moment was not ten paces distant from Gilbert. Then she added in a louder tone,” I have the key.”

Beausire uttered a prolonged” oh!” of admiration, and this time took to his heels for good. Nicole hastened back with drooping head and nimble step to her mistress. Gilbert, now left sole master of the field, put the following four questions to himself:

“Why does Nicole fly with Beausire, when she does not love him- ‘

“How does Nicole come to possess such a large sum of money-”

“Why has Nicole the key of the gate!”

“Why does Nicole return to Andree when she might go at once!”

Gilbert found an answer to the second question, but to the others he could find none. Thus checked at the outset, his natural curiosity and his acquired distrust were so much excited that he determined to remain in the cold, beneath the dew-covered trees, to await the end of this scene, of which he had witnessed the beginning. Andrei had conducted her father to the barriers of Grand Trianon, and was returning alone and pensive, when Nicole appeared issuing from the alley leading to the famous gate where she had been concerting her measures with Monsieur Beausire. Nicole stopped on perceiving her mistress, and upon a sign which Andree made to her, she followed her to her apartment.

It was now about half-past eight in the evening. The night had closed in earlier than usual; for a huge cloud, sweeping from south to north, had overspread the whole sky, and all around, as far as the eye could reach over the lofty forest of Versailles, the gloomy shroud was gradually enveloping in its folds the stars, a short time before sparkling in the azure dome. A light breeze swept along the ground, breathing warmly on the drooping flowers, which bent their heads, as if imploring heaven to send them rain or dew. The threatening aspect of the sky did not hasten Andree's steps; on the contrary, melancholy and thoughtful, the young girl seemed to ascend each step leading to her room with regret, and she paused at every window as she passed, to gaze at the sky, so much in harmony with her saddened mood, and thus to delay her return to her own little retreat. Nicole, impatient, angry, fearing that some whim might detain her mistress beyond the usual hour, grumbled and muttered, as servants never fail to do when their masters are imprudent enough to satisfy their own caprices at the expense of those of their domestics. At last Andree reached the door of her chamber, and sank rather than seated herself upon a couch, gently ordering Nicole to leave the window, which looked upon the court, half-open.

Nicole obeyed; then, returning to her mistress with that affectionate air which the flatterer could so easily assume, she said:” I fear Mademoiselle feels ill this evening; her eyes are red and swollen, yet bright. I think that Mademoiselle is in great need of repose.”

“Do you think so!” asked Andree, who had scarcely listened; and she carelessly placed her feet upon a cushion of tapestry-work. Nicole took this as an order to undress her mistress, and began to unfasten the ribbons and flowers of her headdress- a species of edifice which the most skilful could not demolish in less than a quarter of an hour. While she was thus employed, Andree did not utter a word; and Nicole, left to follow her own wishes, did her work rapidly, without disturbing Andree, whose preoccupation was so great that she permitted Nicole to pull out her hair with impunity. When the night-toilet was finished, Andree gave her orders for the morrow. In the morning some books were to be brought from Versailles which Philippe had left there for his sister, and the tuner was to be ordered to attend to put the harpsichord in proper order. Nicole replied that if she were not called during the night, she would rise early, and would have both these commissions executed before her young lady was awake.

“To-morrow also I will write to Philippe,” said Andre's, speaking to herself;” that will console me a little.”

“Come what will,” thought Nicole, “I shall not carry the letter.!”

And at this reflection the girl, who was not quite lost yet, began to think, in saddened mood, that she was about for the first time to leave that excellent mistress under whose care her mind and heart had been awakened. The thought of Andree was linked in her mind with so many other recollections that to touch it was to stir the whole chain which carried her back to the first days of infancy. While these two young creatures, so different in their character and their condition, were thus reflecting beside each other, without any connection existing between their thoughts, time was rapidly flying, and Andree's little timepiece, which was always in advance of the great clock of Trianon, struck nine. Beausire would be at the appointed place, and Nicole had but half an hour to join her lover. She finished her task as quickly as possible, not without uttering some sighs, which Andree did not even notice. She folded a night-shawl around her mistress, and as Andree still sat immovable, with her eyes fixed on the ceiling, she drew Richelieu's phial from her bosom, put two pieces of sugar into a goblet, added the water necessary to melt it, and without hesitation, and by the resolute force of her will, so strong in one so young, she- poured two drops of the fluid from the phial into the water, which immediately became turbid, then changed to a slight opal tint, which soon died away.

“Mademoiselle,” said Nicole, “your glass of water is prepared, your clothes are folded, the night-lamp is lighted. You know I must rise very early to-morrow morning; may I go to bed now!”

“Yes,” replied Andree, absently. Nicole made her reverence, heaved a last sigh, which, like the others, was unnoticed, and closed behind her the glass-door leading to the ante-room. But instead of retiring into her little cell adjoining the corridor and lighted from Andree's ante-room, she softly took to flight, leaving — the door of the corridor ajar, so that Richelieu's instructions were scrupulously followed.

Then, not to arouse the attention of the neighbors, she descended the stairs on tiptoe, bounded down the outer steps, and ran quickly to join Monsieur de Beausire at the gate. Gilbert had not left his post of observation. He had heard Nicole say that she would return in two hours, and he waited. But as it was now ten minutes past the appointed time, he began to fear that she would not return. Suddenly he saw her running, as if someone were pursuing her. Nicole approached the gate, passed the key through the bars to Beausire, who opened it; she rushed out, and the gate closed with a dull, grating noise. The key was then thrown into the grass in the ditch, near the spot where Gilbert was stationed. He heard it fall with a dead sound, and marked the place where it had dropped. Nicole and Beausire in the mean time gained ground. Gilbert heard them move away; and soon he could distinguish, not the noise of a carriage, as Nicole had required, but the pawing of a horse, which, after some moments' delay- occupied doubtless by Nicole in recrimination, who had wished to depart, like a duchess, in her carriage, changed to the clattering of his iron-shod feet on the pavement, and at last died away in the distance. Gilbert breathed freely; he was free, free from Nicole, that is to say, from his enemy. Andree was alone. Perhaps in taking flight Nicole had left the key in the door; perhaps he could penetrate to Andree's chamber. This idea excited the impetuous young man to a frenzy of fear and doubt, of curiosity and desire. He took the direction contrary to that which Nicole was pursuing, and hurried toward the offices of Trianon.

CHAPTER CXVIII. DOUBLE SIGHT.

When Andree was alone, she gradually recovered from the mental torpor into which she had fallen; and while Nicole was flying en croupe behind Monsieur de Beausire, she knelt down and offered up a fervent prayer for Philippe, the only being in the world she loved with a true and deep attachment; and while she prayed, her trust in God assumed new strength, and inspired her with fresh courage. The prayers which Andree offered were not composed of a succession of words strung one to the other, they were uttered in a kind of heavenly ecstasy, during which her soul rose to her God and mingled with his spirit. In these impassioned supplications of the mind freed from earthly concerns, there was no alloy of self. Andree in some degree abandoned herself, like a shipwrecked mariner who has lost hope, and who prays no longer for himself, but only for his wife and children, soon to become orphans. This inward grief had sprung up in Andree's bosom since her brother's departure; but it was not entirely without another cause. Like her prayer, it was composed of two distinct elements; one of which was quite inexplicable to her. It was, as it were, a presentiment- the perceptible approach of some impending misfortune. It was a sensation resembling that of darting pains in a cicatrized wound. The continuous pain is over, but the remembrance of it survives, and reminds the sufferer of the calamity, as the wound itself had previously done. Andree did not even attempt to explain her feelings to herself. Devoted heart and soul to Philippe, she centered in her beloved brother her every thought and every affection. Then she rose, took a book from her modestly furnished library, placed the light within reach of her hand, and lay down on the bed. The book she had chosen, or rather upon which she had accidentally placed her hand, was a dictionary of botany. It may readily be imagined that this book was not calculated to absorb her attention; on the contrary, it made her sleepy. Gradually drowsiness weighed down her eyelids, and a filmy veil obscured her vision. For a moment the young girl struggled against sleep; twice or thrice she collected her scattered thoughts, which soon escaped again from her control; then, raising her head to blow out the candle, she perceived the glass of water prepared by Nicole, stretched out her hand and took the glass, stirred the sugar with the spoon, and, already half-asleep, she raised the glass to her lips. Suddenly, just as her lips were already touching the beverage, a strange emotion made her hand tremble, a moist and burning weight fell on her brow, and Andree recognized with terror, by the current of the fluid which rushed through her nerves, that supernatural attack of mysterious sensations which had several times already triumphed over her strength and overpowered her mind. She had only time to place the glass upon the plate, when instantly, without a murmur, but with a sigh which escaped from her half-open lips, she lost the use of voice, eight, and reason, and seized with a death-like torpor, fell back, as if struck by lightning, upon her bed. But this quasi-annihilation was but the momentary transition to another state of existence. For a moment she seemed lifeless, and her eyes were apparently closed in the slumber of death; but suddenly she rose, opened her eyes, which stared with a fearful fixity of gaze, and stepped down from her bed to the floor, like a marble statue descending from a tomb. There was no longer room for doubt. Andree was sunk in that marvelous sleep which had several times already suspended her vital functions. She crossed the chamber, opened the glass-door, and entered the corridor with the fixed and rigid attitude of breathing marble. She reached the stairs, descended step by step without hesitation and without haste, and emerged upon the portico. Just as Andree placed her foot upon the topmost step to descend, Gilbert reached the lowest on his way up. Seeing this white and solemn figure advancing as if to meet him, he recoiled before her, and, still retreating as she advanced, le concealed himself in a clump of shrubs. It was thus, he recollected, that he had already seen Andree de Taverney at the Chateau of Taverney. Andree passed close by him, even touched him, but did not see him. The young man, thunderstruck, speechless with surprise, sank to the ground on one knee. His limbs refused to support him- he was afraid. Not knowing to what cause to attribute this strange excursion, he followed her with his eyes; but his reason was confounded, his blood beat impetuously against his temples, and he was in a state nearer to madness than to the coolness and circumspection necessary for an observer. Gilbert remained, therefore, crouching on the grass among the leaves, watching, as he had never ceased to do since this fatal attachment had entered his heart. Immediately the mystery was explained: Andree was neither mad nor bewildered, as he had for a moment supposed; Andree, with this slow, sepulchral step, was going to a rendezvous. A gleam of lightning now furrowed the sky, and by its blue and livid light Gilbert saw a man con- coaled beneath the somber avenue of linden-trees; and notwithstanding the rapidity of the flash, he had recognized the pale face and disordered garments of the man relieved against the dark background. Andree advanced toward this man, whose arm was extended as if to draw her to him. A sensation like the branding of a red-hot iron rushed through Gilbert's heart; he raised himself upon his knees to see more clearly. At that moment another flash of lightning illumined the sky. He recognized Balsamo, covered with dust and perspiration- Balsamo, who by some mysterious means had succeeded in entering Trianon, and thus drew Andree toward him as invincibly, as fatally, as the serpent fascinates its prey. When two paces from him Andree stopped. Balsamo took her hand; her whole frame shuddered. “Do you see!” he asked. “Yes,” replied Andree; “but in summoning me so suddenly, you have nearly killed me.”

“Pardon, pardon!” replied Balsamo; ” but my brain reels, I am beside myself, I am nearly mad, I am dying.”

“You are indeed suffering,” said Andree, conscious of Balsamo's feelings by the contact of his hand. “Yes, yes,” replied Balsamo; ” I suffer, and I come to you for consolation. You alone can save me.”

“Question me.”

“Once more, do you see!”

“Oh! perfectly.”

“Will you follow me to my house- Can you do so-”

“I can, if you will conduct me there in thought.”

“Come!”

“Ah!” said Andree,” we are entering Paris; we follow the boulevard, we plunge into a street lighted by a single lamp.”

“Yes, that is it. Enter, enter!”

“We are ill an antechamber. There is a staircase to the right, but you draw me toward the wall. The wall opens; steps appear-”

“Ascend!” exclaimed Balsamo; ”that is our way.”

“Ah! we are in a sleeping-chamber; there are lions' skins, arms- Stay, the back of the fireplace opens.”

“Pass through: where are you-”

“In a strange sort of room, without any outlet, and the windows of which are barred. Oh! how disordered everything in the room appears.”

“But empty- It is empty is it not-”

“Yes, empty.”

“Can you see the person who inhabited it-”

“Yes, if you give me something which has touched her, which comes from her, or which belongs to her.”

“Hold I there is some of her hair.” Andree took the hair and placed it on her heart.” Oh! I recognize her,” said she; ” I have already seen this woman. She was flying toward Paris.”

“Yes, yes; can you tell me what she has been doing during the last two hours, and how she escaped-”

“Wait a moment; yes- she is reclining upon a sofa; her breast is half bared, and she has a wound on one Bide.”

“Look, Andree, look! do not lose sight of her.”

“She was asleep; she awakes, she looks around; she takes a handkerchief and climbs upon a chair. She ties the handkerchief to the bars of the window- oh! my God!”

“She is really determined to die, then-”

“Oh, yes! she is resolute. But this sort of death terrifies her. She leaves the handkerchief tied to the bars; she descends- ah! poor woman!”

“What-”

“Oh! how she weeps, how she suffers, and wrings her hands! She searches for a corner of the wall against which to dash her head!”

“Oh, my God! my God!” murmured Balsamo. “She rushes toward the chimney-piece! It represents two marble lions: she will dash out her brains against the lions!”

“What then- Look, Andree, look; I will it!”

“She stops.” Balsamo breathed again. “She looks-”

“What does she look at-” asked Balsamo. “She has perceived some blood upon the lion's eye. “Oh, heavens!”

“Yes, blood, and yet she did not strike herself against it. Oh, strange! the blood is not hers, it is yours.”

“Mine-” asked Balsamo, frantic with excitement. “Yes, yours. You had cut your finger with a knife, with a poniard- and had touched the lion's eye with your bleeding hand. I see you.”

“True, true. But how does she escape-”

“Stay, I see her examining the blood; she reflects: then she places her finger where you had placed yours. Ah! the lion's eye gives way; a spring acts; the chimney slab swings open!”

“Oh! imprudent, wretched fool that I am- I have betrayed myself!” Andree was silent. “And she leaves the room!” asked Balsamo;” she escapes-”

“Oh! you must forgive the poor woman; she was very miserable.”

“Where is she- Whither does she fly- Follow her, Andree; I will it.”

“She stops for a moment in the chamber of furs and armor; a closet is open; a casket, usually locked in this closet, is upon the table; she recognizes the box; she takes it.”

“What does the box contain!”

“Your papers, I think.”

“Describe it.”

“It is covered with blue velvet, and studded with brass nails- has clasps of silver, and a silver lock.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Balsamo, stamping with anger,” it is she, then, who has taken the casket!”

“Yes. She descends the stairs leading into the anteroom, opens the door, draws back the chain of the street- door, and goes out.”

“Is it late-”

“It must be late, for it is dark.”

“So much the better; she must have fled shortly before my return, and I shall perhaps have time to overtake her. Follow her, Andree; follow her!”

“Once outside the house, she runs as if she were mad; she reaches the boulevard; she hastens on without pausing.”

“In which direction!”

“Toward the Bastille.”

“You see her yet-”

“Yes; she looks like a madwoman; she jostles against the passers-by. At length she stops; she endeavors to discover where she is; she inquires.”

“What does she say!Listen, Andree, listen; in Heaven's name do not lose a syllable! You say she inquires”

“Yes, she addresses a man dressed in black.”

“What does she ask-”

“She wishes to know the address of the lieutenant of police.”

“Oh! then it was not a vain threat. Does the person give it her-”

“Yea.”

“What does she do-”

“She retraces her steps and turns down a winding street. She crosses a large square.”

“The Place Royale- it is the direct way. Can you read her intention-”

“Follow her quickly; hasten! She goes to betray you! If she arrives before you, and sees Monsieur de Sartines, you are lost!” Balsamo uttered a terrible cry, plunged into the thicket, rushed through a little door which a shadowy apparition opened and closed after him, and leaped with one bound on his faithful Djerid, who was pawing the ground at the little gate. The animal, urged on at once by voice and spur, darted like an arrow toward Paris; and soon nothing -was heard but the clattering of his hoofs on the paved causeway. As for Andree, she remained standing there, cold, mute, and pale. Then, as if Balsamo had borne away with him life and strength, she tottered, drooped, and fell. Balsamo, in his eagerness to follow Lorenza, had forgotten to awaken her.

CHAPTER CXIX. CATALEPSY.

As we have said, Andree did not sink all at once, but gradually, in the manner we will attempt to describe. Alone, abandoned, overpowered with that interior coldness which succeeds any violent nervous shock, Andree began to tremble and totter like one seized by an epileptic fit. Gilbert still remained in the same place- rigid, immovable, leaning forward, and devouring her with his gaze. But as it may readily be imagined, Gilbert, entirely ignorant of magnetic phenomena, thought neither of sleep nor of subjected will. He had heard nothing, 'or almost nothing, of her dialogue with Balsamo. But for the second time, at Trianon as at Taverney, Andree had appeared to obey the summons of this man, who had acquired such a strange and terrible power over her.

To Gilbert, therefore, the situation was summed up in these words: “Mademoiselle Andree has, if not a lover, at least a man whom she loves, and to whom she grants a rendezvous at night.”

The dialogue which had taken place between Andree and Balsamo, although sustained in a low voice, had all the appearance of a quarrel. Balsamo, excited, flying, frantic, seemed like a lover in despair; Andree, left alone, mute and motionless, like a loving girl abandoned. It was at this moment that he saw the young girl totter, wring her hands, and turn around bewildered. Then she uttered dull groans that seemed to rend her burdened heart. She endeavored, or rather Nature endeavored, to throw back the overpowering mass of fluid which, during the magnetic sleep, had endowed her with that double sight whose phenomena we saw manifested in the last chapter.

But Nature was overpowered; Andree could not succeed in throwing off the bonds of that mysterious will which Balsamo had forgotten to withdraw. She could not loose the marvelous, inexplicable ties which had bound her hand and foot; and by dint of struggling, she fell into those convulsions which in the olden time the Pythoness suffered upon her tripod before the crowd of religious questioners who swarmed around the peristyle of the temple. Andree lost her balance, and with a moan of pain sank toward the ground as if she had been struck by the flash which at that moment furrowed the vault of heaven.

But she had not yet touched the earth when Gilbert, strong and agile as a tiger, darted toward her, seized her in his arms, and without being conscious that he carried a burden, bore her back into the chamber which she had left to obey Balsamo's summons, and in which the candle was yet burning beside the disarranged couch. Gilbert found all the doors open as Andree had left them. As he entered, he stumbled against the sofa, and placed on it the cold and inanimate form of the young girl. His contact with that lifeless frame had stirred a fever within him; his nerves quivered, his blood boiled. His first thought, however, was chaste and pure. It was necessary, first of all, to recall this beautiful statue to life. He looked round for the carafe, in order to sprinkle some drops of water in Andree's face. But just as his trembling hand was stretched forth to grasp the thin neck of the crystal ewer, it seemed to him that a firm but light step sounded on the stairs leading to Andree's chamber. It could not be Nicole, for Nicole had fled with Monsieur de Beausire; it could not be Balsamo, for Balsamo was spurring with lightning haste to Paris. It must therefore be a stranger.

Gilbert, if discovered, was lost; Andree was to him like one of those princesses of Spain whom a subject may not touch, even to save from death. All these ideas rushed like a whirlwind through Gilbert's mind in less time than that fatal step required to mount another stair. He could not calculate the exact distance of the footstep, which every moment approached still nearer, for the storm which raged without dulled every other sound; but gifted with extraordinary coolness and foresight, the young man understood that that was no place for him, and that the most important matter was to conceal himself from sight. He hastily blew out ' the candle which illumined Andree's apartment, and entered the cabinet which served as Nicole's sleeping-chamber. From this hiding-place he could see through the glass-door into Andree's apartment, and also into the antechamber. In this antechamber a night-lamp was burning upon a little table.

Gilbert had at first thought of extinguishing it, as he had extinguished the candle; but he had not time. The step creaked in the corridor, a repressed breathing was heard, the figure of a man appeared upon the threshold, glided timidly into the antechamber, closed the door, and bolted it. Gilbert had only time to hasten into Nicole's cabinet and to close the glass-door after him. He held his breath, pressed his face against the stained-glass panes, and listened eagerly. The storm still howled wildly outside, large rain-drops beat against the windows of Andree's apartment and those of the corridor, where a casement, accidentally left open, creaked upon its hinges, and every now and then, dashed back by the wind which rushed into the corridor, struck noisily against its frame. But the war of the elements, terrible as it was, produced no effect on Gilbert. His whole soul was concentrated in his gaze, which was riveted upon this man, who crossed the antechamber, passed not two paces distant from Gilbert, and unhesitatingly entered the chamber. Gilbert saw the man advance, feeling his way, to Andree's bed, make a gesture of surprise on seeing the bed unoccupied, and almost immediately jostle with his arm the candle upon the table. The candle fell, and Gilbert heard the crystal socket break in falling on the marble table. Then the man called twice in a subdued voice, “Nicole! Nicole!”

“What, Nicole!” thought Gilbert, in his hiding-place. “Why does this man call Nicole instead of Andree-”

But as no voice replied to his, the man lifted the candle from the floor, and proceeded on tiptoe to light it at the night-lamp in the antechamber. It was then that Gilbert fixed his whole attention upon this strange nocturnal visitor; he gazed as if his vision could have pierced the wall. Suddenly he trembled, and even in his hiding-place recoiled a step. By the light of the two flames combined, Gilbert, trembling and half-dead with affright, recognized in this man who held the candle in his hand the king! Then all was explained! Nicole's flight, the money she had given Beausire, the door left open, the interviews between Richelieu and Taverney, and all that dark and mysterious intrigue of which the young girl was the centre. Then Gilbert understood why the king had called Nicole, the instrument of that crime, the complaisant Judas who had sold and delivered up her mistress! But at the thought of the king's purpose in coming to that chamber, at the thought of what was about to take place before him, the blood rushed to his eyes and blinded him. He had the impulse to cry out; but fear, that unreflecting, capricious, irresistible sentiment, the fear he had of that man, still full of prestige, who was called the king of France, tied his tongue. Louis XV. meanwhile had returned to the chamber, candle in hand. Immediately he saw Andre's, in a robe of white muslin which left her person partially uncovered, her head leaning against the back of the sofa, one leg resting on the cushion, and the other, inflexible and bare, resting on the carpet. At that sight the king smiled. The candle lighted up that sinister smile; but almost at the same time a smile equally sinister appeared on Andree's face. Louis XV. murmured a few words, which Gilbert understood to be words of love, and placing his light on the table, glancing as he turned at the illumined sky, he went and knelt down before the young girl and kissed her hand.

Gilbert wiped away the perspiration coursing down his face. Andree did not stir. The king, perceiving that Andree's hand was cold, took it in his own to warm it, and passing his other arm around that body so beautiful and so sweet, he leaned forward to murmur in her ear some of that fond nonsense which is breathed sometimes in the ears of young girls asleep. At that moment his face approached Andree's so closely as to touch it lightly. Gilbert felt in his pocket, and breathed more freely as he grasped the handle of a long knife which he was wont to use in trimming the trees of the park. The king found Andree's face as cold as her hand. He rose to his feet. His eyes fell on Andree's naked foot, white and small as that of Cinderella. He took it between his hands; it was as cold as that of a marble statue. The king was startled. Gilbert, gazing upon the charms of that beauteous, unveiled form, and feeling as if the threatened crime was about to be committed against himself, ground his teeth and opened the knife, which until then he had held closed in his hand. But the king had already abandoned Andree's foot, as he had abandoned her hand and her face, and, surprised by the young girl's sleep, which at first he had ascribed to a coquettish prudery, he sought to account for the deathly coldness which had seized upon the extremities of that lovely body; he asked himself if the heart could still beat when hand, foot, and face were so cold. He parted, therefore, Andree's robe, exposing her virginal breast, and with a touch at once timid and cynical he questioned the heart, silent beneath that flesh, cold as alabaster, and as white and firm in its rounded form. Gilbert glided half through the doorway, with his knife in his hand, his eyes flashing, his teeth pressed together, determined, should the king continue his enterprises, to stab him and then to stab himself. Just then a fearful peal of thunder made every article of furniture in the room shake, even to the couch before which Louis was kneeling.

A livid and sulphureous flash of lightning threw so dazzling a light over Andree's countenance that Louis, alarmed at her paleness, her motionless attitude, and her silence, started back, murmuring: “This girl is surely dead!” At the same instant the idea of having kissed a corpse sent an icy chill through the king's veins. He seized the candle, held it close to Andree's face, and hastily examined her features by the light of the trembling flame. Beholding her livid lips, her swollen and discolored eyes, her disheveled hair, her chest which no breath stirred, he uttered a cry, let the light fall, staggered back, and reeled like a drunken man into the ante-room, against the walls of which he stumbled in his alarm. His hasty step sounded upon the stairs, then on the gravel walks of the garden, and was soon lost in the howling storm which raged through the long alleys and shady groves of Trianon.

Then Gilbert, silent and gloomy, still holding his knife, went out from his hiding-place. He advanced to the threshold of Andree's chamber, and for several seconds looked at the young girl buried in her deep sleep. Meanwhile the candle dropped by the king was still burning, overturned upon the carpet, and threw its light on the delicate foot and the marble limbs of that adorable body. Gilbert slowly closed his knife, while his face gradually assumed the expression of an inexorable resolution; then he went to listen at the door by which the king had departed. He listened more than a full minute. Then he, as the king had done, closed the door and pushed home the bolt. Then he blew out the light in the antechamber. Finally, with the same deliberation, with the same somber fire in his eyes, he returned to Andree's chamber and put his foot on the candle, still wasting on the carpet. A sudden darkness obscured the fatal smile which hovered on his lips.

“Andree, Andree!” he murmured,” I promised you that the third time you should fall into my power you would not escape me as you had before. Andree, Andree! to the terrible romance which you accused me of inventing, there must be a terrible end!” And with arms extended, he went straight to the sofa where Andree was, lying, still cold, motionless, and unconscious.

CHAPTER CXX. THE WILL.

We have seen Balsamo depart. Djerid bore him on with the speed of lightning, while the rider, pale with terror and impatience, bent forward over the flowing mane, breathing with half-opened lips the air which the crest of the noble steed cleft as the rapid prow of the vessel cuts the waves. Behind him houses and trees disappeared like fantastic visions. He scarcely perceived, as he passed, the clumsy wagon groaning on its axle-tree, while its five huge horses started with affright at the approach of this living meteor, which they could not imagine to belong to the same race as themselves. Balsamo proceeded at this rate for a league, with whirling brain, sparkling eyes, and panting breath. Horse and rider had traversed Versailles in a few seconds. The startled inhabitants who happened to be in the streets had seen a train of sparks flash past them- nothing more. A second league was passed in like manner. Djerid had accomplished the distance in little more than a quarter of an hour, and yet this quarter of an hour had seemed to his rider a century. Suddenly a thought darted through his brain. He pulled up suddenly, throwing the noble courser back upon his haunches, while his fore-feet ploughed the ground. Horse and rider breathed for a moment. Drawing a long breath, Balsamo raised his head. Then wiping the perspiration from his forehead, while his nostrils dilated in the breeze of night, he murmured:

“Oh! madman that you are, neither the rapidity of your steed nor the ardor of your desire will ever equal the instantaneous effect of thunder or the rapidity of the electric flash; and yet it is that which you require to avert the danger impending over you! You require the rapid effect, the instantaneous, the all-powerful shock, which will paralyze the feet whose activity you fear, the tongue whose speech destroys you. You require, at this distance, the victorious sleep which restores to you the possession of the slave who has broken her chain. Oh I if she should ever again be in my power!” and Balsamo, grinding his teeth, made a gesture of despair.

“Oh! you do well to wish, Balsamo; you do well to fly!” he exclaimed.” Lorenza has already arrived, she is about to speak, she has perhaps already spoken. Oh! wretched woman, no punishment can be terrible enough for you.

“Let me try,” continued Balsamo, frowning, his eyes fixed, and his chin resting on his hand, “let me try. Either science is a dream or a fact; it is either impotent or powerful; let me try. Lorenza, Lorenza! it is my will that you sleep, wheresoever you may be. Lorenza, sleep- sleep! it is my will! I reckon upon your obedience! Oh, no, no!” he murmured, despairingly, “ no, I utter a falsehood; I do not believe! I dare not reckon upon it; and yet the will is all. Oh! I will it with my whole soul, with all the strength of my being. Cleave the air, my potent will, traverse all the currents of opposing or indifferent wills; pass through walls in thy course like a bullet from a gun; follow her wherever she is. Go, strike, destroy! Lorenza, Lorenza! it is my will that you sleep; be dumb at my command!”

And for some moments he concentrated his thoughts upon this aim, imprinting it on his brain as if to lend it more speed in its flight toward Paris. Then after this mysterious operation; in which doubtless all the divine atoms animated by God, the master and lord of all things, assisted; Balsamo, once more setting his teeth bard and clenching his hands, gave the reins to Djerid, but this time without using either the knee or the spurs. It seemed as if Balsamo wished to convince himself. The noble steed paced gently onward in obedience to the tacit permission of his master, placing his hoof gently upon the pavement with the light and noiseless step peculiar to his race. During all this time, which to a superficial observer would have seemed entirely lost, Balsamo was arranging a complete plan of defense. He concluded it just as Djerid entered the streets of Sevres. Arrived opposite the park-gates, he stopped and looked round, as if expecting someone. Almost immediately a man emerged from beneath a carriage entrance, and advanced toward him.

“Is that you, Fritz!” asked Balsamo.

“Yes, Master.”

“Have you made inquiries!”

“Yes.”

“Is Madame Dubarry in Paris, or at Luciennes-”

“She is in Paris.” Balsamo raised his eyes to heaven with a triumphant look. “How did you come-”

“On Sultan.”

“Where is he-”

“In the court-yard of this inn.”

“Saddled-”

“Yes.”

“Very well; get ready to follow me.”

Fritz hastened to bring out Sultan; one of those strong German horses, of good disposition, who grumble a little at forced marches, but who, nevertheless, go as long as they have breath in their lungs, or while there is a spur at their master's heel. Fritz returned to Balsamo, who was writing by the light of a street-lantern.

“Return to Paris,” said he, “and manage by some means to give this note to Madame Dubarry in person. You have half an hour for this purpose. After which you will return to the Rue Saint Claude, where you will wait for Madame Lorenza, who cannot fail to return soon. You will let her pass without any observation and without offering any opposition. Go, and remember, above all, that in half an hour your commission must be executed.”

“It is well,” said Fritz; “ it shall be done.”

As he gave this confident reply to Balsamo, he attacked Sultan with whip and spur, and the good steed started off, astonished at this unusual aggression, and neighing piteously. Balsamo by degrees resumed his composure, and took the road to Paris, which he entered three quarters of an hour afterward, appearing quite fresh, and wearing a calm, or rather a thoughtful, expression. Balsamo's reasoning had been correct. However swift Djerid, that whinnying son of the desert, might be, his speed was in this case useless; thought alone could hope to overtake Lorenza in her flight from prison. From the Rue Saint Claude she had gained the boulevard; and turning to the right, she soon saw the walls of the Bastille rise before her. But Lorenza, constantly a prisoner, was entirely ignorant of Paris. Moreover, her first aim was to escape from that accursed house in which she saw only a dungeon; vengeance was a secondary consideration. She had just entered the Faubourg Saint Antoine, hastening onward with bewildered steps, when she was accosted by a young man who had been following her for some moments with astonishment.

In fact, Lorenza, an Italian girl from the neighborhood of Rome, having almost always lived a secluded life, far from all knowledge of the fashions and customs of the age, was dressed more like an Oriental than a European lady; that is, in flowing and sumptuous robe, very unlike the charming dolls of that time, confined, like wasps, in long, tight waists, rustling with silk and muslin, under which it was almost useless to seek a body, their utmost ambition being to appear immaterial. Lorenza had only adopted from the French costume of that period the shoes with heels two inches high, that strange-looking invention which stiffened the foot, displayed the beauty of the ankle, and which rendered it impossible for the Arethusas of that rather mythological age to fly from the pursuit of their Alpheuses.

The Alpheus who pursued bur Arethusa easily overtook her, therefore. He had seen her lovely ankles peeping from beneath her petticoats of satin and lace, her unpowdered hair, and her dark eyes sparkling with a strange tire from under a mantilla thrown over her head and neck, and he imagined he saw in Lorenza a lady disguised for a masquerade or for a rendezvous, and proceeding on foot, for want of a coach, to some little house of the Faubourg. He approached her, therefore, and walking beside her, hat in hand.

“Good heavens! Madame,” said he,” you cannot go far in this costume and with these shoes, which retard your progress. Will you accept my arm until we find a coach, and allow me the honor of accompanying you to your destination-”

Lorenza turned her head abruptly, gazed with her dark, expressive eyes at the man who thus made her an offer which to many ladies would have appeared an impertinent one, and stopping, “Yes,” said she,” most willingly.”

The young man gallantly offered his arm. “Whither are we going, Madame-” he asked.

“To the hotel of the lieutenant of police.”

The young man started.” To Monsieur de Sartines!” he inquired.

“I do not know whether his name is Monsieur de Sartines or not; I wish to speak to whoever is lieutenant of police.”

The young man began to reflect. A young and handsome woman wandering alone in the streets of Paris at eight o'clock in the evening, in a strange costume, holding a box under her arm, and inquiring for the hotel of the lieutenant of police, while she was going in the contrary direction, seemed to him suspicious.

“Ah, diable!” said he, “the hotel of the lieutenant of police is not in this direction at all.”

“Where is it, then-”

“In the Faubourg Saint Germain.”

“And how must I go to the Faubourg Saint Germain-”

“This way, Madame,” replied the young man, calm, but always polite; ”and if you wish, we can take the first coach we meet-”

“Oh, yes! a coach; you are right.”

The young man conducted Lorenza back to the boulevard, and having met a fiacre, he hailed it. The coachman answered his summons.

“Where to, Madame-” he asked.

“To the hotel of Monsieur de Sartines,” said the young man; and with a last effort of politeness, or rather of astonishment, having opened the coach-door, he bowed to Lorenza; and after assisting her to get in, stood looking after her as one stands gazing in a dream.

The coachman, full of respect for the dreadful name, gave his horse the whip, and drove rapidly in the direction indicated. It was while Lorenza was thus crossing the Place Royale that Andree in her magnetic sleep had seen and heard her, and denounced her to Balsamo. In twenty minutes Lorenza was at the door of the hotel.

“Must I wait for you, my fair lady-” asked the coachman.

“Yes,” replied Lorenza, mechanically; and stepping lightly from the coach, she disappeared beneath the portal of the splendid hotel.

CHAPTER CXXI. THE HOTEL OF MONSIEUR DE SARTINES.

The moment Lorenza entered the courtyard, she found herself surrounded by a crowd of soldiers and officers. She addressed the guardsman who stood nearest to her, and begged him to conduct her to the lieutenant of police. The guardsman handed her over to the porter, who, seeing a beautiful stranger, richly dressed, and holding a magnificent coffer under her arm, thought that the visit might prove to be an important one, and preceded her up the grand staircase to an antechamber, where, after the sagacious scrutiny of the porter, every visitor could be admitted to present an explanation, an accusation, or a request, to Monsieur de Sartines, at any hour of the day or night. It is needless to say that the first two classes of visitors were more favorably received than the last.

Lorenza, when questioned by the usher, replied only, “Are you Monsieur de Sartines!” The usher was profoundly astonished that anyone could mistake his black dress and steel chain for the embroidered coat and flowing wig of the lieutenant of police; but as no lieutenant is ever angry at being called captain, as he marked the foreign accent of the lady, and as her firm and steady gaze was not that of a lunatic, he felt convinced that the fair visitor had something important in the coffer which she held so carefully and so securely under her arm.

Nevertheless, since Monsieur de Sartines was a prudent and suspicious man, since traps had been laid for him with baits not less enticing than that of the beautiful Italian, there was good watch kept around him, and Lorenza had to undergo the investigation, the questioning, and the suspicions of half a dozen secretaries and valets. The upshot of all these questions and replies was that Monsieur de Sartines had not yet returned, and that Lorenza must wait. Then the young woman sank into a moody silence, and her eyes wandered over the bare walls of the vast antechamber. At last the ringing of a bell was heard; a carriage rolled into the courtyard, and a second usher entered, and announced to Lorenza that Monsieur de Sartines was waiting for her. Lorenza rose, and crossed two halls full of people with suspicious-looking faces, and dresses still more strange than her own. At last she was introduced into a large cabinet of an octagon form, lighted by a number of wax candles.

A man of from fifty to fifty-five years of age, enveloped in a dressing-gown, his head surmounted by a wig profusely powdered and curled, was seated at work before a lofty piece of furniture, the upper part of which, somewhat resembling in form a cupboard, was closed with two doors of looking-glass, in which the person seated could, without moving, see those who entered the room, and could examine their features before they had time to compose them in harmony with his own. The lower part of this article of furniture formed a secretary. A number of rosewood drawers composed the front, each of which closed by the combination of some letters of the alphabet. Monsieur de Sartines kept in them his papers, and the ciphers which no one could read while he lived, since the drawers opened for him alone, and which none could decipher after his death, unless in some drawer, still more secret than the others, he should find the key to the cipher. This secretary, or rather this cupboard, contained behind the glasses of the upper part, twelve drawers, also closed by an invisible mechanism. This piece of furniture, constructed expressly by the regent to contain his chemical or political secrets, had been given by that prince to Dubois, and left by Dubois to Monsieur Dombreval, lieutenant of police. It was from the latter that Monsieur de Sartines had inherited the secretary and the secret. However, Monsieur de Sartines had not consented to use it until after the death of the donor, and even then he had had all the arrangements of the locks altered. This piece of furniture had some reputation in the world, and shut too closely, people said, for Monsieur de Sartines to keep only his wigs in it. The grumblers, and their name was legion at this period, said that if it were possible to read through the panels of this secretary, there would most certainly have been discovered, in one of its drawers, the famous treaty by virtue of which Louis XV. speculated in grain, through the intervention of his devoted agent, Monsieur de Sartines. The lieutenant of police therefore saw, reflected in the glass, the pale, serious face of Lorenza as she advanced toward him with the coffer still beneath her arm. In the centre of the apartment the young woman stopped. Her costume, her figure, and the strangeness of her proceedings, struck the lieutenant.

“Who are you!” he asked, without turning round, but looking at her in the glass. “What do you want with me-”

“Am I in the presence of Monsieur de Sartines, lieutenant of police-” replied Lorenza.

“Yes,” replied he, abruptly.

“Who will assure me of that-”

Monsieur de Sartines turned round. “Will it be a proof that I am the man you seek,” said he,” if I send you to prison!”

Lorenza made no reply. Only, she looked around her -with the indescribable dignity peculiar to the women of Italy, seeking the chair which Monsieur de Sartines did not offer her. He was vanquished by this look, for Monsieur le Comte d'Alby de Sartines was a remarkably well- bred man.

“Be seated,” said he, sharply. Lorenza drew a chair forward and sat down..

“Speak quickly,” said the magistrate.” Come I let me know what you want.”

“Monsieur,” said Lorenza, “I come to place myself under your protection.”

Monsieur de Sartines looked at her with the sarcastic look peculiar to him.

“Ah, ah!” said he.

“Monsieur,” continued Lorenza, “I have been carried off from my family, and have, by a false marriage, fallen into the power of a man who for the last three years has -oppressed me and made my life miserable.”

Monsieur de Sartines looked with admiration upon this noble countenance, and felt touched and charmed by this voice, so soft (that its utterance seemed like a strain of music.

“From what.country do you come!” he asked.

“I am a Roman.”

“What is your name!”

“Lorenza.”

“Lorenza what-”

“Lorenza Feliciani.”

“I do not know that family. Are you a demoiselle!”

“Demoiselle” at this period meant a lady of quality. In our days a lady thinks herself noble enough when she is married, and wishes thenceforth to be called only “madame.”

“I am a demoiselle,” replied Lorenza.

“Well, what do you demand!”

“I demand justice against this man who has stolen and incarcerated me.”

“That is no affair of mine,” said the lieutenant of police; “are you his wife-”

“He says so, at least.”

“What! he says so!”

“Yes; but I do not remember anything of it, as the marriage was contracted while I slept.”

“Peste! you sleep soundly.”

“What do you say-”

“I say that it is not in my province. Apply to an attorney and bring an action; I do not like to meddle in family matters.”

Monsieur de Sartines waved his hand with a gesture which meant, “Begone!”

Lorenza did not move.

“Well!” asked Monsieur de Sartines, astonished.

“I have not done yet,” said she, “and if I come to you, you must understand that it is not to complain of a trifling matter, but to revenge myself. I have told you my country; the women of my country revenge themselves, but never complain.”

“That is another affair,” said Monsieur de Sartines;” but speak quickly, fair lady, for my time is precious.”

“I told you that I came to you to ask for your protection. Shall I have it-”

“Protection against whom!”

“Against the man upon whom I wish to revenge myself.”

“He is powerful, then-”

“More powerful than a king.”

“Come, explain, my dear Madame! Why should I protect you against a man who is, in your opinion, more powerful than a king, by reason of an act which is perhaps a crime- If you wish to be revenged on this man, revenge yourself. That is nothing to me; only, if you commit a crime, I shall have to arrest you. After which, -we shall see: that is the routine.”

“No, Monsieur,” said Lorenza;” no, you will not have me arrested, for my vengeance is of the greatest utility to you, to the king, and to France. I shall revenge myself by revealing this man's secrets.”

“Ah, ah! he has secrets!” said Monsieur de Sartines, beginning to feel interested in spite of himself. “Important secrets, Monsieur.”

“Of what kind-”

“Political.”

“Mention them.”

“But, in short, will you protect me!”

“What sort of protection do you require-” said the magistrate, with a cold smile-” gold, or affection!”

“I only ask permission, Monsieur, to retire to a con- Tent, and to live there concealed and unknown. I ask that this convent may become my tomb, but that this tomb may never be violated by anyone in the world.”

“Ah!” said the magistrate,” that is not a very exacting demand. You shall have the convent; speak!”

“Then I have your word, Monsieur-”

“I think I said so.”

“Then,” said Lorenza,” take this coffer- it contains mysteries which will make you tremble for the safety of the king and his dominions.”

“Then you know these mysteries-”

“Only partially; but I know they exist.”

“And that they are important-”

“That they are terrible.”

“Political secrets, you say!”

“Have you never heard that there existed a secret society-”

“Ah! the freemasons-”

“The invisibles.”

“Yes; but I do not believe it.”

“When you have opened this coffer, you will believe.”

“Ah!” said Monsieur de Sartines, eagerly,” let me see;” and he took the coffer from Lorenza 's hands. But suddenly, after a moment's reflection, he placed it upon, the desk. “No,” said he, with an air of suspicion;” open the. coffer yourself.”

“But I have not the key.”

“What! you have not the key! You bring me a coffer which contains the safety of a kingdom, and you forget the key!”

“Is it so very difficult, then, to open a lock-”

“No, not when one knows it.” Then, after a moment's pause, he added:” We have in this place keys for all kinds of locks; you shall have a bunch (and he looked fixedly at Lorenza), and you shall open it yourself.”

“Give it me,” said Lorenza, simply. Monsieur de Sartines held out a bunch of little keys of all kinds to the young woman. She took them; he touched her hand; it was cold as marble. “But why,” said he,” did you not bring the key of the coffer-”

“Because the master of the coffer never lets it out of his possession.”

“And who is the master of the coffer- this man who is more powerful than a king!”

“Who he is, no one can say. The Almighty alone knows how long he has lived; the deeds he accomplishes none see but God.”

“But his name- his name-”

“I have known him change it ten times.”

“Well, that by which you generally address him!”

“Acharat.”

“And he lives-”

“Rue Saint-”

Suddenly Lorenza started, shuddered, and let the coffer, which she held in the one hand, and the keys, which she held in the other, fall to the ground. She made an effort to reply, her lips were distorted convulsively, she raised her hands to her throat, as if the words she was about to utter had suffocated her; then, tossing her trembling arms aloft, she fell her whole length upon the carpet, unable to utter a single word.

“Poor girl!” murmured Monsieur de Sartines, “what the deuce is the matter with her- She is really very pretty. Ah! there is some jealousy at work in this project of revenge.”

He rang the bell hastily, and in the mean time raised the young woman in his arms, who, with staring eyes and motionless lips, seemed already dead and unrelated to the world. Two valets entered.

“Carry this young lady carefully into the adjoining apartment,” said he; “endeavor to revive her, but above all, use no violence. Go.”

The valets obeyed, and carried Lorenza out.

CHAPTER CXXII. THE COFFER.

When he was alone, Monsieur de Sartines turned the coffer round and round with the air of a man who can appreciate the value of a discovery. Then he stretched out his hands and picked up the bundle of keys which had fallen from Lorenza's hands. He tried them all; none would fit. He took several similar hunches from his drawer. These bunches contained keys of all sizes- keys of all sorts of articles, coffers included; common keys and microscopic keys. Monsieur de Sartines might he said to possess a pattern of every key known. He tried twenty, fifty, a hundred; not one would even turn round. The magistrate concluded, therefore, that the lock was only a semblance of a lock, and that consequently his keys were only make-believe keys. He then took a small chisel and a little hammer from the same drawer, and with his white hand, buried in an ample frill of Mechlin lace, he burst open the lock, the faithful guardian of the coffer.

A bundle of papers appeared, instead of the destructive machine he had feared to find there, or poisons which should diffuse a fatal odor around, and deprive France of its most useful magistrate. The first words which met the magistrate's eye were the following, written in a handwriting which was evidently feigned.

“Master, it is time to abandon the name of Balsamo.”

There was no signature, but merely the three letters, L. P. D. “

“Ha!” said he, twitching the curls of his wig,” if I do not know the writing, I think I know the name. Balsamo, let me see; I must search the B's.”

Monsieur de Sartines opened one of his twenty-four drawers, and took from it a list, arranged in alphabetical order, written in a fine handwriting full of abbreviations, and containing three or four hundred names, preceded, followed, and accompanied by flaming notes.

“Oh, oh!” he murmured,” here is a long article on this Balsamo!” and he read the whole page with unequivocal signs of dissatisfaction. Then he replaced the list in the drawer, and continued the examination of the coffer. He had not proceeded far before his brow assumed a darker hue, and soon he came to a note full of names and ciphers. This paper seemed important; it was much worn at the edges, and filled with pencil-marks. Monsieur de Sartines rang the bell; a servant appeared.

“The assistance of the chancery clerk,” said the minister, “immediately. Let him come through the reception-rooms from the office, to save time.”

The valet retired. Two minutes afterward a clerk with a pen in his hand, his hat under one arm, a large register under the other, and wearing sleeves of black serge over his coat-sleeves, appeared on the threshold of the cabinet. Monsieur de Sartines perceived his entrance in the mirror before him, and handed him the paper over his shoulder.

“Decipher this,” said he.

“Yes, Monseigneur,” replied the clerk.

This decipherer of riddles was a little thin man, with pinched lips, eyebrows contracted by study, pale features, and head pointed both at top and bottom, a narrow chin a receding forehead, projecting cheek-bones, hollow and dull eyes, which sometimes sparkled with intelligence. Monsieur de Sartines called him La Fouine.

“Sit down,” said the magistrate to him, on seeing him rather embarrassed, by his note-book, his code of ciphers, his paper, and his pen.

La Fouine modestly took his seat upon the corner of a stool, drew his knees together, and began to write upon them, turning over his dictionary and searching his memory, with an impassive countenance. In five minutes he had written:

“An order to assemble three thousand brothers in Paris.”

“An order to form three circles and six lodges.”

“An order to form a guard for the Grand Copt, and to institute four dwellings for him, one in a royal household.”

“An order to place five hundred thousand francs at his disposal for a police.”

“An order to enroll in the first of the Parisian circles the flower of literature and philosophy.”

“An order to hire or to gain over the magistracy, and particularly to make sure of the lieutenant of police, by corruption, violence, or cunning.”

Here La Fouine stopped for a moment, not that the poor man was reflecting, he took care not to do that; it would have been a crime, but because his page was filled and the ink yet wet, so that he was obliged to wait for its drying before he could proceed. Monsieur de Sartines, becoming impatient, snatched the paper from his hands and read it. At the last paragraph, such an expression of fear was painted on his face that he turned a deeper pale at seeing himself change color in the mirror of his secretary. He did not return the paper to his clerk, but handed him a fresh sheet. The clerk began again, and wrote as fast as be deciphered, which he did with a facility terrifying for all writers in cipher.

This time Monsieur de Sartines read over his shoulder:

“To drop the name of Balsamo, which is already too well known in Paris, and to take that of the Comte de Fe-”

A large blot of ink concealed the rest of the word. While Monsieur de Sartines was endeavoring to make cut the last syllable, which would complete the name, a bell was rung outside, and a valet entering, announced:

”The Comte de Fenix.”

Monsieur de Sartines uttered a cry; and at the risk of demolishing the harmonious edifice of his wig, he clasped his hands above his head, and hastened to dismiss his clerk by a secret door. Then, resuming his place before the desk, he said to the valet, “Introduce him.”

A few seconds afterward Monsieur de Sartines perceived in his glass the stern profile of the count, whom he had already seen at court on the day of Madame Dubarry's presentation. Balsamo entered without hesitation. Monsieur de Sartines rose, bowed coldly to the count, and crossing one leg over the other, he seated himself ceremoniously in his armchair. At the first glance the magistrate had divined the cause and the aim of this visit. At the first glance also Balsamo had perceived the opened box, half emptied upon Monsieur de Sartines' desk. His look, however hasty, at the coffer, did not escape the lieutenant of police.

“To what chance do I owe the honor of your presence, Monsieur le Comte!” asked Monsieur de Sartines.

“Monsieur,” replied Balsamo, with a most affable smile,” I have had the honor of being presented to all the sovereigns, ministers, and ambassadors of Europe, but I have- not found anyone to present me to you; I have therefore come to introduce myself.”

“In truth, Monsieur,” replied the lieutenant of police,. “you arrive most opportunely; for I am quite sure that had you not come of yourself, I should have had the honor of sending for you.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Balsamo;” that is a coincidence!”

Monsieur de Sartines inclined his head with a sarcastic smile.

“Shall I be so fortunate as to be of any use to you-” asked Balsamo; and these words were uttered without a shadow of emotion or of uneasiness clouding his smiling features.

“You have travelled much, Monsieur le Comte-” asked the lieutenant of police. “A great deal, Monsieur.”

“Ah!”

“You wish for some geographical information, perhaps- A man of your capacity does not confine his observation to France alone; he surveys Europe- the world.”

“' Geographical,' is not exactly the word, Count. ' Moral' would be more correct.”

“Have no scruples I beg; for the one, as for the other,. I am wholly at your service.”

“Well, Monsieur le Comte, picture to yourself that I am in search of a most dangerous man- a man who, on my word, is a complete atheist.”

“Oh!”

“A conspirator.”

“Oh!”

“A forger.”

“Oh!”

“A debauchee, a fake coiner, a quack, a charlatan, the chief of a society, a man whose history I have in my books, in this box that you see here- everywhere, indeed.”

“Ah! yes, I comprehend,” said Balsamo;”you have the history, but not the man.”

“No.”

“The devil! The latter is the more important, it seems to me.”

“Of course; but you will see that we are not far from having him. Certainly Proteus had not more forms, nor Jupiter more names, than this mysterious traveler. Acharat in Egypt, Balsamo in Italy, Somini in Sardinia, the Marquis d'Anna in Malta, the Marquis Pellegrini in Corsica, and lastly, the Comte de-!”

“Comte de-” added Balsamo.

“The last name, Monsieur, I have not been able to read. But I am sure you will assist me, will you not! For there is no doubt you must have met this man during your travels in each of the countries I have just now named.”

“Enlighten me a little, I entreat,” said Balsamo, quietly.

“Ah! I understand; you wish for a description of his person, do you not, Monsieur le Comte-”

“Yes, Monsieur, if you please.”

“Well!” said Monsieur de Sartines, fixing a glance, which he intended to be inquisitorial upon Balsamo, “he is a man of your age, of your size, of your figure. He is sometimes a great lord, scattering money on all sides; sometimes a charlatan, searching into the secrets of Nature; sometimes a gloomy member of some mysterious brotherhood which meets by night and swears death to kings, and the destruction of thrones.”

“Oh!” said Balsamo,” that is very vague.”

“How, vague-”

“If you knew how many men I have seen who resemble this description.”

“Really-”

“Of course; and you must be a little more precise if you wish me to assist you. In the first place, do you know in which country lie prefers to live-”

“He dwells in all.”

“But at present, for instance-”

“At present he is in France.”

“And what is he doing in France-”

“He is directing an immense conspiracy.”

“Ah! that is indeed some clew; and if you know what conspiracy he directs, you hold the thread at the end of which, in all probability, you will find your man.”

“I am quite of your opinion.”

“Well, if you think so, why do you ask my advice- It is useless.”

“Ah! but I am not yet decided.”

“On what point!”

“Whether I shall arrest him or not.”

“I do not understand the not, Monsieur; for if lie conspires-”

“Yes, but if he is partially defended by some name or by some title!”

“Ah, I understand! But what name!- what title! You must tell me that before I can assist you in your search, Monsieur.”

“Why, Monsieur, I have told you that I know the name under which he conceals himself; but-”

“But do you not know the one under which he shows himself- is that it-”

“Yes, otherwise-”

“Otherwise you would arrest him-”

“Instantly.”

“Well, my dear Monsieur de Sartines, it is very fortunate, as you said just now, that I arrived at this moment; for I will do you the service you require.”

“You-”

“Yes.”

“You will tell me his name!”

“Yes.”

“The name under which he shows himself-”

“Yes.”

“Then you know him-”

“Very well.”

“And what is his name-” asked Monsieur de Sartines, expecting some falsehood.

“The Comte de Fenix.”

“What! the name by which you were announced-”

“The name by which I was announced- yes.”

“Your name-”

“My name.”

“Then this Acharat, this Somini, this Marquis d'Anna, this Marquis Pellegrini, this Joseph Balsamo, is you!”

“Yes,” said Balsamo, quietly,” is myself.”

It was a minute before Monsieur de Sartines could recover from the vertigo which this frank avowal caused him.

“You see, I knew it,” said he. “I recognized you. I knew that Joseph Balsamo and the Comte de Fenix were the same.”

“Ah!” said Balsamo, “you are a great minister. I confess it!”

“And you are most imprudent,” said the magistrate, advancing toward the bell.

“Imprudent, why-”

“Because I am going to have you arrested.”

“What say you-” replied Balsamo, stepping between the magistrate and the bell. “You are going to arrest me-”

“Pardieu! what can you do to prevent me, may I ask-”

“You ask me-”

“Yes.”

“My dear lieutenant of police, I will blow your brains out;” and Balsamo drew from his pocket a charming little pistol mounted in silver gilt, which, from its appearance, might have been chased by Benvenuto Cellini, and calmly leveled it at the forehead of Monsieur de Sartines, who turned pale and sank into an armchair.

“There,” said Balsamo, drawing another chair close to that occupied by the lieutenant of police, and sitting down, “now that we are comfortably seated, we can chat a little.”

CHAPTER CXXIII. CONVERSATION.

Monsieur De Sartines was a moment or two recovering from his rather severe alarm. He had seen the threatening muzzle of the pistol presented before his very eye; he had even felt the cold metal of the barrel upon his forehead. At last he recovered.

“Monsieur,” said he, “you have an advantage over me. Knowing what sort of a man I had to deal with, I did not take the precautions usually adopted against common malefactors.”

“Oh, Monsieur!” replied Balsamo, “now you are getting angry, and use injurious expressions. Do you not see how unjust you are- I come to do you a service.”

Monsieur de Sartines made a movement.

“Yes, Monsieur, to serve you,” resumed Balsamo, “and you misunderstand my intentions; you speak to me of conspirators at the very time when I come to denounce a conspiracy to you.”

But Balsamo talked in vain. Monsieur de Sartines did not at that moment pay any great attention to the words of his dangerous visitor; and the word “conspiracy,” which on other occasions would have been sufficient.

“Since you know so well who I am, Monsieur, you are aware of my mission in France. Sent by his Majesty the great Frederick, I am more or less secretly the ambassador of his Prussian Majesty. Now by ambassador is understood an inquirer; in my capacity as inquirer I am ignorant of nothing that happens; and a subject upon which I am particularly well informed is the monopoly of grain.”

However unpretendingly Balsamo uttered these last words, they nevertheless produced more effect upon the lieutenant of police than all the others, for they made him attentive. He slowly raised his head.

“What is that about grain-” said he, affecting as much assurance as Balsamo himself had displayed at the beginning of the interview. “Be good enough, in your turn, to instruct me, Monsieur.”

“Willingly, Monsieur,” said Balsamo.”This is the whole matter-”

“I am all attention.”

“Oh, you do not need to tell me that! Some very clever speculators have persuaded his Majesty the king of France that he ought to construct granaries for his people in case of scarcity. These granaries, therefore, have been constructed. While they were doing it, they thought it as well to make them large. Nothing was spared, neither stone nor brick, and they were made very large.”

“Well-”

“Well, they had then to be filled. Empty granaries were useless, therefore they were filled.”

“Well! Monsieur,” said Monsieur de Sartines, not seeing very clearly as yet what Balsamo was driving at. “Well! you may readily conceive that to fill these very large granaries, a great quantity of grain was required, is that not evident!”

“Yes.”

“To continue, then. A large quantity of grain withdrawn from circulation is one way of starving the people; for, mark this: any amount taken from the circulation is equivalent to a failure in the production. A thousand sacks of corn more in the granary are a thousand sacks of corn less in the market-place. If you only multiply these thousand sacks by ten, the corn will rise considerably.”

Monsieur de Sartines was seized with an irritating- cough. Balsamo paused, and waited till the cough was quieted.

“You see, then,” he continued, as soon as the lieutenant of police would permit him, “you see that the speculator in these granaries is enriched by the amount of the rise in value. Is that clear to you!”

“Perfectly clear, Monsieur,” said Monsieur do Sartines; ”but, as far as I can understand, it seems that you have the presumption to denounce to me a conspiracy or a crime of which his Majesty is the author-”

“Exactly,” said Balsamo;” you understand me very well.”

“That is a bold step, Monsieur; and I confess that I am rather curious to see how his Majesty will take your accusation; I fear much the result will be precisely the same that I proposed to myself on looking over the papers in this box before your arrival. Take care, Monsieur; your destination in either case will be the Bastille.”

“Ah! now you do not understand me at all.”

“How so-”

“Good heavens! how incorrect an opinion you form of me, and how deeply you wrong me, Monsieur, in taking me for a fool! What I you imagine I intend to attack the king- I, an ambassador, an inquirer- Why, that would be the work of a simpleton! Hear me to the end, I beg of you.” Monsieur de Sartines bowed. “The persons who have discovered this conspiracy against the French people (forgive me for taking up your valuable time, Monsieur, but you will see directly that it is not lost) they who have discovered this conspiracy against the French people are economists laborious and exact men, who by their careful investigation of this underhand game have discovered that the king does not play alone. They know well that his Majesty keeps an exact register of the rate of corn in the different markets; they know that his Majesty rubs his hands with glee when the rise has produced him eight or ten thousand crowns; but they know also that beside his Majesty there stands a man whose position facilitates the sales, a man who naturally, thanks to certain functions (he is a functionary, you must know), superintends the purchases, the receipts, the storage, a man, in short, who manages for the king. Now, these economists, these microscopic observers, as I call them, will not attack the king, for of course they are not mad, but they will attack, my dear Monsieur, the man, the functionary, the agent, who thus intrigues for his Majesty.”

Monsieur de Sartines endeavored in vain to restore the equilibrium of his wig.

“Now,” continued Balsamo,” I am coming to the point. Just as you, who have a police, knew that I was the Comte de Fenix, so I know that you are Monsieur de Sartines.”

“Well, what then!” said the embarrassed magistrate. “Yes, I am Monsieur de Sartines- a fine discovery!”

“Ah! but cannot you understand that this Monsieur de Sartines is precisely the man of the price list, of the underhand dealings, of the stowing away, he who, either with or without the king's cognizance, traffics with the food of twenty-seven millions of French people, whom his office requires him to feed on the best possible terms! Now, just imagine the effect of such a discovery. You are not much beloved by the people; the king is not a very considerate man, as soon as the cries of the famishing millions demand your head, the king, to avert all suspicion of connivance with you, if there is connivance, or if there is no connivance, to do justice, will cause you to be hanged upon a gibbet, like Enguerrand de Marigny. Do you recollect Enguerrand-”

“Imperfectly,” said Monsieur de Sartines, turning very pale; “and it is a proof of very bad taste, I think, Monsieur, to talk of gibbets to a man of my rank.”

“Oh! if I alluded to it,” replied Balsamo, “it was because I think I see poor Enguerrand still before me. I assure you he was a perfect gentleman, from Normandy, of a very ancient family and a noble descent. He was chamberlain of France, captain of the Louvre, comptroller of finance and of buildings; he was Count of Longueville, which county is more considerable than yours of Alby. Well, Monsieur, I saw him hanged upon the gallows of Montfaucon, which he had himself constructed! Thank God, it was not a crime to have said to him, ' Enguerrand, my dear Enguerrand, take care! You are dipping into the finances to an extent that Charles of Valois will never pardon.' He would not listen to me, Monsieur, and unfortunately he perished. Alas! if you knew how many prefects of police I have seen, from Pontius Pilate down to Monsieur Bertin de Belle-Isle, Comte de Bourdeilles, Lord of Brantome, your predecessor, who first introduced the lantern, and prohibited the scales!”

Monsieur de Sartines rose, and endeavored in vain to conceal the agitation which preyed upon him.

“Well,” said he, “you can accuse me if you like. Of what importance is the testimony of a man such as you, who has no influence or connections-”

“Take care, Monsieur,” said Balsamo, “frequently those who seem to have no connections are connected far and wide. And when I shall write the history of these corn speculations to my correspondent Frederick, who, you know, is a philosopher; when Frederick shall hasten to communicate the affair, with his comments upon it, to Monsieur Arouet de Voltaire; when the latter, with his pen, whose reputation, at least, I hope you know, shall have metamorphosed it into a little comic tale in the style of ' L'homme aux quarante Ecus, when Monsieur d'Alembert, that excellent geometrician, shall have calculated that the corn withdrawn from the public consumption by you might have fed a hundred millions of men for two or three years; when Helvetius shall have shown that the price of this corn, converted into crowns of six francs and piled up, would touch the moon, or, into bank-notes placed side by side, would reach to St. Petersburg; when this calculation shall have inspired Monsieur de la Harpe to write a bad drama, Diderot a family conversation, and Monsieur Jean Jacques Rousseau, of Geneva, who has a tolerably sharp bite when he chooses, a terrible paraphrase of this conversation, with commentaries; when Monsieur Caron de Beaumarchais- may Heaven preserve you from treading on his toes!- shall have written a memoir, Monsieur Grimm a little letter, Monsieur d'Holbach a thundering attack, Monsieur de Marmontel an amiable moral tale, in which he will kill you by defending you badly; when you shall be spoken of in the Cafe de la Regence, the Palais Royal, at Andinot's, among the king's dancers, maintained, as you know, by Monsieur Nicolet, ah! Comte d'Alby, you will be in a much worse case than was that poor Enguerrand de Marigny, whom you would not hear me mention, when he stood under the gallows; for he asserted his innocence, and that with so much earnestness that, on my word of honor, I believed him when he affirmed it to me.”

At these words Monsieur de Sartines, no longer paying any heed to decorum, took off his wig and wiped his bald head, which was bathed in perspiration.

“Well,” said he,” so be it! But all that will not prevent me in the least. Ruin me if you can; you have your proofs, I have mine. Keep your secret, I shall keep the coffer.”

“Oh! Monsieur,” said Balsamo, “that is another error into which I am surprised that a man of your talents should fall; this coffer-”

“Well, what of it-”

“You will not keep.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Monsieur de Sartines, with a sarcastic smile, “true; I had forgotten that the Comte de Fenix is a gentleman of the highway who rifles travelers with the strong hand. I forgot your pistol, because you have replaced it in your pocket. Excuse me, my lord ambassador.”

“But, good heavens! why speak of pistols, Monsieur de Sartines- You surely do not believe that I mean to carry off the coffer by main force; that when on the stairs I may hear your bell ring and your voice cry, ' Stop thief!' Oh, no! When I say that you will not keep this coffer, I mean that you will restore it to me willingly, and without constraint.”

“What, I-” exclaimed the magistrate, placing his clenched hand upon the disputed object with so much weight that he nearly broke it.

“Yes, you.”

“Oh! very well, Monsieur, mock away; but as to taking this coffer, I tell you, you shall have it only with my life. And have I not risked my life a thousand times- Do I not owe it, to the last drop, to the service of his Majesty! Kill me- you can do so; but the noise will summon my avengers, and I shall have voice enough left to convict you of all your crimes. Ah! give you hack this coffer,” added he, with a bitter smile, “all hell should not wrest it from me!”

“And therefore I shall not employ the intervention of the subterranean, powers. I shall be satisfied with that of the person who is just now knocking at the gate of your court-yard.”

And in fact, just at that moment, three blows, struck with an air of command, were heard outside.

“And whose carriage,” continued Balsamo, “is just now entering the court.”

“It seems, then, that it is some friend of yours who is coming to honor me with a visit-”

“As you say, a friend of mine.”

“And I shall hand this coffer to that friend!”

“Yes, my dear Monsieur de Sartines, you will give it to that friend.”

The lieutenant of police had not finished his gesture of lofty disdain when a valet opened the door hastily, and announced that Madame Dubarry wished for an interview. Monsieur de Sartines started, and looked in stupefied amazement at Balsamo, who required all his self-command to avoid laughing in the face of the honorable magistrate. Close behind the valet appeared a lady who seemed to have no need of permission to enter. It was the beautiful countess, whose flowing and perfumed skirts gently rustled as they brushed through the doorway of the cabinet.

“You, Madame, you!” exclaimed Monsieur de Sartines, who in the instinct of terror had seized the open coffer in both hands, and clasped it to his breast.

“Good-day, Sartines,” said the countess, with her gay smile; then, turning to Balsamo, “Good-day, dear Count,” she added; and she gave her hand to the latter, who familiarly bent over the white fingers, and pressed his lips where the royal lips had so often rested. In this movement Balsamo managed to whisper a few words aside to the countess, which Sartines could not hear.

“Ah!” exclaimed the countess,” there is my coffer.”

“Your coffer!” stammered Monsieur de Sartines.

“Of course, my coffer. Oh! you have opened it; you do not observe much ceremony!”

“But, Madame-”

“Oh, it is delightful! The idea occurred to me at once that someone had stolen this coffer; and then I said to myself, ' I must go to Sartines; he will find it for me.' You did not wait till I asked you; you found it beforehand, a thousand thanks!”

“And as you see,” said Balsamo,” Monsieur has even opened it.”

“Yes, really, who could have thought it! Why, it is abominable., Sartines!”

“Madame, notwithstanding all the respect I have for you,” said the lieutenant of police, “I fear that you are imposed upon.”

“Imposed, Monsieur!” said Balsamo. “Do you perchance mean that word for me!”

“I know what I know,” replied Monsieur de Sartines.

“And I know nothing,” whispered Madame Dubarry in a low voice to Balsamo.”Come, tell me what is the matter, my dear Count! You have claimed the fulfillment of the promise I made you, to grant the first favor you should ask. I keep my word like a woman of honor, and here I am. Tell me what must I do for you!!”

“Madame,” replied Balsamo, aloud,”you confided the care of this coffer and everything it contains to me, a few days ago.”

“Of course,” answered Madame Dubarry, replying by a. look to the count's appealing glance.

“Of course!” exclaimed Monsieur de Sartines;” you say ' of course,' Madame!”

“Yes; Madame pronounced the words loud enough for you to hear them, I should think.”

“A box which contains perhaps ten conspiracies!”

“Ah! Monsieur de Sartines, you are aware that that word is rather an unfortunate one for you; do not repeat it. Madame asks for her box again; give it her- that is all.”

“Do you ask me for it, Madame-” said Monsieur de Sartines, trembling with anger.

“Yes, my dear magistrate.”

“But learn, at least-” Balsamo looked at the countess.

“You can tell me nothing I do not know,” said Madame Dubarry;”give me the coffer. You may believe I did not come for nothing!”

“But in the name of the living God, Madame! in the name of his Majesty's safety-”

Balsamo made an impatient gesture.

“The coffer, Monsieur!” said the countess, abruptly; “The coffer- yes or no! Reflect well before you refuse!”

“As you please, Madame!” said Monsieur de Sartines, humbly; and he handed the coffer, in which Balsamo had already replaced all the papers scattered over the desk, to the countess. Madame Dubarry turned toward Balsamo with a charming smile.

“Count,” said she, “will you carry this coffer to my carriage for me, and give me your hand through all these antechambers, in which are so many ugly faces! Thanks, Sartines!”

And Balsamo was already advancing toward the door with his protectress, when he saw Monsieur de Sartines moving toward the bell.

“Countess,” said Balsamo, stopping his enemy with a look, “be good enough to tell Monsieur de Sartines, who is quite enraged with me for having reclaimed your coffer, be good enough to tell him how much grieved you would be if any misfortune were to happen to me through the agency of the lieutenant of police, and how displeased you would be with him.”

The countess smiled on Balsamo.

“You hear what the count says, my dear Sartines! Well, it is the simple truth! The count is an excellent friend of mine, and I should be mortally angry with you if you offended him in any way whatsoever. Adieu, Sartines!” and placing her hand in Balsamo's, who carried the coffer, Madame Dubarry left the cabinet of the lieutenant of police. Monsieur de Sartines saw them depart without displaying that fury which Balsamo expected him to manifest.

“Go!” said the conquered magistrate, “go, you have the box, but I have the woman!” and to compensate himself for his disappointment, he rang in a way to break all the bells in the house.

CHAPTER CXIV. SARTINES BEGINS TO THINK BALSAMO A SORCERER.

At the violent ringing of Monsieur de Sartines' bell, an usher entered.

“Well,” asked the magistrate,” that woman!”

“What woman, Monseigneur-”

“The woman who fainted here just now, and whom I confided to your care.”

“Monseigneur, she is quite well,” replied the usher.

“Very good; bring her to me.”

“Where shall I find her, Monseigneur!”

“What do you mean- In that room, of course.”

“But she is no longer there, Monseigneur.”

“Not there! Then where is she-”

“I do not know.”

“She has gone-”

“Yes.”

“Alone-”

“Yes.”

“But she could not stand!”

“Monseigneur, it is true that for some moments she remained in a swoon; but five minutes after the Comte de Fenix entered Monseigneur's cabinet, she awoke from this strange fit, which neither essences nor salts affected in the least. Then she opened her eyes, rose, and breathed with an air of satisfaction.”

“Well, what then!”

“She proceeded toward the door; and as Monseigneur had not ordered that she should be detained, she was allowed to depart.”

“Gone!” cried Monsieur de Sartines. “Ah, wretch that you are! I shall send you all to rot at Bicetre! Quick, quick! send me my head-clerk!”

The usher retired hastily to obey the order he had received.

“The scoundrel is a sorcerer!” muttered the unfortunate magistrate. “I am lieutenant of police to the king, but he is lieutenant of police to the devil!”

The reader has no doubt understood what Monsieur de Sartines could not explain to himself. Immediately after the incident of the pistol, and while the lieutenant of police was endeavoring to regain his equanimity, Balsamo, profiting by the momentary respite, had turned successively to the four cardinal points, quite sure of finding Lorenza in the direction of one of them, and had ordered her to rise, to go out, and to return, by the way she had come, to the Rue Saint Claude. The moment this wish had been formed in Balsamo's mind, a magnetic current was established between him and the young woman, and the latter, obeying the order she had received by intuition, rose and went away without meeting any opposition.

Monsieur de Sartines that same evening took to his bed, and caused himself to be bled, the revulsion had been too strong for him to bear it with impunity; and the doctor assured him that a quarter of an hour more would have brought on an attack of apoplexy. Meanwhile Balsamo had accompanied the countess to her carriage, and had attempted to take his leave of her; but she was not a woman to let him go thus without knowing, or at least without endeavoring to discover, the solution of the strange event which had taken place before her. She begged the count to enter her carriage. The count obeyed, and a groom led Djerid behind.

“You see now, Count,” said she,” whether I am true or not, and whether, when I have called anyone my friend, I have spoken with the lips merely, or from the heart. I was just setting out for Luciennes, where the king had said he would pay me a visit to-morrow morning; but your letter arrived, and I left everything for you. Many would have been frightened at the words ' conspiracies' and ‘conspirators' which Monsieur de Sartines threw in your teeth; but I looked at your countenance before I acted, and did as you wished me.”

“Madame,” replied Balsamo,” you have amply repaid the slight service I was able to render you; but with me nothing is lost, you will find that I can be grateful. Do not imagine, however, that I am a criminal, a conspirator, as Monsieur de Sartines said. That worthy magistrate had received, from some person who betrayed me, this coffer, containing some chemical and hermetical secrets, which I shall share with you, that you may preserve your wonderful, your splendid beauty, and your dazzling youth. Now, seeing the ciphers of my formulas, this excellent Monsieur de Sartines called the chancery clerk to assist him, who, in order not to be found wanting, interpreted them after his own fashion. I think I have already told you, Madame, that the profession is not yet entirely freed from the dangers which were attendant on it in the Middle Ages. Only young and intelligent minds like yours favor it. In short, Madame, you have saved me from a great embarrassment; I thank you for it, and shall prove my gratitude.”

“But what would he have done with you if I had not come to your assistance!”

“To annoy King Frederick, whom his Majesty hates, he would have imprisoned me in Vincennes or the Bastille. I should have escaped from it, I kno; thanks to my process for melting stone with a breath; but I should have lost my coffer, which contains, as I have had the honor of telling you, many curious and invaluable formulas, wrested by a happy venture of science from the eternal shades.”

“Ah, Count! you at once delight and reassure me. Then you promise me a philtre to make me young again!”

“Yes.”

“And when will you give it me!”

“Oh! you need be in no hurry. You may ask for it twenty years hence, beautiful countess. In the mean time I think you do not wish to become quite a child again.”

“You are, in truth, a charming man. One question more, and I will let you go, for you seem in haste.”

“Speak, Countess.”

“You said that someone had betrayed you. Is it a man, or a woman-”

“A woman.”

“Ah, ah! Count, a love affair-”

“Alas! yes, complicated by an almost frantic jealousy, which has produced the pleasant effect you have seen. It is a woman who, not daring to stab me with a knife because she knows I cannot be killed, wanted to imprison and ruin me.”

“What, ruin you!”

“She endeavored to do so, at least.”

“Count, I will stop here,” said the countess, laughing.” Is it the quicksilver in your veins that gives you that immortality which makes people betray you, instead of killing you- Shall I set you down here, or drive you to your own house-”

“No, Madame, I cannot allow you to inconvenience yourself on my account. I have my horse Djerid.”

“Ah! that wonderful animal which, it is said, outstrips the wind-”

“He seems to please you, Madame.”

“He is in truth a magnificent steed.”

“Allow me to offer him to you, on the condition that you alone ride him.”

“Oh! no, thank you; I do not ride on horseback, or, at least, I am a very timid horsewoman. I am as much obliged to you, however, as if I accepted your offer. Adieu! my dear Count; do not forget my philter- in ten years.”

“I said twenty.”

“Count, you know the proverb- 'a bird in the hand- ' and if you could even give it me in five years- There is no knowing what may happen.”

“Whenever you please, Countess. Are you not aware that I am entirely at your command-”

“Only one word more, Count.”

“I listen, Madame.”

“It proves that I have great confidence in you to speak of it.”

Balsamo, who had already alighted from the carriage, suppressed his impatience, and approached the countess.

“It is reported everywhere,” continued Madame Dubarry,” that the king is rather taken with that little Taverney.”

“Ah! Madame,” said Balsamo,” is it possible!”

“A very great partiality, it is said. You must tell me if it is true. Count, do not deceive me; I beseech you to treat me as a friend. Tell me the truth, Count.”

“Madame,” replied Balsamo, “I will do more; I will promise you that Mademoiselle Andree shall never be the king's mistress.”

“And why not!” cried Madame Dubarry.

“Because I do not wish it,” said Balsamo.

“Oh!” said Madame Dubarry, incredulously.

“You doubt.”

“Is it not allowed-”

“Never doubt the truths of science, Madame. You have believed me when I said yes; believe me when I say no.”

“But, in short, have you the means-” she paused, smiling. “Well-”

“Means capable of destroying the king's will, or conquering his whims-” Balsamo smiled. “I create sympathies,” said he.

“Yes, I know that.”

“You believe it, even.”

“I believe it.”

“Well, I can create aversions also, and if needful, impossibilities. Therefore, Countess, make your mind easy; I am on guard.”

Balsamo uttered all these fragments of sentences with an absence of mind which Madame Dubarry would not have taken as she did for inspiration, had she known the feverish anxiety which Balsamo felt to be with Lorenza as quickly as possible.

“Well, Count,” said she, “assuredly you are not only my prophet of happiness, but also my guardian angel. Count, mark my words; defend me, and I will defend you. Alliance, alliance!”

“Agreed, Madame,” replied Balsamo, kissing the countess's hand. Then closing the door of the carriage, which the countess had stopped upon the Champs Elysees, he mounted his horse, who neighed joyously, and was soon lost to view in the shadows of night.

“To Luciennes!” said the countess, consoled.

Balsamo whistled softly, and gently pressed his knees against Djerid's side, who started off at a gallop. Five minutes afterward he was Id the vestibule of the Rue Saint Claude looking at Fritz.

“Well!” asked he, anxiously.

“Yes, Master,” replied the domestic, who was accustomed to read his looks. “She has returned!”

“She is upstairs.”

“In which room-”

“In the chamber of furs.”

“In what state is she!”

“Oh! very much exhausted. She ran so quickly that although I saw her coming, for I was watching for her, I had scarcely time to hasten to meet her.”

“Indeed!”

“Oh! I was quite alarmed. She swept on like a tempest; rushed upstairs without taking breath; and when she entered the room, she fell upon the large black lion's skin. You will find her there.”

Balsamo hastily ascended, and found Lorenza where Fritz had said. She was struggling in vain against the first convulsions of a nervous crisis. The fluid had weighed upon her too long already, and forced her to violent efforts. She suffered, she moaned; it seemed as if a mountain weighed upon her breast, and that she endeavored with both hands to remove it. Balsamo looked at her with eyes angrily flashing; and taking her in his arms, he carried her into her apartment, the mysterious door of which closed behind him.

CHAPTER CXXV. THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

Balsamo had just entered Lorenza's apartment, and was preparing to awake her and overwhelm her with all the reproaches which his gloomy anger prompted, fully determined to punish her according to the dictates of that anger, when a triple knock upon the ceiling announced that Althotas had watched for his return, and wished to speak to him. Nevertheless Balsamo waited; he was hoping either that he had been mistaken, or that the signal had been accidental, when the impatient old man repeated his blows. Balsamo, therefore, fearing, no doubt, to see him descend, as he had done before, or that Lorenza, awakened by an influence opposed to his own, might acquire the knowledge of some new matter no less dangerous for him than that of his political secrets. Balsamo, therefore, after having, if we may so express it, charged Lorenza with an additional quantity of the electric fluid, left the room to visit Althotas.

It was high time; the trap-door was already half-way from the ceiling. Althotas had left his wheeled armchair, and was seen squatting down upon the movable part of the ceiling, which rose and fell. He saw Balsamo leave Lorenza's room. Squatting thus, the old man was at once hideous and terrible to behold. His white face, or rather some parts of that face, which still seemed to be alive, were purple with the violence of his rage. His meager and bony hands, like those of a human skeleton, trembled and shook; his hollow eyes seemed to vacillate in their deep caverns; and in a language unknown even to his disciple, he was loading him with the most violent invectives. Having left his armchair to touch the spring, Althotas seemed to live and move only by the aid of his long arms, lean and angular as those of a spider; and issuing, as we have said, from his chamber, inaccessible to all but Balsamo, he was about to descend to the lower apartment. In order that this feeble old man, indolent as he was, should leave his armchair, that cleverly constructed machine which spared him all fatigue, and consent to perform one of the actions of common life- in order that he should undergo the care and fatigue of such a change in his usual habits, it was necessary that some extraordinary- excitement should have withdrawn him from his meditative life, and compelled him to enter again reality. Balsamo, taken as it were in the fact, seemed at first astonished, then uneasy.

“Ah!” exclaimed Althotas,” there you are, you good for nothing, you ingrate! There you are, coward, who desert your master!”

Balsamo called all his patience to his aid, as he invariably did when he spoke to the old man.

“But,” he replied, quietly,” I think, my friend, you have only just called me.”

“Your friend-” exclaimed Althotas, “your friend! you vile human creature! You dare to speak the language of equality to me! I have been a friend to you, more than a friend, a father! a father who has educated, instructed, and enriched you. But you my friend- Oh, no! for you abandon me; you assassinate me!”

“Come, Master, you disturb your bile; you irritate your blood; you will make yourself ill.”

“Nonsense! Have I ever been ill, except when you made me a sharer, in spite of myself, in some of the miseries of your impure human-kind! Have you forgotten that it is I who heal others-”

“Well, Master,” replied Balsamo, coldly, “I am here. Let us not lose time in vain.”

“Yes, I advise you to remind me of that. Time, time! which you oblige me to economize, me, for whom this element, circumscribed to all the world, should be endless, unlimited! Yes, my time flies; yes, my time is lost, my time, like the time of other people, falls minute by minute into the gulf of eternity, when for me it ought to be eternity itself!”

“Come, Master,” said Balsamo, with unalterable patience, lowering the trap to the ground as he spoke, placing himself upon it, and causing it to rise again to its place in the room; “come, what is it you want- You say I starve you; but are you not in your forty days of fasting!”

“Yes, yes, doubtless; the work of regeneration began thirty-two days ago.”

“Then tell me, of what do you complain- I see two or three bottles of rain-water, the only kind you drink, still remaining.”

“Of course; but do you imagine I am a silkworm to complete the grand work of renovation of youth and of transformation alone- Do you imagine that, powerless as I am, I can compose alone the elixir of life! Or think you that, sitting here in my chair, enervated by cooling drinks, my sole nourishment, I could have power of mind enough, when left to my own resources, without your assistance, to complete the minute work of my regeneration, in which, as you, unhappy man, well know, I must be aided and supported by a friend-”

“I am here, Master, I am here! Answer me now,” said Balsamo, replacing the old man in his chair almost in spite of himself, as he would have handled a hideous infant, “answer me, you have not been in want of distilled water, for, as I said before, there are three bottles still remaining. This water, as you know, was all collected in the month of May; there are your biscuits of barley and of sesame, and I myself administered to you the white drops you prescribed.”

“Yes, but the elixir! The elixir is not made! You do not remember it, for you were not there; it was your father, your father, who was far more faithful than you are; but at the last fiftieth I had the elixir ready a month beforehand. I had my retreat on Mount Ararat. A Jew provided me with a Christian child still at its mother's breast, for its weight in gold. I bled it according to the rule; I took the last three drops of its arterial blood, and in an hour my elixir, which wanted only this ingredient, was composed. Therefore my first regeneration succeeded wonderfully well. My hair and teeth fell out during the convulsions which succeeded the absorption of that wondrous elixir, but they grew again, the latter badly enough, I know, because I neglected the precaution of letting the elixir flow into my throat through a golden conduit. But my hair and my nails grew again in this second youth, and I began again to live as if I were only fifteen years of age. Now I am old again; I am bordering on the extreme limit; and if the elixir is not ready, if it is not safely enclosed in this bottle, if I do not bestow all possible care upon this work, the science of a century will be annihilated with me, and the admirable, the sublime secret I possess will be lost for man, who in me and through me approaches divineness! Oh! if I fail, if I am mistaken, if I miss it, Acharat, it will be your fault; and take care, for my anger will be terrible, terrible!” and as he uttered these last words, a livid glare shot from his dying eyeball, and the old man fell into a brief convulsion, which ended in a violent fit of coughing. Balsamo instantly lavished the most eager attentions on him, and the old man recovered. His complexion had become death-like instead of pale. This feeble attack bad weakened his strength so much that one would have thought he was dying.

“Come, Master,” said Balsamo, “tell me plainly what you want.”

“What I want!” said he, looking fixedly at Balsamo. “Yes.”

“What I want is this-”

“Speak; I hear you, and I will obey, if what you ask is possible.”

“Possible, possible!” muttered the old man, contemptuously. “You know that everything is possible.”

“Yes, with time and science.”

“Science I have, and I am on the point of conquering time. My dose has succeeded. My strength has almost entirely left me. The white drops have caused the expulsion of all the remaining portion of my former nature. Youth, like the sap of the trees in May, rises under the old bark, and buds, so to speak, through the old wood. You may remark, Acharat, that the symptoms are excellent- my voice is weak, my sight is three-quarters gone; sometimes I feel my mind wander; I have become insensible to the transition from heat to cold. I must therefore hasten to finish my elixir, in order that, on the completion of my second fifty years, I may at once pass from a hundred years old to twenty. The ingredients for the elixir are all made, the conduit is ready; I want nothing but the three drops of blood I told you of.”

Balsamo made a gesture of repugnance.

“Very well,” said Althotas,” let us abandon the child, since it is so difficult, and since you prefer to shut yourself up the whole day with your mistress, to seeking it for me.”

“You know, Master, that Lorenza is not my mistress,” replied Balsamo.

“Oh! oh! oh!” exclaimed Althotas, “you say that! You think to impose on me as on the mass; you would make me believe in an immaculate creature- and yet you are a man!”

“I swear to you, Master, that Lorenza is as pure as art angel; I swear to you that love, earthly felicity, domestic happiness; I have sacrificed all to my project. For I also have my regenerating work; only, instead of applying it to myself alone, I shall apply it to all the world.”

“Fool! poor fool!” cried Althotas, “I verily believe he is going to speak to me of his cataclysm of fleshworms, his revolutions of ant-hills, when I speak to him of life and eternal youth!”

“Which can be acquired only at the price of a fearful crime; and besides-”

“You doubt; I see you doubt, unhappy man I”

“No, Master; but since you give up the idea of procuring a child, tell me what do you want!”

“I must have the first virginal creature you can find- man or woman; but a woman would be better, by reason of the affinity of the sex, as I have discovered. Find me that, and quickly, for I have only eight days longer.”

“Very well, Master, I will see- I will search.”

Another lightning flash, more terrible than the first, sparkled in the old man's eyes.” You will see! you will search!” he cried. “Oh! is that your reply- I expected it, and I don't know why I am surprised. And since when, thou worm of the earth, was the creature entitled to speak thus to its master! Ah! you see me powerless, disabled, supplicating, and you are fool enough to think me at your mercy! Yes or no, Acharat! And answer me without embarrassment or falsehood, for I can Bee and read your heart; for I can judge you, and shall punish you.”

“Master,” replied Balsamo, “take care; your anger will do you an injury.”

“Answer me! answer!”

“I can say to my master only what is true; I will see if I can procure what you desire, without injuring ourselves. I will endeavor to find a man who will sell you what you want; but I will not take the crime upon myself. That is all I can say.”

“That is very delicate,” said Althotas, with a bitter smile.

“It is so, Master,” said Balsamo.

Althotas made so violent an effort that with the help of his two arms resting on the arms of the chair, he raised himself to his feet. “Yes, or no!” said he.

“Master, yes, if I find it; no, if I do not.”

“Then you will expose me to death, wretch! you will save three drops of the blood of an insignificant, worthless creature such as I require, and let a perfect creature such as I am fall into the eternal gulf! Listen, Acharat!” said the old man, with a smile fearful to behold, “I no longer ask you for anything; I ask absolutely nothing; I will wait. But if you do not obey, I will serve myself; if you desert me, I will help myself! You have heard me, have you not- Now go!”

Balsamo, without replying to this threat, prepared everything the old man might want. He placed the drinks and the food within his reach, and performed all the services a watchful servant would perform for his master, a devoted son for his father; then, absorbed by a thought very different from that which tormented Althotas, he lowered the trap to descend, without remarking that the old man followed him with a sardonic and ominous grin. Althotas was still grinning like an evil genius when Balsamo stood before the still sleeping Lorenza.

CHAPTER CXXVI. THE STRUGGLE.

Balsamo stood before Lorenza, his heart swelling with sad emotion; his wrath had given place to sorrow. His interview with Althotas had led him to reflect on the vanity of all human affairs, and had driven anger from his heart. He remembered the practice of the Greek philosopher who repeated the entire alphabet before listening to the voice of that black divinity, the counselor of Achilles. After a moment of mute and cold contemplation before the couch on which Lorenza was lying,

“I am sad,” said he to himself, “but resolved, and I can look my situation fair in the face. Lorenza hates me; Lorenza.has threatened to betray me, and has betrayed me. My secret is no longer my own; I have given it into this woman's power, and she casts it to the winds. I am like the fox who has withdrawn from the steel trap only the bone of his leg, but who has left behind his flesh And his skin, so that the huntsman can say on the morrow, 'The fox has been taken here; I shall know him again, living or dead.' And this dreadful misfortune, which Althotas cannot comprehend, and which therefore I have not even mentioned to him this misfortune, which destroys all my hopes in this country, and consequently in this world, of which France is the soul, I owe to the creature sleeping before me, to this beautiful statue with her entrancing smile. To this tempting angel I owe dishonor and ruin, and shall owe to her, captivity, exile, and death. Therefore,” continued he, becoming more animated, “the sum of evil has exceeded that of good, and Lorenza is dangerous to me. Oh, serpent! with thy graceful folds, which nevertheless strangle, with thy golden throat, which is nevertheless full of venom, sleep on; for when thou awakest I shall be obliged to kill thee!”

And with a gloomy smile Balsamo slowly approached the young woman, whose languid eyes were turned toward him as he approached, as the sunflower and volubilis open to the first rays of the rising sun.

“Oh!” said Balsamo, “and yet I must forever close those eyes which now beam so tenderly on me- those beautiful eyes which are filled with lightning as soon as they cease to glow with love.”

Lorenza smiled sweetly, and, smiling, she displayed the double row of her pearly teeth.

“But if I kill her who hates me,” said Balsamo, wringing his hands,” I shall also kill her who loves me;” and his heart was filled with the deepest grief, strangely mingled with a vague desire.

“No, no!” he murmured.” I have sworn in vain; I have threatened in vain- no, I shall never have the courage to kill her! She shall live, but she shall live without ever being awakened again! She shall live this factitious life, which is happiness for her, while the other is despair. Would that I could make her happy! What matters to me the rest- She shall have but one existence, that which I create, that in which she loves me, that in which she lives at this moment;” and he returned Lorenza's tender look by a look as tender as her own, placing his hand as he did so gently on her head.

Lorenza, who seemed to read Balsamo's thoughts as if they were an open book, gave a long sigh, rose gradually with the graceful languor of sleep, and placed her two white arms upon Balsamo's shoulders, who felt her perfumed breath upon his cheek.

“Oh, no, no!” exclaimed Balsamo, passing his hand over his burning forehead and his dazzled eyes; “no, this intoxicating life will make me mad, and with this Siren, glory, power, immortality, will all vanish from my thoughts. No, no, she must awake! I wish it; it is necessary.”

Distracted, beside himself, Balsamo suddenly shook off Lorenza, who loosened her hold upon him, and, like a floating veil, like a shadow, like a flake of snow, she fell on the sofa. The most finished coquette would not have chosen an attitude more seductive in which to present herself to her lover's view. Balsamo still had the strength to take a few steps in retreat; but, like Orpheus, he looked back, like Orpheus, he was lost.

“Oh, if I awake her,” he thought,” the struggle will begin again! If I awake her, she will kill herself, or she will kill me, or force me to destroy her. Oh, what an abyss! Yes, this woman's destiny is written; it stands before me in letters of fire- love, death! Lorenza, Lorenza! thou art doomed to love and to die! Lorenza, Lorenza! I hold thy life and thy love in my hands!”

Instead of a reply, the enchantress rose, advanced toward Balsamo, fell at his feet, and gazed into his eyes with a tender smile. Then she took one of his hands and placed it on her heart.

“Death!” said she, in a low voice, with lips moist and brilliant as coral when it issues from the caverns of the deep, “death, but love!”

Balsamo took two steps backward, his head thrown back, his hand over his eyes. Lorenza, breathless, followed him on her knees.

“Death!” she repeated, with her intoxicating voice, “but love, love, love!” Balsamo could resist no longer; a cloud of flame enveloped him. “Oh!” he said, “it is too much; I have struggled as long as a human being could struggle. Demon, or angel of futurity, whichever thou art, thou must be content. I have long enough sacrificed all the generous passions in my heart to egotism and pride. Oh, no, no! I have no right thus to rebel against the only human sentiment which lives in my heart. I love this woman; I love her, and this passionate love injures her more than the most terrible hatred could do. This love kills her. Oh, coward! oh, ferocious fool that I am! I cannot even compromise with my desires. What! when I breathe my last sigh, when I appear before God- I, the deceiver, the false prophet- when I throw off my mantle of hypocrisy before the Sovereign Judge, shall I not have one generous action to confess, the recollection of a single happiness to console me in the midst of my eternal sufferings- Oh, no, no, Lorenza! I know that in loving thee I lose the future; I know that my revealing angel will wing its flight to heaven when once the woman shall descend into my arms. But, Lorenza, you wish it, do you not-”

“My beloved!” she sighed.

“Then you accept this life instead of the real life-”

“I ask for it on my knees- I pray for it, I implore it. This life is love and happiness.”

“And will it suffice for you when you are my wife- For you know that I love you passionately.”

“Oh! I know it- I can read your heart.”

“And you will never accuse me, before men or before God, of having taken you by surprise, or of having deceived you-”

“Never! Oh! before men, before God, on the contrary, I will bless you for giving me love- the only good, the only pearl, the only diamond in the world I”

“You will never regret your wings, poor dove! For you must know that you will never again roam through radiant space for me to seek the ray of light Jehovah once deigned to bestow upon his prophets. When I would know the future, when I would command men, alas! alas! your voice will no longer reply to me. I have had in you the beloved woman and the helping spirit; I shall have only one of the two now; and yet-”

“Ah! you doubt, you doubt,” cried Lorenza, “I see doubt like a dark stain upon your heart.”

“You will always love me, Lorenza-”

“Always! always!” Balsamo passed his hand over his forehead.

“Well I so be it,” said he.”Besides-” He remained a moment buried in thought. “Besides, am I in absolute need of her!” he continued. “Is she the only one in the world- No, no; while this one will make me happy, the other will continue my riches and my power. Andree is as prophetic, as clairvoyant as you are. Andree is young, pure, virginal, and I do not love her; and yet in her sleep Andree is obedient to me, like you. I have in Andree a subject ready to replace you; and to me she is the physician's corpus vile which may serve for experiments. She flies as far as you do- farther, perhaps- into the shadows of the unknown. Andree, Andree! I take you for my kingdom. Lorenza, come to my arms; I keep you for my love and my mistress. With Andree I am powerful; with Lorenza I am happy. From this moment, only, my life is complete, and, except for immortality, I have realized the dream of Althotas- except for immortality, I am equal to the gods I” and raising Lorenza, he opened his panting bosom, to which she clung as the ivy clings to the oak.

CHAPTER CXXVII. LOVE

For Balsamo another life had begun; a life hitherto unknown in his active, troubled, multifarious experience. For three days there had been for him no more anger, no more apprehension, no more jealousy; for three days he had not heard the subject of politics, conspirators, or conspiracies as much as whispered. By Lorenza's side, and he had not left her for an instant, he had forgotten the whole world. This strange, wonderful, love, which, as it were, soared above humanity, this intoxicating and mysterious love, this love of a shadow- for he could not conceal from himself that with a word he could change his gentle bride into an implacable enemy- this love- snatched from hatred, thanks to an inexplicable caprice of nature or of science, plunged Balsamo into happiness which bordered on madness. More than once during these three days, rousing himself from the opiate torpor of love, Balsamo looked at his ever- smiling, ever-ecstatic companion, for thenceforth, in the existence he had created for her, she rested from her life of factitious ecstasy by a sleep equally factitious; and when he saw her calm, gentle, happy, when she called him by the most affectionate names, and dreamed aloud her mysterious love, he more than once asked himself if God were not angry with the modern Titan who had attempted to wrest from him his secrets; if he had not inspired Lorenza with the idea of deceiving him with a false hood in order to lull his vigilance, and when it was lulled, of escaping, to appear again as an avenging fury. In such moments Balsamo doubted the truth of a science received by tradition from antiquity, but of which he had no evidence but examples. Immediately, however, that perpetual flame, that thirst for caresses, reassured him.” If Lorenza was feigning,” he argued with himself,” if she intended to fly from me, she would seek opportunities for sending me away, she would invent excuses for occasional solitude; but far from that, her arms are always embracing me, her ardent look says to me, “Do not go away, her gentle voice ever whispers, Stay!'”

Then Balsamo's confidence in himself and in science returned. Why, indeed, should the magic secret to which alone he owned his power have become all at once, and without any transition, a chimera fit only to throw to the winds as a vanished recollection, as the smoke of an extinguished fire- Never with relation to him had Lorenza been more lucid, more clear-sighted. All the thoughts which sprang up in his mind, all the feelings which made his heart bound, were instantly reproduced in hers. It remained to be seen if this lucidity were not sympathy; if, beyond himself and the young girl, beyond the circle which their love had traced, and which their love illuminated with its light, the eyes of her soul, so clear-sighted before the fall of this new Eve, could yet pierce the surrounding darkness. Balsamo dared not make the decisive trial; he hoped still, and this hope was the resplendent crown of his happiness. Sometimes Lorenza said to him, with gentle melancholy: “Acharat, you think of another than me, of a woman of the North, with fair hair and blue eyes. Acharat, Acharat, this woman always moves beside me in your thoughts!”

Balsamo looked tenderly at Lorenza. “You see that in me-” said he.

“Oh, yes! as clearly as I read the surface of a mirror.”

“Then you know it is not love which makes me think of that woman,” replied Balsamo. “Read in my heart, dear Lorenza!”

“No,” she replied, bending her head, “no, I know it well. But yet your thoughts are divided between us two, as in the days when Lorenza Feliciani tormented you; the naughty Lorenza, who sleeps, and whom you will not again awake.”

“No, my love, no,” exclaimed Balsamo, “I think only of you — at least with the heart. Have I not forgotten all, neglected everything; study, politics, work; since our happiness-”

“And you are wrong,” said Lorenza; “for I can help you in your work.”

“How-”

“Yes; did you not formerly spend whole hours in your laboratory!”

“Certainly. But I renounce all these vain endeavors. They would be so many hours taken from my life; for during that time I should not see you.”

“And why should I not be with you in your labors as in your love! Why should I not make you powerful as I make you happy!”

“Because my Lorenza, it is true, is beautiful, but she has not studied. God gives beauty and love, but study alone gives knowledge.”

“The soul knows everything.”

“Then you can really see with the eyes of your soul-”

“Yes.”

“And you can guide me in the grand search after the philosopher's stone-”

“I think so.”

“Come, then;” and Balsamo, encircling her waist with his arm, led her into his laboratory.

The fire in the gigantic furnace, which no one had replenished for four days, was extinguished, and the crucibles had grown cold upon their chafing-dishes. Lorenza looked around on all these strange instruments, the last combinations of expiring alchemy, without surprise. She seemed to know the purpose which each.was intended to fulfill.

“You are attempting to make gold!” said she, smiling.

“Yes.”

“All these crucibles contain preparations in different stages of progress.”

“All stopped; all lost; but I do not regret it.”

“You are right, for your gold would never be anything but colored mercury; you can render it solid, perhaps, but you cannot transform it.”

“But gold can be made!”

“No.”

“And yet Daniel of Transylvania sold the receipt for the transmutation of metals to Cosmo the First for twenty thousand ducats.”

“Daniel of Transylvania deceived Cosmo the First.”

“And yet the Saxon Payken, who was condemned to death by Charles the Second, ransomed his life by changing a leaden ingot into a golden one, from which forty ducats were coined, and gold enough was taken to make a medal, which was struck in honor of the clever alchemist.”

“The clever alchemist was nothing hut a clever juggler. He merely substituted the golden ingot for the leaden one, nothing more. Your surest way of making gold, Acharat, is to melt into ingots, as you do already, the riches which your slaves bring you from the four quarters of the world.” Balsamo remained pensive.

“Then the transmutation of metals is impossible-” said he.

“Impossible.”

“And the diamond- is that, too, impossible!”

“Oh! the diamond is another matter,” said Lorenza.

“The diamond can be made, then-”

“Yea; for to make the diamond, you have not to transmute one body into another- to make the diamond is merely to attempt the simple modification of a known element.”

“Then you know the element of which the diamond is formed-”

“To be sure; the diamond is pure carbon crystallized.”

Balsamo was almost stunned. A dazzling, unexpected, unheard-of light flashed before his eyes; he covered them with both hands, as if the flame had blinded him.

“Oh! my God,” said he,” my God, thou dost for me too much; some danger threatens me! What precious ring must I throw into the sea to appease thy jealousy- Enough, Lorenza, for to-day!”

“Am I not yours- Order, command me!”

“Yes, you are mine. Come, come!” And he drew her out of the laboratory, crossed the chamber of furs, and without paying any attention to a light, creaking noise he heard overhead, he once more entered the barred room with Lorenza.

“So you are pleased with your Lorenza, my beloved Balsamo!”

“Oh!” he exclaimed.

“What did you fear, then- Speak- tell me all.”

Balsamo clasped his hands, and looked at Lorenza with an expression of such terror that a spectator ignorant of what was in his heart would have been totally at a loss to account for it.

“Oh!” he murmured, “and I was near killing this angel; I was near dying of despair before resolving the problem of being at once powerful and happy! I forgot that the limits of the possible always exceed the horizon traced by the existing state of science, and that the majority of truths which have become facts have always in their infancy been looked upon as dreams. I thought I knew everything, and I knew nothing!”

The young Italian smiled divinely.

“Lorenza, Lorenza!” continued Balsamo,” the mysterious design of the Creator is, then, accomplished, which makes woman to be born of the substance of the man, and which commands them to have only one heart in common! Eve is revived for me, an Eve who will not have a thought that is not mine, and whose life hangs by the thread which I hold. It is too much, my God, for a creature to possess! I sink under the weight of thy gift!” and he fell upon his knees, embracing with adoration the gentle beauty, who smiled on him as none smile on earth. “Oh, no!” he continued;” no, you shall never leave me more! I shall live in all safety under the protection of your clairvoyance, which can pierce into the future. You will assist me in those laborious researches which you alone, as you have said, can complete, and which one word from you will render easy and successful. You will show me, since I cannot make gold, gold being a homogeneous substance, a primitive element, you will show me in what corner of the world the Creator has concealed it; you will tell me where the rich treasures lie which have been swallowed up in the vast depths of the ocean. With your eyes I shall see the pearl grow in the veined shell, and man's thoughts spring up under the thick layers of his flesh. With your ears I shall hear the dull sound of the worm beneath the ground, and the footsteps of my enemy as he approaches! I shall be great as God, and happier than God, my Lorenza; for God has not in heaven his equal and companion, for God is almighty, but he is alone in his divine majesty, and does not share with any other divine being that almightiness which makes him God.”

Lorenza still smiled upon him, and as she smiled she replied to his words by affectionate caresses.

“And yet,” she whispered, as if she could see each thought which whirled through his restless brain, “and yet you doubt still, Acharat, as you have said, if I can cross the circle of our love- you doubt if I can see into the distance; but you console yourself by thinking that if I cannot see, she can.”

“She! Who-”

“The fair-haired beauty. Shall I tell you her name!”

“Yes.”

“Stay, Andree!”

“Ah, yes; you can read my thoughts! Yes, a last fear still troubles me. Can you still see through space, though material obstacles intervene-”

“Try me.”

“Give me your hand, Lorenza.” The young girl passionately seized Balsamo's hand. “Can you follow me-”

“Anywhere!”

“Come!” and Balsamo, leaving in thought the Rue Saint Claude, drew Lorenza's thoughts along with him. “Where are we-” he asked.

“We are upon a hill,” replied the young woman.

“Yes, you are right,” said Balsamo, trembling with delight.” But what do you see-”

“Before me, to the right, or to the left-”

“Before you.”

“I see a long valley, with a wood on one side, a town on the other, and a river which separates them and loses itself in the horizon, after flowing under the walls of a large chateau.”

“That is right, Lorenza. The forest is that of Vesinet; the town St. Germain; the chateau is the Chateau de Maisons. Let us enter the pavilion behind us. What do you see there-”

“Ah! in the first place, in the antechamber, a little negro, fantastically dressed, eating sugar-plums.”

“Yes, Zamore. Proceed, proceed!”

“An empty salon, splendidly furnished; the space above the doors painted with goddesses and cupids.”

“The salon is empty, you say-”

“Yes.”

“Let us go still farther.”

“Ah! we are in a splendid boudoir, lined with blue satin embroidered with flowers of natural colors.”

“Is that empty also-”

“No; a woman is reclining upon a sofa.”

“What woman- Do you not remember to have seen her before-”

“Yes; it is the Comtesse Dubarry.”

“Right, Lorenza! I shall go frantic with delight! What does the woman do-”

“She is thinking of you, Balsamo.”

“Of me-”

“Yes.”

“Then you can read her thoughts-”

“Yes, for I repeat she is thinking of you.”

“For what purpose-”

“You have made her a promise.”

“Yes.”

“You promised her that water of beauty which Venus, to revenge herself on Sappho, gave to Phaon.”

“Yes, yes, you are right again! And what does she do while thinking-”

“She comes to a decision.”

“What decision-”

“She reaches out her hand toward the bell; she rings; another young lady enters.”

“Dark or light-haired-”

“Dark.”

“Tall or short-”

“Little.”

“Her sister. Listen to what she says to her.”

“She orders the horses to be put to her carriage.”

“Where does she wish to go-”

“To come here.”

“Are you sure-”

“She is giving the order. Stay-she is obeyed. I see the horses and the carriage. In two hours she will be here.”

Balsamo fell upon his knees.

“Oh!” exclaimed he, “if in two hours she should really be here, I shall have nothing left to ask for on earth!”

“My poor Balsamo! then you still feared-”

“Yes, yes!”

“And why did you fear- Love, which completes the material existence, increases also our mental powers. Love, like even generous emotion, brings us nearer to God, and all wisdom comes from God.”

“Lorenza, Lorenza, you will drive me mad with joy!”

Balsamo now only waited for another proof to be completely happy. This proof was the arrival of Madame Dubarry.

The two hours of suspense were short. All measure of time had completely ceased for Balsamo.

Suddenly the young girl started and took Balsamo's hand.

“You are doubting yet,” said she, “or you wish to know where she is at this moment.”

“Yes,” said Balsamo, “you are right.”

“Well,” replied Lorenza, “she is thundering along the boulevards at the full speed of her horses; she approaches; she turns into the Rue Saint Claude; she stops before the door and knocks.”

The apartment in which they were was so retired and so quiet that the noise of the iron knocker could not penetrate its recesses; but Balsamo, raised upon one knee, was anxiously listening.

At this moment two knocks struck by Fritz made him bound to his feet, for the reader will remember that two knocks were the signal of an important visit.

“Oh!” said he, “then it is true!”

“Go and convince yourself, Balsamo; but return quickly.”

Balsamo advanced toward the fireplace.

“Let me accompany you,” said Lorenza, “as far as the door of the staircase.”

“Come!”

And they both passed together into the chamber of furs.

“You will not leave this room-”

“No; I will await you here. Oh, do not fear; you know the Lorenza who loves you is not the Lorenza whom you fear. Besides-

She stopped and smiled.

“What-” asked Balsamo.

“Can you not read in my soul as I read yours-”

“Alas! no.”

“Besides, you can command me to sleep until you return. Command me to remain immovable upon this sofa, and I shall sleep, and be motionless.”

“Well, my Lorenza, it shall be so. Sleep, and await my return here!”

Lorenza, already struggling with sleep, pressed her lips to Balsamo's in a last kiss, and fell back upon the sofa, murmuring: “You will return soon, my Balsamo, will you not-”

Balsamo waved his hand. Lorenza was already asleep; but so beautiful, so pure, with her long, flowing hair, the feverish glow upon her cheeks, her half-opened and swimming eyes, so little like a mortal, that Balsamo came back to her, took her hand, kissed her arms and her neck, but dared not kiss her lips.

Two knocks were heard a second time. The lady was becoming impatient, or Fritz feared that his master had not heard him. Balsamo hastened to the door. As he closed it behind him, he thought he heard a second creaking noise like the former one. He opened the door again, looked round, and saw nothing- nothing but Lorenza lying down, and breathing quickly under the pressure of her love. He closed the door, and hastened toward the salon without uneasiness, without fear, without foreboding, all heaven in his heart!

Balsamo was mistaken; it was not love alone which oppressed Lorenza's bosom and made her breathe so heavily. It was a kind of dream which seemed to belong to the lethargy in which she was plunged, a lethargy which so nearly resembled death. Lorenza dreamed, and in the hideous mirror of her gloomy dreams she fancied she saw, through the darkness which began to close around her, the oaken ceiling open, and something like a large circular platform descend slowly, with a regular, slow, measured movement, accompanied by a disagreeable hissing noise. It seemed to her as if she breathed with difficulty, as if she were almost suffocated by the pressure of this moving circle. It seemed to her as if upon this moving trap something moved- some misshapen being like Caliban in “The Tempest,” a monster with a human face, an old man whose eyes and arms alone were living, and who looked at her with his frightful eyes, and stretched his fleshless arms toward her. And she, she, poor child! writhed in vain, without power to escape, without understanding the danger which threatened her, without consciousness of anything but the grasp of two living flesh-hooks seizing upon her white dress, lifting her from her sofa, and placing her upon the trap, which reascended slowly toward the ceiling with the grating noise of iron scraping against iron, and with a hideous, mocking laugh from the monster with the human face, who was raising her aloft without shock and without pain.

CHAPTER CXXVIII. THE PHILTRE.

As Lorenza had foretold, it was Madame Dubarry who had just knocked at the gate. The beautiful countess had been ushered into the salon. While awaiting Balsamo's arrival, she was looking over that curious “Book of Death,” engraved at Mayence, the plates of which, designed with marvelous skill, show death presiding over all the acts of man's life, waiting for him at the door of the ball-room after he has pressed the hand of the woman he loves, dragging him to the bottom of the water in which he is bathing, or hiding in the barrel of the gun he carries to the chase. Madame Dubarry was contemplating the plate which represents a beautiful woman daubing her face with rouge and looking at herself in the glass, when Balsamo opened the door and bowed to her, with the smile of happiness still beaming upon his face.

“Excuse me, Madame,” said he,” for having made you wait; but I had not well calculated the distance, or was ignorant of the speed of your horses. I thought you still at the Place Louis XV.”

“What do you mean!” asked the countess.” You knew I was coming, then-”

“Yes, Madame; it is about two hours ago that I saw you, in your blue satin boudoir, giving orders for your horses to be put to the carriage.”

“And you say I was in my blue satin boudoir-”

“Embroidered with flowers colored after nature. Yes, Countess, you were reclining upon a sofa; a pleasing thought passed through your mind. You said to yourself, ‘I will go and visit the Comte de Fenix;' then you rang the bell.”

“And who entered-”

“Your sister, Countess. Am I right- You requested her to transmit your orders, which were instantly executed.”

“Truly, Count, you are a sorcerer! Can you look into my boudoir like that every moment of the day- If so, you should have warned me, do you see!”

“Ah! be assured, Countess, I can look only through open doors.”

“And looking through open doors, you saw that I was thinking of you-”

“Yes; and even that you thought of me with benevolent intentions.”

“Ah, you are right, my dear Count! I have the best possible intentions toward you; but confess that you deserve more than intentions, you who are so kind and so useful, and who seem destined to play in my life the part of tutor, which is the most difficult part, I know.”

“In truth, Madame, you make me very happy! Then I have been of use to you-”

“What! you are a sorcerer, and you do not know-”

“Allow me at least the merit of being modest.”

“As you please, my dear Count; then I will first speak of what I have done for you.”

“I cannot permit it, Madame; on the contrary, speak of yourself, I beseech you!”

“Well, my dear Count, in the first place, give me that talisman which renders one invisible; for on my journey hither, rapid as it was, I thought I recognized one of Monsieur de Richelieu's grays.”

“And this gray-”

“Followed my carriage, carrying on his back a courier.”

“What do you think of this circumstance, and for what purpose could the duke have caused you to be followed-”

“With the intention of playing me some scurvy trick. Modest as you are, my dear Comte de Fenix, you must be aware that Nature has gifted you with personal advantages enough to make a king jealous of my visits to you, or of yours to me.”

“Monsieur de Richelieu cannot be dangerous to you in any way, Madame,” replied Balsamo. “But he was so, my dear Count; he was dangerous before this last event.”

Balsamo comprehended that there was a secret concealed beneath these words which Lorenza had not yet revealed to him. He did not therefore venture on the unknown ground, and replied merely by a smile.

“He was indeed, “repeated the countess;” and I was near falling a victim to a most skillfully constructed plot, a plot in which you also had some share, Count.”

“I, engaged in a plot against you! Never, Madame!”

“Was it not you who gave the Due de Richelieu the philter-”

“What philter-”

“A draught which causes the most ardent love.”

“No, Madame; Monsieur de Richelieu composes those draughts himself, for he has long known the receipt. I merely gave him a simple narcotic.”

“Ah! really!”

“Upon my honor!”

“And on what day did Monsieur de Richelieu ask for this narcotic- Remember the date, Count; it is of importance.”

“Madame, it was last Saturday- the day previous to that on which I had the honor of sending you, through Fritz, the note requesting you to meet me at the house of Monsieur de Sartines.”

“The eve of that day!” exclaimed the countess.” The eve of the day on which the king was seen going to see little Taverney! Oh! Now everything is explained.”

“Then, if all is explained, you see I gave only the narcotic.”

“Yes, it is the narcotic which saved us.”

This time Balsamo waited; he was profoundly ignorant of the subject.

“I am delighted, Madame,” he replied,” to have been useful to you, even unintentionally.”

“Oh! you are always kindness itself. But you can do more for me than you have ever yet done. Oh, doctor! I have been very ill, politically speaking, and even now I can scarcely believe in my recovery.”

“Madame,” said Balsamo,” the doctor, since there is a doctor in the case, always requires the details of the illness he is to cure. Will you give me the exact particulars of what you have experienced- and if possible, do not forget a single symptom.”

“Nothing can be more simple, my dear doctor, or dear sorcerer, whichever you prefer. The eve of the day on which this narcotic was used, his Majesty refused to accompany me to Luciennes. He remained, like a deceiver as he is, at Trianon, pretending fatigue; and yet, as I have since learned, he supped at Trianon with the Due de Richelieu and the Baron de Taverney.”

“Ha!”

“Now you understand. At supper the love-draught was given to the king. He was already captivated by Mademoiselle Andree; it was known that he would not see me the next day; it was therefore with reference to that young lady that this philter was to operate.”

“Well, what happened-”

“Oh! that is difficult to discover positively. The king was seen going in the direction of the offices of Trianon- that is to say, toward Mademoiselle Andree's apartment.”

“I know where she lives; but what followed!”

“Ah! ' What followed-' Peste, how fast you are, Count. The king cannot be followed without risk when he wishes to conceal himself.”

“But, in short-”

“In short, all I can tell you is that his Majesty returned to Trianon through a fearful storm, pale, trembling, and feverish- almost on the verge of delirium.”

“And you think,” said Balsamo, smiling,” that it was not the storm alone which alarmed his Majesty-”

“No, for the valet heard him cry several times, ' Dead, dead, dead!”

“Oh!” said Balsamo. “It was the narcotic,” continued Madame Dubarry. “Nothing alarms the king so much as death, and next to death its semblance. He had found Mademoiselle de Taverney sleeping a strange sleep, and must have thought her dead.”

“Yes, yes; dead indeed,” said Balsamo, who remembered having fled without awakening Andree, “dead, or at least presenting all the appearance of death. Yes, yes, it must be so. Well, Madame, and what then-”

“No one knows, then, what happened that night, or rather, in the first part of the night. The king on his return, was attacked by a violent fever and a nervous trembling, which did not leave him until the morning, when it occurred to the dauphiness to open the shutters and show his Majesty a lovely morning, with the sun shining upon merry faces. Then all these unknown visions disappeared with the night which had produced them. At noon the king was better, took some broth, and ate a partridge's wing; and in the evening-”

“And in the evening-” repeated Balsamo.

“In the evening,” continued Madame Dubarry, “his Majesty, who no doubt would not stay at Trianon after his fright, came to see me at Luciennes, where, dear Count, I discovered, upon my word, that Monsieur de Richelieu was almost as great a sorcerer as you are.”

The triumphant countenance and graceful but roguish look of the countess reassured Balsamo as to the power the favorite yet exercised over the king.

“Then you are satisfied with me, Madame-” he asked.

“Delighted, Count! and when you spoke of impossibilities you could create, you told the exact truth.” and in token of thanks she gave him her soft, white, perfumed hand, which was not so fresh as Lorenza's, but whose warmth had also its own eloquence. “And now, Count, let us speak of yourself.”

Balsamo bowed like a man ready to listen.

“If you have preserved me from a great danger,” continued Madame Dubarry, “I think I have also saved you from no inconsiderable peril.”

“Me!” said Balsamo, concealing his emotion. “I do not require that to feel grateful to you; but yet, be good enough to inform me what-”

“Yes. The coffer in question-”

“Well, Madame-”

“Contained a multitude of ciphers, which Monsieur de Sartines caused all his clerks to translate. All signed their several translations, executed apart, and all gave the same result. In consequence of this, Monsieur de Sartines arrived at Versailles this morning while I was there, bringing with him all these translations and the dictionary of diplomatic ciphers.”

“Ha! and what did the king say-”

“The king seemed surprised at first, then alarmed. His Majesty easily listens to those who speak to him of danger. Since the stab of Damiens' penknife, there is one word: which is ever eagerly hearkened to by Louis XV. it is, 'Take care!'”

“Then you say that Monsieur de Sartines accused me- of plotting-”

“At first Monsieur de Sartines endeavored to make me leave the room; but I refused, declaring that as no one. was more attached to his Majesty than myself, no one had. a right to make me leave him when danger was in question. Monsieur de Sartines insisted, but I resisted; and. the king, smiling and looking at me in a manner I know well, said, ' Let her remain, Sartines; I can refuse her nothing to-day.' Then you understand, Count, that as I was present,. Monsieur de Sartines, remembering our adieu, so clearly- expressed, feared to displease me by attacking you. He therefore spoke of the evil designs of the King of Prussia toward France; of the disposition prevalent to facilitate the march of rebellion by supernatural means. In a word, he accused a great many people, proving always by the papers he held that these persons were guilty.”

“Guilty of what-”

“Of what! Count, ought I to disclose secrets of State!”

“Which are our secrets, Madame. Oh, you risk nothing! I think it is in my interest not to speak.”

“Yes, Count, I know that Monsieur de Sartines wished to prove that a numerous and powerful sect, composed of bold, skilful, resolute agents, were silently undermining the respect due to the king, by spreading certain reports concerning his Majesty.”

“What reports!”

“Saying, for instance, that his Majesty was accused of starving his people.”

“To which the king replied-”

“As the king always replies, by a joke.”

Balsamo breathed again. “And what was the joke-” he asked.

“’Since I am accused of starving the people,' said he, ‘there is only one reply to make to the accusation- let us feed them.’ ‘ How so, Sire!' said Monsieur de Sartines. ' I will take the charge of feeding all those who spread this report, and moreover will give them safe lodging in my chateau of the Bastille. '“

A slight shudder passed through Balsamo's limbs, but he retained his smiling countenance.

“What followed-” he asked.

“Then the king seemed to consult me by a smile. ' Sire,' said I, ' I can never believe that those little black characters which Monsieur de Sartines has brought to you.mean that you are a bad king.' Then the lieutenant of police exclaimed loudly. 'Anymore,' I added, ' than they prove that your clerks can read.'”

“And what did the king say, Countess-” asked Balsamo.

“That I might be right, but that Monsieur de Sartines was not wrong.”

“Well, and then-”

“Then a great many lettres-de-cachet were made out, and I saw that Monsieur de Sartines tried to slip among them one for you; but I stood firm, and arrested him by a single word. ' Monsieur,' I said aloud, and before the king, ' arrest all Paris, if you like- that is your business; but you had better reflect a little before you lay a finger on one of my friends. If not- 'Oh, ho!' said the king, ' she is getting angry; take care, Sartines!' ' But, Sire, the interest of the kingdom-' ' Oh, you are not a Sully!' said I, crimson with rage; ' and I am not a Gabrielle.” ' Madame, they intend to assassinate the king, as Henri IV. was assassinated!' For the first time the king turned pale, trembled, and put his hand to his head. I feared I was vanquished. 'Sire,' said I, 'you must let Monsieur de Sartines have his own way; for his clerks have no doubt read in these ciphers that I also am conspiring against you; 'and I left the room. But, bless me, it was the morning after the philter, my dear Count! The king preferred my company to that of Monsieur de Sartines, and ran after me. 'Ah, for pity's sake, my dear Countess,' said he, 'pray do not get angry!' 'Then send away that horrid man, Sire; he smells of dungeons.' 'Go, Sartines; off with you!' said the king, shrugging his shoulders. 'And for the future I forbid you, not only to visit me, but even to bow to me,' added I. At this blow our magistrate became alarmed; he approached me, and humbly kissed my hand. 'Well,' said he, 'so be it; let us speak no more of it, fair lady. But you will ruin the State. Since you absolutely insist upon it, your protégé” shall be respected by my agents.'“

Balsamo seemed plunged in a deep revery.

“Well,” said the countess, “so you do not even thank me for having saved you from the pleasure of lodging in the Bastille, which, perhaps might have been unjust, but assuredly Do less disagreeable on that account-”

Balsamo made no reply. He drew a small phial, filled with a fluid red as blood, from his pocket.

“Hold, Madame!” said he, “for the liberty you have procured for me, I give you twenty years' additional youth!”

The countess slipped the phial into her bosom, and took her leave joyous and triumphant. Balsamo still remained thinking.

“They might perhaps have been saved,” said he,” hut for the coquetry of a woman. This courtesan's little foot dashes them down into the depths of the abyss. Decidedly, God is with us!”

CHAPTER CXXIX. BLOOD.

The door had no sooner closed upon Madame Dubarry than Balsamo ascended the secret staircase and entered the chamber of furs. The conversation with the countess had been long, and for two reasons he was impatient. The first was the desire to see Lorenza; the second, the fear that she might be fatigued, for in the new life he had given her there was no room for ennui. She might be fatigued, inasmuch as she might pass, as she sometimes did, from the magnetic sleep to ecstasy; and to this ecstatic state always succeeded those nervous crises which prostrated Lorenza's strength, if a new supply of the regenerating fluid did not restore the necessary equilibrium among the various functions of her organization. Balsamo, then, having entered and closed the door, immediately glanced at the couch where he had left Lorenza. She was no longer there. Only the fine shawl of cashmere embroidered with golden flowers, which had enveloped her like a scarf, was still lying upon the cushions, as an evidence that she had been in the room and had been reclining on them.

Balsamo stood motionless, gazing at the empty sofa. Perhaps Lorenza had felt herself incommoded by a strange odor which seemed to have filled the room since he left it; perhaps, by a mechanical movement, she had usurped some of the functions of actual life, and instinctively changed her place. Balsamo's first idea was that Lorenza had returned to the laboratory, whither she had accompanied him a short time previously. He entered the laboratory. At the first glance it seemed empty; but in the shadow of the gigantic furnace, or behind the Oriental tapestry, a woman could easily conceal herself. He raised the tapestry, therefore; he made the circuit of the furnace; nowhere could he discover even a trace of Lorenza. There remained only the young girl's chamber, to which she had, no doubt, returned; for this chamber was a prison to her only in her waking state. He hastened to the chamber, and found the secret door closed. This was no proof that Lorenza had not entered. Nothing was more probable, in fact, than that Lorenza, in her lucid sleep, had remembered the — mechanism, and remembering it, had obeyed the hallucination of a dream barely effaced from her mind. Balsamo pressed the spring. The chamber was empty, like the laboratory; it did not appear as if Lorenza had even entered it. Then a heart-rending thought. a thought which, it will be remembered, had already stung his heart, chased away all the suppositions, all the hopes of the happy lover. Lorenza had been playing a part; she must have feigned to sleep in order to banish all distrust, all uneasiness, all watchfulness from her husband's mind; and at the first opportunity had fled again, this time with surer precautions, warned as she had been by a first, or rather by two former experiences.

At this idea Balsamo started up and rang for Fritz. Then, as Fritz, to his impatient mind, seemed to delay, he hastened to meet him, and found him on the secret staircase.

“The signora-” said he.

“Well, Master!” said Fritz, seeing by Balsamo's agitation that something extraordinary had taken place.

“Have you seen her-”

“No, Master.”

“She has not gone!”

“From where-”

“From this house, to be sure!”

“No one has left the house but the countess, behind whom I have just closed the gate.”

Balsamo rushed up the stairs again like a madman. Then he fancied that the giddy young creature, so different in her sleep from what she was when waking, had concealed herself in a moment of childish playfulness; that from the corner where she was hid she was now reading his heart, and amusing herself by terrifying him, in order to reassure him afterward. Then he began a minute search. Not a nook was omitted, not a closet forgotten, not a screen left in its. proper place. There was something in this search of Balsamo's like the frantic efforts of a man blinded by passion, alternating with the feeble and tottering gait of a drunkard. He could then only stretch out his arms and cry,” Lorenza, Lorenza!” hoping that the adored creature would rush forth suddenly, and throw herself into his arms with an exclamation of joy. But silence alone, a gloomy and uninterrupted silence, replied to his extravagant thoughts and mad appeals.

In running wildly about, dashing aside the furniture, shouting to the naked walls, calling Lorenza, staring without seeing any object or forming a single coherent thought, Balsamo passed three minutes, that is to say, three centuries, of agony. He recovered by degrees from this half-insane hallucination, dipped his hand in a vase of iced water, moistened his temples, and pressing one hand in the other, as if to force himself to be cool, he chased back by his iron will the Wood which was beating wildly against his brain, with that fatal, incessant, monotonous, movement which indicates life when there is merely motion and silence, but which is a sign of death or madness when it becomes tumultuous and perceptible.

“Come I” said he,” let me reason. Lorenza is not here, no more false pretences with myself. Lorenza is not here; she must be gone! yes, gone, quite gone!” And he looked around once more, and once more shouted her name.

“Gone!” he continued. “In vain Fritz asserts that he has not seen her. She is gone! gone! Two cases present themselves: Either he has not seen Lorenza, and, after all, that is possible, for man is liable to error, or he has seen her, and has been bribed by her. Fritz bribed! Why not- In vain does his past fidelity plead against this supposition. If Lorenza, if love, if science, could so deeply deceive and lie, why should the frail nature of a fallible human being not deceive also- Oh, I will know all! I will know all! Is there not Mademoiselle de Taverney left- Yes, through Andree I shall know if Fritz has betrayed me, if Lorenza is false! And this time- oh! this time as love has proved false, as science has proved an error, as fidelity has become a snare, oh! this time Balsamo will punish without pity, without sparing, like a strong man who revenges himself, who chases pity from his heart, and keeps only pride. Let me see; the first step is to leave this as quickly as possible, not to let Fritz suspect anything, and to fly to Trianon.”

Balsamo, seizing his hat, which had rolled on the floor, rushed toward the door. But suddenly he stopped. “Oh!” said he, “before anything else, my God! poor old man, I had forgotten him! I must see Althotas. During my delirium, during this spasm of forced and unnatural love, I have neglected the unfortunate old man! have been ungrateful and inhuman!”

And, with the feverishness which now animated all his movements, Balsamo approached the spring which put in motion the trap in the ceiling, and the movable scaffold quickly descended. He placed himself upon it, and, aided by the counterpoise, mounted again, still overwhelmed by the anguish of his mind and heart, and without thinking of anything but Lorenza. Scarcely had he attained the level of the floor, when the voice of Althotas struck upon his ear, and roused him from his gloomy revery. But, to Balsamo's great astonishment, the old man's first words were not reproaches, as he had expected; he was received with an outburst of simple and natural gayety. The pupil looked with an astonished gaze upon his master. The old man was reclining upon his spring-chair. He breathed noisily and with delight, as if at each inspiration he added a day to his life; his eyes, full of a gloomy fire, but the expression of which was enlivened by the smile upon his lips, were fixed eagerly upon his visitor.

Balsamo summoned up all his strength and collected his ideas, in order to conceal his grief from his master, who had so little indulgence for human weaknesses. During this moment of reflection he felt a strange oppression weigh upon his breast. No doubt the air was vitiated by being too constantly breathed, for a heavy, dull, close, nauseous odor, like the one he had already noticed below, but there in a slighter degree, floated in the air, and like the vapors which rise from lakes and marshes in autumn at sunrise and sunset, had taken substance and rested on the windows. In this dense and acrid atmosphere Balsamo's heart throbbed, his head felt confused, a vertigo seized upon him, and he felt that respiration and strength were fast failing him.

“Master,” said he, seeking some object on which to support himself, and endeavoring to dilate his lungs, “Master, you cannot live here; there is no air.”

“You think so-”

“Oh!”

“Nevertheless, I breathe very well in it,” replied Althotas, gayly, “and I live as you see!”

“Master, Master!” replied Balsamo, growing more and more giddy, “let me open a window! It rises from the floor like an exhalation of blood!”

“Of blood! Ah! you think so- Of blood-” cried Althotas, bursting into a laugh. “Oh, yes, yes; I feel the miasma which is exhaled from a newly killed body. I could weigh it, so heavily does it press upon my brain and heart.”

“That is it; ” said Althotas, with his sardonic laugh-” that is it; I also perceived it. You have a tender heart and a weak brain, Acharat.”

“Master,” said Balsamo, pointing with his finger at the old man, “Master, you have blood upon your hands; Master, there is blood upon this table; there is blood everywhere, even in your eyes, which shine like two torches; Master, the smell which I breathe, and which makes me giddy, which is suffocating me, is the smell of blood!”

“Well, what then!” said Althotas, quickly;” is this the first time in your life that you have smelt it-”

“No.”

“Have you never seen me make experiments! Have you never made any yourself-”

“But human blood!” said Balsamo, pressing his hand upon his burning forehead.

“Ah! you have a subtle sense of smell,” said Althotas.”Well, I did not think human blood could be distinguished from that of any other animal.”

“Human blood!” muttered Balsamo.

And as he reeled backward and felt for some projecting point to support him, he perceived with horror a vast copper basin, the shining sides of which reflected the purple color of the freshly spilled blood. The enormous vase was half-filled. Balsamo started back, terrified.

“Oh, this blood!” he exclaimed; “whence comes this blood-”

Althotas made no reply, but his watchful eyes lost nothing of Balsamo's suspicion, bewilderment, and terror. Suddenly the latter uttered a terrible roar. Then, stooping like some wild beast darting upon its prey, he rushed to a corner of the room and picked up from the floor a silken ribbon embroidered with silver, to which was hanging a long tress of black hair. After that wild, mournful, terrible cry, a deathlike silence reigned for a moment in the old man's apartment. Balsamo slowly raised the ribbon, shuddered as he examined the tresses which a golden pin fastened to the silk at one end, while, cut off sharply at the other, they seemed like a fringe the end of which had been dipped in a wave of blood, the red and sparkling drops of which were still apparent on the edge. In proportion as Balsamo raised his hand, it trembled still more. As he looked more intently at the ribbon, his cheeks became more livid.

“Whence does this come!” murmured he, in a hollow voice, loud enough, however, for another to hear and to reply to his question.

“That-” asked Althotas.

“Yes, that.”

“Well! it is a silken ribbon tying some hair.”

“But the hair- in what is it steeped!”

“You can see; in blood.”

“In what blood-”

“Parbleu! in the blood I wanted for my elixir- in the blood which you refused me, and which, therefore, I was forced to procure for myself.”

“But this hair, these tresses, this ribbon, from whom did you take them This is not a child's hair.”

“And who told you it was a child I had killed-” asked Althotas, quietly.

“Did you not want the blood of a child for your elixir!” said Balsamo.”Did you not tell me so-”

“Or of a virgin, Acharat, or of a virgin.”

And Althotas stretched his long, bony hand from the chair, and took a phial, the contents of which he tasted with delight. Then, in his most natural tone and with his most affectionate smile, “I have to thank you, Acharat,” said he;” you were wise and far-sighted in placing that woman beneath my trap, almost within reach of my, hand. Humanity has no cause for complaint. The law has nothing to lay hold upon. He, he! It was not you who gave me the young creature without whom I should have perished. No! I took her. He, he! thanks, my dear pupil! thanks, my dear Acharat!”

And he once more put the phial to his lips. Balsamo let fall the tress of hair which he held; a horrible light dazzled his eyes. Opposite to him was the old man's table, a large marble slab always heaped with plants, books, and phials. This table was covered with a long cloth of white damask with dark flowers, on which the lamp of Althotas shed a reddish light, and which displayed an ominous outline which Balsamo had not before remarked. He seized a corner of the cloth and hastily pulled it away. But instantly his hair stood on end; his gaping mouth could not utter the horrible cry which almost suffocated him. Under this shroud Balsamo had perceived Lorenza's corpse stretched upon the table, her face livid and yet smiling, and her head hanging backward as if dragged down by the weight of her long hair. A large wound gaped underneath the collar-bone, from which not a single drop of blood escaped. Her hands were rigid, and her eyes closed beneath their purple eyelids. “Yes, blood! the last three drops of a virgin's blood- that is what I wanted,” said the old man, putting the phial to his lips for the third time.

“Wretch!” thundered Balsamo, whose cry of despair at last burst from each pore, “die, then, for in the last four days she has been my mistress, my love, my wife! You have murdered her in vain! She was not a virgin.”

The eyes of Althotas quivered at these words as if an electric shock had made them dance in their orbits; his pupils were fearfully dilated, his toothless gums chattered, the phial fell from his hand upon the floor and broke into a thousand pieces, while he, stupefied, annihilated, stricken at once in heart and brain, fell back heavily upon his chair. Balsamo bent with a sob over Lorenza's body, and pressing his lips to her blood stained hair, sank senseless on the floor.

CHAPTER CXXX. DESPAIR.

The Hours, those mysterious sisters, who cleave the air hand-in-hand with a flight so slow for the wretched, so rapid for the happy, paused in their onward motion, folding their heavy wings over this chamber filled with sighs and groans. Death on one side, agony on the other, and between them despair, grievous as agony, deep as death. Balsamo had not uttered a word since the terrible cry which had been wrung from his breast. Since the terrible revelation which had cast down the ferocious joy of Althotas, he had not moved. As for the hideous old man, thus violently thrown back into life such as God grants to man, he seemed as much bewildered in this new element as the bird struck by a leaden bullet and fallen from the skies into a lake, on whose surface it flutters, unable to employ its wings. The horror expressed in his pale and agonized features revealed the immeasurable extent of his disappointment. In fact, Althotas no longer even took the trouble to think, since he had seen the goal at which his spirit aimed, and which he had thought firm as a rock, vanish like empty vapor. His deep and silent despair seemed almost like insensibility. To a mind unaccustomed to measure his, it might have seemed an indication of reflection; to Balsamo, who however did not even look upon him, it marked the death-agony of power, of reason, and of life.

Althotas fixed his gaze upon the broken phial, the image of the nothingness of his hopes. One would have said he counted the thousand scattered fragments, which, in falling, had diminished his life by so many days. One would have said he wished to drink in with his look the precious fluid which was spilled upon the floor, and which, for a moment he had believed to be immortality. At times, also, when the grief of this disenchantment was too poignant, the old man raised his dull eyes to Balsamo, then from Balsamo his glance wandered to Lorenza's corpse. He resembled at these moments those savage animals which the huntsman finds in the morning caught in the trap by the leg, and which he stirs for a long time with his foot without making them turn their heads, but which, when he pricks them with his hunting knife, or with the bayonet of his fowling-piece, obliquely raise their bloodshot eyes, throwing on him a look of hatred, vengeance, reproach, and surprise.

“Is it possible,” said this look, so expressive even in its agony, “is it credible, that so many misfortunes, so many shocks, should overwhelm me, caused by such an insignificant being as the man I see kneeling there a few yards from me, at the feet of such a vulgar object as that dead woman- Is it not a reversion of Nature, an overturning of science, a cataclysm of reason, that the pupil so gross should have deceived the master so sublime- Is it not monstrous that the grain of sand should have arrested the wheel of the superb chariot, so rapid in its all-powerful, its immortal flight-”

As for Balsamo, stunned, heart-broken, without voice or motion, almost without life, no human thought had yet dawned amid the dark vapors of his brain. Lorenza, his Lorenza! His wife, his idol, doubly precious to him as his revealing angel and his love! Lorenza, his delight and his glory, the present and the future, his strength and faith; Lorenza, all he loved, all he wished for, all he looked forward to in this world! Lorenza was lost to him forever! He did not weep, he did not groan, he did not even sigh. He hardly had time as yet for astonishment that so frightful a calamity had fallen upon him. He was like those unfortunates whom an inundation seizes.in their bed, in the midst of darkness. They dream that the water gains upon them; they awake, they open their eyes and see a roaring billow breaking over their heads, and have not even time to utter a cry in their passage from life to death. For a long time Balsamo felt himself buried in the deepest abyss of the tomb. In his overwhelming grief, he looked upon what had happened to him as one of the dark dreams which torment the dead in the eternal silent night of the sepulcher. For him there was no more Althotas- that is to say, no more hate, no more revenge. For him there was no more Lorenza- that is to say, no more life, no more love. All was sleep, night, nothingness! Thus the minutes glided past, gloomily, silently, heavily, in this chamber where the blood congealed and the lifeless form grew rigid.

Suddenly, amid the death-like silence, a bell sounded three times. Fritz, doubtless, was aware that his master was with Althotas, for the bell sounded in the room itself. But in vain it sounded three time, with an insolently strange noise; the sound died away in space. Balsamo did not raise his head. In a few moments the same ringing, only louder this time, sounded again; but, like the first, it could not rouse Balsamo from his torpor. Then, at a measured interval, but not so far from the second as that had been from the first, the angry bell a third time made the room resound with multiplied echoes of its wailing and impatient sounds. Balsamo did not start, but slowly raised his head and interrogated the empty space before him with the cold solemnity of a corpse rising from the tomb. So must Lazarus have looked when the voice of Christ called him three times. The bell continued ringing. Its increasing energy aroused at last the intelligence of Lorenza's lover. He withdrew his hand from that of the corpse. All the heat had left his body, without passing into that of Lorenza.

“Some important news or some great danger,” muttered Balsamo to himself. “May it prove a great danger!” And he rose to his feet.

“But why should I reply to this summons-” he continued aloud, without heeding the gloomy sound of his words echoing beneath the somber vault of this funereal chamber; “can anything in this world henceforth interest or alarm me-”

Then, as if in reply, the bell struck its iron tongue so rudely against its brazen sides that the clapper broke and fell upon a glass retort, which flew in pieces with a metallic sound, and scattered its fragments upon the floor. Balsamo resisted no longer; besides, it was important that none, not even Fritz, should come to seek him where he was. He walked, therefore, with steady step to the spring, pressed it, and placed himself upon the trap, which descended slowly and deposited him in the chamber of furs. As he passed the sofa, he brushed against the scarf which had fallen from Lorenza's shoulders when the pitiless old man, impassive as death itself, had carried her off in his arms. This contact, more living seemingly than Lorenza herself, sent an icy shudder through Balsamo's veins. He took the scarf and kissed it, using it to stifle the cries which burst from his heaving breast. Then he proceeded to open the door of the staircase.

On the topmost steps stood Fritz, all pale and breathless, holding a torch in one hand, and in the other the cord of the bell, which, in his terror and impatience, he continued to pull convulsively. On seeing his master, he uttered a cry of satisfaction, and then a cry of surprise and fear. But Balsamo, ignorant of the cause of this double cry, replied only by a mute interrogation. Fritz did not speak, but he ventured, he. usually so respectful, to take his master's hand, and led him to the large Venetian mirror that ornamented the mantelpiece at the back of which was the passage into Lorenza 's apartment.

“Oh, look, your Excellency!” said he, showing him his own image in the glass.

Balsamo shuddered. Then a smile, one of those smiles which spring from infinite and incurable grief, a deathly smile, flitted over his lips. He had understood the cause of Fritz's alarm. Balsamo had grown twenty years older in an hour. There was no more brightness in his eyes, no more color in his cheek; an expression of dullness and stupefaction overspread his features; a bloody foam fringed his lips; a large spot of blood stained the whiteness of his cambric shirt. Balsamo looked at himself in the glass for a moment without being able to recognize himself, then he determinedly fixed his eyes upon the strange person reflected in the mirror.

“Yes, Fritz,” said he, “you are right.”

Then, remarking the anxious look of his faithful servant, “But why did you call me!” he asked.

“Oh! Master, for them.”

“For them-”

“Yes.”

“Whom do you mean by them!”

“Excellency,” whispered Fritz, putting his mouth close to his master's ear, “the Five Masters.” Balsamo shuddered.

“All-” he asked.

“Yes, all.”

“And they are here-”

“Here!”

“Alone-”

“No; each has an armed servant waiting in the courtyard.”

“They came together-”

“Yes, Master, together, and they are impatient; that is why I rang so many times and so violently.”

Balsamo, without even concealing the spot of blood beneath the folds of his frill, without attempting to repair the disorder of his dress, began to descend the stairs, after having asked Fritz if his guests had installed themselves in the salon or in the great cabinet.

“In the salon, Excellency,” replied Fritz, following his master. Then at the foot of the stairs, venturing to stop Balsamo, he asked:” Has your Excellency no orders to give me-”

“None. Fritz.”

“Excellency-” stammered Fritz.

“Well!” asked Balsamo, with infinite gentleness.

“Will your Excellency go unarmed-”

“Unarmed- yes.”

“Even without your sword-”

“And why should I take my sword, Fritz-”

“I do not know,” said the faithful servant, casting down his eyes, “but I thought, I believed, I feared.”

“It is well, Fritz; you may go.”

Fritz moved away a few steps in obedience to the order he had received, but returned.

“Did you not hear!” asked Balsamo.

“Excellency, I merely wished to tell you that your double-barreled pistols are in the ebony case upon the gilt stand.”

“Go, I tell you!” replied Balsamo. And he entered the salon.

CHAPTER CXXXI. THE JUDGMENT.

Fritz was quite right; Balsamo's guests had not entered the Rue Saint Claude with a pacific display nor with a benevolent exterior. Five horsemen escorted the travelling carriage in which the Masters had come; five men with a haughty and somber mien, armed to the teeth, had closed the outer gate and were guarding it while appearing to await their masters' return. A coachman and two footmen on the carriage seat concealed under their overcoats each a small hanger and a musket. It was rather on an expedition than on a visit that so many persons had come to the Rue Saint Claude. And therefore the nocturnal invasion of these terrible men, whom Fritz had recognized, the forcible taking possession of the hotel, had inspired the German with an unspeakable terror. He had at first attempted to refuse entrance to the whole party, when he had seen the escort through the wicket, and had suspected them to be armed; but the all-powerful signals they had used, that irresistible testimony of the right of the new-comers, had left him no option.

As soon as they were masters of the place, the strangers, like skilful generals, posted themselves at each outlet of the house, taking no pains to dissemble their hostile. intentions. The pretended valets in the courtyard and in the passages, the pretended masters in the salon, seemed to Fritz to bode no good; and that was why he had broken the bell. Balsamo, without displaying any astonishment, without making any preparation, entered the room, which Fritz, to do proper honor to all visitors, had lighted up as usual. He saw, seated in armchairs, the five visitors, of whom not one rose when he entered. He, as master of the house, having looked at them, bowed politely; then only did they rise and gravely return his salute. Balsamo took a chair in front of them, without noticing or seeming to notice the strange order of their position. In fact, the five armchairs formed a semicircle like those of the ancient tribunals, with a president, supported by two assistants, and with Balsamo's chair placed in front of that of the president, and occupying the place accorded to the accused in a council or praetorium. Balsamo did not speak first, as in other circumstances he would have done; he looked around without seeing any object clearly, still affected by a kind of painful drowsiness, which had remained after the shock.

“It seems, Brother, that you have understood our errand,” said the president, or rather he who occupied the centre seat; “yet you delayed to come, and we were already deliberating if we should send to seek you.”

“I do not understand your errand,” said Balsamo, calmly.

“I should not have imagined so, from seeing you take the position and attitude of an accused before us.”

“An accused-” stammered Balsamo, vacantly, shrugging his shoulders. “I do not understand you.”

“We will soon make you understand us. Not a difficult task, if I may believe your pale cheeks, your vacant eyes, and trembling voice. One would think you did not hear.”

“Oh, yes; I hear,” replied Balsamo, shaking his head, as if to banish the thoughts which oppressed it.

“Do you remember, Brother,” continued the president, “that in its last communication the superior committee warned you against a treasonable attempt meditated by one of the great ones of the order-”

“Perhaps so, yes, I do not deny it.”

“You reply as a disordered and troubled conscience might be expected to do; but rouse yourself. Be not cast down; reply with that clearness and precision which your terrible position requires. Reply to my questions with the certainty that we are open to conviction, for we have neither prejudice nor hatred in this matter. We are the law; it does not pronounce a verdict until the evidence is heard.”

Balsamo made no reply. “I repeat it, Balsamo, and my warning once given, let it be to you like the warning which combatants give to each other before beginning their struggle. I will attack you with just but powerful weapons; defend yourself!”

The assistants, seeing Balsamo's indifference and imperturbable demeanor, looked at each other with astonishment, and then again turned their eyes upon the president.

“You have heard me, Balsamo, have you not-” repeated the latter. Balsamo made a sign of the head in the affirmative. “Like a well-meaning and loyal brother, I have warned you, and given you a hint of the aim of my questionings. You are warned, guard yourself; I am about to begin again.”

“After this announcement,” continued the president, “the association appointed five of its members to watch in Paris the proceedings of the man who was pointed out to us as a traitor. Now our revelations are not subject to error. We gather them, as you yourself know, either from devoted agents, from the aspect of events, or from infallible indications and signs among the mysterious combinations which Nature has as yet revealed to us alone. Now one of us had a vision respecting you; we know that he has never been deceived, we were upon our guard, and watched you.”

Balsamo listened without giving the least sign of impatience or even of intelligence. The president continued: “It was not an easy task to watch a man such as you. You enter everywhere; your mission is to have a footing wherever our enemies have a residence or any power whatever. You have at your disposal all your natural resources, which are immense, and those which the association intrusts to you to make its cause triumphant. For a long time we hovered in a sea of doubt when we saw enemies visit you, such as a Richelieu, a Dubarry, a Rohan. Moreover, at the last assembly in the Rue Plastriere, you made a long speech full of clever paradoxes, which led us to imagine that you were playing a part in flattering and associating with this incorrigible race, which it is our duty to exterminate from the face of the earth. For a long time we respected the mystery of your behavior, hoping for a happy result; but at last the illusion was dispelled.”

Balsamo retained his motionless, impassive demeanor, insomuch that the president became impatient.

“Three days ago,” said he,” five lettres-de-cachet were issued. They had been demanded from the king by Monsieur de Sartines; they were filled as soon as signed, and the same day were presented to five of our principal agents, our most faithful and devoted brothers, residing in Paris. All five were arrested: two were taken to the Bastille, where they are kept in the most profound secrecy; two are at Vincennes, in the dungeon; one in the most noisome cell in Bicetre. Did you know this circumstance!”

“No,” said Balsamo. “That is strange, after what we know of your relations with those in power in the kingdom; but there is something stranger still.” Balsamo listened. “To enable Monsieur de Sartines to arrest these five faithful friends, he must have had the only paper which contains the names of the victims in his possession. This paper was sent to you by the supreme council in 1769; and to you it was assigned to receive the new members, and immediately invest them with the rank which the supreme council assigned them.”

Balsamo expressed by a gesture that he did not recollect the circumstance.

“I shall assist your memory. The five persons in question were represented by five Arabic characters; and these characters, in the paper you received, corresponded with the names and ciphers of the new brothers.”

“Be it so,” said Balsamo.

“You acknowledge it-”

“I acknowledge whatever you please.”

The president looked at his assistants, as if to order them to take a note of this confession.

“Well,” continued he, “on this paper the only one, remember, which could have compromised the brothers, there was a sixth name. Do you remember it-”

Balsamo made no reply.

“The name was- the Comte de Fenix.”

“Agreed,” said Balsamo.

“Then why- if the names of the five brothers figured in five lettres-de-cachet, why was yours respected, caressed, and favorably received at court and in the antechambers of ministers- If our brothers merited prison, you merited it also. What have you to reply!”

“Nothing.”

“Ah! I can divine your answer. You may say that the police had by private means discovered the names of the obscurer brethren, but that they were obliged to respect yours as an ambassador and a powerful man. You may even say that they did not suspect this name.”

“I shall say nothing.”

“Your pride outlives your honor. These. names the police could have discovered only by reading the confidential note which the supreme council had sent you; and this is the way it was seen. You kept it in a coffer. Is that true-”

“It is.”

“One day a woman left your house carrying the coffer under her arm. She was seen by our agents, and followed to the hotel of the lieutenant of police, in the Faubourg St. Germain. We might have arrested the evil at its source; for if we had stopped the woman and taken the coffer from her, everything would have been safe and sure. But we obeyed the rules of our constitution, which command us to respect the secret means by which some members serve the cause, even when these means have the appearance of treason or imprudence.”

Balsamo seemed to approve of this assertion, but with a gesture so little marked, that, had it not been for his previous immobility, it would have been unnoticed.

“This woman reached the lieutenant of police,” said the president;” she gave him the coffer, and all was discovered. Is this true!”

“Perfectly true.”

The president rose. “Who was this woman-” he exclaimed “beautiful; impassioned, devotedly attached to you, body and soul, tenderly loved by you; as clever, as subtle, as cunning as one of the angels of darkness who assist man to commit evil! Lorenza Feliciani is your wife, Balsamo!”

Balsamo uttered a groan of despair.

“You are convinced-” said the president.

“Conclude,” replied Balsamo.

“I have not yet finished. A quarter of an hour after she had entered the hotel of the lieutenant of police, you arrived. She had sown the treason; you came to reap the reward. The obedient servant had taken upon herself the perpetration of the crime; you came to add the finishing stroke to the infamous work. Lorenza departed alone. You renounced her, doubtless, and would not compromise yourself by accompanying her; you left triumphantly along with Madame Dubarry, summoned there to receive from your own lips the information you sold her. You entered the carriage with that prostitute, as the boatman entered the boat with the sinner, Mary the Egyptian. You left behind the papers which ruined us with Monsieur de Sartines, but you brought away the coffer which might have ruined you with us. Fortunately we saw you- God's light is with us when we need it most.”

Balsamo bowed without speaking.

“I now conclude,” added the president. “Two criminals have been pointed out to the order; a woman, your accomplice, who may be innocent, perhaps, but who, in point of fact, has injured our cause by revealing one of our secrets; and you, the Master, the Great Copt, the enlightened mind, who have had the cowardice to shelter yourself behind this woman, that your treason may be less clearly seen.”

Balsamo raised his head, and fixed a look upon the commissioners, burning with all the rage which had smouldered in his breast since the beginning of the interrogation.

“Why do you accuse this woman-” he asked.

“Ah! we know that you will endeavor to defend her; we know that you love her almost to idolatry, that you prefer her to everything in the world. We know that she is your treasure of science, of happiness, and of fortune; we know that she is more precious to you than all the world beside.”

“You know all this!” said Balsamo.

“Yes, we know it; and we shall punish you through her more than through yourself.”

“Finish!”

The president rose. “This is the sentence: Joseph Balsamo is a traitor, he has broken his oath; but his knowledge is immense, and lie is useful to the order. Balsamo must live for the cause he has betrayed. He belongs to his brothers, though he has cast them off.”

“Ah, ah!” said Balsamo, gloomily, almost savagely.

“A perpetual prison will protect the association against any renewal of his treachery, at the same time that it will permit the brothers to receive the service from him which it has a right to expect from all its members. As to Lorenza Feliciani, a terrible punishment-”

“Hold!” said Balsamo, with perfect calmness in his voice, “you forget that I did not defend myself; the accused must be heard in his own justification. A word, a single proof, will suffice; wait one moment, and I will bring you the proof I have promised.”

The commissioners seemed to deliberate for a moment.

“Ah, you fear lest I should kill myself I” said Balsamo, with a bitter smile. “If that had been my wish, it would have been already done. There is that in this ring which would have killed you all five times over had I opened it. You fear I should escape; let me be guarded if you wish it.”

“Go I” said the president.

Balsamo disappeared for a short time. Then he was heard heavily descending the staircase. He entered, bearing the cold, rigid, and discolored body of Lorenza upon his shoulder, her white hand hanging to the ground.

“Here is the woman I adored, who was my treasure, my only happiness, my life! the woman who, as you say, has betrayed you. Here, take her! God did not wait for you to punish, gentlemen!”

And with a movement quick as lightning he let the corpse glide from his arms, and sent it rolling on the carpet to the feet of the judges, whom her cold hair and the dead and motionless hands touched, to their great horror, while by the light of the lamps they saw the wide gash gaping in her neck, white as a swan's.

“Now pronounce the sentence!” added Balsamo.

The horrified judges uttered a cry, and seized with maddening terror fled in indescribable confusion. Soon their horses were heard neighing and trampling in the courtyard, the outer gate grated on its hinges, and then silence, the solemn silence of the tomb, returned to seat itself beside despair and death.

CHAPTER CXXXII. DOOM.

While the terrible scene, which we have just described, was taking place between Balsamo and the Five Masters, nothing apparently had changed in the rest of the house. The old man had seen Balsamo enter his apartment and bear away Lorenza's corpse; and this new incident had recalled him to what was passing around him. But when he saw Balsamo take up the dead body and descend with it into the lower rooms, he fancied it was the last and eternal adieu of this man whose heart he had broken, and fear descended on his soul with an overwhelming force, which for him who had done all to avoid death doubled the horror of the grave. Not knowing for what purpose Balsamo had left him, nor whither he was going, he began to call out,

“Acharat! Acharat!” It was the name his pupil had borne in childhood, and he hoped it would have retained its influence over the man.

But Balsamo continued to descend. Having touched the floor, he even forgot to make the trap reascend, and disappeared in the corridor.

“Ah!” cried Althotas, “see what man is- a blind, ungrateful animal! Return, Acharat, return! Ah, you prefer the ridiculous object called a woman to the perfection of humanity which I represent! You prefer a fragment of life to immortality! But no!” he exclaimed, after a moment's pause, “the wretch had deceived his master! He has betrayed my confidence like a vile robber; he feared that I should live because I surpass him so much in science; he wanted to inherit the laborious work I had nearly concluded; he laid a trap for me, his master and benefactor! Oh, Acharat!”

And gradually the old man's anger was aroused, his cheeks were dyed with a hectic tinge, his half-closed eyes seemed to glow with the gloomy brightness of those phosphorescent lights which sacrilegious children place in the cavities of a human skull. Then he cried: “Return, Acharat, return! Look to yourself! You know that I have conjurations which evoke here and raise up supernatural spirits! I have evoked Satan, him whom the magi called Phegor, in the mountains of Gad, and Satan was forced to leave his bottomless pit and appear before me! I have conferred with the seven angels who were ministers of God's anger upon the same mountain where Moses received the ten commandments! By my will alone I have kindled the great tripod with its seven flames which Trajan stole from the Jews! Take care, Acharat, take care!”

But there was no reply. Then his brain became more and more clouded.

“Do you not see, wretch,” said he, in a choking voice,” that death is about to seize me as it would the meanest mortal! Listen, Acharat! you may return; I will do you no harm. Return! I renounce the fire; you need not fear the evil spirit, nor the seven avenging angels. I renounce vengeance, and yet I could strike you with such terror that you would become an idiot and as cold as marble, for I can stop the circulation of the blood. Come back, then, Acharat! I will do you no harm, but on the contrary I can do you much good. Acharat, instead of abandoning me, watch over my life, and you shall have all my treasures and all my secrets. Make me live, Acharat, that I may teach them to you. See, see!” and with gleaming eyes and trembling fingers he pointed to the numerous objects, papers, and rolls scattered through the vast apartment. Then he waited, collecting all his fast-failing faculties to listen.

“Ah, you come not!” he cried.”You think I shall die thus, and through this murder- for you are murdering me- everything will belong to you. Madman! were you even capable of reading the manuscripts which I alone am able to decipher; were the spirit even to grant you my wisdom for a lifetime of one, two, or three centuries, to make use of the materials I have gathered- you should not inherit them! No, no, a thousand times no! Return, Acharat, return for a moment, were it only to behold the ruin of this whole house- were it only to contemplate the beautiful spectacle I am preparing for you! Acharat! Acharat! Acharat!”

There was no answer, for Balsamo was during this time replying to the accusation of the Five Masters by showing them the mutilated body of Lorenza. The cries of the deserted old man grew louder and louder; despair redoubled.his strength, and his hoarse yelling's, reverberating in the long corridors, spread terror afar, like the roaring of a tiger who has broken his chain or forced the bars of his cage.

“Ah, you do not come!” shrieked Althotas; ” you despise me; you calculate upon my weakness! Well, you shall see! Fire! fire! fire!”

He articulated these cries with such vehemence that Balsamo, now freed from his terrified visitors, was roused by them from the depth of his despair. He took Lorenza's corpse in his arms, reascended the staircase, laid the dead body upon the sofa where two hours previously it had reposed in sleep, and mounting upon the trap, he suddenly appeared before Althotas.

“Ah, at last!” cried the old man, with savage joy. “You were afraid; you saw I could revenge myself, and you came! You did well to come, for in another moment I should have set this chamber on fire!”

Balsamo looked at him, shrugged his shoulders slightly, but did not deign to reply.

“I am athirst!” cried Althotas, “I am athirst! Give me drink, Acharat!”

Balsamo made no reply; he did not move; he looked at the dying man as if he would not lose an atom of his agony.

“Do you hear me!” howled Althotas, “do you hear me-”

The same silence, the same immobility on the part of the gloomy spectator.

“Do you hear me, Acharat-” vociferated the old man, almost tearing his throat in his efforts to give emphasis to this last burst of rage, “water! give me water!”

Althotas' features were rapidly decomposing. There was no longer fire in his looks, but only an unearthly glare; the blood no longer coursed beneath his sunken and cadaverous cheek; motion and life were almost dead within him. His long sinewy arms, in which he had carried Lorenza like a child, were raised, but inert and powerless as the membranes of a polypus. His fury had worn out the feeble spark which despair had for a moment revived in him.

“Ah!” said he,” ah! you think I do not die quickly enough! You mean to make me die of thirst! You gloat over my treasures and my manuscripts with longing eyes! Ah, you think you have them already! Wait, wait!”

And with an expiring effort, Althotas took a small bottle from beneath the cushions of the armchair and uncorked it. At the contact with the air, a liquid flame burst from the glass vessel, and Althotas, like some potent magician, shook this flame around him. Instantly the manuscripts piled round the old man's armchair, the books scattered over the room, the rolls of paper disinterred with so much trouble from the pyramid of Cheops and the subterranean depths of Herculaneum,.took fire with the rapidity of gunpowder. A sheet of flame overspread the marble slab, and seemed to Balsamo's eyes like one of those flaming circles of hell of which Dante sings. Althotas no doubt expected that Balsamo would rush into the flames to save this valuable inheritance which the old man was annihilating along with himself, but he was mistaken. Balsamo did not stir, but stood calm and isolated upon the trap-door, where the fire could not reach him. The flames wrapped Althotas in their embrace, but instead of terrifying him, it seemed as if the old man found himself once more in his proper element, and that,.as with the salamanders sculptured on our ancient castles, the fire caressed instead of consuming him. Balsamo still stood gazing at him. The fire had seized upon the woodwork, and completely surrounded the old man; it roared around the feet of the massive oaken chair on which he was seated, and what was most strange, though it was already consuming the lower part of his body he did not seem to feel it. On the contrary, at the contact with the seemingly purifying element, the dying man's muscles seemed gradually to distend, and an indescribable serenity overspread his features like a mask. Isolated from his body at this last hour, the old prophet on his car of fire seemed ready to wing his way aloft. The mind, all, powerful in its last moments, forgot its attendant matter, and sure of having nothing more to expect below, it stretched ardently upward to those higher spheres to which the fire seemed to bear it. From this moment the eyes of Althotas, which at the first reflection of the flames seemed to have been reendowed with life, gazed vaguely and abstractedly at some point in space which was neither heaven nor earth; they seemed trying to pierce the horizon. Calm and resigned, analyzing all sensation, listening to all pain, with his last breath on earth the old magician muttered, in a hollow voice, his adieus to power, to life, and hope.

“Ah!” said he, “I die without regret. I have possessed everything on earth, and have known all; I have had all power which is granted to a human creature; I had almost reached immortality!”

Balsamo uttered a sardonic laugh, whose gloomy echo arrested the old man's attention. Through the flames which surrounded him as with a veil, he cast a look of savage majesty upon his pupil.

‘You are right,” said he, “one thing I had not foreseen, God!”

Then, as if this mighty word had uprooted his whole soul, Althotas fell back upon his chair. He had given up to God that last breath which he had hoped to withhold from him. Balsamo heaved a sigh, and without endeavoring to save anything from the precious pile upon which this second Zoroaster had stretched himself to die, he again descended to Lorenza, and touched the spring of the trap, which readjusted itself in the ceiling, veiling from his sight the immense furnace, which roared like the crater of a volcano. During the whole night the fire roared above Balsamo's head like a whirlwind, without his making an effort either to extinguish it or to escape. Stretched beside Lorenza's body, he was insensible to all danger. But contrary to his expectations, when the fire had devoured all, and laid bare the vaulted walls of stone, annihilating all the valuable contents, it extinguished itself; and Balsamo heard its last roaring's, which, like those of Althotas, gradually died away in plaints and sighs.

CHAPTER CXXXIII. PERPLEXITIES.

The Duc de Richelieu was in his bed-chamber at his house in Versailles, taking his vanilla chocolate in company with Monsieur Rafte who was going over his accounts. The duke, deeply engaged in looking at his face reflected in a mirror a short distance from him, was giving very little attention to the calculations, more or less exact, of his secretary. Suddenly a noise of creaking shoes in the antechamber gave notice of a visit, and the duke hastily finished his chocolate, looking uneasily toward the door. There were times when Monsieur de Richelieu, like coquettes of advanced age, did not like to receive visitors. The valet announced Monsieur de Taverney. The duke doubtless was about to send some excuse, which would have put off until another day, or at least until another hour, his friend's visit, but as soon as the door was opened the petulant old man darted into the room, offered while passing by him the end of his ringer to the marshal, and hastened to bury himself in an immense easy-chair which groaned under the shock rather than under his weight. Richelieu saw his friend go by him like one of those fantastic men in whose existence Hoffman has since persuaded us to believe. He heard the creaking of the chair, he heard a heavy sigh, and turning to his guest,

“Eh, Baron,” said he,” what is the news- You seem as sad as death.”

“Sad,” said Taverney “sad! Pardieu! that did not seem to me a sigh of joy.”

The baron looked at the marshal in a manner which said that while Rafte was present there would be no explanation of the sigh. Rafte understood without taking the trouble to turn around; for he, as well as his master, sometimes looked in mirrors. And he discreetly withdrew. The baron looked after him, and as the door closed behind him, said,

“Do not say 'sad,' Duke; say ' anxious,' and mortally anxious.”

“Bah!”

“Indeed,” cried Taverney, clasping his hands, “I advise you to pretend surprise. For more than a mouth you have put me off with vague words, such as, 'I have not seen the king,' or again, 'The king has not seen me,' or perhaps, 'The king treats me coolly.' Cordieu! Duke, that is not the way to answer an old friend. A month- why, that is eternity!” Richelieu shrugged his shoulders.

“What the devil do you want me to say, Baron-” he replied.

“Eh! the truth!”

“Mordieu! I have told you the truth; mordieu! I drum it into your ears, but you will not believe it, that is all.”

“What! you would like me to believe that you, duke and peer, a marshal of France, a gentleman of the bedchamber, do not see the king- you who go to the levee every morning- Nonsense!”

“I have said so, and I repeat it, although it may not be credible; for three weeks I have been present every day at the levee- I, duke and peer, marshal of France, gentleman of the bed-chamber!”

“And the king does not speak to you, and you do not speak to the king- And you expect me to swallow such a fib as that-” said Taverney.

“Eh! Baron, my friend, you are getting impertinent you give me the lie as if we were at least forty years younger and still skilful with the small-sword.”

“But I am enraged, Duke.”

“Ah, that is another thing; be enraged my dear friend- I am enraged myself.”

“You are enraged-”

“And with reason, as you must admit when I tell you that since that day the king has not looked at me; when I tell you that his Majesty has constantly turned his back on me; that whenever I have smiled pleasantly upon him, the king has responded with a frightful grimace. In short, I am weary of going to Versailles to be mocked at! Come! What would you have me do about it-”

Taverney was fiercely biting his finger-nails during this! reply of the marshal.

“I do not understand it at all,” said he, at last.

“Nor I, Baron.”

“Indeed, I suppose the king laughs at these anxieties; for in short-”

“Yes; that is just what I say, Baron, in short-”

“Come, Duke, we must find some way out of this perplexity; we must contrive some skilful plan by which we can reach an explanation of all this.”

“Baron, Baron,” replied Richelieu; “there is danger in provoking explanations from kings.”

“You think so!”

“Yes. Do you want me to tell you something-”

“Speak.”

“Well, I suspect something.”

“And what!” asked the baron, haughtily. “Ah! now you are getting angry.”

“With reason, it seems to me.”

“Then, let us stop talking.”

“On the contrary, let us go on; but explain yourself.”

“The devil is in you with your explanations. Indeed, it is a monomania; beware of it.”

“You are charming, Duke; you see all our plans obstructed, you see an unaccountable delay in the progress of my affairs, and you advise me to wait I”

“What delay- Tell me.”

“In the first place, see this.”

“A letter-”

“Yes, from my son.”

“Ah! The colonel.”

“Fine colonel!”

“Good! and what is there new down there-”

“That for nearly a month Philippe has been awaiting at Rheims the appointment promised him by the king; that he has not received this appointment; and that the regiment sets out in two days.”

“The devil! The regiment sets out-”

“Yes, for Strasburg.”

“So that if Philippe does not receive this commission within two days-”

“Well, in two days Philippe will be here.”

“Yes, I understand- they have forgotten the poor boy; it is often so in the bureaus organized like those of the new minister. Ah! if I had been minister, the appointment would have been sent I”

“Ahem!” said Taverney. “What do you say!”

“I say that I do not believe a word of it.”

“What!”

“If you had been minister, you would have sent Philippe to the five hundred devils.”

“Oh!”

“And his father too.”

“Oh, oh I”

“And his sister farther still.”

“It is pleasant to talk with you, Taverney; you are full of spirit. But let us say no more about it.”

“I ask nothing better for my own part; but it will not do for my son- his position is intolerable. Duke, it is absolutely necessary to see the king.”

“Eh! that is all I do, I tell you.”

“To speak to him, then.”

“Eh! my dear friend, you cannot speak to the king if he will not speak to you.”

“Force him.”

“Ah! I am not the pope.”

“Then,” said Taverney,” I am determined to speak to my daughter; for there is something equivocal in all this, Monsieur le Duc.”

This word had a magical effect. Richelieu had studied Taverney; he knew him for a roue like Monsieur Lafare or Monsieur de Noce', friends of his youth, whose reputation was unblemished. He feared the alliance of father and daughter; he feared something, he knew not what, which might disgrace him.

“Well, do not be angry,” said he, “I will try one more plan. But I must have a pretext.”

“You have a pretext.”

“What is it!”

“The king has made a promise.”

“To whom-”

“To my son. And this promise-”

“Well-”

“He must be reminded of it.”

“Indeed, that is an expedient. Have you that letter-”

“Yes.”

“Let me have it.”

Taverney drew it from his vest pocket and handed it to the duke, urging him to the exercise both of caution and of boldness.

“Fire and water,” said Richelieu. “Come, we are talking extravagantly. No matter, the wine is drawn, we must drink.” He rang the bell. “Bring my clothes and see that the carriage is ready,” said the duke. Then turning to Taverney, he said with an uneasy manner,” Will you assist at my toilet, Baron-”

Taverney knew that he would trouble his friend by accepting, and replied,” No, my friend, it is impossible; I must take a turn about the city. Where will you meet me-”

“Why, at the chateau. It is important that you too should see his Majesty.”

“You think so!” said Taverney, delighted.

“I insist upon it; I wish you to see for yourself that what I said is true.”

“I do not doubt it; but since you wish-”

“You are very glad to, eh-”

“To be frank, yes.”

“Well, in the Glass Gallery at eleven o'clock, while I go in to see his Majesty.”

“I will be there; adieu.”

“Without ill-will, dear Baron,” said Richelieu, who even up to the last moment sought to avoid making an enemy of a man the extent of whose power he did not know.

Taverney got into his carriage and went off, solitary and thoughtful, to take a long drive in the gardens, while Richelieu, left to the care of his valet, made himself young again at his ease, which important business occupied the illustrious hero of Mahon not less than two hours. It was, however, much less time than Taverney in his own mind had allowed him for it; and the baron, on the lookout, saw, at eleven o'clock precisely, the marshal's carriage stop before the entrance of the palace, where the officers in waiting saluted Richelieu, and the ushers conducted him forward. Taverneys heart beat violently. More slowly than his eager spirit would have urged he repaired to the Gallery of Mirrors, where numerous courtiers, officers bearing petitions, and ambitious lordlings, stood like statues on the slippery floor, appropriate support for the courtiers of Fortune. Taverney mingled with the crowd, taking the precaution to place himself in a corner within reach of the marshal when the latter should leave the presence of his Majesty.

“Oh!”muttered he, between his teeth, “that I should be excluded with these country squires and dirty soldiers, I, who a month ago took supper in private with his Majesty!”

And his frowning brow gave expression to more than one infamous suspicion which would have made poor Andree blush.

CHAPTER CXXXIV. THE MEMORY OF KINGS.

Richelieu, in fulfilment of his promise, went bravely and placed himself in view of his Majesty just when Monsieur de Conde was handing him his shirt. The king, on seeing the marshal, turned away with so sudden a movement that the shirt fell to the floor, and the prince drew back in surprise. “Pardon, my cousin,” said Louis XV., to show the prince that there was nothing personal to him in this quick movement. Richelieu was thus apprised that this expression of anger was directed against him. But as if he had come determined to provoke this anger, if it should be necessary, with a view to a serious explanation, he faced about, as at Fontenoy, and placed himself where the king would pass him in going into his cabinet. The king, no longer seeing the marshal, began to speak freely and graciously; he finished dressing, arranged for a hunt at Marly, and held a long consultation with his cousin about it, for Messieurs de Conde have always had the reputation of being great sportsmen. But when he was passing into his cabinet after everybody else had gone away, he perceived Richelieu posing with all his grace for the most charming reverence which had been made since that of Lauzun, who, it will be remembered, bowed so finely. Louis XV. stopped, almost abashed.

“Still here, Monsieur de Richelieu-” said he.

“At your Majesty's service; yes, Sire.”

“You have not, then, left Versailles-”

“For forty years, Sire, I have seldom gone away, except when in your Majesty's service.”

The king stopped in front of the marshal and said,” You want something of me, do you not!”

“I, Sire-” said Richelieu, smiling.”Eh, what should I want!”

“But you pursue me, Duke, mordieu! I perceive it clearly enough.”

“Yes, Sire, with my love and my respect. Thanks, Sire.”

“Oh! you pretend not to understand me; but you understand me wonderfully well. And I, believe me, Monsieur le Marechal, have nothing to say to you.”

“Nothing, Sire!”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Richelieu armed himself with a profound indifference. “Sire,” said he,” I have always had the pleasure of believing, in my soul and conscience, that my diligence in the service of the king was disinterested. A great thing to say, Sire, of these forty years of which I have spoken to your Majesty; also, the envious will not say that the king has ever granted me a favor. On that point, fortunately, my reputation is secure.”

“Eh, Duke, if you want anything, ask, but ask quickly.”

“Sire, I want absolutely nothing; and for the present I confine myself to begging your Majesty-”

“What-”

“That you will admit to your presence to express his gratitude-”

“Who is it-”

“Sire, one who is under great obligation to the king.

“What do you mean-”

“One, Sire, on whom your Majesty has bestowed a signal honor. Ah! when one has had the honor of sitting at your Majesty's table, when one has enjoyed that graceful conversation, that charming humor which makes your Majesty the most admirable companion- then, Sire, one never forgets, and he eagerly seeks to continue a custom so delightful.”

“Your language is very extravagant, Monsieur de Richelieu.”

“Oh, Sire-”

“In short, of whom do you speak-”

“Of my friend Taverney.”

“Of your friend-” cried the king.

“Pardon, Sire!”

“Taverney!” replied the king, with an accent of terror which to the duke was very surprising.

“What could you expect, Sire! An old comrade-” he stopped a moment, “a man who served under Villars with me-” He stopped again. “You know, Sire, that in this world we call friends all whom we know; those whom we do not know are our enemies. It is a polite word, which often does not mean anything.”

“It is a compromising word, Duke,” replied the king, sharply, ” it is a word to be used with reserve.”

“The utterances of your Majesty are precepts of wisdom. Monsieur de Taverney, then-”

“Monsieur de Taverney is an immoral man.”

“Indeed, Sire, on the word of a gentleman, I had mistrusted it myself.”

“A man without delicacy, Monsieur le Marechal.”

“As for his delicacy, I will not speak of it before your Majesty. I vouch only for what I know.”

“What! you do not vouch for the delicacy of your friend, of an old comrade, of a man who has served with you under Villars, of a man whom you have presented to me- in short- You know him, however!”

“Him, certainly, Sire; but not his delicacy. Sully told your ancestor, Henri IV., that he had seen his fever go off dressed in a green robe; but I humbly confess, Sire, that I have never known how the delicacy of Taverney was dressed.”

“Indeed, Marshal- it is I who say it- he is a bad man, who has played a villainous role.”

“Oh! if your Majesty says so-”

“Yes, Monsieur, I say it.”

“Your Majesty relieves my mind by speaking in this way. 'No, I confess Taverney is not a flower of delicacy; and I have perceived it already. But, Sire, while your Majesty did not deign to tell me your opinion-”

“This is it, Monsieur, I detest him.”

“Ah! the judgment is pronounced, Sire. Happily for this unfortunate,” continued Richelieu,” a powerful intercessor pleads for him with your Majesty.”

“What do you mean!”

“If the father has had the misfortune to displease the king-”

“And very much.”

“I do not deny it, Sire.”

“What do you say, then-”

“I say that an angel with blue eyes and blond hair-”

“I do not understand you, Duke.”

“That may be, Sire.”

“I wish to understand you, however, I confess.”

“An ordinary person like me, Sire, trembles at the idea of lifting even a corner of the veil which shelters so many charming mysteries of love; but I repeat it, how much indulgence Taverney must owe to the one who mitigates in his favor the royal indignation. Oh, yea; Mademoiselle Andree must be an angel!”

“Mademoiselle is a little monster physically, as her father is a monster morally!” cried the king. “Oh!” cried Richelieu, astounded; ” are we all mistaken, and this beautiful appearance-”

“Never speak to me of that girl, Duke; it makes me shudder only to think of her.” Richelieu clasped his hands affectedly.” Oh, my God!” said he,” appearances have turned out- Had not your Majesty, the best judge in the kingdom, infallibility itself, assured me of that, how could I believe it- What, Sire, so deformed-”

“More than that, Monsieur; affected with a malady- a dreadful, lurking malady, Duke. But, for God's sake, not a word more about her, or you will kill me!”

“Oh, Heaven!” cried Richelieu,” I will not open my mouth again on the subject, Sire. To kill your Majesty!- oh, what a sorrow! What a family it is! He must be unhappy, the poor boy!”

“Of whom do you speak to me now!”

“Oh, this time of a faithful, sincere, devoted servant of your Majesty. Oh, Sire, he is a model, and you have judged him correctly. This time, I vouch for it, your favor has been bestowed upon the right person.”

“But whom are you talking about, Duke- Finish what you have to say, for I am in a hurry.”

“I speak,” replied Richelieu, gently,” of the son of the one, and the brother of the other. I speak of Philippe de Taverney, that gallant young man to whom your Majesty has given a regiment.”

“I'll have given a regiment to someone!”

“Yes, Sire; a regiment which Philippe de Taverney is still waiting for, it is true, but which you have really given him.”

“I-”

“Bless me, I believe so, Sire!”

“You are mad!”

“Oh!” '' I have given nothing at all, Marshal.”

“Truly-”

“But what the devil is that to you-”

“But, Sire-” '' Does this affair concern you-”

“Not the least in the world.”

“You have perhaps sworn to burn me by a slow fire with this fagot of thorns-”

“What do you mean, Sire- I thought- I see now that I was mistaken- I thought that you had promised-” '' But it is not my business, Duke; I have a minister of war. I never give regiments. A regiment!- a pretty story they have told you! Ah! you are the advocate of this brood- I told you that you did wrong to speak to me; see how you have set all my blood flowing the wrong way.”

“Oh, Sire!”

“Yes, the wrong way. Though the Devil be the advocate, I will not submit to this any longer;” and with these words the king turned his back upon the duke, and quite furious, took refuge in his cabinet, leaving Richelieu in the deepest misery.

“Ah! now,” muttered the old marshal, “I know where I stand.”

And dusting off with his handkerchief the powder which in the heat of the encounter had fallen upon his clothes, Richelieu directed his steps toward the gallery in the corner of which his friend was waiting with burning impatience. No sooner did the marshal appear than, like a spider pouncing on his prey, the baron ran to get the latest intelligence. With eager eye, his heart in his mouth, his arms extended, he presented himself.

“Well! what news!” he asked.

“There is something new, Monsieur,” replied Richelieu, straightening himself up, with a scornful curl of the lips and a gesture of contempt; “it is that I beg you never to address me another word.”

Taverney looked at the duke with wondering eyes.

“Yes; you have greatly displeased the king,” continued Richelieu, “and in displeasing the king, you offend me.”

Taverney in his stupefaction stood riveted to the marble floor as if his feet' had taken root there. Richelieu meantime continued on his way.

Then arriving at the Gallery of Mirrors, where his valet was in waiting, “To Luciennes!” cried he. And he disappeared.

CHAPTER CXXXV. ANDREE SWOONS

Taverney, when he had come to himself and examined thoroughly this misfortune, as he called it, knew that the moment had come for a serious explanation with the first cause of these great alarms. Consequently, boiling with anger, he directed his steps to the residence of Andree. The young girl was giving the last touch to her toilet, raising her rounded arms to fasten behind her ear two rebellious tresses of hair. She heard the step of her father in the antechamber just as, with book under her arm, she was leaving her apartment. “Ah! good-day, Andree,” said Monsieur de Taverney,” are you going out-”

“Yes, father.”

“Alone-”

“As you see.”

“Are you, then, still alone-”

“Since the disappearance of Nicole, I have not procured a maid.”

“But you cannot dress yourself, Andree, that will be injurious to you; a woman carelessly dressed has no success at court. I should recommend to you quite another course, Andree.”

“Excuse me, father, but Madame la Dauphine is waiting for me.”

“I assure you, Andree,” replied Taverney, getting excited as he went on,” I assure you, Mademoiselle, that with this simplicity you will be ridiculous.”

“Father-”

“Ridicule kills everywhere, and especially at court.”

“Monsieur, I will think of it. But just now Madame la Dauphine will be pleased to have me dressed less elegantly that I may be more prompt in responding to her summons.”

“Go, then, and return, I beg, as soon as you are free; for I wish to talk with you of a serious matter.”

“Yes, father,” said Andree, and she tried to go on her way. The baron gave her a searching look.” Stop, stop,” he cried, “you cannot go out so; you have forgotten your rouge, Mademoiselle, you are so pale as to be repulsive.”

“I, father-” said Andree, stopping. “Why, when you look at yourself in the mirror what do you think! Your cheeks are as white as wax, and you have circles under your eyes. You will frighten people if you go out in that condition, Mademoiselle.”

“I have not time to make any change in my toilet, father.”

“It is provoking; indeed, it is disgusting!” cried Taverney, shrugging his shoulders;” there is only one such woman in the world, and I have her for a daughter. What a cruel fate! Andree I Andree!” But Andree was already at the bottom of the stairs. She came back. “At least,” cried Taverney,” say that you are sick; make yourself interesting, mordieu! if you cannot make yourself beautiful!”

“That will be very easy to do, father, and I can truthfully say that I am sick; for I am really suffering at this moment.”

“Well,” grumbled the baron, “we needed only that sick!” Then between his teeth, “Plague take the haughty prudes!”

And he returned to his daughter's chamber where ha occupied himself in looking carefully for anything which might aid his conjectures and help him form an opinion. Meantime Andree crossed the square and walked along by the flower-beds. From time to time she raised her head to breathe more deeply; for the perfume of the newly opened flowers went to her head and made her dizzy. Thus disturbed, almost staggering under the heat of the sun, the young girl arrived, struggling with an unfamiliar sickness, at the antechambers of Trianon, when Madame de Noailles, standing upon the threshold of the cabinet of the dauphiness, gave Andree to understand with the first words she spoke that it was time for her to arrive and that they were expecting her. The abbe, reader by appointment to the princess, was taking breakfast with her Royal Highness, who often admitted to such privileges those persons with whom she was intimate. The abbe was praising the excellence of those French rolls which German housekeepers pile up so carefully around a cup of coffee and cream. The abbe was talking instead of reading, and was relating to the dauphiness all the news from Vienna which he had received at the houses of the journalists and diplomatists; for at this period politics were openly discussed, as freely indeed as in the most secret recesses of government offices; and it was not unusual for the ministry to acquire information which these gentlemen of the Palais-Royal or of the parks of Versailles had divined or perhaps fabricated.

The abbe spoke especially of the recent rumors of a threatened outbreak, occasioned by the high price of grain, which Monsieur de Sartines had quickly sup pressed by sending to the Bastille five of the heaviest monopolizers. Andree came in. The dauphiness too had her days of caprice and headache; the abbe had interested her; the thought of Andree's book following his conversation vexed her. Consequently she warned her second reader not to be late again, adding that punctuality, good in itself, was especially so when the occasion called for it. Andree, confounded by the reproach and wounded by its injustice, made no reply, although she might have said that she had been detained by her father and forced to come slowly because she was suffering so much. Now troubled and oppressed, she bent her head, and as if she were going to die, closed her eyes and lost her balance. But for the support of Madame de Noailles she would have fallen.

“How awkward your bearing is, Mademoiselle!” muttered Madame Etiquette.

Andree did not answer.

“But, Duchess, she is sick-” cried the dauphiness, rising to go to Andree.

“No, no,” said Andree, quickly, her eyes full of tears; “no, your Highness, I am well; or rather I am better.”

“But see, she is as white as her handkerchief, Duchess. It is my fault, I scolded her. Poor child, sit down, I wish it.”

“Madame-”

“Come, when I command! Give her your folding chair, Abbe'.”

Andree sat down, and gradually, under the gentle influence of this kindness, her mind became composed and the color returned to her cheeks.

“Well, Mademoiselle, can you read now-” asked the dauphiness.

“Oh, yes, indeed; I hope so, at least.”

And Andree opened the book at the place where she had left off reading the evening before, and with a voice which she tried to steady, to make her reading as intelligible and agreeable as possible, she began. But she had read hardly two or three pages when the little black letters dancing before her eyes began to go round and round, and finally became illegible. Andree grew pale again; cold perspiration rose from her breast to her forehead, and that black circle around the eyes, with which Taverney had reproached his daughter so bitterly, increased to such a degree that the dauphiness, who had looked up when Andree stopped reading, cried out, “See, Duchess, indeed this child is very sick; she is fainting.”

And the dauphiness herself ran to get a bottle of salts which she made her reader inhale. Thus revived, Andree tried to pick up the book, but the effort was in vain; her hands kept up a nervous trembling which for some time nothing could quiet.

“Most assuredly, Duchess,” said the dauphiness, “Andree is suffering, and she must not aggravate her trouble by staying here.”

“Then Mademoiselle must return directly home,” said the duchess. “And why so, Madame-” asked the dauphiness.

“Because,” replied the lady of honor, with a low bow,” because the small-pox begins in this way.”

“The small-pox!”

“Yes, fainting-fits, swoons, chills.”

The abbe thought himself materially concerned in the danger indicated by Madame de Noailles, for he got up, and thanks to the liberty which this indisposition of a woman gave him, he slipped away on tip-toe so quietly that no one noticed his departure.

“When Andree saw herself, so to speak, in the arms of the dauphiness, the shame of having annoyed to this degree so great a princess renewed her strength, or rather her courage. She went to the window to breathe more freely.

“There is no need of going to the window for fresh air, my dear child,” said Madame la Dauphine;” pray, return home, I will go with you.”

“Oh, I assure you, Madame,” said Andree, “that I am quite recovered; I can go alone very well if your Highness will give me permission to retire.”

“Yes, yes; and be calm,” replied the dauphiness; “you shall not be scolded any more since you are so sensitive, little rogue.”

Andree, touched by this kindness, which seemed like a sister's friendship, kissed the hand of her protectress' and left the apartment, while the dauphiness looked after her anxiously.

When she was at the foot of the steps, the dauphiness called to her from the window,” Do not go in immediately, Mademoiselle. Walk a little while in the garden; this sunshine will do you good.”

“Oh, mon Dieu, Madame! Thanks I” murmured Andree. “And please ask the abbe to return; he is taking his botanical course down there in that bed of Holland tulips.”

Andree was obliged to make a detour in order to meet the abbe. She crossed the flower-garden, and went on with bowed head, a little dull still from the effect of the strange dizziness she had suffered with all the morning; she paid no attention to the birds which, startled, flew over the hedges and flower-beds, nor to the bees humming over the thyme and lilacs. She did not even notice, twenty feet from her, two men who were talking together, one of whom followed her with a troubled and anxious gaze. These two men were Gilbert and Monsieur de Jussieu. The former, leaning upon his spade, was listening to the learned professor, who was explaining the manner of watering delicate plants so.that the water would pass into the ground and not remain on the surface. Gilbert seemed to be listening eagerly, and Monsieur de Jussieu saw nothing but what was natural in this ardor for science; for the demonstration was one which drew applause from the benches of students in the public course. Now, for a poor young gardener, was it not an unusual good fortune to receive this lesson of so great a master, given in the very presence of Nature-

“There are here, you see, my child, four kinds of earth,” said Monsieur de Jussieu; “and if I chose, I could discover ten others mixed with these four primary ones. But for the inexperienced gardener, the distinction would be a little too fine. The florist must always taste the earth, as the gardener his fruits. You understand me, Gilbert!”

“Yes, Monsieur,” answered Gilbert, his eyes staring, his mouth open; for he had seen Andree, and from the place where he stood he could watch her without letting the professor suspect that he was not religiously listening to and comprehending the demonstration.

“In order to get the taste of the earth,” said Monsieur de Jussieu, all the time deceived by the absent-mindedness of Gilbert, “shut up a handful in a sieve, pour some drops of water gently over it, and taste this water when it shall have filtered through the earth into a vessel underneath the sieve. The saline savors, whether acrid or insipid or flavored with certain natural essences, suit wonderfully the juices of the plants which you wish to place in it; for in Nature, says Monsieur Rousseau, your old patron, all is analogy, assimilation, a tendency to homogeneity.”

“Oh, my God!” cried Gilbert, extending his arms before him.

“What is the matter-”

“She has fainted, Monsieur, she has fainted!”

“Who, then! Are you mad-”

“She, she!”

“She-”

“Yes,” replied Gilbert, eagerly, “a lady;” and his fright and paleness would have betrayed him, as well as the word “she,” if Monsieur de Jussieu had not looked up to follow the direction of his hand. In doing this, Monsieur de Jussieu saw, indeed, Andree, who had dragged herself behind a hedge and fallen prostrate on a bench. There she lay motionless, and at the point of losing consciousness. It was the hour at which the king made his daily visit to the dauphiness, and crossed the orchard in passing from the great to the little Trianon. He now suddenly appeared. He held a vermilion peach (marvel of precocity), and was asking himself royal egotist that he was if it would not tend more to the happiness of France if this peach were enjoyed by him rather than by Madame la Dauphine. The haste of Monsieur de Jussieu in running to Andree, whom the king with his feeble sight scarcely saw and did not recognize at all, and the stifled cries of Gilbert which indicated the most profound terror, quickened the step of his Majesty.

“What is the matter- What is it!” demanded Louis XV., approaching the hedge from which only the width of a path separated him.

“The king!” cried Monsieur de Jussieu, supporting the young girl in his arms.

“The king!” murmured Mademoiselle Andree, fainting away completely.

“But who is it!” repeated Louis XV., ”a woman- What has happened to this woman!”

“Sire, a swoon.”

“Ah! let us see,” said Louis XV.

“She is unconscious, Sire,” added Monsieur de Jussieu, pointing to the young girl lying rigid and motionless upon the bench where he had just placed her.

The king approached, recognized Andree, and exclaimed, shuddering, “Again! Oh, that is frightful! Those who have such maladies should stay at home. It is not proper to be dying like this all day long in public. ” and Louis XV. retraced his steps toward the pavilion of Petit Trianon, muttering a thousand things hostile to poor Andree.

Monsieur de Jussieu, who was ignorant of the antecedents, stood a moment stupefied; then, turning round and seeing Gilbert ten steps off in an attitude of fear and anxiety, “Come here, Gilbert,” cried he.”You are strong; you can carry Mademoiselle de Taverney to her apartments.”

“I!” cried Gilbert, trembling;” I carry her- touch her- No, no; she would never pardon me, no, never!” and he fled distracted, calling for aid.

CHAPTER CXXXVI. DOCTOR LOUIS.

At a short distance from the place where Andree had fainted two gardeners were working, who ran up on hearing Gilbert's cries, and obedient to the order of Monsieur de Jussieu, bore Andree to her apartment. Gilbert followed at a distance, with head bowed, and shambling in his gait, like an assassin marching behind the body of his victim. Monsieur de Jussieu, having reached the principal entrance, relieved the gardeners of their burden. Andree had just opened her eyes. The sound of voices and that significant commotion which accompanies every accident, drew Monsieur de Taverney from the apartment; he saw his daughter, tottering still, try to hold herself erect so as to ascend the steps with the help of Monsieur de Jussieu.

He ran up, asking like the king, “What is the matter- what is it-”

“Nothing, father,” replied Andree, feebly, “an ill turn, a headache.”

“Mademoiselle is your daughter!” said Monsieur de Jussieu, saluting the baron.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“I cannot leave her in better hands, then; but in the name of Heaven consult a doctor.”

“Oh! it is nothing,” said Andree.

And Taverney repeated, “Certainly, it is nothing.”

“I hope so,” said Monsieur de Jussieu; “but indeed, Mademoiselle was very pale.”

And then, having assisted Andre's to the top of the stairs, he took leave. The father and daughter were left alone. Taverney, who during the absence of Andree had spent his time profitably in good reflections, took the hand of Andree, who was still standing, led her to a seat on the sofa, and sat down by her.

“Pardon, Monsieur,” said Andree;”but be so good as to open the window. I need air.”

“I wished to talk seriously with you, Andree, and in this cage they have given you for a dwelling, a breath can be heard on all sides; but no matter, I will speak low.”

And he opened the window. Then, reseating himself by the side of his daughter, he said, shaking his head,” It must be confessed that the king who at first displayed so much interest in us does not show much consideration in letting you live in such a den.”

“Father,” replied Andree,” there are no accommodations at Trianon; you know that is the great defect of that residence.”

“That there should be no accommodations for others,” said Taverney, with an insinuating smile, “I can thoroughly understand, my daughter; but as regards yourself, I do not understand it.”

“You have too good an opinion of me, Monsieur,” replied Andree, smiling:”and unfortunately everybody does not think as you do.”

“All who know you, my daughter, on the contrary, think as I do.”

Andree bowed as she would have done in thanking a stranger; for she began-to be uneasy at these compliments from her father.

“And,” continued Taverney, in the same insinuating manner,” and the king knows you, I suppose! And while speaking, he cast a look upon the young girl of intolerable inquisitiveness.

“Indeed, the king hardly knows me,” replied Andree, very naturally, “and I am of slight importance to him, as I suppose.”

These words made the baron start. “Of slight importance!” he cried; “ indeed, I do not understand your words, Mademoiselle. Of slight importance! indeed, you set a low value on your person.”

Andree looked at her father in astonishment.

“Yes, yes,” continued the baron, “I say it, and I repeat it, you are so modest as to forget personal dignity.”

“Oh, Monsieur, you exaggerate; the king has been interested by the misfortunes of our family, it is true; the king has deigned to do something for us; but there are so many unfortunates about his Majesty's throne, so many gifts fall from the royal hand that he would naturally forget us after the bestowal of his favor.”

Taverney looked steadily at his daughter, not without a certain admiration of her reserve and impenetrable discretion.

“Come,” said he, drawing nearer to her,”come, my dear Andree; your father shall be the first solicitor who addresses you, and in this character I hope that you will not repulse him.”

Andree in her turn looked at her father like a woman asking an explanation.

“Come,” continued he,” we beg you, intercede for us, do something for your family-”

“What do you mean- what do you want me to do-” cried Andree, stupefied by his tone and the import of his word.

“Are you willing, or not, to ask something for me and for your brother- Speak!”

“Monsieur,” replied Andree,” I will do all that you tell me to do; but indeed, do you not fear that we shall seem too avaricious! The king has already given me a necklace worth, you say, more than one hundred thousand francs; his Majesty has besides promised a regiment to my brother. We take you see a considerable part of the gifts of the court.”

Taverney could not restrain a burst of harsh and scornful laughter.

“So,” said he, “ you think that is sufficient compensation, Mademoiselle!”

“I know, Monsieur, that your services are of great value,” replied Andree.

“Eh!” cried Taverney, impatient;” who the devil is talking of my services!”

“What are you talking about, then-”

“Indeed, you are playing with me a game of foolish dissembling!”

“Why should I dissemble, mon Dieu!” asked Andree.

“But I know all, my daughter!”

“You know!”

“All, I tell you.”

“All what, Monsieur-”

An instinctive blush, born of this gross attack upon the most modest of consciences, mantled the cheeks of Andree. The respect of the father for the child arrested Taverney in the rapid flow of his questions.

“Well!” said he,” as you please; you wish to play the coy, it appears, the mysterious! So be it. You leave your father and your brother to the obscurity of oblivion. Very well, but mark my words; when one does not have power from the outset, one is liable never to have it at all.”

And Taverney turned about on his heel.

“I do not understand you, Monsieur,” said Andree.

“Very well, I understand myself,” replied Taverney.

“That is not enough when two are talking together.”

“Well, I will be more clear. Make use of all the diplomacy with which you are endowed, and which is a virtue of our family, in making, while there is an opportunity, the fortune of your family and your own; and the first time you see the king tell him that your brother is waiting for his appointment, and that you are growing thin in an apartment without air and light, in a word, do not be so ridiculous as to have too much love or too much disinterestedness.”

“But, Monsieur-”

“Say that to the king, this evening, even.”

“But where do you wish me to see the king!”

“And add that it is not even suitable for his Majesty to come-”

Just when Taverney, doubtless, by using more explicit terms, was about to rouse the tempest which was quietly gathering in Andree's breast, and to provoke the explanation which would have solved the mystery, steps were heard on the stairs. The baron stopped immediately and ran to the baluster to see who was coming to visit his daughter. Andree was astonished to see her father step aside against the wall. Almost at the same moment the dauphiness, followed by a man dressed in black and leaning on a cane, entered the little apartment.

“Your Highness!” cried Andree, mustering all her strength to go to meet the dauphiness.

“Yes, little invalid,” replied the princess; “I bring you consolation and the doctor. Come, Doctor. Ah! Monsieur de Taverney,” continued the princess, recognizing the baron,” your daughter is ill, and you take no care of this child.”

“Madame-” stammered Taverney.

“Come, Doctor,” said the dauphiness, with that charming kindliness which belonged only to her, come, “feel this pulse, question these heavy eyes, and tell me what id the matter with my protégée,”

“Oh, Madame, Madame, what goodness!” murmured the young girl,” how shall I have courage to receive your Royal Highness-”

“In this poor place, you mean, dear child; so much the worse for me who have given you so wretched an apartment. I will attend to that. Come, my child, give your hand to Monsieur Louis, my physician, and take care; ho is a philosopher who divines, as well as a scholar who sees clearly.”

Andree, smiling, held out her hand to the doctor. The latter, a young man still, whose intelligent face expressed all that the dauphiness had said of him, had occupied himself since coming into the room in observing, first the invalid, then the locality, afterward the strange appearance of the father, which indicated annoyance but no anxiety. The scholar was about to see clearly; the philosopher had perhaps already divined. Doctor Louis studied for a long time the pulse of the young girl and questioned her as to her symptoms.

“Complete distaste for all food,” answered Andree; “sudden twinges of pain, flushes of heat rushing suddenly to the head, spasms, palpitations, fainting-fits.”

The doctor grew more and more sober as Andree went on speaking. He finally relinquished the young girl's hand and looked away.

“Well, Doctor,” said the princess to the physician, “quid- as the consulting physicians say. If the child in danger, and do you condemn her to death-”

The doctor looked at Andree and watched for a little while longer in silence.

“Madame,” said he, “this sickness of Mademoiselle is a very natural one.”

“And dangerous-”

“No, not usually,” replied the doctor, smiling. “Ah! very well,” said the princess, breathing more -freely; ” do not make her suffer too much.”

“Oh, I shall not make her suffer at all, Madame.”

“What! you order no prescription-”

“There is absolutely nothing to be done for the sickness of Mademoiselle.”

“Really!”

“Nothing, Madame.” And the doctor, as if to avoid an explanation, took leave of the princess under the pretext that his patients needed his attention.

“Doctor, Doctor,” said the dauphiness,” if what you say is true, I am much more sick than Mademoiselle de Taverney; bring me, then, without fail, when you visit me this evening, the pills you promised me to make me sleep.”

“Madame, I will prepare them myself as soon as I reach home.”

And he went away. The dauphiness remained with her reader. “Do not be uneasy, my dear Andree,” said she, with a friendly smile; “your sickness need not cause any anxiety, for Doctor Louis goes away without prescribing for you.”

“So much the better, Madame,” replied Andree; “for then my service with your Royal Highness need not be interrupted; and I feared that above everything. However, with all due deference to the learned doctor, I am quite ill, Madame, I assure you.”

“It cannot, however, be a serious illness, since the doctor makes light of it. Go to sleep then, my child; I will send someone to wait on you, for I see that you are alone. Be so kind as to attend me, Monsieur de Taverney.”

She gave her hand to Andree, and went away, having brought consolation to her as she had promised.

CHAPTER CXXXVII. MONSIEUR DE RICHELIEU'S WORD-PLAY.

Monsieur Le Duc De Richelieu, as we have seen, proceeded to Luciennes with that rapidity of decision and that sure intelligence which characterized the ambassador at Vienna and the conqueror of Mahon.. He arrived joyous and unconstrained, ascended the stairs like a young man, pulled the ears of Zamore as in the pleasant days of their friendship, and forced, so to speak, the door of that famous boudoir of blue satin where poor Lorenza had seen Madame Dubarry preparing for her journey to the Eue Saint Claude.

The countess, lying upon her sofa, was giving Monsieur d'Aiguillon her orders for the morning. Both turned round on hearing the noise, and were astounded at seeing the marshal.

“Ah, Monsieur le Duc! “cried the countess.

“Ah, my uncle!” said Monsieur d'Aiguillon.

“Eh! yes, Madame; eh yes, nephew.”

'' What, it is you-”

“It is I, myself, in person.”

“Better late than never,” said the countess.

“Madame,” said the marshal, “when we grow old we become capricious.”

“Which means that you have recovered for Luciennes-”

“A great love which I should not have lost except through caprice. It is just that, and you complete my thought admirably.”

“So that you return — “

“So that I return, yes;” said Richelieu, seating himself in the best chair, which he had recognized at the first glance. “Oh, oh!” said the countess, “there is perhaps some other reason, which you do not give; caprice- that is not enough for a man like you.”

“Countess, it would be wrong in you to press me; I am better than my reputation, and if I return, do you see, it is-”

“It is-” asked the countess. “With all my heart.” Monsieur d'Aiguillon and the countess burst out laughing. “How fortunate we are in having a little sense with which to comprehend the sense of which you have so much!” said the countess. “Why-”

“Yes; I assure you that fools would not understand, would wonder at, and would seek everywhere the reason for your return. Indeed, on the word of a Dubarry, you alone, dear Duke, can make entrances and exits; Mole himself is a wooden actor in comparison with you.”

“Then you do not believe that it is the heart which brings me back!” cried Richelieu.” Countess, Countess, take care! you will give me a bad opinion of yourself; oh, do not laugh, nephew, or I shall call you Pierre, and shall not build anything upon you.”

“Not even a little ministry-” asked the countess, and for the second time she burst out laughing, with a freedom which she did not try to conceal. “Good! strike, strike!” said Richelieu, with affected anger,” I will not return the blows; alas, I am too old, I can only defend myself; abuse me, Countess, abuse me! it is now a pleasure without danger.”

“On the contrary, take care, Countess,” said D'Aiguillon; ” if my uncle talks of his weakness, we are lost. No, Monsieur le Duc, we will not strike you; for feeble as you are, or rather pretend to be, you would return the blows with interest. No, the truth is, we are delighted to see you return to us.”

“Yes,” said the Countess, playfully,” and in honor of your return, we fire off cannon, rockets; and you know, Duke-”

“I know nothing, Madame!” said the marshal, with child-like innocence. “Well, in fire-works there is always some wig scorched by the sparks, some hat crushed by the rocket-stick.” The Duke touched his wig and looked at his hat. “That is the explanation,” said the Countess; ” but you have come back to us- that is the principal thing; as for me, I am, as Monsieur d'Aiguillon has told you, in high spirits. Do you know why-”

“Countess, Countess, you are going to say something spiteful!”

“Yes; but it will be the last.”

“Well, go on.”

“I am in good spirits, Marshal, because your return foretells fine weather.” Richelieu bowed. “Yes,” continued the Countess,” you are like those poetic birds which predict a calm. What is the name of those birds, Monsieur D'Aiguillon- you who write poetry can tell me.”

“Halcyons, Madame.”

“Precisely. Ah, Marshal, you will not take offence, I hope! I am comparing you to a bird with a pretty name.”

“I shall take offence so much the less, Madame,” said Richelieu, with a little grimace which expressed satisfaction and Richelieu's satisfaction always foreboded some great wickedness. “I shall take offence so much the less that the comparison is good.”

“Do you see!”

“Yes, I bring good news.”

“Ah!” said the countess. “What is it!” asked D'Aiguillon. “The devil! my dear Duke, you are in great haste,” said the countess; ” give the marshal time to make it.”

“No, the devil take me! I can tell you immediately; it is made already, and even of ancient date.”

“Marshal, if you have brought us any old trash-”

“Indeed!” said the marshal;” it is take, or leave, Countess.”

“Well, let us take, then.”

“It seems, Countess, that the king has fallen into the trap.”

“Into the trap!”

“Yes, completely.”

“Into what trap!”

“Into the one you have set for him.”

“I!” said the countess;” I have set a trap for the king!”

“Parbleu! you know it very well.”

“No, upon my word, I do not know it.”

“Ah, Countess, it is not kind to mystify me so.”

“Truly, Marshal, I do not mean to. Explain yourself, I beg you!”

“Yes, uncle, explain yourself,” said D'Aiguillon, who thought he saw some evil design beneath the ambiguous smile of the marshal;” Madame is waiting, and is very anxious.”

The old duke turned to his nephew.” Pardieu!” said he,” it would he strange if Madame la Comtesse had not taken you into her confidence, my dear D'Aiguillon. Ah, in that case, it would show that she is even deeper than I supposed.”

“Me, uncle-”

“Him-”

“Doubtless you, doubtless him. Come, Countess, let us be frank. Have you taken him in partnership in your little conspiracies against his Majesty- this poor duke, who has played so noble a part in them!” Madame Dubarry blushed. It was so early in the day that she had neither rouge nor patches on her face, therefore blushing was possible; but blushing was also especially dangerous. “You look at me, both of you, with your great, handsome, wondering eyes,” said Richelieu;” do I need, then, to give you information about your own affairs!”

“Yes, Marshal,” said, at the same time, the duke and the countess. “Well, the king has discovered everything, thanks to his wonderful sagacity; and he has taken fright.”

“What has he discovered]” asked the countess; ” tell us, for indeed, Marshal, I am dying with impatience.”

“But your show of friendship with my fine nephew here-” D'Aiguillon grew pale, and his glance at the countess- seemed to say, “Do you see! I was sure there was something malicious coming.”

Women are courageous in such an emergency, much more so than men. The countess returned immediately to the combat.” Duke,” said she, “I am afraid of enigmas when you fill the role of sphinx; for sooner or later you are sure to get the better of me. Relieve me of anxiety, and if it is a jest indeed, let me judge the evil of it.”

“Evil, Countess! it is, on the contrary, excellent!” cried Richelieu; “it is not mine, but yours, be it understood.”

“I am not at all concerned in it, Marshal,” said Madame Dubarry, biting her lips with an impatience which her little rebellious foot betrayed still more.

“Come, come, no pride, Countess!” continued Richelieu.” It is very good; you have feared that the king would become attached to Mademoiselle de Taverney. Oh, do not dispute it! I have had evidence of it.”

“Oh, it is true! I do not deny it.”

“Well, fearing this, you wished on your part to pique the king as much as possible.”

“I do not deny it. Then!”

“We are coming to it, Countess. But to pique his Majesty, who is rather thick-skinned, you needed a very sharp thorn!- Ah, ah, ah! upon my word, what a wretched pun escaped me! Do you understand!” and the marshal begun to laugh, or to feign to laugh, boisterously, so that he could better observe, while convulsed with that hilarity, the very anxious faces of his victims.

“What play of words do you find in that, uncle!” asked D'Aiguillon, the first to recover composure, and affecting simplicity.

“You have not understood it!” said the marshal.” Ah, so much the better! it was execrable. Well, I mean that Madame la Comtesse had wished to make the king jealous, and that she had chosen for this purpose a nobleman who is handsome, witty- in short, a marvel of Nature.”

“Who says that-” cried the countess, furious, like all those who are powerful and in the wrong. “Who says that- why, everybody, Madame.”

“Everybody means nobody; you know it very well, Duke.”

“On the contrary, Madame, everybody means one hundred thousand people in Versailles alone; it means six hundred thousand in Paris; it means twenty-five millions in France; and you will see that I am not counting the Hague, Hamburg, Rotterdam, London, Berlin, where there are as many newspapers, in proportion, as in Paris.”

“And they say in Versailles, in Paris, in France, in the Hague, in Hamburg, in Rotterdam, in London, and in Berlin-”

“Well, they say that you are the most intellectual, the most charming woman in Europe; they say that, thanks to that ingenious stratagem of seeming to have secured a lover-”

“A lover! and what foundation has that stupid accusation, I should like to know-”

“Accusation! what do you mean, Countess! Admiration! They know there is nothing at the bottom of it all, but they admire the stratagem. Upon what is this admiration, this enthusiasm founded! Why upon your manner, sparkling with intelligence; upon your skilful tact; upon your having pretended, with wonderful art, to remain alone- that night- you know, the night when I was at your house, when the king was at your house, and when Monsieur d'Aiguillon was at your house; the night when I left first, when the king went out second, and Monsieur d'Aiguillon the third-”

“Well! go on.”

“Upon your having pretended to stay alone with D'Aiguillon, as if he were your lover; to send him out quietly in the morning from Luciennes, also as if he were your lover; and in such a way that two or three fools, two or three gulls, like me for example, might see it and cry it from the house-tops; so that the king would know, would take fright, and not to lose you would quickly leave the little Taverney.” Madame Dubarry and D'Aiguillon could no longer retain their composure. Richelieu troubled them neither by looks nor by gestures; on the contrary, his snuff-box and his frill seemed to absorb all his attention.” In short,” continued the marshal, playing with his shirt-frill,” it appears that the king has certainly left that little one.”

“Duke,” replied Madame Dubarry,” I declare that I do not comprehend one word of all your imaginings; and I am sure of one thing, that if the king should be questioned about it, he would not comprehend it any better.”

“Really!” said the duke. “Yes, really; and you attribute to me, and the world attributes to me more imaginative faculty than I possess. I have never wished to excite the jealousy of his Majesty by the means of which you speak.”

“Countess!”- I swear it,”

“Countess, perfect diplomacy- and there are no better diplomatists than women- perfect diplomacy never confesses failure; for there is an axiom in politics- I know it, who have been an ambassador- which says, ' Do not communicate to anyone the means which has brought you success once, for it may bring you success twice.'““But Duke-”

“The means has succeeded, that is all, and the king is on very bad terms with the whole Taverney family.”

“But, indeed, Duke,” cried Madame Dubarry,” you have a way of supposing things peculiar to yourself.”

“Ah, you do not believe that the king is at variance with the Taverney family!” said Richelieu, eluding a quarrel. “That is not what I mean.” Richelieu tried to take the countess's hand.”You are a bird,” said he. “And you are a serpent.”

“Ah, very good! I shall be eager to bring you good news again, if I am to be rewarded in this way.”

“Be undeceived, uncle,” said D'Aiguillon, quickly, who had understood the full significance of this maneuver of Richelieu,” no one appreciates you so highly as Madame la Comtesse, and she was saying so to me at the very moment when you were announced.”

“The fact is,” said the marshal, “that I am very fond of my friends; also I wished to be the first to bring you the.assurance of your triumph, Countess. Do you know that Taverney the father wished to sell his daughter to the king-”

“It has been done, I think,” said Madame Dubarry. “Oh, Countess, how crafty that man is! it is he who is the serpent. Imagine it! I was lulled to sleep by stories of friendship, of old comradeship in arms. Anyone can lead me by my affections. And then to think that this rural Aristides should come straight to Paris to cut the grass under the feet of Jean Dubarry, one of the brightest of men! It has indeed required all my devotion to your interests, Countess, to give me a little good sense and penetration; upon my honor I was blind-”

“And according to what you say it is all over then!” asked Madame Dubarry. “Oh, entirely, I assure you; I have handled this worthy purveyor so roughly that there is probably no more fight in him, and we are now masters of the situation.”

“But the king-”

“The king-”

“Yes.”

“Upon three points I have confessed his Majesty.”

“The first-”

“The father.”

“The second-”

“The daughter.”

“And the third-”

“The son. Now his Majesty has condescended to call the father a- pander; his daughter an impertinent minx; and as for the son, his Majesty has not called him anything for he did not even remember him.”

“Very well, we are now rid of the whole brood.”

“I think so.”

“Is it worthwhile to send that fellow back to his hole-”

“I think not; they are reduced to extremities.”

“And you say that this son, to whom the king had promised a regiment-”

“Ah, you have a better memory than the king, Countess. It is true that Monsieur Philippe is a very pretty boy, who sends you killing glances. Indeed! he is neither colonel, nor captain, nor brother of the favorite; but at least he has been distinguished by you.”

In saying this, the old duke was trying to tear the heart of his nephew with jealousy, but Monsieur d'Aiguillon was not thinking of jealousy; he was trying to account for the actions of the old marshal, and to discover the real motive for his return. After some reflections he hoped that the wind of favor alone had brought Richelieu to Luciennes. He made a sign to Madame Dubarry which the old duke saw in a pier-glass while adjusting his wig, and immediately the countess invited Richelieu to take chocolate with her. D'Aiguillon took leave with a thousand expressions of endearment for his uncle which were returned by Richelieu. The latter remained alone with the countess before the round table which Zamore had just spread.

The old marshal observed all this maneuvering of the favorite, saying in a low tone, “Were I twenty years younger I should now be looking at the clock, saying, ‘In one hour I shall be a minister,’ and I should be one. What a foolish thing life is,” he continued, all the time speaking to himself; “during the first part one gives the- body to the service of the mind; during the second the mind, which alone has survived, becomes the servant of the body; it is absurd.”

“Dear Marshal,” said the countess, interrupting the private monologue of her guest,” now that we are good friends, and especially since we are by ourselves, tell me why you gave yourself so much trouble to put that little piece of affectation into the king's bed.”

“Upon my word, Countess,” replied Richelieu, sipping his cup of chocolate,” that is what I asked myself. I know nothing about it.”

CHAPTER CXXXVIII. THE RETURN.

Monsieur De Richelieu knew what course Philippe would take, and he might safely have foretold his return; for that morning, setting out from Versailles to go to Luciennes, he had met him on the high-road going toward Trianon, and had passed near enough to observe on his countenance indications of sadness and anxiety. Philippe, indeed, forgotten at Rheims, first having passed through every degree of favor, then of indifference and neglect; Philippe, bored at first by expressions of friendship from the officers jealous of his advancement, then by attentions even from his superiors. Philippe, in proportion as disfavor had tarnished with its breath this brilliant fortune, was disgusted to see friendships changed to coldness, and civility to rudeness; and in this refined soul, sorrow had taken on the characteristic of regret. Philippe regretted very much his lieutenantship at Strasburg, now that the dauphiness had come to France; he regretted his good friends, his equals, his comrades; he regretted especially the quiet and pure private life of the paternal home, about the fireside of which La Brie was the grand priest. All trouble found consolation in silence and forgetfulness, that sleep of active minds; then in the solitude of Taverney, which bore witness to the decay of things as well as to the ruin of individuals, there was something philosophical which spoke powerfully to the heart of the young man. But Philippe above all felt the loss of his sister's companionship, and of her judgment, always so correct, a judgment born of elevation of mind rather than the result of experience; for it is a remarkable and conspicuous characteristic of noble souls that they soar involuntarily, and by nature even, above the vulgar crowd, and often on account of their very elevation they escape the wounds and snares which all the cleverness of human insects of a lower order cannot always avoid, however accustomed they may be to maneuver, to craft, to contemplation of low thoughts.

As soon as Philippe had felt ennui, discouragement overtook him, and the young man became so unhappy in his loneliness that he could not believe that Andree, that half of himself, could be happy at Versailles when he, the half of Andree, was suffering so cruelly at Rheims. He wrote then to the baron the letter with which we are acquainted, and in which he announced his approaching return. This letter surprised no one, especially not the baron; what did surprise him, on the contrary, was that Philippe had had patience to wait so long, when he himself was very anxious, and for fifteen days had begged Richelieu, every time he saw him, to hasten the progress of his affairs.

Philippe, not having received the commission within the time which he himself had allowed, took leave of his officers without seeming to notice their disdain and their sarcasms, disdain, and sarcasms quite hidden under a veil of politeness, which was still at that period a French virtue, and restrained by the natural respect which a brave man always inspires. Consequently at the hour when.he had determined to depart, the hour up to which he had awaited his commission with more fear than desire for its coming- he mounted his horse and took the road to Paris.

The three days' journey which he had before him looked very long, and as he proceeded on his way, his father's silence toward him, and especially that of his sister who had promised faithfully to write to him at least twice a week, assumed an ominous significance. We have said that Philippe arrived about noon at Versailles, just as Monsieur de Richelieu was leaving it. Philippe had travelled a part of the night, having slept only a few hours at Melun; he was so preoccupied that he did not see Monsieur de Richelieu in his carriage, and did not even recognize his livery.

He went straight to the railing in the park where he had bade Andree good-by on the day of his departure, when the young girl without any cause for distress, since the prosperity of the family was at its height, felt mounting to her brain the prophetic sense of an incomprehensible sorrow. Philippe too on that day had been affected by a superstitious sympathy with Andree's grief's. But gradually his mind, having recovered command of itself, had shaken off the burden; and by a strange chance it was he, Philippe, who now without reason, after all, returned to the same place, a prey to the same fears, and without finding, alas! even in his thought, consolation for that insuperable sadness, which, having no cause, seemed like a presentiment. When his horse stepped upon the flint stones of the pavement with a clatter of his hoofs, someone, attracted doubtless by this sound, came out from the trimmed hedge-rows.

It was Gilbert, holding in his hand a pruning-bill. The gardener recognized his old master. Philippe also recognized Gilbert. Gilbert had been wandering about in this way for a month; like a soul in trouble, he knew not where to stop. On that day with his usual cleverness in the execution of his designs, he was occupied in choosing points of view in the alleys where he might see the pavilion or the window of Andree, and have constant watch upon that house without anyone noticing his preoccupation, his tremblings, and his sighs.

With pruning-bill in hand to keep up appearances he ran through copse and parterre, cutting here the branches laden with flowers, under pretext of trimming, stripping there the sound' bark from the young lindens, under pretext of getting resin and gum; at the same time ever listening, ever watching, wishing, and regretting. The young man had become very pale in the month just passed; his face no longer showed signs of youth, except by the strange fire of his eyes and the dead and smooth whiteness of his complexion; but his mouth shriveled by dissimulation, his furtive glance, the trembling of the muscles of his face, belonged to the more somber years of ripe age.

Gilbert had recognized Philippe, as we have said; and on recognizing him, he turned to go back into the hedge-row. But Philippe rode toward him, crying out,” Gilbert! I say, Gilbert!” Gilbert's first thought had been to fly; a second more and the vertigo of terror, and that delirium, impossible to explain, which the ancients who sought a cause for everything attributed to the god Pan, would have seized upon him and dragged him like a madman through the paths, through the shrubbery, through the hedge-rows, even into the ponds. A word full of sweetness spoken by Philippe was fortunately heard and comprehended by the furious fellow.

“You do not recognize me, then, Gilbert-” cried Philippe to him.

Gilbert saw his folly and stopped short. Then he turned back, but slowly and defiantly.

“No, Monsieur le Chevalier,” said he, trembling, “no, I did not recognize you; I had taken you for one of the guards, and as I am not at my work I had feared to be seen here, and reported for punishment.”

Philippe was satisfied with the explanation, jumped to the ground, put the horse's bridle over his arm, and placing the other hand upon Gilbert's shoulder, who shuddered visibly, asked, ”What is the matter with you, Gilbert-”

“Nothing, Monsieur,” replied the latter. Philippe smiled sadly,

“You do not like us, Gilbert,' said he.

The young man shuddered again.

“Yes, I know,” continued Philippe; “my father has treated you unjustly and harshly; but I, Gilbert!”

“Oh, you-” murmured the young man. “I have always loved you, and upheld you.”

“It is true.”

“So, forget the evil in the good; my sister has also been good to you.”

“Oh, no, as to that, no,” the young man replied quickly, with an incomprehensible expression; for it included an accusation against Andree, and an excuse for himself. It flashed out like pride, while it groaned like remorse.

“Yes, yes,” said Philippe, in his turn, “yes, I know my sister is rather haughty, but she is good at heart.” Then after a pause, for all this conversation was only delaying an interview which he looked forward to with gloomy forebodings, “Do you know where my good Andree is at this moment, Gilbert-”

This name smote Gilbert's heart painfully; he answered, with choking voice, “At home, Monsieur, I suppose- how should I know!”

“Alone as usual, with nothing to amuse her; poor sister!” interrupted Philippe.

“Alone at this moment, yes, Monsieur, most probably; for since the flight of Nicole-”

“What! Nicole has fled-”

“Yes, Monsieur, with her lover.”

“With her lover-”

“At least, I presume so,” said Gilbert, who saw that he had gone too far.”That is the common report.”

“But, indeed, Gilbert,” said Philippe, more and more uneasy, “I do not understand it at all. I have to drag the words from you. Be a little more agreeable. You have intelligence, and you are not wanting in natural distinction of manner; come, do not spoil these good qualities by an affected unsociableness, by a gruffness which suits neither your station in life nor any other.”

“But I do not know all that you ask me, Monsieur; and when you think of it, you will see that I cannot know it. I work all day in the gardens, and how can I know what they are doing at the chateau-”

“Gilbert, Gilbert, I thought that you had eyes.”

“I-”

“Yes, and that you would take an interest in all who bear my name; for however poor the hospitality of Taverney may have been, you at least shared it.”

“So I do take great interest in you, Monsieur Philippe,” said Gilbert, in a voice harsh and rough; for the gentleness of Philippe, and another sentiment which the latter could not divine, had softened this fierce heart.” Yes, I like you, you; that is why I will tell you that Mademoiselle, your sister, is very ill.”

“Very ill, my sister!” Philippe burst out, “very ill, my sister, very ill! and you did not tell me so at once!” And immediately abandoning his slow pace for a quicker one,” What is the matter with her, mon Dieu!” he asked.

“Indeed,” said Gilbert, ”nobody knows.”

“But what is it!”

“Only that she has fainted three times today in the garden, and that, early as it is, the doctor of Madame la Dauphine has already visited her, and Monsieur le Baron also.”

Philippe heard no more. His forebodings were realized; and confronted with real danger, all his courage had returned to him. He left his horse in Gilbert's hands, and went hastily toward the offices.

As for Gilbert, left alone, he quickly led the horse to the stable, and fled, like those wild or noxious birds which can never stay within range of man.

CHAPTER CXXXVIX. BROTHER AND SISTER.

Philippe found his sister lying on the little sofa of which we have already had occasion to speak. On entering the antechamber, the young man noticed that Andree had carefully put away all the flowers, she who was so fond of them; for since her sickness the fragrance of the flowers had caused her unbearable pains, and she attributed to this irritation the affection of the cerebral fibers which had lasted now fifteen days. When Philippe entered, Andree was dreaming; her beautiful brow was clouded, and her eyes moved painfully in the sockets. Her hands were hanging down, and although in this situation the blood would naturally flow into them, they were as white as those of a wax statue.

So motionless was she that she seemed lifeless, and it was necessary to hear her breathe to be sure that she was not dead. Philippe had walked more rapidly after Gilbert had told him that his sister was sick, so that he was almost breathless when he arrived at the foot of the stairs. But there he had stopped, his reason had returned to him, and he had ascended the stairs with a calmer step; so that at the threshold of the chamber he trod as noiselessly and quietly as if he had been a sylph.

He wished to examine for himself the illness by its symptoms, with the solicitude characteristic of those who love; he knew that Andree was so tender and good, that, as soon as she had seen him, she would assume such a conduct and demeanor as not to alarm him.

He went in, opening the glass-door so gently that Andree did not hear him, and was in the middle of the chamber before she suspected anything. Philippe had therefore time to look at her, to notice how pale, how motionless, how lifeless she was; lie perceived the strange expression of her eyes, which were sunk in deep hollows; and more alarmed than he had thought possible, he discovered that the sufferings of his sister were in a great degree of a moral nature.

At this sight, which sent a chill to his' heart, he could not restrain a movement of fright. Andree looked up, and uttering a loud cry she stood up like a dead person come to life, and in her turn panting for breath, ran to throw her arms around her brother's neck.

“You, you, Philippe!” said she; and her strength left her before she could say anything more.

Besides, what else could she say, when that was all her thought-

“Yes, yes, I,” replied Philippe, embracing and supporting her, for he felt her sinking within his arms, “I, who come back to find you sick! Ah, poor sister, what is the matter with you!”

Andree began to laugh in a nervous way, which troubled Philippe instead of reassuring him, as the invalid had wished.

“Do you ask what is the matter with me! Do I look sick, then, Philippe!”

“Oh, yes, Andree! you are very pale, and you tremble all over.”

“But where have you seen that, brother- I am not even indisposed; who has informed you so incorrectly! Who has been so foolish as to frighten you- But indeed I do not know what you mean; and I am remarkably well, with the exception of some slight attacks of dizziness, which will pass away as they came.”

“Oh! but you are so pale, Andree-”

“Have I, then, usually much color!”

“No; but you are alive at least, while today-”

“It is nothing.”

“See, see! your hands, which a little while ago were turning, are now as cold as ice.”

“It is very simple, Philippe; when I saw you enter-”

“Well!”

“I felt a lively sensation of joy, and the blood went to my heart, that is all.”

“But you totter, Andree; you lean upon me.”

“No; I am embracing you, that is all. Do you not wish me to embrace you, Philippe!”

“Oh, dear Andree!” and he pressed the young girl to his heart.

At that very moment Andree felt her strength leaving her again; in vain she tried to cling to her brother's neck, her hand slipped, stiff, and almost inanimate, and she fell back on the sofa whiter than the muslin curtains upon which her charming figure was outlined.

“You see, you see that you deceive me!” cried Philippe. “Ah, dear sister, you are suffering, you are ill!”

“The flask!” murmured Andree, forcing upon her countenance a smile which he would remember to his dying day.

And her feeble glance, and hand raised with pain, pointed out to Philippe a flask on the little desk by the window. Philippe rushed toward it, his eyes fixed on his sister whom he dreaded to leave. Then opening the window he came back and put the flask to her pinched nostrils.

“There, there,” said she, inhaling in long draughts air and life, “you see that I am revived. Come, do you think I am very sick- Speak.”

But Philippe did not even think of answering, he was looking at his sister. Andree recovered gradually, sat up on the sofa, took in her moist hands Philippe's trembling hand, and her face taking on a softened expression, the blood mounting to her cheeks, she appeared more beautiful than she had ever been.

“Ah, mon Dieu!” said she, “you see, Philippe, it is over, and I am sure that but for the surprise which you gave me with such good intention, the spasms would not have returned, and I should have been well; but coming so suddenly before me, you know, Philippe (before me who love you so much) you who are the moving power, 'the substance of my life- why, that was enough to kill me, even if I had been strong.”

“Yes, all that is very pleasant and very charming,. Andree; meanwhile tell me, I beg you, to what you attribute this illness!”

“How do I know, dear- To the return of spring, the season of flowers. You know how nervous I am; yesterday the odor of the Persian lilacs suffocated me. You know what an intoxicating perfume is exhaled from those magnificent plumes which sway in the early breezes of spring well, yesterday- Oh, mon Dieu! Philippe, I do not wish to think of it, for I am afraid the illness will return.”

“Yes, you are right, and perhaps it is that; flowers are very harmful sometimes. Do you remember that when a child at Taverney I took it into my head to surround my bed with a border of cut lilacs- It was pretty as an altar we both said; but the next day I did not wake up, you know, and everybody thought me dead except you, who would not believe that I could leave you without saying. goodbye; and it was you alone, poor Andree, you were six years old at that time, it was you alone who revived me with kisses and tears.”

“And air, Philippe, for it is air that one needs in such a case; I seem never to have air enough.”

“Ah, sister, sister! you have forgotten all about that; you have had flowers brought into your chamber!”

“No, Philippe, no indeed; for fifteen days there has not been even an Easter daisy here I What a strange thing! I who loved flowers so much, now hold them in abhorrence. But let us leave the flowers alone. Then I have had headache; Mademoiselle de Taverney has had headache, dear Philippe, and what a fortunate person this Demoiselle de Taverney is! for on account of this headache which brought on a fainting-fit, both the court and the town have become interested in her condition.”

“How is that-”

“To be sure, Madame la Dauphine has been kind enough to come to see me- oh, Philippe what a charming protectress and refined friend Madame la Dauphine is! She has taken care of me, nursed me, brought me her own physician, and when that grave personage, whose decrees are infallible, felt my pulse, looked at my eyes and tongue- can you think of the latest piece of good fortune which has befallen me-”

“No.”

“Well, it was proved unqualifiedly that I was not sick the least in the world; Doctor Louis did not think it necessary to order me a single potion, to prescribe me a single pill! he who, it is said, every day cuts off arms and legs which it makes one shudder to think of. So, Philippe, you see, I am remarkably well. Now tell me who has frightened you-”

“It is that little fool of a Gilbert, pardieu!”

“Gilbert-” said Andree, with a gesture of impatience. “Yes, he told me that you were very sick.”

“And you believed that little idiot, that fellow good for nothing but to do or speak evil-”

“Andree, Andree!”

“Well-”

“You are growing pale again.”

“No, but Gilbert irritates me; it is not enough to meet him in my path, but I must hear him spoken of when he is not by.”

“Come, you are going to faint again.”

“Oh, yes, yes! mon Dieu! But it is as!” And Andree's lips blanched, and her voice stopped.

“How strange this is!” murmured Philippe.

Andree made an effort. “No, it is nothing,” she said, “do not mind all my nervous feelings. See, I am standing up, Philippe; if you agree, we will take a walk together, and in ten minutes I shall be well.”

“I think you are mistaken as to the amount of your strength, Andree.”

“No; Philippe's return would bring me health even if I were dying. Shall we go out, Philippe!”

“Presently, dear Andree,” said Philippe, gently detaining his sister. “You have not wholly reassured me; wait until you are better.”

“Very well.” Andree fell back upon the sofa, drawing after her Philippe, whose hand she held. “And why,” she continued,” do you come so suddenly without sending word-”

“But answer me, dear Andree, why did you cease writing to me!”

“It is only a few days since I wrote.”

“Almost fifteen days, Andree.” Andree bowed her head. “Negligent!” said Philippe, with gentle reproach.

“No, but suffering, Philippe. Well, you are right; my illness began on the day when you ceased to hear from me. Since that day things most dear have wearied me and been distasteful to me.”

“And in the midst of all this I am much pleased with what you have just said.”

“What have I said-”

“You have said that you were happy; so much the better, for if you are loved and respected, it is not so with me.”

“With you-”

“Yes, with me, who was entirely neglected yonder, even by my sister.”

“Oh, Philippe!”

“Could you believe, my dear Andree, that since my departure, which they told me was so urgent, I have heard nothing of that pretended regiment which they sent me to take possession of, and which the king had promised me through Monsieur de Richelieu, through my father, even-”

“Oh, that does not surprise me,” said Andree.

“What! that does not surprise you!”

“No. If you knew, Philippe! Monsieur de Richelieu and my father are unsettled in their relations with each other; they seem like two bodies without souls. I do not understand the life of such people. On a certain morning my father runs over to see his old friend, as he calls him, he sends him to Versailles to see the king; then he returns here to wait, where he occupies himself in putting to me questions I do not understand. The day passes; no news. Then Monsieur de Taverney enters in great anger. The duke drives him away, he says; the duke is a traitor. Whom does the duke betray- I ask you; for I know nothing about it, and I confess I have but little desire to understand it. Monsieur de Taverney lives like a lost soul in purgatory, expecting always something which does not happen, someone who never comes.”

“But the king, Andree, the king-”

“What, the king-”

“Yes, the king; so well disposed toward us.” Andree looked timidly about her. “What-”

“Listen! The king, let us speak low. I think I am very whimsical, Philippe. His Majesty at first seemed to be interested in me as well as in you, our father, and the family; but suddenly this interest grew cold without any apparent reason for it. The fact is, that his Majesty no longer looks at m! he even turns his back on me! and only yesterday, when I fainted in the garden!”

“Ah, you see, Gilbert was right; you did faint then, Andree-”

“That miserable little Monsieur Gilbert had great need to tell you that, indeed; to tell everybody, perhaps! What concern is it of his whether I faint or not- I know very well, dear Philippe,” added Andree, smiling,” that it is not the thing to faint in a royal mansion; but in short, one does not faint for the pleasure of it, and I did not do it on purpose.”

“But who blames you for it, dear sister-”

“Eh! why, the king.”

“The king-”

“Yes, his Majesty was crossing the orchard on his way from Grand Trianon just at the fatal moment! I was stretched quite senseless on a bench, in the arms of good Monsieur de Jussieu, who was helping me the best he could, when the king perceived me. You know, Philippe, fainting does not take away all perception, all consciousness of what is passing around us. Well, when the king saw me, insensible as I seemed, I noticed a knitting of the eyebrows, a look of anger, and I heard some very disagreeable words which the king muttered between his teeth; then his Majesty hurried off, very much scandalized, I suppose, that I allowed myself to be ill on his grounds. Indeed, dear Philippe, it was, however, not my fault.”

“Poor dear,” said Philippe, pressing affectionately the hands of the young girl, “I believe, indeed, that it was not your fault; and then-”

“That is all, my dear. And Monsieur Gilbert might have spared his remarks.”

“Come, now, you are hard on the poor fellow.”

“Oh, yes, assume his defense! a charming subject!”

“Andree, for mercy's sake, do not be so unkind toward this boy. You wound him; you treat him harshly. I have seen you doing it. Oh, my God! Andree, what is the matter now!”

This time Andree had fallen backward upon the sofa- cushions without uttering a word. This time the flask could not revive her; it was necessary to wait until the swoon was over, until circulation was restored.

“Decidedly,” murmured Philippe,” you are suffering, my sister, in a way to frighten persons more courageous than I am where your sufferings are concerned. You may say what you please, but it seems to me that you ought not to treat this indisposition so lightly as you do.”

“But, indeed, Philippe, since the doctor has said-”

“The doctor does not convince, and will never convince me; I wish I could have spoken to him myself I Where is this doctor to be found-”

“He comes every day to Trianon.”

“But at what hour every day- In the morning!”

“Morning and evening, when he is in attendance.”

“Is he on duty now-”

“Yes, my dear, and at seven in the evening precisely, for he is punctual, he will ascend the flight of stairs which leads to the apartments of Madame la Dauphine.”

“Well.” said Philippe, more composed, “I will wait here.”

CHAPTER CXL. A MISUNDERSTANDING.

Philippe continued the conversation unaffectedly, meanwhile secretly observing his sister, who tried to gain command over herself so that she might not increase his anxiety by new fainting-fits. Philippe spoke much of his disappointments, of the neglect of the king, the inconstancy of Monsieur de Richelieu. And when he heard seven o'clock strike he went out hastily, troubling himself but little to conceal from Andree what he was about to do. He went straight to the pavilion of the queen, and stopped at a distance sufficient to prevent his being questioned by persons in the service of the house, but so near that no one could pass without being recognized by him.

In about five minutes he saw approaching him the stately and almost majestic figure of the doctor, whom Andree had described to him. The day was declining, and in spite of the difficulty he found in reading, the worthy doctor was conning a treatise recently published at Cologne upon the causes and results of paralysis of the stomach. Darkness was gradually settling about him and the doctor was already guessing rather than reading, when a moving and opaque body shut out the last ray of light from the eyes of the learned practitioner. He looked up, saw a man in front of him, and asked,” What is the matter-”

“Pardon, Monsieur!” said Philippe; “have I the honor of speaking to Monsieur le Doctor Louis-”

“Yes, Monsieur,” replied the doctor, shutting his book. “Then a word with you, Monsieur, if you please!” said Philippe. “Monsieur, excuse me! It is the hour for my visit to Madame la Dauphine, and I must not delay.”

“Monsieur,” and Philippe, with a gesture of entreaty, placed himself in the doctor's way, “Monsieur, the person for whom I ask your aid is in the service of Madame la Dauphine. She is very ill, while Madame la Dauphine is not ill at all.”

“In the first place, of whom are you speaking!” asked the doctor.

“Of a person to whom you have been introduced by Madame la Dauphine herself.”

“Ah, ah! it might perhaps be Mademoiselle de Taverney-”

“Precisely, Monsieur.”

“Ah, ah!” said the doctor, looking up quickly to observe the young man.

“You know, then, that she is very sick!”

“Yes; spasms, is it not!”

“Continual swoons- yes, Monsieur. Today, in the space of a few hours, she has fainted three or four times in my arms.”

“Is the young lady worse-”

“Alas! I do not know; but you understand, Doctor, when one loves-”

“Do you love Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney-”

“Oh, more than my life, Doctor!” Philippe pronounced these words with such exaltation of fraternal love, that Doctor Louis mistook their meaning.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “it is you, then-” The doctor hesitated.

“What do you mean, Monsieur!” asked Philippe.

“It is you, then, who are-”

“Who am what, Monsieur!”

“Eh, parbleu! who are her lover-” said the doctor, impatiently.

Philippe took two steps backward, putting his hand to his brow, and becoming pale as death.

“Monsieur,” he said,” take care; you insult my sister!”

“Your sister! is Mademoiselle your sister-”

“Yes, Monsieur; and I did not think I had said anything to give rise, on your part, to such a misunderstanding.”

“Excuse me, Monsieur! the hour at which you accost me, the air of mystery with which you spoke- I have thought, I have supposed, that an interest more tender even than that of a brother-”

“Oh, Monsieur! neither lover nor husband will ever love my sister with a more profound love than mine.”

“Very well, in that case I understand that my supposition may have wounded you, and I offer you an apology. Will you allow me, Monsieur!” and the doctor made a movement to go on.

“Doctor,” insisted Philippe, “I beg of you, do not leave me without having reassured me as to the condition of my sister.”

“But what has made you anxious about her condition!”

“Eh, mon Dieu! what I have seen.”

“You have seen symptoms which indicate an indisposition-”

“Grave, Doctor!”

“That depends upon circumstances.”

“Listen, Doctor! there is in all this something strange; it would seem that you will not, that you dare not, answer me.”

“Suppose rather, Monsieur, that in my impatience to go to Madame la Dauphine, who is expecting me-”

“Doctor, Doctor!” said Philippe, passing his hand over his streaming brow, “you have taken me for the lover of Mademoiselle de Taverney-”

“Yes; but you have undeceived me.”

“You think, then, that Mademoiselle de Taverney has a lover-”

“Pardon, Monsieur! I am not accountable to you for my thoughts.”

“Doctor, have pity on me! Doctor, you have let fall a word which sticks in my heart like the broken blade of a poniard. Doctor, do not try to put me off; as you are a gentleman and a skilful doctor, what is that malady which you could explain to a lover, and which you wish to conceal from a brother- Doctor, I entreat you to answer me!”

“I will ask you, on the contrary, to excuse me from answering you, Monsieur; for by the way in which you question me, I see that you are not master of yourself.”

“Oh, my God! you do not know, then, Monsieur, how each one of your words drives me toward that abyss- the thought of which makes me shudder.”

“Monsieur!”

“Doctor I” cried Philippe, with added vehemence,” you have as much as said that you have a terrible secret to disclose to me, to hear which I need all my composure and all my courage.”

“But I do not know what supposition is misleading you. I have said nothing of the kind.”

“Oh, you do a hundred times more than say! Yon let me think things. Oh, it is not kindness, Doctor; you see how my heart is consuming before you; you see how I beg, how I entreat. Speak, speak! See, I swear to you, I am composed, I have courage- This sickness, this dishonor perhaps- Oh, my God! you do not contradict me, Doctor, Doctor!”

“Monsieur de Taverney, I have said nothing, neither to Madame la Dauphine, nor to your father, nor to you. Do not ask me anything more.”

“Yes, yes; but you see how! interpret your silence. You see how I follow your thought into the dark and fatal road into which it plunges; stop me, at least, if I wander.”

“Adieu, Monsieur,” replied the doctor, sharply.

“Oh, you will not leave me without saying yes or no- One word, only one- it is all I ask.”

The doctor stopped.”Monsieur,” he said, “just now- and that brings us back to the fatal mistake which has wounded you-”

“Do not let us speak of that, Monsieur.”

“On the contrary, we will speak of it. Just now, a little late, perhaps, you told me that Mademoiselle de Taverney was your sister; but previously, with an exaltation which caused my error, you had told me that you loved Mademoiselle Andree more than your life.”

“It is true.”

“If your love for her is so great, she must love you in return!”

“Oil, Monsieur! Andree loves me better than she loves anyone else.”

“Well, then, return to her, question her, Monsieur- question her on that mystery in which I am obliged to leave you; and if she loves you as you love her, why Am will answer your questions. There are many things one will say to a friend which one will in it say to a physician; then, perhaps, she will consent to tell you that of which l would not give you even a hint to save a finger of my right hand. Adieu, Monsieur;” and the doctor turned again toward the pavilion.

“Oh, no, no, it is impossible!” cried Philippe, mad with grief, and sobbing at every word; “no, Doctor. I have misunderstood! you cannot have said that!”

The doctor quietly moved away. Then, with a gentleness full of commiseration, “Do as I have just advised you, Monsieur de Taverney,” he said, “and believe me, it is the best thing for you to do.”

“Oh, but think of it! To believe you is to renounce the religion of my whole life; it is to accuse an angel, it is to tempt God, Doctor. If you require me to believe it, prove it, at least prove it!”

“Adieu, Monsieur.”

“Doctor!” cried Philippe, in despair.

“Take care, if you speak so violently you will make known what I had determined to hide from the world, and had wished to conceal from yourself.”

“Yes, yes; you are right, Doctor,” said Philippe, in a tone so low that the words died on his lips; “but, indeed, science can make mistakes, and you will confess that you yourself are sometimes mistaken.”

“Rarely, Monsieur,” replied the doctor; “I am a man of hard study, and my lips never affirm until my eyes and my mind have said, ' I have seen,' I know, I am sure.' Yes, certainly, you are right, Monsieur; sometimes I am mistaken, like every fallible creature; but according to all probability, it is not the case now. Come, be calm and let us part.”

But Philippe could not be resigned. He put his hand upon the doctor's arm with such an air of entreaty that the latter stopped.

“One last, one supreme favor, Monsieur,” he said;” you see how agitated I am; I feel something which resembles madness; to know whether I am going to live or die I need confirmation of that reality which threatens me. I am going to my sister; I will not speak to her until you shall have seen her again; consider.”

“It is for you to consider, Monsieur; for I have not a word to add to what I have said.”

“Monsieur, promise me! my God! it is a favor that the executioner would not refuse his victim! promise me to see my sister again after your visit to her Highness Madame la Dauphine; Doctor, in the name of Heaven promise me that!”

“It is useless, Monsieur; but if you insist, it is my duty to do what you desire. On leaving Madame la Dauphine, I will go to see your sister.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks! Yes, come, and then you will confess that you have been mistaken.”

“I hope so with all my heart, Monsieur; and if I am mistaken, I will confess it joyfully. Adieu.”

And the doctor, restored to freedom, went away, leaving Philippe upon the esplanade, shaking with fever, covered with cold perspiration, and in his delirium conscious neither of the place where he was nor of the man with whom he had been talking, nor of the secret which he had just learned. For some minutes he gazed without intelligence at the sky, gradually illumined by stars, and at the pavilion, in which lights appeared.

CHAPTER CXLI. AN INVESTIGATION.

As soon as Philippe had recovered his senses and succeeded in gaining control over his reason, he directed his steps toward the apartment of Andree. Indeed, as he approached the pavilion the phantom of his unhappiness gradually vanished; it seemed to him a dream and not a reality against which he had for a moment struggled. The farther he went from the doctor the less he believed in his threatening intimations. Surely science was mistaken, and virtue had not failed. Had not the doctor completely justified his incredulity in promising to come to see his sister- Nevertheless, when Philippe came into Andree's presence he was so changed, so pale, so haggard, that she was anxious in her turn to know how so terrible a change could have taken place in him in so short a time. One thing alone could have produced such an effect on Philippe.

“Good Heavens! brother,” she said, “I am then very ill-”

“Why do you ask-” said Philippe.

“Because the consultation with Doctor Louis has frightened you.”

“No, sister,” said Philippe; “the doctor is not anxious, and you told me the truth. I could hardly induce him to come again.”

“Ah, is he coming again-”

“Yes; that does not vex you, Andree-” and Philippe, saying this, gazed into the eyes of the young girl.

“No,” she replied simply, “and if it reassures you, that is all I ask; but meanwhile tell me, whence comes this frightful paleness which troubles me!”

“Does that disturb you, Andree-”

“You ask that!”

“You love me, then, tenderly, Andree!”

“What did you say!” said the young girl.

“I ask, Andree, if you love me as well now as in our childhood!”

“Oh, Philippe, Philippe!”

“So I am one of the dearest friends you have on earth-”

“Oh, the dearest, the only one!” cried Andree. Then, blushing and confused, “Excuse me, Philippe,” she said, “I forgot.”

“Our father, is it not Andree-”

“Yes.”

Philippe took his sister's hand and looking at her tenderly, said, “Andree, do not think that I should blame you if your heart held still another affection than the love you have for my father, or that you feel for me.” Then sitting down by her, he continued, “You are at an age, Andree, when the hearts of young girls are stirred more deeply than they themselves wish, and, you know, a divine precept commands women to leave parents and family to follow their husband.”

Andree looked at Philippe for some time as if he had spoken a strange language which she did not understand. Then beginning to laugh, with a simplicity nothing could describe.

“My husband!” she said,” did you not say my husband,- Philippe! Eli, mon Dieu! he is yet unborn, or at least, I do not know him.”

Philippe touched by this exclamation of Andree, evidently so sincere, approached her, and taking her hand between his own he answered,

“Before having a husband, my good Andree, one must have a lover.”

Andree looked at Philippe in amazement, permitting him to gaze into the very depths of her clear, pure eyes in which her whole soul was reflected.

“My sister,” said Philippe, “since your birth I have been your best friend, as you have been my only one; I never left you, to go to play with my comrades. We have grown up together, and nothing has disturbed the perfect confidence we placed in each other; why is it that for some time, Andree, and without apparent reason, you have been so changed toward me!”

“Changed, I! I changed toward you, Philippe- Explain yourself. Indeed, I understand nothing you have said to me since you came in.”

“Yes, Andree,” said the young man, pressing her to his breast; “yes, my sweet sister, the passions of youth have succeeded to the affections of childhood, and now that you are in love I am no longer worthy of your confidence.”

“My brother, my friend,” said Andree, more and more- astonished, “why do you say that- Why do you speak of love to me-”

“Andree, I come courageously to a question full of dangers for you, full of anguish for me. I know very well that in asking or rather demanding your confidence at this time, I fall in your esteem; but I would rather, and believe me, it is a hard thing to say, I would rather feel that you love me less, than leave you a prey to the misfortunes which threaten you, terrible misfortunes, Andree, if you persist in the silence which I deplore, and of which I could not have thought you capable toward a friend, a brother.”

“My brother, my friend,” said Andree, “I swear to you I do not understand your reproaches.”

“Andree, do you wish me to make you understand them!”

“Oh, yes; certainly, yes.”

“Well, then, if, encouraged by you, I speak too plainly, if I call the color to your brow, and shame to weigh heavily upon your heart, blame only yourself, who have driven me by unjust distrust to search your soul to its very depths that I may tear your secret from it.”

“Do so, Philippe, and I assure you that I shall not be offended.”

Philippe looked at his sister, then arose and strode about the floor in great agitation. The composure of the young girl contradicted so strangely the charge against her he had made in his own mind, that he did not know what to think. Andree on her part contemplated her brother with astonishment, and became chilled in contact with this solemnity, so different from the sweet fraternal authority. So, before Philippe had recovered speech, Andree arose in her turn and went to her brother, putting her arm in his. Then looking at him with an unspeakable tenderness, she said,” Listen, Philippe, look at me as I look at you!”

“Oh, I ask nothing better,” the young man replied, fixing upon her his burning eyes; ” what do you wish to say to me-”

“I wish to say to you, Philippe, that you have always been a little jealous of my friendship; that is natural, since I also have been jealous of your care and affection; well, look at me as I told you to.” The young girl smiled.”Do you see a secret in my eyes-” she said. “Yes, yes, I see one,” said Philippe;” Andree, you love someone.”

“I-” cried the young girl, with an expression of astonishment so natural that the most skilful actress could not have imitated the accent of that utterance. And she began to laugh; ” I love someone-” she said. “Someone loves you, then!”

“Upon my word, so much the worse; for as that unknown person has never become acquainted with me and consequently has not declared himself, it is a dead waste of love.” Then, seeing his sister laugh and jest upon this question so frankly, observing the limpid Hue of her eyes, the pure frankness of her demeanor, Philippe, who felt Andree's heart beating against his with so steady a motion, said to himself that a month's absence could not make such a change in the character of an irreproachable young girl; that poor Andree was suspected unjustly; that science lied. He confessed that there was some excuse for Doctor Louis, who did not know Andree's purity and exquisite instincts; who thought her like all those girls of noble rank, who, fascinated by unworthy examples, or carried away by the excessive ardor of corrupted blood, surrender themselves without regret, or even without ambition. A last glance at Andree persuaded Philippe of the doctor's error; and he was so happy in this conviction, that he embraced his sister like those martyrs who confessed the purity of the Virgin Mary, confessing at the same time their belief in her divine Son. While in the midst of these changes of feeling Philippe heard on the stairs the step of Doctor Louis, faithful to his promise. Andree trembled; in her situation, everything was an event.” Who is coming-” she asked. “Doctor Louis, probably,” said Philippe. At the same moment the door opened, and the doctor, expected so anxiously by Philippe, entered the room. He was, as we have said, one of those grave and honorable men to whom science is a priesthood, and who study its mysteries religiously. Doctor Louis sought to discover the diseases of the soul beneath the diseases of the body- which was an unusual thing at this very materialistic period. He went on his way boldly, gruffly, paying little attention to rumors and obstacles, economizing his time, that patrimony of laboring men, with an avarice which made him rude toward the idle and garrulous. It was for this reason that he had answered Philippe so roughly at their first interview. He had taken him for one of those fops of the court who come to fawn upon the doctor in order to procure congratulations upon their feats of prowess in love, and who are very proud of having a secret to pay for. But as soon as the medallion was turned, and instead of the fop, more or less amorous, the doctor had seen the dark, threatening face of the brother; as soon as in the place of an offence he had seen a misfortune- the philosophic practitioner, the man of heart, was moved, and after the last words of Philippe, the doctor had said to himself,” Not only may I have been mistaken, but I sincerely wish I may be.” That is the reason why even without the urgent entreaty of Philippe, he would have come to see Andree, to satisfy himself by a more decisive examination that his first opinion had been correct. He came in, and his first glance, that” taking possession” of the doctor and the observer, was fastened upon Andree as he entered the antechamber, and he continued to observe her closely. Immediately, either by reason of the excitement caused by the doctor's visit, or by natural accident, Andree was seized with one of those attacks which had frightened Philippe, and she tottered, putting her handkerchief to her lips with an expression of pain. Philippe, engaged in receiving the doctor, had not seen it.” Doctor,” he said,” you are welcome. Pardon the somewhat unceremonious manner in which I addressed you, when I accosted you an hour ago; I was as agitated as I am now calm.” The doctor ceased looking at Andree for a moment, and his observation fell upon the young man, whose smile and effusiveness he tried to comprehend. “You have talked with Mademoiselle, your sister, as I advised you-” he asked. “Yes, Doctor, yes.”

“And you are reassured!”

“I have more of heaven and less of hell in my heart.” The doctor took Andree's hand and felt her pulse a long time. Philippe looked on as if to say,” Oh, go on, Doctor; I dread no longer the physician's diagnosis.- Well, Monsieur-” he said, with an air of triumph. “Monsieur le Chevalier,” replied Doctor Louis,” will you leave me alone with your sister-” These words, simply pronounced, shook the young man's confidence.” What! do you still wish it-” he said. The doctor made an affirmative gesture. “Very well, I will leave you, Monsieur,” replied Philippe, with a serious air. Then to his sister,” Andree,” he continued, “he frank and straightforward with the doctor.” The young girl shrugged her shoulders as if she could not understand what he meant. Philippe continued,” While he is talking to you about your health I will take a turn in the park. The hour for which I ordered my horse has not arrived, so that I shall be able to see you again before my departure and to have a moment's conversation with you.” And he pressed Andree's hand, trying to smile. But to the young girl the pressure and the smile seemed constrained and convulsive. The doctor accompanied Philippe to the door, which he closed after him. Then he sat down on the same sofa with Andree.

CHAPTER CXLII. THE CONSULTATION.

The most profound silence reigned without. Not a breath of wind was stirring; not a human voice could be heard; all Nature was still. Andree, in the depths of her heart, was considerably disturbed to see the importance which Philippe and the doctor attributed to this disease. She was rather surprised at the return of Doctor Louis, who that very morning had declared her illness insignificant, and remedies useless; but thanks to her deep purity, the resplendent mirror of the soul was not even dulled by the breath of all these different suspicions. Suddenly the doctor, who had not ceased looking at her, after having turned upon her the full light of the lamp, took her hand like a friend or a confessor, no longer trying the pulse like a doctor. This unexpected movement surprised the susceptible Andree; she came near drawing away her hand. “Mademoiselle,” asked the doctor,” did you wish to see me, or have I acceded only to the desire of your brother in coming again to see you!”

“Monsieur,” replied Andree,” my brother, on his return, informed me that you would come again to see me; but since you had done me the honor this morning to speak so lightly of my illness, I should not have taken the liberty to trouble you again.” The doctor bowed.” Monsieur, your brother,” he replied,” seems very passionate, jealous of his honor and unreasonable in some matters; that is probably the reason why you have declined to open your heart to him.” Andree looked at the doctor as she had looked at Philippe.” You too, Monsieur-” she said, with a supreme haughtiness. “Pardon, Mademoiselle, let me finish.” Andree made a gesture of impatience, or rather of resignation. “It is, then, natural,” continued the doctor,” that, seeing the sorrow and dreading the anger of this young man, you have obstinately kept your secret; but with me, Mademoiselle- with me, who am, you may well believe, the doctor of souls as well as of bodies; with me, who see and who know; with me, who, consequently, meet you half-way on the difficult road of confession- with me, I have the right to expect that you will be more frank.”

“Monsieur,” replied Andree,” if I had not seen my brother's face grow, sad and take on the expression of a real sorrow; if I did not consider your grave appearance and the reputation for seriousness which you enjoy- I should think that you were putting your heads together to play a comedy at my expense, and to make me take, after a consultation, through the fear which you would have caused me, some very black and bitter medicine.” The doctor frowned.” Mademoiselle,” he said,” I beg you, stop short in this course of dissimulation.”

“Dissimulation!” cried Andree. “Would you prefer to have me call it hypocrisy-”

“But, Monsieur,” cried the young girl,” you insult me!”

“Say that I understand you.”

“Monsieur!” Andree rose, but the doctor forced her gently, to sit down again. “No,” he continued,” no, my child, I do not insult you- I serve you; and if I convince you, I save you! So neither your expression of anger nor your pretended indignation will change my resolution.”

“But what do you wish- What do you demand-”

“Confess, or, upon my honor, I shall have a very bad opinion of you.”

“Monsieur, once more, my brother is not here to defend me, and I say that you insult me, that I do not understand, and that I demand a clear and complete explanation in regard to this pretended disease.”

“For4he last time, Mademoiselle,” replied the astonished doctor,” will you not spare me the pain of making you blush-”

“I do not understand! I do not understand! I do not understand!” Andree exclaimed three times, with flashing eyes, which questioned, defied, and almost threatened. “Well, I understand about you, Mademoiselle; you doubt science, and you hope to conceal your condition from the world. But, be undeceived, with one single word I will humble all your pride- you are enceinte!” Andree uttered a terrible cry, and fell back on the sofa. This cry was followed by the sound of a door opened with violence, and Philippe bounded into the middle of the room, sword in hand, with blood-shot eyes and trembling lips.” Scoundrel!” he said to the doctor,” you lie!” The doctor turned slowly toward the young man without letting go the scarcely beating pulse of Andree.” I have said what I have said, Monsieur,” he replied,” and the fear of your sword, naked or sheathed, will not make me say what is not true.”

“Doctor!” murmured Philippe, letting his sword fall. “You wished me to verify by a second trial my first examination; I have done so. Now that certainty is established, nothing can destroy my faith in it. I regret it extremely, young man; for you have inspired me as much with sympathy as this young girl has inspired me with aversion, through her persistence in falsehood.” Philippe started, but Andree was motionless. “I am a family man, Monsieur,” continued the doctor,” and I understand how much you must suffer. I offer you my services, then, and I promise secrecy. My word is sacred, Monsieur, and everybody will tell you that I think more of my word than of my life.”

“Oh! but, Monsieur, it is impossible!”

“I do not know whether it is impossible; but it is true. Adieu, Monsieur de Taverney.” And the doctor turned away with the same steady and slow step, looking affectionately at the young man, who was writhing with pain, and who, as soon as the door was shut, sank overcome with grief into a chair two steps from Andree. The doctor having gone, Philippe arose, shut the doors of the corridor and of the chamber, closed the windows, and approaching Andree, who was astonished to see him making these inauspicious preparations,” You have deceived me in a stupid and cowardly manner,” he said, folding his arms-” cowardly, because I am your brother, because I was so weak as to love you, to prefer you to all, to esteem you above all, and because this confidence on my part ought at least to call forth your own, even if affection could not inspire it; stupidly, because now the infamous secret which dishonors us is in the power of a third person; because in spite of your secrecy it may have been seen by others; because, in short, if you had confessed your situation to me at first, I might have saved you from shame, if not through affection for you, at least for my own sake; for indeed I should save myself in saving you. See, now, the full measure of your guilt. Your honor, so long as you are not married, is shared by all those whose name you bear.- that is to say, whose name you soil. Now, then, I am no longer your brother, since you have denied me that right; now, I am a man interested in wresting from you by all possible means the whole secret, so that from this confession may spring forth for myself some- reparation. I come, then, to you full of anger and resolution, and I say to you, Since you have been coward enough to trust in a lie, you will be punished as cowards are punished. Confess, then, your crime, or-”

“Threats!” cried the proud Andrei-” threats to a woman!” and she arose pale and threatening herself. “Yes, threats- not to a woman, but to a creature without honesty, without honor.”

“Threats!” continued Andree, gradually becoming exasperated-” threats to me, who know nothing, who understand nothing, who regard you all as bloodthirsty lunatics, conspiring together to kill me with grief, if not with shame!”

“Well, yes!” cried Philippe;” die, then! die, then, unless you confess, die this instant! God judges you, and I will strike you; ” and the young man took up, convulsively, his sword, and quick as lightning placed the point at his sister's breast. “Well, well, kill me!” she cried, without showing fear of the light which flashed from the blade, without trying to avoid the pain of the wound; and she threw herself forward, full of grief and madness, and her movement was so quick that the sword would have pierced her breast if it had not been for the sudden terror of Philippe, and the sight of drops of blood which stained the muslin thrown around his sister's neck. The young man had lost his strength and his anger; he started back, dropped his sword, and falling on his knees, sobbing, he put his arms around the body of the young girl. “Andree! Andree!” he cried,” no, no! it is I who will die! You love me no longer, you know me no more; I have nothing more to do in this world. Oh, you love someone so much, Andree, that you prefer death to confiding in me! Oh, Andree, you shall not die! it is I who will die;” and he attempted to escape, but already Andree had put both arms about his neck, beside herself, covering him with kisses, bathing him with tears. “No, no,” she said;” you were right at first. Kill me, Philippe, for they say that I am guilty. But you, so noble, so pure, so good- you whom no one accuses, live and pity me instead of cursing me.”

“Well, sister,” replied the young man, “in the name of Heaven, in the name of our former friendship, come, fear nothing, neither for yourself nor for him whom you love; he, whoever he may be, shall be sacred to me, were he my greatest enemy, were he the vilest of men. But I have no enemy, Andree; and you are so noble in heart and thought that your lover must be well chosen. Well, I will go to find him, I will call him brother. You say nothing; do you mean that marriage between you and him is impossible! Well, so be it! I will be resigned; I will keep all my grief to myself; I will stifle this imperious voice of honor which demands blood. I ask you nothing, not even the name of this man. You have loved this man, therefore he is dear to me- Only, let us leave France, let us go together. The king has given you a valuable present, they say; well, we will sell it; we will send half of the money to our father; then with the other half we will live unknown. I will be all to you, Andree; you shall be all to me. I love no one; you see that I am devoted to you, Andree; you see what I am doing; you see that you can rely on my friendship- come, will you refuse me still your confidence, after what I have just said to you! Come, come, will you not call me your brother!” Andree had listened in silence to what the distracted young man had said. The beating of her heart alone gave sign of life; her look alone indicated reason. “Philippe,” she said, after a long silence,” you thought that I loved you no longer, poor brother! you thought that I loved another man; you thought that I had forgotten the law of honor- I, who am a girl of noble birth, and who understand all the duties that word imposes upon me! My dear, I forgive you. Yes, yes; in vain have you believed me base; in vain have you called me cowardly. Yes, yes, I forgive you; but I will not forgive you if you believe me so impious, so vile as to swear falsely to you. I swear to you, Philippe, by the God who hears me, by the soul of my mother- which has not sufficiently protected me, alas! as it would seem- I swear to you by my ardent love for you, that never a thought of love has distracted my reason; that never has a man said to me, ' I love you; ' that never have lips kissed my hand; that I am pure in mind, virgin in desire as on the day of my birth. Now, Philippe, God has my soul, take you my body in your hands.”

“It is well,” said Philippe, after a long silence-” it is well, Andree, I thank you. Now I see clearly into the very depths of your heart. Yes, you are pure, innocent, dear victim; but there are magic drinks, poisoned philtres; someone has set for you an infamous trap; someone has taken from you in your sleep that which living no one could have torn from you but with your life. You have fallen into some snare, Andree; but now we are united, consequently we are strong. You trust to me the care of your honor and of your vengeance, do you not!”

“Oh, yes, yes!” said Andree, quickly, with bitter emphasis;” yes, for if you avenge me it will be for a crime.”

“Well,” continued Philippe, “aid me, support me. Let us search together; let us go back hour by hour over the past days; let us follow the helpful thread of memory, and at the first clew-”

“Oh, I wish it! I wish it!” said Andree;” let us search.”

“Well, have you noticed anyone following you, watching you-”

“No.”

“No one has written to you!”

“No one.”

“No man has told you he loved you-”

“No one.”

“Women have a remarkable instinct in this respect; have you ever noticed that anyone- desired you!”

“I have never noticed anything of the kind.”

“Dear sister, search the circumstances of your life, its inmost details.”

“Lead me.”

“Have you walked out alone!”

“Never, that I can remember, except to go to see Madame la Dauphine.”

“When you went off into the park, into the woods-”

“Nicole always accompanied me.”

“Speaking of Nicole, she has left you-”.”Yes.”

“On what day!”

“The very day of your departure, I think.”

“She was a girl of questionable conduct; do you know the particulars of her flight! Think carefully.”

“I only know that she went off with her lover.”

“What were your last relations with that girl-”

“Oh, at nine o'clock, she came as usual into my chamber, undressed me, prepared my glass of water, and went out.”

“You did not notice whether she mixed any cordial with the water!”

“No; besides, that circumstance would have had no importance, for I remember that at the moment when! lifted the glass to my lips, I experienced a very strange sensation.”

“What was it like-”

“Like that I experienced one day at Taverney.”

“At Taverney-”

“Yes, when that stranger was passing by.”

“What stranger-”

“Comte de Balsamo.”

“Comte de Balsamo- And what was this sensation-”

“Oh, something like vertigo, like dizziness; then the loss of all my faculties.”

“And you felt this impression at Taverney, you say-”

“Yes.”

“Under what circumstances-”

“I was at my piano; I felt myself fainting; I looked before me and saw the count in a mirror. From that moment I remember nothing more, except that when I awoke I was still at the piano, and could not judge of the length of my sleep.”

“It is the only time, you say, that you experienced this singular sensation-”

“Once more, on the day or rather the night of the fireworks. I was dragged along by all that crowd, upon the point of being crushed, destroyed; I collected all my strength for the struggle; all at once- my arms relaxed, a cloud enveloped my eyes, but through this cloud I had yet time to see this very man.”

“The Comte de Balsamo!”

“Yes.”

“And you went to sleep!”

“I went to sleep or fainted, I cannot tell which. You know how he carried me away, and brought me back to my father.”

“Yes, yes; and that night- the night that Nicole went away- did you see him then-”

“No; but I experienced all the symptoms which gave notice of his presence- the same strange sensations, the same nervous dizziness, the same torpor, the same sleep.”

“The same sleep-”

“Yes, sleep full of vertigos, of which, even while struggling against them, I recognized the mysterious source before yielding to them.”

“Great God!” cried Philippe, “go on, go on!”

“I went to sleep.”

“Where did you go to sleep-”

“On my own bed, I am very sure; and I awoke upon the floor, alone, ill, and cold, like a dead person reviving. I called Nicole, but in vain; Nicole had disappeared.”

“And this sleep was the very same!”

“Yes.”

“The same as at Taverney- the same as on the day of the fetes-”

“Yes, yes.”

“On the first two occasions, just before yielding, you had seen this Joseph Balsamo, this Comte de Fenix-”

“Certainly.”

“And the third time you did not see him!”

“No,” said Andree, in terror, for she was beginning to understand;” no, but I felt his presence.”

“Good!” cried Philippe; ”now be calm, be reassured, be proud, Andree; I know the secret. Thanks, dear sister, thanks. Ah, we are saved I” Philippe took Andree in his arms, pressed her tenderly to his heart, and carried away by the ardor of resolution, he rushed out of the chamber. He ran to the stables, saddled his horse himself, mounted, and took in great haste the road to Paris.

CHAPTER CXLIII. GILBERT'S CONSCIENCE.

All the scenes we have just described had reacted powerfully upon Gilbert. The unbalanced susceptibility of this young man was subjected to too severe a trial when, in the depths of the retreat which he knew how to choose in some corner of the garden, he saw every day the progress of the disease on the face and in the step of Andree; when this paleness, which had alarmed him the evening before, seemed next morning more marked, more accusing, when Mademoiselle de Taverney came to the window to get the first rays of the morning sun. Then whoever had observed Gilbert's countenance would not have failed to see in it the characteristic traits of that remorse which was so favorite a subject among the painters of antiquity. Gilbert loved the beauty of Andree, and on the other hand he detested it. This brilliant beauty, together with so many other superior qualities, established a new barrier between him and the young girl; nevertheless this beauty seemed to him a new treasure to acquire. Such were the reasons for his love and his hatred, for his desire and his scorn. But from the time this beauty was sullied, when the features of Andree became a revelation of suffering, or of shame, from the time when there was danger for Andree, danger for Gilbert, the situation was wholly changed; and Gilbert, who was eminently just, changed also his point of view. We may say that his first feeling was one of profound sadness. He did not see without pain the beauty of his mistress fading, her health failing. He experienced the delicious pride of pitying this haughty woman, so scornful of him, and of rewarding her with compassion for all the opprobrium with which she had loaded him. But we do not on this account make excuses for Gilbert; pride justifies nothing. But pride was not the only sentiment in Gilbert's heart as he confronted the situation. Every time that Mademoiselle de Taverney, pale, suffering, and sad, appeared like a phantom before the eyes of Gilbert, his heart leaped, the blood rushed to his eyelids like tears, and he pressed to his breast a clinched, restless hand, which tried to restrain the revolt of his conscience. “It is through me that she is ruined,” he murmured. And devouring her with a furious look, he fled, imagining all the time that he could see her, and hear her groan. Then he was stricken to the heart; he experienced one of the most poignant grief's that it is given man to endure. His furious love needed consolation, and he would have given his life for the right to fall on his knees before Andree, to take her by the hand, to console her, to recall her to life when she fainted. His powerlessness on these occasions was a punishment, the tortures of which no words could describe. Gilbert bore this martyrdom three days. On the first day he had noticed the change, the slow working of the disease on Andree. Where others saw nothing more, he, the cause, could divine and interpret everything. More than this, he had studied the course of the disease, and could calculate the exact time of the crisis. The day of Andree's faintings he spent in frights, in agitations, in wild wanderings- certain indications of a conscience at bay. All this running to and fro, these airs of indifference or of eagerness, these bursts of sympathy or sarcasm which Gilbert considered as master-pieces of dissimulation and maneuvering, any clerk of the Chatelet, any turnkey of Saint Lazare, would have analyzed and interpreted them as the ferret of Monsieur de Sartines could read and write cipher. One does not see a man run until out of breath, then suddenly stop, utter inarticulate sounds, then plunge all at once into the deepest silence- one does not see him listening in the air for indifferent sounds, or dig the ground, or hack the trees in rage, without thinking of him,” This man is mad if he is not a culprit.” After this first outpouring of remorse, Gilbert had passed from commiseration to egotism. He knew that these frequent fainting fits of Andree would not seem to be a natural sickness, and that the cause of them would be sought for. Gilbert called to mind the brutal and expeditious forms of justice which investigate all kinds of crime which can dishonor a man- the questions, the examinations, the analogies unknown to the rest of the world, and which put on the track of a criminal those blood-hounds, full of resources, called” instructors.” Now that which Gilbert had done seemed to him morally most odious and deserving of punishment. He began to tremble in earnest; for he feared that the sickness of Andree would instigate inquiry. From this time, like the criminal in that celebrated picture pursued by the angel of remorse by the pale light of his torch, Gilbert cast frightened looks upon everything about him. He was suspicious; every sound and every whisper, every word he heard spoken, however insignificant, seemed to have some relation to Mademoiselle de Taverney or to himself. He had seen Monsieur de Richelieu go to see the king, and Monsieur de Taverney go to visit his daughter. The house had seemed on that day to take on an extraordinary air of conspiracy and suspicion. It was still worse when he saw the doctor and the dauphiness repair to the chamber of Andree. Gilbert was one of those skeptics who believe in nothing. He cared but little for God or man; but he recognized science as God, and proclaimed its omnipotence. There were times when Gilbert would have denied the infallible knowledge of the Supreme Being; he never doubted the clear-sightedness of the doctor. The visit of Doctor Louis to Andree was a blow from which Gilbert's mind could not recover. He ran to his chamber, leaving his work, and deaf as a statue to the injunctions of his superiors. There, behind the poor curtain which he had improvised to conceal his spyings, he addressed all his faculties to the endeavor to discover a word or movement which would reveal the result of the consultation. Nothing happened which would enlighten him. Only once he saw the face of the dauphiness, who came to the window to take a look at the court, which she had probably never seen. He could also see Doctor Louis opening this window to let into the chamber a little fresh air. As for hearing what was said, or seeing the expression of their faces, that was not possible; a thick curtain, which served as a blind, fell the whole length of the window, and prevented all knowledge of what was going on. The anguish of the young man may be conceived. The doctor, with the eye of a lynx, had solved the mystery. Disclosure must follow, not immediately, as Gilbert justly supposed, on account of the presence of the dauphiness, but very soon between the father and daughter when the two visitors should leave them alone. Gilbert, wild with grief and impatience, beat his head against the walls of his garret. He saw Monsieur de Taverney go out with Madame la Dauphine, the doctor having already left.” The explanation will take place between Monsieur de Taverney and the dauphiness,” he said to himself. The baron did not return to his daughter, Andree remained alone in her room, and spent the time upon her sofa, partly in reading, interrupted by spasms and heartaches, partly in meditations so deep and quiet that Gilbert took them for trances, when he caught a glimpse of her through an opening in the curtain which the wind occasionally blew aside. Andree, worn out with pain and emotion, went to sleep. Gilbert prohibited by this respite to go out of doors to anther rumors and comments. This time was precious to him, because it gave him opportunity for reflection. The danger was so imminent that he must combat it by a sudden, heroic resolution. This was the first point of support upon which this mind, vacillating because subtle, found strength and tranquility. But what resolution to take- Any change, in such circumstances, would attract attention. Flight- Ah, yes! flight, with that energy of youth, that vigor of despair and of fear, which doubles the strength of a man and renders it equal to that of an army- hide by day, travel by night, and arrive at length- where- In what place could he hide where the avenging arm of justice could not find him- Gilbert knew the customs of the country. What would they think in countries almost savage, almost deserted.- for as to cities he must not think of them- what would they think in a small town, a hamlet, of the bundle- And then Gilbert knew himself by heart- a noticeable face, a face which henceforth would bear the indelible impress of a terrible secret, would attract the attention of every observer. To fly was already a danger: but to be discovered was a disgrace. Flight would condemn him; he rejected this idea, and as if his mind had strength for only one idea, the unhappy man, after dismissing the idea of flight, entertained that of death. It was the first time he had thought of it; the apparition of this lugubrious phantom he had evoked occasioned him no fear.” It will be time enough to think of death when all resources are exhausted. Besides, it is cowardly to kill one's self. Rousseau has said, ' To suffer is more noble.'“With the utterance of this paradox, Gilbert raised his head and renewed his wandering course through the gardens. He had obtained the first glimpse of security, when, all at once, Philippe, arriving as we have seen, overturned all his ideas, and threw him into a fresh series of perplexities. The brother, the brother sent for! it has been then satisfactorily proved! The family have determined on silence. Yes; but with all the investigations, all the refinement of details which for Gilbert meant the tortures of the Conciergerie, of the Chatelet, and of the Tournelle. They would drag him before Andree; they would force him to kneel, to confess ignominiously his crime; and they would kill him like a dog with a cudgel or knife- a legitimate vengeance justified in advance by numerous precedents. Louis XV. was very indulgent to the nobility in such cases. And then Philippe was the most formidable avenger that Mademoiselle de Taverney could call to her aid. Philippe, who alone of the family had shown toward Gilbert the sentiments of a man and almost of an equal- would not Philippe as surely kill the criminal with a word as with the sword; if this word were,” Gilbert, you have eaten of our bread, and you have dishonored us!” So we have seen Gilbert stealing away at the first appearance of Philippe; and in returning he obeyed only his instinct not to accuse himself; and from that moment, he concentrated all his strength into a single purpose- resistance. He followed Philippe, saw him go to the apartments of Andree, and talk with Doctor Louis; he watched everything, judged everything, understood the despair of Philippe. He saw that grief spring up and increase; his terrible scene with Andree he discovered from the play of the shadows behind the curtains.” I am lost,” he thought. And immediately, his reason wandering, he seized a knife to kill Philippe whom he expected to see appear at his door, or to kill himself, if necessary. But, on the contrary, Philippe was reconciled with his sister. Gilbert saw him on his knees kissing Andree's hands; here was a fresh hope, a door of safety. If Philippe had not come up to him with cries of rage, it was because Andree was wholly ignorant of the name of the criminal. If she, the only witness, the only accuser, knew nothing, why no one knew anything. If Andree, foolish hope, knew and did not speak, it was more than safety- it was happiness, it was triumph. From this moment Gilbert rose to the level of the situation. Nothing arrested his progress now that he had recovered his clearness of vision.”Where is the evidence,” he said, “if Mademoiselle de Taverney does not accuse me! And, fool that I am, is it the result she will accuse me of, or the crime itself- Now, she has not reproached me for the crime; nothing for three weeks past has indicated to me that she detested me, or avoided me more than formerly. If, then, she has not known the cause, nothing in the effect will point to me more than to another. I saw the king himself in the chamber of Mademoiselle Andree. I will prove it, if need be, to the brother, and in spite of every denial of his Majesty, they will believe me. Yes; but this would be a dangerous game, I will be silent; the king has too many ways of proving his innocence, or of crushing my evidence. But in default of the king, whose name cannot be brought into this affair under pain of imprisonment for life, or of death, have I not that unknown man who the same night led Mademoiselle de Taverney into the garden- This man, how will he defend himself- What will be their reason for suspecting him- How will they find him if they do suspect him- He is but an ordinary man; I am as good as he, and I will defend myself stoutly against him. Besides, they will not even think of me. God alone saw me,” he added, laughing bitterly;”but this God who so often sees my grief and my tears without saying anything, why should he be so unjust as to betray me on this first chance for happiness that he has given me- Moreover, if there has been a crime, it is his, and not mine; and Monsieur de Voltaire proves incontestably that there are no longer any miracles. I am saved, I am calm; my secret is my own, the future is mine.” After these reflections, or rather this compromise with his conscience, Gilbert locked up his garden-tools, and took his evening meal with his companions. He was gay, careless, defiant even. He had had remorse, he had been afraid- a twofold weakness which a man, a philosopher, must hasten to forget. Only he reckoned without his conscience; Gilbert did not sleep.

CHAPTER CXLIV. TWO GRIEFS.

Gilbert had rightly judged the position when he said, Speaking of the unknown man surprised by him in the gardens on that evening which had been so fatal to Mademoiselle de Taverney,” Will they find him-” In fact Philippe was wholly ignorant of the place of residence of Joseph Balsamo, Comte de Fenix. But he remembered that lady of quality, that Marquise de Savign, to whom, on the thirtieth of May, Andree had been conducted to be cared for. It was not yet too late to present himself at the house of this lady, who lived in the Rue Saint Honored Philippe restrained the agitation of his mind and of his senses; he ascended to the apartments of the lady, and the servant gave him immediately without hesitation the address of Balsamo, Rue Saint Claude, au Marais. Philippe hastened directly to the address indicated.

But it was not without profound emotion that he touched the knocker of this suspicious house, where, as he thought, were forever buried the repose and honor of poor Andree. But with an appeal to his will he had sufficiently overcome indignation and emotion to preserve the strength which he was sure to need. He knocked, then, with a firm hand at the gate of the house which, according to the custom of the place, flew open. Philippe entered the court, holding his horse by the bridle. But he had not taken four steps when Fritz, coming out from the vestibule and appearing at the top of the steps, stopped him with this question, “What does Monsieur want]”

Philippe trembled as if he had met with an unforeseen obstacle. He looked at the German, knitting his brow as if Fritz had not performed his simple duty as an attendant.

“I wish to speak to the master of the house, -to Comte de Fenix,” replied Philippe, passing the bridle of his horse through a ring, and walking toward the house, which he entered.

“Monsieur is not at home,” said Fritz, letting Philippe pass, however, with the politeness of a well-trained servant. Strange thing! Philippe seemed to have anticipated nothing less than this simple reply. He remained for a moment abashed. “Where can I find him-

“he asked.

“I do not know, Monsieur.”

“But you ought to know.”

“I beg pardon, Monsieur does not account to me for his movements.”

“My friend,” said Philippe, “I must, however, speak to your master this evening.”

“I doubt if it is possible.”

“It must be; it is on business of the greatest importance.”

Fritz bowed without answering.

“He has gone out, then “! “asked Philippe.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“He will return of course.”

“I think not, Monsieur.”

“Ah, you think not-”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” said Philippe, growing impatient; “meanwhile go tell your master — “

“But I have the honor of informing you,” replied the imperturbable Fritz, “that Monsieur is not here.”

“I know the importance of orders, my friend,” said Philippe, “and yours ought to be regarded; but it cannot indeed apply to me, whose visit your master could not anticipate, and who come here accidentally.”

“The order is for everybody, Monsieur,” replied Fritz, blundering.

“Then since there is an order,” said Philippe, “the Comte de Fenix is here- “

“Well, what then- “said Fritz, becoming impatient in his turn at such persistence.

“Why, I will wait for him.”

“Monsieur is not here, I tell you,” he replied; “the house took fire some time ago, and consequently it is not habitable.”

“You live in it, however,” said Philippe, blundering in his turn.

“I live here as keeper.”

Philippe shrugged his shoulders like a man who does not believe a word of what is told him. Fritz began to get angry. “For the rest,” he said, “whether Monsieur le Comte is here or not, it is not usual for persons to enter his house by force; and if you do not conform to custom, I shall be obliged — “Fritz stopped.

“To what-” asked Philippe, forgetting himself.

“To put you out,” replied Fritz, calmly.

“You-” cried Philippe, his eyes flashing.

“I! “replied Fritz, resuming with the characteristic of his nation every appearance of coolness in proportion as his anger increased. And he took a step toward the young man, who, exasperated beyond control, drew his sword. Fritz, not alarmed at the sight of the blade, without calling for help, — he might, indeed, have been alone, — seized from an armory a sort of stake armed with a short but sharp blade, and throwing himself upon Philippe like a cudgel-player rather than a fencer, he broke into a thousand pieces, at the first stroke, the blade of that little sword. Philippe uttered a cry of rage, and rushing in his turn toward the armory, tried to seize a weapon from it. At this moment the secret door of the corridor was opened, and the count appeared coming out from the shadow.

' What is the matter, Fritz”, “he asked.

“Nothing, Monsieur,” replied the servant, putting down his stick, but placing himself like a barrier before his master, who, standing on the steps of the private staircase, was more elevated than he by half his height.

“Monsieur le Comte de Fenix,” said Philippe, “is it the custom in your country for lackeys to receive a gentleman spear in hand, or is it an order peculiar to your noble mansion-”

Fritz lowered his spear, and at a sign from his master put it in the corner of the vestibule.

“Who are you, Monsieur- “asked the count, who could scarcely see Philippe in the faint light of the lamp which lighted the antechamber.

“Someone who insists on speaking with you.”

“Who insists-”

“Yes.”

“That is a word which fully excuses Fritz, Monsieur; for I wish to speak to no one, and when I am at home I do not recognize the right of anyone to insist on speaking to me. You are then guilty of a wrong toward me; but,” Balsamo added with a sigh, “I pardon you, — on the condition, however, that you retire and trouble me no more.”

“It well becomes you, indeed,” cried Philippe, “to ask for peace, — you, who have destroyed mine.”

* I have destroyed your peace “

“I am Philippe de Taverney! “cried the young man, thinking that to the conscience of the count this name would explain everything.

“Philippe de Taverney Monsieur,” said the count, “I was well received at your father's house, you are welcome to mine.”

“Ah, that is very fortunate,” murmured Philippe.

“Please to follow me, Monsieur.”

Balsamo shut the door of the private staircase, and preceding Philippe, he conducted him to the salon, where some of the scenes of this story have been unfolded to our view, — particularly the most recent of all which had taken place there, that of the Five Masters. The salon was lighted up as if someone had been expected; but it was evident that this was one of the luxurious customs of:the house.

“Good evening, Monsieur de Taverney,” said Balsamo, in a tone so mild and suppressed that Philippe involuntarily looked up at him. But at the sight of Balsamo he…stepped back. The count indeed was but the shadow of himself, — his hollow eyes had no luster; his cheeks, in growing thin, had encircled the mouth with two folds, and the facial angle, bare and bony, made the whole head look like a death's head. Philippe was astounded. Balsamo *aw his astonishment, and a smile of mortal sadness passed.over his white lips. “Monsieur,” he said, “let me apologize for my servant; but indeed he followed his orders,; and you — allow me to say so — were wrong in forcing him.”

“Monsieur,” said Philippe, “there are, you know, in life extreme situations, and I was in one of these situations.” Balsamo did not answer. “I wished to see you,”.continued Philippe; “I wished to speak to you; I would have braved death in order to gain admission to you.”

Balsamo remained silent and seemed to await an explanation of the words of the young man, without having the strength or the curiosity to ask for it.

“I have you now,” continued Philippe, — “I have you now at length, and we will come to an explanation if you please; but in the first place be so good as to dismiss that man.” And Philippe pointed to Fritz, who had just raised the portiere as if to ask his master his last orders respecting the importunate visitor.

Balsamo fixed upon Philippe a look, the object of which was to discover his intentions; but finding himself in the presence of a man his equal in rank and distinction, Philippe had recovered calmness and presence of mind; he was impenetrable. Balsamo, therefore, by a simple motion of the head, or rather eyebrows, dismissed Fritz, and the two men sat down opposite each other, Philippe with his back to the fireplace, Balsamo with his elbow resting on a small table.

“Speak quickly, and clearly, if you please, Monsieur,” said Balsamo, “for I listen to you only through kindness, and I warn you that I shall be quickly fatigued.”

“I shall speak as I ought, Monsieur, and as long as I think proper,” said Philippe; “and with your permission, I will begin with a question.”

At this word a terrible frown shot from the eyes of Balsamo an electric flash. This word brought to his mind such memories that Philippe would have trembled if he had known what commotion he had excited in the depths of this man's heart. However, after a moment's silence to gain command over himself, Balsamo said, “Ask your question.”

“Monsieur,” replied Philippe, “you have never explained satisfactorily how you spent the time during that famous night of the thirtieth of May, from the moment when you raised my sister from among the dying and the dead who crowded the Place Louis XV! “

“What does that signify-” asked Balsamo.

“It signifies, Monsieur le Comte, that, your whole conduct on that night has been and is now more than ever subject to suspicion.”

“Suspicion-”

“Yes; and in all probability, it has not been the conduct of a man of honor.”

“Monsieur,” said Balsamo, “I do not understand you; you must see that my head is weary, weak, and that this weakness naturally makes me impatient.”

“Monsieur!” cried Philippe, in his turn irritated by Balsamo's tone, at once haughty and calm.

“Monsieur,” continued Balsamo, in the same tone, “since I last had the honor of seeing you I have met with a great misfortune: my house has been partly burned, and I have lost many precious treasures, — very precious, understand; in consequence of this trouble I am somewhat confused. Be, therefore, very clear, I beg, or I shall take leave of you immediately.”

“Oh, no, Monsieur,” said Philippe, “no, you will not take leave of me so easily as you say. I shall respect your sorrow if you show yourself considerate of mine; to me, also, Monsieur, there has come a great misfortune, — much greater than yours, I am sure.”

Balsamo smiled with that smile of despair which Philippe had already seen upon his lips.

“I, Monsieur,” continued Philippe, “have lost the honor of my family.”

“Well, Monsieur,” replied Balsamo, “how can I help you in this misfortune-”

“How can you help me-” cried Philippe, with flashing eyes.

“Certainly.”

“You can restore me what I have lost, Monsieur! “

“Ah, you are mad, Monsieur!” cried Balsamo, and he reached for the bell. But he made this movement so gently and with so little anger that Philippe's arm easily stopped him.

“I am mad]” cried Philippe, in an angry tone. “But you do not understand that I refer to my sister, whom you held fainting in your arms on the thirtieth of May, — my sister, whom you conveyed to a house, which you said, was respectable, but, as I think, infamous, — to my sister,, in a word, whose honor I demand sword in hand!”

Balsamo shrugged his shoulders. “Eh, good God! '* he murmured, “how many turnings to reach a thing so simple!”

“Scoundrel! “cried Philippe.

“What a deplorable voice you have, Monsieur! “said Balsamo, with the same gloomy impatience; “you stun me. Why, you do not come here to tell me that I have- insulted your sister-”

“Yes, coward! “

“Again an exclamation, and a useless insult, Monsieur;. who the devil has told you that I have insulted your sister-”

Philippe hesitated; the tone with which Balsamo pronounced these words amazed him. It was the height of impudence, or it was the cry of a clear conscience. “Who. told me 7 “replied the young man.

“Yes, I demand it of you.”

“My sister herself, Monsieur.”

“Well, Monsieur, your sister — “

“You are about to say] “cried Philippe, with a threatening gesture..

“I was about to say, Monsieur, that you give me a very poor idea both of yourself and your sister. It is the worst speculation in the world, do you know, that which certain women make on their dishonor. Now you have come with insult in your mouth, like the bearded brothers of the Italian comedy, sword in hand, to force me either to marry your sister, which shows that she is in great want of a husband, or to give you money because you know that I make gold. Well, you are very much mistaken on both points, — you will not have money, and your sister will remain unmarried.”

“Then, I will have the blood which flows in your veins,” cried Philippe, “if there is any!”

“No, not even that, Monsieur.”

“Why not-”

“The blood I have, I keep, and I could have had, if I wished, a cause for shedding it more serious than the one you offer me. Therefore, Monsieur, do me the favor to return peacefully; and if you make a noise, as the noise will make my head ache, I shall call Fritz. Fritz will come, and at a sign from me, he will break you in two like a twig. Go! “This time Balsam o rang, and as' Philippe tried to prevent him, he opened an ebony box sitting on the little table, and took from it a double-barreled pistol.

“Well, I like that better,” cried Philippe; “kill me! “

“Why should I kill you-”

“Because you have dishonored me.” The young man pronounced, in his turn, these words with such an accent of truth that Balsamo, looking at him with eyes full of kindness, said, “Is it possible then that you are in earnest-”

“You doubt it- you doubt the word of a gentleman- “

“And that Mademoiselle de Taverney could have herself conceived this infamous idea, and that she could have urged you to carry it out t Well, if it be so, I will give you satisfaction. I swear to you on my honor that my conduct toward Mademoiselle your sister on the night of the thirtieth of May was irreproachable; that neither honor, nor human tribunal, nor divine justice, could discover in it anything contrary to the most perfect probity do you believe me- “

“Monsieur!” said the young man, astonished.

“You know that I do not fear a duel, — you read that in my eyes, do you not- As to my weakness, do not be deceived; it is only apparent. I have little blood in my face, it is true; but my muscles have lost nothing of their strength. Do you wish for a proof of it- See! “And Balsamo raised with a single hand, and without effort, an. enormous bronze vase placed on a stand carved by Boule.

“Well, so be it, Monsieur,” said Philippe; “I believe you as to the thirtieth of May. But you employ subterfuge; you take advantage of an error in time. Since that you have seen my sister again.”

Balsamo hesitated in his turn. “It is true,” said he, “I have seen her since; “and his brow, clear for a moment, grew dark in a terrible manner.

“Ah, you see plainly! “said Philippe.

““Well, I have seen your sister again. What does that prove against me-”

“It proves that you have put her into this inexplicable sleep, of which, three times already, at your approach, she has felt the effect, and that you have taken advantage of this insensibility to cover the secret of your crime.”

“Once more, who says that”- “cried Balsamo.

“My sister.”

“How does she know it, since she was asleep- “

“Ah, you confess, then, that she was put to sleep t”

“More, Monsieur; I confess to having magnetized her myself.”

“Magnetized her- “

“Yes.”

“And with what object, if not to dishonor her- **

““With what object, alas! “said Balsamo, dropping his head upon his breast.

“Speak, speak, then! “

“With the object, Monsieur, of making her reveal a secret which was more precious to me than life.”

“Oh, trickery, subterfuge! “

“And it was during this night,” continued Balsamo, following out his own thought, rather than answering Philippe's insulting question, “that your sister-”

“Was dishonored; yes, Monsieur.”

“Dishonored-”

“My sister is a mother! “

Balsamo uttered a cry. “Oh, true, true! “said he, “T remember; I went off without waking her.”

“You confess! you confess! “cried Philippe.

“And some villain, during that terrible night, — oh, terrible for us all, Monsieur! — took advantage of her sleep.”

“Ah! would you mock me, Monsieur-”

*' No; I would convince you.”

“That will be difficult.”

“Where is your sister at this moment-”

“There, where you so conveniently discovered her.”

“At Trianon-”

'“Yes.”

“I will go to Trianon with you, Monsieur.”

Philippe was motionless with astonishment.

“I have committed a fault, Monsieur, but I am guiltless of crime. I left that child in a magnetic sleep. Well, as satisfaction for this fault, which may justly be forgiven me, I myself will tell you the name of the guilty man.”

“Tell it! tell it! “

“I do not know it myself,” said Balsamo.

“Who does know it, then- “

“Your sister.”

“But she has refused to tell me.”

“Perhaps, but she will tell it to me.”

“My sister-”

“If your sister accuses anyone, will you believe her-”

“Yes; for my sister is an angel of purity.”

Balsamo rang. “Fritz, a carriage,” said he, when the German appeared.

Philippe paced the room like a madman. “The guilty- one!” said he; “you promise to inform me who he is-”

“Monsieur,” said Balsamo, “your sword has been broken in the struggle. Permit me to offer you another; “and he took from a chair a magnificent sword, with hilt of silver-gilt, which he drew through Philippe's belt.

“But you- “said the young man.

“I, Monsieur, do not need weapons,” replied Balsamo; “my defense is at Trianon, and my defender will be yourself, when your sister shall have spoken.” A quarter of an hour after, they entered the carriage, and Fritz, driving two excellent horses at a rapid pace, conveyed them to Versailles.

CHAPTER CXLV. THE RIDE TO TRIANON.

All these journeys and all this explanation had taken time, so that it was nearly two o'clock in the morning when they left the Rue Saint Claude. It took an hour and * -quarter to reach Versailles, and ten minutes to go from Versailles to Trianon, so that it was half-past three before the two men reached their destination. During the last part of the way, the dawn already spread its rosy tint on the green forests and the hillsides of Sevres. As if a veil had been slowly withdrawn from their eyes, the fish-ponds of Ville d'Avray, and the more distant ones of Bug, were shining like mirrors. Then at last appeared the colonnades and roofs, of Versailles, already red with the rays of a sun not yet visible. From time to time a window sparkled with the reflection of a ray of fire, which penetrated with its light the violet tint of the morning's mist. On coming to the end of the avenue that leads from Versailles to Trianon, Philippe stopped the carriage, and addressing his companion, who during the journey had preserved a gloomy silence, “Monsieur,” said he, “we shall be obliged, I am afraid, to wait here some time. At Trianon the gates are not opened before five in the morning, and I am afraid that if we enter earlier our arrival will look suspicious to the watchmen and the guards.”

Balsamo did not reply, but showed by a movement of the head that he acquiesced in the proposition.

“However, Monsieur,” continued Philippe, “this delay will give me time to impart to you some reflections made during our journey hither.”

Balsamo gave Philippe a look full of weariness and indifference. “As you please, Monsieur,” said he; “speak, I am listening! “

“You told me, Monsieur,” replied Philippe, “that during the night of the thirtieth of May you placed my sister in the house of Madame la Marquise de Savigny-”

“You were assured of it yourself, Monsieur,” said Balsamo, “since you called to thank that lady.”

“You then added that, as an attendant in the king's stables had accompanied you from the hotel of the marchioness to our house, that is, to the Eue Coq-Heron, you had not been alone with her; I believed you on your word of honor.”

“And you did well, Monsieur.”

“But in recalling to myself the more recent circumstances, I am forced to think that a month since at Trianon, that night when you found a way to slip into the gardens, you must have entered her chamber.”

“I never entered the chamber of your sister at Trianon, Monsieur.”

“Listen, however! you see that before coming into the presence of Andree, all things must be made clear.”

“Clear up matters, Monsieur le Chevalier. I ask nothing better, and we have come here for that purpose.”

“Well, on that night, — be careful in your answer, for what I say is true, and I have it from the lips of my sister, — on that night, I say, my sister retired early; you must then have surprised her in bed-”

Balsamo shook his head by way of denial.

“You deny it; take care! “said Philippe.

“I do not deny, Monsieur; you question me, I answer.”

“Well, I shall go on questioning; continue therefore to reply.”

Balsamo did not become angry, but on the contrary made a sign to Philippe to go on.

“When you ascended to the apartments of my sister,” continued Philippe, becoming more and more excited, “when you surprised her, and magnetized her by your infernal power, Andree was in bed; she was reading; she felt the approach of that torpor which your presence always brings upon her, and she lost consciousness. Now you say that you did nothing but question her; only, you add that you forgot when going away to awaken her; and yet,” added Philippe, seizing Balsamo's arm, and pressing it convulsively, — “yet, when she came to her senses the next day, she was no longer in bed, but at the foot of her sofa, half-naked. Reply to this accusation, Monsieur, without evasion.”

During this appeal, Balsamo, like a man waking up, drove away one by one the gloomy thoughts which obscured his mind. “Indeed, Monsieur,” said he, “you need not have returned to this subject, thus seeking with me a lasting quarrel. I have come here out of condescension and from interest in you, — you seem to forget that. You are young, you are an officer, you are accustomed to speak out with your hand on the pommel of your sword. All this makes you reason falsely in serious circumstances. At my own house I did more than I ought to have done to convince you, and obtain from you a little peace. You begin again; take care, for if you fatigue me, I shall go to sleep in the midst of my troubles, in comparison with which yours are, I assure you, mere trifles; and when I sleep thus, Monsieur, woe to him who wakes me! I did not enter your sister's chamber; that is all I can tell you.

Your sister of her own free will, in which I confess my will had great share, came to me in the garden.”

Philippe made a movement, but Balsamo stopped him. “I promised you proof,” continued he; “you shall have it. Shall it be immediately- So be it. Let us enter Trianon instead of wasting time in useless talking. Do you prefer to wait- We will wait, then; but in silence and without excitement if you please.” This said, with the air with which our readers are acquainted, Balsamo, the momentary gleam fading from his eyes, became absorbed in meditation.

Philippe uttered a low growl, like the ferocious beast which is preparing to bite; then changing suddenly his attitude and thought, “With this man,” said he, “one must persuade or dominate by some superiority. I have just now no means of domination or persuasion; I must have patience.” But as it was impossible for him to be patient in the presence of Balsamo, he jumped out of the carriage and began pacing the verdant alley in which the carriage had stopped. At the end of ten minutes, Philippe felt that it was impossible to wait any longer. He preferred to have the gate opened before the hour, at the risk of arousing suspicions. “Besides,” he murmured, cherishing an idea which many times before had presented itself to his mind, — “besides, what suspicions can the porter entertain, if I say to him that anxiety about the health of my sister impelled me to go to Paris for a physician, and bring him here by sunrise!”

Adopting this idea, which by reason of his desire to put it into execution, had gradually lost its dangerous aspect, he ran to the carriage. “Yes, Monsieur,” he said, “you are right; it is useless to wait longer, come, come!”

But it was only on a repetition of this request that Balsamo threw off his cloak, fastened his great coat with burnished steel buttons, and left the carriage. Philippe took a path which led by a short cut to the gate of the park. “Let us walk quickly,” he said to Balsamo. And he went on so rapidly that Balsamo could with difficulty keep up with him. The gate was opened, Philippe gave his explanation, and the two men passed in. When the gate was closed behind them, Philippe stopped once more. “Monsieur,” he said, “one final word. We are at the end of our journey; I do not know what question you are about to ask my sister. Spare her at least the details of the horrible scene which took place during her sleep. Spare the purity of mind, though the purity of the body has been soiled.”

“Monsieur,” replied Balsamo, “observe carefully what I say; I never entered the park beyond the tall trees you see yonder, opposite the house in which your sister lives. I have consequently never gone into the chamber of Mademoiselle de Taverney, as I have already had the honor of telling you. As to the scene whose effect you dread upon the mind of Mademoiselle, your sister, this effect will be produced only upon you, because from this very moment I order Mademoiselle, your sister, to fall into a magnetic sleep.”

Balsamo stopped, folded his arms, turned toward the pavilion where Andree lived, and stood one moment motionless, with knitted brow and with the expression of all- powerful will upon his countenance.

“And stay,” he said, letting his arms fall, “Mademoiselle Andree must be sleeping at this moment.”

Philippe's face expressed doubt.

“Ah, you do not believe me,” said Balsamo. ““Well, listen. To prove to you that I have no occasion to go in to her, I will command her, asleep as she is, to come to us at the foot of the steps, at the very spot where I spoke to. her at our last interview.”

“Be it so,” said Philippe; “when I see that I shall believe.”

“Let us go into this walk, and wait behind the hedge.”

Philippe and Balsamo repaired to the place designated.

Balsamo extended his hand toward the apartment of

Andree; but he had scarcely done so, when a slight noise

was heard in the adjoining hedge-row.

“A man,” said Balsamo; “let us be careful.”

“Where-” asked Philippe, searching for the person whom the count had spoken of.

“There, in the shrubbery on the left,” said the latter. “Ah, yes,” said Philippe; “it is Gilbert, an old servant of ours.”

“Have you anything to fear from this young man-”

“No, I think not; but no matter. Stop, Monsieur; If Gilbert has risen, others may have risen as well.”

Meantime Gilbert had fled in fright; for seeing Philippe and Balsamo together, he comprehended instinctively that he was lost.

“Well, Monsieur, on what do you decide!”

“Monsieur,” said Philippe, experiencing in spite of himself the sort of magnetic charm which this man diffused around him, “if your power is really so great as to lead Mademoiselle de Taverney to us, show it by some sign; but do not bring my sister to a place exposed like this, where the first-comer might hear your questions and her answers.”

“You spoke in time,” said Balsamo, seizing the arm of the young man and pointing out to him, at the window of the main corridor, Andree, white and rigid, who had left her chamber, and obeying Balsamo's command was preparing to descend the stairs.

“Stop her; stop her! “said Philippe, frightened and astonished at the same time.

“Be it so,” said Balsamo. The count extended his arm in the direction of Mademoiselle de Taverney, who immediately stopped. Then after stopping a moment, she turned right about and entered her chamber. Philippe hurried after her, Balsamo following him, and entered the room almost as soon as Andree, and taking the young girl in his arms, he made her sit down. A few moments later Balsamo came in and shut the door behind him. But brief as the interval between these entrances, a third person had had time to slip in between the two men and enter Nicole's cabinet, where he hid himself, knowing that his life depended on this interview. This third person was Gilbert.

CHAPTER CXLVI. THE REVELATION.

Balsamo closed the door behind him, and appeared on the threshold just as Philippe was looking at his sister with mingled terror and curiosity. “Are you ready, Chevalier-” he asked.

“Yes, Monsieur, yes,” stammered Philippe, trembling.

“We can begin then, to question your sister-”

“If you please,” said Philippe, trying to raise by force of respiration the weight which was crushing his breast.

“But before we begin, observe your sister.”

“I see her, Monsieur.”

“You really believe that she sleeps, do you not-”

“Yes.”

“And that consequently she has no consciousness of what takes place here-”

Philippe made no reply, except by a gesture which expressed doubt. Balsamo then went to the fireplace and lighted a candle, which he passed before Andree's eyes without causing her to move an eyelid.

“Yes, yes; she sleeps, it is evident,” said Philippe; “but, good Heavens! what a strange sleep! “

“Well, I will question her,” continued Balsamo; “or rather, since you have manifested fear lest I address her some indiscreet interrogation, question her yourself, Chevalier.”

“But I have spoken to her; I touched her just now. She did not seem to hear me, she did not seem to feel my touch.”

“I will put you in connection with her,” and Balsamo placed Philippe's hand in that of Andree.

Immediately the young girl smiled, and murmured, «Ah, it is you, brother-”

“You see,” said Balsamo, “she recognizes you now.”

“Yes; it is strange.”

“Question her, she will answer.”

“But if she does not remember when awake, how cart she remember when asleep-”

“It is one of the mysteries of science,” and Balsamo, sighing, sat down upon an easy chair in a corner.

Philippe sat motionless, his hand in Andree's. How should he begin his questioning, the result of which would assure him of his dishonor, and reveal a criminal whom, perhaps his vengeance could not reach t As for Andree, she was in a state of calmness bordering on ecstasy, and her face expressed peace rather than any other feeling. Trembling all over, he obeyed nevertheless the expressive glance of Balsamo, which bade him begin. But in proportion as he contemplated his misfortune, as his face grew dark, that of Andree was covered with a cloud, and it was she who began by saying, “Yes, you are right, brother; it is a great misfortune for the family.”

Andree interpreted thus the thought -which she read in her brother's mind. Philippe was not expecting this beginning; he started, “What misfortune-” he asked› without considering his answer.

“Ah, you know well, brother.”

“Force her to speak, Monsieur; she will speak.”

“How can I force her- ““Will her to speak, that is all”

Philippe looked at his sister, forming a wish in his mind..Andree blushed.

“Oh!” said the young girl, “how bad it is of you, Philippe, to think that Andree has deceived you.”

“You love no one, then]”

«No one.”

“Then it is not an accomplice, it is a criminal I must punish!”

“I do not understand you, brother.”

Philippe looked at the count as if to ask advice.

“Press her,” said Balsamo.

“Press her-”

“Yes, question her freely.”

“Without respect for the modesty of this child-”

“Oh, do not be alarmed; on awaking she will remember nothing of it.”

“But can she answer my questions-”

“Do you see clearly-” Balsamo asked Andree.

Andree started at the sound of this voice; she turned her lustreless eyes toward Balsamo. “Not so clearly m if you questioned me; but still I see.”

“Well,” Philippe asked, “if you see, sister, give me an account in detail of that night when you fainted away.”

“Do you not begin with the night of the thirtieth of May, Monsieur- Your suspicions date from that night, I think. The time has come to clear up everything at once.”

“No, Monsieur,” replied Philippe; “it is useless, and now I trust your word. He who wields a power like yours, does not use it for the attainment of any common object. Sister,” repeated Philippe, “tell me everything that happened on that night of your swoon.”

“I do not remember,” said Andree. “You hear, Monsieur le Comte-”

“She must remember; she must speak. Order her to.”

“But if she was asleep-”

“The mind was awake.” Then he arose, held out his hand to Andree, and with a knitting of the brows which indicated a redoubling of will and action, “Remember,” he said; “I will it.”

“I remember,” said Andree.

“Oh! “said Philippe, wiping his forehead.

“What do you wish to know J”

“Everything.”

“From what moment-”

“From the moment when you retired to bed.”

“Do you see yourself-” said Balsamo.

“Yes, I see myself; I hold in my hand the glass prepared by Nicole — Oh, my God!”

“What- what is it- “

“Oh, the wretch! “

“Speak, sister, speak! “

“This glass contains a drink which has been drugged; if I drink it, I am lost.”

“A drink which has been drugged-” cried Philippe; “for what object-”

“Wait! wait!”

“First, about the drink.”

“I was about to raise it to my lips; but — at that moment — “

“Well-”

“The count called me.”

“What count-”

“He,” said Andree, pointing to Balsamo.

“And then-”

“Then I put down the glass and went to sleep.”

“What next- what next-” asked Philippe.

“I arose and joined him.”

“Where was the count-”

“Under the lime-trees opposite my window.”

“And the count never entered your room, sister- “

“Never.”

A glance from Balsamo toward Philippe said clearly, “You see whether I deceive you, Monsieur-”

“And you say you went to join the count-”

“Yes; I obey him when he calls me.”

“What did the count want of you- “

Andree hesitated.

“Say, say!” cried Balsamo; “I will not listen,” and he fell back into his chair, burying his head in his hands as if to prevent the sound of Andree's words from reaching him.

“Speak! What did the count want-” repeated Philippe.

“He wished to seek intelligence from me — “She again stopped; one would have said that she was afraid of breaking the count's heart.

“Go on, sister, go on.”

“Of a person who had escaped from his house, and — “Andree lowered her voice,-” and who has since died.” Softly as Andree had pronounced these words Balsamo heard or divined them, for he uttered a deep groan. Philippe stopped; there was a moment's silence.

“Continue, continue,” said Balsamo; “your brother wishes to know everything, Mademoiselle; your brother must know all. After this man had received the information he desired, what did he do-”

“He fled,” said Andrea.

“Leaving you in the garden-” asked Philippe.

“Yes.”

“What did you do then-”

“As he retreated from me, since the strength which sustained me went with him, I fell.”

“In a swoon-”

“No; still a sleep, but a leaden sleep.”

“Can you remember what happened to you during that asleep-”

“I will try.”

“Well, what happened- Speak! “

“A man came out from a thicket, took me in his arms, and carried me — “

“Where-”

“Here into my chamber.”

“Ah! — and this man, do you see him-”

“Stay — yes — yes — Oh! “continued Andr6e, with an expression of disgust and uneasiness; “oh, it is again that little Gilbert! “

“Gilbert-”

“Yes.”

“What did he do-”

“He put me down on the sofa.”

“Afterward-”

“Wait.”

“See! see!” said Balsamo; “I will that you see.”

“He listens; he goes into the other chamber; he draws back as if in fear; he enters Nicole's cabinet — My God! my God I “

“What-”

“A man follows him; and I, — I, who cannot rise, defend myself, or cry out; I, who sleep — “

“Who is this man- “

“Brother, brother!” and Andree's countenance expressed the profoundest grief.

“Tell who this man is,” commanded Balsamo; “I will it!”

“The king!” murmured Andre's; “it is the king! “

Philippe shuddered.

“Ah! “muttered Balsamo, “I suspected it.”

“He approaches me,” continued Andree; “he speaks to me, he takes me in his arms, he kisses me. Oh, brother, brother!”

Great tears came into Philippe's eyes, while his hand grasped the handle of the sword given him by Balsamo.

“Speak! speak!” continued the count, in a tone more and more imperative.

“Oh, what happiness! he is perplexed; he stops; he looks at me; he is afraid; he flies; Andree is saved! “

Philippe drank in, breathless, every word that issued from Andree's lips. “Saved! Andree is saved I “he repeated mechanically.

“Wait, brother, wait! “and the young girl sought the arm of her brother as if to support herself.

“Afterward “asked Philippe.

“I had forgotten.”

“What-”

“There, there, in Nicole's cabinet, a knife in his hand — “

“A knife in his hand-”

“I see him; he is pale as death.”

“Who-”

“Gilbert.”

Philippe held his breath.

“He follows the king,” continued Andree; “he closes the door after him; he puts his foot upon the candle which is burning the carpet; he comes toward me. Oh! “The young girl raised herself in the arms of her brother. Every muscle in her body grew stiff, almost to breaking.

“Oh, the villain I “said she, at last; and she fell back powerless.

“My God!” said Philippe, not daring to interrupt her.

“It is he; it is he! “murmured the young girl. Then

raising herself up to speak in her brother's ear, with flashing eye and trembling voice, “You will kill him, will you not, Philippe-”

“Oil, yes! “cried the young man, jumping up, and upsetting a small table behind him covered with china. The china was broken into pieces. With the noise of this fall was mingled a dull sound and a sudden shaking of the partitions; then a cry from Andree, which was heard above all.

“What is that-” said Balsamo. “A door was opened.”

“Was anyone listening-” cried Philippe, grasping his sword.

“It was he,” said Andree, — “it was he again.”

“But who is he! “

“Gilbert, Gilbert, still! Ah, you will kill him, Philippe, you will kill him-”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” cried the young man; and he rushed to the antechamber sword in hand, while Andree fell back on the sofa. Balsamo rushed after the young man, and held him by the arm.

“Take care, Monsieur! “said he, “that which is secret would become public; it is daylight, and the echo of royal houses is loud.”

“Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert!” murmured Philippe; “and he was hidden there. He heard us; I could kill him. Oh, the accursed villain! “

“Yes, but silence! You can find this young man another time; your sister needs you now, Monsieur. You see she begins to be fatigued by so much emotion.”

“Oh, yes; I understand her suffering by my own; this misfortune is so terrible, so irreparable! Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, it will kill me! “

“On the contrary, you will live for her, Chevalier; for she needs you, having only you. Love her, pity her, take care of her! And now,” continued he, after a moment's silence, “have you further need of me- “

“No, Monsieur. Pardon me my suspicions, my insults; and yet all the injury comes from you, Monsieur.”

“I do not excuse myself, Chevalier; but do you forget what your sister said- “

“What did she say- My mind wanders.”

“If I had not come, she would have taken the draught prepared by Nicole, and then it would have been the king. Would the misfortune have been less- “

“No, Monsieur, it would have been still the same; and I see clearly that we were doomed. Awake my sister, Monsieur.”

“But she will see me; she will, perhaps, understand what has been going on. It is better that I awake her, as I put her to sleep, — at a distance.”

“Thanks, thanks! “

“Then, adieu, Monsieur.”

“One word more, Count. You are a man of honor-”

“Oh, the secret you mean-”

“Count — “

“A needless charge, Monsieur; in the first place, because I am a man of honor; then, having decided to have nothing more to do with men, I shall forget men and their secrets. At all times call upon me, if I can be of use to you. But, no, no, I am no longer good for anything; I am of no more use upon the earth. Adieu, Monsieur, adieu!” and bowing to Philippe, Balsamo looked once more at Andree, whose head was leaning back with every appearance of grief and lassitude. “0 Science! “he murmured, “how many victims for a result without value- “and he disappeared.

As he retreated Andree revived. She raised her head, heavy as if it had been made of lead, and looking at her brother with wondering eyes, “Oh, Philippe! “she murmured, “what has happened-”

Philippe restrained the sob which was choking him, and smiling heroically, “Nothing, sister! “said he.

“And yet I seem to have been mad, and to have dreamed.”

“Dreamed- And what have you dreamed, my dear and good Andree-”

“Oh, Doctor Louis, Doctor Louis, brother! “

“Andree,” cried Philippe, pressing her hand, “Andree, you are pure as the light of day; but everything accuses you, everything is against you. A terrible secret is imposed upon us two. I will go and find Doctor Louis, and ask him to say to Madame la Dauphine that you are attacked by an unconquerable homesickness, which a stay at Taverney alone can cure; and then we will depart either for Taverney or for some other part of the world. Then both, in seclusion there, loving, consoling each other-”

“Yet, brother,” said Andree, “if I am as pure as you say-”

“Dear Andree, I will explain it all to you; meantime, prepare for departure.”

“But my father-”

“Father,” said Philippe, with a serious air, “father,- that is my concern; I will prepare him.”

“He will accompany us, then- “

“Father! oh, impossible, impossible! “We two, Andree, — we two alone, I say.”

“Oh, how you frighten me, dear! how you alarm me, brother! how I suffer, Philippe!”

“God is everywhere, Andree,” said the young man;, “courage, then, I will seek the doctor. What makes you ill, Andree, is sorrow at leaving Taverney, — sorrow which you conceal for the sake of Madame la Dauphine. Come, come, be brave, sister, the honor of both of us is at stake! “and Philippe embraced his sister hastily, for he was choking with emotion. Then he picked up his sword, which he had dropped, sheathed it with trembling hand, and rushed out on to the stairs. A quarter of an hour after he knocked at Doctor Louis's door, who, while the court was at Trianon, lived at Versailles.

CHAPTER CXLVII. THE LITTLE GARDEN OF DOCTOR LOUIS.

Doctor Louis, at whose door we have left Philippe, was walking in a little garden surrounded by four high walls, which formed a part of the dependencies of an old Ursuline convent, and had been converted into a storehouse for Messieurs the dragoons of the king's household.

Doctor Louis read, while walking, the proofs of a new work he was about to have printed, and stooped from time to time to pull from the path in which he was walking, or from the parterre on either side, the weeds which offended his instinct of symmetry and order. A single servant, rather surly, like every domestic of an industrious man who does not like to be disturbed, took the whole care of the doctor's house. In answer to Philippe's resounding knock, she approached the door and half opened it. But the young man, instead of parleying with the servant, pushed the door open and went in. Once master of the passage ho saw the garden and in it the doctor. Then, without paying any attention to the speeches and outcries of the vigilant guardian, he rushed into the garden. At the sound of his steps the doctor looked up. “Ah, ah! “he said, “is it you- “

“Pardon me, Doctor, for having forced your door and disturbed your solitude; but the moment you had foreseen has arrived; I need you, and I come to implore your assistance.”

“I have promised you, Monsieur,” said the doctor; “and I promise it now.”

Philippe bowed, too much affected to begin the conversation himself. Doctor Louis understood his hesitation. “How is the invalid- “he asked, anxious on account of Philippe's paleness, and fearing some catastrophe as a crisis of this drama.

“Very well, thank God, Doctor; and my sister is so worthy and so honest a girl that really God would not be just to send her suffering and danger.”

The doctor looked at Philippe as if to question him; his words seemed to him a continuation of the denials of the evening before.

“Then,” said he, “she was the victim of some surprise, or some plot.”

“Yes, Doctor, victim of an unheard of surprise, — victim of an infamous plot.”

The doctor clasped his hands, and lifted his eyes toward heaven. “Alas! “said he, “we live, in this respect, in horrible times; and I think there is pressing need of physicians of nations, as there have been so long physicians of individuals.”

“Yes,” said Philippe, “yes, let them come; no one will be more glad to see them than I; meanwhile — “And Philippe made a threatening gesture.

“Ah! “said the doctor, “you are, I see, Monsieur, one of those who make the reparation of crime consist in violence and murder.”

“Yes, Doctor,” Philippe calmly replied, “yes, I am one of those.”

“A duel,” sighed the doctor, — “a duel, which will not restore your sister's honor, even if you kill the criminal, and which will plunge her in despair if you are killed. Ah, Monsieur, I thought that you had a sound mind and an intelligent heart; I thought I had heard you express the desire that everything relating to this affair should be kept secret.”

Philippe laid his hand upon the doctor's arm. “Monsieur,” said he, “you are strangely mistaken in me; I have a steadfast purpose which springs from deep conviction and a clear conscience. I wish to do justly, not to do myself justice; I wish, not to expose my sister to abandonment and death by getting myself killed, but to avenge her by killing the scoundrel.”

“You will kill him, — you, a gentleman- You will commit a murder-”

“Monsieur, if I had seen him ten minutes before the crime, stealing like a thief into that chamber, into which, on account of his low station, he had no right to put his foot, and had then killed him, everyone would have said that I had done well; why, then, should I spare him now- Has crime made him sacred-”

“So this bitter purpose is determined upon in your mind, fixed in your heart- “

“Fixed, determined upon! I shall find him some time, however carefully he hides; and then, I tell you, Monsieur, without pity, without remorse, I will kill him like a dog! “

“Then,” said Doctor Louis, “you will commit a crime equal to his, — a more odious crime, perhaps; for one never knows whether an imprudent word, or the coquettish look of a woman may not have urged on the desire and lust of the man. Kill him! when you have other reparation, — when a marriage — “

Philippe looked up. “Are you unaware, Monsieur, that the family of Taverney-Maison-Rouge dates from the Crusades, and that my sister is as noble as an infanta or an archduchess!”

“Yes, I understand; and the culprit, he is not; he is a wretch, a clodhopper, as you high-bred men say. Yes, yes,” he continued, with a bitter smile, “yes, it is true; God has made men of a certain inferior clay to be killed by other men of finer clay; oh, yes! you are right, — kill, Monsieur, kill I” And the doctor turned his back on Philippe and began to pull up here and there the weeds in his garden.

Philippe folded his arms. “Doctor, listen to me,” he said; “it is not a question of a seducer to whom a coquette has given more or less encouragement; it is not a question of a man provoked, as you say, -we speak of a miserable fellow brought up by us, and who, after having eaten the bread of pity, in the night, taking advantage of an artificial sleep, of a swoon, of death, so to speak, has basely and treacherously profaned the holiest and purest of women, whom in the light of day he did not dare look in the face. Before a tribunal this guilty man would certainly be doomed to death; well, I will judge him as impartially as a tribunal, and I will kill him. Now, Doctor, will you, whom I have thought so generous and so noble, — will you make me purchase this service, or impose on me a condition- In rendering it to me, will you do like those who seek to oblige, and to satisfy themselves at the same time- If it is so, Doctor, you are not that wise man I have admired; you are only an ordinary man, and in spite of the disdain which you showed me just now, I am superior to you, — I, who have confided to you, without reservation, my whole secret.”

“You say,” replied the doctor, thoughtfully, “that the guilty man has fled!”

“Yes, Doctor; no doubt he foresaw that the affair would become known; he heard that he was accused, and immediately took flight.”

“Good! Now what do you desire, Monsieur,” asked the doctor.

“Your assistance in removing my sister from Versailles, to bury in a thicker and more silent darkness the terrible secret that would dishonor us if it should become known.”

“I will ask you but one question.”

Philippe was indignant.

“Listen to me,” continued the doctor, with a gesture which commanded calmness. “A Christian philosopher, of whom you have just made a confessor, is obliged to impose upon you a condition, not with reference to the service rendered, but in pursuance of the law of conscience. Humanity is a duty, Monsieur, not a virtue. You speak to me of killing a man; I must prevent it, as I would have prevented by all the means in my power, by violence even, the accomplishment of the crime committed upon your sister. Therefore, Monsieur, I adjure you, make me an oath.”,

“Oh, never! never!”

“You will do it,” cried Doctor Louis, vehemently, — “you will do it, man of blood; recognize everywhere the hand of God, and do not assume to direct its stroke. The culprit, you say, was within your reach-”

“Yes, Doctor; by opening a door, if I could have divined that he was there, I should have been face to face with him.”

“Well, he has fled, he trembles, his punishment has begun. Ah, you smile; what God does appears to you feeble! remorse seems insufficient! Wait, wait, then! You will stay with your sister, and you will promise me never to pursue the criminal. If you meet him, that is, if God delivers him up to you — well, I am also a man! — in that case you will see! “

“Nonsense, Monsieur; will he not always fly from, me-”

“Who knows- The assassin flies, the assassin seeks refuge, the assassin fears the scaffold; and yet as if he were magnetized, the sword of justice draws this criminal to itself, and he finally falls under the hand of the executioner. Besides, it is a question now of giving up all that you have undertaken so painfully to do.It is for the world in which you live and to whom you cannot explain the innocence of your sister, it is for all these curious idlers that you kill a man; and you would feed their curiosity twice, — by the avowal of the attempt in the first place, afterward by the scandal of the punishment. No, no, believe me; keep silence, bury this misfortune.”

“Oh, who will know when I shall have killed this- villain, that it was on my sister's account]”

“You would have to give a reason for this murder.”

“Well, Doctor, I will obey; I will not pursue the criminal. But God will be just; oh, yes! God uses impunity as a bait; God will again show me the criminal.”

“In that case it will be God who has condemned him. Give me your hand, Monsieur.”

“There it is.”

“What must I do for Mademoiselle de Taverney- Tell me.”

“You must, dear Doctor, find a pretext with Madame la Dauphine for taking her away for a time, — longing for the country, fresh air — “

“That is easy.”

“Yes; that is your affair, and I rely upon yon. I will then take my sister to some corner of France, Taverney for example, far from all eyes, from all suspicion.”

“No, no, Monsieur, that would be impossible. The poor- child needs constant care and solace; she will need all the aid of science. Let me then find for her near here, in a village I know of, a retreat a hundred times more secluded, a hundred times more safe than the wild country into which you would take her.”

“Oh, Doctor, you think so-”

“Yes, I have reason to think so. Suspicion always moves from the centre outward like those circles caused by a stone thrown into the water; the stone however does not move, and when the undulations are obliterated no one sees the cause of them, buried as it is under the depths of the water.”

“Then, Doctor, go to work.”

“From to-day, Monsieur- “

“Apprise Madame la Dauphine.”

“This very morning.”

“And for the rest-”

“In twenty-four hours, you shall have my answer.”

“Oh, thanks, Doctor; you are for me a god! “

“Well, young man, now that everything is arranged between u«, accomplish your mission; return to your sister, console her, protect her.”

“Adieu, Doctor, adieu!”

The doctor, after having watched Philippe until he was out of sight, returned to his walk, his proofs, and the weeding of his little garden.

CHAPTER CXLVIII. FATHER AND SON.

When Philippe returned to his sister he found her very much agitated, very uneasy. “My dear,” said she, “I have been thinking while you were away of all that has happened to me for some time past. It is an abyss which will swallow up the little reason that remains to me. Well, you have seen Doctor Louis t”

“I have just been to his house, Andree.”

“That man has brought a terrible accusation against me; is it just!”

“He was not mistaken, sister.”

Andree grew pale, and her small and delicate hands contracted nervously.

“The name,” said she, then, — “the name of the wretch who ruined me!”

“My sister, you must remain ignorant of it forever.”

“Oh, Philippe, you do not speak the truth; Philippe, you are false to your own conscience. This name, I must know it; so that feeble as I am, and having nothing for myself but prayer, I may by prayer direct against the criminal all the anger of God. The name of this man, Philippe!”

“Let us never speak of it, sister.”

Andree seized his hand, and looked him in the face. “Oh! “said she, “this is what you reply to me, — you who have a sword by your side!”

Philippe grew pale at this exhibition of anger, and restraining his own fury, “Andree,” he said, “I cannot tell you what I do not know myself. Secrecy is ordered me by the destiny which overwhelms us; this secret, exposure of which would compromise the honor of our family, a last favor of God renders inviolable to all.”

“Except for one man, Philippe,- for a man who laughs, for a man who defies us! — oh, my God! for a man who laughs infernally at us, perhaps, in his dark retreat.”

Philippe wrung his hands, looked upward, and answered nothing.

“This man,” cried Andree, with increasing anger and indignation, “I know him, perhaps, — in short, Philippe, permit me to present him to you. I have already described his strange influence over me; I think I sent you to him — “

“That man is innocent; I have seen him; I have proof- So do not seek farther, Andree, seek no farther.”

“Philippe, let us ascend a little higher than this man, will you- Let us go to the first ranks of the powerful men of this kingdom. Let us go even to the king! “

Philippe encircled with his arms this poor child, sublime in her ignorance and in her indignation, “There,” he said, “all those whom you have mentioned while awake, you have named in your sleep; all these whom you accuse with the ferocity of virtue you have vindicated in your magnetic sleep, when you saw, so to speak, the crime committed.”

“Did I name the guilty one»“she said, with flashing eyes.

“No,” Philippe replied, “no. Ask no more, follow my example, — submit to destiny. The misfortune is irreparable; it is doubled for you by the impunity of the criminal; but hope, hope! God is above all; God reserves for those who are oppressed a savage joy which is called vengeance.”

“Vengeance!” she murmured, frightened at the terrible emphasis with which Philippe pronounced this word.

“Meantime rest, sister, from all the troubles, all the shame, which my mad curiosity has caused you. If I had known! oh, if I had known!” And he hid his face in his hands in fearful despair. Then suddenly looking up, “What have I to complain of-” said he, with a smile. “My sister is pure, she loves me; she has never betrayed confidence nor friendship. My sister is young like myself, kind like myself; we will live together, we will grow old together. Together we shall be stronger than the whole world!”

In proportion as the young man spoke in a manner to console Andree, she became gloomy; she bent down her pale face; she took the attitude and settled look of dull despair, which Philippe had just shaken off so courageously. “You never speak but of us two! “she said, looking steadily, with her searching blue eyes upon her brother's changing countenance.

“Of whom would you have me speak, Andree-” said the young man, meeting her look.

“But-we have a father; how will he treat his daughter-”

“I told you yesterday,” Philippe coldly replied, “to forget all trouble, all fear, — to dismiss, as the wind dispels the morning mist, every memory and every affection except mine. Indeed, my dear Andree, nobody in the world loves you but myself; I am loved only by you. Poor abandoned orphans, why should we bear the yoke of gratitude or relationship- Have we received kindness- Have we enjoyed the protection of a father- Oh! “he added, with a bitter smile, “you know my very thoughts, you know the state of my heart. If you must love him you speak of, I will say, ' Love him!' I am silent. Andree, forbear.”

“Then, brother, I must believe — “

“Sister, in great misfortunes man involuntarily hears those words so little understood in childhood, ' Fear God!' Oh, yes! God has cruelly recalled it to our memory! ' Respect thy father ' — Oh, my sister, the strongest proof of respect you could give your father would be to blot him from your memory.”

“It is true — “murmured Andree, gloomily, leaning back in her chair.

“My dear, let us not waste time in useless words. Collect all your effects; Doctor Louis will see Madame la Dauphine, and inform her of your departure. The causes he will allege, you know, -the need of change of air, unaccountable suffering. Be all ready, I say, for departure.”

Andree arose. “The furniture-” she said.

“Oh, no, — linen, clothes, jewels.”

Andree obeyed. She set in order in the first place the boxes from the closet, the clothes from the wardrobe where Gilbert had hidden; then she took some jewel- cases which she was about to put in the principal box.

“What is that-” said Philippe.

“It is the casket of jewels sent me by the king, for my representation at Trianon.”

Philippe turned pale on seeing the richness of the present.

“With only these jewels,” said Andree, “we can live respectably anywhere. I have heard that the pearls alone are worth one hundred thousand francs.”

Philippe closed the casket. “They are indeed very valuable,” he said. And taking the casket from Andree's hands, “I think there are some other jewels, sister.”

“Oh, my dear, they are not worthy to be compared with these; they adorned, however, the toilet of our mother fifteen years ago. The watch, the bracelets, the earrings, are enriched with brilliants. There is also the portrait. Father wished to sell them all, because, he said, they were no longer fashionable.”

“This is, however, all that remains to us,” said Philippe, “our only resource. My sister, we will melt the gold articles; we will sell the jewels of the portrait. We shall thus have twenty thousand francs, which is a sufficient sum for the unhappy.”

“But — this case of pearls is mine,” said Andree.

“Never touch those pearls, Andree; they will burn you. Each one of these pearls is of a strange nature, sister; they stain the foreheads which they touch.”

Andree shuddered.

“I will keep this case, sister, to return it to whom it belongs. I tell you it is not our property, and we have no wish to claim it, have we-”

“As you please, brother,” Andree replied, with a shudder of shame.

“Dear sister, dress yourself for the last time to go to see Madame la Dauphine; be very calm, very respectful, and much affected at leaving so noble a protectress.”

“Oh, yes! much affected,” murmured Andree, with emotion; “it is a great grief in my misfortune.”

“I am going to Paris, sister, and I will return tonight; as soon as I arrive I will take you away. Pay all that you owe here.”

“Nothing, nothing; I had Nicole, she has fled, — ah, I forgot the little Gilbert.”

Philippe started, his eyes kindled. “You owe Gilbert- “he cried.

“Yes,” said Andree, naturally, “he has furnished me with flowers through the season. But, as you told me yourself, I have been at times unjust and harsh toward this fellow, who was after all polite. I will recompense him differently.”

“Do not seek Gilbert,” said Philippe.

“Why not- He must be in the garden; I will send for him then.”

“No, no; you will lose precious time. I, on the contrary, shall meet him; I will speak to him; I will pay him.”

“Very well, then, that will do.”

“Yes, adieu until this evening;” and he kissed the hand of the young girl, who threw herself into his arms. He restrained even the beating of his heart in this gentle embrace.

Without delay Philippe departed for Paris, where the carriage set him down before the door of the little h6tel in the Rue Coq-Heron. Philippe knew that he should find his father there. The old man, since his strange rupture with Richelieu, had not found life tolerable at Versailles, and he sought, like all minds of exuberant activity, to beguile mental torpor by the excitement of change of place.

Now the baron, when Philippe rang at the gate of the court-yard, was pacing, with terrible oaths, the little garden of the hotel and the court adjoining it. He started at the sound of the bell, and answered it himself. As he expected no one, this unforeseen visit gave him hope; the unhappy man in his fall caught at every branch. He therefore received Philippe with a feeling of spite and vague curiosity. But he had no sooner glanced at the face of his visitor than that dull pallor, those rigid lines, and that contracted mouth froze the reservoir of questions which he was prepared to open.

“You-” he said only, “and by what chance-”

“I shall have the honor of explaining to you, Monsieur,” said Philippe.

“Good! is it serious-”

“Very serious; yes, Monsieur.”

“This boy always has ceremonious ways that disturb me. Is it a misfortune, or is it good fortune, which you bring-”

“It is a misfortune!” Philippe said gravely. The baron staggered. “We are quite alone-” asked Philippe.

“Why, yes.”

“Would you like to go into the house, Monsieur-”

“Why not in the open air under these trees-”

“Because there are some things which are not spoken of under the open sky.”

The baron looked at his son, obeyed his silent gesture, and affecting to be unmoved, even smiling, he followed him into the hall, the door of which Philippe had already opened. When the doors were carefully closed, Philippe waited for a sign from his father to begin the conversation; and the baron being seated comfortably in the best chair in the salon, -

“Monsieur,” said Philippe, “my sister and I intend to take leave of you.”

“What!” said the baron, very much surprised, “you — you go away! And the service-”

“There is no more service for me. You know the promises made by the king have not been realized, — fortunately.”

“I do not see any ' fortunately' about it.”

“Monsieur — “

“Explain it to me; how can you be fortunate in not being colonel of a fine regiment- You carry your philosophy to extremes.”

“I carry it so far as not to prefer dishonor to prosperity, that is all. But we will not enter upon considerations of this kind, if you please, Monsieur — “

“We will, pardieu!”

“I entreat you -” replied Philippe, with a firmness which signified, “I will not!”

The baron frowned. “And your sister, does she also forget her duties, — her service with Madame-”

“There are some duties which she must subordinate to others, Monsieur.”

“Of what nature, Monsieur-”

“Of the most imperious necessity.”

The baron rose. “It is a foolish sort of people,” he growled, “they who make enigmas.”

“Is all this that I am saying really an enigma to you- “

“Absolutely!” replied the baron, with a coolness that astonished Philippe.

“I will explain, then. My sister goes away because she is obliged to fly to avoid dishonor! “

The baron burst out laughing. “Oh, what model-children I have! “he cried. “The son abandons the hope of A regiment because he fears dishonor; the daughter gives up a sure position because she is afraid of dishonor. Really, I have returned to the times of Brutus and Lucretia! In my time (a miserable time, doubtless, and not equal to these fine days of philosophy) when a man. saw dishonor approaching in the distance; and when he, like you, carried a sword at his side; and when, like you, he had taken lessons from two masters and three provost- marshals, — he ran the first dishonor through with the point of his sword.”

Philippe shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, it is hardly the thing to say to a philanthropist 'who does not like to see blood flow; but then, officers are not exactly born to be philanthropists.”

“Monsieur, I know as well as you the necessities imposed by a point of honor; but the shedding of blood will not redeem — “

“Phrases, phrases of a philosopher! “said the old man, angry almost to the point of becoming majestic. “I think I was going to say of a coward! “

“You did well not to say so,” replied Philippe, pale and trembling.

The baron met proudly the implacable and threatening look of his son. “I said,” he replied, — “and my logic is not so bad as they would make me believe, — I said that all dishonor in this world comes, not from an action, but from the tattling about it. Ah, it is thus: If you are criminal before the deaf, the blind, the dumb, are you dishonored] You will answer me by that stupid line, ' The crime makes the disgrace, not the scaffold.' That is very well to say to children or women, but to a man, mordieu f we speak a different language. Now I imagine, that I have created a man. So, then, if the blind man has seen anything, if the deaf man has heard, if the dumb man has spoken, you seize your sword, and you tear out the eyes of one, and the tympanum of another, and you cut out the tongue of the third, — this is how an attack of dishonor is met by a gentleman of the name of Taverney- Maison-Rouge!”

“A gentleman of that name, Monsieur, always knows that among all obligations the first is that of refusing to commit a dishonorable action; that is the reason why I will not reply to your arguments. But it sometimes happens that opprobrium springs from an inevitable misfortune; this is the case with my sister and myself.”

“I come now to your sister. If, according to my system, man ought never to fly from a thing which he can fight against and conquer, woman ought also to stand firm. Of what use is virtue, Monsieur Philosopher, except to repel the attacks of vice- Where is the triumph of this same virtue, if not in the defeat of vice- “and Taverney began to laugh. “Mademoiselle de Taverney has been much frightened, has she not- She feels very weak, then- If so — “

Philippe suddenly drew nearer. “Monsieur,” he said, “Mademoiselle de Taverney has not been weak; she was overcome by force! She has fallen helpless into a trap.”

“Into a trap!”

“Yes. Keep, I beg, a little of that fervor which animated you just now to blast those scoundrels who have basely plotted the ruin of this spotless honor.”

“I do not understand — “

“You shall understand. A villain, I tell you, has introduced someone into the chamber of Mademoiselle de Taverney.”

The baron grew pale.

“A villain,” continued Philippe, “has resolved that the name of Taverney — mine, yours, Monsieur — should be soiled by an indelible stain. Well! where is your young man's sword to shed a little blood- Is it worth the trouble-”

“Monsieur Philippe — “

“Ah, fear nothing; I accuse no one, I know no one. The crime was plotted in the dark, accomplished in the dark; the result shall disappear in the dark, I am determined! — I who understand in my own way the glory of my house.”

“But how do you know-” cried the baron, aroused from his stupor by the allurement of an infamous ambition, of an ignoble hope; “what indications have you- “

“It is a question which no one who may see my sister, your daughter, in a few months will ask, Monsieur le Baron! “

“But, then, Philippe,” cried the old man, with eyes

full of joy, “in that case the fortune and glory of our

house have not vanished; in that case we shall triumph! “

“In that case, you are really the man I believed you,” said Philippe, with supreme disgust; “you have betrayed yourself, and you have failed in intelligence before a judge, after failing in heart before your son.”

“Insolent!”

“Enough! “replied Philippe. “Tremble lest you awaken, in speaking so loud, the spirit, alas' too insensible, of my mother, who, if she had lived, would have watched over her daughter.”

The baron lowered his eyes before the dazzling brightness which flashed from the eyes of his son. “My daughter,” he continued after a moment, “shall not leave me without my consent.”

“My sister will never see you again, father.”

“Has she said so-”

“She sends me to inform you.”

The baron wiped, with a trembling hand, his white and moist lips. “Be it so,” he said. Then, shrugging his shoulders, “I have been unfortunate in my children,” he cried, -” a fool and a brute.”

Philippe made no reply. “Good, good! “continued Taverney; “I have no further need of you; go — if the thesis is recited.”

“I had still two things more to say to you, Monsieur.”

“Speak.”

“The first is this; the king has given you a casket of pearls — “

“To your sister, Monsieur.”

“To you, Monsieur. Besides, it matters little; my sister never wears such jewels. Mademoiselle de Taverney is not a prostitute; she begs you to return the casket to the one who gave it, or if you fear to disoblige his Majesty, who has done so much for our family, to keep it yourself.”

Philippe handed the case to his father. The latter took it, opened it, looked at the pearls, and threw it upon a chiffonniere. “What next-” he said.

“Then, Monsieur, as we are not rich; since you have pledged, or spent even, the property of our mother, for which I will not reproach you — God forbid — “

“You had better not,” said the baron, grinding his teeth.

“But still, as we have only Taverney left of this moderate inheritance, we beg you to choose between Taverney and this little hotel in which we are. Live in one, we will retire to the other.”

The baron rumpled his lace frill with a rage -which was betrayed only by the movement of his fingers, the moisture of his forehead, and the trembling of his lips. Philippe did not even notice it. He had turned away his head. “I prefer Taverney,” said the baron.

“Then we will keep the h6tel.”

“As you like.”

“When will you set out-”

“This very evening; no, immediately.”

Philippe bowed.

“At Taverney,” continued the baron, “one may be a king with three thousand francs' income. I shall be twice king.” He stretched his hand toward the chiffonniere to take the casket, which he put in his pocket. Then he went toward the door. Suddenly retracing his steps, he said, with a wicked smile, “Philippe, I permit you to sign our name to the first treatise of philosophy which you publish. As for Andree -for her first work — advise her to call it Louis or Louise; it is a name which brings luck; “and he left with a sneer. Philippe, with bloodshot eye, head on fire, pressed the hilt of his sword, murmuring, “My God! give me patience, grant me forgetfulness!”

CHAPTER CXLIX. A CASE OF CONSCIENCE.

After having copied with scrupulous care some pages of his “Reveries d'un Promeneur Solitaire,” Rousseau had finished a frugal breakfast. Although a retreat had been offered him in the delicious gardens of Ermenonville, Rousseau, hesitating to submit to the slavery of the great, as he said in his mania of misanthropy, still lived in this little lodging of the Rue Plastriere with which we are acquainted.

On her part, Therese, having put in order her little house, had just taken her basket to go to market. It was nine o'clock in the morning. The housekeeper, according to her custom, came to ask Rousseau what he would like for dinner that day. Rousseau emerged from his revery, slowly raised his head, and looked at Therese like a man half-awake.

“Whatever you wish,” he said, “provided there are cherries and flowers.”

“We will see, — if all this is not too dear.”

“Of course,” said Rousseau.

“For indeed,” continued Therese, “I do not know whether what you do is worth anything; but it seems to me that they do not pay you as formerly.”

“You are mistaken, Therese. They pay me the same; but I get tired and work less, and then, my bookseller is in arrears with me to the extent of half a volume.”

“You will see that this one will make you bankrupt again.”

“I hope not; he is an honest man.”

“An honest man, an honest man! When you have said that, you think you have said all.”

“I have said much, at least,” replied Rousseau, smiling; “for I cannot say it of everybody.”

“It is not surprising; you are so cross.”

“Therese, we are wandering from the question.”

“Yes; you want your cherries, gourmand! you want your flowers, sybarite! “»

“What would you have, my good housewife- “replied Rousseau, with the patience of an angel; “my heart and my head are so bad that not being able to go out, I take delight at least in the sight of what God spreads over the country with bountiful hand.”

Indeed, Rousseau was pale and exhausted, and his listless hands turned over the leaves his eyes did not read.

Therese shook her head. “Very well, very well,” said she; “I am going out for an hour; remember that I shall put the key under the mat, and that if you need — “

“Oh, I shall not go out,” said Rousseau.

“I know very well that you will not go out, since you cannot stand up; but I say this to you, that you may pay a little attention to persons who may call, and that you may answer the bell if it rings. You may be sure that it is not I.”

“Thanks, good Therese, thanks; go.”

The housekeeper went out, grumbling as usual; and the sound of her heavy and slow step was heard for a long time on the stairs. But as soon as the door was closed Rousseau took advantage of his seclusion to stretch himself deliciously on his chair, looked at the birds that pecked upon the window-sill at some crumbs of bread, and enjoyed the sunlight which shone in between the chimneys of the neighboring houses. His fancy, young and active, had no sooner felt its liberty than it spread its wings like the sparrows after their joyous repast. Suddenly the entrance door creaked on its hinges, which disturbed the philosopher's delightful repose. “What! “he said to himself, “already returned! have I slept, when I thought myself only dreaming-”

The door of the cabinet slowly opened in its turn. Rousseau turned his back to this door; convinced that it was Therese who was entering, he did not trouble himself. There was a moment's silence. Then in the midst of this silence, “Pardon, Monsieur,” said a voice that made the philosopher start.

Rousseau hastily turned round. “What, Gilbert! “he said.

“Yes, Gilbert; once more, pardon, Monsieur Rousseau.”

It was, indeed, Gilbert, — but Gilbert pale, his hair disheveled, his disordered garments scarcely covering his thin and trembling limbs. His appearance made Rousseau shudder, and drew from him an exclamation of pity which resembled anxiety. Gilbert had the fixed and eager eyes of hungry birds of prey; a smile of affected timidity contrasted with this look, as would the upper part of the eagle's solemn head with the lower portion of the cunning head of a wolf or fox.

“What have you come here for t “cried Rousseau, who did not like disorder, and regarded it in another as the sign of an evil purpose.

“Monsieur, I am hungry,” replied Gilbert.

Rousseau shuddered at hearing the sound of this voice, uttering the most terrible word in the human language.

“And how did you get in here- “he asked. “The door was locked.”

“Monsieur, I knew that Madame Therese generally puts the key under the mat. I waited until Madame Therese had gone out, for she does not like me, and perhaps would have refused to receive me or take me to you j then, when you were alone, I came up, took the key from its hiding place, and here I am.”

Rousseau raised himself on the two arms of his chair.

“Listen to me,” said Gilbert, “for a moment, one single moment; I swear to you, Monsieur Rousseau, that I deserve to be heard.”

“Well,” replied Rousseau, full of amazement at sight of this face, which no longer expressed any of the sentiments common to men.

“I should tell you that I am reduced to such an extremity that I do not know whether to steal, kill myself, or do something still worse. Oh, do not be alarmed, my master and protector,” said Gilbert in a voice full of gentleness, “for I think, on reflection, that I shall die without having to kill myself. During the eight days since I fled from Trianon I have wandered in the woods and fields without eating anything hut green vegetables or wild fruits. I am weak. I am perishing with fatigue and hunger. As for stealing, it is not from you that I shall attempt it; I like your house too well, Monsieur Rousseau. As for that third thing, oh! to accomplish it-”

“Well-” said Rousseau.

“Well, it needs resolution, which I have come here to seek.”

“Are you mad- “cried Rousseau.

“No, Monsieur; but I am very unhappy, full of despair, and would have drowned myself in the Seine this morning, hut for a reflection which occurred to me.”

“What reflection-”

“Why, that you have written, ' Suicide is a robbery committed on mankind.' “

Rousseau looked at the young man as if to say to him, “Do you natter yourself that I was thinking of you in writing this-”

“Oh, I understand,” murmured Gilbert.

“I do not think so,” said Rousseau.

“You mean to say, ' Would your death, yours, — the death of a worthless fellow, who possesses nothing, who does nothing, — be worthy to be called an event-' “

“That is not the question,” said Rousseau, ashamed of being divined; “but you were hungry, I think.”

“Yes; I said so.”

“Well, since you knew where the door was, you also know where the bread is; go to the cupboard, take some bread, and go away.”

Gilbert did not stir.

“If it is not bread you want, but money, I do not 'think you wicked enough to maltreat an old man, who was your protector, in the very house that has given you shelter. Be satisfied, then, with this little — here; “and he offered him some pieces of money which he took from his pocket.

Gilbert stayed his hand. “Oh! “he said, with poignant grief, “it is a question neither of money nor bread; you did not understand what I meant when I spoke of killing myself. If I do not kill myself, it is because my life may now be useful to someone, — because my death might rob someone, Monsieur. You, who know all the social laws, all the natural obligations, tell me if there is in this world any tie which should bind a man to life who wishes to die! “

“There are many,” said Rousseau.

“To be a father,” murmured Gilbert, “is that one of the ties- Look at me while you answer, Monsieur Rousseau, that I may read it in your eyes.”

“Yes,” stammered Rousseau, — “yes, most certainly. Why this question from you-”

“Monsieur, your words will be a law to me,” said Gilbert; “consider them carefully, I entreat you, Monsieur. I am so unhappy that I would like to kill myself; but — but I have a child! “

Rousseau started in astonishment.

“Oh, do not mock at me, Monsieur! “Gilbert said humbly; “you will think you are only pricking my heart when indeed you are opening it as with a poniard. I repeat it, I have a child! “

Rousseau looked at him without answering.

“But for this I should be already dead,” continued Gilbert; “in this alternative I said to myself that you would give me good advice, and so I came.”

“But,” asked Rousseau, “why have I advice to give, you- Did you consult me when you committed the fault-”

“Monsieur, this fault — “and Gilbert, with a strange expression, approached Rousseau.

“Well t” said the latter.

“This fault,” replied Gilbert, “there are those who call it a crime.”

“A crime! All the more reason, then, that you should not speak to me of it. I am a man like you, and not a confessor. Besides, what you tell me does not surprise me. I always foresaw that you would turn out badly; you have a wicked nature.”

“No, Monsieur,” replied Gilbert, shaking his head, gloomily, — “no, Monsieur, you are mistaken; my mind is unnatural, or rather, perverted. I have read many

books which taught me the equality of castes, pride of spirit, the dignity of instincts. These books, Monsieur, had so illustrious authors that a poor peasant like myself might well be led astray. I am lost.”

“Ah, ah! I see what you are aiming at, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“I- “

“Yes; you are blaming my doctrine. Have you not free will-”

“I do not blame, Monsieur; I say only that I have read. I blame my credulity; I believed, I fell. There are two causes for my crime, — you are the first, and I come, in the first place, to you; I shall next go to the second, but in his turn, and at the proper time.”

“In short, what is it you ask of me-”

“Neither gifts, nor shelter, nor bread even, although I am an outcast and hungry. No, I ask of you moral support; I ask you to confirm your doctrine. I ask you to restore by a word my strength, which is broken down, not by inanition in my arms and legs, but by doubt in my head and heart. Monsieur Rousseau, I entreat you, therefore, to tell me if what I have felt for the past eight clays is the pain of hunger in the muscles of my stomach, or if it is the torture of remorse in the organs of my mind. In committing a crime, Monsieur, I have begotten a child. Well, then, tell me, must I tear my hair in bitter despair, and roll in the dust crying, Pardon! or must I exclaim, like the woman in Scripture, ' I have done as others; if there is among men a better one than I, let him stone me'- In a word, Monsieur Rousseau, you who must have felt what I feel, answer this question. Say, say, is it natural for a father to abandon his child-”

Gilbert had no sooner spoken thus than Rousseau became paler than Gilbert himself, and losing self-control, “What right have you to speak to me thus- “he stammered.

“Because, in your house, Monsieur Rousseau, in this garret where you showed me hospitality, I read what you have written on this subject; because you have declared that children born in misery belong to the State, which ought to take care of them; because, in short, you have always considered yourself an honest man, although you have not shrunk from abandoning children which were born to you.”

“Miserable fellow,” said Rousseau, “you have read my book, and you use such language to me! “

“Well-” said Gilbert.

“Well, you have a wicked mind joined to a wicked heart.”

“Monsieur Rousseau! “

“You have misread my books, as you misread human life! You have seen but the surface of the pages, as you see only that of the face! Ah, you expect to make me an accomplice in your crime by citing to me the books I have written, — by saying to me, ' You confess having done this, therefore I may do it!' But, unhappy man, what you do not know, what you have not read in my books, what you have not divined, is that the whole life of him whom you take as an example, this life of misery and suffering, I could exchange for a gilded existence, — voluptuous, full of splendor and pleasure. Have I less talent than Monsieur de Voltaire, and could I not produce as much as he- By applying myself less than I do, could I not sell my books as dear as he sells his, and bring the money rolling into my coffer, keeping always a coffer half- full at the disposal of my book-sellers- Gold attracts gold; do you not know it- I also could have had a carriage for a young and beautiful mistress to ride in, and you may be sure this luxury would not have dried up the source of an inexhaustible poesy. Have I not passions still- Observe carefully my eyes, which at sixty years yet glow with the ardors of youth and desire. You who have read or copied my books, come, do you not recall that in spite of the decline of years, notwithstanding very real and very serious troubles, my heart, still young, seems to have inherited, in order to suffer more, all the strength of the other parts of my organization- Weighed down with infirmities which prevent me from walking, I feel that I have more vigor and life for sustaining sorrow than I ever had in my youth for the reception of the rare felicities which God has bestowed upon me.”

“I know all that, Monsieur,” said Gilbert. “I have observed you closely and have understood you.”

“Then, if you have observed me closely, if you have understood me, has not my life for you a meaning which others do not see- Does not this strange self-denial, which is unnatural to me, mean that I wish to expiate — “

“Expiate!” murmured Gilbert.

“Have you not understood,” continued the philosopher, “that this misery having driven me in the very first place to make an unreasonable resolution, I have since been unable to find any other excuse for this resolution than disinterestedness and perseverance in misery- Have you not understood that I have punished my mind by humiliation- For it was my mind that was guilty, — my mind, which had recourse to paradoxes to justify itself, while on the other hand, I punished my heart by ceaseless remorse.”

“Ah!” cried Gilbert, “it is thus you reply to me! it is thus that you philosophers, who fling your written precepts at mankind, plunge us in despair, and then blame us if we are angry with you! Eh- of what consequence is your humiliation to me, when it is secret; your remorse, when, it is unknown- Oh, woe! woe to you, woe! and may the crimes committed in your name fall upon your own head!”

“On my head, you say, curses, — and with them, punishment; for you forget the punishment. Oh, that would be too much! You who have sinned as I have, you condemn yourself as severely as you do me!”

“More severely even,” said Gilbert; “for my punishment will be terrible; for since I have no longer faith in anything, I shall let my adversary, or rather my enemy, kill me, — a suicide which my misery recommends, which my conscience excuses; for now my death is no longer a robbery of mankind, and when you wrote that, you wrote what you did not think.”

“Stop, unhappy man!” said Rousseau, “stop! have you not done harm enough with foolish credulity- Must you do more still with stupid skepticism- You have spoken to me of a child- You said that you were, or were about to be, a father-”

“I said so,” repeated Gilbert.

“Do you realize what it is,” murmured Rousseau, in a low voice, “to drag with you, not to death, but to shame, creatures born to breathe freely and innocently the pure air of virtue, a gift of God to every man born into the world] Let me tell you nevertheless, how horrible my condition is. When I abandoned my children, I imagined that society, which all superiority offends, would throw this wrong in my face as an ignominious reproach; then I justified myself with paradoxes; then I employed ten years of my life in advising mothers how to educate their children, — I who did not know what it was to be a father; in advising the nation how to make its citizens brave and honest, — I who had been weak and corrupt. Then one day the executioner, who avenges society, the nation, and the orphan, unable to reach me, seized my book and burned it as a living shame to the country whose air it had poisoned. Decide, divine judge! was I right in action; was I wrong in my precepts t You do not answer; God himself would be perplexed, — God, who holds in his hand the unerring scales of justice. Well, I have a heart which solves the question; and this heart has said to me from its very depths: ' Woe to you, unnatural father, who have abandoned your children! Woe to you, if you meet the young prostitute who laughs brazenly at night at the street corners; for it may be your abandoned daughter, whom hunger has driven to infamy! Woe to you, if you meet in the street the arrested thief, with his guilt fresh upon him; for he may be your abandoned son, whom hunger has driven to crime!' “

After saying these words, Rousseau who had risen, fell back upon his chair. “And you,” he continued, with a broken voice which had the accent of a prayer, “I have not been as guilty as they believe; I have seen an unfeeling mother, an accomplice in my crime, forget like the animals, and I said to myself, ' God has allowed the mother to forget; it is therefore right for her to forget- Well, I was at that, time in error; and now — since you have heard me say to you what I never before said to anyone — you must remain in error no longer.”

“So,” asked the young man, knitting his brow, “you would never have abandoned your children if you had had money enough to support them t”

“If only what was absolutely needful, — no, never; I swear it, never!” and Rousseau solemnly stretched his trembling hand toward heaven.

“Twenty thousand francs,” asked Gilbert, “is that enough to support a child-”

“Yes; it is enough,” said Rousseau.

“Good,” said Gilbert; “thanks, Monsieur; now I know what remains for me to do.”

“And in any event, young as you are, with your labor, you can support your child,” said Rousseau. “But you have spoken of crime; they are looking for you, pursuing you perhaps-”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“Well, conceal yourself here, my boy; you are always welcome to the little garret.”

“You are a man I love, Master! “cried Gilbert, “and your offer fills me with joy. Indeed, I ask only a shelter; as for my bread, I will earn it. You know that I am not an idler.”

“Well,” said Rousseau, appearing uneasy, “if the thing is settled, go up; do not let Madame Rousseau find you here. She never goes up to the garret now; for since your departure we lock up nothing. Your mattress is still there; make yourself as comfortable as possible.”

“Thanks, Monsieur; if that is so I am more fortunate than I deserve to be.”

“Now is that all you desire-” said Rousseau, looking toward the door.

“No, Monsieur; one word more, if you please.”

“Speak.”

“One day at Luciennes you accused me of having betrayed you; I did not betray anyone, Monsieur, I was pursuing my love affair.”

“Let us not speak of that. Is that all-”

“Yes; now, Monsieur Rousseau, when we are ignorant of the address of anyone at Paris, can we obtain it I”

“Undoubtedly, when that person is known.”

“He of whom I speak is very well known.”

“His name- “

“Monsieur le Comte Joseph Balsamo.”

Rousseau shuddered; he had not forgotten the meeting in the Rue Plastriere. “What do you want with this man- “he asked.

“A very simple thing. I have accused you — you, my master — of being morally the cause of my crime, since I believed I was only obeying a natural law.”

“And I have undeceived you-” cried Rousseau, trembling at the idea of this responsibility.

“You have enlightened me, at least.”

“Well, what Were you going to say-”

“That my crime had not only a moral cause, but also a physical one.”

“And this Comte de Balsamo is the physical cause, is he not-”

“Yes. I have copied examples, I have seized an opportunity; and in this — I see it now — I have acted like a wild animal, and not like a man. You gave me the example; Monsieur le Comte de Balsamo, the opportunity. Do you know where he lives-”

“Yes.”

“Give me his address, then.”

“Rue Saint Claude.”

“Thanks; I shall go to his house immediately.”

“Take care, child,” exclaimed Rousseau; “he is powerful and adroit.”

“Fear nothing, Monsieur Rousseau. I am determined, and you have taught me to keep my temper.”

“Quick, quick, — go upstairs! “cried Rousseau; “I hear the gate shut; it is, doubtless, Madame Rousseau coming in. Hide yourself in the garret until she has come in, then you can go away.”

“The key, if you please-”

“On the nail, in the kitchen, as usual.”

“Adieu, Monsieur, adieu.”

“Take some bread; I will prepare you some work for tonight.”

“Thanks!” And Gilbert slipped out so quickly that he was already in his garret before Therese had reached the second floor.

Furnished with the precious information given him by Rousseau, Gilbert made no delay in putting his project into execution. Indeed, Therese had no sooner closed the door of her apartment than the young man, who from the door of his garret had watched all her movements, descended the stairs as rapidly as if he had not been weakened by a long fast. His head was full of hopeful plans, of bitter memories, and over all hovered an avenging spirit which spurred him on with its complaints and accusations. He arrived at Eue Saint Claude in a state difficult to describe. As he entered the court of the hotel, Balsamo was accompanying to the door the Prince de Rohan, who was paying his generous alchemist a visit. As the prince was leaving, stopping once more to renew his thanks to Balsamo, the poor ragged fellow slipped in like a dog, not daring to look about him for fear of being dazzled.

The carriage of Prince Louis awaited him on the boulevard; the prelate slowly crossed the space that separated him from his carriage, which rapidly rolled away as soon as the door was closed upon him. Balsamo had looked after him sadly, and when the carriage had disappeared he turned toward the steps, upon which stood a sort of beggar in the attitude of supplication. Balsamo stepped up to him, and although his lips were silent, his expressive look was an interrogatory.

“A quarter of an hour's audience, if you please, Monsieur le Comte,” said the young man in the ragged clothes.

“Who are you, my friend- “asked Balsamo, with supreme gentleness.

“Do you not recognize me-” asked Gilbert.

“No, — but no matter; come,” replied Balsamo, not disturbed by the strange expression of the solicitor, any more than by his ragged garments and his importunity. Walking before him he led him into the nearest apartment, where, seating himself, without change of tone or expression, he said, “You asked if I recognized you-”

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Indeed, I think I have seen you somewhere.”

“At Taverney, Monsieur, when you came there on the night before the arrival of the dauphiness.”

“What were you doing at Taverney-”

“I lived there.”

“As servant of the family-”

“No; as member of the family.”

“You have left Taverney- “

“Yes, Monsieur; nearly three years since.”

“And you came — “

“To Paris, where at first I studied with Monsieur Rousseau; after which I was placed in the gardens at Trianon in the capacity of under-gardener, through the influence of Monsieur de Jussieu.”

“These are great names you mention, my friend. What do you want with me-”

“I will tell you; “and pausing, he looked at Balsamo steadily. “Do you remember,” he continued, “coming to Trianon during the night of the great storm, six weeks ago next Friday-”

Balsamo's seriousness was changed to melancholy, as he said, “Yes, I remember; you saw me there, perhaps-”

“I saw you.”

“Then you come to be paid for the secret-” said Balsamo, in a threatening tone.

“No, Monsieur; for I am more interested than you in keeping this secret.”

“Then you are the one they call Gilbert-” said Balsam o.

“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”

Balsamo looked with long and searching gaze at the young man whose name carried with it so terrible a charge. He was surprised, he who was a judge of men, at the assurance of his bearing, at his dignity of speech, Gilbert was standing before a table upon which he did not lean. One of his thin hands, white, even though accustomed to garden work, was hidden in his bosom; the other fell gracefully at his side.

“I see by your countenance,” said Balsamo, “why you have come here; you know that Mademoiselle de Taverney has brought a terrible charge against you, that by the aid of science I have forced her to tell the truth; you have come to upbraid me for obtaining this evidence, have you not to reproach me with this conjuring of a secret which, but for me, would have remained buried in darkness as in a tomb-”

Gilbert only nodded his head.

“You are wrong, however,” continued Balsamo; “for, admitting that I had wished to inform against you without being driven to it in my own interest, — for they accused me, — admitting that I had treated you as an enemy, that I had attacked you while defending myself; admitting, I say, all this, you have no right to say anything, for indeed you have committed a base deed.”

Gilbert tore his breast with his finger-nails, but answered nothing.

“The brother will pursue you, and the sister will have

you killed,” replied Balsamo, “if you have the imprudence to walk as you do about the streets of Paris.”

“Oh, as to that, it is of little consequence to me,” said Gilbert.

“What I of little consequence to you-”

“Yes; I loved Mademoiselle Andree. I loved her as no other will ever love her; but she scorned me, — me whose sentiments for her were so respectful; she scorned me, — me who had already held her twice in my arms without even daring to touch with my lips the hem of her dress.”

“Precisely, and you have made her pay for this respect, you have avenged yourself for her scorn, by what, — by a snare- “

“Oh, no, no! the snare did not originate with me; an opportunity for committing the crime was furnished me.”

“By whom-”

“By you.”

Balsamo drew himself up as if a serpent had stung him. “By me!” he cried.

“By you; yes, Monsieur, by you,” repeated Gilbert. “Monsieur, you magnetized Mademoiselle Andree; then you fled. As you went away, her limbs failed her, and she fell. I took her in my arms to carry her to her chamber; I felt her body touching mine, — that contact would have animated a marble statue! I, who loved, yielded to my love. Am I then so criminal as they say. Monsieur- I ask it of you, — of you, the cause of my misfortune.”

Balsamo fixed upon Gilbert a look filled with, sadness and pity. “You are right, child,” he said; “it is I who have caused your crime and the misfortune of this young girl.”

“And instead of providing a remedy for it, — you who are so powerful, and who ought to be so good, -you have aggravated the misfortune of the young girl, you have exposed the criminal to death.”

“It is true,” replied Balsamo, “and what you say is reasonable. For some time past, look you, young man, I have been a thing accursed, and all the projects of my brain assume, when executed, threatening and pernicious forms. This is the consequence of misfortunes that I also have suffered, and which you do not comprehend. At the same time it is no reason why I should make others suffer; tell me what you want.”

“I ask the means of repairing all, Monsieur le Comte, — crime and misfortune.”

“You love this young girl-”

“Oh, yes! “

“There are many kinds of love. In what way do you love her!”

“Before possessing her, I loved her to distraction; now, I love her madly. I should die of grief if she received me with anger; I should die of joy if she Allowed me to kiss her feet.”

“She is of noble birth, but she is poor,” said Balsamo, reflecting.

“Yes.”

“Yet her brother is a man of heart, who, I think, cares but little for the prerogative of birth. What would happen if you asked this brother for his sister in marriage-”

“He would kill me,” Gilbert replied coldly; “however, as I desire death more than I fear it, if you advise me to make this demand, I will do so.”

Balsamo considered. “You are a man of sense,” he said, “and we may say that you are a man of heart, although your action was really criminal, my complicity apart. Well, seek out not Monsieur de Taverney the son, but the Baron de Taverney, his father, and say to him that on the day he permits you to marry his daughter, you will bring a dowry to Mademoiselle Andree.”

“I cannot say that, Monsieur le Comte; I have nothing.”

“And I tell you that you shall bring her a dowry of one hundred thousand crowns, which I will give you to repair the misfortune and the crime, as you said just now.”

“He will not believe me; he knows that I am poor.”

“Well, if he does not believe you, show him these bank-notes, and he will no longer doubt.” While saying this, Balsamo opened the drawer of a table, and counted thirty notes of ten thousand francs each. He then handed them to Gilbert.

“And is this money-” said the young man.

“Read.”

Gilbert cast an eager glance at the roll he was holding in his hand, and saw the truth of what Balsamo said. A joyful light shone in his eyes. “It may be possible! “he cried. “But, no; such generosity would be too sublime.”

“You are distrustful,” said Balsamo; “you are right; but accustom yourself to choose your subjects for suspicion. Take, then, these hundred thousand crowns, and go to Monsieur de Taverney.”

“Monsieur,” said Gilbert, “while such a sum is given by word only I cannot believe in the reality of the gift.”

Balsamo took a pen and wrote: -

I give to Gilbert as dowry, the day he signs his contract of marriage with Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney, the sum of one hundred thousand crowns, which I have delivered him in advance, in the hope of a successful negotiation.

Joseph Balsamo.

“Take this paper, go, and doubt no longer.” Gilbert received the paper with a trembling hand, “Monsieur,” he said, “if I owe you so much happiness, you shall he the god I will worship upon the earth.”

“There is but one God to worship,” Balsamo answered seriously, “and I am not he. Go, my friend.”

“A last favor, Monsieur.”

“What is it-”

“Give me fifty francs.”

“You ask me for fifty francs when you already have three hundred thousand in your hand-”

“These three hundred thousand francs are not mine,” said Gilbert, “until the day when Mademoiselle Andree consents to marry me.”

“And for what are these fifty francs- “

“To purchase a decent coat in which I may present myself to the baron.”

“There, my friend,” said Balsamo; and he gave him the fifty francs. Upon this he dismissed Gilbert, and with the same slow and melancholy step returned to his apartments.

CHAPTER CXL. GILBERT'S PROJECTS.

Once in the street, Gilbert's feverish imagination was cooled, which at the last words of the count had carried him beyond not only the probable, but also the possible. Arrived at.the Eue Pastourel, he sat down upon a milestone, and casting his eyes about him to assure himself that he was not watched, he drew from his pocket the bank-notes all rumpled by the pressure of his hand. A terrible thought had occurred to him, and brought the perspiration to his brow. “Let us see,” he said, looking at the notes, “if this man has not deceived me; let us see if he has not set a trap for me; let us see if he does not send me to certain death under pretence of securing my happiness; let us see if he does not treat rue as they do the sheep which they allure to the shambles by offering it a bunch of flowering herbs. I have heard it said that there are a great many false notes in circulation, with which the roues of the court cheat the girls of the opera. Let us see if the count has not taken me for a dupe.” And he took out of the roll one of the notes of ten thousand francs; then going into a shop, he asked, showing the note, the address of a banker who would change it, having been charged with this commission by his master, he said.

The shop-keeper looked at the note, turned it over and over admiringly, — for it was a magnificent sum, and his

shop was small; then he directed him to the banker in the Rue Sainte Avoie, — therefore the note was good.

Gilbert, happy and elated, gave reins to his imagination, secured more carefully than ever the roll of bills in his handkerchief, and noticing in the Rue Sainte Avoie a dealer in second-] land clothes whose display attracted him, he purchased, for twenty-five francs, — that is, for one of the two louis Balsamo had given him, — a complete suit of maroon cloth -whose neatness pleased him, a pair of black silk stockings, a little faded, and shoes with bright buckles; a good linen shirt completed the costume, neat rather than rich, at which Gilbert gave one admiring glance in the mirror of the establishment. Then, leaving his old garments in addition to the twenty-five francs, he put the precious handkerchief in his pocket, and went from the shop of the tailor to that of the hair-dresser, who in a quarter of an hour made this very remarkable head of Balsamo's protégé elegant, and even beautiful.

At last, when all these operations had been accomplished, Gilbert bought a small loaf in a baker's shop near the Place Louis XV., and ate it quickly as he took the road to Versailles. At the fountain of the Conference he stopped to drink. Then he continued his journey, refusing every proposition of the coachmen, who could not comprehend why a young man so neatly dressed should wish to save fifteen sous at the expense of his polished shoes. What would they have said if they had known that this young man who was travelling on foot had in his pocket three hundred thousand francs- But Gilbert had his reasons for travelling on foot, — in the first place, his firm resolution not to spend more than was absolutely necessary] secondly, the need of seclusion to indulge at his pleasure in pantomime and monologues. God alone knows what happy dreams of the future filled the head of this young man during his walk of two hours and a half. In this time he had walked more than four leagues without noticing the distance, without feeling the least fatigue, so vigorous was his constitution.

All his plans were made, and he had determined to introduce, his demand in the following manner: To approach Taverney with ceremonious words; then, when he had the authority of the baron, to address Mademoiselle Andree with so much eloquence that she would not only pardon him, but would conceive a respect and affection for the author of the pathetic speech he had prepared. The more he thought of it, the more hope triumphed over fear j and it seemed impossible to Gilbert that a girl in Andree's position should not accept the reparation offered by love, when this love was accompanied by a fortune of one hundred thousand crowns.

Gilbert, in building these castles in the air, was as innocent and honest as the most simple child of primitive times. He forgot all the wrong he had done, and was. perhaps more true-hearted than one would think. All these batteries prepared, he arrived with anxious heart at the grounds of Trianon. Once there, he was ready for everything, — for the first wrath of Philippe, which the generosity of his proposal must, he thought, assuage; for the first disdain of Andree, which must yield to his love; for the first insults of the baron, which his gold would soothe.

Indeed, Gilbert, quite removed from the society in which he had lived, knew instinctively that three hundred thousand francs in his pockets was a safe armor. What he dreaded most was the sight of Andree's sufferings; in presence of this misfortune only he feared his weakness, — a weakness that would take from him a part of the means necessary for the success of his cause. He entered the gardens, looking, not without pride, which suited his face well, upon all these workmen, yesterday his companions, to-day his inferiors. The first question he asked was in reference to the Baron de Taverney. He addressed himself naturally to the lackey on service at the offices.

“The baron is not at Trianon,” replied the latter.

Gilbert hesitated a moment. “And Monsieur Philippe-” he asked.

“Oh, Monsieur Philippe has gone away with Mademoiselle Andree! “

“Gone away! “cried Gilbert.

“Yes.”

“Mademoiselle Andree has gone, then-”

“Five days ago.”

“To Paris! “

The lackey made a movement as if to say, “I know nothing about it.”

“What! you know nothing about it-” cried Gilbert. “Mademoiselle Andree has gone away without anyone knowing where she was going- There must be a reason for her going away, however.”

“What nonsense! “replied the lackey, showing little respect for Gilbert's maroon coat; “of course there was a cause for her going away.”

“And why did she go-”

“For change of air.”

“For change of air- “repeated Gilbert.

“Yes; it seemed that the air of Trianon did not agree with her, and by the doctor's orders she has left Trianon.”

It was useless to question further; it was evident that the lackey had said all that he knew about Mademoiselle de Taverney. And yet Gilbert, amazed, could not believe what he had heard. He ran to Andree's chamber, and found the door closed. Fragments of glass, bits of straw and hay, threads from the mattress strewing the floor, proved to him plainly that there had been a removal. Gilbert entered his old chamber, which remained just as- he had left it. Andree's window was open to admit air to the apartment; he could look through into the antechamber. The apartment was quite empty.

Gilbert then gave way to extravagant grief; he beat his head against the wall, he wrung his hands, he rolled on the floor. Then like a madman, he rushed out of the garret, descended the stairs as if he had wings, plunged into the woods, his hands clutching his hair, and with cries and imprecations he fell down in the midst of the bushes, cursing life and those who had given him birth.

“Oh, it is over, all over! “he murmured. “God does not wish me to find her again; God wishes me to die of remorse, of despair and love. Thus I shall expiate my crime; thus I shall avenge her whom I have wronged. Where can she be- At Taverney! Oh, I will go, I will go! I will go even to the end of the world; I will mount to the clouds, if necessary. Oh, I will trace her, and follow her even if I sink by the way from hunger and fatigue! “

But relieved by degrees by this outburst of grief, Gilbert arose, breathed more freely, looked about him more calmly, and continued at a slow pace his journey to Paris, which he was five hours in accomplishing.

“The baron,” he said to himself, with some show of reason, “may not have left Paris; I will speak to him. Mademoiselle Andree has fled. Indeed, she could not remain at Trianon; but her father must know where she has gone. A word from him will put me on her track; and besides he may recall his daughter if I can succeed in satisfying his avarice.”

Gilbert, strong in this new idea, entered Paris about eleven o'clock, — that is, at about the hour when the crowd in the Champs-Elysees were enjoying the cool evening air, when Paris fluctuated between the early fogs of evening and the first rays of that artificial light which extended the day to twenty-four hours.

The young man, carrying out his resolution, went directly to the door of the little hotel in the Eue Coq-Heron, and knocked without waiting a moment. Silence only answered him. He redoubled his knocks, but without result. This last resource, then, upon which he had relied, had failed him. Mad with rage, biting his hands to punish his body for suffering less than his soul, Gilbert quickly turned the corner of the street, pushed the spring of Rousseau's door, and ascended the stairs. The handkerchief which enclosed the thirty bank-notes also held the key of the garret door. Gilbert rushed in, as he would have thrown himself into the Seine if it had been there. Then, as the evening was fine and the fleecy clouds were sporting in the azure of the sky, as a sweet perfume rose from the lime and chestnut trees in the evening twilight, as the bat beat with its silent wings on the panes of the little window, Gilbert, recalled to life by all these sensations, approached the window, and seeing in the midst of the trees the pavilion of the garden, where once he found Andree whom he thought to be forever lost, his heart was at the point of breaking, and he fell almost fainting on the edge of the gutter, lost in vague and stupid contemplation.

CHAPTER CLI. A VAIN STRUGGLE: IN WHICH GILBERT FINDS THAT IT IS EASIER TO COMMIT A CRIME THAN TO CONQUER A PREJUDICE.

As the sensation of grief which had had possession of Gilbert decreased, his ideas became clearer and more definite. In the mean time the increasing darkness prevented him from distinguishing anything; then an unconquerable desire seized him to see the trees, the house, the walks, which the darkness blended into one mass, over which the air wandered as over an abyss. He remembered that one evening, in happier times, he had wished to procure news of Andree, to see her, to hear her speak even, and that at the peril of his life, suffering still from a sickness which followed the thirtieth of May, he had slid down by the gutter-pipe from the second floor to the bottom, — that is, into the blessed garden itself. At that time there was great danger in forcing a way into that house in which the baron lived, and where Andree was so well guarded; and yet Gilbert remembered how delightful the situation was, in spite of its danger, and how joyously beat his heart when he heard the sound of her voice. “What if I should do it again,” ho said to himself; “what if I should go once more, and on my knees search the sanded paths for the adored footprints of my mistress.”

This word Gilbert spoke almost aloud, taking a strange pleasure in uttering it. He interrupted his monologue to look searchingly at the place where he thought the pavilion should be. Then, after a moment's silence and investigation, “There is no indication,” he added, “that the pavilion is inhabited by other tenants, — neither light, nor sound, nor open doors. I will go!”

Gilbert had the merit of quickly putting into execution a resolution once formed. He opened the door of the garret, descended on tiptoe like a sylph to the door of Rousseau, and having reached the second floor he boldly seized the gutter-pipe and slid to the ground, at the risk of ruining the pair of breeches new that morning. Having reached the foot of the trellis he experienced once more all the emotions of his first visit to the pavilion; the gravel creaked under his feet, and he recognized the little door by which Nicole had introduced Monsieur de Beau- Sire. At last he went to the steps to press his lips upon the brass button of the window-blind, saying to himself that doubtless Andree's hand had touched this button. Gilbert's crime had turned his love into a sort of religion.

Suddenly a sound from the inside startled the young man, — a faint and dull sound like that of a light step on the floor. Gilbert retreated. His face was livid; and for the past eight or ten days he had been so distressed in mind that, on seeing a glimmer of light through the door, he thought that superstition — that daughter of ignorance awl remorse — held before his eyes one of her sinister torches, and that it was this torch which was shining through the slats of the blinds. He imagined that his soul, laden with terror, conjured another soul, and that one of those hallucinations which visit madmen or enthusiasts had now come upon him. Nevertheless the step and the light approached nearer. Gilbert saw and heard without belief. But the blind suddenly opening, just when the young man drew near to look through the slats, he was thrown by the shock against the wall; he uttered a loud cry and fell upon his knees. It was not so much the shock which prostrated him thus as the sight exposed to his view; in this house, which he thought deserted, at the door of which he had knocked without answer, he had just seen Andree.

The young girl, for it was she and not a spirit, uttered a cry as 'Gilbert had; then, less frightened, for she doubtless expected someone; “What is it]” she asked. “Who are you- What do you want-”

“Oh, pardon, pardon, Mademoiselle! “murmured Gilbert, his face humbly turned toward the ground.

“Gilbert, Gilbert here! “cried Andree, with a surprise free from fear or anger; “Gilbert in this garden! Why have you come here, my friend-”.

This last title vibrated painfully in the heart of the young man. “Oh! “he said, with emotion, “do not crush me, Mademoiselle; be merciful, I have suffered so much!”

Andree looked at Gilbert in astonishment, and like a woman who did not understand such humility. “In the first place,” she said, “get up, and explain to me why you are here.”

“Oh, Mademoiselle,” cried Gilbert, “I will not rise until you have pardoned me! “

“What have you done to me that I should pardon you- Speak, explain yourself. At all events,” she continued, with a sad smile, “as the offence cannot be great, the pardon will be easy. Did Philippe give you the key]”

“The key!”

“.Certainly; it was agreed that I should admit no one in his absence, and he must have given you the means to enter, unless you have climbed over the walls.”

“Your brother, Monsieur Philippe!” stammered Gilbert. “No, no, it is not he; but never mind your brother, Mademoiselle. You have not gone away, then! you have not, then, left France- Oh, happiness! unhoped for happiness!”

Gilbert had risen on one knee, and with arms extended, he returned thanks to Heaven with strange earnestness.

Andree leaned toward him and looking at him uneasily, she said, “You speak like a madman, Monsieur Gilbert, and you will tear my dress; let go my dress, I beg you, and put an end to this comedy.”

Gilbert rose. “You are angry,” he said; “but I must not complain, for I have deserved it well. I know that I ought not to have presented myself in this way; but I did not know that you were living in this pavilion; I believed it empty, solitary; what I came to seek was a remembrance of you, — nothing more. Chance alone — Indeed, I no longer know what I am saying. Pardon me; I wished to speak first to Monsieur your father, but he had disappeared.”

Andree made a movement. “To my father,” she said; “and why to my father-”

Gilbert was deceived by this reply. “Oh, because I fear you too much,” he said; “and yet I know very well that it is better that everything should be arranged between you and me; it is the surest way of repairing all.”

“Repairing! what is that-” asked Andree, “and what must be repaired- Speak! “

Gilbert looked at her with eyes full of love and humility. “Oh, do not be angry,” he said; “certainly it is a great boldness on my part, I who am of so little consequence; it was a great boldness, I say, to look so high, but the injury is done.”

Andree started.

“The crime, if you will,” continued Gilbert; “yes, the crime, for really it was a great crime. Well, of this crime accuse fatality, Mademoiselle, but never my heart — “

“Your heart! your crime! fatality! You are mad, Monsieur Gilbert, and you frighten me.”

“Oh, it is impossible that with so much respect, so much remorse, with bowed head, clasped hands, I can inspire in you any other sentiment than that of pity. Mademoiselle, listen to what I am about to say, and it is a sacred pledge I make before God and men. I wish my whole life to be consecrated to expiating the wrong of a moment. I wish your future happiness to be so great that it shall efface all the grief's of the past. Mademoiselle — “Gilbert hesitated. “Mademoiselle, consent to a marriage which will sanctify a criminal union.”

Andree drew back a step.

“No, no,” said Gilbert; “I am not a madman; do not attempt to fly, do not snatch away the hands which I clasp; for pity's sake, consent to be my wife.”

“Your wife] “exclaimed Andree, believing that she herself had become mad.

“Oh,” continued Gilbert, with heart-rending sobs; “oh, say that you pardon me that horrible night; say that my crime filled you with horror, but say also that you forgive me; say that my love, restrained so long, justified my crime!”

“Wretch!” exclaimed Andree, with savage fury, “it was you, then- Oh, my God! my God! “and Andree held her head between her hands as if to prevent the revolting thought from escaping.

Gilbert drew back silent and petrified before this beautiful and pale Medusa's face, which expressed both terror and astonishment.

“Was this misfortune reserved for me, my God!” cried the young girl, with growing excitement, “to see my name doubly dishonored, — dishonored by the crime, dishonored by the criminal- Answer, wretch! answer villain! It was you, then-”

“She did not know it! “murmured Gilbert, astounded. “Help! help!” cried Andree, returning to her apartment. “Philippe! Philippe! here Philippe!”

Gilbert, who had followed her, gloomy and in despair, looked about him, seeking either a place in which to fall nobly under the blows he expected, or something with which to defend himself. But no one came at Andrew's call; she was alone in the apartment.

“Alone! oh, alone! “cried the young girl, in a burst of rage. “Away, villain; do not tempt the anger of God! “

Gilbert gently raised his head. “Your anger,” he murmured, “is to me the most fearful of all anger; do not overwhelm me, then, Mademoiselle, have pity!” and he clasped his hands in supplication.

“Assassin! assassin!” screamed the young woman.

“But you will not hear me, then-” exclaimed Gilbert. “Listen to me first at least, and have me killed afterward, if you wish.”

“Listen to you! listen to you! — still more torture; and what have you to say- let me hear! “

“What I said just now; that I have committed a crime,

— a crime very excusable to one who will read my heart,

— and that I bring reparation for that crime.”

“Oh! “cried Andree, “this, then, is the meaning of the word which horrified me even before I comprehended it, — a marriage! I think that was what you said-”

“Mademoiselle! “stammered Gilbert.

“A marriage,” continued the proud young girl, more and more excited; “oh, it is not anger I feel toward you, it is scorn, it is hatred! with this scorn there is a feeling so humiliating and at the same time so appalling that I do not understand how anyone living can bear the expression of it as I fling it in your face.”

Gilbert turned pale; tears of rage sparkled on his eyelashes; his lips were pinched, whitening like two threads of pearl. “Mademoiselle,” he said, trembling, “I am not of so little consequence that I cannot serve to repair the loss of your honor.”

Andree drew herself up. “If there were any question of the loss of honor, Monsieur,” she said proudly, “it would be of your honor, not of mine. Such as I am, my honor is unsullied, and it would be in marrying you that I should be dishonored!”

“I did not think,” said Gilbert, in a cold and incisive tone, “that a woman when she became a mother ought to consider anything in the world but the future of her child.›r

“And I do not suppose that you dare to interest yourself in that, Monsieur,” retorted Andree, with sparkling eyes.

“On the contrary, Mademoiselle, I am interested in it,” replied Gilbert, beginning to rise from beneath the infuriated foot that trampled on him. “I am interested, for I do not wish this child to perish with hunger, as often happens in the houses of the great, where girls interpret honor in a manner of their own. All men are equal; some of the greatest men have proclaimed this maxim. That you should not love me I can conceive, for you do not see my heart; that you should scorn me I can conceive also, for you do not know my thoughts; but that you should refuse me the right to be interested in my child, I can never understand. Alas! in seeking to marry you I have not sought to satisfy a deSire, a passion, an ambition; I have performed a duty, I have devoted myself to be your slave, I have offered you my life. Eh, mon Dieu! you would never have borne my name; had you wished, you might have continued to treat me as the gardener Gilbert; that would be just. But it would not be just for you to sacrifice your child. Here are three hundred thousand francs which a generous protector, who has judged me differently from you, gives me for a dowry. If I marry you this money belongs to me. Now, for myself, Mademoiselle, I need nothing but a little air to breathe if I live, and a hole in the ground to hide my body if I die. Everything else I give to my child. See, here are the three hundred thousand francs,” and he laid the bunch of bank-notes on the table, almost under Andree's hand.

“Monsieur,” said Andree, “you are making a serious mistake; you have no child.”

“I-”

“Of what child are you speaking, then-” asked Andree.

“Why, that of which you are the mother. Have you not admitted in the presence of two persons — your brother Philippe and the Comte de Balsamo — that you were enceinte, and that it was I, I, unhappy — “

“Ah, you heard that-” cried Andree; “well, so much the better, so much the better. Then, Monsieur, this is my reply to you: You have basely done me violence; you have possessed me in my sleep; you have possessed me by a crime. I am a mother, it is true; but my child has only a mother, — do you understand- You have violated me, it is true; but you are not the father of my child,” and seizing the bank-notes she threw them disdainfully out of the room, in such a manner that they touched in their flight the whitening face of the unhappy Gilbert. Then he felt an impulse of anger so profound that Andree's good angel might well have trembled for her a second time. But that fury was restrained by its own violence, and Gilbert went out from Andree's presence without even looking at her. He had no sooner passed over the threshold than she darted after him, and closed doors, blinds, windows, and shutters, as if by this violent action she would place the universe between the present and the past.

CHAPTER CLII. RESOLUTION.

How Gilbert returned to his room; how, without expiring of pain and anger, he sustained the anguish of the night; how he rose without at least a blanching of his hair, — we shall not attempt to explain to the reader.

When daylight came Gilbert had a strong desire to write to Andree and state to her all the arguments, so solid and so straightforward, which had sprung up in his mind during the night. But under too many circumstances already had he observed the young girl's unbending character to cherish now any further hope. Besides, to write would be a concession revolting to his pride; and his letter would perhaps be crumbled up and thrown away without being read; it might put upon his track a pack of furious, unintelligent enemies. He then thought that his proposition “would perhaps be more favorably received by the father, who was avaricious and ambitious, or by the brother, who was a man of heart, and whose first movement alone was to be feared. “But,” said he, to himself, “of what use to be supported by Monsieur de Taverney or by Monsieur Philippe, since Andree will pursue me with her eternal ' I do not know you! It is well,” he added, “nothing now attaches me to that woman; she herself has taken pains to sunder the bonds that.united us.” He said this while rolling with anguish on his mattress, while recalling with rage the smallest details of Andree's voice and face; he said this while suffering indescribable torment, for he loved her to distraction. When the sun, already high above the horizon, penetrated the garret, Gilbert rose, excited by a last hope of seeing his enemy in the garden or even in the pavilion. It was still a joy in his misery. But suddenly a bitter flood of hatred, remorse, and rage overwhelmed his thought; he recalled all the scorn and contempt which the young girl had inflicted on him, and stopping in the middle of the room, by a command suddenly imposed by will on matter, *' No,” he said, “you shall not go to look out at that window; you shall not inhale that poison of which you would be glad to die. She is a cruel person, who never, when you bowed your head before her, smiled at you, or gave you a word of consolation or of friendship; who took pleasure in rending your heart, when still full of innocence and chaste love. She is a creature without honor and without religion, who has denied to her child its father, its natural support, and who condemns the poor little thing to neglect, to misery, to death, perhaps; because that child dishonors the womb in which it was conceived. Well, no, Gilbert; criminal as you were, amorous and base as you are, I forbid you to approach that window, or cast a glance in the direction of that pavilion. I forbid you to commiserate the fate of that woman, or to weaken the springs of your life by dwelling on what is past. Employ your life, like the brute, in work and the satisfaction of material wants. Make use of the time that will elapse between the affront and vengeance; and remember always that the only way to self-respect and to a position higher than that of these haughty nobles is to be more noble still than they.”

Pale, trembling, urged by the impulses of his heart in the direction of the window, Gilbert nevertheless obeyed the command of his reason. He might have been seen moving little by little, slowly, step by step, toward the door of the stairway. At last he went out on his way to Balsamo's house. But suddenly he returned, saying to himself, “Fool! wretched fool that I am! I spoke, I think of vengeance; and what is the vengeance I would have- Kill the woman- Oh, no; she would die happy in having inflicted on me an additional burden. Dishonor her publicly- Oh, that is a coward's way. Is there a sensitive place in that creature's soul where my needle thrust may cause as much pain as a thrust of a dagger- It is humiliation; she must be humiliated, — yes, for she has even more pride than I. How, then, can I humiliate her- I am nothing, I have nothing, and doubtless she is about to disappear. To be sure, my presence, my frequent appearance, my look of scorn or of defiance would punish her cruelly. I know well that a mother without pity must be a sister without heart, and she might send her brother to kill me. But what prevents my learning how to kill a man, as I have learned how to reason and to write- What prevents my overcoming Philippe, disarming him, and laughing in the face of the avenger, as in that of the offended person herself- No, that savors too much of comedy; in doing that one reckons on his skill and experience, without considering the intervention of God or of chance. Alone, I alone, with my bare arm, with my reason clipped of imagination, with the strength of my muscles given by nature, with the force of my mind, I will reduce to nothing the projects of those miserable — What does Andree wish; what does she possess; what does she place before her for her defense and my injury- Let me think.”

Then, sitting on the edge of the projection of the wall, bending forward and gazing with fixed eyes, Gilbert meditated profoundly. “Whatever might please Andree,” he said, “is what I detest; I must therefore destroy whatever I detest. Destroy f Oh, no; my vengeance must never drive me to evil deeds; it must never persuade me to use fire or the sword. “What, then, remains- This: to seek the cause of Andree's superiority, — to discover by what chain she will restrain at the same time my heart and my arm — Oh, to see her no more! — to be no more looked upon by her! Oh, to pass within two steps of that woman when, smiling with her insolent beauty, she holds by the hand her child — her child who will never know me — Heavens and earth! “

Gilbert accentuated that phrase with a furious blow of the fist on the wall, and with an oath more terrible still “Her child! here is the whole secret. It is not necessary that she should ever possess that child, whom she would accustom to execrate the name of Gilbert. It is necessary, on the contrary, for her to learn that the child will grow up execrating the name of Andree. In a word, that child, whom she would not love, whom she would torture, perhaps, for she has a bad heart, — that child, with whom they would continually scourge me, Andree must never see, but, losing it, she must rage and moan like a lioness deprived of her young.”

Gilbert rose, handsome in his wrath and savage joy. “That is it,” he said, extending his fist toward Andree's pavilion. “You have condemned me to shame, to loneliness, to remorse, to love; I condemn you to suffering without result, to loneliness, to shame, to terror, to hate without vengeance. You will seek for me, — I shall have fled. You will cry out for your child, if only to tear it to pieces on recovering it; but it will be at least a rage of desire which I shall have kindled in your soul; it will be a blade without a hilt which I shall have plunged into your heart. Yes, yes; the child! I shall have the child, Andree. I shall have, not your child, as you said, but mine. Gilbert will have his child! — a child noble on the mother's side. My child! — my child I “and gradually he excited himself to transports of intoxicating joy. “Now,” said he, “I have nothing to do with vulgar spite or pastoral lamentation; I have to do with a serious undertaking. There is no longer any reason to order my eyes not to seek yonder pavilion; I must order all my energy, all my soul, to watch, that the success of my enterprise may be assured. I will watch, Andree,” he said solemnly, and going nearer to the window, “day and night. You will not make a movement that I shall not see; you will not utter a cry of grief for which I shall not promise you a grief more bitter; you will not exhibit a smile to which I shall not reply by a sardonic and insulting laugh. You are my prey, Andree; a part of you is my property. I watch, I watch! “

Gilbert then went to the window, and saw the blinds of the pavilion opened; then Andrew's shadow glide over the curtains and the ceiling of the chamber, reflected doubtless by some mirror. Presently Philippe entered, who had risen earlier, but who had been at work in his own room, situated behind Andree's. Gilbert noticed that their conversation was animated. Doubtless they spoke of him, and of the scene of the evening before. Philippe walked about, showing signs of perplexity. That visit by Gilbert had perhaps induced them to modify their plans; perhaps they would go away in search of peace, obscurity, oblivion. At that idea Gilbert's eyes became luminous rays, which might have set fire to the pavilion and penetrated to the centre of the world.

But very soon a servant-girl entered by the garden-door; she brought a recommendation of some kind. Andree came to an agreement with her, for she installed herself at once, with her little bundle of clothes, in the chamber formerly occupied by Nicole. Furthermore, certain recent purchases of furniture, utensils, and provisions satisfied the vigilant Gilbert that the brother and sister intended to remain quietly in that habitation.

Philippe examined with close scrutiny the locks on the garden-door. What especially convinced Gilbert that lie was suspected of having entered by using a false key, given him perhaps by Nicole, was that the locksmith, in Philippe's presence, changed the wards of the locks. It inspired Gilbert with the first joy he had experienced since these events began. He smiled ironically. “Poor creatures! “he murmured; “they are not very dangerous. They strengthen the lock, and do not even suspect that I had the daring to scale the wall. A poor idea they have of you, Gilbert! So much the better. Yes, proud Andree, in spite of the locks on your door, if I wished to penetrate to you I could do it. But it is my turn for- good fortune; I scorn you, and unless caprice — “He pirouetted on his heels, imitating the roues of the court “But no,” he continued bitterly, “this is more worthy of me; I want no more of you. Sleep in peace; I have what is better than possession of you, with which to torture you at my ease. Sleep! “

Gilbert left the window, and after giving a glance at his clothes, he descended the stairs, and started out to visit Balsamo.

CHAPTER CLIII. THE FIFTEENTH OF DECEMBER.

Gilbert found no difficulty, as far as Fritz was concerned, in being admitted to Balsamo.

The count was resting on a sofa, like a rich and idle man, from the fatigue of having slept all night, — at least so Gilbert thought, seeing him lying there at so early an hour. The order must have been given to the valet to admit Gilbert whenever he should present himself, for he had no occasion to give his name.

As Gilbert entered, Balsamo rose upon his elbow and closed his book, which he held open without reading. *' Oh, oh! “said he, “here is a fellow who is going to be* married.”

Gilbert did not answer.

“Good! “said the count, resuming his indolent attitude; “you are happy and almost grateful. You come to thank me; it is superfluous. Keep that, Gilbert, for new occasions. Thanks are a currency which is generally satisfactory when bestowed with a smile. There, my friend, there!”

There was in these words and in Balsamo's tone an accent mournful and gentle, which struck Gilbert as conveying at the same time a reproach and a revelation.

“No,” he said; “you are mistaken, Monsieur. I am not to marry at all.”

“Ah!” said the count, “what are you going to do “t What has happened- “

“I have been rejected,” replied Gilbert.

The count turned completely round. “You have misunderstood, my friend.”

“No, Monsieur; I think not, at least.”

“Who rejected you-”

“The young lady.”

“Of course; why did you not speak to her father-”

“Because fate ordered otherwise.”

“Ah, we are fatalist!”

“I have not the capacity for possessing faith.”

Balsamo frowned, and looked at Gilbert with a sort of curiosity. “Do not speak of things of which you are ignorant,” he said; “with men it is stupidity, with children it is presumption. I will permit you to have pride, but not to be an idiot; tell me that you have not the capacity to be a fool, and I will approve. In short, what have you done-”

“This: Like the poets, I wished to dream instead of act; I wished to walk in the avenues where I had enjoyed dreaming of love, and suddenly the reality presented itself to me before I was prepared for it. The reality killed me at once.”

“Again it serves you right, Gilbert; for a man in such a situation as yours resembles the scouts of the army. Those men must march with the musket in the right hand and a dark-lantern in the left hand.”

“In short, Monsieur, I have failed. Mademoiselle Andree called me villain, assassin, and said that she would have me killed.”

“Good! but her child-”

“She told me that the child was hers, not mine.”

““What next t “

“Then I retired.”

“Ah!”

Gilbert looked up. “What would you have done-” he said.

“I do not know yet. Tell me what you wish to do.”

“To punish her for subjecting me to such humiliations.”

“Mere words, that.”

“No, Monsieur; it is a resolution.”

“But you allowed her, perhaps, to wrest your secret from you, your money-”

“My secret is my own, and no one shall have it. The money is yours; I have brought it back,” and Gilbert opened his vest and drew from it the thirty notes, which he counted carefully, spreading them out on Balsamo's table.

The count took them, folded them, all the time watching Gilbert, whose face betrayed not the slightest emotion. “He is honest; he is not covetous. He has sense, firmness; he is a man,” he thought.

“Now, Monsieur le Comte,” said Gilbert, “I have to give you an account of the two louis you gave me.”

“Do not overdo it,” replied Balsamo; “it is handsome to return one hundred thousand crowns; it is childish to return forty-eight francs.”

“I did not wish to return them; I only wished to tell you what I had done with these louis, that you may know that I need others.”

“That is different. You ask, then-”

“I ask.”

“For what- “

“For means to do what just now you called ' mere words.'“

“Be it so. You wish to avenge yourself.”

“Nobly, I think.”

“I do not doubt it; but cruelly-”

“Yes, cruelly.”

“How much do you need-”

“Twenty thousand francs.”

“And you will not touch this young woman-” said Balsamo, expecting to check Gilbert by this question.

“I will not touch her.”

“Her brother-”

“Neither her brother, nor her father.”

“You will not calumniate her-”

“I will never speak her name.”

“Good; I understand you. But it is equally as bad to kill a woman with continual insults, as to stab her with a weapon. You wish to defy her by showing yourself, by following her, by heaping upon her smiles full of insult and hatred.”

“I have so little desire to do this, that I come to ask for means for crossing the sea without expense to myself, in case I should desire to leave France.”

“Master Gilbert,” exclaimed Balsamo, with eager and caressing tone, which contained however neither grief nor joy, — “Master Gilbert, it seems to me that you are not consistent with your display of disinterestedness. You ask me for twenty thousand francs, and from this sum you cannot take one thousand for passage money-”

“No, Monsieur; and there are two reasons for that.”

“Let me hear the reasons!”

“In the first place, I shall not have a farthing on the day I embark; for mark this well, Monsieur le Comte, it is not for myself I ask it, — I ask it for the reparation of a wrong which you facilitated — “

“Ah, you are tenacious! “said Balsamo, with pinched lips.

“Because I am right. I ask you for money for reparation, I tell you, and not for my living or for my own comfort. Not a sou of these twenty thousand francs will touch my pocket; they have their destination.”

“Your child; I see that — “

“My child; yes, Monsieur,” replied Gilbert, with a certain pride.

“But yourself!”

“I am strong, free, and intelligent; I can always live. I wish to live.”

“Oh, you will live! God never gives such strength of will to souls which are to leave this earth prematurely. God clothes warmly the plants which have to endure long winters; he gives armor of steel to hearts which must bear heavy trials. But you have, it seems to me, told me of two reasons for not appropriating one thousand francs, — in the first place, delicacy.”

“Secondly, prudence. When I leave France, I must do so secretly. Now, I cannot succeed in this, if I seek out some captain in the port, paying him myself, — for I presume it is done in that way, — it is not- say, by going out to sail myself that I shall succeed in hiding myself.”

“Then you suppose that I can aid you in disappearing-”

“I know that you can.”

“Who told you so-”

“Oh, you have too many supernatural means at your disposal not to have a whole storehouse of natural means. A sorcerer is never so sure of himself that he has not some haven of safety.”

“Gilbert,” said Balsamo, suddenly, extending his hand to the young man, “you are a bold, adventurous spirit; you are made up of evil and good like a woman; you are stoical and unaffectedly upright, — I will make a very great man of you. Stay here, I say; this hotel is a safe asylum; besides, I leave Europe in a few months, — I will take you away.”

Gilbert listened. “In a few months I would not decline your offer; but to-day I must say, Thanks, Monsieur le Comte, your proposal is dazzling to a poor man; at the same time I refuse it.”

“A moment's vengeance is worth more than a future of fifty years, perhaps!”

“Monsieur, while my fancy or my caprice possesses me it is always worth to me more than the whole universe; and besides vengeance, I have a duty to fulfill.”

“There are your twenty thousand franca,” replied Balsamo, without hesitation.

Gilbert took two bank-notes, and looking at his benefactor, “You give like a king! “he said.

“Oh, better, I hope,” said Balsamo; “for I do not ask even to be remembered.”

“But I am grateful, as you said just now; and when my task shall be accomplished, I will pay you these twenty thousand francs.”

“How can you do that-”

“By putting myself in your service for as many years as will be required for a servant to pay his master twenty thousand francs.”

“You are again illogical. Gilbert. You said to me a moment ago, ' I ask you for twenty thousand francs, which you owe me.' “

“That is true; but you have won my heart.”

“I am glad of it,” said Balsamo, coldly. “So, you will be mine, if I wish it-”

“Yes.”

“What do you know how to do- “

“Nothing; but I am capable of everything.”

“That is true.”

“But I wish to have in my pocket the means for leaving France in two hours, if necessary.”

“Ah, my service is then deserted.”

“I shall be sure to return to you.”

“And I shall be sure to find you again. Well, let us finish; it tires me to talk so long. Draw up the table.”

“There it is.”

Balsamo took from it some papers, and began to read half-aloud the following lines upon one of the papers, inscribed with three signatures, or rather three strange ciphers: “' The fifteenth of December, from Havre for Boston, P. J. the Adonis.' What do you think of America, Gilbert t “

“That it is not France, and that I shall be very glad to go by sea, at a certain moment, into any country whatever that is not France.”

“Good! About the fifteenth of December; is not that the time to which you allude-”

Gilbert counted on his fingers, reflecting. “Precisely,” he said.

Balsamo took a pen and wrote upon a fresh sheet these two lines, -

Receive upon the “Adonis “a passenger.

Joseph Balsamo.

“But this paper is dangerous,” said Gilbert, “and I who seek a shelter may find the Bastille.”

“By having too much imagination one becomes absurd,” said the count. “The 'Adonis,' my dear Monsieur Gilbert, is a merchant vessel of which I am the principal owner.”

“Pardon me, Monsieur le Comte,” said Gilbert, bowing; “I am indeed an unhappy fellow whose head is sometimes turned, — but never twice in succession. Pardon me, and believe in my gratitude.”

“Go, my friend.”

“Adieu, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Au revoir,” said Balsamo, turning away.

CHAPTER CLIV. THE LAST AUDIENCE.

In November, that is several months after the events we have related had taken place, Philippe de Taverney went out very early in the morning, considering the season, — that is to say, at daybreak, — from the house in which he lived with his sister. Already all the little Parisian industries were astir under the lamps still lighted. There were the little smoking cakes which the poor merchant from the country devours as a feast in the keen, morning air, the trucks loaded with vegetables, the carts full of fish and oysters going to market; and there was, in all this hustle of the laborious crowd, a sort of restraint imposed upon the workmen by respect for the sleep of the rich.

Philippe hurried across the populous and crowded quarter in which he lived, to reach the Champs-Elysees, which was absolutely deserted.

The leaves were turning red upon the tops of the trees; the beaten walks of the Queen's Court, and the bowling- greens, abandoned at this hour, were hidden under a thick carpet of these rustling leaves.

The young man was dressed like the rich bourgeois of Paris, in a coat with long skirts, in breeches and silk stockings; he carried a sword; his carefully arranged hair indicated that he must have been in the hands of his hairdresser long before daybreak. So, when Philippe saw that the morning wind was deranging his hair and scattering the powder, he threw a glance full of displeasure upon the avenue of the Champs-Elysees, to see if any of the public carriages on this route were not already running. Nor did he have long to wait. A carriage worn out, faded, broken, drawn by a starved, dun mare, came jolting along the street; its driver, with a watchful eye and dejected expression, searched afar among the trees for a passenger, as Epees watched for one of his vessels on the waves of the sea. On perceiving Philippe he applied his whip, and the carriage came up with the passenger.

“Arrange,” said Philippe, “to have me at Versailles at nine o'clock precisely, and you shall have half a crown.”

In fact, at nine o'clock Philippe had with the dauphiness one of those morning audiences which she had begun to give. Alert, and freeing herself from every law of etiquette, the princess was accustomed to inspect every morning the work which she was having done at Trianon; and meeting on her way the solicitors to whom she had granted an interview, she disposed of them rapidly, with a presence of mind and an affability which did not exclude dignity, sometimes even haughtiness, when she perceived that her condescension was misconstrued.

Philippe had at first resolved to make the journey on foot, for he was reduced to the severest economy; but the sentiment of self-respect, or perhaps only that of the respect, which no military man ever loses, for his correct appearance in the presence of a superior, had constrained' the young man to dispense with economy for one day, that he might present himself properly at Versailles. He expected, indeed, to return on foot. So, on the same step of the ladder, starting from two opposite points, the patrician Philippe and the plebeian Gilbert had, ate we may see, come together.

Philippe beheld again with heavy heart that Versailles. still magical, where so many golden and roseate dreams had enchanted him with their promises. He beheld again, with broken heart, Trianon, memorial of misfortune and disgrace. At nine o'clock exactly, provided with his letter of audience, he sauntered in the.little walk near the pavilion. He perceived, at a distance of a hundred paces, the princess conversing with her architect, enveloped in furs though the weather was not cold. The young dauphiness, with a little hat in the style of that worn by the ladies of Watteau, was distinctly outlined against the green hedges. At times the sound of her silvery and vibrating voice reached Philippe, and awakened in him sentiments which ordinarily efface all chagrin in a wounded heart.

Several persons, favored like Philippe with an audience, presented themselves one after another at the door of the pavilion, in the antechamber of which an usher came to seek them in their turn. Placed along the course of the princess, whenever she returned, with Mique upon her footsteps, these persons received a word from Marie Antoinette, or even the special favor of an exchange of several words spoken privately. Then the princess would wait for another visitor to present himself.

Philippe remained the last. He had seen already the eyes of the princess turning toward him, as if she tried to recognize him; then he blushed and endeavored to assume in his place a modest and patient attitude. The usher came to him at length, and asked if he would not also present himself, since Madame la Dauphine was about to go in, and once having returned she would receive no one. Philippe therefore went forward. The dauphiness did not lose sight of him while he advanced over that distance of a hundred paces, and he chose the most favorable moment to make his respectful salutation.

The dauphiness turned to the usher, saying, “The name of this person who salutes- “

The usher read the letter of audience. “Monsieur Philippe de Taverney, Madame,” he replied.

“It is true,” said the princess; and she looked at the young man with an expression of interest. Philippe stood in an attitude of deference.

“Good-day, Monsieur de Taverney,” said Marie Antoinette; “how is Mademoiselle Andree-”

“Quite ill, Madame,” replied Philippe; “but my sister will be made happy by this evidence of interest your Highness deigns to show her.”

The dauphiness did not reply. She read the traces of suffering on Philippe's pale and wasted features, and could scarcely recognize, in the modest garb of a citizen, that handsome officer who had first served her as guide upon the soil of France.

“Monsieur Mique,” said she, approaching the architect, “we have, then, agreed concerning the ornamentation of the dancing-hall; the grove in the neighborhood is already decided upon. Pardon me for keeping you so long in the cold.”

This was equivalent to a dismissal; Mique saluted and went away. The dauphiness bowed to those persons who still were waiting, and they immediately retired.

Philippe understood that signal to be addressed to him as well as to the rest, and already his heart was oppressed, when the dauphiness, coming to him, said, “You say, then, Monsieur, that your sister is ill- “

“If not ill, Madame, at least drooping.”

“Drooping! “cried the dauphiness, with interest, — “she, in so good health! “

Philippe bowed. The young princess cast at him one of those searching glances which, in speaking of a man of

her rank, we should call an eagle's glance. Then after a pause, “Allow me to walk a little,” said she; “the wind is chilly.”

She advanced a few steps; Philippe remained in his place.

“What! you do not follow me-” said Marie Antoinette, turning.

Philippe made two bounds, and rejoined her.

“Why have you not sooner informed me of the condition of Mademoiselle Andree, in whom I am interested-”

“Alas!” said Philippe, “your Highness has just said the word; your Highness was interested in my sister, but now — “

“I am interested in her still, Monsieur; and yet it seems to me that Mademoiselle de Taverney left my service unseasonably.”

“Necessity, Madame! “said Philippe, in a low voice.

“What- that word ' necessity ' is alarming; explain that word, to me, Monsieur.”

Philippe made no reply.

“Doctor Louis,” continued the dauphiness, “has stated to me that the air of Versailles was injurious to the health of Mademoiselle de Taverney, which might be restored by a residence in the family home. This is all that I have learned. Now, your sister paid me but one visit before her departure. She was pale; she was sad. I must say that she showed me much devotion in that interview, for she wept copiously.”

“Sincere tears, Madame,” said Philippe, whose heart beat violently, “the source of which is not exhausted.”

“I fancied,” continued the princess, “that your father had compelled his daughter to come to court, and that the.child regretted your country — some attachment — “

“Madame,” Philippe hastened to say, “my sister regrets only your Highness.”

“And she suffers — Strange illness, which the country air was to cure, and which it aggravates.”

“I will not longer deceive your Highness,” said Philippe; “my sister's illness is a profound sorrow, which has driven her nearly to despair. Mademoiselle de Taverney, however, loves in this world only your Highness and myself; but she begins to prefer God to all affections. And the audience which I have had the honor to solicit, Madame, is for the purpose of asking your aid respecting this desire of my sister.”

The dauphiness raised her head. “She wishes to enter the religious life, does she not- “

“Yes, Madame.”

“And you will suffer it, — you, who love that child-”

“I think I judge rightly her position, Madame; and this counsel came from me. Still, I love my sister too much for this counsel to be suspected, and the world will not ascribe it to avarice on my part. I have nothing to gain by Andree's withdrawing to a cloister; neither of us possesses anything.”

The dauphiness paused, and with a stealthy glance at Philippe, “That is what I was saying just now, when you would not understand me, Monsieur; you are not rich.”

“Your Highness — “

“No false shame, Monsieur; the happiness of that poor girl is at stake. Answer me sincerely, like an honest man, — as I am sure you are.”

The brilliant and loyal eyes of Philippe met the gaze of the princess, and were not lowered. “I will reply, Madame,” he said.

“Well, is it through necessity that your sister wishes to leave the world- Let her speak. Good God! princes are unfortunate. God has given them hearts to pity the suffering; but he has refused them that supreme clearsightedness which can discover suffering under the veil of reserve. Answer, then, frankly; is that it-”

“No, Madame,” said Philippe, with firmness, “it is not that; nevertheless, my sister wishes to enter the convent of Saint Denis, and we have but a third of the entrance- money.”

“The entrance-money is sixty thousand francs! “cried the princess; “you have, then, only twenty thousand francs- “

“Hardly that, Madame; but we know that your Highness can, by a word, and without opening your purse, give admission to the convent.”

“Certainly I can.”

“This, then, is the single favor which I shall venture to solicit from your Highness, unless you have already promised to someone else your intercession with Madame Louise.”

“Colonel, you surprise me strangely,” said Marie Antoinette. “What! so near to me I have so much noble poverty! Eh, Colonel, you should not thus have deceived me.”

“I am not colonel, Madame,” replied Philippe, gently; “I am only your Highness's devoted servant.”

“Not colonel, you say- And since when-”

“I have never been colonel, Madame.”

“The king promised in my presence a regiment — “

“The commission for which was never sent.”

“But you had a rank — “

“Which I have resigned, Madame, having fallen into disgrace with the king.”

«Why-”

“I do not know.”

“Oh!” said the dauphiness, with deep sadness, — “oh, the court!”

Philippe smiled sorrowfully. “You are an angel from heaven, Madame,” he said; “and I regret not serving the house of France, that I might have an opportunity of dying for you.”

A light so vivid and so warm came into the eyes of the dauphiness that Philippe hid his face in his hands. The princess did not even try to console him, or to draw from him the sentiment that overpowered him at that moment. Silent, and breathing with effort, she picked the petals of some Bengal roses, plucked from their stem by her nervous and trembling hand.

Philippe recovered himself. “Pardon me, Madame,” he.said.

Marie Antoinette did not reply to these words. “Tour sister will enter Saint Denis to-morrow, if she wishes,” she said, with feverish excitement; “and you in a month will be at the head of a regiment. I am determined.”

“Madame,” replied Philippe, “will you still have the goodness to hear me in my last explanations- My sister accepts the gift of your Royal Highness; as for myself, I must refuse it.”

“You refuse-”

“Yes, Madame; I have received an affront from the court; the enemies who have inflicted it on me would find a way to wound me more severely, on seeing me in higher station.”

“What! even under my protection- “

“Especially because of your gracious protection, Madame,” said Philippe, resolutely.

“It is true,” said the princess, turning pale.

“And then, Madame, — no, I forget, in speaking with you, that there is no more happiness on earth; I forget that once entered into obscurity, I must no more leave it. In obscurity a man of heart prays and remembers.”

Philippe pronounced these words with an accent that made the princess start. “A day will come,” said she, “when I shall have the right to say what now I can only think. Monsieur, your sister may enter at Saint Denis whenever she pleases.”

“Thanks, Madame, thanks.”

“As to yourself- I wish you to make me a request.”

“But, Madame — “

“I wish it.”

Philippe saw the gloved hand of the princess extended toward him; it remained suspended, as if in expectation, perhaps it expressed only command. The young man knelt, took the hand, and slowly, with a swelling and palpitating heart touched it with his lips.

“The request! come! “said the dauphiness, so moved that she did not withdraw her hand.

Philippe bowed his head. A flood of bitter thoughts overwhelmed him. He remained some seconds silent and motionless; then, rising, pale and dull-eyed, “A passport to leave France,” said he, “the day my sister enters the convent of Saint Denis.”

The dauphiness recoiled as if terrified. Then, seeing all that grief, which doubtless she comprehended, which perhaps she shared, she could reply only by the words, hardly intelligible, “It is well.” And she disappeared in an avenue of cypress-trees, the only ones that had preserved intact their everlasting leaves, a mantle of the tomb.

CHAPTER CLV. THE CHILD WITHOUT A FATHER.

The day of pain, the day of shame drew near. Andree, notwithstanding the visits, more and more frequent, of the good Doctor Louis, notwithstanding the affectionate care and consolations of Philippe, became continually more depressed, like the condemned whose last hour approaches. The unhappy brother sometimes found Andree dreamy and trembling; her eyes were dry; for whole days she would not speak; then suddenly she would rise and make several turns around her chamber, trying, like Dido, to get away from herself, — that is to say, from the sorrow that was killing her.

At length, seeing her one evening paler, more uneasy, more nervous than usual, Philippe sent for the doctor to come at once. It was the twenty-ninth of November. Philippe had had the art to keep Andree sitting up until a late hour; he had entered with her upon subjects of conversation the most gloomy, the most intimate, those even which the young girl dreaded, as the wounded man dreads a rough and heavy hand approaching his wound. He was sitting near the fire. The servant, on starting for Versailles to get the doctor, had forgotten to close the blinds, so that the reflection of the lamp, that of the fire even, cast a soft light on the carpet of snow thrown on the soil of the garden by the first frosts of winter.

Philippe waited till Andree's mind began to grow calm, and then, without preamble, “Dear sister,” he said, “have you at last come to a decision-”

“On what subject-” replied Andree, with a sigh of pain.

“On the subject — of your child, sister.”

Andree started.

“The time approaches,.” continued Philippe.

“My God-”

“And I should not be surprised if to-morrow-”

“To-morrow-”

“To-day, even, dear sister.”

Andree became so pale that Philippe, alarmed, took hold of her and kissed her hand. She presently recovered, “Brother,” she said, “I will not practice toward you the hypocrisies which dishonor vulgar souls. Expectation of good is in my mind confounded with expectation of evil. What is evil I no longer know, since I have lost confidence in what is good. So do not judge me more severely than one would judge a foolish person, — unless you prefer to take seriously the philosophy which I am about to outline to you, and which, I assure you, is the perfect, consummate expression of my sentiments as I gather it from my experience.”

“Whatever you may say, Andree, whatever you may do, you will always be to me the dearest, the most respected of women.”

“Thank you, my only friend. I dare to say that I am not unworthy of what you promise me. I am a mother, Philippe; but God has appointed, — I think so, at least,” she added, blushing, — “that maternity should be, with the creature, a state analogous to that of fructification in the plant. The fruit comes only after the flower. In the flowering the plant is prepared, transformed; for the flowering, according to my idea, is love.”

“You are right, Andree.”

“I,” continued the young girl, quickly, — “I have known neither preparation nor transformation; I am an anomaly. I have not loved, I have not desired; my mind and heart are as virginal as my body; and yet, sad prodigy! what I have not desired, what I have not even dreamed of, God sends me, — he who has never given fruit to the tree created to be sterile. Where in me are the aptitudes, the instincts; where are the resources, even- The mother who suffers the pains of confinement knows and understands her lot; I — I know nothing. I tremble at thought; I go to that last day as I would go to the scaffold. Philippe, I am accursed.”

“Andree, sister! “

“Philippe,” she resumed vehemently, “do I not well know that I hate that child- Oh, yes! I hate it! I shall remember all my life, if I live, Philippe, the day when for the first time the mortal enemy I bear stirred within me. I shudder yet as I remember how that movement, so sweet to mothers, of the innocent creature kindled in my blood a fever of wrath, and brought blasphemy to my lips, till then so pure. Philippe, I am a bad mother; Philippe I am accursed! “

“In the name of Heaven, dear Andree, calm yourself. Let not your mind lead your heart astray. That child is your life, your blood; I love it, because it comes from you.”

“You love it! “she exclaimed, furious and livid; “you dare to tell me, me, that you love my dishonor and your own! you dare to tell me that you love that memorial of a crime, that representation of the base criminal! Well, Philippe, I am not base, I am not false; I hate the child because it is not my child, and I have not called it. I execrate it because it will, perhaps, resemble its father. Its father! — Oh! I shall die some day in pronouncing that horrible word! My God! “she cried, falling to her knees on the floor, “I cannot kill that child at its birth, for thou dost give it life. I could not kill myself while I bore it, for thou hast forbidden suicide as well as murder. But I pray thee, I beseech thee, I implore thee, if thou art just, my God, if thou carest for the miseries of this world, if thou hast not decreed that I shall die of despair after having lived in disgrace and tears, — my God, take back that child! My God, kill that child! My God, deliver me! avenge me! “Terrible with rage, and grand in movement, she struck her forehead against the marble chimney- piece in spite of Philippe's efforts, who pressed her in his arms. Suddenly the door opened; the servant returned, conducting the doctor, who at the first glance understood the whole scene.

“Madame,” said the doctor, with that professional quiet which always imposes restraint or submission, “do not aggravate the pains of this labor which is now approaching. You,” he said to the servant, “prepare everything as I told you on the way. You,” speaking to Philippe, “will be more reasonable than Madame, and instead of sharing her fears and her weakness, you will add your encouragements to mine.”

Andree rose almost ashamed. Philippe led her to an armchair. The patient then turned red and threw herself back in a painful convulsion; her clenched hands clung to the fringes of the chair, and the first cry issued from her violet lips.

“That sorrow, that fall, that anger, have hastened the crisis,” said the doctor; “withdraw to your chamber, Monsieur de Taverney, and — courage! “

Philippe, with swelling heart, rushed to Andree, who had heard, who trembled, and who, rising in spite of her pain, threw her arms around her brother's neck. She embraced him closely, kissed his cold cheek, and said in a low voice, “Adieu! adieu! adieu! “

“Doctor! Doctor! “cried Philippe, in despair; “do you hear!”

Louis separated the unhappy couple with gentle force, replaced Andr4e in the easy chair, conducted Philippe to his chamber, and bolted the door which separated it from Andree's room; then closing curtains and doors, I'm shrouded thus the scene which was about to take place between the physician and the woman, between God and both.

At three o'clock in the morning the doctor opened the door behind which Philippe wept and prayed. “Your sister has given birth to a son,” he said.

Philippe clasped his hands.

“Do not come in,” said the doctor; “she is asleep.”

“She sleeps — Oh, Doctor! is it really true that she sleeps r

“If it were otherwise, Monsieur, I should say to you: Your sister has given birth to a son, but that son has lost his mother. Look, then.”

Philippe put his head through the door.

“Listen to her breathing.”

“Yes! oh, yes!” murmured Philippe, embracing the doctor.

“Now, you know that we have engaged a nurse. In passing the Point-du-Jour, where that woman lives, I notified her to be ready. But you alone can bring her; take advantage, then, of the patient's sleep, and set off with the carriage in which I came.”

“But you, Doctor, you-”

“I have in the Place Royale a patient very ill with pleurisy. I will finish the night at his bedside.”

“The cold, Doctor — “

“I have my cloak.”

“The town is not very safe.”

“Twenty times in twenty years I have been stopped by

night. I have always replied: ' My friend, I am a physician, on my way to a patient. Do you wish for my cloak- Take it; but do not kill me, for without me my patient may die.' And observe, Monsieur, this cloak has seen twenty years' service. The thieves have always left it to me.”

“Good doctor — To-morrow, is it not-”

“To-morrow, at eight o'clock, I shall be here!” The doctor directed the servant to perform certain services, and bestow careful attention on the patient. He wished the child to be placed by its mother's side. Philippe begged him to remove it, recalling his sister's last words.

Louis therefore placed the child in the servant's chamber, and then departed by way of the Eue Montorgueil, while the carriage took Philippe in the direction of Roule. The servant fell asleep in the easy chair near her mistress.

CHAPTER CLVI. THE ABDUCTION.

Is the intervals of the refreshing sleep that follows great fatigue, the mind seems to acquire a double force, — the faculty of appreciating the comfort of the situation, and the faculty of watching over the body in its prostration.

Andre*e, returning to a consciousness of life, opened her eyes and saw at her side the sleeping servant. She heard the joyous crackling on the hearth, and wondered at the silence of the chamber where everything was, like herself, in repose. This consciousness was not that of complete wakefulness, nor was it a dream. Andree took pleasure in prolonging that state of indecision, of soft somnolence; she suffered ideas to spring Up one after another in her tired brain, as if she feared the sudden invasion of reason in its completeness. Suddenly a cry, distant, feeble, hardly heard, reached her ear through the thickness of the partition. This noise again produced in Andree the trembling from which she had suffered so much. It brought back to her that feeling of hatred which for some months had troubled her innocence and her kindness, as a shock disturbs a liquid in a vessel in which dregs are sleeping.

From this moment there was for Andree no more sleep nor repose; she remembered,-she hated. But the force of sensations is commonly in proportion to corporeal strength. Andree no longer had the rigor she had manifested in the scene with Philippe the evening before. The cry of the child reached her brain, first as a pain, and then as an annoyance. At length she asked herself if Philippe, in removing that child, with his usual consideration, had not been the executor of a will somewhat cruel.

The thought of the evil we wish to any creature is not so repulsive as the sight of it. Andree, who execrated that child when an invisible idea, who had even desired its death, was hurt at hearing the unfortunate being cry “He is suffering,” she thought. And then she replied to herself, “Why should I be concerned for his sufferings, — I, the most miserable of living creatures-”

The child uttered another cry, louder and more painful. Andree then perceived that this voice awoke in her, as it were, a troubled voice, and felt her heart drawn as by an invisible chain toward the abandoned, crying child. That of which the young girl had felt the want was now realized in her. Nature had accomplished one of its preparations. Physical pain, that strong tie, had bound the mother's heart to the slightest movement of her child.

“It must not be,” thought Andree, “that this poor orphan cries to Heaven for vengeance against me. God has given to these little creatures, hardly born, the most eloquent of voices. One may kill them, — that is, put them out of suffering; but one has no right to inflict pain upon them. If we had that right, God would not have permitted them to cry so.”

Andree raised her head, and tried to call her servant; but her feeble voice could not arouse the robust peasant. The child had ceased crying.

“Doubtless,” thought Andree, “the nurse has arrived; I heard the noise of the outer door. Yes, someone is moving in the next room; and the little creature no longer cries. The care of a stranger is already extended over it, and reassures its unformed intelligence. Oh, she, then, is the mother who takes care of the child! For a few crowns the child born of my body will find a mother. And later, passing near me who have suffered so much, near me whose life has produced its own, that child will not look at me; it will say ' mother' to a mercenary more generous in her hired love than I in my just resentment. That shall not be. I have suffered; I have purchased the right to look on the face of that child; I have the right to compel it to love me for my care, to respect me for my sacrifice and my sorrow.” She made a more determined effort, summoned all her forces, and called, “Marguerite I Marguerite!”

The servant awoke lazily, and without moving from her easy chair, to which she was bound by a heaviness almost lethargic.

“Do you hear me- “said Andree.

“Yes, Madame, yes,” said Marguerite, coming to her senses. And she approached the bed. “Madame wishes to drink!”

“No.”

“Madame perhaps wishes to know what time it is-”

“No, no,” replied Andree, looking steadily at the door of the next chamber.

“Ah, I understand; Madame wishes to know if Monsieur her brother has returned.”

Andree struggled against her desire with all the weakness of a proud soul, with all the energy of a warm and generous heart.

“I wish,” she stammered at length, — “I wish — Open that door, Marguerite.”

“Yes, Madame — Ah, how cold it is there! The wind, Madame, — what a wind! “

The wind in fact came into Andree's chamber, and shook the flame of the candles and of the night-lamp.

“It is the nurse, who has left open a door or a window. See, Marguerite, see! That child must he cold.”

Marguerite turned toward the adjoining chamber. “I will go and cover him up, Madame,” she said.

“No, no!” murmured Andree, with a feeble and broken voice; “bring it to me.”

Marguerite stopped in the middle of the chamber. “Madame,” she said softly, “Monsieur Philippe expressly directed the child to be left there, — fearing, no doubt, that Madame might be disturbed or excited.”

“Bring me my child! “cried the young mother, with a burst that might have broken her heart; for from her eyes, which Lad continued dry in the midst of her sufferings, issued tears on which must have smiled, in heaven, the protecting angels of little children.

Marguerite hastened into the chamber. Andree, sitting up, hid her face in her hands. The servant returned immediately, with a look of stupefaction.

“Well'!”said Andree.

“Well — Madame — someone, then, has come t “

“What, — someone- Who-”

“Madame, the child is no longer there.”

“Indeed, I heard a noise a little while ago,” said Andree, — “steps; the nurse must have come while you were asleep, — she did not wish to wake you. But where is my brother- Look in his chamber.”

Marguerite ran to Philippe's room. No one there!

“It is strange,” said Andree, anxiously; “can he have gone out again without seeing me-”

“Ah, Madame!” cried the servant.

“What is it-”

“The street-door was just opened.”

“Look! look!”

“It is Monsieur Philippe returning. Enter, Monsieur, enter.”

Philippe, in fact, entered. Behind him a peasant woman, enveloped in a thick cloak of striped wool, bestowed upon the house that benevolent smile with which the hireling welcomes every new connection.

“Sister, sister, I am here,” said Philippe, coming into the chamber.

“Dear brother! what troubles, what sorrows I cause you! Ah, here is the nurse; I was so afraid she had gone — “

“Gone- she has just come.”

“Has returned, you mean. No; I heard her plainly a little while ago, softly as she walked.”

“I don't understand you, sister; no one — “

“Oh, I thank you, Philippe,” said Andre's, drawing him to her, and accenting each word, — “I thank you for having understood me so well that you would not take away that child till I had seen it — kissed it. Philippe, you have well read my heart. Yes, yes; be tranquil, I shall love my child.”

Philippe seized Andree's hand, and covered it with kisses.

“Tell the nurse to restore it to me,” added the young mother.

“But, Monsieur,” said the servant, “you know well that the child is no longer there.”

“What! what are you saying- “replied Philippe.

Andree looked at her brother with terror in her eyes. The young man ran to the servant's bed; he searched, and finding nothing, uttered a terrible cry. Andree followed his movements in the mirror. She saw him return, pale, with arms inert; she understood a part of the truth and replying like an echo to her brother's cry, she sighed, and fell back unconscious upon the pillow.

Philippe was not prepared either for this new misfortune or for Andree's great grief. He collected all his forces, and by dint of caresses, consolations, and tears, he recalled her to life.

“My child! “Andree murmured, — “my child! “

“Let us save the mother! “said Philippe to himself. “Sister, my dear sister, we are all crazy, it seems to me; we forget that the good doctor has taken the child away with him.”

“The doctor-” cried Andree, with the pain of doubt, with the joy of hope.

“Why, yes! why, yes! Ah, why, we lose our senses here!”

“Philippe, you swear to me — “

“Dear sister, you are no more reasonable than I. How do you imagine that that child could have disappeared-” and he forced a laugh which deceived both nurse and servant.

Andree came to herself. “Yet I heard — “she said.

“What-”

“Steps.”

Philippe shuddered. “Impossible!” he said; “you were asleep.”

“No, no; I was wide awake! I heard — I heard — - “

“Very well, you heard that good doctor, who, returning after my departure, because he feared for the health of that child, took him away. Besides, he had spoken to me about it.”

“You reassure me.”

“How could it be that I should not reassure you; it is 80 simple-”

“But then,” objected the nurse, “what am I doing beret”

“Sure enough! The doctor is waiting for you at your house.”

“Oh! “

“Go to him, then. That Marguerite slept so soundly that she heard nothing of what the doctor said, or else he did not speak to her.”

Andree fell back, more tranquil after that terrible shock. Philippe dismissed the nurse, and gave some directions to the servant. Then taking a lamp he examined carefully the door of the adjoining chamber, found a door of the garden open, saw footprints in the snow, and followed them to the garden-door, where they were lost. “Steps of a man! “he cried. “The child is stolen. Misfortune I misfortune!”

CHAPTER CLVII. THE VILLAGE OF HARAMONT.

Those footsteps in the snow were Gilbert's, who, since his last interview with Balsamo, had followed up his task of surveillance, and had made ready his vengeance. He had spared no pains. By dint of pleasant words and small services he had succeeded in making himself acceptable, even pleasing, to Rousseau's wife. His method was simple. Of the thirty sous a day which Rousseau allowed his copyist, the prudent Gilbert set aside one franc, three times every week, with which he purchased some little present for Therese, — a ribbon for her bonnet, a delicacy for the table, or a bottle of cordial. The good lady, sensitive to everything that flattered her taste or her small pride, was now and then gratified by exclamations of Gilbert at table in praise of her culinary skill.

For the Genevan philosopher had succeeded in getting his young protégé admitted to the table; and during the last two months Gilbert, thus favored, had accumulated two louis in his treasury, which slept under his pallet, side by side with Balsamo's twenty thousand francs.

But what a life! What persistency of resolution and of will! Rising at daybreak Gilbert began by examining with his keen eyes the situation of Andree, that he might discover the least change introduced into the dull and regular life of the recluse. Nothing, then, escaped his observation, — neither the sand of the garden-walks. where his piercing sight measured Andree's footprints; nor the folds of the curtains, more or less closely drawn, the opening in which was for him a sure index of Andree's humor, for on her days of gloom she refused even to see the light of day. Thus Gilbert knew what was going on in her soul, and in the house. He had also learned to interpret all Philippe's movements; and making his inferences with skill, he divined Philippe's purpose when he went out, and what result he brought on his return. He pushed detail so far as to follow Philippe one evening when he went to Versailles to find Doctor Louis. This visit to Versailles had slightly puzzled him; but when, two days later, lie saw the doctor stealing furtively into the garden he understood the mystery.

Gilbert knew the dates, and was aware that the time for the realization of all his hopes was at hand. He had taken all the precautions necessary to assure success in an enterprise bristling with difficulties. This was his plan as laid out: the two louis enabled him to hire in the Faubourg Saint Denis a cabriolet with two horses. That carriage was to be at his orders whenever he should need it. He had also explored the suburbs of Paris in a vacation of three or four days which he had taken. During that vacation he had visited a little town of Soissonnais, lying eighteen leagues from Paris, and surrounded by a vast forest. This little town was called Villers-Cotterets. On arriving he had immediately called upon the only notary in the place, Maitre Niquet. To him Gilbert presented himself as the son of a great nobleman's intendant. This great nobleman, wishing to do a kindness to the child of one of his peasants, had charged Gilbert to find a nurse for it. In all probability the munificence of the great nobleman would not be limited to the nurse's monthly pay; and besides, he would place in the hands of Maitre Niquet a certain sum for the use of the child.

Then Maitre Niquet, the father of three fine boys, had mentioned to him the daughter of the nurse of his three sons, who lived in the little village of Haramont, a league from Villers-Cotterets, and who, after being legitimately married in his office, continued the occupation of madame her mother. This honest woman was named Madeleine Pitou, and was the happy mother of a son, four years old, who showed every indication of robust health; besides, she had recently been confined, and consequently would be at Gilbert's service whenever he should bring or send his nursling.

These arrangements having been made, Gilbert, always punctual, had returned to Paris two hours before the expiration of his leave of absence.

Why had Gilbert chosen the little town of Villers-Cotterets, in preference to all others- In this, as in many other matters, he had been guided by the influence of Rousseau, who had once spoken of the forest of Villers- Cotterets as one of the most fertile in existence, and had named three or four villages hidden in that forest like nests in deep foliage. It would be impossible, then, for anyone to discover Gilbert's child in one of those villages.

Haramont especially had interested Rousseau, — so much indeed, that he, the misanthrope, the hermit, said again and again: “Haramont is the end of the world; Haramont is the desert; one can live and die there like the birds, — on the branch while he lives, under the leaves when he dies.” Gilbert had also heard the philosopher describe the interior of a cottage, lighting up details with the fire of his genius, — from the smile of the nurse to the bleating of the goat; from the appetizing odor of the thick vegetable soup to the perfumes of the wild mulberry and the violet-colored heather.

“I will go there,” Gilbert had said; “my child shall grow up beneath the shades where the master has breathed his wishes and his sighs.”

To Gilbert a caprice was an inexorable command, especially when that caprice presented itself in the guise of a moral necessity. His joy, then, was great when Maitre Niquet, anticipating his wishes, mentioned Haramont to him as a village that would suit his purposes exactly.

On his return to Paris, Gilbert had given his attention to the cabriolet. It was not handsome, but it was strong, — it was all that he needed. The horses were of heavy build; the postilion was a dull fellow from the stables. But what Gilbert had in mind was to fulfill his intentions, and without awakening any curiosity. His story had not been questioned by Maitre Niquet; with his new garments he was of sufficiently good appearance to resemble the son of the intendant of a good family, or the valet, in disguise, of a duke and peer. Nor had his proposition been received with any suspicion by the owner of the cabriolet. It was a period when there was still confidence between the people and gentlemen. Money paid was received in those times with a degree of gratitude and without the asking of questions. Besides, two louis were then worth as much as four are worth to-day; and to-day four louis are good to earn. The proprietor agreed therefore that on two hours' notice his carriage should be at Gilbert's service.

This enterprise had for the young man all the attractiveness which the imagination of poets and that of philosophers, — two fairies very differently clad, — lend to good actions and to good resolutions. To remove the child from its cruel mother, -that is, to plant shame and sorrow in the enemy's camp, — and then with a change of front, to enter the cottage of virtuous villagers, as painted by Rousseau, and deposit on a child's cradle a large sum of money, to be regarded as a tutelary god by those poor villagers, to pass for a grand personage, — this was more than enough to satisfy pride, resentment, love for neighbors, hatred for enemies.

The fatal day at length arrived. It followed ten other days which Gilbert had spent in anxiety, ten nights in which he had hardly slept. Notwithstanding the severity of the weather he lay with his window open, and every movement of Andree or of Philippe was repeated in his ear, as the bell answers to the hand that pulls the cord. On this last day he saw Philippe and Andree talking together near the fireplace; he saw the servant set out hastily for Versailles, forgetting to close the blinds. He ran immediately to notify the owner of the carriage, and waited in front of the stable while they harnessed the horses, biting his hands in the effort to control his impatience. At length the postilion mounted his horse, and Gilbert the cabriolet, which he stopped at the corner of a little deserted street near the market. He then returned to Rousseau's, and wrote a letter of farewell to the good philosopher, and of thanks to Therese, announcing that a small inheritance called him to the South, and that he should return, — all without precise information. Then with his money in his pocket and a long knife in his sleeve he was about to slide down the gutter-pipe into the garden, when a sudden idea arrested him. The snow! He had been so occupied that he had not thought of that. On the snow his footprints would be visible. Those footprints, leading from the wall of Rousseau's house would cause Philippe and Andree to make an investigation, and his disappearance at the very time of the abduction would reveal the whole secret.

It was therefore necessary to go round by way of the Rue Coq-Heron, and enter by the garden-door, a key to which Gilbert had obtained a month previously, and from which ran a well-beaten path in which his feet would leave no tracks. He lost no time, and arrived while the carriage that had brought Doctor Louis was waiting before the principal entrance of the little hotel. He opened the door cautiously, saw no one, and went and hid himself in the corner of the pavilion, near the summer-house.

It was a terrible night. He could hear all, — the groans and cries wrested by suffering, even the first wail of the child that was born to him. Meanwhile, leaning against the naked wall, he received, without knowing it, the snow which fell thick and heavy from the darkened sky. His breast beat against the handle of the knife which he pressed despairingly to his breast. His fixed eyes had the color of blood, the glow of fire.

At length the doctor went out; at length Philippe exchanged with the doctor a few last words. Then Gilbert approached the blind, leaving a track on the carpet of snow which, ankle-deep, crackled under his step. He saw Andree sleeping on her bed, Marguerite dozing in the easy chair, and looking for the child near its mother, he did not see it. He understood immediately-and turned toward the entrance. He opened the door, not without- making a noise that alarmed him, and finding his way to the bed which had been Nicole's, feeling around he put his icy fingers on the poor child's face, who thereupon uttered the cries which Andree had heard. Then enveloping the new-born infant in a woolen wrap, he carried it away, leaving the door half-open, to avoid the risk of noise. A minute later he had gained the street by way of the garden; he hastened to his carriage, aroused the postilion whom he found asleep, and closing the leather curtain while the man mounted his horse, he said, -

““A half-louis for you, if in a quarter of an hour we have passed the barrier.”

The horses, sharp-shod for ice, started off at a gallop.

CHAPTER CLVII. THE PITOU FAMILY.

During the journey everything frightened Gilbert. The noise of the carriages that followed or passed by his own, the moaning of the wind in the dismantled trees, seemed to him sounds of an organized pursuit, or the cries of those from whom the child had been taken. Nothing threatened him, however. The postilion bravely did his duty, and the steaming horses arrived at Dammartin at the time Gilbert had expected, — that is, before the first light of day. Gilbert paid his half-louis, changed horses and postilion, and resumed his journey.

During the first part of the way, the child, carefully sheltered by the covering and shielded by Gilbert himself, had not felt the cold, and had not uttered a single cry. As soon as it was light Gilbert, seeing the country in the distance, felt more courageous, and to drown the cries which the child was beginning to make, he started on one of those everlasting songs which he used to sing at Taverney when he was returning from the chase. The creaking of the axle-tree and the traces, the noise of the iron-work about the carriage, the little, bells of the horses, made a diabolical accompaniment, the volume of which the postilion himself increased by mingling with Gilbert's refrain fragments of a Bourbonnaise of a character somewhat seditious.

This last driver did not even suspect that Gilbert had a child in the cabriolet. He stopped his horses just before reaching Villers-Cotterets, received the stipulated fare for

his journey, a crown and six francs, and Gilbert, taking up his burden carefully enveloped in the folds of the blanket; singing his song as seriously as possible, quickly moved away, crossed a ditch, and disappeared in a path strewed with leaves, which led to the village of Haramont.

The weather had become very cold. The snow had ceased falling; the ground was hard and bristling with underbrush and thorny bushes. Above could be seen the outlines of the trees of the forests, leafless and gloomy, through whose branches shone the pale blue of a sky still hazy. The keen air, the fragrance of the oaks, the pearls of ice suspended on the ends of the branches, all this freedom, all this poetry excited the young man's imagination. He walked with a rapid and proud step through the little ravine, without stumbling, without looking around; for in the midst of the groups of trees, he took for his guide the steeple of the hamlet and the blue smoke of the chimneys which could be seen through the gray lattice-work of the branches. Within half an hour he crossed a stream bordered with ivy and yellow cress, and asked, at the first cottage, the children of a laborer to direct him to the house of Madeleine Pitou.

Silent and attentive, instead of stupid and inactive like some peasants, the children rose, and staring at the stranger, led him, holding each other by the hand, to a cottage of fair size, of very good appearance, and situated by the banks of a stream which flowed by most of the houses in the village. The limpid waters of this stream were swollen somewhat by the first melting of the snow. A wooden bridge — that is, a large plank — joined the road to the steps of earth that led to the house.

One of the children, his guides, showed Gilbert where Madeleine Pitou lived.

“There- “repeated Gilbert.

The child nodded his head without saying a word.

“Madeleine Pitou-” Gilbert asked the child once more.

The latter having reiterated his silent affirmation, Gilbert crossed the little bridge, and knocked at the door of the cottage; while the children, who had again taken each other's hands, looked with all their might to see what had brought to Madeleine's house this fine gentleman in a brown suit and buckled shoes.

Gilbert, however, had not yet noticed in the village any living creature but these children. Haramont was really the desert so much desired.

As soon as the door was opened, a spectacle full of charm for everybody, but particularly so for a young philosopher, met Gilbert's view. A stout peasant woman was nursing a fine child, a few months old, while kneeling before her, another child, a vigorous boy four or five years of age, was saying his prayer in a loud voice. In a corner by the fireplace, near a window, or rather a hole cut in the wall and closed with glass, another peasant woman, about thirty-five years old, was spinning flax, — her wheel on her right, a wooden stool under her feet, a large poodle on the stool

The dog, seeing Gilbert, barked in a very hospitable and civil manner, just enough to show his vigilance. The child at prayers turned round, cutting short the utterance of the Pater, and the two women uttered a sort of exclamation of surprise mingled with joy.

Gilbert began by smiling at the nurse. “Good dame Madeleine,” he said, “I salute you.”

The woman started up, “Monsieur knows my name! “she said.

“As you see; but don't let me disturb you, I beg. In feet, instead of one nursling which you have now, you are about to have two;” and he deposited in the homely cradle of the country child the little city child he had brought.

“Oh, how pretty he is!” exclaimed the woman who was spinning.

“Yes, Sister Angelique, very pretty,” said Madeleine.

“Madame is your sister-” said Gilbert, pointing to the spinner.

“My sister, yes, Monsieur,” replied Madeleine; “my husband's sister.”

“Yes, my aunt Bezique,” murmured the little fellow, in a low voice, who joined in the conversation without rising.

“Be still, Ange; be still! “said the mother; “you interrupt Monsieur.”

“What I have to propose to you is very simple, good dame. This child is the son of one of my master's tenants, a ruined farmer. My master, godfather to this child, wishes him to be brought up in the country, and become a good workman, with good health and good manners; will you take charge of this child-”

“But, Monsieur — “

“He was born yesterday, and has not yet been nursed,” interrupted Gilbert. “Besides, it is the child of which Maître Niquet, notary of Villers-Cotterets, must have spoken to you.”

Madeleine immediately seized the child, and gave it the breast with a generous impetuosity which moved Gilbert deeply.

“They did not deceive me,” he said; “you are a good woman. I confide to your care this child in the name of my master. I see that he will be happy here, and I hope that he will bring into this cottage a dream of happiness in exchange for that which he will find here. How much a month did you have for the children of Maître Niquet, of Villers-Cotterets-”

“Twelve francs, Monsieur; but Monsieur Niquet is rich, and he added now and then a few francs for sugar and extras.”

“Mother Madeleine,” said Gilbert, with pride, “for this child you shall be paid twenty francs a mouth, which makes two hundred and forty francs a year.”

“Jesus! “cried Madeleine; “thanks, Monsieur.”

“This is for the first year,” said Gilbert, laying on the table ten handsome louis, which made the two women stare, and toward which the little Ange stretched his rapacious hand.

“But, Monsieur, if the child should not live-” the nurse objected timidly.

“That would be a great misfortune, — which will not happen,” said Gilbert. “You are satisfied with the monthly pay for nursing, then-”

“Oh, yes, Monsieur! “

“Let us pass to the payments of an allowance for the other years.”

“Will the child remain with us-”

“Probably.”

“In that case, Monsieur, we should be his father and mother.”

Gilbert turned pale. “Yes,” he said, in a suppressed tone.

“Then, Monsieur, this poor little one is abandoned-”

Gilbert was not expecting such emotion, such questions. He composed himself, however. “I have not told you all,” he added; “the poor father has died from grief.”

The two good women clasped their hands expressively.

“And the mother-” asked Angelique.

“Oh, the mother, the mother! “replied Gilbert, breathing painfully, “no child, born or unborn, can ever count on her.”

It was at this point in their conversation that Father Pitou returned from the fields, appearing calm and happy. His was one of those dull and honest natures, full of gentleness and health, which Greuze has represented in his excellent paintings. A few words explained to him the situation. Besides, he comprehended things through pride, especially those things which he did not understand.

Gilbert explained that the allowance of the child was to be paid until he became a man and capable of supporting himself by the use of his mind and his arms.

“Be it so,” said Pitou; “I think we shall love this child, he is so pretty.”

“He too,” said Angelique and Madeleine, — “he thinks as we do.”

“Come, then, with me, I beg, to see Maitre Niquet; I will deposit with him the necessary money, that you may be satisfied, and the child may be happy.”

“Immediately, Monsieur,” replied Pitou, rising from his seat.

Then Gilbert took leave of the good women, and approached the cradle in which the new-comer had already displaced the child of the house. He bent over the cradle with a gloomy look, and for the first time noticing the face of his son, he saw that it resembled Andree. This sight broke his heart; he had to bury his finger-nails in his flesh to restrain a tear which rose from his wounded heart to his eyelid. He placed a timid kiss on the fresh cheek of the newly born, and drew back tottering.

Father Pitou was already on the threshold, a stout stick in his hand, his best coat on his back.

Gilbert gave a half-louis to the chubby Ange Pitou, who crawled between his legs, and the two women requested the honor of embracing him, with the touching familiarity of country people.

This father of eighteen years had been so weighed down with emotions that he was nearly crushed by them. Pale, nervous, he began to grow bewildered.

“Let us go,” he said to Pitou.

“As you please, Monsieur,” replied the peasant, walking on; and they took their departure.

Suddenly Madeleine cried out from the door. “Monsieur! Monsieur! “

“What is it- “said Gilbert.

“His name! his name! What do you wish him to be called- “

“His name is Gilbert! “replied the young man, with a manly pride.

CHAPTER CLIX. THE DEPARTURE.

At the notary's, the business was soon disposed of, Gilbert deposited, under his own name, a sum of twenty thousand francs, lacking a few hundred, designed to defray the expenses of education and maintenance of the child, and also to establish him in some business when, he reached manhood. He allowed for the education and. maintenance the sum of five hundred francs a year for fifteen years, and decided that the rest of the money should be set aside for the purchase of some business or a piece of land.

Having thus provided for the child, Gilbert thought of the guardians. He wished that two thousand four hundred francs should be given to Pitou by the boy when he attained the age of eighteen years. Until then Maitre Niquet was to pay out annually only five hundred francs. Maitre Niquet was to enjoy the use of the money as compensation for his trouble.

Gilbert took a proper receipt for the money from Niquet, and for the child from Pitou, — Pitou witnessing the signature of Niquet, Niquet that of Pitou; so that at about noon Gilbert was ready to take his departure, leaving Niquet in a state of admiration for this precocious wisdom, and Pitou rejoicing in his good fortune.

On leaving the village of Haramont, Gilbert fancied himself separating from the whole world. Nothing had for him now either meaning or promise. He had left, behind the careless life of a young man, and had committed what men call a crime, which perhaps God would severely punish. At the same time, confident in his own strength of mind and body, Gilbert had the courage to tear himself away from Maitre Niquet, who had accompanied him, and had taken a great liking to him, and who tempted him by a thousand allurements.

But the mind is capricious; human nature is subject to weaknesses. In proportion as a man has will, spontaneity of action, energy in the execution of his plans, he measures the distance which already separates him from his first step. It is then that the most courageous are alarmed;; it is then that they say, like Caesar, “Have I done well in passing the Eubicon-”

Gilbert, finding himself on the verge of the forest, turned to look once more upon the brown tops of the trees which hid all Haramont except the steeple. This charming picture of happiness and peace plunged him into,a revery full of regret and delight.

“Fool that I am!” he said to himself; “where am I going- Will not God turn away in anger in the depths of heaven- What! an idea presented itself to me; what! circumstances favored the accomplishment of that idea; what! a man created by God to cause the wrong which I have done, has consented to repair this wrong, and I find myself to-day possessor of riches and my child! So, with ten thousand francs, ten thousand being reserved for the child, I can live here like a happy husbandman, among these good villagers, in the bosom of this sublime and fruitful Nature. I can bury myself forever in peaceful blessedness, in work and contemplation; I can forget the world, and be forgotten by it; I can — unbounded happiness! — bring up this child myself, and thus enjoy my labor. Why not- Are not these good chances compensation for all my past suffering- Oh, yes; I can live thus! yes, I can share in the division of this money with the child, which, besides, I shall have brought up myself, earning thus the money which would be given to these hirelings. I can confess to Maitre Niquet that I am his father; lean do everything.” And his heart was filled by degrees with inexpressible joy, and with a hope which he had not yet tasted, even in the most pleasant hallucinations of his dreams.

Suddenly the worm which slumbered at the core of this beautiful fruit awoke, and showed its hideous head; it was remorse, it was shame, it was misery. “I cannot,” said Gilbert, turning pale; “I have robbed this woman of her child, as I robbed her of her honor. I have robbed this man of money, to make, I said, reparation. I have, then, no longer the right to use it for my own happiness; I have no longer the right to keep the child, since the mother cannot have it; it belongs to both of us or to neither.”

And with these words, painful as wounds, Gilbert rose in despair; his face now expressed the most gloomy, the most hateful of passions. “Well, then,” said he; “I will be miserable; I will suffer; I will give up love and fortune; but the portion of good which I should have done, I will turn to evil. My patrimony henceforth is vengeance and misery. Do not fear, Andrei, I will share faithfully with you! “He turned to the right, and after a moment's reflection as to the direction he should take, plunged into the woods, where he walked all day in the direction of Normandy, which he had reckoned on reaching after a four days' journey.

Ha possessed nine francs and a few sous. His appearance was irreproachable, his face calm and quiet. Carrying a book under his arm, he looked very much like a student of good family returning to the paternal mansion. He was accustomed to walk at night in the fine roads, and to sleep by day in the fields in the sun's rays. Twice only the wind disturbed him so much that he was obliged to enter a cottage, where, upon a chair by the fireplace, he slept to his heart's content without noticing the approach of night. He always had a pretext and a destination. “I am going to Rouen,” he said, “to my uncle's, and I come from Villers-Cotterets; I wished, like other young men, to make a journey on foot by way of amusement.”

There was no suspicion on the part of the peasants; at that time a book carried respect with it. If Gilbert saw an expression of doubt upon some more Compressed lips, he spoke of a school to which his vocation called him. This quickly dispelled every suspicion. Eight days passed thus, during which Gilbert lived like a peasant, spending ten sous a day and walking ten leagues. He arrived at last at Rouen, and once there, had no need of information, nor of asking his way.

The book which he carried was a copy of “La Nouvelle Heloise,” richly bound. Rousseau had given it to him, and had written his name on the first leaf of the book. Gilbert, reduced to four francs ten sous, tore out this leaf, which he carefully preserved, and sold the book to a bookseller for three francs.

Thus the young man was enabled to arrive, three days later, in sight of Havre, and at sunset he beheld the sea. His shoes were in a condition not at all becoming to a young gentleman who daintily put on silk stockings for travelling through the towns. But Gilbert had another idea; he sold his silk stockings, or rather exchanged them, for a pair of shoes of irreproachable stoutness. As to their elegance, we will say nothing.

This last night he passed in Harfleur, lodged and fed for

sixteen sous. There he ate oysters for the first time in his life. “A dish of the rich,” he said to himself, “for the poorest of men; so true is it that God has done nothing but good, while men have done the evil, according to the maxim of Rousseau.”

At ten o'clock in the morning on the thirteenth of December, Gilbert entered Havre, and the first thing he saw was the “Adonis,” a line brig of three hundred tons, lying in a dock. The wharves were deserted. Gilbert ventured to go on board the brig over a gang-plank. A cabin-boy approached to question him.

“The captain-” said Gilbert.

The boy pointed to the companion-way, and directly a voice from below cried out, “Let him come down.”

Gilbert descended. He was led into a small room, constructed of mahogany and furnished with the most quiet simplicity. A man, thirty years old, pale, nervous, with keen and restless eye, was reading a paper upon a table made of mahogany like the walls. “What does Monsieur wish- “he said to Gilbert.

Gilbert made a sign to the man to dismiss his boy, and the boy withdrew.

“You are the captain of the ' Adonis,' Monsieur-” said Gilbert, immediately.

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“This note is addressed to you, then] “He handed to the captain Balsamo's note.

Scarcely had he looked at the writing, when the captain rose and said hastily to Gilbert, with a smile full of affability, “Ah, you too- So young- Good! good! “

Gilbert merely bowed.

“You are going-” he said.

“To America.”

“You start-”

“I go with you.”

“Good. In eight days, then.”

“What shall I do in the mean time, Captain-”

“Have you a passport-”

“No.”

“Then you must come on board to-night, after having walked all day outside the town, — at Sainte-Adresse, for instance. Do not speak to anyone.”

“I must eat; I have no money.”

“You must dine here; you shall have supper to-night.”

“And afterward-”

“Once embarked, you will not again land; you will remain in hiding here. You will depart without looking again at the sky. Once at sea, twenty leagues out, you shall be free as you please.”

“Good.”

“Finish to-day all that you have to do.”

“I have a letter to write.”

“Write it on this table; here is pen, ink, and paper. The post-office is in the Faubourg; the boy will conduct you.”

“Thanks, Captain,” and Gilbert, left alone, wrote a short letter upon which he placed this address: “Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney; Paris, Rue Coq-Heron, 9, — the first door beyond the Eue Plastriere.” Then he put the letter in his pocket, ate what the captain himself served him, and followed the boy, who conducted him to the post-office, where the letter was mailed.

All day long Gilbert watched the sea from the top of the cliffs. At night he returned. The captain was on the lookout for him, and brought him on board.

CLX. GILBERT'S LAST FAREWELL.

Philippe had passed a terrible night. Those footprints in the snow were sufficient proof that someone had made his way into the house to carry off the child; but whom could he accuse- There was nothing to fix his suspicions upon anyone.

Philippe knew his father so well that he did not doubt his complicity in the affair. Monsieur de Taverney believed Louis XV. to be the father of this child; he would attach great importance to the preservation of this living witness of the king's infidelity to Madame Dubarry. The baron would also believe that, sooner or later, Andree would be restored to favor, and would wish to regain at any price the principal means of her coming fortune. These reflections, based upon a revelation, still quite fresh, of the paternal character, comforted Philippe somewhat, who thought it possible to recover this child since he knew who had stolen it He watched therefore for the coming of Doctor Louis at eight o'clock, to whom, as they walked back and forth in the street, he related the frightful event of the night.

The doctor was a man of good judgment; he examined the footprints in the garden, and after consideration decided in favor of Philippe's suppositions. “I know the baron well enough,” he said, “to believe him capable of this wicked deed. At the same time, may not some other interest, more immediate, have led to the abduction of this child-”

“What interest, Doctor-”

“That of the real father.”

“Oh!” cried Philippe, “for a moment I had this idea; but the miserable man has not even bread for himself. He is a madman, a fanatic, a fugitive by this time, who must be afraid of my very shadow. Let us make no mistake, Doctor. The miserable fellow committed this crime under the temptation of opportunity; but now that I am no longer angry, although I hate this criminal, I think that I shall avoid meeting him, so that I may not kill! him. I think he must have feelings of remorse which punish him; I think that hunger and exile will avenge me as efficiently as my sword.”

“Let us say no more about it,” said the doctor.

“You will, dear and good friend, consent to just one last falsehood; for we must, first of all, reassure Andree. You will tell her that yesterday you were alarmed about the health of this child; that you returned in the night, and took him to carry him to his nurse. This fiction which I have improvised for Andree is the first one that presents itself to my mind.”

“I will say that; you will, however, seek for this child-”

“I have a plan for finding him. I have decided to leave France. Andree will enter the monastery of Saint Denis; then I will seek Monsieur de Taverney. I will tell him that I know all; I will make him disclose to me the hiding-place of the child. His resistance I will overcome by threats of public exposure, by threats of intervention on the part of Madame la Dauphine.”

“And what will you do with the child, your sister being in the convent-”

“I will place him at nurse with a woman whom you will recommend to me; afterward I will send him to college, and when he is grown up I will keep him with me, if I live.”

“And do you think that the mother will consent to leave either you or her child-”

“Andree will henceforth consent to anything I wish. She knows that I have approached Madame la Dauphine on the subject, whose promise I have; she will not allow me to be wanting in respect toward our protectress.”

“Let us go in to see the poor mother,” said the doctor; and he entered the apartment of Andree, who was sleeping quietly, comforted by Philippe's attentions. Her first word was a question to the doctor, who had already reassured her by his happy expression. She, from that time, became so calm that her convalescence was much accelerated; and ten days later she rose, and could walk in the conservatory when the sun was shining upon the glass.

On the very day of this walk, Philippe, who had been away for some days, returned to the house in the Rue Coq- Heron with a face so gloomy that the doctor, on opening the door for him, divined some great misfortune.

“What is the matter, then- Does your father refuse to restore the child-”

' “My father,” said Philippe, “has been seized with an attack of fever, which confined him to his bed three days after his departure from Paris, and he was very low when I arrived. I looked upon all this sickness as a trick, as a pretence, as a proof even of his complicity in the abduction. I insisted, I threatened; but Monsieur de Taverney swore to me by the Christ that he understood nothing I said to him.”

“So you return to Paris without having obtained any intelligence-”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And convinced of the baron's veracity-”

“Almost convinced.”

“More artful than you, he has not disclosed his secret.”

“I threatened him with the intervention of Madame la Dauphine, and the baron turned pale. ' Ruin me if you. like,' he said; ' bring dishonor upon your father and yourself; it will be an egregious folly without any result. I do not know what you mean.' “

“So that -”

“So that I return in despair.”

At this moment Philippe heard his sister's voice saying, “Has not Philippe returned-”

“Great God! here she is! What shall I say to her-” murmured Philippe.

“Silence! “said the doctor.

Andree entered the room, and embraced her brother with a joyous tenderness which chilled the young man's heart.

“Well,” she said, “where do you come from-”

*' I come from my father, in the first place, as I told you.”

“Monsieur le Baron is well-”

“Yes, Andree; but that was not the only visit I have made. I have seen several persons respecting your entrance at Saint Denis. Thank God, everything is now ready; you are saved, you can think of your future with intelligence and firmness.”

Andree approached her brother and with a tender smile, “Dear friend,” she said, “my future no longer concerns me; neither must my future trouble anyone. The future of my child is all to me, and I shall consecrate myself solely to the son God has given me. This is my resolution, irrevocably taken, since, with the return of my strength, I can no longer doubt the steadiness of my mind. To live for my son, to suffer privation, to labor even, if necessary, but never to leave him, day or night, — such is the future I have laid out for myself. No more convent, no more egotism; I belong to someone; God no longer wants me! “

The doctor looked at Philippe as if to say: “Well, what did I predict-”

“My sister,” cried the young man, “what are you saying-”

“Do not blame me, Philippe, this is no caprice of a weak and vain woman; I will not incommode you. I will impose nothing upon you.”

“But — but, Andree, I cannot remain in France; I wish to leave everything! I have no longer any fortune; no longer any future. I might consent to abandon you at the foot of an altar, but in the world, in the midst of toil, — Andree, take care! “

“I have considered everything. I love you sincerely, Philippe; but if you leave me, I will restrain my tears, and take refuge near the cradle of my son.”

The doctor approached. “This is extravagance, madness,” he said.

“Ah, Doctor, what would you have- It is a state of madness to be a mother, but God sent me this madness. So long as this child needs me I shall persist in my resolution.”

Philippe and the doctor exchanged glances.

“My child,” said the doctor, “I am not a very eloquent preacher; but I think I remember that God forbids too strong an attachment to any creature.”

“Yes, sister,” added Philippe.

“God does not forbid a mother's strong love for her son, I think, Doctor.”

“Pardon me, my child. For every law that comes from God, search out, not the moral cause alone, but also the material cause. God forbids a mother to love her child to excess, because the child is a frail, delicate plant, exposed to all misfortunes, to all sufferings; and because to love intensely an ephemeral creature is to expose one's self to despair.”

“Doctor,” murmured Andree, “why do you say this to me- And you, Philippe, why are you regarding me with this compassion, this paleness t “

“Dear Andree,” interrupted the young man, “follow my advice. Your health is re-established; enter as soon as possible the convent of Saint Denis.”

“I! I have told you that I will not leave my son.”

“So long as he shall have need of you,” said the doctor, gently.

“My God! “cried Andree, “what is it- Speak! Something sad, cruel-”

“Be careful,” the doctor whispered in Philippe's ear; “she is too weak to bear a decided blow.”

“Brother, you do not answer; explain yourself.”

“Dear sister, you know that on my return I passed through Point-de-Jour, where your child is at nurse.”

“Yes, well-”

“Well, the child was somewhat ill.”

“Ill! that dear child! Quick, Marguerite; Marguerite, a carriage! I am going to see my child! “

“Impossible!” cried the doctor; “you are not in a condition to go out, or to bear the motion of a carriage.”

“You told me this morning that this was possible; you told me that to-morrow on Philippe's return, I should go to see the poor little one.”

“I thought you would be stronger than you are.”

“Are you deceiving me-”

The doctor remained silent.

“Marguerite!'' repeated Andree, “obey me; a carriage!”

“But it may kill you,” interrupted Philippe.

“Well, let it kill me! I do not care so very much for life.” Marguerite waited, regarding in turn her mistress, her master, and the doctor.

“Come! when I command! “cried Andree, whose cheeks suddenly reddened. “Dear sister! “

“I will hear nothing more; and if you refuse me a carriage, I will go on foot.”

“Andree,” said Philippe, suddenly, “you will not go no, there is no need of your going.”

“My child is dead! “said the young girl, coldly, letting her hands fall over the sides of the chair in which Philippe and the doctor had seated her.

Philippe answered only by kissing one of her cold and listless hands. By degrees Andree's neck lost its rigidity; her head drooped on her bosom, and she shed copious tears.

“God has willed,” said Philippe, “that we should submit to this new misfortune, — God, who is so great, so just, who may have other plans for you, who judged, no doubt, that the presence of this child at your side would be a punishment undeserved.”

“But yet,” sighed the poor mother, “why has God made this innocent creature suffer-”

“God has not made him suffer, my child,” said the doctor; “he died on the very night of his birth. Have no more regret for him than for a shadow that comes and goes.”

“The cries that I heard- “

“Were his farewell to life.”

Andree hid her face in her hands, while the two men, expressing their thought in an eloquent look, congratulated themselves on their pious lie.

Suddenly Marguerite entered with a letter addressed to Andree in the following manner: “Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney, Paris, Rue Coq-Heron, — the first door beyond the Rue Plastriere.”

Philippe showed the letter to the doctor over Andr4e'a head, who was no longer weeping, but was absorbed in her grief. “Who could have written it t “he thought. “No one knew her address, and it is not our father's writing.”

“Here, Andree,” said Philippe, “is a letter for you.”

Without thinking, without hesitating, without surprise, Andree tore open the envelope, and wiping her eyes, unfolded the paper to read; but she had scarcely run over the lines which composed this letter when she uttered a loud cry, rose up like a mad woman, and with a terrible contraction of her arms and feet fell, heavy as a statue, into the arms of Marguerite who was standing near.

Philippe picked up the letter and read, -

At Sea, December 15, 17 -

I go, driven away by you, and you will not see me again; but I carry away my child, which shall never call you mother!

Gilbert.

Philippe crushed the paper, with a roar of anger. “Oh! “he said, grinding his teeth, “I had almost pardoned the crime committed on the spur of temptation; but this deliberate crime shall be punished. Over your lifeless head, Andree, I swear to kill the miserable fellow the first time I meet him. God will permit me to meet him, for he has filled the measure to the brim. Doctor, will Andree recover-”

“Yes, yes! “

“Doctor, Andree must enter the monastery of Saint Denis to-morrow; by the day after to-morrow I must be at the nearest seaport. The villain has fled, I will follow him. Besides, I must have this child. Doctor, which is the nearest seaport t “

“Havre.”

“I will be at Havre in thirty-six hours,” replied Philippe.

CHAPTER CLXI. ON BOARD.

From that moment Andree's house was dull and silent as a tomb.

The knowledge that her son was dead would perhaps have killed Andree. It would have been one of those heavy, abiding sorrows which perpetually undermine. Gilbert's letter was a blow so violent that it aroused all the aggressive force and feeling that still remained in Andree's generous soul. Coming to herself, she looked at Philippe, and the wrath which she read in his eyes was a new source of courage for herself. She remained silent until her strength was so far recovered that her voice would not tremble, and then, taking Philippe's hand, “My friend,” she said, “you spoke to me this morning of the monastery of Saint Denis, in which a cell has been granted me by Madame la Dauphine- “

“Yes, Andree.”

“You will conduct me thither to-day, if you please.”

“Thanks, sister.”

“To you, Doctor,” Andree continued, “for so many kindnesses a word of thanks would be a barren recompense. Your recompense, Doctor, cannot be found on earth.” She went to him and kissed him. “This little medallion,” she said, “contains my portrait, which my mother caused to be made when I was two years old. It should resemble my son. Keep it, Doctor, and let it speak to you sometimes of the child whom you have ushered into life, and of the mother whom your care has saved.”

Having spoken thus, Andree, without giving way to emotion, made her preparations for the change, and at six o'clock in the evening she passed through the wicket-door of the parlor of Saint Denis, before the bars of which Philippe, unable to control his emotions, uttered within himself a farewell, perhaps eternal.

Poor Andree's fortitude suddenly left her. She turned and ran back to her brother with outstretched arms; he also extended his arms toward her. They met, notwithstanding the cold barrier of bars between them, and their tears were mingled on their burning cheeks.

“Adieu! adieu!” murmured Andree, whose grief burst forth in sobs.

“Adieu!” replied Philippe, stifling his despair.

“If you ever find my son,” said Andree, in a low voice, “do not let me die till I have embraced him.”

“Be assured. Adieu! adieu! “

Andree tore herself from her brother's arms, and supported by a lay sister went forward, constantly looking back at him as he stood in the deep shadow. So long as he could see her he made signs to her with his head and by shaking his handkerchief. At length he received a last farewell, which she sent to him from the end of the dim passage-way. Then an iron gate fell between them with a melancholy sound, and all was over.

Philippe took post at Saint Denis; with his portmanteau behind him he journeyed all that night, all the following day, and in the evening arrived at Havre. He slept at the first hostelry he found, and at daybreak the next day was out on the wharves inquiring about the earliest departures for America. He learned that the brig “Adonis “would sail that very day for New York. He sought out the captain, who was finishing his preparations, and on paying the price for the passage was admitted as a

ON BOARD passenger. Then, having written a last letter to Madame la Dauphine, declaring his respectful devotion and his gratitude, he sent his baggage on board, and himself embarked at the time of high tide.

Four o'clock was striking in the tower of Francois I. when the “Adonis “left the channel under foresail and topsails. The sea was of a somber blue, the sky red on the horizon. Philippe, leaning on the railing, after having saluted the few passengers, his travelling companions, stood gazing at the coast of France, which gradually became embrowned with a purplish smoke, as the brig, unfurling more sail, moved rapidly to the right and gained the open sea. Very soon the shore of France, fellow- passengers, and the ocean disappeared; dark night had covered all with its extended wings. Philippe went to his little cabin to read over the copy of his letter to the dauphiness, which might serve for a prayer addressed to the Creator, as well as for a farewell addressed to a fellow- creature. Philippe had written as follows: -

Madame, — A man without hope and without support withdraws himself from you with regret at having done so little for your future Majesty. He goes to encounter the storms and tempests of the sea while you remain amid the troubles and dangers of government. Young, beautiful, adored, surrounded by respectful friends and idolizing servants, you will forget him whom your royal hand has condescended to lift above the crowd. But I shall never forget you. I am going to a new world to study the means of serving you more effectively upon your throne. I leave to you my sister, poor abandoned flower, who will have no other sun than the light of your countenance. Deign sometimes to condescend to her; and in the midst of your joy, of your omnipotence, in the chorus of unanimous devotion, listen, I beseech you, to the benediction of an exile who will no longer hear you, and perhaps will never see you again. After reading this letter Philippe's heart was oppressed. The melancholy sound of the groaning vessel and the rush of the waves which broke against the prow made a combination of noises which would have saddened the happiest imaginations. The night was long and painful to the young man. A visit which the captain made him in the morning did not restore him to a satisfactory state of mind. That officer informed him that the greater part of the passengers feared the sea and confined themselves to their berths, and that the passage promised to be short, but disagreeable, owing to the violence of the wind.

Philippe fell into the custom of dining with the captain, and having breakfast served in his cabin; and not finding himself well-hardened against the inconveniences of a sea- voyage, he acquired the habit of spending some hours on the deck reclining on his large military cloak. The rest of the time he employed in planning his future course, and in supporting his mind by solid reading. Sometimes he met his fellow-passengers. There were two ladies on their way to take possession of an inheritance in North America, and four men, one of whom, already old, had with him two sons. These were the cabin passengers. On the other side Philippe once noticed some men of an appearance and bearing more common; he found nothing there to occupy his attention.

In proportion as habit diminished his suffering, Philippe recovered his serenity. Some fine days, clear and free from storms, announced to the passengers the approach to temperate latitudes. Then they remained longer on deck; then, in the night, Philippe, who had concealed his name even from the captain, that he might not have to talk on any subject he dreaded to approach, — Philippe heard, in his cabin, steps over his head; he even heard the voice of the captain, who doubtless was walking with a passenger. It was a reason why he should not go up. He therefore opened his port-hole, to breathe a little fresh air, and waited for the morning.

Once only during the night, hearing neither voices nor footsteps, he ascended to the deck. The night was warm, the sky clouded, and in the wake of the vessel were seen, springing up in whirls, thousands of phosphorescent atoms. The night apparently had seemed to the passengers too dark and too stormy; for Philippe saw no one on the stern-deck. But forward, on the how and leaning against the mast of the bowsprit, motionless in sleep or meditation, was a dark figure, which in the dim light Philippe could hardly distinguish, — doubtless some second-class passenger, some poor exile looking forward to the arrival in America, while Philippe himself was regretting the departure from France.

Philippe contemplated that motionless passenger a long time; then feeling the cold of the early morning, he prepared to return to his cabin. Meantime the passenger at the prow gazed at the sky, which began to grow light. Philippe heard the captain coming, and turned round. “You are taking the morning air, Captain-” he said.

“Monsieur, I am just out of bed.”

“You have been anticipated by some of your passengers, as you see.”

“By you; but officers are, like sailors, early birds.”

“Oh, not by me, only! “said Philippe. “See, yonder, that man who meditates so profoundly; he also is one of your passengers, is he not-”

The captain looked and appeared to be surprised.

“Who is that man-” asked Philippe.

“A — merchant,” said the captain, with hesitation.

“Who is running after a, fortune-” murmured Philippe. “This brig goes too slowly for him.”

The captain, instead of replying, went forward to the passenger, and spoke to him, and Philippe saw him disappear down the companion-way.

“You have disturbed his meditations,” said Philippe to the captain, who rejoined him. “He did not annoy me, however.”

“No, Monsieur, I warned him that the morning cold is dangerous in these latitudes. Passengers of the second- class have not good cloaks, like you.”

“Where are we, Captain-”

“Monsieur, to-morrow we shall see the Azore Islands, at one of which we will take in a little fresh water, for it is very warm.”

CHAPTER CLXII. THE AZORE ISLANDS.

The next day, as the captain had predicted, the passengers could see islands in the northeast, far off under the dazzling sun. They were the Azores. The wind was fair, and the brig made good progress. Toward three o'clock they were near enough for a complete view. When they had approached within the distance of a cannon-shot from the nearest island, the brig was brought up into the wind, and the crew prepared to go ashore for some barrels of fresh water, as the captain had promised. All the passengers welcomed the pleasure of a trip to the shore. To place the feet on solid ground after twenty days and nights of painful navigation is a sort of pleasure which those only can appreciate who have made a long voyage.

“Gentlemen,” said the captain to the passengers who he thought were undecided, “you have five hours for a trip to the shore. Take advantage of the opportunity. You will find on that little island, entirely uninhabited, springs of ice-water for you who are naturalists, and rabbits and red partridges for you who are sportsmen.”

Philippe took his gun and ammunition. “But, Captain,” said he, “do you remain on board- Why do you not come with us-”

“Because yonder,” replied the captain, pointing out to sea, “comes a vessel of suspicious appearance, — a vessel which has followed me for four days. I wish to see what she means to do.”

Philippe, satisfied with the explanation, got into the last boat and started for the shore. The ladies and several other passengers, of both classes, did not care to take the chances of the trip, or awaited their turn. The two boats then moved away, carrying joyous sailors, and passengers more joyous still.

The captain's last words were: “At eight o'clock, gentlemen, the last boat will go for you. Consider that as settled; those who are behind time will be left.”

When all the party, naturalists and sportsmen, had landed, the sailors immediately entered a cavern, situated about a hundred paces from the shore, and which turned at a right angle near the entrance, as if to avoid the rays of the sun. From a living spring, clear, bluish water glided over the mossy rocks, and was lost in fine sand within the cavern. Here the sailors stopped and filled their casks, which then they rolled toward the shore.

Philippe watched them at their work. He admired the tinted shades of the cavern, and the freshness and gentle noise of the water as it glided from fall to fall. He was surprised at finding at first dense darkness and intense cold, while after a few minutes the temperature became mild, and the darkness was pierced by a soft, mysterious light. Thus with arms outstretched and knocking against the rocky sides, he had begun to follow the sailors without seeing them; and then by degrees every face, every form, became clear and distinct. Philippe preferred, as to clearness, the light of that grotto to the light of heaven, so glaring and harsh in full day in those latitudes. Meantime he heard the voices of his companions die away in the distance. One or two gunshots echoed along the mountain; then all noises ceased, and Philippe was alone. The sailors had accomplished their task, and would not return to the grotto.

Philippe yielded himself to the charm of that solitude and to the thoughts whirling in his brain. He stretched himself out upon the soft, luxurious sand, with his back against the rocks carpeted with aromatic herbs, and sank into meditation. The hours rolled on. He had forgotten the world. At his side his gun, unloaded, leaned against the rock, and that he might lie more comfortably, he had taken from his pockets the pistols which were his inseparable companions. All his past life came up before him, slowly, solemnly, as a warning or a reproach; all his future took flight before him, like the timid bird which one may touch with a look, but never with the hand.

While Philippe thus dreamed, doubtless others, within a hundred feet of him, dreamed, laughed, and hoped. He had an insensible perception of that movement, and more than once he thought he heard the boatmen's oars as they conveyed passengers to the vessel or brought other passengers to the shore, — the former surfeited with the day's pleasures, the latter eager to enjoy them in their turn. But his meditation had not yet been disturbed, — either because the entrance to the grotto had escaped notice, or because those who observed it disdained to enter.

Suddenly a shadow, timid, undecided, interposed itself between the light of day and the grotto, at its very entrance. Philippe saw someone walking, with his hands extended before him, and his head bent down, in the direction of the murmuring water. This person fell once against the rocks, his foot having slipped on some herbs. Then Philippe rose and went forward, offering his hand to the visitor to help him find a safe path. In this courteous action his fingers touched the hand of the traveler in the darkness. “This way,” he said, with politeness; “Monsieur, the water is in this direction.”

At the sound of that voice the stranger quickly raised his head, and prepared to answer, exposing his face in the azure twilight of the grotto. But Philippe, with a sudden cry of horror, started back. The unknown also drew hack with an exclamation of fright.

“Gilbert!”

“Philippe!”

These two words burst forth at the same time, like subterranean thunder. Then ensued the sound of a sort of struggle. Philippe had seized with both hands his enemy's throat and dragged him to the depths of the cavern. Gilbert suffered himself to be dragged, without uttering a word of protest. Pushed against the rocky wall of the interior, he could recoil no farther.

“Scoundrel! I have you at last! “roared Philippe- “God has delivered you into my hands; God is just.”

Gilbert was very pale, but made no movement; his arms hung idly by his sides.

“Oh, coward and villain!” said Philippe; “he has not even the instinct of the wild beast, which defends itself.”

But Gilbert replied in gentle tones, “Defend myself! and why-”

“True, you know well that you are in my power; you know well that you have deserved the most terrible punishment. All your crimes are proved. You have loaded a woman with shame; you have killed her by cruelty. It was not enough for yon to dishonor a virgin; you wished also to assassinate a mother!”

Gilbert made no reply. Philippe, who gradually became wild with the heat of his own fury, again raised violent hands against Gilbert. The young man offered no resistance.

“You are not a man, then-” said Philippe, shaking him in his rage; “you have only the face of a man!

What! — not even resistance- But I am strangling you — you see it plainly. Resist, then; defend yourself, coward! coward! assassin! “

Gilbert felt the sharp fingers of his enemy in his throat. He drew himself up, stiffened himself, and vigorous as a lion, by a single movement of his shoulders cast Philippe off from him. Then he crossed his arms. “You see,” said he, “that I could defend myself if I wished; but why should I-Now you run to your gun. I would rather he killed at once than torn by finger-nails and crushed by shameful blows.”

Philippe had, in fact, seized his gun, but at these words he laid it aside. “No,” he murmured. Then, aloud, “Where are you going- How are you here- “

“I embarked in the ' Adonis.' “

“You hid yourself, then! you saw me- “

“I did not even know you were on board.”

“You lie! “

“I do not lie.”

“How is it that I have not seen you-”

“Because I have left my berth only at night.”

“You see! — you hide yourself!'

“Certainly.”

“From me-”

“No, I tell you; I go to America on a mission, and I must not be seen. The captain has lodged me apart for that reason.”

“You hide yourself, I tell you, to conceal from me your presence, and especially to hide the child which you have stolen.”

“The child-” said Gilbert.

“Yes; you have stolen and carried away that child, to make of him a weapon by which some day you may profit, villain!”

Gilbert shook his head. “I have taken the child,” he said, “so that no one may teach him to despise or to deny his father.”

Philippe paused for a moment. “If that is true,” said he, “if I could believe it, you would be less villainous than I thought; but you have stolen, — why have you not denied it-”

“Stolen- I have stolen-”

“You have stolen the child.”

“He is my son! he is mine! We do not steal, Monsieur, when we take our own.”

“Listen! “said Philippe, trembling with rage. “Just now I thought I would kill you. I had sworn it; I had the right to do it.”

Gilbert did not answer.

“Now God enlightens me. God has thrown you in my way as if to say to me: ' Vengeance is useless; vengeance is right only when one is abandoned by God.' I will not kill you, I will only destroy the structure of misery you have erected. This child is your means of mischief for the future; you must give me this child.”

“But I have him not,” said Gilbert. “One does not take to sea a child fifteen days old.”

“You must have procured a nurse for him; why did you not bring away the nurse-”

“I tell you that I have not brought away the child.”

“Then you have left him in France. In what part have you left him-”

Gilbert was silent.

“Answer! where have you placed him at nurse, and with what means of support- “

Gilbert was silent.

“Ah, scoundrel, you defy me!”said Philippe. “Are you not afraid of arousing my anger- Will you tell me where my sister's child is hidden- Will you give me this child-”

“My child is my own,” murmured Gilbert.

” Villain! you see plainly that you will die!”

“I will not give up my child.”

“Gilbert, listen; I speak to you kindly. Gilbert, I will try to forget the past; I will try to pardon you. Gilbert, you understand my generosity, do you not- I pardon you! I forgive all the shame and misfortune you have brought upon our house; it is a great sacrifice. Give me back this child. Would you have more- Would you have m«try to overcome the so justifiable repugnance of Andree- Would you have me intercede for you- Well, I will do it if you give me back this child! One word more: Andree loves her son — your son — madly she will be moved by your repentance, I promise you. But give me back this child, Gilbert, give it back to me!”

Gilbert folded his arms, fixing upon Philippe a glance of gloomy determination. “You have not believed me,” he said; “I do not believe you. Not that you are a dishonest man, but because I have sounded the depth of the prejudice of caste. There is no possible return, — no more pardon! We are mortal enemies. You are the stronger, therefore be the conqueror. I do not ask you for your weapon, do not ask me for mine.”

“You confess, then, that it is a weapon-”

“Against scorn, yes; against ingratitude, yes; against insult, yes!”

“Once more, Gilbert,” said Philippe, foaming at the mouth, “will you-”

“No.”

“Take care!”

“No.”

“I do not wish to murder you; I wish you to have the chance of killing Andree's brother. One crime more! Ah, ah! that is tempting. Take this pistol; here is another. Let us each count three and fire,” and he threw one of the pistols at Gilbert's feet.

The young man stood motionless. “A duel,” he said. “is precisely what I refuse.”

“You prefer to have me kill you! “cried Philippe, mad with rage and despair.

“I prefer to be killed by you.”

“Reflect. I am beside myself.”

“I have reflected.”

“It is my right; God will absolve me.”

“I know it, — kill me.”

“For the last time, will you fight!”

“No.”

“You refuse to defend yourself-”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, die like a villain of whom I rid the earth I die like a heathen, die like a thief, die like a dog! “and Philippe discharged his pistol at Gilbert, almost touching him with the muzzle. The latter stretched out his arms, swayed first backward, then forward, and fell upon his face without uttering a cry. Philippe felt the sand under his feet wet with the warm blood; he completely lost his senses, and rushed out of the cavern. Before him was the shore; a boat was waiting. Eight o'clock had been announced as the hour of departure; it was now some minutes after eight.

“Ah, here you are, Monsieur! “said the sailors. “You are the last; everyone is on board. What have you killed-”

Philippe, hearing this word, lost consciousness. They took him on board the ship, which was unfurling its sails.

“Is everyone on board- “asked the captain.

“Here is the last passenger,” replied the sailors. “He must have had a fall, for he has fainted.”

The captain gave the necessary orders, and the brig sailed rapidly away from the Azores, at the same time that the unknown vessel, which had annoyed them so long, entered the harbor under the American flag.

The captain of the “Adonis “exchanged signals with this vessel, and reassured, apparently at least, he continued his course toward the west, and was soon lost in the darkness of night.

It was not until the next day that they discovered that one passenger was missing.

EPILOGUE.

On the ninth of May, 1774, at eight o'clock in the evening, Versailles presented a most curious and interesting spectacle.

From the first day of the month the king, Louis XV., attacked with a malady, the serious nature of which his physicians at first dared not confess to him, had been confined to his bed, anxiously consulting the countenances of those who surrounded him, to discover in them some reflection of the truth or some ray of hope.

The physician Bordeu had pronounced the king suffering from an attack of small-pox of the most malignant nature, and the physician La Martiniere, who had agreed with his colleague as to the nature of the king's complaint, gave it as his opinion that his Majesty should be informed of the real state of the case, in order that, both spiritually and temporally, as a king and as a Christian, he might take measures for his own safety and that of his kingdom. “His most Christian Majesty,” said he, “should have extreme unction administered to him.”

La Martiniere represented the party of the dauphin, — the opposition. Bordeu asserted that the bare mention of the serious nature of the disease would kill the king, and said that for his part he would not be a party to such regicide.

Bordeu represented Madame Dubarry's party. In fact, to call in the aid of the Church to the king was to expel the favorite. When God enters at one door, it is full time for Satan to make his exit by the other.

In the mean time, during all these intestine divisions of the faculty, of the royal family, and of the different parties of the court, the disease took quiet possession of the aged, corrupt, and worn-out frame of the king, and set up such a strong position that neither remedies nor prescriptions could dislodge it.

From the first symptoms of the attack, Louis beheld his couch surrounded by his two daughters, the favorite, and the courtiers whom he especially delighted to honor. They still laughed and stood firm by one another.

Suddenly the austere and ominous countenance of Madame Louise of France appeared at Versailles. She had left her cell to give to her father, in her turn, the cares and consolations he so much required. She entered, pale and stern as a statue of Fate. She was no longer a daughter to a father, a sister to her fellow-sisters; she rather resembled those ancient prophetesses who in the evil day of adversity poured in the startled ears of kings the boding cry, “Woe! woe! woe! “She fell upon Versailles like a thunder-shock at the very hour when it was Madame Dubarry's custom to visit the king, who kissed her white hands, and pressed them in soft caresses to his aching brow and burning cheeks. At sight of her all fled. The sisters, trembling, sought refuge in a neighboring chamber. Madame Dubarry bent the knee and hastened to her apartment; the privileged courtiers retreated in disorder to the antechambers; the two physicians alone remained standing by the fireside.

“My daughter! “murmured the king, opening his eyes, heavy with pain and fever.

“Yes, Sire,” said the princess, “your daughter.”

“And you come — “

“To remind you of God! “

The king raised himself in an upright posture and attempted to smile.

“For you have forgotten God,” resumed Madame Louise.

“I!”

“And I wish to recall him to your thoughts.”

“My daughter, I am not so near death, I trust, that your exhortations need to be so very urgent. My illness is very slight, — a slow fever, attended with some inflammation.”

“Your malady, Sire,” interrupted the princess, “is that which, according to etiquette, should summon around your Majesty's couch all the great prelates of the kingdom. When a member of the royal family is attacked with small-pox, the rites of the Church should be administered without loss of time.”

“Madame! “exclaimed the king, greatly agitated, and becoming deadly pale, “what is that you say-”

“Madame! “broke in the terrified physicians.

“I repeat,” continued the princess, “that your Majesty is attacked with the small-pox.”

The king uttered a cry.

“The physicians did not tell me so,” he replied.

“They had not the courage. But I look forward to another kingdom for your Majesty than the kingdom of France. Draw near to God, Sire, and solemnly review your past life.”

“The small-pox! “muttered Louis; “a fatal disease! — Bordeu! — La Martiniere! — can it be true-”

The two practitioners hung their heads.

“Then I am lost! “said the king, more and more terrified.

“All diseases can be cured, Sire,” said Bordeu, taking

the initiative, “especially when the patient preserves his composure of mind.”

“God gives peace to the mind and health to the body,” replied the princess.

“Madame,” said Bordeu, boldly, although in a low voice, “you are killing the king! “

The princess deigned no reply. She approached the sick monarch, and taking his hand, which she covered with kisses, “Break with the past, Sire,” said she, “and give an example to your people. No one warned you; you ran the risk of perishing eternally. Promise solemnly to live a Christian life if you are spared; die like a Christian if God calls you hence.”

As she concluded she imprinted a second kiss on the royal hand, and with slow step took her way through the antechambers. There she let her long black veil fall over her face, descended the staircase with a grave and majestic air, and entered her carriage, leaving behind her a stupefaction and terror which cannot be described.

The king could not rouse his spirits, except by dint of questioning his physicians; but the blow had been struck. “I do not wish,” said he, “that the scenes of Metz with the Duchesse de Chateauroux should be re-enacted here. Send for Madame d'Aiguillon, and request her to take Madame Dubarry with her to Real.”

This order was equivalent to an expulsion. Bordeu attempted to remonstrate, but the king ordered him to be silent. Bordeu, moreover, saw his colleague ready to report all that passed to the dauphin, and well aware what would be the issue of the king's malady, he did not persist; but going out from the royal chamber he proceeded to acquaint Madame Dubarry with the blow which had just fallen on her fortunes.

The countess, terrified at the ominous and insulting expression which she saw already on every face around her, hastened to withdraw. In an hour she was without the walls of Versailles, seated beside the Duchesse d'Aiguillon, who, like a trustworthy and grateful friend, was taking the disgraced favorite to her chateau of Rueil, which had descended to her from the great Richelieu.

Bordeu, on his side, shut the door of the king's chamber against all the royal family, under pretext of contagion. Louis's apartment was thenceforward walled up; no one might enter but Religion and Death.

The king had the last rites of the Church administered to him that same day, and this news soon spread through Paris, where the disgrace of the favorite was already known, and circulated from mouth to mouth.

All the court hastened to pay their respects to the dauphin, who closed his doors and refused to see anyone.

But the following day the king was better, and sent the Due d'Aiguillon to carry his compliments to Madame Dubarry. This day was May 9, 1774.

The court deserted the pavilion occupied by the dauphin, and flocked in such crowds to Rueil, where the favorite was residing, that since the banishment of Monsieur de Choiseul to Chanteloup such a string of carriages had never been witnessed.

Things were in this position, therefore: would the king live, and Madame Dubarry still remain queen; or would the king die, and Madame Dubarry sink to the condition of an infamous and execrable courtesan- This was why Versailles, on the evening of May 9, in the year 1774, presented such a curious and interesting spectacle.

On the Place d'Armes, before the palace, several groups of persons had formed in front of the railing who seemed affected and anxious to hear the news. They were citizens of Versailles or of Paris, and every now and then,

with all the politeness imaginable, they questioned the guards who were pacing slowly up and down the Court of Honor, with their hands behind their backs, respecting the king's health.

Gradually these groups dispersed. The inhabitants of Paris took their seats in the stage-coaches to return peaceably to their own homes; while those of Versailles, sure of having the earliest news from the fountain-head, also retired to their several dwellings. No one was to be seen in the streets but the patrols of the watch, who performed their duty a little more quietly than usual; and that gigantic world, called the Palace of Versailles, became by degrees shrouded in darkness and silence, like that greater world which contained it.

At the angle of the street bordered with trees which extends in front of the palace, a man advanced in years was seated on a stone-bench overshadowed by the already leafy boughs of the horse-chestnuts, with his expressive and poetic features turned toward the chateau, leaning with both hands on his cane, and supporting his chin on his hands. He was an old man, bent by age and ill-health, but his eye still sparkled with something of its youthful fire, and his thoughts glowed even more brightly than his eyes. He was absorbed in melancholy contemplation, and did not perceive a second personage who, after peeping curiously through the iron railing and questioning the guards, crossed the esplanade in a diagonal direction, and advanced straight toward the bench with the intention of seating himself upon it.

This personage was a young man with projecting cheekbones, low forehead, aquiline nose slightly bent to one side, and a sardonic smile. While advancing toward the stone-bench he chuckled sneeringly, although alone, seeming to reply by this laughter to some secret thought. When within three paces of the bench he perceived the old man, and paused, scanning him with his oblique and stealthy glance, although evidently fearing to let his purpose be seen. “You are enjoying the fresh air, Monsieur f” said he, approaching him with an abrupt movement.

The old man raised his head.

“Ha! “exclaimed the new-comer, “it is my illustrious master! “

“And you are my young practitioner-” said the old man.

“Will you permit me to take a seat beside you, Monsieur-”

“Most willingly,” and the old man made room on the bench beside him.

“It appears that the king is getting better-” said the young man. “The people rejoice,” and he burst a second time into his sneering laugh.

The old man made no reply.

“The whole day long the carriages have been rolling from Paris to Rueil, and from Rueil to Versailles. The Comtesse Dubarry will marry the king as soon as his health is re-established,” and he burst into a louder laugh than before.

Still the old man made no reply.

“Pardon me if I laugh at Fate,” continued the young man, with a gesture of nervous impatience, “but every good Frenchman, look you, loves his king, and my king is better to-day.”

“Do not jest thus on such a subject, Monsieur,” said the old man, gently. “The death of a man is always a misfortune for someone, and the death of a king is frequently a great misfortune for all.”

“Even the death of Louis XV.- “interrupted the young man, in a tone of irony. “Oh, my dear master, a distinguished philosopher like you to sustain such a proposition t I know all the energy and skill of your paradoxes, hut I cannot compliment you on this one.”

The old man shook his head.

“And besides,” added the new-comer, “why think of the king's death t Who speaks of such an event- The king has the small-pox! well, we all know that complaint. The king has beside him Bordeu and La Martiniere, who are skilful men. Oh, I will wager a trifle, my dear master, that Louis the Well-Beloved will recover! Only this time the French people do not suffocate themselves in churches, putting up vows for him, as on the occasion of his former illness. Mark me, everything grows antiquated and is abandoned! “

“Silence! “said the old man, shuddering, — “silence! for I tell you, you are speaking of a man over whom the destroying angel hovers at this moment.”

His young companion, surprised at this strange language, looked at the speaker, whose eyes were fixed on the facade of the chateau.

“Then you have more positive intelligence]” he asked.

“Look! “said the old man, pointing with his finger to one of the windows of the palace; “what do you behold yonder]”

“A window lighted up, — is that what you mean- “

“Yes; but lighted in what manner- “

“By a wax candle placed in a little lantern.”

“Precisely.”

“Well-”

“Well, young man, do you know what the flame of that wax-light represents- “

“No, Monsieur.”

“It represents the life of the king.”

The young man looked more fixedly at his aged companion, as if to be certain that he was in his senses.

“A friend of mine, Monsieur de Jussieu,” continued the old man, “has placed that wax-light there, which will burn as long as the king is alive.”

“It is a signal, then- “

“A signal which Louis XV.'s successor devours with his eyes from behind some neighboring curtain. This signal, which shall warn the ambitious of the dawn of a new reign, informs a poor philosopher like myself of the instant when the breath of the Almighty sweeps away, at the same moment, an epoch and a human existence.”

The young man shuddered in his turn, and moved closer to his companion.

“Oh,” said the aged philosopher, “mark well this night, young man! Behold what clouds and tempests it bears in its murky bosom! The morning which will succeed it I shall witness no doubt, for I am not yet old enough to abandon hope of seeing the morrow; but a reign is perhaps about to begin which you will witness even to the end, and which includes — like this night — mysterious events which I shall not see. It is not, therefore, without interest that I watch yonder trembling flame, whose signification I have just explained to you.”

“True, my master,” murmured the young man, “most true.”

“Louis XIV. reigned seventy-three years,” continued the old man. “How many will Louis XVI. reign-”

“Ah!” exclaimed the younger of the two, pointing to the window, which had just become shrouded in darkness.

“The king is dead!” said the old man, rising with a sort of terror; and both kept silence for some minutes.

Suddenly a chariot, drawn by eight fiery horses, started at full gallop from the court-yard of the palace. Two outriders preceded it, each holding a torch in his hand. In the chariot were the dauphin, Marie Antoinette, and Madame Elizabeth, the sister of the king. The flame of the torches threw a gloomy light on their pale features. The carriage passed close to the two men, within ten paces of the bench from which they had risen.

“Long live King Louis XVI.! Long live the queen! “shouted the young man in a loud, harsh voice, as if he meant to insult this new-born Majesty instead of saluting it.

The dauphin bowed; the queen showed her face at the window, sad and severe. The carriage dashed on and disappeared.

“My dear Monsieur Rousseau,” said the younger of the two spectators, “then Madame Dubarry is a widow.”

“To-morrow she will be exiled,” said his aged companion. “Adieu, Monsieur Marat!”

THE END

The Queens Necklace.

The Queens Necklace.

CHAPTER I. TWO UNKNOWN LADIES.

CHAPTER II. AN INTERIOR.

CHAPTER III. JEANNE DE LA MOTTE VALOIS.

CHAPTER IV. BELUS

CHAPTER V. THE ROAD TO VERSAILLES.

CHAPTER VI. LAUBENT.

CHAPTER VII. THE QUEEN'S BEDCHAMBER.

CHAPTER VIII. THE QUEEN'S PETITE LEVEE.

CHAPTER IX. THE SWISS LAKE.

CHAPTER X. THE TEMPTER.

CHAPTER XI. MONSIEUR DE SUFFREN.

CHAPTER XII. MONSIEUR DE CHAENY.

CHAPTER XIII. THE ONE HUNDBED LOUIS OF THE QUEEN.

CHAPTER XIV. MONSIEUR FINGRET.

CHAPTER XV. THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

CHAPTER XVI. MESMER AND SAINT-MARTIN.

CHAPTER XVII. THE TANK.

CHAPTER XVIII. MADEMOISELLE OLIVA.

CHAPTER XIX. MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE.

CHAPTER XX. GOLD.

CHAPTER XXI. LA PETITE MAISON.

CHAPTER XXII. SOME WORDS ABOUT THE OPERA.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE BALL AT THE OPERA.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXAMINATION.

CHAPTER XXV. THE ACADEMY OF MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE AMBASSADOR.

CHAPTER XXVII. MESSIEURS BOEHMER AND BOSSANGE.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE AMBASSADOR'S HOTEL.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE BARGAIN.

CHAPTER XXX. THE JOURNALIST'S HOUSE

CHAPTER XXXI. HOW TWO FRIENDS BECAME ENEMIES.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-GILLES.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE HEAD OF THE TAVERNEY FAMILY.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE STANZAS OF MONSIEUR DE PROVENCE.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE PRINCESS OF LAMBALLE.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE QUEEN.

CHAPTER XXXVII. AN ALIBI.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. MONSIEUR DE CROSNE.

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE TEMPTRESS.

CHAPTER XL. TWO AMBITIONS THAT WISH TO PASS FOR TWO LOVES.

CHAPTER XLI. FACES UNDER THEIR MASKS.

CHAPTER XLII. IN WHICH MONSIEUR DUCORNEAU UNDERSTANDS NOTHING OF WHAT IS PASSING.

CHAPTER XLIII. ILLUSIONS AND REALITIES.

CHAPTER XLIV. OLIVA BEGINS TO ASK WHAT THEY WANT OF HER.

CHAPTER XLV. THE DESERTED HOUSE.

CHAPTER XLVI. JEANNE THE PROTECTRESS.

CHAPTER XLVII. JEANNE PROTECTED.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE QUEEN'S PORTFOLIO.

CHAPTER XLIX. IN WHICH WE FIND DOCTOR LOUIS.

CHAPTER L. SOMNIA.

CHAPTER LI. ANDREE

CHAPTER LII. DELIRIUM.

CHAPTER LIII. CONVALESCENCE.

CHAPTER LIV. TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.

CHAPTER LV. THE MINISTER OF FINANCE.

CHAPTER LVI. THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

CHAPTER LVII. DEBTOR AND CREDITOR.

CHAPTER LVIII. FAMILY ACCOUNTS.

CHAPTER LIX. MARIE ANTOINETTE AS QUEEN, AND MADAME DE LA MOTTE AS WOMAN.

CHAPTER LX. THE RECEIPT OF MESSIEURS BOEHMER AND B0SSANGE, AND THE GRATITUDE OF THE QUEEN.

CHAPTER LXI. THE PRISONER.

CHAPTER LXII. THE LOOKOUT.

CHAPTER LXIII. THE TWO NEIGHBOURS.

CHAPTER LXIV. THE RENDEZVOUS.

CHAPTER LXV. THE QUEEN'S MAN.

CHAPTER LXVI. WOMAN AND QUEEN.

CHAPTER LXVII. WOMAN AND DEMON.

CHAPTER LXVIII. THE NIGHT.

CHAPTER LXIX. THE CONGE.

CHAPTER LXX. THE JEALOUSY OF THE CARDINAL.

CHAPTER LXXI. THE FLIGHT.

CHAPTER LXXII. THE LETTER AND THE RECEIPT.

CHAPTER LXXIII. THE MOTTO OF THE ROHANS *.

CHAPTER LXXIV. LOVE AND DIPLOMACY.

CHAPTER LXXV. CHARNY, CARDINAL, AND QUEEN.

CHAPTER LXXVI. EXPLANATIONS.

CHAPTER LXXVII. THE ARREST.

CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE PROCES-VERBAUX.

CHAPTER LXXIX. THE LAST ACCUSATION.

CHAPTER LXXX. THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

CHAPTER LXXXI. SAINT-DENIS.

CHAPTER LXXXII. A DEAD HEART.

CHAPTER LXXXIII. IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT.

CHAPTER LXXXIV. THE FATHER AND THE FIANCEE.

CHAPTER LXXXV. AFTER THE DRAGON, THE VIPER.

CHAPTER LXXXVI. HOW IT CAME TO PASS THAT MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE WAS TRACKED BY THE AGENTS OF MONSIEUR DE CROSNE.

CHAPTER LXXXVII THE TURTLES ARE CAGED.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. THE LIBRARY OF THE QUEEN.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE CABINET OF MONSIEUR DE CROSNE.

CHAPTER XC. THE EXAMINATIONS.

CHAPTER XCI. THE LAST HOPE LOST.

CHAPTER XCII THE BAPTISM OF THE LITTLE BEAUSIRE.

CHAPTER XCIII. THE TRIAL.

CHAPTER XCIV. A WAY OF ESCAPE.

CHAPTER XCV. THE JUDGMENT.

CHAPTER XCVI. THE EXECUTION.

CHAPTER XCVII. THE MARRIAGE.

PROLOGUE. THE PREDICTIONS.

I. AN OLD NOBLEMAN AND AN OLD MAITRE D'HOTEL.

It was the beginning of April, 1784, between twelve and one o'clock. Our old acquaintance, the Marshal de Richelieu, having with his own hands coloured his eyebrows with a perfumed dye, pushed away the mirror which was held to him by his valet, the successor of his faithful Rafte, and shaking his head in the manner peculiar to himself, "Ah!" said he, "now I look myself;" and, rising from his seat with juvenile vivacity, he commenced shaking off the powder which had fallen from his wig over his blue velvet coat, then, after taking a turn or two up and down his room, called for his maitre d'hotel.

In five minutes this personage made his appearance, elaborately dressed.

The marshal turned towards him, and, with a gravity befitting the occasion, said, "Monsieur, I suppose you have prepared me a good dinner-"

"Certainly, monseigneur."

"You have the list of my guests-"

"I remember them perfectly, your grace; I have prepared a dinner for nine."

"There are two sorts of dinners, monsieur," said the marshal.

"True, monseigneur, but-"

The marshal interrupted him with a slightly impatient movement, although still dignified.

"Do you know, monsieur, that whenever I have heard the word ' but,'- and I have heard it many times in the course of eighty-eight years,- it has been each time, I am sorry to say, the harbinger of some folly!"

"Monseigneur- "

"In the first place, at what time do we dine-"

"Monseigneur, the citizens dine at two, the bar at three, the nobility at four."

"And I, monsieur-"

"Monseigneur will dine to-day at five."

"Oh, at five!"

"Yes, monseigneur, like the king."

"And why like the king- "

"Because, on the list of your guests is the name of a king."

"Not so, monsieur, you mistake; all my guests to-day are simply noblemen."

"Monseigneur is surely jesting; the Count Haga,1 who is among the guests- "

"Well, monsieur!"

"The Count Haga is a king."

"I know no king so called."

"Monseigneur must pardon me then," said the maitre d'hotel, bowing, "but, I believed, supposed-"

"Your business, monsieur, is neither to believe nor to suppose; your business is to read, without comment, the orders I give you. When I wish a thing to be known, I tell it; when I do not tell it, I wish it unknown."

The maitre d'hotel bowed again, more respectfully, perhaps, than he would have done to a reigning monarch.

"Therefore, monsieur," continued the old marshal, "you will, as I have none but noblemen to dinner, let us dine at my usual hour, four o'clock."

"The name of Count Haga was well known as one assumed =""the King of Sweden when travelling in France.

At this order the countenance of the maitre d'hotel became clouded, as if he had heard his sentence of death; he grew deadly pale, then, recovering himself with the courage of despair, he said, "In any event, your grace cannot dine before five o'clock."

"Why so, monsieur-" cried the marshal.

"Because it is utterly impossible."

"Monsieur," said the marshal, with a haughty air, "it is now, I believe, twenty years since you entered my service-"

Twenty-one years, a month, and two weeks."

"Well, monsieur, to these twenty-one years, a month, and two weeks, you will not add a day, nor an hour. You understand me, monsieur," he continued, biting his thin lips and depressing his eyebrows; "this evening you seek a new master. I do not choose that the word impossible shall be pronounced in my house; I am too old now to begin to learn its meaning."

The maitre d'hotel bowed a third time.

"This evening," said he, "I shall have taken leave of monseigneur, but at least up to the last moment my duty shall have been performed as it should be;"and he made two steps towards the door.

"What do you call as it should be-" cried the marshal. "Learn, monsieur, that to do it as it suits me is to do it as it should be. Now, I wish to dine at four, and it does not suit me when I wish to dine at four to be obliged to wait till five."

"Monseigneur," replied the maitre d'hotel, gravely, "I have served as butler to his Highness the Prince de Soubise, and as steward to his Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan: with the first, his Majesty, the late King of France, dined once a year; with the second, the Emperor of Austria dined once a month. I know, therefore, how a sovereign should be treated. When he visited the Prince de Soubise, Louis XV. called himself in vain the Baron de Gonesse; at the house of Monsieur de Rohan, the Emperor Joseph was announced as the Count de Packenstein; but he was none the less Emperor. To-day, monseigneur also receives a guest, who vainly calls himself Count Haga,- Count Haga is still King of Sweden. I shall leave your service this evening, but Count Haga will have been treated like a king."

"But that," said the marshal, "is the very thing that I am tiring myself to death in forbidding; Count Haga wishes to preserve his incognito as strictly as possible. Well do I see through your absurd vanity; it is not the crown that you honour, but yourself that you wish to glorify with our crowns."

"I do not imagine," said the maitre d'hotel, morosely, "that monseigneur is in earnest when he speaks thus to me of money."

"No, no," said the marshal, somewhat abashed. "No, monsieur; money,- why in the devil's name speak of money- Do not beg the question. As I said before, my one object is to prevent the king's presence here from being suspected."

"What, then, does monseigneur take me for- Do you think I am blind- It is not that I wish it known that there is a king here."

"Then, in Heaven's name, do not be obstinate, but let us have dinner at four."

"But at four o'clock, monseigneur, what I am expecting will not have arrived."

"What are you expecting- a fish, like Monsieur Vatel- "

"Monsieur Vatel! Monsieur Vatel!" murmured the maitre d'hotel.

"Well, are you horrified at the comparison-"

"No; but Monsieur Vatel has been immortalised merely on account of a sword thrust which he gave himself through his body."

"Ah! ah! And you think that your fellow artist has purchased glory at too small a price; monsieur-"

"No, monseigneur; but how many others, in our profession, suffer far more than he, and swallow insults and griefs one hundred times worse than a mere sword thrust, and still have never been immortalised."

"But, monsieur, do you not know that it is requisite for one to be either a member of the Academy, or dead, before one can be immortalised-"

"If that is the case, monseigneur, I should think it would be better to be alive, and to do one's duty. I shall not die, and my duty shall be as faithfully performed as that of Monsieur Vatel would have been, had Monsieur le Prince de Conde been patient enough to have waited half an hour."

"Oh, monsieur, you are promising me miracles. You are clever."

'No, monsieur; no miracles."

'But what, then, are you awaiting-"

'Does monseigneur wish that I should tell you-"

'On my faith, I am curious."

'Then, monseigneur, I wait for a bottle of wine."

"A bottle of wine! Explain yourself, monsieur; the thing begins to interest me."

"Listen, then, monseigneur; his Majesty, the King of Sweden- I beg pardon, the Count Haga I should have said- drinks nothing but tokay."

"Well, am I so poor as to have no tokay in my cellar- If so, I must dismiss my butler."

"Not so, your grace; on the contrary, you have about sixty bottles."

"Well, do you think Count Haga will drink sixty-one bottles with his dinner- "

"No, monseigneur; but when Count Haga first visited France, when he was only prince royal, he dined with the late king, who had received twelve bottles of tokay from the Emperor of Austria. You are aware that the tokay of the finest vintages is reserved exclusively for the cellar of the Emperor, and that kings themselves can only drink it when he pleases to send it to them."

"1 know it."

"Then, monseigneur, of these twelve bottles of which the prince royal drank, only two remain. One is in the cellar of his Majesty Louis XVI."

"And the other-"

"Ah, monseigneur!" said the maitre d'hotel, with a triumphant smile, for he felt that, after the long battle he had been fighting, the moment of victory was at hand, "the other one was stolen."

"By whom, then-"

"By one of my friends, the late king's butler, who was under great obligations to me."

"Oh! and so he gave it to you-"

"Certainly, monseigneur," said the maitre d'hotel, with pride.

"And what did you do with it- "

"I placed it carefully in my master's cellar."

"Your master! And who was your master at that time-"

"His Eminence, the Cardinal de Rohan."

"Ah, mon Dieu! at Strasbourg-"

"At Saverne."

"And you have sent to seek this bottle for me!" cried the old marshal.

"For you, monseigneur," replied the maitre d'hotel, in a tone which plainly said, "ungrateful as you are."

The Duke de Richelieu seized the hand of the old servant and cried, "I beg pardon; you are the king of maître d'hotel."

"And you would have dismissed me," he replied, with an indescribable shrug of his shoulders.

"Oh, I will pay you one hundred pistoles for this bottle of wine."

"And the expenses of its coming here will be another hundred; but you will grant that it is a bagatelle."

"I will grant anything you please, and, to begin, from to-day I double your salary."

"I seek no reward, monseigneur; I have but done my duty."

"And when will your courier arrive-"

"Monseigneur may judge if I have lost time. On what day did I have my orders for the dinner- "

"Why, three days ago, I believe."

"It takes a courier, at his utmost speed, twenty-four hours to go, and the same to return."

"There still remain twenty-four hours," said the marshal; "how have they been employed-"

"Alas! monseigneur, they were lost. The idea only came to me the day after I received the list of your guests. Now calculate the time necessary for the negotiation, and you will perceive that in asking you to wait till five I am only doing what I am absolutely obliged to do."

"The bottle is not yet arrived, then- "

"No, monseigneur."

"Ah, monsieur, if your colleague at Saverne be as devoted to the Prince de Rohan as you are to me, and should refuse the bottle, as you would do in his place- "

"I- monseigneur- "

"Yes; you would not, I suppose, have given away such a bottle, had it belonged to me- "

"I beg your pardon, humbly, monseigneur; but had a friend, having a king to provide for, asked me for your best bottle of wine, he should have had it immediately."

"Oh!" said the marshal, with a grimace.

"It is only by helping others that we can expect help in our own need, monseigneur."

"Well, then, I suppose we may calculate that it will be given; but there is still another risk, if the bottle should be broken-"

"Oh! monseigneur, who would break a bottle of wine of that value-"

"Well, I trust not; what time, then, do you expect your courier- "

"At four o'clock precisely."

"Then why not dine at four-" replied the marshal, with the obstinacy of a Castilian mule.

"Monseigneur, the wine must rest for an hour; and had it not been for an invention of my own, it would have required three days to recover itself."

Beaten at all points, the marshal gave way.

"Besides," continued the old servant, "be sure, mon- seigneur, that your guests, knowing that they will have the honour to dine with the Count Haga, will not arrive before half-past four."

"And why not-"

"Consider, monseigneur: to begin with Monsieur de Launay; he comes from the Bastille, and with the ice at present covering the streets of Paris-"

"No; but he will leave after the prisoners' dinner, at twelve o'clock."

"Pardon me, monseigneur, but the dinner hour at the Bastille has been changed since monseigneur was there; it is now one."

"Monsieur, you are learned on all points; pray go on."

"Madame Dubarry comes from Luciennes, one continued descent, and in this frost."

"That would not prevent her being punctual, since she is no longer a duke's favourite; she plays the queen only among barons. But let me tell you, monsieur, that I desired to have dinner early on account of Monsieur de la Perouse, who sets off to-night and would not wish to be late."

"But, monseigneur, Monsieur de la Pe'rouse is with the king, discussing geography and cosmography; he will not get away too early."

"It is possible."

"It is certain, monseigneur, and it will be the same with Monsieur de Favras, who is with the Count de Provence, talking, no doubt, of the new play by the Canon de Beaumarchais."

"You mean the ' Marriage of Figaro'- "

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Why, you are quite literary also, it seems."

"In my leisure moments I read, monseigneur."

"We have, however, Monsieur de Condorcet, who, being a geometrician, should at least be punctual."

"Yes; but he will be deep in some calculation, from which, when he rouses himself, it will probably be at least half an hour too late. As for the Count Cagliostro, as he is a stranger, and not well acquainted with the customs of Versailles, he will, in all probability, make us wait for him."

"Well," said the marshal, "you have disposed of all my guests, except Monsieur de Taverney, in a manner worthy of Homer, or of my poor Rafte"."

The maitre d'hotel bowed. "I have not," said he, "named Monsieur de Taverney, because, being an old friend, he will probably be punctual. These are all the guests, I believe."

"Good; and where do we dine-"

"In the great dining-room, monseigneur."

"But we shall freeze there."

"It has been warmed for three days, monseigneur; and I believe you will find it perfectly comfortable."

"Very well; but there is a clock striking. Why, it is half-past four!" cried the marshal.

"Yes, monseigneur; and there is the courier entering the court-yard with my bottle of tokay."

"May I continue for another twenty years to be served in this manner!" said the marshal, turning again to his looking-glass, while the maitre d'hotel ran down stairs.

"Twenty years!" said a laughing voice, interrupting the marshal in his survey of himself; "twenty years, my dear duke! I wish them to you; but then I shall be sixty,- I shall be very old."

"You, countess!" cried the marshal, "you are my first arrival, and, mon Dieu! you look as young and charming as ever."

"Duke, I am frozen."

"Come into the boudoir, then."

"Oh! tete-a-tete, marshal-"

"Not so," replied a somewhat broken voice.

"Ah! Taverney!"said the marshal; and then, whispering to the countess, "Plague take him for disturbing us!"

Madame Dubarry laughed, and they all entered the adjoining room.

II. MONSIEUR DE LA PIROUSE.

At the same moment, the noise of carriages in the street warned the marshal that his guests were arriving; and soon after- thanks to the punctuality of his maitre d'hotel- nine persons were seated round the oval table in the dining-room. Nine lackeys, silent as shadows, quick without bustle, and attentive without importunity, glided over the carpet, and passed among the guests, without ever touching their chairs, which were surrounded with furs, which were wrapped round the legs of the sitters. These furs, with the heat from the stoves, and the odours from the wine and the dinner, diffused a degree of comfort which manifested itself in the gaiety of the guests, who had just finished their soup.

No sound was heard from without, and none within, save that made by the guests themselves; for the plates were changed and the dishes moved round with the most perfect quiet. Nor from the maitre d'hotel could a whisper be heard; he seemed to give his orders with his eyes.

The guests, therefore, began to feel as though they were alone. It seemed to them that servants so silent must also be deaf.

Monsieur de Richelieu was the first who broke the silence, by saying to the guest on his right hand, "But, count, you drink nothing."

This was addressed to a man about thirty-eight years of age, short, fair-haired, and with high shoulders; his eye a clear blue, now bright, but oftener with a pensive expression; and with nobility stamped unmistakably on his open and manly forehead.

"I only drink water, marshal," he replied.

"Excepting with Louis XV.," returned the marshal; "I had the honour of dining at his table with you, and you deigned that day to drink wine."

"Ah! you recall a pleasing remembrance, marshal; that was in 1771. It was tokay, from the imperial cellar."

"It was like that with which my maitre d'hotel will now have the honour to fill your glass," replied Richelieu, bowing.

Count Haga raised his glass and looked through it. The wine sparkled in the light like liquid rubies. "It is true," said he; "marshal, I thank you."

These words were uttered in a manner so noble, that the guests, as if by a common impulse, rose, and cried,-

"Long live the king!"

"Yes," said Count Haga, "long live his Majesty the King of France. What say you, Monsieur de la Perouse-"

"Monseigneur," replied the captain, with that tone, at once flattering and respectful, common to those accustomed to address crowned heads, "I have just left the king, and his Majesty has shown me so much kindness, that no one will more willingly cry ' Long live the king!' than I. Only, as in another hour I must leave you to join the two ships which his Majesty has put at my disposal, once out of this house I shall take the liberty of saying, ' Long life to another king,' whom I should be proud to serve, had I not already so good a master." And raising his glass, he bowed respectfully to the Count de Haga.

"This health that you propose," said Madame Dubarry, who sat on the marshal's left hand, "we are all ready to drink, but the oldest of us should take the lead."

"Is it you, that that concerns, or me, Taverney-" said the marshal, laughing.

"I do not believe," said another on the opposite side, "that Monsieur de Richelieu is the senior of our party."

"Then it is you, Taverney," said the duke.

"No, I am eight years younger than you. I was born in 1704," returned he.

"How rude," said the marshal, "to expose my eighty- eight years!"

"Impossible, duke, that you are eighty-eight!" said Monsieur de Condorcet.

"It is, however, but too true; it is a calculation easy to make, and therefore unworthy of an algebraist like you, marquis. I am of the last century,- the great century, as we call it. My date is 1696."

"Impossible 1" cried De Launay.

"Oh, if your father were here, he would not say impossbile, he, who, when governor of the Bastille, had me for a lodger in 1714."

"The senior in age, here, however," said Monsieur de Favras, "is the wine Count Haga is now drinking."

"You are right, Monsieur de Favras; this wine is a hundred and twenty years old; to the wine, then, belongs the honour of proposing the health of the king."

"One moment, gentlemen," said Cagliostro, raising his eyes, beaming with intelligence and vivacity; "I claim the precedence."

"You claim precedence over the tokay!" exclaimed all the guests in chorus.

"Assuredly," returned Cagliostro, calmly; since it was I who bottled it."

"You-"

"Yes, I; on the day of the victory won by Montecuculli over the Turks in 1664."

A burst of laughter followed these words, which Cagliostro had pronounced with perfect gravity.

"By this calculation, you would be something like one hundred and thirty years old," said Madame Dubarry; "for you must have been at least ten years old when you bottled the wine."

I was more than ten when I performed that operation, madame, as on the following day I had the honour of being deputed by his Majesty the Emperor of Austria to congratulate Montecuculli, who, by the victory of Saint- Gothard, had avenged the day at Especk, in Sclavonia, in which the infidels treated the imperialists so roughly, who were my friends and companions in arms in 1536."

"Oh," said Count Haga, as coolly as Cagliostro himself, "you must have been at least ten years old when you were at that memorable battle."

"A terrible defeat, count," returned Cagliostro.

"Less terrible than Crecy, however," said Condorcet, smiling.

"True, monsieur, for at the battle of Crecy, it was not only an army, but all France, that was beaten; but then this defeat was scarcely a fair victory to the English; for King Edward had cannon, a circumstance of which Philippe de Valois was ignorant, or rather, which he would not believe, although I warned him that I had with my own eyes seen four pieces of artillery which Edward had bought from the Venetians."

"Ah!" said Madame Dubarry; "you knew Philippe de Valois- "

"Madame, I had the honour to be one of the five lords who escorted him off the field of battle; I came to France with the poor old King of Bohemia, who was blind, and who threw away his life when he heard that the battle was lost."

"Ah, monsieur," said Monsieur de la Perouse, "how much I regret that, instead of the battle of Crecy, it was not that of Actium at which you assisted."

"Why so, monsieur- "

"Oh, because you might have given me some nautical details, which, in spite of Plutarch's fine narration, have ever been obscure to me."

"Which, monsieur- I should be happy to be of service to you."

"Oh, you were there, then, also- "

"No, monsieur; I was then in Egypt. I had been employed by Queen Cleopatra to restore the library at Alexandria,- an office for which I was better qualified than any one else, from having personally known the best authors of antiquity."

"And you have seen Queen Cleopatra-"said Madame Dubarry.

"As I now see you, madame."

"Was she as pretty as they say- "

"Madame, you know beauty is only comparative; a charming queen in Egypt, in Paris she would only have been a pretty grisette."

"Say no harm of grisettes, count."

"God forbid!"

"Then Cleopatra was- "

"Little, slender, lively, and intelligent; with large almond-shaped eyes, a Grecian nose, teeth like pearls, and a hand like your own, countess,- a fit hand to hold a sceptre. See, here is a diamond which she gave me, and which she had had from her brother Ptolemy; she wore it on her thumb."

"On her thumb-"cried Madame Dubarry.

"Yes; it was an Egyptian fashion; and I, you see, can hardly put it on my little finger;" and, taking off the ring, he handed it to Madame Dubarry.

It was a magnificent diamond, of such fine water, and so beautifully cut, as to be worth thirty thousand or forty thousand francs.

The diamond was passed round the table, and returned to Cagliostro, who, putting it quietly on his finger again, said, "Ah, I see well you are all incredulous; this fatal incredulity I have had to contend against all my life. Philippe de Valois would not listen to me when I told him to leave open a retreat to Edward; Cleopatra would not believe me when I warned her that Antony would be beaten; the Trojans would not credit me when I said to them, with reference to the wooden horse, ' Cassandra is inspired; listen to Cassandra.'"

"Oh! it is charming," said Madame Dubarry, shaking with laughter; "I have never met a man at once so serious and so diverting."

"I assure you," replied Cagliostro, "that Jonathan was much more so. He was really a charming companion; until he was killed by Saul, he nearly drove me crazy with laughing."

"Do you know," said the Duke de Richelieu, "if you go on in this way you will drive poor Taverney crazy; he is so afraid of death, that he is staring at you with all his eyes, hoping you to be an immortal."

"Immortal I cannot say, but one thing I can affirm- "

"What-" cried Taverney, who was the most eager listener.

"That I have seen all the people and events of which I have been speaking to you."

"You have known Montecuculli- "

"As well as I know you, Monsieur de Favras; and, indeed, much better, for this is but the second or third time I have had the honour of seeing you, while I lived nearly a year under the same tent with him of whom you speak."

"You knew Philippe de Valois-"

"As I have already had the honour of telling you, Monsieur de Conclorcet; but when he returned to Paris, I left France and returned to Bohemia."

"And Cleopatra."

"Yes, countess; Cleopatra, I can tell you, had eyes as black as yours, and shoulders almost as beautiful."

"But what do you know of my shoulders-"

"They are like what Cassandra's once were; and there is still a further resemblance,- she had like you, or rather you have like her, a little black spot on your left side just above the sixth rib."

"Oh, count, now you really are a sorcerer."

"No, no," cried the marshal, laughing; "it was I who told him."

"And pray how do you know- "

The marshal bit his lips, and replied, "Oh, it is a family secret."

"Well, really, marshal," said the countess, "one should put on a double coat of rouge before visiting you;" and turning again to Cagliostro, "Then, monsieur, you have the art of renewing your youth- For although you say you are three or four thousand years old, you scarcely look forty."

"Yes, madame, I do possess that secret."

"Oh, then, monsieur, impart it to me."

"To you, madame- It is useless; your youth is already renewed; your age is only what it appears to be, and you do not look thirty."

"Ah! you natter."

"No, madame, I speak only the truth, but it is easily explained: you have already tried my receipt."

"How so-"

"You have taken my elixir."

"I-"

"You, countess. Oh! you cannot have forgotten it. Do you not remember a certain house in the Rue Saint-Claude, and coming there on some business respecting Monsieur de Sartines- You remember rendering a service to one of my friends, called Joseph Balsamo. and that this Joseph Balsamo gave you a bottle of elixir, recommending you to take three drops every morning- Do you not remember having done this regularly until the last year, when the bottle became exhausted- If you do not remember all this, countess, it is more than forgetfulness,- it is ingratitude."

"Oh! Monsieur de Cagliostro, you are telling me things- "

"Which were only known to yourself, I am aware; but what would be the use of being a sorcerer if one did not know one's neighbour's secrets-"

"Then Joseph Balsamo has, like you, the secret of this famous elixir- ".

"No, madame, but he was one of my best friends, and I gave him three or four bottles."

"And has he any left- "

"Oh I I know nothing of that; for the last two or three years poor Balsamo has disappeared. The last time I saw him was in America, on the banks of the Ohio: he was setting off on an expedition to the Rocky Mountains, and since then I have heard that he is dead."

"Come, come, count," cried the marshal; "let us have the secret, by all means."

"Are you speaking seriously, monsieur-"said Count Haga.

"Very seriously, sire,- I beg pardon, I mean count;"and Cagliostro bowed in such a way as to indicate that his error was a voluntary one.

"Then," said the marshal, "Madame Dubarry is not old enough to be made young again- "

"No, on my conscience."

"Well, then, I will give you another subject: here is my friend Taverney,- what do you say to him- Does he not look like a contemporary of Pontius Pilate- But perhaps he, on the contrary, is too old- "

Cagliostro looked at the baron. "No," said he.

"Ah! my dear count," exclaimed Richelieu; "if you will renew his youth, I will proclaim you a true pupil of Medea."

"You wish it-"asked Cagliostro of the host, and looking round at the same time on all assembled.

Every one called out, "Yes."

"And you also, Monsieur de Taverney- "

"I more than any one," said the baron.

"Well, it is easy," returned Cagliostro; and he drew from his pocket a small bottle, and poured into a- glass some of the liquid it contained. Then, mixing these drops with half a glass of iced champagne, he passed it to the baron.

All eyes followed his movements eagerly.

The baron took the glass, but as he was about to drink he hesitated.

Every one began to laugh, but Cagliostro called out, "Drink, baron, or you will lose a liquor of which each drop is worth a hundred louis-d'or."

"The devil," cried Richelieu; "that is even better than tokay."

"I must then drink-"said the baron, almost trembling.

"Or pass the glass to another, sir, that some one at least may profit by it."

"Pass it here," said Richelieu, holding out his hand.

The baron raised the glass, and, decided doubtless by the delicious smell and the beautiful rose colour which those few drops had given to the champagne, he swallowed the magic liquor. In an instant a kind of shiver ran through him; he seemed to feel all his old and sluggish blood rushing quickly through his veins, from his heart to his feet, his wrinkled skin seemed to expand, his eyes, half covered by their lids, appeared to open without his will, and the pupils to grow and brighten, the trembling of his hands to cease, his voice to strengthen, and his limbs to recover their former youthful elasticity. In fact, it seemed as if the liquid in its descent had regenerated his whole body.

A cry of surprise, wonder, and admiration rang through the room.

Taverney, who had been slowly eating with his gums, began to feel famished; he seized a plate and helped himself largely to a ragout, and then demolished a partridge, bones and all, calling out that his teeth were coming back to him. He ate, laughed, and cried for joy for half an hour, while the others remained gazing at him- in stupefied wonder; then little by little he failed again, like a lamp whose oil is burning out, and all the former signs of old age returned upon him.

"Oh!"groaned he, "once more adieu to my youth," and he gave utterance to a deep sigh, while two tears rolled over his cheeks.

Instinctively, at this mournful spectacle of the old man first made young again, and then seeming to become yet older than before from the contrast, the sigh was echoed all round the table.

"It is easy to explain, gentlemen," said Cagliostro; "I gave the baron but thirty-five drops of the elixir. He became young, therefore, for only thirty-five minutes."

"Oh more, more, count!"cried the old man eagerly.

"Xo, monsieur, for perhaps the second trial would kill you."

Of all the guests, Madame Dubarry, who had already tested the virtue of the elixir, seemed most deeply interested while old Taverney's youth seemed thus to renew itself; she had watched him with delight and triumph, and half fancied herself growing young again at the sight, while she could hardly refrain from endeavouring to snatch from Cagliostro the wonderful bottle; but now, seeing him resume his old age even quicker than he had lost it, "Alas!"she said sadly, "all is vanity and deception; the effects of this wonderful secret last for thirty-five minutes."

"That is to say," said Count Haga, "that, in order to resume your youth for two years, you would have to drink a perfect river."

Every one laughed.

"Oh! " said De Condorcet, "the calculation is simple, a mere nothing of 3,153,000 drops for one year's youth."

"An inundation," said La Perouse.

"However, monsieur," continued Madame Dubarry, "according to you I have not needed so much, as a small bottle about four times the size of that you hold given me by your friend Joseph Balsamo has been sufficient to arrest the march of time for ten years."

"Just so, madame. And you alone approach this mysterious truth. The man who has already grown old needs this large quantity to produce an immediate and powerful effect; but a woman of thirty, as you were, or a man of forty, as I was, when I began to drink this elixir, still full of life and youth, needs but ten drops at each period of decay; and with these ten drops may eternally continue his life and youth at the same point of attractiveness and power."

"What do you call the periods of decay- " asked Count Haga.

"The natural periods, count. In a state of nature, man's strength increases until thirty-five years of age. It then remains stationary until forty; and from that time forward it begins to diminish, but almost imperceptibly, until fifty; then the process becomes quicker and quicker to the day of his death. In our state of civilisation, when the body is weakened by excess, cares, and maladies, increase of strength is arrested at thirty years, the failure begins at thirty-five. The time, then, to take nature is when she is stationary, so as to forestall the beginning of decay. He who, possessor as I am of the secret of this elixir, knows how to seize the happy moment will live as I live; always young, or at least always young enough for what he has to do in the world."

"Oh, Monsieur de Cagliostro," cried the countess, "why, if you could choose your own age, did you not stop at twenty instead of at forty- "

"Because, madame," said Cagliostro, smiling, "it suits me better to be a man of forty, still healthy and vigorous, than a raw youth of twenty."

"Oh 1" said the countess.

"Doubtless, madame," continued Cagliostro, "at twenty, one pleases women of thirty; at forty, we govern women, of twenty and men of sixty."

"I yield, monsieur," said the countess, "for you are a living proof of the truth of your own words."

"Then I," said Taverney piteously, "am condemned; it is too late for me."

"Monsieur de Richelieu has been more skilful than you," said La Pe'rouse naively, with the frankness of a sailor, "and I have always heard that he had some secret."

"It is a report that the women have spread," laughed Count Haga.

"Is that a reason for disbelieving it, duke- "asked Madame Dubarry.

The old duke coloured, a rare thing for him; but replied, "Do you wish, gentlemen, to have my receipt- "

"Oh, by all means."

"Well, then, it is simply to take care of yourself."

"Oh, oh!" cried all.

"I should question the efficacy of the receipt," replied the countess, "had I not already proved the virtue of that given me by Monsieur de Cagliostro. But, monsieur," continued Madame Dubarry, "I must ask more about the elixir."

"Well, madame- "

"You said you first used it at forty years of age- "

"Yes, madame."

"And that since that time, that is, since the siege of Troy-"

"A little before, madame."

' That you have always remained forty years old- "

"You see me now."

"But then, monsieur," said De Condorcet, "you prove more to us than your theory requires."

"How, so, Monsieur le Marquis- what do I prove to you-"

"You prove not only the perpetuation of youth, but the preservation of life; for if since the siege of Troy you have been always forty, you have never died."

"True, marquis, I have never died."

"But are you, then, invulnerable, like Achilles, or still more so, for Achilles was killed by a wound in the heel inflicted by the arrow of Paris- "

"No, I am not invulnerable, and there is my great regret," said Cagliostro.

"Then, monsieur, you may be killed."

"Alas! yes."

"How, then, have you escaped all accidents for three thousand five hundred years- "

"It is chance, marquis, but will you follow my reasoning- "

"Yes, yes," cried all, with eagerness.

Cagliostro continued: "What is the first requisite to life-" he asked, spreading out his white and beautiful hands covered with rings, among which Cleopatra's shone conspicuously. "Is it not health- "

"Certainly."

"And the way to preserve health is- "

"Proper management," said Count Haga.

"Bight, count. And why should not my elixir be the best possible method of treatment- "

"Who knows that- "

"You, count."

"Yes, doubtless, but- "

"But no one else," said Madame Dubarry.

"That, madame, is a question that we will discuss later. Well, I have always followed the regimen of my drops and as they are the fulfilment of the fondest dreams of men of all times, as they are the water of youth of the ancients, the elixir of life of our modern philosophers, I have continually preserved my youth, consequently my health and my life. That is plain."

"But all things exhaust themselves; the finest constitution, as well as the worst."

"The body of Paris, like that of Vulcan," said the countess. "Perhaps you knew Paris, by the by- "

"Perfectly, madame; he was a fine young man, but really did not deserve all that has been said of him. In the first place, he had red hair."

"Red hair! horrible!"

"Unluckily, madame, Helen was not of your opinion. But to return to our subject. You say, Monsieur de Taverney, that all things exhaust themselves; but you also know that everything recovers again, regenerates, or is replaced, whichever you please to call it. The famous knife of Saint- Hubert, which so often changed both blade and handle, is an example, for through every change it still remained the knife of Saint-Hubert. The wine which the monks of Heidelberg preserve so carefully in their cellars remains still the same wine, although each year they pour into it a fresh supply. Therefore this wine always remains clear, bright, and delicious; while the wine which Opimus and I hid in the earthen jars was, when I tried it a hundred years after, only a thick dirty substance, which might have been eaten, but certainly could not have been drunk. Well, I follow the example of the monks of Heidelberg, and preserve my body by introducing into it every year new elements, which regenerate the old. Every morning a new and fresh atom replaces in my blood, my flesh, and my bones some particle which has perished. I stay that ruin which most men allow insensibly to invade their whole being, and I force into action all those powers which God has given to every human being, but which most people allow to lie dormant. Consequently they have retained their first vigour, and have received constantly a new stimulant. As a result of this careful observation of the laws of life and health, my brain, my muscles, my heart, my nerves, and my soul have never failed in their various functions. This is the great study of my life, and, as in all things he who does one thing constantly does that thing better than others, I am becoming more skilful than others in avoiding the dangers of an existence of three thousand years. Thus, you would not get me to enter a tottering house; I have seen too many houses not to tell at a glance the safe from the unsafe. You would not see me go out hunting with a man who managed his gun badly. From Cephalus, who killed his wife Procris, down to the Regent, who shot the prince in the eye, I have seen too many unskillful people. You could not make me accept in battle the post which many a man would take without thinking, because I should calculate in a moment the chances of danger at each point. You will tell me that one cannot foresee a stray bullet; but the man who has escaped a million gun-shots will hardly fall a victim to one now. Ah! you look incredulous, but am I not a living proof- I do not tell you that I am immortal, only that I know better than others how to avoid danger; for instance, I would not remain here now alone with Monsieur de Launay, who is thinking that, if he had me in the Bastille, he would put my immortality to the test of starvation; neither would I remain with Monsieur de Condorcet, for he is thinking that he might just empty into my glass the contents of that ring which he wears on his left hand, and which is full of poison, not with any evil intent, but just as a scientific experiment, to see if I should die."

The two people named looked at each other, and coloured.

"Confess, Monsieur de Launay, we are not in a court of justice; besides, thoughts are not punished. Did you not think what I said- And you, Monsieur de Condorcet, would you not have liked to let me taste the poison in your ring, in the name of your beloved mistress, science- "

"Indeed," said Monsieur de Launay, laughing. "I confess you are right; it was folly, but that folly did pass through my mind just before you accused me."

"And I," said Monsieur de Condorcet, "will not be less candid. I did think that if you tasted the contents of my ring, I would not give much for your life."

A cry of admiration burst from the rest of the party; these avowals confirming not the immortality, but the penetration, of Count Cagliostro.

"You see," said Cagliostro, quietly, "that I divined these dangers; well, it is the same with other things. The experience of a long life reveals to me at a glance much of the past and of the future of those whom I meet. My capabilities in this way extend even to animals and inanimate objects. If I get into a carriage, I can tell from the look of the horses if they are likely to run away, and from that of the coachman if he will overturn me. If I go on board ship, I can see if the captain is ignorant or obstinate, and consequently likely to endanger me. I should then leave the coachman or captain, escape from those horses or that ship. I do not deny chance, I only lessen it, and instead of incurring a hundred chances, like the rest of the world, I prevent ninety-nine of them, and endeavour to guard against the hundredth. This is the good of having lived three thousand years."

"Then," said La Perouse, laughing, amidst the wonder and enthusiasm created by this speech of Cagliostro's, "you should come with me when I embark to make the tour of the world; you would render me a signal service."

Cagliostro did not reply.

"Monsieur de Richelieu," continued La Perouse, "as the Count Cagliostro, which is very intelligible, does not wish to quit such good company, you must permit me to do so without him. Excuse me, Count Haga, and you, madame, but it is seven o'clock, and I have promised his Majesty to start at a quarter past. But since Count Cagliostro will not be tempted to come with me and see my ships, perhaps he can tell me what will happen to me between Versailles and Brest. From Brest to the Pole I ask nothing; that is my own business. But he ought to tell me what may happen on my way to Brest."

Cagliostro looked at La P6rouse with such a melancholy air, so full both of pity and kindness, that the others were struck by it. The sailor himself, however, did not remark it. He took leave of the company, put on his fur riding- coat, into one of the pockets of which Madame Dubarry pushed a bottle of delicious cordial, welcome to a traveller, but which he would not have provided for himself, to recall to him, she said, his absent friends during the long nights of a journey in such bitter cold.

La Perouse, still full of gaiety, bowed respectfully to Count Haga, and held out his hand to the old marshal.

"Adieu, dear La Perouse," said the latter.

"No, duke, au revoir," replied La Perouse; "one would think I was going away forever. Now I have but to circumnavigate the globe, five or six years' absence; it is scarcely worth while to say 'Adieu' for that."

"Five or six years," said the marshal; "you might almost as well say five or six centuries; days are years at my age therefore I say adieu."

"Bah! ask the sorcerer," returned La Pe'rouse, still laughing; "he will promise you twenty years' more life. Will you not, Count Cagliostro- Oh, count, why did I not hear sooner of those precious drops of yours- Whatever the price, I should have shipped a ton on the Astrolabe. Madame, another kiss of that beautiful hand; I shall certainly not see such another till I return. Au revoir," and he left the room.

Cagliostro still preserved the same mournful silence. They heard the steps of the captain as he left the house, his gay voice in the court-yard, and his farewells to the people assembled to see him depart. Then the horses shook their heads covered with bells, the door of the carriage shut with some noise, and the wheels were heard rolling along the street.

La Perouse had started on that voyage from which he was destined never to return.

When they could no longer hear a sound, all looks, as if controlled by a superior power, were again turned to Cagliostro; there seemed a kind of inspired light in his eyes.

Count Haga first broke the silence, which had lasted for some minutes. "Why did you not reply to his question-" he inquired of Cagliostro.

Cagliostro started, as if the question had roused him from a reverie. "Because," said he, "I must either have told a falsehood or a sad truth."

"How so-"

"I must have said to him, ' Monsieur de la Pe'rouse, the duke is right in saying to you adieu, and not au revoir.'"

"Oh," said Richelieu, turning pale, "what do you mean- "

"Reassure yourself, marshal, this sad prediction does not concern you."

"What, "cried Madame Dubarry, "this poor La Perouse, who has just kissed my hand- "

"Not only, madame, will never kiss it again, but will never again see those he has just left," said Cagliostro, looking attentively at the glass of water he was holding up, which in that position exhibited a luminous surface of an opal tint, crossed by the shadows of surrounding objects.

A cry of astonishment burst from all. The interest of the conversation deepened every moment, and you might have thought, from the solemn and anxious air with which all regarded Cagliostro, that it was some ancient and infallible oracle they were consulting.

In the midst of this preoccupation, Monsieur de Favras, expressing the sentiments of them all, rose, made a gesture, and walked on tiptoe to the antechamber, that he might be sure there were no servants listening. But, as we have already said, this house was as carefully kept as that of Monsieur le Marechal de Richelieu, and Monsieur de Favras found in the adjoining room only an old servitor, who, rigorous as a sentinel at an exposed post, guarded the approach to the dining-room while the solemn hour of dessert was passing.

He returned to his former seat, and made a sign to the others at the table, indicating that they were indeed quite alone.

"Pray, then, count," said Madame Dubarry, motioning to De Favras that she understood his meaning, although he had not uttered a word, "tell us what will befall poor La Perouse."

Cagliostro shook his head.

"Oh, yes, let us hear! " cried all the rest.

"Well, then, Monsieur de la Perouse intends, as you know, to make the tour of the globe, and continue the researches of poor Captain Cook, who was killed in the Sandwich Islands."

"Yes, yes, we know."

"Everything should foretell a happy termination to this voyage; Monsieur de la Perouse is a good seaman, and his route has been most skillfully traced by the king."

"Yes," interrupted Count Haga, "the King of France is a clever geographer; is he not, Monsieur de Condorcet-"

"More skilful than is needful for a king," replied the marquis; "kings ought to know things only slightly, then they will let themselves be guided by those who know them thoroughly."

"Is this a lesson, marquis-" said Count Haga, smiling.

Condorcet blushed. "Oh, no," said he; "only a simple reflection, a general truth."

"Well, he is gone," said Madame Dubarry, anxious to bring the conversation back to La Perouse.

"Yes, he is gone," replied Cagliostro, "but don't believe, in spite of his haste, that he will soon embark. I foresee much time lost at Brest."

"That would be a pity," said De Condorcet; "this is the time to set out; it is even now rather late,- February or March would have been better."

"Oh, do not grudge him these few months, Monsieur de Condorcet, for during them he will at least live and hope."

"He has got good officers, I suppose-" said Richelieu.

"Yes; he who commands the second ship is a distinguished officer. I see him, young, adventurous, brave, unhappily."

"Why unhappily-"

"A year after I look for him, and see him no more," said Cagliostro, anxiously consulting his glass. "No one here is related to Monsieur de Langle-"

"No."

"No one knows him-"

"No."

"Well, death will commence with him; I see him no longer."

A murmur of affright escaped from all the guests.

"But he, La Perouse-" cried several voices.

"He sails, lie lands, he re-embarks; I see one, two years of successful navigation; we hear news of him, 1 and then- "

"Then-"

"Years pass."

"But at last-"

"The sea is vast, the heavens are clouded, here and there appear unknown lands, and figures hideous as the monsters of the Grecian Archipelago. They watch the ship, which is being carried in a fog amongst the breakers, by a tempest less fearful than themselves, and then ominous flames. Oh! La Pe'rouse, La Perouse, if you could hear me, I would cry to you. You set out, like Columbus, to discover a world; beware of unknown isles!"

He ceased, and an icy shiver ran through the assembly.

"But why did you not warn him-" asked Count Haga, who, in spite of himself, had succumbed to the influence of this extraordinary man.

"Yes," cried Madame Dubarry, "why not send after him and bring him back- The life of a man like La Pe'rouse is surely worth a courier, my dear marshal."

The marshal understood, and rose to ring the bell.

Cagliostro extended his arm to stop him. "Alas!" said he, "all advice would be useless. I can foretell destiny, but I cannot change it. Monsieur de la Perouse would laugh if he heard my words, as the son of Priam laughed when Cassandra prophesied; and see, you begin to laugh yourself, Count Haga, and laughing is contagious: your companions are catching it. Do not restrain yourselves, gentlemen- I am accustomed to an incredulous audience."

"Oh, we believe," said Madame Dubarry and the Duke de Richelieu; "and I believe," murmured Taverney; "and 1 also," said Count Haga, politely.

"Yes," replied Cagliostro, "you believe because it concerns La Perouse; but if I spoke of yourself, you would not believe."

"The officer who brought the last news of La Perouse was Monsieur de Lesseps, the only one of the expedition who returned to France.

"Oh!"

"I am sure of it."

"I confess that what would have made me believe, would have been if you had said to him, ' Beware of unknown isles.' Then he would at least have had the chance of avoiding them."

"I assure you no, count; and if he had believed me, it would only have been more horrible, for the unfortunate man would have seen himself approaching those isles destined to be fatal to him without the power to flee from them. Therefore he would have died, not one, but a thousand deaths, for he would have gone through it all by anticipation. Hope, of which I should have deprived him, is the last consolation of the unfortunate wretch beneath the knife. The blade touches him, he feels its sharp edge, his blood flows, and still he hopes; even to his last breath, until life itself is extinct, he clings to hope."

"That is true," said several of the guests, in a low voice.

"Yes," said De Condorcet; "the veil which hides from us our future is the only real good which God has vouchsafed to man."

"Nevertheless," said Count Haga, "did a man like you say to me, Shun a certain man, or a certain thing, I would beware, and I would thank you for the counsel."

Cagliostro shook his head with a sad smile.

"I mean it, Monsieur de Cagliostro," continued Count Haga; "warn me, and I will thank you."

"You wish me to tell you what I would not tell La Pe'rouse-"

"Yes, I wish it."

Cagliostro opened his mouth as if to begin, and then stopped, and said, " No, count, no 1"

"I beg you."

Cagliostro turned away his head. " Never," he murmured.

"Take care," said the count, "you are making me incredulous."

"Incredulity is better than misery."

"Monsieur de Cagliostro," said the count, gravely, " you forget one thing, which is, that though there are men who had better remain ignorant of their destiny, there are others who should know it, as it concerns not themselves alone, but millions of others."

"Then," said Cagliostro, "command me; if your Majesty commands, I will obey."

"I command you to reveal to me my destiny, Monsieur de Cagliostro," said the king, with an air at once courteous and dignified.

At this moment, as Count Haga had dropped his incognito in speaking to Cagliostro, Monsieur de Richelieu advanced towards him, and said, "Thanks, sire, for the honour that the King of Sweden has done my house; will your Majesty assume the place of honour- My house is yours from this moment."

"Let us remain as we are, marshal; I wish to hear what Monsieur de Cagliostro is about to say."

"One does not speak the truth to kings, sire."

"Bah! I am not in my kingdom; take your place again, duke. Proceed, Monsieur de Cagliostro, I beg."

Cagliostro looked again through his glass, and one might have imagined the particles agitated by this look, as they danced in the light. "Sire," said he, "tell me what you wish to know-"

"Tell me by what death I shall die."

"By a gun-shot, sire."

The eyes of Gustavus grew bright. " Ah, in a battle! " said he;' "the death of a soldier! Thanks, Monsieur de Cagliostro, a hundred times thanks. Oh, I foresee battles, and Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. have shown me how a King of Sweden should die."

Cagliostro drooped his head without replying.

"Oh!" cried Count Haga, "will not nay wound then be given in battle-"

"No, Sire."

"In a sedition- yes, that is possible."

"No, not in a sedition, sire."

"But where, then-"

"At a ball, sire."

The king remained silent, and Cagliostro buried his head in his hands.

Every one looked pale and frightened except the prophet and him whom the prophecy chiefly concerned. Then Monsieur de Coudorcet took the glass of water and examined it, as if there he could solve the problem of all that had been going on. In fact, the scholar was trying to gauge the depth of the water, its luminous refractions and microscopic play. He, who sought a reason for everything, pondered over the fact that a mere juggler could, by the magic of his charlatanism, disturb men of sense like those around the table; and he could not deny that Cagliostro possessed an extraordinary power; but finding nothing to satisfy him, he ceased his scrutiny and placed the water on the table, in the midst of the general stupefaction caused by Cagliostro's predictions. "Well, I also," said he, "will beg our illustrious prophet to consult for me his magic mirror: unfortunately, I am not a powerful lord; I cannot command, and my obscure life concerns no millions of people."

"Monsieur," said Count Haga, "you command in the name of science, and your life belongs not only to a nation, but to all mankind."

"Thanks," said De Condorcet; "but perhaps your opinion on this subject is not shared by Monsieur de Cagliostro."

Cagliostro raised his head. "Yes, marquis," said he, in a manner which began to be excited, "you are indeed a powerful lord in the kingdom of intelligence; look me, then, in the face, and tell me, seriously, if you also wish that I should prophesy to you."

"Seriously, count, upon my honour."

"Well, marquis," said Cagliostro, iu a hoarse voice, "you will die of that poison which you carry in your ring; you will die- "

"Oh, but if I throw it away-"

"Throw it away!"

"You allow that that would be easy."

"Throw it away!"

"Oh, yes, marquis!" cried Madame Dubarry; "throw away that horrid poison I Throw it away, if it be only to falsify this prophet of evil, who threatens us all with so many misfortunes. For if you throw it away you cannot die by it, as Monsieur de Cagliostro predicts; so there, at least, he will have been wrong."

"Madame la Comtesse is right," said Count Haga.

"Bravo, countess!" said Richelieu. "Come, marquis, throw away that poison, for now I know you carry it, I shall tremble every time we drink together; the ring might open of itself, and- "

"The two glasses touched together come very close," said Taverney. " Throw it away, marquis, throw it away! "

"It is useless," said Cagliostro, quietly; "Monsieur de Condorcet will not throw it away."

"No," returned De Condorcet, "I shall not throw it away; not that I wish to aid my destiny, but because this is a unique poison, prepared by Cabanis, and which chance has completely hardened, and that chance might never occur again; therefore I will not throw it away. Triumph if you will, Monsieur de Cagliostro."

"Destiny," replied he, "ever finds some way to work out its own ends."

"Then I shall die by poison," said the marquis; "well, so be it. It is an admirable death, I think; a little poison on the tip of the tongue, and I am gone. It is scarcely dying; it is merely minus life, to use an algebraic term."

"It is not necessary for you to suffer, monsieur," said Cagliostro, coldly; and he made a gesture to indicate that he would say no more regarding Monsieur de Condorcet.

"Then, monsieur." said Monsieur de Favras, "we have a shipwreck, a gun-shot, and a poisoning, which makes my mouth water. Will you not do me the favour also to predict some little pleasure of the same kind for me-"

"Oh, marquis!" replied Cagliostro, beginning to grow warm under this irony, "do not envy these gentlemen; you will have still better."

"Better!" said Monsieur de Favras, laughing; "that is pledging yourself to a great deal. It is difficult to beat the sea, fire, and poison."

"There remains the cord, marquis," said Cagliostro, bowing.

"The cord! what do you mean- "

"I mean that you will be hanged," replied Cagliostro, seeming no more the master of his prophetic rage.

"Hanged! the devil!" cried the guests.

"Monsieur forgets that I am a nobleman," said Monsieur de Favras, coldly; " or if he means to speak of a suicide, I warn him that I shall respect myself sufficiently, even in my last moments, not to use a cord while I have a sword."

"I do not speak of a suicide, monsieur."

"Then you speak of a punishment- "

"Yes."

"You are a foreigner, monsieur, and therefore I pardon you.",

"What-"

"Your ignorance, monsieur. In France we decapitate noblemen."

"You may arrange this, if you can, with the executioner," replied Cagliostro, crushing him with this rough response.

Monsieur de Favras said no more. There was a general silence and shrinking for a few minutes.

"Do you know that I tremble at last," said Monsieur de Lauuay; "my predecessors have come off so badly, that I fear for myself if I now take my turn."

"Then you are more reasonable than they; you are right. Do not seek to know the future; good or bad, let it rest,- it is in the hands of God."

"Oh! Monsieur de Launay," said Madame Dubarry, "I hope you will not be less courageous than the others have been."

"I hope so, too, madame," said the governor. Then, turning to Cagliostro, "Monsieur," he said, "favour me, in my turn, with my horoscope, if you please."

"It is easy," replied Cagliostro; "a blow on the head with a hatchet, and all will be over."

A look of dismay was once more general. Eichelieu and Taverney begged Cagliostro to say no more, but female curiosity carried the day.

"To hear you talk, count," said Madame Dubarry, "one would think the whole universe must die a violent death. Here we were, eight of us, and five are already condemned by you."

"Oh, you understand that it is all prearranged to frighten us, and we shall only laugh at it," said Monsieur de Favras, trying to do so..

"Certainly we will laugh," said Count Haga, "be it true or false."

"Oh, I will laugh too, then," said Madame Dubarry. " I will not dishonour the assembly by my cowardice; but, alas! I am only a woman, I cannot rank among you and be worthy of a tragical end. A woman dies in her bed. My death, a sorrowful old woman abandoned by every one, will be the worst of all. Will it not, Monsieur de Cagliostro- "

She stopped, and seemed to wait for the prophet to reassure her. Cagliostro did not speak; so, her curiosity obtaining the mastery over her fears, she went on: " Well, Monsieur de Cagliostro, will you not answer me-"

"How can I answer you unless you question me-"

"But- " said she.

"Come," said Cagliostro, "will you question me, yes or no-"

She hesitated; then, rallying her courage, "Yes," she cried, "I will run the risk. Tell me the fate of Jeanne do Vaubernier, Countess Dubarry."

"On the scaffold, madame," replied the prophet of evil.

"A jest, monsieur, is it not- " said she, looking at him with a supplicating air.

Cagliostro seemed not to see it. " Why do you think I jest-" said he.

"Oh, because to die on the scaffold one must have committed some crime,- stolen, or committed murder, or done something dreadful; and it is not likely I shall do that. It was a jest, was it not-"

"Oh, mon Dieu! yes," said Cagliostro; "all I have said is but a jest."

The countess laughed, but scarcely in a natural manner.

"Come, Monsieur de Favras," said she, "let us order our funerals."

"Oh, that will be needless for you, madame," said Cagliostro.

"Why so, monsieur-"

"Because you will go to the scaffold in a car."

"Oh, how horrible! This dreadful man, marshal! For Heaven's sake choose more cheerful guests next time, or I will never visit you again."

"Excuse me, madame," said Cagliostro, "but you, like all the rest, would have me speak."

"I like all the rest! At least, I hope you will grant me time to choose my confessor."

"It will be superfluous, countess."

"Why-"

"The last person who will mount the scaffold in France with a confessor will be the King of France." And Cagliostro pronounced these words in so thrilling a voice that every one was struck with horror.

All were silent.

Cagliostro raised to his lips the glass of water in which he had read these fearful prophecies, but scarcely had he touched it, when he set it down with a movement of disgust. He turned his eyes to Monsieur de Taverney.

"Oh," cried he, in terror, "do not tell me anything! I do not wish to know."

"Well, then, I will ask instead of him," said Richelieu. " You, marshal, be happy; you are the only one of us all who will die in his bed."

"Coffee, gentlemen, coffee," cried the marshal, enchanted with the prediction. Every one rose.

But before passing into the drawing-room, Count Haga, approaching Cagliostro, said, "Monsieur, I ain not trying to evade my destiny, but tell me what to beware of."

"Of a muff, monsieur," replied Cagliostro. "And I-" said Condorcet. "Of an omelette."

"Good; I renounce eggs," and he left the room.

"And I-" said Monsieur de Favras; "what must I fear-"

"A letter."

"And I-" said de Launay.

"The taking of the bastille."

"Oh, you quite reassure me." And he went away laughing.

"Now for me, monsieur," said the countess, trembling. "You, beautiful countess, shun the Place Louis XV."

"Alas! " said the countess, "one day already I lost myself there; that day I suffered much. I nearly lost my head."

"Ah, well, countess, this time you will lose it and never find it again."

Madame Dubarry uttered a cry and left the room, and Cagliostro was about to follow her, when Richelieu stopped him.

"One moment," said he; "there remains only Taverney and I, my dear sorcerer."

"Monsieur de Taverney begged me to say nothing, and you, marshal, have asked me nothing."

"Oh, I do not wish to hear," again cried Taverney. "But come, to prove your power, tell us something that only Taverney and I know," said Richelieu.-

"What- " asked Cagliostro, smiling.

"Tell us what makes Taverney come to Versailles, instead of living quietly in his beautiful house at Maison- Rouge, which the king bought for him three years ago."

"Nothing more simple, marshal," said Cagliostro. " Ten years ago, Monsieur de Taverney wished to give his daughter, Mademoiselle Andr6e, to the King Louis XV., but he did not succeed."

"Oh!" growled Taverney.

"Now, monsieur wishes to give his son, Philippe de Taverney, to the Queen Marie Antoinette; ask him if I speak the truth."

"On my word," said Taverney, trembling, "this man is a sorcerer; devil take me if he is not!"

"Do not speak so cavalierly of the devil, my old comrade," said the marshal.

"It is frightful," murmured Taverney, and he turned to implore Cagliostro to be discreet, but he was gone.

"Come, Taverney, to the drawing-room," said the marshal, "or they will drink their coffee without us."

But when they arrived there the room was empty; no one had courage to face again the author of these terrible predictions.

The wax lights burned in the candelabra, the fire burned on the hearth, but all for nothing.

"Ma foi, old friend, it seems we must take our coffee tete-a-tete. Why, where the devil has begone-" Richelieu looked all around him, but Taverney had vanished like the rest. "Never mind," said the marshal, chuckling as Voltaire might have done, and rubbing his withered though still white hands; "I shall be the only one to die in my bed. Well, Count Cagliostro, at least I believe. In my bed! that was it; I shall die in my bed, and I trust not for a long time. Holla! my valet de chambre and my drops."

The valet entered with the bottle, and the marshal went with him into the bedroom.

CHAPTER I. TWO UNKNOWN LADIES.

The winter of 1784, that monster which devoured a sixth of France, we could not see, although he growled at the doors, while at the house of Monsieur de Richelieu, shut in as we were in that warm and comfortable dining-room.

A little frost on the windows seems but the luxury of nature added to that of man. Winter has its diamonds, its powder, and its silvery embroidery for the rich man wrapped in his furs, and packed in his carriage, or snug among the wadding and velvet of a well-warmed room. Hoar-frost is a beauty, ice a change of decoration by the greatest of artists, which the rich admire through their windows. He who is warm can admire the withered trees, and find a sombre charm in the sight of the snow-covered plain. He who inhales the savoury odours of the dinner awaiting him can inhale the sharp perfume of the north wind through, his partly opened window, from time to time, and be refreshed by the icy vapours of the snow. He who, after a day without suffering, when millions of his fellow creatures are enduring dreadful privations, throws himself on his bed of down, between his fine and well-aired sheets, may find out that all is for the best in this best of all possible worlds.

But he who is hungry sees none of these beauties of nature; he who is cold hates the sky without a sun, and consequently without a smile for such unfortunates. Now, at the time at which we write, that is, about the middle of the month of April, three hundred thousand miserable beings, dying from cold and hunger, groaned in Paris alone,- in that Paris where, in spite of the boast that scarcely another city contained so many rich people, nothing had been prepared to prevent the poor from perishing of cold and wretchedness.

For the last four months the same sky of brass had driven the poor from the villages into the town, as it sent the wolves from the woods into the villages.

No more bread, no more wood.

No more bread for those who felt this cold, no more wood to cook it. All the provisions which had been collected, Paris had devoured in a month. The provost, short-sighted and incapable, did not know how to procure for Paris, which was under his care, the two hundred thousand cords of wood which might have been collected within ten leagues.

When it froze, he said the frost prevented the horses from bringing it; if it thawed, he pleaded want of horses and conveyances. Louis XVI., ever good and humane, always ready to attend to the physical wants of his people, although he overlooked their social ones, began by contributing a sum of 200,000 francs for horses and carts, and insisting on their immediate use. Still the demand continued greater than the supply. The purchasers must be limited. At first no one was allowed to carry away from the public timber-yard more than a cart-load of wood; then they were limited to half this quantity. Soon the long strings of people might be seen waiting outside the doors, as they were afterwards seen at the bakers' shops. The king gave away the whole of his private income in charity; he procured 3,000,000 francs by a grant, and applied it to the relief of the sufferers, declaring that every other need must give way before that of cold and famine. The queen, on her part, gave 500 louis from her purse. The convents, the hospitals, and the public buildings were thrown open as places of asylum for the poor, who came in crowds for the sake of the fires that were kept there. They kept hoping for a thaw, but heaven seemed inflexible. Every evening the same copper-coloured sky disappointed their hopes; and the stars shone bright and clear as funeral torches through the long, cold nights, which hardened again and again the snow which fell during the day. All day long, thousands of workmen, with spades and shovels, cleared away the snow from before the houses; so that on each side of the streets, already too narrow for the traffic, rose a high, thick wall, blocking up the way. Heavy carriages, the wheels slipping, the horses stumbling and falling, crowded the foot passers against these icy walls, and exposed them to the triple danger of falling, being run over, and covered by the snow. Soon these masses of snow and ice became so large that the shops were obscured by them, and they were obliged to allow it to remain where it fell. Paris could do no more; she gave in, and allowed the winter to do its worst. December, January, February and March passed thus, although now and then a few days' thaw changed the streets, whose sewers were blocked up, into running streams. Horses were drowned, and carriages destroyed in the streets, some of which could only be traversed in boats. Paris, faithful to its character, sang through this destruction by the thaw, as it had done through that by famine. Processions were made to the markets to see the fisherwomen serving their customers with immense leathern boots on, inside which their trousers were pushed, and with their petticoats tucked round their waists, all laughing, gesticulating, and splashing each other as they stood in the water. These thaws, however, were but transitory; the frost returned, harder and more obstinate than ever, and recourse was had to sledges, pushed along by skaters, or drawn by rough-shod horses along the causeways, which were like polished mirrors. The Seine, frozen many feet deep, was become the rendezvous for all idlers, who assembled there to state or slide, until, warmed by exercise, they ran to the nearest fire, lest the perspiration should freeze upon them. All trembled for the time when, the water communications being stopped, and the roads impassable, provisions could no longer be sent in, and began to fear that Paris would perish from want of food, like the cetaceous animals of the polar regions, who, having consumed all the fish in their neighbourhood, remain enclosed in their icy quarters, whence their great size prevents their issuing through the fissures by which their prey, the smaller fish, emerge to gain more temperate climes, and they die of inanition. The king, in this extremity, called a council. They decided to implore all bishops, abbe's, and monks to leave Paris and retire to their dioceses or convents, and all those magistrates and otticials who, preferring the opera to their duties, had crowded to Paris, to return to their homes; for all these people used large quantities of wood in their hotels, and consumed no small amount of food. There were still the country gentlemen, who were also to be entreated to leave. But Monsieur Lenoir, lieutenant of police, observed to the king that, as none of these people were criminals, and could not therefore be compelled to leave Paris in a day, they would probably be so long thinking about it that the thaw would come before their departure, which would then be more hurtful than useful. All this care and pity of the king and queen, however, excited the ingenuous gratitude of the people, who raised monuments to them as ephemeral as the feelings which prompted them. Obelisks and pillars of snow and ice, engraved with their names, were to be seen all over Paris. Every one helped. The workman gave his manual labour, the artist his talent, and the obelisks arose at the principal crossings, elegant, bold, and solid. The poor author, whom the king's kindness had sought out in his attic, added his inscription, in which his heart spoke more plainly than his head. At the end of March the thaw began, but by fits and starts, constant returns of frost prolonging the miseries of the people, while the obelisks of snow stood upright and solid. The suffering had never been so intense as during this last period. The intermittent warmth of the sun made the cold, windy nights so much the harder to bear. Great masses of ice had fallen into the Seine and melted, causing it to overflow its banks. Indeed, in the beginning of April it appeared to set in harder than ever, and the half-thawed streets, frozen again, became so slippery and dangerous, that nothing was seen but broken limbs and accidents of all kinds. The snow prevented the carriages from being heard, and the police had enough to do, from the reckless driving of the aristocracy, to preserve from the wheels those who were spared by cold and hunger. The rich were obliged to pay damages for the poor whom they had injured. This was the veritable reign of aristocracy, even the manner of driving their horses was aristocratic. A prince of the blood drove with loose rein and gave no warning of his approach; a duke and pair, a gentleman and an opera girl, drove at a fast trot; a president and financier at a trot; the coxcomb in his cabriolet drove himself, and his footman, standing behind, cried, "Take care!" when his master had run against or run over an unfortunate pedestrian; and then, as Mercier says, he who could got up again.

But while the Parisian could see beautiful swan-necked sledges traversing the boulevards, while he could admire the beautiful court ladies in their martin or ermine wraps, flying like meteors over the ice, while the gilded bells, the purple netting, and the horses' plumes amused the children, standing in rows along the line of all these beautiful things, the citizens of Paris forgot the carelessness of the police and the brutality of the coachmen; and the poor, for the moment at least, were oblivious of their misery, accustomed as they were at that time to being patronised by the rich, or by those who pretended to be wealthy.

It was about a week after the dinner given by Monsieur de Richelieu that four elegant sledges entered Paris, gliding over the frozen snow which covered the Cours-la-Reine and the extremity of the boulevards. Outside of Paris the snow retains its virgin whiteness for a long time, and foot passengers are rare; but in Paris, on the contrary, a hundred thousand feet an hour trample and defile it, rapidly soiling the splendid mantle of winter. Hence they found it more difficult to proceed, for the sun and the traffic had begun to change the snow and ice into a wet mass of dirt. The noonday sun had softened the atmosphere, and a temporary thaw had set in. We say temporary, for the clearness of the air indicated that by night oue of those cold icy winds, which are so apt in April suddenly to arise and blast the first leaf-buds and the early flowers, would spring up.

In the foremost sledge were two men in brown riding- coats with double capes, the only noticeable difference between the two coats being that one had embroideries and buttons of gold, while those on the other were of silk. They were drawn by a black horse, and turned from time to time as if to watch the sledge that followed them, and which contained two ladies so enveloped in furs that it was impossible to see their faces. It might even have been difficult to distinguish their sex, had it not been for the height of their coiffure, crowning which was a small hat with a plume of feathers. From the colossal edifice of this coiffure, all mingled with ribands and jewels, escaped occasionally a cloud of white powder, as when a gust of wind shakes the snow from the trees.

These two ladies, seated side by side, were conversing so earnestly as scarcely to see the numerous spectators who watched their progress along the boulevards. One of them, taller and more majestic than the other, and holding up before her face a finely embroidered cambric handkerchief, carried her head erect and stately, in spite of the wind which swept across their sledge.

It had just struck five by the clock of the church Saint- Croix-d'Antin, and night was beginning to descend upon Paris, and with the night the bitter cold. They had just reached the Porte Saint-Denis, when the lady of whom we have spoken made a sign to the men in front, who thereupon quickened the pace of their horse, and soon disappeared among the evening mists, which were fast thickening around the colossal structure of the Bastille.

This signal she then repeated to the other two sledges, which also vanished along the Rue Saint-Denis. Meanwhile, the one in which she sat, having arrived at the Boulevard de Me'nilmontant, stopped.

In this place few people were to be seen; night had dispersed them. Besides, in this out-of-the-way quarter, not many citizens would trust themselves without torches and an escort, since winter had sharpened the teeth of three or four thousand beggars, who were easily changed into robbers.

The lady touched with her finger the shoulder of the coachman who was driving her, and said, "Weber, how long will it take you to bring the cabriolet you know where-"

"Madame wishes me to bring the cabriolet- " asked the coachman, with a strong German accent.

"Yes; I shall return by the streets to see the fires; and as they are still more muddy than the boulevard, we should not get on in the sledge; besides, I begin to feel the cold. Do not you, petite-" said she, turning to the other lady.

"Yes, madame."

"Then, Weber, we will have the cabriolet."

"Very well, madame."

"What is the time, petite-"

The young lady looked at her watch, which, however, she could hardly see, as it was growing dark, and said, "A quarter to six, madame."

"Then at a quarter to seven, Weber."

Saying these words, the lady leaped lightly from the sledge, followed by her friend, and walked away quickly; while the coachman murmured, with a kind of respectful despair, sufficiently loud for his mistress to hear, "Oh, meinGott! what imprudence."

The two ladies laughed, drew their cloaks, the collars reaching the tops of their ears, closer rouud them, and went tramping along through the snow with their little feet.

"You have good eyes, Andre'e," said the lady, who seemed the elder of the two, although she could not have been more than thirty or thirty-two; " try to read the name at the corner of that street."

"Rue du Pont-aux-Choux, madame."

"Hue du Pont-aux-Choux! Ah, mon Dieu! we must have come wrong. They told me the second street on the right;- but what a smell of hot bread!"

"That is not astonishing," said her companion, "for here is a baker's shop."

"Well, let us ask there for the Rue Saint-Claude," she said, moving to the door.

"Oh! do not you go in, madame; allow me," said Andree.

"The Rue Saint-Claude, my pretty ladies-" said a cheerful voice. "Are you asking for the Rue Saint- Claude-"

The two ladies turned towards the voice, and saw, leaning against the door of the shop, a man with a jacket over his shoulders, who, in spite of the cold, had his chest and his legs quite bare.

"Oh! a naked man!" cried the young lady, half hiding behind her companion; "are we in Oceana-"

"Was not that what you asked for-" said the journey, man baker, for such he was, who did not understand her movement in the least, and, accustomed to his own costume, never dreamed of its effect upon them.

"Yes, my friend, the Rue Saint-Claude," said the elder lady, hardly able to keep from laughing.

"Oh, it is not difficult to find; besides, I will conduct you there myself;" and, suiting the action to the words, he began to move his long, bony legs, which terminated in immense wooden shoes.

"Oh, no!" cried the elder lady, who did not fancy such a guide; " pray do not disturb yourself. Tell us the way, and we shall easily find it."

"First street to the right," said he, drawing back again.

"Thanks," said the ladies, who ran on as fast as they could, that he might not hear the laughter which they could no longer restrain.

CHAPTER II. AN INTERIOR.

If we do not calculate too much on the memory of our readers, they certainly know the Eue Saint-Claude, which joins at one end the boulevard, and at the other the Eue Saint-Louis; this was an important street in the first part of our story, when it was inhabited by Joseph Balsamo, his sibyl, Lorenza, and his master, Althotas. In 1784, as in 1770, when we first introduced our readers to this street, it was still respectable, though badly lighted and by no means clean, but little known or frequented.

There was, however, at the corner of the boulevard, a large house, with an aristocratic air; but this house, which might, from the number of its windows, have illuminated the whole street had it been lighted up, was the darkest and most sombre looking of any. The door was never seen to open, and the windows were thick with dust, which seemed never disturbed. Sometimes an idler, attracted by curiosity, approached the gates and peeped through; all he could see, however, were masses of weeds growing between the stones of the court-yard, and green moss spreading itself over everything. Occasionally an enormous rat, sole inmate of those deserted domains, ran across the yard, on his way to his usual habitation in the cellars, which seemed, however, to be an excess of modesty, when he had the choice of so many fine sitting-rooms, where he need never fear the intrusion of a cat.

At times one or two of the neighbours, passing the house, might stop to take a survey, and one would say to the other,-

"Well, what do you see-"

"Why," he would reply, "I see the rat."

"Oh! let me look at him. How fat he has grown! "

"That is not to be wondered at; he is never disturbed; and there must be some good pickings in the house. Monsieur de Balsamo disappeared so suddenly, that he must have left something behind."

"But you forget that the house was half burned down."

And, after having again looked at the rat, they would continue on their way, alarmed at having discoursed at such length on a subject so mysterious and delicate.

In fact, since this house, or rather a part of it, had been burned, Balsamo had disappeared; no repairs had been made, and the mansion was quite deserted.

Let us leave it, rising dark and damp in the night, with its terraces covered with snow and its roof destroyed by the flames,-this old mansion, near which we would not pass without stopping and greeting it as we would greet an old acquaintance.

Opposite this ruin was a high, narrow house enclosed within a garden wall. From the upper windows a light was to be seen; the rest was shrouded in darkness. Either all the inhabitants were already asleep, or they were very economical of wood and candles, which certainly were frightfully dear this winter. It is, however, with the fifth story only that we have any business.

We must, in the first place, take a survey of the house, and, ascending the staircase, open the first door. This room is empty and dark, however, but it opens into another, of which the furniture deserves our attention.

The doors were gaudily painted, and it contained easy- chairs covered in white, with yellow velvet trimming, and a sofa to match, the cushions of which, however, were so full of the wrinkles of old age as scarcely to be cushions any longer. Two portraits hanging on the walls next attracted attention. A candle and a lamp- one placed on a three-legged stand and the other on the chimney- piece- threw a constant light on them.

The first was a well-known portrait of Henri III., King of France and Poland; a cap on his head, surmounting his long pale face and heavy eyes, a pointed beard, and a ruff round his neck.

Under it was the inscription, traced in black letters, on a badly gilded frame, "Henri de Valois."

The other portrait, of which the gilding was newer, and the painting more fresh and recent, represented a young lady with black eyes, a straight nose, and rather compressed lips, who appeared crushed under a tower of hair and ribands, to which the cap of Henri III. was in the proportion of a mole-hill to a pyramid.

Under this portrait was inscribed, "Jeanne de Valois."

Glance at the fireless hearth, at the faded curtains, and then turn towards a little oak table in the corner; for there, leaning on her elbow, and writing the addresses of some letters, sits the original of this portrait.

A few steps off, in an attitude half curious, half respectful, stands a little old woman, apparently about sixty.

"Jeanne de Valois," says the inscription; but if this lady be indeed a Valois, one wonders how ever the portrait of Henri III., the sybarite king, the great voluptuary, could support the sight of so much poverty in a person not only of his race, but bearing his name.

In her person, however, this lady of the fifth story did no discredit to her portrait. She had white and delicate hands, which from time to time she rubbed together, as if to endeavour to put some warmth into them; her foot also, which was encased in a rather coquettish velvet slipper, was small and pretty. She tried to warm it by stamping on the tiled floor, as cold and shining as the ice that covered Paris.

The wind whistled through all the doors, and penetrated the crevices of the shaking windows; and the old servant kept glancing sadly towards the empty grate. Her lady continued her occupation, talking aloud as she did so.

"Madame de Misery," she murmured, "first lady of the bedchamber to her Majesty,- I cannot expect more than six louis from her, for she has already given to me once." And she sighed. "Madame Patrick, lady's maid to her Majesty, two louis; Monsieur d'Ormesson, an audience; Monsieur de Calonne, some good.advice; Monsieur de Rohan, a visit; at least, we will try to induce him," said she, smiling at the thought. "Well, then, I think I may hope for eight louis within a week." Then, looking up, "Dame Clotilde," she said, "snuff this candle."

The old woman did as she was bid, and then resumed her place.

This kind of inquisition seemed to annoy the young lady, for she said, "Pray go and look if you cannot find the end of a wax candle for me; this tallow is odious."

"There is none," replied the old woman.

"But just look."

"Where-"

"In the antechamber."

"It is so cold there."

"There is some one ringing," said the young lady.

"Madame is mistaken," replied the obstinate old woman.

"I thought I heard it, Dame Clotilde." Then, abandoning the attempt to move the old woman, she turned again to her calculations. "Eight louis!" She took her pen and wrote. "Three I owe for the rent, and five I have promised to Monsieur de la Motte, to make him support his stay at Bar-sur-Aube. Pauvre diable! our marriage has not enriched him as yet; but patience;" and she smiled again, and looked at herself in the mirror that hung between the two portraits. "Well, then," she continued, " I still want one louis for going from Versailles to Paris and back again; living for a week, one louis; dress and gifts to the porters of the houses where I go, four louis; but," said she, starting up, " some one is ringing!"

"No, madame," replied the old woman; "it is below on the next floor."

"Four, six, eleven, fourteen louis; six less than I really must have, with an entire wardrobe to renew, and this old brute to be paid off and dismissed." Then, suddenly stopping, she cried out angrily, " I tell you some one is ringing, wretch!"

"But I tell you it 13 not," said she, angrily, as the bell rang yet louder.

Even the old woman could deny it no longer; so she hobbled off to open the door, while her mistress rapidly cleared away all the papers, and seated herself on the sofa, assuming the air of a person humble and resigned, although suffering.

It was, however, only her body that reposed; for her eyes, restless and unquiet, sought incessantly, first her mirror and then the door, and she strained her ears to catch the slightest sound.

At last it opened, and she heard a young and sweet voice saying, " Is it here that Madame la Comtesse de la Motte lives-"

"Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois-" replied Clotilde.

"It is the same person, my good woman; is she at home-"

"Yes, madame; she is too ill to go out."

During this colloquy the pretended invalid saw reflected in the glass the figure of a lady talking to Clotilde, unquestionably belonging to the higher ranks. She left the sofa and sat in the arm-chair, so that her guest might have the seat of honour. She then saw her turn round, and say to some one behind, "We can go in; it is here."

And the two ladies we have before seen asking the way prepared to enter the room.

"Whom shall I announce to the countess- " said Clotilde.

"Announce a sister of charity," said the elder lady.

"From Paris-"

"No; from Versailles."

Clotilde entered the room, and the strangers followed her.

Jeanne de Valois seemed to rise with difficulty from her seat to receive her visitors.

Clotilde placed chairs for them, and then unwillingly withdrew, so slowly that it could be easily perceived that she was intending to stay at the door and listen to the conversation.

CHAPTER III. JEANNE DE LA MOTTE VALOIS.

The first thought of Jeanne de la Motte, when she could with propriety raise her eyes, was to examine the faces of her visitors, so as to gather what she could of their characters. The elder lady, who might have been, as we have said, about thirty-two years of age, was remarkably beautiful, although at first sight a great air of hauteur detracted slightly from the charm of her expression; her carriage was so proud, and her whole appearance so distingue that Jeanne could not doubt her nobility, even at a cursory glance.

She, however, seemed purposely to place herself as far as possible from the light, so as to be little seen.

Her companion, less timid, appeared four or five years younger, and was not less beautiful. Her complexion was charming; her hair, drawn back from her temples, showed to advantage the perfect oval of her face; two large blue eyes, calm and serene; a well-formed mouth, indicating great frankness of disposition but to which her education had added discretion; a nose that rivalled the Venus de Medicis,- such was the other face which presented itself to the gaze of Jeanne de Valois.

She inquired gently to what happy circumstance she owed the honour of their visit.

The elder lady signed to the younger, who thereupon said, "Madame, for I believe you are married-"

"I have the honour to be the wife of M. le Cornte de la Motte, an excellent gentleman."

"Well, Madame la Comtesse, we are at the head of a charitable institution, and have heard concerning your condition things that interest us, and we consequently wished to have more precise details on the subject."

Jeanne paused a moment before replying. "Mesdames," said she, " you see there the portrait of Henri III., that is to say, of the brother of my ancestor, for I am truly of the race of Valois, as you have doubtless been told." And she waited for the next question, looking at her visitors with a sort of proud humility.

"Madame," said the grave and sweet voice of the elder lady, " is it true, as we have also heard, that your mother was housekeeper at a place called Fontette, near Bar-sur- Seine- "

Jeanne coloured at this question, but replied, " It is true, niadame; and," she went on, " as Marie Jossel, my mother, was possessed of rare beauty, my father fell in love with her, and married her, for it is by my father that I am nobly descended; he was a Saint-Remy de Valois, direct descendant of the Valois who were on the throne."

"But how have you been reduced to this degree of poverty, madame- "

"Alas! that is easily told. You are not ignorant that after the accession of Henri IV., by which the crown passed from the house of Valois to that of Bourbon, there still remained many branches of the fallen family, obscure, doubtless, but incontestably springing from the same root as the four brothers who all perished so miserably."

The two ladies made a sign of assent.

"Then," continued Jeanne, "these remnants of the Valois, fearing, in spite of their obscurity, to be obnoxious to the reigning family, changed their name of Valois into that of Remy, which they took from some property, and they may be traced under this name down to my father, who, seeing the monarchy so firmly established, and the old branch forgotten, thought he need no longer deprive himself of his illustrious name, and again called himself Valois, which name he bore in poverty and obscurity in a distant province, while no one at the court of France even knew of the existence of this descendant of their ancient kings, who, if not the most glorious, were at least the most unfortunate."

Jeanne stopped at these words, which she had spoken with a simplicity and mildness which created a favourable impression.

"You have, doubtless, your proofs already arranged, madame," said the elder lady, with kindness.

"Oh, madame," she replied, with a bitter smile, " proofs are not wanting. My father arranged them, and left them to me as his sole legacy; but of what use are proofs of a truth which no one will recognise- "

"Your father is then dead- " asked the younger lady.

"Alas! yes."

"Did he die in the provinces- "

"No, madame."

"At Paris, then- "

"Yes."

"Inthis room-"

"No, madame; my father, Baron de Valois, great-nephew of King Henri III., died of misery and hunger; and not even in this poor retreat, not in his own bed, poor as that was. No; my father died side by side with the suffering wretches in the Hdtel Dieu! "

The ladies uttered an exclamation of surprise and distress.

Pleased at the effect of the words by which she had artfully led up to and introduced this announcement, Jeanne sat motionless, with lowered eyes and hands hanging inert at her side. The elder of the two ladies looked at her attentively, and, seeing in her apparently unaffected grief, none of the characteristics of quackery or vulgarity resumed:-

"From what you tell me, madame, you have experienced, it is evident, great misfortunes; above all, the death of your father."

"Oh, if you heard all the story of my life, madame, you would see that my father's death does not rank among its greatest misfortunes."

"How, madame! You regard as a minor evil the death of your father- " said the elder lady, with a frown.

"Yes, madame; and in so doing I speak only as a pious daughter, for my father was thereby delivered from all the ills which he experienced in this life, and which continue to assail his family. I experience, in the midst of the grief which his death causes me, a certain joy in knowing that the descendant of kings is no longer obliged to beg his bread."

"To beg his bread- "

"Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there was no blame to my father or myself."

"But you do not speak of your mother- "

"Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my mother."

The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering at these strange words.

"Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed account of your misfortunes- "

"The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued you with such a long catalogue of woes."

"Speak, madame," said the elder lady, socommandingly, that her companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed, Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and stared at her with some astonishment.

"I listen, madame," she then said, in a more gentle tone; " if you will be good enough to inform us what we ask."

Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and, fearing she felt cold, pushed towards her a rug on which to place her feet, and which she had discovered under one of the chairs. An attention which elicited a warning glance from her companion.

"Keep it yourself, my sister," said she, pushing it back again. " You are more delicate than I."

"Indeed, madame," said Jeanne, " it grieves ine much to see you suffer from the cold; but wood is now so dear, and my stock was exhausted a week ago."

"You said, madame, that you were unhappy in having a mother," said the elder lady, returning to the subject.

"Yes, madame. Doubtless such a blasphemy shocks you much, does it not- " said Jeanne. " But hea'r my explanation. I have already had the honour to tell you that my father made a misalliance, and married his housekeeper. Marie Jossel, my mother, instead of feeling gratified and proud of the honour he had done her, began by ruining my father, which certainly was not difficult to a person determined to consult only her own pleasures. And having reduced him to sell all his remaining property, she induced him to go to Paris to claim the rights to which his name entitled him. My father was easily persuaded; perhaps he hoped in the justice of the king. He came, then, having first turned all he possessed into money. He had, besides me, another daughter, and a son.

"His son, unhappy as myself, vegetates in the lowest ranks of the army; the daughter, my poor sister, was abandoned, on the evening of our departure, before the house of a neighbouring farmer, her godfather.

"The journey exhausted our little resources; my father wore himself out in fruitless appeals; we scarcely ever saw him; our house was wretched; and my mother, to whom a victim was necessary, vented her discontent and ill-humour upon me. She even reproached me with what I ate, and at last I preferred eating only bread or even going without food rather than sit at the table with her, and for the slightest fault I was unmercifully beaten. The neighbours, thinking to serve me, told my father of the treatment I experienced. He endeavoured to protect me, but his interference only served to embitter her still more against me.

"At last my father fell ill, and was confined first to the house, and then to his bed. My mother banished me from his room on the pretext that I disturbed him. She made me now learn a sentence, which, child as I was, I shrank from saying; but she would drive me out into the street with blows, ordering me to repeat it to each passer-by, if I did not wish to be beaten to death."

"Horrible! horrible!" murmured the younger of the two ladies.

"And what was this sentence- " asked the elder lady.

"It was this, madame: ' Have pity on a little orphan, who descends in a direct line from Henri de Valois.' "

"What a shame! " cried the ladies.

"But what effect did this produce on the people-" inquired Andre'e.

"Some listened and pitied me, others were angry and menaced me; some kind people stopped and warned me that I ran a great risk from repeating such words; but I knew no other danger than that of disobeying my mother. The result was, however, as she hoped. I generally brought home a little money, which kept us for a time from starvation or the hospital; but this life became so odious to me, that at last, one day, instead of repeating my accustomed phrase, I sat on a door-step all the time, and returned in the evening empty-handed. My mother beat me so that the next day I fell ill; then my poor father, deprived of all resources, was obliged to go to the Hotel Dieu, where he died."

"Oh, what a horrible history!" cried the ladies.

"What became of you after your father's death- " asked the younger lady.

"God took pity on me. A month after my father's death my mother ran away with a soldier, her lover, abandoning my brother and me. We felt ourselves relieved by her departure, and lived on public charity, although we never begged for more than enough to eat. God commands his creatures to seek to live. One day I saw a carriage going slowly along the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. There were four footmen behind, and a beautiful lady inside; I held out my hand to her charity. She questioned me, and my reply and my name seemed to strike her with surprise, and then with incredulity. She asked for my address, and the next day made inquiries, and, finding that I had told her the truth, she took charge of my brother and myself; she placed my brother in the army, and me with a dressmaker. We were both saved from starvation."

"Was not this lady Madame de Boulaiuvilliers- "

"It was."

"She is dead, I believe-"

"Yes; and her death deprived me of my only protector."

"Her husband still lives, and is rich."

"Ah, madame, it is to him that I owe my later misfortunes. I had grown tall, and, as he thought, pretty, and he wished to put a price upon his benefits which I refused to pay. Meanwhile, Madame de Boulainvilliers died, having first married me to a brave and loyal soldier, Monsieur de la Motte, but, separated from him, I seemed more abandoned after her death than I had been after that of my father. This is my history, madame, which I have shortened as much as possible, in order not to weary you."

A long silence followed this recital.

At last, " Where, then, is your husband- " asked the elder lady.

"He is in garrison at Bar-sur-Aube; he serves in the gendarmerie, and is waiting, like myself, in hopes of better times."

"But you have laid your case before the court- "

"Undoubtedly."

"The name of Valois must have awakened some sympathy- "

"I know not, madame, what sentiments it may have awakened, for I have received no answer to any of my petitions."

"You have seen neither the ministers, the king, nor the queen-"

' No one. Everywhere I have failed."

''You cannot now beg, however."

"No, madauie, I have lost the habit; but I can die of hunger, like my poor father."

"You have no child- "

"No, madarne; and my husband, by getting killed in the service of his king, will find for himself a glorious end to all our miseries."

"Can you, madame,- I beg pardon if I seem intrusive,- but can you bring forward the proofs of your genealogy- "

Jeanne rose, opened a drawer, and drew out some papers which she presented to the lady, who rose to come nearer the light, that she might examine them; but seeing that Jeanne eagerly seized this opportunity to observe her more clearly than she had yet been able to do, she turned away as if bhe light hurt her eyes, turning her back to Madame de la Motte. In this position she examined each paper in turn carefully.

"But," said she at last, " these are only copies."

"Oh, madame, I have the originals safe, and am ready to produce them."

"If any important occasion should present itself, I suppose- " said the lady, smiling.

"It is doubtless, madame, an important occasion which procures me the honour of your visit; but these papers are so precious- "

"That you cannot show them to the first comer. I understand you."

"Oh, madame!" cried the countess; who had succeeded at last in obtaining a clear view of the dignified face of her patroness, " I will not treat you like a stranger, you shall see them;" and, opening a secret drawer above the other, she drew out the originals, which were carefully enclosed in an old portfolio, on which were the arms of the Valois.

The lady took them, and after examining them said, " You are right; these are perfectly satisfactory, and you must hold yourself in readiness to produce them when called upon by proper authority."

"And what do you think I may expect, madame- " asked Jeanne.

"Doubtless a pension for yourself, and advancement for Monsieur de la Motte, if he prove worthy of it."

"My husband is an honourable man, inadaine, and has never failed in his military duties."

"It is enough, madame," said the sister of charity, drawing her hood still more over her face. She then put her hand in her pocket, and drew out first the same embroidered handkerchief with which we before saw her hiding her face when in the sledge, then a small roll about an inch in diameter, and three or four in length, which she placed on the chiffonier, saying, "The treasurer of our charity authorises me, madame, to offer you this small assistance, until you shall obtain something better."

Madame de la Motte threw a rapid glance at the little roll.

"Three-franc pieces," thought she, " and there must be fifty or even a hundred of them; what a boon from Heaven!"

While she was thus thinking, the two ladies moved quickly into the outer room, where Clotilde had fallen asleep in her chair.

The candle was burning out in the socket, and the smell which came from it made the ladies draw out their smelling-bottles. Jeanne woke Clotilde, who insisted on following them with the obnoxious candle-end.

"Au revoir, Madame la Comtesse," said they.

"Where may I have the honour of coming to thank you- " asked Jeanne.

"We will let you know," replied the elder lady, going quickly down the stairs.

Madame de la Motte ran back into her room, impatient to examine her rouleau, but her foot struck against something, and stooping to pick it up, she saw a small flat gold box.

There were some chocolate confections in it and it evi- dently contained a secret compartment. It was some time before she could open it, but, having at last found the spring, it flew open and disclosed the portrait of a lady possessing no small beauty. The coiffure was German, and she wore a collar like an order. An M and a T encircled by a laurel wreath ornamented the inside of the box. Madame de la Motte did not doubt, from the resemblance of the portrait to the lady who had just left her, that it was that of her mother, or some ancestress.

She ran to the stairs to give it back to them; but hearing the street door shut, she ran back, thinking to call them from the window, but arrived only in time to see a cabriolet driving rapidly away. She was therefore obliged to keep the box for the present, and turned again to the little rouleau.

When she opened it, she uttered a cry of joy. " Double louis, fifty double louis, two thousand and four hundred francs!" and, transported at the sight of more gold than she had ever seen before in her life, she remained with clasped hands and open lips. " A hundred louis!" she repeated; " these ladies are then very rich. Oh! I will find them again."

CHAPTER IV. BELUS

Madame De La Motte was not wrong in thinking that the cabriolet which she saw driving of- contained the two sisters of charity who had just left her.

They had, in fact, found it waiting for them on their exit. It was lightly built, open and fashionable, with high wheels, and a place behind for a servant to stand. It was drawn by a magnificent bay horse of Irish breed, short- tailed, and plump, which was driven by the same man whom we have already heard addressed by the name of Weber. The horse had become so impatient with waiting, that it was with some difficulty that Weber kept him stationary.

When he saw the ladies, he said, " Madame, I intended to bring Scipio, who is gentle and easy to manage, but unluckily he received an injury last evening, and I was forced to bring Belus, and he is rather unmanageable."

"Oh, Weber, I do not mind in the least," said the lady; " I am well used to driving, and not at all timid."

"I know how well madame drives, but the roads are so bad. Where are we to go- "

"To Versailles."

"By the boulevards then, madame- "

"No, Weber; it freezes hard, and the boulevards will be dreadful; the streets will be better, thanks to the thousand pedestrians who keep the snow from freezing. Come, Weber, quick."

He held the horse for the ladies to get in, then jumped up behind, and they set off at a rapid pace.

"Well, Andree, what do you think of the countess- " asked the elder lady.

"I think, raadame," she replied, " that Madame de la Motte is poor and unfortunate."

"She has good manners, has she not- "

"Yes, doubtless."

"You are somewhat cold about her, Andree."

"I must confess there is a look of cunning in her face that does not please me."

"Oh, you are always difficult to please, Andre'e; to please you, one must have every good quality. Now, I find the little countess interesting and simple, both in her pride and in her humility."

"It is fortunate for her, madame, that she has succeeded in pleasing your- "

"Take care I" cried the lady, at the same time endeavouring to check her horse, which nearly ran over a street-porter at the corner of the Eue Saint-Antoine.

"Gare! " shouted Weber, in the voice of a stentor.

They heard the man growling and swearing, in which, he was joined by several people near, but Be'lus soon carried them away from the sound, and they quickly reached the Place Baudoyer.

From there the skilful conductress continued her rapid course down the Hue de la Tisse"randerie, a narrow un- aristocratic street, always crowded. Thus, in spite of the reiterated warnings of herself and Weber, the numbers began to increase around them, many of whom cried fiercely, "Oh! the cabriolet! down with the cabriolet! "

Belus, however, guided by the steady hand which held the reins, kept on his rapid course, and not the smallest accident had yet occurred.

A bright lantern threw its rays on the road ahead of them, although this was a precaution which the police had not at that time required of cabriolets.

As we have said, no accident had occurred; not a passing carriage had been hit, not a post grazed, nor a pedestrian touched; it was wonderful, and still everywhere cries and imprecations followed them.

The cabriolet crossed, with the same speed and the same good luck, the Hue Saint-Mederic, the Rue Saint-Martin, the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher.

One might think, that in the more civilised portions of the city the hatred felt toward the aristocratic vehicle would become less intense; but quite the contrary was the case. Scarcely had they entered the Rue Ferronerie, when Weber, always pursued by the shouts of the populace, perceived groups of people along the course of the cabriolet. Many of them seemed to be running after it, evidently intending to stop its progress.

Still, Weber did not like to disturb his mistress. He noticed how much coolness and skill she displayed, as she glided rapidly among all the obstacles, animate or inanimate, which are at once the despair and the triumph of the Parisian coachman.

As to Bel us, steady on his limbs of steel, he had not so much as slipped once, so well did the hand that guided his bits guard against all the unevenness of the road.

The people around the cabriolet no longer contented themselves with murmurs; they screamed and gesticulated wildly. The lady, who held the reins, perceiving this, attributed their hostility to some trivial cause, such as the severity of the weather and the general discontent, and resolved to put an end to this annoyance. She clicked with her tongue, and Belus at once started up and changed his pace to a rapid trot. The shops flew by them; the foot passengers scattered right and left before them. Weber continued shouting, " Take care! take care! "

Thus they proceeded until they reached the Rue du Coq- Saint-Honore", and here had been raised one of the most beautiful of those monuments in snow of which we have spoken.

The top of this obelisk was narrowed by the thaw, and resembled a stick of candy after a child has sucked it to a sharp point. It was surmounted by an ornament of ribands, somewhat faded, indeed, which supported a placard on which the scrivener of that quarter had written in coarse script the following stanza, aud it was hung between two lanterns:- " Queen, whose beauty surpasses thy grace,

Take, by the kind king, thine own rightful place.

Though this structure frail be of snow and ice,

Our hearts warm with love, have formed the device."

At this place Belus experienced the first real difficulty. The monument, recently illuminated, had attracted a crowd of inquisitive loungers, and it was impossible to drive rapidly through this mass of people.

But the crowd had seen Be'lus coming on, swift as lightning; they had heard the cries following the cabriolet, and, although at the first sight of the people, it had stopped short, still, the very aspect of the vehicle seemed to produce a direful effect upon the crowd. However, this time it opened and fell back.

The next obstacle was at the gates of the Palais Royal, where, in a court-yard which had been thrown open, were a host of beggars crowding round fires which had been lighted there, and receiving soup, which the servants of Monsieur le Due d'Orleans were distributing to them in earthen basins; and as in Paris a crowd collects to see everything, the number of the spectators of this scene far exceeded that of the actors.

Here, then, they were again obliged to stop, and, to their dismay, began to hear distinctly from behind loud cries of " Down with the cabriolet! Down with those that crush the poor!"

"Can it be that those cries are addressed to us-" said the elder lady to her companion.

"Indeed, madame, I fear so," she replied.

"Have we, do you think, run over any one- "

"I am sure you have not."

But still the cries seemed to increase. A crowd soon gathered round them, and some even seized Be"lus by the reins, who thereupon began to stamp and foaui most furiously.

"To the magistrate! to the magistrate!" cried several voices.

The two ladies looked at each other in terror. Curious heads began to peep under the apron of the cabriolet. Remarks began to circulate through the crowd.

"Oh, they are women,"cried some. "Opera girls, doubtless, mistresses of Soubise and D'Hennin," said others, " who think they have a right to crush the poor because they receive ten thousand francs a month."

A general shout hailed these words, and they began again to cry, " To the magistrate! "

The younger lady shrank back, trembling with fear; the other looked around her with wonderful resolution, though with frowning brows and compressed lips.

"Oh, rnadame," cried her companion, "for Heaven's sake take care! "

"Courage, Andree, courage!" she replied.

"But they will recognise you, madame."

"Look through the windows, if Weber is still behind the cabriolet."

"He is trying to get down, but the mob surrounds him. Ah! here he comes."

"Weber," said the lady in German, " we will get out."

The man vigorously pushed aside those nearest the carriage, and opened the door. The ladies jumped out, and the crowd instantly seized on the horse and cabriolet, which would evidently soon be in pieces.

"What in Heaven's name does it all mean- Do you understand it, Weber-" said the lady, still in German.

"Upon my word, no, madame," he replied, more at ease in his native tongue, struggling to free a passage for them to pass.

"But they are not men, they are wild beasts," continued the lady; " with what do they possibly reproach me- "

She was answered by a voice, whose polite and gentlemanly tone contrasted strangely with the savage murmurs of the people, and which said in excellent German, " They reproach you, madame, with having braved the police order, which appeared this morning, and which prohibited all cabriolets, which are always dangerous, and fifty times more so in this frost, when people can hardly escape fast. enough, from driving through the streets until the spring."

The lady turned, and saw she was addressed by a young officer, whose distinguished and pleasing air, and fine figure, could not but make a favourable impression.

"Oh, mon Dieu, monsieur," she said, " I was perfectly ignorant of this order."

"You are a foreigner, madame- " inquired the young officer.

"Yes, sir; but tell me what I must do- they are destroying my cabriolet."

"You must let them destroy it, and take advantage of that time to escape. The people are furious just now against all the rich who display their luxury in the presence of the general misery, and on the pretext of your breaking this regulation would conduct you before the magistrate."

"Oh, never!" cried Andree.

"Then," said the officer, laughing, " profit by the space which I shall make in the crowd, and vanish."

The ladies gathered from his manner that he shared the opinion of the people as to their station, and had heard the remarks made about the mistresses of Soubise and D'Hen- nin; but it was no time for explanations.

"Give us your arm to a cabstand," said the elder woman, in a tone full of authority.

"I was going to make your horse rear, and thereby clear you a passage," said the young man, who did not much wish to take the charge of escorting them through the crowd; " the people will become yet more enraged, if they hear us speaking in a language unknown to them.". " Weber," cried the lady, in a firm voice, " make Be*lus rear to disperse the crowd."

"And then, madam e- "

"Remain till we are gone."

"But they will destroy the carriage."

"Let them; what does that matter- save Belus if you can, but yourself above all."

"Yes, madame," and a slight touch to the horse soon produced the desired effect of dispersing the nearest part of the crowd, and throwing down those who held by his reins. At that moment the terror and confusion were very great.

"Your arm, sir!" again said the lady to the officer;- come on, petite," turning to Andree.

"Let us go, then, courageous woman," said the young man, giving his arm, with real admiration, to her who asked for it.

In a few minutes he had conducted them to a cab-stand, but the men were all asleep on their seats; and the horses were standing blinking sleepily awaiting their meagre evening rations.

CHAPTER V. THE ROAD TO VERSAILLES.

The ladies were free from the crowd for the present, but there was some danger that they might be followed and recognised, when the same tumult would doubtless be renewed and escape a second time be more difficult. The young officer knew this, and therefore hastened to awaken one of the half-frozen and sleepy men. So stupefied, however, did they seem, that he had great difficulty in rousing one of them. At last he took him by the collar and shook him roughly.

"Gently, gently!" cried the man, sitting up, and reeling on his box like a drunken man.

"Where do you wish to go, ladies- " asked the officer.

"To Versailles," said the elder lady, still speaking German.

"Oh, to Versailles!" repeated the coachman; "four miles and a half over this ice. No, I would rather not."

"We will pay well," said the lady.

This was repeated to the coachman in French by the young officer.

"But how much- " said the coachman; " you see it is not only going, I must come back again."

"A louis; is that enough- " asked the younger lady of the officer, who, turning to the coachman, said,-

"These ladies offer you a louis."

"Well, that will do, though I risk breaking my horses' legs."

"Why, you rascal, you know that if you were paid all the way there and back, it would be but twelve francs, and we offer you twenty-four."

"Oh, do not stay to bargain," cried the lady; " he shall have twenty louis if he will only set off at once."

"One is enough, madame."

"Come down, monsieur, and open the door."

"I will be paid first," said the man.

"You will!" said the officer, fiercely.

"Oh, let us pay!" said the lady, putting her hand in her pocket. She turned pale. " Oh! mon Dieu, I have lost my purse! Feel for yours, Andre'e."

"Oh, madame, it is gone too."

They looked at each other in dismay, while the young officer watched their proceedings, and the coachman sat grinning, and priding himself on his caution.

They searched in vain; neither could find a sou. The officer saw them get impatient, turn red, and then pale. The situation was becoming complicated.

The lady was about to offer her gold chain as a pledge, when the young officer drew out a louis, and offered it to the man, who thereupon got down and opened the door.

The ladies thanked him warmly and got in.

"And now, monsieur, drive these ladies carefully and honestly."

The ladies looked at each other in terror; they could not bear to see their protector leave them.

"Oh, madame! " said Andree", " do not let him go away."

"But why not- we will ask for his address, and return him his louis to-morrow, with a little note of thanks, which you shall write."

"But, madame, suppose the coachman should not keep faith with us, and should turn us out half-way, what would become of us- "

"Oh! we will take his number."

"Yes, madame, I do not deny that you could have him punished afterwards; but meanwhile you would not reach Versailles, and what would they think- "

"True," replied her companion. The officer advanced to take leave.

"Monsieur," said Andree, " one word more, if you please."

"At your orders, madame,"he said politely, but somewhat stiffly.

"Monsieur, you cannot refuse us one more favour, after serving us so much- "

"What is it, madaine- "

"We are afraid of the coachman, who seems so unwilling to go."

"You need not fear," replied he; "I have his number, and if he does not behave well, apply to me."

"To you, monsieur- " said Andree in French, forgetting herself; " we do not even know your name."

"You speak French," exclaimed the young man, " and you have been condemning me all this time to blunder on in German!"

"Excuse us, monsieur," said the elder lady, coming to Andree's rescue, " but you must see that, though not perhaps foreigners, we are strangers in Paris, and, above all, out of our places in a hackney coach. You are sufficiently a man of the world to see that we are. placed in an awkward position. I feel assured you are generous enough to believe the best of us, and to complete the service you have rendered, and, above all, to ask us no questions."

"Madame," replied the officer, charmed with her noble, yet pleasing manner, " dispose of me as you will."

"Then, monsieur, have the kindness to get in, and accompany us to Versailles."

The officer instantly placed himself opposite to them, and directed the man to drive on.

After proceeding in silence for some little time, he began to feel himself surrounded with delicate and delicious perfumes, and gradually began to think better of the ladies' position. " They are," thought he, " ladies who have been detained late at some rendezvous, and are now anxious to regain Versailles, much frightened, and a little ashamed; still, two ladies, driving themselves in a cabriolet I However," recollected lie, " there was a servant behind; but then again, no money on either of them, but probably the footman carried the purse; and the carriage was certainly a very elegant one, and the horse could not have been worth less than one hundred and fifty louis; therefore they must be rich, so that the accidental want of money proves nothing. But why speak a foreign language when they must be French- However, that at least shows a good education. It is not common for adventurers to speak so pure German, and they speak both languages with perfect purity; besides, there is an air of distinction about them. The supplication of the younger one was touching, and the request of the other was noble and imposing; indeed, I begin to feel it dangerous to pass two or three hours in a carriage with two such pretty women,- pretty and discreet also, for they do not speak, but wait for me to begin."

On their part, the ladies were doubtless thinking of him, for just as he had arrived at these conclusions, the elder lady said to her companion, but this time in English:-

"Really, this coachman crawls along; we shall never reach Versailles; I fear our poor companion must be terribly ennuye."

"Particularly," answered Andre'e, smiling, " as our conversation has not been very amusing."

"Do you not think he has a most distinguished air- "

"Yes, certainly."

"Besides, he wears the uniform of a naval officer, and all naval officers are of good family. He looks well in it, too, for he is very handsome."

Here the young man interrupted them. "Your pardon, ladies," said he, in excellent English, " but I must tell you that I understand English perfectly. I do not, however, know Spanish; therefore, if you can and like to speak in that language, you are safe from my understanding you."

"Oh, monsieur," replied the lady, laughing, " we had no harm to say of you, as you must have heard; therefore we; will content ourselves with French for the remainder of the time."

"Thanks, madame, but if my presence be irksome to you-"

"You cannot suppose that, monsieur, as it was we who begged you to accompany us."

"Exacted it, even," said Andre'e.

"Oh, madame, you overwhelm me; pray pardon me my momentary hesitation; but you know Paris, do you not- Paris is so full of snares and deceptions."

"You then took us for- "

"Monsieur took us for snares, that is all."

"Oh, ladies," said the young man, quite humiliated, "I assure you I did not."

"But what is the matter- The coach stops."

"I will see, madame."

"Oh! I think we are overturning; pray take care, monsieur."

And Andre'e, in her terror, laid her hand on the young man's shoulder.

He, yielding to an impulse, attempted to seize her little hand; but she had in a moment thrown herself back again in the carriage. He therefore got out, and found the coachman engaged in raising one of his horses, which had fallen on the ice.

The horse, with his aid, was soon on its legs again, and they pursued their way.

It seemed, however, that this little interruption had destroyed the intimacy which had begun to spring up, for after the ladies had asked and been told the cause of their detention, all relapsed into silence.

The young man, however, who had derived some pleasure from the touch of that little hand, thought he would at least have a foot in exchange; he therefore stretched out his, and endeavoured to touch hers, which was, however, quickly withdrawn; and when he did just touch that of the elder lady, she said, with great sangfroid,-

"I fear, monsieur, I am dreadfully in your way."

He coloured up to the ears, and felt thankful to the darkness, which prevented it from being seen. After this, he desisted, and remained perfectly still, fearing even to renew the conversation, lest he should seem impertinent to these ladies, to whom, at first, he had thought himself rather condescending in his politeness.

Still, in spite of himself, he felt more and more strongly attracted towards them, and an increasing interest in them. He felt the presence of two charming women, although he did not touch them; he saw them, yet he was not looking at them. It seemed as if, in some mysterious way, their destinies were united to his own. He would have given the world to renew the conversation; but now he dared not trust himself, for fear of uttering platitudes,- he who on their departure disdained to make even the most trivial remark. He feared that he might appear either simple or impertinent to these ladies, whom a short hour before he thought he was honouring greatly by offering them a louis and treating them with common civility. In a word, as all sympathies in this life are explained by the affinity of fluids brought together at the right time, a powerful magnetism emanating from the perfumes and the glow of youth in these three bodies, brought into contact by chance, overpowered this susceptible young man, and filled his thoughts, as his heart dilated. Thus, often in a few minutes, live and die the most real, the sweetest, and the most ardent of passions. Their ephemeral qualities constitute their charm; their strength increases with restraint. From time to time he heard them speak softly to each other, and he caught these words:-

"So late an hour! what excuse for being out- "

At last the coach stopped again, but this time it was no accident, but simply that they had arrived at Versailles.

The young man thought the time had passed with marvellous quickness.

"We are at Versailles," said the coachman.

"Where must he stop, ladies- " asked the officer.

"At the Place d'Armes."

"At the Place d'Armes, coachman," said the officer; "go on."

"Must I drive to the Place d'Armes- " said the coach- man.

"Certainly, since you are so ordered."

"There will be an extra for that- " said the Auvergnese sniggering.

"Go on."

The crack of the whip was heard again.

"I must say something to them," thought the young man, "or they will now think me a stupid, as they must before have thought me impertinent."

"Mesdames," said he, "you are at length arrived."

"Thanks to your generous assistance."

"What trouble we have given you 1" added Andre'e.

"Oh, madame, do not speak of it! "

"Well, monsieur, we shall not forget; will you tell us your name- "

"My name- "

"Certainly, monsieur; you do not wish to make us a present of a lonis, I hope."

"Oh, madame, if that is it," said the young man, rather piqued, " I yield; I am the Count de Charny, and, as madame has already remarked, a naval officer."

"Charny," repeated the elder lady, " I shall not forget."

"Yes, madame, Georges de Charny."

"And you live- "

"Hotel des Princes, Rue de Richelieu."

The coach stopped. The elder lady opened the door and jumped out quickly, holding out a hand to her companion.

"But pray, ladies," said he, preparing to follow them, "take my arm; you are not yet at your own home."

"Oh, monsieur, do not move."

"Not move-"

"No; pray remain in the coach."

"You cannot walk alone at this time of night; it is impossible."

"Now, you see," said the elder lady, gaily, "after almost refusing to oblige us, you wish to be too obliging."

"But, madame- "

"Monsieur, remain to the end a loyal and gallant cavalier; we thank you, Monsieur de Charny, with all our hearts, and will not even ask your word- "

"To do what, madame-"

"To shut the door, and order the man to drive back to Paris, without even looking where we go, which you will do, will you not-"

"I will obey you, madame; coachman, back again." And he put a second louis into the man's hand, who joyfully set off on his return.

"Morbleu!" said the coachman, "the horses may founder now if they choose."

The young man sighed as he took his place on the cushions which the unknown ladies had just occupied.

They remained motionless till the coach was out of sight, and then took their way towards the castle.

CHAPTER VI. LAUBENT.

At this moment our heroines heard the clock strike from the church of Saint-Louis.

"Oh, mon Dieu! a quarter to twelve I" they cried, in terror.

"See, all the doors are shut," said Andre*e.

"Oh, that is nothing; for, if they were open, we would not go in here. Let us go round by the reservoirs." And they turned to the right, where there was a private entrance.

When they arrived there, "The door is shut, Andree," said the elder lady, rather uneasily.

"Let us knock, madame."

"No, we will call; Laurent must be waiting for me, for I told him perhaps I should return late."

"I will call," said Andree, approaching the door.

"Who is there-" said a voice from inside.

"Oh, it is not Laurent 1" said she, terrified.

"Is it not-" and the other lady advanced, and called softly, " Laurent 1"

No answer.

"Laurent!" again she called, louder.

"There is no Laurent here," replied the voice, rudely.

"But," said Andree, "whether he be here or not, open the door."

"I cannot open it."

"But Laurent would have opened it immediately."

"I have my orders," was all the reply.

"Who are you, then-"

"Rather, who are you-"

Rude as the question was, it was no time to find fault, so they answered, "We are ladies of her Majesty's suite; we lodge in the castle, and we wish to get home."

"Well, I, mesdames, am a Swiss of the Salischamade company, and I shall do just the contrary of Laurent, for I shall leave you at the door."

"Oh! " murmured the ladies, in terror and anger.

Then, making an effort over herself, the elder lady said, " My friend, I understand that you are obeying orders, and I do not quarrel with you for that,- it is a soldier's duty; only do me the favour to call Laurent; he cannot be far distant."

"I cannot quit my post."

"Then send some one."

"I have no one to send."

"For pity's sake!"

"Oh, mon Dieu! sleep in the town, that is no great thing; if I were shut out of the barracks, I would soon find a bed."

"Listen," said the lady again; "you shall have twenty louis, if you open this door."

"And ten years at the galleys; no, thank you. Forty- eight francs a year is not sufficient pay for that."

"I will get you made a sergeant."

"Yes, and he who gave me the order will have me shot."

"And who did give you the order-"

"The king."

"The king!" cried they; "oh, we are lost!" The younger lady seemed almost distracted.

"Is there no other door- "

"Oh! madame, if this one is closed, be sure all the others will be so also," said Andre'e.

"You are right, Andre'e. 'Tis a horrible trick of the king," she said, with a contempt almost menacing.

There was a sort of bank outside the door, which they sank down upon in despair. They could see the light under the door, and could hear the steps of the sentinel as he paced to and fro.

Within this little door was salvation; without, shame and scandal.

"Oh, to-morrow, to-morrow, when they will find out!" murmured the elder lady.

"You will tell the truth, madame."

"But shall I be believed-"

"Oh, we can prove it; besides, the soldier will not stay all night; he will be relieved, and perhaps his successor will be more complacent."

"Yes, but the patrol will pass directly, and will find me here, waiting outside. It is infamous; I am suffocated with rage."

"Oh, take courage, madame! you, who are always so brave."

"It is a plot, Andree, in order to ruin me. This door is never closed. Oh, I shall die!"

At this moment they heard a step approaching, and then the voice of a young man, singing gaily as he went along.

"That voice," cried the lady, "I know it, I am sure."

"Oh, yes, madame, he will save us."

A young man, wrapped up in a fur riding-coat, came quickly up, and, without noticing them, knocked at the door, and called, "Laurent."

"Brother," said the elder lady, touching him on the shoulder.

"The queen!" cried he, taking off his hat.

"Hush," said she.

"You are not alone-"

"No, I am with Mademoiselle Andree" de Taverney."

"Oh, good evening, mademoiselle."

"Good evening, monseigneur."

"Are you going out, madame-" asked he.

"No."

"Then you are going in."

"We wished to do so."

"Have you not called Laurent-"

"Yes, we have, but- "

"But what-"

"You call Laurent, and you will see."

The young man, whom the reader has, perhaps, already recognised as the Count d'Artois, approached and again called "Laurent."

"I warn you," answered from within the voice of the Swiss, "that if you torment me any more, I will go and fetch my commanding officer."

"Who is this-" asked the count, turning round in astonishment to the queen.

"A Swiss who has been substituted for Laurent."

"By whom-"

"By the king."

"The king-"

"Yes; he told us so himself."

"And with orders-"

"Most strict, apparently."

"Diable! we must capitulate."

"What do you mean- " she asked.

"Offer him money."

"I have already done so, and he has refused it."

"Offer him promotion."

"I have offered that also, but he would not listen."

"Then there is but one way."

"What-"

"To make a noise."

"My dear Charles, you will compromise us."

"Not the least in the world. You keep in the background, I will knock like thunder, and shout like a madman; they will open at last, and you can slide in with me."

"Try, then."

The young prince began calling Laurent, knocking at the door and striking with his sword, till at last the Swiss said, "Ah, well! I will call my officer."

"Go and call him; that is just what I want."

They soon heard other steps approaching. The queen and Andrde kept close, ready to slip in if the door should open; then they heard the Swiss say, "There are some ladies with a gentleman, lieutenant, who insist on coming in."

"Well, I suppose that is not astonishing, as we belong to the castle," said the count.

"It is no doubt a natural wish, but a forbidden one," replied the officer.

'' Forbidden- by whom- Morbleu! "

"By the king."

"But the king would not wish an officer of the castle to sleep outside."

"Monsieur, I am not the judge of that; I have only to obey orders."

"Come, lieutenant, open the door; we cannot talk through this oak."

"Monsieur, I repeat to you that my orders are to keep it shut; and if you are an officer, as you say, you know that I must obey."

"Lieutenant, you speak to the colonel of a regiment."

"Excuse me then, colonel, but my orders are positive."

"But they cannot concern a prince. Come, monsieur, a prince cannot be kept out."

"My prince, I am in despair, but the king has ordered- "

"The king has ordered you to turn away his brother like a beggar or a robber- I am the Count d'Artois, monsieur. Mordieu! you keep me here freezing at the door."

"Monseigneur, God is my witness that I would shed my blood for your Eoyal Highness; but the king gave me his orders in person, and, confiding to me the charge of this door, ordered me not to open to any one, should it be even himself, after eleven o'clock. Therefore, monseigneur, I ask your pardon humbly for disobeying you, but I am a soldier, and were it her Majesty the queen who asked admittance I should be forced most unwillingly to refuse."

Having said this, the officer turned away and left the place.

As for the soldier, he did not dare to breathe. He stood against the gate, and hia heart beat so rapidly, that, had the Count d'Artois put his back to the gate, he might have felt its pulsation.

"We are lost," said the queen.

"Do they know that you are out- " asked the count.

"Alas! I know not."

"Perhaps, then, this order is levelled against me; the king knows I often go out at night, and stay late. Madame la Comtesse d'Artois must have heard something, and complained to him, and hence this tyrannical order."

"Ah, no, brother; I thank you for trying to reassure me, but I feel that it is against me these precautions are taken."

"Impossible, sister! the king has too much esteem- "

"Meanwhile, I am left at the door, and to-morrow a frightful scandal will be the result. I know well I have an enemy near the king."

"It is possible; however, I have an idea."

"What- only be quick. If you can but save us from the ridicule of this position, it is all I care for."

"Oh, I will save you. I am not more foolish than he, for all his learning."

"Than whom-"

"Ah, pardieu! the Count de Provence."

"Ah, then, you also know my enemy."

"Is he not the enemy of all that are young and beautiful, of all who are better than himself-"

"Count, I believe you know something about this order."

"Perhaps, but do not let us stop here. Come with me, dear sister."

"Where-"

"You shall see; somewhere where at least you will be warm, and en route I will tell you all I know about this. Take my arm, sister, and you the other, Mademoiselle de Taverney, and let us turn to the right."

"Well, but now go on," said the queen.

"This evening, after the king's supper, he came to his cabinet. He had been talking all day to Count Haga, you had not been seen- "

"No, at two o'clock I left to go to Paris."

"I know it. The king, allow me to tell you, dear sister, was thinking no more about you than about Haroun-al- Raschid, or his Vizier Giaffar, and was talking geography. I listened with some impatience, for I also wanted to go out; probably not with the same object as you."

"Where are we going-" interrupted the queen.

"Oh, close by; take care, there is a snow-heap. Mademoiselle de Taverney, if you leave my arm you will certainly fall. But to return to the king; he was thinking of nothing but latitude and longitude, when Monsieur de Provence said to him, ' I should like to pay my respects to the queen.'"

"' The queen sups at home,' replied the king.

"' Oh, I believed her at Paris.'

"' No, she is at home,' said the king, quietly.

"' I have just come from there, and been denied to her,' said Monsieur de Provence.*

"Then I saw the king frown; he dismissed us, and doubtless went to make inquiries. Louis is jealous by fits, you know; he must have asked to see you, and, being refused, become suspicious."

"Yes, Madame de Misery had orders to do so."

"Then, to know whether you were out or not, he has given these strict orders."

"Oh, it is shameful treatment. Confess, is it not-"

"Indeed, I think so; but here we are."

"This house-"

"Does it displease you- "

"No, I do not say that; it is charming. But your servants-"

"Well!"

"If they see me."

"Come in, sister, and I will guarantee that no one sees you, not even whoever opens the door."

"Impossible!"

"We will try," said he, laughing; and, laying his hand on one of the panels, the door flew open.

"Enter, I pray you," said he, "there is no one near."

The queen looked at Andre'e, then, making up her mind, went in, and the door shut behind them.

She found herself in a vestibule, small, but ornamented in perfect taste. The floor was mosaic work, representing bouquets of flowers, while numerous rose-trees on marble brackets scented the air with a perfume equally delicious as rare at that time of the year.

It looked all so charming, that the ladies began to forget their fears and scruples.

"So far well," said the queen; "we have a shelter, at all events, and seemingly a very charming one; but you had better see to one thing,-that is, to keep off your servants."

"Oh, nothing more easy;" and the prince, seizing a little bell which hung on one of the pillars, rang one clear stroke.

"Oh!" cried the queen, frightened, "is that the way to keep them off- I should have thought it would bring them."

"If I had rung again, it would have done so; but when I only ring once, they know they are not wanted."

"Oh, you are a man of precaution!" said the queen, laughing.

"Now, dear sister, take the trouble to go up stairs."

"Let us obey," said the queen, "the genius of this place appears not disagreeable;" and they went up, their steps making no sound on the thick Aubusson carpet.

At the top the prince rang another bell, which gave them a fresh start of surprise, and their astonishment increased when they saw the doors open of themselves.

"Keally, Andre'e," said the queen, "I begin to tremble, do not you- "

"Oh, raadame, I shall follow fearlessly wherever your Majesty goes."

"Enter," said the prince, "for here is your apartment; " and he ushered them into a charming little room, furnished en buhl, with a painted ceiling and walls, and a rosewood floor. It opened into a boudoir, fitted up with white cashmere, beautifully embroidered with groups of flowers, and hung with tapestry of exquisite workmanship. Beyond the boudoir was a bedroom, painted blue, hung with curtains of silk and lace, and with a sumptuous bed in an alcove. A fire burned on the hearth, and a dozen perfumed wax-lights in candelabra.

Such were the marvels which presented themselves to the eyes of the wondering ladies. No living being was to be seen; fire and lights seemed to have come without hands.

The queen stopped on the threshold of the bedroom, looking half afraid to enter.

The prince apologised for the necessity of confiding a secret to his sister so unworthy of her ears; the queen replied by a slight smile, more expressive than words could have been.

"Sister," said the count, "these are my bachelor apartments; here I come alone."

"Always-" asked the queen.

"Doubtless," answered he.

"I understand now," said the queen, "why Madame la Comtesse is sometimes unquiet."

"Confess, however, that, if she is unquiet to-night, it will be without reason."

"To-night, I do not say, but other nights." Then, sitting down; "I am dreadfully tired," she said; "are not you, Andree-"

"I can scarcely stand; and if your Majesty permits- "

"Indeed, you look ill, mademoiselle," said the count.

"You must go to bed," said the queen. "Monsieur le Comte gives us up this room; do you not, Charles-"

"Entirely, madame."

"One moment, count. If you go away, how can we recall you-"

"You will not need me; you are mistress of this house."

"But there are other rooms."

"Certainly; there is a dining-room, which I advise you to visit."

"With a table ready spread, no doubt."

"Oh, yes; and Mademoiselle de Taverney, who seems to me to need it much, will find there jellies or chicken, and wine, and you, sister, plenty of those fruits you are so fond of."

"And no servants- "

"None."

"We will see; but how to return-"

"You must not think of returning to-night. At six o'clock the gates will be opened, go out a quarter before. You will find in these drawers mantles of all colours and all shapes, if you wish to disguise yourselves. Go, therefore, to the chateau, regain your rooms, go to bed, and all will be right."

"But you, what will you do-"

"Oh, I am going away."

"We turn you out, my poor brother!"

"It is better for me not to remain in the same house with you."

"But you must sleep somewhere."

"Do not fear; I have three other houses like this."

The queen laughed. "And he pretends Madame la Comtesse has no cause to be anxious; oh, I will tell her!"

"You dare not."

"It is true, we are dependent upon you. Then, to go away to-morrow morning without seeing any one-"

"You must ring once, as I did below, and the door will open."

"By itself-"

"By itself."

"Then, good-night, brother."

"Good-night, sister." He bowed and disappeared.

CHAPTER VII. THE QUEEN'S BEDCHAMBER.

The next day, or rather the same morning, for our last chapter brought us to two o'clock, King Louis XVI., in a violet-coloured morning dress, in some disorder, and with no powder in his hair, knocked at the door of the queen's antechamber.

It was opened by one of her women.

"The queen-" asked Louis, in a brusque manner.

"Her Majesty is asleep, sire."

The king made a movement, as though to pass in, but the woman did not move.

"Do you not see," he said, "that I wish to come in-", The king had, at times, a promptness of action which hfs enemies termed brutality.

"But the queen is asleep, sire," again she said, timidly.

"I told you to let me pass," answered the king, going in as he spoke.

When he reached the door of the bedroom, the king saw Madame de Misery, the first lady in waiting, who was sitting reading from her mass-book.

She rose on seeing him. " Sire," she said, in a low voice, and with a profound reverence, " her Majesty has not yet called for me."

"Really- " said the king, in an ironical tone.

"But, sire, it is only half-past six, and her Majesty never rings before seven."

"And you are sure that her Majesty is asleep in bed- "

"I cannot affirm that she is asleep, sire, but I can that she is in bed."

The king could contain himself no longer, but went straight to the door, which he opened with some noise. The room was in complete darkness, the shutters closed, and the curtains drawn. A night lamp burned on a bracket, but it only gave a dim and feeble light.

The king walked rapidly towards the bed.

"Oh, Madame de Misery," said the queen, " how noisy you are,- you have disturbed me I"

The king remained stupefied. "It is not Madame de Misery," he murmured.

"What, is it you, sire- " said Marie Antoinette, raising herself up.

"Good morning, madame," said the king, in a surly tone.

"What good wind blows you here, sire- Madame de Misery, come and open the shutters."

She came in instantly, as usual, opened all the doors and windows, to let in light and fresh air.

"You sleep well, madame," said the king, seating himself, and casting scrutinising glances round the room.

"Yes, sire, I read late, and had your Majesty not disturbed me, might have slept for some time longer."

"How was it that you did not receive visitors yesterday-" asked the king.

"Whom do you mean- Monsieur de Provence-" said the queen, with great presence of mind.

"Yes, exactly; he wished to pay his respects to you, and was refused."

"Well!"

"They said you were out."

"Did they say that-" asked the queen, carelessly. " Madame de Misery- "

The lady appeared, bringing in with her a number of letters on a gold salver. " Did your Majesty call- " she asked.

"Yes. Did they tell Monsieur de Provence yesterday that I was out- Will you tell the king, for really I forget."

Madame de Misery, in order not to pass in front of the king, was obliged to go around behind him and reach the salver on which were a number of letters, to the queen. She held under her thumb one of these letters, the writing on which the queen recognised.

"Answer the king, Madame de Misery," continued Marie Antoinette, with the same indifference. " Tell his Majesty what reply was given to Monsieur de Provence, when he came to my door. For my part, I really have forgotten."

"Sire," said Madame de Misery, while the queen took her letters and began to read, " I told Monseigneur le Comte de Provence that her Majesty did not receive."

"And by whose orders- "

"By the queen's, sire."

Meanwhile, the queen had opened one of the letters, and read these lines: " You returned from Paris yesterday, and entered the chateau at eight o'clock in the evening; Laurent saw you."

When, still with an assumed indifference, the queen had opened half a dozen notes, letters, and petitions which she scattered over the eider-down quilt,-

"Well!" said she, turning to look towards the king.

"Thanks, madame," said the latter to the first lady of the bedchamber.

Madame de Misery left the room.

"Pardon, sire," said the queen, "but will you answer me one question- "

"What, madame-"

"Am I, or am I not, at liberty to see Monsieur de Provence only when it pleases me- "

"Oh, perfectly at liberty, madame, but- "

"Well, his conversation wearies me; besides, he does not love me, and I like him no better. I expected his visit, and went to bed at eight o'clock to avoid it. But you look disturbed, sire."

"I believed you to be in Paris yesterday."

"At what time-"

"At the time at which you pretend to have gone to bed."

"Doubtless, I went to Paris; but what of that- "

"All, madaine, depends on what time you returned."

"Oh, you wish to know at what time exactly I returned- "

"Yes."

"It is easy. Madame de Misery- "

The lady reappeared.

"What time was it when I returned from Paris yesterday-"

"About eight o'clock, your Majesty."

"I do not believe it," said the king; "you make a mistake, Madame de Misery."

The lady walked to the door, and called, "Madame Duval!"

"Yes, madame," replied a voice.

"At what time did her Majesty return from Paris yesterday- "

"About eight o'clock, madame," replied the other.

"The king thinks we are mistaken."

Madame Duval put her head out of the window, and cried, " Laurent!"

"Who is Laurent-" asked the king.

"The porter at the gate where her Majesty entered," said Madame de Misery.

"Laurent," said Madame Duval, "what time was it when her Majesty came home last evening-"

"About eight o'clock," answered Laurent.

Madame de Misery then left the room, and the king and queen remained alone.

He felt ashamed of his suspicions.

The queen, however, only said, coldly, "Well, sire, is there anything else you wish to know-"

"Oh, nothing!" cried he, taking her hands in his; " forgive me; I do not know what came into my head,- my joy is as great as my repentance. You will not be angry, will you- I am in despair at having annoyed you."

The queen withdrew her hand, and said, " Sire, a queen of France must not tell a falsehood."

"What do you mean-"

"I mean that I did not return at eight o'clock last evening."

The king drew back in surprise.

"I mean," continued the queen, in the same cold manner, "that I only returned at six o'clock this morning."

"Madame!"

"And that, but for the kindness of Monsieur le Comte d'Artois, who gave me an asylum, and lodged me out of pity in one of his houses, I should have been left all night at the door of the chateau like a beggar."

"Ah! you had not then returned-" said the king, gloomily; "then I was right."

"Sire, you have not behaved towards me as a gentleman should."

"In what, madame-"

"In this,- that if you wish to know whether I return late or early, you- have no need to close the gates, with orders not to open them, but simply to come to me and ask, ' Madame, at what time did you return-' You have no more reason to doubt, sire. Your spies have been deceived, your precautions nullified, and your suspicions dissipated. I saw you ashamed of the part you had played, and I might have continued to triumph in my victory, but I think your proceedings shameful for a king, and unworthy of a gentleman; and I would not refuse myself the satisfaction of telling you so.

"It is useless, sire," she continued, seeing the king about to speak; "nothing can excuse your conduct towards me."

"On the contrary, madame," replied he, "nothing is more easy. Not a single person in the chateau suspected that you had not already returned; therefore no one could think that my orders referred to you. Probably they were attributed to the dissipations of Monsieur le Comte d'Artois; for that I care nothing. Therefore, madame, appearances were saved, as far as you were concerned. I wished simply to give you a secret lesson, from which the amount of irritation you show leads me to hope you will profit. Therefore, I still think I was in the right, and do not repent what I have done."

The queen listened, and seemed to calm herself, by an effort, to prepare for the approaching contest. "Then, sire," she said, "you think you need no excuse for keeping at the door of your castle the daughter of Maria Theresa, your wife, and the mother of your children- No, it is in your eyes a pleasantry worthy of a king, and of which the morality doubles the value. It is nothing to you to have forced the Queen of France to pass the night in the petite maison where the Count d'Artois receives the ladies of the Opera and the femmes galantes of your court. Oh, no! that is nothing. A philosopher king is above all such considerations. Only, on this occasion, I have reason to thank Heaven that my brother-in-law is a dissipated man, as his dissipation has saved me from disgrace, and his vices have sheltered my honour."

The king coloured, and moved uneasily on his chair.

"Oh, yes!" continued the queen, with a bitter laugh, "I know that you are a moral king, but your morality produces strange effects. You say that no one knew that I was out. Will you tell me that Monsieur de Provence, your instigator, did not know it- or Monsieur le Comte d'Artois- or my women, who, by my orders, told you falsehoods this morning- or Laurent, bought by Monsieur d'Artois and by me- Let us continue this habit, sire; you to set spies and Swiss guards, and I to buy them over and cheat you; and in a month we will calculate together how much the dignity of the throne and our marriage has gained by it."

It was evident that her words had made a great impression on him to whom they were addressed.

"You know," said he, in an altered voice, "that I am always sincere, and willing to acknowledge if I have been wrong. Will you prove to me that you were right to go into Paris in sledges, accompanied by a gay party, which, in the present unhappy state of things, is likely to give offence- Will you prove to me that you were right to disappear in Paris, like maskers at a ball, and only to reappear scandalously late at night, when every one else was asleep- You have spoken of the dignity of the throne, and of marriage; think you that it befits a queen, a wife, and a mother, to act thus-"

"I will reply in a few words, sire; for it seems to me that such accusations merit nothing but contempt. I left Versailles in a sledge, because it is the quickest way of getting to Paris at present. I went with Mademoiselle de Taverney, whose reputation is certainly one of the purest in our court. I went to Paris, I repeat, to verify the fact that the King of France, the great upholder of morality- he who takes care of poor strangers, warms the beggars, and earns the gratitude of the people by his charities- leaves dying of hunger, exposed to every attack of vice and misery, one of his own family,- one who is as much as himself a descendant of the kings who have reigned in France."

"What!" cried the king, in surprise.

"I mounted," continued the queen, "into a garret, and there saw, without fire, almost without light, and without money, the granddaughter of a great prince, and I gave one hundred louis to this victim of royal forgetfulness and neglect. Then, as I was detained late there, and as the frost was severe, and horses go slowly over ice, particularly hackney-coach horses- "

"Hackney-coach horses!" cried the king. "You returned in a hackney-coach-"

"Yes, sire,-No. 107."

"Oh, oh!" said the king, with every sign of vexation.

"Yes, and only too happy to get it," said the queen.

"Madame!" interrupted he, "you are full of noble feelings; but this impetuous generosity becomes a fault. Remember," continued he, "that I never suspected you of anything that was not perfectly pure and honest; it is only your mode of acting and adventurous spirit that displease me. You have, as usual, been doing good, but the way you set about it makes it injurious to yourself. This is what I reproach you with. You say that I have faults to repair,-that I have failed in my duty to a member of my own family. Tell me who the unfortunate is, and he shall no longer have reason to complain."

"The name of Valois, sire, is sufficiently illustrious not to have escaped your memory."

"Ah!" cried Louis, with a shout of laughter, "I know now whom you mean. La petite Valois, is it not- a countess of something or other."

"De la Motte, sire."

"Precisely, De la Motte; her husband is a gendarme."

"Yes, sire."

"And his wife is an intrigante. Oh! you need not trouble yourself about her; she is moving heaven and earth; she worries my ministers; she teases my aunts, and overwhelms me with supplications, memorials, and genealogies."

"And all this uselessly, sire."

"I must confess it.

"Is she, or is she not, a Valois-"

"I believe she is."

"Well, then, I ask an honourable pension for her and a regiment for her husband. In fact, a decent position for this branch of the royal family."

"Gently, madame! Diablo! how fast you go on! The little Valois can pluck feathers from me without your help; she has a good beak."

"Oh! I do not fear for you, sire; your feathers are hard to pluck."

"An honourable pension- Mon Dieu! what are you thinking of, madame- Do you know what a terrible hole this winter has made in my funds- A regiment for this little gendarme, who speculated in marrying a Valois- Why, I have no regiments to give, even to those who deserve them, or who can pay for them. An income befitting a Valois for these people- when we, monarch as we are, have not oue befitting a rich gentleman. Why, Monsieur d'Orleans has sent his horses and mules to England for sale, and has cut off a third of his establishment. I have put down my wolf-hounds, and given up many other things. We are all on the privation list, great and small."

"But these Valois must not die of hunger."

"Have you not just given them one hundred louis-"

"And what is that-"

"A royal gift."

"Then give such another."

"Yours will do for us both."

"No, I want a pension for them."

"No, I will not bind myself to anything fixed; they will not let me forget them, and I will give when I have money to spare. I do not think much of this little Valois."

Saying these words, Louis held out his hand to the queen, who, however, turned from him and said, "No, you are not good to me, and I am angry."

"You bear malice," said the king, "and I- "

"Oh, you shut the gates against me; you come at half- past six to my room, and force open the door in a passion."

"I was not in a passion," said the king.

"You are not now, you mean."

"What will you give me if I prove that I was not, even when I came in-"

"Let me see the proof."

"Oh, it is very easy; I have it in my pocket."

"Bah!" said the queen; but adding, with curiosity, "You have brought something to give me, but I warn you I shall not believe you, unless you show it me at once."

Then, with a smile full of kindness, the king began searching in his pockets, with that slowness which makes the child doubly impatient for his toy, the animal for his food, and the woman for her present. At last he drew out a box of red morocco leather, artistically ornamented in gold.

"A jewel box!" cried the queen.

The king laid it on the bed.

She opened it impatiently, and then called out, " Oh, mon Dieu! how beautiful I"

The king smiled with delight. "Do you think so-" said he.

The queen could not answer,- she was breathless with admiration. Then she drew out of the box a necklace of diamonds, so large, so pure, so glittering, and so even, that, with sparkling eyes, she cried again, "Oh! it is magnificent."

"Then you are content- " said the king.

"Enchanted, sire; you make me too happy."

"Eeally-"

"See this first row; the diamonds are as large as filberts, and so even you could not tell one from the other; then how beautifully the gradation of the rows is managed! the jeweller who made this necklace is an artist."

"They are two."

"Then I wager it is Boehmer and Bossange."

"You have guessed right."

"Indeed, no one but they would risk making such a thing."

"Madame, take care," said the king; "you will have to pay too dear for this necklace."

"Oh, sire!" cried the queen, all the delight fading from her countenance.

"You must pay the price of letting me be the first to put it on;" and he approached her, holding in his hands the two ends of the magnificent necklace, of which the clasp was one great diamond.

She stopped him, saying, "But, sire, is it very dear-"

"Have I not told you the price- "

"Ah, Louis, we must not jest. Put the necklace back again."

"You refuse to allow me to put it on-"

"Oh no, sire, if I were going to wear it."

"What-" said the king, surprised.

"No," she said; "no one shall see a necklace of this price round my neck."

"You will not wear it-"

"Never."

"You refuse me."

"I refuse to wear a million or a million and a half of francs round my neck, for this necklace must cost that."

"I do not deny it," said the king.

"Then I do refuse to wear such a necklace while the king's coffers are empty, when he is forced to stint his charities, and to say to the poor, 'God help you, for I have no more to give.'"

"Are you serious in saying this-"

"Listen, sire; Monsieur de Sartines told me a short time since that with that sum we could build a ship of the line; and in truth, sire, the king has more need of a ship than the queen of a necklace."

"Oh!" cried the king, joyfully, and with his eyes full of tears, " what you do is sublime. Thanks, Antoinette; you are a good wife I" and he threw his arms round her neck and kissed her. "Oh, how France will bless you!" continued he; "and it shall hear what you have done."

The queen sighed.

"You regret," said he; "it is not too late."

"No sire; shut this case, and return it to the jewellers."

"But listen, first. I have arranged the terms of payment, and I have the money."

"No, I have decided. I will not have the necklace; but I want something else."

"Diable! then my 1,600,000 francs are gone, after all."

"What! it would have cost that-"

"Indeed it would."

"Reassure yourself; what I ask is much cheaper."

"What do you wish for-"

"To go to Paris once more."

"Oh! that is easy enough, and not dear."

"But wait-"

"Diable!"

"To the Place VendSme, to see Monsieur Mesmer."

"Diable!" again said the king; but added, "Well, as you have denied yourself the necklace, I suppose I must let you go; but on one condition."

"What-"

"You must be accompanied by a princess of the blood."

"Shall it be Madame de Lamballe-"

"Yes, if you like."

"I promise."

"Then I consent."

"Thanks, sire."

"And now," said the king, "I shall order my ship of the line, and call it the ' Queen's Necklace.' You shall stand godmother, and then I will send it out to La Pe"rouse;" and, kissing his wife's hand, he went away quite joyful.

CHAPTER VIII. THE QUEEN'S PETITE LEVEE.

No sooner was the king gone than the queen rose and went to the window. The morning was lovely, and had the charming feeling of the commencement of spring, while the sun seemed almost warm. The wind had gone round to the east, and if it remained in that quarter this terrible winter was probably at an end.

The snow was beginning to drip from the trees, under the influence of this genial morning.

"If we wish to profit by the ice," cried the queen, "I believe we must make haste; for look, Madame de Misery, the spring seems to have begun. I much wish to make up a party on the Swiss lake, and will go to-day, for to-morrow it may be too late."

"Then at what hour will your Majesty wish to dress-"

"Immediately; I will breakfast and then go."

"Are there any other orders, madame-"

"See if Mademoiselle de Taverney has risen, and tell her I wish to speak to her."

"She is already waiting for you in the boudoir, madame."

"Already-" said the queen, who knew at what time she had gone to bed.

"She has been there for twenty minutes, madame."

"Ask her to come in."

Andree soon entered, dressed with her usual care, and smiling, though rather unquiet.

The queen's answering smile quite reassured her.

''Go, my good Misery, and send me Leonard and my tailor."

When she was gone, "The king has been charming," said the queen to Andree; "he has laughed, and is quite disarmed."

"But does he know, madame-"

"You understand, Andree, that a woman does not tell falsehoods when she has done no wrong and is the Queen of France."

"Certainly, madame."

"Still, my dear Andree, it seems we have been wrong- "

"Doubtless, madame, but how-"

"Why, in pitying Madame de la Motte; the king dislikes her, but I confess she pleased me."

"Oh, your Majesty is too good a judge for me to disagree with you."

"Here is Leonard," said Madame de Misery, returning.

The queen seated herself before her silver-gilt toilet- table, and the celebrated hairdresser commenced his operations.

She had the most beautiful hair in the world, and was fond of having it admired; Leonard knew this, and therefore with her was always tardy in his movements, that she might have time to admire it herself.

Marie Antoinette was looking beautiful that morning; she was pleased and happy.

Her hair finished, she turned again to Andree.

"You have not been scolded," she said; "you are free; besides, they say every one is afraid of you, because, like Minerva, you are too wise."

"I, madame-"

"Yes, you; but, oh mon Dieu! how happy you are to be unmarried, and, above all, to be content to be so."

Andree blushed, and tried to smile.

"It is a vow that I have made," said she.

"And which you will keep, beautiful vestal-"

"I hope so."

"Apropos," said the queen, "I remember that, although unmarried, you have a master since yesterday morning."

"A master, madame-"

"Yes, your dear brother; what do you call him- Philippe, is it not-"

"Yes, madame."

"Has he arrived-"

"He came yesterday."

"And you have not yet seen him- I took you away to Paris, selfish that I was; it was unpardonable."

"Oh, madame! I pardon you willingly, and Philippe also."

"Are you sure- "

"I answer for both of us."

"How is he-"

"As usual, beautiful and good, madame."

"How old is he now-"

"Thirty-two."

"Poor Philippe! do you know that it is fourteen years since I first met him- But I have not seen him now for nine or ten."

"Whenever your Majesty pleases to receive him, he will be but too happy to assure you that this long absence has not altered the sentiment of respectful devotion which he has ever felt for his queen."

"I will see him at once."

"In a quarter of an hour he will be at your Majesty's feet."

"Very well, he may come. I wish it." Scarcely was Andr

"Good morning, your Majesty," said the young prince; " how did your Majesty pass the night- "

"Very badly, brother."

"And the morning-"

"Very well."

"That is the most important; I guessed that all had gone right, for I have just met the king, and he was smiling most graciously."

The queen laughed, and he echoed it.

"How thoughtless I am!" he said. " I did not ask Mademoiselle de Taverney how she had passed her time."

The queen had just cast off her dressing-gown of India muslin and put on her morning dress, when the door opened and Andre'e entered, leading by the hand a handsome man with a brown complexion, noble black eyes profoundly imbued with melancholy, and a soldier-like carriage. He looked like one of Coypel's or Gainsborough's beautiful portraits.

He was dressed in a dark gray coat embroidered in silver, a white cravat, and a dark waistcoat; and this rather sombre style of dress seemed to suit the manly character of his beauty.

"Stay," said the queen to D'Artois, "if you have anything to say to Andre'e, here she is."

"Your Majesty," said Andre'e, "here is my brother."

Philippe bowed gravel'.

The queen, who had until now been looking at his figure reflected in her mirror, turned round and saluted him. She was beautiful, with that royal beauty which made all around her not only partisans of the throne, but adorers of the woman. She possessed the power of beauty; and, if we may make use of the inversion, the beauty of power. Philippe, seeing her smile, and feeling those limpid eyes, at once soft and proud, fixed upon him, turned pale, and could hardly restrain his emotion.

"It appears, Monsieur de Taverney," said she, " that you pay me your first visit; I thank you for it."

"Your Majesty deigns to forget that it is I who should give thanks."

"How many years have passed since we last met, monsieur- Alas! the most beautiful part of our lives."

"For me, madame, but not for your Majesty, to whom all days are alike charming."

"You were then pleased with America, Monsieur de Taverney, as you remained there so long-"

"Madame," answered Philippe, " Monsieur de Lafayette, when he left the New World, had need of an officer in whom he could place confidence to take the command of the French auxiliaries. He proposed me, therefore, to General Washington, who accepted me."

"It seems," said the queen, "that this new country sends us home many heroes."

"Your Majesty does not mean that for me-" asked Philippe, laughing.*

"Why not-" Then, turning to the Count d'Artois, "See, brother," she said, "has not Monsieur de Taverney the look of a hero- "

Philippe, seeing himself thus introduced to the young prince, bowed low. He returned it, and said, "I am most happy to make the acquaintance of such a gentleman. What are your intentions in returning to France, monsieur-"

"Monseigneur," answered Philippe, "my sister is my first consideration; whatever she wishes, I shall do."

"But she has a father, I believe," said the count.

"Never mind him," said the queen, quickly; "I prefer Andree under her brother's protection, and he under yours, count. You will take charge of Monsieur de Taverney, will you not-"

The count bowed an assent.

"For, do you know," continued she, "that a very strong link binds me to Monsieur de Taverney."

"What do you mean, sister-"

"That he was the first Frenchman who presented himself to my eyes when I arrived in this country; and I had taken a very sincere vow to promote the happiness of the first Frenchman I should meet."

Philippe felt the blood rush to his face, and Andree looked at him rather sadly.

The queen observed these looks of the brother and sister, and fancied she divined the cause. " Why," she thought, "should not Monsieur de Taverney have partaken the epidemic passion which pervaded all France for the dauphiness in 1774-" This supposition was the less improbable, as her reflection in the glass was that of the beauty of a young girl, although she was now a wife and a queen. Marie Antoinette therefore attributed these looks to some confidence of this kind which the brother had made to the sister; and, in consequence, she smiled still more upon him, and redoubled her kindness towards Andree.

The queen was a true woman, and gloried in being loved.

It was an innocent coquetry, and the most generous souls have the most strongly these aspirations for the love of all who surround them.

Alas! a time is coming for thee, poor queen, when those smiles towards those who love thee, with which thou hast been reproached, thou shalt vainly bestow on those that love thee not!

The Count d'Artois approached Philippe while the queen was talking to Andree, and said, " Do you think Washington so very great a general-"

"Certainly a great man, monseigneur."

"And what effect did our French produce out there- "

"As much good as the English did harm."

"Ah, you are a partisan of the new ideas, my dear Monsieur Philippe de Taverney; but have you reflected on one thing-"

"What, monseigneur- I assure you that out there, encamped in the fields, and in the savannas on the borders of the great lakes, I had plenty of time for reflection."

"On this, that in making war out there it was neither on the Indians nor on the English, but on us."

"Ah, monseigneur, I do not deny that that is possible."

"You admit- "

"I admit the unlucky reaction of an event which has saved the monarchy."

"Yes, but to those who have survived the first blow, a reaction may be fatal."

"Alas! monseigneur."

"Therefore, I do not admire so much these victories of Monsieur de Lafayette and Washington. It is egotism, perhaps, but it is not egotism for myself alone."

"Oh, monseigneur!"

"But do you know why I will still support you with all my power- "

"Whatever be the reason, I shall be truly grateful."

"It is, because you are not one of those whose names have been blazoned forth. You have done your duty bravely, but you have not thrust yourself forward; you are not known in Paris."

The young prince then kissed the queen's hand, and, bowing to Andrei, left the room.

Then the queen turned again to Philippe, saying, " Have you seen your father, monsieur- "

"Yes, madame, in the antechamber here. My sister sent for him."

"Why did you not go to see him first- "

"I have sent home my valet and my luggage, but my father sent the servant back again, with orders to present myself first to you, or the king."

"It is a lovely morning," said the queen; " to-morrow the ice will begin to melt. Madame de Misery, order my sledge and send my chocolate in here."

"Will not your Majesty take something to eat- You had no supper last night."

"You mistake, my good Misery, we had supper. Had we not, Andre'e- "

"A very good one, madame."

"So I will only have my chocolate. Quick, Madame de Misery; this fine weather tempts me, and the Swiss lake will be full of company."

"Your Majesty is going to skate- " asked Philippe.

"Ah, you will laugh at us, Monsieur 1'Am^ricain; you who have traversed lakes where there are more miles than we have feet here."

"Madame," replied Philippe, "here you amuse yourself with the cold, but there they die of it."

"Ah, here is my chocolate; Andrei, take a cup with me."

Andree bowed, colouring with pleasure.

"You see, Mousieur de Taverney, I am always the same, hating all etiquette, as in old times. Do you remember those old days- Are you changed since then, Monsieur Philippe-"

These words smote the young man's heart. A woman's regret often pierces him who loves her like a knife thrust.

"No, madame," replied the young man, "I am not changed,- at least not in heart."

"Well, I am glad to hear that, for it was a good one. A cup for Monsieur de Taverney, Madame de Misery."

"Oh, madame!" cried Philippe, "you cannot mean it; such an honour for a poor obscure soldier like me."

"An old friend," said the queen; "this day seems to remind me of my youth; I seem again happy, free, proud, and yet foolish. This day recalls to me that happy time at my dear Trianon, and all our frolics there, Andree and I together. This day brings back to my memory my roses, my strawberries, and my birds, that I was so fond of, all, even to my good gardeners, whose happy faces often announced to me a new flower or a delicious fruit; and Monsieur de Jussieu, and that original, old Rousseau, who is since dead. This day, I say, this day, makes me foolish even now. But what is the matter, Andree- You are blushing, and Philippe is pale."

In fact, the faces of these two young people could ill conceal the feelings awakened in them by these painful reminiscences.

Both, at the last words of the queen, regained their self- control.

"I have burned my mouth with the chocolate," said Andree, "excuse me, madame."

"And I," said Philippe, "cannot reconcile myself to the fact, that you are treating me with the honour you would confer on the illustrious noblemen of France."

"But corne," interrupted Marie Antoinette, herself pouring the chocolate into his cup, " you are a soldier, and accustomed to fire, so burn yourself gloriously with this chocolate, for I ain in a hurry."

She laughed, but Philippe, taking it seriously, drank it off most heroically.

The queen saw him, and laughing still more, said, " You are indeed a perfect hero, Monsieur de Taverney." She then rose, and her woman brought her bonnet, ermine mantle, and gloves.

Philippe took his hat under his arm, and followed her and Andree out.

"Monsieur de Taverney, I do not mean you to leave me," said the queen. " Come round to my right."

They went down the great staircase; the drums were beating, the clarions of the body-guard were playing, and this whole scene, and the enthusiasm everywhere shown towards that beautiful queeu by whose side he was walking, completed the intoxication of the young man. The change was too sudden, after so many years of exile and regret, to such great joy and honour.

A little old man might be seeu standing in the crowd, his head raised, his eyes fixed upon the queen and Taverney, utterly oblivious of the decrees of etiquette. When the queen started to leave, he hurried away also as fast as his little legs, which had borne him for sixty years, could carry him.

CHAPTER IX. THE SWISS LAKE.

Evert one knows this piece of water, which still goes by the same name. An avenue of linden trees skirts eacli bank, and these avenues were on this day thronged with pedestrians of all ranks and ages, who had come to enjoy the sight of the sledges and the skating. The toilets of the ladies presented a brilliant spectacle of luxury and gaiety, their high coiffures, gay bonnets with the veils half down, fur mantles, and brilliant silks with deep flounces, were mingled with the orange or blue coats of the gentlemen.

Gay lackeys also, in blue and red, passed among the crowd, looking like poppies and cornflowers blown about by the Wind.

Now and then a cry of admiration burst from the crowd, as Saint-Georges, the celebrated skater, executed some circle so perfect that a mathematician could scarcely have found a fault in it.

While the banks of the lake were thus crowded, the ice itself presented a scene not less gay, and still more animated: sledges flew about in all directions. Several dogs clothed in embroidered velvet, and with plumes of feathers on their heads, looking like fabulous animals, drew a sledge in which sat Monsieur de Lauzun, who was wrapped up in a tiger skin. Here you might see a lady masked, doubtless on account of the cold, in some sledge of a quieter character, while a handsome skater, in a velvet riding-coat, hangs over the back, to assist and direct her progress; whatever they may be saying to each other is quite inaudible, amidst this busy hum of voices. But who can blame a rendezvous which takes place in the open air, and under the eyes of all Versailles- and whatever they may be saying matters to no one else: it is evident that in the midst of this crowd their life is an isolated one; they think only of each other.

All at once a general movement in the crowd announces that they have recognised the queen, who is approaching the lake. A general cry of " Vive la reine! " is heard, and all endeavour to approach as nearly as possible to the place where she has stationed herself. All eyes are fixed upon her.

The gentlemen by skilful movements succeed in approaching her, the ladies stop at a respectful distance, and all in turn find some means of mingling in the groups of noblemen and officers of rank who press around the queen to offer her their salutations. One person alone does not appear to share this feeling, for on her approach he disappears with all his suite as fast as possible in the opposite direction.

"Do you see," said the Count d'Artois to the queen, whom he had hastened to join, " how my brother Provence flies from you- "

"He fears that I should reproach him."

"Oh, no; it is not that that makes him fly."

"It is his conscience, then."

"Not even that, sister."

"What then-"

"I will tell you. He had just heard that Monsieur de Suffren, our glorious conqueror, will arrive this evening; and as the news is important, he wishes to leave you in ignorance of it."

The queen perceived that some inquisitive persons, oblivious of the respect due to her, had drawn near in order that they might overhear the conversation of her brother- in-law.

"Monsieur de Taverney," said she, "mil you be good enough to order my sledge. If your father is about, I give you leave of absence of one quarter of an hour, that you may pay your respects to him."

The young man bowed, passed through the crowd, and hastened to fulfil the queen's order.

The crowd understood: it sometimes has wonderful insight; the circle was enlarged, and the queen and the Count d'Artois were more comfortable.

"Brother," then said the queen, "explain your meaning. Tell me, I beg you, what my brother would gain in concealing from me the arrival of Monsieur de Suffren."

"Oh, sister, can you not at first glance perceive the meaning of this political plot,- you, a woman, a queen, an enemy- Monsieur de Suffren arrives, no one at court knows of his arrival. Monseiur de Suffren is the hero of the Indian seas, and consequently should receive a great ovation at Versailles. Well, Monsieur de Suffren arrives: the king is ignorant of his advent, the king unwittingly neglects him, quite unintentionally of course; you likewise, sister. Then, on the other hand, all this time Monsieur de Provence, having learned this very morning that Monsieur de Suffren has arrived, hastens to greet him, smiles upon him, embraces him, makes verses eulogising him, and by attaching himself to the hero of the Indies, becomes himself the hero of France."

"That is clear," said the queen.

"Pardieu! " said the count.

"But, my dear gazetteer, you forget one single point."

"What is that-"

"How do you know all the details of this fine plot of our brother and brother-in-law- "

"How do I know it- I know it as I know everything that he does. It is easily explained. Having perceived that Monsieur de Provence seeks to find out my actions, I have agents who keep me informed as to his. It is useful to me and may be to you as well, sister."

"Thanks for your alliance, brother. But the king- "

"Well! The king has been informed."

"By you-"

"Oh, no. By his Minister of the Marine, whom I sent to him. I have nothing to do with all this, you understand. I am too frivolous, too dissipated, too wild, to be interested in things of such importance."

"But is the Minister of Marine ignorant of this arrival- "

"Ah, mon Dieu! sister, have you not learned enough of ministers, during the fourteen years you have passed here as dauphiness and queen, to know that they are always ignorant of precisely what they ought to know- However, I have told him about this, and he is deeply grateful."

"I should think so," said the queen.

"Yes, and I have need of his gratitude, for I want a loan."

"Oh," cried the queen, laughing, " how disinterested you are!"

"Sister," said he, "you must want money; I offer you half of what I am going to receive."

"Oh, no, brother, keep it for yourself; I thank you, but I want nothing just now."

"Diable! do not wait too long to claim my promise, because, if you do, I may not be in a condition to fulfil it."

"In that case I must endeavour to find out some state secret for myself."

"Sister, you begin to look cold."

"Well, here is Monsieur de Taverney returning with my sledge."

"Then you do not want me any longer- "

"No."

"Then send me away, I beg."

"Why- do you imagine you will be in my way- "

"No; it is I who want my liberty."

"Adieu, then."

"Au revoir, dear sister."

"Till when-"

"Till this evening."

"Is there anything to take place to-night, then- "

"Yes; this evening the minister will bring Monsieur de Suffren to the jeu du roi."

"Very well, then, till this evening."

And the young prince, bowing with his habitual elegance, disappeared among the crowd.

Old Taverney, who was one of the nearest spectators of all this, had been watching his son eagerly, aud felt almost chagrined at this conversation between the queen and her brother-in-law, as it interrupted the familiar intercourse which his son had before been enjoying; therefore, when the young man returned with the queen's sledge, and, seeing his father, whom he had not met for ten years, advanced towards him, he motioned him away, saying, " We will talk afterwards, when you have left the queen."

Philippe therefore returned to the queen, who was getting into the sledge with Andree. Two attendants approached to push it, but she said, " No; I do not wish to go like that; you skate, Monsieur de Taverney- Does he not, Andr^e- "

"Philippe used to skate remarkably well," replied she.

"And now I dare say he rivals Saint-Georges," said the queen.

"I will do my best to justify your Majesty's opinion," said he; and, putting on his skates, he placed himself behind her sledge, and they commenced their course.

Saint-Georges, seeing the queen on the ice, began to execute his most skilful manoeuvres, and finished off by going in circles round her sledge, making the most elegant bows each time he passed her.

He wove his circles in such skilful rings, joined together in such a way, that each new curve always preceded the arrival of the sledge which left him behind; then with a rapid movement he elliptically gained what he had lost. No one could witness his achievements without admiration and wonder.

Then Philippe, moved to emulation, began to push along the sledge with such wonderful rapidity that Saint-Georges found no little difficulty in keeping pace with it.

Several people, however, seeing the queen move at this marvellous rate, uttered cries of terror.

"If your Majesty desires," said Philippe, " I will stop, or go slower."

"Oh, no!" said she, with that enthusiasm which she carried into everything; " oh, no! I am not at all afraid; quicker still, chevalier, if you can."

"Oh, yes, inadame, and you are quite safe; you may trust to me;" and his vigorous arm propelled them at a still increased pace. He emulated the circles of Saint- Georges, and flew round as fast with the sledge as could even that experienced skater without it.

Then, leaving these evolutions, he pushed the sledge straight before him, and with such force that he himself remained behind.

Saint-Georges, seeing this, made a tremendous effort to gain the sledge before him, but was distanced by Philippe, who once more seized it, turned it, and flew in a new direction.

The air now rang with such acclamations that Philippe began to feel ashamed.

Then the queen, who had joined the applause with her hands, turned round and said to him, " And now, Monsieur de Taverney, that you have gained the victory, stop, I beg, or you will kill me."

CHAPTER X. THE TEMPTER.

Philippe, at this request of the queen, made a strong effort, and stopped the sledge abruptly.

"And now rest yourself," said she, coming out of it all trembling. "Indeed, I never could have believed the delight of going so fast, but you have made me quite tremble;" and she took Philippe's arm to support herself, until a general murmur reminded her that she was once more committing a breach of etiquette.

As for Philippe, overwhelmed by this great honour, he felt more ashamed than if his sovereign had insulted him publicly; he lowered his eyes, and his heart beat as though it would burst.

The queen, however, withdrew her arm almost immediately, and asked for a seat. They brought her one.

"Thanks, Monsieur de Taverney," said she; then, in a lower tone, " Mon Dieu, how disagreeable it is to be always surrounded by spying fools I "

A number of ladies and gentlemen soon crowded round her, and all looked with no little curiosity at Philippe, who, to hide his confusion, stooped to take off his skates, and then fell into the background.

After a short time, however, the queen said, " I shall take cold if I sit here, I must take another turn; " and she remounted her sledge.

Philippe waited, but in vain, for another order.

Twenty gentlemen soon presented themselves, but she said, " No, I thank you, I have my attendants;" and she moved slowly off, while Philippe remained alone.

He looked about for Saint-Georges, to console him for his defeat by some compliment, but he had received a message from his patron, the Duke d'0rle"ans, and had left the place.

Philippe, therefore, rather tired and half frightened at all that had passed, remained stationary, following with his eyes the queen's sledge, which was now at some distance, when he felt some one touch him; he turned round and saw his father..

The little old man, more shrunk than ever, enveloped in furs like a Laplander, had touched his son with his elbow, that he might not be obliged to take his hands out of the muff that hung from his neck.

"You do not embrace me, ray son," said he, with the inflection an ancient Greek might use in congratulating his son on a victory won in the arena.

"My dear father, I do it with all my heart."

"And now," said the old man, " go quickly;" and he pushed him away.

"Where do you wish me to go, monsieur- "

"Why, morbleu I over there."

"Where-"

"To the queen."

"No, I thank you, father."

"How- No, I thank you! are you mad- You will not go after the queen- "

"My dear father, it is impossible I"

"Impossible to join the queen, who is expecting you- "

"Who is expecting me! "

"Yes, who wishes for you."

"Wishes for me- Indeed, father," added he coldly, " I think you forget yourself."

"It is astonishing!" said the old man, stamping his foot. " Where on earth do you spring from- "

"Monsieur," said his son sadly, " you will make me conclude one of two things."

"What-"

"Either that you are laughing at me, or else, excuse me, that you are losing your senses."

The old man seized his son by the arm so energetically that he made him start " Listen, Monsieur Philippe," said he; " America is, I know, a country a long way from this, and where there is neither king nor queen."

"Nor subjects."

"Nor subjects, Monsieur Philosopher; I do not deny it: that point does not interest me; but what does so is that I fear also to have to come to a conclusion-"

"What, father-"

"That you are a simpleton, my son; just trouble yourself to look over there."

"Well, monsieur I"

"Well, the queen looks back, and it is the third time she has done so; there! she turns again, and whom do you think she is looking for but for you, Monsieur Puritan- " And the old man bit, with his toothless gums, his gloves for enclosing two such withered hands as his.

"Well, monsieur," said the young man, "if it were true, which it proBably is not, that the queen was looking for- "

"Oh! " interrupted the old man, angrily, " this fellow is not of my blood; he cannot be a Taverney. Monsieur, I repeat to yon that the queen is looking for you."

"You have good sight, monsieur," said his son, drily.

"Come," said the old man, more gently, and trying to moderate his impatience, " trust my experience: are you, or are you not, a man- "

Philippe made no reply.

His father ground his teeth with anger, to see himself opposed by this steadfast will; but, making one more effort, " Philippe, my son," said he, still more gently, " listen to me."

It seems to me, monsieur, that I have been doing nothing else for the last quarter of an hour."

"Oh," thought the old man, " I will draw you down from your stilts. I will find out your weak side." Then aloud, " You have overlooked one thing, Philippe."

"What, monsieur- "

"When you left for America, there was a king, but no queen, if it were not the Dubarry; hardly a respectable sovereign. You come back and see a queen, and you think you must be very respectful."

"Doubtless."

"Poor child!" said his father, laughing.

"How, monsieur- You blame me for respecting the monarchy,- you, a Taverney-Maison-Eouge, one of the best names in France."

"I do not speak of the monarchy, but only of the queen."

"And you make a difference- "

"Pardieul I should think so. What is royalty- a crown, that is unapproachable. But what is a queen- a woman, and she, on the contrary, is very approachable."

Philippe made a gesture of disgust.

"You do not believe me," continued the old man, almost fiercely; " well, ask Monsieur de Coigny, ask Monsieur de Lauzun, or Monsieur de Vaudreuil."

"Silence, father! " cried Philippe; " or for these three blasphemies, not being able to strike you three blows with my sword, I shall strike them on myself."

The old man stepped back, as Richelieu might have done at thirty years of age, murmuring, " Mon Dieu 1 what a stupid animal! Good evening, son; you rejoice me. I thought I was the father, the old man; but now I think it is I who must be the young Apollo, and you the old man;" and he turned away.

Philippe stopped him: " You did not speak seriously, did you, father- It is impossible that a gentleman of good blood like you should give ear to these calumnies, spread by the enemies not only of the queen, but of the throne."

"He will not believe, the double mule!" said the old man.

"You speak to me as you would speak before God-"

"Yes, truly."

"Before God, whom you approach every day- "

The young man had continued the conversation which he had so scornfully interrupted. This was a point gained by his father, and he approached him.

"It seems to me, my son," replied he, "that I am a gentleman, and that you may believe my word."

"It is, then, your opinion that the queen has had lovers- "

"Certainly."

"Those whom you have named- "

"And others for what I know. Ask all the town and the court. One must be just returned from America to be ignorant of all they say."

"And who say this, monsieur- some vile pamphleteers- "

"Oh! do you, then, take me for an editor- "

"No, and there is the mischief, when men like you repeat such calumnies, which, without that, would melt away like the unwholesome vapours which sometimes obscure the most brilliant sunshine; but people like you, repeating them, give them a terrible stability. Oh! monsieur, for mercy's sake do not repeat such things."

"I do repeat them, however."

"And why do you repeat them- " cried Philippe, fiercely.

"Oh!" said the old man with his Satanic laugh, "to prove to you that I was not wrong when I said, 'Philippe, the queen looks back; she is looking for you. Philippe, the queen wishes for you; run to her.'"

"Oh! father, hold your tongue, or you will drive me mad."

"Keally, Philippe, I do not understand you. Is it a crime to love- It shows that one has a heart; and in the eyes of this woman, in her voice, in everything, can you not read her heart- She loves; is it you- or is it another- I know not, but believe in my own experience: at this moment she loves, or is beginning to love, some one. But you are a philosopher, a Puritan, a Quaker, an American. You do not love; well, then, let her look; let her turn again and again; despise her, Philippe, I should say Joseph de Taverney."

The old man hurried away, satisfied with the effect he had produced, and fled like the serpent who was the first tempter into crime.

Philippe remained alone, his heart swelling and his blood boiling. He remained fixed in his place for about half ail hour, when the queen, having finished her tour, returned to where he stood, and called out to him:-

"You must be rested now, Monsieur de Taverney; come, then, for there is no one like you to guide a queen royally."

Philippe ran to her, giddy, and hardly knowing what he did. He placed his hand on the back of the sledge, but started as though he had burned his fingers; the queen had thrown herself negligently back in the sledge, and the fingers of the young man touched the locks of Marie Antoinette.

CHAPTER XI. MONSIEUR DE SUFFREN.

Contrary to the usual habits of a court, the secret had been faithfully confined to Louis XVI. and the Count d'Artois. No one knew at what time or hour Monsieur de Suffren would arrive.

The king had announced his jeu du roi for the evening; and at seven o'clock he entered, with ten princes and princesses of his family. The queen came holding the princess royal, now about seven years old, by the hand. The assembly was numerous and brilliant. The Count d'Artois approached the queen, and said, " Look around you, madame."

"Well-"

"What do you see- "

The queen looked all around, and then said, "I see nothing but happy and friendly faces."

"Rather, then, whom do you not see- "

"Oh! I understand; I wonder if he is always going to run away from me."

"Oh, no 1 only this is a good joke; Monsieur de Provence has gone to wait at the barrier for Monsieur de Suffren."

"Well, I do not see why you laugh at that; he has been the most cunning, after all, and will be the first to receive and pay his compliments to this gentleman."

"Come, dear sister," replied the young prince, laughing, " you have a very mean opinion of our diplomacy. Monsieur de Provence has gone to meet him at Fontainebleau; but we have sent some one to meet him at Villejuif, so that my brother will wait by himself at Fontainebleau, while our messenger will ccmduct Monsieur de Suffren straight to Versailles, without passing through Paris at all."

"That is excellently imagined."

"It is not bad, I flatter myself; but it is your turn to play"

The king had noticed that Monsieur d'Artois was making the queen laugh, and, guessing what it was about, gave them a significant glance, to show that he shared their amusement.

The salon where they played was full of persons of the highest rank,- Monsieur de Conde", Monsieur de Penthievre, Monsieur de Tremouille, etc. The news of the arrival of Monsieur de Suffren had, as we have said, been kept quiet, but there had been a kind of vague rumour that some one was expected, and all were somewhat preoccupied and watchful. Even the king, who was in the habit of playing six-franc pieces in order to moderate the play of the court, played gold without thinking of it. The queen, however, to all appearances entered, as usual, eagerly into the game.

Philippe, who with his sister was admitted to the party, in vain endeavoured to shake from his mind his father's words. He asked himself if indeed this old man, who had seen so much of courts, was not right; and if his own ideas were indeed those of a Puritan, and belonging to another land. This queen, so charming, so beautiful, and so friendly towards him, was she indeed only a terrible coquette, anxious to add one lover more to her list, as the entomologist transfixes a new insect or butterfly, without thinking of the tortures of the poor creature whose heart he is piercing- " Coigny, Vaudreuil," repeated he to himself, " they loved the queen, and were loved by her. Oh, why does this calumny haunt me so, or why will not some ray of light discover to me the heart of this woman- "

Then Philippe turned his eyes to the other end of the table, where, by a strange chance, these gentlemen were sitting side by side, and both seemingly equally forgetful of and insensible to the queen;- and he thought that it was impossible that these men could have loved and be so calm, or that they could have been loved and seem so forgetful. Oh, had the queen deigned to love him, he would have gone mad with joy. Should she have loved and then forsaken him, he would have died of despair. From them he turned to look at Marie Antoinette herself, and interrogated that pure forehead, that haughty mouth, and beautiful face; and the answer they all seemed to give him was, calumnies, all calumnies, these rumours, originating only in the hates aud jealousies of a court.

While he was coming to these conclusions the clock struck a quarter to eight, and at that moment a great noise of footsteps and the sound of many voices were heard on the staircase. The king, hearing it, signed to the queen, and they both rose and broke up the game. She then passed into the great reception-hall, and the king followed her.

An aide-de-camp of Monsieur de Castries, Minister of Marine, approached the king and said something in a low- tone, when Monsieur de Castries himself entered, and said aloud, " Will your Majesty receive Monsieur de Suffren, who has arrived from Toulon- "

At this name a general movement took place in the assembly.

"Yes, monsieur," said the king, " with great pleasure; " and Monsieur de Castries left the room.

To explain this interest for Monsieur de Suffren, and why king, queen, princes, and ministers contended who should be the first to receive him, a few words will suffice.

Suffren is a name essentially French, like Turenne, or Jean Bart. Since the last war with England, Monsieur de Suffren had fought seven great naval battles without sustaining a defeat. He had taken Trincomalee and Gonde- leur, scoured the seas, and taught the Nabob Hyder Ali that France was the first power in Europe. He had carried into his profession all the skill of an able diplomatist, all the bravery and all the tactics of a soldier, and all the prudence of a wise ruler. Hardy, indefatigable, and proud, when the honour of the French nation was in question, he had harassed the English, by land and by sea, till even these fierce islanders were afraid of him.

But after the battle, in which he risked his life like the meanest sailor, he ever showed himself humane, generous, and compassionate. He was a type of the best kind of seamen, somewhat forgotten since the days of Jean Bart and Duguay-Trouin, and revived in France in the person of the magistrate of Suffren. We will not attempt to describe the enthusiasm and acclamations called forth by his return, nor the ovation offered to him by all the nobles assembled at' Versailles. He was now about fifty-six years of age, stout and short, but with an eye of fire and a noble carriage, and, like a man accustomed to surmount all difficulties, he had dressed in his travelling carriage.

He wore a blue coat embroidered with gold, a red waistcoat, and blue trousers.

All the guards through whom he had passed, when he was named to them by Monsieur de Castries, had saluted him as they would have done a king. After he had passed, they formed themselves into a procession, four by four, as if for an escort. He, grasping the hand of Monsieur de Castries, tried to embrace him; but the Minister of the Marine gently repelled him.

"No, no, monsieur," said he, " I will not deprive one much worthier than I of the good fortune of being the first to embrace you."

And he conducted Monsieur de Suffren into the presence of Louis XVI.

"Monsieur de Suffren," said the king when he entered, " welcome to Versailles; you bring glory with you."

Monsieur de Suffren bent his knee to the king, who, however, raised him and embraced him cordially; then, turning to the queen, "Madame," said he, "here is Monsieur de Suffren, the victor of Trincomalee and Gondeleur, and the terror of the English."

"Monsieur," said the queen, " I wish you to know that you have not fired a shot for the glory of France but my heart has beaten with admiration and gratitude."

When she ceased, the Count d'Artois approached with his son, the Duke d'AngoulSme.

"My son," said he, " you see a hero; look at him well, for it is a rare sight."

"Monseigneur," replied the young prince, " I have read about the great men in Plutarch, but I could not see them; I thank you for showing me Monsieur de Suffren."

By the hum of voices around him, the young man realised the fact, that he had just made a remark that would not soon be forgotten.

The king now took the arm of Monsieur de Suffren, in order to lead him to his study, and talk to him of his travels; but he made a respectful resistance.

"Sire," said he, "will your Majesty permit me- "

"Oh! whatever you wish, monsieur."

"Then, sire, one of my officers has committed so grave a fault against discipline that I thought your Majesty ought to be sole judge of the offence."

"Oh, Monsieur de Suffren, I had hoped your first request would have been a favour, and not a punishment."

"Your Majesty, as I have had the honour to say, shall judge what ought to be done. In the last battle the officer of whom I speak was on board Le SeVere."

"Oh, the ship that struck her flag!" cried the king, frowning.

"Yes, sire. The captain of Le SeVere had indeed struck his flag, and already Sir Hugh, the English admiral, had despatched a boat to take possession of his prize, when the lieutenant in command of the guns of the middle deck, perceiving that the firing above had ceased, and having received orders to stop his own fire, went on deck, saw the flag lowered, and the captain ready to surrender. At this sight, sire, all his French blood revolted; he took the flag which lay there, and, seizing a hammer, ordered the men to recommence the fire, while he nailed it to the mast. It was by this action, sire, that Le Severe was preserved to your Majesty.",

"A splendid action!" cried the king and queen, simultaneously.

"Yes, sire-yes, madame- but a grave fault against discipline. The order had been given by the captain, and the lieutenant oiight to have obeyed. I, however, ask for the pardon of the officer, and the more so as he is my own nephew."

"Yournephew!" cried the king; "and you have never mentioned him!"

"Not to you, sire; but I made my report to the ministers, begging them to say nothing about it until I had obtained his pardon from your Majesty."

"It is granted," said the king. "I promise beforehand my protection to all who may violate discipline in such a cause. You must present this officer to me, Monsieur de Suffren."

Monsieur de Suffren turned. "Approach, Monsieur de Charny," he said.

The queen started at the sound of this name, which she had so recently heard. A young officer advanced from the crowd, and presented himself before the king.

The queen and Andr

He stood, modest and agitated, under the eager gaze of the guests, in the circle of officers, who were congratulating him, and smothering him with caresses. Then came a pause, in which the king appeared radiant, the queen smiling and undecided, Monsieur de Charny with downcast eyes, and Philippe, who had perceived the queen's agitation, disturbed and questioning.

"Come now, Monsieur de Suffren," said the king, "and let us converse; I am impatient to hear all your adventures." But before leaving the room he turned to the queen and said: "Apropos, madame, I am going to have built, as you know, a ship of one hundred guns, and I think of changing the name we had destined for it, and of calling it instead- "

"Oh, yes! " cried Marie Antoinette, catching his thought, "we will call it Le Suffren, and I will still stand sponsor."

"Vive le roi! vive la reine 1" cried all.

"And vive Monsieur de Suffren!" added the king, and then left the room with him.

CHAPTER XII. MONSIEUR DE CHAENY.

As soon as the king had disappeared, all the princes and princesses present gathered around the queen.

Monsieur de SuSren had requested his nephew to wait his return, and he therefore remained in. the group as before.

The queen, speaking low to Andree, and glancing towards him, said, "It is he, there is no doubt."

"Mon Dieu! yes, madame, it is he indeed."

Philippe, as we have already said, had perceived the queen's pre-occupation; he saw it, and partly divined its cause. Those who love are never mistaken in the expression of the feelings of the objects of their affection.

He guessed, therefore, that the queen had been affected by some strange, mysterious event, known only to herself and Andree.

In fact, the queen had lost all control of herself, and hid her face behind her fan,- the queen before whom all eyes were usually cast down. Meanwhile the young man was debating in his own mind as to the cause of her Majesty's emotion.

He studied the faces of Messieurs de Coigny and de Vaudreuil to assure himself that they were not included in the mystery, and perceived them busily engaged with the Count de Haga, who had come to Versailles to present himself at court.

At this moment the door opened, and a gentleman dressed in the robes of a cardinal, and followed by a long train of officers and prelates, entered the room.

The queen immediately recognised Monsieur de Rohan, and turned away her head, without taking the trouble to hide the frown which overspread her face.

He crossed the room without stopping to speak to any one, and, coming straight up to her, bowed to her more as a man of the world bows to a lady than as a subject to a queen, and then addressed some rather high-flown compliments to her; but she scarcely looked at him, and, after murmuring a few cold words in reply, began to talk to Madame de Lamballe.

The cardinal did not seem to notice this chilling reception, but bowed again, and retired without appearing in the least disconcerted.

He then turned to the king's aunts, from whom he met with a reception as cordial as the queen's had been the reverse. The Cardinal Louis de Rohan was a man in the prime of life, and of an imposing figure and noble bearing; his eyes shone with intelligence, his mouth was well cut and handsome, and his hands were beautiful. A premature baldness indicated either a man of pleasure or a studious one,- and he was both. He was a man no little sought after by the ladies, and was noted for his magnificent style of living; indeed, he had found the way to feel himself poor with an income of 1,600,000 francs.

The king liked him for his learning, but the queen hated him. The reasons for this hate were twofold: first, when ambassador to Vienna, he had written to Louis XV. letters so full of sarcasm on Maria Theresa, that her daughter had never forgiven him; and he had also written letters opposing her marriage, which had been read aloud by Louis XV. at a supper at Madame Dubarry's. The embassy at Vienna had been taken from Monsieur de Breteuil and given to Monsieur de Rohan; the former gentleman, not strong enough to revenge himself alone, had procured copies of these letters, which he had laid before the dauphiness, thus making her the eternal enemy of Monsieur de Rohan.

This hatred rendered the cardinal's position at court not a little uncomfortable. Every time lie presented himself before the queen, he met with the same discouraging reception. In spite of this, he neglected no occasion of being near her, for which he had frequent opportunities, as he was chaplain to the court; and he never complained of the treatment he received.

A circle of friends, among whom the Baron de Planta was the most intimate, helped to console him for these royal rebuffs; not to speak of the ladies of the court, who by no means imitated the severity of the queen towards him.

When he was gone, Marie Antoinette recovered her serenity, and said to Madame de Lamballe,-

"Do you not think that this action of the nephew of Monsieur de Suffren is one of the most remarkable of the war- What is his name, by the bye- "

"Monsieur de Charny, I believe," replied the princess. "Was it not-" she said, turning to Andree.

"Yes, your Highness."

"Monsieur de Charny shall describe it to us himself," said the queen. "Is he still here- Let him be sought for."

An officer who stood near hastened to obey her. At the same moment, as she looked about her, she perceived Philippe, and, with her characteristic impatience, said, "Monsieur de Taverney, why are you not seeking Monsieur de Charny-"

Philippe coloured, perhaps in chagrin at not having forestalled the queen's wish. He at once sought out this fortunate officer, of whom he had not lost sight since his presentation to the queen. Hence his task was easily accomplished. Two messengers of the queen immediately returned with Monsieur de Charny, and the circle round the queen made way for him to approach.

He was a young man, about eight-and-twenty, tall and well made; his face, animated and yet sweet, took a character of singular energy when he spoke, and dilated his large blue eyes; and he was, strange to say, for one who had been fighting in India, as fair as Philippe was dark.

When he had approached the place where the queen sat, with Mademoiselle de Taverney standing near her, he did not betray his surprise in any way, although it must have been great, in recognising the ladies of the evening before. Surrounded by the officers, whose questions he politely answered, he seemed to be quite oblivious to the fact that he had been granted an audience from a king, and that a queen was observing him. That politeness, that reserve, appealed strongly to the queen, who was herself very punctilious in the observance of social customs.

But Charny did not wish to conceal from the guests alone his surprise at discovering the identity of the lady of the fiacre. His delicacy was such that he sought to conceal from the queen herself the fact of his recognition of her.

He did not look up until she addressed him, saying,-

"Monsieur de Charny, these ladies experience the natural desire, which I share with them, to hear from yourself all the details of this action of your ship."

"Madame," replied the young officer, "I beg your Majesty to spare me the recital, not from modesty, but from humanity. What I did as lieutenant, a dozen other officers doubtless wished to do, only I was the first to put it in execution; and it is not worthy being made the subject of a narration to your Majesty. Besides, the captain of Le Severe is a brave officer, who on that day lost his presence of mind. Alas! madame, we all know that the most courageous are not always equally brave. He wanted but ten minutes to recover himself; my determination not to surrender gave him the breathing time. His natural courage returned to him, and he showed himself the bravest of us all. Therefore I beg your Majesty not to exaggerate the merit of my action, and thereby crush this deserving officer, who deplores incessantly the failing of a few moments."

"Right!" said the queen, touched by these generous words; "you are a true gentleman, Monsieur de Charny, and such I already know you to be."

The young man coloured crimson, and looked almost frightened at Andree, fearing what the queen's rash generosity might lead her to say.

"For," continued the intrepid queen, "I must tell you all, that this is not the first time I have heard of Monsieur de Charny, who deserves to be known and admired by all ladies; and to show you that he is as indulgent to our sex as he is merciless to his enemies, I will relate a little history of him, which does him the greatest honour."

On seeing that the queen was preparing to recount a story, from which each one hoped to glean either a stray bit of scandal or some little secret, they all gathered together in a circle and listened breathlessly.

"Oh, madame!" stammered the young man, who felt as if he would have given a year of his life to be back in the Indies.

"This, then, is it," continued the queen, to her eager listeners. "Two ladies, whom I know, were detained out late and became embarrassed in a crowd; they ran a great risk, a real danger awaited them. Monsieur de Charny happily passed by at the moment; he dispersed the crowd, and, although they were unknown to him, and it was impossible to recognise their rank, took them under his protection, and escorted them a long way,-ten miles from Paris, I believe."

"Oh! your Majesty exaggerates," said Monsieur de Charny, laughing, and now quite reassured.

"Well, we will call it five," said the Count d'Artois, suddenly joining in the conversation.

"Let it be five, then, brother," said the queen; "but the most admirable part of the story is, that Monsieur de Charny did not seek even to know the names of these ladies whom he had served, but left them at the place where they wished to stop, and went away without even looking back, so that they escaped from his protection without even a moment's disquietude."

All expressed their admiration.

"A knight of the Round Table could not have acted better," her Majesty went on; "and so, Monsieur de Charny, as the king will doubtless take upon himself to reward Monsieur de Suffren, I, for my part, wish to do something for the nephew of this great man."

As she spoke, she held out her hand to him, and Charny, pale with joy, pressed his lips to this beautiful hand, while Philippe looked on from an obscure corner, pale with an opposite emotion. Andre'e also turned pale, and yet she could not conceive the extent of her brother's sufferings.

The voice of Monsieur d'Artois interrupted this scene, saying loudly, " Ah, Provence! you come too late! You have missed a fine sight,- the reception of Monsieur de Suffren. Really, it was one that a Frenchman can never forget. How the devil did it happen that you were not here,- you, who are generally the punctual man par excellence- "

Monsieur de Provence bit his lips with vexation, and whispered to Monsieur de Favras, his captain of the guards, "How does it come to pass that he is here-"

"Ah! Monseigneur, I have been asking myself that question for the last hour, and have not yet found an answer."

CHAPTER XIII. THE ONE HUNDBED LOUIS OF THE QUEEN.

Now we have introduced the principal characters of this history to our readers, and have taken them both into the petite maison of the Count d'Artois and into the king's palace at Versailles, we will return to that house in the Rue Saint-Claude where we saw the queen enter incognito with Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney.

We left Madame de la Motte counting over and delighted with her fifty double louis, each worth forty-eight francs, which, spread out on the table, and reflecting back the light from the candles, seemed to humiliate in their aristocratic splendour all the mean appointments of the little attic. Next to the pleasure of having them, she knew no greater than that of displaying them. For a long time it had been particularly disagreeable to her to have to share the knowledge of her poverty with her maid; accordingly, she was doubly glad to acquaint her with her good fortune. She called Dame Clotilde, who was still in the antechamber.

When she entered, " Come and look here!" said her mistress.

"Oh, madame!" cried the old woman, clasping her hands in astonishment.

"You were uneasy about your wages," said the countess.

"Oh, madame! I never said that; I only asked madame if she could pay me, as I had received nothing for three months."

"Do you think there is enough there to pay you-"

"Oh, madame, if I had all that, I should be rich for the rest of my life. But in what will madame spend all that- "

"In everything."

"The first thing, I think, madame, will be to furnish the kitchen, for you will have good dinners cooked now."

"ListenI" said Madame de la Motte; "some one knocks."

"I did not hear it," said the old woman.

"But I tell you that I did; so go at once." She hastily gathered up her money and put it into a drawer, murmuring, " Oh, if Providence will but send me another hundred louis!" Then she heard the steps of a man below, but could not distinguish what he said. Soon, however, the door opened, and Clotilde came in with a letter.

The countess examined it attentively, and asked, " Was this brought by a servant- "

"Yes, madame."

"In livery-"

"No, madame."

"I know these arms, surely," said Jeanne to herself. "Who can it be from- but the letter will soon show for itself;" and opening it, she read, "Madame, the person to whom you wrote will see you to-morrow evening, if it be agreeable to you to remain at home for that purpose;" and that was all. "I have written to so many people," thought the countess. "Is this a man or a woman- The writing is no guide, nor is the style; it might come from either. Who is it that uses these arms- Oh, I remember now,- the arms of theRohans. Yes, I wrote to Monsieur de Gue'mene'e and to Monsieur de Rohan; it is one of them; but the shield is not quartered,- it is therefore the cardinal. Ah, Monsieur de Rohan, the man of gallantry, the fine gentleman, and the ambitious one; he will come to see Jeanne de la Motte, if it be agreeable to her. Oh, yes, Monsieur de Rohan, it is very agreeable. A charitable lady who gives a hundred louis may be received in a garret, freeze in my cold room, and suffer on my hard chairs; but a clerical prince, a lady's man, that is quite another thing. We must have luxury to greet him."

Then, turning to Clotilde, who was getting her bed ready, she said, "Be sure to call me early to-morrow morning." Thereupon, doubtless that she might indulge in reveries, undisturbed, she motioned to the old woman to leave her.

Dame Clotilde stirred the fire, which had been covered with cinders in order to give the room a humble aspect, closed the door, and retired to her attic. And when Jeanne did retire to rest, so absorbed was she in her expectations and plans, that it was nearly three o'clock before she fell asleep; nevertheless, she was quite ready when Dame Clotilde called her, according to her directions, early in the morning, and had finished her toilet by eight o'clock, although this day it consisted of an elegant silk dress, and her hair was elaborately dressed. Her shoes were suitable to her rank and to a woman of her beauty. She wore a patch on her left cheek.

She sent Clotilde for a coach, and ordered the man to drive to the Place Koyale, where, under one of the arcades, was the shop of Monsieur Fingret, an upholsterer and decorator, and who had furniture always ready for sale or hire.

She entered his immense show-rooms, of which the walls were hung with different tapestries, and the ceiling completely hidden by the number of chandeliers and lamps that hung from it. On the ground were furniture, carpets, and cornices of every fashion and description; sideboards of carved oak; Louis XV. consoles with gilt claws; sofas covered with rose damask or Utrecht velvet; couches, capacious leather easy-chairs, such as Sully loved; ebony wardrobes with carved panels, and brass mouldings; Boule tables with porcelain or enamelled tops; toilet sets complete; desks inlaid in designs of musical instruments or flowers; and bedsteads in rosewood or in oak with canopies. Curtains, in every variety of shape and texture, were hanging in confusion, contrasting or harmonising with the rest of the warehouse.

There were harpsichords, spinets, harps, lyres, upon a table, and one might see the dog of Marlborough stuffed, with eyes of enamel.

Then all qualities of linen: gowns hung beside velvet coats; and swords, with hilts of steel, silver, and pearl, lanterns; family portraits, engravings, and all the imitations of Vernet then so popular,- of that Vernet to whom the queen said, in a graceful epigram, "Decidedly, Monsieur Vernet, you are the only man in France who can make both rain and fine weather."

CHAPTER XIV. MONSIEUR FINGRET.

Madame De La Motte, looking at all this, began to perceive how much she wanted. She wanted a drawing-room to hold sofas and lounging-chairs; a dining-room for tables and sideboards; and a boudoir for Persian curtains, screens, and knick-knacks; above all, she wanted the money to buy all these things. But in Paris, whatever you cannot afford to buy, you.can hire; and Madame de la Motte set her heart on a set of furniture covered in yellow silk, with gilt nails, which she thought would be very becoming to her dark complexion. But this furniture she felt sure would never go into her rooms on the fifth story; it would be necessary to hire the third, which was composed of an antechamber, a dining-room, a small drawing-room, and a bedroom, so that she might, she thought, receive on this third story the visits of the cardinal, and on the fifth those of ladies of charity,-that is to say, receive in luxury those who give from ostentation, and in poverty those who only desire to give when it is needed.

The countess, having made all these reflections, turned to where Monsieur Fingret himself stood, with his hat in his hand, waiting for her commands.

Down in the court-yard, clad in meagre garments of some coarse stuff, were the three clerks of the establishment, busily engaged in patching up the old furniture from other pieces still older, picking over the hair and feathers of the upholstery, and renovating the various articles. Monsieur Fingret, perceiving Madame la Motte looking down into the yard, and fearing lest she should discover his methods, made a feint of closing the window, " for fear of the dust blinding madaine."

"Madame-" said he, in a tone of interrogation, advancing towards her.

"Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois," said Jeanne.

At this high-sounding name Monsieur Fingret bowed low, and said: " But there is nothing in this room worthy Madame la Comtesse's inspection. If madame will take the trouble to step into the next one, she will see what is new and beautiful."

Jeanne coloured. All this had seemed so splendid to her, too splendid even to hope to possess it; and this high opinion of Monsieur Fingret's concerning her perplexed her not a little. She regretted that she had not announced herself as a simple bourgeoise; but it was necessary to speak, so she said, "I do not wish for new furniture."

"Madame has doubtless some friend's apartments to furnish-"

"Just so," she replied.

"Will madame, then, choose-" said Monsieur Fingret, who did not care whether he sold new or old, as he gained equally by both.

"This set," said Jeanne, pointing to the yellow silk one.

"That is such a small set, madame."

"Oh, the rooms are small."

"It is nearly new, as madame may see."

"But the price-"

"Eight hundred francs."

The price made the countess tremble; and how was she to confess that a countess was content with second-hand things, and then could not afford to pay eight hundred francs for them- She therefore thought the best thing was to appear angry, and said, "Who thinks of buying, monsieur- Who do you think would buy such old things- I only want to hire."

Fingret made a grimace j his customer began gradually to lose her value in his eyes. She did not want to buy new things, only to hire old ones. "You wish it for a year-" he asked.

"No, only for a month. It is for some one coming from the country."

"It will be one hundred francs a month.

"You jest, surely, monsieur; why, in eight months I should have paid the full price of it."

"Granted, Madame la Comtesse."

"Well, is not that too bad-"

"I shall have the expense of doing it up again when you return it."

Madame de la Motte reflected. "One hundred francs a month is very dear, certainly; but either I can return it at the end of that time and say it is too dear, or I shall then perhaps be in a situation to buy. I thought of spending five or six hundred francs; let us do things in style, and spend three hundred."

"I will take it," she said, "with curtains to match."

"Yes, madame."

"And carpets."

"Here they are."

"What can you give me for another room-"

"These oak chairs, this table with twisted legs, and green damask curtains."

"And for a bedroom- "

"A large and handsome bed, a counterpane of velvet embroidered in rose-colour and silver, an excellent couch, and blue curtains."

"And for my dressing-room-"

"A toilet-table hung with Mechlin lace; chest of drawers with marquetry; sofa and chairs of tapestry. The whole came from the bedroom of Madame de Pompadour at Choisy."

"All this for what price-"

"For a month-"

"Yes."

"Four hundred francs."

"Come, Monsieur Fingret, do not take me for a gri- sette who is dazzled by your fine descriptions. Please to reflect that you are asking at the rate of four thousand eight hundred francs a year, and for that I can take a whole furnished house. You disgust me with the Place Koyale."

Monsieur Fingret scratched his ear.

"I am very sorry, madame."

"Prove it, then; I will only give half that price." Jeanne pronounced these words with so much authority that the merchant began again to think she might be worth conciliating.

"So be it, then, madame."

"And on one condition, Monsieur Fingret."

"What, madame-"

"That everything be arranged in its proper place by three o'clock."

"But consider, madame, it is now ten."

"Can you do it or not- "

"Where must they go to-"

"Eue Saint-Claude."

"Close by-"

"Precisely."

The upholsterer opened a door, and called, "Sylvain! Landry! Eemy!"

Three men answered to the call, delighted to have a pretext for leaving their work, as well as a chance to see a fine lady.

"The carts and the trucks instantly. Re"my, you shall take this yellow furniture; Sylvain, you take that for the dining-room; and you, Landry, that for the bedroom. Here is the bill, madame; shall I receipt it-"

"Here are six double louis," she said, "and you can give the change to these men if the order is completed in time;" and, having given her address, she re-entered her coach.

On her return she engaged the third floor, and in a few hours all was in order.

The lodgings thus transformed, the windows cleaned, and the fires lighted, Jeanne went again to her toilet, which she made as recherche as possible, and then took a last look at all the delights around her. Nothing had been forgotten: there were gilded branches from the walls for wax-lights, and glass lustres on each side of the mirror. Jeanne had also added flowers to complete the embellishment of the paradise in which she intended to receive his Eminence. She took care even to leave the door of the bedroom a little open, through which the light of a bright fire gave a glimpse of the luxuries within.

Jeanne's coquetry did not stop here. While the light of the tire revealed the interior of this little room, while the delicious fragrance revealed a woman's presence, Jeanne herself was the exponent of a race, a beauty, an intelligence, a taste, worthy of the attention of a cardinal.

Jeanne arranged her toilet with such care that her absent husband might have had occasion to demand an explanation of her movements.

All these preparations completed, she seated herself in a chair by the fire, with a book in her hand, listening eagerly to the sound of every carriage that passed; but nine, ten, and eleven o'clock struck, and no one came. Still she did not despair; it was not too late for a gallant prelate, who had probably been first to some supper, and would come to her from there. But at last twelve struck; no one appeared; the lights were burning low. Dame Clotilde nodded over the candles, and the knots of ribbon on her cap came in contact with the melted wax, and were singed by the flames of the candles. At last, after many lamentations over her new cap, she had fallen asleep in her chair.

At half-past twelve Jeanne rose furious from her chair, looked out the window for the hundredth time, and, seeing no one near, undressed herself and went to bed, refusing supper, or to answer any of the remarks made to her by Clotilde; and on her sumptuous bed, under her beautiful curtains, she experienced no better rest than she had on the previous night. At last, however, her anger began a little to abate, and she commenced framing excuses for the cardinal. He had so much to occupy him, he must have been detained, and, most potent of all, he had not yet seen her. She would not have been so easily consoled if he had broken the promise of a second visit.

CHAPTER XV. THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

The next evening, Jeanne, not discouraged, renewed all her preparations of the night before; and on this occasion she had no time to grow impatient, for at seven o'clock a carriage drove up to the door, from which a gentleman got out. At the sound of the door-bell Jeanne's heart beat so loud tftat you might almost have heard it; however, she composed herself as well as she could, and in a few minutes Clotilde opened the door, and announced the person who had written the day before yesterday.

"Let him corne in," said Jeanne; and a gentleman dressed in silk and velvet, and with a lofty carriage, entered the room.

Jeanne, who was displeased with the cardinal's attempts to conceal his identity, having had time to reflect and take advantage of her meditations, made a step forward, and said, "To whom have I the honour of speaking-"

"I am the Cardinal de Rohan," he replied; at which Madame de la Motte, feigning to be overwhelmed with the honour, curtseyed as though he were a king. Then she advanced an arm-chair for him, and placed herself in another.

The cardinal laid his hat on the table, and, looking at Jeanne, began: " It is, then, true, mademoiselle- "

"Madame," interrupted Jeanne.

"Pardon me; I forgot."

"My husband is called De la Motte, monseigneur."

"Oh, yes; a gendarme, is he not- "

"Yes, monseigneur."

"And you, madame, are a Valois-"

"I am, monseigneur."

"A great name," said the cardinal, "butrare,-believed extinct."

"Not extinct, monseigneur, since I bear it, and as I have a brother, Baron de Valois."

"Recognised- "

"That has nothing to do with it. Recognised or unrecognised, rich or poor, he is still Baron de Valois."

"Madame, explain to me this descent; it interests me; I love heraldry."

Jeanne repeated all that the reader already knows.

The cardinal listened and looked. He did not believe either her story or her merit; but she was poor and pretty.

"So that," he said carelessly, when she had finished, "you have really been unfortunate."

"I do not complain, monseigneur."

"Indeed, I had heard a most exaggerated account of the difficulties of your position; this lodging is commodious and well furnished."

"For a grisette, no doubt," replied Jeanne.

"What! do you call these rooms fit for a grisette-"

"I do not think you can call them fit for a princess," replied Jeanne.

"And you are a princess-" said he, in an ironical tone, which few people can use without appearing impertinent.

"I was born a Valois, inonseigneur, as you were a Rohan," said Jeanne, with so much dignity that he felt a little touched by it.

"Madame," said he, "I forgot that my first words should have been an apology. I wrote to you that I would come yesterday, but I had to go to Versailles to assist at the reception of Monsieur de Suffren."

"Monseigneur does me too much honour in remembering me to-day; and my husband will more than ever regret the exile to which poverty compels him, since it prevents him from sharing this favour with me."

The word husband attracted the cardinal's attention.

"You live alone, madame-" asked the cardinal.

"Absolutely alone. I should be out of place in all society but that from which my poverty debars me."

"The genealogists do not contest your claim-"

"No; but what good does it do me-"

"Madame," continued the cardinal, "I shall be glad to know in what I can serve you."

"In nothing, monseigneur," she said.

"How! in nothing- Pray be frank."

"I cannot be more frank than I am."

"You were complaining just now."

"Certainly, I complain."

"Well, then-"

"Well, then, monseigneur, I see that you wish to bestow charity on me."

"Oh, madame!"

"Yea, monseigneur, I have taken charity, but I will do so no more. I have borne great humiliation."

"Madame, you are wrong; there is no humiliation in misfortune."

"Not even with the name I bear- Would you beg, Monsieur de Eohan-"

"I do not speak of myself," said he, with an embarrassment mingled with hauteur.

"Monseigneur, I only know two ways of begging,- in a carriage, or at a church door in velvet or in rags. Well, just now, I did not expect the honour of this visit; I thought you had forgotten me."

"Oh, you knew, then, that it was I who wrote-"

"Were not your arms on the seal-"

"However, you feigned not to know me."

"Because you did not do me the honour to announce yourself."

"This pride pleases me," said the cardinal, and he looked with interest at the animated eyes and haughty countenance of Jeanne.

"I had, then," continued Jeanne, "despairing of seeing you, taken the resolution of throwing off all this flimsy parade, which covers my real poverty, and of going in rags, like other mendicants, to beg my bread from the passers-by."

"You are not at the end of your resources, I trust, madame-"

Jeanne did not reply.

"You have some property, even if it be mortgaged- Some family jewels- This, for example," and he pointed to a box with which the delicate fingers of the lady had been playing. "A singular box, upon my word! Will you permit me to look- Oh, a portrait!" he continued, with a look of great surprise.

"Do you know the original of this portrait-" asked Jeanne.

"It is that of Maria Theresa."

"Of Maria Theresa-"

"Yes, the Empress of Austria."

"Really!" cried Jeanne. " Are you sure, monseigneur- "

"Where did you get it-" he asked.

"From a lady who came the day before yesterday."

"To see you-"

"Yes."

The cardinal examined the box with minute attention.

"There were two ladies," continued Jeanne.

"And one of them gave you this box-" said he, with evident suspicion.

"No; she dropped it here."

The cardinal remained thoughtful for some time, and then said, "What was the name of this lady- I beg pardon for being inquisitive."

"Indeed, it is a somewhat strange question."

"Indiscreet, perhaps, but not strange."

"Yes, very strange; for if I had known her name, I should have returned it long before this."

"Then you know not who she is-"

"I only know she is the head of some charitable house."

"In Paris-"

"No, in Versailles."

"From Versailles- the head of a charitable house-"

"Monseigneur, I accept charity from ladies; that does not so much humiliate a poor woman; and this lady, who had heard of my wants, left a hundred louis on my table when she went away."

"A hundred louis I" said the cardinal, in surprise; then, fearing to offend, he added, " I am not astonished, madame, that they should give you such a sum. You merit,'on the contrary, all the solicitude of charitable people, and your name makes it a duty to help you. It is only the title of the sister of charity that surprised me; they are not in the habit of giving such donations. Could you describe this lady to me-"

"Not easily, monsieur," replied Jeanne, seeking to incite the cardinal's curiosity.

"How so, since she came here- "

"Yes, but she probably did not wish to be recognised, for she hid her face as much as possible in her hood, and was besides enveloped in furs."

"Well, but you saw something-"

"My impressions were, that she had blue eyes, and a small month, though the lips were rather thick."

"Tall or short-"

"Of middle height.","Her hands-"

"Perfect."

"Her throat-"

"Long and slender."

"Her expression- "

"Severe and noble. But you, perhaps, know this lady, monseigneur- "

"Why should you think so, madame-"

"From the manner in which you question me; besides, there is a sympathy between the doers of good works."

"No, madame, I do not know her."

"But, monseigneur, if you had some suspicion."

"How should I-"

"Oh, from this portrait, perhaps."

"Yes, certainly, the portrait," said the cardinal, rather uneasily.

"Well, monseigneur, this portrait you still believe to be that of Maria Theresa- "

"I believe so, certainly."

"Then you think-"

"That you have received a visit from some German lady who has founded one of these houses."

"At Versailles-"

"At Versailles; yes, madame." And he became silent.

But it was evident that the cardinal doubted,- the name of Valois aroused his suspicions,- and he was pondering how this box, which he had seen a hundred times in the hands of the queen, came into the possession of this woman.

Had the queen really been to see her- If she had been, was she indeed unknown to Jeanne- Or, if not, why did she try to hide the knowledge from him- If the queen had really been there, it was no longer a poor woman he had to deal with, but a princess succoured by a queen, who bestowed her gifts in person.

Jeanne was somewhat mystified as to the foundation of the cardinal's distrust of her; he evidently suspected her of laying a snare to entrap him. Indeed, every one knew of the interest the cardinal took in the queen's affairs; it was one of those state secrets known to half the world. We have already indicated the measures taken by certain enemies in their endeavours to maintain the animosity between the queen and her grand-almoner.

Jeanne saw that the cardinal was thoughtful, and even suspicious of her. She felt uneasy, and knew not what to say.

At last, however, he broke the silence by saying, "And the other lady-"

"Oh, I could see her perfectly; she is tall and beautiful, with a determined expression, and a brilliant complexion."

' And the other lady did not name her- "

'Yes, once; but by her Christian name."

'What was it-"

'Andree."

'Andree!" repeated the cardinal, with a start.

This name put an end to all his doubts. It was known that the queen had gone to Paris on that day with Mademoiselle de Taverney. It was evident, also, that Jeanne had no intention of deceiving him; she was telling all she knew. Still, he would try one more proof.

"Countess," he said, "one thing astonishes me, that you have not addressed yourself to the king."

"But, monseigneur, I have sent him twenty petitions."

"Without result-"

"Yes."

"Well, then, the princes of the blood; Monsieur le Due d'Orleans is charitable, and often likes to do what the king refuses."

"I have tried him, equally fruitlessly."

"That astonishes me."

"Oh, when one is poor, and not supported by any one- "

"There is still the Count d'Artois; sometimes dissipated men do more generous actions than charitable ones."

"It is the same story with him."

"But the princesses, the aunts of the king, Madame Elizabeth particularly, would refuse assistance to no one."

"It is true, monseigneur, her Eoyal Highness, to whom I wrote, promised to receive me; but, I know not why, after having received my husband, I could never get any more notice from her."

"It is strange, certainly," said the cardinal; then, as if the thought had just struck him, he cried, " Ah! mon Dieu! but we are forgetting the person to whom you should have addressed yourself first of all."

"Whom do you mean-"

"To the dispenser of all favours, she who never refuses help where it is deserved,- to the queen. Have you seen her-"

"No," answered Jeanne.

"You have never presented your petition to the queen-"

"Never."

"You have not tried to obtain an audience of her-"

"I have tried, but failed."

"Have you tried to throw yourself in her way, that she might remark you-"

"No, monseigneur."

"But that is very strange."

"I have only been twice to Versailles, and then saw but two persons there; one was Doctor Louis, who had attended my poor father at the H6tel Dieu, and the other was Monsieur le Baron de Taverney, to whom I had an introduction."

"What did Monsieur de Taverney say to you- He might have brought you to the queen."

"He told me that I was very foolish to bring forward as a claim to the benevolence of the king a relationship which would be sure to displease him, as nobody likes poor relations."

"I recognise the egotistical and rude old baron." Then, at the suggestion of Andrew's visit to the countess, he resumed his meditations. "Strange," thought he, "the father rejects the suppliant, and yet the queen conducts the daughter to visit her. These are very contradictory facts; something must arise from them. Then, aloud, he added, "I am surprised to learn that you, a noblewoman of the first rank, have never seen either king or queen."

"Except in a portrait," replied Jeanne, smiling.

"Well," continued he, "I will conduct you myself to Versailles, and will open the doors for you."

"Oh, monseigneur, how good you are!" cried Jeanne, overwhelmed with joy.

The cardinal approached her, and said, "It is impossible but that before long all must interest themselves in you."

"Alas! monseigneur," said Jeanne, with a sigh, "do you think so-"

"I am sure of it."

"I fear you flatter me," she said, looking earnestly at him, for she could hardly believe in his sudden change of manner, he had been so cold and suspicious at first.

This look had no small effect on the cardinal; he began to think he had never met a woman prettier or more attractive. " Ah, ma foi!" said he to himself, with the eternally scheming spirit of a man used to diplomacy, " it would be too extraordinary and too fortunate if I have met at once an honest woman with the attractions of a scheming one, and found in this poverty an able coadjutrix to my desires."

"Monseigneur, the silence you keep every now and then disquiets me."

"Why so, countess-"

"Because a man like you only fails in politeness to two kinds of women."

"Mon Dieu! countess, you frighten me. What are you about to say- " and he took her hand.

"I repeat it," said she, "with women that you love too much, or with women whom you do not esteem enough to be polite to."

"Countess, you make me blush. Have I, then, failed in politeness towards you-"

"Rather so, monseigneur; and yet you cannot love me too much, and I have given you no cause to despise me."

The cardinal took Jeanne's hand. "Oh, countess, you speak as if you were angry with me."

"No, monseigneur; you have not yet merited my anger."

"And I never will, madame. From this day, in which I have had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, my solicitude for you will not cease."

"Oh, monseigneur, do not speak to me of your protection."

"Oh, inon Dieu 1 I should humiliate myself, not you, in mentioning such a thing;" and he pressed her hand, which he continued to hold to his lips.

She tried to withdraw it; but he said, "Only politeness, madame," and she let it remain.

"To know," said she, "that I shall occupy a place, however small, in the mind of a man so eminent and so busy, would console me for a year."

"Let us hope the consolation will last longer than that, countess."

"Very well, I do not say no, Monsieur le Cardinal," said she, smiling.

This brief title of " Monsieur le Cardinal" was a familiarity of which Jeanne had twice been guilty. Ordinarily, the haughty cardinal would have resented it, in his pride; but matters had made such progress, that not only did he pass it over without comment, but he was actually pleased, and acted as if he had received a favour.

"Ah, such confidence!" said he, drawing nearer to Jeanne. "So much the better! so much the better!"

"I trust you, yes, monseigneur, because I perceive that your Eminence- "

"You said ' Monsieur ' just now, countess."

"Pardon me, monseigneur, I am not versed in the usages of the court. I have confidence in you, because I feel that you are capable of appreciating a mind like mine,-adventurous, brave, and pure, in spite of my poverty, and of the enemies which my position has made me. Your Eminence will, I am sure, discover all the good that is in me, and be indulgent to all the rest."

"We are, then, warm friends, madame; " and he advanced towards her, but his arms were a little more extended than the occasion required. She avoided him, and said, laughing,-

"It must be a friendship among three, cardinal."

"Among three-"

"Doubtless, for there exists an exile, a poor gendarme, who is called Monsieur de la Motte."

"Oh, countess, what a deplorably good memory you have!"

"I must speak to you of him, that you may not forget him."

"Do you know why I do not speak of him, countess-"

"No; pray tell me."

"Because he will speak enough for himself: husbands never let themselves be forgotten. We shall hear that Monsieur le Comte de la Motte found it good, or found it bad, that the Cardinal de Rohan came two, three, or four times a week to visit his wife."

"Ah! but will you come so often, monseigneur- "

"Without that, where would be our friendship- Five times! I should have said six or seven, without counting the bissextile days."

Jeanne laughed. " I should not indeed wonder, in that case, if people did talk of it."

"Oh! but we can easily prevent them."

"How-"

"Quite easily. The people know me- "

"Certainly, monseigneur."

"But you they have the misfortune not to know."

"Well-"

"Therefore, if you would- "

"What, monseigneur-"

"Come out instead of me."

"Come to your hotel, monseigneur- "

"You would go to see a minister."

"Oh, a minister is not a man!"

"You are adorable, countess. But I did not speak of my hotel; I have a house-"

"Oh! a petite ma ison- "

"No; a house of yours."

"A house of mine, cardinal- Indeed, I did not know it."

"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, you shall have the address."

The countess blushed; the cardinal took her hand again, and imprinted another kiss upon it, at once bold, respectful, and tender. They then bowed to each other.

"Light monseigueur down," said the countess; and he went away.

"Well," thought she, "I have made a great step in the world."

"Come," said the cardinal to himself, as he drove off, "I think I have killed two birds with one stone; this woman has too much talent not to catch the queen as she has caught me!"

CHAPTER XVI. MESMER AND SAINT-MARTIN.

The fashionable study in Paris at this time, and that which engrossed most of those who had no business to attend to, was Mesmerism,- a mysterious science, badly defined by its discoverers, who did not wish to render it too plain to the eyes of the people. Doctor Mesmer, who had given to it his own name, was then in Paris, as we have already heard from Marie Antoinette.

Indeed, of what use would it have been, in 1784, to seek to make a science popular- Were the people,-who, for more than a century and a half had not once been consulted by the governing power,- were the people of any account to the state- No, the people were the fertile soil that produced a rich harvest for others to reap; the lord of the harvest was the king; the reapers were the nobility. To-day such a state of affairs no longer exists. France is like a secular hour-glass; for nine hundred years it has marked the hour of royalty; the powerful hand of the Lord has turned it; henceforth it will mark the era of the people. In 1784, a man's name sufficed; to-day, on the contrary, success depends upon the names of things.

But let us leave the past for the present. Measured by eternity, of what importance is the brief space of half a century- It is but as the time between yesterday and to-morrow.

This Doctor Mesmer deserves a few words from us, as his name was then in all mouths.

He had brought this science from Germany, the land of mysteries, in 1777. He had previously made his debut there, by a theory on the influence of the planets; he had endeavoured to establish that these celestial bodies, through the same power by which they attract each other, exercised an influence over living bodies, and particularly over the nervous system, by means of a subtile fluid with which the air is impregnated. But this first theory was too abstract: one must, to understand it, be initiated into all the science of Galileo or Newton; and it would have been necessary, for this to have become popular, that the nobility should have been transformed into a body of savans. He therefore abandoned this system, and took up that of the lode- stone, which was then attracting great attention, people fancying that this wonderful power was efficacious in curing illnesses.

Unhappily for him, however, he found a rival in this, named Hall, already established in Vienna; therefore he once more announced that he abandoned mineral magnetism, and intended to effect his cures through animal magnetism.

This, although a new name, was not in reality a new science; it was as old as the Greeks and Egyptians, and had been preserved in traditions, and revived every now and then by the sorcerers of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries, many of whom had paid for their knowledge with their lives. Urbain Grandier was nothing but an animal magnetiser; and Joseph Balsamo we have seen practising it. Mesmer only condensed this knowledge into a science, and gave it a name. He then communicated his system to the scientific academies of Paris, London, and Berlin. The first two did not answer him, and the third said that he was mad. Mesmer resembled the Grecian philosopher, who denied the fact of motion, and whom his antagonist confounded by walking away. He came to France, and took out of the hands of Doctor Storck and of the oculist Wenzel a young girl seventeen years old, who had a complaint of the liver and gutta serena, and, after three months of his treatment, restored her health and her sight.

This cure convinced many people, and among them a doctor called Deslon, who, from his enemy, became his pupil. From this time his reputation gradually increased; the Academy declared itself against him, but the court for him. At last the government offered him, in the king's name, an income for life of twenty thousand francs to give lectures in public, and ten thousand more to instruct three persons, who should be chosen by them, in his system.

Mesmer, however, indignant at the royal parsimony, refused, and set out for the Spa waters with one of his patients; but while he was gone, Deslon, his pupil, possessor of the secret which he had refused to sell for thirty thousand francs a year, opened a public establishment for the treatment of patients. Mesmer was furious, and exhausted himself in complaints and menaces. One of his patients, however, Monsieur de Bergasse, conceived the idea of forming a company. They raised a capital of 340,000 francs, on the condition that the secret should be revealed to the shareholders. It was a fortunate time. The people, having no great public events to interest them, entered eagerly into every new amusement and occupation; and this mysterious theory possessed no little attraction, professing, as it did, to cure invalids, restore mind to the fools, and amuse the wise.

Everywhere Mesmer was talked of. What had he done- On whom had he performed these miracles- To what great lord had he restored sight- What lady's nerves, worn out with dissipation, had he renovated- To what young girl had he shown the future in a magnetic trance- The future! that word of ever entrancing interest and curiosity..

But what, then, was the present- A royalty without radiance; a nobility without authority; a country without commerce; a people without rights; a society without confidence. From the royal family, uneasy and isolated upon its throne, to the lowest family of the people, starving in its attic,- misery, shame, and fear everywhere.

To forget others in caring for their own welfare, to draw from new unknown sources the assurance of a prolonged life under conditions of perfect health, eagerly to snatch somethiug from fate,- was not that the object of an aspiration, easily comprehended, toward that unknown good from which Mesmer would draw the veil-

Voltaire was dead; there was no one left to make France laugh, except perhaps Beaumarchais, who was still more bitter than his master; Rousseau was dead, and with him the sect of religious philosophers. War had generally occupied strongly the minds of the French people, but now the only war in which they were engaged was in America, where the people fought for what they called independence, and what the French called liberty; and even this distant war in another land, and affecting another people, was on the point of termination. Therefore they felt more interest just now in Monsieur Mesmer, who was near, than in Washington or Lord Cornwallis, who were so far off.

This man, who on his arrival at Paris had no supporters, not even the queen, his fellow country-woman, who was usually so kind to her compatriots,- this man, who would have remained in obscurity, had not Doctor Deslon dragged him forth from his retreat,- now truly dominated public opinion, reigned over more subjects than the king, whose name was never mentioned, more than Lafayette, of whom they did not yet speak, more than Necker, of whom they spoke no longer.

Mesmer's only rival in the public interest was Saint-Martin, the professor of spiritualism, as Mesmer was of materialism, and who professed to cure souls, as he did bodies.

Imagine an atheist with a religion more attractive than religion itself; a republican full of politeness and interest for kings; a gentleman of the privileged classes tender and solicitous for the people, endowed with the most startling eloquence, attacking all the received religions of the earth.

Imagine Epicurus in white powder, embroidered coat. and silk stockings, not content with endeavouring to overturn a religion in which he did not believe, but also attacking all existing governments, and promulgating the theory that all men are equal, or, to use his own words, that all intelligent beings are kings.

Imagine the effect of all this in society as it then was, without fixed principles or steady guides, and how it was all assisting to light the fire with which France not long after began to consume herself.

Remember, at this period, women were tender and weak: men eager for power, for glory, for pleasures; in fact, kings now wore their crowns lightly, crowns toward which, for the first time, curious and threatening looks were directed. Was it a matter of wonder that this new doctrine found ready proselytes- this teaching which said: " Choose from out your number a superior spirit, lofty in its love, its kindness, its longing for love and for others' happiness; then when this perfect man shall be revealed to your beatific vision, kneel before him; humble yourselves, you people of coarser mould; submit to his decrees; it will be his mission to restore you to your normal condition,- that is, to an equality of suffering, amidst unequal gifts and opportunities."

In addition to these allurements, the unknown philosophy was shrouded in mystery; it sought dark retreats, far from spies and parasites, whence it preached its doctrines of peace, its social theory, which might become the policy of the world.

"Listen to me," said the great teacher of this new system, " and seek to understand my meaning; or, rather, unless your interest and curiosity are sufficiently aroused to wish to search out these mysteries, do not listen at all. I warn you, it will be a difficult task, for 1 reveal these things to those only who draw the veil aside themselves. I speak of things, of which I do not wish to seem to speak; and, for that reason, my words may often assume quite a different meaning from my real intention." And SaintMartin was right; lie actually had silent protectors, watching over his labours, jealous for his ideas,- mysteries whose hidden shades none might penetrate. Thus, labouring for the glorification of the soul and of matter, rejoicing in annihilating God and the religion of Christ, these two men had drawn aside into two fields all the intelligence and the more serious portion of the French people.

Thus to Mesmer's tank, whence issued life and health, flocked all the sensual life, all the elegant materialism, of this degenerate nation; while for the study of truth and of error were united all the pious, loving, kind-hearted souls, eager for realities, after their long familiarity with delusions.

But if in these privileged spheres ideas became confused, if the sounds escaping seemed to be thunder, if the rays of light were transformed into lightning, one can readily understand that it was the natural outcome of the debased condition of society, the crude conditions of the people, and the bourgeoisie (afterward termed the tiers etat), who dimly comprehended that something was being done for them; and, in their impatience, longed, like Prometheus, to snatch the fire from the sky to animate a world of their own creation, in which they might obtain control of affairs.

Conspiracies took the form of conversations; associations, that of gatherings; socialistic assemblies, that of quadrilles; only the thoughtful observer could perceive that all this would culminate in civil war and anarchy, the second stage of an existence of a society of that nature.

Alas! to-day the veils have been torn aside, to-day the people, like Prometheus, have been ten times overthrown by the bolts which they snatched from on high; tell us, then, what the thinker at the end of that strange eighteenth century could have seen, if not the upheaval of a world; or at least something similar to the events which took place after the death of Caesar and before the advent of Augustus. Augustus was the man who separated the pagan from the Christian world, as Napoleon separated the feudal from the democratic.

Perhaps this digression of ours may prove long and tedious to our readers; but it would have been difficult to touch upon the condition of things at that epoch without giving our pen free course over these serious problems which agitated the life and character of those days.

Now the effort has been made, like that of a child who with his finger-nail tries to scratch off the rust from a monument, that he may read an inscription almost entirely effaced.

Let us return to our story. If we continue to occupy ourselves with historical events, we shall say too much for the novelist, too little for the historian.

CHAPTER XVII. THE TANK.

We have endeavoured to give an idea in the last chapter of the interest and enthusiasm which drew such crowds of people to see Monsieur Mesmer perform publicly his wonderful experiments.

The king, as we know, had given permission to the queen to go and see what all Paris was talking of, accompanied by one of the princesses. It was two days after the visit of Monsieur de Eohan to the countess. The weather was fine, and the thaw was complete, and hundreds of sweepers were employed in cleaning away the snow from the streets. The clear blue sky was just beginning to be illumined by its first stars, when Madame de la Motte, elegantly dressed, and presenting every appearance of opulence, arrived in a coach, which Clotilde had carefully chosen as the best looking at the Place Venddme, and stopped before a brilliantly lighted house.

It was that of Doctor Mesmer. Numbers of other carriages were waiting at the door, and a crowd of people had collected to see the patients arrive and depart, who seemed to derive much pleasure when they saw some rich invalid, enveloped in furs and satins, carried in by footmen, from the evident proof it afforded that God made men healthy or unhealthy without reference to their purses or their genealogies. A universal murmur would arise when they recognised some duke paralysed in an arm or leg; or some marshal whose feet refused their office, less in consequence of military fatigues and marches than from halts made with the ladies of the Opera, or of the Comddve Italienne. Sometimes it was a lady carried in by her servants with drooping head and languid eye, who, weakened by late hours and an irregular life, came to demand from Doctor Mesmer the health she had vainly sought to regain elsewhere.

Many of these ladies were as well known as the gentlemen, and their names were circulated freely among the crowd; but a great many escaped the public gaze, especially on this evening, by wearing masks; for there was a ball at the Opera that night, and many of them intended to drive straight there when they left the doctor's house.

Through this crowd Madame de la Motte walked erect and firm, also with a mask on, and elicited only the exclamation, " This one does not look ill, at all events."

But do not imagine that this remark precluded any further comments. For, if Madame de la Motte were not ill, why then had she come to consult Doctor Mesmer-

If the crowd had been acquainted with the events that we have just recounted, they would have found that Madame de la Motte's visit was quite the natural outcome of preceding events.

Ever since the cardinal's visit, the attention with which he had examined tlie box and portrait had been on Jeanne's mind; and she could not but feel that all his graciousness commenced after seeing it, and she therefore felt proportionate curiosity to learn more about it.

First she had gone to Versailles to inquire at all the houses of charity about German ladies; but there were there, perhaps, a hundred and fifty or two hundred, and all Jeanne's inquiries about the two ladies who had visited her had proved fruitless. In vain she repeated that one of them was called Andree; no one knew a German lady of that name, which indeed was not German. To ask Monsieur de Rohan directly what name he suspected would be a mistake; for he would then perceive that she was interested in the subject. Should she do this, she would lose the satisfaction of having unveiled a mystery impenetrable to all others.

Now since the visit of the ladies had been shrouded in mystery, since the cardinal's own astonishment and reticence had a mysterious aspect, it seemed to her that only in a mysterious manner could she reach the solution of this puzzle. This contest with the unknown was peculiarly pleasing to Jeanne's temperament. Having heard much of Monsieur Mesmer, and the wonderful secrets revealed through him, she determined upon going there. She had heard that he was a worker of miracles, that he had discovered the means of expelling from the human body maladies and troubles, as, formerly, Christ drove out the demons from those possessed by them.

She knew that this man had the power of banishing, not only physical ills, but those by which the soul is tortured. Under his singular influence, the strong will of his patients had been reduced to an abject obedience to his commands.

Thus, in the trance that succeeded their ailments, after the wise physician had calmed the most irritated of organisations by forciug it into a state of oblivion, the spirit of the subject, peaceful in its repose, became wholly subservient to its new master. He then controlled all its actions; he moved all its springs; and every thought of this soul, thus transformed, was conveyed to him in language, which had the advantage or disadvantage over ordinary conversation of being entirely truthful.

Moreover, issuing from a body which till then had been its prison at the first command of him who was temporarily its master, the soul would rush out into the world, would mix with other souls, probe them incessantly, search them mercilessly; and then, like the hound who surprises the game in its peaceful thicket, would drive forth the secret from its hiding place in the heart of another, would pursue it, overtake it, and bring it back to its master.

Thus people could choose, at the house of this illustrious doctor, the secrets they most desired to elicit through these supernatural agencies; and Madame de la Motte felt sure that, by joining one of these stances, she might meet this phoenix and discover through its agency the owner of the box which now possessed so much interest for her.

That is the explanation of her haste in seeking the room where the invalids were gathered together. Among the stories in circulation was that of Madame de Duras, who had recovered a child who had been lost; Madame de Chantone, an English dog, not much bigger than her fist, for which she would have given all the children in the world; and Monsieur de Vandreuil, a lock of hair, which he would have bought back with half his fortune. All these revelations had been made by clairvoyants after the magnetic operations of Doctor Mesmer.

Those who came to see him, after traversing the antechambers, were admitted into a large room, from which the darkened and hermetically closed windows excluded light and air. In the middle of this room, under a lustre which gave but a feeble light, was a vast unomamented tank, filled with water impregnated with sulphur, and to the cover of which was fastened an iron ring; attached to this ring was a long chain, the object of which we shall presently see. Porous jars filled with sulphurated water were placed on the bottom of this vat, alternating inversely, and by means of them the cross currents were established, by whose power the cures were effected.

All the patients were seated round the room, men and women indiscriminately; then a valet, taking the chain, wound it round the limbs of the patients, so that they might all feel at the same time the effects of the electricity contained in the tank; they were then directed to touch each other in some way, either by the shoulder, the elbow, or the feet, and each was to take in his hand a bar of iron, which was also connected with the tank, and to place it to the heart, head, or whatever was the seat of the malady. When they were all ready, a soft and pleasing strain of music, executed by invisible performers, was heard. Then one might see happiness depicted on all the faces formerly marred by care and anxiety. Each one present gave himself over to the drowsy content resulting from the all- absorbing sensations.

Those participating in this seance may be divided into two classes. First the invalids, who cared little for the opinion of others, a characteristic of the very high or the very low, but whose one object in coming was to be cured; and they sought to attain this end by devoting their entire energies to it.

Others, either skeptics or merely inquisitive people, not suffering from any disease, had gone to Mesmer's, as one goes to the theatre; wishing either to witness the effect on those around the vat, or to study this new system of physics, caring only to watch the invalids and even those who were well, who were all sharing this mysterious treatment. Among the most eager of the crowd on the evening of which we speak was a young, distinguished-looking, and beautiful woman, with a graceful figure and rather showily dressed, who pressed the iron to her heart with wonderful energy, rolling her beautiful eyes, and beginning to show, in the trembling of her hands, the first effects of the electric fluid. As she constantly threw back her head, resting it on the cushions of her chair, all around could see perfectly her pale but beautiful face, and her white throat. Many seemed to look at her with great astonishment, and a general whispering commenced among those who surrounded her.

Madame de la Motte was one of the most curious of the party; and of all she saw around her nothing attracted her attention so much as this young lady, and, after gazing earnestly at her for some time, she at last murmured, " Oh 1 it is she, there is no doubt. It is the lady who came to see me the other day." And convinced that she was not mistaken, she advanced towards her, congratulating herself that chance had effected for her what she had so long been vainly trying to accomplish; but at this moment the young lady closed her eyes, contracted her mouth, and began to beat the air feebly with her hands, which hands, however, did not seein to Jeanne the white and beautiful ones she had seen in her room a few days before.

The patients now began to grow excited under the influence of the fluid. Men and women began to utter sighs, and even cries, moving convulsively their heads, arms, and legs. Then a man suddenly made his appearance; no one had seen him enter; you might have fancied he came out of the tank. He was dressed in a lilac robe, and held hi his hand a long wand, which he several times dipped into the mysterious tank; then he made a sign, the doors opened, and twenty robust servants entered, and, seizing such of the patients as began to totter on their seats, carried them into an adjoining room.

While this was going on, Madame de la Motte heard a man who had approached near to the young lady before- mentioned, and who was in a perfect paroxysm of excitement, say in a loud voice, " It is surely she!" Jeanne was about to ask him who she was, when her attention was drawn to two ladies who were just entering, followed by a man, who, though disguised as a bourgeois, had still the appearance of a servant.

The tournure of one of these ladies struck Jeanne so forcibly that she made a step towards them, when a cry from the young woman near her startled every one. The same man whom Jeanne had heard speak before now called out, " But look, gentlemen, it is the queen."

At these words Jeanne started.

"The queen! " cried many voices, in surprise. " The queen here! The queen in that state! Impossible! "

"But look," said he again; " do you know the queen, or not-"

"Indeed," said many, " the resemblance is incredible."

"Monsieur," said Jeanne to the speaker, who was a stout man, with quick, observant eyes, "did you say the queen- "

"Oh! madame, there is no doubt of it."

"And where is she- "

"Why, that young lady that you see there, on the violet cushions, and in such a state that she cannot moderate her transports, is the queen."

"But on what do you found such an idea, monsieur- "

"Simply because it is the queen." And he left Jeanne to go and spread his news among the rest.

She turned from the almost revolting spectacle, and, going near to the door, found herself face to face with the two ladies she had seen enter. Scarcely had she seen the elder one than she uttered a cry of surprise.

"What is the matter- " asked the lady.

Jeanne took off her mask, and asked, " Do you recognise me, madame- "

The lady made, but quickly suppressed, a movement of surprise, and said, "No, madame."

"Well, madame, I recognise you, and will give you a proof;" and she drew the box from her pocket, saying, "you left this at my house."

"But supposing this to be true, what makes you so agitated- "

"I am agitated by the danger that your Majesty is incurring here."

"Explain yourself."

"Not before you have put on this mask;" and she offered hers to the queen, who, however, did not take it.

"I beg your Majesty; there is not an instant to lose."

The queen put on the mask. " And now, pray come. away," added Jeanne.

"But why- " said the queen.

"Your Majesty has not been seen by any one- "

"I believe not."

"So much the better."

The queen mechanically moved to the door, but said again, " Will you explain yourself- "

"Will not your Majesty believe your humble servant for the present, that you are running a great risk."

"But what risk-"

"I will have the honour to tell your Majesty whenever you will grant me an hour's audience; but it would take too long now;" and seeing that the queen looked displeased, "Pray, madame," said she, turning to the Princess Lam- balle, " join your petitions to mine, that the queen should leave this place immediately."

"I think we had better, madame," said the princess.

"Well, then, I will," answered the queen; then, turning to Madame de la Motte, " You ask for an audience- " she said.

"I beg for that honour, that I may explain this conduct to your Majesty."

"Well, bring this box with you, and you shall be admitted; Laurent, the porter, shall have orders to do so." Then going into the street, she called in German, " Kom- men Sie da, Weber."

A carriage immediately drove up, they got in, and were soon out of sight.

When they were gone, Madame de la Motte said to herself, "I have done right in this,- for the rest I must consider."

CHAPTER XVIII. MADEMOISELLE OLIVA.

During this time, the man who had pointed out the fictitious queen to the people touched on the shoulder another man who stood near him in a shabby dress, and said: " For you, who are a journalist, here is a fine subject for an article."

"How so- " replied the man.

"Shall I tell you-"

"Certainly."

"The danger of being governed by a king who is governed by a queen who indulges in such paroxysms as these."

The journalist laughed. " But the Bastille- " he said.

"Pooh, nonsense! I do not mean you to write it out plainly. Who can interfere with you if you relate the history of Prince Silou and the Princess Etteniotna, Queen of Narfec- What do you say to that- "

"It is an admirable idea! " said the journalist.

"And I do not doubt that a pamphlet called ' The Parox-. ysms of the Princess Etteniotna at the House of the Fakeer Remsem' would have a great success."

"I believe it also."

"Then go and do it."

The journalist pressed the hand of the unknown. " Shall I send you some copies, monsieur- I will with pleasure if you will give me your name."

"Certainly; the idea pleases me. What is the usual circulation of your journal- "

"Two thousand."

"Then do me a favour; take these fifty louis, and publish six thousand."

"Oh, monsieur, you overwhelm me. May I not know the name of such a generous patron of literature- "

"You shall know when I call for one thousand copies- at two francs each, are they not- Will they be ready in a week- "

"I will work night and day, monsieur."

"Let it be amusing."

"It shall make all Paris die with laughing, except one person."

"Who will weep over it- Apropos, date the publication from London."

"Monsieur, I am your humble servant." And the journalist took his leave, with his fifty louis in his pocket, highly delighted.

The unknown again turned to look at the young woman, who had now subsided into a state of exhaustion, and looked beautiful as she lay there. "Eeally," he said to himself, " the resemblance is frightful. God had his motives in creating it, and has no doubt condemned her to whom the resemblance is so strong."

While he made these reflections, she rose slowly from the midst of the cushions, assisting herself with the arm of an attendant, and began to arrange her somewhat disordered toilet, and then, stretching her round arms and pretty Megs like a cat arousing from her nap, she traversed the rooms, confronting boldly the looks of the people. She was somewhat astonished, however, when she found herself saluted with deep and respectful bows by a group which had already been assembled by the indefatigable stranger, who kept whispering, "Never mind, gentlemen, never mind, she is still the Queen of France; let us salute her." She next entered the court-yard, and looked about for a coach or chair, but, seeing none, was about to set off on foot, when a footman approached, and said, " Shall I call madaine's carriage- "

"I have none," she replied.

"Madame came in a coach- "

"Yes."

"From the Rue Dauphine- "

"Yes."

"I will take madame home."

"Do so, then," said she, although somewhat surprised at the offer.

The man made a sign, and a carriage drove up. He opened the door for her, and then said to the coachman, "To the Eue Dauphine." They set off, and the young woman, who much approved of this mode of transit, regretted she had not further to go. They soon stopped, however; the footman handed her out, held out his hand for the key, and opened the door to spare the little lady's fingers, bowed, and immediately drove off again.

"Really," said she to herself, " this is an agreeable adventure; it is very gallant of Monsieur Mesmer. Oh, I am very tired, and he must have foreseen that. He is a great doctor."

Saying these words, she mounted to the second story, and knocked at a door, which was quickly opened by an old woman.

"Is supper ready, mother- "

"Yes, and growing cold."

"Has he come- "

"No, not yet, but the gentleman has."

"What gentleman- "

"He who was to speak to you this evening."

"To me- "

"Yes."

This colloquy took place in a kind of antechamber opening into her room, which was furnished with old curtains of yellow silk, chairs of green Utrecht velvet, not very new, and an old yellow sofa.

She opened the door, and, going in, saw a man seated on the sofa whom she did not know in the least, although we do, for it was the same man whom we have seen taking so much interest in her at Mesmer's.

She had not time to question him, for he began immediately: " I know all you are going to ask, and will tell you without asking. You are Mademoiselle Oliva, are you not- "

"Yes, monsieur."

"A charming person, highly nervous, and much taken by the system of Monsieur Mesmer."

"I have just left there."

"All this, however, your beautiful eyes are saying plainly, does not explain what brings me here. And that is what you are most desirous of knowing."

"You are right, monsieur."

"Will you not do me the favour to sit down, or I shall be obliged to get up also, and that is an uncomfortable way of talking."

"Really, monsieur, you have very extraordinary manners."

"Mademoiselle, I saw you just now at Monsieur Mesmer's, and found you to be all I could wish."

"Monsieur!"

"Do not alarm yourself, mademoiselle. I do not tell you that I found you charming,-that would seem like a declaration of love, and I have no such intention. I know that you are accustomed to have yourself called beautiful, but I, who also think so, have other things to talk to you about. Do not draw back, or you will oblige me to scream like a deaf man."

"Really, monsieur, the manner in which you speak to me-"

"Do not get angry before you have heard me. Is there any one that can overhear us- "

"No, monsieur, no one. But still- "

"Then, if no one can hear, we can converse at our ease. What do you say to a little partnership between us- "

"Really, monsieur- "

"Do not misunderstand; I do not say ' liaison,'- I say partnership. I am not talking of love, but of business."

"What kind of business-" said Oliva, with growing curiosity.

"What do you do all day-"

"Why, I do nothing, or at least as little as possible."

"You have no occupation,- so much the better. Do you like walking- "

"Very much."

"To see sights, and go to balls- "

"Excessively."

"To live well- "

"Above all things."

"If I gave you twenty-five louis a month, would you refuse me- "

"Monsieur!"

"My dear Mademoiselle Oliva, now you are beginning to doubt me again, and it was agreed that you were to listen qxiietly. I will say fifty louis if you like."

"I like fifty louis better than twenty-five, but what I like better than either is to be able to choose my own lover."

"Morbleu! but I have already told you that I do not desire to be your lover. Set your mind at ease about that."

"Then what am I to do to earn my fifty louis- "

"You must receive me at your house, and always be glad to see me. Walk out with me whenever I desire it, and come to me whenever I send for you."

"But I have a lover, monsieur."

"Well, dismiss him."

"Oh, Beausire cannot be sent away like that 1"

"I will help you."

"No, I love him."

"Oh!"

"A little."

"That is just a little too much."

"I cannot help it."

"Then he may stop."

"You are very obliging."

"Well, but do my conditions suit you-"

"Yes, if you have told me all."

"I believe I have said all I wish to say now."

"On your honour- "

"On my honour. But there is one thing you do not understand."

"What is it-" '

"It is, that if, by any chance, I should be obliged to make you my mistress you will agree."

"Oh! there can be no such necessity, monsieur."

"But you need only appear to be such."

"Oh! I will readily agree to that."

"Very well."

"Then that is settled; and here is the first month in advance."

He held out the money, and, as she still seemed to hesitate a little, slipped it himself into her pocket.

Scarcely had he done so, when a knock at the door made Oliva run to the window. " Good God! " she cried; " escape quickly; here he is!"

"Who- "

"Beausire, my lover. Be quick, monsieur!"

"Nonsense!"

"He will half murder you."

"Bah!"

"Do you hear how he knocks- "

"Well, open the door." And he sat down again on the sofa, saying to himself, "I must see this fellow, and judge what he is like."

The knocks became louder, and mingled with oaths.

"Go, mother, and open the door," cried Oliva. " As for you, monsieur, if any harm happens to you, it is your own fault."

"My own fault as you say," replied the unknown, coolly keeping his seat. Oliva listened trembling.

CHAPTER XIX. MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE.

Oliva ran to meet a man, who came in swearing furiously, and in a frightful passion.

"Come, Beausire," said she, apparently not at all frightened.

"Let me alone!" cried he, shaking her off brutally. " Ah! I see, it was because there is a man here that the door was not opened!" And as the visitor remained perfectly still, he advanced furiously towards him, saying, " Will you answer me, monsieur- "

"What do you want to know, my dear Monsieur Beau- sire- "

"What are you doing here, and who are you- "

"I am a very quiet man, and I was simply talking to madame."

"That was all," said Oliva.

"Will you hold your tongue-" bawled Beausire.

"Now," said the visitor, " do not be so rude to madame, who has done nothing to deserve it; and if you arc in a bad temper- "

"Yes, lam."

"He must have lost at cards," murmured Oliva.

"I am cleaned out, mort de diable!" cried Beausire. " But you, monsieur, will do me the favour to leave this room."

"But, Monsieur Beausire-"

"Diable! if you do not go immediately, it will be the worse for you."

"You did not tell me, mademoiselle, that he was troubled with these fits. Good heavens! what ferocity! "

Beausire, exasperated, drew his sword, and roared, " If you do not move, I will pin you to the sofa!"

"Really, it is impossible to be more disagreeable," said the visitor, also drawing a small sword, which he had concealed behind him on the sofa.

Oliva uttered piercing shrieks.

"Oh, mademoiselle, pray be quiet," said he, " or two things will happen: first, you will stun Monsieur Beausire, and he will get killed; secondly, the watch will come up and carry you straight off to Saint-Lazare."

Oliva ceased her cries.

The scene that ensued was curious. Beausire, furious with rage, was making wild and unskilful passes at his adversary, who, still seated on the sofa, parried them with the utmost ease, laughing immoderately all the time.

Beausire began to grow tired and also frightened, for he felt that if this man, who was now content to stand on the defensive, were to attack him in his turn, he should be done for in a moment. Suddenly, however, by a skilful movement, the stranger sent Beausire's sword flying across the room; it went through an open window, and fell into the street.

Beausire did not know which way to look.

"Oh, Monsieur Beausire," said he, " you should take more care; if your sword falls on any one, it will kill him."

Beausire ran down at his utmost speed to fetch his sword, and meanwhile Oliva, seizing the hand of the victor, said:-

"Oh, monsieur, you are very brave; but as soon as you are gone, Beausire will beat me."

"Then I will remain."

"Oh, no; when he beats me, I beat him in return, and I always get the best of it, because I am not obliged to take any care; so if you would but go, monsieur- "

"But my dear, if I go now, I shall meet Monsieur Beausire on the stairs; probably the combat will recommence, and, as I shall not feel inclined to stand on the staircase, I shall have to kill Monsieur Beausire or be killed by him."

"Mon Dieu! it is true."

"Well, then, to avoid that I will remain here."

"No, monsieur, I entreat; go up to the next story, and as soon as he returns to this room I will lock the door and take the key, and you can walk away while we fight it out."

"You are a charming girl. An revoirf "

"Till when-"

"To-night, if you please."

"To-night! are you mad- "

"Not at all; but there is a ball at the Opera to-night."

"But it is now midnight."

"That does not matter."

"I should want a domino."

"Beausire will fetch it when you have beaten him."

"You are right," said Oliva, laughing.

"And here are ten louis to buy it with."

"Adieu! and thanks." And she pushed him out, saying, '' Quick! he is coming back."

"But if by chance he should beat you, how will you let me know-"

She reflected a moment. " You have a servant- "

"Yes."

"Send him here, and let him wait under the window till I let a note fall."

"I will. Adieu!" And he went up stairs.

Oliva drowned the sound of his footsteps by calling loudly to Beausire, " Are you coming back, madman- " for he did not seem in much hurry to re-encounter his formidable adversary. At last, however, he came up. Oliva was standing outside the door; she pushed him in, locked it, and put the key in her pocket.

Before the stranger left the house, he heard the noise of the combat begin, and both voices loud and furious. "There is 110 doubt," said he to himself, "that this woman knows how to take care of herself." His carriage was waiting for him at the corner of the street, but before getting in he spoke to the footman, who thereupon stationed himself within view of Mademoiselle Oliva's windows, where he saw two shadows moving on the curtain. They gradually became quieter, and at last only one remained.

CHAPTER XX. GOLD.

We must now return to the interior of the room. Beausire was much surprised to see Oliva lock the door, and still more so not to see his adversary. He began to feel triumphant, for if he was hiding from him he must, he thought, be afraid of him. He therefore began to search for him; but Oliva talked so loud and fast that he advanced towards her to try and stop her, but was received with a box on the ear, which he returned in kind. Oliva replied by throwing a china vase at his head, and his answer was a blow with a cane. She, furious, flew at him and seized him by the throat, and he, trying to free himself, tore her dress.

Then, with a cry, she pushed him from her with such force that he fell in the middle of the room.

He began to get tired of this, so he said, without commencing another attack, " You are a wicked creature; you ruin me."

"Ou the contrary, it is you who ruin me."

"Oh, I ruin her!-she who has nothing! "

"Say that I have nothing now, say that you have eaten, and drunk, and played away all that I had."

"You reproach me with my poverty."

"Yes, for it comes from your vices."

"I will correct all yours with a single blow."

"By beating me- " cried Oliva, brandishing a pair of tongs, before which Beausire recoiled.

"Do not talk of vices; it only remained for you to take a lover."

"And what do you call all those wretches who sit by you in the tennis-court where you play- "

"I play to live."

"And nicely you succeed; we should die of hunger from your industry."

"And you, with yours, are obliged to cry if you get your dress torn, because you have nothing to buy another with."

"I do better than you at all events; " and, putting her hand in her pocket, she drew out some gold and threw it across the room.

The round louis began to roll on the floor, some running under the furniture, others ringing along the floor to the very doors of the room. The others fell flat from fatigue, their surfaces shining like sparks of fire.

When Beausire saw this, he remained stupefied.

"Louis! " cried he at last.

She took out some more, and threw them in his face.

"Oh I " cried he, " Oliva has become rich! "

"This is what my industry brings in," said she, pushing him with her foot as he kneeled down to pick up the gold.

"Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen," counted he joyfully.

"Miserable wretch!" said Oliva.

"Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two."

"Coward!"

"Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five."

"Infamous wretch!"

He got up. " And so, mademoiselle, you have been saving money when you kept me without necessaries. You let me go about in an old hat, darned stockings, and patched clothes, while you had all this money! Where does it come from- From the sale of my things when I joined my sad lot to yours."

"Scoundrel!" murmured Oliva, looking at him with contempt.

"But I pardon you not your avarice, but your economy," continued he.

"You would have killed me just now," said Oliva.

"Then I should have been right; now I should be wrong to do it."

"Why, if you please- "

"Because now you contribute to our menage."

"You are a base wretch!"

"My little Oliva!"

"Give me back my money."

"Oh, my darling! "

"If you do not, I will pass your own sword through your body!"

"Oliva!"

"Will you give it-"

"Oh, you would not take it away- "

"Ah, coward! you beg, you solicit for the fruits of my bad conduct,- that is what they call a man! I have always despised you."

"I gave to you when I could, Nicole."

"Do not call me Nicole."

"Pardon, then, Oliva. But is it not true- "

"Fine presents, certainly: some silver buckles, six louis d'or, two silk dresses, and three embroidered handkerchiefs."

"It is a great deal for a soldier."

"Hold your tongue! The buckles you stole from some one else, the louis d'or you borrowed and never returned, the silk dresses- "

"Oliva! Oliva!"

"Give me back my money."

"What shall I give you instead- "

"Double the quantity."

"Well," said the rogue, gravely, " I will go to the Rue de Bussy and play with it, and bring you back, not the double, but the quintuple;" and he made two steps to the door.

She caught him by the coat.

"There," said he, " you have torn my coat."

"Never mind; you shall have a new one."

"That will be six louis, Oliva. Luckily, at the Rue de Bussy they are not particular about dress."

Oliva seized hold of the other tail, and tore it right off.

Beausire became furious.

"Mort de tous les diables!" cried he, " you will make me kill you at last! You are tearing me to bits! Now I cannot go out."

"On the contrary, you must go out immediately."

"Without a coat- "

"Put on your great-coat."

"It is all in holes."

"Then do not put it on; but you must go out."

"I will not."

She took out of her pocket another handful of gold, and put it into his hands.

Beausire kneeled at her feet and cried," Order, and I will obey!"

"Go quickly to the Capucin, Rue de Seine, where they sell dominoes for the bal masque, and buy me one complete, mask and all."

"Good."

"And one for yourself,-black, but mine white; and I only give you twenty minutes to do it in."

"Are we going to the ball- "

"Yes, if you are obedient."

"Oh, always."

"Go, then, and show your zeal."

"I run; but the money- "

"You have twenty-five louis that you picked up."

"Oh, Oliva, I thought you meant to give me those."

"You shall have more another time, but if I give you them now, you will stop and play."

"Sheis right," said he to himself; "that is just what I intended to do; " and he set off.

As soon as he was gone, Oliva wrote rapidly these words: " The peace is signed; and the ball decided on; at two o'clock we shall be at the Opera. I shall wear a white domino, with a blue riband on my left shoulder." Then, rolling this round a bit of the broken, vase, she went to the window and threw it out.

The valet picked it up, and made off immediately.

In less than half an hour M. Beausire returned, followed by two men, bringing, at the cost of eighteen louis, two beautiful dominoes, such as were only turned out at the Capucin, makers to her Majesty and the maids of honour.

CHAPTER XXI. LA PETITE MAISON.

We left Madame de la Motte at Monsieur Mesmer's door, watching the queen's carriage as it drove off. Then she went home; for she also intended to put on a domino, and indulge herself by going to the Opera. But a contre-temps awaited her: a man was waiting at her door with a note from the Cardinal de Rohan. She opened it, and read as follows:-

"Madame La Cohtesse,- You have doubtless not forgotten that we have business together; even if you have a short memory, I never forget what has pleased me. I shall have the honour to wait for you where my messenger will conduct you, if you please to come."

This letter was signed by a pastoral cross.

Jeanne, although rather vexed, immediately re-entered the coach, and told the footman to get on the box with the coachman. Ten minutes sufficed to bring her to the entrance of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, where, in a hollow, and completely hidden by great trees, was one of those pretty houses built in the time of Louis XV., with all the taste of the sixteenth, with the comfort of the eighteenth, century.

"Oh, oh! a petite maison I" said she to herself. " It is very natural on the part of Monsieur de Rohan, but very humiliating for a Valois. But, enfin I "

That word, which may be either an impatient exclamation or a sigh of resignation, betrayed her devouring ambition and the mad cupidity of her desires. But as she crossed the threshold, she determined the course of action most advantageous to the fu!61ment of her wishes.

She was led from room to room till she came to a small dining-room, fitted up with exquisite taste. There she found the cardinal waiting for her. He was looking over some pamphlets, but rose immediately on seeing her.

"Ah, here you are. Thanks, Madame la Comtesse," and he approached to kiss her hand; but she drew back with a reproachful and indignant air.

"What is the matter, madame- " he asked.

"You are, doubtless, not accustomed, monseigneur, to receive such a greeting from the women whom your Eminence is in the habit of summoning here."

"Oh! madame."

"We are in your petite maison, are we not, monseigneur- " continued she, looking disdainfully around her.

"But, madame- "

"I had hoped that your Eminence would have deigned to remember in what rank I was born. I had hoped that you would have been pleased to consider that, if God has made me poor, He has afc least left me the pride of my race."

"Come, come, countess, I took you for a woman of intellect."

"You call a woman of intellect, it appears, monseigneur, every one who is indifferent to and laughs at everything, even dishonour. To these women, pardon me, your Eminence, I have been in the habit of giving a different name."

"No, countess, you deceive yourself; I call a woman of intellect one who listens when you speak to her, and does not speak before having listened."

"I listen, then."

"I had to speak to you of serious matters, countess."

"Therefore you receive me in a dining-room."

"Why, would you have preferred my receiving you in a boudoir-"

"The distinction is nice," said she.

"I think so, countess."

"Then I am simply to sup with you- "

"Nothing else."

"I trust your Eminence is persuaded that I feel the honour as I ought."

"You are quizzing, countess."

"No, I only laugh; would you rather I were angry- You are difficult to please, monseigneur."

"Oh; you are charming when you laugh, and I ask nothing better than to see you always doing so: but at this moment you are not laughing. Oh, no! there is anger in that smile which shows your beautiful teeth."

"Not the least in the world, monseigneur; the dining- room reassures me."

"That is good."

"And I hope you will sup well."

"I shall sup well. And you- "

"Oh, I am not hungry."

"How, madame, you refuse to sup with me,- you send me away-"

"I do not understand you, monseigneur."

"Listen, dear countess; if you were less in a passion, I would tell you that it is useless to behave like this,- you are always equally charming; but as at each compliment I fear to be dismissed, I abstain."

"You fear to be dismissed- Really, I beg pardon of your Eminence, but you become unintelligible."

"It is, however, quite clear, what I say. The other day, when I came to see you, you complained that you were lodged unsuitably to your rank. I thought, therefore, that to restore you to your proper place would be like restoring air to the bird whom the experimenter has placed under his air-pump. Consequently, beautiful countess, that you might receive me with pleasure, and that I, on my part, might visit you without compromising either you or myself- " He stopped and looked at her.

"Well- "she said.

"I hoped that you would deign to accept this small residence; you observe I do not call it 'petite maison.' "

"Accept! you give me this house, monseigneur- " said Jeanne, her heart beating with eagerness.

"A very small gift, countess; but if I had offered you more, you would have refused."

"Oh, monseigneur, it is impossible for me to accept this."

"Impossible! why- Do not say that word to me, for I do not believe in it. The house belongs to you; the keys are here on this silver plate. Do you find out another humiliation in this-"

"No, but- "

"Then accept."

"Monseigneur, I have told you."

"How, inadame- You write to the ministers for a pension, you accept a hundred louis from an unknown lady- "

"Oh, monseigneur, it is different."

"Come, I have waited for you in your dining-room. I have not yet seen the boudoir, nor the drawing-room, nor the bedrooms, for I suppose there are all these."

"Oh, monseigneur, forgive me; you force me to confess that yon are the most delicate of men," and she blushed with the pleasure she had been so long restraining. But, checking herself, she sat down and said, "Now, will your Eminence give me my supper."

The cardinal took off his cloak and sat down also.

Supper was served in a few moments. Jeanne put on her mask before the servants came in.

"It is I who ought to wear a mask," said the cardinal, "for you are at home, among your own people."

Jeanne laughed, but did not take hers off. In spite of her pleasure and surprise, she made a good supper. The cardinal was a man of much talent, and from his great knowledge of the world and of women, who at this epoch complicated and often solved political problems, this experience was, as it were, an inheritance increased by personal observation. These advantages, rare to-day, and already rare then, made the prince a powerful man, and his rival diplomats and his mistresses found it very difficult to circumvent him. And, besides, his good manners and lofty courtesy formed a shield against all darts aimed at him. He was a man difficult to contend with, and he thought that this country girl, full of pretension, but who in spite of her pride could not conceal her greediness, would be an easy conquest, worth undertaking on account of her beauty, and of a something piquant about her very pleasing to a man blase like him. He therefore never took pains to be much on his guard with her; and she, more cunning than he thought, saw through his opinion of her, and tried to strengthen it by playing the provincial coquette, and appearing silly, that her adversary might be in reality weak in his over-confidence.

The cardinal thought her completely dazzled by the present he had made her,- and so indeed she was; but he forgot that he himself was below the mark of the ambition of a woman like Jeanne.

"Come," said he, pouring out for her a glass of Cyprus wine, "as you have signed your contract with me, you will not be unfriendly any more, countess."

"Oh.no!"

"You will receive me here sometimes without repugnance-"

"I shall never be so ungrateful as to forget whose house this really is."

"Not mine."

"Oh, yes, monseigneur."

"Do not contradict me, I advise you, or I shall begin to impose conditions."

"You take care on your part- "

"Of what-"

"Why, I am at home here, you know, and if your conditions are unreasonable, I shall call my servants-"

The cardinal laughed.

"Ah, you laugh, monsieur; you think if I call they will not come."

"Oh, you quite mistake, countess. I am nothing here, only your guest. Apropos," continued he, as if it had just entered his head, "have you heard anything more of the ladies who came to see you- "

"The ladies of the portrait-" said Jeanne, who, now knowing the queen, saw through the artifice.

"Yes, the ladies of the portrait."

"Monseigneur, you know them as well and even better than I do, I feel sure."

"Oh, countess, you do me wrong. Did you not express a wish to learn who they were-"

"Certainly; it is natural to desire to know your benefactors."

"Well, if I knew, I should have told you."

"Monsieur le Cardinal, you do know them."

"No."

"If you repeat that' No,' I shall have to call you a liar."

"I shall know how to avenge that insult."

"How-"

"With a kiss."

"You know the portrait of Maria Theresa- "

"Certainly; but what of that-"

"That, having recognised this portrait, you must have had some suspicion of the person to whom it belonged."

"And why-"

"Because it was natural to think that the portrait of a mother would only be in the hands of her daughter."

"The queen!" cried the cardinal, with so truthful a tone of surprise that it duped even Jeanne. "Do you really think the queen came to see you-"

"And you did not suspect it-"

"Mon Dieu, no! how should I- I, who speak to you, am neither son, daughter, nor even relation of Maria Theresa, yet I have a portrait of her about me at this moment. Look," said he,-and.he drew out a snuff-box, and showed it to her; "therefore you see that if I, who am in no way related to the imperial house, carry about such a portrait, another might do the same, and yet be a stranger."

Jeanne was silent,- she had nothing to answer.

"Then it is your opinion," he went on, "that you have had a visit from the queen, Marie Antoinette-"

"The queen and another lady."

"Madame de Polignac- "

"I do not know."

"Perhaps Madame de Lamballe-"

"A young lady, very beautiful and very serious."

"Oh, perhaps Mademoiselle de Taverney."

"It is possible; I do not know her."

"Well, if her Majesty has really come to visit you, you are sure of her protection. It is a great step towards your fortune."

"I believe it, monseigneur."

"And her Majesty was generous to you- "

"She gave me a hundred louis."

"And she is not rich, particularly now."

"That doubles my gratitude."

"Did she show much interest in you-"

"Very great."

"Then all goes well," said the prelate, and overlooking the protegee in thinking of the possible protectress. "There only remains one thing now,- to penetrate to Versailles."

The countess smiled.

"Ah, countess, it is not so easy."

She smiled again, more significantly than before.

"Eeally, you provincials," said he, "doubt nothing; because you have seen Versailles with the doors open, and stairs to go up, you think any one may open these doors and ascend these stairs. Have you seen the monsters of brass, of marble, and of lead, which adorn the park and the terraces- "

"Yes."

"Griffins, gorgons, ghouls, and other ferocious beasts. Well, you will find ten times as many, and more wicked, living animals between you and the favour of sovereigns."

"Your Eminence will aid me to pass through the ranks of these monsters."

"I will try, but it will be difficult. And if you pronounce my name, if you discover your talisman, after two visits it will lose all its power."

"Happily, then, I am guarded by the immediate protection of the queen, and I shall enter Versailles with a good key."

"What key, countess- "

"Ah, Monsieur le Cardinal, that is my secret,- or rather it is not, for if it were mine I should feel bound to tell it to my generous protector."

"There is, then, an obstacle, countess-"

"Alas! yes, monseigneur. It is not my secret, and I must keep it. Let it suffice you to know that to-morrow I shall go to Versailles; that I shall be received, and, I have every reason to hope, well received."

The cardinal looked at her with wonder. " Ah, countess," said he, laughing, "I shall see if you will get in."

"You will push your curiosity so far as to follow me-"

"Exactly."

"Very well."

"Be careful what you do from to-morrow; for once having entered Versailles, your honour is committed."

"Yes, and into the private apartments, monseigneur."

"Really, countess, you are a living enigma."

"One of those monsters who inhabit Versailles."

"Oh, you believe me a man of taste, do you not- "

"Certainly, monseigneur."

"Well, here I am at your knees, and I take your hand and kiss it. Should I do that if I thought you a monster- "

"I beg you, monseigneur, to remember," said Jeanne, coldly, " that I am neither a grisette nor an opera girl; that I am my own mistress, except for my husband, feeling myself the equal of any man in this kingdom. Therefore I shall take freely and spontaneously, when it shall please ine, the man who will have gained my affections. Therefore, monseigneur, respect me a little, and in me. the nobility to which we both belong."

The cardinal rose. "I see," said he, "you wish me to love you seriously."

"I do not say that; but I wish to be able to love you. When that day comes- if it does come- you will easily find it out, believe me. If you do not, I will let you know it; for I feel young enough and attractive enough not to mind making the first advances, nor to fear a repulse."

"Countess, if it depends upon me, you shall love me."

"We shall see."

"You have already a friendship for me, have you not-"

"More than that."

"Oh, then we are at least half-way. And you are a woman that I should adore, if- " He stopped and sighed.

"Well, "said she, "if-"

"If you would permit it."

"Perhaps I shall, when I shall be independent of your assistance, and you can no longer suspect that I encourage you from interested motives."

"Then you forbid me to pay my court now-"

"Not at all; but there are other ways besides kneeling and kissing hands."

"Well, countess, let us hear; what will you permit-"

"All that is compatible with my tastes and duties."

"Oh, that is vague indeed."

"Stop; I was going to add, my caprices."

"I am lost!"

"You draw back-"

The cardinal was at that moment controlled less by his own plans than by the fascination this lovely woman exercised over him.

"No," said the cardinal, "I do not."

"Well, then, I want a proof."

"Speak."

"I want to go to the ball at the Opera."

"Well, countess, that only concerns yourself. Are you not free as air to go where you wish-"

"Ah, but you have not heard all. I want you to go with me."

"I to the Opera, countess!" said he, with a start of horror.

"See already how much your desire to please me is worth."

"A cardinal cannot go to a ball at the Opera, countess. It is as if I proposed to you to go into a public house."

"Then a cardinal does not dance, I suppose-"

"Oh no!"

"But I have read that Monsieur le Cardinal de Bichelieu danced a saraband."

"Yes, before Anne of Austria."

"Before a queen," repeated Jeanne. "Perhaps you would do as much for a queen-"

The cardinal could not help blushing, dissembler as he was.

Jeanne, either because she really pitied the cardinal, or because she thought it would be better for policy's sake to spare his confusion, hastily added,-

"Is it not natural that I should feel hurt when, after all your protestations, you will not do as much for me as you would for a queen- especially when I only ask you to go concealed in a domino and a mask; besides, a man like you, who may do anything with impunity!"

The cardinal yielded to her flattery and her blandishments. Taking her hand, he said, "For you I will do anything, even the impossible."

"Thanks, monseigneur; you are really amiable. But now you have consented, I will let you off."

"No, no! he who does -the work can alone claim the reward. Countess, I will attend you, but in a domino."

"We shall pass through the Rue Saint-Denis, close to the Opera," said the countess. "I will go in masked, buy a domino and a mask for you, and you can put them on in the carriage."

"That will do delightfully."

"Oh, monseigneur, you are very good! But, now I think of it, perhaps at the Hotel Rohan you might find a domino more to your taste than the one I should buy."

"Now, countess, that is unpardonable malice. Believe me, if I go to the Opera, I shall be as surprised to find myself there as you were to find yourself supping tete-a- tete with a man not your husband."

Jeanne had nothing to reply to this. Soon a carriage without arms drove up; they both got in, and drove off at a rapid pace.

CHAPTER XXII. SOME WORDS ABOUT THE OPERA.

The Opera, that temple of pleasure at Paris, was burned in the month of June, 1781. Twenty persons had perished in the ruins; and as it was the second time within eighteen years that this had happened, it created a prejudice against the place where it then stood, in the Palais Royal, and the king had ordered its removal to a less central spot. The place chosen was La Porte Saint-Martin.

The king, vexed to see Paris deprived for so long of its Opera, became as sorrowful as if the arrivals of grain had ceased, or bread had risen to more than seven sous the quartern loaf. It was melancholy to see the nobility, the army, and the citizens without their after-dinner amusement; and to see the promenades thronged with the unemployed divinities, from the chorus singers to the prima donnas.

To console the king, and the queen, who also was interested, Monsieur Lenoir, an architect, was then introduced to the king, full of new plans, who promised so perfect a ventilation that even in case of fire no one could be smothered. He would make eight doors for exit, besides five large windows placed so low that any one could jump out of them. In the place of the beautiful hall of Moreau he was to erect a building with ninety-six feet of frontage towards the boulevard, ornamented with eight caryatides on pillars forming three entrance doors, a bas-relief above the capitals, and a gallery with three windows. The stage was to be thirty-six feet wide, the theatre seventy-two feet deep and eighty-four across, from one wall to the other.

There were to be anterooms ornamented with mirrors, simply but suitably decorated. Along the hall, under the orchestra, Monsieur Lenoir had reserved a space of twelve feet for an immense reservoir, containing two sets of pumps, and for the care of which twenty French guardsmen were to be detailed. He asked only seventy-five days and nights before he opened it to the public.

This appeared to all a mere gasconade, and was much laughed at. The king, however, concluded the agreement with him. Lenoir set to work, and kept his word. But the public feared that a building so quickly erected could not be safe, and when it opened no one would go.

Even the few courageous ones who did go to the first representation of "Adele de Ponthieu" made their wills first. The architect was in despair; he came to the king to consult him as to what was to be done.

"The cowards in France," said the king, "are those that have the most money. They might be willing to give you an income of ten thousand francs, or be stifled in a crowd; but they will not risk being crushed under falling ceilings. Leave these people to me, and invite the brave people, who have no money. The queen has presented me with a dauphin; the city is overflowing with joy. Announce that, in comemmoration of my son's birth, the opera will be opened to the public for a gratuitous performance; and if twenty-five hundred persons crowded together, that is an aggregate of three hundred thousand pounds, will not sufficiently test its strength, ask them all to jump about. You know the weight is quintupled in jumping four inches. Your twenty-five hundred people would accordingly, weigh fifteen hundred thousand pounds dancing. Have a ball after the play."

"Thanks, sire," said the architect.

"But reflect, first," said the king; "if there be a crowd, are you sure of your building- "

"Sire, I am sure, and shall go there myself."

"I will go to the second representation," said the king.

The architect followed this advice. They played " Adele de Ponthieu" to three thousand plebeians, who afterwards danced.

After this there could be no more fear. It was three years afterwards that Madame de la Motte and the cardinal went to the ball.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE BALL AT THE OPERA.

The ball was at its height when they glided in quietly, and were soon lost in the crowd. A couple had taken refuge from the pressure under the queen's box; one of them wore a white domino and the other a black one. They were talking with great animation. "I tell you, Oliva," said the black domino, "that I am sure you are expecting some one. Your head is no longer a head, but a weathercock, and turns round to look after every newcomer. "

"Well, is it astonishing that I should look at the people, when that is what I came here for-"

"Oh, that is what you came for!"

"Well, monsieur, and for what do people generally come-"

"A thousand things."

"Men, perhaps, but women only for one,- to see and be seen by as many people as possible. You have brought me here. Now I am here, you must be resigned."

"Mademoiselle Oliva!"

"Oh, do not speak in that big voice, it does not frighten me; and, above all, do not call me by name; it is bad taste to let every one here know who you are."

The black domino made an angry gesture; it was interrupted by a blue domino who approached them.

"Come, monsieur," said he, "let madame amuse herself; it is not every night one comes to a ball at the Opera."

"Meddle with your own affairs," replied Beausire, rudely.

"Monsieur, learn once for all that a little courtesy is never out of place."

"I do not know you," he replied, "and. do not want to have anything to do with you.':

"No, you do not know me; but I know you, Monsieur Beausire."

At hearing his name thus pronounced, Beausire visibly trembled.

"Oh, do not be afraid, Monsieur Beausire; I am not what you take me for."

"Pardieu! monsieur, do you guess thoughts, as well as names-"

"Why not-"

"Then tell me what I thought. I have never seen a sorcerer, and should find it amusing."

"Oh, what you ask is not difficult enough to entitle me to that name."

"Nevermind,-tell."

"Well, then, you took me for an agent of Monsieur de Crosne."

"Monsieur de Crosne!" he repeated.

"Yes, the lieutenant of police."

"Monsieur!"

"Softly, Monsieur de Beausire; you really look as if you were feeling for your sword."

"And so I was, monsieur."

"Good heavens! what a warlike disposition! but I think, dear Monsieur Beausire, you left your sword at home, and you did well. But to speak of something else, will you relinquish to me madame for a time- "

"Give you up madame- "

"Yes, monsieur; that is not uncommon, I believe, at a ball at the Opera, or have I but just arrived from the Indies-"

"Certainly not, when it suits the gentleman."

"It suffices sometimes that it should please the lady."

"Do you ask it for a long time- "

"Really, Monsieur Beausire, you are too curious. Perhaps for ten minutes- perhaps for an hour- perhaps for all the evening."

"You axe laughing at me, monsieur."

"Come, reply; will you or not-"

"No, monsieur."

"Come, come, do not be ill-tempered, you who were so gentle just now."

"Just now-"

"Yes; at the Rue Dauphine."

"Rue Dauphine! " exclaimed Beausire in amazement.

Oliva laughed.

"Hold your tongue, madame," said Beausire.

"Yes," continued the blue domino, "where you were on the point of killing this poor lady, but stopped at the sight of some louis."

"Oh, I see; you and sho have an understanding together."

"How can you say such a thing- " cried Oliva.

"And if it were so," said the stranger, "it is all for your benefit."

"For my benefit! that would be curious."

"I will prove to you that your presence here is as hurtful as your absence would be profitable. You are a member of a certain academy, not the Acade"mie Francaise, but in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer, in the second story, is it not, my dear Monsieur Beausire-"

"Hush!" said Beausire.

The blue domino drew out his watch, which was studded with diamonds that made Beausire's eyes water to look at them. "Well," continued he, "in a quarter of an hour they are going to discuss there a little project, by which they hope to secure 2,000,000 francs among the twelve members, of whom you are one, Monsieur Beausire."

"And you must be another; if you are not- "

"Pray go on."

"A member of the police."

"Oh, Monsieur Beausire, I thought you had more sense. If I were of the police, I should have taken you long ago, for some little affairs less honourable than this speculation of two millions, which they are going to discuss in the academy in a few minutes."

"So, monsieur, you wish to send me to the Rue du Pot- de-Fer; but I know why,- that I may be arrested there. I am not such a fool."

"Now, you are one. If I wanted to arrest you, I had only to do it, and I am rid of you at once; but gentleness and persuasion are my maxims."

"Oh, I know now," said Beausire; "you are the man that was on the sofa two hours ago."

"What sofa-"

"Never mind; you have induced me to go, and if you are sending a gallant man into harm, you will pay for it some day."

"Be tranquil," said the blue domino, laughing; "by sending you there I give you 100,000 francs at least, for you know the rule of this society is, that whoever is absent loses his share."

"Well, then, good-bye!" said Beausire, and vanished.

The blue domino took possession of Oliva's arm, left at liberty by Beausire.

"Now," said she, "I have let you manage poor Beausire at your ease, but I warn you, you will find me not so easy to talk over; therefore, find something pretty to say to me, or- "

"I know nothing prettier than your own history, dear Mademoiselle Nicole." said he, pressing the pretty round arm of the little woman, who uttered a cry at hearing herself so addressed; but, recovering herself with marvellous quickness, said,-

"Oh, mon Dieu! what a name! Is it I whom you call Nicole- If so, you are wrong, for that is not my name."

"At present I know that you call yourself Oliva, but we will talk afterwards of Oliva; at present I want to speak of Nicole. Have you forgotten the time when you bore that name- I do not believe it, my dear child, for the name that one bears as a young girl is ever the one enshrined in the heart, although one may have been forced to take another to hide the first. Poor Oliva, happy Nicole!"

At that moment a swarm of maskers, rushing along like a gale of wind, pushed against them, and Nicole, or Oliva, was forced to grasp her companion's arm, although she would have preferred to have been farther away from him.

"Observe that strange crowd," said he. "See how they meet in groups, exchanging words of love or of civility; some smiling, others frowning. Probably many of them have, like you, different names; and doubtless they too would be surprised to be called by the names they remember themselves, but fancy that other people have forgotten."

"Why do you say, ' Poor Oliva'- Do you not think me happy-"

"It would be difficult to be happy with a man like Beausire."

Oliva sighed and said, "Indeed I am not."

"You love him, however- "

"A little."

"If you do not love him much, leave him."

"No."

"Why not-"'

"Because I should no sooner have done so than I should regret it."

"Do you think so-"

"I am afraid I should."

"What could you have to regret in a drunkard, a gambler, a man who beats you, and a black-leg, who will one day come to the gallows- "

"You would not understand me if I told you."

"Try."

"I should regret the excitement he keeps me in."

"I ought to have guessed it; that comes of passing your youth with such silent people."

"You know about my youth-"

"Perfectly."

Oliva laughed and shook her head.

"You doubt it-"

"Really I do."

"Then we will talk a little about it, Mademoiselle Nicole."

"Very well; but I warn you I will tell nothing."

"I do not wish it. I do not mean your childhood. I begin from the time when you first perceived that you had a heart capable of love."

"Love for whom-"

"For Gilbert."

At this name Oliva trembled.

"Ah, mon Dieu!" she cried; "how do you know-" Then with a sigh said, "Oh, monsieur, you have pronounced a name indeed fertile in remembrances. You knew Gilbert-"

"Yes; since I speak to you of him."

"Alas!"

"A charming lad, upon my word. You loved him-"

"He was handsome. No, perhaps not; but I thought him so; he was full of mind, my equal in birth, but Gilbert thought no woman his equal."

"Not even Mademoiselle de Ta- "

"Oh, I know whom you mean, monsieur; you are well instructed. Yes, Gilbert loved higher than the poor Nicole: you are possessed of terrible secrets, monsieur; tell me, if you can," she continued, looking earnestly at him, "what has become of him-"

"You should know best."

"Why, in Heaven's name-"

"Because, if he followed you from Taverney to Paris, you followed him from Paris to Trianon."

"Yes, that is true, but that is ten years ago; and I wished to know what has passed since the time I ran away, and since he disappeared."

The blue domino made no reply.

"I entreat you," persisted Nicole, with the air of a suppliant, "tell me what has become of Gilbert. You are silent; you look away. Can it be that the remembrance of him gives you pain-"

The blue domino stood with downcast looks, as if the weight of this memory was crushing him.

"When Gilbert loved Mademoiselle de- "

"Do not pronounce names aloud," said he.

"Well, then, when he loved her so much that each tree at Trianon was witness to his love- "

"You loved him no more."

"On the contrary, I loved him more than ever; and this love was my ruin. I am beautiful, proud, and when I please, insolent; and would lay my head on the scaffold rather than confess myself despised."

"You have a heart, Nicole-"

"I had then," she said, sighing.

"This conversation makes you sad."

"No, it does me good to speak of my youth. Life is like a river; the most turbid stream issues from a clear spring. Go on, and pay no attention to my sighs."

"Oh," said the blue domino, gently, and one might fancy he was smiling behind his mask; "I know all that you yourself may know about Gilbert,- yourself, and one other, my dear child."

"But tell me why Gilbert fled from Trianon."

"Do you wish me to confirm a suspicion, or to tell you something you do not know-"

"Something I do not know."

"Well, I cannot tell you this. Have you not heard that he is dead- "

"Yes, I have; but- "

"Well, he is dead."

"Dead!" said Nicole, with an air of doubt. Then, with a sudden start, " Grant me one favour!" she cried.

"As many as you like."

"I saw you two hours ago; for it was you, was it not-"

"Certainly."

"You did not, then, try to disguise yourself-"

"Not at all."

"But I was stupid; I saw you, but I did not observe you."

"I do not understand."

"Do you know what I want- "

"No."

"Take off your mask."

"Here! impossible!"

"Oh, you cannot fear other people seeing you; here behind this column you will be quite hidden. You fear that I should recognise you."

"You!"

"And that I should cry, 'It is you,- it is Gilbert!'"

"What folly!"

"Take off your mask."

"Yes, on one condition,-that you will take off yours, if I ask it."

"Agreed." The unknown took off his immediately.

Oliva looked earnestly at him, then sighed, and said,-

"Alas! no, it is not Gilbert."

"And who am I-"

"Oh, I do not care, as you are not he."

"And if it had been Gilbert-" said he, as he put on his mask again.

"Ah! if it had been," cried she, passionately, "and he had said to me, ' Nicole, do you remember Taverney Maison-Rouge-' then there would have been no longer a Beausire in the world for me."

"But I have told you, my dear child, that Gilbert is dead."

"Ah! perhaps, then, it is for the best," said Oliva, with a sigh.

"Yes; he would never have loved you, beautiful as you are."

"Do you, then, think he despised me-"

"No; he rather feared you."

"That is possible. I was somewhat like him, and he knew himself so well that I made him afraid."

"Then you think it better he is dead-"

"Do not repeat my words; in your mouth they wound me."

"But it is better for Mademoiselle Oliva- you observe, I abandon Nicole, and speak to Oliva. You have before you a future happy, rich, and brilliant."

"Do you think so-"

"Yes, if you make up your mind to do anything to arrive at this end."

"I promise you."

"But you must give up sighing, as you were doing just now."

"Very well. I sighed for Gilbert, and as he is dead, and there are not two Gilberts in the world, I shall sigh no more."

"Gilbert was young, and had faults common to youth. To-day- "

"Gilbert is no older to-day than he was ten years ago."

"Of course, since he is dead."

"You understand; he is dead. Gilberts do not grow old; they die."

"Oh," cried the unknown, "O youth! 0 courage! 0 beautiful time! in which are sown the immortal seeds of love, heroism, and devotion; he who loses you truly loses life itself. Youth is paradise, it is heaven, it is everything to be desired. Afterward, all we receive from God is but compensation for the loss of youth. The more generous He has been to man in his youth, so much the greater gifts should He give him in his manhood, to indemnify him for its loss. But nothing can replace, great God, the treasures which that youth has lavished on the man!"

"Gilbert might himself have thought what you have so eloquently expressed," said Oliva; "but enough of him."

"Yes; we will speak of yourself. Why did you run away with Beausire-"

"Because I wished to quit Trianon, and I was obliged to go with some one; I could no longer remain a pis-aller, rejected by Gilbert."

"You have, then, been faithful for ten years through pride- You have paid dearly for it."

Oliva laughed.

"Oh, I know what you are laughing at. To hear a man who pretends to know everything accuse you of having been ten years faithful, when you think you have not rendered yourself worthy of such a ridiculous reproach. However, I know all about you. I know that you went to Portugal with Beausire, where you remained two years; that you then left him and went to the Indies with the captain of a frigate, who hid you in his cabin, and who left you at Chandernagor when he returned to Europe. I know that you had two millions of rupees to spend in the house of a nabob, who kept you shut up; that you escaped through the window on the shoulders of a slave. Then, rich,- for you had carried away two beautiful pearl bracelets, two diamonds, and three large rubies,-you came back to France. When landing at Brest, your evil genius made you encounter Beausire on the quay, who recognised you immediately, bronzed and altered as you were, while you almost fainted at the sight of him."

"Oh, mon Dieu! " cried Oliva, " who are you, then, who know all this- "

"I know, further, that Beausire carried you off again, persuaded you that he loved you, sold your jewels, and reduced you to poverty. Still, you say you love him, and, as love is the root of all happiness, of course you ought to be happy."

Oliva hung her head, and covered her eyes with her hands, but two large tears might be seen forcing their way through her fingers,- liquid pearls, more precious than those Beausire had sold, though not so marketable.

"And this woman," at last she said, "whom you describe as so proud and so happy, you have bought to-day for fifty louis."

"I am aware it is too little, mademoiselle," said the unknown, with that exquisite grace and perfect courtesy that never left the man, even when he addressed the meanest of courtesans.

"No, monsieur; on the contrary, I am surprised that a woman like me should be worth so much."

"You are worth more than that, as I will show you; but just now I want all your attention."

"Then I will be silent."

"No; talk, on the contrary, of anything, it does not matter what, so that we seem occupied."

"You are very odd."

"Take hold of my arm, and let us walk."

They walked on among the various groups. Her distinguished bearing, her graceful movements, which even the domino could not conceal, attracted the attention of all whom they passed. The connoisseurs in these things observed her with envy; for at the ball at the Opera, in those days of gallantry, the passer-by followed the steps of a woman with as much attention as in our days the lovers of horse flesh bestow upon the paces of a fine horse.

In a minute or two, Oliva asked a question.

"Talk as much as you like, only do not ask questions at present," said her companion, "for I cannot answer now; only as you speak, disguise your voice, hold your head up, and scratch your neck with your fan."

She obeyed.

In a minute they passed a highly perfumed group, in the centre of which a very elegant-looking man was talking fast to three companions, who were listening respectfully.

"Who is that young man in that beautiful gray domino- ' asked Oliva.

"Monsieur le Comte d'Artois; but pray do not speak just now!"

At this moment two other dominoes passed them, and stood in a place near, which was rather free from people.

"Lean on this pillar, countess," said one of them, in a low voice, but which was overheard by the blue domino, who started at its sound.

Then a yellow domino, passing through the crowd, came up to the blue one, and said, " It is he."

"Very good," replied the other, and the yellow domino vanished.

"Now, then," said Oliva's companion, turning to her, " we will begin to enjoy ourselves a little."

"I hope so, for you have twice made me sad: first by taking away Beausire, who always makes me laugh, and then by speaking of Gilbert, whose remembrance has often made me weep."

"I will be both Gilbert and Beausire to you," said the unknown.

"Oh! " sighed Oliva.

"I do not ask you to love me, remember; I only ask you to accept the life I offer you,- that is, the accomplishment of all your desires, provided occasionally you give way to mine. Just now I have one."

"What- "

"That black domino that you see there is a German of my acquaintance, who refused to come to the ball with me, saying he was not well; and now he is here, and a lady with him."

"Who is she-"

"I do not know. We will approach them; I will pretend that you are a German, and you must not speak, for fear of being found out. Now, pretend to point him out to me with the end of your fan."

"Like that- "

"Yes, very well. Now whisper to me."

Oliva obeyed with a docility which charmed her companion.

The black domiiio, who had his back turned to them, did not see all this; but his companion did. "Take care, monseigneur," said she; "there are two masks watching us."

"Oh, do not be afraid, countess; they cannot recognise us. Do not miud them; but let me assure you that never form was so enchanting as yours, never eyes so brilliant, never-"

"Hush! the spies approach."

"Spies!" said the cardinal, uneasily. " Disguise your voice if they make you speak, and I will do the same."

Oliva and her blue domino indeed approached; he came up to the cardinal, and said, " Mask- "

"What do you want- " said the cardinal, in a voice as unlike his natural one as he could make it.

"The lady who accompanies me desires me to ask you some questions."

"Ask," said Monsieur de Rohan.

"Are they very indiscreet- " said Madame de la Motte.

"So indiscreet that you shall not hear them;" and he pretended to whisper to Oliva, who made a sign in answer. Then, in irreproachable German, he said to the cardinal, " Monseigneur, are you in love with the lady who accompanies you- "

The cardinal trembled.

"Did you say monseigneur- " he asked.

"Yes."

"You deceive yourself; I am not the person you think."

"Oh, Monsieur le Cardinal, do not deny it; it is useless. If even I did not know you, the lady who accompanies me assures me she knows you perfectly." And he again whispered to Oliva, " Make a sign for 'Yes.' Do so each, time I press your arm."

She did so.

"You astonish me!" said the cardiual. " Who is this lady- "

"Oh, monseigneur, I thought you would have known; she soon knew you. It is true that jealousy- "

"Madame is jealous of me!" cried the cardinal.

"We do not say that," replied the unknown, rather haughtily.

"What are you talking about- " asked Madame de la Motte, who did not like this conversation in German.

"Oh, nothing, nothing! "

"Madame," said the cardinal to Oliva, " one word from you, and I promise to recognise you instantly."

Oliva, who saw him speaking to her, but did not understand a word, whispered to her companion.

All this mystery piqued the cardinal.

"One single German word," he said, " could not much compromise madame."

The blue domino again pretended to take her orders, and then said, " Monsieur le Cardinal, these are the words of madame: ' He whose thoughts are not ever on the alert, he whose imagination does not perpetually suggest the presence of the loved one, does not love, however much he may pretend it.'"

The cardinal appeared struck with these words; all his attitude expressed surprise, respect, and devotion, then his arms fell at his sides.

"It is impossible! " he murmured in French.

"What is impossible- " asked Madame de la Motte, who seized eagerly on these few words she could understand.

"Nothing, madame, nothing! "

"Really, cardinal, you are making me play but a sorry part," said she, withdrawing her arm angrily.

He did not even seem to notice it, so great was his preoccupation with the German lady.

"Madame," said he to her, " these words that your companion has repeated to me in your name are some German lines which I read in a house which is perhaps known to you."

The blue domino pressed Oliva's arm, who thereupon bowed an assent.

"That house," said the cardinal, hesitatingly, "is it not called Schoenbrnnn- "

She again made a gesture of assent.

"They were written on a table of cherry-wood, with a gold bodkin, by an august hand."

"Yes," bowed Oliva again.

The cardinal stopped, he tottered, and leaned against a pillar for support. Madame de la Motte stood by, watching this strange scene. Then the cardinal, touching the blue domino, said, " This is the conclusion of the quotation: 'But he who sees everywhere the loved object, who recognises her by a flower, by a perfume, through the thickest veils, he can still be silent; his voice is in his heart; and if one other understands him, he is happy.'"

"Oh, they are speaking German here," said a young voice from an approaching group; "let us listen. Do you speak German, marshal- "

"No, monseigneur."

"You, Charny-"

"Yes, your Highness."

"Here is Monsieur le Comte d'Artois," said Oliva softly to her companion.

A crowd followed them, and many were passing round.

"Take care, gentlemen!" said the blue domino.

"Monsieur," replied the prince, " the people are pushing us."

At this moment some invisible hand pulled Oliva's hood from behind, and her mask fell. She replaced it as quickly as possible, with a half-terrified cry, which was echoed by one of affected disquiet from her companion.

Several others around looked no little bewildered.

The cardinal nearly fainted, and Madame de la Motte supported him. The pressure of the crowd separated the Comte d'Artois and his party from them. Then the blue domino approached the cardinal, and said:-

"This is indeed an irreparable misfortune; this lady's honour is at your mercy."

"Oh, monsieur!" murmured the cardinal, who was much agitated.

"Let us go quickly," said the blue domino to Oliva; and they moved away.

"Now I know," said Madame de la Motte to herself, " what the cardinal meant was impossible: he took this woman for the queen. But what an effect it has had on him! Another observation to be retained."

"Would you like to leave the ball- " asked Monsieur de Rohan, in a feeble voice.

"As you please, mouseigneur," replied Jeanne.

"I do not find much interest here; do you- "

"None at all."

They pushed their way through the crowd. The cardinal, who was tall, looked all around him, to try and see again the vision which had disappeared; but blue, white, and gray dominoes were everywhere, and he could distinguish no one. They had been some time in the carriage, and he had not yet spoken to Jeanne.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE EXAMINATION.

At last Jeanne said, "Where is this carriage taking me to, cardinal-"

"Back to your own house, countess."

"My house- in the faubourg- "

"Yes, countess. A very small house to contain so many charms."

They soon stopped. Jeanne aligkted, and he was preparing to follow her, but she stopped him, and said, " It is very late, cardinal."

"Cannot I spend a few hours with you, madame- "

"And sleep, monseigneur," replied Jeanne.

"I believe there are several bedrooms in your house, countess."

"For me, yes; but for you- "

"None for me- "

"Not yet," said she, with an air at once so gracious and so provoking that it seemed almost a promise.

"Adieu, then," said he; and he drove away, absorbed and almost forgetting the scene at the ball.

Jeanne entered alone into her new house. Six lackeys waited for her in the hall, and she looked at them as calmly as though she had been used to it all her life.

"Where are my femmes de chambre- " said she.

One of the men advanced respectfully.

"Two women wait for madame in her room."

"Call them." The valet obeyed.

"Where do you usually sleep- " said Jeanne to them, when they entered.

"We have no place as yet," said one of them; " we can sleep wherever madame pleases."

"Where are the keys- "

"Here, madame."

"Well,for this night you shall sleep out of the house."

The women looked at her in surprise.

"You have some place to go to-" said Jeanne.

"Certainly, madame; but it is late. Still, if madame wishes- "

"And these men can accompany you," she continued, dismissing the valets also, who seemed rather pleased.

"When shall we return- " asked one of them.

"To-morrow at noon."

They seemed more astonished than ever, but Jeanne looked so imperious that they did not speak.

"Is there any one else here- " she asked.

"No one, madame. It is impossible for madame to remain like this; surely you must have some one here."

"I want no one."

"The house might take fire; madame might be ill."

"Go, all of you," said Jeanne; "and take this," added she, giving them money from her purse.

They all thanked her, and disappeared, saying to each other that they had found a strange mistress.

Jeanne then locked the doors, and said triumphantly, " Now I am alone here, in my own house." She lighted a torch from a three-branched candelabrum, which was burning in the hall, and carefully closed the massive doors of this antechamber, and drew the bolts securely. Then followed a strange, silent scene, which would have been highly entef- taining to one of those nocturnal spectators which poets represent as hovering over cities and palaces. She commenced an examination, admiring each thing individually. The ground-floor contained a bath-room, dining-room, three drawing-rooms, and two morning-rooms. The furniture of these rooms was handsome, though not new. It pleased Jeanne better than if it had been furnished expressly for her. All the rich antiques disdained by fashionable ladies, the marvellous pieces of carved ebony, the glass lustres, the gothic clocks, chefs-d'oeuvre of carving and enamel, the screens with embroidered Chinese figures, and the immense vases, threw Jeanne into indescribable raptures. Here on a chimney-piece two gilded tritons were bearing branches of coral, upon which were hung jewelled fruits. In another place, on a gilded console table, was an enormous elephant, with sapphires hanging from his ears, supporting a tower filled with little bottles of scent. Books in gilt bindings were on rosewood shelves. One room was hung with Gobelin tapestry, and furnished in gray and gold; another, panelled in paintings by Vernet. The small rooms contained pictures. The whole was evidently the collection of years.

Then, as her domino annoyed her, and her bodice was too tight, she went to her bedroom, and, hastily divesting herself of her clothes, slipped on a short cloak of quilted satin. Shivering, and only half protected against the cold by her satin wrap, which clung to her body and hung loose around her graceful limbs, she rushed up the stairs with her light in her hand.

Familiarized with the solitude, and having no fear lest she should meet the gaze of a servant, she bounded from room to room; the wind blowing up from under the doors caused her light robe to flutter; and ten times in as many minutes, it was lifted to the height of her pretty knees. And when, in raising her arm. to open a wardrobe, her gown flew back, disclosing a white rounded shoulder, of that dazzling tint so familiar in the paintings of Eubens, then indeed the invisible spirits concealed under the draperies and enclosed behind the painted panels might well rejoice in the possession of so beautiful a hostess, who appeared before them in all her loveliness.

When she had seen everything, and admired everything, there only remained herself to be admired. She entered her chamber, out of breath, her candle almost consumed. The chamber was hung with blue brocaded satin, embroidered with large fantastic flowers. She placed her light on a Sevres table; suddenly, her eyes rested on a marble Endymion- a delicate and voluptuous figure by Bouchardon- reclining, mad with love, on a block of porphyry.

She closed the door, drew the portieres and the curtains, returned to the statue, and gazed upon this beautiful lover of Diana, who had given him a farewell kiss before she returned to the sky.

The glow of the fire warmed this room, in which everything was conducive to comfort.

Jeanne felt her feet sink in the soft depths of the velvet carpet, her limbs trembled under her, her whole being palpitated; yet her languor was not that of fatigue or drowsiness; a heat not that of the fire consumed her from head to foot; an electric current coursed through her veins, and she experienced all the strange sensations of an ardent love. Just then she caught a glimpse of herself in a pier glass behind the Endymion. Her cloak had slipped off from her shoulders and fallen to the floor. The fine cambric, weighed down by the heavier satin, disclosed her arms so white and rounded. Two dark eyes, sweet in their softness, glowing in delight, looked back at Jeanne from the mirror, and in her inmost heart she knew she was beautiful and she felt the glow of youth and love. She could but acknowledge that Diana herself was not more worthy of being loved. She approached Endymion, to see if he really would not become animated and prefer the mortal to the goddess. At last, intoxicated with transport and completely exhausted, her head fell toward her shoulder and she kissed her palpitating flesh; then, still looking in the mirror, her eyes closed; she sighed deeply, and fell half asleep and unconscious upon the bed whose curtains hung above her. The candle flickered in its pool of melted wax; then, exhaling its last perfumed breath, went out completely, and all was still.

CHAPTER XXV. THE ACADEMY OF MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE.

Beausire had followed the advice of the blue domino, and repaired to the place of meeting in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer. This worthy friend of Oliva was tempted by the immense sum of two millions. He was frightened by the apparent exclusion which his companions had seemed to meditate in not communicating their plans to him; and he knew none of them to be particularly scrupulous. He had acquired the reputation among them of a man to be feared; it was not wonderful, as he had been a soldier and worn a uniform. He knew how to draw his sword, and he had a habit of looking very fierce at the slightest word that displeased him. All things which appear rather terrifying to those of doubtful courage, especially when they have reason to shun the eclat of a duel and the curiosity of the police.

Beausire counted, therefore, on revenging himself by frightening them a little. It was a long way, but Beausire had money in his pocket; so he took a coach, promised the driver an extra franc to go fast, and, to make up for the absence of his sword, he assumed as fierce a look as he could on entering the room.

It was a large hall, full of tables, at which were seated about twenty players, drinking beer or syrups, and smiling now and then on some highly rouged women who sat near them. They were playing faro at the principal table, but the stakes were low, and the excitement small in proportion.

On the entrance of the domino, all the women smiled on him, half in raillery, and half in coquetry, for Monsieur Beausire was a favourite among them. However, he advanced in silence to the table without noticing any one.

One of the players, who was a good-humoured looking fellow, said to him, " Corbleu, chevalier, you come from the ball looking out of sorts."

"Is your domino uncomfortable- " said another.

"No, it is not my domino," replied Beausire gruffly.

"Oh!" said the banker, " he has been unfaithful to us; he has been playing somewhere else and lost."

"It is not I who am unfaithful to my friends; I am incapable of it. I leave that to others." And to emphasise his words he forcibly struck his hat down over his head. Unfortunately, he merely flattened his silk hood by this movement, and looked so ridiculous that, instead of the solemn impression he intended to convey by this manoeuvre, he only awakened the mirth of his companions.

"What do you mean, dear chevalier- "

"I know what I mean," replied he.

"But that is not enough for us," said the old man, good- humouredly.

"That does not concern you, monsieur," replied Beau- sire rashly.

An expressive glance from the banker's eye warned Beau- sire that he had gone too far. Indeed, in this assembly there was a strong line of demarcation drawn between those who paid and those who pocketed the money.

Beausire understood the look, but his blood was up; the truly courageous are more easily restrained than braggarts like him. " I thought I had friends here," he said.

"Certainly," replied several voices.

"Well, I was deceived."

"How-"

"You plan things without me."

Several of the members began to protest it was not true.

"I know better," said Beausire; " and these false friends shall be punished." He put his hand to his side to feel for his sword, but, as it was not there, he only shook his pocket, and the gold rattled.

"Oh, oh! " said the banker, " Monsieur Beausire has not lost. Come, will you not play- "

"Thanks," said Beausire; " I will keep what I have got."

"Only one louis," said one of the women, caressingly.

"I do not play for miserable louis," said he. " We play for millions here to-night,- yes, gentlemen, millions."

He had worked himself up into a great state of excitement, and was losing sight of all prudence, when a blow from behind made him turn, and he saw by him a great dark figure, stiff and upright, and with two shining black eyes. He met Beausire's furious glance with a ceremonious bow.

"The Portuguese! " said Beausire.

"The Portuguese!" echoed the ladies, who abandoned Beausire to crowd round the new-comer, he being their especial pet, as he was in the habit of bringing them sweetmeats, sometimes wrapped up in notes of fifty or sixty francs. This man was one of the twelve associates.

He was used as a bait at their society. It was agreed that he should lose a hundred louis a week as an inducement to allure strangers to play. He was therefore considered a useful man. He was also an agreeable one, and was held in much consideration.

Beausire became silent on perceiving who had given him the warning blow.

The Portuguese took his place at the table, and put down twenty louis, which he soon lost, thereby making some of those who had been stripped before forget their losses.

All the money received by the banker was dropped into a well under the table, and he was forbidden to wear long sleeves, lest he should conceal any within them, although the other members generally took the liberty of searching both sleeves and pockets before they left.

Several now put on their great-coats and took leave,- some happy enough to escort the ladies.

A few, however, after making a feint to go, returned into another room; and here the twelve associates soon found themselves united.

"Now we will have an explanation," said Beausire.

"Do not speak so loud," said the Portuguese in good French. Then they examined the doors and windows to make certain that all was secure, drew the curtain close, and seated themselves.

"I have a communication to make," said the Portuguese; " it was lucky, however, I arrived when I did, for Monsieur Beausire was seized this evening with a most imprudent flow of eloquence."

Beausire tried to speak.

"Silence," said the Portuguese; " let us not waste words. You know my ideas beforehand very well; you are a man of talent, and may have guessed it, but I think amour propre should never overcome self-interest."

"I do not understand."

"We do not understand," said the respectable assembly.

"Monsieur Beausire hoped to be the first to make this proposition."

"What proposition- " cried the rest.

"Concerning the two million francs," said Beausire..

"Two million francs!" cried they.

"First," said the Portuguese, "you exaggerate; it is not as much as that."

"We do not know what you are talking of," said the banker.

"But are not the less all ears," said another.

The Portuguese drank off a large glass of Orgeat, and then began: " The necklace is not worth more than 1,500,000 francs."

"Oh, then it concerns a necklace- " said Beausire.

"Yes, did you not mean the same thing- "

"Perhaps."

"Now he is going to be discreet after his former folly," said the Portuguese; " but time presses, for the ambassador will arrive in eight days."

"This matter becomes complicated," said the banker; " a necklace! 1,500,000 francs! and an ambassador! Pray explain."

"In a few words," said the Portuguese; " Messieurs Boeh- mer and Bossange offered to the queen a necklace worth that sum. She refused it, and now they do not know what to do with it, for none but a royal fortune could buy it. Well, I have found the royal personage who will buy this necklace, and obtain the custody of it from Messieurs Boeh- mer and Bossange; and that is my gracious sovereign, the Queen of Portugal."

"We understand it less than ever," said the associates.

"And I not at all," thought Beausire; then he said aloud, " Explain yourself clearly, dear Monsieur Manoel; our private differences should give place to the public interests. I acknowledge you the author of the idea, and renounce all right to its paternity. Therefore speak on."

"Willingly," said Manoel, drinking a second glass of Orgeat.

"We all know that there exists a necklace worth fifteen hundred thousand francs," said the banker. " That is an important point."

"And this necklace is in the hands of Boehmer and Bossange. That is the second point," said Monsieur de Beausire.

"But Don Manoe'l just told us that her Majesty, the Queen of Portugal, wishes to purchase it. That is what confuses us."

"Nothing could be plainer," replied the Portuguese. " Listen attentively to what I am about to tell you. The embassy is vacant just now; the new ambassador, Monsieur de Souza, will not arrive for a week. Well, he may arrive sooner."

They all looked stupefied but Beausire, who said, " Do you not see some ambassador, whether true or false- "

"Exactly," said Manoel; " and the ambassador who arrives may desire to buy this necklace for the Queen of Portugal, and treat accordingly with Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange. That is all."

"But," said the banker, " they would not allow such a necklace to pass into the hands of Monsieur de Souza himself without good security."

"Oh, I have thought of all that; the ambassador's house is vacant, with the exception of the chancellor, who is a Frenchman, and speaks bad Portuguese, and who is therefore delighted when the Portuguese speak French to him, as he does not then betray himself; but who likes to speak Portuguese to the French, as it sounds grand. Well, we will present ourselves to this chancellor with all the appearances of a new legation."

"Appearances are something," said Beausire; "but the credentials are much more."

"We will have them," replied Manoel.

"No one can deny that Don Manoel is an invaluable man," said Beausire.

"Well, our appearances and the credentials having convinced the chancellor of our identity, we will establish ourselves at the house."

"That is pretty bold," said Beausire.

"It is necessary, and quite easy," said Mauoe"!; " the chancellor will be convinced, and if he should afterwards become less credulous, we will dismiss him. I believe an ambassador has the right to change his chancellor."

"Certainly."

"Then, when we are masters of the hotel, our first operation will be to wait on Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange."

"But you forget one thing," said Beausire; " our first act should be to ask an audience of the king, and then we should break down. The famous Eiza Bey, who was presented to Louis XIV. as ambassador from the Shah of Persia, spoke Persian at least, and there were no savant here capable of knowing how well; but we should be found out at once. We should be told directly that our Portuguese was remarkably French, and we should be sent to the Bastille."

"We will escape this danger by remaining quietly at home."

"Then Monsieur Boehmer will not believe in our ambassadorship."

"Monsieur Boehmer will be told that we are sent merely to buy the necklace. We will show him our order to do this, as we shall before have shown it to the chancellor, only we must try to avoid showing it to the ministers, for they are suspicious, and might find a host of little flaws."

"Oh yes," cried they all, " let us avoid the ministers."

"But if Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange require money on account- " asked Beausire.

"That would complicate the affair, certainly."

"For," continued Beausire, " it is usual for an ambassador to have letters of credit, at least, if not ready money; and here we should fail."

"You find plenty of reasons why it should fail," said Manoel, " but nothing to make it succeed."

"It is because I wish it to succeed that I speak of the difficulties. But stop,- a thought strikes me: in every ambassador's house there is a strong-box."

"Yes, a strong-box and a credit."

"We will not worry about the credit, for nothing is so hard to procure," said Beausire. " In order to establish our credit, we shall need horses, carriages, servants, a fine establishment,- all those accessories without which credit cannot exist, since they are its foundation. Let us speak of the strong-box. What do you know about the one belonging to the Portuguese embassy- "

"I have always considered her Majesty a generous queen. Undoubtedly it is well supplied with funds."

"Yes; but it may be empty."

"Well, if it be, we must ask Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange who are their correspondents at Lisbon, and we will sign and stamp for them letters of credit for the sum demanded."

"That will do," said Manoe'l. " I was engrossed with the grand idea, but had not sufficiently considered the details."

"Now, let us think of arranging the parts," said Beausire. " Don Manoel will be ambassador."

"Certainly," they all said.

"And Monsieur Beausire my secretary and interpreter," said Manoel.

"Why so- " said Beausire, rather uneasily.

"I am Monsieur de Souza, and must not speak a word of French; for I know that that gentleman speaks nothing but Portuguese, and very little of that. You, on the contrary, Monsieur Beausire, who have travelled, and have acquired French habits, who speak Portuguese also- "

"Very badly," said Beausire.

"Quite enough to deceive a Parisian; and then, you know, the most useful agents will have the largest shares."

"Assuredly," said the others.

"Well! it is agreed; I am secretary and interpreter. Then as to the money- "

"It shall be divided into twelve parts; but I, as ambassador and author of the scheme shall have a share and a half; Monsieur Beausire the same, as interpreter, and because he partly shared my idea; and also a share and a half to him who sells the jewels."

"Oh!" cried all the company. " Half a share is enough for him."

"Why so- " said Manoel in surprise, " it seems to me that he who sells the jewels runs a great risk."

"True," said the banker; " but he will have a bonus, a premium, and allowances, which will bring him in an enormous share."

All laughed. These honest people understood each other remarkably welli

"So far, then, it is settled 1 we will arrange the minor details to-morrow, for it is very late," said Beausire, who was thinking of Oliva, left at the ball with the blue domino, towards whom, in spite of his readiness in giving away louis d'or, he did not feel very friendly.

"No, no; we will finish at once," said the others. " What is to be prepared- "

"A travelling carriage, with the arms of Monsieur de Souza," said Beausire.

"That would take too long to paint and to dry," said Manoel.

"Then we must say that the ambassador's carriage broke down on the way, and he was forced to use that of the secretary. I must have a carriage, and my arms will do for that. Besides, we will have plenty of bruises and injuries on the carriage, and especially round the arms, and no one will think of them."

"But the rest of the embassy- "

"We will arrive in the evening; it is the best time to make a debut, and you shall all follow next day, when we have prepared the way."

"Very well."

"But every ambassador, besides a secretary, must have a valet de chambre, who will occupy a delicate position. You, captain," said Don Manoel, addressing one of the gang, " shall take this part."

The captain bowed.

"And the money for the purchases- " said Manoel. " I have nothing."

"I have a little," said Beausire, " but it belongs to my mistress. What have we in our fund- "

"Your keys, gentlemen," said the banker.

Each drew out a key, which opened one of twelve locks in the table; so that none of these honest associates could open it without all the others. They went to look.

"One hundred and ninety-eight louis, besides the reserve fund," said the banker.

"Give them to Monsieur Beausire and me. It is not too much," said Manoel.

"Give us two thirds, and leave the rest," said Beausire, with a generosity which won all their hearts.

Don Manoel and Beausire received, therefore, one hundred and thirty-two louis, and sixty-six remained for the others.

They then separated, having fixed a rendezvous for the next day.

Beausire rolled up his domino under his arm, and hastened to the Rue Dauphine, where he hoped to find Oliva in possession of some new louis d'or.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE AMBASSADOR.

On the evening of the next day a travelling carriage passed through the Barriere d'Enfer, so covered with dust and scratches that no one could discern the arms. The four horses that drew it went at a rapid pace, until it arrived before a hotel of handsome appearance in the Rue de la Jussieune, at the door of which two men were waiting, one of whom was in full dress; the other was in the livery usually worn by the officers connected with foreign embassies in Paris; he looked like a guard in gala costume. The carriage entered the court-yard of the hotel, and one of the persons waiting approached the door, and commenced speaking in bad Portuguese.

"Who are you- " said a voice from the inside, speaking the language perfectly.

"The unworthy chancellor of the embassy, your Excellency."

"Very well. Mon Dieu! how badly you speak our language, my dear chancellor! But where are we to go- "

"This way, monseigueur."

"This is a poor reception," said Don Manoel, as he got out of the carriage, leaning on the arms of his secretary and valet.

"Your Excellency must pardon me," said the chancellor, " but the courier announcing your arrival only reached the hotel at two o'clock to-day. I was absent on some business, and when I returned found your Excellency's letter; I have only had time to have the rooms opened and lighted."

"Very good."

"It gives me great pleasure to see the illustrious person of our ambassador."

"We desire to keep as quiet as possible," said Don Manoel, " until we receive further orders from Lisbon. But pray show me to my room, for I am dying with fatigue; my secretary will give you all necessary directions."

The chancellor bowed respectfully to Beausire, who returned it, and then said, with ironical courtesy, "We will speak French, monsieur; I think it will be better for both of us."

"Yes," murmured the chancellor, "I shall be more at my ease; for I confess that my pronunciation- "

"So I hear," interrupted Beausire.

"I will take the liberty to say to you, monsieur, as you seem so amiable, that I trust Monsieur de Souza will not be annoyed at my speaking such bad Portuguese."

"Oh, not at all, as you speak French."

"French! " cried the chancellor; "I was born in the Rue Saint-HonoreV'

"Oh, that will do," said Beausire. "Your name is Ducorneau, is it not-"

"Yes, monsieur; rather a lucky one, as it has a Spanish termination. It is very flattering to me that monsieur knew my name."

"Oh, you are well known; so well that we did not bring a chancellor from Lisbon with us."

"I am very grateful, monsieur; but I think Monsieur de Souza is ringing."

"Let us go and see."

They found Manoe'l attired in a magnificent dressing- gown. Several boxes and dressing-cases, of rich appearance, were already unpacked and lying about.

"Enter," said he to the chancellor.

"Will his Excellency be angry if I answer in French-" said Ducorneau, in a low voice, to Beausire.

"Oh, no; I am sure of it."

Monsieur Ducorneau, therefore, paid the compliments in French.

"Oh, it is very convenient that you speak French so well, Monsieur Ducorno," said the ambassador.

"He takes me for a Portuguese," thought the chancellor, with joy.

"Now," said Manoel, "can. I have supper-"

"Certainly, your Excellency. The Palais Royal is only;wo steps from here, and I know an excellent restaurant, from which your Excellency can have a good supper in a very short time."

"Order it in your own name, if you please, Monsieur Ducorno."

"And if your Excellency will permit me, I will add to it some bottles of capital wine from your own country, such as your Excellency can only have found at Oporto itself."

"Oh, our chancellor keeps a good cellar, then-" said Beausire, jokingly.

"It is my only luxury," replied he. And now, by the wax-lights, they could remark his rather red nose and puffed cheeks.

"Very well, Monsieur Ducorno; bring your wine, and sup with us."

"Such an honour- "

"Oh, no etiquette to-night; I am only a traveller. I shall not begin to be ambassador till to-morrow; then we will talk of business."

"Monseigneur will permit me to arrange my toilet."

"Oh, you are superb already," said Beausire.

"Yes, but this is a reception dress, and not a gala one."

"Remain as you are, monsieur, and give the time to expediting our supper."

Ducorneau, delighted, left the room to fulfil his orders. Then the three rogues, left together, began to discuss their affairs.

"Does this chancellor sleep here-" said Manoel.

"No; the fellow has a good cellar, and, I doubt not, a snug lodging somewhere or other. He is an old bachelor."

"There is a Swiss."

"We must get rid of him; and there are a few valets, whom we must replace to-morrow with our own friends."

"Who is in the kitchen department-"

"No one. The old ambassador did not live here; he had a house in the town."

"What about the strong-box-"

"Oh, on that point we must consult the chancellor; it is a delicate matter."

"I charge myself with it," said Beausire; "we are already capital friends."

"Hush! here he comes."

Ducorneau entered, quite out of breath. He had ordered the supper, and fetched six bottles of wine from his cellar, and was looking quite radiant at the thoughts of the coming repast.

"Will your Excellency descend to the dining-room-"

"No, we will sup up here."

"Here is the wine, then," said Ducorneau.

"It sparkles like rubies," said Beausire, holding it to the light.

"Sit down, Monsieur Ducorno; my valet will wait upon us. What day did the last despatches arrive-"

"Immediately after the departure of your Excellency's predecessor."

"Are the affairs of the embassy in good order- "

"Oh yes, monseigneur."

"No money difficulties- no debts-"

"Not that I know of."

"Because, if there are, we must begin by paying them. My predecessor is a worthy man, and I must be his guarantee."

"Oh, your Excellency will have nothing of that sort to do. All the accounts were paid up three weeks ago; and the day after the departure of the late ambassador one hundred thousand francs arrived here."

"One hundred thousand francs-" said Beausire.

"Yes, in gold."

"So," said Beausire, "the box contains- "

"100,328 francs, monsieur."

"It is not much," said Manoel, coolly; "but happily her Majesty has placed funds at my disposal. I told you," continued he, turning to Beausire, "that I thought we should need it at Paris."

"Your Excellency took wise precautions," said Beausire, respectfully.

From the time of this important communication the hilarity of the party went on increasing. A good supper, consisting of salmon, crabs, and sweets, contributed to their satisfaction. Ducorneau, quite at his ease, ate enough for ten, and did not fail, either, in demonstrating that a Parisian could do honour to port and sherry.

CHAPTER XXVII. MESSIEURS BOEHMER AND BOSSANGE.

Monsieur Ducorneau blessed Heaven repeatedly for sending an ambassador who preferred his speaking French to Portuguese, and liked Portuguese wines better than French ones. At last Manoel expressed a wish to go to bed; Ducorneau rose and left the room, although, it must be confessed, he found some difficulty in the operation.

It was now the turn of the valet to have supper, which he did with great good-will.

The next day the hotel assumed an air of business; all the bureaus were opened, and everything indicated life in the recently deserted place.

The report soon spread in the neighbourhood that some great personages had arrived from Portugal during the night. This, although what was wanted to give them credit, could not but inspire the conspirators with some alarm; for the police of Monsieur Crosne had quick ears and Argus eyes. Still, they thought that by audacity, combined with prudence, they might easily keep them from becoming suspicious, until they had had time to complete their business.

Two carriages containing the other nine associates arrived, as agreed upon, and they were soon installed in their different departments. One was appointed to superintend the cash department, another was made keeper of the records, a third took the place of the porter, whom Ducorneau himself had discharged at Beausire's instigation, "because he did not speak Portuguese." The establishment was soon peopled by this garrison, whose first duty was to protect it from intruders. The police are always considered intruders by those who have secrets, political or otherwise.

About noon, Don Manoel, called Souza, gaily dressed, got into a carriage, which they had hired for five hundred francs a month, and set out, with his secretary, for the residence of Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange.

As is customary in the absence of an ambassador, the chancellor was told to settle no accounts without first consulting the secretary, and to give no passports, indemnities, or make any disbursements, without the approval of the latter.

By this means these men hoped to keep intact the hundred thousand francs, on which the whole operation hinged. The ambassador, having learned that the court jewellers resided on the Quai de 1'Ecole, directed his course thither, and arrived at his destination at about one o'clock.

Their servant knocked at the door, which was secured with immense locks, and studded with great nails, like that of a prison. These nails were arranged so as to form various designs, more or less attractive; and were placed so closely together that no saw, gimlet, or file could touch the wood without encountering a bit of iron, and being broken by it. A latticed wicket was opened, and a voice asked the servant what was wanted.

"His Excellency the Ambassador of Portugal desires to speak to Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange," replied the servant.

At once a figure appeared on the landing above; then a hasty step was heard on the staircase. The door was quickly opened.

Don Manoel descended from his carriage with dignified slowness; Monsieur de Beausire, having previously alighted, stood ready to offer the ambassador his arm.

The man who advanced to meet the two Portuguese in such haste was Monsieur Boehmer himself, who, on hearing a carriage stop before his door, had peered out at it through his window panes; and, on hearing the word ambassador pronounced, hastened down to wait upon his Excellency in chagrin at his delay. The jeweller spent all the time occupied in ascending the staircase in making excuses for his remissness.

Monsieur Beausire noticed a strong woman servant, who followed them, carefully bolting and locking the door. Seeing his looks bent upon her actions, Boehmer hastened to say to Beausire, "Pardon, monsieur; our business is such a precarious one that we are compelled to take great care in keeping our doors locked."

Don Manoel all this time remained passive; Boehmer observed this, and repeated the remark to him with a conciliatory smile. But the ambassador paid no more atten- tiotn to the second remark than he had to the first.

"Pardon me, monsieur," said Boehmer again to the ambassador, somewhat disconcerted.

"His Excellency does not speak French," said Beausire, "and does not understand you, monsieur. But I will convey to him your excuses," he added, hastily, "unless, indeed, you, monsieur, speak Portuguese."

"No, monsieur, I do not."

Manoel then spoke in Portuguese to Beausire, who, turning to Monsieur Boehmer, said,-

"His Excellency, Monsieur le Comte de Souza, ambassador from the Queen of Portugal, accepts your apology, and desires me to ask you if you have not in your possession a beautiful diamond necklace-"

Boehmer looked at him scrutinisingly; Beausire met his look with the coolness of a diplomatist.

"A beautiful diamond necklace!" repeated he.

"The one which you offered to the Queen of France, and which our gracious queen has heard of."

"Monsieur," said Boehmer, "is an officer of the ambassador's-"

"His secretary, monsieur."

Don Manoe'l was seated with the air of a great man, looking carelessly at the pictures which hung round the room.

"Monsieur Boehmer," said Beausire, abruptly, "do you not understand what I am saying to you-"

"Yes, monsieur," answered Boehmer, rather startled by the manner of the secretary.

"Because I see his Excellency is becoming impatient."

"Excuse me, monsieur," said Boehmer, colouring, "but I dare not show the necklace, except in my partner's presence."

"Well, monsieur, call your partner."

Don Manoe'l approached Beausire, and began again talking to him in Portuguese.

"His Excellency says," interpreted he, "that he has already waited ten minutes, and that he is not accustomed to be kept waiting even by kings."

Boehmer bowed, and rang the bell. A minute afterwards Monsieur Bossange entered.

Boehmer explained the matter to him, who, after looking scrutinisingly at the Portuguese, left the room with a key given him by his partner, and soon returned with a case in one hand; the other was hidden under his coat, but they distinctly saw the shining barrel of a pistol.

"However well we may look," said Manoe'l, gravely, in Portuguese, to his companion, "these gentlemen seem to take us for pickpockets rather than ambassadors."

And he observed the two jewellers carefully, to discover by any signs of emotion on their faces, whether they understood the Portuguese language. But he saw nothing to arouse his suspicions.

Monsieur Bossange advanced, and put the case into the hands of Manoe'l. He opened it, and then cried angrily to his secretary,-

"Monsieur, tell these gentlemen that they tire my patience! I ask for a diamond necklace, and they bring me paste. Tell them I will complain to the ministers, and will have them thrown into the Bastille, impertinent people, who play tricks upon an ambassador." And he threw down the case in such a passion that they did not need an interpretation of his speech, but began explaining most humbly that in France it was usual to show only the models of diamonds, so as not to tempt people to robbery, were they so inclined.

Manoel, with an indignant gesture, walked towards the door.

"His Excellency desires me to tell you," said Beausire, "that he is sorry that people like Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange, jewellers to the queen, should not know better how to distinguish an ambassador from a rogue, and that he will return to his hotel."

The jewellers began to utter most respectful protestations, but Manoe'l walked on, and Beausire followed him. The old woman unlocked the door.

"To the ambassador's hotel, Hue de la Jussienne," said Beausire to the footman.

"A lost business," groaned the valet, as they set off.

"On the contrary, a safe one; in an hour these men will follow us."

The carriage drove rapidly away.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE AMBASSADOR'S HOTEL.

On returning to their hotel, these gentlemen found Ducor- neau dining quietly in his bureau. Beausire desired him, when he had finished, to go up and see the ambassador, and added,-

"You will see, my dear chancellor, that Monsieur de Souza is not an ordinary man."

"I see that already."

"His Excellency," continued Beausire, "wishes to take a distinguished position in Paris, and this residence will be insupportable to him. He will require a private house."

"That will complicate the diplomatic business," said Ducorneau, "we shall have to go so often to obtain his signature."

"His Excellency will give you a carriage, Monsieur Ducorneau."

"A carriage for me! "

"Certainly; every chancellor of a great ambassador should have a carriage. But we will talk of that afterwards. His Excellency wishes to know where the strongbox is.

"Up stairs, close to his own room."

"So far from you-"

"For greater safety, monsieur. Robbers would find greater difficulty in penetrating there, than here on the ground-floor."

"Robbers!" said Beausire, disdainfully, " for such a little sum-"

"One hundred thousand francs!" said Ducorneau. " It is easy to see Monsieur de Souza is rich, but there is not more kept in any ambassador's house in Europe."

"Shall we examine it now-" said Beausire. "I am rather in a hurry to attend to my own business."

"Immediately, monsieur."

They went up, and the money was found all right.

Ducorneau gave his key to Beausire, who kept it for some time, pretending to admire its ingenious construction, while he cleverly took the impression of it in wax. Then he gave it back, saying, "Keep it, Monsieur Ducorneau; it is better in your hands than in mine. Let us now go to the ambassador."

They found Don Manofil drinking chocolate, and apparently much occupied with a paper covered with ciphers.

"Do you understand the cipher used in the late correspondence-" said he to the chancellor.

"No, your Excellency."

"I should wish you to learn it; it will save me a great deal of trouble. What about the box-" said he to Beausire.

"Perfectly correct, like everything else with which Monsieur Ducorneau has any connection."

"The hundred thousand francs-"

"Intact."

"Well, sit down, Monsieur Ducorneau; I want you to give me some information. Do you know any honest jewellers in Paris-"

"There are Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange, jewellers to the queen."

"But they are precisely the people I do not wish to employ. I have just quitted them, never to return."

"Have they had the misfortune to displease your Excellency-"

"Seriously, Monsieur Ducorneau."

"Oh, if I dared speak."

"You may."

"I would ask how these people, who bear so high a name- "

"They are perfect Jews, Monsieur Ducorneau, and their bad behaviour will make them lose a million or two."

"Oh!" cried Ducorneau.

"I was sent by her gracious Majesty to make an offer to them for a diamond necklace."

"Oh! the famous necklace which had been ordered by the late king for Madame Dubarry-"

"You are a valuable man, monsieur,- you know everything. Well, now I shall not buy it."

"Shall I interfere-"

"Monsieur Ducorneau!"

"Oh, only as a diplomatic affair."

"If you knew them at all."

"Bossange is a distant relation of mine."

At this moment a valet opened the door, and announced Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange. Don Manoel rose quickly, and said in an angry tone, "Send those people away!"

The valet made a step forward: "No; you do it," said he to his secretary.

"I beg you to allow me," said Ducorneau; and he advanced to meet them.

"There 1 this affair is destined to fail," said Manoe'l.

"No; Ducorneau will arrange it."

"I am convinced he will embroil it. You said at the jewellers' that I did not understand French, and Ducorneau will let out that I do."

"I will go," said Beausire.

"Perhaps that is equally dangerous."

Oh, no; only leave me to act."

Beausire went down. Ducorneau had found the jewellers much more disposed to politeness and confidence since entering the hotel; also, on seeing an old friend, "Bossange was delighted.

"You here!" said he; and he approached to embrace him.

"Ah! you are very amiable to-day, my rich cousin," said Ducorneau. "You recognise me here, because I belong to the embassy."

"Oh," said Bossange, "if we have been a little separated, forgive, and render me a service."

"I came to do it."

"Thanks. You are, then, attached to the embassy-"

"Yes."

"I want advice."

"On what-"

"On this embassy."

"I am the chancellor."

"That is well; but about the ambassador-"

"I come to you, on his behalf, to tell you that he begs you to leave his hotel as quickly as possible."

The two jewellers looked at each other, disconcerted.

"Because," continued Ducorneau, "it seems you have been uncivil to him."

"But listen-"

"It is useless," said Beausire, who suddenly appeared; "his Excellency told you to dismiss them; do it."

"But, monsieur- "

"I cannot listen," said Beausire.

The chancellor took his relation by the shoulder, and pushed him out, saying, "You have spoiled your fortune."

"Mon Dieu! how susceptible these foreigners are!" murmured Boehmer, who was himself a German.

"When one is called Souza, and has nine hundred thousand francs a year, one has a right to be anything," said Ducorneau.

"Ah!" sighed Bossange, "I told you, Boehmer, you were too stiff about it."

"Well," replied the obstinate German, "at least, if we do not get his money, he will not get our necklace."

Ducorneau laughed. "You do not understand either a Portuguese or an ambassador, bourgeois that you are. I will tell you what they are: one ambassador, Monsieur de Potemkin, bought every year for his queen, on the first of

January, a basket of cherries which cost one hundred thousand crowns,- one thousand francs a cherry. Well, Monsieur de Souza will buy up the mines of Brazil till he finds a diamond as big as all yours put together. If it cost him twenty years of his income, what does he care- he has no children."

And he was going to shut the door, when Bossauge said,- " Arrange this affair, and you shall have- "

"I am incorruptible," said he, and closed the door. That evening the ambassador received thi- letter:-

"Monseigneur,- A man who waits for your orders, and desires to present you our respectful excuses, is at the door of your hotel, and at a word from your Excellency he will place in the hands of one of your people the necklace of which you did us the honour to speak. Deign to receive, inonseigneur, the assurances of our most profound respect-

"

BOEHMEB AND BO8SANGE."

"Well," said Manofil, on reading this note, "the necklace is ours."

"Not so," said Beausire; "it will only be ours when we have bought it. We must buy it; but remember, your excellency does not know french."

"Yes, i know; but this chancellor- "

"Oh, I will send him away on some diplomatic mission."

"You are wrong; he will be our security with these men."

"But he will say that you know French."

"No, he will not; I will tell him not to do so."

"Very well, then; we will have up the man."

The man was introduced,- it was Boehmer himself, who made many bows and excuses, and offered the necklace for examination. "Sit down," said Beausire; "his Excellency pardons you."

"Oh, how much trouble to sell!" sighed Boehmer. " How much trouble to steal! " thought Beausire.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE BARGAIN.

Then the ambassador consented to examine the necklace in detail. Monsieur Boehmer showed each individual beauty.

"On the whole," said Beausire, interpreting for Manoel, " his Excellency sees nothing to complain of in the necklace, but there are ten of the diamonds rather spotted."

"Oh!" said Boehmer.

"His Excellency," interrupted Beausire, "understands diamonds perfectly. The Portuguese nobility play with the diamonds of Brazil, as children do here with glass beads."

In fact, Don Manoel placed his finger on several of the diamonds in succession, and evinced the most remarkable discernment in discovering flaws so imperceptible that possibly a connoisseur himself might not have perceived them.

"Such as it is, however," said Boehmer, "this necklace is the finest collection of diamonds in all Europe."

"That is true," said Manoel.

Then Beausire went on: " Well, Monsieur Boehmer, her Majesty the Queen of Portugal has heard of this necklace, and has given Monsieur de Souza a commission to buy it, if he approved of the diamonds, which he does. Now, what is the price-"

"1,600,000 francs."

Beausire repeated this to the ambassador.

"It is 100,000 francs too much," replied Manoel.

"Monseigneur," replied the jeweller, "one cannot fix the exact price of the diamonds on a thing like this. It has been necessary, in making this collection, to undertake voyages, and make searches and inquiries which no one would believe but myself."

"100,000 francs too dear," repeated Manoe'l.

"And if his Excellency says this," said Eeausire, "it must be his firm conviction, for he never bargains."

Boehmer was shaken. Nothing reassures a suspicious merchant so much as a customer who beats down the price. However, he said, after a minute's thought, "I cannot consent to a deduction which will make all the difference of loss or profit to myself and my partner."

Don Manoe'l, after hearing this translated, rose, and Beausire returned the case to the jeweller.

"I will, however, speak to Monsieur Bossange about it," continued Boehmer. "I am to understand that his Excellency offers 1,500,000 francs for the necklace."

"Yes, he never draws back from what he has said; but he might refuse the necklace altogether, rather than be subjected to the annoyance of bartering for it."

"But, monsieur, you understand that I must consult with my partner."

"Certainly, Monsieur Boehmer."

"Certainly," repeated Don Manoe'l, after hearing this translated; "but I must have a speedy answer."

"Well, monseigneur, if my partner will accept the price, I will."

"Good."

"It then only remains, excepting the consent of Monsieur Bossange, to settle the mode of payment."

"There will be no difficulty about that," said Beausire. " How do you wish to be paid- "

"Oh," said Boehmer, laughing, "if ready money be possible- "

"What do you call ready money-" said Beausire, coldly.

"Oh, I know no one has a million and a half of francs ready to pay down," said Boehmer, sighing.

"Certainly not; you yourself, Monsieur Boehmer, might find it inconvenient."

"Still, I cannot consent to dispense with some ready money."

"That is but reasonable." Then, turning to Manoel, "How much will your Excellency pay down to Monsieur Boehmer-"

"100,000 francs." Beausire repeated this.

"And when the remainder- " asked Boehmer.

"When we shall have had time to send to Lisbon, unless you prefer to wait for information sent from Lisbon to Paris."

"Oh!" said Boehmer, " we have a correspondent there, and by writing to him- "

"Yes," said Beausire, laughing ironically, "write to him, and ask if Monsieur de Souza is solvent, and if her Majesty be good for 1,400,000 francs."

"Monsieur- " said Boehmer, confused.

"Do you agree, or must we make other arrangements- "

"Those which the secretary suggested at first suit me very well. Would there be any fixed dates for the payments- "

"There would be three payments, Monsieur Boehmer, of five hundred thousand francs each, and you might make this the excuse for a very pleasant journey."

"A journey to Lisbon- "

"Why not- Is it not worth while making a little exertion to receive a million and a half in three mouths- "

"Oh, of course, but- "

"Moreover, you would travel at the expense of the Embassy, and either the chancellor or myself would act as your escort."

"Am I to take the diamonds with me- "

"Certainly; unless you should prefer to send the drafts from here, and let the diamonds go alone to Portugal."

"I do not know- I think- the voyage might be useful, and- "

"That is also my opinion," said Beausire. "It might be signed here. You would receive your hundred thousand francs on account, you would sign the bill of sale, and then carry your diamonds to her Majesty. Who is your correspondent- "

"Messieurs Nunez Balboa, Brothers."

Don Manoel raised his head.

"They are my own bankers," said he, smiling.

"They are the bankers of his Excellency," said Beausire, smiling in his turn.

Boehmer became radiant; his brow was no longer clouded. He bowed as if to return thanks and preparatory to taking his leave.

Suddenly a reflection sent him back.

"What is the matter-" asked Beausire, uneasily.

"Our bargain is made-" said Boehmer.

"Certainly."

"Except- "

"Except for the approval of Monsieur Bossange, of which we have already spoken."

"Except for one other thing," added Boehmer.

"Ah! ah!"

"Monsieur, it is a delicate matter, and the honour of the Portuguese name is such that his Excellency cannot fail to comprehend the significance of my thought."

"What circumvention I Say at once what you mean."

"Very well. The necklace has been offered to the Queen of France."

"Who has refused it. What then- "

"We cannot, monsieur, let this necklace leave France forever without informing the queen; aud our respect and loyalty demand that we should once more give her the refusal of it."

"It is just," said Manoe"!, with dignity. "I should wish a Portuguese merchant to act in the same way."

"I am very happy that monseigneur approves of my conduct. Then all is settled, subject only to the consent of Monsieur Bossange, and the reiterated refusal of her Majesty. I ask three days to settle these two points."

"On our side," said Beausire, "100,000 francs down, three drafts amounting in all to 1,400,000 francs placed in your hands; the necklace to be placed in my hands, who will accompany you to Lisbon, to the honour of your correspondents, who are also our bankers. The whole of the money to be paid in three months, including your travelling expenses."

"Yes, monseigneur," said Boehmer, bowing.

"Ah!" said Don Manoe'l, in Portuguese.

"What then-" said Boehmer, uneasy in his turn.

"As gratuity," said the ambassador, "I would like a ring worth, say, one thousand pistoles, for my secretary or my chancellor; in short, for your travelling companion, monsieur, whoever he may be."

"That is very fair, monseigneur," murmured Boehmer; "in fact, I had planned something like it in my own mind."

Don Manoel made a haughty gesture of farewell to the jeweller.

When they were alone, Manoel said angrily to Beausire, "Please to explain what the devil you mean by this journey to Portugal- Are you mad- Why not have the jewels here in exchange for our money-"

"You think yourself too really ambassador," replied Beausire; "you are not yet quite Monsieur de Souza to this jeweller."

"If he had not thought so, he would not have treated."

"Agreed; but every man in possession of 1,500,000 francs holds himself above all the ambassadors in the world; and every one who gives that value in exchange for pieces of paper wishes first to know what the papers are worth."

"Then you mean to go to Portugal,- you who cannot speak Portuguese properly- I tell you, you are mad."

"Not at all; you shall go yourself, if you like."

"Thank you," said Don Manoel. "There are reasons why I would rather not return to Portugal."

"Well, I tell you, Monsieur Boehmer would never give up the diamonds for mere papers."

"Papers signed Souza-"

"I said you thought yourself a real Souza."

"Better say at once that we have failed," said Manoe'l.

"Not at all. Come here, captain," said Beausire to the valet; "you know what we are talking of-"

"Yes."

"You have listened to everything-"

"Certainly."

"Very well; do you think I have committed a folly-"

"I think you perfectly right."

"Explain why."

"Monsieur Boehmer would, on the other plan, have been incessantly watching us, and all connected with us. Now, with the money and the diamonds both in his hands, he can have no suspicion, but will set out quietly for Portugal, which, however, he will never reach. Is it not so, Monsieur Beausire-"

"Ah, you are a lad of discernment!"

"Explain your plan," said Manoel.

"About fifty leagues from here," said Beausire, "this clever fellow here will come and present two pistols at the heads of our postilions, will steal from us all we have, including the diamonds, and will leave Monsieur Boehmer half dead with blows."

"Oh, I did not understand exactly that," said the valet. "I thought you would embark for Portugal."

"And then-"

"Monsieur Boehmer, like all Germans, will like the sea, and walk on the deck. One day he may slip and fall over, and the necklace will be supposed to have perished with him. Why should not the sea swallow diamonds to the amount of 1,500,000 francs, as well as Spanish galleons-"

"Oh, I understand," said Mano amp;l.

"That is lucky at last."

"Only," replied Manogl, "for stealing diamonds one is simply sent to the Bastille, but for murder one is hanged."

"But for stealing diamonds one may be taken; for a little push to Monsieur Boehmer we should never even be suspected."

"Well, we will settle all this afterwards," said Beausire. "At present let us conduct our business in style, so that they may say, ' If he was not really ambassador, at least he seemed like one.'"

CHAPTER XXX. THE JOURNALIST'S HOUSE

It was the day after the agreement with Monsieur Boehmer, and three days after the ball at the opera. In the Rue Montorgueil, at the end of a court-yard, was a high and narrow house. The ground-floor was a kind of shop, and here lived a tolerably well-known journalist. The other stories were occupied by quiet people, who lived there for cheapness. Their quiet was often disturbed by noisy incidents occurring in the rooms of the journalist, when agents of the police visited him for transgressing public rights, or angry actors and other people came to seek redress for the insults which he had showered upon them in his paper. At such times the occupants of the house, known as "The Grate," closed their front windows, thus shutting out the noise of the street, in order that they might hear more plainly the cries of the journalist when he was being chastised. Sometimes he would escape through a door on the level of his chamber, leading into the Rue des Vieux- Augustins. A secret panel would open and close behind him of itself; the noise would cease; the assailants would find themselves face to face with four soldiers of the guard, whom an old woman servant of the journalist had summoned hastily from a neighbouring station. Then the assailants, finding no one on whom to vent their anger, would snatch a number of the guilty papers from the storeroom below, light them, if perchance a fire smouldered on the hearth, and scatter them around savagely. But bits of paper were poor substitutes for the bits of the journalist's skin, which these revengeful people would have enjoyed scattering around. Aside from these scenes the neighbourhood was tranquillity itself. Monsieur Reteau was accustomed to walk out every morning along the quays, the public squares, and the boulevards. His keen humour snatched every detail of the scenes, of vice or of ridicule, being enacted; and in his next issue he would vividly reproduce them in his journal, with sketches and portraits, which he had rapidly drawn upon the spot. He spent four days in gleaning his articles; three days in printing them, and always had his journal ready to issue on the day of its publication. Monsieur Eeteau published his paper weekly. It was issued on the day of which we speak; and when Monsieur Reteau rose at eight o'clock, his servant brought him a copy, still wet from the press. He hastened to peruse it, with the care which a tender father bestows on the virtues or failings of his offspring. When he had finished it,-

"Aldegonde," said he to the old woman, "this is a capital number; have you read it-"

"Not yet; my soup is not finished."

"It is excellent," repeated the journalist.

"Yes," said she; "but do you know what they say of it in the printing-office-"

"What-"

"That you will certainly be sent to the Bastille."

"Aldegonde," replied Reteau calmly, "make me a good soup, and do not meddle with literature."

"Always the same," said she, "rash and imprudent."

"I will buy you some buckles with what I make to-day. Have many copies been sold yet- "

"No; and I fear my buckles will be but poor. Do you remember the number against Monsieur de Broglie- We sold one hundred before ten o'clock on that day."

"And three times I had recourse, through my hidden passageway, to the Rue des Vieux-Augustins," said Reteau. "Every noise threw me into a fever; these soldiers are brutal."

"I concluded from this circumstance," persisted Alde- gonde, " that to-day's issue will not sell as well as that on Monsieur de Broglie."

"So be it," said Reteau. "I shall not have to run as often, then, and can eat my soup in peace. Do you know the difference, Aldegonde- Now, instead of attacking an individual, I attack a body; and instead of a soldier, I attack a queen."

"The queen! Oh, then there is no fear; the numbers will sell, and I shall have my buckles."

"Some one rings," said Reteau.

The old woman ran to the shop, and returned a minute after, triumphant.

"One thousand copies!" said she; "there is an order 1"

"In whose name-" asked Reteau, quickly.

"I do not know."

"But I want to know; run and ask."

"Oh, there is plenty of time; they cannot count a thousand copies in a minute."

"Yes, but be quick; ask the servant. Is it a servant-"

"It is a porter."

"Well, ask him where he is to take them to."

Aldegonde went, and the man replied that he was to take them to the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, to the house of the Count de Cagliostro.

The journalist jumped with delight, and ran to assist in counting off the numbers.

They were not long gone when there was another ring.

"Perhaps that is for another thousand copies," cried Aldegonde. "As it is against the Austrian, everyone will join in the chorus."

"Hush, hush, Aldegonde! do not speak so loud. The Austrian, indeed! that word would send me to the Bastille, whither you have predicted I would arrive eventually."

"Well," said the old woman crossly, "is she or is she not the Austrian- "

"It is a word that we journalists have coined, but we fear to circulate it very freely."

The bell rang a second time.

"Go, see who is there, Aldegonde; I do not believe it is another purchaser."

"What makes you think so-" grumbled the old woman, going down.

"I do not know; but it seems to me that I see a man with a solemn face looking through the gate."

Aldegonde went down to open the door.

Keteau looked anxiously, and saw a man, simply clad, standing at the entrance.

Aldegonde opened the door, and he asked if he could speak to the editor of the paper.

"What do you want to say to him-" asked Aldegonde, rather suspiciously.

The man rattled some money in his pocket, and said,-

"I come to pay for the thousand copies sent for by Monsieur le Comte de Cagliostro."

"Oh, come in!"

A young and handsome man, who had advanced just behind him, stopped him as he was about to shut the door, and followed him in.

Aldegonde ran to her master. "Come," said she, "here is the money for the thousand copies."

"Let us receive them nobly," said Eeteau, quoting Larive's latest production. He attired himself in a costly dressing-gown, which the generosity, or rather the terror, of Madame Dugazon had presented to him; for since his experience with Astley, the equestrian, he had received various gifts from many people.

The man, taking out a small bag, paid down one hundred six-franc pieces.

Eeteau counted them and gave a receipt, smiling graciously on the man, and said, " Tell the Count de Cagliostro that I shall always be at his orders, and that I can keep a secret."

"There is no need," replied the man; "Monsieur de Cagliostro is independent. He does not believe in magnetism, and wishes to make people laugh at Monsieur Mesmer,-that is all."

"Good!" replied another voice; " we will see if we cannot turn the laugh against Monsieur de Cagliostro;" and Monsieur Reteau, turning, saw before him the young man we mentioned.

His glance was menacing; he had his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and a stick in his right.

"What can I do for you, monsieur-" said Reteau, trembling.

"You are Monsieur Reteau- " asked the young man.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Who calls himself De Villette- "

"The same, monsieur."

"Journalist, and author of this article- " said the visitor, drawing the new number from his pocket.

"Not exactly the author, but the publisher," said Reteau.

"Very well, that comes to the same thing; for if you had not the audacity to write it, you have had the baseness to give it publicity. I say baseness, for, as I am a gentleman, I wish to keep within bounds even with you. If I expressed all I think, I should say that he who wrote this article is infamous, and that he who published it is a villain!"

"Monsieur! " said Reteau, growing pale.

"Now listen," continued the young man; " you have received one payment in money, now you shall have another in caning."

"Oh!" cried Reteau, " we will see about that."

"Yes, we will see," said the young man, advancing towards him; but Reteau was used to these sort of affairs, and knew the conveniences of his own house. Turning quickly round, he gained a door which shut after him, and which opened into a passage leading to a gate, through which there was an exit into the Rue des Vieux-Augustins. Once there he was safe; for in this gate the key was always left, and he could lock it behind him.

But this day was an unlucky one for the poor journalist, for, just as he was about to turn the key, he saw coming toward him another young man, who, in his agitation, appeared to him like a perfect Hercules. He would have retreated, but he was now between two fires, as his first opponent had by this time discovered him, and was advancing upon him.

"Monsieur, let me pass, if you please," said Eeteau to the young man who guarded the gate.

"Monsieur," cried the one who followed him, " stop the fellow, I beg! "

"Do not be afraid, Monsieur de Charny; he shall not pass."

"Monsieur de Taverney!" cried Charuy; for it was really he who was the first comer.

Both these young men, on reading the article that morning, had conceived the same idea, because they were animated with the same sentiments, and, unknown to each other, had hastened to put it in practice. Each, however, felt a kind of displeasure at seeing the other, divining a rival in the man who had the same idea as himself. Thus it was that with a rather disturbed manner Charny had called out, " You, Monsieur de Taverney!"

"Even so," replied the other, in the same way; and making a movement towards the suppliant journalist, who had thrust his arms through the bars of the gate; " but it seems I am come too late, and can only look on, unless you will be kind enough to open the gate.

"Oh!" cried Reteau, " do you want to murder me, gentlemen- "

"No," said Charny, " we do not want to murder you; but first we will ask a few questions, then we will see the end. You permit me to speak, Monsieur de Taverney- "

"Certainly, monsieur; you have the precedence, having arrived first."

Charny bowed; then, turning to Eeteau, said,-

"You confess, then, that you have published against the queen the playful little tale, as you call it, which appeared this morning in your paper- "

"Monsieur, it is not against the queen."

"Good! it only wanted that."

"You are very patient, monsieur! " cried Philippe, who was boiling with rage outside the gate.

"Oh, be easy, monsieur," replied Charny; " he shall lose nothing by waiting."

"Yes," murmured Philippe; " but I also am waiting."

Charny turned again to Reteau. " Etteniotna is Antoinette transposed. Oh, do not lie, monsieur, or instead of beating, or simply killing you, I shall flay you alive! But tell me if you are the sole author of this- "

"I am not an informer," said Reteau.

"Very well; that means that you have an accomplice; and, first, the man who bought a thousand copies of this infamy, the Count de Cagliostro; but he shall pay for his share, when you have paid for yours."

"Monsieur, I do not accuse him," said Reteau, who feared that he should encounter the anger of Cagliostro after he had done with these two.

Charny raised his cane.

"Oh, if I had a sword! " cried Reteau.

"Monsieur Philippe, will you lend your sword to this man-"

"No, Monsieur de Charny, I cannot lend my sword to a man like that; but I will lend you my cane, if yours does not suffice."

"Corbleu! a cane! " cried Reteau. " Do you know that I am a gentleman."

"Then lend me your sword, Monsieur de Taverney; he shall have mine, and I will never touch it again!" said Charny.

Philippe unsheathed his sword, and passed it through the railing.

"Now," said Charny, throwing down his sword at the feet of Reteau, "you call yourself a gentleman, and you write such infamies against the Queen of France; pick up that sword, and let us see what kind of a gentleman you are."

But Keteau did not stir; he seemed as afraid of the sword at his feet as he had been of the uplifted cane.

"Morbleu! " cried Philippe, " open the gate to me! "

"Pardon, monsieur," said Charny, " but you acknowledged my right to be first."

"Then be quick, for I am in a hurry to begin."

"I wished to try other methods before resorting to this, for I am not much more fond of inflicting a caning than Monsieur Reteau is of receiving one; but as he prefers it to fighting, he shall be satisfied;" and a cry from Reteau soon announced that Charny had begun.

The noise soon attracted old Aldegonde, who joined her voice to her master's.

Charny minded one no more than the other; at last, however, he stopped, tired with his work.

Meanwhile Philippe, placed like Adam outside of Paradise, bit his fingers and jumped about like a caged bear who smells fresh meat.

"Now, have you finished, monsieur- " said Philippe.

"Yes."

"Then pray return me my sword, and let me in."

"Oh, no, monsieur!" implored Reteau, who hoped for a protector in the man who had finished with him.

"I cannot leave monsieur outside the door," said Charny.

"Oh, it is a murder! " cried Reteau. " Kill me right off, and have done with it! "

"Be easy," said Charny; " I do not think monsieur will touch you."

"You are right," said Philippe; " you have been beaten,- let it suffice; as the legal maxim says, 'Non bis in idem.' But there are the remaining numbers, which must be destroyed."

"Oh yes! " cried Charny. " You see, two heads are better than one; I should have forgotten that. But how did you happen to come to this gate, Monsieur de Taverney- "

"I made some inquiries in the neighbourhood about this fellow, and, hearing that he had this mode of escape, I thought by coming in here, and locking the gate after me, I should cut off his retreat, aiid make sure of him. The same idea of vengeance struck you, only, more in a hurry, you came straight to his house without any inquiries, and he would have escaped you if I had not luckily been here."

"I am rejoiced that you were, Monsieur de Taverney Now, fellow, lead us to your press."

"It is not here," said Reteau.

"A lie!" said Charny.

"No, no," cried Philippe, "we do not want the press; the numbers are all printed and here, except those sold to Monsieur de Cagliostro."

"Then he shall burn them before our eyes!"

And they pushed Reteau into his shop.

CHAPTER XXXI. HOW TWO FRIENDS BECAME ENEMIES.

Aldegonde, however, had gone to fetch the guard; but before she returned they had had time to light a fire with the first numbers, and were throwing them in, one after another, as quickly as possible, when the guard appeared, followed by a crowd of ragged men, women, and boys.

Happily, Philippe and Charny knew Reteau's secret exit, so when they caught sight of the guard they made their escape through it, carrying the key with them.

Then Reteau began crying " Murder! " while Aldegonde, seeing the flames through the window, cried, " Fire! "

The soldiers arrived, but, finding the young men gone, and the house not on fire, went away again, leaving Reteau to bathe his bruises. But the crowd lingered about all day, hoping to see a renewal of the fun.

When Taverney and Charny found themselves in the Rue des Vicux-Augustins, " Monsieur," said Charny, " now we have finished that business, can I be of any use to you- "

"Thanks, monsieur, I was about to ask you the same question."

"Thank you, but I have private business which will probably keep me in Paris all day."

"And I also, monsieur."

"Permit me, then, to take leave of you; I am happy to have met you."

"And I you, monsieur," and the two young men bowed, but it was easy to see that all this courtesy went no further than the lips.

Philippe went towards the boulevards, while Charny turned to the river; each turned two or three times till he thought himself quite out of sight, but after walking for some time Charny entered the Kue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, and there once more found himself face to face with Philippe.

Each had again the same idea of demanding satisfaction from the Count de Cagliostro. They could not now doubt each other's intentions, so Philippe said,-

"I left you the seller, leave me the buyer; I left you the cane, leave me the sword."

"Monsieur," replied Charny, " you left it to me simply because I came first, and for no other reason."

"Well," replied Taverney, " here we arrive both together, and I will make no concession."

"I did not ask you for any, monsieur; only I will defend my right."

"And that, according to you, Monsieur de Charny, is to make Monsieur de Cagliostro burn his thousand copies."

"Remember, monsieur, that it was my idea to burn the others."

"Then I will have these torn."

"Monsieur, I am sorry to tell you that I wish to have the first turn with Monsieur de Cagliostro."

"All that I can agree to, monsieur, is to take our chance. I will throw up a louis, and wheever guesses right shall be first."

"Thanks, monsieur, but I am not generally lucky, and should probably lose," and he stepped towards the door.

Charny stopped him.

"Stay, monsieur, we will soon understand each other."

"Well, monsieur-" answered Philippe, turning back, for he noticed in Charny's tone a threatening accent which pleased him

"Then, before asking satisfaction of Monsieur de Cagliostro, suppose we take a turn in the Bois de Boulogne: it will be out of our way, but perhaps we can settle our dispute there. One of us will probably be left behind, and the other be uninterrupted."

"Really, monsieur," said Philippe, " you echo my own thoughts,- where shall we meet- "

"Well, if my society be not insupportable to you, we need not part. I ordered my carriage to wait for me in the Place Royale, close by here."

"Then you will give me a seat- " said Philippe.

"With the greatest pleasure; " and they walked together to the carriage, and, getting in, set off for the Champs

First, however, Charny wrote a few words on his tablets, and gave them to the footman to take to his hotel.

In less than half an hour they reached the Bois de Boulogne. The weather was lovely, and the air delightful, although the power of the sun was already felt; the fresh leaves were appearing on the trees, and the violets filled the place with their perfume.

"It is a fine day for our drive, is it not, Monsieur de Taverney- " said Charny.

"Beautiful, monsieur."

"You may go," said Charny to his coachman.

"Are you not wrong, monsieur, to send away your carriage- one of us may need it."

"No, monsieur," replied Charny; " in this affair secrecy before everything, and once in the knowledge of a servant, we risk it being talked of all over Paris to-morrow."

"As you please; but do you think the fellow does not know what we came here for- These people know well what brings two gentlemen to the Bois de Boulogne, and even if he did not feel sure now, he will perhaps afterwards see one of us wounded, and will have no doubts left then. Is it not then better to keep him here to take back either who shall need him, than to be left or leave me here wounded and alone- "

"You are right, monsieur," replied Charny; and, turning to the coachman, he said, " No, stop, Dauphin; you shall wait here."

Dauphin remained accordingly, and as he perfectly guessed what was coining, he arranged his position so as to see through the still leafless trees all that passed.

They walked on a little way, then Philippe said, "I think, Monsieur de Charny, this is a good place."

"Excellent, monsieur," said Charny, and added: " Chevalier, if it were any one but you, I would say one word of courtesy, and we were friends again; but to you, coming from America, where they fight so well, I cannot."

"And I, monsieur, to you, who the other evening gained the admiration of an entire court by a glorious feat of arms, can only say, Monsieur le Comte, do me the honour to draw your sword."

The count bowed and in his turn drew his sword.

"Monsieur," said Charny, " I believe we have neither of us touched on the real cause of quarrel."

"I do not understand you, count."

"Oh! you understand me perfectly, monsieur; and you blush while you deny it."

"Defend yourself," cried Philippe; their swords crossed. Philippe soon perceived that he was superior to his adversary, and therefore became as calm as though he had been only fencing, and was satisfied with defending himself without attacking.

"You spare me, monsieur," said Charny; " may I ask why-"

Philippe went on as before; Charny grew warm, and wished to provoke him from this sang-froid, therefore he said,-

"I told you, monsieur, that we had not touched on the real cause of the quarrel."

Philippe did not reply.

"The true cause," continued Charny, " why you sought a quarrel-for it was you who sought it- was, that you were jealous of me."

Still Philippe remained silent.

"What is your intention-" again said Charny. "Do you wish to tire my arm- that is a calculation unworthy of you. Kill me if you can, but do not dally thus."

"Yes, monsieur," replied Philippe at last, "your reproach is just; the quarrel did begin with me, and I was wrong."

"That is not the question now. You have your sword in your hand; use it for something more than mere defence."

"Monsieur," said Philip, " I have the honour to tell you once more I was wrong, and that I apologise."

But Charny was by this time too excited to appreciate the generosity of his adversary. " Oh! " said he, " I understand; you wish to play the magnanimous with me; that is it, is it not, chevalier- You wish to relate to the ladies this evening how you brought me here, and then spared my life."

"Count," said Philippe, " I fear you are losing your senses."

"You wish to kill Monsieur de Cagliostro, to please the queen; and, for the same reason, you wish to turn me into ridicule."

"Ah! this is too much," cried Philippe, "and proves to me that you have not as generous a heart as I thought."

"Pierce it, then," cried Charny, exposing himself as Philippe made another pass.

The sword glanced along his ribs, and the blood flowed rapidly.

"At last," cried Charny, " I am wounded. Now I may kill you if I can."

"Decidedly," said Philippe, "you are mad. You will not kill me; you will only be disabled without cause, and without profit; for no one will ever know for what you have fought; " and as Charny made another pass, he dexterously sent his sword flying from his hand; then, seizing it, he broke it across with his foot. " Monsieur de Charny," said he, "you did not require to prove to me that you were brave; you must therefore detest me very much when you fight with such fury."

Charny did not reply, but grew visibly pale. Philippe awaited either a denial or an avowal. " Come," said he, " the die is cast, we are henceforth enemies."

Charny tottered.

Philippe advanced to support him, but he repulsed him, saying, " I can reach my carriage."

"At least take this handkerchief to stop the blood."

"Willingly."

"And my arm, monsieur; at the least obstacle you met you would fall, and give yourself unnecessary pain."

"The sword has only penetrated the flesh. I hope soon to be well."

"So much the better, monsieur; but I warn you that you will find it difficult to make me your adversary again."

Charny tried to reply, but the words died on his lips. He staggered, and Philippe had but just time to catch him in his arms, and bear him half fainting to his carriage.

Dauphin, who had seen what had passed, advanced to meet him, and they put Charuy in.

"Drive slowly," said Philippe.

"But you, monsieur-" murmured the injured man.

"Oh! do not alarm yourself on my account." And, bowing, he closed the door of the carriage.

Philippe watched it driving slowly away. Then, when it had disappeared around a curve of the road, he turned slowly toward Paris.

Turning back for a last look, and seeing the carriage leaving the road to Paris and taking that which led to Versailles, he said to himself with a sigh, " She will pity him!"

CHAPTER XXXII. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-GILLES.

Philippe jumped into the first coach he saw, and told the man to drive to the Rue Saiut-Gilles, where he stopped at the house of Monsieur de Cagliostro.

A man who has just returned from a duel, and who preserves the air of a conqueror,- a vigorous man, whose bearing proclaims his high birth,- a man clothed like a bourgeois, whose manner is that of a soldier,- was more than enough to stimulate the driver, whose whip, if it did not rule the world, like Neptune's trident, was powerful enough for Philippe's purposes.

The automaton, for twenty-four sous, plunged into space and bore Philippe to the residence of the Count Cagliostro. This mansion was of a severe but massive style of architecture, as were most of the buildings erected in the days of Louis XIV.,- imitations of the marble palaces of the Renaissance order, built in the reign of Louis XIIL

A large carriage, with two good horses, was standing in the court-yard; the coachman was asleep, wrapped in a great-coat of fox-skins, and two footmen walked up and down before the door.

"Does the Count Cagliostro live here- " asked Philippe.

"He is just going out."

"The more reason to be quick, for I wish to speak to him first. Announce the Chevalier Philippe de Taverney; " and he followed the men up stairs.

"Ask him to walk in," said, from within, a voice at once manly and gentle.

"Excuse me, monsieur," said the chevalier to a man whom we have already seen, first at the table of Monsieur de Richelieu, then at the exhibition of Monsieur Mesmer, in Oliva's room, and with her at the opera ball."

"For what, monsieur- " replied he.

"Because I prevent you from going out."

"You would have needed an excuse had you been much later, for I was waiting for you."

"For me- "

"Yes, I was forewarned of your visit."

"Of my visit- "

"Yes; two hours ago. It is about that time, is it not, since you were coming here before, when an interruption caused you to postpone the execution of your project- "

Philippe began to experience the same strange sensation with which this man inspired every one.

"Sit down, Monsieur de Taverney," continued he; " this arm-chair was placed for you."

"A truce to pleasantry, monsieur," said Philippe, in a voice which he vainly tried to render calm.

"I do not jest, monsieur."

"Then a truce to charlatanism. If you are a sorcerer, I did not come to make trial of your skill; but if you are, so much the better, for you must know what I am come to say to you, and therefore being forewarned may be forearmed."

"Forearmed," said the sorcerer, " against what should I arm myself, pray- "

"Divine and answer the question, yourself, since you claim such powers of insight."

"Oh, yes, you are come to seek a quarrel."

"You know that- Perhaps you also know why- "

"On account of the queen. Now, monsieur, I am ready to listen; " and these last words were no longer pronounced in the courteous tones of a host, but in the hard and dry ones of an adversary.

"Monsieur, there exists a certain publication."

"There are many publications," said Cagliostro.

"Edited by a certain journalist- "

"There are many journalists."

"Stay- this paper- we will discuss its editor later."

"Allow me to remark, monsieur," interrupted Cagliostro with a smile, " that you have already spoken of him."

"Well, this publication to-day was written against the queen."

Cagliostro did not reply.

"You know what I refer to, count- "

"Yes, monsieur."

"You have bought one thousand copies of it- " -I do not deny it."

"Luckily, they have not reached your hands."

"What makes you think so, monsieur- "

"Because I met the porter, paid him, and sent him with them to my house; and my servant, instructed by me, will destroy them."

"You should always finish yourself the work you commence, monsieur. Are you sure these thousand copies are at your house."

"Certainly."

"You deceive yourself, monsieur; they are here. Ah, you thought that I, sorcerer that I am, would let myself be foiled in that way- You thought it a brilliant idea to buy off my messenger- Well, I have a steward, and you see it is natural for the steward of a sorcerer to be one also. He divined that you would go to the journalist, and that you would meet my messenger, whom he afterwards followed, and threatened to make him give back the gold you had given him, if he did not follow his original instructions, instead of taking them to you. But I see you doubt."

"I do.

"Behold my feet and my hands," as Christ said to the doubting Thomas, and, opening an oak cabinet, he showed the astonished chevalier the thousand copies lying there.

Philippe approached the count in a menacing attitude, but he did not stir. "Monsieur," said Philippe, "you appear a man of courage; I call upon you to give me immediate satisfaction."

"Satisfaction for what- "

"For the insult to the queen, of which you render yourself an accomplice while you keep one number of this vile paper."

"Monsieur," said Cagliostro, "you are in error; I like novelties, scandalous reports, and other amusing things, and collect them, that I may remember at a later day what I should otherwise forget, and I do not see that I iusult any one by this purchase-"

"You have insulted me."

"You- "

"Yes, 11 I, monsieur! do you understand- "

"No, upon my honour, I do not understand."

"But, why, I ask, did you persist in buying such an infamous publication- "

"Because I have a mania for making collections."

"A man of honour, monsieur, does not collect infamies."

"But if I do not think this an infamy- "

"You will allow at least that it is a lie."

"You deceive yourself, monsieur. The queen was at Monsieur Mesmer's."

"It is false, monsieur."

"You mean to tell me I lie- "

"I do."

"Well, I will reply in a few words,-.1 saw her there."

"You saw her!"

"As plainly as I now see you."

Philippe looked full at Cagliostro. " I still say, monsieur, that you lie."

Cagliostro shrugged his shoulders, as though he were talking to a madman.

"Do you not hear me, monsieur- " said Philippe.

"Every word."

"And do you not know what giving the lie deserves-"

"Yes, monsieur; there is a French proverb which says it merits a box on the ears."

"Well, monsieur, I am astonished that your hand has not been already raised to give it, as you are a French gentleman, and know the proverb."

"Although a French gentleman, I am a man, and love my brother."

"Then you refuse me satisfaction- "

"I only pay what I owe."

"Then you will compel me to take satisfaction in another manner."

"How-"

"I exact that you burn the numbers before my eyes, or I will proceed with you as with the journalist."

"Oh! a beating," said Cagliostro, laughing.

"Neither more nor less, monsieur. Doubtless you can call your servants."

"Oh, I shall not call my servants; it is my own business. I am stronger than you, and if you approach me with your cane, I shall take you in my arms and throw you across the room, and shall repeat this as often as you repeat your attempt."

"An English wrestling match. Well, Monsieur Hercules, I accept the challenge," said Philippe, throwing himself furiously upon Cagliostro, who, seizing him round the neck and waist with a grasp of iron, threw him on a pile of cushions, which lay some way off, and then remained standing as coolly as ever.

Philippe rose as pale as death. " Monsieur," said he, in a sinister voice, " you are in fact stronger than I am, but your logic is not as strong as your arm; and you forgot, when you treated me thus, that you gave me the right to say, ' Defend yourself, count, or I will kill you.' "

Cagliostro did not move.

"Draw your sword, I tell you, monsieur, or you are a dead man."

"You are not yet sufficiently near for me to treat you as before, and I will not expose myself to be killed by you, like poor Gilbert- "

"Gilbert!" cried Philippe, reeling back. "Did you say Gilbert-"

"Happily, you have no gun this time, only a sword."

"Monsieur," cried Philippe, "you have pronounced a name-"

"Which has awakened a terrible echo in your remembrance, has it not- a name that you never thought to hear again, for you were alone with the poor boy in the grotto at the Azores when you assassinated him."

"Oh!" said Philippe, " will you not draw- "

"If you knew," said Cagliostro, " how easily I could make your sword fly from your hand! "

"With your sword- "

"Yes, with my sword, if I wished."

"Then try."

"No, I have a still surer method."

"For the last time, defend yourself," said Philippe, advancing towards him.

Then the count took from his pocket a little bottle, which he uncorked, and threw the contents in Philippe's face. Scarcely had it touched him, when he reeled, let his sword drop, and fell senseless.

Cagliostro picked him up, put him on a sofa, waited for his senses to return, and then said, " At your age, chevalier, we should have done with follies; cease, therefore, to act like a foolish boy, and listen to me."

Philippe made an effort to shake off the torpor which still held possession of him, and murmured, " Oh, monsieur, do you call these the weapons of a gentleman- "

Cagliostro shrugged his shoulders. " You repeat for ever the same word," he said; " when we of the nobility have opened our mouths wide enough to utter the word gentleman, we think we have said everything. What do you call the weapons of a gentleman- Is it your sword, which served you so badly against me, or is it your gun, which served you so well against Gilbert- What makes some men superior to others- Do you think that it is that high- sounding word gentleman- No; it is first reason, then strength, most of all, science. Well, I have used all these against you. With my reason I braved your insults, with my strength I conquered yours, and with my science I extinguished at once your moral and physical powers. Now I wish to show you that you have committed two faults in coming here with menaces in your mouth. Will you listen to me- "

"You have overpowered me," replied Philippe; " I can scarcely move. You have made yourself master of my muscles and of my mind, and then you ask me if I will listen!"

Then Cagliostro took down from the chimney-piece another little gold phial. " Smell this, chevalier," said he.

Philippe obeyed, and it seemed to him that the cloud which hung over him dispersed. " Oh, I revive! " he cried.

"And you feel free and strong- "

"Yes."

"With your full powers and memory of the past- "

"Yes."

"Then this memory gives me an advantage over you."

"No," said Philippe, " for I acted in defence of a vital and sacred principle."

"What do you mean- "

"I defended the monarchy."

"You defended the monarchy!- you, who went to America to defend a republic. Ah, mon Dieu! be frank; either it was not the republic you were defending there, or it is not the monarchy you defend here."

Philippe coloured.

"To love those who disdain you," continued Cagliostro, " who deceive and forget you, is the attribute of great souls. It is the law of the Scriptures to return good for evil. You are a Christian, Monsieur de Taverney- "

"Monsieur," cried Philippe, " not a word more; if I did not defend the monarchy, I defended the queen, that is to say, an innocent woman, and to be respected even if she were not so, for it is a divine law not to attack the weak."

"The weak! the queen! You call a feeble being her to whom twenty-eight million human beings bow the knee."

"Monsieur, they calumniate her."

"How do you know- "

"I believe it."

"Well, I believe the contrary; we have each the right to think as we please."

"But you act like an evil genius."

"Who tells you so-"cried Cagliostro, inundating Philippe with the light from his sparkling eyes. " How have you the temerity to assume that you are right, and that I am wrong- You defend royalty; well, I defend the people. You say, ' Render to Caesar the things which are Caesar's;' and I say, ' Render to God the things that are God's.' Republican of America, I recall you to the love of the people, to the love of equality. You trample on the people to kiss the hands of a queen; I would throw down a queen to elevate a people. I do not disturb you in your adoration; leave me in peace at my work. I leave to you the sunshine and the splendour of the courts; leave to me the shadows and solitude. You now comprehend the force of my language, as you have lately experienced the force of my personality. You say to me, 'Die, for you have offended the object of my worship;' and I say to you, who combat mine, ' Live,' for I feel myself so strong in my principles that neither you nor any one else can retard my progress for an instant."

"Monsieur, you frighten me," said Philippe; " you show me the danger in which our monarchy is."

"Then be prudent, and shun the opening gulf."

"You know," replied Philippe, " that I would sooner entomb myself in it than see those whom I defend in danger."

"Well, I have warned you, and, like the prefect of Tiberius, I wash my hands, Monsieur de Taverney."

"And I," said Philippe, "I, who am but a feeble individual, will use against you the arms of the weak. I implore you, with tearful eyes and joined hands, to be merciful towards those whom you pursue. I ask you to spare me the remorse of knowing you were acting against this poor queen, and not preventing you. I beg you to destroy this publication, which would make a woman shed tears. I ask you, by the love which you have guessed, or I swear that with this sword, which has proved so powerless against you, I will pierce myself before your eyes!"

"Ah!" murmured Cagliostro, "why are they not all like you- Then I would join them, and they should not perish."

"Monsieur, monsieur, I pray you to reply to me!"

"See, then," said Cagliostro, "if all the thousand numbers be there, and burn them yourself."

Philippe's heart was in his mouth; he ran to the cabinet, took them out, threw them on the fire, and affectionately pressed Cagliostro's hand. " Adieu, monsieur! " then he said; " a hundred thanks for the favour you have granted me."

"I owed the brother," said Cagliostro, when he had gone, "some compensation for all I made the sister endure."

Then he called for his carriage.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE HEAD OF THE TAVERNEY FAMILY.

While this was passing in the Rue Saint-Gilles, the elder Monsieur Taverney was walking in his garden. There were then at Versailles, and indeed they may still remain there, a few of those old hotels, with French gardens, which, by a servile imitation of the designs of Le Nester and De Mansard, recalled the palace of Versailles on a small scale.

Many courtiers, who must have taken Monsieur de la Feuillade for their model, had constructed a miniature underground orange-house, a Swiss lake, and the baths of Apollo; also a court of honour, and the Trianons, about a five-hundredth part of the size of the original, each pond being about the dimensions of a bucket of water. Monsieur de Taverney had followed the example of the others, since his Majesty Louis XV. had taken the Trianons. The Versailles residence had its Trianons, its orchards, and its flower-beds. When his Majesty Louis XVI. added a locksmith's shop and turning-lathes, Monsieur de Taverney, in his turn, annexed a forge and his chips to his residence. When Marie Antoinette had laid out her English gardens, her artificial rivers, prairies and chalets, the old courtier had converted a corner of his garden into a little Trianon, about large enough for a doll, and a river, in which ducks would have had no room to spare. However, at the time in which we find him, he was pacing the only avenue left that had been laid out in the time of Louis XIV.; an avenue of lindens, with their long red suckers looking like threads of red-hot iron. He was walking slowly around, followed by two footmen, who carried a chair, with which they approached him every five minutes that he might rest. While doing so, blinking in the strong sunshine and enjoying his repose, a servant came to announce the chevalier.

"My son!" said the old man. "Come, Philippe, you arrive apropos,- my heart is full of happy thoughts. But how solemn you look!"

"Do I, monsieur- "

"You know already the results of that affair- "

"What affair- "

The old man looked to see that no one was listening, then said, " I speak of the ball."

"I do not understand."

"Oh, the ball at the Opera."

Philippe coloured.

"Sit down," continued his father; "I want to talk to you. It seems that you, so timid and delicate at first, now compromise her too much."

"Whom do you mean, monsieur- "

"Pardieu! do you think I am ignorant of your escapade, both together at the Opera ball- It was pretty."

"Monsieur, I protest- "

"Oh, do not be angry; I only mean to warn- you for your good. You are not careful enough; you were seen there with her."

"I was seen- "

"Pardieu! had you, or not, a blue domino- "

Philippe was about to explain that he had not, and did not know what his father meant, but he thought to himself, " It is of no use to explain to him; he never believes me. Besides, I wish to learn more."

"You see," continued the old man, triumphantly, " you were recognised. Indeed, Monsieur de Richelieu, who was at the ball in spite of his eighty-four years, wondered who the blue domino could be with whom the queen was walking, and he could only suspect you, for he knew all the others."

"And pray how does he say he recognised the queen- "

"Not very difficult, when she took her mask off. Such audacity as that surpasses all imagination; she must really be mad about you. But take care, chevalier; you have jealous rivals to fear; it is an envied post to be favourite of the queen, when the queen is the real king. Pardon my moralising, but I do not wish that the breath of chance should blow down what you have reared so skilfully. "

Philippe rose; the conversation was hateful to him, but a kind of savage curiosity impelled him to hear everything. The perspiration stood out on his brow, and he clinched his fists. He prepared to break off the discourse, so repulsive to him; and would have done so with as great satisfaction as he might have taken in breaking the back-bone of a serpent. But, impelled by a lover's longing mixed with dread to hear the truth and know the worst, he lingered, listening to the garrulous old man.

"We are already envied," continued the old man; " that is natural, but we have not yet attained the height to which we shall rise. To you will belong the glory of raising our name; and now you are progressing so well, only be prudent, or you will fail after all. Soon, however, you must ask for some high post, and obtain for me a lord- lieutenancy not too far from Paris. Then you can have a peerage, and become a duke and lieutenant-general. In two years, if I am still alive- "

"Enough, enough!" groaned Philippe, and lie turned away, to conceal his feelings; his emotions imparted an expression of disgust and bitter contempt to his features, which would have surprised and terrified his father had he seen his face at that moment.

"Oh, if you are satisfied with that, I am not. You have a whole life before you; I perhaps only a few months. However, I do not complain; God gave me two children, and if my daughter has been useless in repairing our fortunes, you will make up for it. I see in you the great Taverney, and you inspire me with respect, for your conduct has been admirable; you show no jealousy, but leave the field apparently open to every one, while you really hold it alone."

"I do not understand you," replied Philippe.

"Oh, no modesty; it was exactly the conduct of Monsieur Potemkin, who astonished the world with his fortunes. He saw that Catherine loved variety in her amours; that if left free she would fly from flower to flower, returning always to the sweetest and most beautiful, but that if pursued she would fly right away. He took his part therefore; he even introduced new favourites to his sovereign, to weary her out with their number; but through and after the quickly succeeding reigns of the twelve Caesars, as they were ironically called, Potemkin in reality was supreme."

"What incomprehensible infamies!" murmured poor Philippe, gazing at his father in stupefaction. But the old man went on:-

"According to his system, however, you have been still a little wrong. He never abandoned his surveillance, and you are too lax in this. I know very well that French policy is not Russian policy."

Philippe replied only by shrugging his shoulders. He really began to think his father was crazy.

"Ah 1 you thought I did not see your game. You are already providing a successor, for you have divined that there is no stability in the queen's amours, and in the event of her changing you wish not to be quite thrown aside; therefore you make friends with Monsieur de Charny, who might otherwise, when his turn comes, exile you, as you now might Messieurs de Coigny, Vaudreuil, and others."

Philippe, with an angry flush, said,-

"Once more, enough! I am ashamed to have listened so long. Those who say that the Queen of France is a Messalina are criminal calumniators!"

"I tell you," said the old man, " no one can hear. I have fathomed your skilfully devised plan; the gift of divination runs in the Taverney blood. Keep on, Philippe, keep on. Flatter and fawn upon Charny; help him to develop from the blade to the full-blown flower; and rest assured that he is a gentleman who will compensate you amply in the future for all the exertions you may make now in his behalf."

After these words, Monsieur de Taverney, revelling in his perspicacity, leaped triumphantly from his chair, with the air of a young man insolent in his prosperity.

Philippe angrily seized him by his sleeve, and arrested his movements, exclaiming satirically,-

"Your logic is admirable, monsieur; and Monsieur de Charny is so much my favourite that I have just passed my sword through his ribs."

"What!" cried the old man, somewhat frightened at his son's flashing eyes, " you have not been fighting- "

"Yes, monsieur; that is my method of conciliating my successors." And he turned to go away.

"Philippe, you jest."

"I do not, monsieur."

The old man rose, and tottered off to the house.

"Quick," said he to the servant; " let a man on horseback go at once and ask after Monsieur de Charny, who has been wounded, and let him be sure to say he comes from me." Then he murmured to himself, "That traitor, Philippe! is he not the brother of his sister- And I thought him cured! Mine is still the only head in the family."

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE STANZAS OF MONSIEUR DE PROVENCE.

While these events were passing in Paris and in Versailles, the king, tranquil as usual, sat in his study, surrounded by maps and plans, and traced new paths for the vessels of La Pe'rouse.

A slight knock at his door roused him from his study, and a voice said, " May I come in, brother- "

"The Count de Provence, the marplot! " growled the king discontentedly. " Enter."

A short person, stout and red-faced, with an alert expression, came in with a step too respectful for a brother, too familiar for a subject.

"You did not expect me, brother- " he said.

"No, indeed."

"Do I disturb you-"

"Have you anything particular to say- "

"Such a strange report- "

"Oh, some scandal- "

"Yes, brother."

"Which has amused you- "

"Because it is so strange."

"Something against me- "

"Should I laugh if it were- "

"Then against the queen- "

"Sire, imagine that I was told quite seriously that the queen slept out the other night."

"That would be very sad if it were true," replied the king.

"But it is not true, is it- "

"No."

"Nor that the queen was seen waiting outside the gate at the reservoirs- "

"No."

"The day, you know, that you ordered the gates to be shut at eleven o'clock- "

"I do not remember."

"Well, brother, they pretend that the queen was seen arm in arm with Monsieur d'Artois at half-past twelve that night."

"Where-"

"Going to a house which he possesses behind the stables. Has not your Majesty heard this report- "

"Yes, you took care of that."

"How, sire- what have I done- "

"Some verses which were printed in the ' Mercury.'"

"Some verses! " said the count, growing red.

"Oh yes; you are a favourite of the Muses."

"Not to the degree of- "

"Of making a stanza with this last line,-

' Helen says nothing about it to the good king Menelaus.'"

"I, sire- "

"Oh, do not deny it; I have the manuscript in your writing. Now, if you had informed yourself of what the queen really did that day, instead of writing these lines against her, and consequently against me, you would have written an ode in her favour. Perhaps the subject does not inspire you; but I should have liked a bad ode better than a good satire. Horace, your favourite poet, has said,- excuse me if I murder the Latin,- ' Rectius hoc est:

Hoc faciens vivam melius, sic duleis araicis occurram."

' That is the better course 5 if I act thus I shall be a better man and win the esteem of my friends.' You might make a more graceful translation, brother, but that is the meaning of the couplet." And the good king, after this admonition, which was more that of a father than of an injured brother, waited for his guilty brother to begin his justification of his actions.

The count paused some few moments before replying, like an orator seeking eloquent language in which to clothe his thoughts, rather than a man in an embarrassing position.

"Sire," said he at last, " severe as is your judgment of me, I have, I believe, a valid excuse, and may trust in your forgiveness."

"Tell it to me, brother."

"You have accused me of having been mistaken, and not of having wilfully done wrong- "

"Certainly."

"Since such is the case, your Majesty, who knows that all men at times make mistakes, will admit that there may have been some excuse for my error-"

"I shall never accuse your heart, since I know it to be above petty meannesses, brother."

"Well, sire, may I not then have been deluded by all the reports that are circulated so freely- We princes live in an atmosphere of calumny, and are impregnated with it. I do not say that I believe it, I merely quote what others have said to me."

"Very well! since that is the case; but-"

"The stanzas- Oh, poets are strange beings, and is it not better to warn by gentle criticism than by a frowning countenance- Threatening verses do no harm, sire, but pamphlets, like the one, for example, that I will show you."

"A pamphlet- "

"Yes, sire; and I want an order for the Bastille for the author of it."

The king rose. " Let me see it," he said.

"I do not know if I ought."

"Certainly you ought. Have you got it with you- "

"Yes, Sire," and he drew from his pocket " The History of the Queen Etteuiotna," one of the fatal numbers which had escaped from Philippe and Charny.

The king glanced over it rapidly. " Infamous! " he cried. " You see, sire, they pretend the queen went to Monsieur Mesmer's."

"Well, she did go."

"She went-"

"Authorised by me."

"Oh, Sire!"

"That is nothing against her; I gave my consent."

"Did your Majesty intend that she should experimentalise on herself- "

The king stamped with rage as the count said this; he was reading one of the most insulting passages,- the history of her contortions, voluptuous disorder, and the attention she had excited.

"Impossible!" he cried, growing pale; and he rang the bell. "Oh, the police shall deal with this! Fetch Monsieur de Crosne."

"Sire, it is his day for coming here, and he is now waiting."

"Let him come in."

"Shall I go, brother-" said the count. "No; remain. If the queen be guilty, you are one of the family, and must know it; if innocent, you, who have suspected her, must hear it."

Monsieur de Crosne entered, and bowed, saying, "The report is ready, sire."

"First, monsieur," said the king, "explain how you allow such infamous publications against the queen."

"Etteniotna-" asked Monsieur de Crosne. "Yes."

"Well, sire, it is a man called Reteau."

"You know his name, and have not arrested him!"

"Sire, nothing is more easy. I have an order already prepared in my portfolio."

"Then why is it not done-"

Monsieur de Crosne looked at the count.

"I see, Monsieur de Crosne wishes me to leave," said he.

"No," replied the king, "remain. And you, Monsieur de Crosne, speak freely."

"Well, sire, I wished first to consult your Majesty whether you would not rather give him some money, and send him away to be hanged elsewhere."

"Why-"

"Because, sire, if these men tell lies, the people are glad enough to see them whipped, or even hanged; but if they chance upon a truth- "

"A truth! It is true that the queen went to Monsieur Mesmer's, but I gave her permission."

"Oh, sire!" cried Monsieur de Crosne.

His tone of sincerity struck the king more than anything Monsieur de Provence had said; and he answered, "I suppose, monsieur, that was no harm."

"No, sire; but her Majesty has compromised herself."

"Monsieur de Crosne, what have your police told you-"

"Sire, many things, which, with all possible respect for her Majesty, agree in many points with this pamphlet."

"Let me hear."

"That the queen went in a common dress, in the middle of this crowd, and alone."

"Alone!" cried the king.

"Yes, Sire."

"You are deceived, Monsieur de Crosne."

"I do not think so, sire."

"You have bad reporters, monsieur."

"So exact, that I can give your Majesty a description of her dress, of all her movements, of her cries- "

"Her cries!"

"Even her sighs were observed, sire."

"It is impossible she could have so far forgotten what is due to me and to herself."

"Oh, yes," said the Comte de Provence; "her Majesty is surely incapable- "

Louis XVI. interrupted him. "Monsieur," said he, to Monsieur de Crosne, "you maintain what you have said-"

"Unhappily, yes, Sire."

"I will examine into it further," said the king, passing his handkerchief over his forehead, on which the drops hung from anxiety and vexation. " I did permit the queen to go, but I ordered her to take with her a person safe, irreproachable, and even holy."

"Ah," said Monsieur de Crosne, "if she had but done so-"

"Yes," said the count; "if a lady like Madame de Lamballe, for instance- "

"It was precisely she whom I told the queen to take."

"Unhappily, sire, she did not do so."

"Well," said the king, with agitation, "if she has disobeyed me so openly, I ought to punish, and I will punish; only some doubts still remain on my mind; these doubts you do not share; that is natural; you are not the king, husband, and friend of her whom they accuse. However, I will proceed to clear the affair up." He rang. "Let some one see," said he to the person who came, "where Madame de Lamballe is." . "Sire, she is walking in the garden with her Majesty and another lady."

"Beg her to come to me. Now, gentlemen, in ten minutes we shall know the truth;" and the king knit his brow, and darted an almost threatening glance at them.

All were silent.

Monsieur de Crosne was really sad, and the count put on an affectation of it, which might have solemnised Momus himself.

A light rustling of silk indicated the approach of the Princess de Lamballe.

Portrait of the Princess de Lamballe.

Photo- Etching.- From Painting by Debucourt.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE PRINCESS OF LAMBALLE.

The Princess de Lamballe entered, beautiful and calm. Her hair drawn back from her noble forehead, her dark, pencilled eyebrows, her clear blue eyes and beautiful lips, and her unrivalled figure formed a lovely tout ensemble. She seemed always surrounded by an atmosphere of virtue and grace, both before her favour and after her disgrace.

The king looked at her with a troubled expression, dreading what he was about to hear; then bowing, said, "Sit down, princess."

Monsieur de Provence approached and kissed her hand.

The king collected his thoughts.

"What does your Majesty desire- " asked she, in a sweet voice.

"Some information, princess; what day did you last go with the queen to Paris-"

"Wednesday, sire."

"Pardon me, cousin," said Louis XVI.; "but I wish to know the exact truth."

"You will never hear anything else from me, sire."

"What did you go there for-"

"I went to Monsieur Mesmer's, Place Vendome."

The two witnesses trembled. The king coloured with emotion.

"Alone-" asked the king.

"No, sire; with the queen."

"With the queen!" cried Louis, seizing her hand.

"Yes, Sire."

Monsieur de Provence and Monsieur de Crosne looked stupefied.

"Your Majesty had authorised the queen to go; at least, so she told me," continued the princess.

"It was true, cousin. Gentlemen, I breathe again; Madame de Lamballe never tells a falsehood."

"Never, sire."

"Oh, never, sire," said Monsieur de Crosne, with perfect sincerity. "But will you permit me, sire-"

"Certainly, monsieur; question, search as much as you please; I place the princess on the rack."

Madame de Lamballe smiled. "I am ready," she said; "but, sire, the rack has been abolished."

"Yes, I have abolished it for others," said the king, "but not for myself."

"Madame," said the lieutenant of police, "have the goodness to tell his Majesty what you did there, and how the queen was dressed."

"She had on a dress of gray taffeta, a mantle of embroidered muslin, an ermine muff, and a rose-coloured velvet bonnet, trimmed with black."

Monsieur de Crosne looked astonished; it was a totally different dress from that which he had had described to him. The Count de Provence bit his lips with vexation, and the king rubbed his hands.

"What did you do on entering-" asked he.

"Sire, you are right to say on entering, for we had hardly entered the room- "

"Together-"

"Yes, sire; and we could scarcely have been seen, for every one was occupied with the experiments going on, when a lady approached the queen, and, offering her a mask, implored her to turn back."

"And you stopped-"

"Yes, Sire."

"You never went through the rooms-" asked Monsieur de Crosne.

"No, monsieur."

"And you never quitted the queen-" asked the king.

"Not for a moment, sire. Her Majesty never left my arm."

"Now!" cried the king, "what do you say, Monsieur de Crosne- and you, brother-"

"It is extraordinary,- quite supernatural," said the count, who affected a gaiety which could not conceal his disappointment.

"There is nothing supernatural," said Monsieur de Crosne, who felt real remorse; "what Madame de Lamballe says is undoubtedly true; therefore my informants must have been mistaken."

"Do you speak seriously, monsieur-" asked the count.

"Perfectly, monseigneur. Her Majesty did what Madame de Lamballe states, and nothing more, I feel convinced; my agents were, somehow or other, deceived. As for this journalist, I will immediately send the order for his imprisonment."

Madame de Lamballe looked from one to the other with an expression of innocent curiosity.

"One moment," said the king; "there will be time enough to hang the journalist. You spoke of a lady who came to stop you; tell us who she was."

"Her Majesty seemed to know her, sire."

"Because, cousin, I must speak to this person; then we shall learn the key to this mystery."

"That is my opinion also, sire," said Monsieur de Crosne.

"Nonsense!" murmured the Comte de Provence. "This woman is a perfect dens ex machina." Then, aloud, "Did the queen tell you that she knew this person-" said the count.

"She told me so, monseigneur."

"My brother means to say that you probably know her name."

"Madame de la Motte Valois."

"That intriguer!" cried the king.

"Diablo!" said the count; " she will be difficult to interrogate; she is cunning."

"We will be as cunning as she," said Monsieur de Crosne.

"I do not like such people about the queen," said Louis; "she is so good that all the beggars crowd round her."

"Madame de la Motte is a true Valois," said the princess.

"However that may be, I will not see her here. I prefer depriving myself of the pleasure of hearing the queen's innocence confirmed to doing that."

"But you must see her, sire," said the queen, entering at that moment, pale with anger, and beautiful, with a noble indignation. " It is not now for you to say, ' I do or I do not wish to see her.' She is a witness from whom the intelligence of my accusers," said she, looking at her brother-in-law, "and the justice of my judges," turning to the king and Monsieur de Crosne, " must draw the truth. I, the accused, demand that she be heard."

"Madame," said the king, "we will not do Madame de la Motte the honour of sending for her to give evidence either for or against you. I cannot stake your honour against the veracity of this woman."

"You need not send for her, she is here."

"Here!" cried the king, turning, as if he had trodden on a snake.

"Sire, you know I went to see her one day, that day of which so many things were said," and she looked again at the Count de Provence, who felt ready to sink through the ground; "and I then dropped at her house a box containing a portrait, which she was to return to me to-day, and she is here."

"No, no," said the king; "I am satisfied, and do not wish to see her."

"But I am not satisfied, and shall bring her in. Besides, why this repugnance- What has she done- If there be anything, tell me, you, Monsieur de Crosne, you know everything."

"I know nothing against this lady," replied he.

"Really-"

"Certainly not; she is poor, and perhaps ambitious, but that is all."

"Ambition is the vice of rank; if there be no more than that against her, the king can surely admit her."

"I do not know why," said Louis; "but I have a presentiment that this woman will be the cause of misfortune to me."

"Oh, sire, that is superstition; pray fetch her, Madame de Lamballe."

Five minutes after, Jeanne, with a timid air, although with a distinguished appearance, entered the room.

Louis XVI., strong in his antipathies, had turned his back towards her, and was leaning his head on his hands, seeming to take no longer a part in the conversation. The Count de Provence cast on her a look which, had her modesty been real, would have increased her confusion; but it required much more than that to trouble Jeanne.

"Madame," said the queen, "have the goodness to tell the king exactly what passed the other day at Monsieur Mesmer's."

Jeanne did not speak.

"It requires no consideration," continued the queen; "we want nothing but the simple truth."

Jeanne understood immediately that the queen had need of her, and knew that she could clear her in a moment by speaking the simple truth; but she felt inclined to keep her secret.

"Sire," said she, "I went to see Monsieur Mesmer from curiosity, like the rest of the world. The spectacle appeared to me rather a coarse one. I turned and suddenly saw her Majesty entering, whom I had already had the honour of seeing, but without knowing her till her generosity revealed her rank. It seemed to me that her Majesty was out of place in this room, where much suffering and many ridiculous exhibitions were going on. I beg pardon for having taken it on myself to judge; it was a woman's instinct, but I humbly beg pardon if I passed the bounds of proper respect." She seemed overcome with emotion as she concluded.

Every one but the king was pleased.

Madame de Lamballe thought her conduct delicate, and herself timid, intelligent, and good.

The queen thanked her by a look.

"Well," she said, "you have heard, sire."

He did not move, but said, " I did not need her testimony."

"I was told to speak," said Jeanne, timidly, "and I obeyed."

"It is enough," answered he; "when the queen says a thing she needs no witnesses to confirm her; and when she has my approbation, and she has it, she need care for that of no one else."

He cast an overwhelming look on his brother, and, kissing the hands of the queen and the princess, and begging pardon of the latter for having disturbed her for nothing, made a very slight bow to Jeanne.

The ladies then left the room.

"Brother," said Louis to the count, "now I will detain you no longer; I have work to do with Monsieur de Crosne. You have heard your sister's complete justification, and it is easy to see you are as pleased as myself. Pray sit down, Monsieur de Crosne."

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE QUEEN.

The queen, after leaving the king, felt deeply the danger she had been so nearly incurring. She appreciated the delicacy and tact with which Jeanne had sustained her deposition, and her modesty in withdrawing herself into the background after she had finished.

Indeed, Jeanne, who, by an unexpected turn of fortune's wheel, had attained in one day a position of importance at court which the most accomplished courtier might have been ten years in acquiring,- Jeanne, who by her clever replies had placed the queen under obligations to her, by averting suspicions that might have seriously affected the latter, now prepared to withdraw, her face exhibiting none of those symptoms of gratification which the susceptibility of the great so readily discerns on the countenances of their dependents.

The queen, then, instead of allowing Jeanne to depart, retained her, and said to her, with a gracious smile,-

"It is really fortunate, madame, that you prevented my prolonging my stay at Monsieur Mesmer's; for only think, they have taken advantage of my being there to say that I was under the influence of magnetism."

"But," said Madame de Lamballe, "it is very strange that the police should have been so deceived, and have affirmed that they saw the queen in the inner room."

"It is strange," said the queen; " and Monsieur de Crosne is an honest man, and would not willingly injure me; but his agents may have been bought. I have enemies, dear Lamballe. Still there must have been some foundation for this tale. This infamous libel represents me as intoxicated, and overcome to such a degree by the magnetic fluid, that I lost all control over myself, and all womanly reserve. Did any such scene take place, Madame la Comtesse- Was there any one who behaved like this-"

Jeanne coloured; the secret once told, she lost all the fatal influence which she could now exercise over the queen's destiny; therefore she again resolved to keep silent on this point.

"Madame," said she, "there was a woman much agitated who attracted great attention by her contortions and cries."

"Probably some actress or loose character, and not the Queen of France."

"Certainly not, madame."

"Countess, you replied very well to the king, and I will not forget you. How have you advanced in your own affairs-"

At this moment Madame de Misery came in, to say that Mademoiselle de Taverney wished to know if her Majesty would receive her.

"Assuredly," said the queen. "How ceremonious you always are, Andree! why do you stand so much upon etiquette- "

"Your Majesty is too good to me."

Jeanne, recognising the second charitable German lady, summoned to her face a blush and an expression of modesty.

Madame de Lamballe now availed herself of Andree entrance to take leave.

"Well, Andree," the queen then said, "here is this lady whom we went to see the other day."

"I recognise madame," said Andree, bowing.

Jeanne, already proud of the attention bestowed upon her by the queen, endeavoured to discern traces of jealousy on Andree countenance; but the latter presented complete indifference.

Andree, having the same passions as the queen,- Andree, who, but for her unhappiness, might have surpassed all other women in generosity, in kindness, and in spirit, so concealed her true character under a mask of reserve that she was accredited at court with the proud modesty of a Diana.

"Do you know," said the queen, "what they have said to the king about me-"

"They must have said all that is bad about you, because they could never have said all that is good," replied Andree.

"That," said Jeanne, "is the most graceful assertion I ever heard. I say ' graceful' because she said, apparently without an effort, what I have always felt, but which my poor brains could never have expressed so beautifully."

"I will tell you all about it, Andree."

"Oh, I know the story already, madame. Monsieur le Comte de Provence just related it, and a friend of mine overheard him."

"That was a fine thing for him to do," said the queen, angrily. "After having but just a few moments ago rendered homage to the truth, he now propagates a false report. But enough on this subject. Countess, we were speaking of you; who protects you now-"

"You, madame," replied Jeanne, boldly, "since you permit me to come and kiss your hand."

"She has an impulsive heart," said Marie Antoinette, "which I like."

Andree made no reply.

"Few people," Jeanne continued, "dared to protect me when I was in obscurity; now that I have been seen with your Majesty, every one will be anxious to do so."

"Then," said the queen, "no one has been either brave enough or corrupt enough to protect you for yourself- "

"I had first Madame de Boulainvilliers, a brave protector; then her husband, a corrupt one; but since my marriage no one. Oh, yes, I forget one brave man, a generous prince."

"Prince, countess! who is it-"

"Monsieur the Cardinal de Rohan."

"My enemy," said the queen, smiling.

"Your enemy! Oh, madame!"

"It seems you are astonished that a queen should have an enemy. It is evident you have not lived at court."

"But, madame, he adores you. The devotion of the cardinal equals his respect for you."

"Oh, doubtless," said the queen, with a hearty laugh; "that is why he is my enemy."

Jeanne looked surprised.

"And you are his protégée," continued the queen; "tell me all about it."

"It is very simple; his Eminence has assisted me in the most generous, yet the most considerate manner."

"Good. Prince Louis is generous; no one can deny that. But do you not think, Andree, that Monsieur le Cardinal also adores this pretty countess a little- Come, countess, tell us." And Marie Antoinette laughed again in her frank, joyous manner.

"All this gaiety must be put on," thought Jeanne. So she answered, in a grave tone, "Madame, I have the honour to affirm to your Majesty that Monsieur de Rohan- "

"Well, since you are his friend, ask him what he did with some hair of mine which he bribed a certain hairdresser to steal; and which trick cost the poor man dear, for he lost my custom."

"Your Majesty surprises me; Monsieur de Rohan did that-"

"Oh, yes; all his adoration, you know. After having hated me at Vienna, and having employed every means to try to prevent my marriage, he at last began to perceive that I was a woman, and his queen, and that he had offended me forever. Then this dear prince began to fear for his future, and, like all of his profession, who seem most fond of those whom they most fear, and as he knew me young and believed me foolish and vain, he turned,- he became a Celadon, and began with sighs and glances. He adores me, does he not, Andree-"

"Madame!"

"Oh, Andree will not compromise herself, but I say what I please; at least I may have that advantage from being a queen. So it is a settled thing that the cardinal adores me, and you may tell him, countess, that he has my permission."

Women of this kind- these angels so rare- never take the pains to defend themselves against the snares set for them on the earth. In fact, they are incapable of perceiving the mire that soils them, the bird-lime which dulls the brilliancy of their glowing plumage.

Jeanne, naturally vulgar and corrupt, fancied from the queen's words that she felt only spite towards the Cardinal de Rohan. She recalled all the petty scandals of the court; reports originating in the -de-Bosuf, and spreading until their echoes reached the lowest depths of the Faubourg of Paris.

The cardinal, who had the same fondness for women as Louis XV., had once said to the latter that the queen was not a complete woman. It was a peculiar remark, but, coming from his lips, had a significance of its own.

Now Jeanne was a woman from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet; she was vain of every tress of her beautiful hair. To Jeanne it was an imperative duty to please and conquer all with whom she came in contact; hence she could not conceive that any other woman would feel otherwise than herself on these delicate subjects.

Jeanne, instead of seeing in all this only the angry disdain of a noble character, which she was incapable of appreciating, thought it all pique against Monsieur de Rohan, hiding another feeling for him, and therefore began to defend him with all her eloquence.

The queen listened.

"Good! she listens," thought Jeanne again, and did not understand that she listened through generosity, and through pleasure at anything so novel as to hear any person defend one of whom the sovereign chose to speak ill, and felt pleased with her, thinking she saw a heart where none was placed.

The conversation continued on this same intimate footing,- thanks to the queen's condescending kindness. Jeanne felt as if she were sitting on thorns, and began to get uneasy; she who before had so cleverly played the role of a stranger, who asks leave to withdraw, now perceived that she could not get away without a dismissal.

All at once a joyous voice was heard near, and the queen said, "Here is the Comte d'Artois."

When he entered, the queen introduced the countess to him.

"Pray do not let me send you away, Madame la Comtesse," said he, as Jeanne made a move to depart.

The queen also requested her to stay. "You have returned from the wolf-hunt, then-" she said.

"Yes, sister, and have had good sport; I have killed seven. I am not sure," continued he, laughing, "but they say so. However, do you know I have gained seven hundred francs-"

"How-"

"Why, they pay a hundred francs a head for these beasts. It is dear, but I would give two hundred of them just now for the head of a certain journalist."

"Ah! you know the story-"

"Monsieur de Provence told me."

"He is indefatigable. But tell me how he related it."

"So as to make you whiter than snow, or Venus Aphrodite."

"He told you about that adventure-"

"Of the journalist- Yes, sister; but your Majesty came out of it with honour. To make one of Monsieur de Lievre's puns, the affair of the tub is washed."

"Oh, what a dreadful play of words!"

"Sister, do not despise the knight who offers you his lance and his right arm. It seems you came out of it gloriously; you are fortunate."

"Oh, you call that fortunate. Do you hear him, Andree-"

"Yes, for you might have gone alone, without Madame de Lamballe; and you might not have had Madame de la Motte there to stop your entrance."

"Ah! you know that too-"

"Oh, yes; the count told everything. Then you might not have had Madame de la Motte at hand to give her testimony. You will tell me, doubtless, that virtue and innocence are like the violet, which does not require to be seen in order to be recognised; but, sister, they make bouquets of violets when they find them, and after they have enjoyed their fragrance they throw them away. That is my lesson. You may take it for what it is worth; but still I say you are fortunate."

"Badly proved."

"I will prove it still better. Saved so well from the unlucky scrape of the cabriolet, saved from this affair, and then the ball," whispered he in her ear.

"What ball-"

"The ball at the Opera."

"What do you mean- "

"I mean the ball at the Opera; but I beg pardon, I should not have mentioned it."

"Really, brother, you puzzle me; I know nothing about the ball at the Opera."

The words "ball" and "Opera" caught Jeanne's ear, and she listened intently.

"I am dumb," said the prince.

"But, count, I insist on knowing what it means."

"Oh, pray allow me to let it drop."

"Do you want to disoblige me-"

"No, sister; but I have said quite enough for you to understand."

"You have told me nothing."

"Oh, sister, it is needless with me."

"But really I am in earnest."

"You wish me to speak-"

"Immediately."

"Not here," said he, looking at the others."

"Yes, here; there cannot be too many at such an explanation."

"Then you mean to say you were not at the last ball-"

"II" cried the queen, "at the ball at the Opera-"

"Hush, I beg."

"No, I will not hush; I will speak it aloud! You say I was at the ball-"

"Certainly I do."

"Perhaps you saw me-" she said, ironically.

"Yes, I did."

"Me-"

"Yes, you."

"Oh, it is too much! Why did you not speak to me- That would have been still more droll."

"Ma foi! I was just going to do so, when the crowd separated us."

"You are mad!"

"I should not have spoken of it. I have been very foolish."

The queen rose, and walked up and down the room in great agitation.

Andree trembled with fear and disquietude, and Jeanne could hardly keep from laughing.

Then the queen stopped, and said,-

"My friend, do not jest any more; you see I am so passionate that I have lost my temper already. Tell me at once that you were joking with me."

"I will, if you please, sister."

"Be serious, Charles. You have invented all this, have you not- "

He winked at the ladies, and said, "Oh, yes, of course."

"You do not understand me, brother!" cried the queen, vehemently. " Say yes or no. Do not tell falsehoods; I only want the truth!"

Andree and Jeanne retired behind the tapestry.

"Well, then, sister," said he, in a low voice, "I have told the truth, but I am sorry I spoke."

"You saw me there- "

"As plain as I see you now; and you saw me."

The queen uttered a cry, and, running up to Andree and Jeanne, cried, "Ladies, Monsieur le Comte d'Artois affirms that he saw me at the ball at the Opera; let him prove it."

"Well," said he, "I was with Monsieur de Richelieu and others when your mask fell off."

"My mask!"

"I was about to say, ' This is too rash, sister,' but the gentleman with you drew you away so quickly."

"Oh, mon Dieu! you will drive me mad! What gentleman-"

"The blue domino."

The queen passed her hand over her eyes.

"What day was this-" she asked.

"Saturday. The next day I set off to hunt, before you were up."

"What time do you say you saw me-"

"Between two and three."

"Decidedly one of us is mad!"

"Oh, it is I; it is all a mistake. Do not be so afraid; there is no harm done. At first I thought you were with the king; but the blue domino spoke German, and he does not."

"Well, brother, on Saturday I went to bed at eleven."

The count bowed, with an incredulous smile.

The queen rang. " Madame de Misery shall tell you."

"Why do you not call Laurent also-" said he, laughing. "It is I who cast the cannon, little sister; do not fire it off at me."

"Oh," cried the queen, in a rage, "not to be believed!"

"My dear sister, if I believed you, others would not."

"What others-"

"Those who saw you as well as myself."

"Who were they-"

"Monsieur Philippe de Taverney, for instance."

"My brother-" cried Andree.

"Yes; shall we ask him-"

"Immediately."

"Mon Dieu! " murmured Andree, " my brother a witness!"

"Yes; I wish it;" and she sent to seek him at his father's.

He was just leaving, after the scene we have described with his father, when the messenger met him. He came quickly, and Marie Antoinette turned to him at once.

"Monsieur," said she, "are you capable of speaking the truth-"

"Incapable of anything else, madame."

"Well, then, say frankly, have you seen me at any public place within the last week- "

"Yes, madame."

All hearts beat so that you might have heard them.

"Where-" said the queen, in a terrible voice.

Philippe was silent.

"Oh, no concealment, monsieur! My brother says you saw me at the ball of the Opera."

"I did, madame."

The queen sank on a sofa; then, rising furiously, she said,-

"It is impossible, for I was not there! Take care, Monsieur de Taverney, I see that you have acquired Puritan airs since you left here; they may be well received in America with Lafayette, but they are out of place at Versailles. Here, we are French, polite and ingenuous."

"Your Majesty," said Andree, pale with anger, "if my brother says he saw you, he did see you."

"You also!" cried Marie Antoinette; "it only remains now for you to have seen me. Pardieu! my enemies overwhelm me."

"When I saw that the blue domino was not the king," said the Comte d'Artois, "I believed him to be that nephew of Monsieur de Suffren whom you received so well here the other night."

The queen coloured. Andre*e became pale as death. They exchanged glances, and trembled as they looked into each other's faces.

Philippe himself became livid.

"Monsieur de Charny-" he murmured.

"Charny; it was he. Did it not look something like his tournure, Monsieur de Taverney-" continued the count.

"I did riot remark, monseigneur," said he, in a choking voice.

"But I soon found out that it was not he; for suddenly I saw him before me, and he was close by you when your mask fell off."

"So he saw me too- "

"If he were not blind, he did."

The queen rang.

"What are you about to do- "

"Send for him also, and ask. I will drain this cup to the dregs!"

"I do not think he can come," said Philippe.

"Why-"

"Because I believe he is not well."

"Oh, he must come, monsieur! I am not well either, but I would go to the end of the world barefoot to prove- "

All at once Andree, who was near the window, uttered an exclamation.

"What is it- " cried the queen.

"Oh, nothing; only here comes Monsieur de Charny."

The queen, in her excitement, ran to the window, opened it, and cried, " Monsieur de Charny 1 "

He, full of astonishment, hastened to enter.

CHAPTER XXXVII. AN ALIBI.

Monsieur De Charny entered, a little pale, but upright, and not apparently suffering.

At sight of this illustrious company, he assumed the respectful and dignified bearing of a man of the world and a soldier.

"Take care, sister," said the Count d'Artois; " what is the use of asking so many people- "

"Brother, I will ask the whole world, till I meet some one who will tell you you are deceived."

Charny and Philippe bowed courteously to each other, and Philippe said in a low voice, " You are surely mad to come out wounded; one would say you wished to die."

"One does not die from the scratch of a thorn in the Bois de Boulogne," replied Charny, rejoicing at this opportunity of giving his enemy a moral thrust, more grievous than a sword thrust.

The queen approached, and put an end to this conversation. " Monsieur de Charny," said she, " these gentlemen say that you were at the ball at the Opera- "

"Yes, your Majesty."

"Tell us what you saw there."

"Does your Majesty mean whom I saw there- "

"Precisely; and no complaisant reserve. Monsieur de Charny."

"Must I say, madame- "

The cheeks of the queen assumed once more that deadly paleness which had many times that morning alternated with a burning red.

"Did you see me- " she asked.

"Yes, your Majesty, at the moment when your mask unhappily fell off."

Marie Antoinette clasped her hands.

"Monsieur," said she, almost sobbing, "look at me well; are you sure of what you say- "

"Madame, your features are engraved in the hearts of your subjects; to see your Majesty once is to see you forever."

Philippe looked intently at Andre's, who returned his glance. These two griefs, these two jealousies, bound them sadly together.

"But, monsieur," said she, " I assure you I was not at the ball at the Opera."

"Oh, madame," said the young man, bowing low, " has not your Majesty the right to go where you please- "

"I do not ask you to find excuses for me; I only ask you to believe."

"I will believe all your majesty wishes me to believe," cried he, moved to the bottom of his heart by this persistence on the part of the queen,- by this touching humility from a woman so proud by nature.

"Sister, sister, it is too much," murmured the count.

"No one believes me!" cried she, throwing herself on the sofa, with tears in her eyes.

This painful scene affected all the assembled company. Some were filled with grief for those they loved or for their own self-esteem; others, by the emotion that a woman always elicits who defends herself against her accusers, with their overwhelming proofs against her.

"They believe it! they believe it!" cried she; and she threw herself in a frenzy upon an easy-chair, furtively wiping away a tear which wounded pride had drawn from her eyes. Suddenly she sprang up.

"Sister, pardon me," said the count tenderly; " you are surrounded by devoted friends; this secret which terrifies you so we alone know. It is confined to our hearts, and no one shall drag it from us while we have life."

"This secret! Oh, I want nothing but to prove the truth!"

"Madame," said Andree, " some one approaches."

"Madame," said Philippe in a low tone, " the king."

The king was announced.

"The king! oh, so much the better I He is my only friend; he would not believe me guilty even if he thought he saw me."

The king entered with an air of calmness, in strange contrast to the disturbed countenances of those present.

"Sire," said the queen, " you come apropos; there is yet another calumny, another insult to combat."

"What is it- " said Louis, advancing.

"An infamous report. Aid me, sire, for now it is no longer my enemies that accuse me, but my friends."

"Your friends 1"

"Yes, sire; Monsieur le Comte d'Artois, Monsieur de Taverney, and Monsieur de Charny affirm that they saw me at the ball at the Opera."

"At the ball at the Opera! " cried the king.

A terrible silence ensued.

Madame de la Motte saw the mortal paleness of the queen, the terrible disquietude of the king and of all the others, and with one word she could have put an end to all this, and saved the queen, not only now, but in the future, from much distress. But she said to herself that it was too late, that they would see, if she spoke now, that she had deceived them before when the simple truth would have been of such advantage to the queen, and she should forfeit her newly acquired favour. So she remained silent

The king repeated, with an air of anguish, " At the ball at the Opera! Does Monsieur de Provence know this- "

"But, sire, it is not true. Monsieur le Comte d'Artois is deceived; Monsieur de Taverney is deceived; Monsieur de Charny, you are deceived, one may be mistaken."

All bowed.

"Come," continued she, " call all my people, ask every one. You say it was Saturday- "

"Yes, sister."

"Well, what did I do on Saturday- Let some one tell me, for I think I am going mad, and shall begin at last to believe that I did go to this infamous ball. But, gentlemen, if I had been there I would have confessed it."

At this moment the king approached her, every cloud gone from his brow. " Well, Marie," said he, " if it was Saturday, there is no need to call your women, or only to ask them at what hour I came to your room. I believe it was past eleven."

"Oh! " cried the queen, joyfully, " you are right, sire." And she threw herself into his arms; then blushing and confused, she hid her face on his shoulder, while he kissed her tenderly.

"Well," said the Comte d'Artois, full of both surprise and joy, " I will certainly buy spectacles. But on my word, I would not have lost this scene for a million of money. Would you, gentlemen- "

Philippe was leaning against the wainscot, as pale as death. Charny wiped the burning drops from his forehead.

"Therefore, gentlemen," said the king, turning towards them, " I know it to be impossible that the queen was that night at the ball at the Opera. Believe it or not, as you please. The queen, I am sure, is content that I know her to be innocent."

"Well," said Monsieur d'Artois, "Provence may say what he pleases, but I defy his wife to prove an alibi in the same way, if she should be accused of passing the night out."

"Charles!"

"Pardon, sire, now I will take my leave."

"Well, I will go with you." And, once more kissing the queen's hand, they left the room.

Philippe had not stirred.

"Monsieur de Taverney," said the queen severely, when they were gone, " do you not accompany Monsieur d'Artois-"

Philippe started, all the blood rushed to his head, and he had hardly strength to bow and leave the room.

Andree was to be pitied also. She knew that Philippe would have given the world to have taken Monsieur de Charny away with him, but she felt as though she could not follow to comfort him, leaving Charny alone with the queen, or only with Madame de la Motte, who, she instinctively felt, was worse than no one. But why this feeling- She could not love Charny; that, she told herself, was impossible. So slight and recent an acquaintance, and she who had vowed to love no one. Why then did she suffer so much when Charny addressed words of such respectful devotion to the queen- Was not this jealousy- Yes, she thought, but only jealousy that this woman should draw all hearts towards her, while the whole world of gallantry and love passed herself coldly by. She gloomily regarded all the young gentlemen of the new court around her. These valiant men, full of youthful life and spirits, could not understand her, and, after having politely greeted her, passed on; some because her coldness was not the calmness of philosophy, others because this reserve was in strange contrast to the frivolities in which Andree had been brought up. And then men, whether in search of pleasure or dreaming of love, distrust the coldness of a young woman of twenty-five years, who is beautiful, rich, and one of the queen's favourites, and who glides solitary, cold, silent, and pale along a path where gaiety and happiness are the order of the day. It was no attraction to be a living problem, ever cold and reserved, like Andree; they felt it, turned from her beauty and her intellect, and contented themselves with mere politeness. Andree felt this deeply.

Whoever bowed to Mademoiselle de Taverney, and then smiled and turned away to another woman, felt that he had done his duty. None of these things escaped the eye of the young girl. She whose heart had experienced every grief without tasting a single pleasure,- she who felt age with its weary, monotonous days, and its sad memories, approaching,- she, to whom revenge was sweeter than pardon,- in the long, sleepless nights, meditating on the happy lovers whom she saw at Versailles, she experienced a mortal bitterness in her heart, and cried in anguish, " And I, my God, and 11 " But on the night when they first met Charny, he showed towards her nothing of this coldness or reserve; she was to him as interesting as any other beautiful woman, and she felt cheered and warmed by it. But now the queen absorbed his every look and thought, and left her lonely again; therefore she did not follow her brother, although she suffered in his sufferings, and almost idolised him. She did not, however, attempt to mingle in the conversation, but sat down by the fire almost with her back to the queen and Charny, while Madame de la Motte stood in one of the deep windows, nearly out of sight, although she could observe all that passed.

The queen remained silent for some minutes, then she said, almost to herself, "Would any one believe that such things pass here- " Then, turning to Charny, said, " We hear, sir, of the dangers of the sea and of the fury of tempests, but you have doubtless encountered all their assaults, and you are still safe and honoured."

"Madame- "

"Then the English, our enemies, have attacked you with their guns and their power, but still you are safe; and on account of the enemies you have conquered, the king felicitates and admires you, and the people bless and love you; therefore, blessed are such enemies who menace us only with death. Our enemies do not endanger existence, it is true, but they add years to our lives; they make us bow the head, fearing, though innocent, to meet, as I have done, the double attacks of friends and enemies. And then, monsieur, if you knew how hard it is to be hated!"

Andree listened anxiously for his reply, but he only leaned against the wall, and grew pale.

The queen looked at him, and said, " It is too hot here; Madame de la Motte, open the window. Monsieur is accustomed to the fresh sea-breezes; he would stifle in our boudoirs."

"It is not that, madame; but I am on duty at two o'clock, and unless your Majesty wishes me to remain- "

"Oh no, monsieur! we know what duty is. You are free," said the queen, in a tone of slight pique.

Charny bowed, and disappeared like a man in haste; but in a minute they heard from the antechamber the sound of a groan, and people hurrying forward. The queen, who was near the door, opened it, and uttered an exclamation and was going out, when Andree rose quickly, saying, " Oh no, madame! "

Then they saw through the open door the guards assisting Monsieur de Charny, who had fainted. The queen closed the door, and sat down again, pensive and thoughtful. At last she said, " It is an odd thing, but I do not believe Monsieur de Charny was convinced."

"Oh, madame! in spite of the king's word- Impossible! "

"He may have thought the king said it for his own sake."

"My brother was not so incredulous," said Andree.

"It would be very wrong," continued the queen, not heeding her; " he could not have as noble a heart as I thought. But, after all, why should he believe- He thought he saw me. They all thought so. There is something in all this; something which I must clear up. Andree, I must find out what it all means."

"Your Majesty is right; you must investigate it. I am sure that Madame de la Motte is of my opinion, and would advise you to do so. Would you not, madame- "

Madame de la Motte, taken by surprise, was startled and made no reply.

"For," continued the queen, " people said they saw me at Monsieur Mesmer's."

"But your Majesty was there," said Madame de la Motte.

"Yes; but I did not do what they insist they saw me do. And they saw me at the Opera and I was not there. Oh! " cried she, " at last I guess the truth."

"The truth!" stammered the countess.

"Oh, I hope so! " said Andree.

"Send for Monsieur de Crosne," said the queen, joyously.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. MONSIEUR DE CROSNE.

Monsieur De Crosne had felt himself in no slight degree embarrassed since his interview with the king and queen. It was no light matter to have the care of the interests of a crown and of the fame of a queen; and he feared that he was about to encounter all the weight of a woman's anger and a queen's indignation. He knew, however, that he had but done his duty, and he entered, therefore, tranquilly, with a smile on his face.

"Now, Monsieur de Crosne," said the queen, "it is our turn for an explanation."

The queen however, did not smile.

"I am at your Majesty's orders."

"As lieutenant of police, you ought to know the cause of all that has happened to me, monsieur."

Monsieur de Crosne looked round him, rather frightened.

"Never mind these ladies," said the queen; " you know them both; you know every one."

"Nearly," said the magistrate; " and I know the effects, but not the cause, of what has happened to your Majesty."

"Then I must enlighten you, although it is a disagreeable task. I might tell you in private, but my thoughts and words are always open as the day; all the world may know them. I attribute the attacks that have been made upon me to the misconduct of some one who resembles me, and who goes everywhere; and thus your agents have made these mistakes."

"A resemblance!" cried Monsieur de Crosne, too much occupied with the idea to observe the unquiet look which Jeanne could not for a moment prevent appearing, or to hear an exclamation from Andree.

"Well, monsieur, do you think this impossible; or do you prefer to think that I am deceiving you- "

"Oh no, madame! but surely, however strong a resemblance may be, there must be some points of difference to prevent people being so deceived."

"It seems not, monsieur; some are deceived."

"Oh! and I remember," said Andree, "when we lived at Taverney-Maison-Rouge, we had a servant who very strongly- "

"Resembled me- "

"Most wonderfully, your Majesty."

"And what became of her- "

"We did not then know the great generosity of your Majesty's mind, and my father feared that this resemblance might be disagreeable to you; and when we were at Trianon we kept her out of sight."

"You see, Monsieur de Crosne. Ah! this interests you."

"Much, madame."

"Afterwards, dear Andree- "

"Madame, this girl, who was of an ambitious disposition and troublesome temper, grew tired of this quiet life, and had doubtless made bad acquaintances, for one night when I went to bed I was surprised not to see her. We sought her in vain, she had disappeared."

"Did she steal anything- "

"Nothing, madame."

Jeanne had listened to all this with an eagerness easily to be conceived.

"You did not know all this, Monsieur de Crosne- "

"No, madame."

"Thus, then, there is a woman whose resemblance to me is striking, and you do not know her. I fear your police is badly organised."

"No, madame; a police magistrate is but a man, and though the vulgar may rate his power as something almost superhuman, your Majesty is more reasonable."

"Still, monsieur, when a man has secured all possible powers for penetrating secrets, when he pays agents and spies, and to such an extent as to know every movement I make, he might prevent this sort of thing."

"Madame, when your Majesty passed the night out, I knew it, the day you went to see madame at the Rue Saint- Claude; therefore my police is not bad. When you went to Monsieur Mesmer's, my agents saw you. When you went to the Opera- "

The queen started.

"Pardon me, madame, if I say you; but if your own brother-in-law mistook you, surely an agent at a crown a day may be pardoned for having done so. They thought they saw you, and reported accordingly; therefore my police is not bad. They also knew this affair of the journalist, so well punished by Monsieur de Charny."

"Monsieur de Charny! " cried the queen and Andree in a breath.

"Yes, madame: his blows are yet fresh on the shoulders of the journalist. This is one of those occurrences which my predecessor, Monsieur de Sartines, would have enlarged upon to the late king or to the favourite."

"Monsieur de Charny committed himself with this fellow!"

"I know it by my calumniated police, madame; and, also, which was more difficult, the duel which followed."

"A duel! Monsieur de Charny fought- "

"With the journalist- " asked Andree.

"No, madame; the journalist was too well beaten to give Monsieur de Charny the sword-thrust which made him faint here just now."

"Wounded!" cried the queen; " how and when- He was here just now."

"Oh!" said Andree, " I saw that he suffered."

She evinced such hostility in the manner of speaking these words, that the queen turned hastily, and looked searchingly at her. Andree sustained her glance haughtily.

"What do you say- " cried the queen, almost angrily; " you saw that he suffered, and did not mention it! "

Andree did not reply.

Jeanne, who wished to make a friend of her, came to her aid, saying, "I also, madame, saw that Monsieur de Charny had difficulty in standing up while your Majesty spoke to him."

"Monsieur," said the queen again to Monsieur de Crosne, " with whom and why did Monsieur de Charny fight- "

"With a gentleman who- But really, madame, it is useless now. The two adversaries are friends again, for they spoke just now in your Majesty's presence."

"In my presence! "

"Yes, madame; the conqueror left about twenty minutes ago."

"Monsieur de Taverney! " cried the queen.

"My brother!" murmured Andree, reproaching herself for not having divined the truth before owing to her selfish meditations.

"I believe," said Monsieur de Crosne, " that it was he with whom Monsieur de Charny fought."

The queen made an angry gesture. "It is not right," she said; " these are American manners brought to Versailles. It is not because one has fought under Monsieur Lafayette and Washington that my court should be disgraced by such proceedings. Andree, did you know your brother had fought- "

"Not till this moment, madame."

"Why did he fight- "

"We might have asked Monsieur de Charny himself that question, since he fought with him," said Andree, pale, with flashing eyes.

"I am not questioning Monsieur de Charny's actions," said the queen, haughtily, " but those of Monsieur Philippe de Taverney."

"If my brother fought," said Andrei, " it was in your Majesty's service."

"That is to say, that Monsieur de Charny fought against me."

"Your Majesty, I spoke only of my brother, and of no one else."

The queen tried hard to remain calm. She walked once or twice up and down the room, and then said, " Monsieur de Crosne, you have convinced me. I was much disturbed by these rumours and accusations; your police is efficient, but I beg you not to forget to investigate this resemblance of which I have spoken. Adieu!" She held out her hand to him with her own peculiar grace. And he departed twice as happy as when he came. He had also acquired ten times as much information.

Andree made a movement to depart. The queen gave her a careless adieu.

Jeanne also prepared to leave, when Madame de Misery entered.

"Madame," said she to the queen, " did your Majesty appoint this hour to receive Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange-"

"Oh, yes, it is true; let them come in. Remain a little longer, Madame de la Motte; I want the king to make a full peace with you." Perhaps she wished to pique Andree by this favour to a new-comer, but Andree did not seem to heed.

"All these Taverneys are made of iron, but gold also," thought the queen. " Ah, gentlemen, what do you bring me now- You know I have no money."

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE TEMPTRESS.

Madame De La Motte remained therefore as before, in her affected humility. Yet she took advantage of her position, to observe attentively all that was said and done in her presence.

Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange, in court costume, presented themselves before the queen. They continued bowing until they reached the easy-chair in which she sat. " Jewellers," said the queen suddenly, " it is a bad time to discuss jewelry."

Monsieur Boehmer prepared to answer her. He was the chosen orator of the occasion.

"Madame," replied he, " we do not come to offer anything to your Majesty, we should fear to be indiscreet; but we come to fulfil a duty, and that has emboldened us- "

"A duty- "

"Concerning the necklace which your majesty did not deign to take."

"Oh! then, the necklace has come again," said Marie Antoinette, laughing. "It was really beautiful, Monsieur Boehmer."

"So beautiful," said Bossange, "that your Majesty alone was worthy to wear it."

"My consolation is, " said the queen, with a sigh which did not escape Jeanne, " that it cost a million and a half. Was not that the price, Monsieur Boehmer- "

"Yes, your Majesty."

"And in these times," continued the queen, " there is no sovereign that can give such a sum for a necklace; so that, although I cannot wear it, no one else can: and once broken up, I should care nothing about it."

"That is an error of your Majesty's; the necklace is sold."

"Sold!" cried the queen. " To whom- "

Ah! madame, that is a state secret."

"Oh!" said the queen, " I think I am safe. A state secret means that there is nothing to tell."

"With your Majesty," continued Boehmer, as gravely as ever, " we do not act as with others. The necklace is sold, but in the most secret manner, and an ambassador-"

"I really think he believes it himself!" interrupted the queen, laughing again. " Come, Monsieur Boehmer, tell me at least the country he comes from, or, at all events, the first letter of his name."

"Madame, it is the ambassador from Portugal," said Boehmer, in a low voice, that Madame de la Motte might not hear.

"The ambassador from Portugal!" said the queen. " There is none here, Monsieur Boehmer."

"He came expressly for this, madame."

"Do you imagine so- "

"Yes, madame."

"What is his name- "

"Monsieur de Souza."

The queen did not reply for a few minutes, and then said, "Well, so much the better for the Queen of Portugal. Let us speak of it no more."

"But allow us one moment, madame," said Boehmer.

"Have you ever seen those diamonds- " said the queen to Jeanne.

"No, madame."

"They are beautiful. It is a pity these gentlemen have not brought them."

"Here they are," said Boehmer, opening the case.

"Come, countess, you are a woman, and these will please you," said the queen. She drew up a little Sevres stand, upon which Boehmer skilfully arranged the necklace. He moved the stones, and they caught and reflected the light from every facet. Jeanne became enthusiastic in her praises. Indeed, nothing could have been more beautiful. They seemed to emit tongues of fire, some green and red, others white as light itself. As Boehmer moved the case backward and forward, these sparkling liquid flames leaped forth.

"Wonderful! wonderful!" cried Jeanne, a prey to the delirium of an enthusiastic admiration.

"1,500,000 francs, which you hold in the palm of your hand," said the queen with an affectation of calm philosophy worthy of Rousseau himself.

"Monsieur was right," said Jeanne, who fancied that she perceived a bidden desire for the jewels under this assumed indifference, and hoped that it was not yet too late to persuade the queen to take the necklace, " when he said that no one was worthy to wear these diamonds but your Majesty."

"However, my Majesty will not wear them."

"We could not let them leave France without expressing our regret to your Majesty. It is a necklace which is now known all over Europe, and we wished to know definitively that your Majesty really refused it before we parted with it."

"My refusal has been made public," said the queen, " and has been too much applauded for me to repent of it."

"Oh, madame!" said Boehmer, "if the people found it admirable that your Majesty preferred a ship of war to a necklace, the nobility at least would not think it surprising if you bought the necklace after all."

"Do -not speak of it any more," said Marie Antoinette, casting at the same time a longing look at the casket.

Jeanne sighed.

"Ah, you sigh, countess; in my place you would act differently."

"I do not know, madame."

"Have you looked enough- "

"Oh no! I could look forever."

"Let her look, gentlemen; that takes nothing from the value. Unfortunately, they are still worth 1,500,000 francs."

"Oh," thought Jeanne, " she is regretting it." And she said, " On your neck, madame, they would make all women die with jealousy, were they as beautiful as Cleopatra or Venus." And, approaching, she clasped it round her neck. " Ah, your Majesty is beautiful so!"

The queen turned to the mirror. It was really splendid; every one must have admired. Her beautiful neck, slender and supple as that of Lady Jane Grey, delicate as the stem of a lily, destined to fall, like Virgil's flowers beneath the iron, rose gracefully with its golden ringlets in the midst of this sparkling flood. Jeanne had presumed to expose the queen's shoulders, so the lower rows of the necklace fell on her pearly bosom. The queen was radiant, the woman was superb. All, lovers or subjects, would have bowed before her in adoration. Marie Antoinette forgot herself for a time in admiration; then, seized with fear, she tried to take it off.

"It has touched your Majesty's neck; it ought not to belong to any one else," said Boehmer.

"Impossible!" said the queen firmly. "Gentlemen, I have amused myself with these jewels; to do more would be a fault."

"We will return to-morrow," said Boehmer.

"No; I must pay sooner or later; and, besides, doubtless you want your money. You will get it soon."

"Yes, your Majesty," said the merchant, a man of business again.

"Take the necklace back," said the queen, "put it away immediately."

"Your Majesty forgets that such a thing is equal to money itself."

"And that in a hundred years it will be of the same value," said Jeanne.

"Give me 1,500,000 francs," said the queen, " and we shall see."

"Oh! if I had them."

Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange took as long as possible to put back the necklace, but the queen did not speak. At last they said, " Your Majesty refuses them- "

"Yes, oh yes! " and they quitted the room.

Marie Antoinette remained sitting, looking rather gloomy, and beating with her foot in an impatient manner; at last she said, " Countess, it seems the king will not return; who must defer our supplication till another time."

Jeanne bowed respectfully.

"But I will not forget you," added the queen.

"She is regretting and desiring," thought Jeanne, as she left, " and yet she is the queen."

CHAPTER XL. TWO AMBITIONS THAT WISH TO PASS FOR TWO LOVES.

Jeanne also was a woman, if not a queen. Hence, as she drove along in her carriage, she could scarcely help comparing that splendid palace of Versailles with her fifth- story apartment in the Hue Saint-Gilles, these resplendent servants with her old waitress Clotilde. But soon the lowly attic and the thought of her old servant fled from her memory, like shadows of the past, which exist no longer, or have been only the imaginary creations of an active mind. Jeanne now contemplated her little house in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, so handsome and so comfortable; her lackeys, who, if clothed less ornately than those of the palace, were at least as respectful and obedient as they.

That house and those lackeys were her Versailles; there she was as truly queen as Marie Antoinette in her palace, and her wishes, if kept within bounds, were also as well and as quickly executed as they would have been had she wielded a sceptre. All these reflections brought a complacent smile to her features, as she re-entered her little house; it was still early; so she took a pen and wrote a few rapid lines, enclosed them in a perfumed envelope, and rang the bell. "Take this letter to Monseigneur the Cardinal de Rohan," said she.

In five minutes the man returned.

"Well," said Madame de la Motte, impatiently, "why are you not gone- "

"Just as I left the house, madame, his Eminence came to the door. I told him I was about to go to his hotel with a letter from you; he read it, and is now waiting to come in."

"Let him enter," said the countess, after a pause of a few seconds.

Did she hesitate merely for the sake of protracting the time, by a few seconds, before she would deign to receive a prince of the church, or was she occupied simply in laying plans for the coming interview-

The prince appeared on the threshold. Had Jeanne indeed a hidden purpose in summoning the cardinal to her as soon as she had returned to her own house- and was that the cause of the great joy she experienced in seeing him before her-

Yes, for this fancy of the queen, like the night fires which illumine a dark valley and disclose all its dangers,- this fancy of the queen, and above all of the woman,- had disclosed to the eyes of the crafty countess all the hidden desires of a soul too proud to dissimulate her feelings. The road from Versailles to Paris is quite long enough, particularly when one has for a companion the demon of cupidity, for one to hear many rash counsels whispered in one's ear.

Jeanne had not yet recovered from the intoxicating view of 1,500,000 francs spread before her in the shape of diamonds, glittering in their case of white satin.

1,500,000 francs, a princely fortune, and dazzling indeed to a poor mendicant, who, but a month before, had gratefully received alms.

Certainly, the contrast between Jeanne de Valois of Saint-Gilles, and Jeanne de Valois of Saint-Antoine, was greater than the difference between Jeanne de Valois of Saint-Antoine, and Jeanne de Valois mistress of the diamond necklace would have been. She had already traversed more than half the road leading to good fortune.

And this fortune, which Jeanne longed to attain, had none of the illusions of the signing of a contract for a piece of real estate,- advantages which require the exercise of the imagination for the appreciation of their merits. No, this necklace was quite different from the precarious value of real estate. This necklace was a visible, tangible fortune; as it was now, so would it always be,- brilliant and fascinating. And since the queen longed for it, Jeanne too might dream of it; since the queen could deny herself of possessing it, Jeanne might well make it the limit of her ambition.

Thus a thousand vague fancies,- those cloud-like phantoms which the poet Aristophanes has likened to men in their hours of passion,- a thousand longings for possession attacked Jeanne on the road from Paris to Versailles, in the form of wolves, foxes, or of winged serpents.

The cardinal, who was destined to cause these dreams to be fulfilled, interrupted them by his unexpected arrival at the very moment when Jeanne had despatched a servant to seek him. He entered. He also was full of desires and ambitions, which he wished to hide under the mask of love.

"Ah! dear Jeanne," said he, "you have really become so necessary to me that I have been gloomy all day, knowing you to be so far off. But you have returned from Versailles-"

"As you see, monseigneur."

"And content-"

"Enchanted."

"The queen received you, then- "

"I was introduced immediately on my arrival."

"You were fortunate. I suppose, from your triumphant air, that she spoke to you."

"I passed three hours in her Majesty's cabinet."

"Three hours I You are really an enchantress whom no one can resist. But perhaps you exaggerate. Three hours!" he repeated; "how many things a clever woman like you might say in three hours!"

"Oh, I assure you, monseigneur, that I did not waste my time."

"I dare say that in the whole three hours you did not once think of me."

"Ungrateful man!"

"Really!" cried the cardinal.

"I did more than think of you; I spoke of you."

"Spoke of me! to whom-" asked the prelate, in a voice from which all his power over himself could not banish some emotion.

"To whom should it be but to the queen- "

"Ah, dear countess, tell me about it. I interest myself so much in all that concerns you that I should like to hear the most minute details."

Jeanne smiled; she knew what interested the cardinal as well as he did himself. Then she related to him all the circumstances which had so fortunately made her, from a stranger, almost the friend and confidante of the queen.

Scarcely had she finished, when the servant entered to announce supper.

Jeanne invited the cardinal to accompany her.

He gave her his arm, and they went in together.

During supper, the cardinal continued to drink in long draughts of love and hope from the recitals which Jeane kept making to him from time to time. He remarked also with surprise, that, instead of making herself sought like a woman that knows that you have need of her, she had thrown off all her former pride, and only seemed anxious to please him. She did the honours of her table as if she had all her life mixed in the highest circles; there was neither awkwardness nor embarrassment.

"Countess," said he, at length, "there are two women in you."

"How so-"

"One of yesterday, and another of to-day."

"And which does your Eminence prefer-"

"I do not know; but at least the one of this evening is a Circe, a something irresistible."

"And which you will not attempt to resist, I hope, prince as you are."

The cardinal imprinted a long kiss on her hand.

CHAPTER XLI. FACES UNDER THEIR MASKS.

Two hours had elapsed, and the conversation still continued. The cardinal was now the slave, and Jeanne was triumphant. Two men often deceive each other as they shake hands, a man and a woman as they kiss; but here, each only deceived the other because they wished to be deceived,- each had an end to gain, and for that end intimacy was necessary.

The cardinal now did not demonstrate his impatience, but always managed to bring back the conversation to Versailles, and to the honours which awaited the queen's new favourite.

"She is generous," said he, "and spares nothing towards those she loves. She has the rare talent of giving a little to every one, and a great deal to a few."

"You think, then, she is rich-"

"She makes resources with a word or a smile; no minister, except perhaps Turgot, ever refused her anything."

"Well," said Madame de la Motte, "I have seen her poorer than you think."

"What do you mean-"

"Are those rich who are obliged to impose privations on themselves-"

"Privations! What do you mean, dear countess-"

"I will tell you what I saw, I saw the queen suffer. Do you know what a woman's desire is, my dear prince-"

"No, countess; but I should like you to tell me."

"Well, the queen has a desire which she cannot satisfy."

"For what-"

"For a diamond necklace."

"Oh, I know what you mean,- the diamonds of Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange."

"Precisely."

"That is an old story, countess."

"Old or new, it is a real vexation for a queen not to be able to buy what was intended for a simple favourite. Fifteen more days added to the life of Louis XV., and Jeanne Valoix would have had what Marie Antoinette cannot buy."

"My dear countess, you mistake. The queen could have had it, and she refused it; the king offered it to her."

And he recounted the history of the ship of war.

"Well," said she, "after all, what does that prove-"

"That she did not want it, it seems to me."

Jeanne shrugged her shoulders.

"You know women and courts, and believe that- The queen wanted to do a popular act, and she has done it."

"Good!" said the cardinal; " that is how you believe in the royal virtues. Ah, sceptic, Saint Thomas was credulous, compared to you!"

"Sceptic or not, I can assure you of one thing,- that the queen had no sooner refused it than she earnestly desired to have it."

"You imagine all this, my dear countess; for if the queen has one quality more than another, it is disinterestedness. She does not care for gold or jewels, and likes a simple flower as well as a diamond."

"I do not know that; I only know she wishes for this necklace."

"Prove it, countess."

"It is easy. I saw the necklace, and touched it."

"Where-"

"At Versailles, when the jewellers brought it for the last time to try and tempt the queen."

"And it is beautiful-"

"Marvellous! I, who am a woman, think that one might lose sleep and appetite in wishing for it."

"Alas! why have I not a vessel to give the king-"

"A vessel!"

"Yes; for in return he would give me the necklace, and then you could eat and sleep in peace."

"You laugh."

"No, really."

"Well, I will tell you something that will astonish you. I would not have the necklace."

"So much the better, countess, for I could not give it to you."

"Neither you nor any one,- that is what the queen feels."

"But I tell you that the king offered it to her."

"And I tell you that women like best those presents that come from people from whom they are not forced to accept them."

"I do not understand you."

"Well, never mind; and, after all, what does it matter to you, since you cannot have it-"

"Oh, if I were king and you were queen, I would force you to have it."

"Well, without being king, oblige the queen to have it, and see if she is angry, as you suppose she would be."

The cardinal looked at her with wonder.

"You are sure," said he, "that you are not deceived, and that the queen wishes for it-"

"Intensely. Listen, dear prince. Did you tell me, or where did I hear it, that you would like to be minister-"

"You may have heard me say so, countess."

"Well, I will bet that the queen would make that man a minister who would place the necklace on her toilet within a week."

"Oh, countess!"

"I say what I think. Would you rather I kept silent-"

"Certainly not."

"However, it does not concern you, after all. It is absurd to suppose that you would throw away a million and a half on a royal caprice; that would be paying too dearly for the portfolio, which you ought to have for nothing, so think no more of what I have said."

The cardinal continued silent and thoughtful.

"Ah, you despise me now!" continued she; "you think I judge the queen by myself. So I do; I thought she wanted these diamonds because she sighed as she looked at them, and because in her place I should have coveted them."

"You are an adorable woman, countess! You have, by a wonderful combination, softness of mind and strength of heart; sometimes you are so little of a woman that I am frightened; at others, so charmingly so that I bless Heaven and you for it. And now we will talk of business no more."

"So be it," thought Jeanne; "but I believe the bait has taken, nevertheless."

Indeed, although the cardinal said, "Speak of it no more," in a few minutes he asked, "Does not Boehmer live somewhere on the Quai de la Ferraille, near the Pont- Neuf."

"Yes, you are right; I saw the name on the door as I drove along."

Jeanne was not mistaken,- the fish had taken the hook; and the next morning the cardinal drove to see Monsieur Boehmer. He intended to preserve his incognito, but Boehmer knew him, and called him " Monseigneur " directly.

"Well, monsieur," said he, "if you know me, keep my secret from others."

"Monseigneur may rely upon us. What can we do for your Eminence- "

"I come to buy the necklace which you showed her Majesty."

"Really we are in despair, but it is too late."

"How so-"

"It is sold."

"Impossible, as you offered it only yesterday to the queen."

"Who again refused it, so our other bargain held good."

"And with whom was this bargain-"

"It is a secret, monseigneur."

"Too many secrets, Monsieur Boehmer," said he, rising; "but I should have thought that a French jeweller would prefer selling these beautiful stones in France. You prefer Portugal. Very well."

"Monseigneur knows that!" cried the jeweller.

"Well, is that astonishing- "

"No one knew it but the queen."

"And if that were so-" said Monsieur de Rohan, without contradicting a supposition that flattered him.

"Ah! that would change matters."

"Why so, monsieur- "

"May I speak freely-"

"Certainly."

"The queen wishes for the necklace."

"You think so-"

"I am sure of it."

"Then why did she not buy it-"

"Because she had already refused the king, and she thought it would look capricious to buy it now."

"But the king wished her to have it."

"Yes, but he thanked her for refusing; therefore I think she wishes to have it without seeming to buy it."

"Well, you are wrong, monsieur."

"I am sorry for it, monseigneur. It would have been our only excuse for breaking our word to the Portuguese ambassador."

The cardinal reflected for a moment. " Then, monsieur, let us suppose that the queen wishes for your necklace."

"Oh! in that case, monseigneur, we would break through anything, that she might have it."

"What is the price-"

"1,500,000 francs."

"How do you want payment- "

"The Portuguese was to give 100,000 francs down, and I was to take the necklace myself to Lisbon, where the balance was to be paid."

"Well, the 100,000 francs down you shall have; that is reasonable. As for the rest- "

"Your Eminence wishes for time- With such a guarantee, we should not object; only credit implies a loss. The interest of our money must be considered."

"Well, call it 1,600,000 francs, and divide the time of payment into three periods, making a year."

"That would be a loss to us, monsieur."

"Oh, nonsense! if I paid you the whole amount tomorrow, you would hardly know what to do with it."

"There are two of us, monseigneur."

"Well, you will receive 500,000 francs every four months. That ought to satisfy you."

"Monseigneur forgets that these diamonds do not belong to us; if they did, we should be rich enough to wait; they belong to a dozen different creditors. We got some from Hamburg, some from Naples, one at Buenos Ayres, and two at Moscow. All these people wait for the sale of the necklace to be paid. The profit that we make is all that will be ours; and we have already had it two years on hand."

Monsieur de Rohan interrupted him. "After all," said he, "I have not seen the necklace."

"True, monseigneur; here it is."

"It is really superb," cried the cardinal. "Is it a bargain-"

"Yes, monseigneur. I must go to the ambassador and excuse myself."

"I did not think there was a Portuguese ambassador just now."

"Monsieur de Souza arrived incognito."

"To buy this necklace- "

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Oh, poor Souza, I know him well," said he, laughing.

"With whom am I to conclude the transaction-" asked Monsieur Boehmer.

"With myself; you will see no one else. To-morrow I will bring the 100,000 francs, and will sign the agreement. And as you are a man of secrets, Monsieur Boehmer, remember that you now possess an important one."

"Monseigneur, I feel it, and will merit your confidence and the queen's."

Monsieur de Rohan went away happy, like all men who ruin themselves in a transport of passion.

The next day Monsieur Boehmer went to the hotel of the Portuguese ambassador. At the moment he knocked at the door, Monsieur Beausire was going through some accounts with Monsieur Ducorneau, while Don Manoel was talking over some new plan with the valet, his associate.

Since Monsieur Boehmer's last visit, the establishment in the Rue de la Jussienne had undergone many changes.

All the retinue who had arrived, as we have seen, in two post-chaises, had been assigned various duties in the house of the new ambassador, which the exigences of the occasion demanded. It must be admitted that all the partners, in the discharge of the various duties which they performed so successfully, had an opportunity of watching the progress of their own affairs, a condition which gives one courage to undertake the most disagreeable task.

Monsieur Ducorneau was charmed to find an ambassador so free from national prejudice as to have formed his whole establishment of Frenchmen. Thus his conversation was full of praises of him.

"The Souzas, you see," replied Beausire, "are not of the old school of Portuguese. They are great travellers, very rich, who might be kings if they liked."

"And do they not-"

"Why should they- With a certain number of millions, and the name of a prince, one is better than a king."

"Ah, Portugal will soon become great with such men at its head."

"Oh, you flatter us, dear chancellor. No, we are merely philosophical politicians. What you say is specious, but not pertinent. Now to business. Did you say that there are 108,000 francs in the box-"

"Yes, monsieur, 108,000."

"And no debts-"

"Not a sou."

"That is good. Give me the memorandum, if you please."

"But when is the presentation to take place- It is most anxiously looked for. The people around begin to talk of it, and to collect about the doors of the hotel, as though they were of glass, and they could see through."

"Do you mean the people of the neighbourhood- " asked Beausire.

"And others; for, the mission of Monsieur de Souza being a secret one, you may be sure the police would soon interest themselves about it; and look," continued Ducorneau, leading Beausire to the window, "do you see that man in the brown surtout, how he looks at the house-"

"Yes, he does indeed. Who do you take him to be- "

"Probably a spy of Monsieur de Crosne. However, between ourselves, Monsieur de Crosne is not equal to Monsieur de Sartines. Did you know him-"

"No."

"Ah! he would have found out all about you long ago, in spite of all your precautions."

A bell rang. "The ambassador rings!" said Beausire, who was beginning to feel embarrassed by the conversation, and, opening the door quickly, he nearly knocked down two of the clerks who were listening.

Beausire perceived that he was suspected, and decided to redouble his vigilance. He then sought the ambassador, stopping for a moment to clasp his two friends and copartners by the hand, as they stood in the shadows.

CHAPTER XLII. IN WHICH MONSIEUR DUCORNEAU UNDERSTANDS NOTHING OF WHAT IS PASSING.

Don Mangel was less yellow than usual,- that is to say, he was more red. He had just been having a fierce altercation with his valet, and they were still disputing when Beausire entered.

"Come, Monsieur Beausire, and set us right," said the valet.

"About what-"

"This 100,000 francs. It is the property of the association, is it not- "

"Certainly."

"Ah, Monsieur Beausire agrees with me."

"Wait," said Don Manoel.

"Well, then," continued the valet, "the chest ought not to be kept close to the ambassador's room."

"Why not-" asked Beausire.

"Monsieur Manoel ought to give us each a key to it."

"Not so," said Mangel; "do you suspect me of wishing to rob the association- I may equally suspect you, when you ask for a key."

"But," said the valet, "we have all equal rights."

"Really, monsieur, if you wish to make us all equal, we ought to have played the ambassador in turn. It would have been less plausible in the eyes of the public, but it would have satisfied you."

"And besides," said Beausire, "Monsieur Manoel has the incontestable privilege of the inventor."

"Oh," replied the valet, "the thing once started, there are no more privileges. I do not speak for myself only; all our comrades think the same."

"They are wrong," said both Mangel and Beausire.

"I was wrong myself to take the opinion of Monsieur Beausire; of course the secretary supports the ambassador."

"Monsieur," replied Beausire, "you are a knave, whose ears I would slit if it had not already been done too often. You insult me by saying that I have an understanding with Manoel."

"And me also," said Manoel.

"And I demand satisfaction," added Beausire.

"Oh, I am no fighter."

"So I see," said Beausire, seizing hold of him.

"Help! help!" cried the valet, attacked at once by both of them. But just then they heard a bell ring.

"Leave him, and let him open the door," said Manoel.

"Our comrades shall hear all this," replied the valet.

"Tell them what you please; we will answer for our conduct."

"Monsieur Boehmer!" cried the porter from below.

"Well, we shall have no more contests about the 100,000 francs," said Manoel; "for they will disappear with Monsieur Boehmer."

Monsieur Boehmer entered, followed by Bossange. Both looked humble and embarrassed. Boehmer began, and explained that political reasons would prevent their fulfilling their contract.

Manoel cried out angrily; Beausire looked fierce.

Manoel said that the bargain was completed, and the money ready.

Boehmer persisted.

Mangel, always through Beausire, replied, that his Government had been apprised of the conclusion of the bargain, and that it was an insult to his queen to break it off.

Monsieur Boehmer was very sorry, but it was impossible to act otherwise.

Beausire, in Mangel's name, refused to accept the retractation, and abused Monsieur Boehmer as a man without faith, and ended by saying, " You have found some one to pay more for it."

The jewellers coloured.

Beausire saw that he was right, and feigned to consult his ambassador. "Well," said he, at length, "if another will give you more for your diamonds, we would do the same rather than have this affront offered to our queen. Will you take 50,000.francs more-"

Boehmer shook his head.

"100,000, or even 150,000," continued Beausire, willing to offer anything rather than lose the booty.

The jewellers looked dazzled for a moment, consulted together, and then said, "No, monsieur, it is useless to tempt us; a will more powerful than our own compels us to decline. You understand, no doubt, that it is not we who refuse. We only obey the orders of one greater than any of us."

Beausire and Mangel saw that it was useless to say more, and tried to look and speak indifferently on the matter.

Meanwhile the valet had been listening attentively, and just then, making an unlucky movement, stumbled against the door. Beausire ran to the antechamber. " What on earth are you about- " cried he.

"Monsieur, I bring the morning despatches."

"Good," said Beausire, taking them from him, "now go."

They were letters from Portugal, generally very insignificant, but which, passing through their hands before going to Ducorneau, often gave them useful information about the affairs of the embassy.

The jewellers, hearing the word despatches, rose to leave, like men who had received their conge.

"Well," said Mangel, when they were gone, "we are completely beaten. Only 100,000 francs, a poor spoil; we shall have but 8,000 each."

"It is not worth the trouble. But it might be 50,000 each."

"Good!" replied Mangel; " but the valet will never leave us now he knows the affair has failed."

"Oh, I know how we will manage him. He will return immediately, and claim his share and that of his comrades, and we shall have the whole house on our hands. Well, I will call him first to a secret conference; then leave me to act."

"I think I understand," said Mangel.

Neither, however, would leave his friend alone with the chest while he went to call him.

Mangel said that his dignity as ambassador prevented him from taking such a step.

"You are not ambassador to him," said Beausire; "however, I will call through the window."

The valet, who was just beginning a conversation with the porter, hearing himself called, came up.

Beausire said to him, with a smiling air, "I suppose you were telling this business to the porter- "

"Oh, no."

"Are you sure-"

"I swear!"

"For if you were, you were committing a great folly, and have lost a great deal of money."

"How so-"

"Why, at present only we three know the secret, and could divide the 100,000 francs between us, as they all now think we have given it to Monsieur Boehmer."

"Morbleu!" cried the valet, " it is true,- 33,300 francs each."

"Then you accept-"

"I should think so."

"I said you were a rogue," said Beausire, in a thundering voice; "come, Don Mangel, help me to seize this man, and give him up to our associates."

"Pardon! pardon!" cried the unfortunate; "I did but jest."

"Shut him up until we can devise his punishment."

The man began to cry out.

"Take care," said Beausire, "that Ducorneau does not hear us."

"If you do not leave me alone," said the valet, "I will denounce you all."

"And I will strangle you," said Don Manoel, trying to push him into a neighbouring closet.

"Send away Ducorneau somewhere, Beausire, while I finish this fellow."

When he had locked him up, he returned to the room. Beausire was not there; Don Manoel felt tempted. He was alone, and Beausire might be some little time; he could open the chest, take out all the bank-notes, and be off in two minutes. He ran to the room where it was: the door was locked. "Ah," thought he, "Beausire distrusted me, and locked the door before he went." He forced back the lock with his sword, and then uttered a terrible cry. The chest was open and empty. Beausire had got, as we know, a second key; he had forestalled Manoel.

Manoel ran down like a madman; the porter was singing at the door,- he asked if Beausire had passed.

"Yes, some ten minutes ago."

Mangel became furious, summoned them all, and ran to release the unfortunate valet. But when he told his story, Manoel was accused of being an accomplice of Beausire, and they all turned against him.

Monsieur Ducorneau felt ready to faint, when he entered and saw the men preparing to hang Monsieur de Souza. "Hang Monsieur de Souza!" cried he. "It is high treason."

At last they threw him into a cellar, fearing his cries would arouse the neighbourhood.

At that moment loud knocks at the door disturbed them; they looked at each other in dismay. The knocks were repeated, and some one cried, "Open in the name of the Portuguese ambassador."

On hearing this, each made his escape in terror, as he best could, scrambling over walls and roofs. The true ambassador could only enter by the help of the police.

They found and arrested Monsieur Ducorneau, who slept that night in the Chatelet.

Thus ended the adventure of the sham embassy from Portugal.

CHAPTER XLIII. ILLUSIONS AND REALITIES.

Beausire, on leaving the house, ran as fast as possible down the Rue Coquilliere, then into the Rue Saint-Honor, and took everywhere the most intricate and improbable turnings he could think of, and continued this until he became quite exhausted.

Then, thinking himself tolerably safe, he sat down in the corn market, on a sack, to recover his breath. "Ah! " thought he, "now I have made my fortune; I will be an honest man for the future, and I will make Oliva an honest woman. She is beautiful, and she will not mind leading a retired life with me in some province, where we shall live like lords. She is very good; she has but two faults, idleness and pride, and as I shall satisfy her on both these points, she will be perfect." He then began to reflect on what he should do next. They would seek him, of course, and most likely divide into different parties, and some would probably go first to his own house. Here lay his great difficulty, for there they would find Oliva, and they might ill-treat her; they might even take her as a hostage, speculating on his love for her. What should he do- Love carried the day; he ran off again like lightning, took a coach, and drove to the Pont-Neuf. He then looked cautiously down the Rue Dauphine to reconnoitre, and he saw two men, who seemed also looking anxiously down the street. He thought they were police spies, but that was nothing uncommon in that part of the town; so, bending his back, and walking lamely, for disguise, he went on till he nearly reached his house. Suddenly he thought he saw the coat of a gendarme in the court-yard; then he saw one at the window of Oliva's room. He felt ready to drop, but he thought his best plan was to walk quietly on; he had that courage, and passed the house. Heavens! what a sight! the yard was full of soldiers, and among them a police commissioner. Beausire's rapid glance showed him what he thought disappointed faces. He thought that Monsieur de Crosne had somehow begun to suspect him, and, sending to take him, had found only Oliva.

"I cannot help her now," thought he; "I should only lose my money, and destroy us both. No, let me place that in safety, and then I will see what can be done." He therefore ran off again, taking his way almost mechanically towards the Luxembourg; but as he turned the corner of the Rue Saint-Germain, he was almost knocked down by a handsome carriage which was driving towards the Rue Dauphine, and, raising his head to swear at the coachman, he thought he saw Oliva inside, talking with much animation to a handsome man who sat by her. He gave a cry of surprise, and would have run after it, but he could not again encounter the Rue Dauphine. He felt bewildered, for he had before settled that Oliva had been arrested in her own house, and he fancied his brain must be turning when he believed he saw her in the carriage. But he started off again, and took refuge in a small cabaret at the Luxembourg, where the hostess was an old friend. There he gradually began to recover again his courage and hope. He thought the police would not find him, and that his money was safe; he remembered also that Oliva had committed no crime, and that the time was passed when people were kept prisoners for nothing. He also thought that his money would soon obtain her release, even if she were sent to prison, and he would then set off with her for Switzerland. Such were his dreams and projects as he sat sipping his wine.

CHAPTER XLIV. OLIVA BEGINS TO ASK WHAT THEY WANT OF HER.

If Monsieur Beausire had trusted to his eyesight, which was excellent, instead of trusting his imagination, he would have spared himself much regret and many mistakes. It was in fact Oliva who sat in the carriage by the side of a man whom he would also have recognised if he had looked a little longer. She had gone that morning as usual to take a walk in the gardens of the Luxembourg, where she had met the strange friend whose acquaintance she had made the day of the ball at the Opera.

It was just as she was about to return that he appeared before her, and said, " Where are you going- "

"Home, monsieur."

"Just what the people want who are there waiting for you."

"Waiting for me- No one is there for me."

"Oh, yes, a dozen visitors at least."

"A whole regiment, perhaps-" said Oliva, laughing.

"Perhaps, had it been possible to send a whole regiment, they would have done so."

"You astonish me!"

"You would be far more astonished if I let you go."

"Why-"

"Because yon would be arrested."

"I arrested-"

"Assuredly. The twelve gentlemen who wait for you are sent by Monsieur de Crosne."

Oliva trembled. Some people are always fearful on certain points; but she said,-

"I have done nothing; why should they arrest me-"

"For some intrigue, perhaps."

"I have none."

"But you have had."

"Oh, perhaps."

"Well, perhaps they are wrong to wish to arrest you, but the fact is that they do desire to do so. Will you still go home-"

"You deceive me," said Oliva; "if you know anything, tell me at once. Is it not Beausire they want- "

"Perhaps; he may have a conscience less clear than yours."

"Poor fellow!"

"Pity him if you like; but if he is taken, there is no need for you to be taken too."

"What interest have you in protecting me-" asked she. "It is not natural for a man like you."

"I would not lose time if I were you; they are very likely to seek you here, finding you do not return."

"How should they know I am here-"

"Are you not always here- My carriage is close by, if you will come with me. But I see you doubt still."

"Yes."

"Well, we will commit an imprudence to convince you. We will drive past your house, and when you have seen these gentlemen there, I think you will better appreciate my good offices."

He led her to the carriage, and drove to the Rue Dauphine, at the corner of which they passed Beausire. Had Oliva seen him, doubtless she would have abandoned everything to fly with him and share his fate, whatever it might be; but Cagliostro, who did see him, took care to engage her attention by showing her the crowd, which was already in sight, and which was waiting to see what the police would do.

When Oliva could distinguish the soldiers who filled her house, she threw herself into the arms of her protector in despair. " Save me! save me!" she cried.

He pressed her hand. "I promise you."

"But they will find me out anywhere."

"Not where I shall take you; they will not seek you at my house."

"Oh!" cried she, frightened, "am I to go home with you-"

"You are foolish," said he; "I am not your lover, and do not wish to become so. If you prefer a prison, you are free to choose."

"No," replied she, "I trust myself to you; take me where you please."

He conducted her to the Rue Neuve-Saint-Gilles, into a small room on the second floor.

"How trusted-" said she,-"here, without liberty, and without even a garden to walk in."

"You are right," said he; "besides, my people would see you here at last."

"And would betray me, perhaps."

"No fear of that. But I will look out for another abode for you; I do not mean you to remain here."

Oliva was consoled; besides, she found amusing books and easy-chairs.

He left her, saying, "If you want me, ring; I will come directly if I am at home."

"Ah!" cried she, "get me some news of Beausire!"

"Before everything."

Then, as he went down, he said to himself, " It will be a profanation to lodge her in that house in the Rue Saint- Claude; but it is important that no one should see her, and there no one will. So I will extinguish the last spark of my old light."

CHAPTER XLV. THE DESERTED HOUSE.

When Cagliostro arrived at the deserted house in the Hue Saint-Claude, with which our readers are already acquainted, it was getting dark, and but few people were to be seen in the streets.

Cagliostro drew a key from his pocket, and applied it to the lock; but the door was swollen with the damp, and stiff with age, and it required all his strength to open it. The court-yard was overgrown with moss, the steps crumbling away; all looked desolate and deserted. He entered the hall, and lighted a lamp which he had brought with him; he felt a strange agitation as he approached the door which he had so often entered to visit Lorenza. A slight noise made his heart beat quickly; he turned, and saw an adder gliding down the staircase; it disappeared in a hole near the bottom.

He entered the room. It was empty, but in the grate still lay some ashes,- the remains of the furniture which had adorned it, and which he had burned there. Among it several pieces of gold and silver still sparkled. As he turned, he saw something glittering on the floor; he picked it up. It was one of those silver arrows with which the Italian women were in the habit of confining their hair. He pressed it to his lips, and a tear stood in his eyes as he murmured, "Lorenza!" It was but for a moment; then he opened the window and threw it out, saying to himself, "Adieu, this last souvenir, which would soften me! This house is about to be profaned: another woman will ascend the staircase, and perhaps even into this room, where Lorenza's last sigh still vibrates; but to serve my end the sacrifice shall be made. I must, however, have some alterations made."

He then wrote on his tablets the following words: " To Monsieur Lenoir, my architect,- Clean out the court and vestibule, restore the coach-house and stable, and demolish the interior of the pavilion. To be done in eight days."

"Now, let us see," said he to himself, "if we can perfectly distinguish the window of the countess. It is infallible," said he, after looking out; "the women must see each other."

The next day fifty workmen had invaded the house and commenced the projected alterations, which were completed within the given time. Some of the passers-by saw a large rat hung up by the tail.

CHAPTER XLVI. JEANNE THE PROTECTRESS.

Monsieur Le Cardinal De Rohan received, two days after his visit to Monsieur Boehmer, the following note:-

"His Eminence the Cardinal de Rohan knows, doubtless, where he will sup this evening."

"From the little countess," said he; "I will go."

Among the footmen given to her by the cardinal, Jeanne had distinguished one, black-haired and dark-eyed, and, as she thought, active and intelligent. She set this man to watch the cardinal, and learned from him that he had been twice to Monsieur Boehmer's. Therefore she concluded the necklace was bought, and yet he had not communicated it to her. She frowned at the thought, and wrote the note which we have seen.

Monsieur de Rohan sent before him a basket of tokay and other rarities, just if he was going to sup with La Guimard or Mademoiselle Dangeville. Jeanne determined not to use any of it at supper.

When they were alone, she said to him,-

"Really, monseigneur, one thing afflicts me."

"What, countess-"

"To see, not only that you no longer love me, but that you never have loved me."

"Oh, countess! how can you say so-"

"Do not make excuses, monseigneur; it would be lost time."

"Oh, countess!"

"Do not be uneasy; I am quite indifferent about it now."

"Whether I love you or not-"

"Yes, because I do not love you."

"That is not flattering."

"Indeed, we are not exchanging compliments, but facts. We have never loved each other."

"Oh, as for myself, I cannot allow that; I have a great affection for you, countess."

"Come, monseigneur, let us esteem each other enough to speak the truth; and that is, that there is between us a much stronger bond than love,- that is, interest."

"Oh, countess, what a shame!"

"Monseigneur, if you are ashamed, I am not."

"Well, countess, supposing ourselves interested, how can we serve each other- "

"First, monseigneur, I wish to ask you a question. Why have you failed in confidence towards me-"

"I! How so, pray-"

"Will you deny that, after skilfully drawing from me the details- which, I confess, I was not unwilling to give you- concerning the desire of a certain great lady for a certain thing, you have taken means to gratify that desire without telling me-"

"Countess, you are a real enigma, a sphinx."

"Oh, no enigma, cardinal; I speak of the queen, and of the diamonds which you bought yesterday of Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange."

"Countess!" cried he, growing pale.

"Oh, do not look so frightened," continued she. "Did you not conclude your bargain yesterday-"

A Rohan does not lie, even to a woman. The cardinal made no reply; and Jeanne, perceiving him on the verge of blushing, and knowing that a man never forgives the woman who causes him to lose countenance in that manner, hastened to take his hand.

"Pardon, monseigneur," she said, "but I wished to show you your mistake about me; you believe me foolish and spiteful."

"Oh, countess, now I understand you perfectly. I expected to find you a pretty woman, a woman of intelligence, a charming mistress, but you are better than this. Listen to me: you have, you say, been willing to become my mistress without loving me-"

"I repeat it," replied she.

"Then you had some object- "

"Assuredly. Do you wish me to tell it to you-"

"No; I understand it. You wished to make my fortune; that once done, you are sure that my first care would be for yours. Am I right- "

"Yes, monseigneur; but I have not pursued my plans with any repugnance, the road has been a pleasant one."

"You are an amiable woman, countess, and it is a pleasure to discuss business with you. You have guessed rightly that I have a respectful attachment towards a certain person."

"I saw it at the Opera ball," she said.

"I know well that this affection will never be returned."

"Oh, a queen is only a woman, and you are surely equal to Cardinal Mazarin."

"He was a very handsome man," said Monsieur de Rohan, laughing.

"And an excellent minister," said Jeanne.

"Countess, it is superfluous trouble to talk to you; you guess and know everything. Yes, I do wish to become prime minister. Everything entitles me to it,- my birth, my knowledge of business, my standing with foreign courts, and the affection which is felt for me by the French people."

"There is but one obstacle," said Jeanne.

"An antipathy."

"Yes, of the queen's; and the king always ends by liking what she likes, and hating what she hates."

"And she hates me- Be frank, countess."

"Well, monseigneur, she does not love you."

"Then I am lost! Of what use is the necklace-"

"You deceive yourself, monseigneur."

"It is bought."

"At least, it will show the queen that you love her. You know, monseigneur, we have agreed to call things by their right names."

"Then you say you do not despair of seeing me one day prime minister- "

"I am sure of it."

"And what are your own ambitions-"

"I will tell you, monseigneur, when you are in a position to satisfy them."

"We will hope for that day."

"Now let us sup."

"I am not hungry.'1

"Then let us talk."

"I have nothing more to say."

"Then go."

"How! is that what you call our alliance- Do you send me away-"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Well, countess, I will not deceive myself again about you."

Before leaving, however, he turned, and said, "What must I do now, countess-"

"Nothing; wait for me to act. I will go to Versailles."

"When-"

"To-morrow."

"And when shall I hear from you-"

"Immediately."

"Then I abandon myself to your protection; au revoir, countess."

CHAPTER XLVII. JEANNE PROTECTED.

Mistress of such a secret, rich in such a future, and supported by such a friend, Jeanne felt herself strong against the world. To appear at court, no longer as a suppliant, as the poor mendicant, drawn from poverty by Madame de Boulainvilliers, but as a Valois, with an income of 100,000 francs; to be called the favourite of the queen, and consequently governing the king and state through her,- such was the panorama that floated before the eyes of Jeanne.

She went to Versailles. She had no audience promised, but she trusted to her good fortune, and, as the queen had received her so well before, all the officials were anxious to serve her. Therefore one of the door-keepers said aloud, as the queen came from chapel, to one of her gentlemen, "Monsieur, what am I to do- Here is Madame la Comtesse de la Motte Valois asking admission, and she has no letter of audience."

The queen heard and turned round. "Did you say Madame de la Motte Valois was here-" she asked. "Your Majesty, the door-keeper says so."

"I will receive her; bring her to the bath-room." The man told Jeanne what he had done. She drew out her purse; but he said, "Will Madame la Comtesse allow this debt to accumulate- Some day she can pay me with interest."

"You are right, my friend; I thank you."

Marie Antoinette looked serious when Jeanne entered.

"She supposes I am come again to beg," thought Jeanne.

"Madame," said the queen, " I have not yet had an opportunity to speak to the king."

"Oh, your Majesty has already done too much for me; I ask nothing more. I came- " she hesitated.

"Is it something urgent, that you did not wait to ask for an audience-"

"Urgent! Yes, madame; but not for myself."

"For me, then- " and the queen conducted her into the bath-room, where her women were waiting for her. Once in the bath, she sent them away.

"Now, countess."

"Madame," said Jeanne, "I am much embarrassed."

"Why so- "

"Your Majesty knows the kindness I have received from Monsieur de Rohan."

The queen frowned. "Well, madame-"

"Yesterday his Eminence came to see me, and spoke to me as usual of your Majesty's goodness and kindness."

"What does he want-"

"I expressed to him all my sense of your generosity, which constantly empties your purse, and told him that I felt almost guilty in thinking of your Majesty's gift to myself, and remembering that, were it not for such liberality, your Majesty need not have been forced to deny yourself the beautiful necklace which became you so well. When I related this circumstance to Monsieur de Rohan, I saw him grow pale, and the tears came into his eyes. Indeed, madame, his fine face, full of admiration for and emotion caused by your noble conduct, is ever before my eyes."

"Well, countess, if he has impressed you so deeply, I advise you not to let him see it. Monsieur de Rohan is a worldly prelate, and gathers the sheep as much for himself as for his Lord."

"Oh, madame I"

"It is not I who say it,- that is his reputation; he almost glories in it; his trophies are numerous, and some of them have made no little scandal."

"Well, madame, I am sure he thought then of no one but your Majesty."

The queen laughed.

"Your Majesty's modesty will not allow you to listen to praises."

"Not from the cardinal, I suspect them all."

"It is not my part," replied Jeanne, respectfully, "to defend any one who has incurred your Majesty's displeasure."

"Monsieur de Rohan has offended me, but I am a queen and a Christian, and do not wish to dwell on offences."

Jeanne was silent.

"You think differently from me on this subject- "

"Completely, your Majesty."

"You would not speak so if you knew what he has done against me; but as you have so great friendship for him, I will not attack him again before you. You have not, then, forgotten the diamonds-"

"Oh, madame, I have thought of them night and day. They will look so well on your Majesty."

"What do you mean- They are sold to the Portuguese ambassador."

Jeanne shook her head.

"Not sold!" cried the queen.

"Yes, madame, but to Monsieur de Rohan."

"Oh," said the queen, becoming suddenly cold again.

"Oh, your Majesty," cried Jeanne, " do not be ungenerous towards him! It was the impulse of a generous heart that your Majesty should understand and sympathise with. When he heard my account he cried, ' What! the queen refuse herself such a thing, and perhaps see it one day worn by one of her subjects!' And when I told him that it was bought for the Queen of Portugal, he was more indignant than ever. He cried, ' It is no longer a simple question of pleasure for the queen, but of the dignity of the French crown. I know the spirit of foreign courts; they will laugh at our queen because they happen to have more money to spare; and I will never suffer this.' And he left me abruptly. An hour after I heard that he had bought the necklace."

"For 1,500,000 francs-"

"1,600,000, madame."

"With what intention-"

"That at least, if your Majesty would not have them, no one else should."

"Are you sure it is not for some mistress-"

"I am sure he would rather break it to pieces than see it on any other neck than your own."

Marie Antoinette reflected, and her expressive countenance showed clearly every thought that passed through her mind. At last she said,-

"What Monsieur de Rohan has done is a noble trait of a delicate devotion, and you will thank him for me."

"Oh, yes, madame."

"You will add, that he has proved to me his friendship, and that I accept it, but not his gift."

"But, madame- "

"No, but as a loan. He has advanced his money and his credit to please me, and I will repay him. Boehmer has asked for money down-"

"Yes, madame."

"How much-"

"200,000 francs."

"That is my quarter's allowance from the king. I received it this morning; it is in advance, but still I have it." She rang the bell. Her women came and wrapped her in warm sheets, and then she dressed herself. Once more alone in her bedroom with Jeanne, she said,-

"Open that drawer, and you will see a portfolio."

"Here it is, madame."

"It holds the 200,000 francs, count them."

Jeanne obeyed.

"Take them to the cardinal with my thanks; each quarter I will pay the same. In this manner I shall have the necklace which pleased me so much, and if it embarrasses me to pay it, at least it will not hurt the king; and I shall have gained the knowledge that I have a friend who has guessed my wishes." Then, after a pause, "You will add, countess, that Monsieur de Rohan will be welcome at Versailles to receive ray thanks." Jeanne went away full of joy and delight.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE QUEEN'S PORTFOLIO.

No one experienced the effects of this fortune, which Jeanne de Valois was carrying away, more than the horses which were bearing her from Versailles. Never did two horses urged on to win a prize fly over the ground with greater rapidity. Their coachman, stimulated by the countess, drove as if they were racing in the Olympian Games, and would win two talents of gold for their master, and a triple portion of hulled barley for themselves.

The cardinal was at home when Madame de la Motte came to his hotel. She had herself announced, and was immediately admitted.

"You come from Versailles-" said he.

"Yes."

"Well-"

"Well, monseigneur, what do you expect-"

"Ah, countess, you say that with an air that frightens me."

"You wished me to see the queen, and I have seen her; and that I should speak to her of you whom she has always so much disliked."

"And you did-"

"Yes, and her Majesty listened."

"Say no more, countess; I see she will not overcome her repugnance."

"Oh! as to that, I spoke of the necklace."

"And did you dare to say that I wished- "

"To buy it for her- Yes."

"Oh, countess, you are sublime; and she listened-"

"Yes, but she refused."

"Oh, I am lost."

"Refused to accept it as a gift, but not as a loan."

"I lend to the queen! countess, it is impossible."

"It is more than giving, is it not- "

"A thousand times."

"So I thought."

The cardinal rose and came towards her. "Do not deceive me," he said.

"One does not play with the affections of a man like you, monseigneur."

"Then it is true-"

"The exact truth."

"I have a secret with the queen!" and he pressed Jeanne's hand.

"I like that clasp of the hand," she said; "it is like one man to another."

"It is that of a happy man to a protecting angel."

"Monseigneur, do not exaggerate."

"Oh, my joy! my gratitude! impossible! "

"But lending a million and a half to the queen is not all you wish for- Buckingham would have asked for more."

"Buckingham obtained what I dare not even dream of."

"The queen sends you word that she will see you with pleasure at Versailles."

The cardinal looked as pale as a youth who gives his first kiss of love.

"Ah," thought she, "it is still more serious than I imagined. I can get what I please from him, for he acts really not from ambition, but from love."

He quickly recovered himself, however. "My friend," said he, " how does the queen mean to act about this loan she talks of-"

"Ah, you think she has no money; but she will pay you as she would have paid Boehmer. Only if she had paid him all Paris must have known it, which she would not have liked, after the credit she has had for her refusal of it. You are a cashier for her, and a solvent one if she becomes embarrassed. She is happy, and she pays. Ask no more."

"She pays-"

"Yes, she knows you have debts; and when I told her you had advanced 250,000 francs- "

"You told her-"

"Yes; why not-" Jeanne put her hand in her pocket, and drew out the portfolio. "The queen sends you this with thanks; it is all right, for I have counted it."

"Who cares for that-.But the portfolio-"

"Well, it is not handsome."

"It pleases me, nevertheless."

"You have good taste."

"Ah, you quiz me."

"You have the same taste as the queen, at all events."

"Then it washers-"

"Do you wish for it-"

"I cannot deprive you of it."

"Take it."

"Oh, countess, you are a precious friend; but while you have worked for me, I have not forgotten you."

Jeanne looked surprised.

"Yes," said he, "my banker came to propose to me some plan of a marsh to drain, which must be profitable. I took two hundred shares, and fifty of them are for you."

"Oh, monseigneur!"

"He soon returned; he had realised already on them a hundred per cent. He gave me 100,000 francs, and here is your share, dear countess;" and from the portfolio she had just given him he slid 25,000 francs into her hand.

"Thanks, monseigneur. What gratifies me most is that you thought of me."

"I shall ever do so," said he, kissing her hand.

"And I of you, at Versailles."

And she went away, after having given the cardinal a list of the payments promised by the queen; the first of which would be five hundred thousand francs, due in one month from date.

CHAPTER XLIX. IN WHICH WE FIND DOCTOR LOUIS.

Perhaps our readers, remembering in what a position we left Monsieur de Charny, will not dislike to return with us to that little antechamber at Versailles, into which this brave seaman, who feared neither men nor elements, had fled, lest he should show his weakness to the queen. Once arrived there, he felt it impossible to go farther; he stretched out his arms, and was only saved from falling to the ground by the aid of those around. He then fainted, and was totally ignorant that the queen had seen him, and would have run to his assistance had Andree not prevented her, more even from a feeling of jealousy than from regard for appearances. Immediately after the king entered, and seeing a man lying supported by two guards, who, unaccustomed to see men faint, scarcely knew what to do, advanced saying, "Some one is ill here."

At his voice the men started and let their burden fall.

"Oh," cried the king, "it is Monsieur de Charny. Place him on this couch, gentlemen." Then they brought him restoratives, and sent for a doctor.

The king waited to hear the result. The doctor's first care was to open the waistcoat and shirt of the young man to give him air, and then he saw the wound.

"A wound!" cried the king.

"Yes," said Monsieur de Charny, faintly, " an old wound, which has re-opened;" and he pressed the hand of the doctor to make him understand.

But this was not a court doctor, who understands everything; so, willing to show his knowledge, "Old, monsieur! this wound is not twenty-four hours old."

Charny raised himself at this, and said, "Do you teach me, monsieur, when I received my wound-" Then turning round, he cried, "The king!" and hastened to button his waistcoat.

"Yes, Monsieur de Charny, who fortunately arrived in time to procure you assistance."

"A mere scratch, sire," stammered Charny,-"an old wound."

"Old or new," replied Louis, " it has shown me the blood of a brave man."

"Whom a couple of hours in bed will quite restore," continued Charny, trying to rise; but his strength failed him, his head swam, and he sank back again.

"He is very ill," said the king.

"Yes, Sire," said the doctor, with importance, "but I can cure him."

The king understood well that Monsieur de Charny wished to hide some secret from him, and determined to respect it. " I do not wish," said he, " that Monsieur de Charny should run the risk of being moved; we will take care of him here. Let Monsieur de Suffren be called, this gentleman recompensed, and my own physician, Doctor Louis, be sent for."

While one officer went to execute these orders, two others carried Charny into a room at the end of the gallery. Doctor Louis and Monsieur de Suffren soon arrived. The latter understood nothing of his nephew's illness. "It is strange," said he; " do you know, doctor, I never knew my nephew ill before."

"That proves nothing," replied the doctor.

"The air of Versailles must be bad for him."

"It is his wound," said one of the officers.

"His wound!" cried Monsieur de Suffren; "he never was wounded in his life."

"Oh, excuse me," said the officer, opening the shirt, covered with blood, "but I thought-"

"Well," said the doctor, who began to see the state of the case, " do not let us lose time disputing over the cause, but see what can be done to cure him."

"Is it dangerous, doctor-" asked Monsieur de Suffren, with anxiety.

"Not at all," replied he.

Monsieur de Suffren took his leave, and left Charny with the doctor. Fever commenced, and before long he was delirious. Three hours after the doctor called a servant, and told him to take Charny in his arms, who uttered doleful cries. "Roll the sheet over his head," said the doctor.

"But," said the man, "he struggles so much that I must ask assistance from one of the guards."

"Are you afraid of a sick man, monsieur- If he is too heavy for you, you are not strong enough for me. I must send you back to Auvergne." This threat had its effect. Charny, crying, lighting, and gesticulating, was carried by the man through the guards.

Some of the officers questioned the doctor.

"Oh, gentlemen," said he, "this gallery is too far off for me; I must have him in my own rooms."

"But I assure you, doctor, we would all have looked after him here. We all love Monsieur de Suffren."

"Oh, yes, I know your sort of care! The sick man is thirsty, and you give him something to drink, and kill him."

"Now there remains but one danger," said the doctor to himself, as he followed Charny, "that the king should want to visit him; and if he hear him- Diable! I must speak to the queen." The good doctor, therefore, having bathed the head and face of his patient with cold water, and seen him safe in bed, went out and locked the door on him, leaving his servant to look after him. He went towards the queen's apartments, and met Madame de Misery, who had just been despatched to ask after the patient. "Come with me," he said.

"But, doctor, the queen waits for intelligence."

"I am going to her."

"The Queen wishes- "

"The Queen shall know all she wishes. I will take care of that."

CHAPTER L. SOMNIA.

The queen was expecting the return of Madame de Misery. The doctor entered with his accustomed familiarity. "Madame," he said, "the patient in whom your Majesty and the king are interested is as well as any one can be who has a fever."

"Is it a slight wound- " asked the queen.

"Slight or not, he is in a fever."

"Poor fellow!- a bad fever- "

"Terrible!"

"You frighten me, dear doctor; you, who are generally so cheering. Besides, you look about you, as though you had a secret to tell."

"So I have."

"About the fever-"

"Yes."

"To tell me-"

"Yes."

"Speak, then, for I am curious."

"I wait for you to question me, madame."

"Well, how does the fever go on-"

"No; ask me why I have taken him away from the guards' 'gallery, where the king left him, to my own room."

"Well, I ask. Indeed it is strange."

"Then, madame, I did so because it is not an ordinary fever."

The queen looked surprised. "What do you mean-"

"Monsieur de Charny is delirious already, and in his delirium he says a number of things rather delicate for the gentlemen of the guard to hear."

"Doctor!"

"Oh, madame, you should not question me, if you do not wish to hear my answers."

"Well, then, dear doctor, is he an atheist- Does he blaspheme-"

"Oh, no! he is, on the contrary, a devotee.'

The queen assumed a look of sang-froid. " monsieur de Charny," she said, "interests me; he is the nephew of Monsieur de Suffren, and has besides rendered me personal services. I wish to be a friend to him. Tell me, therefore, the exact truth."

"But I cannot tell you, madame. If your Majesty wishes to know, the only way is to hear him yourself."

"But if he says such strange things-"

"Things which your Majesty ought to hear."

"But," said the queen, "I cannot move a step here, without some charitable spy watching me."

"I will answer for your security. Come through my private way, and I will lock the door after us."

"I trust to you, then, dear doctor."

And she followed him, burning with curiosity.

When they reached the second door, the doctor put his ear to the keyhole.

"Is your patient in there, doctor-"

"No, madame, or you would have heard him at the end of the corridor. Even here you can hear his voice."

"He groans."

"No, he speaks loud and distinct."

"But I cannot go in to him."

"I do not mean you to do so. I only wish you to listen in the adjoining room, where you will hear without being seen." They went on, and the doctor entered the sickroom alone.

Charny, still dressed in his uniform, was making fruitless efforts to rise, and was repeating to himself his interview with the German lady in the coach. " German!" he cried,- '* German! Queen of France!"

"Do you hear, madame-"

"It is frightful," continued Charny, "to love an angel, a woman,- to love her madly, to be willing to give your life for her; and when you come near her to find her only a queen,- of velvet and of gold, of metal and of silk, and no heart."

"Oh! oh!" cried the doctor again.

"I love a married woman! " Charny went on, "and with that wild love which makes me forget everything else. Well, I will say to her, there remain for us still some happy days on this earth. Come, my beloved, and we will live the life of the blessed, if we love each other. Afterwards there will be death, better than a life like this. Let us love at least."

"Not badly reasoned for a man in a fever," said the doctor.

"But her children!" cried Charny, suddenly, with fury; "she will not leave her children. Oh! we will carry them away also. Surely I can carry her, she is so light, and her children, too." Then he gave a terrible cry: "But they are the children of a king!"

The doctor left his patient, and approached the queen.

"You are right, doctor," said she; "this young man would incur a terrible danger if he were overheard."

"Listen again," said the doctor.

"Oh, no more."

But just then Charny said, in a gentler voice,-

"Marie, I feel that you love me, but I will say nothing about it. Marie, I felt the touch of your foot in the coach; your hand touched mine, but I will never tell; I will keep this secret with my life. My blood may all flow away, Marie, but my secret shall not escape with it. My enemy steeped his sword in my blood, but if he has guessed my secret, yours is safe. Fear nothing, Marie; I do not even ask you if you love me; you blushed, that is enough."

"Oh!" thought the doctor, " this sounds less like delirium than like memory."

"I have heard enough," cried the queen, rising, and trembling violently; and she tried to go.

The doctor stopped her. "Madame," said he, "what do you wish-"

"Nothing, doctor, nothing."

"But if the king ask to see my patient- "

"Oh! that would be dreadful!"

"What shall I say-"

"Doctor, I cannot think; this dreadful spectacle has confused me."

"I think you have caught his fever," said the doctor, feeling her pulse.

She drew away her hand, and escaped.

CHAPTER LI. ANDREE

The doctor remained thoughtful, then said to himself,- "There are other difficulties here than those I can contend with by science." He bathed again the temples of his patient, who for the time began to grow calmer.

All at once the doctor heard the rustling of a dress outside. " Can it be the queen returned- " thought he; and, opening the door softly, he saw before him the motionless figure of a woman looking like a statue of despair. It was almost dark; he advanced suddenly along the corridor to the place where the figure was standing. On seeing him, she uttered a cry.

"Who is there- " asked Doctor Louis.

"I, doctor! " replied a sweet and sorrowful voice,- a voice that he knew, but could not immediately recognise. " I, Andree de Taverney," continued she.

"Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter- " cried the doctor; "is she ill-"

"She! who- "

The doctor felt that he had committed an imprudence.

"Excuse me, but I saw a lady going away just now; perhaps it was you."

"Oh, yes, there has been a lady here before me, has there not- " asked Andree, in a tone of emotion.

"My dear child," replied the doctor, " of whom do you speak- what do you want to know- "

"Doctor," answered Andree, in a sorrowful voice, "you always speak the truth, do not deceive me now; I am sure there was a woman here before me."

"Doubtless. Why should I deceive you- Madame de Misery was here."

"It was Madame de Misery who came- '*

"Certainly; what makes you doubt- What inexplicable beings women are! "

"Dear doctor."

"Well but to the point. Is she worse- "

"Who-"

"Pardieu! the queen."

"The queen!"

"Yes, the queen, for whom Madame de Misery came to fetch me, and who was troubled with her palpitations. If you come from her, tell me and we will go back together."

"No, doctor, I do not come from the queen, and was even ignorant that she was suffering. But pardon me, doctor, I scarcely know what I am saying." In fact, she seemed on the point of fainting.

The doctor supported her. She rallied by a strong effort. " Doctor," she said, " you know I am nervous in the dark. I lost my way in these intricate passages, and have grown frightened and foolish."

"And why the devil should you be wandering about these dark passages, since you came for nothing- "

"I did not say I came for nothing, only that no one sent me."

"Well, if you have anything to say to me, come away from here, for I am tired of standing."

"Oh, I shall not be ten minutes; can any one hear us-"

"No one."

"Not even your patient in there- "

"Oh, no fear of his hearing an3'thing."

Andree clasped her hands. " Oh, mon Dieu!" she cried, " he is, then, very ill-"

"Indeed, he is not well. But tell me quickly what brings you here, for I cannot wait."

"Well, doctor, we have spoken of it; I came to ask after him."

Doctor Louis received this confession with a solemn silence, which Andree took for a reproach.

"You may excuse this step, doctor," she said, "as he was wounded in a duel with my brother."

"Your brother! I was ignorant of that."

"But now that you know it, you understand why I inquire after him."

"Oh, certainly, my child," said the good doctor, enchanted to find an excuse for being indulgent; " I could not know this."

"A duel between two gentlemen is a thing of everyday occurrence, doctor."

"Certainly; the only thing that could make it of importance would be that they have fought about a lady."

"About a lady!"

"About yourself, for example."

Andree sighed.

"Oh, doctor! they did not fight about me."

"Then," said the doctor, " is it your brother that has sent you for news of Monsieur de Charny- "

"Oh, yes, my brother, doctor."

Dr. Louis looked at her scrutinisingly.

"I will find out the truth," thought he. Then he said, " Well, I will tell you the truth, that your brother may make his arrangements accordingly; you understand."

"No, doctor."

"Why, a duel is never a very agreeable thing to the king, and if it makes a scandal, he often banishes or imprisons the actors; but when death ensues, he is always inflexible. Therefore counsel your brother to hide for a time."

"Then," cried Andree, " Monsieur de Charny is dangerously ill-"

"My dear young lady, if he is not out of danger by this time to-morrow, if before that time I cannot quell the fever that devours him, Monsieur de Charny is a dead man."

Andree bit her lips till the blood came, and clinched her hands till the nails stuck into the flesh, to stifle the cry that was ready to burst from her. Having conquered herself, she said, " My brother will not fly; he wounded Monsieur de Charny in fair fight, and if he has killed him, he will take his chance."

The doctor was deceived. She did not come on her own account, he thought.

"How does the queen take it- " he asked.

"The queen- I know not. What is it to her- "

"But she likes your brother."

"Well, he is safe; and perhaps she will defend him if he is accused."

"Then, mademoiselle, you have learned what you wished. Let your brother fly, or not, as he pleases; that is your affair. Mine is to do the best to-night for the wounded man, without which death will infallibly carry him off. Adieu.1'

Andree fled back to her room, locked herself in, and, falling on her knees by the side of her bed, " My God! " cried she, with a torrent of burning tears, "you will not leave this young man to die who has done no wrong, and who is so loved in this world. Oh! save him, that I may see a God of mercy, and not of vengeance." Her strength gave way, and she fell senseless on the floor. When her senses returned to her, her first muttered words were, " I love him! oh, I love him 1"

CHAPTER LII. DELIRIUM.

Monsieur De Charny conquered the fever. The next day the report was favourable. Once out of danger, Doctor Louis ceased to take so much interest in him; and after the lapse of a week, as he had not forgotten all that had passed in his delirium, he wished to have him removed from Versailles: but Charny, at the first hint of this, rebelled, and said, angrily, that his Majesty had given him shelter there, and that no one had a right to disturb him.

The doctor, who was not patient with intractable convalescents, ordered four men to come in and move him; but Charny caught hold of his bed with one hand, and struck furiously with the other at every one who approached; and with the effort, the wound re-opened, the fever returned, and he began to cry out that the doctor wished to deprive him of the visions that he had in his sleep, but that it was all in vain; for that she who sent them to him was of too high rank to mind the doctor.

Then the doctor, frightened, sent the men away, and dressed the wound again; but as the delirium returned stronger than ever, he determined to go once more to the queen.

Marie Antoinette received him with a smile; she expected to hear that the patient was cured, but on hearing that he was very ill, she cried,-

"Why, yesterday you said he was going on so well!"

"It was not true, madame."

"And why did you deceive me- Is there, then, danger-"

"Yes, madame, to himself and others; but the evil is moral, not physical. The wound in itself is nothing; but, madam. Monsieur de Charny is fast becoming a monomaniac, and this I cannot cure. Madame, you will have ruined this young man."

"I, doctor! Am I the cause if he is mad- "

"If you are not now, you soon will be- "

"What must I do, then- Command me, doctor."

"This young man must be cured either with kindness or coercion. The woman whose name he evokes every instant must kill or cure him."

"Doctor, you exaggerate. Can you kill a man with a hard word, or cure a madman with a smile- "

"If your Majesty be incredulous, I have only to pay my respects, and take leave."

"No, doctor; tell me what you wish."

"Madame, if you desire to free this palace from his cries, and from scandal, you must act."

"You wish me to come and see him- "

"Yes."

"Then I will call some one,- Mademoiselle de Taverney, for example,- and you have all ready to receive us. But it is a dreadful responsibility to run the risk of kill or cure, as you say."

"It is what I have to do every day. Come, madame, all is ready."

The queen sighed, and followed the doctor, without waiting for Andree, who was not to be found.

It was eleven o'clock in the morning, and Charny was asleep, after the troubled night he had gone through. The queen, attired in an elegant morning dress, entered the corridor. The doctor advised her to present herself suddenly, determining to produce a crisis, either for good or ill; but at the door they found a woman standing, who had not time to assume her usual unmoved tranquillity, but showed an agitated countenance, and trembled before them.

"Andree I" cried the queen.

"Yes, your Majesty; you are here too!"

"I sent for you, but they could not find you."

Andree, anxious to hide her feelings, even at the price of a falsehood, said, " I heard your Majesty had asked for me, and came after you."

"How did you know I was here- "

"They said you were gone with Doctor Louis, so I guessed it."

"Well guessed," replied the queen, who was little suspicious, and forgot immediately her first surprise.

She went on, leaving Andree with the doctor.

Andree, seeing her disappear, gave a look full of anger and grief. The doctor said to her,-

"Do you think she will succeed- "

"Succeed in what- "

"In getting this poor fellow removed, who will die here."

"Will he live elsewhere- " asked Andree, surprised.

"I believe so."

"Oh, then, may she succeed!"

CHAPTER LIII. CONVALESCENCE.

The queen walked straight up to where Charny lay, dressed, on a couch. He raised his head, wakened by her entrance.

"The queen! " cried he, trying to rise.

"Yes, monsieur, the queen," she replied, " who knows how you strive to lose both reason and life; the queen, whom you offend both dreaming and waking; the queen, who cares for your honour and your safety, and therefore comes to you. Is it possible," continued she, " that a gentleman, formerly renowned like you for his loyalty and honour, should become such an enemy as you have been to the reputation of a woman- What will my enemies do, if you set them the example of treason- "

"Treason! " stammered Charny.

"Yes, monsieur. Either you are a madman, and must be forcibly prevented from doing harm, or you are a traitor, and must be punished."

"Oh, madame, do not call me a traitor 1 From the mouth of a king, such an accusation would precede death; from the mouth of a woman, it is dishonour. Queen, kill me, or spare me!"

"Are you in your right mind, Monsieur de Charny- " said the queen, in a moved voice.

"Yes, madame."

"Do you remember your wrongs towards me, and towards the king-"

"Mon Dieu! " he murmured.

"For you too easily forget, you gentlemen, that the king is the husband of the woman whom you insult by raising your eyes to her, that he is the father of your future master, the dauphin; you forget also that he is a greater and better man than any of you,- a man whom I esteem and love."

"Oh!" murmured Charny, with a groan, and seemed ready to faint.

This cry pierced the queen's heart; she thought he was about to die, and was going to call for assistance; but, after an instant's reflection, she went on: " Let us converse quietly, and be a man. Doctor Louis has vainly tried to cure you; your wound, which was nothing, has been rendered dangerous through your own extravagances. When will you cease to present to the good doctor the spectacle of a scandalous folly which disquiets him- When will you leave the castle- "

"Madame," replied Charny, "your Majesty sends me away; I go, I go!" And he rose with a violent effort, as though he would have fled that instant, but, unable to stand, fell almost into the arms of the queen, who had risen to stop him.

She replaced him on the sofa; a bloody foam rose to his lips. " Ah, so much the better! " cried he; "I die, killed by you!" The queen forgot everything but his danger; she supported his drooping head on her shoulders, and pressed her cold hands to his forehead and heart. Her touch seemed to revive him as if by magic,- he lived again. Then she wished to fly, but he caught hold of her dress, saying,-

"Madame, in the name of the respect which I feel for you-"

"Adieu, adieu!" cried the queen.

"Oh, madame, pardon me! "

"I do pardon you."

"Madame, one last look."

"Monsieur de Charny," said the queen, trembling, " if you are not the basest of men, to-morrow you will be dead, or have left this castle."

He threw himself at her feet; she opened the door, and rushed away.

Andr6e saw for an instant the young man on his knees before her, and felt struck with both hate and despair. She thought, as she saw the queen return, that God had given too much to this woman in adding to her throne and her beauty this half-hour with Monsieur de Charny.

The doctor, occupied only with the success of the negotiation, said, " Well, madame, what will he do- "

"He will leave," replied the queen; and, passing them quickly, she returned to her apartment.

The doctor went to his patient, and Andree to her room.

Doctor Louis found Charny a changed man, declaring himself perfectly strong, asking the doctor how he should be moved, and when he should be quite well, with so much energy that the doctor feared it was too much, and that he must relapse after it He was, however, so reasonable as to feel the necessity of explaining this sudden change. " The queen has done me more good by making me ashamed of myself," he said, " thank you, dear doctor, with all your science. She has vanquished me by an appeal to my amour propre."

"So much the better," said the doctor.

"Yes. I remember that a Spaniard- they are all boasters- told me one day, to prove the force of his will, that it sufficed for him in a duel which he had fought, and in which he had been wounded, to will that the blood should not flow in the presence of his adversary in order to retain it. I laughed at him. However, I now feel something like it myself; I think that if my fever and delirium wished to return, I could chase them away, saying, ' Fever and delirium, I forbid you to appear!' "

"We know such things are possible," replied the doctor. " Allow me to congratulate you, for you are cured morally."

"Oh yes."

"Well, the physical cure will soon follow. Once sound in mind, you will be sound in body within a week."

"Thanks, doctor."

"And, to begin, you must leave this place."

"I am ready immediately."

"Oh, we will not be rash; we will wait till this evening. Where will you go- "

"Anywhere,- to the end of the world if you like."

"That is too far for a first journey; we will content ourselves with Versailles. I have a house there where you shall go to-night."

Accordingly, that evening the four valets, who had been so rudely repulsed before, carried him to his carriage. The king had been hunting all day; Charny felt somewhat uneasy at leaving without apprising him; but the doctor promised to make his excuses.

Andree, concealed behind her curtains, saw the carriage drive off.

"If he resumes his desire to die," thought the doctor, " at least it will not be in my rooms and under my care."

Charny arrived safely, however, and the next day the doctor found him so well, that he told him he thought he would require him no longer.

He received a visit from his uncle, and from an officer sent by the king to inquire after him. At the end of a week he could ride slowly on horseback. Then the doctor advised him to go for a time to his estates in Picardy to regain strength. He accordingly took leave of the king, charged Monsieur de Suffren with his adieus to the queen, who was ill that evening, and set off for his chateau at Boursonnes.

CHAPTER LIV. TWO BLEEDING HEARTS.

On the day following the queen's visit to Monsieur de Charny, Mademoiselle de Taverney entered the royal bedroom as usual at the hour of the petite toilette. The queen was just laughing over a note from Madame de la Motte. Andree, paler than usual, looked cold and grave; the queen, however, being occupied, did not notice it, but merely turning her head, said in her usual friendly tone, "Bon jour, petite." At last, however, Andree silence struck her, and looking up, she saw her sad expression, and said, "Mon Dieu! Andree, what is the matter- Has any misfortune happened to you- "

"Yes, madame, a great one."

"What is it- "

"I am going to leave your Majesty."

"Leave me!"

"Yes, madame."

"Where are you going- and what is the cause of this sudden departure- "

"Madame, I am not happy in my affections; in my family affections, I mean," added Andree, blushing.

"I do not understand you,- you seemed happy yesterday."

"No, madame," replied Andree, firmly. "Yesterday was one of the unhappy days of my life."

"Explain yourself."

"It would but fatigue your Majesty, and the details are not worthy of your hearing. Suffice it to say, that I have no satisfaction in my family,- that I have no good to expect in this world. I come therefore to beg your Majesty's permission to retire into a convent."

The queen rose, and, although with some effort to her pride, took Andree hand, and said: " What is the meaning of this foolish resolution- Have you not to-day, like yesterday, a father and a brother- and were they different yesterday from to-day- Tell me your difficulties. Am I no longer your protectress and mother- "

Andree, trembling, and bowing low, said, " Madame, your kindness penetrates my heart, but does not shake my resolution. I have resolved to quit the court. I have need of solitude. Do not force me to give up the vocation to which I feel called."

"Since yesterday- "

"I beg your Majesty not to make me speak on this point."

"Be free, then," said the queen, rather bitterly; " only I have always shown you sufficient confidence for you to have placed some in me. But it is useless to question one who will not speak. Keep your secrets, and I trust yon will be happier away than you have been here. Remember one thing, however, that my friendship does not expire with people's caprices, and that I shall ever look on you as a friend. Now, go, Andree; you are at liberty. But where are you going to- "

"To the convent of Saint-Denis, madame."

"Well, mademoiselle, I consider you guilty towards me of ingratitude and forgetfulness."

Andree, however, left the room and the castle without giving any of those explanations which the good heart of the queen expected, and without in any way softening or humbling herself. When she arrived at home, she found Philippe in the garden,- the brother dreamed while the sister acted. At the sight of Andree, whose duties always kept her with the queen at that hour, he advanced, surprised, and almost frightened, which was increased when he perceived her gloomy look.

He questioned her, and she told him that she was about to leave the service of the queen, and go into a convent.

He clasped his hands, and cried, " What! you also, sister- "

"I also! what do you mean- "

"'T is a cursed contact for us, that of the Bourbons. You wish to take religious vows; you, at once the least worldly of women, and the least fitted for a life of asceticism. What have you to reproach the queen with- "

"I have nothing to reproach her with; but you, Philippe, who expected, and had the right to expect, so much,- why did not you remain at court- You did not remain there three days; I have been there as many years."

"She is capricious, Andree."

"You, as a man, might put up with it. I, a woman, could not, and do not wish to do so."

"All this, my sister, does not inform me what quarrel you have had with her."

"None, Philippe, I assure you. Had you any when you left her- Oh, she is ungrateful!"

"We must pardon her, Andree. She is a little spoiled by flattery, but she has a good heart."

"Witness what she has done for you, Philippe."

"What has she done- "

"You have already forgotten. I have a better memory, and with one stroke pay off your debts and my own."

"Very dear, it seems to me, Andree, to renounce the world at your age, and with your beauty. Take care, dear sister; if you renounce it young, you will regret it old, and will return to it when the time will be passed, and you have outlived all your friends."

"You do not reason thus for yourself, brother. You are so little careful of your fortunes, that when a hundred others would have acquired titles and gold you have only said, ' She is capricious, she is perfidious, and a coquette, and I prefer not to serve her.' Therefore, you have renounced the world, though you have not entered into a monastery."

"You are right, sister; and were it not for our father-"

"Our father! Ah, Philippe! do not speak of him," replied Andree, bitterly. " A father should be a support to his children, or accept their support. But what does ours do- Could you confide a secret to Monsieur de Taverney, or do you believe him capable of confiding in you- Monsieur de Taverney is made to live alone in this world."

"True, Andree, but not to die alone."

"Ah, Philippe! you take me for a daughter without feeling, but you know I am a fond sister; and to have been a good daughter required only to have had a father; but everything seems to conspire to destroy in me every tender feeling. It never happens in this world that hearts respond; those whom we choose prefer others."

Philippe looked at her with astonishment. " What do you mean- " said he.

"Nothing," replied Andree, shrinking from a confidence. " I think my brain is wandering; do not attend to my words."

"But- "

Andree took his hand. " Enough on this subject, my dearest brother. I am come to beg you to conduct me to the convent of Saint-Denis; but be easy, I will take no vows. I can do that at a later period, if I wish. Instead of going, like most women, to seek forgetfulness, I will go to seek memory. It seems to me that I have too often forgotten my Creator. He is the only consolation, as He is really the only afflictor. In approaching Him more nearly, I shall do more for my happiness than if all the rich and great in this world had combined to make life pleasant to me."

"Still, Andree, I oppose this desperate resolution, for you have not confided to me the cause of your despair!"

"Despair! " said she, with a disdainful air. " No, thank God, I am not despairing; no, a thousand times no."

"This excess of disdain shows a state of mind which cannot last. If you reject the word 'despair,' I must use that of ' pique.'"

"Pique! do you believe that I am so weak as to yield up my place in the world through pique- Judge me by yourself, Philippe; if you were to retire to La Trappe, what would you call the cause of your determination-"

"I should call it an incurable grief."

"Well, Philippe, I adopt your words, for they suit me."

"Then," he replied, '' brother and sister are alike in their lives: happy together, they have become unhappy at the same time." Then, thinking further remonstrance useless, he asked, " When do you want to go- "

"To-morrow, even to-day, if it were possible."

"I shall be ready whenever you require me." Andree retired to make her preparations. Soon she received this note from Philippe:-

"You can see our father at five o'clock this evening. You must be prepared for reproaches, but an adieu is indispensable."

^he answered:-

"At five o'clock I will be with Monsieur de Taverney all ready to start, and by seven we can be at Saint-Denis, if you will give me up your evening."

CHAPTER LV. THE MINISTER OF FINANCE.

We have seen that the queen, before receiving Andree. was smiling over a note from Madame de la Motte. This note contained only these words, couched in most respectful terms:-

"And your Majesty may rest assured that credit will be granted you, and that the goods will be delivered confidentially."

After she had perused it she had carefully burned it.

She was, however, rendered serious by the interview with Mademoiselle de Taverney. Scarcely had she gone, when Madame de Misery came to announce Monsieur de Calonne. He was a man of much intellect, but, foreseeing that disaster was hanging over France, determined to think only of the present, and enjoy it to the utmost. He was a courtier, and a popular man. Monsieur de Necker had shown the impossibility of finding finances, and called for reforms which would have struck at the estates of the nobility and the revenues of the clergy; he exposed his designs too openly, and was overwhelmed by a torrent of opposition; to show the enemy your plan of attack is half to give them the victory. Calonne, equally alive to the danger, but seeing no way of escape, gave way to it. He completely carried with him the king and queen, who implicitly believed in his system, and this is perhaps the only political fault which Louis XVI. was guilty of towards posterity. Monsieur de Calonne was handsome, and had an ingratiating manner; he knew how to please a queen, and always arrived with a smile on his face, when others might have worn a frown.

The queen received him graciously, and said, " Have we any money, Monsieur de Calonne- "

"Certainly, madame; we have always money."

"You are perfectly marvellous," replied she, "an incomparable financier, for you seem always ready when we want money."

"How much does your Majesty require-"

"Explain to me first how you manage to find money, when Monsieur Necker declared that there was none."

"Monsieur Necker was right, madame; for when I became minister on the 3d of November, 1783, there were but one thousand and two hundred francs in the public treasury. Had Monsieur Necker, madame, instead of crying out, 4 There is no money,' done as I have done, and borrowed 100,000,000 the first year, and 125,000,000 the second, and had he been as sure as I am of a new loan of 80,000,000 for the third, he would have been a true financier. Every one can say there is no money, but not that there is plenty."

"That is what I compliment you on, monsieur; but how to pay all this- "

"Oh, madame, be sure we shall pay it," replied he, with a strange smile.

"Well, I trust to you," said the queen.

"I have now a project, madame," replied he, bowing, " which will put 20,000,000 into the pockets of the nation, and 7,000,000 or 8,000,000 into your own."

"They will be welcome; but where are they to come from- "

"Your Majesty is aware that money is not of the same value in all the countries of Europe."

"Certainly. In Spain gold is dearer than in France."

"Your Majesty is perfectly right. Gold in Spain has been for the last five or six years worth considerably more than in France; it results that the exporters gain on eight ounces of gold that they send from here about the value of fourteen ounces of silver."

"That is a great deal."

"Well, madame, I mean to raise the price of gold one fifth of this difference, and where we have now thirty louis we shall then have thirty-two."

"It is a brilliant idea!" cried the queen.

"I believe it, and am happy that it meets your Majesty's approbation."

"Always have such, and I am sure you will soon pay our debts."

"But allow me, madame, to return to what you want of me," said the minister.

"Would it be possible to have at present- I am afraid it is too much- "

Calonne smiled in an encouraging manner.

"500,000 francs- " continued the queen.

"Oh, madame, really your Majesty frightened me! I was afraid it was something great."

"Then you can- "

"Assuredly."

"Without the king's knowledge- "

"Oh, madame, that is impossible. Every month all my accounts are laid before the king; however, he does not always read them."

"When can I have it- "

"What day does your Majesty wish for it- "

"On the fifth of next month."

"Your Majesty shall have it on the third."

"Thanks, Monsieur de Calonne."

"My greatest happiness is to please your Majesty, and I beg you never will allow yourself to be embarrassed for want of money." He rose, the queen gave him her hand to kiss, and then said, "After all, this money causes me some remorse, for it is for a caprice."

"Never mind; some one will gain by it."

"That is true; you have a charming mode of consoling one."

"Oh, madame, if we had none of us more reasons for remorse than you, we should all go straight to heaven."

"But it will be cruel to make the poor people pay for my caprices."

"Have no scruples, madame; it is not the poor who will pay."

"How so-" asked the queen, in some surprise.

"Because, madame, they have nothing to pay with."

He bowed and retired.

CHAPTER LVI. THE CARDINAL DE ROHAN.

Hardly had Monsieur de Calonne traversed the gallery, when Madame de la Motte was shown in to the queen.

"Madame," said she, "the cardinal is here." She then introduced him, and took her leave.

The cardinal, finding himself alone with the queen, bowed respectfully, without raising his eyes.

"Monsieur," said the queen, " I have heard of you what has effaced many wrongs."

"Permit me, madame," said he, trembling with real emotion, "to assure your Majesty that these wrongs of which you speak I could explain in a few words."

"I do not forbid you to justify yourself," replied she, with dignity; " but if what you are about to say throws the smallest shade upon my family or country, you will only wound me still more. Let us leave this subject, and I will only see you under the fresh light, which shows you to me obliging, respectful, and devoted."

"Devoted until death," replied he.

"But," said Marie Antoinette with a smile, "at present it is a question not of death, but of ruin; and I do not wish you devoted even so far. You shall live, and not be ruined, at least not by me; for they say you are ruining yourself."

"Madame!"

"Oh! that is your own business; only, as a friend, I would counsel you to be economical,- the king would like you better."

"I would become a miser to please your Majesty."

"Oh, the king," replied she, with an accent on the word, "does not love misers either."

"I will become whatever your Majesty desires," replied he, with a hardly disguised passion.

"I said, then," continued she, "that you shall not be ruined for me. You have advanced money on my account, and I have the means of meeting the calls; therefore regard the affair for the future as in my hands."

"To finish it, then, it only remains for me to offer the necklace to your Majesty;" and, drawing out the case, lie presented it to her.

She took it, but did not open it, and laid it down by her side. She received kindly all his polite speeches, but, as she was longing to be left alone with her diamonds, she began to answer somewhat absently.

1 He thought she was embarrassed, and was delighted, thinking it showed at least an absence of indifference. He then kissed her hand, and took leave, going away full of enthusiasm and hope.

Jeanne was waiting for him in the carriage, and received his ardent protestations with pleasure. "Well," said she, "shall you be Richelieu or Mazarin- Have her lips given you encouragement in ambition or love- Are you launched in politics or intrigue-"

"Do not laugh, dear countess; I am full of happiness."

"Already!"

"Assist me, and in three weeks I may be a minister."

"Peste! that is a long time; the next payment is in a fortnight."

"Ah! the queen has money, and will pay, and I shall have only the merit of the intention. It is too little; I would willingly have paid for this reconciliation with the whole sum."

"Make yourself easy," replied the countess; "you shall have this merit If you desire it."

"I should have preferred it; the queen would then have been under an obligation to me."

"Monseigneur, something tells me you will have this satisfaction. Are you prepared for it-"

"I have mortgaged all my revenue for the ensuing year."

"Then you have the money-"

"Certainly, for this payment; after that, I do not know what I shall do."

"Oh, this payment will give you three quiet months; who knows what may happen in three months-"

"That is true; but she said that the king wished me to incur no more debt."

"Two months in the ministry would set all straight."

"Countess!"

"Oh, do not be fastidious; if you do not assist yourself, others will."

"You are right. Where are you going now-"

"Back to the queen, to hear what she says of your interview."

"Good! I go to Paris."

"Why- You should go this evening to the jeu du, roi; it is good policy to keep your ground."

"No, countess; I must attend a rendezvous, for which I received a note this morning."

"A rendezvous-"

"Yes, and a serious one, by the contents of the note. Look."

"A man's writing," said the countess; and, opening the note, she read:-

"Monseignier,- Some one wishes to see you in regard to the recovery of an important sum of money. This person will wait on you this evening at Paris, to solicit the honour of an interview."

"Anonymous- some beggar- "

"No, countess; no beggar would expose himself to the risk of being beaten by my servants. Besides, I fancy I have seen the writing before. So au revoir, countess."

"Apropos, monseigneur, if you are going to get a windfall, some large sum, I understand we are to share."

"Countess, you have brought me luck; I shall not be ungrateful." And they separated.

The cardinal was full of happy dreams. The queen had received him kindly. He would place himself at the head of her party, and make it a popular one; he would protect her, and for her sake would abandon his slothful life and live an active one.

As soon as he arrived at his hotel, he commenced burning a box full of love letters; then he called his steward to order some economical reforms, and sat down to his history of English politics. Soon he heard a ring, and a servant entered to announce the person who had written to him that morning.

"Ask his name," said the cardinal.

The man, having inquired, returned and said,-

"Monsieur le Comte de Cagliostro."

"Let him come in."

The count entered.

"Mon Dieu!" cried the cardinal, "is it possible- Joseph Balsamo, who was supposed to have perished in the flames-"

"Yes, monseigneur, more alive than ever."

"But, monsieur, you have taken a new name."

"Yes, monseigneur; the other recalled too many painful recollections. Possibly, you yourself would not have opened your door to Joseph Balsamo."

"I! Oh yes, monsieur."

"Then monseigneur has a better memory and more honesty than most men."

"Monsieur, you once rendered me a service."

"Am I not, monseigneur, a good specimen of the results of my elixir- "

"I confess it, monsieur; but you seem above humanity,- you, who distribute health and gold to all."

"Health, perhaps, monseigneur, but not gold."

"You make no more gold- "

"No, monseigneur."

"Why-"

"Because I lost the parcel of an indispensable ingredient which Althotas discovered, but of which I never had the receipt. He has carried that secret with him to the grave."

"He is dead, then- How- could you not preserve the life of this man, so useful to you, as you have kept yourself through so many centuries-"

"Because I can guard against illness, but not against such accidents as kill before I can act."

"He died from an accident, then-"

"The fire in which you thought I died killed him; or rather he, weary of life, chose to die."

"It is strange."

"No, it is natural; I have a hundred times thought of ending my life."

"But you have not done so."

"Because I enjoy a state of youth, in which health and pleasure keep me from ennui; but he had chosen one of old age. He was a savant, and cared only for science; and thus youth, with its thousand pleasures, would have constantly drawn him from its study. An old man meditates better than a young one. Althotas died a victim to his love of science; I lead a worldly life, and do nothing, I live like a plant."

"Oh, monsieur, your words and appearance bring to me dreams of my youth. It is ten years since I saw you."

"Yes; but if you are no longer a fine young man, you are a prince. Do you remember the day when, in my cabinet, I promised you the love of the woman whose fair locks I consulted- "

The cardinal turned from pale to red. Terror and joy almost stopped the beating of his heart.

"I remember," said he.

"Ah, let me try if I can still play the magician. This fair child of your dreams- "

"What is she doing now- "

"Ah, I suspect you yourself have seen her to-day; indeed, you have not long left her."

The cardinal could hardly stand.

"Oh, I beg, monsieur- " he cried.

"Let us speak of something else," said Cagliostro, sitting down.

CHAPTER LVII. DEBTOR AND CREDITOR.

"Now that we have renewed our acquaintance, let us converse," said Cagliostro.

"Yes," replied the cardinal, "about the money you wrote of; it was a pretext, was it not-"

"No, monsieur, a serious matter, as it concerns a sum of 500,000 francs."

"The sum which you lent me-" cried the cardinal, growing pale.

"Yes, monseigneur; I love to see so good a memory in a great prince like you."

The cardinal felt overwhelmed by the blow. At last, trying to smile, he said,-

"I thought that Joseph Balsamo had carried his debt with him to the tomb, as he threw the receipt into the fire."

"Monseigneur," replied the count, "the life of Joseph Balsamo is as indestructible as the sheet on which you wrote. Death cannot conquer the elixir of life; fire is powerless against asbestos."

"I do not understand," said the cardinal.

"You soon will," replied Cagliostro, producing a folded paper, which he offered to the prince.

He, before opening it, cried, " My receipt!"

"Yes, monseigneur, your receipt."

"But I saw you burn it."

"True, I threw it on the fire; but by accident you had written on a piece of asbestos, so that the receipt remained uninjured among the cinders."

"Monsieur," said the cardinal, haughtily, for he thought this a proof that he had been suspected, "believe me, I should not have denied my debt, even without this paper; therefore you were wrong to deceive me."

"I deceive you-"

"Yes; you made me think the paper was destroyed."

"To leave you the calm enjoyment of 500,000 francs."

"But, monsieur, why have you left such a sum for ten years unclaimed-"

"I knew, monseigneur, that it was safe. Various events have deprived me of my wealth; but, knowing that I had this sum in reserve, I have waited patiently until the last moment."

"And has that arrived-"

"Alas! yes, monseigneur."

"So that you can really wait no longer- "

"No, monseigneur."

"You want it at once-"

"If it please you to pay it."

The cardinal was at first silent, through despair. Then he said, in a hoarse voice,-

"Monsieur le Comte, we unhappy princes of the earth do not improvise fortunes as quickly as you enchanters."

"Oh, monseigneur," said Cagliostro, "I would not have asked you for this sum had I not known beforehand that you had it."

"I have 500,000 francs-"

"30,000 in gold, 11,000 in silver, and the rest in notes, which are in this Boule cabinet."

The cardinal turned white. "You knew this-"

"Yes, monseigneur, and I know you have made great sacrifices to obtain it. I have heard that you will pay heavily for it."

"Oh, it is too true!"

"But, monseigneur, during these ten years I have often been in want and embarrassment, yet I have kept this paper back, so as not to trouble you; therefore I do not think you can complain."

"Complain! oh no, monsieur; when you graciously lent me such a sum, I must ever remain your debtor. But during those ten years there were twenty occasions when I could have repaid you with ease, while to-day the restitution you demand embarrasses me dreadfully. You, who know everything, who read even hearts, and penetrate the doors of cabinets, doubtless know also the purpose for which this money was destined."

"You are wrong, monseigneur," said Cagliostro, coldly. " My knowledge has brought me so much misery and disappointment, that I no longer seek to penetrate the secrets of others. It concerned me to know whether you had this money, as I wished to claim it; but once having ascertained that, I did not trouble myself to think for what purpose it was destined. Besides, did I know it, it might seem so grave a matter as almost to force me to waive my claim, which really at present I cannot afford to do. Therefore, I prefer to be ignorant."

"Oh, monsieur," cried the cardinal, "do not think I wish to parade my embarrassments in order to elude my debt. You have your own interests to look to; they are guaranteed by this paper which bears my signature,- that is enough. You shall have your money, although I do not think there was any promise to pay."

"Your Eminence is mistaken;" and opening the paper, he read these words:-

"I acknowledge the receipt of 500,000 francs from Monsieur Joseph Balsamo, which I will repay on demand.

"Louis Db Rohan."

"You see, monseigneur, that I only ask my right; besides, as this was a spontaneous loan by me to a man I hardly knew, the payment might have been equally spontaneous, without waiting for me to claim it. But you did not think so. Well, monseigneur, I withdraw this paper, and bid you adieu."

"No, count," replied the cardinal; "a Rohan must not receive lessons in generosity; besides, this is a mere question of honesty. Give me the paper, monsieur, and I will discharge my debt."

For a moment Cagliostro hesitated, for the pale face and distressed air of the cardinal inclined him to pity; but quickly hardening himself, he handed him the paper. Monsieur de Rohan went to the cabinet, and took out the money. "There," said he, "are your 500,000 francs; and I owe you 250,000 more for interest, which you shall have if you will give me time."

"Monseigneur," said Cagliostro, "I lent 500,000 francs to Monsieur de Rohan, which he has paid me; he therefore owes me nothing more. I will take the notes with me, and send for the money. I thank you for your compliance with my request." Then, bowing, he left the room.

"Well," sighed Monsieur de Rohan, "it is lucky, at least, that the queen has the money, and no Joseph Balsamo will come and take it from her."

CHAPTER LVIII. FAMILY ACCOUNTS.

It was the day before the first payment was due, and Monsieur de Calonne had so much to do, that he had forgotten his promise. The queen had up to this time waited patiently, relying on his word; she now, however, was beginning to grow uneasy, when she received the following note:-

"This evening the business with which your Majesty has charged me will be settled by the Council; the money will be with the queen to-morrow evening."

Marie Antoinette recovered all her gaiety directly.

After dinner the king went to the Council, but in rather a bad humour. The news from Russia was bad; a vessel had been lost; some of the provinces refused to pay the taxes; also a beautiful map of the world, made by himself, had that day split into two pieces. Vainly, therefore, Monsieur de Calonne produced his accounts, with his usual smiling air; the king continued out of temper.

For a long time he sat, as usual, drawing hieroglyphics on a piece of paper, whilst the foreign correspondence was being read, and paying little attention to what passed around him.

At last, however, Monsieur de Calonne began to speak of the loan to be raised for the ensuing year. The king became attentive, and said, "Always borrowing; but how is it to be repaid- That is a problem, Monsieur de Calonne, for you to solve."

"Sire, a loan is only turning a stream from one direction, to cause it to flow more abundantly in another. In deepening the channel, you only increase the supply; therefore, let us not think of paying, but only of obtaining present supplies."

Monsieur de Calonne then explained his plans, which were approved by his colleagues.

The king agreed, with a sigh.

"Now we have money," said Monsieur de Calonne, "let us dispose of it;" and he handed a paper to the king, with a list of pensions, gifts, and payments to be made.

The king glanced at the total,- "1,100,000 francs for this! Enormous! "

"But, sire, one item is 600,000 francs."

"Which-"

"The advance to the queen."

"To the queen! 600,000 francs to the queen! Impossible!"

"Pardon, sire, it is correct."

"But there must be a mistake; a fortnight ago her Majesty received her money."

"Sire, but if her Majesty has need of money,- and we all know how well she employs it-"

"No," cried the king, "the queen does not want this money; she said to me that she preferred a vessel to jewels. The queen thinks but of France, and when France is poor, we that are rich ought to lend to France; and if she does require this money, it will be a greater merit to wait for it; and I guarantee that she will wait."

The ministers applauded this patriotic speech of the king, only Monsieur de Calonue insisted.

"Really, monsieur," said the king, "you are more interested for us than we are for ourselves."

"The queen, sire, will accuse us of having been backward when her interests were concerned."

"I will plead your cause."

"But, sire, the queen never asks without necessity."

"If the queen has wants, they are, I trust, less imperious than those of the poor, and she will be the first to acknowledge it."

"Sire!"

"I am resolved," said the king; "and I fancy I hear the queen in her generosity thanking me for having so well understood her heart."

Monsieur de Calonne bit his lips, and Louis, content with this personal sacrifice, signed all the rest without looking at them.

"Calonne, you shall tell the queen yourself."

"Oh, Sire, I beg to resign to you the honour."

"So be it, then. Ah! here she comes; let us meet her."

"I beg your Majesty to excuse me," he replied, and retired quickly.

The king approached the queen. She was leaning on the arm of the Count d'Artois, and seemed very gay.

"Madame," said the king, "have you had a pleasant walk-"

"Yes, Sire. And you an agreeable council-"

"Yes, madame, I have gained you 500,000 francs."

"Monsieur de Calonne has kept his word," thought the queen.

"Only imagine, madame," continued the king; "Monsieur de Calonne had put down 600,000 francs for you, and I have struck it out,- a clear gain, therefore, of that sum."

"Struck it through!" cried the queen, turning pale. "But, sire-"

"Oh! I am so hungry, I am going to supper;" and he went away delighted with his work.

"Brother," said the queen, "seek Monsieur de Calonne for me."

At that moment a note from him was handed to her: "Your Majesty will have learned that the king refused your grant. It was incomprehensible, and I retired from the council penetrated with grief."

"Read," said she, passing the note to the count.

"And there are people," said he, "who say that we squander the revenue I This is an extraordinary proceeding- "

"Quite husband-like," said the queen. " Adieu, brother."

"I condole with you," he replied; "and it is a lesson for me. I was going to make a request to-morrow for myself."

"Send for Madame de la Motte," said the queen, when she returned to her room.

CHAPTER LIX. MARIE ANTOINETTE AS QUEEN, AND MADAME DE LA MOTTE AS WOMAN.

The courier despatched for Madame de la Motte, not finding her at home, went to the hotel of the Cardinal de Rohan to inquire if she were there. The well tutored Swiss replied that she was not, but that he could get any message transmitted to her.

The courier, therefore, left word for her to come to the queen as soon as possible. The man had hardly left the door before the message was delivered to Jeanne, as she sat at supper with the cardinal. She set off immediately, and was at once introduced into the queen's chamber.

"Oh!" cried the queen, on seeing her, " I have something to tell you. The king has refused me 500,000 francs."

"Mon Dieu! " murmured the countess.

"Incredible, is it not- He struck through the item; but it is useless to talk of it; you must return to Paris, and tell the cardinal that since he is so kind I accept the 500,000 francs he offered me. It is selfish, I know, but what can I do-"

"Oh, madame," cried Jeanne, "we are lost!-the cardinal no longer has the money."

The queen started. " No money! " stammered she.

"No, madame; an unexpected creditor claimed this money from him. It was a debt of honour, and he paid it."

"The whole 500,000 francs- "

"Yes, madame."

"And he has no more- "

"No, madame, he told me this an hour and a half ago, and confessed to me that he had no other resources."

The queen leaned her head on her hands; then, after a few moments' reflection, she said,-

"This, countess, is a terrible lesson for me, and a punishment for having done anything, great or small, without the king's knowledge. It was a folly; I had no need of this necklace."

"True, madame; but if the queen consulted only her absolute wants- "

"I must consult before everything the tranquillity and happiness of my household. I renounce forever what has begun with so much annoyance. I will sacrifice my vanity on the altar of duty, as Monsieur de Provence would say; and, beautiful as this necklace is, you shall carry it back to Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange."

"Carry it back-"

"Yes."

"But, madame, your Majesty has already given 250,000 francs as earnest money."

"Well, I shall gain all the rest that was to have been paid for it."

"But, madame, they will not like to return your money."

"I give it up on condition of their breaking the contract. Now, countess, that I have come to this determination, I feel at ease once more. This necklace brought with it cares and fears; diamonds cannot compensate for these. Take it away, countess; the jewellers must be satisfied; they will have their necklace, and 260,000 francs into the bargain."

"But Monsieur de Rohan-"

"He only acted to give me pleasure, and when he is told it is my pleasure not to have the necklace, he will understand me, I am sure; and if he is a good friend, he will approve and strengthen me in my sacrifice." Saying these words, the queen held out the casket to Jeanne.

She did not take it. "Why not ask for time, madame- "

"No, countess, it is humiliation. One may humiliate one's self for a person one loves, to save a living creature, were it only a dog; but only to keep some sparkling stones,- never, countess; take it away."

"But, madame, it will surely become known that your Majesty has had the jewels, and was obliged to return them."

"No one will know anything about it. The jewellers will surely hold their tongues for 250,000 francs. Take it away, countess, and thank Monsieur de Rohan for his good-will towards me. There is no time to lose; go as soon as possible, and bring me back a receipt for them."

"Madame, it shall be done as you wish."

Jeanne clasped the jewel-case under her cloak, and took care to carry it in such a way that the shape of the box could not be discerned. She took her seat in the carriage, as zealously as her august accomplice could have wished.

She first drove home and changed her dress, which was too elegant for a visit to the jewellers. Meanwhile she reflected much; she thought still it was a fault for Monsieur de Rohan to allow the queen to part with these jewels; and should she obey her orders without consulting him, would he not have reason to complain- Would he not rather sell himself than let the queen return them- "I must consult him," she thought; "but, after all, he never can get the money." She then took the necklace from the case, once more to look at and admire it. "1,400,000 francs in my possession; true, it is but for an hour. To carry away such a sum in gold I should want two horses, yet how easily I hold it here! But I must decide. Shall I go to the cardinal, or take it direct to the jewellers, as the queen ordered- I might convert it into a bank-note. A note- but are notes always paid- Must they not be signed, witnessed- Then, too, a bank-note is of paper, which fire, air, or water might destroy. A bank-note cannot be discounted in every country; it betrays its origin, the name of its author and bearer. A bank-note, in the course of time, loses a part or even the whole of its value. Diamonds themselves, on the contrary, are formed of a hard, indestructible substance; and every where- at Berlin, London, Madrid, or even Brazil- men know them, appreciate their value, admire them, and purchase them. Everyone recognises a diamond, particularly a diamond of the shape and clearness of these. How beautiful they are! How perfect as a whole and in every detail! Each one of them, separated from the others, would very possibly be worth more as a solitaire, than as one of a number taken all together." Still holding them in her hand, she continued her meditations. "If I take them back to the jeweller, he will coldly weigh them and polish them with his brush. These jewels, which might have shone upon the bosom of Marie Antoinette. Boehmer will lament at first, but he will console himself with the reflection that he has both the profits of the sale and the article of merchandise as well. Ah! I forgot; in what terms must I couch the jeweller's receipt- It is a serious business, and requires much diplomacy. The writing must compromise neither the queen, the cardinal, nor myself. I shall never be able to draw up such a document; I must seek advice. The cardinal- Oh, no. Ah! if he loved me more, and would give me the diamonds!" She rose; then resumed her seat upon the sofa. The diamonds, rolling around in her hand, confused her as she gazed at them, feverish in her longing to possess them. Suddenly she became calmer, she concentrated all her energies, all her thoughts. She did not perceive the flight of the moments; she did not realise that she was forming an irrevocable resolution; that, like a swimmer who has once put his foot upon a quicksand, every movement she made to extricate herself only drew her more deeply into its fatal foundations. An hour was consumed in this silent and deep contemplation of a mysterious purpose. Then she rose slowly, pale as an inspired priestess, and rang for her maid. It was two o'clock in the morning.

She ordered a coach, and in a few minutes she reached the house of the journalist, Monsieur Reteau de Villette.

CHAPTER LX. THE RECEIPT OF MESSIEURS BOEHMER AND B0SSANGE, AND THE GRATITUDE OF THE QUEEN.

The result of Madame de la Motte's visit to Monsieur Reteau de Villette appeared the next day. At seven o'clock in the morning she sent to the queen the following paper:

"We, the undersigned, acknowledge having received back again the diamond necklace sold to the queen for 1,600,000 francs, the diamonds not suiting her Majesty, who has paid us for our loss and trouble 250,000 francs.

"Boehmer And Bossange."

The queen, now tranquil about the whole affair, locked up the receipt, and thought no more of it.

But, in strange contradiction to this receipt, the jewellers received a visit two days after from Monsieur de Rohan, who felt uneasy about the payment.

If the installment had not been paid, he expected to find them naturally annoyed; but to his great satisfaction they received him with smiles.

"Well, to-day is the day appointed for the first payment. The queen has paid, then- " he asked.

"No, monseigneur, the queen could not procure the money, as the king had refused it to her; but she has guaranteed the debt, and that fully satisfies us."

"Ah! so much the better; but how- Through the countess-"

"No, monseigneur, the countess has not even appeared in the matter; and we, Monsieur Bossange and myself, appreciate her delicacy."

"Not appeared- The countess has not appeared- There must be some good reason for such an action on her part. Not to detract from the queen, you understand, I can't help thinking that, has there been a bright inspiration, it must have emanated from the countess."

"Monseigneur can judge whether her Majesty has been considerate toward us. On hearing of the king's refusal, which soon became public, we wrote to Madame de la Motte- "

"When-"

"Yesterday."

"And she replied-"

"Your Eminence knows nothing about it-" said Boehmer, with a suggestion of respectful familiarity.

"No, I have not had the honour of seeing the countess for three days," replied the wily prince; " but how did she reply-"

"By one word, 'Wait.'"

"In writing-"

"No, monseigneur, by word of mouth. Our letter entreated Madame de la Motte to ask for an audience from you, and to warn the queen that the day of the payment was approaching."

"The word ' Wait' was very natural."

"That evening we received from the queen, by a courier, a letter."

"A letter to you-"

"Or rather a guarantee, in due form."

"Let me see it."

"Oh! we would with pleasure, but her Majesty enjoins that it is not to be shown to any one."

'"Ah! that is another matter. You jewellers are very fortunate,- you who receive letters from the queen."

"For 1,350,000 francs, monseigneur," said the jeweller, smiling, " one may have- "

"Ten millions and a hundred millions cannot pay for some things, monsieur," replied the prelate, sternly. "Then you are safe-"

"Perfectly, monseigneur."

"The queen acknowledges the debt-"

"Fully."

"And engages to pay-"

"500,000 francs in three months, the rest in six; and she adds, ' Let the affair rest between ourselves. You will have no cause to repent it.'"

"I am charmed that it is settled," said the cardinal. "May we soon have business transactions again-"

"Whenever your Eminence will condescend to honour us with your confidence."

"But you must still see, in this affair, the hand of the amiable countess."

"We recognise Madame de la Motte behind it all, monseigneur; and my partner and I have agreed to show our appreciation of her kindness when the full payment of the necklace shall have put us in possession of ready money."

"Hush! hush!" said the cardinal, "you do not understand me."

And he regained his carriage, accompanied by manifestations of respect from all around him.

We must now raise the veil, though doubtless our readers comprehend how Jeanne de la Motte had acted towards her benefactress, and how she had managed to satisfy both the queen and the jewellers by borrowing the pen of Monsieur Reteau.

Three months were thus obtained for the completion of her design of crime and deception, and within three months everything would be arranged.

She went to Monsieur de Rohan, and repeated to him what the jewellers had already told him.

He asked if the queen remembered his good intentions. She drew a picture of her gratitude, which enchanted him.

Her intention had been to sell some of the diamonds to the value of 100,000 crowns, and then pass over to England, where, when necessary, she could dispose of the remainder. But her first essay frightened her; some offered despicably small sums for the stones, others went into raptures, declaring they had never seen such diamonds but in the necklace of Messieurs Boehmer and Bossange.

She abandoned this course, therefore, which she saw might soon bring about her ruin; she shut up the diamonds carefully, and resolved to wait. But her position was critical; a few words of explanation between the queen and the cardinal, and all would be discovered. She consoled herself by thinking that the cardinal was too much in love not to fall into all the snares she might lay for him.

One thought alone occupied her,- how to prevent their meeting. That he would not be long satisfied without an interview she knew. What should she do- Persuade him to ask for one, and offend the queen by his presumption- But then the queen would speak her anger out, and all would come to light. She must compromise her, and endeavour so to close her lips. But if they met by chance, what remained for her but flight- That was easy; a few hours would suffice. Then, again, she thought of the name she would leave behind her, and bear with her, no longer a woman of rank, but a thief, whom justice only does not reach because she is too far off. No, she would not fly if she could help it; she would try what audacity and skill could do, remain here and act between them.

Jeanne had calculated how much money she could gain in two years from the favour of the queen, and the love of the cardinal. She thought that she might safely count upon five or six thousand francs from these two favourites of fortune; after that, disfavour, disgrace, and abandonment might come to compensate for the popularity, the confidence, and the influence which had been showered upon her. "By this means," thought she, "I may gain seven or eight hundred thousand francs."

It is an interesting study to contemplate the course of this deep mind as it pursues its road, which may terminate in shame for itself, in disgrace for others.

Portrait of the Comtesse de la Motte. Photo-Etching.- From an old Print.

"To remain in Paris," continued she in her thoughts, "calmly to witness the play being enacted by these two principals, to make them assume roles favourable to my projects, that is plainly the wisest course of action of mine. Then, wh6n the crisis comes, and I must flee, I will so arrange matters that I shall seem to have been despatched on an errand for the queen, rather than to have been overtaken by her displeasure. To prevent them from meeting, that is the difficulty, as he is in love, and a prince, who has a right to see the queen; and she is now grateful, and will no longer fly from him; but if I excite him to too open an admiration, and disgust her, I alienate them more than ever. She will take fire easily, but what I want is something to make the queen tremble as well as him, something which would give me power to say, ' If you accuse me, I will accuse you and ruin you; leave me my wealth, and I will leave you your honour.' This is what I must seek for, and what I must find."

And Madame de la Motte settled back among her cushions beside the window. Warmed by the beneficent sunshine, and in the presence of God, rejoicing in His own gift of the light of day, she sought and planned her dark schemes.

CHAPTER LXI. THE PRISONER.

Meanwhile a different scene was passing in the Rue Saint- Claude, where Monsieur de Cagliostro had lodged Oliva in the old house to keep her from the pursuit of the police. There she lived, retired, and almost happy. Cagliostro lavished care and attentions on her, and she liked being protected by this great lord, who asked nothing from her in return. Only, "What did he want-" she often asked herself, uselessly, for he must have some object. Her amour propre made her decide that after all he was in love with her; and she began to build castles in the air, in which, we must confess, poor Beausire now very rarely had a place. Therefore the two visits a week paid to her by Cagliostro were always eagerly looked forward to, and between them she amused herself with her dreams, and playing the great lady. Then in her magnificent salon, in the midst of real and refined luxury, the little creature, rejoicing in her happy conditions, acknowledged to herself that all her past life had been a mistake, an error; that the old proverb, "Virtue makes one happy," might be more truly rendered, "To be happy makes one virtuous." Yet, in the midst of her good fortune, one element requisite for its duration was lacking. Her books were soon read through, at least such as suited her taste, and pictures and music soon wearied her. She soon began to regret her mornings passed at the windows of the Rue Dauphine, where she used to sit to attract the attention of the passers- by, and her delightful promenades in the Quartier Saint- Germain, where so many people used to turn to look after her. True, the police agents were formidable people, but what availed safety if she- was not amused; so she first regretted her liberty, and then regretted Beausire.

Then she began to lose her appetite for want of fresh air, for she had been used to walk every day.

One day, when she was bemoaning her fate, she received an unexpected visit from Cagliostro. He gave his accustomed signal, and she opened the door, which was always kept bolted, with an eagerness which showed her delight; and, seizing his hands, she cried, in an impatient voice, "Monsieur, I am ennuyee here."

"This is unlucky, my dear child."

"I shall die here."

"Really- "

"Yes."

"Well," said he, soothingly, "do not blame me, blame the lieutenant of police, who persecutes you."

"You exasperate me with your sang-froid, monsieur. I would rather you flew in a passion."

"Confess, mademoiselle, that you are unreasonable," said he, seating himself.

"It is all very well for you to talk," replied she; " you come and go as you like, you breathe the fresh air, your life is full of pleasure. I vegetate in the space to which you have limited me; and your assistance is useless to me if I am to die here."

"Die! " said the count, smiling.

"You behave very badly to me; you forget that I love passionately."

"Monsieur Beausire- "

"Yes, Beausire. I love him, I always told you so. Did you think I had forgotten him- "

"So little did I think so, mademoiselle, that I bring you news of him."

"Ah!"

"He is a charming person, young and handsome, is he not- "

"Full of imagination and fire, rather rough towards me; but that is his way of showing his love."

"Therefore I wished to take you back to him."

"You did not wish that a month ago."

"No, but when I see how you love him."

"Ah! you are laughing at me."

"Oh no, you have resisted all my advances so well."

"Yes; have I not- "

"It was your love for him."

"But yours, then, was not very tenacious."

"No, I am neither old enough nor ugly enough, neither poor enough nor foolish enough, to run the risk of a refusal; and I saw that you would always have preferred Beausire."

"Oh, but," cried the coquette, using her eyes, which had remained idle so long, " this famous compact which you proposed to me, the right of always giving me your arm, of visiting me when you liked,- did that give you no hope- "

Cagliostro did not reply, but turned his eyes as if dazzled by her glances.

"Let us return to Beausire," she said, piqued at his indifference; " why have you not brought him here- it would have been a charity. He is free- "

"Because," replied Cagliostro, " Beausire has too much imagination, and has also embroiled himself with the police."

"What has he done- "

"Oh, a delightful trick, a most ingenious idea. I call it a joke, but matter-of-fact people- and you know how matter-of-fact Monsieur de Crosne can be- call it a theft."

"A theft I" cried Oliva, frightened. " Is he arrested- "

"No, but he is pursued."

"And is he in danger- "

"That I cannot tell you; he is well hunted for, and if you were together, the chances of his being taken would be doubled."

"Oh, yes, he must hide, poor fellow! I will hide too. Let me leave France, monsieur. Pray render me this service; for if I remain shut up here I shall end by committing some imprudence."

"What do you call imprudence."

"Oh, just getting some fresh air."

"I do not want to prevent your getting fresh air; you would lose your beauty, and Monsieur Beausire would love you no longer. Open the windows as much as you like."

"Oh, I see I have offended you; you care no more about me."

"Offended me- how-"

"Because you had taken a fancy to me, and I repulsed you. A man of your consequence, a handsome man like you, has a right to be angry at being rejected by a poor girl like me. But do not abandon me, monsieur, I entreat," and she put her arms round his neck.

"Poor little thing!" said he, kissing her forehead; "do not be afraid; I am not angry or offended. Indeed, were you to offer me your love, I should refuse you, so much do I desire to inspire pure sentiments. Besides, I should think you influenced more by gratitude than love; so we will remain as we are, and I will continue to protect you."

Oliva let his hand fall, humiliated, and duped by the pretended generosity of Cagliostro. " Oh, I shall say henceforth," she cried, " that there are men superior to what I ever thought."

"All women are good," thought Cagliostro, " if you only touch the right chord."

"From this evening," he said aloud, " you shall move to other rooms, where the windows look on Me'nilrnontant and Belleville. You need not fear to show yourself to the neighbours; they are all honest, simple people, who will never suspect you. Only keep a little back from the window, lest any one passing through the street should see you. At least you will have air and sunshine." Oliva looked pleased. " Shall I conduct you there now- "

"Oh, yes."

He took a light, and she followed him up a staircase to the third story, and entered a room completely furnished and ready for occupation.

"One would think it was prepared for me," she said.

"Not for you, but for myself; I like this place, and often come here to sleep. Nothing shall be wanting to make you comfortable, and your femme de chambre shall attend you in a quarter of an hour." And he left the room.

The poor prisoner sat down by her elegant bed, murmuring, " I understand nothing of all this."

CHAPTER LXII. THE LOOKOUT.

Oliva went to bed, but slept little. She admired the count, whom she did not in the least understand. She could no longer think him timid; she did not suspect that he was only cold and insensible. She felt pleased at the perfect safety in which he assured her she was. Toward morning she fell asleep, and woke to find her bedroom bathed in the rosy light of the rising sun, to see the birds flying about on the little balcony at her window, where she could hear their wings softly brushing the rose-leaves and the blossoms of the Spanish jasmines. It was late, very late, when she at last rose. The two or three hours of refreshing sleep had restored her vital powers, and the noises from the street below prevented further slumber. She felt too restless to lie longer inactive and recumbent. Accordingly she hastily arose and began to search every corner of her new apartment. She was surprised at its luxuriousness. Originally, it had been furnished for a man. In it was everything conducive to comfort and enjoyment,- plenty of air and light, which might make a garden of a dungeon, were it possible for sunshine and fresh air to penetrate a prison. With the perfect joy of a child, Oliva ran out upon the balcony, threw herself upon the tiles and glided among the flowers and mosses, like a snake emerging from its nest, delighted at every new discovery. At first, crouched among the flowers so that she might not be seen, she peered between the rails of the balcony and saw the tops of the trees, the roofs of the houses of the Popincourt quarter, and the chimneys, receding in billowy waves, like an immense ocean. Basking in the sunshine, her ear strained to hear the rumble of approaching carriages, rather infrequent in this isolated neighbourhood, she remained quite happy for two hours. She even drank the chocolate her maid brought her, and read the gazette, before she thought of looking into the street. This was a dangerous pleasure. The bloodhounds of Monsieur Crosne, those human dogs who hunt with the nose in the air, might see her. What a fearful awakening from a pleasant slumber!

But she could not sustain her horizontal position any longer, safe as it might be. Nicole raised herself on her elbow. She could see the chateau of Menilmontant, the great trees in the cemetery, myriads of houses of all colours; and she could see the fields beyond, full of children at play, and the peasants trotting along the roads on their donkeys. All this charmed Oliva, who had always a heart of love for the country, since she had left Taverney-Maison-Rouge. At last, getting tired of this distant view, she began to examine the houses opposite to her. In some, she saw birds in cages; and in one, hung with yellow silk curtains, and ornamented with flowers, she thought she could distinguish a figure moving about. She called her femme de chambre to make inquiries about them; but the woman could only show her mistress all the churches, and tell her the names of the streets; she knew nothing of the neighbours. Oliva therefore sent her away again, and determined to watch for herself.

She saw some open their doors, and come out for a walk, and others variously occupied. At last she saw the figure of a woman seat herself in an arm-chair in the room with the yellow curtains, and abandon her head for an hour and a half to a hair-dresser, while he built up one of those immense edifices worn at that time, in which minerals, vegetables, and even animals, were introduced. At last, it was complete. Oliva thought she looked pretty, and admired her little foot, incased in a rose-coloured slipper, which rested on another chair. She began to construct all sorts of romances about this lady, and made various movements to attract her attention, but she never turned her eyes that way, as that room had never before been occupied.

The mansion of Cagliostro, despite the flowers that Nicole had found, and the birds which she had seen flying about, had disclosed its secrets to no one; and, except for the painters who had restored it, no living creature had ever been seen at this window.

One word from us will suffice to explain this phenomenon, contradicted by Cagliostro's pretended residence in the pavilion. During the evening, the count had had this apartment prepared for Oliva, as he would have had it arranged for himself. So minutely had his orders been executed, that he had, so to speak, lied to himself.

The woman, her hair beautifully dressed, remained immersed in thought. Oliva fancied that she too had been disappointed in love, and that her reverie was the result of unhappiness. Mysterious bonds of solitude, of beauty, of ennui, of youth, combined to attract these two souls, whom an irresistible, unconquerable fate had linked together. From the first moment in which Oliva had espied the solitary muser, she had not been able to withdraw her eyes from her. There is, in this attraction of one woman for another a kind of moral purity. Oliva imagined she saw a kindred spirit in this beautiful recluse.,

She fabricated a romance, like her own; fancying, ingenuous girl, that one so pretty and rich could not live isolated in this Rue Saint-Claude without having some hidden sorrow in her heart. When she had created her romantic story, Oliva, like all imaginative people, let herself be borne away by her fancies. She took on wings to fly to meet her companion, whom she wished to see impelled by the same wings as herself. But the lady with the headgear did not move; she seemed to be sleeping in her chair. Two hours had passed, and still she had not stirred an inch. Oliva was in despair. She would not have made to Adonis himself, or to Beausire, a quarter of the advances which she had made to the unknown lady.

Weary of the struggle, and passing from tenderness to hatred, she opened and closed her window a dozen times, frightening the birds in their bower; and she made telegraphic gestures, so pronounced in their meaning that the dullest of Monsieur de Crosne's agents, had he been passing on the boulevard or at the end of the Rue Saint-Claude, would not have failed to have seen them, and to have sought to fathom their significance. At last, Nicole persuaded herself that the lady with the beautiful hair had seen all her gestures, understood all her signs, and had scorned to take any interest in them; that she was either vain or foolish. Foolish! with such fine eyes, such expressive hands and feet, impossible! Vain perhaps, vain and haughty, as a woman of rank at that epoch might be toward a woman of the people. Oliva, discerning on her features all the characteristics of aristocracy, finally concluded that she was proud and impassive. She gave up all attempts to interest her. Turning, she looked at the sun, now vanishing in the west. She betook herself to the companionship of her flowers; her flowers, as noble, as elegant, as powdered, as coquettish, as the greatest ladies; but, unlike them, willing to be touched, to exhale their sweetness, and to receive the caresses of lover or friend with corresponding warmth.

Nicole had not the faintest conception that this woman, whom she imagined so haughty, was Jeanne de Valois, Countess de la Motte, who, ever since the evening before, had been occupied with one thought alone; that she was devising plans to prevent Marie Antoinette and the Cardinal de Rohan from meeting; that, most important of all, she was contriving to so arrange matters that, while the cardinal no longer saw the queen in private life, he might firmly believe that he did see her, and might be satisfied with this vision, and cease to require the reality. These serious plans were quite a sufficient reason to account for the preoccupation of the young woman, and to keep her from stirring for two mortal hours. Had Nicole known all this, she would not have retreated so angrily to her flowers, and consequently, turning suddenly around, would not have knocked over a flower-pot which fell from the balcony with a crash. At the sound the lady turned and saw her, and, clasping her hands, she called out, " The queen!" but, looking again, she murmured, "Oh! I sought for a means to gain my end, and I have found one."

Then, hearing a sound behind her, Oliva turned and saw Cagliostro, and came in directly.

"They have seen each other," the count muttered to himself.

CHAPTER LXIII. THE TWO NEIGHBOURS.

From the very moment when the two women perceived each other, Oliva, already fascinated by her neighbour's beauty, no longer pretended to disdain her; and, turning carefully around among the flowers, she returned the smiles that were sent to her.

Cagliostro recommended her using the greatest circumspection, and, above all, not to make friends with her neighbours; but she did not feel disposed to relinquish the intercourse which she hoped for with her fair neighbour opposite. She however promised to obey him; but he was no sooner gone than she returned to her balcony, hoping to attract her attention again. Nor was she disappointed, for Jeanne, who was watching for her, acknowledged her with a bow and by kissing her hand. This went on for two days. Jeanne was ever ready to wave her a good morning, or an adieu when she went out.

She seemed to have concentrated all her powers of pleasing upon Oliva. Such a state of affairs could not continue without being followed by an attempt at a more intimate intercourse. And this is what happened.

Cagliostro, at his next visit, informed Oliva that an unknown person had paid a visit to her hotel.

"What do you mean- " cried Oliva.

"A very pretty and elegant lady presented herself here, and asked the servant who inhabited this story, and wished to see you. I fear you are discovered; you must take care. The police have female spies as well as male, and I warn you that, if Monsieur de Crosne claims you, I cannot refuse to give you up."

Oliva was not at all frightened; she recognised the portrait of her opposite neighbour, and felt delighted at this advance, but she dissembled with the count, and said, " Oh! I am not at all frightened; 110 one has seen me; she could not have meant me."

"But she said a lady in these rooms."

"Well, I will be more careful than ever, and, besides, this house is so impenetrable."

"Yes, without climbing the wall, which is not easy, or opening the little door with a key like mine, which I never lend, no one can come in, so I think you are safe."

Oliva overwhelmed the count with thanks and protestations, but at six o'clock the next morning she was out on the balcony. She had not long to wait before Jeanne appeared, who, after looking cautiously up and down the street, and observing that all the doors and windows were still closed, and that everything was quiet, called across, " I wish to pay you a visit, madame."

"Hush! " said Oliva, starting back in terror, and placing her finger on her lips.

Jeanne, in her turn, drew back behind the draperies; fearing she had committed some indiscretion. Almost immediately, reassured by a smile from Nicole, she emerged from the folds of the curtain. " Is it impossible to see you- " she said.

"Alas, yes!" said Oliva.

"Can I send a letter- "

"Oh, no! "

Jeanne reflected for a few moments.

Oliva, as if to thank her for her loving care, threw her a charming kiss, which she returned; after which, closing the window, she went out

Oliva said to herself that her friend must have thought of some new expedient, as her last look seemed to express determination.

In fact, Jeanne returned in about two hours; the sun was at its height, and the pavement of the little street, seemed to burn like the sands of a desert.

Oliva saw her neighbour appear at her window with a bow and arrow. Jeanne, laughing, motioned to Oliva to get out of the way. The latter, laughing in her turn, obeyed, and sought refuge behind her window blind.

Jeanne, taking careful aim, shot a little lead ball from her bow; but, unfortunately, instead of clearing the balcony, it hit one of the iron bars, and fell into the street.

Oliva uttered a cry of disappointment. Jeanne after shrugging her shoulders in vexation, looked down into the street to discover her projectile, and then disappeared for a few moments.

Oliva, leaning out, looked down from the balcony. A rag-picker was going by, and looking right and left along the street. Did he see the leaden ball in the gutter- Oliva could not discover; she drew back for fear of being seen herself.

Jeanne's second effort was more successful. Her bow sent faithfully across the balcony into Nicole's chamber a second ball.

She picked it up, and found wrapped round it the following note:-

"Yon interest me, beautiful lady. I find you charming, and love you only by having seen you. Are you a prisoner- I vainly tried to obtain admission to you. Does the enchanter who guards you never let any one approach you- Will you be my friend f If you cannot go out, you can at least write, and as I go out when I please, wait till you see me pass, and then throw out your answer. Tie a thread to your balcony, and attach your note to it; I will take it off and fasten mine on, and in the dark no one will observe us. If your eyes have not deceived me, I count on a return of my affection and esteem, and between us we will outwit any one.

"Your Friend.

"P. S. Did you see any one pick up my first note-"

Oliva trembled with joy when she read this note. She replied as follows:

"I love you as you love me. I am a victim of the wickedness and cruelty of men; but he who keeps me here is a protector and not a tyrant; he comes to see me nearly every day. I will explain all this some day; but, alas! I cannot go out; I am locked up. Oh! if I could but see you! there is so much we cannot write.

"Your first note was not picked up by any one, unless by a rag picker, who was passing by; but, as people of his occupation cannot read, to him it will only be a ball of lead.

"Your friend,

"Oliva Legay."

Then, when evening came, she let the thread fall over the balcony. Jeanne, who was below, caught it, and half an hour afterwards attached to it the following answer:-

"You seem generally alone. How is your house secured- with a key- Who has this key- Could you not borrow or steal it- It would be no harm, but would procure you a few hours of liberty, or a few walks with a friend, who would console you for all your misfortune. We will plan, then, for your entire freedom. We will discuss this subject in all its details when we meet."

Oliva devoured this eagerly. She had remarked that when the count came in he put down his lantern and the key on a chiffonier; so she prepared some wax to take the impression of the key at his first visit. This she accomplished without his once turning to look at her, and as soon as he was gone, she put it into a little box, and lowered it to Jeanne, with a note.

The next day she received the following answer:-

"My Dearest,- To-night, at eleven o'clock, you will descend and unlock the door, when you will find yourself in the arms of your faithful friend."

Oliva felt more charmed than with the most tender love letter that she had ever received. At the appointed time she went down and met Jeanne, who embraced her tenderly, and made her get into a carriage that waited a little way off; they remained out two hours, and parted with kisses and protestations of affection. Jeanne learned the name of Oliva's protector; she feared this man, and determined to preserve the most perfect mystery as to her plans. Oliva had confided everything to her about Beausire, the police, and all. Jeanne gave herself out for a young lady of rank, living here secretly, without the knowledge of her friends. One knew all, the other nothing. From this day, then, it was no longer necessary to throw out notes; Jeanne had her key, and carried off Oliva whenever she pleased. Oliva could come down to her at will. A little supper, a secret promenade, were always sufficient inducements for Oliva.

"Monsieur de Cagliostro suspects nothing-" Jeanne often asked Oliva.

"Oh, no!" she would reply; "I do not think he would believe it if I told him."

A week passed thus, and Jeanne's name was oftener heard on Oliva's lips than either Gilbert's or Beausire's had ever been.

CHAPTER LXIV. THE RENDEZVOUS.

When Charny arrived at his estates, the doctor ordered him to keep within doors, and not receive visitors, orders which he rigorously obeyed, to the great disappointment of all the young ladies in the neighbourhood, who were most anxious to see this young man, reputed to be at once so brave and so handsome. His malady, however, was more mental than bodily; he was devoured by regrets, by longings, and by ennui. Love, after all, is but a flight of the imagination. The absent one laments an ideal paradise, instead of a real country. And yet it must be acknowledged by the most poetic soul, that a woman truly loved is a rather more material paradise than that of the angels. At the end of three days he resolved to endure it no longer. Furious at finding all his dreams dispelled by impossibility, annihilated by distance, he caused the doctor's decree to be circulated throughout the neighbourhood, that no intruders might discover his flight. Then, confiding the care of the door to a faithful servant, Olivier started out that very night upon a gentle, but fleet horse. Within eight hours he had reached Versailles, and installed himself in a little house behind the park, which his valet had procured for him.

This house, deserted since the tragic death of one of the wolf-hunting train, who had cut his throat there, suited Charny perfectly; he was as safely hidden there as he would have been in his own manor-house.

It was suitably furnished; had two doors, one opening upon an isolated street, the other upon one of the drives around the park; and from the windows on the south Charny might leap out into an avenue of elms. The windows, when their blinds covered with ivy and with vines were opened, were practically doors, only slightly elevated above the ground, so that one could easily gain the park through them.

This close proximity to the park was accorded only to the inspectors of the chase, that they might easily guard the pheasants and deer of his Majesty.

There was nothing to be seen from these windows, framed in their luxuriant verdure; and on an autumn evening one might fancy one saw through them the old gamekeeper who had cut his throat, while the roes were leaping lightly over the dry leaves, enjoying the last rays of the setting sun.

This solitude was very pleasing to Charny. Was it because of his love for the country- We shall soon see.

Once installed in this retreat, when his valet had satisfied the respectful curiosity of the people in the neighbourhood, Charny, forgotten as he himself forgot, entered upon an existence the very idea of which would make any one who has ever loved or even heard of love tremble.

In less than a fortnight he was familiar with the habits of all the people in the palace, and those of the guard. He knew the hours when the birds came to drink at the marshes, when the timid deer ran by affrighted; he knew the time when all was silent, when the queen and her ladies walked out, arid when the guards made the rounds. In a word, although apart from them, he partook of the life of those who inhabited that Trianon, the temple of his mad adoration.

As the weather was fine, and the mild, fragrant air of the evenings afforded more freedom for his observations and a better opportunity for reverie, he was in the habit of passing a part of them among the jasmines by his windows, hearing the distant sounds in the palace, and watching the lights between the leafy branches of the trees, as they moved about from room to room, until all its inmates had retired.

Soon he was not content to sit by the window; the sounds and the lights were too far away. He leaped out upon the grass under the window, sure of meeting no one, either dogs or guard, at that hour. He granted himself the delicious, perilous pleasure of going to the very edge of the thicket, to the point which separated the thick shadows from the clear moonlight, noting from that position the outlines, dark and light, delineated on the white curtains of the queen's apartment. In this way, without her knowledge, he saw her every day.

He could recognise her a quarter of a league away, as she walked with her ladies or with some gentleman of her acquaintance. He often saw her, thus accompanied, toying with the Chinese parasol which she held over her large hat, bright with flowers.

He never mistook another's step or bearing for that of the queen. He knew by memory all her gowns, and could discern, in the midst of the leaves, the green dress with bands of black moiré, which hung in graceful folds and undulated as she moved in a charming manner. And when the vision had vanished, when the shades of night had driven in those who had been walking, he would venture as far as the statues of the peristyle, until he had seen the last movements of that loved shadow. Then Charny would return to his window, would watch, through an opening which he had contrived to make in the hedge, the lights in the windows of the queen's apartment; then, when the lights had gone out, he would indulge in the pleasures of memory and of hope, being free from the more active duties of watching and of admiring.

One evening he had watched all this as usual, and, after sitting two hours longer at his window, was preparing to go to bed, for midnight was striking from a neighbouring clock, when the sound of a key turning in a lock arrested his attention. It was that of a little door leading into the park, only twenty-five paces from his cottage, and which was never used, except sometimes on hunting days. Whoever it was that entered did not speak, but closed it again quietly, and entered an avenue under his windows. At first Charny could not distinguish them through the thick wood, though he could hear the rustling of dresses; but as they emerged into an open space and bright moonlight, he almost uttered a cry of joy in recognising the tournure of Marie Antoinette, and a glimpse of her face. She held in her hand a beautiful rose. Stifling his emotion, he stepped down as quietly as possible into the park, and hid behind a clump of trees, where he could see her better. " Oh!" thought he, " were she but alone, I would brave tortures, or death itself, that I might once fall on my knees before her, and tell her, ' I love you!' " Oh, were she but menaced by some danger, how gladly would he have risked his life to save her. Suddenly the two ladies stopped, and the shortest, after saying a few words to her companion in a low voice, left her. The queen therefore remained alone, and Charny felt inclined to run towards her; but he reflected that the moment she saw him she would take fright, and call out, and that her cries would first bring back her companion, and then the guards; that his retreat would be discovered, and he should be forced to leave it. In a few minutes the other lady reappeared, but not alone. Behind her came a man muffled up in a large cloak, and whose face was concealed by a slouch hat. This man advanced with an uncertain and hesitating step to where the queen stood, when he took off his hat and made a low bow. The surprise which Charny felt at first soon changed into a more painful feeling. Why was the queen in the park at this time of night- Who was this man who was waiting for her, and whom she had sent her companion to fetch- Then he remembered that the queen often occupied herself with foreign politics, much to the annoyance of the king. Was this a secret messenger from Schoenbrunn, or from Berlin- This idea restored him to some degree of composure. The queen's companion stood a few steps off, anxiously watching lest they should be seen; but it was as necessary to guard against spies in a secret political rendezvous as in one of love. At that moment he thought he saw something light-coloured fall down the queen's mantle. The gentleman quickly stooped to the ground, then arose with a respectful movement, and fled, no other word can express the rapidity of his departure. But he was arrested in his course by the queen's companion, who called him back with a little cry; and when he had returned said to him, in a low voice, "Wait!" He stopped, and the two ladies passed close to Charny, who could even recognise the queen's favourite scent, vervain, mixed with mignonette. They passed on, and disappeared. A few moments after the gentleman passed; he held in his hand a rose, which he pressed passionately to his lips. Did this look political- Charny's head turned; he felt a strong impulse to rush on this man and tear the flower from him, when the queen's companion reappeared, and said, "Come, monseigneur." He joined her quickly, and they went away. Charny remained in a distracted state, leaning against the tree.

The unknown hastened to the spot whence the cry had issued, and disappeared with the lady.

CHAPTER LXV. THE QUEEN'S MAN.

When Charny re-entered the house, he felt overwhelmed by what he had seen, that he should have discovered this retreat, which he had thought so precious, only to be the witness of a crime committed by the Queen against her conjugal duty and royal dignity. This man must be a lover. in vain did he try to persuade himself that the rose was the pledge of some political compact, given instead of a letter, which might have been too compromising. Olivier asked himself how he could have been present at such a dangerous meeting, and still have remained passive. A little reflection, however, convinced him that his conduct was but the result of instinct, and quite the logical out come of the situation.

In the great crises of life, action springs involuntarily from the depth of the heart; and impulse, which is but the expression of a well-regulated character, acting hastily, in a moment of excitement, had controlled him, and had imposed the same conditions upon him that more mature deliberation would have counselled.

Charny had refrained from action because the queen's affairs did not concern him. Had he exhibited any curiosity, he would have revealed his love; had he compromised the queen, he would have betrayed himself, and would have shown himself guilty of the same treachery of which he would have accused the queen's companion.

He had remained passive, because in accosting a man honoured by the royal confidence, he would have run the risk of engaging in an offensive quarrel of so inopportune a nature that the queen would probably never have pardoned him.

In short, the word "Monseigneur," which the lady with the queen had spoken, had been a salutary warning; a little late, perhaps, but it had saved Charny by opening his eyes just as his rage was strongest. What would have happened if, just as he had been attacking him, sword in hand, he had heard him called " Monseigneur"-

These thoughts haunted him all night and all the next day, through which he waited with a feverish impatience, fearing the new revelations which the night might bring forth. He saw her taking her ordinary walk with her ladies, then watched the lights extinguished, one by one, and he waited nervously for the stroke of midnight, the hour of the rendezvous of the preceding night. It struck, and no one had appeared. He then wondered how he could have expected it; she surely would not repeat the same imprudence the night following. But as these thoughts passed through his mind he heard the key turn again, and saw the door open. Charny grew deadly pale when he recognised the same two figures enter the park. "Oh, it is too much," he said to himself, and then repeated his movements of the night before, swearing that, whatever happened, he would restrain himself, and remember that she was his queen. All passed exactly as the night before: the confidante left and returned with the same man. "Where had he been hiding-" Charny asked himself. The pavilion, commonly called Apollo's Baths, was in the direction in which the queen's attendant had gone; it was surrounded by a high hedge, and shadowed by marble columns; but how could the stranger have reached this hiding-place- By what entrance- Charny suddenly remembered that there was a small door on this side of the park, similar to that by which the ladies had entered. Undoubtedly, the unknown had the key of this door; he could reach, by that means, the shelter of Apollo's Baths, and wait there until he was sought.

It must all have been planned in this way; then, by the same door, " Monseigneur" might escape after his interview with the queen. This time, instead of advancing with his former timid respect, he almost ran up to the queen, and kneeled down before her. Charny could not hear what he said, but he seemed to speak with passionate energy. She did not reply, but stood in a pensive attitude; then he spoke again, and at last she said a few words in a low voice, when the unknown cried out, in a loud voice, so that Charny could hear, "Oh thanks, your Majesty! till to-morrow, then." The queen drew her hood still more over her face, and held out both her hands to the unknown, who imprinted on them a kiss so long and tender that Charny gnashed his teeth with rage. The queen then took the arm of her companion and walked quickly away; the unknown passed also. Charny remained in a state of fury not to be described; he ran about the park like a madman, and hardly knew what he was about, until a fall, caused by stumbling over his sword, which he had thrown down previously that he might not be tempted to use it, recalled his scattered wits. He recovered his dignity and composure; he left off his foolish wanderings among the trees, against which he had blindly run in his fury, and from which he had received various bruises, and he walked silently and sternly along the avenue, still marked by the footsteps of the two ladies and the unknown. At last he began to wonder where this man came from; he traced his steps to the door behind the Baths of Apollo. "He comes not from Versailles, but from Paris," thought Charny; "and to-morrow he will return, for he said, ' To-morrow.' Till then let me devour my tears in silence, but to-morrow we will be four at the rendezvous." Having made this resolution, he threw a final glance around. He turned his eyes away from the chateau, fearing to see a light in the window of the perfidious queen; for this light would have been the final touch added to a long course of deception. Should the window be illumined, it would indicate that the queen was in her room. But why should she lie thus, when she did not hesitate to pursue a course of dishonour and shamelessness,- when there was so little distance between hidden shame and public scandal- The queen's window was lighted. "Truly," said Charny, "this is chastity gone to waste. This pretence of being in her room, when she is traversing the park with her lover." His words were full of bitter irony, as he resumed to himself: " She is too good, this queen, who dissimulates thus with us. Perhaps, indeed, she fears only her husband's vexation." Charny dug his nails into his flesh, as he strode back to his house, overwhelmed with anger.

CHAPTER LXVI. WOMAN AND QUEEN.

The next night the door opened at the same time, and the two ladies appeared. Charny had taken his resolution,- he would find out who this lover was; but when he entered the avenue he could see no one,- they had entered the Baths of Apollo. He walked towards the door, and saw the confidante, who waited outside. The queen, then, was in there alone with her lover; it was too much. Charny was about to seize this woman, and force her to tell him everything; but the rage and emotion he had endured were too much for him,- a mist passed over his eyes, internal bleeding commenced, and he fainted. When he came to himself again the clock was striking two, the place was deserted, and there was no trace of what had passed there. The fearful vision had vanished; no sound could be heard. Queen, lover, and companion had all bad time to escape. Charny was convinced of this fact, as he perceived the prints of a horse's hoofs on the other side of the wall. These tracks and the branches of the hedge near the Baths of Apollo, which had evidently been recently broken, confirmed his conviction. He went home, and passed a night almost of delirium. The next morning he arose, pale as death, and went towards the chateau of Trianon just as the queen was leaving the chapel. All heads were respectfully lowered as she passed. She was looking beautiful, and when she saw Charny she coloured, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"I thought you were in the country, Monsieur de Charny," she said.

"I have returned, madame," said he, in a brusque and almost rude tone.

She looked at him in surprise. Charny did not bow; he looked steadfastly at the queen without speaking. She approached him, and, reading in his strange manner a new attack of madness, said sternly, "I thought that you were at your estate in the country, monsieur."

"I have returned," he replied abruptly, and almost rudely.

She, who never missed the slightest indication of annoyance, watched him in amazement. After this exchange of hostile remarks, she turned to her ladies in waiting.

"Good-morning, countess," said she, kindly, to Madame de la Motte, at the same time smiling pleasantly as she caught her eye.

Charny trembled and looked at her attentively. Jeanne, uneasy under his scrutiny, turned away. Charny looked wildly at her, hoping to catch another sight of her face. Then he observed carefully her manner of walking.

The queen, bowing to all around her, curiously noted the conduct of these two people. "Poor fellow," she thought, "can he have lost his mind-" Then, turning to him again, "How are you now, Monsieur de Charny-" said she, in a kind voice.

"Very well, madame, but, thank God! not so well as your Majesty." And he bowed in such a way that the queen felt more fear than surprise.

"There is something behind all this," thought Jeanne, who was listening.

She looked surprised again; then said,

"Where are you living-"

"At Versailles, madame."

"Since when-"

"For three nights," replied he, in a marked manner.

The queen manifested no emotion, but Jeanne trembled..

"Have you not something to say to me-" asked the queen again, with kindness.

"Oh, madame, I should have too much to say to your Majesty."

"Come," said she, and she walked towards her apartments; but to avoid the appearance of a tete-a-tete, she invited several ladies to follow her. Jeanne, unquiet, placed herself among them; but when they arrived, she dismissed Madame de Misery, and the other ladies, understanding that she wished to be alone, left her. Charny stood before her.

The weather was mild, the air balmy, and, the sun being clouded, a soft light streamed into the open window at which the queen was sitting. A small balcony led from it. The queen had a pile of papers on the desk in front of her. One by one the ladies in waiting, perceiving that the queen desired to be alone, retired. Charny, impatient, filled with suppressed wrath, stood crushing his hat in his hands.

"Speak," said the queen; "you appear troubled, monsieur."

"How can I begin-" said Charny, thinking aloud; "how can I dare to accuse honour and majesty-"

"Monsieur!" cried Marie Antoinette, with a flaming look.

"And yet I should only say what I have seen."

The queen rose. "Monsieur," said she, "it is very early in the morning for me to think you intoxicated, but I can find no other solution for this conduct."

Charny, unmoved, continued, "After all, what is a queen- a woman. And am I not a man as well as a subject- "

"Monsieur!"

"Madame, anger is out of place now. I believe I have formerly proved that I had respect for your royal dignity; I fear I proved that I had an insane love for yourself. Choose, therefore, to whom I shall speak. Is it to the queen or the woman that I shall address my accusation of dishonour and shame- "

"Monsieur de Charny," cried the queen, growing pale, " if you do not leave this room, I must have you turned out by my guards! "

"But I will tell you first," cried he passionately, " why I call you an unworthy queen and woman! I have been in the park these three nights!"

Instead of seeing her tremble, as he believed she would on hearing these words, the queen rose, and, approaching him, said, " Monsieur de Charny, your state excites my pity. Your hands tremble, you grow pale; you are suffering. Shall I call for help- "

"I saw you," he cried again; "saw you with that man to whom you gave the rose; saw you when he kissed your hands; saw you when you entered the Baths of Apollo with him."

The queen passed her hands over her eyes, as if to make sure that she was not dreaming.

"Sit down," said she, "or you will fall."

Charny, indeed, unable to keep up, fell upon the sofa.

She sat down by him. "Be calm," said she, "and repeat what you have just said."

"Do you want to kill me- " he murmured.

"Then let me question," she said. " How long have you returned from the country- "

"A fortnight."

"Where do you live- "

"In the huntsman's house, which I have hired."

"At the end of the park- "

"Yes."

"You speak of some one whom you saw with me."

"Yes."

"Where-"

"In the park."

"When-"

"At midnight. Tuesday, for the first time, I saw you and your companion."

"Oh, I had a companion! Do you know her also- "

"I thought just now I recognised her, but I could not be positive, because it was only the figure. She always hid her face, like all who commit crimes."

"Well," said the queen, quietly, " you are not sure of my companion, then; but me- "

"Oh, certainly, madame, I saw you. Wait, do I not see you now- "

She beat the floor with her foot, in her anxiety.

"And this person to whom you say I gave a rose- "

"I have never been able to meet him."

"You do not know him, then- "

"Only that he is called Monseigneur."

The queen stamped her foot.

"Go on! " said she. " Tuesday I gave him a rose- "

"Wednesday you gave him your hands to kiss, and yesterday you went alone with him into the Baths of Apollo and stayed an hour and a half, while your companion waited outside."

"And you saw me- " said she, rising.

He lifted his hands to Heaven, and cried, " I swear it!"

"Oh, he swears!"

"Yes. On Tuesday you wore your green dress, moiré with gold; Wednesday, the dress with great blue and brown leaves; and yesterday, the same dress that you wore when I last kissed your hand. Oh, madame, I am ready to die with grief and shame while I repeat that, on my life, my honour, it was really you! "

The queen walked back and forth on the balcony, taking no pains to conceal her agitation from the people below, who were watching her with curiosity.

"What can I say-" cried the queen. "If I swore, he would not believe me."

Charny shook his head.

"Madman! " cried she, " thus to accuse your queen,- to dishonour thus an innocent woman! Do you believe me when I swear, by all I hold sacred, that I was not in the park on either of those days after four o'clock- Do you wish it to be proved by my women,- by the king- No; he does not believe me."

"I saw you," replied he.

"Oh, I know! " she cried. " Did they not see me at the ball at the Opera, at Mesmer's, scandalising the crowd- You know it,- you who fought for me! "

"Madame, then I fought because I did not believe it; now I might fight, but I believe."

The queen raised her arms to Heaven, while burning tears rolled down her cheeks.

"My God! " she cried, " send me some thought which will save me! I do not wish this man to despise me."

Charny, moved to the heart, hid his face in his hands.

Then, after a moment's silence, the queen continued:-

"Monsieur, you owe me reparation. I exact this from you. You say you have seen me three nights with a man; I have been already injured through the resemblance to me of some woman, I know not whom, but who is like her unhappy queen; but you are pleased to think it was me. Well, I will go with you into the park; and if she appears again, you will be satisfied- Perhaps we shall see her together; then, monsieur, you will regret the suffering you have caused me."

Charny pressed his hands to his heart:-

"Oh, madame, you overwhelm me with your kindness! "

"I wish to overwhelm you with proofs. Not a word to any one, but this evening, at ten o'clock, wait alone at the door of the park. Now go, monsieur."

Charny kneeled, and went away without a word.

Jeanne, who was waiting in the antechamber, examined him attentively as he came out. She was soon after summoned to the queen.

CHAPTER LXVII. WOMAN AND DEMON.

Jeanne had remarked the trouble of Charny, the solicitude of the queen, and the eagerness of both for a conversation. To a woman of her insight, this was quite enough to arouse her suspicions.

After what we have already told of the meetings between Jeanne and Oliva, our readers will have been at no loss to understand the scenes in the park. Jeanne, when she came in to the queen, watched her closely, hoping to gather something from her; but Marie Antoinette was beginning to learn caution, and she guarded herself carefully. Jeanne was therefore reduced to conjectures. She had already ordered one of her footmen to follow Monsieur de Charny; the man reported that he had gone into a house at the end of the park.

"There is, then, no more doubt," thought Jeanne; " it is a lover who has seen everything."

She heard the queen say to Madame de Misery,-

"I do not feel well, my dear Misery; and I shall retire this evening at eight o'clock."

As the lady of honour questioned her, the queen added, " I shall receive no one."

"It is clear enough," said Jeanne; " I should be a fool not to understand it."

The queen, a prey to the emotions aroused by the scene between herself and Charny through which she had just passed, dismissed all her court. Jeanne, for the first time since she had been admitted to court, was glad to be dismissed.

"The cards are becoming mixed," said she to herself, " I must straighten them out. I must undo what I have done, and must start at once for Paris."

On leaving Versailles, she drove to the Rue St. Claude; there she found a superb present of plate, sent to her by the cardinal. After glancing carelessly at it, although its value entitled it to greater attention, she peeped from behind the curtain, but perceived that Oliva's windows were not yet opened, and concluded that she was fatigued, and still sleeping. It was a very warm day. She then drove to the cardinal's house, and found him radiant with joy and pride. Seated before a beautiful desk, one of Boule's productions, he was alternately destroying and rewriting a letter, which he seemed unable to finish to his satisfaction. On her entrance he ran to meet her, calling her " Dear countess," and full of protestations and gratitude.

"Thank you also for your charming present. Do you realise, monseigneur, that you are a delicate lover- " said she.

"Why- "

"Not because of the charming gift you sent me this morning, but because of the precaution you took of not sending it to the pleasure-house. It was very thoughtful of you. Your heart does not prostitute itself; it gives itself, rather."

"With whom should one act with delicacy if not with you- " replied the cardinal.

"You are not merely a fortunate man," said Jeanne; " you are a triumphant god."

"I confess it and my happiness frightens me, it troubles me; it makes me odious in the sight of other men. My good fortune recalls to my mind the painful fable of Jupiter, weary of his own light."

Jeanne smiled.

"You come from Versailles- " continued he.

"Yes."

"You have seen her- "

"I have just left her."

"And she said nothing- "

"What do you expect that she said- "

"Oh, I am insatiable!"

"Well, you had better not ask."

"You frighten me. Is anything wrong- Have I come to the height of my happiness, and is the descent to begin-"

"You are very fortunate not to have been discovered."

"Oh! with precautions, and the intelligence of two hearts and one mind- "

"That will not prevent eyes seeing through the trees."

"We have been seen- "

"I fear so."

"And recognised- "

"Oh, monseigneur, if you had been,- if this secret had been known to any one, Jeanne de Valois would be out of the kingdom, and you would be dead."

"True; but tell me quickly. They have seen people walking in the park; is there any harm in that- "

"Ask the king."

"The king knows- "

"I repeat to you, if the king knew, you would be in the Bastille, I in the Hospital. But as one misfortune averted is worth two fortunate events, I advise you not to tempt Providence again."

"What do you mean, dear countess- "

"Do you not understand- "

"I fear to understand," he replied.

"I shall fear, if you do not promise to go no more to Versailles."

"By day-"

"Or by night."

"Impossible!"

"Why so, monseigneur."

"Because I have in my heart a love which will end only with my life."

"So I perceive," replied she, ironically; "and it is to arrive more quickly at this result that you persist in returning to the park; for most assuredly, if you do, your love and your life will end together."

"Oh, countess, how fearful you are,- you who were so brave yesterday!"

"I am always brave when there is no danger."

"But I have the bravery of my race, and am happier in the presence of danger."

"But permit me to tell you- "

"No, countess, the die is cast. Death if it comes, but first love! I shall return to Versailles."

"Alone, then."

"You abandon me-"

"And not I alone."

"She will come-"

"You deceive yourself; she will not come."

"Is that what you were sent to tell me-"

"It is what I have been preparing you for."

"She will see me no more-"

"Never; and it is I who have counselled it."

"Madame, do not plunge the knife into my heart!" cried he, in a doleful voice.

"It would be much more cruel, monseigneur, to let two foolish people destroy themselves for want of a little good advice."

"Countess, I would rather die."

"As regards yourself, that is easy; but, subject, you dare not dethrone your queen; man, you will not destroy a woman."

"But confess that you do not come in her name, that she does not throw me off."

"I speak in her name."

"It is only a delay she asks- "

"Take it as you wish; but obey her orders."

"The park is not the only place of meeting. There are a thousand safer spots; the queen can come to you, for instance."

"Monseigneur, not a word more. The weight of your secret is too much for me, and I believe her capable, in a fit of remorse, of confessing all to the king."

"Good God! impossible!"

"If you saw her, you would pity her."

"What can I do, then- "

"Insure your safety by your silence."

"But she will think I have forgotten her, and accuse me of being a coward."

"To save her."

"Can a woman forgive him who abandons her- "

"Do not judge her like others."

"I believe her great and strong; I love her for her courage and her noble heart. She may count on me, as I do on her. Once more I will see her, lay bare my heart to her; and whatever she then commands I will sacredly obey."

Jeanne rose. "Go, then," said she, "but go alone. I have thrown the key of the park into the river. You can go to Versailles,- I shall go to Switzerland or Holland. The farther off I am when the shell bursts, the better."

"Countess, you abandon me. With whom shall I talk of her-"

"Oh, you have the park and the echoes. You can teach them the name of your Amaryllis!"

"Countess, pity me; I am in despair."

"Well, but do not act in so childish and dangerous a manner. If you love her so much, guard her name; and if you are not totally without gratitude, do not involve in your own ruin those who have served you through friendship. Swear to me not to attempt to see or speak to her for a fortnight, and I will remain, and may yet be of service to you. But if you decide to brave all, I shall leave at once, and you must extricate yourself as you can."

"It is dreadful," murmured the cardinal; "the fall from so much happiness is overwhelming. I shall die of it."

"Suffering is always the consequence of love. Come, monseigneur, decide. Am I to remain here, or start for Lausanne-"

"Remain, countess; but find me a soothing balm."

"You swear to obey me-"

"On the faith of a Rohan."

"Good. Well, then, your soothing balm is found. I forbid interviews, but not letters."

"Really! I may write-"

"Yes."

"And she will answer- "

"I will endeavour to persuade her."

The cardinal kissed Jeanne's hand again, and called her his guardian angel. The demon within her must have laughed.

CHAPTER LXVIII. THE NIGHT.

That day, at four o'clock, a man on horseback stopped in the outskirts of the park, just behind the Baths of Apollo, where Monsieur de Rohan used to wait. The cavalier was riding slowly along, thoughtful as Hippolytus, and as handsome; his loosely held reins hung carelessly over the neck of his horse. He got off, and looked at the places where the grass had been trodden down. " Here are the traces," thought he; "it is as I supposed. Monsieur de Charny has returned for a fortnight, and this is where he enters the park." And he sighed. "Leave him to his happiness. God gives to one, and denies to another. But I will have proof to-night; I will hide in the bushes, and see what happens."

As for Charny, obedient to the queen's commands, he waited for orders; but it was half-past ten, and no one appeared. He waited with impatient anxiety. Then he began to think she had deceived him, and had promised what she did not mean to perform. "How could I be so foolish- I, who saw her- as to be taken in by her words and promises-" At last he saw a figure approaching, wrapped in a large black mantle, and he uttered a cry of joy, for he recognised the queen. He ran to her, and fell at her feet.

"Ah, here you are, monsieur! It is well."

"Ah, madame, I scarcely hoped you were coming."

"Have you your sword-"

"Yes, madame."

"Where do you say those people came in- "

"By this door."

"At what time-"

"At midnight each time."

"There is no reason why they should not come again to-night. You have not spoken to any one."

"To no one."

"Come into the thick wood, and let us watch. I have not spoken of this to Monsieur de Crosne. I have already mentioned this creature to him, and if she be not arrested, he is either incapable, or in league with my enemies. It seems incredible that any one should dare to play such tricks under my eyes, unless they were sure of impunity. Therefore I think it is time to take the care of my reputation on myself. What do you think- "

"Oh, madame, allow me to be silent! I am ashamed of all I have said."

"At least you are an honest man," replied the queen, " and speak to the accused face to face. You do not stab in the dark."

"Oh, madame, it is eleven o'clock. I tremble."

"Look about, that no one is here."

Charny obeyed.

"No one," said he.

"Where did the scenes pass that you have described-"

"Oh, madame, I had a shock when I returned to you; for she stood just where you are at this moment."

"Here-" cried the queen, leaving the place with disgust.

"Yes, madame; under the chestnut-tree."

"Then, monsieur, let us move, for they will most likely come here again."

He followed the queen to a different place. She, silent and proud, waited for the proof of her innocence to appear. Midnight struck; the door did not open. Half an hour passed, during which the queen asked ten times if they had always been punctual.

Three-quarters struck,- the queen stamped with impatience. "They will not come," she cried; "these misfortunes only happen to me;" and she looked at Charny, ready to quarrel with him, if she saw any expression of triumph or irony. But he, as his suspicions began to return, grew so pale and looked so melancholy that he was like the figure of a martyr.

At last she took his arm, and led him under the chestnut- tree. "You say," she murmured, "that it was here you saw her-"

"Yes, madame."

"Here that she gave the rose-" And the queen, fatigued and wearied with waiting and disappointment, leaned against the tree, and covered her face with her hands; but Charny could see the tears stealing through. At last she raised her head.

"Monsieur," said she, "I am condemned. I promised to prove to you to-day that I was calumniated; God does not permit it, and I submit. I have done what no other woman, not to say queen, would have done. What a queen! who cannot reign over one heart, who cannot obtain the esteem of one honest man. Come, monsieur, give me your arm, if you do not despise me too much."

"Oh, madame!" cried he, falling at her feet, " if I were only an unhappy man who loves you, could you not pardon me-"

"You!" cried she, with a bitter laugh, "you love me! and believe me infamous!"

"Oh, madame!"

"You accuse me of giving roses, kisses, and love. No, monsieur, no falsehoods! you do not love me."

"Madame, I saw these phantoms. Pity me, for I am on the rack."

She took his hands. " Yes, you saw, and you think it was I. Well, if here under this same tree, you at my feet, I press your hands, and say to you, ' Monsieur de Charny I love you, I have loved, and shall love no one else in this world, may God pardon me!'- will that convince you-

Car of Appolfa- Gardens of Versailles.

Photo-Etching.- From Engraving by E. Sadoux.

Will you believe me then-" As she spoke, she came so close to him that he felt her breath on his lips. " Oh 1" cried Charny, "now I am ready to die."

"Give me your arm," said she, "and teach me where they went, and where she gave the rose,"- and she took from her bosom a rose, and held it to him. He took it and pressed it to his heart.

"Then," continued she, "the other gave him her hand to kiss."

"Both her hands," cried Charny, pressing his burning lips passionately on hers.

"Now they visited the baths, so will we; follow me to the place." He followed her, like a man in a strange, happy dream. They looked all round, then opened the door, and walked through. Then they came out again. Two o'clock struck. "Adieu," said she; "go home until tomorrow." And she walked away quickly towards the chateau.

When they were gone, a man rose from among the bushes. He had heard and seen all.

"

CHAPTER LXIX. THE CONGE.

The queen went to Mass the next day, which was Sunday, smiling and beautiful. When she woke in the morning she said, "It is a lovely day; it makes me happy only to live." She seemed full of joy, and was generous and gracious to every one. The road was lined, as usual on her return, with ladies and gentlemen. Among them were Madame de la Motte and Monsieur de Charny, who was complimented by many friends on his return, and on his radiant looks. Favour is a subtle perfume, and is so easily diffused in the air that adepts, long before the flask containing it is uncorked, can perceive and appreciate it. Olivier had been the queen's friend for the short interval of six hours; but already all were claiming his friendship. Glancing round, he saw Philippe standing near him, whom he had not seen since the day of the duel.

"Gentlemen," said Charny, passing through the crowd, " allow me to fulfil an act of politeness;" and, advancing towards Philippe, he said, "Allow me, Monsieur de Taverney, to thank you now for the interest you have taken in my health. I shall have the honour to pay you a visit to-morrow. I trust you preserve no enmity towards me."

"None, monsieur," replied Philippe.

Charny held out his hand, but Philippe, without seeming to notice it, said, "Here comes the queen, monsieur." As she approached, she fixed her looks on Charny with that rash openness which she always showed in her affections, while she said to several gentlemen who were pressing round her, "Ask me what you please, gentlemen, for to-day I can refuse nothing."

Charny was moved to the very depths of his heart on hearing these words, whose hidden significance he alone fathomed. He trembled with pleasure, which was his only way of thanking the queen.

Suddenly she was aroused from her sweet but dangerous meditations by the sound of a strange voice, which said, "Madame." She turned and saw Philippe, and thus found herself between two men of whom she almost reproached herself with loving one too much and the other too little.

"Monsieur de Taverney, you have something to ask me; pray speak- "

"Only ten minutes' audience at your Majesty's leisure," replied he, with grave solemnity.

"Immediately, monsieur; follow me." A quarter of an hour after, Philippe was introduced into the library, where the queen waited for him.

"Ah, Monsieur de Taverney, enter," said she, in a gay tone, " and do not look so sorrowful. Do you know I feel rather frightened whenever a Taverney asks for an audience- Your family is one of ill omen. Reassure me quickly, and tell me that you are not come to announce a misfortune."

"Madame, this time I only bring you good news."

"Oh, some news!"

"Alas! yes, your Majesty."

"There! an ' Alas!' again."

"Madame, I am about to assure your Majesty that you need never again fear to be saddened by the sight of a Taverney; for, madame, the last of this family, to whom you once deigned to show some kindness, is about to leave the court of France forever."

The queen, dropping her gay tone, said, " You leave us- "

"Yes, your Majesty."

"You also!"

Philippe bowed. "My sister, madame, has already had that grief; I am much more useless to your Majesty."

The queen started as she remembered that Andree had asked for her conge on the day following her first visit to Charny in the doctor's apartments. "It is strange," she murmured, as Philippe remained motionless as a statue, waiting his dismissal. At last she said, abruptly, "Where are you going- "

"To join Monsieur de la Perouse, madame."

"He is at Newfoundland."

"I have prepared to join him there."

"Do you know that a frightful death has been predicted for him-"

"A speedy one," replied Philippe; "that is not necessarily a frightful one."

"And you are really going- "

"Yes, madame, to share his fate."

The queen was silent for a time, and then said, " Why do you go-"

"Because I am anxious to travel."

"But you have already made the tour of the world."

"Of the New World, madame, but not of the Old."

"A race of iron, with hearts of steel, are you Taverneys. You and your sister are terrible people, you go not for the sake of travelling, but to leave me. Your sister said she was called by religious duty; it was a pretext. However, she wished to go, and she went. May she be happy! You might be happy here, but you also wish to go away."

"Spare us, I pray you, madame; if you could read our hearts, you would find them full of unlimited devotion toward you."

"Oh!" cried the queen, "you are too exacting; she takes the world for a heaven, where one should only live as a saint; you look upon it as a hell; and both fly from it; she because she finds what she does not seek, and you because you do not find what you do seek. Am I not right- Ah! Monsieur de Taverney, allow human beings to be imperfect, and do not expect royalty to be superhuman. Be more tolerant, or, rather, less egotistical." She spoke too passionately; it gave Philippe an advantage over her.

"Madame," said he, "egotism is a virtue when one uses it simply to increase one's admiration."

She blushed and continued: "All I know is, that I loved Andree, and that she left me; that I valued you, and you are about to do the same. It is humiliating to see two such people abandon my court."

"Nothing can humiliate persons like your Majesty. Shame does not reach those placed so high."

"What has wounded you-" asked the queen.

"Nothing, madame."

"Your rank has been raised, your fortune was progressing."

"I can but repeat to your Majesty that it is not the court which displeases me."

"And if I ordered you to stay here-"

"I should have the grief of disobeying your Majesty."

"Oh, I know!" cried she, impatiently; "you bear malice; you quarrelled with a gentleman here, Monsieur de Charny, and wounded him; and because you see him returned to-day, you are jealous, and wish to leave."

Philippe turned pale, but replied, " Madame, I saw him sooner than you imagine, for I met him at two o'clock this morning by the Baths of Apollo."

It was now the queen's turn to grow pale, but she felt a kind of admiration for one who had retained so much courtesy and self-command in the midst of his anger and grief. " Go," murmured she at length, in a faint voice, " I will keep you no longer."

Philippe bowed, and left the room, while the queen sank, terrified and overwhelmed, on the sofa, exclaiming, " Oh France, country of noble hearts!"

CHAPTER LXX. THE JEALOUSY OF THE CARDINAL.

The cardinal passed three nights very different from those when he went to the park, and which he constantly lived over again in his memory. No news of any one, no hope of a visit; nothing but a dead silence and perfect darkness after such brightness and happiness. He began to fear that, after all, his sacrifice had been displeasing to the queen. Seeing nothing forthcoming, hearing nothing but silence, as Delille says, he experienced an inconceivable anguish and uneasiness. It coursed through his being like a creeping neuralgia, which turns every fibre connected with the brain into a serpent of fire, writhing or distending itself as it pleases. His anxiety became insupportable. He sent ten times in one day to Madame de la Motte: the tenth messenger brought Jeanne to him. On seeing her he cried out, " How can you live so tranquilly! you know my anxiety, and you, my friend, never come near me."

"Oh, monseigneur, patience, I beg. I have been far more useful to you at Versailles than I could have been here."

"Tell me," replied he, " what does she say- Is she less cruel- "

"Absence is equal pain, whether borne at Versailles or at Paris."

"Oh, I thank you, but the proofs- "

"Proofs! Are you in your senses, monseigneur, to ask a woman for proofs of her own infidelity- "

"I am not speaking of proofs for a lawsuit, countess, only a token of love."

"It seems to me that you are either very exacting or very forgetful."

"Oh, I know you will tell me that I might be more than satisfied. But judge by yourself, countess; would you like to be thrown on one side, after having received appearances of favour-"

"Appearances 1"

"Oh, certainly, I have nothing to complain of, but still- "

"I cannot be answerable for unreasonable discontents."

"Countess, you treat me ill. Instead of reproaching me for my folly, you should try to aid me."

"I cannot aid you. I see nothing to do."

"Nothing to do-"

"No."

"Well, madame, I do not say the same."

"Ah, monseigneur, anger will not help you; and besides, you are unjust."

"No, countess; if you do not assist me any longer, I know it is because you cannot. Only tell me the truth at once."

"What truth-"

"That the queen is a perfidious coquette, who makes people adore her, and then drives them to despair."

Jeanne looked at him with an air of surprise, although she had expected him to arrive at this state, and she felt really pleased, for she thought that it would help her out of her difficult position. "Explain yourself," she said.

"Confess that the queen refuses to see me."

"I do not say so, monseigneur."

"She wishes to keep me away, lest I should rouse the suspicions of some other lover."

"Ah, monseigneur!" cried Jeanne, in a tone which gave him liberty to suspect anything.

"Listen," continued he; "the last time I saw her, I thought I heard steps in the wood-"

"Folly!"

"And I suspect- "

"Say no more, monseigneur. It is an insult to the queen; besides, even if it were true that she fears the surveillance of another lover, why should you reproach her with a past which she has sacrificed to you- "

"But if this past be again a present, and about to be a future-"

"Fie, monseigneur! your suspicions are offensive both to the queen and to me."

"Then, countess, bring me a proof. Does she love me at all-"

"It is very simple," replied Jeanne, pointing to his writing table, "to ask her."

"You will give her a note-"

"Who else would, if not I-"

"And you will bring me an answer- "

"If possible."

"Ah! now you are a good creature, countess."

He sat down, but, though he was an eloquent writer, he commenced and destroyed ten sheets of paper before he satisfied himself.

"If you go on so, you will never have done," said Jeanne.

"You see, countess, I fear my own tenderness, lest I displease the queen."

"Oh," replied Jeanne, "if you write a business letter, you will get one in reply. That is your own affair."

"You are right, countess; you always see what is best." He then wrote a letter so full of loving reproaches and ardent protestations that Jeanne, when he gave it to her to read, thought, "He has written of his own accord what I never should have dared to dictate."

"Will it do-" asked he.

"If she loves you. You will see to-morrow: till then be quiet."

"Till to-morrow then."

On her return home Jeanne gave way to her reflections.

This letter was just what she wanted. How could the cardinal ever accuse her, when he was called on to pay for the necklace- Even admitting that the queen and cardinal met, and that everything was explained, how could they turn against her while she held in her hands such proofs of a scandalous secret- No, they must let her go quietly off with her fortune of a million and a half of francs. The cardinal would know she had stolen the diamonds, and the queen would suspect it, but they never would publish all this affair; and if one letter was not enough, she would have seven or eight. The first explosion would come from the jewellers, who would claim their money. Then she must confess to Monsieur de Rohan, and make him pay by threatening to publish his letters. Surely they would purchase the honour of a queen and a prince at the price of a million and a half! The jewellers once paid, that question was at an end; Jeanne felt sure of her fortune. She knew that the cardinal had a conviction so firm that nothing could shake it, that he had met the queen. There was but one living witness against her, and that one she would soon cause to disappear. Arrived at this point, she went to the window and saw Oliva, who was watching in her balcony. She made the accustomed sign for her to come down, and Oliva replied joyfully. The great thing now was to get rid of her. To destroy the instrument that has served them is the constant endeavour of those who intrigue; but here it is that they generally fail; they do not succeed in doing so before there has been time to disclose the secret. Jeanne knew that Oliva would not be easy to get rid of, unless she could think of something that would induce her to fly willingly. Oliva, on her part, much as she enjoyed her nocturnal promenades at first, after so much confinement, was already beginning to weary of them, and to sigh once more for liberty and Beausire. Jeanne thoroughly understood the situation; she determined to impress upon Nicole's mind the necessity of her vanishing completely, since she was the only living proof of the criminal deception practised in the park of Versailles.

The night came, and they went out together; Oliva disguised under a large cloak and hood, and Jeanne dressed as a grisette; besides which the carriage bore the respectable arms of Valois, which prevented the police, who alone might have recognised Oliva, from searching it.

"Oh, I have been so ennuyeel" cried Oliva; "I have been expecting you so long I"

"It was impossible to come and see you; I should have run, and made you run, a great danger."

"How so-" said Nicole, astonished.

"A terrible danger, at which I still tremble. You know how ennuyee you were, and how much you wished to go out-"

"Yes; and you assisted me like a friend."

"Certainly; I proposed that we should have some amusement with that officer, who is rather mad and in love with the queen, whom you resemble a little, and endeavour to persuade him that it was the queen he was walking with."

"Yes," said Oliva.

"The first two nights you walked in the park, and you played your part to perfection; he was quite taken in."

"Yes," said Oliva, "but it was almost a pity to deceive him, poor fellow, he was so delightful."

"Yes, but the evil is not there. To give a man a rose, to let him kiss your hands, and call you ' Your Majesty,' was all good fun; but, my little Oliva, it seems you did not stop here."

Oliva coloured.

"How-" stammered she.

"There was a third interview."

"Yes," replied Oliva, hastily, "you know, for you were there."

"Excuse me, dear friend; I was there, but at a distance. I neither saw nor heard what passed within, I only know what you told me,- that he talked and kissed your hands."

"Well- but- " stammered Oliva, trembling.

"Well, my dear little one, it seems that our madman has pretended to have received from her whom he thought the queen more than she granted him."

"What do you mean- "

"It seems that, intoxicated with joy, he has boasted that the queen has given him an indisputable proof of her love. The poor devil is decidedly mad."

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" murmured Oliva.

"He is a madman, since he lies, does he not-" said Jeanne.

"Certainly," stammered Oliva.

"You surely could not have exposed us both to such a terrible danger without telling me of it."

Oliva trembled from head to foot.

Jeanne continued: "How could I imagine that you, who said you loved Monsieur Beausire, and were courted by a man like Count Cagliostro, whom you refused- Oh! it cannot be true."

"But where is the danger-" asked Oliva.

"The danger- Have we not to manage a madman, one who fears nothing, and will not be controlled- It was no great thing for the queen to give him her hand to kiss, or to give him a rose. Oh! my dear child, I have not smiled since I heard this."

"What do you fear-" asked Oliva, her teeth chattering with terror.

"Why, as you are not the queen, and have taken her name, and in her name have committed a folly of this kind, that is unfortunately treason. He has no proof of this. They may be satisfied with a prison or banishment."

"A prison! banishment!" shrieked Oliva.

"I, at least, intend to take precautions, and hide myself."

"You fear also-"

"Oh! will not this madman divulge my share also- My poor Oliva, this trick of yours will cost us dear."

Oliva burst into tears.

"Oh!" she cried, "I think I am possessed of a demon, that I can never rest; just saved from one danger, I must rush into another. Suppose I confess all to my protector- "

"A fine story to confess to him, whose advances you refused, that you have committed this imprudence with a stranger."

"Mon Dieu! you are right."

"Soon this report will spread, and will reach his ears; then do you not think he will give you up to the police- Even if he only send you away, what will become of you-"

"Oh, I am lost!"

"And Monsieur Beausire, when he shall hear this- "

Oliva started, and, wringing her hands violently, cried out, "Oh, he would kill me! but no, I will kill myself. You cannot save me, since you are compromised also."

"I have," replied Jeanne, "in the farthest part of Picardy, a little farm. If you can gain this refuge, you might be safe."

"But you- "

"Oh, once you were gone, I should not fear him."

"I will go whenever you like."

"I think you are wise."

"Must I go at once-"

"Wait till I have prepared everything to insure safety; meanwhile hide yourself, and do not come near the window."

"Oh, yes, dear friend."

"And to begin, let us go home, as there is no more to say."

"How long will your preparations take-"

"I do not know; but remember henceforth, until the day of your departure, I shall not come to the window. When you see me there, you will know that the day has arrived, and be prepared."

They returned in silence. On arriving, Oliva begged pardon humbly of her friend for bringing her into so much danger through her folly.

"I am a woman," replied Jeanne, "and can pardon a

CHAPTER LXXI. THE FLIGHT.

Oliva kept her promise, and Jeanne also. From the next day Nicole had completely concealed her existence from every one. No one would ever have suspected that she was living in the house of the Rue Saint-Claude. Concealed behind the curtains or a screen, she kept her window always closed, although the heat was intense.

Jeanne, who was making all the needful preparations, knowing that the next day the default of the first payment of 500,000 francs would occur, Jeanne took precautions that no spot should remain exposed to danger when the explosion should take place. That terrible event was the centre of all her plans.

She had discreetly planned an alternative of flight; flight might be easily accomplished, but it would be a powerful accusation. To remain quiet and motionless, like a duelist awaiting a blow from his adversary,- to remain with the chance of being overthrown, but also with as good a chance of killing the enemy,- such was the determination of the countess.

This was the reason that the next day she made her appearance at the window, as a sign to Oliva to be ready that evening for flight.

Oliva, divided between joy and terror, began immediately to prepare. Jeanne went to arrange about the carriage that was to convey her away. Eleven o'clock at night had just struck when Jeanne arrived with a post- chaise, to which three strong horses were harnessed. A man wrapped in a cloak sat on the box, directing the postilions. Jeanne made them stop at the corner of the street, saying, "Remain here- half an hour will suffice- and then I will bring the person whom you are to conduct with all possible speed to Amiens. There you will give her into the care of the farmer who is my tenant; he has his instructions."

"Yes, madame."

"I forgot. Are you armed- This lady is menaced by a madman; he might perhaps try to stop her on the road."

"What should I do- "

"Fire on any one who tries to impede your journey."

"Yes, madame."

"You asked me twenty louis for the business you know about; I will give you a hundred, and will pay the expenses of the voyage which you had better make to London. Do not return here; it is more prudent for you to go to Saint-Valery, and embark at once for England."

"Rely on me, madame."

"It is for your sake."

"It is for our sake," said Monsieur Reteau, kissing the countess's hand, "so I will wait."

"I will bring the lady to you."

Reteau took Jeanne's place in the chaise, while the latter lightly ran into the Rue Saint-Claude, and mounted the stairs leading to her apartments.

All seemed asleep in that quiet house. Jeanne lighted the lamp, which was to be the signal to Oliva, but received no answering sign. "She will come down in the dark," thought Jeanne; and she went to the door, but it did not open. Oliva was perhaps bringing down her packages. " The fool! " murmured the countess, " how much time she is wasting over her rubbish! " She waited a quarter of an hour,- no one came; then half-past eleven struck. " Perhaps she did not see my signal," thought Jeanne; and she went up and lighted it again, but it was not acknowledged. "She must be ill," cried Jeanne, in a rage, "and cannot move." Then she took the key which Oliva had given her and descended the stairway. Just as she was inserting the key in the lock she stopped suddenly. " What if some one should be up there with her-" thought the countess. "Impossible! I should hear voices, and would have time to descend. Supposing I should meet some one on the staircase! Oh! "

She drew back, frightened at the very suggestion of such a possibility. The sound of the horses' hoofs, pawing on the pavement, impelled her on. "Nothing great is ever accomplished without peril," she said to herself, "and with the courageous danger does not count."

She turned the key in the ponderous lock, and the door opened.

Jeanne knew the surroundings; her quick wit would have revealed them to her had she not already become acquainted with them in her frequent meetings with Oliva. The stairs were at the left, and she rushed up the stairway. No sound, no light, no person.

She reached the landing, out of which Nicole's apartment led. There, from beneath the door, she caught a dim ray of light, while from within she heard a light footstep.

Jeanne, panting, but stifling her breath, listened. There was no sound of voices. Oliva must be alone; she was walking around, evidently arranging her things. She was, then, well, and only delaying. Jeanne softly scratched the panel of the door. "Oliva/' said she softly, "open the door." The door opened, and Jeanne found herself face to face with a man holding a torch in his hand.

"Oliva," said he, "is this you-" Then, with a tone of admirably feigned surprise, cried, " Madame de la Motte!"

Among all the dangers that Jeanne had pictured to herself, this had not once entered her imagination. At first it did not appear so frightful; but after a moment's reflection, as she noted the stern aspect and the deep dissimulation of this strange man, the danger became more apparent.

"Monsieur de Cagliostro!" said she, in terror, feeling inclined to run down the staircase; but he took her ha ad politely, and begged her to sit down.

"To what do I owe the honour of this visit, madame- "

"Monsieur," said she, stammering, "I came- I sought-"

"Allow me, madame, to inquire which of my servants was guilty of the rudeness of letting you come up unattended-"

Jeanne trembled.

"You must have fallen to the lot of my stupid German porter, who is always tipsy."

"Do not scold him, I beg you, monsieur," replied Jeanne, who could hardly speak.

"But was it he-"

"I believe so. But you promise me not to scold him-"

"I will not; only, madame, will you now explain to me- "

Jeanne began to gather courage.

"I came to consult you, monsieur, about certain reports."

"What reports-"

"Do not hurry me, monsieur; it is a delicate subject."

"Ah! you want time to invent," thought he.

"You are a friend of Monsieur le Cardinal de Rohan-"

"I am acquainted with him, madame."

"Well, I came to ask you- "

"What-"

"Oh, monsieur, you must know that he has shown me much kindness, and I wish to know if I may rely upon it. You understand me, monsieur- You read all hearts."

"You must be a little more explicit before I can assist you, madame."

"Monsieur, they say that his Eminence loves elsewhere in a high quarter."

"Madame, allow me first to ask you one question. How did you come to seek me here, since I do not live here-" Jeanne trembled. "How did you get in- for there are neither porter nor servants in this part of my hotel. It could not be me you sought here; who was it- You do not reply; I must aid you a little. You came in by the help of a key which you have now in your pocket. You came to seek a young woman whom from pure kindness I had concealed here."

Jeanne trembled visibly, but replied, "If it were so, it is no crime; one woman is permitted to visit another. Call her; she will tell you if my friendship is a hurtful one."

"Madame, you say that because you know she is not here."

"Not here! Oliva not here- "

"Oh! you do not know that, you who helped her to escape!"

"I!" cried Jeanne; "you accuse me of that-"

"I convict you," replied Cagliostro; and he took a paper from the table, and showed her the following words, addressed to himself:-

"MONSIEUR, and my generous protector, forgive me for leaving you; but above all things I love Monsieur Beausire. He came, and I follow him. Adieu! Believe in my gratitude!"

"Beausire!" cried Jeanne, petrified; "he, who did not even know her address-"

"Oh, madame, here is another paper, which was doubtless dropped by Monsieur Beausire." The countess read, shuddering:-

"Monsieur Beausire will find Mademoiselle Oliva, Rue Saint-Claude at the corner of the boulevard. He had better come for her at once; it is time. This is the advice of a sincere friend."

"Oh!" groaned the countess.

"And he has taken her away," said Cagliostro.

"But who wrote this note-"

"Doubtless yourself."

"But how did he get in-"

"Probably with your key."

"But as I have it here, he could not have it."

"Whoever has one can easily have two."

"You are convinced," replied she, "while I can only suspect."

"I too have my suspicions as serious as yours," said Cagliostro, dismissing her with a gesture.

She turned and went away, but found the staircase lighted and filled with men-servants. Cagliostro called out loudly before them, "Madame la Comtesse de la Motte!" She went out full of rage and disappointment.

CHAPTER LXXII. THE LETTER AND THE RECEIPT.

The day arrived for the payment of the first 500,000 francs. The jewellers had prepared a receipt, but no one came with the money in exchange for it. They passed the day and night in a state of cruel anxiety. The following day Monsieur Boehmer went to Versailles, and asked to see the queen; he was told that he could not be admitted without a letter of audience. However, he begged so hard, and urged his solicitations so well among the servants, that they consented to place him in the queen's way when she went out. Marie Antoinette, still full of joy from her interview with Charny, came along, looking bright and happy, when she caught sight of the somewhat solemn face of Monsieur Boehmer. She smiled on him, which he took for a favourable sign, and asked for an audience, which was promised him for two o'clock. On his return to Bossange, they agreed that no doubt the money was all right, only the queen had been unable to send it the day before. At two o'clock Boehmer returned to Versailles.

"What is it now, Monsieur Boehmer-" asked the queen, as he entered. "Do you wish to speak of jewels- It must be a delicate subject to you."

Boehmer thought some one must be listening, and looked cautiously around him.

"Have you any secret to tell-" asked the queen, in surprise. "The same as before, I suppose, some jewels to sell. But make yourself easy; no one can hear you."

"Ahem!" murmured Boehmer, startled at his reception.

"Well, what-"

"Then I may speak out to your Majesty-"

"Anything; only be quick."

"I only wished to say that your Majesty probably forgot us yesterday.''

"Forgot you! what do you mean-"

"Yesterday the sum was due- "

"What sum-"

"Pardon me, your Majesty, if I am indiscreet. Perhaps your Majesty is not prepared. It would be a misfortune; but still-"

"But," interrupted the queen, "I do not understand a word of what you are saying. Pray explain yourself."

"Yesterday the first payment for the necklace was due."

"Have you sold it, then-"

"Certainly, your Majesty," replied Boehmer, looking stupefied.

"And those to whom you have sold it have not paid, my poor Boehmer- So much the worse; but they must do as I did, and, if they cannot pay, send it back again to you."

The jeweller staggered like a man who had just had a sunstroke. "I do not understand your Majesty," he said.

"Why, Boehmer, if ten purchasers were each to send it back, and give you 200,000 francs, as I did, you would make two millions, and keep your necklace also."

"Your Majesty says," cried Boehmer, ready to drop, "that you sent me back the necklace!"

"Certainly. What is the matter-"

"What! your Majesty denies having bought the necklace-"

"Ah! what comedy is this, monsieur-" said the queen, severely. "Is this unlucky necklace destined to turn some one's brain-"

"But did your Majesty really say that you had returned the necklace-"

"Happily," replied the queen, "I can refresh your memory, as you are so forgetful, to say nothing more." She went to her secretaire, and, taking out the receipt, showed it to him, saying, "I suppose this is clear enough-"

Boehmer's expression changed from incredulity to terror. " Madame," cried he, " I never signed this receipt!"

"You deny it!" said the queen, with flashing eyes.

"Positively, if I lose my life for it. I never received the necklace; I never signed the receipt. Were the headsman here, or the gallows, I would repeat the same thing!"

"Then, monsieur," said the queen, "do you think I have robbed you- Do you think I have your necklace-"

Boehmer drew out a pocket-book, and in his turn produced a letter. "I do not believe," said he, "that if your Majesty had wished to return the necklace, you would have written this."

"I write! I never wrote to you; that is not my writing."

"It is signed," said Boehmer.

"Yes, ' Marie Antoinette of France.' You are mad! Do you think that is the way I sign- I am of Austria. Go, Monsieur Boehmer; you have played this game unskilfully; your forgers have not understood their work."

"My forgers!" cried the poor Boehmer, ready to faint at this new blow. " You suspect me- "

"You accuse me, Marie Antoinette!" replied she.

"But this letter-"

"This receipt- Give it me back, and take your letter; the first lawyer you ask will tell you how much that is worth."

And taking the receipt from his trembling hands, and throwing the letter indignantly down, she left the room.

The unfortunate man ran to communicate this dreadful blow to his partner, who was waiting in the carriage for him; and on their way home their gestures and cries of grief were so frantic as to attract the attention of every passer-by. At last they decided to return to Versailles.

Immediately they presented themselves they were admitted by the order of the queen.

CHAPTER LXXIII. THE MOTTO OF THE ROHANS *.

* "Roi ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis."

"Ah!" cried the queen, immediately they entered, " you have brought a reinforcement, Monsieur Boehmer; so much the better."

Boehmer kneeled at her feet, and Bossange followed his example.

"Gentlemen," said she, "I have now grown calm, and an idea has come into my head which has modified my opinion with regard to you. It seems to me that we have both been duped."

"Ah, madame, you suspect me no longer. Forger was a dreadful word."

"No, I do not suspect you now."

"Does your Majesty suspect any one else-"

"Reply to my questions. You say you have not these diamonds-"

"No, madame, we have not."

"It then matters little to you that I sent them- that is my affair. Did you not see Madame de la Motte- "

"Yes, madame."

"And she gave you nothing from me-"

"No, madame; she only said to us, 'Wait.'"

"But this letter, who brought it-"

"An unknown messenger, during the night."

She rang, and a servant entered.

"Send for Madame de la Motte. And," continued the queen to Monsieur Boehmer, "did you see Monsieur de Rohan-"

"Yes, madame; he paid us a visit in order to ask."

"Good!" said the queen. " I wish to hear no more now; but if he be mixed up with this affair, I think you need not despair. I think I can guess what Madame de la Motte meant by saying, ' Wait.' Meanwhile, go to Monsieur de Rohan, and tell him all you have told us, and that I know it."

The jewellers had a renewed spark of hope; only Bossange said that the receipt was a false one, and that that was a crime.

"True," replied Marie Antoinette, "if you did not write it, it is a crime; but to prove this I must confront you with the person whom I charged to return you the jewels."

"Whenever your Majesty pleases; we do not fear the test."

"Go first to Monsieur de Rohan; he alone can enlighten you."

"And will your Majesty permit us to bring you his answer-"

"Yes; but I dare say I shall know all before you do."

When they were gone she was restless and unquiet, and despatched courier after courier for Madame de la Motte.

We will, however, leave her for the present, and follow the jewellers in their search after the truth.

The cardinal was at home, reading, with a rage impossible to describe, a little note which Madame de la Motte had just sent him, as she said, from Versailles. It was harsh, forbidding any hope, ordering him to think no ^ more of the past, not to appear again at Versailles, and ending with an appeal to his loyalty not to attempt to renew relations which were become impossible.

"Coquette, capricious, perfidious!" cried he. " Here are four letters which she has written to me, each more unjust and tyrannical than the other. She encouraged me only for a caprice, and now sacrifices me to a new one."

The unhappy man reread, with the fervour inspired by hope, all the four letters, pitiless in their inflexible morality.

The last was a master-piece of cruelty; and the heart of the poor cardinal was pierced through and through by it. Yet so great and contradictory was his love that he seemed not to be able to withstand reading these harsh words again and again; believing them to have been sent from Versailles, as Madame de la Motte had so represented them.

It was at this moment that the jewellers presented themselves. Three times he refused them admittance, and each time the servant came back, saying that they would not go without an audience. "Let them come in then," said he.

"What means this rudeness, gentlemen- No one owes you anything here."

"Are we to have a repetition of the scenes through which we have just passed-" said Boehmer, looking at his partner out of one corner of his eye.

"Oh, no, no!" replied the latter, adjusting his wig in a belligerent manner, "I am prepared to fight." And he stepped forward in such a menacing manner that the more cautious Boehmer softly drew him back.

The cardinal really thought that they were demented. "Are you mad-" asked he.

"Monseigneur," replied Boehmer, with a sigh, "do us justice, and do not compel us to be rude to an illustrious prince."

"Either you are not mad, in which case my servants shall throw you out of the window; or you are mad, and they shall simply push you out of the door."

"Monseigneur, we are not mad, but we have been robbed."

"What is that to me- I am not lieutenant of police."

"But you have had the necklace in your hands, and in justice- "

"The necklace! is it the necklace that is stolen-"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Well, what does the queen say about it- "

"She sent me to you."

"She is very amiable; but what can I do, my poor fellows-"

"You can tell us, monseigneur, what has been done with it."

"I-"

"Doubtless."

"Do you think I stole the necklace from the queen-"

"It is not the queen from whom it was stolen."

"Mon Dieu! from whom, then-"

"The queen denies having had it in her possession."

"How! she denies it- But I thought you had an acknowledgment from her."

"She says it is a forged one."

"Decidedly, you are mad! " cried the cardinal.

"We simply speak the truth."

"Then she denied it because some one was there."

"No, monseigneur. And this is not all: not only does the queen deny her own acknowledgment, but she produced a receipt from us, purporting that we had received back the necklace."

"A receipt from you-"

"Which also is a forgery, Monsieur le Cardinal, you know it."

"A forgery, and I know it!"

"Assuredly, for you came to confirm what Madame de la Motte had said; and you knew that we had sold the necklace to the queen."

"Come," said the cardinal, "this seems a serious affair. This is what I did: first, I bought the necklace of you for her Majesty, and paid you 250,000 francs."

"True, monseigneur."

"Afterwards you told me that the queen had acknowledged the debt in writing, and fixed the periods of payment."

"We said so. Will your Eminence look at this signature-"

He looked at it, and said, directly, "' Marie Antoinette of France.' You have been deceived, gentlemen; this is not her signature; she is of the House of Austria."

"Then," cried the jewellers, "Madame de la Motte must know the forger and the robber."

The cardinal appeared struck with this. He acted like the queen; he rang, and said, "Send for Madame de la Motte." His servants went after Jeanne's carriage, which had not long left the hotel.

Monsieur Boehmer continued: "But where is the necklace-"

"How can I tell-" cried the cardinal. "I gave it to the queen; I know no more."

"We must have our necklace, or our money," cried the jewellers.

"Gentlemen, this is not my business."

"It is Madame de la Motte," cried they, in despair, "who has ruined us."

"I forbid you to accuse her here."

"Some one must be guilty; some one wrote the forged papers."

"Was it I-" asked Monsieur de Rohan, haughtily.

"Monseigneur, we do not wish to say so."

"Well, who then-"

"Monseigneur, we desire an explanation."

"Wait till I have one myself."

"But, monseigneur, what are we to say to the queen- For she accused us at first."

"What does she say now-"

"She says that either you or Madame de la Motte has the necklace, for she has not."

"Well," replied the cardinal, pale with rage and shame, "go and tell her- no, tell her nothing; there is scandal enough. But to-morrow I officiate at the chapel at Versailles. When I approach the queen, come to us; I will ask her again if she has the necklace, and you shall hear what she replies; if she denies it before me, then, gentlemen, I am a Rohan, and will pay." And with these words, pronounced with an indescribable dignity, he dismissed them.

"Till to-morrow, monseigneur-" stammered Boehmer.

"To-morrow, at eleven o'clock, at the chapel of Versailles," replied the cardinal.

CHAPTER LXXIV. LOVE AND DIPLOMACY.

The next morning, about ten o'clock, a carriage bearing the arms of Monsieur de Breteuil entered Versailles. Our readers will not have forgotten that this gentleman was a personal enemy of Monsieur de Rohan, and had long been on the watch for an opportunity of injuring him. He now requested an audience from the king, and was admitted.

"It is a beautiful day," said Louis to his minister; "there is not a cloud in the sky."

"Sire, I am sorry to bring with me a cloud on your tranquillity."

"So am I," replied the king; "but what is it-"

"I feel very much embarrassed, sire, more especially as perhaps this affair naturally concerns the lieutenant of police rather than myself, for it is a sort of theft."

"A theft! Well, speak out."

"Sire, your Majesty knows the diamond necklace-"

"Monsieur Boehmer's, which the queen refused-"

"Precisely, sire," said Monsieur de Breteuil; and ignorant of all the mischief he was about to do, he continued, "and this necklace has been stolen."

"Ah! so much the worse. But diamonds are very easy to trace."

"But, sire, this is not an ordinary theft; it is pretended that the queen has kept the necklace."

"Why, she refused it in my presence."

"Sire, I did not use the right word; the calumnies are too gross."

"Ah!" said the king, with a smile, "I suppose they say now that the queen has stolen the necklace."

"Sire," replied Monsieur Breteuil, "they say that the queen recommenced the negotiation for the purchase privately, and that the jewellers hold a paper signed by her, acknowledging that she kept it. I need not tell your Majesty how much I despise all such scandalous falsehoods."

"They say this-" said the king, turning pale. "What do they not say- Had the queen really bought it afterwards, I should not have blamed her. She is a woman, and the necklace is marvellously beautiful; and, thank God, she could still afford it, if she wished for it. She can spend a million and a half on her toilet. I shall only blame her for one thing, for hiding her wishes from me. But that has nothing to do with the king, only with the husband. A husband may scold his wife if he pleases, and no one has a right to interfere. But then," continued he, "what do you mean by a robbery-"

"Oh! I fear I have made your Majesty angry."

The king laughed. "Come, tell me all; tell me even that the queen sold the necklace to the Jews. Poor woman! she is often in want of money, oftener than I can give it to her."

"Exactly so. About two months ago the queen asked for 500,000 francs, and your Majesty refused it."

"True."

"Well, sire, they say that this money was to have been the first payment for the necklace. The queen, being denied the money, could not pay-"

"Well-"

"Well, sire, they say the queen applied to some one to help her."

"To a Jew-"

"No, sire; not to a Jew."

"Oh! I guess some foreign intrigue. The queen asked her brother, or some of her family, for money. Austria is at the bottom of this."

"It would have been better if she had, sire."

"Well, to whom, then, did she apply-"

"Sire, I dare not- "

"Monsieur, I am tired of this. I order you to speak out at once. Who lent this money to the queen- "

"Monsieur de Rohan."

"Monsieur de Rohan! Are you not ashamed to name to me the most embarrassed man in my kingdom- "

"Sire," said Monsieur de Breteuil, lowering his eyes.

"Monsieur de Breteuil, your manner annoys me. If you have anything to say, speak at once."

"Sire, I cannot bring myself to utter things so compromising to the honour of my king and queen."

"We are descending very low, Monsieur de Breteuil," said he. "This report of the police is impregnated by the atmosphere of the region whence it emerged. All calumny throws forth a deadly miasma; and that is why kings should purify them by heroic measures, if they wish their honour and their throne to remain in safety."

"Monsieur de Rohan!" murmured the king. "Why, what probability- Does the cardinal allow these rumours to be circulated-"

"Sire, Monsieur de Rohan went to the jewellers, and arranged for the purchase of the necklace and the mode of payment."

"Really!" cried the king, annoyed and angry.

"It is a fact, sire, capable of being proved with the greatest certainty. I pledge my word for this."

"This is most annoying," said the king; "but still, monsieur, we have not heard of a theft."

"Sire, the jewellers say that they have a receipt signed by the queen, and she denies having the necklace."

"Ah!" cried the king, with renewed hope; "she denies it, you see, Monsieur de Breteuil."

"Oh, Sire, I never doubted her Majesty's innocence. I am indeed unfortunate, if your Majesty does not see all my respect for the purest of women."

"Then you only accuse Monsieur de Rohan-"

"Yes, Sire. And appearances demand some inquiry into his conduct. The queen says she has not the necklace; the jewellers say they sold it to her. It is not to be found, and the word ' theft' is used as connected both with the queen and Monsieur de Rohan."

"You are right, Monsieur de Breteuil; this affair must be cleared up. But who is that passing below- Is it not Monsieur de Rohan going to the chapel-"

"Not yet, sire; he does not come till eleven o'clock, and he will be dressed in his robes, for he officiates to-day."

"Then I will send for him and speak to him."

"Permit me to advise your Majesty to speak first to the queen."

"Yes, she will tell me the truth."

"Doubtless, sire."

"Come, baron, tell me everything without further delay or excuse."

"I have everything recorded here in this portfolio, all the proofs of my assertions."

"To business, then. Wait until I give my orders to have no one admitted into my audience-room. I had appointed two hearings for this morning." The king gave his commands; then resumed his seat, after first glancing out of the window. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "there is the cardinal now."

Breteuil arose and went to the window, whence, concealed by the drapery, he saw Monsieur de Rohan, in full ecclesiastical robes, going toward the apartment at Versailles set aside for his official duties.

"Here he is at last," said the king, rising.

"So much the better," replied Breteuil; "the explanation will not be delayed."

And he began his exposition to the king, with the zeal of a man bent on the overthrow of another man.

With diabolical art he had gathered together in his portfolio everything which might help to accuse the cardinal. The king saw only too well the proofs of the Cardinal de Rohan's guilt accumulate; but he was in despair at not seeing, at the same time, indubitable proofs of the queen's innocence. He endured this agony for a quarter of an hour, becoming more and more impatient, when suddenly a commotion was heard in the corridor. The king listened, while Breteuil suspended his reading. An officer approached the king, and said, "Sire, the queen begs you will come to her."

"What is it-" asked the king, turning pale. "Wait here, Monsieur de Breteuil."

"Well, we are approaching the end," said the keeper of the seals.

CHAPTER LXXV. CHARNY, CARDINAL, AND QUEEN.

At the same moment as Monsieur de Breteuil asked for an audience of the king, Monsieur de Charny, pale and agitated, begged one of the queen. He was admitted, and touching tremblingly the hand she held out to him, said, in an agitated voice, " Oh, madame, what a misfortune I"

"What is the matter-"

"Do you know what I have just heard- What the king has perhaps already heard, or will hear to-morrow."

She trembled, for she thought of her night with Charny, and fancied they had been seen. "Speak," said she; "I am strong."

"They say, madame, that you bought a necklace from Monsieur Boehmer."

"I returned it," said she, quickly.

"But they say that you only pretended to do so, when the king prevented you from paying for it by refusing you the money, and that you went to borrow the amount from some one else, who is your lover."

"And," cried the queen, with her usual impetuous confidence, "you, monsieur- Well, let them say it if it gives them any pleasure. The title of lover is not more pleasing to them, as an insult, than the title of friend is to me, as an expression of the good-will which shall henceforth bind us by ties of respect and amity."

Charny was struck by this eloquent and unexpected response, dictated by a pure and true love, which emanated from the inmost heart of this high-minded woman.

But, as he pondered her words and delayed his reply, the queen's anxiety was redoubled, and she exclaimed, "Of what are you speaking, Monsieur de Charny- I do not understand the language of calumny. Do you know what they mean-"

"Madame, kindly hear my explanation and listen carefully, for it is a serious matter. Yesterday I went to Monsieur Boehmer's with my uncle, who had brought some diamonds from the Indies, and wished to have them valued. There we heard this frightful story now being spread abroad by your Majesty's enemies. Madame, I am in despair. If you bought the necklace, tell me; if you have not paid, tell me; but do not let me hear that Monsieur de Rohan paid for you."

"Monsieur de Rohan!"

"Yes, Monsieur de Rohan, whom they call your lover,- whom they say lent the money; and whom an unhappy man, called Charny, saw in the park in Versailles kneeling before the queen and kissing her hand."

"Monsieur," cried Marie Antoinette, "if you believe these things when you leave me, you do not love me."

"Oh!" cried the young man, "the danger presses. I come to beg you to do me a favour."

"What danger-"

"Oh, madame! the cardinal paying for the queen dishonours her. I do not speak now of the grief such a confidence in him causes to me. No; of these things one dies, but does not complain."

"You are mad! " cried Marie Antoinette, in anger.

"I am not mad, madame; but you are unhappy and lost. I saw you in the park- I told you so- I was not deceived. To-day all the horrible truth has burst out. Monsieur de Rohan boasts, perhaps- "

The queen seized his arm. "You are mad!" repeated she, with inexpressible anguish. "Believe anything,- believe the impossible; but, in the name of Heaven, after all I have said to you, do not believe me guilty. I, who never even thought of you without praying to God to pardon me for my fault. Oh, Monsieur de Charny, if you do not wish to kill me, do not tell me that you think me guilty."

Charny wrung his hands with anguish. "Listen," said he, "if you wish me to serve you efficaciously."

"A service from you- from you, more cruel than my enemies- A service from a man who despises me- Never, monsieur,- never I"

Charny approached, and took her hands in his. "This evening it will be too late. Save me from despair by saving yourself from shame."

"Monsieur!"

"Oh, I cannot pick my words with death before me! If you do not listen to me, we shall both die; you from shame, and I from grief. You want money to pay for this necklace."

"I-"

"Do not deny it."

"I tell you-"

"Do not tell me that you have not the necklace."

"I swear!"

"Do not swear, if you wish me to love you. There remains one way to save at once your honour and my love. The necklace is worth 1,600,000 francs, you have paid 250,000. Here is a million and a half, take it and pay."

"You have sold your possessions,- you have ruined yourself for me! Good and noble heart, I love you! "

"Then you accept-"

"No, but I love you."

"And let Monsieur de Rohan pay- Remember, madame, this would be no generosity towards me, but the refinement of cruelty."

"Monsieur de Charny, I am a queen. I give to my subjects, but do not accept from them."

"What do you mean to do, then-"

"You must advise me. What do you say Monsieur de Rohan thinks-"

"He thinks that you are his mistress."

"You are harsh, Olivier."

"I speak as one speaks in the face of death."

"You are frank. What do the jewellers say-"

"That, as you cannot pay, Monsieur de Rohan will pay for you."

"What does the public say-"

"That you have the necklace hidden, and will produce it when it shall have been paid for; either by the cardinal, in his love for you, or by the king, to prevent scandal."

"And you, Charny; in your turn, I ask, what do you say- "

"I think, madame, that you have need to prove your innocence to me."

The Prince Louis, Cardinal de Rohan, was at that moment announced by an usher.

"You shall have your wish," said the queen.

"You are going to receive him-"

"Yes."

"And I-"

"Go into my boudoir, and leave the door ajar, that you may hear. Be quick, here he is."

Monsieur de Rohan appeared in his robes of office. The queen advanced towards him, attempting a smile, which died away on her lips. He was serious, and said, " Madame, I have several important things to communicate to you, although you shun my presence."

"I shun you so little, monsieur, that I was about to send for you."

"Am I alone with your Majesty-" said he, in a low voice. "May I speak freely-"

"Perfectly, monseigneur. Do not constrain yourself," said she aloud, for Monsieur de Charny to hear.

"The king will not come-"

"Have no fear of the king or any one else."

"Oh, it is yourself I fear," said he, in a moved voice.

"Well, I am not formidable. Say quickly and openly what you have to say. I like frankness, and want no reserve. They say you complain of me; what have you to reproach me with-"

The cardinal sighed.

CHAPTER LXXVI. EXPLANATIONS.

"madame," said the cardinal, bowing, "you know what is passing concerning the necklace-"

"No, monsieur; I wish to learn it from you."

"Why has your Majesty for so long only deigned to communicate with me through another- If you have any reason to hate me, why not explain it- "

"I do not know what you mean. I do not hate you; but that is not, I think, the subject of our interview. I wish to hear all about this unlucky necklace; but, first, where is Madame de la Motte-"

"I was about to ask your Majesty the same question."

"Really, monsieur, if any one knows, I think it ought to be you."

"I, madame! why-"

"Oh! I do not wish to receive your confessions about her, (but I wish to speak to her, and have sent for her ten times without receiving any answer."

"And I, madame, am astonished at her disappearance, for I also sent to ask her to come, and, like your Majesty, received no answer."

"Then let us leave her, monsieur, and speak of ourselves."

"Oh, no, madame; let us speak of her first, for a few words of your Majesty's gave me a painful suspicion. It seemed to me that your Majesty reproached me with my assiduities to her."

"I have not reproached you at all, monsieur."

"Oh, madame, such a suspicion would explain all to me; then I should understand all your rigour towards me, which I have hitherto found so inexplicable."

"Here we cease to understand each other, and I beg of you not to involve in still further obscurity what I wished you to explain to me."

"Madame," cried the cardinal, clasping his hands, "I entreat you not to change the subject; allow me only two words more, and I am sure we shall understand each other."

"Really, monsieur, you speak in language that I do not understand. Pray return to plain French; where is the necklace that I returned to the jewellers-"

"The necklace that you sent back-"

"Yes; what have you done with it-"

"I! I do not know, madame."

"Listen, and one thing is simple; Madame de la Motte took away the necklace, and returned it to the jewellers in my name. The jewellers say they never had it, and I hold in my hands a receipt which proves the contrary; but they say the receipt is forged. Madame de la Motte, if sincere, could explain all, but as she is not to be found, I can but conjecture. She wished to return it, but you, who had always the generous wish to present me the necklace, you, who brought it to me, with the offer to pay for it- "

"Which your Majesty refused."

"Yes. Well, you have persevered in your idea, and you kept back the necklace, hoping to return it to me at some other time. Madame de la Motte was weak; she knew my inability to pay for it, and my determination not to keep it when I could not pay; she therefore entered into a conspiracy with you. Have I guessed right- Say yes. Let me believe in this slight disobedience to my orders, and I promise you both pardon; so let Madame de la Motte come out from her hiding-place. But, for pity's sake, let there be perfect clearness and openness, monsieur. A cloud rests over me; I will have it dispersed."

"Madame," replied the cardinal, with a sigh, "unfortunately it is not true. I did not persevere in my idea, for I believed the necklace was in your own hands. I never conspired with Madame de la Motte about it, and I have it no more than you say you or the jewellers have it."

"Impossible! you have not got it-"

"No, madame."

"You did not advise Madame de la Motte to stay away on account of all this-"

"No, madame."

"You have not concealed her-"

"No, madame."

"You do not know what has become of her- "

"No, madame."

"But then how do you explain her disappearance- "

"I do not pretend to explain it, madame; and, moreover, it is not the first time that I have had to complain that your Majesty did not understand me."

"How, monsieur-"

"Pray, madame, have the goodness to retrace my letters in your memory."

"Your letters!- you have written to me- "

"Too seldom, madame, to express all that was in my heart."

The queen rose. "Terminate this jesting, monsieur. What do you mean by letters- How can you dare to say such things-"

"Ah, madame, perhaps I have allowed myself to speak too freely the secret of my soul."

"What secret- Are you in your senses, monsieur-"

"Madame!"

"Oh, speak out! You speak now like a man who wishes to embarrass one before witnesses."

"Madame, is there really any one listening to us-"

"No, monsieur. Explain yourself, and prove to me, if you can, that you are in your right senses."

"Oh! why is not Madame de la Motte here- She could aid me to re-awaken, if not your Majesty's attachment, at least your memory."

"My attachment! my memory!"

"Ah, madame," cried he, growing excited, "spare me, I beg. It is free to you to love no longer, but do not insult me."

"Ah, mon Dieu!" cried the queen, turning pale; "hear what this man says!"

"Well, madame," said he, getting still more excited, "I think I have been sufficiently discreet and reserved not to be ill-treated. But I should have known that when a queen says, ' I will not any longer,' it is as imperious as when a woman says, ' I will.' "

"But, monsieur, to whom, or when, have I said either the one or the other- "

"Both, to me."

"To you- You are a liar, Monsieur de Rohan. A coward, for you calumniate a woman; and a traitor, for you insult the queen."

"And you are a heartless woman and a faithless queen. You led me to feel for you the most ardent love; you let me drink my fill of hopes- "

"Of hopes! My God! am I mad, or what is he-"

"Should I have dared to ask you for the midnight interviews which you granted me-"

The queen uttered a cry of rage, as she fancied she heard a sigh from the boudoir.

"Should I," continued Monsieur de Rohan, "have dared to come into the park, if you had not sent Madame de la Motte for me-"

"Mon Dieu!"

"Should I have dared to steal the key- Should I have ventured to ask for this rose, which since then I have worn here on my heart, and burned up with my kisses- Should I have dared to kiss your hands- And, above all, should I have dared even to dream of sweet but perfidious love- "

"Monsieur," cried she, "you blaspheme I "

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the cardinal, "Heaven knows that to be loved by this deceitful woman I would have given my all, my liberty, my life!"

"Monsieur de Rohan, if you wish to preserve either, you will confess immediately that you invented all these horrors; that you did not come to the park at night."

"I did come," he replied.

"You are a dead man if you maintain this."

"A Rohan cannot lie, madame; I did come."

"Monsieur de Rohan, in Heaven's name say that you did not see me there!"

"I will die if you wish it, and as you threaten me; but I did come to the park at Versailles, where Madame de la Motte brought me."

"Once more, confess it is a horrible plot against me."

"No."

"Then believe that you were mistaken, deceived; that it was all a fancy.

"No."

"Then we will have recourse," said she, solemnly, "to the justice of the king, since you defy the justice of God."

The cardinal bowed.

The queen rang violently. "Tell his Majesty that I desire his presence."

The cardinal remained firm. Marie Antoinette went ten times to the door of the boudoir, and each time returned without going in.

At last the king appeared.

CHAPTER LXXVII. THE ARREST.

"Sire," cried the queen, "here is Monsieur de Rohan, who says incredible things, which I wish him to repeat to you."

At these unexpected words the cardinal turned pale. Indeed, it was a strange position to hear himself called upon to repeat to the king and the husband all the claims which he believed he had over the queen and the wife.

But the king, turning towards him, said, "About a certain necklace, is it not, monsieur-"

Monsieur de Rohan took advantage of the king's question, and chose the least of two evils. "Yes, Sire," he murmured, "about the necklace."

"Then, monsieur, you have bought the necklace-"

"Sire- "

"Yes or no, monsieur."

The cardinal looked at the queen, and did not reply.

"The truth, monsieur," said the queen, answering his look. " We want nothing but the truth."

Monsieur de Rohan turned away his head, and did not speak.

"If Monsieur de Rohan will not reply, will you, madame, explain-" said the king. "You must know something about it; did you buy it-"

"No."

Monsieur de Rohan smiled rather contemptuously.

"You say nothing, monsieur," said the king.

"Of what am I accused, sire-"

"The jewellers say they sold the necklace either to you or the queen. They show a receipt from her Majesty- "

"A forged one," interrupted the queen.

"The jewellers," continued the king, "say that, incase the queen does not pay, you are bound to do so by your engagements."

"I do not refuse to pay, sire. It must be the truth, as the queen permits it to be said." And a second look, still more contemptuous than the first, accompanied this speech.

The queen trembled, for she began to think his behaviour like the indignation of an honest man.

"Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, some one has imitated the signature of the Queen of France," said the king.

"There is another forgery," cried the queen, "of which it is hard to accuse a nobleman. It claims that the jewellers took back the necklace."

"The queen, sire, is free to attribute to me both forgeries if she pleases."

"Monsieur," said the king, "instead of justifying yourself, you assume the air of an accuser."

The cardinal paused a moment, and then cried, "Justify myself- impossible!"

"Monsieur, these people say that this necklace has been stolen under a promise to pay for it; do you confess the crime-"

"Who would believe it, if I did-" asked the cardinal, with a haughty disdain.

"Then, monsieur, you think they will believe-"

"Sire, I know nothing of what is said," interrupted the cardinal; "all that I can affirm is, that I have not the necklace. Some one has it who will not produce it; and I can but say, let the shame of the crime fall on the person who knows himself guilty."

"The question, madame, is between you two," said the king. "Once more, have you the necklace-"

"No, by the honour of my mother, by the life of my son."

The king joyfully turned towards the cardinal. " Then, monsieur, the affair lies between you and justice, unless you prefer trusting to my clemency."

"The clemency of kings is for the guilty, sire; I prefer the justice of men."

"You will confess nothing-"

"I have nothing to say."

"But, monsieur, your silence compromises my honour," cried the queen.

The cardinal did not speak.

"Well, then, I will speak," cried she. "Learn, sire, that Monsieur de Rohan's chief crime is not the theft of this necklace."

Monsieur de Rohan turned pale.

"What do you mean-" cried the king.

"Madame!" murmured the cardinal.

"Oh! no reasons, no fear, no weakness, shall close my mouth. I would proclaim my innocence in public, if necessary."

"Your innocence," said the king. "Oh, madame, who would be rash enough, or base enough, to compel you to defend that-"

"I beg you, madame," said the cardinal.

"Ah! you begin to tremble. I was right; such plots bear not the light. Sire, will you order Monsieur de Rohan to repeat to you what he has just said to me-"

"Madame," cried the cardinal, "take care; you pass all bounds."

"Monsieur," said the king, "do you dare to speak thus to the queen-"

"Yes, Sire," said Marie Antoinette; "this is the way he speaks to me, and pretends he has the right to do so."

"You, monsieur!" cried the king, livid with rage.

"Oh! he says he has letters- "

"Let us see them, monsieur," said the king.

"Yes, produce them," cried the queen.

The cardinal passed his hands over his burning eyes, and asked himself how Heaven could ever have created a being so perfidious and so audacious; but he remained silent.

"But that is not all," continued the queen, getting more and more excited; "Monsieur le Cardinal says he has obtained interviews- "

"Madame, for pity's sake," cried the king.

"For modesty's sake," murmured the cardinal.

"One word, monsieur. If you are not the basest of men, if you hold anything sacred in this world, if you have proofs, produce them."

"No, madame," replied he, at length, "I have not."

"You said you had a witness."

"Who-" asked the king.

"Madame de la Motte."

"Ah!" cried the king, whose suspicions against her were easily excited; "let us see this woman."

"Yes," said the queen, "but she has disappeared. Ask monsieur what he has done with her."

"Others have made her disappear who had more interest in doing so than I had."

"But, monsieur, if you are innocent, help us to find the guilty."

The cardinal crossed his hands and turned his back.

"Monsieur," cried the king, "you shall go to the Bastille."

"As I am, sire, in my robes- Consider, sire, the scandal will commence, and will fall heavily on whomsoever it rests."

"I wish it to do so, monsieur."

"It is an injustice, sire."

"It shall be so." And the king looked round for some one to execute his orders. Monsieur de Breteuil was near, anticipating the fall of his rival; the king spoke to him, and he cried immediately, "Guards, arrest Monsieur le Cardinal de Rohan!"

The cardinal passed by the queen without saluting her; then, bowing to the king, went towards the lieutenant of the guards, who approached timidly, seeming to wait for a confirmation of the order he had received.

"Yes, monsieur," said Monsieur de Rohan, " it is I whom you are to arrest."

"Conduct monsieur to his apartment until I have written the order," said the king.

When they were alone, the king said, "Madame, you know this must lead to a public trial, and that scandal will fall heavily on the heads of the guilty."

"I thank you, sire; you have taken the only method of justifying me."

"You thank me."

"With all my heart; believe me, you have acted like a king, and I as a queen."

"Good," replied the king, joyfully; "we shall find out the truth at last, and when once we have crushed the serpent I hope we may live in more tranquillity." He kissed the queen, and left her.

At the extreme end of the gallery, Monsieur de Rohan encountered Boehmer and Bossange, half fainting in each other's arms. Then, a little farther on, he perceived his courier, who, alarmed by this disaster, was awaiting his master's orders.

"Monsieur," said the cardinal to the officer who conducted him, " can I send word home that I have been arrested-"

"If no one sees, monseigneur."

The cardinal wrote some words on a page of his missal, then tore it out, and let it fall at the feet of the officer.

"I follow you, monsieur," said he, to the officer.

They both disappeared. The courier pounced upon this paper like a vulture upon its prey; rushed from the palace, leaped upon his horse, and fled toward Paris. The cardinal caught a glimpse of him from one of the windows of the staircase which he was descending, accompanied by the guard.

"She ruins me," murmured the cardinal; "but I will save her for your sake, oh my king, and because it is my duty to forgive."

CHAPTER LXXVIII. THE PROCES-VERBAUX.

When the king re-entered his room he signed the order to consign Monsieur de Rohan to the Bastille. The Count de Provence soon came in and began making a series of signs to Monsieur de Breteuil, who, however willing, could not understand their meaning. This, however, the count did not care for, as his sole object was to attract the king's attention. He at last succeeded, and the king, after dismissing Monsieur de Breteuil, said to him, "What was the meaning of all those signs you were making just now- I suppose they meant something."

"Undoubtedly, but- "

"Oh, you are quite free to speak or not."

"Sire, I have just heard of the arrest of Monsieur de Rohan."

"Well, and what then- Am I wrong to do justice even on him-"

"Oh, no, brother; I did not mean that."

"I should have been surprised had you not taken part somehow against the queen. I have just seen her, and am quite satisfied."

"Oh, sire, God forbid that I should accuse her! The queen has no friend more devoted than myself. How many times, on the contrary, has it happened that I have defended her, and it may be said without reproach, even against yourself-"

"Indeed, brother, has she been accused so often-"

"I am unfortunate, sire; you attack my simplest remark. I merely meant that the queen herself would not believe me, should I pretend to doubt her innocence."

"Then you rejoice with me in the humiliation to which I have exposed the cardinal- You approve of my proceedings, which will, I trust, terminate all the scandals which have lately disgraced our court- "

"Yes, Sire, I entirely approve your Majesty's conduct, and I think all is for the best as regards the necklace- "

"Pardieu! it is clear enough. Monsieur de Rohan has been making himself great on a pretended familiarity with the queen; and conducting in her name a bargain for the diamonds, and leaving it to be supposed that she had them. It is monstrous. And then these tales never stop at the truth, but add all sorts of dreadful details, which would end in a frightful scandal on the queen."

"Yes, brother, I repeat, as far as the necklace is concerned you were perfectly right."

"What else is there, then-"

"Sire, you embarrass me. The queen has not, then, told you-"

"Oh, the other boastings of Monsieur de Rohan- The pretended correspondence and interviews he speaks of- All that I know is, that I have the most absolute confidence in the queen, which she merits by the nobleness of her character. It was easy for her to have told me nothing of all this; but she always makes an immediate appeal to me in all difficulties, and confides to me the care of her honour. I am her confessor and her judge."

"Sire, you make me afraid to speak, lest I should be again accused of want of friendship for the queen. But it is right that all should be spoken, that she may justify herself from the other accusations."

"Well, what have you to say- "

"Let me first hear what she told you."

"She said she had not the necklace; that she never signed the receipt for the jewels; that she never authorised Monsieur de Rohan to buy them; that she had never given him the right to think himself more to her than any other of her subjects; and that she was perfectly indifferent to him."

"Ah! she said that-"

"Most decidedly; and so final was her assertion that the cardinal did not contradict her."

"Then, sire, his silence condemns him. By it he confesses himself a liar, and encourages the circulation of various rumours of preferences given by the queen to certain persons."

"Eh! Mon Dieu!" said the king in despair, " is there still more to come-"

"Then these rumours about other people- "

"What others-"

"Why, if it were not Monsieur de Rohan who walked with the queen- "

"How! do they say he walked with her-"

"The queen denies it, you say- but how came she to be in the park at night, and with whom did she walk-"

"The queen in the park at night!"

"Doubtless there are always eyes ready to watch every movement of a queen."

"Brother, these are infamous things that you repeat; take care."

"Sire, I openly repeat them, that your Majesty may search out the truth."

"And they say that the queen walked at night in the park-"

"Yes, Sire, tete-a-tete."

"I do not believe any one says it."

"Unfortunately I can prove it but too well. There are four witnesses: one is the captain of the hunt, who says he saw the queen go out two successive nights by the door near the kennel of the wolf-hounds; here is his declaration signed."

The king, trembling, took the paper.

"The next is the night-watchman at Trianon, who says he saw the queen walking arm in arm with a gentleman. The third is the porter of the eastern door, who also saw the queen going through the little gate; he states how she was dressed, but that he could not recognise the gentleman, but thought he looked like an officer; he says he could not be mistaken, for that the queen was accompanied by her friend, Madame de la Motte."

"Her friend!" cried the king, furiously.

"The last is from the man whose duty it is to see that all the doors are locked at night. He says that he saw the queen go into the Baths of Apollo with a gentleman."

The king, pale with anger and emotion, snatched the paper from the hands of his brother.

"It is true," continued the count, "that Madame de la Motte was outside, and that the queen did not remain more than an hour."

"The name of the gentleman-" cried the king.

"This report does not name him; but here is one dated the next day, by a forester, who says it was Monsieur de Charny."

"Monsieur de Charny!" cried the king. " Wait here; I will soon learn the truth of all this."

CHAPTER LXXIX. THE LAST ACCUSATION.

As soon as the king left the room, the queen ran towards the boudoir and opened the door; then, as if her strength failed her, sank down on a chair, waiting for the decision of Monsieur de Charny, her last and most formidable judge.

He came out more sad and pale than ever.

"Well-" said she.

"Madame," replied he, "you see, everything opposes our friendship. There can be no peace for me while such scandalous reports circulate in public, putting my private convictions aside."

"Then," said the queen, "all I have done, this perilous aggression, this public defiance of one of the greatest nobles in the kingdom, and my conduct being exposed to the test of public opinion, does not satisfy you- Not to mention the confidence of the king destroyed forever. But the king- He is only a husband." And she smiled bitterly.

"Oh!" cried Charny, "you are noble and generous, I know- "

"But you believe me guilty, you believe the cardinal. I command you to tell me what you think."

"I must say, then, madame, that he is neither mad nor wicked, as you called him, but a man thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he said,- a man who loves you, and the victim of an error which will bring him to ruin, and you- "

"Well- "

"To dishonour."

"Mon Dieu!"

"This odious woman, this Madame de la Motte, disappearing just when her testimony might have restored you to repose and honour,- she is the evil genius, the curse, of your reign; she whom you have unfortunately admitted to partake of your intimacy and your secrets."

"Oh, monsieur! "

"Yes, madame, it is clear that you combined with her and the cardinal to buy this necklace. Pardon if I offend you."

"Stay, monsieur," replied the queen, with a pride not unmixed with anger; "what the king believes, others might believe, and my friends not be harder than my husband. It seems to me that it can give no pleasure to any man to see a woman whom he does not esteem. I do not speak of you, monsieur; to you I am not a woman, but a queen, as you are to me not a man, but a subject. I had advised you to remain in the country, and it was wise; far from the court, you might have judged me more truly. Too ready to condescend, I have neglected to keep up, with those whom I thought loved me, the prestige of royalty. I should have been a queen, and content to govern, and not have wished to be loved."

"I cannot express," replied Charny, "how much your severity wounds me. I may have forgotten that you were a queen, but never that you were the woman most in the world worthy of my respect and love."

"Monsieur, I think your absence is necessary; something tells me that it will end by your name being mixed up in all this."

"Impossible, madame!"

"You say, ' Impossible.' Reflect on the power of those who have for so long played with my reputation. You say that Monsieur de Rohan is convinced of what lie asserts; those who cause such convictions would not be long in proving you a disloyal subject to the king, and a disgraceful friend for me. Those who invent so easily what is false will not be long in discovering the truth. Lose no time, therefore; the peril is great. Retire, and fly from the scandal which will ensue from the approaching trial; I do not wish that my destiny should involve yours, or your future be ruined. I, who am, thank God, innocent, and without a stain on my life,- I, who would lay bare my. heart to my enemies, could they thus read its purity, will resist to the last. For you might come ruin, defamation, and perhaps imprisonment. Take away the money you so nobly offered me, and the assurance that not one movement of your generous heart has escaped me, and that your doubts, though they have wounded, have not estranged me. Go, I say, and seek elsewhere what the Queen of France can no longer give you, hope and happiness. From this time to the convocation of Parliament and the production of witnesses must be a fortnight. Your uncle has vessels ready to sail- go and leave me. I bring misfortunes on my friends." Saying this, the queen rose, and seemed to give Charny his conge.

He approached quickly, but respectfully. "Your Majesty," cried he, in a moved voice, "shows me my duty. It is here that danger awaits you, here that you are to be judged, and, that you may have one loyal witness on your side, I remain here. Perhaps we may still make your enemies tremble before the majesty of an innocent queen, and the courage of a devoted man. And if you wish it, madame, I will be equally hidden and unseen as though I went. During a fortnight that I lived within a hundred yards of you, watching your every movement, counting your steps, living in your life, no one saw me; I can do so again, if it please you."

"As you please," replied she; "I am no coquette, Monsieur de Charny, and to say what I please is the true privilege of a queen. One day, monsieur, I chose you from every one. I do not know what drew my heart towards you, but I had need of a strong and pure friendship, and I allowed you to perceive that need; but now I see that your soul does not respond to mine, and I tell you so frankly."

"Oh, madame," cried Charny, "I cannot let you take away your heart from me! If you have once given it to me, I will keep it with my life; I cannot lose you. You reproached me with my doubts; oh, do not doubt me!"

"Ah," said she, "but you are weak, and I, alas! am so also."

"You are all I love you to be."

"What!" cried she, passionately, "this abused queen, this woman about to be publicly judged, that the world condemns, and that her king and husband may perhaps also in turn condemn,- has she found one heart to love her-"

"A slave, who venerates her, and offers her his heart's blood in exchange for every pang he has caused her!"

"Then," cried she, "this woman is blessed and happy, and complains of nothing!"

Charny fell at her feet, and kissed her hands in transport. At that moment the door opened, and the king surprised at the feet of his wife the man whom he had just heard accused by the Count de Provence.

CHAPTER LXXX. THE PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE.

The queen and Charny exchanged a look so full of terror that their most cruel enemy must have pitied them.

Charny rose slowly, and bowed to the king, whose heart might almost have been seen to beat.

"Ah!" cried he, in a hoarse voice, "Monsieur de Charny!"

The queen could not speak,- she thought she was lost.

"Monsieur de Charny," repeated the king, "it is little honourable for a gentleman to be taken in the act of theft."

"Of theft-" murmured Charny.

"Yes, Sire, to kneel before the wife of another is a theft; and when this woman is a queen his crime is called high treason."

The count was about to speak, but the queen, ever impatient in her generosity, forestalled him.

"Sire," said she, "you seem in the mood for evil suspicions and unfavourable suppositions, which fall falsely, I warn you; and if respect chains the count's tongue, I will not hear him wrongfully accused without defending him." Here she stopped, overcome by emotion, frightened at the falsehood she was about to tell, and bewildered because she could not find one to utter.

But these few words had somewhat softened the king, who replied more gently, " You will not tell me, madame, that I did not see Monsieur de Charny kneeling before you, and without your attempting to raise him-"

"Therefore you might think," replied she, "that he had some favour to ask me."

"A favour- "

"Yes, Sire, and one which I could not easily grant, or he would not have insisted with so much warmth."

Charny breathed again, and the king's look became calmer. Marie Antoinette was searching for something to say, with mingled rage at being obliged to lie and grief at not being able to think of anything probable to say. She half hoped the king would be satisfied, and ask no more; but she was mistaken. Any other woman would have been more prudent and less haughty; but for her it was a frightful punishment to lie, in the presence of the man she loved. To show herself in this false light was to crown all the infamous intrigues of the park by a denouement equally shameful; it was worse than death, for it was almost equivalent to an admission of guilt.

She still hesitated. She would have given her life to have had Charny utter the falsehood; but such a measure did not occur to him. In his delicacy, he rather feared appearing too anxious to defend her honour.

All these words which we have found necessary for a clear understanding of the situation have taken a much longer time to express than actually intervened between the king's questions. In fact, half a minute sufficed these three participants for the decision of their several lines of action. The queen awaited tremblingly the king's next demand.

"Let us hear, madame, what is the favour so warmly solicited which made Monsieur de Charny kneel before you; I may perhaps, more happy than you, be able to grant it," said he.

She hesitated; to lie before the man she loved was agony to her, and she would have given the world for Charny to find the answer. But of this he was incapable.

"Sire, I told you that Monsieur de Charny asked an impossible thing."

"What is it-"

"What can one ask on one's knees-"

"I want to hear."

"Sire, it is a family secret."

"There are no secrets from the king,- a father interested in all his subjects, who are his children, although, like unnatural children, they may sometimes attack the honour and safety of their father."

This speech made the queen tremble anew.

"Monsieur de Charny asked," replied she, "permission to marry."

"Really," cried the king, reassured for a moment. Then, after a pause, he said, "But why should it be impossible for Monsieur de Charny to marry- Is he not noble- Has he not a good fortune- Is he not brave and handsome- Really, to refuse him, the lady ought to be a princess, or already married. I can see no other reason for an impossibility. Therefore, madame, tell me the name of the lady who is loved by Monsieur de Charny, and let me see if I cannot remove the difficulty."

The queen, forced to continue her falsehood, replied, "No, sire; there are difficulties which even you cannot remove, and the present one is of this nature."

"Still I wish to hear," replied the king, his anger returning.-

Charny looked at the queen,- she seemed ready to faint. He made a step towards her and then drew back. How dared he approach her in the king's presence-

"Oh!" thought she, "for an idea,- something that the king can neither doubt nor disbelieve." Then suddenly a thought struck her. She who has dedicated herself to Heaven the king cannot influence. "Sire!" she cried, "she whom Monsieur de Charny wishes to marry is in a convent."

"Oh! that is a difficulty, no doubt. But this seems a very sudden love of Monsieur de Charny's. I have never heard of it from any one. Who is the lady you love, Monsieur de Charny-"

The queen felt in despair, not knowing what he would say, and dreading to hear him name any one. But Charny could not reply. So, after a pause, she cried, "Sire, you know her, it is Andree de Taverney."

Charny buried his face in his hands; the queen pressed her hand to her heart, and could hardly support herself.

"Mademoiselle de Taverney- but she has gone to Saint- Denis."

"Yes, Sire," replied the queen.

"But she has taken no vows."

"No, but she is about to do so."

"We will see if we can persuade her. Why should she take the vows- "

"She is poor," said the queen.

"That I can soon alter, madame, if Monsieur de Charny loves her."

The queen shuddered, and cast a glance at the young man, as if begging him to deny it. He did not speak.

"And I dare say," continued the king, taking his silence for consent, "that Mademoiselle de Taverney loves Monsieur de Charny. I will give her as dowry the 500,000 francs which I refused the other day to you. Thank the queen, Monsieur de Charny, for telling me of this, and insuring your happiness."

Charny bowed like a pale statue which had received au instant's life.

"Oh, it is worth kneeling again for!" said the king.

The queen trembled, and stretched out her hand to the young man, who left on it a burning kiss.

"Now," said the king, "come with me."

Monsieur de Charny turned once, to read the anguish in the eyes of the queen, and the door was closed between them. Henceforth a barrier impassable to innocent love divided them.

CHAPTER LXXXI. SAINT-DENIS.

The queen remained alone and despairing. So many blows had struck her that she hardly knew from which she suffered most. How she longed to retract the words she had spoken, to take from Andree even the chance of the happiness which she still hoped she would refuse; but if she refused, would not the king's suspicions re-awaken, and everything seem only the worse for this falsehood- Marie Antoinette felt her reason giving way in the presence of all these reflections; she buried her burning face in her hands and waited. If she could only confide in some one. What true friend had she at court- Madame de Lamballe- Oh, she would meet all her anxieties with cold, calm judgment. Why should she tempt this maiden imagination- And the ladies of the court- They who fawned upon her in her prosperity, while all the time their hearts were filled with petty jealousies, they would not understand her fine feelings; or would perhaps, in their superiority, take pleasure in giving their frivolous queen a lesson in propriety. Only Mademoiselle de Taverney herself remained. Hers was a heart like a diamond, whose decrees might be painful, but whose deep sympathies and pure loyalty would enable her alone to comprehend the depth and nature of the queen's grief. She would then seek Mademoiselle Andree at once; she would disclose to her all her unhappiness, and would entreat her to sacrifice herself for her queen. Very likely Andree would refuse, for she was not a person to be imposed upon; but, perhaps, by dint of persuasion and entreaties, she might at last consent. Perhaps a delay might be arranged. After the first blaze had died away, the king, appeased by the apparent acquiescence of the two fiancés, might think no more about it. Then a voyage might facilitate matters. After a while Andrew and Charny, having waited until the hunger of this hydra of calumny should have been satiated, might let it appear that they had amicably decided to break their engagement, and no one would suspect that this matrimonial project had been only a farce from the beginning.

By that plan, the liberty of Mademoiselle de Taverney would not have been compromised, nor would Charny have lost his. The queen would not have had the bitter remorse of having sacrificed two lives for the maintenance of her own honour. And, moreover, this honour, which also included that of her husband and children, would remain spotless; she could transmit it without blemish to the future Queen of France.

Thus she believed that she had conciliated all in advance, the proprieties and individual interests. In the presence of such a frightful catastrophe she had needed all her reasoning powers; and she felt the necessity of all her defences in combating an adversary like Mademoiselle de Taverney when her pride rather than her heart should be attacked.

Having made up her mind, she decided to seek Andree as soon as possible. She would have liked to have seen Charny, and to have told him her plans, that he might act in harmony with them; but she feared that she was watched, and that any such movement on her part would only awaken suspicion. She also knew that Charny's strength of character, and his devotion to herself, would make him ratify whatever course might seem wisest to her.

Three o'clock arrived, the state dinner and the presentations; and the queen went through all with a serene and smiling air. When all was over she changed her dress, got into her carriage, and without any guards and only one companion drove to Saint-Denis, and asked to see Andree. Andree was at that moment kneeling, dressed in her white peignoir, and praying with fervour. She had quitted the court voluntarily, and separated herself from all that could feed her love; but she could not stifle her regrets and bitter feelings. Had she not seen Charny apparently indifferent towards her, while the queen occupied all his thoughts- Why, then, should she remain at Versailles- To beg compliments- to gather smiles- to obtain from time to time the offer of an arm, a hand, when the queen in her walks lent him to her, only because she could not at the time receive these attentions from him for herself- No, no cowardly yielding for her; no compromise for this proud spirit. Life at the court when love and preference were hers; that in the cloister when love and wounded pride were her portion. " Never! Never!" repeated Andree to herself; "he whom I love in secret shall be to me only a cloud, a portrait, a memory, which can never wound me, which will smile on me and me only."

Thus reasoning, she consumed many sorrowful nights; thus, free to weep when she was too weak to control her emotions, to rage when she overcame her feelings of wounded pride, Andree preferred this voluntary exile, imposed upon herself by her love and her dignity, to remaining where she might at any time see again the man whom she hated because she could not help loving him. For the rest, these mute confessions of a pure love, these ecstatic reveries of a solitary dreamer, were more congenial to the stern Andree than the frivolous fetes at Versailles and the necessity of restraining herself in the presence of her rivals; not to mention the ever present fear of some day letting the secret enclosed in her inmost heart escape. While she was thus engaged in her bitter reveries, as we have already said, the queen arrived. Yet, when she heard that the queen was asking for her, she felt a thrill of pleasure and delight. She threw a mantle over her shoulders, and hastened to see her; but on the way she reproached herself with the pleasure that she felt, endeavouring to think that the queen and the court had alike ceased to interest her.

When she heard the queen's name on the lips of all around, when she perceived Marie Antoinette seated in an easy-chair, while the heads of the chapter pressed around her to offer their homage, Andree felt her heart beat rapidly, and stood still a few seconds to collect her scattered thoughts.

"Ah! come here, Andree," said the queen, half smiling, "I wish to talk to you."

Andree approached, and bowed respectfully.

"Allow me, madame," said the queen, turning toward the lady superior.

The latter replied by a courtesy, and left the room, followed by all the devotees.

The queen remained alone with Andree, whose heartbeats might have been heard had not the slow sounds of the pendulum of the old timepiece drowned all lesser noises.

CHAPTER LXXXII. A DEAD HEART.

," continued the queen, "it looks strange to see you in this dress; to see an old friend and companion already lost to life is like a warning to ourselves from the tomb."

"Madame, no one has a right to warn or counsel your Majesty. Even death cannot forewarn the queen."

"What do you mean-"

"I mean, madame, that a queen is destined by the very nature of her position to suffer only inevitable necessities. She has every facility for ameliorating her lot; she takes from others whatever may conduce to her own welfare."

The queen made a movement of surprise.

Andree continued hastily, " And it is her right. Around the queen are subjects, the one object of whose existence is to contribute their lives, their goods, moral or material, even their honour, to their sovereign, to whom all these things belong."

"Such doctrines astonish me," said Marie Antoinette. "You represent a queen as a kind of ogress, who feeds on the fortune and the happiness of her subjects. Do you think me that kind of woman, Andree- Had you to complain of me when you were at court- "

"Your Majesty was good enough to ask me that question when I took leave, and I replied then, as now, ' No, madame.'"

"But often," said the queen, "a grief hurts us which is not personal. Have I injured any one belonging to you- Andree, the retreat which you have chosen is an asylum against evil passions; here God teaches gentleness, moderation, and forgiveness of injuries. I come as a friend, and ask you to receive me as such. Am I to meet the reproaches of an enemy-"

Andree felt touched. "Your Majesty knows," said she, "that the Taverneys cannot be your enemies."

"I understand," replied the queen; "you cannot pardon me for having been cold to your brother, and perhaps he himself accuses me of caprice."

"My brother is too respectful a subject to accuse the queen," said Andree coldly.

The queen saw that it was useless to try and propitiate Andree on this subject; so she said only, "Well, at least I am ever your friend."

"Your Majesty overwhelms me with your goodness."

"Do not speak thus; cannot the queen have a friend-"

"I assure you, madame, that I have loved you as much as I shall ever love any one in this world." She coloured as she spoke.

"You have loved me; then you love me no more- Can a cloister so quickly extinguish all affection and all remembrance- If so, it is a cursed place."

"Do not accuse my heart, madame; it is dead."

"Your heart dead, Andree! You so young and beautiful!"

"I repeat to you, madame, nothing in the court, nothing in the world, is any more to me. Here I live like the herb or the flower,- alone for myself. I entreat you to pardon me; this forgetfulness of the glorious vanities of the world is no crime. My confessor congratulates me on it every day."

"Then you like the convent- "

"I embrace with pleasure a solitary life."

"Nothing remains which attracts you back to the world- "

"Nothing!"

"Mon Dieu!" thought the queen; "shall I fail- If nothing else will succeed, I must have recourse to entreaties,- to beg her to accept Monsieur de Charny. Heavens, how unhappy I am! "

"Andree," she said, " what you say takes from me the hope I had conceived."

"What hope, madame- "

"Oh! if you are as decided as you appear to be, it is useless to speak."

"If your Majesty would explain- "

"You never regret what you have done-"

"Never, madame."

"Then it is superfluous to speak; and I yet hoped to make you happy."

"Me-"

"Yes, you, ingrate; but you know best your inclinations."

"Still, if your Majesty would tell me- "

"Oh, it is simple; I wished you to return to court."

"Never! Never, madame! I return to the court- No, much as it costs me to disobey your Majesty."

The queen shuddered; her heart was filled with inexpressible anxiety. She, like a mighty ship, was wrecked on an atom of granite. "You refuse-" she murmured. And she hid her face in her hands. Andree, believing her overwhelmed, knelt before her, endeavouring to assuage the wound she had inflicted upon either her pride or her affection.

"Oh, madame, why should you wish me- sorrowful, poor, despised, avoided by every one, incapable of inspiring sympathy in either sex! Ah, madame, and dear mistress, leave me here to become worthy to be accepted by God, for even He would reject me at present."

"But," said the queen, "what I was about to propose to you would have removed all these humiliations of which you complain,- a marriage, which would have made you one of our great ladies."

"A marriage-" stammered Andree.

"Yes."

"Oh, I refuse, I refuse!"

"Andree! " cried the queen, in a supplicating voice.

"Ah, no, I refuse!"

Marie Antoinette prepared herself, with a fearfully- palpitating heart, for her last resource; but as she hesitated, Andree said, "But, madarne, tell me the name of the man who is willing to think of me as his companion for life. I have suffered so many humiliations in my life that the name of this generous man "- she smiled in bitter irony- "shall be a balm which I may apply to all my future wounds."

The queen hesitated; but was impelled to go on to the bitter end.

"Monsieur de Charny," said she.

"Monsieur de Charny-"

"Yes; the nephew of Monsieur de Suffren."

"It is he!" cried Andree, with burning cheeks, and sparkling eyes; "he consents- "

"He asks you in marriage."

"Oh, I accept, I accept, for I love him!"

The queen became livid, and sank back trembling, whilst Andree kissed her hands, bathing them with her tears. "Oh, I am ready!" murmured she.

"Come, then!" cried the queen, who felt as though her strength was failing her, with a last effort to preserve appearances.

Andree left the room to prepare. Then Marie Antoinette cried, with bitter sobs, " Oh, mon Dieu! how can one heart bear so much suffering- And yet I should be thankful, for does it not save my children and myself from shame, and give me the right to die wearing the royal mantle-"

CHAPTER LXXXIII. IN WHICH IT IS EXPLAINED WHY THE BARON DE TAVERNEY GREW FAT.

Meanwhile Philippe was hastening the preparations for his departure; he did not wish to witness the dishonour of the queen, his first and only passion. When all was ready, he requested an interview with his father. For the last three months the baron had been growing fat; he seemed to feed on the scandals circulating at the court,- they were meat and drink to him. When he received his son's message, instead of sending for him, he went to seek him in his room, already full of the disorder consequent on packing. Philippe did not expect much sensibility from his father, still he did not think he would be pleased. Andree had already left him, and it was one less to torment; and he must feel a blank when his son went also. Therefore Philippe was astonished to hear his father call out, with a burst of laughter, "Oh, mon Dieu! he is going away; I was sure of it; I would have bet upon it. Well played, Philippe, well played!"

"What is well played, monsieur-"

"Admirable!" repeated the old man.

"You give me praises, monsieur, which I neither understand nor merit, unless you are pleased at my departure, and glad to get rid of me."

"Oh! oh!" laughed the old man again, "I am not your dupe. Do you think I believe in your departure-"

"You do not believe- Really, monsieur, you surprise

"Yes, it is surprising that I should have guessed. You are quite right to pretend to leave; without this ruse, all probably would have been discovered."

"Monsieur, I protest I do not understand one word of what you say to me."

The old man went up to him and touched his breast with his bony fingers, growing more and more confidential. " On my word of honour," said he, "but for this expedient, I am sure all would have been lost. You have taken the thing in time. To-morrow would have been too late. Go at once, my son, go at once."

"Monsieur," protested Philippe, coldly, "I do not understand you in the least."

"Where have you concealed your horses-" continued the old man, not answering his son's remark. "You have a mare that is easily recognised. Take care that you are not seen here, as you are generally thought to be at- by the way, where have you pretended you were going- "

"I go first to Taverney-Maison-Rouge."

"Very well, but be prudent. There are sharp eyes on you both, and she is so fiery and incautious that you must be prudent for both. What is your address, in case I want to send you any pressing news- "

"Taverney, monsieur."

"Taverney- nonsense! I do not ask you for the address of your house in the park; but choose some third address near here. You, who have managed so well for your love, can easily manage this."

"Monsieur, you play at enigmas, and I cannot find the solution."

"Oh, you are discreet beyond all bounds. However, keep your secrets, tell me nothing of the huntsman's house, nor the nightly walks with two dear friends, nor the rose, nor the kisses."

"Monsieur!" cried Philippe, mad with jealousy and rage, "will you hold your tongue-"

"Well, I know it all, your intimacy with the queen, and your meetings in the Baths of Apollo. Mon Dieu! our fortunes are assured forever."

"Monsieur, you fill me with horror!" cried poor Philippe, hiding his face in his hands. And indeed he felt it, at hearing attributed to himself all the happiness of another. All the rumours that the father had heard, he had assigned to his sou, and believed that it was he that the queen loved, and no one else; hence his perfect contentment and happiness.

"Yes," he went on, "some said it was Rohan; others, that it was Charny; not one that it was Taverney. Oh, you have acted well."

At this moment a carriage was heard to drive up, and a servant, entering, said, "Here is mademoiselle!"

"My sister!" cried Philippe.

Then another servant appeared, and said that Mademoiselle de Taverney wished to speak to her brother in the boudoir.

Another carriage now came to the door.

"Who the devil comes now-" muttered the baron; "it is an evening of adventures."

"Monsieur le Comte de Charny," cried the powerful voice of the porter at the gate.

"Conduct Monsieur le Comte to the drawing-room; my father will see him; and I will go to my sister. What can he want here- " thought Philippe, as he went down.

CHAPTER LXXXIV. THE FATHER AND THE FIANCEE.

Philippe hastened to the boudoir, where his sister awaited him. She ran to embrace him with a joyous air.

"What is it, Andree"-" cried he.

"Something which makes me happy. Oh! very happy, brother."

"And you come back to announce it to me- "

"I come back forever," said Andree.

"Speak low, sister; there is, or is going to be, some one in the next room who might hear you."

"Who-"

"Listen."

"Monsieur le Comte de Charny," announced the servant.

"He 1 oh, I know well what he comes for."

"You know-"

"Yes; and soon I shall be summoned to hear what he has to say."

"Do you speak seriously, my dear Andree- "

"Listen, Philippe. The queen has brought me suddenly back, and I must go and change my dress for one fit for a fiancée." And saying this, with a kiss to Philippe, she ran off.

Philippe remained alone; he could hear what passed in the adjoining room. Monsieur de Taverney entered, and saluted the count with a recherché though stiff politeness.

"I come, monsieur," said Charny, "to make a request, and beg you to excuse my not having brought my uncle with me, which I know would have been more proper."

"A request-"

"I have the honour," continued Charny, in a voice full of emotion, "to ask the hand of Mademoiselle Andree, your daughter."

The baron opened his eyes in astonishment: "My daughter-"

"Yes, Monsieur le Baron; if Mademoiselle de Taverney feels no repugnance."

"Oh," thought the old man, " Philippe's favour is already so well known that one of his rivals wishes to marry his sister." Then aloud, he said, "This request is such an honour to us, Monsieur le Comte, that I accede with much pleasure; and as I should wish you to carry away a perfectly favourable answer, I will send for my daughter."

"Monsieur," interrupted the count, rather coldly, "the queen has been good enough to consult Mademoiselle de Taverney already, and her reply was favourable."

"Ah!" said the baron, more and more astonished, "it is the queen then- "

"Yes, monsieur, who took the trouble to go to Saint- Denis."

"Then, monsieur, it only remains to acquaint you with my daughter's fortune. She is not rich, and before concluding- "

"It is needless, Monsieur le Baron; I am rich enough for both; and Mademoiselle de Taverney is not the kind of woman to be bargained for."

At this moment the door opened, and Philippe entered, pale and wild-looking.

"Monsieur," said he, "my father was right to wish to discuss these things with you. While he goes up stairs to bring the papers, I have something to say to you."

When they were left alone, "Monsieur de Charny," said he, "how dare you come here to ask for the hand of my sister-" Charny coloured. "Is it," continued Philippe, "in order to hide better your amours with another woman whom you love, and who loves you- Is it that by becoming the husband of a woman who is always near your mistress, you will have more facilities for seeing her-"

"Monsieur, you pass all bounds."

"It is, perhaps,- and this is what I believe,- that were I your brother-in-law you think my tongue would be tied about what I know of your past amours."

"What you know-"

"Yes," cried Philippe, "the huntsman's house hired by you, your mysterious promenades in the park at night, and the tender parting at the little gate."

"Monsieur, in Heaven's name- "

"Oh, monsieur, I was concealed behind the Baths of Apollo when you came out, arm in arm with the queen."

Charny was completely overwhelmed for a time; then, after a few moments, he said, "Well, monsieur, even after all this, I reiterate my demand for the hand of your sister. I am not the base calculator you suppose me; but the queen must be saved."

"The queen is not lost, because I saw her on your arm, raising to Heaven her eyes full of happiness; because I know that she loves you. That is no reason why my sister should be sacrificed, Monsieur de Charny, and I will not allow her to be."

"Monsieur," replied Charny, "this morning the king surprised me at her feet-"

"Mon Dieu!"

"And she, pressed by his jealous questions, replied that I was kneeling to ask the hand of your sister; therefore, if I do not marry her, the queen is lost. Do you now understand- "

A cry from the boudoir now interrupted them, followed by another from the antechamber. Charny ran to the boudoir; he saw there Andree, dressed in white like a bride. She had heard all, and had fainted. Philippe ran to where the other cry came from; it was his father, whose hopes this revelation of the queen's love for Charny had just destroyed; struck by apoplexy, he had given his last sigh, and Cagliostro's prophecy was fulfilled. Philippe, who understood it, looked at the corpse for a few minutes in silence, and then returned to the drawing-room, and there saw Charny watching the senseless form of his sister. He then said, "My father has just expired, monsieur; I am now the head of the family. If my sister survive, I will give her to you in marriage."

Charny regarded the corpse of the baron with horror, and the form of Andree with despair. Philippe uttered a groan of agony, then continued, "Monsieur de Charny, I make this engagement in the name of my sister, now lying senseless before us; she will give her happiness to the queen, and I perhaps, some day, shall be happy enough to give my life for her. Adieu, Monsieur de Charny- " And, taking his sister in his arms, he carried her into the next room.

CHAPTER LXXXV. AFTER THE DRAGON, THE VIPER.

Oliva was preparing to fly, as Jeanne had arranged, when Beausire, warned by an anonymous letter, discovered her, and carried her away. In order to trace them, Jeanne put all her powers in requisition. She preferred being able to watch over her own secret, and her disappointment was great when all her agents returned announcing a failure. At this time she received in her hiding-place numerous messages from the queen.

She went by night to Bar-sur-Aube, and there remained for two days. At last she was traced, and an express sent to take her. Then she learned the arrest of the cardinal. "The queen has been rash," thought she, "in refusing to compromise with the cardinal, or to pay the jewellers; but she did not know my power."

"Monsieur," said she to the officer who arrested her "do you love the queen-"

"Certainly, madame."

"Well, in the name of that love, I beg you to conduct me straight to her. Believe me, you will be doing her a service."

The man was persuaded, and did so. The queen received her haughtily, for she began to suspect that her conduct had not been straightforward. Imagine Marie Antoinette forever widowed in her love, and blighted by the breath of scandal which she could not refute; imagine her, after so many sufferings, preparing to tread on the head of the venomous serpent which had bitten her. Supreme disdain, ill-concealed wrath, hatred of woman for woman, the sense of her incomparable superiority in position, were the various weapons of the adversaries. The queen had two witnesses summoned from among her ladies of honour. One advanced, with downcast eyes, compressed lips, and a slow and respectful obeisance; the other, with a full heart, a lively imagination, and, above all, with despair for her motive power. Madame de la Motte observed these two witnesses. "Good," said she, to herself, "these two will soon be dismissed."

"You are found at last, madame," said the queen; " why did you hide- "

"I did not hide, madame."

"Run away, then, if that pleases you better."

"That is to say, that I quitted Paris. I had some little' business at Bar-sur-Aube, and, to tell the truth, I did not know I was so necessary to your Majesty as to be obliged to ask leave for an absence of eight days."

"Have you seen the king-"

"No, madame."

"You shall see him."

"It will be a great honour for me; but your Majesty seems very severe towards me, I am all trembling."

"Oh, madame, this is but the beginning. Do you know that Monsieur de Rohan has been arrested-"

"They told me so, madame."

"You guess why-"

"No, madame."

"You proposed to me that he should pay for a certain necklace; did I accept or refuse-"

"Refuse."

"Ah!" said the queen, well pleased.

"Your Majesty even paid 200,000 francs on account."

"Well, and afterwards-"

"Afterwards, as your Majesty could not pay, you sent it back to Monsieur Boehmer."

"By whom-"

"Byrne."

"And what did you do with it-"

"I took it to the cardinal."

"And why to the cardinal, instead of to the jewellers, as I told you-"

"Because I thought he would be hurt if I returned it without letting him know."

"But how did you get a receipt from the jewellers-"

"Monsieur de Rohan gave it to me."

"But why did you take a letter to them as coming from me-"

"Because he gave it to me, and asked me to do so."

"It is, then, all his doing-"

"What is, madame-"

"The receipt and the letter are both forged."

"Forged, madame!" cried Jeanne, with much apparent astonishment.

"Well, you must be confronted with him to prove the truth."

"Why, madame-"

"He himself demands it. He says he has sought you everywhere, and that he wishes to prove that you have deceived him."

"Oh! then, madame, let us meet."

"You shall. You deny all knowledge of where the necklace is-"

"How should I know, madame-"

"You deny having aided the cardinal in his intrigues-"

"I am a Valois, madame."

"But Monsieur de Rohan maintained before the king many calumnies, which he said you would confirm."

"I do not understand."

"He declares he wrote to me."

Jeanne did not reply.

"Do you hear-" said the queen.

"Yes, madame."

"What do you reply-"

"I will reply when I have seen him."

"But speak the truth now."

"Your Majesty overwhelms me."

"That is no answer."

"I will give no other here;" and she looked at the two ladies. The queen understood, but would not yield; she scorned to purchase anything by concession.

"Monsieur de Rohan," said the queen, "was sent to the Bastille for saying too much; take care, madame, that you are not sent for saying too little."

Jeanne smiled. "A pure conscience can brave persecution," she replied; "the Bastille will not convict me of a crime I did not commit."

"Will you reply-"

"Only to your Majesty."

"Are you not speaking to me-"

"Not alone."

"Ah! you fear scandal, after being the cause of so much to me."

"What I did," said Jeanne, "was done for you."

"What insolence!"

"1 submit to the insults of my queen."

"You will sleep in the Bastille to-night, madame!"

"So be it. I will first pray to God to preserve your Majesty's honour."

The queen rose furiously, and went into the next room.

"After having conquered the dragon," she said, "I can crush the viper!"

"I know her game," said Jeanne, "and I think I have won already."

CHAPTER LXXXVI. HOW IT CAME TO PASS THAT MONSIEUR BEAUSIRE WAS TRACKED BY THE AGENTS OF MONSIEUR DE CROSNE.

Madame De La Motte was imprisoned, as the queen had threatened, and the whole affair created no little talk and excitement through Prance. Monsieur de Rohan lived at the Bastille like a prince; he had everything but liberty. This lawsuit was at first regarded as a trivial affair, considering the rank of the persons accused. Indeed, any one might well have been astonished that a Rohan should be accused of robbery. The officers and the governor of the Bastille evinced toward the cardinal all the deference and respect due to an unfortunate man. For them he was not a guilty person, but merely a man out of favour at court. When the news was spread abroad that the cardinal was merely the victim of a court intrigue, the sympathy felt toward the prince was changed to enthusiasm. And Monsieur de Rohan, one of the first among the nobles of France, did not comprehend that the sympathy of the people was evoked by the fact that they thought him persecuted by others above him in rank. Monsieur de Rohan, the last victim of despotism, had become in reality one of the earliest revolutionists in France. He demanded to be confronted with Madame de la Motte, as soon as he heard of her arrest. This was done. She whispered to him, "Send every one away, and I will explain." He asked this, but was refused; they said his counsel might communicate with her. She said to this gentleman that she was ignorant of what had become of the necklace, but that they might well have given it to her in recompense for the services she had rendered the queen and the cardinal, which were well worth a million. The cardinal turned pale on hearing this repeated, and felt how much they were in Jeanne's power. He was determined not to accuse the queen, although his friends endeavoured to convince him that it was his only way to prove his innocence of the robbery. Jeanne said that she did not wish to accuse either the queen or the cardinal, but that if they persisted in making her responsible for the necklace, she would do so to show that they were interested in accusing her of falsehood. Then Monsieur de Rohan expressed all his contempt for her, and said that he began to understand much of Jeanne's conduct, but not the queen's. All this was reported to Marie Antoinette. She ordered another private examination of the parties, but gained nothing from it. Jeanne denied everything to those sent by the queen; but when they were gone she altered her tone, and said, "If they do not leave me alone, I will tell all." The cardinal said nothing, and brought no accusations; but rumours began to spread fast, and the question soon became, not "Has the queen stolen the necklace-" but "Has she allowed some one else to steal it because she knew all about her amours-" Madame de la Motte had involved her in a maze from which there seemed no honourable exit; but she determined not to lose courage. She began to come to the conclusion that the cardinal was an honest man, and did not wish to ruin her, but was acting, like herself, only to preserve his honour. They strove earnestly but ineffectually to trace the necklace. All opinions were against Jeanne, and she began to fear that, even if she dragged down the queen and cardinal, she should be quite overwhelmed under the ruins she had caused; and she had not even at hand the fruits of her dishonesty to corrupt her judges with. Affairs were in this state when a new episode changed the face of things.

Oliva and Monsieur Beausire were living, happy and rich, in a country house, when one day Beausire, going out hunting, fell into the company of two of the agents of Monsieur de Crosne, whom he had scattered all over the country. They recognised Beausire immediately, but, as it was Oliva whom they most wanted, they did not arrest him there, but only joined the chase. Beausire, seeing two strangers, called the huntsman, and asked who they were. He replied that he did not know, but, if he had permission, would send them away. On his questioning them, they said they were friends of that gentleman, pointing to Monsieur Beausire. Then the man brought them to him, saying, "Monsieur de Linville, these gentlemen say they are friends of yours."

"Ah, you are called De Linville now, dear Monsieur Beausire."

Beausire trembled; he had concealed his name so carefully. He sent away the huntsman, and asked them who they were.

"Take us home with you, and we will tell you."

"Home-"

"Yes; do not be inhospitable."

Beausire was frightened, but still feared to refuse these men who knew him.

He lost his head; instead of conducting these men to his house, he let them conduct him. As soon as they espied the little house, they began to enlarge upon its beauties, its view, its trees, and so on. Indeed, Beausire had selected a beautiful spot. It was in a valley near the river, the house itself being somewhat elevated. Only on one side could it be perceived; on the three others, the trees and knoll hid it from view.

"How well one might hide in this house!" said an agent to him.

Beausire shuddered at his pleasantry, and entered the house first; the agents were forced by politeness to follow him.

CHAPTER LXXXVII THE TURTLES ARE CAGED.

Beausire, on entering the house, made a noise to attract Oliva's attention, for, though he knew nothing about her later escapades, he knew enough about the ball at the Opera, and the morning at Monsieur Mesmer's, to make him fear letting her be seen by strangers. Accordingly, Oliva, hearing the dogs bark, looked out, and, seeing Beausire returning with two strangers, did not come to meet him as usual. Unfortunately the servant asked if he should call madame. The men rallied him about the lady whom he had concealed; he let them laugh, but did not offer to call her. They dined; then Beausire asked where they had met him before.

"We are," replied they, " friends of one of your associates in a little affair about the Portuguese embassy."

Beausire turned pale.

"Ah!" said he, "and you came on your friend's part-"

"Yes, dear Monsieur Beausire, to ask for 10,000 francs."

"Gentlemen," replied Beausire, "you cannot think I have such a sum in the house."

"Very likely not, monsieur; we do not ask for impossibilities. How much have you- "

"Not more than fifty or sixty louis."

"We will take them to begin with."

"Ah!" thought Beausire, deceived by their complacency, " they are really well disposed. It may be that they are as afraid of me as I of them. I will try to find out." He reflected that these men, should they make any outburst, would only implicate their accomplices; and that would be a poor recommendation for themselves in the estimation of the magistrate of the neighbourhood. Beausire concluded that they would declare themselves satisfied, and would keep a strict silence.

He even went so far in his imagination as to regret not having offered them thirty instead of sixty louis; but he decided to make them refund part of the money. Beausire reckoned without his host. His guests, rejoicing in the satisfaction of a good meal, were too comfortable to pretend to be anything but complacent.

"Here is a charming friend, this Beausire," said the positive to his companion. "The sixty louis he offers us are pleasant to take."

"I will go and fetch them," said Beausire.

But they did not choose to let him leave the room without them, so they caught hold of him by the coat, saying,-

"Oh, no, dear Monsieur Beausire, do not leave us."

"But how am I to get the money if I do not leave you-"

"We will go with you."

"But it is in my wife's bedroom."

"Ah," cried one of them, "you hide your wife from us! "

"Are we not presentable-" asked the other. "We wish to see her."

"You are tipsy, and I will turn you out," said Beausire.

They laughed.

"Now you shall not even have the money I promised," said he, emboldened by what he thought their intoxication; and he ran out of the room.

They followed and caught him; he cried out, and at the sound a door opened, and a woman looked out with a frightened air. On seeing her, the men released Beausire, and gave a cry of exultation, for they recognised immediately her who resembled the Queen of France so strongly.

Beausire, who believed them for a moment disarmed by the sight of a woman, was soon cruelly undeceived.

One of the men approached Oliva, and said,-

"I arrest yon."

"Arrest her! Why- " cried Beausire.

''Because it is Monsieur de Crosne's orders."

A thunderbolt falling between the lovers would have frightened them less than this declaration.

At last Beausire said, " You came to arrest me-"

"No; it was a chance."

"Never mind, you might have arrested me; and for sixty louis you were about to leave me at liberty."

"Oh, no, we should have asked another sixty; however, for one hundred and twenty we will do so."

"And madame-"

"Oh, that is quite a different affair."

"She is worth two hundred louis," said Beausire.

They laughed again, and this time Beausire began to understand this terrible laugh.

"Three hundred, four hundred, a thousand,- see, I will give you one thousand louis to leave her at liberty."

They did not answer.

"Is not that enough- Ah, you know I have money, and you want to make me pay. Well, I will give you two thousand louis; it will make both your fortunes."

"For 100,000 crowns we would not give up this woman. Monsieur de Rohan will give us 600,000 francs for her, and the queen 1,000,000. Now we must go. You doubtless have a carriage of some kind here; have it prepared for madame. We will take you also, for form's sake; but on the way you can escape, and we will shut our eyes."

Beausire replied, "Where she goes, I will go; I will never leave her."

"Oh, so much the better! the more prisoners we bring Monsieur de Crosne, the better he will be pleased."

A quarter of an hour after, Beausire's carriage started, with the two lovers in it.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. THE LIBRARY OF THE QUEEN.

One may imagine the effect of this capture on Monsieur de Crosne. The agents probably did not receive the one million francs they hoped for, but there is reason to believe they were satisfied. Monsieur de Crosne went to Versailles, followed by another carriage well guarded; he asked to see the queen, and was instantly admitted. She judged from his face that he had good news for her, and felt the first sensation of joy she had experienced for a month.

"Madame," said Monsieur de Crosne, "have you a room here where you can see without being seen-"

"Oh, yes, my library."

"Well, madame, I have a carriage below, in which is some one whom I wish to introduce into the castle unseen by any one."

"Nothing more easy," replied the queen, ringing to give her orders.

All was executed as he wished. Then she conducted Monsieur de Crosne to the library, where, concealed from view behind a large screen, she soon saw enter a form which made her utter a cry of surprise. It was Oliva, dressed in one of her own favourite costumes,- a green dress with broad stripes of black moiré, green satin slippers with high heels, and her hair dressed like her own. It might have been herself reflected in the glass.

"What says your Majesty to this resemblance-" asked Monsieur de Crosne triumphantly.

"Incredible," said the queen. She then thought to herself, "Ah! Charny, why are you not here-"

"What does your Majesty wish-"

"Nothing, monsieur, but that the king should know."

"And Monsieur de Provence see her- Shall he not, madame-"

"Thanks, Monsieur de Crosne; you hold now, I think, the clue to the whole plot."

"Nearly so, madame."

"And Monsieur de Rohan-"

"Knows nothing yet."

"Ah!" cried the queen, "in this woman, doubtless, lies all his error."

"Possibly, madame; but if it be his error, it is the crime of some one else."

"Seek well, monsieur; the honour of France is in your hands."

"Believe me worthy of the trust. At present, the accused parties deny everything. I shall wait for the proper time to overwhelm them with this living witness that I now hold."

"Madame de la Motte-"

"Knows nothing of this capture. She accuses Monsieur de Cagliostro of having excited the cardinal to say what he did."

"And what does Monsieur de Cagliostro say-"

"He has promised to come to me this morning. He is a dangerous man, but a useful one; and attacked by Madame de la Motte, I am in hopes he will sting back again."

"You hope for revelations-"

"I do."

"How so, monsieur- Tell me everything which can reassure me."

"These are my reasons, madame. Madame de la Motte lived in the Rue Saint-Claude, and Monsieur de Cagliostro just opposite her. So I think her movements cannot have been unnoticed by him; but, if your Majesty will excuse me, it is close to the time he appointed to meet me."

"Go, monsieur, go; and assure yourself of my gratitude."

When he was gone, the queen burst into tears. " My justification begins," said she. "I shall soon read my triumph in all faces; but the one I most cared to know me innocent, him I shall not see."

Monsieur de Crosne drove back to Paris, where Monsieur de Cagliostro waited for him. He knew all; for he had discovered Beausire's retreat, and was on the road to see him, and induce him to leave France, when he met the carriage containing Beausire and Oliva. Beausire saw the count, and the idea crossed his mind that he might help them. He therefore accepted the offer of the police agents, gave them the hundred louis, and made his escape, in spite of the tears shed by Oliva, saying, "I go to try and save you." He ran after Monsieur de Cagliostro's carriage, which he soon overtook, as the count had stopped, it being useless to proceed. Beausire soon told his story; Cagliostro listened in silence, then said, "She is lost."

"Why so-" Then Cagliostro told him all he did not already know,- all the intrigues in the park.

"Oh, save her!" cried Beausire; "and I will give her to you, if you love her still."

"My friend," replied Cagliostro, "you deceive yourself; I never loved Mademoiselle Oliva. I had but one aim,- that of weaning her from the life of debauchery she was leading with you."

"But- " said Beausire.

"That astonishes you. Know that I belong to a society whose object is moral reform. Ask her if ever she heard from my mouth one word of gallantry, or if my services were not disinterested."

"Oh, monsieur! but will you save her-"

"I will try; but it will depend on yourself."

"I will do anything."

"Then return with me to Paris, and if you follow my instructions implicitly, we may succeed in saving her. I only impose one condition, which I will tell you when I reach home."

"I promise beforehand. But can I see her again-"

"I think so, and you can tell her what I say to you." In two hours they overtook the carriage containing Oliva, and Beausire bought, for fifty louis, permission to embrace her and tell her all the count had, said. The agents admired this violent love, and hoped for more louis, but Beausire was gone. Cagliostro drove him to Paris.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE CABINET OF MONSIEUR DE CROSNE.

We will now return to Monsieur de Crosne. This gentleman knew a good deal about Cagliostro,- his former names, his pretensions to ubiquity and perpetual regeneration, his secrets in alchemy and magnetism, and looked upon him as a great charlatan.

"Monsieur," said he to Cagliostro, "you asked me for an audience; I have returned from Versailles to meet you."

"Monsieur, I thought you would wish to question me about; what is passing, so I came to you."

"Question you-" said the magistrate, affecting surprise. "On what-"

"Monsieur," replied Cagliostro, "you are much occupied about Madame de la Motte and the missing necklace."

"Have you found it-" asked Monsieur de Crosne, laughing.

"No, monsieur, but Madame de la Motte lived in the Rue Saint-Claude- "

"I know, opposite you."

"Oh, if you know all about Oliva, I have nothing more to tell you."

"Who is Oliva-"

"You do not know- Then, monsieur, imagine a young girl very pretty, with blue eyes and an oval face,- a style of beauty something like her Majesty, for instance."

"Well, monsieur-"

"This young girl led a bad life. It gave me pain to see it, for she was once in the service of an old friend of mine, Monsieur de Taverney- But I weary you."

"Oh, no, pray go on.:

"Well, Oliva led not only a bad life, but an unhappy one, with a fellow she called her lover, who beat and robbed her."

"Beausire," said the magistrate.

"Ah! you know him. You are still more a magician than I am. Well, one day when Beausire had beaten the poor girl more than usual, she fled to me for refuge; I pitied her, and gave her shelter in one of my houses."

"In your house! " cried Monsieur de Crosne, in surprise.

"Oh! why not- I am a bachelor," said Cagliostro, with an air which quite deceived Monsieur de Crosne.

"That is, then, the reason why my agents could not find her."

"What! you were seeking this little girl- Had she, then, been guilty of any crime-"

"No, monsieur, no; pray go on."

"Oh, I have done. I lodged her at my house, and that is all."

"No, monsieur, for you just now associated her name with that of Madame de la Motte."

"Only as neighbours."

"But, monsieur, this Oliva, whom you say you had in your house, I found in the country with Beausire."

"With Beausire- Ah! then I have wronged Madame de la Motte."

"How so, monsieur-"

"Why, just as I thought I had hopes of reforming Oliva, and bringing her back to an honest life, some one carried her away from me."

"That is strange."

"Is it not- And I firmly believed it to be Madame de la Motte. But as you found her with Beausire, it was not she, and all her signals and correspondence with Oliva meant nothing."

"With Oliva-"

"Yes."

"They met-"

"Yes, Madame de la Motte found a way to take Oliva out every night."

"Are you sure of this-"

"I saw and heard her."

"Oh, monsieur, you tell me what I would have paid for with a thousand francs a word. But you are a friend of Monsieur de Rohan- "

"Yes."

"You ought to know how far he was connected with this affair."

"I do not wish to know."

"But you know the object of these nightly excursions of Madame de la Motte and Oliva- "

"Of that also I wish to be ignorant."

"Monsieur, I only wish to ask you one more question. Have you proofs of the correspondence of Madame de la Motte and Oliva-"

"Plenty."

"What are they-"

"Notes which Madame de la Motte used to throw over to Oliva with a cross-bow. Several of them did not reach their destination, and were picked up either by myself or my servants in the street."

"Monsieur, you will be ready to produce them if called upon-"

"Certainly; they are perfectly innocent, and cannot injure any one."

"And have you any other proofs of intimacy-"

"I know that she had a method of entering my house to see Oliva. I saw her myself, just after Oliva had disappeared, and my servants saw her also."

"But what did she come for, if Oliva was gone-"

"I did not know. I saw her come out of a carriage at the corner of the street. My idea was that she wished to attach Oliva to her, and keep her near her."

"And you let her do it-"

"Why not- She is a great lady, and received at court. Why should I have prevented her taking charge of Oliva, and taking her off my hands-"

"What did she say when she found that Oliva was gone-"

"She appeared distressed."

"You suppose that Beausire carried her off- "

"I suppose so, for you tell me you found them together. I did not suspect him before, for he did not know where she was."

"She must have let him know herself."

"I think not, as she had fled from him. I think Madame de la Motte must have sent him a key."

"Ah! what day was it- "

"The evening of Saint-Louis."

"Monsieur, you have rendered a great service to me and to the state."

"I am happy to hear it."

"You shall be thanked as you deserve. I may count on the production of the proofs you mention- "

"I am ready, monsieur, to assist justice at all times."

As Cagliostro left, he muttered, " Ah, countess, you tried to accuse me! Take care of yourself! "

CHAPTER XC. THE EXAMINATIONS.

While Monsieur de Crosne was talking thus with Cagliostro, Monsieur de Breteuil went to the Bastille to question Monsieur de Rohan on behalf of the king. The interview between these two enemies could not be otherwise than stormy. Monsieur de Rohan knew the haughty disposition of the cardinal, and was more than polite in his advances; but the cardinal positively refused to answer him, saying that the case was in the hands of the Parliament and the judges, and that he should leave it there.

Meanwhile, Monsieur de Breteuil was sent by the king to examine Madame de la Motte. She declared that she had proofs of her innocence, which she would produce at the proper time; she also declared that she would only speak the truth in the presence of the cardinal. She was told that the cardinal laid all the blame upon her. " Tell him, then," she said, "that I advise him not to persist in such a foolish system of defence."

"Whom, then, do you accuse-" asked Monsieur de Breteuil.

"I accuse no one," was her reply.

A report was spread at last that the diamonds were being sold in England by Monsieur Reteau de Villette. This man was soon found and arrested, and brought over and confronted with Jeanne. To her utter confusion, he acknowledged that he had forged a receipt from the jewellers, and a letter from the queen, at the request of Madame de la Motte. She denied Reteau's testimony furiously, and declared that she had never seen Monsieur Reteau. Monsieur de Crosne produced as witness a coachman, who swore to having driven her, on the day named, to the house of Monsieur Reteau. Also, one of the servants of Monsieur de Cagliostro deposed to having seen this man on the box of Jeanne's carriage on the night that she came to his master's house. Jeanne then began to abuse the count, and accused him of having inspired Monsieur de Rohan with ideas inimical to the royal dignity. This was the first link in the charge of adultery. Monsieur de Rohan defended him, and Jeanne at once plainly accused the cardinal of a violent love for the queen. Monsieur de Cagliostro requested to be incarcerated, and allowed to prove his innocence publicly. Then the queen caused to be published all the reports made to the king about the nocturnal promenades, and requested Monsieur de Crosne to state all that he knew about it. This public avowal overturned all Jeanne's plans, and she denied having assisted at any meetings between the queen and the cardinal. This declaration would have cleared the queen, had it been possible to attach any credence to what this woman said.

While Jeanne continued to deny that she had ever been in the park, they brought forward Oliva at last, a living witness of all the falsehoods of the countess. When Oliva was shown to the cardinal- Oliva, the queen of the cross-roads, the donor of the rose, the companion in the Baths of Apollo- the blow was dreadful. He saw at last how infamously he had been played upon. This man, so full of delicacy and noble passions, discovered that an adventuress had led him to insult and despise the Queen of France,- a woman whom he loved, and who was innocent. He would have shed all his blood at the feet of Marie Antoinette to make atonement. But he could not even acknowledge his mistake without owning that he loved her, even his excuse would involve an offence; so he was obliged to keep silent, and allow Jeanne to deny everything. Oliva confessed all, without reserve. At last Jeanne, driven from every hold, confessed that she had deceived the cardinal, but declared that it was done with the consent of the queen, who watched and enjoyed the scene hidden behind the trees. To this story she kept; the queen could never disprove it, and there were plenty of people willing to believe it true.

CHAPTER XCI. THE LAST HOPE LOST.

Here the affair therefore rested, for Jeanne was determined to share the blame with some one, as she could not turn it from herself. All her calculations had been defeated by the frankness with which the queen had met, and made public, every accusation against her.

All around her, the followers of Monsieur de Breteuil, advised her to spare the queen, but to accuse the cardinal mercilessly. On the other hand, the friends and well- wishers of the cardinal, his numerous and influential relatives, advised Madame de la Motte to tell the whole truth, to expose all the court intrigues, and to spread the report so universally that its weight would fall with mortal violence on the crowned heads. This latter party sought to intimidate Jeanne; it represented to her- what she already knew only too well- that the majority of the judges favoured the cardinal, and that she would be needlessly bruised in the conflict. They added, that perhaps, under the present circumstances, it would be better for her to allow herself to be condemned for the affair of the diamonds than to run the risk of punishment for high treason, which was certain death.

This party seemed positive of victory, and they won it. The enthusiasm of the people went forth to the cardinal, whose patience the men admired, while the women praised his discretion. The men were indignant because they considered him to have been treacherously deceived; the women would not believe that he had been deceived at all. Many people denied Oliva's existence completely; while others, who were forced to admit their knowledge of her confessions, believed her to have been sought by the queen expressly for this purpose.

Jeanne reflected deeply. Her lawyers abandoned her, her judges did not pretend to disguise their scorn, while the Rohans attacked her vigorously. Public opinion was also against her. She resolved on a last blow, which should make her judges uneasy, arouse fear among the cardinal's friends, and incite afresh the hatred of the people against Marie Antoinette. Her plan was to pretend that she had been anxious to screen the queen; but that, if she were driven to bay, she would reveal all. As to the cardinal, she would claim that she had merely imitated his delicacy in keeping silence; but that if he should speak, she too would give her evidence, and would disclose at the same time their innocence and their sincerity. This was in reality only a repetition of the plan she had already pursued during the trial, but she hoped for better results.

At last Jeanne wrote the following letter to the queen:-

"Madame,- In spite of my painful position and rigorous treatment, I have not uttered a complaint; all that has been tried to extort avowals from me has failed to make me compromise my sovereign. However, although persuaded that my constancy and discretion will facilitate my release from my present position, the friends of the cardinal make me fear I shall become his victim. A long imprisonment, endless questions, and the shame and despair of being accused of such crimes, begin to exhaust my courage, and I tremble lest my constancy should at last give way. Your Majesty might end all this by a few words to Monsieur de Breteuil, who could give the affair in the king's eyes any colour your Majesty likes without compromising you. It is the fear of being compelled to reveal all which makes me beg your Majesty to take steps to relieve me from my painful position. I am, with profound respect, your humble servant,

"Jeanne De La Motte."

Jeanne calculated either that this letter would frighten the queen, or, what was more probable, would never reach her hands, but be carried by the messenger to the governor of the Bastille, where it could hardly fail to tell against the queen. She then wrote to the cardinal:-

"I cannot conceive, monseigneur, why you persist in not speaking plainly. It seems to me that your best plan would be to confide fully in our judges. As for me, I am resolved to be silent if you will not second me; but why do you not speak f Explain all the circumstances of this mysterious affair, for if I were to speak first, and you not support me, I should be sacrificed to the vengeance of her who wishes to ruin us. But I have written her a letter which will perhaps induce her to spare us, who have nothing to reproach ourselves with."

This letter she gave to the cardinal at their last confrontation. He grew pale with anger at her audacity, and left the room. Then Jeanne produced her letter to the queen, and begged the Abbe Lekel, chaplain of the Bastille, who had accompanied the cardinal and was devoted to him, to take charge of it and convey it to the queen. He refused to take it. She declared that, if he did not, she would produce Monsieur de Rohan's letters to the queen. "And take care, monsieur," added she, "for they will cause his head to fall on the scaffold."

At this moment the cardinal reappeared.

"Madame," said he, "let my head fall, so that I have the satisfaction of seeing also the scaffold which you shall mount as a thief and a forger. Come, abbe"." He went away, leaving Jeanne devoured with rage and disappointment at her failures at every turn.

CHAPTER XCII THE BAPTISM OF THE LITTLE BEAUSIRE.

Madame De La Motte had deceived herself on all points, Cagliostro upon none. Once in the Bastille, he saw a good opportunity for working at the ruin of the monarchy, which he had been trying to undermine for so many years. He prepared the famous letter, dated from London, which appeared a month after. In this letter, after attacking king, queen, cardinal, and even Monsieur de Breteuil, he said, "Yes, I repeat, now free after my imprisonment, there is no crime that would not be expiated by six months in the Bastille. They ask me if I shall ever return to France- Yes, I reply, when the Bastille becomes a public promenade. You have all that is necessary to happiness, you Frenchmen, a fertile soil and genial climate, good hearts, gay tempers, genius, and grace. You only want, my friends, one little thing, to feel sure of sleeping quietly in your beds when you are innocent."

Oliva kept her word faithfully to Cagliostro, and uttered no word that could compromise him. She threw all the blame on Madame de la Motte, and asserted vehemently her own innocent participation in what she believed to be a joke played on a gentleman unknown to her. All this time she did not see Beausire, but she had a souvenir of him.

In the month of May, in the year 1786, a man was. waiting amidst the crowd of beggars on the steps of the entrance to Saint-Paul, Eue Saint-Antoine. He was uneasy, breathless, looking eagerly toward the Bastille.

Near him a long-bearded man, one of Cagliostro's German servants, stationed himself,- he whom Balsamo employed as a valet-de-chambre, in the mysterious house in the Rue Saint-Claude.

This man tried to check Beausire's wild impatience, saying in a low tone, " Wait, they will come."

"Oh!" cried the impatient man, " is it you- "

However, the words " They will come " did not seem to have the desired effect, for the impatient man continued gesticulating wildly.

The German at last whispered to him, "Monsieur Beau- sire, you are making so much noise that you will attract the attention of the police. My master promised to send you the news, and I am here to tell it to you."

"Do so quickly, friend."

"Lower. The mother and child are doing well."

"Oh! oh!" cried Beausire, in an inexpressible transport of joy. "She is delivered- She is out of danger-"

"Yes, monsieur; but, I beg you, let us go aside."

"Is it a girl-"

"No, monsieur, a boy."

"So much the better. Oh, my friend, I am so happy! Thank your master for me; tell him that my life and all I own are his."

"Yes, Monsieur Beausire, I will tell him when I see him."

"My friend, what did you mean just now- Here, take these two louis."

"Monsieur, I accept nothing except from my master."

"I beg your pardon; I meant no offence."

"I believe you, monsieur; but you said-"

"Ah, I was going to ask you why you just said, ' They will come.' Who will come, please-"

"I was speaking of the doctor, and the woman who attended Mademoiselle Oliva-"

"They are coming here- Why-"

"To have the infant baptised."

"I am going to see my child! " cried Beausire, leaping wildly. "You say that I shall soon see him, Oliva's son, here-"

"Here, at once. But I entreat you, restrain yourself. Otherwise, the two or three agents of Monsieur de Crosne, whom I have discovered here disguised as beggars, will see you, will discover that you have been communicating with the prisoner of the Bastille. You yourself will be lost, and my master will be compromised."

"Oh I " cried Beausire, " I would sooner die than injure my benefactor. I will choke before I will allow myself to say a single word. They will never come!"

"Patience!"

Beausire drew nearer to the German.

"Is she happy down there-" said he.

"Oh, very," replied the German. "Here comes the carriage now."

"Yes, yes!"

"It is stopping."

"There is something white, of lace- "

"The child's cloak."

"Mon Dieu!"

And Beausire leaned for support against a column, as he saw the doctor, the nurse, and the warden of the Bastille, who had come as a sponsor, emerging from the carriage. As these three persons passed, the beggars began their cries; Beausire, wild with joy, showered coins into their hands.

When the little procession had entered the church, Beausire followed in their wake, and, amidst a number of inquisitive people, stationed himself in the sacristy, where he could obtain the best view of the ceremony.

The priest recognised the woman and the doctor, who had often been here before on a similar errand, and bowed and smiled at them. Beausire unconsciously bowed and smiled with the priest.

The door of the sacristy was then closed, and the priest proceeded to register the baptism. When he asked the name and surname of the child, the doctor replied, " He is a boy, that is all I know about him." And four bursts of laughter accompanied this remark, which seemed to Beausire lacking in respect.

"He must have some name; perhaps the name of a saint," said the priest.

"Yes, the young lady wished him called Toussaint."

"He has, then, the name of them all," added the priest, laughing at his pun.

Beausire could hardly restrain himself, but the prudent German warned him to keep still.

"Well," said the priest, "with this Christian name, and all the saints for his protectors, we can dispense with the father. I will record this: ' To-day has been presented to us a male child, born yesterday in the Bastille, son of Nicole-Oliva Legay, and of an unknown father.'"

Beausire furiously rushed up to the priest, and, seizing him by the wrist, cried out vehemently, " Toussaint has a father, as well as a mother. He has a loving father, who will not deny his own blood. Write, I entreat you, that Toussaint, born yesterday, of the maiden Nicole-Oliva Legay, is son of Jean Baptiste Toussaint de Beausire, here present."

The stupefaction of the priest may be imagined, as also that of the godfather and godmother. The pen fell from the priest's hand, and the baby nearly fell from the arms of the nurse.

Beausire caught it in his own, and, covering it with eager kisses, let fall on its forehead a first baptism, and one the most sacred in the world next to that of God,- the baptism of a father's tears. The spectators, used as they were to dramatic scenes, were much affected, with the exception of the priest, who questioned this claim of paternity,- very possibly because he did not care to make a new registry. But Beausire divined the difficulty; he placed three louis on the font, which established his claim and his probity more emphatically than did his paternal tears. The priest bowed, took the money, and erased the two lines which he had just written in the record-book. "Only, monsieur," said he, "as the declaration of the physician and of Dame Chopin has been duly written, you yourself must write the deposition you have just made, of being the father of this child."

"I! " cried Beausire joyfully, " I would write it in blood if need be." He seized the pen enthusiastically.

"Take care," said the warden, Guyon, who did not forget his customary prudence. " I think, my dear monsieur, that it would be unwise for you thus publicly to announce your connection with a criminal."

"Thanks for your advice," said Beausire, "it savours of an honest man and is worth these two louis, which I present you. But to deny the son of my wife- "

"She is your wife-" exclaimed the doctor.

"Legitimate-" said the priest.

"When God grants her her liberty, the next day she shall take the name of De Beausire, my name, and that of her son."

"I think you are hazardous," repeated Guyon. " I believe they are seeking you."

"I will not betray you," said the priest.

"Nor I,"

"Nor I," said the doctor and nurse.

Beausire wrote his declaration in a verbose style, reread it, punctuated it, had them all four approve it.

Then he embraced his child, slipped ten louis under its cloak, hung a ring for its mother from his neck, and, proud as Xenophon at his famous retreat, he opened the door of the sacristy and walked boldly out. The party regained their carriage, and Beausire went away in safety. When the nurse told the mother all that had happened, she slipped Beausire's ring on one of her fingers, saying, "I will at least be a good mother."

CHAPTER XCIII. THE TRIAL.

The day at last arrived, after long investigations, when the judgment of the court was to be pronounced. All the accused had been removed to the Coifciergerie, to be in readiness to appear when called on. Oliva continued to be frank and timid; Cagliostro, tranquil and indifferent; Reteau, despairing, cowardly, and weeping; and Jeanne, violent, menacing, and venomous. She had managed to interest the keeper and his wife, and thus obtain more freedom and indulgences.

The question still was concerning this same necklace, for the theft of which two persons were accused; and they each accused the other. The object of the trial was to prove which was the guilty party. The question also arose as to whether the queen had a right to have the cardinal arrested, and accused of rash incivilities. This was a political question of great importance. Had Monsieur de Rohan thought he might be permitted to say the things he had said to the queen, or had he been a confidential agent of hers, whom she had denounced as soon as the affair made a noise- In a word, had the cardinal acted with probity as a confidant of the queen- If such were the case, the queen was then guilty of all those intimacies, innocent in themselves, which she had denied, and which Madame de la Motte insinuated had existed. But can intimacies be innocent, when one has been constrained to deny their existence to one's husband, one's ministers, and one's subjects- Such was the sum of the argument of the attorney general. He began his speech. He spoke for injured royal dignity; he proceeded, step by step, in the suit against the cardinal. Were the queen innocent, then the wrong was his. His final decision and sentence was as follows:-

Villette to be condemned to the galleys; Jeanne de la Motte to be branded, scourged, and condemned to imprisonment for life; Cagliostro and Oliva to be dismissed from the case; and the cardinal to be obliged to confess that his language had been offensive to royalty, and that he should then be banished from the court and deposed from his high office and dignities.

This decree divided the Parliament, and filled the accused with terror. A quarter of a century before, the decision of the attorney general, voicing the will of the throne, would have been received by Parliament without an objection; although, even then, it had begun to avail itself of its prerogatives. But fourteen councillors only agreed with this decision, and the assembly was divided.

Then they proceeded to the last examination of the accused, an almost useless formality under the existing condition of things.

The first who took his place on the wooden stool which was appropriated for the accused was Reteau, who asked pardon with tears and prayers, declared all he knew, and avowed his crimes. He interested no one; he was simply a knave and a coward. After him came Madame de la Motte. Her appearance produced a great sensation; at the sight of the disgraceful seat prepared for her, she, who called herself a Valois, threw around her furious looks, but, meeting curiosity instead of sympathy, repressed her rage. When interrogated, she continued, as before, to throw out insinuations, stating nothing clearly but her own innocence. When questioned as to the letters which she was reported to have said passed between the queen and the cardinal, she answered that she did not wish to compromise the queen, and that the cardinal was best able to answer this question himself. "Ask him to produce them," said she; "I wish to say nothing about them." She inspired in nearly all a feeling of distrust and anger. When she retired, her only consolation was the hope of seeing the cardinal in the seat after her; and her rage was extreme when she saw it taken away, and an arm-chair brought for his use. The cardinal advanced, accompanied by four attendants, and the governor of the Bastille walked by his side. At his entrance he was greeted by a long murmur of sympathy and respect; it was echoed by loud shouts from without, it was the people who cheered him. He was pale, and much moved. The president spoke politely to him, and begged him to sit down. When he spoke, it was with a trembling voice, and a troubled and even humble manner. He gave excuses rather than proofs, and supplications more than reasons, but said little, and seemed to be deserted by his former eloquence. Oliva came next. The wooden stool was brought back for her. Many people trembled at seeing this living image of the queen sitting there as a criminal. Then Cagliostro was called, but almost as a matter of form, and dismissed immediately. The court then announced that the proceedings were concluded, and the deliberations about to begin. All the prisoners were locked for the night in the Conciergerie. The sentence was not pronounced till the following day.

CHAPTER XCIV. A WAY OF ESCAPE.

While the cardinal, who had been allowed as a special favour to walk about on the terraces which surround the prison, was discussing with Cagliostro the probable success of their mutual defence; while Oliva in her cell caressed her baby, and pressed it to her breast; while Reteau in his room thought of the crowns promised him by Monsieur de Crosne, and thought of them as opposed to the months of captivity which the Parliament had decreed for him,- Jeanne, in the seclusion of the room of Madame Hubert, the keeper's wife, agitated by the noise and commotion, was listening to the latter's soothing words. This room, high-studded and large as a hall, was lighted by a large window looking toward the quay, protected by an iron grating. The little window-panes intercepted the daylight, and, as if even in this room, planned for people who were not confined, one must still fear liberty, an enormous grating of iron, with crossed bars outside the glass, doubled the obscurity. Still, even this dim light was grateful to the eyes of the prisoners. The free sunlight did not mock them by its insolent rays, thus confined and bound by the iron bars. It did not offend the people who could not go out, but seemed to share their imprisoned condition. So, in life, every ill has its mitigating circumstances, which mark the transition between grief and pleasure.

Madame de la Motte had spent the greater part of every day in this room, with the keeper, his wife and son. We have already described her fascinating manners. She had succeeded in winning the affection of these people; she had found the means of convincing them of the queen's complicity. The day would come when another keeper, pitying an unhappy woman, would believe her innocent, because she bore her imprisonment so patiently; and that woman, that prisoner, would be the queen. Madame de la Motte forgot her hard lot in the society of this keeper and her friends, and returned their kindness by being complacent and pleasant. To-day, the day of the decision, she found them anxious and uneasy. Every shadow frightened this artful woman, and she tried in vain to elicit the truth from Madame Hubert. On this day, Jeanne noticed an abbe" in the corner of the fireplace, who visited the house occasionally. He was the secretary of a former instructor of the Count de Provence. He was a single-minded man, who pursued the even tenor of his way, and who, after a long- continued absence from the house of Madame Hubert, had returned to it frequently since the arrival of Madame de la Motte.

There were also two or three servitors from the palace; they often glanced at Madame de la Motte, but said little. She gaily began the conversation. "I am sure," said she, " that they are conversing more excitedly up there than we are here."

"Up where, countess-" said the abbe', feigning ignorance.

"In the judgment hall," replied she.

"Oh! yes, yes," said the abbe.

And silence reigned.

"I believe," said the countess, "that my attitude to-day was a good one. Do you not think it produced a good effect-"

"Why, yes," said the keeper, falteringly. And he arose, as if to put an end to the discussion.

"What do you think-" resumed Jeanne, addressing the abbe". "Do not things seem favourable to me- You know that nothing is proved."

"Very true, madame," said the abbe"; "but suppose the king-"

"Well, what of him- What can he do-" said Jeanne vehemently.

"Oh! madame, the king will not like to be found in the wrong."

"Then he would have to condemn Monsieur de Rohan. That is impossible."

"True, it would be difficult," said all of them.

"But in this matter," interposed Jeanne, "the cardinal and myself are in the same situation."

"No, no, by no means," replied the abbe"; "you are deceived, madame. One of the accused must be pardoned. For my part, I think, I hope, it will be yourself. But only one; one must be proved guilty to the king, otherwise what would become of the queen-"

"Very true," said Jeanne bitterly, vexed at being contradicted, even about a hope which she only affected. " The king must have a culprit. Well, Monsieur de Rohan will serve his purpose as well as myself."

After these words a silence full of terrible import for the countess reigned.

The abbe" was the first to break it.

"Madame," said he, "the king is not revengeful, and after his first burst of anger is appeased he will think no more of the past."

"But what do you mean by his anger being appeased- Nero had his anger as well as Titus."

"Condemnation- anything," the abbe1 hastened to reply, "might appease him."

"Anything, monsieur," cried Jeanne; "what a frightful word! Anything may mean everything."

"Oh, I was thinking of seclusion in a convent; that seems to be the general rumour of the king's intentions toward you."

Jeanne looked at this man, terrified; but then, yielding to her angry excitement, "Seclusion in a convent!" said she. " It is a slow torture,- dying by inches; a cruel death, which assumes an appearance of clemency. Seclusion ' in peace,' as they say. The tortures of hunger, of cold, of chastisements! No, it is punishment enough for the innocent to see the guilty one, powerful, free, and honoured. Death rather at once; but the death I should choose for having been born into this evil world." And, deaf to all their entreaties, pushing away the keeper, turning back the abbe*, and evading the keeper's wife, all of whom sought to restrain her, she rushed to the sideboard to seek a knife. These three people, by their united efforts, succeeded in restraining her. She rushed on, like an angry panther whom the hunters have disturbed, but not intimidated; and, screaming madly, she darted into the next room, snatched a heavy porcelain vase, and beat it against her head several times. The vase broke, and blood streamed from a spot on her forehead, on which she had broken the skin. The keeper's wife grasped her, and placed her in a chair, bathing her with cologne and vinegar. After a few frightful convulsions, she fainted. When she revived, the abbe- thought she was suffocating. "See," said he, "this grating keeps out the air and the light. Can we not so arrange it that this poor woman may get a breath of air-"

Then Madame Hubert, oblivious of everything, ran to a cabinet near the fireplace, took from it a key which opened the grating, and immediately the fresh air rushed into the apartment in waves.

"Oh!" said the abbe", "I didn't know it was locked. Why such precautions-"

"We are ordered to do so," replied the keeper's wife.

"Yes, I understand," replied the abbe, with marked emphasis. "This window is only seven feet above the floor, and opens upon the quay. Should any of the prisoners, seeking to escape, come into this room, they could find a means of egress without encountering warden or sentinel."

"Exactly," replied Madame Hubert.

The abbe" looked slyly toward the countess, and perceived that she had heard and comprehended his words. She had trembled and turned her eyes toward the cabinet in which the key was kept, fastened only by a brass button. This was enough for him, and, his presence being no longer necessary, he took his leave of them and went away. Then, returning suddenly, he exclaimed, "Every one is in the square. They have all gone so eagerly to the palace that there is no one left on the quay."

The keeper looked out. "So they have," he said.

"Do you not think," continued the abbe, as if the countess could not hear him, although he knew very well that she was listening, " do you not think that the decree will be rendered during the night-"

"I hardly think it will be rendered before to-morrow morning,'1 said the keeper.

"Well," said the abbe", " make this poor Madame de la Motte get all the rest she can; she must be fatigued."

"We will retire to our room, and let this poor lady rest in the easy-chair, unless she would prefer to go to bed," said the kind keeper.

Jeanne, lifting herself up, met the abbes' glance, and he acknowledged her look by another of intelligence. She then sank back in her chair and feigned sleep.

Then the abbe" disappeared, and the keeper and his wife withdrew, after having gently deposited the key in the cabinet.

As soon as she was alone, Jeanne opened her eyes.

"The abbe" advises me to flee," thought she. "No one could have shown more clearly his meaning, and the way to accomplish it. To threaten me with condemnation before the decree of my judges has been announced is the act of a friend, who urges me to gain my freedom; it cannot be that of a savage, who is only mocking me.

"I have only one step to take in order to begin my flight. By opening this closet, and taking the key which unlocks the grating, I shall be on the deserted quay. The moon herself is hiding in the sky. To flee. Oh, liberty, and an opportunity of regaining ray riches, of returning to my enemies all the evil they have done me!" She rushed to the closet, and, taking out the key, was about to turn it in the lock, when she suddenly stopped. She saw a dark figure leaning against the railing of the bridge; it was a man in the shadow. "Perhaps it is the abbey she thought, "who is waiting to lend me his aid. Yes, but it may be a snare. Suppose that just as I readied the bridge, I should be seized,- surprised in my attempt to escape. Escape is a confession of crime and of fear. He who flees is pursued by a guilty conscience. Whence comes this man- He seemed to be very much attached to the Count de Provence. May he not be an emissary of the queen, or of Monsieur de Rohan- A false move on my part might cost me dear. Yes, there is certainly some one there watching. To make me flee some hours before the decree. They could not have been more expeditious, had they really wished to help me. Perhaps they have learned already that the judges have decided on my acquittal. They may have prepared this terrible blow as a proof or a confession of my guilt. My flight would certainly serve that purpose. I shall stay where I am."

Jeanne from that moment was convinced that she had escaped from a snare. She smiled, went back to the closet, and replaced the key. Then, lying back in the easy-chair, between the light and the window, she observed the man, who was still watching. At last, doubtless tired of waiting, he disappeared at the first approach of dawn,- at half-past two, when the eye could just distinguish the water of the river from its banks.

CHAPTER XCV. THE JUDGMENT.

seated herself early at the window, and before long heard a tremendous shouting from the crowd collected to hear the sentence. This continued for some time, when she distinctly heard a passer-by say, " A grand day for the cardinal!"

"For the cardinal," thought Jeanne; "then he is acquitted; " and she ran to Monsieur Hubert, the keeper, to ask, but he did not know. "He must be acquitted! " she said; "they said it was a grand day for him. But I-"

"Well, madame," said he, "if he is acquitted, why should you not be acquitted also-"

Jeanne returned to the window. "You are wrong, madame," said Madame Hubert to her; "you only become agitated without perfectly understanding what is passing. Pray remain quiet until your counsel, Monsieur Freinyn, comes to communicate your fate."

"I cannot," said Jeanne, continuing to listen to what passed in the street.

A woman passed, gaily dressed, and with a bouquet in her hand. " He shall have my bouquet, the dear man!" said she. " Oh, I would embrace him if I could!"

"And I also," said another.

"He is so handsome! " said a third.

"It must be the cardinal," said Jeanne; "he is acquitted."

And she said this with so much bitterness that the keeper said, "But, madame, do you not wish the poor prisoner to be released-"

Jeanne, unwilling to lose their sympathy, replied, " Oh, you misunderstand me. Do you believe me so envious and wicked as to wish ill to my companions in misfortune- Oh, no; I trust he is free. It is only impatience to learn my own fate, and you tell me nothing."

Hubert and his wife looked at each other, as if to ask how much information they had better impart to this wretched woman. A flash of light in Jeanne's eyes stopped them, just as they were preparing to speak. " You tell me nothing! " cried she, perceiving her mistake.

"We know nothing," replied they, in a low voice.

At this moment Hubert was summoned from the room, and his wife was left alone with Jeanne. In vain she tried to amuse her; the latter was straining every nerve to catch the sounds, and the meaning of the tumult outside.

Then other loud cries were heard. Jeanne could see the crowd pressing round an open carriage, which was going slowly along. Flowers were thrown, hats waved; some even mounted on the steps to kiss the hand of a man who sat grave and half frightened at his own popularity. This was the cardinal. Another man sat by him, and cries of " Vive Cagliostro!" were mingled with the shouts for Monsieur de Rohan. Jeanne began to gather courage from all this sympathy for those whom she chose to call the queen's victims. But suddenly the thought flashed on her, "They are already set free, and no one has even been to announce my sentence!" and she trembled. New shouts now drew her attention to a coach which was also advancing, followed by a crowd; and in this Jeanne recognised Oliva, who sat smiling with delight at the people who cheered her, holding her child in her arms. In the middle of the bridge, a post-chaise was awaiting her. Monsieur de Beausire was concealed in it behind one of his friends, who was joining in the popular enthusiasm. He beckoned to Oliva, who descended from the carriage, amidst cries which were almost hootings; and who, having gained the shelter of Beausire's equipage, sprang into his arms, almost suffocated by his kisses and caresses. Then all drove rapidly away, and breathed freely only when they reached Saint-Denis, where they changed horses unmolested.

Then Jeanne, seeing all these people free, happy, and fêted, began to utter loud complaints that she was not also liberated, or at least told her fate.

"Calm yourself, madame," said Hubert.

"But tell me, for you must know."

"Madame- "

"I implore you! You see how I suffer."

"We are forbidden, madame, to reveal the decrees of the court. That is the duty of the clerk."

"Is it so frightful that you dare not-"

"Oh, no; calm yourself."

"Then speak."

"Will you be patient, and not betray us-"

"I swear."

"Well, the cardinal is acquitted."

"I know it."

"Monsieur de Cagliostro and Mademoiselle Oliva are both discharged; Monsieur Reteau is condemned to the galleys- "

"And I-" cried Jeanne furiously.

"Madame, you promised to be patient."

"See! speak! I am calm."

"Banished," said the keeper.

A flash of delight shone for a moment in the eyes of the countess; then she pretended to faint, and threw herself into the arms of Madame Hubert. "What would it have been," whispered the keeper to his wife, "if I had told her the truth- "

"Banishment!" thought Jeanne; "that is liberty, riches, vengeance; it is what I hoped for. I have won!"

CHAPTER XCVI. THE EXECUTION.

Jeanne waited for her counsel to come and announce her fate; but, being now at ease, said to herself, " What do I care that I am thought more guilty than Monsieur de Rohan- Am I punished because of guilt- No; had I been duly recognised as a Valois, had I, like the cardinal, been able to protect myself by a hedge of princes and dukes stationed along the passage of the judges, and imploring their mercy with tears and entreaties, they would not have refused the unfortunate Countess de la Motte, a descendant of the Valois, nor would they have dared to condemn her to sit on the infamous wooden stool. But why lament the past- It is simply an epoch of my life, now safely terminated. 1 am still richer and more honoured than the queen; indeed, more fully acquitted. She cares nothing for my condemnation; the earthworm is of no consequence to the lion. She would like to have had the cardinal adjudged guilty; whereas he has been absolved and put out of the case. I am banished,- that is to say, I can carry away my million and a half with me, and live under the orange-trees of Seville during the winter, and in Germany or England in the summer. Then I can tell my own story, and, young, rich, and celebrated, live as I please among my friends. I wonder how they will inform me of the decree- How they will have me conducted from the realm- Will they avenge themselves on a woman by subjecting her to the strictest penalties of the law- Will they intrust me to the care of the archers, on banishing me from the kingdom- Perhaps they will say solemnly to me, ' Unworthy woman, the king banishes you from his realm.' Oh, no, my rulers are kind," she continued, smiling, "they will not add to my punishment. Their anger is directed only against the good people of Paris, who are shouting from their windows, ' Long live Monsieur le Cardinal!' ' Long live Cagliostro!' ' Long live the Parliament!' The people are their real enemies, and I counted on the moral support of public opinion. I have succeeded! "

Pleasing herself with these notions, she commenced settling all her future plans,- the disposal of her diamonds, and her establishment in London. This brought to her mind Monsieur Reteau. " Poor fellow! " thought she, "it is he who pays for all; some one must suffer, and it always falls on the humblest instrument. Poor Reteau pays now for his pamphlets against the queen; he has led a hard life of blows and escapes, and now it terminates with the galleys." She dined with Monsieur and Madame Hubert, and was quite gay; but they did not respond, and were silent and uneasy. Jeanne, however, felt so happy that she cared little for their manner towards her. She attributed their coldness to the condemnation pronounced against her, and charged them to that effect; but they replied that they always sympathised with the unfortunates against whom judgment had been pronounced. Her one desire was to get to her room, and think over the situation.

She was rather surprised when, during dessert, Hubert said to her, somewhat constrainedly: "Madame, we have been ordered not to keep with us people who have been condemned by Parliament."

"Very well," replied Jeanne, "I do not object." She rose. "I would not like to get you into trouble," she continued; "that would be a poor return for your kindness to me. I will go at once to my room."

She watched him carefully, to note the effect of her words. Hubert played with his bunch of keys, while his wife turned away to conceal her emotion.

She therefore rose to go, when Madame Hubert ran to her and took her hands, looking at her with an expression of so much pity and sympathy that it struck her for a moment with terror. She was about to question her, but Hubert took her hand and led her from the room. When she reached her own apartment, she found eight soldiers waiting outside; she felt surprised, but went in, and allowed the man to lock her up as usual. Jeanne was no sooner safely in her room than she gave way to the transports of joy which she had repressed when in the presence of the keeper and his wife. In the gloom and silence of her cell, she gave way to all the wild uncontrolled impulses of her nature, and leaped about in her excitement. Soon, however, the door opened again, and one of the turnkeys appeared.

"Will madame please to follow me- " he said.

"Where-"

"Below."

"What for- What do they want with me- "

"Madame, Monsieur Doillot, your counsel, wishes to speak to you."

"Why does he not come here- "

"Madame, he has received letters from Versailles, and wishes to show them to you."

"Letters from Versailles," thought Jeanne; "perhaps the queen has interested herself for me, since the sentence was passed."

"Wait a little," she said, "till I arrange my dress." In five minutes she was ready. "Perhaps," she thought, "Monsieur Doillot has come to get me to leave France at once, and the queen is anxious to facilitate the departure of so dangerous an enemy."

She followed the turnkey down stairs, and they entered a room, which looked like a vault. She took a few steps, and then paused. A bluish light imparted to the room a tomb-like atmosphere. The daylight filtered through a high grating, and its rays were but dimly reflected on the wall. Jeanne felt a chill course through her veins, and fancied she read something fearful in the gleaming eyes of the turnkey. Yet she could not help looking at him. He and the prisoner alone occupied this room, with its walls damp and mildewed from the water that had leaked through, and the whole place impregnated by the chill of a sunless atmosphere.

"Monsieur," said she, overcoming her terror, "why are we two here- Where is Monsieur Doillot, to whom you pretended to be conducting me-"

The warden made no reply, but turned as if to see that the door was securely fastened.

Jeanne observed this movement with increasing alarm. Then it occurred to her lively imagination that she might be in the presence of one of those amorous warders of whom she had heard, who would offer her liberty in exchange for her love. Jeanne was strong; she did not fear surprises, nor was she troubled by an overplus of modesty. "Well, my good man," said she, "what will you have- Have you anything to say to me- The time of a prisoner whose liberty is approaching is very precious. Have you selected this dreary place for a rendezvous-"

The guardian of the keys made no answer, because he did not fathom her meaning. He sat down in a corner by the low fireplace, and waited.

"But," pursued Jeanne, fearing she had made a false move, "why are we here, I repeat-"

"We are awaiting Maitre Doillot," replied the keeper.

Jeanne shook her head. " Monsieur Doillot would never seek me here at such a time and place. There is something wrong," she said.

All at once another door, which Jeanne had not before observed, opened, and three men entered. Jeanne looked at them in surprise, and with growing terror. One of them, who was dressed in black, with a roll of papers in his hand, advanced, and said,-

"You are Jeanne de Saint-Remy de Valois, wife of Marie Antoine Nicolas, Count de la Motte-"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Born at Fontette, on the 22d of July, 1766-"

"Yes, monsieur."

"You live at Paris, Eue Saint-Claude-"

"Yes, monsieur; but why these questions-"

"Madame, I am the registrar of the court, and I am come to read to you the sentence of the court of the 31st of May, 1786."

"But who are these two gentlemen with you-"

"Don't tell her," whispered the turnkey. Jeanne trembled again, and now looked at the other two men; one had a gray dress with steel buttons, the other a fur cap on and an apron, which seemed to her spotted with blood. She drew back, but the registrar said, "On your knees, madame, if you please."

"On my knees-" cried Jeanne; "I, a Valois!"

"It is the order, madame."

"But, monsieur, it is an unheard of thing except where some degrading sentence has been pronounced; and banishment is not such."

"I did not tell you you were sentenced to banishment," said he gravely.

"But to what, then-"

"I will tell you, madame, when you are on your knees."

"Never!"

"Madame, I only follow my instructions."

"Never! I tell you."

"Madame, it is the order that when the condemned refuse to kneel, they should be forced to do it."

"Force- to a woman!"

"There is no distinction in the eyes of justice."

"Ah!" cried Jeanne, "this is the queen's doings; I recognise the hands of an enemy."

"You are wrong to accuse the queen; she has nothing to do with the orders of the court. Come, madame, I beg you to spare me the necessity of violence, and kneel down."

"Never!" and she planted herself firmly in a corner of the room.

The registrar then signed to the two other men, who approached and seized her, and, in spite of her cries, dragged her into the middle of the room. But she bounded up again.

"It is useless to cry," said the clerk; "no one outside can hear you, and you cannot listen to the sentence yourself."

"Let me stand," said she, "and I will listen patiently."

"Madame, whenever criminals are punished by whipping, they kneel to receive the sentence."

"Whipping!" screamed Jeanne; " miserable wretch, how dare you- "

The men forced her on her knees once more, and held her down, but she struggled so furiously that they called out, "Head quickly, monsieur, for we cannot hold her."

"I will never hear such an infamous sentence," she cried; and indeed she drowned his voice so effectually with her screams that, although he read, not a word could be heard. He replaced his papers in his pocket, and she, thinking he had finished, stopped her cries. Then he said, " And the sentence shall be executed at the place of executions, Cour du Justice."

"Publicly!" screamed she.

"Monsieur de Paris, I deliver you this woman," said the registrar, addressing the man with the leathern apron.

"Who is this man-" cried Jeanne, in a fright.

"The executioner," replied the registrar.

The two men then took hold of her to lead her out, but her resistance was so violent that they were obliged to drag her along by force, and she never ceased uttering the most frantic cries. They took her thus into the court called Cour de Justice, where a scaffold was erected, which had drawn a great concourse of spectators. On a platform raised about eight feet was a post garnished with iron rings, and with a ladder to mount to it. This place was surrounded with soldiers. When she appeared, cries of "Here she is!" mingled with much abuse, were heard from the crowd. Numbers of the partisans of Monsieur de Rohan had assembled to hoot her, and cries of " Down with La Motte, the forger!" were heard on every side; and those who tried to express pity for her were soon silenced.

Then she cried in a loud voice, "Do you know who I am- I am of the blood of your kings. They strike in me, not a criminal, but a rival; not only a rival, but an accomplice. Yes," repeated she, as the people kept silence to listen, " an accomplice. They punish one who knows the secrets of-"

"Take care," interrupted the registrar.

She turned and saw the executioner with the whip in his hand. At this sight she forgot her desire to captivate the multitude, and even her hatred, and, sinking on her knees, she said, " Have pity!" and seized his hand; but he raised the other, and let the whip fall lightly on her shoulders. She jumped up, and was about to try and throw herself off the scaffold, when she saw the other man, who was drawing from a fire a hot iron. At this sight she uttered a perfect howl, which was echoed by the people. " Branded!" she exclaimed,- "branded! "

The people responded with a terrible cry, "Yes! yes! "

"Help! help!" she cried, trying to shake off the cord with which they were tying her hands. The executioner at last forced her on her knees, and tore open her dress; but she cried, with a voice which was heard through all the tumult, " Cowardly Frenchmen! you do not defend me, but let me be tortured. Oh! it is my own fault. If I had said all I knew of the queen I should have been- "

She could say no more, for the executioner delivered her over to two men, who gagged her and handed her, trembling and bleeding, her face swollen and distorted, to her tormentors. One of these held her down, while the other seized the red-hot iron, and was about to apply it, when Jeanne, like a serpent, writhed from under his grasp, and gave a frantic leap. Then, mad, and hardly conscious of what she was doing, she offered him her bared breast and seemed to defy him with her flashing eyes. But as the fatal instrument descended, and ate its fiery way into the quivering flesh of her right breast, although gagged, she uttered one of those terrible moans which the human voice only can give forth. Under this last disgrace and pain, poor Jeanne gave way completely. Her lips were silent, her body still; she was wholly unconscious, having this time genuinely fainted.

The executioner bore her lifeless body down the fatal staircase, staggering under his burden.

As to the crowd, mute as Jeanne, although it approved of the punishment, although it was shocked by the sight of such agony, yet it did not disperse until it had seen her securely locked into the Conciergerie, and her scaffold pulled down and taken apart, piece by piece. It would not leave until it was assured that the frightful drama planned by Parliament, whose representation it had just witnessed, had no epilogue.

Two men on the bridge, young and apparently thoughtless, were talking together on their way back from the scene we have just described.

"Do you really believe that Madame de la Motte has just been branded, Maximilien-" said one.

"So they say; but I do not believe it myself," replied the taller of the two men.

"Have you not also been informed that it was not the countess-" added the other, a small man with sharp eyes and short, oily hair.

"Another has probably been found as a substitute for Madame de la Motte. They had no trouble, apparently, in finding a prostitute to personate Marie Antoinette; doubtless they have been equally successful in this case. You say she has been branded. What of that- the executioner has been bribed, also the victim. It is expensive, that is all."

His companion smiled incredulously.

"Why don't you speak-" said the inferior-looking man. " Do you not agree with me- "

"It is asking a great deal of any one to be branded on the breast," replied he. "You are more of a physician than I; you must have perceived the burnt flesh. Not a pleasant thing to recall, I acknowledge."

"It is only a matter of money, as I have told you. They may have bribed a woman who had already been condemned to this punishment."

"Well, I do not agree with you on that basis; it is too doubtful," said he who was called Maxiinilien.

"Hum!" said the other, "you will end by agreeing with the rest of the loungers; you will swear that you have seen Madame de la Motte branded; it would be like your capriciousness. Why, you just said yourself that you did not think it was she that had been burned."

"I am still of the same opinion; but, at the same time, I do not think it was such a one as you pretend."

"Then who is this woman who has been branded in place of Madame de la Motte-"

"It was the queen," said the young man, with a significant smile.

The other burst out laughing at this pleasantry; then, looking cautiously around him, "Adieu, Robespierre," he said.

"Adieu, Marat," said the other; and they went their separate ways.

CHAPTER XCVII. THE MARRIAGE.

On the same day, at noon, the king entered a drawing- room, where the queen was sitting in full dress, but pale through her rouge, and surrounded by a party of ladies and gentlemen. She glanced frequently towards the door. The king's eyes sought those of Marie Antoinette, who advanced to meet him, and kissed his hand respectfully.

"You are wonderfully beautiful to-day," said he.

She smiled sadly, and, still looking expectantly toward the door, made no response.

"Are not the young couple ready- I believe it is noon," he said.

"Sire, Monsieur de Charny is waiting in the gallery for your Majesty's orders," said the queen, with a violent effort.

"Oh, let him come in." The queen turned from the door. "The bride ought to be here also," continued the king, " it is time."

"Your Majesty must excuse Mademoiselle de Taverney, if she is late," replied Monsieur de Charny, advancing; " for since the death of her father she has not left her bed until today, and she fainted when she did so."

"This dear child loved her father so much! " replied the king; "but we hope a good husband will console her. Monsieur de Breteuil," said he, turning to that gentleman, "have you made out the order of banishment for Monsieur de Cagliostro- "

"Yes, Sire."

"And that De la Motte. Is it not to-day she is to be branded-"

The queen's eyes flashed revengefully, while a murmur of approbation was heard on all sides.

"It will annoy the cardinal to know that his accomplice has been branded," continued Louis XVI., with a tenacity of sternness such as up to this time he had never evinced. And, upon uttering the word "accomplice" in connection with a prisoner whom Parliament had absolved, this word which stigmatised the idol of the Parisians as a thief and a forger, although he was one of the highest in rank among the nobles and in the church, the king seemed to hurl defiance at clergy, nobles, Parliament, and people, while sustaining the honour of his wife. The king walked around, his eyes gleaming with a wrath and a majesty such as had not been seen in France since the eyes of Louis XIV. had been closed in eternal slumber.

Not a murmur, not a word of assent, responded to that vengeance which the king was taking on all the conspirators against the monarchy. The queen greeted him with outstretched hands, and with looks expressive of her deep appreciation and gratitude.

At this moment Andree appeared, dressed in white, like a bride, and with cheeks nearly as white as her dress. She advanced, leaning on her brother's arm. Monsieur de Suffren, leading his nephew, came to meet her, and then drew back to allow her to approach the king.

"Mademoiselle," said Louis, taking her hand, "I begged of you to hasten this marriage instead of waiting until the time of your mourning had expired, that I might have the pleasure of assisting at the ceremony; for to-morrow I commence a tour through France with the queen." And he led Andree up to the queen, who could hardly stand, and did not raise her eyes. The king then, putting Andree's hand into Philippe's, said, "Gentlemen, to the chapel,"- and they began to move. The queen kneeled on her priedieu, her face buried in her hands, praying for strength. Charny, though pale as death, feeling that all eyes were upon him, appeared calm and strong. Andree remained immovable as a statue; she did not pray, she had nothing to ask, to hope for, or to fear. Henceforth she was nothing in the eyes of men,- nothing to God.

When the priest began the ceremony, and as the mass was solemnly participated in by all around her, she calmly questioned herself: "Am I indeed a Christian, like the rest of my companions- Hast Thou, God, who art called the sovereign Arbiter, created me for the enjoyment of religious duties- Thou, who art called the Most Just, and who hast always made me suffer for others' guilt,- Thou, who art called the God of peace and love, and who hast condemned me to strife and conflict; Thou who hast made the man I might have loved my mortal enemy- No, no; the affairs of this world and the laws of God are not for me. I must have been born under a curse, and placed apart from the laws of humanity. Strange! strange! Here is a man near me, the sound of whose name only might make me die of happiness. Yet, had he asked me for my love, I should have been forced to kneel at his feet, and beg forgiveness for my former sin,- the sin Thou hast imposed upon me, my God. This man, whom I adored, might have repulsed me; to-day he marries me, and he will beg for pardon on his knees. Strange! yes, very strange!"

At this moment the voice of the priest sounded in her ears:-

"Jacques Olivier de Charny, do you take Marie Andree de Taverney for your wife-"

"Yes," replied he, firmly.

"And you, Marie Andre's de Taverney, do you take Jacques Olivier de Charny for your husband-"

"Yes," replied Andree, so fiercely that the queen, and more than one lady present, shuddered.

Then Charny slipped the gold band over Andree finger, but she did not feel the hand that gave it to her.

The ceremony over, the king kissed Andree on the forehead, saying, "Madame la Comtesse, go to the queen, she wishes to give you a wedding present."

"Oh!" murmured Andree to Philippe, "it is too much! I can bear no more! I cannot do that! "

"Courage, sister; one effort more."

"I cannot, Philippe; if she speaks to me, I shall die."

"Then, sister, you will be happier than I, for I cannot die."

Andree said no more, but went to the queen. She found her in her chair with closed eyes and clasped hands, seeming more dead than alive, except for the shudders which shook her from time to time. Andree waited tremblingly to hear her speak; but after a minute, a century of suffering, she rose slowly, and took from the table a paper, which she put into Andree hands. Andree opened it, and read:-

"Andree, yon have saved me. My honour comes from you; my life belongs to you. In the name of this honour, which has cost you so dear, I swear to you that you may call me sister without blushing. This paper is the pledge of my gratitude, the dowry which I give you. Your heart is noble, and will thank me for this gift.

"Marie Antoinette De Lorraine D'adtriche."

Andree looked at the queen, and saw tears falling from her eyes; she seemed expecting an answer, but Andree put the letter in the fire. Marie Antoinette stepped forward, as if to stop her; but the inflexible countess, bowing respectfully, without speaking a word, left the room.

Then Charny, who was waiting for her, took her hand, and, each pale and silent, they left the room. Two travelling carriages were in the court-yard; Andree got into one, and then said,-

"Monsieur, I believe you go to Picardy."

"Yes, madame."

"And I to where my mother lies dead. Adieu, Charny bowed, but did not reply, and Andree drove off.

Charny himself, after giving his hand to Philippe, got into the other, and also drove off.

Then Philippe cried, in a tone of anguish, "My God! do you reserve in heaven a little joy for those who do their duty upon earth- But why should I speak of joy- Those only who will meet again in the next world those whom they love should look forward to the life beyond the grave. No one here below loves me; and the happiness of wishing to die is denied me."

And he too vanished.

THE END.

Ange Pitou

Ange Pitou

CHAPTER I. IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH THE HERO OF THIS HISTORY, AS WELL AS WITH THE COUNTRY IN WHICH HE FIRST SAW THE LIGHT

CHAPTER II. IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT AN AUNT IS NOT ALWAYS A MOTHER

CHAPTER III. ANGE PITOU AT HIS AUNT'S

CHAPTER IV. OF THE INFLUENCE WHICH A BARBARISM AND SEVEN SOLECISMS MAY HAVE UPON THE WHOLE LIFE OF A MAN

CHAPTER V. A PHILOSOPHICAL FARMER

CHAPTER VI. PASTORAL SCENES

CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH IT IS DEMONSTRATED THAT ALTHOUGH LONG LEG'S MAY BE SOMEWHAT UNGRACEFUL IN DANCING, THEY ARE VERY USEFUL IN RUNNING

CHAPTER VIII. SHOWING WHY THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK HAD GONE INTO THE FARM AT THE SAME TIME WITH THE TWO SERGEANTS

CHAPTER IX. THE ROAD TO PARIS

CHAPTER X. WHAT WAS HAPPENING AT THE END OF THE ROAD WHICH PITOU WAS TRAVELLING UPON,-THAT IS TO SAY, AT PARIS

CHAPTER XI. THE NIGHT BETWEEN THE 12TH AND 13TH OF JULY

CHAPTER XII. WHAT OCCURRED DURING THE NIGHT OF THE 12TH JULY, 1789

CHAPTER XIII. THE KING IS SO GOOD! THE QUEEN IS SO GOOD!

CHAPTER XIV. THE THREE POWERS OF FRANCE

CHAPTER XV. MONSIEUR DE LAUNAY, GOVERNOR OF THE BASTILLE

CHAPTER XVI. THE BASTILLE AND IT'S GOVERNOR

CHAPTER XVII. THE BASTILLE

CHAPTER XVIII. DOCTOR GILBERT

CHAPTER XIX. THE TRIANGLE

CHAPTER XX. SEBASTIEN GILBERT

CHAPTER XXI. MADAME DE STA #203;L

CHAPTER XXII. THE KING LOUIS XVI

CHAPTER XXIII. THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY

CHAPTER XXIV. ROYAL PHILOSOPHY

CHAPTER XXV. IN THE QUEEN'S APARTMENTS

CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THE KING SUPPED ON THE 14TH OF JULY, 1789

CHAPTER XXVII. OLIVIER DE CHARNY

CHAPTER XXVIII. OLIVIER DE CHARNY

CHAPTER XXIX. A TRIO

CHAPTER XXX. A KING AND A QUEEN

CHAPTER XXXI. WHAT THE QUEEN'S THOUGHTS WERE, DURING THE NIGHT FROM JULY 14 TO JULY 15, 1789

CHAPTER XXXII. THE KING'S PHYSICIAN

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE COUNCIL

CHAPTER XXXIV. DECISION

CHAPTER XXXV. THE SHIRT OF MAIL

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DEPARTURE

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE JOURNEY

CHAPTER XXXVIII. SHOWING WHAT WAS TAKING PLACE AT VERSAILLES WHILE THE KING WAS LISTENING TO THE SPEECHES OF THE MUNICIPALITY

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE RETURN

CHAPTER XL. FOULON

CHAPTER XLI. THE FATHER-IN-LAW

CHAPTER XLII. THE SON-IN-LAW

CHAPTER XLIII. BILLOT BEGINS TO PERCEIVE THAT ALL IS NOT ROSES IN REVOLUTIONS

CHAPTER XLIV. THE PITTS

CHAPTER XLV. MEDEA

CHAPTER XLVI. WHAT THE QUEEN WISHED

CHAPTER XLVII. THE FLANDERS REGIMENT

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE BANQUET GIVEN BY THE GUARDS

CHAPTER XLIX. THE WOMEN BEGIN TO STIR

CHAPTER L. MAILLARD A GENERAL

CHAPTER LI. VERSAILLES

CHAPTER LII. THE FIFTH OCTOBER

CHAPTER LIII. THE EVENING OF THE FIFTH AND SIXTH OF OCTOBER

CHAPTER LIV. THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTH AND SIXTH OF OCTOBER

CHAPTER LV. THE MORNING

CHAPTER LVI. GEORGE DE CHARNY

CHAPTER LVII. DEPARTURE, JOURNEY, AND ARRIVAL OF PITOU AND SEBASTIEN GILBERT

CHAPTER LVIII. HOW PITOU, AFTER HAVING BEEN CURSED AND TURNED OUT OF DOORS BY HIS AUNT ON ACCOUNT OF A BARBARISM AND THREE SOLECISMS, WAS AGAIN CURSED AND TURNED OUT BY HER ON ACCOUNT OF A FOWL COOKED WITH RICE

CHAPTER LIX. PITOU A REVOLUTIONIST

CHAPTER LX. MADAME BILLOT ABDICATES

CHAPTER LXI. WHAT DECIDED PITOU TO LEAVE THE FARM AND RETURN TO HARAMONT, HIS REAL AND ONLY COUNTRY

CHAPTER LXII. PITOU AN ORATOR

CHAPTER LXIII. PITOU A CONSPIRATOR

CHAPTER LXIV. IN WHICH WILL BE SEEN OPPOSED TO EACH OTHER THE MONARCHICAL PRINCIPLE REPRESENTED BY THE ABB #201; FORTIER, AND THE REVOLUTIONARY PRINCIPLE REPRESENTED BY PITOU

CHAPTER LXV. PITOU A DIPLOMATIST

CHAPTER LXVI. PITOU TRIUMPHS

CHAPTER LXVII. HOW PITOU LEARNED TACTICS, AND ACQUIRED A NOBLE BEARING

CHAPTER LXVIII. CATHERINE BECOMES A DIPLOMATIST

CHAPTER LXIX. HONEY AND ABSINTHE

CHAPTER LXX. AN UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENT

INTRODUCTORY NOTE

ON Christmas Day, 1753, Lord Chesterfield wrote from Paris, summing up his observations on the state of France: “In short, all the symptoms which I have ever met with in history, previous to great changes and revolutions in government, now exist and daily increase in France.”

This, being written so early and by a foreigner, is perhaps the most noteworthy of the prophecies of disaster to come which were trumpeted forth by so many keen-sighted intellects during the last half of the eighteenth century. It was floating in the air; it was written upon the faces of the starving, down-trodden people, who found themselves burdened with this tax and that tax, with tithes and tailles, from which the nobility and clergy Were exempt; while on the other hand, the luxury and extravagance of those privileged classes grew every day more wanton, and their vices more shameless. Upon such a foundation the philosophers and encyclop #230;dists had built solidly and well, so that Voltaire wrote exultingly of the “glorious sights” which the young men of his day would live to see; wherefore they were greatly to be envied!

The old Marquis de Mirabeau, father of him who became so prominent a figure during the early months of the Revolution,-a curious, crabbed old fellow, who called himself the “friend of men,” and whose peculiarities are described by Dumas in the “Comtesse de Charny,”-wrote in his memoirs a description of a peasant's holiday which he witnessed in the provinces about the time of the death of Louis XV. (1774). After describing the dance which ended in a battle, and “the frightful men, or rather frightful wild animals, of gigantic stature, heightened by high wooden clogs, their faces haggard and covered with long greasy hair,-the upper part of the visage waxing pale, the lower, distorting itself into the attempt at a cruel laugh and a sort of ferocious impatience,”-he moralizes thus: “And these people pay the taille! And you want, further, to take their salt from them! And you know not what it is you are stripping barer, or as you call it, governing,-what, by a spurt of your pen, in its cold, dastard indifference, you will fancy you can starve always with impunity, always till the catastrophe come! Ah, Madame, such government by blindman's-buff, stumbling along too far, will end in a general overturn.”

It is curious to notice with what unanimity the good intentions of Louis XVI. are admitted, almost taken for granted, by all writers upon this period, except the virulent pamphleteers of the day. Even Michelet admits it, though somewhat grudgingly,-Michelet, who went out of his way to charge Louis XV., whose load of sin was heavy enough in all conscience, with a foul crime for which there seems to be no shadow of authority.

But it is hard to convince one's self that the general overturn could have been avoided, even had the will and character of the young king been as worthy of praise as his impulses and intentions undoubtedly were. Hastened it was, beyond question, by his weakness at critical moments, by his subserviency to the will of the queen, which was exerted uninterruptedly, and with what now seems like fatal perversity, in the wrong direction, during the years when there was still a chance, at least, of saving the monarchy. It was through the influence of the queen and her intimate circle that step after step, which, if taken in time, would have made a favorable impression upon an impressionable people, “whose nature it was to love their kings,” was delayed until it was, so to say, extorted, and hence bereft of all appearance of a willing, voluntary concession. Numerous instances of this fatality, if we may so call it, are told by Dumas; notably the day's postponement of the king's journey to Paris after the day of the Bastille.

With the virtuous, philosophic Turgot, “who had a whole reformed France in his head,” for Controller-General of the Finances, the reign of Louis XVI. seemed to start off under the best of auspices. But, as Carlyle tersely puts it, “Turgot has faculties, honesty, insight, heroic volition, but the Fortunatus's purse he has not. Sanguine controller-general! a whole pacific French Revolution may stand schemed in the head of the thinker, but who shall pay the unspeakable 'indemnities' that will be needed- Alas! far from that; on the very threshold of the business he proposes that the clergy, the noblesse, the very parliaments, be subjected to taxes like the people! One shriek of indignation and astonishment reverberates through all the chateau galleries; the poor king, who had written to him a few weeks ago, 'You and I are the only ones who have the people's interest at heart,' must write now a dismissal, and let the French Revolution accomplish itself, pacifically or not, as it can.”

To Turgot succeeded Necker, also a skilful and honest financier, also with schemes of peaceful reform in his head. For five years he carried the burden; and at last he, too, was driven to propose the taxation of clergy and nobility, and thereupon to take his departure, May, 1781.

Under the short administrations of Joly de Fleury and D'Ormesson, matters failed to improve (as indeed, how could they do otherwise-), until on the retirement of the latter, when the king purchased Rambouillet, without consulting him, in the autumn of 1783, “matters threaten to come to a still-stand,” says Carlyle.

At such a crisis destiny decreed that M. de Calonne should be put forward to fill the vacancy,-a man of indisputable genius, “before all things, for borrowing.”

“Hope radiates from his face, persuasion hangs on his tongue. For all straits he has present remedy, and will make the world roll on wheels before him.”

In the “Diamond Necklace,” Dumas has given us a faithful picture of Calonne and his method of exploiting his financial genius. His grandiloquent, “Madame, if it is but difficult, it is done; if it is impossible, it shall be done,” seems hardly to stamp him as the man for the place at that critical period, however great may have been the felicity of the il-de-Buf under the temporary plenty which resulted from the policy of “borrowing at any price.”

It would be hard to exaggerate the effect upon the growing aspirations of the French people after the unfamiliar something which they came to call “liberty,” of the result of the struggle in America, in which the cause of the colonists was so powerfully supported by the little band of Frenchmen of whom Lafayette was the most prominent and the most notable. He returned to France in 1783, to be dubbed in some quarters “Scipio Americanus.”

The scandalous affair of the necklace was, as we have heretofore seen, seized upon by the enemies of the queen as a weapon with which to assail her reputation, although her absolute innocence of any guilty connection with it is now beyond doubt. The results of this unfortunate episode-the “immense rumor and conjecture from all mankind,” coupled with the slanderous charges made by Madame Lamotte in a letter from London after her escape from the Salp #233;tri #232;re-went far towards creating the unreasoning hatred of the “Austrian woman,” which she herself did so little to assuage when the clouds became blacker than night, and began to emit the thunder and lightning of the Revolution.

In the spring of 1787, Calonne, his borrowing powers being at an end, conceived the idea of convoking the “Notables”-an expedient unheard of for one hundred and sixty years-to sanction his new plan of taxation. They met on the 22d of February, 1787, one hundred and thirty-seven of them, “men of the sword, men of the robe, peers, dignified clergy, parliamentary presidents,” with seven princes of the blood to preside over the seven bureaux,-“a round gross in all.” They would have none of Calonne or his plans; and he was dismissed in April, after which the “Notables” sat until May 25, “treating of all manner of public things,” and then first were the States-General mentioned.

Calonne was succeeded by Cardinal Lom #233;nie de Brienne,-a dissolute, worthless sexagenarian, who devised various tax-edicts, stamp-taxes, and the like, all of which the Parliament of Paris refused to register. The expedient of a Bed of Justice was resorted to, and resulted in the most ominous of all portents: for the first time in history the Parliament refused to obey the royal “Je veux” (I wish it.) They were exiled for a month,-August to September, 1787,-and returned upon conditions.

In the spring of 1788, Lom #233;nie's great scheme of dismissing the parliaments altogether, and substituting a more subservient “Plenary Court” was detected before it was ripe, and denounced to the Parliament of Paris, which body, upon remonstrating, was again exiled (May). An attempt thereafter to raise supplies by royal edict simply, led to the rebellion of all the provincial parliaments, the public expressing its approval more noisily than ever. On August 8 appeared a royal edict to the effect that the States-General should be convoked for May following; it was followed by another edict, that treasury payments should thenceforth be made three-fifths in cash and two-fifths in paper,-a virtual confession that the treasury was insolvent. Thereupon Lom #233;nie was incontinently dismissed, and Necker recalled from Switzerland to become the “Savior of France.”

A second convocation of the “Notables” (November 6 to December 12, 1788) undertook to decide how the States should be held: whether the three estates should meet as one deliberative body, or as three, or two; and, most important of all, what should be the relative force, in voting, of the Third Estate, or Commonalty. They separated without settling any of the points in question.

In January, 1789, the elections began,-the real beginning of the French Revolution in the opinion of Carlyle, and indeed, of most writers.

On the 13th of July, 1788, there had been a most destructive hail-storm throughout France, and the growing crops were literally destroyed; whereby the extreme destitution which had come to be the natural condition of the lower classes had been accentuated. In addition, the winter of 1788-89 was one of extreme rigor, so that it seemed almost as if God himself were openly manifesting his will that the general overturn should come.

The riot in which R #233;veillon, the paper manufacturer, was concerned occurred in April, 1789, just prior to the assembling of the States-General on May 4.

The clergy and nobility at once exhibited their purpose to act as separate bodies; and the Third Estate, led by Mirabeau and others, decided that it must be the mainspring of the whole, and that it would remain “inert” until the other two estates should join with it; under which circumstances it could outvote them and do what it chose. For seven weeks this state of “inertia” endured, until the court decided to intervene and the assembly hall was found closed against the representatives of the people on June 20. Thereupon they met in the old tennis-court (Jeu de Paume), and there the celebrated “Oath of the Tennis-Court” was taken by every man of them but one,-an oath “that they will not separate for man below, but will meet in all places, under all circumstances, wheresoever two or three can get together, till they have made the Constitution.”

One subsequent attempt was made by the king to intimidate this ominously persistent body; but the messenger whom he despatched to command them to separate (“Mercury” de Br #233;z #233;, Carlyle calls him) was addressed in very plain language by the lion-headed Mirabeau, and retired in confusion. The court recoiled before the spectacle of “all France on the edge of blazing out;” the other two estates joined the Third, which triumphed in every particular. Henceforth the States-General are the “National Assembly,” sometimes called the “Constituent Assembly,” or assembly met to make the constitution.

This cursory sketch of the leading events of the early years of the reign of Louis XVI. is offered as a sort of supplement to that presented by Dumas before he takes his readers into the “thick of the business” in Paris.

The badly veiled military preparations to which the terror of the queen and the court led the king to consent, kept the Parisian populace in a constant state of fermentation, which was powerfully helped on by the continued scarcity of food and the consequent influx of starving provincials into the metropolis. The Gardes Fran #231;aises gave indubitable symptoms of popular leanings, which perhaps emboldened the effervescent spirits of the mob more than a little.

The news of the dismissal of Necker, circulated on Sunday, July 12, kindled the first panic terror of Paris into a wild frenzy, and resulted in the siege of the Bastille, “perhaps the most momentous known to history.”

The course of events immediately preceding the descent upon that “stronghold of tyranny, called Bastille, or 'building,' as if there were no other building,” as well as those of the siege itself, is traced with marvellous fidelity by Dumas, due allowance being made, of course, for the necessities of the romance. He closely follows Michelet; but the details are told, with substantial unanimity, by all historians of the fateful event.

The part assigned to Billot in the narrative before us was in reality played by several persons. It was Thuriot, an elector from the H #244;tel de Ville, who gained admission to the fortress and investigated its condition; who ascended with De Launay to the battlements and showed himself to the mob to quiet their fears that he had been foully dealt with. This same Thuriot, as president of the convention, refused to allow Robespierre to speak in his own defence on the 10th Thermidor, year II. (July 28, 1794). It was Louis Tournay, a blacksmith and old soldier of the Regiment Dauphin #233;, who hacked away the chain which upheld the first drawbridge. It was an unknown man who first essayed to cross the ditch to take the note dictating terms and fell to the bottom (and was killed); but it was Stanislas Maillard who followed and made the passage in safety.

#201;lie and Hullin, it is needless to say, are historical characters; and worthy of an honorable place in history for their heroic attempts, then and afterwards, to prevent the needless shedding of blood.

The extraordinary thing about the attack on the Bastille is the startling unanimity of the people that it was the first and fittest object of attack. It seems the more extraordinary because, as Michelet has said, it “was by no means reasonable;” for the lower orders had suffered but little from imprisonment in the Bastille.

“Nobody proposed, but all believed and all acted. Along the streets, the quays, the bridges, and the boulevards, the crowd shouted to the crowd: 'To the Bastille! The Bastille!' And the tolling of the tocsin sounded in every ear: #224; la Bastille!

“Nobody, I repeat, gave the impulse. The orators of the Palais Royal passed the time in drawing up a list of proscriptions, in condemning the queen to death, as well as Madame de Polignac, Artois, Flesselles, the provost, and others. The names of the conquerors of the Bastille do not include one of these makers of motions.”

Perhaps we may accept, in the absence of a better, Michelet's explanation of this instinctive action of the mob, as having been caused by the recent publicity given to the experience of one Latude, who was first confined in the Bastille during the reign of Madame de Pompadour, and had since “worn out all their prisons,” and had finally reached the “dunghillss of Bic #234;tre,” by way of Vincennes and Charenton. He was at last released through the pertinacious efforts of one Madame Legros, a poor mercer, who became interested in him by chance, and persevered for three years, meeting with obstacles of every sort and exposed to the vilest calumny, until success came at last, and Latude was released in 1784, after more than forty years of confinement. His release was followed by an ordinance enjoining intendants never again to incarcerate anybody at the request of families without a well-grounded reason, and in every case to indicate the duration of confinement,-a decidedly naive confession of the degree of arbitrariness which had been reached.

“From that day” (of Latude's deliverance), says Michelet, “the people of the town and the faubourg, who, in that much-frequented quarter, were ever passing and repassing in its shadow, never failed to curse it.”

It is proper to observe that the state of things which existed in the Bastille when the Cellamare conspirators underwent mock imprisonment there (witness the Regency Romances) had been done away with. While other prisons had become more merciful, this had become more cruel. From reign to reign the privileges were taken away, the windows were walled up one after another, and new bars were added. The other encroachments by De Launay upon the “liberties of the Bastille” are described by Dumas in the course of the narrative.

To quote Michelet once more: “The Bastille was known and detested by the whole world. 'Bastille' and 'tyranny' were in every language synonymous terms. Every nation, at the news of its destruction, believed it had recovered its liberty.”

The Comte de S #233;gur, then ambassador at Russia, relates that when the news arrived in St. Petersburg, men of every nation were to be seen shouting and weeping in the streets, and repeating, as they embraced one another: “Who can help weeping for joy- The Bastille is taken!”

The Duc de Liancourt announced the fall of the fortress to Louis XVI. “Why,” said the king, “it is downright revolt!

It's more than that,” replied Liancourt, “it is revolution.”

Nothing need be added to the description given by Dumas of the painful excitement at Versailles, or of the king's journey to Paris and experience there. The scenes attending the summary vengeance wreaked upon Foulon and Berthier, who were the very incarnation of the old r #233;gime, are also portrayed with the careful attention to detail which is so striking a characteristic of the historical portions of the author's romances; and the same may be said of the assassination of Flesselles, and, by anticipation, of the events of the 5th of October in the streets of Paris and at the H #244;tel de Ville, when Stanislas Maillard assumed the leadership of the women (“the Menadic hosts"), and Lafayette was reluctantly compelled to lead the march of the thirty thousand upon Versailles.

The fall of the Bastille was followed throughout France by the enlistment of National Guards, ostensibly, in most instances, as a protection against mythical brigands, whose coming in great numbers was continually heralded in every town and village, but who never came. The experience of Pitou, in Haramont, is typical of the great movement which was in progress everywhere.

“It is a terrible but certain fact,” says Michelet, “that in Paris, that city of eight hundred thousand souls, there was no public authority for the space of three months, from July to October.”

Meanwhile the National Assembly was going haltingly on with its work of constitution-making. The session of the 4th of August shines out with peculiar prominence, as it was the occasion of all the privileged classes vying with one another in renouncing their privileges. Such good effect as this tardy renunciation might have had, however, was destroyed by the king's refusal to sanction it, except in so far as he was personally affected.

Towards the end of August the knotty question of the veto was duly reached: whether the king should have any veto upon the acts of the Assembly, and if so, whether it should be absolute or suspensive.

Throughout Lafayette assumed a position of great prominence in other directions than as commander-in-chief of the National Guard. The suspensive veto was finally decided upon, and there was a vague prospect of a return of quieter times, except for the continued scarcity and dearness of grain. “Our rights of man are voted,” says Carlyle; “feudalism and all tyranny abolished; yet behold we stand in queue [at the bakers' doors]! Is it aristocrat forestallers-a court still bent on intrigue- Something is rotten somewhere.”

With hope, terror, suspicion, excitement, succeeding one another with bewildering rapidity, comes the certainty that the “il-de-Buf is rallying,” that the Flanders regiment has been summoned to Versailles, and that some scheme of flight or repression is in the wind. Then comes the news of the banquet of the 1st of October,-of the appearance of the king and queen, the trampling under foot of cockades, and the announcement of Marie Antoinette the next day, that she was “enchanted with the events of the supper.” Of all fatuous performances of mortals foredoomed to destroy themselves, surely that was the most fatuous. It is significant, by the way, of the extreme caution with which the statements of Madame Campan must be accepted, that in describing this scene, at which she was present, she does not mention the word “cockade,” nor does she imply that it was aught but a quiet, orderly function, at which, perhaps, some one or two may have imbibed a thought too freely.

With regard to the events of the night of October 5-6 at Versailles, nothing need be said, save that the body-guard who heroically defended the door to the queen's apartments, where Georges de Charny is said to have been slain, was one Miomandre de Sainte-Marie; and that although “fractured, slashed, lacerated, left for dead, he has crawled to the il-de-Buf, and shall live honored of loyal France.”

In the “Comtesse de Charny” we shall find the king and queen on the road to Paris, on the 6th of October. We shall there meet many old acquaintances and make some new ones, and shall follow the setting sun of the time-honored monarchy of France till it sinks at last below the horizon.

Volume I

CHAPTER I. IN WHICH THE READER IS MADE ACQUAINTED WITH THE HERO OF THIS HISTORY, AS WELL AS WITH THE COUNTRY IN WHICH HE FIRST SAW THE LIGHT

ON the borders of Picardy and the province of Soissons, and on that part of the national territory which, under the name of the Isle of France, formed a portion of the ancient patrimony of our kings, and in the centre of an immense crescent formed by a forest of fifty thousand acres which stretches its horns to the north and south, rises, almost buried amid the shades of a vast park planted by Francis I. and Henry II., the small city of Villers-Cotterets. This place is celebrated from having given birth to Charles Albert Demoustier, who, at the period when our present history commences, was there writing his “Letters to Emilie on Mythology,” to the unbounded satisfaction of the pretty women of those days, who eagerly snatched his publications from each other as soon as printed.

Let us add, to complete the poetical reputation of this little city, whose detractors, not withstanding its royal chateau and its two thousand four hundred inhabitants, obstinately persist in calling it a mere village,-let us add, we say, to complete its poetical reputation, that it is situated at two leagues' distance from Lafert #233;-Milon, where Racine was born, and eight leagues from Ch #226;teau-Thierry, the birthplace of La Fontaine.

Let us also state that the mother of the author of “Britannicus” and “Athalie” was from Villers-Cotterets.

But now we must return to its royal chateau and its two thousand four hundred inhabitants.

This royal chateau, begun by Francis I., whose salamanders still decorate it, and finished by Henry II., whose cipher it bears entwined with that of Catherine de M #233;dicis and encircled by the three crescents of Diana of Poictiers, after having sheltered the loves of the knightking with Madame d' #201;tampes, and those of Louis-Philippe of Orleans with the beautiful Madame de Montesson, had become almost uninhabited since the death of this last named prince; his son, Philippe d'Orl #233;ans, afterwards called #201;galit #233;, having reduced it from the rank of a royal residence to that of a mere hunting rendezvous.

It is well known that the chateau and forest of Villers-Cotterets formed part of the appanage settled by Louis XIV. on his brother Monsieur, when the second son of Anne of Austria married the sister of Charles II., the Princess Henrietta of England.

As to the two thousand four hundred inhabitants of whom we have promised our readers to say a word, they were, as in all localities where two thousand four hundred people are united, a heterogeneous assemblage.

First, of a few nobles, who spent their summers in the neighboring ch #226;teaux and their winters in Paris, and who, mimicking the prince, had only a lodging-place in the city.

Secondly, of a goodly number of citizens, who could be seen, let the weather be what it might, leaving their houses after dinner, umbrella in hand, to take their daily walk,-a walk which was regularly bounded by a wide ditch which separated the park from the forest, situated about a quarter of a league from the town, and which was called, doubtless on account of the exclamation which the sight of it drew from the asthmatic lungs of the promenaders, satisfied at finding themselves, after so long a walk, not too much out of breath, the “Ha! ha!”

Thirdly, of a considerably greater number of artisans, who worked the whole of the week, and only allowed themselves to take a walk on the Sunday; whereas their fellow-townsmen, more favored by fortune, could enjoy it every day.

Fourthly and finally, of some miserable proletarians, for whom the week had not even a Sabbath, and who, after having toiled six days in the pay of the nobles, the citizens, or even of the artisans, wandered on the seventh day through the forest to gather up dry wood or branches of the lofty trees, torn from them by the storm,-that mower of the forest, to whom oak-trees are but as ears of wheat,-and which it scattered over the humid soil beneath the lofty trees, the magnificent appanage of a prince.

If Villers-Cotterets (Villerii ad Cotiam Reti #230;) had been, unfortunately, a town of sufficient importance in history to induce archaeologists to ascertain and follow up its successive changes from a village to a burgh and from a burgh to a city,-the last, as we have said, being strongly contested,-they would certainly have proved this fact, that the village had begun by being a row of houses on either side of the road from Paris to Soissons; then they would have added that its situation on the borders of a beautiful forest having, though by slow degrees, brought to it a great increase of inhabitants, other streets were added to the first, diverging like the rays of a star and leading towards other small villages with which it was important to keep up communication, and converging towards a point which naturally became the centre,-that is to say, what in the provinces is called The Square,-around which the handsomest buildings of the village, now become a burgh, were erected, and in the middle of which rises a fountain, now decorated with a quadruple dial; in short, they would have fixed the precise date when, near the modest village church-the first want of a people-arose the first turrets of the vast ch #226;teau, the last caprice of a king; a ch #226;teau which, after having been, as we have already said, by turns a royal and a princely residence, has in our days become a melancholy and hideous receptacle for mendicants under the direction of the Prefecture of the Seine.

But at the period at which this history commences, royal affairs, though already somewhat tottering, had not yet fallen to the low degree to which they have fallen in our days; the ch #226;teau was no longer inhabited by a prince, 't is true, but it had not yet become the abode of beggars; it was simply uninhabited, excepting the indispensable attendants required for its preservation; among whom were to be remarked the doorkeeper, the master of the tennis court, and the house steward; and therefore the windows of this immense edifice, some of which looked toward the park and others on a large court aristocratically called the square of the chateau, were all closed, which added not a little to the gloominess and solitary appearance of this square, at one of the extremities of which rose a small house, regarding which the reader, we hope, will permit us to say a few words.

It was a small house, of which, if we may be allowed to use the term, the back only was to be seen. But, as is the case with many individuals, this back had the privilege of being the most presentable part. In fact, the front, which was towards the Rue de Soissons, one of the principal streets of the town, opened upon it by an awkwardly constructed gate, which was ill-naturedly kept closed eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, while the back was gay and smiling; that is to say, on the back was a garden, above the wall of which could be seen the tops of cherry, pear, and plum trees, while on each side of a small gate by which the garden was entered from the square was a centenary acacia-tree, which in the spring appeared to stretch out their branches above the wall to scatter their perfumed flowers over the surrounding grounds.

The abode was the residence of the chaplain of the chateau, who, notwithstanding the absence of the master, performed mass every Sunday in the seignorial church. He had a small pension, and besides this had the charge of two purses,-the one to send a scholar yearly to the college of Plessis, the other for one to the seminary at Soissons. It is needless to say that it was the Orleans family who supplied these purses,-founded, that of the seminary by the son of the Regent, that for the college by the father of the prince,-and that these two purses were the objects of ambition to all parents, at the same time that they were a cause of absolute despair to the pupils, being the source of extraordinary compositions, which compositions were to be presented for approval of the chaplain every Thursday.

Well, one Thursday in the month of July, 1789, a somewhat disagreeable day, being darkened by a storm, beneath which the two magnificent acacias we have spoken of, having already lost the virginal whiteness of their spring attire, shed a few leaves yellowed by the first heats of summer, after a silence of some duration, broken only by the rustling of those leaves as they whirled against each other upon the beaten ground of the square, or by the shrill cry of the martin pursuing flies as it skimmed along the ground, eleven o'clock resounded from the pointed and slated belfry of the town hall.

Instantly a hurrah, loud as could have been uttered by a whole regiment of fusileers, accompanied by a rushing sound like that of the avalanche when bounding from crag to crag, was heard; the door between the two acaciatrees was opened, or rather burst open, and gave egress to a torrent of boys, who spread themselves over the square, when instantly some five or six joyous and noisy groups were formed,-one around a circle formed to keep pegtops prisoners, another about a game of hop-scotch traced with chalk upon the ground, another before several holes scientifically hollowed out, where those who were fortunate enough to have sous might lose them at pitch and toss.

At the same time that these gambling and playful scholars-who were apostrophized by the few neighbors whose windows opened on this square as wicked do-no-goods, and who, in general, wore trousers the knees of which were torn, as were also the elbows of their jackets-assembled to play upon the square, those who were called good and reasonable boys, and who, in the opinion of the gossips, must be the pride and joy of their respective parents, were seen to detach themselves from the general mass, and by various paths, though with slow steps, indicative of their regret, to walk, basket in hand, towards their paternal roofs, where awaited them the slice of bread and butter, or of bread and preserved fruit, destined to be their compensation for the games they had thus abjured. The latter were, in general, dressed in jackets in tolerably good condition, and in breeches which were almost irreproachable; and this, together with their boasted propriety of demeanor, rendered them objects of derision and even of hatred to their worse-dressed and, above all, worse-disciplined companions.

Besides the two classes we have pointed out under the denomination of gambling and well-conducted scholars, there was still a third, which we shall designate by the name of idle scholars, who scarcely ever left school with the others, whether to play in the square or to return to their paternal homes; seeing that this unfortunate class were almost constantly, what in school language is termed “kept,” which means to say, that while their companions, after having said their lessons and written their themes, were playing at top or eating their bread and jam, they remained nailed to their school benches or before their desks, that they might learn their lessons or write their themes during the hours of recreation, which they had not been able to accomplish satisfactorily during the class, when, indeed, the gravity of their faults did not demand a punishment more severe than that of mere detention, such as the rod, the cane, or the cat-o'-nine-tails.

And had any one followed the path which led into the schoolroom, and which the pupils had just used, in the inverse sense, to get out of it, he would,-after going through a narrow alley, which prudently ran outside of the fruit garden and opened into a large yard which served as a private playground,-he would, as we have said, have heard, on entering this courtyard, a loud harsh voice resounding from the upper part of a staircase, while a scholar, whom our impartiality as historians compels us to acknowledge as belonging to the third class we have mentioned, that is to say, to that of the idle boys, was precipitately descending the said staircase, making just such a movement with his shoulders as asses are wont to do when endeavoring to rid themselves of a cruel rider, or as scholars when they have received a sharp blow from the cat-o'-nine-tails, to alleviate the pain they are enduring.

“Ah! miscreant; ah! you little excommunicated villain,” cried the voice, “ah! you young serpent, away with you, off with you; vade, vade! Remember that for three whole years have I been patient with you; but there are rascals who would tire the patience of even God himself. But now it is all over. I have done with you. Take your squirrels, take your frogs, take your lizards, take your silk-worms, take your cock-chafers, and go to your aunt, go to your uncle if you have one, or to the devil if you will, so that I never more set eyes upon you; vade, vade!”

“Oh, my good Monsieur Fortier, do pray forgive me,” replied the other voice, still upon the staircase and in a supplicating tone; “is it worth your while to put yourself into such a towering passion for a poor little barbarism and a few solecisms, as you call them-”

“Three barbarisms and seven solecisms in a theme of only twenty-five lines!” replied the voice, in a rougher and still more angry tone.

“It has been so to-day, sir, I acknowledge; Thursday is always my unlucky day; but if by chance to-morrow my theme should be well written, would you not forgive me my misfortunes of to-day- Tell me, now, would you not, my good Abb #233;-”

“On every composition day for the last three years you have repeated that same thing to me, you idle fellow, and the examination is fixed for the first of November, and I, on the entreaty of your aunt Angelique, have had the weakness to put your name down on the list of candidates for the Soissons purse; I shall have the shame of seeing my pupil rejected, and of hearing it everywhere declared that Pitou is an ass,-Angelus Petovius asinus est.“

Let us hasten to say-that the kind-hearted reader may from the first moment feel for him all the interest he deserves-that Ange Pitou, whose name the Abb #233; Fortier had so picturesquely Latinized, is the hero of this story.

“Oh, my good Monsieur Fortier! oh, my dear master!” replied the scholar, in despair.

“I, your master!” exclaimed the abb #233;, deeply humiliated by the appellation. “God be thanked, I am no more your master than you are my pupil. I disown you,-I do not know you. I would that I had never seen you. I forbid you to mention my name, or even to bow to me. Retro, miserable boy, retro!”

“Oh, Monsieur l'Abb #233;,” insisted the unhappy Pitou, who appeared to have some weighty motive for not falling out with his master, “do not, I entreat you, withdraw your interest in me on account of a poor halting theme.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the abb #233;, quite beside himself on hearing this last supplication, and running down the first four steps of the staircase, while Ange Pitou jumped down the four bottom ones and made his appearance in the courtyard,-“ah! you are chopping logic when you cannot even write a theme; you are calculating the extent of my patience, when you know not how to distinguish the nominative from the accusative.”

“You have always been so kind to me, Monsieur l'Abb #233;,” replied the committer of barbarisms, “and you will only have to say a word in my favor to my lord the bishop.”

“Would you have me belie my conscience, wretched boy-”

“If it be to do a good action, Monsieur l'Abb #233;, the God of mercy will forgive you for it.”

“Never! never!”

“And besides, who knows, the examiners perhaps will not be more severe towards me than they were towards my foster-brother, Sebastian Gilbert, when last year he was a candidate for the Paris purse; and he was a famous fellow for barbarisms, if ever there was one, although he was only thirteen years old, and I was seventeen.”

“Ah! indeed; and this is another precious stupidity which you have uttered,” cried the abb #233;, coming down the remaining steps, and in his turn appearing at the door with his cat-o'-nine-tails in his hand, while Pitou took care to keep at the prudent distance from his professor which he had all along maintained. “Yes, I say stupidity,” continued the abb #233;, crossing his arms and looking indignantly at his scholar; “and this is the reward of my lessons in logic. Triple animal that you are! it is thus you remember the old axiom,-Noli minora, loqui majora volens. Why, it was precisely because Gilbert was so much younger, that they were more indulgent towards a child-a child of fourteen years old-than they would have been to a great simpleton of nearly eighteen.”

“Yes, and because he is the son of Monsieur Honor #233; Gilbert, who has an income of eighteen thousand livres from good landed property, and this on the plain of Pillaleux,” replied the logician, in a piteous tone.

The Abb #233; Fortier looked at Pitou, pouting his lips and knitting his brows.

“This is somewhat less stupid,” grumbled he, after a moment's silence and scrutiny. “And yet it is but specious, and without any basis: Species, non autem corpus.“

“Oh, if I were the son of a man possessing an income of eighteen thousand livres!” repeated Ange Pitou, who thought he perceived that his answer had made some impression on the professor.

“Yes, but you are not so, and to make up for it, you are as ignorant as the clown of whom Juvenal speaks,-a profane citation,” the abbe crossed himself, “but no less just,-Arcadius juvenis. I would wager that you do not even know what Arcadius means-”

“Why, Arcadian, to be sure,” replied Ange Pitou, drawing himself up with the majesty of pride.

“And what besides-”

“Besides what-”

“Arcadia was the country of donkeys, and with the ancients, as with us, asinus was synonymous with stultus.“

“I did not wish to understand your question in that sense,” rejoined Pitou, “seeing that it was far from my imagination that the austere mind of my worthy preceptor could have descended to satire.”

The Abb #233; Fortier looked at him a second time, and with as profound attention as the first.

“Upon my word!” cried he, somewhat mollified by the incense which his disciple had offered him; “there are really moments when one would swear that the fellow is less stupid than he appears to be.”

“Come, Monsieur l'Abb #233;,” said Pitou, who, if he had not heard the words the abbe had uttered, had caught the expression of a return to a more merciful consideration which had passed over his countenance, “forgive me this time, and you will see what a beautiful theme I will write by to-morrow.”

“Well, then, I will consent,” said the abb #233;, placing, in sign of truce, his cat-o'-nine-tails in his belt and approaching Pitou, who observing this pacific demonstration, made no further attempt to move.

“Oh, thanks, thanks!” cried the pupil.

“Wait a moment, and be not so hasty with your thanks. Yes, I forgive you, but on one condition.”

Pitou hung down his head, and as he was now at the discretion of the abb #233;, he waited with resignation.

“It is that you shall correctly reply to a question I shall put to you.”

“In Latin-” inquired Pitou with much anxiety.

“Latin #232;,” replied the professor.

Pitou drew a deep sigh.

There was a momentary silence, during which the joyous cries of the schoolboys who were playing on the square reached the ears of Ange Pitou. He sighed a second time, more deeply than the first.

“Quid virtus, quid religion-” asked the abb #233;.

These words, pronounced with all the pomposity of a pedagogue, rang in the ears of poor Ange Pitou like the trumpet of the angel on the day of judgment; a cloud passed before his eyes, and such an effect was produced upon his intellect by it, that he thought for a moment he was on the point of becoming mad.

However, as this violent cerebral labor did not appear to produce any result, the required answer was indefinitely postponed. A prolonged noise was then heard, as the professor slowly inhaled a pinch of snuff.

Pitou clearly saw that it was necessary to say something.

“Nescio,” he replied, hoping that his ignorance would be pardoned by his avowing that ignorance in Latin.

“You do not know what is virtue!” exclaimed the abb #233;, choking with rage; “you do not know what is religion!”

“I know very well what it is in French,” replied Ange, “but I do not know it in Latin.”

“Well, then, get thee to Arcadia, juvenis; all is now ended between us, pitiful wretch!”

Pitou was so overwhelmed that he did not move a step, although the Abb #233; Fortier had drawn his cat-o'-nine-tails from his belt with as much dignity as the commander of an army would, at the commencement of a battle, have drawn his sword from the scabbard.

“But what is to become of me-” cried the poor youth, letting his arms fall listlessly by his side. “What will become of me if I lose the hope of being admitted into the seminary-”

“Become whatever you can. It is, by heaven! the same to me.”

The good abb #233; was so angry that he almost swore.

“But you do not know, then, that my aunt believes I am already an abb #233;-”

“Well, then, she will know that you are not fit to be made even a sacristan!”

“But, Monsieur Fortier-”

“I tell you to depart-limine lingu #230;.”

“Well, then,” cried Pitou, as a man who makes up his mind to a painful resolution, but who in fact does make it, “will you allow me to take my desk-” said he to the abb #233;, hoping that during the time he would be performing this operation a respite would be given him, and the abb #233;'s heart would become impressed with more merciful feelings.

“Most assuredly,” said the latter; “your desk, with all that it contains.”

Pitou sorrowfully reascended the staircase, for the schoolroom was on the first floor. On returning to the room-in which, assembled around a large table, and pretending to be hard at work, were seated some fourteen boys-and carefully raising the flap of his desk to ascertain whether all the animals and insects which belonged to him were safely stowed in it, and lifting it so gently that it proved the great care he took of his favorites, he walked with slow and measured steps along the corridor.

At the top of the stairs was the Abb #233; Fortier, with outstretched arm, pointing to the staircase with the end of his cat-o'-nine-tails.

It was necessary to run the gauntlet. Ange Pitou made himself as humble and as small as he possibly could, but this did not prevent him from receiving, as he passed by, a last thwack from the instrument to which Abb #233; Fortier owed his best pupils, and the employment of which, although more frequent and more prolonged on the back of Ange Pitou, had produced the sorrowful results just witnessed.

While Ange Pitou, wiping away a last tear, was bending his steps, his desk upon his head, towards Pleux, the quarter of the town in which his aunt resided, let us say a few words as to his physical appearance and his antecedents.

CHAPTER II. IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT AN AUNT IS NOT ALWAYS A MOTHER

LOUIS ANGE PITOU, as he himself said in his dialogue with the Abb #233; Fortier, was, at the period when this history commences, seventeen and a half years old. He was a tall, slender youth, with yellow hair, red cheeks, and blue eyes. The bloom of youth, fresh and innocent, was expanded over his wide mouth, the thick lips of which discovered, when extended by a hearty laugh, two perfectly complete rows of formidable teeth,-particularly formidable to those of whose dinner he was about to partake. At the end of his long bony arms were solidly attached hands as large as beetles, legs rather inclined to be bowed, knees as big as a child's head, which regularly made their way through his tight black breeches, and immense feet, which, notwithstanding, were at their ease in calfskin shoes reddened by constant use; such, with a sort of cassock of brown serge, a garment something between a frock-coat and a blouse, is an exact and impartial description of the ex-disciple of the Abb #233; Fortier.

We must now sketch his moral character.

Ange Pitou had been left an orphan when only twelve years old, the time at which he had the misfortune to lose his mother, of whom he was the only child. That is to say, that since the death of his father, which event had occurred before he had attained the years of recollection, Ange Pitou, adored by his poor mother, had been allowed to do whatever he thought fit, which had greatly developed his physical education, but had altogether retarded the advancement of his moral faculties. Born in a charming village called Haramont, situated at the distance of a league from the town, and in the centre of a wood, his first walks had been to explore the depths of his native forest, and the first application of his intelligence was that of making war upon the animals by which it was inhabited. The result of this application, thus directed towards one sole object, was, that at ten years old Pitou was a very distinguished poacher, and a birdcatcher of the first order; and that almost without any labor, and above all without receiving lessons from any one, but by the sole power of that instinct given by nature to man when born in the midst of woods, and which would seem to be a portion of that same instinct with which she has endowed the animal kingdom. And therefore every run of hare or rabbit within the circle of three leagues was known to him, and not a marshy pool, where birds were wont to drink, had escaped his investigation. In every direction were to be seen the marks made by his pruning-knife on trees that were adapted to catching birds by imitating their calls. From these different exercises it resulted that in some of them Pitou had attained the most extraordinary skill.

Thanks to his long arms and his prominent knees, which enabled him to climb the largest standard trees, he would ascend to their very summits, to take the highest nests, with an agility and a certainty which attracted the admiration of his companions, and which, in a latitude nearer to the Equator, would have excited the esteem even of monkeys. In that sport, so attractive even to grown people, in which the bird-catcher inveigles the birds to light upon a tree set with limed twigs, by imitating the cry of the jay or the owlet,-birds which, among the plumed tribe, enjoy the bitter hatred of the whole species, and to such an extent that every sparrow, every finch or tomtit, hastens at the call in the hope of plucking out a single feather from the common enemy, and, for the most, leave all their own,- Pitou's companions either made use of a natural owlet or a natural jay, or with some particular plant formed a pipe, by aid of which they managed to imitate indifferently the cry of either the one or the other of these birds. But Pitou disdained all such preparations, despised such petty subterfuges. It was upon his own resources that he relied, it was with his own natural means that he drew them into the snare. It was, in short, his own lips that modulated the shrieking and discordant cries, which brought around him not only other birds, but birds of the same species, who allowed themselves to be enticed, we will not say by this note, but by this cry, so admirably did he imitate it. As to the sport in the marshy pools, it was to Pitou the easiest thing in the world, and he would certainly have despised it as a pursuit of art had it been less productive as an object of profit. But notwithstanding the contempt with which he regarded this sport, there was not one of the most expert in the art who could have vied with Pitou in covering with fern a pool that was too extensive to be completely “laid,”-that is the technical term; none of them knew so well as he how to give the proper inclination to his limed twigs, so that the most cunning birds could not drink either over or under them; and finally, none of them had that steadiness of hand and that clearsightedness which must insure the due mixture, though in scientifically unequal quantities, of the rosin, oil, and glue, in order that the glue should not become either too fluid or too brittle.

Now, as the estimation of the qualities of a man changes according to the theatre on which these qualities are produced, and according to the spectators before whom they are exhibited, Pitou, in his own native village, Haramont, amidst his country neighbors,-that is to say, men accustomed to demand of nature at least half their resources, and, like all peasants, possessing an instinctive hatred of civilization,-Pitou enjoyed such distinguished consideration that his poor mother could not for a moment entertain the idea that he was pursuing a wrong path, and that the most perfect education that can be given, and at great expense, to a man, was not precisely that which her son, a privileged person in this respect, had given, gratis, to himself.

But when the good woman fell sick, when she felt that death was approaching, when she understood that she was about to leave her child alone and isolated in the world, she began to entertain doubts, and looked around her for some one who would be the stay and the support of the future orphan. She then remembered that ten years before, a young man had knocked at her door in the middle of the night, bringing with him a newly born child, to take charge of which he had not only given her a tolerably good round sum, but had deposited a still larger sum for the benefit of the child with a notary at Villers-Cotterets. All that she had then known of this mysterious young man was that his name was Gilbert, but about three years previous to her falling ill he had reappeared. He was then a man about twenty-seven years of age, somewhat stiff in his demeanor, dogmatical in his conversation, and cold in his manner; but this first layer of ice melted at once when his child was brought to him, on finding that he was hale, hearty, and smiling, and brought up in the way in which he had directed,-that is to say, as a child of nature. He then pressed the hand of the good woman and merely said to her,-

“In the hour of need calculate upon me.”

Then he had taken the child, had inquired the way to Ermenonville, and with his son performed the pilgrimage to the tomb of Rousseau, after which he returned to Villers-Cotterets. Then, induced, no doubt, by the wholesome air he breathed there, by the favorable manner in which the notary had spoken of the school under the charge of the Abb #233; Fortier, he had left little Gilbert with the worthy man, whose philosophic appearance had struck him at first sight; for at that period philosophy held such great sway that it had insinuated itself even among churchmen.

After this he had set out again for Paris, leaving his address with the Abb #233; Fortier.

Pitou's mother was aware of all these circumstances. When at the point of death, those words, 'In the hour of need calculate upon me,' returned to her recollection. This was at once a ray of light to her; doubtless Providence had regulated all this in such a manner that poor Pitou might find even more than he was about to lose. She sent for the curate of the parish; as she had never learned to write, the curate wrote, and the same day the letter was taken to the Abb #233; Fortier, who immediately added Gilbert's address, and took it to the post-office.

It was high time, for the poor woman died two days afterwards. Pitou was too young to feel the full extent of the loss he had suffered. He wept for his mother, not from comprehending the eternal separation of the grave, but because he saw his mother cold, pale, disfigured. Then the poor lad felt instinctively that the guardian angel of their hearth had fled; that the house, deprived of his mother, had become deserted and uninhabitable. Not only could he not comprehend what was to be his future fate, but even how he was to exist the following day. Therefore, after following his mother's remains to the churchyard, when the earth, thrown into the grave, resounded upon her coffin, when the modest mound that covered it had been rounded off, he sat down upon it, and replied to every observation that was made to him as to his leaving it, by shaking his head and saying that he had never left his mother Madeleine, and that he would remain where she remained.

He stayed during the whole of that day and night, seated upon his mother's grave.

It was there that the worthy Doctor Gilbert,-have we not already informed the reader that the future protector of Pitou was a physician-it was there that the worthy doctor found him, when, feeling the full extent of the duty imposed upon him by the promise he had made, he had hastened to fulfil it, and this within forty-eight hours after the letter had been despatched.

Ange was very young when he had first seen the doctor, but it is well known that the impressions received in youth are so strong that they leave eternal reminiscences. Then the passage of the mysterious young man had left its trace in the house. He had there left the young child of whom we have spoken, and with him comparative ease and comfort; every time that Ange had heard his mother pronounce the name of Gilbert, it had been with a feeling that approached to adoration; then again, when he had reappeared at the house a grown man, and with the title of doctor, when he had added to the benefits he had showered upon it the promise of future protection, Pitou had comprehended, from the fervent gratitude of his mother, that he himself ought also to be grateful, and the poor youth, without precisely understanding what he was saying, had stammered out the words of eternal remembrance and profound gratitude which had before been uttered by his mother.

Therefore, as soon as he saw the doctor appear at the grated gate of the cemetery, and saw him advancing towards him amid the mossy graves and broken crosses, he recognized him, rose up and went to meet him, for he understood that to the person who had thus come on being called for by his mother he could not say no, as he had done to others; he therefore made no further resistance than that of turning back to give a last look at the grave, when Gilbert took him by the hand and gently drew him away from the gloomy enclosure. An elegant cabriolet was standing at the gate; he made the poor child get into it, and for the moment leaving the house of Pitou's mother under the guardianship of public faith and the interest which misfortune always inspires, he drove his young prot #233;g #233; to the town and alighted with him at the best inn, which at that time was called The Dauphin. He was scarcely installed there when he sent for a tailor, who, having been forewarned, brought with him a quantity of ready-made clothes. He with due precaution selected for Pitou garments which were too long for him by two or three inches,-a superfluity which, from the rate at which our hero was growing, promised not to be of long duration. After this he walked with him towards that quarter of the town which we have designated, and which was called Pleux.

The nearer Pitou approached this quarter, the slower did his steps become, for it was evident that he was about to be conducted to the house of his aunt Ang #233;lique; and notwithstanding that he had but seldom seen his godmother,-for it was Aunt Ang #233;lique who had bestowed on Pitou his poetical Christian name,-he had retained a very formidable remembrance of his respectable relative.

And in fact there was nothing about Aunt Ang #233;lique that could be in any way attractive to a child accustomed to all the tender care of maternal solicitude. Aunt Ang #233;lique was at that time an old maid between fifty-five and fifty-eight years of age, stultified by the most minute practices of religious bigotry, and in whom an ill-understood piety had inverted every charitable, merciful, and humane feeling, to cultivate in their stead an unnatural thirst for malicious gossip, which was increased day by day from her constant intercourse with the bigoted old gossips of the town. She did not precisely live on charity; but besides the sale of the thread she spun upon her wheel, and the letting out of chairs in the church, which office had been granted to her by the chapter, she from time to time received from pious souls, who allowed themselves to be deceived by her pretensions to religion, small sums, which from their original copper she converted into silver, and then from silver into golden louis, which disappeared not only without any person seeing them disappear, but without any one ever suspecting their existence, and which were buried, one by one, in the cushion of the arm-chair upon which she sat at work; and when once in this hiding-place, they rejoined by degrees a certain number of their fellow-coins, which had been gathered one by one, and like them destined thenceforth to be sequestered from circulation until the unknown day of the death of the old maid should place them in the hands of her heir.

It was, then, towards the abode of this venerable relation that Doctor Gilbert was advancing, leading the great Pitou by the hand.

We say the great Pitou, because from three months after his birth Pitou had been too tall for his age.

Mademoiselle Rose Ang #233;lique Pitou, at the moment when her door opened to give ingress to her nephew and the doctor, was in a perfect transport of joyous humor. While they were singing mass for the dead over the dead body of her sister-in-law in the church at Haramont, there was a wedding and several baptisms in the church of Villers-Cotterets, so that her chair-letting had in a single day amounted to six livres. Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique had therefore converted her sous into a silver crown, which, in its turn, added to three others which had been put by at different periods, had given her a golden louis. This louis had at this precise moment been sent to rejoin the others in the chair-cushion, and these days of reunion were naturally days of high festivity to Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique.

It was at the moment, and after having opened her door, which had been closed during the important operation, and Aunt Ang #233;lique had taken a last walk round her arm-chair to assure herself that no external demonstration could reveal the existence of the treasure concealed within, that the doctor and Pitou entered.

The scene might have been particularly affecting, but in the eyes of a man who was so perspicacious an observer as Doctor Gilbert, it was merely grotesque. On perceiving her nephew, the old bigot uttered a few words about her poor dear sister, whom she had loved so much; and then she appeared to wipe away a tear. On his side the doctor, who wished to examine the deepest recesses of the old maid's heart before coming to any determination with respect to her, took upon himself to utter a sort of sermon on the duties of aunts toward their nephews. But by degrees, as the sermon was progressing and the unctuous words fell from the doctor's lips, the arid eyes of the old maid drank up the imperceptible tear which had moistened them; all her features resumed the dryness of parchment, with which they appeared to be covered; she raised her left hand to the height of her pointed chin, and with the right hand she began to calculate on her skinny fingers the quantity of sous which her letting of chairs produced to her per annum. So that chance having so directed it that her calculation had terminated at the same time with the doctor's sermon, she could reply at the very moment, that whatever might have been the love she entertained for her poor sister, and the degree of interest she might feel for her dear nephew, the mediocrity of her receipts did not permit her, notwithstanding her double title of aunt and godmother, to incur any increased expense.

The doctor, however, was prepared for this refusal. It did not, therefore, in any way surprise him. He was a great advocate for new ideas; and as the first volume of Lavater had just then appeared, he had already applied the physiognomic doctrines of the Zurich philosopher to the yellow and skinny features of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique.

The result of this examination was, that the doctor felt assured, from the small sharp eyes of the old maid, her long and pinched-up nose and thin lips, that she united in her single person the three sins of avarice, selfishness, and hypocrisy.

Her answer, as we have said, did not cause any species of astonishment. However, he wished to convince himself, in his quality of observer of human nature, how far the devotee would carry the development of these three defects.

“But, Mademoiselle,” said he, “Ange Pitou is a poor orphan child, the son of your own brother, and in the name of humanity you cannot abandon your brother's son to be dependent on public charity.”

“Well, now, listen to me, Monsieur Gilbert,” said the old maid; “it would be an increase of expense of at least six sous a day, and that at the lowest calculation; for that great fellow would eat at least a pound of bread a day.”

Pitou made a wry face: he was in the habit of eating a pound and a half at his breakfast alone.

“And without calculating the soap for his washing,” added Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique; “and I recollect that he is a sad one for dirtying clothes.”

In fact, Pitou did sadly dirty his clothes, and that is very conceivable, when we remember the life he had led, climbing trees and lying down in marshes; but we must render him this justice, that he tore his clothes even more than he soiled them.

“Oh, fie, Mademoiselle,” cried the doctor, “fie, Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique! Can you, who so well practise Christian charity, enter into such minute calculations with regard to your own nephew and godson-”

“And without calculating the cost of his clothes,” cried the old devotee most energetically, who suddenly remembered having seen her sister Madeleine busily employed in sewing patches on her nephew's jacket and knee-caps on his small-clothes.

“Then,” said the doctor, “am I to understand that you refuse to take charge of your nephew- The orphan who has been repulsed from his aunt's threshold will be compelled to beg for alms at the threshold of strangers.”

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, notwithstanding her avarice, was alive to the odium which would naturally attach to her if from her refusal to receive her nephew he should be compelled to have recourse to such an extremity.

“No,” said she, “I will take charge of him.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the doctor, happy to find a single good feeling in a heart which he had thought completely withered.

“Yes,” continued the devotee, “I will recommend him to the Augustin Friars at Bourg Fontaine, and he shall enter their monastery as a lay-servant.”

We have already said that the doctor was a philosopher. We know what was the meaning of the word philosopher in those days.

He therefore instantly resolved to snatch a neophyte from the Augustin brotherhood, and that with as much zealous fervor as the Augustins, on their side, could have displayed in carrying off an adept from the philosopher.

“Well, then,” he rejoined, plunging his hand into his deep pocket, “since you are in such a position of pecuniary difficulty, my dear Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, as to be compelled, from your deficiency in personal resources, to recommend your nephew to the charity of others, I will seek elsewhere for some one who can more efficaciously than yourself apply to the maintenance of your nephew the sum which I had designed for him. I am obliged to return to America. I will, before I set out, apprentice your nephew Pitou to some joiner, or a smith. He shall, however, himself choose the trade for which he feels a vocation. During my absence he will grow bigger, and on my return he will already have become acquainted with his business, and then-why, I shall see what can be made of him. Come, my child, kiss your aunt,” continued the doctor, “and let us be off at once.”

The doctor had not concluded the sentence when Pitou rushed towards the antiquated spinster; his long arms were extended, and he was in fact most eager to embrace his aunt, on the condition that this kiss was to be the signal, between him and her, of an eternal separation.

But at the words “the sum,” the gesture with which the doctor had accompanied them, the thrusting his hand into his pocket, the silvery sound which that hand had incontinently given to a heap of crown-pieces, the amount of which might have been estimated by the tension of the pocket, the old maid had felt the fire of cupidity mount even to her heart.

“Oh,” cried she, “my dear Monsieur Gilbert, you must be well aware of one thing!”

“And what is that-” asked the doctor.

“Why, good heaven! that no one in the world can love this poor child half so much as I do.”

And entwining her scraggy arms round Pitou's neck, she imprinted a sour kiss on each of his cheeks, which made him shudder from the tips of his toes to the roots of his hair.

“Oh, certainly,” replied the doctor; “I know that well, and I so little doubted your affection for him that I brought him at once to you as his natural support. But that which you have just said to me, dear mademoiselle, has convinced me at the same time of your good-will and of your inability, and I see clearly that you are too poor to aid those who are poorer than yourself.”

“Why, my good Monsieur Gilbert,” rejoined the old devotee, “there is a merciful God in heaven, and from heaven does he not feed all his creatures-”

“That is true,” replied Gilbert; “but although he gives food to the ravens, he does not put out orphans as apprentices. Now, this is what must be done for Ange Pitou, and this, with your small means, would doubtless cost you too much.”

“But yet, if you were to give that sum, good Doctor.”

“What sum-”

“The sum of which you spoke, the sum which is there in your pocket,” added the devotee, stretching her crooked finger toward the doctor's coat.

“I will assuredly give it, dear Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique,” said the doctor; “but I forewarn you it will be on one condition.”

“And what is that-”

“That the boy shall have a profession.”

“He shall have one, and that I promise you on the faith of Ang #233;lique Pitou, most worthy Doctor,” cried the devotee, her eyes riveted on the pocket which was swaying to and fro.

“You promise it-”

“I promise you it shall be so.”

“Seriously, is it not-”

“On the truth of the living God, my dear Monsieur Gilbert, I swear to do it.”

And Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique horizontally extended her emaciated hand.

“Well, then, be it so,” said the doctor, drawing from his pocket a well-rounded bag; “I am ready to give the money, as you see. On your side, are you ready to make yourself responsible to me for the child-”

“Upon the true cross, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“Do not let us swear so much, dear Mademoiselle, but let us sign a little more.”

“I will sign, Monsieur Gilbert, I will sign.”

“Before a notary-”

“Before a notary.”

“Well, then, let us go at once to Papa Niguet.”

Papa Niguet, to whom, thanks to his long acquaintance with him, the doctor applied this friendly title, was, as those know who are familiar with our work entitled “Joseph Balsamo,” the notary of greatest reputation in the town.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, of whom Master Niguet was also the notary, had no objection to offer to the choice made by the doctor. She followed him therefore to the notary's office. There the scrivener registered the promise made by Mademoiselle Rose Ang #233;lique Pitou, to take charge of and to place in the exercise of an honorable profession Louis Ange Pitou, her nephew, and so doing should annually receive the sum of two hundred livres. The contract was made for five years. The doctor deposited eight hundred livres in the hands of the notary; the other two hundred were to be paid to Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique in advance.

The following day the doctor left Villers-Cotter #234;ts after having settled some accounts with one of his farmers, with regard to whom we shall speak hereafter; and Mademoiselle Pitou, pouncing like a vulture upon the aforesaid two hundred livres payable in advance, deposited eight golden louis in the cushion of her arm-chair.

As to the eight livres which remained, they waited, in a small delf saucer which had, during the last thirty or forty years, been the receptacle of clouds of coins of every description, until the harvest of the following two or three Sunday had made up the sum of twenty-four livres, on attaining which, as we have already stated, the abovenamed sum underwent the golden metamorphosis, and passed from the saucer into the arm-chair.

CHAPTER III. ANGE PITOU AT HIS AUNT'S

WE have observed the very slight degree of inclination which Ange Pitou felt towards a long-continued sojourn with his Aunt Ang #233;lique; the poor child, endowed with instinct equal to, and perhaps superior to, that of the animals against whom he continually made war, had divined at once, we will not say all the disappointments-we have seen that he did not for a single moment delude himself upon the subject-but all the vexations, tribulations, and annoyances to which he would be exposed.

In the first place-but we must admit that this was by no means the reason which most influenced Pitou to dislike his aunt-Doctor Gilbert having left VillersCotter #234;ts, there never was a word said about placing the child as an apprentice. The good notary had indeed given her a hint or two with regard to her formal obligation; but Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique had replied that her nephew was very young, and above all, that his health was too delicate to be subjected to labor which would probably be beyond his strength. The notary, on hearing this observation, had in good faith admired the kindness of heart of Mademoiselle Pitou, and had deferred taking any steps as to the apprenticeship until the following year. There was no time lost, the child being then only in his twelfth year.

Once installed at his aunt's, and while the latter was ruminating as to the mode she should adopt whereby to make the most of her dear nephew, Pitou, who once more found himself in his forest, or very near to it, had already made his topographical observations in order to lead the same life at Villers-Cotter #234;ts as at Haramont.

In fact, he had made a circuit of the neighborhood, in which he had convinced himself that the best pools were those on the road to Dampleux, that to Compi #232;gne and that to Vivi #232;res, and that the best district for game was that of the Wolf's Heath.

Pitou, having made this survey, took all the necessary measures for pursuing his juvenile sport.

The thing most easy to be procured, as it did not require any outlay of capital, was bird-lime; the bark of the holly, brayed in a mortar and steeped in water, gave the lime; and as to the twigs to be limed, they were to be found by thousands on every birch-tree in the neighborhood. Pitou therefore manufactured, without saying a word to any one on the subject, a thousand of limed twigs and a pot of glue of the first quality; and one fine morning, after having the previous evening taken on his aunt's account at the baker's a four-pound loaf, he set off at daybreak, remained out the whole day, and returned home when the evening had closed in.

Pitou had not formed such a resolution without duly calculating the effect it would produce. He had foreseen a tempest. Without possessing the wisdom of Socrates, he knew the temper of his Aunt Ang #233;lique as well as the illustrious tutor of Alcibiades knew that of his wife Xantippe.

Pitou had not deceived himself in his foresight, but he thought he would be able to brave the storm by presenting to the old devotee the produce of his day's sport; only he had not been able to foretell from what spot the thunder would be hurled at him.

The thunderbolt struck him immediately on entering the house.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique had ensconced herself behind the door, that she might not miss her nephew as he entered, so that at the very moment he ventured to put his foot into the room, he received a cuff upon the occiput, and in which, without further information, he at once recognized the withered hand of the old devotee.

Fortunately, Pitou's head was a tolerably hard one, and although the blow had scarcely staggered him, he pretended, in order to mollify his aunt, whose anger had increased, from having hurt her fingers in striking with such violence, to fall, stumbling as he went, at the opposite end of the room; there, seated on the floor, and seeing that his aunt was returning to the assault, her distaff in her hand, he hastened to draw from his pocket the talisman on which he had relied to allay the storm, and obtain pardon for his flight. And this was two dozen of birds, among which were a dozen redbreasts and half-a-dozen thrushes.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, perfectly astounded, opened her eyes widely, continuing to scold for form's sake; but although still scolding, she took possession of her nephew's sport, retreating three paces towards the lamp.

“What is all this-” she asked.

“You must see clearly enough, my dear little Aunt Ang #233;lique,” replied Pitou, “that they are birds.”

“Good to eat-” eagerly inquired the old maid, who, in her quality of devotee, was naturally a great eater.

“Good to eat!” reiterated Pitou; “well, that is singular. Redbreasts and thrushes good to eat! I believe they are, indeed!”

“And where did you steal these birds, you little wretch-”

“I did not steal them; I caught them.”

“Caught them! how-”

“By lime-twigging them.”

“Lime-twigging,-what do you mean by that-”

Pitou looked at his aunt with an air of astonishment; he could not comprehend that the education of any person in existence could have been so neglected as not to know the meaning of lime-twigging.

“Lime-twigging-” said he; “why, zounds! 'tis lime-twigging.”

“Yes; but, saucy fellow, I do not understand what you mean by lime-twigging.”

As Pitou was full of compassion for the uninitiated, “Well, you see, Aunt,” said he, “in the forest here there are at least thirty small pools; you place the lime twigs around them, and when the birds go to drink there, as they do not-poor silly things!-know anything about them, they run their heads into them and are caught.”

“By what-”

“By the birdlime.”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Aunt Ang #233;lique, “I understand; but who gave you the money-”

“Money!” cried Pitou, astonished that any one could have believed that he had ever possessed a sou; “money, Aunt Ang #233;lique-”

“Yes.”

“No one.”

“But where did you buy the birdlime, then-”

“I made it myself.”

“And the lime-twigs-”

“I made them also, to be sure.”

“Therefore, these birds-”

“Well, Aunt-”

“Cost you nothing-”

“The trouble of stooping to pick them up.”

“And can you go often to these pools-”

“One might go every day.”

“Good!”

“Only, it would not do.”

“What would not do-”

“To go there every day.”

“And for what reason-”

“Why, because it would ruin it.”

“Ruin what-”

“The lime-twigging. You understand, Aunt Ang #233;lique, that the birds which are caught-”

“Well-”

“Well, they can't return to the pool.”

“That is true,” said the aunt.

This was the first time, since Pitou had lived with her, that Aunt Ang #233;lique had allowed her nephew was in the right, and this unaccustomed approbation perfectly delighted him.

“But,” said he, “the days that one does not go to the pools one goes somewhere else. The days we do not catch birds, we catch something else.”

“And what do you catch-”

“Why, we catch rabbits.”

“Rabbits-”

“Yes; we eat the rabbits and sell their skins. A rabbitskin is worth two sous.”

Aunt Ang #233;lique gazed at her nephew with astonished eyes; she had never considered him so great an economist. Pitou had suddenly revealed himself.

“But will it not be my business to sell the skins-”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Pitou; “as Mamma Madeleine used to do.”

It had never entered the mind of the boy that he could claim any part of the produce of his sport excepting that which he consumed.

“And when will you go out to catch rabbits-”

“Ah! that's another matter; when I can get the wires,” replied Pitou.

“Well, then, make the wires.”

Pitou shook his head.

“Why, you made the birdlime and the twigs.”

“Oh, yes, I can make birdlime and I can set the twigs, but I cannot make brass wire; that is bought ready made at the grocer's.”

“And how much does it cost-”

“Oh, for four sous,” replied Pitou, calculating upon his fingers, “I could make at least two dozen.”

“And with two dozen how many rabbits could you catch-”

“That is as it may happen,-four, five, six perhaps,-and they can be used over and over again if the gamekeeper does not find them.”

“See, now, here are four sous,” said Aunt Ang #233;lique; “go and buy some brass wire at Monsieur Dambrun's, and go to-morrow and catch rabbits.”

“I will lay them to-morrow,” said Pitou, “but it will only be the next morning that I shall know whether I have caught any.”

“Well, be it so; but go and buy the wire.”

Brass wire was cheaper at Villers-Cotterets than in the country, seeing that the grocers at Haramont purchased their supplies in the town; Pitou, therefore, bought wire enough for twenty-four snares for three sous. He took the remaining sou back to his aunt.

This unexpected probity in her nephew almost touched the heart of the old maid. For a moment she had the idea, the intention, of bestowing upon her nephew the sou which he had not expended; unfortunately for Pitou, it was one that had been beaten out with a hammer, and which, in the dusk, might be passed for a twosous piece. Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique thought it would never do to dispossess herself of a coin by which she could make cent per cent, and she let it drop again into her pocket.

Pitou had remarked this hesitation, but had not analyzed it; he never could have imagined that his aunt would give him a sou.

He at once set to work to make his wires. The next day he asked his aunt for a bag.

“What for-” inquired the old maid.

“Because I want it,” replied Pitou.-Pitou was full of mystery.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique gave him the required bag, put into it the provision of bread and cheese which was to serve for breakfast and dinner to her nephew, who set out very early for Wolf's Heath.

As to Aunt Ang #233;lique, she set to work to pick the twelve redbreasts which she had destined for her own breakfast and dinner. She carried two thrushes to the Abb #233; Fortier, and sold the remaining four to the host of the Golden Ball, who paid her three sous apiece for them, promising her to take as many as she would bring him at the same price.

Aunt Ang #233;lique returned home transported with joy. The blessing of heaven had entered beneath her roof with Ange Pitou.

“Ah!” cried she, while eating her robin-redbreasts, which were as fat as ortolans and as delicate as beccaficos, “people are right in saying that a good deed never goes unrewarded.”

In the evening Ange returned; his bag, which was magnificently rounded, he carried on his shoulders. On this occasion Aunt Ang #233;lique did not waylay him behind the door, but waited for him on the threshold, and instead of giving him a box on the ear, she received the lad with a grimace which very much resembled a smile.

“Here I am!” cried Pitou, on entering the room with all that firmness which denotes a conviction of having well employed one's time.

“You and your bag,” said Aunt Ang #233;lique.

“I and my bag,” said Pitou

“And what have you in your bag-” inquired Aunt Ang #233;lique, stretching forth her hand with curiosity.

“Beech-mast,” said Pitou.

“Beech-mast!”

“Undoubtedly; you must understand, Aunt Ang #233;lique, that if old Father La Jeunesse, the gamekeeper at the Wolf's Heath, had seen me prowling over his grounds without my bag, he would have said to me, 'What do you come here after, you little vagabond-' And this without calculating that he might have suspected something; while having my bag, were he to ask me what I was doing there, I should say to him, 'why I am come to gather mast; is it forbidden to gather mast-' 'No.' 'Well, then, if it is not forbidden, you have nothing to say.' And indeed, should he say anything, Father La Jeunesse would be in the wrong.”

“Then you have spent your whole day in gathering mast instead of laying your wires, you idle fellow!” exclaimed aunt Ang #233;lique angrily, who thought that the rabbits were escaping her through her nephew's excessive cunning.

“On the contrary, I laid my snares while he saw me at work gathering the mast.”

“And did he say nothing to you-”

“Oh, yes, he said to me, 'You will present my compliments to your aunt, Pitou.' Hey! Is not Father La Jeunesse a kind, good man-”

“But the rabbits-” again repeated the old devotee, whom nothing could divert from her fixed idea.

“The rabbits- Why, the moon will rise at midnight, and at one o'clock I will go and see if there are any caught.”

“Where-”

“In the woods.”

“How! would you go into the woods at one o'clock in the morning-”

“To be sure.”

“And without being afraid-”

“Afraid! of what-”

Ang #233;lique was as much astounded at Pitou's courage as she had been astonished at his calculations.

The fact is, that Pitou, as simple as a child of nature, knew nothing of those factitious dangers which terrify children born in cities.

Therefore at midnight he went his way, walking along the churchyard wall without once looking back. The innocent youth who had never offended, at least according to his ideas of independence, either God or man, feared not the dead more than he did the living.

There was only one person of whom he felt any sort of apprehension, and this was Father La Jeunesse; and therefore did he take the precaution to go somewhat out of his way to pass by his house. As the doors and shutters were all closed, and there was no light to be perceived, Pitou, in order to assure himself that the keeper was really at home and not upon the watch, began to imitate the barking of a dog, and so perfectly that Ronflot, the keeper's terrier, was deceived by it, and answered it by giving tongue with all his might, and by sniffing the air under the door.

From that moment Pitou was perfectly reassured; as Ronflot was at home, Father La Jeunesse must be there also. Ronflot and Father La Jeunesse were inseparable; and at the moment the one was seen, it was certain that the other would soon make his appearance.

Pitou, being perfectly satisfied of this fact, went on towards the Wolf's Heath. The snares had done their work; two rabbits had been caught and strangled.

Pitou put them into the capacious pocket of that coat, which, then too long for him, was destined within a year to become too short, and then returned to his aunt's house.

The old maid had gone to bed, but her cupidity had kept her awake; like Perrette, she had been calculating what her rabbit-skins might produce, and this calculation had led her on so far, that she had not been able to close her eyes; and therefore was it with nervous tremulation that she asked the boy what success he had had.

“A couple,” said he. “Ah! the deuce! Aunt Ang #233;lique, it is not my fault that I have not brought more, but it appears that Father Jeunesse's rabbits are of a cunning sort.”

The hopes of Aunt Ang #233;lique were fulfilled, and even more. She seized, trembling with joy, the two unlucky quadrupeds and examined their skins, which had remained intact, and locked them up in her meat-safe, which never had seen such provisions as those it had contained since Pitou had hit upon the idea of supplying it.

Then, in a very honeyed tone, she advised Pitou to go to bed, which the lad, who was much fatigued, did instantly, and that without even asking for his supper, which raised him greatly in the opinion of his aunt.

Two days after this Pitou renewed his attempts, and on this occasion was more fortunate than the first. He brought home three rabbits. Two of them took the road to the Golden Ball, and the third that of the presbytery. Aunt Ang #233;lique was very attentive to the Abb #233; Fortier, who on his side strongly recommended her to the pious souls of the parish.

Things went on in this manner during three or four months. Aunt Ang #233;lique was enchanted, and Pitou found his position somewhat supportable. In fact, with the exception of the tender cares of his mother, Pitou led nearly the same life at Villers-Cotterets which he had done at Haramont. But an unexpected circumstance, which, however, might have been foreseen, at once dashed to the ground the milk-pitcher of the aunt and put a stop to the excursions of the nephew.

A letter had been received from Doctor Gilbert, dated from New York. On placing his foot on the soil of the United States the philosophic traveller had not forgotten his prot #233;g #233;. He had written to Master Niguet, the notary, to inquire whether his instructions had been carried into effect, and to claim the execution of the agreement if they had not been, or to cancel it altogether if the old aunt would not abide by her engagements.

The case was a serious one; the responsibility of the public officer was at stake; he presented himself at the house of Aunt Pitou, and with the doctor's letter in his hand called upon her to perform the promise she had made.

There was no backing out; all allegations as to illhealth were at once belied by the physical appearance of Pitou. Pitou was tall and thin. Every sapling of the forest was also thin and tall, but this did not prevent it from being in a perfectly healthy and thriving condition.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique asked for a delay of eight days, in order to make up her mind as to the trade or occupation in which she should place her nephew.

Pitou was quite as sorrowful as his aunt. The mode of life he led appeared to him a very excellent one, and he did not desire any other.

During these eight days there was no thought of going bird-catching or poaching; moreover, the winter had arrived, and in winter the birds find water everywhere; but some snow had fallen, and while that was on the ground Pitou did not dare go out to lay his snares. Snow retains the impression of footsteps, and Pitou possessed a pair of feet so huge that they gave Father La Jeunesse the greatest possible chance of ascertaining in four-andtwenty hours who was the skilful poacher who had depopulated his rabbit warren.

During these eight days the claws of the old maid again showed themselves. Pitou had once more found the aunt of former days, she who had caused him so much terror, and whom self-interest, the primum mobile of her whole life, had for a while rendered as smooth as velvet.

As the day for the important decision approached, the temper of the old maid became more and more crabbed, and to such a degree that, about the fifth day, Pitou sincerely desired that his aunt would immediately decide upon some trade, be it what it might, provided it should no longer be that of the scolded drudge which he had been filling in the old maid's house.

Suddenly a sublime idea struck the mind of the old woman who had been so cruelly agitated. This idea restored her equanimity, which for six days had altogether abandoned her.

This idea consisted in entreating the Abb #233; Fortier to receive into his school, and this without any remuneration whatever, poor Pitou, and enable him to obtain the purse for entering the seminary, founded by his highness the Duke of Orleans. This was an apprenticeship which would cost nothing to Aunt Ang #233;lique; and Monsieur Fortier, without taking into calculation the thrushes, blackbirds, and rabbits with which the old devotee had so abundantly supplied him for the last month, was bound to do something, more than for any other, for the nephew of the chair-letter of his own church. Thus kept as under a glass frame, Ange would continue to be profitable to her at the present time, and promised to be much more so in the future.

Consequently Ange was received into the Abb #233; Fortier's school without any charge for his education. This abb #233; was a worthy man, and not in any way interested, giving his knowledge to the poor in mind, and his money to the poor in body. He was, however, intractable on one single point; solecisms rendered him altogether furious, barbarisms would send him almost out of his mind; on these occasions he considered neither friends nor foes, neither poor nor rich, nor paying pupils nor gratuitous scholars; he struck all with agrarian impartiality and with Lacedemonian stoicism, and as his arm was strong he struck severely.

This was well known to the parents, and it was for them to decide whether they would or would not send their sons to the Abb #233; Fortier's school; or if they did send them there, they knew they must abandon them entirely to his mercy, for when any maternal complaint was made to him, the abb #233; always replied to it by this device, which he had engraved on the handle of his cane and on that of his cat-o'-nine-tails, “Who loves well chastises well.”

Upon the recommendation of his aunt, Ange Pitou was therefore received by the Abb #233; Fortier. The old devotee, quite proud of this reception,-which was much less agreeable to Pitou, whose wandering and independent mode of life it altogether destroyed,-presented herself to Master Niguet, and told him that she had not only conformed to her agreement with Doctor Gilbert, but had even gone beyond it. In fact, Doctor Gilbert had demanded for Ange Pitou an honorable means of living, and she gave him much more than this, since she gave him an excellent education. And where was it that she gave him this education- Why, in the very academy in which Sebastian Gilbert received his, and for which he paid no less than fifty livres per month.

It was indeed true that Ange Pitou received his education gratis; but there was no necessity whatever for letting Doctor Gilbert into this secret. And if he should discover it, the impartiality and the disinterestedness of the Abb #233; Fortier were well known; as his sublime Master, he stretched out his arms, saying, “Suffer little children to come unto me;” only the two hands affixed to these two paternal arms were armed, the one with a Latin grammar, and the other with a large birch rod; so that in the greater number of instances, instead of, like the Saviour, receiving the children weeping and sending them away consoled, the Abb #233; Fortier saw the children approach him with terror in their countenances and sent them away weeping.

The new scholar made his entrance into the schoolroom with an old trunk under his arm, a horn inkstand in his hand, and two or three stumps of pens stuck behind his ears. The old trunk was intended to supply, as it best might, the absence of a regular desk. The inkstand was a gift from the grocer, and Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique had picked up the stumps of pens at Monsieur Niguet, the notary's, when she had paid him a visit the evening before.

Ange Pitou was welcomed with that fraternal gentleness which is born in children and perpetuated in grown men,-that is to say, with hootings. The whole time devoted to the morning class was passed in making game of him. Two of the scholars were kept for laughing at his yellow hair, and two others for ridiculing his marvellous knees, of which we have already slightly made mention. The two latter had said that each of Pitou's legs looked like a well-rope in which a knot had been tied. This jest was attended with great success, had gone round the room and excited general hilarity, and consequently the susceptibility of the Abb #233; Fortier.

Therefore, the account being made up at noon when about to leave the school,-that is to say, after having remained four hours in class,-Pitou, without having addressed a single word to any one, without having done anything but gape behind his trunk, Pitou had made six enemies in the school; six enemies, so much the more inveterate that he had not inflicted any wrong upon them, and therefore did they over the fire-stove, which in the schoolroom represented the altar of their country, swear a solemn oath, some to tear out his yellow hair, others to punch out his earthenware blue eyes, and the remainder to straighten his crooked knees.

Pitou was altogether ignorant of these hostile intentions. As he was going out he asked a boy near him why six of their comrades remained in school, when all the rest were leaving it.

The boy looked askance at Pitou, called him a shabby tale-bearer, and went away, unwilling to enter into conversation with him.

Pitou asked himself how it could have happened that he, not having uttered a single word during the whole time, could be called a shabby tale-bearer. But while the class had lasted he had heard so many things said, either by the pupils or by the Abb #233; Fortier, which he could in no way comprehend, that he classed this accusation of his schoolfellow with those things which were too elevated for him to understand.

On seeing Pitou return at noon, Aunt Ang #233;lique, with great ardor for the success of an education for which it was generally understood she made great sacrifices, inquired of him what he had learned.

Pitou replied that he had learned to remain silent. The answer was worthy of a Pythagorean; only a Pythagorean would have made it by a sign.

The new scholar returned to school at one o'clock without too much repugnance. The hours of study in the morning had been passed by the pupils in examining the physical appearance of Pitou; those of the afternoon were employed by the professor in examining his moral capabilities. This examination being made, the Abb #233; Fortier remained convinced that Pitou had every possible disposition to become a Robinson Crusoe, but very little chance of ever becoming a Fontenelle or a Bossuet.

During the whole time that the class lasted, and which was much more fatiguing to the future seminarist than that of the morning, the scholars who had been punished on account of him repeatedly shook their fists at him. In all countries, whether blessed with civilization or not, this demonstration is considered as a sign of threat. Pitou therefore determined to be on his guard.

Our hero was not mistaken. On leaving, or rather when he had left, and got clear away from all the dependencies of the collegiate house, it was notified to Pitou by the six scholars who had been kept in the morning, that he would have to pay for the two hours of arbitrary detention, with damages, interest and capital.

Pitou at once understood that he would have to fight a pugilistic duel. Although he was far from having studied the fifth book of the #198;neid, in which young Dares and the old Entellus give proofs of their great skill in this manly exercise before the loudly applauding Trojan fugitives, he knew something of this species of recreation, to which the country people in his village were not altogether strangers. He therefore declared that he was ready to enter the lists with either of his adversaries who might wish to begin, and to combat successively with all his six enemies. This demonstration began to raise the last comer in the consideration of his schoolfellows.

The conditions were agreed on as Pitou had proposed. A circle was soon formed round the place of combat, and the champions, the one having thrown off his jacket, the other his coat, advanced towards each other.

We have already spoken of Pitou's hands. These hands, which were by no means agreeable to look at, were still less agreeable to feel. Pitou at the end of each arm whirled round a fist equal in size to a child's head, and although boxing had not at that time been introduced into France, and consequently Pitou had not studied the elementary principles of the science, he managed to apply to one of the eyes of his adversary a blow so well directed that the eye he struck was instantly surrounded by a dark bistre-colored circle, so geometrically drawn that the most skilful mathematician could not have formed it more correctly with his compasses.

The second then presented himself. If Pitou had against him the fatigue occasioned by his first combat, on the other side, his adversary was visibly less powerful than his former antagonist. The battle did not last long. Pitou aimed a straightforward blow at his enemy's nose, and his formidable fist fell with such weight that instantly his opponent's two nostrils gave evidence of the validity of the blow by spouting forth a double stream of blood.

The third got off with merely a broken tooth; he received much less damage than the two former. The other three declared that they were satisfied.

Pitou then pressed through the crowd, which opened as he approached with the respect due to a conqueror, and he withdrew safe and sound to his own fireside, or rather to that of his aunt.

The next morning, when the three pupils reached the school, the one with his eye poached, the second with a fearfully lacerated nose, and the third with his lips swelled, the Abb #233; Fortier instituted an inquiry. But young collegians have their good points too. Not one of the wounded whispered a word against Pitou, and it was only through an indirect channel, that is to say, from a person who had been a witness of the fight, but who was altogether unconnected with the school, that the Abb #233; Fortier learned, the following day, that it was Pitou who had done the damage to the faces of his pupils, which had caused him so much uneasiness the day before.

And, in fact, the Abb #233; Fortier was responsible to the parents, not only for the morals, but for the physical state of his pupils. He had received complaints from the three families. A reparation was absolutely necessary. Pitou was kept in school three days: one day for the eye, one day for the bloody nose, and one day for the tooth.

This three days' detention suggested an ingenious idea to Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique. It was to deprive Pitou of his dinner every time that the Abb #233; Fortier kept him in school. This determination must necessarily have an advantageous effect on Pitou's education, since it would naturally induce him to think twice before committing a fault which would subject him to this double punishment.

Only, Pitou could never rightly comprehend why it was that he had been called a tale-bearer, when he had not opened his lips, and why it was he had been punished for beating those who had wished to beat him; but if people were to comprehend everything that happens in this world, they would lose one of the principal charms of life,-that of mystery and the unforeseen.

Pitou was therefore detained three days in school, and during those three days he contented himself with his breakfast and supper.

Contented himself is not the word, for Pitou was by no means content; but our language is so poor, and the Academy so severe, that we must content ourselves with what we have.

Only that this punishment submitted to by Pitou, without saying a word of the aggression to which he had been subjected, and to which he had only properly replied, won him the esteem of the whole school. It is true that the three majestic blows he had been seen to deliver might also have had some little influence on his schoolfellows.

From that time forward the life of Pitou was pretty nearly that of most of the scholars, with this sole difference, that from his compositions being more defective than those of any of the rest, he was kept twice as often as any of his condisciples.

But it must be said there was one thing in Pitou's nature which arose from the primary education he had received, or rather from that which he had not received,-a thing which is necessary to consider as contributing at least a third to the numerous penalties he underwent; and this was his natural inclination for animals.

The famous trunk which his Aunt Ang #233;lique had dignified with the name of desk, had become, thanks to its vastness, and the numerous compartments with which Pitou had decorated its interior, a sort of Noah's ark, containing a couple of every species of climbing, crawling, or flying reptiles. There were lizards, adders, ant-eaters, beetles, and frogs, which reptiles became so much dearer to Pitou from their being the cause of his being subjected to punishment more or less severe.

It was in his walks during the week that Pitou made collections for his menagerie. He had wished for salamanders, which were very popular at Villers-Cotterets, being the crest of Fran #231;ois I., who had them sculptured on every chimney-piece in the chateau. He had succeeded in obtaining them; only one thing had strongly preoccupied his mind, and he ended by placing this thing among the number of those which were beyond his intelligence; it was, that he had constantly found in the water these reptiles which poets have pretended exist only in fire. This circumstance had given to Pitou, who was a lad of precise mind, a profound contempt for poets.

Pitou, being the proprietor of two salamanders, set to work to find a chameleon; but this time his search was altogether vain, and success did not attend his labors. Pitou at last concluded, from these unfruitful researches, that the chameleon did not exist, or at all events that it existed in some other latitude.

This point being settled, Pitou did not obstinately continue his search for the chameleon.

The two other thirds of Pitou's punishments were occasioned by those accursed solecisms and those confounded barbarisms, which sprang up in the themes written by Pitou as tares do in a field of wheat.

As to Sundays and Thursdays, days when there was no attendance at school, he had continued to employ them in laying his lime-twigs or in poaching; only, as Pitou was still growing taller, as he was already five feet six, and sixteen years of age, a circumstance occurred which somewhat withdrew Pitou's attention from his favorite occupations.

Upon the road to the Wolf's Heath is situated the village of Pisseleu, the same perhaps which gave a name to the beautiful Anne d'Heilly, the mistress of Fran #231;ois I.

Near this village stood the farm-house of Father Billot, as he was called throughout the neighborhood, and at the door of this farm-house was standing, no doubt by chance, but almost every time when Pitou passed and repassed, a pretty girl from seventeen to eighteen years of age, fresh-colored, lively, jovial, and who was called by her baptismal name, Catherine, but still more frequently after her father's name, La Billote.

Pitou began by bowing to La Billote; afterwards he by degrees became emboldened, and smiled while he was bowing; then at last one fine day, after having bowed, after having smiled, he stopped, and although blushing deeply, ventured to stammer out the following words, which he considered as great audacity on his part:

CHAPTER IV. OF THE INFLUENCE WHICH A BARBARISM AND SEVEN SOLECISMS MAY HAVE UPON THE WHOLE LIFE OF A MAN

THESE details were indispensable to the reader, whatever be the degree of intelligence we suppose him to possess, in order that he might comprehend the whole horror of the position in which Pitou found himself on being finally expelled from the school.

With one arm hanging down, the other maintaining the equilibrium of the trunk upon his head, his ears still ringing with the furious vituperations of the Abb #233; Fortier, he slowly directed his steps towards Pleux, in a state of meditation which was nothing more than stupor carried to the highest possible degree.

At last an idea presented itself to his imagination, and four words, which composed his whole thought, escaped his lips:-

“O Lord! my aunt!”

And indeed what would Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique Pitou say to this complete overthrow of all her hopes-

However, Ange Pitou knew nothing of the projects of the old maid, excepting as a faithful dog surmises the intentions of his master, that is to say, by an inspection of his physiognomy. Instinct is a most valuable guide,-it seldom deceives; while reason, on the contrary, may be led astray by the imagination.

The result of these reflections on the part of Ange Pitou, and which had given birth to the doleful exclama- tion we have given above, was the apprehension of the violent outbreak of discontent to which the old maid would give way on receiving the fatal news. Now, he knew from sad experience the result of discontent in Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique. Only upon this occasion the cause of discontent arising from an incalculably important event, the result would attain a degree altogether incalculable.

It was under these terrific impressions that Pitou entered Pleux. He had taken a quarter of an hour to traverse the distance between the great gate at the Abb #233; Fortier's and the entrance to this street, and yet it was scarcely three hundred yards.

At that moment the church clock struck one; he then perceived that his final conversation with the Abb #233; Fortier and the slowness with which he had walked had delayed him in all sixty minutes, and that consequently he was half an hour later than the time at which no more dinner was to be had in Aunt Ang #233;lique's abode.

We have already said that such was the salutary restraint which Aunt Ang #233;lique had added to his being kept in school, and on the wild ramblings of her nephew; it was thus that in the course of a year she managed to economize some sixty dinners at the expense of her poor nephew's stomach.

But this time, that which rendered more uneasy the retarded schoolboy was not the loss of his aunt's meagre dinner, although his breakfast had been meagre enough, for his heart was too full to allow him to perceive the emptiness of his stomach.

There is a frightful torment, well known to a student, however perverse he may be, and this is the illegitimate hiding in some retired corner, after being expelled from college; it is the definitive and compelled holiday which he is constrained to take advantage of, while his fellowstudents pass by him with their books and writings under their arm, proceeding to their daily task. That college, formerly so hated, then assumes a most desirable form; the scholar occupies his mind with the great affairs of themes and exercises, to which he before so little directed his attention, and which are being proceeded with in his absence. There is a great similarity between a pupil so expelled by his professor and a man who has been excommunicated for his impiety, and who no longer has a right to enter the church, although burning with desire to hear a mass.

And this was why, the nearer he approached his aunt's house, his residence in that house appeared the more frightful to poor Pitou. And this was why, for the first time in his life, his imagination pictured to him the school as a terrestrial paradise, from which the Abb #233; Fortier, as the exterminating angel, had driven him forth, with his cat-o'-nine-tails wielded as a flaming sword.

But yet, slowly as he walked, and although he halted at every ten steps,-halts which became still longer as he approached nearer,-he could not avoid at last reaching the threshold of that most formidable house. Pitou then crossed the threshold with shuffling feet, and mechanically rubbing his hand on the seam of his nether garment.

“Ah, Aunt Ang #233;lique, I am really very sick,” said he, in order to stop her raillery or her reproaches, and perhaps also to induce her to pity him, poor boy.

“Pshaw!” said Ang #233;lique. “I well know what your sickness is; and it would be cured at once by putting back the hands of the clock an hour and a half.”

“Oh, good heavens, no!” cried Pitou; “for I am not hungry.”

Aunt Ang #233;lique was surprised and almost anxious. Sickness equally alarms affectionate mothers and crabbed stepmothers,-affectionate mothers from the dangers caused by sickness, and stepmothers from the heavy pulls it makes upon their purse.

“Well, what is the matter- Come, now, speak out at once,” said the old maid.

On hearing these words, which were, however, pronounced without any very tender sympathy, Ange Pitou burst into tears; and it must be acknowledged that the wry faces he made when proceeding from complaints to tears were the most terrifically ugly wry faces that could be seen.

“Oh, my good Aunt,” cried he, sobbing, “a great misfortune has happened to me!”

“And what is it-” asked the old maid.

“The Abb #233; Fortier has sent me away,” replied Ange, sobbing so violently that he was scarcely intelligible.

“Sent you away-” repeated Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, as if she had not perfectly comprehended what he said.

“Yes, Aunt.”

“And from where has he sent you!”

“From the school.”

And Pitou's sobs redoubled.

“From the school-”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“What! altogether-”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“So there is to be no examination, no competition, no purse, no seminary-”

Pitou's sobs were changed into perfect howlings.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique looked at him, as if she would read the very heart of her nephew to ascertain the cause of his dismissal.

“I will wager that you have again been among the bushes instead of going to school. I would wager that you have again been prowling about Father Billot's farm. Oh, fie! and a future abb #233;!”

Ange shook his head.

“You are lying,” cried the old maid, whose anger augmented in proportion as she acquired the certainty that the state of matters was very serious. “You are lying. Only last Sunday you were seen in the Lane of Sighs with La Billote.”

It was Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique who was lying. But devotees have, in all ages, considered themselves authorized to lie, in virtue of that Jesuitical axiom, “It is permitted to assert that which is false, in order to discover that which is true.”

“No one could have seen me in the Lane of Sighs,” replied Pitou; “that is impossible, for we were walking near the orangery.”

“Ah, wretch! you see that you were with her.”

“But, Aunt,” rejoined Pitou, blushing, “Mademoiselle Billot has nothing to do with this affair.”

“Yes, call her mademoiselle, in order to conceal your impure conduct. But I will let this minx's confessor know all about it.”

“But, Aunt, I swear to you that Mademoiselle Billot is not a minx.”

“Ah! you defend her, when it is you that stand in need of being excused. Oh, yes; you understand each other better and better. What are we coming to, good heaven! and children only sixteen years old.”

“Aunt, so far from there being any understanding between me and Catherine, it is Catherine who always drives me away from her.”

“Ah! you see you are cutting your own throat; for now you call her Catherine, right out. Yes, she drives you away from her, hypocrite, when people are looking at you.”

“Ho! ho!” said Pitou to himself, illuminated by this idea. “Well, that is true. I had never thought of that.”

“Ah, there again!” said the old maid, taking advantage of the ingenuous exclamation of her nephew to prove his connivance with La Billote; “but let me manage it. I will soon put all this to rights again. Monsieur Fortier is her confessor. I will beg him to have you shut up in prison, and order you to live on bread and water for a fortnight; as to Mademoiselle Catherine, if she requires a convent to moderate her passion for you, well, she shall have a taste of it. We will send her to St. Remy.”

The old maid uttered these last words with such authority, and with such conviction of her power, that they made Pitou tremble.

“My good aunt,” cried he, clasping his hands, “you are mistaken, I swear to you, if you believe that Mademoiselle Billot has anything to do with the misfortune that has befallen me.”

“Impurity is the mother of all vices,” sententiously rejoined Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique.

“Aunt, I again tell you that the Abb #233; Fortier did not send me away because I was impure; but he has dismissed me because I make too many barbarisms, mingled with solecisms, which every now and then escape me, and which deprive me, as he says, of all chance of obtaining the purse for the seminary.”

“All chance, say you- Then you will not have that purse; then you will not be an abb #233;; then I shall not be your housekeeper-”

“Ah, good heaven, no! dear Aunt.”

“And what is to become of you, then-” cried the old maid, in a savage tone.

“I know not,” cried Pitou, piteously, raising his eyes to heaven. “Whatever it may please Providence to order,” he added.

“Ah! Providence, you say. I see how it is,” exclaimed Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique. “Some one has been exciting his brain. Some one has been talking to him of these new ideas; some one has been endeavoring to fill him with these principles of philosophy.”

“It cannot be that, Aunt; because no one gets into philosophy before having gone through his rhetoric, and I have never yet been able to get even so far as that.”

“Oh, yes!-jest-jest! It is not of that philosophy that I am speaking. I speak of the philosophy of the philosophers, you wretch. I speak of the philosophy of Monsieur Arouet; I speak of the philosophy of Monsieur Jean Jacques; of the philosophy of Monsieur Diderot, who wrote 'La Religieuse.'“

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique crossed herself.

“'La Religieuse!'“ cried Pitou; “what is that, Aunt-”

“You have read it, wretch!”

“I swear to you, Aunt, that I have not.”

“And this is the reason why you will not go into the church.”

“Aunt, Aunt, you are mistaken. It is the church that will not admit me.”

“Why, decidedly, this child is a perfect serpent. He even dares to retort.”

“No, Aunt; I answer, and that is all.”

“Oh, he is lost!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, with all the signs of most profound discouragement, and falling into her favorite arm-chair.

In fact, “He is lost!” merely signified, “I am lost!”

The danger was imminent; Aunt Ang #233;lique formed an extreme resolve. She rose as if some secret spring had forced her to her feet, and ran off to the Abb #233; Fortier to ask him for an explanation, and above all to make a last effort to get him to change his determination.

Pitou followed his aunt with his eyes till she had reached the door, and when she had disappeared, he went to the threshold and watched her walking with extraordinary rapidity towards the Rue de Soissons. He was surprised at the quickness of her movements; but he had no longer any doubt as to the intentions of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, and was convinced that she was going to his professor's house.

He could therefore calculate on at least a quarter of an hour's tranquillity. Pitou thought of making a good use of this quarter of an hour which Providence had granted to him. He snatched up the remainder of his aunt's dinner to feed his lizards, caught two or three flies for his ants and frogs, then, opening successively a hutch and a cupboard, he set about feeding himself; for with solitude his appetite had returned to him.

Having arranged all these matters, he returned to watch at the door, that he might not be surprised by the return of his second mother.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique had given herself the title of Pitou's second mother.

While he was watching, a handsome young girl passed at the end of the Pleux, going along a narrow lane which led from the end of the Rue de Soissons to that of the Rue de Lormet. She was seated on a pillion on the back of a horse loaded with two panniers, the one full of fowls, the other of pigeons. It was Catherine. On perceiving Pitou standing at his door, she stopped.

Pitou blushed as was his wont, then remained with his mouth wide open, looking at her, that is to say, admiring her,-for Mademoiselle Billot was in his eyes the most heavenly sample of human beauty.

The young girl darted a glance into the street, saluted Pitou with a little graceful nod, and continued on her way.

Pitou replied to it, trembling with satisfaction.

This little scene lasted just time enough to occupy the tall scholar's attention, who was quite lost in his contemplation, and continued eagerly gazing at the spot where Mademoiselle Catherine had appeared, so as to prevent him from perceiving his aunt when she returned from the Abb #233; Fortier, who suddenly seized his hand, turning pale with anger.

Ange being thus startlingly awakened from his sweet dream by that electrical shock which the touch of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique always communicated to him, turned round, and seeing that the enraged looks of his aunt were fixed upon his hand, cast his own eyes down upon it, and saw with horror that it was holding the half of a large round of bread upon which he had apparently spread a too generous layer of butter, with a corresponding slice of cheese.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique uttered a cry of terror, and Pitou a groan of alarm; Ang #233;lique raised her bony hand, Pitou bobbed down his head; Ang #233;lique seized a broomhandle which unluckily was but too near her, Pitou let fall his slice of bread-and-butter, and took to his heels without further explanation.

These two hearts now understood each other, and felt that henceforth there could be no communion between them.

Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique went into her house and double-locked the door. Pitou, whom the grating noise alarmed as a continuation of the storm, ran on still faster.

From this scene resulted an effect which Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique was very far from foreseeing, and which certainly Pitou in no way expected.

CHAPTER V. A PHILOSOPHICAL FARMER

PITOU ran as if all the demons of the infernal regions were at his heels, and in a few seconds he was outside the town.

On turning round the corner of the cemetery, he very nearly ran his head against the hind part of a horse.

“Why, good Lord!” cried a sweet voice well known to Pitou, “where are you running to at this rate, Monsieur Ange- You have very nearly made Cadet run away with me, you frightened us both so much.”

“Ah, Mademoiselle Catherine!” cried Pitou, replying rather to his own thoughts than to the question of the young girl. “Ah, Mademoiselle Catherine, what a misfortune! great God, what a misfortune!”

“Oh, you quite terrify me!” said the young girl, pulling up her horse in the middle of the road. “What, then, has happened, Monsieur Ange-”

“What has happened!” said Pitou; and then, lowering his voice as if about to reveal some mysterious iniquity, “why, it is, that I am not to be an abb #233;, Mademoiselle.”

But instead of receiving the fatal intelligence with all those signs of commiseration which Pitou had expected, Mademoiselle Billot gave way to a long burst of laughter.

“You are not to be an abb #233;-” asked Catherine.

“No,” replied Pitou, in perfect consternation; “it appears that it is impossible.”

“Well, then, you can be a soldier,” said Catherine.

“A soldier-”

“Undoubtedly. You should not be in despair for such a trifle. Good Lord! I at first thought that you had come to announce to me the sudden death of your aunt.”

“Oh,” said Pitou, feelingly, “it is precisely the same thing to me as if she were dead indeed, since she has driven me out of her house.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Catherine, laughing; “you have not now the satisfaction of weeping for her.”

And Catherine began to laugh more heartily than before, which scandalized poor Pitou more than ever.

“But did you not hear that she has turned me out of doors-” rejoined the student, in despair.

“Well, so much the better,” she replied.

“You are very happy in being able to laugh in that manner, Mademoiselle Billot; and it proves that you have a most agreeable disposition, since the sorrows of others make so little impression upon you.”

“And who has told you, then, that, should a real misfortune happen to you, I would not pity you, Monsieur Ange-”

“You would pity me if a real misfortune should befall me! But do you not, then, know that I have no other resource-”

“So much the better again!” cried Catherine.

Pitou was perplexed.

“But one must eat!” said he; “one cannot live without eating! and I, above all, for I am always hungry.”

“You do not wish to work, then, Monsieur Pitou-”

“Work, and at what- Monsieur Fortier and my Aunt Ang #233;lique have told me more than a hundred times that I was fit for nothing. Ah! if they had only apprenticed me to a carpenter or a blacksmith, instead of wanting to make an abb #233; of me! Decidedly, now, Mademoiselle Catherine,” said Pitou, with a gesture of despair, “decidedly there is a curse upon me.”

“Alas!” said the young girl, compassionately, for she knew, as did all the neighborhood, Pitou's lamentable story. “There is some truth in what you have just now said, my dear Monsieur Ange; but why do you not do one thing-”

“What is it-” cried Pitou, eagerly clinging to the proposal which Mademoiselle Billot was about to make, as a drowning man clings to a willow branch. “What is it; tell me-”

“You had a protector; at least, I think I have heard so.”

“Doctor Gilbert.”

“You were the schoolfellow of his son, since he was educated, as you have been, by the Abb #233; Fortier.”

“I believe I was indeed, and I have more than once saved him from being thrashed.”

“Well, then, why do you not write to his father- He will not abandon you.”

“Why, I would certainly do so, did I know what had become of him; but your father perhaps knows this, Mademoiselle Billot, since Doctor Gilbert is his landlord.”

“I know that he sends part of the rent of the farm to him in America, and pays the remainder to a notary at Paris.”

“Ah!” said Pitou, sighing, “in America; that is very far.”

“You would go to America,-you-” cried the young girl, almost terrified at Pitou's resolution.

“Who, I, Mademoiselle Catherine! Never, never! If I knew where to go, and how to procure food, I should be very happy in France.”

“Very happy!” repeated Mademoiselle Billot.

Pitou cast down his eyes. The young girl remained silent. This silence lasted some time. Pitou was plunged in meditations which would have greatly surprised the Abb #233; Fortier, with all his logic.

These meditations, though rising from an obscure point, had become lucid; then they again became confused, though brilliant, like the lightning whose origin is concealed, whose source is lost.

During this time Cadet had again moved on, though at a walk, and Pitou walked at Cadet's side, with one hand leaning on one of the panniers. As to Mademoiselle Catherine, who had also become full of thought, she allowed her reins to fall upon her courser's neck, without fearing that he would run away with her. Moreover, there were no monsters on the road, and Cadet was of a race which had no sort of relation to the steeds of Hippolytus.

Pitou stopped mechanically when the horse stopped. They had arrived at the farm.

“Well, now, is it you, Pitou-” cried a broad-shouldered man, standing somewhat proudly by the side of a pond to which he had led his horse to drink.

“Eh! good Lord! Yes, Monsieur Billot, it is myself.”

“Another misfortune has befallen this poor Pitou,” said the young girl, jumping off her horse, without feeling at all uneasy as to whether her petticoat hitched or not, to show the color of her garters; “his aunt has turned him out of doors.”

“And what has he done to the old bigot-” said the farmer.

“It appears that I am not strong enough in Greek.”

He was boasting, the puppy. He ought to have said in Latin.

“Not strong enough in Greek!” exclaimed the broadshouldered man. “And why should you wish to be strong in Greek-”

“To construe Theocritus and read the Iliad.”

“And of what use would it be to you to construe Theocritus and read the Iliad-”

“It would be of use in making me an abb #233;.”

“Bah!” ejaculated Monsieur Billot, “and do I know Greek- do I know Latin- do I know even French- do I know how to read do I know how to write- That does not hinder me from sowing, from reaping, and getting my harvest into the granary.”

“Yes, but you, Monsieur Billot, you are not an abb #233;; you are a cultivator of the earth, agricola, as Virgil says. O fortunatos nimium-“

“Well, and do you then believe that a cultivator is not equal to a black-cap; say, then, you shabby chorister you, is he not so, particularly when this cultivator has sixty acres of good land in the sunshine, and a thousand louis in the shade-”

“I had been always told that to be an abb #233; was the best thing in the world. It is true,” added Pitou, smiling with his most agreeable smile, “that I did not always listen to what was told me.”

“And I give you joy, my boy. You see that I can rhyme like any one else when I set to work. It appears to me that there is stuff in you to make something better than an abb #233;, and that it is a lucky thing for you not to take to that trade, particularly as times now go. Do you see now, as a farmer I know something of the weather, and the weather just now is bad for abb #233;s.”

“Bah!” exclaimed Pitou.

“Yes, we shall have a storm,” rejoined the farmer, “and that ere long, believe me. You are honest, you are learned-”

Pitou bowed, much honored at being called learned, for the first time in his life.

“You can therefore gain a livelihood without that.”

Mademoiselle Billot, while taking the fowls and pigeons out of the panniers, was listening with much interest to the dialogue between Pitou and her father.

“Gain a livelihood,” rejoined Pitou; “that appears a difficult matter to me.”

“What can you do-”

“Do! why, I can lay lime-twigs, and set wires for rabbits. I can imitate, and tolerably well, the notes of birds, can I not, Mademoiselle Catherine-”

“Oh, that is true enough!” she replied. “He can whistle like a blackbird.”

“Yes, but all this is not a trade, a profession,” observed Father Billot.

“And that is what I say, by heaven!”

“You swear,-that is already something.”

“How, did I swear-” said Pitou. “I beg your pardon for having done so, Monsieur Billot.”

“Oh, there is no occasion, none at all,” said the farmer; “it happens also to me sometimes. Eh! thunder of heaven!” cried he, turning to his horse, “will you be quiet, hey- These devils of Perch horses, they must be always neighing and fidgeting about. But now, tell me,” said he, again addressing Pitou, “are you lazy-”

“I do not know. I have never done anything but Latin and Greek, and-”

“And what-”

“And I must admit that I did not take to them very readily.”

“So much the better,” cried Billot; “that proves you are not so stupid as I thought you.”

Pitou opened his eyes to an almost terrific width; it was the first time he had ever heard such an order of things advocated, and which was completely subversive of all the theories which up to that time he had been taught.

“I ask you,” said Billot, “if you are so lazy as to be afraid of fatigue.”

“Oh, with regard to fatigue, that is quite another thing,” replied Pitou; “no, no, no; I could go ten leagues without being fatigued.”

“Good! that's something, at all events,” rejoined Billot; “by getting a few pounds of flesh more off your bones, you could set up for a runner.”

“A few pounds more!” cried Pitou, looking at his own lanky form, his long arms and his legs, which had much the appearance of stilts; “it seems to me, Monsieur Billot, that I am thin enough as it is.”

“Upon my word, my friend,” cried Billot, laughing very heartily, “you are a perfect treasure.”

It was also the first time that Pitou had been estimated at so high a price, and therefore was he advancing from surprise to surprise.

“Listen to me,” said the farmer; “I ask you whether you are lazy in respect to work-”

“What sort of work-”

“Why, work in general.”

“I do not know, not I; for I have never worked.”

Catherine also began to laugh, but this time P #232;re Billot took the matter in a serious point of view.

“Those rascally priests!” said he, shaking his clenched fist towards the town; “and this is the way they bring up lads, in idleness and uselessness. In what way, I ask you, can this great stripling here be of service to his brethren-”

“Ah! not of much use, certainly; that I know full well,” replied Pitou; “fortunately I have no brothers.”

“By brethren I mean men in general,” observed Billot. “Would you, perchance, insist that all men are not brothers-”

“Oh, that I acknowledge; moreover, it is so said in the gospel.”

“And equals,” continued the farmer.

“Ah! as to that,” said Pitou, “that is quite another affair. If I had been the equal of Monsieur Fortier, he would not so often have thrashed me with his cat-o'-ninetails and his cane; and if I had been the equal of my aunt, she would not have turned me out of doors.”

“I tell you that all men are equal,” rejoined the farmer, “and we will very soon prove it to the tyrants.”

“Tyrannis,” added Pitou.

“And the proof of this is, that I will take you into my house.”

“You will take me into your house, my dear Monsieur Billot-” cried Pitou, amazed. “Is it not to make game of me that you say this-”

“No; come now, tell me, what would you require to live-”

“Zounds! about three pounds of bread daily.”

“And with your bread-”

“A little butter or cheese.”

“Well, well,” said the farmer; “I see it will not be very expensive to keep you in food. My lad, you shall be fed.”

“Monsieur Pitou,” said Catherine, “ had you not something to ask my father-”

“Who- I, Mademoiselle! Oh, good Lord, no!”

“And why was it that you came here, then-”

“Because you were coming here.”

“Ah!” cried Catherine, “that is really very gallant; but I accept compliments only at their true value. You came, Monsieur Pitou, to ask my father if he had any news of your protector.”

“Ah, that is true!” replied Pitou. “Well, now, how very droll! I had forgotten that altogether.”

“You are speaking of our worthy Monsieur Gilbert-” said the farmer, in a tone which evinced the very high consideration he felt for his landlord.

“Precisely,” said Pitou. “But I have no longer any need of him; and since Monsieur Billot takes me into his house, I can tranquilly wait his return from America.”

“In that case, my friend, you will not have to wait long, for he has returned.”

“Really!” cried Pitou; “and when did he arrive-”

“I do not know exactly; but what I know is, that he was at Havre a week ago; for I have in my holsters a packet which comes from him, which he sent to me as soon as he arrived, and which was delivered to me this very morning at Villers-Cotterets; and in proof of that, here it is.”

“Who was it told you that it was from him, Father-” said Catherine.

“Why, zounds! since there is a letter in the packet-”

“Excuse me, Father,” said Catherine, smiling, “but I thought that you could not read. I only say this, Father, because you make a boast of not knowing how to read.”

“Yes, I do boast of it. I wish that people should say, 'Father Billot owes nothing to any man,-not even a schoolmaster. Father Billot made his fortune himself.' That is what I wish people to say. It was not, therefore, I who read the letter. It was the quartermaster of the gendarmerie, whom I happened to meet.”

“And what did this letter tell you, Father- He is always well satisfied with us, is he not-”

“Judge for yourself.”

And the farmer drew from his leather wallet a letter, which he handed to his daughter. Catherine read as follows:-

MY DEAR MONSIEUR BILLOT,-I have arrived from America, where I found a people richer, greater, and happier than the people of our country. This arises from their being free, which we are not. But we are also advanced toward a new era. Every one should labor to hasten the day when the light shall shine. I know your principles, Monsieur Billot. I know your influence over your brother farmers, and over the whole of that worthy population of workmen and laborers whom you order, not as a king, but as a father. Inculcate in them principles of self-devotedness and fraternity, which I have observed that you possess. Philosophy is universal: all men ought to read their duties by the light of its torch. I send you a small book, in which all these duties and all these rights are set forth. This little book was written by me, although my name does not appear upon the titlepage. Propagate the principles it contains, which are those of universal equality. Let it be read aloud in the long winter evenings. Reading is the pasture of the mind, as bread is the food of the body.

One of these days I shall go to see you, and propose to you a new system of farm-letting, which is much in use in America. It consists in dividing the produce of the land between the farmer and landlord. This appears to me more in conformity with the laws of primitive society, and above all more in accordance with the goodness of God. Health and fraternity.

HONOR #201; GILBERT, Citizen of Philadelphia.

“Oh! oh!” cried Pitou; “this is a well-written letter.”

“Is it not-” said Billot, delighted.

“Yes, my dear father,” observed Catherine; “but I doubt whether the quartermaster of the gendarmerie is of your opinion.”

“And why do you think so-”

“Because it appears to me that this letter may not only bring the doctor into trouble, but you also, my dear father.”

“Pshaw!” said Billot; “you are always afraid. But that matters not. Here is the pamphlet; and here is employment ready found for you, Pitou. In the evenings you shall read it.”

“And in the daytime-”

“In the daytime you will take care of the sheep and cows. In the mean time, there is your pamphlet.”

And the farmer took from one of his holsters one of those small pamphlets with a red cover of which so great a number were published in those days, either with or without permission of the authorities.

Only, in the latter case, the author ran the risk of being sent to the galleys.

“Read me the title of that book, Pitou, that I may always speak of the title until I shall be able to speak of the work itself. You shall read the remainder to me another time.”

Pitou read on the first page these words, which habit has since rendered very vague and very insignificant, but which at that period struck to the very fibres of all hearts:

“Of the Independence of Man, and the Liberty of Nations.”

“What do you say to that, Pitou-” inquired the farmer.

“I say that it appears to me, Monsieur Billot, that independence and liberty are the same thing. My protector would be turned out of Monsieur Fortier's class for being guilty of a pleonasm.”

“Pleonasm or not,” cried the farmer, “that book is the book of a man.”

“That matters not, Father,” said Catherine, with woman's admirable instinct. “Hide it, I entreat you! It will bring you into trouble. As to myself, I know that I am trembling even at the sight of it.”

“And why would you have it injure me, since it has not injured its author-”

“And how can you tell that, Father- It is eight days since that letter was written; and it could not have taken eight days for the parcel to have come from Havre. I also have received a letter this morning.”

“And from whom-”

“From Sebastian Gilbert, who has written to make inquiries. He desires me, even, to remember him to his foster-brother, Pitou. I had forgotten to deliver his message.”

“Well!”

“Well! he says that for three days he had been expecting his father's arrival in Paris, and that he had not arrived.”

“Mademoiselle is right,” said Pitou. “It seems to me that this non-arrival is disquieting.”

“Hold your tongue, you timid fellow, and read the doctor's treatise,” said the farmer; “then you will become not only learned, but a man.”

It was thus people spoke in those days; for they were at the preface of that great Grecian and Roman history which the French nation imitated, during ten years, in all its phases, devotedness, proscriptions, victories, and slavery.

Pitou put the book under his arm with so solemn a gesture that he completely gained the farmer's heart.

“And now,” said Billot, “have you dined-”

“No, sir,” replied Pitou, maintaining the semi-religious, semi-heroic attitude he had assumed since the book had been intrusted to his care.

“He was just going to get his dinner, when he was driven out of doors,” said the young girl.

“Well, then,” said Billot, “go in and ask my wife for the usual farm fare, and to-morrow you shall enter on your functions.”

Pitou, with an eloquent look, thanked Monsieur Billot, and, led by Catherine, entered the kitchen,-a domain placed under the absolute direction of Madame Billot.

CHAPTER VI. PASTORAL SCENES

MADAME BILLOT was a stout, buxom mamma, between thirty-five and thirty-six years old, round as a ball, fresh-colored, smooth-skinned, and cordial in her manners. She trotted continually from the fowl-house to the dovecote, from the sheep-pens to the cow-stable. She inspected the simmering of her soup, the stoves on which her fricassees and ragouts were cooking, and the spit on which the joint was roasting, as does a general when surveying his cantonments, judging by a mere glance whether everything was in its right place, and by their very odor, whether the thyme and laurel-leaves were distributed in due proportions in the stewpans. She scolded from habit, but without the slightest intention that her scolding should be disagreeable; and her husband, whom she honored as she would the greatest potentate of the earth, did not escape. Her daughter also got her share, though she loved her more than Madame de Sevign #233; loved Madame de Grignan; and neither were her workpeople overlooked, though she fed them better than any farmer in a circuit of ten leagues fed his. Therefore was it, that when a vacancy occurred in her household, there was great competition to obtain the place. But, as in heaven, unfortunately there were many applicants and comparatively but few chosen.

We have seen that Pitou, without having been an applicant, had been elected. This was a happiness that he appreciated at its just value, especially when he saw the well-browned loaf which was placed at his left hand, the pot of cider which was on his right, and the piece of pickled pork on a plate before him. Since the moment that he lost his poor mother, and that was about five years since, Pitou had not, even on great festival days, partaken of such fare.

Therefore Pitou, full of gratitude, felt, as by degrees he bolted the bread which he devoured, and as he washed down the pork with large draughts of the cider,-therefore Pitou felt a vast augmentation of respect for the farmer, of admiration for his wife, and of love for his daughter. There was only one thing which disquieted him, and that was the humiliating function he would have to fulfil, during the day, of herding the sheep and cows,-a function so little in harmony with that which awaited him each evening, and the object of which was to instruct humanity in the most elevated principles of socialism and philosophy.

It was on this subject that Pitou was meditating immediately after his dinner. But even in this reverie the influence of that excellent dinner was sensibly manifested. He began to consider things in a very different point of view from that which he had taken of them when fasting. The functions of a shepherd and a cow-driver, which he considered as so far beneath him, had been fulfilled by gods and demi-gods.

Apollo, in a situation very similar to his own, that is to say, driven from Olympus by Jupiter, as he, Pitou had been driven from Pleux by his aunt, had become a shepherd, and tended the flocks of Admetus. It is true that Admetus was a shepherd-king; but then, Apollo was a god!

Hercules had been a cow-keeper, or something very like it, since-as we are told by mythology-he seized the cows of Geryon by the tail; for whether a man leads a cow by the tail or by the head depends entirely on the difference of custom of those who take care of them, and that is all; and this would not in any way change the fact itself that he was a cow-leader, that is to say, a cow-keeper.

And moreover, Tityrus, reclining at the foot of a beech-tree, of whom Virgil speaks, and who congratulates himself, in such beautiful verses, on the repose which Augustus has granted to him,-he also was a shepherd. And, finally, Melib #230;us was a shepherd, who so poetically bewails having left his domestic hearth.

Certainly, all these persons spoke Latin well enough to have been abb #233;s, and yet they preferred seeing their goats browse on the bitter cytisus to saying mass or to chanting vespers. Therefore, taking everything into consideration, the calling of a shepherd had its charms. Moreover, what was to prevent Pitou from restoring to it the poetry and the dignity it had lost- who could prevent Pitou from proposing trials of skill in singing, to the Menalcas and the Palemons of the neighboring villages- No one, undoubtedly. Pitou had more than once sung in the choir; and but for his having once been caught drinking the wine out of the Abb #233; Fortier's cruet, who, with his usual rigor, had on the instant dismissed the singing boy, this talent might have become transcendent. He could not play upon the pipe, 't is true, but he could imitate the note of every bird, which is very nearly the same thing. He could not make himself a lute with pipes of unequal thickness, as did the lover of Syrinx; but from the linden-tree or the chestnut he could cut whistles whose perfection had more than once aroused the enthusiastic applause of his companions. Pitou therefore could become a shepherd without great derogation of his dignity. He did not lower himself to this profession, so ill appreciated in modern days; he elevated the profession to his own standard.

Besides which, the sheepfolds were placed under the special direction of Mademoiselle Billot, and receiving orders from her lips was not receiving orders.

But, on her part, Catherine watched over the dignity of Pitou.

In the evening, when the young man approached her, and asked her at what hour he ought to go out to rejoin the shepherds, she said, smiling,-

“You will not go out at all.”

“And why so-” said Pitou, with astonishment.

“I have made my father comprehend that the education you have received places you above the functions which he had allotted to you. You will remain at the farm.”

“Ah! so much the better,” said Pitou. “In this way, I shall not leave you.”

The exclamation had escaped the ingenuous Pitou. But he had no sooner uttered it, than he blushed to his very ears; while Catherine, on her part, held down her head and smiled.

“Ah! forgive me, Mademoiselle. It came from my heart in spite of me. You must not be angry with me on that account,” said Pitou.

“I am not angry with you, Monsieur Pitou,” said Catherine; “and it is no fault of yours if you feel pleasure in remaining with me.”

There was a silence of some moments. This was not at all astonishing, the poor children had said so much to each other in so few words.

“But,” said Pitou, “I cannot remain at the farm doing nothing. What am I to do at the farm-”

“You will do what I used to do. You will keep the books, the accounts with the work-people, and of our receipts and expenses. You know how to reckon, do you not-”

“I know my four rules,” proudly replied Pitou.

“That is one more than ever I knew,” said Catherine. “I never was able to get farther than the third. You see, therefore, that my father will be a gainer by having you for his accountant; and as I also shall gain, and you yourself will gain by it, everybody will be a gainer.”

“And in what way will you gain by it, Mademoiselle-” inquired Pitou.

“I shall gain time by it, and in that time I will make myself caps, that I may look prettier.”

“Ah!” cried Pitou, “I think you quite pretty enough without caps.”

“That is possible; but it is only your own individual taste,” said the young girl, laughing. “Moreover, I cannot go and dance on a Sunday at Villers-Cotterets, without having some sort of a cap upon my head. That is all very well for your great ladies, who have the right of wearing powder and going bareheaded.”

“I think your hair more beautiful as it is, than if it were powdered,” said Pitou.

“Come, come, now; I see you are bent on paying me compliments.”

“No, Mademoiselle, I do not know how to make them. We did not learn that at the Abb #233; Fortier's.”

“And did you learn to dance there-”

“To dance-” inquired Pitou, greatly astonished.

“Yes-to dance-”

“To dance, and at the Abb #233; Fortier's- Good Lord, Mademoiselle!-oh! learn to dance, indeed!”

“Then, you do not know how to dance-”

“No,” said Pitou.

“Well, then, you shall go with me to the ball on Sunday, and you will look at Monsieur de Charny while he is dancing. He is the best dancer of all the young men in the neighborhood.”

“And who is this Monsieur de Charny-” demanded Pitou.

“He is the proprietor of the Ch #226;teau de Boursonne.”

“And he will dance on Sunday-”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And with whom-”

“With me.”

Pitou's heart sank within him, without his being able to ascertain a reason for it.

“Then,” said he, “it is in order to dance with him that you wish to dress yourself so finely.”

“To dance with him-with others-with everybody.”

“Excepting with me.”

“And why not with you-”

“Because I do not know how to dance.”

“You will learn.”

“Ah! if you would but teach me,-you, Mademoiselle Catherine. I should learn much better than by seeing Monsieur de Charny, I can assure you.”

“We shall see as to that,” said Catherine. “In the mean time, it is bedtime. Good-night, Pitou.”

“Good-night, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

There was something both agreeable and disagreeable in what Mademoiselle Catherine had said to Pitou. The agreeable was, that he had been promoted from the rank of a cow-keeper and shepherd to that of book-keeper. The disagreeable was, that he did not know how to dance, and that Monsieur de Charny did know. According to what Catherine had said, he was the best dancer in the whole neighborhood.

Pitou was dreaming all night that he saw Monsieur de Charny dancing, and that he danced very badly.

The next day Pitou entered upon his new office, under the direction of Catherine. Then one thing struck him, and it was that, under some masters, study is altogether delightful. In the space of about two hours he completely understood the duties he had to perform.

“Ah, Mademoiselle!” exclaimed he, “if you had but taught me Latin, instead of that Abb #233; Fortier, I believe I never should have committed any barbarisms.”

“And you would have become an abb #233;-”

“And I should have been an abb #233;,” replied Pitou.

“So, then, you would have shut yourself up in a seminary, in which no woman would have entered.”

“Well, now,” cried Pitou, “I really had never thought of that, Mademoiselle Catherine. I would much rather, then, not be an abb #233;.”

The good man Billot returned home at nine o'clock. He had gone out before Pitou was up. Every morning the farmer rose at three o'clock, to see to the sending out of his horses and his wagoners. Then he went over his fields until nine o'clock, to see that every one was at his post, and that all his laborers were doing their duty. At nine o'clock he returned to the house to breakfast, and went out again at ten. One o'clock was the dinner-hour; and the afternoon was, like the morning, spent in looking after the workmen. Thus the affairs of worthy Billot were prospering marvellously. As he had said, he possessed sixty acres in the sunshine, and a thousand louis in the shade; and it was even probable that, had the calculation been correctly made-had Pitou made up the account, and had not been too much agitated by the presence or remembrance of Mademoiselle Catherine, some few acres of land, and some few hundred louis more, would have been found than the worthy farmer had himself admitted.

At breakfast, Billot informed Pitou that the first reading of Dr. Gilbert's new book was to take place in the barn, two days after, at ten in the morning.

Pitou then timidly observed that ten o'clock was the hour for attending mass. But the farmer said that he had specially selected that hour to try his workmen.

We have already said that Father Billot was a philosopher.

He detested the priests, whom he considered as the apostles of tyranny; and finding an opportunity for raising an altar against an altar, he eagerly took advantage of it.

Madame Billot and Catherine ventured to offer some observations; but the farmer replied that the women might, if they chose, go to mass, seeing that religion had been made expressly for women; but as to the men, they should attend the reading of the doctor's work, or they should leave his service.

Billot, the philosopher, was very despotic in his own house. Catherine alone had the privilege of raising her voice against his decrees. But if these decrees were so tenaciously determined upon that he knitted his brows when replying to her, Catherine became as silent as the rest.

Catherine, however, thought of taking advantage of the circumstance to benefit Pitou. On rising from table she observed to her father that, in order to read all the magnificent phrases he would have to read on the Sunday morning, Pitou was but miserably clad; that he was about to play the part of a master, since he was to instruct others; and that the master ought not to be placed in a position to blush in the presence of his disciples.

Billot authorized his daughter to make an arrangement with Monsieur Dulauroy, the tailor at Villers-Cotterets, for a new suit of clothes for Pitou.

Catherine was right; for new garments were not merely a matter of taste with regard to Pitou. The breeches which he wore were the same which Dr. Gilbert had, five years before, ordered for him. At that time they were too long, but since then had become much too short. We are compelled to acknowledge, however, that, through the care of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, they had been elongated at least two inches every year. As to the coat and waistcoat, they had both disappeared for upwards of two years, and had been replaced by the serge gown in which our hero first presented himself to the observation of our readers.

Pitou had never paid any attention to his toilet. A looking-glass was an unknown piece of furniture in the abode of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique; and not having, like the handsome Narcissus, any violent tendency to fall in love with himself, Pitou had never thought of looking at himself in the transparent rivulets near which he set his bird-snares.

But from the moment that Mademoiselle Catherine had spoken to him of accompanying her to the ball, from the moment the elegant cavalier, Monsieur de Charny's name had been mentioned, since the conversation about caps, on which the young girl calculated to increase her attractions, Pitou had looked at himself in a mirror, and, being rendered melancholy by the very dilapidated condition of his garments, had asked himself in what way he also could make any addition to his natural advantages.

Unfortunately, Pitou was not able to find any solution to this question. The dilapidation of his clothes was positive. Now, in order to have new clothes made, it was necessary to have ready cash; and during the whole course of his existence Pitou had never possessed a single sou.

Pitou had undoubtedly read that, when shepherds were contending for the prize in music or in poetry, they decorated themselves with roses. But he thought, and with great reason, that although such a wreath might well assort with his expressive features, it would only place in stronger relief the miserable state of his habiliments.

Pitou was, therefore, most agreeably surprised when, on the Sunday morning, at eight o'clock, and at the moment he was racking his brains for some means of embellishing his person, Monsieur Dulauroy entered his room and placed upon a chair a coat and breeches of sky-blue cloth, and a large white waistcoat with red stripes.

At the same instant a sempstress came in, and laid upon another chair, opposite to the above-mentioned one, a new shirt and a cravat. If the shirt fitted well, she had orders to complete the half-dozen.

It was a moment teeming with surprise. Behind the sempstress appeared the hat-maker. He had brought with him a small cocked hat of the very latest fashion and of most elegant shape, and which had been fabricated by Monsieur Cornu, the first hat-maker in Villers-Cotterets.

A shoemaker had also been ordered to bring shoes for Pitou; and he had with him a pair with handsome silver buckles made expressly for him.

Pitou could not recover his amazement; he could not in any way comprehend that all these riches were for him. In his most exaggerated dreams he could not even have dared to wish for so sumptuous a wardrobe. Tears of gratitude gushed from his eyelids, and he could only murmur out these words:-

“Oh! Mademoiselle Catherine! Mademoiselle Catherine! never will I forget what you have done for me.”

Everything fitted remarkably well, and as if Pitou had been actually measured for them, with the sole exception of the shoes, which were too small by half. Monsieur Lauderau, the shoemaker, had taken measure by the foot of his son, who was four years Pitou's senior.

This superiority over young Lauderau gave a momentary feeling of pride to our hero; but this feeling of pride was soon checked by the reflection that he would either be obliged to go to the dance in his old shoes, or in no shoes at all, which would not be in accordance with the remainder of his costume. But this uneasiness was not of long duration. A pair of shoes which had been sent home at the same time to Farmer Billot fitted him exactly. It fortunately happened that Billot's feet and Pitou's were of the same dimensions, which was carefully concealed from Billot, for fear that so alarming a fact might annoy him.

While Pitou was busied in arraying himself in these sumptuous habiliments, the hairdresser came in and divided Pitou's hair into three compartments. One, and the most voluminous, was destined to fall over the collar of his coat, in the form of a tail; the two others were destined to ornament the temples, by the strange and unpoetical name of dog's-ears,-ridiculous enough, but that was the name given to them in those days.

And now there is one thing we must acknowledge,-and that is, that when Pitou, thus combed and frizzled, dressed in his sky-blue coat and breeches, with his rose-striped waistcoat and his frilled shirt, with his tail and his dog's-ear curls, looked at himself in the glass, he found great difficulty in recognizing himself, and twisted himself about to see whether Adonis in person had not redescended on the earth.

He was alone. He smiled graciously at himself; and with head erect, his thumbs thrust into his waistcoat pockets, he said, raising himself upon his toes:-

“We shall see this Monsieur de Charny!”

It is true that Ange Pitou in his new costume resembled, as one pea does another, not one of Virgil's shepherds, but one of those so admirably painted by Watteau.

Consequently, the first step which Pitou made on entering the farm-kitchen was a perfect triumph.

“Oh, mamma, only see,” cried Catherine, “how well Pitou looks now!”

“The fact is, that one would hardly know him again,” replied Madame Billot.

Unfortunately, after the first general survey which had so much struck the young girl, she entered into a more minute examination of the details, and found Pitou less good-looking in the detailed than in the general view.

“Oh, how singular!” cried Catherine! “what great hands you have!”

“Yes,” said Pitou, proudly, “I have famous hands, have I not-”

“And what thick knees!”

“That is a proof that I shall grow taller.”

“Why, it appears to me that you are tall enough already, Monsieur Pitou,” observed Catherine.

“That does not matter; I shall grow taller still,” said Pitou. “I am only seventeen and a half years old.”

“And no calves!”

“Ah, yes, that is true,-none at all; but they will grow soon.”

“That is to be hoped,” said Catherine, “but no matter, you are very well as you are.”

Pitou made a bow.

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed Billot, coming in at that moment, and also struck with Pitou's appearance. “How fine you are, my lad! How I wish your Aunt Ang #233;lique could see you now.”

“And so do I,” said Pitou.

“I wonder what she would say-”

“She would not say a word, she would be in a perfect fury.”

“But, Father,” said Catherine, with a certain degree of uneasiness, “would she not have the right to take him back again-”

“Why, she turned him out of doors.”

“And, besides,” said Pitou, “the five years have gone by.”

“What five years-” inquired Catherine.

“The five years for which Doctor Gilbert left a thousand francs.”

“Had he then left a thousand francs with your aunt-”

“Yes, yes, yes: to get me into a good apprenticeship.”

“That is a man!” exclaimed the farmer. “When one thinks that I hear something of the same kind related of him every day. Therefore-to him,” he added, stretching out his hands with a gesture of admiration, “will I be devoted in life and death.”

“He wished that I should learn some trade,” said Pitou.

“And he was right. And this is the way in which good intentions are thwarted. A man leaves a thousand francs that a child may be taught a trade, and instead of having him taught a trade, he is placed under the tuition of a bigoted priest who destines him for the seminary! And how much did she pay to your Abb #233; Fortier-”

“Who-”

“Your aunt.”

“She never paid him anything.”

“What- Did she pocket the two hundred livres a year, which that good Monsieur Gilbert paid!”

“Probably.”

“Listen to me, for I have a bit of advice to give you, Pitou; whenever your bigoted old aunt shall walk off, take care to examine minutely every cupboard, every mattress, every pickle-jar-”

“And for what-” asked Pitou.

“Because, do you see, you will find some hidden treasure, some good old louis, in some old stocking-foot. Why, it must undoubtedly be so, for she could never have found a purse large enough to contain all her savings.”

“Do you think so-”

“Most assuredly. But we will speak of this at a more proper time and place. To-day we must take a little walk. Have you Doctor Gilbert's book-”

“I have it here, in my pocket.”

“Father,” said Catherine, “have you well reflected upon this-”

“There is no need for reflection,” replied the farmer, “when one is about to do a good thing, my child. The doctor told me to have the book read, and to propagate the principles which it contains; the book shall therefore be read, and the principles shall be propagated.”

“And,” said Catherine, timidly, “may my mother and I, then, go to attend mass-”

“Go to mass, my child; go with your mother,” replied Billot. “You are women; we, who are men, have other things to think of. Come, Pitou, we must be off, for we are waited for.”

Pitou bowed majestically to Madame Billot and Mademoiselle Catherine; then with head erect he followed the worthy farmer, proud of having been thus, for the first time, called a man.

CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH IT IS DEMONSTRATED THAT ALTHOUGH LONG LEG'S MAY BE SOMEWHAT UNGRACEFUL IN DANCING, THEY ARE VERY USEFUL IN RUNNING

THERE was a numerous assemblage in the barn. Billot, as we have said, was much respected by his laborers, inasmuch as, though he scolded them unscrupulously, he fed and paid them well.

Consequently every one of them had hastened eagerly to accept his invitation.

Moreover, at this period the people had been seized with that extraordinary fever which pervades nations when nations are about to set themselves to work to produce some great change. Strange, new words, which until then had scarcely ever been uttered, issued from mouths which had never before pronounced them. They were the words, Liberty, Independence, Emancipation; and, strange to say, it was not only among the people that these words were heard; no, these words had been pronounced in the first place by the nobility, and the voice which responded to them was but an echo.

It was in the west that had first shone forth this light, which was destined to illuminate until it seared. It was in America that arose this sun, which, in accomplishing its course, was to make France one vast conflagration, by the light of which the affrighted nations were to read the word Republic traced in vivid characters of blood.

But notwithstanding this, meetings in which political affairs were discussed were less frequent than one would imagine. Men who had sprung up no one knew from where, apostles of an invisible deity, had traversed town and country, disseminating everywhere words in praise of liberty. The government, blinded heretofore, began at length to open its eyes. Those who were at the head of the immense machine denominated the “state,” felt that some of its wheels were paralyzed, without being able to comprehend whence the obstacle proceeded. The opposition existed in all minds, if it had not yet instilled itself into all hands and arms; invisible, though present, though sensible, though threatening, and still more threatening from being like ghosts intangible, and from being divined although it could not be clutched.

Twenty or twenty-five husbandmen, all in the employment of Billot, had assembled in the barn.

Billot entered it, followed by Pitou. All heads were instantly uncovered, and they waved their hats to welcome their loved master. It was plainly visible that all these men were ready to meet death, should he but give the signal.

The farmer explained to the country-people that the pamphlet which Pitou was about to read to them was the work of Doctor Gilbert. The doctor was well known throughout the whole district, in which he was the proprietor of several farms, the one rented by Billot being the most considerable.

A cask had been prepared for the reader. Pitou ascended this extempore forum, and at once began.

It is to be remarked that people of the lower class, and I might almost venture to say, men in general, listen with most attention to that which they understand the least. It was evident that the general sense of the pamphlet escaped the perceptions of the most enlightened among this rustic auditory, and even of Billot himself. But in the midst of that obscure phraseology from time to time flashed, like lightning in a dark sky charged with electricity, the luminous words, Independence, Liberty, Equality. Nothing more was necessary; shouts of applause burst forth; cries of “Long live Doctor Gilbert!” resounded on every side. Not more than one third of the pamphlet had been read; it was decided that the remainder should be delivered on the two following Sundays.

The auditors were therefore invited for the next Sunday, and every one of them promised to attend.

Pitou had well performed his part; he had read energetically and well. Nothing succeeds so well as success. The reader had taken his share of the plaudits which had been addressed to the work, and, submitting to the influence of this relative science, Billot himself felt growing within him a certain degree of consideration for the pupil of the Abb #233; Fortier. Pitou, already a giant in his physical proportions, had morally grown ten inches in the opinion of Billot.

But there was one thing wanting to Pitou's happiness; Mademoiselle Catherine had not been present at his triumph.

But Father Billot, enchanted with the effect produced by the doctor's pamphlet, hastened to communicate its success to his wife and daughter. Madame Billot made no reply; she was a short-sighted woman.

Mademoiselle Catherine smiled sorrowfully.

“Well, what is the matter with you now ” said the farmer.

“Father! my dear father!” cried Catherine, “I fear that you are running into danger.”

“There, now; are you going to play the bird of ill omen- You are well aware that I like the lark better than the owl.”

“Father, I have already been told to warn you that eyes are watching you.”

“And who was it that told you this, if you please-”

“A friend.”

“A friend- All advice is deserving of thanks. You must tell me the name of this friend. Who is he- Come, now, let us hear.”

“A man who ought to be well informed upon such matters.”

“But who is it-”

“Monsieur Isidore de Charny.”

“What business has that fop to meddle in such matters- Does he pretend to give me advice upon my way of thinking- Do I give him advice upon his mode of dressing It appears to me that as much might be said on one subject as the other.”

“My dear father, I do not tell you this to vex you. The advice he gave me was well intended.”

“Well, then, in return, I will give him my counsel, which you can on my behalf transmit to him.”

“And what is that-”

“It is that he and his fellows take good care what they are about. They shake these noble gentlemen about very nicely in the National Assembly, and more than once a great deal has been said of court favorites, male and female. Let him forewarn his brother, Monsieur Oliver de Charny, who is out yonder, to look to himself, for it is said he is not on bad terms with the Austrian woman.”

“Father,” said Catherine, “you have more experience than we have; act according to your pleasure.”

“Yes, indeed,” murmured Pitou, whose success had given him great confidence, “what business has your Monsieur Isidore to make and meddle-”

Catherine either did not hear him, or pretended not to hear him, and the conversation dropped.

The dinner was got through as usual. Never did dinner appear so long to Pitou. He was feverishly impatient to show himself abroad with Mademoiselle Catherine leaning on his arm. This Sunday was a momentous day to him, and he resolved that the date, the 12th of July, should ever remain engraved upon his memory.

They left the farm at last at about three o'clock. Catherine was positively charming. She was a pretty, fair-haired girl, with black eyes, slight and flexible as the willows that shaded the small spring from which the farm was supplied with water. She was, moreover, dressed with that natural coquetry which enhances the attractions of every woman, and her pretty little fantastic cap, made with her own hands, as she had told Pitou, became her admirably.

The ball did not in general commence till six o'clock. Four village minstrels, mounted upon a small stage formed of planks, did the honors of this ball-room in the open air, on receiving a contribution of six shillings for every country dance.

While waiting for the opening of the dance, the company walked in the celebrated Lane of Sighs, of which Aunt Ang #233;lique had spoken, to see the young gentlemen of the town and the neighborhood play at tennis, under the direction of Master Farollet, tennis-master-in-chief to his Highness the Duke of Orleans. Master Farollet was considered a perfect oracle, and his decision in matters of chasse and passe, and service, was as irrevocable as were the laws of the Medes and Persians.

Pitou, without knowing why, would have very much desired to remain in the Lane of Sighs; but it was not for the purpose of remaining concealed beneath the shade of this double row of beech-trees that Catherine had attired herself in the becoming dress which had so much astonished Pitou.

Women are like the flowers which chance has brought forth in the shade: their tendency is always towards the light; and one way or the other they must expand their fresh and perfumed petals in the sunshine, though it withers and destroys them.

The violet alone, as is asserted by the poets, has the modesty to remain concealed; but then she is arrayed in mourning, as if deploring her useless, because unnoticed, charms.

Catherine, therefore, dragged away at Pitou's arm, and so successfully, that they took the path to the tennis-court. We must, however, hasten to acknowledge that Pitou did not go very unwillingly. He also was as anxious to display his sky-blue suit and his cocked hat, as Catherine was to show her Galatea cap and her shining short silk bodice.

One thing above all flattered our hero, and gave him a momentary advantage over Catherine. As no one recognized him, Pitou never having been seen in such sumptuous habiliments, they took him for some young stranger arrived in the town, some nephew or cousin of the Billot family; some even asserted that he was Catherine's intended. But Pitou felt too great an interest in proving his own identity, to allow the error to be of long continuance.

He gave so many nods to his friends, he so frequently took off his hat to his acquaintance, that at last the unworthy pupil of the Abb #233; Fortier was recognized in the spruce young countryman.

A sort of buzzing murmur quickly ran through the throng, and many of his former companions exclaimed, “Why, really, it is Pitou!

Only look at Pitou!

Did you see Ange Pitou-”

This clamor at length reached the ears of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique; but as this clamor informed her that the good-looking youth pointed out by it was her nephew, walking with his toes turned out and his elbows gracefully curved, the old maid, who had always seen Pitou walk with his toes turned in and his elbows stuck to his ribs, shook her head incredulously, and merely said,-

“You are mistaken; that is not my pitiful nephew.”

The two young people reached the tennis-court. On that day there happened to be a match between the players of Soissons and those of Villers-Cotterets, so that the game was very animated. Catherine and Pitou placed themselves close to the rope stretched to prevent the crowd from interfering with the players; it was Catherine who had selected this place as being the best.

In about a minute the voice of Master Farollet was heard, calling out,-

“Two in-go over.”

The players effectually changed places; that is to say, they each went to defend their quarters and attack those of their adversaries. One of the players, on passing by, bowed to Catherine with a smile; Catherine replied by a courtesy, and blushed. At the same moment Pitou felt a nervous trembling shoot through Catherine's arm, which was leaning on his.

An unknown anguish shot through Pitou's heart.

“That is Monsieur de Charny,” said he, looking at his companion.

“Yes,” replied Catherine. “Ah! you know him, then-”

“I do not know him,” replied Pitou, “but I guessed that it was he.”

And, in fact, Pitou had readily conceived this young man to be Monsieur de Charny, from what Catherine had said to him the previous evening.

The person who had bowed to the young girl was an elegant gentleman, who might be twenty-three or twenty-four years of age; he was handsome, of good stature, well formed, and graceful in his movements, as are all those who have had an aristocratic education from their very cradle. All those manly exercises in which perfection can only be attained on the condition of their being studied from childhood, Monsieur Isidore de Charny executed with remarkable perfection; besides, he was one of those whose costume always harmonizes with the pursuit in which they are engaged. His hunting-dresses were quoted for their perfect taste; his attire in the fencing-room might have served as a pattern to Saint-Georges himself; and his riding-coats were-or rather appeared to be, thanks to his manner of wearing them-of a particularly elegant shape.

On the present occasion Monsieur de Charny, a younger brother of our old acquaintance the Count de Charny, was attired in tight-fitting pantaloons of a light color, which set off to great advantage the shape of his finely formed and muscular limbs; his hair was negligently dressed, as for the morning; elegant tennis sandals for the moment were substituted for the red-heeled shoe or the top-boots; his waistcoat was of white marsella, fitting as closely to his waist as if he had worn stays; and to sum up all, his servant was waiting upon the slope with a green coat embroidered with gold lace, for his master to put on when the match was ended.

The animation of the game communicated to his features all the charm and freshness of youth, notwithstanding his twenty-three years, the nightly excesses he had committed, and the gambling parties he had attended, which frequently the rising sun had illumined with its rays; all this had made sad havoc with his constitution.

None of these personal advantages, which doubtless the young girl had remarked, had escaped the jealous eyes of Pitou. On observing the small hands and feet of Monsieur de Charny, he began to feel less proud of that prodigality of nature which had given him the victory over the shoemaker's son, and he reflected that nature might have distributed in a more skilful manner over every part of his frame the elements of which it was composed.

In fact, with what there was too much in the hands, the feet, and the knees of Pitou, nature might have furnished him with a handsome, well-formed leg. Only, things were not in their right place: where a certain delicacy of proportion was required, there was an unnatural thickness; where a certain sleekness and rotundity would have been advantageous, there was an utter void.

Pitou looked at his legs with the same expression as the stag did of whom we have read in the fable.

“What is the matter with you, Monsieur Pitou-” said Catherine, who had observed his discontented looks.

Pitou did not reply: be could not explain his feelings; he therefore only sighed.

The game had terminated. The Viscount de Charny took advantage of the interval between the game just finished and the one about to commence, to come over to speak to Catherine. As he approached them, Pitou observed the color heightening in the young girl's cheeks, and felt her arm become more and more trembling.

The Viscount gave a nod to Pitou, and then, with that familiar politeness which the nobility of that period knew how to adopt with the citizens' daughters, and grisettes, he inquired of Catherine as to the state of her health, and asked her to be his partner in the first dance. Catherine accepted. A smile conveyed the thanks of the young nobleman. The game was about to begin, and he was called for. He bowed to Catherine, and then left her with the same elegant ease with which he had approached her.

Pitou felt all the superiority which the man possessed over him, who could speak, smile, approach, and take leave in such a manner.

A month's study, employed in endeavoring to imitate the simple though elegant movements of Monsieur de Charny, would only have produced a ridiculous parody, and this Pitou himself acknowledged.

If Pitou had been capable of entertaining a feeling of hatred, he would from that moment have detested the Viscount de Charny.

Catherine remained looking at the tennis-players until the moment when they called their servants to bring their coats to them. She then directed her steps towards the place set apart for dancing, to Pitou's great despair, who on that day appeared to be destined to go everywhere but where he wished.

Monsieur de Charny did not allow Catherine to wait long for him. A slight change in his dress had converted him from a tennis-player into an elegant dancer.

The violins gave the signal, and he at once presented his hand to Catherine, reminding her of the promise she had made to dance with him.

That which Pitou experienced when he felt Catherine withdrawing her arm from within his, and saw the young girl blushing deeply as she advanced with her cavalier into the circle, was one of the most disagreeable sensations of his whole life. A cold perspiration stood upon his brow; a cloud passed over his eyes; he stretched out his hand and caught hold of the balustrade for support, for he felt that his knees, strongly constituted as they were, were giving way.

As to Catherine, she did not appear to have, and very probably even had not, any idea of what was passing in poor Pitou's heart. She was at once happy and proud,-happy at being about to dance, and proud of dancing with the handsomest cavalier of the whole neighborhood.

If Pitou had been constrained to admire Monsieur de Charny as a tennis-player, he was no less compelled to do him justice as a dancer. In those days the fashion had not yet sprung up of walking instead of dancing. Dancing was an art which formed a necessary part of the education of every one. Without citing the case of Monsieur de Lauzun, who had owed his fortune to the manner in which he had danced his first steps in the king's quadrille, more than one nobleman owed the favor he had enjoyed at court to the manner in which he had extended his legs or pointed the extremity of his toe. In this respect the Viscount was a model of grace and perfection, and he might, like Louis XIV., have danced in a theatre with the chance of being applauded, although he was neither a king nor an actor.

For the second time Pitou looked at his own legs, and was obliged to acknowledge that unless some great metamorphosis should take place in that portion of his individuality, he must altogether renounce any attempt to succeed in vying with Monsieur de Charny in the particular art which he was displaying at that moment.

The country dance having ended,-for Catherine it had scarcely lasted a few seconds, but to Pitou it had appeared a century,-she returned to resume the arm of her cavalier, and could not avoid observing the change which had taken place in his countenance. He was pale; the perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead, and a tear, half dried up by jealousy, shone in his humid eye.

“Ah! good heaven!” she exclaimed, “what is the matter with you, Pitou-”

“The matter is,” replied the poor youth, “that I shall never dare to dance with you, after having seen you dance with Monsieur de Charny.”

“Pshaw!” said Catherine, “you must not allow yourself to be cast down in this way; you will dance as well as you are able, and I shall not feel the less pleasure in dancing with you.”

“Ah!” cried Pitou, “you say that, Mademoiselle, to console me; but I know myself, and I feel assured that you will always feel more pleasure in dancing with this young nobleman than with me.”

Catherine made no reply, for she would not utter a falsehood, only, as she was an excellent creature, and had begun to perceive that something extraordinary was passing in the heart of the poor youth, she treated him very kindly; but this kindness could not restore to him his lost joy and peace of mind. Father Billot had spoken truly: Pitou was beginning to be a man,-he was suffering.

Catherine danced five or six country dances after this, one of which was with Monsieur de Charny. This time, without suffering less in reality than before, Pitou was, in appearance, much more calm. He followed with eager eyes each movement of Catherine and her cavalier. He endeavored from the motion of their lips to divine what they were saying to each other, and when, during the figures of the dance, their hands were joined, he tried to discern whether their hands merely touched or pressed each other when thus they came in contact.

Doubtless it was the second dance with De Charny that Catherine had been awaiting, for it was scarcely ended when the young girl proposed to Pitou to return to the farm. Never was proposal acceded to with more alacrity; but the blow was struck, and Pitou, while taking long strides which Catherine from time to time was obliged to restrain, remained perfectly silent.

“What is the matter with you-” at length said Catherine to him, “and why is it that you do not speak to me-”

“I do not speak to you, Mademoiselle,” said Pitou, “because I do not know how to speak as Monsieur de Charny does. What would you have me say to you, after all the fine things which he whispered to you while dancing with you-”

“Only see how unjust you are, Monsieur Ange; why, we were speaking of you.”

“Of me, Mademoiselle, and how so-”

“Why, Monsieur Pitou, if your protector should not return, you must have another found to supply his place.”

“I am then no longer capable of keeping the farm accounts-” inquired Pitou, with a sigh.

“On the contrary, Monsieur Ange, it is the farm accounts which are no longer worthy of being kept by you. With the education that you have received, you can find some more fitting occupation.”

“I do not know what I may be fit for, but this I know, that I will not accept anything better if I am to obtain it through the Viscount de Charny.”

“And why should you refuse his protection- His brother, the Count de Charny, is, it would appear, in high favor at court, and has married an intimate friend of the Queen. He told me that if it would be agreeable to me he could obtain for you a place in the custom-house.”

“Much obliged, Mademoiselle; but I have already told you that I am well satisfied to remain as I am, and unless, indeed, your father wishes to send me away, I will remain at the farm.”

“And why in the Devil's name should I send you away-” cried a gruff voice, which Catherine tremblingly recognized to be that of her father.

“My dear Pitou,” said Catherine in a whisper, “do not say a word of Monsieur Isidore, I beg of you.”

“Well! why don't you answer-”

“Why, really, I don't know,” said Pitou, much confused; “perhaps you do not think me sufficiently well informed to be useful to you-”

“Not sufficiently well informed, when you calculate as well as Bar #234;me, and when you read well enough to teach our schoolmaster, who notwithstanding thinks himself a great scholar No, Pitou, it is God who brings to my house the people who enter it, and when once they are in it they shall remain there as long as God pleases.”

Pitou returned to the farm on this assurance; but although this was something, it was not enough. A great change had taken place in his mind between the time of his going out and returning: he had lost a thing which, once lost, is never recovered; this was confidence in himself, and therefore Pitou, contrary to his usual custom, slept very badly. In his waking moments he recalled to mind Doctor Gilbert's book; this book was written principally against the nobility, against the abuses committed by the privileged classes, against the cowardice of those who submitted to them; it appeared to Pitou that he only then began to comprehend all the fine ideas which he had read that morning, and he promised himself, as soon as it should be daylight, to read again for his own satisfaction, and to himself, the masterpiece which he had read aloud and to everybody,

But as Pitou had slept badly he awoke late. He did not, however, the less determine on carrying into effect his project of reading the book. It was seven o'clock; the farmer would not return until nine; besides, were he to return earlier, he could not but approve an occupation which he had himself recommended.

He descended by a small staircase, and seated himself on a low bench which happened to be under Catherine's window. Was it accident that had led Pitou to seat himself precisely in that spot, or did he know the relative positions of that window and that bench-

Be that as it may, Pitou was attired in his old everyday clothes, which there had not yet been time to get replaced, and which were composed of his black breeches, his green cassock, and his rusty-looking shoes. He drew the pamphlet from his pocket and began to read.

We would not venture to say that on beginning to read, the eyes of Pitou were not, from time to time, turned from his book to the window; but as the window did not exhibit the fair face of the young girl in its framework of nasturtiums and convolvuli, Pitou's eyes at length fixed themselves intently on his book.

It is true that as his hand neglected to turn over the leaves, and that the more fixed his attention appeared to be, the less did his hand move, it might be believed that his mind was fixed upon some other object, and that he was meditating instead of reading.

Suddenly it appeared to Pitou that a shade was thrown over the pages of the pamphlet, until then illuminated by the morning sun. This shadow, too dense to be that of a cloud, could therefore only be produced by some opaque body. Now, there are opaque bodies which are so delightful to look upon, that Pitou quickly turned round to ascertain what it was that thus intercepted his sunshine.

Pitou's hopes were, however, delusive. There was in fact an opaque body which robbed him of the daylight and heat which Diogenes desired Alexander not to deprive him of. But this opaque body, instead of being delightful, presented to his view a sufficiently disagreeable appearance.

It was that of a man about forty-five years old, who was taller and thinner than Pitou himself, dressed in a coat almost as threadbare as his own, and who was leaning his head over his shoulder, and appeared to be reading the pamphlet with a curiosity equal to Pitou's absence of mind.

Pitou was very much astonished; a gracious smile was playing round the lips of the dark-looking gentleman, exhibiting a mouth which had only retained four teeth, two in the upper and two in the lower jaw, crossing and sharpening themselves against each other, like the tusks of the wild boar.

“An American edition,” said the man, with a strong nasal twang; “an octavo: 'On the Liberty of Man and the Independence of Nations, Boston, 1788.'“

While the black man was talking, Pitou opened his eyes with progressively increasing astonishment, so that when the man ceased speaking, Pitou's eyes had attained the greatest possible development of which they were capable.

“Boston, 1788. That is right, sir,” replied Pitou.

“It is the treatise of Doctor Gilbert,” said the gentleman in black.

“Yes, sir,” politely replied Pitou, rising from his seat, for he had been told that it was uncivil to remain sitting when speaking to a superior; and in the still ingenuous mind of Pitou this man had the right to claim superiority over him.

But on getting up, Pitou observed something of a rosy color moving towards the window, and which gave him a significant glance. This rosy something was Mademoiselle Catherine. The young girl looked at him with an extraordinary expression, and made strange signs to him.

“Sir, if it is not being indiscreet,” said the gentleman in black, who, having his back turned towards the window, was altogether ignorant of what was passing, “may I ask to whom this book belongs-”

And he pointed with his finger to the pamphlet which Pitou held in his hand.

Pitou was about to say that the book belonged to Monsieur Billot, when he heard the following words uttered in an almost supplicating tone:-

“Say that it is your own.”

The gentleman in black, who was at that moment all eyes, did not hear these words.

“Sir,” replied Pitou majestically, “this book belongs to me.”

The gentleman in black raised his head, for he began to remark that the amazed looks of Pitou were from time to time diverted from him, to fix themselves on one particular spot. He saw the window, but Catherine had divined the movement of the gentleman in black, and, rapid as a bird, she had disappeared.

“What are you looking at, up yonder ” inquired the gentleman in black.

“Well, now,” replied Pitou, smiling, “permit me to observe to you that you are very inquisitive,-curiosus, or rather avidus cognoscendi, as the Abb #233; Fortier, my preceptor, used to say.”

“You say, then,” rejoined the interrogator, without appearing in the slightest degree intimidated by the proof of learning which Pitou had just given, with the intention of affording the gentleman in black a higher idea of his acquirements than he had before entertained,-“you say, then, that this book is yours-”

Pitou gave his eyes a furtive glance, so that the window came within the scope of his visual organs. Catherine's head again appeared at it, and made him an affirmative sign.

“Yes, sir,” replied Pitou. “You are, perhaps, anxious to read it,- Avidus legendi libri, or legend #230; histori #230;.“

“Sir,” said the gentleman in black, “you appear to be much above the position which your attire would indicate. Non dives vestitu sed ingenio. Consequently, I arrest you.”

“How! you arrest me ” cried Pitou, completely astounded.

“Yes, sir; follow me, I beg of you.”

Pitou no longer looked up in the air, but around him, and perceived two police sergeants who were awaiting the orders of the gentleman in black. The two sergeants seemed to him to have sprung up from beneath the ground.

“Let us draw up our report, gentlemen,” said the gentleman in black.

The sergeants tied Pitou's hands together with a rope, while they took care to secure Doctor Gilbert's book.

Then they fastened Pitou himself to a ring which was in the wall under the window.

Pitou was about to exclaim against this treatment, but he heard the low voice which had so much influence over him, saying, “Let them do what they please.”

Pitou therefore allowed them to do as they pleased, with a docility which perfectly enchanted the sergeants, and above all the gentleman in black; so that without the slightest mistrust they entered the farm-house, the two sergeants to fetch a table, the gentleman in black to-but this we shall learn by-and-by.

The sergeants and the gentleman in black had scarcely entered the house when the soft voice was again heard.

“Hold up your hands,” said the voice.

Pitou not only held up his hands but his head, and he perceived the pale and terrified face of Catherine; she had a knife in her hand.

“Higher! higher!” said she.

Pitou raised himself on tiptoe. Catherine leaned out of the window, the knife touched the rope, and Pitou recovered the liberty of his hands.

“Take the knife,” said Catherine, “ and in your turn cut the rope which fastens you to the ring.”

It was not necessary to repeat this to Pitou. He cut the cord, and was then completely free.

“And now,” said Catherine, “here is a double louis. You have good legs; make your escape. Go to Paris and acquaint the doctor-”

She could not complete the sentence. The two sergeants reappeared, and the double louis fell at Pitou's feet.

Pitou quickly snatched it up. The sergeants were on the threshold of the door, where they remained for a moment or two, astonished at seeing the man at liberty, whom so short a time before they had so securely tied up. On seeing them, Pitou's hair stood on end, and he confusedly remembered the in crinibus angues of the Eumenides.

The two sergeants and Pitou remained for a short time in the position of two pointer dogs and a hare,-motionless, and looking at each other. But as at the slightest movement of the dogs the hare springs off, at the first movement of the sergeants Pitou gave a prodigious bound, and leaped over a high hedge.

The sergeants uttered a cry which made the exempt rush out of the house, carrying a small casket under his arm. The exempt did not lose any time in parleying, but instantly ran after Pitou; the two sergeants imitated his example; but they were not active enough to jump, as he had done, over a hedge three feet and a half in height. They were therefore compelled to go round to a gate.

But when they reached the corner of the hedge, they perceived Pitou five hundred yards off in the plain, and hastening towards the forest, from which he was distant scarcely a quarter of a league, and which he would doubtless reach in some six or seven minutes.

At that moment Pitou turned round and on perceiving the sergeants, who were pursuing him rather from a desire to perform their duty than with the hope of catching him, he redoubled his speed, and soon disappeared in the skirts of the wood.

Pitou ran on at this rate for another quarter of an hour. He could have run two hours had it been necessary, for he had the wind of a stag, as well as its velocity.

But at the end of a quarter of an hour he felt instinctively that he must be out of danger. He stopped, drew breath, and listened; and having assured himself that he had completely distanced his pursuers, he said to himself,-

“It is incredible that so many events can have been crowded into three days;” and he looked alternately at his double louis and his knife.

“Oh,” said he, “I wish I had only time to change my double louis, and give two sous to Mademoiselle Catherine, for I am much afraid that this knife will cut our friendship. No matter,” added he, “since she has desired me to go to Paris, let us go there.”

And Pitou, having looked about him to ascertain what part of the country he had reached, and finding that he was between Bouronne and Yvors, took a narrow path which would lead him straight to Gondreville Heaths, which path was crossed by the road which led direct to Paris.

CHAPTER VIII. SHOWING WHY THE GENTLEMAN IN BLACK HAD GONE INTO THE FARM AT THE SAME TIME WITH THE TWO SERGEANTS

BUT now let us return to the farm, and relate the catastrophe of which Pitou's episode was the winding up.

At about six o'clock in the morning an agent of the Paris police, accompanied by two sergeants, arrived at Villers-Cotterets, had presented themselves to the Commissary of Police, and had requested that the residence of Farmer Billot might be pointed out to them.

When they came within about five hundred yards of the farm, the exempt perceived a laborer working in a field. He went to him and asked him whether he should find Monsieur Billot at home. The laborer replied that Monsieur Billot never returned home till nine o'clock,-that is to say, before the breakfast hour. But at that very moment, as chance would have it, the laborer raised his eyes, and pointed to a man on horseback, who was talking with a shepherd at the distance of a quarter of a league from the farm.

“And yonder,” said he, “is the person you are inquiring for.”

“Monsieur Billot-”

“Yes.”

“That horseman-”

“Yes; that is Monsieur Billot.”

“Well, then, my friend,” rejoined the exempt, “do you wish to afford great pleasure to your master-”

“I should like it vastly.”

“Go and tell him that a gentleman from Paris is waiting for him at the farm.”

“Oh,” cried the laborer, “can it be Doctor Gilbert-”

“Tell him what I say; that is all.”

The countryman did not wait to have the order repeated, but ran as hard as he could across the fields, while the police-officer and the two sergeants went and concealed themselves behind a half-ruined wall which stood facing the gate of the farm-yard.

In a very few minutes the galloping of a horse was heard. It was Billot, who had hastened back.

He went into the farm-yard, jumped from his horse, threw the bridle to one of the stable-boys, and rushed into the kitchen, being convinced that the first person he should see there would be Dr. Gilbert, standing beneath the immense mantel-piece; but he only saw Madame Billot seated in the middle of the room, plucking the feathers from a duck with all the minute care which this difficult operation demands.

Catherine was in her own room, employed in making a cap for the following Sunday. As it appears, Catherine was determined to be prepared in good time; but if the women have one pleasure almost equal to that of being well-dressed, it is that of preparing the articles with which they are to adorn themselves.

Billot paused on the threshold of the kitchen, and looked around inquiringly.

“Who, then, was it sent for me-” said he.

“It was I,” replied a flute-like voice behind him.

Billot turned round, and perceived the gentleman in black and the two sergeants.

“Hey-day!” cried he, retreating three paces from them; “and what do you want with me-”

“Oh, good heavens! almost nothing, my dear Monsieur Billot,” said the man with the flute-like voice; “only to make a perquisition in your farm, that is all.”

“A perquisition-” exclaimed the astonished Billot.

“A perquisition,” repeated the exempt.

Billot cast a glance at his fowling-piece, which was hanging over the chimney.

“Since we have a National Assembly,” said he, “I thought that citizens were no longer exposed to such vexations, which belong to another age, and which appertain to a bygone state of things. What do you want with me- I am a peaceable and loyal man.”

The agents of every police in the world have one habit which is common to them all,-that of never replying to the questions of their victims; but while they are searching their pockets, while they are arresting them, or tying their hands behind, some appear to be moved by pity. These tender-hearted ones are the most dangerous, inasmuch as they appear to be the most kind-hearted.

The one who was exercising his functions in the house of Farmer Billot was of the true Tapin and Desgr #233;s school, made up of sweets, having always a tear for those whom they are persecuting, but who nevertheless do not use their hands to wipe their eyes.

The one in question, although heaving a deep sigh, made a sign with his hand to the two sergeants, who approached Billot. The worthy farmer sprang backward, and stretched out his hand to seize his gun; but it was diverted from the weapon,-a doubly-dangerous act at such a moment, as it might not only have killed the person about to use it, but the one against whom it was to be pointed. His hand was seized and imprisoned between two little hands, rendered strong by terror and powerful by supplication.

It was Catherine, who had run downstairs on hearing the noise, and had arrived in time to save her father from committing the crime of rebelling against the constituted authorities.

The first moment of anger having passed by, Billot no longer offered any resistance. The exempt ordered that he should be confined in a room on the ground floor, and Catherine in a room on the first story. As to Madame Billot, she was considered so inoffensive that no attention was paid to her, and she was allowed to remain in the kitchen. After this, finding himself master of the place, the exempt began to search the secretaries, wardrobes, and chests-of-drawers.

Billot, on finding himself alone, wished to make his escape. But, like most of the rooms on the ground floor of the farm-house, the windows of the one in which he was imprisoned were secured by iron bars. The gentleman in black had at a glance observed these bars, while Billot, who had had them placed there, had forgotten them.

Then, peeping through the key-hole, he perceived the exempt and his two acolytes, who were ransacking everything throughout the house.

“Hilloa!” cried he; “what is the meaning of all this- What are you doing there-”

“You can very plainly see that, my dear Monsieur Billot,” said the exempt. “We are seeking for something which we have not yet found.”

“But perhaps you are banditti, villains, regular thieves. Who knows-”

“Oh, sir!” replied the exempt, through the door, “you do us wrong. We are honest people, as you are; only that we are in the pay of his Majesty, and consequently compelled to obey his orders.”

“His Majesty's orders!” exclaimed Billot. “The king, Louis XVI., has ordered you to search my secretary, to turn everything topsy-turvy in my closets and my wardrobes-”

“Yes.”

“His Majesty,” rejoined Billot, “who last year, when there was such a frightful famine that we were thinking of eating our horses,-his Majesty, who two years ago, when the hail-storm of the 13th of July destroyed our whole harvest, did not then deign to feel any anxiety about us,-what has he now to do with my farm, which he never saw, or with me, whom he does not know-”

“You will pardon me, sir,” said the exempt, opening the door a little, but with great precaution, and exhibiting his order, signed by the lieutenant of police, which, according to the usual form, was headed with these words, “In the king's name,”-“his Majesty has heard you spoken of, although he may not be personally acquainted with you; therefore, do not refuse the honor which he does you, and receive in a fitting manner those who present themselves to you in his name.”

And the exempt, with a polite bow, and a friendly wink of the eye, closed the door again; after which the search was resumed.

Billot said not a word more, but crossed his arms and paced up and down the room, like a lion in a cage. He felt that he was caught, and in the power of these men.

The investigation was silently continued. These men appeared to have dropped from the clouds. No one had seen them, but the laborer who had been sent to fetch Billot. Even the dogs in the yards had not barked on their approach. Assuredly the chief of this expedition must have been considered a skilful man, even by his own fraternity. It was evidently not his first enterprise of this nature.

Billot heard the meanings of his daughter, shut up in the room above his own, and he remembered her prophetic words; for there could not be a doubt that the persecution to which the farmer had been subjected had for its cause the doctor's book.

At length the clock struck nine, and Billot through his grated window could count his laborers as they returned to the farm-house to get their breakfast. On seeing this, he reflected that, in case of any conflict, might, if not right, was not on his side. This conviction made the blood boil in his veins. He had no longer the fortitude to restrain his feelings; and seizing the door with both hands, he shook it so violently, that with two or three efforts of the same nature he would have burst the lock.

The police-agents immediately opened the door, and they saw the farmer standing close by it, with threatening looks. All was confusion in the house.

“But finally,” cried Billot, “ what is it you are seeking for in my house- Tell me, or, zounds! I will make you tell me.”

The successive return of the laborers had not escaped the experienced eye of such a man as the exempt. He had counted the farm-servants, and had admitted to himself that in case of any combat he would not be able to retain possession of the field of battle. He therefore approached Billot with a demeanor more honeyed even than before, and bowing almost to the ground, said:-

“I will tell you what it is, dear Monsieur Billot, although it is against our custom. What we are seeking for in your house is a subversive book, an incendiary pamphlet, placed under ban by our royal censors.”

“A book!-and in the house of a farmer who cannot read-”

“What is there astonishing in that, if you are a friend of the author, and he has sent it to you-”

“I am not the friend of Doctor Gilbert; I am merely his humble servant. The friend of the doctor, indeed!-that would be too great an honor for a poor farmer like me.”

This inconsiderate outbreak, in which Billot betrayed himself by acknowledging that he not only knew the author, which was natural enough, he being his landlord, but that he knew the book, insured the agent's victory. The latter drew himself up, assumed his most amiable air, and touching Billot's arm, said, with a smile which appeared to extend transversely over his face:-

“"Tis thou hast named him.' Do you know that verse, my dear Monsieur Billot-”

“I know no verses.”

“It is by Racine, a very great poet.”

“Well, what is the meaning of that line-” cried Billot.

“It means that you have betrayed yourself.”

“Who-I-”

“Yourself.”

“And how so-”

“By being the first to mention Monsieur Gilbert, whom we had the discretion not to name.”

“That is true,” said Billot.

“You acknowledge it, then-”

“I will do more than that.”

“My dear Monsieur Billot, you overwhelm us with kindness: what is it you will do-”

“If it is that book you are hunting after, and I tell you where that book is,” rejoined the farmer, with an uneasiness which he could not altogether control, “you will leave off turning everything topsy-turvy here, will you not-”

The exempt made a sign to his two assistants.

“Most assuredly,” replied the exempt, “since it is that book which is the object of our perquisition. Only,” continued he, with his smiling grimace, “you may perhaps acknowledge one copy of it when you may have ten in your possession.”

“I have only one, and that I swear to you.”

“But it is this we are obliged to ascertain by a most careful search, dear Monsieur Billot,” rejoined the exempt. “Have patience, therefore; in five minutes it will be concluded. We are only poor sergeants obeying the orders of the authorities, and you would not surely prevent men of honor,-there are men of honor in every station of life, dear Monsieur Billot,-you would not throw any impediment in the way of men of honor when they are doing their duty.”

The gentleman in black had adopted the right mode: this was the proper course for persuading Billot.

“Well, do it then,” replied the farmer, “but do it quickly.”

And he turned his back upon them.

The exempt then very gently closed the door, and more gently still turned the key in the lock, at which Billot shrugged his shoulders in disdain, being certain of pulling open the door whenever he might please.

On his side the gentleman in black made a sign to the sergeants, who resumed their investigation, and they set to work much more actively than before. Books, papers, linen, were all opened, examined, unfolded.

Suddenly, at the bottom of a wardrobe which had been completely emptied, they perceived a small oaken casket bound with iron. The exempt darted upon it as a vulture on his prey. At the mere sight, the scent, the handling of this object, he undoubtedly at once recognized that which he was in search of, for he quickly concealed the casket beneath his threadbare coat, and made a sign to the two sergeants that his mission was effected.

Billot was again becoming impatient; he stopped before the locked door.

“Why, I tell you again that you will not find it unless I tell you where it is,” he cried; “it is not worth the while to tumble and destroy all my things for nothing. I am not a conspirator. In the Devil's name listen to me. Do you not hear what I am saying- Answer me, or I will set off for Paris, and will complain to the king, to the National Assembly, to everybody.”

In those days the king was always mentioned before the people.

“Yes, my dear Monsieur Billot, we hear you, and we are quite ready to do justice to your excellent reasoning. Come, now, tell us where is this book And as we are now convinced that you have only that single copy, we will take it, and then we will withdraw, and all will be over.”

“Well,” replied Billot, “the book is in the possession of an honest lad to whom I have given it with the charge of carrying it to a friend.”

“And what is the name of this honest lad-” asked the gentleman in black, in an insinuating tone.

“Ange Pitou; he is a poor orphan whom I have taken into my house from charity, and who does not even know the subject of this book.”

“Thanks, dear Monsieur Billot,” said the exempt.

They threw the linen back into the wardrobe, and locked it up again, but the casket was not there.

“And where is this amiable youth to be found-”

“I think I saw him as I returned, somewhere near the bed of scarlet-runners, close to the arbor. Go, take the book from him; but take care not to do him any injury.”

“Injury! Oh, my dear Monsieur Billot, how little you know us! We would not harm even a fly.”

And they went towards the indicated spot. When they got near the scarlet-runners they perceived Pitou, whose tall stature made him appear more formidable than he was in reality. Thinking that the two sergeants would stand in need of his assistance to master the young giant, the exempt had taken off his cloak, had rolled the casket in it, and had hid the whole in a secret corner, but where he could easily regain possession of it.

But Catherine, who had been listening with her ear glued, as it were, to the door, had vaguely heard the words Book, Doctor, and Pitou. Therefore, finding the storm she had predicted had burst upon them, she had formed the idea of attenuating its effects. It was then that she prompted Pitou to say that he was the owner of the book.

We have related what then passed regarding it: how Pitou, bound and handcuffed by the exempt and his acolytes, had been restored to liberty by Catherine, who had taken advantage of the moment when the two sergeants went into the house to fetch a table to write upon, and the gentleman in black to take his cloak and casket.

We have stated how Pitou made his escape by jumping over a hedge; but that which we did not state is, that, like a man of talent, the exempt had taken advantage of this flight.

And, in fact, the twofold mission intrusted to the exempt having been accomplished, the flight of Pitou afforded an excellent opportunity to the exempt and his two men to make their escape also.

The gentleman in black, although he knew he had not the slightest chance of catching the fugitive, excited the two sergeants by his vociferations and his example to such a degree, that on seeing them racing through the clover, the wheat, and Spanish trefoil fields, one would have imagined that they were the most inveterate enemies of Pitou, whose long legs they were most cordially blessing in their hearts.

But Pitou had scarcely gained the covert of the wood, when the confederates, who had not even passed the skirts of it, halted behind a bush. During their race they had been joined by two other sergeants, who had kept themselves concealed in the neighborhood of the farm, and who had been instructed not to show themselves unless summoned by their chief.

“Upon my word,” said the exempt, “it is very well that our gallant young fellow had not the casket instead of the book, for we should have been obliged to hire post-horses to catch him. By Jupiter! those legs of his are not men's legs, but those of a stag.”

“Yes,” replied one of the sergeants, “but he has not got it, has he, Monsieur Wolfsfoot- for, on the contrary, 't is you who have it.”

“Undoubtedly, my friend, and here it is,” replied the exempt, whose name we have now given for the first time, or we should rather say the nickname which had been given to him on account of the lightness of his step and the stealthiness of his walk.

“Then we are entitled to the reward which was promised us,” observed one of the sergeants.

“Here it is,” said the exempt, taking from his pocket four golden louis, which he divided among his four sergeants, without any distinction as to those who had been actively engaged in the perquisition or those who had merely remained concealed.

“Long live the lieutenant of police!” cried the sergeants.

“There is no harm in crying 'Long live the lieutenant!'“ said Wolfsfoot; “but every time you utter such exclamations you should do it with discernment. It is not the lieutenant who pays.”

“Who is it, then-”

“Some gentleman or lady friend of his, I know not which, but who desires that his or her name may not be mentioned in the business.”

“I would wager that it is the person who wishes for the casket,” said one of the sergeants.

“Hear now, Rigold, my friend,” said the gentleman in black; “I have always affirmed that you are a lad replete with perspicacity, but until the day when this perspicacity shall produce its fruits by being amply recompensed, I advise you to be silent. What we have now to do is to make the best of our way on foot out of this neighborhood. That damned farmer has not the appearance of being conciliatory, and as soon as he discovers that the casket is missing, he will despatch all his farm laborers in pursuit of us, and they are fellows who can aim a gun as truly as any of his Majesty's Swiss guards.”

This opinion was doubtless that of the majority of the party, for they all five set off at once, and, continuing to remain within the border of the forest, which concealed them from all eyes, they rapidly pursued their way, until, after walking three quarters of a league, they came out upon the public road.

This precaution was not a useless one, for Catherine had scarcely seen the gentleman in black and his two attendants disappear in pursuit of Pitou, than, full of confidence in the agility of him whom they pursued, who, unless some accident happened to him, would lead them a long dance, she called the husbandmen, who were well aware that something strange was going on, although they were ignorant of the positive facts, to tell them to open her door for her.

The laborers instantly obeyed her, and Catherine, again free, hastened to set her father at liberty.

Billot appeared to be in a dream. Instead of at once rushing out of the room, he seemed to walk mistrustfully, and returned from the door into the middle of the apartment. It might have been imagined that he did not dare to remain in the same spot, and yet that he was afraid of casting his eyes upon the articles of furniture which had been broken open and emptied by the sergeants.

“But,” cried he on seeing his daughter, “tell me, did they take the book from him-”

“I believe so, Father,” she replied, “but they did not take him.”

“Whom do you mean-”

“Pitou; he has escaped from them, and they are still running after him. They must already have got to Cayolles or Vauciennes.”

“So much the better! Poor fellow! It is I who have brought this upon him.”

“Oh, Father, do not feel uneasy about him, but think only of what we have to do! Pitou, you may rest assured, will get out of this scrape. But what disorder! good heaven! only look, mother.”

“Oh, my linen wardrobe!” cried Madame Billot; “they have not even respected my linen wardrobe! What villains they must be!”

“They have searched the wardrobe where the linen was kept!” exclaimed Billot.

And he rushed towards the wardrobe, which the exempt, as we have before stated, had carefully closed again, and plunged his hands into piles of towels and table napkins, all confusedly huddled together.

“Oh,” cried he, “it cannot be possible!”

“What are you looking for, Father-” inquired Catherine.

Billot gazed around him as if completely bewildered.

“Search,-search if you can see it anywhere! But no; not in that chest-of-drawers,-not in that secretary. Besides, it was there,-there; it was I myself who put it there. I saw it there only yesterday. It was not the book they were seeking for,-the wretches!-but the casket!”

“What casket-” asked Catherine.

“Why, you know well enough.”

“What! Doctor Gilbert's casket-” inquired Madame Billot, who always, in matters of transcendent importance, allowed others to speak and act.

“Yes, Doctor Gilbert's casket!” cried Billot, plunging his fingers into his thick hair; “that casket which was so precious to him.”

“You terrify me, my dear father,” said Catherine.

“Unfortunate man that I am!” cried Billot, with furious anger; “and I, who had not in the slightest imagined such a thing,-I, who did not even for a moment think of that casket! Oh, what will the doctor say- What will he think of me- That I am a traitor, a coward, a miserable wretch!”

“But, good heaven! what did this casket contain, Father-”

“I do not know; but this I know, that I had engaged, even at the hazard of my life, to keep it safe; and I ought to have allowed myself to be killed in order to defend it.”

And Billot made a gesture of such despair, that his wife and daughter started back with terror.

“Oh God! oh God! are you losing your reason, my poor father ” said Catherine.

And she burst into tears.

“Answer me, then,” she cried; “for the love of Heaven, answer me!”

“Pierre, my friend,” said Madame Billot, “answer your daughter; answer your wife.”

“My horse! my horse!” cried the farmer; “bring out my horse!”

“Where are you going, Father-”

“To let the doctor know. The doctor must be informed of this.”

“But where will you find him-”

“At Paris. Did you not read in the letter he wrote to us that he was going to Paris- He must be there by this time. I will go to Paris. My horse! my horse!”

“And you will leave us thus, my dear father- You will leave us in such a moment as this- You will leave us full of anxiety and anguish-”

“It must be so, my child; it must be so,” said the farmer, taking his daughter's face between his hands and convulsively fixing his lips upon it. “'If ever you should lose this casket,' said the doctor to me, 'or rather, should it ever be surreptitiously taken from you, the instant you discover the robbery, set off at once, Billot, and inform me of it, wherever I may be. Let nothing stop you, not even the life of a man.'“

“Good Lord! what can this casket contain-”

“Of that I know nothing; all that I know is, that it was placed under my care, and that I have allowed it to be taken from me. Ah, here is my horse! From the son, who is at college, I shall learn where to find the father.”

And kissing his wife and daughter for the last time, the farmer jumped into his saddle, and galloped across the country, in the direction of the high-road to Paris.

CHAPTER IX. THE ROAD TO PARIS

LET us return to Pitou.

Pitou was urged onwards by the two most powerful stimulants known in this great world,-Fear and Love.

Fear whispered to him in direct terms:-

“You may be either arrested or beaten; take care of yourself, Pitou!”

And that sufficed to make him run as swiftly as a roebuck.

Love had said to him, in the voice of Catherine:-

“Escape quickly, my dear Pitou!”

And Pitou had escaped.

These two stimulants combined, as we have said, had such an effect upon him, that Pitou did not merely run: Pitou absolutely flew.

How useful did Pitou's long legs, which appeared to be knotted to him, and his enormous knees, which looked so ungainly in a ballroom, prove to him in the open country, when his heart, enlarged with terror, beat three pulsations in a second.

Monsieur de Charny, with his small feet, his elegantly formed knees, and his symmetrically shaped calves, could not have run at such a rate as that.

Pitou recalled to his mind that pretty fable, in which a stag is represented weeping over his slim shanks, reflected in a fountain; and although he did not bear on his forehead the ornament which the quadruped deemed some compensation for his slender legs, he reproached himself for having so much despised his stilts.

For such was the appellation which Madame Billot gave to Pitou's legs when Pitou looked at them standing before a looking-glass.

Pitou, therefore, continued making his way through the wood, leaving Cayolles on his right and Yvors on his left, turning round at every corner of a bush, to see, or rather to listen; for it was long since he had seen anything of his persecutors, who had been distanced at the outset by the brilliant proof of swiftness Pitou had given, in placing a space of at least a thousand yards between them and himself,-a distance which he was increasing every moment.

Why was Atalanta married- Pitou would have entered the lists with her; and to have excelled Hippomenes he would not assuredly have needed to employ, as he did, the subterfuge of the three golden apples.

It is true, as we have already said, that Monsieur Wolfsfoot's agents, delighted at having possession of their booty, cared not a fig as to what became of Pitou; but Pitou knew not this.

Ceasing to be pursued by the reality, he continued to be pursued by the shadows.

As to the black-clothed gentlemen, they had that confidence in themselves which renders human beings lazy.

“Run! run!” cried they, thrusting their hands into their pockets, and making the reward which Monsieur Wolfsfoot had given them jingle in them: “run, good fellow, run; we can always find you again, should we want you.”

Which, we may say in passing, far from being a vain boast, was the precise truth.

And Pitou continued to run as if he had heard the aside of Monsieur Wolfsfoot's agents.

When he had, by scientifically altering his course, and turning and twisting as do the wild denizens of the forest to throw the hounds off scent, when he had doubled and turned so as to form such a maze that Nimrod himself would not have been able to unravel it, he at once made up his mind as to his route, and taking a sharp turn to the right, went in a direct line to the high road which leads from Villers-Cotterets to Paris, from the hill near Gondreville Heaths.

Having formed this resolution, he bounded through the copse, and after running for a little more than a quarter of an hour, he perceived the road enclosed by its yellow sand and bordered with its green trees.

An hour after his departure from the farm he was on the king's highway.

He had run about four leagues and a half during that hour; as much as any rider could expect from an active horse, going a good round trot.

He cast a glance behind him. There was nothing on the road.

He cast a glance before him. There were two women upon asses.

Pitou had got hold of a small work on mythology, with engravings, belonging to young Gilbert; mythology was much studied in those days.

The history of the gods and goddesses of the Grecian Olympus formed part of the education of young persons. By dint of looking at the engravings Pitou had become acquainted with mythology. He had seen Jupiter metamorphose himself into a bull, to carry off Europa; into a swan, that he might approach and make love to the daughter of King Tyndarus. He had, in short, seen other gods transforming themselves into forms more or less picturesque; but that one of his Majesty's police-officers should have transformed himself into an ass had never come within the scope of his erudition. King Midas himself had never had anything of the animal but the ears,-and he was a king,-he made gold at will,-he had therefore money enough to purchase the whole skin of the quadruped.

Somewhat reassured by what he saw, or rather by what he did not see, Pitou threw himself down on the grassy bank of the roadside, wiped with his sleeve his broad red face, and thus luxuriously reclining on the fresh clover, he yielded himself up to the satisfaction of perspiring in tranquillity.

But the sweet emanations from the clover and marjoram could not make Pitou forget the pickled pork made by Madame Billot, and the quarter of a six-pound loaf which Catherine allotted to him at every meal,-that is to say, three times a day.

This bread at that time cost four sous and a half a pound, a most exorbitant price, equivalent at least to nine sous in our days, and was so scarce throughout France that when it was eatable, it passed for the fabulous brioche, which the Duchess of Polignac advised the Parisians to feed upon when flour should altogether fail them.

Pitou therefore said to himself philosophically that Mademoiselle Catherine was the most generous princess in the world, and that Father Billot's farm was the most sumptuous palace in the universe.

Then, as the Israelites on the banks of the Jordan, he turned a dying eye towards the east, that is to say,

in the direction of that thrice happy farm, and sighed heavily.

But sighing is not so disagreeable an operation to a man who stands in need of taking breath after a violent race.

Pitou breathed more freely when sighing, and he felt his ideas, which for a time had been much confused and agitated, return to him gradually with his breath.

“Why is it,” reasoned he with himself, “that so many extraordinary events have happened to me in so short a space of time- Why should I have met with more accidents within the last three days than during the whole course of my previous life-

“It is because I dreamed of a cat that wanted to fly at me,” continued Pitou.

And he made a gesture signifying that the source of all his misfortunes had been thus already pointed out to him.

“Yes,” added he, after a moment's reflection, “but this is not the logic of my venerable friend the Abb #233; Fortier. It is not because I dreamed of an irritated cat that all these adventures have happened to me. Dreams are only given to a man as a sort of warning, and this is why an author said, 'Thou hast been dreaming, beware!-Cave, somniasti!'

“Somniasti,” said Pitou, doubtingly, and with somewhat of alarm; “am I then again committing a barbarism- Oh, no; I am only making an elision; it was somniavisti which I should have said, in grammatical language.

“It is astonishing,” cried Pitou, considering himself admiringly, “how well I understand Latin since I no longer study it!”

And after this glorification of himself, Pitou resumed his journey.

Pitou walked on very quickly, though he was much tranquillized. His pace was somewhere about two leagues an hour.

The result of this was that two hours after he had recommenced his walk Pitou had got beyond Nanteuil, and was getting on towards Dammartin.

Suddenly the ears of Pitou, as acute as those of an Osage Indian, were struck with the distant sound of a horse's feet upon the paved road.

“Oh,” cried Pitou, scanning the celebrated verse of Virgil,-

“'Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum.'“

And he looked behind him.

But he saw nothing.

Could it be the asses which he had passed at Levignon, and which had now come on at a gallop- No: for the iron hoof, as the poet calls it, rang upon the paved road; and Pitou, whether at Haramont or at Villers-Cotterets, had never known an ass, excepting that of Mother Sabot, that was shod, and even this was because Mother Sabot performed the duty of letter-carrier between Villers-Cotterets and Crespy.

He therefore momentarily forgot the noise he had heard, to return to his reflections.

Who could these men in black be who had questioned him about Doctor Gilbert, who had tied his hands, who had pursued him, and whom he had at length so completely distanced-

Where could these men have sprung from, for they were altogether unknown in the district-

What could they have in particular to do with Pitou,-he who had never seen them, and who, consequently, did not know them-

How then was it, as he did not know them, that they had known him- Why had Mademoiselle Catherine told him to set off for Paris; and why, in order to facilitate his journey, had she given him a louis of forty-eight francs,-that is to say, two hundred and forty pounds of bread, at four sous a pound. Why, it was enough to supply him with food for eighty days, or three months, if he would stint his rations somewhat.

Could Mademoiselle Catherine suppose that Pitou was to remain eighty days absent from the farm-

Pitou suddenly started.

“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “again that horse's hoofs.”

“This time,” said Pitou, all on the alert, “I am not mistaken. The noise I hear is positively that of a horse galloping. I shall see it when he gets to the top of yon hill.”

Pitou had scarcely spoken when a horse appeared at the top of a hill he had just left behind him, that is to say, at the distance of about four hundred yards from the spot on which he stood.

Pitou, who would not allow that a police agent could have transmogrified himself into an ass, admitted at once that he might have got on horseback to regain the prey that had escaped him.

Terror, from which he had been for some time relieved, again seized on Pitou, and immediately his legs became even longer and more intrepid than when he had made such marvellous good use of them some two hours previously.

Therefore, without reflecting, without looking behind, without even endeavoring to conceal his flight, calculating on the excellence of his steel-like sinews, Pitou, with a tremendous leap, sprang across the ditch which ran by the roadside, and began a rapid course across the country in the direction of Ermenonville. Pitou did not know anything of Ermenonville, he only saw upon the horizon the summits of some tall trees, and he said to himself,-

“If I reach those trees, which are undoubtedly on the border of some forest, I am saved.”

And he ran toward Ermenonville.

On this occasion he had to outvie a horse in running. Pitou had no longer legs, but wings.

And his rapidity was increased after having run some hundred yards, for Pitou had cast a glance behind him, and had seen the horseman oblige his horse to take the same immense leap which he had taken over the ditch by the roadside.

From that moment there could be no longer a doubt in the mind of the fugitive that the horseman was, in reality, in pursuit of him, and consequently the fugitive had increased his speed, never again turning his head, for fear of losing time. What most urged him on at that moment was not the clattering on the paved road,-that noise was deadened by the clover and the fallow fields; what most urged him on was a sort of cry which pursued him, the last syllable of his name pronounced by the horseman, a sort of hou! hou! which appeared to be uttered angrily, and which reached him on the wings of the wind, which he was endeavoring to outstrip.

But after having maintained this sharp race during ten minutes, Pitou began to feel that his chest became oppressed,-the blood rushed to his head,-his eyes began to wander. It seemed to him that his knees became more and more developed,-that his loins were filling with small pebbles. From time to time he stumbled over the furrows,-he who usually raised his feet so high, when running, that every nail in the soles of his shoes was visible.

At last the horse, created superior to man in the art of running, gained on the biped Pitou, and at the same time he heard the voice of the horseman, who no longer cried “Hou! hou!” but clearly and distinctly, “Pitou! Pitou!”

All was over. All was lost.

However, Pitou endeavored to continue the race. It had become a sort of mechanical movement; he rushed on, impelled by the power of repulsion. Suddenly, his knees failed him; he staggered and fell at full length, with his face to the ground.

But at the same time that he thus fell, fully resolved not to get up again,-at all events, of his own free will,-he received a lash from a horsewhip which wound round his loins.

With a tremendous oath, which was not unfamiliar to his ears, a well-known voice cried out to him,-

“How now, you stupid fellow! how now, you simpleton! have you sworn to founder Cadet-”

The name of Cadet at once dispelled all Pitou's suspense.

“Ah!” cried he, turning himself round, so that instead of lying upon his face he lay upon his back,-“Ah! I hear the voice of Monsieur Billot!”

It was in fact Goodman Billot. When Pitou was well assured of his identity, he assumed a sitting posture.

The farmer, on his side, had pulled up Cadet, covered with flakes of foam.

“Ah! dear Monsieur Billot,” exclaimed Pitou, “how kind it is of you to ride in this way after me! I swear to you I should have returned to the farm after having expended the double louis Mademoiselle Catherine gave me. But since you are here, take back your double louis,-for of course it must be yours,-and let us return to the farm.”

“A thousand devils!” exclaimed Billot; “who was thinking of the farm- Where are the mouchards-“

“The mouchards-” inquired Pitou, who did not comprehend the meaning of this word, which had only just been admitted into the vocabulary of our language.

“Yes, the mouchards,” rejoined Billot; “the men in black. Do you not understand me-”

“Ah! the men in black! You will readily understand, my dear Monsieur Billot, that I did not amuse myself by waiting for them.”

“Bravo! You have left them behind, then-”

“Why, I flatter myself I have; after the race I have run, it was to be expected, as it appears to me.”

“Then, if you were so sure of your affair, what the devil made you run at such a rate-”

“Because I thought it was their chief, who, not to be outwitted, was pursuing me on horseback.”

“Well, well! You are not quite so simple as I thought you. Then, as the road is clear, up up! and away for Dammartin!”

“What do you mean by 'up, up'-”

“Yes, get up and come with me.”

“We are going, then, to Dammartin-”

“Yes. I will borrow a horse, there, of old Lefranc. I will leave Cadet with him, for he can go no farther; and to-night we will push on to Paris.”

“Be it so, Monsieur Billot; be it so.”

“Well, then, up!-up!”

Pitou made an effort to obey him.

“I should much wish to do as you desire,” said he, “but, my dear Monsieur Billot, I cannot.”

“How,-you cannot get up-”

“No.”

“But just now you could manage to turn round.”

“Oh, just now! that was by no means astonishing. I heard your voice, and at the same moment I received a swingeing cut across the back. But such things can only succeed once. At present, I am accustomed to your voice; and as to your whip, I feel well assured that you can only apply it to managing our poor Cadet, who is almost as heated as I am.”

Pitou's logic, which, after all, was nothing more than the Abb #233; Fortier's, persuaded, and even affected, the farmer.

“I have not time to sympathize in your fate,” said he to Pitou; “but, come now, make an effort and get up behind me.”

“Why,” said Pitou, “that would be, indeed, the way to founder Cadet at once, poor beast!”

“Pooh! in half an hour we shall be at old Lefranc's.”

“But it appears to me, dear Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou, “that it would be altogether useless for me to go with you to old Lefranc's.”

“And why so-”

“Because, although you have business at Dammartin, I have no business there,-not I.”

“Yes; but I want you to come to Paris with me. In Paris you will be of use to me. You have good stout fists; and I am certain it will not be long before hard knocks will be given there.”

“Ah! ah!” cried Pitou, not much delighted with this prospect; “do you believe that-”

And he managed to get on Cadet's back, Billot dragging him up as he would a sack of flour.

The good farmer soon got on the high-road again, and so well managed his bridle, whip, and spurs, that in less than half an hour, as he had said, they reached Dammartin.

Billot had entered the town by a narrow lane, which was well known to him. He soon arrived at Father Lefranc's farm-house; and leaving Pitou and Cadet in the middle of the farm-yard, he ran straight to the kitchen, where Father Lefranc, who was setting out to take a turn round his fields, was buttoning on his gaiters.

“Quick!-quick! my friend,” cried Billot, before Lefranc had recovered from the astonishment which his arrival had produced; “the strongest horse you have!”

“That is Margot,” replied Lefranc; “and fortunately she is already saddled; I was going out.”

“Well, Margot be it, then; only it is possible I may founder her, and of that I forewarn you.”

“What, founder Margot! and why so, I ask-”

“Because it is necessary that I should be in Paris this very night.”

And he made a masonic sign to Lefranc, which was most significant.

“Well, founder Margot if you will,” said old Lefranc; “you shall give me Cadet, if you do.”

“Agreed.”

“A glass of wine-”

“Two.”

“But it seemed to me that you were not alone-”

“No; I have a worthy lad there whom I am taking with me, and who is so fatigued that he had not the strength to come in here. Send out something to him.”

“Immediately, immediately,” said the farmer.

In ten minutes the two old comrades had each managed to soak in a bottle of good wine, and Pitou had bolted a two-pound loaf, with half a pound of bacon. While he was eating, one of the farm-servants, a good fellow, rubbed him down with a handful of clean straw, to take the mud from his clothes, and with as much care as if he had been cleaning a favorite horse.

Thus freshened up and invigorated, Pitou had also some wine given to him, taken from a third bottle, which was the sooner emptied from Pitou's having his share of it; after which Billot mounted Margot, and Pitou, stiff as a pair of compasses, was lifted on behind him.

The poor beast, being thereunto urged by whip and spur, trotted off bravely, under this double load, on the road to Paris, and without ceasing whisked away the flies with its formidable tail, the thick hair of which threw the dust of the road on Pitou's back, and every now and then lashed his calfless legs, which were exposed to view, his stockings having fallen down to his ankles.

CHAPTER X. WHAT WAS HAPPENING AT THE END OF THE ROAD WHICH PITOU WAS TRAVELLING UPON,-THAT IS TO SAY, AT PARIS

IT is eight leagues from Dammartin to Paris. The four first leagues were tolerably well got over; but after they reached Bourget, poor Margot's legs at length began to grow somewhat stiff. Night was closing in.

On arriving at La Villette, Billot thought he perceived a great light extending over Paris.

He made Pitou observe the red light, which rose above the horizon.

“You do not see, then,” said Pitou to him, “that there are troops bivouacking, and that they have lighted their fires.”

“What mean you by troops-” cried Billot.

“There are troops here,” said Pitou; “why should there not be some farther on-”

And, in fact, on examining attentively, Father Billot saw, on looking to the right, that the plain of St. Denis was dotted over with black-looking detachments of infantry and cavalry, which were marching silently in the darkness.

Their arms glistened occasionally with the pale reflection of the stars.

Pitou, whose nocturnal excursions in the woods had accustomed him to see clearly in the dark,-Pitou pointed out to his master pieces of artillery, which had sunk up to the axles in the middle of the muddy plain. “Oh! oh!” cried Billot, “there is something new up yonder, then! Let make haste! Let us make haste! Let us make haste!”

“Yes, yes; there is a fire out yonder,” said Pitou, who had raised himself on Margot's back. “Look!-look! Do you not see the sparks-”

Margot stopped. Billot jumped off her back, and approaching a group of soldiers in blue and yellow uniform, who were bivouacking under the trees by the road-side, “Comrades,” said he to them, “can you tell me what there is going on at Paris-”

But the soldiers merely replied to him by oaths, which they uttered in the German language.

“What the devil is it they say- ” inquired Billot, addressing Pitou.

“It is not Latin, dear Monsieur Billot,” replied Pitou, trembling; “and that is all I can tell you.”

Billot reflected, and looked again.

“Simpleton that I was,” said he, “to attempt to question these Kaiserliks.”

And in his curiosity he remained motionless in the middle of the road.

An officer went up to him.

“Bass on your roat,” said he; “bass on quickly.”

“Your pardon, Captain,” replied Billot; “but I am going to Paris.”

“Vell, mein Gott; vot den-”

“And as I see that you are drawn up across the road,

I fear that we cannot get through the barriers.”

“You can get drough.”

And Billot remounted his mare and went on. But it was only to fall in the midst of the Bercheur

Hussars, who encumbered the street of La Villette.

This time he had to deal with his own countrymen.

He questioned them with more success. “Sir,” said he, “what has there happened at Paris, if you please-”

“That your headstrong Parisians,” replied the hussar, “will have their Necker; and they are firing musket-shots at us, as if we had anything to do with the matter!”

“Have Necker!” exclaimed Billot. “They have lost him, then-”

“Assuredly, since the king has dismissed him.”

“The king has dismissed Monsieur Necker!” exclaimed Billot, with the stupefaction of a devotee calling out against a sacrilege: “the king has dismissed that great man-”

“Oh, in faith he has, my worthy sir; and more than that, this great man is now on his road to Brussels.”

“Well, then, in that case we shall see some fun,” cried Billot, in a tremendous voice, without caring for the danger he was incurring by thus preaching insurrection in the midst of twelve or fifteen hundred royalist sabres.

And he again mounted Margot, spurring her on with cruel violence, until he reached the barrier.

As he advanced, he perceived that the fire was increasing and becoming redder. A long column of flame ascended from the barrier towards the sky.

It was the barrier itself that was burning.

A howling, furious mob, in which there were many women, who, as usual, threatened and vociferated more loudly than the men, were feeding the fire with pieces of wainscoting, and chairs and tables, and other articles of furniture belonging to the clerks employed to collect the city dues.

Upon the road were Hungarian and German regiments, who, leaning upon their grounded arms, were looking on with vacant eyes at this scene of devastation.

Billot did not allow this rampart of flames to arrest his progress. He spurred on Margot through the fire. Margot rushed through the flaming ruins; but when she had reached the inner side of the barrier she was obliged to stop, being met by a crowd of people coming from the centre of the city, towards the suburbs. Some of them were singing, others shouting, “To arms!”

Billot had the appearance of being what he really was, a good farmer coming to Paris on his own affairs. Perhaps he cried out rather too loudly, “Make room! make room!” but Pitou repeated the words so politely, “Room if you please; let us pass!” that the one was a corrective of the other. No one had any interest in preventing Billot from going to his affairs, and he was allowed to pass.

Margot, during all this, had recovered her wind and strength; the fire had singed her coat. All these unaccustomed shouts appeared greatly to amaze her, and Billot was obliged to restrain the efforts she now made to advance, for fear of trampling under foot some of the numerous spectators whom curiosity had drawn together before their doors to see the gate on fire, and as many curious people who were running from their doors towards the burning toll-house.

Billot went on pushing through the crowd, pulling Margot first to the right and then to the left, twisting and turning in every direction, until they reached the Boulevard; but having got thus far he was obliged to stop.

A procession was then passing, coming from the Bastille, and going towards the place called the Garde

Meuble, those two masses of stone which in those days formed a girdle which attached the centre of the city to its outworks.

This procession, which obstructed the whole of the Boulevard, was following a bier; on this bier were borne two busts,-the one veiled with black crape, the other crowned with flowers.

The bust covered with black crape was that of Necker, a minister who had not been disgraced, but dismissed. The one crowned with flowers was that of the Duke of Orleans, who had openly espoused at court the party of the Genevese economist.

Billot immediately inquired what was the meaning of this procession. He was informed that it was a popular homage paid to M. Necker and to his defender, the Duke of Orleans.

Billot had been born in a part of the country where the name of the Duke of Orleans had been venerated for a century and a half. Billot belonged to the new sect of philosophers, and consequently considered Monsieur Necker not only as a great minister, but as an apostle of humanity.

This was more than sufficient to excite Billot. He jumped off his horse, without being exactly aware of what he was about to do, shouting, “Long live the Duke of Orleans! long live Necker!” and then mingled with the crowd. Having once got into the thick of the throng, all personal liberty was at an end at once; as every one knows, the use of our free will at once ceases. We wish what the crowd wishes, we do what it does. Billot, moreover, allowed himself the more easily to be drawn into this movement, from being near the head of the procession.

The mob kept on vociferating most strenuously, “Long live Necker! no more foreign troops! Down with the foreign troops!”

Billot mingled his stentorian voice with all these voices. A superiority, be it of whatsoever nature it may, is always appreciated by the people. The Parisian of the suburbs, with his faint hoarse voice, enfeebled by inanition or worn out by drinking, duly appreciated the full, rich, and sonorous voice of Billot, and readily made way for him, so that without being too much elbowed, too much pushed about, too much pressed by the crowd, Billot at length managed to get close up to the bier.

About ten minutes after this, one of the bearers, whose enthusiasm had been greater than his strength, yielded his place to Billot.

As has been seen, the honest farmer had rapidly obtained promotion.

The day before he had been merely the propagator of the principles contained in Doctor Gilbert's pamphlet, and now he had become one of the instruments of the great triumph of Necker and the Duke of Orleans.

But he had scarcely attained this post when an idea crossed his mind.

“What had become of Pitou,-what had become of

Margot-”

Though carefully bearing his portion of the bier, he gave a glance behind him, and by the light of the torches which accompanied the procession, by the light of the lamps which illuminated every window, he perceived in the midst of the procession a sort of ambulating eminence, formed of five or six men, who were gesticulating and shouting.

Amidst these gesticulations and shouts it was easy to distinguish the voice and recognize the long arms of his follower, Pitou. Pitou was doing all he could to protect Margot; but despite all his efforts Margot had been invaded. Margot no longer bore Billot and Pitou, a very honorable and sufficient burden for the poor animal.

Margot was bearing as many people as could manage to get upon her back, her croup, her neck; Margot looked in the obscurity of the night, which always magnifies the appearance of objects, like an elephant loaded with hunters going to attack a tiger.

Five or six furious fellows had taken possession of Margot's broad back, vociferating, “Long live Necker!”

“Long live the Duke of Orleans!”

“Down with the foreigners!” to which Pitou replied,-"You will break Margot's back!” The enthusiasm was general.

Billot for a moment entertained the idea of rushing to the aid of Pitou and poor Margot; but he reflected that if he should only for a moment resign the honor of carrying one of the corners of the bier, he would not be able to regain his triumphal post. Then he reflected that by the barter he had agreed to with old Lefranc, that of giving him Cadet for Margot, Margot belonged to him, and that, should any accident happen to Margot, it was, after all, but an affair of some three or four hundred livres, and that he, Billot, was undoubtedly rich enough to make the sacrifice of three or four hundred livres to his country.

During this time the procession kept on advancing; it had moved obliquely to the left, and had gone down the Rue Montmartre to the Place des Victoires. When it reached the Palais Royal some great impediment prevented its passing on. A troop of men with green leaves in their hats were shouting “To arms!”

It was necessary to reconnoitre. Were these men who blocked up the Rue Vivienne friends, or enemies- Green was the color of the Count d'Artois. Why, then, these green cockades-

After a minute's conference all was explained. On learning the dismissal of Necker, a young man had issued from the Caf #233; Foy, had jumped upon a table in the garden of the Palais Royal, and taking a pistol from his breast, had cried, “To arms!”

On hearing this cry, all the persons who were walking there had assembled round him, and had shouted, “To arms!”

We have already said that all the foreign regiments had been collected around Paris. One might have imagined that it was an invasion by the Austrians. The names of these regiments alarmed the ears of all Frenchmen; they were Reynac, Salis Samade, Diesbach, Esterhazy, Rmer; the very naming of them was sufficient to make the crowd understand that they were the names of enemies. The young man named them; he announced that the Swiss were encamped in the Champs #201;lys #233;es, with four pieces of artillery, and that they were to enter Paris the same night, preceded by the dragoons commanded by Prince Lambesq. He proposed a new cockade which was not theirs, snatched a leaf from a chestnuttree and placed it in the band of his hat. Upon the instant every one present followed his example. Three thousand persons had in ten minutes unleaved the trees of the Palais Royal.

That morning no one knew the name of that young man; in the evening it was in every mouth.

That young man's name was Camille Desmoulins. The two crowds recognized each other as friends; they fraternized, they embraced each other, and then the procession continued on its way. During the momentary halt we have just described, the curiosity of those who had not been able to discover, even by standing on tiptoe, what was going on, had overloaded Margot with an increasing burden. Every inch on which a foot could be placed had been invaded, so that when the crowd again moved on, the poor beast was literally crushed by the enormous weight which overwhelmed her.

At the corner of the Rue Richelieu Billot cast a look behind him; Margot had disappeared.

He heaved a deep sigh, addressed to the memory of the unfortunate animal; then, soon recovering from his grief, and calling up the whole power of his voice, he three times called Pitou, as did the Romans of ancient times when attending the funeral of a relative. He imagined that he heard, issuing from the centre of the crowd, a voice which replied to his own, but that voice was lost among the confused clamors which ascended towards the heavens, half threatening, half with applauding acclamations.

The procession still moved on. All the shops were closed; but all the windows were open, and from every window issued cries of encouragement which fell like blessings on the heads of those who formed this great ovation.

In this way they reached the Place Vend #244;me. But on arriving there the procession was obstructed by an unforeseen obstacle.

Like to those trunks of trees rooted up by a river that has overflown its banks, and which, on encountering the piers of a bridge, recoil upon the wreck of matter which is following them, the popular army found a detachment of the Royal Germans on the Place Vend #244;me.

These foreign soldiers were dragoons, who, seeing an inundation streaming from the Rue St. Honor #233;, and which began to overflow the Place Vend #244;me, loosened their horses' reins, who, impatient at having been stationed there during five hours, at once galloped furiously forward, charging upon the people.

The bearers of the bier received the first shock, and were thrown down beneath their burden. A Savoyard, who was walking before Billot, was the first to spring to his feet again; he raised the effigy of the Duke of Orleans, and placing it on the top of a stick, held it above his head, crying,- “Long live the Duke of Orleans!” whom he had never seen; and “Long live Necker!” whom he did not know.

Billot was about to do as much for the bust of Necker, but found himself forestalled. A young man, about twenty-four or twenty-five years old, and sufficiently well-dressed to deserve the title of a beau, had followed it with his eyes, which he could do more easily than Billot, who was carrying it; and as soon as the bust had fallen to the ground, he had rushed towards it and seized upon it.

The good farmer therefore vainly endeavored to find it on the ground; the bust of Necker was already on the point of a sort of pike, and, side by side with that of the Duke of Orleans, rallied around them a good portion of the procession.

Suddenly a great light illuminates the square; at the same moment a peal of musketry is heard; balls whiz through the air; something heavy strikes Billot on the forehead; he falls. At first, Billot imagined himself killed.

But as his senses had not abandoned him, as, excepting a violent pain in the head, he felt no other injury,

Billot comprehended that he was, even at the worst, but wounded. He pressed his hand to his forehead, to ascertain the extent of damage he had received, and perceived at one and the same time that he had only a contusion on the head, and that his hands were streaming with blood.

The elegantly dressed young man who had supplanted Billot had received a ball full in his breast. It was he who was shot. The blood on Billot's hands was his. The blow which Billot had experienced was from the bust of Necker, which, losing its supporter, had fallen upon his head.

Billot utters a cry, partly of anger, partly of terror. He draws back from the young man, who was convulsed in the agonies of death. Those who surrounded him also draw back; and the shout he had uttered, repeated by the crowd, is prolonged like a funeral echo by the groups assembled in the Rue St. Honor #233;.

This shout was a second rebellion. A second detonation was then heard, and immediately deep vacancies hollowed in the mass attested the passage of the murderous projectiles.

To pick up the bust, the whole face of which was stained with blood; to raise it above his head, and protest against this outrage with his sonorous voice, at the risk of being shot down, as had been the handsome young man whose body was then lying at his feet, was what Billot's indignation prompted him to effect, and which he did in the first moment of his enthusiasm.

But at the same instant a large and powerful hand was placed upon the farmer's shoulder, and with so much vigor that he was compelled to bend down beneath its weight. The farmer wishes to relieve himself from this pressure; another hand, no less heavy than the first, falls on his other shoulder. He turned round, reddening with anger, to ascertain what sort of antagonist he had to contend with.

“Pitou!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, yes,” replied Pitou. “Down! down! and you will soon see.”

And redoubling his efforts, he managed to drag with him to the ground the opposing farmer.

No sooner had he forced Billot to lie down flat upon the pavement, than another discharge was heard. The Savoyard who was carrying the bust of the Duke of Orleans gave way in his turn, struck by a ball in the thigh.

Then was heard the crushing of the pavement beneath the horses' hoofs; then the dragoons charged a second time; a horse, with streaming mane, and furious as that of the Apocalypse, bounds over the unfortunate Savoyard, who feels the cold steel of a lance penetrate his breast. He falls on Billot and Pitou.

The tempest rushed onward towards the end of the street, spreading, as it passed, terror and death. Dead bodies alone remained on the pavement of the square. All those who had formed the procession fled through the adjacent streets. The windows are instantly closed,-a gloomy silence succeeds to the shouts of enthusiasm and the cries of anger.

Billot waited a moment, still restrained by the prudent Pitou; he felt that the danger was becoming more distant with the noise, while Pitou, like a hare in its bed, was beginning to raise, not his head, but his ears.

“Well, Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou, “I think that you spoke truly, and that we have arrived here in the nick of time.”

“Come, now, help me!”

“And what to do,-to run away-”

“No. The young dandy is dead as a door-nail, but the poor Savoyard, in my opinion, has only fainted. Help me to put him on my back. We cannot leave him here, to be finished by those damned Germans.”

Billot spoke a language which went straight to Pitou's heart. He had no answer to make but to obey. He took up the fainting and bleeding body of the poor Savoyard, and threw him, as he would have done a sack, across the shoulders of the robust farmer; who, seeing that the Rue St. Honor #233; was free, and to all appearance deserted, advanced with Pitou towards the Palais Royal.

CHAPTER XI. THE NIGHT BETWEEN THE 12TH AND 13TH OF JULY

THE street had, in the first place, appeared empty and deserted to Billot and Pitou, because the dragoons, being engaged in the pursuit of the great body of the fugitives, had turned into the market of St. Honor, and had followed them up the Rue Louis-le-Grand and the Rue Gaillon. But as Billot advanced towards the Palais Royal, roaring instinctively, but in a subdued voice, the word “Vengeance!” men made their appearance at the corners of the streets, at the end of alleys, and from under the carriage gateways, who, at first, mute and terrified, looked around them, but being at length assured of the absence of the dragoons, brought up the rear of this funereal march, repeating, first in hollow whispers, but soon aloud, and finally with shouts, the word “Vengeance! vengeance!”

Pitou walked behind the farmer, carrying the Savoyard's black cap in his hand.

They arrived thus, in gloomy and fearful procession, upon the square before the Palais Royal, where a whole people, drunk with rage, was holding council, and soliciting the support of French soldiers against the foreigners.

“Who are these men in uniform-” inquired Billot, on arriving in front of a company who were standing with grounded arms, stopping the passage across the square, from the gate of the palace to the Rue de Chartres.

“They are the French Guards!” cried several voices.

“Ah!” exclaimed Billot, approaching them, and showing them the body of the Savoyard, which was now a lifeless corpse,-“Ah! you are Frenchmen, and you allow us to be murdered by these Germans!”

The French Guards drew back with horror.

“Dead-” murmured a voice from within their ranks.

“Yes, dead! dead! assassinated!-he and many more besides!”

“And by whom-”

“By the Royal German Dragoons. Did you not hear the cries, the firing, the galloping of their horses-”

“Yes, yes, we did!” cried two or three hundred voices. “They were butchering the people on the Place Vend #244;me!”

“And you are part of the people, by Heaven, you are!” cried Billot, addressing the soldiers. “It is therefore cowardly in you to allow your brothers to be butchered.”

“Cowardly!” exclaimed several threatening voices in the ranks.

“Yes, cowardly! I have said it, and I repeat the word. Come, now,” continued Billot, advancing three steps towards the spot from whence these murmurs had proceeded; “well, now, will you not kill me, in order to prove that you are not cowards-”

“Good that is all well, very well,” said one of the soldiers. “You are a brave fellow, my friend. You are a citizen, and can do what you will; but a military man is a soldier, do you see, and he must obey orders.”

“So that,” replied Billot, “ if you received orders to fire upon us,-that is to say, upon unarmed men,-you would fire, you who have succeeded the men of Fontenoy, who gave the advantage to the English by telling them to fire first!”

“As to me, I know that I would not fire, for one,” said a voice from the ranks.

“Nor I!-Nor I!” repeated a hundred voices.

“Then see that others do not fire upon us,” cried Billot. “To allow the Germans to butcher us is just the same thing as if you slaughtered us yourselves.”

“The dragoons! the dragoons!” cried several voices at the same time that the crowd, driven backwards, began to throng the square, flying by the Rue de Richelieu.

And there was heard the distant sound of the galloping of heavy cavalry upon the pavement, but which became louder at every moment.

“To arms! to arms!” cried the fugitives.

“A thousand gods!” cried Billot, throwing the dead body of the Savoyard upon the ground, which he had till then held in his arms; “give us your muskets, at least, if you will not yourselves make use of them.”

“Well, then, yes; by a thousand thunders, we will make use of them!” said the soldier to whom Billot had addressed himself, snatching out of his hand his musket, which the other had already seized. “Come, come! let us bite our cartridges, and if the Austrians have anything to say to these brave fellows, we shall see!”

“Yes, yes, we'll see!” cried the soldiers, putting their hands into their cartouche-boxes and biting off the ends of their cartridges.

“Oh, thunder!” cried Billot, stamping his feet; “and to think that I have not brought my fowling-piece! But perhaps one of those rascally Austrians will be killed, and then I will take his carbine.”

“In the mean time,” said a voice, “take this carbine; it is ready loaded.”

And at the same time an unknown man slipped a richly mounted carbine into Billot's hands.

At that instant the dragoons galloped into the square, riding down and sabring all that were in their way.

The officer who commanded the French Guards advanced four steps.

“Hilloa, there, gentlemen dragoons!” cried he; “halt there, if you please!”

Whether the dragoons did not hear, or whether they did not choose to hear, or whether they could not at once arrest the violent course of their horses, they rode across the square, making a half-wheel to the right, and ran over a woman and an old man, who disappeared beneath their horses' hoofs.

“Fire, then, fire!” cried Billot.

Billot was standing close to the officer. It might have been thought that it was the latter who had given the word.

The French Guards presented their guns, and fired a volley, which at once brought the dragoons to a stand.

“Why, gentlemen of the Guards,” said a German officer, advancing in front of his disordered squadron, “do you know that you are firing upon us-”

“Do we not know it-” cried Billot; and he fired at the officer, who fell from his horse.

Then the French Guards fired a second volley, and the Germans, seeing that they had on this occasion to deal, not with plain citizens, who would fly at the first sabrecut, but with soldiers, who firmly waited their attack, turned to the right-about, and galloped back to the Place Vend #244;me, amidst so formidable an explosion of bravoes and shouts of triumph, that several of their horses, terrified at the noise, ran off with their riders, and knocked their heads against the closed shutters of the shops.

“Long live the French Guards!” cried the people.

“Long live the soldiers of the country!” cried Billot.

“Thanks,” replied the latter. “We have smelt gunpowder, and we are now baptized.”

“And I, too,” said Pitou, “I have smelt gunpowder.”

“And what do you think of it-” inquired Billot.

“Why, really, I do not find it so disagreeable as I had expected,” replied Pitou.

“But now,” said Billot, who had had time to examine the carbine, and had ascertained that it was a weapon of some value, “but now, to whom belongs this gun-”

“To my master,” said the voice which had already spoken behind him. “But my master thinks that you make too good use of it to take it back again.”

Billot turned round, and perceived a huntsman in the livery of the Duke of Orleans.

“And where is your master-” said he.

The huntsman pointed to a half-open Venetian blind, behind which the prince had been watching all that had passed.

“Your master is then on our side-” asked Billot. “With the people, heart and soul,” replied the huntsman.

“In that case, once more, 'Long live the Duke of Orleans!'“ cried Billot. “My friends, the Duke of Orleans is with us. Long live the Duke of Orleans!”

And he pointed to the blind behind which the prince stood.

Then the blind was thrown completely open, and the Duke of Orleans bowed three times.

After which the blind was again closed.

Although of such short duration, his appearance had wound up the enthusiasm of the people to its acme.

“Long live the Duke of Orleans!” vociferated two or three thousand voices.

“Let us break open the armorers' shops!” cried a voice in the crowd.

“Let us run to the Invalides!” cried some old soldiers. “Sombreuil has twenty thousand muskets.”

“To the Invalides!”

“To the H #244;tel de Ville!” exclaimed several voices. “Flesselles the provost of the merchants, has the key of the dep #244;t in which the arms of the Guards are kept. He will give them to us.”

“To the H #244;tel de Ville!” cried a fraction of the crowd.

And the whole crowd dispersed, taking the three directions which had been pointed out.

During this time the dragoons had rallied round the Baron de Besenval and the Prince de Lambesq, on the Place Louis XV.

Of this Billot and Pitou were ignorant. They had not followed either of the three troops of citizens, and they found themselves almost alone in the square before the Palais Royal.

“Well, dear Monsieur Billot, where are we to go next, if you please-” said Pitou.

“Why,” replied Billot, “I should have desired to follow those worthy people,-not to the gunmakers' shops, since I have such a beautiful carbine, but to the H #244;tel de Ville or to the Invalides. However, not having come to Paris to fight, but to find out the address of Doctor Gilbert, it appears to me that I ought to go to the College of Louis-le-Grand, where his son now is; and then, after having seen the doctor, why, we can throw ourselves again into this seething whirlpool.” And the eyes of the farmer flashed lightning.

“To go in the first place to the College of Louisle-Grand appears to me quite logical,” sententiously observed Pitou; “since it was for that purpose that we came to Paris.”

“Go, get a musket, a sabre, a weapon of some kind or other from some one or other of those idle fellows who are lying on the pavement yonder,” said Billot, pointing to one out of five or six dragoons who were stretched upon the ground; “and let us at once go to the college.”

“But these arms,” said Pitou, hesitating, “they are not mine.”

“Who, then, do they belong to-” asked Billot.

“To the king.”

“They belong to the people,” rejoined Billot.

And Pitou, yielding implicitly to the opinion of the farmer, whom he knew to be a man who would not rob a neighbor of a grain of millet, approached with every necessary precaution the dragoon who happened to be the nearest to him, and after having assured himself that he was really dead, took from him his sabre, his musketoon, and his cartouche-box.

Pitou had a great desire to take his helmet also, only he was not quite certain that what Father Billot had said with regard to offensive weapons extended to defensive accoutrements.

But while thus arming himself, Pitou directed his ears towards the Place Vend #244;me.

“Ho, ho!” said he, “it appears to me that the Royal

Germans are coming this way again.”

And in fact the noise of a troop of horsemen returning at a foot-pace could be heard. Pitou peeped from behind the corner of the coffee-house called La Regence, and perceived, at about the distance of the market of St. Honor #233;, a patrol of dragoons advancing, with their musketoons in hand.

“Oh, quick, quick!” cried Pitou, “here they are, coming back again.”

Billot cast his eyes around him to see if there was any means of offering resistance. There was scarcely a person in the square.

“Let us go, then,” said he, “to the College Louis-le-Grand.”

And he went up the Rue de Chartres, followed by Pitou, who, not knowing the use of the hook upon his belt, was dragging his long sabre after him.

“A thousand thunders!” exclaimed Billot; “why, you look like a dealer in old iron. Fasten me up that lath there.”

“But how-” asked Pitou.

“Why, so, by Heaven!-there!” said Billot. And he hooked Pitou's long sabre up to his belt, which enabled the latter to walk with more celerity than he could have done but for this expedient.

They pursued their way without meeting with any impediment, till they reached the Place Louis XV.; but there Billot and Pitou fell in with the column which had left them to proceed to the Invalides, and which had been stopped short in its progress.

“Well!” cried Billot, “what is the matter-”

“The matter is, that we cannot go across the Bridge Louis XV.”

“But you can go along the quays.”

“All passage is stopped that way, too.”

“And across the Champs #201;lys #233;es-”

“Also.”

“Then let us retrace our steps, and go over the bridge at the Tuileries.”

The proposal was a perfectly natural one, and the crowd, by following Billot, showed that they were eager to accede to it. But they saw sabres gleaming half-way between them and the Tuileries Gardens. The quay was occupied by a squadron of dragoons.

“Why, these cursed dragoons are, then, everywhere,” murmured the farmer.

“I say, my dear Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou, “I believe that we are caught.”

“Pshaw! they cannot catch five or six thousand men; and we are five or six thousand men, at least.”

The dragoons on the quay were advancing slowly, it is true, at a very gentle walk; but they were visibly advancing.

“The Rue Royale still remains open to us. Come this way; come, Pitou.”

Pitou followed the farmer as if he had been his shadow. But a line of soldiers was drawn across the street, near the St. Honor #233; gate.

“Ah, ah!” muttered Billot; “you may be in the right, friend Pitou.”

“Hum!” was Pitou's sole reply.

But this word expressed, by the tone in which it had been pronounced, all the regret which Pitou felt at not having been mistaken.

The crowd, by its agitation and its clamors, proved that it was not less sensible than Pitou of the position in which it was then placed.

And, in fact, by a skilful manoeuvre, the Prince de Lambesq had surrounded not only the rebels, but also those who had been drawn there from mere curiosity, and by preventing all egress by the Bridge Louis XV., the quays, the Champs #201;lys #233;es, the Rue Royale, and Les Feuillants, he had enclosed them in a bow of iron, the string of which was represented by the walls of the Tuileries Gardens, which it would be very difficult to escalade, and the iron gate of the Pont Tournant, which it was almost impossible to force.

Billot reflected on their position; it certainly was not a favorable one; however, as he was a man of calm, cool mind, full of resources when in danger, he cast his eyes around him, and perceiving a pile of timber lying beside the river,-

“I have an idea,” said he to Pitou: “come this way.”

Pitou followed him, without asking him what the idea was.

Billot advanced towards the timber, and seizing the end of a large block, said to Pitou, “ Help me to carry this.”

Pitou, for his part, without questioning him as to his intentions, caught hold of the other end of the piece of timber. He had such implicit confidence in the farmer, that he would have gone down to the infernal regions with him, without even making any observation as to the length of the descent or the depth of the abyss.

They were soon upon the quay again, bearing a load which five or six men of ordinary strength would have found difficult to raise.

Strength is always a subject of admiration to the mob, and although so compactly huddled together, they made way for Billot and Pitou.

Then, as they felt convinced that the manuvre which was being accomplished was one of general interest, some men walked before Billot, crying, “Make way! make way!”

“Tell me now, Father Billot,” inquired Pitou, after having carried the timber some thirty yards, “are we going far-”

“As far as the gate of the Tuileries.”

“Ho! ho!” cried the crowd, who at once divined his intention.

And it made way for them more eagerly even than before.

Pitou looked about him, and saw that the gate was not more than thirty paces distant.

“I can reach it,” said he, with the brevity of a Pythagorean.

The labor was so much the easier to Pitou from five or six of the strongest of the crowd taking their share in the burden.

The result of this was a very notable acceleration in their progress.

In five minutes they had reached the iron gate.

“Come, now,” cried Billot, “clap your shoulders to it, and all push together.”

“Good!” said Pitou. “I understand it now. We have just made a warlike engine; the Romans used to call it a ram.”

“Now, my boys,” cried Billot, “once, twice, thrice!” And the joist, directed with a furious impetus, struck the lock of the gate with resounding violence.

The soldiers who were on guard in the interior of the garden hastened to resist this invasion. But at the third stroke the gate gave way, turning violently on its hinges, and through that gaping and gloomy mouth the crowd rushed impetuously.

From the movement that was then made, the Prince de Lambesq perceived at once that an opening had been effected which allowed the escape of those whom he had considered as his prisoners. He was furious with disappointment. He urged his horse forward in order the better to judge of the position of affairs. The dragoons who were drawn up behind him imagined that the order had been given to charge, and they followed him. The horses, going off at full speed, could not be suddenly pulled up. The men, who wished to be revenged for the check they had received on the square before the Palais Royal, scarcely endeavored to restrain them.

The prince saw that it would be impossible to moderate their advance, and allowed himself to be borne away by it. A sudden shriek uttered by the women and children ascended to heaven crying for vengeance against the brutal soldiers.

A frightful scene then occurred, rendered still more terrific by the darkness. Those who were charged upon became mad with pain; those who charged them were mad with anger.

Then a species of defence was organized from the top of a terrace. Chairs were hurled down on the dragoons. The Prince de Lambesq, who had been struck on the head, replied by giving a sabre-cut to the person nearest to him, without considering that he was punishing an innocent man instead of a guilty one, and an old man more than seventy years of age fell beneath his sword.

Billot saw this man fall, and uttered a loud cry. In a moment his carbine was at his shoulder. A furrow of light for a moment illuminated the darkness, and the prince had then died, had not his horse, by chance, reared at the same instant.

The horse received the ball in his neck, and fell.

It was thought that the prince was killed; the dragoons then rushed into the Tuileries, pursuing the fugitives, and firing their pistols at them.

But the fugitives, having now a greater space, dispersed among the trees.

Billot quietly reloaded his carbine.

“In good faith, Pitou,” said he, “I think that you were right. We really have arrived in the nick of time.”

“If I should become a bold, daring fellow!” said Pitou, discharging his musketoon at the thickest group of the dragoons. “It seems to me not so difficult as I had thought.”

“Yes,” replied Billot; “but useless courage is not real courage. Come this way, Pitou, and take care that your sword does not get between your legs.”

“Wait a moment for me, dear Monsieur Billot; if I should lose you I should not know which way to go. I do not know Paris as you do: I was never here before.”

“Come along, come along,” said Billot; and he went by the terrace by the water-side, until he had got ahead of the line of troops, which were advancing along the quay; but this time as rapidly as they could, to give their aid to the Lambesq dragoons, should such aid be necessary.

When they reached the end of the terrace, Billot seated himself on the parapet and jumped on to the quay.

Pitou followed his example.

CHAPTER XII. WHAT OCCURRED DURING THE NIGHT OF THE 12TH JULY, 1789

ONCE upon the quay, the two countrymen saw glittering on the bridge near the Tuileries the arms of another body of men, which in all probability was not a body of friends; they silently glided to the end of the quay and descended the bank which leads along the Seine.

The clock of the Tuileries was just then striking eleven.

When they had got beneath the trees which line the banks of the river, fine aspen-trees and poplars, which bathe their feet in its current; when they were lost to the sight of their pursuers, hid by their friendly foliage, the farmer and Pitou threw themselves upon the grass and opened a council of war.

The question was to know,-and this was suggested by the farmer,-whether they should remain where they were, that is to say, in safety, or comparatively so, or whether they should again throw themselves into the tumult and take their share of the struggle which was going on, and which appeared likely to be continued the greater part of the night.

The question being mooted, Billot awaited the reply of Pitou.

Pitou had risen very greatly in the opinion of the farmer,-in the first place, by the knowledge which he had shown the day before, and afterwards by the courage of which he had given such proofs during the evening.

Pitou instinctively felt this, but instead of being prouder for it, he was only the more grateful towards the good farmer. Pitou was naturally very humble.

“Monsieur Billot,” said he, “it is evident that you are more brave and I less a poltroon than I imagined. Horace, who, however, was a very different man from us, with regard to poetry, at least, threw away his arms and ran off at the very first blow. As to me, I have still my musketoon, my cartridge-box, and my sabre, which proves that I am braver than Horace.”

“Well, what are you driving at-”

“What I mean is this, dear Monsieur Billot,-that the bravest man in the world may be killed by a ball.”

“And what then-” inquired the farmer.

“And then, my dear sir, thus it is: as you stated, on leaving your farm, that you were going to Paris for an important object-”

“Oh, confound it, that is true, for the casket!”

“Well, then, did you come about this casket,-yes, or no-”

“I came about the casket, by a thousand thunders! and for nothing else.”

“If you should allow yourself to be killed by a ball, the affair for which you came cannot be accomplished.”

“In truth, you are ten times right, Pitou.”

“Do you hear that crashing noise-those cries-” continued Pitou, encouraged by the farmer's approbation; “wood is being torn like paper, iron is twisted as if it were but hemp.”

“It is because the people are angry, Pitou.”

“But it appears to me.” Pitou ventured to say, “that the king is tolerably angry too.”

“How say you,-the king-”

“Undoubtedly; the Austrians, the Germans, the Kaiserliks, as you call them, are the king's soldiers. Well, if they charge the people, it is the king who orders them to charge, and for him to give such an order, he must be angry too.”

“You are both right and wrong, Pitou.”

“That does not appear possible to me, Monsieur Billot, and I dare not say to you that had you studied logic, you would not venture on such a paradox.”

“You are right and you are wrong, Pitou and I will presently make you comprehend how this can be.”

“I do not ask anything better, but I doubt it.”

“See you now, Pitou, there are two parties at court,-that of the king, who loves the people, and that of the queen, who loves the Austrians-”

“That is because the king is a Frenchman, and the queen an Austrian,” philosophically replied Pitou.

“Wait a moment. On the king's side are Monsieur Turgot and Monsieur Necker, on the queen's, Monsieur de Breteuil and the Polignacs. The king is not the master, since he has been obliged to send away Monsieur Turgot and Monsieur Necker. It is therefore the queen who is the mistress, the Breteuils and the Polignacs: therefore all goes badly.

“Do you see, Pitou, the evil proceeds from Madame Deficit, and Madame Deficit is in a rage, and it is in her name that the troops charge; the Austrians defend the Austrian woman, that is natural enough.”

“Your pardon, Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou, interrupting him, “but deficit is a Latin word, which means to say a want of something. What is it that is wanting-”

“Zounds! why, money, to be sure; and it is because money is wanting, it is because the queen's favorites have devoured this money which is wanting, that the queen is called Madame Deficit. It is not therefore the king who is angry, but the queen. The king is only vexed,-vexed that everything goes so badly.”

“I comprehend,” said Pitou; but the casket-”

“That is true, that is true, Pitou; these devilish politics always drag me on farther than I would go-yes, the casket, before everything. You are right, Pitou; when I shall have seen Doctor Gilbert, why, then, we can return to politics-it is a sacred duty.”

“There is nothing more sacred than sacred duties,” said Pitou.

“Well, then, let us go to the College Louis-le-Grand, where Sebastien Gilbert now is,” said Billot.

“Let us go,” said Pitou, sighing; for he would be compelled to leave a bed of moss-like grass, to which he had accustomed himself. Besides which, notwithstanding the over-excitement of the evening, sleep, the assiduous host of pure consciences and tired limbs, had descended with all its poppies to welcome the virtuous and heartily tired Pitou.

Billot was already on his feet, and Pitou was about to rise, when the half-hour struck.

“But,” said Billot, “at half-past eleven o'clock the college of Louis-le-Grand must, it would appear to me, be closed.”

“Oh, most assuredly,” said Pitou.

“And then, in the dark,” continued Billot, “we might fall into some ambuscade; it seems to me that I see the fires of a bivouac in the direction of the Palace of Justice. I may be arrested, or I may be killed; you are right, Pitou, I must not be arrested,-I must not be killed.”

It was the third time since morning that Pitou's ears had been saluted with those words so flattering to human pride,-

“You are right.”

Pitou thought he could not do better than to repeat the words of Billot.

“You are right,” he repeated, lying down again upon the grass; “you must not allow yourself to be killed, dear Monsieur Billot.”

And the conclusion of this phrase died away in Pitou's throat. Vox faucibus h #230;sit, he might have added, had he been awake; but he was fast asleep.

Billot did not perceive it.

“All idea,” said he.

“Ah!” snored Pitou.

“Listen to me; I have an idea. Notwithstanding all the precautions I am taking, I may be killed. I may be cut down by a sabre or killed from a distance by a ball,-killed suddenly upon the spot; if that should happen, you ought to know what you will have to say to Doctor Gilbert in my stead: but you must be mute, Pitou.”

Pitou heard not a word of this, and consequently made no reply.

“Should I be wounded mortally, and not be able to fulfil my mission, you will, in my place, seek out Doctor Gilbert, and you will say to him-do you understand me, Pitou-” added the farmer, stooping towards his companion, “and you will say to him-why, confound him, he is positively snoring, the sad fellow!”

All the excitement of Billot was at once damped on ascertaining that Pitou was asleep.

“Well, let us sleep, then,” said he; and he laid himself down by Pitou's side, without grumbling very seriously. For, however accustomed to fatigue, the ride of the previous day and the events of the evening did not fail to have a soporific effect on the good farmer.

And the day broke about three hours after they had gone to sleep, or rather, we should say, after their senses were benumbed.

When they again opened their eyes, Paris had lost nothing of that savage countenance which they had observed the night before. Only there were no soldiers to be seen; the people were everywhere.

The people armed themselves with pikes hastily manufactured, with muskets which the majority of them knew not how to handle, with magnificent weapons made centuries before, and of which the bearers admired the ornaments, some being inlaid with gold or ivory or mother-of-pearl, without comprehending the use or the mechanism of them.

Immediately after the retreat of the soldiers the populace had pillaged the palace called the Garde-Meuble.

And the people dragged towards the H #244;tel de Ville two small pieces of artillery.

The alarm-bell was rung from the towers of Notre Dame, at the H #244;tel de Ville, and in all the parish churches. There were seen issuing,-from where no one could tell,-but as from beneath the pavement, legions of men and women, squalid, emaciated, in filthy rags, half naked, who but the evening before cried, “Give us bread!” but now vociferated, “Give us arms!”

Nothing could be more terrifying than these bands of spectres, who, during the last three months had poured into the capital from the country, passing through the city gates silently, and installing themselves in Paris, where famine reigned, like Arabian ghouls in a cemetery.

On that day the whole of France, represented in Paris by the starving people from each province, cried to its king, “Give us liberty!” and to its God, “Give us food!”

Billot, who was first to awake, roused up Pitou, and they both set off to the College Louis-le-Grand; looking around them, shuddering and terrified at the miserable creatures they saw on every side.

By degrees, as they advanced towards that part of the town which we now call the Latin Quarter, as they ascended the Rue de la Harpe, as they approached their destination, the Rue Saint Jacques, they saw, as during the times of La Fronde, barricades being raised in every street. Women and children were carrying to the tops of the houses ponderous folio volumes, heavy pieces of furniture, and precious marble ornaments, destined to crush the foreign soldiers in case of their venturing into the narrow and tortuous streets of old Paris.

From time to time Billot observed one or two of the French Guards forming the centre of some meeting which they were organizing, and which, with marvellous rapidity, they were teaching the handling of a musket,-exercises which women and children were curiously observing, and almost with a desire of learning them themselves.

Billot and Pitou found the College of Louis-le-Grand in flagrant insurrection; the pupils had risen against their teachers, and had driven them from the building. At the moment when the farmer and his companion reached the grated gate, the scholars were attacking this gate, uttering loud threats, to which the affrighted principal replied with tears.

The farmer for a moment gazed on this intestine revolt, when suddenly, in a stentorian voice, he cried out:-

“Which of you here is called Sebastien Gilbert-”

“'Tis I,” replied a young lad, about fifteen years of age, of almost feminine beauty, and who, with the assistance of four or five of his comrades, was carrying a ladder wherewith to escalade the walls, seeing that they could not force open the gate.

“Come nearer to me, my child.”

“What is it that you want with me-” said young Sebastien to Billot.

“Do you wish to take him away-” cried the principal, terrified at the aspect of two armed men, one of whom-the one who had spoken to young Gilbert-was covered with blood.

The boy, on his side, looked with astonishment at these two men, and was endeavoring, but uselessly, to recognize his foster-brother, Pitou, who had grown so immeasurably tall since he last saw him, and who was altogether metamorphosed by the warlike accoutrements he had put on.

“Take him away!” exclaimed Billot, “take away Monsieur Gilbert's son, and lead him into all this turmoil,-expose him to receiving some unhappy blow! Oh! no, indeed!”

“Do you see, Sebastien,” said the principal, “do you see, you furious fellow, that even your friends will have nothing to do with you- For, in short, these gentlemen appear to be your friends. Come, gentlemen, come, my young pupils, come, my children,” cried the poor principal, “obey me-obey me, I command you-obey me, I entreat you.”

“Oro obtestorque,” said Pitou.

“Sir,” said young Gilbert, with a firmness that was extraordinary in a youth of his age, “retain my comrades, if such be your pleasure; but as to me, do you understand me, I will go out.”

He made a movement towards the gate; the professor caught him by the arm.

But he, shaking his fine auburn curls upon his pallid forehead,-

“Sir,” said he, “beware what you are doing. I am not in the same position as your other pupils. My father has been arrested, imprisoned; my father is in the power of the tyrants.”

“In the power of the tyrants!” exclaimed Billot; “speak, my child; what is it that you mean-”

“Yes, yes,” cried several of the scholars, “Sebastien is right; his father has been arrested; and since the people have opened the prisons, he wishes they should open his father's prison too.”

“Oh, oh!” said the farmer, shaking the bars of the gate with his herculean arms, “ they have arrested Doctor Gilbert, have they- By Heaven! my little Catherine, then, was right!”

“Yes, sir,” continued young Gilbert, “they have arrested my father, and that is why I wish to get out, why I wish to take a musket, why I wish to fight until I have liberated my dear father.”

And these words were accompanied and encouraged by a hundred furious voices, crying in every key:-

“Arms! arms! let us have arms!”

On hearing these cries, the crowd which had collected in the street, animated in its turn by an heroic ardor, rushed towards the gate to give liberty to the collegians.

The principal threw himself upon his knees between his scholars and the invaders, and held out his arms with a supplicating gesture.

“Oh, my friends! my friends!” cried he, “respect my children!”

“Do we not respect them-” said a French Guard. “I believe we do, indeed. They are fine boys, and they will do their exercise admirably.”

“My friends! my friends! These children are a sacred deposit which their parents have confided to me; I am responsible for them; their parents calculate upon me; for them I would sacrifice my life; but, in the name of Heaven! do not take away these children!”

Hootings, proceeding from the street, that is to say, from the hindmost ranks of the crowd, replied to these piteous supplications.

Billot rushed forward, opposing the French Guards, the crowd, the scholars themselves:-

“He is right, it is a sacred trust; let men fight, let men get themselves killed, but let children live; they are seed for the future.”

A disapproving murmur followed these words.

“Who is it that murmurs-” cried Billot; “assuredly, it cannot be a father. I who am now speaking to you, had two men killed in my arms; their blood is upon my shirt. See this!”

And he showed his shirt and waistcoat all begrimed with blood, and with a dignified movement which electrified the crowd.

“Yesterday,” continued Billot, “I fought at the Palais Royal; and at the Tuileries, and this lad also fought there, but this lad has neither father nor mother; moreover, he is almost a man.”

And he pointed to Pitou, who looked proudly around him.

“To-day,” continued Billot, “I shall fight again; but let no one say to me, 'The Parisians were not strong enough to contend against the foreign soldiers, and they called children to their aid.'“

“Yes, yes,” resounded on every side, proceeding from women in the crowd, and several of the soldiers; “he is right, children: go into the college; go into the college.”

“Oh, thanks, thanks, sir!” murmured the principal of the college, endeavoring to catch hold of Billot's hand through the bars of the gate.

“And, above all, take special care of Sebastien; keep him safe,” said the latter.

“Keep me! I say, on the contrary, that I will not be kept here,” cried the boy, livid with anger, and struggling with the college servants, who were dragging him away.

“Let me in,” said Billot. “I will engage to quiet him.”

The crowd made way for him to pass; the farmer dragged Pitou after him, and entered the courtyard of the college.

Already three or four of the French Guards, and about ten men, placed themselves as sentinels at the gate, and prevented the egress of the young insurgents.

Billot went straight up to young Sebastien, and taking between his huge and horny palms the small white hands of the child-

“Sebastien,” he said, “do you not recognize me-”

“No.”

“I am old Billot, your father's farmer.”

“I know you now, sir.”

“And this lad,” rejoined Billot, pointing to his companion, “do you know him-”

“Ange Pitou,” said the boy.

“Yes, Sebastien; it is I-it is I.”

And Pitou, weeping with joy, threw his arms round the neck of his foster-brother and former schoolfellow.

“Well,” said the boy, whose brow still remained scowling, “what is now to be done-”

“What-” cried Billot. “Why, if they have taken your father from you, I will restore him to you. Do you understand-”

“You-”

“Yes, I-I, and all those who are out yonder with me. What the devil! Yesterday, we had to deal with the Austrians, and we saw their cartridge-boxes.”

“In proof of which, I have one of them,” said Pitou.

“Shall we not release his father-” cried Billot, addressing the crowd.

“Yes! yes!” roared the crowd. “We will release him.”

Sebastien shook his head.

“My father is in the Bastille,” said he in a despairing tone.

“And what then-” cried Billot.

“The Bastille cannot be taken,” replied the child.

“Then what was it you wished to do, if such is your conviction-”

“I wished to go to the open space before the castle. There will be fighting there, and my father might have seen me through the bars of his window.”

“Impossible!”

“Impossible- And why should I not do so- One day, when I was walking out with all the boys here, I saw the head of a prisoner. If I could have seen my father as I saw that prisoner, I should have recognized him, and I would have called out to him, 'Do not be unhappy, Father, I love you!'“

“And if the soldiers of the Bastille should have killed you-”

“Well, then, they would have killed me under the eyes of my father.”

“The death of all the devils!” exclaimed Billot. “You are a wicked lad to think of getting yourself killed in your father's sight, and make him die of grief, in a cage,-he who has only you in the world, he who loves you so tenderly Decidedly, you have a bad heart, Gilbert.”

And the farmer pushed the boy from him.

“Yes, yes; a wicked heart!” howled Pitou, bursting into tears.

Sebastien did not reply.

And, while he was meditating in gloomy silence, Billot was admiring his beautifully pale face, his flashing eyes, his ironical expressive mouth, his well-shaped nose, and his strongly developed chin, all of which gave testimony at once of his nobility of soul and nobility of race.

“You say that your father is in the Bastille,” said the farmer, at length breaking the silence.

“Yes.”

“And for what-”

“Because my father is the friend of Lafayette and Washington; because my father has fought with his sword for the independence of America, and with his pen for the liberty of France; because my father is well known in both worlds as the detester of tyranny; because he has called down curses on the Bastille, in which so many have suffered; therefore have they sent him there!”

“And when was this-”

“Six days ago.”

“And where did they arrest him-”

“At Havre, where he had just landed.”

“How do you know all this-”

“I have received a letter from him.”

“Dated from Havre-”

“Yes.”

“And it was at Havre itself that he was arrested-”

“It was at Lillebonne.”

“Come now, child, do not feel angry with me, but give me all the particulars that you know. I swear to you that I will either leave my bones on the Place de la Bastille, or you shall see your father again.”

Sebastien looked at the farmer, and seeing that he spoke from his heart, his angry feelings subsided.

“Well, then,” said he, “at Lillebonne he had time to write in a book, with a pencil, these words:-

SEBASTIEN,-I have been arrested, and they are taking me to the Bastille. Be patient, hope, and study diligently.

LILLEBONNE, July 7, 1789.

P.S.-I am arrested in the cause of Liberty. I have a son in the College Louis-le-Grand, at Paris. The person who shall find this book is entreated, in the name of humanity, to get it conveyed to my son. His name is Sebastien Gilbert.

“And this book-” inquired Billot, palpitating with emotion.

“He put a piece of gold into this book, tied a cord round it, and threw it out of the window.”

“And-”

“The curate of the place found it, and chose from among his parishioners a robust young man, to whom he said:-

“'Leave twelve francs with your family, who are without bread, and with the other twelve go to Paris; carry this book to a poor boy whose father has just been arrested because he has too great a love for the people.'

“The young man arrived here at noon yesterday, and delivered to me my father's book. And this is the way I learned how my father had been arrested.”

“Come, come,” cried Billot, “this reconciles me somewhat to the priests. Unfortunately they are not all like this one. And this worthy young man,-what has become of him-”

“He set off to return home last night. He hoped to carry back with him to his family five francs out of the twelve he had brought with him.”

“Admirable! admirable!” exclaimed Pitou, weeping for joy. “Oh, the people have good feelings! Go on, Gilbert.”

“Why, now you know all.”

“Yes.”

“You promised me, if I would tell you all, that you would bring back my father to me. I have told you all; now remember your promise.”

“I told you that I would save him, or I should be killed in the attempt. That is true. And now, show me the book,” said Billot.

“Here it is,” said the boy, taking from his pocket a volume of the “Contrat Social.”

“And where is your father's writing-”

“Here,” replied the boy, pointing to what the doctor had written.

The farmer kissed the written characters.

“And now,” said he, “tranquillize yourself. I am going to seek your father in the Bastille.”

“Unhappy man!” cried the principal of the college, seizing Billot's hands; “how can you obtain access to a prisoner of State-”

“Zounds! by taking the Bastille!”

Some of the French Guards began to laugh. In a few moments the laugh had become general.

“Why,” said Billot, casting around him a glance flashing with anger, ” what then is in the Bastille, if you please-”

“Stone,” said a soldier.

“Iron,” said another.

“And fire,” said a third. “Take care, my worthy man: you may burn your fingers.”

“Yes, yes; you may burn yourself,” reiterated the crowd, with horror.

“Ah! Parisians,” shouted the farmer, “you have pickaxes, and you are afraid of stone! Ah! you have lead, and you fear iron! You have gunpowder, and you are afraid of fire! Parisians!-cowards! Parisians!-poltroons! Parisians!-machines for slavery! A thousand demons!-where is the man of heart who will go with me and Pitou to take the king's Bastille- My name is Billot, a farmer of the Isle de France. Forward!”

Billot had raised himself to the very climax of audacity.

The crowd, rendered enthusiastic by his address, and trembling with excitement, pressed around him, crying, “To the Bastille!”

Sebastien endeavored to cling to Billot, but the latter gently pushed him back.

“Child,” said he, “what is the last word your father wrote to you-”

“Work,” replied Sebastien.

“Well, then, work here. We are going to work down yonder; only our work is called destroying and killing.”

The young man did not utter a word in reply. He hid his face with both hands, without even pressing the hand of Pitou, who embraced him; and he fell into such violent convulsions that he was immediately carried into the infirmary attached to the college.

“To the Bastille!” cried Billot.

“To the Bastille!” cried Pitou.

“To the Bastille!” shouted the crowd.

And they immediately commenced their march towards the Bastille.

CHAPTER XIII. THE KING IS SO GOOD! THE QUEEN IS SO GOOD!

AND now we request our readers to allow us to give them an insight into the principal political events that have occurred since the period at which, in a previous publication, we abandoned the court of France.

Those who know the history of that period, or those whom dry, plain history may alarm, may skip this chapter, and pass on to the next one, which connects exactly with CHAPTER XII.; the one we are now writing being intended for those very precise and exacting spirits who are determined to be informed on every point.

During the last year or two something unheard of, unknown, something emanating from the past and looking towards the future, was threatening and growling in the air.

It was the Revolution.

Voltaire had raised himself for a moment, while in his last agony, and, leaning upon his elbow in his death-bed, he had seen shining, even amidst the darkness in which he was about to sleep forever, the brilliant lightning of this dawn.

When Anne of Austria assumed the regency of France, says Cardinal de Retz, there was but one saying in every mouth,-“The queen is so good!”

One day Madame de Pompadour's physician, Quesnoy, who had an apartment in her house, saw Louis XV. coming in. A feeling altogether unconnected with respect agitated him so much that he trembled and turned pale.

“What is the matter with you-” said Madame de Hausset to him.

“The matter is,” replied Quesnoy, “that every time I see the king I say to myself, 'There is a man who, if he should feel so inclined, can have my head cut off.'“

“Oh, there's no danger of that,” rejoined Madame de Hausset. “The king is so good!”

It is with these two phrases-“The king is so good!

The queen is so good!”-that the French Revolution was effected.

When Louis XV. died, France breathed again. The country was delivered at the same moment from the king, the Pompadours, the Dubarrys, and the Parc aux Cerfs.

The pleasures of Louis XV. had cost the nation very dear. In them alone were expended three millions of livres a year.

Fortunately, after him came a king who was young, moral, philanthropic, almost philosophical.

A king who, like the #201;mile of Jean Jacques Rousseau, had studied a trade, or rather, we should say, three trades.

He was a locksmith, a watchmaker, and a mechanician.

Being alarmed at the abyss over which he was suspended, the king began by refusing all favors that were asked of him. The courtiers trembled. Fortunately, there was one circumstance which reassured them,-it was not the king who refused, but Turgot,-it was, that the queen was not yet in reality a queen, and consequently could not have that influence to-day which she might acquire to-morrow.

At last, towards the year 1777, she acquired that influence which had been so long desired. The queen became a mother. The king, who was already so good a king, so good a husband, could now also prove himself a good father.

How could anything be now refused to her who had given an heir to the crown-

And, besides, that was not all; the king was also a good brother. The anecdote is well known of Beaumarchais being sacrificed to the Count de Provence; and yet the king did not like the Count de Provence, who was a pedant.

But, to make up for this, he was very fond of his younger brother, the Count d'Artois, the type of French wit, elegance, and nobleness.

He loved him so much that if he sometimes refused the queen any favor she might have asked of him, the Count d'Artois had only to add his solicitations to those of the queen, and the king had no longer the firmness to refuse.

It was, in fact, the reign of amiable men. Monsieur de Calonne, one of the most amiable men in the world, was comptroller-general. It was Calonne who said to the queen,-

“Madame, if it is possible, it is done; and if it is impossible, it shall be done.”

From the very day on which this charming reply was circulated in all the drawing-rooms of Paris and Versailles, the Red Book, which every one had thought closed forever, was reopened.

The queen buys Saint Cloud.

The king buys Rambouillet.

It is no longer the king who has lady favorites, it is the queen. Mesdames Diana and Jules de Polignac cost as much to France as La Pompadour and La Dubarry.

The queen is so good!

A reduction is proposed in the salaries of the high officers of the court. Some of them make up their minds to it. But one of the most habitual frequenters of the palace obstinately refuses to submit to this reduction; it is Monsieur de Coigny. He meets the king in one of the corridors, a terrible scene occurs, the king runs away, and in the evening says laughingly,-

“Upon my word, I believe if I had not yielded, Coigny would have beaten me.”

The king is so good!

And then the fate of a kingdom sometimes depends upon a very trivial circumstance; the spur of a page, for instance.

Louis XV. dies; who is to succeed Monsieur d'Aiguillon-

The king, Louis XVI., is for Machaut. Machaut is one of the ministers who had sustained the already tottering throne. Mesdames, that is to say, the king's aunts, are for Monsieur de Maurepas, who is so amusing, and who writes such pretty songs. He wrote three volumes of them at Pontchartrain, which he called his memoirs.

All this is a steeple-chase affair. The question was as to who should arrive first,-the king and queen at Arnouville, or mesdames at Pontchartrain.

The king has the power in his own hands; the chances are therefore in his favor.

He hastens to write:-

Set out, the very moment you receive this, for Paris; I am waiting for you.

He slips his despatch into an envelope, and on the envelope he writes,-

“Monsieur le Comte de Machaut, at Arnouville.”

A page of the king's stables is sent for; the royal missive is put into his hands, and he is ordered to mount a horse, and to go to Arnouville full speed.

And now that the page is despatched, the king can receive mesdames.

Mesdames,-the same whom the king their father, as has been seen in “Balsamo,” called Loque, Chiffe, and Graille, three names eminently aristocratic,-mesdames are waiting at a door opposite to that by which the page goes out, until he shall have left the room.

The page once gone out, mesdames may go in.

They go in, entreat the king in favor of Monsieur Maurepas; all this is a mere question of time; the king does not like to refuse mesdames anything,-the king is so good!

He will accede to their request when the page shall have got so far on his journey that no one can come up with him.

He contested the point with mesdames, his eyes fixed on the time-piece. Half an hour will be sufficient for him. The time-piece will not deceive him. It is the time-piece which he himself regulates.

Twenty minutes have elapsed, and he yields.

“Let the page be overtaken,” said he, “ and all shall be as you please.”

Mesdames rush out of the room; they will despatch a man on horseback; he shall kill a horse, two horses, ten horses, but the page must be overtaken.

All these determinations are unnecessary; not a single horse will be killed.

In going down the staircase one of the page's spurs struck against one of the stone steps and broke short off. How could any one go at full speed with only one spur-

Besides, the Chevalier d'Abzac is the chief of the great stable, and he would not allow a courier to mount his horse-he whose duty it was to inspect the couriers-if the courier was about to set out in a manner that would not do honor to the royal stables.

The page therefore could not set out without having both his spurs.

The result of all this was, that instead of overtaking the page on the road to Arnouville-galloping at full speed-he was overtaken before he had left the courtyard of the palace.

He was already in the saddle and was about to depart in the most irreproachable good order.

The despatch is taken from him, the text of the missive is left unchanged, for it was as good for the one as the other. Only instead of writing the address, “To Monsieur de Machaut, at Arnouville,” mesdames wrote, “To Monsieur le Comte de Maurepas, at Pontchartrain.”

The honor of the royal stable is saved, but the monarchy is lost.

With Maurepas and Calonne everything goes on marvellously: the one sings, the other pays; but besides the courtiers, there are the receivers-general, who also have their functions to perform.

Louis XIV. began his reign by ordering two receivers-general to be hanged, with the advice of Colbert; after which he took Lavalli #232;re for his mistress and built Versailles. Lavalli #232;re cost him nothing.

But Versailles, in which he wished to lodge her, cost him a round sum.

Then, in 1685, under the pretext that they were Protestants, he drove a million of industrious men from France.

And thus, in 1707, still under the great king, Boisguilbert said, speaking of 1698:-

“Things still went on well in those days, there was yet some oil in the lamp. But now all has come to an end for want of aliment.”

What could be said eighty years afterwards, when the Dubarrys, the Polignacs, had taken their fill- After having made the people sweat water, they would make them sweat blood. That was all.

And all this in so delightful and polite a manner.

In former days the contractors of the public revenue were harsh, brutal, and cold, as the prison gates into which they cast their victims.

But in these days they are philanthropists: with one hand they despoil the people, it is true; but with the other they build hospitals for them.

One of my friends, a great financier, has assured me that out of one hundred and twenty millions, which the town dues bring in, the contractors managed to keep seventy millions for themselves.

It happened that at a meeting where the state of expenses was demanded, a counsellor, playing upon the word, said:-

“It is not any particular state that we require; what we want are the States-General.”

The spark fell upon gunpowder, the powder ignited and caused a general conflagration.

Every one repeated the saying of the counsellor, and the States-General were loudly called for.

The court fixed the opening of the States-General for the 1st of March, 1789.

On the 24th of August, 1788, Monsieur de Brienne withdrew from public affairs. He was another who had managed the financial affairs with tolerable recklessness.

But on withdrawing, he at least gave good counsel; he advised that Necker should be recalled.

Necker resumed the administration of affairs, and all again breathed confidently.

Notwithstanding this, the great question of the three orders was discussed throughout France.

Siey #232;s published his famous pamphlets upon the Tiers #201;tat

Dauphiny, the States of which province still met in spite of all the court could do, decided that the representation of the Tiers #201;tat should be on an equality with that of the nobility and clergy.

The assembly of the notables was reconstructed.

This assembly lasted thirty-two days, that is to say, from the 6th of November to the 8th of December, 1788.

On this occasion the elements performed their part. When the whip of kings does not suffice, the whip of Providence whistles in the air and compels the people to move onward.

Winter came, accompanied by famine. Hunger and cold opened the gates of 1789.

Paris was filled with troops, its streets with patrols.

Two or three times the muskets of the soldiers were loaded in the presence of the people, who were dying of hunger.

And then the muskets being loaded, and the moment having arrived for using them, they did not use them at all.

One morning, the 28th of April, five days before the opening of the States-General, a name was circulated among the crowd.

This name was accompanied by maledictions, and the more vituperative because this name was that of a workman who had become rich.

R #233;veillon, as was then asserted,-R #233;veillon, the director of the celebrated paper manufactory of the Faubourg Saint Antoine,-R #233;veillon had said that the wages of workmen ought to be reduced to fifteen sous a day.

And this was true.

It was also said that the court was about to decorate him with the black ribbon,-that is to say, with the Order of Saint Michael.

But this was an absurdity.

There is always some absurd rumor in popular commotions; and it is remarkable that it is also by this rumor that they increase their numbers, that they recruit, and at last become a revolution.

The crowd makes an effigy, baptizes it with the name of R #233;veillon, decorates it with the black ribbon, sets fire to it before R #233;veillon's own door, and then proceeds to the square before the H #244;tel de Ville, where it completes the burning of the effigy before the eyes of the municipal authorities, who see it burning.

Impunity emboldens the crowd, who give notice that, after having done justice on the effigy, they will the following day do justice on the real person of the offender.

This was a challenge in due form addressed to the public authorities.

The authorities sent thirty of the French Guards, and even then it was not the authorities who sent them, but their colonel, Monsieur de Biron.

These thirty French Guards were merely witnesses of this great duel, which they could not prevent. They looked on while the mob was pillaging the manufactory, throwing the furniture out of the windows, breaking everything, burning everything. Amid all this hubbub, five hundred louis in gold were stolen.

They drank the wine in the cellars, and when there was no more wine, they drank the dyes of the manufactory, which they took for wine.

The whole of the day of the 27th was employed in effecting this villanous spoliation.

A reinforcement was sent to the thirty men. It consisted of several companies of the French Guards, who in the first place fired blank cartridges, then balls. Towards evening there came to the support of the Guards part of the Swiss regiment of Monsieur de Besenval.

The Swiss never make a jest of matters connected with revolution.

The Swiss forgot to take the balls out of their cartridges, and as the Swiss are naturally sportsmen, and good marksmen too, about twenty of the pillagers remained upon the pavement.

Some of them had about them a portion of the five hundred louis which we have mentioned, and which from the secretary of R #233;veillon had passed into the pockets of the pillagers, and from the pockets of the pillagers into those of the Swiss Guards.

Besenval had done all this; he had done it “out of his own head,” as the vulgar saying has it.

The king did not thank him for what he had done, nor did he blame him for it.

Now, when the king does not thank, the king blames.

The parliament opened an inquiry.

The king closed it.

The king was so good!

Who it was that had stirred on the people to do this no one could tell.

Has it not been often seen, during the great heats of summer, that conflagrations have taken place without any apparent cause.

The Duke of Orleans was accused of having excited this disturbance.

The accusation was absurd, and it fell to the ground.

On the 29th Paris was perfectly tranquil, or at least appeared to be so.

The 4th of May arrived. The king and the queen went in procession with the whole Court to the Cathedral of Notre Dame to hear “Veni, Creator.”

There were great shouts of “Long live the king!” and above all of, “Long live the queen!”

The queen was so good!

This was the last day of peace. The next day the shouts of “Long live the queen!” were not so frequent, but the mob cried more frequently, “Long live the Duke of Orleans!”

These cries wounded her feelings much, poor woman!-she who detested the duke to such a degree that she said he was a coward.

As if there had ever been a coward in the Orleans family,-from Monsieur, who gained the battle of Cassel, down to the Duke of Chartres, who contributed to the gaining of those at Jemmapes and Valmy!

It went so far that the poor woman was near fainting, but was supported, her head drooping on her shoulder. Madame Campan relates this incident in her memoirs.

But this reclining head raised itself up haughty and disdainful. Those who saw the expression of those features were at once cured, and forever, of using the expression:-

The queen is so good!

There exist three portraits of the queen: one painted in 1776, another in 1784, and a third in 1788.

I have seen all three of them. See them in your turn! If ever these three portraits are placed in the same gallery, the history of Marie Antoinette can be read in those three portraits.

The meeting of the three orders, which was to have produced a general pacification, proved a declaration of war.

“Three orders,” said Siey #232;s; “no, three nations.”

On the 3d of May, the eve of the Mass of the Holy Ghost, the king received the deputies at Versailles.

Some persons counselled him to substitute cordiality for etiquette.

The king would not listen to anything.

He in the first place received the clergy.

After them the nobility.

At last the Tiers #201;tat.

The Third had been waiting a long time.

The Third murmured.

In the assemblies of former times the Tiers #201;tat pronounced their discourses on their knees.

There was no possibility of inducing the president of the Tiers #201;tat to go down on his knees.

It was decided that the Tiers #201;tat should not pronounce an oration.

In the sittings of the 5th the king put on his hat.

The nobility put on their hats.

The Tiers #201;tat were about to put on their hats also, but the king then took off his. He preferred holding it in his hand to seeing the Tiers #201;tat covered in his presence.

On Wednesday, the 10th of June, Siey #232;s entered the assembly. He found it almost entirely composed of the Tiers #201;tat.

The clergy and the nobility were assembled elsewhere.

“Let us cut the cable,” said Siey #232;s. “It is now time.”

And Siey #232;s proposed that the clergy and the nobility should be summoned to attend within an hour from that time at the latest.

In case of non-appearance, default should be pronounced against the absent.

A German and Swiss army surrounded Versailles. A battery of artillery was pointed against the assembly.

Siey #232;s saw nothing of all this; he saw the people, who were starving; but the Third, Siey #232;s was told, could not, of itself, form the States-General.

“So much the better,” replied Siey #232;s, “it will form the National Assembly.”

The absent did not present themselves; the proposal of Siey #232;s was adopted; the Tiers #201;tat calls itself the National Assembly by a majority of four hundred votes.

On the 19th of June the king orders the building in which the National Assembly held their meetings to be closed.

But the king, in order to accomplish such a coup d' #233;tat, needed some pretext.

The hall was closed for the purpose of making preparations for a royal sitting, which was to take place on the following Monday.

On the 20th of June, at seven in the morning, the President of the National Assembly is informed that there will be no meeting on that day.

At eight o'clock he presents himself at the door of the hall, with a great number of the deputies.

The doors are closed, and sentinels are guarding the doors.

The rain is falling.

They wish to break open the doors.

The sentinels had received their orders, and they present their bayonets.

One of the deputies proposes that they should meet at the Place d'Armes.

Another that it should be at Marly.

Guillotin proposes the Jeu de Paume.

Guillotin!

What a strange thing that it should be Guillotin, whose name, by adding an e to it, should become so celebrated four years afterwards,-how strange that it should be Guillotin who proposed the Jeu de Paume,-the Jeu de Paume, unfurnished, dilapidated, open to the four winds of heaven!

To this great demonstration the king replies by the royal word, “Veto!”

Monsieur de Br #233;z #233; is sent to the rebels to order them to disperse.

“We are here by the will of the people,” said Mirabeau, “and we will not leave this place but with bayonets pointed at our breasts.”

And not, as it has been asserted, that he said” by the force of bayonets. “Why is it that there is always behind great men some paltry rhetorician who spoils his sayings under pretext of arranging them-

Why was there such a rhetorician behind Mirabeau at the Jeu de Paume-

And behind Cambronne at Waterloo-

The reply was at once reported to the king.

He walked about for some time with the air of a man who was suffering from ennui.

“They will not go away” said he.

“No, Sire.”

“Well, then, leave them where they are.”

As is here shown, royalty was already bending beneath the hand of the people, and bending very low.

From the 21st of June to the 12th of July all appeared tolerably calm; but it was that heavy and stifling calm which precedes the tempest.

It was like the uneasy dream of an uneasy slumber.

On the 11th the king formed a resolution, urged to it by the queen, the Count d'Artois, the Polignacs,-in fact, the whole of the Camarilla of Versailles; in short, he dismissed Necker.

On the 12th this intelligence reached Paris.

The effect which it produced has already been seen.

On the evening of the 13th, Billot arrived just in time to see the barriers burning.

On the 13th, in the evening, Paris was defending itself.

On the 14th, in the morning, Paris was ready to attack.

On the morning of the 14th Billot cried, “To the Bastille!” and three thousand men, imitating Billot, reiterated the same cry, which was about to become that of the whole population of Paris.

The reason was, that there had existed during five centuries a monument weighing heavily upon the breast of France, like the infernal rock upon the shoulders of Sisyphus.

Only that, less confiding than the Titan in his strength, France had never attempted to throw it off.

This monument, the seal of feudality, imprinted on the forehead of Paris, was the Bastille.

The king was too good, as Madame de Hausset had said, to have a head cut off.

But the king sent people to the Bastille.

When once a man became acquainted with the Bastille, by order of the king, that man was forgotten, sequestrated, interred, annihilated.

He remained there until the king remembered him; and kings have so many new things occurring around them every day, of which they are obliged to think, that they often forget to think of old matters.

Moreover, in France there was not only one Bastille, there were twenty other Bastilles, which were called Fort l'Ev #234;que, Saint-Lazare, the Ch #226;telet, the Conciergerie, Vincennes, the Castle of La Roche, the Castle of If, the Isles of St. Marguerite, Pignerolles, etc.

Only the fortress at the gate St. Antoine was called the Bastille, as Rome was called the city.

It was the Bastille, par excellence. It was of more importance than all the others.

During nearly a whole century the governorship of the Bastille had continued in one and the same family.

The grandfather of this elect race was Monsieur de Ch #226;teauneuf. His son, Lavrilli #232;re, succeeded him, who, in turn, was succeeded by his grandson, Saint Florentin. The dynasty became extinct in 1777.

During this triple reign, the greater part of which passed during the reign of Louis XV., it would be impossible to state the number of lettres de cachet. Saint Florentin alone received more than fifty thousand.

The lettres de cachet were a great source of revenue.

They were sold to fathers who wished to get rid of their sons.

They were sold to women who wished to get rid of their husbands.

The prettier the wives were, the less did the lettre de cachet cost them.

It then became, between them and the minister, an exchange of polite attentions, and that was all.

Since the end of the reign of Louis XIV., all the state

prisons, and particularly the Bastille, were in the hands of the Jesuits.

Among the prisoners, it will be recollected, the following were of the greatest note:-

The Iron Mask, Lauzun, Latude. The Jesuits were father confessors; for greater security they confessed the prisoners.

For greater security still, the prisoners were buried under supposititious names.

The Iron Mask, it will be remembered, was buried under the name of Marchialy. He had remained forty-five years in prison.

Lauzun remained there fourteen years. Latude, thirty years.

But, at all events, the Iron Mask and Lauzun had committed heinous crimes.

The Iron Mask, whether brother or not of Louis XIV., it is asserted, resembled King Louis XIV. so strongly that it was almost impossible to distinguish the one from the other.

It is exceedingly imprudent to dare to resemble a king.

Lauzun had been very near marrying, or did actually marry, the Grande Mademoiselle.

It is exceedingly imprudent to dare to marry the niece of King Louis XIII., the granddaughter of Henry IV.

But Latude, poor devil, what had he done-

He had dared to fall in love with Mademoiselle Poisson, Dame de Pompadour, the king's mistress.

He had written a note to her.

This note, which a respectable woman would have sent back to the man who wrote it, was handed by Madame de Pompadour to Monsieur de Sartines, the lieutenant-general of police.

And Latude, arrested, fugitive, taken and retaken, remained thirty years locked up in the Bastille, the Castle of Vincennes, and Bic #234;tre.

It was not, therefore, without reason that the Bastille was abhorred.

The people hated it as if it were a living thing. They had formed of it a gigantic chimera, one of those monsters like those of G #233;vauden, who pitilessly devour the human species.

The grief of poor Sebastien Gilbert will therefore be fully comprehended, when he was informed that his father was in the Bastille.

Billot's conviction will also be understood, that the doctor would never be released from his prison unless he was released by force.

The frenetic impulse of the people will be also understood, when Billot vociferated, “To the Bastille!”

Only that it was a senseless idea, as the soldiers had remarked, that the Bastille could be taken.

The Bastille had provisions, a garrison, artillery.

The Bastille had walls, which were fifteen feet thick at their summit and forty at their base.

The Bastille had a governor, whose name was De Launay, who had stored thirty thousand pounds of gunpowder in his cellars, and who had sworn, in case of being surprised by a coup de main, to blow up the Bastille, and with it half the Faubourg St. Antoine.

CHAPTER XIV. THE THREE POWERS OF FRANCE

BILLOT still walked on, but it was no longer he who shouted. The crowd, delighted with his martial air, recognized in this man one of their own class. Commenting on his words and action, they followed him, still increasing like the waves of the incoming tide.

Behind Billot, when he issued from the narrow streets and came upon the Quay St. Michel, marched more than three thousand men, armed with cutlasses or pikes or guns.

They all cried, “To the Bastille! to the Bastille!”

Billot counselled with his own thoughts. The reflections which we made at the close of the last chapter presented themselves to his mind, and by degrees all the fumes of his feverish excitement evaporated.

Then he saw clearly into his own mind.

The enterprise was sublime, but insensate. This was easily to be understood from the affrighted and ironical countenances on which were reflected the impressions produced by the cry of “To the Bastille!” But nevertheless he was only the more strengthened in his resolution.

He could not, however, but comprehend that he was responsible to mothers, wives, and children for the lives of the men who were following him, and he felt bound to use every possible precaution.

Billot, therefore, began by leading his little army on to the square in front of the H #244;tel de Ville.

There he appointed his lieutenant and other officers-watch-dogs-to restrain the flock.

“Let us see,” thought Billot, “there is a power in France,-there are even two,-there are even three. Let us consult.”

He entered the H #244;tel de Ville, asking who was the chief of the municipality.

He was told it was the Provost of the Merchants, the mayor of Paris, Monsieur de Flesselles.

“Ah, ah!” cried he, with a dissatisfied air. “Monsieur de Flesselles, a noble, that is to say, an enemy of the people.”

“Why no,” they replied to him; “he is a man of talent.”

Billot ascended the staircase of the H #244;tel de Ville.

In the ante-chamber he met an usher.

“I wish to speak with Monsieur Flesselles,” said he, perceiving that the usher was approaching him to ask him what he wanted.

“Impossible!” replied the usher; “he is now occupied in drawing up the lists of a militia force which the city is about to organize.”

“That falls out marvellously well,” observed Billot, “for I also am organizing a militia, and as I have already three thousand men enlisted, I am as good as Monsieur de Flesselles, who has not a single soldier yet afoot. Enable me, therefore, to speak with Monsieur de Flesselles, and that instantly. Oh, look out of the window, if you will!”

The usher had, in fact, cast a rapid glance upon the quays, and had perceived Billot's men. He therefore hastened to inform the mayor, to whom he showed the three thousand men in question, as a postscript to his message.

This inspired the provost with a sort of respect for the person who wished to see him: he left the council-room and went into the ante-chamber, looking about for his visitor.

He perceived Billot, guessed that he was the person, and smiled.

“It was you who were asking for me, was it not-” said he.

“You are Monsieur de Flesselles, Provost of the Merchants, I believe-” replied Billot.

“Yes, sir. In what way, may I ask, can I be of service to you- Only speak quickly, for my mind is much occupied.”

“Good Monsieur Provost,” continued Billot, “how many powers are there in France-”

“Why, that is as people may choose to understand it, my dear sir,” replied Flesselles.

“Say it, then, as you yourself understand it.”

“Were you to consult Monsieur Bailly, he would tell you there is but one, the National Assembly; if you consult Monsieur de Dreux Br #233;z #233;, he would also tell you there is but one-the king.”

“And you, Monsieur Provost,-of these two opinions, which is yours-”

“My own opinion, and above all at the present moment, is, that there is but one.”

“The assembly, or the king-” demanded Billot

“Neither the one nor the other; it is the nation,” replied Flesselles, playing with the frill of his shirt.

“Ah! ah! the nation!” cried the farmer.

“Yes; that is to say, those gentlemen who are waiting down yonder on the quay with knives and roasting-spits. The nation,-by that I mean everybody.”

“You may perhaps be right, Monsieur de Flesselles,” replied Billot, “and they were not wrong in telling me that you are a man of talent.”

De Flesselles bowed.

“To which of these three powers do you think of appealing, sir-” asked Flesselles.

“Upon my faith,” said Billot, “I believe that when one has anything very important to ask, a man had better address himself at once to God and not to his saints.”

“Which means to say that you are about to address yourself to the king.”

“I am inclined to do so.”

“Would it be indiscreet to inquire what it is you think of asking of the king-”

“The liberation of Doctor Gilbert, who is in the Bastille.”

“Doctor Gilbert-” solemnly asked Monsieur de Flesselles; “he is a writer of pamphlets, is he not-”

“Say a philosopher, sir.”

“That is one and the same thing, my dear Monsieur Billot. I think you stand but a poor chance of obtaining what you desire from the king.”

“And why so-”

“In the first place, because, if the king sent Doctor Gilbert to the Bastille he must have had reasons for so doing.”

“'Tis well,” replied Billot; “he shall give me his reasons on the subject, and I will give him mine.”

“My dear Monsieur Billot, the king is just now very busy, and he would not even receive you.”

“Oh, if he does not receive me, I shall find some means of getting in without his permission!”

“Yes; and when you have once got in, you will find there Monsieur de Dreux Br #233;z #233;, who will have you shoved out of doors.”

“Who will have me shoved out of doors-”

“Yes; he wished to do that to the National Assembly altogether. It is true that he did not succeed; but that is a stronger reason for his being in a furious rage, and taking his revenge on you.”

“Very well; then I will apply to the Assembly.”

“The road to Versailles is intercepted.”

“I will go there with my three thousand men.”

“Take care, my dear sir. You would find on your road some four or five thousand Swiss soldiers and two or three thousand Austrians, who would make only a mouthful of you and your three thousand men. In the twinkling of an eye you would be swallowed.”

“Ah! the devil! What ought I to do, then-”

“Do what you please; but do me the service to take away your three thousand men who are beating the pavement yonder with their pikes, and who are smoking. There are seven or eight thousand pounds of powder in our cellars here. A single spark might blow us all up.”

“In that case, I think, I will neither address myself to the King nor to the National Assembly. I will address myself to the nation, and we will take the Bastille.”

“And with what-”

“With the eight thousand pounds of powder that you are going to give me, Monsieur Provost.”

“Ah, really!” said Flesselles, in a jeering tone.

“It is precisely as I say, sir. The keys of the cellars, if you please.”

“Hey! you are jesting, sure!” cried the provost.

“No, sir, I am not jesting,” said Billot.

And seizing Flesselles by the collar of his coat with both hands,-“The keys,” cried he, “or I call up my men.”

Flesselles turned as pale as death. His lips and his teeth were closed convulsively; but when he spoke, his voice was in no way agitated, and he did not even change the ironical tone he had assumed.

“In fact, sir,” said he, “you are doing me a great service by relieving me from the charge of this powder. I will therefore order the keys to be delivered to you, as you desire. Only please not to forget that I am your first magistrate, and that if you have the misfortune to conduct yourself towards me before others in the way you have done when alone with me, an hour afterwards you would be hanged by the town guards. You insist on having this powder-”

“I insist,” replied Billot.

“And you will distribute it yourself-”

“Myself.”

“And when-”

“This very moment.”

“Your pardon. Let us understand each other. I have business which will detain me here about a quarter of an hour, and should rather like, if it is the same to you, that the distribution should not be commenced until I have left the place. It has been predicted to me that I shall die a violent death; but I acknowledge that I have a very decided repugnance to being blown into the air.”

“Be it so. In a quarter of an hour, then. But now, in my turn, I have a request to make.”

“What is it-”

“Let us both go close up to that window.”

“For what purpose-”

“I wish to make you popular.”

“I am greatly obliged; but in what manner-”

“You shall see.”

Billot took the provost to the window, which was open, and called out to his friends in the square below.

“My friends,” said he, “you still wish to take the Bastille, do you not-”

“Yes, yes, yes!” shouted three or four thousand voices.

“But you want gunpowder, do you not-”

“Yes! gunpowder! gunpowder!”

“Well, then, here is his honor the provost, who is willing to give us all he has in the cellars of the H #244;tel de Ville. Thank him for it, my friends.”

“Long live the Provost of the Merchants! Long live Monsieur de Flesselles!” shouted the whole crowd.

“Thanks, my friends: thanks for myself, thanks for him,” cried Billot.

Then, turning towards the provost:-

“And now, sir,” said Billot, “it is no longer necessary that I should take you by the collar, while here alone with you, or before all the world; for if you do not give me the gunpowder, the nation, as you call it, the nation will tear you to pieces.”

“Here are the keys, sir,” said the provost. “You have so persuasive a mode of asking, that it does not even admit a refusal.”

“What you say really encourages me,” said Billot, who appeared to be meditating some other project.

“Ah, the deuce! Can you have anything else to ask of me-”

“Yes. Are you acquainted with the governor of the

Bastille-”

“Monsieur de Launay-”

“I do not know what his name is.”

“His name is De Launay.”

“Be it so. Well, do you know Monsieur de Launay-”

“He is a friend of mine.”

“In that case, you must desire that no misfortune should happen to him.”

“In fact, I should desire it.”

“Well, then, the way to prevent any misfortune happening to him is, that he should surrender the Bastille to me, or, at all events, liberate the doctor.”

“You do not imagine, surely, that I should have influence enough with him to induce him to surrender to you either his prisoner or his fortress, do you-”

“That is my affair. All that I ask is, that you will give me an introduction to him.”

“My dear Monsieur Billot, I forewarn you that if you go into the Bastille you will go into it alone.”

“Very well.”

“I forewarn you, moreover, that if you enter it alone you will perhaps not get out again.”

“Marvellously well.”

“Then I will give you your permission to go into the Bastille.”

“I will wait for it.”

“But it will be on still another condition.”

“What is that-”

“It is that you will not come to me again to-morrow and ask for a passport to the moon. I forewarn you that I am not acquainted with any one in those regions.”

“Flesselles! Flesselles!” said a hollow and threatening voice from behind the Provost of the Merchants, “if you continue to wear two faces,-the one which laughs with the aristocrats, the other which smiles upon the people,-you will perhaps receive between this and tomorrow morning a passport for a world from which no one returns.”

The provost turned round, shuddering.

“Who is it that speaks thus-” said he.

“'Tis I, Marat.”

“Marat, the philosopher! Marat, the physician!” exclaimed Billot.

“Yes,” replied the same voice.

“Yes, Marat, the philosopher; Marat, the physician,” repeated Flesselles; “who in this last capacity ought to attend to curing lunatics, which would have been a sure means of now having a goodly number of patients.”

“Monsieur de Flesselles,” replied the lugubrious interlocutor, “this worthy citizen has asked you for a passport which will facilitate his seeing Monsieur de Launay. I would observe to you, that not only is he waiting for you, but that three thousand men are waiting for him.”

“'Tis well, sir; he shall soon have it.”

Flesselles went to a table, passed one hand over his brow, and with the other seizing a pen, he rapidly wrote several lines.

“Here is your safe-conduct,” said he, delivering the paper to Billot.

“Read it,” said Marat.

“I cannot read,” said Billot.

“Well, then, give it to me; I can read.”

Billot handed the paper to Marat.

This passport was conceived in the following terms:

M. GOVERNOR,-We, Provost of the Merchants of the city of Paris, send to you M. Billot, in order to concert with you as to the interests of the said city.

“Good!” said Billot, “give it to me.”

“You find this passport good as it is-” said Marat.

“Undoubtedly.”

“Stop a minute. The provost is going to add a postscript to it, which will make it better.”

And he went up to Flesselles, who had remained standing, his hand on the table, and who looked with a disdainful air at the two men with whom he was so particularly engaged, and at a third one, half naked, who had just presented himself at the door, leaning upon a musketoon.

It was Pitou, who had followed Billot, and who held himself ready to obey the farmer's orders, be they what they might.

“Sir,” said Marat to Flesselles, “the postscript which you are about to add, and which will render the passport so much better, is the following:”

“Say on, Monsieur Marat.”

Marat placed the paper on the table, and, pointing with his finger to the place on which the provost was to write the required postscript:-

“The citizen Billot,” said he, “having the character of bearer of a flag of truce, I confide his care to your honor.”

Flesselles looked at Marat, as if he would rather have smashed his flat face with his fist than do that which he had requested.

“Would you resist, sir-” demanded Marat.

“No,” replied Flesselles, “for, after all, you only ask me what is strictly right.”

And he wrote the postscript demanded of him.

“However, gentlemen, you will be pleased to observe this well, that I do not answer for the safety of Monsieur Billot.”

“And I-I will be answerable for it,” said Marat, jerking the paper out of his hands; “for your liberty is the guarantee of his liberty,-your head for the safety of his head. Here, worthy Billot,” continued Marat, “here is your passport.”

“Labrie!” cried M. de Flesselles,-“Labrie!”

A lackey in grand livery entered the room.

“My carriage,” said the provost.

“It is waiting for you, sir, in the courtyard.”

“Let us go, then,” said the provost. “ There is nothing else which you desire, gentlemen-”

“No,” simultaneously replied Billot and Marat.

“Am I to let them pass-” inquired Pitou.

“My friend,” said Flesselles to him, “I would observe to you that you are rather too indecently attired to mount guard at my door. If you insist upon remaining here, turn your cartouche-box round in front, and set your back against the wall.”

“Am I to let them pass-” Pitou repeated, with an air which indicated that he did not greatly relish the jest of which he had been the subject.

“Yes,” said Billot.

Pitou made way for the provost to pass by him.

“Perhaps you were wrong in allowing that man to go,” said Marat. “He would have been a good hostage to have kept. But, in any case, let him go where he will, you may feel perfectly assured that I will find him again.”

“Labrie,” said the Provost of the Merchants, as he was getting into his carriage, “they are going to distribute powder here. Should the H #244;tel de Ville perchance blow up, I should like to be out of the way of the splinters. Let us get out of gunshot, Labrie,-out of gunshot.”

The carriage rattled through the gateway, and appeared upon the square, on which were growling some four or five thousand persons.

Flesselles was afraid that they might misinterpret his departure, which might be considered as a flight.

He leaned half-way out of the door.

“To the National Assembly,” cried he, in a loud voice to the coachman.

This drew upon him from the crowd a loud and continued outburst of applause.

Marat and Billot were on the balcony, and had heard the last words of Flesselles.

“My head against his,” said Marat, “that he is not going to the National Assembly, but to the king.”

“Would it not be well to have him stopped-” said Billot.

“No,” replied Marat, with his hideous smile; “make yourself easy; however quickly he may go, we shall go still quicker than he. But now for the gunpowder.”

“Yes, to the gunpowder,” said Billot.

And they both went down the great staircase, followed by Pitou.

CHAPTER XV. MONSIEUR DE LAUNAY, GOVERNOR OF THE BASTILLE

As Monsieur de Flesselles had said, there were eight thousand pounds of gunpowder in the cellars of the H #244;tel de Ville.

Marat and Billot went into the first cellar with a lantern, which they suspended to a hook in the ceiling.

Pitou mounted guard at the door.

The powder was in small kegs, containing each about twenty pounds. Men were stationed upon the stairs, forming a chain which reached the square, and they at once began to send up the kegs.

There was at first a momentary confusion. It was not known whether there would be powder enough for everybody, and they all rushed forward to secure their share. But the chain formed by Billot at length succeeded in making the people wait patiently for their turn, and the distribution was effected with something like an approach to order.

Every citizen received half a pound of powder,-about thirty or forty shots.

But when every one had received the powder, it was perceived that muskets were sadly deficient. There were scarcely five hundred among the whole crowd.

While the distribution was going on, a portion of this furious population who were crying out for arms, went up to the rooms where the electors held their sittings. They were occupied in forming the National Guard, of which the usher had spoken to Billot.

They had just decreed that this civic militia should be composed of forty-eight thousand men. This militia but yet existed in the decree, and they were disputing as to the general who should command it.

It was in the midst of this discussion that the people invaded the H #244;tel de Ville. They had organized themselves. They only asked to march; all they required was arms.

At that moment the noise of a carriage coming into the courtyard was heard. It was the Provost of the Merchants, who had not been allowed to proceed upon his journey, although he had exhibited a mandate from the king, ordering him to proceed to Versailles, and he was brought back by force to the H #244;tel de Ville.

“Give us arms! give us arms!” cried the crowd, as soon as they perceived him at a distance.

“Arms!” cried he; “I have no arms; but there must be some at the arsenal.”

“To the arsenal! to the arsenal!” cried the crowd.

And five or six thousand men rushed on to the Quay de la Gr #232;ve.

The arsenal was empty.

They returned, with bitter lamentations, to the H #244;tel de Ville.

The provost had no arms, or rather would not give them. Pressed by the people, he had the idea of sending them to the Chartreux.

The Chartreux opened its gates. They searched it in every direction, but did not find even a pocket-pistol.

During this time Flesselles, having been informed that Billot and Marat were still in the cellars of the H #244;tel de Ville, completing the distribution of the gunpowder, proposed to send a deputation to De Launay, to propose to him that he should withdraw the cannon from his ramparts, so as to be out of sight.

That which the evening before had made the crowd hoot most obstreperously was these guns, which, stretching forth their long necks, were seen beyond the turreted parapets. Flesselles hoped that, by causing them to disappear, the people would be contented by the concession, and would withdraw satisfied.

The deputation had just set forth, when the people returned in great fury.

On hearing the cries they uttered, Billot and Marat ran upstairs into the courtyard.

Flesselles, from an interior balcony, endeavored to calm the people. He proposed a decree which should authorize the districts to manufacture fifty thousand pikes.

The people were about to accept this proposal.

“Decidedly this man is betraying us,” said Marat. Then, turning to Billot,-

“Go to the Bastille,” said he, “and do what you proposed to do. In an hour I will send you there twenty thousand men, and each man with a musket on his shoulder.”

Billot, at first sight, had felt great confidence in this man, whose name had become so popular that it had reached even him. He did not even ask him how he calculated on procuring them. An abb #233; was there, imbued with the general enthusiasm, and crying, like all the rest, “To the Bastille!” Billot did not like abb #233;s, but this one pleased him. He gave him the charge of continuing the distribution, which the worthy abb #233; accepted. Then Marat mounted upon a post. There was at that moment the most frightful noise and tumult.

“Silence!” cried he; “I am Marat, and I wish to speak.”

They were at once quieted as if by magic, and every eye was directed towards the orator.

“You wish for arms-” he said.

“Yes, yes!” replied thousands of voices.

“To take the Bastille-”

“Yes! yes! yes!”

“Well then, come with me, and you shall have them.”

“And where-”

“To the Invalides, where there are twenty-five thousand muskets. To the Invalides!”

“To the Invalides! to the Invalides!” cried every voice.

“And now,” said Marat to Billot, who had just called Pitou; “you will go to the Bastille-”

“Yes.”

“Stay. It might happen that before my men arrive you may stand in need of assistance.”

“In fact,” said Billot, “that is possible.”

Marat tore out a leaf from a small memorandum book, and wrote four words upon it with a pencil:-

“This comes from Marat.”

Then he drew a sign upon the paper.

“Well!” cried Billot, “what would you have me do with this note, since you do not tell me the name or the address of the person to whom I am to deliver it-”

“As to the address, the man to whom I recommend you has none; as to his name, it is well known. Ask the first workman you may meet for Gonchon, the Mirabeau of the people.”

“Gonchon-you will remember that name, Pitou.”

“Gonchon or Gonchonius,” said Pitou. “I shall not forget it.”

“To the Invalides! to the Invalides!” howled the mob, with increasing ferocity.

“Well, then, go!” said Marat to Billot; “and may the genius of Liberty march before thee!”

“To the Invalides!” he then cried in his turn.

And he went down the Quai de G #233;vres, followed by more than twenty thousand men.

Billot, on his side, took with him some five or six thousand. These were all armed in one way or another.

At the moment when they were about to proceed along the bank of the river, and the remainder were going towards the Boulevard, the Provost of the Merchants appeared at a window.

“My friends,” said he, “why is it that I see a green cockade in your hats-”

They were the leaves of the linden-trees, of Camille Desmoulins, which many had adopted merely from seeing others wear them, but without even knowing their signification.

“Hope! hope!” cried several voices.

“Yes; but the color that denotes hope is, at the same time, that of the Count d'Artois. Would you have the air of wearing the livery of a prince-”

“No, no!” cried all the crowd in chorus, and Billot louder than the rest.

“Well! then you ought to change that cockade; and, if you will wear a livery, let it at least be that of the city of Paris, the mother of us all,-blue and red, my friends, blue and red.”

“Yes, yes,” cried every tongue; “blue and red.”

Upon these words, every one trampled under foot his green cockade, every one called for ribbons; as if by enchantment, the windows round the square were opened, and blue and red ribbons rained down in floods.

But all the ribbons that fell scarcely sufficed for a thousand men.

Instantly aprons, silk gowns, scarfs, curtains, were torn, stripped, and cut in fragments; these fragments were formed into bows, rosettes, and scarfs. Every one took his share.

After which Billot's small army again moved forward.

It kept on recruiting as it advanced; all the arteries of the Faubourg St. Antoine sent to it as it passed the most ardent and the most active of their population.

They reached, in tolerably good order, the end of the Rue Lesdigui #232;res, where already a mass of curious lookers-on-some timid, others calm, and others insolent-were gazing at the towers of the Bastille, exposed to an ardent sun.

The arrival of the popular drums by the Faubourg St. Antoine;

The arrival of about a hundred of the French Guards from the Boulevards;

The arrival of Billot and his troop, at once changed the character and the aspect of the assembled crowd; the timid became emboldened, the calm became excited, and the insolent began to threaten.

“Down with the cannon! down with the cannon!” cried twenty thousand voices, threatening with their clinched fists the heavy guns which stretched forth their brazen necks from the embrasures of the platforms.

Just at that moment, as if the governor of the Bastille was obeying the injunctions of the crowd, some artillery-men approached the guns, which they drew in, till at last they disappeared entirely.

The crowd clapped their hands; they had then become a power, since the governor had yielded to their threats.

Notwithstanding this, the sentinels continued pacing backwards and forwards on the platforms. At every post was an Invalide and a Swiss.

After having cried, “Down with the cannon!” the crowd shouted, “Down with the Swiss!” It was a continuation of the cry of the night before, “Down with the Germans!”

But the Swiss did not the less continue their guard, crossing the Invalides in their measured pacings up and down.

One of those who cried, “Down with the Swiss!” became impatient; he had a gun in his hand; he pointed the muzzle of his gun at the sentinel, and fired.

The ball struck the gray wall of the Bastille, one foot below the coping-stone of the tower, and immediately in front of the spot where the Swiss had passed. At the spot where the shot had struck, it left a white mark, but the sentinel did not stop, and did not even turn his head.

A loud murmur soon arose around the man who had fired, and thus was given the signal of attack, as unheard of as it was senseless,-a murmur more of terror than of anger. Many persons conceived that it was a crime punishable with death to fire a musket-shot at the Bastille.

Billot gazed upon the dark-green mass like to those fabulous monsters which in ancient legends are represented to us as covered with scales. He counted the embrasures at which the cannon might at any given moment be rolled back to their places. He counted the number of muskets the muzzles of which might be directed through the loop-holes at the assembled crowd.

And Billot shook his head, recalling to mind the words uttered by Flesselles.

“We shall never be able to get in there,” said he.

“And why shall we never be able to get in-” said a voice close beside him.

Billot turned round and saw a man with a savage countenance, dressed in rags, and whose eyes sparkled like two stars.

“Because it appears to me impossible to take such a mass as that by force.”

“The taking of the Bastille,” said the man, “is not a deed of war, but an act of faith. Believe, and thou shalt succeed.”

“Patience!” said Billot, feeling in his pocket for his passport.

The man was deceived as to his meaning. “Patience!” cried he, “oh, yes, I understand you! you are fat-you-you look like a farmer.”

“And I am one, in fact,” said Billot.

“Then I can well understand why you say patience! You have been always well fed; but look behind you for a moment and see those spectres who are now surrounding us. See their dried-up veins, count their bones through the rents in their garments, and then ask them whether they understand the word patience.”

“This is one who speaks well,” said Pitou, “but he terrifies me.”

“He does not terrify me,” said Billot; and turning again towards the man:-“Yes, patience,” he said; “but only for another quarter of an hour, that's all.”

“Ah, ah!” cried the man, smiling; “a quarter of an hour; that indeed is not too much. And what will you do in a quarter of an hour-”

“During that time I shall have visited the Bastille, I shall know the number of its garrison, I shall know the intentions of its governor! I shall know, in fine, the way into it.”

“Yes! if after that you could only find the way out of it-”

“Well, supposing that I do not get out of it. There is a man who will come and show me the way.”

“And who is this man-”

“Gonchon, the Mirabeau of the people.”

The man gave a start. His eyes emitted flashes of fire.

“Do you know him-” inquired he.

“No.”

“Well, what mean you, then-”

“Why, I am going to know him; for I was told that the first to whom I might speak on the square before the Bastille would lead me to him. You are on the square of the Bastille; take me to him.”

“What do you want with him-”

“To deliver to him this paper.”

“From whom is it-”

“From Marat, the physician.”

“From Marat! you know Marat!” exclaimed the man.

“I have just left him.”

“Where-”

“At the H #244;tel de Ville.”

“What is he doing-”

“He has gone to arm twenty thousand men at the Invalides.”

“In that case, give me that paper. I am Gonchon.” Billot drew back a step.

“You are Gonchon-” cried he.

“My friends,” said the man in rags, “here is one who does not know me, and who is asking whether it is true that I am Gonchon.”

The crowd burst into a loud laugh. It appeared to all these men that it was impossible that any one could be so ignorant as not to know their favorite orator.

“Long live Gonchon!” cried two or three thousand voices.

“Take it,” said Billot, handing the paper to him.

“Friends,” cried Gonchon, after having read it, and laying his hand on Billot's shoulder, “this is a brother. Marat recommends him. We can therefore rely upon him. What is your name” said he to the farmer.

“My name is Billot.”

“And mine,” rejoined Gonchon, “is Hache, and between us both I trust we shall be able to do something.”

The crowd smiled at this sanguinary jest.

“Yes, yes, we shall soon do something,” cried they.

“Well! what are we going to do-” asked several voices.

“Why, zounds!” cried Gonchon, “we are going to take the Bastille.”

“This is as it should be,” cried Billot; “that is what I call speaking. Listen to me, brave Gonchon. How many men have you to back you-”

“Thirty thousand, or somewhere near that.”

“Thirty thousand men you have at your disposal, twenty thousand will soon be here from the Invalides, and ten thousand are already here; why, 'tis more than enough to insure our success, or we shall never succeed at all.”

“We shall succeed,” replied Gonchon.

“I believe so. Well, then, call together your thirty thousand men. I, in the mean time, will go to the governor, and summon him to surrender. If he surrenders,

so much the better; we shall avoid much bloodshed. If he will not surrender, the blood that will be spilled will fall upon his head; and in these days, blood that is spilled in an unjust cause brings down misfortunes with it. Ask the Germans if it be not so.”

“How long do you expect to remain with the governor-” asked Gonchon.

“As long as I possibly can, until the Bastille is completely invested. If it be possible, when I come out again, the attack will begin.”

“'tis understood.”

“You do not mistrust me-” said Billot to Gonchon, holding out his hand to him.

“Who, I-” replied Gonchon, with a smile of disdain, at the same time pressing the hand of the stout farmer, and with a strength that could not have been expected from his emaciated appearance; “I mistrust you! and for what reason, pray- If it were my will, upon a word, a sign given by me, I could have you pounded like glass, even were you sheltered by those formidable towers, which to-morrow will no longer exist,-were you protected by these soldiers, who this evening will have espoused our party or will have ceased to exist. Go, then, and rely on Gonchon as he relies on Billot.”

Billot was convinced, and walked towards the entrance of the Bastille, while the strange person with whom he had been conversing darted down the faubourg, amid shouts, repeated a thousand times, of-“Long live Gonchon! Long live the Mirabeau of the people!”

“I do not know what the Mirabeau of the nobles may be,” said Pitou to Billot, “but I think our Mirabeau a hideously ugly personage.”

Some time afterwards, Monsieur de Lafayette also made the observation that blue and red were likewise the colors of the House of Orleans and added to them a third color, white, saying to those who received it from him, “I give you a cockade that will make the tour of the whole world.”

Billot, in French, means block,-the block on which criminals heads are struck off. Hache means axe.-TRANSLATOR.

CHAPTER XVI. THE BASTILLE AND IT'S GOVERNOR

WE will not describe the Bastille; it would be useless.

It lives as an eternal image, both in the memory of the old and in the imagination of the young.

We shall content ourselves with merely stating that, seen from the Boulevard, it presented, in front of the square then called Place de la Bastille, two twin towers, while its two fronts ran parallel with the banks of the canal which now exists.

The entrance to the Bastille was defended, in the first place, by a guardhouse, then by two lines of sentinels, and besides these by two drawbridges.

After having passed through these several obstacles, you came to the courtyard of the government house,-that is to say, the residence of the governor.

From this courtyard a gallery led to the ditches of the Bastille.

At this other entrance, which opened upon the ditches, was a drawbridge, a guardhouse, and an iron gate.

At the first entrance they wished to stop Billot; but Billot shows the passport he received from Flesselles, and they allow him to pass on.

Billot then perceives that Pitou is following him. Pitou had no permission; but he would have followed the farmer's steps down to the infernal regions, or would have ascended to the moon.

“Remain outside,” said Billot. “Should I not come out again, it would be well there should be some one to remind the people that I have come in.”

“That is perfectly right,” said Pitou. “How long am I to wait before I remind them of it-”

“One hour.”

“And the casket-” inquired Pitou.

“Ah, you remind me! Well, then, should I not get out again; should Gonchon not take the Bastille, or, in short, if, after having taken it, I should not be found, you must tell Doctor Gilbert, whom they will find perhaps, that men who came from Paris took from me the casket which he confided to my care five years ago; that I, on the instant, started off to inform him of what had happened; that, on arriving at Paris, I was informed that he was in the Bastille; that I attempted to take the Bastille, and that in the attempt I left my skin there, which was altogether at his service.”

“'Tis well, Father Billot,” said Pitou; “only 'tis rather a long story, and I am much afraid that I may forget it.”

“Forget what I have said to you-”

“Yes.”

“I will repeat it to you, then.”

“No,” said a voice close to Billot's ear; “it would be better to write it.”

“I do not know how to write,” said Billot.

“I do. I am an usher.”

“Ah! you are an usher, are you-” inquired Billot.

“Stanislaus Maillard, usher in the Court of the Ch #226;telet.”

And he drew from his pocket a long ink-horn, in which there were pens, paper, and ink; in fine, all that was necessary for writing.

He was a man about forty-five years old, tall, thin, and grave-looking, dressed entirely in black, as became his profession.

“Here is one who looks confoundedly like an undertaker,” muttered Pitou.

“You say,” inquired the usher, with great calmness, “that men who came from Paris carried off a casket which Dr. Gilbert confided to you-”

“Yes.”

“That is a punishable crime.”

“These men belonged to the police of Paris.”

“Infamous robbers!” muttered Maillard.

Then, handing the paper to Piton:-“Here, take this, young man,” said he; “it is the memorandum you require; and should he be killed,”-he pointed to Billot-“should you be killed, it is to be hoped that I shall not be killed too.”

“And should you not be killed, what would you do-” asked Pitou.

“I would do that which you were to have done,” replied Maillard.

“Thanks,” said Billot.

And he held out his hand to the usher.

The usher grasped it with a vigor which could not have been anticipated from his lank meagre body.

“Then I may fully depend upon you-” said Billot.

“As on Marat-as on Gonchon.”

“Good!” said Pitou; “they form a trinity which I am sure I shall not find in paradise.”

Then, going up to Billot:-

“Tell me, Father Billot, you will be prudent, will you not-”

“Pitou,” replied the farmer, with an eloquence which sometimes astonished people, when proceeding from one who had always led a country life, “forget not what I say to you,-that the most prudent line of conduct now in France is to be courageous.”

And he passed the first line of sentinels, while Pitou returned towards the square.

At the drawbridge he was again obliged to parley.

Billot showed his passport. The drawbridge was let down, the iron-grated gate was opened.

Close beside the gate stood the governor.

This interior court, in which the governor was waiting for Billot, was the courtyard which served as a promenade to the prisoners. It was guarded by eight towers,-that is to say, by eight giants. No window opened into it. Never did the sun shine on its pavement, which was damp and almost muddy. It might have been taken for the bottom of an immense well.

In this courtyard was a clock, supported by figures representing enchained captives, which measured the hours, and from which fell the regular and slow sounds of the minutes as they passed by, as in a dungeon the droppings from the ceiling eat into the pavement slabs on which they fall.

At the bottom of this well the prisoner, lost amid the abyss of stone, for a moment contemplated its cold nakedness, and soon asked to be allowed to return to his cell.

Close beside the grated gate which opened on this courtyard stood, as we have said, Monsieur de Launay.

Monsieur de Launay was a man from forty-five to fifty years of age. On that day he was dressed in a gray coat. He wore the red ribbon of the order of Saint Louis, and in his hand he carried a sword-cane.

This Monsieur de Launay was a man of wicked disposition. The memoirs of Linguet had just bestowed upon him a sorrowful celebrity; he was almost as much detested as the prison itself.

In fact, the De Launays, like the Ch #226;teauneufs, the Levrilli #232;res, and the Saint Florentins, who held the lettres de cachet from father to son, also from father to son transmitted the Bastille to one another.

For, as is well known, it was not the minister of war who appointed the officers of this jail. At the Bastille, all the places were sold to the highest bidder, from that of the governor himself, down to that of the scullion. The governor of the Bastille was a jailer on a grand scale, an eating-house keeper wearing epaulettes, who added to his salary of sixty thousand livres, sixty thousand more which he extorted and plundered.

It was highly necessary that he should recover the capital and interest of the money he had invested.

Monsieur de Launay, in point of avarice, far surpassed his predecessors. This might, perhaps, have arisen from his having paid more for the place, and having foreseen that he would not remain in it so long as they did.

He fed his whole house at the expense of his prisoners. He had reduced the quantity of fuel, and doubled the hire of furniture in each room.

He had the right of bringing yearly into Paris a hundred pipes of wine, free of duty. He sold his right to a tavern-keeper, who brought in wines of excellent quality; then with a tenth part of this duty he purchased the vinegar with which he supplied his prisoners.

The unhappy prisoners in the Bastille had only one consolation; this was a small garden, which had been formed on one of the bastions. There they could walk; there for a few moments they could inhale pure air, the perfumes of the flowers, and enjoy the light.

He rented this little garden to a gardener, and for fifty livres a year which he received from him he had deprived the prisoners of this last enjoyment.

It is true that to rich prisoners his complaisance was extreme. He conducted one of them to the house of his own mistress, who had thus her apartments furnished, and was kept in luxury, without its costing a stiver to him, De Launay.

See the work entitled “The Bastille Unveiled,” and you will find in it this fact, and many others besides.

And, notwithstanding, this man was courageous.

Since the previous evening the storm had been threatening around him. Since the previous evening he perceived the waves of this great commotion, which was still ascending, beat against his walls.

And yet he was calm, though pale.

It is true that he had to support him four pieces of artillery, ready prepared to fire; around him, a garrison of Swiss and Invalides; before him, only an unarmed man.

For, on entering the Bastille, Billot had given Pitou his carbine to take care of.

He had understood that within that iron grating which he saw before him, a weapon would be more dangerous than useful to him.

Billot, at a single glance, observed all,-the calm and almost threatening attitude of the governor; the Swiss and Invalides in the several guard-houses and on the platforms; and the silent bustle of the artillerymen, who were stowing their cartridges into the magazines of their ammunition-wagons.

The sentinels held their muskets at the make-ready; the officers had their swords drawn.

The governor remained motionless; Billot was obliged to advance towards him; the iron-grated gate closed behind the bearer of the people's flag of truce with a sinister noise of grating iron, which, brave as he was, made the marrow of his bones chill within him.

“What want you with me again-” said De Launay to him.

“Again!” reiterated Billot; “it appears to me, however, that this is the first time I have seen you, and consequently that you have yet no right to be wearied of seeing me.”

“It is because I have been told that you come from the H #244;tel de Ville.”

“That is true. I came from there.”

“Well, then, only just now I received a deputation from the municipality.”

“And for what purpose did it come-”

“It came to obtain a promise from me that I would not be the first to fire.”

“And you promised that you would not-”

“Yes.”

“And was this all-”

“It also came to request that I would draw in my guns.”

“And you have them drawn in; I know that, for I was on the square of the Bastille when this manuvre was executed.”

“And you doubtless thought that I was yielding to the threats of the people-”

“Why, zounds! it did look very like it.”

“Did I not tell you so, gentlemen-” exclaimed De Launay, turning towards his officers; “did I not tell you that we should be thought capable of such cowardice-”

Then, turning to Billot,-

“And you,-from whom do you come-”

“I come on behalf of the people,” proudly replied

Billot.

“'tis well,” said De Launay, smiling; “but you have some other recommendation, I suppose; for with that which you set forth, you would not have been allowed to pass the first line of my sentries.”

“Yes; I have a safe-conduct from Monsieur de Flesselles, your friend.”

“Flesselles! You say that he is my friend,” rejoined De Launay, looking intently at Billot, as if he would have read the inmost recesses of his heart. “Whence know you that Monsieur de Flesselles is my friend-”

“Why, I supposed him to be so.”

“Supposed!-oh, that is all! 'tis well. Let us see your safe-conduct.”

Billot presented the paper to him.

De Launay read it once, then a second time, and turned and twisted it about to discover whether it did not contain some postscript between its pages; held it up to the light, to see whether there were not some lines written between the lines of the missive.

“And this is all he has to say to me-”

“All.”

“You are sure-”

“Perfectly sure.”

“Nothing verbal-”

“Nothing.”

“'tis very strange!” exclaimed De Launay, darting through one of the loop-holes a glance at the crowd assembled in the square before the Bastille.

“But what would you have had him say to you-” said Billot.

De Launay made an impatient gesture.

“Oh nothing, nothing! Come, now, tell me what you want; but speak quickly, for I am pressed for time.”

“Well, then, what I want is, that you should surrender the Bastille to us.”

“What said you-” cried De Launay, quickly turning round, as if he thought he had misunderstood the farmer's meaning. “You say-”

“I say that I have come in the name of the people, to demand that you surrender the Bastille.”

De Launay shrugged his shoulders.

“The people are, in truth, very strange animals,” said he.

“Hey!” cried Billot.

“And what do they want to do with the Bastille-”

“They want to demolish it.”

“And what the devil has the Bastille to do with the people- Was ever a man of the people put into the Bastille- The people, on the contrary, ought to bless every stone of which the Bastille is formed. Who are they who are put into the Bastille- Philosophers, men of science, aristocrats, ministers, princes,-that is to say, the enemies of the people.”

“Well, that proves that the people are not egotists.” retorted Billot.

“My friend,” said De Launay, with a shade of commiseration in his tone, “it is easy to perceive that you are not a soldier.”

“You are quite right. I am a farmer.”

“That you do not inhabit Paris.”

“In fact, I am from the country.”

“That you do not thoroughly know what the Bastille is.”

“That is true. I only know what I have seen of it,-that is to say, the exterior walls.”

“Well, then, come along with me, and I will show you what the Bastille is.”

“Ho! ho!” muttered Billot to himself, “he is going to lead me over some villanous trap-door, which will suddenly open under my feet, and then, good-night, Father Billot.”

But the intrepid farmer did not even blink, and showed himself ready to follow the governor of the Bastille.

“In the first place,” said De Launay, “you must know that I have powder enough in my cellars to blow up, not only the Bastille itself, but with it at least half of the Faubourg St. Antoine.”

“I know that,” tranquilly replied Billot.

“Very well; but now look at those four pieces of artillery.”

“I see them.”

“They enfilade the whole of this gallery, as you can also see; and this gallery is defended, first, by a guardhouse; secondly, by two ditches, which only can be crossed with the assistance of two drawbridges; and lastly, by a grated iron gate.”

“Oh, I do not say that the Bastille is badly defended,” calmly observed Billot; “all that I say is, that it will be well attacked.”

“Let us go on,” said De Launay.

Billot gave an assenting nod.

“Here is a postern which opens on the ditches,” said the governor; “look at the thickness of the walls.”

“Somewhere about forty feet.”

“Yes; forty at the bottom, and fifteen at the top. You see that, although the people may have good nails, they would break them against these stones.”

“I did not say,” rejoined Billot, “that the people would demolish the Bastille before taking it. What I said was, that they would demolish it after having taken it.”

“Let us go up the steps,” said De Launay.

“Let us go up.”

They went up some thirty steps.

The governor stopped.

“See,” said he, “here is another embrasure, which opens on the passage by which you wish to enter; this is only defended by a rampart gun, but it has already acquired a certain reputation. You know the song-

'O my tender Musette,- Musette, my only love.'“

“Certainly,” said Billot; “I do know it; but I do not think that this is the time to sing it.”

“Wait a moment. Well, Marshal Saxe called this small cannon his Musette, because it sung correctly the air he best liked. That is an historical detail.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Billot.

“Let us go up higher;” and they continued to climb up the stairs.

They soon reached a platform on the tower called La

Compt #233;.

“Ah! ah!” ejaculated Billot.

“What is it-” inquired De Launay. “You have not had the cannon dismounted.”

“I have had them drawn in, that's all.”

“You know that I shall tell the people that cannon are still here.”

“Tell them so.”

“You will not have them dismounted, then-”

“No.”

“Decidedly-”

“The king's cannon are here by the king's order, sir; they can only be dismounted by an order from the king.”

“Monsieur de Launay,” said Billot, feeling his thoughts rise within him according to the importance of the moment, “the real king, whom I counsel you to obey, is yonder.”

And he showed to the governor the gray crowd, some of whom were still covered with blood from the combat of the preceding evening, and whose undulating movements before the ditches made their arms gleam in the sunshine.

“Sir,” said De Launay in his turn, throwing his head back with a haughty air, “you may perhaps acknowledge two kings; but I, the governor of the Bastille, know but one, and he is Louis, the Sixteenth of that name, who has affixed his name to a commission by virtue of which I command here, both men and things.”

“You are not, then, a citizen!” cried Billot in anger.

“I am a French gentleman,” said the governor.

“Ah! that is true; you are a soldier, and you speak as a soldier.”

“You have said the word, sir,” said De Launay, bowing. “I am a soldier, and I execute the orders I receive.”

“And I, sir,” said Billot, “am a citizen, and my duty as a citizen being in opposition with your orders as a soldier, one of us two will die,-whether it be the one who obeys his orders, or the one who fulfils his duty.”

“It is probable, sir.”

“Then you are determined to fire upon the people-”

“By no means-so long as they do not fire upon me.

I have pledged my word to the envoys of Monsieur de Flesselles. You see that the guns have been drawn in, but at the first shot fired from the square upon my castle-”

“Well, at the first shot-”

“I will run to one of these guns,-this one, for instance,-I will myself wheel it to the embrasure, I will point it with my own hands, and I will fire it with the match you see standing here.”

“You-”

“Yes, I.”

“Oh, if I believed that,” said Billot, “before allowing you to commit such a crime-”

“I have told you that I am a soldier, sir, and that I know nothing but my orders.”

“Well, then, look!” said Billot, drawing De Launay towards an embrasure, and pointing out to him alternately two different points, the Faubourg St. Antoine and the Boulevard, “yonder are those from whom in future you will receive your orders.”

And he showed De Launay two dark, dense, and howling masses, who, compelled to take the form of the Boulevards, undulated like an immense serpent, of which the head and the body could be seen, but the last rings of which were lost to sight, from the unevenness of the ground on which it crawled; and all that could be seen of the gigantic reptile was refulgent with luminous scales.

It was the double troop, to which Billot had given rendezvous on the square of the Bastille,-the one led by Marat, and the other by Gonchon.

On both sides they advanced, brandishing their arms and uttering the most terrific cries.

De Launay turned pale at the sight, and raising his cane:-

“To your guns!” cried he.

Then, advancing towards Billot with a threatening gesture:-

“And you, wretch!” he exclaimed, “you who have come here under the pretext of parleying with me while the others are advancing to the attack, do you know that you deserve to die-”

And he half drew his sword from the cane which concealed it.

Billot saw the movement, and, rapid as the lightning, seized De Launay by the collar and the waistband.

“And you,” said he, as he raised him from the ground, “you deserve that I should hurl you over the ramparts, to dash you in pieces against the sides of the ditch! But, God be thanked! I shall fight you in another manner!”

At that moment an immense and universal clamor, ascending from below, and rushing through the air like the wild howlings of the hurricane, reached their ears, and Monsieur de Losme, the major of the Bastille, appeared upon the platform.

“Sir,” cried he, addressing himself to Billot, “sir, be pleased to show yourself; all those people yonder believe that some misfortune has befallen you, and they are calling for you.”

And in fact the name of Billot, which had been spread among the crowd by Pitou, was heard amidst the clamor.

Billot had loosed his hold, and Monsieur de Launay sheathed his sword.

Then there was a momentary hesitation between these three men; while cries calling for vengeance, and threatening shouts were heard.

“Show yourself then, sir,” said De Launay: “not that these clamors intimidate me, but that it may be known that I am a man who loyally keeps his word.”

Then Billot put his head between the battlements, making a sign with his hand.

On seeing this, loud shouts of applause rose from the populace. It was, in a manner, the revolution rising from the forehead of the Bastille in the person of this man of the people, who was the first to trample on its platform as a conqueror.

“'tis well, sir,” then said De Launay; “all is now terminated between us; you have nothing further to do here. You are called for yonder: go down.”

Billot was sensible of this moderation in a man who had him completely in his power; he went down the same staircase by which he had ascended the ramparts, the governor following him.

As to the major, he had remained there; the governor had given him some orders in a whisper.

It was evident that Monsieur de Launay had but one desire, and this was that the bearer of the flag of truce should become his enemy, and that as quickly as possible.

Billot walked across the courtyard without uttering a word. He saw the artillerymen standing by their guns. The match was smoking at the end of a lance.

Billot stepped before them.

“My friends,” said he, “remember that I came to request your chief to prevent the spilling of blood, and that he has refused.”

“In the name of the king, sir,” cried De Launay, stamping his foot “leave this place!”

“Beware!” said Billot; “if you order me out in the name of the king, I shall come in again in the name of the people.”

Then, turning towards the guard-house, before which the Swiss were standing:-

“Come, now,” said he, “tell me for which side are you-”

The Swiss soldiers remained silent.

De Launay pointed with his finger to the iron gate.

Billot wished to make a last effort.

“Sir,” said he to De Launay, “in the name of the nation! in the name of your brothers!”

“Of my brothers! You call my brothers those men who are howling, 'Down with the Bastille!' 'Death to its governor!' They may be your brothers, sir, but most assuredly they are not mine!”

“In the name of humanity, then!”

“In the name of humanity, which urges you on to come here, with a hundred thousand men, to cut the throats of a hundred unfortunate soldiers shut up in these walls.”

“And by surrendering the Bastille you would be doing precisely that which would save their lives.”

“And sacrifice my honor.”

Billot said no more to him. This logic of the soldier completely overcame him; but turning to the Swiss and Invalides:-

“Surrender, my friends!” cried he; “it is still time.

In ten minutes it will be too late.”

“If you do not instantly withdraw, sir,” in his turn cried De Launay, “on the word of a gentleman, I will order you to be shot!”

Billot paused a moment, crossed his arms over his chest in token of defiance, exchanged a last threatening glance with De Launay, and passed through the gate.

CHAPTER XVII. THE BASTILLE

THE crowd was waiting; scorched by the burning July sun, they were trembling, mad with excitement. Gonchon's men had just joined those of Marat. The Faubourg St. Antoine had recognized and saluted its brother, the Faubourg St. Marceau.

Gonchon was at the head of his patriots. As to Marat, he had disappeared.

The aspect of the square was frightful.

On Billot's appearance the shouts redoubled.

“Well-” said Gonchon, going up to him.

“Well, the man is brave,” said Billot.

“What mean you by saying 'The man is brave'-” inquired Gonchon.

“I mean to say that he is obstinate.”

“He will not surrender the Bastille-”

“No.”

“He will obstinately sustain the siege-”

“Yes.”

“And you believe that he will sustain it long-”

“To the very death.”

“Be it so! Death he shall have!”

“But what numbers of men we are about to expose to death!” exclaimed Billot, doubting assuredly that God had given him the right which generals arrogate to themselves,-as do kings and emperors,-men who have received commissions to shed blood.

“Pooh!” said Gonchon, “there are too many in this world, since there is not bread enough for half the population. Is it not so, friends-” he asked, turning towards the crowd.

“Yes, yes!” they responded, with sublime self-abnegation.

“But the ditch-” observed Billot, inquiringly.

“It is only necessary that it should be filled up at one particular spot,” replied Gonchon, “and I have calculated that with the half of the bodies we have here we could fill it up completely; is it not so, friends-”

“Yes, yes!” repeated the crowd, with no less enthusiasm than before.

“Well, then, be it so!” said Billot, though completely overcome.

At that moment De Launay appeared upon the terrace, followed by Major De Losme and two or three officers.

“Begin!” cried Gonchon to the governor.

The latter turned his back without replying.

Gonchon, who would perhaps have endured a threat, could not endure disdain; he quickly raised his carbine to his shoulder, and a man in the governor's suite fell to the ground.

A hundred shots, a thousand musket-shots, were fired at the same moment, as if they had only waited for this signal, and marbled with white the gray towers of the Bastille.

A silence of some seconds succeeded this discharge, as if the crowd itself had been alarmed at that which it had done.

Then a flash of fire, lost in a cloud of smoke, crowned the summit of a tower; a detonation resounded; cries of pain were heard issuing from the closely pressed crowd; the first cannon-shot had been fired from the Bastille; the first blood had been spilled. The battle had commenced.

What the crowd experienced, which just before had been so threatening, very much resembled terror. That Bastille, defending itself by this sole act, appeared in all its formidable impregnability. The people had doubtless hoped that in those days, when so many concessions had been made to them, the surrender of the Bastille would be accomplished without the effusion of blood.

The people were mistaken. The cannon-shot which had been fired upon them gave them the measure of the Titanic work which they had undertaken.

A volley of musketry, well directed, and coming from the platform of the Bastille, followed closely on the cannon shot.

Then all was again silent for a while, a silence which was interrupted only by a few cries, a few groans, a few wails uttered here and there.

A shuddering, anxious movement could then be perceived among the crowd; it was the people who were picking up their killed and wounded.

But the people thought not of flying, or if they did think of it, they were ashamed of the feeling when they considered their great numbers.

In fact, the Boulevards, the Rue St. Antoine, the Faubourg St. Antoine, formed but one vast human sea; every wave had a head, every head, two flashing eyes, a threatening mouth.

In an instant all the windows of the neighborhood were filled with sharpshooters, even those which were out of gunshot.

Whenever a Swiss soldier or an Invalide appeared upon the terraces or in one of the embrasures, a hundred muskets were at once aimed at him, and a shower of balls splintered the corners of the stones behind which the soldier was sheltered.

But they soon got tired of firing at insensible walls. It was against human flesh that their balls were directed. It was blood that they wished to see spout forth whereever the balls struck, and not dust.

Numerous opinions were emitted from amid the crowd.

A circle would then be formed around the speaker, and when the people thought the proposal was devoid of sense, they at once left him.

A blacksmith proposed to form a catapult upon the model of the ancient Roman machines, and with it to make a breach in the walls of the Bastille.

The firemen proposed to damp with their engines the priming of the cannon and extinguish the matches of the artillerymen, without reflecting that the most powerful of their engines could not throw water even to two-thirds the height of the walls of the Bastille.

A brewer who commanded the Faubourg St. Antoine, and whose name has since acquired a fatal celebrity, proposed to set fire to the fortress, by throwing into it a quantity of oil which had been seized the night before, and which they were to ignite with phosphorus.

Billot listened to all these mad-brained proposals one after the other. On hearing the last, he seized a hatchet from the hands of a carpenter, and advancing amid a storm of bullets, which struck down all around him numbers of men, huddled together as thickly as the ears in a field of wheat, he reached a small guard-house, near to the first drawbridge, and although the grape-shot was whizzing and cracking against the roof, he ascended it, and by his powerful and well-directed blows succeeded in breaking the chains, and the drawbridge fell with a tremendous crash.

During the quarter of an hour which this seemingly insensate enterprise had occupied, the crowd were breathless with excitement. At every report, they expected to see the daring workman fall from the roof. The people forgot the danger to which they were exposed, and thought only of the danger which this brave man was incurring. When the bridge fell, they uttered a loud, joyful cry, and rushed into the first courtyard.

The movement was so rapid, so impetuous, so irresistible, that the garrison did not even attempt to prevent it.

Shouts of frantic joy announced this first advantage to Monsieur de Launay.

No one even observed that a man had been crushed to atoms beneath the mass of wood-work. Then the four pieces of artillery which the governor had shown to Billot were simultaneously discharged with a frightful explosion, and swept the first courtyard of the fortress.

The iron hurricane traced through the crowd a long furrow of blood. Ten men shot dead, fifteen or twenty wounded, were the consequences of this discharge.

Billot slid down from the roof of the guard-house to the ground, on reaching which he found Pitou, who had come there he knew not how. Pitou's eyes were quick, as are those of all poachers. He had seen the artillerymen preparing to put their matches to the touch-holes of their guns, and, seizing Billot by the skirts of his jacket, jerked him violently towards him, and thus they were both protected by the angle of the wall from the effects of the first discharge.

From that moment the affair became serious. The tumult was frightful, the combat mortal. Ten thousand muskets were at once fired round the Bastille, more dangerous in their effect to the besiegers than to the besieged.

At length a cannon served by the French Guards had mixed its thunder with the rattling of the musketry.

The noise was frightful, but the crowd appeared to be more and more intoxicated by it; and this noise began to terrify even the besieged, who, calculating their own small number, felt they could never equal the noise which was then deafening them.

The officers of the Bastille felt instinctively that their soldiers were becoming disheartened. They snatched their muskets from them, and themselves fired them at the crowd.

At this moment, and amid the noise of artillery and musketry, amid the howlings of the crowd, as some of them were rushing to pick up the dead bodies of their companions to form of them a new incitement,-for their gaping wounds would cry aloud for vengeance against the besieged,-there appeared at the entrance of the first courtyard a small group of unarmed, quiet citizens. They made their way through the crowd, and advanced, ready to sacrifice their lives, protected only by a white flag, which preceded them, and which intimated that they were the bearers of a message to the governor. It was a deputation from the H #244;tel de Ville. The electors knew that hostilities had commenced, and, anxious to prevent the effusion of blood, had compelled Flesselles to send new proposals to the governor.

The deputies came, therefore, in the name of the city, to summon Monsieur de Launay to cease firing; and, in order to guarantee at once the lives of the citizens, his own, and those of the garrison, to propose that he should receive one hundred men of the civic guard into the interior of the fortress.

This was the rumor which was spread as the deputies advanced. The people, terrified at the enterprise they had undertaken, the people, who saw the dead bodies of their companions carried out in litters, were quite ready to support this proposal. Let De Launay accept a half defeat, and satisfy himself with half a victory.

At their approach the fire of the second courtyard ceased. A sign was made to them that they might approach; and they accordingly advanced, slipping on the ensanguined pavement, striding over carcasses, and holding out their hands to the wounded.

Under this protection the people form themselves into groups. The dead bodies and the wounded are carried out of the fortress; the blood alone remains, marbling with large purple spots the pavement of the courtyard.

The fire from the fortress had ceased. Billot was leaving it, in order to stop that of the besiegers. At the door he meets Gonchon,-Gonchon, altogether unarmed, exposing himself like one inspired, calm, as if he were invulnerable.

“Well,” inquired he of Billot, “what has become of the deputation-”

“It has gone into the fortress,” replied Billot; “order our men to cease firing.”

“It is useless,” said Gonchon, “they will not consent.”

“That matters not,” rejoined Billot; “it is our duty to make the attempt. Let us respect the usages of war, since we have become soldiers.”

“Be it so,” said Gonchon.

Then, addressing himself to two men in the crowd, who appeared to command under him the whole of the assembled mass,-

“Go, Elie,-go, Hullin,” said he, “and see that not a musket-shot be fired.”

The two aides-de-camp rushed out, and, obeying the orders of their chief, pressed through the crowded masses, and soon the firing of the musketry diminished, and then ceased altogether.

A momentary quiet was established. Advantage was taken of it to attend to the wounded, the number of whom had already amounted to thirty-five or forty.

During this respite the prison clock struck two. The attack had begun at noon; the combat had already lasted two hours.

Billot had returned to his post, and it was Gonchon in his turn who followed him.

His eyes were turned anxiously towards the gate. His impatience was visible.

“What is the matter with you-” inquired Billot.

“The matter is,” replied Gonchon, “that if the Bastille is not taken within two hours from this time all is lost.”

“And why so-”

“Because the court will be informed of the work we are about, and will despatch the Swiss to us, under Besenval, and Lambesq's dragoons; so that we shall then be caught between three fires.”

Billot was compelled to acknowledge that there was some truth in what Gonchon was saying.

At length the deputies reappeared. From their countenances it was evident they had obtained no concession.

“Well,” cried Gonchon, whose eyes sparkled with delight, “what did I tell you- Things that are predicted must happen. The accursed fortress is condemned!”

Then, without waiting even to put a question to the deputation, he sprang out of the first courtyard, crying,-

“To arms, my children!-to arms! The commandant refuses.”

And, in fact, the governor had scarcely read the letter from Flesselles, when his countenance brightened; and instead of acceding to the proposals which had been made to him, he exclaimed,-

“Gentlemen Parisians, you have insisted on a battle: and now it is too late to speak of treating.”

The bearers of the flag of truce persisted in urging their suit. They represented to De Launay all the evils which his defending the castle might entail; but he would not listen to them, and he concluded by saying to the deputation what he had said two hours before to Billot,-

“Leave the fortress, or I will have you shot.”

And the bearers of the flag of truce were compelled to depart.

On this occasion it was De Launay who resumed the offensive. He appeared burning with impatience.

Before the deputies had reached the gate of the courtyard, the Musette of Marshal Saxe played a tune, and three persons fell,-one of them dead, two others wounded.

One of the wounded was a French Guard; the other, one of the deputies.

On seeing a man whose office should have rendered him sacred, carried forth covered with blood, the crowd became more enraged than ever.

Gonchon's two aides-de-camp had returned to their places at his side; but each of them had had time to go home to change his dress.

It is true that one of them lived near the arsenal, the other in the Rue de Charonne.

Hullin, who had in the first place been a watchmaker at Geneva, then chasseur to the Marquis de Conflans, returned in his brilliant livery, which gave him the appearance of a Hungarian officer.

Elie, formerly an officer in the Queen's Regiment, had put on his uniform, which inspired the people with greater confidence, as it made them believe that the army was for them and with them.

The firing recommended with greater fury than ever; and at that moment the major of the Bastille, Monsieur de Losme, approached the governor.

He was a brave and faithful soldier; but there were some remains of the citizen in him, and he saw with much regret what had taken place, and above all, what was likely to ensue.

“Sir,” said he to De Launay, “we have no provisions, and of this you must be aware.”

“I know it,” replied the governor.

“You also know that we have no orders.”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur de Losme; my orders are to keep the gates of the Bastille closed, and it is for that purpose that the keys are intrusted to me.”

“Sir, the keys are used as well to open the gates as to close them. Beware that you do not cause the massacre of the whole of the garrison, without saving the castle,-two triumphs on the same day. Look at those men whom we are killing; they appear to spring up from beneath the pavement. This morning there were at first only five hundred of them; three hours ago there were ten thousand. They are more than sixty thousand now; to-morrow they will be a hundred thousand. When our guns shall be silenced, and it must at last end in that, they will be strong enough to take the Bastille with their hands.”

“You speak not like a soldier, Monsieur de Losme.”

“I speak like a Frenchman, sir. I say that his Majesty, not having given us any order,-I say that the Provost of the Merchants, having made us a proposal which was a very acceptable one, which was that of admitting a hundred men of the civil guard into the castle, you might, to avoid the evils which I foresee, accede to the proposal of Monsieur de Flesselles.”

“In your opinion, then, Monsieur de Losme, the power which represents the city of Paris is a power which we ought to obey-”

“In the absence of the direct authority of his Majesty, yes, sir, it is my opinion.”

“Well, then,” said De Launay, leading the major into a corner of the courtyard, “read that, Monsieur de Losme.”

And he handed him a small square piece of paper. The major read it.

Hold firm! I amuse the Parisians with cockades and promises. Before the close of the day, Monsieur de Besenval will send you a reinforcement.

“How, then, did this note reach you, sir-” inquired the major.

“In the letter which the gentlemen of the deputation brought me. They thought they were delivering to me a request to surrender the Bastille, while they were delivering to me an order to defend it.”

The major bowed his head.

“Go to your post, Monsieur de Losme, and do not leave it until I send for you.”

Monsieur de Losme obeyed.

De Launay very quietly refolded the letter, and put it into his pocket. He then returned to his artillerymen and recommended them to fire low, and to take good aim.

The artillerymen obeyed, as Monsieur de Losme had obeyed.

But the fate of the fortress was predestined. No human power could delay its fulfilment.

To every cannon-shot the people replied by shouting,-

“We will have the Bastille!”

And while mouths were shouting, arms were vigorously acting.

Among the voices which shouted most energetically, among the arms which were acting the most efficaciously, were the voices and arms of Pitou and Billot.

Only each of them proceeded according to his different nature.

Billot, courageous and confident, had like a bull-dog, from the first rushed forward, defying balls and grapeshot.

Pitou, prudent and circumspect, like the fox, Pitou, endowed to a supreme degree with the instinct of self-preservation, made use of all his faculties to watch the danger and avoid it.

His eyes knew the embrasures which sent forth the most deadly fire; they distinguished the almost imperceptible movement of the brazen mouth which was about to be fired. He had learned to divine the precise moment when the battery gun was about to be fired across the drawbridge.

Then his eyes having performed their office, it was the turn of his limbs to work for their proprietor.

His shoulders were drawn in, his chest contracted, his whole body did not seem to offer a larger surface than a plank when seen edgeways.

In these movements of Pitou, of the chubby Pitou,-for Pitou was thin only in the legs,-there remained only a geometrical line, which had neither breadth nor thickness.

He had selected for his post a corner in the passage from the first drawbridge to the second, a sort of vertical parapet formed by jutting stones. His head was protected by one of these stones, his body by another, his knees by a third, and Pitou congratulated himself that nature and the art of fortification were thus so agreeably combined that a stone was given to him to protect each of the parts where a wound might have proved mortal.

From his corner, in which he was covered like a hare in its form, he now and then fired a shot, but merely for form's sake, for he had before him only walls and pieces of timber; but this evidently pleased Billot, who from time to time called out,-

“Fire, you lazy fellow, fire!”

And he, in his turn, would cry to Billot, but in order to calm his exuberant ardor instead of exciting it,-

“Don't expose yourself so much, Father Billot.”

Or else:-

“Take care of yourself, Monsieur Billot, there is a cannon pointed at you; there, I have just heard them cocking the Musette.”

And scarcely had Pitou uttered these words, so full of foresight, than the cannon belched forth its grape-shot, sweeping the passage between the bridges.

Notwithstanding all these injunctions, Billot performed prodigies of strength and activity, but of perfect inutility. Not being able to shed his blood,-and assuredly it was not his fault,-he shed large and abundant drops of perspiration.

Ten times did Pitou seize him by the skirts of his jacket, and pulled him to the ground in spite of his great strength, at the moment when a discharge would have assuredly swept him off.

But each time Billot jumped up again, not only like Ant #230;us with renewed strength, but with some new idea.

At one time this idea consisted in venturing upon the platform of the bridge to hack at the beams which the chains upheld, as he had before done.

Then Pitou uttered fearful howls to restrain the farmer, and finding that his howling was of no avail, he would rush from his place of safety to him, crying,-

“Monsieur Billot, my dear Monsieur Billot, why, Madame Billot will be a widow if you go on in this way.”

And the Swiss soldiers could be seen, aiming their muskets obliquely through the embrasure of the Musette, to hit the audacious man who was endeavoring to reduce their bridge to chips.

At another time he called upon his men to bring up a cannon to destroy the head-work of the bridge; but then the Musette was fired, the gunners retreated, and Billot remained alone to load the gun and fire it, which again brought out Pitou from his retreat.

“Monsieur Billot,” cried he, “Monsieur Billot, in the name of Mademoiselle Catherine I conjure you, reflect a moment. Should you get yourself killed, Mademoiselle Catherine will be an orphan.”

And Billot yielded to this reason, which appeared to have much more influence on his mind than the first.

At length the fruitful imagination of the farmer gave birth to another idea.

He ran towards the square, crying,-

“A cart! Bring a cart here!”

Pitou considered that that which was good would be rendered excellent by being doubled. He followed Billot, vociferating,-

“Two carts! two carts!”

And immediately ten carts were brought.

“Some straw and some dry hay!” cried Billot.

“Some straw and some dry hay!” reiterated Pitou.

And almost instantly two hundred men came forward, each carrying a truss of straw or hay.

They were obliged to call out that they had ten times more than they wanted. In an hour there was a heap of forage which would have equalled the height of the Bastille.

Billot placed himself between the shafts of a cart loaded with straw, and instead of dragging it, he pushed it on before him.

Pitou did the same, without knowing what it could be for, but thinking that he could not do better than to imitate the farmer.

Elie and Hullin divined Billot's intention. They each seized a cart and pushed it before them into the courtyard.

They had scarcely entered, when they were assailed by a discharge of grape-shot. They heard the balls strike with a whizzing sound among the straw or hay, or against the wood-work of the carts; but none of the assailants received a wound.

As soon as this discharge was over, two or three hundred men with muskets rushed on behind those who were pushing forward the carts, and, sheltered by those moving ramparts, they lodged themselves beneath the apron of the bridge itself.

There Billot drew from his pocket a flint, a steel, and some tinder, formed a match by rubbing gunpowder on paper, and set fire to it.

The powder ignited the paper, and the paper ignited the straw and hay.

Each formed a torch for himself, and the four carts were simultaneously set fire to.

The flames reached the apron, caught the timbers with their sharp teeth, and ran along the wood-work of the bridge.

A shout of joy then uttered from the courtyard was taken up by the crowd in the Square St. Antoine, and reiterated with deafening clamors. They saw the smoke rising above the walls, and they hence imagined that something fatal to the besieged was occurring.

In fact the red-hot chains detached themselves from the beams. The bridge fell half broken and half destroyed by fire, smoking and cracking. The firemen rushed forward with their engines, and soon extinguished the flames upon the bridge.

The governor ordered the Invalides to fire upon the people, but they refused.

The Swiss alone obeyed; but they were not artillerymen; they were therefore obliged to abandon the guns.

The French Guards, on the contrary, seeing that the artillery was silenced, brought up their gun and planted it before the gate; their third shot shivered it to pieces.

The governor had gone up to the platform of the castle to see whether the promised reinforcement was approaching, when he found himself suddenly enveloped in smoke. It was then that he precipitately descended and ordered the artillerymen to fire.

The refusal of the Invalides exasperated him. The breaking down of the gate made him at once comprehend that all was lost.

Monsieur de Launay knew that he was hated. He felt that there was no salvation for him. During the whole time that the combat had lasted, he had matured the idea of burying himself beneath the ruins of the Bastille.

At the moment he felt assured that all further defence was hopeless, he snatched a match from the hand of one of the artillerymen, and sprang towards the cellar which served as a powder-magazine.

“The powder! the powder!” cried twenty terrified voices; “the powder! the powder!”

They saw the burning match in the governor's hand.

They guessed his purpose. Two soldiers rush forward and cross their bayonets before his breast just at the moment when he had opened the door.

“You may kill me,” said De Launay, “but you cannot kill me quick enough to prevent me letting this match fall among the powder-casks; and then besieged and besiegers will all be blown to atoms.”

The two soldiers stopped. Their bayonets remained crossed before De Launay's breast, but De Launay was still their commander, for all felt that he had their lives in his power. His action had nailed every one to the spot on which he stood. The assailants perceived that something extraordinary was happening. They looked anxiously into the courtyard, and saw the governor threatened and threatening in his turn.

“Hear me,” cried De Launay to the besiegers; “as surely as I hold this match in my hand, with which I could exterminate you all, should any one of you make a single step to enter this courtyard, so surely will I set fire to the powder.”

Those who heard these words imagined that they already felt the ground tremble beneath their feet.

“What do you wish; what do you ask-” cried several voices with an accent of terror.

“I wish a capitulation,” replied De Launay, “an honorable capitulation.”

The assailants pay but little attention to what the governor said; they cannot credit such an act of despair; they wish to enter the courtyard. Billot is at their head. Suddenly Billot trembles and turns pale; he just remembers Dr. Gilbert.

As long as Billot had thought only of himself, it was a matter of little importance to him whether the Bastille was blown up, and he blown up with it; but Gilbert's life must be saved at any cost.

“Stop!” exclaimed Billot, throwing himself before Elie and Hullin; “stop, in the name of the prisoners!”

And these men who feared not to encounter death themselves retreated, pale and trembling, in their turn.

“What do you demand-” they cried, renewing the question they had previously put to the governor by his own men.

“I demand that you should all withdraw,” replied De Launay, fiercely. “I will not accept any proposal, so long as there remains a single stranger in the Bastille.”

“But,” said Billot, “will you not take advantage of our absence to place yourself again in a state of defence-”

“If the capitulation is refused, you shall find everything in the state it now is,-you at that gate, I where I am now standing.”

“You pledge your word for that-”

“On the honor of a gentleman.”

Some of them shook their heads.

“On the honor of a gentleman,” reiterated De Launay.

“Is there any one here who can still doubt, when a gentleman has pledged his honor-”

“No, no, no!” repeated five hundred voices.

“Let paper, pen, and ink be brought here to me.”

The orders of the governor were instantly obeyed.

“'tis well,” said De Launay.

XXVII. Then, turning towards the assailants:-

“And now you must retire.”

Billot, Hullin, and Elie set the example, and were the first to withdraw.

All the others followed them.

De Launay placed the match by his side, and began writing the capitulation on his knee.

The Invalides and the Swiss soldiers who felt that their existence depended on the result, gazed at him, while he was writing, with a sort of respectful terror.

De Launay looked round before allowing his pen to touch the paper. He saw that the courtyard was free of all intruders.

In an instant the people outside were informed of all that had happened within the fortress.

As Monsieur de Losme had said, the population seemed to spring up from beneath the pavement. One hundred thousand men surrounded the Bastille.

They were no longer merely laborers and artisans, but citizens of every class had joined them. They were not merely men in the prime of life, but children and old men had rushed forward to the fight.

And all of them had arms of some description, all of them shouted vehemently.

Here and there among the groups was to be seen a woman in despair, with hair dishevelled, wringing her hands, and uttering maledictions against the granite giant.

She is some mother whose son the Bastille has just annihilated, some daughter whose father the Bastille has just levelled with the ground, some wife whose husband the Bastille has just exterminated.

But during some moments no sounds had issued from the Bastille, no flames, no smoke. The Bastille had become as silent as the tomb.

It would have been useless to endeavor to count the spots made by the balls which had marbled its surface. Every one had wished to fire a ball at the stone monster, the visible symbol of tyranny.

Therefore, when it was rumored in the crowd that the Bastille was about to capitulate, that its governor had promised to surrender, they could scarcely credit the report.

Amid this general doubt, as they did not yet dare to congratulate themselves, as they were silently awaiting the result, they saw a letter pushed forth through a loophole on the point of a sword. Only between this letter and the besiegers there was the ditch of the Bastille, wide, deep, and full of water.

Billot calls for a plank. Three are brought and are pushed across the ditch, but, being too short, did not reach the opposite side. A fourth is brought, which lodges on either side of the ditch.

Billot had them lashed together as he best could, and then ventured unhesitatingly upon the trembling bridge.

The whole crowd remained breathlessly silent; all eyes were fixed upon the man who appears suspended above the ditch, whose stagnant waters resemble those of the river Cocytus.

Pitou tremblingly seated himself on the edge of the slope, and hid his head between his knees.

His heart failed him, and he wept.

When Billot had got about two thirds of the way over the plank, it twisted beneath his feet. Billot extends his arms, falls, and disappears in the ditch.

Pitou utters a cry of horror and throws himself into the ditch, like a Newfoundland dog anxious to save his master.

A man then approached the plank from which Billot had just before been precipitated.

Without hesitation he walked across the temporary bridge. This man is Stanislaus Maillard, the usher of the Ch #226;telet.

When he had reached the spot below which Pitou and Billot were struggling in the muddy ditch, he for a moment cast a glance upon them, and seeing that there was no doubt they would regain the shore in safety, he continued to walk on.

Half a minute afterwards he had reached the opposite side of the ditch, and had taken the letter which was held out to him on the point of a sword.

Then, with the same tranquillity, the same firmness of step, he recrossed the ditch.

But at the moment when the crowd were pressing round him to hear the letter read, a storm of musketballs rained down upon them from the battlements, and a frightful detonation was heard.

One only cry, but one of those cries which announce the vengeance of a whole people, issues from every mouth.

“Trust, then, in tyrants!” exclaimed Gonchon.

And then, without thinking any more of the capitulation, without thinking any more of the powder-magazine, without thinking of themselves or of the prisoners, without desiring, without demanding anything but vengeance, the people rushed into the courtyard, no longer by hundreds of men, but by thousands.

That which prevents the crowd from entering is no longer the musketry, but the gates, which are too narrow to admit them.

On hearing the detonation we have spoken of, the two soldiers who were still watching Monsieur de Launay threw themselves upon him; a third seized the match and extinguished it under his foot.

De Launay drew the sword which was concealed in his cane, and would have turned it against his own breast, but the soldiers plucked it from him and snapped it in two.

He then felt that all he could do was to abide the result; he therefore tranquilly awaited it.

The people rush forward; the garrison open their arms to them, and the Bastille is taken by assault,-by main force, without a capitulation.

The reason for this was that for more than a hundred years the royal fortress had not merely imprisoned inert matter within its walls, it had imprisoned thought also. Thought had thrown down the walls of the Bastille, and the people entered by the breach.

As to the discharge of musketry, which had taken place amid the general silence, during the suspension of hostilities,-as to this unforeseen aggression, as impolitic as it was murderous, it was never known who had ordered it, who had excited it, how it was accomplished.

There are moments when the destiny of a whole nation is being weighed in the scales of Fate. One of them weighs down the other. Every one already thinks he has attained the proposed end. Suddenly some invisible hand lets fall into the other scale the blade of a poniard or a pistol ball.

Then all changes, and one only cry is heard: “Woe to the vanquished!”

CHAPTER XVIII. DOCTOR GILBERT

WHILE the people were thus rushing into the fortress, howling at once with joy and rage, two men were struggling in the muddy waters of the ditch.

These men were Pitou and Billot.

Pitou was supporting Billot. No shot had struck him. He had not been wounded in any way; but his fall had somewhat confused the worthy farmer.

Ropes were thrown to them; poles were held out to them.

Pitou caught hold of a pole, Billot a rope.

Five minutes afterwards they were carried in triumph by the people, and eagerly embraced, notwithstanding their muddy state.

One man gives Billot a glass of brandy, another stuffs Pitou's mouth full of sausages, and gives him wine to wash them down.

A third rubs them down with straw, and wishes to place them in the sun to dry their clothes.

Suddenly an idea, or rather a recollection, shot through the mind of Billot. He tears himself away from their kind cares and rushes into the Bastille.

“To the prisoners!” cried he, “to the prisoners!”

“Yes, to the prisoners!” cried Pitou, in his turn, bounding after the farmer.

The crowd, which until then had thought only of the executioners, shuddered when thinking of their victims.

They with one shout repeated: “Yes, yes, yes,-to the prisoners!”

And a new flood of assailants rush through the barriers, seeming to widen the sides of the fortress by their numbers, and bearing liberty with them to the captives.

A dreadful spectacle then offered itself to the eyes of Billot and Pitou. The excited, enraged, maddened throng had precipitated themselves into the courtyard. The first soldier they had met was at once hacked to pieces.

Gonchon had quietly looked on. Doubtless he had thought that the anger of the people, like the currents of great rivers, does more harm when any impediment is thrown in its way to arrest it than if allowed tranquilly to flow on.

Elie and Hullin, on the contrary, had thrown themselves before the infuriated executioners. They prayed, they supplicated, uttering the sublime lie that they had promised life and safety to the whole garrison.

The arrival of Billot and Pitou was a reinforcement to them.

Billot, whom they were avenging, Billot was living, Billot was not even wounded. The plank had turned under his feet, and that was all; he had taken a mudbath, and nothing more.

It was, above all, against the Swiss that the people were particularly enraged; but the Swiss were nowhere to be found. They had had time to put on gray frocks, and they were taken either for servants or for prisoners.

The mob hurled large stones at the dial of the clock, and destroyed the figures of the two captives which supported it. They rushed to the ramparts to mutilate the cannon which had vomited forth death upon them. They even wreaked their vengeance on the stone walls, tearing their hands in endeavoring to displace them. When the first of the conquerors were seen upon the platform, all those who had remained without the fortress, that is to say, a hundred thousand men, shouted with clamorous joy,-

“The Bastille is taken!”

This cry resounded through Paris, and spread itself over the whole of France, as if borne with the rapidity of eagle's wings.

On hearing this cry all hearts were softened, all eyes shed tears, all arms were extended. There were no longer any contending parties; there were no longer any inimical castes. All Parisians felt that they were brothers, all men felt that they were free.

A million of men pressed one another in a mutual embrace.

Billot and Pitou had entered the Bastille, following some and followed by others; what they wished for was, not to claim their share in the triumph; it was the liberty of the prisoners.

When crossing the courtyard of the government house, they passed near a man in a gray coat, who was standing calmly, his hand resting on a gold-headed cane.

This man was the governor. He was quietly waiting either that his friends should come to save him, or that his enemies should come to strike him down.

Billot, on perceiving him, recognized him, uttered a slight exclamation of surprise, and went straight to him.

De Launay also recognized Billot. He crossed his arms and waited, looking at the farmer with an expression that implied,-”

Let us see: is it you that will give me the first blow-”

Billot at once divined the meaning of his look, and stopped.

“If I speak to him,” said he to himself, “I shall cause him to be recognized, and should he be recognized, his death is certain.”

And yet, how was he to find Doctor Gilbert amid this chaotic confusion- How could he drag from the Bastille the secret which its walls enclosed-

All this hesitation, these heroic scruples, were understood by De Launay.

“What is it that you wish-” asked De Launay, in an undertone.

“Nothing,” replied Billot, pointing with his finger to the gate, indicating to him that escape was yet possible; “nothing. I shall be able readily to find Doctor Gilbert.”

“Third Bertaudi #232;re,” replied De Launay, in a gentle and almost affectionate tone of voice.

But he stirred not from the place on which he stood.

Suddenly a voice from behind Billot pronounced these words:-“Ah! there is the governor.”

This voice was so calm, so hollow, that it appeared not to be of this world, and yet each word it had uttered was a sharp poniard turned against the breast of De Launay.

He who had spoken was Gonchon.

These words, like the first sounds of an alarm-bell, excited a fearful commotion; all these men, drunk with revengeful feelings, started on hearing them; they looked around with flaming eyes, perceived De Launay, and at once darted upon and seized him.

“Save him,” said Billot, as he passed near Elie and Hullin, “or they will murder him.”

“Assist us to do so,” said the two men.

“I am obliged to remain here,” replied Billot, “for I also have some one to save.”

In an instant De Launay had been surrounded by a thousand men, who dragged him along, lifted him up, and were bearing him away.

Elie and Hullin bounded after him, crying,-

“Stop! stop! we promised him that his life should be saved.”

This was not true; but the thought of uttering this magnanimous falsehood had risen to the mind of these two generous men at the same moment.

In a second, De Launay, followed by Elie and Hullin, disappeared under the vaulted passage which led from the Bastille, amidst loud voices of, “To the H #244;tel de Ville! To the H #244;tel de Ville!”

It was a singular spectacle to see this mournful and silent monument, which for four centuries had been tenanted only by prisoners, their jailers, their guards, and a gloomy governor, now become the prey of the people, who ran through the courtyards, ascended and descended the staircases, buzzing like a swarm of flies, and filling this granite hive with noise and movement.

De Launay, a living prey, was to some of the victors of as great value as the dead prey, the captured Bastille.

Billot for a moment or two followed De Launay with his eyes, who was carried rather than led, and appeared to soar above the crowd.

But, as we have said, he soon disappeared. Billot heaved a sigh, looked around him, perceived Pitou, and rushed towards a tower, crying,-

“Third Bertaudi #232;re.”

A trembling jailer met him on his way.

“Third Bertaudi #232;re,” said Billot.

“This way, sir,” replied the jailer; “but I have not the keys.”

“Where are they-”

“They took them from me.”

“Citizen, lend me your hatchet,” said Billot, to one of the men from the Faubourg.

“I give it to you,” replied the latter; “I do not want it any more, since the Bastille is taken.”

Billot snatched the hatchet, and ran up a staircase, conducted by the jailer.

The jailer stopped before a door.

“Third Bert #225;udi #232;re-” asked Billot.

“Yes, this is it.”

“The prisoner confined in this room is Doctor Gilbert, is it not-”

“I do not know.”

“He was brought here only five or six days ago-”

“I do not know.”

“Well, then,” said Billot, “I shall soon know it.”

And he began chopping at the door with his hatchet.

The door was of oak, but it soon flew into splinters beneath the vigorous blows of the robust farmer.

In a few moments he had cut a hole through it and could look into the room.

Billot placed his eye at the opening. Through it he could see the interior of the cell.

In the line of sunshine which penetrated into the dungeon through its grated window a man was standing, his head thrown rather backwards, holding in his hand one of the posts of his bedstead, and in an attitude of defence.

This man had evidently prepared himself to knock down the first person who should enter his room.

Notwithstanding his long beard, notwithstanding his pallid countenance, notwithstanding his short-cut hair, Billot recognized him. It was Doctor Gilbert.

“Doctor! doctor!” cried Billot to him, “is it you-”

“Who is it that is calling me-” inquired the prisoner.

“It is I-I, Billot, your friend.”

“You, Billot-”

“Yes! yes!-he! he!-we! we!” cried the voices of twenty men, who had run into the passage on hearing the vigorous blows struck by Billot.

“But who are you-”

“We-why, the conquerors of the Bastille. The Bastille is taken; you are free.”

“The Bastille is taken; I am free!” exclaimed the doctor.

And passing both his hands through the opening, he shook the door so violently that the hinges and the lock appeared nearly yielding to his powerful pressure, and part of a panel, already loosened by Billot, broke off, and remained in the prisoner's hands.

“Wait, wait!” said Billot, who was afraid that a second effort of so violent a nature would exhaust his strength, which had been overtaxed; “wait.”

And he redoubled his blows.

And indeed, through the opening, which was every moment becoming wider, he could see the prisoner, who had seated himself upon his bench, pale as a spectre, and incapable of raising the bedpost which was lying near him, and who but a few moments before, another Samson, seemed strong enough to shake down the walls of the Bastille.

“Billot! Billot!” murmured he.

“Yes, yes! and I also, my good doctor-I, Pitou-you must remember poor Pitou, whom you placed at board with his aunt Ang #233;lique,-Pitou has come to liberate you.”

“But I can get through that hole,” cried the doctor.

“No! no!” cried all the voices; “wait.”

All those present uniting their strength in one simultaneous effort, some slipping a crowbar between the door and the framework, others using a lever between the lock and doorpost, and the remainder pushing with all the might of their shoulders or their hands, the oak gave a last cracking sound, the wall gave way, and they all of them stumbled, one over the other, into the room.

In a moment Gilbert found himself in the arms of Pitou and Billot.

Gilbert, the little country lad of the Ch #226;teau de Taverney, Gilbert, whom we left bathed in his blood in a cavern of the Azores, was now a man from thirty-four to thirty-five years old, of pale complexion, though he was not sickly, with black hair, eyes penetrating and fixed; never did his gaze lose itself in vacuity; never did it wander; when it was not fixed on some exterior object worthy to attract, it was fixed on his own thought, and became only more profound and more gloomy; his nose was straight, being attached to his forehead in a direct line; it rose above a lip of rather scornful expression, which, in the slight space between it and the nether lip, allowed one to perceive the dazzling enamel of his teeth. In ordinary times his dress was simple and grave, like that of a Quaker; but this simplicity was closely allied to elegance, from its extreme neatness. His height was somewhat above the medium stature, and he was well formed; as to his strength, we have just seen the feats it could perform when in a state of over-excitement, whether caused by anger or enthusiastic feeling.

Although in prison for five or six days, the doctor had paid the same attention to his person; his beard, which had grown some few lines, caused the paleness of his complexion to contrast favorably with its darkness, and indicated only a negligence which certainly was not the prisoner's, but his jailer's, who had refused to give him a razor, or to allow him to be shaved.

When he had pressed Billot and Pitou in his arms, he turned towards the crowd who had filled his dungeon. Then, as if a moment had sufficed to restore all his self-possession:-

“The day which I had foreseen has then arrived,” said he. “Thanks to you, my friends,-thanks to the eternal genius which watches over the liberty of nations!”

And he held out both his hands to the men who had assisted Billot to break down the door, and who, recognizing in him, from the dignity of his demeanor and his proud look, a man of superior genius, hardly dared to touch them.

On leaving the dungeon, he walked before all these men, leaning on Billot's shoulder, and followed by Pitou and his liberators.

The first moment had been devoted by Gilbert to friendship and to gratitude, the second had re-established the distance which existed between the learned doctor and the ignorant farmer, the warm-hearted Pitou, and the whole throng which had liberated him.

When he reached the door at the foot of the staircase Gilbert stopped, on perceiving the broad sunshine which beamed full upon him. He paused, crossing his arms over his breast and raising his eyes to heaven. “Hail to thee, lovely Liberty!” he exclaimed. “I saw thee spring to life in another world, and we are old friends. Hail to thee, lovely Liberty!”

And the smile of the doctor clearly said that the cries he then heard of a whole people, inebriated with independence, were no new thing to him.

Then, meditating for a few seconds:-

“Billot,” said he, “the people, then, have vanquished despotism-”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you came here to fight-”

“I came to liberate you.”

“You knew, then, of my arrest-”

“Your son informed me of it this morning.”

“Poor Sebastien! Have you seen him-”

“I have seen him.”

“And he remained quietly at his school-”

“I left him struggling with four of the attendants of the infirmary.”

“Is he ill-has he been delirious-”

“He wanted to come with us to fight.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the doctor, and a smile of triumph passed over his features. His son had proved himself to be what he had hoped.

“And what did you say to him-” inquired the doctor. “I said, since Doctor Gilbert is in the Bastille, let us take the Bastille; and now the Bastille is taken. But that is not all.”

“What is there, then, besides-” asked the doctor.

“The casket has been stolen.”

“The casket which I had confided to your care-”

“Yes.”

“Stolen! and by whom-”

“By some men dressed in black, who came into my house under the pretext of seizing your pamphlets: they arrested me, locked me up in a room; they searched the house all over, found the casket, and carried it off.”

“When did this happen-”

“Yesterday.”

“Ho! ho! there is an evident connection between my arrest and this robbery. The person who caused my arrest, at the same time had the casket stolen. Let me but know the persons who contrived my arrest, and I shall know who it was contrived the robbery. Where are the archives of the fortress” continued the doctor, turning to the jailer.

“In the courtyard of the government house, sir,” replied the jailer.

“Then to the archives, my friends-to the archives!” cried the doctor.

“Sir,” said the jailer, stopping him, “let me go with you, or speak a word in my favor to these worthy people, that no harm may happen to me.”

“Be it so,” said Gilbert.

Then, addressing the crowd who surrounded him, and gazed at him with curiosity mingled with respect:-

“My friends,” said he, “I recommend this worthy man to you; he only fulfilled his office in opening and shutting the prison doors; but he was kind towards the prisoners. Let no injury happen to him.”

“No, no!” cried the crowd with one accord, “no!-he need not fear; no harm shall be done to him. Let him come with us.”

“I thank you, sir,” said the jailer to the doctor; “but if you wish for anything in the archives, I advise you to move quickly, for I believe they are burning the papers.”

“Oh, then there is not an instant to be lost,” cried Gilbert; “to the archives!”

And he hastened towards the courtyard of the government house, followed by the crowd, at the head of which were still Billot and Pitou.

CHAPTER XIX. THE TRIANGLE

ON reaching the door of the office in which the archives were kept, Gilbert perceived that a large heap of old papers was being burnt.

Unhappily, it is a general consequence that after having obtained a victory, the first desire the people have to gratify is that of destruction.

The archives of the Bastille had been invaded.

This office was a vast hall, heaped up with registry books and plans; the documents relating to all the prisoners who had been confined in the Bastille during the last hundred years were confusedly enclosed in it.

The people tore these papers to pieces with senseless rage; it doubtless appeared to them that, by destroying these registrations of imprisonment, they were legally bestowing freedom on the prisoners.

Gilbert went into the hall; seconded by Pitou, he began to examine the register books, which were still standing on the shelves; that of the current year was not to be found.

The doctor, a man who was always so cool and calm, turned pale, and stamped with impatience.

At that moment Pitou caught sight of one of those heroic urchins who are always to be found in popular triumphs, who was carrying off on his head, and running with it towards the fire, a volume similar in shape and binding to that which Dr. Gilbert had been examining.

He ran after him, and, with his long legs, speedily overtook him.

It was the register of the year 1789.

The negotiation did not occupy much time. Pitou was considered as one of the leaders of the conquerors, and explained to the boy that a prisoner had occasion to use that register, and the urchin yielded up his prey to him, consoling himself with the observation,-

“It is all the same to me; I can burn another.”

Pitou opened the book, turned over the leaves, hunted through it, and on the last page found the words:-

“This day, the 9th July, 1789, came in the Sieur G., a philosopher and political writer, a very dangerous person; to be kept in close and secret confinement.”

He carried the book to the doctor.

“Here, Monsieur Gilbert,” said he to him, “is not this what you are seeking for-”

“Oh!” cried the doctor, joyfully, and seizing hold of the book, “yes, that is it.”

And he read the words we have given above.

“And now,” said he, “let us see from whom the order emanated.”

And he examined the margin.

“Necker!” he exclaimed; “the order for my arrest signed by Necker, my friend Necker! Oh, most assuredly there must have been some foul plot!”

“Necker is your friend-” cried the crowd with respect; for it will be remembered that this name had great influence with the people.

“Yes, yes, my friends,” said the doctor; “I am convinced that Monsieur Necker did not know that I was in prison. But I will at once go to him.”

“Go to him,-and where-” inquired Billot.

“To Versailles, to be sure.”

“Monsieur Necker is not at Versailles; Monsieur Necker is exiled.”

“And where-”

“At Brussels.”

“But his daughter-”

“Ah! I know nothing of her,” replied Billot.

“His daughter is at his country-house, at St. Ouen,” said a voice from the crowd.

“I am obliged to you,” replied Gilbert, not knowing even to whom his thanks were addressed.

Then, turning towards those who were occupied in burning the papers:-

“My friends,” he said, “in the name of history, which in these archives would find matter for the condemnation of tyrants, let me conjure you not to pursue this work of destruction; demolish the Bastille, stone by stone, that not a vestige, not a trace of it may remain, but respect the papers, respect the registers; the enlightenment of the future is contained in them.”

The crowd had scarcely heard these words, than, with its usual admirable intelligence, it duly weighed this reasoning.

“The doctor is right,” cried a hundred voices; “no more devastation of these papers. Let us remove all these papers to the H #244;tel de Ville.”

A fireman who, with a number of his companions, had dragged an engine into the courtyard, on hearing the report that the governor was about to blow up the fortress, directed the pipe of his hose upon the burning pile, which, like to that of Alexandria, was about to destroy the archives of a world; in a few minutes it was extinguished.

“And at whose request were you arrested-” said Billot to Gilbert.

“Ah! that is precisely what I am endeavoring to discover and cannot ascertain,-the name is left in blank.”

Then, after a moment's reflection:-

“But I will find it out,” said he.

And tearing out the leaf on which the entry was made regarding him, he folded it up, and put it into his pocket. Then, addressing himself to Billot and Pitou:-

“My friends,” said he, “let us leave this place; we have nothing further to do here.”

“Well, let us go,” replied Billot; “only it is a thing more easily said than done.”

And in fact the crowd, urged into the interior courtyards by curiosity, were so closely packed that egress was almost impossible. And, to add to the difficulty, the other liberated prisoners were standing close to the principal gate.

Eight prisoners, including Gilbert, had been liberated that morning.

Their names were: Jean Bechade, Bernard Laroche, Jean Lacaur #232;ge, Antoine Pujade, De White, Le Comte de Solage, and Tavernier.

The first four inspired but little interest. They were accused of having forged a bill of exchange, without any proof whatsoever being brought against them, and which led to the supposition that the charge against them was false; they had been only two years in the Bastille.

The Count de Solage was a man about thirty years of age, of joyous and expansive temperament; he embraced his liberators, congratulated them upon their victory, which he loudly extolled, and related to them the story of his captivity. He had been arrested in 1782, and imprisoned at Vincennes, his father having obtained a lettre de cachet against him, and was removed from that castle to the Bastille, where he had remained five years, without ever having seen a judge, or having been examined even once; his father had been dead two years, and no one had ever thought of him. If the Bastille had not been taken, it is probable that no one would have ever remembered that he was there.

De White was a man advanced in years, somewhere about sixty; he uttered strangely incoherent words, and with a foreign accent. To the questions which poured in upon him from all sides, he replied that he did not know how long he had been incarcerated, or what had been the cause of his arrest. He remembered that he was the cousin of Monsieur de Sartines, and that was all. One of the turnkeys, whose name was Guyon, said that he had seen Monsieur de Sartines, on one occasion, go into De White's cell, where he made him sign a power of attorney. But the prisoner had completely forgotten the circumstance.

Tavernier was the oldest of them all. He had been shut up for ten years in the Iles Ste. Marguerite; thirty years had he been immured in the Bastille. He was upwards of ninety years old, with white hair and long white beard; his eyes had become dimmed by remaining so long in a dark cell, and he saw everything as through a cloud. When the crowd broke open his door, he could not comprehend what they wanted with him; when they spoke to him of liberty, he shook his head; then afterwards, when they told him that the Bastille was taken:

“Ho! ho!” cried he, “ what will Louis XV., Madame de Pompadour, and the Duke de la Vrilli #232;re say to all this-”

Tavernier was not even mad, like De White; he had become an idiot.

The joy of these men was frightful to behold, for it cried aloud for vengeance, so much did it resemble terror. Two or three of them seemed almost expiring in the midst of the clamor raised by a hundred thousand voices. Poor men! they who, during the whole time of their confinement in the Bastille, had never heard two human voices speaking at the same moment,-they who were no longer accustomed to any noises but the low and mysterious one of wood, when warping with the damp, that of the spider, when, unperceived, he weaves his net with a ticking similar to that of an invisible pendulum, or of the affrighted rat, which gnaws and flies at the least stir.

At the moment that Gilbert made his appearance, the most enthusiastic among the crowd proposed that the prisoners should be carried in triumph,-a proposal which was unanimously adopted.

Gilbert would have much desired to avoid this species of ovation; but there were no means of escaping it; he had been at once recognized, as well as Billot and Pitou.

Cries of “To the H #244;tel de Ville! to the H #244;tel de Ville!” resounded on all sides, and Gilbert was raised in an instant on the shoulders of twenty persons.

In vain did the doctor resist, in vain did Billot and Pitou distribute among their victorious brethren the most vigorous fisticuffs; joy and enthusiasm had hardened the skins of the populace. These, and even blows given with pike-handles and the butt-ends of muskets, appeared only gentle caresses to the conquerors, and only served to redouble their delight.

Gilbert was therefore compelled to mount the triumphal car.

This car was formed of a square table, in the middle of which was stuck a lance, to serve as a support to the victor, and enable him to preserve his balance.

The doctor, therefore, was raised above this sea of heads, which undulated from the Bastille to the Arcade St. Jean, a tempestuous sea, whose waves were bearing, in the midst of pikes and bayonets, and arms of every description, of every form, and of every age, the triumphant prisoners.

But at the same time this terrible and irresistible ocean was rolling on another group, so compact and closely formed that it appeared an island. This group was the one which was leading away De Launay as a prisoner.

Around this group arose cries not less tumultuous nor less enthusiastic than those which accompanied the prisoners; but they were not shouts of triumph, they were threats of death.

Gilbert, from his elevated position, did not lose a single detail of this frightful spectacle.

He was the only one among all the prisoners who had been restored to liberty, who was in the enjoyment of all his faculties. Five days of captivity were merely a dark spot in his life. His eyes had not been weakened or rendered dim by his short sojourn in the Bastille.

A combat, generally, does not have the effect of rendering the combatants pitiless excepting during the time that it continues. Men, generally, when issuing from a struggle in which they have risked their lives, without receiving injury, are full of kindly feelings towards their enemies.

But in great popular commotions, such as those of which France has seen so many from the times of the Jacquerie down to our own days, the masses whom fear has withheld from aiding in the fight, whom noise has irritated, the masses, at once ferocious and cowardly, endeavor, after the victory has been gained, to claim their share of the triumph which they had not dared to accelerate. They take their share in the vengeance.

From the moment of his leaving the Bastille, the procession was the commencement of the governor's execution.

Elie, who had taken the governor's life under his own responsibility, marched at the head of the group, protected by his uniform and by the admiration of the people, who had seen him one of the first to advance amid the enemy's fire. He carried his sword above his head, on the point of which was the note which Monsieur de Launay had caused to be handed to the people through one of the loop-holes of the Bastille, and which had been brought by Maillard.

After him came the guard of the royal taxes, holding in his hand the keys of the fortress; then Maillard, bearing the standard; and after him a young man carrying the regulations of the Bastille on his bayonet,-an odious rescript by means of which so many bitter tears had flowed.

The governor walked next, protected by Hullin and two or three others, but disappeared amid the throng of threatening fists, of waving sabres, and of quivering lances.

By the side of this group, and rolling onward in an almost parallel line with it in the great artery of the Rue St. Antoine, which leads from the Boulevard to the river, another could be distinguished, not less threatening, not less terrible than the first. It was that which was dragging forward Major de Losme, whom we have seen for a moment combating the will of the governor, and who had at length been compelled to bow down his head before the determination which De Launay had taken to defend himself.

Major de Losme was a worthy, brave, and excellent young man. Since he had been in the Bastille he had alleviated the sorrows of many of the prisoners by his kind treatment of them. But the people were ignorant of this. The people, from his brilliant uniform, imagined that he was the governor. Whereas the governor, thanks to his gray coat, on which there was no embroidery whatsoever, and from which he had torn the ribbon of the order of St. Louis, was surrounded as it were by a protecting doubt which could be dispelled by those only who were acquainted with his person.

Such was the spectacle which offered itself to the grieved eyes of Doctor Gilbert. His face, even in the midst of dangers, bore always a calm and observing expression,-a quality which was inherent in his powerful organization.

Hullin, on leaving the Bastille, had called around him his most trusty and devoted friends, the most valiant of the popular soldiers of that day, and four or five had responded to his call, and endeavored to second him in his generous design of protecting the governor. Among them are three men of whom impartial history has consecrated the memory; their names were Arn #233;, Chollat, and De L #233;pine.

These men, preceded as we have said by Hullin and Maillard, were therefore endeavoring to defend the life of one for whose death a hundred thousand men were clamorously calling.

Around them had ranged themselves some grenadiers of the French Guard, whose uniform, having become popular during the last two days, was an object of veneration to the people.

Monsieur de Launay had escaped receiving any blow as long as the arms of his generous defenders were able to ward them off; but he had not escaped insulting language and threats.

At the corner of the Rue de Jouy, of the five grenadiers of the French Guards who had joined the procession on leaving the Bastille, not one remained. They had one after the other been carried off on the way, by the enthusiasm of the crowd, and perhaps also by the calculation of assassins, and Gilbert had seen them disappear one after the other, like beads from a rosary of which the cord had been broken.

From that moment he had foreseen that the victory which had been gained was about to be tarnished by a sanguinary sacrifice; he had attempted to jump from the table which served him as a triumphal car, but arms of iron had riveted him to it. In his powerless position, he had directed Billot and Pitou to rush forward to defend the governor, and both of them, obedient to his voice, had made every effort to cleave through the human waves and get near to Monsieur de Launay.

And in fact the little group of his, defenders stood in great need of a reinforcement. Chollat, who had not tasted food since the previous evening, had felt his strength giving way, and at length had fainted; it was with great difficulty that he had been raised and saved from being trampled under foot.

But this was a breach made in the wall, a falling-in of the dyke.

A man rushed through this breach, and whirling the butt of his gun over his head, aimed a deadly blow at the uncovered head of the governor.

But De L #233;pine, who saw the terrific blow descending, had time enough to throw himself with outstretched arms between the governor and his assailant, and received on his forehead the blow intended for the governor.

Stunned by the shock, blinded with his own blood, which streamed into his eyes, he staggered, and covered his face with his hands, and when he could again see, the governor was twenty paces from him.

It was at this moment that Billot, dragging Pitou after him through the crowd, came up to him.

He perceived that what exposed Monsieur de Launay, above all, to observation, was his being the only man in the crowd who was bareheaded.

Billot took his hat, stretched out his arm, and placed it on the governor's head.

De Launay turned round and recognized Billot.

“I thank you,” he said; “but whatever you may do, you will not save me.”

“Let us only reach the H #244;tel de Ville,” said Hullin, “and I will answer for your safety.”

“Yes,” replied De Launay, “but shall we reach it-”

“With the help of God, we will attempt it,” rejoined Hullin.

And in fact there was some hope of succeeding, for they were just entering the square before the H #244;tel de Ville; but this square was thronged with men with naked arms, brandishing pikes and sabres. The report, which had flown from street to street, had announced to them that the governor and the major of the Bastille were being brought to them; and like a pack of hungry hounds eager to be loosed upon their prey, they awaited, grinding their teeth and impatient for their approach.

As soon as they saw the procession approach they rushed towards the governor.

Hullin saw that this was the moment of extreme danger, of the last struggle; if he could only get the governor to the front steps, and get him to rush up the staircase, De Launay was saved.

“To me, Elie!-to me, Maillard!-to me, all men with hearts,” cried he: “our honor is at stake.”

Elie and Maillard heard the appeal; they made a rush into the centre of the mob, and the people seconded them but too well; they made way for them to pass, but closed in behind them.

In this manner Elie and Maillard were separated from the principal group, and were prevented returning to it.

The crowd saw the advantage it had gained, and made a furious effort. Like an enormous boa, it entwined its gigantic folds around the group. Billot was lifted off his feet and dragged away; Pitou, who thought only of Billot, allowed himself to be forced away in the same throng. Hullin, being hurried on by the crowd, stumbled against the first step of the H #244;tel de Ville, and fell. He got up, but it was to fall again almost immediately, and this time De Launay fell with him.

The governor was constant to the last; up to the final moment, he uttered not a single complaint; he did not ask for mercy, but he cried out in a loud, shrill tone,-

“Tigers that you are, at all events do not allow me to remain thus in suspense; kill me at once!”

Never was order more promptly executed than this reproachful request of the poor governor. In an instant around the fallen De Launay every head was bowed down towards him. For a moment nothing could be seen but upraised and threatening hands, grasping poniards which as suddenly disappeared then was seen a head severed from the body, and which was raised, still streaming with blood, upon the end of a pike; the features had retained their livid and contemptuous smile.

This was the first.

Gilbert, from his elevated position, could see all that was passing; Gilbert had once more attempted to spring to the assistance of the governor, but two hundred arms prevented him.

He turned his head from the disgusting spectacle and sighed.

This head, with its staring eyes, was raised immediately in front, and as if to salute him with a last look, of the window in which De Flesselles was standing, surrounded and protected by the electors.

It would have been difficult to decide whether the face of the living or that of the dead man was the most pale and livid.

Suddenly an immense uproar arose from the spot on which was lying the mutilated body of De Launay. His pockets had been searched by his assassins, and in his breast-pocket had been found the note which the Provost of the Merchants had addressed to him, and which he had shown to De Losme.

This note, our readers may remember, was couched in the following terms:-

Hold firm!-I amuse the Parisians with cockades and promises. Before the close of the day Monsieur de Besenval will send you a reinforcement.

The most blasphemous imprecations rose from the pavement of the square to the window of the H #244;tel de Ville in which De Flesselles was standing.

Without guessing the cause of this new tumult, he fully comprehended the threat, and hastily drew back from the window; but he had been seen; every one knew that he was there; the crowd rushed up the staircase, and this time the movement was so universal that the men who had been carrying Doctor Gilbert abandoned him to follow the living tide which in a tempest of passion was overflowing the great staircase.

Gilbert would also have gone into the Hotel de Ville, not to threaten but to protect Flesselles. He had already ascended three or four of the front steps, when he felt himself violently pulled back. He turned round to disengage himself from this new obstruction, but he recognized Billot and Pitou.

“Oh!” exclaimed Gilbert, who from his commanding position could glance over the whole square, “what can they be doing yonder-”

And he pointed with his convulsively clinched hand to the corner of the Rue de la Tix #233;randerie.

“Come with us, Doctor, come!” simultaneously cried Billot and Pitou.

“Oh, the assassins!” cried the doctor, “the assassins!”

And indeed at that moment Major de Losme fell, killed by a desperate blow from a hatchet,-the people confounding in their rage the egotistical and barbarous governor, who had been the persecutor of his prisoners, with the generous man who had been their friend and reliever.

“Oh, yes, yes,” said he, “let us be gone, for I begin to be ashamed of having been liberated by such men.”

“Doctor,” said Billot, “be not uneasy on that score. The men who fought down yonder are not the same men who are committing these horrid massacres.”

But at the moment when the doctor was about to descend the steps which he had gone up, to hasten to the assistance of Flesselles, the flood which had poured into the building was again vomited forth. Amid this torrent of men was one who was struggling furiously as they dragged him forward.

“To the Palais Royal! to the Palais Royal!” cried the crowd.

“Yes, my friends-yes, my good friends-to the Palais Royal!” repeated the man.

And they went towards the river, as if this human inundation had wished, not to bear him towards the Palais Royal, but to drag him towards the Seine.

“Oh!” cried Gilbert, “here is another they are about to murder!-let us endeavor to save him at least.” But scarcely had he pronounced these words when a pistol-shot was heard, and De Flesselles disappeared amid the smoke.

Gilbert covered his eyes with both his hands, with a gesture of excessive anger; he cursed the people who, after having shown themselves so great, had not the firmness to remain pure, and had sullied the victory they had gained by a triple assassination.

Then, when he removed his hands from his eyes, he saw three heads raised above the crowd, on three pikes.

The first was that of De Flesselles, the second that of De Losme, the third that of De Launay.

The one rose above the front steps of the H #244;tel de Ville, the other from the middle of the Rue de la Tix #233;randerie, the third on the Quai Pelletier.

From their relative positions they assumed the form of a triangle.

“Oh, Balsamo! Balsamo!” murmured the doctor, with a sigh; “is it then such a triangle as this that is to be symbolical of liberty!”

And he ran along the Rue de la Vannerie, Billot and Pitou accompanying him.

CHAPTER XX. SEBASTIEN GILBERT

AT the corner of the Rue Planche Mibray the doctor met a hackney coach, made a sign to the coachman to stop, and hastily got into it.

Billot and Pitou quickly followed him.

“To the College of Louis-le-Grand!” cried Gilbert, and threw himself into one corner of the vehicle, where he fell into a profound reverie, which was respected by Billot and Pitou.

They went over the Pont au Change by the Rue de la Cit #233;, the Rue St. Jacques, and at length reached the College Louis-le-Grand.

All Paris was trembling with emotion. The news had spread rapidly throughout the city; rumors of the assassinations on the Place de la Gr #232;ve were mingled with the glorious recital of the taking of the Bastille. On every face could be seen depicted the various emotions to which the news gave rise, according to the varied feelings they excited,-the lightning of the soul which thus betrayed themselves.

Gilbert had not once looked out of the coach window; Gilbert had not uttered a single word. There is always a ridiculous side in popular ovations, and Gilbert contemplated his ovation in that point of view.

And besides, it also appeared to him that notwithstanding all he had done to prevent it, some drops of the blood which had been shed would fall upon his head.

The doctor alighted from the hackney coach at the college gate, and made a sign to Billot to follow him.

As to Pitou, he discreetly remained in the coach.

Sebastien was still in the infirmary; the principal in person, on Doctor Gilbert's being announced, conducted him thither.

Billot, who, although not a very acute observer, well knew the character of both father and son,-Billot attentively observed the scene which was passing before his eyes.

Weak, irritable, and nervous, as the boy had shown himself in the moment of despair, he evinced an equal degree of tranquillity and reserve in the moment of joy.

On perceiving his father he turned pale, and words failed him. His lips quivered, and then he ran and threw his arms round his father's neck, uttering a cry of joy, which resembled a cry of grief, and then held him silently clasped within his arms.

The doctor responded as silently to this mute pressure; only, after having embraced his son, he looked at him with an expression that was more sorrowful than joyous.

A more skilful observer than Billot would have said that some misfortune or some crime existed in the relations between that youth and that man.

The youth was less reserved in his conduct towards Billot. When he could observe any one excepting his father, who had in the first moment engrossed all his attention, he ran to the good farmer, and threw his arms round his neck, saying,-

“You are a worthy man, Monsieur Billot; you have kept your promise to me, and I thank you for it.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Billot, “and it was not without some trouble, I can assure you, Monsieur Sebastien. Your father was very nicely and safely locked up, and it was necessary to do a tolerable deal of damage before we could get him out.”

“Sebastien,” inquired the doctor with some anxiety, “you are in good health-”

“Yes, Father,” replied the young man, “although you find me here in the infirmary.”

Gilbert smiled.

“I know why it was you were brought here,” said he.

The boy smiled in his turn.

“Have you everything you require here-” continued the doctor.

“Everything-thanks to you.”

“I shall then, my dear boy, still recommend to you the same, the only line of conduct,-study assiduously.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I know that to you the word 'study' is not a vain and monotonous word; if I believed it to be so, I would no longer say it.”

“Father, it is not for me to reply to you on that head. It is the province of Monsieur B #233;rardier, our excellent principal.”

The doctor turned towards Monsieur B #233;rardier, who made a sign that he had something to say to him.

“I will speak to you again in a moment, Sebastien,” said the doctor.

And he went over to the principal.

“Sir,” said Sebastien, with anxious feeling, to Billot, “can anything unfortunate have happened to Pitou- The poor lad is not with you.”

“He is at the door in a hackney coach,” replied Billot.

“Father,” said Sebastien, “will you allow Monsieur Billot to fetch Pitou to me- I should be very glad to see him.”

Gilbert gave an affirmative nod; Billot left the room “What is it you would say to me-” inquired Gilbert of the Abb #233; B #233;rardier.

“I wished to tell you, sir, that it is not study that you should recommend to the young lad, but, on the contrary, to amuse himself.”

“And on what account, good abb #233;-”

“Yes, he is an excellent young man, whom everybody here loves as a son or as a brother, but-”

The abb #233; paused.

“But what-” cried Gilbert, with anxiety.

“But if great care be not taken, Monsieur Gilbert, there is something that will kill him.”

“And what is that-” said Gilbert.

“The study which you so strongly recommend to him.”

“Study-”

“Yes, sir, study. If you could but see him seated at his desk, his arms crossed, poring over his dictionary, with eyes fixed-”

“Studying, or dreaming-” asked Gilbert.

“Studying, sir; endeavoring to find a good expression the antique style, the Greek or Latin form-seeking for it for hours together; and see! even at this very moment!-look at him!”

And indeed the young man, although it was not five minutes since his father had been speaking to him, although Billot had scarcely shut the door after him, had fallen into a reverie which seemed closely allied to ecstasy.

“Is he often thus-” anxiously inquired Gilbert.

“Sir, I could almost say that this is his habitual state; only see how deeply he is meditating.”

“You are right, sir; and when you observe him in this state, you should endeavor to divert his thoughts.”

“And yet it would be a pity, for the results of these meditations are compositions which will one day do great honor to the College Louis-le-Grand. I predict that in three years from this time that youth yonder will bear off all the prizes at our examination.”

“Take care!” replied the doctor; “this species of absorption of thought, in which you see Sebastien now plunged, is rather a proof of weakness than of strength, a symptom rather of malady than of health. You are right, Monsieur Principal; it will not do to recommend assiduous application to that child; or, at least, we must know how to distinguish study from such a state of reverie.”

“Sir, I can assure you that he is studying.”

“What, as we see him now-”

“Yes; and the proof is that his task is always finished before that of the other scholars. Do you see how his lips move- He is repeating his lessons.”

“Well, then, whenever he is repeating his lessons in this manner, Monsieur B #233;rardier, divert his attention from them. He will not know his lessons the worse for it, and his health will be better for it.”

“Do you think so-”

“I am sure of it.”

“Well,” cried the good abb #233;, “you ought to understand these matters,-you, whom Messieurs de Condorcet and Cabanis proclaim to be one of the most learned men now existing in the world.”

“Only,” rejoined Gilbert, “when you wish to draw him out of such reveries, you must do it with much precaution. Speak to him very softly in the first instance, and then louder.”

“And why so-”

“To bring him gradually back to this world, which his mind has left.”

The abb #233; looked at the doctor with astonishment. It would not have required much to make him believe that he was mad.

“Observe,” continued the doctor; “you shall see the proof of what I am saying to you.”

Billot and Pitou entered the room at this moment. In three strides Pitou was at the side of the dreaming youth.

“You asked for me, Sebastien,” said Pitou to him; “that was very kind of you.”

And he placed his large head close to the pale face of the young lad.

“Look!” said Gilbert, seizing the abb #233;'s arm.

And indeed Sebastien, thus abruptly aroused from his reverie by the cordial affection of Pitou, staggered, his pale face became livid, his head fell on one side, as if his neck had not sufficient strength to support it, a painful sigh escaped his breast, and then the blood again rushed to his face.

He shook his head and smiled.

“Ah, it is you, Pitou. Yes; that is true: I asked for you.”

And then, looking at him:-

“You have been fighting, then-”

“Yes, and like a brave lad, too,” said Billot.

“Why did you not take me with you-” said the child, in a reproachful tone. “I would have fought also, and then I should at least have done something for my father.”

“Sebastien,” said Gilbert, going to his son, and pressing his head to his breast, “you can do much more for your father than to fight for him; you can listen to his advice, and follow it,-become a distinguished and celebrated man.”

“As you are-” said the boy, with proud emotion. “Oh, it is that which I aspire to.”

“Sebastien,” said the doctor, “now that you have embraced both Billot and Pitou, our good friends, will you come into the garden with me for a few minutes, that we may have a little talk together-”

“With great delight, Father. Only two or three times in my whole life have I been alone with you, and those moments, with all their details, are always present in my memory.”

“You will allow us, good Monsieur Principal ” said Gilbert.

“How can you doubt it-”

“Billot and Pitou, you must, my friends, stand in need of some refreshment-”

“Upon my word, I do,” said Billot. “I have eaten nothing since the morning, and I believe that Pitou has fasted as long as I have.”

“I beg your pardon,” replied Pitou: “I ate a crumb of bread and two or three sausages, just the moment before I dragged you out of the water; but a bath always makes one hungry.”

“Well, then, come to the refectory,” said the Abb #233; B #233;rardier, “and you shall have some dinner.”

“Ho, ho!” cried Pitou.

“You are afraid of our college fare!” cried the abb #233;; “but do not alarm yourselves; you shall be treated as invited guests. Moreover, it appears to me,” continued the abb #233;, “that it is not alone your stomach that is in a dilapidated state, my dear Monsieur Pitou.”

Pitou cast a look replete with modesty on his own person.

“And that if you were offered a pair of breeches as well as a dinner-”

“The fact is, I would accept them, good Monsieur B #233;rardier,” replied Pitou.

“Well, then, come with me; both the breeches and the dinner are at your service.”

And he led off Billot and Pitou by one door, while Gilbert and his son, waving their hands to them, went out at another.

The latter crossed a yard which served as a playground to the young collegians, and went into a small garden reserved for the professors, a cool and shady retreat, in which the venerable Abb #233; B #233;rardier was wont to read his Tacitus and his Juvenal.

Gilbert seated himself upon a bench, overshadowed by an alcove of clematis and virgin vines; then, drawing Sebastien close to him, and parting the long hair which fell upon his forehead:-

“Well, my child,” said he, “we are, then, once more united.”

Sebastien raised his eyes to heaven.

“Yes, Father, and by a miracle performed by God.”

Gilbert smiled.

“If there be any miracle,” said Gilbert, “it was the brave people of Paris who have accomplished it.”

“My father,” said the boy, “set not God aside in all that has just occurred; for I, when I saw you come in, instinctively offered my thanks to God for your deliverance.”

“And Billot-”

“Billot I thanked after thanking God, as I thanked his carabine after Billot.”

Gilbert reflected.

“You are right, child,” said he; “God is in everything. But now let us talk of you, and let us have some little conversation before we again separate.”

“Are we, then, to be again separated, Father-”

“Not for a long time, I presume. But a casket, containing some very precious documents, has disappeared from Billot's house, at the same time that I was arrested and sent to the Bastille. I must therefore endeavor to discover who it was that caused my imprisonment,-who has carried off the casket.”

“It is well, Father. I will wait to see you again,-till your inquiries shall be completed.”

And the boy sighed deeply.

“You are sorrowful, Sebastien-” said the doctor, inquiringly.

“Yes.”

“And why are you sorrowful-”

“I do not know. It appears to me that life has not been shaped for me in the way it has been for other children.”

“What are you saying there, Sebastien-”

“The truth.”

“Explain yourself.”

“They all have amusements, pleasures, while I have none.”

“You have no amusements, no pleasures-”

“I mean to say, Father, that I take no pleasure in those games which form the amusement of boys of my own age.”

“Take care, Sebastien; I should much regret that you should be of such a disposition. Sebastien, minds that give promise of a glorious future are like good fruits during their growth; they have their bitterness, their acidity, their greenness, before they can delight the palate by their matured full flavor. Believe me, my child, it is good to have been young.”

“It is not my fault if I am not so,” replied the young man, with a melancholy smile. Gilbert pressed both his son's hands within his own, and fixing his eye intently upon Sebastien's, continued:-

“Your age, my son, is that of the seed when germinating; nothing should yet appear above the surface of all that study has sown in you. At the age of fourteen, Sebastien, gravity is either pride, or it proceeds from malady. I have asked you whether your health was good, and you replied affirmatively. I am going to ask you whether you are proud; try to reply to me that you are not.”

“Father,” said the boy, “on that head you need not be alarmed. That which renders me so gloomy is neither sickness nor pride; no, it is a settled grief.”

“A settled grief, poor child! And what grief, good heaven, can you have at your age- Come, now, speak out.”

“No, Father, no; some other time. You have told me that you were in a hurry. You have only a quarter of an hour to devote to me. Let us speak of other things than my follies.”

“No, Sebastien; I should be uneasy were I to leave you so. Tell me whence proceeds your grief.”

“In truth, Father, I do not dare.”

“What do you fear-”

“I fear that in your eyes I shall appear a visionary, or perhaps that I may speak to you of things that will afflict you.”

“You afflict me much more by withholding your secret from me.”

“You well know that I have no secrets from you, Father.”

“Speak out, then.”

“Really, I dare not.”

“Sebastien, you who have the pretension of being a man, to-”

“It is precisely for that reason.”

“Come, now, take courage.”

“Well, then, Father, it is a dream.”

“A dream which terrifies you-”

“Yes, and no; for when I am dreaming, I am not terrified, but as if transported into another world.”

“Explain yourself.”

“When still quite a child I had these visions. You cannot but remember that two or three times I lost myself in those great woods which surround the village in which I was brought up-”

“Yes, I remember being told of it.”

“Well, then, at those times I was following a species of phantom.”

“What say you-” cried Gilbert, looking at his son with an astonishment that seemed closely allied to terror.

“Well, then, Father, I will tell you all. I used to play, as did the other children in the village. As long as there were children with me, or near me, I saw nothing; but if I separated from them, or went beyond the last village garden, I felt something near, like the rustling of a gown. I would stretch out my arms to catch it, and I embraced only the air; but as the rustling sound became lost in distance, the phantom itself became visible. It was at first a vapor as transparent as a cloud; then the vapor became more condensed, and assumed a human form. The form was that of a woman gliding along the ground rather than walking, and becoming more and more visible as it plunged into the shady parts of the forest. Then an unknown, extraordinary, and almost irresistible power impelled me to pursue this form. I pursued her with outstretched arms, mute as herself, for often I attempted to call to her, and never could my tongue articulate a sound. I pursued her thus, although she never stopped, although I never could come up with her, until the same prodigy which announced her presence to me warned me of her departure. This woman vanished gradually from my sight, matter became once more vapor, the vapor became volatilized, and all was ended; and I, exhausted with fatigue, would fall down on the spot where she had disappeared. It was there that Pitou would find me, sometimes the same day, but sometimes only the next morning.”

Gilbert continued gazing at his son with increasing anxiety. He had placed his fingers on his pulse. Sebastien at once comprehended the feeling which agitated the doctor.

“Oh, do not be uneasy, Father,” said he. “I know that there was nothing real in all this. I know that it was a vision, and nothing more.”

“And this woman,” inquired the doctor, “what was her appearance-”

“Oh, as majestic as a queen.”

“And her face; did you sometimes see it, child-”

“Yes.”

“And how long ago ” asked Gilbert, shuddering.

“Only since I have been here,” replied the youth.

“But here in Paris you have not the forest of Villers-Cotterets, the tall trees forming a dark and mysterious arch of verdure. In Paris you have no longer that silence, that solitude, the natural element of phantoms.”

“Yes, Father, I have all these.”

“Where, then-”

“Here, in this garden.”

“What mean you by saying here- Is not this garden set apart for the professors-”

“It is so, my father; but two or three times it appeared to me that I saw this woman glide from the courtyard into the garden, and each time I would have followed her, but the closed door always prevented me. Then one day the Abb #233; B #233;rardier, being highly satisfied with my composition, asked me if there was anything I particularly desired; and I asked him to allow me sometimes to walk in the garden with him. He gave me the permission. I came; and here, Father, the vision reappeared to me.”

Gilbert trembled.

“Strange hallucination,” said he; “but, nevertheless, very possible in a temperament so highly nervous as his. And you have seen her face, then-”

“Yes, Father.”

“Do you remember it-”

The youth smiled.

“Did you ever attempt to go near her-”

“Yes.”

“To hold out your hand to her-”

“It was then that she would disappear.”

“And in your own opinion, Sebastien, who is this woman-”

“It appears to me that she is my mother.”

“Your mother!” exclaimed Gilbert, turning pale.

And he pressed his hand against his heart, as if to stop the bleeding of a painful wound.

“But this is all a dream,” cried he; “and really I am almost as mad as you are.”

The youth remained silent, and with pensive eye looked at his father.

“Well-” said the latter, in the accent of inquiry.

“Well,” replied Sebastien, “it is possible that it may be all a dream; but the reality of my dream is no less existing.”

“What say you-”

“I say that at the last Festival of Pentecost, when we were taken to walk in the wood of Satory, near Versailles, and that while there, as I was meditating under a tree, and separated from my companions-”

“The same vision again appeared to you-”

“Yes; but this time in a carriage, drawn by four magnificent horses. But this time real, absolutely living. I very nearly fainted.”

“And why so-”

“I do not know.”

“And what impression remained upon your mind from this new vision-”

“That it was not my mother whom I had seen appearing to me in a dream, since this woman was the same I always saw in my vision, and my mother is dead.”

Gilbert rose and pressed his hand to his forehead. A strange swimming of the head had just seized him.

The young lad remarked his agitation, and was alarmed at his sudden paleness.

“Ah!” said he, “you see now, Father, how wrong I was to relate to you all my follies.”

“No, my child, no. On the contrary,” said the doctor, “speak of them often to me; speak of them to me every time you see me, and we will endeavor to cure you of them.”

Sebastien shook his head.

“Cure me! and for what-” asked he. “I am accustomed to this dream. It has become a portion of my existence. I love that vision, although it flies from me, and sometimes seems to repel me. Do not, therefore, cure me of it, Father. You may again leave me, travel once more, perhaps go again to America. Having this vision, I am not completely alone in the world.”

“In fine,” murmured the doctor, and pressing Sebastien to his breast, “till we meet again, my child,” said he, “and then I hope we shall no more leave each other; for should I again leave France, I will at least endeavor to take you with me.”

“Was my mother beautiful-” asked the child.

“Oh, yes, very beautiful!” replied the doctor, in a voice almost choked by emotion.

“And did she love you as much as I love you-”

“Sebastien! Sebastien! never speak to me of your mother!” cried the doctor.

And pressing his lips for the last time to the forehead of the youth, he rushed out of the garden.

Instead of following him, the child fell back, overcome by his feelings, on the bench.

In the courtyard Gilbert found Billot and Pitou, completely invigorated by the good cheer they had partaken of. They were relating to the Abb #233; B #233;rardier all the circumstances regarding the capture of the Bastille.

Gilbert again entered into conversation with the Abb #233; B #233;rardier, in which he pointed out to him the line of conduct he should observe with regard to Sebastien.

He then got into the hackney coach with his two companions.

CHAPTER XXI. MADAME DE STA #203;L

WHEN Gilbert resumed his place in the hackney coach by the side of Billot and opposite to Pitou, he was pale, and the perspiration was standing in large drops on his forehead.

But it was not in the nature of this man to remain for any time overwhelmed by any emotion whatsoever. He threw himself back into the corner of the carriage, pressed both his hands to his forehead as if he wished to repress the boiling thoughts which raged within it, and after remaining a few moments motionless, he withdrew his hands, and instead of an agitated countenance, he exhibited features which were particularly calm.

“You told me, I think, my dear Monsieur Billot, that the king had dismissed Monsieur de Necker-”

“Yes, indeed, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“And that the commotions in Paris originated in some measure from the disgrace of the minister-”

“Very much.”

“And you added that Monsieur de Necker had immediately left Versailles.”

“He received the king's letter while at dinner. In an hour afterwards he was on the road to Brussels.”

“Where he is now-”

“Or ought to be.”

“Did you not hear it said that he had stopped somewhere on the road-”

“Oh, yes; he stopped at St. Ouen, in order to take leave of his daughter, the Baroness de Sta #235;l.”

“Did Madame de Sta #235;l go with him-”

“I was told that he and his wife alone set out for Brussels.”

“Coachman!” cried Gilbert, “stop at the first tailor's shop you see.”

“You wish to change your coat-” said Billot.

“Yes. In good sooth, this one smells too much of its contact with the walls of the Bastille; and a man cannot in such a dress discreetly pay a visit to the daughter of an ex-minister in disgrace. Search your pockets, and see if you cannot find a few louis for me.”

“Ho, ho!” cried the farmer, “it seems that you have left your purse in the Bastille.”

“That is according to the regulations,” said Gilbert, smiling. “All articles of value are deposited in the registry office.”

“And they remain there,” said the farmer.

And opening his huge fist, which contained about twenty louis:-

“Take these, Doctor,” said he.

Gilbert took ten louis. Some minutes afterwards the hackney coach stopped at the door of a ready-made clothes shop.

It was still the usage in those days.

Gilbert changed his coat, soiled by the walls of the Bastille, for a very decent black one, such as was worn by the gentlemen of the Tiers #201;tat in the National Assembly.

A hair-dresser in his shop, a Savoyard shoe-cleaner in his cellar, completed the doctor's toilette.

The doctor then ordered the coachman to drive him to St. Ouen, by the exterior Boulevards, which they reached by going behind the walls of the park at Monceaux.

Gilbert alighted at the gate of Monsieur Necker's house, at the moment when the cathedral clock of Dagobert struck seven in the evening.

Around this house, which erewhile was so much sought, so much frequented, reigned the most profound silence, disturbed only by the arrival of Gilbert.

And yet there was none of that melancholy appearance which generally surrounds abandoned country-houses,-of that gloominess even generally visible in a mansion, the master of which has been disgraced.

The gates being closed, the garden-walks deserted, merely announced that the heads of the family were absent, but there was no trace of misfortune or of precipitation.

Besides this, one whole portion of the ch #226;teau, the east wing, had still its window-shutters open, and when Gilbert was advancing towards this side, a servant, wearing the livery of Monsieur de Necker, approached the visitor.

The following dialogue then took place through the iron gratings of the gate.

“Monsieur de Necker is not at home, my friend-” said Gilbert.

“No; the baron left St. Ouen last Saturday for Brussels.”

“And her ladyship, the baroness-”

“Went with Monsieur.”

“But Madame de Sta #235;l-”

“Madame de Sta #235;l has remained here; but I do not know whether madame will receive any one; it is her hour for walking.”

“Please to find out where she is, and announce to her Doctor Gilbert.”

“I will go and inquire whether madame is in the house or not. Doubtless she will receive you, sir; but should she be talking a walk, my orders are that she is not to be disturbed.”

“Very well; go quickly, I beg of you.”

The servant opened the gate, and Gilbert entered the grounds.

While relocking the gate, the servant cast an inquisitive glance on the vehicle which had brought the doctor, and on the extraordinary faces of his two travelling companions; then he went off, shaking his head, like a man who feels somewhat perplexed, but who defies any other intellect to see clearly into a matter where his own has been altogether puzzled.

Gilbert remained alone, waiting his return.

In about five minutes the servant reappeared.

“The Baroness de Sta #235;l is taking a walk,” said he, and he bowed in order to dismiss Gilbert.

But the doctor was not so easily got rid of.

“My friend,” said he, “be pleased to make a slight infraction in your orders, and tell the baroness, when you announce me to her, that I am a friend of the Marquis de Lafayette.”

A louis, slipped into the lackey's hands, completely removed the scruples he had entertained, which the name of the marquis had nearly half dispelled.

“Come in, sir,” said the servant.

Gilbert followed him; but instead of taking him into the house he led him into the park.

“This is the favorite walk of the baroness,” said the lackey to Gilbert, pointing out to him the entrance to a species of labyrinth; “will you remain here a moment-”

Ten minutes afterwards he heard a rustling among the leaves, and a woman between twenty-three and twenty-four years of age, and of a figure rather noble than graceful, appeared to the eyes of Gilbert.

She seemed surprised on finding a man who still appeared young, when she had doubtless expected to meet one advanced in years.

Gilbert was a man of sufficiently remarkable appearance to strike at first sight so able an observer as Madame de Sta #235;l.

The features of few men were formed with such pure lines, and these lines had assumed, by the exercise of an all-powerful will, a character of extraordinary inflexibility. His fine black eyes, which were always so expressive, had become somewhat veiled by his literary labors and the sufferings he had undergone, and had lost a portion of that mobility which is one of the charms of youth.

A wrinkle, which was at once deep and graceful, hollowed out at the corner of his thin lips, that mysterious cavity in which physiognomists place the seat of circumspection. It appeared that time alone, and a precocious old age, had given to Gilbert that quality with which nature had neglected to endow him.

A wide and well-rounded forehead, slightly receding towards the roots of his fine black hair, which for years powder had no longer whitened, gave evidence at once of knowledge and of thought, of study and imagination. With Gilbert, as with his master, Rousseau, his prominent eyebrows threw a deep shade over his eyes, and from this shade glanced forth the luminous rays which revealed life.

Gilbert, notwithstanding his unassuming dress, presented himself before the future authoress of “Corinne,” with a remarkably dignified and distinguished air,-an air of which his well-shaped tapering white hands, his small feet, and his finely formed and muscular legs, completed the noble appearance.

Madame de Sta #235;l devoted some moments to examining Gilbert.

During this, Gilbert, on his side, had given a stiff sort of bow, which slightly recalled the modest civility of the American Quakers, who grant to women only the fraternity which protects instead of the respect which smiles.

Then, with a rapid glance, he, in his turn, analyzed the person of the already celebrated young woman, whose intelligent and expressive features were altogether devoid of beauty; it was the head of an insignificant and frivolous youth, rather than that of a woman, but which surmounted a form of voluptuous luxuriance.

She held in her hand a twig from a pomegranate-tree, from which, from absence of mind, she was biting off the blossoms.

“Is it you, sir,” inquired the baroness, “who are Doctor Gilbert-”

“Yes, Madame, my name is Gilbert.”

“You are very young, to have acquired so great a reputation, or rather, does not that reputation appertain to your father, or to some relative older than yourself-”

“I do not know any one of the name of Gilbert but myself, Madame. And if indeed there is, as you say, some slight degree of reputation attached to the name, I have a fair right to claim it.”

“You made use of the name of the Marquis de Lafayette, in order to obtain this interview with me, sir; and, in fact, the marquis has spoken to us of you, of your inexhaustible knowledge-”

Gilbert bowed.

“A knowledge which is so much the more remarkable and so much the more replete with interest,” continued the baroness, “since it appears that you are not a mere ordinary chemist, a practitioner, like so many others, but that you have sounded all the mysteries of the science of life.”

“I clearly perceive, Madame, that the Marquis de Lafayette must have told you that I am somewhat of a sorcerer,” replied Gilbert, smiling; “and if he has told you so, I know that he has talent enough to prove it to you, had he wished to do so.”

“In fact, sir, he has spoken to us of the marvellous cures you often performed, whether on the field of battle, or in the American hospitals, upon patients whose lives were altogether despaired of; you plunged them, the general told us, into a factitious death, which so much resembled death itself, that it was difficult to believe it was not real.”

“That factitious death, Madame, is the result of a science almost still unknown, now confided only to the hands of some few adepts, but which will soon become common.”

“It is mesmerism you are speaking of, is it not-” asked Madame de Sta #235;l with a smile.

“Of mesmerism, yes, it is.”

“Did you take lessons of the master himself-”

“Alas! Madame, Mesmer himself was only a scholar.

Mesmerism, or rather magnetism, was an ancient science, known to the Egyptians and the Greeks. It was lost in the ocean of the middle ages. Shakespeare divined it in Macbeth. Urbain Grandier found it once more, and died for having found it. But the great master-my master-was the Count de Cagliostro.”

“That mountebank!” cried Madame de Sta #235;l.

“Madame, Madame, beware of judging as do contemporaries, and not as posterity will judge. To that mountebank I owe my knowledge, and perhaps the world will be indebted to him for its liberty.”

“Be it so,” replied Madame de Sta #235;l, again smiling: “I speak without knowing,-you speak with full knowledge of the subject. It is probable that you are right and that I am wrong. But let us return to you. Why is it that you have so long kept yourself at so great a distance from France- Why have you not returned to take your place, your proper station, among the great men of the age, such as Lavoisier, Cabanis, Condorcet, Bailly, and Louis-”

At this last name Gilbert blushed, though almost imperceptibly.

“I have yet too much to study, Madame, to rank myself all at once among these great masters.”

“But you have come at last, though at an unpropitious moment for us; my father, who would, I feel assured, have been happy to be of service to you, has been disgraced, and left here three days ago.”

Gilbert smiled.

“Baroness,” said he, bowing slightly, “ only six days ago I was imprisoned in the Bastille, pursuant to an order from Baron Necker.”

Madame de Sta #235;l blushed in her turn.

“Really, sir, you have just told me something that greatly surprises me. You in the Bastille!”

“Myself, Madame.”

“What had you done to occasion your imprisonment-”

“Those alone who threw me into prison can tell that.”

“But you are no longer in prison!”

“No, Madame, because the Bastille no longer exists.”

“How can that be-does the Bastille no longer exist-” cried Madame de Sta #235;l, feigning astonishment.

“Did you not hear the firing of cannon-”

“Yes; but cannons are only cannons, that is all.”

“Oh, permit me to tell you, Madame, that it is impossible that Madame de Sta #235;l, the daughter of Monsieur de Necker, should not know, at this present time, that the Bastille has been taken by the people.”

“I assure you, sir,” replied the baroness, somewhat confused, “that being unacquainted with any of the events which have taken place since the departure of my father, I no longer occupy my time but in deploring his absence.”

“Madame! Madame!” said Gilbert, shaking his head, “the State messengers are so familiar with the road that leads to the ch #226;teau of St. Ouen, that at least one bearer of despatches must have arrived during the four hours that have elapsed since the capitulation of the Bastille.”

The baroness saw that it was impossible for her to deny it without positively lying. She abhorred a falsehood; she therefore changed the subject of the conversation.

“And to what lucky event do I owe your visit, sir-” asked she.

“I wished to have the honor of speaking to Monsieur de Necker, Madame.”

“But do you know that he is no longer in France-”

“Madame, it appeared to me so extraordinary that Monsieur de Necker should be absent, so impolitic that he should not have watched the course of events-”

“That-”

“That I relied upon you, I must confess, Madame, to tell me where I could find him.”

“You will find him at Brussels, sir.”

Gilbert fixed his searching gaze upon the baroness.

“Thank you, Madame,” said he, bowing; “I shall then set out for Brussels, as I have matters of the highest importance to communicate to him.”

Madame de Sta #235;l appeared to hesitate, then she rejoined:-

“Fortunately I know you, sir,” said she, “and I know you to be a man of serious character. 'Tis true, important things might lose a great deal of their value by passing through other lips. But what can there be of importance to my father, after his disgrace-after what has taken place-”

“There is the future, Madame; and perhaps I shall not be altogether without influence over the future. But all these reflections are to no purpose. The most important thing for me, and for him, is, that I should see Monsieur de Necker. Thus, Madame, you say that he is at Brussels-”

“Yes, sir.”

“It will take me twenty hours to go there. Do you know what twenty hours are during a revolution, and how many important events may take place during twenty hours- Oh! how imprudent it was for Monsieur de Necker, Madame, to place twenty hours between himself and any event which might take place-between the hand and the object it desires to reach.”

“In truth, sir, you frighten me,” said Madame de Sta #235;l, “and I begin to think that my father has really been imprudent.”

“But what would you have, Madame- Things are thus, are they not I have, therefore, merely to make you a most humble apology for the trouble that I have given you. Adieu, Madame.”

But the baroness stopped him.

“I tell you, sir, that you alarm me,” she rejoined; “you owe me an explanation of all this; you must tell me something that will reassure me.”

“Alas! Madame,” replied Gilbert, “I have so many private interests to watch over at this moment, that it is impossible for me to think of those of others; my life and honor are at stake, as would be the life and honor of Monsieur de Necker if he could take advantage of the words which I shall tell him in the course of twenty hours.”

“Sir, allow me to remember something that I have too long forgotten; it is that grave subjects ought not to be discussed in the open air, in a park, within the reach of every ear.”

“Madame,” said Gilbert, “I am now at your house, and permit me to observe that consequently it is you who have chosen the place where we now are. What do you wish- I am entirely at your command.”

“I wish you to do me the favor to finish this conversation in my cabinet.”

“Ah! ah!” said Gilbert to himself, “if I did not fear to confuse her, I would ask her whether her cabinet is at Brussels.”

But without further question he contented himself with following the baroness, who began to walk quickly toward the ch #226;teau.

The same servant who had admitted Gilbert was found standing in front of the house. Madame de Sta #235;l made a sign to him, and opening the doors herself, she led Gilbert into her cabinet, a charming retreat, more masculine, it is true, than feminine, of which the second door and the two windows opened into a small garden, which was not only inaccessible to others, but also beyond the reach of all strange eyes.

When they had gone in, Madame de Sta #235;l closed the door, and turning towards Gilbert:-

“Sir, in the name of humanity, I call upon you to tell me the secret which is so important to my father, and which has brought you to St. Ouen.”

“Madame,” said Gilbert, “if your father could now hear me, if he could but know that I am the man who sent the king the secret memoirs entitled, 'Of the State of Ideas and of Progress,' I am sure the Baron de Necker would immediately appear, and say to me, 'Doctor Gilbert, what do you desire of me- Speak; I am listening.'“

Gilbert had hardly pronounced these words when a secret door which was concealed by a panel painted by Vanloo was noiselessly slid aside, and the Baron de Necker, with a smiling countenance, suddenly appeared, standing at the foot of a small, winding staircase, at the top of which could be perceived the dim rays of a lamp.

Then the Baroness de Sta #235;l courtesied to Gilbert, and kissing her father's forehead, left the room by the same staircase which her father had just descended, and having closed the panel, she disappeared.

Necker advanced towards Gilbert, and gave him his hand, saying,-

“Here I am, Monsieur Gilbert; what do you desire of me- Speak, I am listening.”

They both seated themselves.

“Monsieur le Baron,” said Gilbert, “you have just heard a secret which has revealed all my ideas to you. It was I who, four years ago, sent an essay to the king on the general state of Europe; it is I who, since then, have sent him from the United States the various works he has received on all the questions of conciliation and internal administration which have been discussed in France.”

“Works of which his Majesty,” replied Monsieur de Necker, bowing, “has never spoken to me without expressing a deep admiration of them, though at the same time a profound terror at their contents.”

“Yes, because they told the truth. Was it not because the truth was then terrible to hear, and, having now become a fact, it is still more terrible to witness-”

“That is unquestionably true, sir,” said Necker.

“Did the king send these essays to you for perusal-” asked Gilbert.

“Not all of them, sir; only two: one on the subject of the finances-and you were of my opinion with a very few exceptions; but I nevertheless felt myself much honored by it.”

“But that is not all; there was one in which I predicted all the important events which have taken place.”

“Ah!”

“Yes.”

“And which of them, sir, I pray-”

“There were two in particular; one was that the king would find himself some day compelled to dismiss you, in consequence of some engagements he had previously entered into.”

“Did you predict my disgrace to him-”

“Perfectly.”

“That was the first event: what was the second-”

“The taking of the Bastille.”

“Did you predict the taking of the Bastille-”

“Monsieur le Baron, the Bastille was more than a royal prison, it was the symbol of tyranny. Liberty has commenced its career by destroying the symbol; the Revolution will do the rest.”

“Have you duly considered the serious nature of the words you have just uttered, sir-”

“Undoubtedly I have.”

“And you are not afraid to express such a theory openly-”

“Afraid of what-”

“Afraid lest some misfortune should befall you.”

“Monsieur de Necker,” said Gilbert, smiling, “ after once having got out of the Bastille, a man has nothing more to fear.”

“Have you, then, come out of the Bastille-”

“This very day.”

“And why were you thrown into the Bastille-”

“I ought to ask you that question.”

“Ask me-”

“You, undoubtedly.”

“And why should you ask me-”

“Because it was you who caused my imprisonment there.”

“I had you thrown into the Bastille-”

“Six days ago; the date, as you see, is not so very remote that you should not be able to recollect it.”

“It is impossible.”

“Do you recognize your own signature-”

And Gilbert showed the ex-minister the leaf of the jail-book of the Bastille, and the lettre de cachet which was annexed to it.

“Yes,” said Necker, “that is doubtless the lettre de cachet. You know that I signed as few as possible, and that the smallest number possible was still four thousand annually; besides, at the moment of my departure, they made me sign several in blank. Your warrant of imprisonment, sir, must have been one of the latter.”

“Do you mean to imply by this that I must in no way attribute my imprisonment to you-”

“Most certainly, I do.”

“But still, Monsieur le Baron,” said Gilbert, smiling, “you understand my motives for being so curious; it is absolutely necessary that I should know to whom I am indebted for my captivity. Be good enough, therefore, to tell me.”

“Oh! there is nothing easier. I have always taken the precaution never to leave my letters at the ministry, and every evening I brought them back here. Those of this month are in the drawer B of this chiffonnier; let us look for the letter G in the bundle.”

Necker opened the drawer, and looked over an enormous file, which might have contained some five or six hundred letters.

“I only keep those letters,” said the ex-minister, “which are of such a nature as to cover my responsibility. Every arrest that I order insures me another enemy. I had therefore to guard myself against such a contingency. An omission to do so would surprise me greatly. Let us see-G-G, that is the one. Yes, Gilbert-your arrest was brought about by some one in the queen's household, my dear sir. Ah-ah!-in the queen's household-yes, here is a request for a warrant against a man named Gilbert. Profession not mentioned; black eyes, black hair. The description of your person follows. Travelling from Havre to Paris. That is all. Then the Gilbert mentioned in the warrant must have been you.”

“It was myself. Can you trust me with that letter-”

“No; but I can tell you by whom it is signed.”

“Please to do so.”

“By the Countess de Charny.”

“The Countess de Charny,” repeated Gilbert. “I do not know her. I have done nothing to displease her.”

And he raised his head gently, as if endeavoring to recall to mind the name of the person in question.

“There is, moreover, a small postscript,” continued Necker, “without any signature, but written in a hand I know.”

Gilbert stooped down and read in the margin of the letter:-

“Do what the Countess de Charny demands immediately.”

“It is strange,” said Gilbert. “I can readily conceive why the queen should have signed it, for I mentioned both her and the Polignacs in my essays. But Madame de Charny-”

“Do you not know her-”

“It must be an assumed name. Besides, it is not at all to be wondered at that the notabilities of Versailles should be unknown to me. I have been absent from France for fifteen years, during which time I only came back twice; and I returned after my second visit to it, some four years ago. Who is this Countess de Charny-”

“The friend, the bosom companion of the queen; the much beloved wife of the Count de Charny; a woman who is both beautiful and virtuous,-a prodigy, in short.”

“Well, then, I do not know this prodigy.”

“If such be the case, doctor, be persuaded of this, that you are the victim of some political intrigue. Have you never spoken of Count Cagliostro-”

“Yes.”

“Were you acquainted with him-”

“He was my friend. He was even more than my friend; he was my master, my saviour.”

“Well, then, either Austria or the Holy See must have demanded your incarceration. You have published some pamphlets, have you not-”

“Alas! yes.”

“That is it, precisely. All their petty revenges point towards the queen, like the magnetic needle which points towards the pole,-the iron towards the loadstone. They have been conspiring against you; they have had you followed. The queen has ordered Madame de Charny to sign the letter, in order to prevent any suspicion; and now all the mystery is cleared up.”

Gilbert reflected for a moment. This moment of reflection reminded him of the box which had been stolen from Billot's house; and with which neither the queen, nor Austria, nor the Holy See had any connection. This recollection led his mind to consider the matter in its right point of view.

“No,” said he, “it is not that; it cannot be that. But it matters not. Let us talk of something else.”

“Of what-”

“Of you.”

“Of me- What can you have to say of me-”

“Only what you know as well as any one else. It is that before three days have elapsed you will be reinstated in your ministerial capacity; and then you may govern France as despotically as you please.”

“Do you think so-” said Necker, smiling.

“And you think so, too, since you are not at Brussels.”

“Well then,” exclaimed Necker, “what will be the result- For it is the result I wish to come to.”

“Here it is. You are beloved by the French; you will soon be adored by them. The queen was already tired of seeing you beloved. The king will grow tired of seeing you adored. They will acquire popularity at your expense, and you will not suffer it. Then you will become unpopular in your turn. The people, my dear Monsieur de Necker is like a starving lion, which licks only the hand that supplies it with food, be it whose hand it may.”

“After that-”

“After that you will again be lost in oblivion.”

“I-lost in oblivion-”

“Alas! yes.”

“And what will cause me to be forgotten-”

“The events of the times.”

“My word of honor for it, you speak like a prophet.”

“It is my misfortune to be one to a certain extent.”

“Let us hear now what will happen-”

“Oh, it is not difficult to predict what will happen, for that which is to happen is already in embryo in the Assembly. A party will arise that is slumbering at this moment. I am mistaken; it is not slumbering, but it hides itself. This party has for its chief a principle, and its weapon is an idea.”

“I understand you; you mean the Orleanist party-”

“No. I should have said of that one that its chief was a man, and its weapon popularity. I speak to you of a party whose name has not even yet been pronounced. Of the republican party.”

“Of the republican party- Ah! that is too ridiculous.”

“Do you not believe in its existence-”

“A chimera.”

“Yes, a chimera, with a mouth of fire that will devour you all.”

“Well, then, I shall become a republican. I am one already.”

“A republican from Geneva, certainly.”

“But it seems to me that a republican is a republican.”

“There is your mistake, my good baron. Our republicans do not resemble the republicans of other countries. Our republicans will first have to devour all privileges, then the nobility, and after that the monarchy. You may start with our republicans, but they will reach the goal without you, for you will not desire to follow them so far. No, Monsieur de Necker, you are mistaken; you are not a republican.”

“Oh, if you understand it in that sense, no; I love the king.”

“And I too,” said Gilbert; “and everybody at this moment loves him as we do. If I were to say this to a mind of less calibre than yours, I should be hooted and laughed at; but believe what I tell you, Monsieur de Necker.”

“I would readily do so, indeed, if there were any probability of such an event; but-”

“Do you know any of the secret societies-”

“I have heard them much spoken of.”

“Do you believe in their existence-”

“I believe in their existence, but I do not believe they are very extensively disseminated.”

“Are you affiliated to any one of them-”

“No.”

“Do you belong even to a Masonic lodge-”

“No.”

“Well, then, Monsieur de Necker, I do.”

“Are you affiliated to any of these societies-”

“Yes, to all of them. Beware, Monsieur de Necker; they form an immense net that surrounds every throne. It is an invisible dagger that threatens every monarchy. We form a brotherhood of about three millions of men, scattered abroad in every land, disseminated throughout all classes of society. We have friends among the people, among the citizens, among the nobility, among princes, among sovereigns themselves. Take care, Monsieur de Necker; the prince with whom you might be irritated is perhaps an affiliated member. The valet who humbles himself in your presence may be an affiliated member. Your life is not yours; your fortune is not your own; your honor even is not yours. All this is directed by an invisible power, which you cannot combat, for you do not know it, and which may crush you because it knows you. Well, these three millions of men, do you see, who have already made the American republic, these three millions of men will try to form a French republic; then they will try to make a European republic.”

“But,” said Necker, “their republic of the United States does not alarm me much, and I willingly accept such a form of government.”

“Yes, but between America and ourselves there is a deep gulf. America is a new country, without prejudices, without aristocratic privileges, without monarchy. It has a fertile soil, productive land, and virgin forests; America, which is situated between a sea which serves as an outlet for its commerce, and an immense solitude which is a source of wealth to its population, while France,-just consider how much it would be necessary to destroy in France before France can resemble America!”

“But, in fine, what do you intend to prove by this-”

“I mean to point out to you the path into which we are inevitably forced. But I would endeavor to advance into it without causing any shock, by placing the king at the head of the movement.”

“As a standard-”

“No, but as a shield.”

“A shield!” observed Necker, smiling. “You know but little of the king if you wish to make him play such a part.”

“Pardon me,-I know him well. Oh, gracious heaven! I know full well he is a man similar to a thousand others whom I have seen at the head of small districts in America; he is a good man without majesty, incapable of resistance, without originality of mind. But what would you have- Were it only for his sacred title, he would still be a rampart against those men of whom I was speaking to you a short time ago; and however weak the rampart may be, we like it better than no defence at all.

“I remember in our wars with the savage tribes of North America,” continued Gilbert, “I remember having passed whole nights behind a clump of bulrushes, while the enemy was on the opposite bank of the river, and firing upon us.

“A bulrush is certainly no great defence. Still, I must frankly acknowledge to you, Monsieur de Necker, that my heart beat more freely behind those large green tubes, which were cut through by the bullets as if they were thread papers, than it did in the open field. Well, then, the king is my rush. It allows me to see the enemy, and it prevents the enemy from seeing me. That is the reason why I am a republican at New York or at Philadelphia, but a royalist in France. There our dictator was named Washington. Here, God knows what he will be named: either dagger or scaffold.”

“You seem to view things in colors of blood, Doctor.”

“You would see them in the same light as myself, if you had been, as I was, on the Place de Gr #232;ve to-day.”

“Yes, that is true; I was told that a massacre had taken place there.”

“There is something magnificent, do you see, in the people; but it is when well disposed. Oh, human tempests!” exclaimed Gilbert, “how much do you surpass in fury all the tempests of the skies!”

Necker became thoughtful.

“Why can I not have you near me, Doctor-” said he; “you would be a useful counsellor in time of need.”

“Near you, Monsieur de Necker- I should not be so useful to you, nor so useful to France, as where I wish to go.”

“And where do you wish to go-”

“Listen to me, sir; near the throne itself there is a great enemy of the throne; near the king there is a great enemy of the king; it is the queen. Poor woman! who forgets that she is the daughter of Maria Theresa, or rather, who only remembers it in a vain-glorious point of view; she thinks to save the king, and ruins more than the king, for she destroys the monarchy. Well, it is necessary that we who love the king, we who love France, should unite together to neutralize her power, and to annihilate her influence.”

“Well, then, do as I said, sir: remain with me, assist me.”

“If I were to remain near you, we should have but one sphere of action; you would be I, and I should be you. We must separate our forces, sir, and then they will acquire a double weight.”

“And, with all that, what can we accomplish-”

“We may retard the catastrophe, perhaps, but certainly we cannot prevent it, although I can answer for the assistance of a powerful auxiliary, the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“Is not Lafayette a republican-”

“As far as a Lafayette can be a republican. If we are absolutely to submit to the level of equality, believe me, we had better choose the level of nobility. I like equality that elevates, and not that which lowers mankind.”

“And you can answer for Lafayette-”

“Yes, so long as we shall require nothing of him but honor, courage, and devotedness.”

“Well, then, speak; tell me what is it you desire-”

“A letter of introduction to his Majesty, Louis XVI.”

“A man of your worth does not need a letter of introduction; he may present himself without it.”

“No, it suits me that I should be your creature; it is part of my project to be presented by you.”

“And what is your ambition-”

“To become one of the king's physicians in ordinary.”

“Oh, there is nothing more easy. But the queen-”

“When I have once seen the king, that will be my own affair.”

“But if she should persecute you-”

“Then I will make the king assert his will.”

“The king assert his will- You will be more than a man if you accomplish that.”

“He who can control the physical part of a man, must be a great simpleton indeed if he does not some day succeed in controlling the mind.”

“But do you not think that having been imprisoned in the Bastille is but a sorry recommendation for you, who wish to become the king's physician.”

“On the contrary, it is the very best. Have I not been, according to you, persecuted for the crime of philosophy-”

“I fear such is the case.”

“Then the king will vindicate his reputation; the king will become popular by taking as his physician a pupil of Rousseau, a partisan of the new doctrines,-a prisoner who has left the Bastille, in short. The first time you see him, make him duly weigh the advantage of such a course.”

“You are always in the right; but when once you are employed by the king, can I rely upon you-”

“Entirely, so long as you shall follow the line of politics which we shall adopt.”

“What will you promise me-”

“To warn you of the precise moment when you must retreat.”

Necker looked at Gilbert for a moment; then in a more thoughtful tone:-

“Indeed; that is the greatest service which a devoted friend can render to a minister, for it is the last one.”

And he seated himself at his table to write to the king.

While he was thus occupied, Gilbert was again examining the letter demanding his arrest; he several times repeated,-

“The Countess de Charny- Who can she be-”

“Here, sir,” said Necker, a few moments after, while he presented Gilbert with the letter he had just written.

Gilbert took the letter and read it.

It contained the following lines:-

SIRE,-Your Majesty needs the services of a trustworthy person, with whom you may converse upon your affairs. My last gift, my last service in leaving the king, is the present I make him of Doctor Gilbert.

It will be sufficient for me to tell your Majesty that Doctor Gilbert is not only one of the most skilful physicians living, but also the author of the works entitled “Administrations and Politics,” which made so lively an impression upon your mind.

At your Majesty's feet, BARON DE NECKER.

Necker did not date the letter, and gave it to Doctor Gilbert, closed only with an ordinary seal.

“And now,” added he, “I am again at Brussels, am I not-”

“Yes, certainly, and more so than ever. To-morrow morning, at all events, you shall hear from me.”

The baron struck against the panel in a peculiar manner. Madame de Sta #235;l again appeared; only this time, in addition to her branch of pomegranate, she held one of Doctor Gilbert's pamphlets in her hands.

She showed him the title of it with a sort of flattering coquetry.

Gilbert took leave of Monsieur de Necker, and kissed the hand of the baroness, who accompanied him to the door of the cabinet.

And he returned to his coach, where he found Pitou and Billot sleeping upon the front seat, the coachman sleeping on his box, and the horses sleeping upon their exhausted limbs.

CHAPTER XXII. THE KING LOUIS XVI

THE interview between Gilbert, Madame de Sta #235;l, and Monsieur de Necker had lasted about an hour and a half. Gilbert re-entered Paris at a quarter-past nine o'clock, drove straight to the post-house, ordered horses and a post-chaise; and while Billot and Pitou were gone to rest themselves, after their fatigue, in a small hotel in the Rue Thiroux, where Billot generally put up when he came to Paris, Gilbert set off at a gallop on the road to Versailles.

It was late, but that mattered little to Gilbert. To men of his nature, activity is a necessity. Perhaps his journey might be a fruitless one. But he even preferred a useless journey to remaining motionless. For nervous temperaments, uncertainty is a greater torment than the most frightful reality.

He arrived at Versailles at half-past ten; in ordinary times, every one would have been in bed and wrapped in the profoundest slumber; but that night no eye was closed at Versailles. They had felt the counter-shock of the terrible concussion with which Paris was still trembling.

The French Guards, the body-guards, the Swiss, drawn up in platoons and grouped near the openings of all the principal streets, were conversing among themselves, or with those of the citizens whose fidelity to the monarchy inspired them with confidence.

For Versailles has, at all times, been a royalist city. Religious respect for the monarchy, if not for the monarch, is engrafted in the hearts of its inhabitants, as if it were a quality of its soil. Having always lived near kings, and fostered by their bounty, beneath the shade of their wonders,-having always inhaled the intoxicating perfume of the fleurs-de-lys, and seen the brilliant gold of their garments, and the smiles upon their august lips, the inhabitants of Versailles, for whom kings have built a city of marble and porphyry, feel almost kings themselves; and even at the present day, even now, when moss is growing round the marble, and grass is springing up between the slabs of the pavement, now that gold has almost disappeared from the wainscoting, and that the shady walks of the parks are more solitary than a graveyard, Versailles must either belie its origin, or must consider itself as a fragment of the fallen monarchy, and no longer feeling the pride of power and wealth, must at least retain the poetical associations of regret, and the sovereign charms of melancholy. Thus, as we have already stated, all Versailles, in the night between the 14th and 15th July, 1789, was confusedly agitated, anxious to ascertain how the King of France would reply to the insult offered to the throne, and the deadly wound inflicted on his power.

By his answer to Monsieur de Dreux Br #233;z #233;, Mirabeau had struck royalty in the face.

By the taking of the Bastille, the people had struck royalty to the heart.

Still, to narrow-minded and short-sighted persons the question seemed easy of solution. In the eyes of military men in particular, who were accustomed to see nothing more than the triumph or defeat of brute-force in the result of events, it was merely necessary to march upon Paris. Thirty thousand men and twenty pieces of cannon would soon reduce to a nonentity the conceit and the victorious fury of the Parisians.

Never had monarchy so great a number of advisers, for everybody uttered his opinions loudly and publicly.

The most moderate said:-

“It is a very simple matter.”

This form of language, it will be observed, is nearly always applied, with us, to the most difficult circumstances.

“It is a very simple matter,” said they. “Let them begin by obtaining from the National Assembly a sanction which it will not refuse. Its attitude has, for some time, been reassuring to every one; it will not countenance violence committed by the lower classes, any more than abuses perpetrated by the upper.

“The Assembly will plainly declare that insurrection is a crime; that citizens who have representatives to explain their griefs to the king, and a king to do them justice, are wrong in having recourse to arms and in shedding blood.

“Being once armed with this declaration, which could certainly be obtained from the Assembly, the king could not avoid chastising Paris, like a good parent, that is to say, severely.

“And then the tempest would be allayed, and the monarchy would regain the first of its rights. The people would return to their duty, which is obedience, and things would go on in the usual way.”

It was thus that the people in general were settling this great question, upon the squares and the Boulevards.

But before the Place d'Armes, and in the vicinity of the barracks, they treated the subject very differently.

There could be seen men altogether unknown in the neighborhood, men with intelligent countenances and sinister looks, disseminating mysterious advice to all around them, exaggerating the news which was already sufficiently serious, and propagating, almost publicly, the seditious ideas which during two months had agitated Paris and excited the suburbs. Round these men groups were forming, some gloomy and hostile, some excited, composed of people whom these orators were reminding of their misery, their sufferings, the brutal disdain of the monarchy for the privations of the people. An orator said to them:-

“During eight centuries that the people have struggled, what have they obtained- Nothing. No social rights; no political rights. What is their fate- That of the farmer's cow, from whom its calf is led to the shambles, its milk to be sold at the market, its meat to be taken to the slaughter-house, its skin to be dried at the tannery. In short, pressed by want, the monarchy has yielded, it has made an appeal to the States; but now that the States are assembled, what does the monarchy- Since the day of their convocation it weighs heavily upon them. If the National Assembly is formed, it is against the will of the monarchy. Well, then! since our brethren of Paris have just given us such vigorous assistance, let us urge the National Assembly onward. Each step which it takes in the political arena, where the battle has begun, is a victory for us: it is the extension of our field, it is the increase of our fortune, it is the consecration of our rights. Forward! forward, citizens! The Bastille is but the outwork of tyranny! The Bastille is taken; the citadel is before us!”

In remote corners other meetings were formed, and other words pronounced. Those who pronounced them were men evidently belonging to a superior class, who had sought in the costume of the vulgar a disguise with which their white hands and distinguished accent contrasted strangely.

“People,” exclaimed these men, “in truth, you are deceived on both sides! Some ask you to retrace your steps, while others urge you onward. Some speak to you of political rights, of social rights; but are you happier for having been permitted to vote through the medium of your delegates- Are you any the richer since you have been represented- Have you been less hungry, now that the National Assembly makes decrees- No. Leave politics, then, to those who can read. It is not a written phrase or maxim that you need. It is bread, and again bread; it is the well-being of your children, the tranquillity and security of your wives. Who will give you all that- A king, firm in character, young in mind, and of a generous heart. That king is not Louis XVI.,-Louis XVI., who is ruled by his wife, the iron-hearted Austrian. It is-search carefully round the throne; search there for him who can render France happy, and whom the queen naturally detests, and that because he throws a shadow over the picture, because he loves the French, and is beloved by them.”

Thus did public opinion manifest itself at Versailles; thus was civil war fomented everywhere.

Gilbert observed several of these groups, and then, having perceived the state of the public mind, he walked straight to the palace, which was guarded by numerous military posts, to protect it against whom no one knew.

Notwithstanding all these precautions, Gilbert, without the slightest difficulty, crossed the first courtyard, and reached the vestibule without having been asked by any one where he was going.

When he arrived at the Hall of the il-de-Buf, he was stopped by one of the body-guards. Gilbert drew from his pocket the letter of Monsieur de Necker, whose signature he showed.

The guard cast his eyes over it. The instructions he had received were very strict; and as the strictest instructions are precisely those which most need to be interpreted, the guard said to Gilbert:-

“The order, sir, to allow no one to visit the king is positive; but as the case of a person sent by Monsieur de Necker was evidently not foreseen, and as, according to all probability, you are the bearer of important information to his Majesty, go in. I will take the responsibility upon myself.”

Gilbert entered.

The king was not in his apartments, but in the council-room. He was just receiving a deputation from the National Guard of Paris, which had come to request the dismissal of the troops, the formation of a guard of citizens, and his presence in the capital.

Louis had listened coldly; then he had replied that the situation of affairs required investigation; and that, moreover, he was about to deliberate on the subject with his council.

And, accordingly, he deliberated.

During this time the deputies were waiting in the gallery; and through the ground-glass windows of the doors they could observe the shadows of the royal councillors and the threatening attitude which they assumed.

By the study of this species of phantasmagoria they could foresee that the answer would be unfavorable.

In fact, the king contented himself with saying that he would appoint some officers for the national militia, and would order the troops at the Champ-de-Mars to fall back.

As to his presence in Paris, he would only show this favor when the rebellious city had completely submitted.

The deputation begged, insisted, and conjured. The king replied that his heart was grieved, but that he could do nothing more.

And satisfied with this momentary triumph and this manifestation of a power which he no longer possessed, the king returned to his apartment.

He there found Gilbert. The guard was standing near him.

“What is wanted of me-” asked the king.

The body-guard approached him, and while he was apologizing to the king for having disobeyed his orders, Gilbert, who for many years had not seen the king, was silently examining the man whom God had given to France as her pilot during the most violent tempest the country had ever experienced.

That stout, short body, in which there was neither elasticity nor majesty; that inexpressive and low-formed brow; that pallid youthfulness contending against premature old age; the unequal struggle between a powerful physical organization, and a mediocre intelligence, to which the haughtiness of rank alone gave a fitful importance,-all these to the physiognomist who had studied with Lavater, to the magnetizer who had read the future with Balsamo, to the philosopher who had dreamed with Jean Jacques, to the traveller, in short, who had passed all the human races in review,-all these implied degeneracy, dwindling, impotence, and ruin.

Gilbert was therefore struck dumb, not from a feeling of respect, but from grief, while contemplating this mournful spectacle.

The king advanced towards him.

“It is you,” said he, “who bring me a letter from Monsieur de Necker-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Ah!” cried he, as if he had doubted it; “give it to me quickly.”

And he pronounced these words in the tone of a drowning man who cries, “A rope!”

Gilbert presented the letter to the king.

Louis immediately grasped it, read it hurriedly, then, with a gesture which was not altogether wanting in nobleness of manner:-

“Leave us, Monsieur de Varicourt,” said he to the body-guard.

Gilbert remained alone with the king. The room was lighted but by a single lamp. It might have been thought that the king had diminished the quantity of light, in order that no one should perceive on his wearied rather than careworn brow the anxious thoughts which crowded there.

“Sir,” said he, fixing upon Gilbert a clearer and more penetrating gaze than the latter would have thought him capable of,-“Sir, is it true that you are the author of the memoirs which have so much struck me-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What is your age-”

“Thirty-two years, Sire; but study and misfortune double age. Treat me as if I were an old man.”

“Why did you omit so long to present yourself to me-”

“Because, Sire, I did not wish to tell your Majesty aloud what I could write to you more freely and more easily.”

Louis XVI. reflected.

“Had you no other reason-” said he, suspiciously.

“No, Sire.”

“But still, either I am mistaken, or there were some peculiar circumstances which ought to have convinced you of my kindly feeling towards you.”

“Your Majesty intends to speak of that sort of rendezvous which I had the temerity to give the king, when, after my first memoir, I begged him, five years ago, to place a light near his window, at eight o'clock in the evening, to indicate that he had read my work.”

“And-” said the king, with an air of satisfaction.

“And on the day and at the hour appointed, the light was, in fact, placed where I had asked you to place it.”

“And afterwards-”

“Afterwards I saw it lifted up and set down again three times.”

“And then-”

“After that I read the following words in the 'Gazette:'-

“'He whom the light has called three times may present himself to him who has raised it three times, when he will be compensated.'“

“Those are, in fact, the very words of the advertisement,” said the king.

“And there is the advertisement itself,” said Gilbert, drawing from his pocket the number of the 'Gazette' in which the advertisement he had just alluded to had been published five years previously.

“Well-very well,” said the king. “I have long expected you. You arrive at a moment I had quite ceased to expect you. You are welcome; for you come, like good soldiers, at the moment of battle.”

Then, looking once more attentively at Gilbert:-

“Do you know, sir,” said he to him, “that it is not an ordinary thing for a king to await the arrival of a person to whom he has said, 'Come to receive your reward,' and that that person should abstain from coming.”

Gilbert smiled.

“Come now, tell me,” said Louis XVI., “why did you not come-”

“Because I deserved no reward, Sire.”

“For what reason-”

“Born a Frenchman, loving my country, anxious for its prosperity, confounding my individuality with that of thirty millions of men, my fellow-citizens, I labored for myself while laboring for them. A man is not worthy of reward when he labors for his own interest.”

“That is a paradox, sir; you had another reason.”

Gilbert did not reply.

“Speak, sir; I desire it.”

“Perhaps, Sire, you have guessed rightly.”

“Is not this it-” asked the king in an anxious tone. “You found the position a very serious one, and you kept yourself in reserve.”

“For one still more serious. Yes, Sire, your Majesty has divined the truth.”

“I like frankness,” said the king, who could not conceal his agitation; for he was of a timid nature, and blushed easily.

“Then,” continued Louis XVI., “you predicted the king's fall to him, and you feared to be placed too near the ruins.”

“No, Sire, since it is just at the moment that danger is most imminent that I come to face the danger.”

“Yes, yes; you have just left Necker, and you speak like him. The danger!-the danger! Without doubt it is dangerous at this moment to approach me. And where is Necker-”

“Quite ready, I believe, to obey the orders of your Majesty.”

“So much the better; I shall want him,” said the king, with a sigh. “In politics we must not be headstrong. We think to do good, and we do wrong. We even do good, and some capricious event mars our projects; and though the plans laid were in reality good, we are accused of having been mistaken.”

The king sighed again. Gilbert came to his assistance.

“Sire,” said he, “your Majesty reasons admirably; but what is desirable at the present moment is, to see into the future more clearly than has been done hitherto.”

The king raised his head, and his inexpressive eyebrows slightly frowned.

“Sire, forgive me,” said Gilbert; “I am a physician. When the danger is imminent, I speak briefly.”

“Do you, then, attach much importance to the riot of to-day-”

“Sire, it is not a riot-it is a revolution.”

“And you wish me to make terms with rebels and assassins- For, in fine, they have taken the Bastille by force: it is an act of rebellion; they have killed Monsieur de Launay, Monsieur de Losme, and Monsieur de Flesselles: it is murder.”

“I wish you to distinguish more correctly, Sire. Those who, took the Bastille are heroes; those who assassinated Messieurs de Flesselles, de Losme, and de Launay are murderers.”

The king colored slightly, and almost immediately this color disappeared, his lips became pale, and a few drops of perspiration trickled down his forehead.

“You are right, sir. You are a physician indeed, or a surgeon rather, for you cut to the quick. But let us return to the object of our interview. You are Doctor Gilbert, are you not,-or at least it is with this name that your memoirs are signed-”

“Sire, it does me great honor that your Majesty has so good a memory, although, taking it all in all, I have no great reason to be proud of my name.”

“How is that-”

“My name must, indeed, have been pronounced before your Majesty, and that not long ago.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Six days ago I was arrested and thrown into the Bastille. Now I have heard it said that no arrest of any importance was ever made without the king being aware of the fact.”

“You in the Bastille!” said the king, opening his eyes widely.

“Here is the registration of my imprisonment, Sire. Put in prison, as I have the honor to tell your Majesty, six days ago, by order of the king, I came out of it at three o'clock to-day, by the grace of the people.”

“To-day-”

“Yes, Sire. Did your Majesty hear the cannon-”

“Most undoubtedly.”

“Well, then, the cannon opened the gates for me.”

“Ah!” murmured the king, “I would willingly say that I am pleased at this event, had not the cannon of this morning been fired at the Bastille and the monarchy at the same time.”

“Oh, Sire, do not make a prison the symbol of a principle: say, on the contrary, Sire, that you rejoice that the Bastille is taken: for henceforward injustice will not be committed in the king's name without his cognizance,-injustice similar to that of which I have just been the victim.”

“But surely, sir, your arrest must have had a cause-”

“None that I know of, Sire; I was arrested on my return to France, and imprisoned, that is all.”

“Really, sir,” said Louis XVI., kindly, “is there not some egotism on your part, in speaking to me thus of yourself, when I so much need to have my own position spoken of-”

“Sire, all I require is, that your Majesty will answer me one single question.”

“What is it-”

“Was or was not your Majesty concerned in my arrest-”

“I was not even aware of your return to France.”

“I rejoice at this answer, Sire; I shall then be enabled to declare openly that when your Majesty is supposed to do wrong, you are nearly always calumniated; and to those who doubt it, I can cite myself as an example.”

The king smiled.

“As a physician,” said he, “you pour balm into the wound.”

“Oh, Sire, I shall pour in the balm abundantly; and if you desire it I will cure the wound, that I will answer for.”

“I most assuredly desire it.”

“You must desire it very firmly, Sire.”

“I do desire it firmly.”

“Before going any farther, Sire,” said Gilbert, “will you read that line written in the margin of my jail-book entry-”

“What line-” asked the king in an anxious tone.

Gilbert presented the page to the king. The king read: “'By request of the queen.'“

The king frowned.

“Of the queen!” said he; “can you have incurred her displeasure-”

“Sire, I am certain her Majesty knows me still less than did your Majesty.”

“But still, you must have committed some fault; a man is not sent to the Bastille for nothing.”

“It would seem that he may be, since I have just come out of it.”

“But Monsieur Necker has sent you to me, and the warrant of imprisonment was signed by him.”

“It was so undoubtedly.”

“Then explain yourself more clearly. Review your past life. See if you do not find some circumstance in it which you had yourself forgotten.”

“Review my past life! Yes, Sire; I shall do it, and aloud; do not fear, it will not occupy much time. I have labored without intermission since I attained the age of sixteen: the pupil of Jean Jacques, the companion of Balsamo, the friend of Lafayette and of Washington, I have never had cause to reproach myself, since the day that I left France, for a single fault, nor even an error. When acquired science permitted me to attend the wounded or the sick, I always thought myself responsible to God for every one of my thoughts, and every action. Since God has given me the care of human beings as a surgeon, I have shed blood for the sake of humanity, while ready to give my own to soothe or to save my patient; as a physician, I have always been a consoler, and sometimes a benefactor. Fifteen years have thus passed away. God has blessed my efforts: I have seen return to life the greater part of the afflicted, who have all kissed my hands. Those who have died, have been taken away by the will of God. No, I repeat, Sire, since the day when I left France, and that was fifteen years ago, I have done nothing with which I can reproach myself.”

“You have in America associated with innovators, and your writings have propagated their principles.”

“Yes, Sire; and I forgot this claim to the gratitude of kings and men.”

The king was silent.

“Sire,” continued Gilbert, “now my life is known to you; I have neither offended nor wounded any one,-neither a beggar nor a queen,-and I come to ask your Majesty why I have been punished.”

“I shall speak to the queen, Monsieur Gilbert; but do you think the lettre de cachet comes directly from the queen-”

“I do not say that, Sire; I even think the queen merely recommended it.”

“Ah! you see,” cried Louis, quite joyfully.

“Yes; but you are aware, Sire, that what a queen recommends, she commands.”

“At whose request was the lettre de cachet granted- May I see it-”

“Yes, Sire,” said Gilbert. “Look at it.”

And he presented him the entry in the jail-book.

“The Countess de Charny!” exclaimed the king. “How, it is she who caused your arrest- But what can you have done to this poor Charny-”

“I did not even know that lady by name this morning, Sire.”

Louis passed his hand over his brow.

“Charny,” murmured he, “Charny,-sweetness, virtue, chastity itself.”

“You will see, Sire,” said Gilbert, laughing, “that I was imprisoned in the Bastille at the request of the three theological virtues!”

“Oh, I will clear this up at once!” said the king.

And he pulled a bell.

An usher appeared.

“See if the Countess de Charny is with the queen,” said Louis.

“Sire,” said the usher, “the countess has this instant crossed the gallery; she is about stepping into her coach.”

“Run after her,” said Louis, eagerly, “and request her to come to my cabinet on an affair of importance.”

Then, turning towards Gilbert:-

“Is that what you desire, sir-” said he.

“Yes, Sire,” answered Gilbert, “and I return a thousand thanks to your Majesty.”

CHAPTER XXIII. THE COUNTESS DE CHARNY

GILBERT, on hearing the order to send for Madame de Charny, had retired into the recess of a window.

As to the king, he was walking up and down in the room called the il-de-Buf, preoccupied at times with public affairs, at others with the pertinacity of this Gilbert, by whom, in spite of himself, he felt strangely influenced, and at a moment when nothing ought to have interested him but the affairs of Paris.

Suddenly the door of the cabinet was thrown open, the usher announced the Countess de Charny, and Gilbert, through the closed curtains, could perceive a woman, whose flowing and silken robes grazed the half-opened door.

This lady was dressed, according to the fashion of the times, in a d #233;shabille of gray silk, striped with a variety of colors, with a petticoat of the same stuff, and a sort of shawl, which, after being crossed over the chest, was fastened behind her waist, and showed to great advantage the beauties of a full and well-developed bosom. A small bonnet, coquettishly fixed on the summit of a high head-dress, high-heeled shoes, which showed the exquisite shape of a beautiful instep, a small cane twirled by the gloved fingers of a slender and delicate hand, with tapering and perfectly aristocratic fingers: such was the person so anxiously expected by Gilbert.

The king stepped forward to meet her.

“You were just going out, Countess, I was told.”

“In truth, Sire,” replied the countess, “I was on the point of stepping into my carriage when I received your Majesty's order.”

On hearing this firm-toned voice, the ears of Gilbert were suddenly assailed as with a rushing sound. The blood instantly suffused his cheeks, and a thousand shudders appeared to thrill through his whole system.

Despite himself, he made a step from the curtain, behind which he had secreted himself.

“She!” stammered he; “she-Andr #233;e-”

“Madame,” continued the king, who, as well as the countess, had not observed the emotion of Gilbert, who was hidden in the shade, “I requested you to visit me, for the purpose of obtaining some information from you.”

“I am ready to comply with your Majesty's wishes.”

The king leaned in the direction of Gilbert as if to warn him.

The latter, perceiving that the moment to show himself had not yet arrived, gradually withdrew himself again behind the curtain.

“Madame,” said the king, “it is now eight or ten days since a warrant of imprisonment was requested of Monsieur de Necker-”

Gilbert, through the almost imperceptible opening between the curtains, fastened his gaze upon Andr #233;e. The young woman was pale, feverish, and anxious, and appeared borne down by the weight of a secret prepossession, for which even she herself could not account.

“You hear me, do you not, Countess-” asked Louis XVI., seeing that Madame de Charny hesitated before answering.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well, do you understand me, and can you answer my question-”

“I am endeavoring to remember,” said Andr #233;e.

“Permit me to assist your memory, Countess. The warrant of imprisonment was demanded by you, and the demand was countersigned by the queen.”

The countess, instead of answering, appeared to abandon herself more and more to that feverish abstraction which seemed to lead her beyond the limits of real life.

“But answer me, then, Madame,” said the king, who began to grow impatient.

“It is true,” said she, trembling, “it is true. I wrote the letter, and her Majesty, the queen, countersigned it.”

“Then,” asked Louis, “tell me the crime which had been committed by the person against whom such a document was required.”

“Sire,” said Andr #233;e, “I cannot tell you what crime he had committed; but what I can tell you is, that the crime was great.”

“Oh, can you not confide that even to me-”

“No, Sire.”

“Not to the king-”

“No. I hope your Majesty will forgive me; but I cannot.”

“Then you shall tell it to him in person, Madame,” said the king;" for what you have refused to King Louis XVI., you cannot refuse to Doctor Gilbert.”

“To Doctor Gilbert!” exclaimed Andr #233;e. “Great God! where is he then-”

The king stepped aside to allow Gilbert to advance; the curtains were thrown apart, and the doctor appeared, almost as pale as Andr #233;e.

“Here he is, Madame,” said he.

At the sight of Gilbert, the countess staggered. Her limbs shook beneath her. She fell backwards, as does a person who is about to faint, and only maintained a standing position with the assistance of an arm-chair, on which she leaned in the sorrowful, motionless, and almost unconscious attitude of Eurydice at the moment when the serpent's venom reaches her heart.

“Madame,” said Gilbert, bowing to her with mock politeness, “allow me to repeat the question which has just been put to you by his Majesty.”

The lips of Andr #233;e could be seen to move, but no sound issued from them.

“What offence had I committed, Madame, that an order from you should have caused me to be thrown into a loathsome dungeon-”

On hearing this voice, Andr #233;e bounded as if she had felt the tearing asunder of the fibres of her heart.

Then, on a sudden, casting upon Gilbert an icy look, like that of a serpent:-

“Me, sir-” said she. “I do not know you.”

But while she pronounced these words, Gilbert, on his side, had looked at her with such intentness, he had loaded the brightness of his gaze with so much invincible audacity, that the countess cast down her eyes, completely overpowered.

“Countess,” said the king, in a mild tone of reproach, “see where the abuse of a signature may lead you. Here is a gentleman whom you do not know, and you yourself confess it; a man who is a great practitioner, a profound physician, a man who can be reproached for nothing.”

Andr #233;e raised her head, and almost petrified Gilbert by her contemptuous look.

He, however, remained calm and proud.

“I say, then,” continued the king, “that having no cause for complaint against Monsieur Gilbert, by thus persecuting him instead of another, it is on the head of an innocent man that punishment has fallen. Countess, this is wrong.”

“Sire,” said Andr #233;e.

“Ah!” interrupted the king, who already trembled for fear of disobliging the favorite of his wife, “I know that you are kind-hearted, and that if you have punished some one through hatred, that person must have deserved it; but you see that it will be necessary, in future, to avoid the recurrence of such mistakes.”

Then, turning towards Gilbert:-

“You see, Doctor, it is the fault of the times, rather than that of men. We are born in corruption, and we die in it; but we will endeavor at least to ameliorate the condition of posterity, and you will, I trust, assist me in this work, Doctor Gilbert.”

And Louis ceased speaking, thinking he had said enough to satisfy both parties.

Poor king! had he pronounced those words before the National Assembly, not only would he have been applauded, but, moreover, he would have seen them reproduced in all the court journals.

But the two unrelenting enemies present at this interview appreciated but little his conciliating philosophy.

“With your Majesty's permission,” said Gilbert, “I will request the countess to repeat what she has already stated, namely, that she does not know me.”

“Countess,” said the king, “will you do what the doctor requests of you-”

“I do not know Doctor Gilbert,” repeated Andr #233;e in a firm voice.

“But you know another Gilbert, my namesake,-the Gilbert whose crime has been visited on me.”

“Oh,” said Andr #233;e, “I know that person, and I consider him an infamous wretch.”

“Sire, it would not become me to interrogate the countess,” said Gilbert; “but deign to ask her of what that infamous man has been guilty.”

“Countess, you cannot refuse acceding to so just a request.”

“What he has done” said Andr #233;e. “Doubtless the queen knew of what crime he had been guilty, since with her own hand she authorized the letter by means of which I applied for his arrest.”

“But,” said the king, “it is not quite sufficient that the queen should be convinced; it is necessary that I too should be convinced. The queen is the queen, but I am the king.”

“Well then, Sire, the Gilbert mentioned in the warrant is a man who, sixteen years ago, committed a most fearful crime.”

“Will your Majesty ask the countess how old that man is at the present day-”

The king repeated the question.

“From thirty to thirty-two,” said Andr #233;e.

“Sire,” rejoined Gilbert, “if the crime was committed sixteen years ago, it was not committed by a man, but by a child; and if, during these sixteen years, the man has deplored the crime committed by the child, does not that man deserve some little leniency-”

“But, sir,” asked the king, “you then know the Gilbert in question-”

“I know him, Sire,” said Gilbert.

“And has he committed no other fault except this one of his early youth-”

“I do not know that since the day on which he committed-I will not say that fault, Sire, for I am less indulgent than you-but that crime, I do not know that any one in this world has aught to reproach him with.”

“No, unless it is having dipped his pen in poison, and having composed the most odious libels,” cried Andr #233;e.

“Sire, please to ask the countess,” said Gilbert, “if the real object of the arrest of this Gilbert was not to afford every facility to his enemies, or rather to his enemy, to obtain possession of a certain casket containing certain papers, which might have compromised a great lady, a lady of the court.”

Andr #233;e trembled from head to foot.

“Monsieur,” faltered she.

“Countess, what is this casket-” asked the king, who had perceived the trembling and the pallor of the countess.

“Ah, Madame,” cried Gilbert, feeling that he was gaining the mastery, “no tergiversation,-no subterfuge. There have been misstatements enough on both sides. I am the Gilbert who committed the crime; I am the Gilbert of the libels; I am the Gilbert of the casket. You-you are the great lady,-the lady of the court. I call upon the King to be our judge; accept him, and we will tell to this judge,-to the King-to God,-we will tell all that has occurred between us; and the King shall decide, while we await the judgment of God.”

“Say what you will, sir,” rejoined the Countess, “but I can say nothing; I do not know you.”

“And you know nothing of this casket either-”

The countess convulsively closed her hands and bit her pale lips till they bled.

“No,” said she, “I know no more of it than I do of you.”

But the effort she made to pronounce these words was such, that her body trembled as does a statue on its pedestal during an earthquake.

“Madame, beware,” said Gilbert. “I am, as you can hardly have forgotten, the pupil of a man called Joseph Balsamo. The power which he possessed over you, he has transmitted to me. For the last time, will you answer the question I put to you: My casket-”

“No,” cried the countess, a prey to the most indescribable agitation, and making a movement to rush out of the room; “no, no, no!”

“Well, then,” said Gilbert, in his turn becoming pale, and raising his threatening arm; “well then! thou iron nature, thou heart of adamant, bend, burst, and break beneath the irresistible pressure of my will. Wilt thou not speak, Andr #233;e-”

“No, no,” cried the countess; “help me Sire, help me!”

“Thou shalt speak,” cried Gilbert; “and no one, were he the King, or even God himself, can withdraw thee from my power. Thou shalt speak, then; thou shalt reveal thy whole soul to the witness of this solemn scene; and all that is contained in the recesses of thy conscience,-all that which God alone can read in the depths of the deepest souls, you shall know, Sire, from the lips of her who refuses to reveal them. Sleep, Countess de Charny, sleep and speak. I will it!”

Hardly were the words pronounced, when the Countess stopped short in the midst of a suppressed cry, stretched forth her arms, and seeking support for her trembling limbs, fell, as if imploring a refuge, into the arms of the king, who, trembling himself, seated her upon an arm-chair.

“Oh!” said Louis XVI., “I have heard of things of this nature, but I never before witnessed anything to equal it. Is it not to a magnetic sleep that she has just succumbed, sir-”

“Yes, Sire; take the hand of the countess, and ask her why she caused me to be arrested,” said Gilbert, as if the right to command belonged to him alone.

Louis XVI., quite thunderstruck by this marvellous scene, took two steps backwards to convince himself that he was not himself asleep, and that what was taking place before him was not a dream; then, like a mathematician who is interested in some new solution, he approached nearer to the countess, whose hand he took in his.

“Let us see, Countess,” said he; “it was then you who caused the arrest of Doctor Gilbert-”

Still, although asleep, the countess made one last effort, snatched her hand from that of the king, and gathering up all her strength:-

“No,” cried she, “I will not speak.”

The king looked at Gilbert, as if to ask him which of the two would overcome the other,-his will or that of Andr #233;e.

Gilbert smiled.

“You will not speak-” said he.

And, his eyes fixed upon the sleeping Andr #233;e, he advanced a step towards the arm-chair.

Andr #233;e shuddered.

“Will you not speak-” added he, taking a second step, which diminished the distance that separated him from the countess.

Every muscle of Andr #233;e's frame became rigid in a supreme effort of resistance.

“Ah, you will not, speak, then” said he, taking a third stride, which placed him at the side of Andr #233;e, over whose head he placed his outstretched hand; “ah, you will not speak-”

Andr #233;e was writhing in the most fearful convulsions.

“But take care! take care!” cried Louis XVI., “you will kill her!”

“Fear nothing, Sire; it is with the soul alone that I have to contend; the soul is struggling, but it will yield.”

Then, lowering his hand:-

“Speak!” said he.

Andr #233;e extended her arms, and made an effort to breathe, as if she had been under the pressure of a pneumatic machine.

“Speak!” repeated Gilbert, lowering his hand still more.

All the muscles of the young woman's body seemed about to burst. A fringe of froth appeared upon her lips, and a commencement of epilepsy convulsed her from head to foot.

“Doctor! Doctor!” said the king, “take care!”

But he, without noticing the king, lowered his hand a third time, and touching the top of the countess's head with the palm of that hand:-

“Speak!” said he; “it is my will.”

Andr #233;e, on feeling the touch of that hand, heaved a sigh, her arms fell motionless to her side, her head, which had been thrown backwards, fell forward upon her breast, and a copious flood of tears oozed through her closed eyelids.

“My God! my God! my God!” faltered she.

“Invoke the Lord,-be it so; he who operates in the name of God does not fear God.”

“Oh!” said the countess, “how I hate you!”

“Abhor me, if you will, but speak!”

“Sire, Sire,” exclaimed Andr #233;e, “tell him that he consumes me, that he devours me, that he kills me!”

“Speak!” said Gilbert.

Then he made a sign to the king that he might interrogate her.

“So that, Countess,” said the king, again taking her hand, “he whom you wished to arrest, and whom you caused to be arrested, was really the doctor himself-”

“Yes.”

“And there was no mistake, no misunderstanding-”

“None.”

“And the casket-” said the king.

“Well,” articulated the countess slowly, “could I allow that casket to remain in his possession-”

Gilbert and the king exchanged glances.

“And did you take it from him-” said Louis XVI.

“I had it taken from him.”

“Oh! oh! tell me how that was managed, Countess,” said the king, forgetful of all ceremony, and kneeling down before Andr #233;e. “You had it taken-”

“Yes.”

“When, and by what means-”

“I ascertained that this Gilbert, who during sixteen years has already made two voyages to France, was about to make a third one, and this last time with the intention of remaining here.”

“But the casket-” asked the king.

“I ascertained by means of the lieutenant of police, Monsieur de Crosne, that during one of his journeys he had bought some lands in the neighborhood of Villers-Cotterets, that the farmer who tenanted his lands enjoyed his whole confidence; I suspected that the casket might be left at his residence.”

“What made you think so-”

“I went to see Mesmer. I made him put me to sleep, and I saw the casket while in that state.”

“It was-”

“In a large linen wardrobe on the ground-floor, hidden under some linen.”

“This is wonderful!” said the king. “After that tell me what took place.”

“I returned to the house of Monsieur de Crosne, who having been recommended to do so by the queen, gave me one of his most skilful agents.”

“What was the name of this agent” asked Gilbert.

Andr #233;e shuddered as if a hot iron had touched her.

“I ask you his name-” repeated Gilbert.

Andr #233;e endeavored to resist.

“His name; I will know it!” said the doctor.

“Wolfsfoot,” she replied.

“After that-” asked the king.

“Well, then, yesterday morning this man got possession of the casket. That is all.”

“No, it is not all,” said Gilbert. “You must now tell the king where the casket is at this moment.”

“Oh,” said Louis XVI., “you ask too much of her.”

“No, Sire.”

“But by this Wolfsfoot, by means of Monsieur de Crosne, one might ascertain-”

“Oh, we shall know everything quicker, and much better, through the Countess!”

Andr #233;e, by a convulsive movement, the object of which was doubtless to prevent the words from escaping her lips, clinched her teeth with such violence as almost to break them.

The king pointed out this nervous convulsion to the doctor.

Gilbert smiled.

He touched with his thumb and forefinger the lower part of the face of Andr #233;e, whose muscles were relaxed at the same moment.

“In the first place, Countess, tell the king clearly that this casket belonged to Doctor Gilbert.”

“Yes, yes, it belongs to him,” said the sleeping woman, angrily.

“And where is it at this moment-” asked Gilbert. “Make haste! the king has not time to wait.”

Andr #233;e hesitated for a moment.

“At Wolfsfoot's house,” said she.

Gilbert observed the hesitation, although it was scarcely perceptible.

“You are telling a falsehood!” said he, “or rather, you are endeavoring to tell one. Where is the casket I insist on knowing.”

“At my house at Versailles,” said Andr #233;e, bursting into tears, with a nervous trembling which shook her whole frame, “at my house, where Wolfsfoot is waiting for me, as we had previously agreed to meet at eleven o'clock to-night.”

Midnight was heard to strike.

“Is he still waiting there-”

“Yes.”

“In which room is he-”

“They have just shown him into the drawing-room.”

“What place does he occupy in the drawing-room-”

“He is standing, and leaning against the chimney-piece.”

“And the casket-”

“It is on the table before him. Oh!”

“What is the matter-”

“Let us hasten to get him out of the house. Monsieur de Charny, who was not to return till to-morrow, will come back to-night, on account of the events that have taken place. I see him; he is at S #232;vres. Make him go away, so that the count may not find him in the house.”

“Your Majesty hears that; in what part of Versailles does Madame de Charny reside-”

“Where do you reside, Countess-”

“On the Boulevard de la Reine, Sire.”

“Very well.”

“Sire, your Majesty has heard everything. That casket belongs to me. Does the king order it to be returned to me-”

“Immediately, sir.”

And the king, having drawn a screen before Madame de Charny, which prevented her from being seen, called the officer on duty, and gave him an order in a low voice.

CHAPTER XXIV. ROYAL PHILOSOPHY

A STRANGE preoccupation for a king whose subjects were undermining his throne. The inquisitiveness of the erudite man applied to a physical phenomenon, while the most important political phenomenon was taking place that France had ever known,-that is to say, the transformation of a monarchy into a democracy. This sight, we say, of a king forgetting himself during the most terrible period of a tempest, would certainly have caused the great minds of the time to smile, bent, as they had been during three months, on the solution of their problem.

While riot was raging in all its fury without, Louis, forgetting the terrible events of the day,-the taking of the Bastille, the assassination of Flesselles, De Launay, and De Losme, the disposition of the National Assembly to revolt against the king,-Louis was concentrating his mind on this examination of a theory; and the revelations of this strange scene absorbed him no less than the most vital interests of his government.

And thus, as soon as he had given the order which we have mentioned to the captain of his guards, he returned to Gilbert, who was removing from the countess the excess of fluid with which he had charged her, in order that her slumber might be more tranquil than under the effects of this convulsive somnambulism.

For an instant the respiration of the countess became calm and easy as that of a sleeping child. Then Gilbert, with a single motion of his hand, reopened her eyes, and put her into a state of ecstasy.

It was then that one could see the extraordinary beauty of Andr #233;e, in all its splendor. Being completely freed from all earthly agitations, the blood, which had for an instant rushed to her face, and which momentarily had colored her cheeks, redescended to her heart, whose pulsations had recovered their natural state. Her face had again become pale, but of that beautiful pallor of the women of the East; her eyes, opened rather more than usual, were raised towards heaven, and left the pupils floating, as it were, in the pearl-like whiteness of their eyeballs; the nose, slightly expanded, appeared to inhale a purer atmosphere; and her lips, which had preserved all their vermilion, although her cheeks had lost a little of theirs, were slightly separated, and discovered a row of pearls, of which the sweet moistness increased the brilliancy.

The head was gently thrown backwards with an inexpressible grace, almost angelic. It might have been said that this fixed look, increasing its scope of vision by its intensity, penetrated to the foot of the throne of God.

The king gazed at her as if dazzled. Gilbert turned away his head and sighed. He could not resist the desire to give Andr #233;e this degree of superhuman beauty; and now, like Pygmalion-more unhappy even than Pygmalion, for he knew the insensibility of the beautiful statue he trembled at the sight of his own production.

He made a sign without even turning his head towards Andr #233;e, and her eyes closed instantly.

The king desired Gilbert to explain to him that marvellous state, in which the soul separates itself from the body, and soars, free, happy, and divine, above all terrestrial miseries.

Gilbert, like all men of truly superior genius, could pronounce the words so much dreaded by mediocrity, “I do not know.” He confessed his ignorance to the king. He had produced a phenomenon which he could not explain. The fact itself existed, but the explanation of the fact could not be given.

“Doctor,” said the king, on hearing this avowal of Gilbert, “this is another of those secrets which Nature reserves for the learned men of another generation, and which will be studied thoroughly, like so many other mysteries which were thought insoluble. We call them mysteries; our fathers would have called them sorcery or witchcraft.”

“Yes, Sire,” answered Gilbert, smiling, “and I should have had the honor to be burned on the Place de Gr #232;ve, for the greater glory of a religion which was not understood, by wise men without learning, and priests devoid of faith.”

“And under whom did you study this science-” rejoined the king; “was it with Mesmer-”

“Oh, Sire!” said Gilbert, smiling, “I had seen the most astonishing phenomena of the science ten years before the name of Mesmer was pronounced in France.”

“Tell me now; this Mesmer, who has revolutionized all France, was he, in your opinion, a charlatan- It seems to me that you operate much more simply than he. I have heard his experiments spoken of, and also those of Deslon and Puys #233;gur. You know all that has been said on the subject, whether idle stories or positive truths.”

“I have carefully observed all these discussions, Sire.”

“Well, then, what do you think of the famous vat or tub-”

“I hope your Majesty will excuse me if I answer doubtingly to all you ask me with regard to the magnetic art. Magnetism has not yet become an art.”

“Ah!”

“But it assuredly is a power, a terrific power, since it annihilates the will, since it isolates the soul from the body, and places the body of the somnambulist in the power of the magnetizer, while the soul does not retain the power, nor even the desire, to defend itself. As for me, Sire, I have seen strange phenomena produced. I have produced many myself. Well, I nevertheless still doubt.”

“How! you still doubt- You perform miracles, and yet you are in doubt-”

“No, I do not doubt-I do not doubt. At this moment even, I have a proof before my eyes of an extraordinary and incomprehensible power. But when that proof has disappeared, when I am at home alone in my library, face to face with all that human science has written during three thousand years; when science says no; when the mind says no; when reason says no, I doubt.”

“And did your master also doubt, Doctor-”

“Perhaps he did, but he was less sincere than I. He did not express his doubt.”

“Was it Deslon- Was it Puys #233;gur-”

“No, Sire, no. My master was a man far superior to all the men you have named. I have seen him perform the most marvellous things, especially with regard to wounds. No science was unknown to him. He had impregnated his mind with Egyptian theories. He had penetrated the arcana of ancient Assyrian civilization. He was a profound scholar, a formidable philosopher, having a great knowledge of human life, combined with a persevering will.”

“Have I ever known him-” asked the king.

Gilbert hesitated a moment.

“I ask you whether I ever knew him-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“And you call him-”

“Sire,” said Gilbert, “to pronounce that name before the king would perhaps render me liable to his displeasure. Now, especially at this moment, when the majority of Frenchmen are contemning all royal authority, I would not throw a shade on the respect we all owe your Majesty.”

“Name that man boldly, Doctor Gilbert; and be persuaded that I too have my philosophy,-a philosophy of sufficiently good material to enable me to smile at all the insults of the present and all the threats of the future.”

Gilbert still continued to hesitate.

The king approached him.

“Sir,” said he to Gilbert, laughing, “call him Satan, if you will; I shall still find a shield to protect me from him,-the one which your dogmatizers do not possess,-one that they never will possess, one which I alone perhaps in this century possess, and bear without feeling shame,-religion.”

“Your Majesty believes as Saint Louis did. It is true,” said Gilbert.

“And in that lies all my strength, I confess, Doctor. I like science; I adore the results of materialism; I am a mathematician, as you well know; you know that the sum total of an addition or an algebraical formula fills my heart with joy; but when I meet people who carry algebra to atheism, I have in reserve my profound, inexhaustible, and eternal faith-a faith which places me a degree above and a degree below them,-above them in good, and beneath them in evil. You see, then, Doctor, that I am a man to whom everything may be said, a king who can hear anything.”

“Sire,” said Gilbert, with a sort of admiration, “I thank your Majesty for what you have just said to me; for you have almost honored me with the confidence of a friend.”

“Oh, I wish,” the timid Louis hastened to exclaim, “I wish all Europe could hear me speak thus. If Frenchmen could read in my heart all the energy of feeling, the tenderness which it contains, I think they would oppose me less.”

The last portion of the king's sentence, which showed that the king was irritated by the attack the royal prerogative had been subjected to, lowered Louis XVI. in the estimation of Gilbert.

He hastened to say, without attempting to spare the king's feelings,-

“Sire, since you insist upon it, my master was the Count de Cagliostro.”

“Oh!” cried Louis, coloring, “that empiric!”

“That empiric!-yes, Sire! Your Majesty is doubtless aware that the word you have just pronounced is one of the noblest used in science. Empiric means the man who experiments: the practitioner, the profound thinker,-the man, in short, who is incessantly investigating,-does all that God permits men to do that is glorious and beautiful. Let but a man experiment during his whole life, and his life will be well occupied.”

“Ah, sir, this Cagliostro whom you defend was a great enemy of kings.”

Gilbert recollected the affair of the necklace.

“Is it not rather the enemy of queens your Majesty intended to say-”

Louis shuddered at this sharp home-thrust.

“Yes,” said he, “he conducted himself, in all the affair of Prince Louis de Rohan, in a manner which was more than equivocal.”

“Sire, in that, as in other circumstances, Cagliostro carried out the human mission: he made his own researches. In science, in morals, in politics, there is neither good nor evil; there are only stated phenomena or accomplished facts. Nevertheless, I will not defend him, Sire. I repeat, the man may often have merited blame; perhaps some day this very blame may be considered as praise: posterity reconsiders the judgments of men. But I did not study under the man, Sire, but under the philosopher, under the great physician.”

“Well, well,” said the king, who still felt the double wound his pride and heart had received, “well; but we are forgetting the Countess de Charny, and perhaps she is suffering.”

“I will wake her up, Sire, if your Majesty desires it; but I had wished that the casket might arrive here during her sleep.”

Why-”

“To spare her a too harsh lesson.”

“Here is somebody coming at this moment,” said the king. “Wait.”

In fact, the king's order had been punctually obeyed. The casket found at the hotel of the Countess de Charny, in the possession of the agent Wolfsfoot, was brought into the royal cabinet, under the very eyes of the Countess, who did not see it.

The king made a sign of satisfaction to the officer who brought the casket. The officer then left the room.

“Well!” said Louis XVI.

“Well, then, Sire, that is, in fact, the very casket which had been taken away from me.”

“Open it,” said the king.

“Sire, I am willing to do so, if your Majesty desires it; but I have only to forewarn your Majesty of one thing.”

“What is that-”

“Sire, as I told your Majesty, this box contains only papers which are easily read, and might be taken, and on which depends the honor of a woman.”

“And that woman is the countess-”

“Yes, Sire. That honor will not be endangered while this matter is confined to the knowledge of your Majesty. Open it, Sire,” said Gilbert, approaching the casket, and presenting the key of it to the king.

“Sir,” replied Louis XVI. coldly, “take away this box; it belongs to you.”

“Thank you, Sire, but what are we to do with the countess-”

“Oh, do not, above all, wake her up here. I wish to avoid all recriminations and painful scenes.”

“Sire,” said Gilbert, “the countess will only awake in the place where you wish her to be carried.”

“Well, let her be taken to the queen's apartment, then.”

Louis rang the bell. An officer entered the room.

“Captain,” said he, “the Countess de Charny has just fainted here, on hearing the news from Paris. Have her taken to the queen's room.”

“How long will it take to carry her there-” asked Gilbert of the king.

“About ten minutes,” replied the latter.

Gilbert laid his hand on the countess.

“You will awake in three quarters of an hour,” said he.

Two soldiers entered,-the order having been given by the officer,-who carried her away in an arm-chair.

“Now, Monsieur Gilbert, what more do you desire-” asked the king.

“Sire, I desire a favor which would draw me nearer to your Majesty, and procure me at the same time an opportunity to be useful to you.”

The king endeavored to divine what he could mean.

“Explain yourself,” said he.

“I should like to be one of the physicians in ordinary to the king,” replied Gilbert; “I should be in the way of no one; it is a post of honor, but rather a confidential than a brilliant one.”

“Granted,” said the king. “Adieu, Monsieur Gilbert. Ah! by the bye, a thousand compliments to Necker. Adieu.”

Then, as he was leaving the room:-

“My supper!” cried Louis, whom no event, however important, could induce to forget his supper.

CHAPTER XXV. IN THE QUEEN'S APARTMENTS

WHILE the king was learning to oppose the revolution philosophically, by going through a course of occult sciences, the queen who was a much more substantial and profound philosopher, had gathered around her in her large cabinet all those who were called her faithful adherents, doubtless because there had been no opportunity afforded to any one of them either to prove or to try his fidelity.

In the queen's circle, also, the events of that terrible day had been related in all their details.

She had even been the first to be informed of them, for, knowing her to be undaunted, they had not feared to inform her of the danger.

Around the queen were assembled generals, courtiers, priests, and ladies. Near the doors and behind the tapestries which hung before them might be seen groups of young officers, full of courage and ardor, who saw in all revolts a long desired opportunity to evince their prowess in presence of the fair sex, as in a tournament.

All of these, whether intimately connected with the court, or devoted servants of the monarchy, had listened with attention to the news from Paris, which had been related by Monsieur de Lambesq, who, having been present during those events, had hastened to Versailles with his regiment, still covered with the sand of the Tuileries, in order to state the real position of affairs to the affrighted courtiers, and thus afford them consolation; for many of them, although the misfortune was sufficiently serious, had greatly exaggerated it in their apprehension.

The queen was seated at a table. It was no longer the gentle and lovely bride, the guardian angel of France, whom we saw appear at the opening of this cycle, crossing the northern frontier, an olive-branch in her hand. It was no longer even that gracious and beautiful princess whom we saw one evening entering with the Princess de Lamballe into the mysterious dwelling of Mesmer, and seating herself, laughing and incredulous, near the symbolical vat, of which she had come to ask a revelation of the future.

No! it was the haughty and resolute queen, with frowning brow and scornful lip; it was a woman whose heart had allowed a portion of its love to escape from it, to harbor, instead of that sweet and vivifying element, the first drops of gall, which by constantly filtering into it was finally to reach her blood.

It was, in short, the woman represented by the third portrait in the gallery of Versailles, that is to say, no longer Marie Antoinette, no longer the Queen of France, but the woman who was now designated only by the name of the Austrian.

Behind her, in the shade, lay a motionless young woman, her head reclining on the cushion of a sofa, and her hand upon her forehead.

This was Madame de Polignac.

Perceiving Monsieur de Lambesq, the queen made one of those gestures indicative of unbounded joy, which mean, “At last we shall know all.”

Monsieur de Lambesq bowed, with a sign that asked pardon at the same time for his soiled boots, his dusty coat, and his sword, which, having been bent in his fall, could not be forced into its scabbard.

“Well, Monsieur de Lambesq,” said the queen, “have you just arrived from Paris-”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“What are the people doing-”

“They are killing and burning.”

“Through maddening rage or hatred-”

“No; from sheer ferocity.”

The queen reflected, as if she had felt disposed to be of his opinion with regard to the people. Then, shaking her head:-

“No, prince,” said she, “the people are not ferocious; at least, not without a reason. Do not conceal anything from me. Is it madness-is it hatred-”

“Well, I think it is hatred carried to madness, Madame.”

“Hatred of whom- Ah! I see you are hesitating again, Prince. Take care; if you relate events in that manner, instead of applying to you as I do, I shall send one of my outriders to Paris; he will require one hour to go there, one to acquire information, one to return; and in the course of three hours this man will tell me everything that has happened as accurately and as simply as one of Homer's heralds.”

Monsieur de Dreux Br #233;z #233; stepped forward, with a smile upon his lips.

“But, Madame,” said he, “of what consequence to you is the hatred of the people- That can in no way concern you. The people may hate all, excepting you.”

The queen did not even rebuke this piece of flattery.

“Come, come, Prince,” said she to Monsieur de Lambesq, “speak out.”

“Well, then, Madame, it is true the people are influenced by hatred.”

“Hatred of me-”

“Of everything that rules.”

“Well said!-that is the truth! I feel it,” exclaimed the queen, resolutely.

“I am a soldier, your Majesty,” said the prince.

“Well, well! speak to us then as a soldier. Let us see what must be done.”

“Nothing, Madame.”

“How-nothing-” cried the queen, taking advantage of the murmurs occasioned by these words among the wearers of embroidered coats and golden-sheathed swords of her company; “nothing! You, a Prince of Lorraine,-you can speak thus to the Queen of France at a moment when the people, according to your own confession, are killing and burning, and you can coolly say there is nothing to be done!”

A second murmur, but this time of approbation, followed the words of Marie Antoinette.

She turned round, fixed her gaze on all the circle which environed her, and among all those fiery eyes sought those which darted forth the brightest flames, as if she could read a greater proof of fidelity in them.

“Nothing!” continued the prince; “but allow the Parisian to become calm-and he will become so-for he is only warlike when he is exasperated. Why give him the honors of a struggle, and risk the chances of a battle- Let us keep quiet, and in three days there will no longer be a question of a commotion in Paris.”

“But the Bastille, sir-”

“The Bastille! Its doors will be closed, and those who took it will be taken, that is all.”

Some laughter was heard among the before silent group.

The queen continued,-

“Take care, Prince; you are now reassuring me too much.” And thoughtfully, her chin resting on the palm of her hand, she advanced towards Madame de Polignac, who, pale and sad, seemed absorbed in thought.

The countess had listened to all the news with visible fear; she only smiled when the queen stopped opposite to her and smiled; although this smile was pale and colorless as a fading flower.

“Well, Countess,” said the queen, “what do you say to all this-”

“Alas! nothing,” she replied. “How, nothing!”

“No.”

And she shook her head with an indescribable expression of despair.

“Come, come,” said the queen in a very low voice, and stooping to the ear of the countess, “our friend Diana is terrified.”

Then she said aloud,-

“But where is Madame de Charny, the intrepid woman- We need her assistance to reassure us, I think.”

“The countess was about to go out,” said Madame de Misery, “when she was summoned to the king's apartments.”

“Ah! the king's,” absently answered Marie Antoinette.

And only then did the queen perceive the strange silence which pervaded all around her.

The truth was, these wonderful and incredible events, accounts of which had successively reached Versailles like repeated shocks, had prostrated the firmest hearts, perhaps more by astonishment than fear.

The queen understood that it was necessary to revive all these drooping spirits.

“Can no one advise me-” said she. “Be it so; I will advise myself.”

They all drew nearer to Marie Antoinette.

“The people,” said she, “are not bad at heart, they are only misled. They hate us because we are unknown to them; let us approach them more nearly.”

“To punish them, then,” said a voice, “for they have doubted their masters, and that is a crime.”

The queen looked in the direction from which the voice proceeded, and recognized Monsieur de Besenval.

“Oh, it is you, Monsieur le Baron,” said she; “do you come to give us your good counsel-”

“The advice is already given,” said Besenval, bowing.

“Be it so,” said the queen; “the king will punish only as a tender father.”

“Who loves well chastises well,” said the baron.

Then turning towards Monsieur de Lambesq:-

“Are you not of my opinion, Prince- The people have committed several murders-”

“Which they unfortunately call retaliation,” said a sweet, low voice, at the sound of which the queen turned in her seat.

“You are right, princess; but it is precisely in that that their error consists, my dear Lamballe; we shall be indulgent.”

“But,” replied the Princess, in her mild manner, “before asking whether we must punish, I think we ought to ask whether we can conquer.”

A general cry burst forth from those who were present, a cry of protestation against the truth which had just been spoken by those noble lips.

“Conquer! and where are the Swiss-” said one.

“And the Germans-” said another.

“And the body-guards-” said a third.

“Can doubts be entertained about the army and the nobility” exclaimed a young man wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Hussars of Bercheny. “Have we then deserved such a reproach- Do but consider, Madame, that no later than to-morrow, if he chose, the king could assemble forty thousand men, throw these forty thousand men into Paris, and destroy the city. Remember that forty thousand faithful troops are worth half a million of revolted Parisians.”

The young man who had just spoken these words had without doubt a good many other similar reasons to advance; but he stopped short on seeing the eyes of the queen fixed upon him. He had spoken from the centre of a group of officers, and his zeal had carried him further than was consistent with etiquette and his rank.

He checked himself, accordingly, as we have already said, feeling quite ashamed at the impression his words had made.

But it was too late; the queen had already been struck with his enthusiasm.

“You understand the present condition of affairs, sir-” said she, kindly.

“Yes, your Majesty,” said the young man, blushing; “I was at the Champs Elys #233;es.”

“Then, do not fear to speak; come nearer, sir.”

The young man stepped forward, blushing, from the group which opened to let him pass, and advanced towards the queen.

At the same moment the Prince de Lambesq and Monsieur de Besenval retired a step or two, as if they considered it beneath their dignity to attend this sort of council.

The queen did not pay, or did not appear to pay any attention to this movement.

“You say, then, sir, that the king has forty thousand men-” asked she.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“In the environs of Paris-”

“At St. Denis, at St. Mand #233;, at Montmartre, and at Grenelle.”

“Give me some details, sir,-some details,” exclaimed the queen.

“Madame, the Prince de Lambesq and Monsieur de Besenval can give you them with infinitely more accuracy than myself.”

“Go on, sir. It pleases me to hear these details from your lips. Under whose orders are these forty thousand men-”

“In the first place, under the orders of Monsieur de Besenval and Monsieur de Lambesq; then under those of the Prince de Cond #233;, of Monsieur de Narbonne-Fritzlar, and Monsieur de Salkenaym.”

“Is this true, Prince-” asked the queen, turning towards Monsieur de Lambesq.

“Yes, your Majesty,” answered the prince, bowing.

“On the heights of Montmartre,” said the young man, “there is a complete park of artillery; in six hours the whole quarter of the town within the range of Montmartre could be laid in ashes. Let Montmartre give the signal to open fire; let it be answered by Vincennes; let ten thousand men debouch by the Champs Elys #233;es, ten thousand more by the Barri #233;re d'Enfer, ten thousand more by the Rue St. Martin, ten thousand more by the Bastille; make Paris hear our cannonading from the four cardinal points, and she cannot hold her ground for twenty-four hours.”

“Ah! here is a man who at all events explains his views frankly; here is at least a clear and regular plan. What do you think of it, Monsieur de Lambesq-”

“I think,” answered the prince, disdainfully, “that the lieutenant of hussars is a perfect general.”

“He is, at least,” said the queen, who saw the young officer turn pale with anger, “he is, at least, a soldier who does not despair.”

“I thank you, Madame,” said the young man, bowing.

“I do not know what your Majesty's decision will be, but I beg you to consider me among those who are ready to die for you; and in so doing, I should only do that, I beg your Majesty to believe, which forty thousand soldiers are ready to do, as well as all our chiefs.”

And having said these words, the young man saluted courteously the prince, who had almost insulted him.

This act of courtesy struck the queen still more than the protestations of fidelity which had preceded it.

“What is your name, sir-” asked she of the young officer.

“I am the Baron de Charny, Madame,” replied he, bowing.

“De Charny!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, blushing in spite of herself; “are you then a relative of the Count de Charny-”

“I am his brother, Madame.”

And the young man bowed gracefully, even lower than he had done before.

“I ought,” said the queen, recovering from her confusion, and casting a firm look around her, “I ought to have recognized you, on hearing your first words, as one of my most faithful servants. Thank you, Baron. How is it that I now see you at court for the first time-”

“Madame, my elder brother, who is taking the place of my father, has ordered me to remain with the regiment, and during the seven years that I have had the honor of serving in the army of the king, I have only twice been at Versailles.”

The queen looked for a considerable time at the young man's face.

“You resemble your brother,” said she. “I shall reprimand him for having so long omitted to present you, and left you to present yourself at court.”

And the queen turned in the direction of her friend the countess, who during all this scene had remained motionless and mute upon the sofa.

But it was not thus with the remainder of those present. The officers, electrified by the reception the queen had given to the young man, were exaggerating to the utmost among themselves their enthusiasm for the royal cause, and from every group expressions burst forth, evincing a heroism capable of subjugating the whole of France.

Marie Antoinette made the most of these manifestations, which evidently flattered her secret wishes.

She preferred to struggle rather than to submit, to die rather than to yield. With this view, as soon as the first news had reached her from Paris, she had determined upon a stubborn resistance to the rebellious spirit which threatened to swallow up all the prerogatives of French society.

If there is a blind and senseless degree of strength, it is that stimulated by figures and vain hopes.

A figure, followed by an agglomeration of zeros, will soon exceed all the resources of the universe.

The same may be said of the plans of a conspirator or a despot. On enthusiasm, which itself is based on imperceptible hope, gigantic conceptions are built, which are dissipated before the first breath of wind, in less time than was required to condense them into a mist.

After hearing these few words pronounced by the Baron de Charny, after the enthusiastic hurrahs of the bystanders, Marie Antoinette could almost imagine herself at the head of a powerful army; she could hear the rolling of her harmless artillery, and she rejoiced at the fear which they would doubtless occasion among the Parisians, and had already gained a victory which she thought decisive.

Around her, men and women, beaming with youth, with confidence and love, were reckoning the number of those brilliant hussars, those heavy dragoons, those terrible Swiss, those well-equipped artillerymen, and laughed at the vulgar pikes and their coarse wooden handles, little thinking that on the points of these vile weapons were to be borne the noblest heads of France.

“As for me,” murmured the Princess de Lamballe, “I am more afraid of a pike than of a gun.”

“Because it is much uglier, my dear Th #233;r #232;se,” replied the queen, smiling. “But, at all events, compose yourself. Our Parisian pikemen are not a match for the famous Swiss pikemen of Morat; and the Swiss of the present day have something more than pikes; they have good muskets, with which they take good aim, thank Heaven!”

“Oh, as to that, I will answer for it!” said Monsieur de Besenval.

The queen turned round once more towards Madame de Polignac to see if all these assurances had restored her wonted tranquillity; but the countess appeared still paler and more trembling than before.

The queen, whose extreme tenderness of feeling often caused her to sacrifice her royal dignity for the sake of this friend, in vain seemed to solicit her to look more cheerful.

The young woman still continued gloomy, and appeared absorbed in the saddest thoughts. But this despondency only served to increase the queen's sorrow. The enthusiasm among the young officers maintained itself at the same pitch, and all of them, with the exception of the superior officers, were gathered round the Baron de Charny, and drawing up their plans for battle.

In the midst of this febrile excitement the king entered alone, unaccompanied by an usher, and with a smile upon his lips.

The queen, still greatly excited by the warlike emotions which she had aroused, rushed forward to meet him.

At the sight of the king all conversation had ceased, and was followed by the most perfect silence; every one expected a kingly word,-one of those words which electrify and subjugate.

When clouds are sufficiently loaded with electricity, the least disturbance, as is well known, is sufficient to produce a flash.

To the eyes of the courtiers, the king and queen, advancing to meet each other, appeared like two electric bodies, from which the thunder must proceed.

They listened, and trembled, and eagerly waited to catch the first words which were to proceed from the royal lips.

“Madame,” said Louis XVI., “amid all these events, they have forgotten to serve up my supper in my own apartment; be so kind as to have it brought me here.”

“Here-” exclaimed the queen, with an air of stupefaction.

“If you will permit it.”

“But-Sire-”

“You were conversing, it is true; but while at supper I shall converse also.”

The mere word “supper” had chilled the enthusiasm of every one present. But on hearing the king's last words,-“at supper I shall converse also,” the young queen herself could hardly help thinking that so much calmness concealed some small heroism. The king doubtless thought by his tranquillity to overcome all the terror occasioned by the events that had taken place. This must certainly be his design.

The daughter of Marie Th #233;r #232;se could not conceive that at so critical a moment the son of Saint Louis could still remain subject to the material wants of ordinary life.

Marie Antoinette was mistaken; the king was hungry, that was all.

CHAPTER XXVI. HOW THE KING SUPPED ON THE 14TH OF JULY, 1789

ON a word from Marie Antoinette, the king's supper was served on a small table in the queen's own cabinet.

But the contrary of what the princess had hoped soon happened. Louis XVI. ordered every one to be silent, but it was only that he might not be disturbed while at supper.

While Marie Antoinette was endeavoring to revive enthusiasm, the king was devouring a P #233;rigord pie.

The officers did not think this gastronomical performance worthy of a descendant of Saint Louis, and formed themselves into small groups, whose observations were not perhaps as respectful as circumstances ought to have demanded.

The queen blushed, and her impatience betrayed itself in all her movements. Her delicate, aristocratic, and nervous nature could not comprehend this domination of matter over mind.

She drew nearer to the king, with a view to bring those nearer to the table who had retired to a more distant part of the room.

“Sire,” said she, “have you no orders to give-”

“Ah! ah!” said the king, his mouth full, “what orders, Madame- Let us see; will you be our Egeria in this difficult moment-”

And while saying these words he bravely attacked a partridge stuffed with truffles.

“Sire,” said the queen, “Numa was a pacific king.

Now it is generally thought that what we need at present is a warlike king; and if you are going to take antiquity for your model, as your Majesty cannot become a Tarquin, you must be a Romulus.”

The king smiled with a tranquillity which almost seemed holy.

“Are these gentlemen warlike also-” asked he.

And he turned towards the group of officers, and his eyes being animated by the cheering influence of his meal, appeared to all present to sparkle with courage.

“Yes, Sire,” they all cried with one voice, “war! we only ask for war!”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” said the king, “you do me in truth the greatest pleasure, by proving to me that when occasion may require it I may rely upon you. But I have for the moment not only a council, but also a stomach; the former will advise me what I ought to do, the second advises me to do what I am now doing.”

And he laughed loudly, and handed his plate, full of fragments, to the officer in waiting, in exchange for a clean one.

A murmur of stupefaction and of rage passed like a shudder through the group of gentlemen, who only required a signal from the king to shed their last drop of blood.

The queen turned round and stamped her foot.

The Prince de Lambesq immediately came to her.

“You see, Madame,” said he, “his Majesty no doubt thinks, as I do, that it is better to wait. It is prudence-and although it is not one of mine, unfortunately, prudence is a necessary virtue in the times we live in.”

“Yes, sir, yes; it is a very necessary virtue,” said the queen, biting her lips till they bled.

With a death-like sadness she reclined against the chimney-piece, her eye lost in darkness, and her soul overwhelmed by despair.

The singular contrast between the disposition of the king and that of the queen struck every one with astonishment. The queen could hardly restrain her tears, while the king continued his supper with the proverbial appetite of the Bourbon family.

The room gradually became empty; the various groups melted away as does the snow in a garden before the rays of the sun,-the snow, beneath which the black and desolate earth soon makes its appearance here and there.

The queen, seeing this warlike group, upon which she relied so much, gradually disappear, imagined that all her power was vanishing; as in former times, the breath of the Lord had melted those vast armies of Assyrians or Amalekites, which one single night sufficed to swallow up in its darkness.

She was aroused from this species of torpor by the sweet voice of the Countess Jules, who approached her with Madame Diana de Polignac, her sister-in-law.

At the sound of this voice, the sweet future, with its flowers and palm-leaves, returned to the mind of this haughty woman. A sincere and devoted friend was to her of more value than ten kingdoms.

“Oh, thou, thou!” murmured she, clasping the Countess Jules in her arms; “I have then one friend left.”

And the tears, which for so long a time had been restrained, burst forth from her eyelids, trickled down her cheeks, and inundated her bosom; but instead of being bitter, these tears were sweet,-instead of oppressing her, they disburdened her heart.

They both remained silent for a few moments, during which the queen continued to hold the countess in her arms.

It was the duchess who first broke this silence, while still holding her sister-in-law by the hand.

“Madame,” said she, with a voice so timid that she almost appeared ashamed, “I do not think your Majesty will disapprove the project which I am about to submit to your notice.”

“What project-” asked the queen attentively; “speak, Duchess, speak-”

And while preparing to listen to the Duchess Diana, the queen leaned upon the shoulder of her favorite, the countess.

“Madame,” continued the duchess, “the opinion which I am about to pronounce comes from a person whose authority will not be doubted by your Majesty; it comes from her Royal Highness, Madame Adelaide, the queen's aunt.”

“What a singular preamble, dear Duchess,” said the queen, gayly, “come, let us hear this opinion.”

“Madame, circumstances are disheartening; the favors which our family enjoy from your Majesty have been much exaggerated; calumny stains the august friendship which you deign to grant us in exchange for our respectful devotion.”

“Well, then, Duchess,” said the queen, with a commencement of astonishment, “do you not think I have evinced sufficient courage- Have I not valiantly sustained my friends against public opinion, against the court, against the people, against the king himself-”

“Oh, Madame, certainly! and your Majesty has so nobly sustained your friends, that you have opposed your breast to every blow, so that to-day when the danger has become great, terrible even, the friends so nobly defended by your Majesty would be cowardly and unfaithful servants, if they did not prove themselves grateful to their queen.”

“Ah, this is well, this is beautiful!” said Marie Antoinette, with enthusiasm, embracing the countess, whom she still pressed against her bosom, while holding the hand of Madame de Polignac in hers.

But both of them turned pale, instead of proudly raising their heads, after they had been thus caressed by their sovereign.

Madame Jules de Polignac made a movement to disengage herself from the arms of the queen; but the latter still pressed her to her heart, despite her efforts to disengage herself.

“But,” stammered Madame Diana de Polignac, “your Majesty does not perhaps well understand what we have the honor to make known to you, in order to enable you to ward off the blows which threaten your throne, your person, perhaps, on account of the very friendship with which you honor us. There is a painful means, a bitter sacrifice to our hearts, but we must endure it; necessity commands it.”

At these words it was the queen's turn to become pale, for she no longer perceived courageous and faithful friendship, but fear, beneath this exordium, and under the veil of this reserve.

“Let us see,” said she; “speak, speak, Duchess; what is this sacrifice-”

“Oh, the sacrifice is entirely on our side, Madame!” replied the latter. “We are, God knows for what reason, execrated in France; by disencumbering your throne, we shall restore to it all the splendor, all the warmth of the popular love, a love either extinguished or intercepted by our presence.”

“You would leave me!” cried the queen, vehemently. “Who has said that- who has asked for that-”

And she cast a despairing look on the Countess Jules de Polignac, gently pushing her from her; the latter held down her head in great confusion.

“Not I,” said the Countess Jules; “I, on the contrary, ask but to remain.”

But these words were uttered in such a tone that they implied, “Order me to leave you, Madame, and I will leave you.”

O holy friendship, thou sacred chain which can link together the hearts of even a sovereign and her subject in indissoluble bonds! O holy friendship, thou engenderest more heroism than even love or ambition, those two noble maladies of the human heart! But thou canst not brook deceit. The queen at once shattered to atoms the adored altar she had raised to thee in her heart; she required but a look, one only look, to reveal to her that which during ten years she had not perceived, she had not even surmised,-coldness and interested calculation, excusable, justifiable, legitimate perhaps; but what can excuse, justify, or legitimize, in the eyes of one who still fondly loves, the abandonment of the one who has ceased to love-

Marie Antoinette's only revenge for the pain which was thus inflicted on her, was the icy coldness with which she gazed upon her friend.

“Ah, Duchess Diana! this, then, is your opinion-” cried she, compressing with her feverish hand the agitated pulsation of her heart.

“Alas! Madame,” answered the latter, “it is not my choice, it is not my will which dictates to me what I am to do: it is the law of destiny!”

“Yes, Duchess,” said Marie Antoinette. And turning to the Countess Jules: “And you, Countess: what say you to this-”

The countess replied by a burning tear, as if from a pang of remorse; but she had exhausted all her strength in the effort she had made.

“Well,” said the queen, “well, it is gratifying to my feelings to see how much I am beloved. Thank you, my dear Countess; yes, you incur great danger here; the anger of the people no longer knows any bounds; yes, you are all in the right, and I alone was foolish. You ask to remain,-that is pure devotedness; but I cannot accept such a sacrifice.”

The Countess Jules raised her beautiful eyes and looked at the queen. But the queen, instead of reading the devotedness of a friend in them, could only perceive the weakness of the woman.

“Thus, Duchess,” replied the queen, “you are resolved to leave me.” And she emphasized the word “you.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Doubtless for some one of your estates-a distant-a very distant one-”

“Madame, in going away, in leaving you, it would be as painful to travel fifty leagues as one hundred and fifty.”

“But do you, then, intend to go abroad-”

“Alas, yes, Madame!”

A suppressed sigh tore the very depths of the queen's heart, but it did not escape her lips.

“And where are you going-”

“To reside on the banks of the Rhine, Madame.”

“Well, you speak German, Duchess,” said the queen, with a look of indescribable sadness, “and it was I who taught it you. The friendship of your queen will at least have been useful to you to that extent, and I rejoice at it.”

Then, turning to the Countess Jules:-

“I do not wish to dismiss you, my dear Countess,” said she. “You desire to remain here, and I deeply appreciate that desire. But I-I, who fear for you-I insist on your departure; I order you to leave me.”

And having said these words, she suddenly stopped, overcome by emotions which, in spite of her heroism, she would perhaps not have had the power to control, had not she heard at that moment the voice of the king who had taken no part whatever in what we have just been relating.

The king was at his dessert.

“Madame,” said the king, “there is somebody in your apartment; they are seeking you.”

“But, Sire,” exclaimed the queen, throwing aside every other feeling but that of royal dignity, “in the first place, you have orders to give! Only three persons remain here; but they are those with whom you have to deal: Monsieur de Lambesq, Monsieur de Besenval, and Monsieur de Broglie. Give your orders, Sire; give your orders.”

The king raised his heavy eyes and appeared to hesitate.

“What do you think of all this, Monsieur de Broglie-” said he.

“Sire,” replied the old marshal, “if you withdraw your army from the sight of the Parisians, it will be said that it was beaten by them. If you leave it in their presence, your army must beat them.”

“Well said!” exclaimed the queen, grasping the marshal's hand.

“Well said!” cried Monsieur de Besenval.

The Prince de Lambesq was the only person present who shook his head.

“Well! and after that-” said the king.

“Command: march!” cried the old marshal.

“Yes-march!” cried the queen.

“Well, then, since you all wish it, march!” said the king.

At that moment a note was handed to the queen; its contents were as follows:-

“In the name of Heaven, Madame, no rashness! I await an audience of your Majesty.”

“His writing!” murmured the queen.

Then, turning round, she said in a low tone to the woman who had brought the note:-

“Is Monsieur de Charny in my room-”

“He has just arrived, completely covered with dust, and I even think with blood,” answered the confidant.

“One moment, gentlemen!” exclaimed the queen, to Monsieur de Besenval and Monsieur de Broglie; “wait for me here; I shall return!”

And she passed into her own apartment in great haste.

The king did not even move his head.

CHAPTER XXVII. OLIVIER DE CHARNY

ON entering her dressing-room, the queen found the person there who had written the note brought by her waiting-woman.

He was a man thirty-five years of age, of lofty stature, with a countenance which indicated strength and resolution; his grayish-blue eye, sharp and piercing as that of the eagle, his straight nose, his prominent chin, gave a martial character to his physiognomy, which was enhanced by the elegance with which he wore the uniform of a lieutenant in the body-guards.

His hands were still trembling under his torn and ruffled cambric cuffs.

His sword had been bent, and could hardly be replaced in the scabbard.

On the arrival of the queen, he was pacing hurriedly up and down the dressing-room, absorbed by a thousand feverish and agitated thoughts.

Marie Antoinette advanced straight towards him.

“Monsieur de Charny!” she exclaimed, “Monsieur de Charny, you here-”

And seeing that the person whom she thus addressed bowed respectfully according to etiquette, she made a sign to her waiting-woman, who withdrew and closed the doors.

The queen scarcely waited for the door to be closed, when, seizing the hand of Monsieur de Charny with vehemence,-

“Count,” cried she, “why are you here-”

“Because I considered it my duty to come, Madame,” said the count.

“No; your duty was to fly Versailles; it was to do what we had agreed,-to obey me; it is, in fact, to do as all my friends are doing who fear to share my fate. Your duty is to sacrifice nothing to my destiny; your duty is to flee far from me!”

“To flee from you-” said he.

“Yes; to flee from me.”

“And who, then, flies from you, Madame-”

“Those who are prudent.”

“I think myself very prudent, Madame, and that is why I now come to Versailles.”

“And from where do you come-”

“From Paris.”

“From revolted Paris-”

“From boiling, intoxicated, and ensanguined Paris.” The queen covered her face with her hands.

“Oh,” said she, “no one, not even you, will then come to bring me good news.”

“Madame, in the present circumstances, ask your messengers to tell you but one thing,-the truth.”

“And is it the truth you have just told me-”

“I always tell you the truth, Madame.”

“You have an honest soul, sir, and a stout heart.”

“I am a faithful subject, Madame, that is all.”

“Well, then, spare me for the moment, my friend; do not tell me a single word. You have arrived at a moment when my heart is breaking. My friends, to-day, for the first time overwhelm me with that truth which you have always told me. Oh, it is this truth, Count, which it was impossible for them to withhold from me any longer. It bursts forth everywhere: in the heavens which are red; in the air, which is filled with sinister noises; in the faces of the courtiers, who are pale and serious. No, no, Count; for the first time in your life, tell me not the truth.”

The count looked at the queen with amazement.

“Yes, yes,” said she; “you who know me to be courageous, you are astonished, are you not- Oh, you are not yet at the end of your astonishment!”

Monsieur de Charny allowed an inquiring gesture to escape him.

“You will see by-and-by,” said the queen, with a nervous laugh.

“Does your Majesty suffer-” asked the count.

“No, no, sir. Come and sit down near me, and not a word more about those dreadful politics. Try to make me forget them.”

The count obeyed with a sad smile. Marie Antoinette placed her hand upon his forehead.

“Your forehead burns,” said she.

“Yes, I have a volcano in my head.”

“Your hand is icy cold.”

And she pressed the count's hand between both hers.

“My heart is affected with a deathlike coldness,” said he. “Poor Olivier! I had told you so. Let us forget it. I am no longer queen; I am no longer threatened; I am no longer hated. No, I am no longer a queen. I am a woman, that is all. What is the whole universe to me- One heart that loves me would suffice me.”

The count fell on his knees before the queen, and kissed her feet with the respect the Egyptians had for the goddess Isis.

“Oh, Count, my only friend!” said the queen, trying to raise him up, “do you know what the Duchess Diana is about to do-”

“She is going to emigrate,” answered Charny, without hesitating.

“He has guessed the truth!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette. “He has guessed it. Alas! was it then possible to guess it-”

“Oh, certainly, Madame,” answered the count; “one can imagine anything at such a moment as this.”

“But you and your friends,” exclaimed the queen, “why do you not emigrate, if you consider it so natural a step-”

“In the first place, Madame, I do not emigrate because I am profoundly devoted to your Majesty, and because I have promised, not to you, but to myself, that I will not quit you for a single instant during the impending storm. My brothers will not emigrate, because my conduct will be the model on which they will regulate theirs. In fine, Madame de Charny will not emigrate, because she loves your Majesty sincerely; at least, so I believe.”

“Yes, Andr #233;e has a very noble heart,” said the queen, with perceptible coldness.

“That is the reason why she will not leave Versailles,” answered De Charny.

“Then I shall always have you near me,” said the queen, in the same icy tone, which she varied so as to express either her jealousy or her disdain.

“Your Majesty has done me the honor to make me lieutenant of the guards,” said the Count de Charny; “my post is at Versailles. I should not have left my post if your Majesty had not intrusted me with the care of the Tuileries. 'It is a necessary exile,' said the queen to me, and I accepted that exile. Now, in all this, your Majesty well knows the Countess de Charny has neither reproved the step, nor was she consulted with regard to it.”

“It is true,” replied the queen, in the same freezing tone.

“To-day,” continued the count, with intrepidity, “I think my post is no longer at the Tuileries, but at Versailles. Well, may it not displease the queen, I have violated my orders, thus selecting the service I prefer; and here I am. Whether Madame de Charny be alarmed or not at the complexion of events, whether it be her desire to emigrate or not, I will remain near the queen, unless, indeed, the queen breaks my sword; in which case, having no longer the right to fight and to die for her on the floor of Versailles, I shall still have that of sacrificing it on its threshold, on the pavement.”

The young man pronounced these simple words so valiantly and so loyally, which emanated so evidently from the depths of his heart, that the queen appeared suddenly to lose her haughtiness, a retreat behind which she had just concealed feelings more human than royal.

“Count,” said she, “never utter that word again. Do not say that you would die for me, for in truth I know that you would do as you say.”

“Oh, on the contrary, I shall always say it!” exclaimed Monsieur de Charny. “I shall say it to every one, and in every place. I shall say it, and I shall do it, because the time has come, I fear, when all who have been attached to the kings of this earth must die.”

“Count! Count!-what is it gives you this fatal forewarning-”

“Alas! Madame,” replied De Charny, shaking his head, “and I too, during that fatal American war, I too was affected like the rest with that fever of independence which pervaded all society. I too wished to take an active part in the emancipation of the slaves, as it was customary to say in those days; and I was initiated into the secrets of masonry. I became affiliated with a secret society, with the Lafayettes and the Lameths. Do you know what the object of this society was, Madame- The destruction of thrones. Do you know what it had for its motto- Three letters,-L. P. D.”

“And what did these letters signify-”

“Lilia pedibus destrue!-Trample the lilies underfoot!”

“Then, what did you do-”

“I withdrew with honor. But for one who withdrew from the society, there were twenty who applied to be admitted into it. Well, then, what is happening to-day, Madame, is the prologue to the grand drama which has been preparing in silence and in darkness for twenty years. At the head of the men who are stimulating Paris to resistance, who govern the H #244;tel de Ville, who occupy the Palais-Royal, and who took the Bastille, I recognized the countenances of my former affiliated brethren. Do not deceive yourself, Madame; all the events which have just taken place are not the results of chance; they are outbreaks which had been planned for years.”

“Oh, you think so!-you think so, my friend!” exclaimed the queen, bursting into tears.

“Do not weep, Madame, but endeavor to comprehend the present crisis,” said the count.

“You wish me to comprehend it!” continued Marie Antoinette. “I, the queen,-I, who was born the sovereign of twenty-five millions of men,-you wish me to understand how these twenty-five millions of subjects, born to obey me, should revolt and murder my friends! No,-that I shall never comprehend.”

“And yet it is absolutely necessary for you to understand it, Madame; for the moment this obedience becomes a burden to these subjects, to these men born to obey you, you become their enemy; and until they have the strength to devour you, to do which they are sharpening their famished teeth, they will devour your friends, still more detested than you are.”

“And perhaps you will next tell me that they are right, most sage philosopher,” exclaimed the queen, imperiously, her eyes dilated, and her nostrils quivering with anger.

“Alas! yes, Madame, they are right,” said the count, in his gentle and affectionate voice; “for when I drive along the Boulevards, with my beautiful English horses, my coat glittering with gold, and my attendants bedecked with more silver than would be necessary to feed three families, your people, that is to say, those twenty-five millions of starving men, ask themselves of what use I am to them,-I, who am only a man like themselves.”

“You serve them with this, Marquis,” exclaimed the queen, seizing the hilt of the count's sword; “you serve them with the sword that your father wielded so heroically at Foutenoy, your grandfather at Steinkirk, your great-grandfather at Lens and at Rocroi, your ancestors at Ivry, at Marignan, and at Agincourt. The nobility serves the French nation by waging war. By war, the nobility has earned, at the price of its blood, the gold which decks its garments, the silver which covers its liveries. Do not, therefore, ask yourself, Olivier, how you serve the people, you who wield in your turn, and bravely too, the sword which has descended to you from your forefathers.”

“Madame!-Madame!” said the count, shaking his head, “do not speak so much of the blood of the nobility: the people, too, have blood in their veins; go and see it running in streams on the Place de la Bastille; go and count their dead, stretched out on the crimsoned pavement, and consider that their hearts, which now no longer beat, throbbed with a feeling as noble as that of a knight, on the day when your cannon were thundering against them; on the day when, seizing a new weapon in their unskilful hands, they sang in the midst of grapeshot,-a thing which even our bravest grenadiers do not always. Ah! Madame, my sovereign, look not on me, I entreat you, with that frowning eye. What is a grenadier- It is a gilt blue coat, covering the heart of which I was speaking to you a moment since. Of what importance is it to the bullet which pierces and kills, that the heart be covered with blue cloth or with a linen rag- Of what importance is it to the heart which is pierced through, whether the cuirass which protected it was cloth or canvas- The time is come to think of all that, Madame. You have no longer twenty-five millions of slaves in France; you have no longer twenty-five millions of subjects; you have no longer even twenty-five millions of men. You have twenty-five millions of soldiers.”

“Who will fight against me, Count-”

“Yes, against you; for they are fighting for liberty, and you stand between them and liberty.”

A long silence followed the words of the count. The queen was the first to break it.

“In fine,” said she, “you have told me this truth, which I had begged you not to tell me.”

“Alas! Madame,” replied De Charny, “under whatever form my devotion may conceal it, under whatever veil my respect disguises it, in spite of me, in spite of yourself, examine it, listen to it, think of it. The truth is there, Madame, is there forever, and you can no longer banish it from your mind, whatever may be your efforts to the contrary. Sleep!-sleep, to forget it, and it will haunt your pillow, will become the phantom of your dreams, a reality at your awakening.”

“Oh, Count,” said the queen, proudly, “ I know asleep which it cannot disturb!”

“As for that sleep, Madame, I fear it no more than does your Majesty, and perhaps I desire it quite as much.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the queen, in despair, “according to you, it is, then, our sole refuge-”

“Yes; but let us do nothing rashly, Madame. Let us go no faster than our enemies, and we shall go straight to that sleep by the fatigue which we shall have to endure during so many stormy days.”

And a new silence, still more gloomy than the first, weighed down the spirits of the two speakers.

They were seated, he near her, and she near him. They touched each other, and yet between them there was an immense abyss, for their minds viewed the future in a different light.

The queen was the first to return to the subject of their conversation, but indirectly. She looked fixedly at the count. Then:- “Let us see, sir,” said she. “One word as to ourselves, and you will tell me al-all-all. You understand me-”

“I am ready to answer you, Madame.”

“Can you swear to me that you came here only for my sake-”

“Oh, do you doubt it-”

“Will you swear to me that Madame de Charny had not written to you-”

“She-”

“Listen to me. I know that she was going out. I know that she had some plan in her mind. Swear to me, Count, that it was not on her account that you returned!”

At this moment a knock, or rather a scratch, at the door was heard.

“Come in,” said the queen.

The waiting-woman again appeared.

“Madame,” said she, “the king has just finished his supper.”

The count looked at Marie Antoinette with astonishment.

“Well,” said she, shrugging her shoulders, “what is there astonishing in that- Must not the king take his supper-”

Olivier frowned.

“Tell the king,” replied the queen, without at all disturbing herself, “that I am just receiving news from Paris, and that I shall communicate it to him when I have received it.

Then, turning towards Charny:-“Go on,” said she; “now that the king has supped, it is but natural that he should digest his food.”

CHAPTER XXVIII. OLIVIER DE CHARNY

THIS interruption had only caused a momentary suspension in the conversation, but had changed in nothing the two-fold sentiment of jealousy which animated the queen at this moment,-jealousy of love as a woman, jealousy of power as a queen.

Hence it resulted that the conversation, which seemed exhausted during its first period, had, on the contrary, only been entered upon, and was about to be revived more sharply than ever; as in a battle, where, after the cessation of the first fire, which had commenced the action at a few points, the fire which decides the victory soon becomes general all along the line.

The count, moreover, as things had arrived at this point, seemed as anxious as the queen to come to an explanation; for which reason, the door being closed again, he was the first to resume the conversation.

“You asked me if it was for Madame de Charny that I had come back,” said he. “Has your Majesty then forgotten that engagements were entered into between us, and that I am a man of honor-”

“Yes,” said the queen, holding down her head, “yes, we have made engagements; yes, you are a man of honor; yes, you have sworn to sacrifice yourself to my happiness, and it is that oath which most tortures me, for in sacrificing yourself to my happiness, you immolate at the same time a beautiful woman and a noble character,-another crime!”

“Oh, Madame, now you are exaggerating the accusation! I only wish you to confess that I have kept my word as a gentleman.”

“It is true; I am insensate; forgive me-”

“Do not call a crime that which originated in chance and necessity. We have both deplored this marriage, which alone could shield the honor of the queen. As for this marriage, there only remains for me to endure it, as I have done for many years.”

“Yes!” exclaimed the queen. “But do you think that I do not perceive your grief, that I do not understand your sorrow, which evince themselves in the shape of the highest respect- Do you think that I do not see all this-”

“Do me the favor, Madame,” said the count, bowing, “to communicate to me what you see, in order that if I have not suffered enough myself, and made others suffer enough, I may double the amount of suffering for myself, and for all those who surround me, as I feel certain of ever falling short of what I owe you.”

The queen held out her hand to the count. The words of the young man had an irresistible power, like everything that emanates from a sincere and impassioned heart.

“Command me, then, Madame,” rejoined he; “I entreat you, do not fear to lay your commands upon me.”

“Oh, yes, yes! I know it well. I am wrong; yes, forgive me; yes, it is true. But if you have anywhere some hidden idol, to whom you offer up mysterious incense,-if for you there is in some corner of the world an adored woman-oh! I no longer dare to pronounce that word, it strikes me with terror; and I fear lest the syllables which compose it should strike the air and vibrate in my ear,-well, then, if such a woman does exist, concealed from every one, do not forget that you have publicly, in the eyes of others as in your own, a young and beautiful wife, whom you surround with care and attentions,-a wife who leans upon your arm, and who, while leaning on your arm, leans at the same time on your heart.”

Olivier knit his brow, and the delicate lines of his face assumed for a moment a severe aspect.

“What do you ask, Madame-” said he; “do I separate myself from the Countess de Charny- You remain silent; is that the reason, then- Well, then, I am ready to obey this order, even; but you know that she is alone in the world-she is an orphan. Her father, the Baron de Taverney, died last year, like a worthy knight of the olden time, who wishes not to see that which is about to take place in ours. Her brother-you know that her brother, Maison-Rouge, makes his appearance once a year, at most-comes to embrace his sister, to pay his respects to your Majesty, and then goes away, without any one knowing what becomes of him.”

“Yes, I know all that.”

“Consider, Madame, that this Countess de Charny, were God to remove me from this world, could resume her maiden name, and the purest angel in heaven could not detect in her dreams, in her thoughts, a single unholy word or thought.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” said the queen. “I know that your Andr #233;e is an angel upon earth; I know that she deserves to be loved. That is the reason why I think she has a brilliant future before her, while mine is hopeless! Oh, no, no! Come, Count, I beg of you, say not another word; I no longer speak to you as a queen-forgive me, I forget myself; but what would you have- there is in my soul a voice which always sings of happiness, joy, and love, although it is too often assailed by those sinister voices which speak of nothing but misfortune, war, and death. It is, the voice of my youth, which I have survived. Charny, forgive me, I shall no longer be young, I shall no longer smile, I shall no longer love!”

And the unhappy woman covered her burning eyes with her thin and delicate hands, and the tear of a queen filtered, brilliant as a diamond, between each of her fingers.

The count once more fell on his knees before her.

“Madame, in the name of Heaven!” said he, “order me to leave you, to fly from you, to die for you, but do not let me see you weep!”

And the count himself could hardly refrain from sobbing as he spoke.

“It is all over,” said Marie Antoinette, raising her head, and speaking gently, with a smile replete with grace.

And, with a beautiful movement, she threw back her thick powdered hair, which had fallen on her neck, white as the driven snow.

“Yes, yes, it is over!” continued the queen; ” I shall not afflict you any more; let us throw aside all these follies. Great God! it is strange that the woman should be so weak, when the queen so much needs to be firm. You come from Paris, do you not Let us converse about it. You told me some things that I have forgotten; and yet they were very serious, were they not, Monsieur de Charny-”

“Be it so, Madame; let us return to that fatal subject: for, as you observe, what I have to tell you is very serious. Yes, I have just arrived from Paris, and I was present at the downfall of the monarchy.”

“I was right to request you to return to serious matters, and most assuredly, Count, you make them more than sufficiently gloomy. A successful riot,-do you call that the downfall of the monarchy- What! is it because the Bastille has been taken, Monsieur de Charny, that you say the monarchy is abolished- Oh, you do not reflect that the Bastille was founded in France only in the fourteenth century, while monarchy has been taking root in the world during the last six thousand years.”

“I should be well pleased to deceive myself in this matter, Madame,” replied the count; “and then, instead of afflicting your Majesty's mind, I should bring to you the most consoling news. Unfortunately, the instrument will not produce any other sounds but those for which it was intended.”

“Let us see, let us see; I will sustain you,-I who am but a woman; I will put you on the right path.”

“Alas! I ask for nothing better.”

“The Parisians have revolted, have they not-”

“Yes.”

“In what proportion-”

“In the proportion of twelve to fifteen.”

“How do you arrive at this calculation-”

“Oh, very easily: the people form twelve fifteenths of the body of the nation; there remain two fifteenths for the nobility and one for the clergy.”

“Your calculations are exact, Count, and you have them at your fingers' ends. Have you read the works of Monsieur and Madame de Necker-”

“Those of Monsieur de Necker- Yes, Madame.”

“Well, the proverb holds good,” said the queen, gayly: “we are never betrayed but by our own friends. Well, then, here is my own calculation; will you listen to it-”

“With all respect.”

“Among these twelve fifteenths there are six of women, are there not-”

“Yes, your Majesty. But-”

“Do not interrupt me. We said there were six fifteenths of women, so let us say six; two of indifferent or incapable old men,-is that too much-”

“No.”

“There still remain four fifteenths, of which you will allow that at least two are cowards or lukewarm individuals,-I flatter the French nation. But finally, there remain two fifteenths; I will grant you that they are furious, robust, brave, and warlike. These two fifteenths, let us consider them as belonging to Paris only, for it is needless to speak of the provinces, is it not- It is only Paris that requires to be retaken-”

“Yes, Madame. But-”

“Always but; wait a moment. You can reply when I have concluded.”

Monsieur de Charny bowed.

“I therefore estimate,” continued the queen, “the two fifteenths of Paris at one hundred thousand men; is that sufficient-”

This time the count did not answer. The queen rejoined:-

“Well, then! to these hundred thousand men, badly armed, badly disciplined, and but little accustomed to battle, hesitating because they know they are doing wrong, I can oppose fifty thousand men, known throughout Europe for their bravery, with officers like you, Monsieur de Charny; besides that sacred cause which is denominated divine right, and in addition to all this, my own firm soul, which it is easy to move, but difficult to break.”

The count still remained silent.

“Do you think,” continued the queen, “that in a battle fought in such a cause, two men of the people are worth more than one of my soldiers-”

Charny said nothing.

“Speak,-answer me!-Do you think so-” exclaimed the queen, growing impatient.

“Madame,” answered the Count, at last, throwing aside, on this order from the Queen, the respectful reserve which he had so long maintained, “on a field of battle, where these hundred thousand men would be isolated, undisciplined and badly armed as they are, your fifty thousand soldiers would defeat them in half an hour.”

“Ah!” said the queen, “I was then right.”

“Wait a moment. But it is not as you imagine. And, in the first place, your hundred thousand insurgents in Paris are five hundred thousand.”

“Five hundred thousand-”

“Quite as many. You had omitted the women and children in your calculation! Oh, Queen of France! Oh, proud and courageous woman! consider them as so many men, these women of Paris; the day will perhaps come when they will compel you to consider them as so many demons.”

“What can you mean, Count-”

“Madame, do you know what part a woman plays in a civil war- No, you do not. Well, I will tell you; and you will see that two soldiers against each woman would not be too many.”

“Count, have you lost your senses-”

Charny smiled sadly.

“Did you see them at the Bastille-” asked he, “in the midst of the fire, in the midst of the shot, crying, 'To arms!' threatening with their fists your redoubtable Swiss soldiers, fully armed and equipped, uttering maledictions over the bodies of the slain, with that voice that excites the hearts of the living. Have we not seen them boiling the pitch, dragging cannon along the streets, giving cartridges to those who were eager for the combat, and to the timid combatants a cartridge and a kiss- Do you know that as many women as men trod the drawbridge of the Bastille, and that at this moment, if the stones of the Bastille are falling, it is by pickaxes wielded by women's hands- Ah! Madame, do not overlook the women of Paris; take them into consideration; think also of the children who cast bullets, who sharpen swords, who throw paving-stones from a sixth story; think of them, for the bullet which was cast by a child may kill your best general from afar off, for the sword which it has sharpened will cut the hamstrings of your war-horses, for the clouds of stones which fall as from the skies will crush your dragoons and your guards; consider the old men, Madame, for if they have no longer the strength to raise a sword, they have still enough to serve as shields. At the taking of the Bastille, Madame, there were old men; do you know what they did,-those aged men whom you affect to despise- They placed themselves before the young men, who steadied their muskets on their shoulders, that they might take sure aim, so that the balls of your Swiss killed the helpless aged man, whose body served as a rampart to the vigorous youth. Include the aged men, for it is they who for the last three hundred years have related to succeeding generations the insults suffered by their mothers,-the desolation of their fields, caused by the devouring of their crops by the noblemen's game; the odium attached to their caste, crushed down by feudal privileges; and then the sons seize a hatchet, a club, a gun, in short, any weapon within their reach, and sally out to kill, fully charged with the curses of the aged against all this tyranny, as the cannon is loaded with powder and iron. At Paris, at this moment, men, women, old men, and children are all crying, 'Liberty, deliverance!' Count everything that has a voice, Madame, and you may estimate the number of combatants in Paris at eight hundred thousand souls.”

“Three hundred Spartans defeated the army of Xerxes, Monsieur de Charny.”

“Yes; but to-day your three hundred Spartans have increased to eight hundred thousand, and your fifty thousand soldiers compose the army of Xerxes.”

The queen raised her head, her hands convulsively clinched, and her face burning with shame and anger.

“Oh, let me fall from my throne,” said she, “let me be torn to pieces by your five hundred thousand Parisians, but do not suffer me to hear a Charny, a man devoted to me, speak to me thus.”

“If he speaks to you thus, Madame, it is because it is necessary; for this Charny has not in his veins a single drop of blood that is unworthy of his ancestors, or that is not all your own.”

“Then let him march upon Paris with me, and there we will die together.”

“Ignominiously,” said the count, “without the possibility of a struggle. We shall not even fight; we shall disappear like the Philistines or the Amalekites. March upon Paris!-but you seem to be ignorant of a very important thing,-that at the moment we shall enter Paris, the houses will fall upon us as did the waves of the Red Sea upon Pharaoh; and you will leave in France a name which will be accursed, and your children will be killed like the cubs of a wolf”

“How then, should I fall, Count ” said the queen, with haughtiness; “teach me, I entreat you.”

“As a victim, Madame,” respectfully replied Monsieur de Charny; “as a queen, smiling and forgiving those who strike the fatal blow. Ah! if you had five hundred thousand men like me, I should say: “Let us set out on our march!-let us march to-night! let us march this very instant! And to-morrow you would reign at the Tuileries; to-morrow you would have reconquered your throne.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the queen, “even you have given way to despair,-you in whom I had founded all my hopes!”

“Yes, I despair, Madame; because all France thinks as Paris does; because your army, if it were victorious in Paris, would be swallowed up by Lyons, Rouen, Lille, Strasbourg, Nantes, and a hundred other devouring cities. Come, come, take courage, Madame; return your sword into its scabbard.”

“Ah! was it for this,” cried the queen, “that I have gathered around me so many brave men- Was it for this that. I have inspired them with so much courage-”

“If that is not your opinion, Madame, give your orders, and we will march upon Paris this very night. Say what is your pleasure.”

There was so much devotion in this offer of the count, that it intimidated the queen more than a refusal would have done. She threw herself in despair on a sofa, where she struggled for a considerable time with her haughty soul.

At length, raising her head:-

“Count,” said she, “do you desire me to remain inactive-”

“I have the honor to advise your Majesty to remain so.”

“It shall be so,-come back.”

“Alas! Madame, have I offended you-” said the count, looking at the queen with a sorrowful expression but in which beamed indescribable love.

“No-your hand.”

The count bowed gracefully, and gave his hand to the queen.

“I must scold you,” said Marie Antoinette, endeavoring to smile.

“For what reason, Madame-”

“How! you have a brother in the army, and I have only been accidentally informed of it.”

“I do not comprehend-”

“This evening, a young officer of the Hussars of

Bercheny-”

“Ah! my brother George!”

“Why have you never spoken to me of this young man- Why has he not a high rank in a regiment-”

“Because he is yet quite young and inexperienced; because he is not worthy of command as a chief officer; because, in fine, if your Majesty has condescended to look so low as upon me who am called Charny, to honor me with your friendship, it is not a reason that my relatives should be advanced, to the prejudice of a crowd of brave noblemen more deserving than my brothers.”

“Have you then still another brother-”

“Yes, Madame; and one who is as ready to die for your Majesty as the two others.”

“Does he not need anything-”

“Nothing, Madame. We have the happiness to have not only our lives, but also a fortune to lay at the feet of your Majesty.”

While he was pronouncing these last words,-the queen being much moved by a trait of such delicate probity, and he himself palpitating with affection caused by the gracious kindness of her Majesty,-they were suddenly disturbed in their conversation by a groan from the adjoining room.

The queen rose from her seat, went to the door, and screamed aloud. She had just perceived a woman who was writhing on the carpet, and suffering the most horrible convulsions.

“Oh, the countess,” said she in a whisper to Monsieur de Charny; “she has overheard our conversation.”

“No, Madame,” answered he, “otherwise she would have warned your Majesty that we could be overheard.”

And he sprang towards Andr #233;e and raised her in his arms.

The queen remained standing at two steps from her, cold, pale, and trembling with anxiety.

CHAPTER XXIX. A TRIO

ANDR #201;E was gradually recovering her senses, without knowing from whom assistance came, but she seemed instinctively to understand that some one had come to her assistance.

She raised her head, and her hands grasped the unhoped-for succor that was offered her.

But her mind did not recover as soon as her body; it still remained vacillating, stupefied, somnolent, during a few minutes.

After having succeeded in recalling her to physical life, Monsieur de Charny attempted to restore her moral senses; but he was struggling against a terrible and concentrated unconsciousness.

Finally she fastened her open but haggard eyes upon him, and with her still remaining delirium, without recognizing the person who was supporting her, she gave a loud shriek, and abruptly pushed him from her.

During all this time the queen turned her eyes in another direction; she, a woman; she, whose mission it was to console, to strengthen this afflicted friend,-she abandoned her.

Charny raised Andr #233;e in his powerful arms, notwithstanding the resistance she attempted to make, and turning round to the queen, who was still standing, pale and motionless:-

“Pardon me, Madame,” said he; “something extraordinary must doubtless have happened. Madame de Charny is not subject to fainting, and this is the first time I have ever seen her in this state.”

“She must then be suffering greatly,” said the queen, who still reverted to the idea that Andr #233;e had overheard their conversation.

“Yes, without doubt she is suffering,” answered the count, “and it is for that reason that I shall ask your Majesty the permission to have her carried to her own apartment. She needs the assistance of her attendants.”

“Do so,” said the queen, raising her hand to the bell.

But scarcely had Andr #233;e heard the ringing of the bell, when she wrestled fearfully, and cried out in her delirium,-

“Oh, Gilbert, that Gilbert!”

The queen trembled at the sound of this name, and the astonished count placed his wife upon a sofa.

At this moment a servant appeared, to answer the bell.

“It is nothing,” said the queen, making a sign to him with her hand to leave the room.

Then, being once more left to themselves, the count and the queen looked at each other. Andr #233;e had again closed her eyes, and seemed to suffer from a second attack.

Monsieur de Charny, who was kneeling near the sofa, prevented her from falling off it.

“Gilbert,” repeated the queen, “what name is that-”

“We must inquire.”

“I think I know it,” said Marie Antoinette; “I think it is not the first time I have heard the countess pronounce that name.”

But as if she had been threatened by this recollection of the queen, and this threat had surprised her in the midst of her convulsions, Andr #233;e opened her eyes, stretched out her arms to heaven, and making a great effort, stood upright.

Her first look, an intelligent look, was this time directed at Monsieur de Charny, whom she recognized, and greeted with caressing smiles.

Then, as if this involuntary manifestation of her thought had been unworthy of her Spartan soul, Andr #233;e turned her eyes in another direction, and perceived the queen. She immediately made a profound inclination.

“Ah! good Heaven, what then is the matter with you, Madame-” said Monsieur de Charny; “you have alarmed me,-you, who are usually so strong and so courageous, to have suffered from a swoon!”

“Sir,” said she, “such fearful events have taken place at Paris, that when men are trembling, it is by no means strange that women should faint. Have you then left Paris-oh! you have done rightly.”

“Good God! Countess,” said Charny, in a doubting tone, “was it then on my account that you underwent all this suffering!”

Andr #233;e again looked at her husband and the queen, but did not answer.

“Why, certainly that is the reason, Count,-why should you doubt it-” answered Marie Antoinette. “The Countess de Charny is not a queen; she has the right to be alarmed for her husband's safety.”

Charny could detect jealousy in the queen's language.

“Oh, Madame,” said he, “I am quite certain that the countess fears still more for her sovereign's safety than for mine.”

“But, in fine,” asked Marie Antoinette, “why and how is it that we found you in a swoon in this room, Countess-”

“Oh, it would be impossible for me to tell you that, Madame; I cannot myself account for it; but in this life of fatigue, of terror, and painful emotions, which we have led for the last three days, nothing can be more natural, it seems to me, than the fainting of a woman.”

“This is true,” murmured the queen, who perceived that Andr #233;e did not wish to be compelled to speak out.

“But,” rejoined Andr #233;e, in her turn, with that extraordinary degree of calmness which never abandoned her after she had once become the mistress of her will, and which was so much the more embarrassing in difficult circumstances that it could easily be discerned to be mere affectation, and concealed feelings altogether human; “but even your Majesty's eyes are at this moment in tears.”

And the count thought he could perceive in the words of his wife that ironical accent he had remarked but a few moments previously in the language of the queen.

“Madame,” said he to Andr #233;e, with a degree of severity to which his voice was evidently not accustomed, “it is not astonishing that the queen's eyes should be suffused with tears, for the queen loves her people, and the blood of the people has been shed.”

“Fortunately, God has spared yours, sir,” said Andr #233;e, who was still no less cold and impenetrable.

“Yes; but it is not of her Majesty that we are speaking, Madame, but of you; let us then return to our subject; the queen permits us to do so.”

Marie Antoinette made an affirmative gesture with her head.

“You were alarmed, then, were you not-”

“Who, I-“

“You have been suffering; do not deny it; some accident has happened to you-what was it-I know not what it can have been, but you will tell us.”

“You are mistaken, sir.”

“Have you had any reason to complain of any one-of a man-” Andr #233;e turned pale.

“I have had no reason to complain of any one, sir; I have just come from the king's apartment.”

“Did you come direct from there-”

“Yes, direct. Her Majesty can easily ascertain that fact.”

“If such be the case,” said Marie Antoinette, “the countess must be right. The king loves her too well, and knows that my own affection for her is too strong, for him to disoblige her in any way whatever.”

“But you mentioned a name,” said Charny, still persisting.

“A name-”

“Yes; when you were recovering your senses.”

Andr #233;e looked at the queen as if to ask her for assistance; but either because the queen did not understand her, or did not wish to do so:-

“Yes,” said she, “you pronounced the name Gilbert.”

“Gilbert! did I pronounce the name of Gilbert-” exclaimed Andr #233;e, in a tone so full of terror that the count was more affected by this cry than he had been by her fainting.

“Yes!” exclaimed he, “you pronounced that name.”

“Ah, indeed!” said Andr #233;e, “that is singular.”

And by degrees, as the clouds close again after having been rent asunder by the lightning, the countenance of the young woman, so violently agitated at the sound of that fatal name, recovered its serenity, and but a few muscles of her lovely face continued to tremble almost imperceptibly, like the last flashes of the tempest which vanish in the horizon.

“Gilbert!” she repeated; “I do not know that name.”

“Yes, Gilbert,” repeated the queen; “come, try to recollect, my dear Andr #233;e.”

“But, Madame,” said the count to Marie Antoinette, “perhaps it is mere chance, and this name may be unknown to the countess.”

“No,” said Andr #233;e, “no; it is not unknown to me. It is that of a learned man, of a skilful physician who has just arrived from America, I believe, and who became intimate while there with Monsieur de Lafayette.”

“Well, then-” asked the count.

“Well, then!” repeated Andr #233;e, with the greatest presence of mind; “I do not know him personally, but he is said to be a very honorable man.”

“Then why all this emotion, my dear countess-” observed the queen.

“This emotion! Have I then been excited-”

“Yes; one would have said that when you pronounced the name Gilbert, you felt as if undergoing torture.”

“It is possible; I will tell you how it happened. I met a person in the king's cabinet, who was dressed in black, a man of austere countenance, who spoke of gloomy and horrible subjects; he related with the most frightful reality the assassination of Monsieur de Launay and Monsieur de Flesselles. I became terrified on hearing this intelligence, and I fell into the swoon in which you saw me. It may be that I spoke at that time; perhaps I then pronounced the name of Monsieur Gilbert.”

“It is possible,” repeated Monsieur de Charny, who was evidently not disposed to push the questioning any further. “But now you feel recovered, do you not, Madame-”

“Perfectly.”

“I will then beg of you to do one thing, Monsieur de Charny,” said the queen.

“I am at the disposal of your Majesty.”

“Go and find out Messieurs de Besenval, de Broglie, and de Lambesq. Tell them to quarter their troops where they now are. The king will decide to-morrow in council what must be done.”

The count bowed; but before leaving the room, he cast a last look at Andr #233;e.

That look was full of affectionate anxiety.

It did not escape the queen.

“Countess,” said she, “will you not return to the king's apartment with me-”

“No, Madame, no,” replied Andr #233;e, quickly.

“And why not-”

“I ask your Majesty's permission to withdraw to my own apartment. The emotions I have undergone make me feel the want of rest.”

“Come now, Countess, speak frankly,” said the queen.

“Have you had any disagreement with his Majesty-”

“Oh, by no means, Madame! absolutely nothing.”

“Oh, tell me, if anything has happened! The king does not always spare my friends.”

“The king is, as usual, full of kindness to me, but-”

“But you have no great wish to see him. Is it not so- There must positively be something at the bottom of all this, Count,” said the queen, with affected gayety.

At this moment Andr #233;e directed so expressive, so supplicating a look at the queen,-a look so full of revelations, that the latter understood it was time to put an end to this minor war.

“In fact, Countess,” said she, “we will leave Monsieur de Charny to execute the commission I intrusted to him, and you can retire or remain here, according to your choice.”

“Thank you, Madame,” said Andr #233;e.

“Go, then, Monsieur de Charny,” continued Marie Antoinette, while she noticed the expression of gratitude which was visible on the features of Andr #233;e.

Either the count did not perceive, or did not wish to perceive it. He took the hand of his wife, and complimented her on the return of her strength and color.

Then, making a most respectful bow to the queen, he left the room.

But while leaving the room he exchanged a last look with Marie Antoinette.

The queen's look meant to say, “Return quickly.” That of the count replied, “As soon as possible.”

As to Andr #233;e, she followed with her eyes every one of her husband's movements, her bosom palpitating, and almost breathless.

She seemed to accelerate with her wishes the slow and noble step with which he approached the door. She, as it were, pushed him out of the room with the whole power of her will.

Therefore was it that, as soon as he had closed the door, as soon as he had disappeared, all the strength that Andr #233;e had summoned to assist her in surmounting the difficulties of her position abandoned her; her face became pale, her limbs failed beneath her, and she fell into an arm-chair which was within her reach, while she endeavored to apologize to the queen for her involuntary breach of etiquette.

The queen ran to the chimney-piece, took a smelling-bottle of salts, and making Andr #233;e inhale them, she was soon restored to her senses, but more by the power of her own will than by the efficacy of the attentions she received at the royal hands.

In fact, there was something strange in the conduct of these two women. The queen seemed to love Andr #233;e; Andr #233;e respected the queen greatly, and nevertheless at certain moments they did not appear to be, the one an affectionate queen, the other a devoted subject, but two determined enemies.

As we have already said, the potent will of Andr #233;e soon restored her strength. She rose up, respectfully removed the queen's hand, and, courtesying to her:-

“Your Majesty,” said she, “has given me permission to retire to my own room.”

“Yes, undoubtedly; and you are always free, dear Countess, and this you know full well. Etiquette is not intended for you. But before you retire, have you nothing to tell me-”

“I, Madame-” asked Andr #233;e. “Yes, you, without doubt.”

“No: what should I have to tell you-”

“In regard to this Monsieur Gilbert, the sight of whom has made so strong an impression upon you.”

Andr #233;e trembled; but she merely made a sign of denial.

“In that case, I will not detain you any longer, dear Andr #233;e; you may go.”

And the queen took a step towards the door of the dressing-room, which communicated with her bedroom.

Andr #233;e, on her side, having made her obeisance to the queen in the most irreproachable manner, was going towards the door.

But at the very moment she was about to open it, steps were heard in the corridor, and a hand was placed on the external handle of the door.

At the same time the voice of Louis XVI. was heard, giving orders for the night to his valet.

“The king, Madame!” said Andr #233;e, retreating several steps; “the king!”

“And what of that- Yes, it is the king,” said Marie Antoinette. “Does he terrify you to such a degree as this-”

“Madame, in the name of Heaven,” cried Andr #233;e, “let me not see the king! Let me not meet the king face to face, at all events this evening. I should die of shame.”

“But finally you will tell me-”

“Everything-yes, everything-if your Majesty requires it. But hide me!”

“Go into my boudoir,” said Marie Antoinette. “You can leave it as soon as the king himself retires. Rest assured your captivity will not be of long duration; the king never remains here long.”

“Oh, thanks!-thanks!” exclaimed the countess. And rushing into the boudoir, she disappeared at the very moment that the king, having opened the door, appeared upon the threshold of the chamber.

The king entered.

“Good-day, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

Catherine was a good, kind-hearted girl, and she welcomed Pitou as an old acquaintance. He was in point of fact an old acquaintance, for during two or three years she had seen him passing and repassing before the farmgate at least once a week; only that Catherine saw Pitou, and Pitou did not see Catherine. The reason was, that at first when Pitou used to pass by the farm in this manner Catherine was sixteen years old and Pitou but fourteen. We have just seen what happened when Pitou in his turn had attained his sixteenth year.

By degrees Catherine had learned to appreciate the talents of Pitou, for Pitou had given her evidence of his talents by offering to her his finest birds and his fattest rabbits. The result of this was that Catherine complimented him upon these talents, and that Pitou, who was the more sensible to compliments from his being so little habituated to receive them, allowed the charm of novelty to influence him, and instead of going on straightforward, as heretofore, to the Wolf's Heath, he would stop half way, and instead of employing the whole of his day in picking up beech-mast and in laying his wires, he would lose his time in sauntering round Father Billot's farm, in the hope of seeing Catherine, were it only for a moment.

The result of this was a very sensible diminution in the produce of rabbit-skins, and a complete scarcity of robin-redbreasts and thrushes.

Aunt Ang #233;lique complained of this. Pitou represented to her that the rabbits had become mistrustful, and that the birds, who had found out the secret of his lime-twigs, now drank out of hollows of trees, or out of leaves that retained the water.

There was one consideration which consoled Aunt Ang #233;lique for this increase in the intelligence of the rabbits and the cunning of the birds, which she attributed to the progress of philosophy, and this was that her nephew would obtain the purse, enter the seminary, pass three years there, and on leaving it would be an abb #233;. Now, being housekeeper to an abb #233; had been the constant aim of Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique's ambition.

This ambition could not fail of being gratified; for Ange Pitou, having once become an abb #233;, could not do otherwise than take his aunt for housekeeper, and above all, after what his aunt had done for him.

The only thing which disturbed the golden dreams of the old maid was, when speaking of this hope to the Abb #233; Fortier, the latter replied, shaking his head:-

“My dear Demoiselle Pitou, in order to become an abbe, your nephew should give himself up less to the study of natural history, and much more to De viris illustribus, or to the Select #230; #232; profanis scriptoribus.”

“And which means-” said Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique, inquiringly.

“That he makes too many barbarisms and infinitely too many solecisms,” replied the Abb #233; Fortier.

An answer which left Mademoiselle Ang #233;lique in the most afflicting state of vagueness and uncertainty.

Beech-mast, we must inform our readers who are less acquainted with forest terms than we are, is the fruit of the beech-tree. This fruit, of which a very good sort of oil is made, is, to the poor, a species of manna, which during two months of the year falls for them from heaven.

[Dumas should also have told his readers that beech-mast is excellent for pigs, and that pheasants, and indeed most kinds of game, are very fond of it.-TRANSLATOR.]

CHAPTER XXX. A KING AND A QUEEN

THE queen, after glancing round, exchanged friendly greetings with the king, who gave her his hand.

“To what good chance,” asked Marie Antoinette, “do I owe this visit-”

“Really to chance; you have spoken correctly, Madame. I have just met De Charny, who said he was commissioned by you to go and tell all our warriors to keep themselves quiet. It affords me much pleasure that you have taken so wise a resolution, and I was unwilling to pass your apartment without thanking you.”

“Yes,” said the queen, “I have in fact reconsidered the matter, and have come to the conclusion that it is decidedly the best course to leave the troops at rest, and thus to afford no pretext for intestine war.”

“Good! that is right!” said the king. “I am delighted to find you of that opinion. I knew very well that I should bring you over to it at last.”

“Your Majesty sees that you have gained your object without much trouble; since, uninfluenced by you, I have formed my decision.”

“Well done! that is a proof that you are almost reasonable, and when I have communicated to you some of my reflections, you will be so altogether.”

“But if we are of the same opinion, Sire, to impart to me these reflections would be useless.”

“Oh, calm yourself, Madame! I have no wish to enter upon discussion; you know well that I like it no more than you do. This will be a conversation. Come, now; are you not glad to talk with me occasionally about the affairs of France, as a good wife does with her spouse about domestic matters-”

These last words were uttered with that perfect good-nature which Louis XVI. invariably manifested towards his familiar friends.

“Oh, Sire,” answered the queen, “I am always happy to do so; but is the time well chosen-”

“I believe that it is. You desire that there should be no hostile demonstration. Did you not this moment say so-”

“I did.”

“But you have not explained to me your reason.”

“You did not ask me.”

“Well, I now ask you.”

“Impotence!”

“Ah! that is the reason, is it- If you thought yourself the stronger, you would make war.”

“If I thought that I was the stronger, I should burn Paris.”

“Oh, I was certain that your motives for not wishing war were not the same as mine.”

“Well, let us hear yours.”

“ Mine-” asked the king. “Yes,” answered Marie Antoinette, “yours.”

“I have but one.”

“Mention it.”

“Oh, that is soon done! I do not wish to enter into war with the people, because I find that the people are right.”

Marie Antoinette made a gesture of surprise.

“Right!” she exclaimed, “the people right in rebelling!”

“Certainly.”

“Right in storming the Bastille, in killing the governor, in murdering the provost of the merchants, in exterminating your soldiers-”

“Yes, by Heaven, they were!”

“Oh,” exclaimed the queen, “these are your reflections, and it was such reflections as these that you wished me to hear!”

“I have told you them as they occurred to me.”

“At dinner-”

“Good!” said the king, “we are about to fall back on the subject of nourishment. You cannot pardon me for eating. You would have me poetic and ethereal. What do you wish! In my family we eat. Not only did Henry IV. eat, but he was also a hard drinker; the great and poetic Louis XIV. eat enough to make one blush; King Louis XV., to make sure of good eating and drinking, baked his biscuits with his own royal hands, and had his coffee made by Madame Dubarry. As for me, what would you have- When I am hungry, I cannot resist my appetite; I am compelled to follow the example of my ancestors, Louis XV., Louis XIV., and Henry IV. If this is a constitutional necessity, pray be lenient with me; if it is a fault, forgive me.”

“But, Sire, you must confess-”

“That I ought not to eat when I am hungry; no,” said the king, tranquilly shaking his head.

“I am not talking of that: I speak of the people.”

“Ah!”

“You must confess that the people have been in the wrong.”

“In rebelling- Not at all. Come, let us review all our ministers. Since we began to reign, how many have really concerned themselves about the welfare of the people- Two,-Turgot and Monsieur de Necker. You and your coterie have banished them. For one of these gentlemen the people have raised a tumult; for the other they will perhaps raise a revolution. Let us speak a little of the others! Ah! they are charming fellows, are they not- Monsieur de Maurepas, that creature of my aunts, a song-writer! It is not the ministers who should sing, it is the people. Monsieur de Calonne- That epigrammatic answer he made you was admirable, I know well,-a sentence that will live. Once when you asked him for something,-I forget what,-he gallantly replied: 'If it is possible, it is done: if it is impossible, it shall be done.' That epigram cost the people to the tune of a hundred millions. You should not be astonished, therefore, if they find it a little less witty than you do. In truth,-pray understand me, Madame,-if I retain all those who fleece the people, and dismiss all those who love them, it will not be the best means of tranquillizing them and of making them more attached to our government.”

“Good! Then insurrection is a right. Proclaim this principle from the house-tops. In truth I am glad that it is to me alone that you have communicated such ideas. If others heard you!”

“Oh, yes, yes!” replied the king; “you tell me nothing new. Yes, I know well that if Polignac, Dreux-Br #233;z #233;, Clermont-Tonnerre, and Coigny heard me, they would shrug their shoulders behind me,-I know it well; but in reality they pity me after a very different fashion. That Polignac, to whom one fine morning you made over the county of F #233;nestrange, which cost you twelve hundred thousand livres; Sartine, to whom I have already given a pension of eighty-nine thousand livres, and who has just received from you two hundred thousand livres ostensibly as a stipendiary fund; the prince of Deux-Ponts, to whom you compelled me to grant nine hundred and fortyfive thousand livres to clear off his debts; Marie de Laval and Madame de Magneville, who each finger a pension of eighty thousand livres; Coigny, who is loaded with all sorts of pensions, and who once, when I thought of making some reduction in his appointments, hedged me in between two doors, and would have beaten me, I believe, if I had not consented to give him all that he wished,-all these people are your friends, are they not- Well, speak about them. But this much I will say, and I know you will not believe it, because it is the truth; if instead of being at court, these friends of yours had been in the Bastille, the people would have fortified the place instead of demolishing it.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the queen, with a gesture of anger she was unable to suppress.

“You may say what you please, but that is the case,” said Louis, tranquilly.

“Oh, your beloved people! Ah, well! they will not have occasion much longer to hate my friends, for they are going into exile.”

“They are going away!” exclaimed the king.

“Yes, they are going away.”

“Polignac- the women-”

“Yes.”

“So much the better,” exclaimed the king, “so much the better! God be praised!”

“How so much the better- How God be praised- Are you not sorry-”

“No, indeed; far from it. Do they need money to take them away- I will give it them. That money at least will not be ill employed, I will warrant. I wish you a pleasant journey, gentlemen; and you also, ladies,” said the king, all radiant.

“Yes,” said the queen, “I can understand that you like cowardice.”

“Well, let us understand each other; you are doing them justice at last.”

“They are not dismissed; they are deserting.”

“No matter, so that they take themselves off!”

“And to think that it is your family who have advised such despicable conduct!”

“My family advised your favorites to go away! I never gave my family credit for so much sense. And tell me which members of my family have done me this service, that I may thank them.”

“Your aunt Adelaide; your brother D'Artois.”

“My brother D'Artois! Do you believe he will follow the advice he gives- Do you think that he also will go away-”

“Why not-” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, trying to vex the king.

“Heaven grant it!” exclaimed Louis; “let Monsieur d'Artois take his departure; I should say to him what I have said to the others: A good journey to you, brother d'Artois! I wish you a very pleasant journey!”

“Ah! your brother!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette. “True; but what quality has he to make his presence desirable- A good little fellow enough, who lacks neither wit nor courage, I grant you; but who has no brains; who acts the French prince like a fop of the time of Louis XII.,-a blundering blockhead, who has compromised even you, the wife of C #230;sar.”

“C #230;sar!” muttered the queen, with cutting irony.

“Or Claudius, if you like it better,” answered the king; “for you know, Madame, that Claudius, as well as Nero, was a C #230;sar.”

The queen looked down. This historical coolness confused her not a little.

“Claudius,” continued the king,-“since you prefer the name of Claudius to that of C #230;sar,-Claudius was obliged one evening, as you are aware, to shut the gate of Versailles, in order to give you a lesson when you stayed out too late. It was Monsieur d'Artois who got you that lesson. I shall not miss, therefore, the Count d'Artois. As for my aunt, ah, well! we know what we know about her. She is another who deserves to be enrolled in the family of the C #230;sars. But I say no more; she is my aunt. Let her go in peace; I shall not miss her a whit more than I shall the others. Then, there is Monsieur de Provence; do you think I should feel sorry at his leaving- A good journey to him!”

“Oh, he does not speak of going!”

“So much the worse! You see, my dear, Monsieur de Provence knows Latin too well for me. I am obliged to speak English to be even with him. It was Monsieur de Provence who put Beaumarchais on our shoulders, thrusting him in at Bic #234;tre, For-L #233;v #234;que and I know not where, on his own private authority, and a fine return has been made us for all this by this same Monsieur de Beaumarchais. Ah, Monsieur de Provence will remain, will he- So much the worse, so much the worse! There is one thing of which I should like you to be aware, Madame, and it is this,-in your whole household, I know but one honest man, Monsieur de Charny.”

The queen blushed and turned away.

“We were talking about the Bastille,” continued the king, after a short silence, “and you were lamenting that it was taken.”

“Be seated at least, Sire,” replied the queen, “since it would appear that you have still many things to tell me.”

“No, thank you, I like better to walk while speaking; by thus walking, I attend to my health, about which nobody else seems to take the slightest concern; for though my appetite is good, my digestion is bad. Do you know what they are saying at this moment- They are saying: 'The king has supped; the king sleeps.' Now you see how I sleep,-bolt upright, trying to aid my digestion while I talk on politics with my wife. Ah, Madame, I am expiating,-expiating!”

“Expiating what, if you please-”

“The sins of a century whose scapegoat I am; I am expiating the sins of Madame de Pompadour, Madame Dubarry, the Parc-aux-Cerfs; the sins of poor Latude, who for thirty years rotted in dungeons, and was immortalized by suffering,-one more victim who caused the Bastille to be detested. Poor fellow! Ah, Madame! what blunders I have made in giving effect to the stupid measures of others! Philosophers, political economists, scientists, men of letters, I have taken part in persecuting them all. Good Heavens! these men asked for nothing better than to love me. If they had loved me they would have at once constituted the glory and the happiness of my reign. Monsieur Rousseau, for example, that bugbear of Sartines and others-ah well! I saw him one day myself, that day you made him come to Trianon, you recollect. His clothes, it is true, were ill brushed, and it is also true that his beard was long; but he was nevertheless a good man. If I had donned my rough gray coat and thick stockings, and had said to Monsieur Rousseau, 'Let us go and gather mosses in the woods of Ville d'Avray-'“

“Ah, well! what then-” interrupted the queen, with supreme contempt.

“Well, then Monsieur Rousseau would not have written the 'Vicar of Savoy' nor the 'Social Contract.'“

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of that; that is the way you reason,” said Marie Antoinette. “You are a prudent man; you fear your people as the dog does his master.”

“Not so, but as the master fears his dog; it is something to be sure that one's dog will not bite him. Madame, when I walk with M #233;dor, that Pyrenean hound of which the king of Spain made me a present, I feel quite proud of his friendship. Laugh if you will, but it is nevertheless true that M #233;dor, if he was not my friend, would chew me up with his great white teeth. You see I say to him: 'Pretty M #233;dor, good M #233;dor,' and he licks me. I prefer his tongue to his tusks.”

“Be it so, then; flatter the revolutionists, caress them, throw titbits to them.”

“Oh, the very thing I am going to do I have no other project, believe me. Yes, my decision is taken. I will lay up a little money, and then I will deal with these gentlemen as if they were so many Cerberi. Ah, but stay! There is Monsieur de Mirabeau-”

“Oh, yes! tell me about that ferocious brute.”

“With fifty thousand livres a month he will be a M #233;dor, whereas if we wait, he will not perhaps be satisfied with less than half a million.”

The queen laughed scornfully.

“Oh, the idea of flattering people like him!”

“Monsieur Bailly,” continued the king, “having become minister of arts-an office which I am going to institute for my amusement-will be another M #233;dor. Pardon me, Madame, if I do not entertain the same views that you do, but I am of the same opinion as my ancestor Henry IV. He was a profound politician if there ever was one, and I remember well what he said.”

“What did he say-”

“'Flies are not caught with vinegar.'“

“Sancho said that also, or something very like it.”

“Well, Sancho would have made the people of Barataria very happy, had there been such a place as Barataria.”

“Sire, your ancestor Henry IV., whom you bring forward, caught wolves as well as flies. Witness Marshal de Biron, whose throat he cut. He could say then what he pleased. By reasoning like Henry and acting as you do, you take all prestige from royalty, which can only exist by prestige. You degrade the principle, 'What will majesty become-' Majesty, I am aware, is but a word, but in this word centre all the royal virtues: 'He who respects, loves; he who loves, obeys-'“

“Ah! let us speak of majesty,” interrupted the king, with a smile; “yes, let us speak of it. You, for example, are as majestic as one can be; and I know of none in Europe, not even your mother, Marie Th #233;r #232;se, who has promoted as you have the science of majesty.”

“I understand you; you mean that my majesty does not prevent my being abhorred by the French people.”

“I do not say 'abhorred,' my dear Antoinette,” said the king, gently; “but perhaps you are not so much loved as you deserve to be.”

“Sir,” said the queen, deeply wounded, “you only echo all that is said. I have, nevertheless, injured nobody; on the contrary, I have often benefited my sub- jets. Why should they hate me as you say- Why should they not love me, were it not that there are people who make it their business to repeat daily, 'The queen is not loved!' Are you aware, sir, that one voice alone is needed to say that, in order that a hundred voices should repeat it; a hundred voices evoke ten thousand. Then, in unison with these ten thousand voices everybody repeats: 'The queen is not loved!' And the queen is not loved simply because one person said: 'The queen is not loved!'“

“Good heavens!” muttered the king.

“Thank goodness,” interrupted the queen, “I have but little faith in popularity; but I also believe that my unpopularity is exaggerated. Praises are not showered down upon me, it is true; but I was once the popular idol, and because they loved me too much, they now run to the opposite extreme and hate me.”

“Stay, Madame,” said the king; “you know not the whole truth, and are still laboring under a delusion; were we not talking of the Bastille-”

“Yes.”

“Well, there was a large room in the Bastille full of all sorts of books written against you. They will surely have burned all that.”

“With what did these books accuse me-”

“Ah, you very well know, Madame, that I take not upon me to be your accuser, and have no wish to be your judge. When these pamphlets appeared, I had the whole edition seized and buried in the Bastille. But sometimes these books fall into my own hands. For instance, I have one here now,” said the king, striking his coat pocket, “and it is simply abominable.”

“Show it me,” cried the queen.

“I cannot,” said the king; “it contains engravings.”

“And have you come to that- Have you reached that point of blindness and imbecility that you do not even attempt to trace all these base slanders to their source-”

“That is just what I have done. I have traced them to their source; there is not one of my lieutenants of police who has not grown gray in that service.”

“Then you know the author of these indignities-”

“I know one of the authors, at least,-Monsieur Furth, the author of that one; there is his receipt for 22,500 livres. You see when the thing is worth the trouble, I do not regard the expense.”

“But the others,-the others!”

“Ah, they are often poor hungry wretches who vegetate in England or Holland. We are bitten, stung, irritated; we ferret them out, expecting to find a serpent, a crocodile, to crush, to kill. Nothing of the sort; but we find an insect, so mean, so base, so despicable, that we dare not dirty our hands by touching it, even to punish it.”

“That is all very fine! But if you care not to touch insects, why not accuse boldly the sun which calls them into existence. In truth, we may safely affirm that their sun is Philip of Orl #233;ans.”

“Ha!” exclaimed the king, clapping his hands, “are you there- Monsieur d'Orl #233;ans! nay, nay, seek not to embroil me with him.”

“Embroil you with your enemy, Sire! Oh, the idea is original!”

The king shrugged his shoulders.

“There now,” said he, “there is your system of interpreting matters. Monsieur d'Orl #233;ans! You attack Monsieur d'Orl #233;ans, who has just placed himself under my orders to fight the rebels,-who leaves Paris and hastens to Versailles! Monsieur d'Orl #233;ans my enemy! Truly, Madame, the hatred you bear to the house of Orl #233;ans surpasses all conception.”

“Oh, he has come, has he- and do you know the reason- He fears that his absence might be remarked in the general demonstration of loyalty. He has come because he is a coward.”

“Indeed! We are going to begin again. Whoever first imputed such motives to Orl #233;ans is a coward. You had it inserted in your gazette that he showed the white feather at Ushant, because you wished to dishonor him. Ah, well! it was a calumny, Madame. Philip was not afraid; Philip did not flee. Had he fled, he would not belong to the family. The Orl #233;ans are brave. The fact is indisputable. The chief of the family, who seemed rather to have descended from Henry III. than from Henry IV., was brave, in spite of D'Effiat and Chevalier de Lorraine. He braved death at the battle of Cassel. The regent had indeed some trifling things to say against him on the score of manners; but he exposed his life at Steinkerque, at Nerwinde, and at Almanza like the meanest soldier in his army. Tell only half the truth, Madame, if you will; but tell not the evil that has no existence.”

“Your Majesty is in the vein of whitewashing all the revolutionists. You will see, you will see what that fellow is worth. Oh, if I regret the destruction of the Bastille, it is on his account; yes, I repent that criminals were thrown into it, while he was at large.”

“Ah, well!” said the king, “if Monsieur d'Orl #233;ans had been in the Bastille, we should be in a fine predicament to-day.”

“In that case what would have happened, I should like to know-”

“You are aware, Madame, that his bust was prome- naded round, crowned with flowers, together with that of Monsieur de Necker.”

“I am.”

“Ah, well! once out of the Bastille, Monsieur d'Orl #233;ans would have been king of France.”

“And perhaps you would have thought that just,” said Marie Antoinette, in a tone of bitter irony.

“I' faith, yes; shrug your shoulders as much as you please. To judge others, I look at matters from their point of view. From the height of the throne we cannot well see the people; I descend to their level, and I ask myself if as a burgess or a clod-hopper I could suffer a noble to count me among his cows and poultry as a chattel! if, as a farmer, I could endure that my lord's ten thousand pigeons should daily eat ten grains each of wheat, oats, or buckwheat, that is to say, about two bushels, whilst his hares and rabbits browsed on my clover, whilst his wild boars rooted up my potatoes, whilst his tax-gatherers tithed my produce, whilst my lord himself kissed my wife and daughters, whilst the king pressed my sons into his army, and whilst the priest, in his moments of passion, condemned my soul to endless misery.”

“Why, sir,” interrupted the queen, whose eyes flashed thunderbolts, “you should take a pickaxe and go and aid in the demolition of the Bastille.”

“You laugh,” replied the king; “but, by my troth, I should go, were it not ridiculous for a king to handle a pickaxe, when he could have the same work done by a single dash of the pen. Yes, I should take the pickaxe, and they would applaud me, as I applauded those who accomplished the business. Nay, Madame, they did me a famous service in demolishing the Bastille, and to you they did a still greater; yes, to you, who can no longer throw, according to the whims of your friends, honest people into dungeons.”

“Honest people in the Bastille! I-I sent honest people there! Oh, perhaps Monsieur de Rohan is an honest man!”

“Oh, speak no more of him; I speak not of him myself. Our sending him there was not a success, seeing that the parliament set him at liberty. Besides, it was no place for a prince of the Church, since in our time forgers were sent to the Bastille; and, indeed, I ask what forgers and robbers were doing there. Have I not prisons in Paris which cost me dear enough for the entertainment of these gentry- But let the forgers and robbers pass; the evil is that honest men were sent there.”

“Honest men-”

“Undoubtedly; I have seen this very day an honest man who was incarcerated there, and who only got out a very short time since.”

“When was that-”

“This morning.”

“You have this evening seen a man who got out of the

Bastille this morning-”

“I have just parted with him.”

“Who is it-”

“Faith, one of your acquaintance.”

“Of my acquaintance!”

“Yes.”

“Might I ask his name-”

“Doctor Gilbert.”

“Gilbert! Gilbert!” exclaimed the queen. “What! he whom Andr #233;e named on returning to her senses-”

“Precisely so; it must have been he; I could swear to it.”

“Was that man in the Bastille-”

“Faith, Madame, one would suppose that you were ignorant of the fact.”

“I am entirely ignorant of it.”

And, perceiving that the king looked astonished:-

“Unless,” continued the queen, “for some reason I may have forgotten it.”

“Ah! there,” exclaimed the king, “for these acts of injustice there is always a reason which one forgets. But though you may have forgotten both the reason and the doctor, Madame de Charny has forgotten neither, I will answer for it.”

“Sire! Sire!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette.

“There must have been something between them,” the king continued.

“Sire, please to refrain!” said the queen, looking anxiously towards the boudoir, where Andr #233;e was concealed, and could hear all that was said.

“Oh, yes!” said the king, laughing; “you fear that De Charny may chance to learn. Poor De Charny!”

“Sire, I entreat you; Madame de Charny is one of the purest of women, and I should rather believe, I assure you, that this Doctor Gilbert-”

“Pshaw!” interrupted the king, “do you accuse that honest fellow- I know what I know; and the worst of it is that, knowing so much, I do not yet know all.”

“Really, I am horrified that you should persist in entertaining such suspicions,” said the queen, without removing her eyes from the cabinet.

“Oh,” continued Louis, “I am in no hurry; I shall lose nothing by waiting a little. The beginning promises me an interesting conclusion, and I can learn the conclusion from Gilbert himself, he being now my doctor.”

“Your doctor! that fellow your doctor! You can trust the life of the king to a stranger!”

“Oh,” replied the king, coolly, “I have confidence in my first impressions, and I needed only a glance to read that man's inmost soul.”

The queen uttered a groan, from mingled anger and disdain.

“You can sneer at me as you will,” said the king, “but you can never shake my confidence in the learning and science of Doctor Gilbert.”

“Infatuation!”

“I should like to see you in my place. I should like to know if Monsieur Mesmer was not able to make some impression on you and Madame de Lamballe.”

“Monsieur Mesmer-” asked the queen, blushing.

“Yes; four years ago you went disguised to one of his meetings. Oh, my police are drilled thoroughly. You see I know all.”

And the king, while uttering these words, smiled kindly on Marie Antoinette.

“You know all, Sire,” answered the queen; “and you are a good dissembler, for you have never once spoken to me on the subject.”

“Why should I have done so- I am sure the novelists and newspaper reporters abused you sufficiently on that score. But to return to Gilbert and at the same time to Mesmer. Monsieur Mesmer placed you round a vat, touched you with a steel rod, surrounded himself with a thousand phantasmagories, like the quack that he was. Gilbert uses no such illusions; he extends his hand over a woman; she sleeps, and sleeping, talks.”

“Talks!” muttered the queen, terrified.

“Yes,” replied the king, not unwilling to prolong somewhat his wife's little nervousness; “yes, put to sleep by Gilbert, she talks, and, believe me, says very strange things.”

The queen grew pale.

“Madame de Charny may have said very strange things!” she muttered.

“Most strange,” said the king. “It was very fortunate for her-”

“Hush! hush!” interrupted Marie Antoinette.

“Why hush- I say that it was very fortunate for her that I alone heard what she said in her sleep.”

“Oh, for pity's sake, Sire, say not a word more!”

“Indeed, I had much rather talk no more. I feel ready to drop with weariness; and as I eat when I am hungry, so do I go to bed when I am sleepy. So good-night, Madame, and may our conversation leave upon you a salutary impression.”

“In what way, Sire-”

“The people were right in undoing what we and our friends had done, witness my poor Doctor Gilbert. Adieu, Madame; trust me that after signalling the danger, I shall have the courage to prevent it. Pleasant dreams, Antoinette.”

And the king moved towards the door.

“ #192; propos,” said he, turning round, “warn Madame de Charny that she has to make her peace with the doctor if it is not now too late. Adieu.”

He slowly retired, shutting the doors himself with all the satisfaction of the mechanic when his locks work well under the pressure of his fingers.

The king had not taken half a dozen steps in the corridor, when the countess issued from the boudoir, ran to the doors and bolted them, and to the windows and drew the curtains. She seemed to be excited with all the energy of rage and madness. Then, having assured her- self that she could neither be seen nor heard, she returned to the queen with a heart-rending cry, fell on her knees, and exclaimed,-“Save me, Madame; for Heaven's sake, save me!” Then, after a pause followed by a long sigh, she added:

“And I will tell you all.”

CHAPTER XXXI. WHAT THE QUEEN'S THOUGHTS WERE, DURING THE NIGHT FROM JULY 14 TO JULY 15, 1789

How long the interview between Andr #233;e and the queen lasted, it would be impossible for us to say; but it was certainly of considerable duration, for at about eleven o'clock that night the door of the queen's boudoir was seen to open, and on the threshold Andr #233;e, almost on her knees, kissing the hand of Marie Antoinette. After which, having raised herself up, the young woman dried her eyes, red with weeping, while the queen, on her side, re-entered her room.

Andr #233;e, on the contrary, walked away rapidly, as if she desired to escape from her own thoughts.

After this, the queen was alone. When the lady of the bedchamber entered the room, to assist her in undressing, she found her pacing the room with rapid strides, and her eyes flashing with excitement. She made a quick movement with her hand, which meant to say, “Leave me.”

The lady of the bedchamber left the room, without offering an observation.

The queen again found herself alone. She had given orders that no one should disturb her, unless it was to announce the arrival of important news from Paris.

Andr #233;e did not appear again.

As for the king, after he had conversed with Monsieur de la Rochefoucault, who endeavored to make him comprehend the difference there was between a riot and a revolution,-he declared himself fatigued, went to bed, and slept as quietly as if he had returned from a hunt, and the stag (a well-trained courtier) had suffered himself to be taken in the grand basin of the fountain called the Swiss.

The queen, however, wrote several letters, went into an adjoining room, where her two children slept under the care of Madame de Tourzel, and then went to bed, not for the sake of sleeping, like the king, but merely to meditate more at ease.

But soon after, when silence reigned around Versailles, when the immense palace became plunged in darkness, when there could no longer be heard in the gardens aught but the tramp of the patrols upon the gravel-walks, and in the long passages nothing but the ringing of muskets on the marble pavement, Marie Antoinette, tired of repose, felt the want of air, got out of bed, and putting on her, velvet slippers and a long white dressing-gown, went to the window to inhale the ascending freshness of the cascades, and to seize in their flight those counsels which the night winds murmur to heated minds and oppressed hearts.

Then she reviewed in her mind all the astounding events which this strange day had produced.

The fall of the Bastille, that visible emblem of royal power, the uncertainties of Charny, her devoted friend, that impassioned captive who for so many years had been subjected to her yoke, and who during all those years had never breathed anything but love, now seemed for the first time to sigh from regret and feelings of remorse.

With that synthetic habit with which the knowledge of men and events endows great minds, Marie Antoinette immediately divided the agitation which oppressed her into two portions, the one being her political misfortunes, the other the sorrows of her heart.

The political misfortune was that great event, the news of which had left Paris at three o'clock in the afternoon, and was then spreading itself over the whole world, and weakening in every mind that sacred reverence which until then had always been accorded to kings, God's mandatories upon earth.

The sorrow of her heart was the gloomy resistance of Charny to the omnipotence of his well-beloved sovereign. It appeared to her like a presentiment that, without ceasing to be faithful and devoted, his love would cease to be blind, and might begin to argue with itself on its fidelity and its devotedness.

This thought grieved the queen's heart poignantly, and filled it with that bitter gall which is called jealousy, an acrid poison which ulcerates at the same instant a thousand little wounds in a wounded soul.

Nevertheless, grief in the presence of misfortune was logically of secondary importance.

Thus, rather from reasoning than from conscientious motives, rather from necessity than from instinct, Marie Antoinette first allowed her mind to enter into the grave reflections connected with the dangerous state of political affairs.

In which direction could she turn Before her lay hatred and ambition,-weakness and indifference at her side.

For enemies she had people who, having commenced with calumny, were now organizing a rebellion,-people whom, consequently, no consideration would induce to retreat.

For defenders-we speak of the greater portion at least of those men who, little by little, had accustomed themselves to endure everything, and who, in consequence, no longer felt the depth of their wounds, their degradation-people who would hesitate to defend themselves, for fear of attracting attention.

It was therefore necessary to bury everything in oblivion,-to appear to forget, and yet to remember; to feign to forgive, and yet not pardon.

This would be conduct unworthy of a queen of France; it was especially unworthy of the daughter of Maria Theresa-that high-minded woman.

To resist!-to resist!-that was what offended royal pride most strenuously counselled. But was it prudent to resist- Could hatred be calmed down by shedding blood- Was it not terrible to be surnamed “The Austrian”- Was it necessary, in order to consecrate that name, as Isabeau and Catherine de M #233;dicis consecrated theirs, to give it the baptism of a universal massacre-

And then, if what Charny had said was true, success was doubtful.

To combat and to be defeated!

Such were the political sorrows of the queen, who during certain phases of her meditation felt a sensation like that which we experience on seeing a serpent glide from beneath the brambles, awakened by our advancing steps. She felt, on emerging from the depths of her sufferings as a queen, the despair of the woman who thinks herself but little loved, when in reality she had been loved too much.

Charny had said, what we have already heard him say, not from conviction, but from lassitude. He had, like many others, drunk calumny from the same cup that she had. Charny, for the first time, had spoken in such affectionate terms of his wife, Andr #233;e being until then almost forgotten by her husband. Had Charny then perceived that his young wife was still beautiful- And at this single idea, which stung her like the envenomed bite of the asp, Marie Antoinette was astounded to find that misfortune was nothing in comparison with disappointed love.

For what misfortune had failed to do, unrequited love was gradually effecting within her soul. The woman sprang furiously from the chair in which the queen had calmly contemplated danger.

The whole destiny of this privileged child of suffering revealed itself in the condition of her mind during that night.

For how was it possible to escape misfortune and disappointment at the same time, she would ask herself, with constantly renewing anguish. Was it necessary to determine on abandoning a life of royalty, and could she live happily in a state of mediocrity-was it necessary to return to her own Trianon, and to her Swiss cottage, to the quiet shores of the lake and the humble amusements of the dairy-was it necessary to allow the people to divide among them the shreds of monarchy, excepting some few fragments which the woman might appropriate to herself from the imaginary indebtedness of the faithful few, who would still persist in considering themselves her vassals-

Alas! it was now that the serpent of jealousy began to sting still deeper.

Happy! Could she be happy with the humiliation of despised love-

Happy! Could she be happy by the side of the king,-that vulgar husband in whom everything was deficient to form the hero-

Happy! Could she be happy with Monsieur de Charny, who might be so with some woman whom he loved,-by the side of his own wife, perhaps-

And this thought kindled in the poor queen's breast all those flaming torches which consumed Dido even more than her funeral pile.

But in the midst of this feverish torture, she saw a ray of hope; in the midst of this shuddering anguish, she felt a sensation of joy. God, in his infinite mercy, has he not created evil to make us appreciate good-

Andr #233;e had intrusted the queen with all her secrets; she had unveiled the one shame of her life to her rival. Andr #233;e, her eyes full of tears, her head bowed down to the ground, had confessed to the queen that she was no longer worthy of the love and the respect of an honorable man: therefore Charny could never love Andr #233;e.

But Charny is ignorant of this. Charny will ever be ignorant of that catastrophe at Trianon, and its consequences. Therefore, to Charny it is as if the catastrophe had never taken place.

And while making these reflections the queen examined her fading beauty in the mirror of her mind, and deplored the loss of her gayety, the freshness of her youth.

Then she thought of Andr #233;e, of the strange and almost incredible adventures which she had just related to her.

She wondered at the magical working of blind fortune, which had brought to Trianon, from the shade of a hut and the muddy furrows of a farm, a little gardener's boy, to associate his destinies with those of a highly born young lady, who was herself associated with the destinies of a queen.

“Thus,” said she to herself, “the atom which was thus lost in the lowest regions, has come, by a freak of superior attraction, to unite itself, like a fragment of a diamond, with the heavenly light of the stars.”

This gardener's boy, this Gilbert, was he not a living symbol of that which was occurring at that moment,-a man of the people, rising from the lowness of his birth to busy himself with the politics of a great kingdom; a strange comedian, in whom were personified, by a privilege granted to him by the evil spirit who was then hovering over France, not only the insult offered to the nobility, but also the attack made upon the monarchy by a plebeian mob-

This Gilbert, now become a learned man,-this Gilbert, dressed in the black coat of the Tiers #201;tat, the counsellor of Monsieur de Necker, the confidant of the king of France, would now find himself, thanks to the Revolution, on an equal footing with the woman whose honor, like a thief, he had stolen in the night.

The queen had again become a woman, and shuddering in spite of herself at the sad story related by Andr #233;e, she was endeavoring to study the character of this Gilbert, and to learn by herself to read in human features what God had placed there to indicate so strange a character; and notwithstanding the pleasure she had experienced on seeing the humiliation of her rival, she still felt a lingering desire to attack the man who had caused a woman such intensity of suffering.

Moreover, notwithstanding the terror generally inspired by the sight of monsters, she felt a desire to look at, and perhaps even to admire, this extraordinary man, who by a crime had infused his vile blood into the most aristocratic veins in France,-this man who appeared to have organized the Revolution, in order that it should open the gates of the Bastille for him, in which, but for that Revolution, he would have remained immured forever, to teach him that a plebeian must remember nothing.

In consequence of this connecting link in her ideas, the queen reverted to her political vexations, and saw the responsibility of all she had suffered accumulate upon one single head.

Thus the author of the popular rebellion that had just shaken the royal power by levelling the Bastille was Gilbert,-he whose principles had placed weapons in the hands of the Billots, the Maillards, the Elies, and the Hullins.

Gilbert was therefore both a venomous and a terrible being,-venomous, because he had caused the loss of Andr #233;e as a lover; terrible, because he had just assisted in overthrowing the Bastille as an enemy.

It was therefore necessary to know, in order to avoid him; or rather, to know him, in order to make use of him.

It was necessary, at any cost, to converse with this man, to examine him closely, and to judge him personally.

Two thirds of the night had already flown away, three o'clock was striking, and the first rays of the rising sun gilded the high tops of the trees in the park, and the summits of the statues of Versailles.

The queen had passed the whole night without sleeping; her eyes wandered vaguely up and down the avenues, where streaks of soft light began to appear.

A heavy and burning slumber gradually seized the unfortunate woman.

She fell back, with her neck overhanging the back of the arm-chair, near the open window.

She dreamed that she was walking in Trianon, and that there appeared to her eyes, at the extremity of a flowerbed, a grinning gnome, similar to those we read of in German ballads; that this sardonic monster was Gilbert, who extended his hooked fingers towards her.

She screamed aloud.

Another cry answered hers.

That cry roused her from her slumber.

It was Madame de Tourzel who had uttered it. She had just entered the queen's apartment, and seeing her exhausted and gasping in an arm-chair, she could not avoid giving utterance to her grief and surprise.

“The queen is indisposed!” she exclaimed.”The queen is suffering. Shall I send for a physician-”

The queen opened her eyes. This question of Madame de Tourzel coincided with the demands of her own curiosity.

“Yes, a physician!” she replied; “Doctor Gilbert!-send for Doctor Gilbert!”

“Who is Doctor Gilbert-” asked Madame de Tourzel.

“A new physician, appointed by the king only yesterday, I believe, and just arrived from America.”

“I know whom her Majesty means,” said one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting.

“Well-” said the queen, inquiringly.

“Well, Madame, the doctor is in the king's antechamber.”

“Do you know him, then-”

“Yes, your Majesty,” stammered the woman.

“But how can you know him- He arrived here from America some eight or ten days ago, and only came out of the Bastille yesterday.”

“I know him.”

“Answer me distinctly. Where did you know him-” asked the queen, in an imperious tone.

The lady cast down her eyes.

“Come, will you make up your mind to tell me how it happens that you know this man-”

“Madame, I have read his works; and his works having given me a desire to see the author, I had him pointed out to me.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the queen, with an indescribable look of haughtiness and reserve,-“ah! it is well. Since you know him, go and tell him that I am suffering, and that I wish to see him.”

While waiting for the doctor's arrival, the queen made her ladies in attendance enter the room; after which she put on a dressing-gown and adjusted her hair.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE KING'S PHYSICIAN

A FEW moments after the queen had expressed the above desire,-a desire which the person to whom it had been mentioned had complied with,-Gilbert, who felt astonished, slightly anxious, and profoundly agitated, but still without showing any external marks of it, presented himself to Marie Antoinette.

The firm and noble carriage, the delicate pallor of the man of science and of thought, to whom study had given a second nature,-a pallor still more enhanced by the black dress which was not only worn by all the deputies of the Tiers #201;tat, but also by those who had adopted the principles of the Revolution; the delicate white hand of the surgical operator, surrounded by a plain muslin wristband; his slender though well-formed limbs, which none of those at court could surpass in symmetry, even in the estimation of the connoisseurs of the il-de-Buf (combined with all these, there was a mixture of respectful timidity towards the woman, and of calm courage towards the patient, but no signs of servility towards her as a queen),-such were the plainly written signs that Marie Antoinette, with her aristocratic intelligence, could perceive in the countenance of Gilbert at the moment when the door opened to admit him into her bedchamber.

But the less Gilbert was provoking in his demeanor, the more did the queen feel her anger increase. She had figured him to herself as a type of an odious class of men; she had considered him instinctively, though almost involuntarily, as one of those impudent heroes of whom she had so many around her. The author of the sufferings of Andr #233;e, the bastard pupil of Rousseau, that miserable abortion who had grown up to manhood, that pruner of trees who had become a philosopher and a subduer of souls,-Marie Antoinette, in spite of herself, depicted him in her mind as having the features of Mirabeau; that is to say, of the man she most hated, after the Cardinal de Rohan and Lafayette.

It had seemed to her, before she saw Gilbert, that it required a gigantic physical development to contain so colossal a mind.

But when she saw a young, upright, and slender man, of elegant and graceful form, of sweet and amiable countenance, he appeared to her as having committed the new crime of belying himself by his exterior. Gilbert, a man of the people, of obscure and unknown birth!-Gilbert, the peasant, the clown, and the serf!-Gilbert was guilty, in the eyes of the queen, of having usurped the external appearance of a gentleman and a man of honor. The proud Austrian, the sworn enemy of lying and deception in others, became indignant, and immediately conceived a violent hatred for the unfortunate atom whom so many different motives combined to induce her to abhor.

For those who were intimate with her nature, for those who were accustomed to read in her eyes either serenity of temper or indications of an approaching storm, it was easy to discern that a tempest, full of thunder-claps and flashes of lightning, was raging in the depths of her heart.

But how was it possible for a human being, even a woman, to follow, in the midst of this hurricane of passions and anger, the succession of strange and contrasting feelings which clashed together in the queen's brain, and filled her breast with all the mortal poisons described by Homer!

The queen with a single look dismissed all her attendants, even Madame de Misery.

They immediately left the room.

The queen waited till the door had been closed on the last person; then, casting her eyes upon Gilbert, she perceived that he had not ceased to gaze at her.

So much audacity offended her. The doctor's look was apparently inoffensive; but as it was continual, and was full of meaning, it weighed so heavily upon her that Marie Antoinette felt compelled to repress its importunity.

“Well, then, sir,” said she, with the abruptness of a pistol-shot, “what are you doing there, standing before me and gazing at me, instead of telling me with what complaint I am suffering-”

This furious apostrophe, rendered more forcible by the flashing of her eyes, would have annihilated any of the queen's courtiers; it would even have compelled a marshal of France, a hero, or a demi-god, to fall on his knees before her.

But Gilbert tranquilly replied:-

“It is by means of the eyes, Madame, that the physician must first examine his patient. By looking at your Majesty, who sent for me, I do not satisfy an idle curiosity; I exercise my profession: I obey your orders.”

“Then you must have studied me sufficiently.”

“As much as lay in my power, Madame.”

“Am I ill-”

“Not in the strict sense of the word. But your Majesty is suffering from great over-excitement.”

“Ah! ah!” said Marie Antoinette, ironically, “why do you not say at once that I am in a passion-”

“Let your Majesty allow me, since you have ordered the attendance of a physician, to express myself in medical terms.”

“Be it so. But what is the cause of my over-excitement-”

“Your Majesty has too much knowledge not to be aware that the physician discovers the sufferings of the body, thanks to his experience and the traditions of his studies; but he is not a sorcerer, who can discover at first sight the depths of the human soul.”

“By this you mean to imply, that the second or third time you could tell me not only from what I am suffering, but also what are my thoughts-”

“Perhaps so, Madame,” coldly replied Gilbert.

The queen appeared to tremble with anger: her words seemed to be hanging on her lips, ready to burst forth in burning torrents.

She, however, restrained herself.

“I must believe you,” said she,-“you who are a learned man.”

And she emphasized these last words with so much contempt, that the eye of Gilbert appeared to kindle, in its turn, with the fire of anger.

But a struggle of a few seconds' duration sufficed to this man to give him a complete victory.

Accordingly, with a calm brow and an unembarrassed expression he almost immediately rejoined:-

“It is too kind of your Majesty to give me the title of a learned man without having received any proofs of my knowledge.”

The queen bit her lip.

“You must understand that I do not know if you are a scientific man,” she replied; “but I have heard it said, and I repeat what everybody says.”

“Well, then,” said Gilbert, respectfully, and bowing still lower than he had done hitherto, “a superior mind, like that of your Majesty, must not blindly repeat what is said by the vulgar.”

“Do you mean the people-” said the queen, insolently.

“The vulgar, Madame,” repeated Gilbert, with a firmness which made the blood thrill in the queen's veins, and gave rise to emotions which were as painful to her as they had hitherto been unknown.

“In fine,” answered she, “let us not discuss that point. You are said to be learned; that is all that is essential. Where have you studied-”

“Everywhere, Madame.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Nowhere, then.”

“I prefer that answer. Have you studied nowhere-”

As it may please you, Madame,” replied the doctor, bowing, “and yet it is less exact than to say everywhere.”

“Come, answer me, then!” exclaimed the queen, becoming exasperated; “and above all, for Heaven's sake, Monsieur Gilbert, spare me such phrases.”

Then, as if speaking to herself:-

“Everywhere! everywhere! what does that mean It is the language of a charlatan, a quack, of a physician who practises in the public squares! Do you mean to overawe me by your sonorous syllables-”

She stepped forward with ardent eyes and quivering lips.

“Everywhere! Mention some place; come, explain your meaning, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“I said everywhere,” answered Gilbert, coldly, “because in fact I have studied everywhere, Madame,-in the hut and in the palace, in cities and in the desert, upon our own species and upon animals, upon myself and upon others, in a manner suitable to one who loves knowledge, and studies it where it is to be found, that is to say, everywhere.”

The queen, overcome, cast a terrible glance at Gilbert, while he, on his part, was eying her with terrible perseverance. She became convulsively agitated, and turning round, upset a small stand, upon which her chocolate had been served in a cup of S #232;vres porcelain. Gilbert saw the table fall, saw the broken cup, but did not move a finger.

The color mounted to the cheeks of Marie Antoinette; she raised her cold, moist hand to her burning temples, but did not dare to raise her eyes again to look at Gilbert.

But her features assumed a more contemptuous, more insolent expression than before.

“Then, under what great master did you study-” continued the queen, again taking up the conversation at the point where she had left it off.

“I hardly know how to answer your Majesty, without running the risk of again wounding you.”

The queen perceived the advantage that Gilbert had given her, and threw herself upon it like a lioness upon her prey.

“Wound me-you wound me-you!” exclaimed she. “Oh, sir, what are you saying there- You wound a queen! You are mistaken, sir, I can affirm to you. Ah, Doctor Gilbert, you have not studied the French language in as good schools as you have studied medicine. People of my station are not to be wounded, Doctor Gilbert. You may weary them, that is all.”

Gilbert bowed, and made a step towards the door; but it was not possible for the queen to discover in his countenance the least show of anger, the least sign of impatience.

The queen, on the contrary, was stamping her feet with rage; she sprang towards Gilbert, as if to prevent him from leaving the room.

He understood her.

“Pardon me, Madame,” said he. “It is true I committed the unpardonable error to forget that, as a physician, I was called to see a patient. Forgive me, Madame; hereafter I shall remember it.”

He reflected for a moment.

“Your Majesty,” continued he, “is rapidly approaching a nervous crisis. I will venture to ask you not to give way to it; for in a short time it would be beyond your power to control it. At this moment your pulse must be imperceptible, the blood is rushing to the heart; your Majesty is suffering, your Majesty is almost suffocating, and perhaps it would be prudent for you to summon one of your ladies-in-waiting.”

The queen took a turn round the room, and seating herself:-

“Is your name Gilbert-” asked she.

“Yes, Gilbert, Madame.”

“Strange! I remember an incident of my youth, the strange nature of which would doubtless wound you much, were I to relate it to you. But it matters not; for if hurt, you will soon cure yourself,-you, who are no less a philosopher than a learned physician.”

And the queen smiled ironically.

“Precisely so, Madame,” said Gilbert; “you may smile, and little by little subdue your nervousness by irony. It is one of the most beautiful prerogatives of the intelligent will to be able thus to control itself. Subdue it, Madame, subdue it; but, however, without making a too violent effort.”

This prescription of the physician was given with so much suavity and such natural good-humor, that the queen, while feeling the bitter irony contained in his words, could not take offence at what Gilbert bad said to her.

She merely returned to the charge, recommencing her attack where she had discontinued it.

“This incident of which I spoke,” continued she, “is the following.”

Gilbert bowed, as a sign that he was listening.

The queen made an effort, and fixed her gaze upon him.

“I was the dauphiness at that time, and I inhabited Trianon. There was in the gardens a little dark-looking, dirty boy, covered with mud, a crabbed boy, a sort of sour Jean Jacques, who weeded, dug, and picked off the caterpillars with his little crooked fingers. His name was Gilbert.”

“It was myself, Madame,” said Gilbert, phlegmatically.

“You!” said Marie Antoinette, with an expression of hatred. “I was, then, right! but you are not, then, a learned man-”

“I think that, as your Majesty's memory is so good, you must also remember dates,” rejoined Gilbert. “It was in 1772, if I am not mistaken, that the little gardener's boy, of whom your Majesty speaks, weeded the flower-beds, of Trianon to earn his bread. We are now in 1789. It is therefore seventeen years, Madame, since the events to which you allude took place. It is more time than is necessary to metamorphose a savage into a learned man; the soul and the mind operate quickly in certain positions, like plants and flowers, which grow rapidly in hothouses. Revolutions, Madame, are the hotbeds of the mind. Your Majesty looks at me, and, notwithstanding the perspicacity of your scrutiny, you do not perceive that the boy of sixteen has become a man of thirty-three; you are therefore wrong to wonder that the ignorant, the ingenuous little Gilbert, should, after having witnessed these revolutions, have become a learned man and a philosopher.”

“Ignorant! be it so; but ingenuous,-ingenuous, did you say" furiously cried the queen. “I think you called that little Gilbert ingenuous.”

“If I am mistaken, Madame, or if I praised this little boy for a quality which he did not possess, I do not know how your Majesty can have ascertained more correctly than myself that he had the opposite defect.”

“Oh, that is quite another matter!” said the queen, gloomily; “perhaps we shall speak of that some other time; but, in the mean time, let me speak of the learned man, of the man brought to perfection, of the perfect man I see before me.”

Gilbert did not take up the word “perfect.” He understood but too well that it was a new insult.

“Let us return to our subject, Madame,” replied Gilbert. “Tell me for what purpose did your Majesty order me to come to your apartment-”

“You propose to become the king's physician,” said she. “Now, you must understand, sir, that I attach too much importance to the health of my husband to trust it in the hands of a man whom I do not know perfectly.”

“I offered myself to the king, Madame,” said Gilbert, “and I was accepted without your Majesty having any just cause to conceive the least suspicion as to my capacity or want of zeal. I am, above all, a political physician, Madame, recommended by Monsieur Necker. As for the rest, if the king is ever in want of my science, I shall prove myself a good physical doctor, so far as human science can be of use to the Creator's works. But what I shall be to the king more particularly, besides being a good adviser and a good physician, is a good friend.”

“A good friend!” exclaimed the queen, with a fresh outburst of contempt. “You, sir, a friend of the king!”

“Certainly,” replied Gilbert, quietly; “why not, Madame-”

“Oh yes! all in virtue of your secret power, by the assistance of your occult science,” murmured she; “who can tell- We have already seen the Jacqueses and the Maillotins; perhaps we shall go back to the dark ages! You have resuscitated philters and charms. You will soon govern France by magic; you will be a Faust or a Nicholas Flamel!”

“I have no such pretensions, Madame.”

“And why have you not, sir-' How many monsters more cruel than those of the gardens of Armida, more cruel than Cerberus himself, would you not put to sleep on the threshold of our hell!”

When she had pronounced the words, “would you not put to sleep,” the queen cast a scrutinizing look on the doctor.

This time Gilbert blushed in spite of himself.

It was a source of indescribable joy to Marie Antoinette; she felt that this time the blow she had struck had inflicted a real wound.

“For you have the power of causing sleep; you, who have studied everything and everywhere, you doubtless have studied magnetic science with the magnetizers of our century, who make sleep a treacherous instrument, and who read their secrets in the sleep of others.”

“In fact, Madame, I have often, and for a long time, studied under the learned Cagliostro.”

“Yes; he who practised and made his followers practise that moral theft of which I was just speaking; the same who, by the aid of that magic sleep which I call infamous, robbed some of their souls, and others of their bodies!”

Gilbert again understood her meaning, but this time he turned pale, instead of reddening. The queen trembled with joy, to the very depths of her heart.

“Ah, wretch” murmured she to herself: “I have wounded you, and I can see the blood.”

But the profoundest emotions were never visible for any length of time on the countenance of Gilbert. Approaching the queen, therefore, who, quite joyful on account of her victory, was imprudently looking at him:-

“Madame,” said he, “your Majesty would be wrong to deny the learned men of whom you have been speaking the most beautiful appendage to their science, which is the power of throwing, not victims, but subjects, into a magnetic sleep; you would be wrong, in particular, to contest the right they have to follow up, by all possible means, a discovery of which the laws, once recognized and regulated, are perhaps intended to revolutionize the world.”

And while approaching the queen, Gilbert had looked at her, in his turn, with that power of will to which the nervous Andr #233;e had succumbed.

The queen felt a chill run through her veins as he drew nearer to her.

“Infamy,” said she, “be the reward of those men who make an abuse of certain dark and mysterious arts to ruin both the soul and body. May infamy rest upon the head of Cagliostro!”

“Ah!” replied Gilbert, with the accent of conviction, “beware, Madame, of judging the faults committed by human beings with so much severity.”

“Sir-”

“Every one is liable to err, Madame; all human beings commit injuries on their fellow-creatures, and were it not for individual egotism, which is the foundation of general safety, the world would become but one great battle-field. Those are the best who are good; that is all. Others will tell you that those are best who are the least faulty. Indulgence must be the greater, Madame, in proportion to the elevated rank of the judge. Seated as you are on so exalted a throne, you have less right than any other person to be severe towards the faults of others. On your worldly throne, you should be supremely indulgent, like God, who upon his heavenly throne is supremely merciful.”

“Sir,” said the queen, “I view my rights in a different light from you, and especially my duties. I am on the throne to punish or reward.”

“I do not think so, Madame. In my opinion, on the contrary, you are seated on the throne,-you, a woman and a queen, to conciliate and to forgive.”

“I suppose you are not moralizing, sir.”

“You are right, Madame, and I was only replying to your Majesty. This Cagliostro, for instance, Madame, of whom you were speaking a few moments since, and whose science you were contesting, I remember,-and this is a remembrance of something anterior to your recollections of Trianon,-I remember that in the gardens of the Chateau de Taverney he had occasion to give the dauphiness of France a proof of his science; I know not what it was, Madame, but you must recollect it well, for that proof made a profound impression upon her, even so much as to cause her to faint.”

Gilbert was now striking blows in his turn; it is true that he was dealing them at random, but he was favored by chance, and they hit the mark so truly, that the queen became pale.

“Yes,” said she, in a hoarse voice, “yes, he made me see, as in a dream, a hideous machine; but I know not that, up to the present time, such a machine has ever really existed.”

“I know not what he made you see, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, who felt satisfied with the effect he had produced; “but I do know that it is impossible to dispute the appellation of 'learned' to a man who wields such a power as that over his fellow-creatures.”

“His fellow-creatures,” murmured the queen, disdainfully.

“Be it so,-I am mistaken,” replied Gilbert; “and his power is so much the more wonderful, that it reduces to a level with himself, under the yoke of fear, the heads of monarchs and princes of the earth.”

“Infamy, infamy, I say again, upon those who take advantage of the weakness or the credulity of others!”

“Infamous! did you call infamous those who make use of science-”

“Their science is nothing but chimeras, lies, and cowardice.”

“What mean you by that, Madame-” asked Gilbert, calmly.

“My meaning is, that this Cagliostro is a cowardly mountebank, and that his pretended magnetic sleep is a crime.”

“A crime!”

“Yes, a crime,” continued the queen; “for it is the result of some potion, some philter, some poison; and human justice, which I represent, will be able to discover the mystery, and punish the inventor.”

“Madame, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, with the same patience as before, “a little indulgence, I beg, for those who have erred.”

“Ah! you confess their guilt, then-”

The queen was mistaken, and thought from the mild tone of Gilbert's voice, that he was supplicating pardon for himself.

She was in error, and Gilbert did not allow the advantage she had thus given him to escape.

“What-” said he, dilating his flashing eyes, before the gaze of which Marie Antoinette was compelled to lower hers, as if suddenly dazzled by the rays of the sun.

The queen remained confounded for a moment, and then, making an effort to speak:-

“A queen can no more be questioned than she can be wounded,” said she: “learn to know that also, you who have but so newly arrived at court. But you were speaking, it seems to me, of those who have erred, and you asked me to be indulgent towards them.”

“Alas! Madame,” said Gilbert, “where is the human creature who is not liable to reproach- Is it he who has ensconced himself so closely within the deep shell of his conscience that the look of others cannot penetrate it- It is this which is often denominated virtue. Be indulgent, Madame.”

“But according to this opinion, then,” replied the queen, imprudently, “there is no virtuous being in your estimation, sir,-you, who are the pupil of those men whose prying eyes seek the truth, even in the deepest recesses of the human conscience.”

“It is true, Madame.”

She laughed, and without seeking to conceal the contempt which her laughter expressed.

“Oh, pray, sir,” exclaimed she, “do remember that you are not now speaking on a public square, to idiots, to peasants, or to patriots.”

“I am aware to whom I am speaking; Madame; of this you may be fully persuaded,” replied Gilbert.

“Show more respect then, sir, or more adroitness; consider your past life; search the depths of that conscience which men who have studied everywhere must possess in common with the rest of mankind, notwithstanding their genius and their wisdom; recall to your mind all that you may have conceived that was vile, hurtful, and criminal,-all the cruelties, the deeds, the crimes even, you have committed. Do not interrupt me; and when you have summed up all your misdeeds, learned doctor, you will bow down your head, and become more humble. Do not approach the dwelling of kings with such insolent pride, who, until there is a new order of things, were established by Heaven to penetrate the souls of criminals, to examine the folds of the human conscience, and to inflict chastisement upon the guilty, without pity and without appeal.

“That, sir,” continued the queen, “is what you ought to do. You will be thought the better of, on, account of your repentance. Believe me, the best mode of healing a soul so diseased as yours, would be to live in solitude, far from the grandeurs which give men false ideas of their own worth. I would advise you, therefore, not to approach the court, and to abandon the idea of attending the king during sickness. You have a cure to accomplish, for which God will esteem you more than for any other,-the cure of yourself. Antiquity had a proverb, which expressed the following maxim, sir: Medice, cura teipsum.”

Gilbert, instead of being irritated at this proposal, which the queen considered as the most disagreeable of conclusions, replied with gentleness:-

“Madame, I have already done all that your Majesty advises.”

“And what have you done, sir-”

“I have meditated.”

“Upon yourself-”

“Yes, upon myself, Madame.”

“And in regard to your conscience-”

“Especially on the subject of my conscience, Madame.”

“Do you think, then, I am sufficiently well informed of what you saw in it-”

“I do not know what your Majesty means by those words, but I think I can discover their meaning, which is, 'how many times a man of my age must have offended God!'“

“Really-you speak of God-”

“Yes.”

“You-”

“Why not-”

“A philosopher,-do philosophers believe in the existence of a God-”

“I speak of God, and I believe in him.”

“And you are still determined not to withdraw from court-”

“No, Madame, I remain.”

“Monsieur Gilbert, take heed.”

And the queen's countenance assumed a threatening expression, which it would be impossible to describe.

“Oh, I have reflected much upon the subject, Madame, and my reflections have led me to know that I am not less worthy than another; every one has his faults. I learned this axiom not by pondering over books, but by searching the consciences of others.”

“You are universal and infallible, are you not-” said the queen, ironically.

“Alas, Madame, if I am not universal, if I am not infallible, I am nevertheless very learned in human misery, well versed in the greatest sorrows of the mind. And this is so true, that I could tell, by merely seeing the livid circle round your wearied eyes, by merely seeing the line which extends from one eyebrow to the other, by merely seeing at the corners of your mouth a contraction which is called by the prosaic name of wrinkle,-I can tell you, Madame, how many severe trials you have undergone, how many times your heart has palpitated with anguish, to how many secret dreams of joy your heart has abandoned itself, to discover its error on awaking.

“I will tell you all that, Madame, when you shall desire it; I will tell it you, for I am sure of not being contradicted. I will tell it you, by merely fastening upon you a gaze which can read and wishes to read your mind; and when you have felt the power of that gaze, when you have felt the weight of this curiosity sounding to your inmost soul, like the sea that feels the weight of the lead that plunges into its depths, then you will understand that I am able to do much, Madame, and that if I pause awhile, you should be grateful to me for it, instead of provoking me on to war.”

This language, supported by a terrible fixity of the will of provocation, exercised by the man upon the woman, this contempt for all etiquette in presence of the queen, produced an unspeakable effect upon Marie Antoinette.

She felt as if a mist were overshadowing her brow, and sending an icy chill through her ideas: she felt her hatred turning into fear; and letting her hands fall heavily by her side, retreated a step to avoid the approach of the unknown danger.

“And now, Madame,” said Gilbert, who clearly perceived all that was passing in her mind, “do you understand that it would be very easy for me to discover that which you conceal from everybody, and that which you conceal even from yourself; do you understand that it would be easy for me to stretch you on that chair, which your fingers are now instinctively seeking as a support-”

“Ah!” exclaimed the queen, who was terrified, for she felt an unknown chill invading even her heart.

“Were I but to utter to myself a word which I will not utter,” continued Gilbert, “were I but to summon up my will, which I renounce, you would fall as if thunder-stricken into my power. You doubt what I am telling you, Madame. Oh, do not doubt it; you might perhaps tempt me once,-and if once you tempted me! But no, you do not doubt it, do you-”

The queen, almost on the point of falling, exhausted, oppressed, and completely lost, grasped the back of her arm-chair with all the energy of despair and the rage of useless resistance.

“Oh,” continued Gilbert, “mark this well, Madame: it is that if I were not the most respectful, the most devoted, the most humble of your subjects, I should convince you by a terrible experiment. Oh, you need fear nothing. I prostrate myself humbly before the woman rather than before-the queen. I tremble at the idea of entertaining any project which might, even in the slightest way, inquire into your thoughts; I would rather kill myself than disturb your soul.”

“Sir! sir!” exclaimed the queen, striking the air with her arms, as if to repel Gilbert, who was standing more than three paces from her.

“And still,” continued Gilbert, “you caused me to be thrown into the Bastille. You only regret that it is taken, because the people, by taking it, reopened its gates for me. There is hatred visible in your eyes towards a man against whom personally you can have no cause of reproach. And see, now, I feel that since I have lessened the influence by means of which I have controlled you, you are perhaps resuming your doubts with your returning respiration.”

In fact, since Gilbert had ceased to control her with his eyes and gestures, Marie Antoinette had reassumed her threatening attitude, like the bird which, being freed from the suffocating influence of the air-pump, endeavors to regain its song and its power of wing.

“Ah! you still doubt; you are ironical; you despise my warnings. Well, then, do you wish me to tell you, Madame, a terrible idea that has just crossed my mind This is what I was on the point of doing. Madame, I was just about to compel you to reveal to me your most intimate troubles, your most hidden secrets. I thought of compelling you to write them down on the table which you touch at this moment, and afterwards, when you had awakened and come to your senses again, I should have convinced you by your own writing of the existence of that power which you seem to contest; and also how real is the forbearance, and shall I say it,-yes, I will say it,-the generosity of the man whom you have just insulted, whom you have insulted for a whole hour, without his having for a single instant given you either a reason or a pretext for so doing.”

“Compel me to sleep!-compel me to speak in my sleep!-me!-me!” exclaimed the queen, turning quite pale: “would you have dared to do it, sir- But do you know what that is- Do you know the grave nature of the threat you make- Why, it is the crime of high treason, sir. Consider it well. It is a crime which, after awakening from my sleep, I should have punished with death.”

“Madame,” said Gilbert, watching the feverish emotions of the queen, “be not so hasty in accusing, and especially in threatening. Certainly I should have possessed myself of all your secrets; but be convinced that it would not have been on an occasion like this; it would not have been during an interview between the queen and her subject, between a woman and a stranger. No: I should have put the queen to sleep, it is true,-and nothing would have been easier,-but I should not have ventured to put her to sleep, I should not have allowed myself to speak to her, without having a witness.”

“A witness-”

“Yes, Madame, a witness who would faithfully note all your words, all your gestures, all the details, in short, of the scene which I should have brought about, in order that, after its termination, you could not doubt for a single moment longer.”

“A witness, sir!” repeated the queen, terrified; “and who would that witness have been- But consider it maturely, sir, your crime would then have been doubled, for in that case you would have had an accomplice.”

“And if this accomplice, Madame, had been none other than the king-” said Gilbert.

“The king!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, with an expression of fear that betrayed the wife more energetically than the confession of the somnambulist could have done. “Oh, Monsieur Gilbert!-Monsieur Gilbert!”

“The king,” continued Gilbert, calmly,-” the king is your husband, your supporter, your natural defender. The king would have related to you, when you were awakened from your slumber, how respectful and proud I was in being able to prove my science to the most revered of sovereigns.”

And after having spoken these words, Gilbert allowed her Majesty sufficient time to meditate upon their importance.

The queen remained silent for several minutes, during which nothing was heard but the noise of her agitated breathing.

“Sir,” replied she, after this pause, “from all that you have now told me, you must be a mortal enemy-”

“Or a devoted friend, Madame-”

“It is impossible, sir; friendship cannot exist in unison with fear or mistrust.”

“The friendship, Madame, that exists between a subject and a queen cannot subsist except by the confidence which the subject may inspire her with. You will already have said to yourself that he is not an enemy whom, after the first word, we can deprive of the means of doing harm, especially when he is the first to denounce the use of his weapons.”

“May I believe, sir, what you have been saying-” said the queen, looking thoughtfully at Gilbert.

“Why should you not believe me, Madame, when you have every proof of my sincerity-”

“Men change, sir,-men change.”

“Madame, I have made the same vow that certain illustrious warriors made, before starting on an expedition, as to the use of certain weapons in which they were skilled. I shall never make use of my advantages but to repel the wrong that others may attempt to do me. Not for offence, but for defence. That is my motto.”

“Alas!” said the queen, feeling humbled.

“I understand you, Madame. You suffer because you see your soul in the hands of a physician,-you who rebelled at times against the idea of abandoning the care of your body to him. Take courage; be confident. He wishes to advise you well who has this day given you proof of such forbearance as that you have received from me. I desire to love you, Madame; I desire that you should be beloved by all. The ideas I have already submitted to the king I will discuss with you.”

“Doctor, take care!” exclaimed the queen, gravely. “You caught me in your snare; after having terrified the woman, you think to control the queen.”

“No, Madame,” answered Gilbert, “I am not a contemptible speculator. I have ideas of my own, and I can conceive that you have yours. I must from this very moment repel this accusation-one that you would forever make against me-that I had intimidated you in order to subjugate your reason. I will say more, that you are the first woman in whom I have found united all the passions of a woman and all the commanding qualities of a man. You may be at the same time a woman and a friend. All humanity might be concentred in you, were it necessary. I admire you, and I will serve you. I will serve you without any remuneration from you, merely for the sake of studying you, Madame. I will do still more for your service. In case I should seem to be a too inconvenient piece of palace furniture, or if the impression made by the scene of to-day should not be effaced from your memory, I shall ask you, I shall pray you, to dismiss me.”

“Dismiss you!” exclaimed the queen, with a joyful air that did not escape Gilbert.

“Well, then, it is agreed, Madame,” replied he, with admirable presence of mind. “I shall not even tell the king what I had intended, and I shall depart. Must I go to a great distance to reassure you, Madame-”

She looked at him, and appeared surprised at so much self-denial.

“I perceive,” said he, “what your Majesty thinks. Your Majesty, who is better acquainted than is generally thought with the mysteries of the magnetic influence which so much alarmed you a few minutes since,-your Majesty says to herself that at a distance from her I shall be no less dangerous and troublesome.”

“How is that-” exclaimed the queen.

“Yes, I repeat it, Madame. He who would be hurtful to any one by the moans you have reproached my masters and myself for employing, could practise his hurtful power equally well were the distance a hundred leagues, as at three paces. Fear nothing, Madame. I shall not attempt it.”

The queen remained thoughtful for a moment, not knowing how to answer this extraordinary man, who made her waver even after she had formed the firmest resolutions.

On a sudden, the noise of steps coming from the end of the gallery made Marie Antoinette raise her head.

“The king,” said she,-” the king is coming.”

“In that case, Madame, answer me, I pray you-shall I remain here, or shall I leave you-”

“But-”

“Make haste, Madame. I can avoid seeing the king, if you desire it. Your Majesty may show me a door by which I can withdraw.”

“Remain!” said the queen to him.

Gilbert bowed courteously, while Marie Antoinette endeavored to read in his features to what extent triumph would reveal more than either anger or anxiety.

Gilbert remained perfectly impassible.

“At least,” said the queen to herself, “he ought to have manifested some slight satisfaction.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE COUNCIL

THE king entered the room quickly and heavily, as was his custom. He had a busy, inquisitive air, that contrasted strangely with the icy rigidity of the queen's demeanor.

The fresh complexion of the king had not abandoned him. Having risen early, and feeling quite proud of the sound health he enjoyed by inhaling the morning air, he was breathing noisily, and stepped out vigorously on the floor.

“The doctor,” said he,-“what has become of the doctor-”

“Good-morning, Sire. How do you do this morning- Do you feel much fatigued-”

“I have slept six hours: that is my allowance. I am very well. My mind is clear. You look rather pale, Madame. I was told that you had sent for the doctor.”

“Here is Doctor Gilbert,” said the queen, stepping from before the recess of a window, in which the doctor had concealed himself till that moment.

The king's brow at once cleared up. Then:-

“Ah! I forgot,” said he. “You sent for the doctor. Have you been unwell-”

The queen blushed.

“You blush!” exclaimed Louis XVI.

She turned crimson.

“Another secret,” said the king.

What secret, Sire-” exclaimed the queen haughtily.

“You do not understand me. I tell you that you, who have your own favorite physicians,-you would not have sent for Doctor Gilbert, unless you felt the desire, which I know-”

“What desire-”

“You always have to conceal your sufferings from me.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the queen, regaining courage.

“Yes,” continued Louis XVI., “but take good care. Monsieur Gilbert is one of my confidential friends; and if you tell him anything he will be sure to tell it me.”

Gilbert smiled.

“As for that, no, Sire,” said he.

“Well, then, the queen is corrupting my people!”

Marie Antoinette gave one of those little stifled laughs which imply merely a wish to interrupt a conversation, or that the conversation is very tedious.

Gilbert understood her; but the king did not.

“Let us see, doctor,” said he; “as it seems to amuse the queen, tell me what she has been saying to you.”

“I was asking the doctor,” said Marie Antoinette, in her turn, “why you had sent for him so early. I must, indeed, confess that his presence at Versailles, at so unusual an hour perplexes me and makes me uneasy.”

“I was waiting for the doctor,” replied the king, looking gloomy, “to speak on politics with him.”

“Ah! very well,” said the queen.

And she seated herself as if to listen.

“Come, Doctor,” rejoined the king, taking a step towards the door.

Gilbert made a profound bow to the queen, and was about to follow Louis XVI.

“Where are you going-” exclaimed the queen. “What! are you going to leave me-”

“We are not going to talk on gay subjects, Madame. It would be as well for us to spare you so much care.”

“Do you call my sorrow care-” exclaimed the queen, majestically.

“A still better reason for doing so, my dear.”

“Remain here; I wish it,” said she. “Monsieur Gilbert, I imagine you will not disobey me.”

“Monsieur Gilbert I Monsieur Gilbert!” exclaimed the king, much vexed.

“Well, then, what is the matter-”

“Why, Monsieur Gilbert, who was to give me some advice, who was to talk freely to me according to his conscience,-Monsieur Gilbert will now no longer do so.”

“And why not-” exclaimed the queen.

“Because you will be present, Madame.”

Gilbert made a sort of gesture, to which the queen immediately attributed some important meaning.

“In what manner,” said she, to second it, “will Monsieur Gilbert risk displeasing me, if he speaks according to his conscience-”

“It is easily understood, Madame,” said the king. “You have a political system of your own. It is not always ours; so that-”

“So that Monsieur Gilbert, you clearly say, differs essentially from me in my line of politics.”

“That must be the case, Madame,” replied Gilbert, “judging from the ideas which your Majesty knows me to entertain. Only your Majesty may rest assured that I shall tell the truth as freely in your presence as to the king alone.”

“Ah! that is already something,” exclaimed Marie Antoinette.

“The truth is not always agreeable,” hastily murmured Louis XVI.

“But if it is useful-” observed Gilbert.

“Or even uttered with good intention,” added the queen.

“In that view of the case, I agree with you,” interposed Louis XVI. “But if you were wise, Madame, you would leave the doctor entire freedom of speech, and which I need-”

“Sire,” replied' Gilbert, “since the queen herself calls for the truth, and as I know her Majesty's mind is sufficiently noble and powerful not to fear it, I prefer to speak in presence of both my sovereigns.”

“Sire,” said the queen, “I request it.”

“I have full faith in your Majesty's good sense,” said Gilbert, bowing to the queen. “The subject is the happiness and glory of his Majesty the king.”

“You are right to put faith in me,” said the queen. “Begin, sir.”

“All this is very well,” continued the king, who was growing obstinate, according to his custom; “but, in short, the question is a delicate one; and I know well that, as to myself, you will greatly embarrass me by being present.”

The queen could not withhold a gesture of impatience. She rose, then seated herself again, and darted a penetrating and cold look at the doctor, as if to divine his thoughts.

Louis XVI., seeing that there was no longer any means of escaping the ordinary and extraordinary inquisitorial question, seated himself in his arm-chair, opposite Gilbert, and heaved a deep sigh.

“What is the point in question-” asked the queen, as soon as this singular species of council had been thus constituted and installed.

Gilbert looked at the king once more, as if to ask him for his authority to speak openly.

“Speak! Good Heavens, go on, sir, since the queen desires it.”

“Well, then, Madame,” said the doctor, “I will inform your Majesty in a few words of the object of my early visit to Versailles. I came to advise his Majesty to proceed to Paris.”

Had a spark fallen among the eight thousand pounds of gunpowder at the H #244;tel de Ville, it could not have produced the explosion which those words caused in the queen's heart.

“The king proceed to Paris! The king!-ah!” and she uttered a cry of horror that made Louis XVI. tremble.

“There!” exclaimed the king, looking at Gilbert; “what did I tell you, Doctor-”

“The king!” continued the queen; “the king in the midst of a revolted city!-the king amidst pitchforks and scythes!-the king among the men who massacred the Swiss, and who assassinated Monsieur de Launay and Monsieur de Flesselles!-the king crossing the square of the H #244;tel de Ville, and treading in the blood of his defenders! You must be deprived of your senses, sir, to speak thus. Oh, I repeat it; you are mad!”

Gilbert lowered his eyes like a man who is restrained by feelings of respect; but he did not answer a single word.

The king, who felt agitated to the bottom of his soul, turned about in his seat like a man undergoing torture on the gridiron of the Inquisition.

“Is it possible,” continued the queen, “that such an idea should have found a place in an intelligent mind,-in a French heart- What, sir- Do you not, then, know that you are speaking to the successor of St. Louis,-to the great-grandson of Louis XIV.-”

The king was beating the carpet with his feet.

“I do not suppose, however,” continued the queen, “that you desire to deprive the king of the assistance of his guards and his army, or that you are seeking to draw him out of his palace, which is a fortress, to expose him alone and defenceless to the blows of his infuriated enemies; you do not wish to see the king assassinated, I suppose, Mionsieur Gilbert-”

“If I thought that your Majesty for a single moment entertained an idea that I am capable of such treachery, I should not be merely a madman, but should look upon myself as a wretch. But Heaven be thanked, Madame! you do not believe it any more than I do. No; I came to give my king this counsel, because I think the counsel good, and even superior to any other.”

The queen clinched her hand upon her breast with so much violence as to make the cambric crack beneath its pressure.

The king shrugged up his shoulders with a slight movement of impatience.

“But for Heaven's sake!” cried he, “listen to him, Madame; there will be time enough to say, no when you have heard him.”

“The king is right, Madame,” said Gilbert, “for you do not know what I have to tell your Majesties. You think yourself surrounded by an army which is, firm, devoted to your cause, and ready to die for you; it is an error. Of the French regiments, one half are conspiring with the regenerators to carry out their revolutionary ideas.”

“Sir,” exclaimed the queen, “beware! You are insulting the army!”

“On the contrary, Madame,” said Gilbert, “I am its greatest eulogist. We may respect our queen and be devoted to the king, and still love our country and devote ourselves to liberty.”

The queen cast a flaming look, like a flash of lightning, at Gilbert. “Sir,” said she to him, “this language-”

“Yes, this language offends you, Madame. I can readily understand that; for, according to all probability, your Majesty hears it now for the first time.”

“We must, nevertheless, accustom ourselves to it,” muttered Louis XVI., with the submissive good sense that, constituted his chief strength.

“Never!” exclaimed Marie Antoinette, “never!”

“Let us see; listen! listen! I think what the doctor says is full of reason.”

The queen sat down, trembling with rage.

Gilbert continued:-

“I was going to say, Madame, that I have seen Paris, ay, and that you have not even seen Versailles. Do you know what Paris wishes to do at this moment-”

“No,” said the king, anxiously.

“Perhaps it does not wish to take the Bastille a second time,” said the queen, contemptuously.

“Assuredly not, Madame,” continued Gilbert; “but Paris knows that there is another: fortress between the people and their sovereign. Paris proposes to assemble the deputies of' the forty-eight districts of which it is composed, and send them to Versailles.”

“Let them come! let them come!” exclaimed the queen, in a tone of ferocious joy. “Oh, they will be well received here!”

“Wait, Madame,” replied Gilbert, “and beware; these deputies will not come alone.”

“And with whom will they come-”

“They will come supported by twenty thousand National Guards.”

“National Guards!” said the queen,” what are they-”

“Ah! Madame, do not speak lightly of that body; it will some day become a power; it will bind and loosen.”

“Twenty thousand men!” exclaimed the king.

“Well, sir,” replied the queen, in her turn, “you have here ten thousand men that are worth a hundred thousand rebels; call them, call them, I tell you; the twenty thousand wretches will here find their punishment, and the example needed by all this revolutionary slime which I would sweep away, ay, in a week, were I but listened to for an hour.”

Gilbert shook his head sorrowfully.

“Oh, Madame,” said he, “how you deceive yourself, or rather how you have been deceived! Alas! alas! Have you reflected on it-a civil war, provoked by a queen. One only has done this, and she carried with her to the tomb a terrible epithet: she was called the foreigner.'“

“Provoked by me, sir How do you understand that- Was it I who fired upon the Bastille without provocation-”

“Ah! Madame,” cried the king, “instead of advocating violent measures, listen to reason.”

“To weakness!”

“Come, now, Antoinette, listen to the doctor,” said the king, austerely. “The arrival of twenty thousand men is not a trifling matter, particularly if we should have to fire grape-shot upon them.”

Then, turning towards Gilbert:-

“Go on, sir,” said he; “go on.”

“All these hatreds, which become more inveterate from estrangement-all these boastings, which become courage when opportunity is afforded for their realization-all the confusion of a battle, of which the issue is uncertain-oh! spare the king, spare yourself, Madame, the grief of witnessing them,” said the doctor; “you can perhaps by gentleness disperse the crowd which is advancing. The crowd wishes to come to the king,-let us forestall it; let the king go to the crowd; let him, though now surrounded by his army, give proof to-morrow of audacity and political genius. Those twenty thousand men of whom we are speaking might, perhaps, conquer the king and his army. Let the king go alone and conquer these twenty thousand men, Madame; they are the people.”

The king could not refrain from giving a gesture of assent, which Marie Antoinette at once observed.

“Wretched man!” cried she to Gilbert; “but you do not then perceive what the king's presence in Paris would betoken under the conditions you require-”

“Speak, Madame.”

“It would be saying, 'I approve;' it would be saying, 'You did right to kill my Swiss;' it would be saying, 'You have acted rightly in murdering my officers, in setting fire to and making my capital stream with blood; you have done rightly in dethroning me. I thank you, gentlemen, I thank you!”

And a disdainful smile rose to the lips of Marie Antoinette.

“No, Madame, your Majesty is mistaken.”

“Sir!”

“It would be saying, 'There has been some justice in the grief of the people. I am come to pardon. It is I who am the chief of the nation, and the king. It is I who am at the head of the French Revolution, as in former days Henry III. placed himself at the head of the League. Your generals are my officers, your National Guards my soldiers, your magistrates are my men of business. Instead of urging me onward, follow me if you are able to do so. The greatness of my stride will prove to you once more that I am the king of France, the successor of Charlemagne.'“

“He is right,” said the king, in a sorrowful tone.

“Oh!” exclaimed the queen, “for mercy's sake listen not to this man!-this man is your enemy.”

“Madame,” said Gilbert, “his Majesty himself is about to tell you what he thinks of the words I have spoken.”

“I think, sir, that you are the first who up to this moment has dared to speak the truth to me.”

“The truth!” cried the queen. “Gracious Heaven! what is it you are saying.”

“Yes, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, “and impress yourself fully with this fact, that truth is the only torch which can point out and save royalty from the dark abyss into which it is now being hurried.”

And while uttering, these words, Gilbert bowed humbly, as low as even to the knees of Marie Antoinette.

CHAPTER XXXIV. DECISION

FOR the first time the queen appeared deeply moved. Was it from the reasoning, or from the humility, of the doctor-

Moreover, the king had risen from his seat with a determined air; he was thinking of the execution of Gilbert's project.

However, from the habit which he had acquired of doing nothing without consulting the queen:-

“Madame,” said he to her, “do you approve it-”

“It appears it must be so,” replied the queen.

“I do not ask you for any abnegation,” said the king.

“What is it, then, you ask-”

“I ask you for the expression of a conviction which will strengthen mine.”

“You ask of me a conviction-”

“Yes.”

“Oh, if it be only that, I am convinced, sir.”

“Of what-”

“That the moment has arrived which will render monarchy the most deplorable and the most degrading position which exists in the whole world.”

“Oh,” said the king, “you exaggerate; deplorable, I will admit, but degrading, that is impossible.”

“Sir, the kings, your forefathers, have bequeathed to you a very mournful inheritance,” said the queen, sorrowfully.

“Yes,” said Louis XVI., “an inheritance which I have the grief to make you share, Madame.”

“Be pleased to allow me, Sire,” said Gilbert, who truly compassionate the great misfortunes of his fallen sovereigns; “I do not believe that there is any reason for your Majesty to view the future in such terrific colors as you have depicted it. A despotic monarchy has ceased to exist; a constitutional empire commences.”

“Ah, sir,” said the king, “and am I a man capable of founding such an empire in France-”

“And why not, Sire-” cried the queen, somewhat comforted by the last words of Gilbert.

“Madame,” replied the king, “I am a man of good sense and a learned man. I see clearly, instead of endeavoring to see confusedly, into things, and I know precisely all that is not necessary for me to know, to administer the government of this country. From the day on which I shall be precipitated from the height of the inviolability of an absolute prince-from the day on which it shall be allowed to be discovered that I am a mere plain man-I lose all the factitious strength which alone was necessary to govern France, since, to speak truly, Louis XIII., Louis XIV., and Louis XV. sustained themselves completely, thanks to this factitious strength. What do the French now require- A master. I feel that I am only capable of being a father. What do the revolutionists require- A sword. I do not feel that I have strength enough to strike.”

“You do not feel that you have strength to strike!” exclaimed the queen,-“to strike people who are destroying the property of your children, and who would carry off, even from your own brow, one after the other, every gem that adorns the crown of France!”

“What answer can I make to this-” calmly said Louis XVI.; “would you have me reply NO- By doing so I should raise up in your mind one of those storms which are the discomfort of my life. You know how to hate. Oh, so much the better for you! You know how to be unjust, and I do not reproach you with it. It is a great quality in those who have to govern.”

“Do you, perchance, consider me unjust towards the Revolution- Now tell me that.”

“In good faith, yes.”

“You say yes, Sire,-you say yes-”

“If you were the wife of a plain citizen, my dear Antoinette, you would not speak as you do.”

“I am not one.”

“And that is the reason for my excusing you; but that does not mean that I approve your course. No, Madame, no, you must be resigned; we succeeded to the throne of France at a period of storm and tempest. We ought to have strength enough to push on before us that car armed with scythes, and which is called Revolution; but our strength is insufficient.”

“So much the worse,” said Marie Antoinette, “for it is over our children that it will be driven.”

“Alas! that I know; but at all events we shall not urge it forward.”

“We will make it retrograde, Sire!”

“Oh,” cried Gilbert, with a prophetic accent, “beware, Madame; in retrograding, it will crush you.”

“Sir,” said the queen, impatiently, “I observe that you can carry the frankness of your counsels very far.”

“I will be silent, Madame.”

“Oh, good Heaven! let him speak on,” said the king; “what he has now announced to you, if he has not read it in twenty newspapers during the last eight days, it is because he has not chosen to read them. You should, at least, be thankful to him that he does not convey the truths he utters in a bitter spirit.”

Marie Antoinette remained silent for a moment; then, with a deep-drawn sigh:-

“I will sum up,” she said, “or rather, I will repeat my arguments. By going to Paris voluntarily, it will be sanctioning all that has been done there.”

“Yes,” replied the king, “I know that full well.”

“Yes, it would be humiliating,-disowning your army which is preparing to defend you.”

“It is to spare the effusion of French blood,” said the doctor.

“It is to declare that henceforward tumultuous risings and violence may give such a direction to the will of the king as may best suit the views of insurgents and traitors.”

“Madame, I believe,” said Gilbert, “that you had just now the goodness to acknowledge that I had had the good fortune to convince you.”

“Yes, I just now did acknowledge it; one corner of the veil had been raised up before me. But now, sir,-oh, now that I am again becoming blind, as you have termed it, and I prefer looking into my own mind, to see reflected there those splendors to which education, tradition, and history have accustomed me, I prefer considering myself still a queen, than to feel myself a bad mother to this people, who insult and hate me.”

“Antoinette! Antoinette!” cried Louis XVI., terrified at the sudden paleness which pervaded the queen's face, and which was nothing more than the precursor of a terrible storm of anger.

“Oh, no, no, Sire, I will speak,” replied the queen.

“Beware, Madame!” said he.

And with a glance the king directed the attention of Marie Antoinette to the presence of the doctor.

“Oh, this gentleman knows all that I was about to say; he knows even everything I think,” said the queen, with a bitter smile at the recollection of the scene which had just before occurred between her and the doctor; “and therefore why should I restrain myself- This gentleman, moreover, has been taken by us for our confidant, and I know not why I should have any fear of speaking. I know that you are carried, dragged away, like the unhappy prince in my dear old German ballads. Whither are you going- Of that I know nothing; but you are going whence you will never return.”

“Why, no, Madame; I am going simply and plainly to Paris,” replied Louis XVI.

Marie Antoinette raised her shoulders.

“Do you believe me to be insane-” said she, in a voice of deep irritation. “You are going to Paris- 'Tis well. Who tells you that Paris is not an abyss which I see not, but which I can divine- Who can say whether, in the tumultuous crowd by which you will necessarily be surrounded, you will not be killed- Who knows from whence a chance shot may proceed- Who knows, amid a hundred thousand upraised and threatening hands, which it is that has directed the murderous knife-”

“Oh, on that head you need not have the slightest apprehension. They love me!” exclaimed the king.

“Oh, say not that, Sire, or you will make me pity you. They love you, and they kill, they assassinate, they massacre those who represent you on the earth; you, a king,-you, the image of God! Well, the governor of the Bastille was your representative; he was the image of the king. Be well assured of this, and I shall not be accused of exaggeration when I say it. If they have killed De Launay, that brave and faithful servant, they would have killed you, Sire, had you been in his place, and much more easily than they killed him; for they know you, and know that instead of defending yourself, you would have bared your breast to them.”

“Conclude,” said the king.

“But I thought that I had concluded, Sire.”

“They will kill me-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well-”

“And my children!” exclaimed the queen.

Gilbert thought it time that he should interfere.

“Madame,” said he, “the king will be so much respected at Paris, and his presence will cause such transports, that if I have a fear, it is not for the king, but for those fanatics who will throw themselves to be crushed beneath his horse's feet, like the Indian Fakirs beneath the car of their idol.”

“Oh, sir, sir!” cried Marie Antoinette.

“This march to Paris will be a triumph, Madame.”

“But, Sire, you do not reply.”

“It is because I agree somewhat with the doctor, Madame.”

“And you are impatient, are you not, to enjoy this great triumph-”

“And the king, in this case, would be right,” said Gilbert, “for this impatience would be a further proof of the profoundly just discrimination with which his Majesty judges men and things. The more his Majesty shall hasten to accomplish this, the greater will his triumph be.”

“Yes, you believe that, sir-”

“I am positive it will be so. For the king, by delaying it, would lose all the advantage to be derived from its spontaneousness. But reflect, Madame, reflect, that the initiative of this measure may proceed from another quarter, and such a request would change, in the eyes of the Parisians, the position of his Majesty, and would give him, in some measure, the appearance of acceding to an order.”

“There, hear you that-” exclaimed the queen. “The doctor acknowledges it-they would order you. Oh, Sire, think of that.”

“The doctor does not say that they have ordered, Madame.”

“Patience-patience! only delay a little, Sire, and the request, or rather the order, will arrive.”

Gilbert slightly compressed his lips with a feeling of vexation, which the queen instantly caught, although it was almost as evanescent as the lightning.

“What have I said-” murmured she. “Poor simpleton! I have been arguing against myself.”

“And in what, Madame-” inquired the king.

“In this,-that by a delay I should make you lose the advantage of your initiative; and, nevertheless, I have to ask for a delay.”

“Ah, Madame, ask everything, exact anything, excepting that.”

“Antoinette,” said the king, taking her hand, “you have sworn to ruin me.”

“Oh, Sire!” exclaimed the queen, in a tone of reproach, which revealed all the anguish of her heart. “And can you speak thus to me-”

“Why, then, do you attempt to delay this journey-” asked the king.

“Consider truly, Madame, that under such circumstances the fitting moment is everything; reflect on the importance of the hours which are flying past us at such a period, when an enraged and furious people are counting them anxiously as they strike.”

“Not to-day, Monsieur Gilbert; to-morrow, Sire, oh, to-morrow! Grant me till to-morrow, and I swear to you I will no longer oppose this journey.”

“A day lost,” murmured the king.

“Twenty-four long hours,” said Gilbert; “reflect on that, Madame.”

“Sire, it must be so,” rejoined the queen, in a supplicating tone.

“A reason-a reason!” cried the king.

“None, but my despair, Sire; none, but my tears; none, but my entreaties.”

“But between this and to-morrow what may happen- Who can tell this-” said the king, completely overcome by seeing the queen's despair.

“And what is there that could happen-” said the queen, at the same time looking at Gilbert with an air of entreaty.

“Oh,” said Gilbert, “out yonder-nothing yet. A hope, were it even as vague as a cloud, would suffice to make them wait patiently till to-morrow; but-”

“But it is here, is it not-” said the king.

“Yes, Sire, it is here that we have to apprehend.”

“It is the Assembly-”

Gilbert gave an affirmative nod.

“The Assembly,” continued the king, “with such men as Monsieur Monnier, Monsieur Mirabeau, and Monsieur Si #233;y #232;s, is capable of sending me some address which would deprive me of all the advantage of my good intentions.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed the queen, with gloomy fury, “so much the better, because you would then refuse-because then you would maintain your dignity as a king-because then you would not go to Paris, and if we must here sustain a war, well, here will we sustain it-because, if we must die, we will die here, but as illustrious and unshrinking monarchs, which we are, as kings, as masters, as Christians who put their trust in God, from whom we hold the crown.”

On perceiving this feverish excitement of the queen, Louis XVI. saw that there was nothing to be done but to yield to it.

He made a sign to Gilbert, and advancing to Marie Antoinette, whose hand he took:-

“Tranquillize yourself, Madame,” said he to her; “all shall be done as you desire. You know, my dear wife, that I would not do anything which would be displeasing to you, for I have the most unbounded affection for a woman of your merit, and above all, of your virtue.”

And Louis XVI. accentuated these last words with inexpressible nobleness; thus exalting with all his power the so-much calumniated queen, and that in the presence of a witness capable, should it be requisite, of properly reporting all he had heard and seen.

This delicacy profoundly moved Marie Antoinette, who, grasping with both hands the hand which the king held out to her, said:-

“Well, then, only till to-morrow, Sire, no later; that shall be the last delay; but I ask you that as a favor on my knees. To-morrow, at the hour which may please you, I swear to you, you shall set out for Paris.”

“Take care, Madame, the doctor is a witness,” said the king, smiling.

“Sire, you have never known me to forfeit my word,” replied the queen.

“No; but there is only one thing I acknowledge-”

“What is that-”

“It is, that I am anxious, resigned as you appear to be, to know why you have asked me for this delay of twenty-four hours. Do you expect some news from Paris,-some intelligence from Germany- Is there anything-”

“Do not question me, Sire.”

The king was as inquisitive as Figaro was lazy; anything that excited his curiosity delighted him.

“Is there any question as to the arrival of troops,-of a reinforcement,-of any political combination-”

“Sire, Sire!” murmured the queen, in a reproachful tone.

“Is it a question of-”

“There is no question in the matter,” replied the queen.

“Then it is a secret-”

“Well, then, yes! the secret of an anxious woman, that is all.”

“A caprice, is it not-”

“Caprice, if you will.”

“The supreme law.”

“That is true. Why does it not exist in politics as in philosophy- Why are kings not permitted to make their political caprices supreme laws-”

“It will come to that, you may rest assured. As to myself, it is already done,” said the king, in a jocose tone. “Therefore, till to-morrow.”

“Till to-morrow!” sorrowfully rejoined the queen.

“Do you keep the doctor with you-” asked the king.

“Oh, no, no!” cried the queen, with a sort of eagerness which made Gilbert smile.

“I will take him with me, then.”

Gilbert bowed a third time to the Queen Marie Antoinette, who this time returned his salutation more as a woman than a queen.

Then, as the king was going towards the door, he followed the king.

“It appears to me,” said the king, as they proceeded along the gallery, “that you are on good terms with the queen, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“Sire,” replied the doctor, “it is a favor for which I am indebted to your Majesty.”

“Long live the king!” cried the courtiers who already thronged the antechambers.

“Long live the king!” repeated a crowd of officers and foreign soldiers in the courtyard, who were eagerly hastening towards the palace doors.

These acclamations, which became louder as the crowd increased, gave greater delight to the heart of Louis XVI. than any he had before received, although he had so frequently been greeted in the same manner.

As to the queen, still seated where the king had left her, near the window, and where she had just passed such agonizing moments, when she heard the cries of devotedness and love which welcomed the king as he passed by, and which gradually died away in the distance under the porticos, or beneath the thickets of the park:-

“Long live the king!” cried she; “yes, long live the king! The king will live, and that in despite of thee, infamous Paris! Thou odious gulf, thou sanguinary abyss, thou shalt not swallow up this victim! I will drag him from thee, and that with this little, this weak arm. It threatens thee at this moment,-it devotes thee to the execration of the world and to the vengeance of God!”

And pronouncing these words with a violence of hatred which would have terrified the most furious friends of the Revolution, could they have seen and heard her, the queen stretched forth towards Paris her weak arm, which shone from beneath the lace which surrounded it, like a sword starting from its scabbard.

Then she called Madame Campan, the lady-in-waiting in whom she placed the most confidence, and shutting herself up with her in her cabinet, ordered that no one should be admitted to her presence.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE SHIRT OF MAIL

THE following morning the sun rose brilliant and pure as on the preceding day. Its bright rays gilded the marble and the gravel walks of Versailles. The birds, grouped in thousands on the first trees of the park, saluted, with their deafening songs, the new and balmy day of joy thus promised to their love.

The queen had risen at five o'clock. She had given orders that the king should be requested to go to her apartment as soon as he should wake.

Louis XVI., somewhat fatigued from having received a deputation of the Assembly, which had come to the palace the preceding evening, and to which he had been obliged to reply,-this was the commencement of speechmaking,-Louis XVI. had slept somewhat later than usual to recover from his fatigue, and that it might not be said that he was not as vigorous as ever.

Therefore, he was scarcely dressed when the queen's message was delivered to him; he was at that moment putting on his sword. He slightly knit his brow.

“What!” said he, “is the queen already up-”

“Oh, a long time ago, Sire.”

“Is she again ill-”

“No, Sire.”

“And what can the queen want at so early an hour in the morning-”

“Her Majesty did not say.”

The king took his first breakfast, which consisted of a bowl of soup and a little wine, and then went to the queen's apartment.

He found the queen full dressed, as for a ceremonious reception, beautiful, pale, imposing. She welcomed her husband with that cold smile which shone like a winter's sun upon the cheeks of the queen, as when in the grand receptions at court it was necessary she should cast some rays upon the crowd.

The king could not comprehend the sorrow which pervaded that smile and look. He was already preparing himself for one thing; that is to say, the resistance of Marie Antoinette to the project which had been proposed the day before.

“Again some new caprice,” thought he.

And this was the reason for his frowning. The queen did not fail, by the first words she uttered, to strengthen this opinion.

“Sire,” said she, “since yesterday I have been reflecting much-”

“There now! now it is coming!” cried the king.

“Dismiss, if you please, all who are not our intimate friends,” said the queen.

The king, though much annoyed, ordered his officers to leave the room. One only of the queen's women remained; it was Madame Campan.

Then the queen, laying both her beautiful hands on the king's arm, said to him:-

“Why, are you dressed already- That is wrong.”

“How wrong- and why-”

“Did I not send word to you not to dress yourself until you had been here- I see you have already your coat on and your sword. I had hoped you would have come in your dressing-gown.”

The king looked at her, much surprised. This fantasy of the queen awakened in his mind a crowd of strange ideas, the novelty of which only rendered the improbability still stronger. His first gesture was one of mistrust and uneasiness.

“What is it that you wish-” said he. “Do you pretend to retard or prevent that which we had yesterday agreed upon-”

“In no way, Sire.”

“Let me entreat you not to jest on a matter of so serious a nature. I ought and I will go to Paris. I can no longer avoid it. My household troops are prepared. The persons who are to accompany me were summoned last night to be ready.”

“Sire, I have no pretensions of that nature, but-”

“Reflect,” said the king, working himself up by degrees to gain courage,-“reflect that the intelligence of my intended journey must have already reached the Parisians; that they have prepared themselves; that they are expecting me; that the very favorable feelings, as was predicted to us, that this journey has excited in the public mind, may be changed into dangerous hostility. Reflect, in fine-”

“But, Sire, I do not at all contest what you have done me the honor to say to me. I resigned myself to it yesterday; this morning I am still resigned.”

“Then, Madame; why all this preamble-”

“I do not make any.”

“Pardon me, pardon me! then why all these questions regarding my dress, my projects-”

“As to your dress, that I admit,” answered the queen, endeavoring again to smile; but that smile, from so frequently fading away, became more and more funereal.

“What observation have you to make upon my dress-”

“I wish, Sire, that you would take off your coat.”

“Do you not think it becoming- It is a silk coat, of a violet color. The Parisians are accustomed to see me dressed thus; they like to see me in this, with which moreover, the blue ribbon harmonizes well. You have often told me so yourself.”

“I have, Sire, no objection to offer to the color of your coat.”

“Well, then-”

“But to the lining.”

“In truth, you puzzle me with that eternal smile. The lining-what jest-”

“Alas! I no longer jest.”

“There! now you are feeling my waistcoat; does that displease you too- White taffeta and silver, the embroidery worked by your own hand,-it is one of my favorite waistcoats.”

“I have nothing to say against the waistcoat, either.”

“How singular you are! Is it, then, the frill or the embroidered cambric shirt that offends you- Why must I not appear in full dress when I am going to visit my good city of Paris-”

A bitter smile contracted the queen's lips,-the nether lip particularly, that which the “Austrian” was so much reproached for; it became thicker, and advanced as if it were swelled by all the venom of hatred and of anger.

“No,” said she, “I do not reproach you for being so well dressed, Sire; but it is the lining,-the lining, I say again and again.”

“The lining of my embroidered shirt! Ah, will you at least explain yourself-”

“Well, then, I will explain. The king, hated, considered an encumbrance, who is about to throw himself into the midst of seven hundred thousand Parisians, inebriated with their triumph and their revolutionary ideas,-the king is not a prince of the Middle Ages, and yet he ought to make his entry this day into Paris in a good iron cuirass, in a hemlet of good Milan steel; he should protect himself in such a way that no ball, no arrow, no stone, no knife, could reach his person.”

“That is in fact true,” said Louis XVI., pensively. “But, my good friend, as I do not call myself either Charles VIII., or Francis I., or even Henry IV.; as the monarchy of my day is one of velvet and of silk,-I shall go naked under my silken coat, or to speak more correctly, I shall go with a good mark at which they may aim their balls, for I wear the jewel of my orders just over my heart.”

The queen uttered a stifled groan.

“Sire,” said she, “we begin to understand each other. You shall see,-you shall see that your wife jests no longer.”

She made a sign to Madame Campan, who had remained at the farther end of the room, and the latter took from a drawer of the queen's chiffonnier a wide oblong flat parcel, wrapped up in a silken cover.

“Sire,” said the queen, “the heart of the king belongs, in the first place, to France,-that is true; but I fully believe that it belongs to his wife and children. For my part, I will not consent that this heart should be exposed to the balls of the enemy; I have adopted measures to save from every danger my husband, my king, the father of my children.”

While saying this, she unfolded the silk which covered it, and displayed a waistcoat of fine steel mail, crossed with such marvellous art that it might have been thought an Arabian watered stuff, so supple and elastic was its tissue, so admirable the play of its whole surface.

“What is that-” said the king.

“Look at it, Sire.”

“A waistcoat, it appears to me.”

“Why, yes, Sire.”

“A waistcoat that closes up to the neck.”

“With a small collar, intended, as you see, to line the collar of the waistcoat or the cravat.”

The king took the waistcoat in his hands and examined it very minutely.

The queen, on observing this eagerness, was perfectly transported.

The king, on his part, appeared delighted, counting the rings of this fairy net which undulated beneath his fingers with all the flexibility of knitted wool.

“Why,” exclaimed he, “this is admirable steel!”

“Is it not, Sire-”

“It is a perfect miracle of art.”

“Is it not-”

“I really cannot imagine where you can have procured this.”

I bought it last night, Sire, of a man who long since wished me to purchase it of him, in the event of your going out on a campaign.”

“It is admirable! admirable!” repeated the king, examining it as an artist.

“And it will fit you as well as a waistcoat made by your tailor, Sire.”

“Oh, do you believe that-”

“Try it on.”

The king said not a word, but took off his violet-colored coat. The queen trembled with joy; she assisted Louis XVI. in taking off his orders, and Madame Campan the rest. The king, however, unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table.

If any one at that moment had contemplated the face of the queen, they would have seen it lit up by one of those triumphant smiles which supreme felicity alone bestows.

The king allowed her to divest him of his cravat, and the delicate fingers of the queen placed the steel collar round his neck. Then Marie Antoinette herself fastened the hooks of his corselet, which adapted itself beautifully to the shape of the body, being lined throughout with a fine doe-skin, for the purpose of presenting any uncomfortable pressure from the steel.

This waistcoat was longer than an ordinary cuirass; it covered the whole body. With the waistcoat and shirt over it, it did not increase the volume of the body even half a line. It did not in the slightest degree inconvenience any movement of the wearer.

“Is it very heavy-” asked the queen.

“No.”

“Only see, my king, it is a perfect wonder, is it not-” said the queen, clapping her hands, and turning to Madame Campan, who was just buttoning the king's ruffles.

Madame Campan manifested her joy in as artless a manner as did the queen.

“I have saved my king!” cried Marie Antoinette. “Test this invisible cuirass; prove it; place it upon a table; try if you can make any impression upon it with a knife; try if you can make a hole through it with a ball; try it! try it!”

“Oh!” exclaimed the king, with a doubting air.

“Only try it!” repeated she, with enthusiasm.

“I would willingly do so from curiosity,” replied the king.

“You need not do so; it would be superfluous, Sire.”

“How! it would be superfluous that I should prove to you the excellence of this marvel of yours-”

“Ah! thus it is with all the men. Do you believe that I would have given faith to the judgment of another,-of an indifferent person, when the life of my husband, the welfare of France, was in question-”

“And yet, Antoinette, it seems to me that this is precisely what you have done,-you have put faith in another.”

The queen shook her head with a delightfully playful obstinacy.

“Ask her!” said she, pointing to the woman who was present,-“ask our good Campan there what we have done this morning-”

“What was it, then- Good Heaven!” ejaculated the king, completely puzzled.

“This morning-what am I saying-this night, after dismissing all the attendants, we went, like two mad-brained women, and shut ourselves up in her room, which is at the far end of the wing occupied by the pages. Now, the pages were sent off last night to prepare the apartments at Rambouillet; and we felt well assured that no one could interrupt us before we had executed our project.”

“Good Heaven! you really alarm me! What were the designs, then, of these two Judiths-”

“Judith effected less, and certainly with less noise. But for that, the comparison would be marvellously appropriate. Campan carried the bag which contained this breast-plate; as for me, I carried a long hunting-knife which belonged to my father,-that infallible blade which killed so many wild boars.”

“Judith! still Judith!” cried the king, laughing.

“Oh, Judith had not the heavy pistol which I took from your armory, and which I made Weber load for me.”

“A pistol-”

“Undoubtedly. You ought to have seen us running in the dark, startled, agitated at the slightest noise, avoiding everybody for fear of their being indiscreet, creeping like two little mice along the deserted corridors. Campan locked three doors and placed a mattress against the last, to prevent our being overheard; we put the cuirass on one of the figures which they use to stretch my gowns on, and placed it against a wall. And I-with a firm hand, too, I can assure you-struck the breastplate with the knife; the blade bent, flew out of my hand, and bounding back, stuck into the floor, to our great terror.”

“The deuce!” exclaimed the king.

“Wait a little.”

“Did it not make a hole-” asked Louis XVI.

“Wait a little, I tell you. Campan pulled the knife out of the board. 'You are not strong enough, Madame,' she said, 'and perhaps your hand trembles. I am stronger, as you shall see.' She therefore raised the knife, and gave the figure so violent a blow, so well applied, that my poor German knife snapped off short against the steel mail.”

“See, here are the two pieces, Sire. I will have a dagger made for you out of one of them.”

“Oh, this is absolutely fabulous!” cried the king; “and the mail was not injured-”

“A slight scratch on the exterior ring, and there are three, one over the other.”

“I should like to see it.”

“You shall see it.”

And the queen began to undress the king again with wonderful celerity, in order that he might the sooner admire her idea and her high feats in arms.

“Here is a place that is somewhat damaged, it would appear to me,” said the king, pointing to a slight depression over a space of about an inch in circumference.

“That was done by the pistol-ball, Sire.”

“How! you fired off a pistol loaded with ball- you-”

“Here is the ball completely flattened, and still black. Here, take it; and now do you believe that your life is in safety-”

“You are my tutelary angel,” said the king, who began slowly to unhook the mailed waistcoat, in order to examine more minutely the traces left by the knife and the pistol-shot.

“Judge of my terror, dear king,” said Marie Antoinette, “when on the point of firing the pistol at the breast-plate. Alas! the fear of the report-that horrible noise which you know has so frightful an effect upon me-was nothing; but it appeared to me that in firing at the waistcoat destined to protect you, I was firing at you yourself. I was afraid of wounding you; I feared to see a hole in the mail, and then my efforts, my trouble, my hopes, were forever lost.”

“My dear wife,” said Louis XVI., having completely unhooked the coat of mail and placed it on the table, “what gratitude do I not owe you!”

“Well, now, what is it you are doing-” asked the queen.

And she took the waistcoat and again presented it to the king. But with a smile replete with nobleness and kindness:-

“No,” said he, “I thank you.”

“You refuse it-” said the queen.

“I refuse it.”

“Oh, but reflect a moment, Sire.”

“Sire,” cried Madame Campan, in a supplicating tone.

“But,” said the queen, “'tis your salvation; 'tis your life!”

“That is possible,” said the king.

“You refuse the succor which God himself has sent us.”

“Enough! enough!” said the king.

“Oh, you refuse! you refuse!”

“Yes, I refuse.”

“But they will kill you.”

“My dear Antoinette, when gentlemen in this eighteenth century are going out to battle, they wear a cloth coat, waistcoat, and shirt; this is all they have to defend them against musket-balls. When they go upon the field of honor to fight a duel, they throw off all but their shirt,-that is for the sword. As to myself, I am the first gentleman of my kingdom; I will do neither more nor less than my friends; and there is more than this,-while they wear cloth, I alone have the right to wear silk. Thanks, my good wife; thanks, my good queen; thanks.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the queen, at once despairing and delighted, “why cannot his army hear him speak thus-”

As to the king, he quietly completed his toilette, without even appearing to understand the act of heroism he had just performed.

“Is the monarchy then lost,” murmured the queen, “when we can feel so proudly at such a moment-”

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE DEPARTURE

ON leaving the queen's apartment, the king immediately found himself surrounded by all the officers and all the persons of his household, who had been appointed by him to attend him on his journey to Paris.

The principal personages were Messieurs de Beauvau, de Villeroy, de Nesle, and d'Estaing.

Gilbert was waiting in the middle of the crowd till Louis XVI. should perceive him, were it only to cast a look upon him in passing.

It could be easily perceived that the whole of the throng there present were still in doubt, and that they could not credit that the king would persist in following up the resolution he had come to.

“After breakfast, gentlemen,” said the king, “we will set out.”

Then, perceiving Gilbert:-

“Ah, you are there, Doctor,” he continued, “you know that I take you with me.”

“At your orders, Sire.”

The king went into his cabinet, where he was engaged two hours. He afterwards attended Mass with all his household; then, at about nine o'clock, he sat down to breakfast.

The repast was taken with the usual ceremonies, excepting that the queen, who, after attending Mass, was observed to be out of spirits, her eyes red and swollen, had insisted on being present at the king's repast, but without partaking of it in the slightest manner, that she might be with him to the last moment.

The queen had brought her two children with her, who, already much agitated, doubtless by what the queen had said to them, were looking anxiously from time to time at their father's face, and then at the crowd of officers of the guards, who were present.

The children, moreover, from time to time, by order of their mother, wiped away a tear, which every now and then would rise to their eyelids; and the sight of this excited the pity of some and the anger of others, and filled the whole assembly with profound grief.

The king ate on stoically. He spoke several times to Gilbert, without taking his eyes off his plate; he spoke frequently to the queen, and always with deep affection.

At last he gave instructions to the commanders of his troops.

He was just finishing his breakfast, when an officer came in to announce to him that a compact body of men on foot, coming from Paris, had just appeared at the end of the grand avenue leading to the Place d'Armes.

On hearing this, the officers and guards at once rushed out of the room. The king raised his head and looked at Gilbert; but seeing that Gilbert smiled, he tranquilly continued eating.

The queen turned pale, and leaned towards Monsieur de Beauvau, to request him to obtain information.

Monsieur de Beauvau ran out precipitately.

The queen then drew near to the window.

Five minutes afterwards Monsieur de Beauvau returned.

“Sire,” said he, on entering the room, “they are National Guards, from Paris, who, hearing the rumor spread yesterday in the capital, of your Majesty's intention to visit the Parisians, assembled to the number of some ten thousand, for the purpose of coming out to meet you on the road; and not meeting you so soon as they expected, they have pushed on to Versailles.”

“What appear to be their intentions-” asked the king.

“The best in the world,” replied Monsieur de Beauvau.

“That matters not,” said the queen; “have the gates closed.”

“Take good care not to do that,” said the king; “it is quite enough that the palace-doors remain closed.”

The queen frowned, and darted a look at Gilbert.

The latter was awaiting this look from the queen, for one half his prediction was already fulfilled. He had promised the arrival of twenty thousand men, and ten thousand had already come.

The king turned to Monsieur de Beauvau.

“See that refreshments be given to these worthy people,” said he.

Monsieur de Beauvau went down a second time. He transmitted to the cellar-men the order he had received from the king.

After doing this, he went upstairs again.

“Well-” said the king, in a tone of inquiry.

“Well, Sire, your Parisians are in high discussion with the gentlemen of the Guards.”

“How!” cried the king, “there is a discussion-”

“Oh! one of pure courteousness. As they have been informed that the king is to set out in two hours, they wish to await his departure, and march behind his Majesty's carriage.”

“But,” inquired the queen, in her turn, “they are on foot, I suppose-”

“Yes, Madame.”

“But the king has horses to his carriage, and the king travels fast, very fast; you know, Monsieur de Beauvau, that the king is accustomed to travelling very rapidly.”

These words, pronounced in the tone the queen pronounced them, implied:-

“Put wings to his Majesty's carriage.”

The king made a sign with his hand to stop the colloquy.

“I will go at a walk.”

The queen heaved a sigh which almost resembled a cry of anger.

“It would not be right,” tranquilly added Louis XVI., “that I should make these worthy people run, who have taken the trouble to come so far to do me honor. My carriage shall be driven at a walk, and a slow walk too, so that everybody may be able to follow me.”

The whole of the company testified their admiration by a murmur of approbation; but at the same time there was seen on the countenances of several persons the reflection of the disapproval which was expressed by the features of the queen, at so much goodness of soul, which she considered as mere weakness.

A window was opened.

The queen turned round, amazed. It was Gilbert, who, in his quality of physician, had only exercised the right which appertained to him of renewing the air of the dining-room, thickened by the odors of the viands and the breathing of two hundred persons.

The doctor stood behind the curtains of the open window, through which ascended the voices of the crowd assembled in the courtyard.

“What is that-” asked the king.

“Sire,” replied Gilbert, “the National Guards are down there on the pavement, exposed to the heat of the sun, and they must feel it very oppressive.”

“Why not invite them upstairs to breakfast with the king-” sarcastically said one of her favorite officers to the queen.

“They should be taken to some shady place; put them into the marble courtyard, into the vestibules, wherever it is cool,” said the king.

“Ten thousand men in the vestibules!” exclaimed the queen.

“If they are scattered everywhere, there will be room enough for them,” said the king.

“Scattered everywhere!” cried Marie Antoinette, why, sir, you will teach them the way to your own bedchamber.”

This was the prophecy of terror which was to be realized at Versailles before three months had elapsed.

“They have a great many children with them, Madame,” said Gilbert, in a gentle tone.

“Children!” exclaimed the queen.

“Yes, Madame; a great many have brought their children with them, as if on a party of pleasure. The children are dressed as little National Guards, so great is the enthusiasm for this new institution.”

The queen opened her lips as if about to speak; but almost instantly she held down her head.

She had felt a desire to utter a kind word; but pride and hatred had stopped it ere it escaped her lips.

Gilbert looked at her attentively.

“Ah!” cried the king, “those poor children! When people bring children with them, it is plain that they have no intention to do harm to the father of a family,-another reason for putting them in a cooler place, poor little things! Let them in; let them in.”

Gilbert then, gently shaking his head, appeared to say to the queen, who had remained silent:-

“There, Madame; that is what you ought to have said; I gave you the opportunity. Your kind words would have been repeated, and you would have gained two years of popularity.”

The queen comprehended Gilbert's mute language, and a blush suffused her face.

She felt the error she had committed, and immediately excused herself by a feeling of pride and resistance, which she expressed by a glance, as a reply to Gilbert. During this time Monsieur de Beauvau was following the king's orders relating to the National Guards.

Then were heard shouts of joy and benediction from that armed crowd, admitted by the king's order to the interior of the palace.

The acclamations, the fervent wishes, the loud hurrahs, ascended as a whirlwind to the hall in which the king and queen were seated, whom they reassured with regard to the disposition of the so-much-dreaded inhabitants of Paris.

“Sire,” said Monsieur de Beauvau, “in what order is it that your Majesty determines the procession shall be conducted-”

“And the discussion between the National Guards and my officers-”

“Oh, Sire, it has evaporated, vanished; those worthy people are so happy that they now say, 'We will go wherever you may please to place us. The king is our king as much as he is everybody else's king. Wherever he may be, he is ours.”

The King looked at Marie Antoinette, who curled, with an ironical smile, her disdainful lip.

“Tell the National Guards,” said Louis XVI., “that they may place themselves where they will.”

“Your Majesty,” said the queen, “will not forget that your body-guards have the right of surrounding your carriage.”

The officers, who perceived that the king was somewhat undecided, advanced to support the arguments of the queen.

“That is the case, undoubtedly,” replied the king. “Well, we shall see.”

Monsieur de Beauvau and Monsieur de Villeroy left the room to take their stations and to give the necessary orders.,

The clock of Versailles struck ten. “Well, well,” said the king, “I shall put off my usual labors till to-morrow; these worthy people ought not to be kept waiting.”

The king rose from table.

Marie Antoinette went to the king, clasped him in her arms, and embraced him. The children clung weeping to their father's neck. Louis XVI., who was much moved, endeavored gently to release himself from them; he wished to conceal the emotions which would soon have become overpowering.

The queen stopped all the officers as they passed her, seizing one by his arm, another by his sword.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” said she. And this eloquent exclamation recommended to them to be watchful for the safety of the king, who had just descended the staircase.

All of them placed their hands upon their hearts and upon their swords.

The queen smiled to thank them.

Gilbert remained in the room till almost the last.

“Sir,” said the queen to him, “it was you who advised the king to take this step. It was you who induced the king to come to this resolution, in spite of my entreaties. Reflect, sir, that you have assumed a fearful responsibility as regards the wife, as regards the children.”

“I am sensible of that,” coldly replied Gilbert.

“And you will bring the king back to me safe and unhurt-” she said with a solemn gesture.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Reflect that you will answer for his safety with your head.”

Gilbert bowed.

“Reflect that your head is answerable,” cried Marie Antoinette, with the menacing and pitiless authority of an absolute monarch.

“Upon my head be the risk,” said the doctor, again bowing. “Yes, Madame; and this pledge I should consider as a hostage of but little value, if I believed the king's safety to be at all threatened. But I have said, Madame, that it is to a triumph that I this day conduct his Majesty.”

“I must have news of him every hour,” added the queen.

“You shall, Madame; and this I swear to you.”

“Go, sir; go at once. I hear the drums; the king is about to leave the palace.”

Gilbert bowed, and descending the grand staircase, found himself face to face with one of the king's aides-de-camp, who was seeking him by order of his Majesty.

They made him get into a carriage which belonged to Monsieur de Beauvau; the grand master of the ceremonies not allowing, as he had not produced proofs of his nobility, that he should travel in one of the king's carriages.

Gilbert smiled on finding himself alone in a carriage with arms upon its panels, Monsieur de Beauvau being on horseback, curvetting by the side of the royal carriage.

Then it struck him that it was ridiculous in him thus to be occupying a carriage on which was painted a princely coronet and armorial bearings.

This scruple was still annoying him when, from the midst of a crowd of National Guards, who were following the carriage, he heard the following conversation, though carried on in a half-whisper by men who were curiously stretching out their necks to look at him.

“Oh! that one,-that is the Prince de Beauvau.”

“Why,” cried a comrade, “you are mistaken.”

“I tell you it must be so, since the carriage has the prince's arms upon it.”

“The arms! the arms! I say that means nothing.”

“Zounds!” said another, “what do the arms prove-”

“They prove that if the arms of Monsieur de Beauvau are upon the coach, it must be Monsieur de Beauvau who is inside of it.”

“Monsieur de Beauveau,-is he a patriot-” asked a woman.

“Pooh!” exclaimed the National Guard. Gilbert again smiled.

“But I tell you,” said the first contradictor, “that it is not the prince. The prince is stout; that one is thin. The prince wears the uniform of a commandant of the guards; that one wears a black coat,-it is his intendant.”

A murmur, which was by no means favorable to Gilbert, arose among the crowd, who had degraded him by giving him this title, which was not at all flattering.

“Why, no, by the devil's horns!” cried a loud voice, the sound of which made Gilbert start. It was the voice of a man who with his elbows and his fists was clearing his way to get near the carriage. “No,” said he, “it is neither Monsieur de Beauvau nor his intendant. It is that brave and famous patriot, and even the most famous of all the patriots. Why, Monsieur Gilbert, what the devil are you doing in the carriage of a prince-”

“Ha! it is you, Father Billot!” exclaimed the doctor.

“By Heaven,” replied the farmer, “I took good care not to lose the opportunity!”

“And Pitou-” asked Gilbert.

“Oh, he is not far off. Hilloa, Pitou! where are you- Come this way; come quickly!”

And Pitou, on hearing this invitation, managed by a dexterous use of his shoulders to slip through the crowd till he reached Billot's side, and then with admiration bowed to Gilbert.

“Good-day, Monsieur Gilbert,” said he.

“Good-day, Pitou; good-day, my friend.”

“Gilbert! Gilbert who is he-” inquired the crowd of one another.

“Such is fame,” thought the doctor,-“well known at Villers-Cotterets; yes; but at Paris popularity is everything.”

He alighted from the carriage, which continued its onward progress at a walk, while Gilbert moved on with the crowd, on foot, leaning on Billot's arm.

He in a few words related to the farmer his visit to Versailles, the good disposition of the king and the royal family; he in a few minutes preached such a propaganda of royalism to the group by which he was surrounded that, simple and delighted, these worthy people, who were yet easily induced to receive good impressions, uttered loud and continued shouts of “Long live the king!” which, taken up by those who preceded them, soon reached the head of the line, and deafened Louis XVI. in his carriage.

“I will see the king!” cried Billot, electrified. “I must get close to him, and see him well; I came all this way on purpose. I will judge him by his face; the eye of an honest man can always speak for itself. Let us get nearer to his carriage, Monsieur Gilbert, shall we not-”

“Wait a little, and it will be easy for us to do so,” replied Gilbert; “for I see one of Monsieur de Beauvau's aides-de-camp, who is seeking for some one, coming this way.”

And, in fact, a cavalier, who, managing his horse with every sort of precaution, amid the groups of fatigued but joyous pedestrians, was endeavoring to get near the carriage which Gilbert had just left.

Gilbert called to him.

“Are you not looking, sir, for Doctor Gilbert” he inquired.

“Himself,” replied the aide-de-camp.

“In that case, I am he.”

“Monsieur de Beauvau sends for you, at the king's request.”

These high-sounding words made Billot's eyes open widely; and on the crowd they had the effect of making them open their ranks to allow Gilbert to pass. Gilbert glided through them, followed by Billot and Pitou, the aide-de-camp going before them, who kept on repeating:

“Make room, gentlemen, make room; let us pass, in the king's name, let us pass!”

Gilbert soon reached the door of the royal carriage, which was moving onward as if drawn by Merovingian oxen.

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE JOURNEY

THUS pushing and thus pushed, but still following Monsieur de Beauvau's aide-de-camp, Gilbert, Billot, and Pitou at length reached the carriage in which the king, accompanied by Messieurs d'Estaing and de Villequier, was slowly advancing amid the crowd, which continually increased.

Extraordinary, unknown, unheard-of spectacle! for it was the first time that such a one had been seen. All those National Guards from the surrounding villages-impromptu soldiers suddenly sprung up-hastened with cries of joy to greet the king in his progress, saluting him with their benedictions, endeavoring to gain a look from him, and then, instead of returning to their homes, taking place in the procession, and accompanying their monarch towards Paris.

And why- No one could have given a reason for it. Were they obeying an instinct- They had seen, but they wished again to see, this well-beloved king.

For it must he acknowledged that at this period Louis XVI. was an adored king, to whom the French would have raised altars, had it not been for the profound contempt with which Voltaire had inspired them for all altars.

Louis XVI. therefore had no altars raised to him, but solely because the thinkers of that day had too high an esteem for him to inflict upon him such a humiliation.

Louis XVI.perceived Gilbert leaning upon the arm of Billot; behind them marched Pitou, still dragging after him his long sabre.

“Ah, Doctor,” cried the king, “what magnificent weather, and what a magnificent people!”

“You see, Sire,” replied Gilbert. Then, turning towards the king: “What did I promise your Majesty-”

“Yes, sir, yes; and you have worthily fulfilled your promise.”

The king raised his head, and with the intention of being heard:-

“We move but slowly,” said he; “and yet it appears to me that we advance but too rapidly for all that we have to see.”

“Sire,” said Monsieur de Beauvau, “and yet, at the pace your Majesty is going, you are travelling about one league in three hours. It would be difficult to go more slowly.”

In fact, the horses were stopped every moment; harangues and replies were interchanged; the National Guards fraternized-the word was only then invented-with the body-guards of his Majesty.

“Ah!” said Gilbert to himself, who contemplated this singular spectacle as a philosopher, “if they fraternize with the body-guards, it was because before being friends they had been enemies.”

“I say, Monsieur Gilbert,” said Billot, in a half-whisper, “I have had a good look at the king; I have listened to him with all my ears. Well, my opinion is that the king is an honest man!”

And the enthusiasm which animated Billot was so overpowering that he raised his voice in uttering these last words to such a pitch that the king and his staff heard him.

The officers laughed outright. The king smiled, and then, nodding his head:-

“That is praise which pleases me,” said he.

These words were spoken loud enough for Billot to hear them.

“Oh, you are right, Sire, for I do not give it to everybody,” replied Billot, entering at once into conversation with his king, as Michaud, the miller, did with Henry IV.

“And that flatters me so much the more,” rejoined the king, much embarrassed at not knowing how to maintain his dignity as a king, and speak graciously as a good patriot.

Alas! the poor prince was not yet accustomed to call himself King of the French.

He thought that he was still called the King of France.

Billot, beside himself with joy, did not give himself the trouble to reflect whether Louis, in a philosophical point of view, had abdicated the title of king to adopt the title of a man. Billot, who felt how much this language resembled rustic plainness,-Billot applauded himself for having comprehended the king, and for having been comprehended by him.

Therefore from that moment Billot became more and more enthusiastic. He drank from the king's looks, according to the Virgilian expression, deep draughts of love for constitutional royalty, and communicated it to Pitou, who, too full of his own love and the superfluity of Billot's, overflowed at first in stentorian shouts, then in more squeaking, and finally in less articulate ones of:-

“Long live the king! Long live the father of the people!”

This modification in the voice of Pitou was produced by degrees in proportion as he became more and more hoarse.

Pitou was as hoarse as a bull-frog when the procession reached the Point du Jour, where the Marquis de Lafayette, on his celebrated white charger, was keeping in order the undisciplined and agitated cohorts of the National Guard, who had from five o'clock that morning lined the road to receive the royal procession.

At this time it was nearly two o'clock.

The interview between the king and this new chief of armed France passed off in a manner that was satisfactory to all present.

The king, however, began to feel fatigued. He no longer spoke; he contented himself with merely smiling.

The general-in-chief of the Parisian militia could no longer utter a command; he only gesticulated.

The king had the satisfaction to find that the crowd as frequently cried: “Long live the king!” as “Long live Lafayette!” Unfortunately, this was the last time he was destined to enjoy this gratification of his self-love.

During this, Gilbert remained constantly at the door of the king's carriage, Billot near Gilbert, Pitou near Billot.

Gilbert, faithful to his promise, had found means, since his departure from Versailles, to despatch four couriers to the queen.

These couriers had each been the bearer of good news, for at every step of his journey the king had seen caps thrown up in the air as he passed, only on each of these caps shone the colors of the nation, a species of reproach addressed to the white cockade which the king's guards and the king himself wore in their hats.

In the midst of his joy and enthusiasm, this discrepancy in the cockades was the only thing which annoyed Billot.

Billot had on his cocked hat an enormous tricolored cockade.

The king had a white cockade in his hat; the tastes of the subject and the king were not therefore absolutely similar.

This idea so much perplexed him that he could not refrain from unburdening his mind upon the subject to Gilbert, at a moment when the latter was not conversing with the king.

“Monsieur Gilbert,” said he to him, “how is it that his Majesty does not wear the national cockade-”

“Because, my dear Billot, either the king does not know that there is a new cockade, or he considers that the cockade he wears ought to be the cockade of the nation.”

“Oh, no! oh, no! since his cockade is a white one, and our cockade-ours-is a tricolored one.”

“One moment,” said Gilbert, stopping Billot just as he was about to launch with heart and soul into the arguments advanced by the newspapers of the day; “the king's cockade is white, as the flag of France is white. The king is in no way to blame for this. Cockade and flag were white long before he came into the world. Moreover, my dear Billot, that flag has performed great feats, and so has the white cockade. There was a white cockade in the hat of Admiral de Suffren, when he reestablished our flag in the East Indies. There was a white cockade in the hat of Assas, and it was by that the Germans recognized him in the night, when he allowed himself to be killed rather than that they should take his soldiers by surprise. There was a white cockade in the hat of Marshal Saxe, when he defeated the English at Fontenoy. There was, in fine, a white cockade in the hat of the Prince de Cond #233;, when he beat the Imperialists at Rocroi, at Fribourg, and at Lens. The white cockade has done all this, and a great many other things, my dear Billot; while the national cockade, which will perhaps make a tour round the world, as Lafayette has predicted, has not yet had time to accomplish anything, seeing that it has existed only for the last three days. I do not say that it will rest idle, do you understand; but, in short, having as yet done nothing, it gives the king full right to wait till it has done something.”

“How- the national cockade has as yet done nothing-” cried Billot. “Has it not taken the Bastille-”

“It has,” said Gilbert, sorrowfully; “you are right, Billot.”

“And that is why,” triumphantly rejoined the farmer,-“that is why the king ought to adopt it.”

Gilbert gave a furious nudge with his elbow into Billot's ribs, for he had perceived the king was listening, and then, in a low tone:-

“Are you mad, Billot-” said he; “and against whom was the Bastille taken, then- Against royalty, it seems to me. And now you would make the king wear the trophies of your triumph and the insignia of his own defeat. Madman! the king is all heart, all goodness, all candor, and you would wish him to show himself a hypocrite!”

“But,” said Billot, more humbly, without, however, giving up the argument altogether, “it was not precisely against the king that the Bastille was taken; it was against despotism.”

Gilbert shrugged up his shoulders, but with the delicacy of the superior man, who will not place his foot on his inferior, for fear that he should crush him.

“No,” said Billot, again becoming animated, “it is not against our good king that we have fought, but against his satellites.”

Now, in those days they said, speaking politically, satellites instead of saying soldiers, as they said in the theatres, courser instead of horse.

“Moreover,” continued Billot, and with some appearance of reason, “he disapproves them, since he comes thus in the midst of us; and if he disapproves them, he must approve us. It is for our happiness and his honor that we have worked,-we, the conquerors of the Bastille.”

“Alas! alas!” murmured Gilbert, who did not know how to reconcile the appearance of the king's features with that which he knew must be passing in his heart.

As to the king, he began, amid the confused murmurs of the march, to understand some few words of the conversation entered into by his side.

Gilbert, who perceived the attention which the king was paying to the discussion, made every effort to lead Billot on to less slippery ground than that on which he had ventured.

Suddenly the procession stopped; it had arrived at the Cours la Reine, at the gate formerly called La Conf #233;rence, in the Champs #201;lys #233;es.

There a deputation of electors and aldermen, presided over by the new mayor, Bailly, had drawn themselves up in fine array, with a guard of three hundred men, commanded by a colonel, besides at least three hundred members of the National Assembly, taken, as it will be readily imagined, from the ranks of the Tiers #201;tat.

Two of the electors united their strength and their address to hold in equilibrium a vast salver of gilt plate, upon which were lying two enormous keys,-the keys of the city of Paris during the days of Henry IV.

This imposing spectacle at once put a stop to all individual conversations; and every one, whether in the crowd or in the ranks, immediately directed their attention to the speeches about to be pronounced on the occasion.

Bailly, the worthy man of science, the admirable astronomer, who had been made a deputy in defiance to his own will, a mayor in spite of his objections, an orator notwithstanding his unwillingness, had prepared a long speech. This speech had for its exordium, according to the strictest laws of rhetoric, a laudatory encomium on the king, from the coming into power of Monsieur Turgot down to the taking of the Bastille. Little was wanting, such privilege has eloquence, to attribute to the king the initiative in the measures which the people had been compelled unwillingly to adopt.

Bailly was delighted with the speech he had prepared, when an incident (it is Bailly himself who relates this incident in his Memoirs) furnished him with a new exordium, very much more picturesque than the one he had prepared,-the only one, moreover, which remained engraved on the minds of the people, always ready to seize upon good and, above all, fine-sounding phrases, when founded upon a material fact.

While walking towards the place of meeting, with the aldermen and the electors, Bailly was alarmed at the weight of the keys which he was about to present to the king.

“Do you believe,” said he, laughingly, “that after having shown these to the king, I will undergo the fatigue of carrying them back to Paris-”

“What will you do with them, then-” asked one of the electors.

“What will I do with them-” said Bailly. Why, I will give them to you, or I will throw them into some ditch at the foot of a tree.”

“Take good care not to do that!” cried the elector, completely horrified. “Do you not know that these keys re the same which the city of Paris offered to Henry IV. after the siege- They are very precious; they are inestimable antiquities.”

“You are right,” rejoined Bailly; “the keys offered to Henry IV., the conqueror of Paris, and which are now to be offered to Louis XVI., heh- Why, I declare, now,” said the worthy mayor to himself, “this would be a capital antithesis in my speech.”

And instantly he took a pencil and wrote above the speech he had prepared the following exordium:-

“Sire, I present to your Majesty the keys of the good city of Paris. They are the same which were offered to Henry IV. He had re-conquered his people; to-day the people have re-conquered their king.”

The phrase was well turned, and it was also true. It implanted itself in the memories of the Parisians; and all the speeches, all the works of Bailly, this only survived.

As to Louis XVI., he approved it by an affirmative d, but coloring deeply at the same time; for he felt epigrammatic irony which it conveyed, although concealed beneath a semblance of respect and oratorical flourishes.

“Oh! Marie Antoinette,” murmured Louis XVI. to self, “would not allow herself to be deceived by this tended veneration of Monsieur Bailly, and would reply a very different manner from that which I am about to do to the untoward astronomer.”

And these reflections were the cause why Louis XVI., who had paid too much attention to the commencement of the speech, did not listen at all to the conclusion of it, nor to that of the president of the electors, Monsieur Delavigne, of which he heard neither the beginning nor the end.

However, the addresses being concluded, the king, fearing not to appear sufficiently delighted with their efforts to say that which was agreeable to him, replied in a very noble tone, and without making any allusion to what the orators had said, that the homage of the city of Paris and of the electors was exceedingly gratifying to him.

After which he gave orders for the procession to move on towards the H #244;tel de Ville.

But before it recommended its march, he dismissed his body-guard, wishing to respond by a gracious confidence to the half-politeness which had been evinced to him by the municipality through their organs, the president of the electors and Monsieur Bailly.

Being thus alone, amid the enormous mass of National Guards and spectators, the carriage advanced more rapidly.

Gilbert and his companion Billot still retained their posts on the right of the carriage.

At the moment when they were crossing the Place Louis XV., the report of a gun was heard, fired from the opposite side of the Seine; and a white smoke arose, like a veil of incense, towards the blue sky, where it as suddenly vanished.

As if the report of this musket-shot had found an echo within his breast, Gilbert had felt himself struck, as by a violent blow. For a second his breath failed him, and he hastily pressed his hand to his heart, where he felt a sudden and severe pain.

At the same instant a cry of distress was heard around the royal carriage; a woman had fallen to the ground, shot through the right shoulder.

One of the buttons of Gilbert's coat, a large steel button, cut diamond-fashion, as they were worn at the period, had just been struck diagonally by that same ball.

It had performed the office of a breastplate, and the ball had glanced off from it; this had caused the painful shock which Gilbert had experienced.

Part of his waistcoat and his frill had been torn off by the ball.

This ball, on glancing from the button, had killed the unfortunate woman, who was instantly removed from the spot, bleeding profusely.

The king had heard the shot, but had seen nothing.

He leaned towards Gilbert, and smiling, said:-

“They are burning gunpowder yonder, to do me honor.”

“Yes, Sire,” replied Gilbert.

But he was careful not to mention to his Majesty the nature of the ovation which they were offering to aim.

In his own mind, however, he acknowledged that the queen had some reason for the apprehensions she had expressed, since, but for him standing immediately before, and closing the carriage-door, as it were, hermetically, that ball, which had glanced off from his steel button, would have gone straight to the king's breast.

And now from what hand had proceeded this so well-aimed shot-

No one then wished to inquire, so that it will never now be known.

Billot, pale from what he had just seen, his eyes incessantly attracted to the rent made in Gilbert's coat, waistcoat, and frill, excited Pitou to shout as loudly as he could, “Long live the Father of the French!“

The event of the day was so great that this episode was quickly forgotten.

At last Louis XVI. arrived in front of the H #244;tel de Ville, after having been saluted on the Pont Neuf by a discharge of cannon, which, at all events, were not loaded with ball.

Upon the facade of the H #244;tel de Ville was an inscription, in large letters, black in the daylight, but which, when it was dark, were to form a brilliant transparency. This inscription was the result of the ingenious lucubrations of the municipal authorities.

The inscription was as follows:-

TO LOUIS XVI., FATHER OF THE FRENCH, AND KING OF A FREE PEOPLE.

Another antithesis, much more important than the one contained in Monsieur Bailly's speech, and which elicited shouts of admiration from all the Parisians assembled in the square.

The inscription attracted the attention of Billot.

But as Billot could not read, he made Pitou read the inscription to him.

Billot made him read it a second time, as if he had not understood it perfectly at first.

Then, when Pitou had repeated the phrase, without varying in a single word:-

“Is it that-” cried he,-“is it that-”

“Undoubtedly,” replied Pitou.

“The municipality has written that the king is a king of a free people-”

“Yes, Father Billot.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed Billot, “since the nation is free, it has the right to offer its cockade to the king.”

And with one bound, rushing before the king, who was then alighting from his carriage at the front steps of the H #244;tel de Ville:-

“Sire,” said he, “you saw on the Pont Neuf that the Henry IV. in bronze wore the national cockade.”

“Well-” cried the king.

“Well, Sire, if Henry IV. wears the national cockade, you can wear it too.”

“Certainly,” said Louis XVI. much embarrassed; “and if I had one-”

“Well,” cried Billot, in a louder tone, and raising his hand, “in the name of the people I offer you this one in the place of yours; accept it.”

Bailly intervened.

The king was pale. He began to see the progressive encroachment. He looked at Bailly as if to ask his opinion.

“Sire,” said the latter, “it is the distinctive sign of every Frenchman.”

“In that case I accept it,” said the king, taking the cockade from Billot's hands.

And putting aside his own white cockade, he placed the tricolored one in his hat.

An immense triumphant hurrah was echoed from the great crowd upon the square.

Gilbert turned away his head, much grieved.

He considered that the people were encroaching too rapidly, and that the king did not resist sufficiently.

“Long live the king!” cried Billot, who thus gave the signal for a second round of applause.

“The king is dead,” murmured Gilbert; “there is no longer a king in France.”

An arch of steel had been formed, by a thousand swords held up, from the place at which the king had alighted from his carriage, to the door of the hall in which the municipal authorities were waiting to receive him.

He passed beneath this arch, and disappeared in the gloomy passages of the H #244;tel de Ville.

“That is not a triumphal arch,” said Gilbert, “but the Caudine Forks.”

Then, with a sigh:-

“Ah! what will the queen say to this-”

CHAPTER XXXVIII. SHOWING WHAT WAS TAKING PLACE AT VERSAILLES WHILE THE KING WAS LISTENING TO THE SPEECHES OF THE MUNICIPALITY

IN the interior of the H #244;tel de Ville the king received the most flattering welcome; he was styled the Restorer of Liberty.

Being invited to speak,-for the thirst for speeches became every day more intense,-and wishing, in short, to ascertain the feelings of all present, the king placed his hand upon his heart, and said:-

“Gentlemen, you may always calculate on my affection.”

While he was thus listening in the H #244;tel de Ville to the communications from the government,-for from that day a real government was constituted in France, besides that of the throne and the National Assembly,-the people outside the building were admiring the beautiful horses, the gilt carriage, the lackeys, and the coachman of his Majesty.

Pitou, since the entry of the king into the H #244;tel de Ville, had, thanks to a louis given by Father Billot, amused himself in making a goodly quantity of cockades of red and blue ribbons, which he had purchased with the louis, and with these, which were of all sizes, he had decorated the horses' ears, the harness, and the whole equipage.

On seeing this, the imitative people had literally metamorphosed the king's carriage into a cockade-shop.

The coachman and the footmen were profusely ornamented with them.

They had, moreover, slipped some dozens of them into the carriage itself.

However, it must be said that Monsieur de Lafayette, who had remained on horseback, had endeavored to restrain these honest propagators of the national colors, but had not been able to succeed.

And therefore, when the king came out:-

“Oh, oh!” cried he, on seeing this strange bedizenment of his equipage.

Then, with his hand he made a sign to Monsieur de Lafayette to approach him.

Monsieur de Lafayette respectfully advanced, lowering his sword as he came near the king.

“Monsieur de Lafayette,” said the king to him, “I was looking for you to say to you that I confirm your appointment to the command of the National Guards.”

And Louis XVI. got into his carriage amid a universal acclamation.

As to Gilbert, tranquillized henceforward as to the personal safety of the king, he had remained in the hall with Bailly and the electors.

The speechifying had not yet terminated.

However, on hearing the loud hurrahs which saluted the departure of the king, he approached a window, to cast a last glance on the square, and to observe the conduct of his two country friends.

They were both, or at least they appeared to be, still on the best terms with the king.

Suddenly Gilbert perceived a horseman advancing rapidly along the Quay Pelletier, covered with dust, and obliging the crowd, which was still docile and respectful, to open its ranks and let him pass.

The people, who were good and complaisant on this great day, smiled while repeating:-

“One of the king's officers!-one of the king's officers!”

And cries of “Long live the king!” saluted the officer as he passed on, and women patted his horse's neck, which was white with foam.

This officer at last managed to reach the king's carriage, and arrived there at the moment when a servant was closing the door of it.

“What! is it you, Charny-” cried Louis XVI.

And then, in a lower tone:-

“How are they all out yonder-” he inquired.

Then, in a whisper:-

“The queen-”

“Very anxious, Sire,” replied the officer, who had thrust his head completely into the carriage-window.

“Do you return to Versailles-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well, then, tell our friends they have no cause for uneasiness. All has gone off marvellously well.”

Charny bowed, raised his head, and perceived Monsieur de Lafayette, who made a friendly sign to him.

Charny went to him, and Lafayette shook hands with him; and the crowd, seeing this, almost carried both officer and horse as far as the quay, where, thanks to the vigilant orders given to the National Guards, a line was formed to facilitate the king's departure.

The king ordered that the carriage should move out at a walking pace, till it reached the Place Louis XV. There he found his body-guards, who were awaiting the return of the king, and not without impatience; so that this impatience, in which every one participated, kept on increasing every moment, and the horses were driven on at a pace which increased in rapidity as they advanced upon the road to Versailles.

Gilbert, from the balcony of the window, had fully comprehended the meaning of the arrival of this horseman, although he did not know his person. He readily imagined the anguish which the queen must have suffered, and especially for the last three hours; for during that time he had not been able to despatch a single courier to Versailles, amid the throng by which he was surrounded, without exciting suspicion, or betraying weakness.

He had but a faint idea of all that had been occurring at Versailles.

We shall now return there with our readers, for we do not wish to make them read too long a course of history.

The queen had received the last courier from the king at three o'clock.

Gilbert had found means to despatch a courier just at the moment the king entered the H #244;tel de Ville, under the arch formed by the swords of the National Guards.

The Countess de Charny was with the queen. The countess had only just left her bed, which from severe indisposition she had kept since the previous day.

She was still very pale. She had hardly strength to raise her eyes, the heavy lids of which seemed to be constantly falling, weighed down either with grief or shame.

The queen, on perceiving her, smiled, but with that habitual smile which appears, to those familiar with the court, to be stereotyped upon the lips of princes and of kings.

Then, as if overjoyed that her husband was in safety:-

“Good news again!” exclaimed the queen to those who surrounded her; “may the whole day pass off as well!”

“Oh, Madame!” said a courtier, “your Majesty alarms yourself too much. The Parisians know too well the responsibility which weighs upon them.”

“But, Madame,” said another courtier, who was not so confiding, “is your Majesty well assured as to the authenticity of this intelligence-”

“Oh, yes,” replied the queen. “The person who writes to me has engaged, at the hazard of his head, to be responsible for the safety of the king. Moreover, I believe him to be a friend.”

“Oh! if he is a friend,” rejoined the courtier, bowing, “that is quite another matter.”

Madame de Lamballe, who was standing at a little distance, approached.

“It is,” said she, “the lately appointed physician, is t not-”

“Yes, Gilbert,” unthinkingly replied the queen, without reflecting that she was striking a fearful blow at one who stood close beside her.

“Gilbert!” exclaimed Andr #233;e, starting as if a viper had bit her to the heart; “Gilbert, your Majesty's friend!”

Andr #233;e had turned round with flashing eyes, her Lands clinched with anger and shame, and seemed proudly to accuse the queen, both by her looks and attitude.

“But still,” said the queen, hesitating.

“Oh, Madame, Madame!” murmured Andr #233;e, in a tone of the bitterest reproach.

A deathlike silence pervaded the whole room after this mysterious incident.

In the midst of this silence, a light step was heard upon the tesselated floor of the adjoining room.

“Monsieur de Charny!” said the queen, in a half-whisper, as if to warn Andr #233;e to compose herself.

Charny had heard-he had seen all-only he could not comprehend it.

He remarked the pallid countenance of Andr #233;e, and the embarrassed air of Marie Antoinette.

It would have been a breach of etiquette to question the queen, but Andr #233;e was his wife; he had the right to question her.

He therefore went to her, and in the most friendly tone-

“What is the matter, Madame-” said he.

Andr #233;e made an effort to recover her composure.

“Nothing, Count,” she replied.

Charny then turned towards the queen, who, notwithstanding her profound experience in equivocal positions, had ten times essayed to muster up a smile, but could not succeed.

“You appear to doubt the devotedness of this Monsieur Gilbert,” said he to Andr #233;e. “Have you any motive for suspecting his fidelity-”

Andr #233;e was silent.

“Speak, Madame; speak!” said Charny, insistingly.

Then, as Andr #233;e still remained mute:-

“Oh, speak, Madame!” cried he. “This delicacy now becomes condemnable. Reflect that on it may depend the safety of our master.”

“I do not know, sir, what can be your motive for saying that,” replied Andr #233;e.

“You said, and I heard you say it, Madame,-I appeal moreover to the princess,”-and Charny bowed to the Princess de Lamballe, “you exclaimed with an expression of great surprise, 'Gilbert, your Majesty's friend!'“

“'Tis true, you did say that, my dear,” said the Princess de Lamballe, with her habitual ingenuousness.

Then, going closer to Andre:-

“If you do know anything, Monsieur de Charny is right.”

“For pity's sake, Madame! for pity's sake!” said Andr #233;e, in an imploring tone, but so low that it could not be heard by any one but the princess.

The princess retired a few steps.

“Oh, good Heaven! it was but a trifling matter,” said the queen, feeling that should she any longer delay to interfere, she would be betraying her trust. “The countess was expressing her apprehensions, which doubtless were but vague. She had said that it was difficult for a man who had taken part in the American Revolution, one who is the friend of Monsieur de Lafayette, to be our friend.”

“Yes, vague,” mechanically repeated Andr #233;e,-“very vague.”

“A fear of a similar nature to one which had been expressed by one of the gentlemen present before the countess had expressed hers,” rejoined Marie Antoinette.

And with her eyes she pointed out the courtier whose doubts had given rise to this discussion.

But it required more than this to convince Charny. The great confusion which had appeared on his entering the room persuaded him that there was some mystery in the affair.

He therefore persisted.

“It matters not, Madame,” said he. “It seems to me that it is your duty not to express vain fears, but on the contrary, to state precise facts.”

“What, sir,” said the queen, with some asperity, “you are returning to that subject!”

“Madame!”

“Your pardon, but I find that you are still questioning the Countess de Charny.”

“Excuse me, Madame,” said Charny; “it is from interest for-”

“For your self-love, is it not- Ah, Monsieur de Charny,” added the queen, with an ironical expression of which the count felt the whole weight, “acknowledge the thing frankly. You are jealous.”

“Jealous! jealous!” cried Charny, coloring,-“but of what- I ask this of your Majesty.”

“Of your wife, apparently,” replied the queen, harshly.

“Madame!” stammered Charny, perfectly astounded at this unlooked-for attack.

“It is perfectly natural,” dryly rejoined Marie Antoinette; “and the countess assuredly is worth the trouble.”

Charny darted a look at the queen, to warn her that she was going too far.

But this was useless trouble, superfluous precaution. When this lioness was wounded, and felt the burning pain galling her heart, she no longer knew restraint.

“Yes, I can comprehend your being jealous, Monsieur de Charny,-jealous and uneasy; it is the natural state of every soul that loves, and which consequently is on the watch.”

“Madame!” repeated Charny.

“And therefore I,” pursued the queen,-“I experience precisely the same feelings which you do at this moment, I am at once a prey to jealousy and anxiety.” She emphasized the word “jealousy.

The king is at Paris and I no longer live.”

“But, Madame,” observed Charny, who could not at all comprehend the meaning of this storm, the thunder of which appeared to growl more fiercely and the lightnings to flash more vividly every moment, “you have just now received news of the king; the news was good, and you must feel more tranquil.”

“And did you feel tranquillized when the countess and myself, a moment ago, endeavored to reassure you-”

Charny bit his lip.

Andr #233;e began to raise her head, at once surprised and alarmed,-surprised at what she heard, alarmed at what she thought she understood.

The silence which had ensued after the first question which Charny had addressed to Andr #233;e was now renewed, and the company seemed anxiously awaiting Charny's answer to the queen. Charny remained silent.

“In fact,” resumed the queen, with still increasing anger, “it is the destiny of people who love to think only of the object of their affection. It would be happiness to those poor hearts to sacrifice pitilessly everything-yes, everything-to the feeling by which they are agitated. Good Heaven! how anxious am I with regard to the king!”

One of the courtiers ventured to remark that other couriers would arrive.

“Oh, why am I not at Paris, instead of being here- I why am I not with the king-” said Marie Antoinette, who had seen that Charny had become agitated since she had been endeavoring to instil that jealousy into his mind which she so violently experienced.

Charny bowed.

“If it be only that, Madame,” said he, “I will go there; and if, as your Majesty apprehends, the king is in any danger, if that valuable life be exposed, you may rely, Madame, that it shall not be from not having exposed mine in his defence.”

Charny bowed and moved towards the door.

“Sir! sir!” cried Andr #233;e, rushing between Charny and the door; “be careful of yourself!”

Nothing was wanting to the completion of this scene but this outburst of the fears of Andr #233;e.

And therefore, as soon as Andr #233;e had been thus impelled, in spite of herself, to cast aside her habitual coldness, no sooner had she uttered these imprudent words and evinced this unwonted solicitude, than the queen became frightfully pale.

“Why, Madame,” she cried to Andr #233;e, “how is this, that you here usurp the part of a queen-”

“Who,-I, Madame-” stammered Andr #233;e, comprehending that she had, for the first time, allowed to burst forth from her lips the fire which for so long a period had consumed her soul.

“What!” continued Marie Antoinette, “your husband is in the king's service. He is about to set out to seek the king. If he is exposing his life, it is for the king; and when the question is the service of the king, you advise Monsieur de Charny to be careful of himself.”

On hearing these appalling words, Andr #233;e was near fainting. She staggered, and would have fallen to the floor had not Charny rushed forward and caught her in his arms.

An indignant look, which Charny could not restrain, completed the despair of Marie Antoinette, who had considered herself an offended rival, but who, in fact, had been an unjust queen.

“The queen is right,” at length said Charny, with some effort, “and your emotion, Madame, was inconsiderate. You have no husband, Madame, when the interests of the king are in question; and I ought to be the first to request you to restrain your sensibility, if I presumed that you deigned to feel any alarm for me.”

Then, turning towards Marie Antoinette:-

“I am at the queen's orders,” said he, coldly, “and I set out at once. It is I who will bring you news of the king,-good news, Madame, or I will not bring any.”

Then, having spoken these words, he bowed almost to the ground, and left the room before the queen, moved at once by terror and by anger, had thought of detaining him.

A moment afterwards the hoofs of a horse galloping at full speed rang over the pavement of the courtyard.

The queen remained motionless, but a prey to internal agitation, so much the more terrible from her making the most violent efforts to conceal it.

Some understood, while others could not comprehend the cause of this agitation; but they all showed that they respected their sovereign's tranquillity.

Marie Antoinette was left to her own thoughts.

Andr #233;e withdrew with the rest from the apartment, abandoning Marie Antoinette to the caresses of her two children, whom she had sent for, and who had been brought to her.

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE RETURN

NIGHT had returned, bringing with it its train of fears and gloomy visions, when suddenly shouts were heard from the front of the palace.

The queen started and rose. She was not far from a window, which she opened.

Almost at the same instant, servants, transported with joy, ran into the queen's room, crying:-

“A courier, Madame, a courier!”

Three minutes afterwards, a hussar rushed into the antechamber.

He was a lieutenant despatched by Monsieur de Charny. He had ridden at full speed from S #232;vres.

“And the king-” said Marie Antoinette.

“His Majesty will be here in a quarter of an hour,” replied the officer, who was so much out of breath that he could scarcely articulate.

“Safe and well-” asked the queen.

“Safe, well, and smiling, Madame,” replied the officer.

“You have seen him, then-”

“No, Madame, but Monsieur de Charny told me so, when he sent me off.”

The queen started once more at hearing this name, which chance had thus associated with that of the king.

“I thank you, sir; you had better rest yourself,” said the queen to the young gentleman.

The young officer made his obedience and withdrew.

Marie Antoinette, taking her children by the hand, went towards the grand entrance of the palace, where were already assembled all the courtiers and the servants.

The penetrating eye of the queen perceived, on the first step, a female form attired in white, her elbow leaning upon the stone balustrade, and looking eagerly into the darkness, that she might first discern the approach of the king's carriage.

It was Andr #233;e, whom even the presence of the queen did not arouse from her fixed gaze.

She, who generally was so eager to fly to the side of her mistress, evidently had not seen her, or disdained to appear to have seen her.

Andr #233;e, then, bore the queen ill-will for the levity which she had shown that afternoon, and from which cruel levity Andr #233;e had so much suffered.

Or else, carried away by the deepest concern, she was with eager anxiety looking for the return of Charny, for whom she had manifested so much affectionate apprehension.

A twofold poniard-stab to the queen, which deepened a wound that was still bleeding.

She lent but an absent ear to the compliments and joyful congratulations of her other friends, and the courtiers generally.

She even felt for a moment her mind abstracted from the violent grief which had overwhelmed her all the evening. There was even a respite to the anxiety excited in her heart by the king's journey, threatened by so many enemies.

But with her strong mind she soon chased all that was not legitimate affection from her heart. At the feet of God she cast her jealousy. She immolated her anger and her secret feelings to the holiness of her conjugal vow.

It was doubtless God who thus endowed her, for her quiet and support, with this faculty of loving the king, her husband, beyond every being in the world.

At that moment, at least, she so felt, or thought she felt it; the pride of royalty raised the queen above all terrestrial passions,-love of the king was her egotism.

She had therefore driven from her breast all the petty vengeance of a woman, and the coquettish frivolity of the lover, when the flambeaux of the escort appeared at the end of the avenue.

These lights increased in volume every moment, from the rapidity with which the escort advanced.

They could hear the neighing and the hard breathing of the horses. The ground trembled, amid the silence of the night, beneath the weight of the squadrons which surrounded and followed the king's carriage.

The gates were thrown open; the guards rushed forth to receive the king with shouts of enthusiasm. The carriage rolled sonorously over the pavement of the great courtyard.

Dazzled, delighted, fascinated, strongly excited by the varied emotions she had experienced during the whole day, by those which she then felt, the queen flew down the stairs to receive the king.

Louis XVI., as soon as he had alighted from his carriage, ascended the staircase with all the rapidity which was possible, surrounded as he was by his officers, all agitated by the events of the day and their triumph; while in the courtyard, the guards, mixing unceremoniously with the grooms and equerries, tore from the carriages and the harness all the cockades which the enthusiasm of the Parisians had attached to them.

The king and the queen met upon a marble landing. The queen, with a cry of joy and love, several times pressed the king to her heart.

She sobbed as if, on thus meeting him, she had believed she was never again to see him.

Yielding thus to the emotions of an overflowing heart, she did not observe the silent pressure of their hands which Charny and Andr #233;e had just exchanged.

This pressure of the hand was nothing; but Andr #233;e was at the foot of the steps; she was the first Charny had seen and touched.

The queen, after having presented her children to the king, made him kiss them; and then the dauphin, seeing in his father's hat the new cockade, on which the torches cast an ensanguined light, exclaimed with childish astonishment:-

“Why, Papa, what have you on your cockade- Is it blood-”

It was the national red.

The queen uttered a cry, and examined it in her turn.

The king bent down his head, under the pretence of again kissing his little daughter, but in reality to conceal his shame.

Marie Antoinette, with profound disgust, tore the cockade from the hat, without seeing-the noble, furious woman-that she was wounding to the heart a nation that would one day know how to avenge itself.

“Throw it away, Sire,” said she; “throw it away!”

And she threw the cockade down the stairs, upon which trampled the feet of the whole escort which accompanied the king to his apartments.

This strange transition had extinguished all conjugal enthusiasm in the queen's breast. She looked around, but without apparent intention, for Monsieur de Charny, who was standing at his ordinary post near the king, with the stiff formality of a soldier.

“I thank you, sir,” she said to him, when their eyes met, after several moments of hesitation on the part of the count,-“I thank you, sir. You have well fulfilled your promise.”

“To whom are you speaking-” inquired the king.

“To Monsieur de Charny,” said she, boldly.

“Yes, poor Charny! he had trouble enough to get near me. And Gilbert-what has become of him- I do not see him,” added Louis.

The queen, who had become more cautious since the lesson of the afternoon, called out:-

“Come in to supper, Sire,” in order to change the conversation. “Monsieur de Charny,” pursued she, “find the Countess de Charny, and bring her with you. We will have a family supper.”

In this she acted as a queen. But she sighed on observing that Charny, who till then had appeared gloomy, at once became smiling and joyful.

CHAPTER XL. FOULON

BILLOT was in a state of perfect ecstasy.

He had taken the Bastille; he had restored Gilbert to liberty; he had been noticed by Lafayette, who called him by his name; and finally, he had seen the burial of Foulon.

Few men in those days were as much execrated as Foulon. One only could in this respect have competed with him, and this was his son-in-law, Monsieur Berthier de Savigny.

They had both of them been singularly lucky the day following the capture of the Bastille.

Foulon died on that day, and Berthier had managed to escape from Paris.

That which had raised to its climax the unpopularity of Foulon, was that on the retirement of Monsieur Necker he had accepted the place of the “virtuous Genevese,” as he was then called, and had been comptroller-general during three days.

And therefore was there much singing and dancing at his burial.

The people had at one time thought of taking the body out of the coffin and hanging it; but Billot had jumped upon a post, and had made a speech on the respect due to the dead, and the hearse was allowed to continue on its way.

As to Pitou, he had become a perfect hero.

Pitou had become the friend of Monsieur Elie and Monsieur Hullin, who deigned to employ him to execute their commissions.

He was, besides, the confidant of Billot,-of Billot, who had been treated with distinction by Monsieur de Lafayette, as we have already said, who sometimes employed him as a police guard about his person, on account of his brawny shoulders, his herculean fists, and his indomitable courage.

Since the journey of the king to Paris, Gilbert, who had been, through Monsieur Necker, put in communication with the principal members of the National Assembly and the Municipality, was incessantly occupied with the education of the republic, still in its infancy.

He therefore neglected Billot and Pitou, who, neglected by him, threw themselves ardently into the meetings of the citizens, in the midst of which political discussions of transcendent interest were constantly agitated.

At length, one day, after Billot had employed three hours in giving his opinion to the electors as to the best mode of victualling Paris, and fatigued with his long speech, though proud of having played the orator, he was resting with delight, lulled by the monotonous voices of his successors, which he took good care not to listen to, Pitou came in, greatly agitated; and gliding like an eel through the Sessions Hall of the electors in the H #244;tel de Ville, and in a palpitating tone, which contrasted greatly with the usual placidity of his enunciation: “Oh, Monsieur Billot!” said he, “dear Monsieur Billot!”

“Well, what is it-”

“Great news!”

“Good news-”

“Glorious news!”

“What is it, then-”

“You know that I had gone to the club of the Virtues, at the Fontainebleau barrier-”

“Yes, and what then-”

“Well, they spoke there of a most extraordinary event.”

“What was it-”

“Do you know that that villain Foulon passed himself off for dead, and carried it so far as to allow himself to be buried-”

“How! passed himself for dead- How say you,-pretended to allow himself to be buried- Nonsense! He is dead enough; for was I not at his funeral-”

“Notwithstanding that, Monsieur Billot, he is still living.”

“Living-”

“As much alive as you and I are.”

“You are mad!”

“Dear Monsieur Billot, I am not mad. The traitor, Foulon, the enemy of the people, the leech of France, the peculator, is not dead.”

“But since I tell you he was buried after an apoplectic fit, since I tell you that I saw the funeral go by, and even that I prevented the people from dragging him out of his coffin to hang him-”

“And I have just seen him alive. Ah, what do you say to that-”

“You-”

“As plainly as I now see you, Monsieur Billot. It appears that it was one of his servants who died, and the villain gave him an aristocratic funeral. Oh, all is discovered! It was from fear of the vengeance of the people that he acted thus.”

“Tell me all about it, Pitou.”

“Come into the vestibule for a moment, then, Monsieur Billot. We shall be more at our ease there.”

They left the hall and went into the vestibule.

“First of all, we must know whether Monsieur Bailly is here.”

“Go on with your story; he is here.”

“Good! Well I was at the club of the Virtues, listening to the speech of a patriot. Didn't he make grammatical faults! It was easily seen that he had not been educated by the Abb #233; Fortier.”

“Go on, I tell you. A man may be a good patriot, and yet not be able to read or write.”

“That is true,” replied Pitou. “Well, suddenly a man came in, completely out of breath. 'Victory!' cried he. 'Victory! Foulon was not dead! Foulon is still alive! I have found him! I have found him!'

“Everybody there was like you, Father Billot. No one would believe him. Some said, 'How! Foulon-' 'Yes.' Others said, 'Pshaw! impossible!' And others said, 'Well, while you were at it, you might as well have discovered his son-in-law, Berthier.'“

“Berthier!” cried Billot.

“Yes, Berthier de Savigny. Don't you recollect our intendant at Compi #232;gne, the friend of Monsieur Isidore de Charny-”

“Undoubtedly! he who was always so proud with everybody, and so polite with Catherine-”

“Precisely,” said Pitou; “one of those horrible contractors,-a second leech to the French people; the execration of all human nature; the shame of the civilized world, as said the virtuous Loustalot.”

“Well, go on! go on!” cried Billot.

“That is true,” said Pitou; “ad eventum festina,-which means to say, Monsieur Billot, 'Hasten to the winding up.' I shall proceed, then. A man, out of breath, comes running to the club of the Virtues, and shouts: 'I have found Foulon. I have found him.'

“You should have heard the vociferations that followed.”

“He was mistaken,” said Billot, obstinately.

“He was not, for I have seen Foulon.”

“You have seen him, Pitou-”

“With these two eyes. Wait a moment.”

“I am waiting; but you make my blood boil.”

“Ah, but listen. I am hot enough too. I tell you that he had given it out that he was dead, and had one of his servants buried in his place. Fortunately, Providence was watching.”

“Providence, indeed!” disdainfully exclaimed the Voltairean Billot.

“I intended to say the nation,” rejoined Pitou, with humility. “This good citizen, this patriot, out of breath, who announced the news to us, recognized him at Viry, where he had concealed himself.”

“Ah! ah!”

“Having recognized him, he denounced him, and the syndic, whose name is Monsieur Rappe, instantly arrested him.”

“ And what is the name of the brave patriot who had the courage to do all this-”

“Of informing against Foulon-”

“Yes.”

Well, his name is Monsieur Saint-Jean.”

“Saint-Jean! Why, that is a lackey's name.”

“And he was precisely the lackey of the villain Foulon. Aristocrat, you are rightly served. Why had you lackeys-”

“Pitou, you interest me,” said Billot, going close to the narrator.

“You are very kind, Monsieur Billot. Well, then, here is Foulon denounced and arrested; they are bringing him to Paris. The informer had run on ahead to announce the news, and receive the reward for his denunciation; and sure enough, in a few moments afterwards Foulon arrived at the barrier.”

“And it was there that you saw him-”

“Yes. He had a very queer look, I can tell you. They had twisted a bunch of stinging-nettles round his neck, by way of cravat.”

“What say you- stinging-nettles- And what was that for-”

“Because it appears that he had said-rascal as he is!-that bread was for men, oats for horses, but that nettles were good enough for the people.”

“Did he say that, the wretch-”

“Yes! by Heaven! he said so, Monsieur Billot.”

“Good! there, now, you are swearing.”

“Bah!” cried Pitou, with a swaggering air, “between military men! Well, they brought him along on foot, and the whole of the way they were giving him smashing blows on his back and head.”

“Oh! oh!” cried Billot, somewhat less enthusiastic.

“It was very amusing,” continued Pitou, “only that everybody could not get at him to give him a blow, seeing that there were ten thousand persons hooting after him.”

“And after this-” asked Billot, who began to reflect.

“After that they took him to the president of the St. Marcel district,-a good patriot, you know.”

“Yes, Monsieur Acloque.”

“Cloque,-yes, that is it; who ordered him to be taken to the H #244;tel de Ville, seeing that he did not know what to do with him; so that you will presently see him.”

“But how happens it that it is you who have come to announce this, and not the famous Saint-Jean-”

“Why, because my legs are six inches longer than his. He had set off before me, but I soon came up with, and passed him. I wanted to inform you first, that you might inform Monsieur Bailly of it.”

“What luck you have, Pitou!”

“I shall have much more than this to-morrow.”

“And how can you tell that-”

“Because this same Saint-Jean, who denounced Monsieur Foulon, proposed a plan to catch Monsieur Berthier, who has run away.”

“He knows, then, where he is-”

“Yes; it appears that he was their confidential man,-this good Monsieur Saint-Jean,-and that he received a great deal of money from Foulon and his son-in-law, who wished to bribe him.”

“And he took the money-”

“Certainly, the money of an aristocrat is always good to take; but he said: 'A good patriot will not betray his nation for money.'“

“Yes,” murmured Billot, “he betrays his masters,-that is all. Do you know, Pitou, that your Monsieur Saint-Jean appears to me to be a worthless vagabond-”

“That is possible, but it matters not; they will take Monsieur Berthier, as they have taken Master Foulon, and they will hang them nose to nose. What horrid wry faces they will make, looking at each other,-hey-”

“And why should they be hanged-”

“Why, because they are vile rascals, and I detest them.”

“What! Monsieur Berthier, who has been at the farm,-Monsieur Berthier, who, during his tours into the #206;le-de-France, has drunk our milk, and eaten of our bread, and sent gold buckles to Catherine from Paris- Oh, no, no! they shall not hang him.”

“Bah!” repeated Pitou, ferociously, “he is an aristocrat,-a wheedling rascal!”

Billot looked at Pitou with stupefaction. Beneath the gaze of the farmer, Pitou blushed to the very whites of his eyes.

Suddenly the worthy cultivator perceived Monsieur Bailly, who was going from the hall into his own cabinet; he rushed after him to inform him of the news.

But it was now for Billot in his turn to be treated with incredulity.

“Foulon! Foulon!” cried the mayor, “what folly!”

“Well, Monsieur Bailly, all I can say is, here is Pitou, who saw him.”

“I saw him, Monsieur Mayor,” said Pitou, placing his hand on his heart, and bowing.

And he related to Monsieur Bailly all he had before related to Billot.

They observed that poor Bailly turned very pale; he at once understood the extent of the catastrophe.

“And Monsieur Acloque sends him here-” murmured he.

“Yes, Monsieur Mayor.”

“But how is he sending him-”

“Oh, there is no occasion to be uneasy,” said Pitou, who misunderstood the anxiety of Bailly; “there are plenty of people to guard the prisoner. He will not be carried off.”

“Would to God he might be carried off!” murmured Bailly.

Then turning to Pitou:-

“Plenty of people,-what mean you by that, my friend-”

“I mean plenty of people.”

“People!”

“More than twenty thousand men, without counting the women,” said Pitou, triumphantly.

“Unhappy man!” exclaimed Bailly. “Gentlemen, gentlemen electors!”

And he related to the electors all he had just heard.

While he was speaking, exclamations and cries of anguish burst forth from all present.

The silence of terror pervaded the hall, during which a confused, distant, indescribable noise assailed the ears of those assembled, like that produced by the rushing of blood to the head in attacks upon the brain.

“What is that-” inquired an elector.

“Why, the noise of the crowd, to be sure,” replied another.

Suddenly a carriage was heard rolling rapidly across the square; it contained two armed men, who helped a third to alight from it, who was pale and trembling.

Foulon had at length become so exhausted by the ill usage he had experienced that he could no longer walk; and he had been lifted into a coach.

Behind the carriage, led on by Saint-Jean, who was more out of breath than ever, ran about a hundred young men, from sixteen to eighteen years of age, with haggard countenances and flaming eyes.

They cried, “Foulon! Foulon!” running almost as fast as the horses.

The two armed men were, however, some few steps in advance of them, which gave them the time to push Foulon into the H #244;tel de Ville; and its doors were closed against the hoarse barkers from without.

“At last we have him here,” said his guards to the electors, who were waiting at the top of the stairs. “By Heaven! it was not without trouble!”

“Gentlemen! gentlemen” cried Foulon, trembling, “will you save me-”

“Ah, sir,” replied Bailly, with a sigh, “you have been very culpable.”

“And yet, sir,” said Foulon, entreatingly, his agitation increasing, “there will, I hope, be justice to defend me.”

At this moment the exterior tumult was redoubled.

“Hide him quickly!” cried Bailly to those around him, “or-”

He turned to Foulon.

“Listen to me,” said he; “the situation is serious enough for you to be consulted. Will you-perhaps it is not yet too late-will you endeavor to escape from the back part of the H #244;tel de Ville-”

“Oh, no,” exclaimed Foulon; “I should be recognized-massacred!”

“Do you prefer to remain here in the midst of us- I will do, and these gentlemen will do, all that is humanly possible to defend you; will you not, gentlemen-”

“We promise it,” cried all the electors, with one voice.

“Oh, I prefer remaining with you, gentlemen. Gentlemen, do not abandon me!”

“I have told you, sir,” replied Bailly, with dignity, “that we will do all that may be humanly possible to save you.”

At that moment a frightful clamor arose from the square, ascended into the air, and invaded the H #244;tel de Ville through the open windows.

“Do you hear- Do you hear-” murmured Foulon, perfectly livid with terror.

In fact, the mob had rushed, howling and frightful to behold, from all the streets leading to the H #244;tel de Ville, and above all from the Quay Pelletier, and the Rue de la Vannerie.

Bailly went to a window.

Knives, pikes, scythes, and muskets glistened in the sunshine. In less than ten minutes the vast square was filled with people. It was the whole of Foulon's train, of which Pitou had spoken, and which had been increased by curious idlers, who, hearing a great noise, had run to the Place de Gr #232;ve as towards a common centre.

All these voices, and there were more than twenty thousand, cried incessantly: “Foulon! Foulon!”

Then it was seen that the hundred young men who had been the precursors of this furious mob, pointed out to this howling mass the gate by which Foulon had entered the building; this gate was instantly threatened, and they began to beat it down with the butt-ends of their muskets, and with crowbars.

Suddenly it flew open.

The guards of the H #244;tel de Ville appeared, and advanced upon the assailants, who, in their first terror, retreated, and left a large open space in the front of the building.

This guard stationed itself upon the front steps, and presented a bold front to the crowd.

The officers, moreover, instead of threatening, harangued the crowd in friendly terms, and endeavored to calm it by their protestations.

Bailly had become quite confused. It was the first time that the poor astronomer had found himself in opposition to the popular tempest.

“What is to be done-” demanded he of the electors,-“what is to be done-”

“We must try him.”

“No trial can take place when under the intimidation of the mob,” said Bailly.

“Zounds!” exclaimed Billot, “have you not, then, men enough to defend you-”

“We have not two hundred men.”

“You must have a reinforcement, then.”

“Oh, if Monsieur de Lafayette were but informed of this!”

“Well, send and inform him of it.”

“And who would venture to attempt it- Who could make his way through such a multitude-”

“I would,” replied Billot.

And he was about to leave the hall.

Bailly stopped him.

“Madman!” cried he; “look at that ocean! You would be swallowed up even by one of its waves. If you wish to get to Monsieur de Lafayette,-and even then I would not answer for your safety,-go out by one of the back doors. Go!”

“'Tis well!” tranquilly replied Billot.

And he darted out of the room with the swiftness of an arrow.

CHAPTER XLI. THE FATHER-IN-LAW

THE clamor, which kept on constantly increasing from the square, clearly proved that the exasperation of the mob was becoming greater. It was no longer hatred that they felt; it was abhorrence. They no longer merely threatened; they foamed.

The cries of “Down with Foulon! Death to Foulon!” crossed each other in the air, like projectiles in a bombardment. The crowd, which was still augmenting, pressed nearer to the entrance of the H #244;tel de Ville, till they, as it may be said, almost suffocated the civic guards at their posts.

And already there began to circulate among the crowd, and to increase in volume, those rumors which are the precursors of violence.

These rumors no longer threatened Foulon only, but the electors who protected him.

“They have let the prisoner escape!” said some.

“Let us go in! let us go in!” said others.

“Let us set fire to the H #244;tel de Ville!”

“Forward! forward!”

Bailly felt that as Monsieur de Lafayette did not arrive, there was only one resource left to them.

And this was that the electors should themselves go down, mix in with the groups, and endeavor to pacify the most furious among them.

“Foulon! Foulon!”

Such was the incessant cry, the constant roaring of those furious waves.

A general assault was preparing; the walls could not have resisted it.

“Sir,” said Bailly to Foulon, “if you do not show yourself to the crowd, they will naturally believe that we have allowed you to escape. Then they will force the door, and will come in here; and when once here, should they find you, I can no longer be responsible for anything.”

“Oh, I did not know that I was so much execrated!” exclaimed Foulon.

And supported by Bailly, he dragged himself to the window.

A fearful cry resounded immediately on his presenting himself. The guards were driven back; the doors broken in; a torrent of men precipitated themselves up the staircase into the corridors, into the rooms, which were invaded in an instant.

Bailly threw around the prisoner all the guards who were within call, and then he began to harangue the crowd.

He wished to make these men understand that to assassinate might sometimes be doing justice, but that it was never an act of justice.

He succeeded, after having made the most strenuous efforts, after having twenty times perilled his own existence.

“Yes, yes,” cried the assailants, “let him be tried! let him be tried! but let him be hanged!”

They were at this point in the argument when General de Lafayette reached the H #244;tel de Ville, conducted there by Billot.

The sight of his tricolored plume-one of the first which had been worn-at once assuaged their anger, and the tumult ceased.

The commander-in-chief of the National Guard had the way cleared for him, and addressing the crowd, repeated, though in more energetic terms, every argument that Bailly had endeavored to enforce.

His speech produced a great effect on all those who were near enough to hear it, and the cause of Foulon was completely gained in the electors' hall.

But on the square were twenty thousand furious people who had not heard Monsieur de Lafayette, and who remained implacable in their frenzy.

“Come, now,” said Lafayette, at the conclusion of his oration, very naturally imagining that the effect he had produced on those who surrounded him had extended to all outside,-“come, now, this man must be tried.”

“Yes,” cried the mob.

“And consequently I order that he be taken to prison,” added Lafayette.

“To prison! to prison!” howled the mob.

At the same time the general made a sign to the guards of the H #244;tel de Ville, who led the prisoner forward.

The crowd outside understood nothing of all that was going on, excepting that their prey was about to appear. They had not even an idea that any one had the slightest hope of disputing it with them.

They scented, if we may be permitted the expression, the odor of the human flesh which was descending the staircase.

Billot had placed himself at the window with several electors, whom Bailly also joined in order to follow the prisoner with their eyes while he was crossing the square, escorted by the civic guards.

On the way, Foulon here and there addressed a few incoherent words to those around him, which, although they were protestations of confidence, clearly evinced the most profound and ill-disguised terror.

“Noble people,” said he, while descending the staircase, “I fear nothing; I am in the midst of my fellow-citizens.”

And already bantering laughs and insults were being uttered around him, when suddenly he found himself outside of the gloomy archway at the top of the stone steps which led into the square, and felt on his face the wind and sunshine.

Immediately one general cry-a cry of rage, a howling threat, a roar of hatred-burst from twenty thousand lungs. On this explosion of the public feeling, the guards conducting the prisoner are lifted from the ground, broken, dispersed; Foulon is seized by twenty powerful arms, raised above their shoulders, and carried into the fatal corner under the lamp-post,-ignoble and brutal executioner of the anger of the people, which they termed their justice.

Billot from his window saw all this, and cried out against it; the electors also did all they could to stimulate the guards, but they were powerless.

Lafayette, in despair, rushed out of the H #244;tel de Ville, but he could not break through the first rank of that crowd, which spread out like an immense lake between him and the victim.

The mere spectators of this scene jumped upon posts, on window-sills, on every jutting part of a building, in order to gain a better view; and they encouraged by their savage shouts the frightful effervescence of the actors.

The latter were playing with their victim, as would a troop of tigers with an inoffensive prey.

They were disputing who should hang Foulon; at last they understood that if they wished to enjoy his agony, it was necessary that their several functions should be agreed upon.

But for that he would have been torn to pieces.

Some of them raised up Foulon, who had no longer strength enough to cry out.

Others, who had taken off his cravat and torn off his coat, placed a rope round his neck.

And others, who had climbed up the lamp-post, had handed to their companions below the rope which they put round the neck of the ex-minister.

For a moment they raised Foulon above their heads and showed him thus to the crowd,-a rope twined round his neck, and his hands tied behind him.

Then, when the crowd had had due time to contemplate the sufferer; when they had clapped their hands sufficiently,-the signal was given, and Foulon, pale and bleeding, was hoisted up to a level with the lantern, amid a hooting which was more terrible even than death.

All those who, up to that time, had not been able to see anything, then perceived the public enemy raised above the heads of the crowd.

New shouts were then heard; but these were against the executioners. Were they about to kill Foulon so expeditiously-

The executioners merely shrugged their shoulders, and pointed to the rope.

The rope was old; it could be seen to give way, strand by strand. The movements which Foulon made in his desperate agony at length broke the last strand; and Foulon, only half strangled, fell heavily upon the pavement.

He was only at the preface of his torments; he had only penetrated into the vestibule of death.

They all rushed towards the sufferer; they were perfectly secure with regard to him. There was no chance of his escaping them; in falling he had broken his leg a little below the knee.

And yet some imprecations arose, imprecations which were unintelligible and calumniatory. The executioners were accused; they were considered as clumsy and unskilful,-they who, on the contrary, had been so ingenious that they had expressly chosen an old worn-out rope, in the hope that it would break.

A hope which the event, as has been related, had fully realized.

They made a knot in the rope, and again fixed it round the neck of the unhappy man, who, half dead, with haggard eyes looked around, endeavoring to discover whether in that city which is called the centre of the civilized universe,-whether one of the bayonets of that king whose minister he had been, and who had a hundred thousand, would not be raised in his defence amid that horde of cannibals.

But there was nothing there to meet his eyes but hatred, but insult, but death.

“At least, kill me at once, without making me endure these atrocious torments!” cried the despairing Foulon.

“Well, now,” replied a jeering voice, “why should we abridge your torments- you have made ours last long enough.”

“And besides,” said another, “you have not yet had time enough to digest your nettles.”

“Wait, wait a little!” cried a third; “his son-in-law, Berthier, will be brought to him; there is room enough for him on the opposite lamp-post.”

“We shall see what wry faces the father-in-law and son-in-law will make at each other,” added another.

“Finish me; finish me at once!” cried the wretched man.

During this time, Bailly and Lafayette were begging, supplicating, exclaiming, and endeavoring to get through the crowd; suddenly, Foulon was again hoisted by the rope, which again broke, and their prayers, their supplications, their agony, no less painful than that of the sufferer himself, were lost, confounded, and extinguished amid the universal laugh which accompanied this second fall.

Bailly and Lafayette, who three days before had been the sovereign arbiters of the will of six hundred thousand Parisians,-a child now would not listen to them; the people even murmured at them; they were in their way; they were interrupting this great spectacle.

Billot had vainly given them all the aid of his uncommon strength; the powerful athlete had knocked down twenty men, but in order to reach Foulon it would be necessary to knock down fifty, a hundred, two hundred; and his strength is exhausted, and when he pauses to wipe from his brow the perspiration and the blood which is streaming from it, Foulon is raised a third time to the pulley of the lamp-post.

This time they had taken compassion upon him; the rope was a new one.

At last the condemned is dead; the victim no longer suffers.

Half a minute had sufficed to the crowd to assure itself that the vital spark was extinguished. And now that the tiger has killed, he may devour his prey.

The body, thrown from the top of the lamp-post, did not even fall to the ground. It was torn to pieces before it reached it.

The head was separated from the trunk in a second, and in another second raised on the end of a pike. It was very much in fashion in those days to carry the heads of one's enemies in that way.

At this sanguinary spectacle Bailly was horrified. That head appeared to him to be the head of the Medusa of ancient days.

Lafayette, pale, his drawn sword in his hand, with disgust repulsed the guards who had surrounded him, to excuse themselves for not having been the strongest.

Billot, stamping his feet with rage, and kicking right and left, like one of own fiery Perche horses, returned into the H #244;tel de Ville, that he might see no more of what was passing on that ensanguined square.

As to Pitou, his fieriness of popular vengeance was changed into a convulsive movement; and he had fled to the river's bank, where he closed his eyes and stopped his ears, that he might neither see nor hear.

Consternation reigned in the H #244;tel de Ville; the electors began to comprehend that they would never be able to direct the movements of the people, save in the manner which should suit the people.

All at once, while the furious mob were amusing themselves with dragging the mutilated remains of Foulon through the gutters, a new cry, a new shout, rolling like distant thunder, was heard, proceeding from the opposite side of the river.

A courier was seen galloping over the bridge. The news he was bringing was already known to the crowd. They had guessed it from the signs of their most skilful leaders, as a pack of hounds take up the scent from the inspiration of their finest-nosed and best-practised bloodhounds.

The crowd rush to meet this courier, whom they surround; they scent that he has touched their new prey; they feel that he is going to speak of Monsieur Berthier.

And it was true.

Interrogated by ten thousand voices, all howling at once, the courier is compelled to reply to them.

“Monsieur Berthier de Savigny has been arrested at Compi #232;gne.”

Then he proceeds into the H #244;tel de Ville, where he announces the same tidings to Lafayette and to Bailly.

“Good; good! I knew it,” said Lafayette.

“We knew it,” said Bailly, “and orders have been given that he should be kept there.”

“Kept there-” repeated the courier.

“Undoubtedly; I have sent two commissaries with an escort.”

“An escort of two hundred and fifty men, was it not-” said an elector; “it is more than sufficient.”

“Gentlemen,” replied the courier, “this is precisely what I was sent to tell you. The escort has been dispersed and the prisoner carried off by the multitude.”

“Carried off!” exclaimed Lafayette. “Has the escort allowed the prisoner to be carried off-”

“Do not blame them, General; all that it was possible to do, they did.”

“But Monsieur Berthier-” anxiously inquired Bailly.

“They are bringing him to Paris; and he is at Bourget by this time.”

“But should they bring him here,” cried Billot, “he is lost.”

“Quick! quick!” cried Lafayette, “five hundred men to Bourget. Let the commissioners and Monsieur Berthier stop there; let them sleep there! During the night we will consider what is to be done.”

“But who would venture to undertake such a commission-” said the courier, who was looking with terror at that waving sea of heads, every wave of which sent forth its threatening roar.

“I will!” cried Billot; “at least, I will save him.”

“But you would perish in the attempt,” cried the courier; “the road is black with people.”

“I will go, nevertheless,” said the farmer.

“It is useless now,” murmured Bailly, who had been listening to the noises from without. “Hush! Do you not hear that-”

They then heard, from the direction of the Porte St. Martin, a rushing noise like that of the sea when beating over the shingles on a beach.

This frenzied howl came to them over the roofs like steam over the sides of a boiling caldron.

“It is too late,” said Lafayette.

“They are coming! they are coming!” murmured the courier. “Do you not hear them-”

“A regiment! a regiment!” cried Lafayette, with that generous ebullition of humanity which was the most brilliant feature of his character.

“What! By God's death!” exclaimed Bailly, who swore perhaps for the first time in his life, “you seem to forget that our army-ours!-is precisely that crowd whom you wish to fight.”

And he hid his face in his hands.

The shouts which had been heard in the distance were re-echoed by the people in the streets, and thus communicated to the crowd upon the square with the rapidity of a train of gunpowder.

CHAPTER XLII. THE SON-IN-LAW

THEN those who were insulting the remains of Foulon left their sanguinary game, to rush forward in pursuit of a new vengeance.

The adjacent streets immediately disgorged a large proportion of that howling mob, who hurried from the square with upraised knives and menacing gestures, towards the Rue St. Martin, to meet the new funeral procession.

The junction having been accomplished, both parties were equally eager to return to the square.

A strange scene then ensued.

Some of those ingenious persons whom we have seen upon the Place de Gr #232;ve presented to the son-in-law the head of Foulon on the end of a pike.

Monsieur Berthier was coming along the Rue St. Martin with the commissary. They were then just crossing the Rue St. Merry.

He was in his own cabriolet,-a vehicle which at that period was considered as eminently aristocratic; a vehicle which more than any other excited popular animadversion; for the people had so often complained of the reckless rapidity with which they were driven, either by young fops or dancing-girls who drove themselves, and which, drawn by a fiery horse, sometimes ran over, but always splashed, the unfortunate pedestrian.

Berthier, in the midst of all the shouts, the hootings, and the threats of the infuriate mob, was talking tranquilly with the elector Rivi #232;re,-the commissary sent to Compi #232;gne to save him, but who, being abandoned by his colleague, had with much difficulty saved himself.

The people had begun with the cabriolet; they had turned off the head of it, so that Berthier and his companion were completely exposed, not only to the view, but to the blows of the populace.

As they moved onwards, his misdeeds were related to him, commented upon, and exaggerated by the popular fury.

“He wished to starve Paris,” cried one.

“He had the rye and wheat cut when it was green; and then, a rise in the price of corn having taken place, he realized enormous sums.”

“Not only did he do that,” said they, “which was enough in itself, but he was conspiring.”

In searching him, they had found a pocket-book. In this pocket-book were incendiary letters, orders for massacre, proof that ten thousand cartridges had been distributed to his agents; so said the crowd.

These were all monstrous absurdities; but as is well known, the mob, when in a paroxysm of rage, gives out as positive facts the most absurd improbabilities.

The person whom they accused of all this was a man who was still young, not being more than from thirty to thirty-two years of age, elegantly dressed, almost smiling, though greeted every moment by injurious epithets and even blows. He looked with perfect indifference at the infamous placards which were held up to him, and without affectation continued his conversation with Rivi #232;re.

Two men, irritated at his assurance, had wished to terrify him, and to diminish this self-confidence. They had mounted on the steps, on each side of the cabriolet, and each of them placed the point of his bayonet on Berthier's breast.

But Berthier, brave even to temerity, was not to be moved by such a trifle. He had continued to converse with the elector as if those two muskets were but inoffensive accessories to the cabriolet.

The mob, profoundly exasperated by this disdain, which formed so complete a contrast to the terror of Foulon,-the mob roared around the vehicle, and waited with impatience for the moment when instead of a threat they might inflict a wound.

It was then that Berthier had fixed his eyes on a misshapen and bloody object, which was held up and danced before him, and which he suddenly recognized as the head of his father-in-law, and which the ruffians who bore it held down close to his lips.

They wished to make him kiss it.

Monsieur Rivi #232;re, indignant at this brutality, pushed the pike away with his hand.

Berthier thanked him by a gesture, and did not even deign to turn round to follow this hideous trophy with his eyes. The executioners carried it behind the cabriolet, holding it over Berthier's head.

They thus arrived on the Place de Gr #232;ve; and the prisoner, after unheard-of efforts by the civic guards, who had been re-assembled in some order, was delivered into the hands of the electors of the H #244;tel de Ville.

A dangerous charge, a fearful responsibility, which made Lafayette once more turn pale, and poor Bailly's heart swell almost to breaking.

The mob, after having hacked away for a while at the cabriolet, which had been left at the foot of the front steps, again placed itself in the most advantageous positions, kept guard on all the issues from the building, made all its preparations, and placed new ropes in the pulleys of the lamp-posts.

Billot, at the sight of Berthier, who was tranquilly ascending the great staircase of the H #244;tel de Ville, tore his hair, and could not restrain himself from weeping bitterly.

Pitou, who had left the river's bank, and had come on the quay again when he thought that Foulon's execution had been accomplished; Pitou, terrified, notwithstanding his hatred for Monsieur Berthier, guilty in his eyes not only of all the mob reproached him with, but also of having given gold buckles to Mademoiselle Catherine,-Pitou crouched down sobbing behind a bench.

During this time Berthier had entered the grand Hall of Council as coolly as if all the tumult had reference to some other person, and quietly conversed with the electors.

He knew the greater portion of them, and was even intimate with some of them.

The latter avoided him with the instinctive terror with which timid minds are inspired by the contact of an unpopular man.

Therefore Berthier soon found himself almost alone with Bailly and Lafayette.

He made them relate to him all the particulars of Foulon's death. Then, shrugging his shoulders:-

“Yes,” said he, “I can understand it. They hate us, because we are the instruments with which royalty has tortured the people.”

“Great crimes are laid at your door, sir,” said Bailly, austerely.

“Sir,” replied Berthier, “if I had committed all the crimes with which I am reproached, I should be less or more than man,-a wild beast or a demon. But I shall be tried, I presume, and then the truth will be ascertained.”

“Undoubtedly,” said Bailly.

“Well, then,” rejoined Berthier, “that is all I desire. They have my correspondence, and it will be seen whose orders I have obeyed; and the responsibility will fall on those to whom it rightly appertains.”

The electors cast their eyes upon the square, from which arose the most frightful clamor.

Berthier understood this mute reply.

Then Billot, pushing through the throng which surrounded Bailly, went up to the intendant, and offering him his huge honest hand:-

“Good-day, Monsieur de Sauvigny,” said he to him.

“How! is that you, Billot-” cried Berthier, laughing, and grasping firmly the hand which was held out to him. “What! you have come to Paris to join in these disturbances,-you, my worthy farmer, who used to sell your wheat so well in the market at Villers-Cotterets, Cr #233;py, and Soissons-”

Billot, notwithstanding his democratic tendencies, could not but admire the tranquillity of this man, who could thus smile at a moment when his life was hanging by a thread.

“Install yourselves, gentlemen,” said Bailly to the electors; “we must now proceed to the examination of the charges against the accused.”

“Be it so,” said Berthier; “but I must warn you of one thing, gentlemen, and that is, that I am perfectly exhausted. For the last two days I have not slept. Today, from Compi #232;gne to Paris, I have been pushed about, beaten, dragged along. When I asked for something to eat, they offered me hay, which is not excessively refreshing. Therefore, give me some place where I can sleep, if it. be only for an hour.”

At that moment Lafayette left the room for a short time, to ascertain the state of matters outside. He returned more dispirited than ever.

“My dear Bailly,” said he to the mayor, “exasperation is at its height; to keep Monsieur Berthier here would be exposing ourselves to a siege. To defend the H #244;tel de Ville would be giving these furious madmen the pretext which they wish. Not to defend the H #244;tel de Ville would be acquiring the habit of yielding every time we are attacked.”

During this time, Berthier had sat down, and then stretched himself at full length upon a bench.

He was preparing himself to sleep.

The desperate howls from below were audible to him, for he was near an open window; but they did not disturb him. His countenance retained the serenity of a man who forgets all, to allow sleep to weigh down his eyelids.

Bailly was deliberating with the electors and Lafayette.

Billot had his eyes fixed upon Berthier.

Lafayette was rapidly taking the votes of the electors; after which, addressing the prisoner, who was beginning to slumber:-

“Sir,” said he, “be pleased to get ready.”

Berthier heaved a sigh; then, raising himself on his elbow:-

“Ready for what-” he inquired.

“These gentlemen have decided that you are to be transferred to the Abbaye.”

“To the Abbaye- Well, be it so,” said the intendant. “But,” continued he, looking at the confused electors, whose confusion he readily comprehended,-“but, one way or the other, let us finish this.”

And an explosion of anger and furious impatience long restrained burst forth from the square.

“No, gentlemen, no,” exclaimed Lafayette; “we cannot allow him to depart at this moment.”

Bailly's kind heart and undaunted courage impelled him to come to a sudden resolution. He went down into the square with two of the electors, and ordered silence.

The people knew as well as he did what he was about to say; but as they were fully bent on committing another crime, they would not even listen to a reproach; and as Bailly was opening his lips to speak, a deafening clamor arose from the mob, drowning his voice before a single word could be heard.

Bailly, seeing that it would be impossible for him to proffer even a syllable, returned into the H #244;tel de Ville pursued by cries of “Berthier! Berthier!”

But other cries resounded in the midst of those,-cries similar to those shrill notes which suddenly are heard in the choruses of demons by Weber or by Meyerbeer,-and these were, “To the lamp-post! to the lamp-post!”

On seeing Bailly come back pale and disheartened, Lafayette rushed out in his turn. He is young; he is ardent; he is beloved. That which the old man could not effect, his popularity being but of yesterday, he, Lafayette-he, the friend of Washington and of Necker,-would undoubtedly obtain at the first word.

But in vain was it that the people's general threw himself into the most furious groups. In vain did he speak in the name of justice and humanity. In vain was it that recognizing, or feigning to recognize, certain leaders of the people, did he supplicate them, grasping their hands, and endeavoring to allay their fury.

Not one of his words was listened to; not one or his gestures was understood; not one of the tears he shed was seen.

Repulsed step by step, he threw himself upon his knees on the front steps of the H #244;tel de Ville, conjuring these tigers, whom he called his fellow-citizens, not to dishonor the nation, not to dishonor themselves, not to elevate to the rank of martyrs guilty men, to whom the law would award a degrading death, which degradation was a portion of their punishment.

As he persisted in his entreaties, he was at last personally threatened in his turn; but he defied all threats. Some of these furious wretches drew their knives, and raised them as if to strike.

He bared his breast to their blows, and their weapons were instantly lowered.

But if they thus threatened Lafayette, the threat was still more serious to Berthier.

Lafayette, thus overcome, re-entered the H #244;tel de Ville as Bailly had done.

The electors had all seen Lafayette vainly contending against the tempest. Their last rampart was overthrown.

They decided that the guard of the H #244;tel de Ville should at once conduct Berthier to the Abbaye.

It was sending Berthier to certain death.

“Come, then,” said Berthier, when this decision was announced.

And eying all these men with withering contempt, he took his station in the centre of the guards, after having thanked Bailly and Lafayette for their exertions, and in his turn, held out his hand to Billot.

Bailly turned away his face to conceal his tears, Lafayette to conceal his indignation.

Berthier descended the staircase with the same firm step with which he had ascended it.

At the moment that he appeared on the front steps, a furious howl assailed him, making even the stone step on which he had placed his foot tremble beneath him.

But he, disdainful and impassible, looked at all those flashing eyes calmly and unflinchingly, and shrugging his shoulders, pronounced these words:-

“What a fantastic people- What is there to make them howl thus-”

He had scarcely uttered these words, when he was seized upon by the foremost of the mob. They had rushed on to the front steps and clutched him, though surrounded by his guards. Their iron hands dragged him along. He lost his footing, and fell into the arms of his enemies, who in a second dispersed his escort.

Then an irresistible tide impelled the prisoner over the same path, stained with blood, which Foulon had been dragged over only two hours before.

A man was already seated astride the fatal lamp, holding a rope in his hand.

But another man had clung to Berthier, and this man was dealing out with fury and delirium blows and imprecations on the brutal executioners.

He continually cried:-

“You shall not have him! You shall not kill him!”

This man was Billot, whom despair had driven mad, and as strong as twenty men.

To some he shrieked:-

“I am one of the conquerors of the Bastille!”

And some of those who recognized him became less furious in their attack.

To others he said:-

“Let him be fairly tried. I will be responsible for him. If he is allowed to escape, you shall hang me in his stead.”

Poor Billot! poor worthy man! The whirlwind swept him away,-him and Berthier,-as the water-spout carries away a feather or a straw in its vast spirals.

He moved on without perceiving anything. He had reached the fatal spot.

The thunderbolt is less swift.

Berthier, who had been dragged along backwards,-Berthier, whom they had raised up, seeing that they stopped, raised his eyes and perceived the infamous, degrading halter swinging above his head.

By an effort as violent as it was unexpected, he tore himself from the grasp of those who held him, snatched a musket from the hands of a National Guard, and inflicted several wounds on his self-appointed executioners with his bayonet.

But in a second a thousand blows were aimed at him from behind. He fell, and a thousand other blows from the ruffians who encircled him rained down upon him.

Billot had disappeared beneath the feet of the assassins.

Berthier had not time to suffer. His life's blood and his soul rushed at once from his body through a thousand gaping wounds.

Then Billot was witness to a spectacle more hideous than he had yet seen. He saw a fiend plunge his hand into the open breast of the corpse, and tear out the still smoking heart.

Then, sticking this heart, on the point of his sabre, he held it above the heads of the shouting mob, which opened before him as he advanced, carried it into the H #244;tel de Ville, and laid it on the table of the grand council, where the electors held their sessions.

Billot, that man of iron nerve, could not support this frightful sight; he fell fainting against a post at about ten paces from the fatal lantern.

Lafayette, on seeing this infamous insult offered to his authority,-offered to the Revolution which he directed, or rather which he had believed he should direct,-Lafayette broke his sword, and threw it at the faces of the assassins.

Pitou ran to pick up the farmer, and carried him off in his arms, whispering into his ear:-

“Billot! Father Billot! take care; if they see that you are fainting, they will take you for his accomplice, and will kill you too. That would be a pity-so good a patriot!”

And thereupon he dragged him towards the river, concealing him as well as he was able from the inquisitive looks of some zealous patriots who were murmuring.

CHAPTER XLIII. BILLOT BEGINS TO PERCEIVE THAT ALL IS NOT ROSES IN REVOLUTIONS

BILLOT, who, conjointly with Pitou, had been engaged in all the glorious libations, began to perceive that the cup was becoming bitter.

When he had completely recovered his senses, from the refreshing breezes on the river's banks:-

“Monsieur Billot,” said Pitou to him, “I long for Villers-Cotterets, do not you-”

These words, like the refreshing balm of calmness and virtue, aroused the farmer, whose vigor returned to him, and he pushed through the crowd, to get away at once from the scene of butchery.

“Come,” said he to Pitou, “you are right.”

And he at once determined on going to find Gilbert, who was residing at Versailles, but who, without having revisited the queen after the journey of the king to Paris, had become the right hand of Necker, who had been reappointed minister, and was endeavoring to organize prosperity by generalizing poverty.

Pitou had as usual followed Billot.

Both of them were admitted into the study in which the doctor was writing.

“Doctor,” said Billot, “I am going to return to my farm.”

“And why so-” inquired Gilbert.

“Because I hate Paris.”

“Ah, yes! I understand,” coldly observed Gilbert; “you are tired.”

“Worn out.”

“You no longer like the Revolution-”

“I should like to see it ended.”

Gilbert smiled sorrowfully.

“It is only now beginning,” he rejoined.

“Oh!” exclaimed Billot.

“That astonishes you, Billot-” asked Gilbert.

“What astonishes me the most is your perfect coolness.”

“My friend,” said Gilbert to him, “do you know whence my coolness proceeds-”

“It can only proceed from a firm conviction.”

“Precisely so.”

“And what is that conviction-”

“Guess.”

“That all will end well.”

Gilbert smiled still more gloomily than the first time.

“No; on the contrary, from the conviction that all will end badly.”

Billot cried out with astonishment.

As to Pitou, he opened his eyes to an enormous width; he thought the argument altogether illogical.

“Let us hear,” said Billot, rubbing his ear with his big hand,-“let us hear; for it seems to me that I do not rightly understand you.”

“Take a chair, Billot,” said Gilbert, “and sit down close to me.”

Billot did as he was ordered.

“Closer, closer still, that no one may hear but yourself.”

“And I, Monsieur Gilbert-” said Pitou, timidly, making a move towards the door, as if he thought the doctor wished him to withdraw.

“Oh, no! stay here,” replied the Doctor. “You are young; listen.”

Pitou opened his ears, as he had done his eyes, to their fullest extent, and seated himself on the floor at Father Billot's feet.

This council was a singular spectacle, which was thus held in Gilbert's study, near a table heaped up with letters, documents, new pamphlets, and newspapers, and within four steps of a door which was besieged by a swarm of petitioners, or people having some grievance to complain of. These people were all kept in order by an old clerk, who was almost blind, and had lost an arm.

“I am all attention,” said Billot. “Now explain yourself, my master, and tell us how it is that all will finish badly.”

“I will tell you, Billot. Do you see what I am doing at this moment, my friend-”

“You are writing lines.”

“But the meaning of those lines, Billot-”

“How would you have me guess that, when you know that I cannot even read them-”

Pitou timidly raised his head a little above the table, and cast his eyes on the paper which was lying before the doctor.

“They are figures,” said he.

“That is true,” said Gilbert; “they are figures, which are at the same time the salvation and the ruin of France.”

“Well, now!” exclaimed Billot.

“Well, now! well, now!” repeated Pitou.

“These figures, when they are presented to-morrow,” continued the doctor, “will go to the king's palace, to the mansions of the nobility, and to the cottage of the poor man, to demand of all of them one quarter of their income.”

“Hey-” ejaculated Billot.

“Oh, my poor Aunt Ang #233;lique!” cried Pitou; “what a wry face she will make!”

“What say you to this, my worthy friend-” said Gilbert. “People make revolutions, do they not- Well, they must pay for them.”

“Perfectly just!” heroically replied Billot. “Well, be it so; it will be paid.”

“Oh, you are a man who is already convinced, and there is nothing to astonish me in your answers; but those who are not convinced-”

“Those who are not so-”

“Yes; what will they do-”

“They will resist!” replied Billot, and in a tone which signified that he would resist energetically if he were required to pay a quarter of his income to accomplish a work which was contrary to his convictions.

“Then there would be a conflict,” said Gilbert.

“But the majority,” said Billot.

“Conclude your sentence, my friend.”

“The majority is there to make known its will.”

“Then there would be oppression.”

Billot looked at Gilbert, at first doubtingly, and then a ray of intelligence sparkled in his eye.

“Hold, Billot!” said the doctor, “I know what you are about to say to me. The nobility and the clergy possess everything, do they not-”

“That is undoubted,” replied Billot; “and therefore the convents-”

“The convents-”

“The convents overflow with riches.”

“Notum certumque,” grumbled Pitou.

“The nobles do not pay in proportion to their income. Thus I, a farmer, pay more than twice the amount of taxes paid by my neighbors, the three brothers De Charny, who have between them an income of two hundred thousand livres.”

“But, let us see,” continued Gilbert. “Do you believe that the nobles and the priests are less Frenchmen than you are-”

Pitou pricked up his ears at this proposition, which sounded somewhat heretical at the time, when patriotism was calculated by the strength of elbows on the Place de Gr #232;ve.

“You do not believe a word of it, do you, my friend- You cannot imagine that these nobles and priests, who absorb everything, and give back nothing, are as good patriots as you are-”

“That is true.”

“An error, my dear friend, an error. They are even better, and I will prove it to you.”

“Oh! that, for example, I deny.”

“On account of their privileges, is it not-”

“Zounds! yes.”

“Wait a moment.”

“Oh, I can wait.”

“Well, then, I certify to you, Billot, that in three days from this time the person who will have the most privileges in France will be the man who possesses nothing.”

“Then I shall be that person,” said Pitou, gravely.

“Well, yes, it will be you.”

“But how can that be-”

“Listen to me, Billot. These nobles and these ecclesiastics, whom you accuse of egotism, are just beginning to be seized with that fever of patriotism which is about to make the tour of France. At this moment they are assembled like so many sheep on the edge of the ditch; they are deliberating. The boldest of them will be the first to leap over it; and this will happen to-morrow, perhaps to-night; and after him, the rest will jump it.”

“What is the meaning of that, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“It means to say that, voluntarily abandoning their prerogatives, feudal lords will liberate their peasants, proprietors of estates their farms and the rents due to them, the dovecot lords their pigeons.”

“Oh, oh!” ejaculated Pitou, with amazement; “you think they will give up all that-”

“Oh,” cried Billot, suddenly catching the idea, “that will be splendid liberty indeed!”

“Well, then; arid after that, when we shall all be free, what shall we do next-”

“The deuce!” cried Billot, somewhat embarrassed; “what shall be done next- Why, we shall see!”

“Ah, there is the great word!” exclaimed Gilbert: “we shall see!”

He rose from his chair with a gloomy brow, and walked up and down the room for a few minutes; then, returning to the farmer, whose hand he seized with a violence which seemed almost a threat:-

“Yes,” said he, “we shall see! We shall all see,-you, as I shall; he, as you and I shall. And that is precisely what I was reflecting on just now, when you observed that composure which so much surprised you.”

“You terrify me. The people united, embracing each other, forming themselves into one mass to insure their general prosperity,-can that be a subject which renders you gloomy, Monsieur Gilbert-”

The latter shrugged his shoulders.

“Then,” said Billot, questioning in his turn, “what will you say of yourself if you now doubt, after having prepared everything in the Old World, by giving liberty to the New-”

“Billot,” rejoined Gilbert, “you have just, without at all suspecting it, uttered a word which is the solution of the enigma,-a word which Lafayette has uttered, and which no one, beginning with himself perhaps, fully understands. Yes, we have given liberty to the New World.”

“You! and Frenchmen, too! That is magnificent.”

“It is magnificent; but it will cost us dear,” said Gilbert, sorrowfully.

“Pooh! the money is spent; the bill is paid,” said Billot, joyously. “A little gold, a great deal of blood, and the debt is liquidated.”

“Blind enthusiast!” said Gilbert, “who sees not in this dawning in the west the germ of ruin to us all! Alas! why do I accuse them, when I did not see more clearly than they- The giving liberty to the New World, I fear, I fear greatly, is to prove the total ruin of the old one.”

“Rerum novus nascitur ordo!” exclaimed Pitou, with great Revolutionary self-possession.

“Silence, child!” said Gilbert.

“Was it, then, more difficult to overcome the English than it is now to quiet the French-” asked Billot.

“A new world,” repeated Gilbert; “that is to say, a vast open space, a clear table to work upon,-no laws, but no abuses; no ideas, but no prejudices. In France, thirty thousand square leagues of territory for thirty millions of people; that is to say, should the space be equally divided, scarcely room for a cradle or a grave for each. Out yonder, in America, two hundred thousand square leagues for three millions of persons; frontiers which are ideal, for they border on the desert, which is to say, immensity. In those two hundred thousand leagues, navigable rivers, having a course of a thousand leagues; virgin forests, of which God alone knows the limits,-that is to say, all the elements of life, of civilization, and of a brilliant future. Oh, how easy it is, Billot, when a man is called Lafayette, and is accustomed to wield a sword when a man is called Washington, and is accustomed to reflect deeply,-how easy is it to combat against walls of wood, of earth, of stone, of human flesh! But when, instead of founding, it is necessary to destroy; when we see in the old order of things that we are obliged to attack walls of bygone, crumbling ideas, and behind the ruins even of these walls, that crowds of people and of interests still take refuge; when, after having found the idea, we find that in order to make the people adopt it, it will be necessary, perhaps, to decimate that people, from the old who remember, down to the child who has still to learn; from the recollection which is the monument, down to the instinct which is the germ of it,-then, oh, then, Billot! it is a task which will make all those shudder who can see behind the horizon. I am far-sighted, Billot, and I shudder.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said Billot, with his sound good sense; “you accused me, a short time since, of hating the Revolution, and now you are making it execrable to me.”

“But have I told you that I renounce it-”

“Errare humanum est,” murmured Pitou; “sed perseverare diabolicum.”

And he drew his feet towards him with his hands.

“I shall, however, persevere,” continued Gilbert, “for although I see the obstacles, I can perceive the end; and that end is splendid, Billot. It is not only the liberty of France that I am dreaming of; but it is the liberty of the whole world. It is not physical equality; but it is equality before the laws,-equality of rights. It is not the fraternity of our own citizens, but fraternity between all nations. I may be losing my own soul; my body may perhaps perish in the struggle,” continued Gilbert, in a melancholy tone; “but it matters not. The soldier who is sent to the assault of a fortress, sees the cannon on its ramparts, sees the balls with which they are loaded, sees the match placed near the touch-hole; he sees even more than this,-he sees the direction in which they are pointed, he feels that this piece of black iron may pass through his own breast,-but he still rushes onward; the fortress must be taken. Well, we are all soldiers, Father Billot. Forward, then! and over the heaps of our dead bodies may one day march the generations of which this boy now present is the advanced guard.”

“I do not really know why you despair, Monsieur Gilbert. Is it because an unfortunate man was this day murdered on the Place de Gr #232;ve-”

“And why were you, then, so much horrified- Go, then, Billot, and cut throats also.”

“Oh, what are you now saying, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“Zounds! a man should be consistent. You came here, all pale, all trembling,-you, who are so brave, so strong,-and you said to me, 'I am tired out.' I laughed in your face, Billot; and now that I explain to you why you were pale, why you were worn out, it is you who laugh at me in turn.”

“Speak! Speak! but first of all give me the hope that I shall return cured, consoled, to my fields.”

“Your fields! Listen to me, Billot; all our hope is there. The country-a sleeping revolution, which wakes up once in a thousand years, and gives royalty the vertigo every time it awakens-the country will wake up in its turn, when the day snail come for purchasing or conquering those wrongly acquired territories of which you just now spoke, and with which the nobility and clergy are gorged, even to choking. But to urge on the country to a harvest of ideas, it will be necessary to urge on the countrymen to the conquest of the soil. Man, by becoming a proprietor, becomes free; and in becoming free, he becomes a better man. To us, then, privileged laborers, to whom God has consented that the veil of the future shall be raised; to us, then, the fearful work, which, after giving liberty to the people, shall give them the property of the soil! Here, Billot, will be a good work, and a sorry recompense perhaps; but an active, powerful work, full of joys and vexations, of glory and calumny. The country is still lulled in a dull, impotent slumber, but it waits only to be awakened by our summons, and that new dawn shall be our work. When once the country is awakened, the sanguinary portion of our labors will be terminated, and its peaceable labors, the labors of the country, will commence.”

“What, then, do you now advise that I should do, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“If you wish to be useful to your country, to the nation, to your brother men, to the world, remain here, Billot; take a hammer and work in this Vulcan's furnace, which is forging thunders for the whole world.”

“Remain here to see men butchered, and perhaps at last learn to butcher them myself-”

“How so-” said Gilbert, with a faint smile. “You, Billot, become a murderer! What is it you are saying-”

“I say that should I remain here as you request me,” cried Billot, trembling with agitation,-“I say that the first man whom I shall see attaching a rope to a lamp-post, I will hang that man with these my hands.”

Gilbert's smile became more positive.

“Well, now,” said he, “I find you understand me, and now you also are a murderer.”

“Yes; a murderer of vile wretches.”

“Tell me, Billot, you have seen De Losme, De Launay, De Flesselles, Foulon, and Berthier slaughtered-”

“Yes.”

“What epithet did those who slaughtered them apply to them-”

“They called them wretches.”

“Oh! that is true,” said Pitou; “they did call them wretches.”

“Yes; but it is I who am right, and not they,” rejoined Billot.

“You will be in the right,” said Gilbert, “if you hang them; but in the wrong, if they hang you.”

Billot hung down his head under this heavy blow: then suddenly raising it again, with dignity:-

“Will you venture to maintain,” said he, “that those who assassinate defenceless men, and who are under the safeguard of public honor,-will you maintain that they are as good Frenchmen as I am-”

“Ah!” said Gilbert, “that is quite another question. Yes, in France we have several sorts of Frenchmen. First of all, we have the people, to which Pitou belongs, to which you belong, to which I belong; then we have the French clergy, and then the French nobility,-three classes of Frenchmen in France, each French in its own point of view; that is to say, as regards its own interests, and this without counting the King of France, who is also a Frenchman in his way. Ah, Billot, here you see, in these different modes of all these Frenchmen considering themselves French, the real secret of the Revolution. You will be a Frenchman in your own way; the Abb #233; Maury will be a Frenchman in his way; Mirabeau will be a Frenchman in a mode that differs from that of the Abb #233; Maury; and the king will be a Frenchman in another way than that of Mirabeau. Well, Billot, my excellent friend, thou man of upright heart and sound judgment, you have just entered upon the second part of the question which I am now engaged upon. Do me the pleasure, Billot, to cast your eyes on this.”

And Gilbert presented a printed paper to the farmer.

“What is this-” asked Billot, taking the paper.

“Read.”

“Why, you know full well that I cannot read.”

“Tell Pitou to read it, then.”

Pitou rose, and standing on tiptoe, looked at the paper over the farmer's shoulder.

“That is not French,” said he, “it is not Latin, neither is it Greek.”

“It is English,” replied Gilbert.

“I do not know English,” said Pitou, proudly.

“I do,” said Gilbert, “and I will translate that paper to you; but in the first place, read the signature.”

“PITT,” spelled Pitou; “what does PITT mean-”

“I will explain it to you,” replied Gilbert.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE PITTS

“PITT,” rejoined Gilbert, “is the son of Pitt.”

“Well, now!” cried Pitou; “that is just as we have it in the Bible. There is then Pitt the First, and Pitt the Second-”

“Yes, and Pitt the First, my friends-listen attentively to what I am going to tell you-”

“We are listening,” replied Billot and Pitou at the same moment.

“This Pitt the First was during thirty years the sworn enemy of France; he combated in the retirement of his cabinet, to which he was nailed by the gout, Montealm and Vaudreuil in America, the Bailly de Suffren and D'Estaing on the seas, Noailles and Broglie on the Continent. This Pitt the First made it a principle with him that it was necessary to destroy the influence which France had gained over the whole of Europe: during thirty years he reconquered from us, one by one, all our colonies; one by one, all our factories, the whole of our possessions in the East Indies, fifteen hundred leagues of territory in Canada; and then, when he saw that France was three fourths ruined, he brought up his son to ruin her altogether.”

“Ah! ah!” exclaimed Billot, evidently much interested, “so that the Pitt we have now-”

“Precisely,” replied Gilbert, “he is the son of the Pitt whom we have had, and whom you already know, Father Billot, whom Pitou knows, whom all the universe knows; and this Pitt Junior was thirty years old this last May.”

“Thirty years old-”

“Yes; you see that he has well employed his time, my friends. Notwithstanding his youth he has now governed England for seven years; seven years has he put in practice the theory of his father.”

“Well, then, we are likely to have him for a long time yet,” said Billot.

“And it is the more probable because the vital qualities are very tenacious among the Pitts. Let me give you a proof of it.”

Pitou and Billot indicated by a motion of their heads that they were listening with the greatest attention.

Gilbert continued:-

“In 1778, the father of our enemy was dying; his physicians announced to him that his life was merely hanging by a thread, and that the slightest effort would break that thread. The English Parliament was then debating on the question of abandoning the American colonies and yielding to their desire for independence, in order to put a stop to the war, which threatened, fomented as it was by the French, to swallow up the riches and all the soldiers of Great Britain. It was at the moment when Louis XVI., our good king,-he on whom the whole nation has just conferred the title of 'Father of French Liberty,'-had solemnly recognized the independence of America; and on the fields of battle in that country, and in their councils, the swords and genius of the French had obtained the mastery. England had offered to Washington-that is to say, to the chief of the insurgents-the recognition of American nationality, on condition that the new nation should ally itself with England against France.”

“But,” said Billot, “it appears to me this proposition was not a decent one, to be either offered or accepted.”

“My dear Billot, this is what is called diplomacy; and in the political world ideas of this kind are much admired. Well, Billot, however immoral you may consider the matter, in spite of Washington, the most faithful of men, Americans would have been found to accede to this degrading concession to England. But Lord Chatham, the father of Pitt; the man who had been given over by the physicians, this dying man, this phantom who was already standing knee-deep in the grave, this Chatham, who it might be thought could have desired naught more on this earth but repose,-before sleeping beneath his monument, this feeble old man determined on appearing in the Parliament, where the question was about to be discussed.

“On entering the House of Lords, he was leaning on the one side on the arm of his son, William Pitt, then only nineteen years of age, and on the other on that of his son-in-law, Lord Mahon. He was attired in his magnificent robes, which formed a derisive contrast to his own emaciated form. Pale as a spectre, his eyes half-extinguished beneath his languishing eyelids, he desired his friends to lead him to his usual seat on the bench appropriated to earls; while all the lords rose at his entrance, astounded at the unexpected apparition, and bowed to him in admiration, as the Roman Senate might have done had Tiberius, dead and forgotten, returned among them. He listened in silence and with profound attention to the speech of the Duke of Richmond, the mover of the proposition, and when he had concluded, Lord Chatham rose to reply.

“Then this dying man summoned up strength enough to speak for three whole hours; he found fire enough within his heart to lend lightning to his eyes; in his soul he found accents which stirred up the hearts of all who heard him.

“It is true that he was speaking against France; it is true that he was instilling into the minds of his countrymen the hatred which he felt; it is true that he had called up all his energies, all his fervent eloquence, to ruin and devour this country,-the hated rival of his own. He forbade that America should be recognized as independent; he forbade all sort of compromise; he cried, War! war! He spoke as Hannibal spoke against Rome, as Cato against Carthage! He declared that the duty of every loyal Englishman was to perish, ruined, rather than to suffer that a colony, even one single colony, should detach itself from the mother-country. Having concluded his peroration, having hurled his last threat, he fell to the ground as if thunder-stricken.

“He had nothing more to do in this world,-he was carried expiring from the house.

“Some few days afterwards he was dead.”

“Oh! oh!” cried both Billot and Pitou, simultaneously, “what a man this Lord Chatham was!”

“He was the father of the young man of thirty who is now occupying our attention,” pursued Gilbert. “Lord Chatham died at the age of seventy. If the son lives to the same age, we shall have to endure William Pitt for forty years longer. This is the man, Father Billot, with whom we have to contend; this is the man who now governs Great Britain; who well remembers the names of Lameth, of Rochambeau, and Lafayette; who at this moment knows the name of every man in the National Assembly; he who has sworn a deadly hatred to Louis XVI., the author of the treaty of 1778,-the man, in short, who will not breathe freely as long as there shall be a loaded musket in France and a full pocket. Do you begin to understand-”

“I understand that he has a great detestation of France; yes, that is true, but I do not altogether see your meaning.”

“Nor I,” said Pitou.

“Well, then, read these four words.” And he presented a paper to Pitou.

“English again,” cried Pitou.

“Yes; these are the words,-Don't mind the money.”

“I hear the words, but I do not understand them,” rejoined Pitou.

Gilbert translated the words, and then:-

“But more than this: he farther on reiterates the same advice, for he says: 'Tell them not to be sparing of money, and they need not send me any accounts.'“

“Then they are arming,” said Billot.

“No; they are bribing.”

“But to whom is this letter addressed-”

“To everybody and to nobody. The money which is thus given, thus strewn abroad, thus lavished, is given to peasants, to artisans, to wretches,-to men, in short, who will degrade our Revolution.”

Father Billot held down his head. These words explained many things.

“Would you have knocked down De Launay with the butt-end of a musket, Billot-”

“No.”

“Would you have killed Flesselles by firing a pistol at him-”

“No.”

“Would you have hanged Foulon-”

“No.”

“Would you have carried the still bleeding heart of Berthier and placed it on the table of the electors-”

“Infamy!” exclaimed Billot. “On the contrary, however guilty this man may have been, I would have allowed myself to be torn to pieces could I have saved him by it; and the proof of this is that I was wounded in defending him, and that but for Pitou, who dragged me to the riverside-”

“Oh! that is true,” cried Pitou; “but for me, Father Billot would have had but a bad time of it.”

“Well, then, see you now, Billot, there are many men who would act as you have done, when they feel that they have some one to assist them near them, and who, on the contrary, if abandoned to bad examples, become wicked, then ferocious, then frenzied,-then, when the evil is done, why, 'tis done.”

“But, in short,” observed Billot, objectingly, “admitting that Mr. Pitt, or rather his money, had something to do with the death of Flesselles, of Foulon, and of Berthier, what would he gain by it-”

Gilbert began to laugh with that inaudible laugh which astonishes the simple, but which makes the thinking shudder.

“What would he gain by it!” he exclaimed, “can you ask that-”

“Yes, I do ask it.”

“I will tell you. It is this; you were much pleased with the Revolution, were you not,-you who walked in blood to take the Bastille-”

“Yes, I was pleased with it.”

“Well! you now like it less; well! now you long for Villers-Cotterets, your farm, the quietude of your plain, the shades of your great forests.”

“Frigida Tempe,” murmured Pitou.

“Oh, yes, you are right,” sighed Billot.

“Well, then, you, Father Billot; you, a farmer; you, the proprietor of land; you, a child of the #206;le-de-France, and consequently a Frenchman of the olden time,-you represent the third order; you belong to that which is called the majority. Well, then, you are disgusted.”

“I acknowledge it.”

“Then the majority will become disgusted as you are.”

“And what then-”

“And you will one day open your arms to the soldiers of the Duke of Brunswick or of Mr. Pitt, who will come to you in the name of those two liberators of France to restore wholesome doctrine.”

“Never!”

“Pshaw! wait a little.”

“Flesselles, Berthier, and Foulon were at bottom villains,” observed Pitou.

“Assuredly, as Monsieur de Sartines and Monsieur de Maurepas were villains; as Monsieur d'Argenson and Monsieur de Philippeaux were before them; as Monsieur Law was; as the Leblancs, the De Paris, the Duverneys were villains; as Fouquet was; as Mazarin was also; as Semblancey, as Enguerrand de Marigny were villains; as Monsieur de Brieune is towards Monsieur de Calonne; as Monsieur de Calonne is towards Monsieur de Necker; as Monsieur de Necker will be to the administration which we shall have in two years.”

“Oh, oh, Doctor!” murmured Billot, “Monsieur de Necker a villain-never!”

“As you will be, my good Billot, a villain in the eyes of little Pitou here, in case one of Mr. Pitt's agents should teach him certain theories, backed by the influence of a pint of brandy and ten livres per day for getting up disturbances. This word 'villain,' do you see, Billot, is the word by which in revolutions we designate the man who thinks differently from us; we are all destined to bear that name more or less. Some will bear it so far that their countrymen will inscribe it on their tombs, others so much farther that posterity will ratify the epithet. This, my dear Billot, is what I see, and which you do not see. Billot, Billot! people of real worth must therefore not withdraw.”

“Bah!” cried Billot, “even were honest people to withdraw, the Revolution would still run its course; it is in full motion.”

Another smile rose to the lips of Gilbert.

“Great child!” cried he, “who would abandon the handle of the plough, unyoke the horses from it, and then say: 'Good! the plough has no need of me; the plough will trace its furrow by itself.' But, my friends, who was it undertook the Revolution- honest people, were they not-”

“France flatters herself that it is so. It appears to me that Lafayette is an honest man; it appears to me that Bailly is an honest man; it appears to me that Monsieur de Necker is an honest man; it appears to me that Monsieur Elie, Monsieur Hullin, and Monsieur Maillard, who fought side by side with me, are honest people; it appears to me that you yourself-”

“Well, Billot, if honest people, if you, if I, if Maillard, if Hullin, if Elie, if Necker, if Bailly, if Lafayette should withdraw, who would carry on the work- Why, those wretches, those assassins, those villains whom I have pointed out to you,-the agents, the agents of Mr. Pitt!”

“Try to answer that, Father Billot,” said Pitou, convinced of the justice of the doctor's argument.

“Well, then,” replied Billot, “we will arm ourselves, and shoot these villains down as if they were dogs.”

“Wait a moment; who will arm themselves-”

“Everybody.”

“Billot, Billot! remember one thing, my good friend, and it is this, that what we are doing at this moment is called-what do you call what we are now doing, Billot-”

“Talking politics, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“Well! in politics there is no longer any absolute crime; one is a villain or an honest man, as we favor or thwart the interests of the man who judges us. Those whom you call villains will always give some specious reasons for their crimes; and to many honest people, who may have had a direct or an indirect interest in the commission of these crimes, these very villains will appear honest men also. From the moment that we reach that point, Billot, we must beware. There will then be men to hold the plough-handle. It will move onward, Billot; it will move onward, and without us.”

“It is frightful,” said the farmer; “but if it moves onward without us, where will it stop-”

“God only knows!” exclaimed Gilbert; “as to myself, I know not.”

“Well, then, if you do not know,-you who are a learned man, Monsieur Gilbert,-I, who am an ignoramus, cannot be expected to know anything of the matter. I augur from it-”

“Well, what do you augur from it- Let us hear.”

“I augur from it that what we had better do-I mean Pitou and myself-is to return to the farm. We will again take to the plough, the real plough,-that of iron and wood, with which we turn up the earth, and not the one of flesh and blood, called the French people, and which is as restive as a vicious horse. We will make our corn grow instead of shedding blood, and we shall live free, joyous, and happy as lords in our own domain. Come with us; come with us, Monsieur Gilbert I The deuce! I like to know where I am going!”

“One moment, my stout-hearted friend,” cried Gilbert. “No, I know not whither I am going. I have told you so, and I repeat it to you; however, I still go on, and I will continue to do so. My duty is traced out to me; my life belongs to God; but my works are the debt which I shall pay to my country. If my conscience says to me, 'Go on, Gilbert, you are in the right road; go on,' that is all that I require. If I am mistaken, men will punish me; but God will absolve me.”

“But sometimes men punish those who are not mistaken. You said so yourself just now.”

“And I say it again. It matters not, I persist, Billot; be it an error or not, I shall go on. To guarantee that the events will not prove my inability, God forbid that I should pretend to do so! But before all, Billot, the Lord has said, 'Peace be to the man of good intentions!' Therefore, be one of those to whom God has promised peace. Look at Monsieur de Lafayette, in America as well as France; this is the third white charger he has worn out, without counting those he will wear out in future. Look at Monsieur de Bailly, who wears out his lungs. Look at the king, who wears out his popularity. Come, come, Billot, let us not be egotistical. Let us also wear ourselves out a little. Remain with me, Billot.”

“But to do what, if we do not prevent evil being done-”

“Billot, remember never to repeat those words; for I should esteem you less. You have been trampled under foot, you have received hard fisticuffs, hard knocks from the butt-ends of muskets, and even from bayonets, when you wished to save Foulon and Berthier.”

“Yes, and even a great many,” replied the farmer, passing his hand over his still painful body.

“And as to me,” said Pitou, “I had one eye almost put out.”

“And all that for nothing,” added Billot.

“Well, my children, if instead of there being only ten, fifteen, twenty of your courage, there had been a hundred, two hundred, three hundred, you would have saved the unhappy man from the frightful death which was inflicted on him; you would have spared the nation the blot which has sullied it. And that is the reason why, instead of returning to the country, which is tolerably tranquil,-that is why, Billot, I exact as far as I can exact anything of you, my friend, that you should remain at Paris; that I may have always near me a vigorous arm, an upright heart; that I may test my mind and my works on the faithful touchstone of your good sense and your pure patriotism; and, in fine, that we may strew around us, not gold, for that we have not, but our love of country and of the public welfare, in which you will be my agent with a multitude of misled, unfortunate men,-my staff, should my feet slip; my staff, should I have occasion to strike a blow.”

“A blind man's dog,” said Billot, with sublime simplicity.

“Precisely,” said Gilbert, in the same tone.

“Well,” said Billot, “I accept your proposal. I will be whatever you may please to make me.”

“I know that you are abandoning everything,-fortune, wife, child, and happiness,-Billot. But you may be tranquil; it will not be for long.”

“And I,” said Pitou, “what am I to do-”

“You-” said Gilbert, looking at the ingenuous and hardy youth who boasted not much of his intelligence,-“you will return to the farm, to console Billot's family, and explain to them the holy mission he has undertaken.”

“Instantly!” cried Pitou, trembling with joy at the idea of returning to Catherine.

“Billot,” said Gilbert, “give him your instructions.”

“They are as follows,” said Billot.

“I am all attention.”

“Catherine is appointed by me as mistress of the house. Do you understand-”

“And Madame Billot-” exclaimed Pitou, somewhat surprised at this slight offered to the mother, to the advancement of the daughter.

“Pitou,” said Gilbert, who had at once caught the idea of Billot, from seeing a slight blush suffuse the face of the honest farmer, “remember the Arabian proverb, 'to hear is to obey.'“

Pitou blushed in his turn. He had almost understood, and felt the indiscretion of which he had been guilty.

“Catherine has all the judgment of the family,” added Billot, unaffectedly, in order to explain his idea.

Gilbert bowed in token of assent.

“Is that all-” inquired the youth.

“All that I have to say,” replied Billot.”

“But not as regards me,” said Gilbert.

“I am listening,” observed Pitou, well disposed to attend to the Arabian proverb cited by Gilbert.

“You will go with a letter I shall give you to the College Louis-le-Grand,” added Gilbert. “You will deliver that letter to the Abb #233; B #233;rardier; he will intrust Sebastien to you, and you will bring him here. After I have embraced him, you will take him to Villers-Cotterets, where you will place him in the hands of the Abb #233; Fortier, that he may not altogether lose his time. On Sunday and Thursdays he will go out with you. Make him walk frequently in the meadows and in the woods. It will be more conducible to my tranquillity and his health that he should be in the country yonder than here.”

“I have understood you perfectly,” said Pitou, delighted to be thus restored to the friend of his childhood, and to the vague aspirations of a sentiment somewhat more adult, which had been awakened within him by the magic name of Catherine.

He rose and took leave of Gilbert, who smiled, and of Billot, who was dreaming.

Then he set off, running at full speed, to fetch Sebastien Gilbert, his foster-brother, from the college.

“And now we,” said Gilbert to Billot,-“we must set to work.”

CHAPTER XLV. MEDEA

A DEGREE of calmness had succeeded at Versailles to the terrible moral and political agitations which we have placed before the eyes of our readers.

The king breathed again, and although he could not help reflecting on the suffering his Bourbon pride had endured during his journey to Paris, he consoled himself with the idea of his reconquered popularity.

During this time Monsieur de Necker was organizing, and by degrees losing his.

As to the nobility, they were beginning to prepare their defection or their resistance.

The people were watching and waiting.

During this time the queen, thrown back as it were on the resources of her own mind, assured that she was the object of many hatreds, kept herself in the background, almost dissembled; for she also knew that although the object of hatred to many, she was at the same time the object of many hopes.

Since the journey of the king to Paris she had scarcely caught a glimpse of Gilbert.

Once, however, he had presented himself to her in the vestibule which led to the king's apartments.

And there, as he had bowed to her very humbly and respectfully, she was the first to begin a conversation with him.

“Good-day, sir,” said she to him; “are you going to the king-”

And then she added, with a smile, in which there was a slight tinge of irony:-

“Is it as counsellor, or as physician-”

“It is as his physician, Madame,” replied Gilbert.” I have to-day an appointed service.”

She made a sign to Gilbert to follow her. The doctor obeyed.

They both of them went into a small sitting-room, which led to the king's bedroom.

“Well, sir,” said she, “you see that you were deceiving me when you assured me the other day, with regard to the journey to Paris, that the king was incurring no danger.”

“Who,-I, Madame I” cried Gilbert, astonished.

“Undoubtedly! was not the king fired at-”

“Who has said that, Madame-”

“Everybody, sir; and above all, those who saw the poor woman fall almost beneath the wheels of the king's carriage. Who says that- Why, Monsieur de Beauvau and Monsieur d'Estaing, who saw your coat torn and your frill perforated by the ball.”

“Madame!”

“The ball which thus grazed you, sir, might have killed the king, as it killed that unfortunate woman; for, in short, it was neither you nor that poor woman that the murderers wished to kill.”

“I do not believe in such a crime,” replied the doctor, hesitating.

“Be it so; but I believe in it, sir,” rejoined the queen, fixing her eyes on Gilbert.

“At all events, if there was intentional crime, it ought not to be imputed to the people.”

The queen gave Gilbert a searching look.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, “to whom, then, must it be attributed Speak!”

“Madame,” continued Gilbert, shaking his head, “for some time past I have been watching and studying the people. Well, then, the people, when they assassinate in Revolutionary times,-the people kill with their hands; they are then like the furious tiger, the irritated lion. The tiger and the lion use no intermediate agent between their fury and their victim; they kill for killing's sake: they spill blood to spill it; they like to dye their teeth, to steep their claws in it.”

“Witness Foulon and Berthier, you would say. But was not Flesselles killed by a shot from a pistol- I was so told, at least; but after all,” continued the queen, in a tone of irony, “perhaps it was not true; we crowned heads are so surrounded by flatterers.”

Gilbert, in his turn, looked intently at the queen.

“Oh! as to him,” said he, “you do not believe more than I do, Madame, that it was the people who killed him. There were people who were interested in bringing about his death.”

The queen reflected.

“In fact,” she replied, “that may be possible.”

“Then-” said Gilbert, bowing, as if to ask the queen if she had anything more to say to him.

“I understand, sir,” said the queen, gently, stopping the doctor with an almost friendly gesture; “however that may be, let me tell you that you will never save the king's life so effectually by your medical skill as you did three days ago with your own breast.”

Gilbert bowed a second time.

But as he saw that the queen remained, he remained also.

“I ought to have seen you again, sir,” said the queen, after a momentary repose.

“Your Majesty had no further need of me,” said Gilbert.

“You are modest.”

“I wish I were not so, Madame.”

“And why-”

“Because, being less modest, I should be less timid, and consequently better able to serve my friends or to frustrate enemies.”

“Why do you make that distinction- You say, my friends, but do not say my enemies.”

“Because, Madame, I have no enemies; or rather, because I will not, for my part at least, admit that I have any.”

The queen looked at him with surprise.

“I mean to say,” continued Gilbert, “that those only are my enemies who hate me, but that I on myside hate no one.”

“Because-”

“Because I no longer love any one, Madame.”

“Are you ambitious, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“At one time I hoped to become so, Madame.”

“And-”

“And that passion proved abortive, as did every other.”

“There is one, however, that still remains in your heart,” said the queen, with a slight shade of artful irony.

“In my heart- And what passion is that, good Heaven-”

“Your patriotism.”

Gilbert bowed.

“Oh, that is true!” said he. “I adore my country, and for it I would make every sacrifice.”

“Alas!” said the queen, with undefinable melancholy, “there was a time when a good Frenchman would not have expressed that thought in the terms you now have used.”

“What does the queen mean to say-” respectfully inquired Gilbert.

“I mean to say, sir, that in the times of which I speak, it was impossible for a Frenchman to love his country, without at the same time loving his queen and king.”

Gilbert blushed; he bowed, and felt within his heart one of those electric shocks, which, in her seducing intimacies, the queen produced on those who approached her.

“You do not answer, sir,” she said.

“Madame!” cried Gilbert, “I may venture to boast that no one loves the monarchy more ardently than myself.”

“Are we living in times, sir, when it is sufficient to say this; and would it not be better to prove it by our acts “

“But, Madame,” said Gilbert, with surprise, “I beg your Majesty to believe that all the king or queen might command-”

“You would do,-is it not so-”

“Assuredly, Madame.”

“In doing which, sir,” said the queen, resuming, in spite of herself, a slight degree of her accustomed haughtiness, “you would only be fulfilling a duty.”

“Madame-”

“God, who has given omnipotence to kings,” continued Marie Antoinette, “has released them from the obligation of being grateful to those who merely fulfil a duty.”

“Alas, alas, Madame,” rejoined Gilbert, “the time is approaching when your servants will deserve more than your gratitude, if they will only fulfil their duty.”

“What is it you say, sir-”

“I mean to say, Madame, that in these days of disorder and demolition, you will in vain seek for friends where you have been accustomed to find servants. Pray, pray to God, Madame, to send you other servants, other supporters, other friends than those you have.”

“Do you know any such-”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Then point them out to me.”

“ See now, Madame; I who now speak to you,-I was your enemy but yesterday.”

“My enemy! and why were you so-”

“Because you ordered that I should be imprisoned.”

“And to-day-”

“To-day, Madame,” replied Gilbert, bowing, “I am your servant.”

“And your object-”

“Madame-”

“The object for which you have become my servant. It is not in your nature, sir, to change your opinion, your belief, your affections, so suddenly. You are a man, Monsieur Gilbert, whose remembrances are deeply planted; you know how to perpetuate your vengeance. Come, now, tell me what was the motive of this change-”

“Madame, you reproached me but now with loving my country too passionately.”

“No one can ever love it too much, sir; the only question is to know how we love it. For, myself, I love my country.” (Gilbert smiled.) “Oh, no false interpretations, sir! my country is France. A German by blood, I am a Frenchwoman in my heart. I love France; but it is through the king. I love France from the respect due to God, who has given us the throne. And now to you, sir.”

“To me, Madame-”

“Yes, it is now for you to speak. I understand you, do I not- To you it is quite another matter. You love France merely and simply for France herself.”

“Madame,” replied Gilbert, bowing, “I should fail in respect to your Majesty, should I fail in frankness.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the queen, “frightful, frightful period I when all people who pretend to be people of worth, isolate two things which have never been separated from each other; two principles which have always gone hand in hand,-France and her king. But have you not a tragedy of one of your poets, in which it is asked of a queen who has been abandoned by all, 'What now remains to you-' and to which she replies, 'Myself' Well, then, like Medea, I also will say, 'Myself!' and we shall see.”

And she angrily left the room, leaving Gilbert in amazement.

She had just raised to his view, by the breath of her anger, one corner of the veil behind which she was combining the whole work of the counter-revolution.

“Come, come!” said Gilbert to himself, as he went into the king's room, “the queen is meditating some project.”

“Well,” said the queen to herself, as she was returning to her apartment, “decidedly, there is nothing to be made of this man. He has energy, but he has no devotedness.”

Poor princes! with whom the word devotednesss” is synonymous with “servility.”

CHAPTER XLVI. WHAT THE QUEEN WISHED

GILBERT returned to Monsieur Necker after his professional visit to the king, whom he had found as tranquil as the queen was agitated.

The king was composing speeches; he was examining accounts; he was meditating reforms in the laws.

This well-intentioned man, whose look was so kind, whose soul was so upright, whose heart erred only from prejudices inherent to the royal condition,-this man was absolutely bent on producing trivial reforms in exchange for the serious inroads made on his prerogative. He was obstinately bent on examining the distant horizon with his short-sighted eyes, when an abyss was yawning beneath his feet. This man inspired Gilbert with a feeling of profound pity. As to the queen, it was not thus; and in spite of his impassibility, Gilbert felt that she was one of those women whom it was necessary to love passionately, or to hate even to the death.

When she had returned to her own apartment, Marie Antoinette felt as if an immense burden were weighing on her heart.

And in fact, whether as a woman or as a queen, she felt that there was nothing stable around her,-nothing which could aid her in supporting even a portion of the burden which was crushing her.

On whichever side she turned her eyes, she saw only hesitation and doubt.

The courtiers, anxious with regard to their fortunes, and realizing what they could.

Relatives and friends thinking of emigrating.

The proudest woman of them all, Andr #233;e, gradually becoming estranged from her in heart and mind.

The noblest and the most beloved of all the men who surrounded her, De Charny, wounded by her caprice and a prey to doubt.

The position of affairs caused her great anxiety,-she, who was instinct and sagacity personified.

How could this man, who was purity itself, how could this heart without alloy have changed so suddenly-

“No, he has not yet changed,” said the queen to herself, sighing deeply, “but he is about to change.”

He is about to change!-frightful conviction to the woman who loves passionately, insupportable to the woman who loves with pride.

Now, the queen loved De Charny both passionately and proudly.

The queen was suffering therefore from two wounds.

And yet, at that very time,-at the time when she felt the consciousness of having acted wrongly, of the evil she had committed,-she had still time to remedy it.

But the mind of that crowned woman was not a flexible mind. She could not descend to waver, even though she knew she was acting unjustly; had it been towards an indifferent person, she might or would have wished to show some greatness of soul, and then she might perhaps have asked for forgiveness.

But to the man whom she had honored with an affection at once so tender and so pure, to him whom she had deigned to admit to a participation in her most secret thoughts, the queen considered it would be degrading to make the slightest concession.

The misfortune of queens who condescend to love a subject, is to love him always as queens, but never as women.

Marie Antoinette estimated herself at so high a price that she thought there was nothing human which could compensate her love, not even blood, not even tears.

From the moment she felt that she was jealous of Andr #233;e, she had begun to dwindle morally.

The consequence of this inferiority was her caprice.

The consequence of her caprice was anger.

The consequence of her anger was evil thoughts, which always bring in their train evil actions.

De Charny did not enter into any of the considerations which we have just stated; but he was a man, and he had comprehended that Marie Antoinette was jealous of his wife.

Of his wife, towards whom he had never shown any affection.

There is nothing which so much revolts an upright heart, one altogether incapable of treachery, as to see that it is believed capable of treachery.

There is nothing which so much conduces to direct the attention towards a person as the jealousy with which that person is honored.

Above all, if that jealousy be really unjust.

Then the person who is suspected reflects.

He alternately considers the jealous heart and the person who has caused that jealousy.

The greater the soul of the jealous person, the greater is the danger into which it throws itself.

In fact, how is it possible to suppose that a person of expansive heart, of superior intelligence, of legitimate pride, could become agitated for a mere nothing, or for anything of trifling value Why should a woman who is beautiful be jealous- Why should a woman of the highest rank, power, and talent be jealous- How could it be supposed that, possessing all these advantages, a woman could be jealous for a mere nothing, or for anything of trifling value-

The jealous person is like the lime-hound, pointing out merits to the indifferent, which, left to himself, he would never have discovered.

De Charny knew that Mademoiselle Andr #233;e de Taverney had been long a friend of the queen,-that in former days she had been well treated, always preferred by her. How then was it that she no longer loved her- How was it that Marie Antoinette had all at once become jealous of her-

She must therefore have discerned some secret and mysterious beauty which Monsieur de Charny had not discovered, and undoubtedly because he had not sought for it.

She had therefore felt that De Charny might have perceived something in this woman, and that she, the queen, had lost in the comparison.

Or again, she might have believed that she perceived that De Charny loved her less, without there being any extraneous cause for this diminution of his passion.

There is nothing more fatal to the jealous than the knowledge which they thus give to others of the temperature of that heart which they wish to keep in the most fervid degree of heat.

How often does it happen that the loved object is informed by reproaches of a coldness which he had begun to experience without being able to account for it-

And when he discovers that; when he feels the truth of the reproach,-say, Madame, how many times have you found that he has allowed your chains to be again thrown round him, that his languishing flame has been rekindled-

O unskilfulness of lovers! It is, however, true that where much art or adroitness is exercised, there scarcely ever exists a great degree of love.

Marie Antoinette had therefore herself taught De Charny to believe, by her own anger and injustice, that his heart was less full of love than formerly.

And as soon as he knew this, he endeavored to account for it, and looking around him, very naturally discovered the cause of the queen's jealousy.

Andr #233;e, the poor, abandoned Andr #233;e, who had been a bride, but had never been a wife.

He pitied Andr #233;e.

The scene of the return from Paris had unveiled the secret of this deep-rooted jealousy, so carefully concealed from all eyes.

The queen also clearly saw that all was discovered; and as she would not bend before De Charny, she employed another method, which in her opinion would lead to the same end.

She began to treat Andr #233;e with great kindness.

She admitted her to all her excursions, to all her evening parties; she overwhelmed her with caresses; she made her the envy of all the other ladies of the court.

And Andr #233;e allowed her to do all this, with some astonishment, but without feeling grateful for it. She had for years said to herself that she belonged to the queen, that the queen could do as she pleased with her, and therefore was it that she submitted to it.

But, on the other side, as it was necessary that the irritation of the woman should be vented on some one, the queen began to treat De Charny severely. She no longer spoke to him; she was absolutely harsh to him; she affected to pass evenings, days, weeks, without observing that he was present.

Only, when he was absent, the heart of the poor woman swelled with anxiety; her eyes wandered around eagerly, seeking him, from whom, the moment they perceived him, they were instantly averted.

Did she need the support of an arm, had she an order to give, had she a smile to throw away, it was bestowed on the first comer.

But this first comer never failed to be a handsome and distinguished man. The queen imagined she was curing her own wound by wounding De Charny.

The latter suffered, but was silent. Not an angry or impatient gesture escaped him. He was a man possessing great self-command; and although suffering frightful torture, he remained, to appearance, perfectly impassible.

Then was seen a singular spectacle,-a spectacle which women alone can furnish and fully comprehend.

Andr #233;e felt all the sufferings of her husband; and as she loved him with that angelic love which never had conceived a hope, she pitied him, and allowed him to perceive she did so.

The result of this compassion was a sweet and tacit reconciliation. She endeavored to console De Charny without allowing him to perceive that she comprehended the need he had of consolation.

And all this was done with that delicacy which may be called essentially feminine, seeing that women alone are capable of it.

Marie Antoinette, who had sought to divide in order to reign, perceived that she had made a false move, and that she was only drawing together two souls by the very means which she had adopted to keep them separate.

Then the poor woman, during the silence and the solitude of night, endured the most frightful paroxysms of despair, such as would make us wonder that God had created beings of sufficient strength to support them.

And the queen would assuredly have succumbed to so many ills, but for the constant occupation given to her mind by political events. No one complains of the hardness of a bed when his limbs are exhausted by fatigue.

Such were the circumstances under which the queen had been living since the return of the king to Versailles, up to the day when she thought seriously of resuming the absolute exercise of her power.

For in her pride, she attributed to her decadence the species of depreciation to which for some time her feminine nature had been subjected.

To her energetic mind, to think was to act. She therefore commenced her combinations without losing a moment.

Alas! these combinations which she was then meditating were those which wrought out her perdition.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE FLANDERS REGIMENT

UNFORTUNATELY, in the queen's opinion, all the facts which had occurred were merely accidents, which a firm and active hand might remedy. It was only necessary to concentrate her power.

The queen, seeing that the Parisians had so suddenly transformed themselves into soldiers, and appeared to wish for war, resolved on showing them what real war was actually.

“Up to this time, they have only had to deal with the Invalides, or with Swiss, but ill supported and wavering; we will show them what it is to have opposed to them two or three well-disciplined and royalist regiments.

“Perhaps there may be a regiment of this description which has already put to flight some of these rebellious rioters, and has shed blood in the convulsions of civil war. We will have the most celebrated of these regiments ordered here. The Parisians will then understand that their best policy will be to abstain from provocation.”

This was after all the quarrel between the king and the National Assembly with regard to the veto. The king, during two months, had been struggling to recover some tattered shreds of sovereignty; he had, conjointly with the administration and Mirabeau, endeavored to neutralize the republican outburst which was endeavoring to efface royalty in France.

The queen had exhausted herself in this struggle, and was exhausted above all from having seen the king succumb.

The king in this contention had lost all his power and the remains of his popularity. The queen had gained an additional name, a nickname.

One of those words which were altogether foreign to the ears of the people, and from that reason more pleasing to the ears of the people,-a name which had not yet become an insult, but which was soon to become the most opprobrious of all; a witty saying, which afterwards was changed into a sanguinary rallying cry.

In short, she was called “Madame Veto.”

This name was destined to be borne in Revolutionary songs beyond the banks of the Rhine, to terrify in Germany the subjects and the friends of those who, having sent to France a German queen, had some right to be astonished that she was insulted by the name of the “Autrichienne" (the Austrian woman).

This name was destined in Paris to accompany, in the insensate dancing-rings, on days of massacre, the last cries, the hideous agonies of the victims.

Marie Antoinette was thenceforth called “Madame Veto,” until the day when she was to be called the “Widow Capet.”

She had already changed her name three times. After having been called the “Autrichienne,” she was next called “Madame Deficit.”

After the contests in which the queen had endeavored to interest her friends by the imminence of their own danger, she had remarked that sixty thousand passports had been applied for at the H #244;tel de Ville.

Sixty thousand of the principal families of Paris and of France had gone off to rejoin in foreign countries the friends and relatives of the queen,-a very striking example, and one which had forcibly struck the queen.

And therefore, from that moment she meditated a skilfully concerted flight,-a flight supported by armed force should it be necessary; a flight which had for its object safety, after which the faithful who remained in France might carry on the civil war; that is to say, chastise the Revolutionists.

The plan was not a bad one. It would assuredly have succeeded, but behind the queen the evil genius was also watching.

Strange destiny! that woman, who inspired so many with enthusiastic devotedness, yet could nowhere find discretion.

It was known at Paris that she wished to fly before she had even persuaded herself to adopt the measure.

Marie Antoinette did not perceive that from the moment her intention had become known, her plan had become impracticable.

However, a regiment, celebrated for its royalist sympathies, the Flanders regiment, arrived at Versailles by forced marches.

This regiment had been demanded by the municipal authorities of Versailles, who, tormented by the extraordinary guards, and by the strict watch it was necessary to keep around the palace, incessantly threatened by fresh demands for distributions of provisions, and successive disturbances, stood in need of some other military force than the National Guards and the Militia.

The palace had already quite enough to do to defend itself.

The Flanders regiment arrived, as we have said; and that it should at once assume all the importance with which it was intended to be invested, it was necessary that a brilliant reception should be given to it, that it might at once attract the attention of the people.

The Count d'Estaing assembled all the officers of the National Guard and all those of the corps then present at Versailles and went out to meet it.

The regiment made a solemn entry into Versailles, with its park of artillery and its ammunition-wagons.

Around this group, which then became central, assembled a crowd of young gentlemen, who did not belong to any regular corps.

They adopted a sort of uniform by which they could recognize one another, and were joined by all the officers unattached, all the chevaliers of the Order of Saint Louis, whom danger or interest had brought to Versailles.

After this they made excursions to Paris, where were seen these new enemies, fresh, insolent, and puffed up with a secret which was sure to escape them as soon as an opportunity should present itself.

At that moment the king might have escaped. He would have been supported, protected on his journey, and Paris perhaps, still ignorant and ill prepared, would have allowed his departure.

But the evil genius of the Autrichiefine was still watching.

Li #233;ge revolted against the emperor; and the occupation which this revolt gave to Austria prevented her from thinking of the queen of France.

The latter, on her side, thought that in delicacy she must abstain from asking any aid at such a moment.

Then events, to which impulsion had been given, continued to rush on with lightning-like rapidity.

After the ovation in honor of the Flanders regiment, the body-guards decided on giving a dinner to the officers of that regiment.

This banquet, this festival, was fixed for the 1st of October. Every important personage in the town was invited to it.

And what, then, was the object of this banquet- To fraternize with the Flanders soldiers. And why should not soldiers fraternize with one another, since the districts and the provinces fraternize-

Was it forbidden by the Constitution that gentlemen should fraternize-

The king was still the master of his regiments, and he alone commanded them; the palace of Versailles was his own property; he alone had a right to receive into it whomsoever he might please.

And why should he not receive brave soldiers and worthy gentlemen within it,-men who had just come from Douai, where they had behaved well.

Nothing could be more natural. No one thought of being astonished, and still less of being alarmed at it.

This repast, to be taken thus in union, was about to cement the affection which ought always to subsist between all the corps of a French army, destined to defend both liberty and royalty.

Besides, did the king even know what had been agreed upon-

Since the events of Paris, the king, free, thanks to his concessions, no longer occupied himself with public matters; the burden of affairs had been taken from him. He desired to reign no longer, since others reigned for him; but he did not think that he ought to weary himself by doing nothing all day long.

The king, while the gentlemen of the National Assembly were fraudulently cutting and contriving,-the king amused himself by hunting.

The king, while the nobility and the reverend bishops were abandoning, on the 4th of August, their dovecots and their feudal rights, their pigeons and their parchments,-the king, who was very willing, as all the world was doing it, to make some sacrifices, abolished all his hunting train; but he did not cease to hunt on that account.

Now, the king, while the officers of the Flanders regiment were to be dining with his body-guards, would be enjoying the pleasures of the chase, as he did every day; the tables would be cleared away before his return.

This would even inconvenience him so little, and he would so little inconvenience the banquet in question, that it was resolved to ask the queen to allow the festival to be given within the walls of the palace itself.

The queen saw no reason for refusing this hospitality to the Flanders soldiers.

She gave them the theatre for their banquet-room, in which she allowed them for that day to construct a flooring even with the stage, that there might be ample space for the guards and their guests.

When a queen wishes to be hospitable to French gentlemen, she is so to the full extent of her power. This was their dining-room, but they also required a drawing-room; the queen allowed them to use the salon of Hercules.

On a Thursday, the 1st of October, as we have already said, this feast was given, which was destined to fill so fatal a page in the history of the blindness and improvidence of royalty.

The king had gone out hunting.

The queen was shut up in her own apartments, sorrowful and pensive, and determined not to hear either the ringing of the glasses when the officers gave their toasts, or the sound of their enthusiastic cheers.

Her son was in her arms; Andr #233;e was with her; two women were at work in one corner of the room; those were the only persons with her.

The brilliantly attired officers, with their waving plumes and bright gleaming arms, by degrees entered the palace. Their horses neighed before the grated gates of the royal stables; their clarions sounded as they approached; and the bands of the Flanders regiment and the guards filled the air with harmonious sounds.

Outside the gilded railings of the courtyard of the palace was a pale, inquisitive crowd, gloomily anxious, watching, analyzing, and commenting on the joyous festival within, and the airs played by the military bands.

In gusts, like the squalls of a distant tempest, there exhaled from the open portals of the palace the sounds of merriment with the odors of the savory viands.

It was very imprudent to allow this crowd of starving people to inhale the odors of the good cheer and wine,-to allow these morose people to hear these sounds of jovial festivity.

The festival was however continued, without anything disturbing its conviviality; for a time all was conducted with sobriety and order. The officers, full of respect for the uniform they wore, at first conversed in an undertone and drank moderately; during the first half hour, the programme which had been agreed upon was strictly adhered to.

The second course was put on the table.

Monsieur de Lusignan, the colonel of the Flanders regiment, rose and proposed four toasts.They were to the health of the king, the queen, the dauphin, and the royal family.

Four shouts of applause re-echoed from the vaulted roofs, and struck the ears of the sorrowful spectators outside the palace.

An officer rose; perhaps he was a man of judgment and of courage,-man of sound good sense, who foresaw the issue of all this; a man sincerely attached to that royal family whose health had just been drunk so noisily.

This man comprehended that among these toasts there was one which was omitted, which probably might present itself to their attention.

He therefore proposed this toast, “The Nation.”

A long murmur preceded a long shout.

“No, no!” cried every person present except the proposer of the toast.

And then the toast to the nation was contemptuously rejected.

The festival had just assumed its real character; the torrent had found its real course.

It has been said, and it is still repeated, that the person who proposed this toast was but an instigator of an opposing manifestation.

However this might be, his words produced an untoward effect. To forget the nation might have been but a trifle, but to insult it Was too much. It avenged itself.

As from this moment the ice was broken, as to the reserved silence succeeded boisterous cries and excited conversation, discipline became but a chimerical modesty; the dragoons, the grenadiers, the “hundred Swiss” were sent for, and even all the private soldiers in the palace.

The wine was pushed round quickly; ten times were the glasses filled; when the dessert was brought in, it was absolutely pillaged. Intoxication became general; the soldiers forgot that they were drinking with their officers; it was in reality a fraternal festival.

From all parts were heard shouts of “Long live the king! long live the queen!” So many flowers, so many lights, illuminating the brilliantly gilded arches, so many faces bright with happiness, so many loyal lightning darting from the eyes of these brave men,-was a spectacle which would have been grateful to the eyes of the queen, and reassuring to those of the king.

This so unfortunate king, this so sorrowful queen, why were they not present at such a festival I

Some officious partisans withdrew from the dining-room, and ran to Marie Antoinette's apartments, and related, exaggerated to her what they had seen.

Then the sorrowing eyes of the queen become reanimated, and she rises from her chair. There is, then, some loyalty left, some affection in French hearts!

There is therefore something still to hope!

At the doors were soon assembled a crowd of courtiers; they entreat, they conjure the queen to pay a visit, merely to show herself for a moment in the festive hall, where two thousand enthusiastic subjects are consecrating, by their hurrahs, veneration for monarchical principles.

“The king is absent,” she sorrowfully replied. “I cannot go there alone.”

“But with Monseigneur the Dauphin,” said some imprudent persons who still insisted on her going.

“Madame! Madame!” whispered a voice into her ear, “remain here; I conjure you to remain.”

The queen turned round; it was the Count de Charny.

“What!” cried she; “are you not below with all those gentlemen-”

“I was there, Madame, but have returned. The excitement down yonder is so great that it may prejudice your Majesty's interests more than may be imagined.”

Marie Antoinette was in one of her sullen, her capricious days, with regard to De Charny. It pleased her on that day to do precisely the contrary of everything that might have been agreeable to the count.

She darted at him a disdainful look, and was about to address some disagreeable words to him, when, preventing her by a respectful gesture:-

“For mercy's sake, Madame,” added he, “at least await the king's advice!”

He thought by this to gain time.

“The king! the king!” exclaimed several voices; “the king has just returned from hunting.”

And this was the fact.

Marie Antoinette rose and ran to meet the king, who, still booted and covered with dust, entered the room.

“Sire,” cried she, “there is below a spectacle worthy of the King of France Come with me! come with me!”

And she took the king's arm and dragged him away without looking at De Charny, who could not conceal his distress.

Leading her son with her left hand, she descended the staircase. A whole flood of courtiers preceded or urged her on. She reaches the door of the theatre at the moment when for the twentieth time the glasses were being emptied with shouts of “Long live the king! long live the queen!”

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE BANQUET GIVEN BY THE GUARDS

AT the moment when the queen appeared with the king and their son on the stage of the theatre, an immense acclamation, as sudden and as loud as the explosion of a mine, was heard from the banqueting table and boxes. The inebriated soldiers, the officers delirious with wine and enthusiasm, waving their hats and sabres above their heads, shouted, “Long live the king I long live the queen! long live the dauphin!”

The bands immediately played, “Oh, Richard! oh, my king!”

The allusion of this air had become so apparent, it so well expressed the thoughts of all present, it so faithfully translated the meaning of this banquet, that all, as soon as the air began, immediately sang the words.

The queen, in her enthusiasm, forgot that she was in the midst of inebriated men; and the king, though surprised, felt, with his accustomed sound sense, that it was no place for him, and that it was going beyond his conscientious feelings; but weak, and flattered at once more finding a popularity and zeal which he was no longer habituated to meet from his people, he, by degrees, allowed himself to be carried away by the general hilarity.

De Charny, who during the whole festival had drunk nothing but water, followed the king and queen. He had hoped that all would have terminated without their being present, and then it would have been but of slight importance; they might have disavowed, have denied everything; but he turned pale at the thought that the presence of the king and queen would become an historical fact.

But his terror was increased greatly when he saw his brother George approach the queen, and encouraged by her smile, address some words to her.

Charny was not near enough to hear the words, but by his brother's gestures he could comprehend that he was making some request.

To this request the queen made a sign of assent, and suddenly taking from her cap the cockade she wore upon it, gave it to the young man.

De Charny shuddered, stretched forth his arms, and uttered a cry.

It was not even the white cockade-the French cockade-which the queen presented to her imprudent knight; it was the black cockade,-the Austrian cockade; the cockade which was so hateful to French eyes.

What the queen then did was no longer a mere imprudence; it was an act of absolute treason.

And yet all these poor fanatics, whom God had doomed to ruin, were so insensate that when George de Charny presented to them this black cockade, those who wore the white cockade threw it from them; those who had the tricolored one trampled it beneath their feet.

And then the excitement became so great that unless they had wished to be stifled with their kisses, or to trample under foot those who threw themselves on their knees before them, the august hosts of the Flanders regiment felt obliged to retreat towards their apartments.

All this might have been considered as a sample of French folly, which the French are always ready enough to pardon, if these orgies had not gone beyond the point of enthusiasm; but they soon went much farther.

Good royalists, when eulogizing the king, must necessarily somewhat ill-treat the nation.

That nation, in whose name so much vexation had been offered to the king that the bands had undoubtedly the right to play:-

“Pent on affliger ce qu'on aime-”

“Can we afflict those whom we love-”

It was while this air was being played that the king, the queen, and the dauphin withdrew.

They had scarcely left the theatre when, exciting each other, the boon companions metamorphosed the banqueting-room into a town taken by assault.

Upon a signal given by Monsieur de Perseval, aide-de-camp to the Count d'Estaing, the trumpets sounded a charge.

A charge, and against whom Against the absent enemy.

Against the people!

A charge! music so enchanting to French ears that it had the effect of transforming the stage of the Opera-House at Versailles into a battle-field, and the lovely ladies who were gazing from the boxes at the brilliant spectacle were the enemy.

The cry “To the assault!” was uttered by a hundred voices, and the escalade of the boxes immediately commenced. It is true that the besiegers were in a humor which inspired so little terror that the besieged held out their hands to them.

The first who reached the balcony was a grenadier in the Flanders regiment. Monsieur de Perseval tore a cross from his own breast and decorated the grenadier with it.

It is true that it was a Limbourg cross,-one of those crosses which are scarcely considered crosses.

And all this was done under the Austrian colors, with oud vociferations against the national cockade.

Here and there some hollow and sinister sounds were uttered.

But, drowned by the howling of the singers, by the hurrahs of the besiegers, by the inspiring sounds of the trumpets, these noises were borne with threatening import to the ears of the people, who were, in the first place, astonished, and then became indignant.

It was soon known outside the palace, in the square, and afterwards in the streets, that the black cockade had been substituted for the white one, and that the tricolored cockade had been trampled under foot. It was also known that a brave officer of the National Guard, who had, in spite of threats, retained his tricolored cockade, had been seriously wounded even in the king's apartments.

Then it was vaguely rumored that one officer alone had remained motionless, sorrowful, and standing at the entrance of that immense banqueting-room converted into a circus, wherein all these madmen had been playing their insensate pranks, and had looked on, listened to, and had shown himself, loyal and intrepid soldier as he was, submissive to the all-powerful will of the majority, taking upon himself the faults of others, accepting the responsibility of all the excesses committed by the army, represented on that fatal day by the officers of the Flanders regiment; but the name of this man, wise and alone amid so many madmen, was not even pronounced; and had it been, it would never have been believed that the Count de Charny, the queen's favorite, was the man, who, although ready to die for her, had suffered more painfully than any other from the errors she had committed.

As to the queen, she had returned to her own apartments, completely giddy from the magic of the scene.

She was soon assailed by a throng of courtiers and flatterers.

“See,” said they to her, “what is the real feeling of your troops; judge from this whether the popular fury or anarchical ideas, which has been so much spoken of, would withstand the ferocious ardor of French soldiers for monarchical ideas.” And as all these words corresponded with the secret desires of the queen, she allowed herself to be led away by these chimeras, not perceiving that De Charny had remained at a distance from her.

By degrees, however, the noises ceased; the slumber f the mind extinguished all the ignes-fatui, the phantasmagoria of intoxication. The king, besides, paid a visit to the queen at the moment she was about to retire, and let fall these words, replete with profound wisdom:-

“We shall see to-morrow.”

The imprudent man! by this saying, which to any other person but the one to whom it was addressed would have been a warning and sage counsel, he had revivified in the queen's mind feelings of provocation and resistance which had almost subsided.

“In fact,” murmured she, when the king had left her, this flame, which was confined to the palace this evening, will spread itself in Versailles during the night, and to-morrow will produce a general conflagration throughout France. All these soldiers, all these officers, who have this evening given me such fervent pledges of their devotedness, will be called traitors, rebels to the nation, murderers of their country. They will call the chiefs of these aristocrats the subalterns of the stipendiaries of Pitt and Coburg, of the satellites of power, of the barbarians, the savages of the North.

“Each of these heads which has worn the black cockade will be doomed to be fixed to the lamp-post on the Place de Gr #232;ve.

“Each of those breasts from which so loyally escaped those shouts of 'Long live the queen!' will, on the first popular commotion, be pierced with ignoble knives and infamous pikes.

“And it is I, again-I, always I, who have been the cause of all this! I shall have condemned to death all these brave and faithful servants,-I, the inviolable sovereign. They are hypocritically left unassailed when near me, but when away from me will be insulted from hatred.

“Oh, no, rather than be ungrateful to such a degree as that, towards my only, my last friends,-rather than be so cowardly and so heartless, I will take the fault upon myself. It is for me that all this has been done; upon me let all their anger fall. We shall then see how far their anger will be carried; we shall see up to which step of my throne the impure tide will dare to ascend.”

And to the queen, animated by these thoughts, which drove sleep from her pillow, and on which she meditated during the greater part of the night, the result of the events of the next day was no longer doubtful.

The next day came, clouded over with gloomy regrets, and ushered in by threatening murmurs.

On that day the National Guards, to whom the queen had presented their colors, came to the palace with heads cast down and averted eyes, to thank her Majesty.

It was easy to divine from the attitude of these men that they did not approve what had occurred, but on the contrary, that they would have loudly disapproved it had they dared.

They had formed part of the procession, and had gone out to form part of the Flanders regiment; they had received invitations to the banquet, and had accepted them. Only, being more citizens than soldiers, it was they who during the debauch had uttered those disapproving words which had not been heeded.

These words on the following day had become a reproach, a blame.

When they came to the palace to thank the queen, they were escorted by a great crowd.

And taking into consideration the serious nature of the circumstances, the ceremony became an imposing one.

The parties on both sides were about to discover with whom they would have to deal.

On their side, all those soldiers and officers who had so compromised themselves the evening before, were anxious to ascertain how far they would be supported by the queen in their imprudent demonstrations, and had placed themselves before that people whom they had scandalized and insulted, that they might hear the first official words which should be uttered from the palace.

The weight of the whole counter-revolution was then hanging suspended over the head of the queen.

It was, however, still within her power to withdraw from this responsibility.

But she, proud as the proudest of her race, with great firmness cast her clear and penetrating gaze on all around her, whether friends or enemies, and addressing herself in a sonorous voice to the officers of the National Guards:-

“Gentlemen,” said she, “I am much pleased at having presented you with your colors. The nation and the army ought to love the king as we love the nation and the army. I was delighted with the events of yesterday.”

Upon these words, which she emphasized in her firmest tone of voice; a murmur arose from the crowd, and loud applause re-echoed from the military ranks:

“We are supported,” said the latter.

“We are betrayed,” said the former.

Thus, poor queen, that fatal evening of the 1st of October was not an accidental matter; thus, unfortunate woman, you do not regret the occurrences of yesterday; you do not repent. And so far from repenting, you are delighted with them.

De Charny, who was in the centre of a group, heard with a sigh of extreme pain this justification,-nay, more: than that, this glorification of the orgies of the king's guards.

The queen, on turning away her eyes from the crowd, met those of the count; and she fixed her looks on the countenance of her lover in order to ascertain the impression her words had produced upon him.

“Am I not courageous-” was the import of this look.

“Alas, Madame, you are far more mad than courageous,” replied the gloomy countenance of the count.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE WOMEN BEGIN TO STIR

AT Versailles the court was talking heroically against the people.

At Paris, they were becoming knights-errant against the court; only the knights-errant were running about the streets.

These knights of the people were wandering about in rags, their hands upon the hilt of a sabre or the butt-end of a pistol, questioning their empty pockets or their hollow stomachs.

While at Versailles they drank too much, at Paris, alas! they did not eat enough.

There was too much wine on the table-cloths of Versailles.

Not sufficient flour in the bakers' shops at Paris.

Strange circumstances! a melancholy blindness, which now that we are accustomed, to the fall of thrones, will excite a smile of pity from politicians.

To make a counter-revolution, and provoke to a combat people who are starving!

Alas! will say History, compelled to become a materialist philosopher, no people ever fight go desperately as those who have not dined.

It would however have been very easy to have given bread to the people, and then most assuredly, the bread of Versailles would have appeared less bitter.

But the flour of Corbeil ceased to arrive. Corbeil is so far from Versailles; who, then, living with the king and queen, could have thought of Corbeil-

Unhappily, from this forgetfulness of the court, Famine, that spectre which sleeps with so much difficulty, but which so easily awakens,-Famine had descended, pale and agitated, into the streets of Paris. She listens at all the corners of the streets; she recruits her train of vagabonds and malefactors; she glues her livid face against the windows of the rich and of the public functionaries.

The men remember those commotions which had cost so much blood; they recall to mind the Bastille; they recollect Foulon, Berthier, and Flesselles; they fear to have the opprobrious name of assassins again attached to them, and they wait.

But the women, who have as yet done nothing but suffer! Where women suffer, the suffering is triple,-for the child, who cries and who is unjust, because it has not a consciousness of the cause; for the child who says to its mother, “Why do you not give me bread-” for the husband, who, gloomy and taciturn, leaves the house in the morning to return to it in the evening still more gloomy and taciturn; and finally, for herself, the painful echo of conjugal and maternal sufferings. The women burn to do something in their turn; they wish to serve their country in their own way.

Besides, was it not a woman who brought about the 1st of October at Versailles-

It was therefore for the women, in their turn, to bring about the 5th of October at Paris.

Gilbert and Billot were sitting in the Caf #233; de Foy, in the Palais Royal. It was at the Caf #233; de Foy that

motions were proposed. Suddenly the door of the coffeehouse is thrown open; and a woman enters it much agitated. She denounces the black and white cockades which from Versailles have invaded Paris; she proclaims the public danger.

It will be remembered that Charny had said to the queen:-

“Madame, there will be really much to apprehend when the women begin to stir themselves.”

This was also the opinion of Gilbert.

Therefore, on seeing that the women were actually bestirring themselves, he turned to Billot, uttering only these five words:-

“To the H #244;tel de Ville!”

Since the conversation which had taken place between Billot, Gilbert, and Pitou,-and in consequence of which Pitou had returned to Villers-Cotterets with young Sebastien Gilbert,-Billot obeyed Gilbert upon a single word, a gesture, a sign; for he had fully comprehended that if he was strength, Gilbert was intelligence.

They both rushed out of the coffee-house, crossed the garden of the Palais Royal diagonally, and then through the Cour des Fontaines reached the Rue St. Honored.

When they were near the corn-market, they met a young girl coming out of the Rue Bourdonnais, who was beating a drum.

Gilbert stopped astonished.

“What can this mean-” said he.

“Zounds! Doctor, don't you see,” said Billot, “it is a pretty girl who is beating a drum,-and really, not badly, on my faith.”

“She must have lost something,” said a passer-by.

“She is very pale,” rejoined Billot.

“Ask her what she wants,” said Gilbert.

“Ho, my pretty girl!” cried Billot, “what are you beating that drum for-”

“I am hungry,” she replied in a weak but shrill voice.

And she continued on her way beating the drum.

Gilbert had waited.

“Oh, oh!” cried he, “this is becoming terrible.”

And he looked more attentively at the women who were following the young girl with the drum.

They were haggard, staggering, despairing.

Among these women there were some who had not tasted food for thirty hours.

From among these women, every now and then, would break forth a cry which was threatening even from its very feebleness, for it could be divined that it issued from famished mouths.

“To Versailles!” they cried, “to Versailles!”

And on their way they made signs to all the women Whom they perceived in the houses, and they called to all the women who were at their windows.

A carriage drove by; two ladies were in that carriage. They put their heads out of the windows and began to laugh.

The escort of the drum-beater stopped. About twenty women seized the horses, and then, rushing to the coach-doors, made the two ladies alight and join their group, in spite of their recriminations and a resistance which two or three hard knocks on the head soon terminated.

Behind these women, who proceeded but slowly, on account of their stopping to recruit as they went along, walked a man with his hands in his pockets.

This man, whose face was thin and pale, of tall, lank stature, was dressed in an iron-gray coat, black waistcoat, and small-clothes; he wore a small shabby three-cornered hat, placed obliquely over his forehead.

A long sword beat against his thin but muscular legs.

He followed, looking, listening, devouring everything with his piercing eyes, which rolled beneath his black-eyelids.

“Hey! why, yes,” cried Billot, “I certainly know that face; I have seen it at every riot.”

“It is Maillard, the usher,” said Gilbert.

“Ah, yes! that's he,-the man who walked over the plank after me at the Bastille; he was more skilful than I was, for he did not fall into the ditch.”

Maillard disappeared with the women at the corner of a street.

Billot felt a great desire to do as Maillard had done; but Gilbert dragged him on to the H #244;tel deVille.

It was very certain that the gathering would go there, whether it was a gathering of men or of women. Instead of following the course of the river, he went straight to its mouth.

They knew at the H #244;tel de Ville what was going on in Paris; but they scarcely noticed it. Of what importance was it, in fact, to the phlegmatic Bailly, or to the aristocrat Lafayette, that a woman had taken it into her head to beat a drum- It was anticipating the carnival, and that was all.

But when at the heels of this woman who was beating the drum, they saw two or three thousand women; when at the sides of this crowd which was increasing. every minute, they saw advancing a no less considerable troop of men, smiling in a sinister manner, and carrying their hideous weapons; when they understood that these men were smiling at the anticipation of the evil which these women were about to commit, an evil the more irremediable from their knowing that the public forces would not attempt to stop the evil before it was committed, and that the legal powers would not punish afterwards,-they began to comprehend the serious nature of the circumstances.

These men smiled, because the ill they had not dared to commit, they would gladly see committed by the most inoffensive half of the human kind.

In about half an hour there were ten thousand women assembled on the Place de Gr #232;ve.

These ladies, seeing that their numbers were sufficient, began to deliberate with their arms akimbo.

The deliberation was by no means a calm one; those who deliberated were for the most part porteresses, market-women, and prostitutes. Many of these women were royalists, and far from thinking of doing any harm to the king and queen, would have allowed themselves to be killed to serve them. The noise which was made by this strange discussion might have been heard across the river, and by the silent towers of Notre-Dame, which, after seeing so many things, were preparing themselves to see things still more curious.

The result of the deliberation was as follows:-

“Let us just go and burn the H #244;tel de Ville, where so many musty papers are made out to prevent our eating our daily food.”

And in the H #244;tel de Ville they were at that moment trying a baker who had sold bread to the poor under weight.

It will be easily comprehended that the dearer bread is, the more profitable is every operation of this nature; only the more lucrative it is, the more dangerous.

In consequence, the admirers of lamp-justice were only waiting for the baker with a new rope.

The guards of the H #244;tel de Ville wished to save the unhappy culprit, and used all their strength to effect it. But for some time past it has been seen that the result but ill accorded with these philanthropic intentions.

The women rushed on these guards, dispersed them, made a forcible entry into the H #244;tel de Ville; and the sack began.

They wished to throw into the Seine all they could find, and burn on the spot all that they could not carry away.

The men were therefore to be cast into the water, the building itself set fire to.

This was rather heavy work.

There was a little of everything in the H #244;tel de Ville.

In the first place, there were three hundred electors.

There were also the assistants.

There were the mayors of the different districts.

“It would take a long time to throw all these men into the water,” said a sensible woman, who was in a hurry to conclude the affair.

“They deserve it richly, notwithstanding,” observed another.

“Yes; but we have no time to spare.”

“Well, then,” cried another, “the quickest way will be to burn them all, and everything with them.”

They ran about looking for torches, and to get fagots to set fire to the municipality. While this was doing, in order not to lose time, they caught an abb #233;, the Abb #233; Lef #232;vre d'Ormesson, and strung him up.

Fortunately for the abb #233;, the man in the gray coat was there; he cut the rope, and the poor abb #233; fell from a height of seventeen feet, sprained one of his feet, and limped away amid shouts of laughter from these Meg #230;ras.

The reason for the abb #233; being allowed to get away was that the torches were lighted, and the incendiaries had already these torches in their hands, and they were about to set fire to the archives; in two minutes the whole place would have been in a blaze.

Suddenly the man in the gray coat rushed forward and snatched torches and fagots out of the women's hands; the women resisted. The man laid about him right and left with the lighted torches, setting fire to their petticoats; and while they were occupied in extinguishing them, he extinguished the papers which had already been ignited.

Who, then, is this man who thus opposes the frightful will of ten thousand furious creatures-

Why then, do they allow themselves to be governed by this man- They had half hanged the Abb #233; Lef #232;vre; they could hang that man more effectually, seeing that he would be no longer there to prevent them from hanging whom they pleased.

Guided by this reasoning, a frantic chorus arose from them, threatening him with death; and to these threats deeds were added.

The women surrounded the man with the gray coat, and threw a rope round his neck.

But Billot hastened forward. Billot was determined to render the same service to Maillard which Maillard had rendered the abb #233;.

He grasped the rope, which he cut into three pieces with a well-tempered and sharp knife, which at that moment served its owner to cut a rope, but which in an extremity, wielded as it was by a powerful arm, might serve him for another purpose.

And while cutting the rope and getting piece by piece of it as he could, Billot cried:-

“Why, you unfortunate wretches, you do not then recognize one of the conquerors of the Bastille, who passed over the plank to effect the capitulation, while I lay floundering in the moat Do you not recognize Monsieur Maillard-”

At that well-known and redoubtable name all these women at once paused; they looked at one another, and wiped the perspiration from their brows.

The work had been a difficult one; and although they were in the month of October, they might well perspire in accomplishing it.

“A conqueror of the Bastille! and that conqueror Maillard! Maillard, the usher of the Ch #226;telet! Long live Maillard!”

Threats are immediately turned into caresses; they embrace Maillard, and all cry, “Long live Maillard!”

Maillard exchanged a hearty shake of the hand and a look with Billot.

The shake of the hand implied, “We are friends!”

The look implied, “Should you ever stand in need of me, you may calculate upon me.”

Maillard had resumed an influence over these women, which was so much the greater from their reflecting that they had committed some trifling wrong towards him, and which he had to pardon.

But Maillard was an old sailor on the sea of popular fury; he knew the ocean of the faubourgs, which is raised by a breath, and calmed again by a word.

He knew how to speak to these human waves, when they allow you time enough to speak.

Moreover, the moment was auspicious for being heard. They had all remained silent around Maillard.

Maillard would not allow that Parisian women should destroy the municipal authorities,-the only power to protect them; he would not allow them to annihilate the civic registers, which proved that their children were not all bastards.

The harangue of Maillard was of so novel a nature, and delivered in so loud and sarcastic a tone, that it produced a great effect.

No one should be killed; nothing should be burned.

But they insist on going to Versailles. It is there that exists the evil. It is there that they pass their nights in orgies, while Paris is starving. It is Versailles that devours everything. Corn and flour are deficient in Paris, because, instead of coming to Paris, they are sent direct from Corbeil to Versailles.

It would not be thus if the “great baker,” the “baker's wife,” and the “baker's little boy” were at Paris.

It was under these nicknames that they designated the king, the queen, and the dauphin,-those natural distributors of the people's bread.

They would go to Versailles.

Since these women are organized into troops, since they have muskets, cannon, and gunpowder,-and those who have not muskets nor gunpowder, have pikes and pitchforks,-they ought to have a general.

“And why not- the National Guard has one.”

Lafayette is the general of the men.

Maillard is the general of the women.

Monsieur de Lafayette commands his do-little grenadiers, which appear to be an army of reserve, for they do so little when there is so much to be done.

Maillard will command the active army. Without a smile, without a wink, he accepts his appointment.

Maillard is general commandant of the women of Paris.

The campaign will not be a long one; but it will be decisive.

CHAPTER L. MAILLARD A GENERAL

IT was really an army that Maillard commanded.

It had cannon, deprived of carriages and wheels, it is true; but they had been placed on carts. It had muskets, many of which were deficient in locks and triggers, it is true; but every one had a bayonet.

It had a quantity of other weapons, very awkward ones, it is true; but they were weapons.

It had gunpowder, which was carried in pocket-handkerchiefs, in caps, and in pockets; and in the midst of these living cartouche-boxes walked the artillery-men with their lighted matches.

That the whole army was not blown into the air during this extraordinary journey, was certainly a perfect miracle.

Maillard at one glance appreciated the feelings of his army. He saw that it would be of no use to keep it on the square where it had assembled, nor to confine it within the walls of Paris, but to lead it on to Versailles, and once arrived there to prevent the harm which it might attempt to do.

This difficult, this heroic task, Maillard was determined to accomplish.

And in consequence, Maillard descends the steps and takes the drum which was hanging from the shoulders of the young girl.

Dying with hunger, the poor young girl has no longer strength to carry it. She gives up the drum, glides along a wall, and falls with her head against a post.

A gloomy pillow,-the pillow of hunger.

Maillard asks her name. She replies that it is Madeleine Chambry. Her occupation had been carving in wood for churches. But who now thinks of endowing churches with those beautiful ornaments in wood, those beautiful statues, those magnificent basso-relievos, the master-pieces of the fifteenth century-

Dying with hunger, she had become a flower-girl in the Palais Royal.

But who thinks of purchasing flowers when money is wanting to buy even bread- Flowers, those stars which shine in the heaven of peace and abundance,-flowers are withered by storms of wind and revolutions.

Being no longer able to sculpture her fruits in oak, being no longer able to sell her roses, her jessamines, and lilacs, Madeleine Chambry took a drum, and beat the terrible reveille of hunger.

She also must go to Versailles,-she who had assembled all this gloomy deputation; only, as she is too feeble to walk, she is to be carried there in a cart.

When they arrive at Versailles, they will ask that she may be admitted into the palace with twelve other women. She is to be the orator; famishing, she will there plead before the king the cause of all those that are starving.

This idea of Maillard was much applauded.

And thus by a word Maillard had at once changed every hostile feeling.

They did not before this know why they were going to Versailles; they did not know what they were going to do there.

But now they know; they know that a deputation of twelve women, with Madeleine Chambry at their head, is going to supplicate the king, in the name of hunger, to take compassion on his people.

Somewhere about seven thousand women were there assembled. They commence their march, going along the quays.

But on arriving at the Tuileries, loud shouts were heard.

Maillard jumped upon a post in order to be seen by the whole of his army.

“What is it that you want-” he asked them.

“We wish to pass through the Tuileries.”

“That is impossible,” replied Maillard.

“And why is it impossible-” cried seven thousand voices.

“Because the Tuileries is the king's house and its gardens the king's; because to pass through them without the king's permission, would be to insult the king,-and more than that, it would be attacking, in the king's person, the liberty of all.”

Maillard went to the Swiss, his cocked hat in his hand.

“My friend,” said he, “will you allow these ladies to go through the Tuileries- They will only go through the archway, and will not do any injury to the plants or trees.”

The only answer the Swiss gave was to draw his long rapier, and to rush upon Maillard.

Maillard drew his sword, which was full a foot shorter, and their weapons crossed.

While they were tilting at each other, a woman went behind the Swiss, and gave him a fearful blow upon the head with a broom-handle, and laid him at Maillard's feet.

At the same time another woman was about to run the Swiss through the body with a thrust of her bayonet.

Maillard sheathes his sword, takes that of the Swiss under one arm, the musket of the woman under the other, picks up his hat, which had fallen to the ground during the struggle, puts it upon his head, and then leads his victorious troops through the Tuileries, where, in fulfilment of the promise he had made, no sort of damage was committed by them.

Let us, therefore, allow them to continue their way quietly through the Cours la Reine, and go on towards S #232;vres, where they separated into two bands, and let us return to what was going on at Paris.

These seven thousand women had not very nearly drowned the electors, hanged the Abb #233; Lefevre and Maillard, and burned the H #244;tel de Ville, without making a certain degree of noise.

On hearing this noise, which had been re-echoed even in the most remote quarters of the capital, Lafayette had hastened towards the H #244;tel de Ville.

He was holding a sort of review at the Champ de Mars. He had been on horseback from eight o'clock in the morning; he reached the square of the H #244;tel de Ville just as the clock was striking twelve.

The caricatures of those days represented Lafayette as a centaur, the body of which was the famous white horse which had become proverbial. The head was that of the commandant of the National Guard.

From the commencement of the Revolution, Lafayette spoke on horseback, Lafayette eat on horseback, Lafayette gave all his orders on horseback.

It often even happened that he slept on horseback.

And therefore when by chance he could sleep on his bed, Lafayette slept soundly.

When Lafayette reached the Quay Pelletier, he was stopped by a man who had been riding at full gallop on a swift horse.

This man was Gilbert; he was going to Versailles; he was going to forewarn the king of the visit with which he was threatened, and to place himself at his orders.

In two words he related all that had happened to Lafayette.

After that he rode off again at full speed.

Lafayette went on towards the H #244;tel de Ville.

Gilbert went towards Versailles; only as the women were going on the right bank of the Seine, he took the left side of the river.

The square before the H #244;tel de Ville having been vacated by the women, was soon afterwards filled with men.

These men were National Guards, receiving pay or not receiving it; old French guards, above all, who, having gone over to the people, had lost their privileges of king's guards,-privileges which had been inherited by the Swiss and the body-guards.

To the noise made by the women had succeeded the noise of the alarm-bell and the drums, calling the people to arms.

Lafayette made his way through the crowd, alighted from his horse at the foot of the steps, and without paying any attention to the acclamations, mingled with threats, excited by his presence, he began to dictate a letter to the king upon the insurrection which had taken place that morning.

He had got to the sixth line of his letter, when the door of the secretary's office was violently thrown open.

Lafayette raised his eyes. A deputation of grenadiers demanded to be received by the general.

Lafayette made a sign to the deputation that they might come in.

They entered the room.

The grenadier who had been appointed spokesman of the deputation advanced to the table.

“General,” said he, in a firm voice, “we are deputed by ten companies of grenadiers. We do not believe that you are a traitor; but we are betrayed by the Government. It is time that all this should come to an end. We cannot turn our bayonets against women who are asking us for bread. The Provisioning Committee is either peculating, or it is incompetent; in either case, it is necessary that it should be changed. The people are unhappy; the source of their unhappiness is at Versailles. It is necessary to go there to find the king and bring him to Paris. The Flanders regiment must be exterminated, as well as the body-guards, who have dared to trample under foot the national cockade. If the king be too weak to wear the crown, let him abdicate; we will crown his son. A council of regency will be nominated, and all will then go well.”

Lafayette gazed at the speaker with astonishment. He had witnessed disturbances; he had wept over assassinations; but this was the first time that the breath of revolution had in reality been personally addressed to him.

This possibility that the people saw of being able to do without the king amazed him; it did more, it confounded him.

“How is this-” cried he.” Have you, then, formed the project of making war upon the king, and of thus compelling him to abandon us-”

“General,” replied the spokesman, “we love and we respect the king; we should be much hurt should he leave us, for we owe him much. But, in short, should he leave us, we have the dauphin.”

“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried Lafayette, “beware of what you are doing; you are attacking the crown, and it is my duty not to allow such a step!”

“General,” replied the National Guard, bowing, “we would for you shed the last drop of our blood. But the people are unhappy; the source of the evil is at Versailles. We must go to Versailles and bring the king to Paris. It is the people's will.”

Lafayette saw that it was necessary to sacrifice his own feelings; and this was a necessity from which he never shrank.

He descends into the centre of the square, and wishes to harangue the people; but cries of “To Versailles! To Versailles!” drown his voice.

Suddenly a great tumult was heard proceeding from the Rue de la Vannerie. It is Bailly, who in his turn is coming to the H #244;tel de Ville.

At the sight of Bailly, cries of “Bread! Bread! To Versailles!” burst from every side.

Lafayette, on foot, lost amid the crowd, feels that the tide continues rising higher and higher, and will completely swallow him up.

He presses through the crowd, in order to reach his horse, with the same ardor that a shipwrecked mariner swims to reach a rock.

At last he grasps his bridle, vaults on his charger's back, and urges him on towards the entrance of the H #244;tel de Ville; but the way is completely closed to him. Walls of men have grown up between him and it.

“Zounds, General!” cry these men, “you must remain with us.”

At the same time tremendous shouts are heard of “To Versailles! To Versailles!”

Lafayette wavers, hesitates. Yes, undoubtedly, by going to Versailles he may be very useful to the king; but will he be able to master and restrain this crowd who are urging him to Versailles- Will he be able to command these billows which have swept him from his feet, and against which he feels that he will now have to combat for his own safety-

Suddenly a man descends the steps, pushes through the crowd, a letter in his hand, and makes such good use of his feet and elbows, particularly the latter, that he at length reaches Lafayette.

This man was the ever indefatigable Billot.

“Here, General,” said he, “this comes from the Three Hundred.”

It was thus the electors were called.

Lafayette broke the seal, and began to read it to himself; but twenty thousand voices at once cried out:

“The letter! the letter!”

Lafayette was therefore compelled to read the letter aloud. He makes a sign to request that they will be silent. Instantaneously, and as by a miracle, silence succeeds to the immense tumult; and Lafayette reads the following letter, not one word of which was lost by the people:-

“Seeing the state of circumstances and the desire of the people, and on the representation of the commandant-general that it was impossible to refuse, the electors assembled in council authorize the commandant-general, and even order him, to repair to Versailles.

“Four commissaries of the district will accompany him.”

Poor Latayette had absolutely represented nothing to the electors, who were by no means disinclined to leave some portion of the responsibility of the events which were about to happen on his shoulders. But the people,-they believed that he had really made representations, and this coincided so precisely with their views that they made the air ring with their shouts of “Long live Lafayette!”

Lafayette turned pale, but in his turn repeated, “To Versailles”

Fifteen thousand men followed him, with a more silent enthusiasm, but which was at the same time more terrible than that of the women who had gone forward as the advanced guard.

All these people were to assemble again at Versailles, to ask the king for the crumbs which fell from the table of the body-guards during the orgies of the 1st of October.

CHAPTER LI. VERSAILLES

AS usual, they were completely ignorant at Versailles of what was going on at Paris.

After the scenes which we have described, and on the occurrence of which the queen had openly congratulated herself, her Majesty was resting herself after her fatigue.

She had an army; she had her devotees; she had counted her enemies; she wished to begin the contest.

Had she not the defeat of the 14th of July to avenge- Had she not the king's journey to Paris-a journey from which he had returned with the tricolored cockade in his hat-to forget, and to make her court forget it also-

Poor woman! she but little expected the journey which she herself would be shortly compelled to take.

Since her altercation with Charny, she had scarcely spoken to him. She affected to treat Andr #233;e with her former friendliness, which had for a time been deadened in her heart, but which was forever extinguished in that of her rival.

As to Charny, she never turned towards or looked at him, but when she was compelled to address herself to him upon matters regarding his service, or to give him an order.

It was not a family disgrace; for on the very morning on which the Parisians were to leave Paris to come to Versailles, the queen was seen talking affectionately with young George de Charny, the second of the three brothers, who, in contradiction to Olivier, had given such warlike counsels to the queen on the arrival of the news of the capture of the Bastille.

And in fact, at nine in the morning, as the young officer was crossing the gallery to announce to the huntsman that the king intended going out, Marie Antoinette, returning from Mass in the chapel, saw him, and called him to her.

“Where are you running thus, sir-” said she to him.

“As soon as I perceived your Majesty I ran no longer,” replied George; “on the contrary, I instantly stopped, and I was waiting humbly for the honor you have done me in addressing me.”

“That does not prevent you, sir, from replying to my question, and telling me whither you are going.”

“Madame,” replied George, “I am on duty to-day, and form part of the escort. His Majesty hunts to-day; and I am going to the huntsman to make arrangements for the meet.”

“Ah! the king hunts again to-day,” said the queen, looking at the big dark clouds which were rolling on from Paris towards Versailles. “He is wrong to do so. The weather appears to be threatening; does it not, Andr #233;e-”

“Yes, Madame,” absently replied the Countess de Charny.

“Are you not of that opinion, sir-”

“I am so, Madame; but such is the king's will.”

“May the king's will be done, in the woods and on the highroads!” replied the queen, with that gayety of manner which was habitual with her, and of which neither the sorrows of the heart nor political events could ever deprive her.

Then turning towards Andr #233;e:-

“It is but just that he should have this amusement,” said the queen to her in a whisper.

And then aloud to George:-

“Can you tell me, sir, where the king intends hunting-”

“In the Meudon wood, Madame.”

“Well, then, accompany him, and watch carefully over his safety.”

At this moment the Count de Charny had entered the room. He smiled kindly at Andr #233;e, and shaking his head, ventured to say to the queen:-

“That is a recommendation which my brother will not fail to remember, Madame, not in the midst of the king's pleasures, but in the midst of his dangers.”

At the sound of the voice which had struck upon her ear, before her eyes had warned her of the presence of Charny, Marie Antoinette started, and turning round:

“I should have been much astonished,” said she, with disdainful harshness, “if such a saying had not proceeded from the Count Olivier de Charny.”

“And why so, Madame-” respectfully inquired the count.

“Because it prophesies misfortune, sir.”

Andr #233;e turned pale on seeing that the color fled from her husband's cheeks.

He bowed without offering a reply.

Then, on a look from his wife, who appeared to be amazed at his being so patient:-

“I am really extremely unfortunate,” he said, “since I no longer know how to speak to the queen without offending her.”

The “no longer” was emphasized in the same manner as a skilful actor would emphasize the more important syllables.

The ear of the queen was too well exercised not to perceive at once the stress which Charny had laid upon his words.

“No longer!” she exclaimed sharply, “no longer; what mean you by no longer-”

“I have again spoken unfortunately, it would appear,” said De Charny, unaffectedly.

And he exchanged a look with Andr #233;e, which the queen this time perceived.

She in her turn became pale, and then her teeth firmly set together with rage.

“The saying is bad,” she exclaimed, “when the intention is bad.”

“The ear is hostile,” said Charny, “when the thought is hostile.”

And after this retort, which was more just than respectful, he remained silent.

“I shall wait to reply,” said the queen, “until the Count de Charny is more happy in his attacks.”

“And I,” said De Charny, “shall wait to attack until the queen shall be more fortunate than she has lately been in servants.”

Andr #233;e eagerly seized her husband's hand, and was preparing to leave the room with him.

A glance from the queen restrained her. She had observed this gesture.

“But, in fine, what has your husband to say to me-” asked the queen.

“He had intended telling your Majesty that having been sent to Paris yesterday by the King, he had found the city in a most extraordinary state of ferment.”

“Again! cried the queen; “and on what account The Parisians have taken the Bastille, and are now occupied in demolishing it; what can they require more- Answer me, Monsieur de Charny.”

“That is true, Madame,” replied the count; “but as they cannot eat the stones, they are calling out for bread,-they say that they are hungry.”

“That they are hungry! that they are hungry!” exclaimed the queen; “and what would they have us do in that respect-”

“There was a time,” observed De Charny, “when the queen was the first to compassionate and assuage the sufferings of the people; there was a time when she would ascend even to the garrets of the poor, and the prayers of the poor ascended from the garrets to God with blessings on her head.”

“Yes,” bitterly replied the queen; “and I was well rewarded, was I not, for the compassion which I felt for the misery of others- One of the greatest misfortunes which ever befell me was in consequence of having ascended to one of these garrets.”

“Because your Majesty was once deceived,” said De Charny, “because she bestowed her favors and her grace upon a miserable wretch, ought she to consider all human nature upon a level with that infamous woman- Ah, Madame! Madame! how at that time were you beloved!”

The queen darted a furious glance at De Charny.

“But, finally,” she said, “what did actually take place in Paris yesterday- Tell me only things that you have yourself seen, sir; I wish to be sure of the truth of your words.”

“What I saw, Madame! I saw a portion of the population crowded together on the quays, vainly awaiting the arrival of flour. I saw others standing in long files at the bakers' doors, uselessly waiting for bread. What I saw was a starving people,-husbands looking sorrowfully at their wives, mothers looking sorrowfully at their children. What I saw! I saw clinched and threatening hands held up in the direction of Versailles. Ah, Madame! Madame! the dangers of which I just now spoke to you are approaching,-the opportunity of dying for your Majesty; a happiness which my brother and myself will be the first to claim. I fear the day is not far distant when it will be offered to us.”

The queen turned her back to De Charny with an impatient gesture, and went to a window and placed her pale though burning face against a pane of glass. This window looked into the marble courtyard.

She had scarcely done this when she was seen to start.

“Andr #233;e!” cried she, “come here and see who is this horseman coming towards us; he appears to be the bearer of very urgent news.”

Andr #233;e went to the window, but almost immediately recoiled a step from it, turning very pale.

“Ah, Madame!” cried she, in a tone of reproach.

De Charny hastened towards the window; he had minutely observed all that had passed.

“That horseman,” said he, looking alternately at the queen and at Andr #233;e, “is Doctor Gilbert.”

“Ah, that is true,” said the queen; and in a tone which rendered it impossible, even to Andr #233;e, to judge whether the queen had drawn her to the window in one of those fits of feminine vengeance to which poor Marie Antoinette sometimes gave way, or whether her eyes, weakened by watching and the tears she had shed, could no longer recognize, at a certain distance, even those whom it was her interest to recognize.

An ice-like silence immediately ensued; and the three principal characters in this scene interrogated and replied to one another merely by looks.

It was in fact Gilbert who was coming, bringing with him the untoward news which De Charny had predicted.

Although he had hurriedly alighted from his horse, although he had rapidly ascended the staircase, although the three agitated faces of the queen, Andr #233;e, and De Charny were turned towards the door which led to this staircase, and by which the doctor ought to have entered the room, this door did not open.

There was, then, on the part of these three persons an anxious suspense of some minutes.

Suddenly, a door on the opposite side of the room was opened, and an officer came in.

“Madame,” said he, “Doctor Gilbert, who has come for the purpose of conversing with the king on important and urgent matters, demands to have the honor of being received by your Majesty, the king having set out for Meudon an hour ago.”

“Let him come in!” said the queen, fixing on the door a look which was firm even to harshness; while Andr #233;e, as if naturally she sought to find a supporter in her husband, drew back and supported herself on the count's arm.

Gilbert soon made his appearance on the threshold of the door.

CHAPTER LII. THE FIFTH OCTOBER

GILBERT cast a glance on the several personages whom we have placed on the stage, and advancing respectfully towards Marie Antoinette:-

“Will the queen permit me,” said he, “in the absence of her august husband, to communicate to her the news of which I am the bearer-”

“Speak, sir!” said Marie Antoinette. “On seeing you coming at so rapid a pace, I summoned up all my fortitude, for I felt well assured that you were bringing me some fearful news.”

“Would the queen have preferred that I should have allowed her to be surprised Forewarned, the queen, with that sound judgment, that elevated mind by which she is characterized, would advance to meet the danger; and then perhaps the danger might retreat before her.”

“Let us see, sir; what is this danger-”

“Madame, seven or eight thousand women have set out from Paris, and are coming armed to Versailles.”

“Seven or eight thousand women-” cried the queen, with an air of contempt.

“Yes; but they will, most likely, have stopped on the way; and perhaps, on arriving here, their numbers will amount to fifteen or twenty thousand.”

“And for what purpose are they coming-”

“They are hungry, Madame, and they are coming to ask the king for bread.”

The queen turned towards De Charny.

“Alas, Madame,” said the count, “that which I predicted has now happened.”

“What is to be done-” asked Marle Antoinette.

“The king should, in the first place, be informed of it,” said Gilbert.

The queen turned quickly towards him.

“The king! oh, no!” she cried, “what good purpose would it answer to expose him to such a meeting-”

This cry burst forth from the heart of Marie Antoinette almost involuntarily. It was a convincing manifestation of the intrepidity of the queen, of her consciousness of possessing a firmness which was altogether personal to her, and at the same time of her consciousness of her husband's weakness, which she cared not to admit even to herself, and, more particularly, to reveal to strangers.

But was De Charny a stranger and Gilbert, was he a stranger-

No; did not those two men, on the contrary, appear to be elected by Providence, the one to be the safeguard of the queen, the other to protect the king-

De Charny replied at once to the queen and to Gilbert; he recovered all his self-control, for he had made the sacrifice of his pride.

“Madame,” said he, “Monsieur Gilbert is right; it is necessary that the king should be informed of this occurrence. The king is still beloved; the king will present himself to these women. He will harangue them; he will disarm them.”

“But,” observed the queen, “who will undertake to give this information to the king- The road between this and Meudon is no doubt already intercepted, and it would be a dangerous enterprise.”

“The king is in the forest of Meudon-”

“Yes; and it is probable the roads-”

“Your Majesty will deign to consider me as a military man,” said De Charny, unostentatiously; “a soldier, and one whose duty it is to expose his life-”

And having said these words, he did not wait for a reply; he listened not to the sigh which escaped the queen, but ran rapidly down the staircase, jumped upon one of the guards' horses, and hastened towards Meudon, accompanied by two cavaliers.

He had scarcely disappeared, and had replied by a sign to a farewell gesture which Andr #233;e addressed to him from the window, when a distant noise, which resembled the roaring of the waves in a storm, made the queen listen anxiously. This noise appeared to proceed from the farthest trees on the Paris road, which, from the apartment in which the queen was, could be seen towering above the fog at some distance from the last houses of Versailles.

The horizon soon became as threatening to the eye as it had been to the ear; a hail-shower began to checker the dark gray haze.

And yet notwithstanding the threatening state of the heavens, crowds of persons were entering Versailles.

Messengers arrived continually at the palace.

Every messenger brought intelligence of numerous columns being on their way from Paris; and every one thought of the joys and the easy triumphs of the preceding days,-some of them feeling at heart a regret that was akin to remorse, others an instinctive terror.

The soldiers were anxious, and, looking at one another, slowly took up their arms. Like drunken people, who demoralized by the visible uneasiness of their soldiers and the murmurs of the crowd, with difficulty breathed in this atmosphere, impregnated as it was with misfortunes which were about to be attributed to them.

On their side, the body-guards-somewhere about three hundred men-coldly mounted their horses, and with that hesitation which seizes men of the sword when they feel they have to deal with enemies whose mode of attack is unknown to them.

What could they do against women, who had set out threatening and with arms, but who had arrived disarmed, and who could no longer raise even their hands, so enervated were they with fatigue, so emaciated were they by hunger-

And yet, at all hazards, they formed themselves into line, drew their sabres, and waited.

At last the women made their appearance; they had come by two roads. Halfway between Paris and Versailles, they had separated, one party coming by St. Cloud, the other by S #232;vres.

Before they separated, eight loaves had been divided among them; it was all that could be found at S #232;vres.

Thirty-two pounds of bread for seven thousand persons!

On arriving at Versailles, they could scarcely drag themselves along. More than three fourths of them had scattered their weapons along the road. Maillard had induced the remaining fourth to leave their arms in the first houses they came to in Versailles.

Then, on entering into the town:-

“Come, now,” said he, “that they may not doubt that we are friends to royalty, let us sing, 'Vive Henri Quatre!'“

And in a dying tone, and with voices that had not strength enough to ask for bread, they chanted the royal national air.

The astonishment was therefore great at the palace when, instead of shouts and threats, they heard them singing the loyal air; when, above all, they saw the female choristers staggering (for hunger has somewhat the effect of drunkenness) and these wretched women leaning their haggard, pale, and livid faces, begrimed with dirt, down which the rain and perspiration were streaming, against the gilded railings,-faces which appeared to be more than doubled by the number of hands which grasped those railings for support.

After a time, would now and then escape from these horribly fantastic groups lugubrious howling; in the midst of these agonized faces would appear eyes flashing lightning.

Also, from time to time, all these hands, abandoning the railings which sustained them, were thrust through the space between them, and stretched forth towards the palace.

Some of them were open and trembling; these were soliciting.

Others were clinched and nervously agitated; these were threatening.

Oh, the picture was a gloomy one!

The rain and mud,-so much for the heavens and earth.

Hunger and threatening gestures,-so much for the besiegers.

Pity and doubt,-such were the feelings of the defenders.

While waiting the return of Louis XVI., agitated but firmly resolved, the queen gave orders for the defence of the palace. By degrees, the courtiers, the officers, and the high dignitaries of the State grouped themselves around her.

In the midst of them she perceived Monsieur de Saint Priest, the minister for Paris.

“Go and inquire, sir,” said she to him, “what it is these people want.”

Monsieur de Saint-Priest immediately went down the staircase, crossed the courtyard, and approached the railing.

“What is it that you demand-” said he to the women.

“Bread! bread! bread!” simultaneously cried a thousand voices.

“Bread!” replied Monsieur de Saint-Priest, impatiently; “when you had but one master, you never were in want of bread. Now that you have twelve hundred, you see to what they have reduced you.”

And Monsieur de Saint-Priest withdrew amid the threatening shouts of these famished creatures, giving strict orders that the gates should be kept closed.

But a deputation advances, before which it is absolutely necessary that the gates should be thrown open.

Maillard had presented himself to the National Assembly in the name of the women; he had succeeded in persuading them that the president with a deputation of twelve women should proceed to the palace to make a statement to the king as to the position of affairs.

At the moment when the deputation, with Mounier at its head, left the Assembly, the king returned to the palace at full gallop, entering it by the stable-yard.

De Charny had found him in the forest of Mendon.

“Ah! it is you, sir,” cried the king, on perceiving him. “Is it I whom you are seeking-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What, then, has happened- You seem to have ridden hard.”

“Sire, there are at this moment ten thousand women at Versailles, who have come from Paris, and who are crying for bread.”

The king shrugged his shoulders, but it was more from a feeling of compassion than of disdain.

“Alas!” said he, “if I had bread for them, I should not have waited their coming from Paris to ask it of me.”

But without making any farther observation, he cast a mournful look towards the place where the hounds were continuing their chase of the stag which he was obliged to abandon.

“Well, then, sir, let, us go to Versailles,” said he.

And he rode off towards Versailles.

He had just arrived there, as we have said, when frightful cries were heard proceeding from the Place d'Armes.

“What is the meaning of that-” inquired the king.

“Sire,” cried Gilbert, entering the room, pale as death, “they are your guards, who, led on by Monsieur George de Charny, are charging upon the president of the National Assembly, and a deputation which he is leading here,”

“Impossible!” exclaimed the king.

“Listen to the cries of those whom they are assassinating! Look! look at the people who are flying in terror!”

“Let the gates be thrown open!” cried the king. “I will receive the deputation.”

“But, Sire!” exclaimed the queen.

“Let the gates be opened,” said Louis XVI.; “the palaces of kings ought to be considered as asylums.”

“Alas! excepting perhaps for kings themselves,” said the queen.

CHAPTER LIII. THE EVENING OF THE FIFTH AND SIXTH OF OCTOBER

DE CHARNY and Gilbert rushed downstairs.

“In the name of the king!” cried the one.

“In the name of the queen!” cried the other.

And both of them added:-

“Open the gates!”

But this order was not executed quickly enough to prevent the president of the National Assembly from being thrown down in the courtyard and trampled under foot.

Two of the women forming the deputation were wounded close by his side.

Gilbert and De Charny threw themselves into the crowd. These two men-the one proceeding from the highest class of society, the other from the lowest-met, working in the same cause.

The one wishes to save the queen, from his ardent love for the queen; the other wishes to save the king, from his love for royalty.

On the gates being opened, the women rushed into the courtyard, and had thrown themselves into the ranks of the body-guards and those of the Flanders regiment. They threaten; they entreat; they caress. Who could resist women when they implore those whom they address in the name of their sisters, their mothers-

“Room, gentlemen, room for the deputation!” cried Gilbert.

And all the ranks immediately opened to allow Mounier to pass with the unhappy women he was about to present to the king.

The king, having been informed by De Charny, who had hastened to him, waited for the deputation in the room contiguous to the chapel.

It was Mounier who was to speak in the name of the Assembly.

It was Madeleine Chambry, the flower-girl, who had beaten the drum, who was to speak in the name of the women.

Mounier said a few words to the king, and presented to him the young flower-girl.

The latter stepped forward a pace or two and wished to speak, but could only utter these words:-

“Sire-bread!”

And she fell fainting to the ground.

“Help! help!” cried the king.

Andr #233;e hurried forward, and handed her smelling-bottle to the king.

“Ah, Madame!” said De Charny to the queen, in a reproachful tone.

The queen turned pale and withdrew to her own apartment.

“Prepare the equipages,” said she; “the king and I are going to Rambouillet.”

During this time poor Madeleine Chambry was recovering her senses, and finding herself in the king's arms, who was making her inhale the salts he held in his hand, she uttered a cry of shame, and wished to kiss his hand.

But the king prevented her.

“My lovely child,” said he, “allow me to embrace you; you are well worth the trouble.”

“Oh, Sire, Sire! since you are so kind,” said the young girl, “give an order-”

“What order-” inquired the king.

“An order to have wheat sent to Paris, so that famine may cease.”

“My dear child,” said the king, “I will willingly sign the order you request, but in truth I am afraid it will not be of much service to you.”

The king seated himself at a table and began to write, when suddenly a single musket-shot was heard, followed by a tolerably brisk fire of musketry.

“Ah, good God! good God!” exclaimed the king, “what can have happened- See what it is, Monsieur Gilbert.”

A second charge upon another group of women had been made; and this charge had brought about the isolated musket-shot and the volley which had been heard.

The isolated musket-shot had been fired by a man in the crowd, and had broken the arm of Monsieur de Savonni #232;re, a lieutenant in the guards, at the moment when that arm was raised to strike a young soldier, who was behind a sentry-box, and who, with uplifted and unarmed hands, was protecting a woman who was on her knees behind him.

This musket-shot was replied to on the part of the guards by five or six shots from their carbines.

Two of the shots told. A woman fell dead.

Another was carried off seriously wounded.

The people became irritated; and in their turn two of the body-guards fell from their horses.

At the same instant, cries of “Room! room!” are heard; they were the men from the Faubourg St. Antoine, who were arriving, dragging with them three pieces of artillery, with they formed a battery opposite to the principal gate of the palace.

Fortunately the rain was falling in torrents; the match is uselessly applied to the touch-holes of these guns; the priming, completely sodden by the rain, does not ignite.

At this moment a voice whispers into the ear of Gilbert:-

“Monsieur de Lafayette is coming; he cannot be more than half a league from Versailles.”

Gilbert in vain attempts to discover who has given him this information; but from whomsoever it might come, it was valuable.

He looks around him, and sees a horse without a rider; it belonged to one of the two guards who had just been killed.

He leaps into the saddle, and sets off at a gallop on the road towards Paris.

The second horse without a rider follows him; but he has scarcely gone twenty paces over the square when he is stopped by the bridle. Gilbert believes his intention has been divined, and that some one wishes to pursue him; he casts a look behind him as he rides off.

They were not thinking of him at all; but they were hungry. They think of nothing but obtaining food, and the poor horse is instantly butchered by a hundred knives.

In a moment it is cut into a hundred pieces.

During this time the king had been informed, as Gilbert had been, that General de Lafayette was about to arrive.

He had signed, at the request of Mounier, his acceptance of the Rights of Man.

He had signed, at the request of Madeleine Chambry, the order for corn to be sent to Paris.

Furnished with this decree and this order, which it was thought would have tranquillized all minds, Maillard, Madeleine Chambry, and a thousand of the women had set out on their return to Paris.

Just beyond the first houses of Versailles they met Lafayette, who, pressed by Gilbert, was riding at full speed, having ordered the National Guards to follow him as quickly as possible.

“Long live the king! “cried Maillard and the women, waving the decrees above their heads.

“What was it, then, you were saying to me of the dangers to which his Majesty is exposed-” said Lafayette, with astonishment.

“Come on, General, come on!” cried Gilbert, continuing to urge him onwards; “you shall yourself judge of them.”

And Lafayette spurred on his horse.

The National Guards entered Versailles with drums beating and colors flying.

At the first sounds of the drum which penetrated the palace, the king felt that some one was respectfully touching his arm.

He turned round; it was Andr #233;e.

“Ah! is it you, Madame de Charny-” said he, “What is the queen doing-”

“Sire, the queen sends to entreat that you will leave Versailles, that you will not wait for the Parisians. At the head of your guards and the soldiers of the Flanders regiment, you can go anywhere.”

“Are you of that opinion, Monsieur de Charny-” inquired the king.

“Yes, Sire, if you at once determine on passing the frontier; but if not-”

“If not-”

“It would be better to remain here.

“The king shook his head.

His Majesty remains, not because he has the courage to remain, but because he has not firmness to decide on going.

He murmured in a low tone:-

“A fugitive king! a fugitive king!”

Then, turning to Andr #233;e:-

“Go and tell the queen to set out alone.”

Andr #233;e left the room to execute her mission.

Ten minutes afterwards, the queen came in and seated herself by the king's side.

“For what purpose have you come here, Madame-” asked Louis XVI.

“To die with you, Sire,” replied the queen.

“Ah!” murmured De Charny, “it is now that she is truly beautiful.”

The queen shuddered; she had heard him.

“I believe, indeed, it would be better that I should die than live,” said she, looking at him.

At that moment the march of the National Guards was heard under the windows of the palace.

Gilbert rapidly entered the room.

“Sire,” said he to the king, “you have nothing further to apprehend; Monsieur de Lafayette is below.”

The king did not like Monsieur de Lafayette; but he did not carry his feelings farther than dislike.

With regard to the queen, it was a very different matter. She frankly hated him, and took no pains to conceal her hatred.

The result of this was that Gilbert received no reply, although he had believed that the intelligence he had communicated was the most favorable he could have brought at such a moment.

But Gilbert was not a man to allow himself to be intimidated by royal silence.

“Your Majesty has heard-” cried he to the king, in a firm tone. “Monsieur de Lafayette is below, and places himself at your Majesty's orders.”

The queen continued silent.

The king made an effort to restrain his feelings.

“Let some one go and tell him that I thank him, and invite him, in my name, to come upstairs.”

An officer bowed and left the room.

The queen drew back a step or two.

But the king, with a gesture that was almost imperative, made her resume her position.

The courtiers formed themselves into two groups.

De Charny and Gilbert, with two or three others, remained near the king.

All the rest retreated behind the queen's chair, and arranged themselves in a half-circle round her.

The footsteps of a man, ascending the staircase alone, were heard, and Monsieur de Lafayette appeared in the doorway.

In the midst of the silence which his appearance produced, a voice, issuing from the group surrounding the queen, pronounced these words:-

“There is Cromwell!”

Lafayette smiled.

“Cromwell would not have presented himself alone to Charles I.,” said he.

Louis XVI. turned frowningly towards these terrible friends who wished to make an enemy of a man who had hastened to his assistance.

Then, addressing De Charny:-

“Count,” said he, “I shall remain. Monsieur de Lafayette being here, I have nothing more to fear. Order the troops to withdraw to Rambouillet. The National Guards will be posted at the exterior ditches, the body-guards at those immediately near the palace.”

Then, turning to Lafayette:-

“Come with me, General; I have to speak with you.”

And as Gilbert was taking a step towards the door:

“No, Doctor,” cried the king, “you will not be one too many; come with us.”

And showing the way to Lafayette and Gilbert, he went into a cabinet, into which they both followed him.

The queen followed them with her eyes, and when the door had closed behind them:-

“Ah!” cried she, “it was to-day that we ought to have escaped from this. To-day there was still time. To-morrow, perhaps, it will be too late.”

And she, in her turn, left the room, to withdraw to her own apartments.

A great light, similar to that of an extensive conflagration, illuminated the windows of the palace.

It was an immense bonfire, at which the Parisians were roasting the different joints of the horse they had killed.

CHAPTER LIV. THE NIGHT OF THE FIFTH AND SIXTH OF OCTOBER

THE night was tolerably tranquil. The Assembly continued its sittings till three o'clock in the morning.

At three o'clock, and before the members separated, they sent two of their ushers, who took a round through Versailles, visited the environs of the palace, and then went round the park.

All was, or all appeared to be, quiet.

The queen had wished to leave the palace by the gate which communicated with Trianon; but the National Guards had refused to allow her to pass.

She had alleged her fears, and she had been answered that she was safer at Versailles than she could be elsewhere.

She had, in consequence, retired to her apartments; and she, in fact, felt reassured when she saw that she was protected by the most faithful of her guards.

At her door she had found George de Charny. He was armed, and leaning upon the small musketoon used by the guards as well as the dragoons. This was unusual; the guards in the interior of the palace stood sentry with their sabres only.

On perceiving him, the queen went up to him:-

“Ah! it is you, Baron,” she said.

“Yes, Madame.”

“Always faithful.”

“Am I not at my post-”

“Who placed you here-”

“My brother, Madame.”

“And where is your brother-”

“He is with the king.”

“And why with the king-”

“Because he is the head of the family,” he said; “and in that capacity has the right to die for the king, who is the head of the State.”

“Yes,” said Marie Antoinette, with a certain degree of bitterness, “while you have only the right of dying for the queen.”

“That would be a great honor for me,” said the young man, bowing, “should God ever permit me to fulfil that duty.”

The queen made a step to withdraw, but a suspicion was gnawing at her heart.

She stopped, and half turning her head:-

“And-the countess,” she inquired, “what has be come of her-”

“The countess, Madame, came in about ten minutes since; and she has ordered a bed to be prepared for her in your Majesty's antechamber.”

The queen bit her lips.

Whenever she had occasion to make inquiry with regard to any of the De Charny family, she was always sure to find that they were rigidly attending to their duties, be they what they might.

“Thanks, sir,” said the queen, with a charming gesture of the head and hand at the same time, “thanks for your watching so carefully over the queen. You will, in my name, thank your brother for watching over the king so carefully.”

And after saying this, she went to her own room. In the antechamber she found Andr #233;e, not lying down, but still sitting up and respectfully awaiting her return.

She could not prevent herself from holding out her hand to her.

“I have just been thanking your brother-in-law, George, Countess,” she said, “and I told him to thank your husband; and I now thank you, in turn.”

Andr #233;e made a low courtesy, and stood aside to allow the queen to pass, who then went into her bedroom.

The queen did not tell her to follow her. This devotedness, from which she felt affection was withdrawn, and which, however icy cold it might be, she knew would exist till death, weighed heavily upon her feelings.

As we have before said, at three in the morning everything was quiet in the palace at Versailles.

Gilbert had left it with Monsieur de Lafayette, who had been on horseback for twelve hours, and who was so much fatigued that he could scarcely stand. On leaving the palace, he met Billot, who had accompanied the National Guards. He had seen Gilbert set off; he had thought that Gilbert might have occasion for him at Versailles, and he had therefore followed him like the dog who runs to rejoin his master who had left the house without him.

At three o'clock all was tranquil at Versailles. The Assembly, reassured by the report of its officers, had retired. It was believed that this tranquillity would not be troubled. This belief was ill-founded.

In almost all popular movements which prepare the way for great revolutions, there is a period of stagnation, during which it seems as if everything was finished, and the world might sleep in peace. These appearances are deceptive.

Behind the men who make the first movements there are others who wait till the first movements are over, when those who have taken the first steps rest themselves, either from fatigue or satisfaction, not wishing, either in one case or the other, to take a step farther.

Then it is that these unknown men take their turn,-these mysterious agents of fatal passions,-gliding through the darkness, taking up the cause where it has been abandoned, pushing it to the utmost limits, and appalling, in the outburst, those who have opened the way, and who, believing the end attained, the task accomplished, have retreated to their couches in the very middle of the race.

During this terrible night, very different effects had been produced by the arrival of two troops who had arrived at Versailles,-the one in the evening, the other during the night.

The first had come because it was hungry, and it asked for bread.

The second had come from hatred, and asked for vengeance.

We know who it was led on the first,-Maillard and Lafayette.

But now who was it that led on the second- History mentions not their names; but as history has failed in this, tradition names-

We already know him; we have seen him at the fetes given at the marriage of Marie Antoinette, cutting off legs and arms on the Place Louis XV.; we have seen him in the square before the H #244;tel de Ville, urging on the citizens.

At length we see him gliding along in the night, like those wolves who prowl along the sheepfolds, waiting until the shepherds shall be asleep, To venture on thier sanguinary work.

As to this one, we have mentioned his name for the first time. He was a deformed dwarf, a hideous hunchback, whose legs appeared immeasurably long in proportion to his body, which was a visible representation of the distorted passions which raged within him. At every storm which disturbed the depths of society, this sanguinary monster was seen to rise with the scum and agitate himself upon its surface. Two or three times during the most terrible tumults he was seen passing through Paris, huddled upon a black charger, and similar to one of the figures in the Apocalypse, or to one of those inconceivable demons to which the pencil of Callot has given birth in his picture of the temptations of Saint Anthony.

One day at a club, and mounted on the table, he was attacking, threatening, and accusing Danton. It was at the period when the popularity of the man of the 2d of September was vacillating. Danton felt that this venomous attack of Verriere would altogether complete his ruin. He felt that he was lost,-lost like the lion who perceives the hideous head of a serpent two inches from his lips.

He looked around him, seeking either a weapon or some one to back him. Fortunately, he caught sight of another little hunchback; he immediately caught him under the arms, raised him, and then placed him upon the table immediately opposite his humpbacked brother, Verri #232;re.

“My friend,” said he to him, “reply to that gentleman; I yield the floor to you.”

The whole assembly roared with laughter, and Danton was saved,-for that time at least.

There were, then, according to tradition, Marat, Verriere, and besides them,-

The Duke d'Aiguillon; that is to say, one of the most inveterate enemies of the queen.

The Duke d'Aiguillon disguised as a woman.

And who was it said this- Everybody.

The Abb #233; Delille and the Abb #233; Maury,-these two abb #233;s who so little resemble each other.

To the first was attributed the famous line,-

“As a man, he's a coward, as a woman, an assassin.”

As to the Abb #233; Maury, that is another affair.

A fortnight after the occurrence of the events we are relating, the Duke d'Aiguillon met him on the terrace of the Feuillans, and was about to accost him.

“Keep on your way, strumpet!” said the Abb #233; Maury; and he majestically left the duke perfectly astounded.

It was therefore said that these three men, Marat, Verri #232;re, and the Duke d'Aiguillon arrived at Versailles at about four o'clock in the morning.

They were leading the second troop of which we have, spoken.

It was composed of men who follow in the wake of those who combat to conquer.

These men, on the contrary; come to pillage and to; assassinate.

They had undoubtedly assassinated a little at the Bastille, but they had not pillaged at all.

Versailles offered a delightful compensation.

About half-past five in the morning the palace was startled from its sleep.

A musket-shot had been fired in the marble courtyard.

Five or six hundred men had suddenly presented themselves at the gate; and exciting, animating, pushing on one another, some or them had climbed over the railings, while the others, by a united effort, at length forced open the gate.

It was then that a shot fired by the sentinel had given the alarm.

One of the assailants fell dead. His bleeding corpse was stretched upon the pavement.

This shot had divided this group of pillagers, whose aim was to obtain possession of the plate in the palace; and that of some of them, perhaps, to seize upon the king's crown.

Separated as by the blow of an immense hatchet, the crowd is divided into two groups.

One of the groups goes to attack the queen's apartments, the other ascends towards the chapel; that is to say, towards the apartments of the king.

Let us first follow the one proceeding towards the king's apartments.

You have seen the waves rising when a high tide is setting in, have you not Well, then, the popular wave is similar to it, with this sole difference, that it keeps on advancing, without receding.

The whole of the king's guards at that moment consisted of a sentinel, who was guarding the door, and an officer, who rushed precipitately out of the antechamber, armed with a halberd which he had snatched from the hand of a terrified Swiss.

“Who goes there-” cried the sentinel. “Who goes there-”

And as no answer was given, and as the flood of men still ascended:-

“Who goes there-” he cried for the third time.

And he levelled his musket.

The officer feels at once what would be the result of a shot fired in the apartments; he strikes up the sentinel's gun, and rushing towards the assailants, he places his halberd across the top of the staircase, thus completely preventing any one from passing.

“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” cried he, “what do you want- What do you require-”

“Nothing, nothing,” said several voices, in mockery; “let us pass, we are good friends of his Majesty.”

“You are good friends of his Majesty, and you make war on him-”

This time there was no answer,-a sardonic laugh and nothing else.

A man seized the stock of the halberd that the officer would not let go. To make him quit his hold, the man bit his hand.

The officer snatched the halberd from the hands of his adversary, grasped the oaken stock with both of his, and dealing his adversary a blow on the head with all his strength, broke his skull.

The violence of the blow broke the halberd into two pieces.

The officer, consequently, had two arms instead of one,-a stick and a poniard.

He whirled the stick round, struck with the poniard. During this time the sentry had opened the door of the antechamber and called for assistance.

Five or six guards came out.

“Gentlemen! gentlemen!” said the sentinel, “assist Monsieur de Charny.”

The sabres sprang from the scabbard, glittered for an instant in the light of the lamp which burned above the staircase, and, to the right and left of De Charny, furiously attacked the assailants.

Cries of pain were heard; blood flowed; the wave of people retreated down the steps, leaving them red and slippery with blood.

The door of the antechamber opened again, and the sentinel cried:-

“Enter, gentlemen; the king orders it!”

The guards profited by this moment of confusion among the crowd. They rushed towards the door. De Charny entered last. The gate closes upon him; and the two large bolts shoot into their places.

A thousand blows are struck at once on the door, but benches, tables, and stools are piled up behind it. It would hold good at least for ten minutes.

Ten minutes! during these ten minutes some assistance might arrive.

Let us see what is going on at the queen's quarters.

The second group has darted towards the small apartments; but the staircase is narrow,-scarce two people can pass at once.

George de Charny watches there.

At the third “Who goes there-” no answer being given, he fires.

At the report the queen's door opens.

Andr #233;e comes out, pale but calm.

“What is it-” asked she.

“Madame,” cried George, “save her Majesty! it is her life they want! I am opposed to a thousand, but I will hold out as long as possible! Quick! quick!” Then, as the' assailants precipitated themselves on him, he shut the door, crying, “Draw the bolt! draw the bolt! I shall live long enough to allow the queen to fly!” And turning, he pierced the first two he met in the corridor with his bayonet.

The queen had heard everything, and was up when Andr #233;e entered the room.

Two of her women, Madame Hogue and Madame Thibault, were hastily dressing her. Then, half dressed, the two women conducted her through a corridor to the king; while, calm and indifferent to her danger, Andr #233;e drew bolt after bolt, as she followed the footsteps of Marie Antoinette.

CHAPTER LV. THE MORNING

BETWIXT the two apartments a man waited for the queen.

This man was De Charny, covered with blood.

“The king!” cried Marie Antoinette, on seeing the blood on the dress of the young man; “the king! Monsieur, you promised to save the king!”

“The king is saved, Madame,” replied De Charny.

And looking towards the doors which the queen had left open, in order to reach the il de Buf, where at this time were assembled the queen, Madame Royale, the dauphin, and a few guards, De Charny was about to ask what had become of Andr #233;e, when his eyes met those of the queen.

This look stopped the question which about to issue from his lips.

But the queen's look pierced into the recesses of Charny's heart.

There was no need for his speaking. Marie Antoinette had divined his thought.

“She is coming,” said the queen; “you need not be uneasy.”

And she ran to the dauphin, and clasped him in her arms.

Andr #233;e immediately after this closed the last door, and in her turn entered the room called the il de Buf.

Andr #233;e and De Charny did not exchange a word.

The smile of the one replied to the smile of the other, and that was all.

Strange to say, these two hearts, which had so long been severed, began to entertain feelings which responded to each other.

During this time the queen looked around her; and as if she felt delight in finding De Charny in fault:-

“The king,” she inquired, “where is the king-”

“The king is seeking for you, Madame,” tranquilly replied De Charny; “he went to your apartment by one corridor, while you were coming here by another.”

At the same instant loud cries were heard in the adjoining room.

They were the assassins, who were vociferating, “Down with the Austrian woman! Down with the Messalina! Down with the Veto! She must be strangled! She must be hanged!”

At the same time two pistol-shots were heard, and two balls pierced through the door at different heights.

One of these balls passed only a quarter of an inch above the head or the dauphin, and then buried itself in the opposite wainscoting.

“Oh, my God! my God!” cried the queen, falling upon her knees, “we shall all be killed!”

The five or six guards, upon a sign made to them by De Charny, then placed themselves before the queen and the two royal children, thus forming a rampart for them with their bodies.

At that moment the king appeared, his eyes full of tears, his face pale as death; he was calling for the queen as the queen had called for him.

He perceived her, and threw himself into her arms.

“Saved! saved!” exclaimed the queen.

“By him, Madame,” cried the king, pointing to De Charny; “and you are saved by him also, are you not-”

“By his brother,” replied the queen.

“Sir,” said Louis XVI. to the count, “we owe much to your family, so much that we shall never be able to repay the debt.”

The queen's eyes met those of Andrd #233;e, and she turned away her head, blushing deeply.

The blows of the assailants were heard endeavoring to destroy the door.

“Come, gentlemen,” said De Charny, “we must defend our position here for another hour. There are seven of us, and it will take them full an hour to kill us if we defend ourselves resolutely. Before an hour elapses a reinforcement must have arrived to the assistance of their Majesties.”

Saying these words, De Charny seized a large press which was standing in one of the corners of the royal room.

His example was instantly followed, and a heap of furniture was piled up against the door, between which the guards took care to leave loopholes, through which they could fire on the assailants.

The queen took her two children in her arms, and raising her hands above their heads, she prayed.

The children restrained their cries and tears.

The king went into the cabinet contiguous to the il de Buf, in order to burn some valuable papers which he did not wish to fall into the hands of the assassins.

The latter were attacking the door more desperately than ever. At every instant, splinters were seen flying before the blows given by a sharp hatchet, or wrenched out by large pincers.

By the openings which had been thus made, pikes with reddened points, bayonets reeking with blood were forced through, attempting to hurl death on those within.

At the same time, the balls pierced the framework above the barricades, and left long traces on the gilded plaster of the ceiling.

At length a bench rolls from the top of the press; the press itself was partly damaged. One whole panel of the door, which formed the front of the press, gave way, and they could see, in the place of the bayonets and pikes, arms covered with blood pass through it and grasp the sides of the opening, which every moment became wider.

The guards had discharged their last cartridge, and this they had not done uselessly, for through this increasing opening could be seen the floor of the gallery covered with the wounded and dead bodies.

On hearing the shrieks of the women, who believed that through this opening death was advancing upon them, the king returned.

“Sire,” said De Charny, “shut yourself up with the queen in the farthest room from this; close every door after you; place two of us behind the doors. I demand to be the last, and to guard the last door. I will answer for it that we hold out two hours; they have been more than forty minutes in breaking through this one.”

The king hesitated; it appeared to him to be humiliating to fly thus from room to room, to intrench himself thus behind every partition.

If the queen had not been there, he would not have retreated a single step.

If the queen had not her children with her, she would have remained as firmly as the king.

But alas! poor human beings, kings or subjects, we have always in our hearts some secret opening by which courage escapes and terror enters.

The king was about to give the order to fly to the remotest room, when suddenly the arms were withdrawn, the pikes and bayonets disappeared, the shouts and threats at once ceased.

A general silence ensued, every one remaining with distended lips, eagerly listening ears, and suppressed respiration.

They then heard the measured steps of regular troops advancing.

“They are the National Guards!” cried De Charny.

“Monsieur de Charny!” cried a voice, and at the same time the well-known face of Billot appeared at the opening.

“Billot!” cried De Charny, “is it you, my friend-”

“Yes, yes, 'tis I,” replied the honest farmer; “and the king and queen, where are they-”

“They are here.”

“Safe and sound-”

“Safe and sound.”

“May God be praised! This way, Monsieur Gilbert, this way!” cried he, in his stentorian voice.

At the name of Gilbert, the hearts of two women bounded with very different feelings.

The heart of the queen and the heart of Andr #233;e.

De Charny turned round instinctively. He saw both Andr #233;e and the queen turn pale at this name.

He shook his head and sighed.

“Open the door, gentlemen,” said the king.

The guards hastened to obey his orders, throwing aside the remains of the barricade.

During this time the voice of Lafayette was heard crying:-

“Gentlemen of the National Guard of Paris, I last night pledged my word to the king that no injury should be done to any one belonging to his Majesty. If you allow his guards to be massacred, you will make me forfeit my word of honor, and I shall no longer be worthy to be your chief.”

When the door was opened, the two persons first perceived were General de Lafayette and Gilbert; while a little to their left Billot was standing, perfectly delighted at the share which he had taken in his Majesty's deliverance.

It was Billot who had gone to awaken Lafayette.

Behind Lafayette, Gilbert, and Billot, was Captain Gondran, commanding the company of the centre St. Philippe de Roule.

Madame Adelaide was the first who rushed forward to greet Lafayette, and throwing her arms round his neck with all the gratitude of terror:-

“Ah, sir!” she exclaimed, “it is you who have saved us!”

Lafayette advanced respectfully, and was about crossing the threshold of the il de Buf, when an officer stopped his progress.

“Your pardon, sir,” said he to him; “but have you the right of admission-”

“If he has not,” said the king, holding out his hand to Lafayette, “I give it to him.”

“Long live the king! long live the queen!” cried Billot.

The king turned towards him.

“That is a voice I know,” said he, smiling.

“You are very kind, Sire,” replied the worthy farmer. “Yes, yes; you heard that voice on the journey to Paris. Ah, had you but remained in Paris instead of returning here!”

The queen knit her brows.

“Yes,” she said, “since you Parisians are so very amiable.”

“Well, sir-” said the king to Monsieur de Lafayette, as if he had been asking him the question, “In your opinion, what ought now to be done-”

“Sire,” respectfully replied Monsieur de Lafayette, “I think it would be well that your Majesty should show yourself on the balcony.”

The king asked Gilbert for his opinion, but merely by a look.

Louis XVI. then went straight to the window, and without hesitation opened it himself and appeared upon the balcony.

A tremendous shout, a unanimous shout, burst from the people, of:-

“Long live the king!”

Then a second cry followed the first:-

“The king to Paris!”

Between these two cries, and sometimes overwhelming them, some formidable voices shouted:-

“The queen! the queen!”

At this cry everybody shuddered; the king turned pale, De Charny turned pale, even Gilbert himself turned pale.

The queen raised her head.

She was also pale, but with compressed lips and frowning brow, she was standing near the window. Madame Royale was leaning against her. Before her was the dauphin, and on the fair head of the child reclined her convulsively clinched hand, white as the purest marble.

“The queen! the queen!” reiterated the voices, becoming more and more formidable.

“The people desire to see you, Madame,” said General de Lafayette.

“Oh, do not go, my mother!” said Madame Royale, in great agony, and throwing her arms round the queen's neck.

The queen looked at Lafayette.

“Fear nothing, Madame,” said he to her.

“What!” she exclaimed, “and quite alone-”

Lafayette smiled; and respectfully, and with the delightful manner which he retained even to his latest days, he took the two children from their mother and made them first ascend the balcony.

Then offering his hand to the queen:-

“If your Majesty will deign to confide in me,” said he, “I will be responsible for all.”

And he conducted the queen on to the balcony.

It was a terrible spectacle, and one likely to cause the vertigo; for the marble courtyard was transformed into a human sea, full of roaring waves.

At the sight of the queen, an immense cry was uttered by the whole of this crowd; and no one could have been positive whether it was a cry of menace or of joy.

Lafayette kissed the queen's hand; then loud applause burst forth.

In the noble French nation there is, even in the veins of the lowest-born, chivalric blood.

The queen breathed more freely.

“What a strange people!” she exclaimed.

Then, suddenly shuddering:-

“And my guards, sir,” said she, “my guards, who have saved my life- Can you do nothing for them-”

“Let me have one of them, Madame,” said Lafayette.

“Monsieur de Charny! Monsieur de Charny!” cried the queen.

But De Charny withdrew a step or two; he had understood what was required of him.

He did not wish to make an apology for the evening of the 1st of October.

Not having been guilty, he required no amnesty.

Andr #233;e, on her side, was impressed with the same feeling. She had stretched out her hand to De Charny for the purpose of preventing him. Her hand met the hand of the count, and these two hands were pressed within each other.

The queen had observed this, notwithstanding she had so much to observe at that moment.

Her eyes flashed fire, and with a palpitating heart and broken accents:-

“Sir,” said she to another guard,-“sir, come here, I command you.”

The guard obeyed.

He had not, moreover, the same motives for hesitating as De Charny had.

Monsieur de Lafayette drew the guard on to the balcony, and taking his own tricolored cockade from his hat, placed it in that of the guard, after which he embraced him.

“Long live Lafayette! long live the body-guard!” shouted fifty thousand voices.

Some few wished to utter some hollow growling, the last threat of the disappearing tempest.

But these malcontents were overwhelmed by the universal acclamation.

“Come,” said Lafayette, “all is ended, and fine weather has returned.”

Then, stepping into the room:-

“But that it should not again be overcast, Sire, there still remains a sacrifice for you to make.”

“Yes,” said the king, pensively, “to leave Versailles, is it not-”

“And come to Paris,-yes, Sire.”

“Sir,” said the king, “you may announce to the people that at one o'clock I, the queen, and my children will set out for Paris.”

Then, turning to the queen:-

“Madame,” said he, “you had better retire to your own apartment, and prepare yourself.”

This order of the king appeared to remind De Charny of an event of importance which he had forgotten.

He rushed from the room, preceding the queen.

“Why are you going to my apartment, sir-” said the queen, harshly, to him; “you have no need to go there.”

“I earnestly trust it may be so, Madame,” replied De Charny. “But be not uneasy; if really I am not needed there, I shall not remain long enough to cause my presence to be displeasing to your Majesty.”

The queen followed him; traces of blood stained the floor, and the queen saw them. She closed her eyes, and seeking an arm to guide her, she took that of De Charny, and walked some steps in this way as a blind person.

Suddenly she felt that every nerve in De Charny's body shuddered.

“What is the matter, sir-” she said, opening her eyes.

Then suddenly:-

“A dead body! a dead body!” she exclaimed.

“Your Majesty will excuse my withdrawing my arm,” said he. “I have found that which I came to seek in your apartment,-the dead body of my brother George.”

It was in fact the dead body of the unfortunate young man, whom his brother had ordered to allow himself to be killed rather than that the queen should be approached!

He had punctually obeyed.

CHAPTER LVI. GEORGE DE CHARNY

THE circumstances we have just related have been recounted in a hundred different ways; for they were certainly the most interesting which occurred in the great period between 1789 and 1795, and which is called the French Revolution.

They will be related in a hundred various ways still; but we can affirm beforehand that no one will relate them with more impartiality than we have done.

After all these narratives, our own not excepted, there will still remain as much to tell; for history is never perfect. Each of a hundred thousand witnesses has his version; each of a hundred thousand details has its interest and its romance, and for the very reason that they are all different.

But of what service will all these narratives be, however true they are- Did ever a political lesson prove instructive to a political man-

The tears, the mournful stories, and the blood of kings, have they ever had the effect of the drop of water which hollows the rock-

No! queens have wept; no! kings have been murdered; and yet their successors have never profited by the cruel lesson which fate had given them.

Faithful subjects have been prodigal of their devotedness, without those whom fatality had destined to misfortune having derived any advantage from it.

Alas! we have seen the queen almost stumble over the body of one of those men whom kings, when they depart, leave bleeding upon the road which they have traversed in their fall.

A few hours after the cry of terror which the queen had uttered, and at the moment when, with the king and her children, she was about to leave Versailles, where she was never to return, the following scene took place in an interior courtyard, damp from the rain, and which a sharp autumnal wind had begun to dry.

A man dressed in black was leaning over a dead body.

A man dressed in the uniform of the royal guards was kneeling on the opposite side of this body.

At three paces from them a third person was standing, with clasped hands and fixed eyes, gazing intently at them.

The dead body was that of a young man of from twenty-two to twenty-three years of age, the whole of whose blood appeared to have escaped through large wounds in his head and chest.

His chest was scarred with frightful gashes; the skin surrounding them was of a livid white; it appeared still to heave with the disdainful breathing of a hopeless defence.

His half-opened mouth, his head thrown back with an expression of pain and anger, recalled to the mind the beautiful statue of the dying gladiator.

“And life with a long groan fled to the abode of shadows.”

The man dressed in black was Gilbert.

The officer on his knees was the Count de Charny.

The man standing near them was Billot.

The corpse was that of the Baron George de Charny.

Gilbert, leaning over the body, gazed at it with that sublime intentness which with the dying retains life when about to escape, and with the dead almost recalls the soul which has taken flight.

“Cold, stiff; he is dead,-positively dead!” said he at length.

The Count de Charny uttered a hoarse groan, and pressing in his arms the insensible body, burst into sobs so heart-rending that the doctor shuddered, and Billot ran to hide his head in a corner of the small courtyard.

Then suddenly the count raised the body, placed it against the wall, and slowly withdrew, still looking at it as if he expected that his dead brother would become reanimated and follow him.

Gilbert remained still kneeling on one knee, his head reclining on his hand, pensive and motionless.

Billot then left his dark corner and went up to Gilbert; he no longer heard the count's sobs, which had torn his heart.

“Alas! alas! Monsieur Gilbert,” said he, “this, then, is really what we have to expect in civil war, and that which you predicted to me is now happening; only it is happening sooner than I expected, and even sooner than you yourself expected. I saw these villains murdering unworthy people; and now I see these villains murdering honest people. I saw them massacre Flesselles; I saw them massacre Monsieur de Launay; I saw Foulon massacred; I saw Berthier massacred. I then shuddered in every limb, and I felt a horror for all men.

“And yet the men they were then killing were miserable wretches.

“It was then, Monsieur Gilbert, that you predicted the time would come when they would kill worthy people.

“They have killed the Baron de Charny. I no longer shudder,-I weep; I have no longer a horror of others,-I fear I may resemble them.”

“Billot!” cried Gilbert.

But without listening, Billot continued:-

“Here is a young man whom they have assassinated, Monsieur Gilbert. He was a mere boy; he was fairly combating; he was not assassinating, but he has been assassinated.”

Billot heaved a sigh, which seemed to issue from the bottom of his heart.

“Ah, the unhappy youth!” he cried. “I knew him when he was a child. I have seen him pass by when he was going from Boursonne to Villers-Cotterets on his little gray pony; he was carrying bread to the poor from his mother.

“He was a beautiful boy, with a fair, rosy complexion and large blue eyes; he was always smiling. Well! it is very extraordinary, since I saw him stretched out there, bloody and disfigured, it is not a corpse that I behold in him, but always the smiling child of former days, carrying a basket in his left hand and a purse in his right.

“Ah, Monsieur Gilbert, in truth I believe I have now had enough of it, and do not desire to see anything more; for you predicted this to me. The time will come when I shall also see you die, and then-”

Gilbert gently shook his head.

“Billot,” said he, “be calm; my hour has not yet come.”

“Be it so; but mine has come, Doctor. I have a harvest down yonder which has rotted, fields that are lying fallow, a family whom I love ten times more dearly on seeing this dead body, whose family are weeping for him.”

“What do you mean to say, my dear Billot Do you believe, perchance, that I am going to afflict myself about you-”

“Oh, no!” replied Billot, ingenuously; “but as I suffer, I complain; and as complaining leads to nothing, I calculate on alleviating my own sufferings in my own way.”

“Which means to say that-”

“It means that I desire to return to my farm, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“Again, Billot-”

“Ah, Monsieur Gilbert, there is a voice down yonder which is calling for me.”

“Take care, Billot; that voice is advising you to desert.”

“I am not a soldier, and therefore there is no desertion, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“What you are wishing to do would be a desertion far more culpable than that of a soldier.”

“Explain that to me, Doctor.”

“How! you have come to Paris to demolish; and you would fly as soon as the building is falling.”

“Yes, that I may not crush my friends.”

“Or rather that you may not be crushed yourself.”

“Why, why!” replied Billot, “it is not forbidden that a man should think a little of himself.”

“Ah! that is a magnificent calculation, indeed; as if stones did not roll; as if in rolling they did not crush, and even at a distance, the timid men who would fly from them.”

“Oh, you are well aware that I am not a timid man, Monsieur Gilbert.”

“Then you will remain, Billot; I have occasion for you here.”

“My family also stands in need of me down yonder.”

“Billot! Billot! I thought that you had agreed with me that a man who loves his country has no family.”

“I should like to know whether you would use the same language if Sebastien lay there, as that young man lies.”

And he pointed to the dead body.

“Billot,” replied Gilbert, in a hollow tone, “the day will arrive when my son shall see me as I now see that body.”

“So much the worse for him, Doctor, if on that day he should be as calm as you are now.”

“I hope that he will be a better man than I am, Billot, and that he will be firmer still, and precisely because I shall have given him an example of firmness.”

“Then you would have the child accustom himself to see blood flowing around him, that he should in his youthful years become inured to great conflagrations, to gibbets and riots, attacks in the dark; that he should see kings threatened, queens insulted; and then, when he has become as hard as his sword-blade, and quite as cold, you would still expect that he should love, that he should respect you-”

“No, I would not have him see all that, Billot; and that is the reason for my sending him back to Villers-Cotterets, and I now almost regret having done so.”

“How! you now regret it-”

“Yes.”

“And why do you now regret-”

“Because he would this day have seen exemplified the axiom of the lion and the rat, which to him is but a fable.”

“What do you mean to say, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“I say that he would have seen a poor farmer, whom chance has brought to Paris, a brave and honest man, who can neither read nor write, who never could have believed that his life could influence, either for good or evil the high destinies which he scarcely dared to raise his eyes to; I say that he would have seen this man who had already at one time wished to leave Paris, as he again wishes it,-I say that he would have seen this man contribute efficaciously to save the life of a king, a queen, and two royal children.”

Billot stared at Gilbert with astonished eyes.

“And how so, Monsieur Gilbert-” said he.

“How so! you sublimely ignorant fellow! I will tell you how. By waking at the first noise that was made; by guessing that this noise was a tempest ready to burst upon Versailles; by running to wake up Monsieur de Lafayette,-for Monsieur de Lafayette was asleep.”

“Zounds! that was perfectly natural, for he had been twelve hours on horseback, and for twenty-four hours he had not been in bed.”

“By leading him to the palace,” continued Gilbert, “and by bringing him at once into the midst of the assassins, and crying: 'Stop, wretches, here is the avenger!'“

“Well, now, that is really true; I did all that.”

“Well, then, Billot, you see that this is a great compensation. If you did not prevent this young man being assassinated, you have perhaps prevented the assassination of the king, the queen, and the two children. Ungrateful man! and you ask to leave the service of the country at the very moment when the country recompenses you.”

“But who will ever know what I have done, since I myself even had no idea of it-”

“You and I, Billot; and is not that enough-”

Billot reflected for a moment, then, holding out his rough hand to the doctor:-

“I declare you are right, Monsieur Gilbert,” said he; “but you know that a man is but a weak, egotistical, inconstant creature. There is but you, Monsieur Gilbert, who are firm, generous, and constant. What is it that has made you so-”

“Misfortune,” said Gilbert, with a smile, in which there was more sorrow than in a sob.

“That is singular,” said Billot; “I had thought that misfortune made men wicked.”

“The weak,-yes.”

“Then if I should be unfortunate, I should become wicked.”

“You may perhaps be unfortunate; but you will never become wicked, Billot.”

“Are you sure of that-”

“I will answer for you.”

“In that case-” said Billot, sighing.

“In that case-” repeated Gilbert.

“Why, I will remain with you; but more than once I know I shall again be vacillating.”

“And every time it happens, Billot, I shall be near you to sustain your firmness.”

“Well, again I say, so be it,” sighed the farmer.

Then, casting a last look on the body of the Baron George de Charny, which the servants were about to remove on a bier:-

“It matters not!” said Billot; “he was a handsome boy, that little George de Charny, on his little gray pony, with a basket on his left arm and his purse in his right hand.”

CHAPTER LVII. DEPARTURE, JOURNEY, AND ARRIVAL OF PITOU AND SEBASTIEN GILBERT

WE have seen, under circumstances long anterior to those we have now related, the departure of Pitou and Sebastien Gilbert.

Our intention being, for the present, to abandon the principal personages of our history, to follow the two young travellers, we hope that our readers will allow us to enter into some details relating to their departure from Paris, their journey, and their arrival at Villers-Cotterets, where Pitou felt certain that they were both greatly missed.

Gilbert had commissioned Pitou to go to the College Louis-le-Grand and to bring Sebastien to him. For this purpose they put Pitou into a hackney-coach, and as they had confided Sebastien to Pitou, they confided Pitou to the care of the coachman.

In about an hour the coach brought back Pitou; Pitou brought back Sebastien.

Gilbert and Billot were waiting for them in an apartment which they had taken in the Rue St. Honor #233;, a little above the Church of the Assumption.

Gilbert explained to his son that he was to set out the same evening with Pitou, and asked him whether he would not be well pleased to return to the great woods he so much loved.

“Yes. Father,” replied the boy, “provided that you will come to see me at Villers-Cotterets, or that you allow me to come to see you at Paris.”

“You may be easy on that score, my child,” replied Gilbert, kissing his son's forehead; “you know that now I shall never be happy when away from you.”

As to Pitou, he colored with delight at the idea of setting out the same evening.

He turned pale with happiness when Gilbert placed both Sebastien's hands within one of Pitou's, and in the other ten double louis, of the value of forty-eight livres each.

A long series of instructions, almost all regarding the health of his companion, were given by the doctor to Pitou, to which he religiously listened.

Sebastien cast down his large eyes to conceal his tears.

Pitou was weighing and jingling his louis in his immense pocket.

Gilbert gave a letter to Pitou, who was thus installed in his functions, pro tem., of tutor.

This letter was for the Abb #233; Fortier.

The doctor's harangue being terminated, Billot spoke in his turn.

“Monsieur Gilbert,” said he, “has confided to you the health of Sebastien; I will confide to you his personal safety. You have a pair of stout fists; in case of need, make good use of them.”

“Yes,” said Pitou; “and besides them, I have a sabre.”

“Do not make an abuse of that.”

“I will be merciful,” said Pitou; “clemens ero.”

“A hero, if you will,” repeated Billot, but not intending to say it jeeringly.

“And now,” said Gilbert, “I will point out to you the way in which you and Sebastien should travel.”

“Oh!” cried Pitou, “it is only eighteen leagues from Paris to Villers-Cotterets; we will talk all the way, Sebastien and I.”

Sebastien looked at his father, as if to ask him whether it would be very amusing to talk during the journey of eighteen leagues with Pitou.

Pitou caught this glance.

“We will speak Latin,” said he, “and we shall be taken for learned men.”

This was the dream of his ambition, the innocent creature.

How many others with ten double louis in their pocket, would have said:-

“We will buy gingerbread.”

Gilbert appeared for a moment to be in doubt.

He looked at Pitou, then at Billot.

“I understand you,” said the latter; “you are asking yourself whether Pitou is a proper guide, and you hesitate to confide your child to him.”

“Oh!” said Gilbert, “it is not to him that I confide him.”

“To whom, then-”

Gilbert looked up to heaven; he was still too much a Voltairean to dare to reply:-

“To God!”

And the affair was settled. They resolved, in consequence, not to make any change in Pitou's plan, which promised, without exposing him to too much fatigue, a journey replete with amusement to Sebastien; but it was decided they should not commence it until the following morning.

Gilbert might have sent his son to Villers-Cotterets by one of the public conveyances which at that period were running between Paris and the frontiers, or even in his own carriage; but we know how much he feared the isolation of thought for young Sebastien, and nothing so much isolates dreaming people as the motion and rumbling noise of a carriage.

He therefore took the two young travellers as far as Bourget, and then, showing them the open road, on which a brilliant sun was shining, and bordered by a double row of trees, he embraced his son again, and said:-

“Now go!”

Pitou therefore set off, leading Sebastien, who several times turned round to blow kisses to his father, who was standing, his arms crossed, upon the spot where he had taken leave of his son, following him with his eyes as if he were following a dream.

Pitou raised himself to the full height of his extraordinary stature. Pitou was very proud of the confidence reposed in him by a person of Monsieur Gilbert's importance,-one of the king's physicians-in-ordinary.

Pitou prepared himself scrupulously to fulfil the task intrusted to him, which combined the functions of a tutor and almost those of a governess.

Moreover, it was with full confidence in himself that he was conducting little Sebastien; he travelled very quietly, passing through villages which were all in commotion and terror since the events at Paris, which had only just occurred,-for although we have brought up these events to the 5th and 6th of October, it must be remembered that it was towards the end of July or the beginning of August that Pitou and Sebastien left Paris.

Besides this, Pitou had retained his helmet for a headdress, and his long sabre as a defensive weapon.

These were all that he had gained by the events of the 13th and 14th of July; but this twofold trophy satisfied his ambition, and by giving him a formidable air, at the same time sufficed for his safety.

Moreover, this formidable air, to which indubitably the helmet and dragoon's sabre greatly contributed, Pitou had acquired independently of them. A man has not assisted in taking the Bastille, he has not even merely been present at it, without having retained something heroic in his deportment.

Pitou had, in addition to this, become somewhat of an advocate.

No one could have listened to the resolutions passed at the H #244;tel de Ville, to the orations of Monsieur Bailly, the harangues of Monsieur de Lafayette, without becoming somewhat of an orator; above all, if he had already studied the Latin Conciones, of which French eloquence at the close of the eighteenth century was rather a pale, though a tolerably correct, imitation.

Furnished with these two powerful modes of argument, to which two vigorous fists were no mean adjuncts, and possessing a rare amenity of smile and a most interesting appetite, Pitou journeyed on agreeably towards Villers-Cotterets.

For the curious in politics he had news, besides which he could manufacture them in case of need, having resided in Paris, where, from that period, their fabrication has been always remarkable.

He related how Monsieur Berthier had left immense buried treasures, which the Government would some day manage to dig up; how Monsieur de Lafayette, the paragon of all glory, the pride of provincial France, was no longer considered in Paris but as a half-used-up doll, whose white horse was a fertile subject for the concoction of jests and caricatures; how Monsieur Bailly, whom Monsieur de Lafayette honored with his most intimate friendship, as well as all the members of his family, was an aristocrat, and that people addicted to scandal said even worse things of him.

When he related all this, Pitou raised tempests of anger against him, but he possessed the quos ego of all these storms. He would then relate unpublished anecdotes of the “Austrian woman.”

His inexhaustible fancy procured for him an uninterrupted succession of excellent repasts, until he arrived at Vauciennes,-the last village on the road before reaching Villers-Cotterets.

As Sebastien, on the contrary, ate little or nothing; as he did not speak at all; as he was a pale and sickly-looking youth,-every one who felt interested in Sebastien, admired the vigilant and paternal care of Pitou towards him, who caressed, cosseted, attended on the boy, and into the bargain, ate his part of the dinners, without seeming to have any other motive than that of being agreeable to him.

When they arrived at Vauciennes, Pitou appeared to hesitate. He looked at Sebastien; Sebastien looked at Pitou.

Pitou scratched his head. This was his mode of expressing his embarrassment.

Sebastien knew enough of Pitou to be aware of this peculiarity.

“Well, what is the matter, Pitou-” asked Sebastien.

“The matter is, that if it were the same thing to you, and if you were not too tired, instead of continuing our way straight on, we would return to Villers-Cotterets through Haramont.”

And Pitou, honest lad, blushed while expressing this wish, as Catherine would have blushed when expressing a less innocent desire.

Sebastien at once understood him.

“Ah, yes!” said he, “it was there our poor mother Pitou died.”

“Come, my brother, come.”

Pitou pressed Sebastien to his heart with an energy that almost suffocated him; and taking the boy's hand, he began running down the cross-road which leads along the valley of Wuala, and so rapidly that after going a hundred paces, poor Sebastien was completely out of breath, and was obliged to say:-

“Too fast, Pitou, too fast!”

Pitou stopped; he had not perceived that he was going too fast, it being his usual pace.

He saw that Sebastien was pale and out of breath.

He took him on his shoulders and carried him.

In this way Pitou might walk as fast as he pleased.

As it was not the first time that Pitou had carried Sebastien, Sebastien made no objection.

They thus reached Largny. There Sebastien, feeling that Pitou was panting, declared that he had rested long enough, and that he was ready to walk at any pace that might suit Pitou.

Pitou, being full of magnanimity, moderated his pace.

Half an hour after this, Pitou was at the entrance of Haramont, the pretty village where he first saw the light, as says the romance of a great poet,-a romance the music of which is of more value than the words.

When they reached it, the two boys cast a look around them to discover their old haunts.

The first thing which they perceived was the crucifix which popular piety habitually places at the entrance to all villages.

Alas! even at Haramont they felt the strange progression which Paris was making towards atheism. The nails which fastened the right arm and the feet of the figure of Christ had broken off, from rust having eaten through them. The figure was hanging, suspended only by the left arm; and no one had had the pious idea of replacing the symbol of that liberty, that equality, that fraternity which every one was in those days preaching.

Pitou was not devout, but he had the traditions of his childhood. That this holy symbol should have been thus neglected, wounded him to the heart. He searched the hedges for one of those creeping plants which are as thin and as tenacious as iron wire, laid his helmet and his sabre on the grass, climbed up the cross, refastened the right arm of the Divine Martyr to it, kissed the feet, and descended.

During this time Sebastien was praying on his knees at the foot of the cross. For whom was he praying Who can tell-

Perhaps for that vision of his childhood which he fondly hoped once more to find beneath the great trees; for that unknown mother who is never unknown; for if she has not nourished us from her breast, yet is she still our mother.

His holy action being accomplished, Pitou replaced his helmet on his head, and replaced his sabre in his belt.

When Sebastien had concluded his prayer, he made the sign of the cross, and again took Pitou's hand.

Both of them then entered the village, and advanced towards the cottage in which Pitou had been born, in which Sebastien had been nursed.

Pitou knew every stone in Haramont, and yet he could not find the cottage. He was obliged to inquire what had become of it, and the person he applied to showed him a small house built of stone, with a slated roof.

The garden of this house was surrounded by a wall.

Aunt Ang #233;lique had sold her sister's house, and the new proprietor, having full right to do so, had pulled down everything,-the old walls, which had again become dust; the old door, with a hole cut in it to allow ingress to the cat; the old windows, with their panes, half glass, half paper, upon which had appeared in strokes the elementary lessons Pitou had received in writing; the thatched roof with its green moss, and the plants which had grown and blossomed on its summit. The new proprietor had pulled down all this; all had disappeared.

The gate was closed, and lying on the threshold, was a big black dog, who showed his teeth to Pitou.

“Come,” said Pitou, the tears starting from his eyes; “let us be gone, Sebastien. Let us go to a place where at least I am sure that nothing will have changed.”

And Pitou dragged Sebastien to the cemetery where his mother had been buried.

He was right, the poor boy! There nothing had been changed, only the grass had grown; it grows so rapidly in cemeteries that there was some chance even that he would not be able to recognize his mother's grave. Fortunately, at the same time that the grass had grown, a branch of a weeping-willow which Pitou had planted had, in three years, become a tree. He went straight to the tree and kissed the earth which it overshadowed, with the same instinctive piety with which he had kissed the feet of the figure of Christ.

When he rose from the ground, he felt the branches of the willow, agitated by the wind, waving around his head.

He then stretched out his arms, and clasping the branches, pressed them to his heart.

It was as if he was holding the hair of his mother, which he was embracing for the last time.

The two youths remained a considerable time by the side of this grave, and evening was approaching.

It was necessary that they should leave it,-the only thing that appeared to have any remembrance of Pitou.

When about to leave it, Pitou for a moment had the idea of breaking off a slip of the willow and placing it in his helmet; but just when he was raising his hand to do so, he paused.

It appeared to him that it would be giving pain to his poor mother to tear off a branch from a tree, the roots of which perhaps were entwined round the decaying deal coffin in which her remains reposed.

He again kissed the ground, took Sebastien by the hand, and left the cemetery.

All the inhabitants of the village were either in the fields or in the woods. Few persons, therefore, had seen Pitou; and disguised as he was by his helmet and his long sabre, among those persons no one had recognized him.

He therefore took the road to Villers-Cotterets,-a delightful road which runs through the forest for nearly three quarters of a league,-without meeting any living or animated object to divert his grief.

Sebastien followed, mute and pensive as himself.

They arrived at Villers-Cotterets at about five in the afternoon.

CHAPTER LVIII. HOW PITOU, AFTER HAVING BEEN CURSED AND TURNED OUT OF DOORS BY HIS AUNT ON ACCOUNT OF A BARBARISM AND THREE SOLECISMS, WAS AGAIN CURSED AND TURNED OUT BY HER ON ACCOUNT OF A FOWL COOKED WITH RICE

PITOU arrived at Villers-Cotterets by that part of the park which is called the Pheasantry. He walked across the dancing place, always abandoned during the week, and to which he had three weeks previously conducted Catherine.

What a number of things had happened to Pitou and to France during those three weeks!

Then, having followed the long avenue of chestnuttrees, he reached the square before the ch #226;teau, and knocked at the back door of the college presided over by the Abb #233; Fortier.

It was full three years since Pitou had left Haramont, while it was only three weeks since he had left Villers-Cotterets. It was therefore very natural that he should not have been recognized at Haramont, and that he should have been recognized at Villers-Cotterets.

In a moment a rumor ran through the town that Pitou had returned there with young Sebastien Gilbert; that both of them had gone into the house of the Abb #233; Fortier; that Sebastien looked much the same as when he had left them, but that Pitou had a helmet and a long sword.

The result of this was that a great crowd had assembled at the principal gate; for they calculated that if Pitou had gone into the chateau by the small private door, he would come out of it by the great gate in the Rue de Soissons.

This was his direct road for going to Pleux.

In fact, Pitou remained at the Abb #233; Fortier's only long enough to deliver into the hands of the abb #233;'s sister the letter from the doctor, the young lad himself, and five double louis destined to pay his board.

The Abb #233; Fortier's sister was at first much terrified when she saw so formidable a soldier advancing through the garden; but soon, beneath the dragoon's helmet, she recognized the placid and honest face of Pitou, which somewhat tranquillized her.

And finally, the sight of the five double louis reassured her altogether.

This terror of the poor old maid can be the more readily explained, by informing our readers that the Abb #233; Fortier had gone out with his pupils to give them a walk, and that she was quite alone in the house.

Pitou, after having delivered the letter and the five double louis, embraced Sebastien, and left the house, clapping his helmet on his head with due military bravado.

Sebastien had shed some tears on separating from Pitou, although the separation was not to be of long duration, and notwithstanding that his society was not exceedingly amusing; but his hilarity, his mildness, his continued obligingness, had touched the heart of young Gilbert. Pitou had the disposition of those fine great Newfoundland dogs, who sometimes fatigue you very much, but who in the end disarm your anger by licking your hand.

There was one thing which diminished Sebastien's grief, which was that Pitou promised that he would often go to see him. One thing diminished Pitou's regret, and this was that Sebastien thanked him for his promise.

But now let us for a while follow our hero from the house of the Abb #233; Fortier to that of his Aunt Ang #233;lique, situated, as our readers already know, at the farther end of Pleux.

On leaving the Abb #233; Fortier's house, Pitou found some twenty persons who were waiting for him. His strange equipment, a description of which had been given throughout the town, was in part known to those assembled. On seeing him thus return from Paris, where so much fighting was going on, they presumed that Pitou had been fighting too, and they wished to hear the news.

This news Pitou communicated with his accustomed majesty. The taking of the Bastille, the exploits of Monsieur Billot and of Monsieur Maillard, of Messieurs Elie and Hullin; how Billot had fallen into the ditch of the fortress, and how he, Pitou, had dragged him out of it; finally, how they had saved Monsieur Gilbert, who during six or seven days had been one of the prisoners confined there.

The auditors already knew most of the details that Pitou had related to them. They had read all these details in the newspapers of the day; but however faithful the editor of a newspaper may be in his writings, he is always less interesting than an ocular witness who relates the incidents,-who may be interrupted, and who resumes; who may be questioned, and replies.

Now Pitou resumed, replied, gave all the details, showing, when interrupted, the greatest obligingness, in all his answers the greatest possible amenity.

The result of all this was that in about an hour's conversation at the door of the Abb #233; Fortier, in which he gave a succinct narrative, the Rue de Soissons was crowded with auditors, when one of the persons present, observing some signs of anxiety in Pitou's countenance, took upon himself to say:-

“But he is fatigued, poor Pitou; and we are keeping him here upon his legs instead of allowing him to go to his Aunt Ang #233;lique's house, poor dear woman, who will be so delighted at seeing him again.”

“It is not that I am fatigued,” said Pitou, “but that I am hungry; I have never been fatigued, but I am hungry.”

Then, and in consequence of this ingenuous declaration, the crowd, who highly respected the cravings of Pitou's stomach, respectfully made way for him to pass, and Pitou, followed by some persons more inveterately curious than the rest, was permitted to wend his way to Pleux; that is to say, to the house of his Aunt Ang #233;lique.

Aunt Ang #233;lique was not at home; she had gone doubtless to visit some neighbors, and the door was locked.

Several persons then invited Pitou to go to their houses and take the nourishment he stood in need of; but Pitou proudly refused.

“But,” said they to him, “you see, dear Pitou, that your aunt's door is locked.”

“The door of an aunt cannot remain locked before an obedient and hungry nephew,” answered Pitou, majestically.

And drawing his long sabre, the sight of which made men and children start back with affright, he introduced the point of it between the bolt and the staple of the lock, gave a vigorous jerk, and the door flew open, to the great admiration of all present, who no longer doubted the great exploits of Pitou, since they saw him with so much audacity expose himself to the anger of the illtempered old maid.

The interior of the house was in precisely the same state as when Pitou had left it. The famous leather armchair royally held its state in the centre of the room; two or three other mutilated chairs and stools formed the lame court of the great armchair; at the end of the room was the kneading-trough; on the right, the cupboard, and on the left, the chimney.

Pitou entered the house with a bland smile. He had no quarrel with all these poor articles of furniture; on the contrary, they were the friends of his youth. They were, it is true, almost as hard in their nature as Aunt Ang #233;lique; but when they were opened, there was something good to be found in them; while had Aunt Ang #233;lique been opened, her inside would certainly have been found dryer and worse than her exterior.

Pitou, upon the instant, gave a proof of what we have advanced to the persons who had followed him, and who, seeing what was going on, were waiting outside the house, curious to see what would be the result when Aunt Ang #233;lique should return home.

It was, moreover, very perceptible that all these persons felt great sympathy for Pitou. We have said that Pitou was hungry, so hungry that it had been perceived by the change in his countenance.

Therefore he lost no time; he went straight to the kneading-trough and cupboard.

In former times-we say former times, although scarcely three weeks had elapsed since Pitou's departure; for in our opinion, time is to be measured, not by its duration, but by the events which have occurred; in former times, Pitou, unless urged on by the Evil Spirit, or by irresistible hunger, both of them infernal powers, and which much resemble each other-in former times Pitou would have seated himself upon the threshold of the closed door, and humbly waited the return of Aunt Ang #233;lique; when she had returned, would have bowed to her with a soft smile; then, standing aside, would have made room for her to pass, would have followed her into the house, would have gone for a loaf and a knife, that she might measure out his portion to him; then, his share being cut off, he would have cast a longing eye, a single look, tearful and magnetic,-he thought it so at least,-magnetic to such a degree as to call forth the cheese or any other dainty from the shelf of the cupboard.

Magnetism which rarely succeeded, but which, however, sometimes did succeed.

But now Pitou, having become a man, no longer acted thus; he tranquilly raised the lid of the bread-trough, drew from his pocket his long clasp-knife, took the loaf and angularly cut off a slice which might have weighed a good kilogram (two pounds), as is elegantly said since the adoption of the new-system weights.

Then he let fall the loaf into the trough again, and the cover on the loaf.

After which, without allowing his equanimity to be at all disturbed, he went to the cupboard.

It appeared to Pitou for an instant that he heard the growling voice of Aunt Ang #233;lique; but the cupboarddoor creaked upon its hinges, and this noise, which had all the power of reality, drowned the other, which had only the influence of imagination.

At the time when Pitou was one of the household, the avaricious aunt would provide only viands of a coarse description, such as Marolles cheese, or thin slices of highly salted bacon, surrounded by the verdant leaves of an enormous cabbage; but since this fabulous devourer had left the country, the aunt, despite of her avarice, would cook up for herself dishes that would last her for a whole week, and which were of a much more succulent description.

Sometimes it would be a good piece of beef #224; la mode, surrounded by carrots and onions, stewed in the gravy; sometimes a haricot of mutton with savory potatoes, big as a child's head, or long as cucumbers; sometimes a calf's foot, flavored with some shallots in vinegar, to give it more piquancy; sometimes it was a gigantic omelet made in the great frying-pan and variegated with a quantity of chives and parsley, or enamelled with slices of bacon, one of which sufficed for the dinner of the old woman, even on the days when she had the greatest appetite.

During the whole week Aunt Ang #233;lique would, with great discretion, enjoy the savory dish, making only such breaches in the precious morsel as the exigencies of the moment required.

Each day did she rejoice in being alone to consume such good things, and during the thrice happy week she thought of her nephew, Ange Pitou, as often as she placed her hand upon the dish or raised a mouthful to her lips.

Pitou was in great good luck.

He had fallen upon a day-it was Monday-when Aunt Ang #233;lique had cooked an old cock with rice, which had boiled so long, surrounded with its bland covering of paste, that the bones had left the flesh, and the flesh had become almost tender.

It was a formidable dish; it was served up in a deep wide porringer, which, though black externally, was resplendent and attractive to the eye.

The meat was placed above the rice, looking like small islands on the bosom of a vast lake; and the cock's comb, rising above them all, looked like the crest of Ceuta in the Straits of Gibraltar.

Pitou had not even the courtesy to utter one word of admiration on seeing this great marvel.

Spoiled by good living, he forgot-the ungrateful fellow!-that such magnificence had never until then inhabited the cupboard of Aunt Ang #233;lique.

He held his great hunch of bread in his right hand.

He seized the vast dish in his left, and held it in equilibrium by the pressure of his immense square thumb, buried as far as the first joint in the unctuous mess, the odor of which was grateful to his olfactory organs. At this moment it appeared to Pitou that a shadow interposed between the light of the doorway and himself.

He turned round, smiling, for Pitou's was one of those artless dispositions whose faces always give evidence of the satisfaction of their hearts.

The shadow was the body of Aunt Ang #233;lique.

Of Aunt Ang #233;lique, more miserly, more crabbed, and more skin-and-bone than ever.

In former days-we are obliged incessantly to return to the same figure of speech; that is to say, to the comparative, as comparison alone can express our thought-in former times, at the sight of Aunt Ang #233;lique, Pitou would have let fall the dish, and while Aunt Ang #233;lique would have bent forward in despair to pick up the fragments of her fowl and the grains of rice, he would have bounded over her head, and would have taken to his heels, carrying off his bread under his arm.

But Pitou was no longer the same; his helmet and his sabre had less changed him, physically speaking, than his having associated with the great philosophers of the day had changed him morally.

Instead of flying terrified from his aunt, he approached her with a gracious smile, opened wide his arms, and although she endeavored to escape the pressure, embraced her with all his might, squeezing the old maid energetically to his breast, while his hands, the one loaded with the dish containing the fowl and rice, and the other with the bread and knife, were crossed behind her back.

When he had accomplished this most nephew-like act, which he considered as a duty imposed upon him, and which it was necessary to fulfil, he breathed with all the power of his vast lungs, and said:-

“Aunt Ang #233;lique, you may well be surprised; but it is indeed your poor Pitou.”

When he had clasped her so fervently in his arms, the old maid imagined that, having been surprised in the very act by her, Pitou had wished to suffocate her, as Hercules, in former days, had strangled Antt #230;us.

She, on her side, breathed more freely when she found herself relieved from this dangerous embrace.

Only Aunt Ang #233;lique had remarked that Pitou had not even manifested his admiration of the dish he was devouring.

Pitou was not only ungrateful, but he was also ill-bred.

But there was one thing which disgusted Aunt Angelique more than the rest; and this was that formerly, while she would be seated in state in her leather arm chair, Pitou would not even dare to sit down on one of the dilapidated chairs or one of the lame stools which surrounded it; but now instead of this, after having so cordially embraced her, Pitou had very coolly ensconced himself in her own armchair, had placed the dish between his knees, and was leisurely devouring its contents.

In his powerful right hand he held the knife already mentioned, the blade of which was wide and long,-a perfect spatula, with which Polyphemus himself might have eaten his pottage.

In the other hand he held a bit of bread three fingers wide and six inches long,-a perfect broom, with which he swept up the rice; while on its side, the knife, in seeming gratitude, pushed the meat upon the bread.

A learned, though pitiless manuvre, the result of which, in a few minutes, was that it caused the blue and white of the interior of the dish to become visible, as during the ebbing tide we gradually perceive the rings and marks upon the quays of a seaport.

We must renounce attempting to describe the frightful perplexity and despair of Aunt Ang #233;lique.

At one moment she imagined that she could call out.

Pitou, however, smiled at her with such a fascinating air that the words expired before Aunt Ang #233;lique could give them utterance.

Then she attempted to smile in her turn, hoping to exorcise that ferocious animal called hunger, which had taken up its abode in the stomach of her nephew.

But the proverb is right; the famished stomach of Pitou remained both deaf and dumb.

His aunt, instead of smiling, wept.

This somewhat incommoded Pitou, but it did not prevent his eating.

“Oh, oh! Aunt, how good you are,” said he, “to cry thus with joy on my arrival! Thanks, my good aunt, thanks.”

And he went on devouring.

Evidently the French Revolution had completely denaturalized this man.

He bolted three fourths of the fowl, and left a small quantity of the rice at the bottom of the dish, saying:

“You like the rice best, do you not, my dear aunt- It is softer for your teeth. I leave you the rice.”

This attention, which she no doubt imagined to be a sarcasm, almost suffocated Aunt Ang #233;lique. She resolutely advanced towards young Pitou, snatched the dish from his hands, uttering a blasphemous expression, which, twenty years subsequently, would have appeared admirably suitable to a grenadier of the old guard.

Pitou heaved a sigh.

“Oh, Aunt,” cried he, “you regret your fowl, do you not-”

“The villain!” cried Aunt Ang #233;lique, “I believe that he is jeering at me.”

Pitou rose from his chair.

“Aunt,” said he, majestically, “it was not my intention to eat without paying for what I ate. I have money. I will, if you please, board regularly with you; only I shall reserve to myself the right of choosing my own dinner.”

“Rascal!” exclaimed Aunt Ang #233;lique.

“Let us see; we will calculate each portion at four sous. I now owe you for one meal; four sous' worth of rice and two sous' of bread,-six sous.”

“Six sous!” cried the aunt, “six sous! why there is eight sous' worth of rice and six sous' of bread, without counting anything else.”

“Oh, I know I have not allowed anything for the fowl, my good aunt, knowing that it came from your poultryyard; he was an old acquaintance,-I knew him at once by his comb.”

“He was worth his price, however.”

“He was nine years old, at least; I stole him from under his mother's wing for you. He was then barely as big as my fist; and I recollect even that you beat me, because when I brought him home to you I did not bring you corn enough to feed him the next day. Mademoiselle Catherine gave me some barley. He was my property, and I ate my property; I had good right to do so.”

His aunt, mad with anger, pulverized the Revolutionary hero with a look; she had no voice.

“Get out of this!” murmured she.

“What, at once, so soon after having dined, without even giving me time to digest my dinner- Ah! Aunt, Aunt, that is by no means polite.”

“Out with you!”

Pitou, who had again sat down, rose from the armchair. He found, and that with a most lively feeling of satisfaction, that his stomach could not have contained a single grain of rice more than he had swallowed.

“Aunt,” said he, majestically, “you are an unfeeling relative. I will demonstrate to you that you are now acting as wrongly towards me as you have always done; that you are still as harsh, still as avaricious as ever. Well! I will not allow you to go about telling every one that I have devoured your property.”

He placed himself on the threshold of the door, and in a stentorian voice which might be heard, not only by the inquisitive persons who had accompanied him, and had been present during the whole of this scene, but also by every one who was passing at a distance of five hundred paces:-

“I call these worthy people to witness that, having arrived from Paris, on foot, after having taken the Bastille, being tired and hungry, I seated myself in this house; that I ate my relative's provisions; that I was so harshly reproached for the food of which I partook, that I was so pitilessly driven from the house, that I feel myself compelled to go.”

Pitou delivered this exordium in so pathetic a tone that the neighbors began to murmur against the old woman.

“A poor traveller,” continued Pitou, “who has walked nine leagues; a worthy lad, honored with the confidence of Monsieur Gilbert and Monsieur Billot, and who was charged by them to bring back Sebastien Gilbert to the Abb #233; Fortier; one of the conquerors of the Bastille; a friend of Monsieur Bailly and of General de Lafayette,-I call upon you all to witness that I have been turned out.”

The murmurs went on increasing.

“And,” pursued he, “as I am not a mendicant, as, when I am reproached for the bread I eat, I pay for it, here is half a crown which I lay down as payment for that which I have eaten in my aunt's house!”

And saying this, Pitou proudly drew a half-crown from his pocket, and threw it on the table, from which in the sight of all it rebounded, hopped into the dish, and half buried itself in the remaining rice.

This last act completely confounded the old woman. She bent down, beneath the universal reprobation to which she had exposed herself, and which was testified by a long, loud murmur. Twenty hands were held out to Pitou, who left the hut, shaking the dust from his shoes on the threshold, and disappeared from his aunt's eyes, escorted by a crowd of persons offering him his meals and lodging, happy to be the hosts of a conqueror of the Bastille, a friend of Monsieur Bailly and of General de Lafayette.

Aunt Ang #233;lique picked the half-crown out of the rice, wiped it, and put it into the saucer, where it was to wait, with many others, its transmigration into an old louis.

But while putting by This half-crown of which she had become possessed in so singular a manner, she sighed, reflecting that perhaps Pitou had had full right to eat the whole of the contents of the dish, since he had so amply paid for it.

CHAPTER LIX. PITOU A REVOLUTIONIST

PITOU wished, after having fulfilled the first duties of obedience, to satisfy the first feelings of his heart.

It is a very delightful feeling to obey, when the orders of the master are in perfect unison with the secret sympathies of the person who obeys.

He therefore made the best use of his legs; and going along the narrow alley which leads from Pleux to the Rue Lonnet, which forms a sort of green girdle to that portion of the town, he went straight across the fields that he might the sooner arrive at Billot's farm.

But his rapid course was soon slackened; every step he took brought back some recollection to his mind.

When any one returns to the town or to the village in which he was born, he walks upon his youth,-he walks on his past days, which spread themselves, as the English poet says, like a carpet beneath the feet, to do honor to the traveller who returns.

He finds, at each step, a recollection in the beatings of his heart.

Here he has suffered; there he has been happy. Here he has sobbed with grief; there he has wept with joy.

Pitou, who was no analyzer, was compelled to be a man. He discovered traces of the past as he proceeded on his way; and he arrived with his soul replete with sensations at the farm of Dame Billot.

When he perceived at a hundred paces before him the long slated roofs; when he measured with his eyes the old elm-trees bending down over the moss-grown chimneys; when he heard the distant sound of the cattle, the barking of the dogs, the carts lumbering along the road,-he placed his helmet more proudly on his head, grasped his dragoon's sabre with more firmness, and endeavored to give himself a martial appearance, such as was fitting to a lover and a soldier.

At first, no one recognized him,-a proof that his effort was attended with tolerable success.

A stable-boy was standing by the pond watering his horses, and hearing a noise, turned round; and through the tufted head of a withy tree he perceived Pitou, or rather a helmet and a sabre.

The stable-boy seemed struck with stupefaction.

Pitou, on passing him, called out:-

“Hilloa, Barnaut! good-day, Barnaut!”

The boy, astounded that the helmet and sabre knew his name, took off his small hat, and let fall the halter by which he held the horses.

Pitou passed on, smiling.

But the boy was by no means reassured; Pitou's benevolent smile had remained concealed beneath his helmet.

At the same moment Dame Billot perceived the approach of this military man through the windows of the dining-room.

She immediately jumped up.

In country places, everybody was then on the alert; for alarming rumors were spread abroad, of brigands who were destroying the forest-trees, and cutting down fields of corn, though still unripe.

What did the arrival of this soldier portend- Was it an attack, or was it assistance-

Dame Billot had taken a general survey of Pitou as he approached. She asked herself what could be the meaning of such country-looking garments with so brilliant a helmet; and we must confess her suppositions tended as much towards suspicion as towards hope.

The soldier, whoever he might be, went straight to the kitchen.

Dame Billot advanced two steps towards the newcomer. Pitou, on his side, that he might not be behindhand in politeness, took off his helmet.

“Ange Pitou!” exclaimed Dame Billot; “you here, Ange-”

“Good-day, Ma'am Billot,” replied Pitou.

“Ange! Oh, good Heaven, whoever would have guessed it! Why, you have enlisted, then-”

“Oh! enlisted!” cried Pitou.

And he smiled somewhat disdainfully.

Then he looked around, seeking for one he did not find there.

Dame Billot smiled; she guessed the meaning of Pitou's looks.

Then, with great simplicity:-

“You are looking for Catherine-” she said.

“To pay my respects to her,” replied Pitou; “yes, Madame Billot.”

“She is attending to the drying of the linen. Come, now, sit down; look at me; speak to me.”

“Very willingly,” said Pitou. “Good-day-good-day-good-day, Madame Billot.”

And Pitou took a chair.

Around him were soon grouped, both at the doors and on the steps of the staircases, all the servant-maids and the farm-laborers, to whom the stable-boy had quickly communicated the arrival of the soldier.

And as each of them came in, they might be heard whispering:-

“Why, it is Pitou!”

“Yes, 'tis he indeed!”

“Really!”

Pitou cast a benign glance on all his former comrades. His smile to most of them was a caress.

“And you have come from Paris, Ange-” said the mistress of the house.

“Straight, Madame Billot.”

“And how is your master-”

“Very well, Madame Billot.”

“And how are things going on in Paris-”

“Very badly.”

“Ah!”

And the circle of auditors drew nearer.

“The king-” inquired the farmer's wife.

Pitou shook his head, and gave a clacking sound with his tongue which was very humiliating for the monarchy.

“The queen-”

Pitou to this question made no reply at all.

“Oh!” exclaimed Madame Billot.

“Oh!” repeated all present.

“Come, now, speak on, Pitou,” said Madame Billot.

“Well, ask me anything you please,” replied Pitou, who did not wish to communicate all the interesting news he brought in the absence of Catherine.

“Why have you a helmet-” asked Madame Billot.

“It is a trophy,” said Pitou.

“And what is a trophy, my friend” inquired the good woman.

“Ah! that is true, Madame Billot,” replied Pitou, with a protecting smile; “you cannot know what a trophy is. A trophy is when one has vanquished an enemy, Madame Billot.”

“You have then vanquished an enemy, Pitou-”

“One!” replied Pitou, disdainfully. “Ah! my good Madame Billot, you do not know, then, that we two, Monsieur Billot and I, have taken the Bastille-”

This magic sentence electrified the audience. Pitou felt the breath of the astonished auditors upon his hair as they bent forward to gaze at him, and their hands on the back of his chair.

“Tell us,-tell us a little of what our man has done,” said Madame Billot, with pride, but trembling with apprehension at the same time.

Pitou looked around to see if Catherine were coming; but she came not.

It appeared to him absolutely insulting that to hear such recent news, and brought by such a courier, Mademoiselle Billot did not at once leave her linen.

Pitou shook his head; he was beginning to be out of humor.

“Why, you see it would take a long time to tell it all,” said he.

“And you are hungry-” inquired Madame Billot.

“It may be so.”

“Thirsty-”

“I will not say no.”

Instantly farm-laborers and servants hastened to procure him refreshment, so that Pitou soon had within his reach a goblet, bread, meats, and fruit of every description, before he had even reflected on the bearing of his answer.

Pitou had a warm liver, as they say in the country,-that is to say, he digested quickly; but however quick might be his digestion, it was still amply occupied with Aunt Ang #233;lique's fowl and rice, not more than half an hour having elapsed since he had absorbed the last mouthful.

What he had asked for, therefore, did not enable him to gain so much time as he had anticipated, so rapidly had he been served.

He saw that it was necessary for him to make a desperate effort, and he set himself to work to eat.

But whatever may have been his good-will, after a moment or two he was compelled to pause.

“What is the matter with you-” asked Madame Billot.

“Why, really, I must say-”

“Bring Pitou something to drink.”

“I have cider here, Ma'am Billot.”

“But perhaps you like brandy better-”

“Brandy!”

“Yes; perhaps you are accustomed to drink it in Paris-”

The worthy woman imagined that during twelve days' absence Pitou had had time enough to be corrupted.

Pitou indignantly repelled the supposition.

“Brandy!” cried he, again, “and for me-oh, never!”

“Well, then, speak.”

“But if I now tell you the whole story,” said Pitou, “I shall have to begin it again for Mademoiselle Catherine; and it is a very long one.”

Two or three persons rushed out towards the laundry, to fetch Mademoiselle Catherine.

But while they were all running about in search of her, Pitou mechanically turned his head towards the staircase which led up to the first story of the house; and being seated precisely opposite this staircase, he saw Mademoiselle Catherine, through an open door, looking out of a window.

Catherine was looking in the direction of the forest; that is to say, towards Boursonne.

Catherine was so much absorbed in contemplation that the unusual movement in the house had not struck her; nothing within it had attracted her attention, which seemed to be wholly engrossed by what was happening without.

“Ah, ah!” cried he, sighing, “looking towards the forest, towards Boursonne, towards Monsieur Isidore de Charny. Yes, that is it.”

And he heaved a second sigh, more melancholy than the first.

And at this moment the messengers returned, not only from the laundry, but from every place in which it was probable Mademoiselle Catherine might be found.

“Well-” inquired Madame Billot.

“We have not seen Mademoiselle.”

“Catherine! Catherine!” cried Madame Billot.

The young girl did not hear her.

Pitou then ventured to speak.

“Madame Billot,” said he, “I well know why they did not find Mademoiselle Catherine at the laundry.”

“And why did they not find her-”

“Because she is not there.”

“You know, then, where she is-”

“Yes.”

“Where is she, then-”

“Yonder,-upstairs.”

And taking Dame Billot by the hand, he made her go up the first three or four steps of the staircase, and showed her Catherine, who was sitting on the sill of the window, half-hidden by ivy and convolvulus.

“She is dressing her hair,” said the good woman.

“Alas! no; her hair is already dressed,” replied Pitou, in a melancholy tone.

The farmer's wife paid no attention to Pitou's melancholy, but in a loud voice she called:-

“Catherine! Catherine!”

The young girl started with surprise, quickly closed her window, and said:-

“What is the matter-”

“Come down, then, Catherine!” cried Dame Billot, little doubting the joyful effect her words would produce upon her. “Come down here; here is Ange just arrived from Paris.”

Pitou, with great anxiety, listened for the answer which Catherine would make.

“Ah!” coldly replied Catherine.

So coldly that poor Pitou's heart sank within him.

And she descended the staircase with all the phlegmatic manner of the Flemish women we see in the paintings of Van Ostade and Brauer.

“Well,” said she, when she reached the kitchen floor, “why, it is really Pitou!”

Pitou bowed, blushing deeply, and trembling in every nerve.

“He has a helmet,” said a servant-maid, whispering into her mistress's ear.

Pitou overheard her, and watched the effect produced on Catherine's countenance.

A lovely countenance, perhaps somewhat paler, but still full and peach-like.

But Catherine did not evince any admiration for Pitou's helmet.

“Ah! he has a helmet,” she said; “and for what purpose-”

This time indignation mastered every other feeling in the mind of the bold youth.

“I have a helmet and a sabre,” said he, proudly, “because I have fought and killed German dragoons and Swiss soldiers; and if you doubt it, Mademoiselle Catherine, ask your father, and he will tell you.”

Catherine's mind was so preoccupied that she heard only the last words uttered by Pitou.

“And how is my father-” inquired she. “How happens it that he did not return with you- Is there bad news from Paris-”

“Very bad,” replied Pitou.

“I thought that everything had been arranged,” observed Catherine.

“Yes, that is true; but everything is disarranged again,” rejoined Pitou.

“Was there not a reconciliation between the king and the people, and was not Monsieur Necker recalled-”

“But little is thought of Monsieur Necker,” said Pitou.

“And yet that satisfied the people, did it not-”

“It so well satisfied them that the people are now about to do themselves justice and to kill all their enemies.”

“All their enemies!” exclaimed Catherine, with astonishment; “who, then, are the enemies of the people-”

“The aristocrats, to be sure,” said Pitou.

Catherine turned pale.

“But whom do they call aristocrats-” she asked.

“Why, those who have large estates; those who have fine country-seats; those who starve the nation; those who have all while we have nothing.”

“Go on! go on!” impatiently cried Catherine.

“Those who have beautiful horses and fine carriages, when we are obliged to go on foot.”

“Great God!” exclaimed the young girl, becoming so pale as to be positively livid.

Pitou remarked this change in her countenance.

“I call aristocrats some persons of your acquaintance.”

“Of my acquaintance!”

“Of our acquaintance!” said Dame Billot.

“But who is it, then-” said Catherine, persistingly.

“Monsieur Berthier de Sauvigny, for instance.”

“Monsieur Berthier de Sauvigny-”

“Who gave you the gold buckles which you wore the day you danced with Monsieur Isidore!”

“Well-”

“Well; I saw people eating his heart,-I who am now speaking to you.”

A cry of terror was uttered by all present. Catherine threw herself back in the chair which she had taken.

“You saw that-” cried Madame Billot, trembling with horror.

“And Monsieur Billot saw it too.”

“Oh, good God!”

“Yes, and by this time they must have killed or burned all the aristocrats of Paris and Versailles.”

“It is frightful!” murmured Catherine.

“Frightful! and why so- You are not an aristocrat,-you, Mademoiselle Billot-”

“Monsieur Pitou,” said Catherine, with gloomy energy, “it appears to me that you were not so ferocious before you went to Paris.”

“And I am not more so now, Mademoiselle,” said Pitou, somewhat staggered; “but-”

“But, then, do not boast of the crimes committed by the Parisians, since you are not a Parisian, and you did not commit these crimes.”

“I was so far from committing them,” said Pitou, “that Monsieur Billot and myself narrowly escaped being murdered while defending Monsieur Berthier.”

“Oh, my good father! my brave father! I recognize him there!” enthusiastically exclaimed Catherine.

“My good, my worthy man!” cried Madame Billot, her eyes streaming with tears. “Tell me, what did he do-”

Pitou then related the whole of the dreadful scene which had occurred on the Place de Gr #232;ve, the despair of Billot, and his desire to return to VillersCotterets.

“Why did he not return, then-” cried Catherine, in an accent that, like a presentiment of evil, deeply moved Pitou's heart.

Dame Billot clasped her hands.

“Monsieur Gilbert would not allow it,” replied Pitou.

“Does Monsieur Gilbert wish, then, that my husband should be killed-” said Madame Billot, sobbing.

“Does he wish, then, that my father's house should be ruined-” added Catherine, in the same tone of gloomy melancholy.

“Oh, by no means!” cried Pitou; “Monsieur Billot and Monsieur Gilbert understand each other; Monsieur Billot will remain still some time at Paris, to finish the Revolution.”

“What! by themselves,-all alone-” cried Dame Billot.

“No, with Monsieur Bailly and Monsieur de Lafayette,” said Pitou.

“Ah!” cried the farmer's wife, with admiration, “if he indeed is with Monsieur de Lafayette and Monsieur Bailly-”

“When does he think of returning-” inquired Catherine.

“Oh, as to that, Mademoiselle, I cannot tell.”

“And you, Pitou, how happens it, then, that you have returned-”

“Who,-I- Why, I brought back Sebastien Gilbert to the Abb #233; Fortier, and I have come here to bring you Monsieur Billot's instructions.”

Pitou, while saying these words, rose, not without a certain degree of diplomatic dignity, which was understood, if not by the servants, at all events by their mistresses.

Dame Billot rose, and at once dismissed all the laborers and servants.

Catherine, who had remained seated, studied the thoughts of Pitou, even in the depths of his soul, before they issued from his lips.

“What can he have told him to say to me-” she asked herself.

CHAPTER LX. MADAME BILLOT ABDICATES

THE two women summoned up all their attention to listen to the desires of this honored husband and father. Pitou was well aware that the task was a difficult one. He had seen both Dame Billot and Catherine filling their several stations at the farm; he knew the habit of command of the one and the firm independence of the other.

Catherine, who was so gentle a daughter, so laborious, so good, had acquired, by virtue of these very qualities, a very great ascendency over every person connected with the farm; and what is the spirit of domination, if it is not a firm will not to obey-

Pitou knew, in explaining his mission, how much pleasure he was about to cause to the one, and how much grief he would inflict upon the other.

Reducing Madame Billot to play a secondary part, appeared to him unnatural, absurd. It gave Catherine more importance with regard to Pitou, and under actual circumstances Catherine by no means needed this.

But at the farm he represented one of Homer's heralds,-a mouth, a memory, but not an intellectual person; he expressed himself in the following terms:-

“Madame Billot, Monsieur Billot's intention is that you should have the slightest possible annoyance.”

“And how so-” cried the good woman, much surprised.

“What is the meaning of the word 'annoyance'-” said Catherine.

“It means to say,” replied Pitou, “that the management of a farm like yours is a species of government replete with cares and labor, that there are bargains to be made-”

“And what of that-” said the worthy woman.

“Payments-”

“Well-”

“Fields to plough-”

“Go on.”

“Harvests-”

“Who says the contrary-”

“No one, assuredly, Madame Billot; but in order to make bargains, it is necessary to travel about.”

“I have my horse.”

“In paying it is often necessary to dispute.”

“Oh, I have a good tongue.”

“To cultivate the fields.”

“Am I not accustomed to agriculture-”

“And to get in the harvest! Ah! that is quite another matter; meals have to be cooked for the laborers; the wagoners must be assisted.”

“For the welfare of my good man, to do all these would not frighten me!” cried the worthy woman.

“But, Madame Billot-in short-so much work-and-getting rather aged-”

“Ah!” cried Dame Billot, looking askance at Pitou.

“Come to my assistance, Mademoiselle Catherine,” said the poor lad, finding his energy diminishing by degrees as his position became more and more difficult.

“I do not know what I am to do to assist you,” replied Catherine.

“Well, then, this is the plain fact,” rejoined Pitou. “Monsieur Billot does not desire that Madame Billot should be subjected to so much trouble-”

“And who, then-” cried Madame Billot, interrupting him, trembling at the same time with admiration and respect.

“He has chosen some one who is stronger, and who is both himself and yourself. He has appointed Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“My daughter Catherine to govern the house!” exclaimed the wounded mother, with an accent of mistrust and inexpressible jealousy.

“Under your directions, my dear mother,” the young girl hastened to say, blushing deeply.

“By no means! by no means!” cried Pitou, who, from the moment he had summoned up courage enough to speak out, was determined to go through with it; “it is not so! I must execute my commission to the letter. Monsieur Billot delegates and authorizes Mademoiselle Catherine in his stead and place to attend to all the work and all the affairs of the house.”

Every one of these words, which bore the accent of truth, penetrated the heart of the housekeeper; and so excellent was her nature that instead of allowing the jealousy she had at first naturally felt to become more bitter, or her anger to become more violent, the certainty of her diminution in importance appeared to make her more resigned, more obedient, and more convinced of the infallibility of her husband's judgment.

Was it possible that Billot could be mistaken- Was it possible to disobey Billot-

These were the only two arguments which the worthy woman used to convince herself.

And her resistance at once ceased.

She looked at her daughter, in whose eyes she saw only modesty, confidence, the desire to succeed, unalterable tenderness and respect. She yielded absolutely.

“Monsieur Billot is right,” she said; “Catherine is young; she has a good head,-she is even headstrong.”

“Oh, yes,” said Pitou, certain that he had flattered the self-love of Catherine at the same time that he indulged in an epigram at her expense.

“Catherine,” continued Dame Billot, “will be more at her ease than I should be upon the road. She will better look after the laborers for whole days than I could. She will sell better; she will make more advantageous purchases; she will know how to make herself obeyed.”

Catherine smiled.

“Well, then,” continued the good woman, without even being compelled to make an effort to restrain a sigh, “here is our Catherine who is going to have all her own way: she will run about as she pleases; she will now have the command of the purse; now she will always be seen upon the roads; my daughter, in short, transformed into a lad!”

“You need be under no apprehension for Mademoiselle Catherine,” said Pitou, with a self-sufficient air; “I am here, and I will accompany her wherever she goes.”

This gracious offer, on which Ange perhaps calculated to produce an effect, produced so strange a look on the part of Catherine that he was quite confused.

The young girl blushed,-not as women do when anything agreeable has been said to them, but with a sort of double feeling of anger and impatience, evincing at once a desire to speak and the necessity of remaining silent.

Pitou was not a man of the world, and therefore could not appreciate these shades of feeling.

But having comprehended that Catherine's blushing was not a perfect acquiescence:-

“What!” said he, with an agreeable smile, which displayed his powerful teeth under his thick lips, “what! you say not a word, Mademoiselle Catherine-”

“You are not aware, then, Monsieur Pitou, that you have uttered a stupidity-”

“A stupidity!” exclaimed the lover.

“Assuredly!” cried Dame Billot, “to think of my daughter Catherine going about with a body-guard.”

“But, in short, in the woods,” said Pitou, with an air so ingenuously conscientious that it would have been a crime to laugh at him.

“Is that also in the instructions of our good man-” continued Dame Billot, who thus evinced a certain disposition for epigram.

“Oh!” added Catherine, “that would be too indolent a profession, which neither my father would have advised Monsieur Pitou to adopt, nor would Monsieur Pitou have accepted it.”

Pitou rolled his large and terrified eyes from Catherine to Dame Billot; the whole scaffolding of his building was giving way.

Catherine, as a true woman, at once comprehended the painful disappointment of Pitou.

“Monsieur Pitou,” said she, “was it at Paris that you have seen young girls compromising their reputations in this way, by always dragging young men after them-”

“But you are not a young girl, you,” stammered Pitou, “since you are the mistress of the house.”

“Come, come! we have talked enough for to-night,” abruptly said Dame Billot; “the mistress of the house has much to do. Come, Catherine, let me install you in the management, according to your father's orders.”

Then was commenced, before the astounded eyes of Pitou, a ceremony that was not deficient in grandeur nor in poetry, from its rustic simplicity.

Dame Billot drew her keys from off the bunch, one by one, and delivered them to Catherine, giving her a list of the linen, of the furniture, the provisions, and the contents of the cellars. She conducted her daughter to the old secretary, or bureau, made of mahogany inlaid with ivory and ebony, somewhere about the year 1738 or 1740, in the secret drawer of which Father Billot locked up his most valuable papers, his golden louis, and all the treasures and archives of the family.

Catherine gravely allowed herself to be invested with the supreme command over everything, and took due note of the secret drawers; she questioned her mother with much intelligence, reflected on each answer, and the information she required being obtained, appeared to store it up in the depths of her memory as a weapon in reserve in case of any contest.

After the furniture and household articles had been examined, Dame Billot went on to the cattle, the lists of which were carefully made out.

Horses, oxen, and cows; sheep, whether in good order or sick; lambs, goats, fowls, and pigeons,-all were counted and noted down.

But this was merely for the sake of regularity.

Of this branch of the farm business the young girl had for a long time past been the special administratrix.

There was scarcely a hen in the barnyard of which she did not know the cackle; the lambs were familiar with her in a month; the pigeons knew her so well that they would frequently completely surround her in their flight; often even they would perch upon her shoulders, after having cooed at her feet.

The horses neighed when Catherine approached. She alone could make the most restive of then obey. One of them, a colt bred upon the farm, was so vicious as to allow no one to approach him; but he would break his halter and knock down his stall to get to Catherine, putting his nose into her hand, or into her pocket, to get at the crust of bread he was always sure of finding there.

Nothing was so beautiful or so smile-inspiring as this lovely fair-haired girl, with her large blue eyes, her white neck, her round arms, her small fat hands, when she came up with her apronful of corn to a spot near the pond, where the ground had been beaten and saltpetred to harden it for a feeding-place, and on which she would throw the grain she brought by handfuls.

Then would be seen all the young chickens, all the pigeons, all the young lambs, hurrying and scrambling towards the pond; the beaks of the birds soon made the flooring appear speckled; the red tongues of the young goats licked the ground, or picked up crisp buckwheat. This area, darkened by the layers of corn, in five minutes became as white and clean as the delft-plate of the laborer when he has finished his meal.

Certain human beings have in their eyes a fascination that subdues, or a fascination that terrifies,-two sensations so powerful over the brute creation that they never think of resisting them.

Which of us has not seen a savage bull looking for several minutes, with melancholy expression, at a child who smiles at him without comprehending the danger he is running- He pities him.

Which of us has not seen the same bull fix a sinister and affrighted look on a robust farmer, who masters him by the steadiness of his gaze, and by a mute threat- The animal lowers his head; he appears to be preparing for the combat, but his feet seem rooted in the ground; he shudders; he is terrified.

Catherine exercised one of these two influences on all that surrounded her; she was at once so calm and so firm, there was so much gentleness and yet so much decided will, so little mistrust, so little fear, that the animal standing near her did not feel even the temptation of an evil thought.

And this extraordinary influence she, with greater reason, exercised over thinking beings. She possessed a charm that was irresistible; not a man in the whole district had ever smiled when speaking of Catherine. No young man entertained an evil thought towards her. Those who loved her, wished to have her for their wife; those who did not love her, would have desired that she were their sister.

Pitou, with head cast down, his hands hanging listless by his side, his ideas wandering, mechanically followed the young girl and her mother while they were taking a list of the farm stock.

They had not addressed a word to him. He was there like a guard in a tragedy; and his helmet did not a little contribute to give that singular appearance.

After this, they passed in review all the male and female servants of the farm.

Dame Billot made them form a half-circle, in the centre of which she placed herself.

“My children,” said she, “our master is not yet coming back from Paris, but he has chosen a master for us in his place. It is my daughter Catherine, who is here; she is young and strong. As to myself, I am old, and my head is weak. Our master has done rightly. Catherine is now your mistress. She is to receive and give money. As to her orders, I shall be the first to receive and execute them; any of you who may be disobedient will have to deal with her.”

Catherine did not add a single word; she tenderly embraced her mother. The effect of this kiss was greater than that of any well-rounded phrase. Dame Billot wept; Pitou was much affected.

All the servants received the announcement of the new reign with acclamations.

Catherine immediately entered on her new functions, and allotted to all their several services. Each received her mandate, and set out immediately to execute it, with the good-will which every one manifests at the commencement of a reign.

Pitou was the only one remaining, and he at length, approaching Catherine, said to her:-

“And I-”

“Ah! you,” replied Catherine; “I have no orders to give you.”

“How! I am, then, to remain without having anything to do-”

“What do you wish to do-”

“Why, what I did before I went to Paris.”

“Before going there, you were received into the house by my mother.”

“But you are now the mistress; therefore, point out the work I am to do.”

“I have no work for you, Monsieur Ange.”

“And why-”

“Because you,-you are a learned man, a Parisian gentleman, to whom such rustic labors would not be suitable.”

“Can it be possible-” exclaimed Pitou.

Catherine made a sign, which implied, “It is even so.”

“I a learned man!” repeated Pitou.

“Undoubtedly.”

“But look at my arms, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“That matters not.”

“But, in short, Mademoiselle Catherine,” said the poor lad, in despair, “why is it that under the pretext of my being a learned man, you would force me to die of hunger- You do not know, then, that the philosopher Epictetus became a menial servant that he might have bread to eat; that #198;sop, the fable-writer, earned his bread by the sweat of his brow- They were, however, people much more learned than I am.”

“What would you have- As I have said before, it is even so.”

“But Monsieur Billot accepted me as forming part of his household, and he has sent me back from Paris that I may still be so.”

“That may be the case; for my father might have compelled you to undertake things which I, his daughter, would not venture to impose upon you.”

“Do not impose them upon me, Mademoiselle Catherine,” said Pitou.

“But then you would remain in idleness, and that I could not at all allow. My father had the right to do so, he being the master, and which I could not do, being merely his agent. I have charge of his property, and I must take care that his property be productive.”

“But since I am willing to work, I shall be productive; you must see clearly, Mademoiselle, that you keep swimming round in the same vicious circle.”

“What say you-” cried Catherine, who did not comprehend the grandiloquent phrases of Pitou; “what mean you by a vicious circle-”

“We call a bad argument a vicious circle, Mademoiselle. No; let me remain at the farm, and send me on your messages if you will. You will then see whether I am a learned man and an idle fellow. Besides which, you have books to keep, accounts to put in order. Arithmetic is my particular forte.”

“It is not, in my opinion, sufficient occupation for a man,” said Catherine.

“Why, then, it would seem I am fit for nothing,” said Pitou.

“Continue to live here,” said Catherine, in a gentler tone; “I will reflect upon it, and we will see.”

“You require to reflect, in order that you may know whether you ought to keep me here! But what have I done to you, then, Mademoiselle Catherine- Ah! you were not thus formerly.”

Catherine gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders.

She had no good reasons to give to Pitou, and nevertheless it was evident that his pertinacity fatigued her.

Therefore, breaking off the conversation:-

“Enough of this, Monsieur Pitou,” said she; “I am going to La Fert #233;-Milon.”

“Then I will run and saddle your horse, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“By no means; on the contrary, remain where you are.”

“You refuse, then, to allow me to accompany you-”

“Remain here,” said Catherine, imperatively.

Pitou remained as if nailed to the spot, holding down his head and restraining a tear, which seared his eyelids as if it had been molten lead.

Catherine left Pitou where he was, went out, and ordered one of the farm-servants to saddle her horse.

“Ah!” murmured Pitou, “you think me changed, Mademoiselle Catherine; but it is you who are so, and much more changed than I am.”

CHAPTER LXI. WHAT DECIDED PITOU TO LEAVE THE FARM AND RETURN TO HARAMONT, HIS REAL AND ONLY COUNTRY

DAME BILLOT, resigned without affectation to undertake the functions of an upper servant, had, without ill-humor, and with good-will, resumed her occupations. Movement, which had for an instant been suspended throughout the agricultural hierarchy, soon returned; and the farm once more resembled the interior of a humming and industrious hive.

While they were getting her horse ready, Catherine re-entered the house; she cast a glance at Pitou, whose body remained motionless, but whose head turned like a weather-cock, following each movement which the young girl made until she went upstairs to her own room.

“What is it Catherine has gone to her room for-” said Pitou to himself.

Poor Pitou! what had she gone there for- She went there to dress her hair, to put on a clean cap and a pair of finer stockings.

Then, when this supplementary toilet was completed, as she heard her horse pawing the ground beneath the window, she came down, kissed her mother, and set out.

Reduced to positive idleness, and feeling but ill-assured from a slight glance, half-indifferent, half-compassionate, which Catherine had addressed to him as she left the door, Pitou could not endure to remain in such a state of anxious perplexity.

Since Pitou had once more seen Catherine, it appeared to him that the life of Catherine was absolutely necessary to him.

And besides, in the depths of his heavy and dreaming mind, something like a suspicion came and went with the regularity of the pendulum of a clock.

It is the peculiar property of ingenuous minds to perceive everything in equal degree. These sluggish natures are not less sensible than others; they feel, but they do not analyze.

Analysis is the habit of enjoying and suffering; a man must have become, to a certain degree, habituated to sensations to see their ebullition in the depth of that abyss which is called the human heart.

There are no old men who are ingenuous.

When Pitou had heard the horse's footsteps at a certain distance from the house, he ran to the door. He then perceived Catherine, who was going along a narrow crossroad, which led from the farm to the high-road to La Fert #233;-Milon, and terminated at the foot of a hill, whose summit was covered by a forest.

From the threshold of the door, he breathed forth an adieu to the young girl, which was replete with regret and kindly feeling.

But this adieu had scarcely been expressed by his hand and heart when Pitou reflected on one circumstance.

Catherine might have forbidden him to accompany her, but she could not prevent him from following her.

Catherine could, if she pleased, say to Pitou, “I will not see you;" but she could not very well say to him, “I forbid your looking at me.”

Pitou therefore reflected that as he had nothing to do, there was nothing in the world to prevent him from gaining the wood and keeping along the road which Catherine was going; so that without being seen, he would see her from a distance through the trees.

It was only a league and a half from the farm to La Fert #233;-Milon. A league and a half to go there, and a league and a half to return. What was that to Pitou-

Moreover, Catherine would get to the high-road by a line which formed an angle with the forest. By taking a straight direction, Pitou would gain a quarter of a league, so that the whole distance for him would be only two leagues and a half for the whole journey.

Two leagues and a half was a mere nothing of a walk for a man who appeared to have robbed Tom Thumb or to have at least pilfered the seven-league-boots which Tom had taken from the ogre.

Pitou had scarcely imagined this project before he put it into execution.

While Catherine was going towards the high-road, he, Pitou, stooping down behind the high waving corn, stole across to the forest.

In an instant he had reached the border of the wood; and once there, he jumped across the wide ditch which bounded it, then rushed beneath the trees, less graceful, but as rapid as a terrified deer.

He ran for a quarter of an hour in this way, and at the end of that time he perceived the wood becoming lighter, for he had nearly reached the opposite edge near the road.

There he stopped, leaning against an enormous oak, which completely concealed him behind its knotted trunk. He felt perfectly sure that he had got ahead of Catherine.

He waited ten minutes,-even a quarter of an hour,-but saw no one.

Had she forgotten something that she should have taken with her, and returned to the farm for it- This was possible.

With the greatest possible precaution, Pitou crept near the road, stretched out his head from behind a great beechtree, which grew upon the very edge of the ditch, belonging, as it were, half to the road, half to the forest. From this he had a good view of the plain, and could have perceived anything that was moving upon it; he, however, could discern nothing.

He felt assured, therefore, that Catherine must have returned to the farm.

Pitou retraced his steps. Either she had not yet reached the farm, and he would see her return to it, or she had reached it, and he would see her come out again.

Pitou extended the compass of his long legs, and began to remeasure the distance which separated him from the plain.

He ran along the sandy part of the road which was softer to his feet, when he suddenly paused.

Pitou had raised his eyes, and at the opposite end of the road he saw at a great distance, blending as it were with the blue horizon of the forest, the white horse and the red jacket of Catherine.

The pace of Catherine's horse was an amble.

The horse, ambling along, had left the high-road, having turned into a bridle-path, at the entrance of which was a direction-post, bearing the following inscription:-

“Path leading from the road of La Fert #233;-Milon to Boursonne.”

It was, as we have said, from a great distance that Pitou perceived this, but we know that distance was of no consequence to Pitou.

“Ah!” cried he, again darting into the forest, “it is not then to La Fert #233;-Milon that she was going, but to Boursonne! And yet I am not mistaken; she said La Fert #233;-Milon more than ten times; she had a commission given to her to make purchases at La Fert #233;-Milon. Dame Billot herself spoke of La Fert #233;-Milon.”

And while saying these words, Pitou continued running. Pitou ran faster and faster still. Pitou ran like a madman.

For Pitou, urged on by doubt, the first symptom of jealousy, was no longer biped. Pitou appeared to be one of those winged machines, which D #230;dalus in particular, and the great mechanicians of antiquity in general, imagined so well, but, alas! executed so badly.

He greatly resembled at that moment those figures stuffed with straw, with long reed arms, placed over toyshops, which the wind keeps turning in every direction.

Arms, legs, head, all are in motion; all are turning; all seem to be flying.

Pitou's immensely long legs measured paces of at least five feet, so widely could he distend them; his hands, like two broad bats at the end of two long sticks, struck upon the air like oars. His head-all mouth, all nostrils, and all eyes-absorbed the air, which it sent forth again in noisy breathing.

No horse could have been animated to so great a fury of speed.

No lion could have had a more ferocious desire of coming up with his prey.

Pitou had more than half a league to run when he perceived Catherine; he did not give her time enough to go a quarter of a league, while he was running twice that distance.

His speed was therefore double that of a horse that was trotting.

At length he came to a line with the object of his pursuit.

The extremity of the forest was then not more than five hundred paces from him. He could see the light more clearly through the trees, and just beyond them was the estate of Boursonne.

It was no longer merely for the purpose of seeing Catherine that Pitou followed her; it was to watch her!

She had spoken that which was false. What could be her object-

That mattered not. In order to gain a certain degree of authority over her, it was necessary to surprise her, and prove that she had uttered a flagrant falsehood.

Pitou threw himself head foremost into the underwood and thorns, breaking through them with his helmet, and using his sabre to clear the way when it was necessary.

However, as Catherine was now only moving on at a walk, from time to time the crackling noise of a branch being broken reached her ear, which made both the horse and the mistress prick up their ears.

Then Pitou, whose eyes never for a moment lost sight of Catherine, stopped, which was of some advantage to him, as it enabled him to recover his breath, and it destroyed at the same time any suspicion that Catherine might entertain.

This, however, could not last long, nor did it.

Pitou suddenly heard Catherine's horse neigh, and this neighing was replied to by the neighing of another horse. The latter could not yet be seen.

But however this might be, Catherine gave hers a smart cut with her holly switch; and the animal, which had taken breath a few moments, set off again in full trot.

In about five minutes, thanks to this increase of speed, she had come up with a horseman, who had hastened towards her with as much eagerness as she had shown to reach him.

Catherine's movement had been so rapid and unexpected that poor Pitou had remained motionless, standing in the same place, only raising himself on his tiptoes that he might see as far as possible.

The distance was too great to enable him to see clearly.

But if he did not see, what Pitou felt, as if it had been an electric shock, was the delight and the blushing of the young girl. It was the sudden start which agitated her whole body. It was the sparkling of her eyes, usually so gentle, but which then became absolutely flashing.

Neither could he see who was the cavalier. He could not distinguish his features; but recognizing by his air, by his green velvet hunting-coat, by his hat with its broad loop, by the easy and graceful motion of his head, that he must belong to the very highest class of society, his memory at once reverted to the very handsome young man, the elegant dancer of Villers-Cotterets; his heart, his mouth, every fibre of his nerves, murmured the name of Isidore de Charny.

And it was he in fact.

Pitou heaved a sigh which was very much like a roar; and, rushing anew into the thicket, he advanced within twenty paces of the two young people, then too much occupied with each other to remark whether the noise they heard was caused by the rushing of a quadruped or of a biped through the underwood.

The young man, however, turned his head towards Pitou, raised himself up in his stirrups, and cast a vague look around him.

But at the same moment, and in order to escape this investigation, Pitou threw himself flat on his face.

Then, like a serpent, he glided along the ground about ten paces more, and having then got within hearing distance, he listened.

“Good-day, Monsieur Isidore,” said Catherine.

“Monsieur Isidore!” murmured Pitou; “I was sure of that.”

He then felt in all his limbs the immense fatigue of the race he had run, and which doubt, mistrust, and jealousy had urged him to during a whole hour.

The two young people had each let fall their bridle, and had grasped each other's hands and remained thus, mute and smiling at each other, while the two horses, no doubt accustomed to each other, were rubbing their noses together, and pawing the green turf by the roadside.

“You are behind your time to-day,” said Catherine, who was the first to speak.

“To-day!” exclaimed Pitou to himself; “it seems that on other days he was not behind time.”

“It is not my fault, dear Catherine,” replied the young man, “for I was detained by a letter from my brother, which reached me only this morning, and to which I was obliged to reply by return of post. But fear nothing; to-morrow I will be more punctual.”

Catherine smiled, and Isidore pressed still more tenderly the hand which had been left in his.

Alas! all these proofs of affection were so many thorns which made poor Pitou's heart bleed.

“You have then very late news from Paris” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” continued she, smiling, “so have I. Did you not tell me the other day when similar things happened to two persons who loved each other, that it is called sympathy-”

“Precisely. And how did you receive your news, my lovely Catherine-”

“By Pitou.”

“And whom do you mean by Pitou-” asked the young nobleman, with a free and joyous air, which changed to scarlet the color which had already overspread Pitou's cheeks.

“Why, you know full well,” said she. “Pitou is the poor lad whom my father took at the farm, and who gave me his arm one Sunday.”

“Ah, yes,” said the young gentleman, “he whose knees are like knots tied in a table-napkin.”

Catherine laughed. Pitou felt himself humiliated, and was in perfect despair. He looked at the knees, which were in fact like knots, raising himself on both hands and getting up; but he again fell flat on his face with a sigh.

“Come, now,” said Catherine, “you must not so sadly ill-treat my poor Pitou. Do you know what he proposed to me just now-”

“No; but tell me what it was, my lovely one.”

“Well, then, he proposed to accompany me to La Fert #233;-Milon.”

“Where you are not going-”

“No, because I thought you were waiting for me here; while, on the contrary, it was I who almost had to wait for you.”

“Ah! do you know you have uttered royal sentence, Catherine-”

“Really! well, I am sure I did not imagine I was doing so.”

“And why did you not accept the offer of this handsome cavalier- He would have amused us.”

“Not always, perhaps,” replied Catherine, laughing.

“You are right, Catherine,” said Isidore; fixing his eyes which beamed with love, on the beautiful girl.

And he caught the blushing face of the young girl in his arms, which he clasped round her neck.

Pitou closed his eyes that he might not see, but he had forgotten to shut his ears that he might not hear, and the sound of a kiss reached them.

Pitou clutched his hair in despair, as does the man afflicted with the plague in the foreground of Gros' picture, representing Bonaparte visiting the soldiers attacked by the plague in the hospital at Jaffa.

When Pitou had somewhat recovered his equanimity, he found that the two young people had moved off to a little distance, and were proceeding on their way, walking their horses.

The last words which Pitou could catch were these:

“Yes, you are right, Monsieur Isidore; let us ride together for an hour; my horse's legs shall make up the lost time. And,” added she, laughing, “it is a good animal, who will not mention it to any one.”

And this was all; the vision faded away. Darkness reigned in the soul of Pitou, as it began to reign over all Nature; and rolling upon the heather, the poor lad abandoned himself to the overwhelming feelings which oppressed his heart.

He remained in this state for some time; but the coolness of the evening at length restored him to himself.

“I will not return to the farm,” said he. “I should only be humiliated, scoffed at. I should eat the bread of a woman who loves another man, and a man, I cannot but acknowledge, who is handsomer, richer, and more elegant than I am. No, my place is no longer at the farm, but at Haramont,-at Haramont, my own country, where I shall perhaps find people who will not think that my knees are like knots made in a table-napkin.”

Having said this, Pitou trotted his good long legs towards Haramont, where, without his at all suspecting it, his reputation and that of his helmet and sabre had preceded him, and where awaited him, if not happiness, at least a glorious destiny.

But, it is well known, it is not an attribute of humanity to be perfectly happy.

CHAPTER LXII. PITOU AN ORATOR

HOWEVER, on arriving at Villers-Cotterets, towards ten o'clock at night, after having had the long run we have endeavored to describe, Pitou felt that however melancholy he might be, it was much better to stop at the Dauphin Hotel and sleep in a good bed, than to sleep canopied by the stars, under some beech or oak in the forest.

For as to sleeping in a house at Haramont, arriving there at half-past ten at night, it was useless to think of it. For more than an hour and a half every light had been extinguished, and every door closed in that peaceful village.

Pitou therefore, put up at the Dauphin Hotel, where, for a thirty-sous piece, he had an excellent bed, a four-pound loaf, a piece of cheese, and a pot of cider.

Pitou was both fatigued and in love, tired out and in despair. The result of this was a struggle between his moral and physical feelings, in which the moral were in the first instance victorious, but at length succumbed.

That is to say, that from eleven o'clock to two in the morning, Pitou groaned, sighed, turned and twisted in his bed, without being able to sleep a wink; but at two o'clock, overcome by fatigue, he closed his eyes, not to open them again till seven.

As at Haramont every one was in bed at half-past ten at night, so at Villers-Cotterets everybody was stirring at seven in the morning.

Pitou, on leaving the Dauphin Hotel, again found that his helmet and sabre attracted public attention.

After going about a hundred paces, he consequently found himself the centre of a numerous crowd.

Pitou had decidedly acquired an enormous popularity.

There are few travellers who have such good luck. The sun, which, it is said, shines for the whole world, does not always shine with a favorable brilliancy for peoplewho return to their own native place with the desire of being considered prophets.

But also it does not happen to every one to have an aunt crabbed and avaricious to so ferocious a degree as Aunt Ang #233;lique; it does not happen to every Gargantua capable of swallowing an old cock boiled with rice, to be able to offer a half-crown to the proprietor of the victim.

But that which happens still less often to returning persons, whose origin and traditions can be traced back to the Odyssey, is to return with a helmet on their heads and a sabre by their sides; above all, when the rest of their accoutrements are far from being military.

For we must avow that it was, above all, this helmet and this sabre which recommended Pitou to the attention of his fellow-citizens.

But for the vexations which Pitou's love encountered on his return, it has been seen that all sorts of good fortune awaited him. This was undoubtedly a compensation.

And immediately on seeing him, some of the inhabitants of Villers-Cotterets, who had accompanied Pitou from the Abb #233; Fortier's door in the Rue de Soissons to Dame Ang #233;lique's door at Pleux, resolved, in order to continue the ovation, to accompany him from Villers-Cotterets to Haramont.

And they did as they had resolved; on seeing which, the above-mentioned inhabitants of Haramont began to appreciate their compatriot at his just value.

It is, however, only justice to them to say that the soil was already prepared to receive the seed. Pitou's first passage through Haramont, rapid as it had been, had left some traces in the minds of its inhabitants; his helmet and his sabre had remained impressed on the memories of those who had seen him appearing before them as a luminous apparition.

In consequence, the inhabitants of Haramont, seeing themselves favored by this second return of Pitou, which they no longer hoped for, received him with every manifestation of respect and consideration, entreating him to doff for a time his warlike accoutrements, and fix his tent under the four linden-trees which overshadowed the little village square, as the Thessalians used to entreat Mars on the anniversary of his great triumphs.

Pitou deigned the more readily to consent to this, from its being his intention to fix his domicile at Haramont. He therefore accepted the shelter of a bedroom which a warlike person of the village let to him ready furnished.

It was furnished with a deal bedstead, a paillasse, and a mattress, two chairs, a table, and a water-jug.

The rent of the whole of this was estimated by the proprietor himself at six livres per annum; that is to say, the value of two dishes of fowl and rice.

The rent being agreed upon, Pitou took possession of his domicile, and supplied those who had accompanied him with refreshments at his own charge; and as these events-without speaking of the cider he had imbibed-had somewhat excited his brain, he pronounced an harangue to them, standing on the threshold of his new residence.

This harangue of Pitou was a great event, and consequently all Haramont was assembled round the house.

Pitou was somewhat of a clerk, and knew what fine language was; he knew the eight words by which at that period the haranguers of nations-it was thus Homer called them-stirred up the popular masses.

Between Monsieur de Lafayette and Pitou there was undoubtedly a great distance, but between Haramont and Paris the distance was greater still; morally speaking, it will be clearly understood.

Pitou commenced by an exordium with which the Abb #233; Fortier, critical as he was, would not have been dissatisfied.

“Citizens,” said he, “citizens,-this word is sweet to pronounce,-I have already addressed other Frenchmen by it, for all Frenchmen are brothers; but on this spot I am using it, I believe, towards real brothers, and I find my whole family here in my compatriots of Haramont.”

The women-there were some few among the auditory, and they were not the most favorably disposed towards the orator, for Pitou's knees were still too thick, and the calves of his legs too thin, to produce an impression in his favor on a feminine audience-the women, on hearing the word “family,” thought of that poor Pitou, the orphan child, the poor abandoned lad, who, since the death of his mother, had never had a meal that satisfied his hunger. And this word “family,” uttered by a youth who had none, moved in some among them that sensitive fibre which closes the reservoir of tears.

The exordium being finished, Pitou began the narrative, the second head of an oration.

He related his journey to Paris, the riots with regard to the busts, the taking of the Bastille, and the vengeance of the people; he passed lightly over the part he had taken in the combats on the Place Vend #244;me, the square before the Palais Royal, and in the Faubourg St. Antoine. But the less he boasted, the greater did he appear in the eyes of his compatriots; and at the end of Pitou's narrative, his helmet had become as large as the dome of the Invalides, and his sabre as long as the steeple of Haramont church.

The narrative being ended, Pitou then proceeded to the confirmation, that delicate operation by which Cicero recognized a real orator.

He proved that popular indignation had been justly excited against speculators; he said two words of Messieurs Pitt, father and son; he explained the Revolution by the privileges granted to the nobility and to the clergy; finally, he invited the people of Haramont to do that in particular which the people of France had done generally,-that is to say, to unite against the common enemy.

Then he went on from the confirmation to the peroration, by one of those sublime changes common to all great orators.

He let fall his sabre; and while picking it up, he accidentally drew it from its scabbard.

This accident furnished him with a text for an incendiary resolution, calling upon the inhabitants of Haramont to take up arms, and to follow the example of the revolted Parisians.

The people of Haramont were enthusiastic, and replied energetically.

The Revolution was proclaimed with loud acclamation throughout the village.

The men from Villers-Cotterets who had remained at the meeting, returned home, their hearts swelling with the patriotic leaven, singing in the most threatening tones towards the aristocrats, and with savage fury:

“Vive Henri Quatre, Vive ce roi vaillant-”

Rouget de l'Isle had not then composed the “Marseillaise,” and the Federalists of '90 had not yet re-awakened the old popular “ #199;a ira,” seeing that they were then only in the year of grace 1789.

Pitou thought that he had merely made a speech. Pitou had made a revolution.

He re-entered his own house, regaled himself with a piece of brown bread and the remains of his cheese, from the Dauphin Hotel, which he had carefully stowed away in his helmet; then he went and bought some brass wire, made some snares, and when it was dark, went to lay them in the forest.

That same night Pitou caught a good-sized rabbit, and a young one about four months old.

Pitou would have much wished to have set his wires for hares, but he could not discern a single run, and this proved to him the correctness of the old sporting axiom, “Dogs and cats, hares and rabbits, live not together.”

It would have been necessary to go three or four leagues before reaching a country well-stocked with hares, and Pitou was rather fatigued; his legs had done their utmost the day before, for besides the distance they had performed, they had carried for the last four or five leagues a man worn out with grief, and there is nothing so heavy as grief to long legs.

Towards one in the morning he returned with his first harvest; he hoped to gather another after the passage in the morning.

He went to bed, retaining within his breast remains of so bitter a nature of that grief which had so much fatigued his legs the day before that he could only sleep six hours consecutively upon the atrocious mattress, which the proprietor himself called a shingle.

Pitou therefore slept from one o'clock to seven. The sun was therefore shining upon him through his open shutter while he was sleeping.

Through this open shutter, thirty or forty inhabitants of Haramont were looking at him as he slept.

He awoke as Turenne did, on his gun-carriage, smiled at his compatriots, and asked them graciously why they had come to him in such numbers and so early.

One of them had been appointed spokesman. We shall faithfully relate this dialogue. This man was a wood-cutter, and his name Claude Tellier.

“Ange Pitou,” said he, “we have been reflecting the whole night; citizens ought, in fact, as you said yesterday, to arm themselves in the cause of liberty.”

“I said so,” replied Pitou, in a firm tone, and which announced that he was ready to maintain what he had said.

“Only in order to arm ourselves the principal thing is wanting.”

“And what is that-” asked Pitou, with much interest.

“Arms!”

“Ah! yes, that is true,” said Pitou.

“We have, however, reflected enough not to allow our reflections to be lost; and we will arm ourselves, cost what it may.”

“When I went away,” said Pitou, “there were five guns in Haramont,-three muskets, a single-barrelled fowling-piece, and a double-barrelled one.”

“There are now only four,” rejoined the orator; “one of the fowling-pieces burst from old age a month ago.”

“That must have been the fowling-piece which belonged to D #233;sir #233; Maniquet,” said Pitou.

“Yes, and, by token when it burst, it carried off two of my fingers,” said D #233;sir #233; Maniquet, holding above his head his mutilated hand; “and as this accident happened to me in the warren of that aristocrat who is called Monsieur de Longpr #233;, the aristocrats shall pay me for it.”

Pitou nodded his head to show that he approved this just revenge.

“We therefore have only four guns left,” rejoined Claude Tellier.

“Well, then, with four guns you have already enough to arm five men,” said Pitou.

“How do you make that out-”

“Oh, the fifth will carry a pike! That is the way they do at Paris; for every four men armed with guns, there is always one man armed with a pike. Those pikes are very convenient things; they serve to stick the heads upon which have been cut off.”

“Oh, oh!” cried a loud, joyous voice, “it is to be hoped that we shall not cut off heads.”

“No,” gravely replied Pitou; “if we have only firmness enough to reject the gold of Messieurs Pitt, father and son. But we were talking of guns; let us not wander from the question, as Monsieur Bailly says. How many men have we in Haramont capable of bearing arms- Have you counted them-”

“Yes.”

“And how many are you-”

“We are thirty-two.”

“Then there are twenty-eight muskets deficient-”

“Which we shall never get,” said the stout man with the good-humored face.

“Ah,” said Pitou, “it is necessary to know that, my friend Boniface.”

“And how is it necessary to know-”

“Yes, I say it is necessary to know, because I know.”

“What do you know-”

“I know where they are to be procured.”

“To be procured-”

“Yes; the people of Paris had no arms either. Well, Monsieur Marat, a very learned doctor, but very ugly, told the people of Paris where arms were to be found; the people of Paris went where Monsieur Marat told them, and there they found them.”

“And where did Marat tell them to go-” inquired D #233;sir #233; Maniquet.

“He told them to go to the Invalides.”

“Yes; but we have no Invalides at Haramont.”

“But I know a place in which there are more than a hundred guns,” said Pitou.

“And where is that-”

“In one of the rooms of the Abb #233; Fortier's college.”

“The Abb #233; Fortier has a hundred guns He wishes, then, to arm his singing boys, the beggarly black cap!” cried Claude Tellier.

Pitou had not a deep-seated affection for the Abb #233; Fortier; however, this violent outburst against his former professor profoundly wounded him.

“Claude!” cried he, “Claude!”

“Well, what now-”

“I did not say that the guns belong to the Abb #233; Fortier.”

“If they are in his house, they belong to him.”

“That position is a false one. I am in the house of Bastien Godinet, and yet the house of Bastien Godinet does not belong to me.”

“That is true,” said Bastien, replying without giving Pitou occasion to appeal to him directly.

“The guns, therefore, do not belong to the Abb #233; Fortier,” continued Pitou.

“Whose are they, then-”

“They belong to the township.”

“If they belong to the township, how does it happen that they are in the Abb #233; Fortier's house-”

“They are in the Abb #233; Fortier's house, because the house in which the Abb #233; Fortier lives belongs to the township, which gives it to him rent free because he says Mass and teaches the children of poor citizens gratis. Now, since the Abb #233; Fortier's house belongs to the township, the township has a right to reserve a room in the house that belongs to it, in which to put its muskets,-ah!”

“That is true,” said the auditors; “the township has the right.”

“Well, then, let us see; how are we to get hold of these guns,-tell us that-”

The question somewhat embarrassed Pitou, who scratched his ear.

“Yes, tell us quickly,” cried another voice, “for we must go to our work.”

Pitou breathed again; the last speaker had opened to him a door for escape.

“Work!” exclaimed Pitou. “You speak of arming yourselves for the defence of the country, and you think of work!”

And Pitou accompanied his words with a laugh, so ironical and so contemptuous that the Haramontese looked at one another, and felt humiliated.

“We would not mind sacrificing a few days more, should it be absolutely necessary,” said the other, “to gain our liberty.”

“To gain our liberty,” cried Pitou, “it will be necessary to sacrifice more than a day; we must sacrifice all our days.”

“Then,” said Boniface, “when people are working for liberty they are resting.”

“Boniface,” replied Pitou, with the air of Lafayette when irritated, “those will never know how to be free who do not know how to trample their prejudices under foot.”

“As to myself,” said Boniface, “I ask nothing better than not to work; but what is to be done, then, with regard to eating-”

“Do people eat-” cried Pitou, disdainfully.

“At Haramont they do so yet. Do they no longer eat at Paris-”

“They eat when they have vanquished the tyrants,” replied Pitou. “Did any one eat on the 14th of July- Did they even think of eating on that day- No; they had not time even to think of it.”

“Ah! ah!” cried some of the most zealous, “the takng of the Bastille must have been a fine sight.”

“But,” continued Pitou, disdainfully, “as to drinking, I will not say no; it was so hot, and gunpowder has so acrid a taste.”

“But what had they to drink-”

“What had the people to drink- Why, water, wine, and brandy. It was the women who had taken this in charge.”

“The women-”

“Yes, and handsome women, too, who had made flags of the front part of their dresses.”

“Can it be possible-” cried the auditors, with much astonishment.

“But at all events,” observed the sceptic, “they must have eaten the next day.”

“I do not say that they did not,” replied Pitou.

“Then,” rejoined Boniface, triumphantly, “if they ate, they must have worked.”

“Monsieur Boniface,” replied Pitou, “you are speaking of things without understanding them. Paris is not a hamlet. It is not composed of a heap of villagers accustomed to think only of their bellies,- obedientia ventri, as we say in Latin, we who are learned. No; Paris, as Monsieur de Mirabeau says, is the head of all nations; it is a brain which thinks for the whole world. The brain, sir, never eats.”

“That is true,” thought the auditors.

“And yet,” said Pitou, “the brain, though it does not eat, still feeds itself.”

“But then how does it feed itself-” answered Boniface.

“Invisibly, with the nutriment of the body.”

Here the Haramontese were quite at a loss; the question was too profound for them to understand.

“Explain this to us, Pitou,” said Boniface.

“That is easily done,” replied Pitou: “Paris is the brain, as I have said; the provinces are the members. The provinces will work, drink, eat; and Paris will think.”

“Then I will leave the provinces and go to Paris,” rejoined the sceptical Boniface. “Will you come to Paris with me, my friends-”

A portion of the audience burst into a loud laugh, and appeared to side with Boniface.

Pitou perceived that he would be discredited by this sarcastic railer.

“Go, then, to Paris,” cried he in his turn; “and if you find there a single face as ridiculous as yours, I will buy of you such young rabbits as this at a louis apiece.”

And with one hand Pitou held up the young rabbit he had caught, and with the other made the louis, which remained of Doctor Gilbert's munificence jingle, in his pocket.

Pitou this time had the laugh in his favor.

Upon this, Boniface became positively purple with rage.

“Why, Master Pitou, you are playing the insolent to call us ridiculous.”

“Ridiculus tu es,” majestically replied Pitou.

“But look at yourself,” retorted Boniface.

“It would be but to little purpose,” replied Pitou. “I might see something as ugly as yourself, but never anything half so stupid.”

Pitou had scarcely said these words, when Boniface-at Haramont they are almost as passionate as in Picardy-struck at him with his fist, which Pitou adroitly parried, but to which he replied by a kick in the true Parisian fashion.

This kick was followed by a second, which sent the sceptic flying some few feet, when he fell heavily to the ground.

Pitou bent down over his adversary so as to give the victory the most fatal consequences, and all were already rushing to save poor Boniface, when, raising himself up,-

“Learn,” said Pitou, “that the conquerors of the Bastille do not fight with fists. I have a sabre; take another sabre, and let us end the matter at once.”

Upon this, Pitou drew his sword, forgetting, or perhaps not forgetting, that the only sabre in all Haramont was his own, with the exception of that of the rural guard, at least two feet shorter than his own.

It is true that to establish a more perfect equilibrium he put on his helmet.

This greatness of soul electrified the assembly. It was agreed by all that Boniface was a rascallion, a vile fellow, an ass unworthy of being admitted to share in any discussion on public affairs.

And consequently he was expelled.

“You see, then,” said Pitou, “the image of the Revolution of Paris; as Monsieur Prudhomme or Loustalot has said-I think it was the virtuous Loustalot who said it-yes, 'twas he, I am now certain of it:-

“'The great appear to us to be great, solely because we are upon our knees; let us stand up.'“

This epigram had not the slightest bearing on the question in dispute, but perhaps for that very reason it produced a prodigious effect.

The sceptic Boniface, who was standing at a distance of twenty paces, was struck by it, and he returned to Pitou, humbly saying to him:-

“You must not be angry with us, Pitou, if we do not understand liberty as well as you do.”

“It is not liberty,” said Pitou, “but the rights of man.”

This was another blow with the sledge-hammer, with which Pitou a second time felled the whole auditory.

“Decidedly,” said Boniface, “you are a learned man, and we pay homage to you.”

Pitou bowed.

“Yes,” said he,” education and experience have placed me above you; and if just now I spoke to you rather harshly, it was from my friendship for you.”

Loud applause followed this; Pitou saw that he could now give vent to his eloquence.

“You have just talked of work,” said he, “but do you know what work is- To you labor consists in splitting wood, in reaping the harvest, in picking up beech-mast, in tying up wheat-sheaves, in placing stones one above another, and consolidating them with cement. That is what you consider work. In your opinion I do not work at all. Well, then, you are mistaken, for I alone labor much more than you do all together,-for I am meditating your emancipation; for I am dreaming of your liberty, of your equality. A moment of my time is therefore of more value than a hundred of your days. The oxen who plough the ground do but one and the same thing; but the man who thinks surpasses all the strength of matter. I, by myself, am worth the whole of you. Look at Monsieur de Lafayette; he is a thin, fair man, not much taller than Claude Tellier. He has a pointed nose, thin legs, and arms as small as the back joints of this chair. As to his hands and feet, it is not worth while to mention them; a man might as well be without. Well! this man has carried two worlds on his shoulders, which is one more than Atlas did, and his little hands have broken the chains of America and France.

“Now, as his arms have done all this, arms not thicker than the back railing of a chair, only imagine to yourselves what arms like mine can do.”

And Pitou bared his arms, which were as knotty as the trunk of a holly-tree.

And having drawn this parallel, he paused, well assured that he had produced, without coming to a regular conclusion, an immense effect.

And he had produced it.

CHAPTER LXIII. PITOU A CONSPIRATOR

THE greater portion of events which happen to man, and which confer on him great happiness or great honors, are almost always brought about from his having fervently desired or much disdained them.

If this maxim were duly applied to events and to men cited in history, it would be found that it possesses not only profundity, but also truth.

We shall, however, content ourselves, without having recourse to proofs, with applying it to Ange Pitou, our man and our history.

In fact, Pitou, if we are allowed to retrograde a few steps, and to return to the wound which he had received straight to the heart,-Pitou had, in fact, after the discovery he had made on the borders of the forest, been seized with a withering disdain for the things of this nether world.

He who had hoped to find blossom within his heart that rare and precious plant which mortals denominate Love; he who had returned to his own province with a helmet and a sabre, proud of thus associating Mars and Venus, as was said by his illustrious compatriot, Demonstier, in his “Letters to Emilie on Mythology,”-found himself completely taken aback and very unhappy on perceiving that there existed at Villers-Cotterets and its neighborhood more lovers than were necessary.

He who had taken so active a part in the crusade of the Parisians against the nobility, found himself but very insignificant in opposition to the country nobility represented by Monsieur Isidore de Charny.

Alas! so handsome a youth, a man likely to please even at first sight, a cavalier who wore buckskin breeches and a velvet riding-coat.

How would it be possible to contend against such a man-

With a man who had long riding-boots, and spurs on the heels of those boots,-with a man whose brother many people still called Monseigneur.

How was it possible to contend against such a rival How could he avoid at once feeling shame and admiration-two feelings which, to the heart of a lover, inflict a double torture,-a torture so frightful that it has never yet been decided whether a jealous man prefers a rival of higher or lower condition than himself.

Pitou, therefore, but too well knew the pangs of jealousy, the wounds of which are incurable and fertile in agony, and of which up to this time the ingenuous heart of our hero had remained ignorant,-jealousy, a plant of marvellous and venomous growth, which sprang up without seed being sown, from a soil that had never seen germinate any noxious passion, not even self-love, that evil root which chokes up even the most sterile lands.

A heart thus tortured stands in need of much philosophy in order to regain its habitual calmness.

Was Pitou a philosopher,-he who the day following that on which he had experienced this sensation could think of waging war against the hares and rabbits of his Highness the Duke of Orl #233;ans, and the day after that, of making the long harangues we have reported-

Was his heart, then, as hard as flint, from which every fresh blow draws a spark- Or did it possess only the soft resistance of a sponge, which has the quality of absorbing tears, and of mollifying, without receiving a wound, the shock of every misfortune-

This the future will indubitably testify; therefore let us not prejudge, but go on with our story.

After having received the visit we have related, and his harangues being terminated, Pitou, compelled by his appetite to attend to minor matters, set to work and cooked his young rabbit, regretting that it was not a hare.

But, in fact, had the rabbit been really a hare, Pitou would not have eaten, but would have sold it.

That would not have been a very trifling concern. A hare, according to its size, is worth from eighteen to twenty-four sous; and although he was still the possessor of a few louis given to him by Doctor Gilbert, Pitou, without being as avaricious as his Aunt Ang #233;lique, had a good dose of economy, which he had inherited from his mother. Pitou would therefore have added eighteen sous to his treasure, which would thus have been increased instead of diminished.

For Pitou had justly reflected that it was not necessary for a man to make repasts which would cost him one day half a crown, another eighteen sous. He was not a Lucullus; and Pitou said that with the eighteen sous his hare would have brought him, he could have lived during a whole week.

Now, during that week, supposing that he had caught a hare on the first day, he might very well have taken three during the six following days, or rather, the six following nights. In a week, therefore, he would have gained food for a month.

Following up this calculation, forty-eight hares would have sufficed for a year's keep; all the rest would have been clear profit.

Pitou entered into this economical calculation while he was eating his rabbit, which, instead of bringing him anything, cost him a sous' worth of butter and a sous' worth of lard. As to the onions, he had gleaned them upon the common land.

“After a repast, the fireside or a walk,” says the proverb. After his repast, Pitou went into the forest to seek a snug corner where he could take a nap.

It is scarcely necessary to say that as soon as the unfortunate youth had finished talking politics and found himself alone, he had incessantly before his eyes the spectacle of Monsieur Isidore making love to Mademoiselle Catherine.

The oaks and beech-trees trembled with his sighs; Nature, which always smiles on well-filled stomachs, made one exception in regard to Pitou, and appeared to him a vast dark desert, in which there remained only rabbits, hares, and deer.

Once hidden beneath the tall trees of his natal forest, Pitou, inspired by their cool and invigorating shade, became more firm in his heroic resolution, and this was to disappear from before the eyes of Catherine,-to leave her altogether free, and not to affect himself extravagantly as to her preference of another, that he might not be more humiliated than was necessary by invidious comparison.

It was a highly painful effort to abstain from seeing Mademoiselle Catherine; but a man ought to be a man.

Moreover, this was not precisely the case in question.

The question was not exactly that he should no more see Mademoiselle Catherine, but that he should not be seen by her.

Now, what was there to prevent the contemned lover from carefully concealing himself and catching a glance of the cruel fair one- Nothing.

From Haramont to the farm what was the distance Scarcely a league and a half; that is to say, a few strides,-that was all!

Although it would have been base on the part of Pitou to have continued his attentions to Catherine after what he had seen, it would be so much the more adroit in him to continue to ascertain her acts and conduct, thanks to a little exercise, which could not but be favorable to Pitou's health.

Moreover, that portion of the forest which was behind the farm and extended towards Boursonne abounded in hares.

Pitou would go at night to lay his wires; and the next morning, from the top of some high hillock, he would cast his eyes over the plain and watch Mademoiselle Catherine's doings. This he had the right to do; this, to a certain point, was his duty, being the authorized agent, as he undoubtedly was, of Father Billot.

Thus, having consoled himself, and, as it were, in spite of himself, Pitou thought that he might cease sighing. He dined off an enormous slice of bread he had brought with him; and when the evening had closed in, he laid a dozen wires and threw himself down upon the heather, still warm from the sun's rays.

There he slept like a man in utter despair; that is to say, his sleep was almost as undisturbed as that of death.

The coolness of the night awoke him; he went to examine his wires. Nothing had been taken; but Pitou calculated always more upon the morning passage; only, as his head felt somewhat heavy, he determined on returning to his lodgings and looking to his wires the following day.

But this day, which to him had passed by so devoid of events and intrigues, had been passed in a very different manner by the inhabitants of the hamlet, who had employed it in reflecting and in making combinations.

It might have been seen towards the middle of that day which Pitou had passed dreaming in the forest,-the wood-cutters, we say, might have been seen leaning contemplatively upon their hatchets; the threshers with their flails suspended in the air, meditating; the joiners stopping their planes upon a half-smoothed plank.

Pitou was the first great cause of all this loss of time; Pitou had been the breath of discord which had stirred these straws which began to whirl about confusedly.

And he, the occasion of all this agitation, had not even thought one moment on the subject.

But at the moment when he was going towards his own lodging, although the clock had struck ten, and usually at that hour not a single light was to be seen, not an eye was still open in the village, he perceived a very unaccustomed scene around the house in which he resided. He saw a number of men seated in groups, a number standing in groups, several groups walking up and down.

The aspect of these groups was altogether singular.

Pitou, without knowing why, imagined that all these people were talking of him.

And when he passed through the street, they all appeared as if struck by an electric shock, and pointed at him as he passed.

“What can the matter be with them all-” said Pitou to himself. “I have not my helmet on.”

And he modestly retired to his own lodging, after having exchanged salutations with a few of the villagers as he passed by them.

He had scarcely shut the door of his house when he thought he heard a slight knock upon the doorpost.

Pitou was not in the habit of lighting a candle to undress by. A candle was too great a luxury for a man who paid only six livres a year for his lodgings, and who, having no books, could not read.

But it was certain that some one was knocking at his door.

He raised the latch.

Two of the young inhabitants of the village familiarly entered his abode.

“Why, Pitou, you have not a candle!” said one of them.

“No,” replied Pitou; “of what use would it be-”

“Why, that one might see.”

“Oh! I see well at night; I am a nyctalops.”

And in proof of this, he added:-

“Good-evening, Claude! Good-evening, D #233;sir #233;.”

“Well!” they both cried, “here we are, Pitou!”

“This is a kind visit; what do you desire of me, my friends-”

“Come out into the light,” said Claude.

“Into the light of what- There is no moon.”

“Into the light of heaven.”

“You have, then, something to say to me-”

“Yes, we would speak with you, Ange.”

And Claude emphasized these words with a singular expression.

“Well, let us go, then,” said Pitou.

And the three went out together.

They walked on until they reached the first open space in the road, where they stopped, Ange Pitou still not knowing what they wanted of him.

“Well-” inquired Pitou, seeing that his two companions stopped.

“You see now, Ange,” said Claude, “here we are,-D #233;sir #233; Maniquet and myself. We manage to lead all our companions in the country. Will you be one of us-”

“To do what-”

“Ah! that is the question. It is to-”

“To do what-” said Pitou, drawing himself up to his full height.

“To conspire!” murmured Claude, in Pitou's ear.

“Ah, ah! as they do at Paris,” said Pitou, jeeringly.

The fact is that Pitou was fearful of the word, and indeed of the echo of the word, even in the midst of the forest.

“Come, now, explain yourself,” said Pitou to Claude, after a short pause.

“This is the case,” said the latter. “Come nearer. D #233;sir #233;,-you who are a poacher to your very soul, and who know all the noises of the day and night, of the plain and of the forest,-look around and see if we have been followed; listen whether there be any one attempting to overhear us.”

D #233;sir #233; gave an assenting nod, took a tolerably wide circuit round Pitou and Claude, and having peeped into every bush and listened to every murmur, returned to them.

“You may speak out,” said he; “there is no one near us.”

“My friends,” rejoined Claude, “all the townships of France, as Pitou has told us, desire to be armed, and on the footing of National Guards!”

“That is true!” said Pitou.

“Well, then, why should Haramont not be armed like the other townships-”

“You said why, only yesterday, Claude,” replied Pitou, “when I proposed my resolution that we should arm ourselves. Haramont is not armed because Haramont has no muskets!”

“Oh, as to muskets, we need not be uneasy about them, since you know where they are to be had.”

“I know! I know!” said Pitou, who saw at what Claude was aiming, and who felt the danger of the proceeding.

“Well,” continued Claude, “all the patriotic young fellows of the village have been consulting together to-day.”

“Good!”

“And there are thirty-three of us!”

“That is the third of a hundred, less one,” added Pitou.

“Do you know the manual exercise-” inquired Claude.

“Do I not-” exclaimed Pitou, who did not even know how to shoulder arms.

“Good! and do you know how to manuvre a company-”

“I have seen General de Lafayette manuvring forty thousand men at least ten times,” disdainfully replied Pitou.

“That is all right,” said D #233;sir #233;, tired of remaining silent, and who, without intending to presume, wished to put in a word in his turn.

“Well, then, will you command us-” said Claude to Pitou.

“Who,-I-” exclaimed Pitou, starting with surprise.

“Yes, you,-yourself!”

And the two conspirators intently eyed Pitou.

“Oh, you hesitate!” cried Claude.

“Why-”

“You are not, then, a good patriot-” said D #233;sir #233;.

“Oh! that, for example-”

“There is something, then, that you are afraid of-”

“What! I- I, a conqueror of the Bastille,-a man to whom a medal is awarded-”

“You have a medal awarded you-”

“I shall have one as soon as the medals have been struck. Monsieur Billot has promised to apply for mine in my name.”

“He will have a medal! We shall have a chief who has a medal!” exclaimed Claude, in a transport of joy.

“Come now, speak out;” said D #233;sir #233;; “will you accept the appointment-”

“Do you accept-” asked Claude.

“Well, then, yes; I will accept it,” said Pitou, carried away by his enthusiasm, and also, perhaps, by a feeling which was awakening within him, and which is called pride.

“It is agreed; from to-morrow morning you will be our commander.”

“And what shall I command you to do-”

“Our exercise, to be sure.”

“And the muskets-”

“Why, since you know where there are muskets-”

“Oh, yes! at the house of the Abb #233; Fortier.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Only it is very likely the Abb #233; Fortier will refuse to let me have them.”

“Well, then, you will do as the patriots did at the Invalides,-you will take them.”

“What! I alone-”

“You will have our signatures, and should it be necessary, you shall have our hands too. We will cause a rising in Villers-Cotterets; but we will have them.”

Pitou shook his head.

“The Abb #233; Fortier is a very obstinate man,” said he.

“Pooh! you were his favorite pupil; he would not be able to refuse you anything.”

“It is easy to perceive that you do not know him!” cried Pitou, with a sigh.

“How! do you believe the old man would refuse-”

“He would refuse them even to a squadron of the Royal Germans. He is dreadfully obstinate, injustum et tenacem. But I forgot,-you do not even understand Latin,” added Pitou, with much compassion.

But the two Haramontese did not allow themselves to be dazzled either by the quotation or the apostrophe.

“Ah, in good truth,” said D #233;sir #233;, “we have chosen an excellent chief, Claude; he is alarmed at everything.”

Claude shook his head.

Pitou perceived that he was compromising his high position; he remembered that fortune always favors the brave.

“Well, be it so,” said he; “I will consider it.”

“You, then, will manage the affair of the muskets-”

“I will promise to do all I can.”

An expression of satisfaction was uttered by his two friends, replacing the slight discontent they had before manifested.

“Ho! ho!” said Pitou to himself, “these men want to dictate to me even before I am their chief; what will they do, then, when I shall be so in reality-”

“Do all you can,” said Claude, shaking his head; “oh, oh! that is not enough.”

“If that is not enough,” replied Pitou, “try you to do more. I give up my command to you. Go and see what you can make of the Abb #233; Fortier and his cat-o' nine-tails.”

“That would be well worth while,” said Maniquet, disdainfully. “It is a pretty thing, indeed, for a man to return from Paris with a helmet and a sabre, and then to be afraid of a cat-o'-nine-tails.”

“A helmet and a sabre are not a cuirass; and even if they were, the Abb #233; Fortier would still find a place on which to apply his cat-o'-nine-tails.”

Claude and D #233;sir #233; appeared to comprehend this last observation.

“Come, now, Pitou, my son,” said Claude. (“My son” is a term of endearment much used in the country.)

“Well, then, it shall be so,” said Pitou; “but zounds! you must be obedient.”

“You will see how obedient we shall be,” said he, giving a wink to D #233;sir #233;.

“Only,” added D #233;sir #233;, “you must engage with regard to the muskets-”

“Oh! that is agreed upon,” cried Pitou, interrupting him, who was in truth extremely uneasy at the task imposed upon him, but whom, however, ambition was counselling to venture on deeds which required great daring.

“You promise, then-” said Claude.

“I swear it.”

Pitou stretched forth his hand. His two companions did the same.

And thus it was, by the light of the stars, and in an opening of the forest, that the insurrection was declared in the department of the Aisne, by the three Haramontese, unwitting plagiarists of William Tell and his three companions.

The fact is that Pitou dimly foresaw that after all the perils and troubles he would have to encounter, he would have the happiness of appearing gloriously invested with the insignia of a commander of the National Guard before the eyes of Catherine; and the insignia appeared to him to be of a nature to cause her to feel, if not remorse, at least some regret for the conduct she had pursued.

Thus consecrated by the will of his electors, Pitou returned to his house, meditating on the ways and means by which he could procure arms for his thirty-three National Guards.

CHAPTER LXIV. IN WHICH WILL BE SEEN OPPOSED TO EACH OTHER THE MONARCHICAL PRINCIPLE REPRESENTED BY THE ABB #201; FORTIER, AND THE REVOLUTIONARY PRINCIPLE REPRESENTED BY PITOU

THE whole of that night Pitou was so absorbed in reflecting on the great honor which had befallen him that he forgot to visit his wires.

The next morning he donned his helmet, and buckled on his great sabre, and set out manfully towards Villers-Cotterets.

It was just striking six o'clock when Pitou reached the square before the ch #226;teau, and he modestly knocked at the small door which opened into the Abb #233; Fortier's garden.

Pitou had knocked loud enough to satisfy his conscience, but gently enough not to be heard from the house.

He had hoped thus to gain a quarter of an hour's respite, and during that time to summon up some flowers of oratory wherewith to adorn the speech he had prepared for the Abb #233; Fortier.

But his astonishment was great when, notwithstanding his having knocked so gently, he saw the gate at once opened; but his astonishment soon ceased, when in the person who had opened it he recognized Sebastien Gilbert.

The lad was walking in the garden studying his lesson by the sun's first rays,-or rather, we should say, pretending to study; for the open book was hanging listlessly in his hand, and the thoughts of the youth were capriciously wandering after those whom he most loved in the world.

Sebastien uttered a joyous cry on perceiving Pitou.

They embraced each other. The boy's first words were these:-

“Have you received news from Paris-”

“No; have you any-” inquired Pitou. “Oh! I have received some,” said Sebastien. “My father has written me a delightful letter.”

“Ah!” cried Pitou.

“And in which,” continued the lad, “there is a word for you.”

And taking the letter from his breast-pocket, he handed it to Pitou.

“P.S.-Billot recommends Pitou not to annoy or distract the attention of the people at the farm.”

“Oh!” said Pitou, “that is a recommendation which, as it regards me, is altogether useless. There is no one at the farm whom I can either annoy or amuse.”

Then he added to himself, sighing still more deeply:

“It was to Monsieur Isidore that these words ought to have been addressed.”

He, however, soon recovered his self-possession, and returned the letter to Sebastien.

“Where is the abb #233;-” he inquired.

Sebastien bent his ear towards the house, and, although the width of the courtyard and the garden separated him from the staircase, which creaked beneath the footsteps of the worthy priest:-

“Why,” said he, “he is just coming downstairs.”

Pitou went from the garden into the courtyard; and it was only then that he heard the heavy footsteps of the abb #233;.

The worthy professor was reading the newspaper as he came downstairs. His faithful cat-o'-nine tails was, as usual, hanging by his side.

With his nose close to the newspaper-for he knew by heart the number of steps and every inequality in the wall of his old house-the abb #233; almost ran against Ange Pitou, who had assumed the most majestic air he could put on, in order to contend with his political antagonist.

But we must first of all say a few words as to the position of the Abb #233; Fortier, which might have appeared tedious in any other page, but which here find their natural place.

They will explain how it was that the thirty or forty muskets which have been so much talked about happened to be in-the Abb #233; Fortier's charge,-which muskets had become the object of the ambition of Pitou, and of his two accomplices, Claude and D #233;sir #233;.

The Abb #233; Fortier, who had formerly been the almoner or sub-almoner of the ch #226;teau, as we have already had occasion to explain elsewhere, had, in course of time, and above all, with that patient fixity of ideas inherent in ecclesiastics, become sole intendant of what in theatrical language is called the properties of the ch #226;teau.

Besides the sacred vases, besides the library, he had received in charge all the hunting apparatus of the Duke of Orl #233;ans, Louis Philippe, the father of Philippe, who was afterwards called #201;galit #233;. Some of this apparatus had been in the family as far back as the reigns of Louis XIII. and Henri III. All these articles had been artistically arranged by him in one of the galleries of the chateau, which had been allotted to him for this express purpose. In order to give them a more picturesque appearance, he had formed them into stars, the centre being shields, surrounded by boar-spears, hunting-knives, and short muskets, richly inlaid, and manufactured during the time of the League.

The door of this gallery was formidably defended by two small cannon of plated bronze, given by Louis XIV. to his brother, Monsieur.

Besides these, there were about fifty musketoons, brought as trophies by Joseph Philippe from the battle of Ushant, and presented by him to the municipality of Villers-Cotterets; and the municipality, as we have said, having furnished the Abb #233; Fortier with a house free of rent, had placed these muskets, not knowing what to do with them, in the collegiate house.

Such was the treasure guarded by the Dragon, named Fortier, and threatened by the Jason, named Ange Pitou.

The little arsenal of the ch #226;teau was sufficiently celebrated in the country to make people desire to obtain possession of it at little cost.

But, as we have said, the abb #233;, being a vigilant Dragon, did not appear disposed willingly to give up, to any Jason whatsoever, the golden apples which his Hesperides contained.

Having said this much, let us return to Pitou.

He very gracefully bowed to the Abb #233; Fortier, accompanying his bow with a slight cough, such as we use to attract the attention of persons who are naturally absent, or who are preoccupied.

The Abb #233; Fortier raised his nose from the newspaper.

“Well, I declare,” said he, “'t is Pitou.”

“To serve you, should I be capable of doing so,” courteously replied Ange.

The abb #233; folded up his newspaper, or rather closed it as he would have done a portfolio, for in those happy days the newspapers were still small pamphlets.

Then, having folded up his paper, he stuck it into his belt on the opposite side to his cat-o'-nine-tails.

“Ah, yes! but in that lies the misfortune,” replied the abb #233;, jeeringly, “seeing that you are not capable.”

“Oh, most worthy abb #233;.”

“Do you hear me, Mr. Hypocrite-”

“Oh, good abb #233;!”

“Do you hear me, Mr. Revolutionist-”

“Come now, this is good; for before I have spoken even a single word, you get into a passion with me. This is but a bad beginning, Abb #233;.”

Sebastien-who well knew what the Abb #233; Fortier had, for the last two days, been saying to every one who came near him about Pitou, and thinking it better not to be present during the quarrel which must necessarily ensue between his schoolmaster and his friend-stole away as quickly as he could.

Pitou observed Sebastien's escape with a certain degree of sorrow. He was not a very vigorous ally, but he was a youth of the same political communion with himself.

And therefore, when he perceived him stepping through the door, he could not avoid uttering a sigh; then turning to the abb #233;:-

“Come now, Monsieur Fortier,” said he, “why do you call me a Revolutionist- Would you insinuate that I am the cause of the Revolution-”

“You have lived with those who are carrying it on.”

“Good Monsieur Abb #233;,” said Pitou, with supreme dignity, “the thoughts of every man are free.”

“Ah! indeed.”

“Est penes hominem arbitrium et ratio.”

“Why, really,” cried the abb #233;, “you know Latin, then, you clown-”

“I know what you taught me of it,” modestly replied Pitou.

“Yes, revised, corrected, augmented, and embellished with barbarisms.”

“Good again, Monsieur Abb #233;,-barbarisms! and who is there who does not commit them-”

“Vile fellow!” cried the abb #233;, evidently wounded by this apparent tendency of Pitou to generalize. “What! do you believe that I am guilty of barbarisms-”

“You would commit them in the eyes of a man who was a better Latin scholar than yourself.”

“Only hear that!” cried the abb #233;, turning pale with anger, and yet struck with the reasoning, which was not devoid of point.

Then, in a melancholy tone:-

“There, in two words, is the system of these vile wretches; they destroy and degrade, and who profits by it- They know not even themselves; it is to the profit of the unknown. Come now, Monsieur Dunce, speak out freely; do you know any one who is a better Latin scholar than I am-”

“No; but there may be many, although I do not know them,-I do not know everything.”

“Zounds! I believe you.”

Pitou made the sign of the cross.

“What are you doing there, libertine-”

“You swore, Monsieur Abb #233;, and I crossed myself.”

“Why, rascal, have you come here to tympanize me-”

“To tympanize you!” repeated Pitou.

“Ah, good; now again you do not comprehend-”

“Oh, yes! I understand it well enough. Ah! thanks to you, I know the roots of words-tympanize-tympanum-drum; it comes from the Greek tympanon, drum or bell.”

The abb #233; appeared perfectly astounded.

“Root, typos, mark, vestige; and as Lancelot says in his Garden of Greek Roots, typos, the form which impresses itself, which word evidently comes from tupto, strike. There you have it.”

“Ah! ah! rascallion!” cried the abb #233;, more and more dumfounded. “It seems that you yet know something, even what you did not know.”

“Pooh!” ejaculated Pitou, with affected modesty.

“How did it happen that during the whole time you were with me, you could not answer me as you have now done-”

“Because, during the time I was with you, Abb #233; Fortier, you brutalized me; because, by your despotism you repelled my intelligence, imprisoned within my memory all that liberty has since brought forth from it. Yes, liberty,” continued Pitou, becoming more energetic as he proceeded; “do you hear me-liberty!”

“Ah! rascal!”

“Monsieur Professor,” said Pitou, with an air which was not exempt from threat,-“Monsieur Professor, do not insult me. Contumelia non argumentum, says an orator; insult is not reasoning.”

“I think that the fellow,” cried the abb #233;, in great fury,-“I think that the fellow imagines it necessary to translate his Latin to me.”

“It is not my Latin, Monsieur Abb #233;; it is Cicero's,-that is to say, the Latin of a man who assuredly would have thought that you made as many barbarisms in comparison with him as I do in comparison with you.”

“You do not expect, I hope,” cried the Abb #233; Fortier, somewhat shaken on his pedestal,-“you do not expect, I hope, that I should discuss with you-”

“And why not- If from the discussion light is to proceed, abstrusa in venis silicis.”

“How! how!” exclaimed the Abb #233; Fortier; “why, really, the fellow has been in the Revolutionary school.”

“How can that be, since you yourself have said that the Revolutionists are fools and ignoramuses-”

“Yes, I do say so.”

“Then you are making a false reasoning, my worthy abb #233;, and your syllogism is badly founded.”

“Badly founded! What say you- I have badly founded a syllogism-”

“Undoubtedly, Monsieur l'Abb #233;. Pitou reasons and speaks well; Pitou has been to the Revolutionary school,-the Revolutionists consequently reason and speak well. There is no getting out of that.”

“Animal! brute! simpleton!”

“Do not molest me by your words, Monsieur Abb #233;. Objurgatio imbellem animum arguit, weakness betrays itself by anger.”

The abb #233; shrugged his shoulders.

“Answer me,” said Pitou.

“You say that the Revolutionists speak well and reason well. But tell me the name of any one of those wretches who knows how to read and write.”

“That is blinking the point in discussion; but I will answer you, nevertheless. I can read and write,” cried Pitou, with assurance.

“Read; I will admit that,-and yet I know not,-but as to writing-”

“Writing!” cried Pitou.

“Yes, you can write; but without orthography.”

“That is to be seen.”

“Will you lay a wager that you will write a page under my dictation without making four blunders-”

“Will you lay a wager, you, that you will write half a page under my dictation without making two-”

“Oh! that, for example-”

“Well, let us to work. I will pick you out some participles and reflective verbs. I will season you up all these with a certain number of that's which I know of; I accept the wager.”

“If I had time,” said the abb #233;.

“You would lose.”

“Pitou! Pitou! remember the proverb, Pitoueus Angelus asinus est.”

“Pooh! proverbs!-there are proverbs made for everybody. Do you know the one which was sung into my ears by the reeds of the Wualu as I passed by them-”

“No; but I should be curious to know it, Master Midas.”

“Fortierus Abbas forte fortis.”

“Sir!” exclaimed the abb #233;.

“A free translation; the Abb #233; Fortier is not in his forte every day.”

“Fortunately,” said the abb #233;, “accusing is of slight importance; it is the proof that condemns.”

“Alas! good Monsieur Abb #233;, that would be perfectly easy; let us see, what do you teach your pupils-”

“Why-”

“Allow me to follow up the argument. What do you teach your pupils-”

“Why, what I know.”

“Good! remember that your answer was, 'What I know.'

“Well, yes, what I know,” said the abb #233;, somewhat shaken; for he felt that during his absence this singular combatant had learned some unknown thrusts. “Yes, I did say so; and what then-”

“Well, then, since you teach your pupils what you know, tell me what it is that you do know-”

“Latin, French, Greek, history, geography, arithmetic, algebra, astronomy, botany, and numismatics-”

“Anything more-” inquired Pitou.

“Why-”

“Try to find something else.”

“Drawing.”

“Go on.”

“Architecture.”

“Go on.”

“Mechanics.”

“A branch of mathematics-but that matters not; go on.”

“But tell me, what are you aiming at-”

“Simply at this: you have stated pretty largely the account of what you do know; now state the account of what you do not know.”

The abb #233; shuddered.

“Ah!” said Pitou, “I clearly see that to do this I must assist you; well, then, you do not know either German or Hebrew or Arabic or Sanscrit-four mother languages. I speak not of the sub-divisions, which are innumerable. You know nothing of natural history, of chemistry, of physics-”

“Monsieur Pitou-“

“Do not interrupt me: you know nothing of rectilinear trigonometry; you are ignorant of medicine; you know nothing of acoustics, of navigation; you are ignorant of everything that regards the gymnastic sciences.”

“What say you-”

“I said gymnastics, from the Greek exercitia gymntastica, which comes from gymnos, naked, because the athletes were naked when they exercised.”

“And yet it was I who taught you all this!” cried the abb #233;, almost consoled at the victory of his pupil.

“That is true.”

“It is fortunate that you even acknowledge it.”

“And with gratitude; we were saying, then, that you are ignorant of-”

“Enough. It is certain that I am ignorant of much more than I know.”

“Therefore you acknowledge that many men know more than you do.”

“That is possible.”

“It is certain; and the more a man knows, the more does he perceive that he knows nothing. It was Cicero who said this.”

“Conclude.”

“I conclude-”

“Let us hear your conclusion; it will be a fine one.”

“I conclude that in virtue of your relative ignorance, you ought to be more indulgent as to the relative knowledge of other men. This constitutes a double virtue,-virtus duplex, which we are assured was that of F #233;nelon, who assuredly knew quite as much as you do; and that is Christian charity and humility.”

The abb #233; uttered a perfect roar of anger.

“Serpent!” he exclaimed; “you are a serpent!”

“You insult me, but do not answer me; this was the reply of one of the seven wise men of Greece. I would say it in Greek, but I have already said it, or something nearly to the same purpose, in Latin.”

“Good!” said the abb #233;, “this is another effect of Revolutionary doctrines.”

“And in what way-”

“They have persuaded you that you were my equal.”

“And even should they have persuaded me of that, it would not give you the right of making a grammatical error.”

“What say you-”

“I say that you have just made an enormous fault, master.”

“Ah! that is very polite indeed; and what fault did I commit-”

“It is this. You said, 'Revolutionary principles have persuaded you that you were my equal.'“

“Well; and what then-”

“Well; were is in the imperfect tense.”

“Yes, undoubtedly.”

“It was the present you should have used.”

“Ah!” cried the abb #233;, blushing.

“Only translate the phrase into Latin and you will see what an enormous solecism the verb will give you in the imperfect tense.”

“Pitou! Pitou!” exclaimed the abb #233;, imagining that there was something supernatural in this astounding erudition,-“Pitou! which of the demons is it that inspires you with all these attacks against an old man and against the Church-”

“Why, my good master,” replied Pitou, somewhat moved by the tone of real despair in which these words had been pronounced, “it is not a demon who inspires me, nor do I attack you. Only you treat me as if I were a perfect fool, and you forget that all men are equals.”

The abb #233; was again irritated.

“It is that which I never will permit; I cannot allow such blasphemies to be uttered in my presence. You,-you the equal of a man whom God and study have taken sixty years to form- never! never!”

“Well, then, ask Monsieur de Lafayette, who has proclaimed the rights of man.”

“Yes, yes! cite as an authority an unfaithful subject of the king,-the firebrand of all this discord; the traitor!”

“Hey!” cried Pitou, horrified. “Monsieur de Lafayette an unfaithful subject! Monsieur de Lafayette a firebrand of discord! Monsieur de Lafayette a traitor! Why, it is you, Abb #233;, who are blaspheming. Why, you must have lived shut up in a box during the last three months. You do not know, then, that this unfaithful subject of the king is the only one who serves the king; that this firebrand of discord is the pledge of public peace; that this traitor is the best of Frenchmen-”

“Oh!” exclaimed the abb #233;, “could I ever have believed that royal authority would fall so low- A worthless fellow like that”-and he pointed to Pitou-“to invoke the name of Lafayette as in ancient times they invoked the names of Aristides and of Phocion.”

“It is very fortunate for you, Monsieur l'Abb #233;, that the people do not hear you,” said Pitou, imprudently.

“Ah!” exclaimed the abb #233;, with triumph, “you at length reveal yourself,-you threaten. The people-yes, the people who basely murdered the king's officers-the people, who even tore out the entrails of their victims! Yes, Monsieur de Lafayette's people-Monsieur Bailly's people-Monsieur Pitou's people! Well, then, why do you not instantly denounce me to the Revolutionists of Villers-Cotterets Why do you not drag me to Pleux- Why do you not turn up your sleeves to hang me on the first post- Come now, Pitou; macte animo, Pitou. Sursum! sursum, Pitou! Come, come, where is your rope- Where is your gallows- There is the executioner; macte animo, generose Pitoue!”

“Sic itur ad astra!” added Pitou, muttering, but solely with the intention of finishing the line, and not perceiving that he was making a pun worthy of a cannibal.

But he was compelled to perceive it by the increased exasperation of the abb #233;.

“Ah! ah!” vociferated the latter; “ah! that is the way you take it! Ah, it is thus that you would send me to the stars, is it- Ah, you intend me for the gallows, do you-”

“Why, I did not say that,” cried Pitou, beginning to be alarmed at the turn the conversation was taking.

“Ah! you promise me the heaven of the unfortunate Foulon, of the unhappy Berthier-”

“Why so, Monsieur l'Abb #233;-”

“Ah, you have the running-noose prepared, sanguinary executioner! It was you, was it not, who on the square before the H #244;tel de Ville ascended the lamp-iron, and with your long, hideous, spider-like arms drew the victims to you-”

Pitou uttered a perfect roar of horror and indignation.

“Yes, it was you; and I recognize you,” continued the abb #233;, in a transport of divination, which made him resemble Joab,-“I recognize thee; thou art Catiline.”

“But really,” exclaimed Pitou, “do you know that you are saying abominable things to me, Monsieur l'abb #233; Do you know that, in point of fact, you are insulting me-”

“I insult you-”

“Do you know that if this continues I will complain to the National Assembly- Ah! but-”

The abb #233; laughed with a sinister irony.

“Lay your information,” said he.

“And that punishment is awarded to ill-disposed persons who insult the good-”

“The lamp-post!”

“You are a bad citizen.”

“The rope! the rope!”

Then he exclaimed, as if suddenly enlightened and struck with a movement of generous indignation:-

“Ah, the helmet! the helmet! 't is he!”

“Well,” said Pitou, “what is the matter with my helmet-”

“The man who tore out the still smoking heart of Berthier-the cannibal who carried it still bleeding, and laid it on the table of the electors-wore a helmet; that man with the helmet was you, Pitou! it was you, monster that you are! avaunt! avaunt! avaunt!”

And each time that the abb #233; pronounced the word “avaunt,” which he did with much tragic emphasis, he advanced one step towards Pitou, who retreated in the same proportion.

But on hearing this accusation, of which the reader knows Pitou to be perfectly innocent, the poor lad threw far from him the helmet of which he was so proud, which rolled over upon the pavement of the courtyard, with the heavy, hollow sound of copper lined with pasteboard.

“You see, wretch!” cried the abb #233;, “you acknowledge it.”

And he assumed the attitude of Lekain, in Orosmanes, at the moment when, after finding the letter, he accuses Za #239;re.

“Come, now,” said Pitou, completely taken aback by so horrible an accusation, “you are exaggerating, Monsieur l'Abb #233;.”

“I exaggerate! that is to say, that you only hanged a little; that is to say, that you only ripped up a little; poor, weak child!”

“Monsieur Abb #233;, you know full well it was not I, you well know that it was Pitt.”

“And who is Pitt-”

“Pitt the Second, the son of Pitt the First, of Lord Chatham. He who has distributed money, saying, 'Spend it; you need not give any account of it.' If you understood English, I would tell it you in English, but you do not know that language.”

“You know it then, you-”

“Monsieur Gilbert taught it me.”

“In three weeks- Monsieur Impostor!”

Pitou saw that he had made a false step.

“Hear me, Monsieur Abb #233;,” said he, “I will not contend with you any farther. You have your own ideas-”

“Really”

“That is but right.”

“You acknowledge that: Monsieur Pitou allows me to have my own ideas! Thanks, Monsieur Pitou”

“Good! There, you are getting angry again. You must comprehend that if this continues I shall not be able to tell you the object which brought me here.”

“Wretch! You had an object in coming here, then You were deputed, perhaps”

And the abb #233; laughed ironically.

“Sir,” said Pitou, placed by the abb #233; himself upon the, footing in which he wished to find himself since the commencement of the discussion, “you know the great respect I have always had for your character.”

“Ah, yes! let us talk of that.”

“And the admiration I have always entertained for your knowledge,” added Pitou.

“Serpent!” exclaimed the abb #233;.

“What! I-” cried Pitou; “that, for example!”

“Come, now, let us hear what you have to ask of me! That I should take you back here- No, no; I would not spoil my scholars. No; you would still retain the noxious venom; you would infect my young plants. Infecit pabula tabo.”

“But, good Monsieur Abb #233;-”

“No, do not ask me that; if you must absolutely eat,-for I presume that the hangers of Paris eat as well as honest people. They eat-oh, God! In short, if you require that I should throw you your portion of raw meat, you shall have it, but at the door on the spatula, as at Rome the masters did to their dogs.”

“Monsieur Abb #233;,” cried Pitou, drawing himself up proudly, “I do not ask you for my food; I have wherewith to provide food, God be thanked; I will not be a burden to any one.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the abb #233;, with surprise.

“I live as all living beings do, and that without begging, and by that industry which Nature has implanted in me; I live by my own labor; and more than that, I am so far from being chargeable on my fellowcitizens, that several among them have elected me their chief.”

“Hey!” cried the abb #233;, with so much surprise, mingled with so much terror, that it might have been thought that he had trod upon a viper.

“Yes, yes; they have elected me their chief,” repeated Pitou, complacently.

“Chief of what” inquired the abb #233;.

“Chief of a troop of freemen,” said Pitou.

“Ah! good Heaven!” cried the abb #233;, “the unfortunate boy has gone mad.”

“Chief of the National Guard of Haramont,” concluded Pitou, affecting modesty.

The abb #233; leaned towards Pitou in order to gain from his features a confirmation of his words.

“There is a National Guard at Haramont” cried he.

“Yes, Monsieur Abb #233;.”

“And you are the chief of it-”

“Yes, Monsieur Abb #233;.”

“You, Pitou-”

“I, Pitou.”

The abb #233; raised his outstretched arms towards heaven, like Phineas the high-priest.

“Abomination of desolation!” murmured he.

“You are not ignorant, Monsieur abb #233;,” said Pitou, with gentleness, “that the National Guard is an institution destined to protect the life, the liberty, and the property of the citizens.”

“Oh! oh!” continued the abb #233;, overwhelmed by his despair.

“And that,” continued Pitou, “too much vigor cannot be given to that institution, above all, in the country, on account of the very numerous bands-”

“Bands of which you are the chief!” cried the abb #233;,-“bands of plunderers, bands of incendiaries, bands of assassins!”

“Oh, do not confound things in this manner, dear Monsieur Abb #233;; you will see my soldiers, I hope, and never were there more honest citizens.”

“Be silent! be silent!”

“You must consider, on the contrary, that we are your natural protectors; and the proof of this is that I have come straight to you.”

“And for what purpose-” inquired the abb #233;.

“Ah! that is precisely it,” said Pitou, scratching his ear and looking anxiously at the spot where his helmet was lying, in order to ascertain whether in going to pick up this very necessary portion of his military equipment, he would not place himself at too great a distance from his line of retreat.

The helmet had rolled to within some few paces only of the great gate which opened on to the Rue de Soissons.

“I asked you for what purpose,” repeated the abb #233;.

“Well,” said Pitou, retreating backwards two steps towards his helmet, “this is the object of my mission, good Monsieur Abb #233;; permit me to develop it to your sagacity.”

“Exordium!” muttered the abb #233;.

Pitou backed two steps more towards his helmet.

But by a singular man #230;uvre, which did not fail to give Pitou some uneasiness, whenever he made two steps nearer to his helmet, the abb #233;, in order to remain at the same distance from him, advanced two steps towards Pitou.

“Well,” said Pitou, beginning to feel more courageous from his proximity to his defensive headpiece, “all soldiers require muskets, and we have not any.”

“Ah! you have no muskets!” cried the abb #233;, dancing with joy; “ah! they have no muskets! Soldiers without muskets! Ah! by my faith! they must be very pretty soldiers.”

“But, Monsieur Abb #233;,” said Pitou, taking again two steps nearer to his helmet, “when men have not muskets, they seek for them.”

“Yes,” said the abb #233;; “and you are in search of some-”

Pitou was able to reach his helmet, and brought it near him with his foot. Being thus occupied, he did not at once reply to the abb #233;.

“You look, then, for some-” repeated the latter.

Pitou picked up his helmet.

“Yes.”

“Where-”

“In your house,” said Pitou, placing the helmet on his head.

“Guns in my house-” asked the abb #233;. “Yes. You have many.”

“Ah! my museum; you come to rob my museum. Only fancy the cuirasses of old heroes on the backs of such creatures. Pitou, I told you just now that you were mad. The swords of the Spaniards of Almanza, the pikes of the Swiss of Marignan, were never made for such a troop as yours.”

The abb #233; laughed so scornfully that a cold shudder ran through Pitou's veins.

“No, abb #233;!” said Pitou, “the Spanish swords and Swiss pikes would be of no use.”

“It is well you see it.”

“Not those arms, abb #233;, but those capital muskets I cleaned so often when I studied under you.

'Dum me Galatea tenebat,'“

added Pitou, with a most insinuating smile.

“Indeed,” said the abb #233;; and he felt his few hairs stand erect as Pitou spoke; “you want my old marine muskets-”

“They are the only weapons you have without any historical interest, and really fit for service.”

“Indeed,” said the abb #233;, placing his hand on the handle of his lash, as the soldier would have seized his sword. “Back, now! the traitor unveils himself.”

“Abb #233;,” said Pitou, passing from menace to prayer,

“give me thirty muskets-”

“Go back!” The abb #233; advanced towards Pitou.

“And you will have the glory of having contributed to rescue the country from its oppressors.”

“Furnish arms to be used against me and mine! Never!” said the abb #233;.

He took up his whip.

He wheeled it above his head.

“Never, never!”

“Monsieur,” said Pitou, “your name shall be placed in the journal of Monsieur Prudhomme.”

“My name in his paper!”

“Honorably mentioned.”

“I had rather be sent to the galleys.”

“What! you refuse-” asked Pitou.

“Yes, and tell you to go-”

The abb #233; pointed to the door.

“That would be very wrong, for you would be accused of treason. Monsieur, I beg you not to expose yourself to that.”

“Make me a martyr, Nero! I ask but that.” And his eye glared so that he looked more like the executioner than the victim.

So Pitou thought, for he began to fall back.

“Abb #233;,” said he, stepping back, “I'm an ambassador of peace, a quiet deputy. I come-”

“You come to rob my armory, as your accomplices did that of the Invalides.”

“Which was most laudable,” said Pitou.

“And which will here expose you to a shower of lashes from my cat-o'-nine-tails.”

“Monsieur,” said Pitou, who recognized an old acquaintance in the tool, “you will not thus violate the law of nations.”

“You will see. Wait.”

“I am protected by my character of ambassador.”

The abb #233; continued to advance.

“Abb #233;! Abb #233;! Abb #233;!” said Pitou.

He was at the street door, face to face with his dangerous enemy, and Pitou had either to fight or run.

To run he had to open the door, to open the door, turn.

If he turned, Pitou exposed to danger the part of his body the least protected by the cuirass.

“You want my guns- you want my guns, do you-” said the abb #233;, “and you say, 'I will have them or you die!'“

“On the contrary, Monsieur, I say nothing of the kind.”

“Well, you know where they are; cut my throat and take them.”

“I am incapable of such a deed.”

Pitou stood at the door with his hand on the latch, and thought not of the abb #233;'s muskets, but of his whip.

“Then you will not give me the muskets-”

“No!”

“I ask you again!”

“No! no!”

“Again!”

“No! no! no!”

“Then keep them!” and he dashed through the halfopen door.

His movement was not quick enough to avoid the whip, which hissed through the air and fell on the small of the back of Pitou; and great as was the courage of the conqueror of the Bastille, he uttered a cry of pain.

On hearing the cry, many of the neighbors rushed out, and to their surprise saw Pitou running away with his sword and helmet, and the Abb #233; Fortier at the door brandishing his whip, as the angel of destruction wields his sword of flame.

CHAPTER LXV. PITOU A DIPLOMATIST

WE have seen how Pitou was disappointed.

The fall was immense. Not even Satan had fallen from such an eminence when from heaven he was thrown to hell. Satan fell, but remained a king; while the Abb #233; Fortier's victim was only Ange Pitou.

How could he appear before the persons who had sent him- How, after having testified such rash confidence, could he say that he was a boaster and a coward, who, armed with a sword and a helmet, had suffered an old abb #233; to whip him and put him to flight.

Pitou was wrong in having boasted that he would triumph over the abb #233; Fortier, and in failing.

The first time he found himself out of view, he put his hand on his head and thought.

He had expected to conciliate Fortier with his Latin and Greek. He thought that by the honeyed cake of classical expressions he would corrupt the old Cerberus; but he had been bitten, and all had been spoiled.

The abb #233; had great self-esteem, and Pitou had not regarded it. What most offended the abb #233; was Pitou's finding fault with his French,-a thing he cared far more about than he did about the muskets which Pitou had sought to take from him.

Young people when good always think others as good as they are themselves.

The abb #233; was not only an extreme royalist, but also a devoted philologist.

Pitou was especially sorry that he had excited him, both on account of Louis XVI. and the verb “to be.” He knew and should have managed his old master. That was his error, and he regretted it, though too late.

What should he have done-

He should have used his eloquence to convince the abb #233; of his own royalism, and ignored his mistakes in grammar.

He should have convinced him that the National Guard of Haramont was opposed to the Revolution.

He should have said that it would sustain the king.

Above all, he never should have said a word about the confusion of tenses of the verb “to be.”

There was no earthly doubt but that the abb #233; would have opened his arsenal for the purpose of securing to the cause of the king such a leader and such a company.

This falsehood is diplomacy. Pitou thought over all the stories of old times.

He thought of Philip of Macedon, who swore falsely so often, but who was called a great man.

Of Brutus, who to overcome his enemies pretended to be a fool, but who is thought a great man.

Of Themistocles, who served his fellow-citizens by deceiving them, but who is called a great man.

On the other hand, he remembered that Aristides would admit of no injustice, and that he too was esteemed a great man.

This contrast annoyed him.

He thought, though, that Aristides fortunately lived at a time when the Persians were so stupid that one could act honestly and yet conquer them.

He then remembered that Aristides had been exiled, and this circumstance decided him in favor of Philip of Macedon, Brutus, and Themistocles.

Descending to modern times, Pitou remembered how Gilbert, Bailly, Lameth, Barnave, and Mirabeau would have acted, had Louis XVI. been the abb #233; and they been Pitou.

What would they have done to have the king arm the five hundred thousand National Guards of France-

Exactly the contrary of what Pitou had done.

They would have persuaded Louis XVI. that they desired nothing more than to preserve the Father of the French; that to save him, from three to five hundred thousand guns were needed.

Mirabeau would have succeeded.

Pitou then remembered the two flowing lines:-

“When you to the Devil pray Call him giver of all good.”

He came to the conclusion that Ange Pitou was a perfect brute, and that to return to his electors with any sort of glory he ought to have done exactly what he had not.

Pitou determined, then, either by force or by stratagem to get possession of the arms.

The first resource was stratagem.

He could enter the abb #233;'s museum and steal the arms.

If he did it alone, the act would be theft. If with companions, it would be simply a removal.

The very word “theft” made Pitou uneasy.

As to the removal, there were yet many people in France who, used to the old laws, would call it burglarious robbery.

Pitou hesitated.

But Pitou's self-love was excited, and to get out of the difficulty with honor he was forced to act alone.

He set to work most diligently to seek some mode of extricating himself.

At last, like Archimedes, he shouted “Eureka!” which in plain English means, “I have discovered!”

The following was his plan:-

Lafayette was Commander-in-Chief of the National

Guards of France.

Haramont was in France.

Haramont had a National Guard.

Lafayette then was Commander of the National Guard of Haramont.

He could not, therefore, consent that they should be destitute of arms while the rest of the militia of France was armed or about to be so.

To reach Lafayette he had to appeal to Gilbert, and Gilbert he would reach through Billot.

Pitou had then to write to Billot.

As Billot could not read, Gilbert would have to read the letter for him, and in this way Gilbert would learn the facts, thus saving the necessity of at least one letter.

His resolution being taken, Pitou waited till night, when he returned secretly to Haramont and took up the pen.

But notwithstanding the precautions he had taken that his return should be unobserved, he was seen by Claude Tellier and D #233;sir #233; Maniquet.

They withdrew in silence, and each with a finger on his lips, as a token of silence.

Pitou now had entered upon the r #244;le of a practical politician.

The following is a copy of the letter which produced such an effect on Tellier and Maniquet:-

DEAR AND HONORABLE MONSIEUR BILLOT,-The Revolutionary cause in our part of the country every day gains

The people of Haramont has enrolled itself in the active National Guard.

It is, however, unarmed.

Arms may be procured. Certain persons have large quantities, the possession of which would prevent the expenditure of public money.

If General de Lafayette be pleased to order these to be seized and distributed, I will myself guarantee that thirty muskets will be placed in the arsenals of Haramont.

It is the only way to oppose the anti-Revolutionary action of the aristocrats and of the enemies of the nation.

Your fellow-citizen and servant,

Ange Pitou.

When this was done, he remembered that he had forgotten to write to the farmer of his wife and family.

He had treated him too much as a Brutus; but if he were to give Billot the details about Catherine, he would have either to lie or to rend the father's heart; it would be also to reopen his own love-wounds.

Stifling a sigh, he added the following postscript:-

“P.S.-Madame Billot, Mademoiselle Catherine, and all are well, and send their love to Monsieur Billot.”

He thus compromised neither himself nor any one.

He sent the letter, and the answer soon came.

Two days afterwards, a mounted express reached Haramont and asked for Monsieur Ange Pitou.

All the members of the militia were on the qui vive.

The horse was white with foam, and the rider wore the uniform of the Parisian National Guard.

From the excitement he produced all may fancy how great was Pitou's agitation.

He approached, and not without trembling received the package which the officer gave him.

It was the reply of Billot, written by Gilbert.

He advised Pitou to be both moderate and patriotic.

He enclosed an order of Lafayette, countersigned by the Minister of War, for the National Guard of Haramont to arm itself.

The order was thus written:-

“The possessors of muskets and sabres, in a greater number than one, will be required to place them in the hands of the commanders of the National Guards of the commune.

“The present order extends to all the province.”

Pitou thanked the officer and saw him at once set out.

Pitou had reached the acme of glory, having received a message directly from Lafayette and the ministry.

This message suited his ideas exactly.

To describe the effect of the messenger and official document on Pitou's followers would be impossible, and we will not therefore attempt to do so. The sight, however, of the excited countenances of all the people, the great respect exhibited to him, would have made the most sceptical believe that henceforward our hero was going to be a most important personage.

All the electors requested to see and touch the ministerial seal,-a favor Pitou kindly granted.

When none but the initiated remained, Pitou said:

“Citizens, my plans have succeeded as I had foreseen.

I wrote to General de Lafayette that you wished to form a National Guard and had selected me as commander.

“Read the directions of this letter.”

The despatch had been directed:-

Citizen ANGE PITOU:

Commander of the National Guard of Haramont.

“I am then recognized in my rank, by Lafayette, as commander.

“You are recognized as guards.”

A loud shout of joy and admiration shook the roof of Pitou's garret.

“I know where we can get arms,” said Pitou.

“You will at once appoint a lieutenant and a sergeant. Those two functionaries will accompany me in the execution of my project.”

All present seemed to hesitate.

“What is your opinion, Pitou-” said Maniquet.

“The matter does not concern me. Meet alone and appoint the two functionaries. But appoint capable ones.”

Pitou bade adieu to his soldiers, and remained, like Agamemnon, in a state of solemn grandeur.

He thus remained in his glory while the soldiers discussed the details of the military power which was to rule Haramont.

The election lasted an hour. The lieutenant and sergeant chosen were Tellier and Maniquet, the latter of whom was the subaltern. They returned and announced the fact to Pitou.

He then said: “Now there is no time to lose.”

“Yes,” said an enthusiast, “let us begin the manual.”

“Wait a moment; let us get guns first.”

“True.”

“But can we not practise with sticks-”

“Let us be military,” said Pitou, who watched the military order with anxiety, but who did not feel himself qualified to teach an art of which he was utterly ignorant.

“It is a difficult matter to teach a raw recruit how to shoot with a stick. Let us not be ridiculous.”

“True. We must have muskets.”

“Come with me, then, Lieutenant and Sergeant. The rest of you wait here.”

All acquiesced respectfully.

“We have six hours' daylight yet left. That is more time than is needed to go to Villers-Cotterets.”

“Forward!” said Pitou.

The staff of the army of Haramont set off.

When Pitou, however, read again the letter he had received, to assure himself that so much honor was not a dream, he discovered that he had overlooked one phrase:-

“Why did Pitou forget to give Doctor Gilbert some information about Sebastien

“Why does not Sebastien write to his, father-”

CHAPTER LXVI. PITOU TRIUMPHS

THE Abb #233; Fortier was far from suspecting what danger He was in, prepared carefully for him by deep diplomacy. He had no idea of Pitou's influence.

He was seeking to prove to Sebastien that bad company is the ruin of innocence; that Paris is a pit of perdition; that even angels would be corrupted there,-like those who went astray at Gomorrah,-and seriously impressed by Pitou's visit, besought Sebastien always to remember to be a good and true loyalist.

By those words the abb #233; meant a very different thing from what Doctor Gilbert meant.

He forgot that as long as this difference existed, he was committing a very bad action; for he sought to excite the son's opinions against the father.

He soon found, however, that his labor was lost.

Strange to say, at a period when the minds of most children are, so to say, mere potter's clay, on which every pressure leaves a mark, Sebastien, in fixity of purpose was a man.

Was that to be attributed to that aristocratic nature which disdains everything plebeian

Or was it plebeianism pushed to stoicism-

The mystery was too deep for the Abb #233; Fortier. He knew the doctor was an enthusiastic patriot, and with the simplicity of mind peculiar to ecclesiastics, sought, for the glory of God, to reform the son.

Though Sebastien appeared to listen, he did not, but was musing on those strange visions which previously had taken possession of him under the tall trees of the park of Villers-Cotterets when the abb #233; took his pupils thither, and which had become, so to say, a kind of second life, running parallel with his natural life,-a life of fiction and poetic pleasure in comparison with the dull prosaic days of study and college routine.

All at once a loud knock was heard at the door in the Rue de Soissons, and it immediately opened and admitted several persons.

They were the maire, adjunct, and town clerk.

Behind them were the gendarmes, after whom came several curious persons.

The abb #233; went at once to the maire, and said:-"Monsieur Longp #233;, what is the matter-”

“Abb #233;, are you aware of the new order of the Minister of War-”

“I am not.”

“Be pleased to read this.”

As he read it, he grew pale. “Well-” said he.

“Well, the gendarmes of Haramont expect you to surrender your arms.”

The abb #233; sprang forward as if he would devour the National Guard.

Pitou, thinking it time to show himself, followed by his lieutenant and his sergeant, approached the abb #233;.

“Here are the gentlemen,” said the maire.

The abb #233;'s face was flushed.

“What! these vagabonds!”

The maire was a good-natured man, and as yet had no decided political opinions. He had no disposition to quarrel either with the Church or the National Guard.

The words of the abb #233; excited a loud laugh, and the maire said to Pitou:-

“Do you hear how he speaks of your command-”

“Because the abb #233; knew us when children, he fancies we can never grow old.”

“The children, however, have now grown men,” said Maniquet, reaching forth his mutilated hand towards the abb #233;.

“And these men are serpents,” cried the enraged abb #233;.

“Who will bite if they be trampled on,” said Sergeant Claude.

In these threats the maire saw all the future Revolution; and the abb #233; martyrdom.

“Some of your arms are needed,” said the maire, who sought to effect a reconciliation.

“They are not mine,” said the abb #233;. “Whose are they-”

“The Duke of Orl #233;ans'.”

“Well, that matters not,” said Pitou. “How so-” said the abb #233;.

“We desire you to deliver them up to us, all the same.”

“I will write to the duke,” said the abb #233;, majestically.

“The abb #233; forgets,” said the maire, in a low tone, “that if the duke were written to, he would reply that not only the muskets of his English enemies, but the artillery of his grandfather, Louis XIV. must be surrendered to patriots.”

The abb #233; knew that this was true.

“Circumdedisti me hostibus meis.”

“True, Abb #233;! but by your political enemies only. We hate in you only the bad patriot.”

“Fool!” said Fortier, with an excitement which inspired him with a certain kind of eloquence,-” fool, and dangerous tool! which is the patriot,-I, who would keep these arms for the peace of the country, or you, who would use them in rapine and civil war- Which is the better son,-I, who cultivate the olive of peace, or you, who would lacerate the bosom of France, our common mother, with war-”

The maire sought to conceal his emotion, and nodded to the abb #233;, as if to say:-

“Good!”

The adjunct, like Tarquin, cut down flowers with his cane.

Pitou was silenced.

The two subalterns saw it, and were surprised.

Sebastien, the young Spartan, alone was cool.]

He approached Pitou and said:-

“What is the matter, Pitou-”

Pitou told him in a few words.

“Is the order signed-” asked Sebastien.

“The order is signed,” answered Pitou, and he showed the minister's, his father's, and Lafayette's signatures.

“Why, then, do you hesitate-”

Sebastien's flashing eye, his erect form, showed clearly the two indomitable races from which he sprang.

The abb #233; heard his words, shuddered, and said:-

“Three generations oppose me!”

“Abb #233;,” said the maire, “the order must be obeyed.”

The abb #233; put his hand on the keys which were in the girdle that from monastic habit he yet wore, and said:

“Never! they are not mine, and I will not surrender them till my master orders me.”

“Abb #233;, Abb #233;!” said the maire, who felt compelled to disapprove.

“This is rebellion,” said Sebastien to the abb #233;. “Master, be careful!”

“Tu quoque,” said the abb #233;, like C #230;sar folding his robe over his bosom.

“Be at ease, abb #233;,” said Pitou; “these arms will be in good hands for France.”

“Hush, Judas, you have betrayed your old master! Why will you not betray your country-”

Pitou felt his conscience prick him. What he had done was not at the instinct of a noble heart, though he had acted bravely.

He looked around, and saw his two subalterns apparently ashamed of his weakness.

Pitou felt that he was in danger of losing his influence.

Pride came to the assistance of this champion of the Revolution.

He looked up and said:-

“Abb #233;, submissive as I am to my old master, not unreplied to shall such comments be made.”

“Ah, you are going to reply,” said the Abb #233; Fortier, trusting to annihilate Pitou by raillery.

“Yes; and tell me if I am not right. You call me traitor, and refuse me the arms I asked you for peaceably, but which I now take in the name, and by the strong hand, of the law. Well, Abb #233;, I had rather be called traitor to my master than, like you, have opposed the liberty of my country. Our country forever!”

The maire nodded to Pitou as he previously had to the abb #233;.

The effect of this address ruined the abb #233;.

The maire disappeared.

So too would the adjunct, but the absence of the two chiefs would certainly have been remarked.

He then, with the gendarmes and Pitou, who was perfectly familiar with the locale in which he had grown up, proceeded to the museum.

Sebastian rushed after the patriots; the other children appeared amazed.

After the door was opened, the abb #233; sank, half-dead with mortification and rage, on the first chair.

When once in the museum, Pitou's assistants wished to pillage everything, but the honesty of the commandant restrained them.

He took only thirty-three muskets, for he commanded thirty-three National Guards.

As it might be necessary for him some day to fire a shot, he took, as a thirty-fourth, an officer's gun, lighter and shorter than the others, which was adapted for shooting hares and rabbits as well as for killing either a false Frenchman or a true Prussian.

He then selected a straight sword like Lafayette's, which had perhaps been borne by some hero at Fontenoy or Philipsbourg. He buckled it on.

Each of his colleagues then placed twelve muskets on his shoulder, and both were so delighted that they scarcely felt the enormous weight.

Pitou took the rest.

They passed through the park, to avoid observation in going through the city.

It was also the shortest route.

Another advantage of this road was that they had no chance of meeting any of the partisans of the opposite faction. Pitou was not afraid of a battle, and the musket he had chosen inspired him with still greater courage; but Pitou had become a man of reflection, and he reflected that though one musket was a powerful weapon of defence for a man, a load of muskets could hardly be said to be so.

Our three heroes, loaded with their spoils, passed rapidly through the park, and reached the rendezvous. Exhausted and heated, they took their precious prize that night to Pitou's house. It may be the country had been too hasty in confiding it to them.

There was a meeting of the guard that night, and Pitou gave them the muskets, saying, in the words of the Spartan mother:-

“With them or on them.”

Thus was the little commune, by the genius of Pitou, made to seem as busy as an ant-hill during an earthquake.

Delight at possessing a gun among a people poachers by nature, whom the long oppression of gamekeepers had incensed, could not but be great. Pitou consequently became a god on earth. His long legs and arms were forgotten. So too were his clumsy knees and his grotesque antecedents. He could not but be the tutelary god of the country.

The next day was passed by the enthusiasts in cleaning and repairing their arms. Some rejoiced that the cock worked well, and others repaired the springs of the lock or replaced the screws.

In the mean time, Pitou had retired to his room, as Agamemnon did to his tent, brightening his brains as others did their guns.

What was Pitou thinking of-

Pitou, become a leader of the people, was thinking of the hollowness of earthly grandeur.

The time had come when the whole edifice he had erected was about to crumble.

The guns had been issued on the evening before, and the day passed in putting them in order. On the next day he would have to drill his men, and Pitou did not know a single command of, “Load, in twelve times.”

What is the use of a commandant ignorant of the drill- The writer of these lines never knew but one so ignorant. He was, however, a countryman of Pitou.

Pitou thought with his head in his hands and his body prostrate.

C #230;sar amid the thickets of Gaul, Hannibal wandering on the Alps, and Columbus drifting over the ocean, never thought more deeply, and never more fully devoted themselves diis ignotis, the fearful powers who hold the secrets of life and death, than did Pitou.

“Come,” said Pitou, “time speeds, and to-morrow I must appear in all my insignificance.

“To-morrow the captor of the Bastille, the god of war, will be called by all Haramont an idiot, as-I do not know who was by the Greeks.

“To-day I triumph, but to-morrow I shall be hooted.

“This cannot be. Catherine will know it, and will think me disgraced.”

Pitou paused.

“What will extricate me from this dilemma-

“Audacity.

“Not so. Audacity lasts a second. To load in the Prussian times requires half a minute.

“Strange idea, to teach the Prussian drill to Frenchmen! I am too much of a patriot to teach Frenchmen any of their inventions. I will make a national drill.

“But I may go astray.

“I saw a monkey once go through the manual at a fair. He probably though, being a monkey, had never served.

“Ah! I have an idea.”

He began to stride as fast as his long legs would permit, but was suddenly brought to a stand by the idea.

“My disappearance will astonish my men. I must inform them.”

He then sent for his subalterns and said:-

“Tell the men that the first drill will take place on the day after to-morrow.”

“Why not to-morrow-”

“You are fatigued, and before drilling the men I must instruct the officers. Be careful, too, to obey your superior officers, without asking questions.”

They saluted him #224; la militaire.

“Very well; the drill will be at half-past four on the day after to-morrow.”

The subalterns left, and as it was half after nine, went to bed.

Pitou let them go, and when they had turned the corner, went in an opposite direction, and soon was hidden in the thickest of the park.

Now let us see what Pitou was thinking of.

CHAPTER LXVII. HOW PITOU LEARNED TACTICS, AND ACQUIRED A NOBLE BEARING

PITOU hurried on for half an hour into the very depth of the wood.

There was in the undergrowth, beneath a huge rock, a hut built some thirty-five or forty years before, which was inhabited by a person who in his day had excited no little mystery.

This hut, half buried in the ground and surrounded by foliage, received light only by an oblique opening. Not unlike a gypsy hut, it was often to be detected only by the smoke which rose from it.

Otherwise none but gamekeepers, poachers, and sportsmen would ever have suspected its existence, or that it was inhabited.

For forty years, though, it had been the abode of a retired keeper whom the Duke of Orl #233;ans, father of Louis Philippe, had permitted to remain, with the privilege of killing a rabbit or a hare a day.

Fowl and large game were excepted.

At the time we speak of the old man was sixty-nine years old. His name was Clovis originally, to which, as he grew old, the title Father was annexed.

From his residence the rock took the name of Clovis's Stone.

He had been wounded at Fontenoy, and consequently had lost a leg, and had therefore been treated kindly by the duke.

He never went into great cities, and visited VillersCotterets but once a year, for the purpose of buying three hundred and sixty-five loads of powder and ball. On leap years he bought three hundred and sixty-six.

On that day he took to the hatter, Monsieur Cornu, three hundred and sixty-five or three hundred and sixty-six rabbit and hare skins, for which he received seventy-five Tours livres. He never missed a shot, and we are therefore able to be so exact.

He lived on the flesh of the animals, though sometimes he sold it.

With the skins of the animals he bought powder and lead.

Once a year Father Clovis entered into a kind of speculation.

The rock which served as a support to his hut was in the form of an inclined plane, like the roof of a house, and at its widest part measured eighteen feet.

An object placed at the top slid gently down to the bottom.

He spread the report quietly through the neighboring villages, through the intervention of the old women who came to buy his hares and rabbits, that all the young women who on Saint Louis's Day should let themselves slide from the top to the bottom of his rock would certainly be married within the year.

The first year many young women came, but none dared the attempt.

On the next year three tried to do so. Two were married during the course of the year, and Father Clovis said the third would have been married had she had as much faith as the others.

The next year all the young women of the neighborhood came and dared the attempt.

Father Clovis declared that enough men could not be found for so many young women, but that those who had most faith would be married. He had brilliant success. His matrimonial reputation was established.

Then, as people cannot slide all day without something to eat and drink, Father Clovis secured the monopoly of selling all kinds of viands to the male and female sliders; for the young men had persuaded the young ladies that in order that the efficacy of the rock should be infallible, both sexes should slide together and at the same time.

For thirty-five years Clovis lived in this manner. The country treated him as the Arabs do their marabouts. He had become a legend.

One thing, however, excited the jealousy of the guards on duty. It was said that Father Clovis fired but three hundred and sixty-five times yearly, and that at every shot, without fail, he killed either a hare or a rabbit.

More than once the nobles of Paris, invited by the Duke of Orl #233;ans, who had heard of Father Clovis, placed a louis or a crown in his broad hand, and sought to ascertain, how any one could never miss.

Old Clovis, however, told them nothing more than that with the same gun, in the army, he had never missed a man at a hundred yards. If he could kill a man with ball, it was far easier to kill a hare with shot.

If any smiled when Clovis spoke thus, he used to say: “Why do you fire when you are not sure of the mark-”

A saying which might have been worthy to have ranked among the boasts of Monsieur de Palisse, had it not been for the established reputation of the old marksman.

“But,” they would ask, “why did Monsieur d' Orl #233;ans's father, who was not at all mean, grant you permission to fire but once a day-”

“Because he knew that one shot would be enough.”

The curiosity of this spectacle, and the oddness of this theory, brought at least ten louis a year to the old anchorite.

Now, as he gained much money by the sale of his hare-skins and the holiday he had established, and he purchased only a pair of gaiters in every five years, and a coat every ten, he was not at all unhappy.

On the contrary, it was said that he had a concealed treasure, and that his heir would get a good thing.

Such was the singular person whom Pitou went to at midnight when the brilliant idea of which we have spoken entered his mind.

To fall in with Father Clovis, however, required much address.

Like Neptune's old herdsman, he was not easily overtaken. He knew easily how to distinguish the useless man from one from whom he could make money.

Clovis was lying down on his aromatic bed of heath, which the woods afford in September, and which would not require to be changed until the same month of the next year.

It was eleven o'clock, and the night was calm and bright.

To reach the hut of Clovis, Pitou had to pass through thickets of oak and underbrush so dense that his arrival could not be unheard.

Pitou made four times as much noise as an ordinary person would have done, and old Clovis lifted up his head. He was not asleep, but was on that day in a terribly bad humor. An accident had happened which made him almost unapproachable. The accident was terrible.

His gun, which he had used for five years with balls, and for thirty-five years with shot, had burst when he was firing at a rabbit.

It was the first time ne had missed for thirty-five years.

The fact of the rabbit being safe and sound was not the greatest misfortune which had befallen Clovis. Two fingers of his left hand had been carried away. Clovis had bound up his fingers with bruised herbs and leaves, but he could not mend his gun.

Now to procure another gun Father Clovis would be under the necessity of appealing to his treasury, and even though he expended as much as two louis, who knew if with the new gun he would kill at every shot, as he had done with the one which had so unfortunately burst-

Pitou came, therefore, at an evil hour.

At the very moment Pitou placed his hand on the door, old Clovis uttered a grunt which amazed the commander of the National Guard of Haramont.

Was it a wolf or some one substituted for Father

Clovis

Pitou, who had read “Little Red Riding-Hood,” hesitated whether he should go in or not.

“Hey! Father Clovis!” cried he.

“What-” said the misanthropist.

Pitou was reassured. He recognized the voice of the worthy anchorite.

“I am glad you are in,” said he.

He then entered the hut and bowed to the occupant.

“Good-day, Father Clovis,” said Pitou, graciously.

“Who goes there-” asked the veteran.

“I.”

“Who are you-”

“I, Pitou.”

“Who is Pitou-”

“Ange Pitou of Haramont.”

“Well, what is it to me who you are-”

“Ah!” said Pitou, coaxingly, “Father Clovis is now in a bad humor. I was wrong to awake him.”

“Certainly you were.”

“What, then, must I do-”

“Begone as quickly as you can.”

“But let us talk a little.”

“About what-”

“Of a favor you can do me.”

“I want pay for all I do.”

“Well, I will pay for all I get.”

“Possibly; but I am no longer of use to any one.”

“How so-”

“I shall kill no more game.”

“How so- You never miss a shot, Clovis. It is impossible.”

“Begone, I tell you.”

“But, Father Clovis-”

“You annoy me.”

“Listen to me, and you will not be sorry.”

“Well, then, what do you wish- Be brief!”

“You are an old soldier-”

“Well-”

“Well! I wish-”

“To the point, blockhead!”

“Teach me the manual.”

“Are you a fool-”

“No; teach me the manual, and I will pay you.”

“The creature is certainly mad,” growled the old soldier, raising himself on his elbow.

“Father Clovis, will you teach me the manual or not- Do so, and I will pay you what you please.”

The old man arose, and looking fiercely at Pitou, said:

“What I please. Well, give me a gun.”

“The very thing! I have thirty-four guns.”

“Thirty-four!”

“Yes; and the thirty-fourth, which I had meant for myself, will just suit you. It is a sergeant's musket with the king's cipher in gold on the breech.”

“How came you by it- You did not steal it, I hope.”

Pitou told him the whole truth frankly and honestly.

“Good!” said the veteran; “I will teach you, but my fingers are hurt.”

He then told Pitou what accident had befallen him.

“Well,” said Pitou, “give yourself no concern about the gun; that is replaced. I cannot give you other fingers, for all I have I need myself.”

“Oh, as for the fingers, that's nothing. If you will only promise that the gun will be here to-morrow, come on.”

He got up immediately.

The moon shed a torrent of white light on the little clearing in front of the hut.

Pitou and Father Clovis went to the clearing.

Any one who had seen these two dark forms gesticulating at midnight could not have repressed some mysterious terror.

Clovis took up the stump of his gun with a sigh. He then placed himself in a military position.

It was strange to see the old man again become erect, bent as he was from the habit of passing the bushes; but the recollection of his regiment and the excitement of the drill revived him, and he brushed back his long gray locks on his broad shoulders.

“Look at me!” said he; “look at me! That is the way to learn. Do as I do, and I will correct you.”

Pitou made the attempt.

“Draw back your knees! Shoulders back! Hold up your head! Turn out your toes! Give yourself a good foundation; your feet are large enough.”

Pitou did as well as he could.

“Very well!” said the old man. “You look noble enough.”

Pitou felt much flattered. He had not expected so much.

If he looked noble after an hour's drill, what would he not be in a month- He would be majestic.

He wished to continue.

But this was enough for one lesson.

Besides, Father Clovis wished to make sure of the gun before giving any more instruction.

“No,” said he, “this is enough for once. Teach this at your first drill, and they will not learn it in four days; and in that time you will have had two lessons.”

“Four lessons!” cried Pitou.

“Ah!” replied Clovis, dryly, “I see you have zeal and legs enough. Well, four times be it. I must, however, tell you that there will be no moon.”

“We will go through the manual in your hut, then.”

“You will have to bring a candle.”

“Two pounds of candles, if you please.”

“Good! and the gun-”

“You shall have it to-morrow.”

“All right. Now let me see if you recollect what I told you.”

Pitou behaved so well that Clovis complimented him. He would have promised Clovis a six-pounder if he had asked for one.

When they had finished, it lacked but an hour of daylight, and he took leave of his teacher, going at a brisk pace towards Haramont, the whole population of which slept soundly.

Pitou sank to sleep, and dreamed that he commanded an army of many millions of men, and waged war on the whole world, his army obeying, in one rank, the word of command, “Carry arms!”

On the next day he drilled his soldiers with an insolence which they esteemed proof positive of his capacity.

Pitou became popular, and was admired by men, women, and children.

The women even became serious, when, in stentorian tones he cried out:-

“Be a soldier! look at me.”

He was a soldier.

CHAPTER LXVIII. CATHERINE BECOMES A DIPLOMATIST

OLD Clovis had his gun; for what Pitou promised he did.

In ten visits Pitou became a perfect grenadier. But, unfortunately, when Clovis had taught him the manual, he had taught all he knew.

Pitou bought a copy of the “French Tactician,” and of the “Manual of the National Guard,” in which he expended a crown.

The Haramont battalion made, thanks to Pitou, very rapid progress. When he had reached the more complicated man #230;uvres, he went to Soissons, where in one hour, from observing real soldiers drilled by real officers, he learned in one day more than his books would have taught him in a month.

He thus toiled for two months.

Pitou was ambitious and in love. Pitou was unfortunate in his love. Often after his drill, which always followed midnight study, had Pitou crossed the plains of Largny, and now and then the whole forest, to watch Catherine, who always kept her appointment at Boursonne.

Catherine used every day to steal away from her household duty to a little cot near the warren of Boursonne, to meet her beloved Isidore, who seemed always happy and joyous, even though everything around seemed dark.

How great was Pitou's unhappiness when he remembered how unequal a share of happiness was vouchsafed to different men!

He on whom the girls of Haramont, Taillefontaine, and Vivi #232;res looked with favor, who also might have had his rendezvous, was yet forced to weep, like a child, before the closed door of Monsieur Isidore's pavilion.

Pitou loved Catherine the more devotedly because he saw that she was his superior. He also knew that she loved another; and though he ceased to be jealous of Isidore, who was noble, handsome, and worthy of love, Catherine, at least, sprung from the people, should not disgrace her family nor make him unhappy.

When he thought, therefore, he suffered very deeply.

“It was heartless,” said he, “to suffer me to go. When I did so, she never asked if I was dead or alive. What would Billot say if he knew his friends were treated thus, and his business thus neglected- What would he say if he knew that the housekeeper, instead of attending to his business, was making love with the aristocratic Monsieur de Charny- He would say nothing, but would kill Catherine.

“It is something, however, to have such a revenge in my grasp.”

It was better, though, not to make use of it.

Pitou had observed that good actions, not understood, never benefit the actors.

Would it not be well to let Catherine know what he was about- Nothing was easier; he had only to speak to her some day at the dance, and let, fall something to inform her that three persons knew her secret. Was it not worth while to make her suffer a little, to quell her pride-

If, though, he went to the dance, he must appear as the equal of the nobleman,-a thing difficult to do when the object of comparison was one so well dressed.

The pavilion in which Catherine used to meet De Charny was in a kind of grove which was an appendant to the forest of Villers-Cotterets.

A simple ditch divided the property of the count from that of his neighbors.

Catherine, who was every day called for one reason or another to visit the neighbors, found no difficulty in leaping over this ditch. The rendezvous was certainly well selected.

The pavilion was so placed that through the loopholes, set with painted glass, she could overlook the whole grove, while it was itself so secluded that no one could see it, and three springs of a horse would put any one who sought to leave in the forest or in neutral ground.

Pitou had watched Catherine so carefully that he knew whither she went, and whence she came, as well as the poacher knows the track of the hare.

Catherine did not return to the forest with Isidore, who used always to remain some time in the pavilion, in order to see that she was not annoyed, and used then to go in a contrary direction.

Pitou hid himself on Catherine's pathway, and ascended an immense tree which completely overlooked the pavilion.

Before an hour had passed he saw Catherine come by. She tied her horse in the wood, sprang over the ditch, and went to the pavilion.

She dismounted just below the tree where Pitou was.

He had only to descend and lean against the trunk. He then took from his pocket the “Manual of the National Guard,” and began to read.

An hour atter, Pitou heard a door shut. He heard the rustling of a dress, and saw Catherine look anxiously around, as if to see if she was watched.

She stood within ten paces of Pitou.

Pitou did not move, and kept his book on his knees.

He no longer, however, pretended to read, and looked at Catherine so that she could not misunderstand him.

She uttered a half-stifled cry, and then became pale as death. After another brief moment of indecision, she rushed into the forest and became invisible.

Pitou had arranged matters well, and Catherine was caught in the snare.

Pitou returned half happy and half afraid to Haramont.

As soon as he thought of what he had done, he saw that it might have many consequences which previously had not suggested themselves to him.

The next day was appointed for a military parade.

Being sufficiently instructed, in their own opinion, the National Guards had requested to be assembled in the presence of the public.

Some neighboring villagers, excited by rivalry, who had also paid attention to tactics, were to come to Haramont for a kind of contest.

A deputation from these villagers was present under the command of an old sergeant.

The announcement of such a spectacle brought many persons together, and the parade-ground of Haramont early in the day was occupied by crowds of young children, and at a later hour by the fathers and mothers of the champions.

Four drums beat in four different directions,-those of Largny, Ver, Taillefontaine, and Vivi #232;res.

Haramont was a centre, and had its four cardinal points.

A fifth replied; it preceded the thirty-three National Guards of Haramont.

Among the spectators was a portion of the aristocracy and of the bourgeoisie of Villers-Cotterets come to be amused.

There were also many farmers who had come to see.

Soon Catherine and Madame Billot came. Just at this moment the National Guard of Haramont came from the village, headed by Pitou, a drum, and a fife. Pitou was on a great white horse, which Maniquet had lent him for the purpose of making a representation of Marquis de Lafayette ad vivum at Haramont.

Pitou grasped his sword and bestrode the huge horse.

If he did not represent the aristocracy, he at least represented the bone and sinew of the land.

The entrance of Pitou, and of those who had conferred so much honor on the province, was saluted by loud acclamations.

All had hats alike, with the national cockade, and marched in two ranks in the most perfect order.

When they reached the parade all approved of them.

Pitou caught a glance of Catherine and blushed. She trembled.

This was the most exciting portion of the review.

He put his men through the manual, and every command excited much attention and applause.

The other villagers appeared excited and irregular. Some were half armed, others half instructed, and they were completely demoralized by the comparison. Pitou's men became vain of their excellence.

Both were uncertain, however, as to cause and effect.

From the manual they passed to the drill.

Here the sergeant expected to rival Pitou.

In consideration of his age, the sergeant had received the command, and marched his men back and forth by files.

He could do nothing more.

Pitou, with his sword under his arm, and his helmet on his brow, looked on with infinite superiority.

When the sergeant saw his heads of column become lost amid the trees, while the rear took the back track to Haramont; when he saw his squares disperse, and squads and platoons lose their commandants,-he was greeted by a disapproving sound from his own soldiers.

A cry was heard from Haramont:-

“Pitou! Pitou! Pitou!”

“Yes, Pitou!” echoed the men of the other villages, offended at an inferiority which they attributed to their instructors.

Pitou, on his white horse, placed himself at the head of his men, to whom he gave the right, and gave the command in such a tone that the very oaks trembled.

As if by miracle, the broken files united, the man #230;uvres were well executed, Pitou made such good use of his books and of Father Clovis's instructions.

The army, with one voice, saluted him Imperator on the field of battle.

Pitou dismounted, and covered with sweat, received the salutations of the crowd.

He did not, however, see Catherine.

All at once Pitou heard her voice. It was not necessary for him to seek her. She had sought him.

His triumph was immense.

“What!” said she, with an air in strange contrast with her pale face. “Have you become proud because you are a great general-”

“Oh, no!” replied Pitou. “Good-morning, Mademoiselle Billot.”

Then to Madame Billot:-

“I am happy to salute you, Madame Billot.”

Turning to Catherine, he said:-

“Mademoiselle, you are wrong. I am not a great general, but only a young man anxious to serve my country.”

What he had said was borne through the crowd, and treated as a sublime sentiment.

“Ange,” said Catherine, “I must speak to you.”

“Ah! at last! at last!” thought he, and said:-

“When you please.”

“Return to the farm with us.”

“Very well.”

CHAPTER LXIX. HONEY AND ABSINTHE

CATHERINE contrived to be alone with Pitou in spite of her mother's presence.

Old Mother Billot had some gossips, who walked by her and maintained conversation.

Catherine, who had left her horse, returned on foot with Pitou.

Such arrangements surprise no one in the country, where people are more indulgent than they are in great cities.

It seemed natural enough for Monsieur Pitou to talk to Mademoiselle Billot. It may be none ever noticed it.

On that day all enjoyed the silence and thickness of the woods. All glory and happiness seems to reside amid the primeval grandeur of the forests.

“Here I am, Mademoiselle Catherine,” said Pitou, when they were alone.

“Why have you for so long a time not visited our farm- That is wrong, Pitou.”

“But, Mademoiselle, you know the reason!”

“I do not. You are wrong.”

Pitou bit his lips. It annoyed him to hear Catherine tell a falsehood.

She saw and understood his expression.

“But, Pitou, I have something to tell you.”

“Ah!” said he. “The other day you saw me in the hut-”

“Yes, I did.”

“You saw me-”

“Yes.”

She blushed.

“What were you doing there-”

“You knew me-”

“At first I did not. I did afterwards.”

“What do you mean-”

“Sometimes one does not pay attention.”

“Certainly.”

Both were silent, for each had too much to think of.

Catherine said at last: “Then it was you- What were you doing there- Why did you hide yourself-”

“Hide myself- Why-”

“Curiosity might have made you.”

“I have no curiosity.”

She stamped the ground most impatiently with her little foot.

“You were,” said she, “in a place you do not visit often.”

“You saw I was reading.”

“I do not know.”

“If you saw me, you do.”

“I did see you very distinctly; but what were you reading-”

“My tactics.”

“What is that-”

“A book in which I learned what I have since taught my men. To study, Madame, one must be alone.”

“True; in the forest nothing disturbs you.”

“Nothing.”

They were again silent; the rest of the party rode before them.

“When you study thus,” said Catherine, “do you study long-”

“Whole days sometimes.”

“Then you had been long there-”

“Very long.”

“It is surprising that I did not see you when I came.”

Here she told an untruth, and Pitou felt disposed to expose her. But he was in love, and sorry for her. In his view her faults amounted to a virtue,-circumspection.

“I may have slept; I sometimes do when I study too much.”

“Well, while you slept I must have passed you. I went to the old pavilion.”

“Ah!” said Pitou, “what pavilion-”

Catherine blushed again. This time her manner was so affected that he could not believe her.

“Charny's pavilion. There is the best balm in the country. I had hurt myself, and needed some leaves. I hurt my hand.”

As if he wished to believe her, Ange looked at her hands.

“Ah!” said she, “not my hands, but my foot.”

“Did you get what you wanted-”

“Ah, yes! You see I do not limp.”

Catherine fancied that she had succeeded; she fancied Pitou had seen and knew nothing. She said, and it was a great mistake:-

“Then Monsieur Pitou would have cut us. He is proud of his position, and disdains peasants since he has become an officer.”

Pitou was wounded. So great a sacrifice, even though feigned, demands another recompense; and as Catherine seemed to seek to mystify Pitou, and as she doubtless laughed at him when she was with Isidore de Charny, all Pitou's good-humor passed away. Self-love is a viper asleep, on which it is never prudent to tread unless you crush it at once.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “it seems rather that you cut me.”

“How so-”

“First, you refused me work, and drove me from the farm. I said nothing to Monsieur Billot, for, thank God! I yet have a heart and hands.”

“I assure you, Monsieur Pitou-”

“It matters not; of course you can manage your own affairs. If, then, you saw me at the pavilion, you should have spoken to me, instead of running away, as if you were robbing an orchard.”

The viper had stung. Catherine was uneasy.

“I run away!” said she.

“As if your barn had been on fire. Mademoiselle, I had not the time to shut my book before you sprang on the pony and rode away. He had been tied long enough, though, to eat up all the bark of an oak.”

“Then a tree was destroyed; but why, Monsieur Pitou, do you tell me this-”

Catherine felt that all presence of mind was leaving her.

“Ah, you were gathering balm!” said Pitou. “A horse does much in an hour.”

Catherine said, “In an hour-”

“No horse, Mademoiselle, could strip a tree of that size in less time. You must have been collecting more balm than would suffice to cure all the wounds received at the Bastille.”

Catherine could not say a word.

Pitou was silent; he knew he had said enough.

Mother Billot paused at the cross-road to bid adieu to her friends.

Pitou was in agony, for he felt the pain of the wounds he had inflicted, and was like a bird just ready to fly away.

“Well! what says the officer-” said Madame Billot.

“That he wishes you good-day.”

“Then good-day. Come, Catherine.”

“Ah! tell me the truth,” murmured Catherine.

“What-”

“Are you not yet my friend-”

“Alas!” said the poor fellow, who, as yet without experience, began to make love, through confessions which only the skilful know how to manage.

Pitou felt that his secret was rushing to his lips; he felt that the first word Catherine said would place him in her power.

He was aware, though, if he spoke he would die when Catherine confessed to him what as yet he only suspected.

He was silent as an old Roman, and bowed to Catherine with a respect which touched the young girl's heart, bowed to Madame Billot, and disappeared.

Catherine made a bound as if she would follow him.

Madame Billot said to her daughter:-

“He is a good lad, and has much feeling.”

When alone, Pitou began a long monologue on the following theme:-

“This is what is called love; at certain times it is very sweet, but at others very bitter.”

The poor lad did not know that in love there is both honey and absinthe, and that Monsieur Isidore had all the honey.

From this hour, during which she had suffered horribly, Catherine conceived a kind of respectful fear for Pitou, which a few days before she was far from feeling towards him.

When one cannot inspire love, it is not bad to inspire fear; and Pitou, who had great ideas of personal dignity, would have been not a little flattered had he discovered the existence even of such a sentiment.

As he was not, however, physiologist enough to see what the ideas of a woman a league and a half from him are, he wept and sang a countless number of songs, the theme of which was unfortunate love.

Pitou at last reached his own room, where he found his chivalric guard had placed a sentinel. The man, dead drunk, lay on a bench with his gun across his legs.

Pitou awoke him.

He then learned that his thirty men, good and true, had ordered an entertainment at old Father Tellier's-the old man was the Vatel of Haramont-and that twelve ladies were to crown the Turenne who had overcome the Cond #233; of the next canton.

Pitou was too much fatigued for his stomach not to have suffered.

Pitou, being led by his sentinel to the banquet-hall, was received with acclamations which made the very walls tremble.

He bowed, sat down in silence, and with his natural coolness attacked the veal and salad.

This state of feeling lasted until his stomach was filled and his heart relieved.

CHAPTER LXX. AN UNEXPECTED DENOUEMENT

FEASTING after sorrow is either an increase of grief or an absolute consolation.

Pitou saw, after the lapse of two hours, that his grief was not increased.

He arose when his companions could not.

He made even an oration on Spartan sobriety to them, when they were all dead drunk.

He bade them go away when they were asleep under the table.

We must say that the ladies disappeared during the dessert.

Pitou thought; amid all his glory and honor, the prominent subject was his last interview with Catherine.

Amid the half hints of his memory, he recalled the fact that her hand had often touched his, and that sometimes her shoulder had pressed his own, and that he on certain occasions had known all her beauties.

He then looked around him like a man awaking from a drunken dream.

He asked the shadows why so much severity towards a young woman, perfect in grace, could have been in his heart.

Pitou wished to reinstate himself with Catherine.

But how-

A Lovelace would have said, “That girl laughs at and deceives me. I will follow her example.”

Such a character would have said: “I will despise her, and make her ashamed of her love as of so much disgrace.

“I will terrify and dishonor her, and make the path to her rendezvous painful.”

Pitou, like a good fellow, though heated with wine and love, said to himself, “Sometime I will make Catherine ashamed that she did not love me.”

Pitou's chaste ideas would not permit him to fancy that Catherine did aught but coquet with Monsieur de Charny, and that she laughed at his laced boots and golden spurs.

How delighted Pitou was to think that Catherine was not in love with either a boot or a spur!

Some day Monsieur Isidore would go to the city and marry a countess. Catherine then would seem to him an old romance.

All these ideas occupied the mind of the commander of the National Guard of Haramont.

To prove to Catherine that he was a good fellow, he began to recall all the bad things he had heard during the day.

But Catherine had said some of them. He thought he would tell them to her.

A drunken man without a watch has no idea of time.

Pitou had no watch, and had not gone ten paces before he was as drunk as Bacchus or his son Thespis.

He did not remember that he had left Catherine three hours before, and that, half an hour later, she must have reached the farm.

To that place he hurried.

Let us leave him among the trees, bushes, and briers, threshing with his stick the great forest of Orl #233;ans, which returned blows with usury.

Let us return to Catherine, who went home with her mother.

There was a swamp behind the farm, and when there, they had to ride in single file.

The old lady went first.

Catherine was about to go when she heard a whistle.

She turned and saw in the distance the cap of Isidore's valet.

She let her mother ride on; and the latter, being but a few paces from home, felt no uneasiness.

The servant came.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “my master wishes to see you to-night, and begs you to meet him somewhere at eleven, if you please.”

“Has he met with any accident-” inquired Catherine, with much alarm.

“I do not know. He received to-night a letter with a black seal from Paris. I have already been here an hour.”

The clock of Villers-Cotterets struck ten.

Catherine looked around.

“Well, the place is dark; tell your master I will wait for him here.”

The man rode away.

Catherine followed her mother home.

What could Isidore have to tell her at such an hour-

Love-meetings assume more smiling forms.

That was not the question. Isidore wished to see her, and the hour was of no importance. She would have met him in the graveyard of Villers-Cotterets at midnight.

She would not then even think, but kissed her mother and went to her room.

Her mother went to bed.

She suspected nothing, and if she had, it mattered not, for Catherine was mistress there.

Catherine neither undressed nor went to bed.

She heard the chime of half after ten. At a quarter before eleven she put out the lamp and went into the dining-room. The windows opened into the yard. She sprang out.

She hurried to the appointed place with a beating heart, placing one hand on her bosom and the other on her burning head. She was not forced to wait long.

She heard the galloping of a horse.

She stepped forward.

Isidore was before her.

Without dismounting, he took her hand, lifted her on to his stirrup, embraced her, and said:-

“Catherine, yesterday my brother George was killed at Versailles. My brother Olivier has sent for me; I must go.”

Catherine uttered an exclamation of grief, and clasped De Charny in her arms.

“If,” said she, “they killed one brother, they will kill another.”

“Be that as it may, my eldest brother has sent for me; Catherine, you know I love you.”

“Stay, stay!” said the poor girl, who was only aware of the fact that Isidore was going.

“Honor and vengeance appeal to me.”

“Alas! alas!”

And she threw herself pale and trembling into his arms.

A tear fell from De Charny's eyes on the young girl's brow.

“You weep; thank God, you love me!”

“Yes; but my eldest brother has written to me, and you see I must obey.”

“Go, then; I will keep you no longer.”

“One last kiss.”

“Adieu!”

The young girl consented, knowing that nothing could keep Isidore from obeying this order of his brother. She slid from his arms to the ground.

The young man looked away, sighed, hesitated, but under the influence of the order he had received, galloped away, casting one long last look on Catherine.

A servant followed him.

Catherine lay alone where she fell, completely closing the narrow way.

Just then a man appeared on the top of the hill, coming from Villers-Cotterets, and rapidly advancing towards the farm; he was very near treading on the inanimate body that lay in the pathway.

He lost his balance, stumbled and fell, and was not aware of the body until he touched it.

“Catherine!” said he; “Catherine dead-”

He uttered a cry of such agony that he aroused the very dogs of the farm.

“Who,-who has killed her-” He sat pale, trembling, and inert, with the body on his knees.

THE END.

La Comtesse De Charny

LA COMTESSE DE CHARNY

CHAPTER II. MASTER GAMAIN.

CHAPTER III. CAGLIOSTRO.

CHAPTER IV. FATE.

CHAPTER V. THE TUILERIES.

CHAPTER VI. THE FOUR CANDLES.

CHAPTER VII. THE ROAD TO PARIS.

CHAPTER VIII. THE APPARITION.

CHAPTER IX. ANDREE'S HOME.

CHAPTER X. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

CHAPTER XI. MY LADY'S CHAMBER.

CHAPTER XII. FAMILIAR SCENES.

CHAPTER XIII. SEBASTIAN'S ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER XIV. THE MAN OF BLOOD.

CHAPTER XV. CATHERINE.

CHAPTER XVI. A TRUCE.

CHAPTER XVII. THE PORTRAIT OF CHARLES THE FIRST.

CHAPTER XVIII. MIRABEAU.

CHAPTER XIX. FAVRAS.

CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH THE KING OCCUPIES HIMSELF WITH FAMILY, AS WELL AS STATE, MATTERS.

CHAPTER XXI. IN HONOUR BOUND.

CHAPTER XXII. A GLOOMY OUTLOOK.

CHAPTER XXIII. SWEETHEART AND WIFE.

CHAPTER XXIV.FRANCOIS THE BAKER.

CHAPTER XXV. THE BENEFITS WHICH MAY BE DERIVED FROM A SEVERED HEAD

CHAPTER XXVI. THE COURT OF THE CHATELET.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-CLAUDE.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE JACOBIN CLUB.

CHAPTER XXIX. METZ AND PARIS.

CHAPTER XXX. THE QUEEN.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE KING.

CHAPTER XXXII. OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

CHAPTER XXXIII. IN CHANGE UNCHANGED.

CHAPTER XXXIV. LOT AND OEDIPUS.

CHAPTER XXXV. GAMAIN AND HIS APPRENTICE.

CHAPTER XXXVI. IN WHICH LOCK-MAKING PLAYS A MINOR PART.

CHAPTER XXXVII. WHICH SEEMS TO INDICATE THAT THERE IS TRULY A PROVIDENCE FOB DRUNKARDS.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THAT WHICH MEN CALL CHANCE.

CHAPTER XXXIX. DOCTOR GUILLOTIN'S INVENTION.

CHAPTER XL. A ROYAL RECEPTION.

CHAPTER XLI. A DEAD REMINISCENCE.

CHAPTER XLII. A PHYSICIAN FOR THE BODY AND FOR THE SOUL.

CHAPTER XLIII. MONSIEUR ABANDONS FAVRAS TO HIS FATE.

CHAPTER XLIV. A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE.

CHAPTER XLV. CAGLIOSTRO'S PREDICTION IS FULFILLED.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE PLACE DE GREVE.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE MONARCHY IS SAVED.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE FARMER’S RETURN

CHAPTER XIL. PITOU AS A NURSE.

CHAPTER L. PITOU AS A GEOGRAPHER.

CHAPTER LI. PITOU AS A CAPTAIN.

CHAPTER LII. IN WHICH ABBE FORTIER GIVES FRESH PROOF OF HIS ANTI- REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT.

CHAPTER LIII. THE DECLARATION OF THE RIGHTS OF MAN.

CHAPTER LIV. A FRIEND IN NEED.

CHAPTER LV. IN WHICH FATHER CLOUIS REAPPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

CHAPTER LVI. A GAME OF TAG.

CHAPTER LVII. THE WATCH FOR THE WOLF.

CHAPTER LVIII. AFTER THE TEMPEST.

CHAPTER LIX. MIRABEAU’S TREACHERY

CHAPTER LX.THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

CHAPTER LXI. THESE IS NO RELATIONSHIP BEYOND THE FOURTH DEGREE.

CHAPTER LXII. A LADY RESEMBLING THE QUEEN.

CHAPTER LXIII. IN WHICH THE INFLUENCE OF THE UNKNOWN LADY BEGINS TO ASSERT ITSELF.

CHAPTER LXIV. LE CHAMP MARS.

CHAPTER LXV. IN WHICH ONE DISCOVERS WHAT HAD BECOME OF CATHERINE, BUT NOT WHAT WILL BECOME OF HER.

CHAPTER LXVI. JULY 14, 1790.

CHAPTER LXVII. DANCING HERE.

CHAPTER LXIII.THE APPOINTMENT.

CHAPTER LXIX. THE LODGE.

CHAPTER LXX. RENDERING AN ACCOUNT.

CHAPTER LXXI. WOMEN AND FLOWERS.

CHAPTER LXXII. WHAT THE KING SAID, AND WHAT THE QUEEN SAID.

CHAPTER LXXIII. "LONG LIVE MIRABEAU!”

CHAPTER LXXIV. FLEE! FLEE! FLEE!

CHAPTER LXXV. THE OBSEQUIES.

CHAPTER LXXVI. THE MESSENGER.

CHAPTER LXXVII. THE PROMISE.

CHAPTER LXXVIII. SECOND SIGHT.

CHAPTER LXXIX. THE TWENTIETH OF JUNE.

CHAPTER LXXX. THE DEPARTURE.

CHAPTER LXXXI. A QUESTION OF ETIQUETTE.

CHAPTER LXXXII. EN ROUTE.

CHAPTER LXXXIII. FATE.

CHAPTER LXXXIV. FATE.

CHAPTER LXXXV. FATE.

CHAPTER LXXXVI. JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET.

CHAPTER LXXXVII. THE TOLLGATE TOWER.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. AGAIN A PRISONER.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE LANGUAGE OF DESPERATION.

CHAPTER XC. POOR CATHERINE!

CHAPTER XCI. CHARNY.

CHAPTER XCII. ONE ENEMY MORE.

CHAPTER XCIII. A PEASANTS HATRED

CHAPTER XCIV. THE MARQUIS DE BOUILLE.

CHAPTER XCV. THE DEPARTURE.

CHAPTER CXVI. VIA DOLOROSA.

CHAPTER XCVII. VIA DOLOROSA.

CHAPTER XCVIII. VIA DOLOROSA.

CHAPTER XCIX. VIA DOLOROSA.

CHAPTER C. VIA DOLOROSA.

CHAPTER CI. CALVARY.

CHAPTER CII. THE ARRIVAL.

CHAPTER CIII. A PARTHIAN THRUST.

CHAPTER CIV. DATE LILIA.

CHAPTER CV. A LITTLE SHADE AFTER SUNSHINE.

CHAPTER CVI. THE FIRST REPUBLICANS.

CHAPTER CVII. AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW.

CHAPTER CVIII. AN EVENTFUL DAY.

CHAPTER CIX. IN WHICH WE AT LAST COME TO THE PROTEST MADAME ROLAND WAS COPYING.

CHAPTER CX. THE PETITION.

CHAPTER CXI. THE RED FLAG.

CHAPTER CXII. AFTER THE MASSACRE.

CHAPTER CXIII. “NO MORE MASTERS! NO MORE MISTRESSES!”

CHAPTER CXIV. BARNAVE'S FAREWELL.

CHAPTER CXV. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

CHAPTER CXVI. THE HOSPITAL AT GROS CAILLOU.

CHAPTER CXVII. CATHERINE.

CHAPTER CXIII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

CHAPTER CXIX. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

CHAPTER CXX. IN WHICH ABBE FORTIER CARRIES OUT HIS THREAT.

CHAPTER CXXI. IN WHICH ABBE FORTIER DISCOVERS THAT IT IS NOT ALWAYS EASY TO KEEP ONE'S WORD.

CHAPTER CXXII. DEPUTY BILLOT.

CHAPTER CXXIII. THE NEW ASSEMBLY.

CHAPTER CXXIV. AT HOME AND ABROAD.

CHAPTER CXXV. WAR.

CHAPTER CXXVI. A MINISTER AFTER MADAME DE STAEL’S OWN HEART.

CHAPTER CXXVII. DUMOURIEZ.

CHAPTER CXXVIII . BEHIND THE TAPESTRY.

CHAPTER CXXIX. THE RED CAP.

CHAPTER CXXX. FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC RELATIONS.

CHAPTER CXXXI. THE RUE GUENEGAUD AND THE TUILERIES.

CHAPTER CXXXII. THE VETO.

CHAPTER CXXXIII. THE OPPORTUNITY.

CHAPTER CXXXIV. MONSIEUR DE LA VAUGUYON'S PUPIL.

CHAPTER CXXXV. A CONFERENCE AT CHARENTON.

CHAPTER CXXXVI. THE TWENTIETH OF JUNE.

CHAPTER CXXXVII. IN WHICH THE KING DISCOVERS THAT A MAN MAY DON THE RED CAP WITHOUT BEING A JACOBIN.

CHAPTER CXXXVIII. REACTION.

CHAPTER CXXXIX. VERGNIAUD.

CHAPTER CXL. VERGNIAUD SPEAKS.

CHAPTER CXLI. THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF THE TAKING OF THE BASTILLE.

CHAPTER CXLII. THE COUNTRY IS IN DANGER!

CHAPTER CXLIII. THE MARSEILLAISE.

CHAPTER CXLIV. BARBABOUX'S FIVE HUNDRED.

CHAPTER CXLV. WHY THE QUEEN DECIDED NOT TO FLEE.

CHAPTER CXLVI. AN EVENTFUL NIGHT AT DANTON’S.

CHAPTER CXLVII. THE TENTH OF AUGUST.

CHAPTER CXLVIII. BILLOT'S WILL.

CHAPTER CLIX. FROM THREE TO SIX IN THE MORNING.

CHAPTER CL. FROM SIX TO NINE IN THE MORNING.

CHAPTER CLI. FROM NINE TO ELEVEN IN THE FORENOON.

CHAPTER CLII. FROM ELEVEN O'CLOCK UNTIL NOON.

CHAPTER CLIII. FROM NOON UNTIL THREE O'CLOCK.

CHAPTER CLIV. FROM THREE TO SIX IN THE AFTERNOON.

CHAPTER CLV. FROM SIX TO NINE IN THE EVENING.

CHAPTER CLVI. FROM NINE O'CLOCK UNTIL MIDNIGHT.

CHAPTER CLVII. A WIDOW.

CHAPTER CLVIII. ANDREE’S REQUEST.

CHAPTER CLIX. THE TEMPLE.

CHAPTER CLX. THE SANGUINARY REVOLUTION.

CHAPTER CLXI. THE EVE OF SEPTEMBER SECOND.

CHAPTER CLXII. IN WHICH WE AGAIN MEET OUR FRIEND MONSIEUR DE BEAUSIRE.

CHAPTER CLXIII. THE PURGATIVE.

CHAPTER CLXIV. THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

CHAPTER CLXV. THE NIGHT BETWEEN THE FIRST AND SECOND DAYS OF SEPTEMBER.

CHAPTER CLXVI. THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER.

CHAPTER CLXVII. MAILLARD.

CHAPTER CLVIII. SCENES AT THE TEMPLE DURING THE MASSACRE.

CHAPTER CLXIX. VALMY.

CHAPTER CLXX. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIRST.

CHAPTER CLXXI. THE STORY OF THE MARTYR KING

CHAPTER CLXXII. MASTER GAMAIN REAPPEARS.

CHAPTER CLXXIII. THE RETREAT OF THE PRUSSIANS.

CHAPTER CLXXIV. THE INDICTMENT.

CHAPTER CLXXV. THE STORY OF THE MARTYR KING.

CHAPTER CLXXVI. THE TRIAL.

CHAPTER CLXXVII. THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY.

CHAPTER CLXXVIII. CAGLIOSTRO'S ADVICE.

EPILOGUE.

CHAPTER I. THE SEVRES BRIDGE TAVERN.

If the reader will take up our romance called “Ange Pitou,” and glance over the chapter entitled “The Night of the Fifth and Sixth of October,” he will find there sundry facts which it is important for him to be cognisant of before beginning this book, which opens on the morning of the sixth day of that same month.

After having quoted a few important lines from this chapter, we will proceed to give, in the fewest possible words, an account of the events which immediately preceded the resumption of our narrative.

The lines referred to are as follows: -

“At three o'clock everything was quiet at Versailles. Even the Assembly, reassured by the reports of its messengers, had adjourned. It was supposed that this tranquillity would be lasting. The belief was ill-founded, however.

“In nearly all the popular movements which pave the way for great revolutions, there is an interval of quiet, when it seems as if everything were over and everybody might sleep in peace; but this is a great mistake.

“Behind the men who instituted the first movements, are others who wait until the first movements are ended, and until those who took the first steps relax their efforts, either from fatigue or complacency, but evidently with no intention of proceeding a step farther.

“It is then that these unknown men, these mysterious agents of fatal passions, glide about through the crowd, taking up the cause where it has been abandoned, and pushing it to its farthest limits; appalling those who inaugurated it, but who subsequently dropped asleep midway on the journey, believing the object attained and the aim accomplished.”

We have mentioned three of these men in the book from which we have just quoted these few lines.

We will now introduce upon the scene — in other words, upon the threshold of the Sevres Bridge Tavern — another person whose name has not yet been mentioned, but who played a no less important role on that terrible night.

He was a man from forty-five to forty-eight years of age, dressed like a working-man, — that is to say, in drab velveteen breeches protected by a leather apron with pockets like those worn by blacksmiths and locksmiths. He wore gray hose, and shoes with copper buckles, and on his head was a fur cap shaped like a lancer's helmet cut in twain. A mass of gray hair escaped from this cap, and hung down to his bushy eyebrows, shading large, alert, and intelligent eyes, which changed so swiftly in colour and expression that it was difficult to determine whether they were green or gray, blue or black. The rest of his face was composed of a rather large nose, thick lips, white teeth, and a complexion embrowned by the sun.

Though not large, this man was admirably proportioned. He had lithe limbs and a small foot. His hand, too, was small and even delicate in contour, though it did not lack the bronze tint common to workers in iron. But, glancing from the hand to the elbow, and from the elbow up the arm revealed by his rolled-up shirt-sleeve, one could hardly fail to notice that the skin, in spite of the strongly developed muscle, was fine, soft, even aristocratic in texture.

This man standing in the doorway of the Sevres Bridge Tavern had a double-barrelled gun in his hand, richly mounted in gold, and bearing the name of Leclere, the armourer just then fashionable with the Parisian aristocracy.

Someone may ask how so fine a weapon chanced to be in the possession of a plain working-man; but in days of political turmoil — and we have seen not a few of them — it is not always in the whitest hands that the costliest weapons are found.

This man had arrived from Versailles about an hour before, and was apparently well posted in regard to all that was going on there; for in reply to the innkeeper's questions on serving him with a bottle of wine which he had not even tasted, he announced that the queen was on her way to Paris with the king and the dauphin, that they had left Versailles about noon, that they had at last concluded to take up their abode in the palace of the Tuileries, and that in future Paris would doubtless not lack for bread, as she would have the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy in her midst, and that he himself was now waiting to see the cortege pass.

This last assertion might be true. Nevertheless, it was easy to see that the man's gaze was directed more anxiously upon the road from Paris than upon the road from Versailles; so it is more than probable that he did not feel obliged to render a very strict account of his intentions to the worthy but perhaps too inquisitive innkeeper.

After a few moments the stranger's watchfulness seemed to be rewarded; for a man dressed very much like himself, and apparently a follower of the same craft, appeared on the top of the hill which bounded the horizon in that direction. This man walked with a dragging step, like one who had already travelled a long distance. As he drew nearer, his features and age became discernible. His age corresponded very nearly with that of the Unknown, — that is to say, he was on the shady side of forty, — and his features were those of a person of plebeian origin with uncultivated even vulgar tastes.

The Unknown gazed intently and with evident curiosity at the new-comer, as if he were desirous of estimating the man's corruptibility and baseness at a single glance.

When the workman had approached within about fifty yards of the man who was standing in the doorway, the latter re-entered the tavern, and poured some wine into one of the two glasses standing on the table; then, returning to the door glass in hand, called out:”Ah, comrade, the day is cold and the road long. Let us take a glass of wine together to strengthen and warm us.”

The workman glanced around, as if to see if it were really to him that this tempting invitation, was addressed.

“Are you talking to me-”he asked.

“To whom else, pray, as you are alone-”

“And you offer me a glass of wine-”

“Why not- Do we not follow the same trade-”

“Everybody may follow the same trade, but it is important to know if a person is a fellow workman or a master.”

“Oh, well, we can settle that question while we have a little chat over our wine.”

“So be it,” responded the mechanic, stepping over the threshold.

The Unknown pointed to a table, and handed his guest the glass. The workman scrutinised its contents with a rather suspicious air; but this apparent distrust vanished when his entertainer poured out a second glass and placed it beside the first.

“Well,” queried the new-comer, “is someone too proud to drink with the man he invites-”

“No; quite the contrary. To the Nation!”

The workman's gray eyes gazed straight into those of the person who had just proposed this toast; then he replied, -

“To the Nation! That is well said.” Then, emptying his glass at a single draught and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he added, “Ah, this is Burgundy!”

“And old Burgundy at that. The brand has been highly recommended to me, and I thought I would drop in and try it, as I passed, and I 'm not sorry. But sit down, my friend, there is still some left in the bottle; and when this bottle is gone, there are others in the cellar.”

“What brought you here-”inquired the second mechanic.

“I have just come from Versailles, and am now waiting here for the procession, to accompany it to Paris.”

“What procession-”

“Why, that of the king and queen and dauphin, who are returning to Paris in company with the market-women and two hundred members of the Assembly, and under the protection of our National Guard and of Lafayette.”

“The Citizen has decided to go to Paris, then-”

“He was obliged to.”

“I suspected as much when I left for Paris at three o'clock this morning.”

“What! you left Versailles like that, at three o'clock in the morning, without feeling any curiosity to find out what was going on there.”

“Oh! I should have liked very well to know what was going to become of the Citizen, especially as I can say with truth that I have some acquaintance with him. But business must come first, you know. When a man has a wife and children, he must look out for them, especially as the Royal Forge is now a thing of the past.”

“It was urgent business that took you to Paris, then, I suppose.”

“Yes, and it paid me well,” replied the mechanic, jingling some coins in his pocket, “though I was paid through a servant, — which was not very polite, — and even through a German servant who didn't seem to know a single word of French.”

“And you don't object to a little chat now and then, I judge.”

“What's the harm if you don't speak ill of anybody-”

“And even if we do-”

Both men laughed, — the Unknown displaying white regular teeth; his companion, uneven and discoloured ones.

“So you have just been employed on an important job, eh-”queried the Unknown, like one who was cautiously feeling his way.

“Yes.”

“And a difficult one, probably-”

“Yes.”

'' A secret lock, perhaps-”

“Au invisible door. Picture to yourself a house within a house. Someone must be very anxious to hide himself, don't you think so- Well, he is there and he is not there. You ring. A servant opens the door. ' Is Monsieur at home-' ' He is not.' ' Yes, he is.' ' Very well, look and see for yourself.' You search, but all in vain. Good evening. Ah, well, I defy you to find Monsieur. There 's an iron door, you see, cleverly concealed in a panel you would swear was old oak.”

“But suppose you should rap upon it-”

“Bah! there's a layer of wood on the iron, — thin, to be sure, but thick enough to make the sound the same. When the work was finished, I couldn't tell where the door was, myself.”

“But where did you do all this-”

“That is the question.”

“You mean that you don't care to tell-”

“I mean it is something I can't tell, for the very good reason that I don't know myself.”

“What! were your eyes bandaged-”

“That's it exactly. A carriage was awaiting me at the barrier. Someone asked, ' Are you so and so-' I answered, 'Yes.' 'Very good, it is for you we are waiting; get in.' ' Must I ride-' ' Yes.' I got in. They bandaged my eyes. The carriage rolled along about half an hour, I should say; and then a gate, a very wide gate, opened. I stumbled up a flight of stone steps, — ten steps, I counted them, — and entered a vestibule. There I met a German servant who said to the others: ' Dat is veil. Go vay now; ve need you no more.' They went. The bandage was removed from my eyes, and I was shown what I had to do. I set to work in earnest, and in an hour the job was done. They paid me in shining gold pieces. My eyes were rebandaged; I was again placed in the carriage. They bade me bon voyage, — and here I am!”

“Without having seen anything, even out of the corner of your eye- Surely the bandage wasn't so tight that you couldn't peep out one side or the other.”

“You 're right.”

“Then tell me what you saw,” said the Unknown, eagerly.

“Well, when I stumbled going up the steps, I took advantage of the opportunity to make a gesture, and in making the gesture I managed to disarrange the bandage a little.”

“And what did you see-”inquired the Unknown, with flattering interest.

“I saw a row of trees on my left, which convinced me that the house was on one of the boulevards; but that was all.”

“All-”

“Upon my word of honour.”

“That is not very definite.”

“I should say not, as the boulevards are long, and there is more than one house with a big gateway and long flight of stone steps between the Cafe” Saint-Honore “and the Bastille.”

“Then you wouldn't know the house if you should see it again-”

The locksmith reflected a moment.”No, upon my word, I shouldn't.”

The Unknown, though his face was not wont to reveal his feelings, appeared much gratified by this assurance.

“Well, it seems strange,” he exclaimed suddenly, as if passing to an entirely different train of thought, “that, as many locksmiths as there are in Paris, people who want secret doors should have to send to Versailles for men to make them.”

As he spoke, he poured out another glass for his companion, pounding on the table with the empty bottle so that the proprietor of the establishment would bring a fresh supply of the beverage.

CHAPTER II. MASTER GAMAIN.

The locksmith raised Ms glass to a level with his eye, and contemplated the contents with great satisfaction. Then sipping a little, and smacking his lips, he remarked, “There are, of course, plenty of locksmiths in Paris; there are even many masters of that trade there,” here he took another sip;”but there are masters and masters, you know.”

“Oh yes, I see,” laughed the Unknown.”You are not only a master, but a master of masters.”

“And what are you-”

“A gunsmith.”

“Have you any samples of your work about you-”

“You see this gun.”

The locksmith took it from the hand of the Unknown, examined it carefully, nodding his head approvingly the while; then, seeing the name on the barrel and on the plate, he exclaimed:”Leclere- Impossible! Leclere is not more than twenty-eight, and both of us are near fifty, — I mean no offence, I 'm sure, though.”

“That is true. I am not Leclere, but that makes no difference.”

“And why-”

“Because I am his master.”

“Good!”exclaimed the locksmith, laughing heartily.”That is very much as if I should say,' I am not the king, but it amounts to the same thing.'“

“And why-”.”Because I am his master.”

“Indeed!”exclaimed the Unknown, rising, and making a military salute;”then it is to Monsieur Gamain I have the honor of speaking-”

“The same; and he is quite willing to serve you if he can,” responded the locksmith, evidently delighted with the effect his name had produced.

“Zounds! I had no idea I was talking to such an important personage. By the way, it must be a very trying thing to be the king's master.”

“Why-”

“Because it must be such an awful bother to say ' Good morning' or ' Good evening' properly, and always to remember to say 'Sire' and 'Your Majesty,' when you want to tell him to take the key in his left hand and the file in his right.”

“Oh no, indeed. That is the great charm about him, — he is really such a very good fellow at heart. When you see him at the forge with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his apron on, you would never take him for the eldest son of Louis the Saint.”

“You are right. It is really extraordinary how much a king resembles any other man.”

“Yes, isn't it- Those around him found that out long ago.”

“It wouldn't matter if it was only those right around him who had found out this fact; but unfortunately outsiders are beginning to find it out too,” responded the Unknown, with a peculiar laugh.

Gamain looked at his companion with considerable astonishment; but the latter, who had almost forgotten his role for a moment, did not give him time to weigh the meaning of the words he had just uttered, but suddenly changed the subject by adding, -

“Yes, you're right. I think it is very humiliating for one man to be obliged to call another man who is no better than himself, 'Sire' and 'Your Majesty.'“

“But I wasn't obliged to. Once at the forge he didn’t require or expect it. I called him Citizen, and he called me Gamain. But I didn’t thee and thou him as he did me.”

“Yes; but when the hour for breakfast or dinner came, Gamain was sent to dine with the servants.”

“Oh no, no, indeed! he never did that. He always had a table brought into the shop; and very often, especially at breakfast, he sat down with me, and said, ' I won't breakfast with the queen this morning, for in that case I should have to wash my hands.'“

“I can't understand it.”

“You can't understand that when the king came to work at the forge with me he had hands like the rest of us- — though that doesn’t prevent us from being honest people, even though the queen might say to him, with, that stuck-up air of hers, ' Fie! your hands are dirty, sire!' As if a man could have clean hands while he was working at the forge! To tell the truth, I don't believe the king ever really enjoyed himself except while he was working with me, or while he was in his geographical cabinet with his librarian. I do believe he liked me the best, though.”

“Still, it can't be a very nice thing to teach a bad pupil.”

“Bad- Why, he isn’t bad. You should not say that. Of course it is a very unfortunate thing for him that he was born a king, and so has to attend to a lot of stupid matters instead of making some progress in his trade. He will never make a good king, — he's too honest; but he would make a splendid locksmith. There's one man I hated like poison on account of the time he made him waste. That was Necker. Oh, heavens, to think of the time he made him lose!”

“Over his accounts, I suppose you mean-”

“Yes, over his accounts on paper, — his accounts in the air, I used to call them.”

“You must have found teaching such a pupil a paying job-”

“No, indeed. You 're very much mistaken. I swear to you that though people think me as rich as Croesus on account of what I 've done for your Louis XVI., your saviour of the French nation, I 'm really as poor as Job.”

“You poor- What does he do with his money, then-”

“Oh, he gives half of it to the poor and the other half to the rich; so he himself never has a penny. The Coignys, the Vaudreuils, and the Polignacs are always at the poor dear man. One day he tried to reduce Monsieur de Coigny's salary. Coigny came and called him out of the shop. In about five minutes the king came back again, white as a sheet. ' Upon my word! I thought he was going to beat me!' he exclaimed. ' And how about his salary, sire-' I asked. ' Oh, I had to let it alone. I couldn’t do anything else!' Another day he tried to say something to the queen about Madame de Polignac's layette that cost three hundred thousand francs. What do you think of that-”

“A very neat little sum, I should say.”

“Yes; but it wasn’t enough. The queen made him give five hundred thousand. So all these Polignacs, you see, who hadn't a penny ten years ago, will be worth their millions when they leave France. If they were persons of talent, one wouldn’t mind it so much; but give them a hammer and an anvil and they couldn’t make so much as a horseshoe. But, being fine talkers, they have urged the king on, and now leave him to get out of the scrape as best he can with Messrs. Bailly, Lafayette, and Mirabeau; while I — I, who have always given him the best of advice — have to be content with the fifteen hundred crowns a year he allows me, — me, his instructor, his friend, the person who first put a file in his hand.”

“But you can count upon a handsome present now and then, when you are working with him, of course.”

“What! do you think I work with him now- In the first place, I should compromise myself too much by doing it. I haven’t set foot in the palace since the storming of the Bastille. I 've met him once or twice since. The first time there was a crowd in the street, and he merely bowed to me. The second time it was on the road to Satory. There was no one about, and he stopped the carriage. 'Good-morning, Gamain,' he said with a sigh. 'Things are not going to your liking, I see very plainly,' I began; ' but this will teach you -' ' And your wife and children, are they well-' he interrupted me by saying. ' Perfectly; they 've got infernal appetites, that's all I' ' Wait!' exclaimed the king, fumbling in his pockets. 'Here, take them this little gift from me. It's all I happen to have about me, but I 'm ashamed to make you such a shabby present.' And a shabby present it was, there's no doubt about it. Think of a king having only nine louis in his pocket, — a king who makes a comrade, a friend, a present of nine louis! So -”

“So you refused it-”

“No. I said to myself, ' I 'd better take what I can get, for he’ll soon meet someone less proud who will accept it.' But he needn’t trouble himself any more. I sha'n't set foot in the palace again, no matter how often he sends for me.”

“Grateful creature!”muttered the Unknown.

“What did you say-”

“I merely remarked that such devotion as yours to a friend in misfortune is really touching, Master Gamain. One more glass to the health of your pupil!”

“He don't deserve it. Still, that doesn’t matter. Here's to his health, all the same.”

He drained his glass; then he added:”And to think that he had in his cellars ten thousand bottles of wine worth ten times as much as this, and never once said to one of his footmen, ' Here, you fellow, get out a basket of wine, and take it to my friend Gamain's house!' He preferred to see his body-guard, his Swiss soldiers, and his regiment from Flanders drink it.”

“What else could you expect-”answered the Unknown, sipping his wine leisurely.”Kings are always ungrateful. But hush! we are not alone.”

Three persons had just entered the tavern, two men and a woman, and seated themselves at a table opposite the one where the Unknown had just finished his second bottle of wine in company with Master Gamain.

The locksmith scrutinised the new-comers with a curiosity that made his companion smile; and in fact the new-comers seemed worthy of attention. One of the two men was all body; the other all legs. As for the woman, it was hard to decide what she was.

The man who was all body was almost a dwarf, being scarcely five feet tall, though he may have lost an inch or two in height by reason of a bend in his knees, which touched on the inside in spite of the unusual distance between his feet. His face, instead of lessening this deformity, seemed to render it more noticeable. His grey and greasy hair was plastered down upon his low forehead; the growth of his eyebrows seemed to have been left entirely to chance. His eyes were generally glassy and dull, like those of a toad; but in moments of anger they emitted a gleam like that which radiates from the contracted pupil of a venomous reptile. His flat and crooked nose increased the excessive prominence of his high cheek-bones, and, to complete this hideous combination, his contorted and jaundiced lips disclosed to view only broken, discoloured, stragling snags of teeth.

A person glancing at him would instinctively have felt that this man's veins were filled with gall instead of blood.

The other man reminded one of a heron mounted upon a pair of stilts; and the resemblance was the more marked from the fact that, being a humpback, his head was almost hidden between his shoulders, and could be distinguished only by his eyes, that looked like two splotches of blood, and a long hooked nose, like a beak! At the first glance one felt almost sure that he would stretch out his neck with a sudden jerk and peck out the eyes of anyone who was unfortunate enough to excite his wrath. His arms, in fact, were endowed with the elasticity which had been denied his neck; for, seated as he was, he had only to stretch out his hand, without bending his body in the least, to pick up a handkerchief he had dropped after wiping his forehead, which was wet with rain and sweat.

The third member of the party was an amphibious being, whose sex seemed to be shrouded in mystery. This was a man, or woman, about thirty-four years of age, attired in a costly fishwife's costume, with gold chains and earrings and a lace headdress and kerchief. The features, as far as one could distinguish them through a thick coating of powder and rouge and the numerous patches of every shape and size that studded this red and white surface, were of that vague, uncertain type one sees in degraded races. On seeing this strange creature, the beholder waited impatiently for the lips to open, in the hope that the sound of the voice would determine the sex of its possessor. But this was not the case. The voice, which seemed to be a soprano, left the observer still more deeply in doubt. The eye did not assist the ear, in this case, nor the hearing aid the sight.

The stockings and shoes of the two men, as well as of the woman, indicated that their wearers had been tramping through the dusty road for a long time.

“It is strange, but it seems to me that I know that woman,” remarked Gamain.

“Very possibly; but when those three persons get together, they mean business,” said the Unknown, picking up his gun, and pulling his cap down over his eyes;”and when they mean business, it is best to leave them alone.”

“You know them, then-”

“Yes, by sight. And you-”

“I think I've seen the woman somewhere, as I said before.”

“At court, perhaps-”

“That's likely! A fishwoman at court!”

“They 've been at court quite often of late, it strikes me.”

“Tell me who the men are, if you know them. That may help me to recognise the woman.”

“Which shall I name first-”

“The bandy-legged one.”

“Jean Paul Marat.”

“Ah, ha! Now the hunchback.”

“Prosper Verrieres.”

“Oh, ho!”

“Does that give you any clue in regard to the fishwife- Think a minute.”

“My memory seems to have gone to the dogs.”

“Very well; the fishwife -”

“Wait! — but, no; it is impossible -”

“Yes, it does seem so; but -”

“Is it -”

“I see you’ll never muster up courage to name him, so I shall have to do it. The fishwife is the Due d'Aiguillon.”

At the sound of this name, the fishwife started and turned; her two companions did the same. Then all three rose, as before a superior to whom they wished to show marked deference; but the Unknown placed his finger warningly on his lip, and passed out.

Gamain followed; it seemed to him he must be dreaming.

At the door they were jostled by a man who was rushing wildly along, followed by a crowd shouting, -

“The queen's hairdresser! the queen's hairdresser!”

In this crowd were two men, each carrying a bloody head on the end of a pike.

These were the heads of the unfortunate guardsmen, Varicourt and Deshuttea.

“Hold on, Monsieur Leonard!” Gamain called out to the man who had jostled him.

“Hush! don't call me by that name!” cried the hairdresser, rushing into the tavern.

“What do they want with him-” asked the locksmith.

“Who knows-” responded the Unknown.”They want him to curl the hair of those poor devils, perhaps. People get strange ideas into their heads in times like these.”

He disappeared in the crowd, leaving Gamain, from whom he had probably extracted all the information he wanted, to make his way back to his workshop at Versailles as best he could.

CHAPTER III. CAGLIOSTRO.

The crowd was so great that it was an easy matter for the Unknown to become swallowed up in it.

The throng was the advance guard of the royal procession which had left Versailles at the appointed hour, — about one o'clock in the afternoon.

The queen, the dauphin, the princess royal, the Comte de Provence, Madame Elizabeth, and the Comtesse de Charny were in the king's coach.

A hundred carriages held the members of the National Assembly, who had declared themselves inseparable from the king.

The Comte de Charny and Billot had remained at Versailles to render the last services to Baron George de Charny, killed, as we have before related, on that terrible night of the fifth and sixth of October, and to prevent the body from being mutilated, as the bodies of Varicourt and Deshuttes had been.

This advance guard above mentioned, which had left Versailles about two hours before the king, but was now only about a quarter of an hour in advance of him, consisted of a crowd of half-intoxicated ragamuffins, — the scum that always floats upon the surface of any flood either of water or lava.

Suddenly there was a great commotion in the throng; they had caught sight of the bayonets of the National Guard and the white steed of Lafayette, who rode immediately in front of the king's carriage.

Lafayette liked popular assemblies very much, — that is, among the inhabitants of Paris, whose idol he was; but he did not like the populace, — for Paris, like Rome, had its plebs and its plebecula, its common people and its rabble.

He was also particularly averse to the summary executions performed by such mobs as this, and he had done everything in his power to save Flesselles, Foulon, and Berthier de Sauvigny.

It was to conceal these bloody trophies from him, and at the same time preserve these emblems of their triumph, that this advance guard had marched ahead; but now, encouraged by the triumvirate they met at the tavern, they found a means of circumventing Lafayette, by saying that, as her Majesty had declared that she would not be separated from her faithful guards, they would await her Majesty's coming, and constitute themselves a part of her escort.

This mob, which swept along the road from Versailles to Paris like a seething torrent, bearing along on its foul black surface the occupants of a palace it had demolished in its mad career, -this mob had on each side of the road a sort of eddy, composed of the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages, who had come to see what was going on. A few of these people mingled with the crowd, thus swelling the king's escort; but by far the greater number stood on the roadside, silent and motionless. The reader should not suppose from this fact that they were in sympathy with the king and queen. Quite the contrary; for everybody in France, except the nobility, was suffering greatly from the terrible famine that prevailed in the land, and though they did not openly insult the royal family, they, were silent, -and the silence of a crowd is more insulting, perhaps, than abusive words.

On the other hand, they shouted with all the strength of their lungs, “Long live Lafayette!” whereupon the general, lifting his hat with his left hand, saluted the crowd with his right; or “Long live Mirabeau!” as that famous orator now and then thrust his head out of his carriage window in order to secure the full amount of fresh air his powerful lungs required.

Thus the unfortunate king, before whom all kept silence, heard them applauding in his very presence Popularity, the thing he had lost, and Genius, a thing he had never possessed. Doctor Gilbert marched along with the crowd near the right door of the royal coach, — that is, on the side next the queen.

Marie Antoinette, who had never been able to understand this sort of stoicism in Gilbert, in whom American coolness was combined with a strange gruffness, gazed with amazement at this man, who, feeling neither love nor devotion for his sovereigns, was nevertheless ready to do for them all that love and devotion could do, though he was actuated solely by a sense of duty. Moreover, he was even ready to die for them; and the greatest love and devotion could do no more.

On both sides of the royal coach, beyond the line of attendants, who had stationed themselves close to the carriage, — some out of curiosity, others with the intention of protecting the august travellers in case of need, — floundering through mud at least six inches deep on the edges of the road, walked the market-women, and moving along in the midst of them was a gun-carriage, or caisson, crowded with women, who were singing and yelling at the top of their voices. What they were singing was the old familiar verse, beginning, -

“The baker's wife, she has some crowns

That did not cost her dear.”

What they shouted was their new formula of hope, -”We shall not lack bread any longer; for we are bringing the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy back with us!”

The queen seemed to hear all this without understanding it in the least. She was holding on her lap the little dauphin, who surveyed the crowd with that frightened air with which royal children gaze at the populace in troublous times, and with which we ourselves have seen the King of Rome, the Due de Bordeaux, and the Comte de Paris gaze at it; only the rabble in these days is more disdainful and more magnanimous, because it is more powerful, and knows that it can afford to be gracious.

The king gazed around him with dull and weary eyes; he had slept but little the night before, and had eaten only a few mouthfuls of breakfast. He had not had time to have his hair repowdered and dressed; his face was unshaven, his linen soiled and rumpled, -trifles, maybe, but trifles which placed him at a great disadvantage. The poor king, alas! was not the man for an emergency; in fact, he always bowed his head before an emergency. Only once did he raise it, -that was on the scaffold, the very moment that it fell.

Madame Elizabeth was the angel of sweetness and resignation that God had placed near these two unfortunates,- first, to console the king in the Temple in the queen's absence, and subsequently to console the queen in the Conciergerie, after the death of the king.

The Comte de Provence wore his usual crafty expression. He knew that he was in no danger, at least for the time being; that he was, in fact, the only popular member of the family. Why, it is hard to say; perhaps because he remained in France when his brother the Comte d'Artois left it. But if the king could have read his brother's heart, he would have known that his warm gratitude for what he interpreted as brotherly devotion was entirely uncalled for.

The Comtesse de Charny seemed to be made of marble. She had slept no better than the queen, and eaten no more than the king; but privations of any kind seemed to have little or no effect upon her. She, too, had had no time to arrange her hair or change her clothing; but not a hair of her head was out of place, not a fold of her dress was rumpled. She reminded one of a statue around which the waves were rolling wildly, without even attracting her attention, and with no other effect than to make her appear even more white and placid. It was evident to a close observer that in this woman's head or heart was a single, ever-present, all-powerful, luminous thought, towards which her whole soul gravitated as the magnetic needle gravitates towards the polar star. A. sort of ghost among the living, only one thing proved that she was really alive, — the involuntary light that flashed from her eyes whenever her gaze met Gilbert's.

About one hundred yards from the little tavern to which we have alluded, the procession came to a halt, and the shouts and yells all along the line became still louder.

The queen leaned a little way out of the window; and this movement, which might have been mistaken for a salutation on her part, elicited a confused murmur from the throng.

“Monsieur Gilbert!”she said.

Gilbert approached the carriage window. He was holding his hat in his hand, as at Versailles; so he was not obliged to remove it as a mark of respect to his sovereign.

“Madame-” he replied.

The peculiar intonation in which this single word was uttered indicated that Gilbert was entirely at the queen's service.

“Monsieur Gilbert,” she repeated, “what are your people singing, what are they saying-”

“Alas, madame, these people whom you call my people were once your people. It is barely twenty years ago that Monsieur de Brissac — a charming man, by the way, for whom I now look around in vain — showed you to these same people from the balcony of the H6tel de Ville, — to these same people, who were then enthusiastically shouting, 'Long live the princess!' — and said to you, 'Madame, you see before you two hundred thousand lovers.'“

The queen bit her lip. It was impossible to take this man to task for rudeness or lack of respect.

“That is true,” responded the queen.”It only shows how fickle the people are.”

This time Gilbert bowed, but did not answer.

“I asked you a question, Monsieur Gilbert,” continued the queen, with the persistence she always displayed, even in matters of a disagreeable nature.

“Yes, madame; and as your Majesty insists, I will 'answer it. The people are singing,-

' The baker's wife, she has some crowns

That did not cost her dear.'

You know who it is that the people call the baker's wife, do you not, madame-”

“Yes, monsieur; I know they do me that honour. I am quite accustomed to these nicknames already. Awhile ago, they called me Madame Deficit. Is there any connection between the first name and the second-”

“Yes, your Majesty; and to satisfy yourself of the fact, you need only think over the two lines I have just repeated to you.”

“' Some crowns that did not cost her dear,’ “repeated the queen.”I do not understand.”

Gilbert was silent.

“Do you not see that I quite fail to comprehend the meaning of the lines-”said the queen, impatiently.

“And your Majesty still insists upon an explanation-”

“Most assuredly.”

“The song means, madame, that your Majesty has had some very obliging ministers, especially ministers of finance,-Monsieur de Calonne, for example. The people know that you have only to ask for him to give; and as it is not much trouble to ask if one is a queen whose wish is equivalent to a command, the people sing, -

' The baker's wife, she has some crowns

That did not cost her dear, -'

that is to say, which cost you only the trouble of asking for them.”

The queen clinched the white hand resting on the red velvet cushion.

“So that is what they are singing,” she said haughtily.”Now, Monsieur Gilbert, as you understand their thoughts so well, you will, I am sure, have the goodness to explain what they are shouting.”

“They are saying, ' We shall not want for bread hereafter, as we are bringing the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy back with us.'“

“You can explain this second insult as clearly as you did the first, can you not-”

“Ah, madame, if you will consider, not the words, perhaps, so much as the real feelings of the people, you will see that you have not so much to complain of as you imagine,” replied Gilbert, with the same gentle melancholy.

“Let us see about that. You know that I ask nothing better than to be enlightened on these points, monsieur. Go on; I am listening.”

“The people have been told, madame, that a big speculation in wheat has been carried on at Versailles, and that that is why there is no flour coming to Paris. Who feeds the people- The baker and the baker's wife of the neighbourhood. To whom do the father, husband, and son raise their beseeching hands when the child, wife, or father is dying of hunger- To the baker and the baker's wife. To whom do men pray, next to God- Is it not to those who distribute bread- Are not you, madame, and the king, and this royal child, really the distributors of God's bread- Do not be surprised, then, at the name the people have bestowed upon you, but be thankful for the hope they feel that when the king, queen, and dauphin are in the midst of these twelve hundred thousand famishing creatures, they will want for nothing.”

The queen closed her eyes for an instant, and one could detect a movement of her mouth and throat, as if she were trying to swallow her hatred along with the acrid saliva that burned her mouth.

“So that is what these people in front of us and behind us are shouting. We ought to thank them for the nicknames they bestow upon us, as well as the songs they sing for us, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes, madame, and most sincerely, because their songs are only the expression of their good humour, and their nicknames only a sign of their hopes.”

“But they are shouting, ' Long live Lafayette and Mirabeau!'“

“Yes, madame; because, if they live, Lafayette and Mirabeau, who are now separated from each other by a broad abyss, may become united, and by thus uniting save the country.”

“You mean, then, I suppose, that the monarchy has sunk so low that these two men alone can save it-”

Gilbert was about to reply, when cries of terror mingled with peals of laughter were heard, and a movement in the crowd pushed him closer to the carriage door, to which he clung stoutly, feeling sure that something was about to occur which would make it necessary for him to use his voice or his strength in the queen's defence.

The commotion was caused by the two pikemen before mentioned, who, having compelled the unfortunate Leonard to curl and powder the heads that crowned their weapons, were now determined to exhibit their ghastly trophies to the queen, as others — or, possibly, these very men — had exhibited Foulon's head to Berthier, his father-in-law.

The cries came from the crowd, which, at the sight of the bleeding heads, recoiled upon itself, thus opening a passage for the two wretches.

“For Heaven's sake, do not look to your right, madame!” exclaimed Gilbert.

But the queen was not the woman to heed such an injunction without first ascertaining the cause of it; so her very first movement was to turn her eyes towards the forbidden spot, and, as she did so, she uttered a terrified cry.

But suddenly her eyes wandered from the ghastly sight as if they had just encountered one still more terrible, and had riveted themselves upon it as if upon a Medusa's head, from which they were unable to detach themselves.

But the head in this case was that of the Unknown, whom we saw talking and drinking in company with Master Gamain at the Sevres Bridge Tavern, but who was now standing with folded arms, leaning against a tree.

For an instant the queen clutched Gilbert's shoulder with a violence that almost buried her nails in his flesh.

Gilbert turned, and saw that the queen was as pale as death, that her lips were trembling and bloodless, and her eyes fixed.

He would have attributed this nervous paroxysm to the sight of the two heads, however, if Marie Antoinette's eyes had been fixed upon either of them; but she was gazing horizontally before her at about the height of a man's head from the ground.

Gilbert turned his eyes in the same direction, and he, too, uttered a low cry; but in his case it was one of astonishment.

Then both murmured simultaneously, “Cagliostro!”

The man leaning against the tree had an unobstructed view of the queen and her attendant, and he made a motion with his hand to Gilbert as if to say, “Come here!”

Just then the cortege started again; and with an involuntary and perfectly natural impulse, the queen pushed Gilbert away, so that he might not be crushed by the wheel.

He thought she was pushing him toward Cagliostro; but whether she pushed him or not, as soon as he recognised the man, he felt that he was no longer his own master, and that he should have obeyed the summons in any event.

So, stepping aside, he allowed the procession to pass him; then, following the Unknown, who turned now and then to see if he was obeyed, he walked up a narrow lane leading to Bellevue, and disappeared from sight behind a wall at the very moment the royal coach and its escort were lost to view over the brow of the steep hill on the road leading to Paris.

CHAPTER IV. FATE.

Gilbert followed the Unknown, who walked about twenty yards in advance of him, about half-way up the hill and until he found himself in front of a large and handsome house. The man who was ahead of him had taken a key from his pocket, and entered the house by a small side door, evidently constructed so that the master of the establishment could come and go without the knowledge of his servants.

He left this door ajar, which showed plainly enough that he expected Gilbert to follow; which he did, closing the door behind him, -and it swung so noiselessly upon its hinges, and fastened itself so softly, that one could not hear even the click of the bolt. In short, it was a lock that would have excited even Master Gamain's admiration.

Once inside, Gilbert found himself in a spacious hall, the walls of which were covered to the height of about six feet — so that the eye might lose none of the marvellous details — with bronze panels copied from those with which Ghiberti has enriched the Baptistery in Florence.

The floor was covered with a rich, soft Turkish carpet.

There was an open door on the left; and Gilbert”, thinking that this too had been left open purposely, entered the apartment to which it gave access. The room was hung with rich India satin, and the furniture was covered with the same material. One of those fantastic birds such as the Chinese paint and embroider covered the ceiling with its blue and gold wings, and supported in its talons the chandelier which, together with several magnificently wrought candelabra representing huge bunches of lilies, lighted the apartment.

There was but one picture in the room, and this hung directly opposite the large mantel mirror. It was one of Raphael's Madonnas.

Gilbert was gazing admiringly at this chef d'ceuvre, when he heard, or rather felt, a door open behind him, and, turning, he saw Cagliostro emerging from a sort of dressing-room.

This brief interval had sufficed to enable him to remove the stain from his arms and face, to rearrange his hair, and effect an entire change of clothing. He was no longer the rough mechanic with toil-stained hands, muddy shoes, and shabby garments, but the elegant nobleman whom we have already introduced to our readers, first in “The Memoirs of a Physician,” and subsequently in “The Queen's Necklace.” His garments covered with rich embroidery, and his hands sparkling with diamonds, contrasted strikingly with Gilbert's simple black suit, and the plain gold ring — a gift from Washington — which he wore on his finger.

With a smiling face Cagliostro advanced, opening his arms. Gilbert rushed into them.

“My dear master!”he exclaimed.

“One moment!”cried Cagliostro, laughing.”You have made such progress since we parted, especially in philosophy, that it is you who are now the master, while I am scarcely worthy to be called your pupil.”

“I thank you for the compliment; but even if I have made any such progress, how have you become aware of the fact- It is eight years since we met.”

“Do you imagine, my dear doctor, that you are one of those persons who are forgotten merely because they are absent- It is true that I have not seen you for eight years, but I can tell you what you have been doing each day for the past ten years.”

“Can you really-”

“Are you still sceptical concerning my powers-”

“I am a mathematician -”

“And consequently incredulous. Let us see, now; you came to France first on family matters. Your family matters do not concern me; and therefore -”

“No, no; go on!”said Gilbert, thinking to embarrass Cagliostro.

“Very well, then; you came to see about the education of your son Sebastian, being anxious to place him in some small town eighteen or twenty leagues from Paris, and to settle some business matters with your agent, a very worthy man. whom you had kept in Paris sorely against his will, and who for many reasons ought to have been at home with his wife.”

“Really, you are a wonderful man!”

“Wait a moment. The second time, you came to Paris because political matters brought you. You had prepared several pamphlets and sent them to Louis XVI.; and as there is still a good deal of the old Adam left in you, you valued the approbation of a king more than that of your former teacher Jean Jacques Rousseau, who, if he were living now, would be considered greater than any king. You were anxious to know what the grandson of Louis XIV. thought of Doctor Gilbert. Unfortunately, there was a little fracas which you had not anticipated in the least, but which caused me to find you one day with a bullet-hole in your breast in a grotto in the Azores Islands, where my vessel chanced to touch. This affair concerned Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney, now the Comtesse de Charny, an important personage in close attendance upon the queen; and as the queen could refuse the woman who had married the Comte de Charny nothing, she asked and obtained a warrant for your secret imprisonment. On your way from Havre to Paris you were arrested and taken to the Bastille, where you would be to this day, my dear doctor, if the people had not taken it into their heads to demolish that ancient edifice one fine morning. Then, like the stanch royalist that you are, my dear Gilbert, you hastened to espouse the cause of the king, who made you one of his attendant physicians. Last night, or rather this morning, you rendered the royal family an invaluable service by rushing to arouse Lafayette, who was sleeping the sleep of the just; and just now, believing that the life of the queen, — whom, by the way, you thoroughly detest,- believing, I say, that her life was in danger, you were ready to convert your own body into a rampart for your sovereign's defence. Am I not right- But don't let me neglect to mention one incident of no slight importance, — the recovery of a certain casket which had been seized through the agency of a certain Pasdeloup. Tell me, now, if I have made a single mistake, and I stand ready to make my humble apologies.”

Gilbert was overwhelmed with astonishment by these revelations on the part of this extraordinary man, who seemed not only to be endowed with a strange sort of prescience concerning all that was going on throughout the entire world, but also to be able to read the very hearts of men.

“Yes, you speak the truth,” said he.”You are still Cagliostro the magician, the sorcerer, the enchanter.”

Cagliostro's smile indicated no little satisfaction. He was evidently proud of having made such an impression on Gilbert by this display of his powers.

“And now, as I am quite as fond of you as you are of me, my dear master,” continued Gilbert, “and as I am correspondingly anxious to know what has befallen you since we parted, will you think me too inquisitive if I ask in what part of the world you have been displaying your genius and exercising your powers-”

“I, too, have associated with kings, and many of them, but with an entirely different object. You approach them to sustain them; I, to dethrone them. You are trying to establish a constitutional king, and you will not succeed; I endeavour to make king and princes philosophers, and I attain my object.”

“Indeed!” ejaculated Gilbert, with a sceptical air.

“Yes. It is true that Voltaire, D'Alembert, and Diderot paved the way for this new order of things, however. Is it necessary for me to remind you of Joseph II., brother of our beloved queen, who has suppressed at least three- fourths of the monasteries and confiscated the ecclesiastical benefices of the King of Denmark, — that precocious youth who said, when only seventeen, ' It is Voltaire who has taught me to think, and who has made a man of me;' of the Empress Catherine, who made such gigantic strides in philosophy, even while she was dismembering Poland, that Voltaire wrote, 'Diderot, D'Alembert, and myself are erecting altars to you;' of the King of Sweden; and of many other great princes and potentates-”

“There seems to be nothing left for you to do but convert the Pope to your way of thinking; and as nothing seems to be impossible to you, I feel quite sanguine of your success even in that quarter.'

“I 'm afraid you ask too much of me this time. I have but just escaped from the Holy Father's clutches. I was in the Castle of Saint Angelo six long and dreary months.”

“But I thought that once inside the Castle of Saint Angelo, one couldn’t get out.”

“Nonsense! How about Benvenuto Cellini-”

“Did you too get a pair of wings, like a modern Icarus, and fly across the Tiber-”

“That was impossible, I regret to say, inasmuch as I was lodged in a dungeon that was both deep and dark.”

“But you managed to make your escape from it eventually, it seems.”

“Yes, here I am, as you see.”

“You bribed your gaoler, I suppose.”

“I was indeed unlucky. I stumbled upon an incorruptible gaoler.”

“Incorruptible- The deuce!”

“Yes; but fortunately he was not permitted to live forever. Luck, or what a more devout believer than myself would call Providence, so arranged it that he died the day after his third refusal to open my prison doors.”

“He died suddenly-”

“Yes.”

“Ah!”

“It was necessary to find someone to take his place. They did so.”

“And his successor did not prove incorruptible-”

“The very day he entered upon his duties, he remarked to me when he brought in my supper, 'Eat a good meal, for we have a long journey before us.' The brave fellow told the truth. That same night we each ruined three horses and travelled a hundred miles.”

“And what did those in authority say when your flight was discovered-”

“Nothing. They dressed up the other gaoler, who had not been buried, in some garments I left behind; then they fired a pistol-shot in his face, let the weapon fall by his side, and declared that I had secured a pistol in some mysterious manner and blown my brains out. I was publicly declared to be dead, and the gaoler was interred under my name. So you see, my dear Gilbert, that I am, to all intents and purposes, dead; and even if I should claim to be alive, I should probably be confronted by my record of decease, and my death be thus established incontestably. But there is no need of that; for it suits me to disappear from the world just at this time, or rather to reappear in it under another name.”

“And what do you call yourself now, may I ask-”

“Baron Zannone. I am a Genoese banker. And, by the way, are you in need of money, my dear Gilbert- You know my brain and purse are at your disposal now, as always. Remember this too, my friend, if you should need money at any time, you will always find a very considerable amount here in my secretary. Take whatever you want, whether I am here or not. I will show you how to open it. Press this spring, — see, in this way. You will always find about a million here.”

“You are a wonderful man, truly,” said Gilbert, laughing;”but with my income of twenty thousand crowns, I am as rich as a king, and richer. But do you not fear you may be arrested here in Paris-”

“What! on account of that necklace affair- They would not dare. In the present state of public feeling, I have only to say a word to create a riot. You forget, too, that I am on the best of terms with the idols of the day, — Lafayette, Necker, Mirabeau, and yourself.”

“What is your object in coming to Paris-”

“That is hard to say. The same you had in going to America, perhaps, namely, the establishment of a republic.”

“But France has no inclination that way.”

“We will make her a republic, nevertheless.”

“The king will resist.”

“Very possibly.”

“The nobility will take up arms.”

“That is quite probable.”

“Then we shall not have a republic, but a revolution; and if we come to that, it will be a terrible state of things.”

“Terrible, indeed, if we have many men of your ability to contend with.”

“I am not a clever man, I am only honest.”

“So much the worse for us; and that is why I must convince you.”

“I am convinced already.”

“That you ought to prevent us from accomplishing this work-”

“That we should at least attempt to do so.”

“You are wrong, Gilbert. You do not understand the true mission of this country. France is the brain of the world; hence France must think, and think liberally, in order that the world, too, may be liberal in thought and in action. Do you know what caused the destruction of the Bastille, Gilbert-”

“The people.”

“You are wrong. You mistake the effect for the cause. For five hundred years counts, barons, and princes were confined in the Bastille, and it remained intact; but one day a foolish king conceived the unfortunate idea of incarcerating Thought there, — Thought, which requires boundless space, infinity; and Thought forced its way out of its prison-house, and the people rushed in through the breach thus made.”

“That is true,” murmured Gilbert, thoughtfully.

“Do you recollect what Voltaire wrote to Chauvelin on the second of March, 1764, nearly twenty-six years ago-”

“Repeat it, if you please.”

“Voltaire wrote as follows: ' Everything I see is putting forth the seeds of a revolution which is sure to come, but which I shall not have the gratification of witnessing. The French are slow, but they are sure to reach the goal at last. The light is approaching nearer and nearer. The young are, indeed, fortunate, for they will see wonderful things.' What do you think of the riots of yesterday and to-day, eh-”

“They were terrible.”

“Well, this is only the beginning, Gilbert. A few days ago I was with a famous physician, a philanthropist. You cannot imagine what he was doing.”

“Trying to discover some remedy for an incurable disease, probably.”

“Oh, no. Knowing of the plague, the cholera, yellow fever, small-pox, apoplexy, and five hundred other maladies which are deemed incurable, besides ten or twelve hundred others which may prove so if not skilfully treated, to say nothing of the cannon, gun, sword, dagger, water, fire, the gibbet and the rack, he had nevertheless come to the conclusion that there are not enough ways of destroying life; so he was engaged in inventing a machine which he contemplates to offer to the nation, and which will put fifty, sixty, and even eighty persons to death in less than an hour. Now, my dear Gilbert, do you suppose that a distinguished physician and philanthropist like Doctor Guillotin would busy himself over such a machine unless the need of such a machine was making itself felt- I tell you that the nobility and royalty are marching side by side to the tomb, in this land of ours.”

“I have abandoned the cause of the nobility, my dear count, or, rather, they abandoned their own cause on the famous night of the fourth of August; but let us preserve royalty, for it is the palladium of the nation.”

“That is very fine talk, Gilbert; but did the palladium save Troy- Preserve royalty! Do you think that an easy matter with such a king-”

“But he is the descendant of a great race.”

“Yes, a race of eagles ending in a paroquet. In order that Utopians like yourself may be able to save royalty, royalty must first make an effort to save itself. You have seen Louis XVI., you see him every day; and you are not the man to see anybody or anything without studying it carefully. Well, now, tell me the truth. Can royalty long survive, represented by such a king 1 Is he your idea of a sceptre-bearer- Do you suppose that Charlemagne or Philip Augustus or Francis I. or Henry IV. or Louis XIV. had his flabby flesh and hanging lips and dull eyes and halting gait- No; they were men. There was blood and nerve and sinew and vitality under their royal mantles. To preserve some species of animals, and even vegetables, in health and vigour, nature itself ordains an intermixture of species and diverse families. As grafting in the vegetable kingdom is the chief preserver of the goodness and beauty of the different species, so it is with man. Marriages between relatives is almost certain to result in the deterioration of individuals. Nature languishes and degenerates after several generations have been produced from the same blood. On the other hand, nature is vivified, regenerated, and strengthened when a foreign element is introduced into the line. Think of Henry III., the last of the Valois; Gaston, the last of the Medicis, and Charles VI., the last of the Hapsburgs! The chief cause of their degeneracy was unquestionably due to the constant intermarriages in their families. Of the thirty-two great-great-great-grand- mothers and grandfathers of Louis XV., six were members of the house of Bourbon, five of the house of Medicis, eleven of the Austrian house of Hapsburg, three of the house of Savoy, and three of the house of Stuart. Subject the best dog in the world to such a test, and you will have a worthless cur. How can we expect to resist such influences, — we who are but men- What do you say to my theory, my dear doctor-”

“I can only say that it frightens me, and makes me feel even more certain that my place is by the king's side.”

Gilbert turned, and was moving towards the door, when Cagliostro stopped him.

“Listen, Gilbert,” he said.”You know that I love you, that I would endure torture to spare you pain. Well, let me give you one word of advice.”

“What is it-”

“If the king would save himself, he should leave France while there is yet time. In a year, in six months, in three months perhaps, it will be too late.”

“Would you advise a soldier to desert his post because it would be dangerous for him to remain-”

“If the soldier were already surrounded and disarmed, so that there was no possibility of defending himself, and above all if, by risking his life, he should imperil the lives of half a million other men, I would certainly advise him to flee. You will give the king this same piece of advice some day, Gilbert, but it will be too late. Do not wait; tell him now. Do not wait until evening; tell him this very hour.”

“I am something of a fatalist, count, as you know. Come what may, as long as I have any influence with the king, the king will remain in France, and I shall remain with him. Farewell, count; we shall meet in the fray, and perhaps sleep side by side on the field of battle.”

“As you will,” murmured Cagliostro.”It has been said that no man, however clever he may be, can escape his evil destiny; I tried to find you in order to say this to you, and I have said it. You have listened; but my warning, like Cassandra's, has proved useless. Farewell.”

“Tell me, count,” said Gilbert, gazing searchingly at Cagliostro, “do you still claim, as you did in America, to be able to read a man's future in his face-”

“Yes, as surely as you can trace the course of the planets in the firmament above, though the majority of men consider them either immovable or erratic in their movements.”

“Well, then — But wait, there is someone at the door.”

“That is true.”

“Well, tell me the fate of this person who is now rapping at the door, whoever he may be. Tell me when and in what manner he will die-”

“So be it. Let us admit him, ourselves.”

Gilbert walked to the door at the farther end of the hall and threw it open. His heart throbbed wildly with suppressed excitement, though he told himself that it was absurd to attach any importance to this charlatanism.

A tall, distinguished-looking man, with an expression of indomitable will imprinted upon his features, entered, casting a quick and rather anxious glance at Gilbert as he crossed the threshold.

“Good day, marquis,” said Cagliostro.

“Good day, baron.”

Then, as Cagliostro noticed that the new-comer cast yet another glance at Gilbert, he said, “Marquis, allow me to introduce Doctor Gilbert, a friend of mine. My dear Gilbert, the Marquis de Favras, one of my clients.”

The two men bowed. Then, addressing the new-comer, the host added, -

“Marquis, if you will have the kindness to step into the next room, I will be at your service in a second or two.”

The marquis bowed a second time as he passed the two men on his way out of the room.

“Well-” demanded Gilbert.

“Do you insist upon knowing what death the marquis will die-”

“Did you not promise to tell me-”

A peculiar smile flitted across Cagliostro's face. Then, after glancing around as if to satisfy himself that no one could overhear them, he asked,-

“Did you ever see a nobleman hanged-”

“No.”

“It is an unusual sight, but you will be in the Place de Greve the day the Marquis de Favras is hanged.”

Then, as he escorted Gilbert to the outer door, he added, -

“One moment, my friend. When you wish to see me privately, without being seen yourself and without seeing anyone else, push this knob from right to left, and then down. Excuse this haste, but those who have not long to live must not be kept waiting.”

He turned away, leaving Gilbert marvelling at this prophecy, which excited his astonishment without overcoming his incredulity.

CHAPTER V. THE TUILERIES.

Meanwhile the king, queen, and other members of the royal family were continuing their journey to Paris; but their progress, retarded by their boisterous and unwieldy escort, — the guards marching afoot, the fishwives mounted on their horses, the market men and women riding on the gaily decorated cannon, the long line of deputies' carriages, and two or three hundred waggons loaded with wheat and flour, appropriated at Versailles, and covered with autumn leaves, — was so slow that the royal coach did not reach the gates of the city until six in the evening.

During the journey the little dauphin became hungry, and asked for something to eat. The queen glanced around her. It might have seemed an easy matter to procure a little bread for him, for almost every man in the crowd had a loaf on the point of his bayonet; but the queen could not bear the idea of making such a request of these men, whom she regarded with such loathing. She looked for Gilbert, but he had followed Cagliostro; so she pressed the lad to her bosom, and said to him, with tears in her eyes, -

“My child, I have no food to give you now; but wait until evening, perhaps we shall have some then.”

The child pointed to the men who were carrying the loaves on their bayonets, and exclaimed, -

“Those people have some.”

“Yes; but it is theirs, not ours. They came to Versailles for it because — at least, so they say — they have had none for three days.''

“For three days- They have had nothing to eat for three days-”

“No, my child.”

“In that case they must indeed be hungry,” said the boy; and, ceasing his complaints, he tried to go to sleep.

Poor child of royalty! More than once before death came, as come it did, he begged in vain for bread.

At the city gates the procession again came to a halt, not to rest this time, but to celebrate their arrival.

The fishwomen dismounted from their horses, — or rather, from the horses of the guardsmen, — and the market men and women got down from the cannon, making the portentous character of their equipages frightfully apparent.

Then they all formed a circle around the king's coach, separating it entirely from the deputies and the National Guard,-an omen maybe, of what was to come. This ring, with the well-meant intention of manifesting its joy, sang and capered and danced and shouted, the women embracing the men, and the men pulling and dragging the women about in the roughest and coarsest manner.

After a half hour of this singing and dancing in the mud, the crowd gave a resounding hurrah! and everybody who had a gun fired it in the air, without any concern about the bullets, which came down again an instant afterwards, splashing into the puddles of water like immense hailstones.

The dauphin and his sister wept bitterly; they were so frightened they forgot all about their hunger.

The procession then made its way along the quays to the Hotel de Ville, where the troops were formed into a hollow square, to prevent any one not belonging to the royal household or the Assembly from entering the building.

The queen saw Weber, her confidential servant and foster brother, trying to break through the line and enter the H6tel de Ville with her. She called to him, and he hastened to her. Seeing that the National Guard had the place of honour that day, Weber, too, had arrayed himself in the same uniform, thinking this disguise might enable him to be of service to his royal mistress.

“You can be of no assistance to me here, Weber,” said the queen, “but you can do me a valuable service elsewhere.”

“And where, madame-”

“At the Tuileries, where no preparations have been made for our reception, and where we shall find neither bed nor food.”

“That is a happy thought of yours, madame,” exclaimed the king.

The queen had spoken in German; and the king, who understood German, but who did not speak that language, had replied in English.

The people, too, had heard, but did not understand; and this foreign tongue, of which they had an instinctive horror, created a murmur of dissatisfaction, which threatened to become a roar of anger, around the carriage, when the hollow square opened in front of the royal party and then closed in again behind it.

Bailly, one of the prime favourites of the hour,- Bailly, whom we met on the king's first journey, when bayonets, muskets, and cannon were concealed from view by flowers which were forgotten on this second journey, — Bailly was awaiting the king and queen at the foot of a throne hastily improvised for their reception, — a poorly constructed, shaky throne, that creaked loudly under the velvet that covered it, — a throne, in fact, well suited to such an occasion.

The mayor's words of welcome were almost precisely the same as on the former occasion.

The king's response was brief.

“It is always with pleasure and confidence that I come among the people of my good city of Paris,” he said.

The king spoke in a voice much weakened by fatigue and hunger. Bailly repeated the words in a much louder tone, so that everyone could hear; but, either intentionally or unintentionally, he omitted the words “and confidence.”

The queen noticed it; and she was not sorry, perhaps, to find an opportunity to give vent to her bitterness.

“Pardon me, Monsieur Mayor,” she remarked, in a tone sufficiently loud for every one near her not to miss a single word or syllable;”either you did not hear correctly, or your memory is at fault. The king said it is always with pleasure and confidence that he returns to the people of his good city of Paris. As many may feel inclined to doubt if he returns with pleasure at this present time, it would perhaps be well for them to know that he at least returns with confidence.”

She then ascended the steps of the throne, and seated herself beside the king, to listen to the address of the electors.

Meanwhile Weber, thanks to his uniform, had succeeded in making his way on horseback through the crowd to the Tuileries. This Royal Lodge of the Tuileries, as it was formerly called, built and temporarily occupied by Catherine de Medici, but afterwards abandoned by Charles IX., had been considered for many years merely as a sort of appendage to the other royal palaces, and was now occupied exclusively by persons connected with the court, neither the king nor the queen having probably ever set foot in it before.

Knowing the habits of the king and the queen, Weber selected the suite of apartments occupied by the Comtesse de la Marck and those belonging to Marshals de Noailles and Mouchy.

Those occupied by Madame de la Marck had the advantage of being ready for the queen's reception; Weber having purchased the furniture, linen, curtains, and carpets of the former occupant.

About ten o'clock the sound of carriage wheels was heard in the courtyard. Everything was in readiness; and as he ran to receive his august employers, Weber called out to the other servants to serve supper at once.

The king, queen, Madame Royale, the dauphin, Madame Elizabeth, and Andree entered, Monsieur de Provence having returned to the Luxembourg.

The king glanced anxiously around; but seeing through the open door leading into an adjoining room a well-spread table, and hearing an usher announce almost at the same moment, “His Majesty is served,” his face brightened.

“Weber is a man of resources!” he exclaimed delightedly.”Say to him for me that I am much pleased with him.”

“I will not fail to do so, sire,” responded the queen, with a sigh, as she followed the king into the dining-room.

Covers had been laid for all the members of the party except Andree; and the king was too hungry to notice this omission, — which was no slight, but strictly in accordance with the laws of court etiquette. The queen, however, whose quick eye nothing ever seemed to escape, perceived the fact at a glance, and said, -

“The king will permit the Comtesse de Charny to sup with us- Is it not so, Sire-”

“Why, certainly!” cried the king.”We are dining en famille to-day, and the countess is quite one of the family, you know.”

“Am I to regard this as a command from the king-” asked the countess.

“Not as a command, but merely as a request which the king makes to you.”

“In that case, then, I will beg the queen to excuse me, as I am not hungry.”

“You are not hungry-” cried the king, who could not understand how a person who had not eaten anything from ten o'clock in the morning until ten at night could fail to be hungry, especially after such a fatiguing day.

“No, sire.”

“Nor am I,” said the queen.

“Nor I,” said Madame Elizabeth.

“You all make a great mistake,” answered the king;”for the condition of the rest of the body, and even of the mind as well, depends upon the condition of the stomach. Besides, this soup is perfect. Why is this the first time I ever tasted it-”

“Because you have a new cook, sire, — the cook of the Comtesse de la Marck, whose apartments we are now occupying.”

“Retain him in my service. Really, this Weber of yours is a most remarkable man, madame.”

“Yes,” murmured the queen, sadly.”What a pity it is that you cannot make him a Cabinet Minister!”

The king did not hear, or did not wish to hear; but noticing that Andree was still standing and that she looked very pale, he turned to her and said, “Though you are not hungry, I am sure you cannot deny that you are greatly fatigued; so I trust you will not refuse to rest, even if you refuse to eat.” Then, addressing the queen, he added:”I beg you will give the Comtesse de Charny permission to retire. I trust the servants have not forgotten to prepare a chamber for her.”

“Oh, sire! how can you trouble yourself about my comfort in such a time of distress-” exclaimed Andree.”An arm-chair will suffice.”

“No, indeed. You slept very little last night, and you must have a good night's rest. The queen not only needs all her own strength, but that of her friends as well.”

Soon one of the footmen, who had gone out to make inquiries, returned and said:”Monsieur Weber, knowing the great favour with which Madame la Comtesse is honoured by the queen, feels sure he has anticipated her Majesty's wishes by reserving a chamber adjoining her Majesty's for the countess.”

The queen started as the thought occurred to her that, if there was but one chamber for the countess, there could consequently be but one chamber for the countess and the count.

Andree noted the start, slight as it was. No sensation or emotion that one of these women experienced seemed to escape the other.

“I will accept of it for to-night, and for to-night only, madame,” she said.”The apartments of her Majesty are too contracted for me to be willing to have my lodgings here, at the expense of her comfort. There must be some little corner for me in a big palace like this.”

“You are right, countess,” said the king.”The matter shall be attended to to-morrow, and you shall be lodged as comfortably as possible.”

The countess bowed respectfully to the king, queen, and Madame Elizabeth, and left the room, preceded by a lackey.

The king followed her with his eyes, his fork suspended in mid-air the while.

“A charming creature truly!” he remarked.”How fortunate Comte de Charny was to find such a treasure at court!”

The queen turned her face away to conceal her pallor, — not from the king, who would not have noticed it, but from Madame Elizabeth, who would certainly have been alarmed by it.

CHAPTER VI. THE FOUR CANDLES.

As soon as the children had finished eating, the queen asked permission to retire to her chamber.

“Most assuredly, madame,” replied the king, “for you must be fatigued; but as you are certain to be hungry before morning, you had better have something prepared for you.”

Once in her own room, the queen felt that she could breathe again. None of her women had followed her to Paris, as she had given them orders to remain at Versailles until they were sent for; so she looked about for a large sofa or arm-chair for herself, intending to put the children in the bed.

The poor little dauphin was already asleep, but Madame Roy ale was not. In fact, had it been necessary, she could easily have kept awake all night. There was a good deal of the queen in Madame Royale.

The queen stepped to a door; but as she was about to open it, she heard a slight sound on the other side. She listened, and heard it again. Bending, she looked through the keyhole, and saw Andree kneeling in prayer.

The queen retreated on tiptoe, with a strange expression on her face.

Opposite this door was another; the queen opened it, and found herself in a warm, pleasant room, lighted by a shaded lamp, and containing two clean white beds.

The heart of the queen melted within her, and a tear moistened her burning eyes.

“Oh, Weber,” she murmured, “the queen told the king just now it was a pity he could not make you a Cabinet Minister; but the mother feels that you deserve much more than that!”

As the little dauphin was asleep, she wished to begin by putting Madame Royale to bed; but the latter, with the devotion she always displayed towards her mother, asked permission to assist her, so that she could retire sooner herself. The queen smiled sadly at the idea that her daughter could think it possible for her to sleep after such a day and night of anguish and humiliation; but she said nothing, and they put the dauphin to bed. Then Madame Royale, according to her usual habit, knelt at the foot of her bed to pray.

She remained there a long time motionless. The queen waited.

“It seems to me your prayer is longer than usual to-night, Theresa,” remarked the queen, when her daughter arose.

“That is because my brother, poor child, fell asleep without saying his; so I said his after mine, so that there might be nothing lacking in our petition to God.”

The queen pressed the young princess to her heart, and after the child was in bed the mother remained standing beside her couch, motionless as a statue of Maternity, until she saw the young girl's eyes close, and felt the hand that clasped hers relax in slumber; then, dropping a soft kiss upon the sleeping brow of the future martyr, she returned to her own room.

This room was lighted by a candelabrum containing four candles. It stood upon a table which was covered with a red cloth.

The queen seated herself in front of this table, and, placing her elbows upon it, she rested her drooping head upon her clenched hands. In this position she could see nothing but the red covering on the table in front of her, and two or three times she shook her head, as if the bloody hue was distasteful to her.

As she sat there, her whole life passed before her mental vision as if in a moving panorama.

She recollected that she was born on the 8th of November, the day of the great Lisbon earthquake, which destroyed more than fifty thousand people, and demolished two hundred churches.

She recollected that in Strasburg, the first French chamber in which she slept was hung with tapestry that represented the Massacre of the Innocents, and that in the dim and nickering light of the night-lamp it seemed to her that blood was flowing from the poor babes' wounds, and that the faces of their murderers assumed such a demoniacal expression that she became terrified and shrieked for help, and gave orders that they should depart at dawn from a city which had left her such a hideous memory of her first night spent in France.

She remembered, too, that while continuing her journey towards Paris she had stopped at the mansion of Baron de Taverney, where she met for the first time that wretch Cagliostro, who had exerted such a terrible influence over her destiny since through the affair of the necklace, and who, on the occasion of their first meeting, had shown her in a vessel of water a new and awful machine, and at its base a head severed from the body, — and that face and head were hers.

She remembered, too, that when Madame Lebrun painted that charming portrait of her as a young, beautiful, and still happy wife, she had represented her — inadvertently, of course; still, the omen was a terrible one-in the very same attitude as that of Henrietta of England, wife of Charles I., in her portrait.

She recalled, too, that, on the day she entered Versailles for the first time, and, alighting from the carriage, set foot upon the floor of the Marble Court, in which she had witnessed such scenes of violence the evening previous, almost simultaneously a tremendous clap of thunder shook the palace, preceding such a terrific flash of lightning that even the Marechal de Richelieu, who was not a man to be easily frightened, shook his head and exclaimed:”A bad omen!”

As all these things recurred to her mind, a red mist, which seemed to grow thicker and thicker, swam before her eyes. The room, too, seemed to become so much' darker that the queen looked up to ascertain the cause, and perceived that one of the caudles had gone out, without any apparent reason.

As the queen gazed at the candelabrum in astonishment, it seemed to her that the light of the next candle was becoming fainter, — that the white flame gradually turned red, and then blue. Then it became thinner and longer, then it wavered an instant, as if agitated by an invisible breath, and then went out.

The queen watched the expiring efforts of the candle with haggard eyes and heaving breast, drawing nearer and nearer to the flame as the light became dimmer and dimmer. When it went out altogether, she sank back in her arm-chair, closed her eyes, and pressed her hands to her brow, on which the perspiration stood in big drops.

She remained in this attitude ten minutes or more; and when she opened her eyes again she perceived with positive terror that the flame of the third candle was beginning to change, as the others had done.

She tried to make herself believe that it was all a dream, and that she was only the victim of an hallucination; she attempted to rise, but she seemed to be chained to her chair. She tried to call her daughter, but her voice died in her throat; she tried to turn her head away, but her eyes would remain fixed upon that third flickering candle, in spite of all her efforts. At last the third candle began to change colour as the other two had done, then grew pale, then became longer and longer, swayed from right to left, then from left to right, and then went out.

Her very terror seemed to restore the power of speech to the unhappy queen, and she tried to regain her failing courage with its aid.

“I am not disturbed in the least by what has happened

to these three candles,” she exclaimed aloud;”but if the fourth should go out like the others, oh, woe is me!”

Suddenly, without the warning the others had given by a change of colour, without any tendency to elongation, without any flickering, but as if touched by the wing of a passing bird, the fourth candle went out.

The queen uttered a terrible cry, sprang up, turned around and around, beating the air with her hands, and then fell senseless upon the floor.

As she fell, a door opened, and Andree, clad in a white cambric dressing-gown, appeared upon the threshold. On seeing the queen lying there like one dead, she stepped back, as if her first impulse had been to retire again; but, controlling herself almost instantly, she came quickly forward, lifted the queen in her arms, and, with a display of strength of which no one would have supposed her capable, carried her to the bed, guided only by the light of the two candles in the adjoining chamber. Then, drawing a bottle of smelling-salts from her pocket, she applied it to Marie Antoinette's nostrils.

Gradually the queen began to show signs of returning consciousness. She shivered, and sighed heavily once or twice, then opened her eyes. Recollecting what had occurred, and remembering the terrible omen, it was with a feeling of indescribable relief she realised that a woman was near her; and, flinging an arm around Andree's neck, she cried, "Oh, protect me! Save me!”

“You need no protector, as you are in the midst of friends,” replied Andree.

“The Comtesse de Charny!” exclaimed the queen, releasing Andree so suddenly that the movement was almost a repulse.

Neither the motion nor the sentiment that prompted it escaped Andrew's notice; but she remained perfectly motionless, as well as impassive.

“Does the queen desire me to assist her in undressing-”she asked calmly.

“No, countess; I can undress without any assistance. Go back to your room; you must feel the need of sleep.”

“I will return to my room, not to sleep, madame, but to watch over your Majesty's slumbers.”

And, bowing low to the queen, she retired to her room with a slow and stately step.

CHAPTER VII. THE ROAD TO PARIS.

That very same evening an exciting occurrence disturbed the quiet of Abbe Fortier's school for boys.

Sebastian Gilbert had disappeared about six o'clock, and at midnight he had not been found, though Abb6 Fortier and his sister, Alexandrine Fortier, had searched for him everywhere.

The servants could give Do information concerning his whereabouts; but Aunt Angelica, on leaving the church, where she had gone about eight o'clock to arrange the chairs, saw him run up the narrow street between the church and the prison, and then start towards that part of the park known as the Parterre.

This report only increased the abbe*'s anxiety, however. He was well aware of the strange hallucinations which sometimes took possession of Gilbert, especially when the person he called his mother appeared to him; and more than once during their walks, when he saw the lad rush off into the woods, he had feared the boy would disappear from sight altogether, and had sent the best runners in school in pursuit of him.

Aunt Angelica was right; it was Sebastian Gilbert she had seen running by in the twilight, and making straight for the Parterre. From the Parterre he had gone to the Pheasant Park, and after leaving the Pheasant Park, he darted up the narrow lane leading to Haramont. In three quarters of an hour he had reached that village.

It is an easy matter to guess his motive. He was in search of Pitou.

Unfortunately, Pitou had left the village just as Gilbert entered it; but the latter, being ignorant of this fact, went straight to the cottage.

There was no one in the house; but the door was unfastened, for Pitou never thought it necessary to lock a door, whether the house was occupied or not.

Sebastian was as familiar with the cottage as if it had been his own: so he found the flint and steel, lighted a candle, and waited; but he was too excited to wait quietly, or indeed to wait long.

He walked to and fro from the fireplace to the door, and from the door to the corner of the street; then, seeing no one coming, like Sister Ann, he hurried back to the house to ascertain if Pitou had not returned there in the meantime.

At last, seeing how time was passing, he went to a table, where he found pen, ink, and paper.

On the topmost sheet of paper were inscribed the names and ages of the thirty-three men composing the Haramont division of the National Guard, and commanded by Pitou.

Sebastian laid this sheet carefully to one side. Upon the second he wrote as follows: -

“My Dear Pitou, -I came here to tell you that I overheard a conversation about a week ago between the abbe and the vicar of Villers-Cotterets. It seems that the abbe is in communication with some of the Parisian aristocracy, and he told the vicar that preparations for a counter-revolution were being made at Versailles.

“This news, and what we heard in regard to the events that followed the banquet, made me feel very uneasy in regard to my father, but what I heard this evening has alarmed 1ne still more.

“The vicar came to see the abbe” again, and as I felt so anxious about my father, I thought there was no great harm in playing eavesdropper after what I heard the other day.

“It seems, my dear Pitou, that the people went out to Versailles and killed a good many persons, and among them was Monsieur George de Charny.

“The abbe” added: ' Let us speak low, so as not to alarm little Gilbert, whose father was at Versailles, and may have been killed with the others.'

“You can very readily understand that I -did not stop to listen any longer.

“I slipped out of my hiding-place, made my escape through the garden, and came here as fast as my legs could carry me, to beg you to take me to Paris, — a thing I am sure you would do very willingly, if you were here.

“But as yon are not, and as you may not return for some time, I am too anxious to wait; so I shall start alone.

“You need not be troubled about me. I know the way. Besides, I have two crowns left of the money my father gave me; so I can hire a seat in the first vehicle I meet on the road.

“P. S. I have made my letter rather long, in order that I might explain the cause of my departure, and also because I have been in hopes all the time that you would return before I finished it.

“It is finished now; you have not returned, so I must start. Farewell, or, rather, au revoir. If no misfortune has befallen my father, and if he is in no danger, I shall return at once. If he is in danger, I am determined to remain with him.

“Relieve Abbe” Fortier's mind in regard to me; but don't do it until to-morrow, when it will be too late for him to overtake me.

“It is very evident that you are not coming, so I will start. Once more, au revoir.”

Thereupon Sebastian, knowing Pitou's economical habits, extinguished the candle and went his way.

He had grown a good deal since we saw him last, and was now a rather pale lad about fifteen years of age, somewhat delicate in appearance, and a little nervous for one of his years, but almost a man in his feelings and ambitions, as well as in maturity of judgment.

He started off briskly in the direction of Largny, which soon became visible “in the pale light that falls from the stars,” as Corneille expresses it, and, passing through that village, soon reached the long ravine which extends from there to Vanciennes, where he took the main road, walking on more tranquilly now that he found himself on the king's highway.

True, he slackened his pace a little further on, when he came to a hill; but this was doubtless due to the fact that a few yards further on the road divided.

On reaching this spot, he suddenly halted. When he came from Paris, he had not noticed which road he took at this point; so he had no idea which road to take on returning.

Was it the one to the left, or to the right- The roads diverged rapidly and visibly; so if he made a mistake, he would go a long way out of his course before morning.

He looked around in the hope of seeing something by which he could determine the route he had formerly travelled; but this clue, which would probably have failed him even in the daytime, could not possibly be detected in the darkness.

Much discouraged, he had seated himself at the intersection of the roads, partly to rest, partly to reflect, when he fancied he heard the ring of horses' hoofs on the road behind him.

The sound came nearer and nearer, and presently two horsemen became distinctly visible even in the dim light that pervaded the landscape. One man was riding three or four yards in advance of the other, so Sebastian very sensibly concluded that the first man was the master, the second his servant, and jumped up to speak to the first horseman; but he, seeing a person suddenly spring out upon him from the roadside, imagined that some danger threatened him, and Sebastian saw his hand seek his holster.

“I am no thief, sir,” the boy cried hastily;”I am only a lad on my way to Paris in search of my father. I don't know which of these roads to take, and you will do me a great favour if you will tell me.”

The youthful ring in the speaker's voice, which seemed not altogether unfamiliar to the rider, and his well-chosen words, made such an impression that the horseman, in spite of his evident haste, checked his steed.

“Monsieur le Vicomte, don't you see that this is young Sebastian Gilbert, who attends Abbe* Fortier's school-” asked the lackey, who had just come up.”The same lad who often comes with Pitou to Mademoiselle Catherine's farm.”

“Is this really you, Sebastian-”

“Yes, Monsieur Isidore,” replied the lad. who, by this time, had recognised the rider perfectly.

“Well, my young friend, tell me how it happens that I find you alone on the road at this hour of the night-”

“I have told you already, Monsieur Isidore; I am on my way to Paris to find out if my father has been killed, or if he is still alive.”

“Alas! my poor boy, I am going to Paris for a similar reason; only there is no possibility of doubt in my case.”

“Yes, I know. Your brother -”

“One of my brothers — my brother — George was killed at Versailles yesterday morning. As our situations are so nearly identical, we had better keep together. You must be in as much of a hurry to reach Paris as I am.”

“Yes, yes, monsieur!”

“You cannot make the journey afoot.”

“I could very easily, but it would take too long; so I intend to hire a seat in the next vehicle I find going in the same direction.”

“But if you should not happen to find one-”

“I shall go afoot.”

“You can do better than that, my dear boy. Jump up behind my lackey.”

Sebastian withdrew his hand from Isidore's grasp.

“I thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte,” he said politely, but coldly.

Isidore saw that he had offended the high-spirited lad, and added hastily, -

“Or rather, now I come to think of it, jump up on his horse, and he can rejoin us in Paris. He can easily ascertain where I am by inquiring at the Tuileries.”

“Thank you, but I will not deprive you of his services,” replied Sebastian, in a softer voice, for he appreciated the delicacy of this proposal.

The preliminaries of peace being arranged, a little persuasion was all that was needed, however.

“I believe we can do still better than that, Sebastian. Jump up behind me. It is almost morning now. By ten o'clock we shall be in Dammartin, — that is about halfway. When we reach that town we will leave the two horses there in Baptiste's care, and hire a post-chaise to take us to Paris. That is exactly what I intended to do, so I shall not make any change in my plans on your account.”

“Is this really true, Monsieur Isidore-”

“Upon my word of honour it is.”

“Then -”The boy still hesitated, though he was dying to accept.

“Jump down, Baptiste, and assist monsieur to mount.”

“Thanks, but that is not necessary, Monsieur Isidore,” said Sebastian, springing up lightly behind the young viscount.

CHAPTER VIII. THE APPARITION.

The three continued their journey on horseback as far as Dammartin, as they had planned. Arriving there about ten o'clock, they all felt the need of something to eat, and it was also necessary to secure a post-chaise and horses. By noon they had breakfasted, and the horses and post- chaise were waiting at the door; but as they were subjected to several vexatious delays en route, it was half-past four when they reached the barrier, and fully five o'clock when they reached the Tuileries.

Even then they were obliged to wait some time before they could secure an interview with Lafayette, who had charge of the guards, and who, having made himself responsible to the Assembly for the king's safety, guarded the monarch with infinite care.

Sebastian had begged to be taken to the lodgings on the Rue Saint-Honor^ formerly occupied by his father; but Isidore had reminded him that as Doctor Gilbert was one of the king's physicians, the king would be sure to know exactly where he might be found.

A certain amount of court etiquette had already been established at the Tuileries, though the royal family had only arrived there the evening before, and Isidore was conducted up the staircase of Honour and into a large salon hung with green, and dimly lighted by two candelabra.

The rest of the palace was so dark that one was obliged to grope one's way about; for, it having been occupied by private individuals, there were none of the large chandeliers which usually illuminate royal abodes.

In about ten minutes the usher returned with the information that the Comte de Charny was with the queen. Doctor Gilbert had not been seen for some time, but it was quite probable, though not at all certain, that he was with the king, as the latter's valet said his Majesty was closeted with his physician; though, as the king had four assistant physicians besides his regular one, he could not say positively whether the one now with his Majesty was Doctor Gilbert or not. If it proved to be Doctor Gilbert, he would be notified that someone was waiting to see him in the anteroom when he left the royal chamber.

Sebastian breathed freely once again; he had nothing to fear, -his father was alive and well.

Just then the door opened and an usher called out, -

“Monsieur le Vicomte de Charny.”

“I am he,” responded Isidore, stepping forward.

“The queen grants you an audience.”

“You will wait for me, will you not, Sebastian- that is, unless Doctor Gilbert himself comes for you. Remember, I am responsible to your father for you.”

Isidore followed the usher, and Sebastian resumed his seat upon the sofa.

Relieved of all fear concerning his father, and feeling sure the doctor would forgive him for coming to Paris without permission, as he could not fail to regard the journey as a proof of filial devotion on his son's part, his thoughts reverted to the abbe and Pitou, and to the anxiety his flight must have caused them, and he began to wonder why, with all the delays they had encountered on the road, Pitou had not overtaken them before they reached Paris.

By a very natural sequence of ideas, when he thought of Pitou he thought of his usual surroundings,-that is to say, of the gigantic trees, the shady paths and dim vistas of the forest in which so much of his time was spent.

He thought, too, of the beautiful lady he had seen so often in his dreams, -and once, at least, so he believed, in reality, while walking through the forest of Satory, where she dashed by him in a magnificent open carriage drawn by two superb horses. He recollected, too, the deep emotion the sight of her always excited even in his dreams, and murmured under his breath, -

“My mother! my mother! my mother!”

Suddenly the door which had closed behind Isidore opened again; but this time it was a woman's form that appeared, and it corresponded so exactly with the one which was then engrossing his thoughts that the vision seemed to become suddenly imbued with life. But judge of his astonishment when he became convinced that he not only saw before him the idol of his dreams, but the proud beauty of Satory.

He sprang up, his lips quivered, his eyes grew big with wonder, the pupils dilated, and his chest heaved with emotion.

The lady moved on proudly, majestically, almost disdainfully, without paying the slightest attention to him; but in spite of her apparent calmness, a close observer would have known that she was in a state of intense nervous irritation, by her knitted brows, extreme pallor, and laboured breathing.

She crossed the room and opened a door directly opposite that by which she had entered This door led into the corridor, and Sebastian suddenly realised that in another moment she would have escaped him. He darted after her; but the corridor was dark, and he feared he should lose sight of her; but, hearing footsteps behind her, she turned her head. Sebastian uttered a low cry of joy. It was she.

The lady had just reached the top of the staircase, when she saw the lad rushing after her with outstretched arms, and, unable to understand the meaning of this pursuit, she turned, and began to descend the stairs with all possible speed.

“Madame, oh, madame!” cried the youth, imploringly.

The voice sent a strange thrill through the woman's entire being. An emotion, half sad, half ecstatic, filled her heart; but, unable to comprehend either the appeal or the emotion it excited, she quickened her pace still more, until her descent became almost a flight. But she was not far enough in advance of the boy to escape him. In fact, they readied the foot of the stairs almost at the same time.

The lady darted into the courtyard, where a carriage was awaiting her. A servant was holding the door open when she appeared. She sprang into it, but before the door could be closed, Sebastian was on the step, and seizing a fold of the lady's dress, kissed it passionately, again exclaiming beseechingly, -

“Madame, oh, madame!”

The young woman gazed at the lad who had frightened her so a moment before, and in softer tones than she was wont to use, she asked, -

“Why do you run after me- What do you want with me-”

“I want to see you! I want to kiss you!” panted the boy. Then, so low that only the lady could hear, he added:”I want to call you mother!”

The lady uttered a cry, and, taking the boy's face in her two hands, she pressed a warm kiss upon his forehead. Then, as if fearing someone would come and rob her of the child she had just found, she pulled him into the carriage and closed the door herself; then, lowering the window only just long enough to utter the words, she cried, -

“Home! Number nine, Rue Coq-Heron, the first gateway from the corner of the Rue Pistriere.”

Then, again turning to the lad, -

“What is your name-” she asked.

“Sebastian.”

“Come here, Sebastian, here to my heart!”

Then sinking back, half fainting, she murmured,-

“This strange feeling, what is it- Can it be what people call happiness-”

CHAPTER IX. ANDREE'S HOME.

So her child, — for the mother's heart never doubted for an instant that this was her child, — the child who had been torn from her one terrible night, a night of anguish and humiliation; this child whose abductor had disappeared, leaving no trace behind him save a footprint in the snow; this child for whom she had searched in vain, and whom her brother had crossed the ocean to find; this child for whom she had mourned fifteen long years, and whom she had despaired of ever seeing again, though at first she cursed and detested him so that she was not even glad to hear his first wail; this child, when she was least expecting it, had been restored to her as by a miracle! By a miracle, too, he had recognised her, pursued her in his turn, and called her mother; this child she held to her heart and pressed to her breast. Here was a child who, without having seen or known her, nevertheless loved her with a filial love.

There must be, then, an all-wise, beneficent, and overruling Providence that guided the affairs of men. The universe was not ruled by mere chance and fatality.

“Number nine, Rue Coq-Heron,” had been Andrew's order.

A strange coincidence it was, indeed, that brought this child back after fourteen years to the same house in which he had first seen the light, and from which he had been stolen by his father.

This house, purchased many years before by the elder Taverney, when his circumstances improved by reason of the favour with which the queen honoured his family, had been kept by Philippe de Taverney, and was cared for by an old concierge, whom the former owners seemed to have sold with the house, which now served as a stopping-place for the young baron when he returned from his travels, or for his sister when she spent a few days in Paris.

So, after the night spent at the Tuileries, Andree sent a servant to the house on the Hue Coq-Heron, with orders to have the pavilion, consisting of a small reception-room, dining-room, parlour, and bed-room, prepared for her occupancy; for she was resolved to hold herself as much aloof as possible from the rival who kept her sorrows ever in her mind.

She excused herself to the queen for not retaining the room assigned to her, on the plea that her Majesty should have one of her ladies of the bed-chamber near her, instead of one who was not specially attached to her person, and that the apartments allotted to the queen were so few in number that she, Andree, felt that she had no right to monopolise one.

The queen did not insist upon retaining Andree, or at least she insisted no more than courtesy required; so the countess had arranged to leave the Tuileries at five o'clock that same afternoon, and it was with that intention she was proceeding to the carriage, ordered for her in advance, when Sebastian followed and made himself known to her.

Everything seemed to combine in her favour that evening, in fact, for she had a house of her own at her disposal, where she could give free vent to her maternal affection without having a single looker-on or eavesdropper to fear; so it was with a feeling of very natural delight that she gave the address which has necessitated this slight digression on the part of the author.

It was six o'clock when the carriage drew up in front of the pavilion. Andree did not wait for the driver to leave the box, but opened the door herself. Giving the coachman nearly double his fare, she hastened into the house, holding her son tightly by the hand. Not until she reached the parlour did she pause.

The room was lighted only by the fire in the grate and two candles burning on the mantel. Andree seated herself on a small sofa, and drew her son down beside her.

“Oh, my child, my child!” she exclaimed.”And here! Only to think of it, here!”.

“What do you mean, mother-”

“I mean, my child, that you were born here in this very room fifteen years ago, and I bless the name of the merciful God who has restored you to me so miraculously after these many years.”

“Yes, miraculously indeed,” replied Sebastian, “for if I had not feared for my father's life, I should not have started alone and by night to Paris; I should not have been in doubt as to which road to take; I should not have questioned Monsieur Isidore de Charny as he rode by, and he would not have offered to take me to Paris with him, nor have brought me to the Tuileries, where I saw and recognised you.”

On hearing Sebastian utter the words, “If I had not feared for my father's life,” it seemed to Andree as if a dagger had pierced her heart, and she threw back her head and gasped for breath; but when she heard her son say that it was Monsieur Isidore de Charny who had brought him to Paris, and subsequently to the Tuileries, she experienced a feeling of intense relief, for it seemed, indeed, to be nothing short of a miracle that Sebastian had been restored to her through her husband's brother.

“You have explained your presence in Paris,” Andree exclaimed suddenly, after a short silence, “but you have not explained your recognition of me, nor your chase after me, nor how you came to call me mother.”

“How can I explain these things-” replied Sebastian, gazing at Andree with an expression of unutterable love.

“But something seemed to whisper to you as I passed, 1 Child, that is your mother!' did it not-”

“Yes; my heart.”

“Your heart-”

“Listen, mother; I have something strange to tell you. I have known you for ten years, mother.”

Andrei started violently.

“I often had strange dreams, which my father called hallucinations, and in these dreams I have seen you again and again. When I was a child, and when I played with the village children, my feelings and impressions were exactly like theirs; but as soon as I left the village and entered the forest, I seemed to hear strange sounds and voices. I heard a gown rustle past me; sometimes I even stretched out my hands to grasp it, but clutched only the empty air; sometimes I saw a vague and shadowy form gliding along before me, — the form of a woman, who seemed to beckon me on into the dim recesses of the forest. I followed her with outstretched arms, as mute as herself; for when I tried to speak, I could not utter a sound. I hastened on and on, without ever being able to overtake her, until the same power that had made her presence known to me gave the signal for her departure. Then the phantom gradually faded away; but she seemed to grieve over our enforced separation as much as I did, for she gazed after me wistfully as she vanished, while I, overcome by exhaustion when no longer sustained by her presence, fell prone to the earth.”

This double life, these vivid dreams, too much resembled those that Andree herself had experienced, for her not to recognise herself in her son.

“My poor boy!”she exclaimed, pressing him fondly to her heart;”it was in vain that human hatred and rancour tried to separate us. God was bringing us together without my even suspecting it. But I, less fortunate than yourself, saw you neither in my dreams nor in my waking moments; although when I passed you in the Green Salon, I felt a strange thrill through my entire being, and when you called me mother, I almost fainted at your touch, I knew you!”

“Mother, mother, mother!” repeated Sebastian, three times, as if to console her for not having heard this sweet name uttered for so long a time.

“Yes, yes, your mother,” replied the countess, with inexpressible fondness.

“And now we have found each other at last, we will never separate again. Promise me that.”

Andree gave a violent start. Absorbed in the present, she had almost forgotten the past, and had not even thought of the future.

“How I would bless you if you could achieve such a miracle, my poor child,” she murmured with a sigh.

“Leave it to me, and I will,” responded Sebastian, confidently.

“How-”

“I do not know the causes that have separated you from my father -”

Andree turned pale.

“But however grave these differences may be, my tears and entreaties will efface them.”

“Never! never!” exclaimed Andree, shaking her head.

“Listen!” urged Sebastian.”My father is devoted to me. I will prepare him for a meeting with you; I will tell him how happy you have made me, and some day I will take you to him and say, 'Here she is! See, father. how beautiful she is.'“

Andree pushed the lad from her almost roughly.

“Never, never!”she repeated. And this time her tone was a menace, and her face was ghastly in its pallor.

The lad recoiled in his turn.

“And why do you refuse to see my father,” he asked, almost sullenly.

“Why! you ask me why- '

“Yes,” replied Sebastian, “I ask you why.”

“Then I will tell you,” answered Andree, unable longer to control the tempest of wrath that was raging in her heart.” It is because your father is an infamous wretch, — a villain of the deepest dye.”

Sebastian sprang up from the sofa and confronted Andree.

“You say this of my father, madame!”he exclaimed, “of my father, that is, of Doctor Gilbert, who reared me so tenderly, and to whom I am indebted for everything, — the parent I have ever known! — for I was mistaken, madame, you are not my mother.”

He started towards the door, but Andree stopped him.

“Listen!”she exclaimed.”You do not know; you do not understand; you cannot judge!”

“No; but I can feel, and I feel that I do not love you any longer.”

Andree uttered a cry of despair.

But at that same instant a sound outside made her forget this crushing blow for a moment. The sound was caused by the opening of the outer gate, and by a carriage which had evidently stopped before the door.

“Wait,” whispered Andree;”wait, and be silent!”

The frightened lad obeyed.

The door of the antechamber opened, and footsteps were heard approaching the salon.

Andree stood silent and motionless, her eyes fixed upon the door, pale and cold as a statue of Suspense.

“Whom shall I announce-”the voice of the old porter was heard to say.

“The Comte de Charny, and ask if madame will do me the honour to receive me.”

“Into that room, child, into that room! He must not see you! He must not even know of your existence!”exclaimed Andree, in a hoarse whisper.

She pushed the frightened lad into the adjoining room; then, as she was about to close the door upon him, she gasped,-

' Remain there. When he goes, I will tell you all. No, no; no more of that! I will embrace you, and you will know that I am indeed your mother.”

Sebastian replied only by a sort of moan.

Just then the door of the salon opened, and the old concierge, cap in hand, delivered the message intrusted to him. Behind him, in the dim light, Andree's quick eye discerned the shadowy outlines of a human form.

“Show the Comte de Charny in,” she said, in the firmest tones she could command.

The porter stepped back, and the count, bowing low, appeared upon the threshold.

CHAPTER X. HUSBAND AND WIFE.

In mourning for his brother, killed only two days before, the Comte de Charny was dressed entirely in black. His mourning, too, like that of Hamlet, was not confined to his sombre garments, but extended to the inmost depths of his heart, and his pale face testified to the tears he had shed and the grief he had endured.

The countess saw all this in one swift glance. Handsome faces are never so handsome as after a shower of tears, and never had Charny looked so handsome.

She closed her eyes for an instant, throwing back her head as if to inhale a long breath, and pressing her hand upon her heart, which throbbed almost to bursting.

When she opened her eyes again, — it was barely a second after she had closed them,- Charny was still standing in the same place.

Andree’s gesture and look asked so plainly why he had not come in that he said, as if in response to the gesture and glance, -

“I was awaiting your permission, madame.”

He took a step forward.

“Am I to dismiss Monsieur le Comte's carriage-”asked the concierge.

A strange gleam darted from the count's eyes. Andree closed hers again for an instant, as if dazzled by it, but stood absolutely immovable, as if she had not even heard the question or seen the look.

Charny sought in vain in the face of this living statue for some clue to the answer he was expected to give; then, as the sudden tremor which seemed to pass over Andree was quite as likely to arise from a desire that he should go away as that he should remain, he replied, -

“Tell the coachman to wait.”

The door closed, and for the first time, probably, since their marriage, the count and countess found themselves alone together.

It was the count who first broke the silence.

“Pardon me, madame, but is my presence an intrusion- My carriage is at the door, and I can go as I came.”

“No, monsieur,” replied Andrei, quickly.”Quite the contrary. I knew that you were safe and well, but I am none the less glad to see you again after the events of the last few days.”

“You have done me the honour to inquire about me then, madame-”

“Most assuredly. Yesterday and this morning I heard you were at Versailles. This evening, they told me, you were with the queen.”

Did these last words contain a covert reproach, or were they innocently uttered-

The count, not knowing exactly what to think, was silent for an instant; but after an almost imperceptible interval, he said:”A sorrowful duty detained me at Versailles yesterday and to-day, madame; and a duty I consider equally sacred, in the situation in which the queen is now placed, led me to request an interview with her Majesty as soon as I arrived in Paris.”

Andree tried in vain to grasp the full meaning of the count's concluding words; then, feeling that she ought at least to make some response to his first remark, she said,-

“Yes, monsieur, yes. I have heard of the terrible loss you have sustained, and-”

“Yes, madame, it is as you say, a terrible loss to me. My sole consolation is the thought that poor George died, as Isidore will die, and as I shall probably die, — doing his duty.”

The words, “as I shall probably die,” touched Andrei deeply.

“Ah, monsieur, do you really believe that things are in such a desperate condition that more lives must be sacrificed to appease the wrath of Heaven-”

“I believe, madame, that the monarchy is doomed; and if it is to fall, I think that those who have participated in its splendour should go down with it.”

“That is true, and when that day comes, believe me, you will find others who, like yourself, will be capable of any sacrifice.”

“You have given too many proofs of your devotion in the past for any one — myself, least of all — to doubt that devotion in the future. Perhaps I have much less cause to doubt your loyalty than my own, inasmuch as I myself have just declined for the first time to obey an order of the queen's.”

“I do not understand you, monsieur.”

“On arriving from Versailles, I was ordered to present myself at once before her Majesty.”

Andree smiled sadly.

“That is very natural. The queen, seeing signs of serious trouble ahead, wishes to gather around her persons upon whom she can thoroughly rely.”

“You are mistaken, madame. It was not to attach me to

her household that she sent for me, but to order me away.”

“To order you away!”repeated Andree, advancing a step

towards the count; then, perceiving that Charny was still

standing near the door, she added, pointing to an armchair:

“Pardon me, I have kept you standing.” And as she spoke, she herself sank back on the sofa, really incapable of maintaining an upright position any longer.

“To order you away!” she repeated, with an emotion that was not untinged with joy at the thought that Charny and the queen would be separated.”For what purpose-”

“To fulfil a mission at Turin with the Comte d Artois and the Due de Bourbon, who have left France.”

“And you have accepted it-”

Charny looked searchingly at Andree.

“No, madame.”

Andree turned so pale that Charny made a step towards her as if to support her; but, noting the movement, Andree summoned up all her strength.

“No-” she faltered.”You have refused to obey an order from the queen, -you, monsieur!”

These last two words were uttered in a tone of intense astonishment and incredulity.

“I replied, madame, that I believed my presence much more necessary in Paris than in Turin, just now; that anyone could fulfil the mission with which her Majesty proposed to honour me, and that I had another brother who had just arrived from the provinces, and who was ready to go in my stead.”

“And the queen was more than willing to accept him as a substitute, probably,” remarked Andree, with a bitterness that did not escape the count's notice.

“No, madame, quite the contrary; for my refusal seemed to annoy her deeply, and I should probably have been obliged to go had the king not happened to come in just at that moment, so I appealed to him.”

“And the king said you were right, monsieur-” responded Andree, with an ironical smile.”The king thought with you, that you had better remain at the Tuileries. How kind his Majesty is!”

The count did not even wince at this thrust.

“The king said he thought my brother Isidore well adapted for the mission,” he answered quietly, “especially as, having just come to court for the first time, his absence would not be noticed. His Majesty added, too, that it would be cruel in the queen to insist upon my leaving you at such a time as this.”

“Me-”cried Andree, “the king mentioned me-”

“I repeated his very words, madame. Then, turning from the queen and addressing himself directly to me, he asked: ' But where is the dear countess- I have not seen her since yesterday evening.' As the question was put to me, there was nothing for me to do but reply, so I said: ' I so rarely have the pleasure of seeing Madame de Charny that it is impossible for me to say just where the countess is at this moment; but if the king desires any information on the subject, and will apply to the queen, she will probably be able to give it.' I insisted the more because, seeing the frown on the queen's brow when your name was mentioned, I fancied that something of an unpleasant nature must have taken place between her and yourself.”

Andree made no reply, so Charny went on.

“' Madame de Charny left the Tuileries about an hour ago, sire,' answered the queen. ' What! the countess has left the Tuileries-' exclaimed the king. ' Yes, sire.' — 'But she will return soon, of course-' — 'I do not think so.' -' You do not think so- Why, what possible reason could the countess, your best friend -' The queen, interrupted him with an impatient gesture. ' The countess did not find her room to her liking, I believe.' — ' Surely we could have found her more spacious quarters, and a room for the count, too. That would be an easy matter, it seems to me. And the countess has gone, where-' — ' I do not know.' — ' What! your most intimate friend leaves you, and you do not even ask where she is going-' — ' When my friends leave me they are at liberty to go where they please. I am never guilty of the indiscretion of asking them where they are going,' retorted the queen. 'A woman's quarrel, I suspect,' said the king in a whispered aside to me. Then aloud: ' I have something I wish to say to the queen, Monsieur de Charny. Go to my rooms and wait for me there. I should like to see your brother too as soon as possible. He must leave for Turin to-night. I am quite of your opinion. I need you here, and I shall keep you.' So I sent at once for my brother, who, they said, was waiting for me in the Green Salon.”

On hearing the words “in the Green Salon,” Andree, who had almost forgotten Sebastian, was suddenly reminded of what had just passed between her and her son, and cast an anxious glance at the door of the room in which she had concealed him.

“Pardon me, madame,” remarked Charny, noting the glance, “I am troubling you with matters which interest you very little, I fear; and probably you are asking yourself what brings me here.”

“No, monsieur. On the contrary, what you have done me the honour to relate excites my liveliest interest. As to your presence here, surely you must know that after the anxiety I have experienced on your account, your presence, which is convincing proof of your welfare — cannot be otherwise than a pleasure and relief to me. So go on with your story, I beg. You were just saying that the king requested you to wait for him in his apartments, and that you notified your brother of his Majesty's desire to see him also.”

“We went to the king's apartments, madame, and his Majesty came in about ten minutes afterwards. As the errand to the princes was urgent, the king spoke of that first. He wished their Highnesses to be informed at once of what was taking place here, and my brother left for Turin within a quarter of an hour. I was left alone with the king. His Majesty paced the floor for a while, absorbed in thought; then, pausing in front of me, he asked if I knew what had passed between the queen and my countess. 'No, sire,' I replied. 'Something unpleasant must certainly have occurred,' he remarked, ' for the queen is in a frightful temper, and seems to me, too, to be very unjust to the countess, — a very unusual thing with her, for she generally defends her friends valiantly, even when they are in the wrong.' — ' I know nothing whatever about the matter, sire,' I replied; ' but of one thing I am certain, if there be any just cause of complaint, it certainly did not originate with the countess.'“

“I thank you for having judged me so favourably, monsieur,” said Andree.

The count bowed, and then resumed his story.

“' Though the queen may not know where the countess is, you must,' continued the king. I was no better informed in regard to your whereabouts than the queen, but I replied: ' The countess has a house on the Rue Coq-Heron, and she has perhaps gone there.' — ' That is probably the case,' replied the king. ' Go and see. I will grant you leave of absence until to-morrow, on condition that you will bring the countess back with you.'“

Charny's eyes were fixed so meaningly on Andree as he uttered these words that she felt ill at ease; and, unable to evade his glance, she closed her eyes.

“'You will say to her from the king,' his Majesty continued, 'that we will find suitable accommodations for her here, not so spacious as at Versailles, probably, but commodious enough for a husband and wife. Go at once, count. She must be extremely anxious about you.' So here I am, by order of the king, which you will perhaps consider a sufficient excuse.”

“Do you suppose, monsieur, that any excuse is needed-”cried Andree, rising hurriedly and holding out both hands to Charny.

The count seized them eagerly, and pressed them to his lips.

Andree uttered a cry as if his kiss had scorched them, and sank back on the sofa; but her hands were so closely interlocked with those of Charny that she drew the count down with her, so the next moment he found himself seated by her side. But just then Andree, imagining she heard a sound in the adjoining room, hastily drew herself away; and the count, not knowing what feeling might have prompted this abrupt movement on the lady's part, instantly rose to his feet.

CHAPTER XI. MY LADY'S CHAMBER.

Charny stood gazing at his wife in silence for a moment; then he sighed heavily. Andree’s head drooped. It would be impossible to describe the feelings that agitated her heart. Married for four years to a man she adored, but whose every thought was apparently given to another, and who seemed utterly unmindful of the terrible sacrifice she had made in marrying him, she had seen and endured everything unmurmuringly, with the abnegation required of her in the twofold character of wife and subject. For some time past, noting the more kindly glances of her husband, and the sharp words of the queen, it had seemed to her that her devotion had not been entirely in vain; and even during the last few terrible days, Andrew's heart had throbbed rapturously more than once when some word, look, or gesture indicated that Charny was thinking of her, — watching for her with anxiety, and meeting her again with delight.

And now, just as this poor lonely creature had recovered her child, the roseate light of love, too, seemed about to suffuse her sombre horizon; only by a strange coincidence, which seemed to indicate that happiness was not for her, the two events were combined in such a fashion that one neutralized the other — that the presence of the child would destroy the growing love of the husband, and that the return of the husband would banish the child.

The count gazed at Andree with an expression which the young wife could not have mistaken, if she had raised her eyes to his.

“What am I to say to the king, madame-” the count asked at last.

Andree trembled at the sound of his voice, but, lifting her clear eyes to his face, she said, with a fair semblance of calmness, -

“I have suffered so much since I have been living at court that, as the queen allows me to withdraw from it, I accept her permission with gratitude. I was not born for such a life; for I have always found contentment, if not' happiness, in solitude. The happiest days of my life were those I spent in my father's lonely chateau, and subsequently in the Convent of Saint-Denis, with that noble daughter of France they called Madame Louise. So, with your permission, monsieur, I will remain here in this quiet abode, filled with pleasant though sad memories.”

“And this is your fixed determination, madame-”

“Yes, monsieur,” responded Andree”, gently but firmly.

“Then I have one request to make of you, madame. May I be permitted to visit you here-”

The eyes Andree lifted to Charny's were full of surprise and delight.

“Of course, monsieur; and as I shall receive no other visitors, whenever your duties at the Tuileries will allow you to waste a few moments here, I shall always be grateful to you for bestowing them on me, however short they may be.”

Never before had Charny seen such a charm in Andree’s glance, or such tenderness in her voice; and a thrill like that which accompanies a first kiss ran through his veins.

He glanced at the vacant place beside Andree; he would have given a year of his life to seat himself there, unrepulsed, but he dared not take such a liberty.

As for Andree, she would have given, not one year, but ten, to have him beside her; but unfortunately neither one of them understood the feelings of the other.

Again Charny was the first to break the silence.

“You say you have suffered much since you came to live

at court,” he remarked.”Has not the king always treated you with the greatest respect, and the queen with a tenderness almost amounting to idolatry-”

“The king has been kindness itself to me.”

“Will you permit me to say that you have answered my question only in part- Has not the queen been as kind as the king-”

Andree set her teeth as if her whole nature revolted from answering. Finally, she said, with an evident effort, -

“I have no cause to reproach the queen. I should be unfair if I did not do her Majesty the justice to say that.”

“I asked you this question, madame,” insisted Charny, "because it has seemed to me for some time past — though I am probably mistaken — that the friendship the queen once entertained for you has cooled very perceptibly.”

“That is quite possible; and that may be the reason I desire to leave the court.”

“But you will be so lonely here, I am afraid.”

“Have I not always been so-” she responded, with a sigh;”as a child, as a maiden, and as -”

She paused suddenly, feeling that she was going too far.

“Finish your sentence, I beg.”

“You have guessed what I was about to say, I am sure, monsieur. I was about to add, and as a wife.”

“Have I the happiness of hearing you deign to reproach me-”

“Reproach you- Great heavens! what right have I to reproach you- Can you suppose that I have forgotten the circumstances under which we were united- Unlike those who promise mutual love and protection at the foot of the altar, we promised eternal indifference, — entire separation. We have no cause to reproach ourselves unless one of us has forgotten this vow.

Again Charny heaved a deep sigh.

“I see that your mind is made up, madame,” he replied;”but you will at least permit me to make some inquiries into your mode of life here. Shall you not be rather uncomfortable-”

Andree smiled sadly.

“My father's house was so very plain that this pavilion, bare and comfortless as it must seem to you, is furnished with a luxuriousness to which I have not been accustomed.”

“But your charming rooms at Trianon, and at Versailles -”

“Oh, I knew very well that I was only a transient guest.”

“But will you have all that is needful here-”

“I shall have all I was accustomed to in former years, and more.”

“Let us see,” said Charny, wishing to have some idea of the apartments Andree was to occupy;”you seem to be very modest in your tastes; for the accommodations here must be extremely limited. I passed through a small anteroom; this is the only parlour, I judge, for this door” — opening one on the side of the room -”must lead into the dining-room; and this -”

Andree sprang between the count and the door towards which he was moving, and on the other side of which she pictured Sebastian standing angry and indignant.

“Not a step further, I beseech you, monsieur!”

“Yes, I understand,” said Charny, with a sigh;”it is the door of your sleeping-apartment, I suppose.”

“Yes, monsieur,” faltered Andree, in a smothered voice.

Charny looked at the countess; she was very pale, and seemed to be trembling in every limb. Never was abject terror more plainly depicted upon a human countenance than upon her face.

“Ah, madame,” he murmured sadly, “I knew that you did not love me, but I had no idea you hated me like this.”

He tottered for an instant like a drunken man, then, summoning up all his strength, he rushed out of the room with a despairing groan that pierced Andree’s very soul.

Andree watched him until he vanished from sight, then listened breathlessly until the sound of his carriage wheels died away in the distance. It seemed to her that her heart would surely break; and, feeling the need of all her maternal affection with which to combat this other love, she rushed into her bedroom, exclaiming wildly, -

“Sebastian! oh, Sebastian!”

But no voice responded. She listened in vain for an answer to her despairing cry. Glancing around, she saw that the room was empty.

But she could hardly believe her eyes; so she called out a second time, -

“Sebastian! Sebastian!”

The same silence reigned. Then, and not until then, did she perceive that the window was open, and that the air from outside was making the light of the night-lamp flicker wildly.

It was the very same window that had been left open fifteen years before, when her child was stolen from her.

“He has fled!”she cried.”Did he not tell me I was not his mother-”

And realising that she had lost both husband and child at the very moment she thought she had regained them, Andree” threw herself despairingly upon the bed, with arms outstretched and hands tightly clenched. Her powers of endurance were exhausted; resignation, or even prayer, was an impossibility now. Her anguish could vent itself only in tears and sobs and moans.

An hour or more passed, and still she remained in this condition of absolute prostration, completely oblivious to everything else in the world; then she suddenly became conscious of a sensation which was even more terrible than her grief, — a sensation she had experienced only three or four times before, and always previous to some great crisis in her life.

She rose to her feet almost without any volition of her own; the power of speech deserted her entirely; her brain seemed in a -whirl. Through the sort of mist that obscured her vision, she fancied she could see that she was no longer alone in the room. As her tears dried, and she could see more clearly, she perceived that a man, who seemed to have just leaped over the window ledge, was standing before her. She tried to call out, to extend her hand towards the bell-rope, but could not. She began to feel that irresistible sensation of torpor which had always warned her of Balsamo's presence in years gone by. At last, in the man who was standing before her, she recognised Gilbert.

How did it happen that Gilbert, the despised and execrated father, was there instead of the child for whom she was yearning-

This is something we will endeavour to explain to the reader.

CHAPTER XII. FAMILIAR SCENES.

It was Doctor Gilbert who was closeted with the king when Isidore de Charny and Sebastian reached the Tuileries.

As he left the king's apartments, an attendant notified him that he was wanted in the Green Salon, and he was about directing his steps towards that apartment when a neighbouring door opened, giving passage to a young man who paused an instant, as if in doubt whether to turn to the right or the left.

“Monsieur Isidore de Charny!” exclaimed Gilbert.

“Doctor Gilbert!” exclaimed Isidore, equally surprised.

“Was it you who did me the honour to ask for me-”

“Precisely, doctor; I and — and some one else.”

“Who-”

“It would be cruel in me to keep you here any longer. Come, or, rather, will you have the goodness to conduct me to the apartment known as the Green Salon-”

“I am not very much more familiar with the interior of the palace than you are, but I will endeavour to act as your guide.”

They made their way to the room referred to, but, to Isidore's surprise and consternation, there was no one in the salon. Isidore looked eagerly around for an usher, but there was no such functionary even in the adjoining ante-chamber.

“The man cannot be very far off,” remarked Gilbert.”In the mean time, would it be any breach of confidence on your part to tell me who desires to see me-”

“Can't you guess-”

“No.”

“It is some one I met on the road, coming on foot to Paris.”

“Do you mean Pitou-”

“No, doctor; I mean your son, Sebastian.”

“Sebastian! Then where is he-”

“He promised to wait for me here. I cannot imagine where he has gone.”

Just then the usher came in.

“What has become of the lad I left here-” asked Isidore.”

“What lad-” inquired the usher.

“Think a moment,” interposed the doctor.”The lad was my son. He is a stranger in the city, and if he has left the palace he is in great danger of being lost.”

“Is it a lad about fifteen years old you are inquiring for-” asked a second usher, who had just come in.

“Yes.”

“I saw him in the corridor following a lady.”

“Do you know who the lady was-”

“No. Her mantle was drawn up close about her eyes, so I could not see her face. She was almost running, too, and the boy was pursuing her, calling, ' Madame, madame!'“

“Let us go down and question the concierge; perhaps he can give us some information on the subject.”

“Yes, I saw a lady answering to that description, and, followed by a boy, get in a carriage here at the door,” the concierge replied, on being questioned.”She pulled the boy into the carriage, closed the door, gave the coachman an address, and drove away.”

“Do you recollect the address-”

“Perfectly. Number nine, Hue Coq-Heron, near the Rue Platriere.”

Gilbert gave a violent start.

“Why, that is my sister-in-law's,-the Comtesse de Charny's address!” exclaimed Isidore.

“Fate!” muttered Gilbert.

The world was too philosophical in those days to say Providence.

Then he said to himself:”Sebastian recognised her.”

“Let us go and see the countess at once!”cried Isidore.

But Gilbert, realising the trying position in which Andree would be placed if he presented himself before her in company with her husband's brother, said, -

“My son is perfectly safe with the countess, and as I already have the honour of that lady's acquaintance, it is not necessary for you to take the trouble to accompany me, when there must be so many matters requiring your attention, as, from what I heard in the king's apartments, I infer you are about to depart for Turin.”

“If you do not consider it necessary, of course, doctor-”

“I beg you will give yourself no further anxiety. I am sure my son is safe, and that I shall have no difficulty in finding him.”

As soon as Isidore had re-entered the palace, Doctor Gilbert hastened to the Rue Coq-Heron. He recognised the house at a glance, and, unable to invent any pretext for entering it, resolved to gain an access in some other way.

He tried the gate, but found it securely fastened. Then he walked along the wall; but that was at least ten feet high, and there was no waggon near which would assist him in scaling it; so he hurried back to the Rue Platriere, casting a glance as he passed at the fountain, to which he had often repaired, sixteen years before, to moisten the hard black bread which he had owed to the generosity of the kind-hearted Therese and of the famous Rousseau.

They were both dead; he had been successful in life, and had won both fame and fortune: but was he any happier than in those days when, consumed by a mad passion, he came to moisten his crust in the waters of this fountain- A few steps more brought him to a small gate, the upper part of which consisted of an iron grating. Gilbert recollected that sometimes at night, in years gone by, the occupants of this house had forgotten to draw the latch-string inside; for the house then, as now, was occupied by people too poor to feel any fear of thieves.

He passed his hand over the gate, and, to his great delight, found the string hanging out. He pulled it, the gate opened, and he found himself in a damp, dark alley, with a winding stairway at the farther end of it.

Gilbert groped his way to it. After he had mounted about ten steps, he paused. A dim light struggling through dingy glass showed that there was a window at this point. Gilbert searched for the little bolt that fastened the window, found it, opened the window, and made his way down into the garden below, exactly as he had done twice before.

Despite the many years that had elapsed, Gilbert recognised every nook and corner of the garden, and every little peculiarity in its arrangement, even the vine-clad corner in which the gardener kept his ladder.

He did not know whether or not the doors were fastened at this hour, or whether the count was with his wife; but though he was resolved to regain possession of Sebastian, he felt that he ought not to compromise Andree, and, consequently, that it was absolutely necessary that he should see her alone.

Suddenly a faint light revealed an open casement not far from him, — a window he recognised, for it was through that very window he had stolen the very child for whom he was now searching.

He stepped aside into the shadow, so that he could see without being seen.

From the spot where he now stood, he could see the open door leading into the brightly lighted parlour; and almost on a line with the door stood a bed, on which a woman with dishevelled hair was lying motionless, though a hoarse, guttural sound, almost like a death-rattle, escaped her lips now and then.

Gilbert crept slowly and cautiously to the window, until his hand rested upon the sill.

The woman was Andree”, and she was alone; but why was she in this agony of grief- Was this grief connected in any way with Sebastian-

He could only ascertain by questioning her; so he climbed noiselessly in at the window, and the two found themselves once more face to face.

CHAPTER XIII. SEBASTIAN'S ADVENTURES.

Andree's first sensation on perceiving Gilbert was not only one of intense terror, but of intense aversion as well.

To her he was still that same wretched little plebeian that had haunted the groves of Trianon, not Gilbert the American, the friend of Lafayette and Washington, ennobled by study and science, and by the power of his own brilliant genius.

Gilbert, on the contrary, though he no longer felt for Andree that ardent passion which had led him to commit a crime for her sake, still regarded her with that deep and tender interest which impels a man to render a woman a service even at the cost of his own life. He felt, too, that he was the cause of all Andree’s misfortunes, and that he should not atone until he had insured her an amount of happiness equal to the amount of misery she had suffered through him.

On finding this woman he had left years before in such despair a prey to new misfortunes, his heart was moved with compassion; so, instead of making use of the mesmeric power he had formerly employed with such success, he resolved to talk with her kindly, and not to resort to his former methods unless he found it absolutely necessary to do so.

Andree was the first to speak.

“What do you desire, monsieur-” she gasped.”How did you gain an entrance here-”

“In the same manner as on a previous occasion; so you need have no fear that any one suspects my presence here. Why did I come- I came to recover a treasure, valueless to you, but inconceivably precious to me, — my son. I want you to tell me where my son is, -my son, whom you enticed away and brought here.”

“How do I know what has become of him- He has fled from me. You have taught him only too effectually to hate his mother.”

“His mother, madame! Are you really his mother-”

“He sees my grief, he has heard my moans, he has witnessed my despair, and yet he asks if I am a mother-” cried Andree, passionately.

“Then you are really ignorant of his whereabouts-”

“He has fled, I tell you! I left him here in this room; when I returned I found the window open and the chamber unoccupied.”

“Great heavens! where can he have gone-” cried Gilbert.”The poor boy knows nothing about Paris, and it is nearly midnight.”

“Do you fear that some misfortune has befallen him-”

“That is what we must find out. That is what you must tell me.”

He extended his hand towards Andrei.

“Oh, monsieur, monsieur!” she pleaded, shrinking from him in mortal terror.

“Have no fears, madame; you are sacred in my eyes. It is a mother I am about to question concerning the fate of her son.”

Andree sighed heavily, and sank into an arm-chair, murmuring Sebastian's name.

“Now sleep,” commanded Gilbert;”but tell me what you see in your sleep.”

“I am asleep,” answered Andree, dreamily.

“Must I employ all my will power, or will you answer of your own accord-”

“Will you promise that you will never again tell my child that I am not his mother-”

“That depends. Do you love him-”

“Yes, yes! devotedly!”

“Then you are his mother, as I am his father, madame. And you will answer freely-”he added.

“Will you allow me to see him again-”

“Have I not said that you are his mother, madame- You love your child, so you shall see him again.”

“Oh, thank you!” exclaimed Andree, clasping her hands joyfully.”Now question me — I see -”

“You see what-”

“Let me follow him from the moment of his departure, so that I may make no mistake.”

“So be it. Where did you see him first-”

“In the Green Salon.”

“Where did he overtake you-”

“Just as I was stepping into the carriage.”

“Into what room did you take him-”

“Into the parlour there.”

“Where did he sit-”

“On the sofa, by my side.”

“Did he remain there long-”

“About half an hour.”

“Why did he leave you-”

“Because we heard a carriage stop before the door.”

“Who was in the carriage-”

Andree hesitated.

“Who was in the carriage-”repeated Gilbert, in a firmer tone, and with a stronger effort of will power.

“The Comte de Charny.”

“Where did you conceal the lad-”

“I pushed him into this bedroom.”

“What did he say as he entered-”

“That I was not his mother.”

“Why did he say that- Speak, I must know.”

“Because I had said to him that -”

“Go on.”

“That you were an — an infamous scoundrel.”

“Look into the poor boy's heart and see the misery you have caused him, madame.”

“Oh, Heaven! Forgive me, my poor child; forgive me!”

“Did the count suspect that the boy was here-”

“No.”

“You are sure-”

“Yes.”

“Then why did he not remain-”

“The count never remains with me.”

“Then why did he come-”

Andree sat perfectly silent for a moment, with wildly staring eyes, as if trying to see through inky darkness.

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed suddenly.”Oh, Oliver! dear, dear Oliver!”

Gilbert gazed at her with astonishment.

“Oh, unfortunate woman that I am!”murmured Andree.”He was beginning to love me. It was to remain near me that he declined that mission. He loves me! he loves me!”

Gilbert was beginning to understand this strange situation.

“And do you love him-”he asked.

Andree sighed, but did not reply.

“Do you love him-”Gilbert repeated.

“Why do you ask-”

“Read my thoughts.”

“I see. Your intentions are good. You would like to make me happy enough for me to forget all the misery you have caused me; but I would rather be wretched all my life than owe my happiness to you. I hate you, and I shall continue to hate you as long as I live!”

“Poor weak human nature!”murmured Gilbert.”Is so much earthly felicity granted you that you can afford to choose which you will accept- Do you love him-”he added.

“Yes.”

“Since when-”

“Ever since the first time I saw him, — ever since the

day he drove from Paris to Versailles with the queen and myself.”

“Do you know what love is, Andree-” asked Gilbert, sadly.

“I know that one's ability to love is exactly commensurate with one's capacity for suffering.”

“You speak truly. Your words are indeed those of a wife and mother. A rough diamond at first, you are being transformed by the hands of that grim lapidary men call Sorrow. But let us return to Sebastian.”

“Yes, yes; let us return to him. Don't let me think of the count, or I shall perhaps follow him instead of my child.”

“That is right, wife, forget thy husband; mother, think only of thy child. Where was the boy when you were talking with the count-”

“He was listening there, — at the door.”

“How much of the conversation did he overhear-”

“All the first part of it.”

“When did he decide to leave the house-”

“When the count -”

Andree paused.

“When-”demanded Gilbert, pitilessly.

“When Charny kissed my hand, and I uttered a cry.”

“You can see him, then-”

“Yes, I can see him with his brow deeply furrowed, his lips compressed, and his clenched hands pressed against his breast.”

“Follow him; do not lose sight of him from that moment.”

“I see him! I see him!”exclaimed Andree.

“What is he doing-”

“He is looking around to see if there is not a door leading into the garden. Seeing none, he opens the window, gives a last glance towards the parlour, leaps over the sill, and disappears.”

“Follow him out into the night.”

«I cannot.”

Gilbert came nearer and waved his hand before her eyes.

“You know there is no such thing as darkness for you,” he said.”Now look.”

“Ah, I see him running through the alley. He reaches the gate, opens it, and slips out into the Rue Platriere. He stops to speak to a woman who is passing.”

“Listen, and you will hear what he says.”

“I am listening.”

“What does he ask-”

“He asks her to direct him to the Rue Saint-Honore!'

“That is where I live. He is looking for me. He is waiting for me in my rooms now, perhaps.”

“No,” replied Andree;”no -”

«Then where is he-”

“Let me follow him, or I shall lose sight of him. I see him now. He is running across the Place du Palais- Royal. He stops to inquire his way again, then hastens on. He reaches the Rue Richelieu. Now he is at the corner of the Neuve-Rue Saint-Roch. Stop, Sebastian, stop! Don't you see that carriage coming up the Rue de la Sourdiere- I do! 0 God! the horses!”

Andree uttered a piercing shriek and sprang up; great drops of sweat were rolling down her face.

“God be praised! the chest of the horse strikes him and hurls him to one side, out of the reach of the wheel. He lies there senseless, but he is not dead. Oh, no, no! he is not dead; he is only unconscious. Help, help! It is my child! it is my child lying there!”

And with a heart-rending cry, Andree fell back half fainting in her chair.

In spite of Gilbert's intense desire to know more, he granted Andree the moment's rest she so greatly needed. He feared that if he persisted too far, a fibre of her heart would break, or a vein burst in her brain; but as soon as he thought he could question her with safety,-

“Well, what then-”he asked.

“Wait, wait!”replied Andree.”A crowd has gathered around him. 0 Heaven! let me pass! It is my son who is hurt. O my God! is there no physician or surgeon in all this crowd-”

“Yes, yes! I will go at once!”exclaimed Gilbert.

“Wait!”cried Andree, seizing him by the arm.”The crowd opens! Some one is coming. Hurry, hurry, monsieur! You must see that he is not dead, and that you can save him. Oh, oh!”she shrieked, in evident terror.

“Great Heaven! what is it-”asked Gilbert, wildly.

“That man shall not touch my child!”cried Andree.”He is not a man; he is a demon, a vampire. Oh, horrible, horrible!”

“For Heaven's sake do not lose sight of Sebastian, madame,” pleaded Gilbert, shuddering.

“Oh, be calm, be calm! I am,” Andree responded.

“What is the man doing-”

“He is taking Sebastian away. They go up the Eue de la Sourdiere and turn into a narrow street on the left. They approach a small door which is standing open, and then descend several steps. He lays Sebastian on a table covered with writing materials. He takes off the boy's coat and rolls up his sleeves. He bandages his arm with rags brought to him by a woman who is as dirty and hideous-looking as himself. He opens a case and takes out a lancet. He is going to bleed him. Oh, I will not see my son's blood! I will not!”

“Then go back and count the steps of the stairway.”

“I have. There are eleven.”

“Look at the door carefully and see if you notice anything peculiar about it-”

“Yes, there is a small square aperture, with a bar across it.”

“That is all I need to know.”

“Bun, and you will find him exactly where I told you.”

“Do you wish to wake at once and remember what you have seen, or sleep until to-morrow morning, when you will have forgotten all about it-”

“Wake me now.”

Gilbert pressed his thumbs upon her eyebrows, and breathed on her forehead, uttering the single word, “Awake!”

The glazed look left Andrew's eyes, and her limbs instantly became supple; but she gazed at Gilbert almost in terror, and repeated the exhortation she had uttered in her mesmeric slumber.

“Run, run!” she cried, “and take him away from that terrible man; I am afraid of him.”

CHAPTER XIV. THE MAN OF BLOOD.

Gilbert needed no urging. As it would require too much time to return as he had come, he ran straight to the gateway on the Rue Coq-Heron, opened it unassisted, and darted out into the street.

Remembering perfectly the route described by Andree, he crossed the Place du Palais-Royal as the lad had done, hastened down the Rue Saint-Honor^ as far as the corner of the Rue de la Sourdiere, then on to the narrow cross street known as the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe, where he began a careful examination of the dwellings bordering it.

In the third house on the right-hand side he perceived the door with a small square aperture that Andree had described. This corresponded so perfectly with her description that there could be no mistake. He knocked, but there was no response. He knocked a second time, and fancied he heard some one creeping cautiously up the stairs. He knocked a third time.

“Who's there-” asked a woman's voice.

“Open the door! you have nothing to fear. I am the father of the injured lad you brought here.”

“Open the door, Albertine!” said another voice;”it is Doctor Gilbert!”

“My father!” exclaimed a third voice, which Gilbert recognised as that of Sebastian, and heaved a sigh of relief.

The door opened, and Gilbert rushed down the steps. At the bottom he found himself in a basement room lighted by a single lamp which was standing on a table strewn with written and printed papers, as Andree had described. On a cot in one corner of the room lay Sebastian. Gilbert's strong paternal love overcame his usual self-control, and he flew to his son and clasped him tenderly in his arms, -taking care, however, not to hurt the bleeding arm or wounded chest.

After a long embrace, Gilbert turned to his host, upon whom he had scarcely bestowed a glance before.

The man was standing with his legs wide apart, and with one hand resting on the table and the other on his hip, apparently enjoying the scene immensely.

“Look, Albertine,” he exclaimed, “and give thanks with me that chance has permitted me to render a service to one of my brother physicians!”

As the man uttered these words, Gilbert turned, and glanced for the first time at the speaker.

There were brilliant green and yellow lights in his grey eyes, which projected from his head like those of a toad; and Gilbert shuddered in spite of himself. It seemed to him that he had already seen this man in some frightful dream, through a bloody veil, as it were.

Gilbert turned again to Sebastian, and kissed him still more tenderly. Then, conquering his repugnance, he walked over to the stranger.

“I beg you will accept the heartfelt thanks of a grateful father, monsieur,” he said earnestly.

“I have done only my duty, monsieur,” responded the surgeon. '“I am a man, and no human being is a stranger to me,' as Terence says; besides, I have a very tender heart, and I cannot bear to see even an insect suffer,- much less a human being like myself.”

“May I take the liberty of asking the name of the philanthropist to whom I have the pleasure of speaking-”

“You do not know me-” said the surgeon, with a smile which was intended to be benevolent, but which was only hideous.”Never mind, I know you. You are Doctor Gilbert, the friend of Washington and Lafayette,” — he seemed to lay special stress upon this last name,-”the honest Utopian who wrote those fine essays on 'Constitutional Monarchies,' which you dedicated to his Majesty Louis XVI.,-a compliment for which he rewarded you by sending you to the Bastille as soon as you set foot in France. You tried to save him by showing him the drift of public sentiment, and he rewarded you by shutting you up in prison, — another example of royal gratitude, that is all.”

He laughed again, a sneering, menacing laugh this time.

“As you know me so well, sir, it is only the more natural that I should desire the honour of your acquaintance in turn.”

“Oh, we made each other's acquaintance a long time ago, monsieur,” responded the surgeon.”It was twenty years ago, on a terrible night, -the night of the thirtieth of May, 1770. You were about the age of that lad there when you were brought in wounded and unconscious. You were brought to me by my teacher, Rousseau, and I laid you on a table surrounded with lifeless bodies and amputated limbs. It is a comfort to me now to remember that I was able to save some valuable lives that terrible night, — thanks to a knife which knew how far to cut in order to cure.”

“Then you are Jean Paul Marat, monsieur!” exclaimed Gilbert, recoiling a step, in spite of himself.

“You see how potent my name is, Albertine,” said Marat, with a sinister laugh.

“But why are you here in this dingy room- I thought you were the physician of the Comte d'Artois-”

“His veterinarian, you mean,” responded Marat.”But the prince has emigrated: no prince, no stables, you see; no stables, no veterinary surgeon. I had sent in my resignation, however. I will not truckle to tyrants.”

“But why are you here in this cellar-”insisted Gilbert.

“Because I am a patriot, Mr. Philosopher; because I make it my business to denounce the ambitious; because Bailly fears me; because Necker hates me; because Lafayette has set a price on my head, — ambitious scoundrel and tyrant that he is. But I defy him. From the grim depths of my cellar I denounce the dictator. Do you know what he is up to now-”

“No.”

“He is having fifteen thousand snuff-boxes made, with his portrait upon each one of them. I intend to beseech all good citizens to smash every one they see. They are connected in some way, I am sure, with some royalist plot; for you know how Lafayette is conspiring with the queen, while the poor king weeps over the follies the Austrian makes him commit.”

“Conspiring with the queen-” repeated Gilbert.

“Yes, with the queen. You can't deny that she is continually concocting some nefarious plot or other. Why, she has distributed so many white cockades of late that white ribbon has advanced three sous per yard. There can be no doubt that this is true, for I heard it from one of Madame Bertin's workwomen, — Madame Bertin is the queen's milliner, -who told me that she had been hard at work all the morning with her Majesty.”

“But where and how do you denounce all this-”

“In my journal, a paper I have recently established, and of which I have published about twenty numbers. ' The Friend of the People,' I call it. A political and strictly impartial newspaper. To pay for the paper and press work, you can see for yourself, as you look around you, that I have sold everything, even to the sheets and coverlets of the bed on which your son is lying.”

“And who are your co-labourers in this important enterprise-”

“My co-labourers!”repeated Marat.”Turkeys go in flocks, but the eagle soars alone. My only co-labourers are these,” he added, indicating his head and hands.

“You see that table-” he continued;”it is Vulcan's workshop. It is there he forges his thunderbolts. Every night I write what is to appear in the next day's issue; other journalists write at intervals, and have occasional assistance, at least. I, never! ' The Friend of the People' — a copy of it lies there now — is entirely the work of my hand. It is not merely a journal; it is a personality, it is myself.”

“But how do you manage to accomplish such a tremendous amount of work-”inquired Gilbert.

“Ah, that is one of Nature's secrets. Death and I have entered into a solemn compact. I agree to give Death ten years of my life, and he gives me certain days when I require no rest, and certain nights when I require no sleep. I write all day and all night. Lafayette's spies compel me to live in concealment; but this enforced seclusion leaves my mind and time free for my work, and only increases my activity. This life seemed intolerable to me at first; but now I am really beginning to enjoy it. I like to contemplate the world through the dim light of my cellar. From my underground cell I rule the realm of the living. With one hand I demolish Newton, Franklin, Laplace, Monge, and Lavoisier; with the other I overthrow Bailly, Necker, and Lafayette. I demolish them all, as Samson demolished the temple; and though I may be crushed by the falling fragments, I shall perhaps entomb royalty itself in the ruins.”

Gilbert shuddered in spite of himself. This man in his rags, in his poverty-stricken abode, was repeating almost the very words Cagliostro, in richly embroidered garments, had uttered in his palace.

“Popular as you are, why have you never endeavoured to secure a nomination to the National Assembly-” asked Gilbert.

“Because the time has not yet come,” answered Marat. Then, with an air of regret, he added:”Ah! if I could be at the head of the nation, sustained by a few thousand determined men, I would be willing to guarantee that in six weeks the Constitution would be perfect; that the political machinery would be working so well that no one would dare to tamper with it; that the nation would be happy and prosperous and powerful; and that it would remain so as long as my life was spared.”

The vainglorious creature appeared to undergo a transformation. His eyes seemed filled with blood; his tawny skin was bathed in sweat; the monster was grand in his hideousness, as others are grand in their beauty.

“But I am not the head of the nation,” he continued, “and I have not the few thousand supporters that I need. Nevertheless, I am a journalist; I have my desk, my paper, and my pens; I have my subscribers, my readers, to whom I am an oracle, a prophet, a seer. In the first issue of ' The Friend of the People' I denounced the aristocrats, and said that there were six hundred criminals in France who should be hanged without delay. I made a mistake. The fifth and sixth of October have come and gone, and my vision is clearer. It is not six hundred aristocrats that ought to be hanged, but ten, yes, twenty thousand.”

Gilbert smiled. When fury reaches a point like this, it seems simply ridiculous.

“Take care; there won't be hemp enough in France for what you want to do, and the price of rope will advance enormously.”

“We shall find a substitute, I hope,” replied Marat.”Do you know whom I am expecting to-night- It is one of my brother physicians, whom you probably know by name, — Citizen Guillotin. Do you know what his latest invention is- It is a wonderful machine that kills without inflicting the slightest pain; for death should be a punishment, not torture.”

Gilbert shuddered. Again this man reminded him of Cagliostro; this machine was undoubtedly the very one to which Cagliostro had referred.

“Some one is rapping now,” remarked Marat.”It is he. Open the door, Albertine!” Then, turning to Gilbert, lie added enthusiastically, “You’ll now have a chance to see a machine that requires only one man to work it, but that will cut off three hundred heads a day.”

“And cut them off without inflicting the slightest pain; causing no other sensation, in fact, than that of a slight coolness around the neck,” added a sweet, flute-like voice behind Marat.

“Ah, it is you, doctor!” exclaimed Marat, turning to a small man about forty or forty-five years of age, whose neat dress and mild manner made him a strange contrast to his host, and who carried a box in his hand.”What have you there-”

“A model of my famous machine, my dear Marat. But if I am not very much mistaken, it is Doctor Gilbert I see standing there.”

“The same, doctor,” answered Gilbert, bowing.

“I am delighted to meet you, monsieur, for I should be charmed to have the opinion of so distinguished a man as yourself in regard to my invention. I must tell you, my dear Marat, that I have found a very skilful carpenter, — one Master Guidon, — who is going to make one of my machines on a large scale. It will be expensive, — he wants five thousand five hundred francs; but no sacrifice is too great for the good of humanity. It will be completed in two months, and I shall then offer it to the National Assembly. I hope you will indorse the proposition in your excellent paper, Marat; though really my machine speaks for itself, as you will see with your own eyes, Monsieur Gilbert: but a few lines in ' The Friend of the People ' will do no harm.”

“Oh, you may feel easy on that score. It will not be a few lines I shall devote to it, but an entire issue.”

“You are very kind, my dear Marat; but I don't want you to go it blind, as the saying is, but prefer you should judge for yourself.”

He drew another and much smaller box from his pocket; and a queer noise inside indicated that it was occupied by some animal or animals that were anxious to escape from their prison house. This sound did not escape Marat's keen ear.

“What have you got in here-”he asked, laying his hand on the box.

“Take care! don't let them out, for we couldn't catch them again. They are the mice we are going to decapitate. Why, Doctor Gilbert, you don't intend to leave us-” he remarked, seeing the doctor preparing to take his sleeping son in his arms.

“Yes, very much to my regret,” replied Gilbert;”but my son, who was knocked down in the street this evening by a horse, and who was skilfully relieved by Doctor Marat, — to whom I, too, once owed my life, by the way, under similar circumstances,-needs rest and care; so I shall not be able to witness your very interesting experiment.”

“But you will promise to be present at our public exhibition of the invention two months from now, doctor-”

“Certainly.”

“I shall hold you to your promise.”

“Very well.”

“I am sure I need not ask you to keep my place of abode a secret, doctor,” remarked Marat.

“Certainly not.”

“Because, if your friend Lafayette should discover it, he would have me shot like a dog, or hanged like a thief.”

“We will soon put a stop to such barbarous deaths as shooting and hanging!” cried Guillotin.”We shall have in their stead a pleasant, easy, instantaneous death, — such a death as men who are disgusted with life, and long to put an end to it, will prefer to a natural death. Come and look at my machine, Marat.”

CHAPTER XV. CATHERINE.

From the Rue de la Sourdiere to the house where Gilbert lodged, on the Sue Saint-Honor^, was but a step.

The cold air aroused Sebastian, and he insisted upon walking; but his father would not consent.

On reaching his door, the doctor set Sebastian on his feet for a moment, and rapped loudly, so that he should not be obliged to wait long even if the concierge was asleep.

Soon a heavy but quick step was heard.

“Is that you, Monsieur Gilbert-” inquired some one within.

“That is Pitou's voice,” cried Sebastian.

“Ah! God be praised! Sebastian is found!”exclaimed Pitou, opening the door. Then, turning towards the stairway, where the light of a candle was dimly visible, he shouted:”Monsieur Billot! Monsieur Billot! Sebastian is found, and uninjured too, I hope! Is it not so-”

“He has sustained no serious injury, I think,” replied the doctor.”Come, Sebastian.”

And, again taking the boy in his arms, he proceeded to ascend the stairs, closely followed by Pitou. From that young man's mud-stained clothing it was quite evident that he had just completed a long and arduous journey. After conducting Catherine Billot to her home, and hearing from her own lips that her grief was caused by Isidore de Charny's departure for Paris, he returned to Haramont with a heavy heart and a lagging step. There he found Sebastian's letter apprising him of his intended journey; and Pitou, forgetting his own troubles, started off in pursuit of the lad. As he encumbered himself with no baggage whatever, and carried his provisions, in the shape of a sausage and a big loaf of bread, with him, he was subjected to no delays, but, staff in hand, walked steadily on, and in eleven hours arrived at the end of his journey.

As he left Haramont at nine in the morning, it was eight o'clock in the evening when he reached Paris.

It was at this very hour that Andree took Sebastian away with her from the Tuileries, and that Doctor Gilbert was closeted with the king; so Pitou found neither Sebastian nor his father at the doctor's lodgings. He did find Billot, but the latter had heard nothing concerning Sebastian, and did not know when Gilbert would return.

The poor fellow was so miserable that he did not even think to say anything to Billot about Catherine. In fact, his whole conversation was one continuous lamentation over his ill luck in not having been at home when Sebastian came to find him the night before; but his anxiety was at last relieved by seeing the father and son present themselves together.

Gilbert thanked him for his solicitude by a cordial pressure of the hand; then, knowing that the brave fellow must need rest after his long tramp and tedious hours of waiting, he bade him good-night and sent him to bed.

The doctor would not intrust the task of putting Sebastian to bed, and of watching over him, to any one else. He examined the lad's bruises carefully, and tested his lungs several times; but satisfied at last that his respiration was entirely unobstructed, he threw himself on a sofa near his son, who soon fell asleep, though he was still quite feverish.

But soon, remembering how anxious the countess must be, the doctor rose, and after summoning his valet, made him take to the nearest post-office a note containing these words only: -

“Do not be troubled. The child is found, and has sustained no serious injury,”

The next morning, when Billot and Pitou presented themselves before the doctor, that gentleman noticed that Billot's countenance wore an unusually grave and perturbed expression.

“What is the matter, my friend-”inquired Gilbert.

“I want to say, doctor, that it was all very well for you to keep me here while I could be of service to you and to the country, but while I am staying here in Paris, everything seems to be going wrong at home,” was the good man's reply.

One might suppose from, this that Pitou had revealed Catherine's secret, or told her father of the young girl's infatuation for Isidore; but the honest heart of the commander of the Haramont National Guards revolted against such a breach of confidence. He had merely told Billot that the crops had been a failure, the rye had turned out badly, the wheat had been much damaged by hail, and that he had found Catherine in a swoon on the road between Villers Cotterets and Pisseleu.

Billot was annoyed to hear of the failure of the rye and the destruction of the wheat, but it made him sick at heart to hear of Catherine's fainting fit.

He questioned Pitou closely; but though that young man answered very cautiously, Billot shook his head more than once, and said, “I think it is quite time I was getting away from here.”

Gilbert seemed to divine what was passing in his humble friend's mind, however, for he said, -

“Go, go at once, my dear Billot, as your farm and family both seem to require your attention; but don't forget that, if the worst comes to the worst, I shall count upon you.”

“You have only to say the word, Monsieur Gilbert, and I will be in Paris within twelve hours.”

So they both departed, Pitou taking with him, as a gift from Doctor Gilbert, the sum of twenty-five crowns to aid in arming and equipping the Haramont “National Guards.

Sebastian remained with his father.

CHAPTER XVI. A TRUCE.

A Week has elapsed since the events we have just related; and to-day we again take the reader by the hand to conduct him to the Palace of the Tuileries, which was to be the scene of the great catastrophes which were so fast approaching.

Oh, thou Tuileries! fatal legacy bequeathed to her descendants and their successors by that dread queen of Saint Bartholomew's day, Catherine de Medicis! thou Circe- like palace, which dost attract only to devour, what a strange fascination there must be in thy yawning jaws for the would-be kings that rush into them, only to be cast forth one after another, headless corpses or crownless fugitives!

Some curse must lurk in thy walls, sculptured like one of Benvenuto Cellini's chefs-d'oeuvre; some fatal talisman must be buried beneath thy threshold. Count the kings thou hast sheltered, and tell us what has become of them!

Out of those five kings, there was but one that went down peacefully to the grave that awaited him among the resting-places of his ancestors. Of the remaining four for which thou art accountable, one died upon the scaffold, and three were sent into exile.

Once an entire assembly resolved to brave thy dangers and establish itself in the place where its monarchs had sat enthroned; but from that moment madness seemed to seize its members: the scaffold devoured some, some were exiled, and a strange fraternity united Louis XVI. and Robespierre, Collot d'Herbois and Napoleon, Billaud Varennes and Charles X., Vadier and Louis Philippe.

Bold indeed must he be who ventures to cross thy threshold, oh, Tuileries, and enter where Louis XVI., Napoleon, Charles X., and Louis Philippe entered; for sooner or later he will leave it in like manner.

Yet each of these monarchs entered thy precincts amid the acclamations of the people; thy balcony, oh, palace, beheld them, one after another, smile in response to the enthusiastic cheers and protestations of the crowd below: but scarcely was each ruler seated upon the royal dais before he began to labour for his own aggrandisement, and not for the people's interests; and the people, soon discovering this fact, turned their monarchs out of doors like unfaithful stewards.

After that terrible journey through mud and bloodshed and turmoil on the sixth of October, the pale light of dawn found the courtyard of the Tuileries thronged with people clamouring for a look at the king.

All day, while the monarch was receiving the different corporations, the crowd peered through the windows, and those who fancied they caught a glimpse of him, pointed him out to those near them, exclaiming, -

“Look at him! Look at him! There he is!”

At noon, the king was obliged to show himself upon the balcony, and the acclamations were deafening.

In the evening, he went down into the garden, and the people went mad with delight; protestations of devotion resounded on every side, and many were affected to tears.

Madame Elizabeth, affectionate and ingenuous to a fault, remarked to her brother:”It cannot be difficult to reign over such people.” Her apartments were on the ground floor. In the evening, she had the windows thrown open, and ate before the crowd.

Men and women looked on and applauded, and bowed to her through the windows, especially the women, who made their children climb up into the window-sills and throw kisses to the great lady and tell her how beautiful she was.

Everybody said:”The Revolution is over. The king is freed from the evil influences of his courtiers and counsellors. The spell is broken that held royalty captive so long, far from his capital, amid the unwholesome surroundings of Versailles.”

The masses, as well as individuals, often deceive themselves, not only as to what they really are, but as to what they will become. The terror excited by the events of the fifth and sixth of October had made many return to their allegiance. The Assembly had been more alarmed when the king was in peril than when its own existence was menaced. It felt then that it was dependent upon the king; but six months had not rolled by before the Assembly felt that, on the contrary, the king was dependent upon it. One hundred and fifty of its members took out passports. The two most popular men in France, Mirabeau and Lafayette, returned to Paris from Versailles — Royalists.

Mirabeau said to Lafayette, “Let us unite, and save the king.”

Unfortunately Lafayette, a most honest, but rather narrow-minded man, despised Mirabeau's character and underrated his ability.

Many damaging reports were circulated concerning his Royal Highness the Due d'0rle”ans. It was said that during that dreadful night the duke had been seen going about with his hat pulled down over his eyes, urging the crowds in the marble court to pillage the palace, in the hope that pillage would eventually lead to assassination.

Lafayette, instead of coming to an understanding with Mirabeau, went to the duke and told him he must leave France. The duke refused, but Lafayette was virtually king, so the duke had to obey.

“When shall I return-”he asked.

“When I tell you it is time to return,” was the response.

“And what if I become tired, and return without your permission-”asked the duke, scornfully.

“Then I hope your Highness will do me the honour to fight with me the day after your arrival.”

The duke departed, and did not return until he was sent for.

Lafayette was not much of a Royalist prior to the sixth of October, but after that he became a warm supporter of the monarchy.

There is more pride than gratitude in the human heart, hence we become attached to our friends on account of the services we confer, rather than the favours we receive; and Lafayette had saved the king and protected the queen.

The king and Madame Elizabeth were really touched by the devotion manifested by the masses, though they felt, perhaps, that something terrible lurked beneath it, — something hateful and vindictive, like the wrath of a tiger, that snarls even while it caresses you.

But this was not the case with Marie Antoinette. Her tears were tears of rage and jealousy; they were shed more for the loss of Charny than for that of the sceptre she saw slipping from her hand. So she beheld the people, and listened to their protestations with scornful eyes and an angry heart. When, in the midst of these enthusiastic transports, the king offered his hands to the men, and Madame Elizabeth laughed and wept with the women and children, the queen's eyes remained dry, though she wept bitterly in private over her own personal griefs.

The takers of the Bastille called upon her, but she refused to see them.

Then the market-women came. She received them, but at a distance, separated from them by an imposing array of skirts, her women being ranged around her like an advance guard, to protect her from the slightest contact with these plebeians.

This was a great mistake on Marie Antoinette's part, for the market-women were Royalists.

One woman, bolder than the others, took upon herself the duties of counsellor.

“Madame queen,” she began, “will you permit me to give you one piece of advice, one that comes from the heart-”

The queen made an almost imperceptible movement of the head, which the woman did not see, however.

“You do not answer,” she continued.”Never mind, I will give it, all the same. You are here among us now, in the bosom of your real family; so you ought to send away all those courtiers who ruin kings, and bestow a little affection on us poor Parisians, who have seen you only four or five times, perhaps, during the twenty years you have spent in France.”

“You say this, madame, because you do not know my heart. I loved you at Versailles, and I shall love you just the same in Paris.”

This was not promising much.

So another woman exclaimed:”Oh, yes, you loved us at Versailles. It was out of love, perhaps, that you wanted to have our city bombarded on the fourteenth of July; it was love, perhaps, that made you desire to flee to the frontier on the sixth of October.”

“You mean that it was so reported, and that you believed it,” responded the queen.”This is what so often makes trouble between the people and their king.”

Presently a fortunate inspiration came to the poor woman, or, rather, the poor queen.

One of the market-women, an Alsatian by birth, addressed her in German.

“I have become so thoroughly French that I have forgotten my mother tongue,” replied the queen.

It was a charming thing to say, but unfortunately it was not true, and they all knew it.

That evening, the royal family being together, the king and Madame Elizabeth mentioned several cheering episodes which had occurred during the day; the queen, however, merely repeated a remark made by the dauphin.

Hearing the noise made by the market-women, the poor child ran to his mother and exclaimed,-

“Is to-day yesterday, mamma-”

The dauphin was present, and heard what was said of him. Proud, like all children who find themselves noticed, he went up to his father and gazed at him earnestly.

“I want to ask you something, papa,” he said.

“Very well,” responded the king;”what do you want to know- Speak out.”

“I want to know why your people, who used to love you so much, have become so angry with you all at once-”

“Louis!”remonstrated the queen.

“Let me answer him,” said the king.

So, taking his son upon his knee, and bringing the political issues of the day down to a level with the lad's comprehension, he said: -

“My son, I wanted to make the people happier and more prosperous; I also needed money to meet the expenses occasioned by the wars, and asked for it, just as my predecessors had always done. Some of the members of my parliament were opposed to giving it, and declared that only the entire nation had the right to vote me this money. I assembled the leading men of each town at Versailles. This was what was called the States-General, — les £tats Generaux. When they met, they asked me to do things that I could not afford to do, either for my own sake or yours. Then there were evil-disposed, mischief-making persons who urged the people to rebel. The excesses of the last few days are their work; so, my son, you should not blame the people too severely.”

Marie Antoinette compressed her lips tightly on hearing this concluding injunction. It was very evident that if the training of the dauphin was intrusted to her, forgiveness of injuries would not be very strongly insisted upon.

The next day the officials of the city and the National Guards sent delegations begging the queen to attend a certain theatrical performance, thus showing by her presence, and that of the king, that they were enjoying their residence at the capital.

The queen replied that it would give her great pleasure to accept the invitation of the city of Paris, but she must have time to forget the events of the last few days. The people had already forgotten them, and were astonished that she remembered them.

When she learned that the Due d'0rle”ans had left Paris, she was much pleased; but she would not admit that Lafayette had had anything to do with his departure, or, rather, she believed, or pretended to believe, that it was purely a personal matter between the prince and the general; for she was unwilling to acknowledge that they were under any obligation to Lafayette.

A true princess of the House of Lorraine in rancour and haughtiness, she longed for conquest and revenge.

“Queens cannot be drowned,” Henrietta Maria of England remarked in the midst of a tempest, — and Marie Antoinette was evidently of the same opinion.

Besides, had not Maria Theresa been much nearer death than she, when she took her child in her arms and showed him to her faithful Hungarians-

This act of heroism on the mother's part probably had its influence on her daughter. This was a mistake, a terrible mistake, on the part of those persons who considered the situations identical or even analogous. Maria Theresa had the people with her; Marie Antoinette had them against her.

CHAPTER XVII. THE PORTRAIT OF CHARLES THE FIRST.

For a few days, while the new occupants of the Tuileries were getting themselves comfortably established there, and gradually resuming their usual habits, Gilbert did not think it advisable to present himself; but when his regular visiting day came, he did not consider it advisable to defer his call any longer.

Louis XVI. was a person of too much discrimination not to be able to distinguish his friends from his enemies, and, in spite of the queen's prejudice against Gilbert, he felt that this man, even though he could hardly be called the friend of the king, was the friend of royalty, -something quite as important.

Consequently he, too, had remembered that this was Gilbert's visiting day, and had given orders that the doctor should be admitted immediately upon his arrival, which was done.

The king was pacing the room, so deeply absorbed in thought that he did not notice the doctor's entrance; hence Gilbert remained standing in the doorway, silent and motionless, waiting for the king to become aware of his presence and speak to him.

It was easy to see what was occupying the king's mind, for he paused before it, and gazed at it thoughtfully more than once. It was a full-length portrait of Charles I., painted by Vandyck, -the portrait now in the Louvre, which some Englishman offered to cover with gold pieces if France would consent to part with it.

Everybody has seen this picture, in engravings if not upon canvas.

The king is standing under some sparse, slender trees, like those which grow on the seashore; a page is holding his horse near by. The sea forms the horizon. The monarch's face wears an expression of profound melancholy. Of what is he thinking, this king who had the beautiful and unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots for a predecessor, and will have James II. for his successor-

Or, rather, what was the artist thinking of when he painted the monarch as he would be in the latter part of his reign, — a plain Cavalier, ready to take the field against the Roundheads- Why did he depict him upon the stormy shore of the North Sea, ready for the fray, perhaps, but ready, too, for flight- The warning uttered by this picture must have been loud indeed to be heard by an unsusceptible nature like that of Louis XVI.; but three times he paused in his promenade to gaze at the picture, then, with a sigh, resumed his walk, which seemed always and inevitably to bring him face to face with the portrait again. At last Gilbert realised that there are circumstances under which a person is less indiscreet in announcing his presence than in remaining silent.

So he made a slight movement. The king started, and turned in the direction from which the sound had proceeded.

“Ah! it is you, doctor,” he exclaimed.”Come in; I am glad to see you. How long have you been standing there-”

“Several minutes, sire.”

“Ah!” said the king, becoming thoughtful again. Then, after a pause, he pointed to Vandyck's masterpiece and asked, -

“Did you ever see that portrait before-”

“Yes, at the house of Madame du Barry; and, though 1 was only a child at the time, it made a deep impression “Do you know its history, doctor-”

“Does your Majesty mean the history of the king it represents, or the history of the portrait itself-”

“I mean the history of the portrait.”

“No, sire; I only know that it was painted in London about 1645 or '46. I have no idea how it came into the possession of France, nor how it happens to be in your Majesty's chamber just at this time.”

“I can tell you how it came into France, but how it happens to be here, I do not know myself. I am almost inclined to think there is a fatality about it.”

“Say rather a Providence, if you read its lesson aright, sire. Will your Majesty permit me to ask you a question-”

The king seemed to hesitate.

“Speak, doctor,” he said, after a little.

“What does this portrait say to your Majesty-”

“It tells me that Charles I. lost his head for having made war upon his people, and that James II. lost his throne by forsaking it.”

“In that case, sire, the portrait speaks the truth, like myself. Now, as the king allows me to question him, I should like to ask what he says in reply to the picture that speaks to him so forcibly.”

“I assure you that I have not yet decided what course I shall pursue. I shall be guided by circumstances.”

“The people are afraid that their king intends to wage a relentless war upon them.”

The king shook his head.

“No, monsieur, no,” he replied.”I cannot make war upon my subjects without foreign aid, and I know the condition of Europe too well to depend upon that. The king of Prussia offers me an army of one hundred thousand men, but I understand the ambitious and intriguing spirit of that little kingdom, which tries to make mischief everywhere, in the hope of acquiring another Silesia. Austria, too, places one hundred thousand men at my disposal; but I neither like nor trust my brother-in-law Leopold, a two-faced Janus, a philosophical bigot, whose mother had my father poisoned. My brother offers me the support of Spain and Sardinia; but I trust neither of the powers controlled by my brother Artois. He has with him Monsieur de Calonne, one of the queen's bitterest enemies, — the person who annotated — I saw the manuscript myself — Madame Lamotte's pamphlet against us in that villainous necklace affair. I know all that is going on down there in Turin. In a recent meeting of the Council they discussed the expediency of deposing me, and appointing as regent my other dear brother, the Comte de Provence. At the last, Monsieur de Conde”, my cousin, proposed to enter France and march upon Lyons, though he might conclude to assert his claim to the throne. As for the great Catherine, she confines herself to giving advice. She is engaged in devouring Poland just now, and she can't leave the table until after she has finished her repast. She gives me advice which she considers sublime, but which is simply ridiculous. ' Kings,' she writes, ' should move serenely on, without troubling themselves about the clamour of the rabble, as the moon moves serenely on in its orbit, unmindful of the yelping of curs.' Russian dogs may confine themselves to barking, but she had better ask Deshuttes and Varicourt if ours do not bite.”

“The people fear, too, that the king contemplates leaving France.”

The king made no reply.

“One always makes a great mistake in taking any liberty granted by a monarch literally, sire,” continued Gilbert, smiling.”I see that I am indiscreet.”

The king laid his hand on Gilbert's shoulder.

“I promised to tell you the truth, and you shall have the whole truth. Such a step has been talked of, and many of my warmest friends urge it very strongly upon me; but on the night of the sixth of October, when the. queen was awaiting death with me, with her children pressed to her bosom, she made me solemnly swear that I would never attempt to leave the country alone; that we would go together, in order that we might be saved or die together. I promised, monsieur, and I shall keep my word. So, as I know it would not be possible for us to flee together without being arrested a dozen times before we reached the frontier, I shall not make the attempt.”

“I admire your good sense, sire. Oh, why cannot all France hear and understand you as I hear and understand you! How greatly the hatred against you would be assuaged! How much the dangers that threaten you would be lessened!”

“Hatred-” exclaimed the king.”Do you really think that my people hate me- Dangers- Why, I should say that the greatest dangers were over.”

Gilbert gazed at the king with a feeling of profound pity.

“Do you not think so, Monsieur Gilbert;” insisted the king.

“It is my opinion that the battle has not even begun, and that the fourteenth of July and the sixth of October were but the prologue to a terrible tragedy which France is to play before the eyes of other nations.”

The king's face paled.

“I hope you are mistaken, monsieur,” he remarked.

“I hope that I am; but, alas! I feel sure that I am right.”

“But how can you be better posted than I am, when I have both the police and a well-organised detective force to keep me informed of the situation of affairs-”

“I have neither, sire; but circumstances seem to have made me the natural intermediary between the highest and the lowest denizens of the universe. Sire, what we have just experienced is only the premonitory trembling of the earth. The fire and ashes and lava of the volcano we have yet to fight.”

“You say 'to fight,' monsieur; would it not be more correct to say ' to flee from'-”

“I said ' to fight,' sire.”

“You know my opinion concerning foreign intervention,” remarked the monarch.”I shall never call foreign troops into France unless — I will not say to save my own life, for what does my life matter- I am willing to sacrifice that — but unless the lives of my wife and children are in peril.”

“I would gladly kneel at your feet and thank you for the sentiments you have just expressed, your Majesty. No, sire, foreign intervention is not needed. What do you want with that, when your own resources are so far from being exhausted- In my humble opinion, there are two ways of saving both France and the king.”

“Speak out, monsieur, and you will richly deserve the gratitude of both.”

“The first, sire, is to place yourself at the head of the revolutionary party, and so control and direct it.”

“But the revolutionists would drag me along with them, and I am not inclined to follow whithersoever they lead.”

“Then put a bit in the mouth of the revolution, — a bit powerful enough to control it.”

“Of what is this bit to be made-”

“Popularity and genius.”

“And who will forge it-”

“Mirabeau.”

Louis XVI. looked at Gilbert as if he thought he could not have heard him aright.

CHAPTER XVIII. MIRABEAU.

Gilbert saw that a serious controversy was imminent, but he was prepared for it.

“Yes, sire, Mirabeau,” he repeated.

The king turned to the portrait of Charles I.

“What would you have answered, Charles Stuart,” he exclaimed, “if at such a time as this, when you felt the earth trembling beneath your feet, you had been advised to lean upon Cromwell-”

“Charles Stuart would have refused, and very rightly,” responded Gilbert;”but there is no resemblance whatever between Cromwell and Mirabeau.”

“I do not know how you view these matters, doctor,” responded the king, “but in my eyes a traitor is a traitor, and I see no difference between a big traitor and a petty one.”

“Sire,” replied Gilbert, with profound respect, but with undaunted firmness, “neither Cromwell nor Mirabeau can be called a traitor.”

“Then what are they, I should like to know-”

“Cromwell was a rebellious subject, and Mirabeau is a discontented nobleman.”

“Discontented with what and whom-”

“With everybody and everything,-with his father, who had him incarcerated in the Chateau d'lf and in the donjon at Vincennes; with the courts, which once condemned him to death; with the king, who has underrated his genius, and who still underrates it.”

“A successful political leader must be an honest man rather than a genius.”

“That is a sentiment worthy of Titus, Trajan, or Marcus Aurelius; but unfortunately experience proves just the contrary.”

“How so-”

“Was Augustus Cesar, who shared supreme authority with Lepidus and Antony, and who exiled Lepidus and killed Antony, in order to have everything himself, an honest man- Was Charlemagne an honest man, who sent his brother Carloman to die in a cloister, and who, to get rid of his enemy Witikind, almost as tall a man as himself, gave orders that all Saxons who were taller than his sword should have their heads cut off- Was Louis XL, who revolted against his own father and attempted to dethrone him, and who, though unsuccessful, inspired poor Charles VII. with such a fear of being poisoned that he starved himself to death, -was he an honest man- Was Richelieu, who concocted plots in the alcoves of the Louvre and on the staircases of the Cardinal's palace, which he subsequently denounced on the Place de Greve, an honest man- Was Mazarin an honest man when he signed a treaty with the Protector, and not only refused aid to Charles II., but drove him out of France- Was Colbert an honest man, who betrayed, denounced, and overthrew Fouquet, his benefactor, and who, after casting him into a dungeon, from which he never emerged alive, seated himself with marvellous impudence in Fouquet's still warm chair- And yet neither of these men wronged king or kingdom.”

“But you must see, Doctor Gilbert, that Mirabeau cannot be my friend while he is so devoted to the Duke of Orleans.”

“But, now Orleans is in exile, Mirabeau belongs to no one.”

“But how can I place any confidence in a man who is for sale-”

“By purchasing him yourself at a good round price. Can't you afford to pay more for him than anybody else-”

“A cormorant who would want a million!”

“When Mirabeau sells himself for a million, he gives himself away, sire. Do you consider him worth less than one of those Polignacs-”

“Monsieur Gilbert!”

“The king retracts his promise; I am dumb.”

“No, on the contrary; speak on.”

“I have spoken.”

“Then let us discuss the matter further.”

“Nothing would please me better. I know Mirabeau thoroughly.”

“You are a friend of his-”

“I have not that honour, unfortunately. Monsieur de Mirabeau has but one friend who is at the same time a friend to the queen.”

“Yes; the Comte de la Marck. I know that. We reproach him for it every day.”

“On the contrary, you should forbid him to quarrel with Mirabeau under penalty of death.”

“But what benefit would be derived from having a lordling like Riquetti de Mirabeau meddling with public affairs-”

“In the first place, sire, permit me to say that Mirabeau is a genuine nobleman, not a lordling. There are very few noblemen in France who can trace their lineage back to the eleventh century; for in order to have plenty of noblemen around them, our kings have been indulgent enough to insist only that their families shall date back to 1399. No, sire, he is no parvenu; he is a descendant of the Arrighettis of Florence, one of whom came to France in consequence of the defeat of the Ghibelline faction, and established himself in Provence. A man is not a plebeian because he had a Marseilles merchant among his ancestors, for you know that the aristocrats of Marseilles, like those of Genoa, did not consider that they lowered themselves by engaging in commerce.”

“But he is a spendthrift, a roue, a debauche.”

“We must take men as nature makes them, sire. The Mirabeaus have always been dissipated and headstrong in their youth, but they improve with age. Unfortunately, they are what your Majesty says in their early days; but they become haughty and imperious and austere when they become heads of families. The monarch who despises them makes a great mistake, for they have furnished our army with many intrepid soldiers, and our navy with many daring mariners. I know their provincial hatred of centralisation, and their half-feudal, half-republican independence of spirit; I know, too, how often they have seemed to defy the authority of ministers, and even of kings; I know that they have locked up revenue officials who came to appraise their property; I know they regard courtiers and clerks and men of letters with equal contempt, and that they really respect only two things in the world, — the sword and the plough; I know very well that one of them said: ' Toadyism is as natural to courtiers, with their dough faces and hearts, as puddles are to ducks.' But all this does not affect their rank in the least.”

“Go on,” said the king, a little petulantly, for he fancied he knew all the prominent men in the kingdom as well or better than any one else did.”You say you know Mirabeau thoroughly, so go on. One likes to understand a man's character well before enlisting him in one's service.”

“Yes, sire,” replied Gilbert, urged on by the tinge of irony in the monarch's voice, “I will tell your Majesty. It was a Mirabeau, a certain Bruno de Riquetti, who, — the day Monsieur de la Feuillades unveiled his statue of Victory, with the four nations, in chains in the public square named for it, — on crossing the Pont Neuf with his regiment,- a regiment of the Guards, sire, — made his men halt in front of the statue of Henry IV., and, doffing his hat, exclaimed: ' Let us salute this statue, my friends; it is quite as deserving of homage as the other.' It was a Mirabeau, Francois de Riquetti, who, on returning from Malta at the age of seventeen, found his mother, Anne de Ponteves, dressed in mourning. He asked her the reason, as his father had been dead at least ten years. ' Because I have been insulted,' replied the mother. ' By whom, madame-' — 'By the Chevalier de Griasque.' -' And you have not avenged yourself-' inquired Franqois, who knew his mother well. ' One day I found him alone, and I placed a loaded pistol against his temple, and said to him, “If I were a lone woman, I would blow your brains out, as you see that I can; but I have a son who will avenge me more honourably.” ' -' You were right, mother,' replied the young man; and, replacing his hat on his head, and buckling on his sword again, he started out in search of the chevalier, who was a famous fighter and bully. He found him, challenged him, locked himself up with him in a garden, threw the keys over the wall, and killed him. It was another Mirabeau, the Marquis Jean Antoine, a six- footer, as handsome as Antinous and as strong as Milo, — the one to whom his grandmother nevertheless said: ' You Mirabeaus are no longer men, but mere abbreviations of men,' — who, reared by this virago, became one of the most daring and audacious soldiers who ever led a charge. A captain of musketeers at the age of eighteen, his men, who soon became as fierce and indomitable as himself, were called ' those Mirabeaus, that crowd of red devils under Satan himself,' by the other soldiers when they passed.”

“It was this same marquis, if I remember right,” said the king, “who, after an engagement in which he had distinguished himself, remarked to Lieutenant-General Chamillard, when the general promised to mention him to Chamillard, the minister of war ' Your brother is very fortunate in having you, monsieur, as but for you he would be the biggest fool in the kingdom.'“

“Yes, sire; and when the next promotions were made, Chamillard took good care not to put the marquis's name on the list of field marshals.”

“What became of this Conde” of the Riquetti family-” asked the king, laughing.

“Intrusted with the task of defending a bridge at the

battle of Cassano, he made his men lie down, while lie stood erect, a fine target for the enemy's fire. The bullets fell about him like hail, but he moved no more than a post. One of the bullets broke his right arm; he tied that up in a sling, and took his axe, his usual weapon, in his left hand. He had scarcely done this when a second shot struck him in the neck, severing the jugular vein. This time the trouble was more serious; nevertheless, our Colossus, in spite of his terrible wound, kept on his feet until the blood suffocated him. When he fell, the regiment became demoralised, and fled. An old sergeant, hoping he was not quite dead, threw a light covering over his commander's face as he passed, and the entire army of Prince Eugene, cavalry and infantry, passed over his body in their pursuit of the retreating regiment. When the battle was over, and they began to bury the dead, the magnificent uniform of the marquis attracted attention, and one of the prisoners recognised him. Seeing that life was not entirely extinct, the prince had him taken to the Due de Vendome's tent. The famous surgeon, Dumoulin, happened to be there at the time, and, being a man full of theories, he undertook to restore this dead man to life. The wound in the neck had nearly severed the head from the shoulders, leaving them united only by the spinal column and a few shreds of flesh; besides, his whole body, over which three thousand cavalry and six thousand infantry had passed, was covered with wounds and bruises. For three days it seemed doubtful if he would ever regain consciousness, but at the end of that time he opened his eyes. Two days afterwards he was able to move one arm, and in three months he reappeared in public, with his broken arm supported by a black scarf, twenty-seven wounds scattered over his body, and his head sustained by a broad silver collar. The first visit he paid was to Versailles, where the Due de Vendome presented him to the king, who asked him how it was that he had never been made a field-marshal, after giving such proofs of his valour. ' If I had come to court, and bribed some worthless jade, instead of remaining to defend the bridge at Cassano, I should have received my promotion, and fewer wounds,' was his reply. Louis XIV. did not like to be answered in such a fashion, so he turned his back on the marquis. ' After this, I'll show you to the enemy, Jean Antoine, but never to the king,' Vendome remarked, as he led him out. A few months afterwards the marquis, with his broken arm, twenty-seven wounds, and silver collar, married Mademoiselle Castellane-Norante, by whom he had seven children, in the midst of as many more campaigns. Occasionally, but only occasionally, he referred to the famous conflict at Cassano, and when he did so he usually called it 'that battle in which I was killed.'“

The king was evidently much amused.

“You have told me how the marquis was killed,” he remarked, “but you have not told me how he died.”

“He died in the Mirabeau stronghold, — a castle built on a precipitous rock barring the entrance to a double gorge, through which the north wind howls incessantly. He was so tyrannical, and brought up his children in such fear and awe of him, keeping them at such a distance, that his eldest son once said, ' I never had the honour of touching my honoured father's hand or lips.' This eldest son was the father of our Mirabeau, whom your Majesty misjudges, because you do not know him. But you will pardon me, I am sure, for saying, sire, that the traits which displease you most in his character are due chiefly to parental and royal tyranny.”

“Royal tyranny-” repeated the king.

“Unquestionably, sire. Without the king's consent, the father would have been powerless. What terrible crime had this descendant of a noble race committed, that his father should send him to a reform school at the age of fourteen, where, to humiliate him, he was registered, not as Riquetti de Mirabeau, but as one Buffieres- What had he done that his father was able to procure an order for his secret arrest and subsequent imprisonment on the island of Be”, when he was but eighteen years of age- What had he done that his father should banish him to Manosque a year after his marriage- Why was he transferred to the fortress at Jonx, six months afterwards- Why, after his escape from Jonx, was he again arrested at Amsterdam, and incarcerated at Vincennes in a cell barely ten feet square, — this youth who could hardly find air enough in the whole broad universe, — where for five long years his restless spirit chafed against its bonds, and his intellect grew stronger and stronger as his heart became more and more bitter- I will tell you what he did. He won the heart of Poisson, his instructor, by the ease with which he overcame all obstacles; he had mastered the science of political economy at a glance. Having chosen a military career, he wished to continue it. Reduced to an income of six thousand francs, and burdened with a wife and child, he contracted debts to the amount of thirty thousand francs. He left his place of banishment to chastise an insolent nobleman who had grossly insulted his sister. Finally, — and this was his greatest crime, — captivated by the charms of a young and pretty woman, he carried her off from her morose, jealous, superannuated husband.”

“And then deserted her; so the unfortunate Madame Monnier was forced to commit suicide to escape from her troubles. How will you defend him from this charge-”

“By telling you the truth, sire, — the whole truth. Madame Monnier did not commit suicide because Mirabeau deserted her, for when he left Vincennes his first visit was to her. Disguised as a peddler, he secured an entrance into the convent where she was staying. He found her cold and constrained in manner; an explanation followed, and Mirabeau discovered that Madame Monnier not only loved him no longer, but that she loved some one else,- the Chevalier de Rancourt, — whom she was about to marry, as her husband's death had set her free. Mirabeau had left his prison too soon; he yielded his place to his more favoured rival, and Sophie was about to marry Rancouit, when he died very suddenly. The poor woman had staked her all on this last love. A month ago she shut herself up in her dressing-room and asphyxiated herself; whereupon Mirabeau's enemies declared that she had committed suicide on account of the heartless desertion of her first lover, when it was really on account of grief at the loss of her second.”

“But what object could any of my friends have in thus traducing Mirabeau-”

“What object, sire- The desire mediocrity always feels to retain its place near the throne. Mirabeau is one of those men who could not enter the Temple without thrusting out the money-changers. Mirabeau's close proximity to you would be the death-knell of all petty intrigues; it would be genius pointing out the path to probity. What does it matter to you, sire, if Mirabeau did live unhappily with his wife- or if he did elope with Madame Monnier- or if he is a half million francs in debt- Pay the half million, sire; add another half million, a whole million, two millions, ten millions, to it, if necessary. Do not let Mirabeau escape you. Make him a cabinet minister. Hearken to what his powerful voice says to you, and repeat it to your people, to Europe, to the whole world!”

“But Monsieur Mirabeau turned draper in order to secure a popular nomination to the Assembly. He cannot betray his constituents by forsaking their party for the court party.”

“You do not know Mirabeau, sire; he is a thorough aristocrat at heart. He secured his nomination in this way because the royalists scorned him. He cannot desert the people's party for the court party, you say- Why, are not these two parties one- Mirabeau could unite them. That is exactly what he would do. Take Mirabeau, sire, now you can get him. To-morrow, wounded by your indifference, he may turn against you, and then, — then all is lost!”

“Mirabeau may turn against me, you say. Has he not done so already, monsieur-”

“Apparently, yes; but at heart he is really on your side. Ask La Marck what Mirabeau said to him, after that famous session of the twenty-first of June-”

“What did he say-”

“He wrung his hands and exclaimed: ' It is in this way kings are brought to the scaffold!' Three days afterwards he added, ' These fellows do not see what an abyss they are digging under the very steps of the throne. The king and queen will perish in it, and the people will exult over their downfall.'“

The king turned pale, and cast a hasty glance at the portrait of Charles I. He seemed to be on the point of yielding, then said suddenly, -

“I will talk with the queen about it, and she may conclude to speak to Monsieur de Mirabeau. I shall not. I like to be able to shake the hand of the man with whom I talk, Monsieur Gilbert, and I would not press Mirabeau's to save my throne, my liberty, or my life.”

Gilbert was about to reply, and perhaps to insist still further, when an usher entered and said, -

“Sire, the person your Majesty wished to see this morning is waiting in the ante-chamber.”

The king started slightly, and looked at Gilbert.

“If your Majesty would prefer that I should not see this person, I will pass out by another door,” remarked the doctor.

“No, monsieur, go this way,” replied the king.”You know that I regard you as a friend, and I have no secrets from you. The person to whom I am about to grant an audience is a man who was formerly connected with the household of my brother, who has recommended him to me. Go, now, Monsieur Gilbert, and remember that you will always be welcome, — even when you come to talk to me about Mirabeau.”

“So I am to consider myself completely worsted, sire-”

“I told you that I would confer with the queen — that I would consider the matter. We will decide later.”

“Later, sire! I pray to Heaven that it may not be too late, even now.”

“Do you consider the danger so imminent-”

“Do not have the portrait of Charles Stuart removed from your chamber, sire; it will prove your best counsellor,” replied Gilbert; and, bowing low, he turned to leave the apartment, just as the person the king was expecting appeared upon the threshold ready to enter.

Gilbert could not repress an exclamation of surprise on recognising in the visitor the Marquis de Favras, the gentleman whom he had met at the house of Cagliostro a week or ten days before, and whose speedy death by violence had been predicted then and there by the great necromancer.

CHAPTER XIX. FAVRAS.

As Gilbert withdrew, a prey to terror inspired not so much by the realities of life as by its vague and mysterious possibilities, the Marquis de Favras was ushered into the king's presence.

He advanced, bowing profoundly, but waited respectfully for his sovereign to address him.

Louis XVI. fixed upon him that searching look which seems to be a part of a king's education, but which is more or less superficial, or more or less profound, according to the intellect of the monarch who employs it.

Thomas Mahi, Marquis de Favras, was about forty-five years of age, tall of stature, distinguished in appearance and bearing, and with a frank, genial face.

The examination must have proved satisfactory, for a faint smile flitted over the king's lips.

“You are the Marquis de Favras-” he asked.

“Yes, sire.”

“My brother has great confidence in you, I believe.”

“I think so, sire; and it is my ardent ambition that your Majesty should share this confidence.”

“My brother has known you a long time.”

“And your Majesty does not know me — I understand; but if your Majesty will condescend to question me, in ten minutes he will know me as well as his august brother does.”

“Speak on, marquis, I am listening,” said the king, casting a side glance at the portrait of the English monarch, which seemed to be ever in his thoughts.

“Your Majesty wishes to know -”

“Who you are, and what you have done.”

“Who I am, sire- The mere mention of my name tells you this. I am Thomas Mahi, Marquis de Favras; I was born in Blois in 1745. I joined the musketeers at the age of fifteen, and went through the campaign of 1761 in that corps. I was afterward a captain in the regiment of Belzuuce; then a lieutenant in the Swiss guard of the Comte de Provence.”

“And it was while serving in this capacity that my brother became acquainted with you.”

“I had had the honour of being presented to him the year before, so he knew me already.”

“And you left his service when-”

“In 1775, sire, to go to Vienna, where I first met my wife, Prince Anhalt Schauenberg's only daughter.”

“Your wife has never been presented at court, I believe.”

“No, sire; but she and my eldest sou are now enjoying the honour of an audience with the queen.”

“And after that-”

“During the insurrection in Holland I was in command of a company for three years. After assisting in the re- establishment of law and order in that country, it seemed only natural, noting the condition of affairs in France, that I should return to Paris to place my sword and life at the king's disposal.”

“You have witnessed some very distressing sights.”

“I was an eye-witness of the scenes of the fifth and sixth of October.”

The king seemed anxious to change the subject.

“And you say that my brother, the Comte de Provence, has such confidence in you that he has intrusted you with the negotiation of a very important loan-”

Just then a third person, if there had been a third person present, might have noticed a slight movement of the curtains in a neighbouring alcove, as if some one was standing concealed behind them. Monsieur de Favras, too, started, like a man who was prepared to answer a certain question, and finds himself suddenly confronted by another and entirely different one.

“Yes, sire, his Royal Highness has honoured me with this mark of his confidence,” he stammered.

“And you have succeeded in negotiating this loan-”

“His Royal Highness having been deprived of a great part of his income by recent acts of the Assembly, and thinking that this is a time when princes should have a large sum of money at their disposal -”

“A large sum, you say-”

“Two millions.”

“Of whom did you obtain it-”

Favras hesitated a little, then replied, -

“Of Baron Zanuone, a foreign banker.”

“An Italian-”

“A native of Genoa, sire, I believe.”

“And he resides-”

“At Sevres, sire, immediately opposite the spot where your Majesty's coach stopped on the way from Versailles on the sixth of October, when the party of cut-throats, headed by Marat, Verritre, and the Due d'Aiguillon, made the queen's hairdresser curl and dress the heads of Varicourt and Deshuttes,” answered Favras, as if hoping to urge the king on by this touch of the spur.

Louis XVI. turned pale; and if he had glanced towards the alcove, he would have seen the curtain move to and fro much more perceptibly than before.

It was evident that the conversation annoyed him, and that he was anxious to end it as soon as possible.

“I see that you are a faithful servant of royalty, and I promise you I will not forget it.”

As he spoke he made that movement of the head which in princes signifies, “I have done you the honour to listen to you and answer you long enough. You are at liberty to go.”

Favras understood it perfectly, but he said, -

“Pardon me, sire, but I thought your Majesty had another question to ask me.”

“No,” replied the king, shaking his head, as if mentally asking himself what other question he could wish to propound.”That is all I wish to know.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” said a voice that made both the king and the marquis turn towards the alcove.”You were anxious to know how this gentleman's ancestor managed to save King Stanislaus at Dantzig, and conduct him safely to the Prussian frontier.”

Both men uttered an exclamation of surprise; for this third person, who had so unexpectedly appeared upon the scene, was no other than the queen, and her interruption, and her allusion to the flight of King Stanislaus, were only made to enable the king to hear certain plans for the flight of the royal family, which Favras had come to suggest.

Favras instantly comprehended the method offered him for divulging his plans; and although none of his ancestors or kinsmen had assisted the unfortunate king of Poland in effecting his escape, he bowed, and promptly replied, -

“Your Majesty probably refers to my cousin, General Steinflicht. Your Majesty is doubtless aware that Dantzig was surrounded on all sides by the Muscovite army when the king decided upon immediate flight. Three plans were suggested by his friends, in spite of the great danger attending such an attempt. I say in spite of the danger, as it was very much more difficult for King Stanislaus to get out of Dantzig than it would be for you to leave Paris, for instance, if the whim should seize you; for with a post- chaise your Majesty could easily reach the frontier in a single day,-or if your Majesty wished to leave Paris in state, you would only be obliged to tell some nobleman, honoured with your confidence, to raise thirty thousand men and summon them to the Tuileries. In either case, success would be certain.”

“You know that what Monsieur de Favras says is perfectly true, sire,” remarked the queen.

“Yes; but my situation is by no means so desperate as that of King Stanislaus,” replied the king.”Dantzig was surrounded by Russians, as the marquis just remarked. Fort Wechselmund, their last fortress, was about to surrender; while as for me -”

“As for you, you are surrounded by Parisians,” interrupted the queen, impatiently, -”Parisians who stormed the Bastille on the fourteenth of July, who tried to assassinate you on the night of the fifth of October, and who the very next day dragged you and your family to Paris, insulting us at every step. Is the situation so delightful that one can consider it much preferable to that of King Stanislaus-”

“But, madame -”

“King Stanislaus had no reason to fear imprisonment, and perhaps death, while you -”

A look from the king checked her.

“Of course you are master here, and it is for you to decide, however,” continued the queen, half reproachfully, half angrily.

“Monsieur de Favras,” she remarked, after a moment's silence, “I have just had a conversation with your wife and your eldest son. I find them both full of courage and resolution. Whatever happens, they can count upon the queen of France. The queen of France will never desert them; she is the daughter of Maria Theresa, and knows how to appreciate and reward courage and devotion.”

“You remarked just now that there were three plans of escape proposed to King Stanislaus, did you not, monsieur-” asked the king.

“Yes, sire. The first was to disguise himself as a peasant. The Comtesse de Chapska, who spoke German as if it were her mother tongue, offered to disguise herself as a peasant woman, and pass the king off as her foreign husband. This is the plan I would suggest for the king of France, in case it should ever become necessary for him to flee in disguise and at night.”

“And the second-” asked Louis, petulantly, as if he resented any attempt to compare his situation with that of King Stanislaus.

“The second, sire, was to take a thousand men, and endeavour to force his way through the Muscovite ranks. I called your Majesty's attention, however, to the fact that the king of France would have, not one-thousand, but thirty thousand men at his disposal.”

“You saw how much use these thirty thousand men would have been to me on the fourteenth of July, monsieur,” replied the king.”Pass on to the third plan.”

“The third plan, and the one which Stanislaus accepted, was to disguise himself as a peasant, and leave Dantzig, not in company with a woman, who might prove a hindrance on the journey, nor with a thousand men, who might one and all be slain without gaining an exit, but with two or three trustworthy men.”

“And this last plan was the one he adopted, you say-”

“Yes, sire; and if any king who finds himself, or even fancies he finds himself, in the situation of the king of Poland, would graciously deign to honour me with the same confidence your august ancestor accorded General Steinflicht, I would answer for his safety with my life, especially if the roads were free from obstructions, like the roads in France, and the king as good a horseman as your Majesty.”

“Certainly,” said the queen;”but on the night of the fifth and sixth of October the king took a solemn oath never to leave France without me, nor even to consider any plan of escape in which I was not included. The king's word is pledged, and the king never breaks a promise.”

“This renders the journey more difficult, but by no means impossible, madame,” replied Favras;”and if I were allowed the honour of conducting such an expedition, I feel positive I could carry the king and queen and the entire royal family to Montmedy or Brussels, safe and sound.”

“You hear that, sire,” cried the queen.”I myself believe there is everything to hope and nothing to fear with a man like Monsieur de Favras.”

“That is my opinion also, madame,” replied the king;”but the time has not yet come.”

“Remember the fate of the monarch whose portrait is looking down upon us, — the portrait which I felt sure would give you better counsel. Wait until you are forced into a war — wait until you are a prisoner — wait until the scaffold is erected under your window, and then you who now say Too soon! will be forced to say Too late!”

“The king will find me ready, whatever may be the hour,” responded Favras, bowing.”I have only my life to offer to my king, and I do not even take the liberty of offering him that. I will merely say that he always has had, and always will have the right to dispose of my existence as he thinks best; for it belongs to him.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” said the king;”and in case of failure, I ratify the promise the queen has already made to you in regard to the marquise and your children.”

It was a positive dismissal this time, so the marquis was obliged to withdraw, in spite of his evident desire to urge the matter; for he saw no encouragement except in the eyes of the queen, who watched him until the door closed upon his retreating form.

“Ah, monsieur,” she exclaimed, addressing the king, and pointing to Vandyck's canvas, “when I had that picture hung in your chamber, I thought it would speak to you more forcibly.”

Then, as if scorning to press the matter further, she walked towards the private door; but, pausing suddenly, she said, “Confess, sire, that the Marquis de Favras is not the first person to whom you have granted an audience this morning.”

“No, madame, you are right. I received Doctor Gilbert before I saw the marquis.”

The queen started.”Ah! I suspected as much. And Doctor Gilbert, it seems -”

“Thinks, with me, that we ought not to leave France.”

“As he is of that opinion, he probably gives some advice that may make it possible for us to remain here.”

“Yes, madame, he does; but, unfortunately, I at least do not find it practicable.”

“Indeed! What is it-”

“He wishes us to purchase Mirabeau for a year.”

“At what price-”

“Six million francs and one of your smiles.”

A thoughtful expression stole over the queen's face.

“Possibly this might prove a means -”

“But a means of which you will hardly approve. Am I not right, madame-”

“I scarcely know what to say in reply. It is a matter that requires careful consideration. I will think about it. Yes, I will think about it,” she added, under her breath, as she left the room.

CHAPTER XX. IN WHICH THE KING OCCUPIES HIMSELF WITH FAMILY, AS WELL AS STATE, MATTERS.

The king remained silent and motionless for a moment, as if he feared the queen's retreat were only feigned; but after satisfying himself on this point by a glance up and down the corridor, he called one of his attendants.

“Do you know where the Comte de Charny's apartments are, Franqois-”he asked.

“The comte has no apartments in the palace, your Majesty. He has only a mansard room in the pavilion.”

“Why was an officer of his rank given a room like that-”

“Better accommodations were offered him, but he refused them, and said this room would answer every purpose.”

“Go and find Monsieur de Charny, and tell him I wish to speak with him.”

When the count entered the king's apartments, in answer to this summons, he found the monarch at breakfast, with his back turned upon Vandyck's famous picture.

“Ah, it is you, count,” he said cordially, on perceiving Charny.”Won't you take breakfast with me-”

“I am compelled to decline the honour, sire, as I have breakfasted already.”

“In that case, won't you wait awhile- I want to consult you about a very important matter, and I can't bear to talk business while I am eating. So suppose we discuss something else, — your affairs, for instance. When I asked Franqois just now where you were lodged, he told me you had declined the offer of a suite of apartments, and would only accept of an attic room.”

“That is quite true, sire.”

“And why, may I ask-”

“I thought, being quite alone, it was not necessary for me to deprive the governor of the palace of his rooms, as I should have done if I had accepted his offer.”

“But when the countess returns to the palace, what will she do- Such an apartment will not answer for her.”

“I do not think she will return to the palace, unless she is particularly requested to do so by your Majesties.”

“Where is she living- I seem to have been unwittingly conducting myself in a very tyrannical fashion by compelling you to live at the Tuileries, while the countess resides — where did you say-”

“On the Rue Coq-Heron.”

“Is that far from the Tuileries- I am ashamed to say I don't know much more about Paris than if I were a Russian just from Moscow.”

“The Rue Coq-Heron is quite near the palace, sire.”

“So much the better. I suppose that explains why you have only temporary quarters at the Tuileries.”

“On the contrary, I can be found in my present quarters at any hour of the day or night your Majesty does me the honour to send for me.”

“What does this mean, monsieur- Nonsense! you know I 'm a good citizen, a model husband and family man above all else. What does it mean that, after barely three years of married life, the Comte de Charny has his permanent home at the Tuileries, and the countess her permanent home on the Rue Coq-Heron-”

“I can only say, in reply to your Majesty, that madame prefers to live alone.”

“But you go there every day, I suppose-”

“I have not had the honour of seeing the countess since your Majesty sent me to inquire about her.”

“Why, that was over a week ago!”

“Ten days ago, sire,” replied Charny, in a voice that faltered slightly.

“Fie, fie, count!” exclaimed the king, in the tone of good- humoured raillery suited to a family man, as he loved to style himself;”this must be all your fault.”

“My fault-” repeated Charny, blushing in spite of himself.

“You may think it is no business of mine, count, but it is. You certainly are not very grateful to this poor Mademoiselle de Taverney, who loves you so much.”

“Who loves me so much! Pardon me, sire; I know it is not considered permissible to contradict a king, but -”

“You may contradict me as much as you please. I know what I am talking about. I know that on that terrible night of the sixth of October the countess never took her eyes off you after you joined us; and once, when the Bull's Eye was so nearly forced open, I saw the poor lady make a movement as if about to throw herself between the man she loved and the danger that threatened him.”

Charny's heart throbbed wildly. He, too, had fancied he detected some such impulse in a movement made by the countess on that occasion; but the particulars of his last painful interview with Andree were too distinct in his mind for him to derive much comfort from these assurances on the part of the king.

“I hope your Majesty's surmises are correct,” he replied sadly.”Still, I think the king need not trouble himself about Madame de Charny's great love for me, in case he should desire to send me on any dangerous or important mission. Absence or danger will be equally welcome, as far as I am concerned.”

“But a week ago, when the queen desired to send you on a mission to Turin, you seemed anxious to remain in Paris.”

“I thought my brother could fulfil that mission equally well, and that I had better reserve myself for a more difficult or dangerous one.”

“And very wisely, it seems, my dear count, as that time has now come. This is one reason why I spoke of your wife's lonely and unprotected condition just now. I should like to see her with some friend before I send her husband away.”

“I will write to the countess, sire, and tell her your wishes.”

“Write to her! Do you not expect to see the countess before your departure-”

“I never intruded upon the countess but once without permission, sire; and, after the manner in which she received me, it will be even more necessary for me to ask her permission in future, unless I go at your Majesty's express commands.”

“Well, well, we will say no more about it, then,” exclaimed the king, rising from the table.”Come into my study, count. I have something of great importance to say to you.”

Though the king had been residing at the Tuileries for a fortnight, only two of his apartments were in complete order. These were his workshop and his office.

Later on, the reader will be introduced into the first-mentioned apartment; but now we had better follow Charny into the king's cabinet, where he takes his stand in front of the desk at which the king has just seated himself.

This desk was thickly covered with maps, geographical works, English newspapers, and sheets of paper, among which those bearing the chirography of Louis XVI. were easily distinguishable by the remarkable closeness of the written lines, which covered the sheet from top to bottom, leaving no margin, even on the sides; for the king was so parsimonious that he would not permit the smallest scrap of paper to be wasted.

As Charny had been living on such intimate terms with the royal couple for two or three years, he was too familiar with such details to take any special notice of those we have mentioned, while he waited for the king to resume the conversation, which he seemed for some reason or other rather loth to do.

As if to give himself a little more time, or perhaps courage, he opened a drawer in his desk and took out several papers, which he laid upon a small table beside him.

“I noticed, Monsieur de Charny,” he said at last, “that on the night of the fifth and sixth of October you placed your brother near the queen, and remained with me.”

“I am the head of our family, sire, as you are the head of the state; so it was my right to perish near my sovereign, if need be,” replied Charny.

“However that may be, the little incident made me feel that if at any time I should require a dangerous or difficult commission executed, I could safely trust in your loyalty as a Frenchman and your affection as a friend,” the king said, in a voice full of emotion.”Though you are only thirty-six, you are thoughtful beyond your years, and you can scarcely have witnessed the events which have recently transpired without drawing some conclusion from them. What do you think of the situation, and what means of ameliorating it would you suggest-”

“Sire, I am only a plain rough soldier,” replied Charny, with more hesitation than embarrassment, “and such grave matters are entirely beyond my comprehension.”

“You are a man, monsieur,” responded the king, with quiet dignity, “and another man, who looks upon you as a friend, merely asks you what you, with your honest heart and clear head, would do if you were in his place.”

“In a situation quite as grave as this, the queen, too, once did me the honour, sire, to ask my advice, as the king is doing now. It was the day of the storming of the Bastille. Her Majesty wished to send eight or ten thousand foreign troops against the hundred thousand armed Parisians who were crowding the streets and boulevards. If the queen had not understood my feelings so well, if she had not been able to read the respect and devotion that filled my heart, my reply would probably have offended her. Alas, sire, have I not good cause to fear to-day that a truthful answer on my part will offend the king-”

“What did you say in reply to the queen-”

“I said that your Majesty must enter Paris as a father, unless you were strong enough to enter it as a conqueror.”

“Well, was not that the course I adopted-”

“It was indeed, sire.”

“Now it remains to be seen if I acted wisely; for- answer me truly — am I here as a king, or as a prisoner-”“Will the king permit me to speak with perfect frankness-”

“Of course. When I ask your advice 1 also ask your honest opinion.”

“Sire, I disapproved of the banquet at Versailles. I begged the queen not to go to the theatre in your absence. Sire, when her majesty trampled the national cockade under foot and displayed the black cockade, — the Austrian symbol, — I was in despair.”

“Charny, do you suppose this was the real cause of the outbreaks on the fifth and sixth of October-”

“No, sire; but it furnished a pretext for them. Sire, you should not blame the people too much. They are not bad at heart; they love you; they are really royalists, but they are suffering terribly. They are cold, they are hungry. There are mischief-makers, above and below, and on all sides of them, urging them on. They are pushing and crowding and overturning things generally, but they have no idea of their power. Once let them loose, and an inundation or conflagration is sure to follow.”

“But suppose, count, I prefer not to be either drowned or burned, what am I to do-”

“Do not give the flood or the fire any excuse to spread itself. But pardon me; I forgot that even at the king's command -”

“You are speaking at my earnest request, count. Go on, Monsieur de Charny; the king begs you will go on.”

“Well, sire, you have seen the Parisians, so long deprived of their sovereign's presence, rejoicing like famished men over your return. You saw them at Versailles, cursing, destroying, murdering, — or rather you thought you saw them, but they were not really the people; you have seen them here at the Tuileries, rending the air with shouts of delight on beholding you.”

“Yes, I have seen all this, and hence my doubts. I ask myself again and again which are really the people, those who murder and destroy, or those who caress and applaud.”

“These last, sire, these last! Trust them, and they will protect you from the others.”

“Count, you say almost the very same thing that Doctor Gilbert said to me this morning, scarcely two hours ago.”

“If you have the advice of a man as wise and sensible as the doctor, why do you condescend to ask it of me, a rough soldier-”

“I will tell you. It is because there is a wide difference between you two men. You are devoted to your monarch! Doctor Gilbert is devoted only to the monarchy.”

“I do not understand you, sire.”

“I mean that he would gladly abandon the king, if the kingdom — that is, the monarchical principle — were safe.”

“Then there is a wide difference between us; for you are both king and kingdom to me, and it is for this reason I implore you to make use of me if I can serve you in any way.”

“First of all, monsieur, I should like to know whom you would appeal to in this interval of calm, — this brief interval, I fear, between two storms.”Who would be able to dispel all traces of the past storm, and avert the hurricane which seems about to burst upon us-”

“If I had the honour, and also the misfortune, to be the king, I should remember the shouts that rent the air during my trip from Versailles, -and offer my right hand to Lafayette, and my left to Mirabeau.”

“How can you say this, when you hate the one and despise the other-”exclaimed the king.

“This is not a question of personal likes or dislikes, sire; it is the safety of the king and the preservation of the monarchy that we have to consider.”

“That is precisely what Doctor Gilbert said,” muttered the king, as if talking to himself.

“I am glad indeed that my opinion coincides with that of so eminent a man as Doctor Gilbert,” responded Charny.

“So you think, my dear count, that the union of these two men would restore peace to our land-”

“I do, sire.”

“But if I should bring about this union, and consent to this compact, and yet fail in spite of all my efforts, and the efforts of these two men as well, what then- What is to be done if this ministerial combination should come to naught-”

“I think that when you have exhausted all the means Providence has placed at your disposal, and have fulfilled all the duties devolving upon you, the king would be fully justified in providing for his own safety and that of his family.”

“And in such a contingency you would advise flight-”

“I should advise your Majesty to retire to some well- fortified town, like Metz, Nancy, or Strasbourg, with such regiments and gentlemen as you feel that you can trust.”

The king's face brightened.

“And among all the generals who have given convincing proofs of devotion, tell me frankly, Charny, — you who know them all, — which one would you intrust with the dangerous duty of receiving and protecting his king-”

“Oh, sire, it is a terrible thing to attempt to advise the king in such a matter. I realise my own ignorance and lack of judgment too forcibly. I really implore your Majesty to excuse me.”

“Well, I will relieve your mind on that score,” replied the king.”My choice is already made. It has fallen upon a man to whom I propose to send you with a letter you are commissioned to deliver to him. Now tell me, Charny, if you were obliged to confide your sovereign to the courage, loyalty, and ability of any one man of your acquaintance, what man would you select-”

After reflecting a moment, Charny replied, “I solemnly assure your Majesty that it is not on account of the ties of friendship, and I might almost say relationship, that bind me to him, but there is a man noted for his ardent devotion to the king,-a man who protected our possessions in the Antilles very effectually during the American war, who has since been intrusted with several important commands, and who is now, I believe, military governor of the city of Metz. This is the Marquis de Bouille”. As a father, I would confide my son to him; as a son, I would confide my father to him; as a subject, I would confide my king to him.”

Undemonstrative as Louis XVI. was, he had listened to the count's words with evident anxiety, and his face lighted up as he began to perceive what person Charny had in mind. When the count at last mentioned the name, the king could hardly repress an exclamation of delight.

“Here, read the address on this letter!” he cried, “and see if I was not inspired to summon you by Providence itself.”

Charny took the letter and read the following superscription: -

“To Monsieur Francois Claude Amour,

“Marquis de Bouille,

“Commandant of the City of Metz.”

Tears of joy and pride mounted to Charny's eyes.

“Sire,” he exclaimed, “after such a coincidence I can say only one thing, -I am ready to die for your Majesty.”

“And do not feel that I ought to have any secrets from you after what has just passed between us; so I will say that if that time ever comes, it is to your care, and to yours alone, you understand, that I shall intrust my own person and that of the queen, as well as of our children. Listen now to a plan which has been proposed to me, but to which I have declined to accede.

“This, of course, is not the first time the idea has occurred to me, or has been suggested by those around me. On the night of the fifth and sixth of October I thought of arranging for the queen's flight. A carriage was to take her to Rambouillet. I was to meet her there on horseback, and from that town we could have easily reached the frontier; for the close surveillance to which we are now subjected had not yet been inaugurated. The project failed, because the queen would not consent to be separated from me. Shortly after that, Monsieur de Breteuil opened negotiations with me through Comte d'Innisdale, and about a week ago I received a letter from Soleure.”

The king paused; but seeing the count stand silent and motionless, he said, “You make no reply, monsieur.”

“I know that Breteuil is the tool of Austria, sire, and I am fearful of wounding the very natural preference the king may feel for his wife's brother, Joseph II., emperor of Austria.”

The king seized Charny's hand, and, leaning forward, said, in a whisper, “You need have no fears of that, count, for I like Austria no better than you do. Count, when a man like you is about to risk his life for another, it is only fair that he should thoroughly understand the man to whom he gives this proof of devotion. I do not like Austria. I said so just now, and I repeat it. I did not love Maria Theresa, who kept us for seven years involved in a war which cost us two hundred thousand men, two hundred million francs, and seventeen hundred leagues of territory in America; who called Madame de Pompadour — a harlot — her dear cousin, and who had my sainted father poisoned by Choiseul; who used her daughters as diplomatic agents, and who ruled Naples through the Archduchess Caroline, as she tried to rule France through the Archduchess Marie Antoinette; and now, at this very moment, though Maria Theresa is dead, who influences and advises the queen- Her brother, Joseph II., is, happily, near his end. But who are her counsellors- You know as well as I do that they are the Abbe Vermond, her former teacher, but in reality an Austrian spy the Baron de Breteuil; and Mercy d'Argenteau, the Austrian ambassador. Behind these men, who are really only his puppets, stands Kaunitz, the septuagenarian minister of Austria. These men influence the queen of France through Mademoiselle Bertin, her milliner, and Leonard, her hairdresser, who are their paid agents; and into what are they endeavouring to lead her- lento an alliance with Austria, — Austria, who has always been the bane of France either as friend or as foe; Austria, who placed the knife in the hands of Jacques Clement, and the dagger in the hands of Ravaillac; Austria, imprudent Austria, who turns her own sword, Hungary, upon herself; short-sighted Austria, who allows the richest jewel in her crown, the Netherlands, to be stolen from her by Belgian priests; Austria, who turns her back upon Europe, and uses her best troops against the Turks, our allies, for the benefit of Russia! No, no, Monsieur de Charny; I hate Austria, and I do not, I cannot, trust her. These overtures are not the only ones I have received, however. Do you know the Marquis de Favras-”

“Yes, sire.”

“What do you think of him-”

“He is a brave soldier and an honest gentleman; but misfortunes have made him restless, and rather too venturesome. Nevertheless, though he may be rather too much inclined, perhaps, to engage in hazardous experiments, he is a man of honour, who would die without a murmur if he had given his word, but hardly the person to select as the leader of such an enterprise.”

“But he is not the leader,” replied the king, rather bitterly.”It is my brother, Monsieur de Provence, who furnishes the money, — Monsieur de Provence who arranges everything. It is Monsieur de Provence who will remain here when I depart in company with Favras. What do you think of that- This is not an Austrian scheme, but a scheme devised by the princes and by the nobility.”

“Excuse me, sire. As I said before, I do not doubt either the baron's loyalty or courage. Whithersoever he promises to conduct your Majesty, he will do it, or perish in the attempt. But why does not Monsieur de Provence accompany your Majesty- Why does he remain here-”

“Possibly in order that the people may not be obliged to go too far to find a regent, in case they should think it advisable to depose their king,” answered Louis, bitterly.

“Sire, what you say is terrible.”

“I am only telling you what everybody knows, my dear count. In the last council held at Turin, the expediency of deposing me and appointing a regent was discussed, and in that same council my cousin, Monsieur de Conde”, proposed to march upon Lyons. You see, therefore, that I cannot depend upon Favras, Breteuil, Austria, or the princes, in my extremity.”

“Is my journey to be kept a secret from every one, sire-”inquired the count.

“It matters very little, my dear count, whether or not people know you are going, so long as they are ignorant of the object of your journey.”

“And that is to be revealed to Bouille” only-”

“To Monsieur de Bouille” only, and then only when you are perfectly sure of his sentiments. The letter you are to deliver to him is merely a letter of introduction. You understand my situation, my hopes, and my fears, better than my wife does, — better, too, than Necker or Gilbert. Act accordingly. I place the thread and scissors in your hand; untie the thread, or cut it, as you think best.”

He handed Charny an open letter, which read as follows: -

“Palace of The Teileries, October 29.

“Monsieur, — I hope you continue to be pleased with your position as governor of Metz. The Cotnte de Charny, who is about to pass through your city, will inquire whether you desire that I shall do anything more for you. If so, I shall avail myself of the opportunity to oblige you, as eagerly as I now avail myself of this opportunity to repeat the assurance of my profound esteem and regard.

“Louis.”

“Now go, Monsieur de Charny,” said the king.”You are at liberty to make such promises to Monsieur de Bouille” as you see fit, if you think there is any need of promises; only let them be such as you are sure of my ability to keep.”

And he offered his hand to the count a second time.

Charny kissed the hand with an emotion which rendered renewed protestations of devotion unnecessary, and withdrew, leaving the king convinced that he had gained a firmer hold upon the count's heart by this display of confidence than by all the favours and wealth he had bestowed upon Charny in the days of his prosperity.

CHAPTER XXI. IN HONOUR BOUND.

When the Comte de Charny hastened to his room to make his preparations for departure, he found Weber, the queen's confidential servant, waiting for him at the door to announce that her Majesty desired to see him without delay. There being no possible way to escape this interview, as the expressed wishes of crowned heads are equivalent to commands, Charny ordered his valet to have horses put to his carriage as soon as possible, and then followed Weber to the queen's apartments.

For several days Marie Antoinette had been in a deeply perturbed state of mind. She remembered the count's devotion at Versailles, and felt something akin to remorse at the harshness with which she had then treated him; for the sight of his dying brother, as he lay bleeding in the corridor leading to her chamber, was ever before her.

But could she attribute entirely to fraternal grief the indifference the count had manifested towards her ever since her return to Paris- Possibly this indifference was only feigned, however, and the count's refusal to accept the Turin mission was not due to his desire to remain near his wife, as she had feared. True, Andrew had scarcely left the Tuileries before the count followed her to the Rue Coq-Heron; but his absence had been extremely brief, and as every one knew that Charny had not left the palace since that time, the husband and wife could not have seen each other since that eventful evening.

The queen assured herself that she had been unjust in reproaching Charny because he had remained with the king instead of with her on that terrible night of the fifth and sixth of June, as well as unkind in not sympathising more deeply with the count's grief at the loss of his brother.

It is ever thus with true love. We condemn our own faults and shortcomings with a rigour commensurate with the indulgence we show towards the object of our love; and the result is that after a separation of eight or ten days, the absent one, no matter how reprehensible his conduct, seems more dear and more indispensable to our happiness than ever, — always provided, of course, that another infatuation has not taken advantage of this absence to usurp the place of the first.

The queen was in this frame of mind when the door opened, and Charny appeared upon the threshold. As he had just left the king, he was in the irreproachable attire of an officer on duty; but there was also in his manner and bearing a profound deference and an intense coldness which made itself instantly felt.

He bowed low, and remained standing just inside the door. The queen glanced around as if to see what prevented him from approaching; then, perceiving that he kept aloof only of his own free will, she said, -

“Approach, Monsieur de Charny; we are alone.”

The count obeyed; then, in a low but perfectly firm voice, in which it was impossible to discern the slightest trace of emotion, he responded, -

“I am here at your Majesty's orders.”

“Count, did you not hear me say that we are alone-” replied the queen, in her most affectionate tones.

“Yes, madame; but I do not see that solitude should change the manner in which a subject should address his sovereign.”

“When I sent for you, count, I sent as one friend sends for another friend.”

A faint but rather bitter smile curved Charny's lips.

“Yes, count, I understand the meaning of that smile, and what you are saying to yourself. You are thinking that I was unjust to you at Versailles, and that in Paris I have been most capricious.”

“Injustice and capriciousness are permissible in any woman, you know, madame, and, of course, doubly Bo in a queen.”

“However that may be, count, you know full well that the queen cannot do without you as an adviser, and the woman cannot do without you as a friend.”

As she spoke, she extended her beautiful white hand, still worthy to serve as a model for a sculptor, though now a trifle thin.

“Yes, I have been unjust, even cruel,” she continued.”You lost a beloved brother in my defence, count; he died for me, and I ought to have wept his loss with you. But in that terrible hour, terror, love, jealousy — I am but a woman, Charny — checked my tears; but during the ten days that I have scarcely seen you, I have more than atoned for my apparent lack of feeling.”

Too little time had elapsed since Charny kissed the king's hand to permit the kiss he now imprinted upon that of the queen to be other than a mere mark of respect.

“Believe me, I am not ungrateful for this kind remembrance of me, madame,” he replied, “and for this grief on account of my brother; but unfortunately I have scarcely time to express my gratitude in a proper manner.”

“How is that- What do you mean-” asked the queen, in astonishment.

“I mean that I am to leave Paris within an hour, madame.”

“Leave Paris-”

“Yes, madame.”

“My God! you, too, desert us like all the rest!” cried the queen.

“Alas! your Majesty has just proved by those cruel words that I must, indeed, have been unwittingly guilty of some dire offence.”

“Forgive me, my friend, forgive me! But when you told me you were going away- Why are you going-”

“I am going to fulfil a mission which the king has done me the honour to intrust to me.”

“And you will be absent some time-”

“I do not know.”

“But you refused a similar mission about a week ago, I remember.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then why do you accept this one, now-”

“Because many changes may occur in a man's life in that time, and consequently in his plans.”

“And you are going — alone-” she asked presently.

“Yes, madame.”

The queen seemed to breathe again; then, as if overcome by the effort she had just made, she closed her eyes, and passed her fine cambric handkerchief over her forehead.

“And where are you going-” she asked presently.

“I know that the king has no secrets from your Majesty, and that if the queen will ask him my place of destination, and the object of my mission, he will doubtless inform her,” Charny answered respectfully.

Marie Antoinette gazed at the speaker in evident astonishment.

“But why should I apply to him when I can ask you-”

“Because it is the king's secret, not mine.”

“It seems to me if the secret is the king's, it is also the queen's,” responded Marie Antoinette, haughtily.

“Unquestionably, madame,” replied Charny, bowing.”That is the reason I ventured to assure your Majesty that the king would not hesitate to tell you.”

“Does this mission take you to some city in France, or to a foreign land-”

“The king alone has the right to give her Majesty the information she desires.”

“If you go away, you are sure to encounter many perils, and yet I shall not know where you are, or what dangers you are incurring,” she murmured sadly.

“Wherever I may be, your Majesty will have in me, I swear, a faithful and devoted subject; and any dangers to which I may be exposed will be sweet to me, since they are incurred in the service of the two persons I revere most in this world.”

And, bowing again, the count evidently awaited the queen's permission to retire.

Marie Antoinette heaved a sigh that was very like a sob, and pressed her hand upon her throat as if to choke back the tears.

“Very well, monsieur, go!”she said.

Charny bowed again, and walked to the door with a firm step. His hand was upon the knob, when the queen suddenly extended her arms towards him, and called his name.

He trembled and turned. His face was as pale as death.

“Come here,” she faltered.

He approached, but with an uncertain tread.

“Come here — nearer still,” added the queen.”Look me in the face. You have ceased to love me. Am I not right- You cannot deny it.”

Charny felt an icy chill run through his veins; he thought for a moment that he was about to faint. It was the first time this haughty woman, this proud sovereign, had ever humbled herself before him.

At any other time, and under any other circumstances, he would have thrown himself at her feet and implored her forgiveness; but sustained now by the recollection of what had just passed between the king and himself, he summoned up all his strength.

“Madame,” he said gently but firmly, “after the kindness and confidence with which the king has just overwhelmed me, I should indeed be a wretch if I showed your Majesty anything but the most profound devotion and respect.”

“You are right, count; you are free. Go!”

For one instant Charny felt an almost irresistible desire to throw himself at the queen's feet; but the invincible loyalty that was a part of his nature smothered, even if it did not entirely quench, the dying embers of his once ardent passion, and he hurried from the room.

The queen followed him with her eyes, hoping he would turn and come back to her; but she saw the door open and then close behind him, and heard the sound of his retreating footsteps become fainter and fainter in the corridor outside. For full five minutes she continued to watch and listen after the sound of his footsteps had entirely died away.

Soon afterward her attention was attracted by a sound in the courtyard, — the sound of wheels.

She rushed to the window, and saw the count's travelling carriage cross the courtyard and enter the Rue du Carrousel.

She summoned Weber. He entered.

“If I wanted to go to the Rue Coq-Heron, what street should I have to take-”she asked.

“First the Rue du Carrousel, then follow the Rue Saint- Honore “as far as -”

“Enough; that will do! He has gone to bid her farewell,” she added, under her breath.

Pressing her forehead against the cool glass, she continued, hissing out each word between her clenched teeth, “I had better know what is in store for me.”

Then she added aloud, -

“Go to the Rue Coq-Heron, Weber, and tell Madame de Charny that I wish to see her this evening.”

“Pardon me, madame, but I believe your Majesty has an appointment with Doctor Gilbert already.”

“That is true,” said the queen, hesitating.

“What does your Majesty decide-”

“Countermand the order for Doctor Gilbert's attendance, and give him an appointment for to-morrow morning instead.”

“Politics can wait until to-morrow,” she said to herself.”Besides, the conversation I shall have with the countess will not affect my decision in any way.”

And with a wave of the hand she dismissed Weber.

CHAPTER XXII. A GLOOMY OUTLOOK.

The queen was mistaken. Charny did not go to bid the countess farewell. On the contrary, he went straight to the royal post station to get post-horses for his carriage.

While they were being harnessed, he entered the superintendent's office and wrote a brief note to the countess. This he intrusted to the servant who was to take his own horses back to their stable.

The countess was reading this letter when Weber was ushered into the room with his message from the queen, to which Andree quietly replied that she was entirely at her Majesty's service.

It was not until several minutes after Weber's departure that Andree drew the count's letter from her bosom, where she had hastily concealed it on the royal messenger's entrance. When she had finished reading it, she kissed it tenderly, and murmured, with a sorrowful smile:”God keep you, dear soul of my soul; I know not where you are, but God knows, and I will implore His blessing upon you in my prayers.”

Then she quietly awaited the hour appointed for her visit to the Tuileries, though she could not imagine why the queen had sent for her.

The queen's manner was characterised by no such tranquillity, however; for she wandered restlessly about, unable to subdue her impatience. Monsieur helped her to pass an hour or two, having come to the Tuileries to find out how Favras had been received by the king. Ignorant of the object of the Comte de Charny's journey, the queen, anxious to keep this way of escape open, made many more promises in behalf of the king than he would have made himself, and told Monsieur to persevere, and said that when the right time came, there would be no difficulty so far as her husband was concerned.

Monsieur, on his side, was full of confidence. The loan he had effected with the Genoese banker had placed two million francs at his disposal, of which he had only been able to persuade Baron de Favras to accept two hundred crowns for his services as intermediary. Monsieur was to remain ignorant of all the details of the plan; in fact, there was to be nothing to indicate that he had anything whatever to do with it. Indeed, Monsieur had always protested strongly against the flight of his brothers and cousins, as he found this to be a means of increasing his popularity; so it was more than likely that Monsieur would be appointed regent, as Louis XVI. had said, in case the latter left the country.

After Monsieur's departure, the queen spent an hour with the Princesse de Lamballe. This unfortunate lady, who was passionately devoted to the queen, had never been anything more than a convenience for Marie Antoinette, who had abandoned the princess to transfer her favour to Andree and the Polignacs in quick succession; but the queen knew her, and was well aware that she had to take but a single step towards reconciliation, to have this devoted friend come all the rest of the way with open arms.

Dinner occupied another hour. They dined en famille that day, with Madame Elizabeth, Madame de Lamballe, and the children.

The king and queen were both silent and preoccupied. Each had a secret from the other, — the queen about the Favras affair; the king about the Bouille” affair.

Unlike the king, who would have preferred to owe his safety to anything, even to the revolution, rather than to strangers, the queen infinitely preferred foreigners; though the people the French called foreigners were, it must be remembered, the queen's own people. How could she prefer the ruffians who had killed her faithful guards, the women who had insulted her at Versailles, the wretches who had tried to murder her in her apartments, the crowd that called her the Austrian woman, to the kings of whom she was asking succour, to her brother, Joseph II., to her brother-in-law, Ferdinand I., and her cousin, Charles IV.!

We have seen the king lay bare his heart, and know how deeply he distrusted his brother monarchs and princes. Nor was he influenced to any great extent by the queen, as many have supposed. No, the king was influenced chiefly by the priests. He belonged to them.

He ratified all the decrees against kings, princes, and emigres, but vetoed every decree against the priests. For their sake he risked the twentieth of June, endured the tenth of August, and submitted to the twenty-first of January; so the pope, who could not make him a saint, made him at least a martyr.

Contrary to her usual custom, the queen did not remain very long with her children after dinner, but retired to her apartments at an early hour, excusing herself on the plea that she had some writing to do.

The king scarcely noticed her departure, so deeply was he engrossed in pondering over certain events which the chief of police had reported to him, and which seemed to seriously threaten the peace of Paris.

These events may be briefly narrated as follows: -

The Assembly, having declared itself inseparable from the king, had accompanied the king to Paris, where the first thing it did was to change the title, King of France and Navarre, to King of the French.

It had also forbidden the use of the formula, “We by our sovereign knowledge and authority,” and prescribed as a substitute for it, “Louis, king by the grace of God and by the constitutional law of the state,” which goes to prove that the National Assembly, like many other legislative bodies before and since, gave its attention to the merest trifles, when it should have been occupied with serious things.

For example, it should have directed its attention to the task of feeding Paris, which was literally perishing with hunger.

The return of the baker, the baker's wife, and the baker's boy, and their installation at Versailles, had not produced the hoped-for effect.

Bread and flour were still scarce. Every day there were crowds at the doors of the bakeries, and these crowds caused serious disturbances. But how were these disturbances to be prevented, while the privilege of public meetings was guaranteed by the Declaration of Equal Rights-

But the Assembly seemed to be ignorant of all this. Its members were not obliged to stand in line at bakery doors; and if any member chanced to become hungry during the session, he was sure of finding some nice fresh rolls not a hundred yards away, at the shop of a baker named Franqois, who lived on the Rue du Marche”-Palu, and who, as he baked seven or eight times a day, always kept a little in reserve for the gentlemen of the Assembly.

The chief of police was making his report relative to these disorders, which might develop into a serious riot any fine morning, when Weber opened the door of the queen's cabinet and announced,-

“Madame la Comtesse de Charny.”

CHAPTER XXIII. SWEETHEART AND WIFE.

Though the queen had sent for Andrei, and had consequently been expecting to hear her announced, the words uttered by Weber made her tremble from head to foot; but at last, extending a hand to her former friend, she said, in a voice that faltered with emotion,-

“You are welcome now, as always, Andree’s.”

Self-possessed and resolute as Madame de Charny had been when she presented herself at the Tuileries, this greeting made her tremble in her turn, so strongly did the tone remind her of that which the dauphiness had been wont to use in former years.

“Need I say that if your Majesty had always spoken to me like this, it would never have been necessary to send outside the palace walls when your Majesty desired to talk with me-”responded Andree, with her usual candour and frankness.

“Alas, Andree, all women, even those of the loftiest station, do not possess your wonderful serenity, — I, especially, as you well know, since I have so often been obliged to implore your aid.”

“The queen alludes to a time which I have forgotten, and which I thought she, too, no longer remembered.”

“Your retort is severe, Andree, and perhaps I deserve it. It is true, alas! that while I was happy, I did not reward your devotion; because it is impossible for any human being, however exalted her station may be, to repay a debt like that which I owe to you. You may have thought me ungrateful, but perhaps what you mistook for ingratitude was only inability to requite my obligation.”

“I might have a right to complain, madame, if I had ever desired or asked anything of the queen, and she had refused my request; but why should your Majesty think me inclined to complain, when I have neither asked nor desired anything at your hands-”

“Shall I admit to you, Andree, that it is this marvellous indifference to all sublunary things that makes us all stand in such awe of you- You seem to me superhuman, -an inhabitant of another sphere, who overwhelms us with a sense of our inferiority. At first one is terrified at one's own weakness when brought face to face with one who never falters, and who seems to be not only superior to all temptation, but to be endowed with a serenity nothing can disturb; but afterwards one finds comfort in the thought that charity and perfection go hand in hand: so in my hour of deepest sorrow it is only natural that I should turn to you for consolation, though I fear your censure.”

“Alas! madame, if this is what you desire of me, I fear your hopes will not be realized.”

“Andree, Andree! you forget under what terrible circumstances you once sustained and consoled me.”

Andree turned pale, and the queen, seeing her totter and close her eyes as if her strength had suddenly deserted her, attempted to take her hand and draw her down upon the sofa beside her; but Andree resisted the queen's movement, and remained standing.

“Madame,” she said, “if your Majesty had any compassion on your faithful servant, you would spare her these reminiscences, which she hoped were wellnigh forgotten. Besides, one who, like myself, asks consolation of no one, not even of God, because she feels that even He is powerless to assuage some sorrows, would surely prove a poor consoler to others.”

The queen fixed her eyes searchingly on Andree.”Then you have other sorrows besides those which you have confided to me-” she asked.

Andree made no reply.

“Listen,” continued the queen.”The time has come when there must be a full understanding between us, and I summoned you here for that purpose. Do you love Monsieur de Charny-”

“Yes.”

The queen uttered a cry of pain like a wounded lioness.

“I suspected it! I suspected it!” she groaned.”How long have you loved him-”

“Ever since the first hour I met him.”

The queen recoiled almost in terror before this marble statue who at last admitted that she possessed a heart.

“And you have kept this love a secret from him-”

“As you have good reason to know, madame.”

“But why were you silent-”

“Because I saw that you loved him.”

“Do you mean to imply that you love him more than I love him, because I have been blind to all this-”

“You were blind to all this because he loved you, madame,” said Andree, bitterly.

“Yes; and I see now, because he loves me no longer. That is what you mean, is it not-”

Andree remained silent.

“Answer me!” cried the queen, seizing her, not by the hand now, but the arm.”Confess that he loves me no longer.”

Andree replied neither by word nor gesture.

“Truly this is death itself!”exclaimed the queen;”but kill me outright by telling me that he loves me no longer. He loves me no longer, is it not so-”

“The Comte de Charny's love or indifference are his own to divulge or conceal, as he thinks best. It is not for me to reveal them.”

“But his secrets are no longer his alone, I presume, as I doubt not he has made you his confidante.”

“The Comte de Charny has never said one word to me about either his love for you or his indifference to you.”

“Not even this morning-”

“I did not see him this morning.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you are ignorant of the count's departure-”

“I did not say that.”

''But how did you hear of his departure, if you did not see him-”

“He wrote to tell me of it.”

“Ah! he wrote to you!”cried the queen.

And as Richard III. in a supreme moment exclaimed, “My kingdom for a horse!”Marie Antoinette was tempted to exclaim, “My kingdom for that letter!”

Andree understood this ardent desire on the queen's part, but she could not deny herself the satisfaction of keeping her rival in suspense for a while.

“And this letter the count wrote you on the eve of his departure; you do not happen to have it about you, I suppose-” ventured the queen.

“You are mistaken, madame; here it is.”

And drawing the letter from her bosom, Andree handed it to the queen.

The latter shuddered as she took it. For a moment she looked at Andree with knitted brows, holding the letter between her fingers the while, as if in doubt whether to keep or return it; but at last, casting aside all scruples, and exclaiming, -

“Oh! the temptation is too great!” she opened the letter, and, leaning towards the light, read as follows: -

“Madame, — I leave Paris in an hour, in obedience to an official order from the king. I am not at liberty to tell where or why I am going, or how long I shall remain away, — all matters of very little moment to you, probably, but which I should be very glad to tell you, if I had been allowed to do so.

“I thought for an instant of calling on you to announce my departure in person, but dared not do so without your permission.”

The queen had learned what she most desired to know, and seemed inclined to return the letter to Andrei; but the latter, as if it were now her turn to command, and not to obey, said,-

“Bead on to the end, madame;” and so the queen read on: -

“I declined the former mission offered to me because I then believed, or rather hoped, poor fool that I was, that some mutual sympathy would detain me in Paris; but since that time, alas! I have had proofs to the contrary, so I accept with joy an opportunity to separate myself from hearts that are indifferent to me.

“If I should meet with George's fate during my journey, I have made such arrangements as will insure your being the first to hear of the misfortune which has befallen me, and your consequent freedom. Then, and not till then, will you know, madame, the profound admiration your sublime devotion has aroused in my heart, — devotion which has been so poorly rewarded by one for whom you — young, beautiful, and certainly created to be happy — have sacrificed youth, beauty, and happiness.

“Madame, all I ask of God and of you is that you will give an occasional thought to the unhappy man who discovered too late the value of the treasure he possessed.

“With heartfelt respect,

“Olivier De Charny.”

The queen tendered the letter to Andree, who accepted it this time.

“Well, madame, have you been betrayed-” she exclaimed.”Have I failed, I will not say in the pledge I made to you, for I made you no pledge, but in the trust you reposed in me-”

“Forgive me, Andree”, forgive me! I have suffered so much!”

“You have suffered! You dare to say in my presence that you have suffered! What, then, shall I say of myself- not that I have suffered — I will not employ a word which other women have used to convey the same idea. No, I need a new word to express my misery and describe the tortures I have undergone. You have suffered, you say, madame! Yet have you ever seen the man you loved indifferent to your love, and kneeling heart in hand to another woman- Have you ever seen your brother, jealous of that other woman, whom he adored in silence as a heathen adores his god, quarrel with the man you loved- Have you ever heard the man you loved, smitten down by your brother with a wound that seemed likely to prove mortal, call in his delirium upon that other woman whose confidante you were- Have you ever seen that other woman glide like a ghost through the corridor which you yourself were haunting, in order to catch those incoherent words which proved that if a mad passion does not outlast this life, it at least accompanies its victim to the very brink of the grave- Have you ever seen this man restored to life by a miracle of nature and science, only to cast himself again at the feet of your rival- — your rival, yes, madame; for great love levels all social distinctions. Did you ever, in your despair, retire to a convent at the age of twenty-five, hoping to extinguish at the foot of the cross the passion that was consuming you- then, one day, after a year of fasting, and anguish, and prayer, have your fortunate rival, who suspected nothing of all this, summon you from your retreat, and for the sake of the old friendship, which all this suffering had not impaired, for the sake of her honour as a wife, and for the sake of compromised royalty, ask you to become the wife — of whom- — of the very man you had secretly worshipped for years; become a screen between the keen eyes of the world and the happiness of another, -as a shroud conceals the corpse from the public gaze- Have you ever heard the priest ask you to take for your husband a man who left your side an hour after the ceremony, never to return, except as the lover of your rival- Ah, madame, these last three years have been years of agony indeed!”

The queen stretched out a trembling hand to take Andree’s, but Andree drew hers away.

“As for me, I promised nothing, and yet you see what I have done,” continued the younger woman, becoming the accuser;”as for you, madame, you promised me two things.”

“Andree, Andree!”

“You promised never to see Monsieur de Charny again, — a promise which should have been all the more sacred, as I did not exact it of you.”

“Andree!”

“Then, too, you promised, and this time in writing, to treat me as a sister, — another pledge that should have been all the more sacredly kept, from the fact that it was unsolicited.”

“Andree!”

“Must I remind you of the terms of that promise, made at the moment I was about to sacrifice what was far more precious to me than life, — my happiness in this world, and perhaps my salvation in the world to come- for we do not sin in deed alone, madame; and who can promise me that God will pardon my mad desires and impious vows- In that hour of sacrifice you gave me a letter. I can see every word of that letter yet, written as if in flame, before my eyes. Let me recall it to you: -

“Andree, you have saved me. I owe my honour to you. My life is yours. In the name of that honour which has cost you so dear, I swear that you may call me sister. Do so; you will not see me blush.

“I place this letter in your hands as a pledge of my gratitude, — it is my wedding gift.

“Yours is the noblest of hearts, and it will appreciate the value of that which I freely offer.

“Marie Antoinette.”

The queen heaved a heavy sigh.

“I understand,” resumed Andree.”Because I burned this note, you thought I had forgotten its contents. No, madame, no; I remember every word of it, from beginning to end, though you appear to have forgotten every word of it.”

“Forgive me, Andree, forgive me. I thought he loved you.”

“You believed that, because, as he seemed to love you less, madame, you thought he must love another.”

Andree had suffered so much that she, in turn, was becoming cruel.

“Then you, too, have perceived that he loved me less-”

Andree made no reply; but as she gazed at the despairing queen, something not unlike a smile of scorn curled her lip.

“What shall I do- My God! what shall I do to regain his love- My life is bound up in it! Oh, Andree, my friend, my sister, tell me, I implore you!”

“How do I know, madame- — I, who have never been honoured with his love-”

“But you may be some day. Some day he may throw himself at your feet, make full amends for the past, and implore your forgiveness for all he has made you suffer; and suffering is so soon forgotten in the arms of one we love, forgiveness is so gladly granted to those who have made us suffer!”

“In case that misfortune should occur,-for, madame, it would undoubtedly be a misfortune for both of us, — you surely do not forget that, if that day ever comes, I have a secret to reveal to him, — a fatal secret, — which cannot fail to instantly destroy the love you seem to dread so much.”

“Do you mean that you would tell him of the frightful wrong Gilbert did you, -that you would tell him you have a child-”

“For what do you take me that you should express such a doubt-”

The queen seemed to breathe again.

“Then you will do nothing to win Monsieur de Charny's love-”

“Nothing more in the future than I have in the past.”

“You will not tell him, you will not even allow him to suspect, that you love him-”

“Not unless he comes and tells me that he loves me; no, madame.”

“But if he should swear to me -”

“Madame!” exclaimed Andree, indignantly.

“You are right, Andree, my sister, my friend. I am unjust and unreasonable, — yes, and even cruel; but when everything is failing me, — friends, power, and reputation, — I would at least keep the love for which I have sacrificed so much.”

“Then you have some new commands to transmit to me, madame, I suppose,” said Andree, with that icy composure that had not deserted her for an instant, even while she was describing the tortures she had endured.

“No, I wished to offer you my friendship, and you refuse it. Farewell, Andree; take at least the assurance of my gratitude away with you.”

Andree” made a gesture which seemed to reject even that, and, with a low but chilling bow, left the room as slowly and silently as a spectre.

“You are right, creature of ice, heart of adamant, to accept neither my gratitude nor my friendship,” muttered the queen;”for I know — forgive me for it, 0 Christ! — that I hate you as I never hated mortal before! If Charny does not love you already, he will some day, I am sure of it!”

Then, summoning Weber, she said,-

“Tell my ladies I shall retire without their assistance to-night; and as I am greatly fatigued, and in fact almost ill, I do not wish to be disturbed until ten in the morning. The first, and indeed the only, person I shall receive to-morrow will be Doctor Gilbert.”

CHAPTER XXIV.FRANCOIS THE BAKER.

About eight o'clock the next morning — that is, about dawn, for it was the gloomy season of the year, when the days are short and dark — the queen left her bed, where she had courted sleep in vain all the early part of the night, though she had fallen into a feverish and troubled slumber towards morning.

Although no one had dared to enter her chamber, on account of the orders she had given, she heard those hurried movements and excited exclamations outside which indicate that something unusual is going on.

Just as the queen finished her toilet the clock struck nine, and amid the confused sounds in the corridor she distinguished Weber's voice enjoining silence.

She called him, and in an instant the hubbub outside ceased, and her faithful attendant entered.

“What is going on in the palace, Weber-” she asked.”What is the meaning of all this commotion-”

“There is a disturbance in the old part of the town, they say, madame.”

“What is it about-”

“Nobody seems to know exactly, madame. They say there is a bread riot, I believe.”

The idea that people could die of hunger would never have entered the queen's mind a short while before; but since the journey from Versailles, when she heard the dauphin ask in vain for bread, she understood better what hunger was.

“Poor creatures!” she murmured, remembering the shouts she had heard on her journey, and Gilbert's explanation of them.”They can see now that it is not the fault of the baker, or the baker's wife, that they have no bread.”

Then she asked aloud, — “Is there any likelihood that this trouble will prove serious-”

“I do not know, madame; the reports are so contradictory.”

“Then run to the Cite”, Weber, -it is not far from here, — and see for yourself. Then come back and tell me.”

“And Doctor Gilbert-”

“Tell Campan or Misery that I am expecting him. One of them can show him in.”

Weber left the palace, and, guided by the clamour, darted across the bridge nearest the Louvre, and, mingling with the crowd that was hastening towards the archbishop's palace, where the Assembly was in session, soon reached the open space in front of the cathedral of Notre Dame.

In proportion as he approached this part of the town the crowd became more and more dense, and the uproar grew louder and louder.

High above the tumult resounded such voices as are heard in the sky only in times of tempest, or on earth in times of revolution, and these wild, shrill, discordant voices were shrieking,-

“He's a famine-breeder! Death to the famine-breeder! To the lamp-post with him!”

And Weber saw coming up the Rue Chanoinesse a huge wave of human beings, a living torrent, in the midst of which a poor terrified creature, with a pallid face and torn garments, was wildly struggling.

It was he that this infuriated mob was pursuing; it was against him that these savage yells and threats were directed.

There was but one man who made any attempt to rescue the poor wretch from the mob, but one man who tried to stem this human torrent; and this one man who seemed to feel a spark of pity was Gilbert. A few persons in the crowd at last recognised him, and began to shout:”It is Doctor Gilbert, a patriot, the friend of Lafayette and Bailly! Listen to the doctor!”

After these outcries there was a brief lull in the storm, and Weber took advantage of it to force his way through the crowd towards the doctor.

“Monsieur Gilbert!”he called out.

The doctor turned in the direction from which the sound proceeded.

“Ah! is it you-” he exclaimed.

Then, beckoning Weber nearer, he said in low tones, “Go and tell the queen I shall probably be late in keeping my appointment, for I am going to try to save this man.”

“Oh, yes, yes!”exclaimed the unfortunate man, overhearing these last words, “you will save me, won't you, doctor- Tell them I am innocent; tell them my young wife will soon be a mother! I haven't been concealing bread, I swear I have not, doctor.”

But the poor fellow's pleadings only seemed to increase the wrath and animosity of the crowd. The shouts and savage yells began again, and the frantic mob evinced a strong inclination to carry its threats into immediate execution.

“My friends,” cried Gilbert, throwing himself between the poor man and his angry pursuers, “this man is a Frenchman and an honest citizen like yourselves. Besides, you surely would not hang a man without granting him a hearing! Take him to the nearest judge, and then we will see.”

“Yes, yes, the doctor is right!”shouted several men who knew him.

“Doctor Gilbert, don't give in!” exclaimed Weber.”I'll run to the nearest station-house and notify the police; it is only a few steps from here,” and he hurried off, without even waiting for a word of approval.

Meanwhile four or five persons had come to the doctor's aid, and formed a sort of barricade around the unfortunate man with their bodies. This rampart, weak as it was, kept the assailants back for a while, though their savage yells and imprecations drowned the voices of Gilbert and the kind-hearted persons who had gathered around him. In less than five minutes there was a movement in the crowd, followed by whispers of, “The officers are coming! Here are the officers!”

The tumult ceased, and the crowd divided to let the officers pass. The man was taken to the Hotel de Ville. He clung to the doctor's arm; he would not let go his hold on it even for a second.

He was a poor baker named Denis Franqois, — the man we have spoken of before, the baker who furnished the gentlemen of the Assembly with crisp white rolls.

That morning an old woman had entered his shop on the Rue du March-Palu, just as he had sold out his sixth batch of bread, and asked for a loaf.

“I haven’t one left,” replied Franqois;”but wait until the next baking conies out of the oven, and you shall be waited on first.”

“I want a loaf right away,” said the woman.”Here is your money.”

“But I tell you I haven't any more.”

“Let me see.”

“Very well, look for yourself. I 've no objection.”

So the old woman searched and rummaged about until she found in a cupboard a few stale loaves which the apprentices had reserved for themselves.

She took one of these, and left the shop without paying for it; and when the baker protested, she excited the wrath of the passers-by by declaring that Franqois was a famine- breeder, who kept back half the bread he baked.

This charge was almost certain death to any man in those days.

A recruiting-officer, named Fleur d'Epine, happened to be in a saloon on the opposite side of the street, and in a tipsy voice he repeated the accusation the woman had just made; whereupon the people who had congregated in front of the shop forced their way into it, and found, in addition to the two loaves of stale bread left by the old woman, several dozen small fresh rolls reserved for the deputies who held their sessions in the archbishop's palace about one hundred yards away.

From that moment the unfortunate man was doomed. It was no longer one voice, but a hundred, two hundred, a thousand, that shouted, “Hang the famine-breeder to the nearest lamp-post! Hang him! Hang him!”

Just then Doctor Gilbert happened to be returning from a visit to his son, whom he had placed at the College of Louis le Grand, and, his attention being attracted by the noise, he hastened to the man's assistance.

Franqois in a few words told him the cause of all this trouble, and the doctor, convinced of the baker's innocence, endeavoured to protect him; but the crowd hustled the victim and his defender along together, heaping the same execrations on both of them, and ready to kill them both with a single blow.

It was at this critical moment that Weber appeared upon the scene, and, recognising the doctor, he hurried off in search of the police, who subsequently conducted the unfortunate baker to the H6tel de Ville.

When he disappeared within its grim portals, the clamour increased; for the infuriated mob seemed to feel that it had been robbed of its rightful prey.

Unfortunately it was early, and not one of the favourites of the populace was at hand to quiet them, as several sinister-looking men who glided about in the crowd, whispering, “He’s a famine-breeder in the employ of the court, — that's the reason they 're trying to save him,” — were perfectly well aware.

At last, as the accused did not reappear, the cries changed into savage yells, the threats into a frightful roar of baffled rage; and the men to whom we have alluded slipped through the doorway and along the corridors until they reached the room where the unfortunate baker was.

Gilbert was trying his best to establish the poor fellow's innocence, and he was ably seconded by the dispositions of the baker's neighbours, who testified to his zeal and industry. They declared he had often baked as many as ten times a day; that when his fellow bakers were out of flour, he had supplied them; and that, in order to supply his customers more promptly, he had even hired another oven, belonging to a pastry-cook in the neighbourhood, in which to dry his wood.

From the testimony it would have seemed that the man deserved commendation instead of punishment; but in the square outside, in the corridors, and even in the court-room, people continued to shout” Famine-breeder!” and to clamour for the death of the culprit.

Suddenly an unexpected rush was made into the courtroom, forcing asunder the line of National Guards that surrounded Franqois, and separating him from his protectors. Gilbert, crowded back against the railing, sees twenty arms outstretched. Seized and pinioned, the prisoner cries out for help; Gilbert makes a frantic but futile effort to reach the poor fellow, but the crowd, through which the victim is dragged, closes in behind him. He struggles for an instant like a swimmer caught in a whirlpool, with hands clasped, despair in his eyes, his voice smothered in his throat; then the wave has covered him, the deep has swallowed him up.

From that moment his fate is sealed. Rolled from the top to the bottom of the stairway, he receives a wound on every step. When he reaches the door, it is no longer life he begs for, but death.

A second more, and the unfortunate man's head is severed from his body, and elevated on the end of a pike.

Hearing the uproar in the street, the rioters in the halls and corridors rush down. They must see the end of the play. A head on the end of a pike is a curiosity. They have not seen one since the sixth of October, and this is the twenty-first.

“Oh, Billot, Billot!”muttered Gilbert, as he hastened across the Place de Greve to escape the dreadful sight, “you are fortunate indeed in being out of Paris!”

He had gone but a little way when he felt some one tap him on the shoulder. He looked up, uttered a faint cry, and was about to stop and speak; but the man who had touched him slipped a note into his hand, placed his finger warningly on his lip, and then hastened on in the direction of the archbishop's palace.

He evidently desired to preserve his incognito; but a market-woman saw him, and, clapping her hands, called out,-

“Ah, ha! our little Mother Mirabeau!”

“Long live Mirabeau!”shouted hundreds of voices.”Long live the defender of the people! the patriot orator!”

The tag end of the procession which was following the head of the unfortunate baker heard these shouts, and turned back to form itself into an escort for Mirabeau, who was almost invariably attended by an enthusiastic crowd when he repaired to the National Assembly.

For it was Mirabeau, on his way to the Assembly, who, unexpectedly meeting Gilbert, had handed him a note which he had just written in a neighbouring wine-shop, and which he had intended sending to the doctor's house.

CHAPTER XXV. THE BENEFITS WHICH MAY BE DERIVED FROM A SEVERED HEAD

Gilbert hastily glanced over the note Mirabeau had slipped into his hand; then he read it a second time slowly and carefully, put it in his vest pocket, and, calling a cab, bade the coachman drive him to the Tuileries.

On reaching the palace he found all the gates closed, and the guards doubled, by order of Lafayette, who, hearing of the trouble in the old part of the town, had first taken measures to insure the safety of the king and queen, and then hastened to the scene of the disturbance.

By making himself known to the concierge on the Rue de l'Echelle, Gilbert succeeded in securing admission without much difficulty, and was ushered into the presence of the queen almost immediately by Madame Campan.

On seeing Gilbert, the queen uttered a cry of terror; for the doctor's coat and frill had been torn in his attempt to save the unfortunate baker, and there were several spots of blood on his shirt.

“I ask your Majesty's pardon for presenting myself in this condition,” he said;”but I had already kept the queen waiting so long that I dared not subject her to any further delay.”

“And that poor man-”

“He is dead. He was literally hacked in pieces.”

“Was he guilty-”

“Xo, madame; he was innocent.”

“Behold the fruits of your revolutions, monsieur. After gorging themselves with noblemen, public officials, and guardsmen, the people are beginning to devour one another. But is there no way of punishing these assassins-”

“We shall endeavour to do so, madame; but just now it is more important to prevent murders than to punish the murderers.”

“And how can that be accomplished- I am sure the king and myself would ask nothing better.”

“Madame, all these misfortunes arise from the people's distrust of government officials. Place men in whom the people have confidence at the head of the government, and nothing of this kind will occur again.”

“Oh, yes, Mirabeau and Lafayette, I suppose,” said Marie Antoinette, sneeringly.

“I hoped the queen had sent for me to say that the king had ceased to oppose the combination I suggested to him.”

“In the first place, you are very much mistaken if you suppose I have any influence over the king. If any one can influence him, it is Madame Elizabeth.”

“And yet, if the queen can overcome her repugnance to Monsieur de Mirabeau, I will guarantee that I can induce the king to consent to this arrangement.”

“Would you seriously advise me to trust a man who is responsible for the atrocities of the fifth and sixth of October, — to make overtures to a man who has publicly insulted me from the rostrum-”

“I assure you, madame, that Mirabeau was not responsible for the events of the fifth and sixth of October. It was famine and poverty and misery that began their work then; but there is a powerful, mysterious, and terrible arm, that is working by night as well; and perhaps the day will come when you will have to be defended from the evil power that is pursuing, not only you, but all the other crowned heads of Europe. As truly as I have the honour of placing my life at your disposal, and at the disposal of the king, Monsieur de Mirabeau had no hand in those frightful atrocities, and he first learned that the populace were marching upon Versailles through a note delivered to him in the Assembly chamber.”

“But you cannot deny the notorious fact that he has publicly insulted me.”

“Mirabeau is a man who knows his value, madame, and it exasperates him to see his rulers scorn his assistance when he realises how much good he could do, and what important service he could render them. Yes, it is more to call attention to himself that Mirabeau stoops to slander; for he would rather the illustrious daughter of Maria Theresa would look at him wrathfully, than not look at him at all.”

“So you think that this man would consent to espouse our cause, doctor-”

“He is on your side now, madame. When Mirabeau breaks from the royalist ranks he is like a skittish horse, which only needs to feel the rider's hand and spur to bring him back to his proper place.”

“But as he already belongs to Orleans -”

“You are mistaken, madame. When he heard that the prince had left France, at Lafayette's request, Mirabeau exclaimed, as he crumpled Monsieur de Lauzun's note announcing Orleans' departure: ' People say I belong to that man! I would not have him for a lackey.'“

“That reconciles me to him a little,” responded the queen, with a faint smile;”and if I thought we could really trust him -”

“The morning after the people brought your Majesty and the royal family from Versailles, I met Monsieur de Mirabeau, madame.”

“Intoxicated by his triumph of the previous day, I suppose.”

“On the contrary, he was greatly distressed at the thought of the dangers which you had incurred, and to which you might still be exposed.”

“Indeed- Are you positive of this-” inquired the queen, doubtingly.

“Shall I repeat his very words-”

“If you will do me the favour.”

“Well, this is what he said, word for word. I engraved them on my memory, hoping that I should have an opportunity to repeat them to your Majesty some day. ' If you can induce the king and queen to listen to you,' he said, ' persuade them that they and France are both lost unless the royal family leaves Paris. I am even now engaged in devising a plan for their safe escape from the city. You may give them the assurance that they can rely upon me.'“

The queen became thoughtful.

“So Mirabeau, too, thinks that we had better leave Paris,” she remarked, after a little.

“He thought so at that time.”

“But has changed his opinion since, you think-”

“Yes, if I can believe the contents of a note I received from him half an hour ago.”

“May I see the note-”

“It was intended for your Majesty,” Gilbert replied, drawing the missive from his pocket.”I shall have to ask your Majesty to excuse the appearance of the letter,” he added.”It was evidently written on cheap paper upon a shop counter.”

“You need not trouble yourself about that. Paper and desk are both in harmony with the politics of the day,” responded the queen, disdainfully.

She took the paper and read the following: -

“The event of to-day changes the aspect of things. Great advantage may be derived from that severed head. The Assembly will be alarmed, and insist upon martial law. Monsieur Mirabeau will support and carry the vote for martial law. Monsieur Mirabeau may also insist that the only safety consists in increasing the power of our chief executive.

“Monsieur de Mirabeau can attack Necker on account of his subsidies, and oust him with ease.

“In place of the Necker cabinet, a Lafayette and Mirabeau ministry should be formed, and Mirabeau will be responsible for everything.”

“But this letter is not signed,” remarked the queen.”Did I not have the honour of informing your Majesty that Mirabeau himself handed it to me-”

“What do you think of his suggestions-”

“I think that Mirabeau is perfectly right, and that the alliance he proposes is the only thing that can save France.”

“If Mirabeau will send me his views upon the situation, and also the list of names for the new ministry, I will lay them before the king.”

“With your sanction-”

“With my sanction.”

“Meanwhile, as a pledge of his sincerity, shall Mirabeau introduce and support a resolution for instituting martial law, and conferring greater power upon the executive department of the government-” asked the doctor.

“Let him do so.”

“And in case of the downfall of Necker, a Lafayette and Mirabeau ministry will not be regarded with disapproval-”

“Not by me. I am willing, even anxious, to prove that I am ready to sacrifice my personal likes and dislikes for the good of the state; but you must remember that I cannot answer for the king.”

“Will your Majesty authorise me to tell Mirabeau that you desire a full statement of his views, and his plan for the formation of a new cabinet-”

“I will allow Doctor Gilbert to judge for himself how far it is necessary to be on one's guard in dealing with a man who may be our friend to-day, but our enemy to-morrow.”

“You may rely upon me as far as that is concerned, madame; but as the situation is critical, no time should be lost. If your Majesty will excuse me, I will go to the National Assembly at once, and endeavour to see Mirabeau to-day. If I succeed, your Majesty will hear from me within two hours.”

The queen made a gesture of assent, and Gilbert withdrew.

A quarter of an hour later, the doctor reached the Assembly, which was in a state of great excitement on account of the outrage committed at its very door, and upon a man who had been, to some extent at least, its faithful servant. The members were moving excitedly about. Mirabeau alone remained in his seat, apparently unmoved, with his eyes fixed upon the gallery reserved for the public. When he saw Gilbert enter it, his leonine countenance lighted up.

Gilbert made a slight gesture, to which Mirabeau responded by a nod of acquiescence; so Gilbert tore a leaf from his note-book, and wrote the following lines: -

“Your suggestions were approved, at least by one of the parties, — the one whom you, and I too, consider the more influential of the two.

“A full statement of policy is requested to-morrow, and the list for a cabinet to-day.

“Secure more power for the executive, and the executive will combine with you.”

He folded this paper in the form of a letter, addressed it to Monsieur de Mirabeau, and intrusted it to the hands of a messenger.

Mirabeau read it with such an air of indifference that no one would have suspected that the contents accorded with his most ardent desires; then, with the same air of indifference, he scrawled a few lines on a scrap of paper which happened to be lying in front of him, and, still with the same apparent carelessness, handed it to the messenger.

“For the writer of the note you just brought to me,” he said carelessly.

Gilbert opened the paper eagerly. It contained these few lines, which might have insured France a very different future, had the plan therein proposed been carried out: -

“I will use my influence. The memorial will be ready to-morrow. Here is the list requested, which can be changed only as far as two or three names are concerned: -

“Necker: Prime Minister.”

This name made Gilbert almost think that the letter he was reading could not be from Mirabeau; but as a parenthetical note followed this name, as well as the others, Gilbert read on: -

“Necker: Prime Minister. (It will be necessary to render him as powerless as he is incapable, and yet preserve his popularity, on the king's account.)

“Archbishop of Bordeaux: Chancellor. (He must be advised to select his assistants with great care.)

“Liancourt: Minister of War… (He is honorable, firm, and devoted to the king, which will give the latter a feeling of security.)

“Rochefoucault: Master of the Household. (Thouret with him.)

“La Marck for the Navy. (He cannot have the War department, which must be given to Liancourt.)

“The Bishop of Autun: Secretary of the Treasury. (La Borde with him.)

“Mirabeau: a member of the Royal Council, -no special department. (Petty scruples are out of place just now. The government must loudly proclaim that its chief auxiliaries henceforth are to be honest principles, sound judgment, and talent.)

“Lafayette: in the Council, and Marshal of France. Generalissimo for a time to reorganise the army.

“Target: Mayor of Paris.

“Montmorin: Governor, Duke, and Peer. (His debts to be paid.)

“Segur: Minister of Foreign Affairs.

“Mounier: Royal Librarian.

“Chapelier: Public Works.”

Below this memorandum was a second:-

“Lafayette's Preferences.”Minister of Justice: Rochefoucault.”Minister of Foreign Affairs: Bishop of Autun.”Minister of Finance: Lambert, Haller, or Clavieres.”Minister of the Navy:”

“The Queen's Preferences.”Minister of War or of the Navy: La Marck.”Chief of the Council of Instruction and Public Education: Abbe” Sieyes.”Keeper of the Privy Seal:”

The second memorandum indicated the changes and modifications which might be made in the proposed cabinet without interfering with Mirabeau's projects and plans.1

After hastily perusing it, Gilbert tore a fresh leaf from his note-book, and wrote the following lines, which he intrusted to the same messenger: -

“I will return to the mistress of the apartments we wish to hire, and report the conditions under which you will take and repair the property.

“Let me know, at my lodging on the Rue Saint-Honore”, — near the Church of the Assumption, and opposite the shop of a cabinetmaker named Duplay, — the result of the day's session, as soon as it is over.”

Always eager for excitement, hoping, perhaps, to quiet the passions of her heart by political intrigue, the queen awaited Gilbert's return with impatience, listening the while to the terrible sequel to the tragedy of the morning, which Weber had witnessed only a short time before.

Sent back to secure further information by the queen, Weber had reached one end of Notre Dame bridge just as the bloodthirsty mob, bearing aloft the head of Franqois, decorated with a white cap taken from one of his brother bakers, reached the other end.

About a third of the way across the bridge a pale and frightened young woman, who was running swiftly towards the Hotel de Ville, despite her delicate condition, suddenly paused.

The head, whose features she had not as yet been able clearly to distinguish, had at a distance the effect of an antique carving; but as it came nearer and nearer, it was easy to see by the distortion of visage that this head had not been changed to stone.

When this horrible trophy was about twenty yards from her, she uttered a cry, and, throwing up her arms, fell fainting to the earth.

These notes, found among Mirabeau's papers after his death, have since been incorporated in the work published by Bacourt, and throw a new light upon the last two years of the great orator's life.

The woman was the wife of Francois, and she was carried to her home insensible.”O God!” murmured the queen, “this is a terrible warning Thou hast sent Thy servant, to teach her that, however wretched she may be, there are others even more unhappy.”

Just at that moment Gilbert entered. This time he found, not the queen, but the woman — that is to say, the wife and mother — crushed by the sad story she had just heard. No frame of mind, however, could have been more favourable to the success of Gilbert's plans, — at least in his opinion, as he came to propose a means of putting an end to all such atrocities.

Drying her eyes, for she had been weeping bitterly, the queen took the list Gilbert had brought.

But before glancing at the paper, important as it was, she said, -

“Weber, if that poor woman does not die, I should like to see her to-morrow; and if she is really enceinte, as is reported, I will be godmother to her babe.”

“Ah, madame,” cried Gilbert, “why cannot all Frenchmen see, as I do, the tears that flow from your eyes, and hear the kind words that fall from your lips!”

The queen started violently. These were almost the very words that Monsieur de Charny had addressed to her under no less painful circumstances.

She looked at Mirabeau's list, but she was too much agitated just at that moment to make any response.

“Very well, doctor, leave this paper with me. I will consider the matter carefully, and give you an answer to-morrow,” she said sadly.

About seven o'clock that evening a servant brought Gilbert the following letter: -

“The session was a heated one. Martial law is decided upon, however.

“Buzot and Robespierre advocated the creation of a higher court.

“I persuaded the house to decree that all crimes against the nation (Use-nation, a new word that we have invented) shall be tried by the Court of the Chatelet.

“I declared that the welfare of France depended entirely upon the stability and preservation of the monarchy, and three-fourths of the members applauded me.

“This is the twenty-first of October. I think royalty has made pretty good progress since the sixth.

“Vale et me ama.”

This missive bore no Signature, but was in the same handwriting as the ministerial list, and the note placed in the doctor's hand that morning, which made it absolutely certain that the writer was Mirabeau.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE COURT OF THE CHATELET.

In order that the reader may comprehend the full extent of Mirabeau's triumph, and of royalty's triumph as well, now that the famous orator had constituted himself its representative, we must explain what the Court of the Chatelet was, especially as one of its first decisions furnished the material for one of the most terrible scenes that disgraced the Place de Greve in the year 1790, — a scene which will necessarily figure in this story, as it is intimately connected with our subject.

Ever since the thirteenth century the Chatelet had been of great historical importance, both as a court and a prison, it having received its jurisdiction, which it had exercised for five centuries, from good King Louis IX.

Another king, Philip Augustus, was nothing if not a builder; he erected Notre Dame, or at least the greater part of it; he founded, too, the hospitals of Trinity, Saint Catherine, and Saint Nicholas of the Louvre. He also paved the streets of Paris, which were so thickly covered with mud and filth — at least so the chronicles of that epoch assert — that the inhabitants of the city could not sit at their windows.

Philip Augustus had no difficulty in securing money for these expenditures; but, unfortunately, his successors have exhausted his chief resource, that is to say, the Jews.

In 1189 he was seized with one of the worst follies of the time, — that of wishing to wrest Jerusalem from the Sultan; so he accompanied Richard the Lion-hearted to the Holy Land.

Not desiring his good citizens of Paris to waste their time while he was away, and so, perhaps, dream of revolting against him in their leisure moments, as the subjects, and even the son, of Henry II. of England had done at Philip's own instigation, he left them a plan which was to be carried into execution immediately after his departure.

This work, which was to keep them out of mischief, was the erection of a new wall around the city,-a genuine twelfth-century wall of solid masonry, adorned with massive towers and gates. It was a difficult matter to provide for the future growth of the capital, which had increased very rapidly in size since the reign of Hugh Capet, and which was certain in time to break through this, its third wall, as it had done through the others; so, as a precaution, several small villages or hamlets, likely to become a part of the great whole some day, were included within the new limits. Each of these hamlets, despite its insignificance, had its chief-justice, and these noble judges opposed and contradicted one another on almost every point; so their decisions led to dire confusion in this strange capital.

There was a certain seigneur of Vincennes who fancied he had more reason to complain of this state of things than anyone else, so he resolved to put an end to it.

This seigneur was Louis IX.

For it would be well to explain to children, and even to some grown-up people, that when Louis IX. meted out justice under that famous oak-tree, he did it as a justice or seigneur, not as a king. He therefore decreed, as a monarch, that in all cases tried before the justices of the other hamlets, the parties could appeal to hw court, the Chatelet; and the Chatelet, consequently, became all powerful, there being no appeal from its decisions.

The Court of the Chatelet consequently remained the supreme court until the time when Parliament, encroaching in its turn upon the royal prerogative, declared that it would consider any appeal from the decisions of the justices of the Court of the Chatelet.

But now, at the instigation of Mirabeau, the Assembly had not only restored its former authority to the Court of the Chatelet, but had also invested it with new powers. It was a great triumph for royalty that crimes against the nation should be tried before a royal court.

The first case which came before the Court of the Chatelet was the crime related in the preceding chapter.

The very day this new law went into effect, two of the murderers of the unfortunate baker were hanged in the Place de Greve, without any pretence of a trial save an indictment.

A third, known as Fleur d'Epine, to whom we have also had occasion to refer, was regularly tried, and followed his fellow criminals into eternity by the same road.

Two cases remained, — that of Augeard and the inspector of the Swiss Guards, Pierre Victor de Besenval.

Augeard was accused of having furnished the money the queen's agent paid to the troops assembled on the Champ de Mars in July. Being little known, his arrest did not cause much excitement, nor did his acquittal create much scandal.

But Besenval's case was a very different one, for his name was notorious in the very worst sense of the word. It was he who had commanded the Swiss mercenaries at ReVeillon, at the Bastille, and on the Champ de Mars; and the people, knowing he had led the attack upon them in all three instances, were eager for revenge.

Explicit orders were given to the court that under no circumstances would the king and queen allow Monsieur de Besenval to be convicted; but nothing less could have saved him. He himself, in fact, had virtually acknowledged his guilt by taking flight immediately after the fall of the Bastille. Arrested on his way to the frontier, he was brought back to Paris, and when he entered the courtroom, cries of “To the scaffold with him! Hang him to the nearest lamp-post!” resounded upon every side.

It was with the greatest difficulty that any show of order could be restored and maim***

*** the crowd took advantage***

*** magnificent bass voice:***

***seven pieces, and that em***

As he spoke he signalled a cab that was moving slowly along the other side of the quay.

The vehicle drove up, and the two men entered it.

“Where shall I take you, monsieur-” asked the coachman.

“You know,” answered Balsamo, making a sort of masonic sign to the driver, who gazed at him a moment in astonishment.

“Pardon me, sir; I did not know you,” he replied, answering the sign with another.

“It is not so with me,” said Balsamo;”I know all my subjects, from the least to the greatest.”

The coachman closed the door, and, starting his horses off at a gallop, drove through a labyrinth of streets, past the Bastille, to the corner of the Rue Saint-Claude.

Here he sprang down to open the door with an alacrity that spoke well for his zeal. Cagliostro motioned Gilbert to step out first; then, as he himself alighted, he turned to the driver and asked, -

“Have you anything to tell me-”

“Yes, monseigneur. I should have come to make my report this evening, if I had not been so fortunate as to meet you.”

“Speak on.”

Gilbert discreetly moved a little to one side, but not so far that he did not see a smile flit over Balsamo's face as he listened, and overhear the names of Favras and Provence.

When the report was concluded, Cagliostro drew a two- crown-piece from his pocket and handed it to the coachman; but the latter shook his head.

“Monseigneur knows that we are not allowed to receive pay for our reports.”

“This is not for your report, but for your fare.”

“In that case, I will accept it. Thank you, monseigneur.” And, cracking his whip, he drove away, leaving Gilbert completely bewildered by what he had seen and heard.

“Well,” said Cagliostro, who had been holding the door open several seconds for Gilbert to enter, without the latter being even aware of it, “won’t you step inside, my dear doctor-”

“Excuse me,” stammered Gilbert.

And so utterly amazed was he that he staggered like a drunken man as he crossed the threshold.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE SAINT-CLAUDE.

Gilbert was himself again, however, by the time he had crossed the big deserted courtyard.

He had already recognised the mansion as one visited at an epoch in his life which had left an inedible impression on his heart.

In the ante-chamber he met the same German servant he had met there sixteen years before. He was standing in the very same spot, and was wearing the same livery; only, like Gilbert, and like the count, and like the room itself, he was sixteen years older.

Fritz — for Gilbert recollected that this was his name — seemed to understand at a glance exactly where his master desired to conduct the visitor; for, hastily opening two doors, he paused on the threshold of the third, — the door leading into the drawing-room.

Cagliostro, with a wave of the hand, motioned Gilbert to enter; then, dismissing Fritz with another gesture, he added in German,-

“I am at home to nobody until further orders.”

Then, turning to Gilbert again, he added:”It was not to prevent you from understanding me that I spoke to my servant in German, for I know you are familiar with the language; but Fritz, who is a Tyrolean, understands German much better than French. Now be seated; I am at your service.”

Gilbert could not help casting a curious glance around him; and as his eyes rested successively on the pictures and various articles of furniture, each and every one of them seemed strangely familiar to him.

Cagliostro, who was watching Gilbert as Mephistopheles must have watched Faust when that German philosopher was so imprudent as to fall into a reverie in his presence, suddenly exclaimed,-

“You seem to recognise the room, doctor.”

“Yes; and it reminds me of my obligations to you. What a wonderful man you are! If my reason would allow me to place any credence in the marvels described by mediaeval poets and historians, I should be inclined to believe that you were really a sorcerer like Merlin, or a manufacturer of gold like Flamel.”

“I may be that to the rest of the world, Gilbert, but not to you. I have never attempted to dazzle you by miracles. Still, having more means at my disposal than the majority of men, it is not strange that I can see better and further than others do. By the way, doctor, how is your fusion cabinet getting on-”

“My fusion cabinet-”

“Yes, your Lafayette and Mirabeau ministry.”

“You must have heard some of the absurd rumours that are rife at this time, and so are trying to find out if there is any truth in them, by questioning me.”

“Doctor, you are scepticism personified; and, what is worse, you doubt, not because you can't believe, but because you won't believe. Must I first tell you something you know just as well as I do- Very well. Afterwards I will tell you something I know better than you do.”

“I am listening.”

“A fortnight ago you told the king that Mirabeau was the only man who could save the monarchy. You recollect, possibly, that just as you were leaving the king's apartments, Monsieur de Favras entered them.”

“Yes, I did say to the king that Mirabeau was, in my humble opinion, the only man who could save the monarchy.”

“I agree with you perfectly, doctor, and it is for this very reason that your combination will come to naught, though it now promises so well; for the king, deeply impressed by what you said to him, has talked the matter over with the queen, and she is even less averse to the project than her royal spouse. In fact, she sent for you to come and discuss the pros and cons with her, and finally authorised you to negotiate with Mirabeau. Is not what I am saying perfectly true-”

“I must admit that you have not deviated much from the truth thus far.”

“Whereupon you came away in a highly elated frame of mind, firmly convinced that the queen's conversion was due to your irrefutable reasoning and irresistible arguments.”

Gilbert could not help biting his lip at this ironical speech.

“And to what was this conversion due, if not to my arguments- Tell me, count; for the study of the human heart is much more interesting to me than that of the body.”

“I have told you that I have no secrets from you. Very well; the queen yielded, for two reasons. First, because she had experienced a great sorrow the evening before, and this political intrigue served to divert her mind from it, at least in part; secondly, because the queen is a woman, and having heard Mirabeau described as a lion, a tiger, or a bear, she cannot resist such a flattering tribute to her vanity as the taming of this bear or tiger or lion would be. What woman could- She says to herself, ' How wonderful it would be if I could bring this man, who hates me, to my feet; if I could make him apologise to me in public, and from the very rostrum in which he insulted me! I shall see him on his knees before me; that will be my revenge. If this genuflexion results in some good to France and the monarchy, so much the better.' But this last consideration was entirely secondary, you understand. Poor Mirabeau! we may well say, when all the idiots and coxcombs with whom you are associated make you pay with your genius for all the follies of your youth. It is true that all this is providential, as God is obliged to make use of human agencies. ' The immoral Mirabeau!' says Provence, who is impotent himself. ' That spendthrift Mirabeau!' says Artois, whose debts have been paid three times by his royal brother. Poor man of genius, yes, you might perhaps save the monarchy; but the monarchy should not be saved. 'Mirabeau is a scoundrel!' cries Mably. 'Mirabeau is a conceited boaster!' says Rivarol; 'Mirabeau is an Assassin!' says the Abbe” Maury; ' Mirabeau is a dead man!' says Target; ' Mirabeau is an orator who is hissed oftener than he is applauded!' says Pelletier; ' Mirabeau should be sent to the galleys!' howls Lambesc; ' Mirabeau deserves hanging!' says Marat. But let Mirabeau die tomorrow, and these very men will apotheosise him, and all the dwarfs above whom he towered head and shoulders, and to whom he was such a torment while he lived, will follow his body to the grave, crying, ' Woe to France, who has lost her greatest orator! Woe to Royalty, who has lost her chief supporter!'“

“Are you going to predict Mirabeau's death, too-” exclaimed Gilbert.

“To speak frankly, doctor, how can you anticipate a long life for this man whose blood scorches his veins, whose heart seems to suffocate him, whose genius devours him- Do you not see that power, however gigantic it may be, cannot struggle forever against the current of mediocrity- An undertaking like his is as hopeless as the uphill journey of Sisyphus with his rock. For two years Mirabeau has had this charge of immorality to fight against. Every time he flattered himself that he had reached the summit of the mountain, this charge hurled him down again. When the king had almost made up his mind to make Mirabeau prime minister, somebody rushed to his Majesty and cried, ' Sire, all Paris is ringing with Mirabeau's immorality! France is shocked at his immorality! Europe is horrified at his immorality!' As if God cast great men in the same mould as ordinary mortals! As if, in enlarging it, the circle that embraces the great talents and virtues must not include great vices as well! Gilbert, you, and two or three other intelligent men, are trying to make Mirabeau prime minister, — that is to say, what that idiot Turgot has been, and that pedant Necker, and that fop Calonne; and Mirabeau will never be a minister, because he has debts to the amount of a few hundred thousand francs, which would be paid without a word if he were the son of some obscure country squire, and because he was once condemned to death for having eloped with the wife of an old imbecile, -a weak creature, who afterwards killed herself for the sake of a handsome captain. What a farce as well as tragedy human life is! I should weep over it, if I had not resolved to see only the absurd side of it. I tell you that Mirabeau the genius, Mirabeau the statesman, Mirabeau the great orator, will wear himself out, and go down into the grave without becoming what he, of all others, should be,-a prime minister. Ah! mediocrity is a great safeguard, my dear Gilbert.”

“Do you mean that the king will reject the plan-”

“He will take good care not to do that. He will have to discuss the matter with the queen, to whom he has almost pledged his word. You know the king's policy is expressed in the word 'almost.' He is almost persuaded, like a certain king in the Bible, to be a constitutionalist; he is almost a philosopher, and he is almost popular when he hobnobs with Monsieur de Provence. Go to the Assembly to-morrow, and you will see what you will see.”

“Can't you tell me in advance-”

“I should only deprive you of the pleasure of a surprise.”

“But to-morrow is such a long way off.”

“Then do something better still. It is now five o'clock; in two hours there will be a meeting of the famous Jacobin Club. Dine with me, and we will then take a cab and drive to the Rue Saint-Honore”. You will find your visit to the old convent extremely edifying, to say the least. Besides, warned in advance, you may be able to avert the catastrophe — perhaps.”

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE JACOBIN CLUB.

Two hours after the conversation just recorded a carriage drew up in front of the church of Saint Roch, whose faqade had not then been disfigured by the long-barrelled rifles used on the thirteenth Vendemiaire.

Two men dressed in black alighted from this vehicle, and walked quietly up the street as far as the modest gateway of the convent of the Jacobins.

“Will you go into the main body of the chapel, or be content with a seat in the gallery-” inquired Cagliostro; for, as our readers have probably imagined, the two men referred to were no other than the great magician and Doctor Gilbert.

“The floor of the chapel is, of course, reserved for members,” said Gilbert.

“Yes; but I belong to every known society,” replied Cagliostro, laughing, “and where I go, my friends can go. Here is a ticket for you, if you want it; as for me, I need none.”

“But they may notice that I am an outsider, and expel me.”

“In the first place, let me tell you something that you do not seem to know. The Jacobin Club, founded only three months ago, already numbers sixty thousand members, and will number four hundred thousand before the year is out.”

“Never mind; I think I like the gallery better, as that will give me a view of the entire assembly; and if there are any present or future notables here, you can point them out to me.”

“To the gallery, then!” said Cagliostro.

The proceedings had not begun, and the members were scattered about the dimly-lighted hall, some conversing together in groups, others promenading to and fro, while others, evidently disposed to hold themselves aloof, remained seated in shadow, or stood leaning against a pillar. It was very evident, even in the dim light, that this was an eminently aristocratic assemblage; for embroidered coats abounded, and the gold and silver lace on the uniforms of army and navy officers filled the place with brilliant scintillations. In fact, there was not a mechanic, or a man of the people, or hardly a tradesman in this aristocratic assembly. For members of inferior rank there was another hall below, opened at a different hour, so that the aristocracy and the common people need not come in contact with one another.

The Jacobin Club at that time was essentially a military, aristocratic, artistic, and literary organisation, for artists and men of letters predominated.

Among these last we may name, La Harpe, the author of "Melanie;” Chenier, author of ”Charles IX.; "Andrieux, Sedaine, and Chamfort, the poet laureate, formerly secretary to the Prince de Conde. Among the artists there was Talma, who had effected a revolution in the drama in his role of Titus, and thanks to whom, people were cutting off their hair, while waiting for his colleague, Collot d'Herbois, to cut off their heads; there was David, too, whose mind was already occupied with his great picture, “The Oath in the Tennis Court,” and who had already purchased the brush with which he was to paint his grandest but most hideous picture, “Marat Murdered in the Bath;” there was Vernet, too, who had been admitted into the Academy, two years before, on account of his picture called “The Triumph of Paul fimile,” and who amused himself by painting horses and dogs. He little suspected that only a few yards from him, leaning on the arm of Talma, was a young Corsican lieutenant, with straight, unpowdered hair, who was to furnish him with material for five of his finest pictures,-”Napoleon Crossing the Alps,” and the battles of Ravioli, Marengo, Austerlitz, and Wagram.

Gilbert took a long look at the brilliant assemblage, and was considerably comforted by its decidedly royalistic character.

“How many men do you see here who are really hostile to the monarchy-” he asked.

“Am I to look with the eyes of people in general, with those of Necker, or with my own-” asked Cagliostro.

“With your own, of course. Is it not understood that yours are the eyes of a seer-”

“Well, then, there are two.”

“That is not many, out of four hundred.”

“It is quite enough, as one is to be the murderer and the other the successor of Louis XVI.”

Gilbert started violently.”So we have our future Brutus and Caesar here,” he murmured.”Won't you have the goodness to point them out to me-”

“Which one do you wish to see first-”

“Brutus.”

“You know that different men proceed to accomplish kindred results by different methods, and our Brutus does not resemble the ancient Brutus in the least,” was the response.

“I am all the more anxious to see him.”

“Very well; then behold him!”

As he spoke, he pointed to a man who was leaning against the chair. The light fell full upon his face, but his body was concealed in shadow.

His face was pale and livid; his eyes alone seemed to be alive, and in them was an expression of almost contemptuous hatred — the expression of a viper that knows a deadly poison is concealed in its tooth — as he watched the noisy and verbose Barnave.

Gilbert shuddered.

“That is not the face of a Brutus, or even of a Cromwell, “he remarked.

“No; it better suits one's idea of a Cassius. You know what Caesar said, my friend: 'I have no fear of gross men, who spend their days at table, and their nights in dissipation, — no; but I fear dreamers with pale faces and meagre bodies.' Do you know him-”

“Yes, I know him; or, rather, I recognise him as being one of the members of the Assembly.”

“You are right.”

“And one of the most long-winded speakers of the Left.”

“Exactly.”

“I know, too, that no one pretends to listen to him when he speaks.”

“Precisely.”

“A pettifogger from Arras, is he not, called Maximilien de Robespierre-”

“Even so. Now examine his face carefully. What do you see there-”

“Nothing but the spitefulness Mediocrity always feels towards Genius.”

“In other words, you judge him like all the rest of the world. It is true that his voice is thin and rather shrill, and his cheeks are sunken. The skin on his forehead seems to be fastened tight to the bone, and strongly resembles ancient parchment in colour and texture. His glassy eyes occasionally emit a greenish light, but it soon dies out; his careworn face wearies one by its very immobility; his invariable costume is an old-fashioned olive-green coat, threadbare, and too scrupulously brushed. It is not strange that a man like this makes little or no impression in an assembly so rich in orators and so inclined to be critical, accustomed as it is to the leonine countenance of Mirabeau, the audacious impudence of Barnave, the cutting retorts of Maury, the enthusiasm of Cazales, and the logic of Sieyes. But they cannot reproach this man on the score of immorality, as they do Mirabeau, for he is a strictly moral as well as upright man.”

“Who is this Robespierre-”

“Who is he- Nobody in Trance knows except myself, I believe. I always aim to know whence the elect come: the knowledge enables me to divine whither they will go, you see. The Robespierres are Irish by descent, and they have been notaries, father and son, for several generations. One branch of the family, the one of which this man is a descendant, established itself in Arras. There were two great lords, or rather two kings, in the town; one, the abbe of Saint Wast, the other, the bishop of Arras, whose palace overshadows half the city. It was there that yonder man was born, in 1758. What he did as a child, what he did as a youth, and what he is doing to-day, I can tell you in a very few words. What he will do hereafter, I have told you already in a single word. There were four children in the household. The head of the family lost his wife; he was an attorney, but he became a victim to melancholia, and ceased to appear in court. Finally he went on a journey for his health, and never returned. At the age of eleven the eldest child, this one, found himself the head of the family, the guardian of a brother and two sisters, — a heavy responsibility at that age. It made a man of him. In twenty-four hours he became what he is now: he has a face that rarely smiles, a heart to which joy is a stranger. He was the best scholar in school, and one of the scholarships which the abbe” had at his disposal in the college of Louis le Grand was given to him. He came to Paris recommended to the care of a canon of Notre Dame. That same year the good priest died, and almost at the same time the lad's youngest and best beloved sister died at Arras. The shadow of the Jesuits still cast its gloom over the walls of Louis le Grand. You know that edifice; its courtyards and corridors, gloomy and dark as those of the Bastille, would steal the colour from the freshest cheek. Those of young Robespierre were pale to begin with; his college life made them livid. The other boys went out sometimes, there were holidays and f6te days for them; but to this lonely orphan bursar, all days were the same. He lived in an atmosphere of solitude, grief, and ennui,-three ill winds that kindle envy and malice in the heart, and rob the soul of its bloom. No one now would ever believe that there was a portrait of Robespierre at the age of twenty-four, holding a rose in one hand, and pressing the other to his breast, with the motto: 'All for my sweetheart.' It is true that at the time he chose this device, and had his portrait painted in this attitude, there was a certain young girl who vowed that nothing should ever separate them. He made a similar vow, and he was a man to keep his word; but he went away for three months, and on his return found her married. Meanwhile, the abbe” remained his protector, and procured for our hero the position of judge in the criminal court. Soon there was a case to try, an assassin to punish; and Robespierre, filled with remorse for having condemned a fellow creature to death, sent in his resignation. He next turned advocate, for he had to live and support his sister. His brother was at the college of Louis le Grand, the abbe” having given him, too, a scholarship there. His name had hardly been entered on the list of advocates before some peasants begged him to act as their counsel in a suit against the bishop of Arras. An investigation satisfied Robespierre that the peasants were in the right, so he pleaded their cause for them, and won it. Very soon afterwards he was elected to the National Assembly. Here he found himself between two hostile fires of malice and contempt,-malice on the part of the clergy towards an upstart who had dared to fight the clergy; contempt on the part of the nobility for a pettifogger reared by charity.”

“Well, what has he accomplished-”

“Do you remember the day the clergy came hypocritically to the Assembly to implore the third estate, kept in suspense by the royal veto, to begin its labours- Well, read the speech he made that day, and see if there is not a career for the possessor of an acrid vehemence that amounts almost to eloquence.”

“But since then-”

“Since then- Well, we must jump from the month of May to the month of October. On the fifth of this month, when Maillard, deputised by the women of Paris, came to harangue the Assembly in behalf of his clients, all the members sat silent and motionless in their seats; but this young lawyer proved himself more audacious than any of the rest. All the pretended defenders of the people held their peace; but he spoke twice,-once in the midst of the wildest confusion, the second time in the midst of a breathless silence, and vigorously supported Maillard in his demand for food on account of the famine.”

“Yes; but perhaps he will change his views.”

“You do not know the Incorruptible, as they will call him some day; besides, who will think of such a thing as bribing a petty lawyer that everybody laughs at- Some day this man, mark what I tell you, will be the terror of the Assembly, as he is now its laughing-stock. The Jacobin nobles consider Robespierre the clown of the show, sent there to amuse them and the public generally. His friends laugh in their sleeves when he speaks; his enemies hoot at him. When he speaks, everybody begins to talk. When he makes a speech, — in defence of some principle, always, — you may rest assured some member, upon whom the orator fixes his eye for an instant, ironically requests a printed copy of the discourse. Only one of his colleagues understands him. Can you guess who; that is- It is Mirabeau, who said to me only yesterday, 'That man will succeed, because he believes what he says.' A strange thing for Mirabeau to say, was it not-”

“I have read this man's speeches, and they seemed to me extremely dull and commonplace.”

“I do not say that he is a Cicero or a Demosthenes, a Mirabeau or even a Barnave; no, not by any means. Besides, his speeches are treated as unceremoniously in the printing-office as they are in the Assembly. In the tribune they interrupt him; in the printing-office they mutilate him. The reporters do not even know his name; they call

him Monsieur B, Monsieur N, or Monsieur,

as the case may be. Heaven alone knows what an amount of gall is accumulated in that emaciated body, what fierce tempests are raging in that narrow brain; for there are no social diversions, no home comforts or pleasures to make him forget the insults and taunts heaped upon him. In his cold and meagerly furnished lodging on the Rue Saintonge, where he lives upon the salary he receives as a deputy, he is as much alone as he was in the gloomy college halls. You are a clever mathematician, Gilbert, but I defy you to calculate the amount of blood all this will cost the aristocrats who insult him, the priests who persecute him, and the king who ignores him. I promised, did I not, to show you a machine that will cut off heads at the rate of about two a minute- Well, the man who will keep this instrument of death most busily employed will be the petty lawyer of Arras, Monsieur de Robespierre.”

“You give one the horrors, count. If your Caesar is as terrible a personage as your Brutus, I shall give up in despair. But what has become of our Caesar-”

“He is standing over yonder, talking with a man he scarcely knows as yet, but who will have a great influence over his destiny. This man's name is Barras.”

“I don't know whether your predictions will prove true, or not, but at all events you have selected your types very cleverly. Your Caesar has the very brow to wear a crown. What do you think he is saying to Barras-”

“He is saying that if the defence of the Bastille had been intrusted to him, it would not have been taken.”

“Then he is not a patriot-”

“A man like that will never be anything but first and foremost.”

“You are amusing yourself at the young lieutenant's expense, I suppose-”

“Gilbert,” said Cagliostro, pointing to Robespierre, “as surely as that man will re-erect the scaffold of Charles I.,

*** just so surely will that man”

Corsican,”reconstruct tlxe kin ml ~* ~ «~e”“~”

“Then our struggle for libprfvTV Charlemagne.”“How do you know t›ut one”H * prove futile-” his throne as the other -wii-h›,,”o „ as mucn for it with

“Then he is to be a T7tiS or /Mlll°tine-”of peace-”› ^s or a Marcus Aurelius, _ a god

“He will be an Alexander and Tt

time. He will wax great bv wir«K7lllnibal at the same ruin. I have defied you to calculatU* War W*U prove his Robespierre will shed; but that amount of blood

with the sea of blood this man win n°thin amp; in comparison of five hundred thousand men cr!ea*e› with his armies long.” ' ' ana battles three days

“And what is his name”-”

***“He calls himself Bonapart call himself Napoleon.” ' Jr e Qow, but some day he will***

***Gilbert relapsed into a***

***not even perceive that the”ml!-6 8°, Profound that Hp rlid speaker had mounted tv.^ ewng had orient ill — he was still sitting tWe ™str”™- An hour ' i ^ powerful hand was laid ^aavb.J01-bed-n med°-4£*SS^e^

tie turned. Cagliostro 1 i J ^** uis sboiil i '

sat Mirabeau, his face tlm-i/ ° PPeareci»›-.^i *

“What is the matter-” Wlth %Vrath. '“a m hls Place wonderingly. asked Gilbert

“It seems that we are”eazing at him

seems that the court will n t°K ' caJ°lecl ~k

for a dupe, and me for a f °i,, ve Ine — t›/ etrayed- I*

“I do not understand you» ** lttakeS J°U

“Did you not hear the i passed- tile ^solution that- ^_

K Where-» *u -Qas just been

., -» it***

: Here.”

“Well, to-morrow, in return for my motion of to-day that cabinet ministers should be allowed to take part in the deliberations of the Assembly, three of the king's friends are going to demand that no member of the Assembly shall be made a cabinet minister during his term of office. Therefore that carefully planned cabinet combination is broken up by the caprice of his Majesty, Louis XVI.; but as surely as my name is Mirabeau, I'll get even with him, and he will find that if his breath can overthrow a ministry, mine can overturn a throne.”

“But you will go to the Assembly, for all that. You will not abandon the scheme without a struggle-”

“I shall go to the Assembly. I shall fight to the last. I am one of those who are buried beneath the ruins.”

The next day, upon the motion of Lanjuinais, and in spite of the superhuman efforts of Mirabeau, the National Assembly decreed by an immense majority that no member of the Assembly should become a minister during his term of office.

“And I,” cried Mirabeau, “propose an amendment, which will not alter your law. It is this:”Any member of the present Assembly may be appointed cabinet minister except Monsieur le Comte de Mirabeau.”

The members gazed at each other, fairly stunned by such audacity. In the midst of a death-like silence, Mirabeau descended from the platform, with the same haughty bearing with which he had marched up to Dreux-Breze” when he said to him, “We are here by the will of the people, and nothing but the power of the bayonet shall drive us away.”

He left the hall.

Mirabeau's defeat was like any other man's triumph.

CHAPTER XXIX. METZ AND PARIS.

As Cagliostro had predicted, and Mirabeau had surmised, it was the king who had ruined all Gilbert's plans.

In her concessions to Mirabeau, Marie Antoinette had been actuated chiefly by spite at her lover's desertion, and feminine curiosity, rather than queenly policy; so it was with no very great regret that she beheld the downfall of this framework of a constitutional government which had always offended her pride so deeply.

As for the king, his policy was always confined to procrastination, gaining time, and taking advantage of circumstances; moreover, other negotiations were pending, which promised him an opportunity to get safely out of Paris, as well as affording him a residence in a well-fortified town, — a favourite plan with him. The arrangements for the successful execution of one of these schemes had been intrusted to Baron de Favras, the Count de Provence's agent; the other, to Charny, who had been specially deputed by the king.

Charny made the trip from Paris to Metz in two days, and immediately upon his arrival in that city waited upon M. de Bouille and delivered the king's letter. This missive being only a letter of introduction, as the reader may recollect, Bonille, though he did not conceal his dissatisfaction and anxiety in regard to the condition of affairs, manifested great reserve at first. In fact, Charny's suggestions interfered very considerably with the commandant's plans, the Empress Catherine having just offered him an important command in her army, which he was on the point of accepting when the king's letter came.

Bouille” was a devoted royalist, however, and so felt extremely anxious to rescue his sovereign from a situation that virtually amounted to imprisonment.

Before coming to any definite understanding with Charny, however, Bouille”, claiming that the count's powers were not sufficiently extended, resolved to send his son, Louis de Bouille”, to Paris to confer directly with the king about the matter.

Charny remained at Metz, partly because he had no special desire to return to Paris, and partly because a rather exaggerated sense of honour made him feel it incumbent upon him to stay in Metz as a sort of hostage.

Count Louis de Bouille” arrived in Paris about the middle of November. At that time the king was carefully guarded by Lafayette, and the count was Lafayette's cousin. To visit the Tuileries, therefore, without the knowledge of Lafayette, was an impossibility, or at least a very dangerous and difficult matter.

On the other hand, as Lafayette must be kept in ignorance of the nature of the young man's errand, the latter might easily secure a presentation to the king through Lafayette himself; and circumstances seemed to favour this plan, for he had been in Paris only three days when he received a letter from the general, saying that he” had heard of his arrival in Paris, through the police, and inviting him to call upon him, either at the headquarters of the National Guard or at his private residence.

The young man, delighted at the turn affairs had taken, hastened to headquarters, and found that the general had just gone to the Hotel de Ville to see Monsieur Bailly, the mayor; but in the general's absence, he was met by Monsieur Romeuf, his aide-de-camp.

Romeuf had served in the same regiment with the young count; and though he belonged to the democracy, and the latter to the aristocracy, the relations existing between them were quite friendly; besides, there was one point upon which they were in perfect accord: both young men loved and honoured the king, — one after the patriotic fashion, that is to say, on condition that he should swear to support the Constitution; the other after the aristocratic fashion, that is, on condition that he should refuse to take that oath, and call in foreign aid to subdue his rebellious subjects if necessary.

When he said “rebels,” young Bouille meant three- fourths of the Assembly, the entire National Guard, the electors, etc., etc., -in short, about five-sixths of the people of France.

Romeuf was twenty-six, and Count Louis twenty-two; so it was difficult for the two friends to talk polities long, especially as Count Louis did not wish his companion to suspect that he came to Paris on any business of importance: wherefore he told his friend, as a great secret, that he had left Metz without formal leave, and come to Paris to see a woman he adored.

While he was imparting this secret to the aide-de-camp, Lafayette appeared on the threshold of the open door; but though Count Louis caught sight of the general in a mirror in front of him, he continued his story, and, in spite of his friend's warning signs, raised his voice so that Lafayette could not fail to hear every word.

The general walked slowly up behind the speaker, and when the narrative ended, placed his hand on the young man's shoulder and exclaimed, -

“So, ho, Monsieur Lover! This is the reason you fight shy of your respectable relatives, I suppose.”

For he was no very stern judge or severe mentor, this gay and gallant general of thirty-two, himself a great favourite with the fashionable ladies of the day; and Count Louis did not seem very much afraid of the lecture that was in store for him.

“On the contrary, I was so anxious to see you that I should have done myself the honour of calling upon my most illustrious kinsman this very day, even if I had not received your note,” he replied, laughing.

“Well, after this, will you country gentlemen venture to assert that the Paris police force is poorly organised and inefficient-” asked the general, with a self-satisfied air which showed very plainly that he thought most of the credit belonged to him.

“We know that we have nothing to conceal from the brave general who guards the people's rights and the king's welfare so jealously,” was the polite response.

Lafayette bestowed a rather mocking but good-natured side-glance upon his cousin. He knew that the king's welfare was a matter of great importance to that branch of the family, but that they troubled themselves very little about the rights of the people.

He replied to only half of the compliment, consequently.

“And my cousin, the Marquis de Bouille”,” he said, laying special stress upon the title he himself had renounced since the fourth of August, “has he not charged his son with some commission for the king whose welfare I guard-”

“He charged me to place his homage at his sovereign's feet, provided General Lafayette did not deem me unworthy of being presented to the king.”

“Presented- and when-”

“As soon as possible, general. As I am here without leave, as I had the honour of telling you or Romeuf-”

“You told Romeuf; but it amounts to the same thing, as I overheard it. Very well; pleasant things should not be postponed. It is now eleven o'clock. I have the honour of an interview with the king and queen every day at noon. Take a bite with me, if you have not breakfasted already, and you can then accompany me to the Tuileries.”

“But am I properly dressed-” queried the young man, glancing over his uniform and his boots.

“In the first place, 1 must tell you, my poor boy, that the great question of etiquette, which you imbibed with your mother's milk, has been sick even unto death since your departure: besides, your coat is irreproachable, and your boots beyond criticism; and what costume could be more suitable for a man eager to die for his king than a military uniform- Come, Romeuf, see if breakfast is ready. I will take Monsieur de Bouille to the Tuileries immediately after that meal is over.”

Half an hour afterwards the sentinels at the gate of the Tuileries presented arms to General Lafayette and the young Count de Bouille”, little suspecting that they were paying military honours at the same time to the revolution and the counter-revolution.

CHAPTER XXX. THE QUEEN.

Every door flew open at Lafayette's approach; the guards presented arms, and the footmen bowed low, recognising in him the king's king, the master of the palace.

Lafayette was first ushered into the queen's presence. The king was at his forge, and some one was sent to inform him of the general's arrival.

It was three years since Count Louis de Bouille had seen Marie Antoinette.

The queen had reached the age of thirty-four, -”that touching age,” as Michelet says, which Vandyck so loved to paint; the age of wifehood and motherhood, and, especially in Marie Antoinette's case, the queenly age.

During those three years the queen had suffered much in heart and mind, in love and self-love as well; and the thirty-four years were consequently plainly written upon her countenance in the dark circles under her eyes that told of sleepless nights and bitter tears.

It was at this age that Marie Stuart, though a prisoner, made her greatest conquests, inspiring Douglas, Mortimer, Norfolk, and Babington with such ardent love that they were eager to die for her.

The sight of this much hated, much slandered, and much threatened queen — the events of the fifth of October had proved that these threats were no idle talk — made a deep impression on young Louis de Bouillons chivalrous heart.

Women are always perfectly well aware of the effect they produce, and as kings and queens have a specially good memory for faces, — that being an important part of their education, — Marie Antoinette had scarcely glanced at the young man before she not only recognised him, but felt certain that she should have in him a most devoted friend; so, before Lafayette had time to make the formal presentation, and before they had even reached the foot of the lounge on which the queen was half reclining, she straightened herself up, and, like one greeting an old acquaintance one is glad to meet again, and an adherent upon whose devotion one can thoroughly rely, she exclaimed, -

“Ah, Monsieur de Bouille”!”

Then, without taking the slightest notice of Lafayette, she held out her hand to the young man. The count hesitated an instant, — he had not anticipated this mark of royal favour, — then, falling on his knees, he touched the queen's hand with trembling lips.

This was a mistake on the poor queen's part, and she made many like it. She would have won young Bouill's heart without this courtesy, and the granting of it to his cousin in the presence of Lafayette, upon whom she had never bestowed such a mark of favour, established a line of demarcation between them, and wounded the man she had most need to conciliate.

So, with that perfect courtesy which he was incapable of forgetting for an instant, but not without a perceptible change of voice, Lafayette exclaimed, -

“Upon my word, my dear cousin, it was I who offered to present you to her Majesty; but it would seem you ought rather to present me.”

The queen was so rejoiced to find herself once more in the presence of a person upon whom she could rely, and the woman was so flattered by the profound impression she had evidently made upon the count, that, feeling suddenly endowed with the glory of a youth she had believed irrevocably lost, she turned to the general with one of those smiles that had been wont to irradiate her face at Trianon and Versailles, and said, -

“Count Louis is no such stern republican as yourself. He comes from Metz, not from America. He has not come to Paris, I am sure, to toil over the Constitution, but to pay his homage to me; so you must not wonder that I — a poor half-dethroned queen — grant him what he, a provincial, may consider a favour, while you -”

The queen concluded the sentence with a half petulant but altogether charming pout and toss of the head that seemed to say, “While you, Monsieur Scipio, while you, Monsieur Cincinnatus, sneer at all such nonsense.”

“I have always proved my devotion and respect to the queen, madame,” replied Lafayette, “without her understanding or appreciating my respect and devotion. This may be unfortunate for me, and perhaps still more unfortunate for her,” he added, bowing low.

The queen looked at him searchingly. Lafayette had used similar words in his conversations with her more than once, and more than once she had reflected upon the words he had uttered; but, unfortunately for her, whenever he spoke in this way she felt an instinctive aversion to the man.

“Ah, general, you must be generous and forgive me,” she exclaimed, but not without an evident effort.

“Forgive you- For what, madame-”

“My enthusiastic welcome to this good Bonille” family, who love me with all their hearts. It was his father, his uncle, his entire family whom I saw when he entered, and who touched my hand with his lips.”

Lafayette bowed again, but in silence.

“And now, forgiveness being granted, comes the pledge of peace,” continued the queen, -”a cordial shake of the hand, after the English or American fashion.”

And she held out her hand, but open, and with the palm uppermost.

Lafayette touched it coldly and half reluctantly.

“I regret that you can never recollect that I am a Frenchman. It is not so very long between the sixth of October and the sixteenth of November, madame.”

“You are right, general,” the queen said, controlling herself, and pressing his hand.”It is I who am ungrateful; but this fact ought not to surprise you, knowing how often that fault is imputed to me.”

Then, throwing back her head, she asked, -

“Is there anything new in Paris, general-”

Lafayette saw an opportunity to retaliate, and he embraced it.

“Ah, madame, how much I regret that you were not at the Assembly yesterday,” he exclaimed.”You would have witnessed a most touching scene, and one that would have interested you greatly. An aged man, the dean, the Nestor of the human race, a peasant from the Jura, one hundred and twenty years old, led by five generations of his descendants, came to thank the Assembly for the happiness he owed to it and to the king, as the Assembly can do nothing without the royal sanction. Think of it, madame, — a man who had been a serf for half a century under Louis XIV., and for seventy years afterwards!”

“And what did the Assembly do-”

“The members all arose, to a man, and compelled him to sit down and cover himself in their presence.”

“Ah,” said the queen, in a rather peculiar tone, "ah, yes, it must have been extremely touching; but I was not there to witness it, much to my regret. You, of all others, my dear general, must know that I am not always where I would like to be,” she added, with a smile as peculiar as her tone.

The general seemed about to say something in reply; but without giving him time to speak, the queen continued:

“I was here, granting an audience to the wife of that unfortunate baker — the Assembly's baker — whom the Assembly allowed to be murdered at its very doors. What was the Assembly doing then, monsieur-”

“You allude, madame, to a calamity which has distressed the representatives of the nation most deeply. Though the Assembly was not able to prevent the murder, it has at least punished the murderers.”

“But this punishment has been little or no consolation to the poor wife. If her child lives, I have promised to be his godmother; and in order that the people may see that I am not indifferent to their sorrows, I should like to have the baptism take place in Notre Dame, if it would not cause too much inconvenience.”

Lafayette raised his hand like one who is about to ask permission to speak, and is extremely anxious to have the opportunity granted him.

“This is the second allusion you have made, madame, within a very brief space of time, to the pretended captivity in which some of your devoted followers seem determined to believe I am keeping you. I make haste to say in the presence of my cousin here, and I will repeat it, if need be, in the presence of all Paris and all Europe, and of the whole world, that you are free; and I have but one desire, and only one request to make of you, that your Majesties will prove it,-the king, by resuming his accustomed sports and drives, and you, madame, by accompanying him.”

The queen smiled as if only half convinced.

“As regards acting as godmother for the poor child who will be born in such affliction, the queen, by making this promise to the widow, has only given another proof of the kindness of heart that makes her beloved and respected by those around her. If the queen will select the church where she desires the ceremony to take place, and will make her wishes known, everything shall be in readiness when the appointed day comes. And now,” continued the general, bowing, “I await the orders it may please your Majesty to honour me with to-day.”

“I have but one to-day, my dear general, and that is to ask you, if your cousin remains a few days longer in Paris, to take him with you to one of Madame de Lamballe's receptions. You know she receives for me.”

“And I will avail myself of the invitation, madame, as much for my own sake as for his. If her Majesty has not seen me there before, I beg to assure her that is only because she has never before expressed a wish for my attendance.”

The queen responded with an inclination of the head and a smile. This was equivalent to a dismissal. Each gentleman accepted what was intended for him, — Lafayette the bow, Count Louis the smile. Then both walked backwards out of the room, — one with increased bitterness, the other with increased devotion, in his heart by reason of this interview.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE KING.

The two visitors found Franqois Hue, the king's valet, waiting for them at the door leading out of the queen's apartments.

His Majesty sent word that, having begun a very complicated piece of lockwork for his diversion, he should be greatly obliged if General Lafayette would come up to the workroom.

A forge was the very first thing the king inquired about after his arrival at the Tuileries; and learning that this indispensable adjunct had been forgotten in Catherine de Medici's and Philibert de Lorme's plans, he selected a room directly over his bedchamber for his workshop.

In spite of the many doubts and fears which had assailed him during his five weeks' residence at the Tuileries, Louis XVI. had not forgotten his forge for an instant. He had carefully superintended all its arrangements, and had himself indicated the place for the bellows, the fire, the anvil, bench, and vices. The workroom had been completed only the evening before; implements of every sort and kind had been provided; and the king could wait no longer. Ever since morning he had been engaged in this work, which had always proved such a relief to his mind, and in which he would doubtless have excelled if, to Gamain's great regret, such idlers as Turgot, Calonne, and Necker had not diverted his attention from his work by talking, not only about the affairs of France, which might be excusable, but about matters connected with Austria, England, America, and Spain.

All this explains why the king, in his enthusiastic resumption of his favourite occupation, begged Lafayette to come up to his workshop. It may be, too, that, having shown his weakness and incompetency as a monarch to the commander of the National Guard, he was not sorry to have an opportunity to display his skill as a locksmith.

Not knowing Count Louis, the valet turned as he reached the door of the workroom.

“Whom shall I announce-” he asked.

“Announce the commander-in-chief of the National Guard. I myself will present this gentleman to his Majesty.”

The king turned as they entered.

“Ah, is it you, Monsieur de Lafayette-” he exclaimed.”I trust you will excuse me for asking you to come up here, but the locksmith assures you of a hearty welcome to his shop. A fellow once said to my ancestor, Henry IV., ' Even a charcoal burner is master in his own house.' I say to you, general, that you are as much master here in the workshop as in the apartments of the king.”

So it will be seen that Louis XVI. began the conversation in very much the same way the queen had done.

“Sire,” rejoined Lafayette, “under whatever circumstances I may have the honour to present myself before your Majesty, and in whatever apartment or costume you may receive me, the king will always be the king, and the man who now offers you his respectful homage will always be his faithful subject and devoted servant.”

“I do not doubt it, marquis. But you are not alone. Have you changed your aide-de-camp, and does this young man take Romeuf's place-”

“This young man — and I ask the privilege of presenting him to your Majesty — is my cousin, Comte Louis de Bouille'

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, with a slight start, which did not escape the notice of the younger man, "ah, yes, Comte Louis de Bouille”, son of the Marquis de Bouille”, commandant at Metz, I suppose.”

“The same, sire.”

“You must excuse me, count, for having failed to recognise you. I am very near-sighted, you know. Have you been absent from Metz long-”

“About five days, sire; and, being here in Paris without a special furlough, though with my father's permission, I solicited of my kinsman, Monsieur de Lafayette, the honour of a presentation to your Majesty.”

Meanwhile Lafayette was gazing about him with evident curiosity. Many persons were admitted into the king's office and library, and even into his oratory or private chapel; but few persons were favoured with admission into his workshop, where Louis XVI. was the apprentice, and Master Gamain the real sovereign.

Lafayette was rather in doubt as to what subject to broach to this monarch, who received him with sleeves rolled up, a file in his hand, and a leather apron around his waist.

“Your Majesty seems to have a difficult piece of work in hand,” he ventured at last.

“Yes, general; I have undertaken to make a lock. I tell you, so that if Marat should find out that I have set up my workshop again, and should accuse me of forging fetters for the French people in it, you can assure him to the contrary, if you chance to meet him. You have no knowledge of the trade, I suppose, Monsieur de Bouill4-”

“I am not an expert, by any means; but my nurse's husband was a locksmith, and I used to amuse myself sometimes by working with him; so, if I can be of any service to your Majesty, I should feel only too greatly honoured, though I rank, I fear, only as a very poor apprentice.”

“An apprentice might be of considerable service to me; but what I need most is an instructor.”

“What kind of a lock is your Majesty making-” inquired the young man, with a quasi familiarity fully authorised by the king's occupation and attire, -”a night latch, a clover-leaf, a spring lock, or a bolt lock-”

“Well, my cousin, I don't know how much practical knowledge of lock-making you possess,” exclaimed Lafayette, “but you seem well posted theoretically.”

Louis XVI. had listened to the young man's enumeration of the different locks with evident pleasure.

“No,” said he, “this is simply a mortised lock, with a keyhole on both sides; but I fear I have overrated my ability. Ah! if I only had Gamain here, — Gamain, who calls himself the king of locksmiths, the grand master of his craft.”

“Is the worthy man dead, sire-”

“No,” replied the king, with a quick glance at the young count, which seemed to indicate that there was a hidden meaning in his words;”no, he lives at Versailles, on the Rue des Reservoirs. The dear fellow don't dare to come to the Tuileries to see me.”

“And why not, sire-” inquired Lafayette.

“For fear of compromising himself. A king of France is a very dangerous acquaintance just now, my dear general. The fact that all my friends have fled to London, Coblentz, and Turin is sufficient proof of that, surely. However, if you see no objection to Gamain and one of his apprentices coming here some day to lend me a helping hand, I'll send for him, my dear general.”

“Sire, your Majesty knows perfectly well that you are at liberty to summon whomsoever you please.”

“Yes, provided your sentinels can cross-question the visitor, as they do smugglers on the frontier. That is what my poor Gamain is afraid of, as they would probably mistake his kit for a cartridge-box, and his files for poignards.”

“I scarcely know how to apologise to your Majesty, sire; but I am responsible to Paris, to France, and to all Europe for the king's life, and I feel that I cannot take too many precautions to insure the safety of a thing so precious. As for the worthy man of whom we were just speaking, the king can give him whatever orders he pleases, of

“Thanks, Monsieur de Lafayette, but there is no hurry. Six or eight days hence I may want him,” he added, casting a side glance at young Bouille”, -”him, and an apprentice, perhaps. I can send him word through Durey, my valet, who is a friend of his.”

“And he will only need to present himself to be admitted to the king; his name will serve as his passport. Heaven preserve me, sire, from deserving the title of gaoler and turnkey that my enemies bestow upon me! Never was the king more free than at this moment. In fact, my business this morning is to implore his Majesty to resume his outdoor sports,-his hunts and drives.”

“As to the hunts, no, thank you; I have other things to occupy me just now. As to the drives, my recent trip from Versailles to Paris has cured me of any desire for driving, at least in such a numerous company.”

And again the king glanced at the young nobleman, who, by a slight elevation of his eyebrows, indicated that he understood the monarch's covert meaning.

“By the way,” the king continued, addressing himself directly to the young count, “do you contemplate a speedy return to your father-”

“I shall leave Paris in a few days, your Majesty, but not to return to Metz. I have an aged relative residing on the Rue des Reservoirs, at Versailles, to whom I must pay my respects. I also have quite an important business matter to attend to, and as I am to see the person from whom I am to receive further instructions about one week from this time, it is not likely that I shall see my father again before the early part of December, — that is, unless the king has some special reason for desiring that I should hasten my departure for Metz.”

“No, no! take your time, monsieur. Go to Versailles, and attend to this business matter, too, as your father has advised. Only do not forget, when you again see your father, to say to him that I have not forgotten him, that I know him to be one of my most faithful friends, and that I shall recommend him to General Lafayette some day for honourable promotion.”

Lafayette smiled slightly at this fresh allusion to his omnipotence.

“I should have recommended the gentlemen of the Bonille” family to your Majesty for promotion long ago, sire,” he replied, “but for the fact that I have the honour of being related to them. I am not infrequently prevented from doing justice to most deserving men, by a fear lest I shall be accused of directing the king's favour upon my own kinsfolk.”

“But the king must allow me to say that my father would consider any advancement a great misfortune, if it deprived him wholly or in part of the power to be of service to your Majesty,” interposed the young count.

“Oh, I understand that, count. I shall not allow his present position to be interfered with, unless it is to confer one upon him that is more in accord with his wishes and mine. Leave this matter to the general and me, and go and enjoy yourself, — not forgetting the business matter that will claim your attention, however. Good-morning, gentlemen, good-morning.”

The king dismissed his visitors with an air of dignity that contrasted strikingly with his coarse attire. When the door closed upon their retreating forms, he said to himself, -

“I think the young man understood me, and that when Master Gamain comes to see me, a week or ten days from now, he will bring an apprentice with him.”

CHAPTER XXXII. OLD ACQUAINTANCES.

Between five and six o'clock on the evening of the same day young Louis de Bouille” had the honour of being presented to the king and queen, a strange scene was taking place in the upper story of a small shabby, gloomy house on the Rue de la Juiverie.

In a squalid room on the third floor are three persons, — a man, a woman, and a child. The man is forty-five, and looks fifty-five; the woman is thirty-four, and looks at least forty; the child is five, and looks it, as he is not old enough yet to live two years in one.

The man wears the shabby ragged uniform of a sergeant of the French Guards, — a uniform held in high esteem since the fourteenth of July, when the French Guards joined the populace in firing upon Lambesc's Germans and Besenval's Swiss.

He holds in his hands a complete pack of cards, and he is trying for the hundredth, the thousandth, yes, the ten thousandth time, to devise an infallible combination for breaking a gaming-bank. Beside him reposes a card pricked with as many holes as there are stars in the firmament. We said reposes, but we hasten to retract the word.”Reposes “is scarcely the term to employ with reference to a card that is taken up and put down so incessantly; for the gambler — he is unquestionably a gambler — consults it every five minutes.

The woman is attired in an old silk gown; and poverty in her case is all the more terrible from the fact that the remains of luxury are associated with it. Her hair is twisted into a knot at the back of her head, and held in place by a brass comb which was once gilded; her hands are scrupulously clean, and by reason of this cleanliness have preserved, or rather have acquired, a rather aristocratic appearance. Her nails are carefully trimmed and rounded at the ends; and the old-fashioned, worn-out slippers that cover her feet are of satin, embroidered with gold. She is thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, and if her face were cleverly made up after the fashion of the day, she would look five years younger; for, as Abbe” de Celle says, “Women cling desperately to twenty-nine for five or ten years afterwards;” but, deprived of the softening effect of rouge and powder, she looks several years older than she really is.

Haggard as this face is, one somehow fancies one has seen it before, and vaguely wonders in what gilded palace or gorgeous chariot he once beheld a resplendent visage, of which this is but the faded reflection.

The child is five years old, as we have said before. He has the curling hair of one of Carlo Dolci's cherubs; his cheeks are as round as pippins; he has his mother's demoniacal eyes, his father's greedy mouth, and the indolence and capriciousness of both parents.

He is dressed in a threadbare and ragged coat of scarlet velvet, and while he munches a slice of bread thickly covered with jam, he is pulling the tarnished fringe from a tricoloured sash, and dropping it into the crown of an old felt hat.

The child is the first to break the silence, as he tosses his bread over his head upon the bed behind him.

“I 'm tired of bread and jam, mamma,” he whines.

“What do you want, Toussaint-”

“I want a stick of candy.”

“Do you hear, Beausire-” says the woman. Then, seeing that the man is still absorbed in his calculations,-

“Do you hear what the poor child says-” she repeats shrilly.

The same silence!

Raising her foot to a level with her hand, she pulls off her slipper and hurls it straight at the calculator's nose.

“You, Beausire!”she cries.

“Well, what is it-” he asks angrily.

“Toussaint here wants a stick of candy. He's tired of jam, poor child!”

“He shall have one to-morrow.”

“I want it now! I want it right away!” cries the boy, in a whine that threatens to become a yell.

“Toussaint, you had better be quiet, or you'll get yourself into trouble,” says the father.

The child utters a cry, but it is a cry of wrath rather than fear.

“Touch that child, and you'll have trouble with me!” says the mother.

“Who the devil wants to touch him! You know very well it is only my way of talking, Madame Olivia. Even if a fellow occasionally beats the dust out of the mother's gown, he always respects the child's frock. Come here, Nicole, and kiss your poor Beausire, who'll be as rich as a king in a week.”

“When you are as rich as a king it will be quite time enough to kiss you.”

“But as I tell you I 'm sure of a million, give me a kiss in advance, to bring us good luck.”

“I want a stick of candy, I do!” yells the child, in tones that are becoming more and more ominous.

“See here, millionaire, give this child a stick of candy! Do you hear me-”

Beausire makes a movement as if with the intention of putting his hand in his pocket; but the hand makes only half the journey.

“You know very well I gave you my last twenty-four- sous-piece yesterday,” he answers sullenly.

“Then you've got some money, ma,” whines the child, turning to the woman Beausire sometimes addresses as Olivia, and sometimes as Nicole.”Give me a sou to buy a stick of candy!”

“Here are two sous, you bad child! Take care and don't fall going down stairs.”

As the woman closes the door after the child, she turns and devotes her attention to his father.

“You had better be doing something to get us out of this miserable hole, I think, Monsieur Beausire,” she remarks.”If you don't, I’ll have to see what I can do, I suppose.”

She utters the words in the complacent tone of a woman whose mirror says to her every morning, “Don’t be troubled; with a face like yours, no woman need die of hunger.”

“I’ll see about it presently; I 'm busy now.”

“Yes, busy moving those cards about, and pricking holes in a bit of pasteboard. Beausire, I give you fair warning, if you don't devise some way to better our condition, I’ll think over my old acquaintances, and see if I can't find one who has influence enough to send such an idiot as you are to the Charenton Insane Asylum.”

“But I tell you this combination will prove infallible.”

“Ah! if Cardinal Richelieu wasn't dead!” mutters the woman.

“What did you say-”

“Or if Cardinal Rohan wasn’t ruined!”

“Eh-”

“Or if Madame de la Motte hadn't run away!”

“What-”

“If I could only meet some of my former friends, I shouldn't be obliged to share the poverty of an old simpleton like you,” she continues, with a gesture of utter disdain.

“But I tell you we shall be rich soon.”

“Worth your millions, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“Show me the first ten-crown-piece of your million, and I’ll take the rest for granted.”

“I'll do it this very evening, for that is the exact amount promised me.”

“And you'll give it all to me, my dear Beausire-”

“I’ll give you five of it to buy a silk gown for yourself, and a velvet coat for the little one. With the other five — well, with the other five I’ll win you the promised million. I 've discovered an infallible combination this time, I tell you.”

“Yes, the twin sister to the one that ate up the sixty thousand francs paid you after that Portuguese affair.”

“Ill-gotten wealth never profits any one,” replies Beausire, sententiously.

“Then I suppose the money you are talking about has been bequeathed to you by some uncle who recently died in the Indies or in America-”

“This money, Mademoiselle Nicole Legay, has been earned, not only honestly, but honourably, in an affair in which I, as well as many other noblemen of France, am deeply interested.”

“So you belong to the nobility, Monsieur Beausire-”

“Say de Beausire, de Beausire, Mademoiselle Legay, as stated in the certificate of your child's birth, recorded in the sacristy of St. Paul's church, and signed by your humble servant, Jean Baptiste Toussaint de Beausire, on the day I gave him my name.”

“And a fine gift it was!”mutters Nicole.

“And my fortune!”adds Beausire, pompously.

“If the good Lord gives him nothing else, the poor lad is likely to live on charity, and die in an almshouse.”

“Really, I can't stand this,” is the sullen response.”You are forever complaining.”

“Then don't stand it!” she retorts, giving free vent to her long-repressed wrath.”Good heavens! who wants you to stand it- Thank God, I 'm not worried on my own account or my child's!”From this very night I’ll seek my fortune elsewhere!”

Nicole started towards the door, but Beausire barred the way with outstretched arms.

“The money will come this very evening, I tell you. Nicole, are you an atheist-”

She shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

“Are you a follower of that accursed Voltaire, who denies that there is such a thing as Providence-”

“Beausire, you 're a fool!”

“Springing from the common people, as you do, it is not strange that you entertain such doctrines; but I warn you, they do not become a person of my rank, or harmonize with my political sentiments. As for me, — do you hear- — as for me, I have faith; and if anybody should say to me, ' Thy son, Jean Baptiste Toussaint de Beausire, who has gone out to buy a stick of candy with a two-sou-piece, will come back with a purse filled with gold in his hand,' I should reply, ' Very possibly, if it be the will of God,’ “and Beausire rolled his eyes piously heavenward.

“Beausire, you 're a fool!”repeated Nicole.

She had scarcely uttered the words before the voice of young Toussaint was heard on the stairs.

“Papa! mamma!”he cried excitedly.

“Papa! mamma!” repeated the voice, coming nearer and nearer.

“What is the matter-”cried Nicole, opening the door with maternal solicitude.”Come here, my child; come here!”

“Papa! mamma!” continued the voice.

“I should not be surprised if the miracle had come to pass, and the little chap had found the purse I was just talking of,” said Beausire, noting the exultant ring in the child's tones.

At that very moment the boy rushed into the room, holding his stick of candy in his mouth, and squeezing a bag of sweetmeats against his breast with his left hand, while in the open palm of his right shone a golden louis, which, in the light of the solitary candle, glittered like Aldebaran.

“Good heavens! what has happened to my little dear-” cried Nicole, leaving the door to take care of itself, and covering the sticky mouth with maternal kisses which shrink from nothing, because they seem to purify everything they touch.

“Here it is!” exclaimed the father, adroitly securing possession of the coin and examining it by the light of the candle, -”a genuine golden louis, worth twenty-four francs.”

Then, turning to the child, -

“Where did you find it, you little monkey-”

“I didn’t find it; somebody gave it to me.”

“Somebody gave it to you-”

“Yes, mamma; a gentleman, a gentleman who came into the grocery shop while I was there, and said, ' Isn’t this young gentleman you're waiting on named de Beausire-'“

Beausire drew himself up proudly; Nicole shrugged her shoulders.

“What did the grocer answer, my son-”

“He said, ' I don't know about his being a gentleman, but he calls himself Beausire.' — ' Does he live near here-' asked the gentleman. 'There, in that house on the left, up three flights.'-'Give the child all the candy he wants. I’ll pay for it,' says the gentleman. Then he says to me, 'See, my dear, here's a louis to buy more candy when this is eaten up;' and he put a louis in my hand, and the grocer gave me this bag of candy, and I ran home. But where is my louis-”

And the child, who had not noticed Beausire's little sleight-of-hand performance, began to hunt about for the coin.

“You have lost it, you little stupid!”said the father.

“No, I haven’t! no, I haven’t!” shrieked the child.

The controversy might have become serious but for an event that suddenly put an end to it.

While the child, who was still rather in doubt, was searching on the floor for the coin, which was lying snugly ensconced the while in his father's waistcoat pocket, and while Nicole was wondering who this unknown benefactor could be, the door slowly opened, and a suave voice said, -

“Good evening, Mademoiselle Nicole; good evening, Monsieur de Beausire; good evening, little Toussaint.”

All three glanced in the direction from which the sound proceeded, and saw, standing upon the threshold, an elegantly dressed gentleman, surveying the family group with a smiling face.

“The candy gentleman!” cried the boy.

“Cagliostro!” exclaimed Nicole and Beausire in the same breath.

“You have a charming boy, Monsieur de Beausire. You must be very proud of him.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. IN CHANGE UNCHANGED.

There was a moment's silence after Cagliostro's gracious words; then he walked into the middle of the room and gazed around him as if he desired to satisfy himself fully in regard to the moral and financial condition of these old acquaintances.

The result of this scrutiny must have been sufficiently convincing to a discerning mind like that of the count; for even the most superficial observer could hardly have failed to perceive that the household was reduced to its last twenty-sous-piece.

Of the three persons who were gazing at the count in such profound astonishment, little Toussaint was the first to speak; for, the visitor being associated in his mind only with the events of that evening, his conscience did not reproach him.

“Oh, monsieur, I 've lost the gold-piece you gave me!” he exclaimed.”Isn’t it too bad-”

Nicole opened her lips to explain the situation, but reflected that her silence might secure the child another louis, which would probably fall into her hands this time; and she was quite right in her suppositions.

“You have lost your gold-piece, my poor child- Never mind; here are two more. Take care of them this time.”

And drawing two shining coins from a purse whose rotundity made Beausire's eyes sparkle enviously, he dropped them into the plump hand of the boy, who ran to Nicole, crying, “Look, mamma! here's one for you and one for me.”

Cagliostro noticed how pertinaciously the sergeant's covetous eyes followed each, movement of the purse, and how heavily he sighed when he saw it disappear in the depths of the count's pocket.

“What, monsieur, still so melancholy-”he exclaimed.

“And you, monsieur, are still a millionaire, I see.”

“Good heavens! it seems to me that you, one of the greatest philosophers I ever heard of, either in ancient or modern times, ought to realise the truth of the old adage, ' Money does not bring happiness.' I knew you when you were comparatively rich.”

“Yes, I had nearly one hundred thousand francs at one time.”

“But had squandered about forty thousand of it when I met you -”

“What is sixty thousand francs in comparison with the wealth at your disposal-”

“Say rather in comparison with the wealth I hold in the capacity of trustee; but if we reckon more accurately, I think it would be another case of Saint Martin and the pauper, only it would be you who would have to give me half your cloak to keep me from freezing. But to return to the circumstances of our first meeting: you had about sixty thousand francs in your pocket; but were you any happier then than you are now- Would you consent to change your present condition, even though you possess nothing but the paltry louis you took from little Toussaint -”

“Monsieur -”

“Don't get angry, Monsieur de Beausire. We quarrelled once, and you were obliged to go out into the street to find your sword, which had flown out of the window, you recollect. You remember it, do you not-” he continued, as Beausire made no response.”Well, now, I ask you again: Even though you possess only the one unfortunate louis you took from little Toussaint,”-the insinuation passed unnoticed this time, -”would you be willing to exchange your present condition for the much more precarious situation from which I once helped to extricate you-”

“No, Monsieur le Comte, you are right. I would not. Alas! at that time I was separated from my dear Nicole.”

“And the police were hunting for you on account of a certain affair in Portugal, — a most villainous affair, too, it was, I remember!”

“It is drowned in oblivion now.”

“So much the better; for it must have caused you no little uneasiness. But don't count too surely upon this lapse into oblivion. The police are wonderful divers, and if the net goes to the bottom of the sea, it is as easy to fish up a crime as a fine pearl.”

“But for the poverty to which we are reduced, I -”

“You would be happy. In fact, you need only a thousand louis to make your happiness complete.”

Nicole's eyes sparkled; Beausire's fairly flamed.

“Yes, if we had a thousand louis, — that is, twenty-four thousand francs, — we could buy a little country place with half of it, invest the rest of the money, and I would turn farmer -”

“Like Cincinnatus -”

“While Nicole could devote herself entirely to the education of our child-”

“Like another Cornelia. Your lives would not only be exemplary, but touching. You hope to get that amount out of the affair you are engaged in just now, I suppose.”

Beausire started.”What affair-”he asked, evidently much frightened.

“Why, that in which you figure as a sergeant of the Guards, — that for which you have an appointment to-night under the arcade in the Place du Palais-Royal.

Beausire turned as pale as death.

“Oh, monsieur, don't ruin me!” he cried, clasping his hands imploringly.

“What nonsense you talk! Am I a policeman-”

“I told you that you had some miserable affair on hand,” exclaimed Nicole.

“So you, too, know about this affair, Mademoiselle Legay-”

“No, monsieur; and that's the-very reason I felt sure he was in some scrape or other. When he hides anything from me, it 'a bad, — I'm sure of that.”

“Everything has its bad side and its good side, — good for some, bad for others. No affair can be good for everybody or bad for everybody. For instance, in this case, all the nobility are interested in the success of the enterprise; while it would be greatly to the advantage of the common people to have it fail. Now, if you will take my advice, — which, believe me, is that of a true friend, — you, will take sides neither with the nobility nor with the people.'

“Whose part shall I take, then-”

“Your own.”

“Yes, to be sure. You 've done enough for other people. It is time you thought of yourself.”

“And I,” said Cagliostro, “will merely add — you know I only meddle with matters to play the prophet — I will merely add that, if you become mixed up in this affair, it will not only be at the risk of your reputation and fortune, but of your very life itself. Yes, for you will probably be hanged. In fact, there is very little doubt of it.”

“But they do not hang gentlemen, monsieur,” expostulated Beausire, wiping away the sweat that was rolling down his face.

“That is true; but it would be necessary for you to produce proofs of noble birth, in order to have your head cut off, which would take a good while perhaps, — long enough, at least, to wear out the patience of your judges, who would consequently order you to be hanged provisionally. You will tell me, perhaps, that one should not be ashamed to suffer in a good cause; that' Crime makes the shame, and not the scaffold,' as a great poet says.”

“But -”faltered Beausire, more and more frightened.

“But you are not so strongly attached to your political opinions that you would sacrifice your life for them; I understand that -”

“I know you have a way of talking that would make the hair of a timid man stand on end.”

“I 'm sure I have no such intention; besides, you 're not a timid man.”

“No, not as a general thing; but under some circumstances -”

“Ah, yes, I understand: when one has the galleys threatening him in the rear for theft, as well as looming up in front of him for the crime of treason against the people, or Use-nation, — for that is what a plot which has for its object the abduction of the king would be called now, I presume -”

“Monsieur!” gasped Beausire, utterly astounded.

“Suppose your plot should fail; suppose those two accomplices, the man with the mask and the man in the brown cloak, should be arrested; suppose — one has to suppose all sorts of things in these days — suppose they should even be condemned to death, — Augeard and Besenval were acquitted, it is true, -but suppose these persons should be condemned to death; suppose you should be considered one of their accomplices; suppose the rope were around your neck, and somebody should say to you in answer to your lamentations, ' Poor Beausire! it was all your own fault; for you could not only have escaped this malefactor's doom, but have made a thousand louis, with which to purchase a snug little house in the country, where you could have enjoyed the society of Mademoiselle Olivia and little Toussaint, and also the income from the twelve thousand francs which remained after purchasing the place. Instead of this pleasing prospect, you have the Place de Greve before you, adorned with two or three gibbets, the tallest of which is destined for you. A grim outlook, my poor Monsieur de Beausire.'“

“But how could I have secured the thousand louis-”

“'Nothing could have been easier,' the voice would reply. ' You had only to hunt Count Cagliostro up.'“

“But I didn’t even know that he was in Paris. I didn’t even know that he was still alive.”

“And that is the very reason he came to hunt you up; and when he found you, you see you had no excuse. You could have said to him, for instance, ' Count, I know how eager you always are for news; I have a nice tit-bit for you. Monsieur, the king's brother, is engaged in a conspiracy with the Marquis de Favras.' -' Impossible!' — ' Yes, indeed; I know what I am talking about, for I am one of Favras' agents.' -' Indeed- What is the object of the plot-' -' The abduction of the king, and his removal to Peronne: and, count, -simply for your amusement, of course, — if you so desire it, I will bring you from time to time, or minute by minute, if necessary, news as to how the affair is progressing.' Then the count, who is a generous-hearted fellow, would say to you, ' Will you really do this, Beausire-' -' Yes.' -' Well, as every kind action deserves to be rewarded, if you keep your word, why, I have twenty-four thousand francs, which I intended to put to some good use, snugly hidden away in a corner of my desk, and the very day the king is carried off, or Monsieur de Favras arrested, you come to me, and, on the honour of a gentleman, these twenty-four thousand francs shall be yours, as these ten louis shall be, — not as an advance, not even as a loan, but simply as a gift.'“

At these words, like an actor who is rehearsing with all the accessories, Cagliostro drew his well-filled purse from his pocket, put his thumb and finger into it, and with a dexterity which testified to his familiarity with this sort of proceeding, took up ten louis exactly, — no more and no less; while Beausire, on his part, — we must do him the justice to say, — entered so well into the spirit of his part that he eagerly extended his hand to receive them.

Cagliostro pushed the hand gently aside.

“Excuse me, but we are dealing only in suppositions, I believe,” he said quietly.

“But through theories and suppositions we arrive at facts, as you remarked just now,” responded Beausire, his eyes gleaming like coals of fire.

“Have we reached that point-”

Beausire hesitated; but we hasten to say that this hesitation was not due to honesty, or to a regard for his plighted word, but simply to a fear lest Cagliostro should not keep his promise.

“My dear Beausire, I know what is passing in your mind.”

“You are right. I hesitate about betraying the confidence an honourable man has reposed in me;”and Beausire rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head, as much as to say, “What a trial it is!”

“No, it is not,” replied Cagliostro.”You are only another illustration of the truth of the wise adage, ' No man knows himself.'“

“What is it, then-” demanded Beausire, flurried by the ease with which the count read his thoughts.

“You are afraid I shall not keep my promise about the money.”

“Oh, monsieur!”

“That is only natural; but I offer you a guarantee of my honesty of purpose, — a guarantee that will answer for me personally.”

“And that guarantee-” asked Beausire, timidly.

“Is Mademoiselle Nicole Legay.”

“Oh, if the count promises anything, it is as good as done!”cried Nicole.

“You see, monsieur, here is proof positive that I scrupulously fulfil my agreements. Once upon a time mademoiselle here was in the very same situation that you are in now, minus this late conspiracy, — that is, the police were in hot pursuit of her. I offered her a shelter in my house. She hesitated; she feared for her honour; but in spite of all the temptations to which I was subjected, and which you, Beausire, can. understand better than any one else, I kept my word. Is this not so, my dear mademoiselle-”

“Yes; by my little Toussaint I swear it.”

“You feel sure, then, Mademoiselle Nicole, that I shall keep my word if I promise Beausire to give him twenty- four thousand francs the day the king takes flight, or Favras is arrested- And this, you understand, does not take into account the fact that I shall also untie the knot that threatens to strangle you at any moment, so that there will no longer be any question of rope or gallows for you, at least in connection with that affair. I cannot promise any further than that, you understand, of course. There are vocations”

“As far as I am concerned, I am as well satisfied as if the notary had signed the papers,” responded Nicole.

“Very well, my dear mademoiselle, inspire the heart of Monsieur de Beausire with like confidence, and the business is concluded,” said Cagliostro, placing the ten louis in a row on the table, and motioning Beausire to go and talk with Nicole alone.

The conversation lasted only five minutes, but it was of the most animated description.

Meanwhile Cagliostro devoted himself to an examination of the card that was lying on the table, holding it up in front of the candle, and nodding to it as if saluting an old acquaintance.

“Ah, it is Monsieur Law's famous combination you have hit upon,” he muttered.”I lost a million myself on that very combination,” and he carelessly dropped the card on the table again.

This remark seemed to give a fresh impetus to the conversation between Nicole and Beausire. At last the latter seemed to have made up his mind, for he advanced towards Cagliostro with hand outstretched; but the count drew back, frowning a little.

“Between gentlemen a promise is sufficient,” he remarked.”You have mine; give me yours.”

“On the honour of a Beausire, I agree to your terms.”

“That is enough.” Then, drawing a watch, with a portrait of King Frederick of Prussia upon it encircled with diamonds, he added, “It is now a quarter of nine. At nine o'clock precisely some one will be waiting for you under the arcade on the Square Royal, near the Sully Mansion. Take these ten louis, and put them in your waistcoat pocket, button up your coat, buckle on your sword, cross Notre Dame Bridge, and walk up the Rue Saint-Antoine. There is no necessity for you to be late in keeping your appointment.”

Beausire did not need to be told twice.

“Where shall I meet you afterwards-” he asked, as he made his preparations for immediate departure.

“In Saint-Jean Cemetery, if you please. When one wishes to talk over an affair like this without being overheard, one had better be among the dead than among the living.”

“At what hour-”

“As soon as you are at liberty. The person who gets there first will wait for the other. And now I want to have a little chat with Mademoiselle Nicole.”

Beausire seemed inclined to demur.

“Oh, you need have no fears,” responded the count.”I respected her honour as a young girl; all the more reason that I should respect her as the mother of a family: so proceed on your way, Beausire, proceed on your way.”

Beausire gave Nicole a look, — a look that seemed to say, “Be worthy of the confidence I repose in you, Madame de Beausire,” — and with a glance of mingled awe and distrust at the count, took his departure.

CHAPTER XXXIV. LOT AND OEDIPUS.

It lacked only a few minutes of midnight when a man turned the corner of the Rue Royale and the Rue Saint- Antoine, and walked rapidly down the last-named street as far as Saint Catherine's fountain. There he paused in the shadow to look back and satisfy himself that no one was following him, then continued on his way in a more leisurely fashion until he reached the iron gate of Saint-Jean Cemetery.

There he waited, as if afraid he should see some spectre rise up out of the earth, wiping the sweat from his brow now and then with his coat-sleeve.

At the very instant the clocks began to strike the hour of midnight, something very like a ghost did appear, and, gliding in and out among the yews and cypresses, approached the gate and unlocked it.

As the key grated in the lock, the man outside jumped back.

“Why, Beausire, don't you know me, or have you forgotten your appointment-” asked Cagliostro's mocking voice.

“Ah! is it you-” exclaimed Beausire, like a man from whom a great weight had been suddenly lifted.”I 'm glad of it; these devilish streets are terribly dark and gloomy.”

“Nonsense! the idea of a brave man like you, with a sword at his side, being afraid anywhere, at any hour of the day or night. You can't make me believe that. But step inside, and you’ll feel easier, perhaps, as there is no danger of your meeting any one but me. N9w let us follow this path a distance of about twenty yards, and we’ll come to a sort of ruined altar, whose steps will make a very convenient place for us to talk this matter over.”

Beausire followed his leader; but after a moment he exclaimed, “Where the deuce are you going- I can't see anything but briers that tear my ankles nearly to pieces, and grass that comes up to my knees.”

“This cemetery is one of the worst-kept places I ever saw,” replied Cagliostro;”but that is not very surprising, under the circumstances. You know hardly any one is buried here except condemned criminals who have been executed on the Place de Greve, and they show such poor devils little consideration. There are some quite illustrious personages among them, though. If it were daylight, I could show you the place where Montmorency, beheaded for having fought a duel, is buried; and the Chevalier de Rohan, decapitated for conspiring against the government; and Count Horn, broken on the wheel for having assassinated a Jew; and Damiens, quartered for trying to assassinate Louis XV. You do wrong to scorn Saint-Jean Cemetery, Monsieur de Beausire; it is badly kept, but inhabited by quite a distinguished company.”

Beausire followed Cagliostro, adapting his step to that of the count as regularly as a soldier in the second rank and file adapts his to the man in front of him.

“Ah! here is a new one,” exclaimed Cagliostro, pausing so abruptly that Beausire, not prepared for the sudden halt, came into violent collision with the count's back.”This is the grave of your comrade, Fleur d'Epine, — one of the murderers of Franqois the baker, — who was hanged about a week ago. This ought to interest you, as he was one of your former comrades.”

Beausire's teeth fairly chattered. It seemed to him that the briers were so many clenched hands drawing him down to earth, and giving him to understand that Destiny had selected this as the place for his eternal sleep.

“Ah! here we are at last!” exclaimed Cagliostro, pausing, and seating himself on a broken stone, and motioning Beausire to another near by.”Now we can talk at our leisure. Tell me what took place under the arches of the Place Royale. It must have been a very interesting meeting.”

“My head seems to be in such a whirl that I think I can do better if you will question me.”

“Very well. How many persons were there-”

“Six, including myself.”

“Six, including yourself. Now let us see if they were the men I think. There was your friend Tourcaty, a former recruiting-officer.”

“Yes.”

“And a good royalist named Marquie”, formerly a sergeant in the French Guards.”

“Yes, Marquie” was there.”

“Next, Monsieur de Favras.”

“Yes.”

“Next, the man with the mask.”

“Yes.”

“Have you any information to give me about that mysterious personage, Beausire-”

“Is he not -” Then he paused, as if fearful of committing a sacrilege if he went on.

“Is he not who-” demanded Cagliostro.

“Is he not -”

“You seem to be tongue-tied, my dear Beausire. You had better attend to it. Knots in the tongue sometimes bring on knots in the throat, which, though removable, are none the less dangerous.”

“Is he not Monsieur-” ventured Beausire at last, driven to desperation.

“Monsieur who-”

“Monsieur, Monsieur, the king's brother!”

“It is quite likely that Favras would try to convey the impression that this mysterious personage was the king's brother, as it would be greatly to his interest to have people believe that lie was aided and abetted by a prince of the blood royal; but it seems very strange to me that old stagers like you and Tourcaty should allow yourself to be imposed upon in this way,-two old recruiting-officers, too, who are used to measuring with your eye the exact height of every person you happen to meet.”

“What of that-”

“Monsieur is five feet three inches and a fraction in height, while the masked man is five feet six.”

“That is true; I had thought of that before. But if it is not Monsieur, who can it be-”

“Do you know the story of Oedipus-”

“Not very well. I saw the piece played once at the Comedie Franchise, but near the end of the fourth act I went to sleep.”

“Well, it had been predicted that Oedipus would be the murderer of his father and the husband of his mother; so, believing Polybius to be his father, he left home without saying anything about it, and started for Phocis. At the intersection of the road leading from Delphi to Thebes, he overtook a man attended by five slaves. This man was riding in a chariot, and the chariot took up most of the road. Everything could have been amicably arranged, however, if the man in the chariot would have consented to turn a little to the left, and Oedipus a little to the right; but both insisted upon keeping the middle of the road. The man in the chariot was hot-tempered, and Oedipus was far from patient. The five slaves rushed upon Oedipus, one after another, in defence of their master, and Oedipus hewed down first one and then another, until at last the master was slain in his turn; then Oedipus passed over the six lifeless bodies, and among them was the body of the man who was really his father, so that part of the prophecy was fulfilled. Then Oedipus resumed his journey towards Thebes. Now, on the road to Thebes stands Mount Phiceo, and in a path even narrower than that in which Oedipus had slain his father, a strange animal, with wings like an eagle, the body and claws of a lion, and the breast and head of a woman, stopped the way.”

“Oh, monsieur, do you really believe that such monsters ever existed.”

“I cannot say for a certainty; for when I passed over the same road a thousand years afterwards, in the days of Epaminondas, the creature was dead. He was living at the time of (Oedipus, however, and seemed to have a mania for stationing himself on the road and propounding conundrums to travellers, whom he devoured if they failed to answer them. When he saw (Oedipus coming, he lifted one paw as a signal for the young man to stop. ' I am the Sphinx, traveller,' he called out, ' placed here to propound enigmas to mortals. If they cannot solve them, they become my property; if they can, why, death will claim me, and I shall have to hurl myself down yonder abyss, where I have thrown the bodies of those who have had the misfortune to encounter me.' (Oedipus looked over the edge of the precipice, and saw the bones bleaching below. ' Very well, what is your riddle- ' he asked. ' It is this: What animal goes on four paws in the morning, on two at noon, and three at night-' (Oedipus reflected a moment; then, with a smile that made the Sphinx feel decidedly uncomfortable, replied, 'If I guess it, you are to throw yourself down yonder abyss-'-'Such is the decree,' answered the Sphinx. ' Well, the animal is man,' replied (Oedipus.”

“Man-”exclaimed Beausire.,

“Yes, man. In his infancy — that is, in the morning of life — he creeps on both hands and feet; in middle age — that is, at midday — he walks on two feet; in the evening — that is, in his old age — he leans upon a cane.”

“That's true!” said Beausire.”The answer must have staggered the Sphinx.”

“Yes, staggered him so that he fell headlong down the precipice, and, being too honourable to save himself with his wings, — which you probably think proved him to be an idiot, — he dashed his brains out on the rocks below. As regards Oedipus, he continued on his way, reached Thebes in safety, met Jocasta, the widow of the man he had killed at the cross-roads, and married her, thus fulfilling both, prophecies.”

“But what resemblance do you see between (Oedipus and the masked man-”

“A great resemblance. Listen I First, would you like to know his name-”

“Yes.”

“Well, I'll ask you a conundrum, then. I 'm a better fellow than the Sphinx, though, and won't eat you alive if you can't guess it. Attention, now! What young scion of nobility is it who is his father's grandson, his mother's brother, and his sister's uncle-”

“The devil take me if I know!”

“Think a little.”

“Help me.”

“Willingly. I asked you if you knew the story of (Oedipus. Well, as that seems to give you no clue, suppose we pass from profane to sacred history. Do you know what is said of the patriarch Lot-”

“And his two daughters-”

“Precisely.”

“Of course I do. But wait a minute. Yes; what was that they used to say about old King Louis XV. and his daughter, Madame Adelaide-”.”You have hit it.”

“Then the masked man must be -”

“Exactly five feet six inches tall.”

“Count Louis -”

“That will do.”

“Count Louis de Nar-”

“Hush!”

“But you said there was no one here but dead men.”

“But there is grass growing on their graves. Well, this grass, like the weeds of King Midas — did you ever hear the story of King Midas-”

“No.”

“Well, I'll tell you that some other time. Now to business! The object of these conspirators is to carry off the king, is it not-”

“Yes.”

“And to take him to Peronne-”

“To Peronne.”

“And how about the money to do it with-”

“They have two millions.”

“Borrowed of a Genoese banker; I know him. But money is not all that is needed. They must have men as well.”

“Lafayette has just authorised the raising of a legion to go to the assistance of Brabant.”

“How like that amiable Lafayette!” muttered Cagliostro. Then he added aloud, “So they are to have a legion! But one legion cannot carry out such a project as that; they will need an army.”

“They will have an army. Twelve hundred horsemen are to assemble at Versailles at eleven o'clock at night. At two o'clock in the morning they will enter Paris in three separate columns,-the first by the Chaillot gate, the second by the Barriere du Roule, and the third by the Rue de Grenelle. The Grenelle column will put an end to Lafayette; the Chaillot column will attend to Necker; and the other column will dispose of Bailly. This done, they are to spike the guns, and then the three columns will reunite on the Champs Elysees and march to the Tuileries, which is already theirs.”

“What do you mean- What will the National Guard be doing all this time-”.

“Oh, the Brabant volunteers are to attend to them. Assisted by four hundred Swiss and three hundred confederates from the provinces, they are to take possession of the palace inside and out. They will rush in upon the king and exclaim: ' Sire, the Saint Faubourg Antoine is in open revolt! A carriage is in readiness; you must flee!' If the king consents, the rest will take care of itself; if he does not, they will take him by force to Saint Denis.”

“Good!”

“Where they will find twenty thousand infantry. This force, added to the twelve thousand horsemen, the Brabant volunteers, the four hundred Swiss, the three hundred confederates from the provinces, besides the ten or twenty thousand royalists they expect to gather up en route, will make quite a large army to escort the king to Peronne.”

“And when they reach Peronne-”

“At Peronne they will find twenty thousand men, who are to arrive there about the same time from Flanders, Picardy, Artois, Champagne, Burgundy, Lorraine, and Alsace. They are also negotiating for twenty thousand more Swiss mercenaries, twelve thousand Austrians, and as many Sardinians. With this army they intend to march on Paris and take possession of the Seine, both above and below the city, in order to cut off all supplies, and thus force the city to surrender. The National Assembly will be dissolved, and the king, no longer a king merely in name, will be re-seated upon the throne of his ancestors.”

“Amen!” said Cagliostro.

Then he added, rising,-

“My dear Beausire, your conversation has been not only entertaining, but instructive. Have you any further information to impart-”

“Not at present.”

“Very well; when you want another ten louis, as a gift, you understand, come and see me at Bellevue.”

“And shall I ask for the Comte de Cagliostro-”

“Cagliostro- Oh, no; they wouldn't know who you meant. Ask for Baron Zannone.”

“Baron Zannone- Why, that is the name of the banker who loaned Monsieur the two millions I”

“Very possibly.”

“Very possibly-”

“Yes; though I am doing so much business of that kind just now that one such transaction might easily become confounded with another. That is why I didn’t remember it at first, perhaps; but I think I do recall the fact now. Well, in what direction are you going-”

“And you-”

“In the direction you are not going.”

“I am going to the Palais Royal, monsieur.”

“And I towards the Bastille.”

CHAPTER XXXV. GAMAIN AND HIS APPRENTICE.

The reader may remember that the king expressed a wish to have his former teacher, Gamain, assist him in a difficult piece of lockwork, and had even added that the aid of a clever apprentice would likewise be welcome; so Lafayette, seeing no objection, had given orders that Gamain and his apprentice should be admitted into the king's presence at any time.

There was consequently nothing surprising in the fact that the locksmith, accompanied by an apprentice, both clad in their working-clothes, should present themselves at the Tuileries a few days after the king's conversation with Lafayette and Comte Louis de Bouille”. To the attendant on duty at the door of the king's apartments, they gave their names as Nicholas Claude Gamain, locksmith, and Louis Lecomte, apprentice.

Though there was nothing specially attractive about these names, as soon as the king heard them he hastened to the door, exclaiming, “Come in, come in!” with evident delight.

“Here we are!” said Gamain, entering, not only with the confidence of a welcome guest, but as if he were really the master there. Perhaps his apprentice was less accustomed to the presence of royalty, however; for he remained standing, cap in hand, near the door.

“I am glad to see you, my dear Gamain,” said the king.”I have not had a visit from you for so long, I was afraid you had forgotten me.”

“And that's the reason you took up with an apprentice, I suppose. That's all right, however, as I wasn't on hand; but, unfortunately, an apprentice isn't of much use when one gets into a tight place.”

The apprentice made an almost imperceptible sign to the king.

“What else could you expect-” asked the king.”I was assured that you would never have anything more to do with me, for fear of compromising yourself.”

“Upon my word, sire, you must have seen for yourself that it went hard with your friends at Versailles; besides, I saw with my own eyes the heads of those two guardsmen who happened to be in your ante-chamber when your friends, the Parisians, came out to pay you a visit.”

A cloud passed over the king's face, and the apprentice averted his gaze.

“But they say things are going on better since you returned to Paris, and that you can do whatever you please with the Parisians now. That's not very surprising. The Parisians are such asses, and the queen is such a wheedler when she wants to be!”

Louis XVI. said nothing, but a slight flush suffused his cheeks.

As for the young man, he seemed greatly distressed by Gamain's familiarity; and after wiping his brow with a handkerchief much too fine for a locksmith's apprentice, he came nearer and said, -

“Perhaps your Majesty will allow me to explain how it happens that Master Gamain has the honour of seeing your Majesty once more, and how I happen to be with him.”

“Yes, my dear Louis.”

“There it is! My dear Louis to an apprentice whom he has known for a fortnight. What do you call me — me, who have known you for five-and-twenty years — me, who first put a file in your hand- So much for having white hands and a glib tongue!”muttered Gamain, highly indignant.

“I call you my good Gamain, and I call this youth my dear Louis, not because he washes his hands oftener, or expresses himself more elegantly, but because he devised a way of getting you here, my friend, when every one told me you would never consent to come again.”

“Oh, it wasn't my fault that I didn't come, but my wife's. She kept saying to me,' You are keeping bad company, Gamain; your associates are much too grand for you. It is dangerous to be too intimate with aristocrats in these days. We haven't much property, but we must take care of what we have. We have children, too, and we must look out for them. If the king wants to learn lockmaking, let him call in somebody else. There's no lack of locksmiths in France.'“

The king glanced at the apprentice, and, stifling a half- humorous, half-melancholy sigh, replied, “There are plenty of locksmiths in France, undoubtedly, but not another one like you, Gamain.”

“That is exactly what I told the master,” interrupted the apprentice, “when I went to see him on your behalf. I told him the king was trying to make a lock, and needed his assistance; but that did no good whatever. He said it was only a trap his enemies had set for him; and it was not until yesterday, when I handed him the twenty-five louis your Majesty had given me for that purpose, that he said, ' This certainly must come from the king himself; I will go to him to-morrow.' So this morning I said to him, ' Come, master, it is time to go;' and though I had some difficulty in persuading him to keep his promise, he finally consented to come; so I tied his apron around his waist, and put his staff in his hand, and here we are.”

“And now I 've got you here at last, Gamain, let us lose no time.”

“I say so too,” replied the locksmith;”for I promised Madame Gamain I would be home to-night. Let me see that famous lock.”

The king placed a partially completed lock in the master workman's hands.

“Why did you tell me it was a mortised lock, you simpleton-” Gamain exclaimed, turning to the apprentice.”That kind of a lock has a keyhole on both sides. This is merely a closet lock, and doesn't work very well either. With Master Gamain it will have to work, though. Ah! there it is,” he added, as he turned the key.

“Have you found the defect-”

“I should say so. Just as soon as the key releases the large ridge it should unfasten the bolt, shouldn't it-”

“Yes.”

“Then on the second half-turn the key must catch the second ridge as soon as it lets go the first.”

“Yes, yes,” rejoined the king.

“And how can the poor key do that if the space between the two ridges is not equal to the thickness of the wards of the key-”

“Ah! But the mistake can be remedied, can it not-”

“Oh, of course! It is only necessary to sharpen the first ridge a little, increase the width of the shoulder to separate the first ridge a little further from the second, and establish the third ridge at an equal distance from it, and there you are!”

“But it will require a whole day to make all these changes,” remarked the king.

“For any one else; but not for me. For Gamain, a couple of hours will suffice, provided he is let alone and not bothered with comments. The shop seems to be well supplied with tools, and in two hours, if I'm not interrupted, you can return and find the work finished, — that is, if the work is kept suitably moistened,” added Gamain, smiling grimly.

“But suppose you need something-”

“If I do, I’ll call the lackey. Just give him to understand that I am to have anything I want, -that is all.”

The king went to the door himself, and said to the attendant outside:”Remain where you are, Francois; Gamain, my old teacher, is here correcting a mistake for me. Bring him whatever he calls for, and don't forget a couple of bottles of good claret.”

“Don't you remember that I like Burgundy much better, sire- The devil take your claret! IM as soon drink tepid water.”

“True; I forgot,” said the king, laughing.”Some Burgundy, Francois, some of the Volnay.”

“Good! I remember that name,” said Gamain, smacking his lips.

“And it makes your mouth water, doesn't it-”

“Don't talk about water. Water! I don't see what use water is, except for tempering iron. Water! pooh!”

“Oh, well, don't get excited! While you are here, you shall not hear the word mentioned. In fact, I think we had better leave you alone, so that the word sha'n't escape us unawares. Send for us when you want us.”

“And what are you going to do in the mean time-”

“Fit up the cupboard for which this lock is intended.”

“That's work more in your line, I guess. Good luck to you!”

“The same to you!” responded the king; and, nodding familiarly to Gamain, he went out in company with the apprentice, Louis Lecomte, or Count Louis, as the reader may prefer to call him, as he can hardly have failed to recognise the son of the Marquis de Bouille” in the pretended apprentice.

CHAPTER XXXVI. IN WHICH LOCK-MAKING PLAYS A MINOR PART.

The king did not leave his workshop by the outer staircase, but by the staircase which was reserved solely for his own use, and led directly down into his study.

Not until they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and the door was closed behind him and his companion, did Louis XVI. appear to recognise the young man who had followed him, cap in hand.

“At last we are alone, my dear count,” he said;”and first of all let me congratulate you on your cleverness, and thank you for your devotion. But we have no time to lose. Everybody, even the queen, is ignorant of your presence here. Nobody is within hearing now, so tell me your errand.”

“Your Majesty did my father the honour to send Monsieur de Charny to him with a letter and a message, both of which were delivered.”

“Then you understand the situation, I suppose-”

“I know that the king desires to have it in his power to leave France at any time he thinks proper.”

“And that he relies upon the Marquis de Bouille” to assist him in this project.”

“My father is both proud and grateful for the honour done him.”

“But what does he think of the project-”

“That it is a very dangerous, but by no means impracticable one.”

“In order that Monsieur de Bouillons co-operation may prove as efficacious as his loyalty and devotion, would it not be advisable to extend his jurisdiction so that it shall include several of the neighbouring provinces, and especially the Tranche Comte”-”

“That is ray father's opinion precisely, sire; but I am glad that the king mentioned the advisability of such a step first, as the marquis feared such a suggestion might be attributed to personal ambition on his part.”

“Nonsense! I have had too many proofs of your father's disinterestedness for that. But go on.”

“What my father has the honour to propose to your Majesty is this. But first permit me to ask if the king has decided upon the place to which he wishes to retire. Besanqon, Valenciennes, Sedan, and Montme”dy are the towns which seem to my father most desirable in the present condition of affairs; or the king might leave the country by the way of Ardennes and Austrian Flanders, returning subsequently to one of the towns controlled by my father, where troops could be gathered in advance.”

“Besanqon is too far off, my dear count, and I should run too much risk of being arrested before I reach my destination. Valenciennes would do very well as regards distance, and the inhabitants are devoted to me; but Rochambeau is in command in Harnault, and is consequently at the very gates of Valenciennes. As for leaving the country by way of Ardennes, and appealing to Austria, no, most decidedly no! Aside from my distrust of Austria, which never meddles with our affairs without involving us in much greater difficulties, Austria has quite enough on her hands just now, — what with the illness of the emperor my brother-in-law, the war with the Turks, and the revolt in Brabant, -without having her embarrassment increased by a rupture with Prance. Besides, I am resolved not to leave France. Once outside the limits of his kingdom, a monarch cannot be sure that he will ever return. Remember Charles II. and James II.: one did not return until after thirteen years had elapsed; the other, never! I prefer Montmedy. Montme”dy is at a convenient distance, besides being in the centre of your father's jurisdiction. Tell the marquis that my choice is made, and that it is to Montme”dy I shall retire, in case I should deem a change of residence necessary.”“Then the king has not yet fully decided upon flight-”

“Nothing is decided as yet. Everything will depend upon circumstances. If I see that the queen and my children are likely to be exposed to new perils, like those of that terrible day and night in the early part of October, I shall make up my mind at once; and my decision, once made, will be irrevocable.”

“May I be permitted, sire, to give you my father's advice in regard to the arrangements for the journey-”

“Certainly.”

“He thinks you would lessen the dangers of the journey by dividing the party; that your Majesty should take one route with Madame Royale, your daughter, and Madame Elizabeth, your sister, and the queen another, with the dauphin, in order that -”

“It is useless to discuss the matter, my dear Louis. The queen and I decided, in a solemn moment, that we would never separate. If we are saved, we must be saved together, or not at all.”

The young count bowed.

“When the time comes, the king has only to give his orders, and they will be executed. One thing more, sire. There are two routes to Montme”dy. Which does your Majesty propose to take-”

“I have been considering that matter, and have decided upon the Chalons route, passing through Varennes, but avoiding Verdun. You see it marked on this map here,” he added, pointing to a large map of France spread out upon a table near by.

“And now that everything is settled, or nearly settled, will your Majesty allow me to repeat a few lines from an Italian writer, which seemed to my father so particularly applicable to the situation that he made me commit them to memory, in order that I might be able to recite them here-”

“Most assuredly, monsieur.”

“' Delays are always dangerous, and circumstances are never entirely favourable to any undertaking; so, if we wait until the time suits perfectly, we shall never undertake anything.'“

“I recognise the words as those of Machiavelli. I shall not forget his counsel, I assure you. But hush! I hear footsteps on the stairs. Gamain is coming down. Let us get ahead of him, so that he shall not notice that we have been occupied with anything but the closet.”

The king stepped forward and opened the door of the private staircase.

It was quite time, for Gamain was on the lowest step, lock in hand.

CHAPTER XXXVII. WHICH SEEMS TO INDICATE THAT THERE IS TRULY A PROVIDENCE FOB DRUNKARDS.

About eight o'clock in the evening of that same day a man who was clad in the garb of a mechanic, and who placed his hand every now and then on his waistcoat pocket, as if it contained a considerably larger sum of money than usual, came out of the Tuileries, turned to the left, and walked down the avenue which borders the Seine and forms that portion of the Champs Elysees known as the Queen's Drive.

At the first wine-shop he came to, this man seemed to have a violent struggle with himself to decide whether he should or should not enter it, — a struggle in which he came off victorious.

The door of the second wine-shop was the scene of a like conflict, and a man who had been following him unobserved must have felt confident that he would succumb; for he deviated so much from a straight line that his feet fairly grazed the threshold of the Temple of Bacchus this time.

But again Temperance triumphed; and if he had not encountered a third wine-shop in his path, and if he could not have broken the pledge he had evidently made to himself, without retracing his steps, it is quite possible that he might have continued on his way, not sober, — for he had already partaken of a generous quantity of that liquid which gladdens the heart of man, -but at least in a condition that would have enabled him to direct his course in a tolerably straight line towards the place to which he was journeying.

But, unfortunately, there was not only a third and a fourth, but a twentieth wine-shop on his route; and the temptation being so frequently renewed, his powers of resistance proved unequal to the strain, and after the third struggle he yielded. It is only fair to say, however, that lie must have made a sort of bargain with himself at the door; for when he entered, he did not sit down, but remained standing at the counter, and asked for only a single glass.

Meanwhile, the man who had been following him seated himself on the parapet opposite the shop, possibly to enjoy the view; but took up his line of march again after the mechanic emerged from the wine-shop, and continued on his way.

But who can say where a person will stop when he has once tasted the intoxicating cup, and when he perceives, with mingled astonishment and satisfaction, that nothing creates thirst like drinking; for hardly had the workman proceeded a hundred yards before his thirst became so great that he was compelled to stop again and quench it, — only this time he felt that a single glass would not be enough, and so called for a pint bottle.

Still the shadow — which seemed to belong to him now — appeared to feel no annoyance at the frequent delays which this desire for refreshment occasioned; though at the end of another hundred yards his patience was subjected to a still harder test, for when the workman halted a third time, his thirst had become so great that he ordered a quart bottle.

This meant a full half-hour of waiting for the patient Argus who was dogging his steps.

Possibly the loss of these five, fifteen, and thirty minutes in quick succession excited some remorse in the heart of the tippler; for, seemingly anxious to avoid further delays, and at the same time continue his libations, he must have made another bargain with conscience, which resulted in his providing himself with still another bottle as a travelling-companion.

After he had reached the Barriers, our man had reason to congratulate himself upon this wise precaution; for, from that point on, the wine-shops were few and far between, and finally disappeared altogether. But what did that matter to our philosopher- Did he not carry not only his fortune, but his happiness, with him, like the classic sage-

We say his happiness, because, when the bottle became about half-empty, the tippler began to sing; and no one can deny the fact that singing, like laughing, is one of the means by which man expresses his joy.

But unfortunately the joy in this case was ephemeral, and the song equally short. It lasted only as long as the wine; and when the bottle became entirely empty, and was several times squeezed in vain, the singing changed to growling, which grew more and more vehement, until it changed into muttered oaths.

These imprecations seemed to be heaped upon some unseen persecutors, of whom he complained most bitterly as he staggered along.

“Contemptible wretches,” he snarled, “to give an old friend, and his instructor, too, doctored wine! Ugh! when he sends for me again to patch up his old locks, and by that rascally apprentice who deserted me, I’ll just say to him, good-d-day; but your M-m-majesty may just patch up your old l-l-locks yourself. He’ll see, then, if-if-if a lock is as easy to make as a m-m-manifesto! I’ll m-m-make you a lock with three ridges again! I’ll make you a b-b-bolt with three t-t-tumblers! Oh, the wretches, they 've p-p-poisoned me, sure!”

And as he uttered these last words, the unfortunate victim fell full length for the third time in the road, which was thickly covered with mud.

Twice before he had been able to get upon his feet unassisted, though not without considerable difficulty; but this third time, in spite of his desperate efforts, he was obliged to admit that the task was beyond his strength, and with a groan he sank back, evidently with the expectation of accepting the bosom of Mother Earth as his couch for the night.

It was apparently for this state of discouragement and imbecility that the unknown man who had followed the drunkard so perseveringly had been waiting; for, after watching his futile efforts for several moments, he cautiously approached him, made a tour of inspection around his prostrate form, and then hailed a passing cab.

“Stop, friend!” he shouted to the driver;”my companion has just been taken sick. Put him inside your carriage and take him to the Sevres Bridge Tavern, and I’ll give you six francs. I’ll ride on the box with you.”

This last proposal did not seem at all surprising to the coachman, as both his patrons were apparently very common men; so, with that touching confidence which men of that class repose in one another, he asked, “But where's the six francs-”

“Here, my friend,” promptly replied the man who had made the offer, producing the money, without appearing to be in the least offended.

“And there’ll be a little drink money, too, when we get there, won't there-” responded the coachman, considerably mollified by the sight of the gold.

“That depends. Put the poor devil in, shut the doors and window carefully, try to keep your old horses on their feet, and when we reach the Sevres Bridge, we will see. My actions will depend upon yours.”

“All right. Climb up here and hold the horses. They smell the stable at this hour of the day, and are in a hurry to get back to it. I’ll attend to the rest.”

The generous stranger obeyed these instructions, and the unconscious man having been safely deposited in the vehicle, the driver clambered on the box again, turned his team around, and whipped up his bony steeds, which jogged along at the melancholy pace common to these unfortunate quadrupeds, and reached the inn at the expiration of about an hour.

After about ten minutes devoted to unloading Citizen Gamain, — whom the reader has doubtless recognised ere this, — we find the worthy master of masters in the locksmith trade seated face to face with the same armourer and at the same table where we saw him in the first chapter of this story.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THAT WHICH MEN CALL CHANCE.

The reader may be curious to know how this unloading of Master Gamain was successfully effected, and how he was aroused from the state of stupor in which we left him, and restored to a comparatively sober condition.

Mine host of the Sevres Bridge inn was abed and asleep, and no ray of light filtered through the cracks of his outside shutters when the lusty blows from the fists of Gamain's philanthropical friend re-echoed through the house. These resounding knocks being given in a manner that did not allow the occupants of the house to flatter themselves that they would be able to sleep on in spite of this assault, the innkeeper very slowly and clumsily and sullenly went to open the door for the intruders, promising himself to give them a rebuke suited to the offence, unless — the game proved to be worth the candle.

It did prove to be, however; for at the first word whispered by the man who had pounded on the door in such an unceremonious manner, mine host doffed his cotton nightcap, and with a profusion of bows ushered Gamain and his unknown benefactor into the same room where we saw them enjoying a bottle of wine together several weeks before.

As the coachman and horses had each done their best, the driver with his whip and the horses with their legs, the Unknown added a twenty-sous-piece to the amount already paid; then, having seen Master Gamain securely established in a chair, with his head resting against the wall and a heavy table in front of him, the stranger ordered a couple of bottles of wine, and some water, and then proceeded to throw open the windows and shutters to admit some fresh air into the room.

He next proceeded to apply a vial of strong-smelling salts to the nostrils of the master locksmith, who no sooner inhaled the pungent odour than he opened his eyes and began to sneeze furiously. Then he muttered some words, which would have been unintelligible doubtless to any one save the clever philologist who, by listening with the closest possible attention, succeeded in distinguishing the words, -

“The scoundrel! he has poisoned me! poisoned me!”

The listener perceived with no little satisfaction that Master Gamain's mind was still dominated by the same idea as when he lapsed into a state of unconsciousness, and he again applied the vial to the drunkard's nostrils. This restored the worthy son of Noah sufficiently to enable him to utter a few more words, and render his denunciation all the more terrible by disclosing an unpardonable breach of confidence and want of heart.

“Poisoned a friend, — a friend!” he muttered.

“How horrible!” commented the Unknown.

“Horrible indeed!” stammered Gamain.

“It was lucky I was at hand to administer an antidote.”

“Lucky indeed,” repeated the locksmith.

“As one dose may not be sufficient to counteract the effects of the poison, you had better take another,” said the Unknown, pouring five or six drops from his bottle of salts into half a tumbler of water.

He put the glass to Gamain's lips; and the locksmith had hardly swallowed the compound before his eyes seemed about to start from their sockets, and he exclaimed between two startling eructations, "What have you given me, you scoundrel! Pooah! pooah!”

“I 've given you some liquor that will save your life.”

“You may be right in saying that it will save my life, but you're certainly wrong in calling that stuff liquor;” and the locksmith began to sneeze again, pursing up his lips and opening his eyes to their widest extent, like a classic mask of Tragedy.

When Gamain opened his eyes for the second or third time, he looked around him, and, with that prompt recollection of the scene of former libations peculiar to confirmed tipplers, he recognised this as one of his favourite resorts. Indeed, on the frequent trips to Paris which his trade necessitated, Gamain seldom failed to stop at this inn; and in some respects this halt was useful, as well as agreeable, inasmuch as the tavern was about midway between Versailles and the capital.

This recognition on his part produced an excellent effect, as it inspired the master locksmith with confidence, and convinced him that he was in a friendly country, so to speak.

“I 've finished half my journey, it appears,” he remarked, casting another glance about him.

“Yes, thanks to me,” rejoined his companion.

“Why thanks to you-”stammered Gamain, transferring his attention from inanimate to animate things.”Thanks to you! And who are you, pray-”

“That question proves that you have a very short memory, my dear Monsieur Gamain.”

Gamain scrutinised his companion more attentively.

“Hold on!” he exclaimed.”It seems to me I've seen you somewhere before.”

“Indeed- That's flattering.”

“Yes; but when and where- — that's the question.”

“Where, do you ask- Look around you, and perhaps you'll see something to refresh your memory. When- That's quite another thing. Perhaps you'll have to take another dose of the antidote to enable you to tell me that.”

“No, thank you. I 've had enough of your antidotes. Where have I seen you- Why, dear me, it was here in this very room.”

“Right, so far.”

“And when- Why, it was the day I returned from Paris.”

“Well, who am I-”

“Why, the man who paid for the drinks, and consequently a jolly good fellow. Shake!”

“With pleasure. It is only fitting that master locksmith and master locksmith should shake hands.”

“Yes, now I remember. It was on the sixth of October,

— the day the king returned to Paris. We were talking about him, you remember.”

“Yes; and I found your conversation very interesting,

— so interesting that I am glad to meet you again. When you recover your memory entirely, I want to ask you how you happened to be lying stretched out full length across the road only about twenty yards from a loaded dray, which might have cut you in two if I hadn't gone to your assistance- Had you resolved to commit suicide, Master Gamain-”

“Commit suicide- Me- Well, I guess not. What was I doing in the middle of the road, you ask- Are you sure I was in the middle of the road-”

“Look at yourself and see.”

“Whew! won't Mother Gamain make a row when she sees my clothes. ' Don't put on your new clothes; wear your old blouse; it's plenty good for the Tuileries!' That's what she said to me.”

“For the 'Tuileries! Do you mean to say you were coming from the Tuileries when I met you-” '“Yes, certainly I was coming from the Tuileries,” responded Gamain, scratching his head as if trying to recall his scattered wits.”Why not- Everybody knows I was once Monsieur Veto's teacher.”

“Monsieur Veto! Whom do you call Monsieur Veto-”

“Well, well! do you mean to tell me you don't know they call the king that- Where have you been, I 'd like to know- In China-”

“I attend to my trade, and don't bother myself about politics.”

“You're lucky. I have to give some attention to politics, -my wife makes me do it; but it will be the ruination of me, and I know it;” and Gamain rolled his eyes piously heavenward, and sighed heavily.

“I heard you lamenting the loss of your apprentice, too, awhile ago.”

“You did-” cried the bewildered Gamain, more and more astonished.

“Didn’t you say,' It's all the fault of that stupid' — I forget what you called him.”

“Louis Lecomte.”

“Yes, that was the name. ' It's all the fault of that stupid Louis Lecomte, who promised to go back to Versailles with me,' — that's what you said.”

“I may well have said so, for it is only the truth.”

“Then if it's the truth, why do you try to deny it- Don't you know that these evasions of yours in times like these would place you in a very dangerous position — with any other man but me-”

“Yes; but with you -”said Gamain, cringingly.

“With me! What do you mean by that-”

“I mean that with a, friend like you, one runs no risk.”

“Ah, yes; you display great confidence in your friend. First you say such and such a thing is true, and then you declare it is not. You told me a fine story when I met you here before, and gave me your word of honour that it was true; but I don't believe a word of it.”

“What story do you mean-”

“A story about a secret door you had made in the house of some great lord whose name and residence you didn’t even know.”

“Well, you can believe me or not, as you choose; but it was a door this time, too.”

“For the king-”

“Yes, for the king; only instead of its being a secret door, on a stairway, it was the door of a closet.”

“And do you expect to make me believe that the king,

who is a very clever locksmith himself, would send for you just to put a lock on a door. Get out!”

“It is true, nevertheless. Poor man! he thought he should be able to get on without me when he began his lock. ' What 'a the use of sending for Gamain!' he said. 'As if I couldn't get along without Gamain!' But he soon began to get muddled over his bolts and ridges, and had to send for poor Gamain, after all.”

“He sent one of his favourite attendants, Hue, or Durey, or Weber, for you, I suppose.”

“You 're very much mistaken there. He had hired an apprentice, it seems, — a young fellow who knew even less about the trade than he did himself. So one fine morning this young fellow comes out to Versailles and says to me, ' Look here, Father Gamain, the king and I have been trying to make a lock; but, for some reason or other, it won't work.' -'Well, what do you want with me-' says I. ' We want you to come to Paris and see what is the matter with it,' says he. ' There's not a word of truth in that,' says I. 'The king didn't send you here. You're just trying to get me into a trap.' — 'You're wrong, ‘says he; 'and here's the twenty-five louis the king commissioned me to bring to you to prove it.' And, sure enough, he had the money right there in his hand!

“Is that the money you have there in your pocket-”

“No; this is another twenty-five. The first twenty-five were only on account.”

“Fifty louis for fixing a single lock. There must be something behind all this.”

“That's the very thing I said to myself. Besides, that apprentice -”

“Well, what of the apprentice-”

“Oh, he looked like a sham, somehow. I ought to have questioned him more about where he learned his trade, and all that.”

“But you 're not the person to be deceived when you see a man at work.”

“Oh, I don't say he can't work. The fellow handled his file and chisel well enough. I 've seen him cut off a red- hot iron bar at a single blow, and bore an eyelet with a rat- tail as well as he could have done it with a gimlet and a lathe. But he had no sooner finished a bit of work than he 'd go and wash his hands; and when he washed 'em they came out as white as snow. A real locksmith's hands don't come white like that. I 'd have a nice time getting mine clean, I should.”

And Gamain proudly displayed his grimy, callous hands, which seemed to bid defiance to all the almond pastes and soaps in the world.

“And when you got to the palace, what did you do-”inquired the Unknown, reverting to the subject that seemed to interest him most.

“Well, it seems that we were expected; and they took us right up to the workshop, where the king showed me a lock, — not such a bad piece of work, but he had come to grief over the ridges. It was a lock with three ridges, you see. There are not many locksmiths capable of making one, — much less kings. I looked at it, and saw what the trouble was the minute I put my eyes on it. ' Just let me alone for an hour, and I’ll fix it,' I said to the king; and the king says, says he: 'Go ahead, my friend. Just make yourself at home. Here are the files and pincers, and while you 're fixing the lock, we’ll go and get the cupboard ready.' And then he took his scamp of an apprentice and went off.”

“By the main stairway-” asked the Unknown, carelessly.

“No; by the private stairway that leads down into his office. Well, when I 'd finished my job, says I to myself: ' I do believe that closet's only a blind; I’ll bet them two are shut up together down there hatching some plot or other. I’ll creep downstairs as soft as I can, and open the door into the office quick, and then I'll find out what they 're up to,” says L

“And what were they doing-”

“Doing- Listening, I guess. I ain't got the foot of a ballet-dancer, you know; and though I tried to step as light as I could, the damned stairs creaked so that they heard me coming, and before I could get my hand on the knob, the door opened. Who got left that time- Gamain.”

“So you didn’t find out anything, after all-”

“Just wait a bit. ' Ah, Gamain, is it you,' says the king. ' Yes, sire,' says I, ' I 'm done.' — ' And we, too, are done,' says he. ' But come here! I 've another little job for you;' and he led me through his study very quick, but not so quick that I didn’t see a big map spread out on the table, — a map of France, I know, for I saw three fleurs-de-lis in one corner.”

“Did you notice anything peculiar about this map of France-”

“Yes, I noticed there were three long rows of pins stuck in it, all running from the centre of the map to one side of it, about equal distances apart. You might have thought they were soldiers marching to the frontier by three different roads.”

“Nothing seems to escape your keen eye, Gamain,” said the Unknown.”Your perceptive powers are really something marvellous. So you think the king and his companion had been studying that map, instead of working on the cupboard.”

“I 'm sure of it.”

“You can't be sure of it.”

“But I am, though.”

“And how-”

“Why, all the pins had wax heads, -some black, some blue, and the others red; and the king had a red-headed pin in his hand, and picked his teeth with it, without being aware of it.”

“Ah, Gamain, my friend, if I ever make any important invention in gunmaking, I shan't invite you into my workshop, or even allow you to pass through it, unless you are blindfolded, as you were the day you were summoned to that great nobleman's mansion; and even then you discovered that there were ten steps leading up to it, and that the house overlooked the boulevards.”

“Just wait a minute!” exclaimed Gamain, delighted with the compliment;”I 'm not through yet. There was a closet, though.”

“Ah, where was it-”

“Where- Guess. Hidden in the wall, my friend.”

“In which wall-”

“In the wall of the inner passageway that connects the king's chamber with the dauphin's.”

“What you tell me is very strange. Is the closet in plain sight-”

“I should say not. I looked with all my eyes, and couldn’t see a sign of it; so I asked where it was. The king glanced around as if to make sure that there was nobody else there to hear what he said, and then he answered: ' Gamain, I 've always trusted you, and I 'm going to trust you now, though I shouldn’t like anybody else to know my secret. Look here!' And as he spoke — the apprentice was holding the candle for us, there's no light in the passage — the king moved a panel in the wainscot, and I saw a round hole about two feet in diameter at the opening, not more. Seeing how surprised I was, he said, says he: ' My friend,' — and he winked at the apprentice as he spoke, -' do you see that hole- I 've had it made to keep my money in. This young man helped me make it during the four or five days he spent at the palace. Now I want a lock put on the iron door leading into it, and the lock must be put on in such a way that when the panel is replaced, it will hide it entirely. If you need any help, take this youngster here. He will help you. You don't want him, eh- Then I’ll keep him busy elsewhere.' -' Oh,' says I, ' you know very well that when I can do a job alone, I don't ask anybody's help. Here's a good four hours' job for anybody else, but I’ll do it in three so go about your business, youngster. You can attend to yours too, sire; and if you 've got anything you want to lock up in this closet, come back in three hours, and you can do it.' The apprentice must have gone off to do a job somewhere else, as the king said, for I haven’t seen him since. At the end of three hours the king came back alone. ' Well, how are you getting on, Gamain-' says he. ' I 'm done, sire,' says I, and showed him the door, that moved as if it enjoyed moving, and the lock that worked as smooth as could be. 'A good job!' says the king. ' Now, Gamain, will you help me count the money I want to hide-' says he. Four big bags of gold were brought in by a valet, all in two-louis-pieces. 'Now let's count 'em,' says the king. I counted one million, and he another. There were twenty-five louis over, miscounted, somehow. ' Here, Gamain,' says the king, ' take these twenty-five louis for your trouble;' as if it wasn’t a shame to make a man count a million louis, — a poor man, too, with five children, — and give him only twenty-five louis for his work. What do you think of it-”

The stranger's lips moved.

“It is contemptible, that's a fact,” he replied at last; but it is rather doubtful to whom or what he mentally applied the adjective.

“And wait, — that isn’t all. I took the twenty-five louis and put them in my pocket, and then I said: ' Thank you, sire, but I haven’t eaten anything since morning, and I 'm dying with thirst.' The words were scarcely out of my mouth when the queen came in through a concealed door; so she was right in front of me before I knew it. She had a plate in her hand, with a small cake and a glass of wine on it. 'My dear Gamain,' said she, 'you're thirsty, I'm sure, — take a glass of wine; and hungry too, so eat a cake.' -' It isn’t worth while to trouble yourself on my account, Madame Queen,' I said, bowing. Now what do you think of that- One glass of wine for a man who tells you he 's thirsty, and one little cake for a man who declares that he's starving! A single glass of wine! It is contemptible, that's what it is.”

“You refused it, then, I suppose.”

“I should have done better to refuse it, but I didn’t; I drank it. As for the cake, I tied it up in my handkerchief, and said to myself: ' Though it won't do for the father, it may do for the children.' Then I thanked the madame, — though I don't think it was worth while, — and started for home, vowing I 'd never set foot in the Tuileries again.”

“But why do you say you would have done better if you had refused it-”

“Because they must have put poison in it. I had hardly crossed the bridge before thirst seized me again; and such thirst! It was just where the river runs along on your left, and the wine-shops begin on your right. It was there I first found out what vile stuff they had given me; for the more I drank, the thirstier I became. This sort of thing went on until I lost consciousness. They may rest assured of one thing, — if I am ever called upon to testify against them, I shall swear that they gave me twenty-five louis for four hours' work and for counting a million for them, and then, for fear I should tell where they had concealed their treasure, they tried to poison me like a dog.”

This was, in fact, the very charge which this infamous wretch made against the queen afterwards in the presence of the Convention.

“And I can substantiate your testimony, my dear Gamain, by swearing that I administered an antidote that brought you back to life,” said the gunsmith, rising.

“Henceforth it shall be friendship until death between us,” said Gamain, pressing the stranger's hands gratefully.

And refusing, with Spartan-like firmness, the glass of wine the Unknown urged upon him for the third or fourth time, — for the ammonia had had the twofold effect of sobering him and disgusting him with liquor for twenty-four hours, — Gamain resumed his journey to Versailles, where he arrived safe and sound about two o'clock in the morning, with the twenty-five louis the king had given him in his waistcoat pocket, and the queen's cake still tied up in his handkerchief.

Left alone in the inn, the pretended gunsmith drew out a set of tortoise-shell tablets inlaid with gold, and wrote the following memoranda upon them: -

“Behind the alcove, in the dark passage leading from the king's chamber to the dauphin's, — an iron safe.

“Ascertain if this Louis Lecomte, ft locksmith's apprentice, is not Count Louis de Bouille”, son of the Marquis de Bouille”, who arrived from Metz ten days ago.”

CHAPTER XXXIX. DOCTOR GUILLOTIN'S INVENTION.

Two days afterwards, thanks to the ramifications extending through all classes of society, and even into the royal household, Cagliostro had learned for a certainty that Count Louis de Bonime” had arrived in Paris about the middle of November; that his presence in the city had been discovered by his cousin, General Lafayette, three days afterwards; that he was presented to the king that very same day; that he had offered his services to Gamain on the twenty-second of November, and that four days afterwards he accompanied the locksmith from Versailles to Paris; that they were ushered into the king's presence immediately upon their arrival at the Tuileries; and that the young count returned to his lodgings afterwards, where he changed his clothing, and then started off post-haste for Metz.

The next day after Cagliostro's interview with Beausire, the latter presented himself at the residence of the so-called Baron Zannone at Bellevue, in a terrible state of excitement. Returning from a gaming-house at seven o'clock in the morning, after losing his last penny, Monsieur Beausire found his rooms deserted, Mademoiselle Olivia and young Toussaint having disappeared. It at once occurred to him that Cagliostro had declined to leave the house the evening before, on the plea that he had something of a confidential nature to say to Olivia. This certainly furnished good grounds for suspicion; Olivia must have been enticed away by the count.

On sending in his name, he was promptly received by Cagliostro. Beausire hesitated a little on finding himself face to face with the count, who seemed such a high and mighty personage that Beausire scarcely dared to call him to account, despite his wrath and indignation. But the count, as if able to read the heart of his visitor, said:

“I have noticed that you have but two passions, -gambling, and Mademoiselle Olivia.”

“Then you know what brings me here-”

“Perfectly. You came for Olivia. She is at my house.”

“What! here with you-”

“No, at my house in the Rue Saint-Claude. She is occupying her old apartments there; and if your conduct is satisfactory, and you bring me some interesting items of news now and then, I shall give you twenty-five louis, so that you can go and play the gentleman at the Palais-Royal, and also purchase a handsome coat in which to play the lover on the Rue Saint-Claude.”

Beausire was strongly inclined to demand his beloved Olivia then and there; but Cagliostro made another allusion to that wretched affair connected with the Portuguese embassy, which seemed to be ever hanging over the ex- sergeant's head like the sword of Damocles; so the irate visitor held his peace.

As Beausire seemed inclined to doubt whether his charming Nicole was really at the house on the Rue Saint-Claude, the count ordered his carriage, and, taking Beausire with him to his city residence, ushered him into the sanctum sanctorum, where, by moving a picture aside, he permitted Beausire to see, through a skilfully contrived aperture, his divinity, arrayed like a queen, half reclining in a big armchair, reading one of those naughty books which were so common at that epoch, and which had been one of her chief sources of enjoyment when, as Mademoiselle de Taverney's maid, she had been fortunate enough to get hold of them; while her son Toussaint, dressed like a scion of royalty, in a Henry IV. hat trimmed with plumes, and a sky-blue velvet sailor suit, with a tricoloured sash fringed with gold, was amusing himself with some costly toys.

The heart of the lover and father swelled with joy at the sight, and he was quite willing to promise anything the count asked; so it was finally agreed that whenever Beau- sire brought the count any important news, he, Beausire, was to be paid, first in gold, and then by the privilege of visiting his charmer.

Everything was progressing as favourably as the heart of man could desire, when, in the month of December, at an absurdly early hour for that season of the year, -that is to say, about six o'clock in the morning, -Doctor Gilbert, who had been hard at work for an hour and a half, was startled by three loud knocks at his door; and feeling certain, from the regular intervals between them, that they had been given by the hand of a brother mason, he hastened to open it, and saw Cagliostro standing there, with a peculiar smile upon his lips.

Gilbert never found himself face to face with this strange and mysterious personage without experiencing a thrill of awe.

“Why, count, is it you-” he exclaimed; then, extending his hand with an evident effort, he added, “Of course you are welcome, at whatever hour you come, and whatever business brings you here.”

“What brings me here this morning, my dear Gilbert, is my desire to have you witness a very interesting experiment, which I had the pleasure of talking to you about some time ago.”

Gilbert endeavoured in vain to recall the experiment to which the count alluded.

“I fail to remember, count.”

“Come with me, all the same, my dear Gilbert. I would not disturb you for any mere trifle, I assure you; besides, you will meet some very distinguished persons at the place to which we are going. But make haste, for we have no time to spare.”

Being dressed already, Gilbert had only to lay down his pen and put on his hat. These simple preparations for departure being concluded, he said, -

“I am at your service, count.”

A carriage was in waiting, and the two men entered it. As it started off rapidly, without any order from the count, it was evident that the coachman knew in advance where he was to drive; and in about fifteen minutes the vehicle stopped in a large square courtyard, surrounded with stone walls pierced by two rows of small grated windows; and as he alighted, Gilbert perceived that he was in the courtyard of a prison, which he soon recognised as that called the Bicetre Prison.

The place, which was gloomy enough at all times, was rendered still more so now by the dull light that pervaded it, and the chilliness of the atmosphere. A fine rain, too, was falling, which imparted a leaden hue to the prison walls.

Under the superintendence of their foreman, but also under the close supervision of a man dressed in black, five or six carpenters were busy setting up a machine of a peculiar and unknown character.

On the arrival of the new-comers, the man in black raised his head; and Gilbert shuddered, for he recognised Doctor Guillotin, whom he had met in Marat's basement- room.

Advancing towards Gilbert and Cagliostro, he said, “Good-morning, Baron Zannone; it is very kind in you to come, and bring the doctor with you. You recollect, perhaps, that we met at Marat's, doctor, and that I then invited you to witness this experiment; but, unfortunately, I forgot your address afterwards. You will see something very curious,-the most philanthropical machine that was ever invented.”

Then, suddenly turning to the machine, which seemed to be the object of his every thought, he exclaimed, “Wait, wait, Guidon! what are you about- You're putting that in wrong end foremost!”

And, rushing up the ladder, he was on the platform in an instant, and speedily rectified the mistake which had been made by the mechanics, who did not yet understand the workings of this new machine.

“There, that's all right!”exclaimed the doctor, with a sigh of relief.”Now the knife must be placed between the grooves. But, Guidon, why are these grooves not lined with copper, as I directed-”

“I thought the wood, being good, well-seasoned oak, would do just as well as copper,” replied the head carpenter.

“Oh, yes, there it is again!” responded the doctor, scornfully.”Save, save, even when the progress of science and the good of humanity are involved. Guidon, if this experiment fails, I shall hold you accountable. Gentlemen,” he continued, turning to Cagliostro and Gilbert, “I call you to witness that I demanded that these grooves should be lined with copper, and that I protest against the omission; so if the knife catches or slips, it is not my fault. I wash my hands of it.”

At last the machine was successfully set up, in spite of these petty annoyances, and assumed a murderous air, which delighted its inventor, but sent a chill through Doctor Gilbert's veins.

First, there was a platform, about fifteen feet square, reached by a short step-ladder. About two-thirds of the way back on this platform, and facing the steps, were two perpendicular posts ten or twelve feet high. In these posts were the grooves which Master Guidon had omitted to line with copper, much to the philanthropical inventor's regret.

Released by means of a spring, a crescent-shaped cutter, or knife, moved up and down in this groove, its force in descending being greatly augmented by heavy weights.

Between the two posts was a small space filled with two sliding boards; and when a person's head was inserted between them, they closed in such a manner as to encircle the neck like a collar.

While the carpenters were putting the finishing touches to the machine, Cagliostro, in a whispered aside, expressed his doubts as to its really being a new invention, declaring that the Italian mania and the Toulouse doloire used in the execution of Montmorency were identical with it in many respects, and quoting, in support of his assertion, Puysegur, who says, “In this country they use a doloire, or knife, inserted in two pieces of wood. When the head is placed upon the block, the knife is released by means of a rope, and the descending blade severs the head from the body.”

Meanwhile, several other persons had entered the courtyard, — persons who had also been invited to witness the experiment, doubtless.

The first was an aged man of our acquaintance, a prominent character in our narrative, who, though already stricken with a malady of which he must soon die, had left his chamber in spite of the inclement weather, at Guillotin's urgent request. He was accompanied by Giraud, the superintendent of public buildings in the city of Paris, who, by reason of his public office, had been favoured with a special invitation.

Another group was composed of four plainly dressed men, who entered the courtyard without speaking or being spoken to by any one, and took their places in the furthermost corner, where they remained standing, with their hats in their hands, in spite of the rain. One of the party, a tall, benevolent looking man of about fifty years of age, to whom his companions seemed to listen with marked deference, was Charles Simon. He had seen his father cut Damiens in quarters; he had also assisted him when he had the honour of cutting off the head of Monsieur de Lally Tollendal.

He was commonly known as Monsieur de Paris.

The other men were his son — who was to have the honour of aiding him in the decapitation of Louis XVI. — and his two assistants.

The presence of these men proved conclusively that this Vol. I. — 19

experiment was made with, the sanction of the government, if not at its instigation.

As the rain began to fall more heavily, Doctor Guillotin, fearing, probably, that the weather might prevent the attendance of some of the invited guests, turned to the most important group, composed of Cagliostro, Gilbert, Doctor Louis, and the architect, Giraud, and, like a manager who suspects that his audience is becoming impatient, remarked, “We are only waiting for Doctor Cabanis, gentlemen. As soon as he comes, we will proceed.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth when another carriage rolled into the courtyard, and a man of about forty years of age, with a high forehead, an intelligent face, and quick, searching eyes, alighted from it. It was Doctor Cabanis. He saluted every one with the courteous, affable manner befitting a medical philosopher, and hastened forward to offer his hand to Guillotin, who called out from the platform, “Good-morning, doctor. We were only waiting for you.”

At a signal from him a door opened, and two men appeared, each carrying a sack on his shoulders, through which the outlines of a human form were faintly discernible.

Through the gratings of the small windows peered the pale faces of numerous prisoners, whom no one had thought of inviting, but who watched with terrified eyes the grim, spectacle, whose object they entirely failed to comprehend.

CHAPTER XL. A ROYAL RECEPTION.

On the evening of that same day — that is, on the evening of the 24th of December, Christmas eve-there was a reception in the Pavilion of Flora, in the left wing of the palace of the Tuileries.

The queen not wishing to receive in her own apartments, the Princesse de Lamballe received for her, and did the honours until the queen arrived; after which everything was conducted as if the guests were in the Marsan Pavilion, — the part of the Tuileries occupied by her Majesty.

Young Baron Isidore de Charny had returned from Turin that morning, and immediately after his arrival he was admitted, first into the king's, and afterwards into the queen's, presence.

Both had received him with great friendliness, but the queen's cordiality was especially noticeable. It was due to two causes: first, because Isidore was the Comte de Charny's brother, and secondly, because he came from royal relatives, — the Comte d'Artois and the Prince de Cond6, — whose advice and messages harmonised only too well with the most cherished desires of the queen's heart. The princes urged her Majesty to lend a favourable ear to Favras' plans, and to take advantage of that brave nobleman's devotion and join them immediately in Turin. Isidore was also directed to express to Favras their entire sympathy with his plans, their full approval of them, and their earnest wishes for his success.

The queen kept Isidore with her about an hour, invited him to attend the reception in Madame de Lamballe's apartments that evening, and only permitted him to retire when he asked leave to go and deliver his message to Favras.

The marquis greeted his visitor with a beaming face, for he knew at whose request Isidore had come. The knowledge of the queen's approval, too, filled his heart with joy. Everything promised well. Twelve hundred horsemen were already assembled at Versailles, and each rider would carry a foot-soldier on the crupper behind him, which would make a force of twenty-four hundred, instead of twelve hundred men. The plan for the simultaneous assassination of Necker, Bailly, and Lafayette, had been abandoned, as the marquis thought it would be sufficient if Lafayette was got out of the way. Four men would be enough to accomplish this, and they were to lie in wait for the general's carriage in the evening, at the hour he generally left the Tuileries. One of these men, holding a letter in his hand, would motion to the driver to stop, declaring that he had an important communication for the general. When the vehicle stopped, the general would naturally put his head out of one of the windows to see what the matter was; whereupon one of the two conspirators, who were to be stationed on either side of the street, would blow Lafayette's brains out with a pistol. All the arrangements having been completed, the money disbursed, and the men notified, the king had only to say the word.

There was but one thing that troubled the marquis, — that was the silence of the king and queen concerning the affair. The queen's silence was now broken by her message through Isidore; and vague as were the words thus transmitted, they were invested with great importance in the minds of Monsieur and Madame de Favras, coming as they did from royal lips; and Isidore promised to give renewed assurances of their entire devotion to the king and queen.

About nine o'clock that evening the young baron entered the apartments of Madame de Lamballe. He had never been introduced to the princess, and she did not even know him by sight; but having been warned of his probable attendance by the queen, she arose when his name was announced, and, with the grace and affability for which she was famous, introduced him at once into the circle of particular friends that had gathered around her.

The king and queen had not yet arrived; but Monsieur de Provence, who seemed rather restless and ill at ease, was conversing a little apart with two particular friends, De la Chatre and D'Avary, while Louis de Narbonne was moving carelessly from group to group, like one who feels himself quite in the bosom of his family.

It is needless to say that as soon as one usher announced the king, and another the queen, all conversation ceased, and a respectful silence followed; for in these days, when a revolutionary spirit had despoiled royalty of so many of its privileges, loyal adherents were all the more lavish in their display of deference. The year 1789 witnessed great ingratitude; 1793, boundless devotion.

Madame de Lamballe and Madame Elizabeth at once joined the queen.

Monsieur walked up to the king to pay his respects, and as he bowed, said to him, -

“My brother, can we not make up a little party, so that, in company with the queen, we can have a little confidential talk under cover of a game of whist-”

“Certainly; arrange it with the queen,” was his Majesty's response.

Monsieur approached Marie Antoinette, to whom Charny was paying his homage, and also saying, in a low tone, “I have seen Favras, and have a very important communication for your Majesty.”

“My dear sister,” Monsieur interrupted, “the king would like a game of whist. We two will play against you, and allow you to choose your own partner.”

“Very well,” answered the queen, suspecting that the game was only a pretext, “my choice is already made. Baron de Charny, will you join us- and while we play you can give us the latest news from Turin.”

“Ah, you are just from Turin, baron-” asked Monsieur.

“Yes, your Highness; and on my way back I passed through the Place du Palais-Royal, where I met a mail who is most devoted to the king, the queen, and your Royal Highness.”

Monsieur reddened, coughed, and moved away. He was so accustomed to subterfuge himself that a straightforward remark always disconcerted him. He glanced around for De la Chatre, who immediately approached, and who, after receiving a whispered order from the prince, left the room.

Meanwhile the king greeted the gentlemen and the few ladies who were wont to attend these receptions; after which the queen took the king's arm and drew him towards the card-table. After the four had seated themselves, Madame Elizabeth ensconced herself on a small sofa behind the king, and leaned both arms on the back of his chair.

They played two or three hands in silence; then the queen, seeing that respect kept all the other guests at a safe distance, ventured to say,-

“My brother, has the baron told you that he has just returned from Turin-”

“Yes, he mentioned the fact to me.”

“Did he tell you, too, that Artois and Condi' urge us to join them there-”

The king made a petulant movement.

“I beg you will listen, my brother,” whispered Madame Elizabeth, with angelic sweetness.

“Is it possible that you, too, sister -”

“I more than any one else; for I love you more than any one else, and am consequently much more anxious about you.”

“I also told Monsieur that I returned by way of the Place du Palais-Royal, and spent an hour at No. 21,” remarked Charny.

“At No. 21-” repeated the king.”What is going on there-”

“A gentleman resides there who is most devoted to your Majesty, — as we all are, — and who is ready, like all of us, to die for your Majesty, but who, being more fertile in expedients than we are, has devised a plan.”

“What plan, monsieur-”demanded the king.

“If I am likely to displease the king by telling what I know about the project, I will hold my peace.”

“No, no, monsieur,” interposed the queen, hastily, “go on. There are plenty of people who are conspiring against us; it is well for us to know who are conspiring for us, so that while we are forgiving our enemies we can also remember our friends. Tell us, baron, who this gentleman is.”

“The Marquis de Favre.”

“Ah! we know him already,” replied the queen.”Are you convinced of his devotion, baron-”

“I am positive of it.”

“Be careful, monsieur; you are going too far,” said the king.

“I would answer for his devotion with my life, sire. As for the practicability of his scheme and its probabilities of success, — that is an entirely different matter. I am too young and too inexperienced to express any opinion on the subject, especially when the safety of the king and queen are involved.”

“But what progress has he made in this scheme-” asked the queen.

“All the preparations have been completed. If the king sees fit to say the word, or even make a sign, to-morrow, at this hour, he will be at Peronne.”

The king said never a word.

“Do you hear what the baron says, sire-” queried the queen.

“Of course I hear,” responded the king, frowning.

“What do you think of the proposal-” asked the queen, turning to Monsieur.”It seems to me sufficiently definite, at least.”

“Unquestionably, unquestionably!”replied Monsieur.”Repeat it again, if you please,” he added, turning to Isidore.

“I said that the king has only to say the word, or make a sign, and, thanks to the arrangements made by Monsieur de Favras, he will be in the city of Peronne twenty-four hours afterwards.”

“Does not that sound tempting, sire-” asked Monsieur.

“If I go, will you go with me-” demanded the king, turning abruptly to his brother, and gazing searchingly at him.

“I-”

“Yes, you. You want me to promise to leave Paris. I repeat my question. If I go, will you go with me-”

“But — but — I -”faltered the prince, “I really was not aware — I have made no preparations -”

“Do you mean to say that you were not aware of the scheme when you furnished Favras with the money; and that none of your preparations are made, when you have been informed hour by hour how this plot was progressing-”

“This plot-” stammered Monsieur, turning pale.

“Yes, this plot, — or conspiracy, if you prefer to call it by that name; for it is so genuine a conspiracy that if it be discovered, Monsieur de Favras will be cast into prison, tried before the Court of the Chatelet, and condemned to death, unless we can save him by solicitations and bribes, as in Besenval's case.”

“If the king could save Besenval, he can save Favras too.”

“That does not follow. I may not be able to do for one man what I did for the other. Besides, Besenval was my man; Favras is yours. Let each look to the safety of his own.”

As he spoke, the king rose; but the queen seized him by the skirt of his coat.

“Whether you accept or refuse, you owe Favras an answer, sire.”

“I-”

“Yes.”

“Then this is my answer,” responded Louis, disengaging himself from the queen's grasp:”The king of France cannot allow himself to be kidnapped.”

“That is to say, if Favras abducts the king without his permission, he is welcome to do so, provided he succeeds; and one who does not succeed is a fool, and fools deserve to be punished,” remarked Monsieur.

“Hasten to Favras this evening, at once, and repeat to him the king's exact words: ' The king of France cannot allow himself to be kidnapped.' Favras must put his own interpretation upon these words. Go!” whispered the queen.

The baron, who very naturally considered the king's reply and the queen's order as implying both consent and approval, rushed out, and, jumping into a cab, bade the coachman drive him to No. 21 Place du Palais-Royal, with all possible speed.

CHAPTER XLI. A DEAD REMINISCENCE.

When the king left the card-table he walked towards a group of young men whose laughter had attracted his attention a short time before.

But at his approach a profound silence fell upon the group; so he said, -

“Well, gentlemen, is the king so unfortunate that he carries gloom with him wherever he goes-”

“Sire -”stammered the young men.

“You were gay enough when we came in a little while ago, the queen and myself.” Then, shaking his head, he added, “Woe to the king in whose presence no one can smile!”

“Sire, the respect we owe -”began Monsieur de Lameth.

“My dear Charles, when you used to come to Versailles to spend your holidays, did you cease to laugh because 1 was there- I said a moment ago, ' Woe to the king in whose presence no one can smile!' Now I say,' Fortunate is the king in whose presence men can make merry!'“

“The subject of our mirth might not seem particularly amusing to your Majesty,” remarked Monsieur de Castries.

“May I ask the subject of your conversation-”

“The National Assembly.”

“Ah, ha! I don't wonder you all became serious when you saw me. I cannot allow any one to laugh at the National Assembly under my roof. To be sure, I can hardly say that I am under my own roof now, being in the apartments of Madame de Lamballe; so if you cease to make merry at the National Assembly's expense, or rather If you will only laugh at it in a very quiet way, you can tell me what was affording you so much amusement a little while ago.”

“Does your Majesty know the topic that was agitating the National Assembly to-day-”

“It had under consideration a new machine for the execution of criminals, I believe.”

“Yes, invented by Doctor Guillotin, who is strongly urging it on the acceptance of the nation.”

“And you were ridiculing Guillotin, — such a philanthropist as he is, too- You forget that I am something of a philanthropist myself.”

“No, sire, indeed we do not; but there are philanthropists and philanthropists. For instance, we have now at the head of the nation a philanthropist who has abolished the examination of prisoners under torture. A philanthropist like that we both love and respect, sire.”

And, as if by common consent, all the young men of the party bowed low.

“But,” remarked Suleau, "there are other philanthropists, who, although they are physicians, and consequently possess the means of summarily disposing of sick people, are still not content, but must needs set to work devising means of disposing of those who are in health. Upon my word, sire, I wish you would leave all such philanthropists to my tender mercies!”

“And what disposition would you make of them, — behead them with no other sensation of suffering than a slight coolness about the neck-”asked the king, alluding to Doctor Guillotin's claim.

“Yes, sire; I would certainly decree that the inventors of all such machines should be the first to try them. But I have not the honour of being a magistrate; so in the case of this highly respectable Guillotin, I shall probably be obliged to confine myself to the reward I am already preparing for him.”

“And what is that, may I ask-”

“Well, the idea struck me that this great benefactor of mankind ought to derive some personal benefit from his invention: so in my sheet, ' The Acts of the Apostles,' which is being printed to-night, a christening will take place; for it is only fair that this child of Doctor Guillotin's, that he publicly acknowledged as his in the presence of the National Assembly to-day, should receive the name of Mademoiselle Guillotine.”

Even the king could not help smiling.

“By the way, the machine was tried at the Bicstre Prison this very morning, I believe. Were any of you gentlemen present-”

“No, sire, no!” responded a dozen gay voices, simultaneously.

“I was there, sire,” replied a much graver voice.

The king turned, and saw Gilbert, who had entered the room during the conversation, and deferentially approached the group in order to pay his respects to his sovereign, but who had remained silent until the king asked this question.

“You were present, doctor-” the king said, with a shudder.

“Yes, sire.”

“And was the experiment a success-”

“A perfect success in the first two cases, sire; but though the spinal column was cut in the third instance, it was necessary to use a knife to entirely sever the head from the body.”

The young men listened with open mouths and horrified eyes.

“What, sire!”exclaimed Charles de Lameth, evidently speaking for the others as well as for himself, “were three men really executed this morning-”

“Yes, gentlemen,” replied the king;”only the three men were dead men sent from one of the hospitals. Well, what do you think of the machine, Gilbert-”

“I think it a great improvement upon any machine yet invented; but the accident that happened in the case of the third victim shows that the instrument is not yet perfect.”

“How is it constructed-”asked the king.

Gilbert endeavoured to give a description of it; but the king did not seem to obtain a very clear idea of its construction, for he exclaimed, “You draw, I believe, Gilbert- Here are pen, ink, and paper on this table. Come and make me a rough sketch of the machine, and I shall understand it better.”

Then, seeing that the young noblemen, restrained by their respect for their sovereign, did not venture to follow uninvited, the king added kindly, “Come, too, gentlemen. This is a subject in which all mankind is interested.”

“And who knows how many of us may be destined to have the honour of espousing Mademoiselle Guillotine at some future day!” said Suleau, in a low tone.”Come, gentlemen, and make the acquaintance of your future bride.” So they all gathered round the table at which Gilbert had seated himself, in order to make the desired sketch.

The king watched each line with the closest attention as Gilbert proceeded to draw the platform, the stairway leading up to it, the upright beams, the movable boards, the small aperture, and, finally, the crescent-shaped blade.

As the doctor was finishing this last detail the king interrupted him by exclaiming, -

“Indeed, it is not at all surprising that the experiment failed, especially on the third trial.”

“And why-” inquired Gilbert.

“Why, on account of the shape of the knife,” the king replied.”It was certainly not a very clever idea to give the shape of a crescent to a blade that is likely to encounter any great resistance.”

“What shape would your Majesty give to it-”

“Why, that of a triangle.”

Gilbert undertook to alter the sketch.

“No, not in that way. Give me the pen!” exclaimed the king, carried away by his fondness for mechanics.”See here! bring the steel to a point, so, — like a wedge. Bevel it so, and I’ll warrant you that it will cut off twenty- live heads without the slightest difficulty.”

He had scarcely uttered these words when a piercing shriek resounded behind him; and, turning, he saw the queen, pale as death, reel, and fall fainting into Gilbert's arms.

Impelled by curiosity, like the others, she had approached the table just as the king seated himself, and looked over his shoulder as he proceeded to correct the sketch. In the instrument before her she recognised the hideous machine Cagliostro had shown her in a carafe of water at the Chateau de Taverney twenty years before, and at the sight of it she had only strength to utter a terrified cry; then, as if she were already bereft of life through the agency of this same terrible machine, she fell back unconscious into Gilbert's arms.

CHAPTER XLII. A PHYSICIAN FOR THE BODY AND FOR THE SOUL.

Such an event, of course, brought the reception to an abrupt termination.

No one could account for the queen's swoon, but the fact could not be contradicted.

Madame Lamballe would not consent to have the queen removed to her own apartments; and, in fact, it would have been a difficult matter, for, as the queen occupied the Marsan Pavilion, it would have been necessary to carry her the whole length of the palace.

The royal sufferer was consequently placed on a couch in Madame de Lamballe's bedchamber; and that lady, suspecting, with a woman's quick intuition, that there was some mysterious cause for this sudden fainting-fit, sent everybody away but the doctor, and then stationed herself at the foot of the couch to await the moment when, thanks to Gilbert's remedies, her Majesty should regain consciousness.

At last the queen moved her head slowly from side to side, like one awaking from an unpleasant dream, then heaved a deep sigh and opened her eyes.

It was evident that life had returned before reason; for she gazed around the room for several minutes with the wondering expression of one who neither realises what has happened, nor where she is: then she uttered a low cry, and placed her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out some terrible vision.

Memory had returned; the crisis was past.

Gilbert, seeing no further need for his services, was preparing to retire; hut the queen, as if divining his intention, put out her hand and grasped his arm, and, in a voice as nervous as the gesture that accompanied it, exclaimed, -

“Remain!”

Gilbert paused, greatly astonished; for he was well aware of the dislike the queen felt for him, though he had also noticed the influence he seemed to exert over her.

“I am at the queen's orders,” he replied;”but I think it would be well to allay the anxiety of the king, and of the other friends who are still in the drawing-room: so if your Majesty will allow me -”

“Therese,” said the queen, turning to the princess, “go and tell the king that I am myself again, and see to it that I am not interrupted, for I wish to have a few words with Doctor Gilbert.”

Raising herself upon her elbow, the queen watched her friend's departure from the room; then turned to the physician, and, fixing her eyes searchingly on his face, asked, -

“What do you think of my illness, doctor-”

“Madame, I am a very precise man, — a scientific man; so will you have the goodness to put your question in a more definite form-”

“I wish to know if you think my swoon was caused by one of those nervous crises to which we poor women are specially subject by reason of our organisation; or do you think it was due to a more serious cause-”

“In answer to your Majesty, I would say that the daughter of Maria Theresa — the woman I saw so calm and courageous on that terrible night in October — is no ordinary woman, and, consequently, not likely to be much affected by any of the causes that unnerve ordinary women.”

“You are right, doctor. Now let me ask you another question. Have you any faith in presentiments-”

“Science rejects all phenomena that tend to reverse the natural order of things; and yet there are facts which unquestionably give science the lie.”

“Perhaps I should have asked if you believe in predictions-”

“I believe the Supreme Being, for our supreme good, hides the future behind an impenetrable veil. Some minds, through a close study of the past, may sometimes be able to lift a corner of this veil; but such exceptions are rare. Nevertheless -”

“Well-”

“Nevertheless, there is a man who has controverted all my reasoning by incontestable facts.”

“And that man-”

“I scarcely dare name him to your Majesty.”

“That man is Cagliostro, your former teacher.”

“Say, rather, my benefactor and preserver; for, with my breast pierced with a bullet, unconscious from loss of blood from a wound which I now, after twenty years of medical research, still consider mortal, he nevertheless cured me in a few days. Hence my gratitude, I may almost say my admiration.”

“And you have known this man's predictions to be fulfilled-”

“Yes, in a most strange and incredible manner, madame.”

“And if he predicted anything in regard to yourself, you would believe it-”

“I should at least act as if it might come to pass.”

“So if he had predicted a premature death for you, — a most terrible and disgraceful death,-you would prepare yourself for that death-”

“After everything else had failed, — after I had endeavoured, by all possible means, to escape it.”

“Escape it- No, doctor, no! I see very plainly that I am doomed. The Revolution is a maelstrom that will surely engulf the throne; the populace is a roaring lion that will certainly devour me.”

“Ah, madame, the lion which you so dread can be made to lie down like a lamb at your feet!”

“All hope of a better understanding between these people and myself is at an end. They hate me, and I despise them.”

“Because you do not know each other. Cease to be a queen to the people, become their mother. Forget that you are the daughter of Maria Theresa, our former enemy; forget that you are the sister of Joseph II., our unfaithful friend. Become a Frenchwoman, and you will hear the voices of the people uplifted to bless you, and see their hands extended to caress you.”

Marie Antoinette shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.”I know them too well,” she retorted scornfully.”They blessed me yesterday; to-day they caress me; to-morrow they will rend in pieces the very one they have blessed and caressed. Doctor, do you mean to tell me that there is any possibility of bringing about a reconciliation between thirty millions of rebels and their sovereigns-”

“Ah, madame, do not so deceive yourself!” cried Gilbert.”It is not the people who are rebelling against the king and queen; it is the king and queen who are rebelling against the people, by talking continually of the privileges of royalty, while all around them the people are talking of liberty and fraternity. France, the France of to-day, madame, is an infant, — the Christ born in a manger for the salvation of the world. Kings will bend the knee to it, and bring their tributes to it, like the wise men of the East who came to the stable in Bethlehem. Italy, Poland, Ireland, and Spain are looking anxiously to this infant, born but yesterday, but upon which their futures depend. With tearful eyes, and shackled hands outstretched, they cry, ' France! France! our hope is in thee!' Oh, madame! madame!” continued Gilbert, beseechingly, “it is not yet too late! Take this infant, born only yesterday, to your breast, and be to it a mother!”

“You forget that I have other children, flesh of my flesh, and that in doing what you ask, I should disinherit them for an alien.”

“If that be so,” answered Gilbert, sorrowfully, “wrap them in your royal mantle, — the war mantle of Maria Theresa,-and take them with you out of France; for you speak the truth, the people will turn upon you and rend you, and your children with you. But there is no time to lose. Make haste, madame, make haste!”

“So you are not opposed to our departure now, monsieur-”

“Far from it. Now I know your real intentions, I will assist you, madame.”

“This kind offer comes at a most opportune moment; for a gentleman, who is thoroughly devoted to us, is even now trying to make arrangements for our safe departure.”

“It cannot be of the Marquis de Favras you speak, madame-”

“Who told you his name- Who has betrayed our plans-”

“Oh, madame, be on your guard! A terrible prediction has been made in regard to him also.”

“By the same prophet-”

“Even so, madame.”

“And what fate awaits the marquis, according to this prophet-”

“An untimely, disgraceful, and terrible death, — like that you spoke of just now.”

“Then you speak truly when you say there is no time to lose if we would disappoint this prophet of evil.”

“Do you intend to notify Favras that you will accept his aid-”

“A messenger has just gone to his house for that purpose, and I am now awaiting his reply.”

At that very moment Madame de Lamballe came in, and whispered a few words to the queen.

“Show Mm in! Show him in!” exclaimed the queen, eagerly.”The doctor knows all. Doctor,” she continued, “it is Monsieur Isidore de Charny, bringing me the Marquis de Favras' reply. To-morrow the queen will have left Paris; the day after to-morrow we shall be out of France. Come in, Monsieur de Charny, come in! My God! what is the matter- Why are you so pale-”

“The princess says I can speak before Doctor Gilbert-”

“And she spoke truly. Yes, yes; tell me! You have seen the Marquis de Favras- He is all ready- We accept his offer. We will leave Paris — leave France!”

“The Marquis de Favras has been arrested and taken to the Chatelet!”

The queen's eyes met Gilbert's. Hers were wrathful, despairing in their expression; but her whole strength seemed to expend itself in that single glance.

Gilbert approached her, and in tones of deep pity said,-

“Madame, if I can be of any service to you, make use of me, I beg of you. My intellect, my devotion, my life, -I place them all at your feet.”

The queen lifted her eyes slowly to the doctor's face, and in a calm, almost resigned tone, said, “Monsieur Gilbert, you witnessed the experiment this morning; do you think that death by this frightful machine will be as easy as its inventor claims-”

Gilbert sighed, and hastily covered his face with his hand.

Monsieur, who knew all he wished to know, — as the news of the Marquis de Favras' arrest had spread through the palace in a few seconds, — Monsieur ordered his carriage with all possible speed, and was about to take his departure without troubling himself to inquire if the queen was better, and almost without taking leave of the king; but Louis XVI. prevented it by saying, -

“You are not in such haste to reach the Luxembourg, my brother, that you haven't time to give me a little counsel, I suppose. What do you think I had better do-”

“Do you mean to ask what I should do if I were in your place-”

“Yes.”

“I should swear to support the constitution.”

“But how could you swear to support a constitution that is not yet framed-”

“All the more reason why you would not feel obliged to keep your oath afterwards,” replied Monsieur, with one of those crafty looks which betrayed the deceitfulness of his heart.

The king remained absorbed in thought for a moment, then he said, -

“So be it; but this need not prevent me from writing to Bouille that our plan still holds good, though it must be postponed for a time. This delay, however, will afford Charny an opportunity to carefully inspect the route we are to take.”

CHAPTER XLIII. MONSIEUR ABANDONS FAVRAS TO HIS FATE.

The day after the arrest of the marquis the following circular was scattered broadcast through the city:

—

The Marquis de Favras, together with madame his wife, was arrested on the night of the 24th, in consequence of a plot organised to raise thirty thousand men for the purpose of assassinating General Lafayette and the mayor of our city, and afterwards to deprive us of the means of subsistence. Monsieur, the king's brother, was at the head of this conspiracy.

(Signed) Barauz.

It is easy to understand the revulsion of feeling produced by such an announcement as this. A train of powder could not have produced a more rapid flame than that which was created by this incendiary document. First, it was in everybody's hands; and two hours afterwards everybody knew it by heart.

On the evening of the 26th, the members of the municipal government being assembled at the Hotel de Ville to listen to the report of the investigating committee, an usher announced that Monsieur asked to be admitted.

“Monsieur!” repeated Bailly, who was presiding at the meeting, “what Monsieur-”

“Monsieur the king's brother,” was the response.

The members gazed at one another in astonishment; for, since the day before, Monsieur's name had been on everybody's lips: but even as they glanced at one another they rose.

Bailly cast an inquiring look around him; and, as the silent answer he read in his colleagues' eyes seemed unanimous, he answered, -

“Go and inform Monsieur that we are ready to receive him, though we are greatly surprised at the honour he does us.”

A few seconds afterwards Monsieur entered the room.

He was unattended; his face was pale, and his gait, which was always rather unsteady, was even more vacillating than usual that evening.

He cast a furtive glance around the large assemblage, then spoke in a trembling voice, which grew stronger, however, as he proceeded.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “the desire to refute a base calumny has brought me here. Monsieur de Favras was arrested the night before last by order of your investigating committee, and to-day it is rumoured that I was associated with him.”

Smiles flitted over the faces of his auditors, and an occasional chuckle was heard.

“As a citizen of Paris,” continued Monsieur, “I feel it my duty to inform you of the only relations I have ever sustained towards Monsieur de Favras. In 1772 Monsieur de Favras enlisted in my Swiss Guards. He left the Guards in 1775, and since that time I have not exchanged a word with him.”

An incredulous murmur arose from his auditors, but it was promptly checked by a look from Bailly; and Monsieur consequently remained in doubt as to whether it was a token of approval or disapproval.

“Deprived of my income for several months,” he continued, “and anxious in regard to some heavy payments I had to make in January, I wished to prepare to meet these obligations without making any demands upon the public treasury, and therefore resolved to negotiate a loan for that purpose. Favras was mentioned to me by Monsieur de la Chatre as a person who might be able to secure this loan for me from a Genoese banker. Consequently, I gave my note for two million francs, the amount required for meeting my obligations at the beginning of the year, and for the support of my regular establishment. It was purely a business transaction, and my steward attended to it for me. I have not seen Favras, nor have l written to him, or held any communication with him. In fact, I have no knowledge whatever of anything he may have done in connection with other matters.”

A sneering laugh proved that every one was not inclined to believe this assertion on the prince's part, — that he had intrusted the negotiation of a loan of two million francs to any person without seeing him personally, especially when this agent was an old acquaintance.

Monsieur blushed; and anxious, doubtless, to escape from the false position in which he had placed himself, he continued hurriedly, -

“To my great surprise, I learned yesterday that documents of this description were being sown broadcast through the city.”

Here he produced and proceeded to read the circular just now cited, — an entirely unnecessary proceeding on his part, as everybody either had it in his hand, or deeply engraved upon his memory.

When he came to the words, “Monsieur, the king's brother, was at the head of the conspiracy,” all his auditors bowed. Did they mean by this that they were of the same opinion as the circular, or did they simply mean that they were perfectly well aware of the accusation-

“You can hardly expect, I am sure,” continued Monsieur, “that I should stoop to clear myself of such an accusation; but at a time when the most absurd slander may easily lead you to mistake the most patriotic citizen for an enemy of the Revolution, I have concluded, gentlemen, that it is only just to the king, to you, and to myself to enter into these details, in order that the public mind may not be left in doubt. Ever since the day when, in the second assemblage of the leading men of the kingdom, I stated my opinion concerning the fundamental question which is still breeding dissensions in our midst, I have not ceased to feel that the time has come for a great revolution, in which the king, by reason of his laudable intentions, virtues, and exalted rank, should act the part of leader, inasmuch as what is of advantage to a nation is of equal advantage to its sovereign; for royal authority should be the safeguard of national liberty, as national liberty should be the basis of royal authority.”

Though the meaning of this last phrase was not very clear, the habit of applauding certain combinations of words led some of his auditors to applaud this.

Somewhat encouraged, Monsieur raised his voice a little, and added, with rather more assurance:”Who can mention one word or act of mine which contradicts any of the sentiments I have just uttered- and who can show that I have ever, under any circumstances, ceased to regard the welfare of the king and of the people as the chief object of my thoughts and endeavours- Until then, I have a right to be believed. I have never changed my opinions and principles, and I never shall.”

Bailly said, in reply, -

“Monsieur, it is a great satisfaction to the members of the municipal government to see in their midst the brother of a beloved king, — a king who is the restorer of French liberty. August brothers, you are united by the same sentiments. Monsieur has proved himself the truest of patriots by voting, in the Second Assembly of notables, for the admission of the third estate to equal legislative rights. Monsieur was then almost alone in this opinion; or, at least, he was supported by only a very limited number of friends of the people: so he may justly be considered the chief author of the doctrine of civil equality. He gives a fresh proof of it by coming among the representatives of the people to-day, claiming only that consideration to which he is justly entitled, by the patriotic sentiments of which the explanation he has so kindly given us is only additional proof. As a citizen, he values the good opinion of his fellow citizens; and I offer Monsieur, in behalf of this assembly, the tribute of respect and gratitude which is justly due to such laudable sentiments, to the honour of his presence, and, above all, to the value he attaches to the esteem of free men.”

Though Monsieur understood perfectly well, in spite of Baillie’s eulogy, that many of his audience were probably of a very different opinion, he responded, with that paternal air he knew so well how to assume when occasion required, -

“The duty I have just fullfiled was one most painful to a virtuous heart; but I am more than repaid by the kindly feeling that this assembly has manifested towards me, and I need say no more, except to implore forgiveness for those who have so wronged me.”

It must be evident to the reader that Monsieur pledged himself to nothing, nor did he ask anything definite of the assemblage. For whom did he implore forgiveness- Certainly not for Favras, because no one knew that Favras was really guilty. Besides, Favras had not accused Monsieur.

No, Monsieur only asked mercy for the anonymous author of the circular accusing him.

Monsieur had himself put in practice at least a part of the advice he had given his brother.

He had denied all connection with Monsieur de Favras; and, from the eulogiums heaped upon him by Bailly, the step seemed to have proved a great success.

It was probably due to this fact that Louis XVI. also decided to swear allegiance to the constitution.

One fine morning an usher announced to the president of the Assembly that the king, attended by one or two of his cabinet ministers and three or four prominent officials, was rapping at the door of the National Assembly, as Monsieur had recently rapped at the door of the Hotel de Villa.

The representatives of the people looked up in amazement. What could the king, who had held aloof so pertinaciously, have to say to them-

Louis XVI. was invited to enter, and the president yielded the chair to him.

The hall resounded with enthusiastic acclamations. Aside from Petion, Camille Desmoulins, and Marat, all France was still, or still believed itself to be, devoted to the monarchy.

The king had felt that he must come and congratulate the Assembly on its work: he could not but admire the admirable division of the kingdom into geographical departments; but the feeling which he could no longer repress, the feeling with which his heart was filled to overflowing, was his ardent love for the constitution.

The beginning of his speech — for be it understood that no one, white or black, aristocrat or plebeian, royalist or constitutionalist, had any idea what the king was driving at — occasioned considerable uneasiness; the middle of it aroused the gratitude of his hearers; the conclusion excited their wildest enthusiasm.

If the king could not repress his longing to declare his love for the infant constitution of 1791, which was still unborn, what would his feelings be when it saw the light of day-

The king's passion for it then would no longer be love, but positive fanaticism.

We will not give the king's speech, -there are six pages of it. It is quite enough to have been obliged to wade through Monsieur's discourse, which seemed frightfully tedious, though only one page long.

The king's discourse seemed none too long, however, to the Assembly, which wept tears of joy as it listened,

When we say wept, it is no mere figure of speech.

Barnave wept, Lameth wept, Dupont wept, Mirabeau wept, Barrere wept; it was a positive deluge.

The Assembly lost its head completely. The members rose in a body; the spectators rose. Each man lifted up his hand and swore fidelity to a constitution that was not yet framed.

The king started to go, but the king and the Assembly could not be parted thus; so the members followed him out, and gathered around him, forming his escort to the Tuileries, where the queen received them.

The queen — she was no enthusiast, this haughty daughter of Maria Theresa; she did not weep, this dignified sister of Leopold; she presented merely her son to the deputies of the nation.

“I share the king's feelings, gentlemen,” she said;”I cordially approve of the step which his love for his people has impelled him to take. Here is my son; I shall omit nothing that will teach him to early imitate the virtues of the best of fathers, to respect public liberty, and to uphold the laws, of which I trust he will be the chief support.”

The enthusiasm must indeed have been genuine, not to have been chilled by this discourse. That of the Assembly was at a white heat. It was suggested that every one should take the oath of constitutional allegiance, then and there, and it was formulated on the spot. The king was the first to repeat the words, -

“I swear to be faithful to the nation, to the laws, and to the king, and to unreservedly maintain, with all my powers, the constitution framed by the National Assembly and approved by the king.”

All the members of the Assembly, save one, raised their hands, each in turn, and repeated, “I swear.”

The ten days immediately following this auspicious event, which had brought joy to the hearts of the deputies, tranquillity to Paris, and peace to France, were devoted to fetes, banquets, balls, and illuminations. Nothing but the oath of allegiance to the constitution was talked of. People were taking oaths everywhere, — on the Place de Greve, at the Hotel de Ville, in the churches, in the streets, in the public squares. Altars to the country were erected everywhere; school children were conducted to them, and took the oath as if they were grown men and understood the obligation and full import of it.

The deputies ordered a Te Deum to be sung, and attended the ceremony in a body. There at the altar, in the presence of God, the oath was to be taken again.

But the king did not go to Notre Dame, and consequently did not take this solemn oath.

His absence was noticed; but everybody was so happy, and hopeful, and confident, that everybody was content with the first excuse offered for his absence.

“Why did you not attend the Te Deum- Why did you not swear before the altar like the others-” asked the queen.

“Because I am willing to lie, but not to perjure myself, madame.”

The queen breathed more freely. Until then, she, like every one else, had believed in the king's sincerity of purpose.

CHAPTER XLIV. A GENTLEMAN OF FRANCE.

The king's visit to the Assembly occurred on the 4th of February, 1790.

Twelve days afterwards, on the night of the seventeenth of the same month, in the absence of the governor of the Chatelet, who had asked and obtained permission to go to Soissons to be with his dying mother, a man presented himself at the door of the prison, armed with an order signed by the chief of police, -an order which permitted the visitor the privilege of a private interview with Monsieur de Favras.

Whether this order was genuine, or only a counterfeit, we do not presume to say; but the assistant superintendent, who was aroused from sleep to examine it, pronounced it valid; and though it was now late in the night, he gave directions for the bearer of the order to be conducted to the prisoner's cell.

The turnkey to whom this duty was intrusted opened a door, allowed the visitor to pass through, closed and locked the door behind him, then looked at the stranger inquiringly, as if expecting he had some important communication to make to him.

Next they descended a dozen or more steps and entered an underground passage-way, where another door presented itself, which the gaoler opened and closed like the first.

They now found themselves on a sort of landing, with another flight of stairs leading downward in front of them.

Here the visitor paused and gazed searchingly around him. When he had satisfied himself that the place was as deserted as it was dark and gloomy, he asked, -

“Is your name Louis-”

“Yes.”

“Are you a brother from the American Lodge-”

“Yes.”

“You were placed here a week ago to accomplish an important work, were you not-”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to perform it-”

“lam.”

“You are to receive orders from a certain man -”

“Yes; from the anointed one.”

“How are you to recognise him-”

“By three letters embroidered on his breast.”

“I am that man, and here are the three letters;” and as he spoke, the visitor pushed aside his lace frill and displayed the letters L.P.D. embroidered upon his breast, — those mystic letters to whose marvellous power we have had occasion to refer more than once in the course of these narratives. *

“Master, I am at your service,” said the gaoler, humbly.

“Very well; open the prisoner's cell, and hold yourself in readiness to obey orders.”

The gaoler bowed, without replying, and walked on ahead to light the way; but soon pausing at a low door, he whispered, “Here it is.”

The stranger made a motion with his head; the key grated in the lock, and the door opened.

Although they had taken the greatest possible precautions to insure the prisoner's safety, even consigning him to a cell twenty feet under ground, the authorities had not forgotten the consideration due a person of his rank. He had a comfortable bed with white curtains, and near it stood a table covered with books and writing materials, intended, doubtless, to be used in the preparation of his defence. Among them towered an extinguished lamp. In a corner, on another table, glittered several toilet articles, taken from a handsome dressing-case bearing the owner's coat of arms.

The prisoner was sleeping soundly. Though the visitor approached the bedside, and though the gaoler placed his lamp on the table near the other, and then left the room at a signal from the visitor, neither the noise nor the movements disturbed the prisoner's slumbers.

The stranger gazed at the sleeper sadly for a moment; then, as if recollecting that time was precious, however much he might deplore the necessity of disturbing such tranquil repose, he laid his hand on the sleeper's shoulder.

The prisoner started violently, then turned quickly, with eyes wide open, as persons do who fall asleep in the expectation of being aroused by some painful news.

“Do not be alarmed, monsieur,” said the stranger;”it is a friend.”

Favras gazed at his nocturnal visitor for an instant with mingled suspicion and astonishment; then, suddenly recovering himself, exclaimed, "Ah, Baron Zannone!”

“The same, my dear marquis.”

Favras glanced around the room, then smilingly pointed his visitor to the one stool unencumbered by books and clothing.”Have the goodness to sit down,” he said courteously.

“The business that brought me here does not admit of any prolonged discussion, my dear marquis,” the visitor replied.”Besides, we have no time to lose.”

“I hope it isn’t another loan, baron, for I fear I couldn’t furnish very good security.”

“That would not matter to me, marquis. I am ready to offer you a million; but it must be under certain conditions. You are aware that your trial is to come off to-morrow, I suppose-”

“Yes, I have heard something of the kind.”

“And you know that the judges before whom you are to appear are the same who acquitted Augeard and Besenval-”

“Yes.”

“You know, too, that neither of those men would have been acquitted but for the intervention of the Crown-”

“Yes,” answered Favras, for the third time, without the slightest change in his voice.

“You hope, doubtless, that the Crown will do for you what it did for your predecessors.”

“Those with whom I had the honour to be associated in this affair know what should be done in regard to me, monsieur, and whatever they do will be well done.”

“They have already taken their stand in regard to you, marquis. I will tell you exactly what they have done, if you like.”

The marquis did not evince the slightest curiosity, however.

Nevertheless, the visitor continued,-

“Monsieur went to the Hotel de Ville, and declared that he had scarcely any acquaintance with you; that you enlisted in his Swiss Guards in 1772; that in 1775 you left the regiment, and that he had not seen you since.”

The marquis bowed his acquiescence.

“As regards the king, he not only says that the idea of flight never entered his mind, but, what is more, on the fourth day of this month he went, of his own accord, to the National Assembly, and took the oath of allegiance to the constitution.”

A smile flitted over the lips of the marquis.

“Do you doubt my word-” asked the baron.

“I did not say so.”

“You see, then that you can place no dependence upon either Monsieur or the king.”

“What of that, baron-”

“You will appear before your judges and be condemned -”

“That is quite probable.”

“Condemned to death.”

“That, too, is very probable,” and Favras bowed his head like a man ready for his fate, whatever that fate might be.

“But do you know to what death you will be condemned, my dear marquis-”

“Are there other deaths, my dear baron-”

“There are six: by impalement, quartering, the wheel, the maiden, the gallows, and decapitation; or, rather, there were all these methods a week ago. Now, as you say, there is but one, -the scaffold.”

“The scaffold-”

“Yes; the National Assembly, having declared all men equal before the law, has now instituted equality in death as well. Nobles and plebeians are to leave the world by the same door; that is, they will all be hanged.”

“Ah — ah!”said Favras.

“If you are condemned to death, you will be hanged, — a sorry end, even for one who, I know well, does not fear death, though he shrinks from the gallows.”

“Did you come here solely to impart this cheering intelligence, monsieur; or have you still better news in store for me-”

“I came to tell you that all the necessary preparations for your escape have been made, and that in tea minutes you can be out of this prison, and in twenty-four hours out of France.”

Favras reflected a moment; then he asked, -

“Does this offer come from the king, or from his Royal Highness-”

“No, it comes from me.”

“From you- And why from you-” Favras asked, looking searchingly at the baron.

“Because of my interest in you, marquis.”

“But what possible interest can you take in me- You have met me but twice.”

“One does not need to see a man twice to know him, my dear marquis; and gentlemen are so rare nowadays, I should like to preserve one,- I will not say for the sake of France, but of humanity.”

“And you are actuated by no other reason-”

“This, too, monsieur, that, having negotiated a loan of two millions with you, and having given you the money, I really furnished you with the means of carrying on your recently discovered plot, and have consequently contributed indirectly to your ruin.”

Favras smiled.

“If that is your only crime, rest in peace, for I absolve you,” he said cheerfully.

“What! you refuse to flee-”

Favras held out his hand.”I thank you from the bottom of my heart; I thank you in the name of my wife and children; but I decline your offer.”

“Perhaps you think my plans poorly made, marquis, and fear that an attempt to escape will prove a failure, and so only aggravate your situation.”

“I think, monsieur, that you are an exceedingly shrewd, and I may also say venturesome, man, as you came to propose this escape in person; but I repeat that I shall not flee.”

“Possibly you fear that, being compelled to leave France yourself, your wife and children will be reduced to want. I have provided for this contingency, monsieur, and can offer you this wallet, containing one hundred thousand francs in bank-notes.”

Favras looked at the baron with something like admiration in his gaze; then, shaking his head, he said, -

“That is not the reason, monsieur. I should not need this inducement to make me accept your offer, if I had any desire to escape; but my mind is made up, — I shall not flee.”

The baron looked at the speaker as if he thought him bereft of reason.

“This determination on my part evidently astonishes you, baron,” Favras continued, with marvellous serenity;”and you are wondering, without daring to ask me, what is the cause of this strange resolve to persist unto the end, and suffer death, if need be, however ignominious that death may be. Am I not right-”

“I admit it.”

“Well, I will tell you. I am a royalist, but not one of the kind who emigrate to foreign lands, or play the hypocrite in Paris. My political creed is not based upon calculation or self-interest; it is a religion with me. I regard kings as I do an archbishop or a pope, — as the visible representative of the religion I have spoken of. If I should consent to flee, it might be surmised that the king or Monsieur made me do so, and that they were consequently my accomplices. It is needless to say, in the present state of public opinion, how fatal such a suspicion would be to Monsieur, who has denied me, and to the king, who pretends not to have had any knowledge of my scheme. Religions fall into decay, baron, when there are no more martyrs. Well I will revive mine by dying for it. My death will be a reproach to the past, and an encouragement to those who come after me.”

“But think of the mode of death that awaits you, marquis.”

“The more ignominious the death, the more meritorious the sacrifice will be. Christ died upon the cross between two thieves.”

“I could understand you, monsieur, if your death would accomplish for royalty what Christ's death accomplished for the world. But the sins of kings are so great, marquis, that I am very much afraid that not only the blood of a nobleman, but that of a monarch as well, will be required to wash them away.”

“That is for God to decide. baron; but in these days of doubt and vacillation -days in which so many persons fail in their duty, — I shall die with the consoling thought that I have done mine.”

“Oh, no, monsieur,” responded the baron, impatiently;”you will simply die with the harrowing thought that the sacrifice of your life has been utterly in vain.”

“When the disarmed soldier refuses to flee, and calmly awaits the approach of the enemy, when he braves death and meets it, he, too, knows perfectly well that his death is useless; but he says to himself that flight would be disgraceful, and he would rather die.”

“I will not acknowledge myself defeated in my plans, marquis,” said Cagliostro, glancing at his watch. ''It is three o'clock; we have another hour yet,” he continued.”I am going to seat myself at this table and read awhile; in the mean time, reflect. In half an hour you can give me your final answer.”

And, taking a chair, he seated himself with his back to the prisoner, and picked up a book.

“Good-night, baron,” said Favras, turning his face to the wall, perhaps in order to be able to think undisturbed.

Far more impatient and restless than the prisoner, the visitor drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it two or three times.”When the half-hour had elapsed, he arose and approached the bed but he waited in vain, — Favras did not turn or speak. Bending over him, the baron perceived by the prisoner's regular breathing that he was sound asleep.

“I must acknowledge myself beaten,” Cagliostro said to himself;”but judgment has not yet been pronounced upon him, — perhaps he still doubts that he has been so basely deserted.”

Not wishing to awaken the unfortunate man, over whom the shadow of death was already brooding, the baron picked up a pen and wrote on a sheet of blank paper the following lines: -

“When the sentence of death is pronounced, and the Marquis de Favras has no longer anything to hope for from his judges, from Monsieur, or from the king, he has only to call the turnkey, Louis, and say, ' I have determined to flee,' and means will be taken to insure his escape.

“Even when the marquis is in the death-cart; when he makes his confession in public in front of Notre Dame; when he traverses with bare feet and bound hands the little piece of ground in front of the Hotel de Ville, where he will make his last will and testament, — even from the gallows on the Place de Greve, he has only to say, in a loud voice, ' I wish to be saved!' and he will be saved.

Then the visitor took the lamp and again approached the bed, to see if the prisoner might not have waked in the meantime; but finding him still asleep, he walked-though, not without turning and looking back several times — to the door of the cell, on the other side of which the turnkey, Louis, was standing, with the placid resignation of one who is capable of, and ready for, any sacrifice to secure the accomplishment of a difficult task.

“Well, master, what am I to do-” he asked.

“Remain in the prison, and obey the commands of the Marquis de Favras in all things.”

The turnkey bowed low, and, taking the lamp from Cagliostro's hand, walked respectfully before him, like a lackey lighting his master's way.

CHAPTER XLV. CAGLIOSTRO'S PREDICTION IS FULFILLED.

About one o'clock on the afternoon of that same day, the head-gaoler of the Chatelet, with four armed men, descended into Monsieur de Favras' dungeon, and informed him that he was about to appear before his judges. The marquis had been warned of this fact during the previous night by Cagliostro, and also about nine o'clock in the morning by the assistant superintendent of the prison. The hearing of the case had begun at nine o'clock that morning, and at three o'clock in the afternoon it was still going on. Ever since the doors opened, the court-room had been thronged by a crowd eager to get a glimpse of the man upon whom sentence of death was to be pronounced; for every one felt that the prisoner's conviction was certain, for in political conspiracies there are unfortunates whose sacrifice is a foregone conclusion. Forty judges were seated on a circular dais at the upper end of the hall. The seat of the president was surmounted by a canopy, and behind him was a painting of the Crucifixion of Christ; while opposite it, at the other end of the hall, hung a portrait of the king. A row of National Grenadiers surrounded the hall, both inside and out, and the door was guarded by four men. At quarter-past three the judges ordered the accused to be brought in, and a detachment of a dozen grenadiers, who had been awaiting this order with muskets at their sides, immediately marched out. Every eye, even those of the judges, was turned towards the door by which Favras must enter. In about ten minutes four of the grenadiers reappeared; behind them walked Favras; the eight remaining grenadiers followed him. The prisoner entered in the midst of a silence that was oppressive in its breathless expectancy. His face was calm, and his toilet had evidently been made with scrupulous care. He wore a grey silk coat richly embroidered, a white satin waistcoat, knee-breeches of the same material as his coat, silk stockings, and buckled shoes; and the cross of St. Louis hung from his button-hole. His hair, too, was dressed with scrupulous care, and thickly powdered; as the Two Friends of Liberty remark in their "History of the Revolution,” not a single hair was out of place. Several seconds elapsed between the prisoner's entrance and the first words addressed to him by the chief magistrate. At last the judge made the customary gesture for enforcing silence, though it was entirely unnecessary in this instance, and asked, in a voice in which a slight tremor was apparent, — “Who are you-”

“I am the accused,” responded Favras, with unruffled calmness. “What is your name-”

“Thomas Mahi, Marquis de Favras.”

“Whence did you come-”

“From Blois.”

“Your business- ' "A colonel in the king's service.”

“Your residence-”

“No. 21 Place Royale.”

“Your age-”

“Forty-six years.”

“Be seated.” The marquis obeyed. Not until then did the crowd appear to breathe again; and their respiration sounded like a terrible blast of wind, — a blast of vengeance. The prisoner did not shrink when he looked about him and saw so many eyes gleaming with hatred, and fists threateningly clenched. A moment later he recognised amid the excited throng the calm countenance and sympathising eyes of his nocturnal visitor, and, saluting him with an almost imperceptible gesture, he quietly continued his survey of the crowd. "Prisoner, hold yourself in readiness to answer.” Favras bowed. "I am entirely at your service, Monsieur le President,” he said courteously. A second examination began,-an examination which the prisoner sustained as coolly as the first. The witnesses for the prosecution were next summoned. Though Favras was unwilling to save his life by flight, he wished to defend it by argument, and fourteen witnesses had been summoned for the defence; but after the evidence for the prosecution had been given, the president said, — “Gentlemen, all the evidence has been heard.”

“Pardon me, monsieur,” said Favras, with all his accustomed courtesy; "you forgot one thing,-though it is really of no very great importance: you neglected to hear the fourteen witnesses summoned at my request.”

“The court has decided that no more witnesses shall be heard.” The face of the prisoner darkened, and lightning flashed from his eyes. "I supposed I was to be tried by the Chatelet Court,” he remarked. “I was mistaken; it seems I am to be tried according to the rules of the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Remove the prisoner,” thundered the judge. Favras was conducted back to prison, his exit from the court-room being attended with savage yells and howls from the throng. Favras went to bed at his usual hour. About one o'clock in the morning the turnkey, Louis, came in and awakened him, giving as an excuse the delivery of a bottle of wine the prisoner had not ordered. "The judges are about to pronounce your sentence, monsieur,” he said. "If it was merely to tell me this you awakened me, my friend, you had better have let me sleep.”

“No, marquis, I woke you to ask if you had not some message for the person who visited you last night.”

“No, nothing.”

“But think, monsieur. When the sentence of death is pronounced, you will be more closely guarded, and powerful as that gentleman is, he may be obliged to contend with impossibilities.”

“Thanks, my friend; but I have no favours to ask of him, either now or hereafter.”

“Then I am sorry I woke you; but you would have been disturbed within an hour, anyway.”

“So you think it will hardly be worthwhile for me to go to sleep again,” said Favras, smiling. “Wait and judge for yourself.” In fact, they could already hear a great hubbub on the floor above,-doors opening and shutting, and the butt- ends of muskets striking upon the floor. “Am I the cause of all this commotion- “asked Favras. "They are coming in person to announce the verdict.”

“The deuce! Ask the gentlemen to give me time to get into my clothes, won't you-” The gaoler went out, closing the door behind him; but the marquis had only partially completed his toilet when it opened again. As the registrar of the court entered, the marquis pushed his open collar still further back, and exclaimed, — "I await you in fighting trim, you see, monsieur,” passing his hand over his uncovered throat, ready for the sword or the rope, as the case might be; “go on, monsieur, I am all attention.” A. strikingly handsome picture he made, with his head thrown proudly back, his hair partially disarranged, and his lace-trimmed shirt disclosing to view his stalwart breast. The registrar read, or rather mumbled out, the sentence of the court. The marquis was condemned to die; he was to read his death sentence in public in front of Notre Dame, and be hanged on the Place de Greve. Favras listened with the utmost calmness. He did not even wince at the word "hanged,” — a word so terrible to a nobleman's ears; only, after a moment's silence, he remarked, looking the registrar full in the face, "I pity you, sir, for being obliged to condemn a man on such meagre proofs.” The registrar attempted no reply, but merely said, "Monsieur, you know the consolations of religion are all that are left you now.”

“You are mistaken, monsieur; I also have the consolation of a conscience void of offence. I should like to see a confessor, however, but not a confessor sent by those who assassinate me. I should have no confidence in such a one. I am willing to deliver my body up to your tender mercies, but not my soul. I should like to see the cure of St. Paul, if you have no objections.” Two hours later the venerable priest he had named was in his cell.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE PLACE DE GREVE.

These two hours were by no means devoid of incident, however, for the registrar had hardly departed before two other men entered the room. It was the sheriff and an assistant. "Follow me,” said one of them. Favras bowed his assent.

“May I have time to dress-”

“Yes.” With the aid of the little mirror hanging on the wall, Favras arranged his shirt-collar and frill, and gave the most aristocratic possible turn to the bow of his cravat. "Shall I take my hat-” he asked, after he had slipped on his coat and vest. "It is not necessary.” Meanwhile, the man who had not spoken looked at Favras in such a way as to attract his attention. It even seemed to Favras that he made an almost imperceptible sign to him, but so quickly that the marquis was still in doubt; so he troubled himself no more about the matter, but, waving his hand in token of farewell to the goaler, Louis, exclaimed, — "All right, gentlemen, lead the way; I will follow.” They ascended many steps, and then walked on until they came to a heavy oaken door, bristling with iron spikes. It opened, and Favras was pushed inside. He saw that he was in the torture chamber, and his face turned a trifle pale. "Heavens! gentlemen,” he exclaimed, "you ought to give a man a little warning before you take him into a place like this.” He had scarcely uttered these words when the two men threw themselves upon him and tore off his coat and waistcoat, as well as his cravat, and tied his hands behind his back. As he fulfilled his portion of this task, the man Favras had noticed before whispered in his ear, “Will you be saved- There is still time.” The marquis shook his head. A sort of rack, known as the wooden horse, was already prepared, and they stretched the marquis upon it. The torturer approached with his apron full of oaken wedges, and an iron mallet in his hand. Favras extended his shapely leg, still adorned with its silk stocking and high- heeled shoe, to the man, but the sheriff raised his hand. "That is enough; the court spares the prisoner the torture.”

“Ah! it would seem that the court is afraid I may speak out. I am none the less thankful, however, as I shall go to my death on two sound legs, and that is something. Meanwhile, gentlemen, I am at your service.”

“You are to spend an hour in this hall,” said the sheriff. “And a very interesting, if not altogether cheerful, place it is,” remarked Favras, beginning to walk about and examine the different instruments of torture, not unlike gigantic spiders and scorpions in form, with which the room was filled. He asked for the name of each, with a coolness that astonished even the torturers; and one of them inquired as to what was the prisoner's object in asking so many questions. “I may meet his Satanic Majesty on the journey I am about to take,” answered Favras, laughing, "and I might make a friend of him by telling him of such instruments of torture as he has never even heard of.” As the prisoner completed his examination, the prison clock struck five. Two hours had elapsed since the marquis left his cell, and he was now conducted back to it. He found the cure” of St. Paul there. On seeing him, the venerable priest opened his arms. "Excuse me, father, if I can only open my heart to you,” said Favras; "these gentlemen have taken good care I shall open nothing else.”

“Can you not release the arms of the condemned during the little time he is with me-” inquired the kind-hearted old priest. "It is not in my power to do so,” replied the sheriff. "Then ask them if they will not bind my hands in front of me, instead of behind me, my father,” said Favras. "It will make it much more convenient for me to hold the candle when I read my sentence.” The assistant looked inquiringly at the sheriff, who nodded, as if to indicate that he saw no objection to granting this request, and the prisoner was left alone with the priest. What took place during this solemn interview between the man of the world and the man of God is known only to themselves; but when the officers re-entered the cell, they found the prisoner awaiting them with a smiling face, dry eyes, and a stout heart. They came to tell him it was time to die. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but it is you who have kept me waiting,” he replied pleasantly. As he had already been divested of coat and vest, they removed his shoes and hose, and slipped a white shirt over the rest of his clothing. On his breast they placed a placard bearing the words, "A Conspirator against the State.” A tumbrel surrounded by a numerous guard was waiting at the prison gate. At the sight of the condemned the people clapped their hands with delight; for they were beginning to lose patience, as they had been waiting for hours. Favras climbed into the waggon, and the cure ' of St. Paul followed him, taking a seat at his left hand. The executioner mounted last. It was the same kind, benevolent-faced man we saw at the Bicetre prison when Guillotin's invention was first tested, and we shall meet him often, — this real hero of the epoch upon which we are entering. When the tumbrel started, there was a like movement in the crowd; and Favras, who saw several men press forward to secure places in the foremost rank, could not repress a start when he perceived among them, attired in the dress of a marketman, the nocturnal visitor who had promised to watch over him until the last. The waggon paused in front of the cathedral of Notre Dame, the central door of which stood open, so as to allow a view of the grand altar, aflame with candles, at the other end of the darkened church. The priest alighted first, then the marquis, and then the hangman, holding one end of the rope, which he had slipped around the prisoner's neck. The prisoner's wrists were tied rather loosely, in order to allow him some use of his hands. In his right hand they placed a lighted torch, in his left his death sentence. The condemned advanced to the portico and knelt. Close to him he saw the same pretended marketman and his companions, whom he had noticed when he left the Chatelet. This persistency of endeavour seemed to touch Favras deeply; but not a word of appeal passed his lips. A clerk from the Chatelet court was in attendance. "Bead, monsieur,” he said in a loud voice; then added, in a whisper, “If you wish to be saved, you have only to say the word.” Without making any reply, the prisoner began to read his sentence in a firm voice, which did not indicate the slightest mental perturbation. When the reading was concluded, he turned to the crowd and said, — “Being about to appear before my God, I forgive those men who, contrary to the dictates of their own consciences, have accused and convicted me of criminal designs. I love my king, and I shall die faithful to him. By so doing, I hope to leave an example which will be followed by many loyal hearts. The populace clamour for my death; they demand a victim! So be it. I am glad this test falls upon me instead of upon some weak-hearted person, who might be filled with despair by the sight of the scaffold. — Now, unless we have some further business here, gentlemen, suppose we move on; though, if you have no objection, I should like to enter the Hotel de Ville awhile. I desire to make my will, and I have heard that this request is never refused a condemned prisoner.” So, instead of going straight to the gallows, the waggon turned in the direction of the Hotel de Ville, on the opposite side of the square. A fierce yell went up from the crowd. “He's going to confess! he's going to confess!” was shouted on every side. On hearing this cry, a close observer might have noticed that a young man dressed in black, who was standing upon a horse-block at the corner of the Quay Pelletier, turned very pale. "Have no fears, Count Louis,” said a satirical voice near him; “the prisoner will not say a word in regard to what took place in the Place Royale.” The man in black turned hastily. The words had been uttered by a marketman, whose face could not be seen; for, as he spoke, he pulled his big hat far down over his eyes. If the young man still felt any misgivings, they were soon dispelled, however. As he reached the top of the flight of steps leading into the Hotel de Ville, Favras made a sign that he wished to speak; and on the instant every sound was hushed as if by magic. "Gentlemen, I hear it said around me that I am going into the Hotel de Ville to make a confession. It is not so; and in case there be any man among you — as is quite possible — who has any cause to fear such a confession on my part, he may rest easy, for I am only going to make my last will and testament.” With a firm step he passed under the gloomy archway and up the staircase to the room to which prisoners are generally conducted at such times. Three men dressed in black were there on duty, and one of them Favras recognised as the same clerk who had spoken to him near the cathedral. As the prisoner could not write with bound hands, he began to dictate his will. We have heard much said concerning the testament of Louis XVI., because much is always said of royal documents; but we have that of Favras before us, and we say to the public, “Bead and compare.” His will finished, Favras asked the privilege of reading it over before signing it. They untied his hands, and the papers were given to him. He read each sheet carefully, correcting such mistakes in spelling as the clerk had made, and then signed his name, Mahi de Favras, at the bottom of each page. After that, he held out his hands in order that they might be bound again, — a task which was performed this time by the executioner, who had not left his side for an instant. The dictation of the will had taken nearly two hours, and the people, many of whom had been waiting since early morning, became impatient, and began to murmur. It was the same ominous murmur, gradually changing into a dull angry roar, which had been heard on the same spot when De Launay was butchered, when Foulon was hanged, and Berthier torn asunder. It began to be whispered about, too, that Favras had been allowed to make his escape through a back street, and threats of hanging the municipal officers and demolishing the H6tel de Ville were already rife among the crowd. Fortunately, about nine o'clock the prisoner reappeared. The soldiers, who formed a living hedge around the square, were provided with torches; the windows of the neighbouring houses were brilliantly lighted. The gallows alone remained shrouded in darkness. The reappearance of the condemned was greeted with loud cries of exultation; for the crowd was not only sure now that he had not escaped, but that he could not escape. Favras glanced around him, and, seeing no carriage in waiting, he murmured, with an ironical smile, "Ah, royalty is forgetful. They were more polite to Count Horn than to me.”

“That was because Horn was an assassin, while you, — you are a martyr,” said a voice beside him. Favras turned, and saw the same marketman who had followed him so closely ever since he left the prison. "Farewell, monsieur,” said Favras; "I hope you will testify in my behalf, if need be.” As Favras placed his foot upon the first step leading up to the scaffold, a voice cried, "Jump, marquis!”

“Citizens, I die innocent; pray for me,” was the prisoner's only response, uttered in a clear but solemn voice. On the fourth step he paused again, and, in a voice as firm and clear as before, called out, "Citizens, I ask your prayers; I die innocent.” At the eighth step — that from which he was to be launched into eternity — he repeated a third time, “Citizens, I die innocent; pray for me.” Even then one of the hangman's assistants, who had mounted the steps with him, whispered, "Will you consent to be saved-”

“No, my friend; but may Heaven reward you for your good intentions!” Then, bowing to the executioner, who seemed to be awaiting an order instead of giving it, Favras said, "Do your duty.” He had hardly uttered the words when his body was swung off into space. During the scene of uproar that ensued the young man dressed in black jumped from the horse-block on which he was standing, and, after making his way through the crowd to the Pont Neuf, sprang into a carriage that was in waiting there, shouting to the coachman, “To the Luxembourg, as fast as you can go!” The horses started off at a gallop. The arrival of the occupant of the vehicle had been awaited with great impatience by Monsieur de Provence and two of his friends, as they would have dined two hours before but for their anxiety. The cook, too, was in despair, for this was the third dinner he had prepared; and this, which had been ready now at least ten minutes, would be utterly ruined in another quarter of an hour. At this critical moment they heard a carriage dash into the courtyard. Provence hurried to the window, but, unable to distinguish anything in the darkness, he left the window and ran towards the door; but before the future king of France reached it, — his gait being always somewhat halting, — the door opened, and the young man dressed in black entered. "All is over, your Highness!” he exclaimed. "Monsieur de Favras died without uttering a word.”

“Then we can eat our dinner with a tranquil mind, my dear Louis.”

“Yes, your Highness. By my faith, he was a gallant gentleman!”

“I quite agree with you, my dear fellow,” said his Royal Highness. "Let us drink to his health. And now to dinner, gentlemen.” As he spoke, the folding-doors were thrown open, and the illustrious host and his guests entered the dining-room.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE MONARCHY IS SAVED.

A Few days after the execution we have just described in detail, in order to warn our readers what gratitude they may expect from kings and princes if they sacrifice their lives for them, a man mounted upon a grey horse was slowly riding up the avenue at St. Cloud. The slowness of his progress should not be attributed to lassitude on the part of the rider, or fatigue on the part of his steed; for both had come only a short distance, and the foam that escaped from the horse's mouth was not the result of over-driving, but of unwelcome restraint. What retarded the horseman was the deep thought in which he was evidently absorbed, and possibly, too, his desire not to reach his destination until a certain hour, which had not yet arrived. He was a man about forty years of age, whose remarkable ugliness had something almost grand about it. His disproportionately large head, bloated cheeks, skin pitted with small-pox, animated expression, flashing eyes, and lips made for cutting irony and biting sarcasm, all indicated their possessor to be a man destined to occupy a prominent place and make a great stir in the world. But one vaguely felt that this man was the victim of one of those organic maladies against which the most vigorous constitutions struggle in vain; for his complexion was dull and grey, his eyes were weary and bloodshot, and his jaws overweighted with flesh, — the beginning of an unwholesome obesity. On reaching the top of the avenue, he turned unhesitatingly into the gate leading into the courtyard of the palace. On the right, between two buildings that formed a sort of lane, a man was standing, evidently waiting. He motioned the rider to come in that direction. A gate was standing open, and the attendant led the way through this gate. The rider followed him, this time into another courtyard. Here the man paused, and, after glancing round and satisfying himself that the place was deserted, he approached the rider, hat in hand. The rider, by leaning over his horse's neck, brought himself nearer on a level with him. "Is this Monsieur Weber-” he asked, in a low tone. "Comte de Mirabeau, is it not-”

“The same,” responded the rider, springing to the ground more lightly than one would have supposed possible. "Step inside, and be kind enough to wait a moment, while I take your horse to the stable myself.” As he spoke, he opened the door of a room overlooking the park. Mirabeau entered, and spent the few moments of waiting in removing the leather leggings that protected his silk stockings and irreproachably polished shoes from the dust. Weber returned very soon, according to promise. "Come, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, "the queen is waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me! Have I been so unfortunate as to keep her Majesty waiting- I thought I was exactly on time.”

“I mean that the queen is impatient to see you. Come, monsieur.” Weber opened a door leading out into the garden, and led the way through a labyrinth of paths to the loneliest and most elevated part of the park. There, in the midst of a clump of trees, whose bare gaunt branches stood out in bold relief against the cheerless sky, stood one of those summer-houses known by the name of kiosks. All the shutters of this pavilion had been tightly closed, except two, and even these were drawn so close together that only a ray or two of light could enter, as through the narrow loopholes in tower walls, -barely light enough, in fact, to make the darkness visible. A fine fire was blazing on the hearth, however, and two lighted candelabra were burning on the mantel-piece. Weber ushered the visitor into a sort of ante-chamber; then, opening the door of the principal room, announced, "The Comte Riquetti de Mirabeau!” then he stood aside to allow the count to pass in. If he had listened, he could certainly have heard the visitor's heart beating in his broad breast. On hearing the announcement, a lady at the farther end of the room arose and took several steps forward, but apparently not without a certain amount of hesitation, and even fear. This lady was the queen. Her heart, too, was throbbing violently. Here, before her very eyes, was this hated, dangerous man who had been accused of causing the horrors of the fifth and sixth of October, — the man to whom Royalty had turned once before in its hour of need, but whose services had been subsequently rejected through the interposition of self- interested courtiers, but who had since made his sovereigns realise the great necessity of conciliating him by two outbursts of wrath which seemed almost sublime in their power and majesty. The first of these was his apostrophe to the clergy; the second, the discourse in which he explained how and why the representatives of the people had constituted themselves the National Assembly. Mirabeau advanced with a grace and courtesy which the queen was surprised to see in a man of his energetic organisation; but after proceeding a few steps, he paused respectfully, and waited for his sovereign to speak,- which she did in a voice from which she did not entirely succeed in banishing all trace of emotion. "Monsieur de Mirabeau,” she began, "Doctor Gilbert assured us some time ago that you were willing to ally yourself with us.” Mirabeau bowed his assent. “Overtures were made to you, to which you responded by proposing a new cabinet,” continued the queen. Again Mirabeau bowed. "It was not our fault that this plan failed,” resumed the queen. "I am aware of that, madame; but the failure of the scheme was due, at least in part, to persons who profess to be devoted to you and to the interests of the monarchy.”

“Can you wonder at it-” asked the queen. "This is one of the greatest misfortunes of people in our position. Kings can no more choose their friends than they can choose their enemies; sometimes, too, they are compelled to accept the most ill-judged and disastrous devotion. We are surrounded by men who wish to save us, but who are really ruining us. Their determination to exclude all members of the Assembly from the king's cabinet is one specimen of their blundering. Shall I mention another- Would you believe it possible that one of my most faithful friends, a man who, I am sure, would willingly die for us, — would you believe it possible that this man, without giving us the slightest hint of his intentions, brought to our dinner- which is generally eaten under the eye of the public, as you know — the widow and children of Monsieur de Favras, all three dressed in deep mourning- My first impulse was to spring up and rush to them, and place the fatherless children of the man who had so courageously and nobly died for us between the king and myself. Every eye was riveted upon us; for every one was waiting to see what we should do. I turned, and whom do you suppose I saw standing behind me, not four steps from my arm-chair- Santerre, the man from the Faubourg Saint- Antoine! I sank back in my chair, almost crying with rage, yet not daring to bestow another glance on the widow and orphans. The royalists censure me for not making a public display of my sympathy; the revolutionists are furious, believing the visitors were brought at my request, or at least with my sanction. Oh, monsieur, there is indeed little hope for us when we are attacked by men of such signal ability, and defended only by men who are very estimable, doubtless, but who have no conception of our real position.” And the queen, sighing heavily, pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. "Madame,” said Mirabeau, touched by this allusion to misfortunes of which he was fully cognisant, "when you speak of men who attack you, I trust your Majesty does not allude to me. I professed monarchical principles even when I was aware of the corruption of the court, and understood neither the mind nor the heart of the august daughter of Maria Theresa; I fought for the rights of the throne even when my efforts only excited suspicion, and all my measures were misinterpreted into malicious snares; I served the king when I knew I had nothing to expect from him. What can I not achieve, now that my failing courage is revived by your confidence- for your Majesty's most gracious reception of me makes monarchical principles a pleasure, as well as a duty. It is late in the day, very late, I know, madame,” he continued, shaking his head. "In asking me to save it, the monarchy is perhaps only asking me to perish with it. If I had deliberated coolly, doubtless I should have chosen some other time for this interview than a day so closely following his Majesty's relinquishment to the deputies of the famous ' Bed Book,' or, in other words, of the honour of his friends.”

“Oh, monsieur, is it possible that you consider the king capable of such an act of treachery- that you do not know how the thing came about- The 'Bed Book,' though almost forced from the king, would never have been delivered up to the committee if they had not promised to guard it religiously. They kept their promise by having it printed. The committee was to blame, you see, not the king.”

“Alas! madame, you know the causes that led to a publication against which I earnestly protested, as a man of honour, and of which I disapproved as a deputy. At the very moment the king was swearing allegiance to the constitution, he had an authorised agent at Turin among the bitterest enemies of this very constitution While he was talking of financial reforms, and apparently acceding to those proposed by the Assembly, costly stables under the management of the Prince de Lambesc- whom the Parisians hate, and for whose execution they are daily clamouring — were established at Treves. Enormous amounts, too, have been paid to Artois and Conde", and other fugitives; and this in spite of a decree passed two months ago, which suppressed all such pensions. True, the king omitted to sanction this decree. What else could you expect, madame, when you remember that for more than two months strenuous efforts had been made in vain to find out what had become of more than sixty million francs- The king was entreated to say what had become of this money, but he refused; the members of the committee consequently considered themselves absolved from their promise, and ordered the 'Red Book' printed. Why, oh, why did the king give up a weapon that could be so cruelly used against him-”

“Ah, monsieur, if you were a member of the king's council, I am sure you would not advise such disastrous concessions on his part, — concessions which not only ruin, but dishonour him!”

“If I were honoured with a seat in the royal council, madame, it would be as a defender of a monarchy regulated by just laws, — as the champion, too, of liberty guaranteed by monarchical power. This liberty, madame, has three bitter enemies, — the clergy, the nobility, and the royal parliament; and not until after the clerical power is annihilated, and the royal parliament permanently dissolved, can the executive power of the Crown revive, and combine royal authority with popular legislation. As for the nobility, I do not see how we can do without them, for without the nobility there can be no monarchy; but they must be held in check, and this can only be effected by a coalition between the people and royalty. There you have my political policy. If it be the king's also, let him adopt it; if it is not the king's, let him repudiate it.”

“I do not know, monsieur, whether these are, or are not, the king's political views, but I know they are mine. Only tell me the means of arriving at this most desirable end, and I will listen, not only with avidity, but with heartfelt gratitude.” Mirabeau glanced at the queen, and saw that if she was not already convinced, she was in a fair way to be; and his triumph over so haughty a woman as Marie Antoinette flattered his vanity prodigiously. "We have lost Paris, or nearly lost it, madame,” he replied; "but there are still hosts of royalists scattered through the provinces, and it is upon them that we must chiefly depend. That is why I should strongly advise the king to leave Paris, but not France, -to retire, for instance, to Rouen, accompanied by his army, and from there issue ordinances which will be more popular to his people than the edicts of the Assembly. Then there need not be, nor, indeed, could there be, any civil war, as the king would be more of a revolutionist than the Revolution itself.”

“But does not this Revolution, whether it precedes or follows us, terrify you, monsieur-”

“Alas! madame, I realise, I believe, better than any one else, the part the Revolution must play in the matter, — it must have its piece of cake to quiet it. As I have already had the honour to say, the reconstruction of the monarchy on its former basis is an utter impossibility. All France, from the king to the poorest of his subjects, has united in demanding a new order of things, — either intentionally or unintentionally, directly or indirectly. It is not the old monarchy I shall attempt to defend, but a form of government very like that which has raised England to the zenith of its power and glory. Does not the thought of the imprisonment and death of Charles I. make his Majesty better content with the throne of William III. or of George I.-”

“Oh, Monsieur le Comte!” cried the queen, to whose mind the frightful vision seen at the Chateau de Taverney had been vividly recalled by Mirabeau's words, "if you will but establish such a monarchy for us, you shall see if we are such ingrates as we are represented to be!”

“That is precisely what I will do, madame,” replied Mirabeau, moved to enthusiasm in his turn. "If the king will but sustain me, and the queen encourage me, here at your feet I give you my oath as a nobleman that I will accomplish what I have promised, or perish in the attempt, with my armour on, fighting till the last.”

“Count, count, do not forget that it is not one woman alone who hears your vow, but a dynasty of five hundred years, — seventy kings of France, from Pharamond down to Louis V., who will be humiliated with us, if our throne should crumble into dust.”

“I know the sacred obligations I assume. The task is a prodigious one, but it is not greater than my will or my devotion. If I can be sure of the sympathy of my queen and the confidence of my king, I feel equal to any undertaking.”

“If such a pledge only is needed, I can promise you both,” replied the queen, with the Circe-like smile that won all hearts. She bowed as she spoke, and Mirabeau understood that his audience was at an end. The pride of the politician was satisfied, but his vanity as a gallant craved something more. "Madame,” he said, with bold but respectful courtesy, "when your august mother, the Empress Maria Theresa, admitted a subject into her presence, she never dismissed him without offering him her hand to kiss.” Then he stood silently waiting. She looked at this chained lion, who asked nothing better than to crouch at her feet; then, with a smile of triumph wreathing her lips, she slowly extended her hand, — that beautiful hand, cold as alabaster, and almost as transparent. Mirabeau, bowing low, pressed his lips upon it; then, throwing back his head proudly, exclaimed, "Madame, by this kiss the monarchy is saved.” He left the room deeply moved, but equally joyful and elated; for he, poor man of genius, firmly believed in the fulfilment of the prophecy he had just made.1

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE FARMER’S RETURN

While Marie Antoinette is forgetting, for a time at least, her sufferings as a woman in her anxiety for her safety as a queen, we will take our reader, weary, doubtless, of so much politics, back among more humble people, and into a less tainted atmosphere. Farmer Billot's return to the farm took place the second day after the famous night in which three important events occurred; namely, Sebastian Gilbert's flight to Paris, Isidore de Charny's departure for the same city, and Catherine's swoon on the road between Villers-Cotterets and Pisseleu. As they journeyed homeward together, Farmer Billot catechised Pitou closely about this fainting fit. The worthy man loved his farm and his wife well, but he loved his daughter better; and he racked his brain with all sorts of conjectures as to the probable cause of this accident. But to all his companion's questions, Pitou's invariable answer was, “I don't know;” and he deserved the more credit for this response, from the fact that Catherine had been cruelly frank in telling him all, and Pitou consequently did know perfectly well. Pitou loved Catherine devotedly, and admired her as much as he loved her; but though he had suffered deeply on account of his unrequited passion, he had never been reduced to a fainting condition in consequence of it; so, reasoning out the matter in his customary manner, he said to himself, — “If Mademoiselle Catherine loves Isidore so much that she swoons when he goes away, then she loves Isidore more than I love Mademoiselle Catherine, for I never swooned on parting from her. Now, if she loves him more than I love her, she must suffer more than I do, — in which case she suffers very much; and she does suffer more than I do, as she fainted, while I never swooned in my life.” Billot's anxiety increased so much as he approached his home that he sought relief in frequent blows on the flanks of the horse he had hired in Dammartin; and so effectual were his efforts in this direction that by four o'clock in the afternoon the cart drew up before the door of the farmhouse, and Billot jumped down and rushed into the house. But here he encountered an unexpected obstacle on the threshold of his daughter's chamber, in the shape of Doctor Renal, a man whom we have had occasion to mention before in this narrative, and who now declared that any excitement in Catherine's present condition would not only be dangerous, but might possibly prove fatal, as she was suffering from an attack of brain fever which threatened to reach a high degree of intensity. Doctor Renal was fighting the malady with all the remedies in vogue with medical experts in those days, mustard plasters and bleeding included; but, in spite of this vigorous treatment, the disease had not been conquered, and since morning Catherine had been a prey to violent delirium. In her delirium the girl had doubtless made some startling revelations; so, under pretext of shielding her from excitement, the doctor had kept her mother out of the room, as he now intended to keep the father. Mother Billot was sitting on a stool in one corner of the big fireplace, with her head buried in her hands, and apparently oblivious to all that was going on around her. Not until she heard Billot's voice did she seem to awake from her lethargy; then she tottered forward, and threw herself upon Billot's breast. Her husband gazed at her in a wild sort of way, as if he hardly knew her. "What has been going on here-” he asked. "Your daughter,” said the doctor, "has what is called acute meningitis; and patients suffering from that disease must be kept very quiet.”

“But is it dangerous- Will she die-”

“People die of all sorts of diseases; but if you will let me manage this case in my own way, your daughter will not die.”

“But can I not see her-”

“If I do allow you to see her, will you leave me in peace for three days-”

“I swear it.”

“Very well; come in.” The doctor opened the door. Catherine was lying on the bed, with eyes glittering wildly, cheeks flushed with fever, and her forehead covered with a wet bandage. She muttered a few incoherent words now and then, and as her father pressed his trembling lips upon her brow, he fancied he caught the name of Isidore. Faithful to his promise, the farmer retired to the kitchen, accompanied by his wife. Pitou was about to follow him, when the doctor suddenly caught him by the sleeve and whispered hastily, "Don't leave the farm-house; I want to see you.” Five minutes afterwards the door of the chamber opened again, and the doctor's voice was heard calling Pitou. "Eh! what do you want with me, doctor-”

“I want you to come and help Madame Clement hold Catherine while I bleed her for the third time.”

“For the third time!” moaned Mother Billot; "they're going to bleed her for the third time! oh, my God!”

“Woman, all this would never have happened if you had watched over your daughter better,” exclaimed Billot, sternly.

CHAPTER XIL. PITOU AS A NURSE.

Pitou was very much surprised to hear that he could be of any service in the sick-room; and he would have been even more amazed had he known that the aid he was expected to render was of a mental rather than physical nature. The doctor had noticed that Catherine generally coupled Pitou's name with Isidore's in her delirium; and from the difference in the tone in which she uttered these names, a close observer like Doctor Renal soon discovered that Ange Pitou must be the name of the friend, and Isidore that of the lover; so he thought it would be an advantage to the invalid to have the friend with her, in order that she might be able to talk of the lover. Now, everybody in Villers-Cotterets knew that George de Charny had been killed at Versailles on that terrible night, and that his brother Isidore had left for Paris on the evening of the following day. This conjuncture of facts made it very easy for the doctor to discover the real nature of Catherine's malady, and he reasoned something in this wise: — "What a person afflicted with brain trouble needs most is quiet. What will insure Catherine this tranquillity of mind- News of her absent lover's whereabouts. From whom can she obtain this news- From some one who knew about him. And who so likely to know about him as Pitou, who has just returned from Paris-” Another slight flow of blood reduced the fever somewhat; the patient's breathing became more regular; her pulse fell from one hundred and ten to eighty-five; and everything seemed to indicate a quiet night for the girl. Motioning to Pitou to follow him, the doctor, after having given Madame Clement all necessary instructions, returned to the kitchen, where they found poor Mother Billot still sitting, as if stunned, in the chimney-corner. "Come, come, take courage, Mother Billot!” said the doctor, cheerfully. "Don't be worried; your daughter won't have a bad night. But mind what I say, -neither you nor Father Billot are to set foot in the sick-room.”

“It is hard, very hard, that a mother cannot go into her child's room. Who is to take care of my poor girl-”

“You need feel no anxiety on that score. Haven’t we Madame Clement and Pitou-”

“What! Pitou-”

“Yes, Pitou. I find him very capable. I 'm going to take him with me now to the village to have a prescription put up. Pitou will bring it back, and Madame Clement will administer it according to my directions. If I should be needed, Pitou, who is to sit up with Madame Clement, will set his long legs going, and be at my house in ten minutes, eh, Pitou-”

“In five, doctor!” responded Pitou, with a confidence in himself that left no room for doubt in the minds of his hearers. Pitou kept his word; for in the course of a quarter of an hour he returned with a sedative adorned with the label of Master Pacquenaud, the village apothecary. On his return, Catherine was asleep, as the physician had prophesied; and near her, stretched out in a big armchair, with her feet resting on the andirons, was the nurse, a prey to the drowsiness peculiar to the honourable class to which she belonged. Having neither the right to sleep, nor the strength to keep awake, these nurses remind one of Virgil's unfortunate ghosts; forbidden to ascend to fields Elysian, and yet unable to endure the light of day, they haunt the realms of shadow, continually hovering between sleep and wakefulness. About an hour after Pitou's return, Catherine moved slightly, sighed, and opened her eyes. We must do Mother Clement the justice to say that she was at the patient's bedside almost instantly, stammering, "Here I am. Do you want anything, mademoiselle-”

“I 'm so thirsty,” murmured the sick girl, brought back to consciousness by physical suffering. The nurse poured a little of the sleeping potion Pitou had brought into a spoon, and inserted the spoon between Catherine's parched lips and closed teeth. The girl swallowed the medicine, and then let her head fall back on the pillow again; so the nurse, satisfied that her duty was fulfilled, went back to her comfortable arm-chair again. Pitou supposed Catherine had not seen him, and heaved a sigh; but Pitou was mistaken. When he assisted Madame Clement in raising the girl's head, Catherine had half opened her eyes, and, through the sort of mist which had seemed to obscure her vision for the last two or three days, she fancied she caught a glimpse of Pitou; but whether it was the real Pitou, or only one of those phantoms which had been appearing, only to vanish, ever since the fever set in, she could not tell. Pitou's sigh, though not a very loud one, somehow caused this phantom to make a deeper impression upon her mind than the others, and after being tormented some time with a doubt as to whether the person she had seen was a reality or not, she opened her eyes again, and looked around to see if he was still in the room. It is needless to say that he had not budged; and, seeing her eyes open again and fix themselves on him, Pitou's face brightened, and he involuntarily extended his arms.

“Pitou!” she murmured. “Ah, Mademoiselle Catherine, I knew that you loved him, but I had no idea you loved him so much as all this!”

The poor fellow uttered the words in such a manner that Catherine felt as sure of his sympathy as she did of his kindness of heart; so, without making the slightest attempt to conceal her feelings, the sick girl replied,- "Ah, Monsieur Pitou, you see how unhappy I am!”

After that the barrier was broken down, and the tide of conversation flowed on freely.

“Though it gives me no great pleasure to talk of Monsieur Isidore,” said Pitou, "I can give you some information in regard to him, if you would like to hear it.”

“What! have you seen him-”

“Yes.”

“And you know he reached Paris safely-”

“Yes; but he was obliged to go away almost immediately on a mission to Spain or Italy.”

When Catherine heard the words "go away,” her head sank back on her pillow, and she heaved a sigh, that was followed by a sudden burst of tears.

“If it is absolutely necessary that you should know where he is now, I will find out, mademoiselle,” said Pitou, sadly.

“From whom-”

“From Doctor Gilbert; or, if you prefer, I’ll go back to Paris for news of him. It wouldn’t take me long.”

“I thank you, my dear Pitou, but that is not necessary. I feel sure that I shall get a letter from him tomorrow morning.”

“A letter from him- The deuce! “exclaimed Pitou.

“Certainly. Is it very astonishing that he should write to me-”

“I'm not astonished that he should write to you. If I were allowed to, Heaven knows I would do it quick enough, — and long letters too; but I'm afraid -”

“Afraid of what, my friend-”

“That Monsieur Isidore's letter may fall into your father's hands.”

“My father's hands-” Pitou nodded.

“My father's hands-” repeated Catherine. "Isn't my father in Paris-”

“No, your father is here at the farm; but Doctor Renal forbade him to come into your room because you were delirious, and I think the doctor was right.”

“And why, Pitou-”

“Because your father doesn't appear to be very kindly disposed towards Monsieur Isidore; and once, when he heard you utter his name, he made a wry face, I can tell you.”

Catherine grasped Pitou's hands with a vehemence that frightened him. “You are right!” she exclaimed. "My letters must not fall into my father's hands; he would kill me! There is only one way to prevent it, but I hardly dare to tell you what it is.”

“I did not suppose you had so little confidence in me, mademoiselle”

“I do not lack confidence in thee, my dear Pitou”

“That sounds better,” said Pitou, much pleased.

“But it will be a hard task for thee, my friend.”

“Never mind about that.”

“Will you consent in advance to do what I ask-”

“Why, of course I will, if it's not an impossibility; so speak out.”

“Well, go to Mother Colombe-”

“The woman who keeps the candy-shop-”

“Yes, but she is the postmistress too; and I want youto go and tell her not to deliver my letters to any one but you, Pitou.”

“Me-” exclaimed Pitou, sighing dubiously. "Yes, that will be much the safest way, -that is, unless you are going to refuse to help me.”

“Me- Refuse- Why, Mademoiselle Catherine -”

“Thank you, my dear Pitou, thank you.”

“I’ll go; certainly I’ll go, -to-morrow.”

“But that will be too late. It must be done to-day.”

“So be it, mademoiselle! I'll go to-day; this very morning, — right away!”

“What a brave fellow you are, Pitou, and how much I love you!”

“Don't say such things to me, Mademoiselle Catherine; you set me wild.”

“See what time it is, Pitou.” Pitou looked at the girl's watch, which was hanging over the mantel. "It is half-past five,” he replied. "Well, then -”

“Well, mademoiselle-”

“Isn’t it time -”

“To go and see Mother Colombe- All right; I'm at your service. But you had better take a little medicine before I go. The doctor said you were to have a tea- spoonful every hour.”

“My dear Pitou, what you are doing for me is better than all the medicine on earth,” replied Catherine, with a glance that went straight to Pitou's heart. “But what excuse can you make for going- It won't do for any one here to suspect your errand.”

“Oh, you needn't worry about that! Shall I wake Madame Clement-”

“Oh, no; let the poor woman sleep. I don't need anything but-”

“But what-” Catherine smiled. "Oh, yes, I understand,” murmured Cupid's messenger. Then, after a moment's silence, he added, "Well, if it is there, you shall have it; if it isn't there -”

“If it isn't there-” repeated Catherine, anxiously. “Well, if it isn’t there, — for the sake of having you look at me as you did just now; for the sake of having you smile upon me, and call me your friend, and 'dear Pitou,' as you did just now, -well, if the letter isn’t there, why, I’ll go to Paris for it.”

“Good, kind-hearted fellow that you are!” murmured Catherine, following him with her eyes as he left the room. Then, tired by her long conversation, she sank back on her pillow again, and ten minutes later she could hardly tell herself whether what had happened was a dream or a reality; but this much is certain, — a sensation of sweet and refreshing calmness pervaded her entire being. As Pitou passed through the kitchen, Mother Billot raised her head and looked at him. For three days and nights she had scarcely closed her eyes; nor had she left her seat in the shadow of the big chimney-corner, where she could at least see the door of the room which she was forbidden to enter. "How is she, Pitou-” she asked. "Very comfortable.”

“Where are you going-”

“To Villers-Cotterets.”

“What for-” Pitou hesitated. Petty evasions were not much in his line. "Yes; what are you going to the village for- “demanded Father Billot, hastily emerging from his room. "The doctor said you were not to send for him unless there was some change.”

“But it seems to me it is a change when mademoiselle is so much better,” responded Pitou, promptly. Either because Father Billot was satisfied with this reasoning, or because he did not wish to contradict a person who brought him such good news, he made no further objection to Pitou's departure. He reached Villers-Cotterets at quarter-past six, and woke Doctor Raynal to tell him how much better Catherine was, and to ask if anything different should be done. The doctor questioned him, and soon succeeded in discovering what had taken place almost as correctly as if he had been present. He promised to call at the farm-house in the course of the morning, however, and gave the zealous nurse to understand that the patient was to have frequent doses from the same bottle; which Pitou, after long deliberation over this enigmatical order, finally construed as meaning that he was to continue his chats about Isidore with the young girl. From the doctor's he went straight to Mother Colombe's, who lived at the end of the Hue Lormet, at the other end of the village. Mother Colombe was a great friend of his Aunt Angelica, hut this fact did not prevent her from appreciating the nephew. Realising the necessity of resorting to persuasion, if not to bribery, in a case like this, he began operations by purchasing a lavish supply of gingerbread and candy. These purchases made and paid for, he ventured to ask the desired favour. He found he had grave difficulties to contend with, however. Letters could be delivered only to those persons to whom they were addressed; or, at least, only to such persons as brought a written order from the owners of said letters. Mother Colombe did not doubt Pitou's word, but she insisted upon his having a written order. Pitou saw that he must make a sacrifice: so he promised to bring a written receipt for the letter the following day; and he strengthened this promise with a second lavish investment in candy and gingerbread. He also promised to bring an order for any other letters that might come for Catherine. How could Mother Colombe refuse a favour to such a persuasive person, especially to a person who persuaded in such a sweet and liberal manner- So, after a few more feeble objections, Mother Colombe consented. As he followed the good woman from her house to the post-office, he paused at the fountain, and, applying his mouth to one of the jets, he absorbed the entire stream of water, not losing a single drop for at least five minutes. As he turned from the fountain he glanced around the square, and saw that a large staging, or platform, was in course of erection in the middle of it. This reminded him that there had been considerable talk, prior to his departure for Paris, of a convention to be held at Villers-Cotterets; though interests of a personal nature had caused him to forget this not unimportant political event. He at once thought of the twenty-five louis Doctor Gilbert had given him to aid in putting the Haramont National Guard on the best possible footing; and he straightened himself up proudly as he thought of the fine figure he and his might present, — thanks to these twenty-five gold pieces. This, too, helped him to digest the two huge squares of gingerbread and four big sticks of barley-sugar, which, added to the large quantity of water he had swallowed, might otherwise have proved too much for his digestive powers, and lain too heavily upon his stomach, if he had not also possessed that invaluable aid to digestion which we call self-esteem.

CHAPTER L. PITOU AS A GEOGRAPHER.

While Pitou was drinking and digesting and cogitating, Mother Colombe entered the post-office; but this did not trouble him in the least, as he knew that with fifteen of his long strides he could easily overtake her. He took these fifteen long strides, and reached the door of the post- office just as Madame Colombe emerged from it with a letter in her hand, — a carefully folded missive, neatly fastened with a waxen seal, and addressed to Catherine Billot. Mother Colombe delivered this letter to her munificent customer according to agreement, and Pitou set out forthwith for Pisseleu, half joyful, half sorrowful,-joyful, because he had good news for Catherine; sorrowful, because the source of the young girl's happiness precluded any possibility of success as far as his own suit was concerned. Despite his disappointment, the messenger was so generous-hearted that, in order to get this confounded letter to Catherine as soon as possible, he unconsciously quickened his pace from a walk into a trot, and from a trot into a gallop. About fifty yards from the farm-house he paused suddenly, remembering that if he arrived there panting and covered with sweat, Father Billot's suspicions might be aroused; so he resolved to accomplish the rest of the journey in a more dignified manner. As he passed the side of the house where Catherine's window was located, he saw that the nurse had thrown back one side of the window, probably to let fresh air into the apartment. Glancing into the room as he passed, he saw that Catherine was awake: so, looking around to satisfy himself that no other person was in sight, he tossed the letter in through the opening with such skill that it lighted upon her pillow; then, without waiting for any expression of thanks,.he proceeded towards the door of the house, where he found Farmer Billot standing upon the threshold. But for a projection in the side of the house, the farmer would certainly have seen what had just taken place; and, in his present frame of mind, Heaven only knows what might have happened. Honest Pitou no sooner found himself thus unexpectedly face to face with the farmer, than he blushed up to his very ears, in spite of himself. "How you frightened me! “he exclaimed. "Frightened! you, Pitou,-a captain in the National Guard, one of the takers of the Bastille, frightened!”

“What of that- There are moments when one is not expecting -”

“Yes; especially if a fellow is expecting to meet a girl, and encounters the father, eh-”

“You can hardly say that in this case, as I could have had no expectation of seeing Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“Have you any report to make-”

“To whom-”

“To Catherine.”

“I am to report that Doctor Raynal will call in the course of the day; but anybody else can tell her that just as well as I can.”. "You must be hungry.”

“Hungry- I should say not!”

“What! you're not hungry-” cried the farmer, much surprised. Pitou saw that he had made a terrible blunder. For Pitou not to be hungry at eight o'clock in the morning indicated a decided derangement in the equilibrium of nature. "Well, yes; I believe I am hungry,” said he. "Go in and eat, then. The hands are at breakfast now; but they 've saved a place for you.” Pitou entered the house, and Billot watched him as the young man seated himself at the upper end of the table and attacked the round loaf and dish of bacon; for though Pitou could not do many things at one time, whatever he did, he did well. Intrusted with a commission by Catherine, he executed it well; invited to breakfast by Billot, he breakfasted well. When he had nearly finished his repast, Catherine's door* opened, and Madame Clement entered the kitchen; and as soon as she appeared, Madame Billot hastened to her, and Billot re-entered the house, for both were desirous of inquiring for Catherine. "She is doing very well now, though she seems a little inclined to become delirious again.”

“Delirious again- “repeated the farmer. “Oh, my poor child! “murmured Mother Billot. "Yes; she talks about a city she calls Sardinia, and a country named Turin, and she has been begging me to call Monsieur Pitou in to tell her which is the city and which is the country.”

“All right!” exclaimed Pitou, swallowing the remaining contents of his mug of cider at a single draught, and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. But a glance at Father Billot checked him, and he added, "That is, if Monsieur Billot thinks it well for me to give mademoiselle the information she wants.”

“Why not-” interposed Mother Billot. "If the poor child wants you, go to her, of course. Besides, didn't Doctor Raynal say you were a capital hand in a sickroom-”

“My goodness! “said Pitou, naively, "just ask Madame Clement how we had to watch mademoiselle all night. She never slept a wink, any more than I did.” This indicated a vast amount of cunning on Pitou's part; for, as the nurse had slept from midnight until six o'clock, the audacious assertion that she had not slept a wink converted her into a friend,-yes, more than a friend, an.accomplice. "Very well; if Catherine wants to see you, go to her,” replied Father Billot. "Perhaps the time will come when she’ll ask for her mother and me.” Pitou felt that there was danger in the air, and, though quite ready to face the storm if absolutely necessary, promptly decided to provide himself with a place of shelter› as well. This shelter was Haramont, where he was king. King! he was more than king, — he was commander of the National Guard; he was Lafayette. Besides, many duties summoned him to Haramont, and he resolved to return there as soon as he had made satisfactory arrangements with Catherine. When he re-entered the sick-room, he found the patient awaiting him most impatiently. In fact, from the brilliant colour in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes, one might indeed have supposed, like Madame Clement, that the fever had returned again. “Ah, it is you!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were never coming.”

“It was not my fault; your father detained me. I'm afraid he suspects something. Besides, I didn't hurry, as I knew you had what you wanted most,” added the honest fellow, with a sigh. "Yes, Pitou, yes; and I thank you with all my heart. You are very kind, and I do love you ever so much.”

“You are very kind yourself, mademoiselle,” Pitou answered, almost ready to cry, as he saw how entirely this friendship was the reflection of her love for another; for modest as he was, he could not help feeling humiliated at the idea of playing moon to Isidore's sun, so he added quickly, "I came because they told me you wanted to ask me something.” Catherine placed her hand on her heart. She was feeling for Isidore's letter, as if to gain courage from it; then she exclaimed, "Ah, Pitou, you are so wise! Can you tell me anything about Sardinia- “Pitou endeavoured to recall all of his limited knowledge of geography. "Wait a minute, wait a minute, mademoiselle. I ought to know. Wait a minute. If I could only remember the first word, I should be all right.”

“Try, Pitou; do try,” entreated Catherine. "That is precisely what I am doing. Sardinia — Sardinia. Ah! I have it now. Sardinia, so named by the Romans, is one of the three largest islands in the Mediterranean Sea. It lies south of Corsica, from which it is separated by the Straits of Bonifacio. The capital is Cagliari. There, that is all I know about Sardinia, Mademoiselle Catherine!”

“How grand one must feel to know so much! Now I have heard all there is to hear about Sardinia, tell me something about Turin.”

“Turin- Certainly. I'm sure nothing would please me better; that is, if I can remember. Turin — Turin! Oh, yes; Turin, the capital of Piedmont. Yes, I know now. Turin, called by the ancients Jiodincemagus Taurasia and Augusta Taurinorum, and now the capital of Piedmont and of the Sardinian states, situated on the Po and the Dora Ripaira, is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. Population, one hundred and twenty-five thousand; reigning monarch, Charles Emmanuel. There's your Turin, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“But how far is Turin from Pisseleu, Monsieur Pitou-”

“Goodness gracious! I can tell you how far Turin is from Paris; but from Pisseleu, that's quite another matter.”

“Well, tell me first how far it is from Paris, and then we can add the eighteen leagues between Paris and Pisseleu.”

“That's so,” responded Pitou; then, as if going on with a recitation, he continued, "Distance from Paris two hundred and six leagues; from Rome, one hundred and forty; from Constantinople -”

“I only want to know the distance from Paris. Two hundred and six leagues, plus eighteen leagues, make two hundred and twenty-four leagues. Only three days ago he was here, but half a league from me; now — now-"she added, bursting into tears, and wringing her hands, "now, he is two hundred and twenty-four leagues from me!”

“No, no, not yet,” Pitou corrected timidly. "He started only day before yesterday, and he is scarcely halfway now.”

“Where is he, do you think-”

“I can't say, really. Abbe' Fortier taught us all about the different countries and their capitals, but he taught us nothing about the roads leading to them.”

“So that is all you know about Turin, Pitou-”

“Yes,” replied the geographer, ashamed of his very limited store of knowledge, “except that Turin is a great place for aristocrats.”

“What do you mean by that-”

“I mean that Turin is a place of refuge for all the princes and princesses and fugitives, like D'Artois, Conde", and Madame de Polignac, — a lot of conspirators against the nation, who will have their heads chopped off by Monsieur Guillotin's new machine some day, I hope.”

“Oh, Monsieur Pitou! how can you be so cruel!”

“Cruel- Me- Yes, yes, I see; Monsieur Isidore is one of the aristocrats, and you 're alarmed on his account.” Then, with one of those ponderous sighs we have mentioned more than once, he said, "Don't let us talk any more about that. Let us talk of yourself, Mademoiselle Catherine, and of how I can be most useful to you.”

“My dear Pitou, the letter I received this morning is probably not the only one I shall receive.”

“And you want me to get the others for you, just as I did this one-”

“Yes. My father, you see, will watch me so closely that I sha'n't be able to go to the village at all, I 'm afraid.”

“But he is watching me, too, I can tell you; I see it in his eye.”

“Yes; but he can't follow you to Haramont, Pitou, and we can agree upon some safe hiding-place for the letters.”

“Yes; such as the hollow in the big willow-tree, near the place where I found you in that swoon, for example.”

“Exactly; that is just on the edge of the farm, yet out of sight from the windows. So it is understood that the letters shall be placed there-”

“Yes; but how will you manage to go after the letters-”

“Why, you see I shall try to get well quickly now,” replied Catherine, with a smile full of hope and determination. Poor Pitou heaved the heaviest of sighs. Just then the door opened, and Doctor Raynal appeared.

CHAPTER LI. PITOU AS A CAPTAIN.

Doctor Ratnal's visit occurred just in time to facilitate Pitou's departure. When the physician approached his patient, he perceived the change which had taken place in her condition since the evening before, at a glance. Catherine smiled upon him and held out her wrist. “If it were not for the pleasure of touching your pretty hand, I shouldn't take your pulse, my dear Catherine,” said the doctor; "for I 'm sure it isn't beating at the rate of more than seventy-five a minute.”

“I 'm certainly very much better, doctor. Your medicine has worked wonders.”

“My medicine! Hum-m-m! Of course, my child, I am very willing to take all the credit of your quick recovery to myself; but, vain as I am, I must give part of the credit to my assistant, Pitou.” Then, glancing heavenward, he added, “Oh, Nature, mysterious Isis, what wonderful secrets thou hidest even from those who know how to question thee! “Then, turning to the door, he called out, "Come in, now, you gloomy-faced father and anxious-eyed mother; come in and see your dear invalid! She needs only your love and caresses to complete her recovery now.” Father and Mother Billot instantly obeyed the doctor's summons, — the father with some remnant of suspicion still on his face; the mother's countenance all radiant with joy. As they stepped into the room, Pitou slipped out, after responding to Catherine's farewell glance with a knowing wink. Let us leave our pretty invalid now to regain health and hope under the caresses of her parents, and follow the worthy youth who had just performed so unobtrusively and unconsciously one of the most difficult tasks Christianity imposes upon its followers; namely, forgetfulness of self, united with devotion to one's neighbour. Though he did not stop to think of the greatness of his deed, he did feel, through the commendations of that inward voice in every human breast, that he had done a good and noble thing from a human, though perhaps not from a moral, standpoint. Humanity was one of the most popular words of the day; and Pitou, who had often uttered it without knowing precisely what it implied, now put his humanity into practice, without really knowing what he had done. Instead of being Isidore de Charny's rival, he had now become Catherine's confidant; so, instead of repulsing him roughly, as she had done on his return from his first visit to Paris, she petted him, and treated him with tender familiarity. As her confidant, he had attained a place in her regard to which he could never have aspired as Isidore's rival; and, in order to insure a continuance of these friendly relations, Pitou took to Mother Colombe an almost illegible note given him by Catherine, authorising him to call for any letters which might come addressed to her. To this written order Pitou added Catherine's verbal promise that she would give all the Pisseleu labourers a treat of gingerbread and candy on Saint Martin's day; and, thanks to this order and promise, Mother Colombe agreed to hold any letters which might come for Catherine until Pitou called for them. This matter settled, Pitou wended his way homeward. The gallant captain's return to Haramont was a public event. His hasty departure for Paris had given rise to all sorts of conflicting rumours; for ever since the arrival of an order from one of Lafayette's aides for the seizure of sundry guns at Abbe” Fortier's, the inhabitants of the village had entertained no doubts whatever of Pitou's political importance. Some persons declared that he had been summoned to Paris by Doctor Gilbert; others, that Lafayette had sent for him; and some few even declared that he had been sent for by the king himself. Though Pitou was ignorant of these rumours concerning his personal importance, he unquestionably set his foot upon his native heath with an air of dignity that made a deep impression upon everybody. He had scarcely reached home before the drummer called to see him; and he ordered the lad to announce a dress- parade on the village square the following Sunday. That same evening he called on Master Dulauroy, the tailor, to ascertain if he would undertake the job of providing the Haramont National Guards with uniforms, and at what price. The tailor, after prolonged arithmetical calculations of the length and breadth represented by the thirty-three men, including officers, subalterns, and privates, that composed this formidable body of troops, declared that he could not furnish thirty-three coats and thirty-three pairs of trousers for less than thirty-three louis; and, even then, Pitou must not expect entirely new cloth. Pitou protested, declaring that he had it from Lafayette's own lips that he had clothed the civic guard of France at the rate of twenty-five francs per man, or seventy-five millions for the entire number. Master Dulauroy replied that, in such a large contract, small losses might be retrieved in the grand total; but the very best he could do — if he were to hang for it — was to uniform the Haramont Guards for twenty-two francs a man: and, even then, a cash payment must be made in advance, as he could not undertake such a large contract on credit. Pitou carelessly pulled a handful of gold from his pocket, and remarked that there was no trouble about a cash settlement, though he was limited as regards price; and if Master Dulauroy would not furnish the thirty-three uniforms for twenty-five golden louis, the captain would be obliged to apply to Master Bliguy,- Dulauroy's rival in business, — though he had given him — Dulauroy — the preference, on account of his being a personal friend of Pitou's aunt; for Pitou was not sorry to have Aunt Angelica hear in this roundabout way that he had his pockets full of gold. The threat of taking such a colossal order elsewhere had the desired effect; and Master Dulauroy consented to the proposed terms, and even acceded to Pitou's demand that the captain's suit should be made of new cloth, and adorned with epaulets without extra charge. In case of a failure to deliver the goods punctually, the tailor would be held personally responsible for causing the postponement of the ceremony of the public confederation of Villers-Cotterets and several neighbouring villages, which was to take place one week from the following day. The next morning, after parade, Pitou summoned Lieutenant Desire” Maniquet and Sergeant Claude Tellier, and requested them to invite their men, in behalf of himself, Doctor Gilbert, General Lafayette, and the king, to call upon Master Dulauroy, the tailor of Villers-Cotterets, who had an important communication to make to them. Five minutes later the thirty-one privates of the Haramont National Guard, together with Sergeant Tellier and Lieutenant De'sire' Maniquet, were hastening along the road to Villers-Cotterets. That night the Haramont National Guard gave their captain a serenade. The air was alive with Roman candles, pin-wheels, and powder crackers, and several voices — slightly inebriated voices, to be sure — shouted vociferously, at intervals, "Long live Ange Pitou, the Father of the People!” Fortier Gives Fresh Proof Of His Anti-Revolutionary Spirit”

CHAPTER LII. IN WHICH ABBE FORTIER GIVES FRESH PROOF OF HIS ANTI- REVOLUTIONARY SPIRIT.

The following Sunday the inhabitants of Villers-Cotterets were awakened by the drummer vigorously beating his call to arms at five o'clock in the morning. The ceremonies were not to begin until ten; but five hours would hardly suffice for the completion of what still remained to be done. A large platform had been erected in the middle of the square. This structure was intended to serve as one of those much-talked-of Patriot Altars, and Abbe” Fortier had been invited to come and celebrate mass there on Sunday, October 18th, instead of in his own church. To make this stage worthy of its exalted purpose, it was necessary to solicit donations from the well to-do persons in the community: and it must be admitted that every one had responded most generously, — one person contributing a carpet, another an altar-cloth, a third proffering silk hangings, and the fourth a sacred picture; but, as the weather was very variable at that season of the year, no one liked to risk his contribution before the appointed time. But the brightness and warmth of the sun when it rose on the eventful morning indicated one of those beautiful autumn days which rival the balmiest days of spring; and by nine o'clock the altar was bedecked with a superb Aubusson carpet, a lace-trimmed cloth, and a picture representing John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness. It was surmounted, too, by a velvet canopy fringed with gold, from which hung handsome brocade curtains. All the young girls of the neighbourhood, dressed in white, wearing tricoloured sashes, and carrying green boughs in their hands, were to be grouped around the altar; and after mass the men. were to take the oath of allegiance to the constitution. The Villers-Cotterets National Guards, under arms since eight o'clock, awaited the coming of similar organisations from the surrounding villages; and it is needless to say that, of all the companies expected, the one awaited most impatiently was the Haramont Guards, "- it having been noised abroad that, thanks to Pitou's influence and the king's bounty, the thirty-three men composing it would be in uniform. Master Dulauroy's shop had been thronged all the week with inquisitive visitors, eager to watch the ten workmen engaged upon this gigantic order, unparalleled in Villers- Cotterets within the memory of man. The last uniform, that of the captain,-for Pitou had insisted that his men should be served first, — the last uniform had been delivered, according to contract, at exactly fifty-nine minutes past eleven o'clock Saturday night, and Pitou had paid Master Duluuroy his twenty-five louis then and there. At nine o'clock precisely the sound of a fife and drum was heard, accompanied with shouts of delight and admiration; and in the distance Pitou could be seen, mounted upon his white horse, or rather the white horse belonging to his lieutenant, Desire Maniquet. Aunt Angelica hardly recognised her nephew in this martial guise, and narrowly escaped being trampled by the white horse while she was endeavouring to inspect Pitou from under that animal's very nose. Pitou made a majestic solute with his sword, and, in tones loud enough to be heard for twenty rods around, called out, "Good-day, Madame Angelica!” Completely crushed by this formal greeting, the antiquated maiden staggered back, and, lifting her eyes heavenward, exclaimed, — "Unfortunate boy! his honours have turned his head He no longer knows his own aunt!” Pitou passed majestically along to the foot of the altar,- the place of honour having been assigned to the Haramont Guards. There he dismounted, and intrusted his steed to the care of an urchin, to whom he gave the munificent sum of six sous; which fact being immediately reported to Aunt Angelica, that lady muttered, "Simpleton! does he fancy himself a millionaire- “But after a moment's reflection she added, in milder tones: "I made a mistake, I do believe, when I quarrelled with him. Aunts may inherit property from nephews.” But neither of these remarks reached the ears of Pitou, who was simply in ecstasy; for among the girls adorned with tricoloured ribbons, and carrying green branches, he saw Catherine. She was still very pale, for she had hardly recovered from her illness; but she was more beautiful in her pallor than any other girl in the ruddiest health. She was pale, but happy; for that very morning, thanks to Pitou, she had found a letter in the willow-tree. Suddenly a great hubbub was heard in the direction of the Rue Soissons, and the cause of this tumult, as well as the threatening tones that were distinctly audible, was this: Everybody knew that Abbe” Fortier had been requested to celebrate mass at this patriot altar, and that the sacred vessels and other accessories were to be brought from the church for that purpose. Monsieur de Longpre, the mayor of Villers-Cotterets, was not on very friendly terms with Abbe” Fortier, having had quite a heated controversy with him on the occasion of the forcible seizure of the arms concealed in the abbe's house; so, knowing that gentleman's obstinate and irascible temperament, he had contented himself with merely sending him the following notice, taken from the official programme for the ceremonial: — “Mass will be celebrated at the Patriot Altar by Abbe Fortier, beginning at ten o'clock in the morning. “The sacred vessels and other articles needed for the service will be transported from the church to the Patriot Altar under the supervision of Abbe Fortier.” By nine o'clock the Patriot Altar, as we have previously remarked, was decked out with its carpet, curtains, and linen, and its picture of John the Baptist preaching in the wilderness; only the candles, crucifix, the tabernacle containing the consecrated wafer, and such other vessels as are needed in the celebration of the mass were lacking. At half-past nine these articles had not appeared; the mayor, scenting trouble in the air, dispatched his secretary to the priest's house. The messenger soon returned with the intelligence that the priest had been seized with a severe attack of gout; that the beadle had sprained his foot; that the two choristers were quite ill; and that the church doors were locked and barred. An ominous murmur began to rise from the populace, and there was even talk of battering down the church doors to secure possession of the sacred vessels, and of dragging the priest by force to the altar. But the mayor, being of a peaceable disposition, protested against any resort to violence, and offered to go in person to treat with the abbe. He accordingly hastened to the Rue Soissons, but found the priest's door as securely bolted as the doors of the church. Having no battering-ram or catapult at hand to force the door, a locksmith was sent for; but, as he was about to begin operations, the door opened, and Fortier appeared upon the threshold. "Back, renegades!” he shouted; "back, ye Amalekites and Sodomites! Do not set your impious feet upon the threshold of God's servant!”

“Pardon me,” interposed the mayor, in his most conciliatory manner, — "pardon me; we only came to inquire whether you will or will not celebrate mass upon our country's altar.”

“Celebrate mass at that altar!” shouted the priest, relapsing into one of those fits of holy wrath to which he was so prone. "Do you expect me to sanction revolt, rebellion, and ingratitude; to ask God to curse virtue and bless crime- Scarcely, Monsieur le Maire. You wish to know whether I will celebrate your sacrilegious mass or not. Very well, then; no, no, No, I will not!”

“Very well; you are a free citizen, Monsieur Abbe", and no one can compel you to do it against your will.”

“It is very fortunate for me that I am, and that there is no way of compelling me to do it, as you say. You are very kind, really too kind, Monsieur le Maire; “and, with a most insolent sneer, he began to close the door in the very faces of the authorities. But just at that moment a man darted out from the crowd, and, with one violent blow, dashed open the door, almost overturning the priest, so vigorous was the attack. The man was Billot. A profound silence followed. Every one felt that a terrible scene was about to ensue between the two men; but, though he was obliged to exert all his strength to hold the door open, it was in a perfectly calm, almost gentle, voice that he asked, turning to the mayor, — "Pardon me, but what did you say, Monsieur le Make- Did you say that if the abbe here was unwilling to perform the duties of his office, he could not be compelled to do it-”

“Yes,” stammered Monsieur Longpre; "yes, I did say something to that effect, I believe.”

“Then you made a great mistake, Monsieur le Maire; and a mistake it is not well to make too often in times like these.”

“Back, sacrilegious monster! Back, impious man! Back, renegade! Back, heretic! “cried the abbe'. "Hold your tongue, or it will be the worse for you!” responded Billot. "I am not disposed to insult you; 1 merely wish to discuss the matter. The mayor here seems to think you cannot be compelled to say mass. I claim that you can, and I can prove it. I say that any man who receives a salary is obliged to perform the work for which this salary is paid. For instance, here is the mayor's secretary; his honour sends him to you with the programme for these ceremonies. Very well; it would never enter his brain to tell the mayor he would rather not take this programme to Monsieur Fortier, would it-”

“No, Monsieur Billot; no, of course not,” responded the secretary, naively. "And here is our friend the chief of police,” continued Billot; "when his honour the mayor sent for him just now, do you suppose that official even so much as thought of replying, ' Maintain order if you like, but you must maintain it without any help of mine!' Did you make any such answer as that, Mr. Chief of Police-”

“Of course not. It was my duty to come, and I came,” replied that functionary, promptly. "Do you hear that, Monsieur Abbe-” inquired Billot. "Very well, then; how does it happen that you, who are expected to set a good example, should alone consider yourself exempt from duty- And you not only do that, but set us an example of disorder and wrongdoing as well.”

“Oh! but the Church is independent,” responded the priest, seeing that some defence was absolutely necessary; "the Church obeys nobody, and is accountable only to herself.”

“That's the mischief of it,” responded Billot. "You set up another power in the country; you are either a citizen or not a citizen, a Frenchman or a foreigner. If you get your pay from Pitt of England, from Cobourg or Kaunitz, obey Pitt or Cobourg or Kaunitz, as the case may be; but if you are a Frenchman, if you are a citizen of France, if it is the nation that pays you, — why, obey the nation.”

“Yes, yes!” cried three hundred voices approvingly. "So, in the name of the nation, priest,” continued Billot, placing a powerful hand on the abbe's shoulder, -"so, in the name of the nation, I call upon you to fulfil your mission of peace, and ask that the blessing of Heaven, the bounty of Providence, and the mercy of Christ the Lord may descend upon your fellow citizens and your country. Come, come, I say!”

“Bravo, Billot, bravo!” resounded from every side. "To the altar with the priest! To the altar with him! “Encouraged by these shouts of approval, the farmer dragged the priest from the shelter of his doorway, — this man who was probably the first priest in all France to openly give the signal for a counter-revolution. The abbe saw that resistance was an impossibility. "Ah, well, martyrdom, then! “he exclaimed. “I ask for martyrdom; I desire martyrdom; I demand martyrdom! “Then, in a full, resonant voice, he intoned the Libera nos, Domine. It was this strange procession which was noisily approaching the public square a few moments after Pitou had proudly stationed himself with his men near the Patriot Altar.

CHAPTER LIII. THE DECLARATION OF THE RIGHTS OF MAN.

Pitou, almost believing that he was about to be called upon to defend some new Foulon or Berthier, shouted, “To arms!” and placed himself at the head of his men; but, as the crowd divided, he saw Abbe” Fortier approaching, dragged along by Billot, and lacking only a palm- branch to make him look like one of the Christian martyrs forced into the arena in ancient times; and it was only natural that Pitou should rush to the defence of his former teacher, of whose offence he was as yet ignorant. "Oh, Monsieur Billot!” he exclaimed, throwing himself in front of the farmer. "Oh, father!” cried Catherine, with a movement so exactly like Pitou's that one might have supposed they had been trained by the same stage manager. But it required a glance only from Billot to check both of them; for there was something alike of the lion and the eagle in this man, who seemed the very incarnation of the national uprising. On reaching the foot of the altar he let go his hold upon the priest of his own accord, and, pointing to the platform, said: "There is the altar of thy country, at which thou hast refused to officiate, but which I now declare thee unworthy to approach. To ascend these sacred steps, the heart should be filled with a love of liberty, devotion to country, and love of humanity. Priest, dost thou desire the enfranchisement of the world- Priest, art thou devoted to thy country- Priest, lovest thou thy neighbour- If thou dost, then ascend the steps of the altar, and implore the blessing of God upon our cause; if not, yield thy place to one more worthy, and get thee hence!”

“Wretch!” exclaimed the priest, shaking his fist threateningly at Billot; "thou knowest not upon whom thou hast declared war!”

“But I do know!” retorted Billot. "It is against wolves, and foxes, and serpents, — against whatsoever bites, and stings, and stabs in the dark! Well,” smiting his broad breast with both his powerful hands as he spoke, “stab, sting, bite! Here I am!” A breathless silence followed; for all were spell-bound with admiration and awe at Billot's audacity in thus offering himself as a target for the shafts of that dread power, which, at that epoch, still held more than half the world in its thrall, -the Church. There was no longer any such thing as a mayor, or assistant mayor, or municipal officers; there was no one but Billot. Monsieur de Longpre approached. "But what are we to do, -we have no priest-” he remarked; for Abbe Fortier had walked away, — the crowd dividing in silence to let him pass, and then closing in again. "And what of that-”

“Having no priest, we can have no mass.”

“I will tell you what we will have in place of the mass! “cried Billot, like one truly inspired. "Ascend to the altar of your country with me, Monsieur le Maire, and you, too, Pitou, — one on my right hand, the other on my left. And now, what we will have in place of the mass — give ear. each one of you — is the Declaration of Human Rights, the Creed of Liberty, the Gospel of the Future.” There was an enthusiastic clapping of hands; for these people, only just released from bondage, were more eager for a knowledge of the rights they were to enjoy than for that which Fortier called the Heavenly Word. Standing between the representatives of civic and military power, Billot, extending his hand, repeated from memory — for it will be remembered that the worthy farmer did not know how to read — the following lines: “Declaration Op The Eights Of Man. “1. Men are born and should remain free and with equal rights. “2. The object of all political associations should be the preservation of the natural and inalienable rights of the man and citizen. These rights are: liberty, property, security, and resistance to oppression.” The words ''resistance to oppression” were uttered as by a man who had seen the walls of the Bastille totter and fall, and who knew that no one can resist the power of the people when they choose to exert it. "3. The principle of sovereignty resides in the nation. No legislative body or individual can rightfully exercise authority that does not emanate directly from the nation. “4. Liberty consists in the power to do anything that is not injurious to others. “5. The law has the right to forbid only such actions as are detrimental to society. Anything not forbidden by law cannot be prevented; and no one can be compelled to do what the law does not ordain he shall do. “6. Law is the expression of the popular will.” Then, pausing, and lifting his finger impressively, he con- tinned, “Listen to this, fellow-citizens; listen attentively: “All citizens have a right to concur personally, or through their representatives, in the formation of the law, which should be the same for all, whether it protects or whether it punishes. All citizens, being equal before the law, are equally admissible to all dignities and public offices, according to their individual capacity, and with no other distinctions than those arising from their talents and virtues. “7. No man can be arrested or imprisoned, except in cases defined by law, and in accordance with such formalities as it prescribes. All persons who incite or execute unlawful commands, or cause them to be executed, shall be punished; but every citizen summoned or arrested in the name of the law must instantly obey the summons. “8. The law should establish only such penalties as are strictly and manifestly necessary, and no one should be punished except in accordance with a law established and promulgated prior to the offence. “9. Every man being supposed to be innocent until he has been found guilty, all severity not absolutely necessary for the safe custody of his person shall be strictly forbidden by law. “10. No man shall be molested on account of his opinions, even in religion, provided their manifestation does not disturb the public order established by law. “11. The free expression of thoughts and opinions is one of the most precious of the rights of man. Each and every citizen may consequently speak, write, and print freely, though he should be held accountable for any abuse of this right in cases determined by law. "12. The protection of the rights of men and citizens necessitates a public force; but this force is instituted for the benefit of all, and not for the aggrandisement of a favoured few. “13. For the maintenance of public authority and the defrayal of the expenses of the government a general tax is indispensable; but it should be levied equally upon all citizens, in proportion to their means. "14. The public has a right to exact of every public official an account of his stewardship. “15. Property being an inviolable and sacred right, no one can be deprived of it unless public necessity absolutely demands it, and then only on condition of a just and prearranged indemnity. "And now,” continued Billot, "we come to the application of these principles as adopted by the National Assembly. Hearken to it, my brethren! hearken, fellow- citizens, set free by this Declaration of the Rights of Man. — of your rights! “The National Assembly, desiring to establish the French Constitution upon the principles set forth in this declaration, abolishes evocably all institutions injurious to liberty and equality. "Consequently, henceforth there shall be neither nobility nor peerage, neither hereditary distinctions nor distinctions of rank, nor any of the titles, attributes, or prerogatives derived therefrom; no orders of knighthood, nor any decorations which presuppose distinctions of birth, nor any superiority except that belonging to public officials in the discharge of their duties. “No public office shall be saleable or hereditary. There shall be no restrictive guilds, no professional corporations, no monopolies of the arts or trades.” Thus ended Billot's address, which had been listened to in devout silence. For the first time the people heard their rights proclaimed in the full light of day, and, as it were, in the presence of the God to whom they had long prayed for these rights, gained only after cycles of bondage, misery, and suffering. As Billot stopped speaking, he extended his arms and clasped the mayor and Pitou to his breast in a fraternal embrace; and though the mayor ruled only a small community, and Pitou commanded only a handful of peasants, despite the insignificance of the things represented, the principle was none the less grand, and every person enthusiastically repeated Billot's concluding words, — “Long live the nation! “- generously dividing his honours with the mayor and Pitou. It is needless to say that the gallant captain of the Haramont National Guards managed to give his hand to Catherine in the dance, and to secure a place near her at the table.

The poor child was very unhappy. In his controversy with Fortier, and his speech on the Declaration of the Rights of Man, her father had openly defied both the clergy and nobility. She thought of Isidore, who, according to her father's new theories, was no longer superior socially to any other man. It was not the loss of his title, rank, or wealth she regretted, — for she would have loved Isidore as a humble peasant, — but it seemed to her that the world was unjust, even brutal, to that young man, and that her father, by wresting Isidore's titles and privileges from him, was Vol. ii. — 5 separating her lover from her for ever, instead of bringing them nearer together. As for the mass, no one seemed inclined to say anything more about it. In fact, the people had almost forgiven the priest's outburst; though, by his almost empty classroom the next day, he perceived that his refusal to officiate at the Patriot Altar had cost him his popularity among the residents of Villers-Cotterets.

CHAPTER LIV. A FRIEND IN NEED.

Celebrations similar to that which we have just described were universal throughout France; but they formed only the prelude to a much grander gathering, which was to take place in Paris on the 14th of July, 1790; and the prominent parts Billot and Pitou had so successfully sustained at this local celebration very naturally led to their appointment as delegates to the Paris celebration. After his short-lived military triumph, Pitou relapsed into his normal condition of mild and kindly melancholy. He visited Mother Colombe daily, and if there was no letter for Catherine, he slowly wended his way back to Haramont. If there was a letter, he carefully deposited it in the willow-tree. But though Pitou was dumb, he was not blind; for one fine morning he noticed that the post-mark on the letter was Lyons instead of Turin, and a couple of days later-or, to speak more accurately, on December 25th — a letter came bearing the post-mark Paris, instead of Lyons; so it was easy to comprehend that Isidore de Charny had returned to France, and that it was not likely to be very long before he quitted Paris for Boursonnes. The day this last letter came he resolved, by way of excuse, to go and set his snares on Wolf Heath, where he had operated so successfully in former years. As the Pisseleu farm was situated on the road between Haramont and Wolf Heath, Pitou could stop at the farm-house on his way; and he very naturally chose for his visit an hour when Billot was likely to be riding about the fields. When he reached the gate, he saw Catherine sitting at her window, apparently watching for some one. When she saw him she smiled; and, as he approached the window, she called out, — "So it is you, Pitou! What lucky wind blew you in this direction-” Pitou showed her the snares wrapped round his wrist. “I thought I 'd see if I couldn’t catch a couple of nice tender rabbits for you, Mademoiselle Catherine; and the very nicest ones in the neighbourhood are to be found on Wolf Heath, by reason of the wild thyme that grows there.”

“You are very kind, Piton, I am sure; but you needn't take all that trouble on my account. I am nearly well, now. And, Pitou,” she added in a lower tone, "it won't be necessary for you to go to the post-office for me any more this week; I shall not receive any more letters for several days.” Because Isidore had returned to Paris was no reason that he should not write; so Pitou instantly came to the conclusion that the letter he had placed in the hollow tree early that very morning had announced to Catherine her lover's speedy return. Possibly she was watching for him even now. Pitou waited a moment for Catherine to decide whether she had any further disclosures to make to him; but, as she maintained a determined silence, he asked, — “Have you not noticed a great change in your father of late, mademoiselle-” The girl trembled, and answered his question by another: "Why, have you, too, noticed a change in him-”

“Mademoiselle Catherine,” Pitou replied, shaking his head gloomily, "the hour will surely come when the man who has caused this change will have a hard time settling with your father.” Catherine turned pale; nevertheless, she looked sharply at Pitou as she asked, “Why do you say he, rather than she- It is a woman, perhaps, not a man, who will have to suffer from my father's wrath.”

“You frighten me, mademoiselle! Have you any cause for fear-”

“I have to fear what any girl who has forgotten her rank, and loves above her station, has to fear from an angry parent,” answered the girl, ruefully. “It seems to me, if I were in your place, mademoiselle — “He paused. "Well-” insisted Catherine. “It seems to me, if I were in your place — But no — you nearly died when he went away. If you had to give him up altogether, it would kill you — I suppose -”

“Hush! let us talk of something else,” exclaimed Catherine, hastily. "Here comes father now.” Pitou glanced in the direction in which Catherine was looking, and saw the farmer approaching on horseback at a brisk trot. Perceiving a man standing near Catherine's window, the farmer stopped; then, recognising Pitou, he was about to jog on again; but seeing his favourite advance smilingly towards him, hat in hand, he called out, — "How are you, Pitou- Did you come for your dinner-”

“Oh no, Monsieur Billot; I shouldn't think of taking such a liberty as that — “But, fancying he discerned a pleading look on Catherine's face, he added,- "Though I think I should accept if you invited me.”

“Well, I do invite you, then, here and now.”

“And I accept,” responded Pitou, promptly. The farmer touched his horse with the spur, and rode on to the stable. “Wasn’t that what you wanted me to say- “Pitou asked, turning to Catherine. "Yes.” Then, after a moment's pause, “Father looks even more gloomy to-day than usual, it seems to me.” And again, under her breath, and as if talking to her- self, she added, "My God! can it be that he suspects-”

“Suspects what, mademoiselle-” asked Pitou, who had overheard her, though she spoke so low. "Nothing,” she replied, withdrawing her head and closing the window.

CHAPTER LV. IN WHICH FATHER CLOUIS REAPPEARS UPON THE SCENE.

And Catherine was quite right; for, in spite of the cordial reception accorded to Pitou, the farmer did appear even more morose than usual. "Is dinner ready-” he asked curtly, as soon as he had entered the house. “Yes, father,” answered his wife, who had risen as usual as soon as her husband crossed the threshold, both from a feeling of inferiority on her part, and from a desire to manifest the respect she felt for him. "Then let us sit down to it at once, for I have still a good deal to do before night.” An additional plate was put on for Pitou; but they had scarcely seated themselves at the table when a knock was heard at the door, and Father Clouis entered, with Farmer Billot's double-barrelled gun on his shoulder, and a hare in his hand. The farmer's gun could be easily distinguished from others by its silver mountings. "Good-day, Father Clouis,” said Billot. "You're a man of your word, I see. Thank you.”

“Oh, when I say a thing I mean it. When I meet you, and you say to me, as you did this morning, 'I want you to cast a dozen bullets for me, the right calibre for my gun; I must have them this afternoon,' and I say, 'That's all right; you shall have 'em,' why, they're as good as made.”

“Thanks, Father Clouis; you'll dine with us, won't you-”

“You 're very kind; but really, I don't feel at all hungry. Still, if you insist upon it — “As he spoke, he placed the gun in one corner of the room, and seated himself at the table, where he attacked the plate and glass his host had filled for him as valiantly as if he had not declared himself entirely free from hunger. "Very good wine, Monsieur Billot, and very nice lamb,” he said, as if merely evincing a proper regard for the truth. "You believe in the proverb that says, 'Lambs should be eaten too young, and wine be taken too old.'“As no one responded to this pleasantry, and the conversation seemed likely to flag, Clouis felt it his duty as a guest to sustain it; so he continued, "I happened to remember, awhile ago, that it was hare day [it will be remembered that Father Clouis had received permission from his grace the Duke of Orleans to kill one rabbit and one hare on alternate days, and this, it seems, was hare day], so I thought, as I had cast thirteen bullets instead of a dozen, I would see how a silver-mounted gun would carry a ball; and I must say it carries a ball well, that gun of yours; but -”

“Yes, it's a good gun.”

“Twelve balls, did you say-” exclaimed Pitou. "Is there going to be a shooting-match, Monsieur Billot-”

“No,” responded the farmer, shortly. "I was going to say, though, that if you intend those bullets for boar-shooting, they 're rather small,” continued Father Clouis; "for those fellows have pretty tough hides, to say nothing of the quantity of lead they'll carry away with them. I 've seen boars who had six or eight bullets between their hide and flesh, — big sixteen-to-the-pound bullets, too, -and they seemed none the worse for it.”

“These bullets are not for boar-shooting,” said Billot. Pitou's curiosity could not be repressed, however. "Pardon me, Monsieur Billot,” said he, "but if you don't want the bullets for prize-shooting or for boars, what do you want them for-”

“For a wolf,” answered Billot, grimly. "Why, are there any wolves about now- That is strange,-before the snow flies.”

“It is surprising, but true, nevertheless.”

“Are you sure-”

“Perfectly sure. The shepherd saw one this morning.”

“Where-”

“On the road from Paris to Boursonnes.”

“Ah!” gasped Pitou, with a frightened glance, first at the farmer and then at his daughter. "Yes,” replied Billot, grimly; "one was seen last winter, and I was duly notified. After a while it was supposed that he had gone away, never to return; but it seems that he has come back, and as he may take it into his head to come prowling about my farm, I 've had Father Clouis put my gun in order, and cast me some bullets.” This was more than Catherine could bear. With a smothered cry she rose and tottered towards the door. Bewildered and anxious, Pitou also arose, and hastily followed the girl into the adjoining kitchen. "What does this mean- My God! what does all this mean-” he exclaimed. "Oh! don't you understand-” cried Catherine. "He knows that Isidore reached Boursonnes this morning, and means to kill him if he comes near the farm.” Just then the dining-room door opened, and Billot appeared upon the threshold. "Pitou,” he said, in a voice that admitted of no reply, “if you really came for rabbits, I think it is quite time you set your snares. It will soon be too late for you to see.”

“I am going — going at once, Monsieur Billot,” the young man responded humbly. He went out by the door leading into the courtyard, and Catherine retired weeping to her chamber, bolting the door behind her.

CHAPTER LVI. A GAME OF TAG.

Pitou had learned all he wished to know, and more. Catherine's last words had fully explained her father's figures of speech, and the situation was extremely critical, to say the least. But in a case of emergency Pitou seemed to become endowed with the strength of a lion, as well as the wisdom of a serpent, and he very promptly made up his mind to seek a place of observation on the edge of the forest, from which he could secure an unobstructed view of Farmer Billot's house and its immediate surroundings. This proving a comparatively easy matter, he next proceeded to consider the situation more deliberately. Much as he desired to do so, he began to wonder if there was the slightest possibility of preventing Father Billot from carrying his scheme of vengeance into execution. The first means of prevention that occurred to Pitou was to run to Boursonnes and warn Monsieur Isidore of the danger that awaited him if he ventured near the farm-house; but almost simultaneously Pitou bethought himself of two things: first, that Catherine had not commissioned him to interfere; and, secondly, that there was a strong probability that he would not be able to find the young viscount, who would be much more likely to approach the farm by one of the paths used by the wood-cutters and foresters than by a more frequented road. Besides, if he went to warn Isidore, he would have to desert Catherine; and though Pitou, would feel sorry to have any misfortune happen to the viscount, he would be in despair if any harm befell Catherine: so it seemed wisest to remain where he was, and be guided by circumstances in his subsequent procedures. So he waited, and watched the farm-house, — his eyes as steadfast as those of a wildcat watching for its prey. The first thing he noticed was the departure of Father Clouis. He left about twilight; and soon afterwards Pitou saw a light appear in the window of Farmer Billot's chamber. From his post of observation Pitou could see Billot load his gun, then extinguish his light and close both shutters; but in such a way as to leave a slight opening, through which the occupant of the room could watch what was going on outside. Billot's window did not command a view of Catherine's, on account of a projection in the side of the house; but it did command a view, not only of the entire road from Boursonnes, but also of the line of forest extending from the hill to the copse; so, though Billot could not see Catherine's window, he could not fail to see her if she left her room by the window and tried to reach the wood, -and he did not doubt that she would attempt this as soon as it became dark, in order to warn Isidore of his danger. Pitou, being of the same opinion, directed his attention chiefly to Catherine's casement, though he took good care not to lose sight of the father's. The men were right; for night had scarcely set in before Pitou, who, by reason of his forest training, could see almost as well in the dark as in the light, saw half of the window turn slowly upon its hinges, and the girl climb out and then close the window after her. There was no danger of Catherine's being seen as long as she followed the line of buildings and fences; but as soon as she directed her course towards Boursonnes, she would come within the radius of her father's vision; and it would be all the more easy for him to see her from the fact that the field which she would be obliged to cross in order to reach the wood was deserted. In a few seconds Pitou saw the girl emerge from the shadow of the fence, and, bending over so as to conceal herself from view as much as possible, cross the road and enter a narrow footpath which led by a short cut through the forest to the Boursonnes road, intersecting it at a place known as the Borough Spring, about half a mile farther on. Catherine had scarcely crossed the field and reached the woods before Pitou saw the shutters of the farmer's window close entirely. A few seconds afterwards the house- door opened, and the farmer came out, with his gun upon his shoulder, and strode down the Boursonnes road in the direction of the spot where the path taken by Catherine would intersect it. There was no time to lose, for in ten minutes the girl would find herself face to face with her father. Pitou sprang up, and, bounding through the forest like a frightened deer, soon reached the edge of the path, and, hiding himself behind the trunk of an old oak-tree, awaited Catherine's approach. In less than two minutes Catherine passed within a few yards of the tree; and Pitou, hastily emerging from his hiding-place, called her by name. She was so startled that she uttered a sharp cry and paused, trembling in every limb; but she had evidently recognised the voice, for she exclaimed almost instantly, "You, Monsieur Pitou, here- What do you want with me-”

“Not a step farther, for Heaven's sake, my dear mademoiselle!” Pitou exclaimed, clasping his hands beseechingly. "And why-” ' "Because your father knows you have left the house, and he has started down the Boursonnes road with his gun. You will find him waiting for you at the spring.”

“But he! He!” cried Catherine, wildly, -"must he not be warned-” And she started on, as if resolved to continue her journey at all hazards. "Your going will do no good, as your father will be sure to stop you.”

“What am I to do, then- Tell me!”

“Return; return to your room at once! I will hide near the house, and when I see Monsieur Isidore coming, I will warn him.”

“Will you do that, my dear Monsieur Pitou-”

“I would do anything for you, Mademoiselle Catherine. Ah! how much I love you! “Catherine pressed his hand gratefully, and, after reflecting a moment, said, — "Yes, you are right; take me home.” As her strength seemed about to fail her, she passed her arm through that of Pitou, who supported her as she half walked, half ran, back to the house. In ten minutes she was safe in her room again, and Pitou hastened to the clump of willows in which he intended to watch and wait.

CHAPTER LVII. THE WATCH FOR THE WOLF.

These willows, which stood on a slight elevation about twenty-five yards from Catherine's window, overhung a small stream which flowed along about seven or eight feet below, and which was shaded here and there by similar willows, which looked, especially at night, like dwarfs with small bodies and big heads covered with bristling tangled hair. It was in the last of this row of trees, hollowed by time, that Pitou had secreted Catherine's letters morning after morning, and where Catherine had gone in search of them as soon as her father left the house. They both, however, had exercised so much caution that it was not this fact that had aroused the father's suspicions. It chanced that a shepherd had mentioned the viscount's return to Billot, without attaching any special importance to it; but the farmer, who, ever since his return to the farm and Catherine's illness, had felt convinced that young Charny was his daughter's lover, and who feared lest disgrace should be the result of this entanglement, inasmuch as the viscount could hardly marry Catherine, determined to put an end to the affair, not only speedily, but effectually. His daughter, however, divining his intentions, was resolved to warn Isidore at any cost; but Pitou very luckily frustrated this attempt, otherwise Catherine would have met her father instead of Isidore on the road. Pitou stuck to his willow as closely as if he were a part of the tree; but it was not very long before his quick ear detected clumsy, irregular footsteps approaching; and as the step was much too heavy for that of the young viscount, Pitou turned carefully around, and perceived the farmer only about thirty yards distant, with his gun on his shoulder. Pitou instantly surmised that Billot, after having waited some time at the spring in vain for Catherine to appear, had come to the conclusion that he must have been mistaken in regard to the direction she had taken, or perhaps even in fancying he had seen her at all, and had therefore decided to hide near Catherine's window, feeling sure that the viscount would attempt to pay a visit to his sweetheart if she was still at the farm-house. By an unlucky chance, what should Billot do but choose for his hiding-place the very clump of willows where Pitou was concealing himself. Mistrusting the farmer's intentions, Pitou rolled softly down the bank into the ditch, where his head was concealed by the projecting roots of the very willow against which Billot was soon leaning. Fortunately the wind was blowing quite strongly, or Billot might have heard the throbbing of Pitou's heart; but we must do our hero the justice to say that his own danger troubled him much less than a fear lest he should be obliged to break his promise to Catherine. A quarter of an hour of painful suspense followed, but no sound had disturbed the stillness of the night, when suddenly Pitou fancied he heard a horse's gallop; and this horse, if it was a horse, must be coming along the footpath leading from the wood. Above him Pitou could see the farmer bending forward and trying to peer out into the gloom; but the night was so dark that even Pitou's keen eyes could only dimly discern a shadowy form crossing the road and then disappearing in the shadow of the fence which enclosed the yard of the farm-house. Five minutes of unbroken silence followed; and then Pitou, thanks to the acuteness of his vision, managed to distinguish a human form near the farther end of the fence. The man had evidently tied his horse to some tree further on, and was now returning on foot. The night was so dark that Pitou hoped Billot might not see this sort of spectre, or at least not see it until it was too late; but Billot did see it, and Pitou heard above his head the clicking sound made by the farmer in cocking his gun. The man, who was gliding along in the shadow of the fence, also heard the sound, and paused for an instant to look around him. During this brief interval Pitou saw the gun slowly raised; but the farmer was probably doubtful of his aim at that distance, for the weapon was lowered as cautiously as it had been raised, and the shadowy form again began to move on towards Catherine's window. Again Pitou saw the gun raised, only to be lowered a second time: the victim was still too far away. A half minute, perhaps, elapsed before the lover crossed the intervening space and tapped softly upon Catherine's window. Again the gun was raised, this time just as Catherine, recognising the signal, flung open her casement. Pitou gasped as he almost felt the spring of the trigger above his head. The flint struck the steel, there was a sudden flash of light; but no explosion followed the glare, for only the priming had ignited. It was a flash in the pan. Catherine had grasped Isidore's arm, and now, with almost superhuman strength, she dragged him into the room, saying, “It is my father; he knows all! Come! “There was another bullet in the farmer's gun, but he could not kill the young viscount without killing, or at least wounding, his daughter; so he said grimly to himself, "The scoundrel will have to leave the house, and when he does, I won't miss him a second time.” For about five minutes not a sound was heard; then the dogs tied in the courtyard on the other side of the house began to bark furiously. Billot muttered an oath, listened a moment, and then stamped his foot with rage. "She is sending him away through the orchard!” he exclaimed, bounding across the stream over Pitou's head, in the hope of reaching the other end of the enclosure as soon as Isidore. Pitou understood this manoeuvre, and, rushing straight to Catherine's window, darted through that room, and through the kitchen beyond, into the courtyard, where he could distinguish two forms, one astride the wall, the other standing at the foot of it with arms uplifted. Before springing down on the other side, her lover turned again to Catherine, and said, "We shall meet again. You are mine, remember.”

“Yes, yes; but go, go!” responded the girl. “Yes, go, Monsieur Isidore, go! “cried Pitou. They heard the noise the young nobleman made as he struck the ground on the other side of the wall, then a neigh of recognition from his steed. Presently, too, they heard the horse's swift gallop; then one gunshot, and then another. On hearing the first shot, Catherine uttered a cry, and made a movement as if to rush to Isidore's assistance. At the second she groaned, and fell swooning into Pitou's arms. Pitou listened, with neck stretched eagerly forward, in order to determine whether the horse continued on his way with the same rapidity; and, hearing the animal pursuing his course uninterruptedly until the sound died away in the distance, he said to himself, "Good! there's some hope left. One can't see so well by night as by day, and one's hand is not so steady when one fires at a man as when one fires at a wolf or a boar.” He lifted Catherine up, with the intention of carrying her back to her room; but, with a powerful effort of will, she rallied all her strength, and, sliding to the ground, seized Pitou by the arm and whispered hoarsely,- "Where do you intend taking me-”

“Why, back to your room, mademoiselle.”

“Is there no place where I can hide, Pitou- “

"Oh, yes; or if there is not, I can find one,” replied Pitou, not very logically. "Then take me there; for all is over between me and the man who has tried to kill my lover.”

“But, mademoiselle — “ventured Pitou. "You refuse.then-”

“No, Mademoiselle Catherine; God forbid!”

“Then follow me.” And, walking on in advance, Catherine crossed the orchard and entered the kitchen garden. At the lower end of this garden there was a small gate in the close board fence that enclosed it. Without the slightest hesitation, Catherine opened this gate, took out the key, locked the gate behind her, and threw the key into a cistern near by. Then, leaning on Pitou's arm, she walked on with a firm step over the rough, ploughed ground, and the two were soon lost to sight in the valley below. No one witnessed their departure, and Heaven alone knew where Catherine found the shelter Pitou had promised her.

CHAPTER LVIII. AFTER THE TEMPEST.

Mental storms are not unlike meteorological storms. The sky becomes overcast, the thunder roars, the lightning flashes, the earth seems to tremble to its centre. There is a moment of frightful paroxysm, during which animate and inanimate things seem to be on the eve of annihilation, and we shudder and tremble, and lift our clasped hands imploringly to God as our only salvation. Then quiet is gradually restored, the darkness flees, and daylight reappears; the sun bursts forth again; the flowers reopen their petals; the trees straighten themselves; men return to their business, their pleasures, and their loves, and cease to trouble themselves about the devastation which the hurricane has left in its wake. This was the case at the farm. All night a terrible tempest raged in the heart of the father, who had only succeeded in partially carrying out his scheme of revenge. But when he at last discovered his daughter's flight; when he had searched in vain in the darkness for some trace of her footsteps; when he had called her name, first in anger, then in entreaty, and finally in despair, without receiving any response to these impassioned appeals, — his organisation, powerful as it was, succumbed to the shock, and a period of mental prostration ensued. But at last, when the quiet of exhaustion succeeded the thunder and lightning, as after an atmospheric storm; when the dogs, hearing nothing more to disturb them, ceased their barking; when rain had effaced the blood-stains which, like a half-loosed belt, encircled one side of the farm; when the village clock — that mute witness of all that had taken place — sounded the last hour of the night, — then things resumed their wonted course at Pisseleu. When the big gate of the courtyard creaked upon its rusty hinges and the labourers again sallied forth, — some to sow, some to plough, some to follow the harrow,- then Billot, too, appeared, bustling about here and there as usual. At last, when it was broad daylight, and all the village was astir, some persons who had not slept quite so well as others remarked, half inquisitively, half carelessly, — "Farmer Billot's dogs barked dreadfully last night, and I 'm almost sure I heard two shots fired near the farm-house.” That was all. When the worthy farmer returned to the house about nine o'clock for his breakfast, according to custom, his wife exclaimed,- "Say, my good man, where is Catherine- Do you know-”

“Catherine thinks that the air here doesn't agree with her, and has gone to Sologne to visit her aunt,” replied the farmer, with an evident effort. "Will she stay long-”

“Until she feels better.” Mother Billot sighed heavily, and pushed away her cup. The farmer tried to eat, but the third mouthful seemed to choke him. Picking up a bottle of claret by the neck, he emptied it at a single draught; then said, in husky tones, "They haven't unsaddled my horse, I hope-”

“No, Monsieur Billot,” responded the feeble voice of a child who came to the farm every morning for his breakfast. "Good!” answered the farmer, pushing the lad aside; after which he remounted his horse and returned to the fields; while his wife, drying her tears, retreated to her usual seat in the chimney-corner. Minus its brightest flower, minus its singing-bird, the farm seemed desolate indeed; but everything went on as usual that day and the day following. As for Pitou, he saw the sun rise from his own house in Haramont; and those who passed at six o'clock saw his room lighted by a candle which had evidently been burning a long time, so badly did it need snuffing, -for Pitou was busily engaged in accounting for the use to which he had put the twenty-five louis Doctor Gilbert had given him for the equipment of the Haramont National Guards. It is true, however, that a woodcutter did declare that he had seen Pitou, about midnight, descending the steep hill leading to Father Clouis' hut, carrying something heavy, that looked like a woman, in his arms; but this report seemed hardly probable, inasmuch as Father Lajeunesse pretended to have seen Pitou running with all his might along the road to Boursonnes about one o'clock in the morning, and Maniquet, who lived at the other end of the town on the Longpre” side, declared that he saw Pitou pass his door about two o'clock, and that he called out, "Good-evening, Pitou!” a courtesy to which Pitou responded in kind. There was consequently no reason whatever for doubting that Maniquet did see Pitou at two o'clock or thereabouts; but whether the woodcutter did or did not see Pitou about midnight near Clouise Rock, or whether Father Lajeunesse did or did not see Pitou running down the Boursonnes road about one o'clock, this much is certain: If Pitou, with whom we parted company about half-past ten in the evening, did go to Clouise Rock, and from Clouise Rock to Boursonnes, subsequently returning to Clouise Rock, and afterwards to his own home, — if Pitou did do all this, we may safely conjecture that he first took Catherine to a place of safety, then hastened to Boursonnes for news of the viscount, then hurried back to report to Catherine; thus making the distance covered between eleven o'clock in the evening and half-past two in the morning at least eight or nine leagues, which seems almost incredible to persons not conversant with Pitou's extraordinary powers of locomotion. Still, as Pitou kept his own counsel, no one except De'sire' Maniquet knew for a certainty that it was really Pitou who had been seen in the vicinity of Clouise Bock and on the Boursonnes road. About six o'clock the next morning, just as Farmer Billot was mounting his horse to start for the field, Pitou was seen quietly going over his account with Master Dulauroy, to which he appended the receipt of each of his men. There was another person of our acquaintance whose slumbers were disturbed that night. This was Doctor Raynal. About one o'clock he was aroused by the Vicomte de Charny's lackey, who rang the bell as if he would jerk it off. The doctor opened the door himself, according to his usual custom when the night-bell rang. The viscount's lackey had come on account of an accident which had befallen his master, and had brought a second horse with him, all saddled and bridled, so that there need be no delay. The doctor dressed himself in the twinkling of an eye, jumped on the horse, and started off at a gallop, preceded by the lackey. When he inquired into the nature of the accident, the messenger replied that he would be informed when he reached the chateau, but that he must be sure to bring his case of surgical instruments. The accident proved to be a wound in the left side and a scratch on the right shoulder, made by two balls which seemed to be of the same calibre; but the viscount would give none of the particulars of the affair. The wound in the side was serious, but not dangerous, as the bullet had passed through the flesh without touching any internal organ. The other wound was not worth talking about. When the wounds were dressed, the young viscount handed the doctor twenty-five louis, and asked him to keep the matter a secret. "If you wish me to say nothing about the affair, you must pay me only my usual fee of ten francs,” replied the worthy doctor; and, taking a single louis (twenty-four francs) from the pile, he gave fourteen francs change to the viscount, who urged him to accept more. This the doctor refused to do; but he said he thought three visits would be necessary, and that he should consequently return the next day and the day following. On his second visit he found his patient up, and the next day, with the aid of a bandage to hold the plaster in place, Isidore was able to mount his horse; so no member of the household, except his confidential servant, was even aware of his accident. On his third visit the doctor found his patient out, and so would accept only five francs for his visit. Doctor Raynal was certainly one of the few physicians who deserve to have in their offices that famous engraving which represents Hippocrates declining the gifts of Artaxerxes.

CHAPTER LIX. MIRABEAU’S TREACHERY

Mirabeau's last words to the queen on leaving the pavilion at St. Cloud have probably not been forgotten by our readers,- “Madame, by this kiss the monarchy is saved! “And Mirabeau certainly endeavoured to fulfil his promise. He began the struggle confident of his own strength, not dreaming that royal imprudence and three abortive conspiracies would result in his final undoing. Perhaps, too, if he could have worked on in secret a while longer, he would have had a better chance of success; but one day, only a few weeks after his interview with the queen, while on his way to the Assembly, he saw groups of men standing here and there, evidently engaged in excited conversation. He approached one of these groups to ascertain the cause of the commotion. Small pamphlets were being handed about; and, ever and anon, the vendors of them shouted, “The Treachery of Monsieur de Mirabeau! Monsieur de Mirabeau’s Treachery!”

“Ah, ha!” remarked Mirabeau, drawing a coin from his pocket, "this seems to concern me! My friend,” he continued, addressing a man who was distributing the pamphlets, and who had several thousand copies piled on the back of a donkey, "my friend, how much do you ask for ' Mirabeau's Treachery '-”

“I am giving it away, Monsieur de Mirabeau,” replied the man, looking the count full in the face; "and there have been one hundred thousand copies printed,” he added in lower tones.

“Mirabeau walked on. This pamphlet which was being given away, this distributor of them, who recognised him, — what did it all mean- Doubtless this was one of the slanderous publications so common in those days, — a publication whose evident malice and absurdity would deprive it of the power to make mischief. Mirabeau glanced over the first page, and turned pale. The page contained a list of Mirabeau's indebtedness; and, strange to say, the amount was correct, — two hundred and eight thousand francs. Below was given the exact date at which this amount was to be paid to Mirabeau's different creditors by Monsieur de Fontanges, the queen's treasurer. Then came a statement of the amount to be paid Mirabeau monthly by the court, namely, six thousand francs; and, lastly, a full account of his interview with the queen: and what Mirabeau could not understand was this,-the figures were correct to a penny, and every word of the conversation was accurately repeated. What strange mysterious enemy was thus attacking him, or, rather, attacking the monarchy through him- It seemed to him that the face of the colporteur to whom he had spoken, and who had recognised him, and even called him by name, was strangely familiar to him. He retraced his steps: the donkey was still there, with his panniers nearly empty now; but the first distributor had disappeared, and another man, a stranger to Mirabeau, had taken his place, and was conducting the distribution with as much alacrity as his predecessor. Doctor Gilbert happened to pass just then; but he was so deeply absorbed in thought that he would have failed to notice the unusual commotion if Mirabeau, with his wonted audacity, had not walked up to him, taken him by the arm, and led him straight to the colporteur, who was about to stretch out his hand with a pamphlet and say to Gilbert, as to every one else, "All about Mirabeau's Treachery, citizen; “but on seeing the doctor, the man paused suddenly, as if paralysed. Gilbert surveyed the man in his turn, and, dropping the pamphlet in disgust, turned away, saying, "This is an infamous job you are engaged in, Monsieur Beausire,” and, taking Mirabeau's arm, continued on his way. "Do you know that man-” inquired Mirabeau. “I know him as well as one wants to know such a fellow. He is a gambler who, for want of something better to do, has turned slanderer.”

“Ah, if it were only a slander!” murmured Mirabeau, sadly. "Are you so little of a philosopher that you allow yourself to be cast down by such a trifle as this-”

“I! You don't know me, doctor. They say I 'm bribed, when I am only paid. I’ll buy a house to-morrow, and a carriage and horses, and hire servants, and keep open house. Cast down! I- What does the popularity of yesterday or the unpopularity of to-day matter- Have I no future before me- No, doctor; what troubles me so is a fear that I may not be able to keep the promise I have made. And this failure — if my efforts prove a failure — will be due to the treachery of the court towards me. I met the queen, and she seemed to trust me; and I — I dreamed, insensate fool that I was, with such a woman — I dreamed, not only of being the king's prime minister, like Richelieu, but the queen's lover, as Mazarin was the lover of Anne of Austria. And what did the queen do- That very day, after I left her, she wrote to her agent in Germany, Herr Flachslauden, ' Tell my brother Leopold that I have taken his advice and am making use of Mirabeau, but that there is nothing serious in my relations with him.'“

“Are you sure of this-”

“Perfectly sure; nor is this all. You know the question that is to be considered in the Assembly to-day, I suppose-”

“Some war measure, I believe; but I'm not very well posted as to the cause of dissension.”

“It is very simple,” replied Mirabeau. "Europe is divided into two rival factions, — England and Prussia on one side, Austria and Russia on the other; but both are now moved by the same sentiment, — hatred of our Revolution. Such a manifestation of dislike is only natural on the part of Russia and Austria, as that is their natural bias; but in the case of philosophical Prussia and liberal England, it is very different, for some time is required to enable them to change from one extreme to the other. England, however, has seen Brabant stretching out her hands to France for help, and that has hastened England's decision; for a revolution is contagious. England does not declare war upon France, for she dares not do that yet; but she abandons Belgium to the Emperor Leopold, and will go to the ends of the earth to pick a quarrel with Spain, our ally. Well, yesterday the king informed the Assembly that he had placed fourteen ships on a war footing; that will be the subject of discussion at to-day's session. The question which arises is simply this: Which department of the government has the right to declare war- The king has already lost his right of jurisdiction in matters connected with the Interior Department, — such as levying taxes, etc., etc. He has also lost all control over the courts and the Department of Justice. If he loses control of the War Department, what is there left for him- But now, doctor, let us, as friends, discuss a question which cannot be safely broached in the Assembly. The Revolution is not complete yet, nor will it be until the sword is broken in the king's hand; for of all his prerogatives, the most dangerous is the power to make war.”

“Then what shall you do, count-”

“Oh, I shall be faithful to my plighted word, and insist that this power be left in the king's hand; though this insistence on my part may cost me my popularity, and perhaps my life. I am about to propose to the Assembly a measure that will make the king triumphant, victorious. And what is the king doing at this very moment- He is having the keeper of the seals search the old parliamentary records for certain ancient formulae of protestation against the States General, in order to draw up a new protest against the Assembly.”

“Is it possible-”

“Yes; and, oh, the pity of it, my dear Gilbert! There is entirely too much of this secrecy, and not enough frankness and publicity. That is the reason I want everybody to know that 1, Mirabeau, am on the court's side, as I am. You think this slander will injure me. No; on the contrary, it will help me. It takes heavy clouds and strong winds to bring me out. Come in, doctor, come in, and you'll see a lively session; I promise you that.” And Mirabeau was not mistaken; he had a chance to display his courage immediately upon his entrance into the hall. Some shouted "Traitor!” under his very nose, while one man showed him a rope, and another a pistol; but Mirabeau only shrugged his shoulders and walked on, like Jean Bart, pushing aside those who stood in his way. Barnave was in the rostrum, denouncing Mirabeau in the most vehement manner. Mirabeau stopped and looked him full in the face. "Yes,” said Barnave, "it is you whom I just called a traitor! It is you I am denouncing!”

“In that case I will take a turn in the garden of the Tuileries; I shall have plenty of time to get back before your peroration,” was the cool response. And, sure enough, he walked out of the hall, with head erect and defiant eye, amid a storm of hisses and imprecations. Half-way down the main avenue a young lady, with a spray of verbena in her hand, was sitting, surrounded by a crowd of admiring listeners. There was a vacant space on her left, and Mirabeau drew up a chair and seated himself by her side. Many of the persons around her got up and walked away. Mirabeau smiled as he saw them go. The young lady offered him her hand. "Ah, baroness, are you not afraid of catching the plague-” he asked. "They say you are leaning towards our side, my dear count, and I would fain bring you still nearer,” she replied. Mirabeau smiled. For fully three-quarters of an hour he sat and chatted with this young woman, who was no other than Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baroness de Stael; then, glancing at his watch, he remarked,- “Ah, baroness, I must ask you to excuse me. Barnave is making a speech against me; he had been talking an hour when I left the Assembly. I have had the pleasure of chatting with you three-quarters of an hour. That makes about two hours that my friend has been on the rostrum, and his speech must be nearing its end; so I will go back and answer him. Give me that spray of verbena, baroness; it shall serve me as a talisman.”

“This verbena- Have a care, my dear count; it is the herb for funeral libations, you know.”

“Give it to me all the same; it is well to be crowned as a martyr when one descends into the arena to fight with brutes.”

“It would indeed be difficult to be more brutish than the National Assembly of yesterday,” remarked Madame de Stael, laughing. "Why do you mention yesterday in particular, my dear baroness-” And, taking the spray of verbena, which she gave him partly as a reward for his sarcasm, Mirabeau bowed gallantly, and returned to the Assembly. Barnave was just descending from the tribune, amid the enthusiastic plaudits of the entire assemblage. Mirabeau was no sooner seen mounting the steps of the rostrum than a storm of curses and hisses assailed him. Lifting his powerful hand, he waited for the tumult to subside; then, taking advantage of one of those intervals of quiet which occur alike amid tempests and riots, he exclaimed,- "I know only too well that it was not far from the Capitol to the Tarpeian rock.” Such is the power of genius that this remark silenced the most angry of his auditors; and, when silence was thus secured, the victory was more than half won in Mirabeau's case. He demanded that the king should be given the right to declare war. This demand was considered too great, and was refused. Then began a fight over the proposed amendments. The first attack having been repulsed, it was necessary to win the day by repeated onslaughts. Barnave's speech had lasted two hours. Mirabeau mounted the rostrum five different times, and finally secured the following concessions, — namely, that the king should have the right to make preparations for war, and to distribute the forces as he saw fit; that he should also have the right to propose a declaration of war to the Assembly, and that the Assembly could adopt no warlike measures that were not sanctioned by the king. Who knows what other concessions he might have obtained, but for that widely-distributed brochure entitled, "Mirabeau's Treachery.” After the session was over, Mirabeau narrowly escaped being torn in pieces; Barnave, on the contrary, was borne away in triumph by the people. Poor Barnave! the day was not far distant when he, in turn, would hear a cry of "Monsieur Barnave's Treachery.”

CHAPTER LX.THE ELIXIR OF LIFE.

Mirabeau’s left the Assembly with head proudly erect, and flashing eyes. So long as he was in the presence of danger, he thought only of the task before him, not of his own strength. In this respect he resembled Marshal Saxe at the battle of Fontenoy. Weak and ill, Saxe remained all day in the saddle, firmer than the bravest soldier in his command; but when the English ranks were broken, and their army was in full retreat, he fell dying upon the field he had won. It was the same with Mirabeau. On his return home he sank down exhausted upon a pile of cushions in the midst of a profusion of flowers; for Mirabeau had two passions, -women and flowers. Since the beginning of the session his health had undergone a decided change for the worse. Notwithstanding his vigorous constitution, he had suffered much, both physically and mentally, from persecution and imprisonment; so for years he had not known what it was to be well. This time he felt that his condition was even more critical than usual, and he offered little or no opposition when his lackey urged the necessity of sending for a physician. They were still discussing the matter, however, when the bell rang, and Doctor Gilbert was ushered into the room. "I could not go home without congratulating you, my dear count,” said Gilbert. "You promised me a victory to-day; you did better than that, — you achieved a triumph.”

“Yes; but you see that though it may have been a triumph, it was won at as terrible a cost as that of Pyrrhus. One more such triumph, doctor, and I am a dead man.” Gilbert looked at Mirabeau. "Yes; there is no doubt about it. You are ill,” he remarked. "Yes; anybody else who lived as I live would have died a hundred times,” replied Mirabeau, shrugging his shoulders. "I have two secretaries; they are both overworked. Pelliric, especially,- whose business it is to copy the loose sheets covered with my abominable chirography, — has been sick in bed three days; and I can't get along without him, because he alone can decipher my scrawls and understand my meaning. Doctor, give me something, — I don't say to make me live, but to give me strength while I do live.”

“What can you expect-” said Gilbert, after he had felt the sick man's pulse. "There is no advice one can give to a person with an organisation like yours. How is one to recommend rest to a man who finds strength only in action; or temperance to a genius which flourishes only in the midst of excesses- If I advise the removal of these flowers, which emit oxygen by day and carbonic acid by night, — why, flowers have become a necessity to you, and you suffer more from their absence than their presence. If I warn you to shun the society of ladies as well as the flowers, you say you would rather die. Live on, then, count, according to your taste; but indulge only in scentless flowers and platonic affections.”

“That last bit of advice is hardly needed, my dear doctor. Three years in prison, one death sentence, the suicide of the woman whom I loved, but who killed herself for the sake of another man, have cured me of any ambition of that sort. For a brief instant, as I told you, I dreamed of an alliance like that between Elizabeth and Essex, between Anne of Austria and Mazarin; but it was only a dream, and the woman for whose sake I have struggled, I have not seen since that interview, and shall probably never see again. Ah, Gilbert, there is no torture so great as the feeling that one carries gigantic projects in one's brain, — the prosperity of a kingdom, the fate of one's friends, the annihilation of one's enemies, and that a single throw of the dice may ruin them all! Oh, the follies of my youth! How bitterly I have had to atone for them! Why do the royal family distrust me so- Except on one or two occasions, when I was driven to the wall, and compelled to strike back in self-defence, have I not been on their side from the first to the last- Did I not contend for the king's right to an absolute veto, when Monsieur Necker was content with a provisional one- Did I not oppose the proceedings of the night of the fourth of August, when the nobility were deprived of their privileges- To-day — yes, even to-day — have I not served royalty far beyond its deserts- Have I not secured for it what no other person, be he prince or cabinet minister, could have secured; and have I not done this at the expense of my reputation, my popularity, my very life- And what recompense have I received- Once, and only once, I have been allowed to speak to the queen. Yet, now I think of it, if my father had not died so short a while before the taking of the Bastille, and if common decency had not prevented me from appearing in public the second day after his death, — the day Lafayette was appointed commander of the National Guard, and Bailly was made mayor of Paris, — I should unquestionably have been chosen mayor instead of Bailly. What a change this would have made in the state of things! In that case the king would have seen the necessity of keeping on good terms with me, and I should have inspired him with entirely different feelings towards a city which is really the revolutionary centre of our land. I should have won his confidence, and induced him, before the evil became too deeply seated, to adopt decisive as well as preventive measures. Instead, I am merely a deputy, -a suspected, much-feared, much-hated man, -kept away from the king, and basely slandered to the queen. Do you know, doctor, that when she met me at St. Cloud she positively turned pale- It is easy enough to understand the reason. Has she not been led to believe that I caused the horrors of the fifth and sixth of October- And yet, during all this past year, I have endeavoured to do everything it was in the power of man to do; but to-day, ah, to-day, both for the safety of the monarchy and myself, I fear it is too late!” His face contracted with pain as he uttered the concluding words. "You are suffering, count,” remarked Gilbert. "The agonies of the damned. There are days when I am almost tempted to believe that my enemies are slowly but surely poisoning me. Do you believe in the aquatofana of Perouse, the famous Inheritance Powder of Lavoisin, and the Borgia poisons, doctor- “asked Mirabeau, smiling. "No, but I believe in the fiery steel that wears out its scabbard; in the lamp whose expanding flame shatters its globe,” replied Gilbert; and as he spoke he drew a small vial, containing a couple of thimblefuls of greenish liquid, from his pocket. "Come, count, suppose we try an experiment,” he added. "What is it-” asked Mirabeau. “One of my friends, — and I wish he were one of yours as well, — a man thoroughly conversant with all the natural sciences, and with occult science too, he claims, has given me the recipe for this decoction as a sovereign antidote, an infallible panacea for all human ills, — an elixir of life, as it were. Will you try it-”

“I would take anything, even the deadly hemlock, from your hand, my dear doctor. Does it require any preparation, or do you take it clear-”

“No; for this preparation is very powerful. Tell your servant to bring you a few drops of brandy or spirits of wine in a spoon.”

“The deuce! It must be liquid fire, if brandy and spirits of wine are needed to dilute your preparation. I didn’t suppose any one had drunk such a beverage since Prometheus administered it to the great ancestor of the human race. I warn you, though, that my lackey may not be able to find a dozen drops of brandy in the house. I do not derive my eloquence from that source, as they say Pitt does his.” The lackey returned a few minutes later, however, with a spoon containing five or six drops of brandy. To this Gilbert added about an equal quantity of liquid from the vial. As soon as the two combined they became the colour of absinthe. Mirabeau seized the spoon, and hastily swallowed its contents. "Morbleu! doctor,” he exclaimed, "you did well to warn me that your drug was so powerful. It seems to me that I have literally swallowed lightning.” Gilbert smiled; he seemed to feel entire confidence in the efficacy of his remedy. Mirabeau stood for a moment as if he were being consumed by the fiery fluid. His head drooped upon his breast, and he pressed his hands upon his stomach; but suddenly he raised his head and said, "Ah, doctor, it is indeed the elixir of life that you just made me drink.” Then springing up, and inhaling a deep breath, and stretching out his arms, he added, “Now, even though the monarchy is tottering, I feel that I have strength enough to sustain it.”

“You feel better, then-” asked Gilbert, smiling. “Tell me where they sell this decoction, doctor. I 'd have that fiery liquid, though I had to give a diamond of equal size for every drop of it, and renounce every other luxury of life; for I feel that it would make me invincible.”

“Promise me, count, that you will not take this remedy more than twice a week, and to apply to no one but myself for a renewal of your supply, and this little bottle is yours.”

“Give it to me, and I will promise anything you wish.”

“Good! but that is not all. You think of purchasing a carriage and horses, you said just now.”

“Yes.”

“Then take a house in the country. These flowers which vitiate the air of your rooms would purify the air of your garden. The daily drives to and from Paris would also be very beneficial to you. Select a residence, too, on high ground, if possible on the edge of a forest or near a river, — at Bellevue, St. Germain, or Argenteuil, say.”

“At Argenteuil- Why, that would be the very thing. I sent my man out to look me up a house there the other day. Didn't you tell me, Teisch, that you had found something at Argenteuil which you thought would just suit me-”

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the man, who had been waiting on the doctor. “Yes; a very lovely house a countryman of mine spoke to me about. It seems he lived there formerly with his master, a foreign banker. It is vacant now, and monsieur can take possession of it whenever he pleases.”

“Where is it-”

“Just out of Argenteuil. It is called the Chateau Marais.”

“Oh, I know the house well,” said Mirabeau. "When my father drove me from home with his curse and several sound blows of his cane, he was living at Argenteuil, and I often used to walk up and down in front of that same beautiful house and exclaim, with Horace, 0 rus, quando te aspiciam!”

“Well, the time for realising this dream of your youth has come. Take the house, and transport your household to it, -the sooner the better.” Mirabeau reflected a moment; then, turning to Gilbert, said,- “It is certainly your duty to watch over the invalid you have restored to life. It is only five o'clock, and the days are now at their longest. The weather, too, is exceptionally fine. Drive out to Argenteuil with me.”

“So be it. When one assumes charge of anything so precious as your health, count, no possible precaution should be neglected. Let us go and take a good look at your villa.”

CHAPTER LXI. THESE IS NO RELATIONSHIP BEYOND THE FOURTH DEGREE.

It was in Argenteuil that Mirabeau's father died, on July 11, 1789, like a true nobleman who would not consent to live to witness the taking of the Bastille. On reaching the end of the Argenteuil bridge, Mirabeau ordered the coachman to pause. "Have we reached our destination-” inquired the doctor. "Yes and no. We have not reached the Chateau du Marais,-that is a mile or two the other side of Argenteuil; but we are making to-day, my dear doctor, a sort of pilgrimage, -a pilgrimage of three stations.”

“A pilgrimage- To the shrine of what saint-”

“Saint Riquetti, my dear doctor; though I doubt very much if God has ratified the canonisation of man in this case. Still, it is none the less true that here died Riquetti, Marquis de Mirabeau,-the Friend of Mankind, as he was called, a martyr to the extravagance and debauchery of his unworthy son, Honore Gabriel Victor Riquetti, Comte de Mirabeau.”

“True; though I had forgotten the fact. That is not strange, however, as I was a prisoner in the Bastille at the time. Where did your father live-” They had alighted from the carriage, and, as Gilbert asked the question, they were standing directly in front of a mansion situated on the pier, and facing the river, from which it was separated only by a small lawn and a row of trees. Seeing strangers stop in front of the gate, an enormous dog sprang forward, growling ominously, and thrust his head between the bars, trying to grab a mouthful of Mira- beau's flesh, or at least a fragment of his coat. "Heavens! doctor,” exclaimed Mirabeau, retreating a step to escape the sharp white teeth of the dog, “nothing is changed. I am received exactly as if my father were alive.” Just then a youth appeared, who, after silencing the dog, advanced towards the strangers. “Pray do not consider the inmates of the house responsible for the unfriendly reception their dog has given you, gentlemen,” said the young man. "Many persons stop in front of this house, which was once occupied by the Marquis de Mirabeau; and as our poor Cartouche does not understand the historic interest which attaches to the spot, he is for ever growling. — Get back to your kennel, Cartouche!” The young man made a threatening gesture, and the dog sullenly retreated to his house. “And now, gentlemen, I should be pleased to open the door and welcome you, if your interest is not confined to the exterior of the dwelling,” continued the young man. "You have read our thoughts exactly, monsieur,” replied Mirabeau. "Knowing that this house was formerly occupied by the so-called Friend of Mankind, we are anxious to see it.”

“And it may increase your interest to know that while the father resided here, the house was honoured on two or three occasions by visits from his illustrious son, who, if we may believe hearsay, was not always received as he deserved to be, and as we would receive him if he should ever evince the same desire which you express, and which I am only too glad to gratify.” As he spoke he unfastened the gate, admitted the two visitors, and was about to lead the way to the house; but Cartouche did not seem inclined to let the strangers accept the proffered hospitality, for he again sprang out of his kennel, barking furiously. The young man threw himself between the dog and Mirabeau, to whom the animal seemed to have taken a special dislike; but Mirabeau gently pushed the youth aside. “Dogs and men always bark at me,” he remarked quietly; "but though men have bitten me, no dog ever has. It is said that the human eye has a strange power in such cases; so, if you will allow me, I'll try an experiment.”

“I warn you that Cartouche is not to be trusted, monsieur,” said the young man, hastily. "Never mind, monsieur; I have to deal with more ferocious beasts than Cartouche every day, so you need have no fears.”

“Yes; but you can talk to those other hounds,” interposed Gilbert, "and no one can doubt the power of your eloquence.”

“I thought you were a strong believer in magnetism, doctor-”

“So I am.”

“Then you certainly cannot doubt the power of the human eye as well. Let me magnetise Cartouche.”

“Try it,” said Gilbert. "Don't expose yourself, monsieur,” pleaded the young man. "By your leave,” said Mirabeau. The young man bowed a reluctant assent, and stepped a little to one side. Gilbert did the same, and the two stood as if they were about to witness a duel between some friend and a bloodthirsty opponent. The dog moved his head from right to left, as if to take a good look at his enemy, and satisfy himself that he was cut off from all assistance; then, seeing him alone and defenceless, he crawled slowly out of his kennel, more after the manner of a serpent than a quadruped, then suddenly leaped forward, clearing about one-third of the space between him and his adversary at a single bound. Mirabeau folded his arms upon his breast, and with that intense and powerful gaze which won him the appellation of the Jupiter of the rostrum, he fixed his eyes on the animal. All the electricity in his powerful body seemed to concentrate itself in his countenance. His hair bristled like a lion's mane; and if it had been later in the evening, and consequently darker, one would doubtless have seen each hair glittering with electric fire. The dog stopped short and looked at him. Mirabeau stooped, and, hastily catching up a handful of gravel, threw it straight in the animal's face. The angry dog growled, and made another spring, which brought him within about four feet of his adversary; but next time it was the man that advanced towards the dog, who, evidently alarmed by Mirabeau's steady approach, crouched on his hind legs, though his teeth and eyes still gleamed ominously. At last Mirabeau raised his arm with a commanding gesture, — the same he was wont to use when he hurled sarcasm and invective upon his opponents from the tribune; whereupon the conquered dog, trembling in every limb, drew back, then, glancing behind him to see if retreat was still possible, suddenly turned tail and darted back into his kennel. Mirabeau threw back his head, as proud and delighted as any victor in the games of ancient Greece. "Ah, doctor,” he remarked, "my father was quite right in saying that dogs were true types of humanity. You shall see this cowardly bully become as cringing as any man. Here, Cartouche, here!” The dog hesitated; but as his conqueror made an imperious gesture, he again crawled out of his kennel, and, with his eyes fixed on Mirabeau's face, crossed the intervening space until he reached the great orator's feet; then, slowly and timidly raising his head, he licked the tips of his conqueror's fingers with his red and quivering tongue. "That's right,” said Mirabeau. "Now back to your house;” and at a sign from him the dog went back and stretched himself out on the straw. "Do you know what I was thinking of when I indulged in that piece of nonsense just now-” Mirabeau asked, turning to Gilbert. “No; but you did not act as you did out of mere bravado, I am sure.”

“I was thinking of that eventful night of the fifth and sixth of October; and, doctor, I would give half the remaining years of my life for Louis XVI. to have seen that dog spring at me, slink back to his kennel, and then come out and lick my hand.” Then, turning to the young man, he added, “You will pardon me for having thus humiliated Cartouche, I trust. Now let us inspect the former abode of the Friend of Mankind, as you are kind enough to offer to show it to us.” With the spirit of domination habitual to him, Mirabeau immediately ceased to be a mere spectator, and became the chief actor in the scene. One would have supposed him to be the master of the house, in fact, instead of a visitor. The youth who had admitted them summoned his father; and, while the latter was listening to the story of Cartouche's subjugation, Mirabeau showed Gilbert the study and bedroom occupied by the former owner; and as each nook and corner awakened some recollection, Mirabeau related anecdote after anecdote, with that wonderful power of narration for which he was famous. The tour of inspection was consequently not concluded until the bell of the neighboaring church struck the hour of seven, warning them how fast the time was passing; so Mirabeau declared that they must leave immediately, and he himself set the example by leaping down the first four steps to a turn in the staircase. “You seem to be so familiar with the history of the late marquis and his illustrious son,” remarked their host, "that I fancy you could tell us the story about those four steps, if you were so inclined.”

“True; but I intended to pass that by in silence,” re plied Mirabeau. "And why-” inquired the doctor. “You shall judge. After escaping from his dungeon at Vincennes, where he had been a prisoner eighteen months, the younger Mirabeau, being twice the age of the Prodigal Son, but perceiving no preparations for killing the fatted calf in delight over his return, took it into his head to come here and claim his rights. But he was not at all welcome, for two reasons. In the first place, he had come from Vincennes against his father's wishes; and, in the second place, he came to ask for money. The consequence was that the old marquis, who was engaged in putting the finishing touches to some philanthropical dissertation, sprang up, and, seizing his cane, rushed upon his son as soon as the word ' money' was mentioned. The young count knew his father well, but had hoped that his thirty — seven years might protect him from corporal punishment, to say the least; but he saw his mistake when he felt a shower of blows from the cane descend upon his shoulders.”

“What! blows from a cane-” exclaimed Gilbert. “Yes, and good round blows, too; not such as you see dealt at the Comedies Franchise, but real blows, — quite powerful enough to split one's head open and break one's bones.”

“And what did the son do-”

“Do- He did what Horace did in his first battle,- ran away, clearing these first four steps at a single bound, as I did just now. On the landing he paused a moment, however, and, lifting his cane, in turn, like his father, exclaimed, 'Look out, monsieur; there is no relationship below the fourth step!' It was a very poor pun, this comparison of the steps of a stairway to the different grades or degrees of relationship, but it stopped the old marquis all the same; for he said, ' What a pity the bailiff,' meaning his brother, ' is dead! I 'd like to tell him that.' Mirabeau was too shrewd not to take advantage of this opportunity to beat a retreat, and he never entered the house again during his father's lifetime. The count was a great scoundrel, wasn’t he-”

“Oh, monsieur,” exclaimed the youth who had admitted them, clasping his hands as if asking forgiveness for thus differing from his guest, “I should call him rather a great man.”

“Ah, ha! then there are really some people in the world who think well of Mirabeau-”

“Yes, monsieur; and even at the risk of displeasing you, I must say that I am one of them.”

“Don't say that aloud in this house, though,” replied Mirabeau, laughing, "or the walls may tumble down about your ears.” Bidding his host a courteous farewell, Mirabeau crossed the courtyard, making a sign of good-will to Cartouche, and ordered the coachman to drive them to the church; but at the corner of the first street they came to he stopped the carriage, and said to his servant, "Teisch, take this card back to that young man who disagrees with me in my opinion of Monsieur de Mirabeau.” A few minutes afterwards Teisch returned, accompanied by the youth. “Oh, Monsieur de Mirabeau!” he exclaimed, in accents of profound admiration, "grant me the same privilege you granted Cartouche, -that of kissing your hand.” Mirabeau opened his arms and pressed the youth to his heart. “Count, my name is Mornais,” the young man exclaimed brokenly; “and if you ever need the aid of one who would gladly die for you, call upon me.” Mirabeau's eyes filled with tears. "Ah, doctor, this is one of the men who are to come after us,” he cried. "Upon my word, I believe they will be far nobler men than we are.”

CHAPTER LXII. A LADY RESEMBLING THE QUEEN.

As the carriage drew up in front of the church, Mirabeau said: "I told you recently that I had never set foot in Argenteuil since my father turned me out of doors. I forgot; I came back the day I followed his body to this church.” As he stopped speaking, Mirabeau alighted from the carriage and removed his hat. It was with uncovered heart and slow and solemn tread that he entered the edifice; for he was a strange contradiction, and clung to the outward observances of religion at a time when everybody was either a so-called philosopher or an atheist. Gilbert followed at a distance, as Mirabeau walked the length of the church, until he reached a massive pillar near the altar. Here he paused, and stood for some time with bowed head, gazing at a black marble slab inserted in a niche near the altar; and as the doctor's eyes followed his companion's, they fell upon the following inscription: — Here rests Francjoise De Castellane, Marquise De Mirabeau, model of piety and virtue, a beloved wife and mother.

Born in Dauphiny, 1685; died in Paris, 1769. She was first interred in St. Sulpice, Paris, then brought here to be reunited in the same grave with her worthy son, Victor De Rjquetti, Marquis De Mirabeau surnamed the Friend Of Humanity: Born at Pertnis, in Provence, October 4, 1715; died at Argenteuil, July 11, 1789. pray for them.

Death and religious feeling are so closely connected in the human mind that Doctor Gilbert bowed his head for an instant, and involuntarily searched his memory for some prayer, that he might comply with the request upon this burial stone; but even if Gilbert had ever learned the language of faith and humility in infancy, scepticism — that gangrene of the last century — had effaced it from his recollection. Finding his heart and tongue alike mute, Gilbert looked up, and saw tears rolling down Mirabeau's strong face, furrowed by passion as the sides of a volcano are scored by fiery lava. These tears moved Gilbert so deeply that he stepped to Mirabeau's side and took his hand. Mirabeau understood him. Tears shed in memory of a father who had imprisoned and tortured his son seemed so incomprehensible that Mirabeau hastened to explain. "She was a good woman, this Franchise de Castellane, my father's mother,” he remarked. "Though everybody else thought me hideous, she considered me only plain; when everybody else hated me, she seemed really quite fond of me. But the person she loved best in the world was her son; so I have reunited them, as you see. But who will reunite me to them- Whose bones will rest beside mine- I have not even a dog to love me!” and he laughed bitterly. "Monsieur, people do not laugh in church,” said a rasping, sanctimonious, reproachful voice, — the voice of a bigot. Mirabeau turned and saw a priest standing near him. "Are you the priest of this parish-” he asked mildly. "Yes.”

“Have you many poor under your charge-”

“More poor people than rich people who are inclined to relieve them.”

“Still, you must have some charitable and philanthropical persons in your congregation.” The priest laughed. "You just now did me the honour to tell me that people do not laugh in church, monsieur,” remarked Mirabeau. "Do you propose to take me to task, monsieur-” demanded the priest, considerably offended. "No, monsieur; but to show you that persons who are disposed to aid their fellow-men are not so rare as you suppose. It is quite probable that I shall soon take up my abode in the Chateau du Marais; and if I do, every labourer who is out of work can find employment there at good wages, every hungry man can come there for bread, and every invalid can find help there, whatever his religious or political opinions may be. Beginning from this day, I offer you, Monsieur le Cure, the sum of one thousand francs per month to be devoted to charitable purposes.” And tearing a leaf from his note-book, he wrote on it, in pencil, the following lines: — "Good for the amount of twelve thousand (12,000) francs, which the cure of Argenteuil is to expend for me, at the rate of 1,000 francs per mouth, in charitable purposes, beginning with the first day of my residence at the Chateau du Marais. “Done at the Argenteuil Church, and signed upon the Altar of the Virgin. “Mirabeau.” The priest was stupefied when he saw the signature, and still more so when he had read the agreement. The two friends then re-entered the carriage, which followed the main street to the very end and then took the road leading towards Besons. They had not gone a hundred rods in this direction, however, before Mirabeau discerned on his right several thick clumps of trees pierced by the slate-covered turrets of a chateau and its appurtenances. To the right of the road, near the gate of the avenue leading up to the chateau, stood a dilapidated cottage, and in the doorway sat a woman holding a sick child in her arms; and as she rocked the emaciated little one, she raised her eyes imploringly to heaven and wept. Mirabeau noted the sorrowful scene, and, turning to Gilbert, said, "Doctor, I am as superstitious as any old woman. If that child dies, I won't take the chateau. I want you to see if you can do anything for the poor little thing; and as we have only about twenty minutes of daylight left, I will drop you here, while I go on and inspect the chateau.” Then to the mother he said, — "My good woman, this gentleman is a great physician; he will try to cure your child. Give thanks to Heaven, which has sent him to your aid.” Five minutes afterwards, Teisch rang the bell at the gate of the chateau. Mirabeau knew the place, as we have said before; but he had never had an opportunity to examine it closely until now. Passing through the gateway, he found himself in the outer courtyard, which was nearly square. To the right stood a small house or pavilion occupied by the gardener; to the left stood another similar to it, but its surroundings made it wonderfully charming. Gigantic rose-bushes in full bloom wreathed its walls, and every window was shielded by a curtain of carnations, heliotropes, and fuchsias. In front of the cottage was a tiny garden filled with lilies and roses and geraniums, — a veritable carpet of flowers, such as Penelope might have embroidered. We have already alluded to Mirabeau's passion for flowers. On beholding this charming retreat, he uttered an exclamation of admiration and delight, and said to the gardener, "Is this cottage, too, for sale or to be let, my friend-”

“Certainly, monsieur, as it belongs to the chateau. It is occupied just now, but the occupant holds no lease of it; and, if monsieur desires, the tenant can be sent away.”

“Who is the tenant-”

“A lady.”

“Young-”

“Thirty or thirty-five.”

“Handsome-”

“Very handsome.”

“Well, we will see. A beautiful neighbour would certainly be no objection. Let me take a look at the chateau, my friend.” The gardener opened the principal door, which led into a hall adorned with niches filled with statues, and pedestals supporting vases, after the fashion of the day. The door at the other end of the hall led out into a large garden. To the right of this hall were a billiard and dining room, and to the left two parlours, one large and one small. On the floor above was a large and well-lighted apartment admirably adapted for an office or study, and three or four bedrooms. The windows were all closed. Mirabeau stepped up to one to open it; and the gardener was about to open the others, but Mirabeau made a sign to him not to do so. Just under the window which Mirabeau had opened, at the foot of a big weeping-willow, a woman was reclining, reading, while a child five or six years old played on the turf a short distance from her. Mirabeau understood at once that this was the lady of the pavilion. No one could have been more daintily and beautifully arrayed. She wore a loose, exquisitely fine white muslin gown, richly trimmed with lace, over taffeta silk, and coquettishly adorned with bows of pink and white ribbon. Her hands were beautiful, with taper fingers and aristocratic, beautifully kept nails. The child was dressed in a suit of white satin, and wore a Henry IV. hat and a tri- coloured sash, — a strange combination, but one quite in vogue at that time. In fact, his dress was almost identical with that worn by the young dauphin the last time he appeared on the balcony of the Tuileries in company with his mother. While Mirabeau was eagerly devouring the beautiful reader with his eyes, either purely by chance, or because she was influenced by a magnetic current, she glanced up from her book to the very window at which Mirabeau was standing. On beholding him she uttered a faint cry of surprise, arose, called the child, and walked away, holding him by the hand, but not without looking back several times. Mirabeau had responded to her cry of surprise by one of astonishment; for the fair lady not only had Marie Antoinette's queenly bearing, but her features also — as far as Mirabeau was able to distinguish through the veil of fleecy lace that covered her face — bore a striking resemblance to those of Marie Antoinette. This resemblance, too, was increased by the presence of the boy, who was exactly the age of the second child of the queen, -of that queen whose face, walk, and slightest movement had remained so ever present, not only in the memory, but in the heart of Mirabeau, since that interview at St. Cloud. What miracle had brought this mysterious woman- who, if not the queen herself, was certainly her living image — into the grounds of the mansion of which Mirabeau contemplated taking a lease- Just at that instant the count felt a hand on his shoulder."

CHAPTER LXIII. IN WHICH THE INFLUENCE OF THE UNKNOWN LADY BEGINS TO ASSERT ITSELF.

Mirabeau turned with a start. It was Doctor Gilbert who had touched him on the shoulder. “Well, is there any hope for the child-” inquired the count. "A physician should never cease to hope, even in the presence of death itself.”

“The deuce, doctor! I suppose that is equivalent to saying that the malady is serious.”

“It is more than serious; it is mortal.”

“What is the matter with the child-”

“The poor little thing has a fever, of which it will probably die in less than a week. The mother was helping the gardener to cut the grass a few days ago, and laid the child down on the ground only a few steps from one of those ditches of stagnant water which encircle the park. When she returned to it, she found it injured, not only by prolonged exposure to the sun, which had overheated its young brain, but by the absorption of the marshy effluvia which bring on that sort of poisoning known as malaria.”

“I can't say that I altogether understand you.”

“I am more than willing to enter into particulars, inasmuch as these particulars should certainly not be devoid of interest to a man who has nearly decided to take up his abode in this chateau, without realising the danger to which he is exposing himself. You have heard more or less, of course, in relation to the fevers which come from the Pontine marshes, as well as of the deadly miasma that arises from the Tuscan swamps-”

“Yes; and Cabanis was telling me something not unlike this about the Assembly Hall at the riding-school. He even pretends that if I do not go out several times during the session and inhale the fresh air of the Tuileries garden, I shall die of poisoning.”

“And Cabanis is right. The architect who planned the riding-school never once thought of constructing the chimneys in such a way as to enable them to carry off the foul air, or to arrange for the admission of pure air by a system of pipes. The result is that the eleven hundred pairs of lungs shut up in that hall speedily exhaust the oxygen, and leave carbonic acid in its place. Consequently, at the end of an hour, especially in winter, when the windows are closed and the stoves heated, the air is not only unfit to breathe, but may even reach a degree of vitiation that converts it into positive poison.”

“You seem to intimate that I am half poisoned already, doctor.”

“Precisely. In my opinion your intestinal suffering comes from no other cause; but you must understand that the effect of the poison you breathe in the Assembly Hall is in your case augmented by the effects of the poison you also inhaled in the archbishop's palace, in the dungeon at Vincennes, in the fortress at Joux, and the Chateau d'If. Don't you recollect that Madame de Bellegarde once said that there was a chamber worth its weight in arsenic at Vincennes-'' “Do you mean that the poor child you have just seen is similarly poisoned-”

“Yes, my dear count; only in his case the poison has affected the coatings of the brain, and brought on what is generally styled cerebral fever; though I should call it by another name, — say hydrocephalic ague; a malady which causes convulsions, lockjaw, laboured respiration, purple lips, a pulse which palpitates rather than throbs, and, finally, a viscid sweat over the entire body.”

“Your enumeration fairly gives me the horrors, doctor. What have you prescribed for the poor little thing-”

“Cooling applications to the head, irritants to the extremities, emetics, and a decoction of that invaluable tonic known as Peruvian bark.”

“And will all these remedies do no good-”

“Not much, unless nature comes to the child's aid. I prescribed the treatment chiefly to ease my conscience. Its good angel, if it has one, must do the rest.”

“Hum!”

“You understand, do you not-”

“Your theory of poisoning by the oxide of carbon- Yes; at least, partially.”

“No, not that. I want to know if you understand that the air here will not suit you-”

“You think it will not, doctor-”

“I am positive of it.”

“That is very unfortunate, for the chateau suits me perfectly.”

“There you are again, -your own most persistent enemy, as usual! I advise an elevated site: you select a flat locality; I suggest running water: you choose a stagnant pool.”

“But look at these fine trees, doctor.”

“Sleep here a single night with open windows, or walk about in the shade of those beautiful trees, and I shall hear of you the next day.”

“You mean that I shall be poisoned outright, instead of being half poisoned, as I am now-”

“Do you want the truth-”

“Yes; and you are giving it to me, are you not-”

“Yes, in all its nakedness. Listen carefully to what I am about to say, my dear count. I state the facts rather as a philosophical observer than as a physician. As a general thing, acute maladies are governed by fixed rules. In infancy it is the brain that is attacked; in youth it is the chest; in persons of maturer years it is the bowels; in old age, either the heart or the brain,-that is, the organs which have been used most and suffered most.”

“One would think my heart knew what you were talking about; see how it throbs; “and as he spoke, Mirabeau took the doctor's hand and pressed it upon his heart. "This illustrates what I am saying exactly,” responded the doctor. "How can you suppose that an organ which shares all your emotions, which increases or decreases the number of its pulsations in following a pathological conversation, — how can you suppose that such an organ could escape being affected- Through the heart you have conquered; through the heart you will be conquered. There is not a single emotion or physical sensation which does not give a man a sort of fever; and there is no such thing as fever without a more or less great acceleration of heart-beats. My friend, the heart is like a purse: no matter how well lined it may be, if we go to it often enough it becomes exhausted. Now I have shown you the worst side of your condition, allow me to speak of the brighter side. The heart must not be overtaxed. Ask no more of it than it is able to perform with ease, subject it to no more excitement than it can well bear, and you may live twenty or thirty years longer, and die of old age. On the contrary, if you wish to commit suicide, nothing could be easier. Just imagine you are driving a pair of fiery steeds: compel them to trot along moderately, and they will hold out a long time; allow them to gallop, and, like the fabled steeds of the sun, they will make the circuit of the sky in a single day and night.”

“I will think about all you have just said,” replied Mirabeau. "But it is getting late now, doctor; we must be off.”

“Reflect upon it as much as you please, but begin by obeying the orders of the faculty. Promise me, first of all, not to take this chateau. You will find a dozen, yes, fifty residences near Paris which will offer the same advantages as this, without being open to the same objections.” Perhaps Mirabeau would have heeded the voice of reason and given the desired promise, but suddenly he fancied he caught sight of the face of that same beautiful woman peeping out from behind a screen of flowers. This woman smiled, — at least so Mirabeau fancied, but he had no opportunity to make sure; for, convinced from the nervous tremor he noticed in the arm upon which he was leaning that some sudden change had taken place in his patient's mood, the doctor glanced in the same direction. The woman's head was instantly withdrawn, and one could see nothing save a slight movement of the sprays of roses, heliotropes, and pinks. "You do not answer me,” remarked Gilbert. "My dear doctor, do you recollect what I said to the queen when she gave me her hand to kiss- ' Madame, by this kiss the monarchy is saved.' I took a heavy burden upon myself that day, especially if they abandon me, as they have done up to the present time. Still, I must not fail in my undertaking. Don't censure the suicide of which you spoke, doctor; it may be the only honourable way out of the difficulty.” Two days afterwards Mirabeau took a lease of the Chateau du Marais.

CHAPTER LXIV. LE CHAMP MARS.

We have already endeavoured to make our reader comprehend what an indissoluble bond of federation the people of France had formed, and what effect this federation had produced upon Europe. Europe began to understand that a new era was dawning, and that some day she too must belong to an immense federation of citizens, -a single gigantic brotherhood. Mirabeau had been a strong advocate of this grand gathering of the French people which was about to take place; and when the king expressed his fears as to the result, he had replied that if there was any salvation for royalty in France, it must be sought, not in Paris, but in the provinces. He realised, too, that there was another great advantage to be derived from such a gathering, — the king would see his people, and the people would see their king; besides, when the entire population of France, represented by three hundred thousand delegates, shouted "Long live the nation! “and clasped hands over the ruins of the Bastille, courtiers could no longer insist that Paris, instigated by a handful of agitators, demanded privileges which the rest of the country felt no disposition to claim. Mirabeau relied upon the good sense of the king, as well as upon the spirit of loyalty which still pervaded the hearts of most of the French people, and argued that this novel meeting would result in a sacred alliance which no spirit of intrigue would ever have the power to break. When this idea of a general convention was first broached to the Assembly by the mayor and common council of Paris, it created a great sensation. The Royalists declared that to encourage such a gathering would be to risk another fourteenth of July on a colossal scale, directed, not against the Bastille this time, but against royalty itself. The Jacobins, on the other hand, knowing how strong a hold Louis XVI. still retained upon the masses, were no better pleased with the project than were their political opponents. There was no way of checking this popular movement, however, which had had no parallel since the eleventh century, when all Europe aroused itself to recapture the Holy Sepulchre; and the two movements were not so foreign to each other as one might suppose, inasmuch as the first tree of liberty was planted upon Calvary. The Assembly endeavoured to make the gathering less formidable by prolonging discussion until it should be too late for delegates from remote parts of the kingdom to reach Paris. Besides, the expenses were to be defrayed by the different sections of the country; and, as the enemies of the convention were perfectly well aware, there were provinces so poor that it would be an absolute impossibility for them to defray a half or even a quarter part of the expenses of their delegates: consequently these deputies would not be able to reach Paris, to say nothing of getting home again. But the opponents of the movement had not taken into consideration the intense enthusiasm of the public, or that spirit of co-operation which causes the rich to give twice, — once for themselves, and once for their poorer neighbours- or that spirit of hospitality that prompted every one along the road to exclaim: “Our doors are open to our brothers! Come, pilgrims, to the grand festival. You will find fathers and mothers and wives ready and eager to offer the same hospitality their sons and husbands are enjoying in other homes."“And by whom were these pilgrims of liberty led- By aged men; by soldiers who had fought in the Seven Years War; by men who had fought at Fontenoy; by miners bearing upon their brows the sign of the iron rule of ancient France; by mariners who had conquered the Indies under Bussy and Dupleix, and had had their prize wrested from them under Lally Tolendal. Veterans of fourscore years made daily journeys of twenty-five or thirty miles a day on foot in order to reach Paris in time; and they were in time. As they were about to lie down and sleep the sleep of eternity, the strength of their youth was miraculously restored, and they mounted on wings like eagles. Their country was beckoning to them with one hand, while with the other she pointed to the banner of hope, — to the roseate light of the new day which was to brighten the pathway of their children and children's children. They sang one song,- these pilgrims gathering from the north and south and east and west, from Alsace, Brittany, Provence, and Normandy. Who taught them this song no one knows. The angel of the Revolution, perhaps, dropping music from his mighty wings as he passed over France. The song was the famous "paira,” — not the Terror song of '93, when hope was changed into wild despair and a frenzied longing for revenge, and France sweat great drops of blood. The song was not a death- chant then, but an inspiring melody, -a canticle of hope. For the reception of these five hundred thousand delegates an immense arena was needed, as well as a huge amphitheatre capable of accommodating a million spectators. The Champ de Mars was selected for the arena; the heights of Passy and of Chaillot for the amphitheatre. As the Champ de Mars was perfectly flat, it was necessary to convert it into a gigantic valley by digging out the earth in the middle and piling it up on two sides. Fifteen thousand labourers, men of the sort who are eternally complaining of their futile search for work, praying under their breath all the while that they may not find it, — fifteen thousand such labourers were set to work with spades and pickaxes and hoes, by the city of Paris, to transform this plain into a valley, flanked by a huge amphitheatre. But three weeks remained for the accomplishment of this Titanic task, and at the end of three days it was evident that these men would not complete it in as many months. Then occurred a sort of miracle, by which one could measure the enthusiasm of the Parisians. This colossal task, which thousands of labourers could not or would not accomplish, was undertaken by the entire populace. The very day it became noised about that the Champ de Mars would not be ready for the festival of the fourteenth of July, one hundred thousand men arose in their might, and, with that confidence which is as much a part of the popular will as of the will of God Himself, said, “It shall be ready.” Deputies from these hundred thousand citizens waited upon the mayor, and it was decided that the volunteers should work at night, in order not to interfere with those who worked during the day. That same evening a cannon-shot announced that the day's work was ended and the night's work about to begin; and, almost simultaneously with the boom of the cannon, a mighty host appeared, invading the Champ de Mars from all four sides, — from Grenelle, the Seine, Gros Caillou, and Paris. Each workman was provided with some implement, — a hoe, shovel, wheelbarrow, or pickaxe; others rolled casks of wine along to the music of violins, guitars, drums, and fifes. People of all sorts and conditions, as well as of all ages and both sexes, mingled in the crowd, -citizens, soldiers, priests, monks, actresses, fine ladies, market-women, sisters of charity, together with everybody who could handle a pickaxe, trundle a barrow, or drive a waggon. Children carrying torches marched on ahead; bands followed, playing upon all sorts of instruments; and, resounding above all this hubbub, one heard the “Ca ira “sung by an immense choir of one hundred thousand voices. Among the most indefatigable workers were two men who wore their uniforms as delegates to the great Federation. One was a man about forty years of age, with robust and muscular limbs, but a gloomy face. He never sang, and rarely spoke. The other was a young fellow not far from twenty, with a frank, smiling countenance, big blue eyes, white teeth, and fair hair. He lifted enormous weights with his large hands, and pushed waggons and handcarts briskly about, singing cheerily all the while. He watched his companion closely out of one corner of his eye, and occasionally addressed a few words to him, to which the elder man made little or no response, however. Once he brought him a glass of wine, but it was waved aside; so the younger man shrugged his shoulders and returned to his place, where he did the work of ten men, and sang like twenty. These two men were delegates from the new department of Aisne, about ten leagues from Paris; hearing that strong arms were needed, they had hastened to offer their services. These two men were Billot and Pitou. And now let us see what was taking place at Villers- Cotterets while these men were rendering such efficient aid amid this host of labourers.

CHAPTER LXV. IN WHICH ONE DISCOVERS WHAT HAD BECOME OF CATHERINE, BUT NOT WHAT WILL BECOME OF HER.

About eleven o'clock on the night of the fifth of July, Doctor Raynal was aroused from slumber by three loud raps on his door. When the doctor was summoned in the night, he was in the habit of going to the door himself, in order that there might be no unnecessary delay; so he sprang out of bed, slipped on his dressing-gown, stuck his feet into his slippers, and hastened downstairs. But brisk as were the doctor's movements, the time of waiting must have seemed long to the nocturnal visitor, for he began to rap again. On opening the door, the doctor recognised the lackey who had come once before to conduct him to Isidore de Charny. “So here you are again, my friend!” exclaimed the physician. "Well, if your master has got into trouble again, all I have to say is that he had better take care of himself. It isn’t well for a man to venture out much in a locality where it seems to rain bullets.”

“It is not on my master's account I have come this time, though the case is just as urgent. Finish dressing. Here is a horse, and you are wanted as soon as possible.” In five minutes the worthy doctor was dressed and in the saddle; but instead of turning to the left on leaving the house, as on the previous occasion, the lackey led the way in exactly the opposite direction from Boursonnes, and the pair soon found themselves in such a dense part of the forest that it was very difficult to make their way through it on horseback. Suddenly a man sprang out from behind a tree. "Is it you, doctor-” he asked. The doctor, ignorant at first of the speaker's intentions, had reined in his horse; but now, recognising the Vicomte de Charny, he promptly replied,- "Yes, it is I. Where on earth are you taking me to, monsieur-”

“You will soon see,” responded Isidore. "I must ask you to dismount and follow me.”

“Ah, ha! I think I understand. It is a case of confinement, I judge.” Isidore grasped the worthy physician's hand. "Yes, doctor; and you must promise me to keep the matter a profound secret,” he exclaimed. "You will, won't you-” But the doctor only shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, "Don't worry yourself; I 've been here before.”

“Come this way,” said Isidore; and the two men were soon lost to view in the shadow of the giant birches, through whose tremulous foliage they could only now and then perceive the glimmer of a star. Presently the doctor caught sight of the Clouise Rock. "Oh, ho!” he exclaimed, "so it is to Father Clouis' hut we are bound, I see!”

“Not exactly, but very near it.” Walking around to the other side of the immense rock, he led the doctor to the door of a small brick building so close to the gamekeeper's cottage that any one would have supposed that the good man had been building an addition to his abode. A single glance at the interior would have undeceived one, however. A pretty paper covered the walls, and the soft curtains harmonised with the paper. Between the two windows was a handsome mirror, and beneath it stood a dressing- table provided with all sorts of toilet utensils. There were two arm-chairs in the room, a small sofa, and a tiny bookcase; but the good doctor's glance did not even rest an instant upon all this. He saw only the woman on the bed, and went straight to her relief. On seeing the doctor, Catherine hid her face in her hands, but could not repress her sobs or conceal her tears. Isidore approached and called her by name. She threw herself in his arms. "Doctor,” said the young man, "to you I confide the honour and life of one who is now my mistress, but who, I hope, will some day be my wife.”

“You are kind indeed, my dear Isidore, to say such things to me; but you know only too well how impossible it is for a poor girl like me ever to become a viscountess. I am none the less grateful to you, though. You know I shall need strength, and you are trying to give it to me. Have no fears, I shall have courage; and the first and greatest proof of it I can give is to show you my uncovered face, my dear doctor, and offer you my hand.” And she extended her hand to Doctor Raynal. A pain more violent than any she had before experienced made her clench her hand just as it touched the doctor's, and that worthy man made a sign to Isidore, who perceived that the critical moment had come. Throwing himself on his knees by Catherine's bedside, he whispered, — “Catherine, my darling, I ought to remain here to sustain and encourage you, but I fear my strength would fail me; still, if you desire it — “Catherine put her arm round Isidore's neck. "Go,” she whispered; "go! I thank you for loving me so much that you cannot bear to see me suffer.” Isidore pressed his lips to hers, shook Doctor Raynal's hand once again, and rushed from the room. For two long hours he wandered about, like those ghosts of whom Dante speaks, who could not pause an instant, or, if they did, were instantly driven on again by a demon with an iron trident. After each more or less extended circuit, he invariably returned to that door, on the other side of which the awful mystery of childbirth was in progress; but almost immediately a cry uttered by Catherine would reach him, piercing his heart like one of the demon's iron prongs, and compelling him to resume his wanderings, only to return again and undergo the same harrowing experience. At last he heard the doctor's voice, and a much feebler and sweeter voice, calling to him in the darkness. With two bounds he reached the door, which was open this time, and upon the threshold the good doctor stood awaiting him with a child in his arms. "Alas! Alas, Isidore! now I am doubly thine,” exclaimed Catherine,-"as thy mistress, and as the mother of thy child.” A week later, on the night of the 13th of July, at the same hour, the door again opened, and two men emerged, carrying a woman and a babe on a litter, escorted by a young man on horseback. On reaching the highway, they found a berlin drawn by three horses awaiting them, in which the mother and infant were placed with the utmost care. The young man then dismounted, threw his bridle to a servant, to whom he also gave some instructions, and then entered the vehicle, after which the horses started off at a brisk trot in the direction of Paris. Before his departure the young man had given Father Clouis a purse filled with gold, and the young woman had left a letter addressed to Pitou. The rapid recovery of the mother, and the excellent constitution of the infant — which, by the way, was a boy — had convinced Doctor Raynal that the journey to Paris could be made with perfect safety. God, who up to a certain time seems to watch over those whom He subsequently seems to abandon, had permitted Catherine's confinement to take place in the absence of Billot, who was still ignorant of his daughter's place of retreat, and of Pitou, who had not even suspected her condition. About five o'clock the next morning the vehicle reached the Porte St. Denis, but could not cross the boulevard, by reason of the blockade occasioned by the celebration. Catherine ventured to put her head outside the hood, but instantly withdrew it, uttering a faint cry, and hiding her face in Isidore's bosom; for the first persons her eyes fell upon among the federal delegates were Billot and Pitou.

CHAPTER LXVI. JULY 14, 1790.

Thanks to the co-operation of all Paris, the work of transforming an immense plain into a valley was completed on the night of the thirteenth of July, and many of the labourers slept there, in order to secure places for the next day. There was a remarkable display of patriotism and disinterestedness in the city; for the innkeepers met, and unanimously decided to lower their prices instead of raising them. The journalists, too, proposed a sort of compact between the members of their craft, and, renouncing all competition and jealousy, promised to indulge only in that emulation which conduces to the public good. Several days prior to the festival the Assembly, at the instigation of Montmorency and Lafayette, abolished hereditary titles of nobility, — which, by the way, were zealously defended by the Abbe Maury, the son of a village cobbler. The influence of Mirabeau made itself strongly felt in these days. Thanks to this powerful champion, the court had gained many warm adherents. The Assembly, too, had voted the king a civil list, or allowance, of twenty-five million francs, and an allowance of four millions to the queen. This liberality richly repaid them for the two hundred and eight thousand francs spent in defraying the indebtedness of their eloquent defender, and for the six thousand francs which he was to receive from the Crown every month. It seemed, too, that Mirabeau had not been deceived in regard to the state of feeling that prevailed in the provinces. The federal delegates were enthusiastic admirers of the National Assembly, but their feeling for the king was one of positive adoration. They lifted their hats to Monsieur Bailly, and shouted, “Long live the nation! “but they reverently bowed the knee before Louis XVI., and laid their swords at his feet, crying, "Long live the king!” But unfortunately the king was not very romantic or chivalrous, and responded to this enthusiasm but clumsily. Unfortunately, too, the queen was too arrogant to rightly appreciate these pledges of devotion; besides, the poor woman had a deep sorrow gnawing at her heart. This was caused by the absence of Charny, who could certainly have returned if he had liked, but who had remained with the Marquis de Houille at Metz, though her Majesty knew nothing whatever concerning his whereabouts. If she could but have heard him whisper, "Marie, my feelings are unchanged! Antoinette, I love you! “it would have given her a thousand times more pleasure than all these acclamations and protestations of devotion. One might have supposed that this fourteenth of July was not aware that it was to witness a stupendous and magnificent spectacle, for it dawned with a sky veiled in clouds, and with the wind moaning and the rain falling; but some people laugh at anything, even at a storm on fete- days. As early as five o'clock in the morning the boulevards were thronged with National Guards and federal delegates, all drenched with rain and dying of hunger, but laughing and singing all the same. Though they could not save their guests from the rain, the Parisians invented a plan to relieve them of their hunger by lowering hams, loaves of bread, and bottles of wine from the windows. In all the streets through which the procession marched it was the same. Meanwhile, one hundred and fifty thousand persons had seated themselves on the hillocks overlooking the Champ de Mars, and one hundred and fifty thousand more stood behind them. As for the amphitheatres of Chaillot and Passy, they were thronged with spectators innumerable. When the federal battalions entered the field, shouts of enthusiasm, and perhaps also of astonishment at the superb sight that met their gaze, burst from every lip. In fact, no such spectacle had ever before greeted the eye of man. In a fortnight the Champ de Mars had been transformed, as if by enchantment, from a plain into a valley a league in circumference. In the middle of it stood the Patriot Altar, which was reached by four stairways corresponding with the four sides of the obelisk that surmounted it. At each corner swung an immense censer filled with burning incense, and upon each side of the monument was an inscription announcing that the French nation was free, and inviting other nations to share this freedom. Oh, the joy of our forefathers at this sight! It was so profound, so intense, that its echoes resound up to this very day. And yet the heavens were discoursing, like one of the oracles of old, in heavy torrents of rain, gusts of wind, and threatening clouds, prophetic all of 1793, 1814, and 1815. There were also occasional sunbursts through the gloom, — symbols of 1830 and 1848. Stands had been erected in front of the buildings belonging to the military school. These stands, hung with gay bunting and canopied with tricoloured flags, were reserved for the queen, the court, and the National Assembly. Two thrones exactly alike, and only a few feet apart, had been erected for the king and for the president of the Assembly. The king, appointed the supreme head of the French National Guard, for that day only, transferred his command to Lafayette, who was therefore the generalissimo of six millions of men. His fortunes had reached their culminating point. Like those fantastic nocturnal apparitions which exceed all human proportions, he had grown inordinately, only to dissolve into thin air and vanish; but during this great festival everything was real, or seemed to be. Two of the chief personages present were soon to be the victims of obloquy and disgrace, — the king, whose head would soon fall from his shoulders; and the general, whose white steed would soon carry him into exile. The long procession of federal delegates entered the arena first, dividing into two lines, in order to embrace the entire circuit of the arena; behind this advance guard of twenty-five thousand men came the electors of Paris, the city officials, and finally the National Assembly; and behind them more delegates, and numerous military organisations. Each department carried its distinctive banner; but these local banners were enveloped, surrounded, and nationalised, as it were, by a grand girdle of tricoloured banners which signified country and fraternity to the eyes and hearts of the people. As the president of the Assembly ascended to his armchair, the king ascended to his also, and the queen took her seat in the tribune. Alas, poor queen! her retinue was limited in number; for many of her friends had taken fright and deserted her. Perhaps, though, if they had known that the king had secured twenty-five million francs for his civil list, and the queen an allowance of four millions, some of the cowardly deserters would have returned. As for the one person her eyes vainly sought, she knew but too well that neither gold nor power would ever again draw him to her side. In his absence her eyes longed for the face of some devoted friend; so she inquired for Isidore, and wondered why all the defenders of the Crown were not at their posts, since royalty had so few partisans in that great crowd. If anybody had told her that Isidore de Charny was tenderly conducting an humble peasant girl to a modest house at Bellevue, who knows but this proud daughter of the Caesars would not have been more than willing to renounce her throne and crown, and to become the daughter of an obscure farmer, — to be once more loved by Olivier as Catherine was loved by his brother Isidore! Above the noise of five hundred drums and two thousand musical instruments were heard shouts of “Long live the king! Long live the nation! “Then there was a mighty silence, and the king, like the president of the National Assembly, took his seat. Two hundred priests attired in white albs then advanced towards the altar, led by Talleyrand, the patron saint of all perjurers, past, present, and future. He limped up the steps leading to the altar, a Mephistopheles awaiting the Faust who was to appear on the thirteenth Vendemiaire. A mass said by the Bishop of Autun! In mentioning the other evil omens, we had forgotten that. Just then the storm burst forth with redoubled violence. One might almost have supposed Heaven was protesting against this unworthy priest who was about to desecrate this most holy sacrament, and offer as a tabernacle for our Lord a heart filled with the blackest treachery and deceit. When the mass was over, Talleyrand descended a few steps and blessed the national standard and the flags of the eighty-three departments. Then the ceremony of taking the national oath began. Lafayette dismounted from his horse, ascended the steps leading to the altar, drew his sword, placed the point upon the Bible, and said, — for he took the oath in the name of the National Guards throughout the kingdom, — “We swear to be ever faithful to the nation, to the laws, and to the king, and to maintain, with all the power that in us lies, the Constitution as framed by the National Assembly and accepted by the king; to protect the safety of life and property, the dissemination of grain and other articles of food, and the receipt of the public revenues, and to live united in the indissoluble bonds of fraternity "with all our fellow countrymen.” There was a profound silence while this oath was taken; but it was no sooner concluded than a hundred cannon thundered forth their approval. Then the president of the Assembly arose in his turn, and all the members gathered around him as he said, clearly and impressively, — "I swear to be faithful to the nation, to the laws, and to the king, and to zealously maintain the Constitution framed by the National Assembly and accepted by the king.” He had hardly completed the oath before the flames again belched forth, and the roar of artillery echoed and re-echoed to the farthest boundaries of France. Then it was the king's turn. He arose. Listen, each and every one, to the oath which he breaks in his secret heart even while he is uttering it. Have a care, sire! The clouds are breaking, the sun is shining out. The sun is God's eye; God is gazing at you. "I, king of the French, swear to employ all the power conferred upon me by the Constitution in the maintenance of the Constitution formed by the National Assembly and accepted by me.” Ah, sire, sire! why, even on this occasion, did you prefer not to swear upon the altar- False or sincere, this oath elicited no less flame and thunder than the other two. The cannon roared as vociferously as they had roared for Lafayette and the president of the Assembly, and a third time the artillery gave this ominous warning to the king of France: "Have a care, sire; all France is astir! Have a care, for France is resolved to be free 1”

CHAPTER LXVII. DANCING HERE.

It was an hour of great rejoicing with the multitude. For an instant Mirabeau forgot the queen, and Billot even forgot Catherine. The king departed amid the enthusiastic plaudits of the crowd. The members of the Assembly returned to their hall accompanied by the same imposing cortege as on their arrival. As for the flag presented by the veterans to the city of Paris, it was decided that it should be suspended from the ceiling of the Assembly Chamber as a symbol to future legislators of the dawn of the new and glorious epoch which had just been inaugurated, and as a reminder to the troops that they must be submissive to the Crown and the Assembly conjointly, and that they could not be employed without the mutual consent of both powers. Night came on. The festival of the morning had been held on the Champ de Mars; that of the evening was held at the Bastille. Eighty-three trees, as many as there were departments in the kingdom, represented the eight former towers of the edifice upon whose foundation they were planted; rows of lights were suspended from tree to tree. In the centre stood a tall flag-pole with a banner with the word “Liberty “inscribed upon it. Near the moat, in a grave which had been left open purposely, were the chains, instruments of torture, and gratings of the Bastille, together with that famous bas-relief from the old clock representing slaves in chains. The subterranean dungeons, which had absorbed so many tears and smothered so many groans, had also been left open; but if a person, attracted by the music that resounded amidst the trees, found his way to what had once been the inner courtyard, he found there a brilliantly lighted ball-room, above the entrance to which one read these words, which were surely the realisation of Cagliostro's prediction: — DANCING HERE. At one of the thousand tables set up under the improvised forest — which represented the ancient fortress almost as well as Palloy's model — two men were recruiting their strength, exhausted by a long day of marching and counter-marching. They had before them a huge sausage, a four-pound loaf, and two bottles of wine. The younger man wore the uniform of a captain in the National Guards, the other the uniform of a federal delegate. "By my faith!” said the younger man, draining his glass, “it's a fine thing to eat when one is hungry, and drink when one is thirsty. Are you neither hungry nor thirsty, Father Billot-”

“I hunger and thirst for but one thing, now.”

“And what is that-”

“I'll tell you, friend Pitou, when the hour for my banquet comes.”, Pitou detected no covert meaning in Billot's response; he knew that Billot had eaten but little that day, and, in fact, ever since his departure from Villers-Cotterets, notwithstanding his five days, or rather nights, of arduous labour on the Champ de Mars. But Pitou knew that even the slightest indisposition frequently deprives the most robust men of their appetite. So it was not Billot's abstinence that worried Pitou, for every one is at liberty to eat or not, as one pleases. Besides, the less Billot ate, the more there was left for Pitou. What perplexed and annoyed him most was the farmer's silence. Now, when Pitou ate in company with others, he dearly loved to talk. He had noticed, too, that conversation is a great aid to digestion; and this fact had impressed itself so deeply on his mind that when he ate alone he always sang. The reader must not suppose for a moment that Pitou was in a melancholy frame of mind. Quite the contrary. For some time past, his life at Haramont had been unusually pleasant. As we know, Pitou loved Catherine, or, rather, he adored her; and the word in this connection is to be taken literally. How is it with the Italian or Spaniard who adores the Madonna- To see her, to kneel before her, to pray to her, — that is all he asks. Sometimes the worthy fellow experienced a slight feeling of jealousy when he brought Catherine one of Isidore's letters from the post, or carried back one of hers, addressed to Isidore; but, take it all in all, his situation was incomparably better than when he returned to the farm after his first visit to Paris, when Catherine, seeing in him only an enemy of nobles and aristocrats, had shown him the door, telling him there was no work at the farm for such as he. Ignorant of Catherine's condition, Pitou saw no reason why this pleasant state of things should not continue indefinitely; so it was with deep regret that he left Haramont. His superior rank, however, obliged him to set an example of zeal; so he took an affectionate leave of Catherine, commending her to Father Clouis' care, and promising to return as soon as possible. Shortly after he reached Paris he called upon Doctor Gilbert to render an account of the manner in which the twenty-five louis had been expended; and Doctor Gilbert gave him twenty-five louis more, to be devoted, not to the equipment of the Haramont Guards this time, but to Pitou's own individual use. Pitou accepted the money simply and ingenuously. Whatever Monsieur Gilbert — who was little less than a god in Pitou's eyes -saw fit to give, it was perfectly right for him to accept, exactly as he accepted the rain or sunshine Jehovah saw fit to send. As the honest fellow was about to take leave, Gilbert looked up at him and said, — "I have an idea that Billot has a good deal that he wants to say to me. While I am talking with him, would you like to pay Sebastian a visit-”

“Yes, indeed; I've been wanting to ask permission dreadfully, but didn't dare.” Gilbert reflected a moment; then he took up a pen and wrote a few lines, which he sealed, and addressed to his sou. "Here, Pitou,” he remarked, "take a cab and go and see Sebastian. After he reads what I have written, he will probably want to pay a visit. In that case, I am sure you will be kind enough to take him where he wishes to go, and wait for him outside. He may keep you waiting an hour or so; but, knowing how good-natured you are, I feel sure the knowledge that you are doing me a service will console you.”

“You need have no fears on that score; besides, I’ll buy some bread on the way, and if I get tired of waiting, I can eat.”

“A very good idea,” responded Gilbert, smiling. "Only remember it is not well for man to live by bread alone, but to drink as well as eat.”

“Then I’ll buy a chunk of hogshead cheese and a bottle of wine as well as the bread.”

“Bravo!” cried Gilbert, laughing. So Pitou ran down and hired a cab, and was driven to the college of Louis le Grand, where he found Sebastian walking in the garden. After embracing him affectionately, Pitou gave the lad his father's letter. "Did my father tell you you were to take me somewhere-” he asked, after perusing the missive. "Yes, if you desire to go.”

“And I do very much; so, in order that we may lose no time, you had better go and ask permission of the abbe", while I go and dress. I will meet you in the courtyard.” Pitou consented very readily, for the idea of presenting himself before the principal as a federal delegate, and therefore entitled to due consideration, pleased him not a little. By the time Pitou came out of the superintendent's office, Sebastian had descended the stairs leading to it. “Here I am! “he exclaimed. "Let us start at once.” Sebastian was no longer a child, but a handsome youth of sixteen, with laughing blue eyes and a face framed in thick masses of wavy chestnut hair. When they reached the carriage, which was waiting for them at the gate, Sebastian ordered the coachman to drive to number nine Rue Coq-Heron, the first gateway after passing the Rue Coquilliere. This address had no significance whatever to Pitou, so he entered the carriage behind Sebastian without making any comment; but as they passed a baker's he shouted to the driver to stop, and, jumping out, ran into the shop and purchased a two-pound loaf. A little further on he stopped the vehicle again at a wineshop,.and again at a butcher's shop, laying in a fresh stock of provisions in each establishment. "Now drive on to the Rue Coq-Heron as fast as you please,” he shouted to the coachman; "I 've got all I want.” As they neared the house, Sebastian manifested the utmost excitement. He even jumped up and put his head out of the window and shouted, “Go ahead, driver! hurry up! “- though it must be admitted this adjuration did not affect the rate of speed a particle. But at last the cab reached the Rue-Coq Heron, and stopped in front of number nine. Without waiting for the coachman, Sebastian opened the door, gave Pitou a last rousing hug, jumped to the ground, rang sharply, and asked to see Madame de Charny; but before the porter had time to answer, he rushed past him towards the pavilion. The concierge, seeing he was such a handsome, welldressed youth, made no attempt to stop him, but contented himself with fastening the gate; but at the expiration of about five minutes, during which Pitou had attacked his hogshead cheese, uncorked his bottle of wine, and made vigorous inroads upon his loaf, the concierge opened the carriage door, hat in hand, and addressed these words to Pitou, — which he had to repeat twice, however. "The Comtesse de Charny begs Captain Pitou will do her the favour to come in, instead of waiting for Monsieur Sebastian in the cab.” The words had to be repeated twice, as we have previously remarked, before Pitou could grasp their meaning; but as a repetition effectually prevented any misunderstanding on his part, he was compelled to reluctantly restore his cheese to the paper in which it had been wrapped, and prop up his bottle of wine in the corner behind the cushions, in order to prevent its contents from being spilled. Then he followed the porter; but great was his astonishment when he beheld Sebastian seated beside a beautiful woman, who pressed him fondly to her as she extended her other hand to Pitou and said, "You have conferred such a great and unexpected pleasure upon me by bringing Sebastian to see me, Monsieur Pitou, that I wish to thank you in person.” Pitou stared wildly, and stammered and blushed; but he did not take the hand the beautiful stranger so graciously offered him. "Take her hand and kiss it,” cried Sebastian. "My mother gives you permission.”

“Tour mother- “cried Pitou. Sebastian nodded affirmatively. "Yes, his mother,” replied Andree, her face radiant; "his mother, who has not seen her boy for nine long months; his mother, who never saw him but once before, but who, in the hope that you will bring him to see her again, reveals her secret to you, though this secret would make a great deal of trouble if it should become known.” When, any one appealed to Pitou's feelings or his loyalty, there was never any doubt as to the result. "Oh, madame!” he exclaimed, seizing her hand and kissing it, "you need have no fears; your secret is safe here;” and, drawing himself up, he placed his hand upon his heart with an air of dignity that became him well. "And now, Monsieur Pitou, my son tells me you have not lunched,” continued the countess; "so will you not do me the favour to step into the dining-room while I talk with Sebastian- You shall be served at once, and thus make up for lost time.” In a few minutes this promise was indeed fulfilled. Two savoury cutlets, a cold fowl, and a jar of preserves were placed upon the table, beside a bottle of claret, a Venetian goblet of exquisite fineness, and a pile of dainty China plates. Despite the elegance of the table appointments, we dare not say that Pitou did not think longingly of his two-pound loaf and his chunk of hogshead cheese. As he was cutting up the fowl, after having despatched the cutlets, the dining-room door ooened, and a young gentleman entered, as if with the intention of passing through the room into the parlour. Pitou looked up just as the young gentleman looked down, and the two, recognising each other, uttered an exclamation of astonishment. “Ange Pitou! “cried one. “Monsieur Isidore! “cried the other. Pitou rose to his feet, his heart throbbing violently; for the sight of this young nobleman recalled the bitterest hours he had ever experienced. As for Isidore, the sight of Pitou reminded him of nothing save the obligations Catherine had told him she owed to the worthy fellow; so he walked straight up to him and said, most cordially,- "Ah, Monsieur Pitou, is it you- I am delighted to meet you, and to have an opportunity to thank you for the services you have rendered me.”

“Monsieur, I rendered those services to Mademoiselle Catherine, and to her alone,” said Pitou, in a firm voice, though he was trembling in every limb. “Yes; up to the time you first discovered that I loved her. After that, the service was rendered to me as well; and as you must have been put to considerable expense in transmitting our letters, and building that little house at Clouise Rock — “And Isidore put his hand in his pocket. But Pitou checked him. "Monsieur,” he said, with that dignity which so astonished one at times, “I give my services when it pleases me to do so, and I ask no pay for them. I repeat that those services were rendered to Mademoiselle Catherine. She is my friend, and if she thinks she owes me anything, she will settle her indebtedness herself; but you, monsieur, owe me nothing, for whatever I may have done, was done for Mademoiselle Catherine, and not for you. So you must offer me nothing.” The words, and especially the tone in which they were uttered, impressed Isidore deeply. "Indeed, I do owe you something, Monsieur Pitou,” he said, bowing slightly, "and I have something to offer you as well. I owe you my sincere thanks, and I offer you my hand. I hope you will do me the honour to accept both.” Isidore's reply was so noble, and his manner so gracious, that Pitou was conquered, and he held out his hand. Just as the tips of their fingers touched, the countess appeared on the threshold of the door leading into the parlour. "You asked to see me, Monsieur Isidore,” she said. "Here I am.” Isidore bowed to Pitou and followed the countess into the parlour. He was about to close the door; but Andree took hold of it, and it consequently remained half open, so that Pitou could hear all that was said in the parlour. He noticed, too, that the door at the other end of the parlour had also been left open, so that Sebastian, too, could hear the conversation between the countess and the viscount. "You asked for me, monsieur,” said Andree. "May I inquire to what I am indebted for the honour of this visit-”

“I heard from my brother Olivier yesterday, madame; and in this, as in previous letters, he requested me to lay his remembrances at your feet. He is still unable to say when he shall return, but he would be glad to be assured of your well-being, either by means of a letter sent through me, or merely a message.”

“I have not been able to answer the letter with which Monsieur de Charny honoured me when he went away, as I had no idea of his whereabouts; but I will gladly avail myself of your kind offer to send him my compliments as a respectful and submissive wife. If you will kindly take a letter to Monsieur de Charny, I will have it ready to-morrow.”

“Write the letter by all means, madame,” replied Isidore; “but instead of coming for it to-morrow, I will call in five or six days. I have a short journey to make. Just how long I shall be absent I cannot say, but as soon as I return, I will call to pay my respects and receive your commission.” Isidore bowed to the countess, who returned the salutation, and who must have shown him out by another door, as he did not pass through the dining-room where Pitou, having made away with the fowl, was attacking the jar of sweetmeats. The jar was as dry as the bottle, from which Pitou had long since squeezed the last drop, before the countess reappeared with Sebastian. It was difficult to recognise the grave Comtesse de Charny in this young mother, whose eyes sparkled with joy, and upon whose lips a smile of such ineffable tenderness played. Even her pale cheeks had taken on a roseate hue which surprised Andree herself; for maternal love — that crowning joy of a woman's existence — had re-entered her heart during the hours spent with her son. Again she covered Sebastian's face with kisses, before restoring him to Pitou, whose rough fist she pressed warmly with her soft white hands. As for Sebastian, he embraced his mother with the same ardour he manifested in everything he did; for his love had cooled only temporarily by reason of the imprudent remark the countess had made during their conversation in regard to Gilbert nearly a year before. During his secluded life at school the recollection of his beautiful tender mother had been ever present in his mind; so when Gilbert's letter granting him permission to spend an hour or two with her reached him, it gratified the most ardent desire of his heart. Gilbert had deferred this visit so long purely from motives of delicacy; for he knew if he conducted Sebastian to the countess himself, his presence would deprive her of much of the happiness she would otherwise have felt in meeting her son, while if he intrusted the matter to any one save kind-hearted, innocent Pitou, he would endanger a secret that was not entirely his own. Pitou took leave of the countess without asking any questions, or even casting a curious glance at her surroundings, and led Sebastian — who turned again and again to exchange one more farewell kiss with his mother — to the carriage, where he found the cheese safe in its wrappings, and the bottle of wine still ensconced in its corner. In the evening he began work at the Champ de Mars, where he spent the next night and several subsequent nights. He received many compliments from Monsieur Maillard, who recognised him, as well as from Monsieur Bailly, to whom he made himself known. He also met Elie and Hullin, two men who had figured conspicuously in the taking of the Bastille, like himself, and beheld, without the slightest envy, the medals they wore in their button-holes, though he and Billot had as much right to them, as anybody in the world. At last, when the momentous day came, he took his place in the ranks of delegates with Billot near the Porte St. Denis, and, it is needless to say, detached a ham, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of wine from the end of a like number of strings. He approached the Patriot Altar and danced the farandole, with an actress from the opera on one side of him, and a Bernardine nun on the other. He also had the satisfaction of seeing himself represented by Lafayette in the oath- taking, which he considered a great honour. Afterwards, too, when Lafayette passed down the line on his white charger, Pitou had the additional gratification of receiving one out of the three or four thousand hand-shakes the popular general distributed en route. Then he and Billot went to see the games and illuminations and fireworks on the Champs Elysees; after which they decided to end up the day at the Bastille, where Pitou was fortunate enough to secure a vacant table, and immediately ordered two loaves of bread, a sausage, and two bottles of wine. When Isidore announced his contemplated absence of several days, Pitou did not suspect that he intended spending this time at Villers-Cotterets. Nor did he know that six days afterwards Catherine had given birth to a boy; that she had left Clouise Rock by night, one week afterwards; and that she had arrived in Paris on the very morning of the fete, and caught a glimpse of Pitou and Billot near the Porte St. Denis. Not knowing any of these things, there was nothing to make him sad except Billot's sadness.

CHAPTER LXIII.THE APPOINTMENT.

As we remarked at the beginning of the preceding chapter, Pitou resolved to be as gay as possible himself, in the hope of dispelling Billot's melancholy and making him talk, — if that was a possible thing. "Say, Father Billot,” he began, "who would ever have supposed, when you picked me up on Ermonville Heath and we started off post-haste to Paris, that you and I should have played such a prominent part in the taking of the Bastille-”

“No one,” responded the farmer, laconically. "The deuce!” Pitou said to himself; "the talking is likely to be all on one side, it seems to me. Well, here goes for another trial!”

“And even after we took the Bastille, Farmer Billot, who would ever have supposed that one year from that time I should be a captain and you a federal delegate, and that we two should be supping on the site of the old fortress- Who would ever have believed it, I say-”

“Nobody,” responded Billot, still more gruffly. "And now I think of it, it was just one year ago to-day that you and I entered the city hall, and you took Monsieur de Flesselles by the collar and made him hand over some powder to you, while I stood guard at the door. A few minutes later it was through a gate which stood just there that you entered the Bastille, after making Monsieur Maillard write the famous note which I was to read to the people in case you did not come out again. Right over there, where that pile of old chains and handcuffs lies, is where you first met Monsieur Delaunay. Poor man! I can see him now in his linen coat and three-cornered hat, his red ribbon and sword-cane. There is another who has gone to join Flesselles.” Billot evinced no disposition to respond; nevertheless Pitou persevered. "Just think of it,” he continued: "Monsieur Delaunay showed you through the whole fortress, from top to bottom, and you studied it and measured it, — those walls thirty feet thick at the base, and fifteen at the top. And after you had examined it all carefully, and got safely out again, you said to us, as if it were merely a matter of climbing a hayloft, 'Friends, let us take the Bastille!' And take it we did, that same famous old Bastille, -took it so effectually that to-day we are eating sausage and drinking Burgundy on the very spot where it once stood.” Still the farmer was silent; but Pitou went bravely on. "What a strange affair it was! When I think of that piece of work, — the shouts, the deafening noise- But talking of noise, what is going on over there- Say, Father Billot, something must be up; everybody 's running. Come, let's go and see, like everybody else! Come, Father Billot, come!” The commotion was caused by a man who had the rare gift of creating a furore wherever he went. Cries of "Long live Mirabeau!” went up from a thousand vigorous throats, -the throats of men slow to change their opinions about leaders after they have once fairly adopted them. It was indeed Mirabeau, who, with a closely veiled woman on his arm, had come to visit the Bastille. Any one but Mirabeau would have been alarmed at finding such a crowd at his heels, especially as some low yet threatening exclamations could be heard amid the plaudits of the crowd, — such exclamations as that which greeted the chariot of the Roman conqueror when some one called out to him, "Caesar, forget not that thou art mortal!” But this stormy soul seemed to be in its element amid thunder and lightning and raging tempest. He passed on through the shouting, excited throng with a smiling face, calm gaze, and commanding gesture, still holding on his arm the unknown woman, who seemed to tremble before the breath of her companion's popularity. Pitou jumped upon a chair, and from the chair to a table, and, hoisting his three-cornered hat upon the point of his sword, shouted, "Long live Mirabeau! “as lustily as the rest. Billot evinced no signs either of sympathy or antipathy, but simply crossed his arms upon his stalwart breast and murmured, "They say he betrays the people.”

“Bah! that was said about all the great men of antiquity, from Aristides to Cicero,” retorted Pitou; and he cheered on even more lustily, until the great orator disappeared from sight in the crowd. "Well, I'm glad I've seen Mirabeau,” he exclaimed, jumping down from his perch. “Let's go back now and finish our second bottle, and get the best of that sausage; “and he led the farmer back to the table, where the remains of their repast still awaited them. They found a third chair drawn up to their table, however, and a man seated in it. Pitou looked at Billot, who was gazing intently at the intruder. This was a sort of fraternity day, so a certain amount of license was permissible; but Pitou, who was still hungry, thought this stranger was taking rather too great a liberty, especially as he made no apology for his intrusion, but merely surveyed the farmer and his companion with a humorous expression which seemed to be habitual to him. Billot was evidently not in a mood to tolerate this scrutiny; but before he had time to utter a protest, the stranger made a peculiar sign, to which Billot, after an instant's hesitation, responded. After this sign made by the Unknown, and returned by Billot, the farmer and Pitou resumed their seats. The stranger was the first to speak. "Brothers, you do not know me, but I know you,” he remarked. Billot looked searchingly at the Unknown, but Pitou, who was more outspoken, exclaimed, — “Nonsense! Do you really know us-”

“I know you, Captain Pitou, and you, Farmer Billot.”

“You 've hit it, certainly,” responded Pitou. "But why so gloomy, Billot-” inquired the stranger. “Is it because they have forgotten to hang a fourteenth of July medal in your button-hole, and pay you such honours as have been paid to Maillard, Elie, and Hullin- Or is it because, on returning to your farm in October, you found your granaries empty and your fields bare-”

“I am rich; what does the loss of one year's harvest matter to me-” The Unknown looked Billot full in the face. “Then is it because your daughter Catherine -”

“Silence!” thundered the farmer. "Don't speak of that.”

“And why not, if I speak in order to assist you in gaining your revenge-”

“That makes a difference,” said Billot, smiling and turning pale simultaneously. Pitou forgot to eat or drink, and gazed at the man as one might gaze upon some wonderful magician. “And how do you hope to accomplish your object- tell me! By merely killing one individual, as you have been trying to do-” Billot became livid, and Pitou felt a cold shiver run down his back. “Or by pursuing all of his caste-”

“By hunting them all down; for the crime of one is the crime of all. As Doctor Gilbert said, when I told him, 'Poor Billot! What has happened to you has happened to a hundred thousand fathers. How would these young noblemen amuse themselves, if they could not lead the daughters of common people astray, or the old ones, if they could not eat at the king's expense-' Doctor Gilbert knows what he is talking about.”

“Did Gilbert say that to you-”

“You know him, then-”

“I know everybody, — as I know you, Billot, farmer of Pisseleu; as I know you, Pitou, captain of the Haramont National Guards; as I know the Vicomte de Charny, seigneur of Boursonnes; as I know Catherine -”

“I have forbidden you to mention her name.”

“And why-”

“Because there is no longer any Catherine.”

“What has become of her-”

“She is dead.”

“No, she is not dead,” interrupted Pitou. Doubtless he might have added, "for I know where she is,” but Billot repeated, in a voice that admitted of no contradiction, “She is dead, I say.” Pitou bowed his head; he understood. To others, Catherine might be alive; but to her father, she was dead. "Ah!” said the Unknown, "if I were Diogenes, I should extinguish my lantern, for I think I have at last found an honest man.” Then he arose, and, offering his hand to Billot, said, "Come, brother, and take a turn with me while this worthy fellow finishes his bottle and eats his sausage. To insure his being a patient waiter, I will see that they bring him something more to eat.” Sure enough, the stranger and Billot had hardly disappeared before another sausage, a second loaf, and a third bottle graced Pitou's table. Though he did not understand what was going on, Pitou felt surprised and anxious, and astonishment and anxiety, like every other emotion, made Pitou's stomach feel very hollow. He was consequently irresistibly impelled to do honour to the viands set before him, and he was thus engaged when Billot returned, quietly and alone, but with a satisfied look on his face, and resumed his seat at the table opposite Pitou. "Well, what's the news-” asked the latter. "You will leave for home to-morrow, my boy.”

“And you-”

“I shall remain here,” replied Billot.

CHAPTER LXIX. THE LODGE.

One week after the events just related, Billot, no longer attired in the uniform of a federate, but in the garb of a well-to-do farmer, might have been seen wending his way up the Rue Grenelle to the Rue Platriere. ' Here he scrutinised each house closely until he came to a low door surmounted by the three letters, L.P.D., traced in red chalk, so that they could be rubbed out on the morrow. This recessed door strongly resembled the entrance to a cave; for from it you descended several steps into a dark and gloomy passage. A faint light gleamed at the end of this narrow passageway, and near it sat a man reading, or pretending to read, a newspaper. At the sound of Billot's footsteps this man arose, placed one finger upon his breast, and awaited the farmer's approach. Billot held out the corresponding ringer, by way of response, and then pressed it upon his lips. This was probably the countersign the mysterious doorkeeper expected; for he pushed open a door on his right, — a door that was invisible when shut,-and disclosed to Billot's view a steep narrow staircase, leading down apparently into the very bowels of the earth. This time the farmer counted seventeen steps before he found himself a few feet from a doorway over which a heavy curtain was suspended. Lifting this curtain, he found himself in a large circular apartment, in which about fifty persons were already assembled. As in Rousseau's time, the walls of this subterranean chamber were hung with red and white tapestry, in which the compass, square, and level figured conspicuously. A single lamp hanging from the vaulted ceiling lighted the middle of the room; the rest of the apartment was veiled in gloom. A platform, reached by four steps, was provided for speakers and candidates, and upon this platform, at the side nearest the wall, stood a desk, and also an arm-chair, for the president's use. In a few moments the hall became so full that it was wellnigh impossible to move about. All sorts and conditions of men, from the peasant to the prince, were represented; but each person entered alone, as Billot had done, and each person wore under his coat or overcoat a masonic apron, if he was simply a Mason, or the scarf of the Enlightened Ones, if he had been initiated into the higher ranks of the order. In fact, only three of those present were without the latter insignia, -that is, wore merely the masonic apron. One was Billot; another, a young man about twenty-two years of age; and the third, a man about forty-two, who evidently belonged to the very highest rank of society. A few seconds after the entrance of this last person mentioned, a secret door opened, and the president appeared, wearing both the insignia of the Grand Orient and the Sublime Kophta. Billot uttered a faint cry of astonishment; for this presiding officer, before whom all heads bowed, was no other than the federal delegate Billot had met at the Bastille. This official slowly ascended the platform, then, turning to the assemblage, said, — “My brothers, there are two things to be done to-day. I have to initiate three new candidates, and also to give an account of my work from the day I began it up to this present time. My task becomes more difficult hourly; and you have a right to know whether I continue to be worthy of your confidence, and I to know whether I am still honoured with it. Now, let all but the chiefs of the order leave the hall, while we proceed to accept or reject the three candidates who have come before us. When this matter has been settled, all the members may return; for it is in the presence of all that I desire to report my proceedings and receive your censure or commendation, as the case may be.” The crowd silently dispersed through another door, which, as it opened, disclosed to view a huge vaulted cellar similar to the crypt of an ancient basilica; and like a procession of phantoms the crowd silently disappeared within these arches, which were but dimly lighted by an occasional copper lamp. Only three men remained in the hall. These were the three candidates, who gazed at each other with evident curiosity, for not until then had they known who were to be the heroes of the occasion. Just then the door by which the president had entered was again opened, and six masked men came in and stationed themselves, three on the right and three on the left side of the presiding officer's arm-chair. "Number Two and Number Three will withdraw for a while. Only the Supreme Chiefs are permitted to know the secrets of the acceptance or rejection of a brother Mason who desires to enter the order of the Enlightened Ones,” said the president. The young man and the aristocratic-looking middle- aged man stepped out into the same passage by which they had entered the hall, leaving Billot quite alone. “Approach,” said the chairman. “What is your name-”

“Franqois Billot.”

“Where didst thou first see the light-”

“Among the friends of Truth Lodge at Soissons.”

“How long hast thou been a member of the order-”

“Seven years.”

“And why dost thou desire to take a higher degree-”

“Because I have been told that this degree is one step nearer the perfect light.”

“What sentiments prompt thee-”

“A love of equality and a hatred of the mighty.”

“What is there to vouch for thy love of equality and hatred of the mighty-”

“The word of a man who has never uttered an untruth.”

“What inspired this love of equality in thy breast-”

“The inferior station in which I was born.”

“And what aroused this hatred of the mighty-”

“That is my secret; but a secret known to you as well.”

“Wilt thou walk, and endeavour to persuade every one around thee to walk, in the way of equality-”

“Yes.”

“According to thy very best ability wilt thou endeavour to overcome every obstacle to the freedom of France and to the emancipation of the world-”

“I will.” The president turned to the six masked men and said, "Brothers, this man speaks the truth; I myself invited him to become one of us. A great sorrow binds him to our cause; he has done much to aid the Revolution already, and can do much more. I willingly vouch for him, as well as for his past, his present, and his future.”

“Let him be admitted,” said six voices simultaneously. "Dost thou hear-” asked the president. "Art thou ready to take the oath-”

“Dictate the oath, and I will repeat it.” The chairman lifted his hand, and said slowly and solemnly, — "In the name of the Crucified One, swear to break all carnal ties which now bind thee to father, mother, brothers, sisters, wife, kindred, sweetheart, kings, benefactors, or any other being or beings to whom thou mayest have promised obedience, gratitude, or service.” Billot repeated the words in a voice even more firm than that of the presiding officer. "And now, from this hour, thou art released from any so-called oath made to the country and its laws. Swear, also, to reveal to thy chief whatever thou hast seen or done, learned or suspected, or that thou shalt see, hear, learn, read, or suspect.”

“I swear it.”

“Swear to respect and honour poison, sword, and fire, as the prompt and necessary agents for purging the globe of all who endeavour to debase truth.”

“I swear.”

“Swear to avoid Naples, Rome, Spain, and every country under the ban. Swear, too, not to yield to the temptation to reveal anything thou shalt see or hear at our meetings; for lightning is not quicker to strike than the invisible knife to find the traitor, no matter where he may be hidden.”

“I swear.”

“And now, be thou enlightened, in the name of the Father the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” A brother concealed in the gloom opened the door leading into the crypt, and the president motioned Billot to join those of whom he was now one through the terrible oath he had just taken. "Number Two,” called out the president, in a loud voice. The curtain which concealed the door leading from the outer hall was pushed aside, and the young man dressed in black entered. He was about twenty-two years of age, and might have passed for a woman, so fair and delicate was his complexion; but an enormous and closely fitting cravat — which he alone wore at that epoch — might have suggested that the whiteness and transparency of his skin were due to some disease; especially as his neck seemed to be disproportionately small. His forehead was low, and the top of his head too flat; so his hair, though it did not exceed the fashionable length, reached nearly to his eyes in front, and nearly to his shoulders behind. "What is thy name among the profane-” inquired the chairman. "Antoine Saint-Just.”

“Where didst thou first see the light-”

“In the lodge at Laon.”

“Thy age-”

“Five years,” and the candidate made a sign to show the degree he had attained in Freemasonry. “Hast thou any sponsors-”

“Two.”

“Who are they-”

“Robespierre the elder and Robespierre the younger.”

“Why dost thou wish to advance another degree and be received among us-”

“Because it is the nature of man to aspire to the highest, and because on the heights the air is purer and the light more brilliant.”

“Hast thou a model-”

“Yes, -the man of nature, the immortal Rousseau.”

“What is thy dearest ambition in life-”

“To lead France on to freedom, and to emancipate the world.”

“What wouldst thou give to achieve this-”

“My life, which is all I possess now, having already given my fortune.”

“Wilt thou walk, and persuade those about thee to walk, in this path according to thy best knowledge and ability-”

“I will.”

“Wilt thou do thy best to overthrow each and every obstacle that stands in the way-”

“I will.”

“Art thou free from all entanglements- and if not, wilt thou break them-”

“I am free.” The president turned to the six masked men and said, — "Have you heard, brethren-”

“Yes,” the six men responded, as with one accord. “Has he spoken the truth-”

“Yes.”

“Is it your opinion that he should be admitted-”

“Yes,” they answered, for the third and last time. "Art thou ready to take the oath-” asked the president. "I am ready.” The president repeated the oath he had just administered to Billot, word for word, and to each interrogation Saint- Just responded emphatically, "I swear.” The president only waited for the door to close upon Saint-Just's retreating form before summoning Number Three. As we have remarked before, Number Three was a man about forty or forty-two years of age, with a florid, rather pimpled face, but endowed, in spite of these signs of vulgarity, with an unmistakably aristocratic air, in which a slight tendency to Anglomania was clearly apparent. His attire, too, though elegant, was characterised by considerable of the severity of style which was becoming fashionable in France at that time, and which was probably due in no slight degree to that country's relations with America. "Approach.” The candidate obeyed with a rather vacillating and uneven tread. "What is thy name among the profane-”

“Louis Philippe Joseph, Duke of Orleans.”

“What is thy name among the elect-”

“Equality.”

“Where didst thou first see the light-”

“In the lodge of Free Men, here in Paris.”

“Why dost thou desire to be received among us-”

“Having always lived among the great, I desire now to live among men.”

“Hast thou sponsors-”

“Two, -disgust and hatred.”

“For what special object dost thou desire to enter upon the path before thee-”

“A desire for revenge prompts me.”

“Revenge upon whom-”

“Upon a man who has misjudged me, and upon a woman who has humiliated me.”

“What art thou willing to sacrifice to accomplish this object-”

“My fortune, my very life if need be, and more than that,- my honour.”

“Art thou free from all entanglements- or if thou hast made any pledge conflicting with the obligations thou art about to assume, wilt thou break it-”

“Every bond has been broken since yesterday.”

“Do you hear, my brothers- and do you know this man who offers himself as a co-labourer with us-”

“Yes.”

“Knowing him, do you approve of his admission to our ranks-”

“Yes; but he must take the oath.*' "Knowest thou the oath that thou must take-” said the president, addressing the candidate this time. "No; but repeat it, and I will take it, whatsoever it may be.”

“It is a terrible oath, especially for thee.”

“No more terrible than the outrages to which I have been subjected.”

“Nevertheless, it is so terrible that we declare thee free to depart, if, after having heard it, thou feelest even at this last moment that thou mayest not be able to keep it in all its rigour.”

“Repeat the oath.” The president fixed his eyes searchingly on the candidate; then, as if to prepare him gradually, he reversed the usual order of the clauses, beginning with the second instead of with the first. "Swear to honour steel, fire, and poison as the sure, prompt, and necessary agents for purging the globe of those who seek to debase truth or wrest it from us.”

“I swear,” responded the prince, firmly. “Swear to break all carnal ties which still bind thee to father, mother, brothers, sisters, wife, sweetheart, kindred, friends, benefactors, kings, or any other human being to whom thou mayest have promised fidelity, obedience, gratitude, or service.” The duke was silent for a moment. Big drops of cold sweat could be seen standing on his brow. "I have repeated the oath to thee,” said the president. But instead of simply responding, "I swear,” as in the previous instance, the duke, as if to deprive himself of any possible loophole of escape afterwards, repeated the entire oath in a gloomy, even sullen tone: “I swear to break all carnal ties which still bind me to father, mother, brothers, sisters, wife, sweetheart, kindred, friends, benefactors, kings, or any other human being to whom I may have promised fidelity, obedience, gratitude, or service.” The president exchanged another glance with the masked men, whose eyes could be seen flashing through their masks as they gazed at one another; then, turning to the prince, he said, -”

“Louis Philippe Joseph, from this hour thou art released from any oath thou mayest have made to king or country in the past. Only do not forget, if thou shouldest betray us, the lightning is not more swift to strike than the inevitable and invisible knife will be to find thy heart, wheresoever thou mayest be hidden. Now, be thou enlightened, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” Again the door leading into the crypt opened, and the duke passed his hand over his brow and drew a long breath, like a man relieved of an intolerable burden. “Ah!” he muttered, as he stepped into the crypt, “now I shall indeed be avenged.” Vol. n.-11

CHAPTER LXX. RENDERING AN ACCOUNT.

The chairman and his six masked companions interchanged a few words in a low tone; then Cagliostro said aloud: "Let all the brethren enter; I am ready to give the report I promised.” The door was immediately opened, and all the members of the society re-entered the hall. The door had hardly closed behind the last member before Cagliostro, like a man who appreciated the value of time, and was unwilling to lose a second of it, raised his hand, and said, — "Brethren, it is quite possible that some among you attended a meeting which took place exactly twenty years ago, in a mountain cave two miles from Uanenfels, on the banks of the Rhine. If any among you were present at that time, will these venerable defenders of our great cause raise their hands and say so-” Five or six hands were raised, and five or six voices exclaimed, "I was there.”

“That is all that is necessary,” remarked the speaker. "The others are dead, or scattered over the face of the earth, doing the work of our brotherhood. Twenty years ago this work was hardly begun. The light of the new day, now so dazzling in its brightness, was then scarcely discernible in the eastern sky. "Since that time we have seen various European communities struggle valiantly for liberty; among them we may mention Rome, Venice, Florence, Switzerland, Genoa, Pisa, and Lucca. These cities of the South, where the flowers open so quickly and fruits ripen so early, have made a series of experiments in the establishment of republics, only two or three of which have survived until the present day. “But all these republics were tainted with some inherent sin. Some were too aristocratic in their nature, some too oligarchical, some too despotic. Genoa, for example, one of the few which still survive, is thoroughly impregnated with aristocratic ideas. True, all her citizens are equals within her walls, but they consider themselves noblemen everywhere else. The Swiss are the most thoroughly democratic in their institutions; but their small cantons, hidden away in the mountains, are of little assistance in establishing a precedent for the human race. “The great necessity now is a great and powerful country, which will not only struggle for freedom herself, but impart a desire for freedom to other lands. "I turn to God, the Creator of all things, the Source of all true progress, for enlightenment, and I see His finger pointing to France; for we must not forget that God himself, through the occupants of the papal chair, has called France His eldest daughter, thereby indicating her right in a great crisis to offer herself on the cross for humanity's sake, as our Lord Himself did. France, too, having tried all forms of despotic government,-feudal, monarchical, and aristocratic,-seemed likely to prove most amenable to our influence; so we decided that France should be the first country liberated. “Cast a glance at the France of twenty years ago, and you will realise the audacity of such an undertaking. Twenty years ago, even in the weak hands of Louis XV., France was still the France of Louis XIV.,-that is to say, a kingdom where all the rights belonged to the nobles, and all the privileges to the rich. At the head of the state was a man who had the power to raise men to wealth or reduce them to poverty, to make them happy or miserable, to imprison them or set them free, to allow them to live or to condemn them to death. "This man had three grandsons; and fate so willed it that Louis XVI., his successor, was not only designated for that position by primogeniture, but by the voice of the people as well, — if the people could be said to have any voice at that time. He was reputed to be good, moral, just, unselfish, and well educated. In order to put an end to the disastrous wars caused by the unfortunate succession of Charles II., the wife chosen for this prince was the daughter of Maria Theresa. "The question was, Who should enter this lion's den- What Christian Theseus, guided by the torch of faith, should endeavour to find his way through the labyrinth and confront the royal Minotaur- Upon whom was this task to devolve- Upon me, I answered; and when some ardent souls asked how long a time would be required for the first part of my work, which I divided into three different periods, I asked for twenty years. They exclaimed at this. Do you understand why- For twenty centuries these men had been slaves or serfs, and they cried out in dismay when I asked for twenty years to convert them into free men.” Cagliostro glanced around at his auditors, among whom his last words had excited many ironical smiles, then he continued, — "Finally, the brethren granted me the twenty years I asked for, and I gave them our notable device, Lilia pedibus destrue,1and set to work. "I came to France through the shadow of triumphal arches. The road from Strasburg to Paris was a pathway of laurel and roses. Everybody was shouting, ' Long live the dauphiness, the future queen of France!' "And now, brethren, see what has been accomplished in twenty years. "The Parliaments have been dissolved; Louis XV., once"

“Trample the lilies under foot;” the Idea involved being the destruction of the French monarchy, whose emblem — the fleur-de-lis — always figured upon the banners, shields, and arms of the Bourbon dynasty.", called the Well Beloved, is dead: he died hated and despised. "The queen, barren for seven years, at last gave birth to children whose legitimacy is strongly disputed. At the time of the dauphin's birth her character was openly assailed; and as a wife she was disgraced by the affair of the Diamond Necklace. m “The present king, bearing the title of Louis the Long- Desired, having the kingdom to sustain, but being utterly incompetent for the task, rushed from one Utopian scheme into another until he reached bankruptcy, and from minister to minister until he reached Calonne. “The Assembly of Notables was convened, and insisted upon the recognition of the States-General, — the rank and file of the community. The States-General, elected by the people, resolved themselves into the National Assembly, and the nobility and clergy are dominated in it by the members of the Third Estate. "The Bastille is demolished, and the foreign hirelings have been driven from Paris to Versailles. “The fourth of August showed the aristocrats that their doom was sealed; the fifth and sixth of October showed the king and queen that the monarchy was a thing of the past. “The fourteenth of July, in the year following, showed the world that France was almost a unit. “The other royal princes have made themselves equally unpopular by emigration, and Monsieur, too, by the trial and conviction of Favras. “The Constitution has been enthusiastically adopted, the president of the National Assembly occupying a throne equal in every respect to that of the king. "Brothers, has not France become what I predicted,- a sun to illumine the world-”

“Yes, yes!” cried each and every auditor. "And now, my brethren, do you think the work so far advanced that it can be left to take care of itself- The Constitution has been accepted; but do you believe we can trust the king's oath-”

“No, no! “shouted every voice. “Then we must enter upon the second stage of the great work we have undertaken. In your opinion, as in mine, I am glad to say, the Federation of 1790 is not the end, but merely a breathing-place on the road. The court has already set to work to bring about a counter-revolution. Let us gird our loins for the fray also, and let us have our lights trimmed and burning. “There will doubtless be many anxious hours, and many moments of misgiving; and often the light which illumines our path will seem to die out altogether. The guiding hand, too, will seem to forsake us, and more than once our cause will appear to be irretrievably lost. Many will even ask themselves if they are not on the wrong track, and if they may not be engaged in an evil work. No, my brethren, no! I tell you, No; and I wish the word might sound eternally in your ears as a trumpet-blast in time of triumph,-a tocsin in the midst of defeat. No; a thousand times no, I say! "Popular leaders have a sacred mission, which must be accomplished at all hazards. Clouds and darkness often hide the Lord, who is our guide, — and who moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform,- from our eyes; and we are almost forced to believe that He has deserted us. More than once, in the days that are to come, circumstances will place us in a most unfavourable light; our enemies will seem to triumph, and our fellow-citizens will prove ungrateful. Often a principle seems to suffer defeat, when, on the contrary, it is only retreating a moment, like a knight in a tournament who takes a step backward to place his lance at rest, and then rushes still more fiercely upon his opponent. "Brothers, brothers! it is a beacon-light upon a high mountain towards which we are journeying, and scores of times catastrophes along the road will cause us to lose sight of the flame, and to believe it extinguished. Then the faint-hearted will murmur, and complain, and halt, and say, ' We have no trusty guide; we are travelling in the dark.' But the strong will continue on their way, smiling and confident. “Thus, by fighting and struggling and persevering, the world's chosen ones will at last reach the beacon whose light must some day illumine, not only France, but the whole world. "Let us swear, then, brethren, not only for ourselves, but for our descendants, — for perchance the work may require the efforts of several generations, — let us swear not to desist in our endeavours until we have established throughout the earth Christ's sacred motto,-Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.” Cagliostro's remarks were followed by a loud burst of applause; but a few words, uttered in a sharp, cutting voice, chilled the general enthusiasm like a dash of ice- cold water. "Yes, we will pledge ourselves to do what you ask,” said this sharp, rasping voice; "but first explain what these words mean to you, so that we, in turn, may be able to explain them.” Cagliostro's piercing eye fixed itself upon the pale face of the deputy from Arras, Robespierre. "So be it,” he responded. "Listen, Maximilian.” Then, raising voice and hand at the same time, to rivet the attention of the crowd, he added, "Listen, one and all!” A solemn silence fell upon the assembly as Cagliostro continued,- “Yes, you have a right to ask a definition of these words from me, and I will give it. "Let us begin with Liberty. First of all, brethren, do not mistake Liberty for Independence; for they are not even sisters, but, on the contrary, two rivals who hate each other. Nearly all races who live among the mountains are independent; but I know of no nation, except the Swiss, which is really free. No one will deny that the Calabrians, Corsicans, and Scotch are independent; but no one can call them free. If the Calabrian's whims are interfered with, or the Corsican's honour, or the Scot's interest, he straightway resorts to violence, since he cannot have recourse to law, there being no such thing as real law among an oppressed people. He strikes, his enemy falls, and he feels that he is avenged. The mountain is near at hand to serve as an asylum, and he finds independence in caves, and dense forests, and beetling cliffs, -the independence of the fox, the antelope, and the eagle; but the fox, the antelope, and the eagle — indifferent and unmoved witnesses of the great drama of life — are animals, dependent upon instinct and created for solitude. "The years went by, but these animals took no note of them. The arts and sciences flourished, but the eagle made no progress. Nations arose, matured, and declined, but the fox was conscious of none of these changes. And why- Simply because God has limited the mental capacity of these creatures to the instinct of self-preservation; whereas He has endowed man with the knowledge of good and evil, a horror of isolation, and a fondness for society. "Liberty is not a primary substance, like gold; it is a flower, a fruit, a product, which requires cultivation to insure its development and growth. “Liberty is the right every man possesses to labour for his own benefit, for his own interests, for his own satisfaction, welfare, and amusement, so long as he does not injure the interests of others. Liberty necessitates, however, the partial relinquishment of individual independence in order to create, as it were, a fund of general liberty, of which each person may enjoy an equal share in turn. "Liberty is even more than this. It involves an obligation, publicly assumed, not to confine the accumulated enlightenment, progress, and privileges already won to a certain class in a community, or to a certain race or nation, but to scatter them broadcast with a lavish hand. And there is no need to fear that this treasure will become exhausted; for Liberty has the divine characteristic of multiplying itself through its very prodigality. “Thus you see that Liberty is a sort of celestial manna to which each individual has an equal right, and which the fortunate people upon whom it descends should freely share with all who ask for their portion of it. "Such is Liberty, as I understand it. Now let us pass on to the word Equality. "Brethren, I will not do you the injustice to suppose that any person among you is misled by this seductive word into believing in an equality of intellect, or even of matter. Nature herself has settled that question by placing the hyssop and the oak, the valley and the mountain, the lake and the ocean, and stupidity and genius, side by side. All the decrees in the world cannot lower Chimborazo or Mont Blanc a single cubit; nor could the decree of any legislative body extinguish the fire of genius which burns upon the brow of Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. We must understand perfectly that the equality we refer to is simply a social and political equality. And now, my brethren, what is this Equality- "Equality is the abolition of all hereditary privileges except those transmitted through a natural aptitude and ability. It insures free access to all employments, vocations, grades, and ranks. It means that rewards shall be bestowed upon merit, genius, and virtue, and not be regarded as the perquisite of a certain caste, family, or race. "Thus the throne — that is, if such a thing as a throne is allowed to remain — will merely be an exalted position, accessible to the most worthy, while those of lesser worth will occupy secondary positions, but still according to their merit; and, provided their present acquirements are adequate, whether they be kings, ministers, councillors, generals, or judges, no one will care for their origin. Thus royalty or judicial eminence, the monarch's throne or the president's chair, will no longer be the hereditary perquisite of a family, but be conferred by election. For counsel, for war, for judicial positions, it will no longer be a question of class privilege, but merely of aptitude. In the arts and sciences and in the realm of letters rank will no longer be determined by favour, partiality, and patronage, but by general agreement and generous rivalry. This is true social equality. “In proportion with the increase of knowledge — and here let me say that, in my opinion, education should not only be gratuitous, but compulsory — the general standard would become more and more elevated. Instead of remaining with her feet in the mire, Equality should soar to the loftiest heights. A great nation like France should tolerate only a standard that elevates, not one that deteriorates. The equality which degrades is not the equality of a Titan, but that of a bandit. "And now, brethren, we come to the third and last word of our motto, — Fraternity; a grand word if properly understood; a sublime word if properly defined. A man must, indeed, have a very imperfect understanding of the real meaning of this word who applies it merely to the inhabitants of a single village, the citizens of a single town, or the people of a single nation. Let us pity such narrow and ignorant minds, and teach them to shake off the leaden sandals of mediocrity, stretch their wings, and soar high above all such commonplace notions. When Satan tried to tempt Christ, he transported him to the top of a lofty mountain commanding a view of all the kingdoms of the earth, -not to a tower in Nazareth, from which he could see only a few Galilean villages. It is not the people of one city, or even of one kingdom, that should be united in the bonds of Fraternity, but the whole world. "Brethren, the day will surely come when this word 'country,' which we now hold so sacred, and that other word ' nationality,' which we utter with equal reverence, "will vanish like those bits of stage scenery which are lowered only for a moment to allow the scene-shifters and machinists to prepare their infinite distances and extended horizons. Brethren, the day will come when those who have conquered earth and sea will conquer air and fire as well. The flaming coursers of the sky will be harnessed, not only to mind, but to matter, and the winds — which are to-day but the unruly couriers of the tempest — will become the docile and intelligent messengers of civilisation. "Brethren, the day will come when — thanks to this terrestrial and aerial communication, which will render kings practically powerless — all the nations of the earth will understand that they are bound together in a solidarity of past trials; when people will understand that kings, who have put weapons with which to destroy one another into their hands, were urging them on, not to glory, as they claimed, but to fratricide, and that a full account must be rendered to posterity for each drop of blood drawn from the most insignificant member of the great human family. "Then, brethren, you will see a magnificent panorama spread out before you. Every imaginary boundary will disappear; every artificial frontier will be laid low. Rivers will be no hindrance, mountains no obstacle. Nations will clasp hands across rivers, and upon the loftiest mountain-peak will be erected an altar, — the altar of Fraternity. "Brethren, this, I tell you, is the true apostolic fraternity. Christ did not die to save the Jews alone, but to redeem all the nations of the earth. ' Go and teach all nations,' was His command. Do not make these three words, Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity, the motto of France alone. Inscribe them upon the banner of humanity, — a motto for the world. "And now go forth, my brethren! Your task is a grand one, -so grand that however deep the rivers of blood and tears through which you are condemned to pass may prove, your descendants will envy you the sacred mission intrusted to you. Be like the Crusaders of old, who did not pause even when they saw the bones of their fathers bleaching along the route. "Courage, then, ye apostles of liberty! Courage, ye pilgrims! Courage, ye soldiers! Apostles, convert all men! Pilgrims, press on! Soldiers, fight the good fight!” Cagliostro paused; but he had scarcely ceased speaking when a storm of applause burst forth. Three times the plaudits died away, only to be again renewed, echoing and re-echoing through the crypt like a subterranean tempest. The six masked men bowed low before him, one after another, kissed his hand, and retired. Then each brother bowed in turn before the platform from which this new apostle, another Peter the Hermit, had preached the "Crusade of Liberty,” and then passed out, each repeating the grim motto, Lilia pedibus destrue. With the last brother's departure the lamp went out, and Cagliostro was left alone in silence and darkness, like those gods of India into whose mysteries he claimed to have been initiated two thousand years before.

CHAPTER LXXI. WOMEN AND FLOWERS.

Several months after the events just related, a carriage dashed up to the door of the Chateau du Marais about eight o'clock in the morning, and a gentleman, dressed entirely in black, alighted from it. An old servant, who seemed to have been awaiting this person's arrival very impatiently, hastened forward to meet him. "Ah, Doctor Gilbert, you have come at last!” he exclaimed. "What is the matter with him, my poor Teisch-” inquired the doctor. "Alas, monsieur, you will see,” responded the valet. As he spoke, he led the way into the billiard-room, where the lamps were still burning, and then through the dining-room, where a table covered with flowers, empty bottles, fruit, and pastry gave evidence of a supper prolonged far into the night. Gilbert glanced sorrowfully at this scene of disorder, which showed how poorly his instructions had been obeyed; then, sighing, and shrugging his shoulders, he ascended the staircase which led up to Mirabeau's chamber on the floor above. "Here is Doctor Gilbert, monsieur,” said the valet, as he entered. "The doctor!” exclaimed Mirabeau. "Why, it wasn't necessary to send for him for a mere trifle like this 1”

“Trifle!” murmured poor Teisch. “You can judge for yourself, monsieur.”

“Nevertheless, I am very sorry they troubled you without consulting me,” insisted Mirabeau. "First of all, it never causes me any inconvenience to come to see you. You know I only attend a few personal friends, and I am always entirely at their service. Now let us see what the matter is. There must be no secrets from the faculty, understand. Teisch, pull up the curtains and open the windows.” This order being complied with, the sunlight penetrated to the farthest corner of Mirabeau's chamber, thus enabling the doctor to note the change which had taken place in the famous orator's appearance since he examined him a couple of months before. “Ah! “exclaimed Gilbert, in spite of himself. "Yes, I am very much changed, am I not-” responded Mirabeau. “I’ll tell you how it happened. You know the question under consideration yesterday-”

“Yes; something connected with mines and mining, was it not-”

“Yes; but it is a question that is very imperfectly understood as yet. The interests of the owners and of the Government are not distinct enough; besides, my intimate friend De la Marck is deeply interested. In fact, half his income depends upon it. His purse, my dear doctor, has always been at my service, and I am consequently under many obligations to him; so I spoke, or rather I attacked the outposts five times. I put the enemy to rout the last time, though I was pretty well used up myself in the fray. On returning home, I wanted to celebrate my victory; so I invited a few friends to sup with me. We laughed and joked until three o'clock this morning, and then I went to bed. About five o'clock I was seized with terrible pains, and cried out like a fool. Teisch was frightened, and sent for you. Now you know just as much as I do. There 's my pulse, and here's my tongue. I 'm suffering the tortures of the damned. Pull me through if you can, and I’ll promise not to meddle with such matters any more.” Gilbert was too skilful a practitioner not to realise the gravity of Mirabeau's condition without consulting either his tongue or his pulse. The sick man seemed to be in imminent danger of suffocating; his respiration was exceedingly laboured, and his face badly swollen by reason of the stagnation of blood in his lungs. His hands and feet, too, were cold, and the intense pain he was suffering extorted a groan from him every now and then, in spite of his heroism. "You will pull through this time, my dear count,” remarked Gilbert, drawing a case of instruments from his pocket, "but I did not get here any too soon.”

“Are you going to bleed me, doctor-”

“At once.”

“In the left arm or the right-”

“In neither; but in the foot. Meanwhile, Teisch must go to Argenteuil for mustard and cantharides, so that we may apply plasters. Take my cab, Teisch.”

“The deuce! At that rate, I should say it was time you came,” exclaimed Mirabeau. Without replying, Gilbert immediately proceeded to bleed his patient; and very soon thick black blood began to ooze from the sufferer's foot. The relief was almost instantaneous. "You are certainly a very clever man, doctor,” exclaimed Mirabeau, breathing much more easily already. "And you, count, are certainly a very foolish one, to endanger a life so valuable to Prance and to your friends, for a few moments of pleasure.”

“Nonsense, my dear doctor; you exaggerate the regard France and my friends entertain for me,” replied Mirabeau, smiling in a half ironical, half melancholy fashion. “Great men are always complaining of the ingratitude of mankind in general, when they themselves are really the ingrates. Be seriously ill, and you will have all Paris under your windows to-morrow; die to-morrow, and you will have all France for pall-bearers.”

“That is very consoling, I 'm sure,” responded Mirabeau, laughing. "It is just because you can see the gratitude without risking your life that I tell you this. The truth is, you need a great demonstration to stimulate you. Let me take you back to Paris with me a couple of hours hence; then let me tell the first person I meet that you are ill, and you will see.”

“Do you think I 'm strong enough to be taken back to Paris-”

“Yes; this very day. How are you feeling now-”

“I am breathing much easier; my head is clearer, and the mist before my eyes is disappearing; but I am still suffering a good deal in my stomach.”

“The plasters will relieve that, my dear count. The bleeding has done its work, and Dow the plasters must do theirs. Hold on, — here 's Teisch now.” Teisch had brought the required remedies, and in about a quarter of an hour entire relief came, as the doctor had predicted. "Now I’ll give you an hour to rest, and then take you away with me,” remarked Gilbert. "Won't you permit me to remain here until evening, and make an appointment to meet you at my house on the Hue Chaussee d'Antin at eleven o'clock to-night- “Gilbert looked at Mirabeau, and the latter could see that his physician had divined the cause of this desire on his part; so he added, — "What else can I do, as I am expecting a visitor-”

“I saw the flowers on your table as I passed through the dining-room. It wasn't a mere friendly supper you gave last night.”

“You know I can't do without flowers; they are one of my weaknesses.”

“But I am not complaining of the flowers alone, count.”

“But if the flowers are a necessity to me, I must abide by the consequences of that necessity, I suppose.”

“Count, you are killing yourself.”

“Confess, though, that it is at least a delightful death.”

“I mean to keep close by you the entire day.”

“But, doctor, I have given my word. You surely wouldn't ask me to break it.”

“Will you be in Paris to-night-”

“I tell you I shall expect to meet you at my little house on the Rue Chaussee d'Antin to-night. Have you ever seen it- It 'a a purchase I 've just made from Julie Talma's wife. I 'm beginning to feel all right again now, doctor.”

“In other words, you want me to be off. Very well; this is my day at the Tuileries.”

“Ah, you will see the queen,” said Mirabeau, his face darkening. "Probably. Have you any message for her-”

“I couldn't take such a liberty. Don't even mention the fact that you have seen me.”

“And why not-”

“Because she’ll ask you if I have saved the monarchy, as I promised, and you'll have to say no,” replied Mirabeau, smiling bitterly; "though it is more her fault than mine that I have failed.”

“Don't you want me to tell her how you have been overworking yourself, and that your brave fight in the Assembly is killing you-”

“Yes, tell her that. Make me out much more ill than I am, please.”

“And why-”

“Oh, never mind! Just do it for curiosity's sake, so that you’ll have something interesting to tell me.”

“All right.”

“And you'll tell me what she says-”

“Her very words.”

“Well, good-bye, doctor. I thank you a thousand times,” said the count, offering his hand to Gilbert, whose searching glance seemed to embarrass him. "Now won't you prescribe for me before you go-” “Take plenty of warm drinks, observe the simplest possible diet, and, above all -”

“Well-”

“Above all, no nurse under fifty years of age; do you understand-”

“Rather than not follow out your prescription, I’ll take two of twenty-five years,” responded Mirabeau, laughing. At the door Gilbert met Teisch. The poor fellow's eyes were full of tears. "Oh! why do you leave him, sir-” he exclaimed. "Simply because he won't let me stay, my dear Teisch,” Gilbert answered. "And all on account of that woman who looks like the queen,” muttered the old man. "A man of such genius, too, as everybody admits! Great heavens! how can he be such an ass- “Gilbert seized the old man's arm, as if about to question him; then, saying to himself, "What am I doing- it is his secret, not mine,” he stepped into his cab and was driven away.

CHAPTER LXXII. WHAT THE KING SAID, AND WHAT THE QUEEN SAID.

Gilbert scrupulously fulfilled the promise made to Mirabeau; but first he saw Camille Desmoulins, the incarnate spirit of the press of the day, and apprised him of Mirabeau's illness, which he represented as much more serious than it really was at that moment, but not more so than it would become if Mirabeau indulged in any fresh imprudence. Then he repaired to the Tuileries, and communicated the intelligence to the king. "Ah, indeed, poor fellow!” remarked the monarch. "Has he lost his appetite-”

“Yes, sire.”

“Then he's in a bad way,” said the king, and straightway began to talk of other matters. On leaving the king, Gilbert went to see the queen, and repeated to her exactly what he had told the king. The daughter of Maria Theresa knit her brows. "Why didn't this malady attack him on the morning of the day he made that fine speech on the tricoloured flag- “she exclaimed. Then, as if repenting of having allowed this expression of animosity against the symbol of French nationality to escape her in Gilbert's presence, she added, “Still, it would be a great misfortune for France, and for ourselves as well, if this indisposition should prove serious.”

“I believe I have already had the honour of informing your Majesty that it is more than an indisposition, it is a serious illness.”

“Which I feel sure you will conquer, however.”

“I shall do my best, madame, but I cannot answer for the result.”

“I shall depend upon you, doctor, understand, to bring me news of Monsieur de Mirabeau,” she remarked; then she, too, began to talk of other things. That same evening, at the appointed hour, Gilbert presented himself at the door of the house Mirabeau had recently purchased in the city. The count, who was half reclining upon a couch, was evidently expecting him; but as he had been kept waiting several minutes in the drawing-room, Gilbert cast a quick glance round the room, and as he did so his eye fell upon a cashmere scarf lying upon an arm-chair. It was to divert the doctor's attention from this discovery, very possibly, that Mirabeau hastily exclaimed: "Ah, it is you! I find that you have fulfilled a part of your promise already. All Paris knows that I am ill, and for two hours Teisch has been kept busy answering the inquiries of my friends, who want to know whether I am better, and perhaps of my enemies as well, who come to see whether I am not worse. So much for the first part of your promise. Have you kept the second part as faithfully-”

“What do you mean-”

“You know perfectly well. Have you been to the Tuileries-”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the queen-”

“Yes.”

“And the king-”

“Yes.”

“And did you tell them they would soon be well rid of me-”

“I told them that you were quite ill.”

“What did they say-”

“The king inquired whether you had lost your appetite.”

“Poor man! On the day of his death he will say, like Leonidas, ' I sup with Pluto to-night.' And the queen-”

“The queen expressed great sympathy for you.”

“In what terms-”

“Oh, in the very kindest terms.”

“You gave me your word that you would repeat to me exactly what she said, word for word.”

“I can't recall what she said, word for word.”

“Doctor, you haven't forgotten a syllable of it.”

“I assure you -”

“Recollect, I have your word.”

“You are importunate.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, then, she said this malady should have overtaken you the morning you made your famous speech in defence of the tricoloured flag.” Gilbert wished to see what influence the queen really possessed over Mirabeau; and his curiosity was gratified, for the count sprang from his couch as if he had been brought in contact with an electric battery. "Oh, the ingratitude of crowned heads!” he exclaimed. "That one speech, then, was enough to make them forget the king's civil list of twenty-five millions, and the queen's allowance of four millions. The woman doesn’t see that by that one move I regained the popularity I had lost on her account. She forgets, too, that during my presidency of the Jacobin Club — a presidency of three months which used up ten years of my life — I passed the law which restricted membership in the National Guards to actual citizens. Then an attack was made upon the king's aunts because they had left the country, and a law against emigration was proposed. I said, ' If you make such a law, I swear I’ll never obey it;' and the bill was rejected unanimously. Then they called me dictator, and forced me to go upon the rostrum in a passion, — the worst thing an orator can do. I triumphed a second time, though,-but by attacking the Jacobins. Then the Jacobins — fools that they are! — swore to kill me, — Duport, Lameth, Barnave; — none of them see that by killing me they give the dictatorship of their clique to Robespierre. Me — whom they should have guarded as the very apple of their eye — they voted down by a big majority; they made me drink the bitter cup to the dregs; they made me sweat drops of blood; they crowned me with thorns; yes, — crucified me. But happy is the man who, like Christ, undergoes all this, for humanity's sake. “The tricoloured flag! — cannot the queen see it is their only refuge- that if they will publicly place themselves under its shadow they can be saved- But the queen doesn’t care to be saved; she only wants to be avenged, and so turns a deaf ear to the only efficacious means,- moderation, justice, and feasibility. I wanted to save two things at once, — royalty and liberty. It was a thankless task, in which I was doomed to fight single-handed, it seems; and against what- If it had been against men, or even against lions and tigers, that would have been nothing; but to fight against the elements, against all the powers of nature, against the sea, against the rising waves, against the in-coming tide, -that is another thing. Yesterday the water came up to my ankles, to-day it reaches to my knees, to-morrow it will be up to my waist, and the next day over my head. “Doctor, I may as well be frank with you, — I dreamed of being a successful arbitrator between the Revolution and the monarchy; I dreamed of gaining such an ascendency as a man over the queen that I could influence her actions and save her. But the queen never really desired my aid. She only wanted to compromise me, make me unpopular, ruin me, render me powerless either for good or evil; so, doctor, what I had better do, as I remarked to you once before, is to die, -to lie down gracefully, like a gladiator of old, and surrender my throat to the knife.”

“But, count, what would you say if the king or the queen should send to inquire about you to-morrow-”

“What! “exclaimed Mirabeau, half rising. "I said the king — or the queen.”

“She will not do it.”

“But if she should-”

“You really think she will condescend so far-”

“I vouch for nothing. I am merely supposing a case.”

“Then I’ll wait until to-morrow night.”

“What do you mean-”

“Exactly what I say. If the queen sends to inquire for me by to-morrow night, then I'm in the wrong; if she does not, why then you are wrong, doctor, and I am right.”

“So be it. Now, my dear Demosthenes, I want you to spend a quiet, peaceful night, and awake calm and refreshed.”

“I will not leave this couch, doctor.”

“Will you promise me that-”

“Upon my word of honour.”

“Good! “said Gilbert, rising to go. “Get a good night's sleep, and I’ll attend to the rest.” Mirabeau passed a comfortable night. The next morning he summoned Teisch early to open the windows and admit the fresh morning air, and the only thing that troubled the old servant was the feverish impatience and anxiety to which his master was evidently a prey. He seemed hardly to believe Teisch when the latter told him it was not yet eight o'clock, and made Teisch bring him his watch, so that he could see for himself. Then he laid the watch on a table beside him. Presently he said to the old man: "Teisch, I can trust you so implicitly that I want you to take Jean's place at the door to-day. You will say to all callers that I am better, but not able to see any one yet; but in case any messenger should come from the Tuileries, you are to bring him up to my room. Do you understand me- The messenger must not, on any account, go away without my having a conversation with him. You see, my good Teisch, that in sending you away from me I am only giving you another proof of my confidence.” At ten o'clock Mirabeau arose and dressed himself with unusual care. Then he seated himself in an arm-chair at a window which commanded a view of the street. Each time the knocker sounded or the bell rang, his anxious face might have been seen peering out from behind the partially raised curtain. Then the curtain would fall, to be again lifted at the next peal of the bell, or sound of the knocker, and so on, again and again. About two o'clock Teisch came up, followed by a lackey. Mirabeau's heart throbbed violently. The lackey wore no livery, and the thought at once occurred to Mirabeau that the queen had sent the messenger in this garb in order not to compromise herself in the eyes of the public. "From Doctor Gilbert,” said Teisch. “Ah! “said Mirabeau, turning pale. “As the boy came from Doctor Gilbert, and is the bearer of a letter for you, I thought it best to make an exception in his favour, monsieur.”

“You did quite right.” Mirabeau opened the letter; it read as follows: — “Let me know how you are. I shall be with you at eleven this evening. I hope you will tell me that I was right, and you were wrong.”

“Tell your master you found me sitting up, and that I shall certainly expect him to-night.”

“See that the lad has something before he goes away,” he added, turning to Teisch. Teisch made a sign to indicate that he understood, and took the messenger away. Hour after hour passed, and the bell rang and the knocker was plied incessantly. Crowds gathered in the street in front of the house, and, being wrought up into a state of intense excitement by the alarming accounts in the newspapers, — accounts which were contradicted, however, by Teisch's encouraging reports, — compelled all vehicles to turn into side streets, so as not to disturb the illustrious invalid. About five o'clock Teisch again entered Mirabeau's chamber to inform him of this fact. “I thought it possible you had some better news for me, my poor Teisch,” remarked Mirabeau.”

“What better news could you ask- “exclaimed the old servant, in surprise. “I did not suppose I could tell you anything that would please you better than this proof of the people's love for you.”

“You are right, Teisch, and I am an ingrate indeed.” As soon as Teisch had left the room, Mirabeau opened the window, and, stepping out upon the balcony, waved his hand in token of gratitude to the worthy men below, who had constituted themselves the guardians of his slumbers. They recognised him, and shouts of "Long live Mirabeau!” re-echoed from one end of the Rue Chaussee d'Antin to the other. The evening wore away as the day had done, and Mirabeau's feverish impatience changed to bitter despondency. At eleven o'clock precisely the door opened, and Teisch announced Doctor Gilbert, who entered smiling, but who became alarmed when he noted the expression on Mirabeau's face. “Did no one come- “he asked hurriedly. “From where-”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“No, I assure you I -”

“From her — from the palace — in behalf of the queen-”

“No one, my dear doctor, no one.”

“Impossible!” Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders. "What an innocent, credulous person you are, doctor!” he exclaimed. Then, seizing Gilbert's hand, he asked, “Shall I tell you what you 've been doing to-day, doctor-”

“Go on.”

“Yes, doctor, I can see and hear all that took place as plainly as if I had been there. You went to the Tuileries to-day at one o'clock; you asked to see the queen, and you did see her; you told her that my situation was alarming, to say the least, and suggested that it would be kind in her, both as a sovereign and as a woman, to send and inquire for me, even though she did it only for policy's sake. She discussed the matter with you, and your arguments seemed to convince her; for, as you were about to take leave, she promised you she would send and inquire for me. You left her much elated, trusting in the royal promise, and she, — she remained arrogant and haughty and bitter, smiling at your credulity; for you quite forgot that a royal promise means nothing whatever. Now, upon your word as an honest man,” added Mirabeau, looking Gilbert full in the face, "was it not exactly as I have said-”

“Had you been there, my dear count, you could hardly have stated the case more accurately.”

“Fools that they are! “exclaimed Mirabeau, bitterly; “they never seem to be able to do the right thing. The sight of a lackey in the royal livery entering my house to-day in full view of the crowd in front of my door and under my windows would have given the king and queen at least another year of popularity.” And, to his very great astonishment, Gilbert saw Mirabeau raise his hand quickly to his eyes and dash away a tear. “How long is it since you have eaten anything- “asked the doctor. "Not since two o'clock.”

“In that case, you had better take a bath.”

“A very good idea, doctor. Jean, a bath in my dressing- room at once.” Ten minutes afterwards, Mirabeau was taking a bath, and Teisch was showing the doctor out. The count remained in his bath until he heard the outer door of the house open and close; then he rang the bell violently. Jean, set a table in my room, and go and as Madame Olivia if she will do me the favour to sup with me. And, above all, see that there are flowers, — plenty of flowers. I adore flowers,” he added. About four o'clock Doctor Gilbert was awakened by a loud peal of the door-bell. “I am sure Mirabeau is worse! “he exclaimed, springing out of bed. The doctor was right. After the supper had been served, and the table covered with flowers, Mirabeau ordered Teisch to go to bed, and dismissed Jean also. Then he fastened all the doors save that leading into the room of the woman Teisch called his evil genius. Neither of the two servants went to bed, however, though the younger man fell asleep in his chair in the antechamber. Teisch was on the alert, however. About a quarter of four a sharp blow was heard on the small table-bell, and both servants hastened to the room, but found the doors locked. Happily, the idea of going to the unknown woman's apartment, and reaching their master's room through hers, occurred to them. Lying back, half fainting, Mirabeau was holding the woman to prevent her from summoning assistance, while she, in her terror, was ringing the little table-bell with all her might, being unable to reach the bell-rope, which hung by the chimney. On seeing the servants, she implored them to release her; for Mirabeau was almost suffocating her in his convulsive writhings, and looked like Death itself dragging her down to the tomb. By the united efforts of the servants, the arms of the death-stricken man were finally unloosed, and she retired, weeping, to her room. Jean rushed off for the doctor, while Teisch devoted his whole attention to his master. Gilbert did not take the time to have his horse harnessed, or even to call a cab, but, as the Hue Saint-Honor^ was not far from the Rue Chausse d'Antin, he followed Jean, and in ten minutes they reached Mirabeau's house. Teisch was waiting for them in the vestibule. “What is the matter this time, my friend-” asked Gilbert. “Ah, monsieur, that woman, and those accursed flowers! “faltered the old servant. “But go and see, doctor, go and see!” As the doctor hastily mounted the stairs leading to Mirabeau's chamber, a door on the opposite side of the landing flew open, and a woman clad in a white dressing- gown rushed out and threw herself at the physician's feet. “Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert 1 save him, in Heaven's name! “she cried frantically. "Nicole!” exclaimed Gilbert. "Nicole, you wretch! is it possible it is you-”

“Save him! save him! “implored Nicole. Gilbert paused, overwhelmed by a terrible suspicion; for the discovery was indeed a startling one. "Beausire distributing pamphlets against him, and Nicole his mistress!” Gilbert muttered. "He is indeed lost, for I see Cagliostro's hand in all this.” And realising that there was not an instant to lose, he rushed into Mirabeau's room.”

CHAPTER LXXIII. "LONG LIVE MIRABEAU!”

It is not necessary to describe all the phases of this terrible illness minutely; suffice it to say that it was reported throughout the entire city that morning that there had been a relapse, — and a relapse in such a case meant death. It became apparent now what an immense place one man could occupy in the heart of a nation. Paris was as deeply moved as when a general calamity threatened the community. All day long the street on which the count lived was closely guarded by men of the labouring class, so that the noise of passing vehicles should not disturb the invalid. Hour after hour the crowds under the window pleaded for news. The door was besieged by citizens of all conditions in life and representing every shade of political opinion, as if each party felt that it would sustain an irreparable loss in losing Mirabeau. For twenty-four hours Gilbert did not leave the count for an instant; but on Wednesday evening the patient seemed so much more comfortable that the doctor consented to go into the next room and take a few hours' rest; but before doing so he gave orders that he should be called if any change for the worse occurred. At daybreak he awoke. No one had disturbed him as yet; he arose with a heavy heart, for it did not seem possible to him that his patient's improvement should not be attended by some set-back. In fact, when the doctor re-entered the sick-room Teisch told him, with tears in his eyes, that the count was much worse, but that he had forbidden them to arouse his physician, under penalty of his deep displeasure, no matter how great his agony might be. And yet the sick man had been suffering terribly. His pulse was in an alarming condition; the pain had become frightful, and the feeling of suffocation had returned. Several times — though Teisch had merely regarded this as a sign that delirium had set in-several times the count had uttered the queen's name. “Ungrateful woman! she has not sent once to inquire for me!” he had exclaimed. Then, as if talking to himself, he had muttered, "I wonder what she will say to-morrow, when she hears that I am dead- “Gilbert saw that everything depended upon the impending crisis, and set vigorously to work to fight the malady. The attack lasted eight hours, and all that time Gilbert contended with death like an expert duellist, parrying each thrust, anticipating each assault, so to speak; and at the expiration of these eight hours he had the satisfaction of seeing that the fever had abated, and that his patient's sufferings had become much less poignant; but he was too skilful a physician to cherish any hope, or even feel a doubt as to the ultimate result. He saw that Mirabeau was doomed. Strange to say, from that moment, as if impressed with the same conviction, Mirabeau began to speak of himself as of one who had been, but who had now ceased to be. His physiognomy, too, assumed a strange solemnity of expression; his voice became grave and solemn, and almost prophetic in its tone and modulations. His utterances were characterised by greater purity, profundity, and liberality; while in the sentiments he expressed there was a spirit of kindliness and unselfishness which made them almost sublime. It having been announced to him that a young man who had seen him only once, and would not give his name, craved admittance, the count turned to Gilbert, as if to ask permission to receive him. Gilbert understood, and gave Teisch orders to admit the visitor. A youth of nineteen entered slowly and reverently, and, kneeling by Mirabeau's couch, took his hand and kissed it, sobbing convulsively the while. Mirabeau seemed to search his memory for some vague recollection of the young man. "Ah! he exclaimed, suddenly, “I know you. You are the young man I saw at Argenteuil.”

“Thank God! that is all I could ask,” exclaimed the youth; and, rising, he left the room, with both hands pressed over his streaming eyes. A few minutes afterwards Teisch entered the room with a note containing these words: — “When I kissed the hand of Monsieur de Mirabeau at Argenteuil, I told him I would gladly die for him. “I am ready to keep my word. "Yesterday I read in an English paper that the transfusion of blood had proved successful in London in a case similar to that of our illustrious invalid. “If such an operation would be likely to prove of benefit in Monsieur de Mirabeau's case, I offer my blood, which is young and pure.

"mabnais.”

On hearing these lines read, Mirabeau could not keep back the tears. He sent for the young man; but, as if desirous of avoiding any expression of gratitude, he had hastened away, leaving both his Paris and Argenteuil address, however. Soon afterwards Mirabeau consented to receive several relatives and a few of his most intimate friends; but he absolutely refused to see any physician except Gilbert, and when the latter insisted, exclaimed, "No, doctor, you have had all the bother of my illness, and you shall have all the credit if I recover.” From time to time he asked who had called or sent to inquire concerning his condition; and, though he did not say, "Has the queen sent any one from the palace-” Gilbert divined, by the dying man's sigh when the end of the list was reached, that the one name he longed to hear was not there. Afterwards, without referring openly to the king or queen, he began to discourse with wonderful clearness and eloquence upon the political situation, and especially of the course he should pursue towards England if he were prime minister. It was against Pitt that he seemed particularly anxious to contend. "Oh, that Pitt, he is eminently a man of preparations! “he exclaimed. “He rules rather by what he threatens to do, than by what he does. If I had lived, I should have covered him with mortification! “Ever and anon a cry of “Long live Mirabeau! “rose to the windows, sent up by the people below, — a cry which resembled a prayer, — wailing rather than hopeful, however. Mirabeau had the window opened, in order that the sound might reach him more clearly, and perhaps compensate, in part, for the sufferings he was enduring. For several seconds he bent eagerly forward, as if drinking in and absorbing the sound; then he murmured,- "Oh, these good people, slandered, insulted, and despised, like myself! It would be only just if it had been they who forgot me, and she who thus rewarded me.” Night came on. Gilbert would not leave his patient, but had a couch placed near the bed, and lay down upon it. Mirabeau made no objection to this. Now that he felt sure of death, he no longer seemed afraid of his physician. ' As soon as daylight came, he bade them open the windows. "I shall die to-day, my dear doctor,” he remarked. "When one has reached my condition, there is nothing for him to do but perfume himself and crown himself with flowers, in order to enter upon the sleep that knows no waking as pleasantly as possible. Have I your permission to do as I wish- “Gilbert nodded his assent. The count summoned his servants. "Jean, get me the finest flowers you can find,” he said; "and you, Teisch, must make me look as handsome as possible.” Just then a cannon-shot was heard. Whence it came no one knew. Mirabeau started up. “What! have the obsequies of Achilles begun already- “he exclaimed. Jean had hardly told the crowd about the house the object of his errand — for as soon as he appeared everybody rushed up for news of the invalid — before men began to run up and down the street shouting, “Flowers for Mirabeau! “Every door opened, and everybody gave all they had, either in their apartments or their conservatories; and in ten minutes the count's house was filled to overflowing with the choicest flowers. "My dear doctor,” remarked Mirabeau, "I should like a few minutes to bid farewell to some one who must leave this house before 1 do. If any one is disposed to insult this person, I commend her to your protection.”

“Very well; I will leave you.”

“Yes, but wait in the adjoining room; and when this person has gone, you will not leave me again until after my death. Promise me that.” Gilbert promised, and was about leaving the room when Mirabeau stopped him. "Before you go,” he said, "open my secretary and bring me a small casket you will find there.” The casket was heavy, and Gilbert surmised that it was full of gold. Mirabeau motioned him to place it on the table beside the bed. Gilbert withdrew, and spent the next quarter of an hour in answering the anxious inquiries of the people that thronged the lower floor of the house. At the expiration of that time a carriage drew up before the door, and Jean ushered out a lady wrapped in a long mantle. A moment afterwards the door of Mirabeau's chamber opened again, and the feeble voice of the invalid was heard asking for the doctor. Gilbert hastened to him. “Here, put this casket back in its place, my dear doctor,” said Mirabeau. Then, seeing Gilbert seemed astonished to find the casket as heavy as it had been before, he exclaimed, "Odd, isn't it, where such disinterestedness has been hiding all this time!” On returning to the bedside, Gilbert saw an embroidered handkerchief, trimmed with lace, on the floor. It was wet with tears. "Ah,” he remarked to Mirabeau, "she took nothing away, but she left something behind.” Mirabeau took the handkerchief and pressed it to his brow. "It seems that she is the only one who has no heart,” he murmured bitterly. And he sank back on the bed and closed his eyes.

CHAPTER LXXIV. FLEE! FLEE! FLEE!

The few remaining hours of Mirabeau's life were hours of frightful agony. When he returned to consciousness, it was through the gateway of terrible pain. He tried to speak, but his efforts were futile. Gilbert had no difficulty in guessing the desire that was uppermost in his mind, however. The sick man had no idea whether his recent swoon had lasted an hour or a day; but he wished to know whether during that time the queen had sent to inquire for him- The register on which each caller inscribed his name was brought up, and Jean and Teisch were both questioned; but no messenger had come from the royal household, or even from the Tuileries. It became evident that Mirabeau was making an almost superhuman effort to speak. At last he succeeded. "Oh, do they not see that when I am dead they are lost- “he gasped. "I bear the mourning garments of the monarchy away with me, and the factions will tear the remains of it into tatters over my grave! “Gilbert darted to the invalid's bedside. "While there is life there is hope,” he said to himself; and, taking a spoon, he poured into it a few drops of the greenish liquid he had given Mirabeau once before, — only this time he did not dilute it. "If you want the elixir to have any effect, my dear doctor, you must give me the entire bottleful,” said Mirabeau, smiling. "And why-”

“Do you suppose that such an abuser of every good gift as I am could have such a treasure in my possession without abusing it- I had the liquid analysed, my friend, and have since taken it, not by the drop, but by the spoonful, — not for the sake of life, but for the sake of the delightful visions it inspired. Thanks to it, I have lived a century, and have possessed, in imagination, the treasures which in real life have evaded me, — strength, love, and fabulous riches. Don't repent of your gift, doctor, but congratulate yourself upon it. My life has been a poor botched, wretched affair. I do not know that I owe God any thanks for such an existence as it has been, but I do owe you thanks for your poison. Fill the spoon again, doctor, and give me another dose.” Gilbert complied with the dying man's request, though not without reluctance. After a few seconds, as if the near approach of death enabled him to lift the veil of futurity, Mirabeau exclaimed,- "Ah! happy are those who die in this year of 1791. They have seen only the serene and resplendent face of the Revolution, and never before has so great a. change been effected with so little bloodshed; but the day is near at hand when an entirely different state of things will prevail. Perhaps you imagine they will regret my death down there at the Tuileries. On the contrary, it will prove a welcome relief. With me, they would have been obliged to govern in a certain way, and I was consequently not a help, but a hindrance. I could do nothing without her, and she would have none of me. I pledged myself, like a fool; she bound herself to nothing, promised nothing. So, doctor, all this is for the best; and if you will promise me one thing, I shall not be troubled by a single regret during the few hours I have to live.”

“And what do you wish me to promise-”

“Promise me if my exit from life is too hard, too painful- promise me, not only as a physician, but also as a friend, or rather as a philosopher — promise me that you will help me through.”

“Why do you ask me this-”

“Because, though I know that death is near, I feel that life is still strong within me, and the last step will be hard to take.”

“I have promised not to leave you. If God has condemned you to die, trust me to do all that it is in my power to alleviate your sufferings. If death comes, it will find me here beside you.” It was evident that the invalid had only waited for this promise. "I thank you,” he murmured gratefully; and then his head sank back on his pillow. For three hours after this, his icy hand rested quietly in Gilbert's. His breathing was so regular, his countenance so placid, his whole attitude so restful, that one would have supposed he was asleep. But about eight o'clock Gilbert felt the cold hand suddenly tremble, and then clench itself. “The last struggle has come; the death agony is beginning,” Gilbert said to himself. Great drops of sweat suddenly appeared upon the brow of the dying man, and his eyes glittered with a wild, unnatural light. He made a motion indicative of a desire to drink, and his attendants offered him water, and wine, and orangeade; but he shook his head. He desired none of these things. Then he motioned them to bring him pen, ink, and paper. They quickly obeyed, in order that no thought of this great mind should be lost; and, taking the pen, he traced with a firm hand the words of Hamlet: "To die, to sleep — “Gilbert pretended not to understand. Mirabeau dropped the pen, and, grasping his breast with both hands, as if trying to tear it open, uttered a few inarticulate sounds; then, picking up the pen again, wrote, with an almost superhuman effort, “This pain is becoming insupportable. Must a man be left on the rack for hours, when a few drops of opium would spare him this torture-” But the doctor hesitated. He was there to fight against death, not to act as its second in the duel. The agony became more and more terrible. The sick man wrung his hands and gnawed his pillow. At last he broke the bonds of paralysis. "Oh, these doctors! these doctors!” he exclaimed. "Gilbert, are you not my friend- Did you not promise to save me from such agony- You make me regret having trusted you. Gilbert, I appeal to your friendship, to your honour!” and with a shriek of agony he fell back on his pillow. "You shall have what you ask, my friend,” said Gilbert, sighing deeply. He took the pen to write a prescription; but Mirabeau, hastily raising himself up in bed, snatched the pen from his hand, and, with fingers already stiffening in death, scrawled upon the paper these words in a handwriting which was scarcely legible: "Flee! Flee! Flee!” He tried to sign his name, but only succeeded in tracing the first four letters. “For her” he whispered, extending his rigid arm towards Gilbert; and again sank back on his pillow, motionless, breathless, sightless. Mirabeau was dead.

CHAPTER LXXV. THE OBSEQUIES.

The grief was intense, universal. In an instant the news spread from the centre of the town to its furthermost limits, from the Rue de Chaussee d'Antin to the barriers. The populace raised a terrible clamour; then they took it upon themselves to see that proper respect was shown for the dead. They rushed to the theatres, tore down the play-bills, and closed the doors. A ball was in progress in a house on the Rue de Chaussee d'Antin that evening. They invaded the mansion, drove the dancers away, and broke the instruments of the musicians. The national bereavement was formally announced to the Assembly by its president. Immediately afterwards, Barrere mounted the tribune, and moved that testimony to the Assembly's grief at the loss of such a man should be incorporated in the official records of the day, and that the Assembly should attend the funeral in a body. On the following day, April 3d, the municipal officers appeared before the Assembly and asked that the church of Ste. Genevieve be constituted a Pantheon, or place of sepulchre for distinguished men, and that Mirabeau should be buried there first of all. The following is the decree as first passed: — "The National Assembly decrees that the new church of Ste. Genevieve shall be set apart for the reception of the ashes of illustrious men, dating from the epoch of French liberty. “That Honore Riquetti Mirabeau is adjudged worthy of this honour. “That the Legislative Body is alone to decide upon whom this honour shall be conferred. “That the municipal officers of the city of Paris shall be charged with the duty of putting the church of Ste. Geneviere in proper condition for this purpose, and of placing upon its pediment this inscription: "'To Her Great Men, By A Grateful Nation.' “That while the new church of Ste. Genevieve is undergoing the necessary preparation for this purpose, the body of Riquetti Mirabeau shall be placed beside the remains of Descartes, in the crypt of the church of Ste. Genevieve.” The next day, at four o'clock, the National Assembly left the legislative hall and proceeded in a body to Mira- beau's house, where all the city officers, cabinet ministers, and prominent government officials, together with a crowd of at least one hundred thousand persons, were already assembled. But in all this immense concourse there was not a single representative of the queen. The procession took up its line of march, headed by Lafayette, as the commander of the National Guard of the kingdom. Then came Tronchet, the president of the National Assembly; then the cabinet ministers; then the members of the Assembly, without any distinction of party,- Sieyes arm-in-arm with Charles de Lameth. Immediately after the Assembly came the Jacobin Club, which had voted to wear mourning for eight days; and Robespierre, too poor to go to the expense of purchasing a new coat, had hired one, as he had done when he put on mourning for Benjamin Franklin. Following the Jacobin Club came the entire population of Paris, between two lines of National Guards numbering more than thirty thousand men. Funeral music — in which two instruments until then unknown in France, the trombone and the tam-tam, were heard for the first time — marked the time for this immense throng. It was not until eight o'clock that the funeral cortege reached St. Eustache. The funeral oration was delivered by Cerutfci. When it was concluded, ten thousand of the National Guards, who were in the church, discharged their muskets simultaneously. The shock was so great that not a single tile remained unbroken; for a moment it seemed as if the arch of the temple had been rent in twain, and that the church would serve as a grave both for the dead and for the living. The procession then resumed its line of march by torchlight; for the shades of night had descended, not only upon the streets through which the cortege passed, but upon the hearts of the mourners as well; for the death of Mirabeau seemed indeed a political eclipse. Who would guide the fiery steeds known as Hatred and Ambition now- The spirit of peace, watching in the midst of turmoil and war, had departed from the Assembly. Henceforth the chariot would roll on more swiftly, the descent be more abrupt. Who could tell whether it was hastening on to victory, or to an unfathomable abyss- The Pantheon was not reached until midnight. But one important personage was absent, — Petion. When questioned, he gave as a reason to two of his friends that he had read a plan for an anti-revolutionary conspiracy, written in Mirabeau's hand. Three years afterwards, on a gloomy autumn day, the Convention, no longer in the Hall of the Manege, but in the Hall of the Tuileries, having killed the king, the queen, the Girondists, the members of the Cordelier Club, the Jacobins, and itself, -having nothing else left to kill, proceeded to kill the dead over again. With savage delight the Convention declared it had been deceived in regard to Mirabeau's true character, and that his genius could not atone for his corruption; so a new decree was passed, excluding him from the Pantheon. Mirabeau was declared unworthy to share the last resting- place of Voltaire, Rousseau, and Descartes. So a voice more terrible than that heard in the valley of Jehosaphat cried, "Pantheon, give up thy dead! “And the Pantheon obeyed. Mirabeau's body was delivered to the officer of the Convention, who, as he himself averred, removed the aforesaid body and reinterred it in a public burying- ground,-that is to say, Clamart, the burial-place of criminals. And to render this punishment more terrible, — a punishment which extended beyond death's door, — this removal took place at the dead of night, without any escort, and without anything to indicate the place of re-interment, either cross, stone, or inscription of any kind. Later on, however, an old gravedigger, when questioned on the subject, led the curious visitor to the centre of the enclosure, and, stamping his foot on the ground, exclaimed, — "Here it is! I can vouch for that, for I helped to lower him into the grave, and nearly tumbled in after him, the confounded lead casket was so heavy.” Perhaps Mirabeau did not deserve the Pantheon; but this much is certain,- many repose, and many will repose, in consecrated ground who deserve ostracism far more than he. Oh, France, somewhere within thy borders grant Mirabeau a tomb, and let his name be the sole epitaph, his bust the only ornament, and the future his sole judge!

CHAPTER LXXVI. THE MESSENGER.

On the morning of April second, about an hour before Mirabeau breathed his last, a man attired in the uniform of a naval officer entered the palace of the Tuileries from the rear, and, like an old habitue of the place, promptly made his way to a back stairway used by the servants, but communicating by means of a long narrow corridor with the king's private apartments. On seeing him, the valet in attendance uttered an exclamation of mingled joy and surprise; but the new-comer placed his finger warningly on his lip, and then asked, in a low tone, — “Can the king see me, Monsieur Hue”-”

“His Majesty is with General Lafayette now; but as soon as the general leaves -”

“You will announce me-”

“That is hardly necessary, as his Majesty is expecting you, and gave orders yesterday that you should be admitted immediately upon your arrival.” Just then they heard a small bell tinkle in the king's cabinet. "There! his Majesty is about to ask for you now, I expect,” added the valet. "Then go in, Monsieur Hue", at once; and if the king is at liberty, ask him to grant me an audience immediately.” The valet opened the door, and announced the visitor almost instantly, — conclusive proof that the king was alone. "Show him in! Show him in!” exclaimed the king. "I have been looking for him ever since yesterday.”

“I am a few hours behind time, sire, but I am sure your Majesty will pardon me when you learn the reason of the delay.”

“Come, come, Monsieur de Charny. I have been awaiting your arrival with great impatience, it is true; but I know perfectly well that you would not have permitted any mere trifle to retard your progress. You are here, and I assure you you are welcome j “and the king offered the count his hand in a most cordial manner. "Sire, I received your orders the night before last, and left Montmedy yesterday morning at three o'clock.”

“How did you travel-”

“By post-chaise.”

“That explains the slight delay,” said the king, smiling. "On the contrary, I travelled at such a rate of speed that I should have reached here by eleven o'clock last night if I had taken the most direct route; but I wished thoroughly to inform myself of the advantages and disadvantages of the route chosen by your Majesty, to find out whether the post-stations were well supplied with horses, and, above all, to ascertain how much time to a minute, or even to a second, would be required to make the journey from Montme"dy to Paris, and consequently from Paris to Montmedy.”

“Bravo, Monsieur de Charny! What an efficient helper you are! But let me begin by giving you some idea of the situation here.”

“I should judge from what I hear that matters must be in pretty bad shape.”

“They are in such a shape that I am to all intents and purposes a prisoner in the palace, my dear count. As I just remarked to my gaoler, General Lafayette, I would much rather be king of Metz than of France, just now. You have heard of the flight of my aunts, I suppose-”

“I have heard the mere fact, like everybody else; but I am acquainted with none of the details.”

“You know the Assembly only allows us such priests as have taken the oath to support the Constitution. Well, the poor women became frightened as Easter approached, and thought they would imperil the salvation of their souls if they confessed to such a priest; so, by my advice, I confess it, they started for Rome. There was no law forbidding the trip, and certainly the dear people had no good reason to fear lest the two poor old ladies should prove valuable auxiliaries to the party of emigres. They intrusted the preparations for their departure to Narbonne, who must have managed rather clumsily, I think, for the secret leaked out; and on the eve of their departure they were favoured with a visit similar to that with which the populace honoured us on the fifth of October. Fortunately, they made their way out by one door as the mob entered by the other. There was not a carriage to be found, of course, — though, according to agreement, three were to have been in waiting, — and they had to go afoot as far as Meudon. There they succeeded in procuring vehicles, and were soon safely on their way. But all Paris was in a state of intense excitement; the papers were full of the affair the next day. Marat declared they had carried off millions; Desmoulius declared they had carried off the dauphin. Of course there wasn’t a particle of truth in all this. The poor old ladies had three or four hundred thousand francs in their purses, and this gave them anxiety enough, without taking a child along, whose presence would have been certain to betray them, as they were recognised first at Moret, where they were allowed to continue their journey, and afterwards at Arnay-le-Duc, where they were stopped. I had to write to the Assembly, asking that they might be allowed to continue their journey; but in spite of my letter the Assembly discussed the matter an entire day. Finally, my aunts were permitted to proceed on their way, on condition that the committee should draft a law against emigration.”

“Yes; but I believe that, after Mirabeau's eloquent protest, the Assembly rejected the measure.”

“Yes, it was rejected; but a deep humiliation accompanied that triumph. When some friends of mine saw what a disturbance the departure of these poor old ladies had occasioned, they rushed to the Tuileries to offer me their lives, if necessary; and forthwith it became noised about that a conspiracy for abducting me had been discovered. Lafayette, who had been enticed to the Faubourg Saint Antoine under the pretext that there was a riot near the Bastille, returned to the Tuileries sword in hand, furious at having been thus duped, and then and there arrested and disarmed my poor friends. Pistols and knives were found upon several of them, for each man had caught up the first weapon he could lay his hands on.”

“Oh, sire, sire! what terrible times these are!” exclaimed Charny. "Nor is this all. Listen! Every year we go to St. Cloud, you know. It is a settled thing. We have always done it. Well, the day before yesterday, when we went down into the courtyard to get into our carriages, as usual, we found a crowd of at least fifteen hundred people around the vehicles. We seated ourselves in the carriages; but it was impossible to drive on, for the people clutched the horses' bridles and declared I wanted to run away, but shouldn't. After an hour of fruitless effort, we had to return to our apartments. The queen fairly wept with rage.”

“But why wasn't Lafayette at hand to compel the populace to listen to reason-”

“Lafayette- Do you know what he was doing- First, he sent to St. Roch to have the tocsin sounded; then he ran to the Hotel de Ville to ask for the red flag, inasmuch as he declared that the country was in danger. The country in danger because the king and queen were going to St. Cloud! Do you know who refused to let him have the flag, or, rather, who snatched it from his hands when he had succeeded in securing possession of it- Danton! Then he pretended that Danton had sold himself to me for one hundred thousand francs per month. This is the present state of affairs, my dear count, to say nothing of the fact that Mirabeau, our chief dependence, is dying, — is perhaps even dead at this very moment.”

“All the more reason for making haste, sire.”

“I quite agree with you. Now tell me what you and Bouille have decided upon. Everything is all right, I hope. That affair at Nancy furnished a good excuse for increasing his powers and placing more troops at his disposal.”

“Yes, sire; but, unfortunately, the arrangements of the minister of war conflicted with ours. He has withdrawn the regiment of Saxon hussars, and refuses to send the Swiss regiments.”

“You think the minister of war suspects, then-”

“No, sire. It was merely an unfortunate coincidence. But no matter; we must take the chances. If such an undertaking is prudently conducted, there are always about ninety chances of success out of a hundred, I should say.”

“Very well. Then what would you suggest-”

“Is your Majesty still inclined to take the Chalons, Clermont, and Stenay route, — though this is at least twenty leagues longer than the others-”

“I have already explained to Bouille my reasons for preferring this route.”

“Yes, sire; and it is in accordance with these instructions that I have examined the route bush by bush, stone by stone, I might say. The map I made of it is in your Majesty's possession, I believe.”

“Yes; and a model of clearness it is. I know the road almost as well as if I had travelled it myself.” As he spoke, the king drew the map from a portfolio and spread it out upon the table. It was not engraved, but drawn by hand, and, as Charny had said, "not a tree nor a rock was wanting.”

“The real danger begins at Sainte Menehould, and ends at Stenay, your Majesty,” remarked Charny, as they bent over the map. “It is upon that portion of the road that we must concentrate our forces.”

“Could they not come nearer to Paris, count, — as far as Chalons, for instance-”

“Chalons is too large a place for forty, fifty, or even a hundred men to be of much service, if your Majesty's safety should be endangered. Besides, Bouille's powers of jurisdiction do not extend beyond Sainte Menehould. The best he can do — and he bade me mention this fact particularly to your Majesty — is to station his first detachment of troops at Sommevelle Bridge, — here, sire, at the first post-station beyond Chalons,” added Charny, pointing to the place mentioned. "How long did it take you to make the journey-”

“Thirty-six hours.”

“But you were in a light vehicle, and had only one servant with you.”

“Yes; but I spent at least three hours in examining the country around Varennes, and in endeavouring to ascertain the best places for stationing relays of horses. The time thus lost will compensate for the extra weight of your coach. In my opinion, your Majesty could easily reach Montmedy in thirty-five or thirty-six hours.”

“And what did you decide in regard to the relays at Varennes- That is an important matter. We must be subjected to no delay there.”

“I think the relays should be stationed on the other side of the town.”

“And why-”

“On account of the situation of the town. I have passed through Varennes five or six times since I left Paris, and I spent nearly three hours there yesterday. It is a town of about sixteen hundred inhabitants, and is divided into two distinct parts, known as the upper and lower town, separated by the river Aire, and connected only by a bridge that spans the river. This bridge is commanded by a high tower, — the tower of an old toll-house, which stands in a dark, narrow place, where the slightest obstacle would effectually impede the traveller's progress. As there is some risk to be run, I think it would be much better to take our chances of getting across this bridge with the horses and postilions from Clermont, than to change horses near a place which can easily be guarded, or rather obstructed, by three or four men, in case the king should be recognised and an alarm given.”

“That is true, though you will be there in ease of any trouble.”

“That will be both my duty and my pleasure, if the king deems me worthy of such an honour.” Louis XVI. again offered his hand to Charny. “Has Bouille” selected the troops to be posted along the route- “he asked. Charny drew a folded paper from his breast and respectfully presented it to the king, who, after having read the memorandum, remarked, — "I think his selection very judicious; but as the detachments must be stationed in these cities and towns several days beforehand, what excuse can be given for their presence-”

“We have invented a very specious pretext, I think, sire. They will be ordered to serve as escorts for messengers who are taking a large sum of money from the minister of war to the Army of the North.”

“Very good, very good!” responded the king. “By the way, speaking of money, did Bouille' receive the million I sent him-”

“Yes, sire. Your Majesty, however, is aware that the million was in assignats, which are now twenty per cent, below par. A faithful subject of your Majesty was nevertheless glad to take one hundred thousand crowns of the amount for his own use at their par value.”

“And the rest, count-” asked the king, looking searchingly at Charny.

“The rest of the amount was discounted for Louis de Bouille by his father's banker, who gave him a letter of credit on the Bethmanns of Frankfort. The money will be forthcoming when wanted.”

“And now, count, tell me the name of this loyal adherent who furnished Bouille” with this hundred thousand crowns at such a great personal sacrifice.”

“This loyal adherent is rich, sire, and consequently deserves no credit for what he has done.”

“Nevertheless, the king wishes to know his name.”

“Sire, the sole condition he exacted upon rendering this service was that he might remain unknown.”

“You know him, then-”

“Yes, sire.”

“Monsieur de Charny,” said the king, with unwonted dignity, "here is a ring which is very precious to me.” He drew a plain gold ring from his finger as he spoke. “I took it from the hand of my dying father as I kissed that hand, already cold in death. Therein lies its only value; but to an understanding heart this ring will be more precious than the richest gem. Say as much to this faithful friend, and give him this ring in my name.” Charny's eyes filled with tears, and he dropped upon one knee to receive the ring from the king's hand. Just at that moment the door opened without the slightest warning. The king turned hastily; for this was a flagrant violation of royal etiquette, and even considered an insult, unless excused by strong necessity. It was the queen. She was as pale as death, and held a paper in her hand; but on seeing the kneeling count kissing the king's ring and placing it on his own finger, she uttered a cry of astonishment and dropped the paper. Charny sprang to his feet and respectfully saluted the queen, who faltered, “Monsieur de Charny! Monsieur de Charny here with the king, at the Tuileries! — and I not know it!” she added, under her breath. There was such sorrow in the poor woman's eyes that Charny, who had not heard the concluding words, but who had divined their meaning, took two steps towards her. "I have but just arrived,” he remarked, "and I was about to ask permission to pay my respects to your Majesty.” A faint blush suffused the queen's cheeks. It was a long time since she had heard Charny's voice, and longer still since she had heard the tender intonation which he gave to these few words. Involuntarily she extended both her hands; but recovering herself almost instantly, she paused, and pressed one on her wildly throbbing heart. Meanwhile the king had walked toward the other end of the room, where a current of air from the open door and window had blown the scrap of paper which the queen had dropped upon her entrance. "What do these three words, 'Flee! flee! flee!' and this fragment of a signature mean- “he inquired, picking it up and examining it. "They mean that Mirabeau died ten minutes ago, and left us this farewell message,” answered the queen. "His counsel shall be obeyed, for it is wise,” responded the king; "and the time has now come to carry it into execution.” Then, turning to Charny, he added, "Follow the queen to her apartments, and tell her all.” The queen glanced first at Charny, and then at the king. "Come with me,” she said, at last, after a moment's hesitation. And she quitted the room precipitately, realising that it would be impossible for her to conceal her conflicting emotions if she tarried longer. Charny bowed low to the king, and followed Marie Antoinette.

CHAPTER LXXVII. THE PROMISE.

When the queen regained her own apartments she threw herself on a sofa and motioned Charny to close the door behind him. She had hardly seated herself, however, before her overburdened heart found vent in a fit of passionate sobbing. Her grief was so intense and so genuine that it touched Charny deeply, and fanned the dying embers of his former passion into new life; for such a passion as we have seen quicken and glow and blaze in the heart of this man is never wholly extinguished unless it is subjected to one of those terrible shocks which transform love into hatred. He had learned to love Andree with all the fire of his heart; but he loved the queen with all the tender compassion of his soul. Without speaking, but unquestionably with more love than respect, Charny approached the queen, drew from her face one of the hands that covered it, and pressed it to his lips. "Madame, I am proud to tell you that there has not been an hour or a day since I left you in which I have not been busy in your behalf,” he said earnestly. “Ah, Charny, there was a time when you would have laboured much less diligently in my behalf, perhaps, but when you would have thought of me much more frequently.”

“I was burdened with a grave responsibility, madame. My mission necessitated the utmost secrecy up to the time of its entire completion. This was not accomplished until to-day. Now, I can see you again and talk with you; whereas, before, I could not even write.”

“You have given abundant proof of your loyalty, Olivier,” said the queen, sadly. "I regret only one thing, that you were able to do this only at the cost of another sentiment.”

“Madame, as I have the king's permission, will you allow me to tell you what has been done to insure your safety-”

“Oh, Charny, Charny, have you nothing more important to say to me- “She pressed the count's hand tenderly, and gave him a look which would once have filled his heart with rapturous delight; but even as she thus gazed at him she noticed that his toilet was so perfect in all its details that, though the fastidious queen could see no fault, the woman felt strangely dissatisfied. “When did you return- “she asked. "I have but just arrived from Montmedy.”

“Then you must have travelled half-way across France.”

“I have travelled ninety leagues by post-chaise since yesterday morning.”

“Then how is it — pardon the question — that you are as immaculate in attire as one of Lafayette's aides when he comes straight from headquarters- Was the news you brought of so little importance-”

“Quite the contrary, madame; but I thought I should attract attention if I came to the Tuileries in a post-chaise covered with mud or dust; so I took the precaution to come afoot, in my uniform, like an officer returning to court after an absence of a week or two.”

“Yes, I forgot for the moment that you have a residence in the city.”

“And where, may I ask-”

“In the Rue Coq-Heron. It is there that the countess lives, is it not-”

“I think I had the honour to inform you, before my departure, that Madame de Charny's residence is not mine. I went to my brother's rooms and made my toilet there.” The queen uttered a faint exclamation of joy, and seizing Charny's hand, pressed it to her lips. “I thank you, Olivier,” she murmured, in a voice so broken with emotion that Charny felt the tears spring to his own eyes. “You thank me! My God, and for what-”

“For the first happy moment I have known since your departure. I know this is the wildest folly, this jealousy of mine,; but one must pity it, nevertheless. Oh, these men! they are fortunate indeed; for when they are jealous they can fight with their rivals, and kill or be killed. But women can do nothing but weep, though they know that their tears repel rather than attract.” Feeling himself in a dangerous position, Charny endeavoured to beat a sudden retreat, as skaters do, even at the risk of breaking the ice over which they glide. “May I not tell your Majesty what I have been able to do for you in my absence-”

“You are right, Charny; the woman must not forget too long that she is a queen as well. Go on, Monsieur Ambassador. The woman has already heard all she had any right to expect; the quern is listening now.” So Charny told her all, and Marie Antoinette listened with breathless attention, as well as a profound appreciation of his efforts; for it seemed impossible to her that mere devotion to a sovereign should go so far as this. Love, impassioned and intense love could alone anticipate all these obstacles, and invent such clever methods of surmounting them. When he had finished his recital, she said, regarding him the while with an expression of ineffable tenderness, "Will it really give you such great happiness to save me-”

“What- How can you ask me such a question- Why, it is the highest dream of my ambition. If I succeed, it will be the crowning glory of my life.”

“I would much rather you regarded it as simply the reward of your love,” answered the queen, sadly. "But no matter. You earnestly desire that this great work of rescuing the king, the queen, and the dauphin of France should be accomplished by you, do you not-”

“I only await your consent to devote my best efforts, and my very life itself, to that object.”

“Yes; and I realise, my friend, that this devotion on your part should be entirely free from all outside influences and entanglements. It is impossible that my husband and children should be saved by a hand that would not dare to extend itself to sustain them, in case they should slip, or be in danger of falling on the dangerous road we are about to travel together. To you I intrust their lives and mine; and you, in turn, will have compassion on me, will you not-”

“Have compassion on you, madame-” repeated Charny, wonderingly. "Yes; at a time when I need all my strength, all my courage, and all my presence of mind, you surely would not — It is a foolish fancy, perhaps, but how can I help it- Are there not persons who are afraid to venture out at night for fear of ghosts, which in the daylight they know perfectly well have no existence- You would not allow me to be lost, perhaps, for want of a simple promise, — for want of one little word- Surely you would not — “Charny interrupted the queen. "Madame, I desire your Majesty's safety above all things; I also have the happiness and prosperity of France deeply at heart. I want, too, the honour of completing the work I have undertaken, and I assure you I despise myself for being able to make no greater sacrifice. I swear to see Madame de Charny again only with your Majesty's permission.” And, bowing respectfully but coldly, he withdrew, though the queen, frightened by the tone in which these last words were uttered, endeavoured to detain him. In fact, Charny had hardly closed the door behind him when the queen stretched out her arms and exclaimed piteously, "Oh, would it were I he had vowed not to see, if he but loved me as he loves her!”

CHAPTER LXXVIII. SECOND SIGHT.

About eight o'clock on the morning of the nineteenth of June, Gilbert was striding up and down the floor of his lodgings in the Rue Saint-Honore, going to the window every now and then, and leaning out like a man who is waiting impatiently for some one who does not come. In his hand he held a folded paper, and a very important document it must have been; for two or three times the doctor had unfolded it and read it, then re-folded it, only to re-peruse it a few moments afterwards. At last the sound of carriage-wheels was heard, and Gilbert again hurried to the window. But he was too late; the person who had come in the carriage had already entered the house. The doctor seemed to have no doubt as to the identity of this visitor, however; for, stepping to the door of the antechamber, he called out, "Bastien, open the door for the Comte de Charny!” Once more he had unfolded the paper to which he had so often referred, when Bastien announced, not the Comte de Charny, but Baron Zannone. The name was so far distant from Gilbert's thoughts that he started violently, as if the vivid flash of lightning which precedes a terrific thunder-clap had suddenly blinded him; but, quickly recovering himself, he re-folded the paper and concealed it in his breast-pocket. “Count Cagliostro!” he repeated, astonished at the announcement. “The same, my dear Gilbert!” exclaimed the new-comer, blithely; "though I know very well it was not I whom you expected to see, but Charny. Charny is busy just now, however, — I will tell you all about the reasons for his delay presently, — and won't get here for half an hour. Knowing this fact, I said to myself, 'As I 'm here in the neighbourhood, I’ll run in and see Gilbert for a minute.' Though I was not expected, I hope I am none the less welcome on that account.”

“You know that at any hour of the day or night, two doors are always open to you here, — the door of the house, and the door of its master's heart.”

“Thank you, Gilbert. Some day I, too, may be able to prove to you how much I love you. If that day ever comes, the proof will not be lacking. Now let us have a little talk.”

“About what-” asked Gilbert, smiling; for Cagliostro's appearance upon the scene was always the prelude to some startling piece of intelligence. “What about- Why, about the chief topic of the day, — the king's speedy departure.” Gilbert felt himself shiver from head to foot, though, thanks to his wonderful will power, the smile did not desert his lips for a moment, or his colour change. "And as we have considerable time at our disposal, I think I’ll take a seat,” added Cagliostro, suiting the action to the word. His first feeling of terror having somewhat abated, Gilbert said to himself that though it was probably chance that had brought Cagliostro there, his coming might, after all, prove almost providential; for, as the count had no secrets from him, he would probably tell him all he had learned concerning the king's intended flight. "Well, the long-talked-of event is to take place tomorrow, is it not- “asked Cagliostro, seeing that Gilbert showed no disposition to reply. "You know I always let you talk on to the end; for even if you make a mistake occasionally, there is always something to be learned, not only from your entire discourse, but from your slightest word.”

“And in what have I made any mistake thus far- Was it in predicting the death of Favras- though I did everything in my power to prevent it, up to the very last minute. Was I wrong in declaring that the king was deceiving Mirabeau, and that the latter would never be made a cabinet minister- Am I mistaken, do you think, in prophesying that Robespierre will some day rebuild the scaffold of Charles I., and that Bonaparte will reconstruct the throne of Charlemagne- True, that prediction has not come to pass yet, but it will in time. And now, — to-day, — my dear Gilbert, when I tell you that the king intends to flee to-morrow, you know 1 speak the truth, — you, of all others, — inasmuch as you have assisted most zealously in all the arrangements for his flight.”

“Even if that be true, you will hardly expect me to admit it, I suppose.”

“No. Still, I don't mind making a few more revelations, in order to convince you beyond any possibility of doubt. The queen, who is wedded to all the luxuries of life, and who naturally desires to make herself as comfortable as possible on this journey, which, according to Charny's calculations, is to last about thirty-five or thirty- six hours, has ordered a handsome new dressing-case of Desbrosses on the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires. This dressing-case, which was ostensibly ordered for the queen's sister, the Archduchess Christine, was only completed yesterday morning, and taken to the Tuileries in the afternoon. Next, the journey is to be made in a large and comfortable travelling-coach built by Louis the fashionable carriage-maker on the Champs Elysees, and Charny, at this very moment, is paying him one hundred and twenty-five louis, — that is to say, one half of the price agreed upon. Lastly, Montmorin, without knowing what he has been doing, has signed a passport for a certain Baroness de Korff, her two children, two maids, steward, and three lackeys. Madame de Korff is Madame de Tourzel, governess of the royal children of France, — Madame Royale and the dauphin; her two maids are the queen and Madame Elizabeth; her steward is the king himself, and her three lackeys are Isidore de Charny, Monsieur de Malden, and Monsieur de Valory. The paper you were holding in your hand when I came in just now, but which you concealed in your pocket, was the aforesaid passport, which reads as follows,"-and Cagliostro repeated the contents of the document, word for word, exactly as if he had been reading it aloud: — “In The Kino's Name: “You are hereby ordered to pass the Baroness de Korff, together with her two children, one woman servant, a valet, and three lackeys.

“Montmorin, “Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

"You said just now that Madame Elizabeth and the queen were to personate Madame de Korff's two maids, but the passport mentions only one servant woman.”

“I will explain the reason of that. On reaching Bondy, Madame de Tourzel — though she expects to go through to Montmedy — will be requested to leave the carriage, and Charny will take her place, in order to be close at hand in case of any trouble. The queen will then become Madame de Korff; and as there will be only one other woman, Madame Elizabeth, in the coach, it was not necessary to have two maids mentioned in the passport. Now do you desire any further particulars- If so, here they are. The king's departure was to have taken place on the first of June. Monsieur de Bouille” quite counted upon it, and even wrote his Majesty a curious sort of letter, in which he invited, even urged, him to come at once, as the soldiers were being corrupted every day; and if they were allowed to take the oath to support the Constitution, he would not answer for them. By being corrupted, he meant, of course, that the soldiers are beginning to understand the difference between a monarchy which has made the people the slaves of the nobility for three centuries, and a constitution which declares all men equal in the sight of the law, and makes promotion the reward of courage and merit. Strange, passing strange, is it not, that the ungrateful army should begin to feel a sneaking fondness for the Constitution- But, alas! the big travelling-coach and the dressing-case were neither of them quite done, so it was impossible to start on the first of the month, which was very unfortunate, to say the least, as the army has become more and more demoralised, and most of the regulars have sworn to support the Constitution since that time. The eighth was the next date appointed; but it was so late when Bouille was notified that he was obliged to send word that he was not ready. Then they concluded to start on the twelfth. They would have preferred the eleventh, but they distrusted Madame de Rochereul, the sweetheart of one of Lafayette's aides, who was in attendance upon the dauphin just at that time, and feared she should discover that something unusual was going on, and report the fact; so, as I remarked before, they determined to postpone their departure until the twelfth, when her term of service would be over. But in the mean time the king bethought him that he would receive his quarterly allowance of six million francs six days afterwards, and, as you can very readily understand, this was well worth waiting for; besides, Leopold, the great temporiser, the Fabius of monarchs, had promised to have fifteen thousand Austrians occupying the approaches to Arlon by the fifteenth. These foreign kings are not lacking in goodwill, you see; the only trouble is they have so many little affairs of their own to attend to. Austria has just devoured both Liege and Brabant, and must now have a little time to digest them; and Austria has to sleep while it digests, like a boa-constrictor. Meanwhile, Catherine of Russia is whetting her teeth on Turkey, and gnawing the bones of Poland; for she is very fond of lion's marrow, this worthy empress! In short, it was decided that the departure should take place at midnight on Sunday, the nineteenth; then another despatch was sent, postponing it until the twentieth, at the same hour, — that is to say, to-morrow night, — a postponement which may lead to serious complications, as Bouille had already given the necessary orders to his troops, and had no chance to countermand them. So be on your guard, my dear Gilbert, be on your guard!”

“Count, I shall make no attempt to dissemble with you,” Gilbert replied. "All you have said is perfectly true. And I am the less inclined to dissimulate because, though I was strongly opposed to the king's departure from Paris, or his leaving France, at one time, I feel now that, on account of the danger that threatens the queen and their children, as a husband and father he should flee, even though he perhaps ought to remain as a king.”

“My dear Gilbert, it is not as a father, as a husband, or even as a man that Louis XVI. is compelled to flee from France. Nor is it on account of the famous fifth and sixth of October. No; he is a Bourbon on his father's side, and the Bourbons know how to face danger. He leaves France on account of a constitution which, being modelled by the Assembly after that of the United States, does not allow a king sufficient air to breathe, though it is well adapted to a republic. He leaves France because of that famous St.-Cloud affair, when he tried to prove that he was a free man, but the people showed him that he was a prisoner. Gilbert, you are a firm believer in a constitutional monarchy,-a monarchy tempered with liberty,- a delightful Utopia, in short; but you must know that kings really have but one religion,- the religion of royalty. They not only consider their persons, anointed by holy oil at Rheims, sacred, but they consider their dwellings and servants sacred as well. One must not lay hands upon a king, under penalty of death. Now, on the day the people prevented King Louis from going to St.-Cloud, somebody laid hands upon his royal person. When the Knights of the Poniard were forcibly ejected from the Tuileries, the king's servants were outraged. The king cannot tolerate this. It is his idea of the abomination of desolation. That is the reason why he so hastily summoned Charny. That is the reason why the king, who so persistently refused to be carried off by Favras, or to make his escape in company with his aunts, has consented to flee to-morrow in the attire of a servant and under the name of Durand; though as kings will be kings to the very last, he told his valets to be sure to pack in one of the trunks the crimson robe embroidered in gold which he wore at Cherbourg.” Gilbert scrutinised the face of Cagliostro closely while the latter talked, in the hope of reading his inmost thoughts; but no human eye could pierce the mask of raillery with which the great necromancer screened his face, and Gilbert decided to question him openly. "All you have said is true, count, I repeat it. Still, why do you come and tell me all this- In what character do you come,-as an enemy, to warn me of your opposition, or as a friend, to proffer me your aid-”

“I come, my dear Gilbert,” the count replied affectionately, "as a teacher would come to a beloved pupil, to warn him that he is making a mistake in attaching himself to a crumbling ruin, a tottering edifice, a waning principle, called Monarchy. A man like you should not be a man of the past, or even of the present, but of the future. Abandon this thing in which you do not believe for that in which you do believe. Do not desert the substance, to follow the shadow. If you will not be an active supporter of the Revolution, be at least a passive looker-on; do not try to obstruct the road. Mirabeau was an intellectual giant, but even Mirabeau had to succumb before the on-rushing tide of progress.”

“I will decide upon these matters when the king is in a place of safety. The king has made me his confidant, his auxiliary, his accomplice, so to speak. I have accepted the trust he reposed in me, and I will be faithful to it until the last. I am a physician, my dear count, and I must make the physical welfare of my patient the first consideration. Now, you must answer me in your turn. In your mysterious projects and secret plans, is it essential for this plot to succeed or fail- If you are resolved that it is to prove a failure, it is useless to fight against you. Merely say that we are not to go, and we will bow our heads and await the blow.”

“My brother,” Cagliostro replied impressively, even solemnly, "if, urged on by the God who has mapped out my course, I should find it necessary to smite those whom you love, or rather whom you feel it your duty to protect, I should certainly remain in the shadow as much as possible, and at least endeavour to leave you in ignorance as to the source from which the blow came. I do not come as a friend,-I, who have so often been the victim of kings, cannot be their friend and champion; but, on the other hand, I do not come as an enemy. I come with the scales in my hand to tell you I have weighed this last Bourbon in the balance and found him wanting; but I do not think his death is essential to the success of our most holy cause. Like Pythagoras, too, I hardly admit the right of man to extinguish the life of the smallest and most insignificant insect; so God forbid that I should rashly tamper with that of a human being, — the lord of creation. Wherefore I have come, not merely to say that I will remain neutral, but to ask if my assistance is needed, and, if so, to proffer it to you.” Once more Gilbert scrutinised his visitor's countenance closely, as if endeavouring to read his secret heart. “What a sceptic you are!” exclaimed the count. "As a man of letters, you must know the story of Achilles' lance, which could both wound and heal. I possess such a weapon. The woman who once personated the queen in the groves of Versailles, might she not also personate the queen in the apartments of the Tuileries, or upon some road other than that taken by the real queen- My suggestion is not to be despised, I assure you, my dear Gilbert.”

“Be frank enough to tell me why you make this offer.”

“Merely in order that the king may leave France, and so enable us to establish a republic.”

“A republic!”

“Why not-”

“Because when I examine France from north to south, and from east to west, I fail to discover a single republican.”

“You are mistaken, for I see three, — Potion, Camille Desmoulins, and your humble servant. You can see these three as well as I can; but there are others I see, but whom you do not see, though you will when the time comes. You can count upon my making a display that will astonish you, then.” Gilbert reflected a moment; then, extending his hand to Cagliostro, he said: "If only my own life, reputation, honour, and memory were at stake, I should accept your offer at once; but a monarchy, a king, a queen, a dynasty, and an entire country are involved, and I can make no compact for them. So remain neutral, my dear count. That is all I ask.” Cagliostro smiled. "Yes, yes, I understand,” he replied, "I am the 'Necklace Man.' Never mind, the despised 'Necklace Man' will give you some very good advice, nevertheless.”

“Hush! “said Gilbert. “Somebody just rang the bell.”

“What does that matter- You know very well who it is. It is Monsieur de Charny who is at the door. The advice I was about to give you may be of service to him as well. Come in, count, come in.” For Charny had appeared in the doorway; but seeing Gilbert engaged in conversation with a stranger, when he had expected to find him alone, he paused, in evident doubt and anxiety. "My advice is this,” continued Cagliostro. "Beware of too costly dressing-cases, too heavy vehicles, and, too striking likenesses. Adieu, Gilbert; adieu, count, and to use the expression of those to whom I wish a prosperous journey, God have you in His holy keeping.” And, saluting Gilbert amicably, and the count most courteously, the prophet withdrew. “Who is that man, doctor- “inquired Charny, when the sound of Cagliostro's retreating footsteps had died away. "One of my friends,” replied Gilbert; "a man who knows all our plans, it seems, but who came to give me his word that he would not betray us.”

“And his name-”

“Is Baron Zannone.”

“It is strange,” replied Charny,"! don't know the name, and yet his face seems familiar. Have you the passport, doctor-”

“Here it is, count.” Charny took the document, unfolded it, and was soon so deeply absorbed in its perusal that he seemed to have entirely forgotten Baron Zannone, at least for the time being.

CHAPTER LXXIX. THE TWENTIETH OF JUNE.

Meanwhile let us see what was going on in different parts of the city on the night of the twentieth of June. It was not without cause that the royal family regarded Madame de Rochereul with suspicion. Though her duties ceased on the eleventh, she invented an excuse for returning to the palace, where she discovered that, though the queen's jewel caskets were in their accustomed places, her diamonds were missing. In fact, they had been intrusted by her Majesty to her hairdresser, Leonard, who was also to leave Paris on the night of the twentieth, a few hours in advance of his royal mistress, and under the protection of Monsieur de Choiseul, who was to command the detachment of troops stationed at the Sommeville Bridge. This gentleman also had charge of the relays of horses for Varennes, and he was now at his house on the Rue d'Artois, waiting for the final orders of the king and queen. It was certainly rather imprudent to encumber Monsieur de Choiseul with Master Leonard, or, indeed, for the queen to take a hairdresser with her at all; but what foreign artist could successfully undertake such wonderful coiffures as Leonard constructed for her- When one's hairdresser is a man of genius, one does not abandon him without a struggle. The result of all this was that Madame de Rochereul shrewdly suspected that the time of departure was set for the evening of Monday, the twentieth, and she imparted her suspicions not only to her lover, Monsieur de Gouvion, one of Lafayette's aides, but also to Monsieur Bailly, the mayor of the city. Lafayette went to the king and frankly told him of these revelations, which he evidently considered unworthy of notice, however. Bailly was even more accommodating; for while Lafayette became as blind as any astronomer, he, Bailly, became as chivalrous as any knight, and even sent Madame de Rochereul's letter to the queen. Monsieur de Gouvion, being more strongly influenced by his sweetheart, retained his suspicions, and, under the pretext of giving a little entertainment, had assembled about a dozen of the officers of the National Guard at his rooms in the Tuileries. Five or six of these men were posted by him at different entrances to the palace, while he himself, assisted by five of his brother officers, kept a close watch over the doors of Monsieur de Villequier's apartments, to which his attention had been specially directed. About the same hour, in a parlour on the Rue Coq-Heron, with which we are already familiar, sat a young woman who was apparently as calm as she was beautiful, though she was really moved to the depths of her inmost soul. She was engaged in earnest conversation with a young man about twenty-four years of age, who was standing in front of her, attired in a jacket and breeches of buckskin, terminating in a pair of high boots turned down at the top. He was armed with a hunting-knife, and held his hat in his hand. The young woman seemed to be finding fault with some one; the young man, to be defending him. “Why has he not called to see me since his return to Paris, two months and a half ago-” she asked. “My brother has sent me to inquire for your welfare several times since his return, madame.”

“I am aware of that fact, viscount, and am duly grateful to him; but on the eve of another departure, it seems to me that he might have come in person to bid me farewell.”

“It must be impossible for him to do so, as he intrusts this duty to me.”

“Is this journey you are about to undertake likely to be a long one- “* "I do not know.”

“Do you accompany your brother, or do you go in the opposite direction-”

“I believe we are to follow the same route, madame.”

“Shall you tell him you have seen me-”

“Certainly, madame; for, judging by the solicitude he evinced, and his reiterated injunctions not to rejoin him until after I had seen you, he would not be likely to forgive such an omission on my part.” The young woman passed her hand over her eyes and heaved a sigh; then, after reflecting a moment, said,- “You are a gentleman, viscount, and will consequently understand the full import of the question I am about to ask you. Answer me as if I were really your sister; answer me as you would answer your God. Is Monsieur de Charny likely to incur any serious peril in the journey he is about to undertake-”

“Who can say with certainty in these days, madame, where danger does or does not lie-” responded Isidore, endeavouring to evade the question. "If our poor brother George had been asked on the morning of the fifth of October whether he thought there was any danger, he would undoubtedly have answered, ' No.' But the very next morning he was lying cold and dead in the queen's doorway. Danger seems to spring up out of the earth in this age, madame, and one finds oneself suddenly brought face to face with death, without knowing even whence it comes.” Andree turned pale. "Then his life will be in peril! Is it not so, viscount-”

“I did not say so, madame.”

“But you think it, nevertheless-”

“I think, madame, that if there is anything of importance you wish to say to my brother, the undertaking in which he is about to engage is sufficiently dangerous to make it advisable for you to transmit your wishes or commands to him either in writing or by word of mouth.”

“Very well, monsieur, then I will ask you to give me five minutes.” With the slow and deliberate step habitual to her, the countess left the room. As she closed the door behind her, the young man glanced anxiously at his watch. "It's a quarter-past nine,” he muttered, "and the king expects me at half-past. Fortunately, it is only a step from here to the Tuileries.” The countess did not even take so much time as she had mentioned, for in a few seconds she returned with a sealed letter in her hand. Isidore extended his hand to take it. ''Wait, and do not forget what I am about to say to you. If your brother — if the Comte de Charny — should accomplish his undertaking without any accident befalling him, you are to say to him nothing except what I have already told you; that is, you are merely to tell him how much I admire and respect his loyalty and devotion, as well as his many other noble traits of character. If he should be wounded,-dangerously wounded,” here Andree’s voice changed slightly, -"ask him to grant me the privilege of going to him. If he will, you can surely send a messenger to tell me where I can find my husband, and I will go to him at once. Should he be wounded unto death,"- here her voice failed her utterly, for a moment, -"you are to give him this letter. If he is unable to read it himself, you may read it to him, for I wish him to know its contents before his death. Upon your honour as a gentleman, will you promise to do what I ask, viscount-” Isidore's emotion equalled her own as he again extended his hand for the letter. “I promise on my honour, madame.”

“Then take the letter and go, viscount.” The young man imprinted a respectful kiss upon her hand, and withdrew. “Ah!” exclaimed Andree, sinking back upon the sofa, "if he should die, I want him to know how much I loved him.” At the very same moment that Isidore left the countess with the precious letter concealed in his breast, two other men, clad in precisely the same costume, were making their way towards the place of meeting agreed upon, that is to say, the queen's boudoir. One was traversing that portion of the Louvre now used as a picture gallery, at the farther end of which he found Weber awaiting him. The other was ascending the same narrow stairway Charny had used on his return from Montmedy, and at the head of the stairs he, too, found a guide awaiting for him in the person of Francois Hue, the king's valet; so the two men were ushered into the boudoir almost simultaneously, though by different doors. The first to enter was Monsieur de Valory, and he started violently on seeing his counterpart come in; but taking it for granted that they were both summoned for the same purpose, the two officers bowed, and then approached each other. A moment later another door opened, and the Vicomte de Charny appeared. He had no acquaintance with the other men; but he alone of the three knew why they had been sent for, as well as the task that was before them, and it is quite probable that he would have promptly enlightened his future comrades, had not still another door opened and the king appeared before them. "Gentlemen,” said his Majesty turning to Valory and Malden, "you will pardon me, I trust, for having thus disposed of you without your permission, but I supposed you faithful servants of royalty inasmuch as you both formerly belonged to my body-guard; so I ventured to request you both to call upon a certain tailor, in order that each of you might have a courier's suit made, and then come to the Tuileries this evening at half-past nine o'clock. Your presence here indicates that you are willing to accept the mission I see fit to intrust to you, whatever it may be.” Both gentlemen bowed low before their sovereign. "Sire, your Majesty knows perfectly well that he has no need to consult his gentlemen, but that their devotion and their lives are entirely at his service, to dispose of as he sees fit,” said Valory. "In answering for himself, sire, my comrade answers for me and for this other gentleman as well, I presume,” added Malden. “This other gentleman, whose acquaintance 1 can heartily commend to you, is the Vicomte Isidore de Charny, whose brother was killed at Versailles while defending the queen's apartments. We are accustomed to such devotion on the part of the members of his family, but we are none the less grateful to them!”

“From what your Majesty says, I judge that the viscount knows the object of our meeting, while we are ignorant of it, and would like to be enlightened as soon as possible.”

“You are perfectly well aware, gentlemen, that I am virtually a prisoner,” began the king, “and I depend upon you to rescue me from this humiliating position, and to assist me in regaining my liberty. My fate, as well as that of the queen and our children, is in your hands. Preparations for our immediate departure have been made, only you must assist us in getting away.”

“You have only to give your orders, sire,” said both young men, in the same breath. "We cannot all leave the palace together, gentlemen, as you will very readily understand. Our place of meeting is to be on the corner of the Hue St.-Nicaise, where the Comte de Charny will be waiting for us with a hired carriage. You, viscount, will take charge of the queen, and answer to the name of Melchior; you, Malden, are to take charge of Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale, and call yourself Jean; you, Monsieur de Valory, will have charge of Madame de Tourzel and the dauphin, and call yourself Franqois. Do not forget your new names, and remain here until you receive further instructions.” And, after offering his hand in turn to each of the three men, the king withdrew. Meanwhile, Choiseul, who had announced to the king the evening before, on behalf of Monsieur de Bouille', that it would be impossible to defer the departure later than midnight of the twentieth, and that if he did not receive word to the contrary he should start at four o'clock on the morning of the twenty-first with the detachments of troops for Dun, Stenay, and Montmedy,- Choiseul, as we have before remarked, was at his house on the Rue d'Artois, where he was to await his sovereign's final orders; and as it was after nine o'clock, he was beginning to despair, when the only servant he had retained, came in and informed him that a messenger from the queen desired an interview with him. Choiseul ordered him to be ushered in, and a man entered, enveloped in an immense overcoat, with a soft hat pulled far down over his eyes. "Ah, Leonard, so you have come at last. I have been waiting for you very impatiently,” exclaimed the duke. “If I have kept you waiting, monsieur, it is not my fault, but the queen's, for she did not tell me until about ten minutes ago that I was to come here.”

“Did she tell you nothing more-” inquired Choiseul. "Certainly, sir. She intrusted all her diamonds to me, and told me to give you this letter.”

“Hand it over then,” said the duke, half angrily, for he was anything but pleased by the air of importance the royal messenger gave himself. The letter was long and full of directions. It announced that the royal family would leave at midnight, and advised Choiseul to start at once, taking Leonard, who had received orders, the queen wrote, to obey the duke as he would obey her. The following words, underscored, were appended to the letter: "I hereby renew this order.” The duke surveyed Leonard, who was waiting with evident anxiety. The barber looked grotesque enough under his enormous hat, and almost lost in a big overcoat with a number of capes. "Now try to get your wits together,” exclaimed the duke. "What did the queen tell you-”

“I can repeat it word for word.”

“Go on, then; I am listening.”

“She sent for me three-quarters of an hour ago, monsieur -”

“Very well.”

“And said to me in a low voice -”

“Her Majesty was not alone, then-”

“No, monsieur. The king was talking with Madame Elizabeth in the alcove. The dauphin and Madame Royale were playing together. As for the queen, she was leaning against the mantel -”

“Go on, Leonard, go on.”

“Well, the queen said to me in a low tone, 'Leonard, I am sure I can rely upon you.' — ' Dispose of me as you please, Madame,' said I; ' your Majesty knows that I am devoted to you, body and soul.'-'Then take these diamonds, ' says she, ' and hide them in your pockets. Take this letter, too, and carry it to the Due de Choiseul on the Rue d'Artois.' Then, as I was about starting to carry out the queen's orders, her Majesty called me back and said: 'Put on a broad-brimmed hat and a big overcoat, so that nobody will recognise you, my dear Leonard, and obey Monsieur de Choiseul exactly as you would obey me.'“

“So the queen bade you obey me exactly as you would obey her!”

“Those were her Majesty's very words, monsieur.”

“I am glad you remember her verbal instructions so well. But here is the same order in writing; and as I am obliged to burn this letter, you had better see for yourself.” And Choiseul handed the letter to the barber, who read the following lines aloud: — “I have instructed my hair-dresser, Leonard, to obey you exactly as he would obey me. I Hereby Renew That Order.”

“You understand, do you not-” asked the duke. "As if her Majesty's verbal order would not be sufficient, sir!” protested Leonard. "No matter.” And he burned the letter. Just then, the servant entered, and announced that the carriage was ready. "Come, Leonard,” said the duke. “What! am I to go with you- And the diamonds-”

“You are to take them with you.”

“And where-”

“Where I take you.”

“And where are you going to take me-”

“Many leagues away, to fulfil a special mission.”

“Impossible, monsieur.”

“And why- Did not the queen tell you to obey me exactly as you would obey her-”

“That is true. But how can I do it- My brother and I have rooms together; I left the key in the door of our lodgings, and when my brother goes home he won't find either his hat or riding-coat, for I appropriated them both. Besides, he won't have any idea where I am. And then, there's Madame de l'Aage, whose hair I promised to dress, and who is waiting for me now.”

“Never mind, my dear Leonard, your brother will have to buy another hat and coat, and Madame de l'Aage will have to wait until some other day for you to dress her hair.” And without paying any further attention to Leonard's protests and expostulations, the duke forced the disconsolate hair-dresser to enter the cabriolet which was in waiting, and then started his horse off at a brisk trot in the direction of the Barriere de la Petite Villette. The duke had scarcely passed the last houses of the Petite Villette when a party of five men who were sauntering down the Rue St. Honore' on their way home from a meeting of the Jacobin Club, began to comment upon the unusual beauty and tranquillity of the night. These five men were Danton, Fre'ron, Che'nier, Legendre and Desmoulins, who himself relates the incident. As they reached the corner of the Rue de l'Echelle, Deamoulins remarked, glancing towards the Tuileries: "Upon my word, Paris is as quiet to-night as if it were deserted. Not a single policeman have we seen during our entire walk.”

“That 'a because arrangements have been made to leave the way clear for the king, perhaps.”

“What- to leave the way clear for the king, did you say-”

“Undoubtedly, as he starts to-night.”

“You 're joking,” exclaimed Legendre. "It may be a joke, but I was so informed by letter,” replied Fre’ron,- "an anonymous letter, though. I have it with me. Here, see for yourself.” The five men approached a hack that was standing at the corner of the Rue St. Nicaise, and by the light of its lamps read the following: — "Citizen Fre’ron is hereby informed that Monsieur Capet, the Austrian woman, and their two brats will leave Paris to-night to join General de Bouille', the butcher of Nancy, who is awaiting them on the frontier.”

“Monsieur Capet! That's a good name for him,” exclaimed Desmoulins. "I'll call him that, henceforth, instead of Louis XVI.”

“There 's only one objection,” remarked Che'nier. "The family name of Louis XVI. is not Capet, but Bourbon.”

“Nonsense! Who cares for that- Only two or three bookworms like Che'nier, perhaps.”

“But what if the contents of this letter are true, and this is really the night the entire gang intend to decamp-”

“As we are close to the Tuileries, suppose we go and see,” suggested Desmoulins. And the five patriots amused themselves by making the circuit of the palace. On their way back they met Lafayette and his staff entering the Tuileries. "There is Blondinet going in to put the royal family to bed,” exclaimed Danton. "Our labors are ended; his are just beginning. Good-night, gentlemen. Who is going my way-”

“I,” responded Legendre. And the party separated, Danton and Legendre crossing Carrousel Square, while Che'nier, Fre'ron, and Camille Desmoulins turned the corner of the Eue de Rohan into the Rue St. Honore".

CHAPTER LXXX. THE DEPARTURE.

At eleven o'clock that evening, just as Mesdames Tourzel and Brennier, after having undressed and put Madame Royale and the dauphin to bed as usual, woke them up again and proceeded to dress them in their travelling costumes,- greatly to the disgust of the dauphin, who stoutly insisted upon putting on his own clothing instead of the feminine habiliments provided for him, — the king, queen, and Madame Elizabeth received a call from Lafayette and his aides, Gouvion and Borueuf. ' This visit was the more alarming on account of the warning Madame de Rochereul had given the authorities. The. queen and Madame Elizabeth had taken a drive in the Bois de Boulogne that evening, returning about eight o'clock. Lafayette inquired if the drive had been a pleasant one, and remarked that he feared the queen had been imprudent in remaining out so late, as the evening fogs might be bad for her. “Fog on a June evening!” exclaimed the queen, laughing. “I can't account for it, unless it was made expressly to conceal our flight, for I suppose the rumour that we are about to run away is still rife.”

“The truth is, there is more talk than ever upon that subject, madame,” replied the general. "In fact, I have been informed that your departure is certainly to take place to-night.”

“I suspect it is from Monsieur de Gouvion that you have heard this piece of good news,” retorted the queen. "And why from me, madame-” inquired that young officer, blushing. "Because I hear you are well informed of all that goes on here at the palace. Now, here is Monsieur Romeuf, who is not so greatly favoured. He will vouch for us, I am sure.”

“I should deserve no great credit if I did, madame, inasmuch as the king has given the Assembly his word of honour that he shall not leave Paris, "responded the young man. It was the queen's turn to blush now, and the conversation was promptly diverted into other channels. About half-past eleven the general and his aides took leave of the king and queen, whereupon Gouvion, by no means reassured, returned to his room in the palace, where he found his friends on the watch; but instead of relieving them, he only urged them to increased vigilance. As for Lafayette, he went to the Hotel de Ville to relieve Bailly's mind concerning the king's intentions, though that was hardly necessary, as Bailly evidently felt no misgivings on that score. As soon as Lafayette left them, the king and queen summoned their attendants as usual, and after the customary services were rendered, dismissed them all at the regular hour. Then the queen and Madame Elizabeth assisted each other to dress. Their gowns were exceedingly plain, and both wore large bonnets that nearly concealed their faces from view. They had just finished dressing when the king came in. He wore a grey coat and one of those bag periwigs named after Jean Jacques Rousseau. He also wore grey knee- breeches, grey stockings, and buckled shoes. For a week Hue', the king's valet, dressed in a costume identical in every respect, had been going in and out of the apartments formerly occupied by M. de Villequier, who had left the country several months before. This precaution had been taken in order to accustom persons to seeing a man in this garb moving about this locality, so that no one would be likely to notice the king when he passed out. The three couriers were brought from the queen's boudoir into the parlour of the suite of apartments occupied by Madame Royale. This suite of rooms adjoined the apartments formerly occupied by Villequier; and as the king was in possession of the keys of the vacant rooms, there would probably be no difficulty in getting out of the palace, especially as the sentinels were in the habit of seeing a good many persons leave the Tuileries shortly after the clock struck eleven, for many of the royal attendants did not sleep in the palace, and so repaired to their lodgings after the duties of the day were over. On assembling in Madame Royale's parlour, the final arrangements for the journey were concluded. Isidore de Charny, who had gone over the route with his brother and knew all the dangerous places, was to ride on ahead and notify the postilions, so that there should be only the least possible delay in changing horses. Malden and Valory, who were to occupy the back seat on the top of the coach, were to pay the postilions thirty sous a piece,-five sous more than usual, on account of the extra size and weight of the coach. They were also to receive handsome pourboires if they made good time. The elder Charny would be inside the vehicle, ready for any emergency. He, as well as the three couriers, would be well armed. By paying the postilions extra, and thus insuring a fairly good rate of speed, the party hoped to reach Ch§.lons in thirteen hours. Each person having promised to adhere faithfully to his part of the programme, the candles were extinguished, and the party entered the Villequier apartments just as the clock struck twelve; hence the Comte de Charny must have been at his post more than an hour already. Feeling his way cautiously along through the darkness, the king at last found the door leading into the corridor. He was about to insert the key in the lock when the queen suddenly checked him. They all listened, and could distinctly hear laughter and footsteps in the corridor beyond. Something unusual was going on. Madame de Tourzel, who lived in the palace and whose presence in the corridor even at that hour was not likely to arouse suspicion, volunteered to go back and ascertain the cause of this unusual commotion. The others awaited her return in breathless silence; and the more profound the stillness, the more evident it became that the corridor was occupied by several persons. Madame de Tourzel soon returned, and reported that she had seen Gouvion and several other men in uniform in the passage. It was evidently not advisable to venture out into the corridor, so Madame Elizabeth went back into Madame Royale's bed-chamber to obtain a candle; and by its light the party endeavoured to find some other place of egress. For some time the search was fruitless, and at least a quarter of an hour was lost in this way; but at last they discovered a narrow stairway leading to an isolated room on the floor below. This room had been occupied by Monsieur de Villequier's servant, and a door opened from it into the servants' hall. This door was locked. The king tried all the keys on his ring, but not one would open it. Isidore attempted to push the bolt back with the blade of his knife, but it resisted his efforts. The king took the candle from Madame Elizabeth's hand, and, leaving the party in darkness, went back to his bedroom, and thence by the private stairway to his workshop. There he secured a bunch of picks of different sizes and shapes, and then came down again. Before rejoining the party, he had decided which pick to try. It entered the keyhole easily, caught the bolt, and then let it slip twice; but the third time the king pressed it so hard that after a second or two the bolt flew back, the latch yielded, and everybody drew a long breath of relief.

“Isn’t this something worth knowing, madame-” asked Louis, turning to the queen, with a triumphant air. "Yes,” replied the queen, laughing. "I never, however, said it was a bad thing to be a locksmith, but that it was much better to be a king.” Madame Elizabeth ventured out first, leading Madame Royale. They were followed at a distance of about twenty yards by Madame de Tourzel and the dauphin. Between these two couples walked Monsieur de Malden, ready to assist either party if necessary. The poor children, with their protectors, went timidly out on tiptoe into the circle of light made by the lamp burning over the door that led into the courtyard, and passed the sentinel quietly and unnoticed. “Good! “murmured Madame Elizabeth; “there is one difficulty well over.” At the archway leading into Carrousel Square, they saw a sentinel whose line of march directly crossed their path. On seeing them, he paused. "Aunt, we are lost; that man knows us,” whispered Madame Royale, pressing her companion's hand. "Never mind, my child; we shall certainly be lost if we hesitate,” replied Madame Elizabeth; so they continued on their way. When they were within about four yards of the sentinel, he turned his back upon them, and they hurried by. Did this man really know them- The ladies were convinced that he did, and bestowed a thousand benedictions on their unknown preserver as they hastened on. They could see Charny's anxious face on the other side of the wicket. The count was enveloped in a big riding- coat. "Thank God!” he exclaimed, "you are here at last! But the king and queen, where are they-”

“They are following us.”

“Come, then,” said Charny, hastily leading the way to a hack in waiting on the Eue St. Nicaise. During his absence another carriage had driven up and stopped behind the first. "Take that cab, Malden,” whispered Charny, "and go straight to the Porte St. Martin. You will have no difficulty in recognising the coach that is waiting for us there.” Malden understood, and jumped into the carriage; and the driver, supposing him to be some footman going to meet his master at the play, for the opera was at the Porte St. Martin in those days, drove off without further parley. The carriage had hardly turned the corner of the Rue de Rohan when a man dressed like a clerk emerged from the same gate through which the others had passed. This man wore a grey coat, his hat was pulled far down over his eyes, and he kept his hands in his pockets as he sauntered along. It was the king, closely followed by Valory. Charny advanced a few steps to meet him. "This way, sire,” he said respectfully. "And the queen-” he added to Valory, in a lower tone. "She is coming with your brother Isidore.”

“Very well; take the shortest cut, and wait for us at the Porte St. Martin.” Valory hurried away, and the rest of the party waited anxiously for the arrival of the queen. A half hour passed. Charny, upon whom the burden of responsibility rested, was almost crazy. He wanted to return to the palace and make inquiries, but the king would not permit it. The dauphin wept, and begged for his dear mamma. Neither his sister, aunt, nor governess could comfort him. The alarm of the party increased when they saw Lafayette's carriage, accompanied by torch-bearers, returning that way. This is what had happened. On reaching the courtyard, the Vicomte de Charny, who had given his arm to the queen, evinced an evident intention to turn to the left; but his companion stopped him. “Where are you going- “she asked. "To the corner of the Rue St. Nicaise, where my brother is waiting for us.”

“Is that on the bank of the river-”

“No, madame.”

“But it is at the gate on the river-bank opposite the quay that your brother is to wait for us.” Isidore tried to insist; but the queen seemed so sure of what she said that he began to distrust his own memory. "For God's sake be careful, madame,” he exclaimed. "A mistake might prove fatal.”

“Let us go to the river-side. I am certain I heard your brother say we were to meet him on the bank of the river.”

“Very well, madame, for that is only on the other side of the palace; but if we do not find the carriage there, we will go to the Rue St. Nicaise at once, shall we not-”

“Yes, yes; but let us lose no time.” The queen led the way through the three courtyards, which were separated, at that time, by thick walls, but opened one into the other by narrow passageways close to the palace, each passageway being protected by a chain and guarded by a sentinel. The queen and Isidore passed through one after another of these openings. They were obliged to climb over the chains, but no sentinel checked their progress. Why, indeed, should any one suppose for a moment that this young woman attired like a servant in some respectable household, and accompanied by a handsome young fellow in the Prince of Conde's livery, was the queen of France- When they reached the bank of the river they found the pier deserted. "The carriage must be on the other side of the river!” exclaimed the queen. Isidore wished to go back at once; but the queen, as if seized by a sort of hallucination, persisted in leading Isidore further on towards the Pont Royal. But on crossing this bridge, they found the quay and the other bank of the Seine as lonely and deserted as the spot they had just left. "Let us try that street,” said the queen, dragging Isidore towards the Rue du Bac. But after going a hundred yards she was obliged to acknowledge that she must have been mistaken, after all, and paused, panting for breath, for her strength was beginning to fail her. "I give it up. Take me where you please,” she gasped. "Courage, madame, in Heaven's name!”

“It is not courage I lack, but strength,” panted Marie Antoinette; and as she turned to retrace her steps she murmured, “Good heavens! it seems to me I shall never recover my breath again.” Isidore knew that in such an emergency breath was as essential to the queen's safety as it is to a fawn pursued by the hounds, so he paused and said, — "Stop and take breath, madame; we have plenty of time. I will answer for my brother. He will wait until daylight if necessary.”

“You are sure then that he loves me- “his companion cried, quickly and imprudently. "I know that his life, like my own, belongs to you, madame, and that the love we both feel for you amounts to positive adoration in him.”

“Thank you. I can breathe again, now. Let us hasten.” She retraced her steps with feverish haste; but after recrossing the bridge, Isidore led his companion into the Place du Carrousel instead of through the courtyards. Until midnight this big square was usually filled with hackney coaches and stands for the sale of small articles; but it was wellnigh deserted now, and correspondingly gloomy. They could distinctly hear the roll of carriage-wheels and the clatter of hoofs, however, and when they reached the Rue de l'Echelle it was evident that the equipage from which these sounds proceeded was coming swiftly towards them, for the light of the torches that accompanied the carriage was already visible. Isidore wanted to beat a retreat; but the queen insisted on going forward, so Isidore sprang in front of her to protect her, just as the horses' heads appeared at the other end of the arch. But though he pushed the queen close back against the wall, the entire archway was flooded with light from the torches. In the midst of this imposing cavalcade, half reclining in his carriage, arrayed in the superb uniform of Commander-in-Chief of the National Guards, Lafayette could be plainly seen. Just as the carriage passed, Isidore felt himself pushed aside by a determined, if not sturdy arm, — the left arm of the queen. In her right she had a small bamboo cane with a gold handle, such as most fashionable women carried in those days, and with this she gave the carriage-wheels a vigorous rap, exclaiming as she did so, — "Go thy way, gaoler; I'm out of thy prison-house now.”

“What are you doing, madame- Think of the risk you are running! “gasped Isidore. "I am avenging myself,” responded the queen. "It is worth risking a good deal to do that.” And as soon as the last torchbearer had passed, she sprang out from her hiding-place, radiant as a goddess and joyous as a child.

CHAPTER LXXXI. A QUESTION OF ETIQUETTE.

The queen had not gone ten steps beyond the archway when a man enveloped in a big coat seized her unceremoniously by the arm and hurried her towards a hack that was standing at the corner of the Rue St. Nicaise. This man was the Comte de Charny, and the hack was one in which the rest of the royal family had been waiting for more than half an hour. They had expected to see the queen arrive half-fainting and terrified; but, instead, she made her appearance laughing and even jubilant. The dangers through which she had passed, the fatigue to which she had been subjected, the alarming mistake she had made, the time she had lost, the serious delay she had caused, were all forgotten in the rap of the cane she had given Lafayette's carriage-wheels; for it seemed to her almost as if she had bestowed the blow upon him. A servant was holding a horse by the bridle a few yards from the carriage; and Charny had no sooner pointed the animal out to Isidore than the viscount sprang upon his back, and was off at full speed, for he was to ride on ahead as far as Bondy in order to have horses in readiness there. "Come, madame, we have not a second to lose,” said Charny, with that firmness mingled with deference which really strong men display in an emergency. The queen entered the carriage in which the other five members of the party were already seated, and took the dauphin on her lap. The king was beside her, and Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and Madame de Tourzel sat facing them. Charny closed the door and climbed upon the box; then, to put spies on the wrong track, in case any should be lurking about, he turned the horses around, drove up the Rue Saint Honore” as far as the Madeleine, and then by way of the boulevards to the Porte St. Martin. On arriving there, the count jumped down and opened the door of the hack. The door of the large coach which had been built expressly for the journey was already open, and Malden and Valory, who had reached the spot nearly an hour before, were standing by the steps on either side of the vehicle. In a second the six persons who had come in the hack were on the ground, and Charny drove the hack to the side of the road and dexterously overturned it into a ditch. Then he hastened back to the coach and attached his horses to that. The king entered it first, then the queen, then Madame Elizabeth; after Madame Elizabeth, the two children stepped in, and after the two children, Madame de Tourzel. Malden climbed to the back seat on the top of the coach, and Valory seated himself beside Charny on the box. It was a quarter past one by the clock in the Church of St. Laurent when the four horses attached to the coach started off at full speed. It took just one hour to reach Bondy. There they found fresh horses with harnesses on their backs, all ready to be hitched to the coach. Isidore was standing by the horses' heads. On the other side of the road stood a cabriolet drawn by two post-horses. In this cabriolet were two waiting-maids in the service of the dauphin and Madame Boyale. They had expected to find a carriage for hire in Bondy, but failing to do so, they had purchased this cabriolet of its owner and paid him a thousand francs for it. This worthy, well pleased with his bargain, and anxious, doubtless, to see the persons who were such simpletons as to give a thousand francs for such an old rattle-trap, was hanging about the post-house. He saw the king's coach arrive, driven by Charny, who jumped down and approached the door of the carriage. He wore his uniform under his big overcoat, and his hat was in a box under the seat. It had been decided between the king and queen and Charny that the latter was to take a seat inside the vehicle at Bondy, in place of Madame de Tourzel, who would then return to Paris. But they had neglected to consult the lady in question with regard to this arrangement. The king now submitted the question to her. Despite her devotion to the royal family, Madame de Tourzel was as finical as old Madame de Noailles in all matters of etiquette. "Sire,” she replied, "it is my duty to watch over the royal children of France, and not to leave them for an instant, except at the express order of your Majesty, -an order which would be wholly unprecedented, however; so I shall not leave them.” The queen was fairly trembling with impatience. She wished to have Charny inside the coach, for two reasons. As a queen, she felt him to be a most efficient protector; as a woman, she found in him her greatest happiness in life. "My dear Madame de Tourzel,” she said, "we are really very grateful to you, but you are not at all well, and you are carrying your devotion too far. Remain in Bondy, and wherever we may be, you shall rejoin us later.”

“Madame, if the king so commands, I am ready to alight and remain in the middle of the road, if need be; but a clearly expressed order of the king will alone make me consent, not only to fail in my duty, but renounce my rights.”

“Sire! “exclaimed the queen, "sire!” But Louis XVI. dared not decide so momentous a question, and cast wildly around for some excuse, some loophole of escape. "Can you not remain on the box, Monsieur de Charny-” he asked. "I can do anything the king desires,” replied Charny; "only I shall either have to wear my uniform,- and everybody along the route is familiar with that, having seen me so often upon the road during the past year,- or else this box-coat and oilcloth hat; and this last costume is much too plain for such a stylish equipage.”

“Come inside, Monsieur de Charny, come inside, by all means,” urged the queen. "I will take the dauphin on my lap, Madame Elizabeth can take little Marie Therese on hers, and we shall get along very well. We shall be a trifle crowded, that is all.” Charny waited for the king to decide, however. "Impossible, my dear, impossible!” exclaimed his Majesty. “You forget that we have a journey of ninety leagues before us! “Madame de Tourzel arose from her seat, ready to obey the king's order and alight, if his Majesty so decided; but the king dared not give the order, so great is the importance court people attach to such trifles. "Can't you take your brother Isidore's place, count,” suggested the king, "and ride on ahead to order the horses-”

“I am ready and willing to do anything, your Majesty, as I said before; only I must beg your Majesty to recollect that post-horses are generally ordered by a courier, not by a naval officer. This deviation from custom would be likely to surprise the superintendents of the stations, and might lead to serious difficulties.”

“That is true,” said the king. “Good heavens!” muttered the queen, almost beside herself with impatience. Then, turning to Charny, she added: "Arrange it as you please, count, but I should much prefer you not to leave us.”

“That is my wish also, but I see only one way to prevent it.”

“And what is that- Tell me at once, I beg of you.”

“It is this, that I should accompany you, or rather follow your carriage, in the plain dress of a man who is travelling by post. Continue your journey, madame, and before you have gone ten leagues I shall not be more than five hundred yards behind your coach.”

“You intend returning to Paris-”

“Certainly, madame; but as far as Chalons your Majesty has nothing to apprehend, and I shall rejoin you before you reach that town.”

“But how will you get back to Paris-”

“On the horse my brother has been riding. He is an excellent roadster, and has had time to rest. I shall reach Paris in less than half an hour.”

“And then-”

“Then I shall put on suitable clothing, hire a post-horse, and ride with a free rein until I overtake you.”

“Is there no other way-” asked the queen, despairingly. “It seems to be really the best plan under the circumstances,” commented the king. “We have no time to lose,” exclaimed Charny. “The horses are ready. Here, Jean and Francois, take your places. Hide on ahead, Melchior! Postilions, to your horses!” Madame de Tourzel reseated herself in triumph, and the coach started off at a gallop, followed by the cabriolet. Meanwhile, how were things progressing in Paris, whither Charny was hastening- A wigmaker named Buseby, residing on the Rue de Bourbon, had chanced to spend the evening at the Tuileries with a friend on guard there. He of course heard a good deal said in relation to the king's contemplated flight; and though his wife laughed at the absurdity of the rumour when he told her of it, on his return home, he could not divest himself of the idea that there was at least some foundation for the report. He undressed and went to bed; but ere long these convictions became so strong that he sprang up, dressed himself, and hastened to the house of a friend named Hucher, and imparted his suspicions to him. Hucher shared his neighbour's apprehensions on the subject, and after making a hasty toilet rushed out and aroused about thirty of his neighbours. All this happened about a quarter past twelve o'clock, just after the queen's encounter with Lafayette. The citizens who were thus rudely awakened from slumber by Buseby and Hucher, put on their uniforms as members of the National Guard, and called upon General Lafayette to inform him of what was going on. They reached Lafayette's residence, on the Rue St. Honore', about half-past twelve o'clock. The general, after seeing the king safely in bed and notifying Bailly of the fact, paid a short visit to Monsieur Emmery, a member of the National Assembly. He then returned home, and was preparing to retire for the night, when a loud knock was heard at the door. The general sent his valet to ascertain what was the matter, and the man soon returned with the intelligence that twenty-five or thirty citizens wished to see the commander-in-chief on a matter of importance; so Lafayette, who was then in the habit of holding a reception at any hour of the day or night it seemed necessary, slipped on his coat again, and gave orders that his visitors should be admitted. Buseby and Hucher acted as spokesmen; but the general only laughed at their fears. Being a good-natured man and a great talker, he explained how the report had originated, and how, to satisfy himself that there was not the slightest foundation for it, he had visited the palace at a late hour of the night, and remained there until he had seen the king go to bed exactly as they themselves would see Lafayette go to bed, if they remained much longer. But as even this failed to reassure them entirely, Lafayette added that he would answer with his life for the king and the entire royal family. It was impossible to express any doubts after this assurance, so the citizens contented themselves with asking Lafayette to give them the password, so that no one could molest them on their way home, and the general did not have the heart to refuse them this slight favour. Armed with the countersign, they decided to visit the Hall of Assembly as well as the palace courtyards, to see if anything unusual was going on in either place. They had reached the Rue de l'Echelle when a horseman, coming at full speed, rode directly into the midst of them. On such a night every incident seemed portentous, so they crossed their muskets before him, and ordered him to halt. "What do you want-” he asked. "We want to know where you are going-”

“I 'm going to the Tuileries.”

“What is your business there-”

“I have to render an account to the king of a commission he intrusted to me.”

“At this hour of the night-”

“Most assuredly.”

“But at this hour the king is in bed.”

“Yes, but they will wake him.”

“If your business with the king is so important, you must have the countersign.”

“Not necessarily; for I might have come from the frontier, instead of from only three leagues away; and I might have been gone a month, instead of two hours.”

“True,” said one of the men. “Then you saw the king two hours ago-” inquired one of the others. "Yes.”

“And talked with him-”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing-”

“He was only waiting for Lafayette to leave, to go to sleep, I should judge.”

“Then you have the password-”

“Of course. The general, knowing I could not get back to the Tuileries before one or two o'clock in the morning, gave me the password, so that I might have no trouble.”

“And the password is-”

“Paris and Poitiers.”

“That's all right. Au revoir, comrade. Tell the king you found us watching at his palace gates, so that he might not run away.” As they spoke they divided, to let the rider pass. "I will not fail to do so,” he responded; and, touching his horse with the spur, he shot through the gateway of the Tuileries and disappeared from their sight. “Hadn’t we better wait until he comes out, and inquire whether he saw the king-” asked one of these astute citizens. “But if he has lodgings in the palace we shall have to wait until to-morrow,” remarked another. "True,” responded the first speaker. "And now, as Lafayette 's abed, and the king 's abed, suppose we follow their example, not forgetting to shout ' Hurrah for the Nation!' first, however.” The twenty-five or thirty patriots repeated the cry in unison, and then returned to their beds, happy and proud at having heard from Lafayette's own lips that there was not the slightest danger that the king would leave Paris.

CHAPTER LXXXII. EN ROUTE.

It was about three o'clock in the morning, and day was beginning to dawn, when the royal family reached Meaux, where they were to change horses. The king was hungry, and determined to make an attack on the provisions, which consisted of some cold veal, bread, and champagne, which had been placed in a hamper under the box by Charny. As no knives or forks had been provided, the king was obliged to ask Malden for his hunting-knife to cut the meat. "Won't you take something too, Malden-” whispered the monarch; but Malden declined. While this was going on, the queen leaned out of the window and gazed back over the road they had just travelled, probably to ascertain if Charny was in sight. "A penny for your thoughts, madame!” exclaimed the king. "Mine- Oh! I was thinking of Lafayette,” responded her Majesty, trying to smile. "He is probably feeling rather uncomfortable about this time.” Then, turning to Valory, who was standing near the coach, she remarked: "Francois, it seems to me everything is going on very well, and that we should have been stopped before this time if we are likely to be stopped at all. Our departure cannot have been noticed.”

“I think so myself, madame, for I have seen nothing of a suspicious character anywhere. Courage, madame, and all will be well!”

“All ready,” cried the postilions; so Malden and Valory climbed to their seats again, and the coach drove on. About eight o'clock in the morning they reached the foot of a long hill. A thick wood, in which the birds were singing merrily, bordered both sides of the road. The postilions checked their horses, and the two guardsmen clambered down from their seats. “Stop the carriage, Jean! “said the king, “and open the door. I want to walk awhile; and I think the queen and the children won't be sorry to have a little exercise, too.” Another moment, and the entire royal party was scattered over the highway. The little dauphin began to chase butterflies, and his sister to gather flowers. Madame Elizabeth took the king's arm, and the queen walked on alone. Seeing this family thus scattered along the road, the lovely children running and playing, the sister leaning on, the arm of her brother and smiling up in his face, the beautiful and pensive woman glancing behind her now and then, the whole scene illuminated by the sunshine of a perfect June morning, and the forest throwing its transparent shadows half-way across the road, — beholding this scene, one would have supposed this was some happy family returning to their chateau to resume a contented and peaceful life, not the King and Queen of France fleeing from a throne to which they were speedily to be restored, only to be subsequently led to the scaffold. Suddenly the queen paused, as if her feet had become rooted to the earth. A horseman had appeared, a quarter of a league away, enveloped in a cloud of dust raised by his horse's feet. She dared not say, “There is Charny! “but a faint cry escaped her, and she exclaimed, "Ah, news from Paris!” Every one turned, except the dauphin. He had just caught the butterfly he had been chasing, and cared little for any news from Paris. The king, who was slightly near-sighted, drew a small lorgnette from his pocket. “I do believe it is Charny!” he exclaimed. "Yes, sire, it is.”

“Let us walk on. He will soon overtake us.” The rider was indeed Charny, and he overtook them at the top of the hill, where the coach again halted. He wore a tight-fitting green riding-coat with a rolling collar, a hat with a broad band and steel buckle, a white vest, and high military boots which reached above his knees. His usually pale face was flushed by his rapid ride, and his eyes shone brilliantly. Never had the queen seen him look so handsome, and she heaved a deep sigh. He sprang from his horse and bowed low to the king, then turned and saluted the queen. The entire party gathered around him, with the exception of the two guardsmen, who held themselves discreetly aloof. “Approach, gentlemen, approach!” cried the king. "Monsieur de Charny's news interests each and every one of us.”

“First, sire, all goes well,” said Charny, "and at two o'clock this morning no one even suspected your departure.” Everybody drew a long breath of relief. Then the questions multiplied. Charny related all the incidents of his return to Paris, — how he had encountered the party of patriots on the Rue de l'Echelle, how they had questioned him, and how he had convinced them that the king was in bed and asleep. Inside the Tuileries, he had found everything as quiet as usual. He went up to his room, changed his clothing, came down again through the king's corridor to satisfy himself that no one, not even Monsieur Gouvion, suspected the flight of the royal family. Then he again mounted his horse, and, thinking he should probably have considerable difficulty in procuring another steed at the post-house at that hour of the night, he decided to set out for Bondy on the same animal he had been riding so long. There he obtained a fresh horse and continued his journey. Nothing of a disquieting nature had occurred on the road. The queen extended her hand to Charny. The bearer of such good news certainly deserved some reward. The count kissed his sovereign's hand respectfully. Why did the queen turn pale- Was it for joy because Charny had pressed her hand- The party re-entered the carriage. It started again, and Charny galloped along beside it. At the next post-station, they found coach-horses in readiness, but there was no saddle-horse for Charny, Isidore not being aware that his brother would need one; so it was decided that Charny should follow, not accompany the royal coach, keeping within sight of it, and exchanging a few words with its occupants when they stopped to change horses. Charny secured a fresh mount at Montmirail, and he supposed the royal party was at least fifteen minutes in advance of him, when, on suddenly turning the corner of a street, his horse almost ran his nose into the coach, which was standing still in the middle of the road. A trace had broken, and the guardsmen were trying to mend it. Charny hastily dismounted, and, going to the carriage, advised the king to keep out of sight, and bade the queen not be at all uneasy. Then he opened a box, in which he had placed such materials and implements as he thought might be needed in case of an accident. There he found a pair of traces, one of which he took to replace the broken one. The two guardsmen took advantage of this opportunity to ask for the loaded pistols which had been placed in the carriage. But the king objected; and when it was suggested that an attempt might be made to detain him by force, the king replied that under no circumstances would he permit blood to be shed on his account. In two hours they were in Chalons. "If we reach Chalons safely, all will be well,” the king had said more than once. They had reached Chalons, and no attempt had been made to impede their progress. They changed horses again here, and the king leaned out of the carriage-window for an instant. In the crowd that had gathered around the coach were two men who gazed at the king intently. One of these men suddenly disappeared; the other drew nearer the carriage. "Sire,” he said, in a low tone, "don't show yourself in this way, or you are lost! “Then he called out roughly to the postilions: “Hurry up, you rascals! is this the way you treat travellers who are paying you thirty sous apiece- “And he, too, set to work assisting them. This man was the superintendent of the post-house. At last the horses were harnessed, and the postilions sprang into their saddles. The first, postilion tried to start the two head horses, but both fell down. Under repeated blows of the whip they managed to struggle to their feet, and the carriage started; but almost at the same instant the second postilion's horses fell, with him underneath them. Charny pulled the fellow out from under the horses, but his boots were left behind. "What kind of horses are these you have given us-” cried Charny, indignantly, knowing nothing of the proof of loyalty the man had just given. “The very best in the stable,” was the reply. The horses were so entangled in their traces that the more the postilions tried to free them, the worse the situation of affairs became. Charny at last seized the traces, exclaiming, “Let us unharness, and begin again. We shall gain time by it.” The superintendent, too, set to work again, almost weeping with chagrin and vexation. Meanwhile, the man who had disappeared from the post- house had rushed to the residence of the mayor and informed him that the king and the entire royal family were getting a relay of horses at the post, and begged him to give orders for their detention. Fortunately, the mayor was not a very ardent republican, and did not care to assume such a responsibility; so, instead of consenting to do what the man asked, he insisted upon all sorts of explanations, as if to satisfy himself beyond a doubt of the truth of these statements, and did not go to the post-house until he was compelled to, and that was just as the coach was disappearing round the corner. Still, nearly twenty minutes had been lost, and the occupants of the royal coach began to feel somewhat alarmed. Those four horses, falling one after another without any apparent cause, reminded the queen most unpleasantly of the four candles that went out so mysteriously the first night she spent in the Tuileries, nearly two years before. Still, as they drove out through the gates of the town, the king, the queen, and Madame Elizabeth all exclaimed as with one accord: “We are safe! “But a hundred yards further on a man rushed up, and, putting his head in at the window, called out, — “Your plans were not well arranged. You are sure to be arrested.” The queen uttered a faint scream. The man sprang aside, and in another instant had vanished from sight in a neighbouring grove. Fortunately it was barely four leagues to Sommeville Bridge, where they would find Choiseul with his forty hussars; but it was now three o'clock in the afternoon, and they were nearly four hours behind time.

CHAPTER LXXXIII. FATE.

The reader will recollect that the Due de Choiseul was travelling by post in company with Leonard the hairdresser, who was greatly exercised in mind at having left the door of his lodgings unlocked, at having carried off his brother's riding-coat, and at having failed to keep his promise to dress Madame de l'Aage's hair. The only thing that consoled him was the duke's assurance that he was only taking him two or three leagues from home in order to give him a special commission from the queen, after which he would be set at liberty. At Bondy, seeing the vehicle was about to stop, he felt much relieved, and was preparing to get out, when the duke checked him by telling him that this was not the place. Horses had been ordered in advance. In a few seconds they were harnessed to the carriage, and the vehicle was off again like a flash of lightning. “But where are we going, then, monsieur-” inquired poor Leonard. “What does it matter where we are going, provided you are able to start on your way back by to-morrow morning- “inquired Choiseul. "Not much, if I can get back to the Tuileries by ten o'clock, in time to dress the queen's hair -”

“That will satisfy you then-”

“Of course; though if I could get home a little earlier, so that I could pacify my brother and explain to Madame de l'Aage, it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Then you needn't worry, my dear Leonard,” responded the duke. "You'll find that everything will turn out for the best.” Leonard consequently had no idea that the duke intended to kidnap him altogether, and became quite tranquil in mind, at least for awhile; but seeing fresh horses put to the carriage at Claye, and hearing nothing said about stopping, the poor fellow exclaimed, "Ah, monsieur, are we going to the ends of the earth-”

“Listen, Leonard,” the duke said, much more seriously. “I am not taking you to some country-house near Paris, but to the frontier.” Leonard groaned, and, placing his hands on his knees, gazed at the duke in evident terror. "To — to the frontier-” he faltered. “Yes, my dear Leonard, for I expect to find there, with my regiment, a letter of the greatest importance from the queen. Not being able to deliver it myself, it was necessary for me to have some one upon whom I could depend to do it. I begged the queen to name some one, and she mentioned you as one whose devotion made him well worthy of such a trust.”

“Oh, of course, monsieur, I am very proud that the queen considers me worthy of her confidence; but how shall I get back to Paris- I 'm in my pumps and my white silk stockings, and I have neither a change of linen nor any money with me.” The poor fellow actually forgot that he had two million francs' worth of diamonds in his pockets. "Don't worry about that, my friend,” said the duke. "I have everything you need here in the carriage, — shoes, linen-clothing, and money; so you will want for nothing.”

“I may want for nothing, monsieur; but think of my poor brother, whose hat and overcoat I have appropriated, and poor Madame de l'Aage, who will never allow anybody but me to dress her hair. Oh, heavens! how will all this end-”

“For the best, for the best, my dear Leonard. At least, I hope so.” They flew along like the wind. Choiseul had ordered his courier to have two beds and a substantial supper awaiting them at Montmirail, where they were to spend the night; and Leonard was partially consoled, or at least he occasionally let fall a word that betrayed that his pride was flattered, at having been selected for such an important mission. After supper, the travellers went to bed, the duke having ordered the carriage to be in readiness at four in the morning. Fifteen minutes before that time, they were to knock at his door and wake him, in case he was asleep. It was nearly three o'clock, and Choiseul had hardly closed his eyes, when he heard the sound of wheels, accompanied by those loud cracks of the whip with which postilions announce the approach of new-comers. To spring from his bed and rush to the window was the work of an instant only. A cabriolet was at the door. Two men in the uniform of the National Guard stepped out, and imperiously demanded horses. Who were these men, and why were they in such a hurry for their horses- Choiseul called his servant and bade him have their own horses harnessed at once; then he aroused Leonard. Both men had gone to bed with their clothes on, and were consequently ready to start in a moment. When they went downstairs both vehicles were ready; but Choiseul told the postilion to let the guardsmen's carriage go first. He intended, however, to follow it so closely as not to lose sight of it for an instant. He carefully examined the pistols which had been placed in the carriage-pockets, and renewed the priming, thereby causing poor Leonard dire misgivings. They travelled on in this way about a league or a league and a half, when the cabriolet in front of them turned into a cross-road between Etoges and Chaintry. The guardsmen proved to be merely two peaceable citizens who had been to Ferte and were now returning to their homes. Choiseul continued his journey in a more contented frame of mind, and at ten o'clock they passed through Chaslons, and at eleven reached Sommeville Bridge. The detachment of hussars had not yet arrived; but the duke asked for a room, and then put on his uniform. Leonard watched these preparations with evident anxiety and alarm, and his heavy sighs really touched the duke's heart, so at last he said to him: — "Leonard, I think it is time to let you know the truth.”

“The truth! What! do you mean I don't know it now-”

“Only partially. I will tell you the rest now.” Leonard clasped his hands despairingly. "You are devoted to your royal master and mistress, are you not- “continued the duke. "In life and in death.”

“In two hours they will be here.”

“My God! is it possible-” exclaimed the poor fellow. "Yes, with the children and with Madame Elizabeth. You know what dangers they have incurred.” Leonard bowed his head in token of assent. “And what dangers are still before them! “Leonard lifted his eyes heavenward. “Well, in two hours they will be safe.” Leonard could not answer. His eyes were full of tears. "In two hours — here-"he faltered, at last. "Are you sure-”

“Yes, in two hours. They left the Tuileries at eleven o'clock last night, or shortly afterwards. They are due at Chalons at noon to-day. Allowing them an hour and a half to travel the four remaining leagues, they should be here in two hours. Let us order dinner. I am expecting a detachment of hussars under command of Monsieur de Goguelat to arrive at any moment. We will make the dinner as long as possible.”

“1 am not at all hungry, monsieur,” interrupted Leonard. "Never mind. If you try hard, I 'm sure you will be able to eat a little. You see we must make the dinner last as long as possible, so as to have an excuse for remaining. Eh! what's that- Why, that is the hussars coming now.” For the ring of horses' hoofs could be distinctly heard, as well as an occasional blast from the bugle. Another moment, and Goguelat had entered the room and handed Choiseul a package from Monsieur de Bouille'. This package contained six blank orders, all bearing the king's signature, besides a duplicate of the king's order to all officers of the army, whatever their rank might be, to obey the Due de Choiseul. Choiseul had the horses picketed, ordered rations of bread and wine served to the hussars, and then sat down to his own dinner.. The news Goguelat brought was not encouraging. All along the route he had found the people in a state of great excitement. Rumours of the king's flight from the country had been rife for more than a year, not only in Paris, but in the provinces; and the detachments of troops just stationed at Sainte Menehould had increased their suspicions. He had even heard the tocsin sounding in one village through which he passed. All this was more than enough to impair Choiseul's appetite; and after a half hour spent at the table, he rose, and, leaving Monsieur Boudet in command, walked up the street to a hill near the bridge, which commanded a good view of the road for a distance of nearly two miles. He could see no signs of either coach or courier, but this was not surprising. If he made any allowance for even trifling detentions, he could not expect the courier until at least an hour later; and the king was not likely to arrive in less than half an hour after the courier. Two hours passed, and still no sign of what the duke was looking for appeared. Every five minutes Choiseul pulled out his watch, and every time he did so, Leonard exclaimed: “They 're not coming! Oh, my poor mistress, my poor mistress! Some misfortune has certainly befallen them!” And the poor fellow's despair increased Choiseul's anxiety not a little. Half-past two came, and three, and half-past three, and still no courier, no coach! The reader, however, will recollect that it was three o'clock when the king left Ch amp;lons. But while Choiseul was thus watching and waiting, Fate was busy bringing about an event which was destined to exert a powerful influence in the drama we are relating. Fate had so decreed that, a few days before, the peasantry on the estate of a certain Madame d'Elbceuf, residing near the Sommeville Bridge, had refused to comply with certain demands on the part of the owner, who had threatened to call in the soldiery to enforce her claims; but the Federation had borne its fruits, and the inhabitants of the neighbouring hamlets had promised to aid the Elbceuf peasantry if this threat was carried into execution. Seeing the hussars arrive at the post-station, the peasantry supposed they had come with hostile intentions. Messengers were hastily despatched to the neighbouring villages, and by three o'clock the tocsin began to sound throughout that entire region of country. Hearing the alarm-bells, Choiseul hurried back to the post-house, where he found Lieutenant Boudet very uneasy. Bitter threats had been uttered against the hussars, who were extremely unpopular. The peasants, in fact, openly defied them, and sang contemptuously, under their very noses, this improvised ditty: -

“The hussars, though they're big and tall,

Really don't frighten us at all.”

Other persons, who were either better informed or more discerning, began to whisper that the hussars had not come to meddle with the Elbo3uf peasantry, but to meet the king and queen. This was the condition of affairs when four o'clock came, without bringing either news or courier. M. de Choiseul decided to wait a while longer, however; but he had horses put to his carriage, took the diamonds into his own charge, and started Leonard himself off towards Varennes, bidding him be sure and see Monsieur Dandoins at Sainte Menehould, Monsieur Damas at Clermont, and young Jules de Bouille at Varennes, and explain the situation fully to them. In order to quiet the increasing excitement, Choiseul announced that the hussars were not there to interfere with Madame Elboeuf's tenantry, but to act as escort for a large sum of money the minister of war was sending to the army. This explanation did not have the desired effect, however; and in a quarter of an hour the hostile throng that surrounded Choiseul and his men had increased in number to such an alarming extent that the duke saw that if the royal party should come while this state of affairs lasted, he would be unable to render them adequate protection with the small force at his command. He was there to see that the king's coach proceeded on its way unhindered; but his presence now, instead of being a protection, was a positive source of danger. The best thing to do, even in case the king should come, was to get the soldiers away. In fact, their departure would leave the road clear; but he must needs devise a plausible pretext for their departure. The superintendent was standing in the midst of a crowd of about five hundred curious men who would be converted into enemies by a single imprudent word. He was standing with folded arms, watching like the others, but he happened to be under the duke's very nose. “Have you heard anything about a large sum of money being sent to Metz about this time-” Choiseul inquired of him. “The diligence that passed here this very morning carried a hundred thousand crowns,” replied the superintendent. "It was guarded by two gendarmes.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed M. de Choiseul, fairly dazed by the kindness with which Fate was treating him. "Yes, it is true, for Robin and I acted as escort,” remarked a gendarme, who was standing near by. Whereupon Choiseul turned quietly to Goguelat and said: “Well, if the minister of war prefers that mode of transportation, there is no longer any use of our staying here, and I think we might as well be off. Hussars, saddle your horses.” The hussars were nothing loath, for they, too, were becoming uneasy. A minute more, and they were in their saddles. Choiseul passed along the line, cast one more glance at the Chalons road, and sighed. Then, clear and distinct, came the command, — "Hussars, form into fours! Forward!” They dashed over the Sommeville Bridge just as the church clock was striking half-past five. Two hundred yards from the village, Choiseul turned into a cross-road so as to avoid Sainte Menehould, where there was said to be a great deal of excitement. At that very moment, Isidore de Charny, whipping and spurring a horse which had required nearly two hours to travel ten or twelve miles, rode up to the post-house. While changing horses, he inquired if a squad of cavalry had been seen in the vicinity, and learned that the detachment had started down the Sainte Meuehould road barely ten minutes before. He ordered horses for a coach that would soon arrive, and then, hoping to overtake Choiseul, mounted a fresh Horse and galloped away. But, as we have seen, Choiseul left the road to Sainte Menehould a short distance further on, and at the very moment the viscount drew rein before the post-house near Sommeville Bridge; and as the viscount rode straight on towards Sainte Menehould, he did not succeed in overtaking the duke.

CHAPTER LXXXIV. FATE.

Ten minutes after Isidore de Charny's departure, the royal coach arrived, and as Choiseul had foreseen, the crowd had dispersed. The elder Charny, knowing that the first detachment of troops was to be here at the Sommeville Bridge, did not consider it necessary for him to remain behind; so he galloped up to the carriage to urge on the postilions, who were driving at a slow trot. When they reached the bridge, the king, seeing neither the hussars nor the duke, began to feel anxious, and put his head out of the window. "Pray do not show yourself, sire,” entreated Charny. "I will make inquiries at once.” He entered the post-house. Five minutes afterwards, he re-appeared, having learned all the particulars. He repeated them to the king, who immediately divined that it was to leave the road clear that Choiseul had left so hastily. The important thing now was to push on and reach Sainte Menehould as soon as possible, for they would doubtless find Choiseul there with his hussars, and a detachment of dragoons as well. At the moment of departure, Charny stepped to the carriage window. "What are the queen's orders- “he asked. "Am I to go on ahead, or follow on behind-”

“Do not leave me 1 “responded the queen. Charny bowed to his horse's mane, and galloped along by the carriage door. Meanwhile, Isidore was riding on in advance, marvelling greatly at the deserted aspect of the road, which was so straight that he could see in some places two or three miles ahead of him. He spurred his horse on anxiously, thus getting farther and farther ahead of the coach; for he feared the inhabitants of Sainte Meuehould might take offence at the prolonged stay of Dandoins' dragoons, as the people of Sommeville had taken umbrage at the detention of Choiseul's hussars. And Isidore was right. The first thing that struck him on reaching Sainte Menehould was the large number of National Guardsmen walking about the streets. In fact, they were the first he had encountered since he left Paris; the entire place seemed to be in a commotion, and he could hear a drum beating at the other end of the town. He trotted coolly along through the streets, however, without appearing to be in the least disturbed by the excitement around him, and, after crossing the square, stopped in front of the post-house. As he crossed the square, however, he noticed about a dozen dragoons wearing fatigue-caps seated on a bench; and a few steps from them, at a window on the lower floor of a house, he perceived the Marquis Dandoins, also wearing a fatigue-cap, and holding a riding-whip in his hand. Isidore passed straight by, however, as if he had not even seen them, for he felt sure that Dandoins would recognise him from his costume, and that consequently no further intimation of the near approach of the royal party would be necessary. In the doorway of the post-house stood a young man about twenty-eight years of age, attired in a dressing-gown, and wearing his hair a la Titus, according to the fashion of the patriots of the time. He also wore a full beard. Isidore looked around as if in search of some one to whom he could speak. “What do you desire, monsieur- “inquired the black- whiskered man. "I should like to see the superintendent of the station.”

“He is away just now, but I am his son, Jean Baptiste Drouet. If I shall do as well, tell me what you wish.” The young man emphasised the words Jean Baptiste Drouet, as if he foresaw that these words, or rather these names, were destined to occupy a prominent place in history. "I want six post-horses for two vehicles that are close behind me! “said the viscount. Drouet nodded as if to indicate that the courier could have what he wanted; and then, stepping out into the courtyard, shouted lustily: — “Here, postilions, six horses for two carriages, and a nag for the courier.” Just then the Marquis Dandoins came up hurriedly. "You precede the royal coach, do you not-” he asked, in a low tone, addressing Isidore. “Yes, monsieur, and I am much surprised to see you and your men still wearing your fatigue-caps.”

“We have received no orders to the contrary, nor have I received any instructions as to the duty my men are to perform. There are threatening demonstrations all around us, and the people here are trying to demoralise my men. What am I expected to do-”

“Why, guard the carriage when the king comes, and be governed by circumstances; then, leave half an hour after the royal family has passed, to act as a rear-guard. But hush!” exclaimed Isidore, interrupting himself suddenly,' "they are watching us. Perhaps some one has overheard our conversation. Rejoin your men, and do your very best to keep them up to their duty.” Drouet was, in fact, at the door of the kitchen in which this conversation had taken place. Dandoins withdrew, and almost simultaneously the cracking of whips was heard, and the royal coach crossed the square and drew up in front of the post- house. A crowd gathered around it. Dandoins, anxious to explain why he and his men were not under arms, rushed up to the carriage-door, hat in hand, and made his apologies with every possible mark of respect. The king, in answering him, showed his face at the window several times. Isidore, with one foot already in the stirrup, was standing near Drouet, who was scrutinising the vehicle and its occupants closely. He had attended the great Federation, in Paris the summer before, and had then seen the king. He felt sure that this was he. That very morning Drouet had received a large sum in assignats, and he had examined each bill closely, in order to see if any of them were counterfeit; consequently the king's features were distinctly impressed upon his memory, and seemed to cry out to him,- "This man before you is the king.” He drew one of these assignats from his pocket, compared the portrait upon it with the original, and murmured,- "It is certainly he!” Isidore rode around to the other side of the coach, where his brother was standing, partly for the purpose of screening the queen, who was leaning against the window, and hastily whispered to Olivier, “The king has been recognised. Get away from here as quickly as possible, and keep an eye on that black-whiskered fellow over there. He 's the son of the superintendent, and it is he who has recognised the king. His name is Jean Baptiste Drouet.”

“All right, I’ll attend to him. Be off as quick as you can, my brother.” And Isidore started off at a gallop to order the relay of horses at Clermont. He had hardly reached the end of the street before the postilions, urged on by Malden and Valory and by the promise of a crown extra, had everything in readiness, and drove off at a brisk trot. The count had not lost sight of Drouet for an instant, but Drouet had not moved. He had merely been talking in a low tone to one of the hostlers. So Charny stepped up to him and said: — “Was no horse ordered for me, monsieur-”

“Yes, but there are no more horses.”

“What, no more horses- How about the one they are saddling there in the courtyard-”

“That horse is mine.”

“Can't you let me have him- I'll pay you your own price for him.”

“Impossible, monsieur. It is getting late, and there's a trip that must be made.” To insist would only increase Drouet's suspicions; to attempt to take the horse by force would ruin everything. Besides, Charny had thought of another way out of the difficulty. He went to Dandoins, who stood watching the coach, which was just disappearing around the corner of the street. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Dandoins turned. "Hush!” said Olivier, "it is I, Comte de Charny. There is no horse for me at the post-station, they say. Make one of your dragoons let me have his. I must follow the king and queen, for I alone know where to find Choiseul's relays; and if I 'm not at hand, the king is sure to be delayed in Varennes.”

“I’ll not give you one of my men's horses, count, but my own.”

“I accept your offer. The safety of the king and of the entire royal family is involved. The better the horse, the better their chances.” Both men walked briskly to the lodgings of the marquis; but before doing so, Charny charged a sergeant to watch Drouet closely. Unfortunately, Dandoins' rooms were fully five hundred yards distant, and before the horses had been saddled, at least fifteen minutes had been lost. We say horses, because Dandoins, too, intended to mount and comply with Vol. H. -18 the king's expressed wish by following his Majesty, and, with his men, constituting a rear-guard for the royal coach. Suddenly it seemed to Charny that he heard the words: “The king! the queen! “mingled with other far-off cries, and he hastened out of the house, requesting Daudoms to send his horse to the square. The entire village was in the wildest commotion; for Charny and Dandoins had hardly left the square before Drouet exclaimed, exactly as if he had only been waiting for their departure to spread the news: "That coach which just passed is the king's. The king and queen and the royal children of France are in that carriage.” Then he flung himself upon his horse. Several of his friends tried to stop him. “Where are you going- What do you intend doing- “they exclaimed. He replied in a whisper, — "The colonel of those dragoons is over there. There was no way of stopping the king without causing a disturbance that would have turned out badly for us. What I could not do here, I can do at Clermont. Detain the dragoons; that is all I ask.” And he started off at a gallop after the king. So it became noised about that the king and queen were in the coach which had just passed through the village; and the rumour spread so quickly that it reached Charny's ears. Hearing the commotion, the mayor and some of the other municipal officers rushed to the spot, and the mayor ordered the dragoons to retire to their barracks and remain there until eight o'clock. Charny soon learned all there was to know; namely, that Drouet had recognised the king and ridden away. He fairly stamped with impatience. Just then Dandoins rejoined him. As soon as he saw him coming, Charny called out from a distance, — "The horses, where are the horses-”

“They 're bringing them now.”

“Have they put my pistols in the holsters-”

“Yes.”

“Are they loaded-”

“I attended to that myself.”

“Good! Everything depends upon the speed of your horse now. I must overtake a man who has fifteen minutes the start of me, and kill him.”

“What! do you mean to kill him-”

“If I don't kill him, all is lost.”

“Let us start at once, then.”

“Don't trouble yourself about me. You had better stay and attend to your men, who are becoming utterly demoralised here. Look, the mayor is talking to them now. You, too, have no time to lose. Go! go! “Just then the orderly came up with the two horses; and without stopping to notice which was which, Charny leaped upon the back of the horse nearest him, snatched the bridle from the hand of the orderly, struck his spurs into his horse's sides, and was off like a shot in pursuit of Drouet, but without catching the words Dandoins shouted after him, though the words cast upon the wind were mighty indeed in their import,- "You have taken the horse I was to ride instead of yours, and the pistols in the holsters are not loaded! “

CHAPTER LXXXV. FATE.

Meanwhile the royal coach, preceded by Isidore, was bowling swiftly along the road from Sainte Menehould to Clermont. Daylight was fast fading away, however, and it was eight o' clock when the carriage reached the Forest of Argonne, through which the highway passed. The Comte de Charny had not been able to tell the queen the cause of his detention, inasmuch as the royal coach left Sainte Menehould before Drouet had informed Charny that he could not have a horse. As they drove out of the village, however, the queen noticed that her cavalier was no longer at her carriage window; but she could think of no excuse for stopping the vehicle. Once, she fancied she caught sight of a horseman galloping along the road a long way behind them; but this equestrian — if she did see him at all — was soon lost to view in the shadows of approaching night. And now — for, in order to make the events of this momentous journey clear to the reader, we are obliged to dart from one actor to another — and now, while Isidore was riding a mile in advance of the royal coach, and while the coach was entering the Forest of Argonne, and while Drouet was riding in hot haste after the coach, and the elder Charny was wildly pursuing Drouet, — while all these things were going on simultaneously, the Marquis Dandoins rejoined his men, and ordered the call "To saddle!” sounded; but when the dragoons attempted to advance, the people crowded in around them so that the horses could not move a step. In this crowd there were at least three hundred National Guardsmen, with their muskets in their hands. To risk an encounter would be to ruin the king; so it seemed best for the troops to remain where they were, and thus keep the people where they were. So Dandoins condescended to parley with them. He even asked the leaders what they wanted, and what they expected, and the meaning of all these threats and hostile demonstrations. In the mean time, the king had reached Clermont, where he found Monsieur Damas, with his one hundred and forty dragoons. If Dandoins had had one hundred and forty men at his disposal, like Damas, he might have been able to accomplish something; but he had only thirty: and what could thirty dragoons do against three or four thousand men- Nothing but talk and parley with them; and that is precisely what Dandoins did. At half-past nine the royal coach reached Clermont, and the postilions had driven so fast that Isidore was only a few hundred yards in advance of it. In fact, it had only taken the party an hour and a quarter to traverse the four leagues that separated the two villages. The speed with which they had travelled might explain Charny's continued absence, but he would surely overtake them when they changed horses. Damas, having been warned by Leonard, was lying in wait for the party, and just before Isidore entered the village, Damas, who had recognised the courier's livery, stopped him. "Pardon me, monsieur, but do you not precede the king-” he asked. "And you, I presume, are Charles.de Damas-”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I do precede the king. Call your men together to serve as a guard for his Majesty's coach.”

“There is an alarming scent of insurrection in the air, monsieur, and I am obliged to admit that I cannot vouch for my men if they should recognise the king. All I can promise is to obstruct the road after the royal coach passes.”

“Do your best, monsieur,” said Isidore. "Here is the king now,” he added, pointing to an incoming coach, whose course could be discerned through the darkness only by the sparks that flew from beneath the horses' feet. As for Isidore, it was his duty to hasten forward and order relays. In five minutes he drew rein at the door of the post-house. Damas, with five or six dragoons, arrived almost at the same moment. Close upon Isidore's heels, and before he had time to remount, came the royal coach. The vehicle, though not a magnificent affair, was a little remarkable, and a number of people assembled in front of the post-house. Damas stood some distance from the carriage-door, as if he had no acquaintance with its occupants; but as neither the king nor queen could resist their longing to hear the latest news, the king beckoned to Damas on one side, while the queen beckoned to Isidore on the other. “Is this Monsieur de Damas- “asked the king. "Yes, sire.”

“Why are your dragoons not here under arms-”

“Your Majesty is five hours behind time. My squadron was in the saddle by four this afternoon. I kept the men under arms as long as possible; but the whole village began to get excited, and even my dragoons began to show that they were upset by all sorts of conflicting conjectures. If a disturbance occurred before your Majesty's arrival, I knew the alarm-bell would be sounded and your progress checked, so I kept only a dozen men under arms and sent the rest back to the barracks; but I kept the trumpeters with me so as to be able to call the men to horse at the first sign of danger. Your Majesty can see that my plan has worked well, as the road is clear.”

“Very well, monsieur; I must say you have acted very prudently. As soon as I am well out of the village, have your men mount and follow my carriage, at a distance of a mile or so.”

“Sire, I want you to listen to what Monsieur Isidore says,” interrupted the queen. “What is it-” responded the king, with some slight show of impatience. "He says you were recognised by the superintendent's son at Sainte Menehould. The viscount is sure of it, for he saw the young man comparing your face with the portrait engraved on an assignat he had in his hand. He says, too, that he informed his brother, the count, of the fact, and that as we have seen nothing of him since, there must have been some serious trouble.”

“If we have been recognised, there is all the more need that we should make haste. Monsieur Isidore, hurry up the postilions, and then ride on ahead as fast as you can.” Isidore's horse being ready, he sprang into the saddle and called out to the postilions: "The road to Varennes! “Damas stepped back, bowing respectfully, the postilions whipped up their horses, and the coach was off in the twinkling of an eye. As they left the village, they met a sergeant of hussars just entering it. For an instant, Damas was strongly tempted to follow the royal coach with the few men then at his disposal; but the king had given contrary orders, and he thought it his duty to obey those orders, especially as there were signs of commotion in the town. People were running from house to house, and persons and lights could be plainly seen moving hurriedly about in the dwellings. Damas was firmly resolved to prevent one thing, — the sounding of the alarm-bell; so he ran to the church to guard the door. Besides, Dandoins might arrive with reinforcements at any moment. The excitement gradually subsided, however; so at the end of about fifteen minutes Damas returned to the public square, where he found Major de Noirville, to whom he gave his instructions, bidding him get the men under arms at once. Just then some one came to inform Damas that a messenger from Dandoins was waiting for him at his lodgings. This messenger came to say that it would not be advisable to wait for Dandoins or his dragoons, Dandoins being forcibly detained by the people of Sainte Menehould; and that besides this — as Damas knew already — Drouet had started off at full speed after the royal coach, though he had probably not succeeded in overtaking it, as he had not been seen in Clermont. Damas had scarcely finished listening to this report when another messenger from an entirely different direction was announced. This messenger was an orderly sent by the officers in command of the troops at Varennes, our friends Monsieur Jules de Bourue and Monsieur de Raigecourt. Seeing the hours drag by without bringing any one connected with the royal party, these young gentlemen had finally determined to send a messenger to Damas to ascertain if he had heard anything of the king. "What was the condition of affairs when you left Varennes- “inquired Damas, eagerly. "Perfectly quiet.”

“Where were the hussars-”

“At the barracks, with their horses all saddled.”

“Did you meet any vehicles on your way here-”

“Yes, one large coach drawn by four horses and another with two.” It will be recollected that the queen's attendants occupied the second carriage; and though no allusion has been made to the cabriolet for some time, it was never very far behind the royal coach. “Those are the very carriages you came to inquire about,” replied Damas. "So everything is all right.” So Damas returned to his quarters and ordered the trumpeters to sound the call to saddle. It was his intention to follow the king to Varennes and give him armed assistance there, should necessity require it. In five minutes the trumpets sounded the call. Everything was progressing well, aside from the detention of Dandoins and the thirty men under his command; but having one hundred and forty men himself, Damas felt that he could manage very well without any increase of numbers. Let us now return to the king's coach, which on leaving Clermont took the road to the left leading to Varennes, not the right-hand road leading to Verdun. We have already described the topographical situation of Varennes, which is divided into the Upper and Lower Towns. We have also stated that it had been decided to change horses at the farther end of the town, and that in order to reach that point it would be necessary to leave the main road, reach the bridge by another route, cross the bridge under the old tower, and so meet Choiseul's relays on the other side, where they would be waiting in charge of Jules de Bouille and Raigecourt. As for young Rohrig, an officer about twenty years of age, the managers of the affair had not taken him into their confidence, and he still believed the troops had been sent there to guard a large sum of money destined for the army. After their arrival at this dangerous point, the reader will recollect that Charny was to act as guide through the labyrinth of cross-roads; for Charny had spent a fortnight at Varennes, carefully studying and mapping out the entire route, so that there was not a milestone or a lane with which he was not familiar. But, unfortunately, Charny was not at hand, and the queen's anxiety increased greatly; for under these circumstances the count's failure to rejoin the party must be due to some serious accident. As they approached Varennes, the king, too, became more and more uneasy; for, depending upon Charny so implicitly, he had not brought the count's maps with him. Besides, the night was very dark, with no light but that of the stars, — one of those nights when a person is liable to lose his way even in a locality with which he is perfectly familiar. Isidore's orders, received directly from his brother, required him to stop on the outskirts of the town. Here the elder Charny would change horses and assume charge of the party. His brother's absence troubled Isidore as much as, and perhaps even more than, it did the queen. His only hope now was that Jules de Bouille^ or Monsieur de Raigecourt, in their impatience, would come to meet the king and wait for him on this side of the town. During the two or three days they had spent there, they must have become thoroughly acquainted with the town and its surroundings, and so be able to serve as efficient guides. On reaching the bottom of the hill, and perceiving several lights, which indicated that the town was near, Isidore paused irresolutely and gazed about him; but he could distinguish nothing in the profound darkness. Then he called softly, and afterwards more loudly, the names of Homlle' and Raigecourt, in the hope that they might be somewhere about. There was no response; but he could hear the rumble of the coach, nearly a mile away, which sounded like distant thunder coming nearer and nearer. There was nothing for him to do but wait, so he waited. In five minutes the coach reached the spot where Isidore was watching, and the king and queen both thrust their heads out of the window, and asked in the same breath: “Have you seen your brother-”

“I have not, sire; and as he is not here, he must have met with some serious accident in his pursuit of that wretched Drouet.” The queen groaned. “What are we to do- “asked the king. Then, addressing the two guardsmen, who had alighted, he said: "Do you know anything about this town, gentlemen- “Both replied in the negative. "Everything seems to be quiet, sire,” said Isidore, "so there cannot be any danger, I think. If your Majesty will consent to wait here ten minutes, I will enter the town and endeavour to obtain some information in regard to Bouille” and Raigecourt, or at least in regard to Monsieur de Choiseul's relays. Your Majesty cannot recall the name of the tavern where the horses were to be found-”

“Alas! no,” replied the king. "I did know it, but I have forgotten it. No matter; go just the same. In the mean time, we, too, will endeavour to secure some information on the subject.” Isidore galloped off towards the Lower Town, and was soon lost to view among the first houses.

CHAPTER LXXXVI. JEAN BAPTISTE DROUET.

The king's remark about securing some information where they were, was explained by the close proximity of two or three houses, the outposts of the Upper Town, as it were, which stood on the right-hand side of the road. Some one was awake, and moving about in the nearest of these houses, as was evident from a light that stole out through the half-open door. The queen left the carriage, took Malden's arm, and walked towards the house. As they approached it, some one inside closed the door, but not quickly enough to prevent Malden — who divined the inhospitable intentions of the occupant — from springing forward and pushing it open again before the bolt could be slipped into its socket. Behind this door, trying hard all the while to shut it, stood a man about fifty years of age, clad in slippers and dressing-gown. It was not without some very natural surprise, of course, that the man saw himself driven back into his own house, and his door pushed open by a strange man accompanied by a woman; but the occupant of the dwelling started violently as he cast a quick glance at the queen, whose face was plainly visible in the light of the candle he held in his hand. "What do you want, monsieur-” he asked of Malden. "We know nothing about Varennes, and would be much obliged if you would tell us the way to Stenay.”

“And what if my compliance with your request should become known, and ruin me-”

“Ah, monsieur, but even if you should incur some risk in rendering us such a service, you are surely too courteous not to thus oblige a woman who finds herself in a dangerous position.”

“Monsieur,” replied the man, "the person behind you is no ordinary woman,” — and here he placed his mouth close to Malden's ear, — “it is the queen.”

“Monsieur!”

“I recognise her.” The queen, who had either overheard or guessed what had been said, drew Monsieur Malden back a step or two, and said: "Before addressing another word to this man, go and tell the king that I am discovered.” Malden obeyed the command instantly. “Indeed!” said the king. “Then beg the man to come to me at once.” Malden returned to the house, and, thinking further dissimulation useless, said: “The king desires to speak with you.” The man sighed, then kicked off his slippers, and walked to the carriage barefoot, so as to make as little noise as possible. "Your name, monsieur-” demanded the king, first of all. "Prefontaine, sire,” answered the man, hesitatingly. "Who are you-”

“A major of cavalry and a Knight of the Order of St. Louis.”

“In your two-fold character of Major and Knight of the Order of St. Louis, you have twice taken an oath of fidelity to me. It is consequently your bounden duty to assist me out of my present difficulties.”

“Certainly; but I entreat your Majesty to make haste, for some one may see me,” faltered the major. "If any one sees you, so much the better,” remarked Malden. "You will never have a better opportunity to show your loyalty.” The major, who did not seem to be of the same opinion, almost groaned. The queen shrugged her shoulders and tapped her foot impatiently. The king shook his head warningly at her, then, addressing the major, said, — “Have you chanced to hear of some horses that are waiting here for a passing carriage, or have you seen anything of some hussars who were to reach your town yesterday-”

“Yes, sire, both the horses and the soldiers are at the other end of the town, — the horses at a tavern called Le Grand Monarque, the hussars are at the barracks, probably.”

“Thank you, monsieur. Now, return to the house; no one has seen you, so no harm can possibly befall you.”

“Sire — “The king waited to hear no more, however, but assisted the queen into the carriage, then, turning to the guardsmen, who were awaiting his orders, he said, — "To the Grand Monarque.” Just then a shadowy steed shot out from the wood and planted itself diagonally across the road as its ghostly rider shouted,- "Not another step, postilions.”

“And why not- “asked the astonished men. "Because you are driving the king, who is fleeing from the country. In the name of the Nation I command you not to move.” The postilions, who had made a movement as if to drive on, paused and murmured, "The king! “Louis XVI. saw that the critical moment had come, and called out sternly, — “Who are you that you dare to give such, orders here-”

“An humble citizen; but I represent the Law, and speak in the name of the Nation. Postilions, for the second time I command you not to move. I am Jean Baptiste Drouet, son of the superintendent of the post-station at Sainte Menehould.”

“Wretch!” cried the two guardsmen, springing from their seats and drawing their hunting-knives; but before they touched the ground Drouet was riding swiftly towards the Lower Town. "Oh, Charny, Charny, what has happened to you-” moaned the queen, sinking back in her seat, almost indifferent as to what might befall her now. What had happened to Charny, and why had he allowed Drouet to thus escape him- It seemed, indeed, to have been Fate against which he had been doomed to contend. Dandoins' horse was a good traveller, but Drouet had the advantage of a twenty minutes' start over the count. This time must needs be made up. Charny stuck his spurs into his horse's flanks, and the animal started off like the wind. On the other hand, Drouet, though not aware that he was pursued, was riding at full speed; but he had only a post-horse, whereas Charny's steed was a thoroughbred. The result was that Charny had gained one-third of the distance by the time he had ridden a league. Drouet then discovered that he was pursued, and redoubled his efforts, in order to escape from the rider who threatened to overtake him. At the end of the second league, Charny was still gaining at the same rate, and Drouet glanced behind again and again with ever-increasing anxiety. Drouet had started in such haste that he had failed to provide himself with any weapon. The youthful patriot did not fear death, as he proved beyond question afterwards; but he did fear that if he was checked in his course the king would get away, and he also feared lest this splendid opportunity to immortalise his (Drouet's) name would be lost. He had two leagues more to travel before reaching Clermont; but it was evident that he would be overtaken before the end of the next league, — the third since his departure from Sainte Menehould. Just then, as if to stimulate his ardour, Drouet scented the royal coach in front of him. We say "scented,” for it was already after nine o'clock and nearly dark, though this was one of the longest days in the year; so Drouet plied whip and spur still more vigorously. The coach was barely three-quarters of a league from Clermont now, but Charny was barely two hundred yards behind him, and Drouet began to despair. Before he could overtake the king, he himself would be overtaken. A half league from Clermont he heard the ring of Charny's horse's hoofs close behind him, and he must either give up the race or turn and face his pursuer; and Drouet had no weapons with which to risk such an encounter. Suddenly, when Charny was within about fifty yards of him, Drouet met the postilions returning to Sainte Menehould with horses which he recognised as those that had been attached to the king's coach. "Ah, it is you!” he called out. "They took the road to Verdun, didn’t they-”

“What-”

“I mean that the carriages you drove took the road to Verdun.” And as he spoke he rode by them, urging his horse to a final effort. "No, the road to Varennes,” shouted the postilions. Drouet uttered a cry of joy. He was saved, and the king was lost. If the king had taken the road to Verdun, Drouet would have been compelled to follow him along the same road; but the king had chosen to go from Clermont to Varennes, and the road from Clermont to Varennes described an acute angle to the left; so Drouet made for the Forest of Argonne, with which he was thoroughly acquainted; for by taking a short cut through the woods he could save at least a quarter of an hour, besides having the obscurity of the forest to protect him. Charny, who knew the country almost as well as Drouet, saw that the latter was likely to escape him after all, and "uttered a cry of rage, and almost simultaneously with Drouet urged his horse across the narrow strip of land that lay between the road and the forest, shouting, — "Stop! stop!” But Drouet made no response. Lying upon his horse's neck, he urged the animal on with whip and spur and voice. If he could only reach the forest, it was all he asked. He did reach it, but only to find himself ten yards.from Charny, who drew a pistol and aimed it at him, shouting: “Halt, or you 're a dead man! “But Drouet only clung still more closely to his horse's neck, and urged him on. Charny pulled the trigger; but the sparks of fire as the flint struck the steel served only to illumine the surrounding darkness for an instant. Enraged by this failure, Charny flung the pistol at Drouet, and drew a second, riding madly after the fugitive all the while. Again he fired, this time through an opening between the trees; but this pistol, too, failed him as the first had done. Then, and not until then, did he remember that as he galloped out of Sainte Menehould, Monsieur Dandoins had shouted something after him which he failed to understand. “Ah!” thought Charny, “I took the wrong horse, and he probably called out to me that the pistols on this horse were not loaded. No matter; I will overtake this scoundrel and strangle him with my own hands if need be.” And he flew on in pursuit of the shadowy form, of which he had just caught another glimpse in the darkness. But he had hardly advanced a hundred yards into the forest, of which he knew little or nothing, when his horse stumbled, and fell into a ditch. Charny, who was thrown over the animal's head, jumped up and leaped into the saddle again; but Drouet had disappeared. It was in this way that Drouet had managed to elude Charny, and so dart across the highway near Varennes like a phantom, and order the postilions not to advance a step farther. Vol. 11. -19 And the postilions obeyed because Drouet had commanded them to pause in the name of the Nation, which had become more potent in the land than that of the king. But Drouet had scarcely started for the Lower Town before the royal party could hear the hoof-beats of an approaching as well as a departing steed, and Isidore reappeared a moment afterwards. The information he had secured corroborated that furnished by Monsieur de Prefontaine. The horses were at the other end of the town, in charge of Jules de Bouille and young Raigecourt; the other officer, young Rohrig, was at the barracks with the hussars. A waiter in a cafe who was just closing up the establishment for the night had given Isidore these particulars. Isidore had hoped to bring joy to the hearts of the illustrious travellers, but they seemed to be plunged into a sort of stupor. Prefontaine was filling the air with his lamentations, and the two guardsmen seemed to be savagely threatening something or somebody; so Isidore paused abruptly in the middle of his story, and asked, — “What is the matter, gentlemen-”

“Didn’t you see a man pass you just now, — a man. riding at a gallop-”

“Yes, sire.”

“Well, that man was Drouet,” said the king. “Drouet! “cried Isidore, his heart suddenly failing him; "then my brother is dead.” The queen uttered a cry, and buried her face in her hands.

CHAPTER LXXXVII. THE TOLLGATE TOWER.

There was a moment of utter despondency for these unfortunate travellers, thus detained on the highway, and threatened with unknown but terrible perils. Isidore was the first to rally from the shock. "Sire,” said he, "let us cease to think of my brother, living or dead, and think only of your Majesty. There is not a second to lose. The postilions must know the hotel; we will hasten there at once. Postilions, whip up your horses. To the Grand Monarque at once! “But the postilions did not move. "Don't you hear me-” thundered Isidore. "Yes.”

“Then why don't you start-”

“Because Monsieur Drouet forbids us to do so.”

“What- Drouet forbids! When the king commands, and Drouet forbids, you obey Drouet!”

“We obey the Nation.”

“Come, gentlemen,” cried Isidore to the two guardsmen, "there are times when a man's life counts for nothing. Each of you pick out your man, — I'll take care of this one; then we will drive ourselves.” As he spoke, he collared the postilion nearest him, and lifted his hunting-knife to plunge it into his heart. The queen saw the blades glitter, and screamed, “Hold, gentlemen, hold!” Then, addressing the postilions, she added: "Fifty louis, my friends, to be divided between you now, and a yearly pension of five hundred francs each, if you save the king.” The postilions were either frightened by the threatening demonstration the young man had just made, or tempted by the queen's munificent offer, for they started their horses, and the journey was resumed. Monsieur de Prefontaine retreated into his dwelling, and closed and barred the door. Isidore galloped along in front of the coach. He intended to pass through the Upper Town and cross the bridge. Five minutes would then bring them to the inn. The coach fairly flew down the hill towards the Lower Town; but as they neared the archway at the end of the bridge they could see that one half of the tollgate was closed. They opened it, but found two or three wagons standing directly in the road. "Help me, gentlemen,” exclaimed Isidore, dismounting, and catching hold of one of the wagons. Just then the roll of a drum and the notes of an alarm- bell broke the stillness of the air. Drouet's work was accomplished. “Scoundrel!” hissed Isidore between his clenched teeth, “if I ever find you — “By an almost superhuman effort he pushed one big wagon aside; Malden and Valory moved another; but the third still obstructed the way. "Now for the last one,” exclaimed Isidore; but as he spoke, four or five muskets were thrust out from between the slats of the third wagon. "Not another step, or you are dead men!” cried a determined voice. “Don't try to force a passage, gentlemen, I command you,” said the king, putting his head out of the carriage window. The two guardsmen and Isidore stepped back. “What is wanted- “demanded the king. Almost at the same instant a cry of terror resounded from the coach. Several men had stolen up behind the vehicle, and the barrels of several muskets had been thrust in at the windows. One of these was aimed straight at the queen's breast. Isidore saw her danger, and, springing forward, grasped the muzzle, and turned the weapon aside. “Shoot, shoot!” cried several voices. One of the men obeyed, but fortunately his gun missed fire. Isidore raised his arm, and was about plunging his hunting-knife into the miscreant's heart, when the queen stayed his hand. "In Heaven's name let me put an end to this scoundrel, madame,” cried Isidore, frantically. “No, sheathe your knife. Do you hear me- “responded the queen. Isidore let the knife fall at his side, but he did not restore it to his belt. “Ah, if I encounter that Drouet — “he murmured. "As for him,” whispered the queen, pressing Isidore's arm forcibly, "as for him, — do with him as you will.”

“Now, gentlemen, what do you desire-” repeated the king. "We want to see your passports,” responded two or three voices. “Our passports- Very well. Bring the proper authorities here, and we will show them our passports.”

“These are fine goings-on, upon my word!” exclaimed the man whose gun had missed fire, thrusting his head almost into the king's face. But the two guardsmen sprang upon him and felled him to the ground. In the struggle his gun went off, but the bullet hit nobody. “Halloo 1 who fired- “shouted another voice. The man, who was being crushed under the feet of the two guardsmen, groaned, and cried, "Help, help!” Five or six armed men rushed to his assistance; the guardsmen drew their knives and prepared for a fight. The king and queen attempted in vain to quell the disturbance. It was evident that a fierce and deadly combat was about to begin. At that juncture, two men rushed into the midst of the combatants. One was attired in the uniform of the National Guards, the other wore a tricoloured sash. The man with the tricoloured sash was Monsieur Sousse, the town solicitor; the man in uniform was Hannonet, the commander of the Varennes National Guard. Behind them, about twenty muskets could be seen glittering in the light of two or three torches. The king saw that immunity from insult, and perhaps his very life itself, depended upon these two men. "Gentlemen,” he said, "I am willing to trust myself, as well as the persons who accompany me, to you; but protect us from the brutality of those men.” And as he spoke, he pointed to the men armed with muskets. “Put down your guns! “cried Hannonet. The men obeyed, though not without considerable grumbling. "You must excuse us, monsieur,” said the town solicitor, "but it is reported that his Majesty Louis XVI. is fleeing from France, and it is our duty to ascertain if this report is true.”

“Ascertain if it is true!” cried Isidore. “If this coach contains the king, you should be at the king's feet; if, on the contrary, it contains only a private individual, what right have you to stop it-”

“Monsieur,” said Sousse, still addressing the king, "I am speaking to you. Will you do me the honour to reply.”

“Try to gain a little time, sire,” whispered Isidore. "Damas and his dragoons must be on the road, and will arrive here soon.”

“You are right,” answered the king. Then, turning to Sousse, he asked, "If our passports are all right, shall we be allowed to continue our journey-”

“Certainly.”

“Then have the goodness to hunt for your passport, baroness, and give it to these gentlemen,” said the king to Madame de Tourzel. That lady understood what the king meant by telling her to look for her passport; so she began to search, but in places where she knew it was not to be found. "There, you can see very plainly that they have no such thing as a passport,” exclaimed a threatening and impatient voice. "Indeed we have, gentlemen; but not knowing exactly when and where we should have to show it, the Baroness de Korff put it away somewhere, and cannot recollect just at this moment exactly where she put it.” A sort of howl went up from the crowd, indicating that they were not to be deceived by this subterfuge. “There is a very easy way out of this difficulty,” said Sousse. "Postilions, drive to my shop. The gentlemen and ladies can enter my house, and the whole matter can be settled there. Drive on, postilions! Gentlemen of the National Guard, you may act as escort for the coach, if you wish.” This invitation sounded too much like a command to be declined; besides, any attempt to resist would have been worse than useless, for the alarm-bell was still ringing, the drum beating, and the crowd around the carriage increasing every minute. The coach started. "Oh, Damas, Damas,” muttered the king, "if you would only come before we reach that accursed house! “The queen said never a word. She was thinking of Charny. They reached Sousse’s store, but they saw nothing of Damas. What had happened to prevent this gentleman, upon whose devotion the king relied so implicitly, from fulfilling the orders he had received and the promises he had made- We will explain, in order to cast as much light as possible on every detail of this unfortunate journey, concerning which Michelet says: — “The true history of that tragical moment when the king was arrested has never been fully known. The chief historians of the trip to Varennes knew nothing about it except from hearsay. The Bonille's, father and son, were not present. Choiseul and Goguelat did not arrive until an hour afterwards. Deslon did not come until even later.” We left Damas ordering the bugler to sound the call, "To saddle!” As the first blast sounded, he took some money from a drawer in his desk, and at the same time drew out several papers which he was not inclined to either take with him or leave behind him. He was thus engaged when the door of his room was suddenly thrown open, and several of the municipal officers appeared upon the threshold. One of them approached the count, who, surprised at this unexpected visit, inquired what they desired of him; changing his position as he spoke so as to conceal a brace of pistols lying on the mantelpiece. "We wish to know why you are leaving just at this time, count- “replied one of the visitors politely, but firmly. Monsieur de Damas gazed with astonishment at a man who ventured to ask such a question of an officer of high rank in the king's army, but replied, — "My explanation is very simple, monsieur. I am leaving just at this time because such are my orders.”

“And where are you going, Monsieur le Colonel-” persisted the questioner. Damas looked more and more astonished “Where am I going- In the first place, I don't know; and in the second place, if I did know, I would not tell you.” The officials exchanged glances and encouraging gestures, and the man who had acted as spokesman at first, said,- "Monsieur le Colonel, it is the wish of the Town Council that you should not leave Clermont this evening, but remain here until to-morrow morning.” Monsieur de Damas smiled the contemptuous smile of a soldier when he is asked, either through ignorance or in the hope of intimidating him, to do something contrary to military discipline. “Indeed!” said he, “so it is the wish of the Town Council that I remain here until to-morrow morning-”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, monsieur, do me the favour to say to the Town Council that I deeply regret being obliged to disappoint them, but no law that I ever heard of authorises the municipal authorities of Clermont to interfere with the movements of troops. As for me, I receive orders only from my superior officer, and here is his order for my departure.” As he spoke, he extended the order. The man nearest him took the document and showed it to his companions; meanwhile, Damas had seized the pistols on the mantel behind him. After examining the paper in company with his colleagues, the official who had previously spoken said, — "Monsieur, the more explicit and peremptory this order is, the more it becomes our duty to oppose it; for it certainly commands you to do something which the best interests of France forbid. In the name of the Nation I declare you under arrest.”

“And I.gentlemen,” retorted the colonel, displaying his pistols and pointing them at the two officials nearest him, "tell you that I am going.” Not being prepared for this warlike demonstration, a feeling of fear, or perhaps of astonishment, caused the officials to retreat out of the colonel's path as he darted out of the room and across the ante-chamber, double locking the door behind him. Hushing downstairs, he found his horse awaiting him at the door, and, jumping on his back, rode at break-neck speed to the square, where, seeing Monsieur de Floirac already in the saddle, he said to him, — "We must get out of here the best way we can; the important thing now is to save the king.” Ignorant of Drouet's departure from Sainte Menehould, and of the insurrection in Clermont, Damas felt sure the king was safe, as he had passed Clermont and must be nearly at Varennes, where Choiseul's relays were awaiting him, as well as the Lauzan Hussars, under command of Jules de Bouille ' and Raigecourt. Still, to make assurance doubly sure, he called the quartermaster of the regiment to him, and said, "Monsieur Remy, ride on towards Varennes. Ride as if the very devil was after you, and overtake those carriages which passed through here a little while ago. Your life shall pay the forfeit if you fail to carry out my instructions.” Putting spurs to his horse, the quartermaster darted off, accompanied by his assistants and four dragoons; but when they reached a fork of the road they took the wrong course. Everything turned out disastrously on that fatal night. Meanwhile, the cavalry was slowly forming in the square. The officials whom Damas had locked up made their escape without much difficulty by forcing open the door. They stirred up the populace and the National Guards, who assembled much more rapidly and in a much more enthusiastic frame of mind than the dragoons. Wherever Damas turned, he found himself confronted by three or four muskets aimed straight at him; and this was not calculated to make him feel any less anxious. He perceived that his men were out of sorts, and rode up and down the line, trying to revive their devotion to the king; but they only shook their heads. Though his men were not all assembled, he thought it high time to depart, and gave the order to advance; but not a man moved. All the while the municipal authorities were shouting. — “Soldiers, your officers are traitors! they are leading you on to slaughter! The dragoons are true patriots! Hurrah for the dragoons!” As for the National Guards and the populace, they shouted lustily, — “Long live the Nation!” At first Damas, who had given the order to advance in a rather low tone, supposed his men had not heard it; but as he faced about, he saw the dragoons in the rear ranks springing from their horses and mingling with the crowd. Realizing that he could hope for nothing from such men, he summoned his officers with a glance, and said, — “These troopers are betraying their king. I call upon you, as soldiers and as gentlemen, to follow me to Varennes.” And, plunging his spurs into his horse's sides, he dashed through the crowd, followed by Floirac and three other officers: Adjutant Foucq and Sergeants St. Charles and La Potterie. Five or six loyal dragoons also left the ranks and followed them. A few bullets fired after the heroic fugitives were so many bullets thrown away. So now we understand why Colonel Damas and his dragoons were not at hand to defend the king when he was stopped under the archway of the old toll bridge at Varennes and forced to leave his coach and take refuge in the house of Monsieur Sousse, the town solicitor.

CHAPTER LXXXVIII. AGAIN A PRISONER.

The house of Monsieur Sousse, at least judging from what the illustrious prisoners and their companions in misfortune saw of it, consisted of a grocery shop, in the rear of which, and connected with it by a glass door, was a dining-room, where those seated at the table could see any customers who entered the shop, though warning of their entrance was likewise given by a bell, which was set in motion by the opening of one of those small low doors, with an oval pane of glass inserted in the middle of it, which are still seen in provincial stores, where the owners, either from a spirit of calculation or humility, seem to feel they have no right to screen themselves from the gaze of passers-by. In one corner of the store was a stairway leading to the floor above, which also seemed to be divided into two rooms: the first apparently a sort of appendage to the shop, it being filled from floor to ceiling with merchandise of divers kinds. The adjoining room, the one over the dining-room, was evidently the bed-chamber of the owner of the establishment, who had been unceremoniously aroused from slumber by Drouet, and whose room still showed traces of the disorder occasioned by this sudden awakening. Madame Sousse emerged from this room half-dressed, crossed the second, and presented herself at the head of the stairs just as the royal party crossed the threshold of the shop below. The town solicitor, who had walked on a little in advance, had already entered it.. More than a hundred persons had followed the coach, and were now assembled in front of the house, which faced a small public square. "Well-” said the king, as he entered. “You say you have a passport, monsieur. If the lady who claims to be the owner of this coach will be kind enough to produce the document, I will take it to the town hall, where the Council is now in session, and see if it is valid.” As the passport was perfectly regular in every respect, the king motioned Madame de Tourzel to produce it. She accordingly drew the precious document from her pocket and handed it to Monsieur Sousse, who charged his wife to do the honours of the house to his mysterious guests, and then set out for the town hall. The municipal authorities were intensely excited, for Drouet was taking part in their deliberations; but when Sousse came in with the passport a breathless silence ensued, for every one present knew that the strangers had been taken to the solicitor's house. He laid the passport on the table in front of the mayor. As we have already given the contents of this document, the reader is aware that there is no necessity to repeat it here. After reading it, the mayor said: “The passport fulfils the requirements in every particular, and is consequently perfectly legal.”

“Legal-” repeated seven or eight astonished voices, while as many hands were eagerly outstretched to seize the paper. "Yes, perfectly legal, as the king's signature too is appended to it.” And he pushed the document towards the hands extended for it. But Drouet almost snatched it from their grasp. "Signed by the king, -that may be,” he exclaimed; "but is it indorsed by the National Assembly-”

“Yes,” said one of his neighbours, who was looking over his shoulder, "for there is the signature of the members of one of the committees.”

“Granted; but does it bear the president of the Assembly's signature- Besides, that is not the question,” continued the youthful patriot. "These travellers are not a Russian lady named Korff, her children, steward, and servants. These travellers are the king and queen and dauphin, Madame Royale, Madame Elizabeth, some other ladies belonging to the palace, and three couriers; in fact, the entire royal family. Now, will you, or will you not, allow the royal family to leave France-” The question was a difficult one for the officials of a third-rate town like Varennes; and as their deliberations on the subject seemed likely to be prolonged far into the night, the solicitor determined to leave the Council to decide the matter as best it could, and return home. He found the travellers still standing in the shop. Madame Sousse had urged them to come upstairs, or at least to be seated and have something to eat; but they had declined all these hospitable attentions, for it seemed to them they would somehow be making concessions to those who had checked their progress towards the eagerly desired goal, and they were resolved to suspend all action until the master of the house returned, and reported the decision of the authorities on the important subject of the passport. At last they saw him making his way through the crowd around the door. The king advanced a few steps to meet him, and, with an anxiety he vainly endeavoured to conceal, inquired, "Well, how about the passport-”

“The passport has caused a heated discussion, which was still going on when I left.”

“And why- It is hardly possible that they can question its validity-”

“No, but they seem disposed to doubt whether it is in the hands of the real Madame Korff; for it is rumoured that we have the honour of receiving the king and his family within our walls.” Louis XVI. hesitated a moment, and then, as if he had suddenly decided what action to take, replied, — "Well, monsieur, I am the king. This lady is the queen, and these are our children; and I beg you to treat us with that respect which the French people have always shown to their sovereigns.” As we have already remarked, a large number of people had congregated around the door, and the king's words were consequently distinctly heard by some outside as well as by those within. But though the king uttered the words with dignity, this dignity did not seem to accord with his grey coat, dimity vest, grey breeches and stockings, and the little Rousseau periwig he wore. Think of seeing the King of France in such a guise! The queen noted the unfavourable impression produced upon the crowd, and the blood mounted to her face. "Let us accept Madame Sousse’s invitation, and go upstairs,” she remarked. Monsieur Sousse took a lamp and walked to the stairway to show his illustrious guests the way. Meanwhile, the news had spread through the town that it was really the king who was in Varennes. There could not be the slightest doubt of the fact, as the stranger himself had admitted it. A few minutes afterwards a man rushed wildly into the council chamber at the town-hall, exclaiming, — "Gentlemen, the travellers at Monsieur Sousse’s house are really the king and the royal family. I just had it from the king's own lips.”

“What did I tell you-” cried Drouet. The greatest confusion prevailed in the streets. The drums were still beating, and the alarm-bells still ringing. And how did it happen that all this hubbub did not sooner attract to the centre of the town our young friends Jules de Bouille” * and Monsieur de Raigecourt, who were stationed in the Lower Town to await the king's coming. We will proceed to explain. The two young officers were sitting in the Grand Monarque Inn about nine o'clock, when they heard the sound of carriage-wheels. They rushed to the window. The vehicle was only a cabriolet; nevertheless, the young men prepared to order out the relays if necessary. The traveller, however, was not the king, but a peculiar-looking individual attired in a broad- brimmed hat and a huge overcoat. The officers were about to retire from the window, when the new-comer called out to them, “Say, gentlemen, isn’t one of you Monsieur Jules de Bouille-” That gentleman hesitated an instant, then replied, "Yes, monsieur, I am he.”

“In that case I have something important to say to you.”

“I am ready to listen, though I have not the honour of your acquaintance; but allow me to suggest that it would be better for you to alight and enter the inn.”

“Certainly, certainly,” responded the traveller, promptly. And he leaped from the vehicle and rushed into the tavern. Monsieur de Bouille” noticed that the stranger seemed much frightened, or at least greatly excited. "You will let me have the horses you have here, will you not- “he asked, immediately upon his entrance. "The horses I have here-” exclaimed Monsieur de Bouille", considerably alarmed in his turn. "Yes, yes. You will give them to me, I am sure. You need not conceal anything from me, I know all about it, I am one of the party.”

“Permit me to say that my surprise prevents me from replying,” answered young Bouille. “I really have no idea what you are talking about.”

It may be well to call the reader's attention to the fact that this is not the Bouille who has already figured in this narrative, and who succeeded in gaining access to the king's workshop in disguise, but his brother. "I repeat that I know everything,” insisted the newcomer. “The king left Paris last night, but there is no possibility of his completing his journey. I have informed Damas of the condition of affairs; but he can be of no assistance, for his men have mutinied, and there has been almost a riot at Clermont. Why, I could hardly make my way through the place, — I, who am now talking to you.”

“But who are you, anyway-” asked Jules, impatiently. "I am Leonard, the queen's hair-dresser. Is it possible you do not know me- The duke carried me off in spite of my protests. I took the queen's and Madame Elizabeth's diamonds to him; and when I think, monsieur, that my brother, whose coat and hat I appropriated, has no idea what has become of me, and that poor Madame de l'Aage, who expected me to come and dress her hair yesterday, is still waiting for me, — oh, Heavens! what a dreadful condition of affairs all this is!” And Leonard strode up and down the floor, wringing his hands in the most frantic manner. Young Bouille' was beginning to understand the situation. "Ah, you are Monsieur Leonard,” he exclaimed. "Certainly I'm Leonard,” replied the traveller,- eschewing the monsieur, after the fashion of other great.men, — "and as you know me now, you will give me your horses, I am sure.”

“Monsieur Leonard,” responded the young officer, persisting in classing the hair-dresser with ordinary mortals, — “the horses I have are for the king, and no one but the king shall have them.”

“But as I tell you that there is no likelihood of the king's getting this far -”

“But the king may, Monsieur Leonard; and if he should come and not find his horses, and I should have to confess that I had given them to you, it is quite likely that he would make me pay dearly for my indiscretion.”

“Indiscretion- Why, do you suppose, in the critical situation in which we find ourselves, the king would blame me for taking his horses- “Young Roule could not help smiling. "I don't say that the king would blame you for taking the horses, but I 'm dead sure he would blame me for letting you have them.”

“The devil! I hadn't looked at the matter from that point of view. So you absolutely refuse to let me have the horses-”

“Absolutely.” Leonard sighed heavily. “But you '1l certainly do your best to get me some- “he said, returning to the charge. "With the greatest pleasure, my dear Monsieur Leonard.” To tell the truth, Leonard was a very troublesome guest. He not only talked very loud, but accompanied his words with a very energetic pantomime which, thanks to the flapping brim of his big hat and the immense size of his coat, gave him a ridiculous appearance which rather reflected upon his companions. Jules de Bouille^ was consequently anxious to get rid of him; so he sent for the landlord forthwith, and begged him to find some horses that would take Leonard at least as far as Dun; and having done this, he left the hairdresser to his fate, telling him he realty must go and find out what was going on, which was true enough. The two officers then went to the upper village, passing through it and riding a mile or so beyond it; but as they neither saw nor heard anything, they, too, began to think that the king — who was now seven or eight hours late — would not come at all, and finally returned to the tavern in the Lower Town. Leonard had just departed. The clock was striking eleven. Disturbed by what they had heard from the hair-dresser, they had sent an orderly to Clermont about half-past nine. This was the messenger who met the royal coach just as it was leaving Clermont, and who subsequently had a conversation with Colonel Damas. r The young officers waited until midnight, and then lay down with their clothes on. Half an hour later they were aroused by the sound of the alarm-bell, the beating of drums, and the shouts of the populace. Putting their heads out of the window, they saw that the entire town was in a commotion, and that the people were rushing wildly towards the town-hall. Many armed men were also running in the same direction, some with muskets, some with double-barrelled guns, others carrying only sabres, scythes, or pistols. The two young men ran to the stable and ordered out the horses, but finally determined it would be safer to take the horses outside the town; then they went back after their own horses, which had been kept with the king's. These manoeuvres on their part excited considerable suspicion; and in getting away the last time they became involved in a sort of scrimmage, in which two or three shots were fired at them. At the same time they discovered, from the threats and yells they heard around them, that the king had just been arrested and taken to the house of the town solicitor. Then they took counsel as to what they had better do, — go back to their horses, or endeavour to rescue the king; or should they ride on and try to warn the Marquis de Bouille", whom they were tolerably sure to find at Stenay, if he was not at Dun. Dun was only five leagues from Varennes, Stenay was eight. In ninety minutes they could be in Dun; it would take them two hours to reach Stenay. So they decided upon the second plan; and just as the king decided to enter the solicitor's chamber, they determined to abandon the relays intrusted to their care, and set out at the top of their speed for Dun. So once again the prompt succour upon which the king implicitly relied failed to reach him.

CHAPTER LXXXIX. THE LANGUAGE OF DESPERATION.

The reader doubtless recalls the situation in which Monsieur de Choiseul, commander of the troops at Sommeville Bridge found himself, when, seeing that the insurrection was becoming more formidable every moment, he carelessly remarked that as the treasure he was to guard had already passed, he might as well be off, and then straightway started for Varennes. But in order to avoid Sainte Menehould, which was already in a state of ferment, he selected a cross-road, taking care, however, to ride slowly as long as he remained on the highway, in order to give the king's courier time to overtake him. But the courier did not overtake him, and at Orbeval the duke left the main road. Monsieur de Choiseul firmly believed that the king's progress had been checked by some accident. Besides, even if he was mistaken, and the king was still on the road, would he not find Dandoins at Sainte Menehould, and Damas at Clermont- We know what had happened to both these gentlemen; but Choiseul had no suspicion of the real facts of the case. By taking the cross-road at Orbeval the duke reached the Forest of Argonne about nightfall, — in fact, at the very time Charny was frantically pursuing Drouet through another part of the wood. In the last village before entering the forest, that is to say, at Neuville, he was obliged to waste half an hour in waiting for a guide; and while he was waiting he heard alarm-bells ringing in the neighbouring villages, and the four hussars that composed his rear-guard were seized by the peasantry; but Monsieur de Choiseul, being promptly apprised of the fact, charged upon the crowd, and the four prisoners were soon free. From that time the tocsin rang even more furiously however. The road through the forest was a very bad one, and even dangerous in many places; and either intentionally or unintentionally the guide often led the little party out of the right course. Frequently, too, the hussars were obliged to dismount and lead their horses up or down precipitous hills; often, too, the path was so narrow that they had to move in single file. One hussar fell over a declivity; and as his shouts for aid proved he was not dead, his comrades very naturally refused to desert him. Three-quarters of an hour were devoted to rescuing him; and it was during this very interval of time that the king was stopped in Varennes, forced to alight from his carriage, and enter Sousse’s house. About half-past twelve o'clock, as Jules de Bouille' and Raigecourt were flying along the road to Dun, Choiseul with his forty hussars entered the other end of the town from a cross-road through the forest. As he neared the bridge, he was greeted with a determined "Who goes there-” from one of the National Guards stationed there. “France! The Lauzan Hussars!” responded Choiseul. "You can't pass,” answered the sentinel, and he gave the call to arms. At the same time, Choiseul perceived that the entire town was in the wildest commotion; for armed men could be seen hurrying through the streets, candles gleamed in every window, and the glare of torches filled the streets. Not knowing what had happened or what all this meant, Choiseul was naturally anxious to secure some definite information concerning the state of affairs; so he asked to be put into communication with the detachment of troops stationed in Varennes. This request led to a long discussion, but it was finally granted. Meanwhile, Choiseul could see that the National Guards were making the most of their time by erecting a sort of barricade of branches of trees, and bringing two small guns to bear upon his forty men. Just as these warlike preparations were completed, a small detachment of hussars arrived from the barracks on foot. They knew nothing except what they had been told, namely, that the king had been stopped and taken to the house of one of the residents of the town. They themselves had been roughly treated by the populace, and compelled to dismount, and they did not know what had become of their comrades. As they concluded their explanation, Choiseul caught sight of a small body of cavalry advancing through the darkness, and at the same instant heard the challenge, "Who goes there-”

“France!”

“What regiment-”

“Monsieur's dragoons.” As these words were uttered, a shot fired by one of the National Guards rang out upon the air. “Good! here comes Damas with his dragoons!” Choiseul whispered to an officer near him. Without waiting to hear any more, Choiseul broke away from the two men who were clinging to his bridle, and who called out to him that he ought to obey the municipal officers, and no one else; then he ordered an advance, drove back those who attempted to stop him, and forced his way through the crowd to the public square. Here he saw the royal coach standing unharnessed, as well as quite a strong guard stationed in front of an unpretentious house. In order to keep the troops from coming in contact with the populace he rode straight on to the barracks, — which he found empty, — and left his forty hussars there. He saw two or three grooms standing around, however, and ascertained from them that the hussars stationed there, not knowing what had become of their officers, had gone off with a crowd of citizens that came after them, and were now scattered through the town, drinking with their captors. This news dismayed Choiseul not a little; for he thus found his force reduced to forty men, whose horses had already travelled over fifty miles that day, so that men and animals were alike exhausted. The situation did not admit of any hesitation, however. First, he examined the pistols, to see if they were all loaded; then he made a little speech in German to the men, who, as they did not understand a word of French, had very little idea of what was going on around them. He told them that the king and queen and the entire royal family had been arrested, and that it was the duty of the Lauzan Hussars to rescue them from the wretches who held them prisoners, and who perhaps intended to put them to death. The address was brief, but impassioned, and seemed to make a deep impression upon the hussars. “Der Koniy! Die Konirjin! “they repeated over and over again, in profound astonishment. Choiseul did not give their ardour time to cool, but ordered them to draw their sabres and advance by fours, in a brisk trot, to the house where he had seen the guard, feeling positive that the king was there. Reaching the spot amid the curses and vituperations of the National Guards, — to which he paid not the slightest attention, however, — he posted sentinels at the door and dismounted to enter the house. As he crossed the threshold, a hand was laid on his shoulder; and, turning hastily, he saw Damas, whose voice he had recognised when he answered the challenge of the National Guardsmen at the bridge. "Are you here in force-” asked Choiseul. "I am alone, or nearly alone. My men refused to follow me, -at least all but five or six of them.”

“What a misfortune! But never mind, I have forty hussars. We must see what we can do with them.” The king was just receiving a deputation from the municipal authorities. This deputation had come to say that as the people of Varennes were so very fortunate as to have the king among them, they had come for his orders. "My orders!” responded the king. "Then have my carriages made ready, and I will leave at once.” It is hard to say what the answer to this demand would have been, for just then the hurrying hoof-beats of Choiseul's horses were heard, and through the windows the party could see the hussars approaching, sabres in hand. The queen started, and a ray of joy shot from her eye. “We are saved!” she whispered to Madame Elizabeth. "God grant it! “answered this lamb-like creature, who regarded everything as coming directly from God, good and evil, hope and despair. The king straightened himself up and listened. The town officials glanced anxiously at one another. Then a great noise was heard in the room below, which was guarded by peasants armed with scythes. A few words were interchanged; then came a brief struggle, and Monsieur de Choiseul, bare-headed and sword in hand, appeared in the doorway. Behind him could be seen Damas' pale but resolute face. There was a threatening expression on the countenances of these two officers which put the deputies to flight; thus leaving an open space between the new-comers and the royal family. When the officers entered the room, this was the scene that met their gaze. In the middle of the apartment was a table, on which stood a bottle of wine, several glasses, and a loaf of bread. The king and queen were listening to the deputation. Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale were seated near the window, and the little dauphin, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep upon the bed. Beside the bed sat Madame de Tourzel, with her face buried in her hands, and behind her stood Madame Brunier and Madame de Neuville. The two guardsmen, Malden and Valory, and Isidore de Charny, were lying back in their chairs in the shadow, overwhelmed by grief and weariness. On seeing Choiseul, the queen darted across the room and seized his hand. "Ah, Monsieur de Choiseul, it is you! You are welcome indeed!”

“Alas, I come very late, it seems to me.”

“No matter, provided you come in good company.”

“On the contrary, madame, we come almost alone. Monsieur de Dandoins has been forcibly detained by the authorities of Sainte Menehould, and Damas' men have deserted him.” The queen shook her head despondently. “But where is Bouille", and where is Raigecourt- “continued the duke, glancing around as he spoke. "I have not had the pleasure of seeing either of those gentlemen,” replied the king. “I assure you, sire, upon my word of honour that I am confident they must have been killed in front of the wheels of your coach,” exclaimed Damas, earnestly. "Well, what is to be done-” asked the king. “Your Majesty shall be saved, at all hazards. Give us your orders,” responded Damas. "I have forty hussars with me,” added Choiseul. "They have ridden fifty miles to-day, but they will be able to go on as far as Dun.”

“But how about ourselves-” inquired the king. "Listen, sire, for this is the only plan I can think of,” responded the duke. "I have forty hussars, as I told you just now. Seven shall dismount, and you shall ride one of the horses, with the dauphin in front of you; the queen can take the second horse, Madame Elizabeth the third, Madame Royale another, and Madame de Tour§el and the other ladies the remaining three. We will surround you closely with the thirty-three hussars we have left, and cut our way through the crowd. This is our only chance, it seems to me. Consider the proposal well, but decide as soon as possible; for in an hour, a half hour, yes, perhaps a quarter of an hour, my men may be won over to the other side.” Choiseul paused, and stood anxiously awaiting the king's response. The queen seemed to favour the scheme, and scrutinised her husband's face closely and eagerly; but he seemed to avoid her gaze, and to chafe against the influence it exerted over him. At last, looking Choiseul full in the face, he answered: "Yes, I know very well that this is probably our only chance of escape; but can you vouch for it that in this unequal conflict between thirty-three men and seven or eight hundred, a stray shot may not kill my son or my daughter, the queen or my sister-”

“If such a catastrophe should occur, and occur because you had yielded to my persuasions, there would be nothing for me to do but kill myself before your Majesty's very eyes.”

“Then, instead of allowing ourselves to be carried away by any such desperate project, let us consider the situation calmly.” The queen sighed heavily, and retreated a step or two. As she made this movement, which indicated her regret and disappointment incontrovertibly, she found herself face to face with Isidore, who, his attention being attracted by a noise in the street, had started towards the window. They exchanged a few words, and Isidore darted out of the room. The king, without seeming to notice what had just taken place between Isidore and the queen, continued,- "The municipal authorities do not refuse to let me continue my journey; they only ask me to remain here until daybreak. 'I say nothing of Count Olivier de Charny, who has always manifested such devotion towards us, and of whom we have no intelligence; but the Chevalier de Bouille” and Monsieur de Raigecourt left, I am told, about ten minutes after our arrival, to summon the Marquis de Bouille” with his body of troops, which must certainly be in readiness. If I were alone, I should adopt your plan; but my wife, our children, my sister, and these ladies — I cannot think of risking their lives with a force so small as yours; and an even larger number of hussars would have to dismount, for I certainly would not leave my three bodyguards here. It is three o'clock now,” he added, drawing out his watch. "Young Bouille” left half an hour after midnight. His father must certainly have had troops stationed at different points along the road, and they will lose no time in coming as soon as they are informed by the chevalier. It is not more than twenty miles to Stenay, and a man can easily make the journey on horseback in two hours, or two hours and a half; so detachments of troops will soon begin to come in. By five or six o'clock the Marquis de Bouille” will be here in person, and we shall then be able to leave Varennes and continue our journey without the slightest danger to my family.” Monsieur de Choiseul recognised the good sense of this reasoning; and yet his instinct told him that there are times when it is not well to listen to reason. So he turned to the queen, with a look which seemed to implore her to give him different orders, or at least to revoke those he had just received; but she shook her head sadly. "I cannot take such a responsibility upon myself,” she said. "It is for the king to command, and for me to obey. Besides, I agree with the king, that Monsieur de Bouille” is sure to arrive soon.” Monsieur de Choiseul bowed and stepped back, taking Damas, whom he wished to consult, with him, and also beckoning to the two guardsmen to come and take part in the conference.

CHAPTER XC. POOR CATHERINE!

There was very little change in the appearance of the apartment. Madame Royale had succumbed to fatigue, and Madame de Tourzel had put her to bed beside her brother. Madame Elizabeth was sitting beside the bed, leaning her head against one of the posts. The queen, rigid with anger, was standing near the mantel, gazing alternately at the king, who was seated on a bale of merchandise, and at the four officers, who were deliberating near the door. An aged woman, an octogenarian, in fact, was kneeling by the children's bedside, as if before an altar. It was the solicitor's grandmother. Impressed by the beauty of the two children and the imposing air of the queen, she had fallen upon her knees and. was praying in a whisper, tears streaming down her face the while. What was the petition she addressed to heaven- Was it that God would forgive these two angels, or that these two angels would forgive mankind- Sousse and the municipal officers had withdrawn, promising the king that the horses should soon be put to his carriage; but the queen's face showed that she placed no dependence whatever upon this promise, — showed it so plainly that Monsieur de Choiseul remarked to the gentlemen around him, — "We must not be deceived by the apparent composure of the king and queen. The situation is not exactly desperate, or at least not hopeless; but we must look at it as it really is. It is more than probable that the Marquis de Bouille has been notified by this time, and that he will be here between five and six in the morning, as he must be somewhere between Dun and Stenay with a detachment of the Royal German regiment. It is even possible that his advance guard may arrive here a little sooner; but we must not forget that we are surrounded by four or five hundred determined opponents, and that the arrival of Bouille’s troops will be a moment of great peril and frightful turmoil. The people here will do their best to get the king out of Varennes; they may even try to make him mount a horse, in order to take him back, to Clermont. His life will be threatened, and the infuriated populace may even attempt to kill him; but this danger will last only a few minutes. As soon as the hussars are once in the town, the trouble will be over. Consequently, we shall be compelled to hold out only about ten minutes, and there are ten of us. As things are arranged here, we can reasonably hope that they will not be able to kill more than one of us a minute, so the day will be ours.” The auditors contented themselves with nodding their assent. This proposal, though involving devotion unto death, was accepted as simply and quietly as it was made. "What I think we had better do, gentlemen, is this,” continued Choiseul. "As soon as we hear the first shot, we will rush into the adjoining room, kill all the people who happen to be in there, and so secure possession of the staircase and windows. There are three windows, -three of us will defend them; the remaining seven will guard the staircase, which it will be an easy matter to defend, as from its winding shape one man can without difficulty hold five or six assailants at bay. The bodies of those who are killed will serve as a rampart for those who are left; so I’ll wager a hundred to one that the troops will be masters of the town before the last one of us is killed, and if we should be, the place we shall occupy in history will richly reward us for our devotion.” The young men grasped each other's hands like Spartans on the eve of battle, then each man selected his post. The two guardsmen and Isidore de Charny were to defend the three windows overlooking the street, Monsieur de Choiseul was to stand at the foot of the staircase; next to him was to be Damas, then Floirac, then Foucq, and then the non-commissioned officers who had remained faithful to Damas, and who had also taken part in the conference. These arrangements had only just been concluded when an increased commotion was apparent in the street below. It was caused by the arrival of another delegation, composed of Sousse, — who seemed to be the chief element in every deputation, — Captain Hannonet of the National Guards, and three or four of the municipal authorities. They were duly announced, and the king, believing they had come to inform him that his horses had at last been put to the carriage, ordered them to be admitted. They entered, and the young officers fancied they detected a determined expression, which boded the king no good, on their faces. Almost at the same moment Isidore came upstairs, exchanged a few words with the queen, and hastily left the room again. The queen turned as pale as death, and, stepping back, clutched the bed upon which her children were sleeping, as if for support. The king looked inquiringly at the envoys, and waited for them to speak; but they only bowed, without uttering a word. So Louis XVI. pretended to misunderstand their intentions, and said,- "Gentlemen, the French people are only led astray temporarily. Their devotion and attachment to their sovereign are profound and genuine. Weary of the insults and contumely to which I have been subjected in my capital for some time past, I have decided to retire to the provinces, where the sacred flame of royalty and devotion still burns brightly.” The envoys bowed again, and the king continued,- "I am ready and willing to give a convincing proof of the confidence I feel in my people; so I shall take from here an escort, made up half of National Guardsmen and half of regulars, to the place whither I have decided to retire for the present. Consequently, I must ask you to select half my escort from among your own citizens, and to have horses put to my carriage at once.” There was a silence; Sousse was probably waiting for Hannonet to speak, and the captain was waiting for Sousse. At last, Hannonet bowed and said: "I should be very glad, sire, if I could obey your Majesty's commands; but there is an article in the Constitution which forbids the king to leave the kingdom, and also forbids any loyal Frenchman to aid him in his flight.” The king started angrily, and Hannonet, with a gesture as if entreating the monarch to hear him through, continued, — “Consequently the authorities of Varennes have decided that before permitting the king to proceed any further, a courier shall be sent to Paris to ascertain the will of the National Assembly.” Great drops of sweat bedewed the king's brow, the queen bit her lip wrathfully, and Madame Elizabeth lifted her eyes and hands to heaven. "Indeed, gentlemen, am I, then, to understand that I am no longer master of my own movements-” said the king, with a dignity which always seemed to manifest itself in him on any great emergency. “In that case, I am more of a slave than the least of my subjects.”

“Sire, you are always the master,” responded the captain of the National Guard; "but all men, kings as well as ordinary citizens, are alike bound by their oaths. You have taken an oath. Be the first to fulfil that oath, sire, and obey the laws. It will not only be a noble example that you set, but a sacred duty that you perform.” During this conversation the duke gazed questioningly at the queen several times, and apparently received an affirmative answer to his mute inquiry, for he went downstairs. The king understood that if he submitted to this rebellion on the part of an insignificant town, — and, regarded from his point of view, it was a rebellion, — his cause was irretrievably lost. "Gentlemen, this is nothing more or less than an outrage on your part,” he replied; “but I am not so entirely at your mercy as you may suppose. I have forty faithful soldiers in front of this house, and a thousand other soldiers in close proximity to Varennes. I command you to have my horses harnessed. Do you understand me- This is both my wish and my command.” The queen stepped to his side. “Good, sire, good! “she exclaimed. "Let us risk our lives if necessary, but never forget our honour and our dignity.”

“And if we should refuse to obey your Majesty, what will be the consequences-” asked Hannonet. “I shall be compelled to resort to force, and you will be responsible for the blood I refused to shed until forced to do so by you.”

“So be it. You summon your hussars, and I will summon the National Guard.” And he went downstairs in his turn. The king and queen gazed at each other in dismay. Perhaps neither of them would have dared to risk such an attempt, had not the wife of the solicitor entered, and, pushing aside her grandmother, who was still praying by the bed, remarked to the queen with the bluntness and brusqueness of a woman of the people, — “So you 're really the queen, madame- “The queen turned hastily, cut to the quick by the familiar manner of the speaker. "Yes,” she replied, "at least I thought so, an hour ago.”

“Well, if you "re the queen,” continued Madame Sousse, undaunted, "we pay you twenty-four millions a year to keep your place. It is a very good place, it seems to me, as you 're so well paid. Why do you want to give it up-” The queen uttered a cry of indignation, and, turning to the king, exclaimed, — "Anything, anything, rather than submit to such indignities!” And, catching up the dauphin, who was still asleep on the bed, she ran to the window, and, opening it, cried, — "Let us show ourselves to the people, sire, and see if their minds are entirely poisoned against us. If they are, we will appeal to the soldiery, and encourage them with voice and gesture. They deserve at least that much, men who are willing to die for us!” The king followed her mechanically out upon the balcony. The wildest confusion and disorder pervaded the square. Many of Choiseul's hussars had dismounted; the others were still on horseback. Those on foot were swallowed up in the crowd, and their horses had been led off in different directions. These men had already been won over to the National Cause; but those on horseback seemed to be still under the influence of Choiseul, who was haranguing them in German; but their commander saw that at least half the original number had deserted. Standing a little apart, was Isidore, with his knife in his hand, like a hunter watching for his prey. Cries of “The king! the king!” resounded from five hundred throats as the royal family appeared upon the balcony, the queen still holding the dauphin in her arms. If Louis XVI. had been clad in his royal robes, or even in uniform, or if he had spoken in loud and impressive tones, his voice might even then have seemed to the people like the voice of God, or at least of one sent by God, and perhaps he might have regained the influence he had lost; but in the searching light of dawn, in that old gray coat, with his beard three days old, and his hair unpowdered, his appearance was much against him. He TOL. II. — 21 was pale, too, with fatigue, and his eyes were expressionless and devoid of lustre, as he stammered out, “Gentlemen! My children! My children! Gentlemen! “Ah, the sight upon that balcony was one that neither the friends nor enemies of royalty cared to see. And yet Choiseul shouted, "Long live the king!” and Isidore shouted, “Long live the king 1” And such is the prestige that attaches to royalty, that in spite of his appearance which harmonised so little with one's idea of the head of a great nation, many voices repeated: "Long live the king!” In response, came a shout from the commander of the National Guards,-a shout which met with a very different greeting, and was re-echoed again and again, — “Long live the Nation!” Under such circumstances this shout meant rebellion; and the royal couple could see that it was at once taken up by a number of the hussars. Mario Antoinette uttered a cry of rage, and, pressing the dauphin to her breast, she leaned over the balcony, and through her set teeth hissed out the word “Wretches!” at the crowd below. Several persons heard it, and answered the epithet with threats and vituperations. Choiseul was in despair, and felt tempted to kill himself then and there; but he resolved to make one more effort. "Rally, hussars, for your honour's sake, and save the king! “he shouted. But at that very instant a new actor appeared upon the scene. It was Drouet, who had just come from the Town Hall, where he had persuaded the officials to prevent the king from continuing his journey. Walking straight up to Choiseul, he called out,- "So you intend to carry off the king, whether or no! Very well; but I tell you one thing, you’ll take him away a corpse!” Choiseul advanced upon Drouet, with his sword drawn; but the commander of the National Guards interfered. “If you go a step further, I will kill you!” he cried. As he uttered these words, another man darted forward before any one could hinder him. It was Isidore de Charny. The man for whom he had been lying in wait was Drouet. "Back, back!” he shouted; "that man belongs to me.” And, knife in hand, he rushed upon Drouet. Two shots rang out upon the air simultaneously, one from a pistol, the other from a musket. The pistol-ball flattened itself against Isidore's collar-bone; the musket ball pierced his breast. The shots were fired so close to him that the poor fellow secured to be positively enveloped in a cloud of Same and smoke. They saw him throw up his arms, and heard him say, "Poor Catherine!” Then, dropping his knife, he fell across his horse's crupper, and rolled to the ground. The queen uttered a shriek of horror, and, letting the dauphin slip from her arms, fell backward, without seeing a man who was coming at full speed from the direction of Dun. The king assisted the queen into the house and closed the window. It was not a few hussars on foot that shouted, "Long live the Nation!” now, but the entire crowd. In that multitude only a score of hussars on horseback remained faithful, — the only hope of royalty in distress! The queen sank into a chair and buried her face in her hands. She was thinking how she had just seen Isidore fall at her feet and die for her sake, as she had seen his brother George die. The noise made by the hasty opening of a door made her look up, and we will not endeavour to describe the feelings that stirred the heart of the woman and the queen at that instant. Olivier de Charny, pale and covered with blood from his brother's last embrace, was standing in the doorway. As for the king, he seemed crushed to the very earth.

CHAPTER XCI. CHARNY.

The room was filled with National Guardsmen and a crowd of citizens attracted there by curiosity. The queen's first impulse was to rush to Charny, wipe the blood from his face with her handkerchief, and whisper those words of consolation which go straight from heart to heart; but she realised the necessity of repressing this impulse, and only ventured to rise from her chair and extend both hands to him, murmuring under her breath, "Olivier! Olivier!” Outwardly calm, he waved the spectators aside, and said in a firm but quiet voice: "Pardon me, but I must speak to their Majesties alone.” The National Guardsmen attempted to give him to understand that they were there to prevent the king from holding any communication with outsiders; but Charny compressed his lips, frowned, and opened his riding coat, thus disclosing to view a brace of pistols; then in tones even quieter, but infinitely more threatening than before, he repeated, “Gentlemen, I have already had the honour to inform you that I must speak to the king and queen in private.” And as he spoke he again motioned the intruders to leave the room. Encouraged by the power the count's marvellous self- control seemed to exert over others as well as over himself, Damas and the guardsmen pushed the interlopers towards the door, and finally compelled them to vacate the apartment. The queen realised more than ever now the wonderful service such a man could have rendered, had not etiquette demanded that Madame de Tourzel should occupy a seat in the king's coach in his stead. Glancing around to satisfy himself that there was no one near the queen except her faithful subjects, he said, approaching her, — "Here I am at last, madame, and I have seventy hussars that I think I can rely upon at the edge of the town. What are your orders-”

“But tell me, first, what happened to you, my poor Charny,” exclaimed the queen, in German. Charny made a slight sign to the queen to indicate that Malden was within hearing, and that he too understood German. "Alas! seeing nothing more of you, we concluded that you must be dead,” she continued, in French this time. “Unfortunately, it is not I who am dead. It is my poor brother Isidore.” He could not repress a tear. "But my turn will come,” he added in a low tone. “But tell me, Charny, what happened to you, and why you vanished from our sight so mysteriously,” said the queen; adding in a whisper, and in the German tongue, "Olivier, you have not treated us well, -me especially.” Charny bowed as he said in reply, "I supposed my brother had explained the cause of my temporary absence from your side.”

“Yes, I know you were pursuing that man, that rascally Drouet; and we feared for a while that this pursuit had involved you in some dire calamity.”

“It did. In spite of my efforts, I did not overtake Drouet in time. A postilion, on his way back from Clermont, informed Drouet that your carriage, instead of being on the road to Verdun, as he supposed, had taken the road leading from Clermont to Varennes. Thereupon, Drouet plunged into the Forest of Argonne. I fired at him with both my pistols, but they were not loaded. In my haste I had mounted Dandoins' horse at Sainte Menehould, instead of the one intended for me. What shall we call this, madame- Fate- Nevertheless, I followed Drouet into the forest; but unfortunately I was not familiar with it, while he knew every foot of the ground. The darkness, too, had become so intense that I could not see the scoundrel; but as long as I could hear him, I rushed on in the direction of the sound, but when the sound died away I had nothing to guide me. I am a man, madame, as you know, and tears are strangers to my eyes; but there in the darkness, in the middle of that great forest, I wept tears of fury and uttered cries of rage.” The queen extended her hand to him. Charny bowed low as he touched the trembling hand lightly with his lips. "No one came in answer to my calls, "continued Charny, “and I wandered about in the woods all night, and at daybreak found myself near the village of Geves, on the road from Varennes to Dun. I asked myself if you had been fortunate enough to elude Drouet, as he had eluded me. It was barely possible; and in that case you must have passed through Varennes, and there was nothing for me to do but hasten after you. But had you been stopped at Varennes- In that case, being entirely alone, my devotion would prove equally futile; so I finally decided to hasten on to Dun. Just before I reached that village I met Deslon with a hundred hussars. He was very uneasy. He had heard nothing, but he had met Jules de Bonime” and Raigecourt riding at full speed towards Stenay. Why they did not tell Deslon the state of affairs, I do not know, unless it was because they distrusted him, though I know him to be an honourable and loyal gentleman. I immediately surmised that your party had been arrested in Varennes, and that young Bouille” and Raigecourt had gone to notify General Bouille". I told Deslon so, and urged him to follow me with his hussars, which he at once consented to do, leaving thirty men to guard the bridge over the Meuse, however. An hour later we reached Varennes, having travelled twelve miles in that time. But we found barricade after barricade confronting us. To attack them would have been folly, so I sounded a parley. An officer of the National Guards presented himself, and I asked permission to rejoin my hussars, stationed in the town. This request was refused; then I asked permission to come in and receive my orders from the king; and as they were about to refuse this request as they had the first, I put spurs to my horse, cleared the first barricade, then the second, and, guided by the uproar, rode through the town at full gallop, and reached the square just as your Majesty was leaving the balcony. And now I await your Majesty's orders.” Again the queen pressed Charny's hands in both her own; then, turning to the king, who seemed to have lapsed into a state of torpor, she asked, — “Have you heard what happened to your faithful servant the count, sire- “But as the king answered never a word, she arose and went to him, exclaiming: "Sire, we have no time to lose. Unfortunately, we have wasted too much already. Here is Monsieur de Charny with seventy trusty men, and he awaits your orders.” Then, seeing the king shake his head despondently, she exclaimed: "Sire, sire, in Heaven's name give your orders.” And Charny pleaded as eloquently with his eyes as the queen pleaded with her voice. "My orders-” faltered the king; "I have no orders to give. I am a prisoner. Do whatever you think best.”

“Very well, that is all I ask,” answered the queen. Then, drawing Charny aside, she whispered: “You have carte blanche. Do whatever you think best, as the king says; bat act promptly and decisively, or we are indeed lost.”

“That is true, madame,” replied the count. "Let me consult with these other gentlemen a minute, and whatever plan we decide upon shall be carried into execution at once.” Just then Choiseul entered, holding in his hand some papers wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief, which he held out to Charny without a word. The count understood instantly that these were papers which had been found on his brother's body, and he raised the package to his lips and kissed it reverently. The queen could not repress her sobs; but Charny did not falter. Placing the papers in his breast pocket, he said quietly: "Gentlemen, will you aid me in the last great effort I am about to make-”

“We are ready to give our lives,” was the prompt reply. "I have seventy hussars. While I attack the barricades in front, will you divert the attention of our opponents by an attack in the rear- Under cover of that, I think I can force the barricades, penetrate to this spot, and carry off the king.” The young men's only answer was to offer Charny their hands. Again turning to the queen, the count said: "Madame, in one hour your Majesty will be free, or we shall all be dead.”

“Oh, count, count, do not utter that word. It sounds too ominous!” Charny bowed in silence and walked to the door; but as he was about to place his hand on the latch, the door opened, and a new personage entered, to play his part in this already complicated drama. This was a man about forty years of age, with a stern and gloomy face. His collar was turned back at the throat, and his coat was unbuttoned. His bloodshot eyes and dusty clothing also indicated that, urged on by relentless passion, he had travelled on the wings of the wind. He carried a brace of pistols in his belt, and a sword hung at his side. Breathless and almost voiceless when he opened the door, the sight of the king and queen seemed to afford him intense relief. A vengeful smile overspread his features; and, without paying the slightest attention to the less important persons present, he paused in the doorway, filling it almost completely with his powerful frame, and raising his hand commandingly, exclaimed, — "In the name of the National Assembly, you are all my prisoners.” With one swift movement, Choiseul was in front of him, pistol in hand. He, too, raised his hand, to blow out the brains of this new-comer, who seemed to excel all his predecessors in insolence and determination; but with an equally rapid movement the queen grasped the duke's uplifted hand, and in a low tone said, — “Do not hasten our destruction, monsieur. Be prudent. We are gaining time by all these interruptions, and General Bonime' cannot be far off.”

“You are right, madame,” replied Choiseul, returning the pistol to his breast. The queen glanced around for Charny, surprised that he had not been the first to confront this new peril; but, strange to say, Charny seemed anxious to escape the notice of this intruder, and had hastily withdrawn to the farther end of the room. Still, knowing Charny as she did, the queen did not doubt for an instant that he would emerge from the shadow and explain this mystery when the right moment came.

CHAPTER XCII. ONE ENEMY MORE.

During this entire scene, the messenger from the National Assembly whom Choiseul was threatening had seemed to take no note of the, fact that his life was in peril, but to be under the influence of some sentiment much more powerful than the fear of death. The expression of his face could not be mistaken. It was that of a hunter who has at last discovered the lion, the lioness, and the cubs which together devoured his only child. But on hearing the word prisoners, which so excited Choiseul's ire, the king raised his head, and seemed to wake from his lethargy. "Prisoners! In the name of the National Assembly, prisoners!” he exclaimed. "What do you mean- I do not understand you.”

“What I say is very simple and easy to understand, nevertheless,” replied the intruder. "Notwithstanding the oath you took not to leave France, you are fleeing from your country secretly, breaking your word, betraying the people, betraying the Nation. But the people are aroused, the Nation is calling her citizens to arms, and the Nation is speaking to you now through the voice of one of the least of your subjects. Sire, in the name of the Nation, in the name of the Assembly, you are my prisoner; for this voice is none the less powerful because it comes from one of the lowly.” From the adjoining store-room came sounds of applause, accompanied, or rather followed, by frantic “Bravoes!”

“Madame,” the duke said to the queen in a whispered aside, "do not forget that it was you who checked me just now, and that you would not be subjected to such insolence but for the compassion you showed this man a moment ago.”

“All this is nothing if we can avenge ourselves,” muttered the queen. “Yes, but what if we do not avenge ourselves- “responded Choiseul, gloomily. The queen groaned. But Charny reached over Monsieur de Choiseul's shoulder and touched the queen on the arm. "Leave me to deal with this man; I will attend to him! “hissed the count through his set teeth. Meanwhile, the king, overwhelmed by this new blow, gazed with astonishment at this stern and determined man who dared to use such energetic language to a king, and who spoke, not in the name of his Majesty, Louis XVI., but of the Assembly and the Nation; and with this astonishment was mingled not a little curiosity, for it seemed to the monarch that he had seen this man somewhere before, though he could not recall when or where. At last the king said: “After all, what do you want with me- Speak.”

“I want you and your family to promise not to take another step towards foreign lands.”

“And you come, doubtless, with several hundred armed men to impede my progress,” said the king. "No, sire, I am alone; or, rather, there are two of us, — an aide of General Lafayette's, and myself, an humble peasant. But the Assembly has issued a decree, and expects us to execute it, and it be shall done.”

“Give me the decree, so that I may at least read it,” said the king. "I haven't it, but my companion has. My companion was sent by General Lafayette and by the Assembly to see that the orders of the Nation are carried out; I came, partly at Mayor Baillie’s request, but principally of my own accord to watch my companion and blow his brains out if he balks.” The queen, the duke, and the other persons present listened in amazement. Hitherto, they had seen the populace either in a state of humility or of fury, either in the character of humble petitioners or murderers. Now they saw, for the first time, a man of the people standing erect with folded arms, conscious of his own power, and asserting his rights. Louis XVI. perceived that there was nothing to hope for from a man of this sort, and was anxious to put an end to the conversation as soon as possible; so he said: "Where is your companion-”

“Here, behind me.” He stepped aside as he spoke, leaving the doorway clear, and through it they caught sight of a young man in uniform, leaning against a window. His clothing, too, was in great disorder, his face was begrimed with dust and tears, and he held a folded paper in his hand. It was young Romeuf, Lafayette's youthful aide-decamp, whose acquaintance the reader made during young Louis de Bouille's visit to Paris. At that time the young man was a patriot, an ardent patriot; but of late the surveillance of the queen had been intrusted to him. He had been in the habit of accompanying the queen whenever she left the palace, and in all his relations with her he had displayed a deference and delicacy for which the queen felt deeply grateful. It was only natural, therefore, that she should exclaim: "What, is it you!” on beholding him. Then, with the deep sigh of a woman who sees a power which she had believed invincible fail her, she exclaimed: "I would never have believed it!”

“Ah!” muttered the other messenger, "it was a good thing I came, I see.” Romeuf advanced slowly, with eyes downcast, and the decree in his hand; but the impatient monarch took a quick step towards him, and snatched the paper from his grasp. "There is no longer any king in France, it seems,” he exclaimed, after perusing it. Romeuf's companion smiled, as much as to say: “I am perfectly well aware of it.” On hearing the king's words, the queen turned, as if about to question him. "Listen, madame,” he cried. "This is the decree the Assembly has dared to pass! “And in a voice trembling with anger and indignation he read the following: — “The Assembly directs the Minister of the Interior to send messengers into the different departments immediately, with orders to all public officials, National Guards, and troops of the line to arrest or cause the arrest of all persons leaving the kingdom, and also to prevent the exportation of goods of every kind, such as arms and ammunition, gold and silver in any form, and horses and carriages. And in case these messengers overtake the king or any members of the royal family, or any person or persons who may have aided or abetted them in their flight, then the aforesaid public officials, National Guards, and troops of the line shall take all possible measures to check their flight and prevent the continuance of their journey, and report the fact immediately to this legislative body.” The queen listened in a sort of bewilderment; but when the king had finished, she tossed her head, as if to reassure herself. “Impossible!” she exclaimed, extending her hand for the paper. “Give it to me 1” Monsieur de Romeuf's companion reassured the National Guards and other patriots of Varennes with a smile. That word “Impossible!” so scornfully uttered by the queen, had disquieted them a little. "Bead it, madame, read it, if you still doubt!” exclaimed the king, bitterly. "Bead this decree, written and signed by the president of the National Assembly.”

“And what man has dared to write and sign such a decree-”

“A nobleman,” replied the king; "the Marquis de Beauharnais.” Was it not a strange thing that this decree, which arrested the flight of the king and the royal family, should bear a name which, though obscure up to that time, was to be connected in a conspicuous manner with the history of the early part of the nineteenth century- The queen took the decree and read it with compressed lips and frowning brow. Then the king took it from her for a second perusal, after which he tossed it disdainfully upon the bed where the dauphin and Madame Royale were sleeping. At this, the queen, unable to control herself any longer, angrily seized the paper, crumpled it viciously in her hands, and threw it far from her, exclaiming,- "Be careful, monsieur; I will not have my children contaminated with such a paper.” This act created an uproar in the adjoining room, and the National Guardsmen there made a movement as if to rush into the apartment occupied by the illustrious fugitives. A cry of terror escaped the lips of Lafayette's aide-decamp; but his companion uttered a cry of rage. "So they insult the Assembly! they insult the Nation! they insult the people! “he growled. “So be it! “And, turning to the already excited men, armed with guns, scythes, and sabres, he shouted,- “Help, citizens, help! “Again there was a frantic movement in the crowd,- a movement that was a sort of continuation of the first; and Heaven only knows what the result would have been, had not Charny, who had held himself aloof heretofore, now come forward, and, grasping the arm of the unknown messenger just as he was about to draw his sword, said, — "A word with you, if you please, Monsieur Billot. I wish to speak with you.1' Billot, for it was he, uttered a cry of astonishment in his turn, and became as pale as death. He stood undecided for a moment, then, replacing his half-drawn sword in its sheath. "So be it!” he responded. "I, too, have something I want to say to you, Monsieur de Charny.” Then, turning towards the door, he added: "Make room for us, citizens, if you please. I want to have a short talk with this gentleman. But you may rest easy, comrades,” he added in a lower tone, "for neither the wolf, the she- wolf, nor their cubs shall escape us. I am here, and I will be responsible for them.” And although this man was as much a stranger to all the others as he was to the king and his adherents, — Charny alone excepted, -the crowd seemed to recognise his right to give orders, for they backed out of the room. Moreover, each man was anxious to tell his friends below what had occurred, and to advise the patriots to keep a closer watch than ever. Meanwhile, Charny had whispered to the queen,- "Monsieur de Romeuf is on your side, madame; I leave him here with you. Do the best you can with him.” This could be the more easily done from the fact that when he entered the adjoining room, Charny closed the door behind him and placed his back against it, thus preventing any one even, Billot himself, from gaining access to the chamber.

CHAPTER XCIII. A PEASANTS HATRED

On finding themselves face to face, the two men looked each other straight in the eye; but the gaze of the nobleman did not make the peasant wince. Moreover, it was Billot who was the first to speak.

“The count has done me the honour to say that he wishes to speak with me,” he remarked.”I am ready to hear what he has to say.”

“Billot, how does it happen that I find you here charged with such a mission of vengeance- I believed you to be our friend, as well as a good and faithful subject of the king.”

“I was a good and faithful subject of the king; and if I was not the friend of you noblemen, — for a poor farmer like me could scarcely aspire to such an honour, -I was at least your humble servant.”

“Well-”

“But I am so no longer.”

“I don't understand you, Billot.”

“And why are you anxious to understand me- Do I ask the reason of your fidelity to the king or your devotion to the queen- No, I take it for granted that you have your reasons for it, and that as you are an honest and sensible man your reasons must be sensible, or at least appear so to your own mind. I have not your high position, count, or your learning, but you know that I am an honest and sensible man too; so you can take it for granted that I, too, have reasons, which are equally good, at least in my opinion.”

“Billot,” said Charny, who was entirely ignorant of the real cause of the farmer's hatred of the nobility, "Billot, awhile ago, and not so very long ago either, you were a very different man from what you are now.”

“Oh, certainly, I do not deny it,” replied Billot, smiling bitterly.”Yes, a short while ago I was a very different man from what I am now. I will tell you what I was, count, I was a true patriot, devoted to two men and one thing; those two men were the king and Dr. Gilbert, the other was my country. One day the king's commissioners came, — and I admit that this was the first thing that alienated me from him, — well, one day his commissioners came to ray farm, and, partly by force and partly by taking me unawares, they secured possession of a valuable casket Monsieur Gilbert had intrusted to my keeping. As soon as I could get away, I started for Paris. I arrived there on the night of the 12th of July, when they were carrying the busts of Necker and Orleans through the streets, and the people were cheering them. This certainly could not have done the king any great harm; but all of a sudden, the king's soldiers charged upon us, and I saw poor devils, who had committed no other crime than cheering for two men they probably knew nothing about, falling around me, some with their heads cut in twain, some with breasts riddled by bullets. I saw Monsieur de Lambesc, one of the king's dearest friends, hunt down women and children who had not even hurrahed for Necker and Orleans, and he trampled one poor old man of seventy under his horse's feet. This made me even more out of sorts with the king. The next day I went to little Sebastian's school to see him, and learned from the poor child that his father was in the Bastille, through an order from the king granted at the solicitation of one of the ladies of the Court; and I said to myself, if the king was really as kind-hearted as people pretended, he must have moments of terrible ignorance or forgetfulness; so in order to atone for these mistakes on his part, I did everything in my power to capture the Bastille. We succeeded in doing it, though not without a good deal of trouble The king's soldiers fired upon us, killing nearly two hundred men; and this gave me more grounds for disagreeing with people generally in regard to the wonderful kindness and goodness of the king. The Bastille was taken at last, however, and in one of the dungeons I found Monsieur Gilbert, for whose sake I had just risked my life twenty times, though I forgot all about that in my delight at seeing him again. Well, Monsieur Gilbert still stoutly declared that the king was thoroughly good at heart, that he had no knowledge whatever of the many wrongs committed in his name, and that it was not against him I should be wroth, but against his ministers; and as I considered everything Monsieur Gilbert said to me in those days gospel truth, I believed him, and seeing the Bastille razed to the ground, Monsieur Gilbert free, and Pitou and myself safe and sound, I forgot the fusillades on the Rue St.-Honore', the charges upon the people from the Tuileries, the one hundred and fifty or two hundred men slaughtered by the Prince of Saxe, and Monsieur Gilbert's imprisonment merely at the request of a Court lady. But excuse me, Monsieur,” said Billot, suddenly checking himself, “all this can have no possible interest for you; you did not ask an interview with me to listen to the prating of a poor ignorant peasant, -you a great nobleman, and a great scholar besides.”

And Billot made a movement towards the door of the room where the king was; but Charny stopped him.

Charny had two reasons for checking him. In the first place, it might be well, under the circumstances, to ascertain the causes of Billot's animosity; and in the second place, he might be able to gain a little more time, so he said, -

“No, no, tell me all, my dear Billot. You know the friendly feeling we have always entertained for you, — my poor brothers and myself, — and what you say interests me greatly.”

On hearing the words, “My poor brothers,” Billot smiled bitterly.

“Very well, I will tell you all, count,” he said coldly.”I only regret that your two brothers — Monsieur Isidore especially — are not here to listen.

“When the king started for Paris, I saw in him only a father returning to his children, and I marched with Dr. Gilbert near the royal coach, making my body a rampart for the protection of the royal family, and crying, 'Long live the king!' until I had no voice left. This was the king's first trip from Versailles to Paris, remember, — when there was nothing behind him, or in front of him, or around him, and even under his horses ‘feet and carriage wheels, but flowers and benedictions. On our arrival at the Hotel de Ville it was noticed that though the king no longer wore a white cockade, he had not yet put on a tricoloured one, so the crowd shouted: 'A cockade! A cockade I' I took off the one I had on my hat and handed it to him. He thanked me, and put it on his own hat amid the deafening cheers of the multitude. I was intoxicated with delight at seeing my cockade in the king's hat, and hurrahed for the king more lustily than ever. I became such an enthusiastic champion of this great and good king that I remained in Paris. My crops were ready to harvest and required my presence, but what did that matter- I was rich enough to lose one year's crops, and if I could be of any service to this great and good king, -this Father of his People, and this Restorer of French Liberty, as we were fools enough to call him in those days, — why, of course I would remain in Paris. My harvest, which I intrusted to Catherine's supervision, was ruined. It seems that Catherine had something else to attend to besides the crops. But we won't talk about that. Well, people began to say that the king was no friend to the Revolution in his secret heart, that he had consented to it only under compulsion, and that it was not the tricoloured cockade, but the white, he wanted to wear in his hat. Those who said this were slanderers, as was proved at the banquet of the Royal Body-Guards, where the queen wore neither the white nor the tricoloured cockade, but that of her brother, Joseph II.,- the Austrian cockade, the black cockade! Well, I confess, my doubts began to return again after that; but Monsieur Gilbert said, 'It was not the king who did it, Billot, but the queen, and the queen is a woman, and we must be charitable towards women;' and I believed him so thoroughly that when the mob came from Paris to Versailles to make an attack upon the palace I took sides with its defenders, — so much so, in fact, that I was the first to run and wake Lafayette, and brought him to the palace just in time to save the king. Ah! that day I saw Madame Elizabeth embrace Lafayette, and saw the queen offer him her hand to kiss, and heard the king call him 'his dear friend;' so I said to myself that perhaps Gilbert was right after all. It certainly could not have been fear that made a king and a queen and a royal princess indulge in such demonstrations of affection as these. If they did not share this man's sentiments, no matter how useful he might have been to them in such an emergency, they certainly would not stoop to deception like this. So I again began to pity this poor queen who was only rather imprudent, and this poor king who was only a trifle weak. I let them return to Paris without me this time, however, for I had something to attend to at Versailles,- you know what it was, Monsieur de Charny.”

Charny sighed heavily.

“They say the king's second journey was not so gay as the first,” continued Billot.”They say there were curses instead of blessings, and several heads carried on pikes instead of bouquets. I know nothing about it, I was not there. I remained at Versailles. All this time, my farm was without a master, but what of that- I was rich enough to lose the harvest of 1790 as well as that of 1789, if need be. But one day Pitou came and told me that I was on the point of losing something which no father is ever rich enough to lose, — that is, my daughter!”

Charny started violently.

Billot scanned 'his face searchingly a moment, then continued: -

“I must tell you, count, that only a few miles from us lived a noble family, a family of powerful lords and immensely rich. This family consisted of three brothers. When they were children, the two younger brothers almost always honoured me with a visit on their way from Boursonues to Villers-Cotterets. They said they had never tasted such good milk as my cows gave, nor eaten such good bread as Mother Billot made; and now and then, they added — and I, poor fool, thought it was to repay me for my hospitality — that they had never seen such a pretty child as my daughter Catherine. And I — well I was grateful to them for drinking my milk, and eating my bread, and thinking my daughter pretty. And why not- If I could trust the king, who is half German, they say, on his mother's side, I could certainly trust them. So when the youngest brother, who had left the country a long while before, and whose name was George, was killed in the queen's doorway at Versailles on that terrible night in October, while bravely doing his duty as a gentleman, God only knows how I grieved over it! Ah, count, his brother saw me,- his eldest brother, who had never visited at my house, not, I will do him the justice to say, because he was too proud, but because he had left home much earlier than George, — saw me, I say, kneeling beside the lifeless body, pouring out my tears as freely as he had poured out his blood. Ah! I can see him now, at the end of that little damp courtyard, where I had taken him in order that his body should not be mutilated like those of his comrades, Varicourt and Deshuttes. I had almost as much blood on my clothing as you have on yours now, count. Oh, he was a lovely boy; and if I was thinking only of him, I believe I could mourn him as deeply as you do, but when I think of the other one, I mourn no longer.”

“The other one! What do you mean-”inquired Charny.

“Wait, you will know soon enough,” replied Billot.”Pitou came up to Paris and let fall a few words which convinced me that it was not only my harvest that was in danger, but my child. I left the king in Paris. If he was really acting in good faith as Monsieur Gilbert declared, everything would come out all right whether I was there or not, so I returned to the farm. On arriving there I found Catherine very ill, and for awhile I feared she was going to die. She was threatened with brain fever, and I felt very uneasy about her, especially as the doctor would not allow me to enter her room. A half-frantic father forbidden to enter his sick daughter's room, think of it! I considered that I had a right to listen at her door, however, and I did listen, and learned that she was almost crazy because her lover had gone away. I myself had been away a whole year, but instead of mourning, she had rejoiced over my absence; for had not my departure left her free to see her lover at any time- Well, Catherine regained her health, but not her cheerfulness. One month, three months, six months passed without any ray of happiness brightening the face I watched so closely. But one morning I saw her smile, and I trembled. Was her lover coming back, and was that why she smiled- It was even so. The very next day a shepherd who had seen him pass that morning, told me of it. I did not doubt that he would come to my house on the evening of that same day, so when evening came I loaded my gun and lay in wait for him.”

“You did that, Billot-”exclaimed Charny.

“And why not- I hide in order to kill the wild boar that uproots my potatoes, the wolf that devours my lambs, and the fox that steals my chickens; so why should I not lie in wait for the man who comes to rob me of my peace of mind, the lover who has brought dishonour upon my only daughter-”

“But when he came your heart failed you, did it not-”asked Charny.

“No, not my heart, but my eye and hand. Spots of blood here and there convinced me that I had not failed entirely, however. But of course as you can very readily understand,” added Billot, with increasing bitterness, “where a father and a lover were concerned, my daughter did not hesitate. When I entered Catherine's room, Catherine had fled.”

“And you have not seen her since-” inquired Charny.

“No, why should I- She knows very well that if I should see her again, I should kill her.”

Charny started back, gazing with feelings of mingled terror and admiration at the powerful nature before him.

“I went to work again on my farm,” continued Billot.”What did my personal griefs matter, so long as France was happy! Was not the king walking bravely along in the right path- Didn't he take part in the great Federation- It was pleasant to again behold the good king to whom I had given my tricoloured cockade, and whom I had helped to defend on the sixth of October. How it must rejoice his heart to see all Frenchmen assembled on the Champ de Mars, pledging fidelity as one man to their common country. As I stood there, I forgot everything else for a moment, even Catherine! No, that is false. A father never forgets his daughter. The king, too, took the oath in his turn, but somehow it seemed to me that he did it in a half-hearted fashion, that it was mere lip service. But, nonsense! he had taken the oath, and that was the essential thing. An oath is an oath, whether he took it in his seat or at the altar of his country; it is not the place where it is taken that makes an oath binding. When an honest man takes an oath, he keeps it, and the king had taken it, so he would keep it. When I returned to Villers-Cotterets, having a daughter no longer, I turned my attention to political matters. Then I heard it rumoured that the king had been more than willing to be abducted by the Marquis de Favras, only that scheme had been promptly nipped in the bud. Later, I heard the king had tried to leave the country with his aunts, but that project, too, had failed; then that he had attempted to go to St.- Cloud, with the intention of going from there to Rouen, but that the people prevented it. I heard all these things, I say, but I did not believe them. Had I not seen him with my own eyes raise his hand and take the oath on the Champ de Mars- Could I believe that a king who had taken an oath in the presence of three hundred thousand citizens would consider it less sacred than those other men take- It was not at all likely. Well, the day before yesterday I went to attend market in Meaux, and slept at the house of the superintendent of the post-station, who is a very particular friend of mine. Well, yesterday morning I was utterly amazed to see the king and the queen and the dauphin in a coach that stopped for fresh horses. I could not be mistaken, for I had seen them often before, and in a carriage, too. Hadn’t I accompanied them from Versailles to Paris on the sixteenth of July- Then I heard one of their men, dressed in buff, give the order to drive to Chalons. The voice had a familiar sound. I turned and recognised the man who had stolen Catherine from me, — a noble gentleman who was now doing duty as a lackey by running on ahead of the king's carriage!”

As he uttered these words, Billot looked searchingly at Charny to see if he understood him; but Charny wiped the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief, and said never a word.

“I wanted to follow him, but he was some distance off before I recovered from my astonishment. He was armed too, and I was not; he was on horseback, and I afoot. For an instant I ground my teeth at the thought that the king was escaping from France, and my daughter's seducer was escaping me. Then I said to myself that I, too, had taken an oath, and that though the king was breaking his, I would not break mine. It was only four o'clock in the morning, and I was but a few leagues from Paris. With a good horse, it would take me only a couple of hours to get there. I would see Monsieur Bailly, an honest man, it seemed to me, who would be likely to take sides with persons who kept their oaths, and against those who broke them. This point settled, I asked my friend — without telling him what I intended to do, you understand — to lend me his uniform, for he, too, belongs to the National Guards, and also his sword and pistols. I asked, too, for the best horse in the stable, and then started off at a gallop for Paris. They had only just discovered the king's flight when I arrived there, and nobody had any idea which way he had gone. Romeuf had been sent down the Valenciennes road to investigate, by Lafayette. And now see what a wonderful thing chance is! He was stopped at the barrier; but he persuaded them to take him back to the National Assembly, and entered the hall just as Bailly was telling the members what I had told him. It was only necessary to draw up an order and change Romeuf's route. This took but a minute or two. Romeuf was sent down the Chalons road, and I was ordered to accompany him, — an order I obeyed, as you see. I have overtaken the king, who has so deceived and disappointed me, and he will not escape me again. Now there only remains for me to overtake the man who has so deeply wronged me as a father, and I swear that he, too, shall not escape me.”

“Alas! my dear Billot, you are mistaken,” said Charny, with a sigh.

“And why-”

“Because the unfortunate man of whom you speak has escaped you.”

“He has fled!” cried Billot, while an indescribable expression of rage overspread his features.

“No, but he is dead.”

“Dead-” repeated Billot, shuddering in spite of himself.

“Dead! This blood you see on my clothing is his. If you doubt it, go downstairs, and you will find his body lying in a little courtyard, — very much like the one at Versailles, — a victim to the same cause for which our brother George gave his life.”

Billot gazed with haggard eyes and terror-stricken face at Charny, who spoke so quietly, though great tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“Ah, so there is some justice in heaven, after all!”he exclaimed suddenly. Then, as he turned to leave the room, he added:-

“I believe what you say, count. Still, I must see for myself that justice has been done.”

Charny, smothering a sigh and wiping his eyes, watched the farmer as the latter descended the stairs. Then, knowing he had no time to lose, he hastened back into the adjoining room, went straight to the queen's side, and asked softly:

“How about Monsieur de Romeuf-”

“He is on our side.”

“So much the better, for there is nothing to hope for from the other man.”

“What are we to do-”

“Gain as much time as possible, in expectation of Bound's arrival.”

“Will he come- Are you sure-”

“Yes, for I am going after him.”

“But the streets are blocked, the house is guarded. You cannot do it. You will be killed!”

Charny made no reply, but, walking to the window, opened it, gave a glance of encouragement to the king, bowed to the queen, and leaped to the ground, fully fifteen feet below.

The queen uttered a cry of terror, and buried her face in her hands, but the young men ran to the window and responded to the queen's cry of terror with one of delight, for Charny had already scaled the garden wall, and disappeared from sight on the other side.

It was time, for at that very instant Billot reappeared upon the threshold.

CHAPTER XCIV. THE MARQUIS DE BOUILLE.

Let us see what had happened to the Marquis de Bouille' during these long hours of agonised suspense, — the marquis, whose coming was so eagerly expected, and upon whom the last hope of the royal family depended.

At nine o'clock in the evening, that is to say, about the time the fugitives were entering Clermont, the Marquis de Bouille' left Stenay in company with his son Louis, and rode towards Dun in order to be nearer the king.

Fearing his presence in that town might create uneasiness, however, he halted when within about three-quarters of a mile of the town, and he and his companion established themselves in a sort of ravine near the road, tethering their horses behind them.

There they waited. It was about time, as they supposed, for the royal courier to make his appearance; and under such circumstances the minutes very naturally seemed hours, and the hours centuries.

Slowly the clocks rang out the hours of ten, eleven, twelve, one, two, and three.

By daybreak the men had become desperate. The marquis felt sure some misfortune had occurred; but as he had no idea what this misfortune could be, he decided to return to Stenay, in order to be as near in the centre of the forces under his command as possible.

They were about half a mile from that town when Louis, chancing to glance behind him, saw a cloud of dust raised by the swift tread of several horses.

The father and son paused and waited. Ere long it seemed to them that they recognised the riders. In a few moments there was no longer any room for doubt. The riders were Jules de Bouille' and Raigecourt.

“The king has been arrested at Varennes!”both exclaimed simultaneously when the two anxious watchers trotted out to meet them.

It was now nearly four o'clock in the morning, and the news was the more appalling from the fact that the arrest had taken place several hours before, and that the town of Varennes was in such a state of excitement that the young officers had been obliged to make their escape from it by forcing their way through the crowd, without securing any very definite information in regard to the catastrophe.

But terrible as this news was, it did not destroy every vestige of hope. Like all army officers of high rank who maintain strict discipline in their corps, the marquis felt confident that his orders had been faithfully carried out, and that he should have no difficulties to contend with so far as the troops were concerned. If the king had reached Varennes, then the numerous detachments which had been ordered to close in behind the king must also be in or near Varennes by this time.

The force would consequently consist of forty hussars of Lauzun's regiment, commanded by Choiseul; the thirty dragoons stationed at Sainte-Menehould under command of Dandoins; the one hundred and forty dragoons stationed at Clermont, under command of Damas; and the sixty hussars at Varennes, with whom Jules de Bouille and Raigecourt had been unable to communicate, by reason of the young officer's hasty departure. In the absence of his superior officers, the command of these men would devolve upon Rohrig; and though he was hardly twenty years of age, and no very great confidence was placed in him, he could obey the instructions of the other officers who had come to the king's assistance, or at least unite his force with theirs.

Consequently, according to the reckoning of the marquis, the king must now have from two hundred and sixty to two hundred and eighty soldiers around him, — an adequate force surely to quell an insurrection in a small town like Varennes.

While Jules de Bouille and Raigecourt were telling their story, they saw another rider approaching them at full speed.

It was Rohrig; and on recognising him the marquis advanced to meet him, in one of those moods which compel a man to vent his wrath upon the first comer, even if he is innocent.

“What is the meaning of this- Why have you deserted your post-”cried the general, hotly.

“I beg your pardon, general, but I come by order of Colonel Damas.”

“Then Damas is in Varennes with his dragoons-”

“Colonel Damas is in Varennes, — without his dragoons, general, but with one officer, an adjutant, and two or three privates.”

“And the others-”

“They refused to march.”

“And Dandoins and his dragoons-”

“They are detained as prisoners by the authorities of Sainte-Menehould.”

“But surely Choiseul is at Varennes with his hussars and yours-”

“Choiseul's hussars have gone over to the other side, and are now cheering frantically for the Nation. As for my men, they are prisoners in their barracks, under the custody of the National Guards of Varennes.”

“And why did you not place yourself at their head and charge upon the rabble-” thundered the general.”Why did you not hasten to the defence of your king-”

“My general forgets that I had no such orders, and that I was not even aware that the king was expected at Varennes.”

“That is true,” responded Jules de Bouille' and Raigecourt, in the same breath.

“When I first heard the commotion,” continued the young lieutenant, “I went down into the street to find out what it meant. There I learned that a coach, said to contain the king and royal family, had been stopped about a quarter of an hour before, and the occupants taken to the house of the town solicitor. I hastened there at once. The streets were crowded with armed men, drums were beating, and the alarm-bells ringing. In the midst of the uproar, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, and recognised Colonel Damas, with an overcoat over his uniform. He asked if I was a lieutenant of the company of hussars stationed at Varennes, and I said that I was, whereupon he ordered me to mount a horse without losing a second of time, and ride until I met the Marquis de Bouille'. 'Tell him,' said he, 'that the only hope of the king and the royal family is in him.' Under such circumstances I did not consider myself justified in making any objections; on the contrary, I believed it my duty to obey him implicitly, so I mounted my horse, rode like the wind, and here I am!”

“And did Damas tell you nothing else-”

“He told me they would make every effort in their power to gain time, so that you could reach Varennes before it was too late.”

“Very well, I see that every one has done the best he could,” responded the marquis, with a sigh.”Now we must do the best we can.”

Then, turning to his son Louis, he said:”I shall remain here while these gentlemen carry out my orders. The detachments at Mouza and Dun must move towards Varennes at once, guard the bridge over the Meuse, and begin -the attack immediately upon their arrival. Take this order for me, Rohrig, and tell them they will speedily be reinforced.”

The young officer saluted, and galloped off in the direction of Dun.

“Raigecourt,” continued the general, “head off the Swiss regiment which is now on its way to Stenay, explain the situation to them, and give them my order to double their speed.”

Then, having watched the young officer ride swiftly away in a direction opposite to that which Rohrig had taken, the general turned to his second son and said,.”Jules, change horses at Stenay and ride to Montmedy as fast as you can. Tell Klinglin to start towards Dun with the regiment of Nassau Infantry stationed at Montmedy, and report personally at Stenay.”

The young man saluted, and departed in his turn.

Then the general turned to his eldest son.”The Royal German regiment is at Stenay, is it not-”he asked.

“Yes, father.”

“They received my order to be ready to move at daybreak-”

“I gave the order to their colonel myself.”

“Bring the regiment at once. I will wait for it here in the road. Perhaps some one will come along with later news in the mean time. The Royal German can be depended upon, I suppose-”

“Yes, father.”

“Then that regiment will be enough. We will march on Varennes with that. Be off!”

Count Louis departed in his turn. In ten minutes he was back again.

“The Royal German is following me,” he said.

“The men were ready for duty, then-”

“No; to my very great astonishment, they were not. Their commander must have misunderstood me when I gave him your order yesterday, for I found him in bed; but he got up at once, and promised to go himself and hasten the preparations for departure. Fearing you would be anxious, I thought I had better come back and tell you the cause of the delay.”

“Do you think the regiment will be here soon-”

“The commander said he would follow me immediately.”

They waited ten minutes, fifteen minutes, twenty minutes, but not a soul came.

The general glanced impatiently at his son, who said, as if in reply to the glance, "I'll ride back, father,” and forthwith galloped back to Steuay.

Long as the time had seemed to the anxious general, the colonel did not seem to have made good use of it, for only a few men were ready. Young Bouille ' complained bitterly, repeated the general’s peremptory orders, and on receiving the commander's positive assurance that his men would be outside the gates of the town in five minutes, returned to his father.

As he left the town he noticed that the gate, through which he had already passed four times, was guarded by members of the National Guards.

The father and son waited a quarter of an hour this time, and nobody came; and yet Monsieur de Bouille ' realised that every moment lost was a year taken from the lives of the royal prisoners.

At last, when nearly an hour had dragged by since the first sending of the order, he bade his son ride into Stenay for the third time, and not return without the troops.

Louis started off in a furious rage; but on reaching the square his wrath became still more violent, for only about fifty men were in their saddles, and with them, he hastened to take possession of the gate, so as to keep it free for their egress. Then he rode back to the general, who was still waiting, and assured him that the soldiers were certainly close behind him this time; and so he believed,-but, not until ten minutes afterwards, when Louis was about to ride back to the town for the fourth time, did they see the regiment approaching.

Under other circumstances the general would have placed the colonel under arrest; but he feared he might incense both officers and men by such a procedure, so he contented himself with reproaching the commander for his tardiness, and then made a stirring address to the soldiers. He dwelt upon the honourable nature of the task before them, and told them that not only the king's liberty, but his very life depended upon them. He promised the officers promotion and the men additional pay, and as an earnest of this, distributed four hundred louis among the privates.

This speech, or rather the conclusion of it, perhaps, produced the desired effect; there were tremendous cheers for the king, and then the regiment started towards Varennes at a brisk trot.

At Dun they found a detachment of thirty men left there by Deslon to guard the river. They still had about twenty miles to travel, through a very hilly country, so they could not ride very rapidly; besides, it was necessary to keep the soldiers fresh enough to meet an attack or make a charge if necessary. They felt almost as if they were advancing into an enemy's country, for alarm-bells were ringing in the villages on either side of them, and in front of them they could hear something which sounded very much like a fusillade.

At Grange-au-Bois they saw a man tearing down the road bare-headed, and apparently making signs to them from a distance; so the soldiers quickened their pace.

The horseman was Charny.”To the king's aid, hasten to the king's aid, gentlemen!” he shouted as soon as he was within hearing, waving his hand.

“To the king's aid! Long live the king!”shouted the officers and men.

Charny took his place in the ranks, and briefly explained the situation. When he left Varennes the king was still there, so all was not yet lost.

The horses were tired, but the men kept up their speed wonderfully well, for the animals had been crammed with oats, and the enthusiasm of their riders had been raised to a white heat by Bouille’s speech and gold; so the regiment tore along shouting and cheering.

At Crepy, they met a priest, who was evidently no royalist, for on seeing them hastening towards Varennes he called out,-

“Go on, go on. Fortunately you’ll get there too late.”

Louis de Bouille heard him, and, drawing his sabre, rushed upon him.

“What are you about, sir-” interposed his father, sternly; and the young man, knowing that he would be guilty of an unpardonable crime in killing an unarmed man and a priest in the bargain, contented himself with taking his foot out of the stirrup, and giving the offender a rousing kick in the stomach.

“You’ll get there too late!”repeated the priest, as he rolled over in the dust.

The soldiers rushed on, cursing this evil prophet, and getting nearer and nearer to the scene of action. Deslon and his seventy hussars were having a spirited encounter with an equal number of National Guards. The Royal German regiment charged upon the guards, scattered them, and hastened on. From Deslon, they learned that the king had left Varennes at eight o'clock that morning. Bouille looked at his watch and found it now lacked five minutes of nine, so all hope was not yet lost.

They could not think, of course, of going through the town now, — assaults upon the barricades would consume too much time; but by making a detour to the left they might succeed in overtaking his Majesty. To do this, they must cross the river; but Charny assured them it could be forded with perfect safety, so they left Varennes to the right of them, and made for the open fields, resolved, no matter how large the king's guard might be, to attack it on the open road, and either liberate the king or perish in the attempt.

When they had completed about one-third of the circuit, they came to the river. Charny urged his horse into the water, and the Bouille's followed him. After them, came the other officers, then the privates. The stream was almost concealed from view by the many horses and men. In ten minutes the ford was safely crossed, and the passage through the cool running water had refreshed both steeds and riders, so they sped on towards Clermont like birds on the wing.

Suddenly Charny, who was riding on about twenty yards in advance, paused, and uttered a cry of dismay. He was on the edge of a high steep bank which bordered a canal. Though he had drawn this canal on his topographical maps, he had entirely forgotten its existence. It extended a distance of several leagues, and presented the same difficulties all along its course; so if they could not cross it here, they could not cross it anywhere.

Charny set the example by urging his horse down into the water. Though the canal was too deep to ford, the animal swam bravely to the opposite side; but the bank was so steep and slippery that he could secure no foothold upon it. Three or four times the gallant steed endeavoured to climb it, but finally slipped backwards into the water, snorting dreadfully, and almost falling upon his rider.

Charny knew that what his horse — a thoroughbred, assisted by a rider of his acknowledged skill — could not accomplish, could certainly not be accomplished by any regiment of cavalry.

The attempted rescue had proved a failure. Fate was too strong for them. The king and queen were lost. If he could not save them, there was but one thing for him to do, — perish with them.

He made one last, supreme effort to regain the solid ground above him. It proved as futile as the others; but as he made it, he stuck his sword half-way to the hilt in the clay which formed the bank of the canal, and this sword might furnish a foothold for a man, though not for a horse.

Dropping his bridle and freeing his feet from the stirrups, Charny swung himself from his horse just as the animal was about to sink, then he swam to his sword, grasped it, pulled himself up by it, and after two or three vain attempts succeeded in scrambling out upon the turf above.

He looked back. On the other side of the canal he could see Bouill4 and his sou weeping with anger and chagrin, and the soldiers gloomy and despondent; for after beholding Charny's well-nigh fatal attempt, they all realised how utterly useless it would be to attempt a crossing.

The general wrung his hands in his despair, — this brave and daring commander, whose military undertakings had always been crowned with such success heretofore that the expression, “As lucky as Bouille,” had become a proverb in the army.

“Oh, gentlemen, never call me lucky again!” he cried lugubriously.

“Do not take it so to heart, general,” cried Charny from the opposite bank.”I will tell them you did all that mortal man could do; and when I tell them that, they will believe me. Farewell!”

Covered with mud, his pistols useless now, by reason of the powder having become wet, his clothing dripping at every step, Charny started across the fields, and soon reached the road over which the royal prisoners must pass. He had only to follow it to overtake them.

Before doing so, he turned for the last time and saw Bouille and his men still standing on the edge of the canal. In spite of the utter impossibility of advancing, they could not make up their minds to beat a retreat.

Charny made them a farewell gesture, turned the corner, and disappeared from their sight altogether. To guide him now, he had a frightful uproar, made up of the shouts, threats, jeers, and curses of nearly a thousand men.

CHAPTER XCV. THE DEPARTURE.

Our readers know that the king had left Varennes, and we will now proceed to give some account of that departure and the subsequent journey, during which we shall learn the fate of several faithful adherents and devoted. friends of this unfortunate monarch.

As we have previously remarked, Charny's feet had scarcely touched the ground, after he leaped from the window of the solicitor's house, before the door opened again, and Billot reappeared upon the threshold.

Charny's flight was obvious enough, for the count was no longer there, and Damas was closing the window. Leaning out, Damas fancied he saw the fugitive just clearing the garden wall.

Some sort of a compact, too, had evidently been concluded between Monsieur de Romeuf and the queen, — a compact in which Romeuf had pledged himself to remain neutral; at least so it seemed to Billot.

The store-room behind Billot was again filled with the same class of people as before, — peasants, for the most part, armed with muskets, scythes, and sabres, — men upon whom Billot felt he could rely if a resort to violence should be deemed necessary.

“Well, have they decided to go-”he asked, turning to Romeuf.

The queen made no reply, except to bestow a withering glance upon Billot, and seat herself more firmly in her chair, clutching the arms as if resolved to weld herself to it.

“The king desires a little more time,” replied Romeuf.”No one slept any during the night, and their Majesties are terribly fatigued.”

“Monsieur de Romeuf,” replied Billot, "”you know perfectly well that it is not because their Majesties are tired that they ask for this delay, but because they hope that General Bouille will arrive during the time. But let their Majesties beware,” continued Billot, impressively;”for if they refuse to come of their own accord they will be dragged by the feet to their carriage.”

“Wretch!” exclaimed Damas, rushing towards Billot, with sabre uplifted.

But Billot merely folded his arms upon his breast and looked 'him full in the face.

In fact, it was not at all necessary for him to defend himself, for eight or ten men were in the room in a second, and Damas found as many different weapons pointed straight at him.

The king saw that only a word or gesture was needed to cause the slaughter of those around him, so he said,-

“Very well, have the horses put to the carriage, and we will go.”

Madame Brunier, one of the queen's attendants, screamed and fainted.

Her cry awakened the two children. The dauphin began to weep bitterly.

“Ah, monsieur,” said the queen, turning to Billot, "have you no children yourself, that you can be so cruel to a mother-”

Billot started, then, with a bitter smile, he answered:”Xo, madame, I have none.” Then, turning to the king, he added:”It is not necessary to put horses to the carnage. They are already harnessed.”

“Then drive up.”

“The coach is at the door.”

The king walked to the window and saw that the coach was really in readiness, though he had not heard it drive up, on account of the noise in the street. The people saw the king at the window, and a threatening cry — a howl of rage and hatred — went up from the multitude. The king turned pale.

“What are your Majesty's orders-” Choiseul asked, approaching the queen.”My comrades and I had rather die than see this.”

“Do you think Monsieur de Charny made his escape-” whispered the queen, hastily.

“I am sure of it.”

“Then let us go; but in Heaven's name, and even more on your own account than our own, do not leave us.”

The king understood the fear the queen entertained, so he said to Romeuf, -

“Of course Monsieur de Choiseul and Monsieur de Damas are to accompany us, and I do not see any horses for them.”

“We certainly have no right to prevent these gentlemen from following the queen,” Romeuf remarked, turning to Billot.

“These gentlemen must follow the king as best they can,” responded Billot.”My orders relate merely to the king and queen. I have nothing whatever to do with these gentlemen.”

“But I positively declare that I will not go until these gentlemen have horses provided for them,” said the king.

“What do you say to that-” demanded Billot, turning to the spectators.”The king will not go until horses are provided for these gentlemen.”

The men addressed laughed boisterously.

“I will go and order them,” said Romeuf; but Choiseul intercepted him.”Do not leave their Majesties,” he said.”Your mission gives you some authority over the rabble, and your honour makes it incumbent upon you to see that not a hair of their Majesties' heads is harmed.”

Romeuf paused. Billot shrugged his shoulders.”Very well,” he said, “I’ll go and attend to it myself.” But at Vol. in. — 3

the door he turned again, and asked frowningly, “Can I go with safety-”

“You need have no fears,” responded the peasants, with another loud burst of laughter, which indicated that they would be only too glad to be of service in case of any resistance on the part of the prisoners.

So Billot did not even take the trouble to return to the chamber. One of the men stood near the window watching the proceedings in the street below, and presently he exclaimed:”Here are the horses, let's be off!”

“Yes, let's be off,” repeated his companions, in tones that admitted of no discussion.

The king went first. Choiseul followed, giving his arm to the queen. Next came Damas, with Madame Elizabeth, then Madame de Tourzel and the two children, and around them the other members of this faithful little party.

As the envoy of the National Assembly, and consequently invested with a certain sacredness of character, it was Monsieur de Romeuf's special duty to protect the royal party; but Monsieur de Romeuf had abundant need of protection himself, for it was rumoured that he had not only executed the Assembly's orders with great mildness, but had also favoured the escape of one of their Majesties' most devoted adherents, who had hastened to General Bouille' to implore him to come to the immediate relief of the royal party. The natural result of all this was that while Billot was lauded to the skies by the populace, Romeuf was greeted with cries of “Traitor!” and “Aristocrat!” and with all sorts of threats when he reached the street.

The royal party entered the coach in the same order as that in which they had descended the stairs, and the two guardsmen took the same seats they had previously occupied,- outside; for as they were about to leave the room, 'Valory approached the king and said:”Sire, my comrade and I have a favour to ask of your Majesty.”

“What is it, gentlemen-” asked the king, surprised that he had it in his power to grant any favour now.

“Sire, as we can no longer have the good fortune to serve you in a military capacity, we ask the favour of occupying places as servants in your household.”

“Servants, gentlemen-” cried the king.”Impossible!”

But Valory bowed.

“Sire,” said he, “in the situation in which your Majesty now finds yourself, we feel that such a position would reflect honour upon a prince of the blood, much more so upon such insignificant persons as ourselves.”

“So be it then, gentlemen,” answered the king, with tears in his eyes.”Remain, and never leave us again.”

So these two young men made their livery and their pretended positions as couriers a reality, and took their places on the seat at the rear end of the coach, as Choiseul closed the door of the vehicle.

“Gentlemen, “said the king.”I give you positive orders to take me to Montmedy. To Montmedy, postilions!”

But a single voice, a deafening voice, not the voice of a single community, but of a dozen communities combined, shouted:”No, no! To Paris! to Paris!”

A moment of silence followed; then Billot, pointing with his sword to the road they were to take, called out:”The road to Clermont, postilions!”

The coach began to move in obedience to this last order.

“I call you all to witness that I am compelled to go in this direction against my will,” cried the king.

Then, as if overcome by this last effort to assert himself, the unfortunate king sank back in the coach between the queen and Madame Elizabeth, and the carriage moved on. In about five minutes, and before they had gone two hundred yards, loud cries were heard behind them. Partly on account of the positions they occupied, and partly by reason of the difference in their temperaments, the queen was the first to thrust her head out of the window; but she drew it in again almost instantly, and buried her face in her hands.

“Oh, what misery is ours!” she exclaimed.”They have killed Choiseul!”

The king made a movement as if to see for himself; but his wife and sister seized him and held him back, and he dropped down between them again. Besides, the coach had just turned a corner, and it was impossible to see what was taking place.

The facts of the case were as follows: Choiseul and Damas mounted their horses at the solicitor's door, but Romeuf's had mysteriously disappeared, though it had been brought from the stable with the others. Romeuf, Floirac, and Foucq consequently followed afoot, hoping that some of the still faithful troopers would offer them their horses, or that they might find some of the animals that had been abandoned by their masters, who were fraternising with the people and drinking to the health of the Nation.

But they had not proceeded fifteen yards before Choiseul from his place beside the coach-door perceived that Romeuf, Floirac, and Foucq were in imminent danger of being separated, swallowed up, and perhaps suffocated in the crowd. Choiseul halted an instant, and let the coach pass on; then, judging that Romeuf, by reason of the mission intrusted to him, could be of greater service to the royal family than either of his companions, he shouted to his servant James Brissac, whom he saw in the crowd:”My other horse for Monsieur de Romeuf, James!”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth before the mob closed in around him, shouting:”It's the duke! That's Choiseul! That is one of the fellows that tried to carry off the king! Down with the aristocrat! Death to the traitor!”

We all know how quickly the deed follows the word in such turbulent assemblages. In an instant the duke was dragged from his horse and swallowed up in that frightful maelstrom called the multitude, out of which, in that epoch of deadly passion, a man could emerge only in fragments.

But as he fell, five men rushed to his aid, — Damas, Floirac, Romeuf, Foucq, and James Brissac,- from whose hands the bridle he was holding had been snatched, thus leaving them free for his master's defence.

Then there was a moment of deadly combat, like one of those combats of ancient times, or among the Arabs of our own day, around the bleeding bodies of the wounded and the dead.

Contrary to all human probability, — fortunately for him, — Choiseul was neither killed nor wounded, or, rather, his wounds were very slight, considering the dangerous weapons borne by his opponents. A gendarme standing near parried with the butt-end of his musket one sweeping blow of a scythe intended for the duke. A second cut was parried by James Brissac with a cudgel he had wrested from one of the assailants. The stick was cut in twain like a reed, but the blow wag turned aside, and only wounded Choiseul's horse.

Then Adjutant Foucq called out:”Help, help, dragoons!” And several troopers, ashamed to stand by and see their old commander murdered before their very eyes, forced their way through the crowd to his side.

Romeuf sprang in front of them, shouting:”In the name of the National Assembly, whose agent I am, and of General Lafayette, who deputed me to come to this town, conduct these gentlemen to the town-hall.”

The popularity of the National Assembly and of Lafayette were then at their height, so this adjuration produced the desired effect.

“To the town-hall with them! to the town-hall!” shouted a number of voices.

A determined effort was made by numerous right-minded citizens, and the duke and his companions were taken to the town-hall.

It took fully an hour and a half to get them there, and death threatened them at every step; for the slightest opening in the circle of protectors around the prisoners immediately afforded a passageway for a sword blade, the prongs of a pitchfork, or the point of a scythe.

They reached the town-hall at last, however. Only one of the municipal authorities had remained there, and he was completely overpowered by the burden of responsibility devolving upon him. As a mode of relieving himself of it, probably, he gave orders that Choiseul, Damas, and Floirac should be locked up, under the supervision of National Guardsmen. Romeuf declared that he would not leave the duke who had exposed himself to danger for his, Romeuf's, sake, so the officer ordered him into custody with the other three.

At a sign from the duke, his servant, who was of too little importance to attract much notice, vanished. His first care, for we must not forget that James Brissac was a groom, — and an excellent one, — was to look after the horses. He learned that they were at the inn, in the care of several hostlers.

Reassured on this point, he entered a cafe', asked for some tea, a pen and some ink and paper, and wrote to Madame de Choiseul and Madame de Grammont to allay any anxiety they might feel concerning the fate of their son and nephew, who was unquestionably safe the instant he became a prisoner.

Poor James Brissac was rather premature in this announcement, however. It is true that Choiseul was a prisoner, and that he was in the custody of the National Guards of the town; but his custodians neglected to station sentinels around his cell, and the prisoners were fired upon several times through the loopholes; so they were finally compelled to take refuge in the furthermost corner of their cell. This decidedly unpleasant state of affairs lasted about twenty-four hours, during which Monsieur de Romeuf positively refused to desert his companions.

At last, on the 23rd, the National Guards from Verdun having arrived, Romeuf had the three prisoners placed in their charge; but he would not leave them until he received from the officers appointed to guard his friends their solemn promise not to lose sight of the prisoners until they were safe in the custody of the Supreme Court in Paris.

As for poor Isidore de Charny, his body was taken to the house of a weaver, where strange but kindly hands performed the last sad offices for him; he being less fortunate in this respect than his brother George, who at least received the last sad services from the fraternal hands of the count and the friendly hands of Gilbert and Billot.

Billot was then a devoted and respectful friend; but we have seen how this friendship became changed into hatred, — a hatred as implacable as his former devotion had been profound.

CHAPTER CXVI. VIA DOLOROSA.

Meanwhile the royal family was pursuing its sorrowful journey towards Paris by what we can truly call the Via Dolorosa, or Sorrowful Way.

Alas! Louis the XVI., and Marie Antoinette, too, had their Calvary. Were they thus to atone for the crimes of the monarchy, as Jesus Christ atoned for the sins of mankind- This is a problem which the past has not solved, but which the future perhaps will.

The coach advanced slowly, for the horses could move only as fast as the escort. This escort was composed principally of men armed, as we have before explained, with pitchforks, guns, pikes, flails, swords, and scythes; but there was also a large number of women and children, the women in many cases carrying their children on their shoulders, so that they could see a king being taken back by force to his capital,- a sight they were not likely ever to behold again.

In the middle of this multitude, which overflowed into the fields on both sides of the road, was the king's big coach, followed by the cabriolet containing Mesdames Brunier and Neuville, — the small vehicle following the large one like a tiny skiff following a big vessel through a raging sea into the very jaws of perdition.

They reached Clermont without perceiving any diminution in the size of their escort, though the distance was about twelve miles. Those men, whose business compelled them to return to their homes, found substitutes in those who joined the procession at other villages along the route, — eager to behold the sight of which some were beginning to weary.

Among the captives transported in this moving prison two were especially exposed to the wrath of the crowd and made the butt of its gibes and threats. These were the unfortunate guardsmen, Malden and Valory, who occupied the rear seat, outside. Every minute or two — and this was a means of reaching the royal family, whose persons had been made inviolable by a special order of the Assembly — every minute or two a bayonet was pointed at their bodies, while occasionally a sickle, which was really in this case that of death itself, was raised threateningly above their heads, or a lance, gliding like a perfidious serpent into the slight space between the two men, would strike its sharp fang into the living flesh, and then retreat again with equal rapidity, with its point red with blood, under the eye of its gratified master, who rejoiced to see that its thrust had not failed.

Suddenly every one was amazed to see a man, bareheaded and unarmed and with garments covered with mud, force his way through the crowd until he reached the coach, when he respectfully saluted the king and queen, and then, grasping the side of the vehicle, draw himself up to the seat outside between the two guardsmen.

The queen uttered a cry of mingled fear and joy and sorrow. She had recognised Charny. A cry of fear, because he had done such an audacious thing', for it seemed indeed a miracle that he had accomplished it without receiving a single wound; of joy, for she was so happy to see that he had escaped the many perils he must have incurred in his flight, dangers which seemed all the greater from the fact that, being unable to specify any particular one she had imagined him the victim of all; of sorrow, for she knew that Charny's return, alone and in such a condition, indicated beyond a doubt that they must renounce all hope of succour from General Bouille'.

But the crowd, astonished at this man's audacity, seemed to respect him the more on account of it.

Hearing the increased commotion around the carriage, Billot, who was on horseback at the head of the procession, turned, and, recognising Charny, said to himself,-

“I 'm glad nothing has happened to him; but woe to the man who may be tempted to make another such attempt, for it will certainly cost him his life.”

They reached Sainte-Menehould about two o'clock in the afternoon. Loss of sleep and the excitement and fatigue of the night at Varennes had told perceptibly upon the entire party, more particularly upon the dauphin; and by the time they reached Sainte-Menehould the poor child was really ill with fever, and the king was consequently obliged to order a halt.

Unfortunately, of all the towns along the route Sainte- Menehould was the one most bitterly incensed against this unfortunate family; so no attention was paid to the king's request. On the contrary, orders were given by Billot that fresh horses should be immediately attached to the carriage, and Billot was obeyed.

The little dauphin wept bitterly, and exclaimed between his sobs:”Why don't they undress me and put me in my nice bed when I feel so sick-”

The queen could not stand these complaints, and broke down completely for a moment.

Lifting the weeping and shivering child up in her arms and showing him to the people, she exclaimed:”Let us Stop! For this poor child's sake, let us stop!”

But the horses had already been put to the carriage.

“Forward!” shouted Billot.

“Forward!” repeated the people.

As the farmer rode by the window to resume his place at the head of the procession, the queen said to him: -

“Ah, monsieur, I repeat it, you must have no children of your own!”

“And I repeat that I did have one, madame, but that I have one no longer.”

“Do as you please, you are the stronger,” said the queen, “but beware! There is no voice that cries louder to Heaven for vengeance than that of a little child.”

The travellers resumed their journey. Their experience in passing through Sainte-Menehould was most trying. The enthusiasm the sight of Drouet created would in itself have been a lesson to these royal prisoners if kings were capable of learning anything; but Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette could see only blind fury in these cries of the populace. In these really patriotic men, who were convinced that they had saved France, the king and queen saw only rebels against the lawful government.

The king seemed completely crushed. Mortification and rage brought out big drops of sweat on the queen's forehead. Madame Elizabeth, a veritable angel who had strayed down from heaven, prayed softly, not for herself, but for her brother, her sister-in-law, her nephew and niece, in short, for everybody. The saintly woman could not separate those she considered victims from those she regarded as persecutors, and in the same prayer she laid them all at the feet of her Saviour.

The king had believed — and it was this belief which had led him astray in many matters, perhaps — that the spirit of discontent and insubordination was confined to Paris, and that there was not the slightest doubt of the loyalty of the provinces; but the provinces were not only disappointing him, but had evidently turned remorselessly against him. And it would have seemed even worse to the king, had he been able to see what took place in the different towns and villages when the news of his arrest was received. In an instant the entire population was aroused. Mothers carried their infants in their arms, and led by the hand such children as were able to walk. Men armed themselves with any weapons they could lay their hands upon, and hastened forward, not to act as the king's escort this time, but to kill the king, -the king who at harvest-time had sent for their pitiful gleanings to trample them under the feet of the horses of those thieving, destructive vandals, the hussars. But three angels protected the royal coach, — the poor little dauphin, moaning with pain on his mother's lap; Madame Royale, glowing with the radiant beauty that generally accompanies chestnut hair, standing at the carriage window, and surveying everything with an astonished, but unfaltering gaze; and Madame Elizabeth, now twenty-seven years of age, but whose purity of soul enwreathed her brow with the radiant aureole of youth.

When they saw all this, — the queen bending tenderly over her sick child, and the king so utterly crushed, -their fury abated, or strove to find some other object upon which to vent itself; so they jeered at the devoted guardsmen, and called them cowards and traitors.

Two interesting incidents which are related by Michelet, the poetic and picturesque historian, may be quoted as illustrations.

What would the king, who still seemed to be labouring under a delusion, have said had he known that a man walked all the way from Mezieres, a distance of nearly two hundred miles, with his gun on his shoulder, on purpose to kill the king on his return to Paris- But when he reached Paris, and saw the king so wretched, so poor, and so humiliated in spirit, he shook his head and abandoned his project.

What would the king have said had he known that a young carpenter, who felt sure that the king would be immediately tried and convicted after his flight, what would the king have said had he known that this young carpenter walked all the way from the most remote district in Burgundy, in order to be present at the trial and conviction- But, on the way, a master carpenter succeeded in convincing him that a much longer time than he supposed would elapse before the royal culprit was brought to trial, and urged him to stop awhile and work with him. The young man consented, and subsequently married his employer's daughter.

What Louis XVI. did see was quite as significant, perhaps, even if less terrible; for though a triple shield of innocence protected him from the wrath of the populace, it was vented in an unmistakable manner upon his adherents.

The cortege had left Sainte-Menehould, and were perhaps a little over a mile from the town, when an old gentleman came galloping across the fields towards them. He was a knight of the order of St. Louis, and wore the cross of that order in his button-hole. At first, the people thought he had come merely out of curiosity, and made way for him; but the old nobleman approached the coach hat in hand, saluting the king and queen in the most deferential manner, and addressing them by their royal titles. The populace were incensed at the bestowal of these honours upon the prisoners, — honours which they considered due only to the Nation; so they began to growl, and to threaten the offender.

The king had heard these sullen growls at Varennes, and understood their significance.

“Both the queen and myself are deeply touched by this public display of devotion, monsieur,” he said to the aged knight, “but for Heaven's sake leave us! Your life is in danger.”

“My life is my king's,” responded the old chevalier;”and the last day of my life will be the grandest and happiest if I die for my sovereign.”

Several persons overheard this response, and growled louder than ever.

“Go, monsieur, go!” cried the king. Then, leaning out of the carriage, he added:”My friends, make way for Monsieur de Dampier, I beseech you!”

Those who were nearest and who heard the king's appeal complied with the request; but a little further on both horse and rider found themselves hemmed in. The old nobleman tried to urge his steed on with bridle and with spur, but the crowd was so dense that it could scarcely control its own movements. Several women shrieked, a child wept loudly, and some of the men clenched their fists threateningly; but the indomitable old man shook his whip at them all. Then the threats changed into angry roars, and the fury of the populace became terrible. Monsieur de Dampierre had already reached the outer edge of this forest of men, and plunging both spurs into his horse's flanks he cleared the ditch which bordered the roadside at a single bound, and started off at a gallop across the fields. As he did so the old gentleman turned, and, again doffing his hat, shouted at the top of his voice, “God save the king!” A final token of homage to his sovereign, but a deadly insult to the already infuriated populace.

A shot rang out through the air.

Pulling a pistol from his holster, Dampierre returned shot for shot. Then everybody who had a musket fired simultaneously at the deluded man.

His horse fell riddled with bullets.

Was its rider wounded or killed- The crowd rushed like an avalanche to the spot where man and horse had fallen, about fifty yards from the royal coach. A frightful uproar ensued, then a head, crowned with white hair, suddenly rose on the end of a pike out of the surrounding chaos. It was the head of the unfortunate Dampierre.

The queen shrieked and sank back half-swooning in the coach.

“Monsters! Cannibals!” shouted Charny.

“Silence, count, silence!”said Billot, "or I will not be responsible for your safety.”

“So be it,” replied Charny.”I am tired of life. Nothing worse can happen to me than has happened to my poor brother.”

“Your brother deserved his fate,” replied Billot, grimly;”you do not.”

Charny made a sudden movement, as if with the intention of leaping from his seat; but the guardsmen held him back, and twenty bayonets were already directed towards him.

“My friends,” said Billot, in his most impressive tones, “whatever this man” — pointing to Charny as he spoke -”may do or say, I forbid you to harm a hair of his head. I am answerable to his wife for him.”

“To his wife,” muttered the queen, shuddering as if one of the bayonets that threatened Charny had pierced her own heart.”To his wife- And why-”

Why, indeed- Billot could not have answered the question himself. He had invoked the name and the image of Charny's wife merely because he knew what a power such words exert over a crowd of people, made up for the most part of husbands and fathers.

CHAPTER XCVII. VIA DOLOROSA.

It was late when they reached Chalons, and the coach drove into the courtyard of the post-house, for couriers had been sent on in advance to secure lodgings for the party.

The courtyard was thronged with National Guards and curious spectators; and it was necessary to drive the people away before the king could alight from his carriage.- As he set foot on the steps leading to the house, a shot resounded, and a bullet whistled by the king's ear.- Was the shot fired with regicidal intent, or was it only an accident-

“Some awkward fellow has let his gun go off,” remarked the king, turning round with great coolness.”Be careful, gentlemen,” he added in louder tones, “or we shall have an accident.”

Charny and the two guardsmen followed the royal family into the house unhindered.

In spite of the ominous shot, it seemed to the queen that she was entering a much more genial atmosphere. A compassionate murmur had arisen from the crowd of bystanders as the royal family left the carriage, and a sumptuous meal was awaiting them, served with an elegance that surprised the prisoners not a little.

Several servants were in attendance, but Charny claimed for himself and the two guardsmen the privilege of waiting on their Majesties. He did this in order to be able to remain with the king, and be ready for any emergency.

The queen understood his motive, but she never so much as glanced in his direction, or thanked him by word or gesture. That remark of Billot's, "I am answerable to his wife for him,” had created a frightful tempest in Marie Antoinette's heart.

Charny, whom she had hoped to take out of France with her, — Charny, whom she had hoped to see expatriated with her, — was now returning with her to Paris, where he would meet Andree again.

Charny, however, had no suspicion of what was passing.in the queen's mind. He had entirely forgotten the remark, in fact, his thoughts being entirely engrossed with the situation, for he was beginning to take a rather more hopeful view of it.

Charny had spent so much time on the road from Montmedy to Paris that he understood the state of feeling in each town pretty thoroughly. Chalons was an old town with very few mercantile interests, the population consisting for the most part of retired tradesmen, noblemen, and those who drew their income from the public funds; and consequently all, or nearly all, were royalists.

In fact, the royal guests were hardly seated at table before their host, the Intendant of the department, entered and, bowing respectfully, said to the queen,-

“Madame, some of the young girls of our town request the privilege of presenting some flowers to your Majesty.”

Greatly surprised, the queen turned first to Madame Elizabeth, and then to the king.

“Flowers!” she repeated.

“If the request is ill-timed, or too audacious, madame, I will send word to them that they are not to come up,” replied the Intendant.

“Oh, no, no, monsieur, quite the contrary,” exclaimed the queen.”Flowers and maidens! Let them come in by all means.”

The Intendant withdrew, and a moment afterward a dozen girls, from fourteen to sixteen years of age, appeared in the open doorway.

“Come in, come in, my children,” cried the queen, holding out her arms to them.

One of the young girls, acting as spokesman, not only for her companions, but for their parents as well, and indeed for the entire town, had learned a very pretty little speech; but the greeting of the queen, her open arms, and the emotion displayed by the entire royal family drove every word of it out of the poor girl's head, and she could only sob:”Oh, your Majesty, what a calamity!”

The queen took the bouquet and kissed the young girl.

In the mean time Charny had bent over and whispered in the king's ear:”Perhaps we may derive some advantage from the loyal feeling that seems to pervade this town, sire. Possibly all is not lost, even now. If your Majesty will grant me leave of absence for an hour, I’ll go out awhile, and report what I have seen and heard, and perhaps accomplished, on my return.”

“Go, monsieur, but be very prudent. If any misfortune should befall you, I should never get over it. Alas! two deaths in one family are more than enough!”

“Nevertheless my life belongs to the king, sire, just as much as my poor brothers' lives did,” replied Charny.

He left the room; but as he crossed the threshold he dashed away a tear, for he was not nearly so stoical as he endeavoured to appear while in the presence of the royal family.”Poor Isidore!” he murmured, pressing his hand upon his breast to satisfy himself that the papers Choiseul had taken from his brother's dead body were still in his pocket.

Behind the young girls, upon whom Madame Royale bestowed a true sisterly greeting, were their parents, mostly aged noblemen or respectable citizens of the middle class. They had come timidly and humbly to ask the privilege of paying their respects to their unfortunate sovereigns. The king rose to receive them, and the queen bade them enter, in her sweetest tones.

Were they in Chalons, or were they at Versailles- Could it be that only a few hours had elapsed since they saw poor Monsieur de Dampierre murdered before their very eyes-

In about half an hour Charny returned.

“Well-” asked the king.

“Well, sire, everything promises well. The Chalons National Guards offer to conduct your Majesty back to Montme'dy to-morrow.”

“Then you have decided upon some plan of action-”

“Yes, sire. I have conferred with the leading men of the town. To-morrow the king will ask to attend mass prior to his departure; and as it is Corpus Christi day, the request is not likely to be refused. The coach will wait for the king at the church door. When he enters it, loud cheers for his Majesty will be heard, and in the midst of these cheers the king will give orders to turn about and drive towards Moutme'dy.”

“Good!” exclaimed the king.”Thank you, Monsieur de Charny. If nothing happens in the mean time, it shall be as you say. Now go and get some sleep, for you and your comrades must need it even more than we do.”

When they were ushered into the suite of rooms reserved for them, the sight of a sentinel stationed at the door reminded the king and queen that they were still prisoners, though the man presented arms respectfully. By the precision of his movements, the king perceived that the sentinel must be an old soldier, so he asked,-

“Where did you serve, my friend-”

“In the French Guards, sire,” answered the man.

“Then I am not surprised to see you here,” responded the king, dryly; for Louis XVI. could not forget that on the thirteenth of July, 1789, the French Guards had gone over to the people.

An hour later, when this sentinel was relieved, he asked for an interview with the chief of escort. This was Billot, who was eating his supper in the street at the time with the men who had come from the different villages along the route. The majority of these men, having seen what they came to see, — the king, — were anxious now to return and keep the fete day in their homes. Billot tried to dissuade them, for the royalistic atmosphere of the town caused him anxiety; but all his efforts proved fruitless.

The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the sentinel, and the two men conversed together some time in a very animated manner. Then Billot sent for Drouet, and another lively conversation ensued; after which Billot might have been seen galloping along the road to Rheinis, and Drouet along the road to Vitry le Franqais.

By daybreak barely six hundred of the immense escort of the evening before remained in Chalons. By the first gray light of dawn a dozen men in uniform entered the house of the Intendant, where the king was staying, but soon emerged from it and hurried away.

A detachment of Villeroy's troops had been stationed at Chalons a short time before. A dozen of these gentlemen were still in the town, and it was they who had presented themselves at Charny's request. He gave them orders to put on their uniforms and be at the church door on horseback when the king came from mass.

Many peasants, who had been really too tired to start for home the evening before, left early in the morning; so the number of faithful patriots was now reduced to about four hundred or four hundred and fifty.

Charny could count upon an equal number of National Guards who were still devoted to the king, to say nothing of Valory and Malden and the officers before mentioned, who would constitute a sort of special bodyguard ready to brave any danger. Besides, the town was royalist in feeling, as we have already remarked.

The next morning, as early as six o'clock, the most zealous champions of the royalist cause were assembled in the courtyard of the Intendant's house. Charny and the Guardsmen were also there waiting.

The king rose at seven o'clock, and at once announced his intention of attending mass.

Drouet and Billot were sent for, in order that the king's desire might be made known to them; but neither of them was to be found. When their absence was announced to the king, the monarch rejoiced; but Charny shook his head dubiously. Though Drouet was a stranger to him, he understood Billot's character perfectly.

Nevertheless, all the indications seemed favourable. The streets were thronged with people, but it was easy to see that they were in sympathy with the king. As long as the shutters of the royal chambers remained closed the crowd moved about as quietly as possible, so as not to disturb the slumber of the royal prisoners; but when the shutters were thrown open, loud shouts of “Long live the king!”and “Long live the queen!”resounded with such energy that the king and queen both showed themselves on their respective balconies, without having consulted each other on the subject. Then the acclamations became deafening, and the two victims of destiny could again delude themselves with false hopes.

Just then the pealing of a bell announced that the church was open, and almost simultaneously Charny tapped lightly at his Majesty's door.

“All right! I am ready,” responded the king. Charny glanced at the monarch. His bearing was calm, almost firm. He had suffered so much that he seemed to have lost his irresolution by reason of his very suffering.

The coach was at the door, and the royal family entered it, surrounded by a crowd nearly equal in size to that of the evening before; only instead of insulting the prisoners, these people begged for a look or a word, and thought themselves fortunate indeed if they could but touch the skirt of the king's coat or kiss the hem of her Majesty's robe. The three officers took their former seats on the outside of the vehicle, and the coachman was ordered to drive to the church. He obeyed without a word. Besides, who had any right to give any contradictory order, the two leaders of the populace being absent. Charny looked around in search of Billot and Drouet, but in vain.

The escort of peasantry resumed its place around the carriage, but the number of National Guards increased every minute, coming round each street corner in companies; and when they reached the church Charny felt satisfied that he had about six hundred men at his disposal.

Seats had been reserved for the royal family under a sort of canopy, and although it was only eight o'clock the priests were beginning mass.

Charny noted the fact with great inward satisfaction, for he had been terribly afraid there might be some delay, and any delay might prove fatal to his plans. He had even sent the officiating priest notice that the service must not last more than a quarter of an hour.

“I understand,” was the priest's response, “and I shall pray God to grant their Majesties a safe and prosperous journey.”

The service was completed within the time specified; nevertheless, Charny pulled out his watch twenty times. The king himself could not conceal his impatience. The queen, kneeling between her two children, rested her head upon the cushion of the prie Dieu; Madame Elizabeth, calm and serene as a marble statue of the Madonna, — either because she was entirely ignorant of this new project, or because she had already confided her life and that of her brother to God's keeping, -showed no sign of anxiety or impatience.

At last, turning to the congregation, the priest uttered the concluding words of the service, Ite, missa est, and, descending the steps of the altar, pyx in hand, he blessed the king and the other members of the royal family as he passed into the sacristy.

They all bowed reverently in their turn as they responded to his benediction with a low “Amen!”

Then they walked towards the door. All the other members of the congregation knelt as they passed, their lips moving the while in earnest prayer, and it was easy to conjecture the nature of the petition they were addressing to Heaven.

At the church door they found ten or twelve more guards on horseback. The royalist escort was beginning to assume very respectable proportions; still, it was evident that the peasants with their strong wills and their more formidable looking, but perhaps less dangerous, weapons might be able at the decisive moment to turn the scale by throwing their weight into the balance. So it was not without considerable fear and anxiety that Charny leaned towards the king and said, by way of encouragement, “Let us proceed, sire.”

Indeed, the king had already decided. Leaning out of the carriage window, and addressing the persons nearest the vehicle, he said: -

“Yesterday at Varennes, gentlemen, I was made the victim of violence. I had given orders to drive to Montmedy, but I was dragged by force towards a rebellious capital. But yesterday I was surrounded by rebels; to-day, I am among loyal subjects, and I repeat: To Montmedy, gentlemen!”

“To Montmedy!”cried Charny.

“To Montmedy!”repeated the guardsmen of Villeroy's company.

“To Montmedy I “repeated all the National Guardsmen of the town.

Then a general shout of “Long live the king!” went up from the crowd.

The carriage turned the corner of the street, and began to retrace its course over the road travelled the evening before.

Charny watched the peasantry closely, and it seemed to him that in Drouet's and Billot's absence the man who had been on guard at the king's door the night before was acting as their leader. This man seemed to note every movement closely, and with a sullen and gloomy look that indicated great dissatisfaction. His followers seemed to share this feeling; nevertheless, they allowed the Chalons National Guard to move on ahead, while they massed themselves together as a rear-guard.

In the front ranks of this rear-guard marched the men carrying pikes, pitchforks, and scythes. About one hundred and fifty men armed with muskets followed. This manoeuvre, which was as cleverly executed as if it had been performed by regulars, excited Charny's apprehensions; but he had no means of preventing it, nor could he even ask for an explanation of it, under the circumstances.

The explanation came soon enough.

As they neared the gates of the town, a dull distant sound, steadily increasing in volume, became distinctly audible even above the shouts and cheers of the escort accompanying the carriage.

Suddenly Charny turned pale, and placing his hand on the knee of the guardsman beside him, he exclaimed: -

“All is lost!”

“Why-”

“Don't you recognise that sound-”

“A drum, isn’t it- What of it-”

“You will soon see,” answered Charny.

Just at that moment they turned into a public square where two roads met, — one leading from Rheims, the other from Vitry-le-Francais. Up both these roads two large companies of National Guards were advancing, with drums beating and flags flying, -one numbering eighteen hundred, the other fully two thousand men.

Each of these bodies of troops was under the command of a man on horseback. One of these men was Billot, the other, Drouet. The reason of their protracted absence was now only too evident. Warned of the royalists' plans, they had hurried off, one to hasten the arrival of the National Guards from Rheims, and the other to summon the National Guards from Vitry.

Their arrangements being carefully made, both companies had arrived at the same time. They halted their men in the square, thus closing it up completely; and, without any preamble whatever, an order to load the muskets was given.

The royal cortege paused. The king put his head out of the window. Charny was standing there, pale as death, his teeth tightly clenched.

“What is the matter-”asked the king.

“Our enemies have secured reinforcements, and are standing there with muskets loaded, as you see, while behind us and the National Guard of Chalons are the peasants ready to attack us in the rear.”

“What do you think of the situation, Monsieur de Charny-”

“I think we are between two fires; but that need not prevent us from pressing on, if your Majesty says the word; but how far we can go, I do not know.”

“Very well, then let us turn back.”

“Your Majesty has fully decided-”

“Monsieur de Charny, too much blood has been shed for me already, — blood I mourn with bitter tears. I will not have another drop shed if I can help it. We will turn back.”

The young guardsmen had jumped down from the top of the coach, and Villeroy's men had rushed up. The brave young fellows were all longing for a fight; but the king repeated his order even more positively than before.

“Gentlemen, we will turn back. The king commands it!” exclaimed Charny, loudly and imperatively. And, grasping the bridle of the nearest horse as he spoke, he turned the heavy coach round.

At the gate on the road to Paris the Chalons National Guards, unable to render any further service, relinquished their places to the peasantry and the National Guards from Vitry and Rheims.

“Do you think I have acted wisely, madame-”the king inquired of Marie Antoinette.

“Yes,” she replied;”but it seems to me that Monsieur de Charily acquiesced very readily.”

And she relapsed into a gloomy reverie, in which the situation in which they found themselves, terrible as it was, played a very insignificant part.

CHAPTER XCVIII. VIA DOLOROSA.

The coach was proceeding slowly but surely towards Paris, in charge of the two grim men who had compelled it to change its course, when, on the road between Epernay and Dormans, Charny, thanks to his tall stature and the elevated seat he occupied, discerned another vehicle drawn by four horses coming at full speed from Paris.

Charny immediately suspected that this vehicle must be bringing some important personage or intelligence; and this conjecture was corroborated by the fact that when the carriage met the advance-guard, and a few words had been interchanged, the ranks opened, and the men presented arms respectfully.

The king's coach was consequently obliged to stop; and as it did so, enthusiastic shouts of “Hurrah for the National Assembly!”were heard.

The vehicle, which had just arrived from Paris, continued to advance until it reached the king's coach, when three men, two of whom were entire strangers to the royal family, alighted from it. But the third occupant of the carriage had scarcely put his head out of the door before the queen whispered to her husband, -

“Latour-Maubourg, Lafayette's tool!” Then, shaking her head, “This augurs us no good,” she added.

The eldest of the men came forward, and, pulling the door of the royal coach roughly open, said with great brusqueness, “I am Petion, and these men here are Barnave and Latour-Maubourg, sent, like myself, to act as your escort, and to see that the anger of the people doesn’t lead them to take the law into their own hands. Move up a little, so as to make room for us.”

The queen darted at the speaker and his companions one of those supremely scornful glances the proud daughter of Maria Theresa knew so well how to bestow.

Latour-Maubourg, a courteous gentleman of the old school, could not bear this look, so he said, -

“Their Majesties are too much crowded already. I will go in the other carriage.”

“Do as you please about that,” answered Petion;”but my place is here with the king and queen,” and as he spoke, he stepped into the coach.

The king and queen and Madame Elizabeth were sitting on the back seat. Petion looked at each of them in turn; then, addressing Madame Elizabeth, he said: -

“Excuse me, madame, but, as the representative of the National Assembly, the place of honour belongs to me; so oblige me by getting up and taking the front seat.”

“Was the equal of that ever heard-” murmured the queen.

“Really, monsieur,” protested the king.

“It is only the proper thing,” insisted Petion.”Come, madame, get up and give me your seat.”

Madame Elizabeth relinquished her place, making a little sign to indicate that it didn’t matter in the least, to her brother and sister-in-law, as she rose.

Meanwhile Maubourg had made his escape; and he asked the two female attendants to give him a seat in their cabriolet, with much more courtesy than Petion had displayed towards the royal family. Barnave remained standing outside, unwilling to push his way into a carriage that was already much too full for comfort.

“Well, Barnave, what's the matter- Aren't you coming-”shouted Pe'tion.

“Where will you put me-” asked Barnave, considerably embarrassed.

“Should you like my seat, monsieur-” asked the queen, sharply.

“I thank you, madame, but the other seat is good enough for me.”

Madame Elizabeth drew Madame Royale closer to her side, and the queen took the dauphin on her lap. In this way they made room on the front seat, and Barnave was brought face to face and knee to knee with the queen.

“Now go ahead!” cried Petion, without condescending to consult the king; and the procession moved on again, amid deafening cheers for the National Assembly.

The people, in the persons of Barnave and Petion, now occupied a place in the carriage with the king. They had secured the right to do soon the 14th of July and the 6th and 6th of October.

A moment's silence ensued. Let us avail ourselves of the opportunity to say a few words in relation to the persons who had just appeared upon the scene.

Je'rome Pe'tion was a man about thirty-two years of age, endowed with a strong personality, though his chief merit lay in the purity and integrity of his political principles. His birthplace was Chartres, where he had been admitted to the bar as an advocate, and afterwards sent to Paris as a deputy in 1789. He was subsequently elected Mayor of Paris, and enjoyed a popularity which far exceeded that of Bailly or Lafayette; but he came to his death by being devoured by wolves in a forest near Bordeaux. His friends styled him the Honest Pe'tion. He and Camille Desmoulins were already republicans, though no one else in France had yet espoused those principles.

Pierre Joseph Marie Barnave was born in Grenoble, and was hardly thirty years old. Elected to the National Assembly, he had speedily acquired both wide-spread fame and popularity by entering the lists against Mirabeau, just as the fame and popularity of that great orator began to wane. All the enemies of the famous deputy from Aix were sure to be Barnave's friends, and they sustained, applauded, and encouraged him in his stormy debates with his rival. At this time he did not look more than twenty-five, with his large, handsome blue eyes, big mouth, retrousse' nose, and shrill, piercing voice. Though he was aggressive and even quarrelsome in disposition, his manner and appearance were both characterized with an air of elegance that made him look like some young military officer in the garb of a tradesman. He belonged to the Constitutional Royalist party. As Barnave was settling himself on the front seat, opposite the queen, the king remarked, -

“Gentlemen, I wish to say here and now that I never had the slightest intention of leaving the kingdom.”

Barnave, half-seated, stopped short, and looked at the king.

“Are you telling the truth, sire-” he asked.”In that case this assurance on your part may save France.”

And now something strange took place between this plain citizen from a provincial town and a woman descended from one of the proudest dynasties in Europe. Each tried to read the other's heart, not like two political opponents who are striving to discover state secrets, but like a man and a woman who are endeavouring to fathom the mysteries of each other's love.

Barnave aspired to be Mirabeau's successor in all things. In his own opinion, at least, the mantle of that great statesman had already descended upon his shoulders.

But his aspirations were not yet entirely realised. In the opinion of the public generally, — though we know how little foundation there was for this belief,-Mirabeau was honoured with the confidence of the king and the special favour of the queen. That single interview at St.-Cloud had been exaggerated into frequent secret audiences, in which Mirabeau's presumption had amounted to audacity, and the queen's condescension to positive weakness; for it was the fashion in those days not only to slander poor Marie Antoinette, but also to believe these calumnies.

Now, Barnave's ambition to become Mirabeau's successor in all things had induced him to secure an appointment as one of the three commissioners sent to meet the king; and he had come with all the assurance of a man who knows that even though he may lack the power to inspire love, he will at least be able to inspire hatred.

One quick glance had enabled the queen to discover all this, and one thing more, — that Barnave's undivided attention was bestowed upon her. Five or six times during the first quarter of an hour the young deputy scrutinised the three young men outside with the utmost care, and after each scrutiny his expression became harder and more hostile; for Barnave knew that one of these three men, though he was not sure which, was Charny, and gossips declared that Charny was the queen's lover.

Barnave was jealous, — strange as this may seem, — and the queen saw it. Knowing the weak spot in her adversary's coat of mail, she realised that she could strike home whenever she chose.

“Monsieur,” she said at last, addressing the king, “you heard what that man said in relation to Monsieur de Charny, did you not-”

“He said he was responsible to the count's wife for his safety, did he not- What of it-”

“Well, you recollect, of course, that the count's wife is my old friend Andree de Taverney; so don't you think it would be well to give him leave of absence on our return to Paris, so that he may reassure and comfort his wife- He has incurred great risks on our account, and his younger brother was killed in our defence. I think to insist upon a continuation of his services would be cruel, under the circumstances.”

“You are right, madame; though I doubt if Charny will accept a dismissal,” replied the king.

“In that case, we shall both have done our duty, however, — we in offering the count leave of absence, and the count in declining it.”

She was innocent, there could be no doubt of it. Oh,

how gladly Barnave would have asked forgiveness of the queen for his injustice towards the woman! Hitherto Barnave's manner had been that of a magistrate before a culprit he feels that he has a right to try and condemn; but now the culprit had unwittingly answered a mental accusation, which she could not even have guessed, with words that convinced him of her innocence; so now Bar- nave became gentle, almost humble. He would have given anything to attract the queen's attention to himself, but she seemed to ignore his very existence. Should he speak to her- He did not dare. Should he wait until the queen addressed a remark to him- But the queen, satisfied with the effect her few words had produced, said not another word.

The young deputy was in a state of nervous exaltation in which he would cheerfully have undertaken the labors of Hercules to win the attention of this indifferent woman.

He was imploring the Supreme Being, — there was no God in 1791, -he was imploring the Supreme Being to grant him some opportunity to attract the notice of this proud but beautiful creature, when, as if in answer to his prayer, a poor priest who had been waiting by the roadside to see the august prisoners pass, lifted his clasped hands and tearful eyes to Heaven, exclaiming, “Sire, may God watch over your Majesty!”

It had been some time since the rabble had had any object to vent their wrath upon, so they were not inclined to neglect the opportunity which had just presented itself.

Yelling and hooting, they rushed upon the offender, and in another instant he was felled to the earth, and seemed about to be torn in pieces, when the frightened queen cried out to Barnave, "Oh, monsieur, don't you see what they are doing-”

Barnave raised his head and glanced at the sea of human beings in which the poor priest had been swallowed up, and which was now surging in angry and tumultuous waves round the coach.

“You wretches!” he shouted; and he hurled himself against the carriage door so violently that it flew open, and he would have been precipitated to the ground had not Madame Elizabeth caught him by the skirt of his coat.”You tigers, — you are no Frenchmen, -or France, once the land of the brave, has become a land of assassins!”

The apostrophe may seem rather pretentious to us, but it suited the taste of the time. Besides, Barnave represented the National Assembly. It was the supreme power of the State they heard speaking through him. The crowd recoiled; the old man was saved. He tottered to his feet.

“You have done well to save me, young man,” he said;”an old man will pray for you.” And, making the sign of the cross, he walked away.

The young deputy resumed his seat naturally and quietly, not at all with the air of a man who thinks he has just saved another man's life.

“I thank you, monsieur, “said the queen; and the words thrilled Barnave through and through.

It is incontestably true that during our long acquaintance with Marie Antoinette she had never seemed so attractive as now, though she had been much more beautiful.

In fact, instead of being enthroned as a queen, she now seemed to be enthroned as a mother. On her left she had the dauphin, a charming boy with golden curls, who, with the careless freedom and innocence of childhood, had slid from his mother's lap to the knee of the virtuous Pe'tion, whose natural kindliness made him stroke the boy's golden locks occasionally. On her right sat her daughter, Madame Royale, who was the very picture of what her mother must have been in the flower of her youth and beauty. Marie Antoinette herself wore in place of the golden crown of royalty, the thorny crown of sorrow. Above her dark eyes and snowy brow a few prematurely gray hairs glistened amid her luxuriant hair, and these spoke more eloquently to the heart of the young deputy than the most plaintive appeal would have done. Vol. in. — 5

Suddenly the young dauphin uttered a slight cry of pain. The child had played some kind of a trick upon Petion, and that worthy thought proper to punish him by pulling his ears.

The king reddened with anger, and the queen turned pale with mortification. She turned to take the little fellow from Pe'tion's lap; and as Barnave, too, attempted to do the same thing, the dauphin was lifted in their four arms simultaneously, and an instant later he found himself oil the last-named gentleman's knee.

Marie Antoinette tried to entice him into her own lap again, but without success.

“No, no, mamma, I like it here,” exclaimed the dauphin.

And though Barnave, who noted the queen's movement, opened his arms to allow her to carry out her intentions, the queen — was it a mother's or a woman's coquetry- — left the young prince where he was.

An indescribable feeling possessed Barnave's heart at that moment. He felt happy and proud at the same time.

The child began to play with Barnave's lace frill, then, with his belt, and finally with the buttons on his deputy's uniform. These buttons interested the boy particularly from the fact that they had a device engraved upon them. The dauphin named the letters one after another, and then putting them together, spelled out the four words, “Live free, or die.”

“What does that mean, monsieur-”he asked.

Barnave hesitated, as if in doubt what to reply.

“It means, my little man,” explained Pe'tion, "that the French people have sworn never to have another master. Do you understand that-”

“Pe'tion!” exclaimed Barnave.

“Well, explain the words differently if you know any other meaning for them,” replied Pe'tion, carelessly.

Barnave was silent. The device, which had seemed sublime to him before, now seemed cruel, and he took the dauphin's hand and kissed it respectfully.

The queen dashed away a furtive tear, while the coach which was the scene of this little drama, -simple almost to childishness, — rolled on amid the cries of the angry crowd, bearing six of the eight persons it contained to their deaths.

A few minutes afterwards, they reached Dormans.

CHAPTER XCIX. VIA DOLOROSA.

No preparations had been made for the reception of the royal family at Dormans, and they were consequently obliged to stay at an inn.

Either by order of Pe'tion, who had been offended by the reticence of the royal couple during the journey, or because the inn was really full, three attic rooms were assigned to the royal guests.

On alighting, Charny was about to approach the king and queen for orders as usual; but a glance from the queen gave him to understand that he was to hold himself aloof, and without understanding the cause of the unspoken command, the count unhesitatingly obeyed it.

So it was Pe'tion who entered the inn to make the necessary arrangements, and he did not take the trouble to come out again, but merely sent a servant to inform the royal family that their rooms were ready.

Barnave was much embarrassed. He was dying to offer his arm to the queen, but he feared that the very persons who had scoffed at etiquette in the person of Madame de Noailles would be the last to overlook any breach of it in him.

The king alighted first, assisted by Malden and Valory; then the queen stepped out, and extended her arms to take the dauphin; but as if the poor child realised intuitively the benefit his mother would derive from this flattery, he exclaimed, -

“No, I want to stay with my friend Barnave.”

Marie Antoinette nodded her assent with a pleasant smile, so Barnave waited for Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale to alight, and then followed them himself, still holding the dauphin in his arms.

Madame de Tourzel alighted next, intending to forthwith rescue her royal pupil from the plebeian hands that held him; but another glance from the queen calmed the aristocratic ardour of the governess.

The queen mounted the steep and winding staircase, leaning on her husband's arm. On reaching the second story, she paused, thinking twenty steps quite enough; but the waiter called out, “Higher! higher yet!” so she continued to ascend.

Drops of shame and anger bedewed Barnave's brow.

“What! higher yet-”he demanded.

“Yes,” replied the waiter.”On this floor there is nothing but the dining-room and the apartments reserved for the gentlemen of the National Assembly.”

Barnave's eyes gleamed wrathfully. Pit-tion had reserved the apartments on the second floor for the use of himself and his colleagues, and relegated the royal family to the third story. The young deputy said nothing; but, fearing the queen's anger and indignation when she saw the rooms assigned her and her family by Pe'tion, Barnave set the dauphin down on the upper landing, and started downstairs.

“Mamma, mamma, my friend Barnave is going away,” cried the little prince.

“He is wise,” responded the queen, laughing, as she glanced around the apartments, which consisted of three small rooms opening into each other.

The queen with Madame Royale took possession of the first; the second was taken by Madame Elizabeth for herself, the dauphin, and Madame de Tourzel; the king took the third, which was little more than a closet, with a second door opening upon the stairway.

The king, being tired, wished to lie down a few minutes before supper; but the bed was so short that he was very soon obliged to get up again. Opening the door, he called for a chair; so Malden and Valory, who were in the hall, got a chair from the dining-room and brought it to the king. There was one chair in the room already, and Louis arranged that and the second chair brought by Malden in such a way as to make the bed long enough.

“Oh, sire, can you manage to get through the night in this way-” exclaimed Malden, dolefully.

“Certainly, monsieur,” replied the king.”If all the complaints that reach my ears are true, many of my subjects would be glad enough to 'have this little room with its bed and two chairs.”

And he stretched himself out on his improvised couch, as if thus preparing himself for the long imprisonment, with its attendant privations, which was in store for him.

A short time afterwards, some one came to announce that supper was ready. On going downstairs, the king perceived that there were six plates on the table.

“Why is the table laid for six-”he asked.

“One plate is for the king,” answered the waiter, “one for the queen, one for Madame Elizabeth, one for Madame Royale, one for Monseigneur the dauphin, and one for Monsieur Pe'tion.”

“And why not one for Monsieur Barnave and one for Monsieur Latour-Maubourg-”asked the king, sarcastically.

“There were, sire, but Monsieur Barnave ordered them removed.”

“And left Monsieur Pe'tion's-”

“Monsieur Pe'tion insisted upon it, sire.”

Just then the austere face of the Chartres deputy appeared in the doorway, but the king pretended not to see him, and said to the waiter, “I am unaccustomed to sit down at table except with members of my own family, or with those whom I invite.”

“I knew that his Majesty had forgotten the first article of the Declaration of the Eights of Man, but I thought he would at least pretend to remember it,” growled Pe'tion, from the doorway.

The king pretended not to hear Pe'tion exactly, as he had pretended not to see him; and with a gesture ordered the waiter to remove the extra plate. The waiter obeyed, and Pe'tion went off in a towering rage.

“Close the door, Monsieur de Malden, so that we may be alone, if possible.”

Malden obeyed; and Pe'tion could hear the door close behind him. So the king dined en'famille after all, and the two guardsmen waited upon him as usual. Charny did not make his appearance. Though he was no longer the queen's servant, he was still her slave; but there were times when the implicit obedience he displayed to the queen grieved the woman sorely; and now, as she waited impatiently for a glimpse of him, she wished he would be less obedient.

When supper was over, and the king pushed back his chair to rise from the table, the door opened, and a servant came in to request their Majesties, in Monsieur Barnave's name, to have the goodness to exchange their apartments for a suite on the floor below.

The king and queen interchanged glances. Should they stand upon their dignity and decline the courtesy of one deputy to punish the impertinence of the other- Possibly the king had some such intention; but the dauphin ran into the parlor, crying “Where is my friend Barnave- Where is my friend Barnave-”

The queen followed the dauphin, and the king followed the queen.

Barnave was not in the parlor. The door leading into the adjoining rooms was open, and the queen stepped inside. There were three bedrooms, as in the attic above; but they were larger, and comfortably, though not luxuriously, furnished.

Two or three times during the day the queen had uttered exclamations of admiration on passing some beautiful flower-garden; now she found her chamber adorned with the loveliest flowers, while the open windows allowed the too powerful fragrance of the blossoms to escape. Fresh white muslin curtains, too, at the windows concealed the fair prisoner from prying eyes.

It was Barnave who had attended to all this. The queen sighed: six years before, it was Charny who had made all this provision for her comfort. And Barnave had the delicacy not to present himself to be thanked. This, too, reminded her of Charny. But how was it that a petty country lawyer could be as thoughtful and attentive, and display the same delicacy, as the most elegant and distinguished gentleman of her court-

All this would certainly furnish a woman with abundant food for thought, even if that woman was a queen.

Meanwhile, what had become of Charny. He had quietly withdrawn, in obedience to a sign from the queen, and had not reappeared. Though duty chained him to the steps of his sovereigns, he did not regret this temporary dismissal, or even stop to ask himself the cause of it, as it afforded him a little time for solitude and reflection.

He had lived so rapidly during the past three days, — he had lived so entirely outside of himself, so to speak, so entirely for others, — that he was not sorry to forget their troubles for a while, and think of his own.

Charny was a gentleman of the old school, the head of his family above all things. He adored his brothers, to whom he had been a father rather than an elder brother.

On the death of his brother George his grief had been very deep, but at least he had been able to kneel beside the dead body and vent his sorrow in tears; besides, the other brother remained, and his entire affection was soon transferred to him, Isidore, who had become even dearer to him than before, during the months of Olivier's stay in Metz. During that time his brother and Andree were ever in his thoughts; for though we cannot explain the mystery, it is an indubitable fact that some hearts grow warmer, instead of colder, when separated, as if absence furnished fresh food for memory to thrive upon.

In fact, the less Charny saw of Andree, the more he thought of her; and to think more and more of Andree was to love her.

When he saw Andree, when he was near her, it seemed to him that he was near a statue of ice, which might melt, it is true, if exposed to the sunshine of love, but which kept itself sedulously in the shade, as if afraid that the sun would find it. When away from her, absence had its usual effect of enchantment, by softening the more glaring colors and too sharp outlines. Then, Andree’s cold and frigid manner became more animated, her calm and rather monotonous voice more sonorous, her shy, quiet glance imbued with a clear, even ardent, fire,-then it seemed, indeed, as if an inward fire illumined the soul of this fair statue, and enabled him to see the heart beat and the blood circulate through the alabaster flesh.

It was in these hours of solitude that Andree became in very truth the queen's rival. In the feverish gloom of night, Charny fancied he saw the walls of his room suddenly open, and this transparent statue approach, with outstretched arms, and quivering lips, and eyes radiant with love. Then Charny, too, would extend his arms and try to press the lovely phantom to his heart; but, alas! the phantom always eluded him. He embraced only empty air, and fell back, panting for breath, into the cold and gloomy reality.

Isidore had become more dear to Charny than George had ever been, and both had died for this fatal woman, for this hopeless cause. And for this same woman, and for this same cause, he, Charny, would unquestionably die some day in his turn.

During the two days which had elapsed since the death of his brother, and since that last embrace which had left his garments stained with blood and his lips moist with the victim's last sigh, Charny had scarcely had a moment in which he could give way to his grief. The sign from the queen that he was to hold himself aloof was consequently received as a favour, and he immediately set about hunting for some quiet nook not too far away from the royal family, where he could be alone with his sorrow. At last he found a small garret room at the top of the stairway which Malden and Valory were guarding. He entered it and closed the door; then, seating himself at a table on which a lamp was burning, he took from his pocket those blood-stained papers, the only remaining relics of his brother. With his forehead resting on his hands, and his eyes riveted on the letters, Charny sat a long time, with tears streaming down his cheeks and falling thick and fast upon the table.

At last he heaved a sigh, raised his head, picked up one of the letters, and opened it. It was from poor Catherine. For several months Charny had suspected his brother's relations with the farmer's daughter, but he did not attach to the affair the importance it deserved until after he had heard Billot's account of it.

His interest, too, was greatly increased by his perusal of Catherine's letter. He saw now that the title of mistress had been rendered sacred by the title of mother; and by the simple words in which the writer confessed her love, he could see that the entire life of the woman would be devoted to expiating the crime of the girl. He opened a second letter, and then a third. Each contained the same plans for the future, the same hopes of happiness, the same maternal joy, the same loving fears, the same regrets, and the same words of repentance.

Among the letters Charny suddenly came to one addressed to him in Andree’s handwriting. To this letter a folded paper was attached by a seal having Isidore's coat-of-arms.

This letter from Andree, found among Isidore's papers, seemed so strange that he opened the note attached to the letter, before opening the letter itself.

The note had been hastily written in pencil, probably upon a tavern table while some one was saddling a horse for him, and read as follows: -

This letter does not belong to me, but to my brother, Count Olivier de Charny. It was written by his wife, the countess. If any accident should happen to me, the finder of this paper is requested to send it to my brother, or else return it to the countess.

I received it from her with the following instructions: -

Should the count succeed in the undertaking in which he is engaged, and should no mishap befall him, the letter is to be returned to the countess.

If he should be badly wounded, but not unto death, he is to be requested to grant his wife the privilege of coining to him.

If he should be mortally wounded, this letter is to be given to him, and if he cannot read it himself, it is to be read to him, in order that he may know the secret it contains before he dies.

If the letter is sent to my brother Olivier, he will probably receive the note at the same time, and his own sense of delicacy will be the best guide as to the course ho should pursue in relation to these three requests.

I commend to his tenderest care poor Catherine Billot, who is now living in the village of Ville d'Avray, with my child.

Isidore De Charny.

The count read his brother's letter through to the end, slowly, carefully, and even reverently; then, picking up Madame de Charny's letter, he pressed it to his lips and then to his heart, as if it might thus communicate the secret it contained. Then he read Isidore's note again, and, shaking his head, said to himself in a low tone:”I have no right to open this letter, but I will entreat her to let me read it.”

Then, as if to strengthen himself in this resolve, he exclaimed:”No, I will not read it; I will not!”

He did not read it, but daylight found him still seated at the table, and still devouring with his gaze the superscription on the letter, moist with his breath, so often had he pressed it to his lips.

Suddenly, in the midst of the noise which indicated that the preparations for departure had begun, he heard Malden's voice calling him.

“Here I am,” responded the count, and, replacing poor Isidore's papers in his pocket, he kissed the unopened letter once more, placed it upon his heart, and hurried downstairs.

On the steps he met Barnave; who was inquiring how the queen felt, and requesting Valory to ascertain her wishes in regard to the hour of departure. It was easy to see that Barnave had slept no more than Charny himself.

The two men bowed to each other, and Charny could hardly have failed to notice the jealous light in Barnave's eyes, had he been able to think of anything besides the letter that was resting upon his heart.

CHAPTER C. VIA DOLOROSA.

On re-entering the coach, the king and queen saw with astonishment that only the population of the town had assembled to witness their departure, and that only a squad of cavalry was to accompany them.

This was still another attention from Barnave. He had noticed how greatly the queen had suffered the day before from heat and dust by reason of being compelled to travel so slowly, so he pretended he had received warning of an intended invasion, — that he had been informed that General Bouille' was about to re-enter France with fifty thousand Austrians, and that every man who could carry a musket, a scythe, or any other weapon would be needed to repel the invaders; so the rabble had hurried back to their homes.

In those days an intense hatred of foreigners pervaded France, — a hatred so powerful that it even exceeded the hatred that was felt towards the king and queen, and more especially towards the queen, whose greatest crime in the eyes of the people was that of being foreign born.

Marie Antoinette knew to whom she must owe this blessed relief, and she rewarded him with a grateful glance.

As she resumed her seat, she looked around for Charny. He was already on the top of the coach, only instead of sitting in the middle, as on the day previous, he had insisted upon changing places with Malden, who occupied a rather more exposed position; for, to tell the truth, Charny almost hoped that a wound would give him an excuse for opening the letter which seemed to be positively scorching his heart; and under these circumstances he very naturally failed to see that the queen was endeavouring to catch his eye.

The queen heaved a deep sigh. Barnave heard it, and, anxious to discover the cause, the young deputy paused on the carriage step and said:”Madame, I noticed yesterday that you were very much crowded in the coach. One passenger the less would make it much more comfortable, I am sure, and if you prefer I will ride in the other carriage with Maubourg, or I will follow you on horseback.”

Barnave when he was making this offer would willingly have given half the years of life remaining to him — and not many did remain — to have had this offer declined. It was declined.

“No, no,” exclaimed the queen hastily, “remain with us!” And the dauphin, stretching out his little hands to draw Barnave towards him, cried:”My friend Barnave, my friend Barnave, I don't want you to go away!”

Barnave's face was radiant as he took his former place in the carriage. He was hardly seated when the little dauphin of his own accord slipped out of his mother's lap and perched himself upon Barnave's knee. As the queen released her son she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

The dewy imprint of her lips lingered on the child's velvety skin, and Barnave gazed at the place as Tantalus must have gazed at the luscious fruits suspended above his head.

“Madame,” he said, addressing the queen, “will your Majesty deign to grant me the privilege of embracing the august prince, who, guided by the infallible intuition of childhood, calls me his friend-”

The queen nodded a smiling assent, and Barnave's lips fastened themselves with such ardour to the spot where the mother's lips had rested that the frightened child uttered a cry.

None of this by-play escaped the keen eye of the queen. Perhaps she had slept no better than Barnave and Charny; perhaps the unusual animation which brightened her eyes was caused by the fever that burned within her; but however this may have been, the roseate flush that suffused her cheeks transformed her into a dangerous siren, quite capable of drawing her adorers into an unfathomable abyss, with a single hair of her lovely head.

Thanks to Barnave's precautions, the coach moved on at the rate of about six miles an hour.

They stopped for dinner at Chateau-Thierry The house where they halted was charmingly situated on the bank of the river, and belonged to a wealthy tradeswoman who had not really expected to be so honoured, but who, hearing the evening before that the royal family was to pass through Chateau-Thierry, had despatched one of her clerks on horseback to offer the members of the Assembly, as well as the king and queen, the hospitalities of her dwelling; and the offer had been accepted.

As soon as the coach stopped, a large retinue of respectful and attentive servants indicated a very different reception from that at Dormans the night before. The king, the queen, Madame Elizabeth, and Madame de Tourzel and the two children were each conducted to separate apartments, where every provision had been made, not only for their comfort, but for a careful toilet, should they so desire.

The queen had met with no such thoughtfulness and consideration since she left Paris. The fastidious instincts of the woman were gratified by this delicate attention, and Marie Antoinette was beginning to appreciate such attentions; so she asked to see her kind hostess, in order that she might thank her.

A few minutes afterwards a well-preserved, still blooming woman of forty, dressed with great simplicity, presented herself. [Up to this time, modesty had prevented her from intruding upon her guests.

“Is it you, madame, who are the mistress of this house-” inquired the queen.

“Ah, madame,” this excellent woman replied, bursting into tears, “wherever her Majesty deigns to stop, whatever house she honours with her presence, wherever the queen is, the queen is sole mistress.”

Marie Antoinette glanced about the room to see if they were alone. Then, satisfied that no one could see or hear them, she said, taking the hand of the lady, drawing her towards her, and embracing her as she would have embraced a dear friend:”If you value our peace of mind and your own safety, calm yourself, and conceal these signs of grief; for if the cause is known, it might injure you greatly, and you must understand that if any misfortune should befall you on our account, it would greatly increase our sorrow. We may meet again some day, so restrain yourself, and thus enable me to keep a friend whose regard, as evinced to-day, will always be unspeakably precious to me.”1

After dinner their journey was resumed. The heat was overpowering, and the king, who had noticed that Madame Elizabeth, overcome with fatigue, had fallen asleep several times, insisted that the princess should take his place on the back seat, that being more comfortable. It was only at the express command of the king that Madame Elizabeth yielded, however.

Pe'tion listened to the entire conversation without once offering the princess his seat. Barnave shaded his face with his hand to conceal his blush of shame, but this did not prevent him from seeing the queen's half-sarcastic, half-melancholy smile.

At the end of an hour Madame Elizabeth's fatigue became so great that she fell into a deep sleep, losing consciousness so entirely that her angelic head, after dropping first on one side, and then on the other, finally sank until it found a resting-place on Pe'ton's shoulder. It was this that led the chivalrous deputy from Chartres to say, in the unpublished account of his journey, that this saintly creature became enamoured of his charms, and showed her amorous proclivities by laying her head upon his shoulder.

It is from the narrative of one of the body-guards who accompanied the king on this journey that we copy these words uttered by Marie Antoinette.

About four o'clock in the afternoon they reached Meaux, stopping at the bishop's palace, where Bossuet, the author of the “Thesis on Universal History,” had once lived, and where he had died eighty-seven years before. The ecclesiastical functionary who now occupied the palace was a strong Constitutionalist, as will soon become apparent from the manner in which he received and entertained the royal family. The queen was deeply impressed by the gloomy aspect of the building which she was about to enter, and which seemed indeed a fit asylum for the profound misery which now sought a shelter for the night within its walls. It was not like Versailles, where the grandeur of the place is due to its magnificence. The imposing effect of the palace at Meaux is due chiefly to its very simplicity. A broad path paved with brick leads up to the living apartments, which open upon a garden, for which the ramparts of the city serve as a support, or rather foundation. The lofty church tower, shrouded from top to bottom with ivy, casts its shadow over this garden, and from it by a path bordered with holly one can reach the room which was once the study of the eloquent bishop of Meaux, and from which he uttered those warnings which presaged the downfall of monarchies.

The queen glanced at the gloomy building, and its aspect seemed to harmonize so well with her state of mind that she said, turning to Barnave, who happened to be standing near her: -

“Give me your arm, monsieur, and have the goodness to serve as my guide through this old palace. I really dare not venture into it alone. I should be afraid of hearing that grand voice which once startled all Christendom with the cry, 'Madame is dying I Madame is dead I'“

Barnave hastily approached, and offered his arm to the queen with mingled eagerness and deference. Vol. in.-6

But the queen cast still another glance around before accepting it, for Charny's continued absence annoyed her. Barnave, whose keen eye seemed to see everything, noticed the look.

“Does the queen desire anything-” he asked.

“I was only wondering where the king is.”

“He is granting Monsieur Pe'tion the honour of a few moments' private conversation, I believe, madame.”

The queen seemed satisfied; but in a moment, as if anxious to divert her thoughts, she added hastily, “Come, monsieur,” and led Barnave as swiftly through the old part of the palace as if she were being pursued by some grim phantom, and dared not look either before or behind her. On reaching the chamber of the famous divine she paused, almost breathless. By the merest chance she found herself directly in front of a large portrait of a woman, and, raising her eyes mechanically, she read upon the frame the name, “Madame Henriette.”

She gave a violent start. Barnave noticed it, but did not understand the cause of it.

“Is your Majesty ill-” he asked.

“No, — but that portrait,” gasped the queen.

Barnave could imagine now what was passing in the poor woman's mind.

“Yes, Madame Henriette,” he remarked, “not the widow of the unfortunate Charles I, of England, but their daughter, the wife of that faithless Philippe of Orleans; not the Henriette who thought she should perish of cold in the Louvre, but the Henriette who died of poison at St.-Cloud, and who on her death-bed sent her ring to Bossuet -”

Then, after an instant's hesitation, he added:”I wish it were a portrait of the other Henriette.”

“And why-”

“Because there are some lips that can alone venture to give certain counsels; and these lips are, above all, those that are closed in death.”

“Can you tell me what counsel the lips of the widow of Charles I. would be likely to give me, monsieur-”

“If your Majesty desires it, I will try.”

“Do so.”

“It seems to me those lips would say: 'My sister, do you not see the resemblance between us- I came from a foreign land, as you did. I might have given my deluded husband good advice, but I either kept silence or gave him evil counsel. Instead of trying to reconcile him to his people and to reconcile his people to him, I incited him to wage war upon them. I advised him to march upon London with an army of Irish protestants. I not only carried on a correspondence with the enemies of England, but went to France twice in order to make arrangements for bringing a foreign army into the country. At last — '“Barnave hesitated.”Go on!” commanded the queen, with frowning brow and lips compressed.

“Why continue, madame-”responded the young deputy, shaking his head sadly.”You know the end of the tragical story quite as well as I do.”

“Well, then, I will tell you what the portrait of Queen Henrietta says to me, so you can tell me wherein I am at fault. At last the Scotch betrayed and delivered up their king. Charles I. was arrested as he was about to cross the Channel, with the intention of entering France. A tailor arrested him; a butcher conducted him to prison; a brewer presided over the court that tried him; and in order that no odious feature might be lacking in his most iniquitous trial and the execution of its sentence, the royal victim was beheaded by a masked executioner. That is what Queen Henriette's portrait would say to me. Good Heavens! I know all this as well as anybody else can. I know that nothing is wanting to complete this fatal resemblance. We, too, have our brewer, only his name is Santerre instead of Cromwell; we, too, have our butcher, only we call him Legendre, I believe, instead of Harrison. There, you have heard what Queen Henriette says to me.”

“And what is your reply-”

“I answer her thus: It is not advice you give me, my poor, dear princess; it is a course of history. The course of history is completed, and now I await your counsel.”

“Oh, as to counsel, madame, if you would not refuse to follow it, there would be living as well as dead persons who would be glad to give it.”

“Living or dead, let those who ought to speak do so. Who knows but if the advice be good, it will be followed-”

“Ah, madame, the living and the dead have the same advice to give you.”

“And that is-”

“To make the people love you.”

“And is it such an easy matter to win the love of your people-”

“Why, madame, these people are much more yours than mine. Surely you need no better proof of it than that the people adored you on your arrival in France.”

“Popularity is a very fragile thing, monsieur.”

“But, madame, if I, an unknown man, from an obscure and humble sphere in life, have been able to gain no little popularity, how much more easy would it be for you to retain it, or even regain it! But no,” continued Barnave, becoming more and more earnest, “your cause, the monarchical cause, the noblest and holiest of causes,- to whom have you confided it- To what voices and what hands have you intrusted its defence- Oh, how blind, how utterly blind its adherents have been to the signs of the times! How oblivious to the real sentiments of the people! Oh, bear with me, who have so long craved the opportunity I am now enjoying of speaking to you! How often I have been on the point of offering you my devotion, my -”

“Hush, some one is coming!” interrupted the queen.”We will talk of this some other time, Monsieur Barnave; I will see you again, listen to your advice, and perhaps follow it.”

“Ah, madame, madame!” exclaimed Barnave, in a transport of delight.

“Hush!”repeated the queen.

“Your Majesty, dinner is ready,” said the servant, whose footsteps the queen had just heard approaching.

They entered the dining-room. The king had come in from another apartment, where he had had a long conversation with Pe'tion, and his Majesty seemed greatly excited.

The two guardsmen claimed the privilege of waiting upon their Majesties, as usual. Charny was standing a little further off in the embrasure of a window.

The king glanced around him, and, taking advantage of a moment when no outsider was present, he remarked to the three gentlemen:”After supper I must have a short conversation with you. You will follow me to my room, if you please.”

The meal began, but though it was served in the palace of one of the chief bishoprics in the kingdom, the table was meagerly spread. The king, who always had a good appetite, ate heartily, in spite of the poor fare. The queen ate only a couple of fresh eggs.

All day the dauphin, who was still far from well, had been begging for strawberries; but the poor child was no longer with those who hastened to gratify his slightest wish. When he asked for strawberries again at the table, he was told that there were none, or that there were none to be had, though all along the road he had seen peasant children eating whole handfuls of ripe luscious berries, which they had picked by the roadside. This longing which she had not been able to gratify troubled the queen; and when the child refused to eat what was set before him, and again begged for the berries, tears filled the eyes of the helpless mother.

Glancing about for some one to whom she could appeal, she saw Charny standing by the window, silent and motion less. She beckoned to him once — twice; but, deeply engrossed with his own thoughts, he failed to notice her gesture. At last, in a voice hoarse with emotion, she called him by his full name and title.

Charny started violently, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, and made a movement to approach the queen; but at that very instant the door opened, and Barnave entered with a plate of strawberries in his hand.

“The queen will pardon me, I trust, for thus intruding, and the king as well,” he remarked;”but I heard the dauphin ask for strawberries several times to-day, and seeing these on the bishop's table, I appropriated them for him.”

Meanwhile Charny had been making his way towards the queen, but she did not give him time to reach her.

“Thanks, count,” she said to him, “but Monsieur Bar- nave has anticipated my wishes, and I need nothing further.”

Charny bowed and returned to his place without a word.

“Thank you, my dear Barnave,” cried the dauphin.

“Our dinner is not particularly tempting, my dear Monsieur Barnave,” said the king,” but you will confer a great favor upon the queen and myself by sharing it with us.”

“An invitation from the king is a command,” replied Barnave.”Where does your Majesty wish me to sit-”

“Between the queen and the dauphin,” answered the king.

Barnave obeyed, almost beside himself with pride and delight.

Charny looked on without the slightest feeling of jealousy; but as he saw this poor butterfly singeing his wings in the blaze of royalty, he said to himself:”Another man ruined. It is too bad, for he's decidedly better than the majority of them.”

Then, returning to the subject that was ever uppermost in his mind now, he murmured, “That letter! that letter! What can there be in that letter-''

CHAPTER CI. CALVARY.

After dinner, the three officers repaired to the king's chamber, as they had been requested to do.

Madame Royale, the dauphin, and Madame de Tourzel had retired to their own rooms. The king, the queen, and Madame Elizabeth were evidently waiting for them.

As soon as the young officers entered, the king said:”Monsieur de Charny, will you do me the favour to lock the door, so that no one can interrupt us, for I have a very important communication to make. Yesterday, at Dormans, Monsieur Pe'tion suggested to me that you officers should make your escape in disguise. At first, both the queen and myself were opposed to this plan, for fear the proposal was a trap, and that he was merely trying to entice you away from us in order to assassinate you or surrender you to some provincial court that would condemn you to death. The queen and I consequently took it upon ourselves to decline this proposal; but to-day Monsieur Pe'tion has been urging it again, and I feel it my duty to tell you what he apprehends and what he proposes.”

“Sire, before your Majesty proceeds any further,” interrupted Charny, -”and I speak not only for myself

but for my brother officers, for I feel sure I express their

sentiments as well, — before going any further, will the

king promise to grant us one favour-”“Gentlemen,” responded the king, “your devotion has

very nearly cost you your lives again and again during the last three days. You have shared the ignominy into which we are plunged, and the insults which have been heaped upon us; consequently you not only have the right to ask a favour, but you need only make your wishes known to insure their immediate fulfilment, if it be in our power to grant them.”

“Then, sire, we humbly but most earnestly implore your Majesty, whatever the proposal made by the deputies may be, to leave us free to accept or decline their offer as we see fit.”

“I give you my word that I will bring no pressure to bear upon you in this matter, gentlemen. The decision shall be left entirely to you.”

“Then we will gladly listen, sire,” responded Charny.

The queen gazed at him in astonishment. She could not understand the growing indifference she noticed in him. She found it so difficult to reconcile it with his evident determination not to flinch from what he felt to be his duty.

“Now, with the full understanding that the decision is to be left unreservedly to you, I will state Pe'tion's plan to you in as nearly his own words as possible. As soon as we reach Paris, he says, the lives of the three officers in attendance upon me will be in imminent peril, for neither he nor Barnave nor Maubourg can guarantee to protect them from the fury of the populace.”

Charny glanced at his brother officers. A contemptuous smile wreathed their lips.”And what of that, sire-” he asked.

“Pe'tion therefore proposes to procure three uniforms like those worn by the National Guards, and to have the doors of this palace left open to-night, so that each of you will have no difficulty in making his escape.”

Charny again glanced at his companions, but their only answer was the same contemptuous smile.

“Sire,” he said, turning again to the king, “our days have been consecrated to your Majesties; and as you have deigned to accept our devotion, it will be easier for us to die for you than to live apart from you. Do us the favour to treat us hereafter exactly as you have treated us in the past. Of all your court, of all your army, of all your guards, three hearts remain faithful to you. Do not deprive them of the only glory to which they now aspire, — that of remaining faithful to the last.”

“So be it, gentlemen,” responded the queen.”We accept your devotion, but only, you understand, on condition that henceforth everything must be in common between us. You are no longer our subjects, but our friends and brothers. I need not ask you to tell me your names,” — she drew her tablets from her pocket as she spoke, -”for I know them well; but give me the names of your fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters. We may not only be so unfortunate as to lose you, but also to survive your deaths. It will then be my duty to inform these loved ones of our mutual loss, and at the same time to do all I can to help them to bear their sorrow. Speak, Monsieur de Malden, speak, Monsieur de Valory. In case of your death, — and we are so near the reality that we certainly should not shrink from the name, — what relatives and friends would you specially commend to our tender care and eternal gratitude-”

Malden mentioned his mother, an aged and infirm lady residing on a small estate near Blois; Valory, his sister, an orphan girl, at school in a convent at Soissons.

Certainly there could be no stronger or more courageous hearts than those of these two young men; yet as the queen wrote down the addresses of Madame de Malden and Mademoiselle de Valory, both the guardsmen failed in their efforts to restrain their tears, and the queen was obliged to suspend her writing more than once in order to dry her eyes.

When she had finished jotting down these addresses, she turned to Charny and said:”Alas! monsieur, I know only too well that you have no near relatives to commend to our care. Your father and mother are both dead, your two brothers also -”

Here, the queen's voice failed her utterly.

“Yes, madame, my two brothers had the good fortune to suffer death in defending your Majesty,” added Charny;”but the last to die left a babe which he commended to my care in a sort of will found among his papers. The mother of this child is a young girl whom he enticed away from her parents, who are not likely to ever forgive her. As long as I live neither she nor her child shall ever know want; but, as your Majesty just remarked, we are face to face with death, and if I am struck down, the poor girl and her babe will be without resources; so, madame, deign to inscribe upon your tablets the name of a poor peasant girl; and if I should have the honour to die for my august master and mistress, like my two brothers, extend your generosity to Catherine Billot and her infant, both of whom are to be found in the little village of Ville d'Avray.”

Probably the thought of Charny dying as his brothers had died was too much for Marie Antoinette's composure, for she uttered a faint cry, and, dropping her tablets, sank into an arm-chair. Charny picked up the tablets, wrote the name of Catherine Billot upon them, and placed them on the mantel-piece.

The queen made a powerful effort to recover her composure, and the young officers, thinking she must desire to be alone after such a paroxysm of emotion, prepared to withdraw; but, extending her hand towards them, she said: -

“Gentlemen, you will not leave me, I hope, without kissing my hand.”

The two guardsmen advanced in the same order in which they had given the names and addresses, Monsieur de Malden first, then Monsieur de Valory. Charny came last. The queen trembled as she awaited his kiss,-the kiss for whose sake alone she had offered her hand to the other officers; but the count's lips scarcely grazed that beautiful hand, for with Andree’s letter resting upon his heart it seemed to him that he would be guilty of sacrilege in pressing the queen's hand to his lips.

Marie Antoinette heaved a sigh that was almost a groan. Never before had she realised how rapidly the gulf between her and her lover had widened day by day.

The next morning, Maubourg and Barnave, ignorant of what had taken place the evening before, again proposed that the three officers should at least don the uniform worn by the National Guards; but this they positively refused to do. So Barnave had boards fastened on each side of the upper seat, in order that two gendarmes might occupy the extra places, and so protect the king's obstinate attendants, if possible.

They left Meaux at ten o'clock in the morning. They would soon be in Paris, from which they had now been absent five days. Five days! But an unfathomable abyss had been created in those five days.

They were not more than three miles from Meaux before their cortege assumed a more terrible aspect than ever before. The populace from the suburbs of Paris had begun to swell the ranks. Barnave ordered the postilions to drive at a brisk trot; but the National Guards of Claye barred the way with their bayonets, and to attempt to force a passage through the obstruction would have been the height of imprudence. Even the queen realised the danger, and implored the deputies to do nothing that was likely to increase the fury of the populace.

Soon the crowd became so dense that the horses could scarcely move at all. Never had the weather been so hot. It was not air one breathed, but fire.

The impertinent curiosity of the people pursued the king and queen into the furthermost corners of the coach, where they endeavoured to find a refuge. Men climbed upon the steps and put their heads inside the carriage. Some climbed upon the top of the coach, others got astride the horses.

It was a miracle that Charny and his two companions were not killed a dozen times, for the two gendarmes were not able to parry every blow. They begged and threatened and implored in vain; they even commanded the rabble to desist in the name of the National Assembly; but their voices were drowned in a frenzied chorus of yells and shouts and vituperations.

An advance guard of more than two thousand men preceded the coach; a rear guard of over four thousand followed it.

As they approached still nearer to Paris, the very air seemed to fail them, as if it had all been absorbed by the great city; and the vehicle moved on under the glaring sun in a cloud of dust, each atom of which resembled a speck of pounded glass.

Two or three times the queen sank back, exclaiming that she was suffocating. At Bourget the king became so pale that they feared he was ill. He called for a glass of wine; his heart was failing him. A little more, and they might have given him, as they did Christ, a sponge soaked in gall and vinegar. In fact, the suggestion was made, but, fortunately, it was not favourably received.

At last they reached Villette. There were men and women and children every where. The crowd far exceeded computation. The pavement was so densely packed that the people standing on it could not move. The doorways, windows, and roofs were tilled with people. The trees bent beneath their burden of living fruit.

The people almost without exception wore their hats, principally, doubtless, because the following notice had been posted all over the city the night before: -

“Any person who salutes the king shall be flogged;

Any person who insults him shall be hanged.”

All this was so alarming that the commissioners of the National Assembly dared not enter the Faubourg St. Martin, a street full of obstructions, and consequently of danger, — an unfortunate street, a gloomy street, a street noted in the annals of assassination since the terrible death of Berthier. So it was decided to enter the city by the Champs Elysees, though to do this it would be necessary for the procession to make the circuit of the city by way of the outer boulevards.

This meant three more hours of torture; and the torture was so intolerable that the queen begged them to take a shorter route, even though it might be more dangerous.

Twice she endeavoured to lower the curtains; but each time the ominous mutterings of the crowd compelled her to raise them.

At the barrier, a large company of grenadiers surrounded the carriage. Several marched close to the windows, thus obstructing these openings almost entirely with their big bearskin caps.

At last, about six o'clock, a guard appeared just beyond the walls of the Monceau Garden, bringing with them three pieces of artillery. This guard was composed of cavalry and infantry; but the crowds on either side encroached upon it to such an extent that it was almost impossible for the soldiers to keep in the ranks and maintain any sort of order in their advance.

This was the third time Louis XVI. had entered his capital by this fatal gate. He first came in that way after the taking of the Bastille; the second time, on that terrible sixth of October; the third time,-this time,-after his flight to Varennes.

All Paris, hearing that the procession was approaching by the Neuilly road, hastened to the Champs Elysees; so when the king and queen reached the gate, they saw a vast sea of human faces, extending as far as the eye could reach, -a vast sea of silent, gloomy, sullen, threatening faces. But more frightful, or at least more ominous perhaps than all else, was the double line of National Guards, extending from the gate to the Tuileries, all holding their muskets reversed, in token of mourning.

It was indeed a day of mourning, — mourning for a dynasty of seven centuries. This coach which rolled slowly along through the crowd was a funeral chariot conveying royalty to its grave.

On seeing the long lines of National Guards, the soldiers who accompanied the coach waved their weapons in the air and shouted:”Long live the Nation!”

This was the cry of fraternity that went up all over France. Only one family — the family that had tried to escape from France — was excluded from that fraternity.

As the cortege entered Place Louis Quinze, now known as the Place de la Concorde, the king noticed that some one had bandaged the eyes of his ancestor's statue.

“What is the meaning of that-” inquired Louis, turning to Barnave.

“I do not know, sire,” was the reply.

“I do,” said Pe'tion;”it is intended to illustrate the total blindness of the monarchy.”

Two or three times during the journey, in spite of the armed escort, in spite of the presence of the commissioners, in spite of the notices which forbade any one to insult the king, under penalty of hanging, the mob broke through the line of grenadiers, and the queen saw the hideous, cruel, leering faces appear at the windows, — faces of such men as only occasionally appear on the surface of society, like those monsters which rise to the surface of the ocean only in times of storm and tempest.

At first, she was so terrified by the sight that she hastily lowered one of the windows.

“What are you putting down the window for-” roared a dozen furious voices.

“Look at my poor children, gentlemen,” pleaded the queen.”See what a pitiable condition they are in. We are suffocating,” she added, as she wiped off the perspiration that was streaming down their cheeks.

“Bah! that's nothing,” responded a coarse voice.”Never mind about that; we'll suffocate you in another fashion pretty soon.”

And a blow of the fist shattered the glass into fragments.

Nevertheless, there were a few instances of devotion and affection that would have consoled the king and queen a little, had they come under their observation.

In spite of the posters forbidding any demonstration of respect to the king, Monsieur Guilhermy, a member of the Assembly, uncovered himself as the monarch passed; and when they tried to compel him to put his hat on, he threw it a long distance from him, and exclaimed:”Now let me see who dares to bring it back to me.”

At the entrance to the swinging bridge leading into the palace gardens, they found a delegation of twenty deputies who had been appointed to receive and protect the royal prisoners.

Then, Lafayette and his staff appeared.

“Oh, monsieur, save our body-guards!” the queen exclaimed, as soon as she saw him.

This was no idle request, for danger was at hand, and great danger, too.

Meanwhile, quite a romantic scene was taking place at the gate of the palace.

Five or six of the queen's personal attendants who had left the Tuileries after the departure of the royal family, believing the queen had gone away forever, wished to re- enter the palace, in order to make proper arrangements for her reception.

“Clear out!” cried the sentinels, pointing their bayonets at the ladies.

“Slaves of that Austrian woman!” yelled the fish-wives, shaking their fists savagely.

Braving them all, a sister of Madame Campan stepped forward and exclaimed:”Listen to me. Ever since the queen was fifteen years old I have been in her service. She gave me my dowry and provided my wedding outfit. I served her when she was rich and powerful; I leave it to you if I ought to abandon her now misfortune has overtaken her.”

“She is right. Let her pass, soldiers!” yelled the crowd; and at this order from rulers that brooked no contradiction the ranks opened and the women passed into the palace.

A few minutes later, the queen saw them waving their handkerchiefs from the windows of the palace.

Meanwhile, the coach rolled on, driving a huge crowd of people and a cloud of dust before it, as a ship forces its way through the waves and foam; and the comparison is the more striking from the fact that never were mariners threatened by a more tempestuous and turbulent sea than that which was preparing to engulf this unfortunate family on their arrival at the Tuileries, which they regarded as a haven of refuge.

At last the carriage stopped. They had reached the foot of the main terrace.

“Oh, gentlemen, our body-guards, do not let them kill our body-guards!” exclaimed the queen, appealing to Pe'tion and Barnave this time.

“Is there any one you especially desire to commend to our protection-” inquired Barnave.

The queen looked him full in the face with unflinching eyes.

“No one,” she replied promptly.

Then she insisted that the king and the children should get out of the carriage first.

The next ten minutes were the most trying of her life, not even excepting those when she was being led to execution. She felt certain, not that she should be assassinated, — death was nothing, — but that she should be given over to the mob for a plaything, or be incarcerated in some prison from which she would emerge only for an ignominious and disgraceful trial.

So, as she placed her foot on the carriage steps, protected by an arch of the muskets and bayonets of the National Guards, formed by Barnave's order above her head, a sensation of dizziness made her feel for an instant as if she were falling to the ground; but as her eyes were about to close she saw, or fancied she saw, standing in front of her that dread personage who had so mysteriously lifted the veil of futurity for her at the Chateau Taverney years before, the man she had seen only once since that time, — on her return from Versailles on October 6th, — the man who appeared only to predict some great catastrophe, or at the hour these predictions were being fulfilled.

When she was sure that her eyes did not deceive her, she closed them again, and uttered a cry of despair. She could fight bravely against realities, but she felt incapable of struggling against this sinister influence.

The earth seemed to give way beneath her feet, and the crowd, the trees, the burning sky, the grim palace walls whirled wildly around and around. Strong arms seized her, and she felt herself being borne swiftly along through a yelling, hooting throng. Just at that instant, she fancied she heard the voices of the body-guards trying to divert the fury of the populace from her and turn it upon themselves. She re-opened her eyes for an instant, and saw the unfortunate men dragged from their seats on the coach. Pale and handsome as ever, Charny was struggling alone against ten men, with the martyr light in his eyes, and a disdainful smile upon his lips. Then, as she involuntarily glanced up in the face of the person who was bearing her through this frightful maelstrom, she perceived with terror that it was the same mysterious man she had seen at Taverney and the Sevres Bridge.

“You! you!” she exclaimed, trying to push him away with her rigid hands.

“Yes, I!” he whispered.”I have need of thee to drive the monarchy to utter ruin, — therefore I save thee!”

This was more than she could bear, and, uttering a shriek, she fell into a deep swoon. Meanwhile, the rabble were trying to cut Charny and Malden and Valory to pieces, and lauding Drouet and Billot to the skies.

CHAPTER CII. THE ARRIVAL.

When the queen recovered consciousness she found herself in her chamber in the palace. Her two favourite waiting- women, Madame de Misery and Madame Campan, were beside her.

Her first inquiry was for the dauphin. He was asleep in his own room, watched over by Madame de Tourzel, his governess, and Madame Brunier. But this assurance did not satisfy the queen, and she sprang up and hastened to her son's apartment.

The child had been terribly frightened, and had wept bitterly; but his attendants had at last succeeded in quieting him, and he was now sleeping quite peacefully, though an occasional start showed what a shock his nervous system had sustained.

For a long time the queen stood by the side of the bed, gazing at the child with tearful eyes.

The frightful words uttered by that terrible man still rang in her ears:”I have need of thee to drive the monarchy to utter ruin, therefore I save thee.”

Was this true- Was it indeed she who was urging the monarchy on to destruction- It must be so if her enemies had preserved her because she could accomplish the work of destruction more quickly and effectually than they themselves could do it.

Would this abyss into which she was plunging the monarchy close again after swallowing up the king, or must her two children also be cast into the gulf- Was it not innocence that could alone appease the vengeance of the gods in ancient times- And though Jehovah prevented Abraham's sacrifice of his son Isaac, did he not afterwards accept the immolation of Jephthah's daughter-

These were gloomy thoughts for a queen, but gloomier still for a mother.

At last she shook her head sadly, and returned to her own room. Then for the first time she noticed the disorder of her attire. Her clothing was sadly rumpled, and also badly torn in many places. Her shoes had been cut by the sharp stones of the pavement over which she had been dragged, and she was covered with dust. She called for a bath, and some shoes and fresh clothing.

Barnave had called twice to inquire for her. Madame Campan looked much surprised as she mentioned these visits.

“You will thank him most kindly, madame,” said the queen, and Madame Campan looked more and more astonished.

“We are under great obligations to this gentleman,” said the queen, deigning to give her reasons,-a very unusual thing with her.

“But I always thought that Monsieur Barnave was a man of the people, a demagogue who hesitated at nothing to carry his point.”

“That may be true, madame. But it is a feeling of ambition which I cannot but admire which has led him to scruple at nothing to advance the interests of the class to which he belongs. There is no excuse for the nobility who have espoused the Revolutionary cause; but if we ever regain power, Barnave's pardon is granted in advance. Go now, and try to find out something in regard to Monsieur de Malden and Monsieur de Valory.”

She longed to add Charny's name to these two, but her lips refused to utter it.

Some one came in to say that the queen's bath was ready. During the brief time which had elapsed since her visit to the dauphin, sentinels had been stationed everywhere in the palace, even at the door of the queen's bedroom and bathroom. It was with great difficulty that she finally induced these guards to leave the door closed while she took her bath.

The following is Prudhomme's allusion to this incident in his “Paris Revolutions:” -

“Some kind-hearted patriots, in whom the sentiment of compassion is more strong than that of loyalty, have felt considerable anxiety in regard to the mental and physical condition of Louis XVI. since his return from his unfortunate journey.

“They can cease to trouble themselves. The above-mentioned gentleman, on his return to his old quarters, Saturday evening, seemed in quite as good condition as after one of his hunting-expeditions. He ate his chicken as usual, and the next day, after dinner, enjoyed a romp with his son.

“As for the mother, she took a bath as soon as she arrived. The first thing she did was to call for some shoes, taking care to show how dilapidated those she had worn during her journey had become. She conducted herself very arrogantly towards the officers who had been appointed her special guardians, and thought it ridiculous and indecent that she should be obliged to leave the door of her bathroom and of her bedroom open.”

Do you observe that this royal monster really committed the unpardonable crime of eating a chicken when he reached home, and of playing with his little son the next day-

Think, too, of this Sybarite who positively took a bath after a five days' journey! This extravagant creature who asked for another pair of shoes to replace those worn out during her journey! This Messalina who, thinking it ridiculous and indecent that she should be obliged to leave the doors of her bathroom and bedroom open, asked the guards for permission to close them!

Ah, Monsieur Journalist, you seem to me very much like a man who eats chicken only on feast-days, who has no children, who never takes a bath, and wends his way to the National Assembly with his toes out of his shoes.

Braving all the scandal such a deed might occasion, the queen took her bath, after obtaining permission to close her door; but the sentinel did not fail to improve his opportunity to taunt Madame Campan with being an aristocrat, when she returned with such information as she had been able to gather.

The news was much less terrible than they had feared.

On their way through the Champs Elysees, Charny and his companions had devised a plan to protect the royal family by attracting the attention of the infuriated populace to themselves. It was accordingly agreed that as soon as the coach reached its destination, one officer should spring off on the right side, and another on the left, while the one who sat in the middle should scramble down in front. In this way the attention of the crowd would be divided, and the way perhaps left clear for the king and queen to enter the palace in safety.

When the carriage stopped at the foot of the terrace, the would-be assassins were in such a hurry to seize their prey that they rushed in front of the horses, and two were badly hurt; so, for a minute or two, the grenadiers who were on the box were able to protect the officers, but the grenadiers themselves were soon pulled to the ground.

This gave the three officers the opportunity they had been waiting for. All three jumped down quickly, but not so quickly as to fail to overturn five or six men who had climbed upon the wheels and steps with the intention of pulling the officers down.

Malden had hardly touched the ground before he found himself under the axes of two sappers, who stood with their weapons raised, ready to strike the guardsmen as soon as they could do so without injuring any one else. By a rapid and violent movement Malden succeeded in freeing himself from the grasp of some men who had seized him by the collar; then, folding his arms, he cried, “Strike!”

One of the two axes remained lifted. The victim's courage had fairly paralysed one assassin. The other axe fell; but as it fell, it encountered the barrel of a musket which turned it aside, so only the edge grazed Malden's neck, inflicting a slight wound.

Then he bent his head and rushed straight at the bystanders, who involuntarily stepped back to let him pass; and a few steps further on he ran into a little group of officers, who, to save him, pushed him through to the other side of the line of National Guards, who were making a way from the coach to the palace for the royal prisoners. At that very moment Lafayette caught sight of Malden; and, urging his horse towards him, the general grasped him by the collar, and drew him close to one side of his horse, thus endeavouring to shield him (Malden) by his own popularity. But Malden called out:”Never mind me. Attend to the royal family, and leave me to these curs.”.

And Lafayette did release him; for, seeing a man just then who seemed to be carrying off the queen, he rushed in that direction.

Malden was then knocked down by some, and helped up by others. Some persons attacked him; others defended him. At last, covered with blood and bruises, he reached the gate of the palace. There an officer, seeing he was about to succumb, seized him by the collar, and, dragging him roughly along, exclaimed:”It's a shame to let a scoundrel like this die such an easy death. Some special torture ought to be invented for such wretches. Leave him to me, I’ll attend to him!”

So he continued to abuse Malden and to shout, “Come along here, you rascal! Come along! You've got me to deal with now!” until he got him in a dark corner, when he said:”Run, monsieur, and forgive my ruse to get you out of the hands of those cut-throats.”

So Malden had then darted up the steps of the palace and disappeared.

Valory's experience had been of a somewhat similar nature. He had received several wounds in the head; but just as a score of bayonets and as many sabres and daggers were uplifted to put an end to his life, Pe'tion sprang forward and confronted the assassins.

“In the name of the National Assembly, I declare you unworthy of the name of Frenchmen,” he exclaimed, “if you don't stand aside this instant and let this man alone. I am Pe'tion.”

Pe'tion's rough exterior concealed a really honest and courageous heart, and the assassins, shrinking from his just indignation, slunk away, leaving Valory in his hands. Then Pe'tion helped him upon his feet, — for, exhausted by the rough treatment he had received, Valory was hardly able to stand without assistance,-and conducted him as far as the line of National Guards, where he delivered him into the charge of an aide-de-camp, who got him safely into the palace.

At that very moment Pe'tion heard Barnave shouting to him for help, as he found himself unable to defend Charny without assistance.

The count had been seized by a score of sturdy arms and dragged roughly along through the dirt; but he managed to regain his feet and to wrench a bayonet from a gun, and so make his way through the crowd for a little distance; but he would soon have been overpowered and killed if first Barnave and then Pe'tion had not come to his assistance.

The queen listened to her attendant's report while still in her bath; but Campan, who had not heard all the particulars, could give her positive information only in regard to Malden and Valory, who had both been seen in the palace; but though the rescue of Charny by Barnave and Pe'tion was well authenticated, the count had not been seen to enter the palace.

When Madame Campan said this, such a deadly pallor overspread the queen's face that her attendant, thinking it had been caused by a fear lest some terrible misfortune had befallen the count, exclaimed:”Your Majesty need not despair of the count's safety because he has not been seen in the palace. The queen is doubtless aware that Madame de Charny is still residing in Paris, and perhaps the count has found a refuge with his wife.”

This was the very idea that had occurred to Marie Antoinette and made her turn so pale. She sprang out of her bath, crying:”Dress me, Cam pan, dress me at once. I must find out what has become of the count!”

“What count-” inquired Madame de Misery, who happened to come in just then.

“Monsieur de Charny.”

“He is now in your Majesty's ante-chamber, and solicits the honour of a brief interview.”

“Ah,” murmured the queen.”So he has kept his word!”

The two ladies exchanged wondering glances, having no idea what the queen meant. Trembling, and apparently incapable of uttering another word, she motioned them to make haste.

Never was a toilet completed more quickly. It is true, however, that the queen contented herself with having her hair, which had been washed in perfumed water, to cleanse it from the dust, twisted into a simple knot, and with slipping a white dressing-gown over her under-garments. Then, white as the gown she wore, she returned to her boudoir and gave orders that the count should be admitted immediately.

CHAPTER CIII. A PARTHIAN THRUST.

A Moment afterwards a footman announced, “Monsieur le Comte de Charny,” and that gentleman appeared in the doorway, illumined by the golden reflection of a ray of the setting sun.

Like the queen, he had spent the time since his return to the palace in removing the traces of his long journey and of the terrible struggle through which he had just passed.

He had donned his old uniform, that is to say, the uniform of a captain in the navy, with red facings and lace shirt-frill. It was the very costume he had worn the day he met the queen and Andree de Taverney in the Place du Palais Royal, and subsequently escorted them back to Versailles.

Never had the count had such an air of distinction, nor looked so calm and handsome; and as she gazed at him, the queen could hardly believe this was the man who had so narrowly escaped being torn in pieces by the mob an hour before.

“Oh, monsieur!” the queen exclaimed, “they must have told you how anxious I felt on your account, and how I sent everywhere to make inquiries concerning you.”

“Yes, madame,” answered Charny, bowing;”but you may rest assured that I did not go to my room until I had learned through your ladies that you were safe and well.”

“I am told that you owe your life to Pe'tion and Barnave. Is this true- And am I consequently under still greater obligations to Barnave-”

“It is true, madame, and I am under a twofold obligation to Monsieur Barnave; for after refusing to leave me until he had seen me safe in my own room, he had the goodness to tell me that you had alluded to me in the most kindly terms during our journey homeward.”

“Indeed, count-”

“Yes, madame, and that you had called the king's attention to the anxiety your old friend Andree must feel on account of my prolonged absence. Though I by no means agree with you concerning the liveliness of her solicitude, still -”

He paused, for the queen's face, which had been pale when he began, was now absolutely livid.

“Still -”repeated the queen.

“Still, without accepting unreservedly the leave of absence you propose offering me, I should be very glad, now I am assured of the safety of the king, of yourself, and of the entire royal family, to report “my well-being in person to the Comtesse de Charny.”

The queen pressed her hand upon her heart, as if to satisfy herself that its throbbings had not been for ever hushed by the blow it had just received; then in a dry, rasping voice she said: -

“It is indeed only right and proper, monsieur; only I am asking myself why you have neglected this important duty so long.”

“The queen forgets that I pledged my word not to see the countess again without the royal permission.”

“And you come to ask that permission-”

“Yes, madame, and I entreat your Majesty to grant it.”

“Though in your present extreme eagerness to see Madame de Charny again, you might conclude to dispense with this permission altogether. Am I not right-”

“I think the queen is unjust to me,” replied Charny.”When I left Paris I supposed I was leaving it for years, if not for ever. During the entire journey, I did everything in my power to make the plan a success. Nor was it my fault, as your Majesty will recollect, that I did not lay down my life like my brother at Varennes, or be torn in pieces like Monsieur Dampierre, along the road or in the garden of the Tuileries. If I had been so fortunate as to have got your Majesties safely beyond the frontier, I should have become an exile, and probably never have seen the countess again; but I repeat to your Majesty that if, on my return to Paris, I am not permitted to give any information concerning myself to the lady who bears my name, — and your Majesty knows how nobly she bears it, and how greatly she honours it, -it will indeed be a mark of unpardonable indifference, especially as my brother Isidore is no longer here to act in my stead. If I am not very much mistaken, this was your Majesty's opinion also, two days ago.”

The queen allowed her arm to glide along the back of her couch, following it with an inclination of her entire body that brought her much closer to Charny, as she said: -

“You must love this woman very much to coolly cause me such a heart-ache as this.”

“Madame, it is nearly six years since you yourself, — at a time I never even thought of such a thing, as there then existed but one woman on earth for me, and she had been placed so far above me that I could never hope to win her, — it is nearly six years ago, I repeat, since you imposed me upon Mademoiselle Andree de Taverney as a husband, and imposed her upon me as a wife. During these six years my hand has touched hers but twice. I have not addressed a dozen words to her that were not absolutely necessary, and we have not exchanged a dozen glances. My life has been fully occupied, — occupied with another passion, a thousand cares, a thousand tasks. I have lived at court, I have travelled much, and I have not counted either the days, months, or years as they passed. Time has flown all the more rapidly on account of my unfortunate passion, and the many cares and interests and struggles of which I speak. With Madame de Charny it has been very different. Since she had the misfortune to be obliged to leave you, doubtless because she had unintentionally displeased you, she has lived in solitude in her unpretending home on the Hue Coq-Heron. This isolation and loneliness she has endured without a word of complaint, for she does not seem to feel the need of affection that most women do; but she might not be disposed to submit to the neglect of the simplest attention and common courtesies of life on my part.”

“Good heavens! monsieur, you certainly seem to be very much concerned as to what the countess thinks of you, whether you see her or not. Before exhibiting so much solicitude, it might be well to ascertain if she even condescended to think of you at all when you went away, or to give you so much as a thought now on your return.”

“Whether she gives m. so much as a thought now or not, I do not know; but I am sure she did when I went away.”

“Then you saw her before you left Paris-”

“I have already had the honour of telling your Majesty that I have not seen Madame de Charny since I gave the queen my word not to see her.”

“She wrote to you then-”

Charny was silent.

“So she did write to you, monsieur-” exclaimed the queen.”Why don't you admit it-”

“She intrusted a letter for me to my brother Isidore.”

“And you have read it- What did she say- What could she say to you- Yet she solemnly promised me- But speak! Answer at once! What did she say in the letter- Speak! Don't you see that I am wild with impatience-”

“I cannot tell your Majesty what the countess said in her letter. I have not read it.”

“You tore it up-” cried the queen, joyfully.”You threw it into the fire without reading it- Charny, if you did that, you are the most faithful of men, and I was indeed wrong to complain, for I have no cause.” And the queen extended both her arms as if to draw him to her; but Charny remained motionless in his place.

“I neither tore it up nor threw it into the fire,” he said coldly.

“Then how does it happen that you have not read it-”exclaimed the queen, sinking back in her chair.

“My brother was told not to give me the letter unless I was mortally wounded. Alas! it was not I whom Death had selected as his victim, but Isidore. After his death some one brought me his papers. Among them was this letter from the countess, with this memorandum attached to it. Here, madame.”

As he spoke, Charny held out the few lines which Isidore had written and subsequently affixed to Andree’s letter.

Marie Antoinette took it with a trembling hand, and touched the bell.

“Lights, at once,” she said imperiously; for since the beginning of this interview it had become quite dark in the room.

The footman withdrew, and a moment of silence ensued, in which the queen seemed to hear the loud throbbing of her heart.

The footman soon returned with two candelabra, which he placed upon the mantel. The queen did not wait for him to withdraw, but approached the mantel with the note in her hand before the servant had reached the door.

Twice she glanced at the paper without being able to even see it.

“It is not paper, but flame!” she muttered.

Passing her hand over her eyes as if to restore the sense of vision she seemed to have lost, she stamped her foot impatiently, and exclaimed: -

“My God! oh, my God I”

At last, by sheer force of will, she made her hand cease trembling, and regained her clearness of sight. But it was in a hoarse tone utterly unlike her usual voice that she began to read the instructions aloud, -

“This letter does not belong to me, but to my brother, Count Olivier de Charny. It was written by his wife, the countess.”

The queen paused a few seconds, then resumed, -

“If any accident should happen to me, the finder of this paper is requested to send it to my brother, or else return it to the countess.”

Again the reader paused, shook her head, and then continued,-

“I received it from her with the following instructions: -

“Should the count succeed in the undertaking in which he is now

engaged, and should no misfortune befall him, the letter is to be

returned to the countess.”

The queen's voice became more and more tremulous as she proceeded, but she persevered, -

“If he should be dangerously wounded, but not unto death, he is to be requested to grant his wife the privilege of coming to him.

“If he should be mortally wounded, this letter is to be given to him; and if he is unable to read it himself, it is to be read to him, in order that he may know the secret it contains before he dies.”

“Well, do you still deny it-”demanded Marie Antoinette, confronting the count with blazing eyes.

“Deny what-”

“Deny what- Good heavens! Why, deny that she loves you-”

“The countess loves me- What are you saying, madame-” cried Charny, impetuously, in his turn.

“Unfortunate woman that I am, I speak the truth.”

“The countess loves me- Me- Impossible!”

“And why- I love you.”

“But in these six years, if the countess loved me, she would have told me so, — or she would at least have allowed me to discover it.”

The poor queen was suffering so that it seemed to her it would be a relief to plunge the dagger still deeper into her heart.

“No,” she cried, "no! She would say nothing; she would let you discover nothing. But it was only because she knew she could never really be your wife.”

“Could never really be my wife-” repeated the count.

“No, because she knew only too well that she had a secret which would inevitably destroy any affection you might feel for her, and because she knew only too well you would despise her the moment she divulged it.”

“I! despise the countess-”

“Does not one despise a girl who is a wife without marriage, a mother without a husband-”

It was Charny's turn to become as death now, and to clutch at the chair nearest him for support as he said: -

“Madame, madame, you have said either too much or too little, and I have a right to demand an explanation.”

“An explanation, monsieur, from me,- from the queen-”

“Yes, madame, and I demand it.”

At that moment the door opened.

“What is wanted-”asked the queen, angrily.

“Your Majesty told me some time ago that you were always at home to Dr. Gilbert.”

“Well-”

“The doctor desires to be allowed the privilege of paying his respects to you.”

“Dr. Gilbert-” said the queen, “are you sure it is Dr. Gilbert-”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then let him come in, let him come in!” cried the queen, excitedly..

And, turning to Charny, she added: -

“You desire an explanation in regard to Madame de Charny. Very well. Ask Dr. Gilbert for it. He is better able to give it than any one else I know.”

In the mean time Gilbert had appeared in the doorway; but on hearing Marie Antoinette's words, he stood for a moment motionless on the threshold.

As for the queen, throwing Charny his brother's note, she started towards her dressing-room; but the count, with an even more rapid step, intercepted her, and, grasping her by the wrist, exclaimed:”Pardon me, madame, but this explanation must be made in your presence.”

“Monsieur, you forget that I am the queen,” she hissed, with teeth set and blazing eyes.

“You are an ungrateful woman who basely slanders her best friend; you are a jealous woman who traduces another woman, and that woman the wife of a man who has risked his life for you a hundred times in the last three days, — the wife of Comte de Charny. It is here, in the presence of one who has so insulted and calumniated her that justice shall be done her. Sit down, I say, and listen.”

“So be it, monsieur,” responded the queen.”You hear what the count wants, Dr. Gilbert,” she added, with a forced laugh.

“Monsieur Gilbert, you hear the queen's commands,” said Charny, in a perfectly courteous and dignified manner.

Gilbert came forward and gazed sorrowfully at Marie Antoinette.

“Oh, madame, madame,” he murmured reproachfully.

Then, turning to Charny, he added:”Monsieur, what I have to say enhances the glory of a woman, and casts disgrace of the deepest dye upon a man. A poor peasant lad loved Mademoiselle de Taverney,- loved her as madly as hopelessly. One day he chanced to find her alone and unconscious, and, disregarding her youth, her beauty, and her innocence, he basely took advantage of her defenceless position; and thus it was that this young girl became a wife without marriage, and a mother without a husband. Mademoiselle de Taverney was an angel. Madame de Charny is a martyr.”

Charny wiped away the sweat that was trickling from his brow.

“I thank you, Monsieur Gilbert,” he said, with a sigh of unspeakable relief. Then, turning to the queen, he added:-

“I was not aware, madame, that Mademoiselle de Taverney had been so unfortunate. I did not know that Madame de Charny was so good; but for this fact, I assure you that I should not have been six years in falling at her feet, and in adoring her as she deserves to be adored.”

And bowing low to the stupefied queen, he left the room, without the unfortunate lady venturing to make so much as a movement to detain him; but he heard the cry of despair she uttered as she saw the door close between them.

For she realized that upon this door, as upon the gate of hell, the hand of jealousy had just inscribed those dread words: -

Lasciate ogni speranza!

CHAPTER CIV. DATE LILIA.

Now let us see what happened to Andree while the foregoing scene was taking place between Charny and the queen.

Being fully acquainted with the state of her feelings, it is easy for us to imagine how terribly Andree must have suffered after Isidore's departure.

Rightly surmising that the enterprise in which the two brothers were about to engage was the king's flight, its success or failure seemed likely to prove equally fatal to her hopes of happiness. If the project succeeded, she knew enough of Charny's devotion to the royal family to feel sure he would not forsake them in their exile. If it failed, she knew enough of Olivier's courage to feel sure he would continue to fight as long as the slightest hope remained, and even after all hope had vanished.

From the moment Isidore took leave of her, Andree’s eye was ever on the alert to catch the slightest glimmer of light, and her ear to seize the slightest rumour.

The next day, in common with all other Parisians, she learned that the king and his family had fled. She knew that Charny was with them, and consequently felt positive that he was going farther and farther away from her.

Then, for two days, Paris remained mute and dazed. At last, on the morning of the third day, a startling rumour was circulated through the city. The king had been arrested at Varennes. No particulars were given. The king had been arrested at Varennes; that was all.

Andree did not even know where Varennes was. This little town, so widely celebrated since that time, and whose very name was destined to become a terror to royalty, they shared the obscurity which enshrouded and still enshrouds ten thousand equally unimportant and equally unknown French towns and villages.

Andree opened a geographical dictionary and read: -

“Varennes — in Argonne — county seat -1607 inhabitants.”

Then she hunted the place up on the map, and found it in the middle of a sort of triangle between Stenay, Verdun, and Chalons, near the edge of the Forest of Argonne, and on the banks of a small river. It was upon this obscure spot that the attention of all France was now concentrated.

Further information began to come in, though very slowly, and each detail was of the greatest interest to Andree.

It was reported that General Bouille had hastened to the king's assistance and attacked the escort, but that, after a desperate conflict, he had been compelled to retreat, leaving the royal family in the hands of the patriots. Of course Charny had taken part in this fight, and of course had been the last to retire from the fray, -that is, if he had not fallen upon the field of battle.

Shortly afterwards it was reported that one of the three guardsmen who accompanied the king had been killed. Then the name was given, -only people did not know whether it was the count or the viscount, Isidore or Olivier. It was a Charny,-that was all anybody knew about it. The two days of suspense that followed were days of intolerable agony to Andree.

At last the return of the king and the royal family was announced for Saturday, the 26th.

The august prisoners were to sleep in Meaux; so the king could hardly reach Paris before noon, and in case he returned to the Tuileries by the most direct route, he would re-enter the city by the Faubourg St. Martin.

About eleven o'clock Madame de Charny, in the simplest of gowns and closely veiled, was at the Barriere. She waited there until three o'clock in the afternoon. Then she learned that the procession was to make the circuit of the city by the outer boulevards, and enter Paris proper by way of the Champs Elysees.

So she had the entire city to cross, and to cross on foot; for no one would think of attempting to drive a carriage through the dense crowds that filled the streets. Never had travel been so obstructed since the taking of the Bastille two years before.

But Andree did not hesitate. She started for the Champs Elysees, and was one of the first to arrive there.

Here she had to wait three hours longer, — three mortal hours.

At last the procession appeared, and Andree uttered a cry of joy as the coach passed; for she saw Charny on the seat outside.

Her cry was answered by another, that would have seemed like the echo of hers, had it not been a cry of anguish. Andree turned, and saw a young girl struggling wildly in the arms of three or four kind-hearted persons who seemed to be trying to calm and console her.

Perhaps Andree herself would have given the poor girl more attention, had she not heard all sorts of threats and imprecations showered upon the three men on the outside of the coach. It was upon them that the fury of the populace was chiefly directed. They seemed likely, and in fact almost certain, to be made the scapegoats of royalty's offences, and to be torn in pieces the moment the carriage stopped.

And Charny was one of these three men. Andree resolved to leave no means untried to effect an entrance into the garden of the Tuileries. To do that, she must make the circuit of the crowd, and then follow the bank of the river and enter the garden, if possible, from the Tuileries quay. By forcing her way through the Rue Chaillot, she succeeded in reaching the bank of the river, and finally the Tuileries quay.

At last, after repeated efforts, and at the risk of being crushed to death a dozen times, she reached the gateway; but there was such a dense crowd around the carriage that she could not dream of gaining a place in the foremost rank.

It occurred to Andree that from the terrace nearest the river she might be able to see over the heads of the crowd. To be sure, the distance would be too great for her to see or hear very distinctly; but it would be better to see and hear a little than to hear and see nothing at all.

So she hastily climbed the terrace on the bank of the river. From it she could see the seat on the top of the coach, the seat occupied by Charny and the two guardsmen, — Charny, who little suspected that a hundred yards off a heart was throbbing so violently for him; Charny, who probably had not so much as a thought for her, but who was thinking only of the queen, forgetting his own peril entirely in his anxiety for her safety.

Oh, had she but known that he was pressing her letter to his heart at that very instant, and offering her, in thought, his last sigh! — for he really believed that moment was destined to be his last.

At last the carriage stopped, in the midst of the most frightful hooting and yelling conceivable. A scene of the wildest confusion ensued. Bayonets, pikes, and swords were brandished madly. One seemed t amp; be gazing at a field of iron grain bending beneath the fury of the gale.

The three men disappeared as instantaneously as if they had been swallowed up in a seething whirlpool. Then there was such a strong eddy in the crowd that those in the outer ranks were pushed violently back against the stone wall that supported the terrace.

Andree was in agony. She could hear and see nothing. In her despair she threw up her arms, and tried to utter a few words of protest and entreaty; but everything seemed to whirl round and round; the sky turned a vivid scarlet; there was a roaring like that of the sea in her ears; and she fell to the ground, realizing that she was alive merely because she was suffering so terribly.

A sensation of coolness restored her to consciousness. One woman was pressing a handkerchief wet with water from the river to Andrew's forehead, and another was holding a bottle of smelling-salts to her nostrils. This last woman she recognized as the one she had seen so overwhelmed with grief at the Barriere, without knowing how analogous their situations were, and the bond of mutual sorrow that united them.

On regaining consciousness, Andree's first question was, “Were they killed-”

True compassion is quick-witted, and those around Andree instantly comprehended that she was anxious in regard to the three men whose lives had been in such imminent peril.

“No, they were saved,” was the reply.

“All three-”

“Yes, all three.”

“Thank God! Where are they now-”

“In the palace.”

“In the palace- Thank you.”

Rising, Andree hastily left the garden by the gate on the side next the river, in order to re-enter it by the arched gateway leading into the Louvre, which adjoined the Tuileries; for she rightly conjectured that the crowd would be much less great there. In fact, she found the Rue des Orties nearly deserted.

Crossing a corner of the Place du Carrousel, she entered the Princes' Courtyard, and rushed into the porter's lodge. The porter knew the countess by sight, and very readily consented to go in search of further information. By an inside corridor he soon reached the main building, where he learned that the three officers were safe, that Monsieur de Charny had gone to his own room immediately after reaching the palace, but had left it a quarter of an hour later, in his naval uniform, evidently with the intention of reporting to the queen, as he was now in her Majesty's apartments.

Andree bestowed her purse upon the bearer of this good news.

So Charny was safe.

She thanked the kind-hearted man again and again, and then wended her way back to the house on the Rue Coq-Heron. Once inside its protecting walls, she threw herself, not into an arm-chair, but upon her prie-Dieu.

It was not to pray with her lips, however. There are moments when our gratitude to God is so great that words fail us, -when it is the hands, the eyes, the whole body, the whole heart and soul, that lift themselves to Him.

She was still plunged in this state of ecstasy when she heard the door open. She turned slowly, scarcely realising what sound it was that had aroused her from her reverie.

Her maid was standing in the doorway, looking for her mistress, whom she failed to discover first in the dim light. Behind the maid was a figure whose outlines were but dimly distinguishable in the gloom; but with Andre's recognition was instantaneous. It was her husband.

She tried to rise; but her strength failed her, and, sinking down again upon the cushion, she turned half-way round, resting her arm on the sloping top of the prie-Dieu for support.

“The count!” she murmured;”the count!”For though he was standing there before her, she could scarcely believe her eyes.

The maid stepped aside to allow Charny to enter the room, and then withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Charny and the countess were alone together.

“I am told that you have just come in, madame,” said Charny.”I trust I have not been indiscreet in following you so closely.”

“No,” she replied, in a voice that trembled violently, in spite of her efforts to steady it;”no, you are most welcome, monsieur. I felt so anxious that I went out to ascertain what was taking place.”

“You have been out in the streets! How long, may I ask-”

“Ever since morning. I went first to the Barriere St.- Martin, and afterwards to the Champs Elysees. There I saw -I saw -”she hesitated -”the king and the royal family, and — and you — and I felt reassured, at least for the moment; but everybody prophesied danger when you left the coach, so I hastened to the Tuileries. There — there — I thought I should die.”

“Yes,” said Charny, "the crowd was terrible. You were nearly suffocated. I can understand -”

“No, no! it was not that. At last I made inquiries, and learned that you were safe; so I came home, and, as you see, I have been on my knees thanking God for his great mercy.”

“As you are on your knees communing with God, do not rise, I beseech you, without remembering my poor brother in your prayers.”

“Isidore- Ah, then it was he!” exclaimed Andree.”Poor fellow!”

And she covered her face with her hands.

Charny advanced a few steps, and gazed sadly and tenderly at this pure creature as she prayed. There was intense compassion and sympathy and commiseration in his gaze, and something, too, of repressed desire.

Had not the queen told him, or rather had she not allowed the startling revelation, that Andree loved him, to escape her unawares-

Her prayer concluded, the countess again turned to Charny.

“So he is dead-”she said.

“Yes, madame, dead. He died for the same cause and in fulfilling the same duty as poor George.”

“And in the midst of this great sorrow you have found time to think of me,” murmured Andree, in a voice so low that her words were scarcely audible.

But fortunately Charny was listening with both heart and ears.

“Did you not intrust my brother with a commission for me, madame-” he asked.

“Monsieur!” stammered Andree, looking anxiously at the count.

“Did you not give him a letter addressed to me-”

“Monsieur-”repeated Andree, faintly.

“After poor Isidore's death his papers were brought to me, and this letter was among the papers.”

“And you read it-” exclaimed Andree, burying her face in her hands.”Ah!”

“I was to know the contents of this letter only if I was mortally wounded; and I am safe and sound, as you see.”

“And the letter -”

.”Is here intact, madame, exactly as you gave it to Isidore.”

“Oh,” murmured Andree, as she took the letter, “it is a very noble or a very cruel thing that you have done!”

Charny took Andree’s hand in both his own. She made a movement to withdraw it; but as Charny persisted, murmuring tenderly, “Grant me this favour, madame,” she heaved a sigh, almost of terror, but, unable to resist the promptings of her own heart, she left her trembling hand in his.

Deeply embarrassed, not knowing which way to look, and unable to escape Charny's ardent gaze, leaning as she was against the prie-Dieu, she faltered: -

“Yes, I understand, monsieur; you have come to return the letter.”

“For that, yes, madame, and for something else. I have come to ask your forgiveness, countess.”

Andree’s heart thrilled with rapture. This was the first time Charny had ever addressed her by this title without prefacing it with the formal madame. Besides, the word had been uttered in a tone of infinite tenderness.

“Forgiveness! my forgiveness! And for what-”

“For the manner in which I have behaved towards you for the last six years.”

She gazed at him with unfeigned astonishment.”Have I ever complained-”she asked.

“No, because you are an angel.”

In spite of herself, Andree felt her eyes grow dim. It was tears that obscured her vision.

“You are weeping, Andree!”cried Charny.

“Oh, pardon me, monsieur,” exclaimed Andre's, bursting into tears, “but I am not accustomed to hear you speak to me in this way. Oh, my God! my God!”

And, springing up, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and covered her face with her hands. But after a moment, conquering her emotion, she lifted her head again, and exclaimed: -

“How foolish I am! I -”

But suddenly she paused. While her eyes had been bidden, Charny had come and knelt before her.

“What! you on your knees at my feet!”she exclaimed.

“Did I not tell you, Andree, that I had come to implore your forgiveness-”

“On your knees, at my feet-” she repeated, like one who could not believe her own eyes.

“Andrei, you have taken your hand away from me,” said Charny.

And he again held out his hand to his young wife. But she, recoiling, with a feeling closely akin to terror, exclaimed, “What does this mean-”

“It means that I love you, Andree,” said Charny, in tones of infinite tenderness.

She pressed her hand on her heart and uttered a cry; then, springing to her feet, and pressing both hands upon her throbbing temples, she repeated, -

“He loves me- he loves me- Why, it is impossible!”

“Say it is impossible for you to love me, Andree, but do not say it is impossible for me to love you.”

She looked down searchingly into Charny's face, as if to satisfy herself that he was telling the truth; and the count's large dark eyes spoke far more eloquently than any words. Andree, though she might have doubted his words, could not doubt that look.

“Oh, my God!” she moaned, “is there in this whole world a creature so unfortunate as myself-”

“Andree,” pleaded Charny, "tell me that you love me; or if you cannot say that you love me, at least tell me that you do not hate me.”

“Hate you!” she exclaimed, a dazzling light gleaming in her usually serene and limpid eyes.”Ah, monsieur, you would make a great mistake if you called the sentiment you inspire in me hatred.”

“If it is not hatred, and if it is not love, what is it, Andree-”

“It is not love, only because I have no right to love. Did you not hear me cry out to God just now that I was the most unfortunate woman on earth-”

“And why have you no right to love me, when I love you, Andree, with all the strength of my being-”

“That is something I cannot, dare not tell you,” moaned Andree, wringing her hands.

“But what if this secret which you cannot and dare not and will not tell me has already been revealed to me by some other person-” asked Charny, his voice becoming more and more soft and tender with every word.”What if I know all-”

Andree laid both her hands heavily on Charny's shoulders.

“Oh, my God!” she groaned.

“And what if I deem you all the nobler on account of this very misfortune- What if it was the discovery of this terrible secret that gave me courage to come and tell you that I loved you-”

“If this is true, monsieur, you are the noblest and most generous of men.”

“I love you, Andree,” repeated Charny, passionately.”I love you! I love you!”

“Oh, God!”cried Andree, raising her eyes gratefully to

Heaven;”I did not know there could be such happiness in this world!”

“But now tell me that you love me in return, Andree.”

“No, no, I dare not!” cried Andree;”but read this letter, which was to have been given to you on your deathbed.”

And she handed the count the letter he had returned to her.

She buried her face in her hands as the count eagerly broke the seal. He read the first few lines; then, uttering a cry of delight, he removed Andree’s hands from her face, and pressed her fondly to his heart as he exclaimed passionately: -

“And you have loved me ever since the day of our first meeting, six years ago- Oh, my blessed darling, how can I ever love you enough to make you forget all you have suffered!”

“Oh, my heavenly Father,” murmured Andree, bending like a reed under the weight of so much happiness, “if this be a dream, let me never wake from it; for the awakening would kill me!”

CHAPTER CV. A LITTLE SHADE AFTER SUNSHINE.

On the 16th of July, 1791, about three weeks after the events we have just related, two persons sat writing at the same table in a little parlour on the fourth floor of the HStel Britannique, on the Rue Gutsnegaud.

The two persons are of opposite sexes, and each is worthy of special mention.

The man, who was probably about sixty years of age, was tall and slight, with an austere and yet impassioned air, -the straight lines of his face indicating a calm and profound thinker, whose strong reason and remarkable powers of analysis hold his imagination under strict control.

The woman did not look more than thirty or thirty-two, though she was really over thirty-six. By her rather too vivid colouring it is easy to see that she comes of plebeian stock; but she has beautiful eyes, of that changing hue which partakes almost equally of gray and blue and green, — eyes which are both mild and firm in their expression. Her mouth is large, but her teeth are perfect and her lips rosy; her chin and nose are both a trifle tip-tilted; her hands are beautifully shaped, though a little large; her figure is graceful, undulating, and even voluptuous. Her throat is wonderfully beautiful in its contour, and she has the hips of the Syracusan Venus.

The man is Jean Marie Roland de la Platiere, born at Villefranche, near Lyons, in 1732. The woman is Manon Jeanne Phlipon, born in Paris in 1754.

They had been married eleven years, that is, since 1780.

We have remarked that this woman came from the people; her names prove it. The daughter of an engraver, she worked at the same trade until she reached the age of twenty-five, when she married Roland, who was twenty- two years older than she. Then she became a copyist, translator, and compiler. The compilation of such books as the”Manufacture of Woollen Fabrics”and a”Dictionary of Manufactures” absorbed the best years of this richly gifted woman's life, in which passion was never destined to play a part, not by reason of coldness of heart, but simply by reason of her perfect purity of soul.

In her relations with her husband filial respect filled the place of wifely love. Her affection was a chaste worship, which often led her to abandon her work — though she would be obliged to toil far into the night in consequence — to prepare a nourishing meal for her aged spouse, whose enfeebled stomach could bear only certain kinds of food.

In 1789 Madame Roland was leading an obscure and laborious life in the provinces, when the cannon of the Bastille suddenly aroused all that was noble and grand and patriotic in the heart of this gifted woman.

France was no longer a kingdom; it was the Nation. It was no longer merely a country where people lived, it was Fatherland.

Then came the great Federation in Paris in 1790, preceded, as the reader may recollect, by the lesser Federation in Lyons.

Jeanne Phlipon, who from the window of her father's house on the Quai de l'Horloge, on the bank of the Seine, near the Palace of Justice, oonld not only see the sun rise every morning, but follow it in its course as far as the end of the Champs Elysees, where it sank to rest behind a grove of trees, had also seen at three o'clock in the morning, on the heights of Fourvieres, the rising of that much more luminous and absorbing and powerful sun which men call liberty. From this point she enjoyed a comprehensive view of that grand reunion; and her heart had plunged into this grand sea of fraternity, from which she emerged, like Achilles, vulnerable in only one spot; and it was in this spot she was subsequently wounded, though she did not succumb to Cupid's dart by any means.

On the evening of that glorious day, enraptured by all she had seen and heard, she wrote a glowing description of the fSte, and sent it to her friend Champagneux, the editor of the”Lyons Journal.” The young man, astonished and dazzled by the brilliant description, published it in his paper, and the next day he was obliged to publish an edition of sixty thousand copies, instead of twelve or fifteen hundred, as usual.

And now let us briefly explain why this poetical imagination and womanly heart espoused politics with such marvellous ardour. It was because Jeanne Phlipon, treated as an engraver's apprentice by her father, — and Madame Boland, treated merely as a secretary by her husband,- had seen, both in the paternal home as well as in her married life, only the stern and practical side of life. It was because Madame Roland, who had never read a frivolous book in her life, found her chief recreation as well as amusement in such works as the”Official Report of the Elections of 1789,” or”An Account of the Taking of the Bastille.”

As for Roland himself, he was a striking example of how chance or fate, through some apparently trivial occurrence, effects a marvellous change in a man's career or in the history of a nation.

He was the youngest of five brothers. His parents wished to make a priest of him; he insisted upon remaining a man, and at the age of nineteen he left his father's house alone, on foot and penniless. He succeeded in making his way to Nantes, where he secured a position with a shipping merchant, and finally received an appointment to India. When the time came for his departure, at the very hour he was to go aboard the ship he had quite a severe hemorrhage, and his physician forbade a sea voyage.

Had Cromwell sailed for America instead of remaining in England, detained there by an order of Charles I., it is probable that the scaffold at Whitehall would never have been erected. If Roland had sailed for India, perhaps that memorable tenth of August would never have figured in history.

Unable to fulfil his contract with the shipping merchant, Roland left Nantes and repaired to Rouen, where one of his relatives, recognising the young man's ability, secured him a position as inspector of manufactures.

After this, Roland's life became one of constant study and unremitting toil. Economy was his Muse, and Commerce his inspiration. He travelled, he collected statistics, he edited the productions of others, he wrote treatises on sheep-raising and on numerous mechanical inventions. He wrote Letters from Sicily, from Italy, and from Malta,”The French Financier,” and other works which we have already alluded to, and which were copied by his wife, whom he married, as we have before stated, in 1780.

Four years afterwards they went to England; and on their return he sent her to Paris to ask for a patent of nobility, and his transfer from Rouen to Lyons. The transfer was effected, but the letters of nobility were not granted.

When the Revolution began, he was still holding the office of inspector of commerce and manufactures at Lyons; and at the dawn of this new epoch he and his wife felt springing up in their hearts, that beautiful plant, with golden leaves and diamond flowers, which we call”enthusiasm.”

We have seen how Madame Roland wrote her account of the Lyons f'Ste, and how the journal that published it was obliged to print sixty thousand copies, and how each National Guardsman on returning to his native village or town or city carried a bit of Madame Roland's soul with him.

As the article bore no signature, and the paper did not give the author's name, one might almost have fancied that it was Liberty herself who had come down to earth and dictated to some unknown scribe this account of the great festival, as the angel dictated the book of Revelation to St. John.

The husband and wife were full of faith and confidence and hope when their little circle of friends, consisting of Champagneux, Bosc, Lanthenas, and two or three more perhaps, was enlarged by the introduction of a new acquaintance.

Lanthenas, who was 011 very intimate terms with the Bolands, and who was in the habit of spending weeks and even months at their house, brought home with him one evening one of the electors whose official report Madame Roland had so greatly admired.

The new-comer was Bancal des Issarts. He was about thirty-nine years of age, handsome, unpretentious in manner, a noble-hearted and exceedingly devout man, — not a brilliant person intellectually, but endowed with a most generous heart and truly philanthropic soul. He had been a notary, but had given up his business in order to devote himself to politics and philosophy.

At the end of a week spent in the Roland household the new guest, the host, and Lanthenas had become so much attached to one another, and formed such a harmonious trio in their devotion to country, their love of liberty, and their respect for all sacred things, that they resolved never to part, but to live together and bear the expense in common.

When Bancal left them for a brief season, the necessity for this union must have made itself even more strongly felt; for Roland wrote to him as follows: -

“Hasten back to us, my friend. Why do you delay f You have seen our free and easy way of living. A man's habits do not change at ray age. Wo preach patriotism, we elevate the soul. Lanthenas does noble work as a physician, my wife is the nurse of the neighbourhood, and you and I, -well, we attend to the business affairs of the society.” Vol. Hi. — 9

The union of these three well-to-do gentlemen furnished quite a snug little fortune. Lauthenas had twenty thousand francs, Roland sixty thousand, and Baneal a hundred thousand.

Roland fulfilled his mission as a propagandist very thoroughly. He catechised every peasant he met by the roadside on his tours of inspection. A capital walker, this pilgrim, staff in hand, went north and south, east and west, sowing the new word of life — the blessed seed of liberty — everywhere, with a liberal hand.

Baucal proved an admirable disciple and helper. The idea that Bancal might fall in love with his (Roland's) wife never once entered the brain of the future colleague of Claviere and Dumouriez, nor that she would ever be likely to return his love. Had not Lanthenas, young man though he was, lived in close proximity to this staid, industrious, pure-minded woman, as a brother lives with his sister. Was not Madame Roland the very personification of womanly strength and virtue-

Roland was consequently much pleased when Bancal replied to the above-mentioned note in the most affectionate manner, and promised a speedy return. Roland received this letter while in Lyons, and immediately sent it to his wife at La PIStiere.

Oh, do not take my word for it, read Michelet, if you wish a clear insight into the character of the admirable woman we call Madame Roland.

She received the letter on one of those warm days when the air is full of electricity, and when the coldest hearts thrill with emotion. It was autumn, but a summer tempest was gathering in the sky.

Since the day she first met Bancal, emotions she had never before known had moved the heart of this chaste woman. A sweet song, like that of some shy forest bird, was continually resounding in her ears. She had never known love; but, like all women, she divined its nature very accurately. She realised her danger.

With tears in her eyes, but smiling all the'while, she went straight to her desk, and, without the slightest hesitation or circumlocution, she wrote to Bancal, exposing the flaw in her armour, confessing her love, but with the same breath destroying any hope which this confession might arouse.

Bancal understood her. He said nothing more about joining their family circle, but went to England, where he remained two years.

It was of such stuff as this that the heroes and heroines of ancient times were made. And after the scenes of turmoil and passion through which we have passed, it seems to me it will be pleasant to the reader to rest awhile in the shadow of such pure and refreshing beauty, strength, and virtue.

Let no one say that we represent Madame Roland as other than she was, — chaste in her father's workshop, chaste in her home, chaste by the cradle of her child. Standing face to face with the scaffold, in an hour when one does not lie, she wrote,”I have always controlled my passions, and no person ever lived who was more free from sensuality than myself.”

And yet her chastity should not be imputed to coldness. The epoch in which she lived was an epoch of bitter hatred, I know; but it was likewise an epoch of impassioned love as well. France herself set the example. The poor, long-imprisoned captive, like Marie Stuart when she was released from her prison-house, longed to imprint a kiss upon the lips of all creation, and take all nature to her arms.

No; all the women loved devotedly, and all the men loved ardently,-Lucile and Camille Desmoulins, Danton and his Louise, Mademoiselle de Keralio and Robert, Sophie and Condorcet, Vergniaud and Mademoiselle Can- deille. There was not one, not even the cynical and sarcastic Robespierre, whose heart did not pay tribute to the power of love; for Robespierre loved the daughter of his landlord, a carpenter, whose acquaintance we shall make by and by.

And was not this love — though less pure, I admit, still love is one of the chief of virtues — was not this love quite as genuine as the love of Madame Tallien, as the love of Madame de Beauharnais and the love of Madame de Genlis, and all those other lovers whose whispered words of tenderness and consolation illumined the pjile faces of those who died an ignominous death upon the scaffold-

Yes, everybody loved in those days, and we must take the word in its fullest sense. Some loved the ideal, some the material; some loved their country, some the human race. The desire, or rather the need to love, had been increasing ever since Rousseau's time. One might almost have supposed that each being, vaguely conscious of the near approach of death, was eager to seize love and enjoy its transports before it was too late, and that each heart, as it drew nearer and nearer to the grave, palpitated with a more and more intense and devouring passion.

But we have wandered a long way from the old man and the young wife who were writing in the little parlour on the fourth floor of the H6tel Britannique. Let us return to them.

CHAPTER CVI. THE FIRST REPUBLICANS.

On the 20th of February, 1791, Roland was sent from Lyons to Paris to plead the cause of twenty thousand famishing workmen.

He had been at the capital five months when those startling events occurred at Varennes, — events which exerted such a potent influence over the destinies of our heroes, as well as over the destiny of France, that we have felt it our duty to devote nearly an entire volume to them.

But in the interval of time between the return of the king, on the 25th of June, and the 16th of July, many strange things had happened.

Everybody had shouted,”The king is running away!”and everybody had rushed after the king to bring him back; but when they had brought him back and had him safe in the Tuileries again, nobody knew what to do with him.

Every one had advice to give. It came from every point of the compass, like the wind when a tempest is raging. Unfortunate indeed is the ship that is out at sea in such a storm!

On the 21st of June, when the king's flight became known, the Cordelier Club issued a proclamation signed by Legendre, the French butcher whom the queen had mentioned as the counterpart of the English butcher Harrison, in her conversation with Barnave.

This proclamation had the following quotation from Voltaire as a heading: -

“Si panni Ie8 Francais, il Be trouvait nn traltre

Qui regrettat les rois et qui voulut un rnattre,

Que le perfide meure au milieu des tourments,

Et que Ba cendre soit abandonnee aux veuts.”

Which may be translated almost literally as follows: -

“If among the French people there be a traitor

Who regretteth our kings and desireth a master,

Let the perfidious wretch die in the direst of torture,

And his ashes be thrown to the four winds of heaven.”

Though written by Voltaire, the rhyme might be better; but the lines expressed the ideas of the persons who issued the proclamation very accurately, and also imparted a literary air to the document.

This proclamation announced that each and every member of the Cordelier Club had taken a solemn oath to stab any person who dared to encroach upon the territory, the liberty, or the constitution of France.

As for Marat, who always dwelt apart, and who said, as a pretext for his isolation, that turkeys go in flocks, but the eagle dwells in solitude, — Marat proposed a dictator, as the following extract from his paper shows: -

“Select,” he said,”a true Frenchman and a true patriot, — the citizen who has displayed the most intelligence, the most zeal, fidelity, and disinterestedness, — take him at once, or the Revolutionary cause is lost.1'

Or, in other words,”Take Marat.”

As for Prudhomme, he suggested nothing, but he heartily abominated the old regime. Listen to him: -

“On Monday the dauphin was taken out for an airing on the terrace overlooking the river. Whenever he saw a group of citizens of any considerable size, the base hireling in attendance upon him picked up the child and placed him on the stone parapet, and the royal puppet, faithful to his morning lesson, threw kisses to the people. This was done to curry favour for his dear papa and mnmma. Ouly a few spectators were cowardly enough to shout, ' Long live the dauphin!' Citizens, be on your guard against a court which grovels to the people in its hour of weakness.”

Immediately after these lines came the following: -

“On the 27th of January, 1649, the English Parliament condemned Charles I. to he beheaded for having exceeded his royal prerogatives and having insisted upon maintaining the encroachments of his father, James I. On the 30th of January, he expiated his crimes, — which crimes had been legalised to a certain extent by custom, and sustained by a large party, but the voice of the people made itself heard throughout the length and breadth of the land. Parliament declared the king a fugitive, a traitor, and a public enemy, and Charles Stuart was beheaded in front of the Banquet Hall, at Whitehall Palace.”

Bravo! citizen Prudhomme. You certainly are not backward, and on the 21st of January, 1793, when Louis XVI. is decapitated in his turn, you may justly claim the credit of suggesting this plan as early as June 27,1791.

It is true that Monsieur Prudhomme afterwards became a Royalist and a Conservative, and published a book entitled,”A History of the Crimes committed during the Revolution.”

Consistency is a fine thing.

The journal known as”The Iron Mouth”was even more outspoken and much less hypocritical. It was edited by Bouneville, an honest, fearless, foolhardy young fellow. The following is an extract from his journal: -

“No more kings, no more man-eaters for us! The name has been frequently changed, but the thing itself has been retained. Now let us have no regent, no dictator, no protector, no Orleans, no Lafayette! Must a nation be under tutelage for evert Let our departments unite and declare that they will have neither tyrant nor king, neither protector nor regent, nor any of those semblances of royalty whose shadow is as fatal to the public welfare as the accursed upas-tree is fatal to those that come beneath its shade.

“It is not enough to prate of a republic. Venice, too, was a republic. What we need is a National Commonwealth,-a National Government. Summon the people together in broad daylight, and proclaim that the Law is the only sovereign power. Swear that the Law alone shall rule. There is not a friend of liberty on earth who will not repeat the oath.”

As for Camille Desmoulins, he climbed upon a chair in the Palais Royal, the usual scene of his oratorical triumphs, and said: -

Gentlemen, it will be a great misfortune if this perfidious man is brought back to us. What shall we do with him- If he is brought back, I move that he be placed on public exhibition for three days with a red handkerchief around his head, and then be conducted by easy stages to the frontier.”

We must confess that of all the suggestions offered, the one made by that hare-brained, fanatical Camille Desmoulins was not the most foolish, by any means.

The reader will observe that in all these extracts the word republic has been mentioned only by Bonneville. Neither Brissot, Danton, Robespierre, nor even Pe'tion had dared to utter the word. It even frightened the Cordeliers, and tilled the hearts of the Jacobins with wrath and indignation.

On the 13th of July, Robespierre said in the rostrum:”I am neither a republican nor a monarchist.”

Had Robespierre been driven to the wall, he would have found it difficult to explain what he was.

Well, everybody was in about the same situation, except Bonneville and that young woman who was sitting opposite her husband in the fourth story of the Hotel Britannique, copying a political document.

On the 22nd of June, the day after the king's departure, she wrote: -

“Indignation against Louis XVI., hatred of kings in general, and republican sentiments are heard on every side.”

Republican sentiments, you see, are rampant on every side, it seems, but the word republic is not even breathed.

The National Assembly, in particular, was strongly opposed to it.

The great trouble with legislative assemblies is that they never progress any further after they are elected; that they pay no heed to current events; that they do not keep in touch with the spirit of the times, and do not follow where the people lead, though they still claim to represent them.

The Assembly said,”The customs of France are not republican.” What would have introduced republican manners and customs into France, I should like to know- The monarchy- Certainly not. A monarchy requires obedience, servility, and corruption; so a monarchy fosters servile and corrupt customs and manners. It is a republic which institutes republican customs and manners. First get your republic, and republican customs and manners will speedily follow.

There was a time when it would have been an easy matter to proclaim a republic, and that was just after the king had departed, taking the dauphin with him. Instead of running after them and bringing them back, the royal fugitives should have been furnished with the best horses in the stables, and with energetic postilions well provided with whips and spurs. Then the courtiers should have been sent after the king, and the priests after the courtiers, and the door tightly closed behind them.

Even Lafayette, whose lucid moments were rare, was favoured with one at this time.

About six o'clock on the morning of June 21st some one came to inform Lafayette that the royal family had run away. It cost the person no little effort to wake the general, for he was sleeping as soundly as on that memorable night at Versailles.

“Gone!” he exclaimed,”why, that is impossible; I left Gouvion leaning against the door of their bedroom.”

But he arose, dressed himself, and went downstairs. At the door he met Bailly, the mayor of Paris, and Beauharnais, the President of the Assembly. Bailly's nose seemed longer and his face looked more sallow than ever. Beauharnais seemed overwhelmed with consternation.

Strange, was it not, that Josephine's husband, whose death on the scaffold left the way clear for his widow to ascend the throne of France, should be so overcome with consternation at the flight of Louis XVI.-

“How unfortunate that the Assembly is not yet in session!” exclaimed Bailly.

“Yes, very unfortunate,” chimed in Beauharnais.

“So the king has really gone-” cried Lafayette.

“Alas! yes,” responded the two statesmen, in the same breath.

“Why do you say ' alas '-”inquired Lafayette.

“What! is it possible you do not understand-” exclaimed Bailly.”Why, because he will come back with a pack of Prussians and Austrians and emigres at his heels, and force us into either a foreign or a civil war.”

“Then you think the return of the king is absolutely essential to the public welfare-” inquired Lafayette, thoughtfully, only partially convinced.

“Yes, unquestionably,” was the prompt reply.

“In that case, we must send after him,” said Lafayette.

And he wrote this order: -

“The enemies of our country having abducted the king, the National Guards are hereby ordered to arrest them wherever they may be found.

“Take notice that as the king is necessary to France, and as he must be brought back, it must not be admitted that he went of his own accord; it must be supposed that he had been abducted.”

Lafayette was by no means convinced, however; so in starting Komeuf off, he gave him to understand that he need not be in too much of a hurry. The young aide-decamp even took the wrong road, so as not to overtake the fugitives; but fortunately or unfortunately Billot was on the right track.

The Assembly was appalled when it heard the news. In fact, the king had left a threatening letter on his departure, giving people to understand that he had gone to secure foreign intervention, and would speedily return to bring France to its senses.

The royalists, on the other hand, lifted their heads again, and began to assert themselves in a rather alarming manner.

It was Suleau, I believe, who wrote: -

“All persons who desire to be included in the amnesty we offer our enemies in the name of the Prince of Conde ' can enter their names iu our office from now until the month of August. We shall have fifteen hundred registers for the accommodation of the public.”

One of those who suffered most from fright was Robespierre. The Assembly having adjourned from half-past three to five, hastened to Petion's house. The weak nature sought the strong.

In his opinion, Lafayette was in league with the court, and a massacre of the deputies was imminent.

“I shall be one of the first persons killed,” he cried despairingly.”I haven’t twenty-four hours to live.”

Petion, being of a cool and phlegmatic temperament, took an entirely different view of the situation.

“Now we know the king's real character, we can act accordingly,” was his only comment.

Brissot came in. He was one of the most progressive men of the time, and wrote for”The Patriot.”

He exclaimed,”A newspaper is to be started, of which I am to be one of the editors!”

“What is it to be called-”

“The Republican.”

Robespierre made a wry face.

“The Republican!”he retorted contemptuously.”I wish you would be kind enough to explain to me what a republic is.”

They were still in Petion's apartments when the two Rolands called to see their friend. The husband was the same resolute, austere person as ever; the calm wife with her clear, eloquent eyes was pleased rather than alarmed. On their way from their quarters on the Rue Gue'ne'gaud, they had seen the proclamation issued by the Cordeliers, and, like the Cordeliers, they were certain that a king was by no means essential to the welfare of a nation.

Their courage imparted fresh courage to Robespierre's sinking heart, and he went back to the Assembly, not to take any active part in the proceedings, but to watch and be ready to profit by any turn affairs might take. About nine o'clock in the evening he perceived that the tendency of the Assembly was towards sentimentalism, that the members were preaching fraternity, and that they were likely to soon put their theories into practice by going over en masse to the Jacobins, — with whom they had been on the worst of terms, and whom they had even styled a band of assassins.

Then he slipped off his bench, sneaked to the door, and ran as fast as he could go to the Jacobin Club, where he mounted the platform, denounced the king, denounced the cabinet, denounced Bailly, denounced Lafayette, denounced the entire Assembly, described the horrors of the impending St. Bartholomew's day in the most harrowing manner, and concluded by laying his life upon the altar of his country.

WTien Robespiere was talking of himself, he always became eloquent; and on learning that the virtuous and exemplary Robespierre was in such peril, his auditors sobbed pitifully.”If you die, we will die with you!” cried a voice.”Yes, yes, every man of us,” repeated his hearers in concert; and some raised their hands to swear it, others drew their swords, and some fell upon their knees and lifted their arms heavenward. It was the fashion of the day. Look at David's picture of the Oath in the Tennis Court.

Madame Roland was present. She could not understand why Robespierre should be in any danger, but she was a woman, and consequently vulnerable to emotion. The excitement was intense, and she was greatly moved, as she herself acknowledged.

Just then Danton entered the hall. As his popularity was on the increase, it seemed eminently proper that he should be the one to attack Lafayette, whose popularity was on the wane.

But why this almost universal dislike of Lafayette- Was it because he was really an honest man and always the dupe of parties, provided the parties appealed to his generosity-

So when the gentlemen of the Assembly were announced, and when Lameth and Lafayette — mortal enemies — entered arm in arm, to set an example of fraternity, everybody shouted: -

“To the tribune, Danton! To the tribune, Dan ton!”

Robespierre was more than willing to surrender his place, for Robespierre was a fox, not a dog, by nature. He pursued the absent enemy, sprang upon him from behind, clung to his shoulders, and gnawed through his skull down into his very brain, but seldom or never attacked a person face to face.

But though the platform was promptly vacated for Danton, it was a difficult matter for Danton to take it. Though he might be the proper person to attack Lafayette, Lafayette was perhaps the only man Danton could not attack with impunity.

And why-

We will explain. There was a good deal of the Mira- beau in Danton, as well as a good deal of the Danton in Mirabeau. They resembled each other strongly in temperament; both were sensual in their tastes, and both had the same need of money, and were consequently equally susceptible to bribery.

It is said that Danton, too, received money from the court. When- Through whom- And how much- No one knew, but he had received it, -at least, so everybody said.

The facts were really as follows: -

Danton had just sold to the cabinet his position as Advocate to the King's Council, and it was said that he had received from the ministry four times as much as the office was worth.

This was true; but the secret was then known to only three persons,-Danton the seller, Montmorin the purchaser, and Lafayette the intermediary.

If Danton attacked Lafayette, Lafayette might hurl the whole history of the transaction in his face.

Any other man would have hung back. Danton, on the contrary, went straight on. He knew Lafayette thoroughly, and consequently knew how often his generosity of heart amounted to positive idiocy.

Danton said to himself that Montmorin, a friend of Lafayette's, — the same Montmorin who had signed the king's passports,-was too deeply compromised by that act for Lafayette to throw another stone at him.

So he mounted the platform.

His speech was short, and to the point.

“Mr. President,” he said,”I accuse Lafayette of being the king's accomplice. Let the traitor come here. Let two scaffolds be erected, and I will consent to mount one of them if he is not found deserving of death upon the other.”

The traitor did not come, he was there already, and had heard the accusation against him; but as Danton had foreseen, Lafayette was too generous to defend himself.

Laraeth took this duty upon himself. He poured the lukewarm water of his commonplace pastorals over Danton's burning lava, and proceeded to preach fraternity.

Then came Sieyes, who also preached fraternity. Then Barnave preached fraternity.

These three popular orators eventually succeeded in overcoming Danton's influence. Everybody was glad Daiiton had attacked Lafayette, but they were also glad that Lameth, Sieyes, and Barnave had defended him; and when Lafayette and Danton left the club, it was Lafayette who was escorted home with torches and acclamations.

The court party considered this ovation rendered to Lafayette a great victory. The two great powers of the day had been worsted in the person of their leaders, — the Jacobins in Robespierre, the Cordeliers in Danton.

But it is very evident that another chapter will have to be devoted to explaining the protest which Madame Roland was copying as she sat opposite her husband in the little parlour on the fourth floor of the HQtel Britannique.

CHAPTER CVII. AN IMPORTANT INTERVIEW.

If the reader wishes to understand the situation and see his way clearly through one of the most mysterious chapters of the Revolution, let him accompany us to the Tuileries on the night of the 15th of July, 1791.

At the door of a suite of apartments opening upon a lonely and deserted corridor in the basement of the palace a woman stands listening intently, with her hand upon the key.

The second apartment of the suite is the only one lighted, and it is at the door of the first room that the woman stands listening, and starting violently at the sound of every footfall.

Who is this anxious watcher- Marie Antoinette.

For whom is she waiting- Barnave.

Oh, haughty daughter of Maria Theresa! What if any one had told you the day you were crowned Queen of France that the day would come when you would stand behind the door of the room of one of your maids, divided between hope and fear, as you anxiously awaited the coming of a petty Grenoble lawyer, — you who disappointed Mirabeau's hopes so often, and condescended to receive him but once.

But do not let the reader make the mistake of supposing that it was anything but political interest that led the queen to meet Barnave in secret.

For some time after that eventful evening when Charny left the Tuileries never to return, the queen remained utterly indifferent to everything; but gradually she began to perceive that two traits of her powerful character were still alive, — pride and hatred.

Not that she had any desire to be revenged on Charny, or hated Andree. When she thought of them, it was with a feeling of supreme contempt for herself; for she was too honest and truthful not to see that the wrong-doing was all on her side, and all the devotion on theirs.

What she did hate, from the very bottom of her heart, was the populace, who had laid hands upon her as if she were an ordinary fugitive from justice, — the populace, who had heaped insults upon her, covered her with disgrace, and filled her with disgust. Yes, she hated the rabble, who had formerly called her Madame Deficit and Madame Veto, but who now called her that Austrian woman; and if she could be avenged, she certainly meant to be.

The situation was extremely critical; but, thanks to Lafayette and the National Assembly, the first blow had been successfully parried. The king had not fled, he had been abducted.

We must not forget the manifesto issued by the Cordelier Club, however, nor Marat's proposal of a dictatorship, nor Monsieur Prudhomme's petty slurs about the dauphin's outing on the terrace, nor the suggestion that the king should be carted back to the frontier, nor the proposed establishment of anew journal under the control of Brissot, which was to be known as”The Republican.”

Would you like to see the prospectus of said journal- It was brief, but explicit. It was written in English by a young man named Thomas Paine, and then translated into French by a young officer who had fought in the American Revolution.

"We have proved that the king's absence is better for us than his presence. He has deserted his throne, which is equivalent to an abdication on his part. The Nation will never regain confidence in this perjured runaway.

“Whether his flight was his owu doing or the doing of others, matters little. Whether he be a knave or an idiot, he is equally unworthy of power. We are well rid of him, and he has no further claim upon us. He is a private individual now, — plain Louis de Bourbon. His safety is assured, for France will never so degrade herself as to take his life; but royalty U a thiug of the past. What is an office worth when it is dependent merely upon birth, and is liable to be filled at any time by an idiot-”The effect of such a bulletin posted on the walls throughout the entire city can be imagined. Malouet, the constitutionalist, was amazed and horrified, and he rushed to the National Assembly and demanded that the authors should be arrested without delay.

“Very well, but let us read the prospectus first,” replied PtStion.

Pe'tion, one of the few republicans then in France, was perfectly familiar with the prospectus. Malouet, who denounced it, did not want it read. What if the hearers should applaud- And he was almost certain they would applaud.

Chabroud and Chapelier tried to repair their colleagues' blunder by saying:”The press is free, and every man, be he wise or foolish, has a right to make his opinions known. Let us pay no attention to these mutterings of frenzy, but resume the business of the day.”

The Assembly did so, consequently we need say no more about it.

But it was a hydra that threatened the monarchy.

One head was no sooner cut off than another put forth its fangs to bite.

Monsieur's conspiracy with Favras had not been forgotten, nor the time when it was his intention to get the king out of the way and then have Monsieur appointed regent. But nobody was thinking of Monsieur now. He had fled when the king did, only he was more fortunate than his brother, and reached the frontier.

But the Duke of Orleans remained. And he had a devoted friend who was continually pushing him forward, — Laclos, the author of”Dangnrous Entanglements.”

A decree in regard to a regency was mouldering among the archives somewhere. Why not utilize it-

So, on the 28th of June, a certain journal offered the position of regent to Orleans. Louis XVI. no longer existed, it would seem, though there was still such a tiling as a National Assembly. As there was no longer any king, why not offer the regency to the Duke of Orleans- Of course the duke pretended to be greatly surprised, and declined the offer. Nevertheless, on July 1st Laclos urged the necessity of a regency, and on July 3d Re'al declared that the proper guardian of the dauphin was Orleans; but neither of these suggestions found favour in the eyes of the Jacobins.

On the 8th of July — you see we are gradually Hearing the end — Pe'tion brought up the question of royal inviolability, making a distinction, however, between political and personal inviolability.

The objection was made that the deposal of Louis XVI. would embroil France with the sovereigns of other nations.

“If these kings want to fight us, we shall deprive them of their most powerful ally by deposing Louis XVI.,” answered Pe'tion;”but if we leave him on the throne we give our enemies all the power we vest in him.”

Then Brissot mounted the rostrum and discussed the question as to whether or not the king could be legally tried.

Brissot's speech was a masterly effort. It excited the wildest applause and enthusiasm; and it was not only decided that the king could be tried, but the motion was carried by a large and enthusiastic majority.

The National Assembly could not refuse to discuss this question in its turn. The constitutionalists, however, instead of shirking the controversy, encouraged it, feeling confident of a majority; but the majority in the Assembly did not correspond with the majority in the country. But what did that matter- Legislative bodies seldom trouble themselves about such little discrepancies. They make laws, and the people unmake them; and when the people unmake what the legislators have made, we have a revolution.

On the 13th of July, the day the committee was to present its report on the subject, the hall and corridors were filled to overflowing. No decision was reached, however, but the report was read. This report said: -

“No provision is made in the Constitution for the course of action to be instituted in case of the king's flight, but his person is declared inviolable.”

That is to say, the committee, considering the king himself as beyond the Assembly's jurisdiction, delivered up to justice only General Bouille, Charny, Madame de Tourzel, and the other attendants. Was there ever a better illustration of the old fable of the big and little fishes-

The question was discussed much more fully in the Jacobin Club than in the Assembly.

But as no decision had been arrived at, Robespierre was still on the fence. He was still neither a republican nor a monarchist. He was a man who rarely compromised himself; and yet we have seen what terrors seized him a little while ago even when he was not in the slightest danger.

There are some men who are not so cautious. Danton was one of them, Legendre the butcher was another.

“The Assembly may absolve the king,” said Dauton,”but its verdict will be reversed by the country, for France condemns him.”

“The committee-men are fools,” growled Legendre.”If they knew the opinion of the masses, they would come to their senses. I say what I do for their own good.”

Such remarks excited the wrath of the constitutionalists; but unfortunately for them they were not in a majority in the Jacobin Club as they were in the Assembly, so they contented themselves with withdrawing from the club. They made a great mistake, however. It is always a mistake to give up one's place.”Les absents ont toujours tort,” you know. There is also another very sensible old French proverb:”He who quits his place loses it.”

And the constitutionalists not only lost their places, but these places were speedily filled by deputations from the people armed with protests against the action of the committee.

In the mean time an address, which was destined to exert a powerful influence over the events which were to follow, had been drawn up at the other end of Paris, in a district known as the Marais, or Swamp District, by a club, or rather a fraternal society of men and women, known as the Society of Minnows,-a name suggested perhaps by the tiny fish which abounded in that locality in those days. The writer of this address was a young man named Jean Lambert Tallieu; but it bore a much more formidable signature, it was signed:”The People.”

On the 14th of July the debate opened in the Assembly. This time it was impossible to exclude the public from the galleries, and to fill the corridors with royalists and knights of the poniard, as on the former occasion.

The prologue had been played before the claqueurs alone; now the real drama must be enacted before the real public, and it soon became evident that this audience was not very favourably disposed towards the defenders of royalty, for Duport, who had been so popular three months before, was listened to in sullen silence when he proposed to hold the king's entourage alone accountable for the king's offence.

Duport persevered to the end, however, surprised to find himself speaking for the first time without eliciting a single word or sign of approbation.

Robespierre, the prudent, ascended the platform next. He said that he was there in the interests of humanity; that it seemed to him both cruel and unfair to attack only the weak; that he would not attack the king, inasmuch as the Assembly had declared the king unimpeachable. But he wished to defend Bouille, Charny, Madame de Tourzel, and the others who had been obliged to obey the king by reason of their subordinate or dependent positions.

The Assembly fretted considerably during this speech. The galleries listened attentively, not knowing whether to approve or disapprove; but at last they discovered that this was a covert attack upon royalty, and only a pretended defence of courtiers, and then they applauded.

Prieur (from the Marue) endeavoured to rid the debate of all subterfuges and paradoxes by putting the question in this form:”What would you do, citizens, if the king was entirely out of the way, and some one should come and demand his full restoration to power-”

This question was the more embarrassing because it was direct; but there are times when nothing can embarrass reactionists.

Desmeuniers, in his reply, seemed to sustain the cause of the Assembly at the expense of the king.

“The Assembly is an all-powerful legislative body,” he said,”and therefore possesses the right to suspend the royal prerogatives and maintain this suspension until the constitution is completed.

“Finally,” continued this speaker,”if any one asks me to give my views concerning the proposed decree, I should suggest: First, that this suspension of the king's authority shall continue until the king accepts the constitution; and secondly, if he does not accept it, the Assembly shall depose him.”

“Oh, don't trouble yourself about that,” cried Gre'goire, from his seat;”he’ll not only accept it, but swear to anything you wish.”

The Assembly was about to seize upon Desmeuniers' suggestion then and there; but Robespierre, without leaving his seat, called out:”Be careful; such a decree decides in advance that the king is not to be tried.”

Thus caught in the very act of offending, the Assembly dared not vote for the decree. It was relieved from its embarrassment, however, by a commotion at the door.

This was caused by a deputation from the Fraternal Society of Minnows, with the address prepared by Tallien and signed by”The People.”

The Assembly revenged itself by refusing to listen to this address.

Barnave rose and said:”Postpone the reading until tomorrow if you will, but hear it then; only do not let us be troubled by seditious opinions. The law has only to hoist its signal, and we shall see all good citizens rally to its support.”

“Let the law hoist its signal!”Impress these words upon your mind, reader, for the phrase is highly significant under the circumstances. It was uttered on the 14th of July; it presaged the massacre of the 17th.

Not content with tricking the people out of the advantage gained by the king's desertion, or rather by his treachery, the Assembly evidently intended to endow the monarch with absolute power again; and if the people ventured to expostulate, if the people ventured to petition, this would only be considered an indication of seditious feeling, and justify the Assembly in hoisting the signal of the law, which meant nothing more or less than the unfurling of the red flag and the proclamation of martial law.

On July 15th, — the decisive day, — the Assembly presented a formidable appearance. Nobody threatened the peace and safety of the Assembly, but it had the appearance of being in great peril. It summoned Lafayette to its aid, and Lafayette sent five thousand National Guardsmen, among whom he took care to mix a thousand men armed with pikes, from the Faubourg St.-Antoine. The muskets represented the aristocracy of the National Guards; the pikes, the proletariat.

Convinced, like Barnave, that it was only necessary to display the signal of the law to bring to its support, not the people, but Lafayette, the Commander of the National Guards, and Bailly, the Mayor of Paris, the Assembly decided to bring matters to a crisis.

Half the session was devoted to listening to a report on departmental affairs, — for the leaders knew they had only to weary members and auditors with unimportant discussions, and postpone the important business to the close of the session, to carry their point, — then a hearing was granted to three or four members who were in the habit of taking part in every important discussion, then, the limit of debate being reached, the others were silent while two speeches were delivered, one by Salles, and the other by Barnave.

Two argumentative, lawyer-like discourses, which proved so convincing to the Assembly that, Lafayette himself having moved that the vote be taken, it was taken with the utmost serenity.

In fact, the Assembly had no cause for alarm that day. To use a slang expression, it had a picked audience: the gardens of the Tuileries were closed; the police force was under the president's orders; Lafayette occupied a seat on the floor of the Assembly, so as to put an end to debate at any time; Bailly was in his place at the head of the City Council; and everywhere the authorities were fully prepared to put down any insubordination by force of arms.

So the people, being in no condition for such a contest, passed the long lines of pikes and bayonets, and betook themselves to their Mount Aventine, that is to say, the Champ de Mars,-not in a rebellious spirit, like the Romans of old, but to gather around the patriot altar which the government had not found time to demolish since the anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, the day before, prompt as governments usually are to tear down such structures.

The crowd desired to draw up a protest there, and then send this protest to the National Assembly.

While the crowd was signing this protest, the Assembly was passing, first the following preventive measure: -

“Should the king break his oath and attack his people, instead of defending them, he abdicates his throne, becomes a private citizen, and therefore personally responsible for all offences committed after his abdication.''

Then this repressive measure: -

“!:. mi I!

When the people returned to present their protest to the Assembly, they found it even more strongly guarded than before. All the officers of the Assembly were soldiers that day. The president of the Assembly was Charles Lameth, a young colonel; Lafayette was present in all his glory as Commander-in-Chief of the National Guards; and even our worthy Bailly had a warlike air with a tricoloured sash knotted around his long black coat, and a three-cornered cocked hat crowning his pensive brow; and so becoming did this martial costume prove, that Madame Bailly might easily have mistaken him for Lafayette, as they say she sometimes mistook Lafayette for her husband.

The crowd talked and reasoned and argued, and finally it was decided that a deputation should be allowed to confer with Pe'tion and Robespierre. You may notice how the popularity of these new names increased in proportion as the popularity of the old names — the names of Duport, Barnave, Lameth, Lafayette, and Bailly — waned. Duly notified, Petion and Robespierre hastened to meet the delegates, six in number; but it was too late. The rote in the Assembly had been taken.

These two members of the Assembly, being opposed to the measure which had just passed, did not state the case in such a way as to make the delegates swallow the pill very peaceably, so they returned furiously angry to those who had sent them.

The people had lost the game, with the best cards fortune had ever placed in the hands of a nation.

The populace became wroth, indeed, and the first thing they did was to make the managers close all the theatres; and when the theatres are closed in Paris, it is as if a pall was spread over the city.

The opera, having a garrison inside its walls, refused to obey the order.

Lafayette with his four thousand muskets and one thousand pikes asked nothing better than the privilege of suppressing this growing insubordination; but the municipal authorities declined to give the necessary orders.

Up to this time the queen had been kept fully informed concerning the progress of events; but now reports suddenly ceased to come in, and she was greatly in doubt as to what the probable result would be.

Barnave, for whom she was waiting so impatiently, was to come and tell her what had taken place during the day, for everybody felt that a crisis was near at hand.

The king, who had also been awaiting Barnave's arrival in Madame Campan's apartments in company with the queen, was notified of a visit from Dr. Gilbert, and had gone up to hear what that gentleman had to say, leaving the queen with Barnave.

About half past nine o'clock a step resounded in the corridor, a voice was heard exchanging a few words with the sentinel on duty, and a young man clad in the uniform of a lieutenant in the National Guards paused in front of the door.

It was Barnave. The queen, her heart throbbing as violently as if this man were the most fondly adored of lovers, opened the door, and Barnave, after a quick glance behind and around him, slipped inside.

The door was instantly closed, and before a word could be spoken, the grating of a bolt was heard as it slipped into its socket.

CHAPTER CVIII. AN EVENTFUL DAY.

The hearts of both these individuals were throbbing with equal violence, though under the influence of entirely different sentiments. The queen's heart was filled with hopes of revenge; that of Barnave was aflame with an intense desire to win her love.

The queen passed hastily into the adjoining room, which was lighted. She certainly felt no fear of either Barnave or his love; she knew how respectful and devoted his love was, but, with true feminine instinct, she shunned darkness.

As soon as she entered the room, she seated herself; but Barnave paused on the threshold and took a survey of the little parlour, which was lighted by only a couple of candles. He had fully expected to find the king there, for his Majesty had been present at both of Barnave's previous interviews with the queen; but for the first time since their visit to the archbishop's palace at Meaux, Barnave found himself alone with the queen, and he involuntarily placed his hand upon his heart to suppress its wild throbbings.

“I have been waiting for you for two hours, Monsieur Barnave,” said the queen, after a moment's silence.

Barnave's first impulse, on hearing this reproach uttered in a plaintive rather than fault-finding tone, was to throw himself at the queen's feet; but a feeling of reverence deterred him.

“Alas! madame, that is true,” he replied;”but I trust your Majesty feels convinced that the delay is due to no fault of mine.”

“Oh, yes, I know and appreciate your devotion to the monarchy,” she responded.

“And above all to the queen,” added Barnave.”I wish your Majesty could be equally convinced of that.”

“I do not doubt it, Monsieur Barnave. And it was impossible for you to get here any sooner, you say-”

“I tried to do so at seven o'clock, but it was broad daylight, and I met Marat upon the terrace.”

“Marat- Isn’t Marat that newspaper man who is always attacking us-”

“Yes, and everybody else as well. His keen eye followed me until I disappeared beyond the grating of the Feuillaut Terrace. I passed without even so much as glancing at your window. Fortunately, however, whom should I happen to meet upon the bridge but Saint-Prix.”

“Saint-Prix- Who is he- An actor-” asked the queen, with almost as much disdain as she had just displayed in alluding to Marat.

“Yes, madame, an actor; but what of that- He is one of the most influential men of the day. Actors and journalists, men of whose very existence kings were formerly ignorant, except when they condescended to give them orders which the poor wretches were only too glad to obey,-actors and journalists have become citizens with no small share of influence, and play prominent parts in the great political and social dramas of the day. Well, I noticed that Saint- Prix was in uniform, and knowing him very well, I stopped him and asked him where he!- as to be on guard. Fortunately it was to be here in the palace, and knowing I could rely upon his discretion, I told him I was to have the honour of an audience with you this evening.”

“Oh, Monsieur Barnave I”

“Would it have been better for me to renounce the”- he was about to say”happiness,” but hastily substituted”honour” -”honour of seeing you, and so leave you in ignorance of the important information I had to divulge-”

“No, you did right, that is if you think you can trust Saint-Prix.”

“Madame, this is a critical moment, I assure you,” said Barnave, earnestly.”Those who are faithful to you now are friends indeed, for if the Jacobins prevail over the Constitutionalists, — and that will be decided to-morrow, — your partisans will be regarded as nothing more or less than your accomplices; and, as you know, the decree which has passed the Assembly exonerates you from blame, but places it upon your friends, whom it styles your accomplices.”

“That is true; but you were remarking just now that Monsieur Saint-Prix -”

“Was to be on guard at the Tuileries from nine until eleven, and that he would try to secure a post on the ground floor, so that in this way your Majesty might have two hours in which to give me full instructions. But he advised me to put on the uniform of an officer in the National Guard, and I obeyed his counsel, as you perceive.”

“And you found him at his post-”

“Yes, madame. It cost him two theatre tickets to get the appointment from his sergeant. You see bribery is a very easy matter,” added Barnave, smiling.

“Marat — Saint-Prix-two theatre tickets,” repeated the queen, thoughtfully, as if casting a wondering look into the labyrinth from which emerge those trivial events which so deeply affect the destinies of kings in times of revolution.

“Yes, madame. It is very strange, is it not- This is what the ancients called Fate, what philosophers call Chance, and what the devout call Providence.”

The queen pulled one of her long curls down across her beautiful neck and gazed at it sadly.”It is this, too, that whitens my hair,” she said sadly, at last. Then, returning to Barnave and the political side of the question, after this brief survey of the romantic and picturesque side, she exclaimed: -

“But I thought we had gained a victory in the Assembly-”

“We have gained a victory in the Assembly, madame, but we have suffered an ignominous defeat in the Jacobin Club.”

“I don't understand it. I thought the Jacobins and Lameth and Duport were on your side, and that you could do whatever you pleased with them.”

Barnave shook his head.

“That was the case a short time ago, but a change has come over the spirit of their dreams.”

“They have all gone over to Orleans, then, I suppose.”

“Yes, the present danger is chiefly from that quarter.”

“Danger- Doesn't the action of the Assembly to-day insure our safety-”

“It is best for you to understand the situation perfectly, so that you will know what to decide. The decree passed to-day is simply this: 'Should the king break his oath, and attack, instead of defend, his people, he abdicates his throne, becomes a private citizen, and is consequently responsible for any crimes committed after his abdication.'“

“Very well,” responded the queen;”but the king will not break his oath, nor will he wage war upon his own subjects. On the contrary, the king will defend them in case they are attacked.”

“Yes, madame; but by the adoption of this measure a door is left open for revolutionists and Orle'anists. The Assembly has not fully decided concerning the king as yet. Measures have been taken to prevent a second desertion on his part, but no action has been taken in relation to his recent flight, so far as he himself is concerned. But do you know what was proposed at the Jacobin Club last evening by Laclos, Orleans' tool-”

“Something outrageous, no doubt.”

“He asked that a petition for the king's resignation should be circulated in Paris and throughout the entire country, and said he could vouch for at least ten million signatures.”

“Ten million signatures!” cried the queen.”Good heavens! can it be possible that there are ten million people who desire to get rid of us-”

“Such majorities are easily secured, madame.”

“And did the motion pass-”

“It created a great deal of discussion, and Danton supported it.”

“Danton! Why, I thought Danton was on our side. Montmorin said something to me about the purchase, or sale, I forget which, of some office which would insure us this man's support.”

“Monsieur de Montmorin was mistaken, madame. If Danton belongs to any one, it is to Orleans.”

“And did Robespierre speak- They tell me he is beginning to exert a very powerful influence.”

“Yes. He did not support the motion, however, but merely advocated the issuing of an address to the Jacobin societies in the provinces.”

“It seems to me that it would be well for us to secure Robespierre, if he is becoming such an important personage.”

“That is impossible, madame. Monsieur de Robespierre is not to be bought. He is striving after an ideal, a phantom, a Utopia, — or perhaps it is ambition that is urging him on.”

“But, whatever his ambition may be, we can gratify it. Do you suppose he is anxious for wealth-”

“He cares nothing for money.”

“To be a cabinet minister, then-”

“Perhaps he wishes to be something more than a cabinet minister.”

The queen gazed at Barnave with something like terror.

“It seems to me that the office of cabinet minister is the highest to which any of our subjects could possibly aspire,” she remarked, after a brief silence.

“If Robespierre considers the king deposed, he no longer regards himself as a subject.”

“What does he aspire to, then-” asked the startled queen.

“There are times, madame, when men dream of new political titles.”

“Yes j I can understand how the Duke of Orleans may dream of becoming regent, for his birth entitles him to that high office; but Robespierre, -a petty country lawyer -”

The queen forgot that Barnave, too, was only a petty country lawyer.

Barnave showed no sign of emotion, either because the remark did not wound him, or because he had the courage to conceal the pain it caused him.

“Marius and Cromwell came from the common people,” he said quietly.

“Marius, Cromwell! Alas! when I heard those names in my childhood, I little thought they would ever have such a dread sound in my ears. But we keep wandering from the matters which should engross our attention. Robespierre opposed the Laclos resolution, you said, I believe-”

“Yes, but just then a crowd of people from the Palais Eoyal came in, — brought, I am almost positive, to support Laclos, — so his resolution was not only passed, but it was decided that the Jacobins should convene to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock to hear the petition read. It is then to be carried to the Champ de Mars and laid on the patriot altar for the people to sign, and copies are also to be sent to the societies in the provinces, that they may sign it.”

“And who is to draw up this petition-”

“Danton, Laclos, and Brissot.”

“But, good heavens! what are our friends, the Constitutionalists, going to do-”

“Well, madame, they have decided that to-morrow they will win or lose all.”

“But of course the constitutionalists cannot remain with the Jacobins after this.”

“Your admirable penetration enables you to see the situation exactly as it is, I perceive. Yes, led by Duport and Lameth, your friends have separated themselves from your enemies, and set up the Feuillant Club, in opposition to the Jacobins.”

“But why do they call themselves the Feuillants- There are so many new names and combinations in politics now, that every other sentence I utter is a question, it seems to me.”

“The old Feuillant Convent is a large building close to the Biding School, and consequently adjoining the Hall of Assembly. This building also gives its name to the terrace near the Tuileries.”

“And who belongs to this new club-”

“Lafayette, -that is to say, the National Guards; and Bailly,-that is to say, the municipal authorities.”

“Lafayette! Do you think you can rely upon Lafayette-”

'I believe he is devoted to the king.”

“Yes, as a woodman is devoted to the oak he means to fell to the ground some day. As for Bailly, well, I have no cause to complain of him, quite the contrary; for when that Rochereul woman told him of our intended departure, he very kindly sent her letter to me. But tell me more about.this new club. What do they intend to do- Is it a powerful organisation-”

“Immensely powerful, madame, because, as I had the honour to say to your Majesty just now, they have the National Guards, the municipal authorities, and a majority in the Assembly at their disposal.”

“But what does the Assembly intend to do-”

“The Assembly intends to reprove the mayor sharply for the hesitation and leniency he displayed to-day. The result will be that Goodman Bailly will be all right after that, for he belongs to the clock family, and only needs to be wound up and set going to do all right.”

Just then the striking of a clock told them that it was a quarter of eleven, and they heard a warning cough from the sentinel.

“Yes, yes, I know it is time for me to go,” murmured Barnave;”but it seems to me I have a thousand things still to say to your Majesty.”

“And I, Monsieur Barnave, have but one answer to make to you, — that I am grateful, deeply grateful, to you and your friends for the dangers to which you have exposed yourselves for my sake.”

“Madame,” replied Barnave,”whether I succeed or fail, I shall be more than content if the queen will reward me with a smile, whatever the result may be.”

“Ah, monsieur, I hardly know what a smile is, now; but you are doing so much for us, I will try and remember the time when I was happy, and I promise that my first smile shall be for you.”

Barnave bowed, with his hand upon his heart, and walked backwards towards the door.

“When shall I see you again, monsieur-” asked the queen.

Barnave seemed to consider.

“The petition, and the second vote in the Assembly to. morrow,” he mused.”The next day, the explosion and the suppression. — On Sunday evening, madame, I will endeavour to come and tell you what has taken place on the Champ de Mars.”

The queen went thoughtfully upstairs to her husband, whom she found equally thoughtful. Dr. Gilbert, who had just left him, had told him almost the same things that Barnave had told the queen. The royal couple had only to exchange glances to see that the outlook appeared equally gloomy to both.

The king had written a letter, and without a word he handed it to her for perusal.

This letter gave Monsieur authority to solicit, in the king's behalf, the intervention of the Emperor of Austria and of the King of Prussia.

“Monsieur has done me a great deal of harm,” said the queen.”And Monsieur still hates me, and will do me all the harm he possibly can; but if he has the king's sanction, he shall have mine.”

And, taking the pen, she heroically placed her signature beside that of the king.

CHAPTER CIX. IN WHICH WE AT LAST COME TO THE PROTEST MADAME ROLAND WAS COPYING.

While the foregoing conversation was taking place between Barnave and Marie Antoinette, three men were sitting around a table with pen, ink, and paper in front of them. These three men were Danton, Laclos, and Brissot, the persons appointed by the Jacobins to draw up the petition.

Danton was not the man for this kind of work. He was too active, and much too fond of pleasure and excitement, not to be impatient for the close of every committee meeting in which he took part; so, after a short time, he took himself off, leaving Brissot and Laclos to frame the petition to suit themselves.

In a few minutes Laclos, too, showed signs of real or pretended weariness; and, throwing himself back in his chair, and letting the quill fall from his hand, he exclaimed,”Go ahead, my dear Brissot, and write whatever you think proper. As for me, excuse me, if you please. If it were a naughty book now, a sequel to 'Dangerous Entanglements,' for instance, I might undertake it; but a petition — a petition, why, the very thought of it puts me to sleep,” and he yawned until it seemed as if he would dislocate his jaws.

Brissot, on the contrary, was the very person for this kind of work; and, satisfied that he could draw up the petition better than anybody else, he accepted the task, while Laclos closed his eyes and settled himself in his chair as if with the intention of taking a nap, while he was really preparing himself to weigh each word and phrase in order to insert a provision for the regency of his prince, if he saw any possible chance to do so.

As soon as Brissot finished a clause, he read it aloud, and Laclos signified his approval by a slight nod of the head or a faint grunt.

In stating the situation, Brissot called attention to the following points: -

First. The timid or hypocritical silence of the Assembly, which either would not or dared not take action in relation to the king.

Secondly. The virtual abdication of Louis XVI. at the time of his flight, and also his subsequent deposal, inasmuch as the Assembly had voted his suspension from office when they caused him to be pursued and arrested. As acknowledged sovereigns are never pursued or arrested, if Louis XVI. was pursued and arrested, it proved conclusively that he was no longer king.

Thirdly. The urgent necessity of providing a substitute.

“Good!” exclaimed Laclos, when he heard this last clause. Then, as Brissot was about to go on, he cried:”Wait, wait a minute; it seems to me something ought to be added to that, — something that will bring the weak- hearted over to our side. Every man hasn’t burned his ships behind him, as we have.”

“Very well, what shall it be-”

“Oh, that's for you to say, my dear fellow. I think I should add — let me see -”

And Laclos pretended to be searching for a phrase which had in reality been formulated for a long while in his brain, only waiting for a fitting opportunity to emerge from it.

“Well, after the words providing a substitute I should add, 'by all constitutional means.'“

Note and admire, all ye politicians and past, present, and future framers of petitions, protests, and laws! The addition of these few apparently harmless words was a very little thing, was it not-

Well, you shall see by and by what these three words might have led to.

All the constitutional means for providing a substitute for the king could be expressed in a single word, and that word was a”regency.”

And in the absence of both Monsieur and Artois, the two brothers of Louis XVI. and uncles of the dauphin, extremely unpopular, both of them, on account of their departure from the country, upon whom would the duties of regent devolve- Upon Orleans, of course.

This apparently meaningless and innocent phrase thus slipped into the petition would make the people ask, or rather appear to ask, that Orleans should be appointed regent during the minority of the dauphin, who was now only five or six years old.

Brissot made no objection to this addition, perhaps because he did not perceive the danger lurking in the words, -the snake in the grass, which might lift his hissing head at any moment, -perhaps because, knowing the risk he ran as the framer of this petition, he was not sorry to leave a loophole of escape; so he merely remarked:”That will bring some of the constitutionalists over to our side. It is a very good idea, Laclos.”

The next day Pe'tion, Brissot, Danton, Camille Desmou- lins, and Laclos went to the Jacobin Club with the petition. The hall was empty, or nearly so. Everybody was at the Feuillant Club. The desertion was complete.

So Pe'tion, too, hastened to the Feuillant Club.

Whom did he find there- Barnave, Duport, and Lameth, preparing an address to the Jacobin clubs in the provinces, announcing that the Jacobin Club was no longer in existence, but had been transformed into the Feuillaut Club, under the name of the Society of the Friends of the Constitution.

So this association, which it had been so much trouble to organise, and which had spread until it formed a complete network over the entire land, ceased to exist, destroyed by hesitation.

Whom should it obey, the old Jacobins or the new-

Meanwhile, a strong anti-revolutionary scheme was in course of preparation, and the people, trusting in the honesty of those whom they had chosen as their representatives, were likely to wake only to find themselves bound again hand and foot.

This danger must be met. Every one who had any influence must prepare a statement of the case, and send it to that province where he was best known or most popular.

As a delegate from Lyons, Roland had considerable influence in that city and the country round about; so, before taking the petition to the Champ de Mars to be signed by the people in default of the Jacobins, who were nowhere to be found, Danton hastened to Roland's lodgings, explained the situation to him and his wife, and asked them to send a protest to the people of Lyons, a protest Boland himself was to prepare for this purpose.

And this was the document which Madame Roland was copying.

Meanwhile, Danton hastened to the Champ de Mars; and when he arrived there he found a heated discussion going on in relation to the four words introduced into the petition by Laclos.

It is probable, though, that they would have passed unnoticed had not a man, whose dress and manner indicated beyond a doubt that he belonged to the lower classes, interrupted the reader with a freedom almost amounting to violence.

“StopI” he cried.”The people are being deceived again!”

“How so-”

“By those words, 'By all constitutional means.' You intend to substitute a regent for the king. You mean to re-establish royalty, and we Ve had enough of kings.”

“No more kings! No more kings 1” shouted a majority of the listeners.

And then a singular thing happened. What should the old Jacobins do but take sides with royalty-

“Be careful, gentlemen!”they exclaimed.”That cry 'No more kings!' means a republic; and we are not ripe for a republic yet.”

“May be not,” responded the man of the peo.ple;”but one or two sunny days like that at Varennes will ripen us!”

“Let those who no longer acknowledge the power of Louis XVI. or any other king, raise their hands!”shouted the unknown man.

Such an immense majority raised their hands that it was not even necessary to call for the negative vote.

“Very well,” called out the same man.”To-morrow, all Paris can come to the Champ de Mars and sign this resolution. I, Billot, will see that due notice is given.”

Thus the boldest of the Cordeliers and of the Jacobins were far outstripped, and by whom- By a man of the people, — in other words, by the instinct of the masses.

As Desmoulins, Danton, Brissot, and Pe'tion felt sure that such a thing could not be done without creating a disturbance, it was deemed advisable to obtain permission of the municipal authorities for the meeting the next day, and Desmoulins and Brissot were deputed to attend to the matter.

Bailly was not at the H5tel de Ville, but the first syndic was, and though he would not take it upon himself either to give or refuse the desired permission, he seemed to see no objection; and Desmoulins and Brissot left, feeling sufficiently authorised to proceed with the matter.

But as soon as they left, the syndic sent a messenger to warn the National Assembly of the march thus stolen upon them.

The Assembly was caught in its own trap. They had come to no apparent decision concerning the status of the fugitive, who had been deprived of his royal titles, and who had been pursued and arrested at Varennes, and brought back to the Tuileries, where he had been held as a prisoner for nearly a month.

No time was to be lost. Desmeuniers, with every appearance of being a bitter enemy to the royal family, offered the following resolution: -

“The suspension of the power vested in our chief executive shall continue until the constitution is presented to the king and accepted by him.”

This resolution, offered at seven o'clock on the evening of July 16th, was adopted at eight by an immense majority.

This, of course, would render the people's petition useless, as by the action of the Assembly the king, suspended from office only until he accepted the constitution, would become by that mere act of acceptance as much of a king as ever; besides, any one who demanded the removal of a king constitutionally maintained by the Assembly would of course be considered in open rebellion against the government, and consequently liable to prosecution.

That evening there was a meeting of the City Council at the Hotel de Ville. The session began at half-past nine, and at ten it had been decided that by eight o'clock the next morning printed copies of the latest decree of the Assembly should be posted all over the city, and likewise be proclaimed at every street-corner by the city criers, accompanied by an armed escort.

This decision reached the ears of the old Jacobins an hour after it was made. They felt powerless after the desertion of most of their number to the Feuillants, so they yielded.

Santerre,the popular brewer of the Bastille district (who was destined to be Lafayette's successor), consented to go to the Champ de Mars in behalf of the society and withdraw the petition.

The Cordeliers showed even more prudence. Danton declared he was going to spend the day at Fontenay-sous- Bois, where his father-in-law, the restaurant-keeper, had a small country-house. Legendre promised to join him there with Desmoulins and Freron.

The Rolands received a short note informing them, that it would be useless to send the petition to Lyons, as everything had either failed or been postponed. It was nearly midnight, and Madame Roland had just finished her copy of the document, when this most unsatisfactory note came.

Just about this time two men, who were taking their third bottle of fifteen-sous wine in the back room of a wineshop in Gros Caillou, hit upon a strange plan.

One of these men was a barber, the other a disabled soldier.

“That's certainly a funny idea of yours, Lajariette!” exclaimed the pensioner, with a vulgar, half-muddled laugh.

“Yes, you understand my scheme, don't you-”responded the barber.”Just before dawn we’ll go to the Champ de Mars, rip off a plank from the side of the patriot altar, slip underneath it, and replace the plank; then with a big gimlet or auger we’ll bore a lot of holes in the plank, and when a crowd of young and pretty citizenesses go up on the platform to-morrow to sign that petition — Well, we’ll see what we shall see.”

The coarse laugh of the old soldier changed into a still coarser chuckle; evidently he was already gazing in imagination through the holes in the platform.

The barber seemed in a less jubilant mood, for the honourable and aristocratic craft to which he belonged found itself wellnigh ruined by the recent change in the political world. Emigration had deprived these artists of many of their best patrons; moreover, Talma had been enacting the part of Titus in Racine's”Be're'nice,” with his hair cut short and without powder.

As a general thing, hairdressers were consequently strong royalists. Read Prudhomme, and you will see that a barber cut his throat in a fit of despondency on the day of the king's execution.

So these two men thought it would be a capital joke to peep under the petticoats of the pretty patriotesses, as they were styled by the fine ladies who still remained in France. In fact, the idea pleased them so much that they called for a fourth bottle of wine, and were about to open it, when the old soldier too had an idea. This was to get a small keg, and empty the wine into this keg instead of into their glasses, and take the keg with them to the scene of action.

The barber approved; and as the landlord suggested that it wasn’t worth while for them to hang around his establishment any longer if they had drunk all they wanted, our two sly foxes bargained with him for a keg and an auger, then put three bottles of wine in the keg, and proceeded exultantly to the Champ de Mars, where they pried up a plank; then, lying down on the soft dirt underneath the platform, they soon fell asleep, with the keg between them.

CHAPTER CX. THE PETITION.

The night of the 16th of July was gloomy, agitated, and full of suppressed excitement. The leaders of the old Jacobins and the Cordeliers, having received some hint as to their enemies' plans, kept carefully out of sight; but the well-meaning and conscientious men of this progressive party were resolved to unite again, and proceed with the undertaking already begun.

Others, animated by less honest and philanthropic sen. timents, are also on the watch, — such men as love riots and the smell of blood, as vultures and tigers love armies which destroy each other, and so keep them supplied with food.

Amongst them is Marat, in his subterranean lair,- Marat, who always believes or pretends to believe himself the object of threats and persecution. He lives in the shadow, like a beast of prey; and out of the shadow come forth each morning the sinister predictions which impart a lurid, bloody tint to the pages of the journal which he styles”The Friend of the People.” Ever since the king's return, this journal had advocated a general massacre, and the establishment of a dictatorship, as the only effectual means of protecting the rights of the people. And by way of varying the universal throat-cutting and hanging, he proposes to saw off hands, cut off thumbs, bury people alive, or impale them upon knives. In fact, it was high time for Marat's physician to come to his patron's relief, and say, according to his custom,”Your writings are too bloodthirsty, Marat. You need bleeding.”

Verriere- the hideous little hunchback, with immensely long arms, whom we met at the beginning of this narrative, but who shortly afterwards went back into obscurity — reappeared on the 16th of July like a vision of the Apocalypse, as Michelet expresses it, mounted on Death's white horse, pausing at each street-corner like a harbinger of misfortune, and warning the populace to be at the Champ de Mars the following day.

Fournier, who now appears for the first time in our narrative, and whom they call”Fournier the American,” — not because he was born in America, for he is a native of Auvergne, but because he has been a slave-driver in St. Domingo, — Fournier is at hand. Ruined and soured by unsuccessful litigation, he is bitterly exasperated by the indifference with which the Assembly has treated the twenty or more petitions he has addressed to it. His want of success is due — at least so he imagines — to the fact that the leaders of the Assembly are planters, like the Lameths, or the friends of planters, like Barnave and Duport; so he is resolved to be avenged at the very first opportunity, and keeps his word, — this man with the instincts of a brute and the grin of a hyena.

The king and queen are waiting anxiously at the Tuileries. Barnave has promised them a victory over the people. He did not say what the triumph would be, or how it was to be effected. What does that matter to them- They are indifferent as to the means, if the result is to their advantage. But the king desires this triumph because it will ameliorate the condition of royalty; the queen, because she sees in it the beginning of her revenge; and in her opinion it is only right to be avenged upon those who have made her suffer so greatly.

The Assembly, rely ing upon one of those apparent majorities which satisfy such legislative bodies, await the result quite tranquilly. Its precautions have been taken. The law is on its side.

Lafayette, too, feels no apprehensions. He has his National Guards, devoted to him as yet; and among these guards is a corps of nine thousand men, made up almost entirely of old soldiers, which consequently belongs to the army, rather than the militia. These men are paid; the National Guardsmen, as a general thing, are not. It is therefore dubbed the Hireling Brigade. If there is to be bloody work to-morrow, these are the men to do it.

Bailly and the other municipal authorities are in a state cf anxious expectancy. After a life devoted to study and scientific research, Bailly suddenly finds himself forced into political quarrels and bickerings. Called to account yesterday by the Assembly for the weakness he displayed on the night of the 15th of July, he is sleeping to-night with his head pillowed upon a treatise on Martial Law. And he will rigorously enforce martial law to-morrow, should necessity require it.

Whatever the day is to bring forth, it dawns magnificently. By four o'clock in the morning all the venders of chocolate, gingerbread, cakes, and candy are on their way to the patriot altar, which stands solitary and alone, like a gigantic catafalque in the middle of the Champ de Mars.

By half-past four about one hundred and fifty people may be counted on the Champ de Mars. Those who rise with the sun are generally those who have slept poorly; and those who sleep poorly are generally those who have supped poorly, or not at all.

When one has had no supper and very little sleep, he is not apt to be in a very good humour at four o'clock in the morning; consequently there are some very cross and surly fellows among the one hundred and fifty persons assembled around the patriot altar.

Suddenly a woman, a dealer in lemonade, screams loudly. The point of an auger has pierced her shoe. She shrieks for help, and everybody rushes to her. The plank is full of holes, for which no one can see any cause or reason; but the presence of the auger indicates the presence of one or more men under the platform on which the altar stands.

They are called upon to explain their presence and to state their intentions, as well as to come out and show themselves; but there is no response.

A messenger hastens to Gros Caillou for the police; but the police do not consider the mere fact that a woman has been pricked in the foot sufficient cause for troubling themselves, and snub the messenger. When he returns without the officers, the crowd become indignant. The crowd has increased; it numbers fully three hundred men now. They tear off some of the planks, and take a look underneath the platform.

There they find two very guilty-looking men. The barber, thinking the auger would be conclusive proof of his guilt, has thrown it as far from him as possible; but he forgot all about the keg. The men are sei/ed by the collar, dragged out upon the platform, and questioned in regard to their intentions.

As they hesitate, they are taken before a police magistrate.

When questioned by him, they confess why they were hiding under the platform. The commissioner considers it a trifling offence, and releases the men; but at the door they are met by some Gros Caillou laundresses, with the beetles they use in washing clothes at the river in their hands. They seem to be extremely jealous of the honour of their sex, these laundresses of Gros Caillou, for these angry Dianas fall upon these modern Actseons and belabour them soundly with their beetles.

Just then a man comes rushing up. A keg, — a keg of powder, has been found under the platform; so the two culprits could not have gone there merely to peep, as they pretend, but to blow up the entire assemblage of patriots.

It was only necessary to remove the bung to ascertain whether the keg contained wine or powder; and even if it had contained powder, a little reflection would have sufficed to convince people that if the two conspirators fired the keg, they would have been blown up sooner and more effec tnally than the patriots; but there are times when nobody reflects, when no one considers the evidence, when nobody wishes to know the truth.

In an instant the squall becomes a tempest. A number of desperate-looking men appear upon the scene. Whence did they come- No one knows. Where did the men come from who killed Foulon and Berthier and Flesselles- the men who were responsible for the horrors of the fifth and sixth of October- Out of the depths to which they returned when the work of carnage is over.

These new-comers seize the old soldier and the poor barber. Both are thrown down. The old soldier, stabbed in twenty, yes, fifty places, never rises again. The hairdresser is dragged to the nearest lamp-post. In another second a rope is around his neck, and he is hoisted into mid-air. At a height of about ten feet the weight of his body breaks the rope, and he falls to the ground, still alive. Raising himself on his elbow an instant, he sees his friend's head on the end of a pike. How does it happen that a pike is always ready on the very instant- He utters a shriek, and then swoons at the sight; then his head too is cut, or rather hacked off, and another pike is found ready to receive the bloody trophy.

Then the two heads must be paraded through the city, and the pike-bearers march up the Hue Grenelle, singing at the top of their voices, accompanied by a hundred ruffians like themselves.

About nine o'clock, just as the criers are proclaiming in the Place du Palais-Royal the last decree of the Assembly, and the consequences that will follow any violation of that decree, these ruffians come pouring into the square through the Rue St. Thomas.

This seemed an ample justification for the stand taken by the municipal government. However harsh the repressive measures they threaten, they can hardly attain the magnitude of the crime just committed.

The members of the Assembly begin to gather. It is only a short distance from the riding-school to the square, and the report of these lawless proceedings reaches the Assembly in an inconceivably brief space of time; only the victims are no longer merely a barber and an old pensioner too severely punished for a prank worthy of college boys. They are represented as highly esteemed citizens, friends of law and order, who have been cruelly murdered for counselling revolutionists to respect the laws.

Regnault de Saint Jean d'Angely springs upon the platform, and cries:”Citizens, I demand martial law. I demand of the Assembly that all persons who encourage resistance to lawful authority, either by individual or collective publications, shall be declared guilty of the crime of lese-nation, — treason against France.

The Assembly rises almost in a body,and then and there declares that all persons shall be regarded as guilty of the crime of lese-nation who by individual or collective writings incite the people to resist the law.

This is equivalent to declaring the innocent petitioners on the Champ de Mars guilty of treason; and this was the real object of the motion.

Robespierre is on the watch in an obscure corner of the hall. As soon as the vote is taken, he rushes off to the Jacobin Club to report what has been done. The hall is almost deserted; but Santerre is there, and he is immediately despatched to the Champ de Mars to warn the petitioners of impending danger.

He finds two or three hundred people on the platform of the altar, signing the petition which was drawn up by Brissot, but from which the clause suggested by Laclos has been left out.

The prime mover in the affair is Billot, the hero of the day before. He cannot sign his name himself, but those around him guide his hand; so his signature appears among the first.

Santerre ascends the platform and announces that the Assembly has just declared all who demand the king's resignation rebels and traitors; he also adds that he has been sent by the Jacobins to withdraw the petition framed by Brissot.

Billot descends a few steps and finds himself face to face with the famous brewer.

They recognise each other as brothers; for they fought, side by side at the Bastille two years before.

“Very well; the Jacobins can have their petition back again, and we will frame another,” said Billot.

“And you need only bring that petition to me in the Faubourg St.-Antoine,” says Santerre,”and I'll sign it myself and have it signed by all my men.” And he offers his big hand to Billot, who shakes it cordially.

At the sight of this powerful alliance between city and country there is loud applause.

Billot returns the petition to Santerre, who immediately departs with it, but not without making to the people one of those gestures of encouragement which are not to be mistaken. Santerre is becoming well known.

“It seems that the Jacobins are afraid,”remarked Billot.”Being afraid, they do right to withdraw their petition; but we are not afraid, so we will draw up another.”

“Yes, yes,” answered several voices.”Here in this same place, to-morrow.”

“But why not to-day-” asks Billot.”Who knows what may happen by to-morrow!”

“Yes, yes, yes!”cry many voices.”To-day, at once!”

A number of prominent persons gather around Billot. Strength of character is a powerful magnet.

This group is composed chiefly of members of the Cordelier and Jacobin clubs, who, either because they are more courageous than their leaders, or because they are not so well informed, have come to the Champ de Mars against the explicit orders of their chiefs.

Many of these persons bear names which are as yet unknown, but which are soon to become celebrated, in different ways.

Among them are Robert, Mademoiselle de Ke'ralio, and the Rolands; Brune, a type-setter who is destined to become marshal of France; Herbert, the future editor of that scurrilous sheet called”Father DuchSne;” Chaumette, a journalist and medioal student; Sergent, an engraver who is to become the brother-in-law of Marceau and the manager of those celebrated”Festivals of Reason;” Fabre d'Eglan- tine, author of”The Epistolary Intrigue;” the Isabeys, father and son,-the latter the only witness of the scene we are describing who will be alive to tell the story at the ripe old age of fourscore and eight.

One patriot rushes oil for writing materials. While they are waiting for his return, the crowd take hold of hands, and begin to dance the farandole to the music of the famous (7a ira.

In a few minutes the patriot returns; for fear there should not be enough, he brings a pint of ink, a whole bundle of quills, and five or six quires of paper.

Robert takes a pen, and Mademoiselle de KeYalio, Madame Roland, and her husband dictate in turn, as Robert writes the following: -

PETITION TO THE NATIONAL ASSEMBLY.

Written on the Patriot Altar.

July 17th, 1791.

Representatives Op The Nation: -

Your labours are fast drawing to a close. Soon the successors chosen by the people will take your places, without being confronted by any obstacles which have been placed in your way by the representatives of two privileged classes who are necessarily enemies to all the sacred principles of equality.

A great crime has been committed. Louis XVI. fled; he shamelessly deserted his post of duty. The country was on the verge of anarchy. Citizens arrested the king at Varennes, and brought him back to the capital. The residents of the national capital hnplore yon not to decide the fate of the royal culprit hastily, but to wait until the other eighty-two departments have had time to express their opinion. There is a great difference of opinion in this matter. Many addresses and petitions are on their way to the Assembly. From every part of the empire simultaneously comes the demand that Louis shall be tried. You, gentlemen, have decided that he is innocent, and have placed him beyond the reach of the law by declaring in your vote of July 16th that the Constitution shall be submitted for his acceptance as soon as it is completed.

Legislators! this is not the will of the people, and we deem it your bouuden duty, as well as your greatest glory, to be the faithful exponents of the public will.

Possibly, gentlemen, you have been constrained to take this step by the numerous refractory deputies who have forfeited their rights by protesting in advance against the Constitution; but, gentlemen,, representatives of a generous and confiding people, remember that these two hundred protesters have no voice now in the National Assembly, and that this decree is consequently null and void, both in principle and in form, — null in principle, because it is contrary to the will of the sovereign people; null in form, because it was passed by two hundred and ninety unqualified voters.

These considerations, as well as the imperative necessity of preventing anarchy, -a danger almost certain to result from alack of harmony between the representatives and the people represented, — justify us in demanding in the name of all France that you reconsider your decree of July 16th with reference to the king; that you regard the offence of Louis XVI. as proved; that, he himself having virtually abdicated the throne, you assent to this abdication, and convene a new legislative body to proceed in a constitutional manner with the organisation of a new executive power.

The petition being completed, there is a call for silence. Every sound is instantly hushed, and every head is uncovered. In a stentorian voice Robert reads the document.

It meets the wishes of all. No objection is made; on the contrary, unanimous applause greets the concluding words.

Now it is to be signed. There are not two or three hundred people on the Champ de Mars now, but at least ten thousand; and as crowds continue to pour in at all the entrances, it is evident that there will be fifty thousand persons around the patriot altar in the course of an hour or two.

Those who drew up the petition are the first to sign it, and they then pass the pen to their neighbors. In a few seconds the entire sheet is covered with signatures; so sheets of blank paper like that on which the petition is written are distributed through the crowd. The sheets are duly numbered, so that they may be appended to the petition itself.

In compliance with the orders of the Assembly issued to Lafayette, to whom the assassinations of the morning had also been reported, troops are already arriving on the Champ de Mars; but the people are so engrossed with the petition that they are hardly conscious of the presence of the soldiers.

CHAPTER CXI. THE RED FLAG.

These troops are led by one of Lafayette's aides. Which one- His name is not given. Lafayette had so many aides that history quite loses itself among them.

Whoever he may be, a shot from the hillside strikes the young man. The wound is slight, and as this is the only shot fired, the troops scorn to notice it. A similar incident occurs at Gros Caillou, where Lafayette appears with three thousand men and several field-pieces. Fournier is there at the head of a band of ruffians, — the same probably who murdered the barber and the disabled soldier in the morning. They are engaged in erecting a barricade, and Lafayette and his men ride up to the barricade and demolish it.

While this is going on, Fournier fires his musket at Lafayette through the spokes of a waggon wheel. Fortunately the gun misses fire, and Fournier is seized and dragged before Lafayette.

“Who is that man-”he asks.

“The fellow who fired at you just now.”

“Let him go. He'll be sure to get himself hanged in some other way.”

Unfortunately, Fournier does not get himself hanged. He disappears for a time, to reappear during the September massacres the following year.

Lafayette reaches the Champ de Mars. The people are signing the petition, and perfect tranquillity reigns. The order is so perfect that Madame de Condorcet is there promenading with her infant only a year old.

Lafayette approaches the patriot altar and inquires what is going on. The people show him the petition, and promise to disperse quietly as soon as the petition is signed. He sees nothing objectionable in all this, and retires with his soldiers.

But though the shot which wounded Lafayette's aide, and that fired at the general himself, created little or no commotion on the Champ de Mars, they have aroused the wildest excitement in the Assembly.

Lafayette is wounded! One of his aides is killed! There is fighting going on upon the Champ de Mars!

These are the reports which find credence throughout the city, and which the Assembly transmit to the Hotel de Ville; but the municipal authorities, having also heard alarming reports of the proceedings on the Champ de Mars, have already sent three officials, Messrs. Jacques, Hardy, ami Renaud, there to investigate; but instead of finding a disorderly crowd, as they anticipated, they see only quiet, well-behaved citizens, some promenading, some signing the petition, others dancing the farandole and singing the”ca ira.”

The crowd is orderly, but perhaps the petition is reprehensible in its character. The officials ask to have it read to them. The request is complied with. The commissioners do not consider the document illegal, and even go so far as to say that they would sign it themselves, did not their position as office-holders forbid.

In the silly squabble which had just occurred between the populace and the National Guards, two men had been arrested; but, as almost always happens under such circumstances, the two prisoners were entirely innocent, and the more prominent persons among the petitioners requested that they be set at liberty.

“We cannot assume that responsibility,” replied the officials;”but appoint some commissioners to accompany us to the Hotel de Ville, and justice shall be done.”

A dozen commissioners were accordingly appointed, and Billot, being unanimously chosen as one, returned to the city, in company with his colleagues and the three municipal delegates.

When they reach the Place de Greve, in front of the City Hall, the commissioners are surprised to find the square so full of soldiers that it is almost impossible to force their way through the forest of bayonets.

At the door of the Council Chamber the three officials ask the twelve commissioners to wait a moment, open the door and go in, but fail to reappear.

A whole hour the commissioners wait.

But not a word.

Billot stamps his foot impatiently, and frowns. Suddenly the door opens, and the entire City Council appears, with Bailly at its head.

Bailly is very pale. Being, above all, a mathematician, he has a keen sense of justice and injustice. He feels that he is being forced into a wrong course of action; but the orders of the Assembly are explicit, and Bailly will fulfil tii''in to the letter.

Billot walks straight up to him, and says, in that decided way with winch our readers are familiar, -

“Monsieur Mayor, we have been waiting for you over an hour.”

“Who are you, and what is your business with me-”

“Who am I-” repeats Billot.”I am surprised you ask such a question, Monsieur Bailly. It is true, however, that those who turn to the left don't recognise those who keep to the right. I 'm Billot.”

Bailly starts. The name recalls to his mind the man who was the first to enter the Bastile; the”man who assisted in the defence of the City Hall at that terrible time when Foulon and Berthier were assassinated; the man who marched beside the door of the king's coach the first time the king was brought from Versailles; the man who aroused Lafayette on that awful October night; the man, too, who had brought the king back from Varennes.

“As to my business,” continues Billot,”I am sent here, with these gentlemen, by an assemblage of people on the Champ de Mars.”

“And what do those people desire-”

“They wish you to keep the promise made by your three commissioners here to release two unjustly accused citizens, for whose innocence we vouch.”

“Do you fancy we can rely upon such assurances-” asked Bailly, trying to pass on.

“And why not-”

“Because they are made by seditious persons.”

The commissioners gaze at each other in astonishment.

“Seditious persons!” repeats Billot, scowling;”so we are rebels, are we-”

“Yes,” responds Bailly,”and I am on my way to the Champ de Mars to restore order now.”

Billot shrugs his shoulders and gives a laugh, — one of those laughs which sound almost like a threat coming from certain lips.

“Restore order at the Champ de Mars-” he exclaims.”Why, your friend Lafayette has been there and gone away again, and your three commissioners have been there, and they, too, can tell you that the Champ de Mars is much more quiet and orderly than the H amp;tel de Ville.”

Just then a captain of the Bonne Nouvelle battalion rushes up in a great state of excitement.

“Where's the mayor-” he cries.

Billot steps aside, so that Bailly can be seen, as he replies:”Here I am.”

“To arms, Monsieur Mayor, to arms!”shouts the captain.”There is fighting on the Champ de Mars, and fifty thousand scoundrels are about to make an attack upon the Assembly.”

But the words are hardly out of his mouth when a heavy hand is laid upon his shoulder, and Farmer Billot asks:

“Whosays so-”

“Who says so- The Assembly says so.”

“Then the Assembly lies,” answers Billot.

“Monsieur!”cries the captain, drawing his sword.

“The Assembly lies,” Billot repeats, seizing the sword partly by the hilt and partly by the blade, and wrenching it from the captain's grasp.

“Enough, gentlemen, enough! I will go and see for myself, Monsieur Billot. I beg you will return the captain's sword; and if you have any influence over those who sent you here, go back to them and persuade them to disperse.”

“To disperse-”cries Billot.”We will see about that. The right of petition is guaranteed by law; and until the law is annulled, no one — no, not even a mayor or a com- mander-in-chief of the National Guard — has any right to prevent a citizen from making his wishes known. You are going to the Champ de Mars you say- Very well, we will precede you, Monsieur Mayor.”

The bystanders are only waiting for a word or gesture from Bailly to spring forward and arrest Billot; but Bailly feels that the voice which speaks so firmly and decidedly is the voice of the people, and he signifies by a gesture that Billot and his fellow-commissioners are to pass unmolested.

As they descend to the square below, an immense red flag, suspended from one of the windows of the City Hall, unfurls its blood-red folds in the first gust of a rising storm.

But unfortunately the shower lasts only a few minutes. There is a good deal of thunder, but no rain; and this only increases the heat, and fills the air with even more electricity.

By the time Billot and his colleagues reach the Champ de Mars the crowd has increased until it numbers about sixty thousand souls. These sixty thousand men and women are on the sides of the knoll on which the altar stands, and also upon the platform and steps of the altar itself.

The return of Billot and his companions creates a great sensation. The people crowd around them.”Have the two innocent men been released- What did the mayor say-”

“The two citizens have not been released, and the mayor made no reply, except to say that the petitioners were a set of seditious rascals.”

The”seditious rascals” laugh good-naturedly, and then resume their conversations, their promenades, and their various occupations.

All this while the signing of the petition has been going steadily on. Before night, the number of signatures will reach fifty thousand. The Assembly will feel obliged.to yield to such pressure as this.

Suddenly a citizen rushes np, out of breath. He has not only seen the red flag floating from the City Hall, but he has also heard the order given to the National Guards to march to the Champ de Mars. The soldiers were ordered to load their guns; and while that was being done, one of the municipal officers had gone from company to company, giving whispered instructions to the leaders. The man who brought these tidings had hastened on ahead to warn the patriots; but such peace and harmony prevail that the persons who are there exercising a right recognised by the Constitution cannot believe that they are in any danger. So th«signing of the petition goes on; so does the singing, and likewise the dancing.

Soon the roll of a drum is heard. The sound comes nearer. The petitioners look up and become a little alarmed as they see bayonets glittering in the sun, like a waving field of steel.

Members of the different political societies consult together, and many advise immediate departure; but from the steps of the patriot altar Billot calls out: ~” Brothers, we are doing nothing wrong. 'Why should we feel afraid- It will be time enough to run away when we are ordered to do so.”

“Yes, yes, we are not transgressing the law,” is the cry that resounds on all sides.”Let us wait. The Riot Act has to be read three times. Let's stay where we are.”

So everybody remains. The sound of the drum is very near now, and at that very instant three detachments of National Guards appear at three entrances of the Champ de Mars, — one at the gate near the Military School, one at the gate a little lower down, the other at the gate opposite the heights of Chaillot. This last detachment crosses the wooden bridge and advances with a red flag at its head and Bailly in the ranks; only the red flag is an almost invisible ensign, and does not attract.any special notice.

This is what the petitioners assembled on the Champ de Mars see. Now what do the new-comers themselves see-

An immense plain crowded with quiet, inoffensive prom- enaders, and in the middle of it the patriot altar, a huge structure, standing on a platform reached by four wide staircases.

From this platform other steps lead up to a smaller platform surmounted by the patriot altar, shaded by a beautiful palm. Each step, from the lowest to the highest, serves as a seat for a larger or smaller number of spectators, according to its capacity, thus forming a bright-hued, animated pyramid of humanity.

The National Guard from the Marais district and the Faubourg St.-Antoine, four thousand or more men, with their artillery, enter by the gateway at the south corner of the Military School, and range themselves along the front of that building.

Lafayette has not over much confidence in these troops, which compose the ultra-democratic portion of his army; so he has added a battalion of paid soldiers, the Pretorian guard, so to speak, composed of old soldiers, members of the disbanded French Guards, and of enthusiastic Lafay- ettites, who, knowing their divinity has been fired upon, are longing to avenge this crime, which is far greater in their estimation than that which the king committed against the nation.

This detachment enter from the Gros Caillou side, brilliant, formidable, and threatening, and so find themselves almost directly in front of the patriot altar.

Through the same gates by which the National Guards entered come several squads of cavalry, raising such a dust that the tragedy which follows can be but dimly seen, as through a murky veil or through occasional rents in a cloud of sand.

The scene that ensued we will endeavour to describe.

The crowd, driven back by the cavalry, whose horses gallop at the top of their speed around the outer edge of the vast arena, seek a refuge at the foot of the patriot altar, as if upon the threshold of an inviolable sanctuary.

A single shot is heard from the river bank; then, the smoke of a vigorous fusillade mounts towards the sky.

Bailly is greeted with shouts of derision by the gamins on the slopes of Grenelle. A bullet whistles by the mayor's head and wounds a dragoon. Bailly orders his men to tire, but to fire into the air, simply to frighten the crowd; but the echo has scarcely died away when another fusillade is heard.

It comes from the Hireling Guard.

Upon what and whom are they firing- Upon that inoffensive crowd around the patriot altar.

Wild shrieks of terror follow the discharge, and a strange sight ensues, but one which, alas! is destined to become much more common in days to come, — the populace fleeing in all directions, leaving motionless corpses and wounded victims weltering in blood behind them, the cavalry pursuing the fugitives wildly through the smoke and dust.

The Champ de Mars presents a deplorable aspect. Injured women and children are lying about everywhere.

As usual under such circumstances, the carnage spreads far and wide. The artillery is placed in position, and the guuners prepare to fire. Lafayette has barely time to rush to the spot and place himself and his horse in front of the cannon's mouth.

After a frantic, headlong rush, tirst in this direction, then in that, the frenzied crowd flee, as if by instinct, to the National Guards of the Marais district and the Faubourg St.-Antoine, who open their ranks to receive the fugitives. The wind having blown the smoke in their faces, these troops suppose at first the fugitives are actuated by fear alone; but when the smoke is dispelled, they are horrified to see the ground stained with blood and strewn with corpses.

At that very instant an aide gallops up with orders for these guards to advance and sweep the field, so as to effect a union with the other troops; but these stanch democrats not only defy the aide, but also the cavalry, which are charging upon the populace. The aide and the cavalry alike recoil before the bayonets of these patriots, and the people who have sought a refuge with them find safety at last.

In another moment the immense plain is empty, or at least there remain upon it only the bodies of the men, women, and children killed or wounded by the fusillade of the Hireling Guard, or trampled under the feet of the dragoons' horses.

And yet, in the heat of this carnage, undismayed by the cries of the wounded and the fall of the dead, a few patriots gather up the papers bearing the signatures to their petition, and these papers find a safe resting-place in the house of Santerre.

Who gave that unfortunate order to fire- No one knows. It is one of those mysteries which remain unexplained, in spite of the most careful investigation. Both the chivalrous Lafayette and the honest Bailly abhorred bloodshed, and yet this blood pursued them both until the end of their days, and cost them both their popularity.

The number of victims left on the field of- carnage no one knows. Some persons underrated the number in order to lessen the responsibility of the mayor and the general in command; others overrated it, in order to increase the wrath of the populace.

When night came many of the corpses were thrown into the Seine, which bore them to the sea. The aea swallowed them up.

In vain were Bailly and Lafayette, not only absolved from guilt, but publicly congratulated by the Assembly. In vain did the constitutionalist journals declare the day's work a triumph of the law. The victory was branded with shame, like every such disastrous day in which rulers slay those who are offering no resistance to lawful authority.

The people, who generally give things their right names, called this pretended triumph,”The Massacre of the Champ de Mars.”

CHAPTER CXII. AFTER THE MASSACRE.

Now let us return to Paris and see what is going on there.

Paris heard the sound of the fusillade, and shuddered. She did not know which party was in the right, or which party was in the wrong; but she felt that she had just received a wound, and that the blood was flowing from the wound.

Robespierre remained at the Jacobin Club like a commander in his fortress. There, and there only, he felt safe. One of the members of the club was sent to ascertain the condition of affairs. As for the Feuillant Club, it was not necessary for them to send out for news. They were kept informed of what was going on hour by hour, and almost minute by minute. The game was being played, and thus far they were the winners.

The Jacobin messenger returned in about ten minutes with the terrible news that Bailly and Lafayette were slaughtering the people.

Every one had not heard Bailly's cry of grief and consternation; every one had not seen Lafayette ride directly in front of the loaded cannon.

The news terrified the thirty or forty remaining members beyond expression. They realised that it was upon them that the Feuillants would endeavour to cast the odium of the affair, for had not the first petition emanated from the Jacobins- True, it had been withdrawn; but the second petition, which had not been withdrawn, was unquestionably the natural outcome of the first. It is little wonder that the Jacobins were frightened.

That pale-faced phantom of virtue, that shadow of Rousseau's philosophy known as Robespierre, became fairly livid. He longed to sneak away, but could not. He was obliged to remain and take his stand. Terror was his counsellor.

The Jacobins announced their willingness to swear allegiance to the Constitution anew, and also to obey the behests of the National Assembly.

This announcement was scarcely made when a frightful noise from the street resounded through the corridors of the old convent. The noise consisted of laughter, jeers, threats, and songs.

The Jacobins listened intently, hoping the disturbers of the peace would pass them by and keep on to the Palais Royal, where Orleans resided. But no, the sound ceased, and the crowd came to a halt in front of the low and gloomy portal opening upon the Rvie St.-Honore'. Some one increased the prevailing consternation by calling out,”It is the Hireling Guards returning from the massacre on the Champ de Mars. They intend to blow us up.”

Fortunately some guards had been stationed at the entrance; and they closed and barricaded all the doors so as to prevent this band, drunk with the blood already spilled, from committing another outrage.

One by one, the Jacobins and the spectators slunk away. It did not take long to empty the hall, however, even at this rate; for there were only about forty members present, and not more than a hundred persons in the galleries.

Madame Roland, who seems to have been everywhere that day, was one of the last to leave; and she relates that a Jacobin, on hearing that the soldiers were about to invade the hall, lost his head so completely that he climbed up into the ladies' gallery. Madame Roland made him ashamed of his terror, and he went back the way he had come.

When Robespierre departed in his turn, he was at a loss which way to go. He lived at the farther end of the Marais district, and if he went home he was sure to encounter the Hireling Guard; so he determined to go and ask a shelter of Petiou, who lived in the Faubourg St.- Honore', and accordingly turned his steps in that direction.

He was very anxious to escape notice; but how could he hope to do it in that plain olive coat, those spectacles, which midnight study had made a necessity to the patriot at an unusually early age, and with that stealthy tread, like that of a weasel or a fox. lu fact, he had hardly taken twenty steps before two or three persons exclaimed:”Look at Robespierre! That's Robespierre! See, that slender man, walking along close to the wall. He 'a trying to hide, he 's so modest!”

It was not from modesty but fear that Robespierre was trying to escape notice; but who would dare suggest such a thing in relation to Robespierre, the virtuous and incorruptible Robespierre, the idol of the people-

One man stuck his face under Robespierre's very nose to make sure it was he, and Robespierre pulled his hat still further down over his eyes, not knowiug why he was so closely inspected; but the man recognised him and called out,”Hurrah for Robespierre!”

Robespierre would have greatly preferred having an enemy to deal with than such a friend as this.

“Robespierre!” cried another even more enthusiastic bystander.”Long live Robespierre! If we must have a king, why not have Robespierre-”

Oh, thou immortal Shakespeare!”Csesar died, that his assassin might be Caesar!”

If any man ever cursed his popularity it was Robespierre at that moment. A crowd of people quickly gathered around him, and his admirers even proposed to bear him along on their shoulders in triumph. He peered around from under his glasses in terror, hoping to find some open door or dark alley through which he could make his escape; and just then he felt himself seized by the arm and pulled aside, while a friendly voice whispered,”Come this way.”

A minute more and he heard a door close behind him and found himself in a carpenter's shop. The proprietor was a man about forty-five years of age; near him stood his wife; and in a room back of the shop two girls, one about fifteen, the other eighteen, were preparing supper.

Robespierre was very pale, and seemed in danger of fainting.

“Bring a glass of water, Leonora!” cried the joiner. And Leonora, the joiner's daughter, timidly approached, glass in hand.

It is quite possible that the austere lips of the orator touched the fingers of Mademoiselle Duplay, for Robespierre was now for the first time in the dwelling of the carpenter of that name.

And now let us leave Robespierre in the bosom of the worthy family he will soon make his own, and follow Dr. Gilbert to the Tuileries.

Again we find the queen waiting anxiously; but it is not Barnave she is expecting this time, nor is she standing with her hand upon the door-knob, but she is seated in an arm-chair with her head resting upon her hand. She is waiting for the return of Weber, whom she had sent to the Champ de Mars.

In order that the reader may do the queen justice and understand that hatred of the French for which she has been so severely censured, we will give a brief description of what she was compelled to endure after her enforced return from Varennes. The people seemed to have had but one idea: that, the king and queen having escaped once, they would do so a second time, and this time reach the frontier. In fact, the queen was regarded by the common people as nothing more or less than a sorceress, who might fly out of her window, like Medea, in a car drawn by two griffins; and the officers appointed to guard Marie Antoinette seem to have shared these notions.

Gouvion, who had let her slip through his fingers even after having informed Bailly of her intended departure, declared that he would not be responsible for the consequences if any woman except Madame de Rochereul — his mistress — was allowed to enter the queen's apartments; and he accordingly placed at the foot of the steps leading up to the royal apartments a large portrait of Madame de Rochereul, in order that the sentinels might notice any other woman who attempted to gain access to the queen.

On being apprised of this order, the queen hastened to the king and informed him of the insult; but though the king could not believe it at first, he found the report to be true. The king then appealed to Lafayette, who ordered the portrait removed, and the queen's regular attendants resumed their service; but another equally offensive precaution was instituted. Officers were stationed in the room adjoining the queen's bed-chamber, and they were ordered to keep the door always open, so that they could have the royal family under their constant supervision.

One day the king ventured to shut this door; an officer re-opened it immediately. A moment afterwards, the king closed it again, but it was again opened, and the officer on guard remarked:”Sire, it is useless for you to close this door, for I shall have to re-open it as often as you close it; such are my orders.”

So the door remained open; and the only concession that could be obtained was that while the queen was dressing and undressing the door might be left merely ajar, but as soon as she was dressed or in bed the door must be set wide open again.

This tyranny became so intolerable that the queen conceived the idea of placing her attendant's bed between her own couch and the door, so that this bed with its hangings would serve as a sort of screen behind which she could dress and undress.

One night, seeing that the attendant was asleep and the queen awake, the sentinel took advantage of the opportunity to enter the room and approach her Majesty's bedside.

The queen looked at him with that haughtiness of manner she knew so well how to assume when any one showed a lack of proper respect; but the man, who was really a well-meaning fellow who had no intention of showing her any disrespect, gazed at her with such an unmistakable expression of compassion as he proceeded to give her some advice and tell her what he would and would not do if he were in her place, that the queen's resentment vanished, and she listened to him with profound sadness.

During the conversation the attendant woke, and, seeing a man near the queen's bedside, she screamed, and sprang up with the intention of summoning assistance; but the queen checked her by saying:”No, Cam pan. Let us listen to what this gentleman has to say. He is a good Frenchman, and though, like many others, he is deceived in regard to our intentions and motives, his remarks indicate a sincere attachment to royalty.”

So the officer went on until he had said all he wished to say.

Before the journey to Varennes, Marie Antoinette had not a gray hair; but during the night that followed the scene between Charny and herself, her hair became nearly white. Perceiving the sorrowful change, she smiled bitterly, and cut off a lock, which she sent to Madame de Lamballe, who was then in London, with the following comment: -

Whitened by sorrow /

The firing at the Champ de Mars was heard at the Tuileries, and the queen was greatly alarmed by it. The Varennes affair had been a hard but useful lesson to her. Until then the Revolution had seemed a trivial affair to Marie Antoinette. She thought Paris merely misled by a few demagogues, and talked much like the king of”our faithful provinces;^' but now she had seen the provinces, and had found them even more disloyal than Paris. So the queen was awaiting Weber's return with great anxiety, when the door opened, and admitted, instead of the portly form of her foster-brother, the stern and austere face of Dr. Gilbert.

He was no favourite with her, for she regarded him as little better than a Republican; and though she had a great respect for him personally, she would not have sent for him in any mental or physical crisis, though she could not help yielding to his influence when she was in his presence.

“Ah, it is you, doctor!” she exclaimed, upon his entrance.

“Yes, madame, it is I,” he replied, bowing.”I know that you are expecting Weber, but I can give you more authentic information than he will be able to, for he was on the other side of the Seine, where there was no blood shed, while I was on this side of the river, where the slaughter took place.”

“Slaughter- What has occurred, monsieur-”

“A great calamity, madame. The court party has triumphed, but the victory has been won by such frightful means that it is a thousand times worse for the victors than a defeat would have been.”

“But what has happened-”

“The troops tired on the populace, and Lafayette and Bailly can never be of any further service to you.”

“And why-”

“Because their popularity is irretrievably lost.”

“But what were the people upon whom they fired doing-”

“They were signing a petition for the king's removal.”

“And you think it was wrong to fire upon them after that-”

“I think it would have been better to convince them than to shoot them.”

“Convince them of what-”

“Of the king's sincerity.”

“But the king is sincere.”

“Pardon me, madame. Three days ago I spent an entire evening trying to make his Majesty understand that his worst enemies are his two royal brothers, Conde', and the other fugitives from the kingdom. On my knees, I entreated the king to break off all negotiations with them, and to offer to honestly adopt the Constitution, on condition that two or three really impracticable articles should be changed. The king became convinced, — at least so I believed, — and promised me that he would have nothing more to do with the emigres and their plans; but my back was hardly turned, madame, before the king signed, and asked you to sign, a letter to Monsieur authorising him to solicit the intervention of the Emperor of Austria and the King of Prussia.”

The queen blushed like a child detected in a fault, but straightway recovered herself.

“So our enemies have spies even in the king's study,” she said scornfully.

“Yes, madame, and it is this very fact which makes every such false step so ruinous to the king,” replied Gilbert, coolly.

“But, monsieur, the letter was written by the king's own hand. After I signed it, it was folded and sealed by the king, and then given to the courier who was to deliver it.”

“True, madame.”

“Was the messenger arrested-”

“The letter was read.”

“Are we then surrounded by traitors-”

“All men are not Charnys.”

“What do you mean, monsieur-”

“I mean that one of the most certain omens of the impending ruin of kings is the alienation of friends who should be bound to them by hooks of steel.”

“I did not send Monsieur de Charny away,” the queen answered bitterly;”he left of his own accord. When one's star is declining there are no bonds strong enough to keep friends at one's side.”

Gilbert looked sadly at the queen, and gently shook his head.

“Do not slander Monsieur de Charny, madame, or the blood of his brothers will cry out from the tomb that the Queen of France is an ingrate.”

“Monsieur!”

“You know that I speak the truth, madame. You know perfectly well that when real danger threatens you Charny will be at his post, and that this post will be one of imminent peril.”

The queen hung her head.

“You did not come here merely to talk to me about Charny, I suppose,” she said at last, impatiently.

“No, madame, but ideas, like events, are bound together by invisible threads, and some are suddenly brought into notice which were better left hidden in the innermost recesses of the heart. No, I came to speak to the queen. Forgive me if, without really intending to do so, I have spoken to the woman.”

“And what do you wish to say to the queen, monsieur-”

“I should like to set before her the situation both of France and of Europe at this present time. I should like to say to her: Madame, the happiness or misery of the world depends upon you. You lost the first game of the rubber on that frightful October night, two years ago. Now, or at least so it appears to the eyes of your courtiers, you have just won the second game. The third game, the rubber, is about to begin. If you lose, you lose throne, liberty, and perhaps life itself.”

“And do you think we are so cowardly as to recoil on that account, monsieur-”said the queen, drawing herself up proudly.

“I know the king is brave, he is a descendant of Henry IV. I know the queen is brave, she is the daughter of Maria Theresa. I can only attempt to influence them through their convictions; and, unfortunately, I doubt very much if I shall ever succeed in arousing in the heart of the king and queen the convictions that fill my own.”

“Why take the trouble if you think the effort so futile-”

“Because I feel it my duty, madame. Believe me, when one lives in such stormy times as these, it is a comfort to be able to say to one's self, even if one's efforts prove unsuccessful: I have done my duty.”

The queen looked Gilbert straight in the eyes.

“First of all tell me one thing: Do you believe it is still possible to save the king-

“I do.”

“And royalty also-”

“I hope so.”

“Ah, monsieur, you are more fortunate than I am,” responded the queen, sighing deeply.”Both are lost, irretrievably lost, I believe, and I struggle against Fate only to satisfy my own conscience.”

“I can understand that, madame, because you are contending for an absolute monarchy. You are like a miser who will not sacrifice a part of his wealth to save the remainder, as well as his own life, even when he is in sight of a shore which will more than repay him for what he loses in the wreck. He clings fast to his treasure until it drags him down with its deadly weight. You, too, will perish by reason of the tenacity with which you cling to the baubles you are trying to preserve. Oh, madame, cast these things to the winds, I beseech you, and strike out boldly towards the future.”

“To do that, would be to break faith with all the other monarchs of Europe.”

“Yes, but you forget that it is to form an alliance with the French people.”

“The French are our enemies.”

“Only because you have taught them to distrust you.”

“But the French people cannot contend successfully against a European coalition.”

“Let them have at their head a king who adheres faithfully to the Constitution, and the French nation can conquer Europe.”

“It would require a million men to do that!”

“Europe cannot be conquered by a million men, madame, but Europe can be conquered by a single idea. Plant along the Rhine and upon the Alps the tricoloured flag with this motto: 'Down with tyrants! Liberty to all nations!' and Europe is conquered.”

“Really, monsieur, there are times when I am tempted to believe that the wisest men go mad.”

“Ah, madame, madame, you do not know what France is in the eyes of other nations. France is the Virgin Goddess of Liberty. The entire world adores her. From the Rhine, from sunny Italy, millions of voices invoke her aid. She has only to set foot outside her own boundaries to find the other nations of the earth kneeling before her. Oh, madame, take advantage of the fact that France has not yet reached the stage of violence; for if you wait too long, the hands now extended so fraternally to all the world will be turned upon herself. Belgium, Germany, and Italy are watching each movement of France with joy and love. Belgium says to her: 'Come! ' Germany exclaims: 'I await thee!' Italy says to her: 'Save me!' In the Far North, an unknown hand, in the land of Gusta- vus has written: 'No war with France!'

“Besides, not one of these monarchs whose aid you implore, is ready for war. Two nations hate us intensely. I say two nations, but I ought rather to say, an empress and a minister, — Catherine the Second of Russia and Pitt of England; but they are powerless to injure us, at least for the present. Catherine is holding Turkey under one claw, and Poland under the other. She will need to have two or three years to subdue the one and devour the other; but she is urging the Germans on against us, and offers them France as a reward. She reproaches your brother Leopold for his inaction, and points to the King of Prussia invading Holland merely to avenge a slight affront offered to his sister. She says to him, 'Make haste! March on!' but she herself does not move. Pitt is swallowing India just now, and is like a gigantic boa-constrictor suffering from an attack of indigestion. If we wait until he gets over it, he will attack us in our turn, not by waging open war upon us, probably, but by encouraging a civil war in France. I know you stand in mortal dread of Pitt. I know you admit that you never think or speak of him without a shudder. Would you stab him to the very heart- Then make France a republic, with a king at its head. Instead of that, what are you doing, and what is your friend the Princesse de Lamballe doing- She tells England, to which country she has gone as your representative, that the highest ambition of France is to have a charter like the Magna Charta of England, and what does Pitt reply: 'That he will not suffer France to be made a republic, and that he will save the monarchy;' but all the persuasions and entreaties in the world cannot induce him to promise to save the monarch, for he hates the monarch. For was it not this very monarch, Louis XVI., who disputed his (Pitt's) claim to India, and helped the American colonies to free themselves from the British yoke- Pitt has but one desire, as far as Louis XVI. is concerned, — that his shall be a companion portrait to Charles I. in history.”

“Monsieur, monsieur, who has told you all this-” cried the startled queen.

“The same man who tells me the contents of your Majesty's letters.”

“Then we no longer have so much as a thought that we can really call our own, it seems.”

“As I have already told you, madame, the kings of Europe are entangled in an invisible net from which they cannot extricate themselves. Do not think of such a thing as resisting, raadame. Place yourself at the head of the progressive ideas you are now endeavouring to keep back, and those who hate you will become your warmest defenders, and the unseen daggers which now threaten you will be turned upon your enemies.”

“You forget, monsieur, that those whom you call our enemies are our brother monarohs.”

“Ah, madame, once call the French people your children, and you will see of what small account brothers are in politics and diplomacy. Besides, can you not see that all these kings and princes wear upon their brows that fatal seal, the seal of madness- Look at your brother Leopold, worn out at forty in his Tuscan seraglio transported to Vienna. Look at Frederick of Prussia, look at Gustavus of Sweden. One died, and the other will die, without posterity; for everybody knows that the heir to the throne of Sweden is the son of Monk, and not of King Gustavus. Look at the King of Portugal, with his three hundred nuns. Look at the King of Saxony, with his three hundred and fifty-four bastards. Look at Catherine, the Pasiphae of the North, who has three armies from which to choose her lovers. Oh, madame, madame, can you not see that all these monarchs are rushing madly on into a gulf, an unfathomable abyss,- to utter suicide,- and that you, instead of blindly following them to death and destruction, may attain to a world-wide empire, a universal monarchy-”

“Why do you not say all this to the king, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“I have, madame, again and again; but he, like yourself, has his evil geniuses who undo all I have just done.” Then he added in a tone of profound melancholy,”You used Mirabeau, you are using Barnave, and you will use me; and that is all it will amount to.”

“Monsieur Gilbert, wait for me here; I want to see the king a moment.”

Gilbert bowed, and the queen left the room by the door leading to the king's apartments. The doctor waited ten minutes, fifteen minutes, half an hour. At last a door opened; but it was not the door through which the queen had passed out, but the one opposite to it.

An attendant entered, who, after looking carefully around him, approached Gilbert, made a masonic sign, handed him a letter, and vanished. Gilbert opened the letter and read: -

“You are wasting yonr time, Gilbert. At this very moment the king and queen are listening to Breteuil, who has just arrived from Vienna, bringing this counsel: ' Treat Barnave as you did Mira- beau. Gain time by swearing to support the Constitution, tlien carry it out to the letter, to show huw utterly impracticable it is. France will cool off and become tired of the struggle. The French are naturally volatile; they will take up some new hobby, and give liberty the go-by. If liberty is not forgotten, we shall at least have gained a year, and in a year we shall be ready for war.'

“Those two consummate fools, who are still derisively called the king and queen, and whose doom is sealed, leave them to their fate, Gilbert, and hasten to the hospital at Gros Caillou, where yon will find a dying man,-though his case is not so desperate, jwr- haps, as that of Louis and Marie Antoinette. You may be able to save him, but they cannot be saved, and they may drag you with them in their downfall.”

The letter bore no signature, but Gilbert recognised the handwriting as that of Cagliostro. At that very moment Madame Campan entered, and handed Gilbert a note which read as follows: -

“The king begs that Dr. Gilbert will put in writing the policy which he just suggested to the queen.

“Detained by important business, the queen regrets that she cannot see Dr. Gilbert again this evening, and it will be useless for him to wait for her any longer.”

Gilbert read the note, reflected a moment, then, shaking his head dubiously, exclaimed:”Idiots! their fate is indeed sealed!”

“Have you any answer to send to their Majesties, monsieur-” asked Madame Campan.

Gilbert handed her the anonymous letter he had just received.

“That is my answer,” he said, and left the room.

“

CHAPTER CXIII. “NO MORE MASTERS! NO MORE MISTRESSES!”

Before following Gilbert to the hospital at Gros Caillou, suppose we take a peep at the Assembly, which is about to dissolve after accepting the Constitution whereon the retention in office of Louis XVI. depends, and see what the Court party has gained by the victory of July 17th, which two years later will cost Bailly his head.

We saw the danger to which Robespierre was exposed, and from which he was saved by the timely intervention of the worthy Duplay. While he was quietly eating his supper in the little dining-room opening into the courtyard, his friends were feeling very anxious about him, especially Madame Roland, who, quite forgetting that she had been seen and recognised at the patriot altar, and ran quite as much risk as the other persons who had assisted in drawing up the objectionable petition, insisted upon taking Robert and Mademoiselle Ke'ralio to her lodgings; and when it became known, that same night, that the Assembly was preparing an accusation against Robespierre, she hastened out to warn him, but not finding him at home, stopped to see Buzot on her way back.

Buzot was one of Madame Roland's most devoted friends; and, knowing her great influence over him, she resolved to enlist his services in Robespierre's behalf. If Robespierre was attacked at the Peuillant Club, Gregoire was to defend him. If the attack was made in the Assembly, Buzot was to act as his champion; and this was the more commendable in Buzot as he was no admirer of Robespierre.

Gregoire and Buzot were both on hand, but no attack upon Robespierre was made at either place, the deputies and Feuillanls being too much dismayed by their sanguinary victory.

The following day the Assembly listened to the report of the Mayor of Paris and of the Commander-in-Chief of the National Guard. Every one had an interest in deceiving himself, so the farce was easily played.

Both the mayor and the general in command expatiated upon the alarming and wide-spread disorder they had been obliged to suppress,-the lynching of the morning and the attempted assassinations in the afternoon, the danger which threatened the king, the Assembly, and society in general, — danger which they, of all others, knew perfectly well had never existed.

The Assembly then thanked Lafayette and Bailly with effusion for the energy they had displayed, and congratulated them upon a victory they both deplored from the very bottom of their hearts. Thanks were also returned to Heaven that both rebels and rebellion had been annihilated at one fell swoop.

Listening to all this, one might have supposed the Revolution was over. On the contrary, the Revolution was just beginning.

Robespierre, still shuddering at the suggestion that he should be made king in place of Louis XVI., made an address in behalf of the former as well as the present members of his club; and in this address thanked the Assembly warmly for its wisdom, firmness, vigilance, and incorruptible justice and impartiality.

The Feuillants recovered their courage. No wonder they believed themselves all-powerful when they saw their opponents' humility.

For a brief time they fancied themselves not only masters of Paris, but of France.

But, alas! they did not understand the situation. By separating themselves from the Jacobins, the Feuillants simply constituted themselves into another assembly, an exact duplicate of the other; and this was not what the people desired. They wanted a popular organisation which was not the ally of the National Assembly, but its opponent, — an organisation which would not aid in the reinstatement of royalty, but in its destruction.

In July there were about four hundred large political organisations. Of these four hundred, three hundred affiliated equally with the Feuillants and Jacobins, while one hundred adhered to the Jacobins alone. In August six hundred new societies were organised, only one hundred of which were in harmony with the Feuillants.

In proportion as the popularity of the Feuillants waned, that of the Jacobins, under the leadership of Robespierre, increased; for Robespierre was fast becoming the most popular man in France. Cagliostro's prediction concerning the Arras pettifogger was being verified.

At last, the Assembly completed its revision of the Constitution.

The Constitution was an iron cage in which, in spite of the Assembly, and indeed almost without its knowledge, the king was virtually imprisoned. The bars were gilded, it is true, but the gilding could not conceal the real nature of the bars. The king's only means of resistance lay in his veto, which could delay any measure he did not approve for three years.

Meanwhile the day when the king was to take the oath to support the Constitution was approaching.

England and the Emigres wrote to the king:”Perish if need be, but do not degrade yourself by taking this oath.”

Leopold and Barnave said:”Take the oath, and let him keep it who can.”

At last the king decided the matter for himself in this language: -

“I confess I do not see sufficient means of action and unity in the Constitution, but, as opinions differ on the subject, I am willing experience should decide.”

Whether the Constitution should be presented to the king for his acceptance at the Tuileries or at the Assembly was a still mooted question; but the king cut that discussion short by announcing that he would take the oath to support the Constitution in the very place where the Constitution had been framed, and the day appointed by his Majesty was September the thirteenth.

The Assembly greeted this announcement with enthusiastic applause. The king would come to the Assembly! In his delight, Lafayette arose, and suggested that a general amnesty should be granted to all against whom charges were pending on account of their complicity in the king's recent abduction. This motion was passed by acclamation, without one dissenting voice.

A delegation of sixty members was sent to thank the king for his letter.

That same morning a decree was passed abolishing the Order of the”Saint-Esprit,” but authorising the king alone to wear the decoration. The delegation found the king ornamented only with the cross of St. Louis. As he perceived the effect which the absence of the other insignia produced upon the deputies, the king said:”Yon have this day abolished the Order of the ' Saint Esprit,' though you permit its insignia to be used by myself alone; but as such a decoration would be valueless in my eyes except as a means of conferring pleasure and dignity upon others, I shall henceforth consider it abolished for myself, as well as for all other persons.”

The queen, the dauphin, and Madame Royale were present. The queen was pale; her teeth were clenched, and she trembled in every limb. As for the king, he had remarked to Montmorin several days before:”I know perfectly well that I am ruined. Whatever is done hereafter must be done simply for the sake of my son.”

Louis XVI. responded with apparent cordiality to the speech of the delegation, and when he had finished, turning to his wife, he said:”Gentlemen, here are my wife and children, who share my sentiments.”

Yes, his wife and children shared his real sentiments,

for when the delegation withdrew, Marie Antoinette, laying her cold hand on the king's arm, said:”These people want no more sovereigns. They are demolishing the monarchy stone by stone, and building us a sepulchre out of these same stones.”

She was mistaken, poor woman! She was to be buried with paupers, and not have so much as a grave of her own! But she was not mistaken in believing that the royal prerogative was fast dwindling into nothingness.

Monsieur de Malouet was president of the Assembly at the time; and though an ardent royalist, he felt obliged to put the question to the Assembly whether the members should stand or remain seated while the king took the oath.

“Seated, seated!” was the cry that resounded on all sides.

“And the king-”

“Must stand with head uncovered!”cried a voice.

The Assembly started. That single voice rang out clear, powerful, and resonant. It seemed to be the voice of the people uttered by one voice so that it could be more distinctly heard.

The president turned pale.

Who had uttered the words- Had they come from the floor of the house, or from the galleries- It mattered not. They were so full of conscious power that the president felt compelled to reply to them, in spite of himself.

“Gentlemen,” he said,”there can be no circumstances under which the National Assembly should not recognise the king as its head when he is present. If the king takes the oath standing, I must request the Assembly to listen in the same attitude.”

But again that unknown voice made itself heard: -

“I propose an amendment to which I am sure every one

will agree,” said the voice.”The privilege of kneeling

shall be allowed Monsieur de Malouet and any one else

who prefers that posture while listening to the king; and

Vol. in. -14 now let us proceed to take action on the motion already before us.”

The motion was set aside.

It was on the very next day after this discussion that the king was to take the oath. The hall was filled to overflowing. The galleries, too, were packed.

At noon the king was announced. The king delivered his address standing; the Assembly listened standing. The speech concluded, they all signed the Constitution, and then everybody sat down.

Then the president — it chanced to be Thouret on this occasion — rose to make his speech; but after uttering two or three sentences, seeing that the king did not rise, Thouret sat down again.

This action on his part elicited considerable applause from the galleries; and as the outburst was repeated several times, the king turned very pale, and, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the perspiration from his brow.

The queen was present, occupying a seat which had been especially reserved for her. She could endure no more. She rose and went out, slamming the door violently behind her. On her return to the palace she shut herself up in her apartments, without saying a word even to her most intimate friends.

The king returned half an hour later.

“Where is the queen-”he asked.

They told him, and an usher was about to lead the way to the queen's apartments; but the king motioned him aside, opened the door himself, and suddenly presented himself on the threshold of the room where the queen was.

He looked so pale and dejected, and such great drops of sweat stood on his brow, that the queen sprang up and uttered a cry on beholding him.

“What has happened, sire-” she exclaimed.

The king threw himself into an arm-chair and burst into a fit of sobbing.

“Oh, madame, madame,” he exclaimed,”why did you attend the session- Was it necessary that you should be a witness of my humiliation- Was it for this that I brought you to Paris, under pretence of making you a queen-”

Such an outburst on the part of Louis XVI. was as pathetic as it was rare. The queen could not restrain her feelings; and, running to the king, she fell upon her knees before him.

Just then, the opening of a door made her turn. It was Madame Campan, who was coming in. Stretching out her arms, the queen cried: -

“Leave us, Campan, leave us!”

Madame Campan understood the feeling which prompted the queen to send her away, and respectfully withdrew; but, standing outside the door, she heard the royal pair talk a long time, their conversation being frequently interrupted with sobs.

At last the sobs ceased; the speakers seemed to become calmer, and after about half at hour the door opened, and the queen herself called Madame Campan.

“Campan,” said she,”deliver this letter into the hands of Monsieur de Malden. It is addressed to my brother Leopold. Tell Monsieur de Malden to start for Vienna with it at once. The letter must reach there before the account of to-day's proceedings. If he needs two or three hundred louis, give them to him, and I will repay you.''

Two hours later, Malden was on his way to Vienna.

The worst thing about all this was that it was necessary for the royal family to smile and wear a joyous, contented air.

All the rest of the day, the Tuileries grounds were thronged with people. That night the city was ablaze with illuminations. The king and queen were invited to drive through the Champs filyse'es, escorted by the aides- de-camp and officers of the Paris National Guards.

As soon as they appeared, shouts of”Long live the king!” and”Long live the queen!” resounded on all sides; but in an interval when these shouts had ceased, and the carriage had halted for a moment, a ferocious- looking man of the lower class, who was standing with folded arms near the door of the royal coach, said,”Don't believe them! Long live the Nation!”

The carriage moved on slowly; but this same man placed his hand on the window-ledge and walked along by the side of the vehicle, and every time the people shouted,”Long live the king!”or”Long live the queen!”the man repeated in the same surly voice,”Don't believe them! Long live the Nation!”

Special performances were given at the different theatres: first, at the Opera, then at the Come'die Francaise, then at the Italian Theatre. At the Opera house and the Come'die Francaise, every precaution had been taken; there was a picked audience, and the king and queen were greeted with great apparent enthusiasm; but when an attempt was made to do the same at the Italian Theatre, it was too late. All the seats in the parquet, or pit, had been bought up in a lump, and there was good reason to fear things would not go so smoothly here as at the previous performances.

This fear became a certainty when the occupants of the seats in the lower part of the house were recognised. Danton, Camille Desmoulins, Legendre, and Santerre were in the front row; and when the queen entered the royal box, the people in the boxes and balconies tried to applaud, but the pit hissed.

The queen looked down with terror into the boiling crater below her, in which, as through an atmosphere of flame, she could see eyes full of hatred and indignation glaring up at her. But she knew none of these men by sight, and scarcely by name; so, trying to conceal her annoyance with a smile, she said to herself:”Good heavens! what have I ever done that they should hate me so-”

But suddenly her gaze was arrested by the sight of a man standing by one of the pillars that supported the gallery. This man was gazing at her with alarming in- tentness. It was the man she had met at the Chateau de Taverney, the man she had seen at the Sevres Bridge, and in the garden of theTuileries on her return from Varennes,

— the mysterious man whose every word was a threat, and every act a gruesome mystery. When her eyes had once fallen upon this man, she seemed unable to remove them. He exercised the same fascination over her that a serpent exercises over a bird.

The performance began; the queen made a strong effort to break the charm, and finally succeeded in directing her attention to the stage.

The play was Gre^try's”Unforeseen Events.”

But in spite of all the queen's efforts to drive that terrible man from her thoughts, her frightened eyes would insist on turning in that direction, as if attracted there by a magnetic power much stronger than her own will; and each and every time the man was standing in the same place, with the same sardonic, almost mocking expression, upon his face.

The whole atmosphere of the place, too, seemed to be heavily charged with electricity. These two opposing influences, though now held in check, could hardly fail to collide, as when two storm-clouds approach from different points in the horizon, and meet above our heads in an August sky.

At last the crisis came. Madame Dugazon, a charming actress, had a duet to sing with the tenor, and in the duet occurred this line: -

“Oh, how I love my mistress I”

The charming little woman advanced to the front of the stage, and, raising her eyes and hands respectfully to the queen, uttered the fatal words.

The queen saw that the tempest was upon them, and involuntarily her eyes sought out the man standing by the pillar. She fancied she saw him make a gesture of command which the entire pit obeyed; for, as if with one voice,

— but what a terrible voice! — the entire pit shouted: -

“No more masters! No more mistresses! Liberty!”

To these shouts, the boxes and balcony replied with cries of”Long live the king! Long live the queen! May our noble master and mistress live for ever!”

“No more masters! No more mistresses! Liberty! Liberty! Liberty!”yelled the pit a second time.

This double declaration of war made and accepted, the fight began.

The queen uttered a cry of terror, and closed her eyes; she had not even. strength to glance at the unknown, who seemed to be the guiding spirit of the fray.

The officers of the National Guard immediately surrounded her, making a living rampart around her with their bodies, and got her safely out of the theatre; but even out into the corridors those yells of,”No more masters! No more mistresses! No more kings! No more queens!”followed her. She was borne fainting to her carriage, and this was the last time she attended a theatre.

On September 30, the Assembly declared that, having fulfilled its duties, its sessions were at an end. The result of its labours may be briefly stated as follows: -

The complete disorganisation of the monarchy.

The organisation of a popular government.

The destruction of all ecclesiastical privileges.

The issue of twelve hundred million francs in assignats.

The establishment of religious liberty.

The suppression of the monastic orders.

The abolition of secret imprisonment.

The discontinuance of internal revenue taxes.

The organisation of the National Guard, and, finally, the adoption of the Constitution and the acceptance of it by the king.

Gloomy indeed must the forebodings of the king and queen have been, if they believed they had more reason to fear the new Assembly that was about to convene, than the one just dissolved.

CHAPTER CXIV. BARNAVE'S FAREWELL.

On the 2d of October, that is to say, two days after the dissolution of the Assembly, Barnave was ushered into the queen's apartments. The very day the king swore to support the Constitution, Lafayette and his guards disappeared from the palace; so if the king had not become powerful again, he had at least regained his freedom, and this must have been some compensation for the humiliation he had complained of so bitterly to the queen.

Consequently, though he did not undergo the formalities of a public reception, Barnave was not subjected to the numerous precautions formerly deemed necessary when he visited the Tuileries.

He was very pale, and seemed very sad; and the queen noted both his pallor and his evident depression of spirits.

She received him standing, though she knew the young deputy's respect for her too well to fear he would do what President Thouret had done if she sat down.

“Well, Monsieur Barnave,” she exclaimed,”you are satisfied now the king has taken your advice and sworn to sustain the Constitution, I hope.”

“The queen is very kind to say that the king has been guided by my advice in this matter,” replied Barnave, bowing;”but if this advice had not coincided with that of the Emperor Leopold and Prince Kaunitz, perhaps his Majesty would have hesitated longer before he took this step, — the only one which can save the king however; that is, if the king can -”

Barnave paused suddenly.

“That is, if the king can be saved,” said the queen, completing the sentence for Barnave with the courage, or rather the audacity, which was such a prominent trait in her character.”That is what you mean, I suppose.”

“God forbid that I should be a prophet of evil, madame; and yet, now that I am about to leave Paris, and bid farewell to the queen for ever, I am equally loath to discourage her Majesty or to awaken false hopes.”

“You intend leaving Paris, Monsieur Barnave-”

“The labours of the Constitutional Assembly are ended; and as that Assembly has decided that none of its members are eligible for re-election, there is nothing to detain ine here any longer.”

“Not even the possibility of being of service to us, Monsieur Barnave-”

Barnave smiled gloomily.”No, not even that, madame, for I realise only too well that I can be of no further use to you.”

“You set too slight a valuation on your talents, monsieur.”

“Alas! no, madame, I weigh myself in the balance and find myself wanting. The only real power I possessed was my influence in the Assembly and in the Jacobin Club, but the Assembly is dissolved, the Jacobins are transformed into the Feuillants, and my popularity is a thing of the past.”

“Then you see, monsieur, that popularity is exceedingly short lived,” said the queen; and there was a gleam of something very like triumph in her eyes as she spoke.

Barnave sighed, and the queen perceived that she had been guilty of one of those slight acts of cruelty which were habitual to her.

For if Barnave had lost his popularity all in a few short months, and had been compelled to bow to Robespierre's supremacy, whose fault was it- Was it not the fault of that fatal monarchy, which seemed to be dragging everything it touched down to destruction-

She endeavoured to atone for her thoughtlessness, for she knew it was exceedingly generous in Barnave to answer merely with a sigh, when he might have thundered,”For whom did I sacrifice my popularity, madame, if not for you-”So she said to him: -

“Monsieur Barnave, you surely are not going to desert us entirely-”

“I will remain, of course, if the queen commands it; remain as a soldier remains to guard the flag once intrusted to him, though he has received his discharge. But if I remain, do you know what the result will be- Instead of merely becoming unpopular, I shall become a traitor.”

“Explain, if you please, monsieur, I do not understand you,” responded the queen, rather offended.

“Will the queen allow me to explain her present situation as well as that in which she will soon find herself-”

“Certainly, monsieur. I am becoming accustomed to gazing down into this abyss, though if I were inclined to dizziness I should have fallen into it long ago.”

“The queen perhaps regards the last Assembly as hostile to royalty; but it was never guilty of but one hostile act towards the king and yourself, and that was when it passed a decree that none of its members should form a part of the new legislature.”

“I do not understand you,” repeated the queen, with a rather incredulous smile.

“It is very plain, it seems to me. The former Assembly has snatched the shield from the arm of your friends.”

“And the sword from the hand of our enemies as well, it seems to me.”

“You are mistaken in regard to that, madame. This blow came from Robespierre, and it is a hard one, like every blow that comes from that source. First of all, you will be obliged to fight in the dark. You knew with what and whom you were contending in the old Assembly; you know nothing at all about this new one. Note this fact, too, madame: by proposing that none of us should be eligible for re-election, Robespierre intended to reduce France to the alternative of electing a legislative body either superior or inferior to us in rank. Now there is scarcely any one left who is superior to us, — the wholesale emigration having disorganised society; but even if there were any of the nobility left, the people would scarcely choose them as their representatives now. Their choice must consequently be made from those who are beneath us in rank, and the entire body will therefore be intensely democratic; there will be different degrees of intensity, that is all.”

It was evident from the queen's face that she was listening to Barnave's explanation with the closest attention, and that her alarm increased in proportion with her comprehension of the situation.

“For three or four days these deputies have been arriving in Paris,” continued Barnave,”and I have met quite a number of them, especially those from in and around Bordeaux. They are nearly all obscure men who are anxious to make themselves a name, and are all the more in a hurry to do it because they are so young. Aside from Condorcet and Brissot and a few others, the eldest among them is not over thirty. There are to be no more gray-haired men in the Assembly, but a new France, with locks of raven blackness.”

“And you think we have more to fear from those who are coming, than from those who are taking their departure-”

“Yes, madame; for the coming statesmen are armed with instructions to wage a vigorous warfare on the nobility and clergy. They have received no orders, yet, in relation to the king, but we shall soon see. If he will be content with simply retaining executive power, the past may be forgiven -”

“What!” interrupted the queen,”what! The past may be forgiven! It is for the king to forgive.it seems to

“Yes, madame, certainly; but they do not view the matter in that light. The new-comers — and you will soon have abundant proof of this fact — unfortunately will not even keep up the hypocritical conventionalities practised by their predecessors. To them — I have this from a deputy named Vergniaud — the king is nothing more or less than a public enemy.”

“A public enemy-” repeated the queen, in astonishment.

“Yes, madame, a public enemy; that is to say, he is the voluntary or involuntary representative of all the foreign and domestic enemies of the nation. And, alas! it must be admitted that these new-comers are not entirely in the wrong; though they fancy themselves the discoverers of the fact, when their only merit consists in proclaiming from the housetops what your bitterest foe has heretofore only ventured to say under his breath.”

“A public enemy!” repeated Marie Antoinette;”the king the enemy of his people! Ah, Monsieur Barnave, you can never make me believe that, or even make me understand how such a thing could be possible.”

“It is the truth, nevertheless, madame. Three days ago the king formally accepted the Constitution, did he not-”

“Yes, what of that-”

“On his return to the palace the king was nearly ill with anger and chagrin, and that same evening he appealed to your brother, the emperor.”

“But how can you expect us to endure such humiliations as were imposed upon us-”

“Ah! madame, the enemy, — the inevitable enemy, as you must see yourself; the more so, too, from the fact that, having been educated by Monsieur de la Vauguyon, the head of the Jesuits, the king's heart is at the mercy of the priests, who are the worst foes of the nation. He is likewise the involuntary enemy of the people, because he is necessarily the chief of the anti-revolutionary faction. Even though he does not leave France, his heart is in Coblentz with the emigres, in the Vendee with the priests, and in Vienna and Prussia with his allies, Leopold and Frederick. The king does nothing reprehensible, madame, I admit that; but though he takes no active part in any of the movements, his name is used with great effect. In the cottages, the schools, and the castles, the royalists are continually talking of the poor king, the good king, the saintly king, until there are beginning to be symptoms of a revolt against the revolution, — a revolt due chiefly to pity.”

“Can it be you who are saying these things to me, Monsieur Barnave- Were you not among the first to pity us-”

“Yes, madame, I pitied you, and I pity you still, most sincerely; but there is this great difference between myself and those of whom I speak,-their pity may lead to your ruin, mine, to your salvation.”

“But has any definite plan of action been decided upon by these new deputies who have come, as you believe, to wage a war of extermination upon us-”

“No, madame, or at least I have heard of only a few vague schemes as yet; such as the suppression of the title of Majesty, and the use of a plain arm-chair to the right of the presiding officer, instead of a throne, at the opening of the Assembly.”

“Do you think this any worse than what Monsieur Thouret did, seating himself because the king was seated-”

“It is certainly a step ahead instead of backward. And what makes it still worse for you, madarae, is the fact that Lafayette and Bailly are to be superseded.”

“Oh, I shall not be inconsolable over their loss,” retorted the queen, quickly.

“Then you are very wrong, madame, for both Bailly and Lafayette are warm friends of yours.”

The queen smiled bitterly.

“Yes, friends, madame, and nearly your last friends. If they have any popularity left, avail yourself of it, but make haste. It is waning fast, like my own.”

“You show me the volcano, monsieur, you lead me to the mouth of the crater, and tell me its depth, but you show me no way of escaping it.”

Barnave was silent for a moment, then, heaving a deep sigh, he murmured:”Ah, madame, why were you stopped on your way to Montme'dy!”

“What, is it possible that you, even you, begin to approve of our Varennes expedition-”

“I did not approve of it at the time, madame; but the situation in which you find yourself to-day is the inevitable result of that journey; and when I see the disastrous consequences of your flight, I deplore its failure.”

“So you, Monsieur Barnave, a member of the National Assembly, deputed by that Assembly to bring the king and queen back to Paris, regret that the royal family did not one and all make their escape to a foreign land-”

“Let us come to a full understanding with each other, madame. The person who regrets this is not a member of the National Assembly and the colleague of Petion and Latour-Maubourg, but only poor Barnave, who is no longer anything except your humble servant, ready and willing to give his life — which is all he has left to give — for you.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” replied the queen.”The tone in which you make this offer proves you to be the man to keep it; but I trust it will not be necessary for me to ask such a sacrifice of you.”

“So much the worse for me, madame,” replied Barnave, quietly.

“So much the worse for you-”

“Yes, for I would much rather perish in battle than live on as I shall be forced to live in the wilds of Dauphiny, where I can be of no service to you. The errors of the past have decided your future. You are counting upon foreign aid, but it will either not come at all, or come too late. The Jacobins will soon be the controlling power both in the Assembly and outside of it. Your friends will be obliged to flee the country to escape persecution. Those who remain will be arrested and imprisoned. I shall be one of these last, for I will not flee. I shall be tried and convicted, beyond a doubt. My death will prove unavailing to you, you may not even hear of it; but even if the news of it should ever reach you, I have been able to accomplish so little that you will forget the time when I really hoped to be of some service to you.”

“Monsieur Barnave, I know not what Fate may have in store for the king and myself,” said the queen, with dignity;”but this much I do know, that the names of all who have aided us are indelibly inscribed upon our memories, and that no good or ill fortune which may happen to them will be a matter of indifference to us. In the mean time, Monsieur Barnave, can we do anything for you-”

“Much,-at least you personally can. Madame, you can prove to me that I have not been a creature utterly without value in your eyes.”

“And in what way can I do that-”

Barnave dropped upon one knee before her.”By giving me your hand to kiss, madame.”

A tear mounted to Marie Antoinette's dry eyelids, and she extended to the young man the cold white hand which had thus, at scarcely a year's interval, been touched by the most eloquent lips in the Assembly,- those of Mirabeau and Barnave.

Barnave barely touched it with his lips. It was evident that if he once pressed his lips upon that beautiful marble cold hand, he would not have the power to detach them again.

“Madame,” he said, rising,”I lack the assurance and pride to say, 'The monarchy is saved,' but I say, 'Should the monarchy be lost, there is one who will perish with it that will never forget the priceless boon the queen has just vouchsafed him;'“and, bowing low, he hastily left the room.

Marie Antoinette watched him as he sadly withdrew, and when the door closed upon his retreating form she murmured: -

“Poor squeezed lemon! It did not take long to reduce you to an empty rind I”

CHAPTER CXV. THE FIELD OF BATTLE.

We have endeavoured to describe the tragical events which took place on the Champ de Mars in the afternoon of the 17th of July, 1791; let us now endeavour to describe the scene after the tragedy was over.

A sad sight met the gaze of a young man attired in the uniform of an officer of the National Guards as he entered the Champ de Mars by way of the Rue Grenelle.

The scene, illumined by the rays of a nearly full moon which was sailing along among dense black clouds which entirely concealed it from view from time to time was indeed lugubrious to look upon.

The Champ de Mars looked like a battle-field covered with dead and wounded, among whom the men intrusted with the task of casting the dead into the Seine, and conveying the wounded to the hospital at Gros Caillou, wandered around like ghosts.

The young officer we have referred to paused, and, clasping his hands, exclaimed, with an expression of horror upon his face: -

“Good God! it was even worse than they said!”

Then, after watching the strange work that was going on, he approached two men whom he saw carrying a body in the direction of the river, and said: -

“Citizens, will you be kind enough to tell me what you are going to do with this man-”

“Follow us, and you will see.”

The young officer followed them.

On reaching the wooden bridge, the men swung the body back and forth as they counted,”One, two, three,” then, at the word”three,” flung the body into the Seine.

“Why, what are you doing, citizens-” asked the young man, in a tone of dismay.

“Clearing the ground, as you see,” responded the men, promptly.

“And you have orders to do this-”

“Certainly.”

“From whom-”

“From the city government.”

“Oh!” murmured the astonished and bewildered young man.

Then, after a moment's silence, as he wended his way back with them, he asked: -

“Have you thrown many bodies into the Seine-”

“Five or six.”

“Excuse me, citizens,” said the young man,”but I am greatly interested in this matter. Among those five or six bodies was there one of a man probably forty-six or forty- eight years of age, about five feet five inches tall, a stocky, vigorous man, half peasant, half bourgeois-”

“Upon my word, we only take notice of one thing,” responded one of the men;”that is, whether the persons are alive or dead. If they 're dead, we throw them into the river; if they”re alive, we carry them to the Gros Caillou hospital.”

“I ask,” remarked the young man,”because I have a good friend who has not returned to his lodgings; and as I know he was here at least a part of the day, I am afraid he may be among the dead or wounded.”

“Well, if he was here, it is quite likely he is here still,” replied one of the men, roughly shaking a body over which the other was holding a lantern.”If he didn’t get home, it is more than likely that he never will.”

And again shaking the body lustily, the man called out:”Halloo! I say, are you dead or alive- If you're not

dead, try and answer.”

Vol. in. -15

“Oh, this fellow is dead fast enough,” replied the other.”He has a bullet-hole clean through his breast.”

“Then to the river with him!” responded the other. And the two men lifted the body and again started for the bridge.

“You don't need your lantern to throw this man into the water, citizens,” said the young officer,”so have the kindness to lend it to me a minute, and while you are gone I’ll look for my friend.”

The lantern was relinquished to the young officer, who began his search with great care, and with an expression on his face which indicated that the title of friend bestowed upon the missing man came not from the lips alone, but from the heart.

A dozen or more men, also provided with lanterns, were pursuing the same mournful investigation; and from time to time a name was uttered in a tone loud enough to be distinctly heard all over the field. Sometimes a moan, a groan, or a faint cry responded to the call, but more frequently the only answer was a mournful silence.

After hesitating awhile, as if afraid to make the experiment, the young officer followed the example of the others, and shouted three times,”Monsieur Billot, Monsieur Billot, Monsieur Billot!” but there was no reply.

“He must be dead,” murmured the young officer, dashing the tears from his eyes.”Poor Father Billot!”

Just then the two men passed, carrying another body towards the river.

“Eh, I do believe this fellow made a sound!” exclaimed the man who was holding the corpse by the shoulders.

“If we listened to all these fellows there wouldn’t be a dead man among them,” laughed the other.

“Citizens,” interposed the young officer,”will you let me take a look at the man you 're carrying-”

“Certainly,” was the prompt reply. And they laid the body down so that the officer could see the man's face more distinctly. The young man held the lantern close to it and uttered a cry; for in spite of the terrible wound that disfigured the face, the officer thought he recognised the man for whom he was looking. But was he dead or alive-

The head of this man, who was on the way to a watery grave, had been cloven nearly in twain by a sabre stroke. Half the flesh had been cut from the left side of the head, and overhung the cheek, leaving the skull bare. The temporal artery, too, had been severed,'so that the entire body of the dead or wounded man was covered with blood.

The left side of the face was unrecognisable; but with a trembling hand the young man held the lantern over the other side, and then exclaimed:”Ah, citizens, it is he! It's the very man I'm looking for! It's Monsieur Billot!”

“You don't say so! Well, he 's pretty badly damaged, to say the least, this friend of yours.”

“Didn't you say you heard him sigh just now-”

“I thought I did.”

“Then do me a favour,” said the young officer, drawing a gold piece from his pocket as he spoke.

“What is it-”

“Run to the river and get some water in your hat.”

While the man ran to the river-side, his willingness to oblige being greatly increased by the sight of the gold coin, the young officer took his place and supported the wounded man.

In a few minutes the other man was back again.

“Throw some water in his face,” said the young officer.

Dipping his hand into his hat, the man sprinkled some water on the wounded man's face.

“He moved! He isn’t dead!” cried the officer, who was still holding the wounded man in his arms.”He isn’t dead! Oh, my dear Monsieur Billot, how lucky I got here in time!”

“Yes, it was a good thing. A few minutes more, and your friend would have been in the river.”

“Sprinkle his face again.”

Again the wounded man started, and this time he uttered a faint sigh.

“He 's no dead man, certainly!”exclaimed the second bearer.

“Well, what are we to do with him-” asked the other.

“Help me to carry him to Dr. Gilbert's, on the Rue St.- Honore', and you shall be well paid for your trouble,” said the young officer.

“Wecan:tdothat.”

“And why not-”

“Because we have orders to throw all the dead into the Seine, and take all the wounded to the hospital at Gros Caillou. As this fellow isn't dead and we can't throw him into the river, we 've got to take him to the hospital.”

“Get him to the hospital as soon as possible, then. Where is it-”

“About three hundred rods off, not far from the Military School.”

“Then we have to cross the entire field-”

“Yes, and more.”

“Great Heavens I have you a stretcher-”

“One can be found, I guess, if you 're willing to pay as well for it as you did for the water,” answered one of the men.

“That's only fair,” said the officer.”You haven’t had anything yet, have you- Well, here 's a gold piece for you. Now get me the stretcher.”

In ten minutes a stretcher was ready, the wounded man was laid upon it, and the party took up its line of march, headed by the officer, bearing the lantern.

l1 was terrible that tramp by night over ground soaked with blood, and amid the cold and rigid bodies with which one came in contact at every step, and among wounded men who tried to raise themselves up, only to fall back again, begging for help.

At the end of a quarter of an hour the party reached the doorway of the hospital at Gros Caillou.

CHAPTER CXVI. THE HOSPITAL AT GROS CAILLOU.

In those days hospitals, especially military hospitals, were not organised with anything like that degree of perfection that characterises them at this present time; so it is not surprising that the utmost confusion prevailed in the hospital at Gros Caillou, and that this confusion greatly interfered with the accomplishment of the necessary surgical work.

One of the chief troubles was a lack of beds. The mattresses of people residing in the neighbouring streets were consequently brought into requisition, and placed on the floors and even in the courtyard, and on each mattress lay a wounded man waiting for attention; but surgeons were as scarce as mattresses, and even more difficult to secure.

The young officer, in whom our readers have of course recognised their friend Ange Pitou, was able, by the judicious expenditure of a few crowns, to secure a mattress, as he had previously secured a stretcher; so Billot was soon gently deposited in the hospital courtyard.

Pitou, anxious to make the best of the situation, had the wounded man placed as near the entrance as possible, so as to intercept the first surgeon that passed in or out. He was strongly tempted to rush through the wards and compel some surgeon to come and help him; but he dared not leave his friend, for fear some one, thinking him dead, might place him on the ground and appropriate the couch.

Pitou had been there an hour, and had appealed energetically, though in vain, to two or three surgeons as they passed, when he saw a man dressed in black, and accompanied by two or three hospital attendants with lights, making his way from one bed of suffering to another. The nearer this man approached Pitou, the more sure Pitou felt that he knew him; and soon all his doubts ceased, and he called out lustily:”Here, Dr. Gilbert, this way! Here I am! here! this way!”

The surgeon who was indeed Dr. Gilbert, hastened forward at the sound of this familiar voice.

“Ah, it is you, Pitou! Have you seen anything of Billot-”he cried.

“Yes. I 've got him right here.”

“Is he dead-”

“I hope not, but there 's no use trying to disguise the fact that he is very near death.”

Gilbert examined the wound carefully.”It is a very serious case,” he said gravely; then, turning to the attendants, he added:”I must have a separate room for this man, who is a particular friend of mine.”

The attendants consulted together a moment.”There 's no room we can give you, except the laundry,” they said at last.

“That's the very thing,” responded Gilbert.”Take him to the laundry.”

They lifted the wounded man as gently as possible; but, in spite of all their precautions, a faint groan escaped him.

“Ah!”murmured Gilbert,”no exclamation of joy ever gave me so much pleasure as that groan. He is alive, and that's the main thing, after all.”

As soon as the removal had been effected, Gilbert proceeded to examine carefully and dress the wound.

The temporal artery had been cut, and the great loss of blood that ensued had produced insensibility. The cessation of the pulsations of the heart had checked the hemorrhage, however; for Nature had profited by this cessation to form a clot of blood, which had closed the injured artery.

With admirable skill, Gilbert first tied the artery with a silken thread, then washed the flesh and replaced it upon the skull. The coolness of the water, and possibly, too, the pain the operation caused, made Billot open his eyes and utter a few incoherent words.

“There 's concussion of the brain,” said Gilbert.

“But as he isn’t dead, you can save him, can't you, Dr. Gilbert-” exclaimed Pitou.

Gilbert smiled sadly.

“I shall do my best, Pitou; but you have one thing to learn, my dear fellow, — that Nature is a much better physician than any of us.”

Gilbert now finished dressing the wound. After the hair had been cut off as closely as possible, he brought the two edges of the cut together and fastened them with strips of plaster; then he ordered the attendants to place the injured man in a sitting posture, with his back supported›y pillows.

Not in til all these matters had been attended to did Gilbert isk Pitou how he happened to be in Paris, and how, bt ng in Paris, he had managed to reach the spot just in time.,0 rescue Billot from a watery grave.

The explanation was very simple. After Catherine's mysterious disappearance and her husband's departure for Paris, Mother Billot had relapsed into a state of apathy, which increased until she had not only ceased to talk altogether, but had actually taken to her bed; and Dr. Raynal now declared that there was only one thing that could arouse her from this deathlike stupor, and that was the sight of her daughter.

So Pitou had offered to go to Paris at once, or rather he started for Paris without saying anything about it to any one. Thanks to the long legs of the gallant captain of the Haramont National Guard, the eighteen leagues between Villers-Cotterets and the capital was only a pleasant walk for him. He left home at four o'clock in the morning; between seven and eight in the evening he reached Paris.

Pitou seemed destined to be always on hand when any great event was happening in Paris. On his first visit, he reached the city just in time to assist in taking the Bastille. The next time, he followed Sebastian to the capital the very day after the royal family had been dragged from Versailles to Paris by the mob. The third time, he came as a delegate to the great Federation of 1790. The fourth time,-this time,- he arrived the very day of the massacre on the Champ de Mars.

The first people he met, after he entered the city, told him what had occurred. Bailly and Lafayette had fired upon the populace, and the populace were cursing them loudly. When Pitou was last in Paris, these men had been worshipped as divinities; now, they were the object of universal execration. Pitou could not understand this; but he did succeed in understanding that there had been fighting and wholesale slaughter on the Champ de Mars in consequence of some petition, and that Gilbert and Billot had both been there.

Pitou hastened to the doctor's lodgings on the Rue St. Honored The doctor had returned, but nothing had been seen of Billot. The Champ de Mars, so the servant told him, was thickly strewn with dead and wounded; and possibly Billot, his kind friend and employer, was among them.

The Champ de Mars covered with dead and wounded! Pitou could not imagine such a thing. That same Champ de Mars which he had helped to level, in company with ten thousand comrades, the scene of those brilliant illuminations and joyful songs and gay dances, covered with dead and wounded; and all because the people wished to celebrate the second anniversary of the taking of the Bastille, as they had celebrated the first! Impossible! In one year how could the causes for joy and thankfulness have become the causes for rebellion and massacre-

What was the explanation of this strange revulsion of feeling-

As we have before explained to our readers, — during the preceding year, thanks to the powerful influence of Mirabeau, to the organisation of the new Feuillant Club, to the support of Bailly and Lafayette, and, above all, to the reaction which had followed the return from Varennes, the Court had regained not a little of its former power, and this cruel massacre was the first outward manifestation of that power.

July 17th, 1791, was a fearful retaliation for October 5th and 6th, 1789.

As Gilbert had remarked to the queen, the populace and royalty stood game to game. It remained to be seen who would win the rubber.

Engrossed with these thoughts, though no one of them had the power to retard his rapid strides, our friend Ange Pitou reached the Champ de Mars just in time to prevent Billot from being thrown into the river for dead.

The reader, on the other hand, may recollect that Gilbert, while vainly awaiting the return of the queen, had received a letter which he knew to be fronvCagliostro, though it bore no signature, and which contained the following paragraph: -

“Those two consummate idiots who are still derisively called the King and Queen, and whose doom is sealed,-leave them to their fate, Gilbert, and hasten to the hospital at Gros Caillou, where you will find a dying man, — though his case is not so desperate, perhaps, as that of Louis and Marie Antoinette. You may be able to save him; but they cannot be saved, and they may drag you with them in their downfall.”

As soon as Gilbert learned through Madame Campan that the queen had no intention of returning, according to her promise, he left the Tuileries and hastened to the hospital, where he went from one patient to another for a long time without finding any one he knew, until he heard a familiar voice calling him by name. It was Pitou's voice, and the bedside to which it summoned him was that of Billot.

We have described the worthy farmer's condition and his chances for recovery, — chances which would have been slight indeed had the wounded man been under the care of a less skilful physician than Dr. Gilbert.

CHAPTER CXVII. CATHERINE.

Of the two persons whom Dr. Raynal desired to have informed of Mother Billot's precarious state, one, the husband, was lying very near to death. Catherine must, however, be apprised of her mother's condition, as well as her father's, without delay; but where was Catherine- There was only one way to ascertain, and that was by applying to the Comte de Charny.

Pitou had been so kindly received by the countess when he went to take Sebastian to her house in the Rue Coq- HeVon that he felt no hesitancy about going there again to inquire as to Catherine's whereabouts, though it was now nearly midnight.

So, leaving Billot to the care of the hospital attendants, Pitou and Dr. Gilbert stepped into the last-named gentleman's carriage and drove to the house on the Rue Coq- He'ron.

No light was visible, and the house seemed to be deserted. After ringing for about ten minutes, Pitou was about to try the knocker, when a door opened, — not the house door, but the door of the porter's lodge, — and a querulous voice cried out impatiently: -

“Who's there-”

(IT»

“And who's'I'-”

“Sure enough. I'm Ange Pitou.”

“I don't know any such person.”

“Ange Pitou, -a captain in the National Guard.”

“Captain,” repeated the porter;”captain-”

“Yes, captain,” replied Pitou, emphasising the word.

The porter began to think this nocturnal visitor must be one of Lafayette's aides, at the very least, so he spoke rather more courteously, though he evinced no inclination to admit the functionary.

“What do you want, captain-” he asked.

“I want to see the count.”

“He'snot here.”

“The countess, then.”

“She isn't here either.”

“Where are they-”

“They left this morning for Boursonnes.”

“The deuce! They must have been the people I. passed in that post-chaise near Dammartin!”

“My friend,” interposed the doctor, at this juncture,”in the absence of your employers, I wonder if you could not give us a little information.”

Recognising the voice of a master in those gentle but decided tones, the concierge instantly emerged, night-cap in hand, and stepped to the carriage door to take the gentleman's orders, as servants say.

“What information do you desire, monsieur-”he asked deferentially.

“Do you know a young woman in whom the count and countess take a great deal of interest-”

“Mademoiselle Catherine-”

“Precisely.”

“Yes, monsieur. The count and countess have been to see her twice, and have often sent me there to inquire if she needed anything; but though I 'm sure she 's as poor as a church mouse, she always says she doesn’t want a thing.”

“Well, my friend,” continued Gilbert,”the poor girl's father was wounded to-day on the Champ de Mars, and her mother is lying at the point of death at Villers- Cotterets. We must inform her. Will you give us her address-”

“Poor soul! God help her! She is unhappy enough already. She lives on the main street in Ville d'Avray… I can't tell you the number, but it is opposite a fountain.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said Gilbert, slipping a six- franc piece in the porter's hand.

“Well-” said Gilbert, turning to Pitou.

“I 'm off for Ville d'Avray.”

“Do you know the way-”

“No, but you can tell me.”

“You have a heart of gold and muscles of steel, Pitou,” said Gilbert, laughing.”But come and get some sleep first. There is no such urgent haste. Billot's condition is serious, but unless something unforeseen occurs, he is not at death's door. As for Mother Billot, she may live ten days or a fortnight.”

“But, doctor, when they put her to bed night before last, she could neither speak nor move. No part of her seemed to be alive except her eyes.”

“I know what I am talking about, though, Pitou, and I’ll vouch for her living ten days or a fortnight longer, so we had better let poor Catherine have one more night of blissful ignorance. A good night's sleep is a great thing for one who is unhappy, Pitou.”

Pitou seemed to feel the force of this argument, for he said: -

“Then where shall we go now, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“To my lodgings, and you shall have your old room; and to-morrow morning at six o'clock the horses will be in readiness to take you to Ville d'Avray.”

“Is it such a long distance from Paris to Ville d'Avray-”inquired Pitou.

“Only five or six miles,” replied Gilbert, thinking of the long walks he used to take in the woods of Louve- ciennes, Meudon, and Ville d'Avray, with his old teacher, Rousseau.

“Only five or six miles! Then I don't need any horses. I can walk it in an hour.”

“And Catherine,-do you think she can walk it in an hour, and the eighteen leagues between Paris and Villers- Cotterets, too-”

“True! Forgive me for being such a fool, Monsieur Gilbert. By the way, how is Sebastian-”

“Remarkably well. You shall see him to-morrow.”

“Is he still with Abbe' Be'rardier-”

“Yes, and he will be glad to see you, Pitou, for he loves you devotedly.”

As the doctor uttered these words, the carriage stopped in front of the door of his lodgings on the Rue St.- Honore'.

Pitou slept as he walked, as he ate, and as he fought, — that is to say, with all his might, -but, thanks to his habit of rising early, he was up at live o'clock.

At six, the carriage was ready.

At seven, he was rapping at Catherine's door.

Catherine herself came to open it, and uttered a cry on perceiving Pitou.

“Ah!” she exclaimed,”my mother is dead!” And she turned pale and leaned against the wall for support.

“No,” said Pitou;”but if you want to see her before she dies, you must make haste, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

This brief interchange of words did away with all preliminaries, and brought Catherine face to face with her trouble at once.

“And there is still another misfortune,”continued Pitou.

“What-” asked Catherine, in the almost indifferent tone of a person who has nothing more to dread or fear, having already borne all there is to bear of human woe.

“Your father was dangerously wounded yesterday, at the Champ de Mars.”

“Ah!” was her only response.

She was evidently much less affected by this piece of news than by the other.

“So I think, and so does Dr. Gilbert,” continued Pitou,”that Mademoiselle Catherine had better stop and see Monsieur Billot at the hospital before starting for Villers-Cotterets.”

“And you, Pitou-”

“I- Well, I thought, as you were going to your mother, I ought to stay here and help Monsieur Billot to get well. I always stay with those who have nobody else, you know, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

Pitou uttered the words with perfect ingenuousness, not dreaming that the history of his whole life was embodied in them.

Catherine held out her hand to him.

“You have a noble heart, Pitou,” she said.”Come and see my poor little Isidore.”

She led the way into the house, for this conversation had taken place at the street door. She was more beautiful than ever, poor Catherine, clad in mourning though she was, and this fact made Pitou sigh a second time.

Catherine ushered him into a small bedroom overlooking the garden. In this chamber, which, with a small kitchen and dressing-room, composed Catherine's entire lodgings, stood a bed and a cradle, — the bed for the mother, the cradle for the child. The child was asleep; and Catherine raised a gauze curtain, and stepped aside so that Pitou could look down into the cradle.

“Oh, the beautiful little angel!” exclaimed Pitou, clasping his hands; and, kneeling, he kissed its hand as if the child had indeed been an angel.

Pitou was speedily rewarded. He felt Catherine's hair float across his face, and two soft lips were pressed upon his brow. The mother was returning the kiss given to her child.

“Thank you, my good Pitou,” said she.”Since the last kiss he received from his father, no one else has kissed the poor little thing.”

“Oh, Mademoiselle Catherine!” murmured Pitou, quite overcome; and yet the kiss was prompted by all that is noblest and holiest in a mother's heart.

CHAPTER CXIII. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

minutes afterwards, Catherine, Pitou, and little Isi- dore were rolling along the road to Paris in Dr. Gilbert's carriage.

The vehicle stopped in front of the hospital. Catherine alighted, took her child in her arms, and followed Pitou. At the door of the laundry, she paused.

“You say Dr. Gilbert is with my father,” she remarked.”Ask him if he thinks I can go in without exciting father too much.”

Pitou stepped inside, but returned almost immediately.”The doctor says the shock was so great that your father recognises no one.”

Catherine was about to enter the room with little Isidore still in her arms; but Pitou said: -

“Give me the child, mademoiselle.” Then, seeing Catherine hesitate a moment, he added:”Yes, give him to me. It will seem more as if you had never been separated from your father.”

“You are right,” replied Catherine; and, placing her babe in Pitou's arms with more confidence, perhaps, than if he had been her brother, she entered the room, and walked straight to her father's bedside.

Dr. Gilbert was standing near the wounded man, whose condition had undergone little or no change since the evening before. The doctor was moistening the ban- dages which held the injured parts in place, with a wet sponge; and at the first sensation of coolness, Billot had Dabbled a few words and rolled his eyes about, but he speedily relapsed into that condition which physicians call coma, and his eyes closed again.

When Catherine reached her father's bedside, she fell upon her knees, and, raising her clasped hands to Heaven, exclaimed,”0 God, I call thee to witness that, from the very bottom of my heart, I implore thee to save my father's life.”

This was all the daughter could do for the father who had tried to kill her lover.

At the sound of her voice, a slight shudder seemed to pass through the wounded man's entire frame. His breathing became more rapid, and he again opened his eyes, which, after wandering about awhile as if in search of the person from whom this voice proceeded, fixed themselves upon Catherine's face. Then he made a feeble movement with his hand, as if to drive away some frightful apparition, born, perhaps, of the fever which was beginning to rage in his veins.

The girl's eyes met her father's, and with a sort of terror Gilbert saw two flaming glances meet, — flaming glances of hatred instead of affection.

The daughter rose to her feet, and went out as quietly and deliberately as she had come in; but on seeing her babe, she caught him up and pressed him to her bosom with the passionate love of a lioness rather than a woman, exclaiming,”My child I Oh, my child!”

Pitou wished to accompany Catherine to the diligence office, but she declined his offer with the words,”No; as you so nobly said, your place is beside the one who is left alone: so remain here, Pitou.”

And when Catherine spoke, Pitou had no choice but to obey.

As Pitou returned to the patient's bedside, the rather heavy tread of the captain of the Haramont Guard seemed to arouse Billot, and he again opened his eyes. This time an expression of kindness dispelled the look of hatred which had overspread his face like a tempestuous cloud at the sight of his daughter.

Catherine wended her way through the Rue St.-Denis to the inn from which the diligence started. The horses were already harnessed, and the postilion in the saddle; for the diligence started at ten o'clock. There was one seat left inside, and Catherine took it.

Eight hours afterwards — about six o'clock in the afternoon, and while it was still daylight — the diligence paused in the Rue Soissons at Villers-Cotterets.

If Isidore had still been alive, and her mother in good health, a feeling of shame would have made Catherine leave the stage before it entered the village, and take a circuitous route homeward, so as to escape notice; but as a widowed mother, she did not even think that she might be exposed to raillery, and so she left the diligence quietly, but fearlessly; for her mourning and her child seemed to her sufficient protection from either insult or contempt.

Besides, even her best friends were hardly likely to recognise Catherine. She was so pale, and had changed so much, that she scarcely looked like the same woman; but the greatest change, after all, was the air of distinction she had unconsciously acquired by intimate association with a highbred gentleman like Isidore.

One person recognised her. however, though she was some distance from her; and this was Aunt Angelica.

Aunt Angelica was standing in front of the town-hall, talking with two or three people about the oath the priests were required to take, and declaring she had heard Abbs' Fortier say that he would never take the oath of allegiance to the Jacobins and the Revolution, and that he would rather die a martyr's death than bow his head to the revolutionary oath.

“Good heavens!” she exclaimed, suddenly interrupting herself in the midst of her discourse;”if there isn’t that Billot girl and her child getting out of the diligence.”

“What, Catherine-” cried several voices.

“Yes; look at her, sneaking up that lane, so that nobody shall see her.”

But Aunt Angelica was mistaken. Catherine was not trying to escape notice. She was in a hurry to reach her mother, and so walked rapidly, and chose the lane because it was the shortest way to Pisseleu.

Having heard Aunt Angelica's remark, several children started after the girl to see if it was really Catherine; for she had always been a great favourite with the children of the place.

When they overtook her, they called out:”Yes, it is she! It is Mademoiselle Catherine! How do you do, Mademoiselle Catherine- Good-day, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“Good-day, children,”she replied.”Is my mother still living-”

“Oh, yes, mademoiselle,” they replied. And one child added,”Dr. Raynal says she's good for eight or ten days yet.”

“Thank you, children,” said Catherine, giving them a few sous; after which she continued on her way.

The children ran back to the square.

“It is she,” cried the children;”for she asked about her mother, and see what she gave us.”

“Her goods must bring a good price in Paris for her to be able to give money to all the brats that run after her,” growled Aunt Angelica.

Aunt Angelica did not like Catherine Billot. Catherine was young and handsome; Aunt Angelica was old and ugly. Catherine was tall and well shaped; Aunt Angelica was short and lame. Besides, it was at Billot's farm that Ange Pitou had found a shelter when his aunt drove him from her house.

It was Billot, too, who had read the Declaration of Human Rights at the Federation Festival, and had come after Abbe' Fortier to compel him to say mass at the patriot altar, — sufficient reasons each and every one of them, combined with her natural acerbity of disposition, to make Aunt Angelica hate the Billots in general, and Catherine in particular; and when Aunt Angelica hated, she hated vigorously, like all bigots.

So she hurried off to tell the news to Mademoiselle Adelaide, Abbe' Fortier's nieoe.

She found the priest enjoying a fine carp, flanked with a dish of scrambled eggs and a dish of spinach.

It was. a fast day, and the priest wore a sanctimonious and truly martyr-like expression.

“What is the matter-” he inquired, hearing the two women talking excitedly in the passage.”Are they coming to try and make me perjure myself-”

“Not yet, my dear uncle,” said Mademoiselle Adelaide.”It is only Aunt Angelica” (for everybody followed Pitou's example, and called the old maid by this title) -”it is only Aunt Angelica, who has come to tell me a bit of news.”

“We live in a time when the very air seems full of scandal,” said Abbe' Fortier.”What is this new bit of gossip you have to impart, Aunt Angelica-”

So Mademoiselle Adelaide ushered the old maid into the priest's presence.

“Your servitor, monsieur,” said Aunt Angelica.

“Servant, you mean,” corrected the priest, who had never quite outgrown the habits of a pedagogue.

“I 've always heard people say servitor,” replied Aunt Angelica;”so I was only repeating what I 've heard. Excuse me if I 've offended you, Monsieur l' Abbe'.”

“You don't offend me, but Dr. Syntax, Aunt Angelica.”

“I’ll apologise to him, then, the first time I see him,” replied the old woman, humbly.

“Good, Aunt Angelica, good! Won't you take a glass of wine-”

“Thank you, but I never drink wine.”

“Then you make a great mistake. Wine isn’t forbidden by the Church.”

“Oh, it isn't because wine is forbidden that I don't. drink it, it's because it costs nine sous a bottle.”

“You are as penurious as ever, I see, Aunt Angelica.”

“Penurious! Good heavens! how can poor people help being penurious-”

“You talk about being poor, — you, who pay nothing for the privilege of renting out the chairs in church, when there are plenty of people who would gladly give a hundred crowns for the privilege!”

“How could any one afford to pay that much, Monsieur l” Abbe', when I can only afford to drink water, though I pay nothing for the privilege of renting the chairs-”“That's the reason I ask you to take a glass of wine.”

“Take it, by all means, Aunt Angelica,” urged Mademoiselle Adelaide.”My uncle will feel hurt if you refuse.”

“Do you really think so-” asked Aunt Angelica, who was dying to accept the invitation.

“Really.”

“Then just two fingers, if you please, Monsieur l'Abbe'. I shouldn’t like to hurt your feelings, I 'm sure.”

“Here it is,” responded the priest, pouring out a full glass of excellent burgundy.”Drink that, Aunt Angelica; and the next time you count over your crown-pieces, you’ll think you have twice as many as you really have.”

“My crown-pieces! oh, Monsieur l' Abbe', don't say such a thing as that — you — a man of God. People will believe you.”

“Drink your wine, Aunt Angelica, drink it!”

Aunt Angelica just moistened her lips with the wine, as if merely to oblige the abbe'; then, shutting her eyes tight, she drank one-third the contents of the glass.

“How strong it is!” she exclaimed.”I don't see how any one can drink wine clear.”

“And I don't see how anybody can put water in it; but never mind, that doesn’t prevent me from betting that you have a snug little fortune hid away.”

“Oh, Monsieur l'Abbe', don't say that. I can't even pay my taxes, which are only three livres, ten sous1a 1 Abont seventy cents.

year;”and Aunt Angelica swallowed another third of the contents of her glass.

“Yes, I know you say so; but I 'm pretty sure that when the time comes for you to render up your soul to God, if your nephew Ange Pitou hunts carefully he’ll fiud enough to buy the whole of the Hue du Pleu hidden away in an old stocking.”

“Monsieur l' Abbe', Monsieur l' Abbe', if you say such things you’ll get me murdered by some of those brigands who burn down barns and steal the crops; for they 'll think- I am rich. And what a terrible thing that would be!”

But, in spite of Aunt Angelica's lamentations, the priest noticed that she swallowed the rest of her wine.

“I see you 're getting used to the wine, Aunt Angelica,” he remarked teasingly.

“It's awfully strong, though,” she protested.

Having finished his supper, the abbe' said,”Well, what is this new scandal that is troubling Israel-”

“That Billot girl has just arrived in the diligence, with her child.”

“Ah, indeed-”responded the priest.”I supposed she had put it in some foundling asylum before this.”

“It would have been a good thing; for then the poor little thing wouldn't have had to blush for its mother.”

“You seem to regard those institutions in an entirely new light, Aunt Angelica,” remarked the abbe”Well, what brought her here-”

“She came to see her mother, I suppose; for she asked the children if her mother was still living.”

“You know that Mother Billot hasn’t been to confession for a long time, Aunt Angelica,” said the priest, with a rather malicious smile.

“But that is not her fault, Monsieur Abbe'. She hasn’t been quite right for three or four months, it seems; but before her daughter gave her so much trouble, she was a very pious, God-fearing woman, who always hired two chairs of me when she came to church, — one to sit on, and the other to put her feet on.”

“And how about her husband-” demanded the priest, his eyes gleaming angrily.”How about Citizen Billot, the taker of the Bastille, — how many chairs did he hire-”

“I don't know; he never came to church,” answered Aunt Angelica, naively.”But as for Mother Billot -”

“Well, well,” said the abbe',”we'll settle her account when the day comes to bury her.”

Then, making the sign of the cross, he said, -

“Give thanks with me, my sisters.”

And the old maids also made the sign of the cross, and devoutly returned thanks with him.

CHAPTER CXIX. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

Meanwhile Catherine was wending her way homeward. On leaving the lane, she turned to the left into a narrow foot-path through the woods, that led into the main road.

Nearly every object along this road awakened mournful memories in Catherine's mind. Here was the little wooden bridge where Isidore bade her farewell on the day Pitou found her lying unconscious by the roadside. Near the boundary of the farm stood the hollow tree where Isidore had secreted his letters. As she approached nearer the house, she could discern the little window by which Isidore had always entered her room, and where his career would have been brought to an abrupt termination, one night, if the farmer's gun had not missed fire; and, finally, in the distance, she caught sight of the road leading to Boursonnes, which she had so often traversed, and by which Isidore had been wont to come to the farm.

How often at night, leaning against the window, with her eyes fixed upon the highway, had she awaited her lover's coming with breathless expectancy, and felt a great burden lifted from her heart as she saw him approaching in the gloom, always punctual and always faithful!

Now he was dead, but she could press his babe to her heart. What did people mean by prating about her shame and dishonour- Could such a beautiful child be a disgrace or source of humiliation to any mother-

Swiftly and fearlessly she approached the house. A big dog began to bark; but, suddenly recognising his young mistress, he bounded forward as far as the length of his chain would permit, and stood upon his hind legs, paws in the air, barking joyfully.

Hearing the dog bark so vociferously, a man came to the door to find out what was the matter.”Mademoiselle Catherine!”he exclaimed in astonishment.

“Father Clouis!”cried Catherine.

“Welcome home, my dear young lady,” said the old gamekeeper.”The house needs your presence sadly.”

“And my poor mother-”

“Is about the same; rather worse than better. The poor dear soul is sinking, I think.”

“Where is she-”

“In her own room.”

“Alone-”

“Oh, no, no, my dear young lady; I would not allow that! You must excuse me, mademoiselle, if in your absence I have taken the liberty of superintending things a little. The time you spent in my humble cottage made me feel almost as if I were one of the family. I loved you so much, you and poor Monsieur Isidore.”

“You have heard-”faltered Catherine.

“Yes, yes, -killed defending the queen, like poor George. Still, mademoiselle, he has left you this beautiful boy; and though you weep for the father, you must smile upon the child -”

“Thank you,Father Clouis,” said Catherine, offering the old gamekeeper her hand;”but my mother -”

“She is in her chamber, as I told you, with Madame Clement, the same nurse who took care of you.”

“Is she still conscious-”

“Sometimes we think so; but that is generally when some one mentions your name. We aroused her in that way the day before yesterday; but since that time she has given no sign of consciousness. But step in and see her, mademoiselle,” added the old gamekeeper, opening the door into Madame Billot's chamber.

Catherine glanced into the room. Her mother was lying on a tall bedstead with green serge hangings. The room was lighted by one of those old-fashioned lamps with three tubes, such as are still seen occasionally in old-fashioned farm-houses. Poor Mother Billot seemed little changed, except that her skin had taken on an ivory-like pallor. She appeared to be asleep.

“Mother! mother!” cried Catherine, giving the baby to the nurse, and throwing herself on her mother's bed.

The invalid opened her eyes, and turned her face towards Catherine. A gleam of intelligence brightened her eyes, and she made some inarticulate sounds which did not attain to the dignity of speech; then she put out her hand as if to confirm the evidence of her failing eyesight and hearing by the sense of touch; but the effort was futile, the movement a failure. Her eyes closed again, her arm rested a dead weight on the head of Catherine, — who was still on her knees by her mother's bedside, — and she relapsed into the state of insensibility from which she had been aroused momentarily, as if by an electric shock, by the sound of her daughter's voice.

The feelings the sight of Catherine had aroused in her father and mother had been diametrically opposite. Father Billot awoke from his stupor to drive Catherine from him. Mother Billot emerged from her torpor to draw Catherine to her.

The arrival of Catherine revolutionised things at the farm. Billot had been expected, but not his daughter. Catherine related the accident which had befallen Billot, and told them that her father was almost as near death in Paris as her mother was in Pisseleu. She re-assumed the authority with which her father had invested her in days gone by, and Father Clouis, liberally rewarded for his valuable services, went back to his burrow, as he styled his hut in the forest.

The next day Dr. Raynal came to the farm; for he was in the habit of paying a visit there every other day, from a sense of duty rather than from a hope of doing any good. He knew that no human efforts could save or even prolong Mother Billot's life now.

He was delighted to find the daughter there, and forthwith broached a subject he would not have dared to mention to Billot, — that of the sacraments of the Church.

Billot was known to be an enthusiastic disciple of Voltaire; nor was Dr. Raynal a specially devout man; on the contrary, he was not only deeply imbued with the sceptical spirit of the time, but he was a scientific man; and though the age had only arrived at the stage of doubt, science had already reached the stage of vigorous denial. Still, under such circumstances as these the doctor felt it his duty to speak to the family on the subject.

Pious relatives usually profited by this warning to send for a priest. Those who were not religious gave orders that if the priest should present himself, the door was to be closed in his face.

Catherine was naturally devout. She was ignorant of the causes of disagreement between her father and the abbe', or rather she attached very little importance to them; so she sent Madame Clement to the house of Abbe' Fortier to ask the priest to come and administer the last sacrament to her mother. Pisseleu, being too small a hamlet for a separate church and curate, was dependent upon Villers- Cotterets. In fact, it was in the cemetery at Villers- Cotterets that the dead of Pisseleu were buried.

An hour afterwards the bell of the viaticum was heard tinkling at the farm-house door. The advent of the Sacred Host was welcomed by Catherine on her knees. But Abbe' Fortier had scarcely entered the sick-chamber, and perceived that the person to whom he had been summoned was speechless, sightless, and voiceless, when he declared that he could grant absolution only to such persons as were able to confess; and, despite the most earnest entreaties, he persisted in his refusal, and departed, taking the pyx with him.

Abbe' Fortier was a priest of the most bigoted and fanatical type. In Spain he would have been a Saint Dominic; in Mexico, a Valverde. It was useless to appeal to any other priest. Pisseleu was in his parish, and no other ecclesiastic would dare to encroach upon his rights.

Catherine had a very pious and sensitive heart, but she was also very sensible; hence she regarded the Abbess refusal as only another sorrow she must bear, and comforted herself with the reflection that God would be much more lenient to the dying woman than his minister; so she continued to discharge the duties of a daughter to her mother, and the duties of a mother to her child, dividing her entire time between the child that was just entering life, and the weary soul that was about leaving it.

For eight days and nights she left her mother's bedside only to go to the cradle of her child. On the eighth night, while she was watching at the invalid's bedside, the door opened, and Pitou came in.

When she saw him, Catherine trembled. For an instant she felt sure that her father was dead; but another glance convinced her that Pitou could not be the bearer of such tidings. The expression of his face, though by no means gay, was too cheerful for that.

He reported Billot as improving. For several days the doctor had felt confident of his patient's recovery; and on the very morning of his — Pitou's — departure, the farmer had been removed from the hospital to Dr. Gilbert's bouse. As soon as Billot was out of danger, Pitou had announced his intention of returning to Pisseleu; for he no longer felt anxious on Billot's account, but on Catherine's: for Pitou was sure that as soon as the doctor thought it safe to inform the farmer of his wife's condition, Billot would insist upon starting for home, weak as he was. And what if he should find Catherine there-

The unfortunate effect of Catherine's visit to the hospital was still apparent, for the memory of it seemed still to haunt the wounded man; and as his senses slowly returned, he cast anxious and sullen glances around him, as if expecting to see that hateful vision reappear.

He never once alluded to the subject, however, nor did he ever utter Catherine's name; but Ur. Gilbert was too close an observer not to perceive the truth, so, as soon as Billot became convalescent, he sent Pitou back to the farm with orders to take Catherine away. Pitou would have two or three days to accomplish this, as the doctor did not think it prudent to risk the painful revelation before the expiration of that time.

Pitou told Catherine all this; but Catherine stoutly declared that she could never leave her mother while she lived, not even if her father killed her by the bedside of her dying parent.

Pitou regretted this determination deeply, but dared not oppose it. Consequently, there was nothing for him to do but hold himself in readiness to interpose between the father and daughter if need be.

Two days and two nights passed, during which Mother Billot's life seemed to wane, breath by breath. For ten days she had taken no nourishment, and life had been sustained only by occasionally introducing a spoonful of brandy into her mouth. During the tenth night, just as her breath had apparently forsaken her altogether, she suddenly revived. Her arms and lips moved, and her eyes opened broad and wide.

“Mother! mother!” cried Catherine; and she rushed to the door to fetch her babe.

One might have supposed that Catherine took her mother's very soul with her, for when she returned with little Isidore in her arms the sick woman endeavoured to turn her head in that direction, and there was a look of welcome in her eyes for her daughter. She even extended her arms towardsher, and uttered a faint moan.

Catherine dropped upon her knees by the side of the bed with her child still clasped in her arms.

Then a miracle occurred. Mother Billot raised herself from her pillow, and placed one hand on Catherine's head, and one on the head of her babe. Then, with such a superhuman effort as the son of Croesus must have made when he broke the bonds of his dumbness in a moment of frightful peril, the dying mother cried,”I bless you, my children.”

Then she sank back on her pillow, with arms inert and voice silenced for ever.

She was dead; but her eyes remained open, as if the poor mother, not having seen enough of her daughter while she lived, longed to still gaze upon her from the other side of the grave.

CHAPTER CXX. IN WHICH ABBE FORTIER CARRIES OUT HIS THREAT.

Catherine reverently closed her mother's eyes, first with her fingers, and then with her lips.

Madame Cle'ment had long foreseen this supreme moment, and had provided some candles; so, while Catherine carried her weeping child to her own room and soothed him to sleep upon her breast, Madame Cle'ment placed two candles at the head of the bed, crossed the dead woman's hands upon her breast, placed a crucifix between the lifeless fingers, and set a bowl of holy water on a chair, with a sprig of box saved from the last Palm Sunday.

When Catherine returned, there was nothing for her to do but seat herself beside the dead with her prayer-book in her hands.

Meanwhile Pitou had assumed charge of all the funeral arrangements. Not daring to go to Abbe Fortier, with whom he was not on very good terms, he went to the sexton to order a mass for the dead, and to the grave- digger to tell him to dig the grave; then he hastened to Haramont to inform the lieutenants and thirty-one men of the Haramont National Guards that the interment would take place at eleven o'clock the following day.

Mother Billot had never held any official position in her life; but her husband's devotion to the revolutionary cause was well known. It was known, too, that he was lying on a couch of suffering on account of injuries received in the sacred cause of Liberty; so Pitou's invitation to attend the obsequies was equivalent to a command, and each man promised his chief that he would be punctually on hand.

When Pitou returned to the farm that night, he met the undertaker at the door with the coffin on his shoulder. Now Pitou possessed an intuitive delicacy of feeling rarely met with in peasants, or even in people of a much higher order; so he got the undertaker and the coffin into the carriage-house, and entered the house alone, resolved to spare Catherine the mournful sight, if possible.

Catherine was praying at the foot of her mother's bed, and Pitou, after giving her an account of what he had done, urged her to go out and get a little air; but she refused.

“It will be very bad for your little Isidore if you don't go out,” insisted Pitou.

“Then you can take him out, and let him get a little fresh air, Monsieur Pitou,” she replied.

And Catherine must have had great confidence in Pitou, or she would not have trusted her child to him, even for five minutes.

Pitou went out as if to comply with these instructions, but came back again almost immediately to say: -”He won't go with me. He's crying.” And, in fact, through the open doors Catherine could hear her child wailing lustily; so she pressed a kiss upon the brow of her dead mother, and left her to go to her boy. Taking him in her arms, she followed Pitou out into the open air; and as soon as her back was turned, the undertaker entered the house with his burden.

Pitou was anxious to keep Catherine out of the way about half an hour; so, as if by the merest chance, he led her down the Boursonnes road; and this highway was so filled with reminiscences that she walked a long distance without saying a single word to Pitou, so absorbed was she in communing with her own heart.

When Pitou thought it was about time for the undertaker's task to be completed, he remarked,”Suppose we return to the farm now, Mademoiselle Catherine-”She suddenly aroused herself as if from a dream.

“Oh, yes,” she replied.”How kind you are, Pitou.”

And she immediately turned, and began to retrace her steps.

When they reached the house, Madame Clement made a sign to Pitou to indicate that the undertaker's work was satisfactorily concluded. Catherine went to her own room to put little Isidore to bed; and, that duty performed, she was about to resume her watch over her mother's body, when Pitou prevented her by saying, -

“That is not necessary now, Mademoiselle Catherine, for everything has been attended to during our absence. The -”

“And that is the reason you insisted upon my going out. I understand, my kind friend.”

And Catherine rewarded him with a grateful glance, as she added: -

“One last prayer, and I will come away.”

She walked straight into her mother's room, Pitou following only as far as the doorway. The coffin stood in the middle of the room. On beholding it, Catherine paused, and burst into tears; then she knelt, and pressed her forehead, pale with grief and weariness, against the oak coffin.

Catherine prayed on and on. She did not seem able to tear herself from the coffin. The poor girl knew that after Isidore's death she had but two friends left on earth,- her mother and Pitou.

Her mother had blessed her and bidden her farewell for ever. She was now lying there in her coffin, and to-morrow the grave would close over her. Pitou was consequently her sole dependence now, and it was hard to part with her last friend save one, especially when that friend was her mother.

Pitou felt that he must come to Catherine's aid; so he stepped into the room, and, knowing that words would be useless, he placed his hands under Catherine's arms and tried to raise her from her knees.

“One prayer more, Pitou, just one!” she pleaded.

“You will make yourself ill, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“What of that-”

“In that case I shall have to hunt up a nurse for little Isidore.”

“You are right, Pitou, you are right,” replied the girl.”How good you are, and how much I love you!”

Pitou staggered, and nearly fell backwards. Tears of joy streamed down his cheek, for had not Catherine said that she loved him- Not that Pitou deceived himself in regard to the nature of the love Catherine felt for him, but the mere fact that she loved him at all was everything to him.

Her prayer ended, Catherine kept her promise by rising and leaving the room. Pitou put his arm around her waist to support her, and she walked slowly towards the door, leaning on his shoulder. On the threshold she paused, and, casting a last glance at the coffin, dimly lighted by the two caudles, she exclaimed:”Farewell, mother! Once more, and for the last time, farewell!”

At the door of her own room Pitou checked her; and she had learned to understand him so well that she felt sure he had something to say to her.

“What is it-” she asked.

“Don't you think the time has come for you to leave the farm-” stammered Pitou, much embarrassed.

“I shall not leave the farm until my mother leaves it.”

And Catherine uttered the words with so much firmness that Pitou saw her resolution was irrevocable.

“And when you leave it,” said Pitou,”you know there are two places within a few miles from here where you are sure of a hearty welcome, — the hut of Father Clouis and Pitou's little house.”

“Thanks, Pitou,” answered Catherine. Then she entered her room without troubling herself any further about Pitou, who was sure to make himself at home anywhere.

The next morning about ten o'clock the friends and neighbours of the deceased began to assemble for the funeral. All the farmers from Boursonnes, Noue, Coyolles, Largny, Haramont, and Vivieres were there; and the mayor of Villers-Cotterets, the kind-hearted Monsieur de Longpre', was one of the first to arrive.

At half-past ten, the National Guard of Haramont arrived, with drums beating and colours trailing. Not a single man was absent.

Catherine, clad in mourning, with her babe, who was also dressed in black, in her arms, received each person; and no one evinced anything but respect for this mother and babe in the gloom of their twofold bereavement.

By eleven o'clock, more than three hundred people had assembled at the farm-house; but the priest, the bearers, and the other church officials had not arrived.

They waited a quarter of an hour, but nobody came. Pitou went up to the top of the barn, where he could see a longdistance down the road leading to Villers-Cotterets; but, though he had excellent eyes, he could see no one approaching.

He came down, and imparted, not only the result of his observations, but his conclusions to Monsieur de Longpre'.

Pitou had heard of his aunt's visit to Abbe' Fortier, and of that dignitary's refusal to administer the sacrament to Mother Billot; and, understanding the priest's character, he felt satisfied that Fortier had resolved not to lend the sanction of his priestly presence to the obsequies of Madame Billot, the pretext, not the real cause, being a neglect of the confessional on the part of the deceased.

These surmises communicated by Pitou to the mayor, and subsequently to other guests by the mayor, had a most depressing effect. At first every one was silent; but at last somebody said,”Very well, if Abbe' Fortier won't say mass, we can easily dispense with it.”

The voice was that of De'sire' Maniquet, and De'sire' Maniquet's atheistical sentiments were well known.

A dead silence followed. The proposal to omit the funeral service for the dead was evidently considered a bold thing, -an indication, in fact, of adherence to the principles of Voltaire and Rousseau.

“Let us proceed to Villers-Cotterets, gentlemen,” said the mayor.”There everything will probably be explained.”

“To Villers-Cotterets!”cried every one.

Pitou made a sign to four of his men. They slipped the barrels of their guns under the coffin and carried it out in that way past Catherine, who was kneeling near the door, and past little Isidore, whom she had placed on his knees beside her.

After the coffin had been taken out, Catherine stooped and kissed the threshold; for she never expected to enter the farm-house again. Then, turning to Pitou as she rose, she said: -

“You will find us in the cottage at Clouis Rock;” and, crossing the garden, she walked rapidly in the direction of Noue.

CHAPTER CXXI. IN WHICH ABBE FORTIER DISCOVERS THAT IT IS NOT ALWAYS EASY TO KEEP ONE'S WORD.

The long procession was advancing slowly and decorously, when those in the rear suddenly heard a loud call and turned to see what was the matter.

A man was riding after them at full gallop. He was coming from Ivors, that is to say, down the Paris road. Part of his face was covered with a bandage, and he was waving his hat for the people to wait for him.

Pitou turned, and exclaimed:”Why, it's Monsieur Billot! Whew! I shouldn't like to be in Abb

On hearing Billot's name everybody halted. As soon as he reached the head of the procession, the farmer leaped from his horse, threw the bridle on the animal's neck, and said, in tones that were distinctly audible to every one,”Good-day and thank you, fellow-citizens!” Then he took his place directly behind the coffin, in place of Pitou, who had been acting as chief mourner in the husband's absence.

A stable-boy took the horse and rode it back to the farm.

Every one gazed at Billot with a great deal of curiosity. He was a little thinner and much paler than formerly. Part of his forehead and the flesh around his left eye were still black and blue. His set teeth and knitted brows indicated a sullen wrath that was likely to burst forth at any moment.

“Do you know what has happened-”inquired Pitou.

“I know all,” replied Billot, grimly.

As soon as Dr. Gilbert told Billot of his wife's condition, the latter hired a cabriolet, in which he travelled as far as Nanteuil. Then, the horse bein›(unable to go any further, Billot, weak as he was, hired a post horse, changed horses again at Levignan, and reached the farmhouse soon after the funeral procession left it. Madame Clement explained the situation to him in a few words, and Billot immediately remounted. When he turned the corner, he could see the procession moving along the road ahead of him, and shouted to it to stop.

After that, it was he who walked at the head of the funeral cortege, with scowling brow, lips ominously compressed, and arms folded upon his breast, and the little company became even more sad and gloomy than before.

On the edge of the village of Villers-Cotterets they found quite a large assemblage awaiting them. These people took their places in the procession; and, by the time it reached the public square, it numbered fully five hundred persons. The church was plainly visible from the square, and, as Pitou had foreseen, it was closed.

In front of the church the procession came to a halt. Billot's complexion had become livid, and the expression of his face was growing more and more threatening. The church and the town-hall stood side by side; and as the man who played the horn during the church services also acted as janitor at the town-hall, and was consequently dependent in a measure upon the mayor as well as the abbe', the mayor called for him and questioned him.

He reported that Abbe ' Fortier had expressly forbidden every one connected with the church from having anything to do with the burial. The mayor then asked where the keys of the church were. The keys were at the verger's.

“Go and get them,” Billot said, turning to Pitou.

Pitou was off like a shot. In a few minutes he returned, with the announcement that the abbe' had taken the keys to his house to prevent any possibility of the church being opened.

“We shall have to go there after them,” said De'sire' Maniquet, a born advocate of violent measures.

“Yes, yes!” shouted two hundred voices.

“That will take too long!” replied Billot.”When death knocks at the door he is not in the habit of being kept waiting.”

He glanced about him. Opposite the church, a house was in process of erection. The carpenters were squaring the end of a beam. Billot walked straight up to them, and with a movement of the hand indicated that he wanted the piece of timber, and the workmen stepped aside.

The timber was resting upon some joists. Billot put his arms around the middle of the beam and raised it; but he had counted upon lost strength. The colossus tottered under this enormous weight, and for a moment it seemed as if he would fall. But that was over in an instant. With a terrible smile, Billot recovered his equilibrium, then he advanced, with the beam under his arm, his step slow but firm. He resembled one of those ancient battering rams with which Alexander, Hannibal, and Caesar were wont to level opposing walls.

With legs stretched wide apart, Billot planted himself in front of the door, and this formidable engine of destruction began its work. The door was of oak, the locks, bolts, and hinges were of massive iron; but at the third blow, bolts, locks, and hinges flew off, and the door was open.

Billot dropped the beam, and four men picked it up and carried it back to its place.

“Now, Monsieur Mayor, have the coffin of my poor wife, who never harmed a living soul, placed in front of the chancel,” said Billot.”Pitou, fetch the beadle, the sexton, the choristers, and altar-boys. I will attend to the priest myself.”

Several men wished to accompany Billot, but he said,”No, let me go alone. The consequences may prove serious. Every man should bear the responsibility of his own deeds.”

So for the second time the revolutionist and the royalist were to find themselves face to face. Every one remembered what had occurred the first time, and most of them anticipated a similar scene; nevertheless, the people remained in their places shaking their heads ominously, but not moving a step.

“He forbade us to follow him,” they remarked to one another.

The door of the priest's house was as securely closed as the door of the church. Billot glanced around in search of another beam, but saw only a stone post which had been somewhat loosened by mischievous children, and which now trembled in its hole like a loose tooth in its socket. The farmer walked up to this post, shook it violently, and finally tore it from the earth in which it was imbedded; then, lifting it above his head, like another Ajax or Diomed, he stepped back, and hurled the granite block at the door with as much force as a catapult.

The door was shivered into atoms.

Almost simultaneously a window in the second story was raised, and Fortier appeared shouting with all his might to his parishioners for aid; but the flock did not seem to recognise the voice of their shepherd, or else they preferred to let the wolf and the shepherd fight it out between themselves. It took about ten minutes, perhaps, for Billot to break open the three or four doors which still separated him from the abbe*; and as the time passed, the priest's appeals became more and more frantic, and his gestures more and more excited. It was evident that this increasing agitation was due to the increasingly near approach of danger.

Suddenly Billot's pale face became visible behind the priest, and a hand was laid heavily on his shoulder. The abb£ braced himself against the wooden crosspiece which divided the double window. He, too, was noted for his strength, and it would be no easy task to make him let go his hold. But Billot placed his arms around the priest's waist, and braced himself firmly on his legs; then, with a sudden wrench that would have uprooted an oak-tree, he jerked his adversary away from the window with such violence that a part of the shattered cross-bar remained in his hands. Then both the farmer and the priest disappeared from sight; but the cries of the abbe' could be heard receding farther and farther, like the bellowing of a bull borne away by some fierce mountain lion.

Meanwhile Pitou had gathered the sexton, verger, altar- boys, and choristers together, and compelled them to put on their cassocks and light the candles on the altar.

They were engaged in making these preparations when Billot was seen coming rapidly down the street, dragging the priest after him.

Billot was more than a man. He seemed to have been transformed into one of those indomitable, irresistible forces of nature, such as a torrent or an avalanche, against which nothing except one of the elements could contend successfully.

When they were about a hundred yards from the church, the priest ceased to struggle. He seemed to be completely cowed. Everybody stood aside to let the two men pass. The terrified abbs' cast a startled glance at the shattered door, and when he saw those he had forbidden to set foot in the church standing in their several places, book, halberd, or musical instrument in hand, he shook his head as if he at last realised that an irresistible power was making itself felt upon religion itself as well as its ministers. He entered the sacristy and presently emerged in his ecclesiastical robes with the Holy Eucharist in his hands. He ascended the steps of the altar, placed the pyx on the holy table, and turned to utter the first words of the service; but Billot extended his hand with a gesture of command, and cried: -

“Enough, thou unworthy servant of God. I wished to curb thy pride, that was all. I want people to understand that a good woman like my wife can well dispense wi*h the prayers of a fanatical, despicable creature like thee.”

And as a great hubbub resounded through the church after these words, Billot added:”If this be sacrilege, let the penalty fall upon mc.”

Then, turning to the crowd, which not only filled the church, but the grounds of the neighbouring court-house, he said: -

“To the cemetery, citizens!”

“To the cemetery!”repeated the crowd.

The four bearers again slipped the barrels of their muskets under the coffin, and resumed their journey to the cemetery, Billot leading the way.

The cemetery was situated at the end of a lane about twenty-five rods from Aunt Angelica's cottage. The gate was locked, and, strangely enough, Billot paused before this slight obstacle. Death respected the dead.

At a sign from the farmer, Pitou ran to the house of the gravedigger, who, of course, possessed a key to the cemetery. Five minutes later, Pitou reappeared, not only with the key, but with two shovels; for Fortier had not only refused the dead woman admission to the church, but to consecrated ground as well, for the gravedigger had been ordered not to dig a grave for her. At this fresh proof of the priest's malevolence a threatening murmur rose from the crowd. In fact, the farmer had but to say the word, and the priest would have suffered the martyrdom which he had loudly invoked on that autumn day when he refused to celebrate mass at the patriot altar.

With a gesture of thanks to Piton, whose intentions he understood, Billot took the key, opened the gate, let the coffin pass in, and then followed it himself, followed, in turn, by the funeral procession which now included nearly every resident of the neighbourhood.

Only the ultra-royalists and bigots remained at home. It is needless to say that Aunt Angelica, who was one of the last-named class, locked her door in horror, inveighing loudly against this abomination of desolation, and calling down the wrath of Heaven upon her nephew's head.

But all who were endowed with kind hearts and a strong sense of justice, all who were opposed to the substitution of animosity and hatred for mercy and compassion, that is to say, about three-fourths of the population of the town, were present to protest, not against religion, or against God, but against priestly fanaticism.

When they reached the place where the grave was to have been dug, — for the gravedigger had marked the spot before he received orders not to dig it, — Billot put out his hand, and Pitou placed one of the spades in it.

Then, with heads uncovered, Billot and Pitou, surrounded by a crowd of their fellow-citizens, began to dig a grave for the devout and patient creature who would have been astonished, indeed, had any one told her while she was alive what a scandal her death was destined to create.

The task required an hour of arduous toil, but neither man relaxed his efforts for an instant until the grave was completed.

In the mean time, ropes had been provided, and when the grave was completed the coffin was lowered into it by Billot and Pitou. The two men performed this last sad duty so quietly and naturally that not one of the bystanders thought of offering to assist them. Indeed, they would have deemed it a sacrilege to interfere.

As the first clods fell upon the oak coffin, Billot passed his hand over his eyes, and Pitou wiped away his tears with his coat-sleeve. Then they bravely continued the work of filling up the grave.

When the task was ended, Billot threw his shovel aside and held out his arms to Pitou, who threw himself upon the farmer's breast.

“God is my witness,” said Billot,”that I embrace in theeallthe greatest and purest of human virtues,- charity, devotion, self-abnegation, fraternity, — and that I henceforth devote my life to the triumph of these virtues.”

Then, extending his hand over the grave, he added:”God is also my witness that I swear eternal enmity against the king who tried to have me murdered, against the nobles who brought disgrace upon my daughter, and against the priests who refused my wife burial!”

Then turning to the spectators, who were evidently in full sympathy with this threefold imprecation, the farmer said: -

“My brothers, a new Assembly is to be convened in place of the traitors now assembled there. Choose me as your representative in that Assembly, and you shall see how well I keep my oath!”

A cry of unanimous approval greeted this proposal on the part of Billot; and over the grave of his wife, a grim altar, meet indeed for the terrible oath he had just taken, Billot was chosen as a candidate for the new Legislative Assembly. After which, — the farmer having thanked his fellow-citizens for the sympathy they had manifested towards him, — the spectators all wended their way homeward, each bearing a strong spirit of revolutionary propa- gandism in his heart,-the priests and nobles and kings in their blindness furnishing the most potent weapons for their own destruction.

CHAPTER CXXII. DEPUTY BILLOT.

The incidents we have just related made a deep impression, not only upon the residents of Villers-Cotterets, but also upon the farmers of the neighbouring townships.

The farmers were a power in political matters, as each one employed from ten to thirty day-labourers, and the result of an election generally depended upon the rural districts; though at that time there were nominally two kinds of suffrage.

Each of these farmers, as he started for home after the funeral, gave Billot a hearty shake of the hand, and assured him he need have no fears; and Billot did go back to the farm in quite a tranquil frame of mind, for he now saw for the first time an effectual way of avenging the wrong the king and the nobility had done him.

Billot only felt, he never reasoned; and his desire for vengeance was as blind as it was intense.

He returned to the farm without making any allusion to Catherine. In fact, he did not give the slightest sign to indicate that he had even heard of her stay at the farm. He had not mentioned her name for over a year. With him, it was as if his daughter had never existed.

This was not the case with our kind-hearted Pitou. Though he had regretted from the very bottom of his heart that Catherine could not love him, when he compared the handsome, accomplished young man she did love with himself, he could not wonder at the failure of his own suit. So Pitou envied Isidore, but felt no ill-will against Catherine; on the contrary, he loved her as devotedly as ever.

When Isidore was killed at Varenues, Pitou felt only the deepest compassion for Catherine. His feelings were exactly contrary to those of Billot; for he did the young nobleman full justice, remembering all that was good and noble and generous even in his rival. As we have seen, the result of all this was not only that Pitou loved Catherine even more in her affliction than at a time when she was joyous and gay, but also, — though one may hardly believe it possible, — that he found himself loving her poor little fatherless child almost as much as he loved Catherine.

We need not be surprised, therefore, that after having taken leave of Billot, like the others, he did not return to the farm-house, but wended his way towards Haramont.

His neighbours had become so accustomed to his frequent disappearances and reappearances that they had ceased to trouble themselves about them. When he went away, they whispered:”General Lafayette has sent for him.” That was all.

When he returned, they always asked him how matters were progressing; and, thanks to Dr. Gilbert, Pitou was generally able to give them the very latest and most reliable intelligence; so, finding his predictions were almost invariably fulfilled, they felt the utmost confidence in him as a prophet, as well as a military leader.

Gilbert understood and appreciated Pitou's trustworthy character perfectly. He knew that if a critical moment should ever come he could safely trust his own life or Sebastian's to this true and honest man's fidelity. Whenever Pitou went to Paris, Gilbert always asked him if he needed anything; but though he invariably answered in the negative, this did not prevent Gilbert from handing Pitou several louis, which the latter quietly put in his pocket. These louis constituted quite a fortune to Pitou, added to the special resources and tithes he managed to derive from the Orleans forest; so he rarely reached the end of his pocketful of money before the worthy doctor replenished his store again.

Considering Pitou's feelings towards Catherine and Isidore, it is not surprising that he left Billot as soon as possible, in order to ascertain how the young mother and her child were progressing. Pitou was obliged to pass the cottage of Father Clouis, in going to Haramont; and a short distance from the hut he met the old gamekeeper, who was on his way home with his bag, for this was hare-day.

Father Clouis informed Pitou that Catherine had returned to her former quarters, and that the poor girl had wept bitterly on re-entering the little room where she had become a mother, and where Isidore had given her such strong proofs of his ardent affection.

When Pitou entered the cottage, he found Catherine with her child in her arms, and her cheeks still wet with tears. Dropping on one knee before Catherine, and kissing the infant's tiny hand, Pitou exclaimed:”Ah, Mademoiselle Catherine, don't worry! I am rich, and little Monsieur Isidore shall never want for anything.”

With fifteen louis in his pocket, Pitou considered himself rich. Being unusually kind-hearted and generous herself, Catherine was quick to appreciate all that was noble and generous in others.

“Thank you, Pitou,” she replied.”I believe you, and it makes me very happy, for you are my only friend now. If you abandon us, we shall be entirely alone in the world; so you will never desert us, will you-”

“Ah, mademoiselle, don't say anything like that to me!” exclaimed Pitou, fairly sobbing.

“I did wrong to say it, very wrong; forgive me,” exclaimed Catherine, deeply touched.

“No, on the contrary, you were quite right. I 'm a fool to cry like this.”

“I feel as if I needed a little fresh air,” said Catherine.”Let us take a short walk in the forest; I think it will do me good.”

“And me too, for I feel as if I were suffocating.”

Catherine placed her sleeping child on the bed; and five minutes later they were walking under the lofty trees of the forest, — that magnificent temple reared by the hand of God to Nature, his divine and immortal daughter.

This promenade, with Catherine leaning upon his arm, reminded Pitou of the walk, two years and a half before, when he escorted Catherine to the ball, where, to his great dismay, Isidore had danced with her repeatedly.

How many important events had been crowded into this comparatively brief period! Though he was not a great philosopher, like Voltaire or Rousseau, Pitou realised perfectly that he and Catherine were but atoms circling round in the great whirlpool; but however insignificant these atoms may be, they all have their joys and sorrows just as much as noble lords, or princes, or even famous kiugs and queens.

Turned by the hand of Fate, the millstones crush thrones and crowns into powder as relentlessly as they crush the happiness of an humble individual like Catherine. Note, too, the difference the Revolution had already effected in Pitou's condition. Two and a half years before, he was only a friendless boy, driven out into the world by Aunt Angelica, sheltered by Billot, befriended by Catherine, and sacrificed to Isidore.

But to-day Pitou was quite a power in the land. He wore a sword at his side, and epaulets on his shoulders, and was called captain; while Isidore was lying in his grave, and he, Pitou, had become the protector of Catherine and her child.

“What is your object in fostering the Revolution-” some one once asked Danton.

“To put down those who are on top, and raise those who are in the mire,” was the reply.

Catherine's appreciation of kindness had been greatly increased by the suffering and sorrow she had undergone. In her prosperous days, Pitou had been merely a good- hearted boy, of very little importance in her estimation; now, she did full justice to his many virtues, and saw in him the very friend she needed. And as she always welcomed him now with outstretched hands and smiling lips, Pitou began to live a life of which he had had no previous conception, even in his happiest dreams.

Meanwhile Billot, though still silent in relation to his daughter, was busily engaged, not only with his harvest, but with arrangements to insure his election to the office of Deputy. There was but one man who could have entered the field against him with any likelihood of success; but Charny was leading a life of seclusion with Andre*e in the chateau at Boursonnes. Absorbed in his love and his unexpected happiness, the count had become so entirely oblivious to the world that he almost believed the world, too, had forgotten him.

As the idea of becoming a candidate never once occurred to Charny, and as there was little or no opposition to Billot in the canton of Villers-Cotterets, the farmer was elected by a large majority.

Once elected, Billot set about collecting as much money as possible. The year had been a prosperous one, and he settled with his tenants, put aside as much seed-grain as he should need, and as much hay, oats, and grain as his cattle were likely to require. He also put aside the requisite amount of money for his labourers. Then he sent for Pitou. Billot was always gloomy and morose now. No one had seen a smile on the farmer's lips since his daughter left him; but to-day, his face was even more grave than usual.

He offered Pitou his hand; but the hand that Pitou gave him in return he retained in both his own.”You 're an honest man, Pitou,” he said earnestly.

“Good gracious! I hope so, indeed, Monsieur Billot!” responded Pitou, much astonished.

“And I am sure of it.”

“You 're certainly very kind to say so.”

“And I have decided, before I leave, to place you in charge of the farm.”

“Me- Impossible!”

“And why impossible-”

“Because there are lots of things that require a woman's oversight on a farm like this.”

“I know that. Pick out a woman who will share the responsibility with you. I won't even ask her name. When I intend to return, I’ll notify you a week beforehand, so if the woman doesn’t want to see me, or I had better not see her, she can take herself out of the way. You will find all the grain needed for sowing in the granary. All the straw, hay, fodder, and oats you will need for the horses and cattle are in the barn; and in this drawer there is all the money that will be required for wages and the support of the household.”

As he spoke, Billot pulled out a drawer filled with money.

“Stop a minute, Monsieur Billot,” cried Pitou.”How much money is there in that drawer-”

“I don't know,” replied the farmer, closing the drawer. Then, as he locked it and handed Pitou the key, he added:-

“When you need any more, ask me for it.”

Pitou understood how much confidence this implied, and he sprang forward to embrace Billot; but, suddenly realising how audacious such an act would appear in one of his years, he exclaimed:”I beg a thousand pardons, Monsieur Billot.”

“For what, my friend-” asked Billot, touched by this humility.”Because an honest man opens his arms to embrace another honest man- Come, Pitou, come and embrace me.”

Pitou threw himself into the farmer's arms.

“But if you should happen to need me down there -”he began.

“I won't forget you. You needn’t be troubled about that.

“It is now two o'clock,” he added.”At five, I start for Paris. At six, you must be here with the woman you select to assist you.”

“In that case, I 've no time to lose. Good-bye, dear Monsieur Billot.”

“Good-bye, Pitou.”

Pitou hurried off. Billot stood at the window and watched him until he was out of sight.

“Why couldn't my daughter Catherine have fallen in love with a fellow like that, instead of with that villain of a nobleman, who leaves her a widow without being married, a mother without being a wife-”he muttered.

It is needless to say that by six o'clock Pitou, Catherine, and little Isidore were re-installed in the farm-house.

CHAPTER CXXIII. THE NEW ASSEMBLY.

Thk new Legislative Assembly was to convene on October 1, 1791, but Billot, like nearly all the other deputies, arrived in Paris in the latter part of September.

The new Assembly consisted of seven hundred and forty- five members. Among them were four hundred attorneys and solicitors, seventy-two authors, journalists, and poets, and seventy constitutionalist priests; that is, priests who had taken the oath to support the Constitution. The two hundred and three remaining members were either landowners, or farmers like Billot, or men engaged in mechanical pursuits.

The most noteworthy characteristic of these new deputies was their youthfulness, most of them being not more than twenty-six years of age. Nearly all were well educated persons; the majority of them being poets, lawyers, and writers, as we have said before. They were full of energy, too, and possessed plenty of verve, and the courage of their convictions; but they were inexperienced, and knew little or nothing about affairs of State. Though they unquestionably possessed plenty of the material from which excellent debaters and fighters are made, they evidently brought with them much of that great, but terrible element we call the unknown.

Now the unknown in politics is always a cause for grave anxiety. Condorcet and Brissot excepted, the same question might be asked concerning every one of these men: Who and what is he-

Where were the great or even the lesser lights of the Constitutional Assembly, — the Mirabeaus, the Sieyes, the Duports, the Baillys, the Robespierres, the Barnaves- All had vanished.

Here and there one saw a gray head; but all the others were representatives of a new and virile France, — a black- haired France. Fine heads these to cut off during a Revolution; and nearly all met with this fate.

Within the kingdom, there were strong symptoms of a civil war; outside, there were rumours of foreign wars. Consequently these young men were not merely deputies, but fighters as well. The Gironde, a department which offered to send all its men between the ages of twenty and fifty to the frontier in case of war, sent a sort of advance guard to the Assembly, in the persons of Vergniaud, Guadet, Gensonne', Fonfrede, and Ducos, — a coterie which was soon known as the Girondists; and which subsequently gave its name to the party which, in spite of its many faults, has always received boundless sympathy, on account of its great misfortunes.

The mere sight of these deputies rushing tumultuously to their seats was sufficient indication of the tempests that were to burst forth on June 20th, August 10th, and January 21st.

A part of the benches were no longer known as the Bight. In other words, there were no more aristocrats. The entire Assembly was arrayed against two enemies, — the nobility and the priesthood. If these enemies offered any determined resistance, the deputies were instructed by their constituents to overcome this resistance.

As for the king, the deputies were to deal with him as they saw fit. He was an object of general pity, and people Loped, he would escape from the evil influence of the queen, the aristocracy, and the clergy. If he sustained them, he must be crushed with them.

Poor monarch! He was no longer to be called King, or Louis XVI., or even his Majesty, but simply the Chief Executive.

The first thing these deputies did on entering the hall was to look around them. On each side they saw a private gallery.

“For whom are those seats reserved-” demanded several voices.

“For the outgoing deputies,” replied the architect.

“Ah, ha, that means a censorial committee,” growled Vergniaud.”Is this the legislative hall of the representatives of the nation, or a schoolroom-”

“Let us wait and see how they behave before we turn them out,” cried He'rault de Se'chelles.

“Usher!” shouted Thuriot,”you can tell those persons as they come in that there is a man in this Assembly who had the governor of the Bastille hurled from his own walls, and that the name of this man is Thuriot.”

Eighteen months afterwards this man styled himself:”Tue-roi” (king-killer).

The first act of the new Assembly was to send a deputation to the Tuileries.

The king committed the terrible blunder of receiving the delegation by proxy, — or rather through one of his ministers, who said,”Gentlemen, it is impossible for the king to see you just at this time. Return at three o'clock.”

The delegates returned to the Assembly. Seeing them re- enter the hall, the other members were greatly surprised.

“The king is not quite ready to see us, citizens,” explained one of the delegates.”We have three hours to wait.”

“Good!” cried Couthon,”let us make the best possible use of those three hours. I move that the title of Majesty be suppressed.”

This motion was enthusiastically received. The title of Majesty was suppressed by acclamation, without any demand for a more decisive vote.

“What shall the Chief Executive be called-” asked another voice.

“Let him be called the King of the French,” answered another voice.”Monsieur Capet ought to be contented with a fine title like that.”

Every eye was turned upon the man who dared to call the King of France Monsieur Capet. It was Billot.

“Let it be King of the French,” was the almost unanimous cry.

“Look here!” cried Couthon,”we have two hours left. I have another proposition to make to you. I move that we rise when the king comes in, but that we sit down again and put on our hats when he is seated.”

There was a frightful hubbub for several minutes. The shouts of approval were so boisterous that they were very naturally mistaken for cries of opposition. At last, when the commotion subsided, it was discovered that everybody approved; so that motion, too, was adopted.

Couthon glanced at the clock.”We have still another hour yet,” he said,”so I’ll make another motion. I move that there be no throne for the king, but merely an arm-chair.”

Loud applause interrupted the speaker.

“Wait, wait,” said Couthon, raising his hand.”I haven't finished yet.”

Order was instantly restored.

“I move, too, that the king's arm-chair be placed on the President's left hand.”

“Take care,” called out a voice.”This motion not only abolishes the throne, but gives the king a subordinate position.”

“Very well,” said Couthon;”then I move that we not only abolish the throne, but give the king a subordinate position.”

This motion, too, was received with the wildest applause. The terrible spirit of June 20th and August 10th was apparent in that frenzied hand-clapping.

“Very well, citizens,” said Couthon,”the three hours have slipped away. I am much obliged to the King of the French for having kept us waiting. The time has not been wasted, by any means.”

The delegation returned to the Tuileries. The king received them in person this time, but the fatal step had been taken.

“I cannot go to the Assembly for three days, gentlemen,” said the king.

The delegates glanced at each other, and then said: -

“That, sire, will be on the fourth.”

“Yes, gentlemen, on the fourth,” replied the king, turning his back on them.

On the fourth the king said he was not well. He did not go until the seventh.

The absence of the king on the fourth did not prevent the Constitution of 1791 — that is to say the most important achievement of the former Assembly — from being received with due honours by the new legislative body.

It was attended by an escort consisting of a dozen of the oldest members of the Constitutional Assembly, and borne aloft in triumph by Camus the recorder, who mounted the platform and proudly exhibited it to the assemblage.

“Citizens, here are the tables of the law!” he exclaimed, like another Moses.

Then the ceremony of taking the oath began. All the deputies filed by, sullen and cold in manner. Many of them foresaw that these wholly inadequate provisions would not last a year; but they swore to support it, because it was a form that had been imposed upon them. At least three-fourths of those who took the oath had no intention of keeping it.

The initiatory proceedings of the Assembly were soon known throughout the city.”No more titles of majesty! No more thrones! A plain arm-chair at the president's left hand for the king!” All of which was equivalent to saying,”No more kings!”

As usual, men of finance were the first to take alarm. Government bonds depreciated greatly in value. Bankers began to tremble.

On the ninth of October another important change was made. By the terms of the new law there was no longer to be one commander of the National Guard. On the ninth, Lafayette was to resign his position, and each of the chiefs of the six legions was to act as commander in turn.

The day for the king's visit came.

Despite all the apparent opposition, a visit from royalty was still considered so great an honour that when the king entered, the deputies not only rose and removed their hats, but even greeted the monarch with loud applause. Cries of”Long live the king!”resounded on every side.

But simultaneously, as if the royalists present were resolved to defy the new deputies, some persons in the galleries cried out: -

“Long live his Majesty!”

It was evident that these cries came chiefly from the seats reserved for the members of the former Assembly.

“All right, gentlemen, we'll attend to your case tomorrow,” growled Couthon.

The king began his speech, and every one listened with close attention. The address, composed by Duport du Tertre, was a very able production, and was devoted chiefly to urging the necessity of maintaining order and rallying to the defence of a beloved country. It produced an excellent effect.

Pastorel was presiding over the Assembly, and Pastorel was a royalist.

In his speech the king had remarked that he wished to be loved.

“We too, sire,” the president replied,”wish to be loved, and by you.”

This response elicited general applause.

The king, in his address, seemed to take it for granted that the Revolution was over. At that time the Assembly was apparently of the same opinion. The good impression made upon the Assembly extended through the city. That night the king attended the theatre with his children, and was greeted with thunders of applause. Many wept; and the king, too, though not easily moved, shed tears.

That night the king wrote to all the European powers, announcing his acceptance of the Constitution of 1791. It will be remembered that once before, in a moment of enthusiasm, he had sworn to support this same Constitution, even before it was completed.

The next day Couthon made good his promise to the members of the Constitutional Assembly. He announced that he had a motion to make. Everybody knew the nature of Couthon's motion, so everybody listened eagerly.

“Citizens,” said Couthon,”I move that all privileges be abolished in this Assembly, and that consequently all the galleries shall henceforth be open to the public.”

This motion was carried unanimously.

The next day the populace invaded the tribunes heretofore reserved for the former deputies, and the ghost of the Constitutional Assembly faded away for ever.

CHAPTER CXXIV. AT HOME AND ABROAD.

As we have previously remarked, the new Assembly had been specially instructed to wage a vigorous warfare on thp clergy and nobility.

It was a genuine crusade, only the banners bore the motto,”The people so decree,” instead of”God so decrees.”

On October 9th a report on the religious dissensions in the Vende'e was read by Gallois and Gensonne. It was an able document, very liberal in its tone, and consequently made a deep impression.

We shall soon make the acquaintance of the clever and astute politician who prepared nearly all, if not all, of this report.

The Assembly displayed a very laudable spirit of toleration. Fauchet, one of the members, merely asked that the state should cease to pay such priests as avowed their unwillingness to obey the voice of the nation, though pensions might be paid to aged and infirm priests, even though they continued refractory.

Ducos went even farther, and insisted that priests should be left entirely free to take the oath or not, as they pleased.

The kind-hearted constitutionalist bishop, Torne, went farther still, and declared that this very refusal on their part was a proof of their honesty and disinterestedness.

We shall see presently how much the fanatics at Avignon appreciated this forbearance.

Before this discussion was really ended, the question of emigration, or rather refugeeism, was taken up by Brissot. The stand he took was both liberal and humane. He asked that a distinction should be made between those who left their country from a sense of fear, and those who left it on account of political animosity. For the former he asked indulgence, for the latter severity. In his opinion it was not expedient to endeavour to compel citizens to remain in the kingdom; on the contrary, he thought it advisable to leave every door open for their departure.! Nor did he advocate the confiscation of estates, even when these estates belonged to avowed enemies of progressive principles. He only demanded that no money should be pald to persons who had taken up arms against France.

Indeed, it was a remarkable fact that France continued to pay foreigners for the assistance rendered to Conde, Lambesc, and Charles de Lorraine.

We shall soon see how much these refugees deserved this leniency.

Just as Fauchet concluded his speech, important news was received from Avignon. As Brissot concluded his speech, equally important intelligence was received from various European countries. Then the lurid light of a great conflagration reddened the western horizon. This was the news from the West Indies.

Let us begin with the dissensions in Avignon, and briefly relate the history of this second Rome.

Benedict XI. died in 1304 in a mysterious manner. Rumour said he had been poisoned by some figs he had eaten. Philip IV., also known as Philip The Fair, was king of France at the time.

Not many years before, when Boniface VIII. was Pope, Philip the Fair had grossly insulted him through Prince Colonna, who was the friend and ally of France; and in retaliation, Boniface had excommunicated Philip. Now that a new Pope was to be chosen, Philip the Fair kept his eye fixed upon Perugia, where the electoral college was to convene.

For a long time Philip had been very anxious to take

the pontificate away from Rome and establish it in France. One day a messenger arrived at Philip's court, covered with dust and almost speechless from fatigue. He came to tell the king that the French and anti-French factions were so equally balanced in the electoral conclave that no decision could be reached by ballot, and that there was talk of convening another electoral college in some other city.

This suggestion did not please the Perugians, who were anxious for the election to take place in their town; so they resorted to the ingenious device of stationing a guard around the building, so that no food or drink could be con- veyed to the cardinals who composed the conclave. The cardinals protested vehemently.

“Elect a Pope, and you shall then have all you want to eat and drink,” responded the Perugians.

The cardinals held out twenty-four hours. At the end of that time they decided upon this plan. The anti- French faction was to select three cardinals, and from these three candidates the French party was to choose a Pope.

The anti-French party selected three openly avowed enemies of Philip the Fair; but one of them was Bertrand de Got, Archbishop of Bordeaux, who was known to be even more friendly to his own interests than he was hostile to Philip the Fair.

There was no time to lose, Bertrand de Got must be secured immediately; so Philip despatched a messenger requesting the archbishop to meet the king in the forest of Andelys.

To quiet the archbishop's suspicions, perhaps, the interview began with the celebration of mass. When the moment came for the elevation of the Host, the king and prelate took an oath of secrecy. Then the candles were extinguished, and all the other participants withdrew, leaving the monarch and the archbishop alone together. Who told Villani what we are about to relate- Satan, perhaps, who certainly must have been present at the interview.

“I can make you Pope if I choose,” said Philip the Fair;”and that is why I sought this conference.”

“What proof can you furnish of the truth of your assertion-”

“This,” replied Philip, exhibiting a letter from the cardinals of his own party, in which, instead of announcing their own preference, they asked which of the three candidates the king desired them to vote for.

“What must I do to be elected Pope-” inquired the Gascon, overcome with joy, and throwing himself at Philip's feet.

“Swear to grant me the six favours I shall ask of you.”

“Speak, sire,” replied Bertrand de Got.”I am your subject, and it is my duty to obey you.”

The king lifted him up, kissed him on the lips, and said: -

“The six special favours I ask of you are as follows.”

Bertrand listened with all his ears, for he feared, not that the king would demand anything that would endanger his — Bertrand's — salvation, but something it was not in his power to grant.

“The first,” said Philip,”is that you admit me into the Church again, and that my offence against Boniface VIII. at Anagni be forgiven.”

“Granted,” answered Bertrand de Got, promptly.

“Secondly, that the sacred communion be again administered to me and my family.”

“Agreed,” responded Bertrand, surprised that such trivial rewards should be exacted of him in return for so superb a gift as the papal tiara. Still, there were four other demands yet to come.

“Third, the tithes of the clergy in my kingdom must be given to the Crown, for the next five years, to defray the cost of the war with Flanders.”

“Granted.”

“The fourth favour is that the bull issued 'by Boniface, and called Ana- «lt,i jUi. shall be annulled.”

“Granted! granted!”

“The fifth is that Marco Jacopo, Pietro di Colonna, and a few other particular friends of mine shall be made cardinals.”

“Granted! granted! granted!”

Then, as Philip said nothing, the archbishop asked anxiously: -

“And what is the sixth favour, your Majesty-”

“The sixth I shall reserve for another time and place; for it is something of great importance, and must also be kept a profound secret.”

“Important and secret-” repeated Bertrand.

“So much so that I want you to swear it in advance on the crucifix,”replied the king, drawing one from his breast, and presenting it to the archbishop.

The latter did not hesitate an instant. This was the last ditch to be crossed. Once over it, he would be Pope.

So he placed his hand on the image of the Saviour, and said in a firm voice,”I swear.”

“It is well,” said the king.”Now, in what city of my kingdom do you wish to be crowned-”

“In Lyons.”

“Then come with me. You are Pope, under the title of Clement V.”

Clement V. followed Philip the Fair, but he felt a little uneasy about the sixth demand his lord and master was holding in reserve; but when the demand was made, he considered it a very trivial matter, and did not make the slightest objection to granting it. This favour was the abolition of the Order of Knights Templar.

Doubtless all this was not quite after God's own heart, for He manifested His dissatisfaction in a most decided way.

As the procession passed a wall crowded with spectators, on leaving the church after the new Pope's coronation, the wall gave way, injuring the king, killing the Duke of Brittany, and knocking the Pope down. His triple crown fell off, and this symbol of papal supremacy rolled in the dirt.

A week later, at a banquet given by the new pontiff, some of his servants got to quarrelling with the attendants of some of the cardinals. The Pope's brother tried to separate them, and was killed.

These were bad omens, and to these bad omens was added a bad example. The Pope fleeced the Church, but a woman fleeced the Pope. This woman was the beautiful Brunessande, who cost Christendom far more than the conquest of the Holy Land had done, if we can believe the chroniclers of the day.

Meanwhile the Pope made his promises good one by one. The pontiff Philip had created was a pontiff after Philip's own heart, -a sort of hen with golden eggs, which the monarch compelled to lay both morning and night by threatening to cut her open if she did not meet his requirements.

Every day, like Shylock in the”Merchant of Venice,” he exacted a pound of flesh from his debtor, according to the bond.

Boniface VIII. was declared a heretic and a false Pope, and King Philip was relieved from the ban of excommunication. The clerical tithes were paid over to the Crown for five years. Twelve devoted adherents of Philip the Fair were made cardinals. The Order of Knights Templar was abolished, and the members thrown into prison.

These things having been satisfactorily accomplished, on the first of May, 1308, Albert of Austria died, and Philip the Fair conceived the idea of having his brother, Charles of Valois, elected Emperor, and it was Clement V. who was expected to bring this about; for the bondage of the pontiff continued. Bertrand de Got's wretched soul, saddled and bridled, was being ridden straight to perdition by the king of France.

But at last he mustered up courage to throw his dread rider; for though he wrote urging the claims of Charles of Valois to the imperial crown, he did everything he could in secret to circumvent him. He fully realised the necessity of getting out of France as soon as possible, feeling that his life was in all the more danger in Philip's territory from the fact that the election of the twelve new cardinals placed the election of the next Pope entirely in Philip's hands. Clement V. remembered the tigs eaten by Boniface VIII.

He was at Poitiers, and he managed to make his escape in the night and reach Avignon. To explain exactly what Avignon was, is no easy matter. It was France, and yet it was not France. It was in France, and yet not of it. It was a sort of frontier, a neutral realm, a city of refuge. It was an ancient principality, a republic like San Marino, only it was ruled by two kings, -the King of Naples as Count of Provence, and the King of France as Count of Toulouse. Each of these rulers exercised control over one half of Avignon; yet neither ruler could arrest a fugitive on soil controlled by the other.

Clement V. naturally took refuge in the territory belonging to the King of Naples; but in escaping from the clutches of Philip the Fair, he did not escape the curse of the Grand Master of Templars.

When Jacques de Molay ascended the funeral pyre erected for him in Paris, he adjured his two murderers, Philip the Fair and Bertrand, to meet him before the judgment seat within a year.

Clement was the first to obey the summons. One night he dreamed he saw his palace in flames; and”after that,” his biographer states,”his spirits became depressed, and he did not last very long.”

Seven months later it was Philip's turn. What was the manner of his death-

There are two conflicting accounts, but both make it appear like the work of God's avenging hand.

The Chronicle, translated by Sauvage, states that he died in the chase.

“The king saw a deer coming towards him, and drew his sword, at the same time pricking his horse with the spur; but instead of striking the deer, as he intended, he was carried by his steed straight against a tree with such violence that he fell to the earth, mortally wounded in the heart, and was straightway taken to CorbeiL”

On the other hand, Guillaume de Nangis thus describes the death of the conqueror of Mons en Puelle: -

“Philip of France had been long afflicted with a malady whose cause, unknown to his physicians, was a source of bewilderment and perplexity to them and to many others, though there was nothing to indicate the near approach of death.

“At last, at his own request, he was transported to Fontainebleau, his birthplace, where, after receiving the holy sacrament with great fervour and reverence, he cheerfully surrendered his soul to his Maker on the eve of the Feast of St. Andrew, and in the thirtieth year of his reign.”

But it was not until Dante's time that a fitting death was found for this man. According to that poet, Philip was disembowelled by a wild boar: -

“He perished by a boar's tusk, this robber we have seen making counterfeit money on the banks of the Seine.”

The Popes who subsequently resided at Avignon — viz., John XXII., Benedict XII., and Clement VI.-were all anxious bo purchase Avignon, and at last an opportunity presented itself.

A young girl in her minority, Jeanne of Naples, did not exactly sell Avignon to the pontificate, but relinquished it in return for the papal absolution granted to her lovers for a murder they had committed.

When she attained her majority, she endeavored to reclaim the territory; but Clement VI. held fast to it, and with such success that when Gregory XI. restored the seat of the Holy See to Rome, Avignon was still governed by a papal legate.

This was the condition of affairs in 1791, when the events occurred which render it necessary for us to make this long digression. As at the time when Avignon was divided between the King of Naples as Count of Provence and the King of France as Count of Toulouse, so in 1791 there were two Avignons in Avignon, — the priestly Avignon and the commercial Avignon.

In the priestly Avignon there were one hundred churches, two hundred cloisters, and a papal palace; the commercial Avignon had its river, the Rhone, many silk factories, and its two great highways, one running east and west from Nimes to Turin, the other running nortL and south from Lyons to Marseilles. There were also two kinds of French people in this unfortunate town,- the king's French people and the Pope's French people. The French Frenchmen — that is to say, the tradespeople and mechanics — had to devote their entire attention to business, and work hard to maintain themselves and their families. The Italian French — that is to say, the ecclesiastical element — possessed all the wealth and power. There were bishops, archbishops, and cardinals, — audacious, elegant, immoral men, who lorded it over the women of the lower classes, who knelt to kiss their white hands as they passed.

Would you see a type of this kind of priest- Take the handsome Abbe' Maury. He was a Franco-Italian of this class, if there ever was one. He was the son of a shoemaker; but he was as much of an aristocrat as Lauzun, as haughty as Clermont-Tonnerre, and as insolent as any lackey.

As a general thing, children love the other children who are growing up around them. It is natural for them to do this, at least until their prejudices and passions are developed,- that is to say, until they become adults; but in Avignon, on the contrary, the children seemed to be born with hatred in their souls.

On September 14, 1791, a royal decree united, or rather reunited, Avignon and the entire county of Venaisiu to the kingdom of France. During the previous year, Avignon had been sometimes in the hands of the French party, and sometimes in the hands of the anti-French party.

In 1790 the tempest burst forth. One night the papists amused themselves by hanging an effigy adorned with red, white, and blue, — the colours of the Revolutionists. All Avignon was in the wildest commotion the next morning, and the patriots were resolved to be avenged. Four papists who were suspected of having a hand in the affair were dragged from their homes and hanged in the same place where the effigy had dangled.

The French party had for its leaders Duprat and Main- vielle, two young men, and an older man named Lescuyer.

Lescuyer was a true Frenchman in every sense of the word. He was a native of Picardy, and an ardent though thoughtful man. These three men raised a small force, and started on an expedition against Carpentras, — an expedition which proved a failure, as a storm of rain and sleet scattered their forces, as the tempest scattered the Invincible Armada which Philip II. of Spain sentagainst England.

Who caused this miraculous storm- The Virgin, of course.

But Duprat, Mainvielle, and Lescuyer so strongly suspected a Catalan named Patus, whom they had made a general, of having aided the Madonna in her efforts that they gave him most of the credit for the so-called miracle. In Avignon treachery is promptly punished; the traitor is put to death.

Patus was killed.

The army of the French party consisted for the most part of peasants, labourers, and deserters. They looked about in search of a man of the people to command these men of the people, and believed they had found the person they needed in one Mathieu Jouve, who preferred to be called Jourdan. He was born in St. Just, near the town of Puy in Velay, and had been first a muleteer, then a soldier, and subsequently a saloon-keeper in Paris.

He boasted of the number of murders and of crimes that he had committed. He displayed a huge sabre, with which he declared that he had cut off the head of the governor of the Bastille the year before, as well as the heads of two of the royal bodyguard at Versailles on the sixth of October.

Half in mockery, half in fear, the people added the surname of Headsman to the name of Jourdan, which he claimed. Duprat, Mainvielle, Lescuyer, and their general, Jourdan, the Headsman, retained control of the city for some time; but finally a conspiracy was formed against them,-a far-reaching and cunning conspiracy, like all priestly conspiracies. Religions fanaticism must be aroused, to insure success. The wife of a French patriot gave birth to an infant without arms. It was rumoured that the father had broken off the arm of a silver angel he was stealing from a church; and this armless child was, consequently, nothing more or less than a token of the just wrath of Heaven. The father was obliged to flee, or the people would have cut him to pieces, without even stopping to ask what church the angel had been stolen from.

It was the Madonna that protected the royalists every- where, whether they were the Chouans — as they styled themselves — in Brittany or the papists in Avignon.

In 1789 the Virgin in a church on the Rue du Bac began to weep.

In 1790 she appeared behind an old oak-tree in a thicket in the Vendee.

In 1791 she scattered the little army of Duprat and Mainvielle by hurling sleet in their faces.

And lastly, in the church of the Cordeliers, she began to blush — with shame, doubtless — at the indifference of the people of Avignon.

Public excitement had been raised to a high pitch by these miracles, when a report of an entirely different character was circulated through the city.

A large chest had been taken out of the town. The next day it was not one chest, but six. By the day following it was reported that eighteen chests had been carried off.

What did these chests contain- The pledges belonging in the Mont-de-Pie'te', or government pawnshop. A porter betrayed the secret that the French party intended to leave Avignon, and had planned to take all this valuable property with them.

This news excited a frightful tempest of wrath; for everybody — outside of the ecclesiastical party — was so poor in Avignon that almost every family had some article on pledge in the great pawnshop. However small the amount at stake, each person considered himself ruined. The rich are ruined by the loss of a million; the poor, by the loss of a few rags. Everything is comparative.

This outbreak occurred on the 16th of October, 1791. As it was a Sunday morning, the peasants from the surrounding country had come to the city to attend mass. In those days everybody went armed, so all were ready for a fight. The moment was well chosen.

The game, moreover, had been so cleverly played that it was no longer merely a quarrel between the French and anti-French factions. Public indignation was aroused against a pack of infamous robbers, — robbers guilty of the unpardonable crime of stealing from the poor. The mob rushed to the Cordeliers' church, and demanded that the municipal officers render an account through their agent, Lescuyer.

Why did the wrath of the populace vent itself upon Lescuyer- Nobody knows. But when a life is to be sacrificed, the selection always seems due to the merest chance.

Lescuyer was dragged into the church. He had been seeking a refuge at the town-hall, when he was recognised and arrested, — no, not arrested, but driven to the church with cuffs and kicks and blows.

Once inside the edifice, the unfortunate man, pale, but nevertheless calm and collected, mounted a chair and endeavoured to justify himself. One would suppose he had hut to say,”Open the storehouse, and you will see that all the articles we are accused of having taken away are still there.”

On the contrary, he began by saying: -

“My brethren, I consider the Revolution necessary, and have consequently done everything in my power to aid it -”

But he was not allowed to proceed any further. That terrible zou-zou — that famous Avignon cry, heard in every outbreak, something between the roar of a tiger and the hiss of a serpent — interrupted him. A man sprang up behind him and knocked him down into the crowd. He was seized, and dragged to the altar. It was there the Revolutionist must be butchered, in order that the sacrifice might be acceptable to the Madonna, in whose name all this was done. In the chancel he escaped from the hands of the assassins, and took refuge in one of the stalls.

Unexpected aid afforded him a short respite. A Breton gentleman who was on his way to Marseilles, and who happened to enter the church, was seized with compassion for the poor victim. With all the courage and audacity of a true Breton, he endeavoured to protect Lescuyer. Two or three times he dashed aside the knives and clubs raised to strike Lescuyer, and called out,”Gentlemen, desist, in the name of the law! in the name of honour! in the name of humanity!”

The knives and clubs were then turned upon the Breton himself; nevertheless, he still shielded poor Lescuyer with his body, and shouted,”Desist, gentlemen; in the name of humanity, desist!”

At last the mob, tired of being kept from its prey so long, seized the gentleman, with the intention of hanging him first; but some men rescued the stranger and shouted,”Let us finish Lescuyer first. We can attend to this man afterwards!”

The rabble seemed impressed by this reasoning, and let the Breton go, after which his defenders compelled him to flee. This brave Breton's name was Monsieur de Rosely.

In the midst of this tumult, Lescuyer caught sight of a small door behind the altar. If he could reach this door, he might make his escape, after all. He darted towards it, at a moment when everybody supposed him overwhelmed with terror.

This unexpected movement on his part took everybody so by surprise that he almost reached the door; but at the very foot of the altar a man dealt him such a terrible blow with a club that the club was broken in two. Lescuyer fell stunned, fell just where they wanted him to fall, — at the foot of the altar.

Then the women, as if to punish the lips which had uttered those blasphemous cheers for Liberty, cut his lips into shreds, and the men stoned him, and danced on his body. With his bleeding lips Lescuyer cried: -

“Have mercy, my brothers! Have mercy, my sisters! In the name of humanity, let me die!”

But this was asking too much; for his torturers were resolved he should live on in agony.

This lasted until evening. For five hours the mangled victim lay there in torture at the foot of the altar.

This was the news that reached the Legislative Assembly, as if in answer to Fauchet's philanthropic speech.

It is true that very different news came the next day, however.

Duprat and Jourclan were notified; but for some time they could devise no way of assembling their scattered forces. At last the idea of sounding an alarm on the famous silver bell which is rung only on two great occasions, — the consecration of a Pope, and his death, — occurred to them.

It gave forth a strange, mysterious sound, rarely heard. This sound produced two very different effects: it froze the hearts of the papists; it imparted courage to the hearts of the revolutionists.

At the Bound of the bell the country people who were in the city fled to their homes. By means of it, Jourdan was able to get about three hundred of his men together. He then took possession of the gates of the city, and left one hundred and fifty men to guard them. With the one hundred and fifty men remaining, he marched to the scene of the disturbance. He had two pieces of artillery, and he brought these to bear upon the crowd, firing and killing at random.

Then he entered the church.

It was deserted; Lescuyer was still groaning at the feet of the Madonna who had wrought so many miracles, but who had not deigned to stretch out her divine hand to rescue this unfortunate man. It seemed as if he could not die. That bleeding mass of flesh clung to life with frightful tenacity.

As they carried him through the streets, people all along the route closed their windows, shouting: -

“I was not at the Cordelier's church.”

Jourdan with his handful of men could have destroyed all Avignon with its thirty thousand inhabitants, so great was the terror that prevailed.

They did, on a small scale, what Marat and Panis did in Paris on a large scale on the 2d of September, 1792.

Presently the reader will see why we say Marat and Panis instead of Marat and Danton.

Jourdan and his men drove more than a hundred unfortunates into the pontifical oubliettes in the Glacier Tower, the Trouillas Tower, as it is called down there.

This was the news that reached Paris on the following day, and caused Lescuyer's death to be forgotten in the horrors of such an awful revenge.

As for the emigres whom Brissot had defended so generously, let us see how they were employing themselves in foreign lands.

They had reconciled Prussia with Austria, and converted these born enemies into friends.

They persuaded Russia to forbid the French ambassador to show himself in the streets of St. Petersburg, and to send a minister to the refugees at Coblentz.

They compelled Berne to punish an old Swiss for sing, ing the Qa ira.

They persuaded Geneva, the birthplace of Rousseau, who had taken such an active part in bringing about the Revolution, to turn its cannon upon us.

They persuaded the Bishop of Liege to refuse to receive the French ambassador.

All this was the work of the royalist emigres; but the different foreign governments did many things to injure France of their own accord.

Russia and Sweden returned to Louis XVI., with its seal unbroken, the despatch in which he announced his formal acceptance of the Constitution.

Spain, too, refused to receive it, and delivered into the hands of the Inquisition a French Revolutionist, who escaped a death of frightful torture only by committing suicide.

Venice threw into St. Mark's Square at night a man strangled by order of the Council of Ten, with this scroll upon his breast: -

“Strangled as a Freemason.”

The Emperor of Germany and the King of Prussia responded to the French monarch's notification, but they responded with a threat.

We trust this may serve as a warning as to the necessity of preventing the renewal of a state of things which leads to such deplorable results.

In the Vende'e a fierce civil war was raging; for the Vendeans, devoted adherents of the old regime, had taken up arms against the revolutionary government, and were ably seconded in their resistance by the Chouans, who were smugglers or royalists as best served their purpose.

Almost simultaneously from an island on the opposite side of the Atlantic came the despairing shrieks of a people that were being ruthlessly slaughtered; for the San Domingo negroes were taking a bloody revenge upon their masters.

How had this state of things been brought about-

The new Constitution had promised freedom to the negroes. Oge', a young mulatto, re-crossed the seas, taking a copy of the emancipation decree with him. Although the official notice of this decree had not yet been sent to the West Indies, Oge', in his haste for freedom, insisted that the governor proclaim liberty to the oppressed without delay.

The governor ordered Oge''s arrest, and Oge' sought a refuge in that part of the island belonging to Spain.

The Spanish authorities-we know how Spain felt towards the lie volution — the Spanish authorities surrendered him, and he was broken alive on the wheel.

A reign of terror followed. The whites fearing that Oge ' had numerous accomplices on the island, the planters constituted themselves judges, and executions followed thick and fast.

One night sixty thousand negroes rose in open revolt. The whites were awakened by an immense conflagration sweeping over their plantations. A week later the fire was quenched in blood.

France, poor salamander, thus encircled with fire, what will she do-

We shall see.

CHAPTER CXXV. WAR.

In his eloquent and forcible speech upon the imigrfs, Brissot had clearly demonstrated the intentions of the various European sovereigns, as well as the fate they were holding in reserve for the French Revolution.

After depicting the attitude of these monarchs, — some of whom were already standing sword in hand, flinging their banners of hatred to the breeze, some of whom were hiding their faces in a mantle of hypocrisy until they felt justified in casting it aside, -Brissot exclaimed: -

“Well, so be itl We not only accept the challenge of monarchical Europe, but we anticipate it. Do not let us wait until we are attacked. Let us make the attack ourselves!”

Deafening applause greeted these words; for they expressed the sentiments of thirty millions of people, who had not yet spoken their minds plainly, perhaps, but who were none the less fully agreed on this subject. And when these words met with such unanimous assent, France was not only able to make the attack, but to conquer. The various details alone remained to be considered.

Our readers have probably discovered before now that this is a historical work, rather than a romance; and as we shall probably never recur again to this famous epoch, we ought to briefly explain the events of the epoch, though we must pass over the minor occurrences as rapidly as possible, in order to reach those in which the chief personages in our story are specially interested.

The news of the events in the Vendee, of the massacre at Avignon, and of the insults from the different European powers, struck the Legislative Assembly like so many thunderbolts.

On the 20th of October, Brissot merely advocated a slight tax on the property of refugees; but on the 25th the aspect of affairs had undergone such a decided change that Condorcet urged the confiscation of their estates, as well as the exaction of the civil oath. Think of requiring such an oath of men living outside the limits of France, and in arms against her!

This debate brought prominently to the front two new deputies, one of whom was destined to become the Mirabeau of this new Assembly, the other its Barnave. These two men were Vergniaud and Isnard.

A native of Limoges, Vergniaud was mild, tolerant, and affectionate, rather than impassioned. He had held several important positions at Bordeaux. His speeches were much less acrid and powerful than Mirabeau's; but, though rather overweighted with mythological allusions, they were much less prolix, and indicated a less partisan spirit than Barnave's.

One of the strongest characteristics of his eloquence was the humane tone that pervaded his every utterance. In the most heated debates only words of toleration and compassion were heard from his lips. The leader of a boisterous, contentious party, he was always more than equal to the situation. His enemies called him undecided, and even indolent, and asked where his mind was, as it seemed to be ever absent. They were right, for his thoughts and his heart were ever with the beautiful, the good, and the charming Candeille.

Isnard was the direct opposite of Vergniaud. Born at Grasse, he had the rash and choleric temperament of the Mistral, which in the same breath uproots the rocks and caresses the roses.

His voice, never heard before, burst upon the Assembly like one of those tremendous thunder-claps that herald the first storms of summer; and the most indifferent among his auditors trembled like Samuel when he heard the voice of Jehovah, and like him was ready to exclaim, -

“Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth.”

Presently some one interrupted him.

“I ask the Assembly,” he replied,”I ask France, I ask the world, I ask you, monsieur,” pointing to the member who had just spoken, -”I ask if there is any one who, in the depths of his inmost heart, believes that the emigrant princes are not conspiring against their native land. And in the second place, I wish to ask if there is any one in this Assembly who dares to assert that the man who conspires against his country ought not to be promptly arrested, tried, and punished. If there be such a one, let him stand forth.”

Then, after an impressive pause, he continued: -

“We are told that it is one of the chief duties of power to be lenient; but I say unto you, Be on your guard. Despotism and monarchism are neither asleep nor dead. If the nation slumbers for an instant, it will wake to find itself in chains. The most unpardonable of crimes is that which aims to restore men to bondage. If the lightnings of Heaven were at man's disposal, they should certainly be used to strike down the destroyers of popular liberty.”

It was the first time such words had ever been uttered within these walls. Isnard's impassioned eloquence carried everything before it, as the Alpine avalanche sweeps trees and herds and shepherds and houses along in its downward course; and before the session ended, the following decree was passed: -

“If Lonis Stanislaus Xavier, the French prince, does not return within two months, he forfeits his right to the regency.”

On November 8th: -

“Snch refugees as do not return by January 1, 1792, will be declared guilty of conspiracy, and will be liable to arrest and to punishment by death.”

On November 29th it was the priests' turn: -

“The civil oath must be taken before the expiration of eight days.

“Those who refuse to take this oath will be suspected of rebellious tendencies, and subjected to the surveillance of the authorities.

“If they reside in a community subject to religious dissensions, the directory of the department may cause their removal. If they refuse to obey, they shall be imprisoned for at least one year. If they incite others to disobey, they shall be imprisoned for two years.

“If an armed force is necessary for the maintenance of order in any community, that community must defray the expense thereof.

“Churches shall be used only for the forms of worship approved by the state. Churches not needed for this purpose tnay be sold for other religious purposes, but not to persons who refuse to take the oath of allegiance to the Constitution.”

A protest against these edicts was prepared by the Feuillant Club, and signed by the directory of Paris, in which Louis XVI. was urgently requested to veto the decree concerning the priesthood.

It will be remembered that the Constitution endowed the king with this right of veto.

Who signed this protest- The very man who had been the first to attack the clergy, — the Mephistopheles who with his club-foot had broken the ice, Talleyrand. The strong probability of a royal veto was soon announced. The Cordeliers consequently insisted that Camille Des- moulins- that free lance of the Revolution — should prepare a petition; but as he was likely to stutter when he attempted to speak, he asked Fauchet to read it for him.

Fauchet consented, and the document was enthusiastically applauded from beginning to end. He said: -

“We cannot complain either of the Constitution for giving the king the right of veto, or of the king for availing himself of that right; for we recollect the saying of the great Machiavelli: ' Even if a prince ought to renounce his sovereignty, the nation would be cruel and unjust to blame him for refusing to obey the popular will, inasmuch as it is contrary to nature for a man to voluntarily descend from a high position.'

Impressed with this truth, and following the example of God Himself, who requires nothing that is impossible of us, we should not exact of our ex-sovereign an impossible desire for popular sovereignty, nor take it amias of him if he affixes his veto to the wisest decrees.”

There was a great commotion that night at the Feuillant Club. Many members of the club, who were also members of the Assembly, had not been present when the decree was passed. The next morning those who had been absent the previous day were in their seats. They numbered two hundred and sixty, and, amid a storm of yells and hisses, the decree of the day before was annulled.

This meant war to the knife between the Assembly and the Feuillants, and caused the Assembly to depend more and more upon the New Jacobins, represented by Robespierre, and the Cordeliers, represented by Danton.

Danton was becoming more and more popular. He loomed up in the path of royalty, a giant Adamastor, and cried:”Beware! the sea you are navigating may well be called a sea of tempests.”

But, strange to say, the queen suddenly allied herself with the Jacobins, against the Feuillants.

The animosities of Marie Antoinette were to the Revolution what squalls are to the Atlantic.

Marie Antoinette hated Lafayette,- Lafayette, who had saved the royal family at Versailles on October 5, 1789, and sacrificed his popularity for the sake of the court by firing on the populace on July 17, 1791.

Lafayette wished to succeed Bailly as mayor of Paris; but instead of helping Lafayette, the queen urged the royalists to vote for Pe'tion. Marvellous blindness! — in favour of Pe'tion, her rough travelling-companion on the return from Varennes.

On December 19th the king visited the Assembly, to announce his veto of the decree against the priests.

There had been quite an exciting scene at the Jacobin Club the evening before.

A Swiss named Virchaux, from Neuchatel, — the same man who had written the petition for a republic on the Champ de Mars, — offered the society a Damascus sword, to be presented to the first general who should win a victory over the enemies of freedom.

Isnard was present. Drawing the blade from its sheath, he sprang upon the platform, shouting:”Behold the sword of the destroying angel! It will prove victorious! France will lift up her voice, and her people will reply. The earth shall be covered with warriors, and Liberty's enemies shall be blotted from the list of mankind!”

The prophet Ezekiel could not have spoken more impressively or truly.

The sword was not to be returned to its sheath. War was declared almost immediately, both at home and abroad.

The sword of the Neuch amp;tel republican was to smite, first the king of France, and then the kings of other lands.

CHAPTER CXXVI. A MINISTER AFTER MADAME DE STAEL’S OWN HEART.

Gilbert had not seen the queen since the evening she left him to wait for her in her boudoir while she went to listen to the political advice Monsieur de Breteuil had brought from Vienna.

Six months had rolled away since that time, and it was now the winter of 1791-92; but Liberty had not been forgotten, and foreign sovereigns were evidently arranging to fulfil their promises by preparing for war.

Gilbert was much surprised to see one of the royal valets enter his room one morning. He thought at first that the king must be ill, and had sent for him. But the footman reassured him, and told him he was merely wanted at the palace.

He promptly obeyed the summons, and was ushered into a room on the ground floor, where a lady, who was evidently waiting for him, rose upon his entrance.

The lady was Madame Elizabeth, for whom Gilbert, knowing the angelic goodness of her heart, entertained a profound respect.

Gilbert bowed, comprehending the situation almost instantly. The king and queen, not liking to send for him in their own name, had made a convenience of Madame Elizabeth.

“Monsieur Gilbert,” she said,”others may have forgotten the valuable services you. rendered my brother on our return from Versailles two years ago, and my sister on our return from Varennes last summer, but I have not -”

“God has seen fit to endow you with all the virtues, madame,” replied Gilbert,”even that of gratitude,-so rare in these days, especially in monarchs.”

“Surely you are not referring to my brother, Monsieur Gilbert; for he often speaks of you, and attaches great importance to your judgment.”

“As a physician-” inquired Gilbert, smiling.

“Yes, as a physician, monsieur; though he seems to think your experience may be of great service both to the welfare of the king and the welfare of the kingdom.”

“The king is very kind. May I inquire to which patient I am now summoned, madame-”

“It was I who summoned you, not the king,”she replied, blushing a little; for her pure spirit could not brook even the slightest deception.

“You, madame- You need not feel the slightest anxiety about your health, I assure you. Your pallor is due to anxiety and fatigue, not illness.”

“You are right, monsieur. It is not about myself that I worry, but about my brother. I feel very anxious indeed about him.”

“And so do I,” replied Gilbert.

“But our anxiety does not arise from the same source, probably. I am alarmed about his health.”

“Is the king ill-”

“Not ill, exactly, but he is depressed and discouraged. For ten days he has scarcely addressed a remark to any one but me. Even in his favourite game of backgammon he does not utter a word that is not essential to the game.”

“It is exactly eleven clays since he went to the Assembly with that veto,” said Gilbert.”Why did he not become speechless that day, instead of losing his tongue the day afterwards-”

“Did you suppose that my brother would sanction such an impious decree-”

“My opinion is, madame, that to put the king in the same boat with the priesthood, in the face of the rising sea and the impending storm, is merely equivalent to condemning the king and the priesthood to be drowned together.”

“If you were in my brother's place, what would you do-”

“There is a political party which is growing as rapidly as the famous genie we read of in the Arabian Nights. He could be placed in a small casket at first, but an hour afterwards, he had increased in stature a hundredfold.”

“You refer to the Jacobins, I suppose.”

“No, to the Girondists, — so called because their leaders come from the department of France called the Gironde. The Jacobins do not desire war; the Girondists insist upon it, and the people are of the same mind.”

“War- War with whom- With our brother, the Emperor- With our nephew, the King of Spain- Our worst enemies are here in France, monsieur, and the proof of it -”

Madame Elizabeth hesitated.

“Go on, madame.”

“I scarcely know how to tell you, doctor, though it was this that caused me to send for you.”

“You can say anything to me you would say to a man who stands ready to give his life for the king.”

“Monsieur, do you believe there is any antidote for poison-”

“Not a universal antidote, madame. Every poison has its own special antidote, though as a general thing these antidotes prove unavailing.”

“Oh, my God!”

“In the first place, one must know whether the poison is vegetable or mineral in its nature. Mineral poisons usually affect the stomach and other digestive organs, while vegetable poisons affect the nervous system. Mineral poisons excite and inflame the parts they affect; vegetable poisons usually stupefy. To which kind of poison do you allude, madame-”

“Listen, for I am about to tell you a very important secret.”

“I am listening, madame.”

“They are trying to poison the king. You know the superintendent of the Civil List, Monsieur Laporte- Well, Monsieur Laporte has warned us that a man in the royal household, who formerly held the position of pastry cook at the Palais Royal, is a frightful Jacobin, and has been heard to say openly that it would be a fine thing for France if somebody would poison the king.”

“Persons who contemplate such crimes do not generally boast of them in advance, madame.”

“But it would be such an easy matter to poison the kingt Fortunately, the man we distrust has charge of the pastry only.”

“Have you taken any precautions, madame-”

“Yes. The king eats only roasted meats; all our bread is brought from Ville d'Avray by Monsieur Thierry, the assistant steward, who also furnishes the wines. As the king is very fond of pastry, Madame Campan has orders to purchase it, as if for herself, first at this shop, then at that. We have been advised to be specially on our guard, too, against powdered sugar.”

“That is because arsenic can be easily mixed with it without attracting notice.”

“Precisely. The queen was in the habit of sweetening her water with it, but we have discontinued this custom entirely. The king and queen and myself eat together. We dispense with the servants' attendance almost entirely. When we want anything we ring for it. While we are at table, Madame Campan brings in the bread and wine and pastry by a private door. We hide these things under the table, and pretend to drink the wine from our own cellar, and to eat the bread and pastry prepared for us in the palace. That is the way we live, and we are in constant terror all the while — the queen and I — lest we should see the king turn suddenly pale, or hear him say he is in pain.”

“First let me say that I don't place the slightest credence in these threats of poison,” replied the doctor.”Still, I am entirely at their Majesties' disposal. What does the king desire- Would he like me to have a room here in the palace- I could, and so be at hand at any moment until the king's fears -”

“Oh, my brother feels no apprehensions whatever,” interrupted Madame Elizabeth, quickly.

“I should have said until your fears are allayed, madame. I have had a good deal of experience with poisons and their antidotes, and I will hold myself in readiness to tight the poison, whatever its nature may be; but permit me to add that the king, if he chooses, will soon have nothing to fear.”

“And how can that condition of things be brought about-”asked a voice which certainly did not belong to Madame Elizabeth, and whose clear and resonant tones made the doctor start. He was not deceived, — the voice was that of the queen.

“I have heard all,” added her Majesty.”I was anxious to ascertain the state of your feelings towards us, you see.”

“Can your Majesty doubt the sincerity of my attachment-”

“So many heads and hearts have been alienated from us by the reverses we have undergone that one scarcely knows whom to trust.”

“And is it for this reason the queen accepts from the Feuillants a ministry devised by Madame de Stael-”

“You know that-” exclaimed the queen, starting violently.

“I have heard that your Majesty has negotiations pending with Monsieur de Narbonne.”

“And you censure me for it, I suppose.”

“Not at all. You may as well make this experiment as many others. When the king has tried everything else and failed, perhaps he will end by beginning where he ought to have begun in the first place.”

“Are you acquainted with Madame de Stael-”

“I have that honour, madame. When I left the Bastille I was presented to her by Monsieur Necker, her father, from whom I learned that it was at the queen's instigation that I had been arrested.”

The queen coloured perceptibly; then she said, with a smile,”I thought we had agreed never to refer to that mistake.”

“I did not. I merely replied to the question the queen condescended to put to me.”

“What do you think of Monsieur Necker-”

“He is a very worthy man, but a strange compound of the most heterogeneous traits of character, — a person whose eccentricity amounts to positive bombastry at times.”

“But were you not one of those persons who urged the king to take him into the government service again-”

“Merely because Necker, right or wrong, was one of the most popular men in the kingdom, and I wished the king to profit by that popularity.”

“And Madame de Stael-”

“Am I to understand that your Majesty does me the honour to ask my opinion of Madame de Stael-”

“Yes.”

“Well, as to her personal appearance, -she has a large nose, very coarse features, and a big waist -”

The queen smiled; for it was not unpleasant to hear that this woman, whose name was on every lip, was not handsome.

“Go on,” she said.

“Her complexion is only moderately good. Her gestures are spirited rather than graceful. Her voice is coarse and rather guttural. Sometimes one can hardly believe^that it is the voice of a lady. She is about twenty- four or five years of age, and possesses the throat of a goddess, magnificent black hair, superb teeth, and brilliant, speaking eyes.”

“But morally and intellectually-” queried her Majesty, eagerly.

“She is very kind-hearted and generous. No one can remain her enemy after hearing her talk a quarter of an hour.”

“But does she possess as much genius as people say- Politics require something more than heart.”

“Madame, a heart is not a bad thing, even in politics. As for that word 'genius,' which you uttered just now, one should be chary of its use. Madame de Stae'l possesses great talent, but it does not amount to genius. When she attempts to soar, something heavy as well as strong weighs her down. Between her and her teacher, Jean Jacques Rousseau, there is the same difference you notice between iron and steel.”

“You are speaking of her now as a writer, I judge. What do you think of her political shrewdness and sagacity-”

“In my opinion, Madame de Stael's ability in this respect is greatly over-estimated. Since the emigration of Mounier and Lally, her salon has become the headquarters of the English party. As she belongs essentially to the middle class, she has a weakness for aristocrats, and admires the English because she considers them an eminently aristocratic people. She is not familiar with the machinery of the government of England. She does not discriminate between persons who have but recently arisen from the lower classes and noblemen whose titles date back to the time of the Crusades.”

“Do you think it is this weakness that induces Madame de Stafil to urge Narbonne for a prominent place in the cabinet-”

“In this instance it is a compound of two passions,- love for the aristocracy, and love for an aristocrat.”

“But nobody is less of an aristocrat than Monsieur de Narbonne. His parentage even is unknown.”

“Because nobody dares to look straight at the sun.”

“I am a woman, Monsieur Gilbert, and consequently am fond of gossip. What do people say about Narbonne-”“That he is brave, clever, and dissipated.”

“I am speaking of his birth.”

“They say, when the Jesuits were trying to drive Voltaire, Machault, and Argenson away, that they had ' Madame de Pompadour, too, to fight. They knew the power of paternal love when strengthened by love of another kind; so they chose for their purpose a daughter of the king, and succeeded in inducing her to devote herself heroically to this incestuous task. Hence the birth of this charming cavalier, whose parentage is, as your Majesty says, unknown, — not because it is veiled in obscurity, but because it is as clear as daylight.”

“Then you do not believe, like the Jacobins, that Monsieur de Narbonne comes from the Swedish Embassy, of which De Stael is the head.”

“Oh, yes; but he comes from the wife's boudoir, not from the husband's cabinet. This is not a piece of diplomatic cunning, it is an example of the blindness of love; for nothing save love could so blind a woman as to induce her to place the ponderous sword of the Revolution in such frivolous and incompetent hands.”

“Then you think we make a mistake in accepting Narbonne as minister of war-”

“You would do much better to lose no time in accepting his successor.”

“And who may that be, pray-”

“Dumouriez.”

“Dumouriez, a soldier of fortune-”

“Madame, that is a grand title, wrongly interpreted; and certainly a most unjust epithet when applied to the person of whom you speak.”

“Was not Dumouriez a common soldier once-”

“A provincial gentleman, without the means to purchase a colonelcy, he enlisted as a private in a regiment of hussars. At the age of twenty he allowed himself to be nearly cut in pieces rather than surrender; but in spite of this proof of valour and his remarkable intelligence, he was allowed to vegetate in the ranks.”

“His intelligence- Yes, that I suppose was developed by espionage in his service as a spy for Louis XV.”

“Why do you employ the words espionage and spy in connection with him, to indicate the same thing you call diplomacy in others- I happen to know that it was at the request of the prime minister of Louis XV. that Dumouriez entered into a correspondence with the king. What nobleman of the court would not do the same-”

“But he lacks principle, and is utterly devoid of honour. Monsieur de Choiseul himself told me that Dumouriez suggested two plans to him in relation to the Corsicans,- one to subjugate them, the other to set them free.”

“True, but Choiseul forgot to tell you that the first plan was considered preferable, and that Dumouriez fought valiantly to insure its success.”

“But if we should accept Dumouriez as minister of war, it would be equivalent to a declaration of war against all Europe.”

“That declaration of war has been made already in every heart. Do you know the number of men in this department who have enrolled their names as volunteers- Six hundred thousand. In the Jura, the women say all the men may go; for if the women are furnished with pikes, they will defend their homes themselves.”

“You just uttered a word that always makes me shudder!” exclaimed the queen.

“Excuse, me, madame, but will you tell me what the word is, so that I may not offend again-”

“That word 'pikes'I Oh, those pikes of '89, monsieur! I can still see the heads of my two faithful guardsmen on the ends of those pikes.”

“And yet it is a wife and mother who proposes to open a subscription to have these pikes manufactured.”

“Is it also a wife and mother who has persuaded the Jacobins to adopt the red cap-”

“There again I think your Majesty is in error,” replied Gilbert.”Some symbol of the idea of Equality waa needed, and as it would be impossible to persuade all the

French people to wear the same costume, it was decided

to select some one article of dress, — the peasant cap, for,

instance. And red was the colour chosen, not because it

is the hue of blood, but because it is a gay and striking

colour, and always a favourite with the masses.”

“Ah, doctor, you are such an admirer of new inventions that I do not yet despair of seeing you feeling the king's pulse with a pike in your hand and a red cap on your head.”

The queen spoke half bitterly, half jestingly, as she turned to leave the room.

Madame Elizabeth was about to follow her, when Gilbert exclaimed in almost supplicating tones: -

“You love your brother, do you not, madame-”

“It is not love I feel for him, but adoration.”

“And you are willing to transmit a bit of advice to him if it comes from a friend, are you not-”

“Of course, if the advice be really good.”

“In my opinion, it is most excellent.”

“Then speak.”

“Well, when the Feuillant Cabinet goes to pieces,- which it will, in a very short time, -advise him to select a cabinet composed entirely of men who wear the red caps the queen dislikes so much.”

And, bowing low, Gilbert left the room, and afterwards the palace.

CHAPTER CXXVII. DUMOURIEZ.

The Narbonne cabinet lasted three months.

One of Vergniaud's speeches demolished it.

When the news came that the Emperor of Russia had made a treaty with Turkey, and that Austria and Prussia had signed an offensive and defensive alliance at Berlin, on February 7th, Vergniaud mounted the rostrum and said:-

“As Mirabeau once exclaimed, 'I see from here the window,' I, too, can say, — I see from here the palace where they are plotting a counter-revolution, and making plans to deliver us up to Austria. The time has come for you to put an end to such treachery and confound the conspirators. Often enough, in days gone by, have Terror and Dismay stalked forth from the portals of that palace in the names of despotism. Now, let Terror and Dismay re-enter that palace in the name of the Law.”

The downfall of the Narbonne ministry occurred in March, 1792; and barely three months had elapsed after Gilbert's interview with the queen and Madame Elizabeth, when a stranger was ushered into the king's presence. He was a short, active man, rather nervous in his movements, with an intelligent face and remarkably bright eyes. He was really fifty-six years of age, though he looked at least ten years younger. His face was bronzed by exposure to the wind and sun, and he wore a field-marshal's uniform.

“Is this Monsieur Dumouriez-” inquired the king.

The stranger bowed his assent.

“How long is it since you came to Paris-”

“I arrived here early in February, Sire.”

“Monsieur de Narbonne sent for you -”

“To tell me that I had been detailed to General Luckner's corps of the Army of Alsace.”

“You did not go, however.”

“I accepted the commission, but felt it my duty to suggest that as war was imminent and seemed likely to become general, it would be advisable to pay some attention to southern France, which was likely to be attacked at any time, and that consequently it seemed to me necessary that some plan of defence should be decided upon, and a genwal-in-chief and an army be sent there as soon as possible.”

“Yes, and you stated your views to Narbonne, afber having first communicated them to Monsieur Gensonne' and several other Girondists, I believe.”

“Gensonne' is a particular friend of mine, Sire, and a friend of your Majesty's as well, I believe.”

“Then I am dealing with a Girondist, am I-” said the king, smiling.

“You are dealing with a patriot and a faithful subject.”

The king bit his thick lips.

“And was it to serve your sovereign and your country more efficaciously that you refused the temporary appointment of Minister of Foreign Affairs-”

“I replied, Sire, that I should greatly prefer the military command promised me to a place in the cabinet, for I am a soldier, not a diplomat.”

“On the contrary, I am assured that you are both a soldier and a diplomat.”

“I am too much honoured, Sire.”

“And it is on the strength of this assurance that I insist upon your acceptance of the appointment.”

“And if I should continue to refuse it, in spite of my regret at disobliging you-”

“But why should you refuse-”

“Because the situation is extremely critical. Besides, I am either worth something or nothing. If I am worth nothing, leave me in my obscurity, for who knows to what fate you may be urging me- If I am worth something, do not try to make me the minister of a day, — a fleeting power,-but give me something to depend upon in order that you may be able to depend more securely upon me. A temporary ministry, pardon a soldier's frankness,” — no one could really be less frank than Dumouriez, though he liked to appear so at times, -”would be highly displeasing to the Assembly, and destroy my popularity with the members of that legislative body. I will say, furthermore, that this temporary arrangement would also compromise the king, and make it appear as if he were still clinging to his old advisers, and only awaiting a favourable opportunity to reinstate them.”

“Do you think such a thing would be possible, even if I desired it-”

“I think it is quite time for your Majesty to break with the past in good faith.”

“Yes, and appear before the public in the character of a stanch Jacobin. You said as much to Laporte, I believe.”

“Heavens! if your Majesty should do that, you would Overwhelm every party with consternation, the Jacobins most of all.”

“Why don't you advise me to put on the red cap at once-”

“Ah, well, Sire, if it would help matters any-”

The king glanced for an instant with something not unlike distrust at the man who had just made this reply; then he said: -

“So it is a permanent position you desire, is it, monsieur-”

''I desire nothing. I am ready to obey the king's orders; though I must admit that I should like it much better if the king would send me to the frontier instead of keeping me in Paris.”

“And if, on the contrary, I should command you to remain in Paris and assume the position of Minister of Foreign Affairs, what would you think-”

Dumouriez smiled.

“I should think, Sire, that your Majesty had got over your prejudice against me.”

“Well, yes, entirely so, it would seem, as I, here and now, make you my prime minister.”

“Sire, I devote myself to your service, but -”

“What! are you disposed to make conditions-”

“Say rather explanations, Sire.”

“Go on; I am listening.”

“The position of prime minister is not what it was in days gone by. Without being any the less your Majesty's faithful servant, I become on entering your cabinet the servant of the nation as well. Consequently, you must not expect from me the same language you have been accustomed to hear from my predecessors. I must speak in accordance with the interests of liberty and the Constitution. Engrossed with my official duties, I shall have no leisure to pay court to you, and I shall disregard the demands of etiquette in order that I may be better able to serve the king himself. I shall labour faithfully for his best interests, as well as the interests of the nation, and serious differences and even conflicts are inevitable.”

“And why-”

“Because nearly all your foreign representatives are avowed enemies to the Devolution. I warn you, in advance, that I shall recall them, and I may not please you at all in my selection of their successors. I may even propose to your Majesty as substitutes persons you do not even know by name, and others whom you positively dislike -”

“And in that case-” interrupted Louis, quickly and a little haughtily.

“In that case, if your Majesty's opposition is too strong, I shall obey, because you are master; but if your opposi tion does not emanate from yourself, if it is prompted by those around you, — persons who are resolved to compromise me, if possible, -I shall ask your Majesty to name my successor. Think of the awful dangers that threaten your throne, sire. It can only be sustained by public confidence, and everything depends upon you.”

“I have been aware of these dangers for a long time,” said the king. Then, pointing to the portrait of Charles I., and wiping his face with his handkerchief, he continued:”Even if I should try to forget them, there is a picture that keeps them ever in my mind.”

“Sire!”

“Wait until I have finished, monsieur, if you please. My situation is identical with his. The dangers that surround me are the same; and perhaps the scaffold of Whitehall is even now being erected on the Place de Greve.”

“That is looking too far ahead, Sire.”

“It is not looking beyond the horizon. If my fears are realised, I shall die upon the scaffold, not in so knightly a fashion, perhaps, but at least in a manner befitting a Christian, I trust. Now go on, monsieur.”

Dumouriez hesitated, astonished at this unexpected display of firmness, but presently he said:”Will your Majesty permit me to direct our conversation into a different channel-”

“As you please, monsieur; but I want to convince you that I do not fear the fate with which they are trying to affright me, or that if I do fear it, I am at least prepared for it.”

“And now, Sire, in spite of what I have had the honour to say to you, am I still to regard myself as your Minister of Foreign Affairs-”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Then at the first cabinet meeting I shall submit four despatches, totally unlike those of my predecessors both in matter and in style; and if my first attempt prove pleasing to your Majesty, I will persevere; if not,my travelling equipage will be in readiness to convey me where I can serve my king and my country on the frontier. And in spite of all that has been said to your Majesty concerning my diplomatic talent,” added Dumouriez,”warfare is really my forte as well as the object of my best endeavours for the last thirty-six years.”

Whereupon, he bowed as if about to retire.

“Wait,” said the king;”we have come to an agreement on one point, but there are five others to be settled.”

“My colleagues, do you mean-”

“Yes. I do not want you coming to me with complaints that you are hampered by this man or that. Select your own cabinet.”

“It is a grave responsibility you thrust upon me, Sire.”

“I believe I am doing you a favour by insisting, however.”

“I know scarcely any one in Paris, sire, except Lacoste, whom I cordially recommend to your Majesty for the Naval Department.”

“Lacoste- Isn't he merely an officer in the Commissary Department-”

“Yes, Sire, who tendered his resignation to Monsieur de Boynes rather than be a party to a dishonest transaction.”

“That is a good recommendation. How about the others-”

“I must consult with some of my friends.”

“May I ask with whom-”

“Brissot, Condorcet, Pe'tion, Gensonne' -”

“With all the Girondists, in short.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Very well, try the Girondists then. And let us see if they succeed any better than the Constitutionalists and the Feuillants.”

“There is another matter, Sire.”

“What is that-”

“To ascertain if the four despatches I am going to write will meet with your approval.”

“We will settle that to-night.”

“To-night, Sire-”

“Yes, for the case is urgent, and we shall have a special meeting of my council, consisting of you, Monsieur de Grave, and Cahier de Gerville, this evening.”

“How about Duport du Tertre-”

“He has tendered his resignation.”

“I shall be at your Majesty's service this evening;” and again Dumouriez bowed, as if about to take leave.

“No, wait a moment,” said the king.”I want you to commit yourself irrevocably.”

The words had hardly passed his lips before the queen and Madame Elizabeth entered.

“Madame,” the king said, turning to his wife,”this is Monsieur Dumouriez, who has promised to assist us, and with whom we are to form a new ministry this evening.”

Dumouriez bowed; and the queen surveyed with evident curiosity this man who was to exercise such an influence over the destinies of France.

“Are you acquainted with Dr. Gilbert, monsieur-”she asked.

“No, madame.”

“You had better make his acquaintance. I can recommend him to you as a most excellent prophet. He predicted that you would be Narbonne's successor, three months ago.”

CHAPTER CXXVIII . BEHIND THE TAPESTRY.

That evening, at the appointed hour, Dumouriez entered with his four despatches. Cahier de Gerville and De Grave were already in the council chamber awaiting the king, who entered almost simultaneously with Dumouriez.

The two ministers rose instantly. Dumouriez was already standing, so he had only to bow. The king responded to their salutations with a slight bend of the head; then, taking an arm-chair at the head of the table, he bade them all be seated.

It seemed to Dumouriez that the door by which the king had just entered had been left slightly ajar, and that the tapestry portiere in front of it swayed to and fro a little. Was it the action of the wind, or was it from contact with some person who was listening behind it-

“Are your despatches ready, monsieur-” asked the king, turning to Dumouriez.

“Yes, Sire,” and as he spoke, the general drew four letters from his pocket.

“To what foreign Powers are they addressed-”

“To Spain, Austria, Prussia, and England.”

“Read them.”

Dumouriez cast another quick glance at the tapestry, and another slight movement convinced him that some one was standing behind it.

He began the reading of his despatches in a firm voice. In them, he spoke in the name of the king, but in the spirit of the Constitution, without any tinge of acrimony, but with great decision.

He discussed the real interests of each Power in its relations to the French Revolution; and as each government had good reason to complain of the utterances of sundry Jacobin pamphlets, he attributed these indiscretions to the newly acquired freedom of the Press, which was sure to be productive of rich harvests eventually, though now and then some noxious vermin might be warmed into life. In conclusion, he demanded peace in the name of a free nation, of which the king was the hereditary representative.

The king listened with closer and closer attention to each despatch.

“I never heard anything to compare with this before, general,” the king remarked, when Dumouriez had finished.

“Ministers ought always to write and speak in the name of their sovereign,” remarked Cahier de Gerville.

“Give me the despatches. They shall be sent tomorrow,” said the king.

“The couriers are ready and waiting now in the courtyard below,” replied Dumouriez.

“I should like to have copies to show to the queen,” remarked the king, with some embarrassment.

“I anticipated this desire on the part of your Majesty, and here are four certified copies.”

“Then let the despatches go,” said the king.

Dumouriez stepped to the same door by which he had entered. An aide was in waiting, the general gave him the despatches, and in a few minutes the ministers heard several horses galloping out of the courtyard.

“That is done,” said the king, as this significant sound died away in the distance.”Now let me see the list of your future colleagues.”

“Sire, first of all, I wish your Majesty would persuade Monsieur Cahier de Gerville to consent to remain with us.”

“I have attempted to do so already.”

“And I regret to say that I feel compelled to persist in my refusal, monsieur. My health is giving way, and rest has become an absolute necessity.”

“You hear, monsieur,” said the king, turning to Dumouriez.

“Yes, but Monsieur de Grave will consent to remain with us, I trust.”

“Sire,” responded De Grave,”if the language of Monsieur Dumouriez astonished you just now by its frankness, mine will perhaps astonish you even more by its humility. Here,” drawing a paper from his pocket,”is a severe, but just, criticism upon me written by a lady of great ability. Will you have the goodness to read it-”

The king read as follows: -

“De Grave is spoken of for the War Department. He is an insignificant man in every sense of the word. He is naturally timid and mild. Though amiable in disposition, he is rather inclined to be supercilious. The result of his efforts to conciliate everybody is to make him an absolute nonentity.

“I can see him now trotting along behind the king, with his head high in the air, in spite of his puny body, showing the whites of his eyes, which he cannot keep open after dinner without the aid of three or four cups of coffee. He says very little, but tries to make it appear that his silence is due to a prudent reserve, though it is really due to a complete lack of ideas. He will lose his head so completely in the complications which are sure to ensue in his department that he will soon ask permission to retire.”

“That is evidently a woman's estimate,” remarked the king.”Is it the work of Madame de Stael-”

“No, it is the opinion of a much better judge of human nature, Madame Roland, Sire.”

“And you say you think this a fair estimate of your character and ability-”

“In many respects, at least. I will remain until I can initiate my successor into the workings of the department, and then I must ask your Majesty to accept my resignation.”

“You were right in declaring that what you had to say would astonish me even more than the utterances of Monsieur Dumouriez. But if you are firmly resolved upon withdrawal, I should be very glad to have you name your successor.”

“I was about to beg your Majesty to permit me to suggest Monsieur Servan, an honest, upright, and strictly moral man, with all the austerity of a philosopher, yet with all a woman's kindness of heart. A clear-headed patriot, too, as well as a brave soldier and painstaking official.”

“Servan it shall be. Now we have three secretaries. Servan for the War Department, Dumouriez for Minster of Foreign Affairs, and Lacoste for the Naval Department. Now what shall we do about a Minister of Finance-”

“Take Monsieur Clavieres, sire. He is the ablest financier I know,” suggested Dumouriez.

“I do not doubt that,” replied the king;”but they say he is irascible, and extremely opinionated.”

“These are faults common to nearly all able cabinet ministers, sire.”

“Let us overlook Monsieur Clavieres' faults then, and consider Monsieur Clavieres our next Minister of Finance. Now, how about the Department of Justice- Upon whom shall we bestow that-”

“Duranthon, a Bordeaux advocate is very highly spoken of.”

“By the Girondists, I suppose you mean.”

“Yes, Sire. He is a level headed, upright man and most estimable citizen, though rather slow and over cautious. We shall have to supply him with the spirit he lacks.”

“One portfolio remains, — that of the Interior Department.”

“The unanimous opinion seems to be that this should go to Monsieur Roland.”

“To Madame Roland, you mean.”

“To both the learned husband and the brilliant wife, then.”

“Do you know them personally-”

“No, Sire, but I am told that he strongly resembles one of Plutarch's heroes; while she seems like a woman from the pages of Livy.”

“Do you know what they will call your cabinet, general, or rather what they call it already-”

“No, Sire.”

“The Sans-Culotte ministry.”

“I don't object to the appellation in the least, Sire. It will be all the more easy for the nation to see that we are men.”

“Are your colleagues ready for work-”

“Half of them are not even aware of their appointment.”

“Will they accept-”

“I have no misgivings on that score.”

“Very well, then, let us adjourn. Day after to-morrow, we will hold our first cabinet meeting.”

“Day after to-morrow, Sire.”

The three ministers withdrew; but before they had reached the staircase a valet overtook them and said to Dumouriez:”The king begs you will come back a moment. There is something more that he wishes to say to you.”

Dumouriez bade his colleagues farewell, then,,turning to the servant, he said:”Is it the king or the queen that desires to see me-”

“The queen, monsieur; but she did not think it advisable to let the other gentlemen know that it was she who sent for you.”

“Just what I thought,” muttered Dumouriez, shaking his head.

Dumouriez followed the valet through the long corridors to the queen's apartments. The valet did not announce the general by name, but merely said: -

“Here is the gentleman your Majesty wished to see.”

Dumouriez entered. Never before had our soldier's heart throbbed so violently, not even in making a dangerous charge or in scaling the enemy's breastworks; for he realised that never before had he been in the presence of such danger. The path he was about to enter was strewn with dead and living victims, — the bodies of Calonne, Necker, Mirabeau, Barnave, and Lafayette.

The queen was pacing the floor excitedly, and her face was crimson with excitement. Dumouriez paused just inside the door.

The queen advanced towards him with an angry and imperious air.

“You are all-powerful just at the present moment, monsieur,” she said curtly;”but you are so by the favour of the people, and their worship of their idols is short-lived. They say you possess a great deal of talent; but understand once for all that neither the king nor myself will sanction these innovations. Your Constitution is an utter failure; and I have sent for you, before you proceed any further, to tell you that you must choose between us and the Jacobins.”

“I am grieved at this painful announcement on the part of your Majesty, but having detected the presence of the queen behind the curtain, I am not unprepared for this.”

“And in that case you are prepared with your answer, I suppose-”

“Yes, madame. If I am placed in a position in which I have to choose between my king and my country, I can only say that my country must be first.”

“The country! the country!” repeated the queen, scornfully.”The king is nothing, I suppose. Everybody cleaves to the nation, and nobody to the king.”

“Oh, yes, madame, the king is and always will be the king; but he has taken the oath to support the Constitution, and from that day the king became one of the servants of the Constitution.”

“An oath taken under compulsion, and consequently null and void,” cried Marie Antoinette, vehemently.

Dumouriez remained silent for a moment, gazing at the queen with an air of deep compassion, like the clever actor that he was.

Portrait of Necker. Photo-Etching. — From an old Print.

“Madame,” he said at last,”permit me to remark that your safety, as well as the safety of the king and of your children, depends upon this Constitution, which you so disparage, but which is abundantly able to save you if you will consent to be saved by it. I should be a most unfaithful servant to you and to the king if I spoke otherwise -”

“Monsieur, you are making a great mistake, I assure you!” exclaimed the queen, silencing him with an imperious gesture. Then, with an indefinable tinge of menace in her tone, she added:”Be on your guard, monsieur.”

“I am over fifty years of age, madame,” replied Dumouriez, with unruffled calmness,”and my life from childhood has been one of constant danger; but when I accepted the appointment of cabinet minister, I said to myself, my ministerial responsibility was not the greatest danger I incurred, by any means.”

“Oh, there is nothing left for you to do now, but to slander me, monsieur!” cried the queen, striking her hands together angrily.

“Slander you-”

“Yes. Do you want me to explain the meaning of your last words-”

“If you please, madame.”

“You as much as said that I was quite capable of having you assassinated. Oh, monsieur!” and as she spoke, two big tears fell from her eyes.

Dumouriez had gone as far as possible. He knew now all he desired to know, — that is, if any spark of real feeling'still remained in the queen's seared heart.

“Heaven preserve me from so insulting my queen,” he said.”Your Majesty's character is too noble to admit of such a suspicion, even on the part of her bitterest enemies. She has given proofs of heroism which have made me one of her most ardent admirers, and -”

“Do you speak the truth, monsieur-” she asked, in tones full of emotion this time.

“Upon my honour, madame. I swear it.”

“Then forgive me,” she replied,”and lend me your arm for an instant. There are moments when I feel so weak that I seem to be on the point of falling.”

She had, indeed, turned pale, and her head fell back, as if she were on the verge of fainting. Was this weakness real, or only one of those bits of acting in which this seductive Medea often indulged-

Cunning as he was, Dumouriez was either deceived by it, or else, being an even more clever actor than the queen, he pretended to be deceived by it.

“Believe me, I have no motive for misleading you, madame; for I abhor anarchy as much as you do, and I speak from my own personal observation, I assure you. I am in a better position to judge of current events and their influences than the queen is. The present state of affairs is not due to an Orleans intrigue, as some persons would have you believe, nor is it due to Pitt's animosity, as you have sometimes imagined. It is the almost unanimous protest of a great nation against shameful abuses. There are violent animosities, I know very well, underlying all this that are quite likely to start a dangerous conflagration. But let us leave miscreants and fools out of the question, and consider the bearings of the Revolution only in connection with our own country and our king. Whatever tends to separate these two lead to mutual ruin. As for me, madame, I am here to do everything in my power to re-unite them. Aid me instead of working against me. You distrust and dislike me. Am I an obstacle to your counter-revolutionary plans- If so, tell me, and I will tender my resignation here and now, and in some obscure spot bemoan the fate of our common country.”

“No, no,” said the queen.”Keep your office and forgive me.”

“I — forgive you- Oh, madame, do not humiliate yourself thus, I beseech you.”

“And why not- Am I any longer a queen- Am I any longer a woman, even-”

She walked to the window and threw it open, in spite of the chilliness of the evening air. The moon was already silvering the branches of the leafless trees in the garden below.

“Every one has a right to the fresh air and sunshine. You admit that, I suppose,” she said sadly.”They are denied only to me. I dare not show myself at the windows, either on the courtyard or garden side. Day before yesterday, I ventured to look out into the courtyard. One of the guards called me by a foul name, and added: 'Oh, how I should like to have the fun of carrying your head on my bayonet!' Yesterday, I opened one of the windows that overlook the gardens, and on one side I saw a man mounted upon a chair saying all sorts of horrible things about us; on the other side, I saw a priest insulted aud beaten and then dragged off to the lake; and all the while people were promenading and playing ball without troubling themselves in the least, as if such scenes were of everyday occurrence. What terrible times these are, monsieur! What a strange state of things! What a strange, incomprehensible people! And you would have me believe myself a queen when I can hardly believe myself a woman!”

The queen threw herself on a sofa and covered her face with her hands. Dumouriez dropped upon one knee, and kissed the hem of her robe respectfully.

“Madame,” he said,”as surely as I undertake this struggle, you shall once more become a happy woman and a powerful sovereign, or I will perish in the attempt to make you so.”

And, rising, he bowed low to the queen and hurried from the room.

The queen watched his departure with a despairing glance.”A powerful sovereign! That may yet be possible, thanks to the sword!” she murmured.”But a happy woman, never! never! never!”

And murmuring a name which was becoming dearer and sadder to her every day, — the name of Charny, — she buried her face in the sofa-cushions.

CHAPTER CXXIX. THE RED CAP.

Dumouriiez had hastened from the queen's presence partly because the sight of her despair pained him,- though sentimental ideas made very little impression on him theoretically, he was strongly affected by personal contact, and especially by the sight of human suffering, — and partly because Brissot was waiting to conduct him to the Jacobin Club. He felt no anxiety so far as the Assembly was concerned, for he knew that he was the choice of Pe'tion, Gensonne', Brissot, and the Girondists generally, but he was not a favourite with Robespierre, Collot d'Herbois, and Couthon, -and they were the men who ruled the Jacobin Club.

His visit was a great surprise to every one. In fact, it was an audacious act in one of the king's ministers to come to the Jacobin Club at all; and as soon as his name was mentioned, every eye was turned upon him.

Robespierre bent forward to catch the name that was passing from lip to lip, then frowned slightly, and again became cool and impassive. A frigid silence spread through the hall, and Dumouriez saw that he must burn his ships behind him.

The Jacobins had just adopted the red cap as a sign of equality; but three or four members had judged, doubtless, that their reputation for patriotism was sufficiently well established without giving this proof of it. One of these few members was Robespierre.

Dumouriez did not hesitate, however. Flinging away his own hat, he snatched the red cap from the head of a patriot seated near him, and drew it down over his own ears, then ascended the platform, flaunting this emblem of equality.

The entire assemblage applauded loudly; but in the midst of the acclamations a sound not unlike the hiss of a serpent was heard, and the applause instantly subsided. It was a Sh-h-h from Robespierre's bloodless lips.

More than once in after days Dumouriez was heard to admit that never did the whistle of a bullet as it passed within a foot of his head make him shudder like that Sh-h-h from the lips of the Arras advocate; but he was a hard fighter, this Dumouriez, this soldier and orator in one, and difficult to beat either on the battle-field or in the rostrum.

He waited with a calm smile until perfect order was restored; then, in tones which reached to the furthermost corners of the room, he said: -

“Friends and brethren, henceforth every moment of my life shall be devoted to doing the people's will, and deserving the confidence of a constitutional king. In my negotiations with foreign Powers I shall be upheld by the Strength of a free people; and these negotiations must speedily end either in lasting peace or decisive war.”

Here the applause burst forth afresh, in spite of Robespierre's Sh-h-h I

“If we have war,” continued the speaker,”I will throw aside the pen, and take my place in the ranks to triumph or to die with my countrymen. A heavy burden has been placed upon my shoulders. Help me to bear it, my brethren. I need your counsel. Tell me the truth, the honest truth, always, but turn a deaf ear to calumny, and do not repulse a citizen whom you know to be brave and sincere, and who is devoted body and soul to the revolutionary cause.”

Dumouriez had finished. He sat down amid wild applause. These acclamations incensed Collot d'Herbois, who was himself so often hissed and so rarely applauded.

“Why this applause-”he called out from his seat.”If Dumouriez comes here as a cabinet minister, no answer is needed. If he comes as a brother member, he only does his duty by acquainting us fully with his opinions. In that case, we have but one answer to make: Let him see that he acts as he talks.”

Dumouriez waved his hand and bowed his head, as much as to say:”That is precisely what I intend to do.”

Robespierre arose, with a grim smile upon his lips. Every one understood that he wished to ascend the rostrum, and so made way for him. He began with even more than his customary solemnity of manner.

“I am not one of those who believe it is absolutely impossible for a cabinet minister to be a true patriot,” he said,”and I have listened with pleasure to the assurances Monsieur Dumouriez has just given us. When he accomplishes these good intentions, when he overthrows the enemies whom his predecessors in office and the conspirators who still direct our government have armed against us, then, and not until then, shall I be inclined to sing his praises. And even then I may be of the opinion that any good member of this society is his equal. The nation alone is great and worthy of respect in my eyes; and out of respect for the people, and for the minister himself, I ask that his entrance here shall not be signalised by a display of homage that would indicate a decline of public patriotism. He asks our advice. I, for my part, promise to give him counsel which will not only prove useful to him, but beneficial to the public welfare. So long as Monsieur Dumouriez proves, both by his words and acts, that he is a true patriot and a faithful defender of the rights and interests of the people, he will find nothing save earnest support in this club. I apprehend no danger from the presence of a cabinet minister in this society; but the minute he is treated as if he were the superior of any other honest citizen, I shall demand his expulsion, for no such distinctions can be allowed.”

The crafty orator left the rostrum in the midst of resounding cheers; but a snare was awaiting him on the lower step. Dumouriez was standing there with outstretched arms.

“Virtuous Robespierre I incorruptible citizen! let me embrace you,” he exclaimed, with great apparent enthusiasm.

And, in spite of Robespierre's resistance, Dumouriez pressed him to his heart.

The crowd saw only the act, not Robespierre's evident repugnance, and again enthusiastic applause resounded on every side.

“Come, Brissot, let us go,” whispered Dumouriez.”I have donned the red cap and embraced Robespierre; now I am doubly sanctified.”

At the door a young man clothed with the dignity of an usher exchanged a hasty glance and a still more hasty shake of the hand with the new minister. This young man was the Due de Chartres.

The clock struck eleven as Brissot was guiding Dumouriez to the door of the Rolands' lodgings.

They were still living on the Rue Gue'ne'gaud, and they had been notified the night before, through Brissot, of the general intention to recommend Roland to the king for Minister of the Interior. Brissot had asked Roland if he felt equal to such a task, and Roland, with his usual simplicity, had replied that upon the whole he thought he did.

Dumouriez now came to announce that the selection had been made. After an interchange of the usual compliments, in which Dumouriez assured Roland that it had given him great pleasure to see such a virtuous and enlightened citizen called to take a hand in the affairs of government, the conversation naturally reverted to the king.

“There is the chief difficulty we have to contend with,” said Roland, with a smile.

“I do not agree with you,” replied Dumouriez.”I believe the king to be an honest man and a true patriot.”

Then, seeing that Madame Roland uttered never a word, but merely smiled, Dumouriez asked, -

“Is not that your opinion too, madame-”

“Have you seen the king-”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen the queen-”

This time, it was Dumouriez who made no reply, and had to confine himself to a smile.

An appointment was made for eleven o'clock the next morning, when the new ministers were to take their oaths of office.

It was now nearly midnight. Dumouriez would have remained longer, but this was a late hour for plain people like the Rolands.

Why did Dumouriez wish to remain- The reason was perfectly obvious to any one who knew him well.

In his quick glance at the Rolands on his entrance, Dumouriez had noted the disparity in age between the husband and wife. Roland was only ten years older than Dumouriez, but Dumouriez looked at least twenty years younger. The general had also noted the superb outlines of the young wife's figure; and Dumouriez was one of those men who can never see an old husband without laughing in their sleeves, or a young wife without disobeying the commandment concerning covetousness. His manner was consequently displeasing to both the husband and wife, and It was for this reason they both made an apparently casual allusion to the lateness of the hour.

When the door closed behind the retreating forms of their visitors, Roland remarked to his wife:”Well, my dear, what dp you think of our future colleagues-”

“It is not necessary to see some men twice to form a pretty correct idea of their character,” replied Madame Roland, smiling.”This man possesses a crafty nature, an exceeding supple mind, and a cunning eye. He expressed the utmost delight at the judicious selection he came to announce, but I shouldn’t be surprised if he sends you off some day.”

“Nor I,” replied Roland.

Both retired to their couch with their accustomed serenity of mind, neither of them dreaming that the iron hand of Destiny had just inscribed their names in letters of blood upon the tablets of the Revolution.

The next morning, the new ministers took the oath of office in the presence of the National Assembly, and then repaired to the Tuileries.

Roland wore laced shoes, — probably because he had no money with which to purchase buckles, — and a round hat, because he had never worn any other. He went to the Tuileries in his usual attire, and chanced to be last in the line of secretaries.

Monsieur de Bre'ze', the master of ceremonies, allowed the others to pass in, but stopped Roland.

Not understanding why he was refused admission, Roland exclaimed:”But I too am a minister like the others,- Minister of the Interiorl”

The master of ceremonies did not seem convinced, however.

Dumouriez overheard the controversy, and interfered.

“Why do you refuse Monsieur Roland admittance-”he asked.

“But, monsieur, think of it, — a round hat, and no buckles on his shoes!”

“Ah, monsieur, a round hat, and no buckles on his shoes,” responded Dumouriez, coolly;”all is indeed lost!” and as he spoke, he pushed Roland into the king's cabinet.

CHAPTER CXXX. FOREIGN AND DOMESTIC RELATIONS.

The ministry that had so much difficulty in getting into the king's cabinet might well have been sty ed the War Cabinet.

On the 1st of March, 1792, the Emperor Leopold of Austria died in his harem, poisoned by the love potions he himself had concocted.

Marie Antoinette, who had read in some Jacobin pamphlet that a piece of pastry would put an end to the emperor some day, stoutly asserted that her brother bad been poisoned by his enemies.

With Leopold, Austria's temporising policy also came to an end.

His successor, Francis II., had a mixture of Italian and German blood in his veins, his father being the deceased Leopold, and his mother Maria Louisa of Spain.

Born in Florence, though an Austrian, he was weak, violent, and treacherous in disposition. An honest man in the estimation of the priests, he was unfeeling and bigoted, and concealed the utmost duplicity beneath a placid countenance.

He pursued his career like an automaton,-giving his daughter to his conqueror, in order to save portions of his territory, and yet being the very first to stab him in the back, when the icy winds of Russia compelled him to beat a hasty retreat. It was this tyrant of the dungeons of Spitz- berg, and of the Venetian lead-mines, this executioner of Andryane and the imprisoner of Silvio I'd]ico, the Italian poet, who was the protector of the emigres, the ally of Prussia, and the enemy of France.

Our ambassador at Vienna, Monsieur de Noailles, was, so to speak, a prisoner in his own palace.

Our ambassador at Berlin was preceded by a rumour that he had come to discover the King of Prussia's plans by making love to that monarch's mistresses.

Monsieur de Se'gur was presented at one of the monarch's public receptions at the same time with the envoy from Coblentz, and the king turned his back on the French ambassador, and inquired in a loud voice of the prince's representative as to the health of his dear friend the Comte d'Artois.

Prussia, who considered herself at that time, as she considers herself at the present day, the leading representative of German progress, was governed by a sovereign who abetted Turkish insurrections and Polish revolutions on the one hand, while he smothered the liberties of Holland on the other, and who was ever fishing for spoils in the troubled waters of revolutions, hooking out now a bit of Poland or of Pomerania, or a slice of Neuchatel.

Our two openly avowed enemies were Francis II. and Frederick William; our secret enemies were England, Bussia, and Spain.

The chief of this coalition was to be the bellicose King of Sweden, known as Gustavus III., whom Catherine of Bussia kept under her thumb.

The accession of Francis II. to the throne of Austria was attended by the accompanying diplomatic communication, evidently issued for the express purpose of humiliating France.

Austria demands: First, satisfaction for the princes holding possessions in the kingdom.

Secondly, the restoration of Avignon.

Thirdly, the re-establishment of the monarchy on the footing of June 23rd, 1789.

It was only too evident that these demands corresponded exactly with the secret desires of the king and queen.

Dumouriez shrugged his shoulders. One might have supposed that Austria had fallen asleep on the 23rd of June, 1789, and awakened after an interval of three years under the impression that only a single night had elapsed.

On the 16th of March, 1792, Gustavus was assassinated at a ball. It was on the second day after his assassination, — the news of which had not yet reached France, — that this diplomatic communication reached Dumouriez, who took it straight to the king.

Marie Antoinette desired war, being convinced that it would be the salvation of royalty; but the king, who was given to temporising and evasion, dreaded a war.

If war was declared, and France proved victorious, the king would be at the mercy of the successful general. In case of defeat, the people would consider the king responsible for it, raise a cry of treason, and make an attack upon the Tuileries.

If the enemy should invade France and succeed in reaching Paris, whom would they bring with them- Monsieur, that is to say, the king's brother, the regent of the kingdom.

The deposal of the king, the indictment of the queen as an unfaithful wife, the charge that the royal children were illegitimate, -such were the possible results of the return of the emigres.

The king trusted the Austrians, the Germans, and the Prussians, but he distrusted the emigres. Still, when the Austrian despatch was read, it became evident that the time for France to draw the sword had come.

On April 20th, 1792, the king and Dumouriez went together to the National Assembly to present the declaration of war against Austria; and this declaration of war excited the wildest enthusiasm.

At this critical moment there are four distinctly defined parties in France, — the Extreme Boyalists, of whom the queen is one, the Constitutional Royalists, to which party the king ostensibly belongs, the Republicans, and the Anarchists.

Aside from the queen, the Extreme Royalists have no able leader in France, though they have plenty of representatives in foreign lands in Monsieur, the Comte d'Artois, Prince de Conde', and Duke Charles de Lorraine.

The prominent leaders of the Constitutional party are Lafayette, Bailly, Barnave, and Duport,-in short, the Feuillants.

The Republican leaders are Brissot, Vergniaud, Pe'tion, Roland, Isnard, Condorcet, and Couthon.

The Anarchist leaders are Marat, Danton, Santerre, Camille Desmoulins, Legendre, Hebert, Fabre d'Eglantine, and Collot d'Herbois.

Dumouriez is willing and anxious to be anything that will best enhance his interests and fame.

Robespierre has retired into the shadow. He is biding his time.

And now to whom shall the command of the Revolutionary army be intrusted- To Lafayette, who is considered accountable for the Champ de Mars massacre- To Luckner, who is known principally by the mischief he did France during the Seven Years' War- To Rochambeau, who desires a defensive war only, and is intensely annoyed to see Dumouriez give his orders direct to his subordinates, without first submitting them to a general of Rochambeau's wide experience-

Lafayette commands the centre. He is to follow the Meuse and drive Givet back to Namur; Luckner guards Tranche-Corate'; Rochambeau, Flanders.

Reinforced by a detachment which Rochambeau has sent under the command of Biron, Lafayette is to capture Namur, and then march straight on Brussels. Lafayette has a fine chance to immortalise himself. Dumouriez intends the first victory for him, and that victory is to make him Commander-in-chief. With Lafayette com- mander-in-chief, and Dumouriez a successful secretary of war, the Royalists may throw the red cap to the dogs, and then crush the Girondists with one hand, and the Jacobins with the other.

As we have said before, Robespierre had retired into the

shadow. Many have even gone so far as to pretend that there was secret communication between Duplay's workshop and the palace inhabited by Louis XVI. Can it be that this had anything to do with the pension whicL was paid in after years to the Mademoiselle de Robespierre by the Duchesse d'AngoulSme-

But this time, too, Lafayette fails to profit by his opportunity.

Take notice, too, that that schemer Dumouriez does not sever his relations with Orleans, — relations which are to prove his ultimate ruin.

Biron is also an Orleanist general. So the Orle'anists and the Feuillants, through Lafayette and Biron, are to be the first to wield the sword and sound the fanfare of triumph.

On the morning of April 28th, 1792, Biron captures QuieVrain and marches upon Mons. On the following day Theobold Dillon marches from Lille upon Tornay.

They are both aristocrats,- brave, handsome, dissipated, reckless young fellows of the Richelieu school, — one exceedingly frank in his avowal of his political sentiments, while the other hardly has time to ascertain his opinions before he meets his doom.

As we have previously stated, the dragoons are the chief dependence of the Royalists. Two regiments of dragoons are at the head of Biron's detachment of three thousand men. Suddenly these dragoons, before they have even caught sight of the enemy, begin to shout:”We are betrayed! Let everybody look out for himself!”

Then they wheel around, and with the same frenzied shouts dash through the infantry, who, supposing themselves pursued, flee in their turn. The rout is complete. The same thing happens to Dillon. He encounters about nine hundred Austrians. The dragoons that form his advance-guard become frightened and run away, taking the infantry along with them. Leaving artillery waggons and camp equipments behind them, they do not stop until they reach Lille, whence they started.

There, they lay all the blame of their cowardice upon their leaders, and Dillon and Lieutenant-Colonel Bertois are promptly shot; after which they deliver up the bodies of these unfortunate men to the people of Lille, who hang them, and then dance around their corpses.

Who had planned this defeat, which undoubtedly had for its object the awakening of despondency, or at least hesitation, in the hearts of the patriots, and of confidence in the hearts of the royalists-

The Girondists, who desired war, and who are consequently severely injured by the twofold wound they have received, accuse the Court, that is to say, the queen; and it must be admitted that appearances strongly favour this belief on their part.

They resolve at first to return blow for blow; but they have given royalty time to don a cuirass more substantial than the chain-armour which the queen once gave the king, and which her Majesty tested one night, in company with Andree, in an obscure nook at Versailles.

For the queen has gradually organised that famous guard authorised by the Constitution, from which it took its name, and it now numbers fully six thousand men.

And such men! Fencing-masters and bullies who insult patriot deputies even in their seats in the Assembly, noblemen from Brittany and La Vende'e, fanatics from Nimes aud Aries, stalwart priests who, under the pretext of an unwillingness to take the constitutional oath, have thrown aside their cassocks, and picked up sword and dagger and pistol. In addition to all these there are innumerable knights of the Order of St. Louis, who have come from nobody knows where, and been decorated nobody knows why.

Dumouriez complains of this in his Memoirs, and says:

“Whatever government may succeed the one now in power, it can never restore to honour this beautiful and unfortunate decoration, which is bestowed with such a lavish hand, and of which fully six thousand have been distributed within the past two years.”

It is little wonder that the Minister of Foreign Affairs declines the decoration for himself, and has it bestowed upon Monsieur de Watteville, a major in a Swiss regiment.

The Girondists must begin by taking away this means of protection before they attempt to smite the king and queen.

Suddenly a rumour becomes current that a white flag has been found at the old Military School, and that this flag, which is constantly displayed, was a gift from the king, — all of which naturally recalls the incident of the White Cockade on the 5th and 6th of October.

Everybody, knowing the anti-revolutionary sentiments of the king and queen, wonders that he does not see a white flag floating above the Tuileries, and feels confident he will see it streaming from some of the other public buildings some fine morning.

On hearing of the discovery of the white flag, the populace flock to the barracks. The officers attempt to resist this invasion of their territory, but the soldiers will not aid them in the attempt. A white flag is found, — a flag about as large as your hand, — which had been stuck in a loaf of cake sent to the school by the dauphin.

They also find a number of hymns written in the king's honour, as well as some rather scurrilous songs about the Assembly, and several thousand anti-revoltionary pamphlets.

At the same time Bazire reported to the Assembly that the king's guards had shouted with joy on hearing of the defeats at Tournay and QuieVrain, and had even expressed the hope that Valenciennes would be taken in three days, and a foreign army be inside the walls of Paris within a fortnight.

Nor is this all. A good honest Frenchman named Joachim Murat, who enlisted in this guard under the impression that it was the Constitutional Guard its name signified, having tendered his resignation, an attempt is made to bribe him to secrecy and send him to Coblentz.

These Constitutional Guards are a formidable weapon in the hands of royalty, for may they not march upon the Assembly at any moment, and either make the deputies prisoners or kill them off, one after the other- Or what is there to hinder them from taking the king with them and proceeding to the frontier-

So on May 22nd, that is, exactly three weeks after the double defeat at Tournay and Quie'vrain, Pe'tion, the new Mayor of Paris, elected by the efforts of the self-same queen he had brought back a prisoner from Varennes, — a man she has befriended purely out of animosity against Lafayette, a person who would gladly have permitted her to make her escape, — Pe'tion sends a communication to the commander of the National Guards, in which he expresses a fear of the king's possible departure, and urges the guards to keep a sharp watch and double the number of patrols.

A sharp watch on what and whom- Pe'tion does not say. What would be the use of saying the king and the Tuileries in so many words-

What is to be watched- The enemy. Around what shall the number of sentinels be double- Around the enemy's camp, of course.

What is the enemy's camp- The Tuileries.

Who is the enemy- The king.

There you have the situation in a nutshell.

It is Pe'tion, the Chartres pettifogger, who thus arrays himself against the King of France,-against a descendant of Saint Louis, and the great-grandson of Louis the Magnificent.

The King of France grieves, for he knows that this voice is far more potent than his own. He complains in a letter which the Directory of Paris causes to be posted on the walls of the city; but Pe'tion is in no wise disturbed. He makes no response, but his orders are carried out.

So Pe'tion is the real king! Do you desire further proof of it-

Bazire, in his report, recommends the disbandment of the King's Constitutional Guard, and the issuing of a warrant for the arrest of Monsieur de Brissac, its commander.

The iron is hot, and the Girondists hammer away upon it, like the sturdy blacksmiths that they are.

It is a question of”To be or not to be,” for them.

The vote is taken that same day. The Constitutional Guard is disbanded; the arrest of Monsieur de Brissac is ordered; and the Tuileries is again intrusted to the guardianship of the National Guards.

Oh, Charny, Charny, where art thou- At Varennes, a year ago, thine attempt to rescue the queen with a force of three hundred cavalry failed; but what mightest thou not accomplish at the Tuileries with six thousand men-

But Charny is living a life of bliss, forgetting everything in Andree’s arms.

CHAPTER CXXXI. THE RUE GUENEGAUD AND THE TUILERIES.

The reader may recollect the proffered resignation of De Grave, which the king partially, and Dumouriez positively, declined to accept. The latter was anxious to retain De Grave, as he had him completely under his control, and he did retain him for awhile; but when the news of the double defeat was received, he realised the necessity of sacrificing his Minister of War.

De Grave was consequently thrown over, -a sop to quiet the barkiug of the Jacobin Cerberus, — and Servan was installed in De Grave's place. But though Dumouriez proposed Servan to the king, he had no suspicion as to the kind of man his new colleague would prove to be, and what a crushing blow he was going to aim at royalty.

While the queen was eagerly scanning the horizon for some sign of the longed-for coming of the Austrians, another woman was also intently watching from the little parlour on the Hue Gue'ne'gaud. One typified the Counter- Revolution, the other the Revolution.

We allude, of course, to Madame Roland.

It was she who urged Servan's claims, as Madame de Stae'l had urged Narbonne's. During those terrible years of 1791,1792, and 1793, the powerful influence of women was everywhere manifest.

Servan was always to be found in Madame Roland's salon. It was even asserted that she was Servan's mistress; and she allowed people to talk on, for, having a clear conscience, she could afford to smile at calumny.

Every day she saw her husband come home worn out with, the contest. He felt that he and his colleague Clavieres were being swept on to destruction; but as there was no visible proof to offer in support of such an allegation, he could do nothing.

When Dumouriez offered him the position of Minister of the Interior, Roland had imposed certain conditions.

“I have no fortune save my honour,” he said,”and I wish to leave the cabinet with ray honour unimpaired. I therefore stipulate that a secretary shall be present at all the sessions of the Royal Council, and make a note of each member's action, so that my record may be seen, in case I am ever accused of being wanting in patriotism.”

Dumouriez had agreed to this; but Dumouriez was one of those men who are always ready to promise, and then forget, or keep their promises as best suits their convenience.

As Roland could not secure this private record, he had resorted to publicity, and established a journal called”The Thermometer;” but he knew only too well that the disclosure of some of the proceedings of the council would afford treasonable aid to many of his country's enemies.

The presence of Servan was a help to Roland; still, the influence of the new member being neutralised by Dumouriez, the council made very little progress.

When Roland returned home on the evening of May 29th he reported to his wife the news of the disbandment of the Constitutional Guards and of Brissac's arrest.

“What has been done with the discharged guardsmen-” inquired Madame Roland.

“Nothing.”

“They are at large, then-”

“Yes, only they have been ordered to lay aside their blue uniforms.”

“Take my word for it, by to-morrow they will have on red uniforms, and be stalking about the town as Swiss Guards.”

Sure enough, the next day the streets of Paris were dotted with red uniforms. The discharged guardsmen had changed their coats, that was all. They were there in Paris beckoning the invader onward, and standing ready to open the gates of the city to him.

Boland and Servan could see no remedy for this state of things; but Madame Roland put a pen in Servan's hand, and dictated the following order: -

“In view of the approaching festival of the Great Federation and of the Anniversary of the Taking of the Bastille on July 14th, we strongly recommend the establishment of a camp of twenty thousand volunteers near Paris.”

But after writing the first clause, Servan dropped his pen.

“The king will never give his consent to this!” he exclaimed.

“It is not to the king that this measure should be proposed, but to the Assembly. Moreover, it is not as a member of the king's council you are to propose it, but as a private citizen.”

“You are right!” exclaimed Servan.”With this and an edict against the priests we shall be able to hold the king in check.”

“Yes, for the priests form the strongest Counter-Revo- lutionary factors in family life and society in general,” responded the clear-sighted woman.”The priesthood have added this article to the Creed. And those who pay their taxes shall be damned. Within the past six months fifty constitutional priests have been killed, their houses plundered, and their fields devastated. Now let the Assembly issue a strong edict against the rebellious priests. Finish your motion; Roland will prepare the other.”

Servan obeyed, while Roland wrote as follows: -

“Any rebellious priest may be sent ont of the kingdom at a month's notice, provided his removal be requested by twenty registered voters and approved by the officers of the district.”

“I will sign my proposal for a volunteer camp as if I were a private individual,” remarked Servan.

“And Vergniaud shall propose the decree against the priests,” cried the husband and wife almost in the same breath.

The very next day Servan read his motion before the Assembly, and Vergniaud put the other document in Lis pocket, promising to produce it at the first opportune moment.

The following evening Servan attended the Council as usual. His action in the Assembly was of course warmly discussed. Roland and Clavieres approved; Dumouriez, Lacoste, and Duranthon disapproved.

“You have taken a very important step to-day, monsieur,” remarked Dumouriez.

“I am perfectly well aware of it,” responded Servan.

“Had you any orders from the king to this effect-”

“No, monsieur.”

“Did you consult with your colleagues in relation to the measure-”

“No more than with the king, I admit.”

“Then what induced you to take this step-”

“Because I had an undoubted right to do so, both as a private individual and as a citizen.”

“Then it was as a private citizen you introduced this incendiary motion-”

“Yes.”

“Then why did yon add the title of Minister of War to your signature-”

“Because I desired to prove to the Assembly that as a public official I was ready to support my demands as a private citizen.”

“What you have done is unworthy both of an honest citizen and a royal minister,” exclaimed Dumouriez, much excited.

“Permit me to say that I must be my own judge in all matters affecting my conscience,” responded Servan.”If I desire any other judge in such delicate matters, his name will not be Dumouriez, I assure you.”

Dumouriez turned pale, and advanced a step towards Servan. Servan placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. Dumouriez did the same.

Just then, the king entered the room. He was still ignorant of Servan's action, and no further allusion was made to it at that time.

The next day, the Assembly began to discuss the motion to establish a camp of twenty thousand volunteers near Paris.

The king was overwhelmed with consternation on hearing this news, and sent for Dumouriez.

“You are a faithful subject, monsieur,” he remarked.”I know how faithfully and efficiently you have served the interests of royalty. You are certainly a striking contrast to that despicable Servan in this respect.”

“I thank your Majesty,” replied Dumouriez. Then, after a moment's pause, he added: -

“Is your Majesty aware that this obnoxious decree has passed the Assembly-”

“No. Still, that doesn’t matter. I had fully decided to exercise my right of veto in that event.”

Dumouriez shook his head.

“You would not advise it-”asked the king.

“Sire,” responded Dumouriez,”destitute as you are of all adequate means of resistance, and exposed to the suspicions of the greater part of the French nation, the hatred of the Jacobins, and the crafty policy of the Republican party, such an act on your part would be equivalent to a declaration of war against the Assembly.”

“So be it. I have been forced to make a declaration of war against my friends outside; I may as well make one against my enemies in this country.”

“Sire, in the one case you have a strong chance of success, in the other, an even stronger chance of defeat.”

“Is it possible that you do not understand the object of assembling these twenty thousand men-''

“If your Majesty will grant me five minutes, I hope to prove that I not only know the object of this action on the part of our enemies, but that I also know what the result of it will be.”

“Go on, monsieur; I am all attention.”

“The originators of this movement, Sire, are quite as much the country's enemies as the king's.”

“You see thfit! You admit that!” exclaimed the king.

“I will say even more. The accomplishment of their desires is likely to prove most disastrous to them.”

“Well, then -”

“Permit me, Sire-”

“Yes, yes! go on!”

“The Minister of War did very wrong to suggest the assembling of twenty thousand men near Paris while our armies are so weak, our frontier so unprotected, and our treasury so empty.”

“Wrong! I should say so.”

“It was not only wrong, but the height of imprudence on his part. It will be extremely dangerous to have such a large number of undisciplined troops near the Assembly, — troops that are likely to yield to the influence of the first ambitious person they come in contact with.”

“It is really the Girondists who are acting through Servan.”

“Yes, but the Girondists will not profit by it.”

“Perhaps the Feuillants will, then.”

“No, neither the Feuillants nor the Girondists, but the Jacobins, whose affiliations extend throughout the entire kingdom, and who will find about nineteen out of every twenty of these volunteers members of their society. You may rest assured that the originators of this measure will be ruined by it.”

“If I really thought that, it would console me,” said the king.

“In my opinion you can hardly do otherwise than sanction this edict, which — though instigated by the deepest malice and fiercely opposed by your friends — has nevertheless been enthusiastically adopted. Every one seems to be blind to the effects of this unfortunate measure; and, even if you vetoed it, it would be carried into execution just the same, and instead of having twenty thousand men assembled according to law, and consequently submissive to authority, at the approaching festival we should have forty thousand exasperated, excited men flocking in from the provinces,- enough to overturn the Constitution, the Assembly, and the Throne itself. If we had been the victors instead of the vanquished in the recent engagements,” added Dumouriez, lowering his voice,”and I could thus have had an excuse for making Lafayette commander-in- chief, and placing one hundred thousand men at his disposal, I should not advise you to sanction this decree; but we are worsted at home and abroad, so I strongly advise you to sign it.”

At that very moment, some one rapped at the door.”Come in!” said the king.

It was Thierry, one of the king's valets.

“Monsieur Duranthon, the Minister of Justice, desires to confer with you, Sire.”

“What can he want- Go and see, Dumouriez.”

The instant the minister left the room, the tapestry which concealed the door leading into the queen's apartment was lifted, and Marie Antoinette appeared.

“Be firm, Sire!” she exclaimed.”This Dumouriez is a Jacobin like all the rest. Didn’t he put on the red cap at their club- As for Lafayette, you know very well I would rather perish than owe my salvation to him.”

And as the sound of the minister's returning footsteps was heard, the tapestry fell, and the vision disappeared. Vol. in. — 23

CHAPTER CXXXII. THE VETO.

Just as the portiere fell, concealing one door, the other opened.

“Sire,” said Dumouriez,”the Minister of Justice comes to report that an edict against the priests, introduced by Vergniaud, has just passed the Assembly.”

“This is nothing more or less than a conspiracy,” cried the king, springing up.”How was this edict worded-”

“Here it is, Sire; Duranthon brought it to you. I thought your Majesty might honour me by giving me your opinion on it before conferring with the entire Council.”

“Very well. Give me the paper.”

The king read the decree aloud in an agitated voice; then, crumpling it up in his hands and'throwing it far from him, he exclaimed: -

“I will never sanction such a measure, never!”

“You must pardon me, Sire, if I say that I am again obliged to differ with your Majesty.”

“I may hesitate in political matters,monsieur,” responded the king,”but never in religious matters. In political matters, one must decide by means of the intellect, and that is liable to err; but in all religious matters I must decide in accordance with the dictates of conscience, and conscience is infallible.”

“But, Sire, more than a year ago you approved the law requiring priests to take the oath to support the Constitution.”

“But I was forced to do it.”

“That was the proper time to affix your veto, Sire. This edict is only the natural outcome of the first. The first edict has been productive of boundless evil in France; this second edict provides a remedy for those evils. It is severe, perhaps, but not cruel. The first decree was armed against religion, and prevented freedom of thought in matters of worship. The new law is purely political in its nature, and tends to insure public safety and tranquillity. It also protects unperjured priests from persecution. Your veto, instead of protecting them, will deprive them of legal protection, and thereby endanger their lives. I think, Sire, — you will, I am sure, pardon a soldier's frankness, — I think that, having approved the former decree, which made the oath of allegiance compulsory, your veto of the second decree, which can alone prevent the impending deluge of blood, would make your Majesty responsible for the crimes to which it is sure to lead.”

“And to what greater crimes can it lead than those already committed-”demanded a voice from the farther end of the room.

Dumouriez started, for he recognised the queen's clear, rather metallic tones.

“Ah, madame, I should have greatly preferred settling this matter with the king,” he exclaimed.

“Monsieur,” the queen responded, with a bitter smile at Dumouriez, and an almost scornful glance at the king,”I have only one question to put to you.”

“And what is that, madame-;'

“Do you think that the king ought to submit any longer to Roland's threats, Servan's knavery, and Clavieres' insolence-”

“No, madame. I am as indignant on that subject as you can possibly be. I even marvel at the king's patience; and, as the subject has come up, I earnestly implore the king to make an entire change in his cabinet.”

“Entire-” repeated the king.

“Yes. I strongly advise your Majesty to dismiss all six of us, and select advisers who are not identified with any particular party, provided such persons can be found.”

“No, no,” protested the king;”I want you to remain, you and Lacoste and Duranthon, — but pray do me the favour to rid me of those three insolent mischief-makers, for I swear to you my patience is exhausted.”

“It is a dangerous undertaking, Sire.”

“And you shrink from danger-” asked the queen.

“No, madame; but I must impose certain conditions.”

“And what are they-”demanded the queen, haughtily.

“I am the target of the three political factions. The Feuillants, the Girondists, and the Jacobins are all fighting inc. I have lost my popularity; and as one cannot hold the reins of government unless one has the support of public sentiment, I can really be of service only under one condition.”

“Well-”

“It must be publicly announced, Sire, that I — I and my two colleagues — remain in the Cabinet only to sanction the two decrees which have just passed the Assembly.”

“That cannot be I”cried the king.

“Impossible!”cried the queen.

“You refuse-”

“My worst enemy could not impose harder conditions upon me, monsieur,” said the king.

“But, upon my word of honour as a gentleman and a soldier, I believe them essential to your safety, Sire.”

Then, turning to the queen, he added:”Madame, I do not say this for your own sake, for I know that the brave daughter of Maria Theresa not only scorns danger, but, like her royal mother, is ever eager to welcome it; but pray remember that you are not alone. Think of the king. think of your children, and, instead of pushing them into the abyss, join hands with me in endeavouring to hold his Majesty back from the precipice over which his throne is tottering.”

Then, addressing himself directly to the king, he added:

“If I thought your sanction of these decrees advisable before, your desire to dismiss these three secretaries makeg your indorsement of these obnoxious measures indispenr sable. Otherwise, the people will be sure to regard you as an enemy to the Constitution, the discharged ministers will pose as martyrs, and your crown and your life will both be in imminent danger. So far as I myself am concerned, I warn your Majesty that, even to serve you, I cannot go contrary — I will not say to my principles — but to my convictions. Duranthon and Lacoste think exactly as I do, though I am not authorised to speak for them. 80 far as I myself am concerned, as I said before, sire, I cannot remain in the Cabinet unless your Majesty sanctions both these measures.”

The king made an impatient movement.

Dumouriez bowed, and started towards the door.

The king exchanged a rapid glance with the queen.

“Monsieur Dumouriez!” said her Majesty.

Dumouriez paused.

“Do you realise, monsieur,” she continued,”how hard it is for the king to sanction a decree that brings to Paris twenty thousand miscreants who may murder us-”

“The danger is great, I know, madame. All the more reason we should face, but not exaggerate it. The decree authorises the Executive to select the place of encampment, and permits the Secretary of War to appoint the officers and decide on the mode of organisation.”

“And the Minister of War is Servan-”

“No, Sire. From the moment of Servan's retirement, the Minister of War will be myself -”

“You-”exclaimed the king.

“You Minister of War!”repeated the queen.

“Yes, madame, and I hope to turn against your enemies the sword now suspended over your heads. Suppose I should select Soissons as the place of encampment, and appoint as commander some firm, wise, loyal lieutenant- general, with two trusty marshals as subordinates. They could form these men into battalions; and as there would be four or five of these divisions, the Minister of War might take advantage of some of the requests of generals in the field to send more or less of these troops to the frontier. In that event this decree will be of positive service to us, though passed with the intention of injuring us.”

“But are you sure of obtaining permission to establish the camp at Soissons-”

“Beyond a doubt.”

“In that case, take the War Department.”

“As Minister of Foreign Affairs, Sire, the responsibility devolving upon me is comparatively slight; but as Minister of War, it will be very different. Your generals are all bitter enemies of mine. You have just had convincing proofs of their incompetence. I shall be held accountable for all their shortcomings; but as your Majesty's life, as well as the lives of the queen and your children, are at stake, as well as the maintenance of the Constitution, I accept the task. We are entirely agreed concerning the indorsement of the edict assembling the twenty thousand volunteers, I understand.”

“As you are Secretary of War, I shall leave that matter entirely to you.”

“And how about the decree in regard to the priests-”

“I shall never give my consent to that, as I told you before.”

“But your sanction of this decree becomes an absolute necessity, by reason of your sanction of the former edict concerning the priesthood, as I explained a few minutes ago.”

“Because I committed one fault, for which I reproach myself severely, -is that a reason why I should be guilty of another even greater than the first-”

“Sire!” exclaimed the queen, warningly.

Louis turned to his wife in evident astonishment.”You, too, madame-” he exclaimed.

“Sire, I must acknowledge that, after hearing your minister's explanation, I entirely agree with him on this point,” remarked the queen.

“In that case -”said the king.

“Well, sire-”said Dumouriez.

“I consent, but only on condition that you rid me of those three obnoxious ministers as soon as possible.”

“Believe me, Sire, I will take advantage of the very first opportunity to do so, and I feel sure this opportunity will soon present itself.”

And, bowing low to their Majesties, Dumouriez withdrew. The royal couple gazed after their new Minister of War until the door closed behind him.

“You made me a sign to accede to his proposal,” said the king.”Now what have you to say in regard to it-”

“Sanction the military measure tirst. Let the camp be established at Soissons, then let Dumouriez scatter the men as he suggests. Afterwards,-well, afterwards, we will see what it is best to do about the other decree.”

“But he will hold me to my promise, madame.”

“In the mean time he will have compromised himself, and you will have him completely in your power.”

“On the contrary, it is he who will have me completely in his power, madame. I have given him my word.”

“Nonsense! there's a remedy for that when one has been reared by Monsieur de la Vauguyon!”

And, taking the king's arm, she led him into the adjoining room.

CHAPTER CXXXIII. THE OPPORTUNITY.

As we have previously remarked, the real war now was between the Rue Guenegand and the Tuileries,- between Madame Roland and the qneen.

Strange to say, both these women exerted an influence over their husbands which led all four to their death, though they travelled there by exactly opposite roads.

The events which we have narrated took place on June 10th. On the evening of the following day, Servan entered Madame Roland's little salon in the best of spirits.

“Congratulate me, my friend,” he exclaimed.”I have had the honour of being turned out of the Cabinet.”

“Indeed!”exclaimed Madame Roland.

“It is a fact. This morning I went to the Tuileries to see the king about several matters connected with my department, and when these had been attended to, I broached the subject of the camp for twenty thousand volunteers; but at the very first word I uttered on that subject his Majesty turned his back on me, and this evening Dumouriez came, in the king's name, to relieve me of the War portfolio.”

“Dumouriez-”

“Yes.”

“He is playing a despicable part, but that does not surprise me. Ask Roland what T said to him in relation to that man the first evening he called here. Besides, we have it on very good authority that he holds daily conferences with the queen.”

“He is a traitor.”

“No, but he is exceedingly ambitious. Go and find Boland and Clavieres.”

“Where is Roland-”

“He is attending to his duties at the Interior department.”

“And how do you intend to occupy yourself in the mean time-”

“I am going to write a letter which I will show you on your return. Go!”

“You are certainly that famous Goddess of Reason whom philosophers have so long invoked.”

“And whom conscientious people have found. Don't come back without Clavieres.”

“That will probably necessitate some delay.”

“I need an hour.”

“Take it; and may the Genius of France inspire you!”

Servan departed, and the door had scarcely closed behind him before Madame Roland was at her desk inditing the following letter: -

Sire:

The present condition of affairs in France cannot last long. The crisis is at hand, and the explosion that is sure to ensue will affect your Majesty as much as, the entire country.

Honoured with your confidence and placed in a position where I owe you the truth, I shall venture to speak it. Indeed, this is an obligation which you yourself have imposed upon me.

The French people have had a Constitution bestowed upon them. It makes some persons discontented, and some rebellious; but a majority of the people wish to maintain it, and have sworn to do so at the cost of their lives, if need be. They have even greeted with joy a civil war which seems likely to afford them an effectual means of insuring the maintenance of the Constitution.

Meanwhile, the minority, buoyed up by hopo, have strained every nerve to gain the advantage; hence a continual struggle against the laws, and the anarchy which all good citizens deplore, but which opponents of the Constitution have used aa a pretext for deriding the new order of things. From this same cause, too, arises the dissensions which are continually showing themselves; for indifference is nowhere apparent. There is a universal demand for either the abolition or the maintenance of the Constitution.

I abstain from any examination into, or criticism of, the Constitution at this present time, and confine myself simply to the exigencies of the case.

Your Majesty enjoyed certain important prerogatives which you believe rightfully pertain to royalty. Reared with the idea of maintaining these prerogatives, it is naturally unpleasant to you to see them taken away; and a desire for their restoration, on your part, is as natural as your regret at their abolition.

These feelings, which are only natural to the human heart, have entered into the calculations of the enemies of the Revolution, and they have counted upon your secret favour until circumstances permit of open protection. These tendencies do not escape the notice of the nation, and very naturally excite distrust.

Your Majesty has consequently been continually compelled to choose between the two alternatives of yielding to former habits aud personal preferences, or of making those personal sacrifices which philosophy prompts and necessity demands. This has caused you to doubt whether it would be better to encourage the malcontents who are disturbing the peace of the nation, or appease the masses by uniting yourself with them. Everything has an end, however, and the end of this uncertainty has come at last.

Now, will his Majesty openly ally himself with those who pretend to desire to amend the Constitution, or generously and unreservedly devote himself to insuring its success 1 This is the question which inevitably arises from the present condition of things.

The discussion of that profound metaphysical problem as to whether the French people are, or are not, prepared for liberty, is not in order here, for it does not matter so much what our nation may be a century hence, as to discover of what the present generation is capable.

The declaration of human rights has become a political gospel, and the Constitution a religion, for which the people are willing to die. This spirit of enthusiasm has risen to such a pitch that it has sometimes taken the law into its own hands where the law itself was not strong enough to repress disturbers of the peace. In this way, the estates and property of emigres, or of persons known to be in sympathy with them, have been exposed to revengeful ravages; and it is in consequence of this fact that the authorities in many departments have been obliged to deal so severely with priests whom pnblic opinion has proscribed and victimised.

In this shock of conflicting interests, feelings and prejudices have very naturally become intensified, and our country is no longer merely a phrase for the imagination to dwell upon and embellish, but a living, sentient being for which sacrifices must be made, and which becomes all the more dear to us by reason of the very solicitude it arouses in our breasts. The nation has been created by herculean efforts, reared in the midst of anxiety, and loved quite as much on account of all it has cost us as on account of the hopes it embodies. Hence, every attack made upon it only adds just so much more fuel to the popular enthusiasm felt for it.

To what heights will this enthusiasm not arise when the united forces of our foreign enemies combine with internecine conspiracies and intrigues against our nation!

The excitement is intense in every part of the kingdom, and is sure to result in a frightful explosion unless it is quieted by a reasonable amount of confidence in your Majesty's intentions, — a coufideuce which cannot be established by protestations, but must be based upon irrefutable proofs- It is evident to the Freuch nation that the Constitution will become an established fact, and the government become endowed with all needful power, as soon as your Majesty is ready to sustain them both to the full extent of your ability as chief executive, to allay the anxiety of the people, and refuse any further aid and encouragement to malcontents.

For example, two important decrees have just been passed by the Assembly, — decrees which intimately affect public tranquillity and the welfare of the State. Your delay in signing these edicts arouses distrust, and, if it be prolonged, is sure to create deep dissatisfaction, which in the present state of perturbation may lead — I feel compelled to say — to frightful excesses.

It is impossible to draw back now, — further temporising is out of the question. The Revolution has gained a powerful ascendency over our minds, and will become an accomplished fact, even at the cost of rivers of blood, unless your Majesty promptly avails yourself of the means of averting these misfortunes while there is yet time.

I am well aware that many persons are of the opinion that anything can be prevented or accomplished by extreme measures; but if force should be employed to constrain the Assembly, — if a reign of terror should be inaugurated in Paris, — all France would rise in indignation, and, engulfed in the horrors of a civil war, the nation would develop that gloomy energy — the mother alike of virtues an.l of crimes — which always proves fatal to those who arouse it.

The welfare of the State aud the happiness of your Majesty are closely connected. No human power can separate them. Cruel suffering and dire misfortunes are certain to environ your throne, unless you establish it on a constitutional basis, aud strengthen it by the peace and tranquillity the Constitution must eventually secure to us.

It is evident, therefore, that the state of public sentiment, political policy, the general course of events, and your Majesty's own interests, all combine to make it absolutely necessary that you should unite with the Assembly in assenting to the desires of the nation. These same reason- render what conscience sets forth as, a duty a necessity as well; but the natural sensibility of an affectionate people is ready and even eager to seize upon any pretext for manifesting its gratitude to you.

You have been cruelly deceived, Sire, by those who have taught you to distrust the people, and have alienated you from subjects Bo affectionately inclined towards you. It is this distrust on your pan, doubtless, that ho* caused you to adopt a course that creates so much dissatisfaction; but let it be seen that you are determined to do everything in your power to insure the success of that Constitution upon which your subjects set such store, and you -› ill soon become once more the object of their fervent blessings.

The behaviour of the priests in many localities, the pretexts which fanaticism furnishes to disturbers of the public peace, has made it necessary to pass a law against such agitators. Would that your Majesty could see fit to promptly sanction this decree! Public tranquillity imperatively demands it. The safety pf the priesthood demands it. If this law is not put into operation, the authorities in the departments will be obliged to adopt violent measures, as has already been done in many places, and th«exasperated people will rush into all sorts of excesses.

The efforts of our enemies, the agitation apparent in the capital, the anxiety excited by the conduct of your guards, the satisfaction your Majesty evinces in a proclamation which was certainly extremely impolitic, to say the least, in the face of existing circumstances, the situation of Paris, its close proximity to the frontier, -›- make the establishment of a military camp in our immediate neighbourhood an imperative necessity.

This measure, whose wisdom and prudence commeqd it to all sensible persons, still awaits your Majesty's sanction. Why does delay impart an air of reluctance and regret to this sanction, when a prompt assent would win all hearts f

Already the opposition of the staff officers of the Paris National Guards to this measure baa excited the suspicion that this opposition is instigated by those high in authority. If there be much more delay, the disappointed populace will begin to regard their sovereign as the friend and accomplice of conspirators.

Just Heaven! hast thou afflicted the monarchs of the earth with blindness f Will they never accept any counsel but that which leads to ruin f

I know that the stern language of truth is rarely heard and is 'sehloln welcome near the throne. I know, too, that the reason revolutions become necessary is due to this very fact, that the truth is so rarely heard by royalty. I know, too, that I owe it to your Majesty, not only as a private citizen amenable to the laws, but also as a cabinet minister honoured with your confidence, or at least invested with functions which imply this confidence on your part; and 1 know of nothing that can prevent me from fulfilling the duty my conscience imposes upon me.

It is in this same spirit I reiterate my firm belief in the urgent necessity, as Well as the expediency, of complying with the requirements of the law which ordains the appointment of a recording secretary for your Council. It is of the utmost importance that the deliberations of the Council should be characterised by gravity, wisdom, and prudence; and if Cabinet ministers are to be held accountable, their opinions and acts should be duly recorded. Had such a record been kept, I should not be writing to your Majesty at this moment.

Life is of very little consequence to a man who considers his duty of paramount importance; but next to the happiness of feeling that his duty has been fulfilled, is that of being able to prove that it has been faithfully performed; and, in fact, this last may justly be regarded a duty on the part of any public man. June 10th, 1792,

The Year IV. of Liberty.

Madame Roland was just finishing her letter when Servan, Clavieres, and Roland came in.

In a few words she unfolded her plan. The letter which she now proceeded to read to them was to be read to the other three ministers on the following day.

They would either approve it and append their signatures to it, or reject it; and, in the latter case, Servan and Clavieres would immediately tender their resignation, impelled to do so by this refusal on the part of their colleagues to sign a letter which seemed to express the real sentiments and desires of the French people.

Then they would lay the letter before the National Assembly, in order that there might be no doubt as to the cause of the withdrawal of these three patriots from the Cabinet.

The letter proved eminently satisfactory to the three friends. There was not a single word that they desired to change; but it was very different when the letter was submitted to Dumouriez, Duranthon, and Lacoste the next day.

All three of them declared that they cordially approved the sentiments therein contained, but differed in regard to the manner of expressing them. At last they declined to sign the letter, on the plea that it would be better to communicate its contents to the king in person.

That same evening Roland sent the letter to the king, signed by himself alone; and almost immediately Lacoste sent Roland and Clavieres their dismissal.

The desired opportunity was not long in presenting itself, as Dumouriez had prediated, and the king had not been slow in availing himself of it.

The next day Roland's letter was read in the Assembly, together with the announcement of his dismissal, and that of his two colleagues, Clavieres and Servan.

The Assembly declared, by an overwhelming majority, that the three ministers merited the sincere gratitude of their countrymen.

So war was declared both inside and outside of the boundaries of France; and the Assembly was only waiting to learn the king's intentions concerning the two decrees before dealing the opening blows.

Portrait of Jean Marie Roland. Photo-Etching. — From Engraving by Levachez.

CHAPTER CXXXIV. MONSIEUR DE LA VAUGUYON'S PUPIL.

Just as the Assembly was passing a vote of thanks to the three retiring ministers, and issuing an order to have Roland's letter printed and distributed through all the different departments of the kingdom, Dumouriez entered the hall.

His bravery was acknowledged, but no one had supposed he was so audacious.

He had heard what was going on, and had come to take the bull by the horns.

A remarkable report on the condition of the military forces of the kingdom furnished a pretext for his visit. As Minister of War he had prepared this report, with the assistance of the others, in a single night. It was an attack upon Servan; but as Servan had only been Minister of War for ten or twelve days, the blame really fell upon De Grave and his predecessor, Narbonne.

Dumouriez was in the best of spirits. He had just left the king, who had renewed his promise to sanction the two decrees, and had even declared that some of the clergy, whom he had consulted in order to satisfy his conscience, were of the same opinion as Dumouriez in regard to the matter.

So the Minister of War walked straight to the platform in the midst of a frightful hubbub, and coolly demanded a hearing.

It was granted, and the intense curiosity to hear what he had to say produced a calm.

“Gentlemen, General Gouvion has just been killed. God has rewarded him for his courage. He died fighting the enemies of France. He was fortunate, indeed. He was not a witness of our disgraceful dissensions. I envy him his fate!”

These words, uttered with great dignity and an air of profound melancholy, made a deep impression on the Assembly. Moreover, the announcement of Gouvion's death diverted the attention of the deputies from the topic under consideration. They began to consider what action the Assembly ought to take in the matter, and it was finally decided that the president should send a letter of condolence to the general's family.

After this Dumouriez again requested a hearing, and it was granted him.

He then drew his report from his pocket, but had hardly read the little statement of the War Department before the Girondists and Jacobins began to hoot and yell, in order to prevent him from concluding the document.

But, in spite of the noise and confusion, he read the opening paragraphs in such clear, ringing tones that his audience could not help discovering that this exordium strongly censured party dissensions, and also enlarged upon the respect due a cabinet minister.

Such assurance on his part was well calculated to exasperate his hearers, even if they had not been incensed beforehand.

“Just hear him!” cried Guadet.”He feels his power so much already that he dares to take us to task.”

“And why not-” retorted Dumouriez, coolly, turning and looking his opponent full in the face.

This exhibition of audacity quite vanquished his adversaries, or at least, being anxious to hear what he had to say, they listened.

The report was clear, exhaustive, and able; and, in spite of the prejudice against the minister, he was twice applauded.

As Lacue'e, a member of the Committee on Military Affairs, rose to reply, Dumouriez rolled up the report, and seemed about to replace it in his pocket.

The Girondists observed the movement; and one of them called out:”Look at the traitor. He is putting his report in his pocket. He means to run off with it. Let us prevent it. The document will serve to confound him by and by.”

On hearing these cries, Dumouriez, who had not made a single movement towards the door, took the report from his pocket, and handed it to an usher.

A secretary took it from him, and glanced over the last page in search of the signature.

“Gentlemen, this report is not signed,” he remarked.

“Sign it! sign it!” resounded from all sides.

“That was certainly my intention,” responded Dumouriez.”It was drawn up so carefully I feel no hesitancy about signing my name to it. Give me a pen and ink.”

Some one offered him a quill wet with ink; and Dumouriez, placing one foot on the steps of the platform, signed the report on his knee.

The usher attempted to take it again; but Dumouriez pushed him aside, and walked up and deposited the report on the presiding officer's desk himself. Then he sauntered out of the hall, pausing occasionally to exchange a few words with friends here and there.

His entry had been greeted with jeers and yells; but his departure was attended with breathless silence, and the spectators in the galleries hurried out to take another look at the man who had dared to defy the entire Assembly.

Several Royalist deputies also left the hall and hastened after Dumouriez. In their opinion, there could not be the slightest doubt that Dumouriez had gone over to their party; and this was precisely what Dumouriez had foreseen, and resolved to guard against when he made the king promise to sign the two edicts.

“Well, general, there's the very devil to pay in there,” remarked one of these deputies.

“That's quite proper, as I think it more than likely the devil is at the bottom of it.”

“They are even talking of sending you to Orleans to be tried.”

“That's all right. I need a rest, and I can take the baths and get plenty of fresh milk aiid quiet there.”

Surrounded by such an escort, Dumouriez repaired to the palace, where the king greeted him most cordially, for the Minister of War had now compromised himself irretrievably.

The new Council was already in session. For Minister of the Interior, Dumouriez had proposed Mourgues, a Protestant, a member of several scientific societies, and a former member of the Feuillant Club; and the king had accepted him.

For Minister of Foreign Affairs, he had proposed Maulde, Se'inonville, or Naillac; and the king had selected Naillac.

As Minister of Finance, he had suggested Vergennes, a nephew of the former secretary; but though this nomination was entirely acceptable to the king, that gentleman declined the honour.

It was consequently decided that for a brief period the duties of Secretary of the Treasury should be performed by the Secretary of the Interior, and that, while waiting for the return of Naillac, who was out of the city, Dumouriez should continue in charge of Foreign Affairs.

These four ministers did not attempt to blind themselves to the gravity of the situation, and agreed among themselves that they would resign if, after the dismissal of Roland, Servan, and Clavieres, the king did not keep the promise which was the price of this dismissal.

As we have remarked, before the new Council was already in session, and the king knew what had occurred at the Assembly, he congratulated Dumouriez heartily on the firm stand he had taken, and immediately signed the decree for the establishment of a military camp, but announced his intention of deferring his sanction of the edict concerning the priests until the next day, as he still felt some scruples which might be dispelled by his confessor.

The ministers glanced at one another; an unpleasant suspicion flitted through their minds. Still, this delay might really be needed to strengthen the king's rather timid conscience.

The next day the Council again called the king's attention to the matter. The night's reflection seemed to have accomplished its work. The king's will, if not his conscience, had become strengthened, for he announced his intention of vetoing the edict.

One after another, the ministers — Dumouriez first, as it was to him that the royal promise had been personally given — protested strongly, but respectfully.

The king listened with closed eyes, after the manner of a man who has fully made up his mind. When they had all had their say, he replied:”Gentlemen, I have already written to the President of the Assembly, informing him of my decision. One of you will countersign it, and then all four of you will take the letter to the Assembly.”

This was an order issued in the manner of the old regime, but not much to the taste of ministers made responsible for their every act by the Constitution.

“Sire, have you any other orders to give-” asked Dumouriez, after another interchange of glances with his colleagues.

“No,” answered the king, curtly, and then left the room. The ministers held a hurried conference, and decided to request an audience for the following day, when they would resign in a body, without offering any explanation.

Dumouriez returned home. There he found notes from three different persons announcing dangerous gatherings in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and secret conferences at Santerre's house; and he immediately wrote to the king warning him.

An hour afterwards he received a note, not signed by the king, but in his handwriting, saying: -

“Do not imagine, monsieur, that I am to be intimidated by threats. My miml is made up.”

Dumouriez seized a pen and wrote, in his turn: -

Sire:

V.in misjudge me if yon suppose me capable of resorting to such means to maintain my position. My colleagues and myself have the honour to request the favour of an audience at ten o'clock tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I beg your Majesty to have the goodness to accept my resignation, and to select a successor who can take my place withiu twenty-four hours.

He despatched this note by a messenger in order to make sure of a reply. The messenger left at midnight; half an hour afterwards, he returned with the following note: -

“I will meet my ministers at ten to-morrow, and we will talk over what you have written.”

The Counter-Revolution was evidently progressing fast at the palace. Royalty must feel that it had some reliable support.

First, there was the Constitutional Guard. True, the men had been disbanded, but they were ready to respond to the first call.

Then there were seven or eight thousand Knights of the Order of St. Louis, and three Swiss battalions of sixteen hundred men each,-a formidable body of men, firm as the rocks of old Helvetia.

Better than all was a letter from Lafayette, in which the following paragraph occurred: -

“Stand firm, Sire. Strong in the authority conferred upon you by tho National Assembly, you will find all good Frenchmen arrayed in defence of your throne!”

It was evident, therefore, that something might be done to stay the on-rushing tide, after all. The plan was this: to reassemble the Constitutional Guards, and summon the Knights of St. Louis and the Swiss mercenaries; then, on the same day and at the same hour, close the Assembly and the Jacobin Club, convene all the Royalist members of the National Guard, — about fifteen thousand men, all told, — and then await the arrival of Lafayette, who by forced marches could reach Paris from Ardennes in three days.

But unfortunately the queen would not listen to the idea of Lafayette's assisting them. He was a moderate Revolutionist, and the queen thought a moderate Revolution might establish itself upon a lasting basis, while a Jacobin Revolution was sure to run itself out in a short time.

Oh, if Charny were only there! But no one knew where Charny was, or, if they did, felt that it would be too humiliating to the woman, if not to the queen, to send for him after all that had passed.

The night was spent in heated discussion at the palace. The court had means of defence, and even of attack, but there was no strong, capable hand to direct and arrange.

The next morning, at ten o'clock, the ministers appeared. This was June the 16th. The king received them.

Duranthon acted as spokesman, and respectfully tendered the joint resignations of himself and colleagues.

“I understand,” responded the king.”It is a question of accountability.”

“Yes, Sire, of royal accountability,” responded Lacoste.”You cannot doubt that we are ready and willing to die for your Majesty; but by dying for a pack of mischief-making priests, we should only hasten the downfall of royalty.”

“Do you still entertain the same sentiments you expressed in your letter-” asked the king, turning to Dumouriez.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Very well,” answered the king, gloomily.”If your minds are fully made up, there is nothing for me to do but accept your resignations.”

All four bowed respectfully.

There were several courtiers waiting in the anteroom. They watched the ministers as they came out, and saw by the expression of their faces that their reign was over. Some rejoiced, others were terrified. The atmosphere was heavy, and every one felt that a violent storm was impending.

At the gate of the Tuileries, Dumouriez met Roumain- villiers, the commander of the National Guards. He seemed to be greatly excited.

“I have come for orders, monsieur,” he exclaimed.

“I am no longer Minister of War,”answered Dumouriez.

“But there are riotous meetings in several of the districts.”

“Go to the king for your orders.”

“But the case is urgent.”

“Make haste, then. The king has accepted our resignations.”

Roumainvilliers ran upstairs.

On June 17th, Dumouriez received a visit from Cham- bonnas and Lajard, who came in compliance with the king's order, — Chambonnas to receive the portfolio of Foreign Affairs, and Lajard, the War portfolio.

On the morning of the 18th, Dumouriez went to the palace to submit the account of secret expenditures in his department. Many persons, on seeing him re-enter the Tuileries, fancied he must have been reinstated, and stepped up to congratulate him.

“Be careful, gentlemen,” remarked Dumouriez.”You have to deal, not with a man who is coming in, but going out. I came to submit my accounts.”

After that, every one seemed disposed to keep at a safe distance.

Presently an usher entered, and announced that the king would see General Dumouriez in his bed-chamber.

The monarch seemed to have regained his wonted serenity. The examination of the accounts being concluded, Dumouriez rose.

“So you are going to join Luckner-” said the king, turning around in his arm-chair.

“Yes, Sire, I shall be glad indeed to turn my back upon this detestable city. I have but one regret, — that is to leave you in such peril.”

“I am always in more or less danger, I suppose,” responded the king, indifferently.

“Sire, you must understand that I cannot be actuated by self-interest in what I say to you now. Once out of your Cabinet, I am for ever separated from you. It is from a feeling of the deepest regard and attachment to yourself and from a sincere love of country, — in short, it is for the sake of your crown, your wife, and your children, — it is in the name of all that is dear and sacred to the heart of man, that I entreat your Majesty not to persist in vetoing this bill. Such obduracy on your part will do no good; on the contrary, it will prove your ruin.”

“Say no more,” exclaimed the king, impatiently.”My decision is made.”

“Sire, Sire, you said the very same thing in this very room and in the queen's presence when you promised to sanction both those edicts.”

“I did very wrong to make such a promise, and I have repented of it.”

“Sire, I repeat — and as this is the last time I shall have the honour of seeing you, you will, I hope, pardon my frankness — that you were not wrong when you promised to sanction these decrees, but you are wrong to-day, when you refuse to keep your promise. Your advisers are taking advantage of your conscientious scruples, and are urging you on into a civil war. But you are not strong enough. You will soon be obliged to succumb; and history, while it will pity you, will also reproach you as the cause of our country's misfortunes.”

“Our country's misfortunes!” repeated the monarch.”Do you mean to say that I shall be held accountable for them-”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Yet God is my witness that my chief desire in life is for her happiness.”

“I haven't a doubt of it, Sire; but you are accountable to God, not only for the purity, but also for the wisdom of your intentions. You think you are doing religion a service. Ou the contrary, you are destroying it. Your priests will be massacred; your broken crown will be steeped in your own blood and in the blood of the queen, and perhaps of your children, even! Oh, my king! my king!”

Overwhelmed with emotion, Dumouriez seized the hand which the monarch extended to him and pressed it passionately to his lips.

“You are right, monsieur,” the king said, with a perfect dignity and serenity of which one would hardly have believed him capable;”I know that I shall die a violent death, and I forgive my murderers in advance. As for you, you have served me faithfully and well, I esteem you highly, and I am truly grateful to you for the kindly feeling you display, and for your sympathy. Farewell, monsieur.”

And, rising hastily, the king retired into the embrasure of a window.

Dumouriez gathered his papers together slowly, in order to have time to compose his countenance; then he walked reluctantly to the door, ready to turn back at the slightest intimation from the king, but none came.

“Farewell, monsieur, may happiness attend you!” exclaimed the king.

After these words there was no excuse for tarrying any longer, and Dumouriez withdrew.

Royalty had thrown aside its sole remaining prop. The king had dropped his mask, and stood with uncovered face before his people.

Now let us see what these people were doing.

CHAPTER CXXXV. A CONFERENCE AT CHARENTON.

All day a man dressed in a general's uniform, and mounted on a big Flemish steed, has been riding through the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, kissing the pretty girls, and giving the young men the wherewithal to get a drink.

This man is one of the six officers who have succeeded Lafayette in the command of the National Guards. In short, this man is Santerre.

Near him, likewise mounted on a sturdy horse, is a man whose attire proclaims him to be a patriot from the rural districts. There is a deep scar on his forehead, and his expression is as morose and threatening as Santerre's is frank and genial.”Hold yourselves in readiness, my friends. Traitors are plotting against the nation, but we are on the alert!”so says Santerre.

“But what are we to do, Monsieur Santerre-” query the citizens.”You know we are with you, heart and soul. Where are the traitors you speak of- Let us confront them.”

“Wait until the proper moment comes,” replies Santerre.

“Is it near at hand-”

Santerre does not know, but he answers at a venture:”Yes, yes, have no fears. You”ll be duly notified.”

The man following Santerre bends over his horse's neck and whispers in the ear of certain persons with whom he has exchanged certain signs:”The 20th of June.”

These men move away with these words on their lips. At a distance of ten, or twenty, or thirty yards groups gather around them, and the same words are passed from lip to lip.

What is to happen on the 20th of June- No one knows as yet; but this much they do know, on the 20th of June something is to be done.

Among the men to whom this intelligence is imparted are several who are no strangers to us.

There is Saint-Huruge, whom we saw on his way to Versailles on October 5th, 1789, aud who is continually longing to have his revenge on the nobility, and even upon royalty, for his conjugal misfortunes and his illegal incarceration in the Bastille.

You recognise Verrie'res, too, do you not- You saw him in the wine-shop at the Sevres Bridge in company with Marat and the Duke of Aiguillon, and again on the Champ de Mars a moment before the tiring began.

There is Fournier, too, who fired at Lafayette through the spokes of a carriage-wheel, but whose weapon fortunately missed fire. He promised himself then that he would aim higher than the commander-in-chief of the National Guard next time.

There is Monsieur de Beausire, who has not mended his ways in the least since we relegated him to a place in the background, and since he recovered his Oliva from the arms of the dying Mirabeau.

That short, lame, bandy-legged fellow, almost concealed from sight in the voluminous folds of an enormous tri- coloured sash, is Mouchy.

The man standing near him is Gonchon, the Mirabeau of the people, who was once declared by Pitou to be even more ugly than the Mirabeau of the nobility,- Gonchon, who mysteriously vanishes after each outbreak, exactly as if he were a part of the spectacle, only to reappear afterwards more terrible. more bitter, more venomous than ever, like a demon of whom his author has only momentary need.

Sauntering up and down through the crowd that had assembled around the ruins of the Bastille, as if upon a sort of modern Aventine, is a pale, slender young man, with smoothly brushed hair and eyes of fire; solitary as the eagle, which he will one day choose as his emblem, acquainted with no one, and a stranger to all.

This is Bonaparte, a lieutenant of artillery who happens to be spending his furlough in Paris; and Cagliostro's strange prediction to Gilbert at the meeting of the Jacobin Club may recur to the reader's mind.

To whom is this excited throng eagerly listening- To a man of powerful frame, with a roaring voice and hair like a lion's mane, — Danton.

It is here and now that this terrible man, hardly known heretofore, except by reason of the commotion he created in the pit of the Theatre Francais during the performance of Che'nier's”Charles the Ninth,” and his awful eloquence at the Cordelier Club, makes his first real appearance on the political arena.

Whence comes this man's power, which is destined to prove so fatal to royalty- From the queen herself.

She would not have Lafayette for Mayor of Paris, this revengeful Austrian! She preferred Pe'tion, her surly travelling companion on the journey from Varennes; and he had hardly been installed as mayor before he began his fight with the king by again placing the Tuileries under surveillance.

When he assumed the duties of his new office he appointed his friend Manuel, city solicitor, and Danton, his assistant.

Vergniaud, standing in the rostrum and pointing to the Tuileries, once exclaimed:”Often enough in days gone by have Terror and Dismay stalked forth from yonder palace in the name of Despotism. Now let Terror and Dismay re-enter it in the name of the Law.”

The hour has come when the Girondist orator's grand yet terrible figure of speech is to be literally verified. The terror which reigns rampant in the Saint-Antoine district is hastening with fierce yells and wildlj waving arms towards the palace erected by Catherine de' Medici. And who can encourage and urge it on as effectually as that dread magician of the revolution, Dan ton-

Danton has broad shoulders and a heavy hand. On one side, he influences the people through He'bert; on the other, he is in touch with the throne through Orleans,- so he stands midway between the petty booth-keeper on the street corner, and the prince royal on the steps of the throne.

It was very much as if Danton had in front of him an instrument in which each key corresponded with a social fibre. Run your eye over the gamut, which extends over two octaves, and is in full harmony with his powerful voice: He'bert, Legendre, Gonchon, Rossignol, Brune, Huguenin, Rotondo, Santerre, Fabre d'Eglantine, Camille Desmoulins, Dugazon, Sillery, Genlis, Lazouski, Momoro, and the Duke of Orleans.

Note, too, that we define only the visible boundaries of this power; but who shall say to what depths this influence descends, or to what heights it soars, -heights and depths far beyond the range of our vision.

On the 16th of June, Lazouski, a Pole, and one of Danton's warmest friends and admirers, requests, in the General Council of the Commune, permission for the residents of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and the Faubourg Saint-Marceau to assemble, with their arms, upon the Feuillant Terrace on the Anniversary of the Oath of the Tennis Court, to plant a liberty-tree there, and afterwards present petitions to the king and the Assembly in relation to the veto of the decree for the expulsion of refractory priests.

The Council refuses its sanction.

“We will dispense with it,” Danton whispers in Lazouski's ear.

“We will dispense with it, then,” Lazouski repeats aloud.

Danton makes an appointment to meet Santerre on the evening of the following day in a small house on the right bank of the Marne, in Charenton, and there all the arrangements for this great uprising of the people are perfected by the chiefs of the popular movement.

The motives that prompt these men are varied. Some are actuated by a love of liberty. Many, like Billot, are prompted by a desire for revenge. Much the greater number are influenced by hatred, poverty, and evil instincts.

On June 19th groups of people may be seen gathering on the site of the Bastille, in the neighbourhood of the arsenal, and in the Saint-Antoine district.

Suddenly a bold and fearless Amazon appears, clad in vivid scarlet, with a brace of pistols in her belt, and at her side a sword which is destined to seek and find the heart of Suleau.

This is The'roigne de Me'riconrt. We saw her on the road to Versailles that memorable October day. Where has she been in the mean time-

Lie'ge, her native city, rose in revolt. TheVoigne hastened to its aid; but she was arrested en route by Leopold's emissaries, and was incarcerated for eighteen months in an Austrian prison.

Did she make her escape secretly, or was she allowed to escape- Did she file her prison bars- Did she bribe her jailer- We cannot say; for everything connected with this woman is as mysterious as the beginning of her life, and as terrible as its ending.

However this may have been, she has returned. The wealthy courtesan has become the prostitute of the masses, and with the gold the nobles have given her she has purchased the finely tempered blade and richly embossed pistols with which she will smite the enemies of the people.

The populace recognise her, and welcome her with enthusiastic shouts.

On the evening of the same day the queen sees her gallop along the Terrace on her way from the Bastille to the Champs Elyse'es, where the grand patriotic banquet is to be held.

From the upper rooms of the Tuileries the queen can hear the outcries and see the well-spread tables. The wine-cup circulates freely, patriotic songs resound, and as each toast to the Assembly, the Girondists, and Liberty is drunk, the guests shake their fists threateningly at the Tuileries.

Dugazon, the actor, sings couplets ridiculing the king and queen; and from their palace the sovereigns can hear the wild applause that follows each verse.

Who are these feasters- Marseilles Federals led by Barbarous, who reached Paris the evening before.

The Tenth of August entered Paris on June 18th.

CHAPTER CXXXVI. THE TWENTIETH OF JUNE.

Daylight comes early in the month of June. By five o'clock in the morning the battalions had assembled. This time the emeute had been so systematically organised that it had almost the appearance of an invasion. The crowd had its recognised leaders; each man, too, had his appointed place, his rank, and his flag.

Santerre was on horseback, attended by many of the prominent citizens of his district. Billot did not leave Sauterre's side for an instant. One might have supposed some occult power had intrusted him with the duty of watching over his chief.

There were three divisions, the first commanded by Santerre, the second by Saint-Hurugue, the third by The'roigne de Me'ricourt.

About eleven o'clock, in obedience to an order brought by some unknown man, the immense throng took up its line of march. When it left the Bastille, the procession numbered about twenty thousand men.

They presented a strange and formidable appearance. Santerre's division made the most respectable showing. A good many of his men wore uniforms and carried muskets and bayonets as weapons; but the other two divisions were essentially an army of the people, ragged, emaciated, and haggard from four years of privation and famine.

They had neither guns nor uniforms. Their waistcoats were in tatters, their blouses torn, their only weapons such as they had been able to seize upon in the first moment of anger, — pikes, pitchforks, shovels, rusty spears, swords destitute of hilts, knife-blades fastened to long sticks, axes, masons' hammers, and shoemakers' knives.

For a standard, a gibbet with a doll, intended to represent the queen, dangling from it. There was a bull's head, too, with an obscene motto fastened to the horns; and a calf's heart stuck on the point of a spit, with the words:”The Heart of an Aristocrat!”

Then there were flags with such devices as: -

“Approve or Die!”

“Recall the Patriot Ministers!”

“Tremble, Tyrant! Thy Hour Has Come!”

On reaching the corner of the Rue Saint-Antoine, the procession divided.

Santerre and his division marched through the boulevards, Santerre in his uniform as chief of battalion.

Saint-Huruge rode a handsomely caparisoned steed brought to him by some unknown person. The'roigne de M amp;icourt reclined upon a cannon drawn by bare-armed men. These two divisions proceeded up the Rue Saint Antoine and through the Place Vendome to the Feuillant Terrace.

For nearly three hours this army marched by, drawing the populace in the districts through which it passed after it. It was like one of those torrents which leap and foam more and more madly as they increase in volume; for though the majority of the people were silent at first, the silence was soon broken at intervals by loud clamours, or by a verse of that famous (}a ira which had gradually changed from a song of encouragement to one of menace; and then arose shouts of”Long live the nation! Long live the Sans culottes! Down with Monsieur and Madame Veto!”

When Santerre's division, which carried the poplar-tree that was to be planted on the Feuillant Terrace, reached the Place VendSme, they encountered a detachment of National Guards placed there to bar their passage. It would have been an easy matter for this multitude to overpower this small body of troops; but no, the people only wanted to enjoy themselves, to be amused, and to terrify Monsieur and Madame Veto, not to kill anybody, so they abandoned their scheme of planting the liberty-tree on the terrace, and set it out in the courtyard of the old Capuchin Convent, instead.

The Assembly had heard these uproarious sounds nearly an hour, when messengers appeared with the request that the crowd be allowed the favour of passing in review before the National Assembly.

Vergniaud moved that the request be complied with, but at the same time advised sending sixty deputies to protect the palace. Even the Girondists did not wish the king and queen to be harmed, though they were anxious to frighten them a little.

One of the Feuillants opposed Vergniaud's motion, on the plea that such a precaution would be insulting to the people of Paris.

Permission being finally granted, the armed populace of the Faubourgs defiles through the hall. The march begins at noon, and lasts until nearly three o'clock. There are thirty thousand persons in the procession.

The crowd had now obtained a part of what they desired. They had been admitted to the Assembly, and their petition had been read. As the Assembly had received them, there was no reason why the king should not. The king was certainly no greater a man than the president of the Assembly, for when the king came to see the president, he had no better arm-chair than the president's, and even sat at his left hand.

The king expressed his willingness to receive the petition through the hands of twenty delegates, and the crowd at that time had no intention of entering the palace. They thought the committee would go inside while the procession marched by, so that the king and queen could see their banners and their mottoes from the palace windows.

All the gateways leading to the palace were closed, and three regiments of regular troops and several battalions of the National Guards were stationed in the courtyard and the Tuileries garden, together with four pieces of artillery.

The crowd, still without any evil designs, asked to have the iron grating opened which separated them from the Feuillant Terrace; but the officers on guard refused to comply with this request without an order from the king.

Three municipal officers asked to be allowed to go in and ask the king for such an order. Montjoye, author of”The History of Marie Antoinette,” mentions their names. They were Boucher-Rene', Boucher-Saint-Sauveur, and Monchet. The latter, a justice of the peace from the Marais district, a crippled dwarf s wearing a big tricoloured sash, acted as spokesman.

“Sire,” he said,”the body of men I represent has assembled under the protecting shield of the law. Their acts need excite no uneasiness. As peaceful, law-abiding citizens they desire to present a petition to the National Assembly and the king, and also to celebrate the anniversary of the famous oath taken in the Tennis Court in 1789. These citizens ask permission to enter the Feuillant Terrace. The gates leading into it are not only closed, but a mounted cannon bars the way. We come to ask that these gates be opened and we be allowed a free entrance.”

“Monsieur, I judge by your scarf that you are a municipal officer,” replied the king,”and, being such, it is your duty to see that the laws are faithfully obeyed. If you deem it necessary for the clearing of the Assembly Grounds, let the gates leading into the Feuillant Terrace be opened, and the crowd pass along the Terrace and out through the stable courtyard. Arrange this with the commander of the National Guards, but see to it that the public peace is not disturbed.”

The delegates bowed and withdrew, accompanied by an officer charged with the duty of confirming their statement that the order had been given by the king himself.

The gates were unlocked, and everybody tried to push through at once. The heat was suffocating. By some oversight, the gate near the stables had not been opened, and the crowd was obliged to turn and march past the long line of National Guards stationed in front of the palace, and out through the gate on the river bank.

If they wished to return to their own homes they would be compelled to recross the palace grounds and traverse the Carrousel.

The wickets opening into the Carrousel were closed and guarded; but these jostled and buffeted people, who were fast losing their temper, grumbled so loudly that it was thought advisable to open the wickets and allow the people to distribute themselves over the square.

There, they began to remember that the principal business of the day, that is to say the presentation of their petition to the king, had not been attended to. So, instead of wending their way homeward, they remained in the Carrousel.

An hour passed; and the populace became more and more sullen, as men moved about from group to group whispering:”Stand your ground! The king will have to do what you ask! Don't go home until the king has approved these edicts, or we shall have to begin all over again.”

This seemed to be very good advice, but at the same time the people began to think the king's sanction was a long while coming.

“We are hungry,” was the universal cry. The famine was over, but there was a great scarcity both of work and of money, and however cheap bread may be, it cannot be purchased for nothing.

These people had been up ever since five o'clock, many of them leaving pallets on which they had lain down hungry the night before. They had all started out with a vague hope that the king could be persuaded to sign certain decrees, and that everything would then go on smoothly. But the king did not seem at all inclined to approve these edicts. It was a hot day, and the people were becoming thirsty as well as hungry; and hunger and thirst and heat will make even dogs go mad, and these poor wretches began to hammer on the iron gates of the palace.

A municipal officer came out and harangued the crowd.

“Citizens, this is a royal domicile, and a forcible invasion of it would be a violation of civic rights. The king is willing to receive your petition, but only through the hands of twenty of your representatives.”

So the delegates, for whose re-appearance the crowd had been waiting more than an hour, had not yet been admitted, into the king's presence.

Suddenly a great uproar was heard on the side next the river. Santerre and Saint-Huruge were there, and The'roigne on her cannon.

“What are you doing there- Why don't you go in-” Saint-Huruge shouted to the crowd.

“Sure enough! Why don't we-”cried several men in the throng.

“But the gate is fastened!” exclaimed several voices.

The'roigne leaped from her cannon.

“It's loaded!”she cried.”Open the gate with a cannon-ball!”

And the cannon was brought to bear upon the gate.

“Wait, wait, no violence!” cried two municipal officers.”The gate shall be opened!”

They opened the gate and the crowd rushed wildly in, carrying the cannon with them across the courtyard and even up the outer steps of the palace.

Some city officers were standing in the doorway.

“What do you intend to do with this cannon-” they asked.”A piece of artillery in the king's palace! Do you imagine you will gain anything by this display of violence-”

“That's true,” answered the intruders, amazed to find that they had brought the cannon there. And they attempted to turn it so as to get it down the steps again; but the axle became somehow jammed against the door-frame, and there the gun remained, with its mouth directed towards the multitude.

“Look! Cannon in the king's palace!” exclaimed some of the new-comers; for, not knowing how the cannon came to be there, and that it had been The'roigne's carriage, they believed the king had ordered it aimed at the populace.

Meanwhile, in obedience to Mouchet's orders, two men began kicking away at the door-frame, in order to release the cannon, so that it might be got out of the way; and the noise they made seemed to indicate that the doors were being broken open.

About two hundred gentlemen had hurried to the palace, not with any hope of defending it, but, thinking the king's last hour had come, they intended to die with him. -

Among them were the venerable Marshal de Mouchy, Monsieur d'Hervilly, an officer in the disbanded Constitutional Guards, Acloque, a commander of the National Guards, and a man dressed in black who had exposed himself to the assassin's bullet once before,-a man whose advice had always been spurned, but who was the first to come forward on the day of peril he had endeavoured to avert, and offer himself as a rampart for the protection of the king, — Gilbert.

The king and queen had gradually become accustomed to the uproar outside, and hoped the end of the day would prove as uneventful as the beginning.

All the members of the royal family were together in the king's chamber, when the sound of the axes rose above the clamour that reminded one of the howling of a distant tempest, and a man rushed in, exclaiming: -

“Sire, do not leave me, and I will be responsible for your safety!”

CHAPTER CXXXVII. IN WHICH THE KING DISCOVERS THAT A MAN MAY DON THE RED CAP WITHOUT BEING A JACOBIN.

This man- was Dr. Gilbert, whom we see only at almost periodical intervals, but who is sure to appear in all the great catastrophes of this important drama which is slowly unrolling itself before us.

“Ah, doctor, is it you- What has happened-” cried the king and queen in the same breath.

“The palace is invaded, Sire, and the noise you hear is made by the populace, who are clamouring for a look at you.”

“We will not leave you, Sire,” exclaimed the queen and Madame Elizabeth, almost simultaneously.

“Will the king grant me for an hour the same authority that a captain exercises over his vessel in a time of tempest-”asked Gilbert, eagerly.

“I will,” responded the king.

Just then Acloque, an officer of the National Guards, appeared at the door, pale as death, but resolved to defend the king to the last.

“Here is the king, monsieur,” cried Gilbert.”He is ready to follow you. I intrust him to your care.”

Then, to the king, he added:”Go, Sire, gol”

“But how about me-” cried the queen.”I must accompany my husband.”

“And I, my brother,” exclaimed Madame Elizabeth.

“Followyour brother, madame,”said Gilbert, to Madame Elizabeth;”but you, madame, must remain here,” he added, turning to the queen.

“But, monsieur-”

“Sire, Sire, in Heaven's name implore the queen to be guided by me, or I cannot answer for the consequences.”

“Listen to Monsieur Gilbert and obey his instructions, madame,” said the king; then, turning to Gilbert, he asked:”Will you be responsible for the safety of the queen and the dauphin-”

“Yes, Sire, or die with them. That is all a captain can promise in the midst of such a tempest as this.”

The queen made one more effort to follow her husband, but Gilbert extended his arms to intercept her.

“Madame,” he exclaimed,”it is you, and not the king, who is in real peril. Justly or unjustly, you are blamed for the king's opposition, so your presence will only expose him to increased danger. Take the office of the lightning- rod upon yourself, and divert the thunderbolt from him if possible.”

“Let the bolt fall upon me alone, then, and spare my children!”

“I have promised the king to save both you and your children. Follow me.”

Then, turning to Madame de Lamballe, who had returned from England a month before, and to the other ladies of the queen's household, he said:”Follow us.”

These other ladies were the Princesse de Tarente, the Princesse de la Tre'mouille, Madame Tourzel, Madame de Mackau, and Madame de la Roche-Aymon.

Gilbert was familiar with the interior of the palace, and his plans were soon made.

What he wanted was a large apartment where everybody could see and hear. There, he would establish the queen, her children, and her ladies behind some barrier, and take his own stand in front of it.

He instantly thought of the Council Chamber, which could be reached without passing though the corridors. Fortunately, it was empty. He conducted the party there, and pushed the queen, her children, and Madame de Lam balle into the embrasure of a window. Every minute was precious now, for the intruders were already hammering on the door.

He dragged the big council table in front of the window, and the desired rampart was provided.

Madame Koyale stood beside her brother, who had perched himself upon the table. The queen stood directly behind them. Innocence was to be the defence of unpopularity.

Marie Antoinette wished to place herself in front of her children, but Gilbert interfered.

“Everything is exactly as it should be,” he said authoritatively.”Do not move.”

Just then the door was shaken violently, and, hearing the voices of numerous women in the crowd outside, Gilbert drew back the bolt, exclaiming:”Come in, citizenesses. The queen and her children are expecting you.”

The flood poured in as if through an opening in a dike.

“Where 's that Austrian woman- Where 's Madame Veto-”shouted five hundred voices.

It was a terrible moment.

Gilbert saw that the power had slipped from the hands of the men into those of the women.

“Be calm, madame,” he whispered to the queen.”I hardly need advise you to be gentle also.”

One woman was considerably in advance of the others. Her hair was flying wildly around her face, and she brandished a sabre. She was half frantic with rage, and perhaps with hunger as well.

“Where 's that Austrian woman-”she shrieked.”She shall die by no other hand than mine!”

Gilbert took her by the arm and led her directly in front of the queen.

“Here she is!” he said quietly.

“Have I ever injured you personally, my daughter-” asked the queen, gently.

“No, madame,” faltered the woman, amazed and bewildered by Marie Antoinette's dignity and sweetness.

“Then why do you wish to kill me-”

“They say you 're dragging the country down to perdition,” stammered the woman.

“Then you have been shamefully deceived. I am the wife of the King of France, and the mother of the dauphin, — this lad you see here. So can you not understand that I am a Frenchwoman, and that as I shall never see my own country again, I can consequently be happy or unhappy only in France- Alas! when you loved me, I was happy!”

The queen sighed heavily. The woman dropped her sabre, and began to cry.

“Ah, madame, forgive me, I didn't know you,” she sobbed.

“Keep on in this way, madame,” whispered Gilbert,”and you will not only be saved, but in fifteen minutes you will have all these people at your feet.”

Leaving the queen in the charge of several officers of the National Guards and of the Minister of War, Lajard, who had just come in, Gilbert hastened to the king.

His Majesty had just passed through a similar experience.

He had scarcely entered the passage called the (Eil-de- Bceuf (the Bull's Eye) before the panels of the door gave way under repeated blows, and bayonets, spear-heads, and axe-blades were thrust through the openings.

“Open the door!”cried the king.

“Citizens, you need not break open the door,” shouted Monsieur d'Hervilly.”The king orders it to be opened.”

And as he spoke, he slipped back the bolt and turned the key.

Monsieur Acloque and the Due de Mouchy had barely time to push the king into a recess and pile some benches and chairs in front of him, before the crowd rushed in with such savage yells and imprecations that the king involuntarily called out:”Help, gentlemen, help!”

Four grenadiers drew their swords and rushed to his side.

“Put up your swords, gentlemen,” said the king.”Stay by me, that is all I ask.”

A ininiitf more, and it would have been too late, for the flash of the swords had seemed like a challenge.

A man clad in rags, with arms bare, and fairly foaming at the mouth with rage, rushed towards the king.

“I have you at last, Veto!” he shouted savagely, striking at the king with a knife fastened to the end of a stick.

One of the grenadiers, who had not yet sheathed his sabre, in spite of the king's order, beat down the assailant's weapon.

By that time, the monarch had recovered his composure, and, pushing the grenadier gently to one side, he said quietly: -

“Stand aside, monsieur. What can I have to fear in the midst of my people-”

And, advancing a step with a dignity of which one would hardly have supposed him capable, Louis XVI. presented his defenceless breast to the numerous weapons directed towards it.

“Silence! I wish to say a few words!” shouted a stentorian voice.

It was the voice of Legendre, the butcher. He approached near enough to the king to touch him. A circle formed around them.

Just then a man appeared on the outer edge of the circle; and directly behind Danton's grim double, as Legendre was called, the king saw the pale but serene face of Dr. Gilbert.

The king directed a questioning glance at the newcomer, as if to ask what had become of the queen; and the doctor's reassuring smile indicated that her Majesty was safe.

“Monsieur,” began Legendre, addressing the king.

On hearing the word”monsieur,” the king turned suddenly, as if stung by an adder.

“Yes, monsieur, Monsieur Veto, it is to you I am speaking,” continued Legendre.”Pay attention to what I am going to say, for it's your turn to listen now. You 're a deceitful man. You have deceived us for years, and you are trying to deceive us now. But take oare! We have had about enough of it. The people are tired of being made your playthings and victims.”

“Go on, I am listening,” said the king.

“So much the better. You know what brought us here, I suppose. We came to demand your signature to the decrees concerning the priests and the volunteer camp, and the recall of your former ministers. Here's our petition.”

And, drawing a folded paper from his pocket, he read aloud the same threatening petition which had been presented to the Assembly.

The king listened, with his eyes fixed upon the reader.

When the perusal was ended, he said, without the slightest apparent emotion,”I shall do exactly what the laws and the Constitution bid me do in these matters, monsieur.”

“Oh, yes,” cried a voice,”that's your great plea, -the Constitution, — the Constitution of '91, that allows you to clog the whole machine, tie France to the whippingpost, and give the Austrians time to come and gobble us up!”

The king glanced in the direction of this new speaker, for he realised that a much more serious attack was imminent from that quarter.

Gilbert, too, made a sudden movement, and placed his hand soothingly on the man's shoulder.

MI have seen you before, my friend,” said the king.”Who are you-”

His manner indicated much more curiosity than fear, though the expression of the man's face was very threatening.

“Yes, you have seen me before, Sire. You have seen me now three times, -once on your return from Versailles on the 16th of July, 1789, again at Varennes, and now, here. Can you not recall my name- It is one of rather grim import. I am called Billot! [the block.]”

The confusion increased. A man armed with a pike attempted to strike a blow at the king, but Billot seized the weapon, wrenched it from the assailant's grasp, and broke it over his knee.

“Stop that!” he cried.”There is but one weapon to be used in a case like this, — that is the Law. They say there was once a king of England who had his head cut off by the people he had betrayed. You ought to know his name, Louis. Keep it in mind.”

“Billot!”murmured Gilbert, warningly.

“Oh, you and plenty of others have done your best, I know,” said Billot, shaking his head.”But that man will be tried as a traitor and convicted, nevertheless.”

“Yes, as a traitor! as a traitor!” shouted hundreds of voices.

.Gilbert sprang between the king, and his adversaries.

'“Have no fears, Sire,” he exclaimed,”but try to give these people some satisfaction, if you can.”

The king took Gilbert's hand and placed it on his heart.

“You see I feel no fear,” he replied.”I received the sacrament this morning. Let them do what they will with me. As for the outward sign you would have me give, does this satisfy you-”

And the king, snatching a red cap from the head of a sans-culotte near him, placed it on his own head.

The crowd applauded uproariously.”Long live the king! Long live the nation!” resounded upon every side.

One man forced his way through the crowd with a bottle of wine in his hand.

“If you love the people as much as you say you do, prove it by drinking to their health,” he said, offering the king the bottle.

“Don't drink it, Sire,” cried a voice;”perhaps the wine is poisoned.”

“Drink it, Sire, I’ll answer for it,” said Gilbert.

The king took the bottle.”To the health of the people!” he exclaimed, and drank.

Loud cheers for the king again resounded.

“Sire, you have nothing more to fear. If you will allow me, I will return to the queen,” whispered Gilbert.

“Go,” said the monarch, pressing the doctor's hand warmly.

As Gilbert left the room, Isnard and Vergniaud came in.

“Where is the king-”they asked anxiously.

Gilbert pointed him out, and the two deputies hastened towards him.

To reach the queen, Gilbert had to pass through several rooms, among them the king's bed-chamber. Several persons had taken possession of it.

“Heavens! Fatty Veto has a bed that beats ours all to pieces!”exclaimed a man, seating himself on the royal couch.

There was nothing alarming about this kind of talk, however.

As Gilbert re-entered the apartment where he had left the queen he cast a hasty glance around him, and then drew a long breath of relief.

Marie Antoinette was still standing in the same spot; and the little dauphin had a red cap on his head, like his father.

A hubbub in the next room attracted Gilbert's attention to the door. The commotion was caused by the approach of Santerre. The giant entered the Council Chamber.

“Ah, ha, so the Austrian woman is here I” he exclaimed.

Gilbert crossed the room diagonally, thus intercepting the new-comer.

“Monsieur Santerre I”he said.

Santerre turned.”Ah, it's Dr. Gilbert!” he said pleasantly.

“Who has not forgotten that you once helped to open the doors of the Bastille for him. Allow me to present you to the queen, Monsieur Santerre.”

“To the queen- Present me to the queen-” growled the brewer.

“Yes, to the queen. Do you decline-”

“No, by no means. I was going to introduce myself, but as you are here -”

“I am acquainted with Monsieur Santerre already,” said the queen.”I know that he fed half the Saint- Antoine Faubourg during the famine.”

Santerre paused in astonishment, then, glancing in a rather embarrassed way at the dauphin, and seeing the perspiration streaming down the little fellow's cheeks, he called out to those standing around the table:”Take that cap off the boy's head. Don't you see you 're smothering the poor little chap-”

The mother thanked him with a look, and, leaning over the table, the worthy Fleming said in a low tone: -

“You have some very indiscreet friends, madame. I know those who could serve you much better.”

An hour afterwards, when the crowd had dispersed, the king, accompanied by his sister, entered the room.

The queen ran to meet him and threw herself at his feet. The children grasped his hands. They embraced each other like a family rescued from shipwreck.

Not until then did the king recollect that he still had the red cap on his head.

“I had forgotten it,” he exclaimed, plucking it off and casting it from him.

A young artillery offcer barely twenty-two years of age had witnessed this entire scene, leaning against a tree on the border of the lake. Through the window he had seen all the perils to which the king had been exposed, and all the humiliations heaped upon him. But when he saw the incident of the red cap, he could contain himself no longer.

“Oh! if I only had twelve hundred men and a couple of cannon, I would soon rid the poor king of these scoundrels,” he muttered.

But as he had neither the twelve hundred men nor the two pieces of artillery, and could no longer endure this repulsive spectacle, he walked away.

This young officer was Napoleon Bonaparte.

CHAPTER CXXXVIII. REACTION.

The dispersal of the crowd was as quiet and gradual as the invasion had been boisterous and alarming. Astonished at the meagre results of their day's work, the rioters began to say to one another:”We accomplished nothing. We shall have to go back again.”

Those who had fancied they could foresee what would happen, had judged the king by his reputation. They remembered how this monarch had appeared at Varennes clad like an upper servant, and prophesied that at the first intimation of danger Louis would hide under a table or in some closet or behind a curtain, and that somebody would stab him as if by accident, and then get off by saying,”How now! A rat-”as Hamlet says in the play when he slays Polonius behind the arras, thinking it is the tyrant of Denmark.

The result, as far as Louis was concerned, had been quite the opposite. Never had the king appeared so calm, or, rather, so truly great.

The insult had been colossal, but it had not exceeded his resignation or powers of endurance. His timid firmness — if one could so term it — needed to be stimulated by excitement, but, in the heat of excitement, acquired the hardness and tenacity of steel.

For five long hours he saw axes gleam above his head, and lances, swords, and bayonets aimed straight at his breast, without once turning pale. No general in a dozen battles, no matter how desperate they may have been, ever faced greater danger.

The The'roignes, the Saint-Huruges, the Fourniers, and the Verrieres had started out with the determination to murder the king; but his unexpected majesty of demeanour awed them, and made the poniard drop from their hands.

If such a sacred word can be used in connection with a human personage, this was the passion of Louis XVI., as he stood there with his brow encircled, not with a crown of thorns, but with that odious red cap; and as Jesus in the midst of insults and cruelty had said”I am the Christ,” so Louis, undaunted by insult and outrage, composedly said, in manner if not in words,”I am your king.”

The extreme Revolutionists had believed when they forced open the doors of the Tuileries that they should find only the helpless and trembling ghost of royalty on the other side; but, to their intense surprise, they had met the spirit of mediaeval times, erect and alert. For an instant these two conflicting principles were seen standing face to face,-one about disappearing below the horizon, the other just rising in the east; and the effect was as startling as if one beheld two suns of equal splendour shining in the sky at the same time.

The Eoyalists were delighted, for the victory seemed to be theirs.

After these violent measures the king, instead of signing one of the decrees, as he had intended, now made up his mind to veto both; for he knew he ran no more risk in rejecting both than in rejecting one.

After this eventful 20th of June a strong reaction set in. The very next day the Assembly passed a decree that no assemblage of armed citizens should ever again be allowed to enter its doors, — which was equivalent to a condemnation of the uprising of the previous day.

On the evening of the twentieth, Potion arrived at the Tuileries just after order had been restored.

“I have only just now heard of your Majesty's situation,” he remarked.

“That is strange,” responded the king, drily.”It has lasted long enough.”

On the day following, Constitutionalists, Royalists, and Feuillants all united in imploring the Assembly to proclaim martial law.

Everybody knew what the result of instituting martial law had been on the 17th of July of the previous year; but this request was said to have been due to the discovery of fresh conspiracies.

But Petion hastened to the Assembly and stoutly declared that these conspiracies were purely imaginary, and that he was perfectly willing to be answerable for the tranquillity of Paris; so martial law was not proclaimed.

At the close of the session, about eight o'clock in the evening, Petion repaired to the Tuileries to assure the king of the peaceful condition of the capital. He was accompanied by Sergent, who was an engraver, a brother-in-law of Marceau, a member of the City Council, and one of the police commissioners. Two or three more city officers went with them.

As they crossed the Carrousel, they were insulted by several Knights of the Order of St. Louis, and Constitutional Guards who chanced to be standing there. Potion was attacked, and Sergent, in spite of the official scarf he wore, was struck on the breast and face, and finally knocked down.

They had scarcely been ushered into the presence of their sovereign before Potion perceived that a quarrel was imminent.

Marie Antoinette gave him one of those wrathful glances which the eyes of Maria Theresa had known so well how to bestow, — a glance full of defiance and scorn, though so dazzling in its brightness.

The king knew what had occurred at the Assembly, so he said: -

“Well, monsieur, you claim that quiet has been restored in the capital, do you-”

“Yes, Sire; now that the people have made their wishes known to you, they are quiet and satisfied.”

“Confess, monsieur, that the proceedings of yesterday were a disgrace to the country, and that the municipal government neither did all that it should or all that it could.”

“The municipal government did its duty, Sire.”

“What is the present condition of Paris, monsieur-”

“Quiet, Sire.”

“That is false.”

“Sire!”

“Hold your tongue!”

“A servant of the people has no right to hold his tongue when he is doing his duty and speaking the truth.”

“That's enough. Take yourself off!”

Pe'tion bowed and withdrew.

The king's manner was so violent, and his face wore such an expression of intense anger, that even the high- spirited queen was alarmed.

“Don't you think the king has been too hasty-” she said to Rcederer when Petion had vanished.”Are you not afraid this ebullition of anger will incense the Parisians still more-”

“No one will think it surprising that the king should silence a subject who is lacking in proper respect to him.”

The next day the king wrote to the Assembly, complaining of the profanation of his royal domicile and person.

Then he issued a proclamation to his people. Consequently there were two peoples, — the people who had created the disturbance on the 20th of June, and the people to whom the king complained.

On June 24th the king and queen reviewed the National Guards, and were greeted with enthusiasm.

That same day the Directory of Paris suspended the mayor from office. What had inspired them with such audacity- Three days later the mystery was solved.

Lafayette, attended by a single officer, left his army, reaching Paris on June 27th. On his arrival, he went straight to the house of his friend Rochefoucauld.

During the night the Constitutionalists, Feuillants, and Royalists were duly notified, and arrangements were made to pack the gallery the following day.

Three rounds of applause greeted him when he presented himself before the Assembly on that day; but they were drowned in the murmurs of the Girondists, and it was evident that the session was destined to be a stormy one.

Lafayette was one of the bravest men that ever lived; but there is a great difference between bravery and fool- hardiness. In fact, a truly brave man is rarely, if ever, foolhardy.

Lafayette understood the danger he was incurring, perfectly. He was about to stake the last remnant of his popularity. If that went, he would perish with it. If he won, he might perhaps save the king.

This action was all the more magnanimous on his part, because he was perfectly well aware of the king's dislike and the queen's positive hatred; for had not her Majesty as much as said,”I would rather perish through Petion than be saved by Lafayette”-

It is quite possible, though, that he had come as much in answer to a sort of challenge as anything.

About a fortnight before, he had written both to the king and to the Assembly, — to the king to encourage him to resist, and to the Assembly to warn it against the continual attacks upon the Crown.”He is very high and mighty out there surrounded by his army,” cried a voice.”Let us see if he will talk in the same fashion here in the Assembly.”

These words had been reported to Lafayette, and perhaps they were the real cause of his journey to Paris.

Amid hearty applause from one side, and groans from the other, he ascended the tribune.

“Gentlemen,” he began,”I have been severely censured for writing my letter of the 16th of June in the midst of my troops. It is consequently my duty to protest against this imputation of cowardice, by coming out from behind the sort of rampart the devotion of my soldiers forms around me, and presenting myself alone and unattended before you. A still more imperative duty also calls me here. The outrages of the 20th of June have aroused the indignation of all good citizens, and especially of the army. Officers, subalterns, and privates have but one opinion in regard to these most reprehensible acts; and from each and every division I have received the warmest assurances of devotion to the Constitution, and protests against such disorderly and rebellious proceedings. I have deprecated any further manifestations of feeling, however, and have taken it upon myself to express the sentiments now prevailing in the army. I speak only as a citizen, however. It is time to establish the Constitution on a firm basis, to protect the liberty of the National Assembly and the king, as well as the king's dignity. I therefore implore the Assembly to treat the excesses of the 20th of June as treasonable crimes against his Majesty, and prosecute the perpetrators thereof; also to adopt effectual measures for making the authority conferred by the Constitution respected,- especially yours and the king's,-and to give the army some assurance that the Constitution will not be attacked at home, while brave Frenchmen are pouring out their blood in its defence upon the frontier.”

Guadet had risen slowly as he perceived that Lafayette was approaching the end of his discourse. When the Girondists wished to shoot an arrow barbed with sarcasm and irony, it was to Guadet the bow was intrusted, and Guadet had only to take an arrow at random from his quiver. The last round of applause had hardly died away before his resonant voice was heard.

“The moment I saw Monsieur Lafayette,” he began,”a very consoling idea suggested itself to my mind. I said to myself: 'We have 110 more foreign enemies; the Aus- trians must have been vanquished, for here is Monsieur Lafayette come to announce the news of his victory and their destruction. But, alas! this pleasing delusion was short-lived. Our enemies are still in the field! The danger on our frontier remains the same; and yet — Monsieur Lafayette is in Paris. He declares himself the mouthpiece of the army and of certain honest citizens. Where are these worthy citizens- What opportunity has the army had for deliberation- But, first of all, let our gallant general show us his leave of absence.”

At this sally the Girondists perceived that the wind was shifting around to their quarter; and the speaker had hardly ceased before a round of deafening applause burst forth.

A deputy hastily rose, and, speaking from his seat, exclaimed:”Gentlemen, gentlemen, surely you forget to whom you are speaking, as well as the question at issue. You forget who Lafayette is. Lafayette is the eldest son of French liberty! Lafayette has sacrificed his fortune, his titles, and his life to the Revolution.”

“It seems to be his funeral oration you are pronouncing,” cried a mocking voice.

“Gentlemen,” said Ducos,”the deliberations of this Assembly are disturbed by the presence on the floor of a person who does not belong to this body.”

“Nor is that all,” shouted Vergniaud.”This commander has forsaken his post in the face of the enemy. It was to him, and not to the subordinate he left in his place, that a division of our army was intrusted. We know that Lafayette has left his post without permission; and as we know that to be the case, let him be arrested and tried as a deserter.”

“I second the motion!” cried Guadet.

“And I! And I!”shouted all the Girondists.

“Call the roll,” said Gensonne”.

The roll-call gave Lafayette's friends and supporters a majority of ten.

But, like the populace on the 20th of June, Lafayette had either ventured too much or too little. This was one of those triumphs which cause a leader to exclaim, with Pyrrhus,”One more such victory, and I am lost!”

On leaving the Assembly, Lafayette, like Potion, hastened to the palace.

The king received him with a more affable countenance, but a no less bitter heart.

Lafayette had just sacrificed something more precious than life for the king and queen. He had sacrificed his popularity. This was the third time he had made this sacrifice, for which even a king can give no meet reward.

The first time was at Versailles, in October, 1789. The second on the Champ de Mars in July, 1791.

Lafayette had one last remaining hope. The following day he was to review the National Guards, in company with the king. He could not doubt the enthusiasm the presence of their old commander would inspire; and Lafayette might take advantage of this enthusiasm to march upon the Assembly, and place the Girondists under arrest, while, daring the commotion that would ensue, the king could make his escape to the camp at Maubeuge.

This would be a bold move, but in the present condition of affairs it was the only safe one.

But, unfortunately, Danton went to Potion's lodgings at three o'clock in the morning to notify him of the conspiracy. At daybreak Pe”tion issued an order postponing the review.

Who had betrayed the king and Lafayette- The queen. Had she not said she would rather perish through some other person than owe her salvation to Lafayette-

Her desire was fulfilled, for she was fated to perish through Dantou's instrumentality, finally.

At the very hour the review was to have taken place, Lafayette left Paris and returned to the army. He had not abandoned all hope of saving the king, however.

CHAPTER CXXXIX. VERGNIAUD.

Lafayette's doubtful victory, followed by his hasty retreat, had this singular result. It discomfited the Royalists, who were supposed to be the victors, and elated the Girondists, who were supposed to be defeated. It aided them, too, by disclosing the precipice into which they were liable to fall.

The Court must not be allowed time to repair its error, and the force of the revolutionary current must be renewed and strengthened after this brief set-back. Every one attempted to devise the best means of accomplishing this, and every one fancied he had found it; but the impracticability of each method became apparent on discussion, and had to be abandoned.

Madame Roland, the soul of the party, advocated a stirring appeal in the Assembly. Who alone could create this great commotion- Who alone could strike such a blow- Vergniaud.

But why was this Achilles lingering in his tent; or, rather, why was this Rinaldo dallying in Armida's garden- He loved.

And it is so difficult to hate when one loves! Vergniaud adored the beautiful Madame Candeille, the famous actress, poetess, and musician. His friends sought him in vain, or, rather, they found him only at the feet of this charming woman, with one hand resting on her lap, and the other listlessly sweeping her harp-strings; and every night he was at the theatre to applaud the divinity he worshipped all day.

One evening two deputies left the Assembly in despair. Vergniaud's inaction made them tremble for the fate of France.

These two men were Grangeneuve and Chabot. Grange- neuve was a Bordeaux deputy, the friend and rival of Vergniaud, and, like him, a Girondist.

Chabot had been a Capuchin monk, and was the author — or at least one of the authors — of”The Sans Culotte Catechism.”

They walked on in silence for some time; then, fancying he could read his companion's thoughts in his gloomy face, Chabot asked: -

“What are you thinking about, Grangeneuve-”

“I am thinking that all these loiterers are enervating the country and killing the Revolution; for if the people give royalty much more time, the people are lost. I am thinking, too, that there is only one appointed time for a revolution, and that those who allow the opportunity to escape them will never find it again, and will be held accountable by their Maker and by posterity.”

“And you really believe that God and posterity will hold us accountable for our inaction and procrastination-”

“I am afraid so.

“Look here, Chabot,” continued Grangeneuve, after a brief silence,”I am firmly convinced that the people are disheartened by this last check, and that they will not recover their enthusiasm without the aid of some powerful lever or some sanguinary event. They need the stimulus of rage or terror to revive their waning energy.”

“And how is this rage or terror to be excited-”

“That is the very thing I have been cogitating about,” replied Grangeneuve;”and I think I 've devised a means, provided I can find a man possessed of sufficient nerve and resolution to carry out my plan.”

“Speak!” said Chabot, with a firmness of accent that settled all doubts in his companion's mind.”I am capable of doing anything to destroy those I hate; and I hate kings and priests.”

“Well,”said Grangeneuve,”history shows that innocent blood has been shed at the beginning of all revolutions, — from the suicide of Lucrece to the execution of Sidney. If the vengeance of the populace is to be aroused, a victim must be provided. That victim the Court withholds; so we needs must sacrifice ourselves for the good of the cause.”

“I do not understand you.”

“Very well, then; it is necessary that one of us — and one who is energetic, upright, and well known — should become the real or pretended victim of the Koyalists.”

“Goon.”

“The victim must be a member of the National Assembly, so that the Assembly shall take the work of retaliation into its own hands. In short, the victim must be — myself.”

“But the Royalists have no intention of harming you,. Grangeneuve. On the contrary, they '11 take precious good care not to do it.”

“I know that; and it is for this very reason I say we must find a man of great nerve and determination.”

“What for-”

“To kill me.”

Chabot retreated a step; but Grangeneuve seized him by the arm and said:”You boasted just now that you were capable of doing anything to destroy those whom you hated. Are you capable of murdering me-”

Seeing that his friend remained speechless, Grangeneuve continued: -

“My words have no weight, and my life is of very little service to Liberty; while my death, on the contrary, may prove of vast benefit to her. My dead body will be the standard of insurrection, and I say to you -”

He paused a moment; then, pointing with a vehement gesture to the Tuileries, he added,”I say to you that that palace and all its occcupants must disappear in the cyclone.”

Chabot trembled with awe as he gazed at his companion.

“Well-” insisted Grangeneuve.

“Blow out thy lantern, Diogenes; thy man is found.”

“Very well. Let us arrange to have the whole affair over this evening. I will walk here alone to-night” (they were opposite the gates of the Louvre).”If you are afraid that your heart will fail you, bring two other patriots with you. I will make this signal, so that I may be recognised.”

As he spoke, he raised both arms high above his head, then continued,”They must stab me when I do that; and I promise to fall without a groan.”

Chabot wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“In the morning my body will be found,” continued Grangeneuve,”and the Court will be blamed for my death. The wrath and indignation of the people will do the rest.”

“Very well, so be it!” and the framers of this strange compact shook hands and separated.

Grangeneuve went home to make his will, dating it one year previous. Chabot went to get his dinner at a restaurant in the garden of the Palais Royal. Afterwards he went to a cutler's and purchased a knife. Candeille was to play that evening, so the former monk knew where to find Vergniaud.

He repaired to the Com4die-Fran

When the play was over, and Vergniaud was preparing to escort the lady to the Rue Richelieu, where she lived, Chabot followed his colleague into the carriage.

“Is there anything you wish to say to me, Chabot-” inquired Vergniaud.

“Yes, but it won't take long.”

“Speak out, then.”

“It isn’t time yet,” replied Chabot, glancing at his watch.

“And when will it be time-”

“At midnight.”

“Oh, monsieur,” murmured the beautiful Candeille, tremulously.

“Don't be alarmed, madame; Vergniaud has nothing to fear. His country needs him, that is all.”

As the carriage rolled along, its occupants maintained an unbroken silence; but 011 reaching Candeille's door Vergniaud asked: -

“Will you come in, Chabot-”

“No, I want you to come with me.”

“Where do you intend taking him-”asked the actress, anxiously.

“Only a few hundred yards from here. He shall be back again in fifteen minutes, -I promise you that.”

Vergniaud pressed the hand of his lovely sweetheart, made her a reassuring sign, and walked down the Rue Traversiere with Chabot. Then they crossed the Rue Saint-Honors' and entered the Rue de 1'Echelle. On reaching the corner of that street the monk placed one hand on Vergniaud's shoulder, and with the other pointed to a man who was pacing to and fro in front of the Louvre.

“Do you see that man-”he asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, that is our colleague, Grangeneuve.”

“What is he doing there-”

“Waiting for somebody to kill him.”

“To kill him-”

“Yes.”

“And who is to kill him-”

“lam.”

Vergniaud looked at Chabot as one looks at a fool.

“Think of Sparta, think of Rome, and then listen,” said Chabot.

Then he told Vergniaud the whole story. As Vergniaud listened, his head drooped lower and lower as he realised his immense inferiority — amorous lion, effeminate tribune that he was — to this earnest and grim Republican, who, like Decius, only asked for a gulf into which he could hurl himself to save his country.

“Very well,” he said.”Give me three days to prepare my speech.”

“And then-”

“Have no fears. In three days I shall either have dashed myself in pieces against the idol, or have overturned it.”

“I have your word, Vergniaud-”

“Yes.”

“It is the word of a man-”

“Of a Republican.”

“Very well. I have no further need of you now. Go back and console your sweetheart.”

Vergniaud returned to the Rue Richelieu; but Chabot walked on towards Grangeneuve, who, seeing a man approaching,' retreated into the darkest corner. Chabot followed him.

Grangeneuve paused at the foot of the wall. Grangeneuve made the sign agreed upon by raising his arms.

Then, as Chabot remained motionless, he exclaimed,”Well, what deters you- Strike, I say!”

“It is not necessary; Vergniaud will speak.”

“So be it,” said Grangeneuve, with a sigh;”but I believe the other way would have been better.”

How could royalty hope to contend successfully with such men as these-

CHAPTER CXL. VERGNIAUD SPEAKS.

It was indeed time for Vergniaud to take a decided stand, for perils were rapidly increasing both at home and abroad.

The Council of Ambassadors at Eatisbon had unanimously refused to admit the French minister.

England, though she called herself the friend of France, was organising an immense armament.

The princes of the German States, though they boasted of maintaining a strict neutrality, were secretly admitting the enemy into their territory.

The Duke of Baden had allowed the Austrians to enter Kehl, which was only a league from Strasburg.

In Flanders it was even worse. Luckner was a deaf old dotard who managed to upset all the plans made by Dumouriez, who, though no military genius, was the only man of ability France had sent to meet the foe.

Lafayette was a Koyalist at heart, and his last step has proved conclusively that the Assembly, or in other words France, could not count upon him.

While last, but not least, Biron, though a brave and strictly honest man, discouraged by our reverses, favoured a defensive warfare only.

So much for foreign affairs.

At home, Alsace was clamouring for arms, which the Minister of War, who belonged to the court party, took good care not to provide.

In Southern France the Governor of Lower Languedoc and CeVennes, also a Royalist partisan, acknowledged the authority of the nobility of that region.

At the conclusion of mass in a town of Western France, the announcement was made that an armed assemblage of the friends of royalty would be held in a neighbouring chapel, and five hundred peasants responded to the call. The Chouans were rampant in Brittany and the Vende'e, and from nearly every department of the kingdom came anti-revolutionary addresses.

The danger was great, — so great that it was no longer individuals, but the entire country that was in peril.”The country is in danger”was whispered on every side.

The Assembly waited anxiously.

Chabot and Grangeneuve had announced that in three days Vergniaud would speak, and the other members counted the moments as they passed.

For two days Vergniaud was not seen at the Assembly. The third day arrived, and everybody was in a state of the utmost anxiety. Not a deputy was absent from his seat, and the galleries were crowded to suffocation.

At last Vergniaud entered the hall, and a sigh of relief ran through the Assembly; and the galleries applauded as theatre-goers applaud the entrance of a favourite actor.

Vergniaud was barely thirty-three years of age at the time. In temperament he was indolent, and somewhat phlegmatic; but when he intended to speak, he always prepared his address three or four days beforehand, carefully polishing and furbishing it, as a soldier polishes and furbishes his weapons on the eve of battle.

He was what one would call an eminently effective orator. Xo thrust satisfied him unless it was brilliantly made and loudly applauded; and it seemed absolutely necessary for him to reserve his efforts for moments of danger and important crises. In short, he was not a man for all occasions, but for great emergencies only.

In person he was short, rather than tall, though he possessed the robust frame of an athlete. H is hair was long, and when he spoke he had a way of shaking it back as a lion shakes his mane. His forehead was broad, and his black eyes were overshadowed by heavy, bushy eyebrows. His nose was short, but rather large, with flaring nostrils. His lips were thick, and words gushed from his mouth in torrents, as water gushes from an abundant spring when it is opened.

Thickly pitted with small-pox, his skin looked like marble roughly hewed out by the hand of an apprentice, but not yet polished by the sculptor's chisel; and his complexion was pale, purple, or livid, according as the blood mounted to his face or receded to his heart.

In repose or in a crowd, Vergniaud was a very ordinary looking man, in whom the keenest eye could discern no marks of genius; but when passion set his blood on tire, when his nostrils quivered, when the muscles of his face palpitated, and when his uplifted hand commanded silence and dominated the crowd, the man became a demigod, the orator was transfigured, and the rostrum became his Mount Tabor.

This was the man who came to the Assembly with his hand filled with thunderbolts; and the applause that greeted him on his entrance showed him how eagerly he was expected.

He did not ask for the right to speak, but walked straight to the tribune, ascended it in the midst of a breathless silence, and immediately began his speech.

His first words were almost inaudible, but his voice soon became deep and sonorous.

“Citizens,” he said,”I come to you and ask what is the meaning of the strange situation in which the Assembly finds itself- What strange fatality pursues you, and signalises each day with events which overthrow all our plans and hurl us back into a seething whirlpool of dread, anxiety, and passion- What has brought about this marvellous state of effervescence, in which one is at a loss to decide whether the Revolution is retrograding or progressing towards its proper termination-

“At the very moment our army seemed to be making some progress in Belgium, we see it turn and flee before the enemy, thus bringing the war into our own territory; and the only recollections that the unfortunate Belgians will retain of us will be of the conflagrations which lighted our retreat.

“Along the Rhine the Prussians are massing their troops upon our defenceless borders. How happens it, that, at auch an important crisis in our national existence, the movements of our troops should be entirely suspended, and that by a sudden dissolution of the cabinet the interests of the kingdom should be intrusted to inexperienced hands-

“Can it be that the success of our arms is not desired at home- Can it be that the blood of the army of Coblentz is more precious to our rulers than that of our own army- When priestly fanaticism seems likely to deliver us over to the horrors of civil war and of invasion, what can be the motives of those persons who obstinately refuse to sanction edicts directed against the prime movers in these disturbances- Do our rulers desire to reign over deserted cities and devastated fields- How much misery and blood and suffering and death will be required to satisfy their desire for vengeance- In short, where do we stand-

“And you, gentlemen, whose courage the enemies of the Constitution are incessantly striving to weaken by arousing a spirit of contention in among you — you, whose consciences they are continually endeavouring to alarm by terming your love of liberty a spirit of sedition — you, who are slandered only because you do not belong to the class that the Revolution has humbled in the dust, and because the degraded men who regret the loss of the infamous privilege of cringing and grovelling cannot hope to find accomplices in you — you, whom they are trying to alienate from the people, because they know the people are your only dependence and support, and because if, by reason of an abandonment of their cause, you in turn deserve to be abandoned, it will be an easy matter to dissolve the Assembly — you, whom they are doing their best to divide and estrange, but who will surely postpone your quarrels until the war is over, and who certainly do not take such delight in bickering and hating that you prefer it to the salvation of the country — you, whom they have endeavoured to terrify by predictions of another invasion of armed petitioners, when you know only too well that at the beginning of the Revolution the sanctuary of liberty was surrounded by the satellites of despotism, that Paris was filled with court troops, and that those days of peril were the most glorious days of our first Assembly,- I wish to call your attention to the present crisis.

“Our domestic troubles are unquestionably caused by the plotting and scheming of the aristocrats and priests, both of whom are striving to achieve the same result, — a counter-revolution.

“The king refuses to sanction an edict that will put an end to the religious disturbances. I know not whether the grim spirit of the Medicis and of Cardinal Lorraine still haunts the Tuileries, and the king's mind is disturbed by the ghostly ideas their presence might create; but unless we insult the king by believing him to be the Revolution's most dangerous enemy, we certainly cannot believe he will encourage these efforts of priestly ambition, and restore the power wherewith these arrogant supporters of the Tiara have oppressed both monarchs and people in the past; nor can we believe, without doing the king injustice and declaring him to be the most bitter of his country's enemies, that he delights in encouraging dissensions and perpetuating disorders which will eventually lead to ruin through the agency of a civil war.

“I conclude, consequently, that the king opposes your laws because he believes himself strong enough to maintain public peace and order without your aid; but if public peace is not maintained, if the torch of fanaticism still threatens to kindle widespread conflagrations throughout the kingdom, if religious dissensions still continue to devastate our land, then whom are we to regard as the cause of all these evils- Is it not the agents of royal authority who should be held responsible- Are not they themselves the real cause of all our troubles-

“Very well; then let them answer with their heads for all disturbances of the public peace and all the outrages of which religion will be the pretext! Only by thus placing this terrible responsibility where it really belongs can you hope to put an end to the turmoil that everywhere prevails.

“In your solicitude for the adequate protection of the empire from foreign foes, you passed a decree for the establishment of a military camp near Paris, in which city the confederates of France are to assemble on the 14th of July to renew their oath to live free or die. The poisonous breath of calumny has killed this project, and the king has refused to sanction that also.

“I respect this exercise of a constitutional prerogative too much to suggest that his ministers should be considered responsible for this refusal on his part; but if the sacred soil of liberty is profaned before a suitable army can be raised to defend it, you must regard these men as traitors, and punish them as such, by hurling them into the pit which their indifference or malevolence has created in the pathway of liberty.

“We should tear off the bandage which flattery and intrigue have placed over the king's eyes, and show him the goal to which perfidious friends are endeavouring to lead him.

“It is in the king's name that refugee princes are stirring up the courts of Europe against us; it is to avenge the king's dignity that the treaty of Pilnitz has been concluded; it is to defend the king that we see the members of his former body-guard fleeing to Germany to enroll themselves under a foreign flag; it is to come to the king's aid that emigres are enlisting in Austrian armies, and preparing to wage a relentless war upon their native land; and it is to assist these champions of royal prerogative that others desert their posts in the face of the enemy, break their oaths, steal the funds intrusted to their charge, and corrupt their men,-thus to all appearance priding themselves upon their cowardice, insubordination, perjury, theft, and murder. And the king's name has been made the pretext for all this.

“Now, in the Constitution I read as follows: -

“' If the king places himself at the head of an army, and directs its forces against the nation, or if he does not oppose by formal act any such enterprise undertaken in his name, he shall be regarded as having abdicated his throne.'

“It will be useless for the king to say in reply: 'The enemies of the nation pretend to be acting in my behalf, but I have proved that I am not their accomplice. I have obeyed the Constitution, I have put troops in the field. It is true that the armies were too weak, but the Constitution does not specify how strong the army is to be. It is true they may have been put in the field too late, but the Constitution does not state how much time is to be allowed me for their organisation. It is true some troops might have been placed in reserve to relieve those in the field, but the Constitution does not oblige me to organise these reserve camps. It is true that when the generals were advancing unhindered into the enemy's country, I ordered them to be re-called, but the Constitution does not compel me to win victories. It is true that my ministers have deceived the National Assembly with regard to the number, disposal, and equipments of our troops, but the Constitution gives me the right to select my own counsellors, and nowhere commands me to bestow my confidence on patriots, or drive counter-revolutionists from me. It is true that the Assembly has passed several decrees essential to the welfare of our beloved country, and I have refused to sanction them, but the Constitution gives me this power. Finally, it is true that a counter-revolution is at work, that despotism is striving to re-invest me with its sceptre of iron, in order that I may crush you with it, that I may punish you for having the insolence to desire to be free, and that I may compel you to grovel before me; but I am doing all this constitutionally. No act that the Constitution condemns has emanated from me; so no one has any right to doubt my fidelity towards the Constitution, or my zeal in its defence.'

“If it were possible for the king to use such derisive language as this amid the misfortunes that now environ us, and to prate of his respect for the Constitution in such terms of insulting irony, should we not have a perfect right to reply: -

“'You believe, perhaps, 0 king, like the tyrant Lysan- der, that truth is no better than falsehood, and that it is perfectly right and proper to amuse men with promises and oaths, as you amuse children with jackstraws. You have made a pretence of loving the laws, merely for the sake of retaining the power to defy them. You have accepted the Constitution, merely to retain your seat upon the throne, where you needed to remain in order that you might be able to destroy this same Constitution. You profess to love the nation, merely to win the confidence of the people, and so insure the success of your perfidious schemes.

“'Do you still think to deceive us with such hypocritical protestations- Do you hope to blind us to the real cause of our misfortunes by your artifices and sophistries-

“'Was it really with the hope of defending us that you sent such an insignificant force to resist the invader as to prevent a possibility of anything save defeat- Was it for the purpose of defending us that you paid no attention to plans for fortifying the interior of the kingdom, and neglected to make any preparations for resistance- Was it to defend us that you failed to reprimand a general who violated the Constitution, and did his best to weaken the courage of the men who were serving under him- Is it to defend us that you are paralysing the government by continual changes in your cabinet- Does the Constitution empower you to choose your ministers for our weal or for our woe- Does it make you commander-in-chief of our armies for our glory or our shame- Does it give you a large civil list, and so many valuable prerogatives, — among them the right of veto,- in order that you may employ these advantages to the detriment of the Constitution and the kingdom-

“'You have not kept the oath you took to support the Constitution. The Constitution may be overthrown, but you shall not profit by your perjury. You have uttered no protest against the victories which have been achieved over liberty in your name, nor have you ever repudiated them, either directly or indirectly; but you shall not profit by these unworthy triumphs. Henceforth you are naught to this Constitution which you have so basely violated, or to the people whom you have so shamefully betrayed.'

“As a close connection is apparent between many of these facts which I have recalled to your mind, and certain acts of the king's; as it is certain that the false friends who surround him are in league with those conspirators at Coblentz who were striving to lure the king on to his ruin in order to place the crown upon the head of one of their own chief conspirators; as it is needful for his personal safety as well as for the safety of the kingdom that his conduct should be above suspicion, — I suggest an address in which he be reminded of the truths I have just mentioned, and of the fact that the state of neutrality which he maintains between this country and Coblentz is nothing more nor less than treason towards France.

“I demand, moreover, that you declare the country in danger. You will see all citizens rallying to her support at this cry of alarm. The land will be covered with soldiers who will repeat the deeds of valour that covered the nations of antiquity with glory.

“For what are we waiting- For the military government some persons desire to establish- The Court is suspected of treasonable projects. There is much talk of military movements and of martial law. The imagination is becoming familiar with the idea of bloodshed. The palace of the king of the French is being transformed into a fortress.

“But where are our enemies- Upon whom are these cannon and bayonets pointed-

“The friends of the Constitution have been driven out of the cabinet, though the firm hand of a true patriot is sadly needed upon the reins of government. Discord is rife and fanaticism rampant on every side. The connivance of our own government increases the audacity of our foreign foes, and at the same time cools the sympathy of nations who are secretly praying for the triumph of liberty. The enemy's cohorts are becoming larger and larger, while intrigue and perfidy are busily weaving treasonable plots in the very midst of us. The Assembly passes rigorous but sorely needed edicts to circumvent these conspirators, but the king's hand rends these edicts in twain.

“It is high time to summon the French people to the defence of their native land, and show them the terrible abyss that is opening before them.

“Imitate the Spartans at Thermopylae, or those venerable Roman senators who calmly awaited upon their own thresholds the death to which their ferocious conquerors had condemned them. A few such sacrifices only are needed to raise up countless avengers; for the day your blood reddens the soil, tyranny — with its arrogance, its palaces, and its champions — will vanish for ever before the irresistible power of the nation and the just wrath of an outraged people.”

An ever-increasing power was apparent in this impassioned discourse. Eising higher and higher, it beat the air more and more violently with its wings, like some huge bird, until it created a positive hurricane.

The effect was similar to that of a waterspout. The entire assemblage, Feuillants, Royalists, Constitutionalists, Republicans, members in their seats and spectators in the gallery, were enveloped, caught up, and swept away by this powerful flood of impassioned eloquence. People fairly shrieked with enthusiasm.

That same evening Barbaroux wrote to his friend Rebecqui in Marseilles: -

Send me five hundred men who know how to die!

CHAPTER CXLI. THE THIRD ANNIVERSARY OF THE TAKING OF THE BASTILLE.

On the llth of July the Assembly declared the country in danger. According to the Constitution the king's sanction was necessary for the promulgation of this announcement, however, and the king did not give it until the evening of the 21st.

And, in fact, to admit that the country was in danger was equivalent to a confession of powerlessness on the part of the chief executive. It was an appeal to the country to save itself, inasmuch as the king either would not or could not save it.

From July llth to July 21st the liveliest apprehensions were felt by the occupants of the palace.

The Court was confident of the development of some conspiracy against the king's life on the 14th. A bulletin issued by the Jacobins strengthened these suspicions. It was evidently prepared by Robespierre, and it was addressed to the confederates, who were coming to Paris to attend the fete of the 14th of July, so cruelly stained with blood the year before: -

“To the French people of the eighty-three departments, greeting!” said the Incorruptible.”To Marseilles, greeting! To the powerful and invincible nation who gathers her children about her in all seasons of joy and of peril, greeting 1 We open our doors wide to our brothers!

“Citizens, do you come hither for a mere idle ceremony, and for superfluous protestations- No, no! You hasten hither in response to the appeal of the nation, menaced from without, betrayed from within.

“Treacherous leaders conduct our armies into pitfalls. Our generals respect the territory of the tyrannical Austrian, and burn the towns of our Belgian brothers. A monster, Lafayette, has just insulted the Assembly to its very face.

“Keviled, threatened, outraged, does the Assembly still exist- So many dastardly attacks have at last aroused the nation; and you hasten here in answer to its appeal. Wheedlers will endeavour to cajole you. Shun their caresses; shun their banquets, where they will drink to moderation and to forgetfulness of duty! Do not allow your suspicions to be lulled to rest for a moment. The fatal hour is at hand!

“There stands the patriot altar! Will you allow false idols to come between you and Liberty, to usurp the adoration which is due to her alone- Let us swear allegiance only to our country!

“Everything on the Champ de Mars will remind you of the treachery of our enemies. There is not a single foot of ground unstained with innocent blood. Purify that soil! Avenge that blood, and do not leave this sacred spot until the salvation of the country is assured.”

It would be difficult indeed to speak more explicitly. Never was assassination recommended in plainer terms; never was a sanguinary revenge urged more clearly and forcibly.

And it was Eobespierre, take notice, the crafty orator, the cautious deputy, who said, in his blandest tones,”My friends, you must kill the king!”

Everybody at the Tuileries was greatly alarmed, the king particularly, for they were all positive that the sole object of the outbreak on the 20th of June had been the assassination of the king, and that the failure of the plot had been due entirely to the courageous demeanour of the king, which had awed his would-be murderers.

And there was not a little truth in all this. Now, all the friends of the king and queen believed that the crime which had failed on the 20th of June had merely been postponed until the 14th of July. In fact, they were so firmly convinced of this that they begged the king to put on a suit, or at least a tunic, of chain armour under his clothing, so that the first stab or shot would prove harmless, and his friends have time to come to his assistance.

Alas! the queen had not Andree to aid her now, as on a former occasion, and to go with her at midnight to a lonely part of the palace to test with a trembling hand the efficacy of that light silky cuirass, as she had done once at Versailles.

Fortunately, the king's cuirass had been preserved. He had put it on once, merely to please the queen, on the occasion of his first compulsory journey from Versailles to Paris, but had never worn it afterwards. Now he was so closely watched that his friends could find no opportunity to put it on him a second time, and repair any defects it might have; and Madame Campan carried it about three days under her dress.

At last, one morning, while she was in the queen's chamber, and the queen still in bed, the king came in, hastily pulled off his coat, and tried on the armour, while Madame Campan stood guard at the door.

When the cuirass had been adjusted, the king called Madame Campan to him and said:”It is to satisfy the queen I am doing this. They won't assassinate me, Cam- pan, you may be sure of that. They have changed their plans, and there is an entirely different kind of death in store for me. When you leave the queen come to my room, for there is something I wish to intrust to your charge.”

The king went out, and the queen, who had noticed this whispered conference, asked Madame Campan what the king had said to her.

Bursting into tears, Madame Campan fell upon her knees beside the bed and repeated his Majesty's words.

The queen shook her head sorrowfully, and said:”Yes, that is the king's opinion, and I am beginning to think as he does. He believes that what is now taking place in Prance will prove a mere repetition of what took place in England a century ago. He is continually reading the history of the unfortunate Charles. Yes, yes; I begin to fear the king will be tried. As for me, I am a foreigner, and they will assassinate me. Alas! what will become of my poor children-”

Sobs choked her utterance. Madame Campan sprang up and began to prepare a soothing draught of sweetened water and ether; but the queen stopped her.

“Nervous attacks are for happy women,” she said sadly;”but there is no remedy for a mind diseased. Since our misfortunes became so great, I am scarcely conscious of my bodily existence. I can think only of my probable fate. Say nothing about this to the king, and go to him at once.”

But Madame Campan made no movement to obey.

“What is the matter- Why don't you go-” asked the queen.

“Oh, madame, I want to tell your Majesty that I have had a tunic of mail like the king's made for you,” cried Madame Campan,”and I implore your Majesty on my knees to put it on.”

“Thank you, thank you, my dear Campan,” said the queen, much affected.

“Your Majesty accepts it, then-”exclaimed her devoted attendant, joyfully.

“I will accept it as a token of your devotion, but I shall not put it on.” Then, taking her faithful friend's hand, she added softly:”I shall be only too thankful if they do assassinate me. 0 God! they will, in that case, confer a greater blessing on me than Thou did'st in giving me life, for they will deliver me from it! Go, Campan, go!”

In the corridor Madame Campan met the king. On seeing her, he stopped, and offered her his hand. Madame Campan took it, and bent her head to press her lips upon it; but the king drew her to him, and kissed her upon both cheeks; then, before she had recovered from her astonishment, he bade her follow him.

The king walked on in advance of her until he reached a side passage leading from his bed-chamber to that of the dauphin. Here he paused, and passed his hand over the partition, until he found a spring which yielded to his touch, and a door flew back, revealing a small closet skilfully built in the wall of the passage. It was the iron vault the king had built and walled up, with Gamain's assistance, two years before.

There was a large portfolio filled with papers in the closet, as well as a large quantity of gold.

“Here, Campan, take this portfolio and carry it to your own room,” said the king.

Madame Campan tried to lift it, but the portfolio was too heavy.

“I cannot lift it, Sire,” she replied.

“Wait, then,” said the king.

And after carefully closing the safe again, he picked up the portfolio and carried it to Madame Campan's room himself.

“What am I to do with this portfolio, Sire-”asked the lady.

“The queen will inform you, and at the same time tell you what it contains.”

The king left the room, and Madame Campan, after concealing the portfolio between the two mattresses on her bed, returned to the queen.

“Madame, the king has just intrusted a portfolio to my keeping. He says your Majesty will tell me what it contains, and what I am to do with it,” she remarked.

“Campan, it contains documents and papers which would ruin the king if he should ever be brought to a trial, which God forbid! At the same time — and this is probably what the king wished me to tell you — it also contains a full report of the session of the Council in which the king opposed a declaration of war. He had it signed by all his ministers; and in case he is ever brought to trial, he thinks, though the others may injure him, this will be of some service to him.”

“But what am I to do with the papers, madame-”

“Whatever you think proper, Campan, provided they are in a safe place. Only you must not leave me, even when you are not on duty; for circumstances are such that I may need you at any moment. As you are one of our most trusty friends, I want you always near me.”

The festival of July 14th took place. It was the Kev- olution, not the assassination of the king, that engrossed every mind, however, — though there was undoubtedly a strong disposition to celebrate Potion's victory over the king.

As we have previously stated, Pe'tion had been suspended from office by the Directory of Paris after the outbreak on the 20th of June; but the king's concurrence was needed to make this act valid. The king confirmed the action of the Directory by a royal proclamation sent to the Assembly; but on the 13th the Assembly formally reinstated Petion.

At eleven o'clock on the morning of the 14th the king descended the steps of the palace in company with the queen and the royal children. Three or four thousand troops formed an escort for the royal family; but the queen looked in vain for any expression of friendly feeling or sympathy on the faces of these men.

As for the people, there was no mistaking their sentiments. Shouts of”Long live Pe'tion!” resounded on every side. The queen trembled and turned pale. In spite of what she had said to Madame Campan, she felt convinced that there must be a plot against the king's life, and shuddered as she fancied she saw an outstretched hand armed with a knife or aiming a pistol.

On reaching the Champ de Mars, the king alighted from his carriage, took his place on the left of the President of the Assembly, and advanced with him towards the patriot altar.

The queen was obliged to leave the king, in order to take possession of the box that had been reserved for her and her children; but she paused, unwilling to ascend the stairs until she was satisfied that her husband was safe.

Just as the king reached the foot of the patriot altar, there was a sudden movement, attended with considerable commotion in the crowd, and the king disappeared from sight. The queen screamed, and started towards the spot; but in a moment the king was seen again, ascending the steps of the patriot altar.

Among the numerous allegorical figures, such as Justice, Liberty, Law, and Order, which usually figure in such processions, there was a man, heavily swathed in crape and crowned with cypress, who especially attracted the queen's attention.

“Who is that man dressed in black and crowned with cypress-” she managed to falter, though not without a terrible effort.

“The headsman,” replied a voice that made her tremble.

“And what is he carrying in his hand hidden under that crape veil-”

“The axe with which Charles I. was beheaded.”

The queen turned pale and glanced nervously around, for it seemed to her she had heard that voice before.

She was right. The speaker was the man she had seen at the Chateau de Taverney, at the Sevres Bridge, and upon her return from Varennes. In short, it was Cagliostro; and, uttering a sharp cry, the queen fell back, fainting, in Madame Elizabeth's arms.

CHAPTER CXLII. THE COUNTRY IS IN DANGER!

At six o'clock on the morning of July 22, just one week after the festival on the Champ de Mars, all Paris was startled by the sullen roar of a huge cannon fired from the Pont Neuf. It was answered by another cannon from the Arsenal.

And this tiring was continued at regular intervals during the entire day.

The six battalions of National Guards, under their several commanders, assembled at daybreak in front of the Hotel de Ville, and two processions were formed, to carry through the streets of Paris and out into the faubourgs the announcement that the country was in danger.

It was Danton who had originated this scheme; and he had secured Sergent's assistance in arranging the programme.

Both processions left the city-hall at six in the morning, and took up their line of march in opposite directions.

First came a detachment of cavalry, headed by a band of music playing a gloomy melody, strongly resembling a funeral march, composed for the occasion.

Behind the cavalry came six pieces of artillery, moving abreast when the quays and avenues were wide enough, but advancing two by two in the narrow streets.

Then came four officers on horseback, each bearing an ensign, upon which one of the following words was inscribed: -

Liberty — Equality — Constitution — Country.

Then came twelve municipal officers, each with his sash and sword.

Then, solitary and alone, like France herself, came a National Guardsman on horseback, bearing aloft a large tricoloured banner, with the words: -

Citizens, The Country is In Danger!

Then came six more pieces of artillery, rumbling and jolting heavily over the stones.

Then another detachment of the National Guards, with another squad of cavalry bringing up the rear.

At each public square and bridge and cross-roads the procession halted. The roll of drums gave the signal for silence, the banners were slowly waved, and when every sound was hushed, and ten thousand spectators listened with bated breath, one of the city officers read the legislative decree in a loud voice, concluding in every instance with the words: -

The Country is In Danger!

This startling cry thrilled every heart to its inmost core. It was the appeal of the Nation, of Fatherland, of France! It was the cry of an agonised mother, calling,”Help, help, my children!”

And all the while the big cannon at the Arsenal thundered out its solemn answer to the cannon on the Pont Neuf.

Platforms for the enrolment of volunteers had been erected in all the principal squares of the city. Every one rushed up to have his name inscribed upon the roll. The sentinels could not keep back the eager applicants, who were continually breaking through the line. The two flights of steps — one for ascending to, the other for descending from, the platform — were totally inadequate, broad as they were.

Every man climbed up as best he could, assisted by those who were already on the platform; and as soon as his name was registered, and his certificate tilled out, he jumped to the ground, waving his parchment proudly in the air, and running to kiss the cannon's mouth, chanting the Qa ira, the while.

Among the would-be volunteers were many entirely too old for military service, who did their best to disguise their age, and many more who were too young, but who, in their wild longing to be soldiers, stood on tiptoe and answered”Sixteen 1” when they were only fourteen years of age.

Those who were held by indissoluble ties wept that they too could not go, and buried their faces in their hands to conceal their shame.

And as the cannon thundered hour after hour, the cheers for the nation rose louder and louder.

The excitement was so intense, and the people were fast relapsing into such a condition of frenzy, that the Assembly became frightened at its own work, and deputies were sent out in every direction to say:”Brothers, in the name of our country, no rioting! The Court would like to have a riot, in order to furnish an excuse for getting the king out of the way. But we must provide them with no such pretext. The king must remain here with us.”

Then they added, in a whisper,”But he certainly ought to be punished.”

And everywhere these men went, the throng applauded; and after they passed, a low murmur of”Yes, he ought to be punished,” could be heard circulating through the crowd, like the sighing of the wind through the branches when a storm is gathering. No name was mentioned, but everybody knew perfectly well whom he desired to punish.

This state of affairs lasted until midnight; until midnight the cannon thundered, and crowds surrounded the recruiting-officers. Many encamped on the Champ de Mars, making their first bivouac at the foot of the patriot altar.

The king, Marie Antoinette, the royal children, and the Princesse de Lamballe spent the entire day together. Nor did they separate until after midnight,-that is, until they knew that the last gun had been fired.

Since the outbreak in the faubourgs, the queen's friends had persuaded her to leave her old apartments, and occupy a room between the king's chamber and that of the dauphin. Accustomed to wake at daybreak, she would never allow the blinds or shutters to be closed, as her wakeful hours were thus rendered less intolerable. Madame Campan slept in the same room.

The reason the queen had consented to this arrangement was that one night, when the queen was about to retire, and Madame Campan was standing by the bed talking with her, hurried footsteps were heard in the corridor, followed by a noise like that made by a struggle between two men. Madame Campan wanted to go and see what the matter was, but the queen clung to her, exclaiming,”Don't leave me, Campan, don't leave mel”

Just then a voice shouted from the corridor:”Don't be frightened, madame. It is a rascal who meant to kill you; but I 've got him.”

“Good heavens! what a life!” cried the queen.”Insults by day, and assassins by night I”

Then she called out to the valet: -

“Let the man go, and open the door for him.”

“But, madame,” interposed Madame Campan.

“What is the use, my dear- If he is arrested to-night, the Jacobins will carry him through the streets in triumph to-morrow I”

So this man — who proved to be one of the lower servants of the household — was allowed to depart; but after that, the king insisted that some one should sleep in the queen's room, and she had chosen Madame Campan.

On the night following the proclamation, Madame Cam- pan woke about two o'clock, and, hearing the queen sigh, she felt sure that her Majesty was awake.

“Are you in pain, madame,” she asked softly,”or are you oppressed by dismal forebodings-”

“Quite the contrary, Campan,” replied the queen, holding out her white hand, which looked even more like marble than usual in the bright moonlight that flooded the apartment.”I was thinking that before another moon we shall be free once more.”

“Then you have accepted Lafayette's offer of assistance, and are going to flee-”

“Lafayette'sassistance- No, thank Heaven!” exclaimed the queen, with an accent of unmistakable aversion;”but in a month my nephew, the Emperor Francis, will be in Paris.”

“Are you sure, madame-”cried Madame Campan, much alarmed.

“Yes, everything has been arranged. An alliance has been formed between Austria and Prussia, and the two armies are to combine and march upon Paris. We know the route both of the princes and of the allied armies, and can say with certainty,”On such a day our rescuers will be in Valenciennes, on such a day in Verdun, and on such a day in Paris.”

“And you are not afraid of being -”

“Of being assassinated-” said the queen, concluding.”I am very well aware there is a possibility of that. But what then- One who risks nothing, gains nothing.”

“On what day do the allies expect to reach Paris-”

“Between the 15th and 20th of August.”

“God grant it-”said Campan.

But fortunately God did not grant the petition; or rather He heard it, and sent France unhoped-for aid in the Marseillaise.

CHAPTER CXLIII. THE MARSEILLAISE.

Strange to say, the queen was encouraged by the very thing that should have alarmed her, namely, the Duke of Brunswick's manifesto.

This document, prepared at the Tuileries and sent away early that same month, could hardly be expected to reach Paris on its return before July 26th.

B ut about the same time that the Court was preparing this absurd document, whose effect we shall note in due time, let us see what was going on at Strasburg.

Strasburg, one of the most French of French towns, by reason of its having but narrowly escaped becoming an Austrian dependency, saw the enemy at its very gates.

For six months, and indeed ever since war had seemed imminent, patriot battalions, composed of young and enthusiastic volunteers, had been assembling at Strasburg; so that city, whose superb spire is mirrored in the Ehine, which alone separated France from the enemy, was a seething cauldron of war, gaiety, pleasure, balls, and parades.

As fresh volunteers entered by one gate of the city, those who were considered prepared for the fray left by the other. In Strasburg friends met, embraced, and bade each other a last farewell; in Strasburg sisters were weeping, mothers were praying, and fathers were saying,”Go and die for France!”

And above all this could be heard the roar of cannon and the chiming of church-bells, — those two brazen voices which appeal to God, one imploring His mercy, the other invoking His justice.

On the occasion of one of these departures of troops, — one rather more solemn than the others, because there were more troops departing,- Mayor Dietrich of Strasburg invited the brave young fellows, together with the officers of the garrison, to a banquet at his house.

The mayor's two daughters, with a dozen or more of their girl friends, fair-haired daughters of Alsace, though they were not to preside at the banquet, were to adorn and embellish it, like so many beauteous flowers.

Among the guests was an intimate friend of the Dietrich family, a young man from Tranche Comte” named Eouget de 1'Isle.

He was then about twenty years of age, an officer in the engineer corps attached to the Strasburg garrison. A poet and musician as well, his harpsichord was frequently heard, and his voice resounded among the strongest and most patriotic voices of his time.

Never was there a more enthusiastic and patriotic gathering. No one spoke of himself, every one talked of France.

True, Death was there, as at the banquets in ancient times,-not the hideous spectre armed with scythe and hour-glass, but a beautiful smiling guest, with a sword in one hand and a palm-branch in the other.

They wanted something to sing. The old (7a ira had become an anthem of wrath and of civil war; they needed a patriotic, fraternal chant, breathing menace only upon foreign foes.

Where was the modern Tyrteus who could compose this patriotic song amidst the smoke of cannon and the whistling of bullets-

“I can I”answered that ardent and enthusiastic young patriot, Eouget de 1'Isle.

He rushed from the banquet-hall, and in less than half an hour — even before his absence was noted — words and music

Portrait of Rougt-f de I'hie.

Etclied by E. H. Garrett. From Painting by Leopard Mar.

were alike ready. All the material was, as it were, melted at once, and cast in the mould, like the statue of a god.

Rouget de 1'Isle re-entered the room with forehead covered with great drops of sweat, his hair thrown back from his face, and almost breathless from his fierce struggle with those two sublime sisters, — Music and Poesy.

“Listen! listen all of you!” he cried. He was sure of his muse, this noble youth.

At the sound of his voice every one turned, some with glasses still upraised, while others clasped their neighbours' trembling hands.

Kouget de 1'Isle began: -

“Ye sons of France, awake to glory!

Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!

Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,

Behold their tears, and hear their cries!

Behold their tears, and hear their cries 1

Shall hateful tyrants, mischief breeding,

Affright and desolate our land,

While peace and liberty lie bleeding t

To arms, to arms, ye brave!

The avenging sword unsheathe!

March on! March on! All hearts resolved

On victory or death!”

On hearing the opening lines, an electric thrill ran through the entire assemblage.

Two or three times shouts of applause burst forth; but those thirsting for more, cried,”Silence! silence! Listen!”

With a gesture of deep indignation, Eouget continued: -

“Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling,

Which treacherous kings confederate raise;

The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,

And lo! our walls and cities blaze!

And shall we basely view the ruin,

While lawless force with guilty stride

Spreads desolation far and wide,

With crimes and blood his hands imbruing-

To arms, to arms, ye bravo!

The avenging sword unsheathe,” etc.

This time the singer did not need to ask the company to join in the chorus, for it seemed to burst forth spontaneously from every lip.

With growing enthusiasm, Rouget continued: -

“With luxury and pride surrounded,

The vile, insatiate despots dare -

Their thirst for gold and power unbounded -

To mete and vend the light and air.

Like beasts of burden would they load us:

Like gods would bid their slaves adore;

But man is man- and who is morel

Then shall they longer lash and goad us f”'

A hundred throbbing breasts panted wildly in their longing to answer; and before the last of the above lines had left the poet's lips, a fierce”No! no I no!” burst forth.

Then like a trumpet-blast that stirring chorus again rang out:-

“To arms, to arms, ye brave!

The avenging sword unsheathe!

March on! March on! All hearts resolved

On victory or death!”

There was such a commotion in the audience that Eouget was obliged to ask for silence before beginning the fourth stanza; but they all listened with feverish attention as, with a voice that was full of menace now, he sang: -

“Ye tyrants, tremble! Traitors scheming,

By all true hearts ye stand condemned!

Quail! O'er your parricidal dreaming

Punishment dire doth now impend.

Here all are soldiers strong to fight you;

And if they fall in youth's glad spring,

The earth new heroes forth shall bring,

With hands already raised to smite you.”

“Yes, yes 1” shouted every auditor.

A crowd had come in after the banquet to listen to the speeches and songs, and fathers pushed forward their sous who were old enough to walk, and mothers lifted high above their heads children who still had to be carried.

Then Rouget de 1'Isle saw that a verse was still lacking, — the song of the children; and while his companions were enthusiastically repeating the terrible refrain, he leaned his head upon his hand, and, in the midst of all that noise and applause and commotion, he improvised the following stanza:-

“Upon their life-work we will enter,

When our dear parents are no more.

May their bright virtues be our mentor

In all the paths they trod before!

Lees anxious far to long survive them

Than honored graves with them to share,

With pride sublime we '11 do or dare,

Their deaths avenge, or die beside them!”

And above the stifled sobs of the mothers, and the enthusiastic shouts of the fathers, the pure voices of girlhood could be heard chanting the refrain: -

“To arms, to arms, ye brave I

The avenging sword unsheathe!

March on! March on 1 All hearts resolved

On victory or death!”

“Now on your knees, all of you,” cried Eouget de 1'Tsle.

They obeyed.

Rouget alone remained standing. Placing one foot on a neighbour's chair, as if upon the first step of the Temple of Liberty, and lifting his clasped hands to Heaven, he sang the last stanza, -an invocation to the presiding genius of Prance: -

11=“7%” 0 Liberty, can man resign thee,

Who once has felt thy generous flame f

Can dungeons, bolts, and bars confine thee,

Or whips thy noble spirit tame-

Too long the world has wept, bewailing

That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield; -

But freedom is our sword and shield,

And all their arts are unavailing.”

Then once again every voice joined in that sublime refrain, that £›e profundis of despotism, — that Magnificat of Liberty: -

“March on! March on, ye brave!

The avenging sword unsheathe!

March on! March on! All hearts resolved

On liberty or death.”

Wild, intoxicating joy filled every heart. Every person embraced his neighbour, and fair maidens heaped bouquets and floral crowns at the poet's feet with a lavish hand.

Thirty-eight years afterwards, when he narrated the incidents of that eventful evening to me,-then a young man, — the poet's brow was still radiant with the sublime aureole of 1792.

Nor is this strange; for the”Marseillaise” is not only a war-cry, but a peean of fraternity. It typifies the powerful hand of France outstretched to the oppressed of all nations. This hymn, indeed, must ever be the last sigh of expiring Liberty, the first glad cry of new-born freedom.

But as the hymn was composed in Strasburg, and christened the Song of the Rhine, how did it happen to suddenly appear in the heart of France under the name of the Marseilles Hymn-

That is what we are about to explain to our readers.

CHAPTER CXLIV. BARBABOUX'S FIVE HUNDRED.

As if to furnish just grounds for declaring the country in danger, the manifesto from Coblentz reached Paris on the 28th of July. As we have previously remarked, it was a foolish document,-a threat, and consequently an insult, to France.

The Duke of Brunswick, an exceedingly clever man, considered the document absurd; but the duke was obliged, of course, to bow to the will of the allied sovereigns, who, having received the manifesto all prepared from the hands of the French monarch, imposed it upon the leader of their forces.

According to this manifesto, all Frenchmen were criminals, and every town and village ought to be demolished or burned. As for Paris, that was a modern Nineveh, which should be given over to destruction, and not a single stone be left standing above another.

Such were the contents of the manifesto bearing the date of July 26th, but which reached Paris on the 28th. Had an eagle transported it from Coblentz to Paris in its claws- One would suppose so, when one remembers it had traversed a distance of over two hundred leagues in thirty- six hours. The explosion of wrath such a document created can be easily imagined. It was like a spark falling on powder. Every heart bounded with rage and indignation, and every man eagerly girded himself for the fray.

Among these numerous types of manhood there was one which we will now endeavour to depict.

We have already alluded to a man named Barbaroux, who early in July wrote to his friend Rebecqui,”Send me five hundred men who know how to die.”

The man who penned these words exerted a powerful influence over his compariots through the potent charm of youth, beauty, and patriotism.

This man was Charles Barbarouz, whose face haunted Madame Roland in the conjugal chamber, and made Charlotte Corday dream of him even at the foot of the scaffold.

Madame Roland began by distrusting him, — and why- Because he was too handsome.

This was the criticism bestowed upon another celebrated Revolutionist, whose head was held aloft by the hand of the public executioner within fourteen months of the day that Barbaroux met the same fate at Bordeaux. This other Adonis was He'rault de Sechelles, who was executed at Paris.

Read what Madame Roland says of him: -

Barbarouz is frivolous. The adoration women lavish upon him has impaired the earnestness of his sentiments. When I see these handsome young men intoxicated by the admiration they excite, as in the case of Barbaroux and He'rault de Sechelles, I cannot help thinking that they care too much for themselves to care very much for their country.”

She was mistaken, this austere Minerva. His country may not have been Barbaroux's only divinity, but he at least loved her sufficiently well to die for her.

Barbaroux was scarcely twenty-five years of age. Born in Marseilles of a family of those sturdy seamen who made commerce a poem, his superb form, grace of movement, and personal beauty made him look like a direct descendant of one of those Phocians who transported their gods from the shores of the Permessus to the banks of the Rhone.

Though young, he was already an adept in the art of oratory, a poet of no mean order, a graduate in medicine, and a valued correspondent of Saussure and Marat.

He first attracted public notice during the disturbances which followed the election of Mirabeau in his native town, and he was soon afterwards made secretary by the City Council.

During the subsequent troubles in Aries, Barbaroux was ever in the foremost ranks, — an armed Antinoils.

He was sent to Paris to give an account of the troubles in Avignon. From his report one might have supposed that he belonged to no party, that his heart, like that of justice, was a stranger alike to friendship and prejudice. He told the exact truth, terrible as it was, and the telling of it made him seem as great as truth itself.

The Girondists had just come into power. The distinguishing characteristic of this party was their genuine artistic taste, or rather their love of the beautiful. They greeted Barbaroux with enthusiasm; then, proud of their new recruit, conducted him straight to Madame Roland.

We know the impression Madame Eoland first formed of him. She was amazed, too, at his youth. Her husband had corresponded with Barbaroux for a long time; and the latter's letters had always been remarkably sensible, accurate, and full of wise counsel. She had never given much thought to this sage correspondent's age or appearance, but had vaguely supposed him to be a bald- headed, wrinkled man of forty.

She found him to be a handsome, gay, frivolous young man of twenty-five, devoted to the ladies. In fact, all that fiery, impulsive generation that flourished in '92, to die, prematurely cut down, in '93, loved the fair sex.

It was in this apparently frivolous head — which Madame Roland considered entirely too handsome — that the idea of the 10th of August first originated.

There was a storm in the air. Formidable clouds were scurrying wildly to and fro; but it was Barbaroux who first conceived the idea of concentrating them over the tiled roof of the Tuileries.

Before any one else had made any plan, he wrote to Rebecqui,”Send me five hundred men who know how to die!”

Ah, the real King of France now was the King of the Revolution, who wrote for five hundred men who knew how to die, and to whom they were sent as artlessly and freely as he had sent for them.

Rebecqui had selected them himself from the French faction at Avignon. They had been fighting only two years, but they had been hating for ten generations. They had fought at Toulouse, at Nimes, and at Aries; so they were accustomed to bloodshed, and did not consider fatigue even worth talking about.

On the appointed day they set out upon this long, tiresome march of two hundred and twenty leagues as if it were a slight jaunt. And why not- They were stalwart sailors, and sturdy peasants with faces burned by the sirocco or the mistral, and with hands blackened with tar and callous from labour.

During a halt made near Orgon, in the department of Aries they received the words and music of Rouget de PIsle's hymn. Barbarous had sent it to them to make their journey seem shorter.

One of them deciphered the music and sang the words; then with a great outburst of enthusiasm they all joined in the terrible chant, — much more terrible than Rouget himself had imagined; for, in passing through the mouths of these sons of Marseilles, the song seemed to have undergone an entire change of character. It was no longer a fraternal hymn, an appeal to resist the invader, but a wild chant of extermination and death.

The little band marched through one town after another, electrifying France by the ardour with which they sang this new song.

When he knew they had reached Montereau, Barbaroux informed Santerre, and Santerre promised to meet them at Charenton with forty thousand men. With Santerre's forty thousand men, headed by his own five hundred, Barbarous intended to carry the city-hall and the Assembly by storm, then capture the Tuileries, as the people had captured the Bastille on the 14tli of July, and then establish a republic on the ruins of that Florentine palace.

Barbaroux and Eebecqui went to Charenton to await the coming of Santerre and his forty thousand men.

He arrived with two hundred.

Possibly he did not propose to give outsiders the glory of such an achievement.

The little band marched through the city to the Champs l£lysees, where they were to encamp, singing the Marseillaise. A banquet was to be given to them the next day, and the banquet took place; but between the Champs]

The Marseillais and the grenadiers displayed unmistakable animosity from the very first. They began with an interchange of opprobrious epithets, which speedily led to blows. At the first show of blood the Marseillais sounded the call to arms, seized their guns, and charged with their bayonets. The grenadiers succumbed under the first attack; but fortunately the palace, with its massive iron gates, was behind them, and the revolving bridge protected their flight and served as a protection from their foes.

The fugitives found a shelter in the king's apartments. Tradition says that one of the wounded was even cared for by the queen's own hands.

The confederates, the Marseillais, and the Bretons numbered five thousand men; and these five thousand men were a power, — not by reason of their number, but of their faith and courage.

They were thoroughly impregnated with the spirit of the Revolution.

On the 17th of July they sent an address to the Assembly: -

“You have declared the country in danger,'' they said;”bat do you not place yourselves, too, in a dangerous position by prolonging the reign of traitors.' Send for Lafayette, suspend the chief executive, dissolve the directories, and strengthen the judicial power.”

On August 3rd, Potion himself repeated this demand, and in behalf of the municipality insisted upon a resort to arms. It is true, however, that there were two dogs behind him, snapping at his legs, — Danton and Sergent.

“The municipality denounces the executive power,” said Pe'tion.”To cure the evils from which France is now suffering, we must attack them at the very root, and at once. We would prefer that the king's suspension from office be only temporary, but the Constitution forbids that; and as he is continually referring and appealing to the Constitution, we not only ask his abdication, but demand it.”

Hear the King of Paris thus denouncing the King of France, — the King of the City-Hall declaring war against the King of the Tuileries!

The consideration of this question of abdication was too dangerous. The committee shrank from it, and the discussion was deferred until August 9th.

On August 8th the Assembly decided it had no legal grounds for preceding against Lafayette. The Assembly was evidently retracing its steps. What would it decide the next day in relation to the king's deposal- Did it intend to oppose the plainly expressed will of the people- The Assembly had better take care! Is it possible the members cannot see the inevitable result of such imprudence now-

On the 3rd of August — the same day Pe'tion asked for the king's deposal — the people in the Saint Marceau district became weary of suffering for food by reason of this protracted state of uncertainty, and sent delegates to the Quinz-Vingts section to ask their brothers of the Faubourg Saint Antoine if they would march with them upon the Tuileries.

“We will,” was the prompt reply.

On August 4th the Assembly censured the insurrectionary proclamation of the Mauconseil section.

On the 5th the Commune refused to promulgate this decree. It was not enough for the King of Paris to declare war upon the King of France: here was the municipality formally opposing the Assembly, — positively defying them, in fact.

The report of all these proceedings, of course, reached the ears of the Marseillais. They had guns, but no cartridges. They clamoured loudly for cartridges, but their request was refused.

On the evening of August 4th, shortly after the condemnation of the Mauconseil proclamation was announced, two members of the Marseilles battalion presented themselves at the mayor's office. There were but two municipal officers present at the time, — Sergent, a devoted adherent of Danton, and Panis, a Robespierre man.

“What do you want-”inquired the two magistrates.

“Cartridges,” the young men replied.

“We have been expressly forbidden to furnish any.”

“Forbidden to furnish cartridges! Why, there is a fight near at hand, and we have no means of defence.”

“Did you bring us to Paris to have our throats cut-” cried the other man, indignantly.

The first Marseillais pulled out a pistol; but Sergent only smiled.

“No threats, young man,” he responded.”The municipal authorities of Paris are not to be intimidated.”

“Who is talking of threats and intimidation-” retorted the young stranger.”This pistol is not for you, but for me.” And, placing the muzzle against his forehead, he added,”Give me powder, cartridges, or, upon the word of a Marseillais, I '11 blow my brains out.”

Sergent had the imagination of an artist, and a real French heart. He felt that the cry this young man had just uttered was the cry of all France.

“Panis, take care!” he cried.”If this young man kills himself, his blood will be on our heads.”

“But if we give him cartridges in direct violation of orders, we shall be risking our heads.”

“Never mind,” responded Sergent.”I believe the time for risking our heads has come. Every one for himself, however; I 'm going to risk mine. You can do as you please, of course.”

And, taking a sheet of paper, Sergent wrote and signed an

order for the delivery of the cartridges to the Marseillais.

“Hand it here,” said Panis; and he added his signature to that of Sergent.

There was little danger that the Marseillais would allow themselves to be slaughtered in cold blood, now that they possessed ammunition; and the Assembly was so thoroughly frightened that the members seriously discussed the question of retiring to the provinces.

Vergniaud held his ground, however. Possibly it was because he was resolved to remain near the beautiful Can- deille that he protested so vigorously,-who knows- It matters little, however.

Everybody was in doubt as to what course to pursue. Everybody hesitated, but everybody felt the earth trembling under him, and feared lest it should open beneath his very feet.

On the very day that the Assembly denounced the Mau- conseil proclamation, and that the two young Marseillais distributed the cartridges extorted from Sergent and Panis among their comrades, there was a large gathering at the Cadran Bleu, on the Boulevard du Temple. Camille Desmoulins was there, and Carra wielded the pen and drew up the plan for an insurrection. The plan being completed, the conspirators went to confer with Antoine, an ex-deputy who resided with Duplay's family, and consequently in the same house with Robespierre.

There must have been some doubts as to Robespierre's position at this time; for when Madame Duplay saw this

crowd of men going up to Antoine's room, she hastened up there, and, calling the ex-deputy aside, exclaimed,”Surely you're not going to kill Robespierre, Monsieur Antoine!”

“No one is troubling himself about Robespierre, thank Heaven!”responded Antoine.”If he 's afraid, let him keep out of the way!”

By midnight Carra's scheme had been communicated to Santerre and Alexandre, another district commander. Alexandre avowed his willingness to march on the palace at once; but Santerre said his people were not ready.

It was thus that Santerre kept the promise made to the queen on the 20th of June. Even on the 10th of August he marched against her only because he could not help it.

So the uprising was postponed.

Antoine said that no one was thinking about Robespierre. He was mistaken. The public mind was in such a state of perturbation that the people even thought of taking Robespierre, that centre of immobility, for a driving- wheel.

And with whom did this idea originate- With Barbarous.

He was almost in despair, this stalwart Marseillais. He was even tempted to leave Paris and return to Marseilles.

Listen to Madame Roland: -

“We planed very little dependence on onr forces at the North; Bo, with Servan and Barbarous, we discussed the chances for the preservation of liberty in the South,' and of founding a republic there.”

Barbaroux fancied he had discovered another resource now,-the genius of Robespierre; but very possibly it was Robespierre who was anxious to discover Barbaroux's plans and ideas.

The Marseillais had left their former quarters, and taken up their abode in the old Cordelier Convent, near the end of the Pont Neuf.

This brought them into intimate relations with Danton; and in case of a successful insurrection, Danton would have all the credit.

Barbaroux requested an interview with Robespierre; and, with no slight show of condescension, Robespierre acceded to the request.

As we remarked some time ago, Robespierre had lodgings in carpenter Duplay's house. It was chance that had led him there the evening after the massacre on the Champ de Mars; and Robespierre considered it almost in the light of a direct interposition of Heaven in his behalf, not only because it saved him from danger at the time, but because it furnished him with the very abode a man who desired to live in such a manner as to be styled”The Incorruptible”desired. He did not take possession of this abode at once, however. First he paid a visit to Arras, bringing back his sister Charlotte, with whom he resided on the Rue Saint-Florentin for some little time.

Afterwards Robespierre became ill; and when Madame Duplay — who was a perfect fanatic on the subject of Robespierre- heard of the fact, she reproached Mademoiselle Charlotte bitterly for not having notified her at once, and begged that the invalid should be taken to her house immediately.

Robespierre was nothing loath, for he had long since planned to return to that admiring household at an early day; so Madame Duplay's proposal harmonised admirably with his schemes.

She fitted up a small but neat upper room for him, to which she transported all the best and prettiest furniture in the house, and lined the walls with shelves for the accommodation of her new lodger's books and papers. The books were not very numerous, however, — the works of Racine and Rousseau forming the greater part of his library; for, aside from these two authors, Robespierre read nothing but Robespierre.

All the vacant places on the walls were filled with portraits of the great man himself; and even as he had only to put out his hand to read Robespierre, so, in whatever direction he turned, Robespierre saw Robespierre, and Robespierre only.

It was into this sanctuary, into this holy of holies, as it were, that Barbaroux and Rebecqui were ushered.

With wonderful cunning, Robespierre first complimented the Marseillais on their courage and patriotism, and then expatiated upon his fear of seeing even the noblest sentiments carried too far. Then he spoke of himself, of his valuable services to the Revolution, and the skill and wisdom with which he had guided its course.

But was it not time now that the Revolution was checked- Had not the hour come for all parties to unite in choosing the most popular man among them, and place affairs in his hands-

But Rebecqui did not allow him to proceed any further.”I see what you're driving at, Robespierre!” he exclaimed.”Come on, Barbaroux! we are no more anxious for a dictator than for a king;”and they both departed in hot haste from the Incorruptible's attic.

Fanis, wno had accompanied them, hastily followed them down into the street.”You don't understand Robespierre-'s meaning,” he exclaimed.”He only desires authority temporarily; and certainly, if you carry out your scheme, no better man than Robespierre could be found -”

“We are no more desirous of having a dictator than a king,” exclaimed Barbaroux.

Then he hurried away with Rebecqui.

CHAPTER CXLV. WHY THE QUEEN DECIDED NOT TO FLEE.

The very thing that alarmed the Revolutionists was what reassured the occupants of the Tuileries.

The Tuileries, having been put on a defensive footing, had become a fortress, with an effective garrison.

On that famous 4th of August when so many important events occurred, royalty did not remain inactive. Several companies of Swiss mercenaries were brought from Courbe- voie to the Tuileries, and a few companies were despatched to Gaillon, where the king might perhaps seek a refuge.

Three trusty men were now stationed near the queen, — Maillardot, with his Swiss; D'Hervilly, with his Knights of St. Louis and Constitutional Guards; and Mandat, a commander of the National Guards, who promised the assistance of twenty thousand resolute and devoted men.

On the evening of the 8th of August a man entered the palace and made his way to the queen's apartments without the slightest difficulty,- for everybody in the Tuileries knew him well.

When Dr. Gilbert, — for it was he — was announced, the queen exclaimed feverishly,”Come in, doctor, come in! I am glad to see you!”

As Gilbert glanced at the queen, he noted in her entire manner and appearance a complacent, even joyous air that made him shudder. He would greatly have preferred seeing her pale and depressed than in this state of elation.

“I fear I come too late, and at an inopportune time, madame,” he said.

“On the contrary, doctor,” responded the queen, with a smile to which her lips had long been a stranger,”you arrive most opportunely, and you are most welcome. You are about to see something I have long wished to show you, — a king, a real king.”

“I fear you are deceiving yourself, and that you will show me merely a military commander, not a king.”

“Possibly we agree no better in our estimate of the proper character of a king than in many other things. In my opinion a king is a man who can say, not merely 'I will not,'but'I will.'“

“Yes, madamej and in your Majesty's opinion a king is, above all else, a man who avenges himself.”

“Who defends himself, you mean, Monsieur Gilbert. You know that we are publicly menaced, and that we are almost certain to be attacked. There are, I am told, five hundred Marseillais now in Paris who have sworn on the ruins of the Bastille that they will not return to their homes until they have encamped on the ruins of the Tuileries.”

“I have heard this report, and it has alarmed me very much, both on the king's account and on your own.”

“So much, indeed, that you have come to advise us to abdicate, and trust ourselves to the tender mercies of Monsieur Barbaroux and his Marseillais, I suppose.”

“Ah, yes, inadame; if the king would consent to abdicate, and by the sacrifice of his crown insure the preservation of his own life — as well as of yours and your children's.”

“You would advise him to do that, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“I would not only advise it, but would kneel at his feet and implore him to do it.”

“Permit me to say that you are not very stable in your opinions.”

“My opinion has undergone no change, madame. Devoted to my king and my country, I should have rejoiced to see the king and the Constitution in accord; and this desire on my part has prompted the advice I have had the honour to offer to your Majesty heretofore.”

“And what advice do you offer us at the present time, Monsieur Gilbert-”

“I advise you to flee.”

“To flee-”

“Yes, madame; you know very well that you now have it in your power to do so. In fact, that such a favourable opportunity has never before presented itself.”

“How so-”

“You have nearly three thousand men in the palace already.”

“Nearer five thousand, monsieur,” said the queen, with a satisfied smile;”and we can have twice as many if we desire.”

“Then place yourself in the midst of these five thousand men, in company with the king and your august children. Leave the Tuileries when such a movement is least anticipated. When you are two leagues away, mount your horses and hasten to Gaillon, where you are expected.”

“That is, trust myself to Lafayette.”

“He has certainly proved his devotion to you beyond all question.”

“No, monsieur, no. With these five thousand men, and five thousand more who will come at our bidding, I prefer to do something very different, — crush this rebellion now and for ever.”

“Ah, madame, madame, he was right when he told me you were doomed.”

“Who said that-”

“A man whose name I dare not repeat in your presence. A man who has warned you three times already.”

“Silence!” cried the queen, turning pale.”He shall be proved a liar, this prophet of evil!”

“Madame, I am very much afraid that you are wilfully deceiving yourself.”

“You really think they will make an attack upon us, then-”

“There is certainly a strong probability of it.”

“And do the populace think they can gain an entrance here now as they did on the 20th of June-”

“A palace can never be very strongly fortified.”

“No; but if you will come with me, I will show you that we shall at least be able to hold out some time.”

And, preceding Gilbert to the window, she bade him look out upon the Carrousel, where they could see, not the immense courtyard which now extends along the entire front of the palace, but three small courtyards, separated from each other by walls.

“Look!” she exclaimed.

And Gilbert saw that the walls had been pierced with many narrow loopholes, which would afford the garrison a decided advantage in case it was necessary to tire upon the mob. If this first barrier was passed, the garrison could retire, not only into the palace, every door of which opened upon a courtyard, but also into the side buildings; so any patriots who ventured into either courtyard would find themselves betwixt two fires.

“What do you think now, monsieur-” asked the queen.”Would you still advise Monsieur Barbaroux and his five hundred Marseillais to persist in their undertaking-”

“If they were likely to listen to me, I should give them advice very similar to that which I have offered you. I came to ask you not to wait for an attack. I should ask them not to make an attack.”

“And they would turn a deaf ear to your advice, probably.”

“Yes, as you do, madame. It is one of the greatest weaknesses of mankind to be always asking for advice, which one has no intention of following.”

“But you forget that the advice you give us is not solicited, Monsieur Gilbert,”remarkedthe queen, smiling.

“True,” responded the doctor, retreating a step or two.

“But that makes us all the more grateful for it,” added the queen, graciously, offering the doctor her hand.

Gilbert smiled rather dubiously.

Just then several waggons loaded with heavy oak timbers were driven into the courtyard, where a number of men, who were evidently soldiers, in spite of their citizen's dress, were apparently waiting for them; for they immediately began sawing these timbers into pieces about six feet long.

“Do you know who those men are-”asked the queen.

“Engineers, I should judge.”

“Yes, monsieur; and they are preparing to board up the windows, and leave only the loopholes open, so as to fire through them.”

Gilbert looked at her sorrowfully.

“Well, what have you to say about it-”

“I pity you sincerely, madame, for having forced your memory to retain those words, and your tongue to utter them.”

“Why so, monsieur- There are circumstances which make it necessary for women to become men, and men -”

She checked herself suddenly; then, as if concluding her thought rather than her sentence, she added,”But this time it is the king that has decided.”

“Madame, as you have decided to resort to these violent measures, I trust you have fortified all the approaches to the palace, — the gallery leading from the Louvre, for example -”

“Ah! you have set me to thinking. Come with me, monsieur. I should like to satisfy myself that an order I gave has been carried out.”

She led the way through her apartments to the door leading into the Floral Pavilion, which was connected in turn with the picture gallery.

The door was open, and Gilbert could see that workmen were dividing the gallery into compartments about twenty feet long.

“See!”she exclaimed. Then, addressing the officer in charge, she asked, -

“How is the work progressing, Monsieur d'Hervilly-”

“If the rebels give us twenty-four hours longer, we shall have completed it.”

“Do you think they will give us twenty-four hours-” the queen inquired, turning to the doctor.

“If anything serious is contemplated, it will not take place before the 10th of August.”

“On Friday, then. That is a bad day for an outbreak. I should have supposed the rebels would be shrewd enough to select a Sunday.”

She walked on, Gilbert following her closely. As they were leaving the picture gallery, they met another officer.

“Well, Monsieur Mandat, are all your arrangements completed-”

“Yes, madame,” replied the officer, eying Gilbert rather dubiously.

“Oh, you can speak with perfect freedom before this gentleman, monsieur,” said the queen.”He is a friend of ours. Isn’t that so, doctor-”she added, turning to Gilbert.

“Yes, madame, and one of your most devoted friends.”

“That alters the case entirely,” responded Mandat.”A detachment of National Guards at the city-hall and another at the Pont Neuf will allow the rebels to pass them. When Monsieur d'Hervilly and his men, and Monsieur Maillardot with his Swiss, confront the rebels here, their retreat being completely cut off, they will be utterly annihilated.”

“You see, monsieur, that your 10th of August is not likely to prove a 20th of June,” remarked the queen.

“I fear not indeed, madame.”

“Have you time to go down to the basement with me, monsieur-”

“Certainly, madame.”

They found the basement story strongly fortified, and defended by Swiss Guards. The windows were already boarded up.

“How about your men, Monsieur Maillardot-” the queen inquired, going up to the officer in command.

“They, like myself, are ready to die for your Majesty.”

“They will defend us to the last, then-”

“When they have once opened fire, they will cease only upon the king's written order.”

“You hear, do you not, Monsieur Gilbert- Outside the walls of the palace, hostility reigns; but within, every one is faithful.”

“That is a great consolation, madame, but no guarantee.”

“You are not very encouraging, to say the least, doctor. Now, as I am very tired, will you give me your arm and escort me back to my apartments-”

Gilbert bowed low on receiving this signal mark of favour, rarely bestowed by the queen except upon a few intimate friends, -especially since her days of adversity.

On reaching her boudoir, Marie Antoinette sank into an arm-chair, sighing heavily. Dropping on one knee before her, Gilbert said:”Madame, for the sake of your august husband, your beloved children, and your personal safety, I once more beseech you to use the force at your command for flight, and not for conflict.”

“Ever since the 14th of July I have been longing to see the king have his revenge,” said the queen.”The time has come, — at least, we think so. We shall either save our crown, or bury it in the ruins of the Tuileries.”

“Can nothing induce you to abandon this unfortunate resolution-”

“Nothing!”and as she spoke, the queen offered him her hand, partly as a signal for him to depart, and partly that he might raise it to his lips.

Gilbert kissed her hand respectfully, and, rising, said:

“Madame, will your Majesty allow me to write a few lines- The necessity is so urgent, I feel they can be no longer delayed.”

“Certainly, monsieur,” said the queen, motioning him to a table.

Gilbert seated himself, and wrote the following note:

“Come, monsieur. The queen is in mortal danger, unless a friend can persuade her to flee; and I believe you are the only person who has sufficient influence over her to do this.”

Then he signed and addressed the missive.

“I trust you will not think me too inquisitive if I ask to whom you are writing-”said the queen.

“To Monsieur de Charny, madame,” replied Gilbert.

“To Monsieur de Charny-” repeated the queen, pale and trembling now.”And why to him, pray-”

“In order that he may be able to persuade your Majesty to do what I am powerless to induce you to do.”

“Monsieur de Charny is too happy now to even recollect the existence of his less fortunate friends. He will not come.”

The door opened, and a footman appeared.

“The Comte de Charny — who has only this moment arrived in Paris — begs permission to pay his respects to your Majesty.”

The queen's face was not pale, but livid now, and it was with great difficulty that she managed to stammer out a few incoherent words.

“Show him in! Show him in I”cried Gilbert.”It is certainly Heaven that sends him here!”

In another moment Charny appeared upon the threshold, clad in his naval uniform.

“I was just writing to you. Here is the letter,” exclaimed Gilbert.

“I heard of her Majesty's peril, and here I am,” said Charny, bowing.

“Madame, for God's sake, listen to what Monsieur de Charny is about to tell you,” pleaded Gilbert.”His voice will be the voice of France.”

And, bowing respectfully both to the queen and to the count, Gilbert departed, not entirely without hope now.

CHAPTER CXLVI. AN EVENTFUL NIGHT AT DANTON’S.

Our readers must now permit us to conduct them to a house on the Eue de 1'Ancienne Comedie, near the Rue Dauphine.

Freron lived on the first floor.

Passing his door,-where it would be useless to ring, as he is on the floor above, with his friend Camille Des- moulins, — we will give a brief history of Fre'ron while we are ascending the seventeen stairs which separate one story from the other.

Louis Stanislas Fre'ron was the son of the famous Monsieur Elie Catherine Fre'ron, so unjustly and cruelly attacked by Voltaire. When one peruses to-day that journalist's criticism upon the author of”La Pucelle,”“The Philosophical Dictionary,” and”Mahomet,” one is amazed to see that the journalist only said in 1754 exactly what we all think a hundred years afterwards.

Incensed by the persecution he had seen heaped upon his father, — who died of chagrin in 1776, in consequence of the suppression of his journal by Miromesnil, keeper of the seals, -young Fre'ron embraced the principles of the Revolution with ardour.

On the evening of August 9th he was in the apartments of Camille Desmoulins, having supped there in company with Brune, a future marshal of France, — though then only a foreman in a printing-office, — and Barbaroux and Rebecqui. Only one woman graced their repast,- Lucile, a charming creature, who left a mournful memory indeed in the annals of the Revolution.

In our story we cannot accompany thee to the scaffold, which thou wilt soon ascend, loving and romantic creature, because it is the shortest road to reunion with thy husband!

But one portrait remains of thee, poor child! for thou didst die so young that the painter was, so to speak, compelled to seize thy likeness in thy flight; and this is a miniature in the admirable collection of Colonel Morin.

In this portrait Lucile is represented as small and pretty, with a decidedly roguish expression of countenance; yet there is something unmistakably plebeian in her charming face; and, indeed, as the daughter of an old treasury clerk and a very beautiful woman who claimed to have been the mistress of Terray, — a secretary of the treasury,- Lucile, like Madame Koland, was of essentially common origin.

In 1791 a marriage of love had united this young girl — who was wealthy in comparison with him — to that enfant terrible, that wild, erratic genius called Camille Desmoulins.

Poor, unattractive in person, and slow of speech by reason of the impediment which prevented him from becoming an orator, but made him, perhaps, the great writer with whom we are familiar, Camille had won her by his wit, his refinement, and the natural goodness of his heart.

Although he agreed with Mirabeau, who said,”You will never make the Eevolution a success unless you de-christianize it,” Camille was married in Saint Sulpice Church in accordance with the rites of the Catholic Church; but in 1792, when a son was born to them, he carried the infant to the city-hall, and requested a Republican baptism for it.

It was in their apartments, on the second floor of a house on the Kue de 1'Ancienne Come'die, that the entire plan of the insurrection was unfolded, to Lucile's great pride and alarm, — a plan which Barbarous frankly confessed he had sent, by mistake, in the pocket of his nankeen breeches, to his laundress a few days before.

As Barbaroux was by no means confident of the success of bis scbeme, and feared he might fall into the hands of his opponents, he exhibited with truly antique simplicity a poison, prepared, like Condorcet's, by Cabanis.

At the beginning of the repast, Camille, who was not much more sanguine than Barbaroux, raised his glass, and quoted in Latin, so as not to be understood by Lucile, the words: -

“Edamus et bibamus, eras enim moriemur;”but Lucile comprehended, nevertheless, and exclaimed: -

“Why do you speak in a foreign tongue. I understand what you say. Go on, Gamille. It is not I, you may rest assured, who will hinder you from fulfilling your noble mission.”

After this they all talked very plainly. Fre'ron was the most determined of them all. It was known that he loved some woman hopelessly, though no one knew who the woman was at that time; but his despair over Lucile's death subsequently revealed his sad secret.

“Have you any poison, Fre'ron-” asked Lucile.

“I- If we do not succeed to-morrow, I shall manage to get myself killed. I am so tired of life that I am trying my best to find some way of ridding myself of it,” was the reply.

Kebecqui was more sanguine.

“I know my Marseillais,” he exclaimed.”I selected them myself, and know that every mother's son of them will be faithful to the last! Not one of them will flinch.”

After supper some one suggested that they should pay Danton a visit. Barbaroux and Eebecqui declined, saying they were expected at the barracks, Fre'ron had an appointment at the city-hall with Sergent and Manuel, and Brune was to spend the night with Santerre; so only Camille and Lucile went to Danton's when the party broke up.

The Desmoulins and Danton households were intimate, the women as well as the men being close friends.

We are all well acquainted with Danton, — his wife is not so well known; so a few words in regard to this remarkable woman, who was the object of her husband's idolatrous affection, may not be out of place here.

In the plaster cast in Colonel Morin's collection, taken, Michelet believes, after death, the chief characteristics noticeable in her countenance are goodness, calmness, and strength.

Although not yet attacked by the malady which resulted in her death in 1793, she was already nervous and depressed, as if with the near approach of death had come an intuitive knowledge of the future.

Tradition states that she was naturally pious and timid; but, in spite of this piety and timidity, she certainly spoke her mind most vigorously on one occasion, and that was on the day she announced her intention of marrying Danton, in the face of her parents' violent opposition.

Like Lucile, Madame Danton seemed to see behind the gloomy and perturbed features of this obscure man, destitute alike of fame and fortune, the god of her idolatry; though, as in the case of Jupiter and Seniele, this love was to prove her destruction.

One felt that it was a terrible and tempestuous fortune to which this poor creature bound herself; and perhaps there was as much compassion as love in the decision which united her to that god of thunder and of lightning who was to personify the famous year 1792, as Mirabeau had personified 1791, and as Robespierre was to personify 1793.

The families lived only a short distance from each other. As soon as Camille and his wife reached Danton's, one woman went straight to the other woman, and one man went straight to the other man.

Madame Danton was in tears when they entered, and Danton was evidently trying to console her. The two women kissed each other, and the men shook hands.

“Do you think anything will come of it-” asked Camille.

“I hope so, though Santerre is but lukewarm. Fortunately, the affair to-morrow will not be one of personal aggrandisement or individual leadership. The forces we have to rely upon are the general indignation and anger caused by long suffering, the wrath aroused by the interference and near approach of foreign armies, and the growing conviction that France has been basely betrayed. Forty-seven out of forty-eight municipal sections have voted for the king's deposal; and each section has elected three commissioners to unite with the Commune in saving the country.”

“Saving the country- Those are rather vague instructions, it seems to me,” said Gamille, shaking his head.

“How about Marat and Robespierre-”

“Neither of them is visible. One is hiding in his garret, and the other in his cellar. When all the danger is over, you '11 see them peering out, — one like a weasel, the other like an owl.”

“AndPetion-”

“It would take a shrewd man to find out where he stands. On the 4th he declared war upon the palace. On the 8th he gave notice that he would no longer be responsible for the king's safety. This morning he proposed to station National Guards in the Carrousel. This evening he asked the department for twenty thousand francs with which to send our Marseillais home.”

Just then another couple entered, — Monsieur and Madame Robert. It will be remembered that the year before, Madame Robert — then Mademoiselle de Ke”ralio — dictated at the patriot altar the famous petition which her husband wrote out.

Unlike the other two couples, — in which the husbands were so greatly superior to the wives, — this woman was greatly superior to her husband intellectually.

Robert was a stout man about forty years of age, a member of the Cordeliers Club, and the possessor of more patriotism than talent. He had very little ability as a writer, was a bitter enemy of Lafayette's, and exceedingly ambitions, if we can believe Madame Roland's description of him in her Memoirs.

Madame Robert was thirty-four. She was small, clever, witty, and proud, and had been educated by her father, Guinement de Ke”ralio, who had also numbered among his pupils a young Corsican whose wonderful career he was far from suspecting.

Educated by her father, as we have said, Mademoiselle de Ke”ralio naturally became an exceedingly learned and accomplished woman. At the age of seventeen she wrote, translated, and compiled. At eighteen she wrote a novel entitled”Adelaide.”

As her father's salary barely sufficed for his own needs, he wrote for several periodicals, and more than once affixed his signature to articles which his daughter prepared, and which were infinitely superior to his own.

The Roberts had just passed through the Saint-Antoine quarter, and they reported that things wore a rather peculiar appearance there. The night was beautiful; but the streets were deserted, though all the windows were brilliantly lighted.

Just as Madame Robert finished her description, the sound of a bell made everybody start. It was the first stroke of the alarm-bell resounding from the Cordeliers Club.

“Good!” cried Danton.”I hear our Marseillais. That is their signal, I 've no doubt.”

The two women gazed at each other in terror.

“The signal,” exclaimed Madame Danton.”Is the palace to be attacked to-night-”

No one made any reply; but Desmoulins, who had gone into the next room at the first stroke of the bell, returned with his musket in his hand.

Lucile uttered a cry. Then, feeling she had no right to discourage the man she loved at this trying moment, she rushed into the alcove where Madame Danton's bed stood, and, falling on her knees, began to weep bitterly.

Camille followed her.”Don't worry,” he whispered tenderly;”I won't leave Danton's side.”

The three men departed. Madame Danton seemed almost like a dying woman; Lucile was still kneeling by the bed, with her face buried in her hands, sobbing violently. Madame Robert clung to her husband's neck, and begged to be allowed to accompany him.

When the door had closed upon his retreating form, she exclaimed passionately, — without seeming to realise that every word was a stab to Madame Danton, -”This is all Danton's fault! If my husband is killed, I will not survive him; but I will kill Danton before I die!”

An hour passed. They heard the door open. Madame Robert sprang forward, Lucile raised her head, Madame Danton remained perfectly motionless. It was Danton who entered.

“Alone-” cried Madame Robert, wildly.

“Be calm, madame. Nothing will happen before morning.”

“But Camille-” demanded Lucile.

“And Robert-” added Madame Robert.

“They are both at the Cordeliers Club. I came home to report. Nothing will happen to-night, and I '11 convince you of it by going to sleep.”

He threw himself on the bed without undressing, and in five minutes was as fast asleep as if no struggle of life and death was pending between king and people.

About one o'clock in the morning Camille, too, returned.

“I bring you news of Robert,” he said.”He has gone to the municipal authorities to carry our proclamations. Don't be uneasy. They are for to-morrow; but -”

He shook his head, as if in doubt. Then, laying his head on Lucile's shoulder, he in turn fell asleep.

He had been sleeping about half an hour when somebody rang. Madame Robert flew to open the door. Her husband had come for Danton, in behalf of the municipal officers. He aroused him.

“Go away,” cried Danton.”Let me sleep. To-morrow will be time enough.”

So Robert and his wife returned to their own home.

Presently the door-bell rang again. Madame Danton went to the door this time, and admitted a big, fair-haired fellow, about twenty years of age, wearing the uniform of a captain in the National Guards, and holding a gun in his hand.

“Is Monsieur Danton in-” he asked.

“Well, what is wanted now-” demanded Danton.

“They are waiting for you down there, Monsieur Danton.”

“Where do you mean-”

“At the municipal headquarters.”

“Who is waiting for me-”

“The commissioners from the different sections, and Monsieur Billot in particular.”

“And who are you, captain-”

“I am Ange Pitou, captain of the Haramont National Guards.”

“Ah, ha!”

“And one of the takers of the Bastille.”

“Good!”

“I received a letter from Monsieur Billot, telling me there was likely to be trouble down here, and that all good patriots ought to be on hand: so I started off with such of my men as were willing to come; but as they are not so good walkers as I am, they stopped over night at Dam- martin. They '11 be on hand early to-morrow morning, I think.”

“At Dammartin. Why, that's twenty miles off!”

“Yes.”

“And how many leagues is Haramont from Paris-”

“About sixteen. I left there this morning at five o'clock -”

“And arrived here-”

“About ten this evening. I went to Monsieur Santerre's in search of Monsieur Billot; but they told me there that they hadn’t seen him, and that I should be sure to find him at the Jacobin Club. The Jacobins sent me to the Cordeliers Club; and at the Cordeliers Club they told me he had gone to the city-hall.”

“And you found him at the city-hall-”

“Yes, monsieur; and he gave me your address, and said, 4Are you tired, Pitou-' — 'No, indeed, Monsieur Billot.' — 'Then go and tell Danton he's a sluggard, and that we 're waiting for him!'“

“Upon my word, here 's a youth that makes me feel ashamed of myself!” exclaimed Danton, springing out of bed.”Let us start, my friend, let us start at once.”

He kissed his wife, and then left the house in company with Pitou.

Madame Danton uttered a moan, and sank back in her arm-chair.

Lucile thought she was weeping, and respected her grief.

But after a few moments, seeing that her hostess did not move, she woke Camille, and then went to Madame Danton. The poor woman had swooned.

The first rays of the morning sun were peering through the shutters. The day promised to be a fine one, but the sky was as red as blood, — a most unfortunate omen.

CHAPTER CXLVII. THE TENTH OF AUGUST.

We have described what was taking place in Republican. homes; now let us see what was going on in the royal palace, barely five hundred yards away.

There, too, the women were weeping and praying, weeping even more copiously, perhaps; for Chateaubriand says the eyes of princes are so formed as to contain an immense quantity of tears.

If we do each person justice, however, we must admit that it was only Madame Elizabeth and the Princesse de Lamballe who were weeping as well as praying; for though the queen prayed, she certainly did not weep.

They all supped at the usual hour, for nothing could destroy the king's appetite.

When they left the table, Madame Elizabeth and the princess returned to the room known as the Council Chamber, where it had been arranged for all the members of the royal family to spend the night and listen to the reports; bat the queen took the king aside and asked him to accompany her to another apartment.

“Where do you wish me to go-” asked the king.

“To my room. Will you not consent to put on the shirt of mail you wore on the 14th of July-”

“It was quite right and proper to protect myself from an assassin's knife or bullet in a time of conspiracy; but in time of war, when my friends are risking their lives for me. it would be cowardly.”

Having said this, the king left the queen, and went into his private room, where he shut himself up with his confessor, and the queen rejoined the ladies in the Council Chamber.

“What is his Majesty doing-” asked Madame de Lamballe.

“He is at confession,” responded the queen, with an accent of mingled scorn and contempt.

Just at that moment the door opened, and Monsieur de Charny appeared. He was pale, but perfectly calm.

“Can I speak to the king-” he asked, bowing to the queen.

“Just at present the king is — myself.”

Charny was better aware of this fact than any one else; nevertheless, he insisted.

“You can go to the king's room, of course, monsieur,” replied the queen;”but you will disturb him very much, I assure you.”

“I understand. The king, I suppose, is with Monsieur Petion, who has just arrived at the palace.”

“The king is with his confessor, monsieur.”

“Then it is to you I must make my report as major- general of the palace.”

“Yes, monsieur, if you will be so kind.”

“I have the honour, then, to report to your Majesty the disposal of my forces. The mounted gendarmes, numbering six hundred men, commanded by Messieurs Bulhieres and Verdieres, are ranged in line of battle on the Place du Louvre. The other Paris gendarmes (foot) I have stationed in the stables. A detachment of one hundred and fifty men has been detailed to guard the registry of accounts and the treasury, if need be. Thirty more Paris gendarmes — those usually on duty outside the city walls — have been stationed on the stairway leading to the Princes' Courtyard. Two hundred officers and men of the old foot- guards and horse-guards, fifty young Royalists, and as many gentlemen — three hundred and fifty or four hundred good fighters in all — are massed in the passage called the Bull's Eye and the adjacent hall-ways. Two or three hundred National Guardsmen are scattered about through the courtyards and gardens. Finally, fifteen hundred Swiss Guards — who are really our chief dependence — are stationed in the main hall and at the bottom of the staircases.”

“Well, monsieur, are not these protective measures perfectly satisfactory to you-”

“Nothing entirely satisfies me, madame, when your safety is involved.”

“Then you still advise flight, monsieur-”

“I strongly advise you to place yourself, the king, and your august children in the centre of your forces.”

The queen made an impatient movement.

“Yes. Your Majesty dislikes Lafayette, I know; but you have confidence in the Duke of Liancourt, and he is at Kouen, where he has leased the house of an Englishman. The military commander of the province has made his soldiers swear to remain faithful to the king, and the Swiss regiment of Sal is Samade — upon which we can depend — is distributed along the route. Everything is quiet as yet. We can leave the palace by the revolving bridge, then hasten to the Barriere de 1'Etoile, where three hundred of the Constitutional Guards, mounted, are awaiting you. We can easily secure fifteen hundred more gentlemen at Versailles. With four thousand men, I will guarantee to conduct your Majesty wherever you may wish to go.”

“Thanks, Monsieur de Charny,” said the queen.”I appreciate the devotion which has led you to leave those who are so dear to you to offer your services to one -”

“The queen is unjust to me,” interrupted Charny.”The life of my sovereign will always be the most precious of all lives in my eyes, as duty will always be the chief of all virtues.”

“Duty, -yes, monsieur,” murmured the queen.”And as every one seems to lay such a stress on doing his duty, I shall strive to do mine, as I understand it,- which is to maintain the dignity and greatness, and to see to it that, if royalty be struck down, it shall at least fall nobly, at the post of liouour, like the ancient gladiators, who studied how to die gracefully.”

“And this is your Majesty's final decision-”

“It is my last wish.”

Charny bowed and retired; but, meeting Madame Campan at the door, he said to her: -

“Tell their Majesties to secrete any valuables they may have about their persons. We may be obliged to leave the palace at very short notice.”

As Madame Campan went to repeat this suggestion to the Princesse Lamballe and Madame Elizabeth, Charny again approached the queen.

“Madame,” he said,”it must be that you think we shall receive some assistance from outside sources. If this be so, let me know. Recollect that by this hour to-morrow I shall be obliged to render an account to God or man for what is to take place.”

“Well, monsieur,” said the queen,”two hundred thousand francs have been paid to Pe'tion, and fifty thousand to Danton; and in return for these amounts a promise to remain at home has been received from Danton, and a promise to come to the palace from Pe'tion.”

“But, madame, are you sure that the agents you have employed in this transaction are trustworthy-”

“You just told me yourself that Pe'tion had arrived at the palace.”

“Yes, madame.”

“That is convincing proof, it seems to me.”

“But I am told that he had to be sent for three times before he came.”

“If he is on our side, he is to place the forefinger of his right hand on his right eye while he is conversing with the king -”

“But if he is not on our side, madame-”

“If he is not, he will at least be our prisoner; for I have given positive orders that he is not to be allowed to leave the palace.”

Just then they heard the peal of a bell.

“What is that-”asked the queen.

“The tocsin,” replied Charny.

The princesses started up in evident alarm.

“What is the matter-” exclaimed the queen.”The tocsin is only the signal of the insurgents.”

“I must ascertain if this sound indicates any movement of importance, madame,” said Charny, who seemed to be much more disturbed by this ominous sound than the queen.

“And when shall we see you again-” asked the queen, hurriedly.

“I came to place myself at your Majesty's orders, and I shall not leave my post while there is the slightest suspicion of danger.”

Charny bowed and departed. The queen sat lost in thought for a moment; then, -

“Let us see if the king has finished his confession,” she said, and, rising, left the room in her turn.

Meanwhile Madame Elizabeth had removed some of her outer garments, so that she could lie on the sofa with greater comfort. As she did so, she took from her fichu a cornelian brooch, which she showed to Madame Campan. A cluster of lilies, with a motto, was cut upon the stone.

“Read it,” said Madame Elizabeth.

Madame Campan took it closer to the candles, and read: -

Forget offences! Pardon injuries!

“I greatly fear that this motto carries very little weight with our enemies; but it should be no less dear to us on that account,” said the princess.

As she concluded, a shot resounded in the courtyard below.

Both women uttered a scream.

“That is the first shot,” exclaimed Madame Elizabeth.”Alas, I greatly fear it will not be the last!”

Potion's arrival had been announced to the queen by Charny. The circumstances attending it were as follows: He arrived at the palace about half-past ten. This time he was not kept waiting in the antechamber. On the contrary, he was immediately informed that the king was expecting him. In order to reach his Majesty, however, he was obliged to pass through the ranks of the Swiss Guards, then of the National Guards, and finally of those gentlemen known as the Knights of the Poniard.

Nevertheless, as they knew that it was the king who had sent for him, and that he might have remained in his stronghold in the city-hall had he so desired, and not have ventured into that lion's den known as the Tuileries, he was allowed to pass unmolested; though such epithets as”traitor”and”Judas”were hurled in his face as he ascended the stairs.

Louis XVI. was awaiting Pe'tion in the same room where he had treated the mayor so rudely on the 21st of June. Petion noted this fact and smiled. Fortune had certainly vouchsafed him a terrible revenge.

Mandat, the commander of the National Guards, stopped the mayor at the door.

“What is your business here-”he asked.

“I can dispense with answering that question, as I do not acknowledge your right to interrogate me; besides, as L 'in in u hurry, I can't stop to bandy words with my inferiors.”

“Inferiors-”

“You are detaining me, and I tell you that I am in a hurry, Monsieur Mandat. I came here because the king sent for me three times. I should not have come of my own accord, I assure you.”

“Well, as I have the honour to see you, Monsieur Petion, I should like to ask why the police commissioners have distributed a profusion of cartridges to those Marseillais, while I, Mandat, have received only three apiece for my

“In the first place,” replied Pe'tion, with unruffled composure,”no requisition has been made for any additional ammunition for the Tuileries. Three rounds for each National Guardsman, and forty for each Swiss Guardsman, was the king's order, and that was the number furnished.”

“But why this great discrepancy in numbers-”

“That is for the king to explain, — not for me. It is quite possible that he distrusted the National Guards.”

“But /asked you for powder.”

“That is true; but unfortunately you are not authorised to receive it.”

“That's a pretty answer!” cried Mandat.”It is your place to make it the proper thing then, as the order must emanate from you.”

The discussion had reached a point where it would be difficult for Pe'tion to defend himself; but, fortunately for him, the door opened just then, and Roederer, the syndic of the municipality, helped the mayor out of his dilemma by saying: -

“The king is asking for you, Monsieur Pe'tion.”

The king was really awaiting Potion's coming with great impatience.

“So here you are at last, Monsieur Pe'tion!” he exclaimed.”What is the condition of affairs in Paris-”

Pe'tion gave him a pretty correct idea of the condition of things.

“Have you nothing more to say to me, monsieur-” asked the king, anxiously.

“Nothing, Sire.”

The king looked at him searchingly.

“Nothing, nothing whatever-”

Pe'tion opened his eyes in astonishment, as if unable to understand this persistency on the part of the king.

The king, in turn, was waiting for Pe'tion to raise his hand to his eye,-this, it will be remembered, being the signal by which the mayor of Paris was to indicate that the king could rely upon him in return for the two hundred thousand francs paid him.

Potion scratched his ear, but did not evince the slightest inclination to place his finger on his eye. So the king had been duped. Some scoundrel had pocketed the two hundred thousand francs.

The queen entered just as the king was racking his brain to find out what question to put to PtStion next.

“Well, is he a friend to us-” asked the queen, in a whispered aside.

“No,” replied the king.”At least he has made no sign to that effect.”

“Then he is our prisoner.”

“Am I at liberty to retire-”asked Pe'tion.

“Don't let him go, for God's sake,” pleaded Marie Antoinette.

“No, monsieur, not just now,” stammered the king.”You will be free to go presently; but there is something more I wish to say to you. Step into my cabinet,” he added, raising his voice.

To those in his cabinet these words meant:”I intrust Pe'tion to your care. Watch him. Don't let him get away.”

The men in the cabinet understood this perfectly, and immediately surrounded Pe'tion, — who felt himself a prisoner.

Fortunately, Mandat was not there. He was busy contesting an order which had just been issued for him to report at the city-hall without delay.

Mandat was wanted at the HStel de Ville, exactly as Pe'tion was wanted at the Tuileries. Mandat objected strongly to obeying this order,however; and as for Pe'tion, he was the thirtieth person in a room where four persons would have been very much in one another's way.

“Gentlemen,” he said at last,”we shall suffocate, if we remain here any longer.”

This was the opinion of everybody, so no one opposed Potion's exit; but everybody followed him, though no one ventured upon any open attempt to restrain his movements.

He went down the first stairway they came to. It led into a basement room, which opened into the garden. He feared at first that this door was locked, but it proved to be unfastened.

Potion consequently found himself in a much larger and more airy prison, but one which was no less secure than the cabinet.

Accompanied by Roederer, he began to walk up and down the terrace. This terrace was lighted by a row of lamps. One of the National Guards stepped up and extinguished those nearest the mayor and his companion. What did this mean- Potion suspected mischief.

“Monsieur,” he said, addressing a Swiss officer named Salis-Lizers, who seemed to be following him,”has any one any evil designs upon me-”

“Have no fears, Monsieur Pe”tion,” replied this officer, with a strong German accent.”The king has ordered me to watch you; but I assure you that if any one kills you, he shall die by my hand an instant afterwards.”

It was under very similar circumstances that Triboulet said to Francis I.,”If it is all the same to you, let it be an instant before, Sire.”

P6tion made no reply, but walked on to the Feuillant Terrace, which was not then enclosed by a grating, but by a wall about eight feet high, with three gates, — one large and two small ones.

These gates were not only closed and securely locked, but barricaded as well. They were likewise guarded by grenadiers from two battalions noted for their devotion to royalty; so there was nothing to be hoped for from these men. As he walked along, Potion stooped now and then and picked up a pebble, which he tossed over the wall.

While he was thus promenading to and fro, he was twice notified that the king desired to speak with him.

“Aren’t you going-”inquired Koederer.

“No, it's too hot up there. I haven't the slightest desire to return to that cabinet. I remember the discomfort I experienced too well; besides, I 've made an appointment to meet some one here.”

“An appointment with whom-” asked Roederer.

Just then the door of the Assembly building leading into the Feuillant Terrace opened.

“I think that's the very person I 've been waiting for,” remarked Petion.

“An order for the attendance of Monsieur Pe'tion,” said a loud voice.”The Assembly summons him to its bar to give an account of the condition of affairs in Paris.”

“Precisely,” responded Pe'tion.”And here I am ready to reply to the questions of my enemies.”

The National Guards, fancying they were doing Pe'tion a bad turn, allowed him to pass.

It was now about three o'clock in the morning. Day was breaking, and, strange to say, the sky was the colour of blood.

CHAPTER CXLVIII. BILLOT'S WILL.

When the king sent for him, Potion shrewdly suspected that he might have some difficulty in getting away from the palace; so, stepping up to a man who had an ugly scar across his forehead, he said: -

“What news have you brought me from the Assembly, Billot-”

“That there will be an all-night session.”

“Very well. And did you not tell me that some National Guards and several cannon had been placed on the Pont Neuf by Mandat's orders, as well as a large body of troops at the entrance of the Eue Saint-Antoine-”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Well, now listen to me, Monsieur Billot.”

“I am listening.”

“Very well; here is an order for Manuel and Danton to make these troops return to their homes, and also to remove the artillery from the Pont Neuf. Cost what it may, this order must be carried out. Do you understand-”

“I will carry it to Monsieur Danton myself.”

“Very good. You live in the Eue Saint-Honor^, do you not-”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Then, after delivering the order to Danton, go to your lodgings and get a little sleep. After a couple of hours, though, be sure you get up and take a little walk alongside the wall of the Feuillant Terrace. If you see or hear any pebbles thrown over this wall from some one on the terrace, you may know that I am either kept there against my will, or that my life is in danger.”

“I understand.”

“In that case, hasten to the Assembly and bid your colleagues send for me without loss of time. You understand, Billot, I intrust my life to your hands.”

“And I will be accountable for it. Have no fears.”

So Potion left, depending on Billot's well-known patriotism. Billot had promised all the more confidently because he knew that Pitou had just arrived. He despatched that youth to Danton immediately with the order, telling him not to come back without bringing the great leader with him. In spite of Danton's indolence, Pitou touched his heart, and brought him to the city-hall.

Danton saw the artillery on the Pont Neuf, and the National Guards on the Arcade Saint-Jean, and realised how important it was that such large military forces should not be allowed to remain where they could close in behind the populace. On the strength of Potion's order, Manuel and Danton dismissed the National Guards, and sent the artillery from the Pont Neuf. This left the road clear for the insurgents.

Meanwhile, Billot and Pitou returned to the Hue Saint- Honore', where Billot still kept his old quarters. On entering his lodgings, Billot sat down, and motioned Pitou to do the same.

“I sent word for you to join me, Pitou,” began the farmer.

“And I haven’t kept you waiting, as you see,” responded Pitou, with a smile that disclosed to view every tooth in his head.

“No. You can see for yourself, I suppose, that something serious is about to happen.”

“I judged as much; but tell me, Monsieur Billot, how is it that I don't see or hear anything of either Monsieur Bailly or Lafayette-”

“Bailly is a traitor who had us slaughtered on the Champ de Mars.”

“Yes, I know; for didn't I find you there weltering in your blood-”

“And Lafayette is a traitor who wants to carry off the king.”

“I didn't know that! Lafayette a traitor! Why, who would have thought it! And the king-”

“He 's the biggest traitor of all.”

“That doesn't surprise me.”

“The king is in league with foreigners, and wants to deliver France into the hands of her enemies. The Tuileries is a regular hot-bed of conspiracy; so the people have decided to take the Tuileries. Do you understand-”

“As we took the Bastille, Monsieur Billot-”

“Yes.”

“But it won't be such a difficult job, I judge.”

“You're very much mistaken about that.”

“Why, the walls are not nearly so high.”

“No, but they're much better guarded. You see, my dear boy, the Bastille was defended by a garrison of only fifty pensioners; whereas there are three or four thousand able-bodied men in the palace.”

“Three or four thousand men! The deuce!”

“Without taking into consideration the fact that the Bastille was taken by surprise, whereas the people at the Tuileries have been anticipating an attack for a long time, and doing everything in their power to strengthen the palace.”

“So they mean to defend it!”

“Yes; and they '11 do it all the better from the fact that Monsieur de Charny is intrusted with the defence.”

“True, he left Boursonnes yesterday with his wife. But is Monsieur de Charny also a traitor-”

“No, he 's an aristocrat, — that is all. He has always sided with the Court, and consequently he has not betrayed the people, nor has he ever tried to cajole the people into trusting him.”

“So we are to fight Monsieur de Charny! Strange, isn't it, neighbours as we are-”

“That is what we call civil war, Pitou; but you 're not obliged to fight if you don't want to.”

“Excuse me, monsieur, but what suits you, suits me too, you know.”

“But I 'd much rather you wouldn't fight, Pitou.”

“Then why on earth did you send for me-”

“I sent for you to give you this paper,” responded the farmer, his face growing graver.

“What is it-”

“A copy of my will.”

“A copy of your will, Monsieur Billot,” continued Pitou, laughing.”You don't look much like a man who's about to die.”

“No,” said Billot, pointing to his musket and powder- flasks, which were hanging on the wall;”but I look like a man who may be killed.”

“Yes, we 're all mortal!”

“Well, as I said before, I sent for you to give you this copy of my will, as I have made you my sole legatee.”

“Me, Monsieur Billot- No, thank you, Monsieur Billot. You say that just in joke.”

“I tell you that it's so.”

“It can't be, Monsieur Billot.”

“And why-”

“Because when a man has legal heirs, he can't give his estate away to strangers.”

“You 're mistaken, Pitou; he can.”

“But he ought not to, Monsieur Billot.”

Billot's face clouded.”I have no heirs,” he said gloomily.

“No heirs- What do you call Mademoiselle Catherine-”

“I know no person of that name.”

“Don't talk in that way, monsieur. It makes me mad.”

“When a thing belongs to me, Pitou, I can give it to any one I choose. In like manner, if I die, and the property comes to you, you can give it to any one you choose.”

“Oh, yes, very good,” said Pitou, beginning to understand the situation.”Then if any misfortune should happen to you — But nonsense! What a fool I am! You '11 come out all right!”

“But as you said just now, we are all mortal.”

“Well, you are right, I suppose. I will take the will, provided that I shall have a right to do what I like with your property, if I have the misfortune to become your heir.”

“Of course you will, as it will belong to you. They won't try to play any tricks on you who are a good patriot, as they would on a person who has been truckling ' to aristocrats. So put the paper in your pocket, and try to get a little sleep, as we are likely to have plenty of work on hand to-morrow, or rather to-day, as it is now two o'clock in the morning.”

“You are not going out, Monsieur Billot-”

“Yes, I 've some business on the Feuillant Terrace.”

“You are sure you don't need me-”

“On the contrary, you would be very much in my way.”

“In that case, I '11 eat a bit of supper, I guess.”

“True; I quite forgot to ask if you were hungry.”

“That's because you know I 'm always hungry, I suppose,” said Pitou, laughing.

“It's not necessary for me to tell you where the pantry is, I fancy.”

“Oh, no, you needn't bother about that. You'll be back soon, won't you-”

“Yes, I '11 be back in less than an hour.”

“Very well, then; good luck to you!”

So Pitou went in search of refreshment, with an appetite which was no more impaired by untoward events than the king's, while Billot repaired to the Feuillant Terrace.

We know his business there. He had scarcely reached the spot before a pebble falling almost at his very feet, followed by a second and a third, apprised him that what Pe'tion had apprehended had come to pass, and that the mayor was a prisoner in the Tuileries.

In obedience to the instructions he had received, he hastened to the Assembly, and demanded that Pe'tion be sent for forthwith.

Pe'tion, being thus set at liberty, had only to pass through the hall of the Assembly, and then return on foot to the city-hall, leaving his carriage to represent him in the courtyard of the Tuileries.

Billot, too, returned home, where he found Pitou just finishing his supper.

“Well, Monsieur Billot, what's the news-” inquired Pitou.

“Nothing, except that it is daybreak, and that the sky is as red as blood,” responded Billot.

CHAPTER CLIX. FROM THREE TO SIX IN THE MORNING.

I have already described how the sun rose. It had just become visible above the horizon when two meu rode down the deserted quay in front of the Tuileries.

These two men were the commanding general of the National Guards, Mandat, and one of his aides.

Mandat, summoned at about one o'clock in the morning to the Hotel de Ville, had refused to go, at first. Two hours later the order was repeated in a much more peremptory manner. Mandat was still inclined to refuse; but Koederer approached him, and said:”General, recollect that, according to law, the commander of the National Guards is at the orders of the municipal authorities.”

So Mandat finally concluded to go. He was ignorant of two facts, however: first, that forty-seven of the forty- eight municipal sections had each appointed three commissioners to unite with the city authorities in saving the country.

In short, Mandat expected to find the old city government, and had no suspicion that he was to encounter one hundred and forty-one new faces. He was likewise ignorant of the order which had been issued for the removal of the troops from the Pont Neuf and on the Saint-Jean Arcade, which order, by reason of its importance, had been delivered by Manuel and Danton in person.

On reaching the Pont Neuf, Mandat was consequently

astounded to find it completely deserted. He paused,

therefore, and sent his aide on ahead to reconnoitre. In

a few minutes the aide returned. He had seen nothing

Vol. rv.-7. of any artillery, or of any National Guards. The Place Dauphine, the Rue Dauphine, and the Augustin Quay were as deserted as the Pont Neuf.

Mandat kept on. Possibly it would have been better for him if he had returned to the palace; but men go where destiny drives them.

As he approached the HStel de Ville, the aspect of things changed entirely. Just as, in certain physical cataclysms, the blood deserts the extremities, which remain pale and cold, and rushes to the heart, so the bustle and excitement — or, in other words, the Revolution — had centred itself along the Quay Pelletier, the Place de Greve, and around the city-hall, — in short, in the heart of that great metropolis we call Paris.

On reaching the corner of the Pelletier Quay, and seeing that the detachment of National Guards had disappeared, Mandat felt strongly inclined to retrace his steps; but the crowd, which had massed itself behind him, forced him along to the steps of the city-hall.

“Remain at the corner of the quay,” he said to his aide;”and if any misfortune befalls me, go to the palace at once and inform them.”

On entering the building, Mandat found himself confronted by many stern and unknown faces. Here stood the insurrection, ready to call to an account the man who was trying, not to curb it, but to strangle it in its very birth.

At the Tuileries, in his interview with Pe'tion, it was Mandat who had played the part of inquisitor; here, it was Mandat who was to be questioned.

One of the members of the new Commune — that dread Commune which broke up the Assembly, and afterwards waged such a vigorous warfare upon the Convention — came forward, and, acting as spokesman for all present, demanded: -

“By whose order was the number of guards at the Tuileries doubled-”

“By order of the mayor of Paris.”

“Where is that order-”

“At the Tuileries, where I left it, in order that it might be carried into execution in my absence.”

“Why was the artillery ordered out-”

“Because I intended to have a battalion drill; and when a battalion drills, the artillery goes with it.”

“Where is Pe”tion-”

“He was at the palace when I left.”

“Was he a prisoner-”

“No; he was free, and walking about the garden.”

Just then another member of the Council produced an unsealed letter and requested that it might be read aloud.

Mandat needed only to glance at the missive to know that his doom was sealed. He recognised his own handwriting.

This letter was the order sent at one o'clock that morning to'the officer in command of the battalion stationed at the Arcade Saint-Jean, ordering an attack upon the rear of any crowd approaching the palace, while the troops on the Pont Keuf would attack them on the flank. This order had fallen into the hands of the Commune after the withdrawal of the troops.

The examination was ended. What more damaging admission could be desired-

The City Council decided that Mandat should be taken to the Abbaye prison. In reading the decision to Mandat, we are told that the President of the Council made a sort of horizontal wave of the hand, — a gesture of which the populace knew the interpretation only too well.

This gesture did indeed become very expressive in 1793, one year later; but it did not signify nearly so much in 1792, when the reign of the guillotine had not yet begun.

As it was not until August 21, eleven days afterwards, that the first Royalist was guillotined, how could this horizontal movement of the hand have meant,”Kill this man!” unless it had been agreed upon in advance-

The events which followed seem to justify this supposition, however.

Mandat had hardly descended three steps of the perron in front of the city-hall, when, just as his son rushed forward to meet him, a bullet fired from a pistol pierced his head. The same thing had happened to Flesselles three years before.

Mandat was merely wounded, however, and rose, only to be beaten down again by blows from twenty pikes. His son threw up his arms wildly, shrieking,”My father! Oh, my father!”But no one paid any attention to his cries.

Suddenly, from out of the centre of a circle in which one could see nothing but the flashing of sabres and pikes, an arm was uplifted, holding a bleeding head just severed from the body.

It was Mandat's head. His son fainted, and the aide galloped off to the Tuileries to report what he had witnessed. The crowd of assassins divided. Some started to throw the body into the river; others to march through the streets bearing the head upon a pike.

It was now about four o'clock.

After the king finished his confession, he went to bed; for when his conscience was at rest, he troubled himself very little about other matters. He retired without im- dressing, however, and when the sound of the tocsin was again heard, and the drums began to beat a general alarm, the king was awakened; for Monsieur de la Chesnaye — to whom Mandat had relegated his authority on leaving the palace — thought it advisable for Louis to show himself to the National Guards, and endeavour to revive their enthusiasm by his presence and a few appropriate words.

The king arose, heavy-eyed, tottering, and only half awake. His hair had been powdered, but the powder was rubbed off on the side of his head next the pillow. The royal barber was sent for, but could not be found; so the king left his room with his hair in disorder.

The queen, warned in the Council Chamber that the king was about to show himself to his defenders, hastened to meet him.

Unlike the poor king, — whose dull eyes seemed to distinguish no one, whose facial muscles, especially those about the mouth, drooped heavily and twitched convulsively, and whose purple coat gave him the appearance of being in mourning for royalty,-the queen, though pale, was feverish and excited; her eyes shone brilliantly, and her eyelids, though red, were dry. She joined this poor phantom of royalty who was about to show himself, winking and blinking, in the cold, searching light of early dawn, hoping to imbue him with some of her own superabundant courage and energy and life.

All went well as long as royalty was exhibited only in the privacy of its own apartments; though the few National Guardsmen who were in company with the noblemen, on seeing the poor heavy, awkward, stupid-looking man who had proved such a failure under similar circumstances at Varennes, began to wonder if this was really the hero of the 20th of June, — the same king whose romantic story priests and admiring women had already begun to embroider on funeral crape.

It must be admitted that this was not the king the National Guardsmen had expected to see.

Just at that moment the venerable Due de Mailly — with one of those good intentions destined to furnish hell with an additional paving-stone — just at that moment the venerable Due de Mailly drew his sword and threw himself at the king's feet, swearing in a trembling voice to die — he and the nobility of France which he represented — for the grandson of Henri IV.

Here were two big blunders instead of one. First, the National Guards had no great liking for the nobility of France, which Monsieur de Mailly represented; secondly, it was not the grandson of Henri IV. they were to defend, but a constitutional sovereign; so, in response to a few shouts of”God save the king!” cheers for the nation resounded on every side.

The king was then urged to go down into the courtyard. Alas! the poor monarch, deprived of his accustomed food, and having slept only one hour instead of seven, being essentially a materialist, seemed to be no longer endowed with any will of his own, but was exactly like an automaton, moved by some outside volition.

Whence came this impetus- From the queen, who possessed a highly nervous and excitable nature, and who had neither eaten nor slept for hours.

Some individuals are so organised that when one thing gets beyond their control, they seem to fail in nearly everything; so in this case, instead of being able to win over the disaffected, it seemed as if Louis XVI. approached them merely to show them how little prestige royalty really bestows upon a man when that man possesses neither genius nor energy.

In the courtyards, as in the interior of the palace, when the few Royalists shouted,”Long live the king!” there were enthusiastic shouts for the nation.

The Royalists were so impolitic as to persist, however.

“No, no, no!” shouted the Patriots;”no king but the nation!” Whereupon the king responded, almost beseechingly,”Yes, yes, my children; but are not your king and the nation one and the same-”

“Bring the dauphin,” Marie Antoinette whispered to Madame Elizabeth.”Perhaps the sight of the child will touch them.”

Some of the attendants ran for the dauphin. Meanwhile the king continued his sorrowful tour of inspection. He even conceived the unfortunate idea of approaching the artillery, the officers of which were chiefly Republicans.

If the king had known how to talk, if he had been endowed with even mediocre powers of persuasion, this would have been a wise as well as courageous undertaking on his part, and might have proved successful, even at this late day; but there was nothing seductive either in the speech or the manner of Louis XVI. He stammered badly when he attempted to speak to the men, and the Royalists tried to conceal his discomfiture by again attempting to raise the cry of”Long live the king!” which had twice proved a failure.

This attempt on their part nearly led to a fight. Several cannoneers left their posts, and, rushing towards the king, shook their fists threateningly in his face, calling out,”Do you think we '11 fire at our brothers for the sake of defending a traitor like you!”

The queen drew the king back.

“The dauphin! the dauphin! long live the dauphin!” cried several voices; but no one took up the cry. The poor child did not arrive in time, and so missed his cue, as they say at the theatre.

The king's return to the palace was a retreat, — one might almost say a flight; and when he reached his rooms, he sank breathless in an arm-chair.

The queen remained standing in the doorway, glancing around as if searching for some one to lean upon. Seeing Charny, she went to him at once.

“Oh, monsieur, all is lost!”

“I fear so, madame.”

“Is there still time for us to flee-”

“It is too late, madame.”

“What is there left for us to do, then-”

“Nothing but to die,” responded Charny, bowing gravely.

The queen sighed heavily, and re-entered her chamber.

CHAPTER CL. FROM SIX TO NINE IN THE MORNING.

Mandat had hardly ceased to breathe before the municipal government appointed Santerre commanding general in his stead. Santerre immediately ordered the drums beat throughout the city and the tocsin sounded; then he sent out patrols with orders to go as far as the Tuileries, and particularly to keep a close watch on the proceedings of the Assembly.

In fact, the National Assembly had been under close surveillance all night. About ten o'clock a party of eleven persons had been arrested on the Champs llUyse'es. Ten of these men were armed with pistols and daggers, and the eleventh with a blunderbuss; but they offered no resistance, and were conducted to the guardroom at the Feuillant Club for safe-keeping.

During the night eleven other prisoners were arrested and taken to the same place. These twenty-two men were confined in two separate rooms. About daybreak the first eleven made their escape by leaping from the window into the garden, and forcing open the gates. The others were more securely confined.

About seven o'clock a young man about thirty years of age, attired in the uniform of a National Guardsman, was brought into the guardroom. The freshness of his uniform, the brilliancy of his weapons, and the elegance of his whole appearance had excited the suspicion that he was a Royalist, and it was this which had led to his arrest.

A former clerk in the Naval Department, who was in charge that day, questioned the prisoner.

“Where were you arrested-”he asked.

“On the Feuillant Terrace,” was the prompt reply.

“What were you doing there-”

“I was on my way to the palace.”

“What for-”

“In compliance with an order from the City Council.”

“Have you the order in your possession-”

“Here it is,” responded the young man, drawing a paper from his pocket as he spoke.

The questioner unfolded the paper and read the following:-

The bearer of this order is to go to the palace to investigate the condition of affairs, and afterwards report to the Procureur-General Syndic of the department.

Boirie,

Municipal Officers.

The order seemed genuine; but as there was some fear that the signatures might have been forged, a man was sent to the city-hall to have them identified.

The last arrest had drawn quite a crowd, and several persons began to clamour for the death of the prisoners.

A city officer present knew that it would not do to allow these demands to become too vehement; so he mounted a small platform to talk to the crowd and to endeavour to persuade them to disperse. As they were on the point of yielding to his persuasions, the messenger who had been despatched to the city-hall to ascertain if the signatures were genuine, returned, and reported that the order was all right, and that the bearer of it — a man named Suleau — was to be set at liberty.

This was the same man we met at the Princesse de Lam- balle's reception, when Gilbert sketched the plan of the guillotine for Louis XVI., and Marie Antoinette recognised in it the strange instrument which Cagliostro had shown her in a decanter of water at the Chateau de Taverney.

On hearing this name, a woman — unnoticed until now in the crowd — raised her head and uttered a cry of rage.

“Suleau!” she exclaimed.”Suleau, editor-in-chief of the ' Acts of the Apostles!' Suleau, one of the assassins of the independence of Liege. He belongs to me; I demand Suleau's death!”

The crowd opened to make way for this woman. She was a small, insignificant-looking creature, clad in a startling Amazonian costume, in the colours of the uniform worn by the National Guards. In her belt she carried a sword. Advancing towards the municipal officer, she forced him to step down, and then took his place. Her head had hardly become visible above the throng, when everybody shouted,”Theroigne! The'roigne!”

In fact, The'roigne was the popular idol of the hour. The part she had played in the disturbances of October, 1789, her arrest at Brussels and subsequent detention in Austrian prisons, as well as her prominence in the demonstration of June 20th, all combined to endow her with such popularity that Suleau, in his sarcastic journal, had begun as far back as 1789 to jest about her conquest of Citizen Populus,- an allusion which had reference, not only to The”roigne's popularity with the people, but to the looseness of her morals.

Suleau had also published a paper in Brussels called”The Koyal Tocsin,” and had thus assisted in suppressing the revolt in Liege, and in again forcing a noble people under the Austrian yoke and the bishop's power.

At this time The'roigne was preparing an account of her arrest and captivity, and had read a few chapters of it to the Jacobins.

She now demanded, not only the death of Suleau, but of the eleven other prisoners as well. Suleau could hear her voice above the plaudits of the crowd, insisting that he and his companions should be put to death, and through the closed door he appealed to the officer in command to let him out.

“They can kill me, then, and that will end it; and my death will save eleven other lives.”

But as the guards very naturally refused to open the door, Suleau attempted to jump out of the window into the midst of the infuriated throng; but his companions seized him and held him back, for they could not believe they were to be delivered up to be butchered in cold blood.

But they were mistaken. The officer in command, intimidated by the threats of the mob, granted Theroigne's request, and forbade the National Guards to offer any resistance to the will of the people. The National Guards obeyed and withdrew, — thus leaving the door unguarded, — and the populace rushed into the prison and seized the first man they came to. This happened to be Abbe” Bouyon, a dramatic writer, famous alike for his clever epigrams and the hisses with which three-fourths of his pieces were greeted at the Montansier Theatre. A man of colossal stature, he was snatched from the arms of the superintendent of the post — who tried to save him — and dragged into the courtyard, where he fought desperately with his murderers; and though he had only his arms to defend himself with, he managed to disable two or three of his assailants.

A bayonet-thrust finally pinned him to the wall, and he died without being able to reach his enemies at the last.

During this struggle two other prisoners managed to make their escape.

The mob next attacked a member of the old Eoyal Guard named Solminiac. His defence was less vigorous than that of his predecessor, and his death was consequently all the more cruel.

Then they killed a third, whose name is unknown. Suleau was the fourth.

“Here's your Suleau!” a woman cried to The'roigne, who did not know him by sight. As he was commonly called Abbe” Suleau, she had supposed him to be a priest. Now she sprang upon him like a wildcat.clutch ing him savagely by the throat.

Suleau was young, and brave, and vigorous. With one blow of his fist he dashed The”roigne ten feet from him, shook off three or four men who were trying to seize him, snatched a sabre from the hand of one of the cut-throats, and felled two of the wretches to the ground.

A terrible struggle ensued. Slowly but steadily gaining ground, and nearing the door, Suleau succeeded in freeing himself at least three times, and finally in reaching the door; but he was obliged to turn to open it, and thus exposed himself to the weapons of his assailants for a single instant; and this instant gave twenty sabres a chance to reach him, and he fell at the feet of The'roigne, who had the cruel satisfaction of giving him his final wound.

While Suleau was struggling with his murderers, a third prisoner managed to make his escape.

The fifth prisoner who was dragged out of the guardhouse elicited an exclamation of admiration from the crowd. He had belonged to the king's bodyguard, and had been known as handsome Vigier. Being as brave as he was handsome, and as skilled in fighting as he was brave, Vigier fought fifteen minutes. Three times he was felled to the earth, and three times he regained his footing. Every stone in the courtyard was stained, not with his blood only, but with that of his assassins. At last, like Suleau, he was overpowered by numbers.

The others were simply slaughtered in cold blood Their names are unknown. The nine lifeless bodies were then dragged to the Place Vendome, and there beheaded; after which their heads were stuck on pikes and borne through the streets of Paris in triumph.

That evening one of Suleau's servants secured his master's head by paying a large sum in gold for it, and subsequently succeeded, after an arduous search, in recovering the body as well. Consequently, before the real conflict began, blood had flowed in two places, — on the steps of the city-hall, and in the Feuillant Courtyard. We shall soon see it flowing at the Tuileries! After the drops comes the rivulet, and after the rivulet the river!

About the time these outrages were committed, -that is, between eight and nine o'clock in the morning,- ten thousand National Guards, assembled by Barbaroux' alarm-bell and Santerre's drum-beat, marched down the Rue Saint- Antoine to the Place de Greve. They came to demand permission to march upon the Tuileries. They were obliged to wait an hour for it. Some said that the reason of this delay was that the newly organised Commune hoped for concessions from the palace; others, that the Saint- Marceau division was not quite ready, and that it would not do to march without the Saint-Marceau division.

A thousand or more men, who were armed with pikes, became very impatient. As usual, the worst-equipped men were the most enthusiastic. Finally, they forced their way through the ranks of the National Guard, announcing their determination to go on ahead and attack the palace alone.

Several Marseillais, and a dozen or more guardsmen who had assisted in the taking of the Bastille three years before, placed themselves at the head of this mob, and by common consent were accepted as leaders.

Meanwhile, Mandat's aide had ridden at full speed to the Tuileries; but it was not until after the king and queen had returned to their respective apartments after his Majesty's unfortunate tour of inspection that the aide was able to make his report to them.

The queen felt as one always feels on hearing of the death of a person who has just left one's side. She could not believe it, and made the aide describe the details of the scene over and over again.

Meanwhile, the sound of a brawl below began to make itself heard throughout the palace.

The National Guards and the gunners, who had shouted lustily for the nation in the king's presence, began to exasperate the Eoyalists by calling them”Royal Grenadiers,” and declaring that many of the men in the Filles- Saint-Thomas and Buttes-des-Moulins divisions were in the pay of the Court. As the men in the courtyards and basement were still ignorant of the death of their commander,- though the fact was now pretty generally known on the main floor of the building, — one grenadier shouted,”That cur Mandat has sent nothing but aristocrats to the palace.”

Mandat's eldest son was in the National Guards, and on hearing this insult to his absent father he rushed out from the ranks with sabre drawn. Two or three gunners sprang forward to meet him. Weber, the queen's attendant, was among the Saint Eoch grenadiers, and flew to the youth's assistance.

The sabres clashed ominously, and a general fight was imminent. The queen, attracted to the window by the noise, saw Weber, and sent Thierry, the king's valet, to summon him into her presence.

Weber came up and told the queen all about the difficulty, and she in turn informed him of Mandat's death.

The tumult below increased.”See what is going on now,” ordered the queen.

“The cannoneers are abandoning their guns, madame,” said Weber.”They have rammed a ball into each, and as there is no powder in the guns, they are now useless.”

“What do you think of the situation, Weber-”

“I think your Majesty had better consult Monsieur Kcederer, who seems to be one of the most sensible and trustworthy persons in the palace.”

“But where can I speak to him without being overheard or interrupted-”

“In my room, if the queen desires it,” responded Thierry.

“Very well,” said the queen. Then, turning to her foster- brother, she added,”Find Monsieur Eoederer, and bring him to Thierry's room.”

As the two men departed on their several missions, the big clock in the palace struck nine.

CHAPTER CLI. FROM NINE TO ELEVEN IN THE FORENOON.

At the very moment Weber was ushering Roederer into the queen's presence, Captain Durler, the commander of the Swiss Guards, was on his way to the king's apartments to ask for his final orders.

Charny saw the captain looking about for an attendant to usher him into the king's presence, and asked: -

“What do you wish-”

“Are you the Major-General in command of the palace-”

“Yes.”

“I have come for your final orders. The head of the attacking column is now visible from the Carrousel.”

“You are ordered to stand your ground, monsieur; for the king is resolved to perish in our midst, if need be.”

“All right, monsieur,” responded Durler, returning to his comrades with this order, which was their death- warrant.

As Captain Durler had reported, the advance guard of the insurgents was already in sight. It consisted, as we have said before, of about one thousand men armed with pikes, and a score of Marseillais, with a dozen or fifteen of the old French Guards, at their head. Among these last was a young captain charged with a special mission, on the recommendation of Billot.

About a quarter of a mile behind this advance guard came a large body of National Guards and confederates, preceded by a dozen pieces of artillery.

When Charny's order was communicated to them, the Swiss Guards quietly but resolutely stationed themselves, each at his post, in dogged silence. The National Guards took their places in a much more noisy and boisterous manner, but apparently with equal determination. The gentry were poorly organised, being provided only with short-range weapons, like swords and pistols. Feeling sure that the approaching conflict would be a fight to the death, they awaited the arrival of the mob with feverish excitement.

Just then some one knocked loudly at the gate of the main courtyard.”A parley! a parley!” shouted several voices; for above the wall fluttered a white handkerchief, apparently fastened to a pike or spear.

Eoaderer was sent for; and, in compliance with his instructions, the gate was opened, and he found himself face to face with a number of pikemen.

“You asked to have the gate opened for a parley, not for an army, my friends,” he said pleasantly.”Who is your spokesman-”

“I am, monsieur,'' responded Pitou, with his gentle voice and kindly smile.

“Who are you-”

“Ange Pitou, captain of the Haramont National Guards.”

Ecederer was not aware that there was any such organisation as the Haramont Guards in existence; but as time was precious, he did not deem it advisable to waste it in unnecessary questions, so he merely said: -

“What do you want-”

“I want a free passage for myself and my friends.”

“A free passage, and why-”

“So that we can get into the Assembly. We have a dozen cannon, but not a single one will be fired if we get what we want.”

“And what is that-”

“That the king should be deposed.”

“But that is a very serious matter.”

“Very serious, monsieur,” responded Pitou, with his accustomed courtesy.

“And requires careful consideration,” added Rcederer.

“That is only fair,” replied Pitou. Then glancing up at the big clock, he added:”It lacks fifteen minutes to ten. If we do not receive a favourable answer by ten o'clock, we shall begin the attack.”

“Meanwhile you will permit us to close the gate, will you not-”

“Oh, certainly, certainly,” answered Pitou. Then, turning to his companions,”Let them close the gate,” he said, motioning the foremost men back.

They obeyed, and the gate was closed; but during the brief time it had stood open, the besiegers had had an opportunity to note the formidable preparations made for their reception.

The quarter of an hour had hardly elapsed before a man emerged from the palace and gave orders to open the gate. This time the porter kept out of sight in his lodge, and it was the National Guards who raised the bars.

The besieging party fancied their request had been granted; and as soon as the gate was opened, they crowded in, pushed forward by an irresistible power in their rear, — the rabble, — waving their hats on the ends of their pikes and spears, and shouting vociferously:”Hurrah for the Nation I Hurrah for the National Guards! Hurrah for the Swiss!”

The National Guards responded with cheers for the nation, but the Swiss maintained a gloomy silence. On reaching the line of cannon, the intruders paused to look about them.

The great vestibule was full of Swiss, arranged three rows deep, according to height. There was also a row of Swiss on each step of the portico, — which made six rows of men, all ready to fire at the same time.

Some of the intruders, Pitou among the number, began to reflect; but it was rather late for reflection. But though they realised their danger, they did not think of running away. On the contrary, they strolled about, laughing and jesting with the National Guards and the Swiss.

Now the National Guardsmen were not disinclined to joke; but the Swiss were much more serious. In consequence of the quarrel started by Maudat's son, the Patriot National Guards had been separated from the Royalist National Guards, and dismissed.

On parting with their fellow-citizens, the Patriots also exchanged leave-takings with the Swiss, whose courage they greatly admired. They added, that if any of the Swiss chose to accompany them, they would be received into their homes like brothers. Two Vaudois, in response to this invitation uttered in their native tongue, immediately threw themselves into the arms of the Frenchmen, — their natural comrades.

At that very same instant two bullets fired from loopholes in the palace struck down the deserters almost in the very arms of their new friends. The Swiss officers, excellent shots, and hunters of the chamois and the ibex upon their native hills, had devised this effectual means of putting an immediate end to desertions; but it is needless to say that such an episode made the Swiss grave, even to sullenness.

As for the men armed with a few old pistols and guns and pikes, — in short, so poorly armed that they might as well have had no weapons at all, — they were the same strange precursors of revolution seen on the eve of all great outbreaks. The cannoneers were on their side. The National Guards seemed strongly inclined to join them. Now if they could only persuade the Swiss to do the same! They did not notice how rapidly time was passing, -that their leader had given Monsieur Roederer until ten o'clock to decide, and that it was now quarter-past. In short, they were enjoying themselves very much: so why should they count the minutes-

One of the men had not even a pike or a sabre, but only a pruning-hook, such as is used to pull down the branches of trees that are to be cut back. This man said to his neighbour, "Suppose I try to hook a Swiss!”and suiting the action to the word, he caught a Swiss Guard by his cross-belt and pulled him towards him,-the Swiss only resisting just enough to make it appear that he was resisting.

“I 've got a bite!” cried the fisherman.

“Pull him in gently,” responded another.

The fisherman obeyed, and the Swiss was drawn from the vestibule into the courtyard exactly as a fish is drawn from the river and gently landed on the grass.

This feat was greeted with loud cheers and peals of laughter.

“Another! another! catch another!” everybody shouted.

The fisherman hooked a second, a third, a fourth, and even a fifth. In short, the entire regiment would probably have been landed, had they not heard the order, “Take aim!”

Seeing the muskets levelled at them with a loud clang and that mechanical precision which characterises the movements of regular troops, one of the rabble — for there is always some crazy fellow who gives the signal for a general massacre — fired a pistol at one of the palace windows.

In the brief space of time between the order to “take aim” and the word “Fire!” Pitou took in the situation.

“Down with you! down with you!” he shouted, “or you're all dead men.”

And suiting example to precept, he flung himself flat on the ground.

This dense mass of human beings — for at least half of the advance column had crowded into the courtyard — bent like a field of grain swayed by the wind, then staggered and collapsed.

Barely one third of them escaped death. These tried to flee; but the soldiers in the sheds, as well as those drawn up in line, opened a cross fire upon them. The soldiers would have shot one another but for the thick screen of human beings between them.

There were huge rents in this screen, however. ¥our hundred men were lying prostrate on the pavement, three hundred of whom had been killed outright. The remaining hundred — more or less dangerously wounded — groaned and tried to raise themselves, only to fall back again, imparting to the corpse-strewn courtyard a motion like that of receding waves, — a sight terrible to look upon.

Gradually everything became quiet. But for a few obstinate fellows who would persist in living, the sea became motionless.

A few fugitives rushed out into the Carrousel and into the Eue Saint-Honore”, shrieking for help.

On the Pont Neuf these fugitives met the main body of insurgents. Two men on horseback rode at the head of this column; but they were closely followed by a man who also wore an air of authority, though afoot.

“Help, Monsieur Santerre, help!” cried the fugitives, recognising in one of the leaders the famous brewer of the Saint-Antoine district, remarkable everywhere for his colossal stature.”Help! they are slaughtering our brothers!”

“Who are-” inquired Santerre.

“The Swiss. They tired on us while we were laughing and talking with them!”

Santerre turned to the other horseman.

“What do you think of that-”he asked.

The person he addressed was a small, light-complexioned man, with closely clipped hair.

“Faith!” he responded, “there’s a military proverb that says: 'A soldier should betake himself wherever he hears the sound of musketry or cannon.' Let us hasten to the place at once!”

“You had a young officer with you,” said the man afoot to one of the fugitives.”I see nothing of him.”

“He was one of the first to fall, Monsieur Deputy. It 'a a pity, too; for he was a brave young man.”

“Yes, he was a brave youth,” responded the questioner, paling slightly;”a brave youth, and he shall be fitly avenged. Forward, Monsieur Santerre!”

“I think that in such a serious matter as this seems likely to prove, we ought to call experience, as well as courage, to our aid, my dear Billot.”

“Very well.”

“Consequently, I propose to relinquish the command to Citizen Westermann, who is a skilled soldier, as well as a friend of Citizen Danton, and pledge myself to obey him like a common soldier.”

“As you please,” responded Billot, "provided you advance without losing a second of time.”

“Will you accept the command, Citizen Westermann-” asked Santerre.

“I accept,” answered the Prussian, laconically.

“Then give your orders.”

“Forward!” cried Westermann.

And the long column moved on again.

As the leader entered the Carrousel, the Tuileries clock struck eleven.

CHAPTER CLII. FROM ELEVEN O'CLOCK UNTIL NOON.

On re-entering the palace, Roederer met a valet who had been sent in search of him by Marie Antoinette; and Roederer, being equally anxious to see the queen, as he knew that she was the chief dependence of the palace in this hour of peril, was greatly pleased to learn that she was waiting to see him in a quiet place where they might consult together without any danger of interruption. Consequently he followed Weber upstairs without delay.

The queen was sitting by the fireplace, with her back to the window. On hearing the door open, she turned quickly, exclaiming, “Well, monsieur-” yet without putting any direct question.

“The queen has done me the honour to send for me, I believe,” remarked Roederer.

“Yes, monsieur; you are one of the chief magistrates in the city, and your presence here is of incalculable benefit to us. I ask you, therefore, what we have to hope, as well as what we have to fear.”

“In my opinion you have very little to hope, and everything to fear, madame.”

“You mean that the populace are really marching upon the Tuileries-”

“The advance guard is already in the Carrousel, talking with the Swiss Guards.”

“Talking with the Swiss Guards- I gave orders that the Swiss were to repel the insurgents. Are they inclined to disobey-”

“No, by no means, madame; the Swiss will die at their post.”

“And we at ours, monsieur. Even as the Swiss are soldiers in the king's service, sovereigns themselves are soldiers in the service of the monarchy.”

Roederer was silent.

“Am I so unfortunate as to have an opinion which does not accord with yours on this subject-” asked the queen.

“I have no opinion whatever to express, unless your Majesty does me the honour to ask for it.”

“I do ask for it.”

“Then I will reply with perfect frankness, madame. It is my opinion that the king is lost if he remains in the Tuileries.”

“But if we do not remain in the Tuileries, where are we to go-” exclaimed the queen, rising to her feet in evident trepidation.

“In the present condition of affairs there is only one safe asylum for the royal family.”

“And that, monsieur -”

“Is the National Assembly.”

“What, monsieur-” exclaimed the queen, as if she fancied that she could not have heard him aright.

“The National Assembly,” repeated Roederer.

“And can you believe that I would consent to ask the protection of those men-”

Again Roederer made no reply.

“So far as I am concerned,” continued the queen, “I prefer enemies who attack us openly, in broad daylight, to those who are continually trying to stab us behind our backs, and in the dark.”

“But, madame, I am convinced that you will have to decide between yielding to the populace and beating a retreat to the Assembly.”

“Retreat- Are we so poor in defenders that we must surrender without firing a shot-”

“Before making up your mind fully, madame, will you not send for some competent man, and learn what forces are at your disposal-”

“Weber, go and summon either Monsieur Maillardot, Monsieur de la Chesnaye, or -”She was about to say Monsieur de Charny, but she checked herself suddenly; and Weber, after waiting a moment in vain for her to complete the sentence, left the room.

“If your Majesty will but step to the window, you can judge for yourself,” said Roederer.

With evident reluctance the queen walked to the window, drew aside the curtain, and looked out. The Carrousel, and even the royal courtyard, were filled with pikemen.

“Good heavens!” she cried.”What are those men doing here-”

“As I told your Majesty, they are talking with the Swiss Guard.”

“But they have been admitted into the very precincts of the palace.”

'' I did that in order to gain time, so your Majesty could decide what course to pursue.”

At that very instant the door opened.

“Come in!”cried the queen, without knowing to whom she was speaking.

Charny entered.

“Ah! it is you,” exclaimed the queen.”Then it is useless to ask any further questions; for only a little while ago you told me all there was left for us to do.”

“And that-” asked Roederer.

“Is to die,” responded the queen.

“You see that what I propose is preferable, madame.”

“I hardly know which I would prefer,” said the queen, gloomily.

“What does monsieur suggest-” inquired Charny.

“To take the king to the Assembly,” said Roederer.

“That is not death, but disgrace,” answered Charny.

“Do you hear that, monsieur-” demanded the queen, turning to Roederer.

“Let us see if there is no middle course, then,” replied Roederer.

Just then Weber stepped forward and said:”I know I am a very insignificant person, and that it is the height of presumption for me to express my opinion in such company; but it is my devotion that emboldens me. How would it do to ask the Assembly to send a delegation to watch over the king's safety-”

“So be it. I consent to that,” answered the queen.”Monsieur de Charny, if you approve of this plan, will you go and submit it to the king-”

Charny bowed and departed.

“Follow the count, and bring me the king's answer,” the queen said to her foster brother.

In a few moments Weber returned, and said:”The king approves the suggestion, madame, and Messieurs Champion and Dejoly are going to the Assembly at once with the king's message.”

“Look!” cried the queen, suddenly.”What are they doing-”

The intruders were just then amusing themselves by hooking the Swiss Guards.

Roederer stepped to the window; but before he had time to see what was going on, a pistol shot suddenly rang out upon the air. This was followed by a terrific discharge of musketry, that shook the palace to its very foundations. The queen uttered a scream, and recoiled in terror; then curiosity drove her back to the window.

“See! see!” she cried, her eyes flashing.”They are fleeing! they have been put to rout. What do you think now, Monsieur Roederer- have we no resource save the Assembly-”

“Will your Majesty do me the favour to follow me-” pleaded Roederer.

“See, see!” she continued.”The Swiss are making a sortie and pursuing them. The Carrousel is free of them. Victory' victory!”

“Have mercy on yourself, madame, and follow me,” implored Roederer.

The queen yielded, half wonderingly, half petulantly.

“Where is the king-” Roederer asked of the first valet they met.

“In the gallery leading into the Louvre,” was the response.

“That is the very place to which I wished to conduct your Majesty,” remarked Roederer.

The king was standing at a window with Chesnaye, Maillardot, and five or six other noblemen. He had a field-glass in his hand. The queen flew to the window; but she required no field-glass to enable her to see what was going on.

The huge army of insurgents was approaching. It was so wide and so long that it covered the entire quay as far as the eye could reach. Every bell in the city was ringing madly, — the big bell of Notre Dame resounding high above all the others; while the heavy roll of artillery could be heard in the distance like the angry muttering of an approaching storm.

“Well, madame-” said Roederer.

There were about fifty persons assembled around the king. The queen looked long and searchingly at their friends and supporters, as if asking how much devotion she could really count upon. Then, not knowing whom to address, or what petition to utter, she took her boy and showed him to the officers of the National and the Swiss Guards, and to the noblemen present. It was no longer a queen demanding a throne for her son, but a distressed mother, crying out in the hour of peril, “My child! Who will save my child-”

Meanwhile the king was conversing in a low tone with Roederer; or, rather, the syndic was repeating to the monarch what he had already said to the queen.

Two entirely distinct groups had gathered around their Majesties. The king was surrounded by a number of grave and thoughtful advisers, who seemed strongly to approve the suggestion made by Roederer. The other and larger group was that assembled around the queen. This consisted chiefly of ardent and enthusiastic young officers, who waved their hats and brandished their swords and kissed the hem of the queen's robe, swearing all the while to die, if need be, in defence of her and her son.

Suddenly the queen snatched two pistols from the belt of Maillardot, the commander of the Swiss Guard, and presented them to the king.

“Come, Sire!” she cried.”Now is the time to show yourself a man, or perish in the midst of your friends!”

The queen's act excited the utmost enthusiasm, and everybody awaited the king's reply with breathless anxiety.

A young, brave, and handsome king, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, might have rushed, pistol in hand, into the fray, and turned the tide of fortune in his favour, even then. The king took the pistols from the queen's hands, but only to return them to Maillardot. Then, turning to Roederer, he said: -

“You think, then, it would be advisable for me to take refuge in the Assembly, monsieur-”

“Yes, Sire, that is my opinion.”

“Let us go, then, gentlemen; for there is evidently nothing we can do here,” said the king.

The queen sighed heavily, and, taking the dauphin in her arms and turning to Madame de Lamballe and Madame de Tourzel, said, “Come, ladies, as the king will have it so.”

This seemed equivalent to saying to all the others, “I abandon you to your fate.”

Madame Campan was waiting for the queen in the corridor through which she would be obliged to pass. The queen saw her.

“Go and wait for me in my room,” she whispered.”I will either rejoin you there presently, or send for you,- from where Heaven only knows!” Then, leaning towards her, she murmured even more guardedly, "Oh for a chance to plunge into the sea!”

The gentlemen the king had left behind him looked at each other as if thinking, “Is it for a monarch like this that we have got to die-”

Chesnaye seemed to understand the mute query, for he replied:”No, gentlemen, it is for royalty. Man is mortal, but the principle of right is immortal.”

As for the unfortunate women, they were overwhelmed with terror. One might have supposed them so many marble statues standing upon the staircases and corridors.

At last the king condescended to think of those he had deserted; for on reaching the foot of the staircase, he paused, and asked:

“What will become of those we leave behind us-”

“It will be easy enough for them to follow us,” responded Roederer.”They are in citizen's dress, and can make their way out through the garden without any difficulty.”

“Ah, Monsieur de Charny!” exclaimed the queen, on seeing the count, who was waiting for them, sword in hand, at the gate, “why did we not listen to you day before yesterday, when you advised flight-”

The count made no reply, but, approaching the king, said:”Sire, you had better take my hat and give me yours; for yours may lead to your being recognised.”

“On account of the white plume- You are right,” responded the king.”Thank you, monsieur.”

And he took Charny's hat and gave the count his.

“Will the king be exposed to any danger during this short walk-” asked the queen.

“You see that even if he is, I am doing my best to avert it, madame,” replied Charny, respectfully, but coldly.

“Is your Majesty ready-” asked the Swiss captain to whom the duty of protecting the king in his walk across the garden had been intrusted.

“Yes,” answered the king, pulling Charny's hat down over his face.

“Then let us start.”

The king walked between a double line of Swiss Guards, who kept step with the monarch.

Suddenly loud outcries were heard to their right. The gate leading into the palace garden near the Floral Pavilion had been forced open, and a crowd of people who had heard that the king was on his way to the Assembly rushed in. A man who seemed to be the leader of the mob carried a banner in the shape of a head on the end of a pike.

The captain of the Swiss Guard ordered a halt, and prepared to fire upon the insurgents.

“Monsieur de Charny,” exclaimed the queen, “if you see that I am likely to fall into the hands of these wretches, you will kill me, will you not-”

“I cannot promise you that, madame, but I swear that before a single hand touches you, 1 shall be a dead man.”

“Hold!” cried the king;”that is poor Mandat's head: I recognise it.”

The band of murderers dared not approach too near, but they heaped all sorts of insults upon the king and queen. Five or six shots were fired. One Swiss was wounded, another killed. The captain ordered his men to take aim, and they obeyed.

“Don't fire, I beseech you, monsieur,” cried Charny;”if you do, not one of us will reach the Assembly alive.”

“You are right, monsieur,” answered the captain.”Shoulder arms!”

The soldiers obeyed, and the party continued its course diagonally across the garden.

Although it was only midsummer, the heat had shrivelled the leaves of the chestnut-trees, and turned them yellow. The ground, too, was strewn with dead leaves.

“The leaves fall early this year,” remarked the king.

“Did not some rabid fellow predict that our monarchy would last only until the fall of the leaf-” asked the queen.

“Yes, madame,” replied Charny.

“And what was this clever prophet's name-”

“Manuel.”

Above the party, on the terrace, which they were obliged to cross to reach the Riding School, where the Assembly still held its sessions, was a large crowd of angry men and women, yelling and brandishing their weapons threateningly. The danger was all the greater because the Swiss could no longer keep in line. The captain endeavoured to force his way through the throng, however; but this so infuriated the rabble that Roederer called out to him, “Take care, or the king will certainly be killed.”

A halt was ordered, and a messenger despatched to the Assembly to notify that legislative body that the king asked an asylum within its walls. The Assembly immediately sent out a delegation; but the sight of this delegation only increased the wrath of the mob.

“Down with Veto! Down with the Austrian! They 've got to abdicate or die!” the mob shouted angrily.

The two children, seeing that their mother was specially in danger, pressed close to her side.

“Why do all these people want to kill my dear mamma, Monsieur de Charny-” asked the dauphin.

The Swiss escort had been driven back one by one, and the royal family was now protected only by the half-dozen gentlemen who had left the Tuileries with them, and the deputation sent by the Assembly. It was evident, too, that there would be great difficulty in getting the king into the hall through the hostile throng which blocked the entrance. At the foot of the steps the struggle began.

“Put up your sword, or I will not answer for the consequences,” said Roederer to Charny; and Charny obeyed without a word.

The king was obliged to push back a man who shook his fist in his face; and the little dauphin, almost suffocated, screamed, and held up his hands as if for help.

A man sprang forward, seized him, and tore him from his mother's grasp.

“Monsieur de Charny! my child! In Heaven's name, save my child!” the queen cried wildly.

Charny started towards the man; but this left the queen so unprotected that two or three arms were outstretched towards her, and one hand seized her by the fichu that covered her breast.

The queen uttered a cry; and, forgetting Roederer's counsel, Charny plunged his sword in the body of the man who had dared to lay violent hands upon the queen.

The crowd yelled with rage on seeing one of their number fall. The women shouted: -

“Kill the Austrian. Give her to us, so we can strangle her! Death to the Austrian!”

But the queen, half crazed with anxiety and grief, forgot her own danger, and cried again and again, “My son, oh, my son!”

Just as the little party reached the doorway, the mob, as if feeling that their prey was about to escape them, made one even more desperate effort.

Among the clenched fists so threateningly upraised, Charny saw one holding a pistol pointed straight at the queen. The crowd was so dense that he could use only the pommel of his sword; so, dropping that, he grasped the pistol with both hands, tore it from the miscreant's grasp, and discharged it full at the breast of the nearest assailant. The man was stunned as well as wounded, and fell to the ground. The sword was already in the possession of a vagabond, who was endeavouring to kill the queen with it; Charny threw himself upon the assassin, and in the brief interval thus afforded the queen was half carried, half dragged after the king into the hall of the Assembly building.

She was saved; but as the door was hastily closed behind her, Charny sank on the doorstep, felled by a blow upon the head from an iron bar, and stabbed in the breast with a pike.

“Like my dear brothers!” he murmured, as he fell.”Poor Andree!”

Like his brothers George and Isidore, Olivier de Charny's destiny was fulfilled. That of the queen was about to overtake her.

Just then a deafening discharge of artillery announced that the insurgents were making a formidable attack upon the palace.

CHAPTER CLIII. FROM NOON UNTIL THREE O'CLOCK.

For a moment, like the queen herself when she saw the advance guard take flight, the Swiss probably believed they had encountered and defeated the main body of insurgents. They had killed about four hundred men in the palace courtyard, and one hundred and fifty or two hundred more in the Carrousel. They had also captured seven pieces of artillery. They had not been able to silence one small battery, however, placed on the terrace of a house facing the Swiss Guard-house; and, thinking they had put down the insurrection, they were about taking measures to put an end to the battery, cost what it might, when the roll of drums and the rumbling of heavy artillery reached their ears from the direction of the river-side.

These sounds proceeded from the main army of insurgents, which the king had seen with the aid of his field- glass from the window in the Louvre.

At the same time it began to be rumoured among the guards that the king had left the palace to seek a shelter in the Assembly.

It is difficult to describe the effect of this announcement even upon the most devoted Royalists. The king, who had solemnly sworn to die at his post, had deserted it, and gone over to the enemy, or given himself up as a prisoner without even striking a blow.

The National Guards considered themselves relieved from all obligations, and all, or nearly all, of them left the palace. Several noblemen followed their example, deeming it useless to remain and be slain for a cause that acknowledged itself lost.

Only the Swiss remained, silent and morose, the slaves of discipline. From the upper part of the terrace, near the Floral Pavilion, they could see approaching nearer and nearer those determined denizens of the Faubourgs whom no army had ever successfully resisted.

The insurgents had their plan. They supposed the king was still in the palace, and intended to surround it on every side, so as to capture the monarch.

The column advancing up the left bank of the river had received orders to force the gateway on the river-side. Those approaching by way of the Saint-Honore were to force open the Feuillant gate. The column on the right bank of the river, under command of Westermann, was to attack the front of the palace.

This last body of men burst into the Carrousel, singing the Ca ira. The Marseillais headed this column, dragging two small four-pounders loaded with grape.

Nearly two hundred Swiss were in the square, drawn up in battle array. The insurgents marched straight towards them, and the minute the Swiss raised their muskets to fire, the insurgents unmasked their battery, and opened fire themselves.

The Swiss discharged their muskets once, then hastily retired into the palace, leaving thirty dead and wounded lying on the pavement of the courtyard; whereupon the insurgents, with the Marseillais still at their head, rushed upon the Tuileries.

Billot was anxious to fight in the same place where Pitou had been slain; for he was strongly in hopes that the poor boy was only wounded, and that he might return the service Pitou had rendered him — Billot — on the Champ de Mars.

Billot was, consequently, one of the first to enter the central courtyard. There was such a smell of freshly spilled blood there that it seemed as if one must be in a slaughter-house; while in the glare of the midday sun a gas which looked like smoke rose from the heap of bodies.

The sight and the odor alike infuriated the assailants, and they rushed madly upon the palace; besides, retreat now would have been impossible, however much they might have desired it, on account of the immense crowd which was continually pouring into the square behind them, thus forcing them on into the fray.

Once in the central courtyard, these insurgents, like their predecessors in whose blood they were wading ankle deep, found themselves between two fires, — from the clock tower on one side, and a double row of barrack sheds on the other.

It was necessary to silence these barracks first of all, and the Marseillais rushed upon them; but as they could not demolish them with their hands, they shouted for crowbars and pickaxes. But Billot promptly demanded mammoth cartridges, and Westermann, understanding and approving his subordinate's plan, ordered them brought, together with tinder, sulphur, and matches.

As soon as these came, the Marseillais set fire to the fuses, at the risk of having the powder explode in their hands, and hurled the burning cartridges into the sheds. The barracks, of course, took fire, and their defenders were obliged to leave them and take refuge in the hall of the palace. Suddenly Billot, feeling himself pulled backward, turned, expecting to find himself confronted by an enemy; but when he saw who had seized him, he uttered an exclamation of joy; for it was Pitou, -Pitou, almost unrecognisable, and covered with blood from head to foot, but Pitou, safe and sound, without a single wound.

When Pitou saw the Swiss taking aim at his comrades and himself, he had shouted to them to throw themselves flat on the ground, suiting the action to the word himself. But they had not time to follow his example, and in another moment Pitou found himself buried under a huge pile of corpses.

In spite of his very disagreeable situation, thus weighed down by dead bodies and soaked in their blood, Pitou resolved not to utter a sound, but wait until a more opportune moment came for revealing himself. He had to wait a whole hour for this, however, and every minute of that hour seemed itself an hour.

At last, hearing the victorious shouts of the Marseillais, and Billot's voice calling his name in the midst of them, he judged that the propitious moment had at last come, and, like Enceladus buried under Mount Etna, he shook off the pile of corpses that covered him, and managed to regain his feet. Then, seeing Billot in the foremost rank of insurgents, he hastened to his side.

A brisk fusilade from the Swiss reminded Pitou and Billot of the gravity of their situation.

Nine hundred feet of shed on the right and left side of the central courtyard were on fire. The heat was intense, and there was not a particle of air stirring. The entire front of the palace was hidden by a thick veil of smoke. It was impossible to see which were the slayers or the slain, as Billot, Pitou, and the Marseillais forced their way through the smoke into the vestibule.

There they found themselves confronted by a bristling wall of bayonets, — the bayonets of the Swiss Guard.

Then began that heroic retreat, in which, leaving one of their number at each step and upon each stair, the battalion moved slowly backward. That night forty-eight dead bodies were found on the staircase alone.

Suddenly through the halls and corridors of the palace resounded the cry, “The king orders the Swiss to stop firing!”It was then two o'clock in the afternoon.

This is what had occurred at the Assembly in the mean time, and brought about the order, which had the twofold advantage of lessening the fury of the victors, and saving the honour of the vanquished.

As the door closed between the queen and Charny, who she saw was fighting desperately for his life, Marie Antoinette screamed, and extended her arms towards the door; but, drawn along by her companions at a moment when motherly instinct prompted her to follow her child first of all, she almost involuntarily moved on beside the king into the hall of Assembly.

There a great relief awaited her, for she beheld her boy sitting, safe and sound, upon the president's desk.

Seeing her son safe, a terrible pang reminded her of Charny, and the mortal danger that threatened him.

“Gentlemen,” she cried, “one of my bravest officers and most devoted friends has been left outside your door, in danger of death. I ask succour for him.”

On hearing her words, five or six deputies hastened out, and the royal family and their attendants were ushered to the seats reserved for the cabinet ministers.

The Assembly had received them standing, not on account of the deference due to crowned heads, but with the respect due misfortune.

Before seating himself, the king made a sign to indicate that he wished to speak; and there was a breathless silence as he said:”I have come here to prevent a great crime, and I feel that I can be nowhere safer than in your midst, gentlemen.”

“Sire,” responded Vergniaud, who was presiding, “you can rely upon the firmness of the National Assembly. Its members have sworn to die, if need be, in defence of the rights of the people and of the legally constituted authorities.”

The king seated himself. At that moment a frightful fusilade resounded almost at the very doors of the Riding School. The National Guards had united with the insurgents on the Peuillant Terrace, and were now firing at the Swiss who had acted as an escort for the royal family.

An officer of the National Guard, who seemed to have lost his head completely, rushed into the Assembly Chamber, shouting: -

“The Swiss! the Swiss! We are driven back!”

For one instant the Assembly inclined to the belief that the Swiss Guards had repulsed the insurgents, and were now coming to reclaim their king; for at that time Louis XVI., it must be admitted, was rather the king of the Swiss than of the French. All the deputies sprang to their feet as if with one accord, and members, spectators, secretaries, all raised their hands and cried, “Come what may, we swear to live and die freemen!”

The king and his family took no part in this demonstration; but this cry, uttered by three thousand mouths, swept over their heads like a hurricane.

This mistake in relation to the Swiss was of short duration, however; for fifteen minutes later a cry of, “The palace is taken!”was heard;”the insurgents are marching upon the Assembly with the intention of slaying the king!”

Then the same men who, in their hatred of despotism, had just sworn to live and die freemen, raised their hands with the same enthusiasm, and solemnly swore to defend the king to the death.

At that very moment Captain Durler was being ordered in the name of the Assembly to lay down his arms.

“I serve the king, and not the Assembly,” he said coolly.”Where is the king's order-”

The messenger sent by the Assembly had brought no written order.

“I received my commission from the king,” added Durler, "and I obey only the king's orders.”

So they dragged him almost by main force into the Assembly. His face was blackened with powder and stained with blood.

“Sire, they tell me to lay down my arms,” he said.”Is this the king's order-”

“Yes,” answered Louis;”surrender your arms to the National Guards. I do not want another one of you brave fellows to perish!”

Durler sighed, bowed his head, and went out; but at the door he paused and declared he would not obey any save a written order: so the king took a sheet of paper and wrote: -

“The King orders the Swiss Guard to lay down their arms and retire to their quarters.”

And this was the order that was subsequently repeated in all the rooms, corridors, and halls of the palace.

This order having restored some slight semblance of tranquillity, the president proposed that the Assembly resume business; but a member rose and said that the Constitution forbade the Assembly to transact any business in the king's presence.

“That is true,” remarked Louis XVI.”But where will you put us-”

“We can offer you, Sire, the box reserved for the Logographe. It is empty now, that journal having ceased to appear.”

“Very well,” replied the king, “we are ready to go there at any time.”

“Ushers!” cried Vergniaud, "conduct the king to the box reserved for the Logographe.”

The ushers hastened to obey. The king and queen and royal family left the hall by the same door by which they had entered it, and again found themselves in the corridor.

“What is this on the floor-”asked the queen.”It looks like blood.”

The ushers made no reply. If these stains were really blood, it is quite probable that the ushers had no idea how they came there. To spare the queen the ominous sight the king quickened his pace, and, opening the door of the box himself, bade the queen enter.

But as Marie Antoinette set foot on the threshold, she uttered a cry of horror, covered her face with her hands, and drew back. The presence of those blood stains was explained. A dead body had been placed in the box, and it was this body, which the queen had nearly stepped upon in her haste, that had made her recoil in horror.

“Ah!” said the king — in the same tone in which he had exclaimed, “That is poor Maudat's head” -”Ah! this is the body of our poor Comte de Charny!”

It was indeed the count's body, which a few deputies had succeeded in rescuing from the clutches of his murderers, and placed in this box, not foreseeing that the royal family would also be installed there a few minutes afterwards.

The body was immediately removed, and the royal family entered the box. Some one suggested that an attempt be made to clean the floor, for it was covered with blood; but the queen shook her head, and was the first to take her seat. No one noticed that she loosened the strings of her shoes and placed her trembling feet in the still warm blood.

“Oh, Charny, Charny!” she murmured, “why is not my blood flowing too, so it might mingle eternally with thine-”

Just then the clock struck three.

CHAPTER CLIV. FROM THREE TO SIX IN THE AFTERNOON.

We left the palace just as the Swiss Guards were being driven back step by step to the very door of the royal apartments, and just as a voice was proclaiming through the corridors an order for these same heroic defenders to lay down their arms.

So the palace was taken at last! What grim genius presided over this victory of the people-”Popular Wrath,” the reader may reply. But who directed this wrath-

A man we have scarcely mentioned, a Prussian officer, mounted on a small black horse, and riding beside the gigantic Santerre on his colossal Flemish steed, — in short, Westermann, the Alsatian.

Who was this man that thus appeared first like the lightning in the midst of the tempest- He was one of those men whom God brings forth from his arsenal only when a terrible blow of retribution is to be struck.

Such was Westermann, the Man of the Setting Sun, as he was called; and, in fact, he did appear only when royalty was sinking below the horizon, never to rise again!

Who discovered him- Who divined that to the brewer Santerre — a giant hewn out of a block of flesh — would be given the soul for this struggle in which the Titans of earth were to overthrow the gods of royalty- And who complemented Geryon with Prometheus, or Santerre with Westermann- Danton!

And where did this influential revolutionist find this conqueror- In a cesspool of crime, -at Saint Lazare.

Westermann was accused — accused, understand, not convicted — of manufacturing counterfeit money. For the work of the 10th of August, Danton needed just such a man, — one who would not draw back, because in retreating he would only be mounting the pillory.

The mysterious prisoner had attracted Danton's attention, and when the day and hour came that Danton needed him, his powerful hand broke the captive's chains, and he was bidden to come forth.

The Revolution, as we have previously remarked, effected the abasement of the mighty of earth and the exaltation of the lowly. It set captives free, and cast into prison those who had been, up to that time, the powerful of the earth.

On that memorable 10th of August, Santerre was scarcely seen. It was Westermann who was everywhere and did everything.

It was Westermann who ordered the union of the Saint Marceau and Saint Antoine sections. It was Westermann, on his little black horse, who led the revolutionist army into the Carrousel, and rapped on the door of the Tuileries with the hilt of his sword, as if ordering the door opened for a regiment which had completed its march and was about to make the palace its headquarters.

We saw this door open; but we also saw how heroically the Swiss did their duty, — how they were destroyed rather than conquered, — and followed them, step by step, up the staircase and through the palace, which was thickly strewn with their dead.

When they learned that the king was about to leave the palace, two or three hundred gentlemen, who had hastened there to die with the king, held a meeting in the queen's guardroom to decide whether it was their duty to die without the king, since he was no longer ready to die with them, as he had solemnly promised; and they finally decided that as the king had gone to the National Assembly, they would rejoin him there.

They collected together all the Swiss they met, as well as a score of National Guardsmen, and descended about five hundred strong into the garden.

Their passage was barred by a grating called the Queen's Grille. They tried to force the bolt, but the bolt would not yield; but they finally succeeded in prying the gate part way open with a crowbar, though they had to push through one by one. It was only about thirty yards from here to the Pont Royal, at the entrance to which a company of insurgents was stationed. Two Swiss guards were the first to undertake to cross this narrow space, and they were killed before they had taken four steps. The others passed over their dead bodies. The bullets fell around them like hail; but the brilliant uniforms of the Swiss made such capital targets that sixty or seventy Swiss were killed, while only two noblemen were killed and one — Monsieur de Viomesnil — wounded.

On their way to the Assembly they also had to pass a guard-house erected under the trees between the terrace and the bank of the river, and eight or ten more Swiss were slain there.

The party, which had lost about eighty men in advancing as many yards, continued their course towards the steps leading to the Feuillant Terrace. Monsieur de Choiseul saw them coming, and, sword in hand, he ran to meet them under the fire of the guns both on the Royal and the Swinging Bridge, and endeavoured to encourage the fugitives by shouting to them to come on to the Assembly.

Supposing himself followed by about four hundred men, he rushed into the hall, and up the stairway leading to the Assembly Chamber.

On the topmost step he met Deputy Merlin, who called out to him, “What are you doing here with your sword drawn, you rascal!”

Monsieur de Choiseul glanced behind him. He was alone.

“Put up your sword,” continued Merlin, “and go and join the king. I alone saw you; that is to say, no one.”

What had become of the little band that Choiseul believed was following him- The thick shower of grape and canister had scattered them like dry autumn leaves. Monsieur de Viomesnil and eight or ten other gentlemen, together with five Swiss, took refuge in the Venetian Embassy on the Rue Saint Florentine, the door of which chanced to be standing hospitably open. They were saved.

The others tried to reach the Champs Elysees; but two volleys of grape from guns planted at the base of the statue of Louis XV. broke the line of fugitives into three fragments.

One fled up the boulevard, and there met some mounted gendarmes, who were approaching in company with a battalion of insurgents. The fugitives believed themselves saved. Monsieur de Villiers, himself a former major of gendarmes, ran to one of the horsemen, shouting, “Help, my friend, help 1” But the horseman drew a pistol and blew the old nobleman's brains out.

Seeing this, thirty Swiss, and a gentleman who had once been one of the king's pages, ran into a building connected with the Naval Department. The thirty Swiss were disposed to surrender; and seeing eight or ten ragamuffins advancing towards them, they laid down their arms and shouted, “Hurrah for the Nation!”

“Ah, you traitors!” cried the rioters, “you surrender because you see that you can't help yourselves. Do you think you '11 save yourselves by shouting for the nation- No!”

Two Swiss dropped simultaneously, one felled by a blow from a pike, the other by a bullet. In another instant their heads were severed from their bodies and placed upon pikes.

The other Swiss, enraged at the death of their comrades, picked up their muskets again and began firing. Seven out of the eight ragamuffins fell dead or wounded.

The Swiss then made a rush for the main gateway, only to find themselves face to face with a cannon. They retreated; the cannon advanced. The fugitives huddled in a corner of the courtyard. The cannon was turned upon its pivot, and then the flame and smoke belched forth. Twenty- three of the twenty-eight Swiss were killed. Fortunately, almost at the same instant, while the smoke still blinded the gunners, a door opened behind the five remaining Swiss, and they and the former page darted in, hastily closing it behind them; and the rioters, believing none of the Royalists had escaped them, hastened off with yells of triumph, dragging their cannon after them.

The second party of fugitives consisted of about thirty soldiers and gentlemen under command of Monsieur Forestier de Saint-Venant. Hemmed in on all sides at the entrance to the Champs Elysees, their leader resolved they should sell their lives as dearly as possible. Sword in hand, he, with his thirty followers armed with bayonets, charged three successive times upon the battalion stationed at the foot of the statue. In these three assaults he lost fifteen men. With the remaining fifteen he endeavoured to fight his way through the enemy's ranks, and so reach the Champs Elysees; but a volley of musketry killed eight men; the remaining seven scattered, but were pursued and cut down by the gendarmes. Saint-Venant was taking refuge in the Ambassadors' Cafe1, when a gendarme gal- lopped up and wounded the unfortunate leader in the loins with a pistol-shot.

The third division, consisting of about sixty men, reached the Champs Elysees, and tried to make its way towards Courbevoie, with the same instinct which leads pigeons back to the dovecot, or sheep back to the sheep- fold. Their regular barracks were at Courbevoie, and it was from there that they had been summoned to the palace; they were speedily surrounded by the mounted gendarmes and the populace, and taken to the city hall, where they hoped to find protection; but two or three thousand infuriated rioters assembled on the Place de Greve, tore them from their escort, and slaughtered them in cold blood.

One young nobleman, the Chevalier Charles d'Autichamp, rushed from the palace, and down the Rue de 1'Echelle, with a pistol in each hand. Two men tried to stop him, but he killed both of them. The mob rushed upon him, and dragged him to the Place de Greve in order to put him to death in a more deliberate and brutal manner.

Fortunately, they forgot to search him. He had a knife, and he opened it in his pocket so as to have it in readiness at any moment. Just as he and his captors reached the square in front of the city-hall, the slaughter of the sixty Swiss began; and, this diverting the attention of his guards, he slew those nearest him with two blows of his knife, and made his escape through the crowd.

The hundred Swiss who conducted the king to the Assembly, and then took refuge at the Feuillant Club, were afterwards disarmed. These, with the five hundred whose fate we have described, and a few fugitives like Charles d'Autichamp, were the only men who escaped from the palace alive.

The rest were killed in the vestibule, on the stairway, or in the various apartments, and even in the chapel.

Nine hundred dead bodies of Swiss Guards and noblemen strewed the floor of the Tuileries.

CHAPTER CLV. FROM SIX TO NINE IN THE EVENING.

The mob entered the palace with very much the same feeling that a hunter enters the den of a wild beast, as was evident from the cries of:”Death to the wolf! Death to the wolf! Death to their cubs!” which resounded on every side.

Had they met the king, or the queen, or the dauphin, they would have slain all three of them, if possible, at a single blow, and honestly believed, probably, that they were only administering justice.

In the absence of those whom they were pursuing,- and for whom they vainly searched in cupboards, behind tapestries, and under beds, — they vented their fury upon inanimate as well as animate things, killing and destroying with the same ferocity.

It will be seen that we do not exonerate the people. On the contrary, we show them to the reader besmirched and bloody as they were. We must, however, do them the justice to say that they left the palace with hands bloody, it is true, but empty.

Peltier, who certainly cannot be accused of undue partiality towards the patriots, tells us that a wine-merchant, named Mallet, brought to the Assembly one hundred and seventy-three louis found on a priest slain in the palace; that twenty-five of the insurgents brought in a trunk filled with the king's plate; that one sans culotte threw a cross of the Order of St. Louis on the presiding officer's desk, and another deposited a watch belonging to a Swiss in the same place. Another brought in a big roll of assignats; another, a bag of coin; while others brought in jewels and diamonds, and finally a casket belonging to the queen, and containing fifteen hundred louis.

This same historian adds ironically, — not in the least suspecting that he is paying these men a magnificent compliment, -

“And the Assembly expressed its regret at not knotting the names of the modest citizens who thus came and intrusted to its care these valuables stolen from the king.”

We are not disposed to flatter the populace. We know that they are the most ungrateful, capricious, and inconstant of masters; and, consequently, we relate their crimes as well as their virtuous deeds.

That day they were monsters. They slaughtered their fellowmen with delight. Persons were thrown alive out of windows; the dead and dying were disembowelled; hearts were torn out, and squeezed between both hands like sponges; and on that day, persons who would have considered themselves disgraced by stealing a watch, abandoned themselves to the terrible delights of vengeance and cruelty.

Nevertheless, in the midst of this torture of the living and desecration of the dead, they sometimes showed compassion like the sated lion.

Madame de Tarente, Madame de la Roche-Amyon, Madame de Ginestous, and Mademoiselle Pauline de Tourzel remained at the Tuileries, abandoned by the queen. When the palace was taken, they could hear the shrieks of the dying and the threats of the victors. Soon they heard footsteps approaching. Madame de Tarente went and opened the door.

“Come in,” said she;”we are only women.”

The victors entered with smoking guns and bloody sabres. The women fell on their knees.

The murderous blades were already circling above their heads, when a man with a long beard, sent by Petion, shouted from the doorway, “Spare the women! Don't disgrace the nation!” And the command was obeyed.

The queen bad said to Madame Campan, "Wait for me. I shall return or send for you to rejoin me. Heaven only knows where!”

So Madame Campan waited. She admits herself that she completely lost her wits from fright, and that, missing her sister, — who had hidden behind a curtain or some article of furniture, — she went downstairs in the hope of finding her there, but found only two of the chambermaids and a huge Hungarian, one of the queen's footmen.

On seeing this man, Madame Campan, excited as she was, realised that his peril was far greater than her own.

“Flee, flee, unfortunate man, flee!” she cried.”The other lackeys went long ago! Flee before it is too late!”

He attempted to rise, but falling back again, exclaimed plaintively, “Alas! alas! I cannot! I cannot! I am half dead with fright!”

Even as he spoke, a crowd of intoxicated and blood-stained men burst into the room, and, falling upon the Hungarian, tore him in pieces then and there.

Madame Campan and the two maids fled by a private stairway; but several of the men pursued, and soon overtook them.

The two maids, who had fallen upon their knees, begged for mercy, grasping the blades of the sabres all the while.

Madame Campan, overtaken at the head of the stairs, felt herself seized in a powerful grasp, and saw the blade of a sabre glittering above her head. She even calculated the brief interval which was likely to separate life from eternity, — an interval which, however short it may be, always contains a host of recollections, -when, from the foot of the stairs, a stern voice demanded, “What are you doing up there- The women are not to be killed! Do you understand that-”

Madame Campan was on her knees, and the sabre was already circling around her head.

“Get up, you hussy! The nation spares you!” cried her executioner. Vol. It.-10

Meanwhile, what was the king doing in the Logographe box-

He became hungry, and called for his dinner. They accordingly brought him bread, wine, a chicken, some cold veal, and fruit.

Like all the Bourbons, as well as Henry IV. and Louis XIV., this monarch was a great eater. Behind the emotions of the soul, the two great exigencies of the body, sleep and hunger, were continually clamouring. We have seen him sleeping in the palace; now we see him eating in the Assembly.

The king broke his bread and carved his chicken without paying the slightest attention to the curious eyes riveted upon him.

Among these eyes there were two that burned intolerably; for the relief of tears was denied them. These eyes were the queen's. She declined all food. It seemed to her that with her feet in Charny's precious blood she could remain there forever, and live like a graveyard flower, with no nourishment save that she received from death.

She had suffered terribly on the return trip from Varennes, and during her captivity in the Tuileries. She had suffered much during the previous day and night; but never had she suffered as she was suffering now.

The situation was certainly desperate enough to deprive any man except the king of all desire for food. The deputies, to whom the monarch had come for protection, felt that they themselves needed protection, and did not conceal their alarm.

That morning the Assembly had endeavoured to prevent the murder of Suleau, but in vain. At two o'clock the Assembly attempted to prevent the massacre of the Swiss Guards, and failed in that attempt also.

Now they themselves were threatened with death at the hands of an infuriated mob shouting, “Abdication! abdication!” or, “Depose him! depose him!”

A committee, of which Vergniaud was made a member, was appointed. He resigned the presidency to Guadet, in order not to allow the power to escape from the hands of the Girondists even for an hour. The deliberations of this committee were, however, of short duration, conducted as they were amid the roar of cannon and sharp rattle of musketry.

It was Vergniaud who indicted an act for the temporary suspension of royalty.

He re-entered the Assembly visibly depressed and disheartened; for this was the last pledge of respect for royalty he could give as a subject, or of hospitality as a host.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “in behalf of the committee, I offer for your consideration a very rigorous measure; but your alarm and intense regret at the present unfortunate condition of affairs will tell you how important it is to the welfare of the country that it should be promptly adopted.

“The National Assembly considers the danger of the country at its height, and believes that the evils from which our land is now suffering arise mainly from a deeply rooted distrust of our chief executive by reason of the war recently undertaken in his name against the Constitution and French independence, and that said distrust has aroused a very general desire for the revocation of the authority delegated to Louis XVI.

“And, furthermore, believing that the National Assembly can reconcile its fidelity to the Constitution with its resolve to be buried under the ruins of the Temple of Liberty, rather than allow it to perish, only by appealing to the sovereignty of the people, and by taking effectual measures to prevent any possibility of further treachery, the committee recommends: -

“That the French people be invited to elect a National Convention;

“That the Chief Executive be suspended from the functions of his office until the National Convention has made its will known;

“That the payment of the King's civil list also be suspended;

“That the King and royal family remain within the precincts of the Assembly until tranquillity has been restored in the city of Paris;

“That the Luxembourg Palace be prepared for the occupancy of the royal family;

“And that every public official and soldier who abandons his post in this hour of danger be declared a traitor to his country.”

The king listened to this decree with his usual immobility; then, leaning over the railing of the box and addressing Vergniaud, who had resumed his seat in the presiding officer's chair, he said: -

“Do you know that what you are doing is unconstitutional-”

“Very possibly, Sire; but it is the only means left for saving your life. If we do not grant the people's demand for your deposal, they will certainly kill you.”

The king made a movement of the head and shoulders which signified, “That is quite possible,” and sank back in his seat.

At that very instant the clock above his head struck the hour. The king counted every vibration, and when the last one died away, he remarked, “Nine o'clock!”

Several officials entered to conduct the king and queen to the temporary lodgings which had been prepared for them near by. The king made a gesture signifying that he wished to remain a while longer; for the business on hand was of considerable interest to him, it being the selection of a new ministry.

The Minister of War, the Minister of the Interior, and the Minister of Finance were soon nominated. They were the same men recently dismissed by the king,-Roland, Clavieres, and Servan.

Danton received the portfolio of Justice, Monge that of the Navy, and Lebrun that of Foreign Affairs.

When the nomination of the last minister was made, the king remarked, “Now, let us go;” and he arose and passed out first.

The queen followed him. She had not taken any nourishment since she left the Tuileries,-not even so much as a glass of water.

The apartments which had been prepared for the royal family were in the upper story of the old monastery adjoining the Biding School, and occupied by the Feuillants. They had been occupied by Roerder Camus, and consisted of four rooms.

In the first, which was really only an ante-room, were quartered the king's attendants who had remained faithful to him in his adversity. These were the Prince de Poix, Baron d'Aubier, Monsieur de Saint-Pardon, Monsieur de Goguelat, Monsieur de Chamille”, and Monsieur Hue.

The king reserved the second room for his own use. The third was assigned to the queen. It was the only room with papered walls. On entering it, Marie Antoinette threw herself on the bed, and actually gnawed the bolster in her agony, — a prey to such anguish of mind as would make the tortures of the rack seem slight in comparison.

The two children remained with their mother.

The fourth room, though small, was allotted to Madame Elizabeth, Madame de Lamballe, and Madame de Tourzel, who established themselves in it as best they could.

The queen lacked everything, even money. Her watch had been torn from her in the mob at the door of the Assembly. She had not even a change of underclothing, — having, of course, brought nothing with her from the palace. She borrowed twenty-five louis of Madame Cam- pan's sister, however, and sent to the British Embassy for some linen.

In the evening the Assembly caused the decree of the day to be proclaimed by torch-light throughout the city.

CHAPTER CLVI. FROM NINE O'CLOCK UNTIL MIDNIGHT.

As these torches were carried past the Carrousel, down the Rue Saint-Honor^, and along the quays, they shone upon a lugubrious scene indeed.

History and legend enlarge upon the sufferings of the royal personages from whose brows the crown of empire was torn that day. They expatiate, too, upon the courage and devotion of the Swiss Guards and of the nobility. They have counted the drops of blood shed by those brave defenders of the monarchy, but they have not counted the corpses of the populace and the tears of the mothers, sisters, and wives among the common people; yet, in the eyes of God, the supreme Ruler of the universe, blood is blood, and tears are tears.

There were many more deaths among the common people than among the nobility and Swiss Guards. Even Peltier, ardent Royalist as he was, says in his history of the time: -

“The tenth of August cost humanity about seven hundred regular soldiers and twenty-two officers, twenty Royalist National Guards, five hundred Federals, three commanders of National Guards, forty gendarmes, more than a hundred persons employed in the royal household, two hundred men killed for stealing, nine citizens slain on the Feuillant Terrace, Monsieur de Clermont d'Amboise, and nearly three thousand common people killed in Carrousel Square, in the Tuileries garden, and in Louis-Quinze Square, — a total of about four thousand six hundred men in all.”

Nor is this loss of life remarkable under the circumstances, for we have mentioned the precautions taken to fortify the Tuileries; and the Swiss, as a general thing, tired from behind substantial walls, while their assailants had little or no protection. So about three thousand live hundred insurgents perished, to say nothing of the two hundred thieves who were shot. There was probably at least an equal number of wounded. The historian quoted above mentions only the dead.

Many, suppose we say half, of these three thousand five hundred men, were fathers of families, forced into the conflict by intolerable misery. Many of them even entered the fray unarmed, and so went straight to their deaths, leaving their wives in despair and their children starving. Between three o'clock in the afternoon and nine in the evening every corpse clad in a uniform was picked up and hastily thrown into the Madeleine Cemetery.

As to the plebeian bodies, that was an entirely different matter. They were gathered up in waggons and carted off to their respective sections, — nearly all being from the Faubourg Saint Marceau or the Faubourg Saint Antoine.

There they were ranged side by side near the Arsenal and Pantheon, and in Maubert and Bastille squares. As one of these vehicles rolled heavily along, it left a track of blood behind; and when it entered one or the other Faubourg, it was immediately surrounded by a crowd of frantic mothers and wives and children; and as the living recognised the dead, despairing sobs and moans and frightful maledictions burst forth. Curses long and deep were heaped upon the king and queen, the court, and the clique of Austrians that surrounded the queen. Many promised themselves an even more terrible revenge, and they had it on September 2d and January 21st. Others seemed to be intoxicated by the sight of blood, and again grasping their sabres, their muskets or their pikes, rushed back to Paris to slay. To slay whom- Any Swiss or nobleman or courtier they chanced to meet, or the king and queen if they could but find them.

The blood-stained, smoky Tuileries presented a terrible appearance, deserted by all save the dead and three or four detachments of soldiers stationed there for fear nocturnal visitors, under pretence of searching for missing friends, should pillage the palace.

The detachment in the clock tower — that is to say, by the main stairway — was commanded by a young captain in the National Guards, whose heart was filled with the most profound sympathy and compassion, judging from the expression of his face as he watched waggon-load after waggon-load of dead bodies driven away: but his appetite seemed to be as little affected by his awful surroundings as the king's; for about eleven o'clock in the evening he set about satisfying the demands of hunger with a big four- pound loaf of bread, which he held under his left arm, while he cut off one big slice after another with his right hand.

Leaning against one of the pillars in the vestibule, he watched the long procession of mothers, wives, and daughters, who had come to search for their fathers, husbands, and sons.

Suddenly, at the sight of a slender form clad in black, the young captain started violently.

“Madame de Charny!” he murmured. But the shadowy form passed on.

The young captain beckoned to one of his lieutenants.

“De'sire',” said he, “there is a poor woman, a friend of Monsieur Gilbert's, who has come to look for her husband, probably, among the dead. I must follow her, so as to be able to give her any information and help she may need. I leave you in command. Watch for both of us.”

The countess had already passed the first landing when the young captain began to follow her at a respectful distance.

Pitou was not mistaken. It was indeed for her husband that poor Andre*e was searching, — not with any vestige of hope, but with a certainty of despair.

“When in the midst of his joy and happiness Charny heard of the events that were transpiring in Paris, he said to his wife: -

“My dearest Andree, the king's life is in danger, and he has need of all his defenders. What ought I to do-”

“Go where duty calls thee, my own Oliver,” Andree replied, “and die for the king, if need be.”

“But thou -”

“Do not think of me,” replied Andree.”As I have never really lived except in thee, God will perhaps permit me to die with thee.”

These two noble hearts now understood each other perfectly, and not another word was ever interchanged between them on the subject.

Post-horses were immediately ordered; and at five o'clock on the afternoon of that same day they reached the little house in the Eue Coq-Heron.

That very evening, as we have seen, Charny went to the palace, and from that moment was in constant attendance upon their Majesties.

Andree thought for a moment of following her husband's example, and of asking for her former place near the queen, but lacked the courage, and shut herself up in her room to pray.

The ninth of August was a day of terrible anguish and suspense, but it brought no decisive news.

About nine o'clock on the morning of the tenth, she heard the first sound of cannon. It is needless to say that each reverberation carried terror to the innermost depths of her heart.

About two o'clock the firing ceased.”Were the people conquered, or conquering-”she asked.

The people were victorious!

What had befallen Charny in the terrible struggle. She knew him so well, she was certain he had taken a prominent part in it.

She made further inquiries, and was told that nearly all the Swiss Guards had been slain, but that nearly all the nobility had escaped.

So she waited.

Charny might return home in disguise, but be compelled to flee without delay; so she had horses put to the travelling carriage at once.

Horses and carriage waited in vain for the master; but Andree knew that whatever danger he might incur, the master would not go without her. She even had the gates opened, so, if Charny was obliged to flee, there would be nothing to hinder his flight; and then she waited on and on, in an agony of suspense.

“If he is hiding anywhere, he cannot venture out until night,” she said to herself;”so I will wait until dark.”

In August the night comes on slowly; and not until ten o'clock did Andree give up all hope. Then she threw a large veil over her head, and went out into the street.

All along her route she encountered groups of women sobbing and wringing their hands, and bands of men yelling for vengeance. She passed them all unchallenged. The wrath of the men and the grief of the women protected her; besides, they were looking for men, not women, that night. There were women, weeping women, everywhere!

Andree reached the Carrousel just in time to hear the new decrees of the Assembly proclaimed. The king and queen were under the protection of the Assembly. She understood that, and that was all.

She saw two or three waggons driven away; and on inquiring what they contained, was told that they were laden with bodies which had been gathered up in the royal courtyard and the Carrousel; for, as yet, it was only in those places that any collection of the dead had been made.

Andree said to herself that it was not at all likely that Charny had fought in either of these places, or, indeed, anywhere except at the entrance to the king's and queen's apartments; so she crossed the courtyard and the grand vestibule, and ascended the main stairway.

It was there that Pitou saw and recognised Madame de Charny.

CHAPTER CLVII. A WIDOW.

It is impossible to give any adequate description of the scene of devastation which the Tuileries presented. Blood flowed from the chambers and poured down the staircases. There were piles of dead bodies in every room.

Andree followed the example of those she saw around her, and, taking a torch, went from one body to another. As she continued her search, she approached nearer and nearer to the apartments occupied by the king and queen.

Pitou followed her as she pursued her futile search there, as in the other rooms; but at last she paused, and stood for a moment undecided, as if utterly at a loss which way to go.

Pitou noted her embarrassment, and, approaching her, said:”Alas! madame, I can guess only too well for whom you are looking. Perhaps I can be of some assistance to you.”

“Monsieur Pitou!” exclaimed Andr4e.

“At your service, madame.”

“Yes, yes, I need your help sorely,” faltered Andre*e. And stepping up to him, and grasping both his hands, she asked eagerly, “Do you know what has become of Count Oliver-”

“No, madame; but I will help you look for him.”

“There is one person who can tell us whether he is dead or alive, and where he is, whether he be living or dead.”

“And who is that, madame-”

“The queen.”

“Do you know where the queen is-”

“At the Assembly, I believe; and I feel a faint hope that the count is with her.”

“Yes, yes,” said Pitou, encouragingly.

“Will you come with me to the Assembly-”

“What if they refuse us admission-”

“You need have no fear of that.”

“Come, then!”

Andree threw away her torch, and, being familiar with the interior of the palace, led the way to the basement by a narrow stairway constructed for the servants' use; so Pitou soon found himself again at his post in the clock tower.

“She hopes to find her husband at the Assembly,” he whispered to Maniquet, "so we are going there; but as it is more than likely that we shall only find his dead body, you had better send four good trustworthy fellows to wait for me at the Feuillant gateway.”

“All right! the men will be there!”

Andree was waiting at the gate, where a sentinel had been stationed; and as it was Pitou who had placed him there, the sentinel very naturally allowed Pitou to pass unchallenged.

When they reached the Assembly they learned that the royal family had left the hall about an hour before to take possession of the lodgings prepared for them.

There were two obstacles that must be surmounted in order to reach these apartments: first the sentinels on guard outside, and secondly the noblemen on guard inside.

As a captain in the National Guards in command of a detachment stationed at the Tuileries, Pitou knew the password, and consequently could easily conduct Andree as far as the antechamber where the noblemen were assembled. After that, Andree must gain admission to the queen's private apartment as best she could.

We have already described the suite of apartments provided for the royal family and the queen's despair. We know how, on entering that dingy little room, she had thrown herself on the bed, biting and tearing the bolster in an agony of grief. One who had lost throne and liberty, and perhaps even life itself, had abundant cause for despair; so, out of respect for her grief, her friends withdrew for a while, leaving her alone with her sorrow.

Presently she heard the door leading into the king's room open and shut; but she did not even glance in that direction, and though she heard footsteps approaching her bed, only buried her head still deeper in the pillow. But suddenly she started up as if a serpent's fangs had penetrated her heart, as a well-known voice uttered the single word, “Madame.”

“Andree,” cried the queen, raising herself on her elbow, “what do you desire of me-”

“I desire of you, madame, what God desired of Cain when he said to him, ' Cain, where is thy brother-'“

“Only with this difference,” said the queen:”Cain had slain his brother; while I — oh, I would have given not only my life, but ten lives, if I had them, to save his.”

Andree tottered as if she were about to fall. A cold sweat broke out upon her forehead, and her teeth chattered violently.

“Then he is dead-” she managed to falter, though not without a terrible effort.

The queen looked wonderingly at Andree.”Do you suppose it is for my crown that I am mourning-” she asked.

Then, pointing to her blood-stained feet, she added, “If this blood were mine, do you not suppose I would have washed it off-”

Andree's pallor was so great that she was fairly livid.

“Do you know where his body is-” she asked, after a little.

“If they will allow me to go out, I will show you,” replied the queen.

“I will wait for you on the stairs,” said Andree.

Pitou was waiting for her at the door.

“Monsieur Pitou,” said Andree, “one of my friends is going to take me to a place where I can find Monsieur de Gharny's body. She is one of the queen's attendants. Can she accompany me-”

“If she goes with us, madame, it must be on condition that I bring her back to this same place.”

“You can do so.”

“Very well, then,” responded Pitou; and turning to the sentinel, he added, “Comrade, one of the king's household wishes to go out to help us in searching for the body of a brave officer, — the husband of the lady who is with me. I will be responsible for the woman's return; of course you understand that.”

“That's all right, captain,” replied the sentinel.

At that same instant the door of the antechamber opened, and the queen appeared, her face covered with a thick veil. They descended the stairs, the queen walking ahead, Andree and Pitou following.

The Assembly had just adjourned, after a session of twenty-seven consecutive hours, and the immense hall looked as desolate and gloomy as a sepulchre.

“A light!” ordered the queen.

Pitou picked up an extinguished torch, relighted it, and handed it to the queen. As they passed the main entrance, she pointed to it with her torch, and said, “There is the door where he was killed.”

Andree did not utter a word, but moved on like a spectre obeying the will of some dread enchantress.

In the corridor the queen lowered her torch nearly to the floor.”That is his blood!” she whispered.

Still Andree uttered never a sound.

The queen walked straight to a sort of closet opposite the box reserved for the Logographe, and threw open the door.”Here is his body,” she said.

Still silent, Andree entered the closet, and seating herself on the floor, lifted Oliver's head and laid it tenderly on her lap.

“I thank you, madame,” she said.”That is all I ask of you.”

“But I have something to ask of you,” said the queen.

“Speak.”

“Will you forgive me-”

There was a moment of silence. Andree seemed to be hesitating; but at last she replied, “Yes, for to-morrow I shall be with him.”

The queen drew from her bosom a pair of gold scissors which she kept concealed as one conceals a poniard in order to have some weapon at hand in a moment of extreme peril.

“Then — then -”she faltered beseechingly, handing the scissors to Andree.

Andree took the scissors, cut a lock of hair from the head of the dead man, and handed it, with the scissors, to the queen. The queen seized Andree’s hand and kissed it; but Andree drew back with a faint cry, and snatched away her hand as if Marie Antoinette's lips had seared it like red-hot iron.

“Ah!” murmured the queen, casting a last look at the body, “who can say which of us two loved him best-”

“Oh, my darling, my dearly beloved Oliver,” murmured Andree in her turn, “I hope thou, at least, knowest that / loved thee best.”

Pitou conducted Marie Antoinette back to her room without suspecting in the least who she really was; and after he had relieved himself of this responsibility in the presence of the sentinel, he went out upon the terrace to see if De'sire' Maniquet had sent the men according to promise. The four men were there.

“Step inside,” said Pitou, and they obeyed. Leading the way with the torch he had taken from the queen, they soon reached the little room, where Andree was still crouching, with her eyes riveted on the pale but beautiful face of her husband, upon which the soft moonlight seemed to linger lovingly.

“What do you desire-” she asked, as if fearing that these unknown men had come to take her dearly beloved dead from her.

“Madame, we have come to carry Monsieur de Charny's body to the Rue Coq-Heron,” answered Pitou.

“Will you swear to me that that is your intention-”

Pitou extended his hand over the body, and with a dignity of which one would hardly have supposed him capable, responded, “I swear it, madame.”

“Then I thank you with all my heart, and I will pray God with my latest breath to spare you and yours such sorrow as is now overwhelming me.”

The four men took up the body and placed it upon their muskets; Pitou, with sword drawn, took his place at the head of the cortege; Andree walked beside the body, holding the count's cold hand.

When they reached the Eue Coq-He'ron they laid the body carefully on the bed.

“Accept the blessing of a woman who, ere to-morrow's sun has set, will be on high, there to renew her entreaties to God in your behalf,” Andree said solemnly. Then, turning to Pitou, she added: -

“Monsieur, I owe you more than I can ever repay; but may I ask one more favour of you-”

“Speak, madame.”

“Will you see to it that Dr. Gilbert comes here tomorrow morning at eight o'clock-”

Pitou bowed and withdrew.

As he reached the door, he turned, and saw that Andree was kneeling before the bed as before an altar.

As he passed through the gateway into the street, the clock in the tower of the church of Saint Eustache struck three.

CHAPTER CLVIII. ANDREE’S REQUEST.

The following morning, at eight o'clock precisely, Gilbert rapped at the door of the house on the Eue Coq-Heron.

The old porter must have been notified, for as soon, as he heard the visitor's name he ushered him into Andree’s presence.

She was dressed from head to foot in black, and it was evident that she had neither eaten nor slept since the day before. Her face was deathly pale, and her eyes dry.

Never before had the lines in her face been so firmly set, — lines which indicated an obduracy of purpose amounting almost to insanity. Gilbert, being something of a philosopher, as well as a keen observer, noted all this at a glance, so he merely bowed in silence, and waited.

“I sent for you, Monsieur Gilbert,” Andree began, “because I desired that the person of whom I asked a certain favour should be one who could hardly refuse any request I chose to make.”

“You are justified, madame, not in what you are going to ask, perhaps, but in what you say. You have an undoubted right to demand anything of me, even my life.”

Andree smiled bitterly.

“Your life, monsieur,” she replied, “is one of the few which are so valuable to humanity that I should pray God to make it long and happy instead of seeking to shorten it; but you must agree with me in thinking that though your existence may be blessed with propitious influences, there are other persons who seem to be born under an unlucky star.”

As Gilbert made no reply, Andree resumed, after a moment's silence, “Mine, for example. What do you think of my existence, monsieur- Let me briefly review my life history. Have no fears, I shall utter no reproaches.”

Gilbert, with a gesture, bade her continue.

“I was born poor. My father was bankrupt before I was born, and my childhood was sad and unspeakably lonely. Two men, — one of whom it would have been better for me if I had never known, the other a stranger — exerted a fatal and mysterious influence over my life, entirely independent of my own will. One of these men made use of my soul; the other forcibly appropriated my body. Without even suspecting that I had ceased to be a maiden, I became a mother. Under these terrible circumstances, I feared to lose the affection of the only human being who had ever really loved me, — my brother. I hoped to find some consolation for this loss in my child's love; but my child was stolen from me an hour after its birth, and I found myself a wife without a husband, a mother without a child.

“The queen's friendship partially consoled me; but one day chance placed a brave and handsome young man in the same carriage with me, and fate decreed that I, who had never before known love, should love him. He loved the queen. The secret of their mutual passion was confided to me. I believe you, too, have known the pangs of unrequited love, Monsieur Gilbert, so you can realise what I suffered. But even this was not enough. A day came when the queen implored me to save her, and what was far more precious to her than life, — her honour. It seemed to be my duty to become his wife — the wife of a man I had loved for three years — and yet, to live apart from him. We were united in wedlock. For five years I lived near him, on fire within, though outwardly ice, -a statue with a burning heart. Tell me, do you realise what one must needs suffer under such conditions-”

Still Gilbert uttered never a word.

“Finally, on one supremely happy, blissful day, my silent devotion and self-abnegation touched his heart,” continued Andree.”For seven long years I had loved him without allowing him to suspect it, even by a look. Now he came to throw himself at my feet, and to tell me he knew all, and yet loved me. As if to reward my patience, at the very time I won my husband, God ordained that I should regain my child, also. A year flew by like a single day, -a single hour, a single moment. But four days ago the thunderbolt fell. My husband felt that his honour demanded he should come to Paris to die. I made no attempt to dissuade him. I did not even shed a tear, but I came with him. As soon as we reached the city he left me. Last night I found him again — dead! He is lying there in yonder room. Do you think it strange that, after such a life, I long to rest beside him- Is the favour I am about to ask one that you have any right to refuse- Monsieur Gilbert, you are a skilful physician and chemist. You have done me a great wrong, and have much to atone for; so give me a quick and deadly poison, and I will not only forgive you, but die with a heart overflowing with gratitude.”

“Madame,” replied Gilbert, “I admit that your life has been one long trial which you have endured most nobly. You have borne your sorrows like a true martyr, heroically and uncomplainingly. Now you say to the man who caused you all this suffering:”You gave me a cruel life; now give me an easy death. You have the right to ask this. You have the right, too, to add: 'You will grant my request because you have no right to refuse me anything.'“

“Then-”

“Do you still ask for poison-”

“I beseech you to give it to me.”

“Life, then, is so intolerable that you find it utterly impossible to endure it any longer-”

“I feel that death is the greatest boon God or man can vouchsafe me.”

“In ten minutes you shall have what you desire, madame.”

He bowed, and stepped back, but Andree offered him her hand.

“Ah, in a single instant you have more than atoned for all the evil you have done me during your whole life 1” she exclaimed.”God bless you!”

Gilbert left the house. At the gate he found Sebastian and Pitou waiting for him, in a cab.

“Sebastian,” he said, drawing from his bosom a tiny flask suspended around his neck by a gold chain, and containing an opal-hued liquid, -”Sebastian, you must take this vial to the countess, from me.”

“How long am I to remain with her, father-”

“As long as you please; I will wait for you here.”

The lad took the vial and went into the house.

About a quarter of an hour elapsed before he came back, and Gilbert saw that Andre's had returned the vial unopened.

“What did the countess say-” he asked.

She cried out, “Not by thy hand, my child! not by thy hand!”

“What did she do then-”

“She burst into tears.”

“Then she is saved,” said Gilbert.”Come, my child!” and he kissed Sebastian more tenderly than he had ever kissed him before.

But Gilbert did not take Marat into consideration when he made this assertion.

One week afterwards he learned that the countess had been arrested and taken to the Abbaye prison.

CHAPTER CLIX. THE TEMPLE.

We have already alluded to the antagonism existing between the Assembly and the Commune. The Assembly, like most legislative bodies, had not kept pace with the people of the nation.

The sections had improvised the famous Council of the Commune, and it was this Council that had really brought about the tenth of August; for, though the Assembly had given the first impetus in that direction, it soon afterwards began to lag behind.

Sufficient proof of this may be found in the fact that the king sought a refuge from the Commune in the Assembly; and as the Assembly protected the king and queen, and even the court itself, the Commune and the people began to call the deputies Royalists; so as the Assembly decreed that the king and his family should reside in the Luxembourg, that is to say, in a palace, the Assembly was accused of being in sympathy with the aristocrats, and maligned accordingly.

There are degrees in royalism, as in everything else; and what was royalistic in the eyes of the Commune, or even the Assembly, seemed revolutionary to many persons.

Lafayette, though proscribed as a Boyalist in France, was in great danger of being imprisoned as a Revolutionist in Austria.

The Commune began openly to accuse the Assembly of being royalistic. From time to time Robespierre would thrust his head out of the hole in which he was hiding, and hiss out some calumny.

Robespierre, too, was insinuating, just then, that a powerful party was offering the French throne to the Duke of Brunswick. He meant, of course, the Girondists; that is to say, the very party which had been the first to declare war, and to offer itself for the defence of France.

The Commune, to secure paramount sway, must, consequently, oppose all the acts of the so-called royalistic Assembly.

The Assembly had offered the Luxembourg to the king as a temporary abode; but the Communists declared that they would not be responsible for the king if he went to reside in the Luxembourg, as the cellars were connected with the unhealthy catacombs running underneath the city, and might also afford a means of escape.

The Assembly, not disposed to quarrel with the Commune over such a trifle, left the selection of a royal residence to the Commune, and the Commune, thereupon, selected the Temple.

The Temple was not a palace like the Luxembourg. It was nothing more or less than a prison located under the very eye of the Commune. The Commune had only to reach out its hand to open or close the doors of the Temple. It was an old tower, strong, gloomy and dismal. Philip the Fair, that is to say royalty, had crushed the middle ages there when they revolted against him; now, royalty was about to enter it to be crushed in its turn.

Was the royal family remanded to this abode on account of the historic associations connected with it- No, it came about by the merest chance, — providentially, one might say, were not such an assertion too suggestive of cruelty.

On the evening of August 13th, the king, the queen, Madame Elizabeth, Madame de Lamballe, Madame de Tourzel, and Chamille and Hue”, the king's valets, were transferred to the Temple.

The Commune, in its haste to have the king take possession of his new abode, sent him there before the tower had been properly prepared for occupancy; so the royal family was taken into that part of the building sometimes occupied by Comte d'Artois when he wished to stay in the city, and, consequently, called the palace.

All Paris was jubilant. Thirty-five hundred citizens had been slain, it is true, but the king, the ally of foreigners, the enemy of the Revolution, the friend and protector of priests and nobles, -the king was a prisoner.

All the houses in the neighbourhood of the Temple were illuminated. Lanterns were even suspended from the battlements.

When Louis XVI. stepped from the carriage, he saw Santerre on horseback, about ten yards from the coach door, and two municipal officers with their hats on their heads stood evidently waiting for the monarch to alight. He entered the Temple, and, being ignorant of the real character of the abode, he asked to be shown the apartments of the palace.

The officers interchanged smiles. Without telling him that his tour of inspection was useless, as it was the tower he was to occupy, not the palace, they took him through room after room of the better part of the building, — and he began to plan the distribution of his household, the attendants thoroughly enjoying the mistake which would result in such bitter disappointment.

At ten o'clock supper was served, and during the entire meal Manuel stood behind the king, no longer as a servant, eager to obey, but as a jailer, a master. If two conflicting orders were given, one by the king, the other by Manuel, Manuel's was the order obeyed.

About eleven o'clock the family entered the drawing-room of the palace. The king was still the king, or, rather, he supposed himself to be the king, for he was entirely ignorant of what was going on; but a few minutes afterwards one of the officers reappeared, and ordered the valets to take whatever luggage they had and follow them.

“Follow you where-”

“To your employers' lodgings,” replied the official.”The palace is merely their day residence.”

The king and queen were no longer masters of their own lackeys.

At the door of the palace they found an officer with a lantern, waiting to lead the way. Monsieur Hue” looked around for the king's future residence. He could see nothing but the gloomy donjon looming up in the air like a giant upon whose brow a fiery crown still sparkled.”Good God!” exclaimed the valet, pausing, “can it be that you intend taking us to the tower-”

“Precisely,” answered the officer.”The time of palaces is past. You shall see how we lodge assassins of the people now.”

As he spoke, the man with the lantern stumbled over the first step of a winding staircase. The valets paused on the first landing, but the man with the lantern went on. On the second landing he paused, and turning into a narrow passage, opened a door on the right side of the corridor.

The room was lighted by a single window. Three or four chairs, a table, and a narrow, uncomfortable bed composed the entire furniture.

“Which of you is the king's servant-” inquired the official.

“I am his valet,” replied Monsieur Chamille.

“Valet or servant, it's all the same,” replied the officer; then pointing to the bed, he added, “There 'a where your master is to sleep.”

The man with the lantern flung a blanket and a couple of sheets on the bed, and left the two valets alone.

Hue” and Chamille gazed at each other in utter dismay. The king was not only cast into prison, but lodged in a kennel. The bed stood in an uncurtained alcove, and the whole aspect of the room was squalid in the extreme. Nevertheless, the two men went resolutely to work, and cleaned the room and made the bed as comfortable as they could. While they were thus engaged, the king entered the room.

“Oh, Sire, how infamous!” they both exclaimed, in the same breath.

But the king — was it from strength of soul or from indifference- — evinced no emotion. He glanced around him, but did not utter a word.

The walls were covered with woodcuts; and, as some were of an obscene character, he tore them off, remarking, “I do not want my innocent daughter to see such things!”

When his bed was made the king retired, and was soon sleeping as peacefully as if he were still at the Tuileries, — more peacefully, perhaps!

If, at this time, the king had been offered an income of thirty thousand francs, and a country house with a forge, a library well stocked with books of travel, a private chaplain, and a park ten acres in extent, — a home where he could live far removed from all plotting and intrigue, and surrounded by his wife and children, the king would have been the happiest man in the land.

But it was very different with the queen. If this wounded lioness did not roar with rage on beholding her cage, it was because her mental anguish made her blind to her surroundings.

Her apartment consisted of four rooms: an antechamber, occupied by the Princesse de Lamballe, a larger bedroom in which the queen established herself, a sort of closet assigned to Madame de Tourzel, and another bedroom used by Madame Elizabeth and the two children. These rooms were cleaner and a little less squalid in appearance than the king's.

Manuel, however, as if rather ashamed of the sort of trick that had been played upon the king, said that the city architect — Citizen Palloy — would come and consult with the king as to what could be done to make the habitation of the royal family more comfortable.

And now, while Andree is burying the remains of her beloved husband, while Manuel is installing the king and the royal family in the Temple, and while the carpenters are erecting the guillotine on the Carrousel, let us glance into the interior of the city-hall, which we have already visited several times, and form some idea of the municipal government which has succeeded that of Bailly and Lafayette,- a government which is endeavouring to substitute itself for the Assembly, and even aspires to a dictatorship.

On the night of August tenth, when the carnage was over, and the roar of cannon hushed, a crowd of ragged and intoxicated men bore in their arms, into the midst of the Council of the Commune, that prince of darkness, the divine Marat, as he was blasphemously called.

He yielded to their wishes. There was nothing to be afraid of now. Victory was assured, and the field open to the wolves and vultures.

They called him the Victor of the tenth of August, this man they found just as he was venturing to put his head out of the airhole of his cellar for the first time that day. They crowned him with laurel, and he, like Caesar, had permitted the crown to rest upon his brow.

They brought their god, Marat, into the midst of the Commune, — this crippled Vulcan imposed upon the Council of the gods.

On beholding Vulcan, the other gods laughed and sneered. On beholding Marat many laughed, and a few trembled, and those who trembled were right.

Marat did not belong to the Commune at that time, nor was he ever elected a member of it. He was merely carried there, and there he remained. And this haughty Commune, that so lorded it over the Assembly, see how humbly it obeyed Marat!

Here is one of the first measures the Council passed: -

“The printing presses of the venomous Royalists shall be confiscated and divided among the patriot printers.”

Marat carried this decree into execution the very day it was issued. He went to the royal printing-office, had a press removed to his own house, and appropriated all the type he wanted, for was he not one of the chief and foremost of the patriot printers-

The Assembly was appalled by the atrocities of August tenth, but was powerless to check them. The slaughter went on in the Assembly grounds, in its corridors, and, in fact, at its very doors, in spite of all its protests.

Danton said:”Let justice by the courts begin, and popular vengeance will cease. I pledge myself in the presence of this Assembly to defend the men within its precincts.”

But Danton had said this before Marat was admitted to the City Council; after that Danton felt that he could no longer be responsible for anything. So the lion endeavoured to enact the part of a fox in his dealings with the wily serpent.

Lacroix, one of Danton's most devoted followers, ascended the rostrum, and asked that Santerre — who, according to the Royalists themselves, possessed a kind and sympathetic heart despite his rough exterior — Lacroix asked that Santerre be authorised to select a court martial to try the Swiss officers and men, without making any final disposal of them.

The plan of Lacroix, or rather of Danton, was that the members of the court martial should be selected from those who had fought against these brave men; and who being brave fighters themselves could, consequently, appreciate courage in others, while the fact that the native soldiers came off victorious would cause them to be lenient to their vanquished foes, for did not these victors, thirsting for blood, spare defenceless women, and even protect them and escort them to places of safety- To prove that this was really a clement measure, it is only necessary to say that the Council of the Commune rejected it.

Marat preferred massacre. It would be the shortest way out of the difficulty. But his estimate of the number of deaths necessary increased instead of diminished, day by day. First, he demanded fifty thousand heads; then one hundred thousand; then two hundred thousand; and finally he concluded that nothing less than two hundred and seventy-three thousand would do. Why this odd number, this strange fraction- He would have been greatly puzzled to explain himself.

Danton kept away from the Commune. His duties as a minister engrossed his entire time, he said.

Meanwhile the Commune was sending deputations to the Assembly. On the sixteenth of August three deputations presented themselves in rapid succession at the bar of the Assembly.

On the seventeenth still another deputation presented itself with this message: -

“The people are tired of waiting for vengeance! Beware lest they take the matters into their own hands! To-night at twelve o'clock the alarm-bells will again be heard. Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette wanted blood; let them see it flowing from the bodies of their adherents!”

The audacity of this demand brought two men instantly to their feet, — Choudieu, the Jacobin, and Thuriot.

“Those who come here demanding massacre are not friends, but mere trucklers to the people,” cried Choudieu.”Nothing more or less than the establishment of an Inquisition is demanded. I shall oppose it to the death!”

“Do you wish to bring odium upon the Revolution and Revolutionists-” pleaded Thuriot.”This Revolution is not for France alone, but the entire human race; and we are accountable to all mankind.”

Petitions were followed by threats. Representatives from the different sections took their turn in saying:”If a special tribunal is not appointed, and is not ready for business within two or three hours, rivers of blood will flow!”

This last threat compelled the Assembly to yield. A measure for the creation of a court extraordinary was introduced. The demand was made on the seventeenth of August, and granted on the nineteenth. On the twentieth, the tribunal was organised, and one Royalist was condemned to death. On the night of the twenty-first this man, upon whom sentence of death had been passed the day before, was executed by torch-light in Carrousel Square.

The effect of this first execution was terrible; so terrible, in fact, that the executioner himself could not bear it. At the very moment he was exhibiting the head of this first victim to the people, he uttered a faint cry, let the head slip from his grasp, and roll to the pavement, and then fell backwards. His assistants lifted him up, but he was dead.

CHAPTER CLX. THE SANGUINARY REVOLUTION.

The Revolution of 1789, that is to say, the Revolution of Necker, Sieves, and Bailly ended in 1790. The Revolution of Barnave, Mirabeau, and Lafayette ended in 1792. The great Revolution, — the bloody Revolution of Danton, Marat, and Robespierre had but just begun.

When we unite these names the reader is not to suppose we class the owners of them in one and the same category. On the contrary, each man possessed an entirely distinct individuality in our opinion, and faithfully represented the three successive years which were to follow. For instance, Danton was the embodiment of the year 1792, Marat of 1793, and Robespierre of 1794.

As so many important events followed one another in quick succession, suppose we glance at these events, and note the means by which the National Assembly and Commune endeavoured to accelerate or prevent them.

Besides, we feel more and more inclined to encroach upon the domain of history, now that so many of the leading personages of our story have gone down in the sea of revolution.

The three Charnys — George, Isidore and Oliver — are dead. The queen and Andree are prisoners; and Lafayette is in exile.

On August 17th Lafayette, in an address, called upon the army to march upon Paris, re-establish the Constitution, and restore the king. Lafayette, a thoroughly loyal, honest man, lost his head with the rest of them. He even wanted to lead the Prussians and Austrians straight to Paris, but the army rejected his proposal exactly as it rejected that of Dumouriez eight months afterwards.

History would have linked — we were about to have said chained — the names of these two men together had not Lafayette — detested as he was by the queen- had the good fortune to be arrested by the Austrians and sent to Olmutz, — his subsequent imprisonment thus causing his desertion to be forgotten.

On August 18th Lafayette crossed the frontier; on the 21st the Austrians invested the town of Longay, which surrendered after a bombardment of only twenty-four hours.

On the day preceding this capitulation there was a revolt in the Vendee, where the required ecclesiastical oath furnished a pretext for frequent disturbances.

The Assembly endeavoured to provide for this emergency by appointing Dumouriez commander of the forces in the east, and ordering the arrest of Lafayette. The Assembly likewise decreed that as soon as Longay should again be under the control of the French government all the buildings except those belonging to the government should be levelled to the ground. A law was also passed, banishing every priest who had not taken the oath to support the Constitution. Domiciliary visits were also authorised, and it was likewise ordered that the property of refugees should be confiscated and sold.

Meanwhile, what was the Common Council doing- Marat, as we have before remarked, was its oracle, so it is needless to say that the Commune was giving its undivided attention to the guillotine on Carrousel Square. They furnished it with one head a day. This seems very little; but in a book by Fouquier Tinville, published the latter part of August, the members of the Tribunal describe the enormous amount of labour they were compelled to perform to secure even this meagre supply. They were hoping for better times, however, and we shall see, by and by, that these hopes were abundantly realised.

On the twenty-third of August the Commune made its desires known in a very forcible manner. Attended by a mob made up of the scum of the Faubourgs and the markets, a deputation from the Commune presented itself before the Assembly, about midnight, to demand that the Orleans prisoners should be brought to Paris to be executed.

That the Orleans prisoners had not yet been tried mattered very little. A trial was a formality with which the Commune was very willing to dispense. Besides, the memorial services in honour of the patriots who perished on the tenth of August were certain to strengthen the power of the Commune still more.

Sargent, to whom the preparations for this lugubrious ceremonial had been entrusted, surpassed himself upon this occasion. The object to be accomplished, of course, was to fill the hearts of those who had lost any loved one on the tenth of August with even more poignant sorrow, and a still more frenzied longing for revenge.

In front of the guillotine on the Place du Carrousel, Sargent erected a gigantic pyramid covered from top to bottom with black. Upon each side were inscribed the names of the massacres for which the Royalists could be held accountable, — the massacres of Nancy, Nismes, Montauban, and the Champs de Mars.

The guillotine seemed to say:”I am killing!” The pyramid seemed to answer:”Keep on killing.”

The ceremonial took place one Sunday night five days after the insurrection in Vendee, and four days after the surrender of Longay.

Through the clouds of incense burning all along the route of the procession, walked, first, the widows and orphans made by the massacre of August tenth. They were dressed in white, with black sashes, and carried, in a sort of casket, made in the shape of an ark, the petition dictated by Madame Roland, and copied on the patriot altar by Mademoiselle de Ke'ralio. These bloody sheets scattered over the Champs de Mars had been collected, and had been calling loudly for a republic ever since that eventful day in July, 1791.

Then came a long line of big black coffins, recalling those corpse-laden wagons which rolled out of the Tuileries court-yards on their way to the Faubourgs.

Next came the mourning banners, with vengeful devices, demanding life for life; then a colossal statue of the Law, with a sword in her hand, and followed by the judges of the courts. At their bead marched the Revolutionary Tribunal, the Tribunal which begged to be excused for causing but one head to fall each day.

Then came the Commune, the cruel mother of this cruel Tribunal, and in its midst a statue of Liberty, of the same size as the statue of Law.

Last came the members of the Assembly, bearing the civic crowns, which may, perhaps, console the dead, but which are so utterly powerless to console the living. The entire procession advanced slowly and solemnly, with measured tread, to the wailing strains of Che'nier's chants and Gossec's funeral march. A great part of the night was spent in these expiatory ceremonies, during which the people shook their fists at the empty Tuileries, and at the prisons, — places of refuge which had been given to the king and the Royalists in exchange for their castles.

It was not until the last lamp had been extinguished and the last torch burned out that the crowd dispersed, and the twin statues of Law and Liberty were left alone to guard the immense sarcophagus.

On August 28th the Assembly passed the law authorising domiciliary visits. That same day a rumour became current of a union between the Prussian and Austrian armies. It was also stated that the allies would reach Paris in about six days of forced marches. So Bouille's famous prediction, which had once excited so much ridicule, might, indeed, become a reality, and not one stone be left above another.

There was much talk — as of something sure to come — of a great and terrible judgment day in which the city itself would not only be doomed to destruction, but its inhabitants be exterminated as well. But the blood-stained hand of the Commune is apparent in this legend of the future. The fact is evident from the following paragraph contained in a letter found in the Tuileries, on the tenth of August, and which we, ourselves, have read in the public archives, where it may still be seen: -

“Persecution follows in the wake of the allied armies. Courts instituted by e'uiigre's along the route, and in the camp of the King of Prussia, are already arraigning the Jacobins and preparing gibbets for them.”

And as if to confirm the above statement, the following paragraph appeared in an official bulletin issued by the War Department:

“The Austrian cavalry near Sarrelouis have made all the patriot mayors and prominent Republicans prisoners; and some Uhlans, having captured a number of municipal officers, cut off their ears and nailed them to their foreheads.”

If such outrages were committed in the inoffensive provinces, how would the conquerors treat revolutionary Paris-

Report said that a throne was to be erected for the allied sovereigns upon the heap of ruins where Paris had once stood, and the entire population was to be driven to the foot of this throne, where, as on the Day of Judgment, there was to be a separation of the good from the bad: that is to say, the Royalists, nobility, and priests would be placed upon the right hand of the allied sovereigns, and France be restored to them for them to do whatever they pleased with it, while the bad, that is, the Revolutionists, would be sent to the left, where the guillotine awaited them, — that instrument of death invented by the Revolution, but through which the Revolution was eventually to perish. The Revolution, that is to say, France; and not France alone — for nations are made to serve as holocausts — and not France alone, but the ideal of France.

Ah! why had France been the first to utter the word liberty- She had believed she was proclaiming something that was indeed sacred, — light for the eyes and life for the soul. She had cried:”Liberty for France! Liberty for Europe! Liberty for all men!”She had fancied she was acting nobly in endeavouring to emancipate the world, but it seemed that she had been mistaken.

Heaven was evidently against her. Believing herself innocent and sublime, she was, nevertheless, culpable and infamous. Intent on performing a noble act, she had committed a crime, so she was about to be tried and condemned, and the universe, for whose sake she died, would applaud her doom. So Christ, crucified for the salvation of the world, died amid the jeers and insults of that world.

And had this unfortunate nation no one to aid her in her extremity- Those whom she had adored, and whom she had enriched, would they not help to defend her in her hour of need- No!

Her king was in league with the enemy. Even in the Temple where he was imprisoned, he continued to correspond with the Prussians and Austrians. Her nobility, organised by her princes, had taken up arms against her, and her priests were constantly instigating her peasants to revolt. In the depths of the prisons the Royalists clapped their hands with joy at the reverses of France. The news of the Prussian victory at Longay elicited cries of rapturous delight in the Temple and in the Abbaye prison.

It is little wonder, therefore, that Canton entered the Assembly like a roaring lion. The Minister of Justice, believing justice to be powerless, came to ask that justice be backed by force.

Ascending the rostrum, and shaking the hair back from his brow, he exclaimed: -

“A national convulsion can alone compel these despots to retreat. So far, we have only been playing at war; now, the people must hurl themselves upon the enemy and exterminate them with a single blow. At the same time, it is absolutely necessary to imprison all conspirators and prevent them from doing any further mischief.

Danton advocated a general levy, domiciliary visits, and the infliction of the death penalty upon any person who placed obstacles in the way of the provisional government.

The Assembly granted all Danton asked. Had he demanded much more it would have been conceded.

“Never was any nation so near death,” says Michelet.”When Holland, beholding Louis XIV. at her doors bad no resource but inundation, she was in much less peril, for she had Europe on her side. When Athens, seeing Xerxes enthroned upon Salamis, plunged into the sea, spurning the earth, and taking water as her home, she was in less danger, for she had her powerful fleet in command of the great Themistocles. Besides, more fortunate than France, she had no traitors in her midst.”

France was demoralised, betrayed, sold, and delivered up into the hands of the executioner! France was lying like Iphigenia under the knife of Calchas. The surrounding kings were only awaiting her death for the wind of despotism to fill their sails, and she extended her arms imploringly to the gods for aid; but the gods were mute.

At last, when she felt the chill hand of Death upon her she aroused herself by a terrible effort, and like a live volcano sent forth from her very vitals the flame which was to illuminate the whole world for half a century.

True! there is a bloodstain upon the face of this brilliant sun, — the bloodstain of September 2d. We shall soon come to that, and then see who really caused that blood to flow, and whether France can be justly held accountable for it.

Before beginning this investigation let us once again borrow from Michelet, and close this chapter with two of his pages. We realise our powerlessness in the presence of this gigantic theme, and, like Danton, summon strength to our aid.

“Paris had the appearance of a military stronghold, and reminded cue of Lille or Strasbnrg. Regulations, sentinels, and military precautions were encountered on every side. But most impressive of all, was the feeling of solidarity which manifested itself everywhere.

“Every man became a recruiting officer, and went about from house to house offering a uniform, arms, or anything he possessed to any person who would enlist. Every man became an orator, too, and preached, and talked, and sang patriotic songs.

“Who did not become an author, too, at that time t Who did not write I Who did not print- Who did not publish-

“There were songs and shouts, and tears of enthusiasm or of farewell everywhere. But above all these voices, there was one which resounded in the depths of every heart, — a voice that was all the more potent for being silent, — the voice of France herself of which the flag was the symbol — that sacred and terrible flag streaming in the wind, from the windows of the Hotel de Ville, and seeming to implore the nation's legions to march in hot haste from the Pyrenees to the Scheldt, from the Seine to the Rhine!

“In order to appreciate the real spirit of that time of sacrifice, we must look into each cottage and home, and see the grief of the household, the travail of soul in the mothers, a hundred times more terrible than that which attended the advent of their children into the world. We must see the aged women with dry eyes, but bleeding hearts, hastily gathering together the few garments their sons are to carry away with them, and the paltry earnings and pennies saved by fasting, which these patient mothers have stolen from themselves for their sons against this day of final agony.

“To give up their children to this war which was beginning so hopelessly! to sacrifice them in this desperate condition of affairs! They gave way under the sorrow that oppressed them, or by a very natural reaction, relapsed into fits of madness.

“We are told that one day in August or September, a band of these furious women met Danton in the street, and showered insults and fierce vituperations upon him. They declared that he was responsible for the whole revolution, — for all the blood that had been shed, and for the death of their children, and cursed him, and besought Heaven to make him atone for it all. Danton was not surprised, and though he felt the marks of their finger-nails all over his body, he turned and looked at these poor half-demented women, and pitied them, for he had a kind heart. He climbed upon a post, and to console them began to address them in their own language. His first utterances were violent, ludicrous, even obscene. His hearers were astounded; his violence thoroughly disconcerted them.

“Danton was, before and above all else, a man. There was a mixture of the lion and the bull-dog, and likewise of the bull in his composition. The sublime ugliness of his expressive face lent a sort of savage sting to his words, and the masses, who adore strength, felt that fear and sympathy in his presence, which every powerful, generative being awakens; but beneath his rough exterior, they also perceived a heart.

“At last, the idea that this must be a brave man, after all, began to impress itself upon them, and, though the women he was haranguing, were only vaguely conscious of the fact, he had gained a complete mastery over them, and could lead them where and how he chose. He roughly explained the object of woman's creation, — the purpose of passion, — the object of pro-creation, and that one does not bear children for one's self, but for one's country. When he reached this stage, he suddenly straightened himself up, and went on talking, but as if only to himself. His whole heart seemed to go out in words of impassioned tenderness for France, and down that strange face, deeply pitted with smallpox, rolled one big tear after another.

“The women could endure it no longer. Hiding their faces in their aprons, they ran away weeping, not for their children now, but for France.”

Oh, thou great historian we call Michelet, where art thou-

At Nervi!

Oh, thou great poet we call Hugo, where art thou-

CHAPTER CLXI. THE EVE OF SEPTEMBER SECOND.

“When the country is in danger everything belongs to the country,” Danton said, on the 28th of August, in the National Assembly.

At four o'clock on the afternoon of the 29th the generate was beaten. Everybody knew that this meant that the domiciliary visits were about to begin. At the first sound of the drum the aspect of the city underwent an entire change, as if touched by a magic wand. The crowded streets became deserted, and every shop was promptly closed. The gates of the city were guarded. The river was guarded. At one o'clock in the morning the inspection began. The commissioners in each section rapped at the street-door in the name of the law, and the door was opened.

Then they rapped at the door of each suite of rooms, still in the name of the law, and these, too, were opened. Unoccupied lodgings were broken open.

Two thousand muskets were seized, and three thousand persons arrested.

It was considered necessary to inspire terror, and they succeeded.

The result of this measure was a state of things that no one had dreamed of, or had calculated upon only too well.

These domiciliary visits opened the abodes of the rich to the poor. The armed denizens of the Faubourgs who followed the magistrates gazed with astonishment upon the glittering splendour and luxurious equipments of mansions which were still occupied by their owners, as well as of mansions whose owners were absent. From this circumstance was developed not a desire for booty, but an increase of hatred.

So little thieving was done that Beaumarchais, who was in prison at the time, states that a woman plucked a rose in his magnificent gardens on the Saint Antoine Boulevard, and that the people wanted to throw her in the water for the offence.

And take notice that at the same time the Commune was voting to punish money-lenders with death.

So we see the Commune was already usurping the functions of the Assembly, and ordaining capital punishment. It also arrogated to itself the right to pardon. It ordered, too, that a list of the prisoners confined therein should be affixed to the door of each prison. This was clearly an appeal to hatred and revenge, for each person could note the number of the cell in which his special enemy was incarcerated.

The Assembly realised whither all this was tending, and saw that it would be obliged to stain its hands with blood in spite of itself. Who was bringing this about- Its enemy, the Commune.

A pretext only was wanting for this antagonism to lead to an open quarrel between the two ruling powers, and this was speedily furnished by a fresh exploit on the part of the Commune.

On August 29th the Commune summoned to its bar Girey Dupre', one of the boldest, because one of the youngest of the Girondists. This was done on account of an article that had appeared in the columns of his journal.

Not having time to flee to the Assembly, Girey Dupre' took refuge in the office of the Secretary of War, Huguenin. The President of the Commune gave orders that the office be surrounded and the Girondist editor be taken by force.

The Girondists were still in the majority in the Assembly, and they in turn promptly summoned Huguenin to the bar of the Assembly to answer for the insult offered to one of the representatives of the people.

Huguenin paid no attention to the summons, however, Bo on August 30th the Assembly passed a decree dissolving the Communal Council; and, strange to say, this decree of the Assembly derived its strongest support from the general horror of theft.

A member of the Council, or a man who claimed to be such, had stolen a small silver cannon, a gift to Louis XIV. when a child, from the city of Paris.

Cambon, who had been appointed guardian of the public property, heard of this theft, and summoned the accused to the bar of the Assembly. The man did not deny the charge, nor did he offer any excuse, but contented himself with saying that as the valuable toy was likely to be stolen he thought it might as well be in his possession as anywhere else.

The tyranny of the Commune, too, had been obnoxious to many persons, among them Lou vet, a very free-spoken and courageous man, and the president of the Rue des Lombards section, who publicly declared that the Council of the Commune had been guilty of gross usurpation.

Finding themselves thus supported in the stand they had taken, the deputies voted that, as Huguenin would not come to the bar of the Assembly of his own accord, he should be brought there by force, and that a new council must be elected by the sections within twenty-four hours.

This measure passed the Assembly at five o'clock on the afternoon of August 30th.

Let us count the hours now, for we are rapidly nearing the massacre of September 2d.

Though this action was scarcely logical, the Assembly declared that the Commune had rendered the country some valuable service even though its immediate dissolution was thus decreed; for, to tell the truth, the Assembly still felt considerable fear of this formidable foe.

Ornandum, tollendum! was Cicero's comment in relation to Octavius Caesar. The Commune followed the exam pie of Octavius. Though it allowed itself to be thus praised, it would not allow itself to be driven away.

Two hours after the passage of this decree Tallien, the petty scribbler who boasted of being Danton's factotum, and who was secretary of the Commune, proposed to the Themes section to march upon the Lombard section.

This meant civil war, indeed, — not a war of the people against the king, or of the lower classes against the higher, or of plebeians against aristocrats, but of section against section, and citizen against citizen.

Meanwhile Marat and Robespierre lifted up their voices, -the latter as a member of the Commune, the former as a looker-on.

Marat demanded the massacre of the National Assembly. That was of no consequence, however. It was nothing unusual to hear him make such startling proposals.

Robespierre, the cautious, wily Robespierre, urged that the Commune take up arms not only for defence but for attack. He must have felt that the Commune was very powerful or he would not have dared to make such a suggestion.

And it was, for that very night, Secretary Tallien repaired to the Assembly with three thousand men armed with pikes.

“The Commune, and the Commune alone,” he said, “has elevated the members of the Assembly to the dignity of representatives of a free people. The Commune carried into execution the decree against refractory priests, and arrested men upon whom no one else dared lay a finger; and before many days the Commune will rid the land of their presence.”

So in the presence of the Assembly that had voted to dissolve it the Commune thus boldly intimated its intention of inaugurating a reign of terror.

We must do the Assembly the justice to say that its indignation was thoroughly aroused. Manuel, the municipal attorney, saw that the Commune was going too far. He had Tallien arrested, and demanded that Huguenin should apologise to the Assembly.

But in spite of all this, he foresaw what was soon to occur. And now hear what this pedant did, — this pedant with his small brain but honest heart.

Beaumarchais, a personal enemy of Manuel, was in the Abbaye prison. Beaumarchais was a great wit and jester, and many of his keenest shafts of satire had been aimed at Manuel. The idea occurred to Manuel that if Beaumarchais was slain with the other prisoners his murder might be attributed to a mean desire for revenge on his, Manuel's, part, so he ran to the Abbaye and called for Beaumarchais. The prisoner, on seeing him, began to offer some excuse to the victim of his raillery.

“This is no question of journalism or literary criticism,” Manuel exclaimed.”There is the open door. Save yourself to-day if you don't want your throat cut to-morrow.”

The author of "Figaro” needed no second bidding. He slipped through the open door and disappeared.

Suppose he had hissed Collot d'Herbois, the actor, instead of criticising Manuel, the author! In that case, you see, Beaumarchais would have been a dead man.

The thirty-first of August arrived, the day which was to decide between the Assembly and the Commune, or, in other words, between moderation and terror.

The Commune was determined to maintain its position at any cost. The Assembly was willing to give place to a new Assembly.

The three powerful factions involved in this contest were the Assembly, the Commune, and the Jacobins, though the Jacobins and Communists might now be justly regarded as belonging to one party.

Marat and Hebert were both doing their best to arouse public wrath and increase the desire for revenge. But neither of them went so far as Robespierre, who, being desirous of regaining his former popularity, — he had advised peace when all France was clamouring for war,- far surpassed the most sensational novel in the absurdity of his assertions, even declaring that a powerful party had offered the French throne to the Duke of Brunswick.

“Now, most assuredly, the Jacobins did not want Brunswick for a ruler; neither did the Communists. Were the Girondists then the powerful party that desired Brunswick- Surely nothing could be more ridiculous than to suppose that the Girondists would declare war upon Prussia and Austria, and then offer a throne to the commander of their opponents' armies- And the men Robespierre accused of this absurdity were Roland, Vergniaud, Clavieres, Servan, Gensonne”, Guadetand Barbarous,-the staunchest patriots, and, at the same time, the most honest men in France.

But there are times when a man like Robespierre will say anything; and, worse still, there are times when people will believe anything. This was the case on August 31st.

At five o'clock, on the afternoon of the 30th, as we have said before, the Assembly voted for the dissolution of the Communal Council, and this same decree stipulated that a new election should be held in the different sections within twenty-four hours; but Marat's outcries, Heyjert's threats, and Robespierre's slanders exerted such an influence that the sections dared not vote for a new council, and excused themselves by declaring that the decree had never been officially announced.

About noon, on August 31st, the Assembly was notified that the decree of the previous day was not likely to be obeyed. This would necessitate a resort to force; and what was the result likely to be in that event-

The Commune had a strong hold upon Santerre, through Panis, his brother-in-law; and Panis, it will be remembered, was the ardent admirer of Robespierre, who once proposed to Barbaroux and Rebecqui the appointment of a dictator, and gave them to understand that no one was so well fitted to occupy that exalted position as the incorruptible Robespierre.

Santerre was the representative of the Faubourgs, and theirs was the irresistible power of the ocean. The Faubourgs had forced open the doors of the Tuileries; they would break down the doors of the Assembly as well.

The deputies feared if they took up arms against the Commune that they would not only be abandoned by the Extremists, but that they might also be abandoned by the Moderate Royalists, which would be even worse.

About six o'clock it was rumoured that an immense crowd had gathered around the Abbaye prison.

A certain Monsieur de Montmorin had just been acquitted, and it was generally supposed that he was the same man who, as a Cabinet Minister, had signed the passport with which Louis XVI. had attempted to escape from France; so the people went en masse to the prison, and savagely demanded the death of the traitor.

Every possible effort was made to undeceive the people, but all night the utmost excitement prevailed throughout the city, and it was very evident that any trifling incident might increase this excitement to gigantic proportions.

This incident occurred at the Chatelet, and we will describe it in all its details, as it is connected with one of the personages of our story whom we have not seen for a long time.

CHAPTER CLXII. IN WHICH WE AGAIN MEET OUR FRIEND MONSIEUR DE BEAUSIRE.

Soon after the tenth of August, a special committee was appointed to investigate the thefts committed at the Tuileries. The populace had done themselves credit by shooting two or three hundred robbers caught in the act, but there were as many others who succeeded in concealing their plunder for a while.

Among these last was our old acquaintance, Monsieur de Beausire. Knowing his antecedents, our readers will not be surprised to find him among those who had an account to settle with the courts for the part they had taken in the sacking of the Tuileries.

Beausire went to the palace like everybody else, but he was too clever to be the first, or even one of the first visitors.

Nor was it Monsieur de Beausire's political sentiments that took him to the Tuileries. He went neither to mourn the downfall of royalty, nor to rejoice at the triumph of the people.

But for appearance's sake, Beausire donned a red cap and armed himself with a huge sabre. He also stained his shirt slightly, and wet his hands in the blood of the first dead man he came to, so a superficial observer might mistake him for one of the victors. In fact, he was very generally mistaken for a conqueror by those who heard him shouting:”Death to the aristocrats!” and saw him searching under beds, in cupboards, and even in bureau drawers in order to satisfy himself that no Royalist was concealed therein.

But, unfortunately for Beausire, there was another man present, — a man who did not shout, or grope under beds or open cupboards, but who walked about in his neat black suit with his hands behind his back, as calm and collected as if he were taking a stroll in a public park on a pleasant afternoon, merely exclaiming, now and then:”Don't forget, citizens, that you are not to kill the women or touch the valuables!”

It was very evident that he did not consider he had any right to speak to those whom he saw slaughtering men and throwing furniture out of the window; but the very first glance convinced him that Beausire did not belong to this category.

About half-past nine the officer in command of the detachment of National Guards, to whom the guardianship of the Clock Tower had been intrusted, saw this man approaching.

“Captain,” he said, politely, but firmly, “you will see a man come downstairs presently with a red cap on his head and a sabre in his hand. You will stop him and have him carefully searched by your men. He has stolen a casket of diamonds.”

“Very well, Monsieur Maillard,” responded Pitou, touching his hat.

“So you know me, do you-”

“I should say I did. Don't you remember how we took the Bastille together- Besides, we were at Versailles together at the time of the riot.”

“Then you'11 do what I told you, will you not-”

“Yes, and anything else you bid me, Monsieur Mail- lard. You are a true patriot, you are!”

“Yes, and I 'm proud of it, and that is why we must not allow the name to be disgraced. Look, there 's our man coming now!”

For, sure enough, Beausire was descending the stairs, nourishing his big sabre, and shouting:”Long live the nation!”

Pitou made a sign to Tellier and Maniquet who quietly placed themselves in front of the door, while Pitou waited for Beausire on the bottom step.

Beausire noted this new arrangement of things, and it did not seem to please him; for he paused a moment as if he had forgotten something, then started to go back upstairs again.

“This is the way out, citizen,” cried Pitou;”and as orders have been received that the palace is to be cleared immediately, you will step this way, if you please.”

Beausire straightened himself up and resumed his descent. As he reached the last step he paused, touched his red cap, and asked, in a military tone:”Am I to go out, comrade, or am I not-”

“You're to go out; but every one has to submit to a slight formality first.”

“And what is that, my brave sir-”

“Everyone has to be searched.”

“Searched-”

“Yes.”

“Search a patriot, — a man who came here to exterminate the aristocrats-”

“I have received positive orders to that effect; so, comrade, if you are a comrade, put up that big sword, — you don't need it now, all the aristocrats are killed, — and submit to be searched quietly, or I shall be obliged to resort to force.”

“Force! Ah! you talk like that because you have twenty men to back you; but if you and I were standing here, man to man -”

“If you and I were standing here man to man, citizen, this is what I would do. I would seize your wrist with my right hand, so — and wrench your sabre from your grasp with my left, and break it under my foot, so, as being unworthy the touch of an honest man after being handled by a thief!”

And suiting the action to the word, Pitou broke the blade under his foot and threw the hilt away.

“A thief!” cried the man in the red cap;”a thief! You call Monsieur de Beausire a thief!”

“My friends,” said Pitou, pushing the ex-gendarme towards his men, “search this Monsieur de Beausire.”

“Search away,” said the man, folding his arms upon his breast with the air of a martyr.

But to Pitou's and Maillard's great surprise, though the ex-gendarme was searched thoroughly, and every pocket turned inside out, nothing was found upon his person but an old playing card and eleven sous.

Pitou looked at Maillard, but the latter only shrugged his shoulders.

“Begin again/' said Pitou, who possessed an inexhaustible store of patience, as we have reason to know.

The men obeyed, but the second search proved as futile as the first. They only found the same old card and the same eleven sous.

“Well, do you still think a sabre dishonoured by my touch-” demanded Beausire, majestically.

“No, monsieur,” replied Pitou, "and as a proof of my sincerity, if you are not content with the apology I now offer, one of my men will give you his sword, and I will grant you any further satisfaction you desire.”

“Thank you, young man,” replied Beausire.”You only acted according to orders, and an old soldier like myself knows that an order is sacred. Now, as Madame de Beausire must be growing anxious on account of my long absence, I should like, with your permission, to retire.”

“Go, monsieur, you are free,” answered Pitou.

Beausire bowed and took himself off with a superbly indifferent air. Pitou glanced around for Maillard, but Maillard had disappeared.

“It seems to me I saw Monsieur Maillard go upstairs again,” remarked one of the men.

“It seems to me I see him coming down again,” said Pitou.

And sure enough, Maillard was coming down again, two steps at a time.

“Well, did you find anything-” he asked.

“No,” replied Pitou.

“I was more fortunate, for I found the casket.”

“Then we were wrong-”

“No, we were right.”

And opening the casket, Maillard drew out some gold settings, from which all the precious stones had been removed.

“What does this mean-” asked Pitou.

“It means that the rascal anticipated a search, and, thinking the settings might cause him trouble, took out the diamonds and put the settings and the casket back in the drawer where I just found them.”

“And the diamonds-”

“He must have found some way of secreting them. Has he been gone long-”

“He went out of the gate of the central courtyard just as you came downstairs.”

“Which way did he go-”

“He was heading towards the river.”

“Good-bye, captain.”

“Are you going, Monsieur Maillard-”

“I want to satisfy my mind beyond any possibility of doubt,” responded Maillard, starting off in pursuit of the thief.

CHAPTER CLXIII. THE PURGATIVE.

In spite of Maillard's rapid pace, he did not succeed in overtaking Beausire, who had three things in his favour, — several minutes of headway, the gathering twilight, and the large number of people moving about the Carrousel.

Nevertheless, on reaching the Tuileries Quay, Maillard did not turn; for as he lived in the Saint Antoine district, it took him very little out of his way to follow the river- bank as far as the Place de Greve.

Crowds of people were hastening across the Pont Neuf, for there was an exhibition of bodies in the square in front of the court-house, and many were on their way thither in the hope, or rather the fear, of finding a brother or relative or friend among the dead; so Maillard followed the crowd.

On the corner of the Hue de la Barillerie and the square was a drug-store kept by a friend of Maillard's, and the latter entered it and began to talk over the events of the day with the proprietor.

There was a good deal of bustle in the store, for people were continually coming in for bandages, ointment, lint, — in fact, everything needful for dressing wounds; for every now and then a cry or groan indicated the presence of life among the dead, and the person who made the sound was immediately taken to the hospital.

Maillard had been in the drug-store about fifteen minutes when a woman about thirty-seven or thirty-eight years of age came in, — a woman who had a rather aristocratic air, in spite of her evident poverty. But what struck Maillard especially was the woman's strong resemblance to the queen. In fact, this resemblance was so marked that Maillard would have uttered a cry of astonishment had he not suddenly checked himself.

She was holding a little boy about nine years of age by the hand, and she approached the counter with some timidity, evidently doing her best to conceal her poverty- stricken attire, which was all the more noticeable by reason of the great care she evidently bestowed upon her complexion and hands.

The customers were so numerous that it was a long time before she received any attention; but at last she found an opportunity to say to the proprietor of the establishment, “I should like to have a purgative for my husband, who is ill.”

“What kind of a purgative do you want, citizeness-”

“Any kind will do, monsieur, provided it does not cost over eleven sous.”

This odd number of eleven sous struck Maillard; for eleven sous, it will be remembered, was the exact amount found in Beausire's pocket.

“Make up a mixture of tamarinds and senna for this citizeness,” said the apothecary to his head clerk.

“Here is your medicine, madame,” remarked the prescription clerk, after a minute or two.

“Toussaint, my child, give me the money,” said the woman, with a drawl that seemed habitual to her.

“Here it is,” responded the youngster, laying some coins on the counter.”Come along, mamma, come along; papa's waiting!” and as he spoke he tried to drag his mother away.

“Excuse me, citizeness,” said the drug clerk, “but there are only nine sous here.”

“What! only nine sous-” exclaimed the woman.

“You can count them yourself.”

The woman did count them, but there were only nine sous.

“What have you done with the other two sous, you naughty boy-” she asked, turning to the child.

“I don't know. Come along, Mamma Olivia; come along!”whined the boy.

“But you ought to know, especially as you begged so hard to carry the money that I had to give it to you.”

“I must have lost them, I suppose. Come, Mamma Olivia; come, I say!”

“You have a bright boy there, citizeness,” said Mail- lard.”He seems to be full of intelligence; but you had better take care if you don't want him to grow up a thief.”

'A thief- And why do you say that, pray-” demanded the woman.

“Because he hasn't lost the two sous. He has hidden them in his shoe.”

“That's a lie!” yelled the child.

“In the left shoe, citizeness,” said Maillard;”in the left shoe.”

In spite of young Toussaint's kicks and yells, Mamma Olivia picked up his left foot and found the two sous in his shoe. She gave them to the clerk, and then dragged the child away, threatening him with punishment which would have seemed terrible to the bystanders had the threats not been accompanied with endearments that convinced her auditors, beyond a doubt, that maternal tenderness would gain the ascendency.

This little episode, however, would probably have passed unnoticed, amid so many more important events, had not the woman's strong resemblance to the queen made a deep impression on Maillard.

“Did you notice that strange resemblance-” he remarked to his friend the druggist.

“To the queen-” responded the druggist, laughing.

“You have noticed it, then-”

“Yes, a long while ago. In fact, it is historic. Don't you recollect a certain Nicole Legay, sometimes called Mademoiselle Olivia, who personated the queen in that necklace affair, and who lived with an ex-gendarme, gambler, and spy, named Beausire-”

“Beausire-” exclaimed Malliard, starting as if a serpent had stung him.

“And is this Beausire the man she calls her husband-”he added.

“Yes.”

“And was it for him that she wanted that medicine-”

“Yes.”

“Then I've found my man; that is, if lean ascertain where he lives.”

“I know.”

“Good! Where is it-”

“Number six, Rue de la Juiverie.”

“Near here-”

“Only just around the corner.”

“It doesn’t surprise me now that young Toussaint stole those two sous from his mother. He 's Beausire's child, isn’t he-”

“I judge so. He's the living image of him.”

“How long will it take for your medicine to operate-”

“Are you speaking seriously-”

“Very seriously.”

“Not less than two hours.”

“That's all the time I want.”

“You seem to take a great interest in Beausire.”

“Yes, so deep an interest that, fearing he will not be well cared for, I am going at once for -”

“For what-”

“For a couple of nurses. Good-bye.”

And leaving the drug store with a quiet smile, — the only kind of a smile that ever illumined his serious visage, — Maillard returned to the Tuileries.

Pitou was absent. It will be remembered that he had departed with Andree to find some trace of Charny, leaving Tellier and Maniquet in charge.

Both men recognised Maillard, and Maniquet said: -

“Well, did you overtake your man-”

“No, but I am on his track.”

“That's good; for though we found nothing on him, I should be willing to swear he had those diamonds.”

“And you 're right.”

“Do you think you'll succeed in getting them back again-”

“I hope so, if you will help me.”

“In what way- We are at your service.”

“Pick me out two reliable men from your company.”

“For courage-”

“No, for honesty.”

“Oh, any of them will answer the purpose, then.” And turning to his men, De'sire' cried, “Two volunteers wanted!”

A dozen men sprang forward.

“That will do. Boulanger, you come; and you, Molicar. Do you want another, Monsieur Maillard-”

“No, two will do. Come, my friends.”

The two members of the Haramont Life Guards followed Maillard, who conducted them to the Eue de la Juiverie, where he stopped before number six.

“This is the place,” he remarked.”Let us go up.”

The guardsmen followed him up four flights of stairs. Maillard tried the door, but it was bolted on the inside. He knocked.

“Who's there-” drawled Olivia.

“Open in the name of the law!” responded Maillard.

A whispered colloquy went on for a minute or two inside; then, as Maillard was about to rap a second time, the occupants of the room concluded to open the door, and the three men entered, to the great consternation of Olivia, as well as of young Toussaint, who tried to hide behind an old wicker chair. Beausire was in bed. On a small stand by the bed, Maillard, to his great relief, beheld an empty bottle, thus showing that the medicine had been taken; so there was nothing to do now but wait and see what the effect would be.

During their walk Maillard had told his companions all that had taken place at the pharmacy, so they understood the situation perfectly. Consequently, when he installed them, one on each side of the bed, he had only to say to them:”Citizens, Monsieur de Beausire is in much the same situation as the princess we read of in the ' Arabian Nights,' who would only speak when she was obliged to, but let fall a diamond every time she opened her mouth. I will go to the city-hall and wait for you there. When monsieur ceases to require your attention, you can conduct him to the Chatelet, where you will say that Citizen Maillard sent him there, and then bring whatever he may have given you to me, at the city-hall.”

The two men bowed their assent, and stationed themselves, one on each side of Beausire's bed.

The apothecary was right. At the end of two hours the medicine operated. Its effects continued an hour or two, and could not have proved more satisfactory.

About three o'clock in the morning Maillard saw his men come in. They brought with them one hundred thousand francs' worth of diamonds of the first water, wrapped in a certificate of Monsieur de Beausire's incarceration. These diamonds were deposited in the office of the city solicitor, in the name of Maillard and of the two guardsmen, and that official gave them a certificate, declaring that citizens Maillard, Molicar, and Boulanger richly merited the thanks of their country.

CHAPTER CLXIV. THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

And now let us see the consequences of the half-tragical, half-ludicrous occurrence we have just described.

The case of Monsieur de Beausire was referred to the special jury appointed to take cognisance of the thefts committed on the tenth of August.

Denial was useless, the prisoner's guilt being too clearly established; so Beausire was compelled to humbly confess his crime and implore the mercy of the court.

The tribunal instituted an examination into Beausire's antecedents, and these proving anything but satisfactory, the prisoner was sentenced to the galley for five years, as well as to be publicly exposed in the pillory and branded.

In vain did Monsieur de Beausire plead that he had been actuated by the most laudable motives, -that is, by a hope of insuring his wife and child a comfortable future. His judges proved inexorable, and the court being specially appointed, there was no appeal from its decisions; so the sentence was to be carried into execution the second day after the trial. It was unfortunate indeed for Beausire that the sentence was not executed at once, and the culprit sent away.

Fate decreed that the night before Beausire was to be placed in the pillory one of his former comrades was brought to the prison. The two men recognised each other, and mutual revelations followed.

The new prisoner claimed to know all about a carefully organised conspiracy for a dangerous outbreak either on the Place de Greve or in the square in front of the Palais de Justice.

The conspirators were to assemble in great numbers under the pretext of witnessing the first public branding that took place. A shout of, “Long live the King! Hurrah for the Prussians!”and “Death to the Nation!”was to serve as the signal for taking possession of the city- hall, summoning the National Guards — more than half of whom were Royalists, or at least Constitutionalists — to their aid, and thus a counter-revolution in favour of, royalty was to be effected.

Unfortunately, it was Beausire's friend who was to give the signal, and as the other conspirators were not aware of his arrest, they would flock to the square at the appointed time; but as there would be no one to give the signal, the outbreak would not take place.

This was the more to be regretted, according to Beau- sire's friend, because no plot had ever been better planned, or seemed more certain to succeed; and his arrest was all the more unfortunate because, in the midst of the tumult that would ensue, the condemned man was almost sure to find an opportunity to escape.

Although he possessed no very decided political opinions, Beausire rather sympathised with the Royalists, and consequently regretted- partly on the king's account, but chiefly on his own — the failure of this scheme.

Suddenly a brilliant idea flashed through his brain.

“If some one gives the signal, the outbreak is sure to take place, you say-” he exclaimed.

“Yes; but who will give the signal, now I 'm locked up, and cannot communicate with any one outside-”

“I will,” responded Beausire, in tragic tones.

“You-”

“Yes, I! I shall be there, sha'n't I- Very well; then I will shout, ' Long live the King! Hurrah for the Prussians!' in your stead. That's not a very difficult thing to do, it seems to me.”

“If you do that,” continued the Royalist prisoner, “you will not only secure your freedom and a full pardon, but more; for I shall proclaim it far and wide that the success of the plot was due solely to you, so you may be sure of a handsome reward.”

“It is not the hope of a reward that actuates me in this matter,” responded Beausire, with the most disinterested air imaginable.

“That's all right; but if the reward is offered, I advise you not to refuse it.”

“If this is really your opinion -”

“I not only advise it, but urge it. What is more, I even command you to accept it.”

“So be it,” said Beausire, meekly.

“Very well, then; to-morrow we will breakfast together, — for the superintendent will not refuse two old comrades this favour, — and drink to the success of the conspiracy!”

To their great delight, the superintendent granted their request, and the two friends drank not only one, but two, three, and even four bottles.

By that time Monsieur de Beausire was a furious Royalist, and it was fortunate that the officers came to conduct him to the Place de Greve before the fifth bottle could be uncorked.

He stepped into the cart as if it were a triumphal chariot, and gazed around disdainfully upon the crowd for which he was preparing such a tremendous surprise.

A woman and a little boy were waiting for him on Notre Dame bridge. Poor Olivia was bathed in tears; but young Toussaiut, on seeing his father in the hands of the officers, shouted:”Good! good! That's what he got for beating me!” For we neglected to state that on hearing of the theft of the two sous, Beausire had felt himself compelled to inflict condign punishment upon his son and heir. Beausire gave them a benignant smile, to which he would doubtless have added a benignant gesture if his hands had not been tied behind his back.

The square in front of the Hotel de Ville was thronged with people, and when the waggon stopped in front of the pillory, the officers had great difficulty in forcing back the populace.

When Beausire mounted the platform there was a great commotion; but when the executioner bared the prisoner's shoulder, and stooped to take the red-hot iron from the furnace, there came what always comes at such a time,- a breathless silence.

Beausire resolved to take advantage of the opportunity thus afforded; so, summoning up all his strength, he shouted in a loud, sonorous, penetrating voice, “Long live the King! Hurrah for the Prussians! Down with the Nation!”

Great as was the commotion Beausire had expected to excite, the result far exceeded his expectations; for the crowd uttered a deafening roar, and rushed upon the pillory.

This time the guards found it impossible to protect Beausire. The pillory was invaded; the executioner was dragged from the platform, and the prisoner was torn from the post, — no one knew how, — and hurled into the seething mass of human beings below.

He would have been torn in pieces had not a man wearing an official's scarf come running from the city-hall. This was Government-Procureur Manuel. He was an exceedingly humane man, and though he was generally obliged to conceal his feelings, any such great emergency as this was almost sure to bring them to light.

With great difficulty he made his way to Beausire, and, extending his hand over him, cried in stentorian tones, “I demand this man in the name of the law!”

The populace did not seem inclined to yield, however; so, detaching his scarf and waving it over his head, he shouted, “Help, help, all good citizens!”

A score of men gathered around Manuel, and wrested Beausire, more dead than alive, from the hands of the mob. Meanwhile the city-hall was in great danger, so intense was the exasperation of the populace.

Manuel appeared upon the balcony.

“This man is guilty,” he said;”but he is guilty of a crime for which he has not been tried. Select a jury from among yourselves. The jury can convene in one of the rooms in this very building; and whatever their verdict may be, it shall be carried out.”

Is it not strange that on the eve of the terrible massacres in the prisons, one of the very men who is blamed for these massacres should utter such words as these, even at the peril of his life!

This promise pacified the crowd, and fifteen minutes afterwards the jury was introduced to Manuel. It consisted of twenty-one members, and, according to promise, Manuel installed them in a room in the city-hall.

Beausire was dragged before this impromptu court. He tried to defend himself, but his second offence was as incontestable as the first, and far more heinous in the eyes of the populace.

To shout “Hurrah for the Prussians!” when the Prussians had just captured Longay, and were not more than sixty leagues from Paris; to yell, “Down with the Nation!” when the nation was stretched upon the rack, — these were terrible crimes, deserving of the severest punishment.

The jury decided that the prisoner was guilty, and that he should be hung upon the very spot where his offence had been committed; so the hangman was instructed to erect a scaffold at once upon the same platform where the pillory had stood, and the culprit met his death upon it the following day.

The next day was Sunday,- in itself an aggravating circumstance, as the populace had much more leisure at their disposal. The Assembly could not help seeing that everything was tending towards another massacre. The Commune was resolved to maintain itself at any cost, and massacre — or, in other words, terrorism — was the surest means of accomplishing this.

Retracting its decision of two days before, the Assembly repeated the decree dissolving the Commune, whereupon one of its members rose and said: -

“It is not enough to repeal your decree. On passing that measure only two days ago, you declared the Commune deserving of the nation's gratitude. This is too vague, for some day you may say that while the Commune merited the thanks of the country, such and such members of the Council were not included in the eulogium, and, consequently, such and such members may be prosecuted; so you must say not merely the Commune, but the representatives of the Commune.”

So the Assembly passed a resolution declaring that the representatives of the Commune merited the gratitude of the country.

While the Assembly was putting this question to the vote, Robespierre was delivering a long speech at the Communal Council, in which he declared that the Assembly, having destroyed public confidence by its infamous manoeuvres, the Council ought to resign, and do the only thing which could now be done to save the country; that is, surrender the power to the people themselves.

This was vague and indefinite, like all Robespierre's suggestions. Did he mean that the Council should assent to the decree of the Assembly and ask for a new election- That is not very probable.

Or did he mean that the Council was to resign its authority and declare, of its own accord, that the Commune considered itself unable to cope with the weighty responsibilities devolving upon it, and desired the people to finish the great work themselves-

If the populace, without any curb and with hearts thirsting for revenge, should undertake to complete the work begun on August tenth, this would mean nothing more nor less than the slaughter of the men who had fought against them on that same August day, and who had since been imprisoned in the various prisons of Paris.

CHAPTER CLXV. THE NIGHT BETWEEN THE FIRST AND SECOND DAYS OF SEPTEMBER.

This was the condition of affairs when, at about nine o'clock on the night of September 1st, Dr. Gilbert's official — the word servant had been abolished as Anti- Republican- entered his employer's room to say: -

“Citizen Gilbert, the cab is at the door.”

Gilbert drew his hat down over his eyes, buttoned his overcoat up to his throat, and was about to step out, when a man wrapped in a big cloak, and with his face shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, appeared upon the threshold.

Gilbert recoiled a step or two. In the darkness, and at such a time, any one might prove an enemy.

“It is I, Gilbert,” said a kindly voice.

“Cagliostro!” exclaimed the doctor.

“Even so; only you must not forget that I am no longer called Cagliostro, but Baron Zannone. Still, to you, my dear Gilbert, my heart and name are alike unchanged, and I am always Joseph Balsamo; at least, I hope so.”

“Yes,” replied Gilbert;”and you will need no better proof of it than the fact that I was just going to your house.”

“I suspected as much. In fact, that is the very reason I am here. You know in such times as these I cannot do as Robespierre does, — take a trip to the country.”

“Still, I feared I might not find you; so I am more than glad of this visit. Come in, I beg of you.”

“Certainly; and now what do you desire of me-” asked Cagliostro, following Gilbert into the most secluded room of his suite of apartments.

“You know what is going on, of course,” began Gilbert.

“You mean what will soon be going on,” said Cagliostro, “for everything is remarkably quiet just now.”

“You are right; but something terrible is close at band. Is it not so-”

“Something terrible indeed; but at times the terrible becomes a necessity.”

“Your sangfroid makes me shudder.”

“And why- I am but an echo, -the echo of fate.”

Gilbert's head drooped.

“You remember, do you not, Gilbert, what I told you at Bellevue three years ago, when I predicted the death of the Marquis de Favras- I told you then that if the king had a particle of the spirit of self-preservation in his poor little brain, — which I hoped he had not, — he would run away -”

“He did run away.”

“Yes, but I meant that he would flee while there was some possibility of his making his escape. But lie did not make the attempt until it was too late. I added, you recollect, that if the king and queen and the nobility resisted, there would be a revolution.”

“Yes, and you were right. The revolution is upon us.”

“Not entirely; but it is coming on finely, my dear Gilbert. Do you also recollect what I told you about a certain machine invented by one of my friends, — Doctor Guillotin- Have you walked through the Carrousel lately- That instrument of death — the same I showed to the queen at the Taverney Chateau — is working finely there.”

“Yes, but the guillotine is too slow, apparently; for sabres, pikes, and daggers seem to be doing their best to help it along.”

“And why- Simply because we have the most hard- headed people in the world to deal with. The nobility and the king and queen received all sorts of warnings; but they were of no avail. The Bastille was taken. That lesson did them no good. Then came the October riots. They, too, failed to teach royalty anything. The twentieth of June proved equally unavailing. Then came the tenth of August. Even that profited royalty nothing. They have put the king in the Temple, and the nobility in the Abbaye, Force, and Bicetre prisons; but all this has taught them nothing. The king rejoices openly over the success of the Prussians at Longay. In the Abbaye the nobles cheer vociferously for the king and the Prussians. They drink their champagne under the very noses of the poor, and toy with their pates and truffles in the very faces of poor wretches who are famishing. This superb indifference extends even to King William of Prussia; for if any one should write to him, ' Take care! if you come one step nearer to the heart of France that step will be the king's death-warrant,' he would doubtless reply: ' However dangerous the situation of the royal family may be, the invading armies cannot retreat. I hope, with all my heart, to arrive in time to save the king of France; but my chief duty, after all, is to save Europe.' He is now marching upon Verdun, and there is nothing for us to do but put an end to it.”

“An end to what-”

“To the king, the queen, and the nobility.”“You advise assassinating the king and queen-”“Oh, no; that would be a terrible blunder. They must be tried, convicted, and publicly executed, as in the case of Charles I. of England. We must rid ourselves of them in some way, doctor, and the sooner the better.”

“And who says so-” cried Gilbert.”If you had come to me in the name of Mirabeau, Lafayette, and Vergniaud, and declared this slaughter to be necessary, I should have shuddered, -as I shudder now, -but I should have been half convinced; but upon whose authority do you make this assertion to-day- Upon the authority of Hastert, a huckster; of Collot d'Herbois, an unsuccessful playwright; of Marat, a jaundiced-minded creature, whose physician is obliged to bleed him whenever he demands one hundred thousand or two hundred thousand heads. I despise such mediocre creatures as these, — men who fancy themselves magicians, and who clamour for such sudden transitions and terrible crises, and who think it a grand thing to exterminate by a word or sign a living obstacle which Nature has been twenty, thirty, forty, fifty years in creating.”

“My dear Gilbert, you deceive yourself. You style these creatures men, and you do them entirely too much honour. They are merely tools.”

“Tools of destruction!”

“Yes, but for the benefit of a principle, — the infranchisement of a nation, and not of one nation alone, but of the entire universe. These men you speak of lack genius, lack loyalty, lack conscience; but they possess something stronger, more inexorable, and more irresistible than either of those attributes, -instinct.”

“The instinct of Attila.”

“Precisely; the instinct of Attila, who called himself the scourge of God, and came down with his horde of barbarians to stamp out the civilisation of Rome, corrupted for four hundred years by the reigns of such men as Nero, Vespasian, and Heliogabalus.”

“But now, instead of generalising, tell me to what this wholesale slaughter is likely to lead.”

“Oh, it is very easy to answer that question. It will compromise the Assembly, the Commune, and the people. Paris must besmirch herself with blood, in order that Paris — which is really the brain of France — feeling that she has committed the unpardonable sin, may rise as one man and drive the enemy from the sacred soil of Fatherland.”

“But what does all this matter to you- You are not a Frenchman.”

“Can it be, Gilbert, that you, with your superior intelligence and powerful mind, would tell a man not to meddle with the affairs of France because he is not a Frenchman- Are not the affairs of France the world's affairs- Is France striving for herself alone- Did Christ die only for the Jews- Would you cavil at the teachings of an apostle because he was not a Nazarene- But enough! You desire to ask for the release of some one. Am I not right- Your request is granted already. Tell me the name of the man or woman you wish to save.”

“I wish to save a woman whom neither you nor I can allow to die.”

“The Comtesse de Charny-”

“The mother of Sebastian.”

“You know that Dan ton, as minister of justice, holds the keys to her prison, I suppose-”

“Yes, but I also know that you can bid Danton open or close those doors as you will.”

Cagliostro rose, walked to a desk, traced a sort of cabalistic sign on a bit of paper, and handed it to Gilbert.

“There, my son. Go to Danton, and ask of him what you will; but promise me one thing.”

“What is it-”

“There was a time when your promise was given unquestioningly, Gilbert.”

“Yes; but in those days you did not talk of deluging a nation in blood.”

“Ah, well, promise me that if the king should be tried and put to death, you will follow the advice I then give you.”

“I swear it, if it does not offend my conscience.”

“You are unjust, Gilbert. I have offered you much. Have I ever exacted anything in return-”

“No; and what is more, you have just accorded me a life a thousand times more precious than my own.”

Cagliostro left the house. The cab was still in waiting, and the doctor ordered the coachman to drive him to the Palais de Justice.

When Gilbert was announced, Danton was with his wife, — or rather his wife was at his feet, imploring him not to be guilty of such a crime as countenancing the intended massacre; while he, in turn, was trying to make her understand that he could do nothing contrary to the decision of the Commune, unless dictatorial powers were conferred upon him by the Assembly. With the Assembly on his side, there was a possibility of success; without the Assembly, defeat was certain.

“Then die! die, if need be!” exclaimed the poor woman;”but do not allow the massacre to take place.”

“Men of my stamp don't care to die in vain,” replied Danton;”but I should be perfectly willing to die if my death would benefit my country.”

Just then Dr. Gilbert was announced.

“I shall not go away,” said Madame Danton, “until I have your promise that you will do everything in your power to prevent this atrocious crime.”

“Remain, then,” said Danton.

Madame Danton retreated a step or two to give her husband an opportunity to greet the doctor, whom he knew already by sight, as well as by reputation.

“You come very opportunely, doctor,” remarked Dan- ton.”Had I known your address, I should certainly have sent for you.”

Gilbert bowed to Danton, and seeing a lady standing behind the minister, he bowed to her also.

“This is my wife, doctor, the wife of Citizen Danton, minister of justice, who thinks her husband powerful enough to prevent Marat and Robespierre — backed by the entire Commune — from doing what they please; that is to say, from killing, exterminating, devouring.”

“Tell him, monsieur,” sobbed the poor woman, “that if he permits this massacre, it will cast a stain over his whole life.”

“Nor is that all,” said Gilbert.”If this stain should rest upon the forehead of one man alone, — a man who believed it essential to his country's welfare that this disgrace should attach to his name, — such a man might fling his honour to the winds, as Decius flung his body into the abyss, for his country's sake. But this will be a foul blot upon the escutcheon of France!”

“But when there is an eruption of Vesuvius, show me a man who is strong enough to check the molten river! When the tide is rising, show me an arm strong enough to hold old Ocean back!”

“One need look no longer for such an one when Dan- ton's name is uttered, for he is found. No one need ask where that strong arm may be found; for it acts, and thus dispels all doubts.”

“Look here! you 've all lost your senses,” cried Danton, impatiently.”Must I say to you what I hardly dare to say to myself- I certainly have the will, and it is equally certain that I have the ability; but whether I have the power or not will depend entirely upon the Assembly. But do you know what is going to happen to me- The very same thing that happened to Mirabeau. I do not inspire the Assembly with terror, like that crazy-headed Marat; nor do I inspire it with confidence, like the incorruptible Robespierre. The Assembly will refuse me the means of saving the country because I am not in very good repute just now. It will argue and bicker and haggle; then people will begin to whisper that my morals are not what they should be, — that I am not a man to be trusted with absolute power even for three days. A committee of worthy men will be appointed, but it will be too late. The massacre will take place, and it will not be France that is blamed, but myself. I shall avert the world's curse from France by bringing it down upon my own head!”

“And your wife and children-” cried the sobbing woman.

“It will kill you, as you have said. But you cannot be accused of being my accomplice, as my crime will cause your death. As for our children, they are sons. Some day they will be men, and either have their father's spirit, and make the name of Danton honoured in the land, or be weaklings, and deny me. So much the better. In that case, it is I who repudiate them.”

“But you will at least ask the Assembly for this authority-” said Gilbert.

“I have already sent for Thuriot and Tallien. Wife, see if they are in the next room. If so, show Thuriot in.”

Madame Danton went out; and as she did so, Danton remarked, “I am going to make the attempt in your presence, Monsieur Gilbert, so you can testify to posterity that I did not yield without a struggle.”

The door opened.”Here is Citizen Thuriot, my dear,” said Madame Dauton.

“Come in,” said Danton, offering Thuriot his hand.”Those were sublime words of yours upon the rostrum, the other day, when you said the French Revolution was not for France alone, but for the whole world, and that we were responsible to all humanity for it. Well, we must now make a last great effort to keep it free from reproach.”

“Speak on,” said Thuriot.

“To-morrow, at the beginning of the session, you must ask that the number of members in the Council of the Commune be increased to three hundred, so that, without ousting the members chosen on the tenth of August, the old members will be outnumbered by the new. If this proposition is not adopted — if you cannot make the deputies understand my idea, then — confer with Lacroix. Tell him to attack the question openly, and insist that the death penalty be imposed upon all persons who refuse directly or indirectly to obey, or in any way oppose or hinder any of the orders or measures instituted by the executive power. That executive power is to be myself, you understand. I will go to the Assembly and claim this authority, and if they evince any hesitation about giving it to me, I will seize it.”

“What will you do then-”

“Then,” exclaimed Danton, “I will grasp a flag, and in place of the hideous demon of massacre, whom I shall banish to his native shades, I will invoke the noble and serene genius of battle, who strikes without fear and without anger, and who gazes calmly upon death. I will ask these bands of men if it is for the butchery of defenceless citizens that they have assembled themselves together. I will denounce as an infamous wretch any one who dares to threaten the prisons! There may be many persons who secretly approve massacre, but the murderers themselves must be few in number. I will take advantage of the martial spirit which now pervades Paris, and surround each band of murderers with a crowd of patriotic volunteers who are eagerly awaiting orders, and so despatch them to the frontier, — that is, against the enemy, — so the vicious element may be dominated by the noble.”

“Do that,” cried Gilbert, “and you will accomplish something glorious, magnificent, sublime!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Danton, shrugging his shoulders with a singular mixture of conscious power and indifference;”it will be the easiest thing in the world to do! If they will but consent to do what I ask, you shall see!”

Madame Danton kissed her husband's hand.

“You will secure the power you ask, Danton,” she said.”Hearing you speak thus, who can help feeling as you do-”

“Yes, but unfortunately I cannot speak thus. If I should disclose my real plans and intentions they would begin by murdering me. Now call Tallien.”

“Tallien,” said Danton, when his friend entered, “it is quite possible that the Commune will send me a written order to report at municipal headquarters to-morrow. You are secretary of the Council. Manage it so that I shall not receive the letter, and shall be able to prove that I did not receive it.”

“But how the deuce am I to do that-”

“That is your lookout. I tell you what I want — what I must have, in short. It is for you to devise the means. Come, Monsieur Gilbert, you have something particular to say to me, I believe.”

Opening the door into a small office, he motioned Gilbert to enter, and then followed him.

Gilbert drew from his pocket the scrap of paper Cagliostro had given him, and handed it to Danton.

“So you come from him! Well, what do you desire-” asked the minister.

“The release of a lady imprisoned in the Abbaye.”

“Her name-”

“Madame de Charny.”

Danton took a sheet of paper and wrote the order for release.

“If you wish to save any one else, say so,” he remarked.”I should be glad to save all those unfortunate people.”

“I have all I desire.”

“Then go; but if you need me, come to me at once, yourself, without any go-between. I shall be only too happy to do anything for you.”

As he accompanied Gilbert to the door, he murmured:”Ah! if I could only have your reputation as an honest man for a single day, Monsieur Gilbert!”

As he closed the door behind the doctor, he sighed heavily, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

Gilbert hastened to the Abbaye with the precious document which was to restore Andree to liberty. Although it was now nearly midnight, suspicious-looking groups were already congregated in the streets about the prison. Gilbert passed them, and walked to a door under a low, vaulted archway.

Here he rapped, and presented his order to the superintendent. The order directed that the person designated by Dr. Gilbert should be immediately released. Gilbert designated the Comtesse de Charny, and the superintendent ordered a turnkey to conduct Citizen Gilbert to the prisoner's cell.

Gilbert followed the gaoler up three flights of stairs, and into a cell lighted by a single lamp.

A lady dressed in black, and looking as white as marble in her mourning garments, was seated near the table on which, the lamp stood, reading a tiny book ornamented with a gilt cross.

In spite of the noise made by opening and closing the door, she did not raise her eyes. She seemed absorbed in her reading, or rather in her meditations, for Gilbert waited two or three minutes without seeing her turn a leaf. The turnkey had closed the door behind the doctor, and was waiting outside.

At last Gilbert said, “Madame -”

Andree looked up.

“Ah! it is you, Monsieur Gilbert!” she exclaimed.”What do you desire-”

“Madame, there are terrible rumours afloat concerning what will occur in the prisons to-morrow.”

“Yes,” replied Andree.”It seems quite probable that we are to be slaughtered; but I am anxious to die, as you know.”

“I have come for you, nevertheless.”

“For me- To take me where-”

“Wherever you please, madame. You are free;” and as he spoke he handed her Danton's order for her release.

She read it, but instead of returning it to the doctor, kept it in her hand.

“I might have known that you would come and try to prevent me from dying,” she said, with a faint attempt at a smile.

“Madame, there is one life in the world more precious to me than even my father's or mother's would have been, had Heaven vouchsafed me the blessing of parents; I mean yours.”

“And that is the reason you broke your promise, I suppose.”

“I did not break my promise. I sent you the poison.”

“By my son.”

“I did not say by whom I should send it.”

“So you have thought of me- So you have ventured into the lion's den for my sake, to bring me a talisman that will open the doors of my prison- I thank you; but this time I think I have death securely in my grasp,” she added, with a much brighter smile than before.

“Madame, even if I have to take you away from here by force, I swear that you shall not die!”

Without making any reply, Andree tore the order into several pieces, and threw them among the embers that were smouldering on the hearth.

“Attempt it!” she exclaimed.

Gilbert uttered an exclamation of consternation.

“No, Monsieur Gilbert, I have renounced the idea of suicide, but not of death,” she added.

“Oh, madame, madame!” groaned Gilbert.

“All I ask of you,” she continued, “is that you will endeavour to recover my body — to save it, after death, from outrages it did not escape in life. Monsieur de Charny reposes in the tomb at Boursonnes. It was there the only happy days of my life were spent. I wish to lie beside him.”

“Oh, madame, I implore you, in Heaven's name!”

“And I, monsieur, adjure you, in the name of my misfortunes -”

“So be it, madame. You have truly said that I have no alternative but to obey you in all things. I will leave you, but -”

“Do not forget my last request, monsieur.”

“If I do not succeed in saving you in spite of yourself, your last request shall be obeyed.”

With a low bow Gilbert retired, and the door closed behind him with that lugubrious sound peculiar to prison portals.

CHAPTER CLXVI. THE SECOND OF SEPTEMBER.

Exactly what Danton had predicted, happened. At the opening of the session Thuriot submitted to the Assembly the proposition suggested by the minister of justice the day before. The Assembly failed to understand the urgency of the case, and instead of coming to a decision at nine o'clock in the morning, discussed the matter at length, and finally adopted the proposed measure at one o'clock in the afternoon.

It was too late. Those four hours of delay retarded the progress of liberty in Europe a whole century.

Tallien was more clever. Requested by the Commune to despatch an order to the minister of justice to present himself at once before the City Council, Tallien wrote: -

“monsieur Secretary, — On receipt of this communication, please come to the H6tel de Ville at once.”

But he addressed the communication to the minister of war instead of to the minister of justice.

Danton was expected, but Servan appeared in his stead. The blunder was explained, but the mistake was past recall.

We have said that the action of the Assembly was taken too late, and this is proved by the fact that the Commune, which was not in the habit of dallying, profited by the delay. What the Communists wanted was massacre and a dictatorship; but, as Danton said, cut-throats were not as numerous as people supposed.

During the night between the first and second of September, while Gilbert was vainly endeavouring to effect Andree’s release from the Abbaye, Marat was sending his mischief-makers to all the different political clubs and sections; but these emissaries failed to make any impression at the clubs, and only two of the forty-eight sections — the Poissonniere and the Luxembourg — voted for slaughter.

The Communists knew they could not establish a dictatorship unless they had Marat, Robespierre, and Danton on their side; and it was for this very reason that they had requested Danton's presence at the city-hall.

Danton had foreseen this summons, and taken such precautions as would preclude any possibility of the letter reaching him; for if he had received it, he would not have dared to disobey the summons.

Notwithstanding Danton's failure to appear, the Council realised the necessity of taking immediate action, and finally decided to appoint a committee of public safety. This committee, however, must be chosen from the members of the Council; so the question arose as to how Marat could be placed on this committee, inasmuch as he did not belong to the Council.

The entire matter was intrusted to Panis, not because Panis possessed much influence himself, but through Santerre, his brother-in-law, and Robespierre, his divinity, the power he wielded was so great that he was authorised to choose the three members who were to constitute the vigilance committee.

But Panis dared not assume the whole responsibility; so he requested three of his colleagues — Sergent, Duplain, and Jourdeuil-to assist him. They in turn chose five persons — Deforgues, Lenfant, Guermeur, Leclerc, and Durfort — to aid them.

The original document bears the names of Panis, Sergent, Duplain, and Jourdeuil; but on the margin, in an illegible hand supposed to be that of Panis, is another name. That name is Marat; but Marat really had no right to serve upon the committee, as lie was not a member of the Council.

With the name of Marat murder was enthroned. As we have said, the Commune did not procrastinate, but always transacted its business promptly.

At ten o'clock the vigilance committee was appointed, and immediately issued its first order, — an order for the transportation of twenty-four prisoners from the city-hall, where the committee was in session, to the Abbaye prison. Eight or nine of these twenty-four prisoners were priests,- or at least wore the garb of that execrated profession, of men who had instigated the disturbances in the Vendee and in the South.

The prisoners were to be conducted to the Abbaye by a guard consisting of Marseilles and Avignon federates. Four carriages were in readiness; six prisoners entered each vehicle, and a cannon-shot was to be the signal for departure. The motives of the Commune are apparent. The procession would excite the ire of the people, and the carriages would probably be stopped, and the prisoners murdered on the way, or else at the door of the prison. After that it would only be necessary to let things take their course; for the butchery, whether begun on the way or at the prison door, was sure to speedily cross the threshold.

It was the very moment when the carriages were leaving the city-hall that Danton took for appearing before the Assembly. He ascended the rostrum; but, unfortunately, he was alone, Roland being too honest a man to accompany his colleague. They looked for Roland, but looked for him in vain. Ability was there, but not Principle or Honour.

Manuel had just announced the dangerous situation of Verdun to the Commune, and had suggested that all enrolled citizens should encamp that night on the Champ de Mars, in order to be ready to march against the enemy at day-break the next morning.

This suggestion was adopted. Another member of the Council, in view of the imminence of the danger, proposed firing signal-guns, tolling the bells, and beating a general alarm. This proposition was also adopted.

On the tiring of the first gun, Monsieur de Beausire was to be hanged; and let us say here and now, despite our regret at parting with such an interesting personage, that the sentence was carried into execution. The third shot was to be the signal for the departure of the prisoners, so that the crowd that had assembled to witness Monsieur de Beausire's execution could also witness the departure of the prisoners, and take part in their slaughter if they so desired.

Danton was kept informed of all that was going on by Tallien. In his response to Lacroix, he alluded to the peril that threatened the country, and proposed an edict to the effect that any citizen who refused to serve in person, or to furnish arms, should be punished with death.

Then, in order that his plans and intentions might not be confounded with those of the Commune, he added:”This tolling of bells is not a signal of alarm, but the signal for a united attack upon the foes of our country. To conquer them, gentlemen, audacity is required, — audacity first, last, and every time. Then, France is saved!”

Thunders of applause greeted these words. Lacroix now arose, and proposed that any person or persons who directly or indirectly refused to obey legal decrees, or hindered, in any way, shape, or manner, the execution of the orders issued and the measures adopted by the executive power, should be punished with death.

The Assembly understood perfectly well now that they were asked to establish a dictatorship. The deputies pretended to approve; they appointed a committee of Girondists to frame the decree; but the Girondists, like Roland, were too honest themselves to feel much confidence in Danton, and the work dragged along until ten in the evening.

Danton became impatient, and after whispering a few words to Thuriot, telling him where he might be found in case the Assembly decided to confer dictatorial power upon him, left the hall.

Where was he to be found- At the Champ de Mars, among the volunteers. Had the power he asked been conferred upon him, it was doubtless his intention to secure the support of this large body of men, and then carry out the plan for securing additional troops for the frontier, which he had mentioned to Gilbert.

He waited until five o'clock, but no one came. Meanwhile, what had happened to the prisoners who were on their way to the Abbaye- Let us follow them.

At first they were protected by the vehicles in which they were confined. The instinct of danger led each man to keep as much out of sight as possible; but the guard in charge were continually denouncing them in the most abusive manner.

“Look at the traitors!” they cried.”See these accomplices of the Prussians! Men who would give up our cities to the enemy, and murder your wives and children while you are on your way to the frontier!”

But even such exclamations as these failed to start a massacre. Danton was right in saying that cut-throats were not so numerous as some persons supposed.

The procession was nearing the Abbaye now, and it was quite time to decide upon some course of action.

Should they wait and kill the prisoners after they reached the Abbaye- In that case, it would be evident to every one that the deed was done by order of the Commune, and not by the spontaneous fury of the populace.

Chance favoured the authors of these murderous projects, however. There was some obstruction at a street- corner near the prison, and the carriages were obliged to halt. The opportunity was an excellent one.

A man forced his way through the escort, and climbing upon the step of the first carriage, plunged a sabre into the coach at random, several times, and then drew it out again, red with blood.

One of the prisoners who had a cane endeavoured to parry the blows with it, and while doing so happened to hit one of the guards in the face.

“What! you ruffians, you attack us while we are protecting you! Help, comrades, help!” cried the guard.

A score of men who had been eagerly waiting for some such pretext sprang out from the crowd. They were armed with pikes, and with knives fastened to long poles, and they thrust these savagely into the coach. One could hear the agonised cries of the victims, and see the blood oozing through the bottom of the carriage.

Blood calls for blood; the massacre which was to last four days had now fairly begun.

All day the prisoners crowded in the Abbaye had suspected from the faces of their jailers, and some word that escaped them now and then, that danger was imminent. In fact, that day, by special order of the Commune, meals were served considerably in advance of the usual hour in all the prisons.

About four o'clock the distant murmur of the crowd began to beat against the base of the grim prison walls like the first waves of the rising tide. From the barred windows of the tower overlooking the Hue Saint Marguerite, a few prisoners saw the approaching carriages; then shrieks of pain and rage were heard, followed by cries of:”The murderers are upon us!”- cries that penetrated every nook and corner of the gloomy prison, down to the very deepest dungeon of all.

Then came an angry roar of:”The Swiss! the Swiss!” There were one hundred and fifty Swiss in the Abbaye. It had been difficult to protect them from the fury of the populace on the tenth of August. The Commune knew how intensely the people hated the sight of those scarlet uniforms; so to begin the massacre by slaughtering the Swiss was an excellent way of initiating the people.

It took about two hours to despatch them. When the last one was killed the priests were called for. The priests said that they were willing to die, but wished to first partake of the sacrament.

This desire was granted, and a respite of two hours accorded them.

These two hours were devoted to the organisation of a tribunal.

Who presided over this tribunal- Maillard.

CHAPTER CLXVII. MAILLARD.

Two hundred persons had been brutally murdered before Maillard organised this tribunal.

But one person had been spared, — the Abbe Picard.

During the massacre two other persons — Pariscot, the journalist, and La Chapelle, the king's steward — leaped from a window, only to find themselves in the midst of a committee which happened to be in session at the Abbaye. This committee made the fugitives sit down beside them, and saved them in this way; but the perpetrators of the massacre deserve no credit, for it was no fault of theirs that these two men escaped.

We have mentioned the curious document among the records at the prefecture of police, noting the appointment of Marat on the committee of surveillance. The Abbaye register, a no less interesting document, is even now stained with the blood that spurted over the members of the tribunal.

An examination of this register will show two notes recurring again and again on the margin:”Killed by order of the people;”“Acquitted by the people,” with the name Maillard below.

These notes are written in a clear, bold, steady, beautifully formed hand, as if the writer was untroubled by either fear or remorse. The last marginal note is repeated forty-three times, so Maillard spared the lives of exactly forty-three persons at the Abbaye.

While he is entering upon the duties of his new office, between nine and ten o'clock in the evening, let us follow two men who have just left the Jacobin Club, and are now walking down the Hue Saint Anne. They are the high priest and his disciple, or, in other words, Robespierre and Saint-Just.

Saint-Just, whom we saw first on the evening of his initiation at the Masonic Lodge on the Rue Platriere, — Saint-Just, with the same unwholesome complexion, — too pale even for a woman, — and the same stiff, high cravat. The pupil of a cold, hard, unsympathetic master, he now far surpasses his master in these attributes.

The master still feels to some extent moved and excited by these fierce political combats; as for the pupil, all that is transpiring seems to him merely a game of chess on a large scale where the stakes are life. Have a care, you who are playing against him, for he is inflexible, and will show the loser no mercy.

Robespierre probably had his reasons for not returning to the Duplay's that night. Saint-Just's modest lodgings doubtless seemed a safer place than his own room in which to spend that terrible night, for Saint-Just was still unknown to fame. In fact, one might almost call him a boy.

The two men reached his little room about eleven o'clock. It is hardly necessary to mention the subject of their conversation. It was the massacre, of course, — but one spoke of it with the mawkish sensibility of a philosopher of the Rousseau school, and the other with the dryness and curtness of a mathematician. Sometimes Robespierre would even weep over his victims like the crocodile in the fable.

On entering his room, Saint-Just placed his hat on a table, removed his cravat, and began to undress.

“What are you going to do-” inquired Robespierre. Saint-Just gazed at him in such evident surprise that Robespierre repeated the question.

“I 'm going to bed, of course,” replied the young man.

“Is it possible you can think of such a thing as sleep on a night like this-”

“Why not-”

“When thousands of victims are falling, or about to fall, — when to-night will be the last night on earth for so many who are still breathing, but who will have ceased to breathe ere the rising of to-morrow's sun, — how can you think of sleep-”

Saint-Just reflected a moment; then, as if this brief silence had only strengthened his former convictions, he said:”Yes, I know all that, but 1 also know that it must be a necessary evil, as you have authorised it. Suppose it were the yellow fever or one of those earthquakes by which so many people perish, — many more than will perish to-night. And yet no good results from such calamities, while in this case the death of our enemies will insure our safety; so I advise you to go home and go to bed, as I am doing, and try to sleep, — as I shall.”

As he spoke, this cold-blooded young man lay down on the bed, and merely adding:”Good-by until to-morrow!” dropped off to sleep.

He slept as long and peacefully as if nothing extraordinary was going on. It was about half-past eleven when he fell asleep, and nearly six in the morning when he awoke. When he opened his eyes it seemed to him that some one was standing between his bed and the light, and turning towards the window, he saw Robespierre.

Supposing the latter had gone home the night before, and returned, he coolly asked: -

“What brings you out so early-”

“I did not go home.”

“You did not go home-”

“No.”

“And you haven't been a-bed-”

“No.”

“Nor asleep-”

“No.”

“Where did you spend the night-”

“Standing here, with my face pressed against the window-pane, listening to the sounds outside.”

Robespierre spoke the truth. Either from fear, anxiety, or remorse, he had been unable to sleep a second.

As for Saint-Just, it had seemed as easy for him to sleep that night as any other night.

On the other side of the Seine, in the courtyard of the Abbaye prison, was a man who felt no more inclined to sleep than Robespierre. This man was standing almost concealed in shadow, in a corner of the passage leading from the prison proper into the courtyard. This passage had been converted into a court-room, and presented a singular appearance: A long table, lighted by two lamps, which were needed even in the daytime, stood in the middle of the passage. Twelve men were seated around this table, which was covered with sabres, swords, and pistols.

The stolid faces of these men, their robust frames, and the red caps and carmagnole jackets which they wore,- all showed that they belonged to the people.

Another man, making thirteen in all, who sat in their midst, was evidently the presiding officer. He was dressed in black, with a white waistcoat, and knee breeches. The expression of his face was grave, even solemn, and his head was bare.

This man was probably the only one of the party who could read and write. The prison register, together with writing materials, lay before him.

These men constituted the Abbaye tribunal. There was no appeal from the decision of these grim judges whose fiats were instantly carried out by fifty or more stalwart executioners, dripping with blood, and armed with sabres, daggers, and pikes, who were in attendance in the courtyard.

The presiding officer was ex-sheriff Maillard, of the court of the Chatelet.

Did he go there of his own accord, or was he sent by Danton- No one can answer that question. On the 4th of September Maillard disappeared, and was never even heard of again. He was drowned in blood, so to speak.

He had been presiding over this tribunal ever since ten o'clock the evening before. After selecting twelve jurors hap-hazard out of the crowd around him, he seated himself at the head of the table, with six men on his right hand and six on his left, and ordered the prison register to be placed before him.

The name of each prisoner was read in turn, and while the turnkeys summoned the prisoner, Maillard stated the grounds for imprisonment. When the culprit made his appearance, the presiding officer consulted his colleagues with a glance. If their decision was adverse, Maillard merely said:”To La Force!”

Whereupon the outer door was opened, and the condemned fell beneath the knives of the self-appointed executioners.

If, on the contrary, the prisoner was acquitted, Maillard would rise, place his hand on the prisoner's head, and say:”Let him be released!” and that prisoner was saved.

When Maillard first presented himself at the prison door, a man stepped from the crowd, and exchanged a few words with him. Subsequently, after the tribunal had been organised, the presiding officer whispered to this man:”Stand there, and when the person in whom you are interested is brought in, make a sign to me.”

So the man had been standing there silent and motionless ever since the evening before. This man was Gilbert. Hejiad sworn to Andree that she should not die, and he was trying to keep his promise.

From four to six in the morning both judges and executioners rested from their labors, and during that time wagons sent by the Commune came to remove the dead. The coagulated blood in the courtyard was three inches deep; and as this made it very slippery to the feet, and as it would take too long to clean it up, a hundred bundles of straw were brought in and spread on the pavement, after which they covered the straw with the clothing of the dead, and the garments and straw together absorbed the blood.

“While the judges and executioners were resting everything became quiet again, and the remaining prisoners began to hope that the massacre would end with the slaughter of the king's guards and the Swiss. But this hope was of brief duration. About half-past six in the morning the carnage began again.

A jailer came to tell Maillard that the prisoners were ready to die, but wished to hear Mass first.

Maillard shrugged his shoulders, but granted the request. He was engaged, just then, in conversation with a messenger from the Commune, — a slender, mild-faced man, wearing a purplish-brown suit and a small wig.

This man was Billaud-Varennes, and he addressed the executioners as follows: -

“Brave citizens, you have purged society of many great culprits! The municipal government scarcely knows how to pay its debt to you. The spoils of the dead really belong to you, but that would look like stealing; so, as an indemnity for that loss, I am instructed to offer each of you twenty-four francs, which will be paid at once.”

And Billaud-Varennes actually caused the pay for this bloody work to be distributed then and there.

We will state the reason for this remarkable display of generosity on the part of the Commune.

During the night of September 2d, some of the executioners who were without shoes and stockings went to the headquarters of the section, and asked permission to appropriate the dead men's footgear. The officials consented; but after a little, Maillard noticed that these men considered it unnecessary to ask permission, and took not only shoes and stockings, but everything else that was worth taking. Maillard protested to the Commune; hence Billaud-Varennes's little speech, and the silence with which it was received.

Meanwhile the prisoners were hearing Mass. Abbe1 Lenfant, a former chaplain of the king, read the service, and Abbe de Rastignac assisted him. They were both aged men, with benevolent countenances, and their words of resignation and faith did much to comfort and console their unfortunate auditors.

The little congregation was just kneeling to receive the benediction when the calls for victims began again, and the first name uttered was that of the officiating clergyman. He crossed himself, finished his invocation, and then calmly followed the persons who had come for him.

The second priest continued the solemn exhortation. He was the next victim summoned, and he, in turn, calmly followed those who summoned him.

The conversation of the remaining prisoners became gloomy indeed, as they discussed the probable manner of their death, and the chances of more or less prolonged torture. Some suggested reaching out their heads in order that they might be severed from their bodies at a single blow; others proposed to hold their hands behind their backs, so as to offer no resistance.

One young man exclaimed:”I '11 soon find out the easiest way,” and hastily climbed up into a turret that overlooked the scene of the massacre. When he came back, he said:”Those who are stabbed in the breast die easiest.”

Almost simultaneously, the words, “My God, I come to thee!”were heard, followed by a long sigh.

Monsieur de Chantereine, a colonel in the king's Constitutional Guards, had stabbed himself three times in the breast with a knife.

Several other prisoners took the knife and tried to kill themselves with it, but only one succeeded.

There were three women present, — two terrified young girls, who were clinging to two aged men, and a lady dressed in mourning, who was kneeling in prayer, smiling calmly as she prayed.

The two young girls were Mademoiselle de Cazotte and Mademoiselle de Sombreuil. The two aged men were their fathers. The lady in mourning was Andree.

Monsieur de Montmorin was the next person called. This gentleman, it will be remembered, was the Cabinet Minister who signed the passports by means of which the king had attempted to escape from the country; and Montniorin was so unpopular on this account that a young man came very near being killed the day before, merely because he bore the same name.

Monsieur de Moutmorin had not come to listen to the priests' exhortation, but had remained in his cell, anathematising his enemies, shouting for weapons to defend himself, shaking the iron bars of his cell, and even breaking an oak table made of boards two inches thick.

He had to be dragged before the tribunal by force, and he entered the passageway with a face pale with rage, bloodshot eyes, and fists clenched threateningly.

“To La Force!” said Maillard, promptly. The ex- minister took the words literally, and supposed he was simply to be transferred from one prison to another, so he said: -

“Monsieur President, — as it pleases you to call yourself by that name, — I hope you will have me taken there in a carriage, so I will not be exposed to the insults of your vile cut-throats.”

“Order a carriage for Monsieur le Comte de Montmorin,” said Maillard, with perfect politeness. Then, turning to Montmorin, he added:”Have the goodness to be seated while waiting for your carriage, monsieur!”

Five minutes later the carriage was announced, one of the supernumeraries having understood the part he had to play in the drama.

The fatal door opened, — the one leading to death, — and Monsieur de Montmorin passed through it; but he had scarcely taken three steps when he fell, pierced by twenty pikes.

Then came many prisoners whose obscure names are shrouded in oblivion. Then Gazette -a well-known writer, who had embraced the cause of the counter-Revolution with great enthusiasm — was called. His daughter usually acted as his secretary; and when her father was arrested she came and asked permission to share his imprisonment. If any one could be excused for entertaining royalistic sentiments it would certainly be this man of seventy-five years, whose feet were rooted in the monarchy of Louis XIV., and who, to lull the Due de Bourgogne to sleep, had composed two songs which afterwards became extremely popular.1 But though these reasons might have prevailed with philosophers, they had no influence over the slaughterers at the Abbaye. But as soon as Gilbert saw this handsome bright-eyed, white-haired old gentleman, he made a movement as if to go and meet him, and Maillard noted the movement.

Cazotte advanced, leaning on his daughter's arm; but as soon as they entered the passage, the young girl perceived that they were in the presence of their judges; so, leaving her father, she pleaded for him so sweetly and eloquently that even these stern-hearted jurors began to waver. The poor child saw that there were really hearts concealed beneath these rough exteriors, but that she must abase herself to find them, and she devoted herself to the task with her whole soul. These men, who had not known what it was to shed a tear for years, wept profusely, and even Maillard dashed away a tear from eyes that had contemplated this terrible massacre unflinchingly. At last he stretched out his hand, and laid it on Gazette's head:”Let him be released,” he said.

The daughter did not know what to think.

“Have no fears,” said Gilbert.”Your father is safe, mademoiselle.”

Two of the jurors rose and accompanied Cazotte as far as the street, for fear that through some fatal mistake death might overtake him after all.

Hour after hour passed, and still the massacre went on. Benches were brought into the courtyard for the spectators, the wives and children of the executioners being permitted to witness the bloody work. It was not enough for these butchers to be paid; they wanted to be seen and applauded as well.

About five o'clock in the afternoon Monsieur de Sombreuil was called. He was a prominent Royalist, like Cazotte, and the difficulty of saving him was the greater from the well-remembered fact that, as governor of the Hotel des Invalides, he had fired upon the populace on the fourteenth of July. Besides, his sous were in the enemy's ranks, and one had so distinguished himself at Longay that the King of Prussia had bestowed a decoration upon him.

Monsieur de Sombreuil's bearing was noble and dignified, and, like the other venerable prisoner, he advanced, leaning on his daughter's arm.

This time Maillard did not dare to order the prisoner's release; but, with an evident effort, he said:”Whether this prisoner be innocent or guilty, I think it would ill become the people to besmear their hands with the blood of so venerable a man.”

Mademoiselle de Sombreuil overheard these noble words, and drew her father out through the door, exclaiming:”Saved! saved!”

No sentence either of condemnation or acquittal had been pronounced, and two or three of the executioners put in their heads to ask what they were to do.

The jurors were silent; but at last one said:”Do as you please.”

“Then let the young girl drink to the health of the nation!” cried the wretches.

A man covered with blood, with his sleeves rolled up, and a most ferocious expression of countenance, handed Mademoiselle de Sombreuil a glass, filled, some say with blood, some say with wine. Mademoiselle de Sombreuil cried:”Long live the nation I” and moistened her lips with the liquid, whatever it may have been, — and Monsieur de Sombreuil was saved.

Two hours more passed before the cold voice of Maillard was heard, summoning Citizeness Andree de Taverney.

The sound made Gilbert's limbs tremble under him, and his heart sink. A life far more precious to him than his own was about to be lost or saved.

“Citizens,” said Maillard, "the person who is about to appear before you is a poor creature who was devoted to the Austrian woman in years gone; but the latter — ungrateful as queens are ever wont to be — repaid her devotion with treachery and ingratitude. To her friendship for the queen this poor woman sacrificed all she possessed, — her fortune and her husband. You will see that she is dressed in black; and to whom does she owe her mourning- To the prisoner in the Temple! Citizens, I ask this woman's life of you.”

The members of the tribunal made signs of assent. One man, and only one man, expressed any doubt.

“We will see,” he said.

“Very well, see, then,” responded Maillard. For at that very moment the door leading from the prison opened, and a woman dressed in black appeared. Her face was shrouded in a veil, and she advanced alone, with a firm and majestic tread. One might have taken her for an inhabitant of “that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns,” as Hamlet says.

The jurors trembled on beholding her. Advancing to the table, she raised her veil, and such marvellous yet unearthly beauty never before met the eye of mortal. She looked like a marble goddess. Every eye was riveted upon her, and Gilbert held his breath in awe.

Addressing Maillard in sweet, but icy tones, she asked.: -

“Are you the presiding officer of this tribunal-”

“Yes, citizeness,” replied Maillard, surprised that he, the questioner, should find himself thus questioned.

“I am the Comtesse de Charny, wife of the Comte de Charny, killed on that most infamous day, the tenth of August. I am also a Royalist, and a devoted friend of the queen. I richly deserve death in your opinion, and I come to claim it at your hands.”

The jurors uttered a cry of surprise. Gilbert turned pale, and drew as far back in his corner as possible, so as not to be seen by Andree.

Perceiving Gilbert's consternation, Maillard exclaimed:”This woman is not in her right mind. The loss of her husband has turned her brain. Let us take pity on her and spare her.”

He arose, and was about to place his hand on her head, as he was accustomed to do with those he declared innocent, but Andree pushed away his hand.

“I am in full possession of my senses,” she said.”If you wish to spare any one let it be some person who asks and deserves such a boon, not a person who not only does not deserve, but positively refuses it.”

Maillard turned to Gilbert, and noting his beseeching attitude, again exclaimed:”This woman is demented. Let her be released.” And as he spoke he motioned to one of the jurors to push her out through the door.

“Innocent!” cried the man.”Let her pass!” Everyone made way for her. Even the sabres and pikes were lowered before this personification of Grief. But she had scarcely gone ten steps before Gilbert, who was watching her, saw her pause, and heard her cry out: -

“Long live the King! Long live the Queen! Shame on the tenth of August!”

Gilbert groaned and rushed out into the courtyard; but he was too late. He saw a sabre flash, then, quick as lightning, bury itself in Andree’s heart.

Gilbert reached her just in time to catch her as she fell. She turned her failing eyes upon him, and recognising him, murmured, in a voice that was scarcely audible:”Love Sebastian for both of us!” Then, in still fainter tones, she murmured:”I shall lie beside him, shall I not- beside my Oliver, my husband, — for all eternity!”

And so she died.

Gilbert lifted her from the ground. Fifty blood-stained hands threatened him, but Malliard stepped up behind him, placed his hand on his shoulder, and said:”Let Citizen Gilbert pass. He is carrying away the body of a poor insane woman who was killed by mistake.”

The crowd made way for him, and Gilbert passed out of the courtyard unmolested, so great was Maillard's power over the multitude.

CHAPTER CLVIII. SCENES AT THE TEMPLE DURING THE MASSACRE.

Though bent upon organising a wide-spread massacre, and upon subjugating the Assembly through terror, the Commune watched the prisoners in the Temple with a jealous eye.

Longay had been captured by the Prussians, and Verdun was surrounded by the same army, which was consequently only about one hundred and twenty-five miles from Paris now. As the royal family were valuable hostages that might save the lives of the most deeply compromised Republicans by and by, the Communal Council promptly despatched a guard to the Temple; but well aware that no guard, however strong, would suffice to protect this prison if the populace resolved to gain possession of it, one of the commissioners hit upon the shrewd device of encircling the edifice with a tricoloured ribbon bearing this inscription: -

Fellow-citizens, you who so well understand how to combine love of public order with vengeance, respect this barrier.

Strange times, indeed, were these, when heavy oaken doors were battered in, and iron gratings demolished, and yet the populace bowed down before a ribbon! Yes; the mob absolutely knelt before that tricoloured ribbon and kissed it. Not a man stepped over it!

On the 2d of September the king and queen had no suspicion of what was going on in the city. They noticed that there seemed to be rather more confusion and disorder than usual in and around the Temple, but they were becoming accustomed to these outbreaks on the part of the populace.

The king dined at two, as usual; and after dinner went down into the garden, as was his custom, accompanied by all the members of his immediate family; and during their promenade they noticed that the clamour outside greatly increased.

One of the municipal officers who was in attendance that day whispered to a colleague, loud enough for Clery to hear:”We made a mistake in permitting them to take a walk to-day.”

It was then about three o'clock, the hour the slaughter of the prisoners began.

The only servants the king had been allowed to retain were Clery and Hue”. The unfortunate Thierry was in the Abbaye prison, and had been sentenced to be executed on the following day.

The second municipal officer agreed with his colleague in thinking they had done wrong to allow the royal family to come down into the garden, and intimated to the august prisoners that they had better go inside at once.

They did so, but they had scarcely reached the queen's room before two other municipal officers entered. One of them, a former Capuchin, named Mathieu, approached the king, and said:”Do you know what is going on, citizen- The country is in the greatest danger.”

“How can you expect me to know what is going on outside, monsieur, when I am kept shut up here, cut off from all communication with the outer world-” responded the king.

“Well, I will tell you what is going on. Our enemies have reached Champagne, and the King of Prussia is marching upon Chalons.”

The queen could not repress a movement of joy, which, rapid as it was, did not escape the official's keen eye, and he exclaimed: -

“Oh yes, we know that we shall all perish, and our wives and children as well; but you will be held accountable for it! You will die before we do, and the people will be avenged!”

“God's will be done!” answered the king, devoutly.”I have done all I could for the people, and feel that I have no cause to reproach myself.”

The same official then said, turning to Hue”, who was standing by the door: -

“The Commune has ordered me to place you under arrest.”

“Place whom under arrest-”interposed the king.

“Your servant.”

“Of what is he accused-”

“That is no affair of mine. But he will be taken away this evening, and his papers be put under seal. And yon, too, had better look out,” he added, turning to Clery;”for the same thing will happen to you if you don't walk straight.”

About eleven o'clock the next morning the king and his family were again assembled in the queen's chamber, when another municipal officer came in and ordered Clery to go over to the king's room. Here he found Manuel and several other members of the Commune. The countenance of each and every one expressed the liveliest anxiety. Manuel, as we have before remarked, was not fond of bloodshed, and there was a conservative element even in the Commune.

“What does the king think of the seizure of his valet-” inquired Manuel.

“His Majesty is greatly distressed about it,” answered Cle-ry.

“No evil will befall him,” said Manuel.”Still, I am requested to inform the king that Hue1 is not to return, but that the Commune will send some one in his place. You can apprise the king of the fact.”

“Such a task is certainly not included in the duties of my office,” replied Clery, with dignity;”so please have the goodness to excuse me from announcing to my master a fact that is sure to grieve him.”

Manuel reflected a moment.

“So be it,” he said, at last.”I will go myself.”

He did so. The king received the intelligence very calmly.

“Very well, monsieur,” he replied.”I will avail myself of the services of my son's valet. If the Council objects to that I will endeavour to wait upon myself.”

“Do you need anything-”asked Manuel.

“We need linen very much,” answered the king.”Do you think you could prevail upon the Commune to furnish some-”

“I will call their attention to the matter at once.” Then, as the king did not ask him for any news from the outside world, Manuel withdrew.

About one o'clock the king expressed a wish to take a walk, but this time the officials in charge refused to give the desired permission; so about two o'clock the family sat down to dinner. The meal was about half over when the beating of drums was heard, accompanied by the shrieks and yells of an angry mob approaching nearer and nearer to the prison.

The royal family sprang up from the table and hastened back to the queen's room.

What was the cause of all this uproar-

They were slaughtering prisoners at La Force as well as at the Abbaye, not under the superintendence of Mail- lard, but of Hubert, so the massacre was all the more terrible.

And yet it would have been much easier to save these prisoners, as there were not nearly so many political offenders incarcerated in La Force as in the Abbaye; but forty-three prisoners were spared at the Abbaye, and only ten at La Force.

Among the prisoners at La Force was the poor little Princesse de Lamballe. Our readers have made the acquaintance of this lady in the books entitled:”The Queen's Necklace,” and “Ange Pitou,” as well as in the present volume, and always in the character of the queen's devoted friend and admirer.

For this reason the populace hated her bitterly, and styled her the Queen's Counsellor. She had been the queen's confidante and intimate friend, but never the queen's adviser. This charming Savoyard, with her dainty, compressed lips and rather set smile, was capable of loving, and proved it; but an adviser,-an adviser to an arrogant, obstinate, domineering woman like the queen, she certainly never was!

The queen loved her exactly as she had loved Madame de Gue'mene', Madame de Marsan and Madame de Polignac; but being capricious and tickle in her friendships, she had probably made the princess suffer as much as her friend, as she had made Charny suffer as a lover; but, as we have seen, the lover became weary of her, while the friend remained faithful.

Nevertheless, both perished for the woman they had loved. The princess had proved her loyalty by returning from England and demanding her place by the queen's side as soon as she heard of the arrest of the royal family at Varennes, and, conducted at first to the Temple with the queen, she was very soon afterwards transferred to La Force.

She had hoped to die near the queen, — with the queen. Under such circumstances death would have seemed sweet to her; but separated from the queen her courage failed her. This woman was not of Andree’s stamp. She was positively ill with terror.

She was well aware of the intense animosity against her. Confined with Madame de Navarre in one of the upper rooms of the prison, she had seen Madame de Tourzel taken away the night before, and realised perfectly that she had only been left to die a little later.

Hiding her head under the bed-clothes, like a terrified child, whenever she heard the shrieks of the victims in the courtyard below, she relapsed into a condition of unconsciousness again and again, exclaiming, when she came to her senses:”Oh, my God! my God! I hoped I was dead!” Then she would add, sobbingly:”Oh! if one could only die as one swoons, one would not mind!”

Murder was going on everywhere, — in the courtyard, in the lower rooms, even in the cells, and the smell of blood mounted to her room like funeral incense.

About eight o'clock in the morning her door opened. Her terror was so great that she did not even speak or move as she saw two National Guards enter.

“Get up, madame,” said one, roughly.”You 're to be taken to the Abbaye.”

“I cannot leave my bed. I am not able to walk,” she faltered. Then, in a voice that was scarcely audible, she added:”If you want to kill me, you can do it here.”

“Do what I say. We want to save you,” whispered one man, while the other stood guard at the door.

“Then step outside and let me dress myself.”

Strange to say, the two men did go out, and Madame de Navarre helped the princess dress, or, rather, put her clothes on for her.

In about ten minutes the two men came in again. The princess was ready, only she was really unable to walk, as she had said. She trembled like an aspen leaf as she took the arm of the National Guardsman who had tried to encourage her, and when she found herself in the presence of Hubert's bloody tribunal, and saw the ferocious-looking executioners with their sleeves rolled up and their hands and clothing covered with blood, the poor princess fainted away.

Three times the judges attempted to interrogate her, and three times she swooned, without being able to answer a single question.

“But they wish to save you,” cautiously whispered the man who had encouraged her before.

This assurance seemed to impart a little strength to the unfortunate woman, and she murmured: -

“What do you desire of me, gentlemen-”

“Who are you-” asked Hebert.

“Marie Louise de Savoie Carignan.”

“Your business-”

“Superintendent of the queen's household.”

“Do you know anything in relation to the conspiracies of the court on the 10th of August-”

“I do not think that there were any conspiracies. If there were, I was kept in ignorance of them.”

“Swear to uphold Liberty and Equality! Swear hatred to the King, Queen, and all royalists!”

“I will take the first oath willingly; but I cannot swear to the other, because such a feeling is not in my heart.”

“Swear, swear!” whispered the guardsman, softly.”Swear, or you 're a dead woman. Swear, I say!”

As if fearing that her terror of death might cause her to utter an oath of which she was ashamed, the princess put her hand over her mouth as if to keep back words which might escape her in spite of herself.

A sort of moan was heard through her fingers.

“She has sworn!” cried her protector. Then he said, softly:”Pass out quickly through the door directly in front of you. Hurrah for the Nation as you go out, and you are saved!”

As she stepped out of the door she found herself in the arms of a man called Big Nicholas, the same who had cut off the heads of the two body-guards at Versailles; but this time he had promised to save instead of kill.

Dragging her towards a shapeless, quivering, bleeding mass, he whispered, hurriedly: -

“Shout: ' Long live the Nation.' Make haste and shout: ' Long live the Nation!'“

She would doubtless have shrieked out these words; but, unfortunately, on opening her eyes she saw in front of her a pile of dead bodies upon which a man was trampling, the blood gushing out from beneath his hob-nailed shoes as grape-juice gushes out from beneath the feet of one who treads the wine-press.

As she beheld the ghastly sight she shrank back in horror, averting her face, and exclaiming, “Shame! how horrible!”

But this cry, too, was smothered in order to save her. It is said that her father-in-law, Monsieur de Penthievre, had paid one hundred thousand francs to secure her release.

She was pushed into the narrow passageway leading from the prison to the Hue Saint Autoine; but a miserable wretch, a barber named Chariot, who had just joined the volunteers as a drummer, snatched off her cap with his pike.

Did he merely intend to pull off her cap, or did he intend to strike her in the face-

At all events, the blood flowed, and blood always calls for more blood. Another man hurled a stick of wood at the princess and struck her on the neck. She stumbled, and fell upon one knee.

There was no longer any possibility of saving her, for a shower of blows from pikes and sabres rained upon her from every side. She did not utter a single cry, for she had really lost consciousness almost simultaneously with the utterance of those last words of terror and loathing.

The princess had hardly expired — perhaps she was still alive — when these fiends rushed upon her; and in an instant every garment, even to her chemise, was stripped from her body. It was an obscene sentiment that caused her murderers to thus hastily despoil her of her raiment; they wanted to see the beautiful form to which the women of Lesbos would have rendered reverent homage.

Naked as she came into the world, she was laid upon a bench for the crowd to gaze upon. Four men stationed themselves behind this bench to wash away the blood that flowed from seven gaping wounds; a fifth pointed out the beauties which were said to have secured her royal favour, and which thus became the cause, or, at least, the indirect cause of her death.

She remained thus exposed to the public gaze from eight o'clock in the morning until noon; then, the spectators becoming weary of this scandalous exposure of the dead, a man came and cut off her head. Alas! that long neck, flexible as a swan's, offered little resistance.

Grison was the name of the wretch who committed this outrage, more heinous far than if it had been committed upon a living being. History is the most inexorable of divinities. She plucks a quill from her wing, dips it in blood, writes a name, and that name is held up for the execration of posterity 1

Subsequently, this same man was guillotined as the leader of a band of thieves.

A second man, named Eodi, opened the breast of the princess, and plucked out her heart.

It was on account of her love for the queen that the poor lady was thus mutilated. How terribly then must the queen be hated!

They placed these detached portions of the body on pikes, and started towards the Temple, followed by an immense crowd. On the way they halted in front of a hairdressing establishment. The man who had carried the head went in, and placing it on the table, exclaimed:”Dress this head for me. It is going to visit its mistress at the Temple.”

After the beautiful hair was curled the crowd again started towards the Temple, shouting and yelling vociferously.

This was the uproar the royal family heard while at the dinner-table.

The ruffians presented themselves at the Temple; but the tricoloured ribbon barred their passage. These men, these assassins, these murderers, these butchers — dared not step over a ribbon.

They asked that a deputation of six persons should be allowed to enter, and march around the town in order to exhibit these bloody trophies to the queen. The request seemed so reasonable to the officers of the prison that it was granted without discussion.

The king was playing, or pretending to play a game of backgammon with the queen; for, under the pretext of playing, the prisoners could draw nearer together, and so utter a few words unheard by the municipal officers who were in constant attendance.

All at once the king saw one of the officials, a man named Danjou, rush to the window and draw the curtain.

“What is the matter-” asked the king.

The official, seeing that the queen's back was turned, motioned the king not to question him; but, notwithstanding that windows and doors were both closed, fierce yells, insults, and threats were distinctly audible. The king perceived that something terrible was going on, and placed his hand on the queen's shoulder to prevent her from moving.

Almost at the same instant a loud knocking was heard at the door, and the official was obliged to open it, though sorely against his will.

Several officers of the guard, as well as two or three municipal officers, were standing outside.

“Is my family in danger-” asked the king.

“No,” answered a man dressed in the uniform of a captain in the National Guards;”but there is a rumour afloat that there is no one here at the tower, -that you have all escaped. Show yourself at the window, so as to satisfy the people.”

The king, not suspecting in the least what was going on, saw no reason for refusing; so he started towards the window.

“Don't do it, monsieur,” cried Danjou, suddenly, intercepting him. Then, turning to the visitors, he added:”The people ought to have more confidence in their magistrates.”

“Well, that isn't all, I admit,” retorted the man in uniform.”They want you to come to the window to see the head and heart of the Princesse de Lamballe, which they have brought here to show you, so you may know how the people treat tyrants. I advise you to go to the window. If you don't the things will be brought up here.”

The queen uttered a cry and fainted. Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale caught her as she fell.

“You might have dispensed with informing the queen of this terrible outrage, monsieur,” said the king.”See what you have done,” he added, pointing to the group of terror-stricken ladies.

But the man only shrugged his shoulders, and went out singing the “Carmagnole.”

About six o'clock Petion's secretary came to pay the king twenty-five hundred francs.

Seeing the queen standing silent and motionless, he fancied it was out of respect to him, and was considerate enough to ask her to be seated.

Madame Royale remarks in her Memoirs: -

“He did not know that ever since that terrible shock my mother had been standing rigidly erect and motionless, taking no notice of what was going on around her.”

Terror had transformed Marie Antoinette into a statue.

CHAPTER CLXIX. VALMY.

And now let us turn from these frightful scenes of carnage and follow through the defiles of Argoune one of the prominent personages of our story, upon whom the destinies of France now depend. The reader will readily understand that we refer to Duinouriez.

On resigning his position in the Cabinet, Dumouriez had resumed the duties of a general in the field, and after Lafayette's flight from France he received the appointment of commander-in-chief of the Army of the East.

This appointment really amounted to a sort of miracle of intuition on the part of those in power. Dumouriez was cordially hated by some and despised by others; but more fortunate than Danton, he had been unanimously acknowledged to be the only man who could save France.

The Girondists, who had first nominated Dumouriez, now hated him, for it will be remembered that he had driven the leading men of their party out of the Cabinet; nevertheless, insignificant as his position in the Army of the North was, they cordially agreed to his appointment as commander- in-chief.

The Jacobins, too, hated and despised Dumouriez, but they knew that military glory was this man's one ambition in life, and that he would conquer or die. Robespierre did not dare to support him on account of Dumouriez's unpopularity in the Jacobin party, but he persuaded Couthon to give him his support.

Danton neither disliked nor despised Dumouriez. He was one of those men who care little or nothing about a person's reputation, and who do not even scorn to employ vice itself, if it can be made to further their ends. Dan- ton realised the great advantages which might be derived from Dumouriez's generalship, but distrusted his reliability, so he sent two men to watch him, Fabre d'Eglantine and Westermann.

The entire armies of France were placed in the hands of a man who was known to be an intriguer. Luckner, who had proved his lack of military ability at the very beginning of the campaign, was sent to Chalons to raise recruits. Dillon, a brave and distinguished soldier who had been Dumouriez's superior in rank, was instructed to obey him. Kellermann, too, was made subservient to the orders of the man to whom despairing France was intrusting her sword, and saying:”Defend me, for I know of no one else who can do it!”

Kellermann grumbled and swore, but obeyed, though not with a very good grace. In fact, the booming of cannon, was needed to make him show himself the devoted patriot he really was.

The advance of the allied sovereigns upon Paris had been carefully mapped out and divided into a certain number of stages; but after the capture of Longay and the surrender of Verdun, the allied armies suddenly halted.

What was the reason of this-

A spectre was standing between them and Paris, — the ghost of Beaurepaire.

Beaurepaire was a veteran officer who organized and commanded the Maine and Loire Battalion. As soon as he heard that the enemy had set foot on the soil of France, he and his men hastened to the scene of action.

On the way they met a patriot deputy from their Department who was returning home.

“What news shall I take to your friends-” asked the deputy.

“Say that we are dead!” answered a voice.

No Spartan marching to Thermopylae could have given a more sublime answer.

The enemy halted before Verdun, Aug. 30th, 1792. On the 31st the city was called upon to surrender.

Beaurepaire and his men, supported by Marceau, wanted to fight to the last; but the council of defence, composed of the municipal authorities and several prominent citizens of the place, ordered a surrender.

Beaurepaire smiled disdainfully.

“I have sworn to die rather than surrender,” he said.”You may survive shame and dishonour if you wish, but I shall keep my oath. This is my final decision.”

And he blew his brains out then and there.

This spectre was as gigantic, and even more terrible than the Giant Adamastor. Now, for the first time, the allied sovereigns, who had believed the statements of the Royalists refugees, and so felt confident that France would receive them with open arms, saw their mistake.

They beheld the fruitful and populous soil of France change as if by the touch of a magic wand. Grain disappeared as if swept away by a hurricane. The armed peasant alone remained in the furrow. Those who had guns took their guns; those who had scythes took their scythes; those who had only a pitchfork took that.

The weather, too, favoured France. Heavy rains drenched the men, softened the ground, and spoiled the roads. True, the rain fell upon one army as well as upon the other, upon the French as well as upon the Prussians, only everything else combined to aid France, while everything else was hostile to Prussia.

For the Russians, the peasants had nothing but guns, scythes, and pitchforks; while for their compatriots they had a glass of wine or beer hidden away, and plenty of dry straw to spread over the ground and make a comfortable bed for the soldiers.

Many blunders were made, and Dumouriez's were not among the least of them. In his Memoirs he records them all, — his own, as well as those of his subordinates.

He had written to the National Assembly, -

“The defiles of Argonne are the Thermopylae of France; but have no fears. More fortunate than Leonidas, I shall not perish there.”

But the defiles of Argonne proved to be poorly guarded. One of them was taken, and Dumouriez was obliged to beat a retreat. Two of his subordinates missed their way, and met with heavy losses. Dumouriez himself lost his way, and narrowly escaped capture. He had fifteen thousand men, but they were so utterly demoralised that they were twice put to rout by fifteen hundred Prussians. Nevertheless, Dumouriez was the one man who did not despair; his courage and cheerfulness were unimpaired.

In writing to the Council, he said:”I will be responsible for everything;” and though he was pursued and intercepted, he nevertheless succeeded in effecting a union with Beurnonville's ten thousand men, and Kellermann fifteen thousand. Then he rallied his scattered forces, and on September 19th he was encamped at Saint Menehould with seventy-six thousand men, while the Prussian force numbered only seventy thousand.

It is true that this army often complained. The soldiers were sometimes without bread for two or three days. Then Dumouriez would go about among the men and say:”My friends, the famous Marshal Saxe wrote a book upon War, in which he claims that troops should be deprived of bread at least once a week to make them less susceptible to privation in case of need. We have arrived at that state of things already; but you are much better off than the Prussians. They go four days without bread, sometimes, and have to eat their dead horses. You have lard, rice, and flour. Make flapjacks, and Liberty will season them for you.”

There was a still greater difficulty to contend with, however.

The scum of Paris, the scum which rose to the surface on the 2d of September, had been driven into the army. The miserable scoundrels came singing the”£a ira,” and declaring that epaulettes and embroidered coats must be cast aside, and everybody and everything be placed on terms of equality. But no one paid any attention to their threats or advances. The general merely announced that a review would take place the following day.

The next day, by an unexpected manoeuvre, the newcomers found themselves surrounded by a large body of cavalry, and another of infantry, after which Dumouriez walked straight up to them, and said, imperiously: -

“You fellows, — for I will not call you citizens or soldiers or my children, — you fellows, see this artillery in front of you, and this cavalry behind you; that is to say, you are between fire and sword. You have disgraced yourselves by your crimes. I shall tolerate no thieves or assassins here, and I will have you cut to pieces at the very first sign of insubordination. If you mend your ways, and conduct yourself like the other members of the brave army into which you have had the honour of being admitted, you will find a good father in me. I know there are a number of scoundrels among you who have been sent with you to incite you to crime. Drive them from your midst yourselves, or else denounce them to me. I hold you all responsible for one another.”

And these men not only bowed their heads submissively and became excellent soldiers, and expelled the unworthy from their ranks, but, what is more, they hacked in pieces that same miserable Chariot who had struck the Princesse de Lamballe with a club, and afterwards carried her head away on the end of a pike.

Such was the condition of things while they were waiting for Kellermann, without whom nothing could be done.

On the 19th of September Dumouriez received notice that Kellermann was about five miles to the left of him, and the former at once sent him instructions to encamp the next day on the other side of the Auve, between Dampierre and l£lize. The exact location was carefully indicated.

Just as he was sending these instructions to Kellermann, Dumouriez saw the Prussian army appear on the mountains in front of him, thus proving that the Prussians were between him and Paris,-and, consequently, nearer Paris; so Dumouriez immediately sent word to Kellermann to take the heights of Valmy and Gizaucourt as his battlefield. Kellermann confounded his camping place with his battlefield, and paused on the heights of Valiny. This was either a great mistake or a daring venture on his part.

Situated as he was, Kellermann could retreat only by taking his army across a narrow bridge. He could fall back on Dumouriez's right only by crossing a marsh, in which he was almost certain to be swallowed up. He could fall back on Dumouriez's left only by passing through a deep valley or ravine where he was likely to be crushed. There was, consequently, little or no chance of escape in case of defeat.

Was that what the brave Alsatian wanted- In that case, he succeeded most admirably; for no better spot could have been found for an army that was resolved to conquer or die.

Brunswick gazed at the French with amazement, and remarked to the King of Prussia:”Those fellows have evidently made up their minds never to retreat.” Still, the Prussians believed that this army of tailors, ragamuffins, and cobblers, as the refugees called it, would take flight as soon as the German cannon opened fire upon them.

The French had neglected to order General Chazot to occupy the heights of Gizaucourt, where he could have attacked the enemy on the flank; and the Prussians, taking advantage of this oversight, at once proceeded to occupy the position themselves, and made an attack on Kellermann's corps from that point.

The morning was cloudy, and rendered even more dark by a heavy fog; but the Prussians did not care, as they knew the position of the French army. The French, at least so the Prussians supposed, were all on the heights of Valmy.

Sixty iron mouths belched forth smoke and flame simultaneously. The Prussian gunners fired haphazard, but as they were firing into a large body of troops, it did not seem necessary to aim carefully.

This was hard upon the French army, which could have made an attack with eclat, but had not learned how to wait.

Besides, at first, luck seemed to be against the French, for the Prussian shells set fire to two caissons. The drivers jumped from their horses to escape the explosion, and were arrested as deserters.

Kellermann was hastening towards the scene of the commotion, when suddenly both horse and rider went down as if struck by a thunderbolt. The horse had been shot through by a bullet; but, fortunately, the rider was unhurt. He jumped on another horse, and soon succeeded in rallying his men. It was now about eleven o'clock in the morning, and the fog was beginning to lift.

Kellermann saw that the Prussians had formed into three attacking columns, and were advancing towards the Valmy heights; so he, in turn, formed his troops into three columns, after which, riding along down the line, he shouted:”Don't fire. Wait till you can meet the enemy, man to man, then charge with the bayonet!”

Then, placing his hat with its tricoloured plume on the end of his sabre, and waving it enthusiastically in the air, he cried: -

“Long live the Nation! Forward!”

Brunswick shook his head. Had he been alone, his army would not have advanced another step; but the Prussian king was there, and was resolved upon a battle. He must be obeyed.

The Prussians advanced, silent and gloomy, crossing the space which separated them from their enemies with all the solidarity of one of the Great Frederick's corps of veterans. Every man seemed to be bound by an iron ring to the man in front of him.

Suddenly this huge serpent seemed to break in the middle; but the fragments were speedily reunited.

Five minutes later the line was again broken, only to be again brought together.

Dumouriez's artillery now attacked the flank of the column, which was no longer able to advance, as it was continually drawn back by the writhings of the main body of troops which was being riddled with grape-shot.

Brunswick saw that the day was lost, and ordered a retreat.

The king, on the contrary, ordered a charge to be sounded, placed himself at the head of his troops, and forced his brave and obedient infantry through the double fire of Kellermann's and Dumouriez's divisions; but his lines were dashed in pieces against the French lines.

A magnificent aureole seemed to encircle this young army, — the Aureole of Faith.

“I have not seen such fanatics since the religious wars!”remarked Brunswick.

They were fanatics, sublime fanatics, fanatics on the subject of liberty.

These heroes of 1792 had just begun the great conquest, — the war that was to end in the conquest of mind.

On September 20th Dumouriez saved France. The next day the National Convention was emancipating Europe by proclaiming France a republic.

CHAPTER CLXX. SEPTEMBER TWENTY-FIRST.

At noon, on the 21st of September, before the news of Dumouriez's victory reached Paris, the doors of the Riding School were thrown open, and the seven hundred and forty-nine members that composed the new assembly entered, casting questioning looks at one another as they filed slowly and solemnly into the hall.

Two hundred of these men had been members of the former assembly, and this convention was often called the assembly from force of habit.

The National Convention had been elected while the September massacres were still fresh in the public mind; so it was a rather conservative assembly, as might have been expected. In fact, it was even more than that, as there were several noblemen among its members; an ultra democratic impulse having led to a call for even servants to vote, some had nominated their masters.

Among these new deputies there were physicians, lawyers, professors, priests who had taken the oath of allegiance to the Constitution, journalists and merchants. For the most part, they were rather unsettled and wavering in their opinions. At least five hundred of them were neither Girondists nor Mountaineers, as the Republicans were styled on account of the location of the benches they occupied in the Assembly, so subsequent events were likely to determine the stand which the majority would take in this legislative body.

They were all united in one thing, however; that is, their abhorrence of those cruel September massacres, and of the Paris deputies chosen, nearly all of them from the Municipal Council, which was responsible for the atrocities then committed.

It almost seemed as if the blood shed at that time was flowing across the legislative hall, separating the one hundred or more Republicans from the rest of the Convention, for even the members of the Centre leaned towards the Conservatives, as if to avoid this bloody stream.

It must be admitted that the personal appearance of most of these so-called Mountaineers harmonised with the very unenviable reputation they had gained; for, as we have already remarked, the members of the Commune had been selected from persons in the very lowest ranks of life.

Next above the Commune in power was the famous Committee of Surveillance, which had organized the massacres.

But dominating all three organizations were three terrible countenances,-or, rather, three intensely characteristic masks, — like the heads of a hydra.

First, the cold and impassive face of Robespierre, with its parched skin tightly drawn over a narrow forehead, and its blinking eyes shaded by spectacles. His outspread hands generally rested upon his knees, reminding one of the attitude of those Egyptian figures carved from porphyry, — the hardest of all marbles, — or of a sphinx, who alone knew the watchword of the Revolution, though no one dared ask him for it.

Next came Danton, with his rugged features, his twisted mouth, his mobile countenance characterized by a sort of sublime ugliness, and his half man-like, half bull-like body. Nevertheless, Danton had the gift of awakening sympathy in the heart of nearly every one, for all felt that it was genuine patriotism that animated him, and that caused his flesh to thrill and that torrent of fiery eloquence to flow, and that his powerful hand was equally quick to strike down an enemy or lift a prostrate foe.

Near these two countenances, so entirely different in appearance and expression, was another, — which could hardly be called that of a man, for it would be impossible for any human being to attain such a degree of ugliness, but of a monster,-of Marat,-Marat with his swarthy face swollen with blood and bile, his wildly distended, glaring eyes, his big, flabby mouth gaping like that of a toad, a mouth that seemed made to belch forth insults and vituperations, and his squalid garments no better than those of his dirtiest admirer. His head was swathed in a piece of soiled linen; his hob-nailed shoes were always without buckles, and often without strings. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed his scrawny breast which was disproportionately large in comparison with the rest of his body. His narrow, greasy, crumpled black cravat disclosed the ugly tendons in his neck, which were so drawn as to cause his head to lean very perceptibly to the left side. Most of the time his coarse thick hands were clenched threateningly; in his more peaceful moods they were buried in his tangled hair.

In fact, Marat was so frightful to look upon that the first impulse of the beholder was to turn hurriedly away; but the eye could not move quickly enough to avoid seeing the words “September Second” imprinted upon his visage, after which the beholder's horrified gaze would remain riveted upon his face as upon the fabled head of the Medusa.

Such were the three men the Girondists accused of aspiring to the dictatorship.

Two other old acquaintances of ours were present: Gilbert, seated on the extreme right, between Lanjuinais and Kersaint; Billot, on the extreme left, between Thuriot and Couthon.

The members of the former Assembly escorted the members of the Convention to their seats, thus formally abdicating, and placing their power in the hands of their successors.

Francois de Neufchateau, the last presiding officer of the old Assembly, then mounted the rostrum and spoke as follows: -

“Representatives of the Nation:

“The Legislative Assembly has ceased to exercise its functions and entrusts the government to your hands.

“The object of your labours should be to give the French nation Liberty, Law, and Peace, — Liberty, without which the French people can no longer exist; Law, which is the best of foundations for Liberty; and Peace, which should be the sole end and aim of war.

“Liberty, Law, and Peace! These words were inscribed by the Greeks on the portals of the Temple of Delphi! You should engrave them upon the entire soil of France.”

Potion was chosen president of the Convention by acclamation. Condorcet, Brissot, Rabaut Saint Etienne, Vergniaud, Camus, and La Source were made secretaries. Five of the six were Girondists.

The entire Convention, with the exception of thirty or forty members, was in favour of a republic; but the Girondists, at a meeting at Madame Roland's, decided that the discussion concerning a change of government should not be opened until all the committees had been appointed.

But on the 20th of September, the very day of the battle of Valmy, other combatants were fighting a very different, but no less important battle.

Saint-Just, Lequinio, Panis, Billaud-Varennes, and several other members-elect of the Convention, were dining together at a restaurant, and resolved during the meal that the word "Republic”should be hurled at their political opponents the very next day. Collot d'Herbois agreed to introduce the motion. So Francois de Neufchateau had no sooner formally relinquished the authority to the new legislative body than Collot d'Herbois asked for the floor.

His request being granted, he said, -

“Fellow-citizens, I move that the first business of this Convention be the abolishment of royalty.”

This motion was greeted with tremendous applause, both in the hall and the galleries.

Only two persons rose to oppose the motion, and they were two well-known Republicans. They advised that the Convention wait until the wishes of the people should be formally expressed.

“What for-”demanded a poor village priest.”What is the use of discussing a question upon which we know that all parties are agreed- Kings are in the moral order what monsters are in the physical order. Royal courts are workshops of crime. The history of kings is the martyrology of nations!”

The members wondered who this concise but forcible critic of royalty could be. Only a few persons knew his name, which was Gre'goire.

The Girondists felt the blow that had been aimed at them. Could it be possible that they were doomed to follow in the wake of the Mountaineers henceforth-

Ducos, the friend and disciple of Vergniaud, shouted from his seat:”Let us frame this decree at once. It requires no explanation or introduction. The history of the crimes of Louis XVI. is sufficient explanation.”

Thus the equilibrium between the two parties was again restored. True the Mountaineers had demanded the abolishment of royalty, but the Girondists had demanded the immediate establishment of a Republic in their turn.

The Republic was not established by ballot, but by acclamation, and the measure supplied a long felt want.

It was the consecration of the long struggle the people had sustained, as their rights had now received legal recognition. The proclamation of a Republic meant the crowning of the masses at royalty's expense. It seemed as if the weight of the throne had been lifted from every breast, so much more freely did every citizen breathe.

The delusion was brief, but magnificent. It was the general belief that a Republic had been established; but instead, a lawless rebellion had just been inaugurated, so to speak.

The true, or at least the purest, Republicans — those who wished the Republic to be free from crimes, and who intended to attack the triumvirate of Danton, Robespierre, and Marat, the next day-the Girondists, were filled with joy.

To them, the Republic meant the realisation of their fondest hopes. Under Francis I. and Louis XIV. France had been a subjugated Athens; under Girondist rule they fondly believed she would become a victorious Sparta.

They held a banquet to celebrate the event at the home of Minister Roland that same evening. Vergniaud, Guadet, Louvet, Petion, Barbaroux, Gensonne', Grangeneuve and Condorcet were present. Before another year had elapsed, they were all to be guests at a much more solemn banquet; but now, they resolutely closed their eyes to the dangers of the unknown seas before them, though they could hear even now the roar of the Maelstrom in which the pilot and crew, if not the entire crew, were to go down eventually.

The thought they had so long cherished had taken upon itself a form and a name. There it stood before their eyes, — this youthful Republic which had sprung forth armed with spear and helmet, like Minerva, from the head of Jove. What more could the heart of man desire-

During the two hours spent at this solemn love feast, many noble thoughts were interchanged. These men spoke of their lives as of something which no longer belonged to themselves, but to the nation. They would even relinquish fame and renown if need be; the only thing they insisted upon preserving was their honour.

And whom did these men regard as their future leader- Who was the chief founder of this youthful Republic, and who ought consequently to be its future guide- Vergniaud!

As the banquet was about to end, he tilled his glass and exclaimed, -

“My friends, a toast!”

And when all the other guests had risen, like himself, he added,-

“To the immortality of the Republic!”

“To the immortality of the Republic!”repeated every one present.

He was about to raise the glass to his lips, but Madame Roland cried:”Wait!” and taking from her bosom a beautiful half-blown rose she scattered its petals over Vergniaud's glass, as an Athenian woman once scattered rose leaves in the goblet of Pericles.

Vergniaud smiled sadly, but drained the glass; then, turning to Barbarous who sat on his left, he whispered:”Alas! I fear this noble woman is sadly mistaken. Not rose leaves, but cypress should flavour our wine to-night. In drinking to a Republic whose feet are stained with the blood of such massacres as those of September, it is more than likely that we are drinking to our own destruction. Still, that does not matter,” he added, glancing devoutly heavenward;”were this wine my heart's blood I would still drink it to Liberty and Equality.”

“The Republic forever!” repeated all the guests in concert.

Almost at that very moment, trumpets were sounding in front of the Temple, commanding silence; and through the open windows of their chambers, the king and queen could hear a municipal officer proclaiming in stentorian tones the abolishment of royalty and the establishment of a Republic.

CHAPTER CLXXI. THE STORY OF THE MARTYR KING

.

Important events followed one another now in such swift succession, that there were few breathing places between the 21st of September, the day of the monarchy's demise, and the 21st of January, the day of the monarch's execution.

The proclaiming of a Republic by the stentorian voice of municipal officer Lubin, under the windows of the royal prison-house, naturally summons us to the Temple, wherein a king who is fast becoming a man is confined, as well as a queen who remains a queen, that virgin martyr, the Princess Elizabeth, and two poor children innocent by reason of their age, if not their birth.

The king was in the Temple. Had it been deliberately planned to immure him in that squalid abode- No. At first Potion contemplated sending Louis XVI. to the interior of France and giving him Chambord as a place of residence; in short, treating him as a sort of fainéant monarch.

If the other European monarchs had been content to play the part of mere lookers-on, and had not undertaken to meddle with the politics of France, this secluded residence in a beautiful palace, in a fine climate, in the middle of what is known as the garden of France, would certainly have been no very cruel punishment for a man who had not only his own faults, but those of Louis XIV. and Louis XV. as well, to expiate.

But there had just been a daring insurrection in the Vendee, and it was feared there might be a bold attempt at rescue by way of the Loire, and this seemed sufficient reason for the abandonment of that plan.

The Assembly then suggested the Luxembourg. This lovely palace, which had belonged to Marie de Medicis, with its gardens rivalling those of the Tuileries, was a no less desirable residence than Chambord for a fallen monarch.

But objection was made that the cellars under the palace were connected with the catacombs which had recently been found both unhealthy and unsafe; and though this may have been only a pretext on the part of the Commune, it was a very plausible pretext, and that municipal body decided upon the Temple, which had once belonged to the order of Knights Templar which had been abolished through the efforts of Philip the Fair. By this, the Commune did not mean the tower or donjon of the Temple, but the part called the palace which had formerly served as the Commander of the Knights, and subsequently as the town residence of Count d'Artois, the youngest brother of Louis XVI., and afterwards King of France.

But as Pe'tion was about to conduct the royal family there, a denunciation reached the Commune which caused a change in these plans, and Manuel was instructed to take the august prisoners to the donjon instead of to the palace. Manuel after he had inspected the place left considerably mortified, for the accommodations were not only entirely inadequate, but the apartments were untidy, even squalid, and the beds uncomfortable and alive with vermin. Still, all this came about not so much from premeditation on the part of the judges, as from that sort of fatality which seems to always weigh down a dying race.

The National Assembly had not been miserly about the expense of gratifying the royal palate, however. The king was a hearty eater. This is not said by way of reproach. It was a characteristic of the Bourbons; but unfortunately Louis XVI. seemed disposed to eat at inopportune, or at least inappropriate times. He ate, and with much apparent zest, while the slaughter was going on at the Tuileries; and during his trial his judges not only noted his unseasonable repasts with something like disgust, but, what is worse, implacable history records them in her archives.

The National Assembly made a liberal appropriation for the expenses of the king's table, and during the four months the king spent in the Temple, the expense was forty thousand francs, — ten thousand francs per month, over three hundred and thirty-three francs per day.

In the Temple, Louis had three body and thirteen table servants. His dinner consisted every day of six roasts, four entries, three varieties of sweets, and as many of fruits, claret, malvoisie, arid madeira. He and his little son drank wine. The queen and the princesses drank nothing but water.

So far as his table was concerned consequently the king had no cause to complain, but he did woefully lack fresh air and exercise and sunshine.

Accustomed to the hunting-grounds of Compeigne and Bambouillet, and the parks of Versailles and Trianon, Louis now found himself reduced to a tiny bit of dry and barren ground, whose only adornment consisted of three or four neglected flower-beds and a few stunted trees, — a disagreeable and depressing spot for one's daily promenade surely, but not as disagreeable and repulsive as the dungeons of the Inquisition at Madrid, the lead mines established by the Council of Ten at Venice, or the dungeons at Spielberg in which monarchs often incarcerated political offenders.

We are not trying to excuse the Commune, nor do we excuse the kings. We simply say that the imprisonment in the Temple was a sort of reprisal, -an ill-advised and terrible reprisal, — whereas it has been represented as a persecution, and the victim has thus been transformed into a martyr.

Meanwhile, what about the personal appearance of these personages we have undertaken to follow through all the varying phases of their lives-

The king, with his flabby cheeks and hanging lips and lumbering and uncertain gait, looked like some worthy farmer crushed by misfortune. The queen's manner was still reserved, supercilious, and highly antagonistic. In her days of grandeur, Marie Antoinette inspired love; in the hour of the downfall, she inspired devotion, but no sympathy.

Madame Elizabeth, in her white robe, symbolic truly of her purity of heart and soul, with her fair hair which was all the more beautiful now she was obliged to wear it loosely flowing and unpowdered, looked like the guardian angel of the family.

Madame Royale was not particularly interesting in spite of her youth. A thorough Austrian like her mother, — another Marie Antoinette or Maria Theresa, — she already manifested that contemptuousness and pride which characterise alike royal races and birds of prey.

The dauphin with his golden hair and fair complexion was a rather attractive child, but his blue eye was stern and bold, and his face often wore an expression unsuited to his years. He understood everything, and in a single glance he could catch any suggestion his mother wished to make to him. He was an adept, too, in all those tricks for exciting sympathy in which some children excel, so much so, indeed, that he even touched the heart of Chaumette, — Chaumette that sharp-nosed ferret, that weasel in spectacles.

“I would give him an education,” the ex-clerk remarked to him "but it would be necessary to separate him from his family so he would forget his rank.”

The officials were both cruel and imprudent, -cruel in subjecting the royal family to such unnecessarily harsh and insulting treatment, imprudent in allowing the captives to be seen in such a crushed and enfeebled condition. Almost every day the guards were changed. They came to the Temple sworn enemies to the king; they left it bitter enemies to Marie Antoinette,- but with more kindly feelings towards the king, with sincere compassion for the children, and loud praises for Madame Elizabeth.

In short, they found at the Temple instead of the wolf, the she-wolf, and their cubs, a worthy family, apparently of the middle class, with a rather haughty mother, it is true, who would not allow any one to so much as touch the hem of her robe, but no tyrant, and indeed, no trace of any.

And how did this family spend their time- Clery, who remained with the master until the last, can tell us.

The family was confined in the small tower which stood directly behind the large tower, but there was no communication between them. The small tower was square and was flanked by two turrets, and in one of these turrets was a small stairway which led from the ground floor to the roof. The tower was four stories high. The first floor was divided into an antechamber, dining-room, and a small room or closet in the turret. The next floor was divided in the same way, the larger room serving as the chamber of the queen and dauphin; the other, separated from it by a dark narrow passage, was occupied by Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale, and in order to reach the room in the turret which was nothing more or less than a toilet closet used in common by the royal family, the municipal officers, and the soldiers on guard, one was obliged to pass through Madame Elizabeth's room.

The king occupied a similar suite of rooms on the floor above. He slept in the largest; the smaller one served him as a study. There was a kitchen with a small anteroom, which was occupied at first by Chamille and Hue”, but which was closed after these faithful attendants were separated from their master.

The basement, devoted to a kitchen and scullery, had not been used for a long time.

The king always rose at six o'clock in the morning. He shaved himself, — as long as he was allowed to do so; then Clery arranged his hair and assisted him to dress; after which the king went into his study, that is to say, into a room containing the archives of the Knights of Malta, as well as a library of a thousand or more volumes.

One day the king found the works of Voltaire and Rousseau among these books, and pointed them out to Clery.”These are the men who have ruined France,” he remarked.

Every morning, when he entered this room, the king devoted five or six minutes to prayer, then he read until nine, generally from Virgil or the Odes of Horace, for he had resumed the study of Latin in order to go on with the dauphin's education.

This study was a small room, and the door was kept open, so a municipal officer, who was always in the bedroom, could look in through the open door and see what the king was doing.

The queen did not open her door until Clery came down, so that the municipal officer could not come in. Clery would then arrange the dauphin's hair, give the queen any assistance she might require with her toilet, and then go into the other room to render Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth like assistance if necessary. This time devoted to the toilet though brief was exceedingly precious, for it was Clary's only opportunity to impart any news he had been able to gather outside.

At nine o'clock the ladies and children went up to the king's rooms, where breakfast was served, during which time Clery went down to put the queen's apartments in order.

After breakfast, the king went down to the queen's room, where he spent the rest of the morning in teaching the dauphin, making him repeat passages from Corneille and Racine, giving him a lesson in geography or making him draw maps. France had been divided into departments for three or four years, and it was with the geography of the kingdom that the monarch seemed specially anxious that his son should become conversant.

Meanwhile, the queen devoted herself to teaching Madame Royale; but the lessons were often interrupted by relapses into a gloomy reverie, which frequently lasted a long time, and when this happened, the daughter would steal softly away, leaving the mother alone with her thoughts.

At noon, the ladies went into Madame Elizabeth's rooms to change their morning gowns, for at one o'clock when the weather permitted the royal family was taken down into the garden. Four municipal officers and an officer of the National Guards accompanied, or rather watched them. Clery was also present, and generally amused the prince by playing ball or pitching quoits with him.

At three o'clock, they all returned to the small tower where dinner was served. Every day, too, at the same hour Santerre came to the Temple accompanied by two aides, and carefully examined the apartments of the king and queen.

The king spoke to him, sometimes; the queen, never. She had forgotten the 20th of June and what she owed this man.

After dinner they went downstairs again, and the king played a game of piquet or backgammon with the queen or his sister, after which he stretched himself out on a lounge or in a big armchair to take a nap. Then the most profound stillness reigned. The ladies busied themselves with their work or with some books, and every one, even the little dauphin, was silent. The king passed from wakefulness to slumber almost instantaneously, and generally slept from an hour and a half to two hours. When he woke, conversation was resumed, and Clery, after giving the dauphin a lesson in writing, took him into Madame Elizabeth's room for a game of battledore and shuttlecock.

When evening came, the family gathered around the table, and the queen read something aloud to amuse and instruct the children. If the queen became weary Madame Elizabeth relieved her. The reading lasted until eight o'clock. At that hour the dauphin had his supper in Madame Elizabeth's room. The family sat in the room while he ate, and very often the king gave the children conundrums and charades to guess out of a bound volume of “The French Mercury” he had found in the library.

After the dauphin finished his supper the queen heard him say the following prayer: -

Almighty God, who hast made and redeemed me, and whom I adore, prolong the days of the king, my father, and of all the other members of my family. Protect us from our enemies, and give Madame de Tourzel strength to bear what she is enduring on our account.

Clery then undressed the lad and put him to bed, one of the younger ladies remaining with him until he fell asleep.

Every evening about that time, a newspaper vendor went down the street crying the news of the day. Clery would be on the alert and repeat the man's words to the king.

At nine the king had his supper, after which he went into the queen's room to bid the other members of the family good-night, and then returned to his own apartments where he would sit in the little library and read until midnight. After the king had gone, the ladies shut themselves up in their own rooms. One of the municipal guards remained in the narrow passage between the chambers of the ladies; the other always followed the king upstairs. There was always a change of guards at eleven o'clock in the morning, five in the afternoon, and at midnight.

This life lasted without any change, as long as the king remained in the small tower, that is, until September 30th.

The situation of the family was a most trying one, as every reader can see, and the more deserving of pity because it was so nobly borne. The bitterest enemies of royalty were softened by the sight. They came to guard an atrocious monster who had ruined France, ruthlessly slaughtered Frenchmen, and summoned foreign foes into their midst, -to guard a queen in whom the sensuality of a Messalina was combined with the depravity of Catherine Second; they saw a man dressed in gray whom they might easily have mistaken for his valet, — a man who ate and drank and slept well, who played backgammon and taught his little son Latin and geography, and helped his children solve riddles; they saw a woman, whose manner was proud and scornful, undoubtedly, but who was calm and resigned, and still beautiful, teaching her daughter to embroider, and her son to say his prayers, speaking gently to the servants and saying my friend even to an humble valet.

At first, their hearts were full of hatred. Each man came breathing vengeance, but soon they began to relent, and usually returned home in the evening with a gloomy air and bowed head.

The wife of one of these men awaited his return with great eagerness.

“Well, did you see the tyrant-” she exclaimed.

“Yes, I saw him.”

“Has he a ferocious look-”

“He looks like a retired shopkeeper in the Marais district.”

“What was he doing- Cursing the Republic-”

“He spends his time in teaching his young ones Latin, playing backgammon with his sister, and solving riddles to amuse his wife.”

“Does the wretch look as if he was tortured by remorse-”

“I saw him eat, and he eats like a man whose conscience doesn't trouble him in the least; I saw him sleep, and I bet he never had the nightmare in his life.”

Then the wife became thoughtful in her turn.

“If that is so, he can't be as cruel and wicked as people say,” she would exclaim.

“I don't believe he is either cruel or wicked; but the poor man is certainly wretched enough.”

“Poor man!” the wife would exclaim.

So the more the Commune persecuted and humiliated the prisoner, the harder they tried to prove that he was only an ordinary man, the more other men pitied one in whom they now recognised a fellow-man.

Sometimes there were unmistakable manifestations of this compassion.

One day a stone-cutter was making some holes in the walls of the antechamber, in which some heavy bolts were to be inserted. While the workman was eating his breakfast, the dauphin amused himself by playing with the tools, and the king taking the chisel and mallet from the lad handled them in such a skilful way that the mechanic looked on in amazement from the corner where he was eating his bread and cheese, and though he had shown the king and prince no respect before, now he approached cap in hand, and remarked: -

“When you go out of here you can say that you worked on your own prison-bars,” he remarked.

“Ah! but when and how shall I go out-”exclaimed the king, sadly.

The dauphin began to cry, the mason dashed away a tear, and the king dropping hammer and chisel went into his own room where he paced the floor for a long time.

One day, Clery, who was alone in the queen's room, noticed that the sentinel at the door was watching him very closely. Called elsewhere presently by his duties, Clery started to go out, but the sentinel, though he presented arms, said in a low, almost trembling voice:”You cannot pass.”

“Why not-”asked Clery.

“Because I am ordered to keep my eye on you.”

“On me- You must be mistaken.”

“Are you not the king-”

“Then you don't know the king-”

“1 have never seen him, monsieur, and I must say that if I do see him, I wish it might be in some other place.”

“Be careful,” said Clery, "speak low.” Then pointing to a door, he added, “I 'm going into that room, and you can see the king. He is sitting at a table reading.”

Clery went in and told the king what had happened, and the king rose and walked into the other room so the kind- hearted fellow could get a good look at him, and mistrusting that it was on his account the monarch had taken this trouble, the sentinel remarked to Clery:”Ah, monsieur, how kind the king is! As for me I don't believe he has done half as much harm as people say!”

A sentinel stationed at the end of the walk which served as a promenade for the royal family made a sign as if to indicate that he had some information to impart. At first, no one paid any attention to these signs, but after a little, Madame Elizabeth approached him to see if he would speak, but either through fear or respect the young man, who had quite a distinguished bearing, remained silent; but his eyes filled with tears, and lie furtively pointed to a pile of rubbish where it is quite probable that a letter was concealed.

Under pretext of finding some stones for the dauphin's quoits, Clery began to search among the rubbish; but the officials, suspecting his object doubtless, ordered him to desist, and forbade his talking with the sentinels under penalty of being separated from his master.

But all persons who came in contact with the prisoners did not show them the same compassion and consideration. Hatred was too strongly implanted in some minds to be eradicated by the sight of royal misfortunes, however patiently borne, and consequently the king and queen were often subjected to the grossest insults.

One day the officer on duty was an Englishman named James. This man stuck to the king like a leech, never leaving him for an instant. When the king went into his little study to read, the man followed him and sat down near the monarch.

“Monsieur,” said the king with his customary mildness of manner, “your comrades have usually left me quite alone when I entered this little room, which is so small that I could not possibly elude them when the door is open.”

“My comrades can do their way, and I '11 do mine.”

“But you can see yourself, monsieur, that the room is not large enough for two.”

“Then go into the larger room,” responded the official, bluntly.

Without a word the king rose and went into his bedroom. The Englishman followed and remained by the king's side until the guard was relieved.

One day the queen spoke to an official who happened to be present during the dinner hour.

“In what section do you live, monsieur-”she asked.

“In France,” he replied proudly.

“But it seems to me France is the entire country.”

“Yes, except the part occupied by the enemies you have brought into it.”

Some of the guards could not speak to any member of the royal family without using an oath or some obscene epithet.

One day a man named Turlot said to Clery, loud enough for the king to hear every word: -

“If the executioner don't guillotine this precious family soon, I '11 do it myself.”

When they went out for their promenade the royal family had to pass a number of sentinels. When the officers of the National Guard and the municipal officers passed, these sentinels always presented arms, but when the king appeared, they would either ground arms or turn their backs.

These insults were carried even further. One day a sentinel, not content with evincing his animosity in the manner above mentioned, wrote on the inside of the prison door:-

The guillotine is a fixture and awaits the tyrant Louis XVI.

This was a new idea and proved immensely popular, for soon the entire walls of the Temple, especially those of the stairways used by the royal family, were covered with such inscriptions as: -

Madame Veto has got to dance I

We must put the fat hog on short allowance.

Under the picture of a man dangling from a gallows was the inscription: -

Louis taking an air bath.

Their worst tormentors were two men who seldom or never left the Temple, Simon the shoemaker and Rocher.

Simon was a monopolist and held all sorts of offices. He was not only a shoemaker, but a muncipal official as well. He was likewise one of six commissioners appointed to superintend the work done in and around the Temple.

This man, who became notorious on account of his subsequent cruelty to the dauphin, was impudence personified. In fact, he never entered the prisoners' presence without inflicting some fresh outrage upon them.

If the valet desired anything for his master, Simon would say:”Tell Capet to ask for everything he wants at once. I can't be kept running up and down stairs just to please him.”

Rocher was equally impertinent, but he was not so bad a man. It was Rocher who had caught up the little prince at the Assembly door on the 10th of August, and placed him on the presiding officer's desk.

Originally a saddler, Rocher became a military officer under Santerre, and subsequently a sort of janitor in the Temple. He usually wore his uniform, and a big black bearskin cap, and carried a huge sabre. Around his waist he wore a belt from which dangled his big bunch of keys.

When the king desired to go out, Rocher would come to the door, but would not open it until he had made the king wait some minutes. Then, when the bolts had been drawn and the door opened, he would rush downstairs and take his stand at the end of the archway with his pipe in his mouth, and as each member of the royal family — and particularly the ladies — passed out, he would puff a cloud of smoke in their faces.

These things were done in the presence of the National Guards, who, instead of preventing them, often brought out their chairs and sat down to watch the fun, like spectators at a play.

This encouraged Kocher, who went about bragging:”That Marie Antoinette 's a proud minx, but I know how to take her down. She and Elizabeth have to bow down to me in spite of themselves. The last wicket is so low they have to stoop whenever they pass through it, and every day I give one or the other of them a puff from my pipe.”

One day the sister asked:”Why is Rocher always smoking-”

“Because he wants to, I suppose,” was the officer's answer.

In such cases of retribution or expiation, there is always some scoundrel who makes the victims drink the cup of humiliation to the very dregs. The chief tormentors of Louis XVI. were Simon and Rocher; in Napoleon's case it was Hudson Lowe. It is the cruel behaviour of these men that sanctities the victim. Would Saint Helena be Saint Helena without its red-coated jailor- Would the Temple be the Temple without Kocher and Simon-

Unhappy as the prisoners were, they still had one consolation,- that of being together.

But soon the Commune decided to separate the king from his family.

On September 26th, five days after the establishment of the Republic, one of the guards told Clery that rooms were being prepared for the king in the main tower. Much distressed, Clery repeated this sad news to his master, who received it with his usual fortitude, merely remarking:”Try to find out when this painful separation is to take place, and let me know.”

But Clery was unable to secure any further information.

About ten o'clock on the morning of the 29th of September, six municipal guards entered the queen's room, where the royal family was assembled. They brought an order from the Commune depriving the prisoners of all writing materials, and not only the room, but the persons of the prisoners were to be searched.

“When you want anything,” said the spokesman, whose name was Charbonnier, "your man can come down and make an entry in a register which will be kept in the Council Chamber.”

Neither the king nor the queen made any answer. They surrendered all the writing materials in their possession; the other members of the family did the same, even the servants following their master's example.

Then and then only did Clery learn through some remark he overheard, that the king was to be transferred to the main tower that very evening, and he told Madame Elizabeth, who at once informed the king.

Nothing unusual happened until evening, though every sound made the hearts of the prisoners throb more quickly; but the hour of parting came at last. The same officials who had visited them that morning reappeared with another order from the Commune, which was read aloud to the king. It was an order for the king's removal to the main tower.

This time the king's self-control failed him. Where would it lead, this dark and gloomy path upon which he was about entering with fear and trembling-

The farewell was long and agonising, but at last the king was obliged to follow the officials.

The authorities were so eager to inflict this fresh torture upon their captives that they could not even wait for the king's apartments to be prepared. The furniture consisted of only two chairs and a bed; the paint and paper were not dry, and this made the odour intolerable.

The king went to bed without uttering a word of complaint. Clery slept in a chair near him.

In the morning Clery assisted the king to dress as usual; then he started to return to the small tower to dress the dauphin, but he was stopped by an official named Viron, who said to him, “You are to hold no further communication with the other prisoners. The king will not see his children again!”

This time Clery had not the courage to tell his master.

At nine o'clock, Louis asked to be conducted to his family as usual.

“We have no such orders,” responded the commissioners.

The king insisted; but they gave him no other answer.

Half an hour afterwards, two officials came in, followed by a waiter from a neighbouring restaurant bringing some bread and a glass of lemonade.

“Am I not to eat with my family, gentlemen-” asked the king.

“We shall have to await further orders from the Commune,” answered one of the men.

“But if I cannot go down, won't you allow my valet to go- He waits on my son, and I hope nothing will prevent him from still caring for the lad.”

The king asked this favour so simply and with such an, entire absence of animosity, that the officials were amazed, and did not know what to say in reply; so they went away again, declaring that the decision did not rest with them.

Clery stood near the door, watching his master with profound sorrow. He saw the king break the bread which had been brought him into two pieces. One of these pieces he offered to Clery.

“They seem to have forgotten your breakfast,” he remarked.”Take this, the other half will suffice for me.”

Clery refused, but as the king insisted, the valet finally took the bread; but he could not help bursting into tears, and the king also wept.

About ten o'clock an official came in with some workmen who were making some much needed repairs in the rooms. Approaching the king with an expression of compassion on his face, this official said:”I was present when your family breakfasted, monsieur, and I take it upon myself to assure you that they are all in good health.”

The king experienced a feeling of relief. The man's sympathy, too, did him good.

“I thank you,” he said gratefully;”and I beg you will say to my family that I, also, am well. I wish to ask, too, if I cannot have some books I left in the queen's room- If I can, you would confer a great favour by bringing them to me.”

The official was perfectly willing to comply with this request; but not knowing how to read, he was in a rather unpleasant predicament. He finally acknowledged this fact to Clery, however, and asked him to go down with him and select the books.

Clay was only too glad, as he would thus be able to give the queen some information concerning her husband.

Clery found the queen in her chamber with Madame Elizabeth and the children. The ladies were weeping. The little prince, too, had been crying; but the tears of children are soon dried.

Seeing Clery enter, the child ran up to him, exclaiming:”Here's my good Clery at last.”

Unfortunately Clery could say very little, the guards who had accompanied him being in the room; but the queen could not control herself, and addressing herself directly to the officials, she exclaimed: -

“Oh, gentlemen, even if we are not allowed to remain with the king, can't you grant us the favour of seeing him for a few minutes every day, say at meal time-”

The others did not speak, but clasped their hands beseechingly.

“Gentlemen, let my father come back to us, and I will pray the good God to bless you,” sobbed the dauphin.

The officials glanced at each other but made no reply, and this silence made the women weep and sob still more bitterly.

“Oh, well, it certainly can't do any great harm for them to dine together to-day!” exclaimed the man who had spoken so kindly to the king.

“But how about to-morrow-”asked the queen.

“Of course we must be governed by the orders of the Commune, madame. To-morrow, we will see what the Commune says on the subject. Isn't this your opinion, too, citizen-”he asked, turning to a colleague.

The other nodded his assent.

The queen and the princesses uttered a cry of joy. Marie Antoinette took her children in her arms and pressed them to her heart. Madame Elizabeth lifted her clasped hands to Heaven in devout thankfulness. This unexpected happiness which found expression in sobs and tears seemed almost like grief.

One of the officials could not restrain his tears, and even Simon exclaimed: -

“I do believe these good-for-nothing women are going to make me cry!”

Then turning to the queen, he added, -

“You didn't cry like that when you had the people slaughtered on the 10th of August.”

“Ah, monsieur, the people are mistaken in regard to our feelings,” said the queen.”If they knew us better they would weep over us, like this gentleman here.”

Clery took the books the king had asked for, and hastened off to report this good news, but the municipal officers were in almost as great a hurry as Clery. It is so delightful to do good.

Dinner was served in the king's room. The other members of the family were conducted there, and one would have supposed it was a fete day, and that these poor prisoners had gained everything by gaining a single day.

They had gained a good deal as it proved, for after that nothing more was said about any order from the Commune, and the king continued to take his meals with his family and spend the greater part of the day with them.

CHAPTER CLXXII. MASTER GAMAIN REAPPEARS.

On the morning of the same day that these events occurred at the Temple, a man wearing a red cap and carmagnole jacket, and leaning on a crutch, presented himself at the State Department.

Roland was the most accessible of officials. Nevertheless, he was obliged to have ushers in his antechamber, just as if he were the minister of a king instead of being the secretary of a republic.

The man with the crutch was, consequently, stopped in the antechamber by an usher, who inquired his business, and whom he desired to see.

“I want to see the citizen minister,” said the man.

It was now about a fortnight since the titles of “citizen” and “citizeness” had been substituted for those of “monsieur” and “madame.”

Ushers will always be ushers, -that is to say, rather impertinent fellows, — so this one replied in a rather patronising tone, -

“My friend, you will have to learn one thing, and that is, the citizen minister is not to be interviewed in this way.”

“But how, then, is a man to get a word with him-”

“One can see him when one has a letter of introduction or a written appointment,” responded the usher.

“I know it was as you say during the reign of that tyrant, but under Republican rule, and when all men are equal, things ought to be very different, it seems to me.”

This remark set the rather officious usher to thinking.

“You see,” continued the man with the crutch, “it’s not very pleasant to come from Versailles to do a minister a service, and then not be allowed to sec him.”

“You say you came to do Minister Roland a service-”

“I should say so.”

“And what is the nature of the service-”

“I have come to inform him of a conspiracy.”

“Good heavens! we've more conspiracies on hand now than we can attend to. Did you come from Versailles just for that-”

“Yes.”)

“Then you can go back to Versailles.”

“Very well, I will; but I tell you the minister will repent of it, if he don't see me.”

“But the rules have to be observed, you see. Write to him, and then, when you get his letter granting you an interview, come back.”

“That's your final decision, is it-”

“That's my final decision.”

“It seems to be more difficult to get a word with Citizen Roland than it used to be to obtain an interview with his Majesty Louis XVI.”

“What is that-”

“Oh, I know what I 'm talking about. There was a time when I could visit the Tuileries whenever I chose.”

“You-”

“Yes; I had only to give my name at the door.”

“Who are you, may I ask- King Frederick William or the Emperor Francis-”

“No, I 'm no tyrant, or slave-driver, or aristocrat. I am plain Nicholas Claude Gamain, master of masters, though I do say it as oughtn't to say it.”

“Master of what-”

“Of the art of lock-making. Is it possible you never heard of Nicholas Claude Gamain, — Citizen Capet's old teacher at the locksmith's trade-”

“What, citizen, you are the man -”

“Yes, the very man.”

“Then it's an entirely different matter.”

“What do you mean by that-”

“I mean, if you will write your name on a slip of paper I '11 take it in to the minister.”

“Write my name I Well, writing wasn't my forte even before those wretches poisoned me; but now it's even worse. See what their arsenic did to me.”

And Gamain called attention to his twisted limbs, his distorted spine, and his fingers, crooked and stiff as claws, from rheumatism.

“What! did they serve you in that way, my poor fellow-”

“Yes, they did. And that is what I want to tell the citizen secretary; that, and several other things. As they say the rascal is to be brought to trial, perhaps what I've got to tell will help the nation a little. It certainly can't do any harm under the present circumstances.”

“Very well, be seated, and I '11 send your name in to the citizen minister.”

So the usher wrote as follows: -

Claude Nicholas Gamain, formerly master locksmith to the king, desires an immediate audience with the citizen secretary, as he has several important disclosures to make.

He handed this paper to one of his colleagues whose business it was to announce visitors, and in five minutes Gamain was ushered into the office, — not of the nominal minister, Citizen Roland, but of the real minister, Citizeness Roland. It was a small room, hung with green paper, and lighted by a single window, in the embrasure of which stood a small desk at which Madame Roland was hard at work.

Roland himself was standing by the fireplace. The master locksmith had never been very prepossessing in appearance, even in his days of health and prosperity; and now, when the usher closed the door behind him, never did an honest man, — and if any person ever deserved that title it certainly was Roland, -never did an honest man find himself face to face with a more repulsive-looking, low-lived scoundrel.

Roland's first feeling was one of intense repugnance, as he surveyed his visitor from head to foot; but noticing how the man tottered on his crutches, it was in a tone of pity that he finally said: -

“Sit down, citizen. You seem to be suffering.”

“I should think I was suffering,” grunted Gaimin.”I have been ever since that Austrian hussy poisoned me.”

An expression of disgust passed over Roland's face as he heard these words, and he exchanged glances with his wife, who was partially hidden from view in the alcove.

“Was it to denounce the perpetrator of that crime you came here-” asked Roland.

“That crime and others.”

“Can you furnish any proofs of the truth of your allegations-”

“As for that, you 've only got to go with me to the Tuileries, and see the closet.”

“What closet-”

“The closet where that scoundrel kept his valuables. Oh, I might have known some deviltry was going on when that Austrian wench said to me, in that wheedling way of hers: ' You must be tired, Gaimin; take this glass of wine. It will do you good.' I might have known the wine was poisoned.”

“Poisoned-”

“Yes. I might have known that men that help kings to hide their treasures wouldn't be allowed to live long afterwards,” added Gamain, with an expression of intense hatred on his face.”The closet I 'm speaking of is a secret closet built in the wall in which Citizen Capet hid a lot of his money and papers.”

“But how did you come to know anything about the existence of this closet-”

“Because I was sent for — me and my apprentice — to come from Versailles, and fix a lock that the king had made, but that wouldn't work.”

"But this closet was probably broken open and plundered on the 10th of August.”

“Not much danger of that,” responded Gamain, sententiously.

“Why do you say that-”

“Because I '11 defy anybody in the world but him and me to find it -much less to open it.”

“Are you sure-”

“Sure and certain.”

“When did you and the king make this closet-”

“I can't say exactly; but it was more than a year before he ran away. Capet sent to Versailles for me. My wife didn’t want me to go. She had a presentiment. She says to me: ' The king 'a in a bad fix, and you '11 get yourself into trouble if you have anything more to do with him.' But I says to her, says I: ' When he sends to me about a matter connected with my trade, why, I 've got to go, as he 's a pupil of mine -'“

“In short, my friend, you came to Paris in spite of your wife's advice.”

“Yes, but 1 'd have done much better if I had listened to her. I shouldn’t have been in this fix if I had. But they shall pay for it.”

“Try not to detain me any longer than you can help, my friend. All my time belongs to the nation, and I haven’t a minute to waste.”

“Well, he showed me a secret lock that wouldn’t work. He had made it himself, which shows that he wouldn't have sent for me at all if he could have helped it — the traitor! And he says to me: ' Why don't it work-' says he, and I looked at it, and says I to him: ' Do you know why this lock won't work-' 'No,' says he; ' if I did, I shouldn't ask you.' ' Well, it don't work, Sire,' says I, — they called the scamp Sire in those days, you know,-1 it don't work because it don't.' And then I showed him why it wouldn't. It was plain enough, but I don't expect I can make you understand, because you don't know as much about lock-making as the king does, — but it wouldn't work because the projection on the key pressed so hard on the beard of the lock that the spring could only go half way around the circle. You understand, don't you- You see, the width of the beard being six lines, that of the shoulder should have been only one line.”

“I see,” said Roland, though he really did not understand a single word of the explanation.

“Says the king, — you know they still called the infamous tyrant that in those days, -' Upon my word, that's so. Well, Gamain, please do what I don't know how to do half as well as you do, my master.' ' And not your master only,' says I, ' but master of masters, master of all!'“

“Well-”

“So I set to work; and while I worked Capet talked with my assistant, whom I have always suspected of being an aristocrat in disguise. When I came downstairs, bringing the iron door with the lock fitted into it with me, the king said: ' Now, Gamain, come with me.' He led the way, and I followed him. He took me first into a bedroom, and from there into a dark passage leading into the dauphin's room. It was so dark we had to light a candle. ' You hold the candle, Gamain, so I can see,' the king says to me. Then he raised a wooden panel, and behind it I saw a round hole about two feet wide. Then, seeing my surprise: ' It's a safe I 've made to keep my money in,' says he; 'and now I want it closed with this iron door.' ' It won't take long to do that,' says I, ' for the hinges are on already.' So I hung the door, and didn't have a bit of trouble doing it. It seemed to shut itself almost. Then we put the panel back, and so good-night. Not a single sign of closet, door, or lock could you see.”

“And you think the king took all this trouble merely to make a safe place to keep his money in-”

“Oh! that was only an excuse. He tried to fool me, but I was too smart for him. He says to me: ' Now help me count the money I'm going to put in the closet.' So we counted two millions in double louis; bat all the while we were doing it I watched his valet putting in pile after pile of papers, and says I to myself: ' This closet was made to hide papers in. This talk about money is all bosh.'“

“What do you think, Madeleine-”asked Roland, bending over his wife so Gamain could not hear what he said.

“I think this is a very important disclosure, and that not another moment should be lost.”

Roland rang, and an usher appeared.

“Is there a carriage here-” asked the minister.

“Yes, citizen.”

“Have it brought to the door at once.”

“So you've had enough of me,” said Gamain, rising. The words were uttered in a very surly tone.

“Why do you think so-”

“Because you 've called your carriage. Government ministers must have their carriages, even under a republic, it seems.”

“Ministers will always have carriages, my friend,” replied Roland, "not as a luxury, but simply as a matter of economy.”

“Economy!”

“Yes, to save time, the most precious thing in the world.”

“Then I will have to come again, I suppose.”

“What for-”

“To show you where the safe is.”

“That will not be necessary. I have ordered the carriage so we can go there now.”

“Where-”

“To the Tuileries.”

“That's all right, then.”

“But how about the key-”asked Roland.”It isn’t at all likely that the king left it in the door.”

“Of course not. He ' amp; not such a fool as he looks.”

“Then you had better take your tools with you.”

“What for-”

“To open the safe.”

“What do you call that-” exclaimed Gamain, drawing a key from his pocket.”I studied that lock well, feeling sure I should want to get into that closet some day.”

“The man is a scoundrel,” Madame Roland whispered to her husband.

“Then you think -”

“I think that in our present situation we have no right to refuse any information fortune sends to help us to a knowledge of the truth.”

“Here it is!” exclaimed Gamain, twirling the key.

“And do you think,” asked Roland, with a disgust he could not wholly conceal, “that a key made from memory, after a lapse of eighteen months, will open that door-”

“At the very first turn, I hope. A man isn’t master of masters for nothing.”

“The citizen minister's carriage is ready,” said an usher.

“Shall I accompany you-” asked Madame Roland.

“Yes, if there are any papers I shall intrust them to you. You are the most honest man of my acquaintance. Come, my friend,” he added, turning to Gamain.

Gamain followed them, muttering between his teeth:”Didn't I say I 'd pay you some day, you Capet-”

Pay him for what-

For the king's kindness to him, of course.

CHAPTER CLXXIII. THE RETREAT OF THE PRUSSIANS.

While Gamain's key made from memory opens the iron safe with marvellous ease; while the closet yields up the papers intrusted to its keeping, — papers which, in spite of the absence of those confided to Madame Campan by the king himself, are to have a fatal influence over the destiny of the prisoners in the Temple j and while Roland examines these documents one by one, vainly searching for some proof of Danton's alleged treachery, — while all this is going on, let us see what the ex-minister of justice is doing.

We call Danton an ex-minister because, as soon as the Convention was fairly organised, he had no alternative but to tender his resignation.

So he mounted the rostrum, and said:”Before expressing my opinion in regard to the first decree of this Convention, permit me to resign the functions bestowed upon me by the Legislative Assembly. I received them amid the roar of cannon. Now, a union of our forces has been effected, and the organisation of our nation's representatives has likewise been accomplished; consequently, I am now merely a representative of the people, and it is in that character I now speak.”

To the words, “A union of our forces has been effected,” Danton might have added, “and the Prussians have been defeated,” for this speech was made on the 21st of September, and it was on the previous day that the battle of Valmy had been fought, though Danton was not yet aware of the fact.

So he contented himself with saying:”Let us dispel, once for all, those phantoms of dictatorship that so alarm the people. Let us declare, here and now, that there can be no Constitution but such an one as the people are willing to accept. Up to this time we have endeavoured to arouse the people against tyranny. Now let the laws be made as terrible against the persons who violate them as they have been annihilating to tyranny. Let every criminal be punished. And let us declare that the rights of property, territorial, industrial, and personal, shall be sacredly and permanently maintained.”

With his accustomed shrewdness, Danton had detected and allayed the two principal sources of uneasiness Frenchmen feared for, — their liberty and their property.

And, strange to say, who was most solicitous concerning the rights of property, do you suppose- The new proprietors, those who had purchased property a day or two before, and still owed for three-fourths of it. These were the people who straightway became more conservative than the old landed proprietors. The nobility prized their lives far above their ancestral domains, — the fact that they abandoned their estates to save their lives proves this conclusively; whereas the peasant or the purchaser of confiscated property prized their bit of ground far above life itself, and stood guard over it, musket in hand. In fact, nothing in the world would have induced them to leave it.

Danton understood this, and realised the necessity of reassuring not only present property-holders, but those who were likely to own property in the years to come; for the one great idea of the Revolution was embodied in the following paragraph: -

“All Frenchmen should be property owners, not that the possession of property makes men better morally, but it makes them better citizens by inspiring them with a feeling of their independence.”

The spirit of the Revolution is also admirably summed up in some other words uttered by Danton.

“Guarantee the abolishment of every sort of despotism, and the sacredness of all rights of property. In other words, a man has a right to govern himself; consequently, a man has a right to preserve the fruits of his industry.”

And who said all this- The man who bears the odium of June 20th, August 10th, and September 2nd, — the god of tempests, who now takes upon himself the duties of a pilot by throwing out those two anchors which are the safeguard of nations, — Liberty and Property.

The Girondist could not understand this; those honest Girondists who had taken a strong dislike to the fickle Danton, for had they not seen him refuse the dictatorship at the very moment he was begging for it in order to prevent the massacre-

The Convention finally passed two resolutions; namely:

“No Constitution can be considered valid until it has been accepted by the people.

“The nation is responsible for the safety of life and property.”

The next day the news of the victory at Valmy reached Paris, and caused general rejoicing. It was considered a much more decisive triumph than it really was, and as a natural consequence, the country's mood suddenly changed from abject fear to sublime audacity. The clubs belched forth blood and thunder.

“If the King of Prussia was conquered, why was he not bound and cast into prison, or at least driven back across the Rhine-” men cried, angrily.

Then, in lower tones, they added:”It is very evident that Dumouriez has betrayed us. He was bribed by the Prussians, unquestionably.”

Dumouriez was already receiving the usual reward for a great service, — ingratitude.

But the King of Prussia did not consider himself beaten, by any means. He had attacked the heights of Valmy, and had not succeeded in taking them, that was all. Neither army had been driven from its position. Before, the French had been continually losing ground; this time the French had merely held their own. The loss of life was about equal on both sides.

So vehement was the demand for a great victory that the real facts of the case could hardly be revealed to Paris and France; but Dumouriez reported them to Danton through Westermann. The Prussians had suffered so little, and were still so far from being beaten, that twelve days after the battle of Valmy they were still in possession of the same camp.

Dumouriez wrote to ask if he should treat with the King of Prussia in case any such overtures were made. There were two replies: one from the ministry, — the tone of which was arrogant, even supercilious; the other, emanating from Danton personally, was calm, and eminently judicious, even polite in tone.

The ministerial communication was a lordly document, declaring: -

“The Republic will not treat with its enemies while they remain within its borders.”

Danton's letter said: -

“If the Prussians will consent to evacuate our territory, you are at liberty to make any terms you can with them.”

But no negotiations were likely to prove successful in the Prussian monarch's present frame of mind; for about the same time that the news of the victory at Valmy reached Paris, the news that the monarchy had been abolished and a Republic established in its stead reached Valmy, and the King of Prussia was furiously angry.

The invasion of France had been undertaken with a view to rescuing the king; but the sole results thus far had been the king's imprisonment, the massacre of the Royalists, and the abolishment of the monarchy. All this had excited Frederick William's wrath to a pitch of positive fury, and he was resolved to fight, come what might. Accordingly, he gave orders for a bloody battle on the 29th of September.

So it will be seen that he had no intention of evacuating French territory.

But on the 29th there was a conference instead of a battle. t

Dumouriez was prepared at all points. Brunswick, though bold in speech, was exceedingly prudent indeed, being much more of an Englishman than a German. He had married the sister of the Queen of England, so he was much more inclined to heed the advice of England than Germany. If England wanted to fight he was ready to fight with both hands, with one hand for England, and with the other for Prussia; but if England, his real mistress, did not intend to unsheathe her sword, he was more than willing to sheathe his.

On the 29th of September Brunswick received letters from England and Holland, refusing to join the coalition. Moreover, Custine was marching along the Rhine, threatening Coblentz, and if Coblentz was taken, the door for Frederick William's return to Prussia would be closed.

Then there was another still more potent factor in the case. The Prussian king had a lady love, -the Countess von Lichtenau. She had followed the army after the fashion of the day, and, like Goethe, who was scribbling the first scenes of his “Faust” in one of the Prussian monarch's army waggons, she had thought this would be a delightful pleasure-trip; besides, she wanted to see Paris.

But the countess stopped at Spa; and while there she heard of the defeat at Valmy, and of the peril that threatened her royal lover. There were two things that this beautiful countess was terribly afraid of, — the bullets of Frenchmen, and the smiles of Frenchwomen. So she wrote letter after letter, and the postscripts of these letters, that is to say, the substance of all she had written, was:”Come back! come back!”

The Prussian king lingered merely because lie was ashamed to abandon Louis XVI.; so Danton lost no time in sending him, through Westermann, certain orders of the Commune which would seem to indicate that the royal prisoners were very well treated. As this satisfied the King of Prussia, it is evident that he was not hard to please. His friends declare, however, that before he decided to return to his native land, he made both Danton and Dumouriez promise, upon their word of honour, that they would save the French monarch's life; but there is nothing to verify this assertion.

On the 29th of September the Prussian army began its retreat and marched one league. The next day it marched another league.

The French army acted as a sort of escort for it, as if doing the honours of the country to their foreign guests. Whenever the French soldiers wanted to make an attack, or to cut off the enemy's retreat, Danton's men prevented it.

If the Prussians would only leave France, that was all Danton asked. On October 22ud this desire was fulfilled.

On November 6th the cannon of Jemmapes announced the verdict of Heaven upon the French Revolution. It was no longer a failure.

The next day, November 7th, the trial of the king was virtually begun by the introduction and passage of a motion for his prosecution.

A similar thing had occurred six weeks before, when the Republic was proclaimed the very day after Dumouriez had gained the battle of Valmy; so each victory had its celebration, so to speak, and helped France one step farther along on the revolutionary pathway.

This time it was a terrible step. The end towards which the people had been marching blindly for three years was near now, and the distinctly-defined outlines of objects which had heretofore been seen only in masses, were now becoming visible. And what did one perceive in the horizon- a scaffold, and at the foot of the scaffold a king.

A time, too, had come when the base instincts of hatred, revenge, and destruction could no longer be held in check by the noble sentiments of superior minds. Even a man like Danton, who had assumed the responsibility of the bloody days of September, was now accused of being the chief of the Indulgents, and even the members of the Convention, or, at least, only a few of them, could understand that it was royalty, or rather royalism, not the king, that they ought to attack.

Royalty was a gloomy abstraction, a threatening and dangerous mystery, with which the people wanted nothing whatever to do, — an idol, gilded without, but, like the whited sepulchres of which Christ speaks, full of dead men's bones, and uncleanness within.

But the king himself was something entirely different. Louis XVI. had not been a particularly interesting personage in the days of his prosperity; but now his nature had been purified by misfortune, and broadened by captivity. The ennobling influences of adversity had been so marked in his case that even the queen revered and almost adored this man whose plebeian tastes and appetites had so often brought the blood to her face in days gone by. It cannot be said that she really loved him, however, for her poor broken heart had lost all the love it ever contained, like a leaking vase which had lost the liquid it once held, drop by drop.

One day the king found the queen engaged in sweeping a room in which the dauphin was lying ill. He paused on the threshold, and letting his head droop upon his breast, said, with a sigh: -

“What an occupation for a queen of France! Who would have believed I should bring such misery upon you by linking your destiny with mine!”

“And do you count as nothing the honour of being the wife of the best and most persecuted of men-” answered the queen.

Marie Antoinette said this without noting the presence of any witness, — not knowing that a poor valet would gather up these words like so many black pearls to form a diadem, not for the brow of a king, but of a condemned prisoner.

Another day the king saw Madame Elizabeth biting off — for want of a pair of scissors — the thread with which she was mending the queen's gown.

“My poor sister!” he exclaimed.”What a contrast between your present surroundings and the pretty mansion at Montreuil, where you wanted for nothing!”

“Ah! my brother, can I regret anything when I am permitted to share your misfortunes-” answered that saintly woman.

Royalty was smitten unto death, but the imprisoned king had become endowed with a dignity that inspired reverence in the brains of not a few men, though this idea was so unpopular they dared not give utterance to it even in the most guarded manner.

“The people need salvation, but they do not need vengeance,” Danton said at the Cordeliers Club.

“I wish the indictment could be drawn up, not against Louis XVI.,” said Thomas Paine, “but against the entire race of monarchs. We have one of them in our power. He will be of service to us chiefly in putting us on the track of danger elsewhere. Louis XVI. is chiefly useful in demonstrating the necessity of revolutions.”

Lofty minds like Paine's and Danton’s and Gre’goire were thoroughly agreed on this point. Not 'one king, but all kings should be indicted, and Louis XVI. should be held as a witness.

Republican France, that is to say, a nation that had attained its majority, should proceed; not only in her own name, but in the name of the nations still under the sway of royalty; that is, under age. Suppose a public prosecution had been begun against Catherine II., -the murderess of her husband, the plunderer of Poland I Imagine that Pasiphae of the North chained to the pillory of public opinion, and what the result would have been!

CHAPTER CLXXIV. THE INDICTMENT.

The papers in the iron safe opened by Gamain, upon -whom the Convention conferred a pension of twelve hundred francs a year for his services, and who died, tortured by rheumatism, after regretting a thousand times that he could not perish on the guillotine, to which he had helped to send his royal pupil, — these papers, to the great disappointment of the Rolands, contained no evidence against either Danton or Dumouriez.

They were very compromising to the king and the priesthood, however, showing, as they did, an exceedingly mean and ungrateful spirit on the part of Louis XVI., who seemed to specially dislike those who tried to save him; namely: Necker, Lafayette, and Mirabeau. Against the Girondists he seemed to have nothing whatever to say.

The discussion began on the 13th of November. Who opened this discussion- Who had constituted himself the sword-bearer of the Mountaineers, as the Extremists were now called-

A young man only twenty-four years old; sent to the Convention before he attained the required age, but whom we have met several times already in the course of this story.

He was from the department of the Aisne, and had recently made his first appearance in public at the Jacobin Club, under the auspices of Robespierre. He was the son of an old soldier who had received the cross of the Order of St. Louis, and the accompanying title of Chevalier for thirty years of faithful service.

Sent to Rheims to study law, his progress was not very creditable; but he wrote a good many poor verses, as well as a more ambitious poem, modelled after “a Pucelie” and "Orlando Furioso,” which, had proved a complete failure in 1789, but which was republished with greater success in 1792.

He left his native province and came to Paris to interest Camille Desmoulins in his behalf, — that brilliant journalist who held the future of so many unknown poets in the hollow of his hand.

Camille, a thorough Bohemian, full of genius, wit, and verve, received a visit one day from an arrogant and conceited youth, whose slow and measured words fell, one by one, like drops of ice-water percolating through a rock. His blue eyes were cold and stern, and overshadowed by black eyebrows. His complexion was as chalky in its whiteness as when we met him on the occasion of his initiation into the Order of the Enlightened Ones.

His sojourn at Rheims had perhaps given him that scrofulous malady which kings once pretended to be able to cure by a touch on the day of their coronation. His chin was almost concealed from sight by the enormous cravat he wore round about his throat, although it was then the fashion to wear one's cravat loose and flowing, as if to afford the headsman every facility for reaching the throat. His body was as rigid as that of an automaton, and his forehead so low that his hair seemed to grow down almost to his eyebrows, while his curt, concise language was the language of precept and command.

In short, a person better calculated to arouse Camille Desmoulins's antipathy could hardly be imagined.

The young man read his verses to the famous journalist, and among other things, curtly remarked that the world had been empty since the time of the Romans.

Desmoulins thought the verses very poor. The sentiment seemed to him mawkish, the philosophy absurd, and he openly sneered at the versification; so the poet-philosopher returned to the solitudes of Blerancourt, "where, like Tarquin,” as Michelet says, “he took to decapitating poppies with a switch, imagining one a Danton, and another a Desmoulins.”

His opportunity came at last; for an opportunity never fails to come to some men.

His native village or town of Blerancourt was in danger of losing a certain business upon which its means of livelihood largely depended; and though the young man had no acquaintance with Robespierre, he wrote to him, imploring him to support this local measure, and offering to give up his little estate, — all he possessed in the world, — to be sold for the benefit of the nation.

The very traits that had excited Desmoulins's mirth and derision set Robespierre to thinking. The result was, he sent for the youthful fanatic, studied him carefully, and finally concluded that he was of the stuff of which successful revolutionists are made; and through his influence with the Jacobins he secured the youth's election to the Convention, though he had not attained the required age. The chairman of the Electoral Committee, Jean de Bry, protested, sending, with his protest, the baptismal certificate of the member-elect, who was only twenty-four years and three months old; but at Robespierre's instigation this protest was ignored.

It was in this young man's lodgings that Robespierre had taken refuge on the night of September 2nd. It was this young man who had slept soundly, though Robespierre could not close his eyes. In short, this young man was Saint-Just.

“Saint-Just,” Camille Desmoulins remarked to him one day, “do you know what Danton says about you-”

“No.”

“He says you carry your head as carefully as if it were the Holy Eucharist.”

A sarcastic smile flitted over the young man's rather effeminate lips.

“Well, I '11 make him carry his head as Saint-Denis did his,-in front of him,” he retorted; and he kept his word.

When Saint-Just made his speech in favour of the king's indictment, he slowly descended from the topmost bench of the Mountaineers, where he sat, to the rostrum, and with equal slowness and deliberation insisted, nay, demanded that a sentence of death should be pronounced without even the formality of a trial.

Those were terrible words that fell from the pale, delicately-cut lips of this handsome youth, — words as hard and cold and trenchant as steel.

“No prolonged trial of the king is necessary. Let him be killed at once.

“He must be killed, for there are no longer any laws by which to try him; he himself has destroyed them all.

“He must be killed as a public enemy: only citizens have a right to be tried. To try this1 tyrant we should be obliged to first reconstitute him a citizen.

“He must be killed as a criminal, caught in the very act, with his hands stained with blood. Royalty is, in itself, a crime. Every king is at once a rebel and a usurper. A king is nothing more or less than a monstrosity.”

He went on in this strain for about an hour, without evincing the slightest emotion, and with the voice of a pedagogue and the gestures of a pedant; but in every paragraph was that same grim refrain which produced upon his auditors very much the same effect as that of the click of a guillotine knife:”He must be killed!”

This speech was terribly effective. There was not a person present who did not feel his flesh creep. Robespierre himself was alarmed to see his pupil and disciple planting the revolutionary standard so far in advance of the outposts.

After this, the king's prosecution was not only certain, but the monarch was condemned in advance. To attempt to save the king now was simply to condemn one's self to death. Danton desired to do it, but he had not the courage. He had sufficient patriotism to allow himself to be unjustly branded as an assassin, but he had not sufficient stoicism to bear the name of traitor.

The trial began on the 11th of December. Three days before, a municipal officer presented himself at the Temple at the head of a deputation sent by the Commune, and read a warrant, ordering the prisoners to give up their knives, razors, scissors, daggers, — in short, all the sharp instruments of which prisoners are generally deprived.

About the same time, Madame Clery, accompanied by a friend, called to see her husband, and while she was discussing family matters with great volubility in the Council Chamber, her friend managed to find an opportunity to whisper to Clery:”The king will be taken to the Convention next Tuesday. The trial is about to begin. The king will be allowed to choose his own counsel.”

The king had forbidden Clery to conceal anything from him; and, bad as this news was, the faithful servant resolved to communicate it to his master; so that evening, while the king was undressing, Clery told him what he had heard, adding the information that during the trial the Commune intended to separate the king from his family.

Only four days remained, consequently, in which the king could confer with his wife.

He thanked Clery for the fidelity with which he had kept his word, and added: -

“Try to learn as much in regard to their plans and intentions as you can. Do not be afraid of distressing me. I will tell my family not to act as if we had been forewarned, so you will not be compromised.”

As the day approached, the officials became more and more suspicious, so the only information Clery was able to secure was through a newspaper some one managed to send him. This paper published the decree ordering Louis XVI. to be brought before the Convention on the 11th of December.

At five o'clock, on the morning of that day, the drums sounded a general alarm throughout the city, the gates of the Temple were thrown open, and a detachment of cavalry, with artillery, entered the courtyard. Had the royal family been ignorant of what was about to take place, all this noise and confusion would have alarmed them; so they expressed great surprise, and begged the officers on duty to explain the cause of the commotion; but this they refused to do.

About nine o'clock the king and the dauphin, who had been sharing his father's room for some time, went down to the ladies' apartments for their breakfast. They were thus allowed to spend a last hour together, though under the surveillance of the officials. At the end of the hour they were obliged to separate, and as they realised the necessity of concealing the fact that they knew what was about to occur, they could indulge in no demonstrations of grief on parting.

The dauphin was really ignorant of the truth. He had been spared this sorrow on account of his youth. He insisted upon playing a game of ninepins, and, preoccupied as he was, the king wanted to please the child. The dauphin lost every game, and three times his score ended with the number sixteen.

“Confound sixteen!”cried the boy.”I believe that number brings me bad luck.”

The king made no reply, but the remark struck him as an unfortunate omen.

At eleven o'clock, while he was giving his son a lesson in reading, two officers entered, and informed him that they had come to take the lad to his mother. The king asked the reason of this removal; but the officers merely replied that they were carrying out the orders of the Commune.

The king kissed his son, and bade Clery conduct him safely to his mother. On the valet's return the king asked him where he had left the boy.

“In the queen's arms,” replied Clery.

One of the officers had also reappeared at the same time.”Monsieur,” he said, addressing the king, “Citizen Chambon, Mayor of Paris, is in the Council Chamber, and will soon come up.”

Citizen Chambon was Potion's successor in office.

“What does he want-”asked the king.

“I don't know,” replied the officer, going out of the room, and leaving the king alone.

The mayor did not make his appearance until nearly one o'clock, however, and he was then accompanied by Chaumette, the new attorney for the Commune, Recording Secretary Coulombeau, and several other municipal authorities, as well as by Santerre, who was likewise attended by his aides.

The king was sitting in an arm-chair at the head of the bed, but he rose on their entrance.

“What is your business with me-” he asked.

“I have come for you by virtue of a decree of the Convention, which Secretary Coulombeau will read to you.”

The Secretary unrolled a paper and read as follows: -

“Decree of the National Convention, ordering Louis Capet -”

“Capet is not my name,” interrupted the king.”It is the name of one of my ancestors -”

Then, as the secretary was about to resume the reading of the document, the king added, -

“It is not necessary, monsieur. I have seen the decree already in a newspaper.”

Then, turning to the officials, he continued, “I wish my son had been allowed to remain with me during the two long and dreary hours I have spent in waiting for you,- hours which would have been very sweet under those circumstances. Still, this is only a specimen of what I have endured at your hands for the past four months. I shall accompany you, not from any respect I owe the Convention, but because my enemies can compel me to do so.”

“Come, then, monsieur,” said Chambon.

“I only ask time to put on my riding-coat. Clery, my coat!”

Clery handed the king the desired garment, which was of a chestnut-brown colour.

Chambon led the way, and the king followed. It was raining. The king was placed in a carriage, and during the entire drive he manifested no emotion whatever. As he passed the Porte Saint-Denis and the Porte Saint-Martin, he even asked which of them was to be demolished.

When they reached the door of the Riding School, for the Convention still met in the old hall, Santerre laid his hand on the king's shoulder, and led him to the same place and arm-chair where he had sworn allegiance to the Constitution.

The deputies remained seated, only one member rising and saluting him as he passed. Much surprised, the king turned, and recognising Dr. Gilbert, exclaimed, -

“Good-day, Monsieur Gilbert!”

Then addressing Santerre, he said:”Do you know Dr. Gilbert- He was formerly my physician. I trust you will not be too hard upon him for having shown me this respect.”

The examination began, and the prestige of misfortune began to fade in the glare of publicity. The king was not only obliged to reply to a running fire of questions; but he replied clumsily, hesitatingly, evasively, trickily, — like a country lawyer arguing about some boundary line. The examination lasted until five o'clock. The king was then conducted to the Conference Chamber, where he was obliged to wait a few minutes for his carriage.

The mayor came to him, and asked:”Are you hungry, monsieur- Will you have anything-”

The king shook his head; but a moment afterwards, seeing a grenadier take a loaf of bread from his knapsack and give half of it to Chaumette, Louis stepped up to him, and said:”Will you give me a bit of your bread, monsieur-”

“Willingly,” replied Chaumette, handing him the half loaf.”Help yourself. It is certainly a Spartan-like repast. If I had a root, I would give you half of that.”

They went down into the courtyard. On seeing the king, the crowd began to sing the chorus of the "Marseillaise.”

Louis turned a trifle pale as he stepped into the carriage. Then he began to eat his bread, — the crust only; and as he did not seem to know exactly what disposition to make of the soft part of the loaf left on his hands, Chaumette took the bread and threw it out of the carriage-window.

“It is too bad to throw bread away, especially when it is so scarce,” remarked the king.

“How do you know it's scarce-” asked Chaumette.”You certainly don't suffer for the want of it.”

“I know it must be scarce, because that you gave me had so much bran in it.”

“My grandmother,” responded Chaumette, "used to say: ' My child, never waste a crumb of bread, for if you do you may want for it some day.'“

“Your grandmother must have been a very sensible woman, it seems to me, Monsieur Chaumette,” said the king.

They were silent for some time; then, seeing Chaumette lean back in the carriage, the king asked: -

“What is the matter- You look pale.”

“I don't feel altogether right,” answered Chaumette.

“Perhaps it is the motion of the carriage.”

“Perhaps so.”

“Were you ever at sea-”

“I went to sea under La Mottepicquet in the glorious days of yore.”

“La Motte-Picquet was a brave man,” responded the king; then he, too, relapsed into silence.

Of what was he thinking- Of his splendid navy, victorious in the Indies- Of his superb harbour at Cherbourg, wrested from the sea- Of his gorgeous admiral's uniform of scarlet and gold, so unlike the dingy costume he was now wearing-

How fallen from his once high estate was this poor king as he jolted along in this dirty old hack through a sea of people, — waves from an ever-encroaching tide rising up out of the very cesspools of Paris! The light of day made his eyes blink painfully; his beard was long and straggling, his flabby cheeks hung in folds upon his scrawny neck, and his clothing was soiled and worn.

As he jogged along, he murmured softly to himself, with the memory of the Bourbons and young children:

“Ah 1 here is such and such a street!”

When they reached the Rue d'0rleans, he said: -

“Ah! here 's the Rue d'0rleans.”

“You mean the Rue figalite,” said his companion.

“Oh, yes, on account of Monsieur -”

He did not complete the sentence, but again relapsed into silence, and from the Rue ifigalite' to the Temple, he did not utter another word.

CHAPTER CLXXV. THE STORY OF THE MARTYR KING.

The king's first request on reaching the Temple was that he might be taken to his family; but he was told that no orders to that effect had been received, so Louis perceived that he was to be kept in solitary confinement, like all prisoners on trial for capital offences.

“But you will at least tell my family that I have returned,” he said.

Then, without paying any attention to the four officials who were guarding him, he began to read, as usual.

He still hoped that at tea-time his family would come up to his room; but his expectations were not realised.

“I suppose my son will spend the night with me,” he remarked, “as I see his things are still here.”

But, alas! the prisoner no longer felt the confidence he feigned, even with regard to his son.

The answer vouchsafed him was no more definite than the other had been.

“Suppose I go to bed, then,” he remarked.

Clery assisted him to undress, as usual; and as he rendered his master the usual services, the king whispered:

“Ah, Clery, I was not at all prepared for the questions they asked me 1”

In fact, nearly all the questions put to the king were connected with the papers found in the iron closet; and the king, ignorant of Gamain's treachery, did not even suspect that the safe had been discovered.

Nevertheless, he was hardly in bed before he fell asleep, with that tranquillity of mind of which he had given such numerous proofs in the past, and which seemed, sometimes, to amount to positive apathy. It was very different with the other prisoners. This entire separation was frightfully significant.

As the dauphin's bed was still in the king's room, where he had slept for several weeks, the queen put the child in her own bed, and all night she sat by the foot of the bed watching over his slumbers.

Her grief and distress were so intense that Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale resolved to share her vigil; but the officials interfered, and compelled them to retire to their own room.

The next day the queen asked a favour of her guardians, for the first time since her imprisonment. She asked that she might be allowed to visit the king, and that she might see the newspapers, so as to keep herself informed in regard to his trial.

These requests were referred to the Council: the first was partially granted; the second was positively refused.

The queen was not to be permitted to see her husband, or the sister her brother; but the children would be allowed to see their father on condition that they were entirely separated from their mother and aunt.

This ultimatum was made known to the king. He reflected a few moments, then replied, with his accustomed resignation: -

“Happy as it would make me to see my children again, I renounce that happiness. Besides, the matter which is now occupying me would prevent me from devoting the attention they need to them, so let the children remain with their mother.”

On receiving this answer, the officials removed the dauphin's bed to his mother's room, and Marie Antoinette did not leave her children again until she was summoned before the Revolutionary Tribunal for trial.

In spite of this rigorous separation, they devised a plan for communicating with each other by the aid of an attendant of the princesses named Turgy.

Turgy and Clery often met as they came and went in the discharge of their duties; but the surveillance of the municipal officers made any conversation an impossibility. The only words they were able to exchange were:”The king is well,” or “The queen and the children are well.”

But one day Turgy gave Clery a tiny note, and said, hurriedly: -

“Madame Elizabeth slipped this into my hand as she gave me back a napkin.”

Clery hastened to the king with the note. It was written with pin-pricks, — for the ladies had long since been deprived of writing materials, — and read as follows: -

“We are well, my brother. Write to as in your turn.”

Since the trial began, the king had been allowed the use of pen, ink, and paper, so he wrote a note in reply.

When he gave it to Clery, he said:”Bead it, my dear Clery, and you will see that it contains nothing that can possibly compromise you.”

Clery respectfully declined to read it; but ten minutes afterwards Turgy was in possession of the king's reply, which was promptly transmitted to the other prisoners.

That same day, as Turgy was passing the half-open door of Clery 'a chamber, he threw a ball of yarn under the bed. This ball contained a second note from Madame Elizabeth, for this was the mode of communication that had been agreed upon.

Clery wound the same yarn around a second note from the king, and hid it in the cupboard, among the napkins. Turgy found it there, and concealed the reply in the same place.

This means of communication was resorted to several times during the next few days; but every time the faithful valet gave fresh proofs of his cunning, the king would shake his head and say:”Be careful, my friend, be careful. You are running a great risk!”

This method was, indeed, too precarious; and Clery set about inventing another.

The prisoners were supplied with candles tied in bundles. Clery carefully saved all the strings; and, as soon as he had a sufficient quantity, he informed the king that he had devised a way of carrying on a more active correspondence.

Madame Elizabeth occupied a room on the floor below Celery’s, and her window was directly under a window in a small passage opening out of Cleary’s room. During the night he could lower the twine; Madame Elizabeth could tie her letters to it, and receive those of her brother in the same way.

By this same string stationery could also be lowered, so the ladies need no longer write with pins.

The prisoners were in this way able to hear from one another every day.

The position of Louis XVI. had been unmistakably weakened by his demeanour before the Convention.

It had been generally supposed that he would do one of two things: either follow the example of Charles I., whose history he knew so well, and refuse to answer the questions put to him, or that if he did condescend to answer them, it would be in the lordly manner befitting a monarch, — not like an ordinary prisoner before a court of justice, but like a knight who accepts a challenge, and proudly picks up the gauntlet which has been thrown down.

But, unfortunately for him, Louis XVI. was not of a nature to fill either of these roles successfully. His defence, though not devoid of ability, was too much like that of an ordinary prisoner. He answered awkwardly, timidly, and hesitatingly, as we have already remarked. Hampered by the numerous proofs which had fallen in some inconceivable way into his enemies' hands, he finally asked for counsel.

After the stormy debate that followed the king's departure, the Convention finally decided to grant his request; and the next day a committee of four visited the monarch to ascertain whom he would select as his counsel.

He named Target, and that gentleman was promptly notified of the honour conferred upon him by the king.

But, strange to say, this able man, an honoured member of the Constitutional Assembly, and a man who had taken a prominent part in the framing of the Constitution, was afraid, and declined, in the most cowardly manner, turning pale with fear before his own generation to afterwards blush with shame before posterity.

But, on the following day, the president of the Convention received the following letter: -

Citizen President: I do not know that the Convention will allow Louis XVI. the services of an advocate to defend him, or if it will allow him to select that advocate; but, in any case, I would like Louis XVI. to know that, if he sees fit to name me for that office, I am ready and willing to devote myself to it.

I do not ask you to inform the Convention of my offer, for I do not consider myself a person of sufficient importance to inspire the members of that body with any special interest; but twice, when such appointments were much sought after, I was called to a place in the Council of my master, and I owe him the same service now that it is a post which people consider dangerous.

If I knew of any other way to apprise the king of my willingness to serve him, I should not take the liberty of addressing you; but, by reason of the position you occupy, it seemed to me that you could transmit the information better than any one else.

I am, with respect, etc., etc.

Malesherbes.

Two other similar requests were received at the same time: one from a Troyes advocate, Monsieur Sourdal. He spoke even more boldly.

“I am moved to defend Louis XVI.,” he wrote, “by my firm conviction of his innocence.”

The other was from Olympe de Gouges, an eccentric and whimsical improvisatrice who dictated her comedies, it is said, because she did not know how to write.

Olympe de Gouges had constituted herself a champion of the Rights of Women, and insisted that they ought to have the same privileges as men, — the right to vote, to frame laws, and to declare peace and war; and she based her claim on this sublime sentence: -

“Why should not women mount the rostrum- They can mount the scaffold.”

Poor creature! she did, indeed, mount the scaffold; but when the time arrived she became a woman again: that is to say, weak, and desirous of availing herself of all the benefits of the law. She declared herself enciente. The tribunal ordered a consultation of physicians and nurses; and they decided that if she was in such a condition it was too recent to constitute any claim for mercy. On the scaffold, she displayed more courage, and died as became such a woman.

As for Monsieur de Malesherbes, he was the Lamoignon de Malesherbes who was in the Royal Council with Turgot, and who fell with him. He was a small man, about seventy years of age, rather awkward in manner, and very absent-minded, as well as very insignificant in appearance; in short, a man from whom one would scarcely expect the heroism of classic times, as Michelet expresses it.

Before the Convention he invariably addressed the king as “sire.”

“What makes you so daring-” inquired one of the members.

“My indifference to death,” responded Malesherbes, promptly.

And he was indeed indifferent to the death to which he afterwards rode so calmly, chatting cheerfully with his companions in the cart, and receiving the fatal blow as if it did indeed only cause a slight sensation of coldness about the neck as Guillotin claimed.

The superintendent of the Monceaux Cemetery, for it was. to this resting-place that the bodies of those publicly executed were taken, related a singular proof of Malesherbes' contempt of death. In Malesherbes' pocket, he found his watch, which was still going, and which marked the hour of two. According to his usual custom, Malesherbes had wound his watch at noon, exactly one hour before he mounted the scaffold, and it had continued to run.

As he could not secure Target, the king accepted Malesherbes and Tronchet, and, being pressed for time, they associated another lawyer named Deseze with them.

On the 14th of December, Louis was informed that he could confer with his counsel; and that same day he received a visit from Monsieur de Malesherbes.

That gentleman's devotion had touched the king deeply, though his was by no means a susceptible nature; and he received the venerable man with open arms and tearful eyes.

As he pressed his visitor affectionately to his heart, he said, in a voice faltering with emotion.-”I realise my situation perfectly. I expect death, and I am prepared to meet it. I am calm now, as you see; well, I shall mount the scaffold just as calmly.”

On December 16th, a delegation, consisting of Valaze”, Cochon, Grandpre', and Duprat, came to the Temple, bringing the indictment and numerous documents connected with the case; and the entire day was devoted to the examination and verification of these papers.

Each document was read by the secretary, after which Valaz would ask:”Do you admit this as evidence-” and the king would answer, yes or no, as the case might be.

Several days afterwards, the same committee returned with about fifty additional documents of a like nature. There were about one hundred and fifty such papers, and the king had copies of them all.

At eleven o'clock on the night of December 25th, the king began his will. This document is so well known in history that it is useless to record it here.

Two last wills and testaments have occasioned us much serious thought,-that of Louis XVI., who lived in the time of a Republic but could see only royalisim, and that of the Duke of Orleans, who lived in the time of a monarchy and could see only republicanism.

We will quote one paragraph of the king's will, however, because it shows us the standpoint from which he viewed the events of the day.

“I close by declaring before God, being ready to appear before Him, that I cannot reproach myself with any of the crimes laid to my charge.”

These words have won for Louis, in the eyes of posterity, the reputation of being an honest man; but how could a man who had broken all his oaths, and who, on attempting to flee to a foreign land, had left behind him a protest against the very oaths he had solemnly taken, — a man who while he had discussed, appreciated, and recorded the plans of Lafayette and Mirabeau for his salvation, had yet secretly importuned a foreign foe to enter the heart of France, — how could such a man, knowing he was about to appear before his Judge, and believing that God would deal with him according to his deeds, good and evil, — how could such a man feel able to say, “I cannot reproach myself with any of the crimes laid to my charge”-

Possibly the construction of the phrase explains the matter. The king does not say:”The crimes imputed to my charge are false;” he says, “I cannot reproach myself with any of the crimes laid to my charge,” which is not the same thing at all.

Though ready to mount the scaffold, Louis was still a follower of Monsieur de la Vauguyon.

To say:”The charges against me are false,” would be to deny those charges, and Louis could not deny them; but to say:”I cannot reproach myself with the crimes laid to my charge,” might mean, “These crimes were committed, but I cannot reproach myself for them.”

And why- Because the standpoint from which he viewed these offences was a monarch's standpoint; because, thanks to the influences under which he had been reared, to his honest belief in the sacredness of hereditary rights, and the infallibility of these divine rights, kings do not view crimes, particularly political crimes, in the same light as other people.

In the eyes of Louis XL, his revolt against his father was no crime; it was a war for the welfare of the nation.

In the eyes of Charles IX., the massacre of Saint Bartholomew was no crime. It was only a means of insuring public tranquillity.

This same Malesherbes who was now defending the king had endeavoured, when a member of the Council, to induce his master to re-instate the Protestants in their political rights; but he found Louis XVI. obdurate on this subject.

“No,” answered the king, “no! The proscription of Protestants is a law of the state, a law made by Louis XIV., and such time-honoured edicts should never be tampered with.”

“Yet political expediency should not be allowed to overrule justice,” pleaded Malesherbes.

“But,” exclaimed the king, after the manner of a man who could not, or would not, understand, “what injustice was there in the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Was not the revocation of that edict necessary for the welfare of the state-”

So, in the eyes of Louis XVI., this terrible persecution of the Protestants, instigated by a revengeful bigot, this atrocious measure which reddened the rivers of the Cevennes valleys with blood and kindled hundreds of funeral pyres at Nismes, Alby, and Beziers, was not a crime, but simply a matter of political expediency.

There is another point, too, worthy of mention. A king who is generally born of a foreign princess, from whom he derives the greater part of his blood, is almost an entire stranger to his people. He rules them, that is all. And through whom does he rule them- Through his ministers.

His subjects are not only considered unworthy of being allied to him by marriage, but of even being governed directly by their king. Foreign sovereigns, on the contrary, are considered the brothers and natural allies of a king, and he can communicate with these sovereigns without the intervention of public officials.

The Spanish Bourbons, the Neapolitan Bourbons, and the Italian Bourbons, all came from the same parent stem, Henry IV., and were all cousins.

The Emperor of Austria was the brother-in-law of Louis XVI. The Savoy princes, too, were his kinsfolk, for Louis was of Saxon origin on his mother's side.

Now when the people became bold enough to insist upon imposing conditions upon their king, conditions which he did not consider just, to whom did Louis XVI. look for aid- To his cousins, to his brother-in-law, and his kinsfolk. In his eyes, the Spaniards and Austrians were not enemies of France, for were they not relatives and friends of the King of France- and, from a royalistic point of view, the king was the state, or in other words, France.

And what were these monarchs coming to defend- The sacred, almost divine, rights of royalty. Perhaps this is the reason why Louis XVI. felt that he need not reproach himself for the crimes laid to his charge.

Doubtless the people, too, had their reasons,-reasons which seemed to them equally cogent, considered from their point of view, — for the outbreaks and excesses of July 14th and October 5th and 6th, 1789, as well as of June 20th and August 10th, 1792.

We do not include the atrocities of September 2nd, for, as we have said before, the Commune, not the people, was responsible for those.

CHAPTER CLXXVI. THE TRIAL.

The 26th of December came, and found the king prepared for anything, even for death itself.

He had made his will the evening before, because he feared — it is hard to say why — that he would be assassinated on his way to the Convention, the following day.

The queen had been warned that the king was to be again taken to the Assembly; but for that, the movements of the troops and the loud beating of drums would have alarmed her beyond measure.

At ten o'clock, the king started for the Convention guarded by Chambon and Santerre.

On his arrival, he had to wait an hour. The people were having their revenge for being obliged to await a monarch's pleasure for five hundred years in the antechambers of the Louvre, of Versailles, and of the Tuileries. A discussion was taking place which the king must not hear. On December 12th, a key which the king had given to Clery was found in the valet's possession. The idea of trying this key in the lock of the iron closet occurred to some one, and the key fitted.

This key was afterwards shown to Louis XVI.”I do not recognise it,” he replied, though it is almost certain that he had made the key himself.

It was under such circumstances as these that the king showed his littleness.

When the discussion ended, the president announced that the accused and his counsel were outside; and, in a few moments, the king was ushered in, accompanied by Malesherbes, Trouchet, and Deseze.

“Louis, the Convention has decided that you shall be heard to-day,” said the president.

“My counsel will read my defence,” replied the king.

There was a profound silence. The entire assemblage felt that a few hours might well be granted this dethroned monarch, -this man whose life was so soon to be cut off.

Now that it was about to lie down in its bloody sepulchre, perchance royalty would suddenly arise, clothed in the majesty of death, and utter some of those thrilling words which history records, and future ages re-echo.

But this was not the case. The speech of Deseze was simply the ordinary plea of an ordinary advocate, yet this was a notable cause he had to defend, — this cause of the descendant of so many powerful sovereigns, now arraigned before the people, not to answer for his own crimes alone, but for the crimes of an entire race.

It seems to us, that had we been in Monsieur Deseze's place, we should not have spoken in the name of Monsieur Deseze, but in the name of Louis the Saint, and of Henry IV. It was certainly those great heroes of that royal line who should have been called upon to clear Louis XVI. of the weakness of Louis XIII., the prodigality of Louis XIV., and the debauchery of Louis XV.

Deseze controverted with great earnestness and adroitness, the long series of charges against the king; but he should have been flowery and poetical rather than logical. He should have appealed to the heart, not to the understanding.

But perhaps when this rather commonplace discourse came to an end, the king himself would speak. As he had consented to defend himself, perhaps he would do it nobly, grandly, majestically.

What he did say was as follows: -

“Gentlemen: My means of defence have been made known to you. I will not revert to them. In addressing you now, perhaps for the last time, I solemnly declare that my conscience does not Vol. iv. — 21

reproach me, and that my defenders have spoken nothing but the truth.

“I have never shrunk from a public investigation of my conduct, but it pains me beyond expression to find in your indictment the charge that I have ever desired to shed the blood of my people, and that the atrocities of the 10th of August are imputed to me.

“The numerous proofs which I have given of my love for my people, from time to time, seem to me abundant proof that I have not hesitated to risk my own life to save bloodshed, and my whole career as amp; sovereign should, it seems to me, shield me from any charge of wanton bloodshed.”

Can you understand why the successor of sixty monarchs, the descendant of Saint Louis, Henry IV., and Louis XIV. should have nothing more to say to his accusers-

Ah, sire, the more unjust the accusation from thy point of view, the more withering should have been thy indignation! Thou shouldest have bequeathed something to posterity, if only a sublime curse hurled at thy executioners!

Much surprised, the president of the Convention asked:-

“Have you nothing more to say in your defence-”

“No,” responded the king.

“Then you may retire.”

It was five o'clock when Louis returned to the Temple. An hour later, his three legal advisers visited him.

“You see I was right,” the king remarked to Malesherbes.”From the very first, I saw that my doom was sealed.”

“As I left the Convention, sire,” replied Malesherbes, "a number of persons came to me, and assured me that you should not perish, or at least that they and their friends would perish first.”

“Do you know them-”asked the king, quickly.

“I know only a few of them personally; but I should certainly recognise them if I saw them again.”

“Then try to see each one of them,” said the king,”and tell them I should never forgive myself if another drop of blood was shed on my account. I would not permit bloodshed even when it might have preserved my throne and my life; and I am all the more opposed to it now, when both throne and life are hopelessly lost.”

So Monsieur de Malesherbes left almost immediately to fulfil this request.

The first day of the New Year dawned, and Louis was lying sorrowfully brooding over his misfortunes, when Clery approached the bed, and said:”Sire, I beg leave to offer my most sincere wishes for a speedy termination of your misfortunes.”

“I accept your kind wishes, Clery,” said the king, offering his hand to the valet.

Clery took the proffered hand and kissed it reverently. Then he helped his master to dress. The king's toilet was scarcely completed when several officials entered.

Seeing an expression of sympathy on the face of one of them, the king stepped up to him, and said: -

“Will you do me a very great favour, monsieur-”

“What is it-”asked the man.

“Will you go and inquire concerning the health of my family, and give them my best wishes for the year that is just beginning-”

“I will,” replied the official, deeply touched.

“Thank you,” said the king.”I hope God will reward you for the kindness you are doing me.”

“Why doesn’t the prisoner ask leave to see his family-”whispered one of the other officials to Clery.”Now the examination is over, I am sure the request would be granted.”

“To whom should it be addressed-”

“To the Convention.”

A moment later the official who had been sent to the queen's room returned.

“Your family thank you for your good wishes, and beg you will accept theirs.”

The king smiled sorrowfully.

“What a New Year's day!”he murmured.

That night Clery repeated to the king what the official had said in regard to the possibility of securing permission to see his family.

The king reflected a few moments, then he said:”No, I will not ask now; but in a few days they will not refuse me this consolation. We must wait.”

Judgment was to be pronounced on January 16th, 1793.

Monsieur de Malesherbes remained with the king several hours during the morning. About noon he went away, promising to soon return again and report concerning the result of a formal appeal he had made.

The vote was to be taken upon three questions terrible in their directness.

1st. Is Louis guilty-

2nd. Shall there be an appeal from the decision of the Convention to the people-

3rd. If guilty, what shall the penalty be-

In order that posterity might see that no compulsion was exercised, the vote was taken publicly.

A Girondist named Birotteau demanded that each member should ascend the rostrum and state his decision aloud.

One of the Mountaineers, as the Extremists were called, went even further, and insisted that each vote should be signed.

Then began that memorable session which lasted sixty- two hours.

The hall presented a singular aspect which did not at all harmonise with what was going on there. The proceedings themselves were sad and lugubrious,- the appearance of the place conveyed an entirely different impression.

The rear end of the hall had been converted into loges, in which the prettiest women in Paris sat in their rich winter toilets of velvet and fur, eating oranges and ices.

Many members went to speak to these ladies and have a chat with them, and then returned to their seats, from which they exchanged signs with their fair acquaintances now and then. One would have supposed himself at the opera.

The Mountaineers were specially remarkable for the elegance of their appearance. In fact, it was with this party that the millionaires now sat: The Duke of Orleans, Lepelletier de Saint-Fargeau, Hdrault de Se”chelles, Anacharsis Clootz, and the Marquis de Chateauneuf. All these gentlemen had seats reserved in the gallery for their mistresses, who were adorned with tricoloured ribbons, and provided with special cards of admission, which they presented to the ushers.

The galleries, which were open to the populace, were crowded to suffocation all three days; and the occupants were constantly eating and drinking as if they were in a restaurant.

To the first question:”Is Louis guilty-” six hundred and eighty-three members answered,”Yes.”

Upon the second question, the Gironde was divided in opinion. Two hundred and eighty-one members favoured an appeal to the people; four hundred and eighty-three persons voted against it.

Then came the third question, — the momentous question, the terrible question: What shall the penalty be-

When they reached this stage of the proceedings it was about eight o'clock on the evening of the third day, — a cold, rainy, gloomy January day. Everybody was thoroughly tired out. Human endurance, on the part of the actors as well as the spectators, had been well-nigh exhausted by a session of forty-five consecutive hours.

Each member mounted the rostrum in turn, and voted for imprisonment, exile, death with the right of appeal to the people, or death.

Every sign of approval or disapproval had been strictly forbidden. Still, when the galleries heard anything except the word”Death,” they murmured.

Nevertheless the word was in one instance greeted with derisive yells and hisses. This wag when Philippe Egalite ascended the rostrum and said, “Thinking solely of my duty, and convinced that all who have endeavoured to destroy the sovereignty of the people, or who are likely to do so, deserve to die, I vote for death!”

In the course of this terrible scene, a deputy named Duchatel, who was ill, had himself brought to the Convention in his dressing-gown and night-cap. He came to vote for banishment.

Vergniaud presided, as he had done on the 10th of August, and it was he who pronounced the death sentence of Louis XVI. as he had previously pronounced his deposal from office.

“Citizens,” he said, “you have just performed an important act of justice. I hope Humanity will now lead you to maintain a religious silence. When Justice has spoken, Humanity should have her turn.”

He then announced the result of the vote. Out of seven hundred and twenty-one members, three hundred and thirty-four had voted for imprisonment or exile, and three hundred and eighty-seven had voted for death, with or without the privilege of an appeal to the people. Taking from this majority of fifty-three votes, the forty-six votes for death after a reprieve, there still remained a majority of seven votes for immediate death.

“Citizens,” continued Vergniaud, in tones of profound sadness, “I therefore declare in the name of the National Convention, that sentence of death is pronounced upon Louis Capet.”

The roll call had taken twenty-four hours and did not end until eight o'clock on the night of the 19th of January; but it was not until three o'clock the next morning that Vergniaud announced the result.

Louis, though shut off from all communication with the outside world, knew that his fate was decided. Alone, separated even from his wife and children whom he had refused to see, probably in order that he might mortify his heart as a sinful monk mortifies his flesh, he committed his fate to God, indifferent, at least to all appearance, as to whether the fiat was to be life or death.

At six o'clock Sunday morning, Malesherbes paid him a visit. The king had already risen, and was now sitting with his face buried in his hands, and his elbows resting on the table.

“Well, monsieur-” he asked, on seeing his visitor.

Malesherbes dared not answer; but the prisoner could see from the expression of the lawyer's face that there was no hope.

“Death,” exclaimed Louis.”I was sure of it!” and opening his arms he pressed Malesherbes to his bosom.

The lawyer burst into tears.

“Monsieur de Malesherbes,” the king said, after a moment, “for two whole days I have been trying to decide if in the whole course of my reign I have merited the slightest reproach from my subjects. Ah, well! I swear to you, with all the solemnity of a man who is about to appear before his God, that I have always desired the welfare and happiness of my people above all things, and have never knowingly done aught to impair either.”

This conversation took place in the presence of Clery, who was sobbing bitterly. The king, pitying his valet, took Malesherbes into his study, where he remained closeted with him nearly an hour. Then he came out, and, after embracing the worthy lawyer, begged him to return that evening.

Endeavouring to conceal his feelings as much as possible, Clery began his preparations for shaving the king.

The king made the lather himself, while Clery stood in front of him holding the basin; but suddenly the king became very pale. His cheeks and lips and even his ears turned white. Fearing his master was ill, Clery set the bowl down and tried to support him; but the king seized his hands, exclaiming:”Come, come, courage!” and then shaved himself calmly and deliberately.

About two o'clock the Executive Council came to announce the verdict.

Garat, minister of justice, acted as spokesman.”Without removing his hat from his head, he said:”Louis, the National Convention has charged the Provisional Executive Council with the task of communicating to you the proceedings of January 15th, 16th, 17th, 18th, and 19th. The secretary of the Council will now proceed to read these decrees.”

Grouvelle, in a trembling voice, read the following: -

Article I.

The National Convention declares Louis Capet, formerly king of the French, guilty of conspiring against the liberty of the Nation, and of imperilling the safety of the State.

Article II.

The National Convention imposes upon Louis Capet the penalty of death.

Article III.

The National Convention refuses the request made in behalf of Louis Capet by his counsellors, asking an appeal to the nation from the decision of the National Convention.

Article IV.

The Provisional Executive Council will communicate the decision of the Convention to Louis Capet without delay, and make such arrangements as will enable the execution to take place within twenty-four hours of this notification, and the Council will report to the National Convention as soon as the execution is over.

The king remained perfectly calm during the reading of the above document, though a disdainful expression played about his lips when he heard the words guilty of conspiring. At the words penalty of death, he raised his eyes devoutly heavenward, as if to bring himself into closer communion with God.

When the reading was ended, the king stepped up to Grouvelle, took the decree from his hands, folded it carefully, and placed it in his portfolio; then he drew from the same receptacle another document, which, he handed to Garat, saying, -

“Monsieur secretary, I beg you will transmit this letter to the National Convention at once.”

As Garat seemed to hesitate, the king said:”I will read it to you.”

Then, in a voice which contrasted strikingly with Grouvelle's, he read the following letter: -

I ask a delay of three days to prepare myself to appear before God; and I desire, for that purpose, permission to see, at any and all times, the person whose name I will mention to the municipal commissioners. I also ask that the person named may be shielded from any fear or danger on account of the act of charity he will perform for me.

I also ask to be freed from the continual espionage the Common Council has exercised over me for some time past.

During this interval, I ask the privilege of seeing my family whenever I please, and without witnesses. I also desire that the National Convention decide immediately as to the welfare of my family, and that the members of it may be allowed to leave this place whenever it suits them to do so.

I commend to the benevolence of the nation all persons who have been attached to my service. Many of them were dependent upon their positions for support, and, having no employment, they must be in want. Among the pensioners, there were many aged men, as well as women and children, who had no other means of subsistence.

Done in the Tower of the Temple. Louis.

Jan. 20th, 1793.

Garat took the letter.

“It shall be transmitted to the Convention at once, monsieur,” he said.

The king again opened his portfolio, and, taking from it a tiny scrap of paper, remarked:”If the Convention grants my request in relation to a confessor, this is his address.”

The paper bore the following name in Madame Elizabeth's handwriting,-

“Monsieur Edgeworth de Firmont, No. 483 Rue Bac.”

As there seemed to be nothing more to do or say, the king took a step backward, making the same gesture with which he had been wont to indicate that an audience was at an end in days gone by, and the ministers withdrew.

“Clery,” said the king to his valet, who, feeling that his limbs were giving way under him, had leaned against the wall for support, -”Clery, order my dinner.”

Clery went into the adjoining room to obey the command. There he found two officials, who showed him a warrant forbidding the king the use of knives and forks. A knife however was to be intrusted to Clery, so he could cut his master's bread and meat in the presence of two guards.

Clery not being willing to tell his master of this new restriction, the officials themselves notified the king.

So the king broke his bread with his fingers, and cut his meat with a spoon. Contrary to his usual custom, he ate very little, and the meal was over in a few moments.

About six o'clock, the minister of justice was again announced. The king rose to receive him.

“I delivered your letter to the Convention,” said Garat, "and have been instructed to bring you this reply.”

“Louis is at liberty to select his religious adviser and to see his family whenever he pleases, without witnesses.

“The Nation, always generous and just, will provide for the future of his family.

“The creditors of his household will receive their just dues.

“The National Convention refuses the request for a reprieve.”

The king bowed in silence, and Garat withdrew.

“Citizen minister, how is Louis to see his family-” asked one of the guards.

“In private.”

“Impossible! We have orders from the Commune not to lose sight of him, night or day.”

The situation was rather embarrassing; but at last they compromised by deciding that the king should receive his family in the dining-room, so lie could be seen through the glass door, but that the door might be closed so the conversation could not be heard.

In the mean time, the king had said to Clery:”See if the minister of justice is still here, and, if so, recall him.”

A moment later, Garat re-entered the room.

“I forgot to ask if Monsieur Edgeworth de Firmont was at home, and when I can see him,” said the king.

“I brought him with me in my carriage,” replied Garat.”He will come up at once, if you desire it.”

And even as the minister of justice uttered these words, Monsieur Edgeworth de Firmont appeared in the doorway.

CHAPTER CLXXVII. THE TWENTY-FIRST OF JANUARY.

Monsieur Edgeworth De Firmont was Madame Elizabeth's confessor. Nearly six weeks prior to this time the king, foreseeing the sentence of death which had just been pronounced upon him, asked his sister's advice in regard to the selection of a spiritual adviser, and Madame Elizabeth had tearfully recommended her brother to send for Abbe Firmont.

That worthy priest, who was of English origin, having escaped the September massacre, had retired to Choosy-le- Eodi, where he had been living under the name of Essex. Madame Elizabeth knew his alias, and having written to him at Choosy, hoped that he would come to Paris as soon as the king's fate was decided.

She was not mistaken. The abbe1 was not a man to shrink from a duty, however dangerous.

On the 21st of December, he wrote to one of his friends in England:-

“My unfortunate master has selected me as the spiritual adviser to prepare him for death, if the fury of the people leads them to parricide.

“I too am preparing for death; for I am convinced that the fury of the populace will not permit me to survive the terrible scene a single hour; but I am resigned. I count my life but as dross; and if by sacrificing it, I could save the king, I would gladly do so, and feel that I had not died in vain.”

The king ushered the abbe” into his cabinet, and closed the door; and the two remained closeted together until eight o'clock in the evening, when Louis asked to be conducted to his family.

“That is impossible; but they can see you here, if you wish,” was the reply.

“So be it, provided I can see them alone, and without witnesses,” replied the king.”You doubtless have heard that the Convention has given orders to that effect.”

“We have arranged the matter with the Minister of Justice. You are to see your family in your dining-room. The door is to be closed; but we can keep an eye on you through the upper part of it, which is glass.”

“Very well.”

The king went into the adjoining room. Clery followed him, and pushed the table to one side, and placed the chairs against the wall so as to make more room.

“Bring a glass of water, too, Clery, lest the queen should be thirsty,” said the king.

There was a pitcher of ice-water on the table already, so Clery only brought a tumbler.

“Bring some water,” repeated the king.”If the queen drinks ice-water it may make her ill, as she is not accustomed to it. You had also better ask Monsieur de Firmont to remain in my private room. The sight of him here might affect my family too deeply.”

About half-past eight the door opened, and the queen came in, leading the dauphin by the hand. Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth followed. The king opened his arms, and the weeping ladies and children rushed into them.

Clery went out and closed the door. For several minutes there was a gloomy silence, broken only by sobs. Then the queen tried to lead the king into the adjoining room, for she wished to say a few words to him in private.

“No,” said he, “I can only see you here.”

The royal family knew that sentence had been pronounced; but they had heard none of the details of the trial. The king gave them a full account of it, making excuses for the men who had condemned him, and calling the queen's attention to the fact that neither Potion nor Manuel had voted for his death.

The queen listened; but whenever she tried to speak, her sobs burst forth afresh. God vouchsafed the poor prisoner this consolation, — in his last hours he was adored by all around him, even the queen.

The queen had always allowed herself to be too much attracted by the romantic side of life. She was endowed with a very vivid imagination, an attribute which is very apt to lead to imprudence on the part of its possessor; and the queen had been extremely imprudent both in her friendships and in her love-affairs.

Her imprisonment had been her regeneration from a moral point of view.

At Varennes, and at the Tuileries on the 10th of August, Louis had seemed an irresolute, almost cowardly man, absolutely devoid of energy. In the Temple, Marie Antoinette began to understand that the wife had not only greatly misjudged the husband heretofore, but that the queen had also misjudged the king. Now, seeing him so courageous and resigned in the presence of Death, so patient under insult, and so kind and considerate to those around him, her love revived. In the days of their prosperity she had only seen the dull and commonplace side of her husband's nature, and had despised him accordingly; now there came an entire revulsion of feeling, and as she was a person who could do nothing in moderation, she now began to worship him as a saint.

Besides, during this last interview, the queen was a prey to something like remorse. She longed to be alone with her husband for a few moments; but, finding that was impossible, she drew the king into a recess formed by a window, and was about to fall at his feet and implore his forgiveness in a passion of tears and sobs. The king probably understood all this; for, checking her, he drew his will from his pocket, and said: -

“Bead this, my beloved wife.”

As he spoke, he pointed to the following paragraph, which the queen read in a half-whisper: -

“I entreat my wife to forgive me for all the ills she is suffering on my account, as well as for the sorrow and mortification I must have caused her during our wedded life; and she may rest assured I harbour no resentment against her, even if she feels she has anything for which to reproach herself.”

Marie Antoinette seized the king's hands and kissed them passionately. There was infinite mercy in the words:”I harbour no resentment against her,” and infinite delicacy in the phrase, “Even if she feels she has anything for which to reproach herself.”

So she died in peace, this poor, royal Magdalen. Her love for the king, tardy as it was, won her both human and divine compassion. Forgiveness was granted her, not privately and secretly, like something of which the king was ashamed, but openly and publicly.

So who dares to reproach her when she thus stands before posterity, doubly crowned, — crowned with the glory of martyrdom and with her husband's forgiveness-

She was conscious of this. She felt that from that moment she was strong in the eyes of History; but she felt none the less weak in presence of him whom she had wronged. No words, only despairing moans escaped the lips of the unhappy woman. She exclaimed, again and again, that she wanted to die with her husband; and if this boon was refused her, she would starve herself to death.

The guards who witnessed this scene through the glass door could not bear it. They averted their eyes, but they could still hear the heart-breaking sobs and moans of the unhappy family; and they, too, could not repress their tears.

This distressing scene lasted nearly two hours. The king was the first to rise; but his wife and sister and children clung to him despairingly. The king and the queen each held one of the dauphin's hands. Standing on her father's left, Madame Royale put her arms around his waist. Madame Elizabeth, standing on the same side, but a little farther back, grasped his arm, while the queen, as if she had a right to the most consolation, — though she really deserved it least,-passed her arm around her husband's neck.

The little group moved slowly on together; and amid their sobs and moans such words as these could occasionally be distinguished: -

“We shall see each other again, shall we not-”

“Yes, yes! Be calm I”

“To-morrow morning, — to-morrow morning at eight o'clock-”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Why not at seven-” pleaded the queen.

“Well, yes, at seven,” replied the king;”but now farewell! farewell!”

By the tone in which he uttered the word “farewell” it was evident that he was afraid his courage would fail him.

Madame Royale could bear it no longer, she sank to the floor with a long sigh. She had fainted.

The king felt that it was time to put an end to this harrowing scene; so, resolutely freeing himself from the detaining grasp of the dauphin and the queen, he went into the next room, and closed the door behind him.

The queen, completely overcome, did not dare to ask the king to re-open it, but stood there weeping and sobbing, and smiting the panels with her open palm. But the king had the courage to resist her appeal.

The guards then begged the queen to retire to her own room, renewing the assurance already given that she should see her husband at seven o'clock the next morning.

When the queen had gone, the king turned to the abbe”, who had been waiting for him all this while in the little turret room, and said, -

“Monsieur, let us now forget everything else and attend to the all-important business of my soul's salvation.”

“I am ready to do my best, sire, and I sincerely hope God will atone for my deficiencies. Do you not think it would be a great comfort to you to hear mass and receive the sacrament-”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” responded the king.”You may well believe I should thoroughly appreciate such a great privilege; but how can you accomplish it-”

“Leave the arrangements to me, sire. I wish to prove to your Majesty that I am not unworthy of the honour you have done -me in selecting me as your spiritual adviser. If the king will empower me to proceed in the matter, I will be responsible for the result.”

“Do whatever you think best, monsieur; but I greatly fear you will not succeed.”

The abbe' went down to the Council Chamber, and, without any preamble, said to the officials who were on guard there:”The person who is to die to-morrow desires to hear mass and make his confession before death.”

The officials gazed at each other in surprise. The idea that such a request would be made had never once entered their minds, and they did not know what to say in reply.

“Where the deuce can you find a priest and all the paraphernalia at this late hour-” they asked.

“The priest is already found, as I am here. As for the needed vessels, the nearest church can supply them. It is only necessary to send for them.”

The officials hesitated.

“What if this should be a trap-” remarked one of them.

“What do you mean-” asked the priest.

“What if you intend to poison the king under the pretext of administering the sacred wafer.”

The abbe looked the speaker full in the face.

“You know that history furnishes enough examples of that sort of thing to make us very cautious,” continued the official.

“I was so carefully searched when I entered the prison that you must be pretty well satisfied that I have no poison about me. If I have any to-morrow I must certainly have received it from you, as nothing could possibly reach me without passing through your hands.”

The request was finally granted upon two conditions: First, that the abbe” should put his request in writing, and affix his signature to it; secondly, that the ceremony should be over at seven o'clock the next morning, as the prisoner was to be taken to the place of execution at eight o'clock precisely.

The priest complied with the first condition, and was then conducted back to the king.

It was now ten o'clock, and the abbe” remained closeted with the king until midnight. The king then remarked:”I am tired now, Monsieur Abbe1, and I must sleep, for I shall have need of all my strength to-morrow.”

Then he called for Clery, who came in and undressed his master, and suggested taking down his hair; but the king said, with a smile:”It is hardly worth while, Clery. Be sure and wake me at five to-morrow morning.”

He went to bed immediately, and his head had hardly touched the pillow before he fell asleep, so imperious were the demands of this man's physical nature.

The abbe” threw himself down upon the bed usually occupied by Clery, who spent the night in a chair.

Clary's slumbers were restless in the extreme; and he was awake some time before five o'clock.

At last he arose and began to make the fire.

The noise woke the king.

“Well, Clery, is it five o'clock-” he asked.

“Several clocks have struck the hour, sire; but ours has not,” replied Clery, approaching the bed.

“I rested very well,” remarked the king.”I needed to, for yesterday was a very fatiguing day. Where is Monsieur de Firmont-”

“Asleep on my bed.”

“On your bed- Then where did you spend the night-”

“In a chair.”

“I am sorry. You should not have done it.”

“Oh, sire, how could I think of myself at a time like this-”

“My poor Clery,” said the king, giving him his hand, which Clery tearfully kissed.

The faithful servant began to dress the king for the last time, having laid out for the purpose a brown coat, a pair of grey knee-breeches, and grey silk stockings.

After the king was dressed,- Clery arranged his hair, and, while he was doing it, Louis detached a seal from his watch and placed it in his vest-pocket. He then laid the watch on the mantel, and, removing a ring from his finger, placed it in the same pocket with the seal.

When Clery handed him his coat, the king took from the pockets his memorandum-book, snuff-box, and glasses, and placed them, as well as his purse, on the mantel beside his watch. These preparations were all made in the presence of the municipal officers, who entered the room of the condemned as soon as they saw the light.

Half-past five sounded.

“Wake Monsieur de Firmont,” the king said to Clery.

The priest was already up and dressed, and, hearing the order given to Clery, he came in. The king bade him good-morning, and asked him to enter the private room.

Clery immediately set to work preparing the altar, which was merely the bureau covered with a table-cloth. The sacerdotal vessels had been secured at a neighbouring church.

When the altar was dressed, Clery notified the king.”Can you take part in the service,” asked Louis.

“I think so, only I'm afraid I don't know all the responses by heart.”

Whereupon the king gave him a prayer-book open at the Intro'it.

Father Edgeworth was already in Cleary’s room putting on his robes; and when he entered, the officials retired to the ante-chamber, fearing they should become contaminated by contact with an ecclesiastic, probably.

It was now six o'clock, and the celebration of mass began. The king listened devoutly to the entire service upon his knees. When mass was over, he received the communion, after which the abbe”, leaving him to his devotions, went into the next room and proceeded to divest himself of his sacerdotal robes.

The king took advantage of this opportunity to thank Clery for his devotion, and to bid him a last farewell. Then he went into his private room, where the abbe” joined him, while Clery sat down on the bed and wept bitterly.

At seven o'clock, the king called him, and Clery hastened to answer the summons. Leading the valet into a sort of recess formed by a window, Louis said:”You will give this seal to my son, and this ring to my wife. Tell them it breaks my heart to part with them. This small package contains a lock of hair of each member of my family. Give this, too, to the queen.”

“But will you not see her again-” asked Clery.

The king hesitated a moment, as if the temptation was almost too strong for him, but after a little he replied in a decided tone:”No; I know I promised to see them again this morning; but it will be much better for me to spare them the cruel grief of such a parting. Clery, if you ever see them again, tell them how much it cost me to depart without embracing them once more.”

And dashing away a tear, he said, in mournful accents:”Clery, you will take them my last farewell, will you not-”

After this, the king again returned to his devotions.

The officials had seen the king place these different articles in Cleary’s hands, and one of the men asked for them; but another suggested that they had better leave them with Clery until the Council decided what was to be done with them, and this last suggestion prevailed.

A quarter of an hour afterwards, the king again emerged from his cabinet. Clery was still standing near the door, awaiting his master's orders.

“Ask if I can have a pair of scissors, Clery,” he said; and then went back into his private room again.

“What does he want of scissors-” inquired one of the officials.

“I do not know, ask him,” replied Clery.

So one of the officials entered the cabinet, only to find the king kneeling before the priest.

“You asked for scissors,” the officer remarked.”What do you want with them-”

“I want Clery to cut my hair.”

The official returned to his colleagues and a long consultation ensued. At the end of half an hour the request was refused.

“I need not touch the scissors,” urged the king,”and Clery can cut my hair in your presence. Pray reconsider your decision.”

The official went out and repeated the prisoner's request, but his superior officers still refused.

Shortly afterwards, an official approached Clery, and said to him:”I think it is about time for you to be getting ready to accompany the king to the scaffold.”

“Good heavens, what for-” asked Clery, trembling in every limb, for fear the last hour had come for him also.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed another official, “the headsman can do all that is needful.”

It was day now, and drums could be heard beating loudly in every part of the town. The noise and stir penetrated to the inmost recesses of the tower, and fairly froze the blood in the veins of Clery and the priest.

Apparently much calmer than they, the king listened, and then said without the slightest trace of emotion:”The National Guards are beginning to assemble, probably.”

A short time afterwards several detachments of cavalry rode into the courtyard of the Temple. The king and his companions could distinctly hear the neighing of the horses and the voices of the officers. Again the king listened, and remarked, with the same unruffled calmness, “They seem to be coming.”

Between seven and eight o'clock several persons knocked at the door of the cabinet under various pretexts or for different purposes, and each time the abbe* thought the last summons had come; but each time the king quietly rose, went to the door, tranquilly answered the intruders, and then returned to his confessor's side.

The abbe” could not see these persons, but he overheard some of their remarks.

Once, for instance, he heard an intruder say: -

“All that was very well when you were a king, but you 're not a king any longer.”

Nevertheless, Louis XVI. turned from the door with the same tranquil countenance.

“You see how these men treat me, father,” he remarked, “but one must learn to endure all things.”

Soon there came another rap, and the king again went to the door. This time he remarked on his return:”Those fellows see daggers and poison everywhere. How little they know me! Suicide would be an evidence of weakness on my part. They would think I did not know how to die!”

About nine o'clock the noise seemed to increase. A loud slamming of doors began, and Santerre entered the ante-chamber accompanied by seven or eight municipal officers and ten gendarmes who ranged themselves in two lines.

Without waiting for them to rap at the door, the king came out of his cabinet and said:”You have come for me, I suppose.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“I ask but for one moment more.”

And he stepped back into the cabinet, closing the door behind him.

“The end has come, my father,” he exclaimed, throwing himself once more at the priest's feet.”Give me your final blessing, and ask God to sustain me until the last.”

After the benediction was given, the king arose, and opening the door advanced towards the officials who were standing in the middle of the room. They all kept their hats on their heads.

“My hat,” said the king to Clery, who tearfully hastened to obey his master's behest.

“Is there any member of the Commune among you-” asked the king.”You are one, I believe,” he added, addressing a man named Jacques Roux, a priest who had taken the oath of allegiance to the Constitution.

“What do you want with me-”asked the former priest.

The king drew his will from his pocket, and said:”I beg you to deliver this paper to the queen, — to my wife.”

“We did not come here to do your commissions, but to take you to the scaffold,” replied Jacques Roux, roughly.

The king received this insult as meekly as Christ would have done, and turning with the same gentleness of manner to another official named Gobeau, he said:”Will you, too, refuse my request, monsieur-”

And as Gobeau seemed to hesitate, the king added: -

“It is only my will. You can read it if you like. There are some things in it to which I would like to call the attention of the Commune.”

Gobeau took the paper.

Then, seeing that Clery was not only holding the hat he had asked for, but his overcoat as well, — because he feared like the valet of Charles I. that his master would shiver with the cold, and that people would think it was from fear, — the king said:”No, Clery, give me only my hat.”

Clery obeyed; and the king took advantage of the opportunity thus afforded to press his faithful servant's hand for the last time.

Then, in the tone of command he had so rarely assumed, “Let us start, gentlemen,” he said.

On the staircase they met Mathay, the concierge of the tower, whom the king had found seated in front of his fire a short time before, and whom he had rather roughly ordered to move aside.

“I was too Tin sty when I spoke to you day before yesterday, Mathay,” said the king.”Do not lay it up against me.”

Mathay turned his back without replying.

The king crossed the inner courtyard on foot, turning two or three times as he did so, as if to bid farewell to the only love of his life, his wife, to his dear sister, and his sole joy, his children.

A hack stood at the gate of the courtyard.

Two gendarmes were holding the door open; as the prisoner approached, one of them stepped into the carriage and took his place on the front seat. The king followed him, and motioned the abbe* to sit beside him on the back seat. Then the other gendarme got in and closed the door.

It was quarter past nine when the procession started,

A word or two now, in relation to the queen and Madame Elizabeth.

The evening before, after the interview which had been so sweet and yet so painful, the queen threw herself on her bed without undressing; and all that long winter's night Madame Elizabeth heard her moaning with cold and despair.

At quarter past six her door opened, and the entire family eagerly awaited the expected summons to the king's apartment.

The hours dragged slowly by. The queen and the princess, standing all the while, heard all those ominous sounds which did not impair the king's composure, though they made his valet and his confessor shudder with horror. They heard the loud opening and shutting of doors. They heard the yells of the populace which greeted the king's exit from the prison; and, finally, they heard the booming of cannon and the clatter of horses' hoofs.

Then the queen sank into a chair groaning: -

“Oh, my God! he has gone without bidding us farewell!”

Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale knelt, sobbing, by her side.

One by one their hopes had fled; at first they had hoped for exile or continued imprisonment, but this hope had vanished. Next they had hoped for a reprieve, but that hope, too, had fled. Lastly they had hoped for some attempt at rescue even on the way to the scaffold, but they felt now that this hope was destined to prove as futile as all the others.

“My God! my God! my God!” cried the queen. And in this last frenzied appeal to her Creator, the poor woman exhausted the last remnant of strength she possessed.

Meanwhile the hack had reached the boulevards. The streets were nearly deserted, and half the shops closed. There was no one to be seen in the doorways or at the windows. A proclamation from the Commune had forbidden any citizen, not forming a part of the escort, to traverse the streets leading from the boulevards, or show themselves at the windows along the route.

A cloudy, misty sky overhung the forest of pikes, in the midst of which an occasional bayonet glittered. Directly in front of the carriage there was a squad of cavalry, and in front of that, a drum corps.

The king attempted to converse with his confessor, but was unable to do so on account of the noise; so the abbe” loaned him his breviary, and the king read that attentively.

On nearing the Porte Saint-Denis, he raised his head fancying he detected a very different sound, and he was right. A dozen young men came rushing down the Rue Beauregard, sabre in hand, shouting, “Help! help, all who would save the king!”

Three thousand conspirators were to respond to this appeal made by Baron de Batz.

He courageously gave the signal, but only a handful of men kept their promise; and the baron and his eight or ten followers seeing that no good could be accomplished, took advantage of the commotion created by their outbreak, and made their escape through the labyrinth of streets around the Porte Saint-Denis.

It was this incident that diverted the king's attention from his prayers; but it was of so little importance that the carriage did not even stop. When it did pause at the end of two hours and ten minutes, it had reached its destination.

When the king noticed that the carriage had ceased to move, he leaned towards the abbe” and said:”Here we are, I think, monsieur;” but the priest made no reply.

One of the three Samson brothers, the public executioners of the city, opened the carriage door.

Placing his hand on the priest's knee, the king said in, a tone of authority:”Gentlemen, T commend this gentleman here to your care. See that no harm befalls him after my death.”

Meanwhile the other headsmen had approached.

“Yes, yes; we will take care of him. Leave him to us,” replied one of them.

Louis alighted. The assistants surrounded him and attempted to remove his coat, but he waved them aside, and began to make the necessary preparations unaided.

For an instant, the king stood entirely alone in the circle, while he threw his hat on the ground, untied his cravat and removed his coat; but these preparations completed, the executioners again approached him, one of them with a rope in his hand.

“What do you want-”demanded the king.

“To bind you,” was the reply.

“I will never consent to that. You may as well abandon that idea. Do your work, but you shall never bind me, never!”

The executioners insisted, and a hand-to-hand struggle seemed likely to deprive the victim of the admiration which six months of calmness, courage, and resignation had earned for him in the eyes of the world; but one of the three Samsons moved with pity, though obliged to perform this odious task, said to the king respectfully:”With this handkerchief, sire -”

The king glanced at his confessor.

“Sire, consent to make this sacrifice. It will only be another point of resemblance between your Majesty and the Divine Being who will surely reward you,” said the abbe”, though it was evident that it cost him a terrible effort to speak.

The king lifted his eyes heavenward with an expression of intense sorrow.

“Nothing but His example could induce me to submit to such an affront,” he murmured.

Then, turning to the headsmen, he extended his hands.

“Do what you will,” he added.”I will drink the cup of humiliation to the very dregs.”

The steps of the scaffold were steep and slippery. He mounted them leaning on the arm of the priest, who feared the king might show some weakness in his last moments; but as soon as he reached the topmost step Louis freed himself from the abbe's grasp, and walked briskly across the platform. His face was flushed and never had he looked so animated and full of energy.

The drums were beating loudly, but he silenced them with a look.

Then, in a strong voice, he cried: -

“I die innocent of the crimes imputed to my charge. I forgive the authors of my death, and I pray God the blood you are about to shed may never be visited upon France!”

“Beat the drums!” cried a voice which was long supposed to be that of Santerre, but which was really the voice of Monsieur de Beaufranchet, Count d'Oyat, the son of Louis XV. and the courtesan Morphise, and, consequently, the illegitimate uncle of the condemned man.

The drummers, obeyed. The king stamped his foot angrily.”Silence!”he cried imperiously.”I have something more to say.”

But the drums beat on.

“Do your duty 1” yelled the pikemen who surrounded the scaffold.

The executioners seized the king; who was walking slowly towards the knife, glancing up at the bevelled edge which he himself had suggested two or three years before. Then he looked back at the priest, who was kneeling in prayer near the edge of the scaffold.

A confused and hurried movement between the two posts of the guillotine followed, for a single instant the head of the condemned appeared in the opening, then came a flash, and a dull thud, after which nothing but a stream of blood was to be seen.

One of the executioners picked up the head and showed it to the people. The pikemen shouted with joy at the sight, and rushing forward dipped their pikes or the point of their sabres or their handkerchiefs — such of them as had any — in the monarch's blood, shouting:”Long live the Republic!” the while.

But for the first time this glorious cry, which had so often thrilled the hearts of the people with joy, died away without an echo. The Republic was branded now with one of those fatal stains which can never be effaced. As a great statesman subsequently remarked:”The Republic had been guilty of something worse than a crime, — a blunder.”

A feeling of stupefaction seemed to pervade the city. With some, this feeling amounted to positive despair.

A bookseller went mad; a hair-dresser cut his throat; an old officer died of grief, and a woman threw herself into the Seine.

At the opening of the next session of the Convention a letter was received by the presiding officer. It was from a man who asked that the body of Louis XVI. might be sent to him so he could bury it beside that of his father.

Head and trunk remained separated. Let us see what became of them. We know of no recital more terrible than the official report of the burial made that very day which we here append.

REPORT ON THE INTERNMENT OF LOUIS CAPET.

On January 21st, 1793, in the second year of the French Republic, we, the undersigned, Commissioners for the department of Paris, empowered by the General Council by virtue of certain decrees of the Provisional Executive Council of the Republic, went at nine o'clock in the forenoon to the house of Citizen Ricave, cure” of Saint Madeleine. Finding him at home, we inquired if he had arranged for the execution of the orders issued the evening before by the Executive Council for the burial of Louis Capet. He replied that the instructions he had received had been faithfully carried out, and that everything was in readiness.

Thence, accompanied by Citizens Renard and Daraoreau, both vicars of Saint Madeleiue Parish, and deputised by the Citizen Cure” to attend the burial of Louis Capet, we repaired to the cemetery connected with the aforesaid parish, situated on the Rug Anjou Saint-Honor^. Soon after our arrival, there was deposited in the cemetery in our presence, by a detachment of gendarmes, the body of Louis Capet which we found entire in all its members, the head only being separated from the trunk. We took notice that the hair on the back of the head was cut, and that the corpse was without a cravat, coat, or shoes, but it was clad in a shirt, pointed vest, gray cloth breeches, and a pair of gray silk hose.

Thus clothed, it was placed in a coffin which was immediately lowered into a grave and covered.

Everything was consequently done in a manner conforming with the orders issued by the Provisional Executive Council of the French Republic, as we, together with Citizens Ricave, Renard, and Damorean, cure” and vicars of Saint Madeleine hereby certify.

Leblanc, Administrator of the Department.

Dubois, Administrator of the Department.

Damoreau, Ricave, Renard.

Thus, on the 21st of January, 1793, Louis XVI. died and was buried. He was thirty-nine years, five months, and three days old. He reigned eighteen years, and was a prisoner fire months and eight days.

His last wish was not fulfilled, for his blood brought misery not upon France alone but upon all Europe.

CHAPTER CLXXVIII. CAGLIOSTRO'S ADVICE.

The following evening while pikemen were running wildly through the deserted but brilliantly lighted streets of Paris, which looked all the more desolate by reason of this illumination, nourishing tattered handkerchiefs and shirts stained with blood on the ends of their weapons, and shouting:”The tyrant's dead! Look at the tyrant's blood!”two men were alone together in a house in the Eue Saint-Honor^.

Both were equally silent, but in manner and appearance they were utterly unlike.

One, dressed in black and evidently overwhelmed with grief, was seated at a table with his bowed head resting on his hands.

The other, who was clad in the garb of a well-to-do farmer, was striding excitedly up and down the room. There was a heavy cloud upon his scarred forehead, his eye was gloomy, and every time he passed the table in his walk to and fro, he cast a furtive glance at the silent man on the opposite side of it.

How long the men had been thus occupied, we cannot say; but at last, the man in rustic attire seemed to become weary of this silence, and pausing in front of the man whose face was buried in his hands, he said: -

“Well, Citizen Gilbert, you think me a brigand for voting for the king's death, I suppose.”

The man dressed in black looked up and, shaking his head sadly, replied: -

“No, Billot, no. You are no more a brigand than I am an aristocrat. You voted according to your sense of right, and I voted according to mine, only I voted for life, and you voted for death. It is an awful thing to take from any man that which no human power is able to restore.”

“So you consider despotism inviolable, and a desire for freedom, rebellion!” exclaimed Billot.”According to you, there is no such thing as justice here below, except for kings, that is, — for tyrants. What is left for the people- The privilege of serving and obeying. And you say this, you, the pupil of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and a citizen of the United States.”

“I did not say that, Billot. It would be an insult to the human race.”

“See here, Gilbert, I want to put a plain question or two to you. Do you admit that a nation which justly considers itself oppressed, has a right to abolish its church, to depose or supersede its rulers, and fight for freedom with all its might-”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then has it also a right to consolidate the results of its victory-”

“Yes, Billot, it has an incontestable right to do so; but consolidation is not effected by violence and murder. Have you forgotten the command: 'Thou shalt not kill thy fellow-man'-”

“But the king is not my fellow-man; he is my enemy,” cried Billot.”I remember well how my poor mother used to read to me in the Bible about what Samuel said to the Israelites when they wanted a king.”

“I remember that too, Billot. Nevertheless, Samuel consecrated Saul. He did not kill him.”

“Oh, if I attempt to argue with one of your learning, I shall be worsted, of course. Only let me ask you this: Had we a right to take the Bastille-”

“Yes.”

“When the king tried to deprive the people of freedom of speech had we any right to hold that meeting in the Tennis Court-”

“Yes.”

“When the king tried to flee the country had we any right to arrest him at Varennes-”

“Yes.”

“And when we found out that he was corresponding with refugees and conspiring against us with foreigners, even after he had sworn to support the Constitution, hadn’t we a right to straighten things out, and give him to understand that we would have no more of it, as we did on the 20th of June-”

“Yes.”

“And when he refused to sanction the expression of the people's will, hadn't we a right to take possession of the Tuileries and abolish the monarchy-”

“Yes.”

“But if the king continued to fight against Liberty even while he was confined in the Temple, had we or had we not a right to summon him before the Convention and try him-”

“You had.”

“But if we had a right to try him, we also had a right to condemn him, it seems to me.”

“Yes, to exile, banishment, or even continual imprisonment. In fact to anything except death.”

“And why not to death-”

“Because though guilty so far as the result of his actions was concerned he was not guilty in intent. You look at these matters from the people's standpoint, my dear Billot; he, from his standpoint, — the standpoint of royalism. Was he a tyrant- No. Was he an oppressor of the people- No. An accomplice of the aristocrats- No. An enemy of Liberty- No.”

“So you, too, judge him from a royalist's standpoint, do you-”asked Billot.

“No, for from a royalist's point of view, I should have to absolve him entirely.”

“But did you not absolve Mm when you voted to spare his life-”

“Yes, but with imprisonment for life. Billot, believe me, I speak the truth when I tell you, I was forced to think more favourably of him and to judge him far more leniently than I wished. A man of the people, or to speak more correctly, a son of the people, I had a preference for the popular side. You saw the king from afar off; you did not have the opportunity to judge of his real character that I did. Dissatisfied with the part assigned him, he was dragged one way by the Assembly, and another way by an ambitious wife. He was urged to adopt one course by the selfish refugees, and another by his brothers, who went about everywhere inciting persons to oppose the Revolution in his name. You say he was not your fellow-man, but your enemy. Well, your enemy was defeated, and civilised men do not kill vanquished foes. A murder in cold blood is not an act of justice, but an immolation. You have just invested royalty with the glory of martyrdom and have made justice seem too much like vengeance. Be careful! Charles I. was beheaded, but Charles II. became king; James II. was banished from England, and his son, too, died in exile. You have overdone the matter, Billot, and have alienated from Republicanism for fifty, perhaps even a hundred, years that immense portion of the human race who judge Revolutions solely with the heart. Believe me, my friend, it is the Republicans who should most deeply deplore the death of Louis XVI., for his blood is sure to be required of them, and will cost them their Republic eventually.”

“There is a good deal of truth in what you say, Gilbert,” responded a voice from the doorway.

The two men started and turned simultaneously. Then they exclaimed as if with one accord, “Cagliostro!”

“Yes, of course,” he answered.”But there is also considerable truth in what Billot says.”

“Alas! that is just the trouble,” said Gilbert;”the

subject we are discussing has two sides, and each person looking only at one side is necessarily obliged to believe himself in the right.”

“Yes, but he ought also to be willing to let it be said that he is wrong,” responded Cagliostro.

“Tell us what you think about the matter,” said Gilbert.

“Yes, tell us what you think,” exclaimed Billot.

“So you have tried the prisoner, and I am to sit in judgment upon the trial,” said Cagliostro.”If you had condemned the king you would have done right; but you condemned the man, and there you made a great mistake.”

“I do not understand,” said Billot.

“Listen, and our friend will explain,” interrupted Gilbert.

“The king ought to have been killed while he was at Versailles or the Tuileries,” continued Cagliostro;”while he was surrounded by his throng of courtiers and his Swiss Guards, and while he was a stranger to his people. He ought to have been killed on the 6th of October or the 10th of August, for then he was a tyrant! But after being confined in the Temple for five months, in constant communication with the common people, — eating before everybody, sleeping before everybody; the comrade of the workman, the mechanic, and the petty shopkeeper, — he was elevated by his very apparent abasement to the dignity of true manhood, and consequently should have been treated like a man, that is to say, banished or imprisoned.”

“I did not understand you,” Billot remarked to Gilbert, “but I do understand Citizen Cagliostro.”

“During these five months of imprisonment, the king was certainly seen in a most attractive and touching and flattering light. He proved himself to be a good husband, a good father, and a good man. The fools! I thought they had more sense. They regenerated him, — they remodelled him. As the sculptor hews the statue from the block of marble, blow by blow, so through the agency of misfortune after misfortune, this prosaic and commonplace being, neither bad nor good, self-indulgent and yet the greatest of bigots, -out of this dull nature was moulded a marvel of courage, patience, and resignation, which has now been mounted on a pedestal of grief. This poor king's nature became so broadened, and elevated, and sanctified, that it even came to pass that his wife loved him. And who would have believed, my dear Gilbert, in October, 1789, or even last August, that the queen would ever love her husband-”

“Oh, if I had only thought of all this!” murmured Billot.

“But what would you have done about it-” asked Gilbert.

“What would I have done- I would have killed him either in July or October, three years ago, or else last August.”

“Yes, but you didn't do it,” rejoined Cagliostro, after a moment's silence.”You voted for death, Billot. You, Gilbert, voted for life. Now, will you listen to one last word of advice- You, Gilbert, only had yourself elected to the Convention in order to fulfil a duty. You, Billot, had yourself elected in order to secure your revenge. Duty and vengeance having both been accomplished you are no longer needed here. My advice to you, therefore, is to go away at once.”

Both men gazed wonderingly at Cagliostro.

“Yes,” he resumed;”neither one of you is really a partisan. You are men of good common sense and sound judgment. Now the king is dead the political parties will find themselves drawn up face to face, and they will soon destroy each other. Which will succumb first, I do not know; but this much I do know, they will both go down, one after the other. To-morrow, Gilbert, your leniency towards the king will be regarded as a crime; but in a short time, your severity, Billot, will be considered equally culpable. Believe me, Billot, in this impending conflict between hatred, fear, revenge, and fanaticism, few will escape unscathed. Some will be smirched with mire and others with blood. So flee, my friends, flee!”

“But France-” asked Gilbert.

“Yes, France-”repeated Billot.

“Oh, France is to all intents and purposes saved. Her foreign foes are defeated, the enemies within her borders are virtually dead, for fraught with danger as the guillotine may be for the future, it is unquestionably a formidable power in the present. The death of Louis XVI. exposes us to the wrath of the other monarchies, and imbues the Republic with the convulsive and desperate energy of a nation under sentence of death. Look at Athens in ancient times! Look at Holland in modern times! All indecision must cease from to-day. The Revolution holds the axe in one hand and the tri-coloured flag in the other now. Go! Before the axe is laid aside, the aristocrats will lose their heads. Before the tri- coloured flag is laid down France will have all Europe at her feet. Depart, my friends, depart!”

“God is my witness that I shall not regret leaving France if her future is what you predict. But where shall we go-”

“Ingrate!” cried Cagliostro, “have you forgotten your fosterland, — America- Have you forgotten its immense lakes, its virgin forests and prairies boundless as the ocean- Do you not feel the need — you who can rest — of the tranquillising influences of nature after the terrible ordeal through which you have passed-”

“Will you accompany me, Billot-” asked Gilbert, rising.

“Will you forgive me-” asked Billot, advancing a step towards Gilbert.

The two men threw themselves into each other's arms.

“Very well,” said Gilbert, “we will go.”

“And when-” inquired Cagliostro.

“In — in a week's time.”

Cagliostro shook his head.

“You will start this evening,” said he.

“And why this evening-”

“Because I leave to-morrow.”

“Where are you going-”

“You will know some day.”

“But how can we go-”

“The ship 'Franklin' sails for America in thirty-six hours.”

“But our passports-”

“Here they are.”

“And my son-” asked Gilbert.

Cagliostro stepped to the door, and opened it.

“Come in, Sebastian, your father wants you,” he called out.

The lad entered and sprang into his father's arms.

“A post-chaise is all that is wanting,” remarked Gilbert.

“And mine is harnessed and at the door,” replied Cagliostro.

Gilbert walked to a secretary where there were a thousand louis, — about five thousand dollars in the common purse, — and motioned Billot to take his share.

“Have we enough-” asked Billot.

“We have enough, and more than enough to buy an entire province.”

Billot glanced around him with a rather embarrassed air.

“What are you looking for, my friend-” asked Gilbert.

“I am looking for something that wouldn’t be of much use to me, even if I found it, as 1 don't know how to write.”

Gilbert smiled, opened a desk, took up a pen, dipped it in the ink:

“Dictate,” he said.

“I want to send a farewell line to Pitou.”

“I will attend to that for you,” replied Gilbert, beginning to write. When he had finished, Billot asked:”What have you written-”

Gilbert read as follows: -

My Dear Pitou, — We are about leaving France,-Billot, Sebastian, and I, -and we all three embrace you tenderly.

We think that as you have control of Billot's farm you need nothing more.

Some day we shall probably write for you to join us.

Your friend,

Gilbert.

“Is that all-” asked Billot.

“I have added a postscript,” replied Gilbert.

“What is it-”

Gilbert looked the farmer full in the face, as he said slowly: -

“Billot commends Catherine to your care.”

Billot uttered a cry of gratitude, and again threw himself into Gilbert's arms.

Ten minutes afterwards the post-chaise, containing Gilbert, Sebastian, and Billot, was rolling swiftly along towards Havre.

EPILOGUE.

CHAPTER I. HOW ANGE PITOU AND CATHERINE BILLOT WERE ENGAGED ON FEBRUARY 15th, 1794.

One clear cold morning, a little more than a year after the execution of the king, and Gilbert's and Billot's departure for America, three or four hundred persons, that is to say, about one-sixth of the population of Villers-Cotterets, were waiting in the square, and in the courtyard of the Town Hall, for the exit of two lovers whom our old friend Monsieur de Longpre1 was uniting in marriage.

These two lovers were Ange Pitou and Catherine Billot.

It is needless to say that many important changes must have occurred to induce the Vicomte Isidore de Charny's former sweetheart and little Isidore's mother to become Madame Ange Pitou.

People related and commented on these events after their own fashion; but however much the facts were twisted and turned they only redounded to the glory and devotion of Ange Pitou, and the wisdom of Catherine, though the more interesting the lovers became in the eyes of their acquaintances and friends, the more their acquaintances and friends pitied them.

They were probably much happier than any man or woman in the crowd, but a crowd is so constituted that it must always either pity or envy.

That day the tendency was towards compassion, and they pitied the couple accordingly.

The events predicted by Cagliostro on the night of January 21st, 1793, had followed one another with frightful rapidity, each leaving an ineffaceable bloodstain in its wake.

On February 1st, 1793, the National Convention had voted to issue assignats to the amount of eight hundred million francs. This increased the total amount of assignats issued to three billion one hundred million francs.

On March 28th, 1793, the Convention, on the motion of Treilhard, passed an edict against the Royalist refugees, making their exile perpetual, and confiscating their estates for the benefit of the Republic.

On November 7th, the Convention directed the Committee of Public Instruction to devise a plan for the substitution of some rational form of worship in place of that taught and practised by the Roman Catholic Church.

It is unnecessary for us to speak of the proscription and death of the Girondists, or of the execution of the Duke of Orleans, the queen, Bailly, Danton, Desmoulins, and so many others; for though the influence of these events extended even to the little town of Villers-Cotterets, they did not affect the persons of whom we are speaking.

The result of this confiscation of property was that Gilbert and Billot being regarded as refugees, their estates were advertised for public sale. And the same thing happened to the property of Charny, who was killed on the 10th of August, and of his countess, slain during the massacre on the 2nd of September.

Catherine was consequently obliged to leave the farm, which was now considered the property of the nation. Pitou was anxious to institute a claim for it in Catherine's name; but Pitou, having become a moderate, was himself regarded with something like suspicion, and sagacious persons advised him not to oppose the nation either by word or by deed.

At first, Catherine had some idea of taking up her abode in the hut of Father Clouis, as she had done twice before; but when she presented herself at the door of the Duke of Orleans's former gamekeeper, the old man placed his finger on his lip, as if to recommend silence, and shook his head to denote impossibility.

This impossibility was due to the fact that Catherine's old place was already occupied. The law against rebellious priests had been rigorously enforced; and as nothing could have induced Abbe” Fortier to take the required oath, he would certainly have been banished if he had not previously taken the precaution to banish himself.

But this was not a favourable time for crossing the frontier, so he limited his exile to forsaking his house at Villers- Cotterets, — leaving his sister, Mademoiselle Alexandrine, to watch over his worldly goods,- and seeking an asylum with Father Clouis, which the old gamekeeper felt obliged to grant on account of the relations that formerly existed between both these men and the Orleans family.

It will be remembered that the accommodations at Clouise Rock were extremely limited, so there was not room for the priest and Catherine and little Isidore; besides, even if there had been room, Catherine was not enough of a Christian to forgive the priest for his refusal to bury her mother; and even if she had been enough of a Christian to forgive him, he was too much of a Catholic to forgive her, so she had to abandon all idea of residing at Clouise Rock.

Of course Aunt Angelica's house was not to be thought of. The farther the Revolution progressed, the more irascible the old woman became, if that were possible; this deterioration of temper on her part being due to the fact that at Villers-Cotterets, as everywhere else, the parish church was closed until some rational form of worship could be substituted by the Committee on Public Instruction, and the church being closed, the rental of chairs, which constituted Aunt Angelica's chief source of revenue, dwindled away to nothing.

We should also say, by way of explanation, that, having heard so much about the capture of the Bastille by Billot and Ange Pitou, and having seen her nephew and the farmer start off for Paris on the eve of each great outbreak at the nation's capital, she had not the slightest doubt that the French Revolution was conducted by Ange and Billot, and that Citizens Marat, Danton, and Robespierre were merely the assistants or tools of these two chief managers.

Mademoiselle Alexandrine, of course, encouraged her in these absurd ideas, which after Billot's regicidal vote resulted in a sort of fanatical hatred; so it would not do to think of placing Catherine with Aunt Angelica. The only place of refuge left consequently was Pitou's little cottage at Haramont; but how could the two dwell there together without causing the very worst kind of gossip-

Pitou therefore decided to ask the hospitality of his friend De'sire' Maniquet, — a hospitality which was cheerfully granted, and which Pitou more than repaid by services of every kind.

All this placed poor Catherine in a very trying position. Pitou lavished all the attentions of a friend and all the kindness of a brother upon her, but she was beginning to feel that it was neither as a friend nor as a brother that she loved Pitou.

Poor Catherine felt that she was entirely alone in the world except for Pitou and her child, and knew that if she were to die, little Isidore would not have a friend in the world except Pitou; so it gradually came about that Catherine was almost ready to make Pitou the only return in her power by giving herself to him body and soul, though the idolised lover of her youth had been transplanted to heaven.

Nearly six months passed, during which Catherine kept her resolve carefully concealed in a corner of her mind, or rather in the bottom of her heart, for she could not quite accustom herself to this new idea. So, though Pitou was greeted every morning with a pleasanter smile and a rather more tender pressure of the hand, he had no idea that any such change had taken place in Catherine's sentiments; but as Pitou's love and devotion did not arise from any hope of a return, he only loved Catherine more and more, and became more and more devoted to her.

This state of things might have continued until both Catherine and Pitou were in their graves, or until Pitou was as venerable as Philemon, and Catherine as old as Baucis, without arousing any hope in the heart of the captain of the Haramont National Guards; so Catherine was obliged to speak first, — that is, after the feminine mode of speaking.

So one evening, instead of offering him her hand as usual, she offered him her forehead.

Pitou, fancying this was merely a piece of absent-mindedness on Catherine's part, did not take advantage of the supposed inadvertence, but retreated a step or two, whereupon Catherine, instead of releasing his hand, drew him towards her, and this time offered him not her forehead, but her cheek. Pitou, poor fellow, was even more at a loss to know what to do now.

Seeing all this, little Isidore interposed in his mother's behalf.

“Papa Pitou, kiss Mamma Catherine,” he cried imperiously.

“Oh, God!” murmured Pitou, turning deathly pale as he touched Catherine's cheek with his cold and trembling lips.

Picking up her child, Catherine placed him in Pitou's arms.

“I give you my child, Pitou,” she said.”Will you not take the mother too-”

Pitou's head whirled. He closed his eyes, and, still pressing the child to his heart, dropped into a chair, crying out with that delicacy of feeling which only a susceptible nature can appreciate, “Monsieur Isidore, my darling Monsieur Isidore, how much I love you!”

Isidore always called their benefactor “Papa Pitou,” but Pitou had always called the viscount's son “Monsieur Isidore.”

Pitou felt that it was chiefly on account of Catherine's love for her child that she was inclined to love him, and for that reason, he did not say, “How much I love you, Mademoiselle Catherine!” but” How I love you, Monsieur Isidore!”

It being settled that Pitou loved the child better than he did the mother, they began to talk of marriage.

“I will not hurry you, Mademoiselle Catherine,” said Pitou.”Take your time; but if you will consent to make me happy, don't keep me waiting too long.”

Catherine only asked for a month; so at the end of three weeks, Pitou, in full regimentals, started out to pay a ceremonious visit to Aunt Angelica to invite her to honour with her presence his approaching nuptials with Mademoiselle Catherine Billot.

Aunt Angelica saw her prodigal nephew while he was still afar off, and hastily closed the door; but Pitou advanced towards the inhospitable portal just the same. On reaching it, he rapped.

“Who's there-” demanded Aunt Angelica, in her most acrid tones.

“Me, your nephew, Aunt Angelica.”

“Go away, you September fiend!” cried the old woman.

“Aunt, I came to announce a piece of news which cannot fail to please you, and which gives me great happiness.”

“What is it, you Jacobin-”

“Open the door, and I will tell you.”

“Tell me through the door; I won't open it for such a scalawag.”

“Won't you really, Aunt Angelica-”

“No, I won't.”

“Well, I 'm about to be married.”

The door opened as if by magic.

“To whom-”

“To Mademoiselle Catherine Billot.”

“You wretch! You scoundrel I You ass!”cried Aunt Angelica.”Marry that hussy I that- Clear out! I wash my hands of you I”

“I 'm too used to your pet names to mind them much. I thought I owed you the courtesy of announcing my marriage to you. I have done it, so good-bye.”

And, raising his hand to his three-cornered hat in a military salute, he walked on down the lane.

CHAPTER II. THE EFFECT OF THE NEWS ON AUNT ANGELICA.

Pitou had to notify Monsieur de Longpre”, who resided on the Rue de 1'Ormet, of his intended marriage; and Monsieur de Longpre”, being less prejudiced against the Billot family, congratulated Pitou upon the highly commendable action he was about to perform, and Pitou listened to him in astonishment, for he had never once thought he was doing such a virtuous act in insuring his own happiness.

A good Republican, Pitou was more grateful than ever to the Republic, for had it not abolished the publishing of the bans, and all other tedious preliminaries, by suppressing marriages in church; and it was consequently agreed between Citizen-Mayor Longpre' and Pitou that the latter should be united in marriage with Catherine at the town- hall on the Saturday following.

The next day, Sunday, was the day appointed for the sale of Billot's farm and the Chateau de Boursonnes. The farm was valued at four hundred thousand francs, and the chateau at six hundred thousand; but these valuations were estimated in assignats, and paper money had depreciated terribly in value. A gold louis was formerly worth twenty-four francs in specie; but this same golden louis was now worth nine hundred and twenty francs in paper money.

Pitou went back to tell Catherine the good news, though he was a little afraid she would be displeased that he had ventured to hasten the marriage a couple of days. Catherine manifested no dissatisfaction, however, so Pitou was in raptures; but Catherine insisted that Pitou should again visit Aunt Angelica to announce the exact date of the marriage, and urge her to be present. The old lady was Pitou's only relative; and though not a very affectionate kinswoman, it was only right for Pitou to fulfil the usual social requirements.

So, on Thursday morning, Pitou went to Villers-Cotterets to pay his aunt another visit. The clocks were just striking nine as he came in sight of the house. Aunt Angelica was not standing in the doorway this time; but when he reached the cottage, he found the door fastened exactly as if his aunt had been expecting him.

Pitou concluded that she must have gone out, and was delighted. He had made his call, and now a respectful letter could take the place of the speech he so dreaded.

But as Pitou was the most conscientious of youths, he rapped on the door; and as no one responded to the summons, he began to shout his aunt's name.

Attracted by all this uproar, a neighbour appeared.

“Do you know whether my aunt has gone out, Mother Fagot-”inquired Pitou.

“Doesn't she answer-”

“No, as you can see for yourself. She has gone out, most probably.”

“I'm sure I should have seen her pass if she had,” replied Mother Fagot, shaking her head.”Her door faces mine; and as soon as she gets up she comes into our house to get some warm ashes to put in her sabots, and so keep herself warm all through the day. Isn’t that so, neighbour Farolet-”

This question was addressed to a new-comer, who, having been attracted to his door by the noise, now closed it, and came forward to join in the conversation.

“What is that, Madame Fagot-”he asked.

“I 'm almost sure Aunt Angelica has not gone out. Have you seen her pass-”

“No, and I '11 venture to say she is still in the house; for if she had got up and gone out, the shutters would be open.”

“True!”exclaimed Pitou.”Good heavens! I wonder if anything can have happened to my poor aunt!”

“That is very possible,” said Mother Fagot.

“It is more than possible; it is probable,” remarked Citizen Farolet, sententiously.

“She wasn’t a very good friend to me,” remarked Pitou;”but for all that, I should hate most terribly — How can we find out what the matter is-”

“There's no great difficulty about that, it seems to me,” answered another neighbour.”You 've only got to send for Rigolet the locksmith.”

“There is no need of that delay, for I often used to open the door with my knife,” said Pitou.

So he took out his knife, and in the presence of a group that numbered about a dozen persons now, he began his work with a dexterity which indicated that he had adopted this means of entering the home of his boyhood more than once.

At last the bolt slipped back, and the door opened. The room had been very dark, but now the dull light of a gloomy winter's morning creeping in through the open door revealed Aunt Angelica lying on the bed.

Twice Pitou called her by name; but the old woman remained motionless, nor did she make the slightest response.

Pitou went up and took hold of her.

“She's cold and stiff!” he exclaimed.

Some one opened the shutters. Aunt Angelica was dead.

“How terrible! What a misfortune!”cried Pitou.

“Not such a very great one,” remarked Farolet.”She certainly didn't love you overmuch, this aunt of yours.”

“That may be, but I was really very fond of her. Poor Aunt Angelica!” and as he spoke, two big tears rolled down the kind-hearted youth's cheeks, and he fell upon his knees by the bedside.

“Now, Monsieur Pitou, if you 're in need of any help, we 're at your service,” said Mother Fagot.

“Thank you, Mother Fagot. Is your boy anywhere around-”

“Yes. Here, Fagotin.”

A lad about fourteen years of age appeared in the doorway.

“Here I am, Mother Fagot,” he replied.

“Ask him to run to Haramont,” said Pitou, “and tell Catherine not to be uneasy about me, but that I have found Aunt Angelica dead. My poor aunt!”

And Pitou dashed away a tear.

“Do you hear, Fagotin-” asked his mother.

“Yes.”

“Then be off.”

“Go by Dr. Raynal's, and tell him there's a case of sudden death to be looked into here,” added the practical Farolet.

“Do you understand-”asked the mother.

“Yes,” responded the urchin, starting off at a run in the direction of the doctor's house.

The crowd had increased until there were now at least a hundred persons in front of the door. Every one had some theory to expound in relation to Aunt Angelica's death. Some said apoplexy was the cause, others that it was a rupture of a blood vessel, while others declared that it was a case of quick consumption; but all whispered under their breath that, if Pitou looked sharp, he would be sure to find a handsome sum of money hidden away on the topmost shelf of a cupboard, in a butter crock, under a mattress, or in an old stocking.

In the midst of all this hubbub, Dr. Raynal arrived, accompanied by the Receiver-General. Now the mystery connected with the old lady's death would be solved. Dr. Raynal entered, approached the bed, examined the body, and then to the profound astonishment of Pleux circles, announced that the old maid had unquestionably died of cold and perhaps starvation as well.

Pitou's grief was greatly increased by this announcement.

“My poor aunt! my poor aunt!”he exclaimed;”and I thought she was rich. I was a wretch to leave her! Oh, if I had only known! It can't be possible! Doctor, it can't be possible!”

“Look in the pantry, and see if there is any food. Look in the woodshed, and see if there is any fuel. I always predicted that she would die like this, the old miser!”

They did look, and there was not a shaving in the woodshed, or a crumb of bread in the cupboard.

“Why didn't she tell me-” groaned Pitou.”I 'd have brought her wood from the forest! I 'd have turned poacher, if need be, to get her food. It was all your fault,” continued the poor fellow, addressing the neighbours.”Why didn’t you tell me she was so poor-”

“We didn’t tell you she was poor for the simple reason that everybody considered her rich,” replied Farolet.

Dr. Raynal placed a wet cloth on Aunt Angelica's face and started towards the door. Pitou ran after him.

“Surely you 're not going, Dr. Raynal-”

“What can I do here, my friend-”

“Is she really dead-”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

“Oh, my God!” groaned Pitou.”To have died of cold and hunger, think of it!”

“All the same, I advise you to search high and low,” said the doctor, in a whisper.”Understand-”

“But you say that she died of cold and hunger, Dr. Raynal-”

“Plenty of persons have died of cold and hunger, and yet had a good deal of money hidden away. But mum 's the word,” he added, placing his finger warningly on his lip as he walked away.

CHAPTER III. AUNT ANGELICA’S ARMCHAIR

Pitou might have reflected more deeply upon what Dr. Raynal had said to him, had he not seen Catherine hastening towards the house with her child in her arms.

As soon as it became known that Aunt Angelica had probably died of hunger and cold, her neighbours' desire to render her some last service diminished very perceptibly, so Catherine's arrival was most opportune. She declared that as Pitou's affianced wife it was her duty to perform the last sad offices for his aunt; and she rendered them, poor girl! with the same tender reverence which she had shown to her mother eighteen months before.

Meanwhile, Pitou must make arrangements for the funeral, which would take place the second day afterward; as in case of a sudden death, like Aunt Angelica's, that delay was required by law.

It was only necessary to see the mayor and undertaker, however, all religious services being forbidden at funerals, as well as weddings.

“My dear,” remarked Catherine, as Pitou picked up his hat to go and notify the mayor, “don’t you think, under the circumstances, it would be well to postpone our marriage a day or two-”

“If you wish it, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“Well, consult Monsieur de Longpre', and do as he thinks best.”

“So be it, Mademoiselle Catherine.”

“You see, it might bring us bad luck to marry so near the time of a funeral in the family.”

“Oh, as for that, the minute I'm your husband I defy ill luck to get any hold on me.”

“Dear Pitou,” said Catherine, taking his hand, “wait until Monday. You see I am trying to reconcile our wishes and the proprieties as much as possible.”

“Wait two days, Mademoiselle Catherine- that's a long time!”

“That sounds well from a man who has already waited five years.”

“A great many things may happen in two days,” sighed Pitou.

“It is not likely to happen that I shall love you any less, my dear Pitou; and as you pretend that is the only thing you feel any anxiety about -”

“It is, Mademoiselle Catherine; it is, indeed!”

“Well, in that case- Come here, Isidore.”

“Well, mamma-” said the child.

“Speak to Papa Pitou. Say to him: ' Don't be afraid, Papa Pitou, mamma loves you, and will always love you.'“

The child repeated, in his soft, childish voice:”Don't be afraid, Papa Pitou, mamma loves you, and will always love you!”

After this assurance Pitou made no further objection, but started for the mayor's. When he returned, at the end of an hour, he had made all the necessary arrangements both for the wedding and the funeral, paying the bills in advance. With the remainder of his money he had purchased fuel and provisions enough to last two days.

It was time for the wood to come, for in such a dilapidated old house, where the wind penetrated every nook and crevice, one might easily die of cold; and, in fact, Pitou found Catherine chilled through.

The marriage, in compliance with her wish, had been deferred until Monday. During the time that intervened, Pitou and Catherine did not leave the house at all; and in spite of the enormous fire Pitou built in the fireplace, the wind would steal in, icy and sharp, chilling them to the very marrow of their bones, until Pitou declared that if Aunt Angelica had not died of hunger, she would certainly have perished of cold.

The time for removing the body came. It was a short journey, for Aunt Angelica's cottage was close to the graveyard.

All the people of the immediate neighbourhood and many of the townsfolk followed the poor woman to her last resting-place. In the country both men and women go to the grave, so Catherine and Pitou acted as chief mourners.

After the ceremony was concluded, Pitou thanked those present, in the dead woman's name and in his own; and after some holy water had been sprinkled on the grave, the crowd quietly dispersed.

Left alone with Catherine, Pitou turned to the place where he had left her a moment before, but she was no longer there. She was kneeling, with little Isidore, by a slab at each of the four corners of which a small cypress was growing. This was Mother Billot's grave, and the trees had been brought from the forest and planted by Pitou.

He did not wish to disturb Catherine's pious meditations; but thinking she would be dreadfully cold when her prayer was ended, he hastened back to the house with the intention of starting a good fire. But, unfortunately, there was a very serious obstacle in the way. The supply of wood was exhausted.

Pitou scratched his head dubiously. He had spent all the money he had, so he looked around to see what piece of old furniture he could sacrifice. The bedstead, though of no great value, could still be used; but the armchair was positively worthless. In fact, for a long time no one but the old maid had dared to sit in it, so hopelessly dislocated was every joint.

So the armchair being condemned, Pitou proceeded after the fashion of the Revolutionary Tribunal with it; that is to say, the execution immediately followed the sentence. Placing one knee on the leather seat, black with age, he seized a post with both hands, and pulled vigorously. At the third jerk the arm gave way, and the chair, as if to show its grief at this dismemberment, gave forth a strange moan. If Pitou had been superstitious, he would have believed that Aunt Angelica's soul had its abiding-place in that old armchair, as, in fact, it had!

But Pitou was superstitious in regard to but one thing in the world, — that was Catherine; and the armchair had been condemned for Catherine's sake. So even if it had shed as much blood and given forth as many groans as the enchanted trees in Tasso's forest, that armchair would have been shivered into splinters just the same; so Pitou grasped the other post with equal determination, and wrenched it from the now dismembered carcass.

Again the armchair gave forth a strange metallic sound. Nevertheless, Pitou still showed it no mercy; but, seizing the mutilated piece of furniture by the leg, he banged it upon the floor with all his might. This time, the armchair was broken in twain, and to Pitou's profound astonishment, great clots, not of blood, but of gold, burst from the gaping wound.

It will be remembered that whenever Aunt Angelica collected twenty-four francs in silver she always exchanged those twenty-four francs for a louis, and this louis she hid in her armchair.

Pitou was dumfounded. He fairly trembled with incredulity and amazement. His first impulse was to rush after Catherine and little Isidore, and bring them back, so they might see the treasure he had discovered; but a terrible thought flashed across his mind, and deterred him. If Catherine knew he was rich, would she be willing to marry him- He shook his head.”No, she would refuse; I am sure of it,” he said to himself.

For a moment he stood motionless, absorbed in thought. Then a smile illumined his face. He had doubtless discovered a way out of the dilemma in which this unexpected piece of good fortune had involved him.

He collected all the gold-pieces that were scattered over the floor; then, taking his knife from his pocket, he cut open the seat of the chair, pulling out every particle of the stuffing, and searching every corner carefully. Every part of the chair had been filled with coin. In fact, there was enough to fill the big pot in which Aunt Angelica had cooked the famous rooster which occasioned the terrible scene between aunt and nephew, described in the volume entitled “Ange Pitou.”

Pitou counted his louis. There were one thousand five hundred and fifty of them; and with one thousand five hundred and fifty louis, or thirty-seven thousand two hundred francs in gold, Pitou was a rich man, for as every gold louis was worth nine hundred and twenty francs in assignats, Pitou was now the possessor of one million four hundred and twenty-six thousand francs, — nearly a million and a half, -the cost of the queen's famous necklace.

And think of it! this immense wealth came into his possession at a moment when, having no money to buy wood, he was breaking up a chair to warm his precious Catherine.

How fortunate that he was so poor, the weather so cold, and the armchair so old! But for the combination of circumstances, what might have been the fate of this valuable inheritance- He stuffed all the gold into his pockets, then breaking the frame of the chair into small pieces, he piled them up in the fireplace and set fire to them.

It was quite time, for in a minute or two Catherine and little Isidore came in shivering with cold. Pitou pressed the boy to his heart, kissed Catherine's cold hands, and then hurried off, saying, “I 've some very important business to attend to; so good-bye for a little while.”

“Where is Papa Pitou going-”asked the child.

“I don't know,” replied Catherine;”but this much is certain. When he rushes off like that, he is busy, not with his own affairs, but with thine or mine.”

In this case Catherine might have said with perfect truth, “with thine and mine.”

CHAPTER IV. THE USE PITOU MADE OF THE GOLD FOUND IN AUNT ANGELICA’S ARMCHAIR

It should not be forgotten that the sale of Billot's farm and the Charny Chateau was to take place on the following day. It will be remembered, too, that the lowest price which would be accepted for the farm had been set at four hundred thousand francs, while the chateau was valued at six hundred thousand francs, in assignats.

When the day of the sale came, Citizen Longpre” purchased both these estates for some unknown person, paying for them one thousand three hundred and fifty louis in gold; that is to say, for one million two hundred and forty-two thousand francs in assignats. He paid cash for the property.

This sale took place on Sunday, the afternoon before the wedding day.

Early that morning, Catherine had gone to Haramont to make some of those little preparations which the most sensible ladies deem necessary on the eve of wedlock. Perhaps, too, she did not care to remain in town while they were selling the beautiful farm where her childhood had been spent, and where she had been so happy and suffered so cruelly.

The crowd that assembled in front of the mayor's office at eleven o'clock the next morning both pitied and praised Pitou for marrying a girl who was not only destitute of fortune, but was likewise hampered with a child, who, instead of being richer than herself some day, as she had once fondly hoped, was now even poorer and more dependent than his mother.

While the crowd was thus engaged outside, Monsieur de Longpre” was asking, in accordance with the formula of the time, -

“Citizen Ange Pitou, do you take for your wife Citizeness Anne Catherine Billot-”

And to Catherine, -

“Citizeness Anne Catherine Billot, do you take for your husband Citizen Pierre Ange Pitou-”

When both had answered in the affirmative, — Pitou in a voice trembling with emotion, and Catherine in the serenest possible tones, — the citizen-mayor proceeded to pronounce them husband and wife in the name of the law, and then beckoned little Isidore to come forward and speak to him.

“My child,” said the worthy mayor, “here are some papers you must give to Mamma Catherine after Papa Pitou takes her home.”

“Yes, monsieur,” lisped the child, clutching the papers tightly in his little hands.

All was over now, only, to the intense astonishment of every one, Pitou drew five louis from his pocket and handed them to the mayor.

“For the poor, monsieur,” he said.

Catherine smiled.

“Are we such rich people-” she asked.

“One is rich when one is happy, Catherine,” replied Pitou;”so you have just made me the richest man in the world.”

He offered her his arm, upon which she leaned confidingly. The crowd greeted them with loud acclamations as they appeared in the doorway. Pitou thanked his friends, and shook hands with them in the heartiest manner. Catherine also exchanged salutations with her friends, and bowed her thanks right and left.

Meanwhile, Pitou had turned to the right.

“Where are you going, my dear-” asked Catherine.

For it' Pitou intended to return to Haramont, he should have taken the street to the left.

“Come with me, my beloved Catherine,” replied Pitou.”I am taking you to a place you will be very glad to see again.”

They walked on together until they came to the lane where he met Catherine riding along on her donkey six. years before, — the very day he was driven from his home by Aunt Angelica, and knew not where to lay his head.

“We are not going to Pisseleu, I hope,” said Catherine,, stopping her husband.

“Come, Catherine; please come,” pleaded Pitou.

After walking about ten minutes longer, they came to the little bridge where Pitou had found Catherine in a deep swoon at the time of Monsieur Isidore's sudden departure for Paris.

Here Catherine again paused, exclaiming, -

“No, no, Pitou; I can go no further.”

“Only as far as the willow-tree, Mademoiselle Catherine!” pleaded Pitou.

It was the same willow where Pitou had hidden Isidore's letters, and found those which were to be sent to the young viscount in return. Catherine sighed heavily, and walked on; but on reaching the willow, she paused again, and exclaimed, -

“Let us turn back now, I beg of you.”

But Pitou laid his hand on her arm and said, “Twenty yards more, Mademoiselle Catherine, that is all I ask!”

“Oh, Pitou,” cried Catherine, in such a reproachful tone that Pitou, too, paused and said, "Ah, Mademoiselle Catherine, -and I thought it would make you so happy!”

“Make me so happy by taking me to the home of my childhood, — the home which belonged to my parents and which ought to belong to me, but which has passed into the hands of a stranger, whose very name is unknown to me!”

“Only twenty yards more, Mademoiselle Catherine. That is all I ask.”

Twenty yards brought them in sight of the big gate of the farm; and around this gate all the waggoners, hostlers, and milkmaids were assembled with Father Clouis at their head. Each person had a bouquet in his hand.

“Ah, I understand,” exclaimed Catherine.”You wanted to bring me here, so all the old servants could bid me goodbye before the new owner came. Thank you, Pitou.”

And, dropping her husband's arm and little Isidore's hand, she walked on towards these good people, who surrounded her and led her into the hall of the farmhouse. Pitou took little Isidore in his arms and followed Catherine.

His wife was sitting in the middle of the spacious hall rubbing her forehead with her hand, as if she were trying to arouse herself from a dream.

“In Heaven's name, what are they telling me, Pitou-” she cried wildly.”I cannot understand it.”

“Perhaps the papers your child has, will help you to understand it better, my dear Catherine,” said Pitou, pushing little Isidore gently forward.

Catherine took the papers from the child's little hands, and, opening one of them, read as follows: -

This is to certify that the Chateau de Boursonnes and the lands pertaining thereto were purchased of me and paid for yesterday, February 14th, 1794, on account of Jacques Philippe Isidore, the minor child of Citizeness Catherine Billot; and therefore it is to said minor child the aforesaid Chateau de Boursonnes and its appurtenances legally belong.

Signed, De Longpri-,

Mayor of Vioers-Cotterets.

“What does this mean, Pitou-”asked Catherine.”You must see that I don't understand a word of it!”

“Read the other paper,” said Pitou.

And so, unfolding the other paper, Catherine read the following: -

This is to certify that the farm known as Pisseleu, with all its appurtenances, was bought of me and paid for yesterday, February 14th, 1794, on account of Citizeness Anne Catherine Billot, and that she is consequently the sole and lawful owner of said property and all its appurtenances.

Signed, De Longpre,

Mayor of Voers-Cotteret.

“For God's sake tell me what this means, or I shall go mad!” cried Catherine.

“It means that, owing to the fact that I found fifteen hundred gold louis in Aunt Angelica's old armchair that I was breaking up to kindle a fire with, before your return from the funeral, the Chateau de Boursonnes will not pass out of the Charny family, or Fisseleu farm out of the possession of the Billots.”

And Pitou related the incidents with which our readers are already familiar.

“Oh, Pitou, and you had the courage to burn that old armchair when you had all that money in your pocket!” exclaimed Catherine.

“But you were about to return, Catherine,” replied Pitou, “and you would nearly have perished with the cold before I could have bought any wood and got it home.”

Catherine held out both her arms. Pitou pushed little Isidore forward.

“You, too, dear Pitou! you, too!” cried Catherine, clasping both her son and her husband to her heart in a single embrace.

“Oh, my God!” murmured Pitou, overwhelmed with joy, but at the same time paying the tribute of a last tear to his aged aunt.”And to think she should have died of cold and hunger! Poor Aunt Angelica!”

“Upon my word,” said a burly waggoner to a fresh-looking, blooming milkmaid, “upon my word, there are two persons who don't seem likely to die in that way!”

THE END.

The Chevalier De Maison Rouge

The Chevalier De Maison Rouge

CHAPTER II. THE UNKNOWN.

CHAPTER III. LA RUE DES FOSSES SAINT VICTOR.

CHAPTER IV. MANNERS OF THE TIMES.

CHAPTER V. WHAT SORT OF MAN THE CITIZEN MAURICE LINDEY WAS.

CHAPTER VI. THE TEMPLE.

CHAPTER VII. THE OATH OF THE GAMESTER.

YOU ARE A DEAD MAN IF YOU SPEAK SO LOUD

CHAPTER VIII. GENEVIEVE.

CHAPTER IX. THE SUPPER.

CHAPTER X. SIMON THE SHOEMAKER.

CHAPTER XL THE BILLET.

CHAPTER XII. LOVE.

CHAPTER XIII. THE THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY.

CHAPTER XIV. DEVOTION.

CHAPTER XV. THE GODDESS REASON.

CHAPTER XVI. THE PRODIGAL CHILD.

CHAPTER XVII. THE MIXERS.

CHAPTER XVIII. CLOUDS.

CHAPTER XIX. THE REQUEST.

CHAPTER XX. THE FLOWER GIRL.

CHAPTER XXI. THE CRIMSON CARNATIONS.

CHAPTER XXII. SIMON THE CENSOR.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE GODDESS REASON.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON RUCHE.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE LITTLE DOG JET.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE TUSCADIN.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON ROUGE.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE PATROL.

CHAPTER XXX. THE PASS-WORD.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE SEARCH.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE FIRE.

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MORROW.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CONCIERGERIE.

CHAPTER XXXV. LA SALLE DES PAS-PERDUS.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE CITIZEN THEODORE.

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CITIZEN GRACCHUS.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE ROYAL CHILD.

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE BOUQUET OF VIOLETS.

CHAPTER XL. THE CABARET DU PUITS DE NOE.

CHAPTER XLI. THE REGISTRAR OF THE MINISTER OF WAR.

CHAPTER XLII. THE TWO BILLETS.

CHAPTER XLIII. THE PREPARATIONS OF DIXMER.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE PREPARATIONS OF THE CHEVALIER.

CHAPTER XLV. THE INQUIRY.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE SENTENCE.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE PRIEST AND THE EXECUTIONER.

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE CART.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE SCAFFOLD.

CHAPTER L. THE VISIT TO THE DOMICILE.

CHAPTER LI. LOUIS.

CHAPTER LII. SEQUEL TO THE PRECEDING.

CHAPTER LIII. THE DUEL.

CHAPTER LIV. LA SALLE DES MORTS.

CHAPTER LV. WHY LOUIS WENT OUT.

CHAPTER LVI. LONG LIVE SIMON!

CHAPTER I. THE ENROLLED VOLUNTEERS.

IT WAS ON THE evening of the 10th of March, 1793, ten o'clock was striking from Notre Dame, and each stroke sounding, emitted a sad and monotonous vibration. Night had fallen on Paris, not boisterous and stormy, but cold, damp, and foggy. Paris itself at that time was not the Paris of our day; glittering at night with thousands of reflected lights, the Paris of busy promenades, of lively chat, with its riotous suburbs, the scene of audacious quarrels and daring crime, but a fearful, timid, busy city, whose few and scattered inhabitants, even in crossing from one street to another, ran concealing themselves in the darkness of the alleys, and ensconcing themselves behind their portes-cocheres, like wild beasts tracked by the hunters to their lair.

As we have previously said, it was the evening of the 10th of March, 1793. A few remarks upon the extreme situation, which had produced the changed aspect of the capital, before we commence stating the events, the recital of which forms the subject of this history. France, by the death of Louis XVI., had become at variance with all Europe.

To the three enemies she had first combated, that is to say, Prussia, the Empire, and Piedmont, were now joined England, Holland, and Spain. Sweden and Denmark alone preserved their old neutrality, occupied as they were besides in beholding Catharine II. devastating Poland.

The state of affairs was truly frightful. France, more respected as a physical power, but less esteemed as a moral one, since the massacres of September and the execution of the 21st of January, was literally blockaded, like a simple town, by entire Europe. England was on our coasts, Spain upon the Pyrenees, Piedmont and Austria on the Alps, Holland and Prussia to the north of the Pays-Bas, and with one accord from Upper Rhine to Escaut, two hundred and fifty thousand combatants marched against the Republic. Our generals were repulsed in every direction. Miacrinski had been obliged to abandon Aix-la-Chapelle, and draw back upon Liege; Steingel and Neully were driven back upon Limbourg; while Miranda, who besieged Maastricht, fell back upon Tougres. Valence and Dampierre, reduced to beat a retreat, did so with a loss of half their number. More than ten thousand deserters had already abandoned the army, and cleverly scattered themselves in the interior. At last the Convention, having no hope except in Dumouriez, despatched courier after courier, commanding him to quit the borders of Bribos (where he was preparing to embark for Holland), and return to take the command of the army of the Meuse.

Sensible at heart, like an animated body, France felt at Paris-that is to say, at its heart's core-each and every blow levelled at it by invasion, revolt, or treason, even from quarters the most distant. Each victory was a riot of joy; every defeat an insurrection of terror. It is therefore easy to comprehend what tumult was produced by the news of these successive losses, which we are now about to explain.

On the preceding evening, the 9th of March, they had had at the Convention a sitting more stormy than usual; all the officers had received orders to join their regiments at the same time, and Danton, that audacious proposer of improbable things (but which nevertheless were accomplished), Danton, mounting the tribune, cried out, "The soldiers fail, say you- Offer Paris an opportunity of saving France. Demand from her thirty thousand men, send them to Dumouriez, and not only is France saved, but Belgium is reassured and Holland is conquered."

This proposition had been received with shouts of enthusiasm; registers had been opened in all the sections, inviting them to reunite in the evening. Places of public amusement were closed to avoid all distraction, and the black flag was hoisted at the Hotel de Ville, in token of distress. Before midnight five and thirty thousand names were inscribed on the registers. Only this evening, as it had before occurred in September, in every section, while inscribing their names, the enrolled volunteers had demanded that before their departure the traitors might be punished. The traitors were in fact the "contre-revolutionists" who secretly menaced the Revolution. But, as may be easily understood, the secret extended to all those who wished to give themselves to the extreme parties who at this period tore France. The traitors were the weaker party, as the Girondins were the weakest. The Montagnards decided that the Girondins must be the traitors. On the next day, which was the 10th of June, all the Montagnard deputies were present at the sitting. The Jacobins, armed, filled the tribunes, after having turned out the women; the Mayor presented himself with the Council of the Commune, confirming the report of the Commissioners of the Convention respecting the devotedness of the citizens, but repeating the wish, unanimously expressed the preceding evening, for a Tribunal Extraordinary appointed to judge the traitors. The report of the Committee was instantly demanded with loud vociferations. The Committee reunited immediately, and in five minutes afterwards, they were informed by Robert Lindet, that a Tribunal would be formed, composed of nine judges (independent of all forms, and acquiring proof by every means), divided into two permanent sections, and prosecuting, directly by order of the Convention, all those who were found guilty in any way of either tempting or misleading the people. This was a sweeping clause, and the Girondins, comprehending it would cause their arrest, rose en masse. Death, cried they, rather than submit to the establishment of this threatened imposition.

The Montagnards, in reply to this apostrophe, demanded the vote in a loud tone. "Yes," replied Ferand, "let us vote to make known to the world men who are willing to assassinate innocence under the mask of the law." They voted to this effect; and, against all expectation, the majority decided-1st, they would have juries; secondly, that these juries should be of equal numbers in each department; thirdly, they should be nominated by the Convention. Ac the moment these three propositions received admission, loud cries were heard; but the Convention, accustomed to receive occasional visits from the populace, inquired their wishes, and were informed in reply, "It was merely a deputation of enrolled volunteers, who, having dined at the Halle-au-Ble, demanded to be permitted to display their military tactics before the Convention." The doors were opened immediately, and six hundred men, armed with swords, pistols, and pikes, apparently half-intoxicated, filed off amidst shouts of applause, and loudly demanded the death of the traitors.

"Yes," replied Collot d'Herbois, addressing them, "yes, my friends, we will save you-you and liberty, notwithstanding these intrigues." These words were followed by an angry glance towards the Girondins, which plainly intimated they were not yet beyond reach of danger. In short, the sitting of the Convention terminated, the Montagnards scattered themselves amongst other clubs, running first to the Cordeliers and then to the Jacobins, proposing to place the traitors beyond the reach of the law, by cutting their throats the same night.

The wife of Louvet resided in Rue Saint Honore, near the Jacobins. She, hearing these vociferations, descended, entered the club, and heard this proposition; then quickly retraced her steps, and warned her husband of the impending danger. Louvet, hastily arming himself, ran from door to door to alarm his friends, but found them all absent; then fortunately ascertaining from one of the servants they had gone to Petion's house, he followed them there. He found them quietly deliberating over a decree, which ought to be presented on the morrow, and which by a chance majority they hoped to pass. He related what had occurred, communicated his fears, informed them of the plot devised against them by the Cordeliers and Jacobins, and concluded by urging them on their side to pursue some active and energetic measure.

Then Petion rose, calm and self-possessed as usual, walked to the window, opened it, and then extended his hand, which he drew in covered with moisture. "It rains," said he; "there will be nothing to-night." Through this half-opened window the last vibration of the clock was heard striking ten.

Such were the occurrences of the 10th of March, and the evening preceding it-occurrences which, in this gloomy obscurity and menacing silence, rendered the abodes destined to shelter the living like sepulchres peopled by the dead. In fact, long patrols of the National Guard, preceded by men marching with fixed bayonets, troops of citizens, armed at hazard, pushing against each other, gendarmes closely examining each doorway, and strictly scrutinizing every narrow alley-these were the sole inhabitants who ventured to expose themselves in the streets. Every one instinctively understood something unusual and terrible was taking place. The cold and drizzling rain, which had tended so much to reassure Petion, had considerably augmented the ill-humour and trouble of these inspectors, whose every meeting resembled preparation for combat, and who, after recognising each other with looks of defiance, exchanged the word of command slowly and with a very bad grace. Indeed, it was said, seeing one and the other returning after their separation, that they mutually feared an attack from behind. On the same evening, when Paris was a prey to one of those panics (so often renewed that they ought, in some measure, to have become habitual), this evening the massacre of the lukewarm revolutionists was secretly debated, who, after having voted (with restriction for the most part) the death of the King, recoiled to-day before the death of the Queen, a prisoner in the Temple with her sister-in-law and her children. A woman, enveloped in a mantle of lilac printed cotton, with black spots, her head covered and almost buried in the hood, glided along the houses in La Rue Saint Honore, seeking concealment under a door porch, or in the angle of a wall, every time a patrol appeared, remaining motionless as a statue, and holding her breath till he had passed, and then again pursuing her anxious course with increased rapidity, till some danger of a similar nature again compelled her to seek refuge in silence and immobility.

She had already (thanks to the precautions she had taken) travelled over with impunity part of La Rue Saint Honore, when she suddenly encountered, not a body of patrol, but a small troop of our brave enrolled volunteers, who, having dined at La Halle-au-Ble, found their patriotism considerably increased by the numerous toasts they had drunk to their future victories. The poor woman uttered a cry, and made a futile attempt to escape by La Rue du Coq.

"Ah, ah! citoyenne,'' cried the chief of the volunteers (for already, with the need of command natural to man, these worthy patriots had elected their chief), "Ah, where are you going-"

The fugitive made no reply, but continued her rapid movement.

"What sport," said the chief; "it is a man disguised, an aristocrat, who thinks to save himself."

The sound of two or three guns escaping from hands rather too unsteady to be depended upon, announced to the poor woman the fatal movement she had made.

"No, no," cried she, stopping running, and retracing her steps; "no, citizen; you are mistaken. I am not a man."

"Then advance at command," said the chief, "and reply to my questions. Where are you hastening to, charming belle of the night-"

"But, citizen, I am not going anywhere. I am returning."

"Oh! returning, are you-"

"Yes."

"It is rather a late return for a respectable woman, citoyenne-"

"I am returning from visiting a sick relative."

"Poor little kitten," said the chief, making a motion with his hand (before which the horrified woman quickly recoiled). "Where is your passport-"

"My passport! What is that, citizen- What do you mean-"

"Have you not read the decree of the Commune-"

"No!"

"You have heard it proclaimed then-"

"Alas! no. What, then, said this decree, mon Dieu-"

"In the first place, we no longer say God; we only speak of the Supreme Being now."

"Pardon me, I am in error. It is an old custom."

"Bad habit-the habit of the aristocracy."

"I will endeavour to correct myself, citizen; but you said- "I said that the decree of the Commune prohibited, after six in the evening, any one to go out without a civic pass. Now, have you got that civic pass-"

"Alas! no."

"You have forgotten it at your relations-"

"I was ignorant of the necessity of going out with one."

"Then come with us to the first post; there you can explain all prettily to the Captain; and if he feels perfectly satisfied with your explanation, he will depute two men to conduct you in safety to your abode, else you will be detained for further information." From the cry of terror which escaped the poor prisoner, the chief of the enrolled Volunteers understood how much the unfortunate woman dreaded this interview.

"Oh, oh!" said he, "I am quite certain we hold distinguished game. Forward, forward-to the route, my little ci-devant." And the chief seizing the arm of the former, placed it within his own and dragged her, notwithstanding her cries and tears, towards the post de Palais Egalite.

They were already at the top of the barrier of Sergens, when suddenly a tall young man, closely wrapt in a mantle, turned the corner of La Rue des Petits-Champs at the very moment when the prisoner endeavoured, by renewing her supplications, to regain her liberty. But without listening, the chief dragged her brutally forward. The woman uttered a cry of terror, mingled with despair. The young man saw the struggle; he also heard the cry, then bounded from the opposite side of the street, and found himself facing the little troop.

"What is all this- What are you doing to this woman-" demanded he of the person who appeared to be the chief.

"Before you question me, you had better attend to your own business."

"Who is this woman; and what do you want with her-" repeated the young man, in a still more imperative tone than at first. "But who are you, that you interrogate us-" The young man opened his cloak, when an epaulet was visible, glistening on his military costume. "I am an officer," said he, "as you can see."

"Officer! In what-"

"In the Civic Guard."

"Well, what of that-" replied one of the troop. "What do we know here of the officers of the Civic Guard-"

"What is that he says-" asked another man (in a drawling and ironical tone peculiar to a man of the people, or rather of the Parisian populace), beginning to be angry.

"He says," replied the young man, "that if the epaulet cannot command respect for the officer, the sword shall command respect for the epaulet."

At the same time making a retrograde movement, the unknown defender of the young woman had disengaged his arm from the folds of his mantle, and drawn from beneath it, sparkling by the glimmer of a lamp, a large infantry sabre. Then with a rapid movement which displayed his familiarity with similar scenes of violence, seized the chief of the Volunteers by the collar of his blouse, and placing the point of the sabre to his throat, "Now," said he, "let us speak like friends."

"But, citizen," said the chief, endeavouring to free himself.

"I warn you, that at the slightest movement made, either by you or any of your men, I pass my sabre through your body."

During this time two men belonging to the troop retained their hold of the woman.

"You have asked who I am," continued the young man, "which you had no right to do, since you do not command a regular patrol. However, I will inform you. My name is Maurice Lindey; I commanded a body of artillerymen on the 10th of August, am now lieutenant in the National Guards, and secretary to the section of Brothers and Friends. Is that sufficient-"

"Well, Citizen Lieutenant," replied the chief, still menaced with the blade, the point of which he felt pressing more and more, "this is quite another thing. If you are really what you say, that is a good patriot- "

"There, I knew we should soon understand each other," said the officer. "Now, in your turn, answer me; why did this woman call out, and what are you doing with her-"

"We are taking her to the guard-house."

"And why are you taking her there-"

"Because she has no civic pass, and the last decree of the Commune ordered the arrest of any and every individual appearing in the streets of Paris without one after ten o'clock at night. Do you forget the country is in danger, and that the black flag floats over 1'Hotel de Ville-"

"The black flag floats over 1'Hotel de Ville, and the country is in danger, because two hundred thousand slaves march against France," replied the officer, "and not because a woman runs through the streets of Paris after ten o'clock at night. But never mind, citizens. There is a decree of the Commune, it is true, and you only did your duty; and if you had answered me at once, our explanation might have been a much shorter, and probably a less stormy one. It is well to be a patriot, but equally so to be polite; and the first officer whom the citizens ought to respect, is he, it seems to me, whom they themselves appointed. In the meantime, release that woman, if you please. You are at liberty to depart."

"Oh! citizen," cried she, seizing the arm of Maurice (having listened to the whole of this debate with the most intense anxiety), "Oh! citizen, do not abandon me to the mercy of these rude and half-drunken men."

"Well, then," said Maurice, "take my arm, and I will conduct you with them as far as the Poste."

"To the Poste!" exclaimed the terrified woman, "and why to the Poste, when I have injured no one-"

"You are taken to the Poste," replied Maurice, "not because you have done any one wrong, or because you are considered capable of so doing, hut on account of the decree issued by the Commune, forbidding any one to go out without a pass; and you have none."

"But monsieur, I was ignorant of it."

"Citoyenne, you will find at the Poste brave and honourable men, who will fully appreciate your reasons, and from whom you have nothing to fear."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, pressing Maurice's arm, "it is no longer insult that I fear, it is death; if they conduct me to the Poste, I am lost."

CHAPTER II. THE UNKNOWN.

THERE WAS IN this voice an accent of so much terror, mingled with superiority, that Maurice was startled. Like a stroke of electricity, this vibrating voice had touched his heart. He turned towards the enrolled volunteers, who were talking among themselves. Humiliated at having been held in check by a single individual, they were now consulting together with the visible intention of regaining their lost ground. They were eight against one; three were armed with guns, the remainder with pistols and pikes. Maurice wore only his sabre. The contest could not be an equal one. Even the woman comprehended this, as she held down her head, and uttered a deep sigh.

As to Maurice, with his brows knitted, his lip disdainfully curled, and his sabre drawn from its scabbard, he stood irresolute, fluctuating between the sentiments of a man and a citizen, the one urging him to protect this woman, the other counselling him to give her up. All at once, at the corner of La Rue des Bons-Enfans, he saw the reflection of several muskets, and heard also the measured tread of a patrol, who, perceiving a crowd, halted within a few paces of the group, and, through the corporal, demanded. "Who goes there-"

"A friend," said Maurice. "A friend! Advance, Louis!" He to whom this order was addressed, placed himself at the head of his eight men, and quickly approached. "Is it you, Maurice-" said the corporal. "Ah, libertine! what are you doing in the streets at this hour-"

"You see, I am going to the section of Brothers and Friends."

"Yes; to visit that of sisters and friends. We know all about that."

"Ah, listen, ma Belle, When the dusk midnight hour The church-bell shall toll, I will haste to thy bower, To thy side I will steal.

Spite of bolts and of bars,

And my love will reveal, 'Neath the light of the stars. "Is it not so-"

"No, mon ami; you are mistaken. I was on my way home when I discovered this citoyenne struggling in the hands of these citizen volunteers, and ran to inquire why they wished to detain her."

"It is just like you," said Louis. Then turning towards the volunteers, "Why did you stop this woman-" inquired the poetical corporal. "I have already told the lieutenant," replied the chief of the little troop, "because she had no pass."

"Bah! bah!" said Louis, "a great crime, certainly."

"Are you then ignorant of the decree of the Commune-" demanded the chief of the volunteers. "Yes; but there is another clause which has annulled that-which-listen- "On Pindus and Parnassus, it is decreed by Love, That beauty's witching face, That youth and fairy grace, Without a pass, by day or night, may through the city rove."

"What do you say to this decree, citizen- it is clever, it seems to me."

"Yes; but it does not appear to me peremptory. In the first place it has not appeared in the Moniteur; then we are neither upon Pindus or Parnassus; it is not yet day; and, lastly, the citoyenne is perhaps neither graceful, young, nor fair."

"I wager the contrary," said Louis. "Prove that I am in the right, citoyenne, remove your hood, that all may judge if you come under the conditions of the decree."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, pressing closer to Maurice, "having saved me from your enemies, protect me now against your friends, I beseech you."

"You see," said the chief, "how she hides herself. In my opinion she is a spy of the aristocracy-some street-walker."

"Oh! monsieur," said the young woman, stepping before Maurice, and discovering a face radiant with youth and beauty, visible by the light of the lamp, "do I look like what they have termed me-" Maurice was amazed. He had never even dreamed of beauty equal to that he had caught sight of for a moment, and only for a moment, since the Unknown had again unshrouded herself in the hood as quickly as she had previously removed it. "Louis," said Maurice, in a whisper, "claim the prisoner, that you may conduct her to your post; you have a right to do so, as chief of patrol."

"Very good," said the young corporal, "I understand with half a word." Then, addressing himself to the Unknown, "Let us go, ma belle," continued he; "since you will not afford me the proof that you are within the conditions of the decree, you must follow us."

"Why follow you-" said the chief of the enrolled volunteers. "We shall conduct the citoyenne to the post of 1'Hotel de Ville, where we are on guard, and there she will be examined."

"Not so, not so," said the chief of the first troop, "she belongs to us, and we will keep her."

"Citizens, citizens," said Louis, "you will make me angry."

"Angry, or not angry, morbleu, it is equally the same to us. We are true soldiers of the Republic, and whilst you patrol the streets, we go to shed our blood on the frontier."

"Take care you do not shed it by the way, citizens, which is very likely to occur, if you are not rather more polite than you are at present."

"Politeness is a virtue appertaining to the aristocracy, and we belong to the lower orders," replied the chief. "Do not speak of these things before madame," said Louis, "perhaps she is an Englishwoman. Do not be angry at the supposition, my beautiful bird of the night," added he, gallantly, turning towards the Unknown. "Doubtless you are conversant with the poets, and one of them tells us, 'That England is a swan's nest situated in the midst of a large pond.'"

"Ah! you betray yourself," said the chief of the enrolled, "you avow yourself a creature of Pitt's, in the pay of England. A-"

"Silence," said Louis, "you do not understand poetry; therefore I must speak to you in prose. We are National Guards, affable and patient fellows enough, but still children of Paris; that is to say, if we are provoked we strike rather hard."

"Madame," said Maurice, "from what you have now witnessed you can easily imagine what will soon follow. In five minutes ten or twelve men will be cutting each other's throats for you. Is the cause your defenders have embraced worthy of the blood they are about to shed-"

"Monsieur," replied the Unknown, clasping her hands, "I can only assure you, that if you permit me to be arrested, the result to myself will be dreadful, but to others fatal; and that rather than you should abandon me, I would beseech you to pierce me through the heart with the weapon you hold in your hand, and cast my corpse into the Seine."

"Madame," replied Maurice, "I will take all the responsibility upon myself;" and letting drop the hand of the lovely incognita which he held in his own,- "Citizens," said he, addressing himself to the National Guard, "as an officer, as a patriot, and a Frenchman, I command you to protect this woman. And Louis, if any of these canaille say one word, put them to the bayonet."

"Carry arms," said Louis. "Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried the Unknown, enveloping her head still closer in her hood, and supporting herself against a post, "Oh! mon Dieu! protect me." The volunteers directly placed themselves on the defensive, and one among them fired his pistol, when the ball passed through the hat of Maurice. "Cross bayonets," said Louis. "Plan, plan, plan, plan, plan, plan, plan." Then, in the darkness of night, a scene of struggling and confusion ensued, during which the sounds of one or two shots were heard, followed by cries, imprecations, and blasphemies, but no one appeared, because, as we have said, there was this evening a secret question of the massacre, and it was believed the massacre had commenced. Two or three windows only were opened for an instant, but were immediately closed. Less in number, and worse armed, the enrolled volunteers were in an instant defeated. Two were badly wounded and four others pinned against the wall, each with a bayonet through his breast. "There," said Louis, "I hope now you will remain as quiet as lambs. As for you. Citizen Maurice, I order you to conduct this woman to the post of 1'Hotel de Ville. You understand you are answerable for her."

"Yes," said Maurice. Then, in a low tone-"And the password-" added he. "The devil!" said Louis, rubbing his ear, "the password; it is-"

"Do not fear I shall make a bad use of it."

"Ma foi!" said Louis; "make what use you like of it, that is your concern."

"Tell me, then," said Maurice. "I will tell you all in good time, but let us first dispose of these tipsy fellows. Then, before we part, I shall not be sorry to give you a few words of advice."

"Very well. I will wait." Louis then returned to his national guards, who still kept the enrolled volunteers at bay. "Now," said he, "have you had sufficient-"

"Yes, dog of a Girondin," replied the chief. "You deceive yourself, my friend," said Louis, coolly; "we are better sansculottes than yourselves, seeing that we belong to the club of Thermopyles, of whose patriotism no one, I hope, entertains a doubt. Let go these citizens," continued Louis, "they resist no longer."

"It is not the less true that this woman is an object of suspicion."

"If she were a suspicious character she would have made her escape during this skirmish, and not, as you see she has done, waited till it had terminated."

"Hum!" said one of the volunteers. "What the Citizen Thermopyle observes is quite true."

"Besides, we shall know, since my friend goes to conduct her to the post, while we go to drink to the health of the nation."

"Are we going to drink-" said the chief. "Certainly, I am very thirsty, and I know a pretty little cabaret, at the corner of La Rue Thomas du Louvre."

"Why did you not say so at once, citizen- We are sorry to have doubted your patriotism, and to prove it, let us, in the name of the nation and the law, embrace each other as friends."

"Let us embrace," said Louis.

And the enrolled volunteers and the national guards embraced with warm enthusiasm. At this moment they were more anxious to embrace than behead one another. "Let us now go," cried the two united troops, "to the corner of La Rue Thomas du Louvre."

"And we," said one of the wounded, in a plaintive voice, "do you intend to abandon us here-"

"Ah, well! yes," said Louis, "abandon the heroes who have fallen bravely fighting for their country against the patriots-it is true by mistake, but still true for all that; we will send you some wheelbarrows. Meanwhile, you can sing the Marseillaise, it will divert you." Then, approaching Maurice, who was waiting for him, with this Unknown, at the corner of La Rue du Coq, while the national guards and enrolled volunteers went back again arm-in-arm towards La Place du Palais-Egalite: "Maurice," said he, "I promised you some counsel, and this is it. Be persuaded to accompany us, rather than compromise yourself by protecting this young woman, who, it is true, is very charming, and on that account not the less to be suspected; for charming women who run about the streets of Paris at midnight-"

"Monsieur," said the young woman, "judge me not from appearances, I implore you."

"In the first place, you say monsieur, and that is a great fault. Do you understand, citoyenne, what I say-"

"Ah, well! Yes, yes, citizen; allow your friend to accomplish his kind action."

"What is that-"

"By conducting me home., and protecting me on my road."

"Maurice, Maurice," said Louis, "consider well what you are doing; you will compromise yourself terribly."

"I know it well," said the young man, "but what would you have me do- If I leave the poor woman, she will be stopped at every step by the patrols."

"Ah! yes, yes, monsieur, while with you-whilst with you, citizen, I meant to say-I shall be safe."

"You hear-" said Louis, "safe. She then runs great danger-"

"My dear Louis," said Maurice, "let us be just. She must either be a good compatriot or an aristocrat. If an aristocrat, we have erred in protecting her; if a good patriot, it is our duty to preserve her."

"Pardon, pardon, cher ami; I am for Aristotle, but your logic is folly, what he says- Iris my reason steals away, And yet she tells me to be wise;

Oh! lady, I can only say,

They turn away those glorious eyes."

"Louis," said Maurice, "a truce to Dorcit, to Parny, and to Gentil-Bernard, I pray you. Speak seriously, will you, or will you not, give me the password-"

"That is to say, Maurice, you place me in this situation-I must either sacrifice my duty to my friend, or my friend to my duty; but I fear, Maurice, my duty will fall the sacrifice."

"Decide, then, for one or the other, mon ami, but, in the name of heaven, decide quickly."

"You will not abuse it-"

"I promise you."

"That is not sufficient; swear!"

"Upon what-"

"Swear upon the altar of your country." Louis pulled off his hat, presenting to Maurice the side with the cockade, and Maurice, finding the affair very simple, took, without smiling, the oath required upon this extemporary altar. "Now," said Louis, "this is the password-France and Lutece; perhaps you would say, France and Lucretia, but let that pass, it is Roman all the same."

"Citoyenne," said Maurice, "I am at your service. Thanks, Louis."

"Bon voyage," cried he, replacing on his head 'the altar of the country,' and, faithful to his Anacreontic taste, departed singing- "Eleonora, Eleonora!

Now I've taught you how to love,

Tell your passionate adorer,

Does the lesson weary prove-"

CHAPTER III. LA RUE DES FOSSES SAINT VICTOR.

MAURICE, finding himself alone with the young woman, felt for the moment deeply embarrassed. The fear of being duped, attracted by her marvellous beauty, troubled his conscience as a pure and exalted Republican, and caused him to hesitate when about to offer her the support of his arm. "Where are you going, citizen-" said he. "Alas, monsieur, a long way from here," replied she. "But how far-"

"By the side of the Jardin des Plantes."

"It is some distance, let us proceed on our way."

"Ah! mon Dieu! monsieur," said the Unknown; "I plainly perceive I am a constraint upon you; but indeed it is no ordinary danger that I incur. Believe me, I will not abuse your generosity."

"But, madame," said Maurice, who during his tete-a-tete had totally forgotten the language imposed by the Republican vocabulary, and returned to the language of a gentleman, "how is it, in all conscience, that at this hour you are found in the streets of Paris, where, with the exception of ourselves, you do not see a single individual-"

"Monsieur, I have told you; I had been paying a visit to the Faubourg du Roule. Leaving home at mid-day, and knowing nothing of what had taken place, I returned, of course, in equal ignorance, all my time having been spent in deep retirement."

"Yes," murmured Maurice, "in some retired house, the resort of the aristocrats. Confess, citoyenne, while publicly demanding my protection, you laugh in your sleeve at my egregious folly."

"Why should I act thus-"

"You are aware that the Republican acts as your guide. Well, this Republican betrays his cause, that is all."

"But, citizen," quickly rejoined the Unknown, "I, as well as you, love the Republic; you labour under a mistake concerning me."

"Then, citoyenne, if you are a good patriot, you can have no cause for concealment. Where do you come from-"

"Monsieur, excuse me." There was in this "monsieur" so much sweetness and modesty of expression, that Maurice believed it to be founded on some sentiment concealed. "Surely," said he, "this woman is returning from some rendezvous d'amour." At this moment, without knowing why, he felt deeply oppressed at this thought, and for a short time he remained silent.

When these two nocturnal promenaders had reached La Rue de la Verrerie, after having encountered three or four patrols, who, thanks to the password, allowed them free passage, an officer at length appeared, inclined to raise some difficulties. Maurice here found it necessary to give his name, and also his residence. "That is all that is required from you," said the officer; "but the citoyenne, who is she-"

"The sister of my wife." The officer permitted them to pass. "You are then married, monsieur-" murmured the Unknown. "No, madame, why do you think so-"

"Then," said she, laughing, "you had better have said I was your wife."

"Madame," said Maurice, "the name of wife is rather too sacred to be slightly bestowed. I have not the honour of your acquaintance." The Unknown in her turn felt an oppression of the heart, and remained silent and confused. At this moment they crossed the bridge Marie. The young woman quickened her pace as they approached the end of their journey. They crossed the bridge De la Tourville. "We are now, I believe, in your quarter," said Maurice, planting his foot on the quay Saint Bernard. "Yes, citizen," replied the young woman, "but it is precisely here I most require your kind assistance."

"Really, madame," said Maurice, "you forbid me to be indiscreet, yet do all in your power to excite my curiosity. This is not generous. Grant me your confidence. I have merited it, I think. Are you not in honour bound to tell me to whom I speak-"

"You speak, monsieur," said the Unknown, smiling, "to a woman whom you have saved from the greatest danger she could encounter, to one who owes you a debt of everlasting gratitude."

"I do not require so much, madame; be less grateful, and pending the second, tell me your name."

"Impossible!"

"You might have told it nevertheless to the first sectionary, if you had been taken to the post."

"No, never!" said the Unknown. "But, in that case, you would have gone to prison."

"I had considered all that."

"And prison at this moment-"

"Leads to the scaffold; I know it all."

"And you would have preferred the scaffold-"

"To treason-to discover my name was treason; it is treason to betray others."

"I said truly, you compelled me to act a singular part for a Republican!"

"You act the part of a truly generous man. You encounter a poor woman subjected to insult; you do not condemn her because she might be 'one of the people,' but that she may be exempted from fresh annoyances, to save her from shipwreck, you reconduct her to the miserable quarter she inhabits."

"As far as appearances go, you argue correctly, and I might have credited you, had I never either seen you or heard you speak: but your beauty and mode of expression stamp you as a woman of distinction, and it is just this distinction, in opposition with your costume and this miserable quarter, which proves to me that your absence from home at this unseasonable hour conceals some mystery. You are silent… we will speak no more. Are we far from your house, madame-" At this moment they entered La Rue des Fosses St. Victor by La Rue de Seine. "You see that small dark building," said the Unknown to Maurice, extending her hand, and pointing towards a house situated beyond the walls of the Jardin des Plantes. "When we arrive there you must quit me."

"Very well, madame, issue your orders, I am here only to obey."

"You are angry."

"I angry-not the least in the world; besides, what does it matter to you-"

"It matters much, since I have yet a favour to ask of you."

"What is that-"

"A kind and frank adieu-the farewell of a friend."

"The farewell of a friend! Oh! madame, you do me too great an honour. A singular friend, not to know the name of his friend, who even conceals from him where she resides, no doubt from the fear of being too much troubled with his company." The young woman hung down her head, but did not reply to this sarcasm. "As to the rest, madame," continued Maurice, "if I have discovered a secret, I did so involuntarily, and without any effort on my part to do so."

"I have now reached my destination, monsieur," said the Unknown.

It was facing the old Rue St. Jacques, lined with tall dark-looking houses, intersected by obscure narrow alleys, leading to streets occupied by manufactories and tanyards, as within two steps ran the little river De Biure. "Here!" said Maurice, "is it here that you live-"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"It is so, nevertheless. And now, adieu! my brave chevalier, my generous protector, adieu!"

"Adieu! madame," said Maurice, with slight irony of tone, "but first again assure me you run no further risk of any danger."

"None whatever."

"In that case I will leave you." Maurice bowed coldly and retired a few paces. The Unknown remained for an instant stationary in the same place. "I do not like to take my leave of you thus," said she. "Come, monsieur, your hand." Maurice approached, and held out his hand, and then felt the young woman had slipped a ring on his finger. "Oh! citizen, what have you done- Do you not perceive that you have lost one of your rings-"

"Monsieur, you wrong me much."

"The crime of ingratitude is wanting in me; is it not so, madame-"

"Come, I beseech you, monsieur-mon ami, do not leave me thus. What do you wish to know- What do you ask-"

"Payment-is it not so-" said the young man bitterly. "No," said the Unknown, with a bewitching expression, "but forgive me the secrecy I am obliged to preserve towards you." Maurice, seeing in the obscurity those beautiful eyes almost humid with tears, feeling the pressure of that soft hand reposing between his own, hearing the accents of that persuasive voice, which had almost descended to the depths of prayer, felt his anger all at once yield to admiration. "What do I ask-" said he. "To see you again."

"Impossible! utterly impossible."

"If only for once-one hour, a minute, a second."

"I tell you it is impossible."

"Do you seriously tell me," said Maurice, "that I shall never see you again-'' "Never," said the Unknown, in a desponding tone. "Madame," said Maurice, "you certainly jest with me." Then, raising his noble head, he shook his hanging curls like a man wishing to escape from some power which, in spite of himself, still bound him. The Unknown regarded him with an undefinable expression. It was evident she had not altogether escaped the sentiment she had inspired. "Listen," said she, after a moment's silence, interrupted only by a sigh, which Maurice had in vain endeavoured to suppress. "Swear to me, upon your honour, to shut your eyes the moment I desire you to do so, and to keep them closed while you can count sixty seconds. Mind, upon your honour."

"If I swear, what will happen to me-"

"It will happen that I will prove my gratitude to you in a manner that I faithfully promise you I will never again to any other person. Do this for me more than for yourself. As to the rest, it will be difficult."

"But, at least, am I not to know- "No; trust to me. You see- "In truth, madame, I know not whether you are angel or demon."

"Will you swear it-"

"Yes; I swear to do as you desire me."

"Whatever occurs, you will not open your eyes-whatever happens. You understand- even if you should feel yourself struck with a poniard."

"You bewilder me. My word of honour required with so much urgency."

"Swear, then, monsieur. It appears to me that you run no great risk in so doing."

"Well, I swear," said Maurice, "whatever may happen," closing his eyes.

He hesitated. "Let me see you only once more-only once more," said he. "I entreat you." The young woman let fall the hood with a smile not quite free from coquetry, when, by the light of the moon, which at this moment shed its lustre between two clouds, he again beheld, for the second time, the raven hair hanging in masses of shining curls, the beautifully arched and pencilled eyebrows, overshadowing the almond-shaped eyes, so soft and languishing, an exquisitely formed nose, and lips fresh and brilliant as coral. "Oh! you are beautiful, exquisitely beautiful," said Maurice. "Shut your eyes," said the Unknown.

Maurice obeyed.

The young woman took both his hands within her own, and placed him in the desired position.

Suddenly he felt a warm perfume pervade his face, and lips slightly touch his mouth, leaving between his lips the disputed ring.

All passed rapid as thought. Maurice experienced a sensation almost amounting to pain. His feelings were inexplicable, even to himself.

He made a brusque movement, and extended his arms before him. "Your oath," said a voice, already in the distance.

Maurice clasped his hands over his eyes to strenuously resist the strong inclination he felt to perjure himself. He counted no more; he thought no more; but remained tottering, his nerves totally unstrung.

In about an instant he heard a noise like that of a door closing a few paces distant from him; then, again everything was silent. Then he removed his hand, and opened his eyes, looking round about him like a man just awakened from a deep sleep, and might, perhaps, have fancied all that had occurred a passing dream, had he not held between his lips the identical ring, proving this unheard of adventure an incontestable reality.

CHAPTER IV. MANNERS OF THE TIMES.

WHEN Maurice came to himself, he looked around, but saw only the gloomy, dirty streets extending to his right and left. He essayed to find out exactly where he was, that he might recognise it again; but his mind was disturbed. The night was dark, and the moon, which, for a moment, had appeared to light up the lovely face of the fair Unknown, had again retired behind the clouds. The young man, after a moment of cruel incertitude, retraced his steps towards his own house, situated in Rue de Roule.

Arriving at La Rue Sainte-Avoie, Maurice was much surprised at the number of patrols who circulated in that quarter of the Temple. "What is the matter now, sergeant-" inquired he of the chief of patrol, busily occupied in thoroughly searching La Rue des Fontaines. "What is it-" said the sergeant. "It is this, mon officier. It was intended this night to carry off the woman Capet, and the whole nest beside."

"How was that-"

"A band, forming a patrol, had, I do not know how, procured the password, and introduced themselves into the Temple in the costume of Chasseurs of the National Guard. Fortunately, he who represented the corporal, when speaking to the officer on guard, addressed him as 'Monsieur.' He sold himself-the aristocrat."

"The devil!" said Maurice; "and have they not arrested the conspirators-"

"No. When the patrol reached the street, they were all dispersed."

"And is there any hope of capturing any of these fellows-"

"There is only one among the number of sufficient importance to arrest-that is the chief, a very slight man; who had been introduced among the men on guard by one of the municipals of the service. We had made the villain run, but he had found a door behind, and fled through les Madelonnettes." Under any other circumstances, Maurice would have remained for the rest of the night with the patriots, who guarded the safety of the public, but since one short hour, love of country was no longer his sole engrossing thought. He continued his way, and the tidings he had just learned were soon obliterated from his memory by the recent events, in which he had himself taken so active a part. Besides, since these pretended attempts had become very frequent, the patriots themselves were aware, under certain circumstances, they made use of them in a political measure, therefore this news caused our young republican no great disquietude.

On returning home, Maurice found his "official" (at this epoque they had no longer servants),-Maurice, say we, found his official waiting, but who, while waiting, had fallen asleep, and while sleeping snored uneasily. He awoke him, and with all due regard for his fellow-man, made him pull off his boots, then dismissed him, that he might not interrupt his cogitations, and jumping into bed, it being very late, and he also having youth on his side, slept soundly, notwithstanding the preoccupation of his thoughts.

The next day he discovered a letter on his "table de nuit." This letter was written in a clear, elegant hand, but unknown to him. He looked at the seal. The seal was engraved with the single word in English-"Nothing." He opened it. It merely contained these words, "Thank you. Everlasting gratitude in exchange for everlasting forgetfulness." Maurice summoned his domestic (the true patriot never rang, the sound denoted servility, indeed, many officials only entered the service of their masters on this express condition).

The official of Maurice had received, nearly thirty years before, at the baptismal font, the name of Jean, but in '92 he was, by private authority, re-baptised (Jean savouring of Aristocracy and Deism), and now called himself "Scevola."

"Scevola," demanded Maurice, "do you know where this letter came from-"

"No, citizen."

"Who brought it to you-"

"The concierge."

"And who brought it to him-'"

"A commissionaire, no doubt, since it had no post-mark."

"Go down, and request the concierge to walk up." The concierge complied, because it was Maurice who made the request, and he was much beloved by all the officials with whom he was concerned in any way; but at the same time the concierge declared, that had it been any other tenant, he should have asked him to walk down.

The concierge was called Aristide.

Maurice interrogated him. It was a stranger who had brought the letter, about eight in the morning. The young man multiplied his questions, and varied them in every possible shape, but could elicit nothing further. Maurice requested his acceptance of six francs, also desiring, if this stranger again presented himself, that he would follow him, without appearing to do so, and inform him where he returned to.

We hasten to say, that, much to the satisfaction of Aristide, who felt himself rather insulted by this proposition, the man returned no more.

Maurice remained alone, crushing the letter with vexation; he drew the ring from his finger, and placed it with the crumpled letter upon the "table de nuit," then turned towards the wall, with the foolish idea of sleeping afresh; but at the end of an hour Maurice returned to this fanfaronade, kissed the ring and re-read the letter. The ring was a splendid sapphire; the letter, as we have said, was a charming little billet, displaying its aristocracy in every line.

As Maurice re-read and examined it, the door opened. Maurice hastily replaced the ring on his finger, and concealed the note under his pillow. Was this the modesty of newly-awakened love- or was it the shame of a patriot, who would not wish it to be known that one in relation with the people was imprudent enough to write a billet, of which the perfume alone was sufficient to compromise both the hand that penned it and the hand that received it.

He who entered was a young man attired as a patriot, but a patriot of surpassing elegance. His blouse was composed of fine cloth, his breeches of cashmere, and his stockings of fine striped silk. As to his bonnet, it might have shamed, from the elegance of its form and splendid purple colour, even those of Paris itself. Added to all this, he carried in his belt a pair of pistols of the royal manufacture of Versailles, and a short sabre, equal to those of the pupils of Champ-de-Mars. "Ah! thou sleepest, Brutus," said the new comer, "and the country is in danger. Fi, done!"

"No, Louis," said Maurice, laughing, "I do not sleep, I dream."

"Yes. I understand."

"Well, as for me, I cannot understand."

"Bah!"

"Of whom do you speak- Who is this Encharis-"

"Why, the woman."

"What woman-"

"The woman of La Rue Saint Honore-the woman of the patrol-the Unknown-the woman for whom you and I risked our heads last night."

"Oh! yes," said Maurice, who knew perfectly well what his friend would say, and only feigned ignorance, "the Unknown."

"Well; who was she-"

"I know nothing."

"Was she pretty-"

"Pshaw!" said Maurice, pouting his lips disdainfully. "A poor woman forgotten in some love adventure. "Yes; sweet creatures that we are, 'Tis Love that ever tortures man."

"Is this possible-" said Maurice, to whom such an idea was at this moment peculiarly repugnant, and who would have much preferred finding the Unknown to be even a conspirator rather than a light woman. "And where does she live-"

"I know nothing concerning her."

"Come, now; you know nothing, that's impossible."

"Why so-"

"You escorted her back."

"She escaped from me at the Bridge Marie."

"Escaped from you!" said Louis, with a roar of laughter; "a woman escape from you! "Say, can the trembling dove elude The vulture,-tyrant of the air;- The fawn, on whom the tiger rude Springs from his solitary lair-"

"Louis," said Maurice, "I wish you would accustom yourself to speak like other people. You annoy me horribly with your atrocious poetry."

"To speak like other people, indeed! Now, it appears to me I speak better than most people. I speak as the Citizen Demonstur, both in prose and poetry. As for my poetry, mon cher, I know a certain Emilie who does not consider it so bad. But to return to yours."

"My poetry-"

"No; your Emilie."

"Have I an Emilie-"

"Ah, ah! your gazelle may turn tigress, and show her teeth in a manner that may not please you, although in love."

"I in love," said Maurice, shaking his head. "Yes, you in love."

"Louis," said Maurice, arming himself with a pipe-key which lay upon the table, "I swear that if you will spout verses I will whistle."

"Then let us talk politics; besides, that brought me here. Have you heard the news-"

"I know that Capet's wife wished to escape."

"Oh! that is nothing."

"What more is there, then-"

"The famous Chevalier de Maison Rouge is in Paris!"

"Is it true-" said Maurice, raising himself to a sitting posture. "When did he come-"

"Yesterday evening."

"But how-"

"Disguised as a chasseur of the National Guard. A woman who is thought to be an aristocrat, disguised as a woman of the people, took him these clothes to the barrier gate; an instant afterwards they are gone out arm-in-arm. It was not till after they had passed the sentinel suspicion was excited. He had seen the woman pass with a bundle and repass accompanied by a soldier, when it suddenly struck him something was wrong and he ran after them. They had disappeared in an hotel of La Rue Saint Honore, where the door was opened as if by magic. The hotel had a second point of egress, leading on to the Champs Elysees. Bon soir to the Chevalier de Maison Rouge and his companion; they had both vanished. They will demolish the hotel and guillotine the proprietor, but that will not deter the chevalier from renewing the attempt which has just failed; it is four months since the preceding one, and yesterday was the second."

"Is he not arrested-" demanded Maurice. "Ah! well. Yes, man cher, as well attempt to stop Proteus, arrest Proteus; you know the trouble Aristides had to accomplish it- 'Pastor Aristasus, fugiens Peneia Tempe.'"

"Take care," said Maurice, carrying the key to his mouth. "Take care of yourself, for this time you will not whistle at me, but at Virgil."

"That is very true, and as long as you do not translate it I have nothing to say. Now to return to Maison Rouge."

"We agree that he is a brave man."

"The fact is, that to undertake such things he must possess immense courage."

"Or intense adoration."

"Do you believe, then, in the love of the chevalier for the Queen-"

"I do not believe it. I only mention what report says. Besides, she has turned the brains of so many others, that this would not be at all surprising. She has seduced Bernais, so they say."

"Never mind; the chevalier must have had confederates in the Temple even."

"Very possible: "Love breaks through bars, And laughs at bolts."

"Louis!"

"Ah! it is true."

"Then you think like the rest-"

"Why not-"

"Because, according to your account, the Queen has had already two hundred lovers."

"Two, three, four hundred. She is quite handsome enough for that. I do not say that she loves them; but, in short, they love her. All the world behold the sun, but the sun does not see all the world."

"You say, then, that the Chevalier de Maison Rouge- "I say they are on the track at this moment, and if he escapes this time the blood hounds of the Republic, he will be a cunning fox."

"And what does the Commune in all this affair-"

"The Commune is about to issue a decree, by which every house (like an open register) must display on the front the name of every inhabitant, both male and female. This is realizing the dream of the ancients. Why should there not be a window in every breast, that all the world may see what passes there-"

"An excellent idea that," said Maurice. "To place windows in men's breasts-"

"No; but to place a list of names on every door." Maurice felt this might be the means of assisting him to discover the Unknown, or at least afford him some clue whereby he might be able to trace her. "Is it not so-" said Louis. "I have already betted this measure will secure us a batch of five hundred aristocrats. By the bye, we have received this morning, at our club, a deputation of enrolled volunteers; they arrived conducted by our adversaries of that night, whom I had not abandoned till dead drunk-they are here, I tell you, with garlands of flowers and immortal crowns."

"Indeed," replied Maurice, laughing; "and how many were there-"

"There were thirty, and were shaved, wearing bouquets in their button-holes."

"Citizens of the Club of Thermopyles," said the orator, "we wish the union of Frenchmen not to be interrupted by any misunderstanding; we therefore come to fraternize anew with such excellent patriots as yourselves."

"Well, what then-"

"Then we have fraternized, and in this reiteration, as Diasonis expresses himself, we raised an altar to the country with the table of the secretary and two carafes in which the nosegays were deposited. As you were the hero of the feat, you were three times summoned to appear, that you might be crowned; but as you did not reply, and it was necessary to crown something, they crowned the bust of Washington. This was the order of the ceremony." As Louis concluded this statement, which at this epoch had nothing of burlesque, a noise was heard proceeding from the street; the drums, first heard in the distance, now approached nearer and nearer. They easily comprehended the cause of this noise, now too common to be misunderstood. "What is all that-" said Maurice. "The proclamation of the decree of the Commune," said Louis. "I will run to the station," said Maurice, leaping from his bed, and calling his servant to assist him. "I will return home and go to bed," said Louis. "I had not two hours' sleep last night, thanks to those outrageous volunteers. If they only fight a little, let me sleep; but if they fight much, come and fetch me."

"But why are you so smart to-day-" said Maurice, eyeing him all over as he rose to withdraw. "Because in my road hither I am obliged to pass the 'Rue Bethisy,' and in La Rue Bethisy, on the third flat, is a window which always opens when I pass."

"Then you do not fear being taken for a fop-"

"I a fop! I am, on the contrary, known for a French sansculotte. But one must make some sacrifice to the softer sex. The worship of the country does not exclude that of love; indeed, one commands the other-"

"Our republicans profess We but follow ancient lore;

Beauty we prize none the less,

That we love our freedom more.

Dare to whistle to that, and I denounce you as an aristocrat. Adieu, mon ami." Louis held out his hand to Maurice, which the young republican cordially shook, and went out thinking of a sonnet to Chloris.

CHAPTER V. WHAT SORT OF MAN THE CITIZEN MAURICE LINDEY WAS.

WHILE MAURICE Lindey, having dressed quickly, proceeds to the section of La Rue Lepelletier, of which, as we already know, he was secretary, we will endeavour to lay before the public the antecedents of this young man, introduced upon the scene by one of those impulses so familiar to powerful and generous natures.

The young man had spoken correctly the preceding evening, when in reply he had said his name was Maurice Lindey, resident in La Rue de Roule. He might have added he was a child of that half aristocracy, accorded to the gentlemen of the robe, his ancestors, for two hundred years, had distinguished themselves by that same parliamentary opposition which had rendered so illustrious the names of Moles and Masson. His father, the good Lindey, who had passed his life grumbling against despotism, when on the fourteenth of July, '89, the Bastille had fallen by the hands of the people, died from sudden fright, and the shock of seeing despotism replaced by a liberty militant, leaving his only son independent by fortune and republican in principles.

The revolution which had closely followed this great event found Maurice in all the vigour and maturity of manhood becoming a champion prepared to enter the lists; his republican education improved by his great assiduity to the clubs, and from reading all the pamphlets of that period. God knows how many Maurice had read. Deep and rational contempt for the hierarchy, philosophical consideration of the events which formed the body, absolute denial of all nobility which was not personal, impartial appreciation of the past, ardour for new ideas, sympathy with the people, blended with more aristocratic organizations, such were the morals, not of those whom we have selected, but which history has given us as the heroes of our tale.

As to his personal appearance, he was in height five feet eight inches, from twenty-five to twenty-six years of age, and muscular as Hercules. His beauty was of the French cast, that is to say, fair complexion, blue eyes, curling chestnut hair, rosy lips, and ivory teeth.

After the portrait of the man, comes the position of the citizen. Maurice, not rich, but still independent, bore a name much respected, and, above all, popular. Maurice, known by his education, and principles still more liberal even than his education, Maurice placed himself, so to speak, at the head of a party composed of all the young citizen patriots. It was well that with the sansculottes he passed for rather lukewarm, and with the sectionaries as rather foppish. But the sansculottes no longer remembered his lukewarm-ness when they saw him snap in twain the knotted cudgels, and the sectionaries pardoned his elegance when he one day scientifically planted a blow between two eyes, that had been watching him in an offensive manner for some time past.

And now for the physical, moral, and civic combined, Maurice had assisted at the taking of the Bastille, he had been on the expedition to Versailles, had fought like a lion on the 10th of August, and in this memorable journey, it is only justice to observe, he had killed as many patriots as Swedes, not being more willing to permit an assassin under a blouse, than an enemy to the republic under a red coat. It was he who exhorted the defenders of the chateau to surrender themselves, and to prevent the shedding of blood; it was he who placed himself before the mouth of the cannon, to which a Parisian artilleryman was putting a light; he who by a window first entered the Louvre, regardless of the firing of five hundred Swiss and as many gentlemen in ambush; and when he perceived the signal of surrender, his avenging sword had already cut through more than ten uniforms. Then, seeing his friends leisurely massacring some prisoners, who having thrown down their arms, and, clasping their hands, supplicated for life; he furiously attacked these fiends, which had gained for him a reputation worthy of the good days of Borne and of Greece. War declared, Maurice enrolled himself, and departed for the frontier in the rank of lieutenant, with the first 1500 volunteers the city sent against the invaders, and who each day had been followed by 1500 others.

At the first battle in which he assisted, that is to say at Jemappes, he received a ball, which after having divided the muscles of the shoulder, lodged against the bone. The representative of the people knew Maurice, and returned to Paris for his recovery.

For a whole month, consumed by fever, he tossed upon his bed of suffering, but in January was able to resume his command, if not by name, at least in fact, of the club of Thermopyles, that is to say of one hundred young men of the Parisian citizens, armed to oppose any attempt in favour of the tyrant Capet; and yet more, Maurice, with contracted brows, dilated eyes, and pale face, his heart shrouded with a strange mixture of moral hatred and physical pity, assisted at the execution of the king, and perhaps he alone of all that throng remained silent when the head of the son of Saint Louis fell on the scaffold, and only raised on high his redoubtable sabre, while his friends, loudly shouting Vive la liberte, omitted to notice that one voice at least did not unite itself with their own.

This was the individual who on the morning of the 14th of March, bent his steps towards La Rue Lepelletier, and of whose stormy career our history will furnish further detail.

Towards 10 o'clock Maurice reached the section of which he was the secretary. The commotion was great. The question in agitation was, to vote an address to the Convention in order to repress the conspiracies of the Girondins. They impatiently awaited the arrival of Maurice.

There was no doubt of the return of the Chevalier de liaison Rouge, of the audacity with which this arch-conspirator had for the second time entered Paris, where he well knew a price was now fixed on his head.

To this circumstance was attributed the attempt made the preceding evening on the Temple, and each one expressed his hatred and indignation against the traitors and aristocrats.

Contrary to the general expectation, Maurice appeared preoccupied and silent, wrote down the proclamation, finished his employment in three hours, demanded if the sitting had terminated, and receiving an answer in the affirmative, took his hat, and proceeded towards La Rue Saint Honore.

Arrived there, Paris appeared quite different to him. He revisited the corner of La Rue de Coq, where during the night he had first seen the lovely Unknown struggling in the hands of soldiers. Then from thence he proceeded to the Bridge Marie, the same road he had travelled by her side, stopping where the patrols had stopped them, repeating in the same place (as if it had preserved an echo of their words), the sentences exchanged between them; only it was now one o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun shining brilliantly upon this walk, reminded him at every step of the occurrences of the past night.

Maurice crossed the bridge, and entered directly La Rue Victor, as it was then called. "Poor woman," murmured Maurice, "she did not reflect yesterday that the duration of the night was only twelve hours, and that her secret would in all probability not last longer than the night. By the light of the sun, I will endeavour to find the door through which she vanished, and who knows but I may perhaps even see her at a window-" lie then entered the old Rue Saint Jacques, and placed himself in the same spot as the Unknown had placed him on the preceding evening. For an instant, he closed his eyes, perhaps foolishly expecting the kiss he had then received would again impress his lips. But he felt nothing but the remembrance; 'tis true that burned yet.

Maurice opened his eyes and saw two little streets, one to the right, the other to the left. They were muddy, dirty, and badly formed, furnished with barriers, cut by little bridges, thrown over a kennel. There might be seen the beams of arches, nooks, corners, and twenty doors propt up, fast falling into decay. Here indeed was misery in all its hideousness. Here and there was a garden enclosed in a fence, others by palisades of poles, some by walls, and skins hanging in the outhouses, diffusing around that disgusting odour always arising from a tan-yard.

Maurice's search lasted for nearly two hours, during which he found nothing, and divined nothing, and ten times he had retraced his steps to consider where he was. But all his efforts were in vain, his search was a fruitless one, as all trace of the young woman seemed to have been effaced by the fog and rain of the previous night. "Truly," said Maurice, "I must be in a dream. This filthy place could not for an instant have afforded refuge for my beautiful fairy of last night." There was, in this wild Republican, more real poetry than in his friend of the Anacreontic quatrains, since he clung to this idea, fearful to sully, even in thought, the spotless purity of the Unknown. But all hope had now forsaken him. "Adieu," said he; "mysterious beauty, you have treated me like a child and a fool. Would she have led me here if she really lived in this wretched locality- No, she would only pass as a swan over the infected marsh, and, like a bird in the air, leave no trace behind."

CHAPTER VI. THE TEMPLE.

THE SAME DAY, and the same hour, when Maurice, disappointed and unhappy, repassed the Bridge De la Tournelle, several municipals, accompanied by Sauterre, Commandant of the Parisian National Guard, made a visit of inquiry to the Temple, transformed into a prison, since the 13th of August, 1793.

The visit was made especially to an apartment in the third story, consisting of an antechamber and three rooms. One of these chambers was occupied by two females, a young girl, and a child of nine years old, all dressed in mourning. The elder of the females was about seven or eight and thirty. She was seated at a table reading.

The second, whose age appeared twenty-eight or twenty-nine, was engaged on a piece of tapestry.

The young girl of fourteen years was seated near the child, who, ill and in bed, closed his eyes as if asleep, although that was utterly impossible, owing to the noise made by the municipals. Whilst some moved the beds, others examined their clothes and linen; the rest, when their search was concluded, remained rudely staring at the unfortunate prisoners, who never even raised their eyes, the one from her book, the other from her embroidery, and the third from her brother.

The eldest of these women was tall, handsome, and very pale. She appeared to concentrate all her attention on her book, although in all probability her eyes read but not her mind. One of the municipals approached her, brutally snatched away her book, and flung it into the middle of the room. The prisoner stretched her hand across the table, took up the second volume, and continued to read.

The Montagnard made a furious gesture, as if he would take away the second, as he had the first, but at this attempt, which startled the prisoner at her embroidery near the window, the young girl sprang forward, and encircling the reader's head with her arms, weeping, exclaimed, "My poor mother! my poor mother!" and then embraced her. As she did so the prisoner placed her mouth to her ear, and whispered-"Marie, there is a letter concealed in the stove; remove it."

"Come! come!" said the municipal, brutally dragging the young girl towards him, and separating her from her mother, "shall you soon have finished embracing-"

"Sir," said she, "has the Convention decreed that children shall not embrace their mother-"

"No, but it has decreed that traitors, aristocrats, and ci-devants shall be punished, that is why I am here to interrogate you. Answer, Antoinette!" She who was thus grossly accosted did not even deign to look at her examiner, but turned her head aside, while a flush passed over her face, pale, and furrowed with tears. "It is impossible," said he, "that you are ignorant of the attempt last night. Whence came it-'' The prisoners still maintained silence. "Answer, Antoinette," said Sauterre, approaching her, without remarking the almost frenzied horror which had seized the young woman at sight of this man, who, on the morning of the 21st of January, conducted Louis XVI. from the Temple to the scaffold. "Reply. They were conspiring last night against the Republic, and seeking your escape from the captivity in which you are expiating your crimes, by the will of the people. Tell me, do you know who are the conspirators-" Marie started at contact with that voice, which she endeavoured to fly from by removing her chair to the greatest distance possible, but replied no more to this question than the former ones; paid no more deference to Santerre than she had done to the municipal. "You are then determined not to reply," said Santerre, stamping his foot furiously.

The prisoner took up the third volume from the table. Santerre turned himself away. The brutal power of this man, who commanded 80,000 men, who had only need of a gesture to cover the voice of the dying Louis XVI., was defeated by the dignity of a poor prisoner, whose head he could cause to fall, but whose will he could not bend. "And you, Elizabeth," said he, addressing the other female, who at that instant abandoned her tapestry to join her hands in prayer, not to these men, but to God, "will you reply-"

"I do not know what you ask," said she; "therefore I cannot reply."

"Morbleu! Citizen Capet," said Santerre, impatiently, "I think what I say is sufficiently clear, too. I again tell you, that yesterday an attempt was made for your escape, and you certainly must know the culprits."

"Having no communication with those outside, monsieur, we cannot possibly tell what they do, either for or against us."

"Very well," said the municipal; "we will now hear what your nephew will say." And he approached the bed of the young Dauphin. At this menace, Marie Antoinette suddenly rose. "Monsieur," said she, "my son is ill, and now asleep-do not wake him."

"Reply, then."

"I know nothing." The municipal walked straight to the bed of the little prisoner, who, as we have said, feigned sleep. "Come, wake up, Capet," said he, shaking him roughly.

The child opened his eyes and smiled.

The municipals then surrounded his bed.

The queen, agitated with fear and grief, made a sign to her daughter, who, profiting by this moment, glided from the apartment into the room adjoining, opened the mouth of the stove, and drew out a letter. "What do you want with me-" asked the child. "To inquire if you heard nothing during the night-"

"No; I was asleep."

"You are very fond of sleep, it seems."

"Yes; for when I sleep I dream."

"And what do you dream-"

"That I again see my father, whom you have killed."

"Then you heard nothing-" said Santerre, quickly. "Nothing."

"These wolf's cubs are, in truth, well agreed with the she-wolf," said the municipal, furious with rage. "There has been, notwithstanding, a plot." The queen smiled. "She bullies us, the Austrian!" cried the municipal. "Well, since it is thus, let us execute in all its rigour the decree of the Commune. Get up, Capet."

"What would you do-" said the queen, forgetting herself. "Do you not see my son is ill, and suffering from fever- Would you wish to kill him-"

"Your son," said the municipal, "is the cause of constant alarm to the council of the Temple: he is the point at which all the conspirators aim, and flatter themselves they shall carry you off altogether. Well, let them come. Tison-call Tison." Tison was a species of journeyman, charged with all the household work in the prison. He appeared. He was a man of forty years old, much sunburnt, of a rude and ferocious aspect, with matted black hair, overhanging his eyebrows. "Tison," said Santerre, "who came yesterday to bring the prisoners' food-" Tison uttered a name. "And their linen, who brought it to them-"

"My daughter."

"Then your daughter is a laundress-'"

"Certainly."

"And you gave her the washing of the prisoners-"

"Why not- She gains as much by one as another; it is no longer the tyrant's money, but belongs to the nation, who pays for them."

"You were told to examine the linen with the greatest attention."

"Well, do I ever fail in my duty- In proof of which, they had yesterday a handkerchief tied in two knots. I have taken it to the council, who ordered my wife to wash, iron, and return it to Madame Capet, without saying anything about it." At this remark of two knots being tied in the pocket-handkerchief, the Queen trembled, the pupils of her eyes dilated, and she and Madame Elizabeth exchanged hasty glances. "Tison," said Santerre, "your daughter is a person of whose patriotism no one can entertain a doubt; but when she leaves the Temple to-day she returns there no more."

"Ah, mon Dieu!" said Tison, terrified, "what are you saying to me- I shall not see my daughter till I go out."

"You will not go out," said Santerre.

Tison looked wildly around, without allowing his eye to remain fixed on any particular object, and suddenly exclaimed-"I am not to go out; that is it, is it- Well, then, I will go out altogether. Give me my dismissal. I am neither traitor nor aristocrat, that I should be detained in prison. I tell you I will go out."

"Citizen," said Santerre, "obey the orders of the Commune, and be silent, or I tell you it may be all the worse for you. Remain here and watch all that passes. There is an eye on you. I warn you of this." During this time the Queen, who thought herself for a moment forgotten, recovered by degrees, and replaced her son in his bed. "Desire your wife to come up," said the municipal to Tison.

He obeyed without a word. The threats of Santerre had rendered him meek as a lamb.

Tison's wife came up. "Come here, citoyenne," said Santerre, "we are going into the antechambers; during that time, search all the prisoners."

"Listen, wife," said Tison; "they will not permit our daughter to come to the Temple."

"They will not permit our daughter to come here! Then we shall see her no more." Tison mournfully shook his head. "What do you say to this-"

"I say we will make a report to the Council of the Temple, and the Council shall decide it. In the meantime-"

"In the meantime I will see my daughter again."

"Silence," said Santerre; "you came here for the purpose of searching the prisoners, search them, then, and afterwards we will see-"

"But-now-"

"Oh, oh!" said Santerre, knitting his brows; "you are contaminated, it appears to me."

"Do as the Citizen-General tells you, wife," he said; "afterwards, we shall see." And Tison regarded Santerre with a humble smile. "Very well," said the woman; "go, then, I am ready to search." The men went out. "Ma chere, Madame Tison," said the Queen; "you know-"

"I only know, Citoyenne Capet," said the horrible woman, gnashing her teeth, "that you are the cause of all the misery of the people; and also that I have reason to suspect you, and you know it." Four men waited at the door, to assist Tison's wife, if the Queen offered any resistance.

The search commenced on the Queen.

There was found on her person a handkerchief tied in three knots, which unfortunately appeared a reply to the one spoken of by Tison; a pencil, a scapulary, and some sealing-wax. "Ah! I knew it," said Tison's wife; "I have often told the municipals she wrote, the Austrian! The other day I found a lump of sealing-wax on the candlestick."

"Ah, madame," said the Queen, in a supplicating tone, "only show the scapulary, I entreat you."

"Yes," said the woman, "I feel pity for you, who have felt so much pity for me; to take my daughter from me." Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royal had nothing found upon them.

The woman Tison recalled the municipals, who entered, Santerre at their head. She showed them the articles found upon the Queen; which, as they passed from hand to hand, afforded subject for an infinite variety of conjectures; but the handkerchief tied in three knots excited, above all, the imagination of these persecutors of the royal race. "Now," said Santerre, "we are going to read the decree of the Convention to you."

"What decree-" demanded the Queen. "The decree which orders you to be separated from your son."

"Is it, then, true that this decree exists-"

"Yes; the Convention has too much regard for the health of a child confided to its guardianship, to leave him in the care of a mother so depraved." The eyes of the Queen flashed like lightning. "But form some accusation at least, tigers that you are."

"That is not at all difficult," said a municipal; and he pronounced one of those infamous accusations brought by Suetone against Agrippine. "Oh!" cried the Queen, standing, pale with indignation, "I appeal to the heart of every mother."

"That is all very fine," said a municipal; "but we have already been here two hours, and cannot lose the whole day. Get up, Capet, and follow us."

"Never, never!" cried the Queen, rushing between the municipals and the young Louis, preparing to defend the approach to his bed, as a tigress the entrance to her den. "Never will I permit you to carry away my child."

"Oh! Messieurs," said Madame Elizabeth, clasping her hands in an attitude of prayer, "Messieurs, in the name of Heaven, have pity on us both."

"Then speak," said Santerre; "state the names, avow the project of your accomplices; explain what they wished to intimate by the knots made in the pocket-handkerchief brought with your linen by Tison's daughter, and the meaning of those tied in the handkerchief found in your pocket, and on these conditions I will leave you your child." A look from Madame Elizabeth seemed to implore the Queen to submit to this dreadful sacrifice.

Then quietly brushing from her eye a tear which sparkled like a diamond, "Adieu, my son," cried she; "never forget your father who is in heaven, or your mother who will soon join him there, and never omit to repeat morning and evening the prayer I have taught you. Adieu! my son." She gave him a last kiss; then rising calm and inflexible, "I know nothing, Messieurs," said she, "do as you please." But the Queen must have required more than the usual amount of fortitude contained in the heart of woman, and above all of a mother. She fell back fainting upon a chair, whilst they carried away the child, who with fast flowing tears held out his arms, but uttered not a single word or cry.

The door closed behind the municipals who carried away the child, and the three women remained alone. There was for a moment the deep silence of despair, interrupted only by occasional sobs.

The Queen first broke silence. "My daughter," said she, "that letter!"

"I burnt it, as you desired me, ma mere."

"Without reading it-"

"Without reading it."

"Adieu, then, to the last ray of hope, divine hope," murmured Madame Elizabeth. "You are right, my sister, you are right; it is almost beyond endurance." Then turning towards her daughter, "But you at least saw the handwriting, Marie-"

"Yes, ma mere, for a moment." The Queen rose, went to the door, to make sure she was not observed, then drawing a pin from her hair, approached the wall, and from a chink drew out a small paper folded like a letter, and showing it to Madame Royale, "Collect your thoughts before you reply, my child," said she; "was the writing the same as this-"

"Yes, yes, ma mere," cried the princess; "I recognise it."

"God be praised, then," cried the Queen, falling with fervour on her knees. "If he could write since this morning, he is safe. Thanks, mon Dieu! thanks! So noble a friend deserves thy miraculous preservation."

"Of whom do you speak, ma mere-" demanded Madame Royale. "Who is this friend- Tell me his name, that I may recommend him to God in my prayers."

"You are right, my child; never forget it, this name, for it is the name of a gentleman replete with honour and courage, one not devoted to us through ambition, for he has only revealed himself since our misfortunes. He has never seen the Queen of France, or rather the Queen of France has never seen him, and he vows his life to her defence. Perhaps he will be recompensed as all virtue is now recompensed, by a dreadful death. But-if he dies… oh! I shall still think of him in heaven… he is called…" The Queen looked uneasily around, then lowering her voice, "He is called the Chevalier de Maison Rouge… Pray for him."

CHAPTER VII. THE OATH OF THE GAMESTER.

THE ATTEMPTED abduction, so contestable was it, because it had had no one to commence the execution of it, had excited the anger of some, and the interest of others. That which likewise corroborated this event almost to a certainty, was that the Committee for General Security learned that three weeks or a mouth before a number of emigrants had entered France from different parts of the frontier. It was evident these people who thus risked their lives did not do so without design, and this design was in all probability to co-operate in carrying off the royal family.

Already, upon the proposition of the Conventionalist Asselim, the terrible decree had been promulgated, which condemned to death all emigrants, convicted of having returned to France, all Frenchmen convicted of having intended to emigrate, particularly all convicted of having assisted in their flight, or in their return, either a female or male emigrant; and lastly, all citizens convicted of having afforded shelter to an emigrant. With this dreadful law commenced the "Reign of Terror." All that was wanting was the law for suspected persons. The Chevalier de Maison Rouge was an enemy far too active and audacious for his return to Paris, and his apparition in the Temple, not to call forth the gravest measures. More severe inspections than had previously taken place were made in a number of suspected houses, but with the exception of some female emigrants, who allowed themselves to be taken, and some old men, whose few remaining days they did not trouble themselves to dispute with the executioner, their researches produced no other result.

The sections, as may be imagined, were after this event much occupied for several days, and consequently the secretary of the section Lepelletier, one of the most influential in Paris, had little time to think of his unknown fair one. At first, as he had resolved on quitting La Rue Vieille St. Jacques, he had tried to forget her, but, as his friend Louis had observed to him- Alas! endeavouring to forget But makes us recollect the more.

Maurice, however, neither said or confessed anything. He buried in his heart all the details of that adventure which he had been able to conceal from the scrutiny of his friend. But he who knew Maurice to be of a joyous and hilarious nature, and now saw him constantly sad and thoughtful, seeking solitude, doubted not, to use his own expression, that the rogue Cupid had passed that way.

It is remarkable that, during its eighteen centuries of monarchy, France had had few years so mythological as the year of our Lord 1793. In the meantime the chevalier was not taken, and he was no more spoken of. The widowed Queen, cruelly robbed of her child, contented herself by weeping, in company with her sister and daughter. The young dauphin was consigned to the care of "Simon the Shoemaker," this poor little martyr who, in the short space of three years, was reunited to his father. There was a moment's calm. The Montagnard volcano rested before devouring the Girondins.

Maurice felt the weight of this calm, as the heaviness of the atmosphere is felt in stormy weather, and not knowing how to dispose of his leisure, abandoned himself entirely to the ardour of a sentiment which, if not actually love itself, bordered closely upon it. He re-read his letter, again kissed his beautiful sapphire ring, and resolved (notwithstanding his oath) to make one more attempt, promising himself this should indeed be the last. The young man had first thought he would go to the section of the Jardin des Plantes, and there make inquiry from the secretary, his colleague. But the first idea (and we may add, which he still retained), that the beautiful Unknown was mixed up in some political plot, still restrained him, as the thought that any indiscretion on his part might be the means of sending this lovely woman to La Place de la Revolution, and her head to the block, caused his blood to curdle and freeze in his veins. He therefore determined on seeking this adventure alone, and without any further information. His plan, besides, was very simple. The catalogue of names inscribed on each door would certainly afford him some clue, and then, by interrogating the porter, he might be able to solve the mystery.

In his capacity of secretary of La Rue Lepelletier, he possessed full and entire right to make all inquiries. Besides, Maurice, ignorant of the name of the Unknown, was able to judge of it by analogy. It was impossible so lovely a creature should not possess a name in harmony with her form, some name appertaining to sylph, fairy, or angel, since her arrival on earth must have been hailed as that of a superior and supernatural being. This name would then most infallibly guide him.

Maurice then dressed himself in a blouse of dark brown cloth, adorned his head with the "bonnet rouge," worn on great occasions, and set out on his voyage of discovery alone. He had in his hand one of those knotted cudgels called "une Constitution," which, wielded by his vigorous hand, was powerful as the club of Hercules, and in his pocket he placed his commission as secretary of the section Lepelletier. These were at once his physical security and his moral guarantee.

He prepared himself to review afresh La Rue St. Victor, La Rue Vieille St. Jacques, reading by light of the declining day all those names (inscribed in a hand more or less practised) upon the panels of every door.

Maurice had reached the hundredth house, and consequently read the hundredth list, and nothing had yet occurred to induce him to imagine that he was in the least degree upon the trail of the Unknown, when a good-natured shoemaker, noticing the anxiety and impatience depicted on the young man's countenance, came out with his strap of leather and his punch, and looking at Maurice over his spectacles- "Do you wish any information respecting the tenants of this house, Citizen-" said he; "if so, I shall be happy to give it to you."

"Thanks, Citizen," stammered Maurice; "I am looking for the name of a friend."

"Tell me the name, Citizen; I know everybody in this quarter. Where does this friend live-"

"He lives, I think, in the Old Rue Jacques, but I fear he has removed."

"But how is he named- I must know that." Maurice taken thus unawares, hesitated for a moment, then pronounced the first name that presented itself to his memory. "Rene," said he. "And what trade-" Maurice was surrounded by tanneries. "A working tanner," said he. "In that case," said a burgess, who stopped and regarded Maurice with a certain good nature, not totally exempt from distrust, "it is necessary to address yourself to his master."

"That is true," said the door-keeper; "it is quite right, the masters know the names of these workmen; there is the Citizen Dixmer, who is manager of a tannery, has more than fifty workmen in his yard, he will perhaps tell you." Maurice turned round and saw a burgess of commanding figure, with a mild countenance, the richness of whose attire denoted opulence. "Only as the citizen porter observes, it is necessary I should know the family name."

"I have told you, Rene."

"Rene is his baptismal name; it is the family name I require. All my workmen sign their family name."

"Ma foi," said Maurice, growing impatient under this species of interrogation, "the family name- I do not know it."

"What," said the burgess, with a smile, in which Maurice thought he discerned more irony than he wished to appear, "What, not know the surname of your friend-"

"No."

"In that case, it is not probable you will find them," and the burgess gravely bowing to Maurice, walked a short distance and entered a house in the Old Rue Saint Jacques. "The fact is, that if you do not know his surname," said the porter… "Well, I do not know it," said Maurice, who would not have been sorry to find some occasion to vent his ill temper, and was at the moment much inclined to seek a quarrel. "What have you to say to that-"

"Nothing, Citizen, nothing at all, only since you do not know the name of your friend, it is as Citizen Dixmer said, more than probable, you will not find him." And the citizen porter went into his lodge, shrugging his shoulder. Maurice felt a great inclination to thrash this porter, but he was an old man, and his infirmities saved him. Besides, the day was drawing to a close, and he had only a few moments of daylight left. He availed himself of it by returning to the first street, then to the second, examined every door, searched in every nook, looked under every palisade, climbed each wall, threw a glance into the interior of every gateway, looked through the keyholes, knocked at some deserted warehouses without receiving any reply, till at length nearly two hours had elapsed in this useless investigation.

Nine o'clock struck; no more noise was heard, no movement seen in this deserted quarter, whose life seemed to have retired with the light of day. Maurice in despair made a retrograde movement, when all at once, at the winding of a narrow alley, he discerned a light burning. He immediately ventured into the dark passage, without remarking that at the moment even where he had thrust himself, a curious head, which for the last quarter of an hour (from the midst of a clump of trees, rising from under the wall), had followed all his movements, and then disappeared suddenly behind this wall. A short time after this head had disappeared, three men came out from a small door in this same wall, went into the alley, where Maurice had preceded them, while a fourth for greater security, locked the door of entrance into this alley. At the end of this alley, Maurice discovered a court; it was on the opposite side of this court the light was burning. He knocked at the door of a poor solitary house, but at the first sound the light was extinguished. He redoubled his efforts, but no one answered to his call, he saw they were determined to make no reply, so comprehending that it was only a useless waste of time, he crossed the court and re-entered the alley. At this moment the door of the house turned softly on its hinges, three men came out, and then the sound of a whistle was heard.

Maurice turned round, and saw three shadows within a short distance. He saw in the darkness, also (his eyes having become accustomed to this obscurity) the reflection of three glittering blades. He knew he was hemmed in. He would have brandished his club, but alley was so narrow that it touched the wall on either side. At the same moment a violent blow on the head stunned him. This was an unforeseen assault made upon him by the four men who entered through the door in the wall. Seven men at the same time threw themselves upon Maurice, and notwithstanding a desperate resistance, overpowered him, and succeeded in binding his hands and bandaging his eyes.

Maurice had not even uttered a cry, or called for aid. Strength and true courage suffer by themselves, and are tenacious of the help of a stranger. Besides, Maurice had often heard that no one would enter this deserted quarter. Maurice was thus, as we have said, thrown down and bound, but had not uttered a single complaint. He had reflected as to what would follow, that as they had bandaged his eyes they did not intend to kill him directly. At Maurice's age, respite becomes hope. He recovered his presence of mind, and listened patiently. "Who are you-" demanded a voice still breathless from the late struggle. "I am a man they are murdering," replied Maurice. "What is more, you are a dead man if you speak so loud, or call for assistance, or even utter the least cry."

YOU ARE A DEAD MAN IF YOU SPEAK SO LOUD

"If I had wished to do so, I need not have waited till the present time."

"Are you ready to answer my questions-"

"Let me hear them first, I shall then see whether I ought to reply."

"Who sent you here-"

"No one."

"You came then of your own accord-"

"Yes."

"You lie." Maurice made a desperate effort to disengage his hands, but it was in vain. "I never lie," said he. "In either case, whether you came of your own accord or were sent, you are a spy."

"And you are cowards!"

"We cowards!"

"You are seven or eight against one man bound, and you insult that man. Cowards! cowards! cowards!" This violence on the part of Maurice, instead of enraging his adversaries, appeared to produce a contrary effect. It was even a proof that the young man was not what they deemed him; a true spy would have trembled, and begged for mercy. "There is nothing insulting in that," said rob-a voice, milder, yet firmer than any that had previously been heard, "in the times we live in, one may be a spy without being a dishonest man, only it is at the risk of one's life."

"If that is your opinion, you are welcome to question me, I will answer you faithfully."

"What brought you into this quarter-"

"To search here for a woman." An incredulous murmur followed this assertion. The breeze increased, and became a hurricane. "You lie!" said the same voice; "it is no woman-there is no woman in this quarter to follow; avow your intentions, or you die."

"Well, then," said Maurice, "you surely would not kill me for the mere pleasure of doing so, unless you are true brigands." And Maurice made a second effort, more strenuous than the first, to disengage his arms from the cord which secured them. It was useless, and at that moment he experienced a sharp pain in his breast, which made him flinch. "Oh! you feel that," said one of the men; "there are eight more similar to this, with which you will claim acquaintance."

"Kill me, then," said Maurice, with resignation; "it will at least be finished at once."

"Who are you-" said the mild, but firm voice. "Do you wish to know my name-"

"Yes, your name."

"I am Maurice Lindey."

"What!" cried a voice; "Maurice Lindey, the revolu-the patriot, Maurice Lindey, the secretary of the Section Lepelletier-" These words were pronounced with so much warmth, that Maurice felt they were decisive. This reply was calculated to decide his fate. Maurice was incapable of fear; he drew himself up like a true Spartan, and replied in a firm voice- "Yes, Maurice Lindey; yes, Maurice Lindey, secretary to the Section Lepelletier; yes, Maurice Lindey, the patriot, the revolutionist, the Jacobin; Maurice Lindey, in short, whose happiest day will be that on which he dies for liberty." This reply was received with the silence of death.

Maurice presented his breast, expecting every moment the sword, of which he had only felt the point, would be plunged into his heart. "Is this true-" said a voice full of emotion; "let us see, young man, that you lie not."

"Feel in my pocket," said Maurice, "and you will there find my commission. Look upon my breast, and if not effaced by my blood, you will see my initials, an M and L embroidered on my shirt." Maurice felt himself immediately raised by strong arms, and carried to some distance. He first heard one door open, then a second, which he knew was narrower than the first, from the trouble the men found in carrying him through. The murmuring and whispering continued. "I am lost!" said Maurice to himself; "they will fasten a stone round my neck, and cast me into the Briere." In an instant he felt the men who bore him were mounting some steps. A warmer air fanned his face, and he was placed upon a seat. He heard a door double locked, and the sound of departing steps. He fancied he was left alone. He listened with as much attention as was possible in a man whose life hung upon a word, and thought he again heard the voice which had already struck upon his ear say, with a mixture of decision and mildness, "We will deliberate."

CHAPTER VIII. GENEVIEVE.

A QUARTER OF an hour passed away; it appeared an age to Maurice. And what more natural- Young, handsome, and vigorous, highly beloved and esteemed by a hundred devoted friends, with whom he sometimes dreamed of accomplishing great things, he felt himself suddenly, without preparation, liable to lose his life-the victim of a base ambuscade. He knew no one was shut in the chamber, but was he watched- He again exerted all his strength to break his bonds, till his iron muscles swelled, and the cords entered his flesh, but this, like all his former efforts, was useless.

It was the more terrible his hands being tied behind, he was unable to draw up his bandage. If he were only able to see, he might perhaps be able to escape. However, as these various attempts were made without opposition, and hearing no one stirring, he concluded he was quite alone.

His feet pressed upon something soft and heavy, it might be gravel or perhaps clay. An acrid and pungent smell announced the presence of vegetable matter. Maurice fancied he was in a greenhouse, or some place very like it. He took a step or two, hit the wall, turned, and, groping with his hands, felt some garden tools. He uttered an exclamation of joy. With unparalleled exertion he began to examine these tools, one after the other. His flight now became a question of time. If chance or Providence granted him five minutes, and if among these tools he found a sharp instrument, he was saved. He found a spade. From the way in which Maurice was bound, it required a great struggle to raise the spade a sufficient height for his purpose. He at length succeeded, and, upon the iron of the spade which he supported against the wall with his back, he at last cut, or rather wore away, the cord which confined his wrists. The operation was tedious; the iron cut slowly. The perspiration streamed from his face, he heard a noise as of some one approaching; with a tremendous effort the cord (rather worn) broke. This time it was a cry of joy he gave utterance to; now at least he was sure to die in defending himself. Maurice tore the bandage from his eyes. He was not deceived, but found himself in a kind of not greenhouse but pavilion, used as a receptacle for the more delicate plants, unable to outlive the winter in the open air. In a corner the gardening implements were stowed away, which had been the means of rendering him so important a service. Facing him was a window; he glanced towards it, and saw it was grated, and a man armed with a carbine placed sentinel before it.

On the other side of the garden, about thirty paces distant, perhaps rather less, rose a small turret, fellow to the one where Maurice remained prisoner. The blind was down, but through the blind a light was visible.

He approached the door and listened, another sentinel was placed before this door. These were the footsteps he had heard. But from the end of the corridor a confusion of voices resounded. The deliberation bad evidently degenerated into disputation.

Maurice could not hear distinctly what was said; some words, however, reached him, and amidst these words-as if for them only the distance was short-he distinguished plainly, Spy! Poniard! Death! Maurice redoubled his attention, a door opened, and he heard more distinctly. "Yes," said one voice, "it is assuredly a spy; he has discovered something, and is certainly sent to take us and our secret unawares. In freeing him we run the risk of his denouncing us."

"But his word," said a voice. "His word-he will give it only to betray it. Is he a gentleman, that we should trust his word-" Maurice ground his teeth at the idea which some folks still retained, that only a gentleman could keep his oath. "But he does not know us; how can he denounce us-"

"No, he does not know us certainly, nor our occupations, but he knows the address, and will return; this time he will be well accompanied." This argument appeared conclusive. "Then," said a voice, which several times already had struck Maurice as belonging to the chief; "it is then quite decided."

"Yes, a hundred times yes; I do not comprehend you with your magnanimity. Mon cher, if the Committee for the Public Safety caught us, you would see if they acted after this fashion."

"You persist, then, in your decision, gentlemen-"

"Without doubt, and you are not, we hope, going to oppose it-"

"I have only one voice, gentlemen, it has been in favour of his liberation; you possess six, and they all vote for his death. Let it then be death." Maurice felt the blood freeze in his veins. "Of course he will howl and cry," said the voice; "but have you removed Madame Dixmer-"

"Madame Dixmer!" murmured Maurice; "I begin now to comprehend I am in the house of the master tanner, who spoke to me in the old Rue Saint Jacques, and who went away laughing because I was unable to tell him the name of my friend. But how the devil can it be to his interest to assassinate me-" Looking round about him, Maurice perceived an iron stake with a handle of ashtree wood. "In any case," said he, "before they assassinate me, I will kill more than one of them." And he sprung to secure this harmless instrument, which, in his hand, was to become a formidable weapon. He then retired behind the door, and so placed himself that he could see without being seen. His heart beat so tumultuously, that in the deep silence its palpitations might be heard. Suddenly Maurice shuddered from head to foot. A voice had said- "If you act according to my advice, you will break a window, and through the bars kill him with a shot from a carbine."

"Oh! no, no-not an explosion," said another voice; "that might betray us. Besides, Dixmer, there is your wife."

"I have just looked at her through the blind; she suspects nothing-she is reading."

"Dixmer, you shall decide for us. Do you advocate a shot from the carbine, or a stroke from the poniard-"

"Avoid firearms as far as it is possible-the poniard."

"Then let it be the poniard. Allons!"

"Allons!" repeated five or six voices together.

Maurice was a child of the Revolution, with a heart of flint, and in mind, like many others at that epoch, an atheist. But at the worn "Allons!" pronounced behind the door, which alone separated him from death, he remembered the sign of the cross, which his mother had taught him when an infant he repeated his prayers at her knee.

Steps approached, stopped: then the key turned in the lock, and the door slowly opened.

During this fleeting moment, Maurice had said to himself, "If I lose this opportunity to strike the first blow, I am a dead man. If I throw myself upon the assassins, I take them unawares-gain first the garden, then the street, and am saved!" Immediately, with the spring of a lion, and uttering a savage cry, which savoured more of menace than terror, he threw down the first two men, who, believing him bound and blindfolded, were quite unprepared for such an assault, scattered the others, took a tremendous leap over them thanks to his iron muscles, saw at the end of the corridor a door leading into the garden wide open, rushed towards it, cleared at a bound six steps, and found himself in the garden, debating if it were best to endeavour to run and gain the gate. This gate was secured by a lock and a couple of bolts. Maurice drew back the bolts, tried to open the lock, but it had no key.

In the meantime his pursuers, who had reached the steps, perceived him. "There he is!" cried they; "fire upon him, Dixmer, fire! Kill him-kill him!" Maurice uttered a groan; he was enclosed in the garden; he measured the walls with his eye-they were ten feet in height.

All this passed in a moment. The assassins rushed forward in pursuit of him.

Maurice was about thirty feet in advance, or nearly so; he looked round about him with the air of a condemned man who seeks concealment as the means of saving himself from the reality. He perceived the turret-the blind-and behind the blind the light burning.

He made but one bound-a bound of six feet-seized the blind, tore it down, passed through the window, smashing it, and alighted in a chamber, where a female sat reading.

The female rose terrified, calling for assistance. "Stand aside, Genevieve-stand aside!" cried the voice of Dixmer; "stand aside, that I may kill him!" And Maurice saw the carbine levelled at him. But scarcely had the woman looked at him, than she uttered a frightful cry, and instead of standing aside, as desired by her husband, rushed between him and the barrel of the gun.

This movement concentrated all Maurice's attention to the generous woman, whose first impulse was to protect him from danger and death. In his turn, he uttered a cry of astonishment.

It was the long sought-for Unknown. "You!" cried he; "you-"

"Silence!" cried she.

Then, turning towards the assassins, who, variously armed, approached the window- "Ah! you will not kill him!" cried she. "He is a spy," said Dixmer, whose usually placid countenance had assumed an expression of stern resolution; "he is a spy, and therefore must die."

"A spy-he!" said Genevieve; "he a spy! Come here, Dixmer; I need only say one word to prove that you are strangely deceived." Dixmer and Genevieve approached the window, and in a low voice she uttered a few words. The master tanner raised his head quickly. "He!" said he. "He himself," said Genevieve. "You are certain, quite certain-" This time the young woman did not reply, but smiling, held out her hand to Maurice.

The features of Dixmer now assumed a singular expression of gentleness and indifference. He placed the butt end of his musket on the ground. "This is quite another thing," said he.

Then making a sign to his companions to follow, he stepped aside with them, and after saying a few words, they disappeared. "Conceal that ring," murmured Genevieve; "it is known by every one here." Maurice quickly drew the ring from his finger, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. A moment afterwards the door of the pavilion opened, and Dixmer, unarmed, advanced towards Maurice. "Pardon me, citizen," said he to him, "that I had not known sooner the obligation I am under to you. My wife, while retaining a grateful remembrance of the service you rendered her on the 10th of March, had forgotten your name. We were therefore completely in ignorance with whom we were concerned; independent of this, believe me, we might not for a moment have entertained suspicion either of your honour or intentions. Again, I say, pardon me." Maurice was bewildered; with the greatest difficulty he preserved his equilibrium, he felt his head turn round, and was near falling. He supported himself against the mantel-piece. At length,-"Why did you wish to kill me-" said he. "This is the secret, citizen," said Dixmer; "I confide it to your keeping. I am, as you already know, a tanner, and principal in this concern. The greater part of the acids I employ in the preparation of my skins are prohibited goods. Now the smugglers have received intelligence of an information laid before the council-general. I feared you were an informer. My smugglers were more alarmed than myself at your bonnet-rouge and formidable appearance, and I do not conceal from you that your death was resolved upon."

"Pardieu! and well I know it," said Maurice; "you tell me no news. I heard your consultation, and I have seen your carbine."

"I have already apologized," said Dixmer, in a kindly tone. "You must understand, that thanks to the unsettled state of the times, myself and partner, M. Morand, are likely to realize an immense fortune. We have the furnishing of the military bags, and finish from 1500 to 2000 each day. Owing to this blessed state of things in which we live, the municipality are much occupied, and have not time strictly to examine our accounts, so that it must be confessed we fish a little in troubled waters, the more so, as I have told you the preparatory materials we procure by smuggling allow us to gain two hundred per cent."

"Diable!" said Maurice, "that appears to me an honest living enough, and I can now understand your dread lest a denunciation on my part should put an end to it; but now you know me, you fear me no longer. Is it not so-"

"Now," said Dixmer. "I only require your promise." Then, placing his hand on his shoulder, and smiling, "As it is only between friends," said he, "may I inquire what brought you here, young man- But remember, if you wish to keep it secret, you are perfectly at liberty to do so."

"I have told you, I believe," murmured Maurice. "Yes, a woman," said the burgess; "I know there was something about a woman."

"Mon Dieu! excuse me, citizen, I am aware some sort of explanation is due to you. Well, then, I sought a female, who the other evening, disguised, told me she resided in this quarter. I neither know her name, position, or place of abode. I only know I am madly in love with her, that she is short- Genevieve was tall. "That she is fair, and of a lively temperament." Genevieve was a brunette, with large pensive eyes. "A grisette, in short," continued Maurice; "so, to please her, I assumed the popular dress."

"This explains it all," said Dixmer, with an affectation of belief, which at least did not contradict his sullen look.

Genevieve coloured, and feeling herself blush, turned away. "Poor Citizen Lindey," said Dixmer, "what a miserable evening we have caused you to pass; and you are about the last I would wish to injure, so excellent a patriot, a brother; but, in short, I believed some 'disinfected' usurped your name."

"Let us say nothing more on the subject," said Maurice, who knew it was time for him to withdraw: "put me in the road, and let us forget that this has occurred altogether."

"Put you in your road!" said Dixmer; "you leave us not yet, not yet; I give-or rather my partner and myself give-a supper to-night to those brave fellows who wished so much to slaughter you a little while ago. I reckon upon your supping with them, that you may see they are not such devils as they appear to be."

"But," said Maurice, overjoyed at the thought of being for a few hours near Genevieve, "I do not know really if I ought to accept-"

"If you ought to accept!" said Dixmer; "I know you ought; these are good and staunch patriots as yourself. Besides, I shall not consider that you have forgiven me unless we break bread together." Genevieve uttered not a word. Maurice was in torment. "The fact is," said Maurice, "I fear I may be a constraint upon you, citoyenne; this dress-my ungentlemanly appearance- Genevieve looked timidly towards him. "I accept your invitation, citizen," said he, bowing. "I will go and secure our companions," said Dixmer; "in the meantime, warm yourself, mon cher." He went out. Maurice and Genevieve remained alone. "Ah! Monsieur," said the young woman, in an accent to which she in vain tried to convey a tone of reproach, "yon have failed in your word, you have been exceedingly indiscreet."

"Madame!" cried Maurice, "shall I expose you- Ah! in that case, pardon me, I will retire, and never-"

"Dieu!" said she, rising, "you are wounded in the breast; your shirt is stained with blood." Indeed, upon the fine, white shirt of Maurice-a shirt forming a strange contrast to his coarser clothes-a large red spot of blood had spread itself, and had dried there. "Do not be under any alarm, madame," said the young man, "one of the smugglers pricked me with his poniard." Genevieve turned pale, and, taking his hand, "Forgive me," said she, "the wrong that has been done you; you saved my life, and I have nearly caused your death."

"Am I not sufficiently recompensed in finding you- You cannot for a moment imagine it was for another that I sought."

"Come with me," said Genevieve, interrupting him; "I will find you some clean linen. Our guests must not see you thus-it would be too great a reproach to them."

"I am a great trouble to you, Madame, I fear," said Maurice, sighing. "Not at all; I only do my duty; and," she added, "I do it with much pleasure." Genevieve then conducted Maurice to a large dressing-room, arranged with an air of elegance he had not expected to find in the house of a master tanner. It is true this master tanner appeared to be a millionaire. She then opened the wardrobes. "Help yourself," said she; "you are at home." She withdrew.

When Maurice came out, he found Dixmer, who had returned. "Allons! allons!" said he, "to table; it only waits for you."

CHAPTER IX. THE SUPPER.

WHEN MAURICE entered with Dixmer and Genevieve into the salle-a-manger, situated in the body of the basement, where they had first conducted him, the supper was ready but the room vacant. He saw all the guests enter successively. They were six in number; men of agreeable exterior, for the most part young and fashionably dressed; two or three even wore the blouse and bonnet-rouge.

Dixmer introduced Maurice, naming his titles and qualifications. Then, turning toward Maurice, "You see," said he, "Citizen Lindey, all those who assist me in my trade. Thanks to the times in which we live, thanks to the revolutionary principles which have effaced all distinction, we all live upon the same footing of sacred equality. Every day we assemble twice at the same table, and I am happy you have been induced to partake of our family repast. Allons! to table-citizens, to table."

"And-Monsieur Morand," said Genevieve, timidly, "do we not wait for him-"

"Ah, true!" said Dixmer. "This citizen, of whom I have already spoken, Citizen Lindey, is my partner. He conducts, if I may so express myself, the moral part of the establishment. He attends to the writing, keeps the cash, superintends the factories, pays and receives money, and, in short, works harder than any of us. The result is that he is sometimes rather late. I will go and tell him we are waiting." At this moment the door opened, and the Citizen Morand entered. He was a short man, dark, with bushy eyebrows, and wore green spectacles-like a man whose eyes are fatigued from excess of work-concealing his black eyes, but not so effectually their scintillating gleams. At the first words he uttered, Maurice recognised that mild, yet commanding voice engaged in his behalf, when endeavouring to save him from becoming a victim to that terrible discussion. He was habited in a brown coat, with large buttons, a white waistcoat; and his fine cambric shirt frill was often during dinner smoothed by a hand which Maurice, no doubt from its being that of a tradesman, admired much for its beauty and delicacy of appearance.

They all took their seats. Morand was placed on Genevieve's right hand, Maurice on her left. Dixmer sat opposite his wife. The rest of the guests seated themselves promiscuously round an oblong table. The supper was excellent. Dixmer had a capital appetite, and did the honours of the table with much politeness. The workmen, or those who pretended to be such, under this example, became excellent companions. The Citizen Morand spoke little, and ate still less; drank scarcely anything, and rarely smiled. Maurice, perhaps from the reminiscences his voice awakened, felt for him immediately a lively sympathy, only he was in doubt as to his age, and this rather annoyed him, as sometimes he imagined him to be a man of forty or fifty years, and at others quite young.

Dixmer, on placing himself at table, felt obliged to offer some explanation to his guests for the admission of a stranger into their little circle. He acquitted himself like an artless man, one unaccustomed to deceit; but the guests, as it seemed, were not difficult on this point; for, notwithstanding the awkwardness displayed by this manufacturer of hides in the introduction of the young man, they all appeared perfectly satisfied.

Maurice regarded him with astonishment. "Upon my honour," said he to himself, "I shall really soon think that I myself am deceived. Is tins the same man who, with flaming eyes and furious voice, pursued me, gun in hand, and absolutely wished to kill me, three quarters of an hour since- At this moment one might take him for a hero rather than an assassin. Mon Dieu! how the love of hides transforms a man." While making these observations Maurice experienced a strange feeling of joy and grief, and felt unable to analyse his own emotions. He at length found himself near his beautiful Unknown, whom he had so ardently sought. As he had dreamed, she bore a charming name; he was intoxicated with the happiness of finding himself at her side; he drank in every word; and at each sound of her voice the most secret chord of his heart vibrated, but he was deeply wounded by all he saw. Genevieve was exactly what he had pictured her; the dream of a stormy night reality had not destroyed. Here was an elegant woman, of refined mind and superior education, affording another instance of what had so frequently occurred during the latter years preceding this present celebrated year '93. Here was a young woman of distinction compelled, from the utter ruin into which the nobility had fallen, to ally herself to a commoner and a trusty man. Dixmer appeared a brave man. He was incontestably rich, and his manners to Genevieve were those of a man uniting every endeavour to render a woman happy.

But could kindness, riches, or excellent intentions compensate her for what she had sacrificed; or remove the immense distance existing between husband and wife, between a poetical, distinguished, charming girl, and a vulgar-looking tradesman- With what could Genevieve fill up this abyss- Alas! Maurice now guessed too well. With love! And he therefore returned to his first opinion of the young woman, influenced by appearances on the evening of their meeting, that she was returning from some rendezvous d'amour.

The idea of Genevieve loving any one was torture to Maurice. He sighed, and deeply regretted having exposed himself to the temptation of imbibing a still larger dose of that poison termed love. At other moments, while listening to that ductile voice, so soft and harmonious, examining that pure and open countenance, evincing no fear that he should read every secret of her soul, he arrived at the conclusion that it was utterly impossible that this matchless creature would descend to deceit; and then he found a bitter pleasure in remembering this lovely woman belonged solely to this good citizen, with his honest smile and vulgar pleasantries, and would never be to him more than a passing acquaintance.

They conversed of course on politics. How could it be otherwise at an epoch when politics were mixed up in everything- Political subjects were even painted on the plates, political designs covered the walls, and politics were daily proclaimed in the streets. All at once, one of the guests who had hitherto preserved silence, inquired concerning the prisoners of the Temple.

Maurice started, in spite of himself. He had recognised the voice of that man, a strenuous advocate for extreme measures, who had first struck him with his dagger, and then advocated his death. Nevertheless, this man, an honest tanner, and head of the manufactory, at least so Dixmer represented him, incited the good humour of Maurice by the expression of ideas the most patriotic and principles the most revolutionary. The young man, under certain circumstances, was not inimical to these extreme measures, so much in fashion at this period, of which Danton was the apostle and hero. In this man's place, whose voice he had heard, and from the effect of whose weapon his wound was still smarting, he would not have attempted to assassinate the man he imagined to be a spy, but would rather have locked him in the garden, and there, equally armed, sword to sword, have fought without mercy, without pity. This is what Maurice would have done; but he comprehended soon that this was too much to expect of a journeyman tanner. This man of extreme measures, who appeared to possess in his political ideas the same violent system as in his private conduct, then spoke of the Temple, and expressed surprise that the prisoners were confided to the guardianship of a permanent council liable to be corrupted, and to municipals whose fidelity had already been more than once tempted. "Yes," said the Citizen Morand, "but it must be remembered that on every occasion, up to the present time, the municipals have fully justified the confidence reposed in them by the nation, and history will record it is not only Robespierre who merits the title of 'Incorruptible.'"

"Without doubt, without doubt," replied the interlocutor; "but, because a thing has not yet happened, it would be absurd to suppose it never can happen. As for the National Guard," continued the principal of the manufactory, "well, the companies of the different sections are assembled, each in their turn, on duty at the Temple, and that indifferently. Will you not admit that there might be, in a company of twenty or five-and-twenty men, a band of seven or eight determined characters, who one fine night might slaughter the sentinels and carry off the prisoners-"

"Bah!" said Maurice; "you see, citizen, this would be a foolish expedient. It would occupy them three weeks or a month, and then they might not succeed."

"Yes," replied Morand; "because one of those aristocrats who composed the patrolle had the impudence in speaking to let fall the word monsieur, I do not know to whom."

"And then," said Maurice, who wished to prove that the police of the Republic did their duty, "because the entrance of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge into Paris was already known-"

"Bah!" cried Dixmer. "They knew that Maison Rouge had entered Paris-" wildly demanded Morand; "and did they know by what means he entered-"

"Perfectly."

"Ah! diable!" said Morand, leaning forward to look at Maurice, "I should be curious to know that, as up to the present moment no one can speak positively. But you, citizen, you, secretary to one of the principal sections in Paris, ought to be better informed."

"Doubtless; therefore, what I am about to tell you is the true statement of facts." All the guests and Genevieve appeared prepared to pay the greatest attention to this recital. "Well," said Maurice, "the Chevalier de Maison Rouge came from Vendee; as it appears, he had traversed all France with his usual good fortune. Arrived during the day at La Barriere du Roule, he waited till nine o'clock at night. At that hour a woman, disguised as a woman of the people, went out from the barriere, carrying to the chevalier a costume of chasseur of the National Guard. Ten minutes afterwards she re-entered with him; but the sentinel, who had seen her go out alone, felt rather suspicious when he saw her return with a companion. An alarm was given at the post, the post turned out, when the two culprits, knowing whom they were seeking, flung themselves into an hotel where a second door opened into Les Champs Elysees. "It seems that a patrol devoted to the tyrants waited for the chevalier at the corner of La Rue Burre-du-Bec. You are acquainted with the rest."

"Ah! ah!" said Morand; "this is very strange."

"But positively true," said Maurice. "Yes, it has an air of truth: but the female, do you know what became of her-"

"No; she has disappeared, and they are quite ignorant who she is, or what she is." The partner of Citizen Dixmer, and Citizen Dixmer himself, appeared to breathe more freely.

Genevieve had listened to the whole of this recital, pale, silent, and immovable. "But," said Morand, with his usual coolness, "who can say that the Chevalier de Maison Rouge made one of the patrolle who caused the alarm at the Temple-"

"A municipal, one of my friends, that day on duty at the Temple. He recognised him."

"He knew him from description."

"He has formerly seen him."

"And what sort of man, personally, is this Chevalier de Maison Rouge-"

"A man of five or six-and-twenty, short, fair, and of a pleasing countenance, with magnificent eyes and superb teeth." There was a profound silence. "Well," said Morand, "if your friend the municipal recognised this pretended Chevalier de Maison Rouge, why did he not arrest him-"

"In the first place, not knowing of his arrival at Paris, he feared being the dupe of a resemblance; and then my friend, being rather lukewarm, acted as the lukewarm generally act, he let it alone."

"You would not have acted thus, citizen-" said Dixmer, laughing boisterously. "No," said Maurice; "I confess it, I would rather find myself deceived than allow to escape so dangerous a man as the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"And what would you hare done, then, monsieur-" timidly inquired Genevieve. "What would I have done, citoyenne-" said Maurice. "I would have walked direct up to the patrol, and placed my hand on the Chevalier's collar, saying to him, 'Chevalier de Maison Rouge, I arrest you as a traitor to the nation;' and my hand once upon his collar, I would not soon, release him, I can tell you."

"And what would happen then-" said Genevieve. "It would happen he had done thus much for himself and friends, that the same hour they would be guillotined; that is all." Genevieve shuddered, and darted on her neighbour a look of affright. But the Citizen Morand did not appear to notice this glance, and phlegmatically emptied his glass. "The citizen Lindey is right," said he; "there was nothing else to do; but, unfortunately, it was not done."

"And," demanded Genevieve, "do you know what has become of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge-"

"Bah!" said Dixmer; "in all probability he did not wish to remain longer, and, finding his attempt abortive, quitted Paris immediately."

"And perhaps France even," added Morand. "Not at all, not at all," said Maurice. "What, has he had the imprudence to remain in Paris-" asked Genevieve. "He has not stirred." A movement of general astonishment followed this assertion, which Maurice had stated with so much confidence. "This is only a supposition, citizen, on your part," said Morand; "merely a supposition, that is all."

"No; it is a positive fact that I affirm."

"Ah!" said Genevieve; "I acknowledge, for my part, I cannot believe it is as you say; it would be such an unpardonable imprudence."

"You are a woman, citoyenne; and can comprehend, then, what would outweigh, with a man of such a character as the Chevalier de Maison Rouge, all considerations of personal security-"

"And what can outweigh the dread of losing his life in a moment so dreadful-"

"Eh! Mon Dieu! Citoyenne!" said Maurice; "love."

"Love!" repeated Genevieve. "Doubtless. Do you not know, then, that the Chevalier de Maison Rouge is enamoured of Marie Antoinette-" Two or three incredulous laughs were faintly heard. Dixmer looked at Maurice as if he sought to penetrate the very depths of his soul. Genevieve felt the tears suffuse her eyes; and a shuddering she could not conceal from Maurice ran through her frame.

The Citizen Morand poured some wine into his glass, and at this moment carried it to his lips. His paleness would have alarmed Maurice, had not all the young man's attention been at the time centred on Genevieve. "You are silent, citoyenne," murmured Maurice. "Have you not said I should understand this because I was a woman- Well, we women, even if opposed to our princes, feel for such devotion."

"And that of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge is the height of devotion, and it is said he has never even spoken to the queen."

"Ah! there now, Citizen Lindey," said the man of extreme measures; "it seems to me, permit me to observe, that you are very indulgent to the Chevalier-"

"Monsieur," said Maurice, perhaps intentionally making use of a word which had ceased to be in vogue, "I love all brave and courageous natures, which do not refuse to fight when I meet them in the ranks of my enemies. I do not despair of one day encountering the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"And-" said Genevieve. "If I meet him-Well; I shall fight him." The supper was finished. Genevieve set the example, of retiring, by herself rising from table. At this moment the pendulum struck. "Midnight!" said Morand, coolly. "Midnight!" said Maurice; "midnight already-"

"That exclamation affords me much pleasure," said Dixmer; "it proves you are not ennuye, and induces me to hope we may see you again. It is the door of a true patriot which opens to receive you; and, I trust, ere long, you will find it that of a sincere friend." Maurice bowed, and, turning towards Genevieve: "Will the citoyenne also permit me to repeat my visit-" demanded he. "I do more than permit. I request you to do so. Adieu, citizen;'' and Genevieve retired.

Maurice took leave of all the guests, particularly saluting Morand, with whom he was much pleased; squeezed Dimmer's hand, and went away bewildered; but, on the whole, more joyful than sad, from the various and unexpected events of the evening. "Unfortunate encounter, unfortunate encounter!" said the young woman, after Maurice's departure, and then bursting into tears in the presence of her husband, who had conducted her to her room. "Bah!" said Dixmer, "the Citizen Lindey, a known patriot, secretary to a section, admired, worshipped, and highly popular, is, on the contrary, a great acquisition to a poor tanner who has contraband merchandise on his premises."

"Do you think so, mon ami-" asked Genevieve, timidly. "I think it is a warrant of patriotism, a seal of absolution, placed upon our house; and I thought, when parting this evening, that the Chevalier de Maison Rouge himself would be safe at our house." And Dixmer kissed his wife with an affection more paternal than conjugal, and left her in the little pavilion set apart for her special benefit, passing himself into another part of the building, which he inhabited with the guests we have seen assembled round his table.

CHAPTER X. SIMON THE SHOEMAKER.

THE MONTH OF May had commenced. A bright clear day expanded the lungs tired of inhaling the icy fogs of winter, and the rays of the sun, warm and exhilarating, shone upon the black walls of the Temple. At the wicket of the interior, which separated the tower from the gardens, the soldiers of the post were smoking and laughing. But, notwithstanding the beauty of the day, and the offer made to the prisoners to descend and walk in the garden, the three females refused to do so; as, since the execution of her husband, the queen had obstinately secluded herself in her chamber, dreading to pass the door of the apartment lately occupied by the king on the second story. When by any chance she took the air, since the fatal occurrence of the 1st of January, she did so on the platform of the tower, where even the battlements were enclosed with shutters.

The National Guards on duty, who knew the three females had received permission to go out, waited in vain all day, wishing much to turn this same authority to some account. Towards five o'clock a man descended, and approached the sergeant in command of the post. "Ah! ah! is that you, Father Tison-" said he, who appeared to be a right merry fellow. "Yes, it is I, citizen; I bring you, on the part of the municipal Maurice Lindey, your friend, who is now up-stairs, this permission, granted by the Council of the Temple to my daughter, to pay a visit to her mother this evening."

"And you are going out just as your daughter is coming in- unnatural father!" said the sergeant. "I am going much against my inclination, Citizen Sergeant. I also hope to see my poor child, whom I have not seen for two months, and to embrace her this evening. I am going out now. This service, this damned service, compels me to go out. It is necessary I should go to the commune to make my report. A fiacre is waiting for me at the door, with two gendarmes, and it is exactly the time when my poor Sophie will arrive."

"Unhappy parent," said the sergeant. "And, Citizen Sergeant, when my child comes to see her poor mother, who is dying to see her, you will allow her to pass-"

"The order is correct," replied the sergeant, whom the reader has no doubt recognised as our friend Louis; "so I have nothing to say against it; when your daughter comes, she can pass."

"Thanks, brave Thermopyle; thanks," said Tison; and he went out to make his report to the commune, murmuring, "My poor wife, how happy she will be!"

"Do you know, sergeant," said one of the National Guards, seeing Tison depart, and overhearing of the last words; "do you know there is something in this that makes my blood run cold-"

"What is it, Citizen Devaux-" demanded Louis. "Why," replied the compassionate National Guard, "to see this man, with his surly face and heart of stone, this pitiless guardian of the queen, go out with his eyes full of tears, partly of joy, partly of grief, thinking that his wife will see his daughter, and he shall not. It does not do to reflect upon it too much, sergeant; it really is grievous."

"Doubtless that is why he does not reflect upon it himself, this man who goes out with tears in his eyes, as you term it."

"Upon what should he reflect-"

"That it is three months since this woman he so brutally uses has seen her child. He does not think of her grief, only of his own, that is all. It is true this woman was queen," continued the sergeant, in an ironical tone, rather difficult of comprehension; "and one is not obliged to feel the same respect for a queen as for the wife of a journeyman."

"Notwithstanding, all this is very sad," slid Devaux. "Sad, but necessary," said Louis. "The best way then, is, as you say, not to reflect." And he began to sing- "Where the branches met On a rocky stoue.

There I found Nicette,

Seated all alone." Louis was in the midst of his pastoral ditty, when suddenly a loud noise was heard from the left side of the post, composed of oaths, menaces, and tears. "What is that-" demanded Devaux. "It sounded like the voice of a child," said Louis, listening. "In fact," said the National Guard, "it is a poor little one they are beating. Truly they ought only to send here those who have no children."

"Will you sing-" said a hoarse and drunken voice.

And the voice sung in example- "Madame Veto promised That all our heads should full-"

"No," said the child, "I will not sing."

"Will you sing:-" And the voice recommenced- "Madame Veto promised"- "No! no!" said the child. "No, no, no."

"Ah! little beggar," said the hoarse voice; and the noise of a lash whirring through the air was distinctly heard. The infant screamed with agony. "Ah! sacre bleu!" said Louis; "it is that rascally Simon beating the little Capet." Several of the National Guards shrugged their shoulders. Two or three tried to smile. Devaux rose and went out. "I said truly," murmured he, "that parents should never enter here." All at once a low door opened, and the royal child, chased by the whip of his guardian, made a flying leap into the court, when something hard struck his leg, and fell on the ground behind him.

He stumbled, and fell upon his knee. "Bring me my last, little monster, or else-" The child rose, and shook his head, in token of refusal. "Ah! this is it, is it-" said the same voice. "Wait, you shall see." And the shoemaker Simon rushed into his hut as a wild beast to its den. "Hallo! hallo!" said Louis, frowning. "Where are you going so fast, Master Simon-"

"To chastise this little wolfs cub," said the shoemaker. "To chastise him, for what-"

"For what-"

"Yes."

"Because the little beggar will neither sing like a good patriot, nor work like a good citizen."

"Well, what have you to do with that-" said Louis. "Did the nation confide Capet to you that you might teach him to sing-"

"And what business have you to interfere, I should like to know, Citizen Sergeant-" said Simon, astonished. "I interfere, as it becomes every man of feeling to do. It is unworthy of a man to see a child beaten, and to suffer him to be beaten."

"Bah! the son of a tyrant."

"He is a child; and the child has not participated in the crimes of the father. The child is not culpable, and, consequently, ought not to be punished."

"And I tell you he was placed with me to do what I choose with him. I choose him to sing 'Madame Veto,' and he shall sing it."

"Contemptible wretch!" said Louis. "'Madame Veto' is mother to this child. Would you yourself like your child to be made to sing that you were one of the canaille-"

"Me!" cried Simon. "Vile aristocrat of a sergeant."

"No names," said Louis. "I am not Capet; and they will not make me sing by force."

"I will have you arrested, vile ci-devant."

"You!" said Louis;" you have me arrested; you had better try to arrest a Thermopyle."

"Good, good; he laughs best who laughs last. And now, Capet, pick up my last, and come and finish your shoe, or mille tonnerres."

"And I," said Louis, turning deadly pale, and advancing a few steps forward, his hands clenched, and his teeth set-"I tell you he shall not pick up your last, he shall not make shoes; do you hear, idiot-"

"Ah! yes; you talk very largely; but that will not make me fear you any the more."

"Ah! massacre," roared Simon, turning pale With rage.

At the moment two women entered the court. One held a paper in her hand. She addressed herself to the sentinel. "Sergeant," cried the sentinel, "it is Tison's daughter, who asks to see her mother."

"Let her pass, since the Council of the Temple permit it," said Louis, who did not wish to leave for a moment, for fear Simon should avail himself of his absence and again beat the child.

The sentinel passed the two women; but, hardly had they ascended four steps on the dark staircase, when they encountered Maurice Lindey, who at that moment was descending into the court. It was almost dark, so that he was unable to distinguish their features. Maurice stopped. "Who are you, citizens-" said he; "and what do you want-"

"I am Sophie Tison," said one of the women; "I obtained permission to visit my mother, and have come to see her."

"Yes," said Maurice; "but this permission was for yourself only, citoyenne."

"I brought my friend, that there might be two of us in the midst of the soldiers, at least."

"Very good; but your friend cannot go up."

"As you please, citizen," said Sophie Tison, pressing the hand of her friend, who, close against the wall, seemed paralysed with surprise and terror. "Citizens sentinels," said Maurice, raising his voice and addressing the sentinels who were stationed on every landing, "allow the Citoyenne Tison to pass, but do not permit her friend to pass; she will remain on the staircase; see that she is treated with all due respect."

"Yes, citizen," replied the sentinels. "Go up, then," said Maurice.

The two women then passed on; and Maurice, leaping over the remaining five or six stairs, advanced rapidly into the court. "What is all this-" said he to the National Guard; "and what is the cause of this noise- The cries of a child were heard in the prisoner's antechamber."

"It is this," said Simon; who, accustomed to the manners of the municipals, believed, on perceiving Maurice, that he came as an ally; "this traitor, this spy, this ci-devant, this aristocrat, prevents me from belabouring Capet;" and he shook his fists at Louis. "Yes, mon Dieu, I did prevent it," said Louis, drawing his sword; "and if you again call me ci-devant, aristocrat, or traitor, I will run my sword through your body."

"A threat!" cried Simon; "the guard, the guard."

"I am the guard," said Louis; "so you had better not call; for if I come to you, I will exterminate you."

"Come here, Citizen Municipal, come here," said Simon, now seriously alarmed at Louis's threats. "The sergeant is quite right," said the municipal, to whom he had appealed for assistance; "you are a disgrace to the nation, coward, to beat a child."

"And why did he beat him- do you comprehend," said Maurice. "Because the child would not sing 'Madame Veto;' because the child would not insult his mother."

"Miserable wretch!" said Maurice. "And you also-" said Simon; "I am surrounded with traitors."

"Rogue!" cried the municipal, seizing Simon by the throat, and tearing the last from his hand; "try to prove that Maurice Lindey is a traitor." And he applied the leather strap pretty heavily to the shoulders of the shoemaker. "Thanks, monsieur," said the child, who regarded this scene with the air of a Stoic; "but he will revenge himself upon me."

"Come, Capet, come, my child," said Louis; "if he beats you again, call for help; I will chastise him, the hangman. And now, Capet, return to your tower."

"Why do you call me Capet- you know very well that Capet is not my name."

"Not your name-" said Louis; "what is your name, then-"

"I am called Louis Charles de Bourbon. Capet is the name of one of my ancestors. I know the history of France; my father taught me."

"And you want to teach a child to make old shoes to whom a king has taught the history of France-" cried Louis; "allons done."

"Ah, rest assured," said Maurice, "I will make my report."

"And I mine," said Simon; "and among other things I shall say, that instead of one woman being allowed to enter the tower, two were permitted to pass." At this moment two women went out from the keep. Maurice ran after them. "Well, citoyenne," said he, addressing the one by his side, "have you seen your mother-"

"Yes, citizen, thank you," said she.

Maurice had wished to see the young girl's friend, or at least to hear her voice, but she was enveloped in her mantle, and seemed determined not to utter a single word. He also thought she trembled. This appearance of fear excited his suspicion. He re-ascended the stairs quickly, and through the glazed partition saw the Queen endeavouring to hide something in her pocket which looked like a billet. "Ah! ah!" said he, "I have been duped." He called his colleague. "Citizen Agricola," said he, "enter Marie Antoinette's room, and do not lose sight of her."

"Heyday!" said the municipal, "is it because…"

"Enter, I tell you, and do not lose sight of her for an instant, a moment, a second." The municipal entered the Queen's apartment. "Call the woman Tison," said he to one of the National Guard.

Five minutes afterwards Tison's wife arrived in high spirits. "I have seen my daughter," said she. "Where was that-" demanded Maurice. "Here, of course, in this ante-chamber."

"Well; and did not your daughter ask to see the Austrian-"

"No."

"Did she not enter her room-"

"No."

"And during the time you were conversing with your daughter, did no one come out of the prisoners' chamber-"

"How should I know- I was fully occupied with my daughter, whom I had not seen for three months."

"Recollect yourself."

"Ah, yes; I think I remember."

"What-"

"The young girl came out."

"Marie Therese-"

"Yes."

"Did she speak to your daughter-"

"No."

"Your daughter restored nothing to her-"

"No."

"Did she pick up nothing from the ground-"

"My daughter-"

"No, the daughter of Marie Antoinette-"

"She picked up her pocket handkerchief."

"Ah! malheureuse!" cried Maurice.

And he rushed toward the string of a bell which he pulled violently. It was an alarm bell.

CHAPTER XL THE BILLET.

THE OTHER TWO municipal guards came up hastily. A detachment of the post accompanied them. The doors were shut, and two sentinels intercepted the egress from each chamber. "What do you want, Monsieur-" said the Queen to Maurice when he entered. "I was retiring to bed, when, five minutes since, the Citizen Municipal suddenly forced his entrance into my chamber, without informing me what he desired."

"Madame," said Maurice, bowing, "it is not my colleague who desires anything from you, it is myself."

"You, Monsieur-" demanded Marie Antoinette, looking at Maurice, whose courteous behaviour had inspired her with almost gratitude; "and what do you desire-"

"I request you will be kind enough to show me the letter you were concealing in your pocket when I entered just now." Madame Royale and Madame Elizabeth trembled. The Queen turned very pale. "You are mistaken, Monsieur; I concealed nothing."

"You lie, Austrian," cried Agricola.

Maurice quickly placed his hand on the arm of his colleague. "One moment, my dear colleague," said he; "leave me to speak to the citoyenne, I am a little bit of a lawyer."

"Go on then, but you will not contrive it; morbleu!"

"You have concealed a letter, citoyenne," said Maurice, austerely; "now it is necessary we should see this letter."

"But what letter-"

"The letter that Tison's daughter brought you, and which the citoyenne, your daughter "(Maurice alluded to the young princess), "picked up with her pocket handkerchief." The three females looked at each other with terror. "But, Monsieur, this is worse than tyranny," said the Queen; "these women! these women!"

"Do not mistake," said Maurice, with firmness; "we are neither judges nor executioners, we are overseers; that is to say, your fellow-citizens, commissioned to guard you. We have our order; to violate it is treason. Citizen, I pray you to give me the letter you have concealed."

"Messieurs," said the Queen, with much hauteur, "since you are overseers, search, and deprive us of our rest to-night as usual."

"God forbid we should lay our hands upon these women. I am now going to inform the commune, and await its orders; but you cannot retire to bed, you must sleep upon these fauteuils, if you please, and we must guard you. If necessary, they will search you."

"What is the matter-" said Tison's wife, appearing at the door quite bewildered. "It is this, citoyenne," said Maurice, "that by lending yourself to treasonable practices, you will debar yourself from seeing your daughter any more."

"From seeing my daughter- What do you tell me then, citizen-" demanded Tison's wife, who could not yet comprehend why she was not to see her daughter. "I tell you, that your daughter did not come here to see you, but to bring a letter to the Citoyenne Capet; and, therefore, she will return here no more."

"But if she does not come here, I shall not be able to see her, as we are forbidden to go out."

"This time you have no one to blame but yourself-it was your fault," said Maurice. "Oh!" screamed the poor woman, "why do you say it is my fault- Nothing has happened, I tell you. If I thought anything would happen, woe to you, Marie Antoinette; you should pay dearly for it." And the exasperated woman shook her fist at the Queen. "Threaten no one," said Maurice; "but rather gain by kindness what we demand for you are a woman, and the Citoyenne Marie Antoinette, who is herself a mother, will take pity on you. To-morrow your daughter will be arrested-to-morrow imprisoned; then, if they discover anything, and you know that when they choose they always can do so, she is lost, and also her companion." The woman Tison, who had listened to Maurice with terrified credulity, turned wildly towards the Queen. "You hear, Antoinette- My daughter! It is you who will ruin my child!" The Queen in her turn appeared bewildered, not by the fury which sparkled in the eyes of her female gaoler, but by the despair legible there. "Come, Madame Tison," said she, "I have something to say to you."

"Holloa! No cajolery; there are not too many of us," said Maurice's colleague. "Before the municipality-always before the municipality."

"Never mind, Citizen Agricola," said Maurice; "provided the permission comes from us, it does not matter in what fashion."

"You are right, Citizen Maurice, but-"

"Let us pass behind the glazed partition, Citizen Agricola; and if you think with me, we will turn our backs, and I am certain the individual for whom we evince this consideration will not make us repent it." The Queen heard these words, intended for her to hear, and cast upon the young man a look of grateful acknowledgment. Maurice carelessly turned his head, and walked to the other side of the glazed partition. Agricola followed him. "You see this Queen," said he to Agricola: "as a Queen she is very culpable, as a woman she is high-minded and dignified. They destroyed the crown-woe to the model."

"Sacre bleu! you speak well. Citizen Maurice; I love to listen to you and your friend Tison. Is this also poetry you are reciting-".Maurice smiled.

During this conversation, the scene which Maurice had anticipated was passing on the other side.

The woman Tison approached the queen. "'Madame," said the Queen, "your despair grieves me. I do not wish to deprive you of your daughter-that would be too cruel; but do you consider, that by doing what these men require, your child will be equally lost-"

"Do as they tell you," cried the woman; "do as they say."

"But first, at least, hear what the question is."

"What the question is-" demanded the woman, with an almost savage curiosity. "Your daughter brought a friend with her."

"Yes, an artificiel, like herself. She did not like to come alone, because of the soldiers. This friend committed a letter to your daughter-your daughter let it fall. Marie, who was passing, picked it up. It is, doubtless, a paper of no consequence, but still one upon which evil-minded people might put a bad construction. Has not the Municipal just told you, if they wish to do so, they can do so-"

"What next- What next-"

"Well, this is all; you wish me to send back this paper-do you wish me to sacrifice a friend, without perhaps benefiting your daughter-"

"Do as they say," cried the woman; "do as they say."

"But if this paper implicates your daughter," said the Queen; "do you understand-"

"My daughter is, like myself, a good patriot," cried the housekeeper. "Dieu Merci. The Tisons are well known. Do what they tell you."

"Mon Dieu!" said the Queen; "what can I say to convince you-"

"My child, I want them to return me my child," cried Tison's wife, stamping her feet. "Give me the paper, Antoinette, give me the paper "

"There it is, Madame." And the Queen tendered a paper to the wretched creature, which she seized, and held joyfully above her head, crying: "Come here, come here, Citizen Municipals. I have the paper; take it, and give me back my child."

"You would sacrifice our friends, my sister," said Madame Elizabeth. "No, my sister," replied the Queen, mournfully, "I only sacrifice ourselves. This paper implicates no one." At the cries of the woman Tison, Maurice and his colleague came towards her, when she immediately held out the paper to them. They opened and read- "A l'Orient! again an old friend." Maurice had no sooner cast his eyes on this paper than he started. The writing was not quite unknown to him. "Mon Dieu!" cried he: "can it be that of Genevieve- but no, it is impossible; and I am mad. It resembles hers, certainly; but what communication can she have with the Queen-" He turned round, and observed that Marie Antoinette was watching him attentively. As for the woman Tison, as she awaited her fate, she devoured Maurice with her eyes. "You have done a good action," said he, to Tison's wife; "and you, citoyenne, a great one," addressing the Queen. "Then, Monsieur," replied Marie Antoinette, "follow my example. Burn this paper, and you will perform a charitable one."

"You are joking, Austrian," said Agricola. "Burn a paper that may perhaps enable us to discover a whole covey of aristocrats- Ma foi! no; that would be too much like blockheads."

"Do what- Burn it!-That might compromise my daughter," said the woman Tison. "I believe you; your daughter and some others," said Agricola, taking the paper from the hands of Maurice, which, had he been alone, would most assuredly have been destroyed.

Ten minutes afterwards, the letter was deposited on the bureau of the members of the Commune, and commented upon in various ways. "'A 1'Orient-an old friend.' What the devil can this mean-" said a voice. "Pardieu!" replied a geographer; "to Lorient, that is clear enough. Lorient is a little town of Brittany, situated between Vannes and Quimper."

"Morbleu! they ought to burn the town, if it be true that it shelters aristocrats, who keep watch still upon the Austrian."

"It is the more dangerous," said another, "that Lorient being a sea-port, they might establish communication with England."

"I propose," said a third, "that a mandate he forwarded to Lorient, that an inquiry may he made." This proposition made the minority smile, but excited the majority; they decreed a mandate should be sent to Lorient to watch the aristocrats.

Maurice had been informed of the consultation. "I think it may perhaps mean the East," said he, "but I am quite sure it is not in Brittany." The next day the Queen, who, as we have previously said, would no more enter the garden, to avoid passing the door of the apartment where her husband had been imprisoned, requested permission to ascend the tower to take the air, with her daughter and Madame Elizabeth. Her wish was instantly acceded to; but Maurice followed her, and mounting the stairs, ensconced himself behind a little turret; there, concealed, he awaited the result of the letter of the preceding evening. The Queen at first walked indifferently with Madame Elizabeth and her daughter, then stopped, whilst the two princesses continued their promenade; then turned towards the "East," and observed very attentively a house, at the windows of which were visible several persons. One of the number held a white pocket-handkerchief.

Maurice, on his part, drew a telescope from his pocket, and while he adjusted it, the Queen made a quick movement, as if to request those at the window to retire; but Maurice had already remarked the head of a man, with fair hair and pale complexion, whose salutation was so respectful as almost to border on humility. Behind this young man, for he appeared to be five or six and twenty years of age, a woman remained partially concealed from view. Maurice directed his glass towards her, and thought he recognised Genevieve. Immediately the female, who also held a telescope in her hand, drew back, dragging the young man away with her. Was this really Genevieve- Had she also recognised Maurice- Had this couple only retired at the signal given him by the Queen- Maurice waited a moment to see if this young man and woman would reappear; but seeing the window remain unoccupied, he recommended the strictest vigilance to his colleague, Agricola, quickly descended the staircase, and went to lie in ambush at the angle of La Rue Portefoin, to see if they came out of the house. It was in vain; no one appeared. He could not resist the suspicion which had entered his mind at the moment the companion of Tison's daughter had persisted in maintaining so obstinate a silence. Maurice directed his course towards the old Rue St. Jacques, where he arrived, bewildered by the strangest suspicions, doubts, and fears.

When he entered, Genevieve, attired in a white morning dress, was seated under an arbour of jasmine, where they were accustomed to take their breakfast. She, as usual, accorded Maurice a friendly greeting, and invited him to take a cup of chocolate with her. Dixmer, on his part, who had in the meantime arrived, expressed the greatest joy at meeting Maurice at this unexpected hour of the day; but before he permitted Maurice to take the cup of chocolate he had accepted (always enthusiastically attached to his trade), he insisted that his friend the Secretary to the "Section Lepelletier," should make a tour through the manufactory with him. Maurice consented. "My dear Maurice," said he, "I have important news for you."

"Political-" asked Maurice, always occupied with one idea. "Ah! dear citizen," said Dixmer, smiling, and taking the young man's arm, "do you think we trouble ourselves about politics- No, no; relating to business, Dieu merci! My honoured friend, Morand, who, as you know, is a celebrated chemist, has discovered the secret of staining leather red in an unequalled manner, that is to say, unalterable, a process never discovered till now. It is this colour I want to show you. Besides, you will see Morand at work; he is quite an artiste." Maurice did not exactly comprehend how making a red dye constituted an 'artiste;' but nevertheless accepted his offer, and followed Dixmer across the tan-yards, and in a separate sort of office saw the Citizen Morand at work. He wore blue spectacles, was in his working-dress, and seemed fully occupied in changing a skin from dirty white to purple. His hands and arms, visible under his sleeves, which were turned up, were red to the elbow.

He merely moved his head to Maurice, so entirely was he preoccupied. "Well, Citizen Morand," said Dixmer, "what say we-"

"We shall gain 100,000 livres by this process alone; but I have not slept for eight days, and these acids have affected my sight." Maurice left Dixmer with Morand, and joined Genevieve, murmuring softly, "It must be confessed the trade of municipal stupefies the hero! About eight days in the Temple, one might fancy oneself an aristocrat, and denounce oneself. Good Dixmer! Brave Morand! Sweet Genevieve!" And for an instant they suspected me. Genevieve awaited Maurice with a sweet smile, calculated to make him forget all his latent cause for suspicion. She was as usual sweet, amiable, and charming. The hours passed in Genevieve's society were those only in which Maurice could be said really to exist.

At all other times he was infected with that fever, which might be termed the fever of '93, by which Paris was separated into two camps, and existence rendered a perpetual combat. Towards noon he quitted Genevieve, and returned to the Tower of the Temple.

At the extremity of La Rue Sainte-Avoye, he encountered Louis, now relieved from guard. He left the ranks and came to meet Maurice, who still wore upon his countenance the impress of the happiness he had enjoyed in the society of the lovely Genevieve. "Ah!" said Louis, cordially shaking his friend by the hand, "In vain you seek your anguish Within your heart to hide, I know for whom you languish, For whom so long you've sighed;

Within your heart, within your eyes,

Love reigns, and triumphs in his prize." Maurice put his hand in his pocket to search for the key. This was the method he adopted to put a stop to his friend's poetical vein. But he saw the movement, and ran away, laughing. "Apropos," said Louis, retracing his steps, "you have three days more at the Temple; I recommend the little Capet to your care."

CHAPTER XII. LOVE.

IN FACT MAURICE for some time had experienced a strange mixture of happiness and misery. It is always thus at the commencement of "des grandes passions." His daily occupation at the Section Lepelletier, his evening visits to the old Rue Saint-Jacques, and some occasional visits to the club of the Thermopyles, filled up his days.

He did not dissimulate. He well knew that to see Genevieve daily was to imbibe large draughts of love unaccompanied by hope. Genevieve was a woman of retired manners and pleading appearance, who would frankly tender her hand to a friend, and would innocently approach his face with her lips, with the confidence of a sister, and the ignorance of a vestal, before whom the words of love appear as blasphemy.

Thus in the purest dreams that the first style of Raphael has traced upon the canvas is a Madonna with smiling lips, chaste eyes, and heavenly expression. It is necessary to borrow from the divine pupil of Perugino to portray the likeness of Genevieve.

In the midst of flowers, she imbibed their freshness and perfume; isolated by the occupation of her husband, and by her husband himself, she appeared to Maurice each time he saw her like a living enigma, of which he could not divine the meaning, and dare not ask it. One evening when, as usual, he remained alone with her, they were both seated at the same window by which he had entered, a few nights since, with so little ceremony; the perfume of the lilacs in full bloom floated upon the soft breeze that had succeeded the radiant sunset.

After a long silence, Maurice, having during this silence followed the intelligent and holy eye of Genevieve as she watched the appearance of the stars in the azure vault of heaven, ventured to inquire concerning the great disparity between herself and husband. She so young, and he already past the middle age; she so distingue, while everything around announced him a man of inferior birth and education; she so refined in her tastes, while her husband had not an idea beyond his manufactory. "Here, at the abode of a master tanner, are harp, piano, and drawings, which you acknowledge to be your own. How is it that this aristocracy which I detest in others I adore in you." Genevieve fixed upon Maurice a look full of candour. "Thanks," said she, "for this inquiry; it proves to me you have not sought information concerning me from any one else."

"Never! madame, "said Maurice; "I have a devoted friend who would die for me; I have a hundred comrades ready to follow wherever I may lead them; but among all these hearts, when a woman is concerned, and above all, such a woman as Genevieve, I know but of one I would trust, and that one is myself."

"Thanks, Maurice," said the young woman, "I will myself tell you all you desire to know."

"Your maiden name first," said Maurice. "I only know your married one at present." Genevieve detected the selfishness of love in this question, and smiled. "Genevieve du Treilly," said she.

Maurice repeated, "Genevieve du Treilly."

"My family," continued Genevieve, "was ruined after the American war, in which both my father and elder brother had taken part."

"Both gentlemen-" said Maurice. "No, no," said Genevieve, blushing. "And yet you said your maiden name was Genevieve du Treilly."

"My family, Monsieur Maurice, was rich, but not noble."

"You challenge me," said the young man, smiling. "Oh! no, no," replied Genevieve. "In America my father was connected with the father of Monsieur Morand. Monsieur Dixmer was managing man to Monsieur Morand. We were ruined, and Monsieur Morand, knowing that Monsieur Dixmer was a man of independent fortune, presented him to my father, who in his turn presented him to me. "I saw he had beforehand formed a resolution of marriage. I understood it was the wish of my family. I did not love, neither had I ever loved any one, and I accepted him. "I have now been Dixmer's wife for three years, and I am bound to say he has proved to me so good and excellent a husband, that notwithstanding the difference of taste and the disparity of age, I have never even for a moment experienced the slightest feeling of regret."

"But," said Maurice, "when you married Monsieur Dixmer he was not at the head of this manufactory."

"No, we lived at Blois. After the 10th of August Monsieur Dixmer purchased this house and the adjoining workshops, and that I might not be annoyed by the workmen, and to spare me the sight of many things repulsive to a person of my habits, which are, as you observed, Maurice, a little aristocratic, he gave me this pavilion, where I live alone retired, gratifying my various fancies and desires, and happy when a friend like yourself, Maurice, comes either to distract or partake in my reveries." And Genevieve tendered her hand to Maurice, which he ardently kissed. Genevieve blushed slightly. "Now, my friend," said the young woman, drawing away her hand, "you know how I became the wife of Monsieur Dixmer."

"Yes," said Maurice, regarding Genevieve with great attention; "but you have not told me how Monsieur Morand came to be associated with your husband."

"Oh! that is very simple," said Genevieve. "Monsieur Dixmer had, as I have told you, some fortune, but still not sufficient to engage alone in a large concern like this. The son of Monsieur Morand, his protector, as I have before said, this friend of my father, you will remember, provided half the funds, and as he possesses a good knowledge of chemistry, he devotes himself to various improvements with the energy you have remarked, and, thanks to which, the business of Monsieur Dixmer has extended considerably."

"Monsieur Morand is also a great friend of yours, is he not, Madame-" said Maurice. "Monsieur Morand is a noble hearted being, one of the worthiest men in existence," gravely replied Genevieve. "If he has given you no other proofs," said Maurice, a little piqued at the importance accorded by Genevieve to the young man, the partner of her husband, "than dividing the expenses of this establishment with Monsieur Dixmer, and inventing a new colour for the morocco, allow me to say you rather overrate his merits."

"He has given me many other proofs, monsieur," said Genevieve. "He is young, is he not-" said Maurice. "His wearing green spectacles renders it difficult to tell his age."

"He is thirty-five."

"You have known him, then, a long time-"

"From infancy." Maurice bit his lips; he had always suspected Morand loved Genevieve. "Oh!" said Maurice, "that explains his familiarity with you."

"It seems to me, monsieur," said Genevieve, smiling, "that this familiarity, which at least is only that of a friend, does not need any explanation."

"Oh! pardon me, madame, you know all affectionate natures are jealous, and my friendship was jealous of that you appear to feel for Monsieur Morand." He was silent. Genevieve also remained silent. There were no more questions to-day respecting Morand, and Maurice quitted Genevieve, more than ever in love, for he was jealous.

So blinded was the young man by his passion, that he had not remarked, during the recital of Genevieve, many gaps, much hesitation, and many concealments, which, although at the moment had escaped his notice, now returned to his memory, and strangely tortured him; and then he might not be able to secure to himself the liberty allowed him by Dixmer, of conversing with Genevieve as often and as long as he pleased, and in solitude, as they now found themselves every evening; and more, not only had he become a constant and expected guest at the house-not only remained in perfect security with Genevieve, who seemed guarded by her angelic purity from any advances on the part of the young man, but he now escorted her in all the excursions made from time to time in that quarter. In the midst of this established intimacy one thing surprised him. The more he sought (perhaps the better to watch his sentiments for Genevieve) the friendship of Morand, by whose genius, notwithstanding his prejudice, he felt himself captivated, and whose pleasing manners won him more and more every day, the greater the inclination evinced by this whimsical man to avoid him.

Of this he complained bitterly to Genevieve; for he did not doubt but that Morand had discerned in him a rival, and therefore his conduct was actuated by jealousy. "The citizen Morand hates me," said he one day to Genevieve. "You-" said Genevieve, with a look of astonishment. "You-Monsieur Morand hate you-"

"Yes; I am sure of it."

"And why should he hate you-"

"Do you wish me to tell you-" cried Maurice. "Without doubt," replied Genevieve. "Well, then, because I-" Maurice stopped; he was going to say, "because I love you."

"I cannot tell you why," replied Maurice, colouring. The fierce Republican near Genevieve was timid and confused as a young girl.

Genevieve smiled. "Say," replied she, "there is no sympathy between you, and I may perhaps believe you. You possess an ardent mind, an ambitious spirit, are a man of birth and education, while Morand is a merchant grafted on a chemist. He is timid and retiring. It is this timidity that deters him from taking the first step towards your acquaintance."

"And who asks him to make the first advance towards me- I have made fifty to him, and he has never responded."

"What is it, then-" said Genevieve.

Maurice chose to remain silent.

The day after this conversation with Genevieve, he arrived there at two o'clock in the afternoon, and found her ready dressed to go nut. "Welcome," said she; "you will act as my chevalier-"

"Where are we going, then-" demanded Maurice. "I am going to Antonil. It will be a delightful excursion. I mean to walk part of the way. Our carriage will convey us to the barrier, where it will wait for us. We will then walk to Auteuil, and when I have finished my business there, we will return to take-"

"Oh!" said Maurice, "what a delightful day you offer me!" The two young people went out. Beyond Passy the carriage put them down. They sauntered along slowly and continued their journey on foot.

On arriving at Auteuil, Genevieve stopped. "Wait for me," said she, "at the entrance to the park; when I have finished I will rejoin you."

"Where are you going, then-" demanded Maurice. "To a friend's house."

"Where I cannot accompany you-" Genevieve smilingly shook her head. "Impossible!" said she.

Maurice bit his lip. "Very well," said he; "I will wait"

"Ah! what-" said Genevieve. "Nothing," replied Maurice. "Shall you be long-"

"If I had thought it would inconvenience you, Maurice, if I had known you were engaged," said Genevieve, "I would not have requested you to do me the slight favour to accompany me to-day. I might have asked-"

"Monsieur Morand," interrupted Maurice, sharply. "No, you are aware Monsieur Morand is at the manufactory at Rambouillet, and does not return till this evening."

"Then to what do I owe the preference-"

"Maurice," said Genevieve, softly, "I cannot keep the person I came to see waiting; but if I am the least constraint upon your return to Paris, only send back the carriage."

"No, no, madame," replied Maurice, quickly, "I am at your service." He bowed to Genevieve, who, sighing softly, proceeded on her way, and entered Auteuil.

Maurice went to the appointed place, and continued walking backwards and forwards with long impatient strides, cutting off with his cane, like Tarquin, all the heads of the weeds, and flowers of the thistles, which he found upon the road; and this road being narrow and retired, left him at full liberty to trace and retrace his footsteps as often as he pleased. And what occupied his thoughts- The desire to know whether Genevieve loved him or not. Her manner to him was that of a friend, or sister, but he felt this was not sufficient. He loved her with an entire love. She had become his sole thought by day, his renewed dream by night. At one time, he only asked to see her again; he now required her to love him. Genevieve was absent for an hour, which to him had appeared an age; when he saw her returning with a smile upon her lips, Maurice, on the contrary, went to meet her with a frowning brow.

Genevieve, smiling, took his arm. "Here I am," said she; "pardon me, mon ami, for having made you wait." Maurice only replied by a bow; and they then entered a shady lane, which, by a winding path, conducted them into the high road.

It was one of those delicious evenings in spring, when every plant sends its fragrance on high, when every bird, either seated on the branches, or skipping from spray to spray, warbles its songs of praise to God; one of those evenings that seem destined to live for ever in our memory. Maurice was silent, Genevieve pensive. She plucked with one hand flowers for a bouquet, the other rested on the arm of Maurice. "What is the matter with you-" said he, all at once, to Genevieve; "and what makes you so sad to-day-" Genevieve might have answered-my happiness. She regarded him tenderly. "But you," said she, "are you not more than usually sad to-day-"

"I," said Maurice, "have reason to be sad; I am unhappy; but you-"

"You unhappy-"

"Doubtless; do you not perceive sometimes from my tremulous tones how much I suffer- Does it not often happen, when I am talking with you, or your husband, I am compelled suddenly to seek the air, because I feel as if my heart would burst-"

"But," demanded Genevieve, embarrassed, "to what do you attribute this suffering-"

"If I were an affected lady," said Maurice, attempting a laugh, "I should say it was a nervous attack."

"And at this moment do you suffer-"

"Much," said Maurice. "Let us return, then."

"What, already, madame-"

"Without doubt."

"True," said the young man; "I forgot Monsieur Morand would return from Rambouillet this evening; and it is fast approaching." Genevieve looked at him reproachfully. "Oh! again," Said she. "Why then did you, the other day, favour me with so high an eulogium on Monsieur Morand- It is your own fault."

"How long is it since, to people we esteem," demanded Genevieve, "we may not express our real opinion of an estimable man-"

"It must be a very lively esteem to cause you to accelerate your pace, as you at this moment are doing, for fear of being too late by a few minutes."

"You are to-day absolutely unjust, Maurice. Have I not passed part of the day with you-"

"You are right; and I am indeed too exacting," replied Maurice, subduing his impetuosity. "Let us return to meet Monsieur Morand." Genevieve felt her anger pass from her mind to her heart. "Yes," said she; "let us return to Monsieur Morand. He at least is a friend who never causes me pain."

"They are, indeed, valuable friends," said Maurice, "and I, for my part, should like a few such." They were now upon the high road; the horizon crimsoned as the departing rays of the setting sun glistened upon the gilt mouldings of the dome des Invalides. A star, which on the previous evening had attracted the attention of Genevieve, sparkled in the azure of heaven. Genevieve quitted Maurice's arm with melancholy submission. "Why have you made me suffer-" said she. "Ah!" said Maurice; "I am not so clever as some people, and do not know how to make love."

"Maurice!" said Genevieve. "Oh, madame, if he is certainly so worthy and so just he ought not to suffer." Genevieve again placed her white hand within the powerful arm of Maurice. "I pray you," said she, in an altered tone, "to speak no more; to speak no more!"

"And why is that-"

"Because your voice makes me ill."

"You are displeased with everything, even my voice-"

"Be silent, I conjure you."

"I will obey you, madame." And the impetuous young man passed his hand over his face, damp with perspiration.

Genevieve saw that he really suffered. "You are my friend, Maurice," said Genevieve, looking at him kindly; "do not deprive me of your valuable friendship."

"Oh! you would not long regret it," said Maurice. "You are mistaken," said Genevieve, "I should regret it very long, and for ever."

"Genevieve! Genevieve!" cried Maurice, "have pity upon me." Genevieve shuddered. It was the first time Maurice had uttered her name in these passionate accents. "And now," continued Maurice, "since you have divined me, let me tell you all, Genevieve, for might you kill me with a look, I have been silent too long; I will speak. Genevieve."

"Monsieur," said the young woman, "I have supplicated you in the name of our friendship to remain silent; I still pray you to do so, if not for my sake, for your own. Not another word; in the name of Heaven! not another word."

"Friendship, friendship! if it be a friendship like this you profess for me, that you feel for Monsieur Morand, I wish for no more of your friendship-I, Genevieve, require more than others."

"Enough," said Madame Dixmer, with the gesture of a queen, "enough, Monsieur Lindey; here is our carriage, please to conduct me to my husband's house." Maurice trembled with fever and emotion when Genevieve, to rejoin the carriage, which indeed was only a few paces distant, placed her hand on his arm.

They both entered the carriage; Genevieve took the front seat, and Maurice the one opposite. They traversed Paris without either one or the other having uttered a word. Only, all the way, Genevieve had held her handkerchief before her eyes. When they entered the building, Dixmer was occupied in his counting-house, Morand had just returned from Rambouillet, and was changing his dress. Genevieve held out her hand to Maurice, as she entered her chamber. "Adieu! Maurice, you have wished it." Maurice said nothing, but walked directly to the mantel-piece, where hung a portrait of Genevieve. He ardently kissed it, pressed it to his heart, replaced it, and went out. Maurice reached home without knowing how he arrived there; he had passed through Paris without seeing anything, without hearing anything; all that surrounded him appeared like a dream; he was unable to account for his actions, his words, or the sentiments which induced them. There are moments when the most serene spirits succumb under the violence of their own emotions.

It was, as we have said, rather a race than a return, on the part of Maurice. He undressed himself without the assistance of his valet-de-chambre, neither replied to his cook, who displayed his supper duly prepared for him, but taking the day's letters from the table, he read them all, one after the other, without comprehending a single word. The burning jealousy, that intoxication of reason, was not yet dissipated. At ten o'clock, Maurice mechanically sought his bed, as, indeed, he had done everything else since his parting with Genevieve.

If Maurice in his cooler moments had been told of this extraordinary behaviour in another, he would not have been able to comprehend it, but would have considered him mad to have pursued this desperate conduct, totally unauthorized either by too much reserve or too much "abandon" on the part of Genevieve. He now only felt this was a terrible blow to all his hopes, of which he had never even to himself rendered an account, and upon which, vague as they were, reposed all his visions of happiness, dreams which like an unseizable vapour floated shapelessly towards the horizon, and there disappeared. Thus it happened, as in similar cases, that Maurice, stunned by this blow, dropped asleep directly he found himself in bed, where he remained free from all sentiment till the morrow. He was awakened by the noise of the official opening the door, who came as usual to unclose the windows, which opened upon a large garden, and to bring some flowers.

At that time, in the year '93, much attention was paid to the culture of forced flowers, and Maurice dearly loved all flowers; but now without even bestowing a glance upon them, he half raised his heavy head, and supporting it on his hand, endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding evening. Maurice asked himself, without being able to account for it, the cause of this mad folly; the sole cause was jealousy of Morand; but the moment was certainly badly chosen to amuse himself by being jealous of a man, when this man was at Rambouillet, and whilst enjoying a tete-a-tete with the woman one loves, surrounded by the most enchanting scenery, on one of the lovely days of spring. It was not suspicion of the inmates at the house at Auteuil, where Genevieve had remained an hour, no, the incessant torment of his life was the idea that Morand loved Genevieve, and yet, singular fantasy of the brain, strange combination of caprice, not a gesture, a look, not even a word from Dixmer's partner had afforded the slightest grounds for this belief. The voice of the valet-de-chambre aroused him from this reverie. "Citizen," said he, showing him the open letters on the table, "have you selected those you wished to keep, or shall they all be burned-"

"Burn what-" said Maurice. "The letters the citizen read last night, before he retired to bed." Maurice could not remember having read one. "Burn all," said he. "Here are two days' letters, citizen," said the official.

He presented a packet of letters to Maurice, and threw the others under the grate. Maurice took the letters, felt the impression of a seal, and fancied that he recognized the perfume of a friend, and looking over his correspondence he found an envelope and handwriting that made him tremble. This man, who bravely faced danger, trembled before the odour of a letter. The official approached Maurice to inquire what he would take, but he signified a wish to be alone. Maurice turned and returned this letter; he felt a presentiment it contained misery for him, and started and trembled before unknown misfortune. Having collected all his courage he at length opened it, and read as follows:- "Citizen Maurice,-It has become necessary that we should burst these bonds-bonds which, on your side, affect to exceed the bounds of friendship. You are a man of honour, citizen, and now a night has passed since the occurrences of yesterday evening, you ought to comprehend that your presence at our house is no longer desirable. I leave it to you to excuse yourself in any way you think best to my husband. On the arrival this day of your letter to Monsieur Dixmer. I am convinced I shall regret the loss of an unfortunate friend, whom all social propriety will deter me from meeting for the future. Adieu for ever.-GENEVIEVE. "P.S.-The bearer awaits your reply." Maurice called: the valet-de-chambre reappeared. "Who brought this letter-"

"A citizen commissionaire."

"Is he waiting-"

"Yes." Maurice did not for a moment hesitate, but, partly dressing, seated himself before his writing-desk, and taking the first sheet of paper that came to hand (he found it had on it the impression of a heart with the name of the Section), he wrote:- "Citizen Dixmer,-I respected you, and I still do so, but I cannot visit you any longer." Maurice considered what reason he could assign for not visiting Dixmer, and one idea alone presented itself to his mind, that which at this epoch occurred to every one. He thus continued:- "Certain rumors are afloat relative to your lukewarm-ness in public affairs. I have no wish to accuse you, and no mission to defend you. Receive my respects, and feel assured your secrets will remain for ever buried in my heart." Maurice did not even read this letter, written, as we have said, under the impression of the first idea that presented itself. He did not doubt the effect it would produce. Dixmer, an excellent patriot, as Maurice imagined from his conversation at least, would be much grieved at receiving it, his wife and Monsieur Morand would no doubt influence him not to reply, and forgetfulness would gradually spread itself like a dark veil over the past, laughing at the melancholy transformation. Maurice signed and sealed his letter, gave it the official, and the commissionaire departed. Then a slight sigh escaped the Republican; he took his hat and gloves and proceeded to the section. He hoped, poor Brutus, to recover his stoicism, by occupying himself with public affairs. These were indeed terrible: the 31st of May was preparing. The terreur which, like a torrent, precipitated itself from the height of la Montagne, endeavoured to carry away this dike, opposed to it by the Girondins, those audacious Moderes who had dared to demand vengeance for the massacres of September, and to wrestle for an instant to save the life of the King.

Whilst Maurice pursued his way with a rapidity that drove the fever from his heart to his head, the messenger had re-entered the old Rue St. Jacques, filling the dwelling there with terror and astonishment. The letter, after passing through Genevieve's hands, was given by her to Dixmer. Dixmer opened and read it, without at first understanding it; he then communicated the contents to the citizen Morand, who supported his head upon his hand. His face was pale as death. In the situation in which Dixmer, Morand, and their companions found themselves (a situation totally unknown to Maurice, but which our readers have penetrated) this letter was like a thunderbolt. "Is this an upright, honest man-" asked Dixmer, much grieved. "Yes," replied Morand, without the least hesitation. "Never mind," said the advocate for extreme measures, "you see we were very wrong not to kill him."

"My friend," said Louis, "we struggle against violence, we brand it with the name of crime. We have acted rightly, whatever may be the result, in not assassinating this man. I again repeat I believe Maurice to possess a noble, generous spirit."

"Yes; but if so noble and generous a spirit belongs to this warm republican, perhaps he may regard it in the light of a crime, if he has made any discovery, not to immolate his own honour, as they say, 'on the altar of the country.'"

"But," said Morand, "do you think he knows anything-"

"Do you not hear- he speaks of secrets buried in his own heart. "These secrets are evidently those confided to him by me relative to our contraband transactions. He knows no others."

"But this interview at Auteuil- does he suspect anything- you know he accompanied your wife-"

"It was I who told Genevieve to take Maurice with her as a protection."

"Listen," said Morand, "we shall soon see if these surmises be true. The turn of our battalion to guard the Temple arrives on the 2nd of June, that is to say, in eight days. You are captain, Dixmer, and I lieutenant; if our battalion or even our company receives a counter-order, like that received the other day by the battalion of la Butles-des-Moulins, which Santerre has replaced by that of Gravilliers, all is discovered, and we have only to flee from Paris, or die fighting. But if all follows in the usual course of things- "We are lost all the same," replied Dixmer. "How so-"

"Pardieu! does not all devolve upon the co-operation of this young municipal- Was it not he who, without knowing it, must open the road for us to the Queen-"

"That is true!" said Morand, confounded. "Yon see, then," said Dixmer, knitting his brows, "that, at any price, we must renew our intimacy with this young man."

"But, if he refuse, if he fear to compromise himself-"

"Listen!" said Dixmer, "I will question Genevieve; she saw him last, perhaps she may know something more."

"Dixmer," said Morand, "it is with pain I see you mixing Genevieve with all our plots, not that I fear any indiscretion on her part. Oh! great God! the drama we are acting is a dreadful one, and I blush and tremble at the same time to place the head of a woman at stake, as well as our own."

"The head of a woman," said Dixmer, "ponders as gravely as that of a man, when stratagem is required, and often achieves more by candour and beauty than by force, strength, power, or courage. Genevieve shares in our convictions and our sympathies. Genevieve shall also share our fate."

"Well, my friend," said Morand, "I have said all I ought to say. Genevieve is in every way worthy of the mission you have given her, or rather that she has taken upon herself. It is martyrs who become saints." And he held out his delicate and effeminate hand to Dixmer, who roughly pressed it between his own. Then Dixmer, recommending Morand and his companions to watch with increased vigilance, quitted them, and entered Genevieve's apartments. She was seated before a table, bending over a piece of embroidery. She turned round at the noise of the opening door, and recognised Dixmer. "Ah, it you, mon ami-" said she. "Yes," said Dixmer, with a placid, smiling countenance. "I have received a letter from your friend Maurice, which I cannot understand in the least. Read it, and then tell me what you think of it." Genevieve took the letter with a hand, of which (with all her self-command) she could not disguise the tremor, and read. Dixmer followed her eyes as they ran over every line. "Well-" said he, when she had finished. "Well! I think that Monsieur Maurice Lindey is an honest man, and from him we have nothing to fear," replied Genevieve, with the greatest calmness. "You think he is ignorant who the persons are you visited at Auteuil-"

"I am certain."

"Why then this sudden determination- Did he appear yesterday less friendly and more silent than usual-"

"No," said Genevieve, "I believe he was just the same."

"Consider well before you answer me, Genevieve, for you must understand your reply will greatly influence our future projects."

"Listen, then," said she, with an emotion that overthrew all her attempt at calmness. "Wait-"

"Well!" said Dixmer, all the muscles of his face slightly contracting; "collect your thoughts, Genevieve."

"Yes!" said the young woman, "yes, I remember, yesterday he was not particularly civil. Monsieur Maurice," continued she, "is a little tyrannical in his friendship, and," hesitatingly added, "sometimes we have quarrelled for a whole week."

"This is then merely a simple quarrel-" demanded Dixmer. "Most probably."

"Genevieve, understand this, in our position it is not probability that will suffice, it is certitude we require."

"Ah, well, mon ami, I am certain."

"This letter, then, would be only a pretext for not visiting us again-"

"Mon ami, as you wish it, I will tell you."

"Speak, Genevieve, speak: of any other woman I would not ask it."

"It is a pretext," said Genevieve, looking down. "Ah!" said Dixmer. Then after a moment's silence he replaced it in his waistcoat, and placing his hand upon his wife's chair to compress the beatings of his heart. "Will you do me a service-" said he. "What service-" said Genevieve, turning round surprised. "To prevent even the shadow of danger. Maurice is, perhaps, deeper in our secrets than we imagine. That which you believe a pretext may, perhaps, be a reality. Write him one word."

"I!" said Genevieve, starting. "Yes, you. Tell him that you have opened the letter and desire an explanation. He will then call, you can interrogate him, and will easily discover what is the matter."

"Oh! no," cried Genevieve, "I cannot do as you wish me; I will not do it."

"Dear Genevieve, when interests so powerful as those that rest upon us are at stake, will you recoil before the paltry consideration of self-love-"

"I have told you my opinion of Maurice, monsieur," said Genevieve, "he is honest and brave, but capricious, and I do not choose to submit to any authority but that of my husband." This answer, returned with so much calmness, and, at the same time, firmness, convinced Dixmer that to insist further at this moment would be worse than useless. He did not add another word, but looked at Genevieve, without seeming to do so, and went out. Morand was awaiting his return with great anxiety. Dixmer repeated word for word all that had occurred. "Well!" said Morand, "we will wait, and think no more about it, rather than I would cast a shadow of suspicion on your wife, rather than wound her self-love, I would renounce -" Dixmer placed his hand upon his shoulder. "You are mad, monsieur," said he to him, "or else you do not know what you are saying."

"Do you think so, Dixmer-"

"I think, Chevalier, that you have no more coif-command than I have, to give utterance to sentiments on the impulse of the moment. Neither you, I, or Genevieve belong to ourselves, Morand. We are the chosen defenders of a certain cause, and this cause depends upon its supporters." Morand trembled, and preserved a gloomy and thoughtful silence. They took several turns round the garden without exchanging a word. Then Dixmer left Morand. "I have some orders to give," said he in a calm voice. "I must leave you, Monsieur Morand." Morand held out his hand to Dixmer, and looked after him as he turned away. "Poor Dixmer," said he, "I fear much that in all this you risk the most." Dixmer returned to the manufactory, and having issued several orders, looked over the day-book, and distributed bread and fuel to the poor of the section, went home, and changed his working dress for his walking costume immediately on his arrival there.

An hour afterwards, Maurice Lindey, while deeply engaged in his readings and allocutions, was interrupted by the voice of his official, whispering in his ear, "Citizen Lindey, some one who, so he pretends at least, has something of importance to say to you, is waiting at your house." Maurice, on entering, was much surprised at meeting the master tanner, who had there comfortably installed himself, and was turning over the newspapers. All the way along he had questioned the domestic, who, of course, not knowing Dixmer, could afford him no clue to his recognition. On perceiving Dixmer, Maurice stopped at the threshold of the door, and blushed in spite of himself. Dixmer smilingly arose, and held out his hand. "What ails you- and what have you written to me-" he inquired of the young man. "Indeed, my dear Maurice, I feel it sensibly. You designate me as 'lukewarm and a false patriot.' Now as you dare not repeat these accusations to my face, acknowledge you wish to seek a quarrel with me."

"I will avow anything you please, my dear Dixmer, for your conduct to me has always been that of a worthy man, but I have nevertheless made a resolution, and that resolution is irrevocable."

"But how is that-" said Dixmer, "when according to your own account you have nothing to reproach me with, and yet, notwithstanding, you leave us-"

"My dear Dixmer, believe me, acting as I now am, and depriving myself of such a friend, I must be actuated by powerful motives."

"Yes; but under any circumstances," said Dixmer, affecting to smile, "these reasons are not those you have written. What you have written to me is merely a subterfuge." Maurice reflected an instant. "Listen, Dixmer," said he; "we live in an epoch when a doubt conveyed in a letter could and would annoy you, I can well understand. It would then be acting like a dishonourable man to allow you to remain in this state of inquietude. Yes, Dixmer, the reasons I gave you were not the true ones." This avowal, which should have cleared the face of the merchant, only seemed the more to cloud it. "But at least tell me the motive," said Dixmer. "I cannot tell you," said Maurice, "and yet I am certain if you knew it, you would afford me your approval." Dixmer still continued to press him. "Then you really wish to know it," said Maurice. "Yes," replied Dixmer. "Well, then," replied Maurice, who felt a sensation of relief as he approached the truth, "this is the truth. You have a young and beauteous wife, virtuous as she is beautiful; yet it is well known that I cannot visit at your house without my visits being misinterpreted." Dixmer turned rather pale. "Truly, then, my dear Maurice," said he, "you ought to thank the wife for the wrong you do the friend-"

"Understand," said Maurice, "I have not the folly to suppose my presence can be dangerous to your repose, or that of your wife; but it might, perhaps, afford subject for calumny, and you are aware the more absurd the scandal, the easier it gains belief."

"Absurd!" said Dixmer, shrugging his shoulders. "Absurd, as much as you please," said Maurice, "but separate, we shall not the less be good friends, for we shall have nothing to reproach ourselves with, while, on the contrary, if near-"

"Well! What then-"

"There would be food for scandal."

"Do you think, Maurice, that I should believe-"

"Eh! mon Dieu!" said the young man. "But why did you not write this instead of telling it to me, Maurice-"

"Just to avoid the scene of this moment."

"And are you vexed, Maurice, that I respected you sufficiently to demand an explanation-"

"No; on the contrary, I swear I am glad to have seen you once again before our final separation."

"Our final separation, citizen; you whom we esteem so much!" taking Maurice's hand and pressing it between his own.

Maurice started. "Morand," continued Dixmer, who failed not to notice this start, "Morand said to me only this morning, 'Do all in your power to bring back Maurice."' "Monsieur," said the young man, frowning, and drawing away his hand, "I do not believe I stand very high in the estimation of Monsieur Morand."

"You doubt it," said Dixmer. "Me!" replied Maurice, "I neither believe or doubt it, and have no motive to inquire on the subject. When I went to your house it was to visit yourself and jour wife, and not on account of Monsieur Morand."

"You do not know him, Maurice," said Dixmer; "Morand possesses a noble soul."

"I grant it," said Maurice, smiling bitterly. "Let us, however, return to the object of my visit," continued Dixmer.

Maurice bowed, like a man who hears all, but has nothing more to say. "You say, then, that these reports have already circulated-"

"Yes, citizen."

"Well, then, let us speak frankly. Why should you pay any attention to the silly prattling of idle neighbours- Have you not your own clear conscience, Maurice, and Genevieve, has she not a sense of honour-"

"I am younger than you," said Maurice, who began to be astonished at this pertinacity, "and perhaps view things with more susceptibility. This is why I declare that on the reputation of such a woman as Genevieve, a shadow even should not be permitted to be cast. Permit me, therefore, my dear dear Dixmer, to adhere to my former resolution."

"And now," said Dixmer, "since we are in order for confession, tell me one thing more."

"What!" paid Maurice, colouring; "what more do you wish me to avow-"

"That it is neither politics, nor the report of your assiduities at my house, that induces you to leave us-"

"What is it, then-"

"The secret you have discovered."

"What secret-" demanded Maurice, with so naive an expression of curiosity, as completely to reassure the tanner. "The secret of the smuggling affair, which you discovered the same evening when our singular acquaintance commenced. You have never forgiven me this fraud, and accuse me of being a bad republican, because I employ English produce in my manufactory."

"My dear Dixmer, I solemnly declare to you that when I visited at your house, I had totally forgotten I was in the house of a contrabandist."

"Truly-"

"Truly."

"Yon really, then, had no other reason for abandoning the house than that you have stated."

"Upon my honour."

"Well," said Dixmer, rising and offering his hand to the young man, "I hope you will consider this resolution, which has been productive of pain to us all, and will again return to us as usual." Maurice bowed but made no reply, which was of course equivalent to a refusal. Dixmer left, annoyed at not having been able to re-establish an intimacy with this man, whom certain circumstances had rendered not only useful to him but absolutely indispensable. Maurice was agitated by a variety of emotions of a contrary nature. Dixmer entreated him to return. Genevieve would pardon him. Why then should he despond- Louis, in his place, would have selected a crowd of aphorisms from his favourite authors. But then he had Genevieve's letter, that formal adieu, which he had carried with him to the section and placed near his heart; also the little word received from her the day after he had rescued her from the cowards who insulted her; and, lastly, the obstinate jealousy still retained by this young man against the detestable Morand, the first cause of his rupture with Genevieve.

Maurice remained inflexible in his resolution. But it must be acknowledged, the privation of his daily visits to the old Rue Saint Jacques formed a sad blank in his existence; and when the hour arrived at which he had been accustomed to pay his daily visit to the quarter Saint Victor, he fell into a profound fit of melancholy, and began, from that moment, to survey every aspect of hope or regret. Each morning on awakening; he expected to receive a letter from Dixmer, and acknowledged to himself that he who had so firmly resisted all persuasion, would now at last yield to a letter; each day he sallied out in hopes of meeting Genevieve, and, beforehand, had arranged a thousand ways of speaking to her; each evening he returned in hopes of there finding a letter or message left since the morning, though, doubtless, it would bring an addition to the grief, now become his constant companion.

Often, in his hours of despair, his strong nature rebelled at the idea of enduring so much torture, without retaliating upon the primary cause of all his suffering and all his misery, Morand. Then he formed a project to go and seek some quarrel with Morand, but Dixmer's partner was so inoffensive and gentlemanly, that to insult or provoke him would be a cowardly proceeding on the part of a Colossus like Maurice.

It was fortunate Louis came to distract the attention of his friend from troubles which he obstinately concealed in his own heart, without having the power to destroy them. He had used every argument of theory and practice to secure to its country that heart totally engrossed by another love. But, although this was to be regretted, and although, in another state of mind, it might have dragged Maurice into the centre of the political whirlpool, it had not restored to the young Republican that first activity, which had distinguished him as a hero on the 14th of July and the 10th of August. These two systems, for the last ten months in view of each other, and which, thus far, had only carried on light attacks, and commenced a few skirmishes, prepared to meet body to body, when it was evident that the struggle once begun would end fatally for one or the other. These two systems, born from the breast of the revolution itself, were those of Moderation, represented by the Girondins, that is to say, by Bressot, Petion, Vergniaud, Valaze, Lanjuinais, Barbaroux, etc., and La Terreur, or La Montagne, represented by Danton, Robespierre, Chenier, Fabre, Marat, Collot d'Herbois, Hebert, etc., etc.

After the 10th of August, as after every action, the power appeared to pass into the hands of the Moderes. A ministry had been formed from the wreck of the former ministry, and of a new adjunction. Roland, Servien, and Clavieres, former ministers, had been recalled. Danton, Monge, and Le Brun had been nominated afresh. With one exception only, all these ministers belonged to the moderate party. Of course when we say "Moderate" we speak relatively. But the 10th of August had had its echo from afar, and the coalition hastened to march, not to the assistance of Louis XVI. personal, but to the royalist principles tottering at its basis. Then were heard the menacing words of Brunswick, and, as a terrible realization, Longwy and Verdun had fallen into the power of the enemy. Then a dreadful reaction had taken place-then Danton had dreams of the days of September, and realized the bloody dream, which displayed before the enemies of France an entire scene of immense assassination, ready to struggle for an existence, compromised with all the energy of despair.

September had saved France, but all, in saving her, had exceeded the limits of the law. France saved, energy became useless; the Moderes had regained some strength, and then wished to recriminate those dreadful days. The words murderer and assassin had been uttered, a new name had even been added to the national vocabulary-it was that of Septembriseurs Danton had bravely accepted. Clovis had for a moment inclined his head under the baptism of blood to raise it only still more lofty and menacing. Another opportunity to renew La Terreur presented itself, it was the process of the King. Violence and moderation entered, not altogether to wrestle against persons but principles. The hope of relative strength was founded on the royal prisoner. Moderation was overcome, and the head of Louis XVI. fell upon the scaffold. On the 10th of August, the 24th of January had rendered to the coalition all its energy. It was still the same man whom they opposed, but not the same fortune. Dumonriez, arrested in his progress by the disorder of all the administrations which prevented the succour of men or money reaching him, declared against the Jacobins, whom he accused of causing this disorganization, adopted the party of the Girondins, and ruined them in declaring himself their friend. Then La Vendee rose threatening the districts, misfortune producing treason, and treason misfortune. The Jacobins accused the Moderes, and wished to strike the blow on the 10th of March, that is to say, during the evening when our story commences. But too much precipitation on the part of their adversaries saved them, and perhaps also the rain, which had caused Petion (that profound anatomist of the Parisian mind) to remark- "It rains! there will be nothing to-night." But since the 10th of March everything threatened ruin to the Girondins. Marat was accused and acquitted. Robespierre and Danton were reconciled as a lion and tiger would reconcile themselves before fighting the bull they both intended to devour; Henriot, the Septembriseur, nominated Commandant-General to the National Guard; everything presaged that awful day, which would carry away by storm the last dike the Revolution opposed to La Terreur. Such were the great events, in which under any other circumstances Maurice would have taken that active part, for which his powerful nature and exalted patriotism so fully qualified him. But happily, or unhappily, for Maurice, neither the exhortations of Louis, nor the terrible pro-occupations abroad, had been able to divert his mind from the one idea that possessed it; and when the 31st of May arrived, the fierce assailants of the Bastille and the Tuileries was laid upon his bed, devoured by that fever which destroys the strongest, and yet only requires a word to dissipate, a look to heal.

CHAPTER XIII. THE THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY.

DURING THE MORNING of the 31st of May, when the tocsin and beat of drum had been sounding since the break of day, the battalion of the Faubourg St. Victor entered the Temple. When all the usual formalities had been gone through, and the post distributed, the municipals on service arrived, bringing with them four pieces of cannon, in addition to those already forming the battery at the gate of the Temple. At the same time Santerre arrived, with his epaulets of yellow wool, and a coat on which his patriotism was displayed by large spots of grease. He reviewed the battalion, which was in a proper state, but on counting the municipals, found only three. "Why are there only three municipals-" inquired he; "and who is the bad citizen who fails us-"

"The absent citizen, General, is not, however, un tiede," replied our old acquaintance, Agricola; "for it is the Secretary of the Section Lepelletier, the chief of the brave Thermopyles, the citizen Maurice Lindey."

"Well, well," said Santerre, "I know as well as yourself the patriotism of the citizen Maurice Lindey; but that will not deter me, if he is not here in five minutes, from inscribing his name in the list of the absent." And Santerre passed on to other details. A few paces from the General, at the moment he pronounced these words, a captain of chasseurs and a soldier had stationed themselves, one leaning against his gun, the other seated on a cannon. "Did you hear-" said the captain to the soldier, in a low tone. "Maurice has not yet arrived."

"Yes; but rest assured he will arrive, he will not remain quiet at least."

"In case he should not come," said the captain, "I will place you sentinel on the staircase; and a- she ascends to the tower, you will be able probably to speak a won! to her." At this moment a man, evidently a municipal, from his tricoloured scarf, entered; but this man being a stranger to the captain and the chasseur, they both regarded him attentively. "Citizen General," said the new-comer, addressing Santerre, "I request you to accept me in place of Citizen Maurice Lindey, who is ill. Here is the medical certificate; my turn on guard arrives in eight days. I now exchange with him; in eight days he will do duty for me, as to day I will for him."

"Provided Capet and the Capets live eight days longer," said one of the municipals.

Santerre replied by a slight smile to this pleasantry, and turning towards Maurice's proxy- "Very good," said he; "sign the register, in lieu of Maurice Lindey, and consign to the column of observations the reason for this exchange." The captain and chasseur exchanged looks of delight, mingled with astonishment. "In eight days," said they. "Captain Dixmer," said Sauterre, "take your position in the garden with your company."

"Come, Morand," said the captain, to the chasseur his companion. The drum sounded, and the company, led by the master tanner, filed off in the direction prescribed. They placed their arms altogether, and the company divided itself into groups, which dispersed themselves according to their inclination, far and wide. Their place of promenade was the same garden where, in the time of Louis XVI., the royal family came sometimes to take the air. This garden was naked, barren, and desolate, completely despoiled of trees, flowers, or verdure of any kind. At about five-and-twenty paces, or perhaps rather nearer, that portion of the wall built on the Rue Porte Foin, rose a species of cottage, which the foresight of the municipality had established for the convenience of the National Guard stationed at the Temple, who during the days of riot, when they were not permitted to go out, found it an accommodation to take their meals in this little cottage. The direction of this little alehouse had been a matter of contention, till at length concession was made in favour of an excellent patriot, wife of a Fabourien, killed on the 10th of August, and who bore the name of Plumeau. This little cabin, built of planks and mud, rose in the middle of a border, of which the bounds may still be recognised by a hedge of dwarf box trees. It was composed of a simple chamber, twelve feet square, under which extended a cave, entered by steps rudely cut in the earth itself. Here the widow Plumeau stowed away her wine and provisions. This department was ultimately managed by herself and daughter, a girl of twelve or fifteen years of age. Hardly established at their bivouac, the National Guards separated, as we have said, some to saunter in the garden, while others chatted with the hostess. Some amused themselves by criticising the designs traced upon the walls, which were all of a patriotic tendency, such as the King pendant with this expression-" Monsieur Veto taking an air-bath;" or the King guillotined, with this-"Monsieur Veto spitting in the sack;" while some offered hints to Madame Plumeau concerning her gastronomical designs, that might more or less' excite their appetites. Among the latter were the captain and the chasseur whom we have previously remarked. "Ah, Captain Dixmer!" said the cantiniere, "I have some famous Vin de Saumer."

"But, citizen Plumeau, in my opinion at least, the Vin de Saumer is nothing without the cheese of Brie," replied the captain, who, before he stated this opinion, had carefully looked round, and detected the absence of his favourite commodity. "Ah! captain, it is true; but the last morsel has been consumed."

"Well," said the captain, "if there is no cheese of Brie, no Vin de Saumer for me, and remark, citoyenne Plumeau, the consumption is worth the trouble; listen to what I intend to propose to the company."

"But, captain, I ask you to wait only five minutes, and I will run and procure some at the house of the citoyenne concierge, who competes with me, and who always has it. I shall pay very dear, and you I am sure are too good a patriot to injure me."

"Yes, yes," replied Dixmer, "and in the mean time we will go into the vault, and select our own wines."

"Make yourself at home, captain, pray do." And the widow Plumeau began to run with all her might towards the lodge of the concierge, whilst the captain and chasseur, provided with a light, raised the trap-door, and then descended into the cave. "Good," said Morand, after an instant's examination, the cave advances in the direction of la Rue Porte Foin. It is nine or ten feet in depth, and there is no brickwork."

"What is the nature of the soil-" inquired Dixmer. "Sandstone; it is all made earth; these gardens have been thrown into confusion, and then restored many times. There is no rock in any part."

"Be quick," cried Dixmer, "I hear the sabots of our vivandiere; take two bottles of wine, and let us go up." They both appeared at the entrance of the trap-door as Madame Plumeau entered, carrying the cheese so strenuously insisted upon by Dixmer, while several chasseurs followed her, attracted by the presence of the said cheese. Dixmer did the honours; he offered twenty bottles of wine to his company, whilst the citizen Morand recounted the devotion of Curtius, the disinterestedness of Fabricius, and the patriotism of Brutus and Cassius, histories almost as much appreciated as the cheese of Brie, and the vin d'Anjou offered by Dixmer, which is not saying a little. Eleven o'clock struck. At half-past, the sentinels were relieved. "Does not the Austrian take her walk in half-an-hour-" asked Dixmer of Tison, who passed the cabin. "Half-an-hour after noon, exactly," and he began to sing.

He was received with a shout of laughter from the National Guard. Dixmer immediately summoned those men in his company whose duty it was to mount guard at half-past eleven o'clock for an hour and-a-half, recommended them to hasten their breakfast, and made them take the arms to Morand, to place them, as it was agreed, on the highest story of the tower, in the same turret behind which Maurice was hidden the day he intercepted the signs intended for the Queen from the window of la Rue Porte Foin. If anyone had noticed Morand at the moment he received this message, simple as it was, he would have seen him blush beneath the masses of his long black hair. Suddenly a dull noise shook the court of the Temple, and sounds were heard like the roaring of a hurricane in the distance. "What is that-" said Dixmer to Tison. "Oh!" replied the jailer, "it is nothing; some little uproar they are making as these rascally Brissontins go to the guillotine." The noise increased, the roar of artillery was heard, and a crowd of people rushed past, near the Temple, shouting, "Long live the Sections,"

"Long live Henriot,"

"Down with the Brissontins,"

"Down with the Rolandists,"

"Down with Madame Veto."

"Ah!" said Tison, clapping his hands, "I will go and open the door for Madame Veto, that without any disturbance she may enjoy the love the people evince for her." He approached the wicket of the donjon. "Holloa! Tison," cried a loud voice. "Yes, General," replied he, stopping short. "Not to go out to-day," said Santerre; "the prisoners are not to quit their chambers to-day." This order was peremptory. "Good," said Tison, "so much the less trouble." Dixmer and Morand exchanged looks of disappointment, then waiting till the hour for duty had struck (though now uselessly), they both left to walk between the cabin and the wall built on the Rue Porte Foin. Morand began walking fast, a distance of easy and geometrical steps, that is to say of three feet. "What distance-" inquired Dixmer. "Sixty to sixty-one feet," replied Morand. "How many days will be required-" Morand considered, then traced upon the ground some geometrical signs, which he effaced directly. "Seven days at least are necessary," said he. "Maurice is guard in eight days," murmured Dixmer. "It is then absolutely imperative that within eight days we should be reconciled to Maurice." The half hour struck, Morand, sighing, resumed his gun, and conducted by the corporal, went to relieve the sentinel who paraded the platform before the tower.

CHAPTER XIV. DEVOTION.

THE DAY FOLLOWING these events, that is to say the 1st of June, at ten o'clock in the morning, Genevieve was seated in her accustomed place near the window. She asked herself why, for the last three weeks, the days for her rose so sad, why they passed so slowly, and lastly, why instead of anticipating each evening with delight, she now dreaded its return. Her nights above all were wretched, those nights that used to be so happy, those nights passed in dreaming of the past and of the future. At this moment her eyes fell upon a case of magnificent striped and crimson carnations, which since the winter she had removed from the little greenhouse where Maurice had been imprisoned, to bloom in her own apartment. Maurice had learned her to cultivate them in this case where they were enclosed; they were watered and daily trimmed as if Maurice had been there; for when he came in the evening, she delighted to show him, thanks to their united care, the progress they had made during the night. But since the cessation of Maurice's visits, the poor carnations had been quite neglected, and for want of requisite care and attention, the opening buds had withered, turned yellow, and fallen down outside the balustrade. Genevieve now comprehended from this sight alone the reason of her own melancholy. She said to herself-''It is with flowers as with certain friendships, which we nourish and cultivate with ardour, till they bloom in the heart, and then in a moment a suspicion, a caprice, an unkindness, strikes at the root of this friendship, and the heart that this friendship has bound up and brought to life languishes and dies." The young woman experienced a sensation of anguish. She examined her inmost thoughts; the sentiments he had endeavoured to combat, and which she had hoped to conquer, she feared now more than ever would only die with her; then she felt a moment's despair, for she knew the struggle would become more and more impossible. She slowly bowed her head, imprinted a kiss upon the withered flowers, and wept. Her husband entered at this moment. He, on his side, was too much pre-occupied with his own thoughts to pay any attention to the emotions exhibited by his wife. It is true Genevieve rose quickly to meet him, and in so doing turned her face from the window. "Well-" said she. "Well, nothing new; impossible to approach her, impossible to pass her, impossible even to see her."

"What!" cried Genevieve, "with all the noise there has been in Paris."

"It is this very noise which has made the guard redouble their vigilance, from the fear that any one might avail themselves of the general excitement to make an attempt on the Temple, and the very moment when her Majesty was about to walk upon the platform, an order was issued by Santerre, that neither the Queen, Madame Royale, nor Madame Elizabeth should go out to-day."

"The poor chevalier: he would be much annoyed-"

"He was in despair when he saw this chance had thus escaped us, and turned so pale that I trembled lest he should betray himself."

"But," asked Genevieve timidly, "is there not then at the Temple any municipal of your acquaintance-"

"There ought to have been one, but he did not come."

"Who-"

"The citizen Maurice Lindey," said Dixmer, in a tone he endeavoured to render indifferent. "And why did he not come-" said Genevieve, in her turn making a similar effort at self-command. "He was ill."

"He: ill-"

"Yes, and seriously so. Patriot as you know him to be, he was obliged to cede his turn to another."

"This is most unfortunate."

"Mon Dieu, Genevieve," replied Dixmer, "if he had been there, as matters now stand, it might have been just the same. Unfriendly as we are at present, he might perhaps have avoided even speaking to me."

"I think, mon ami," replied Genevieve, "you exaggerate the unpleasantness of our situation. Monsieur Maurice may have taken a whim not to come here, but is not on that account our enemy. Coolness does not exclude politeness, and I am convinced on seeing you he would meet you half way."

"Genevieve," replied Dixmer, "what we require from Maurice needs something more than politeness,-a firm and attached friendship. This feeling is destroyed: we have nothing further to hope from him." And Dixmer heaved a deep sigh, while his usually placid face bore a troubled expression. "But," said Genevieve, hesitatingly, "if you think that Monsieur Maurice is necessary to your projects-"

"That is to say," replied Dixmer, "that I despair of being able to succeed without him."

"Well, then, why do you not try some new method with the Citizen Lindey-" It seemed to her that in speaking of the young man by his surname, her voice sounded less tender than when she called him by his Christian name. "No," replied Dixmer, shaking his head, "any new proceeding would appear singular and necessarily awaken suspicion; and then, Genevieve, I see farther than you into this affair; Maurice feels deeply wounded."

"Wounded! mon ami. What would you say- Speak."

"You know as well as I do, Genevieve, that in our rupture with the Citizen Lindey there is no more than caprice."

"To what, then, do you attribute this rupture-"

"To pride, perhaps," said Dixmer, quickly. "To pride!"

"Yes; he did us honour, in his opinion at least, this good Bourgeois of Paris-this demi-Aristocrat de robe-concealing his susceptibilities under his patriotism; he conferred honour upon us, this Republican so powerful in the section, in his club, in the municipality, by according his friendship to a manufacturer of hides. Perhaps we have made too few advances; perhaps we have forgotten ourselves."

"If we had even been guilty of this, I think your last step would have redeemed all that," replied Genevieve. "Yes, supposing the offence came from me; but if, on the contrary, it proceeded from you."

"From me! Do you imagine I have any ill-feeling towards Monsieur Maurice-" said Genevieve, astonished. "Who knows: in a similar manner did you not at first even accuse him of caprice- I therefore still return to my first opinion, Genevieve: you did very wrong not to write to him."

"Me!" cried Genevieve; "do you think so-"

"Not only now do I think so, but have done so ever since this rupture of the last three weeks."

"And-" said Genevieve, timidly. "I look upon this step as indispensable."

"No, no! Dixmer, do not require this of me."

"You know, Genevieve, I require nothing of you; I only entreat you. Well, listen: I request you to write to the Citizen Maurice."

"But-" said Genevieve. "Hearken!" said Dixmer, interrupting her; "there is between you and Maurice either some serious cause of quarrel-for, as far as I am concerned, there is no complaint against my proceedings-or it emanates from childish folly." Genevieve did not reply. "If this is merely a silly disagreement, it is folly to render it lasting; and if you have serious motives for quarrelling, situated as we are, you ought not even to value your dignity or self-respect. We must not place in the balance the quarrels of young people against objects of high interest. Make one effort; subdue your own feelings, and write one word only to Maurice Lindey, and he will return." Genevieve reflected for a moment. "But," said she, "could we not find some means less compromising to renew the friendly intercourse between Monsieur Maurice and yourself-"

"Compromising, do you call it- It appears to me to be the most natural way possible."

"No, not for me, mon ami."

"You are very opinionated, Genevieve."

"Allow me to tell you, it is the first time, at least, that you have discovered it." Dixmer, who for some time had been crushing his handkerchief between his hands, now wiped the perspiration from his brow. "Yes," said he, "and it is this increases my astonishment."

"Mon Dieu!" said Genevieve; "and is it possible, Dixmer, that you do not divine the cause of my resistance, and that you wish to force me to speak-" And overcome with contending emotions, her head sunk upon her breast, and her arms fell listlessly by her sides. Dixmer appeared to make a strenuous effort to command himself, took Genevieve's hand, compelled her to raise her head, looked into her eyes, and began to laugh, but in a manner so forced and unnatural, that had Genevieve been less agitated at the moment, it must have been perceptible even to her. "I see how it is," said be; "you are in the right, and I was blind. With your wit and distinction you have been fearful that Maurice ought not to admire you so much." Genevieve felt as if an icy chill had penetrated to her heart. This irony on the part of her husband relative to Maurice's affection for her-that love of which, from the knowledge she possessed of the character of the young man, she could estimate the violence, and in which, though only acknowledged with deep remorse, she participated in the depths of her heart,-this irony petrified her. She felt it was utterly impossible to reply. "I have guessed rightly, have I not-" said Dixmer. "Well, reassure yourself, Genevieve; I know Maurice to be a fierce Republican, whose heart contains no other love than love of country."

"Monsieur," exclaimed Genevieve, "are you certain of what you say-"

"Eh, without doubt," replied Dixmer. "If Maurice loved you, instead of quarrelling with me he would redouble his attentions and civilities to one whom it was his interest to deceive. If Maurice loved you, he would not so easily renounce his title of 'friend of the family,' generally used to cover these treasons."

"Do not, I beseech you," cried Genevieve, "make a jest of these things."

"I do not jest, madame; I only tell you Maurice does not love you, that is all."

"And I-I," said Genevieve, "tell you that you deceive yourself."

"In that case," replied Dixmer, "Maurice, who has had sufficient strength to tear himself away, is an honest man, and as they are rare, Genevieve, one cannot do too much to reclaim them when once lost. Genevieve, you will write to Maurice, will you not-"

"Oh! mon Dieu!" cried the young woman, resting her head between her hands, for he to whom she looked for support in a moment of danger had precipitated instead of restraining her fall.

Dixmer regarded her for a moment, then forcing a smile, "Allons chere amie," said he; "no woman's amour propre. If Maurice wishes to recommence a declaration, laugh at the second as you did at the first. I know you, Genevieve, you have a noble and excellent heart. I can depend on you."

"Oh! mon Dieu!" said the young woman, sinking on her knees, "who can feel confidence in those who have no confidence in themselves-" Dixmer turned pale, as if all his blood had retreated back to his heart. "Genevieve," said he, "I have acted very wrong to cause you so much anguish of mind. I ought to have explained myself at once. Genevieve, we live at an epoch of self-sacrifice. I have devoted myself to the Queen, our benefactress, and not only my arm, not only my head, but my happiness. Others will give their lives; I do more than give her my life, I risk my honour, and if that perishes, only one more tear will fall into the ocean of miseries which are preparing to swallow up France. But my honour runs no risk under the guardianship of such a woman as Genevieve." For the first time Dixmer had revealed the whole truth. Genevieve raised her head, and fixed her beautiful eyes, full of admiration, upon him; then slowly rose, and presented her face to him to kiss. "You wish it-" said she.

Dixmer made a sign in the affirmative. "Dictate, then," and she took up a pen. "No; it is sufficient to use, not to abuse this worthy young man," said Dixmer; "and when he will reconcile himself to us on receipt of a letter from Genevieve, this letter should be from Genevieve, and not from Monsieur Dixmer." And Dixmer a second time kissed his wife's forehead, thanked her, and went out.

Then Genevieve tremblingly wrote:- "CITIZEN MAURICE,-You know how much my husband respects you. Three weeks of separation, which to us have appeared an age, have made you forget. Come, we await you; your return will be a real fete.- GENEVIEVE."

CHAPTER XV. THE GODDESS REASON.

AS MAURICE HAD informed General Santerre the preceding evening, he was seriously ill whilst he kept his chamber. Louis in his daily visits had made use of every argument to induce him to enter into some amusements; but Maurice continued obstinate. There are some maladies we do not desire to heal. On the 1st of June he arrived towards one o'clock. "Is there anything particular going on to-day," asked Maurice, "that you are so superb-" Indeed, Louis was most splendidly attired. The "bonnet rouge," the "carmagnole," and the tri-coloured girdle, ornamented with two instruments, then called the "cruets of the Abbe Maury," but which before and since have been honestly termed pistols. "In the first place," said Louis, "it is generally the breaking of the ice of the Bironde which is in train for execution; but the drum beats. At this moment, for example, the 'bonnet rouges' chafe upon La Place du Carrousel; then, in particular, there is a grand solemnity to which I invite you after to-morrow."

"But what is there to-day- You came to seek me, do you say-"

"Yes; to-day we have the rehearsal."

"What rehearsal-"

"Why, the rehearsal of this great solemnity."

"Mon cher," said Maurice, "you know that it is now eight days since I last went out, consequently I am ignorant of everything, and therefore the more require to be fully informed."

"What! Have I not told you-"

"You have told me nothing."

"First, you already know, we had suppressed 'God' for some time past, and have replaced it by the 'Supreme Being.'"

"Yes, I know all that."

"Eh bien, it seems they have found out one thing; that the 'Supreme Being' was a Modere, a Rolandist, and, in short, a Girondin."

"Do not make a jest of anything holy, Louis; you know I do not like it."

"What would you have, mon cher- it is necessary to accord with the age. I like the ancient God well enough; first, because I am accustomed to it. As for the 'Supreme Being,' it appears he has been really wrong, and since he has been above, everything has been playing at cross-purposes, consequently our legislators have decreed his downfall." Maurice shrugged his shoulders. "Shrug your shoulders as much as you please," said Louis, "but now we are going to worship the 'Goddess Reason.'"

"And are you engaged in all these masquerades-" said Maurice. "Ah! mon ami, if you know the Goddess Reason as I know her, you would be one of her warmest partisans. Listen; I wish you to know her, and will present you to her."

"A truce with all this folly. I am out of spirits, you well know."

"The very thing, morbleu; she will enliven you; she is a nice girl. Ah! but you know the austere goddess whom the Parisians wish to crown with laurels, and promenade about in a gilded paper chair! It is -Guess."

"How can I guess-"

"It is Arthemise."

"Arthemise!" said Maurice, taxing his memory in vain to recollect the name. "Yes; a handsome brunette, with whom I formed an acquaintance last year at the ball at the Opera; by the same token, you came to sup with us, and made her tipsy."

"Ah! yes," said Maurice. "I remember now. It is her, is it-"

"She has the best chance. I presented her to the concourse. All the Thermopyles have promised me their votes. In three days the general election will take place. To-day we enjoy the preparatory dinner, today we spill the wine of Champagne, perhaps after to-morrow we may spill blood! Let them spill what they like, Arthemise shall be goddess, or may the devil carry me away! Allons, come, we will help to put on her tunic."

"Thanks; but I have always entertained a repugnance for things of this sort."

"To robe goddesses- Peste! mon cher, you are difficult to please. Let me see; if that does not suit you, I will put it on, and you shall take it off."

"Louis, I am ill, and not only out of spirits, but the gaiety of others makes me miserable."

"Ah! that is it! You frighten me, Maurice; you neither laugh nor fight. Are you by any chance engaged in some plot-"

"Me- Would to God!"

"You ought to say, Would to the Goddess Reason!"

"Leave me, Louis; I cannot, and will not, go out. I am in bed, and there let me rest in peace." Louis scratched his ear. "Well," said he, "I see how it is."

"What do you see-"

"That you wait for the Goddess Reason."

"Corbleu!" cried Maurice, "spiritual friends are very troublesome. Go, or I shall utter a few imprecations on you and your goddess."

"Charge!-Charge!" Maurice raised his hand to curse him, when he was interrupted by his official, who at this moment entered, bearing in his hand a letter for the citizen his brother. "Citizen Agricola," said Louis, "you enter at an unfortunate moment. Your master was about to become superb." Maurice let fall his hand, which he listlessly extended for the letter; but the instant he had touched it he started; and having eagerly examined both the seal and handwriting, grew very pale in the anticipation of bad tidings, and broke the seal hastily. "Oh! our interest is awakened at last," said Louis. "it seems to me." Maurice heard him not; his whole soul was merged in the four lines of Genevieve. He read and re-read them three or four times over; and then raising his head, gazed at Louis like a man quite stupefied. "Diable!" said Louis; "the sight of a letter, it appears, makes all fierce feeling subside." Maurice read the letter for the fifth time, and a hue of vermilion suffused his face, the moisture disappeared from his eyes, and a deep sigh relieved his breast; then forgetting at once his illness and attendant weakness, he leapt from his bed. "My clothes!" cried he to the astonished official; "my clothes, my dear Agesilas. Oh, my dear Louis-my poor Louis, I will attend you every day. Indeed I did not expect or hope for this. Here; my white trousers or frilled shirt, that they may dress my hair and shave me." The official hastened to execute the orders of Maurice. "Ah, Louis!" cried the young man, "I never till this moment knew what happiness meant."

"My poor Maurice," said Louis, "I think you require the visit I recommended to you."

"Oh! my dear friend, pardon me; for truly reason has forsaken me."

"Then I offer you mine," said Louis, laughing at his own execrable pun.

The most surpassing thing was, Maurice laughed also. His present happiness rendered this easy.

This was not all. "Wait," said he, cutting some orange blossom from a tree in full bloom; "present this from me to the worthy widow of Mansole."

"A la bonne heure!" said Louis; "in consideration of your gallantry, I pardon you. Then it appears to me you are absolutely in love, and I always feel profound respect for its unfortunate victims."

"Yes, I am in love," said Maurice, and his heart dilated with joy. "I am in love; and now, since she loves me, I may declare it; for since she has recalled me, must she not love me, Louis-"

"Doubtless," complacently replied the adorer of the goddess Reason; "but take care, Maurice, for the fashion in which you take this makes me fear for you."

"Bravo, bravo!" cried Maurice, clapping his hands; then taking to his heels, he descended the stairs four at once, and directed his steps towards the well-known old Rue Saint Jacques. "He is worse than I thought him," said Louis, in his turn descending the staircase in rather a calmer mood. Arthemise was not Genevieve.

Hardly had Louis and his orange blossom arrived at La Rue Saint Honore, when a crowd of young citizens, to whom he had been accustomed to administer either kicks or halfpence, according to the humour he happened to be in, respectfully followed him-mistaking him, no doubt, for one of those virtuous individuals to whom St. Just had proposed they should offer the white robe and a bunch of orange blossoms. As the cortege every moment increased in numbers-for even at this epoch a virtuous man was a rare sight to behold-there were several thousand young citizens present when the bouquet was offered to Arthemise, a homage which made several other "Reasons" who had joined the ranks very ill with sick headache next day. It was on the same evening the famous song was circulated through Paris:- "Long life to Goddess Reason- The pure, clear dawn of day." And as it has arrived thus far without any knowledge of the author-a fact which has exceedingly exercised the sagacity of the revolutionary historian-we have almost the audacity to affirm it was composed for la belle Arthemise by our poetical friend, Hyacinthe Louis.

CHAPTER XVI. THE PRODIGAL CHILD.

MAURICE could not have been quicker, had he even possessed wings. The streets were crowded, but Maurice only remarked the crowd as it retarded his course; it was said everywhere that the Convention was sitting; that the majesty of the people was offended through the representatives, whom they prevented from coming out; and of this there seemed some probability, as the tingling of the tocsin was heard, and the thunder of the cannon sounding an alarm. But what at this moment, to Maurice, mattered either the tocsin or the cannon- What cared he whether the deputies were or were not able to come out, when the prohibition did not extend to him- So he quickened his pace, that was all. While running, he pictured to himself Genevieve waiting at the little window overlooking the garden, in order to see him, and that she would perceive him far off; and then her smile, more than ever charming, would welcome him back again. Dixmer also was no doubt informed of this happy return, and would tender him his coarse large hand, so frank and loyal in its greetings. He loved Dixmer; now, even his love almost extended to Morand, with his black locks and his green spectacles, behind which he fancied he could see the glitter of his brilliant but saturnine eyes. He loved the whole world, for he was happy, and would willingly have showered flowers ou the heads of all mankind, that they might be as happy as himself. But for once he was deceived. Poor Maurice! he deceived himself, as a man generally does when he reckons according to his wishes.

Instead of the sweet smile awaiting Maurice, which was to receive him when he would be seen from afar, Genevieve had determined on meeting Maurice with the most distant politeness-a feeble rampart with which to oppose the torrent that threatened to invade her heart. She had retired to her chamber on the first floor, and did not intend coming down till sent for. Alas! she also deceived herself. Dixmer alone was not deceived; he watched for Maurice through a wired lattice, and smiled ironically. Morand was gravely occupied in dyeing black some tails which are placed on white cat-skin to imitate ermine.

Maurice pushed open the little door of the alley, to enter unceremoniously through the garden, as of old; the door opening produced a peculiar sound, which indicated the arrival of Maurice.

Genevieve, who had stationed herself behind the closed window, started, and let fall the curtain she had drawn on one side.

The first sensation experienced by Maurice on entering his friend's house was disappointment. Not only was Genevieve absent from the window on the ground-floor, but on entering the little "salon" where he had uttered his last adieu, he found no one, and was compelled to announce himself, as if an absence of three weeks' duration had transformed him into a stranger. His heart was oppressed.

It was Dixmer whom Maurice first saw. He came forward, and embraced him with exclamations of joy.

Genevieve then came down. She tried in vain to restore some colour to her pallid cheek; but before she had proceeded twenty steps the blood receded to her heart. Maurice saw Genevieve appear in the shadow of the door; he advanced towards her smiling, intending to kiss her hand, and then only perceived how sadly she was changed. She on her part noticed with anxiety the attenuated frame of Maurice, and his fevered look of wild excitement. "You are here, then, monsieur," said she, in a voice of which she could not subdue the emotion.

She had determined to address him with perfect indifference. "Bon jour, Citizen Maurice; why have your visits been so rare of late-" This fickleness appeared more strange still to Maurice; and now what a shadow was cast upon all.

Dixmer cut short this examination, and put an end to all reciprocal reproaches by ordering dinner to be served: it was nearly two o'clock. They passed into the salle a manger, where Maurice saw a cover was placed for him. Then the Citizen Morand arrived, dressed in the same chestnut-coloured coat and waistcoat-he always wore his green spectacles-and white frilled shirt.

Maurice was so affectionately disposed to all present, that while assembled before him he dismissed the suspicions and fears which intruded themselves upon his mind when absent from them. In short, what probability was there that Genevieve loved this little chemist- He was in love, and in consequence a fool to allow such folly to enter into his head.

Besides, the moment was badly chosen for jealousy. Maurice carried within his waistcoat pocket Genevieve's last letter, and his heart, bounding with joy, beat beneath it. Genevieve had recovered her serenity.

There is this peculiarity in the organization of women, that the present is able to efface all hues of the past, and distances all fears for the future. Genevieve felt happy, having resumed her self-command; that is to say, she became calm and dignified, though still kind-another shade which Maurice had not the requisite skill to comprehend. Louis would have found the explanation in "Parny," in "Berlin," or the "Gentil Bernard." The conversation turned upon the Goddess Reason. The fall of the Girondins, and the new mode of worship, were the prevailing topics of the day. Dixmer pretended he should not have been sorry to see this unparalleled honour offered to Genevieve. Maurice felt inclined to laugh, but Genevieve concurred in the opinion of her husband, whilst he regarded them both with astonishment, wondering that patriotism could so far mislead a sensible man like Dixmer, and a woman of so poetical and refined a nature as Genevieve. Morand developed the theory of female politicians. He cited "Theognie de Mirecourt," the heroine of the 10th of August, and Madame Roland, the "Soul" of the Girondins. Then, enpassant, he launched out against the "Tricoteuses." These words made Maurice smile. It was, however, a cruel joke against these female patriots, that they were latterly termed "the female leeches of the guillotine."

"Ah! Citizen Maurice," said Dixmer, "we respect patriotism, even when it' is mistaken."

"As for me," said Maurice, "as far as I know of patriotism, I always find the women sufficiently good patriots, if not too high aristocrats."

"You are quite right," said Morand; "and as for myself, I frankly confess I consider a woman very contemptible when she affects the demeanour of a man, and a man a coward, unworthy of the name, when he insults a woman, even were she his bitterest enemy." Morand was gradually drawing Maurice on to delicate ground. Maurice, on his side, replied by an affirmative sign. The lists being opened, Dixmer, like the sounding herald, added- "One moment, one moment, Citizen Morand; you except, I hope, those women who are known enemies of the nation-" A silence of some moments succeeded this "parry and thrust" to the response of Morand and the sign of Maurice. Maurice first interrupted the silence. "Let us except no one," said he, sadly; "those females who have been enemies to the nation are now, it appears to me, sufficiently punished."

"Yon allude to the prisoners of the Temple; to the Austrian, the sister and daughter of Capet-" cried Dixmer, with a rapidity which deprived his words of all expression.

Morand changed colour while awaiting the reply of the young Republican. It has been said that, could we have seen it, during this suspense, the marks of his nails were visible indented in his breast. "Just so," said Maurice; "it is of them I am speaking."

"Who-" said Morand. "Is what they say of them true-"

"What do they say-" demanded the young man. "That the prisoners are cruelly maltreated, sometimes even by those whose duty it is to: protect them."

"There are individuals," said Maurice, "who do not deserve the name of men. There are some cowards who, totally deficient in real courage, retain a desire to torture the vanquished, in order to persuade themselves that they are the conquerors."

"You are not one of those men, Maurice, I am quite certain," said Genevieve. "Madame," replied Maurice, "I who now speak to you, I have mounted guard near the scaffold on which perished the late King. My drawn sabre in my hand, I was prepared to slay any who attempted to rescue him. Notwithstanding, on his approach I removed my hat, and turning towards my men said-'Citizens, I here warn you that the man who first insults the King receives my sabre through his body.' And I defy any one to assert that a single shot was heard to proceed from my company. From my hand first enunciated those ten thousand placards affixed to the walls of Paris after the King's return from Vincennes:-'Whoever acknowledges the King shall be flogged. Whoever insults the King shall be hung.' "Well," continued Maurice, without noticing the fearful effect his words had produced on his listeners, "well, I have proved to you that I am a frank, good patriot, that I hate all kings and their partisans. Yet I declare, notwithstanding my opinion, which is nothing short of a deep conviction, that, notwithstanding the certainty I feel that the Austrian is in a great measure the cause of the miseries that desolate France, never, never shall any man, let him be who he may, even Santerre himself, insult the ex-queen in my presence."

"Citizen," said Dixmer, shaking his head as if he disapproved of so much hardihood, "are you aware you ought to be very sure of us before you speak of these things in our presence-"

"Before you, and before every one, Dixmer; and I will add, she may perhaps perish on the same scaffold as her husband, but I am not one to inspire a woman with fear, and I respect all those who are weaker than myself."

"And the Queen, Monsieur Maurice-" demanded Genevieve, timidly; "has she sometimes evinced her sense of this delicacy, to which she is so little accustomed-"

"The prisoner has thanked me several times for my consideration for her, Madame."

"Then she must witness your turn to guard with pleasure-"

"I believe she does, Madame," replied Maurice. "Then," said Morand, tremulous as a woman, "since you have confessed to what no one can now doubt-that is to say, a generous heart-you will not persecute the child any more-"

"Me!" said Maurice; "ask the infamous Simon the weight of the arm of the municipal before whom he had the audacity to beat the little Capet," This answer produced a spontaneous movement at Dixmer's table. All the guests rose respectfully; Maurice alone remained seated, and did not imagine he had elicited this mark of admiration. "What is the matter-" said he, astonished. "I thought some one called from the manufactory," said Dixmer. "No," said Genevieve; "at first I thought so, too; but we are mistaken." And every one resumed their seats. "Ah! it is you, then, Citizen Maurice," said Morand in a tremulous voice, "who are the municipal so much talked about, and who so nobly defended a child."

"Talked about-" said Maurice, with a naivete almost sublime. "Yours is a noble heart," said Morand, rising from the table. That he might give way to his feelings he retired to the manufactory as if some pressing business there awaited him. "Yes, citizen," replied Dixmer, "they do speak about it, and it should be said that all those possessed with generous hearts applaud without knowing you."

"And let him remain unknown," said Genevieve. "The glory he would acquire would be replete with danger." Thus in this singular conversation, without knowing it, each had contributed his word of heroism, devotion, and sensibility. There had nearly been the word-Love.

CHAPTER XVII. THE MIXERS.

AT THE MOMENT they left the table Dixmer was told that his notary awaited him in his study. He excused himself to Maurice, besides, he was accustomed to leave him thus, and proceeded to attend his man of business. He was negotiating for the purchase of a small house, Rue de la Corderie, facing the garden of the Temple. It was rather, as to the rest, a ruin than a house that Dixmer was purchasing, for the actual basement was in a state of dilapidation, but it was his intention to rebuild it. The bargain had not been delayed with the proprietor; that same morning the notary had seen him and agreed to pay 19,500 livres. He therefore brought the agreement for signature, and came to receive the requisite money for the purchase, as the proprietor would that day clear out the building, that the workmen might commence operations on the morrow.

The contract signed, Dixmer and Morand accompanied the notary to the Rue de la Corderie, to view this new acquisition, for they had purchased without seeing it. It was a house situated near where No. 20 now stands-three stories in height, and surmounted by a curved roof. The lower part at one time had been let to a wine-merchant, and contained some most excellent cellarage.

The proprietor, above all things, vaunted his cellars; they were the best part of the house. Dixmer and Morand appeared to attach very little interest to these cellars, yet both, as if from mere politeness, descended with the proprietor into what he called his vaults.

An exception to the general rule, he had not exaggerated. The cellars were magnificent, one of them extended under the Rue de la Corderie, and from this cellar they could hear the voitures roll over their heads. Dixmer and Morand did not appear to appreciate this advantage. They even spoke of filling them up, observing that, however convenient they might be to a wine-merchant, they became perfectly useless to honest bourgeoises, who intended to occupy the whole of the house. After the cellars they visited the first, second, and third story; from the third they completely overlooked the garden of the Temple. It was, as usual, invaded by the National Guard, who enjoyed this privilege, since the Queen never walked there now. Dixmer and Morand recognised their friend, the Widow Plumeau, with her usual activity, doing the honours of her cantine, but doubtless their anxiety to be in their turn remembered by her was not very great, as they kept themselves concealed behind the proprietor, while he expatiated on the advantages of this view, at once so varied and agreeable. The purchaser then wished to see the roof. The proprietor, doubtless, was unprepared for this emergency, since he had not got the key, but, influenced by the bundle of papers of assignment shown him, he descended to search for it. "I was not deceived," said Morand, "and this house will answer our purpose exactly."

"And what do you say to the vaults-"

"That it is an interposition of Providence, which will spare us two days' labour at least."

"Do you think it may be in the direction of the cantine-"

"It inclines a little to the left, but that is of no consequence."

"But," said Dixmer, "how will you be able to follow your subterranean line with the certainty of its terminating where you wish-"' "Rest assured," said Maraud; "that is my affair."

"If we were everyday to give a signal from here that we are watching-"

"But from the platform the Queen could not see it, for the curved roofs alone are less in height than the platform, and yet I doubt it."

"Never mind," said Dixmer, "either Maury or Toulun may see an opening somewhere, and they will inform the Queen." And Dixmer tied several knots in a white calico curtain, passing it backwards and forwards before the window as if shaken by the wind.

Then both, equally impatient to visit the roof, awaited the proprietor's return on the staircase, having first closed the door, not wishing to afford the worthy man a sight of his waving curtain.

The roofs, as Morand had foreseen, did not reach the height of the summit of the Tower.

This was at once an advantage and disadvantage. A difficulty, because they could not communicate by signs with the Queen, and an advantage, because the very impracticability alone disarmed all suspicion.

The highest houses were naturally the objects of the strictest surveillance. "It is necessary, either by means of Toulun, Maury, or Tison's daughter, to find some way to tell her to keep upon the watch," murmured Dixmer. "I have thought of that," said Morand.

They descended; the notary waited in the salon with the contract signed. "It is all right," said Dixmer; "the house suits me, so hand over to the proprietor the sum of 950,000 livres in payment, and let him give a receipt." The proprietor did so, first scrupulously counting the money. "You understand, Citizen," said Dixmer, "the principal clause, that the house must be vacated this evening; that, in short, I must put the workmen in to-morrow."

"Well, Citizen, I agree to do so; you can take the keys this evening at eight o'clock; all will be free."

"Pardon me," said Dixmer, "but did you not tell me, Citizen notary, there was a way out leading into the Rue Porte-Foin-"

"Yes. Citizen," said the proprietor; "but I had it closed; for having only one official, the poor devil had too much fatigue, being obliged to watch both doors. But it is so fastened up that at any time it can be reopened in two hours at least. Would you wish to convince yourselves, citizens-"

"Thanks, it is not necessary," said Dixmer. "I attach no importance to this way out; it is useless to me." They then both left, having for the third time reminded the landlord of his promise that the apartments should be empty at eight o'clock that evening. At nine o'clock they both returned, followed by five or six men at a distance, of whom, in the confusion then reigning in Paris, no one took any notice. They both entered first. The landlord kept his word; the house was totally empty. They closed the shutters with the greatest care, sounded the brickwork, struck the steel, and lighted some wax candles which Morand carried in his pocket. Then one after another the six men entered. These were the ordinary guests of the master tanner, the same contrabandists who one evening wished to kill Maurice, but had now been converted into his friends. They closed the doors, and descended into the vaults. This vault, so contemptuously treated during the day, had become this evening the most important part of the house. Having first stopped up every crevice through which a curious eye might penetrate to the interior, Morand placed a cask upright, and began to trace geometrical lines upon a piece of paper laid upon it with a stick of chalk. While he was thus engaged, his companions, conducted by Dixmer, left the house, following the Rue de la Corderie, and at the corner of the Rue de Beunie stopped before a covered carriage. In this carriage was a man, who silently distributed to each one the instrument of a pioneer, to one a spade, to another a mattock, to this one a lever, to that a pickaxe; each man concealed his under his riding coat or mantle. The miners retraced the road to the small house, and the carriage disappeared. Morand had finished his calculation. He went straight to an angle of the cave. "There," said he, "dig." And the work of deliverance immediately commenced.

The situation of the unhappy prisoners in the Temple became daily more serious and hourly more wretched. For an instant Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale had indulged some hope. The municipals Toulun and Lepetre, touched with compassion for the august prisoners, had evinced some interest in them. At first little habituated to the marks of sympathy, the poor women were suspicious, but suspicion ceases to exist with hope. Besides, what now could happen to the Queen, separated from her son by a prison, from her husband by death. To follow him to the scaffold, this idea had possessed her for some time, and she finished by becoming accustomed to it. The first time Toulun and Lepetre returned on guard, the Queen particularly requested, if they really felt any interest in her misfortunes, they would describe to her the last moments of the king. This was putting their sympathy to a sad test. Lepetre had assisted at the execution; he obeyed the order of the Queen. The Queen demanded the journal containing the report of the execution. Lepetre promised to bring them when next on guard; it would be his turn again in three weeks. In the King's time they had at the Temple four municipals; the King dead, they had only three, one to watch during the day, two during the night. Then Toulun and Lepetre invented a strategem that they might always keep watch together at night. The hours of guard were arranged thus: they wrote one ballot "day," on two others "night." Each drew his ballot from a hat, and chance decided the night watch. Every time that Toulon and Lepetre were on guard they wrote "day" on three ballots, and presented the hat to the municipal they wished to dispossess, and he, thrusting his hand into the improvisatory, unnecessarily drew forth a ballot on which was inscribed "day." They then destroyed the other two, murmuring against the hazard which always decreed them the most wearisome watch of the two, that is to say, the night. When the Queen was sure of her guards she corresponded with the Chevalier de Maison Rouge. Then an escape was attempted, but the attempt was arrested. The Queen and Madame Elizabeth were to flee disguised as municipal officers, with cards that would be provided for them. As to the two children,-that is to say, Madame Royale and the voting Dauphin, they had remarked that the man who came to light the lamps of the Temple was always accompanied by two children, the same age apparently as the Princess Royale and the Dauphin. It was, therefore, arranged that Turgy, of whom we have previously spoken, should dress himself as a lamplighter, and carry away the prince and princess. We will mention, in a few words, who Turgy was. Turgy was an old waiter of the King's, introduced at the Temple with part of the family from the Tuileries, for the King had at first been permitted a well-appointed table. The first month this consideration cost the nation thirty or forty thousand francs. It may easily be understood this prodigality could not last. The Commune decreed otherwise. They dismissed the chiefs, the cooks, and scullions, one single man-servant only was retained-that man was Turgy. He was naturally the medium of communication between the prisoners and their partisans, for Turgy was permitted to go out, and consequently was enabled to forward their letters, and introduce the replies. These billets were generally twisted round the stoppers of the carafes, containing the milk of almonds, brought to the Queen and Madame Elizabeth. They were written in lemon-juice, and perfectly illegible, till held near the fire. All was prepared for their escape, when one day Tison lighted his pipe with the paper stopper of the carafe. As the paper burned, the writing became visible. He instantly extinguished the half-burnt paper, and carried the remaining fragment to the council of the Temple, when, being held near the fire, they could only read a few disjointed words, the other part being burnt to ashes. They could merely recognise the handwriting of the Queen. Tison being questioned, mentioned some slight marks of attention and sympathy he fancied he had observed on the part of Lepetre and Toulun. They were immediately denounced to the municipality, and allowed no more to enter the Temple. Turgy remained. But suspicion was now excited to the highest degree. The princesses were never left a moment alone. All communication with the exterior was now utterly impossible. Madame Elizabeth had one day given Turgy a gold-handled knife to clean, which she used for cutting her fruit. Turgy, suspecting something, opened the blade, and in the handle found a letter. This letter contained an alphabet of signs. He returned the knife to Madame Elizabeth; but a municipal then present prevented him, and, in his turn, securing the knife, opened the blade; but fortunately the letter was no longer there. The municipal nevertheless confiscated the knife. It was at that time the indefatigable Chevalier de Maison Rouge dreamed of this second attempt, which they intended to carry into execution by means of the house which Dixmer had purchased. The prisoners, however, by degrees had now lost all hope. That day the Queen, terrified by the noise in the streets, which reached her ears, and learning from these cries they were debating the accusation of the Girondins, the last supporters of moderation, felt dreadfully depressed. The Girondins dead, the royal family lost their only defence against the Convention.

At seven o'clock the supper was served. The municipals examined every plate as usual, unfolded each napkin successively, searched the bread, the one with a fork, the other with his fingers, and concluded by breaking into pieces the macaroons and walnuts, for fear any letter should reach the prisoners. These precautions being concluded, the royal family were invited to their meal in these simple words- "Widow of Capet, you may eat." The Queen shook her head, signifying she was not hungry. But at this moment Madame Royale advanced, as if to embrace her mother, and whispered: "Seat yourself at table, Madame. I fancied Turgy made a sign." The Queen, tremblingly, raised her head. Turgy was opposite to her. The napkin laid over his left arm, and with his right hand he touched his eye. She immediately rose, without any further objection, and resumed her usual place at table. The two municipals assisted at their meals, being strictly prohibited from leaving the princesses alone for an instant with Turgy. The feet of the Queen and Madame Elizabeth met, and pressed each other under the table. As the Queen was seated opposite Turgy, not one of his gestures escaped her notice; besides, they were all so natural, that they neither could nor did inspire the municipals with any suspicion whatever. At the removal of the supper the same precautions were used as before; the smallest pieces of bread were broken and examined. After which, Turgy went out first, the two municipals following; the woman Tison remained. This woman had become ferocious since her separation from her daughter, of whose fate she was totally ignorant. Every time the Queen lavished a caress on Madame Royale, it threw her into an excess of rage almost bordering on frenzy; so much so, that the queen, who so well understood the griefs of a mother, often denied herself this consolation, now, alas! the only one left her, of pressing her daughter to her heart.

Tison came now to seek for his wife, who at first declared she would not leave till Capet's wife was in bed.

Madame Elizabeth then wished the Queen good night, and entered her chamber. The Queen and princess having also retired, Tison's wife took the candle and went out. The municipals had already thrown themselves upon their beds in the corridor. The moon, pale visitant of the unhappy princesses, glided by the opening of the first house, casting a diagonal ray across the window at the foot of the Queen's bed. For an instant everything remained calm and silent in the chamber, then a door turned softly on its hinges, a shadow passed over the rays of the moon, and approached the Queen. It was Madame Elizabeth. "Did you see it-" said she in a whisper. "Yes," replied the Queen. "And you understood it-"

"So well, that I dare not believe it."

"Let us see; repeat the signs."

"First, then, he touched his eye to indicate he had some news for us; then he passed his napkin from his left to his right, by that he meant to say, they were occupied in our deliverance. Then he put his hand to his face, to signify that the expected aid would reach us from the interior, and not from a stranger. Then when you asked him not to forget the milk of almonds to-morrow, he made two knots in his pocket-handkerchief. Thus it is again the Chevalier de Maison-Rouge-noble-hearted man that he is."

"It is he," said Madame Elizabeth. "Are you asleep, my child-" demanded the Queen. "No, ma mere," replied Madame Royal. "Then pray for you know who." Madame Elizabeth quietly regained her chamber, and for some minutes during the silence of the night, the soft, sweet voice of the youthful princess might be heard addressing her prayer to God. It was at that moment, at a signal from Morand, the first stroke of the pickaxe sounded in the small house at Rue de la Corderie.

CHAPTER XVIII. CLOUDS.

OPPOSED TO the intoxication of first appearances, Maurice was certainly much disappointed at the reception of Genevieve, and reckoned upon solitude to regain the road he had lost, or seemed to have lost, on the route to her affections. But Genevieve had wisely arranged her plan, and did not intend to allow him an opportunity for a tete-a-tete, being conscious of their danger even from the happiness they afforded her. Maurice anticipated the morrow. A kinswoman of Genevieve's, no doubt previously invited, came to call upon her, and Genevieve had retained her. This time there was nothing to be said, it could not be the fault of Genevieve. When leaving, Maurice was requested to escort this relation to Rue des Fosses Saint Victor, where she resided. Maurice went away pouting, but Genevieve smiled, and he construed this smile into a promise.

Alas! Maurice deceived himself. The next day, the 2nd of June, that terrible day that witnessed the downfall of the Girondins, Maurice dismissed his friend Louis, who absolutely wished to carry him off to the Convention, and that he should put everything aside, and accompany him to visit his fair friend. The Goddess of Liberty had a frightful rival in Genevieve. Maurice found Genevieve in her little salon, all grace and amiability, but near her was a young femme-di-chambre with the tri-coloured cockade, engaged in marking pocket-handkerchiefs in the angle of the window; she never left her place.

Maurice knitted his brows, and Genevieve perceiving he was not in the best temper possible, redoubled her assiduities; but since her amiability was not carried so far as to dismiss the young official, he impatiently left an hour earlier than usual. This might have happened by chance, perhaps. Maurice grew patient.. The evening, besides, from other causes, was so fearful, that long as it was since he had interested himself in politics, the report reached even him. It required nothing less than the downfall of a party who had reigned in France for ten months to withdraw his attention from his all engrossing passion for Genevieve. The next day witnessed the same management on the part of Genevieve, and Maurice having foreseen this, had arranged his plan. So ten minutes after his arrival, seeing that the young woman, having finished marking a dozen pocket handkerchiefs, commenced six dozen of table napkins, Maurice, we say, drew out his watch, rose, bowed to Genevieve, and went out without saying one word. Still more, as he left, he did not even once look back. Genevieve, who had risen to watch him across the garden, remained an instant speechless, pale and trembling, then dropt into her chair, thunderstruck at the effect of her diplomacy. At this moment Dixmer entered. "Maurice gone-" said he, with astonishment. "Yes," stammered Genevieve. "But he had only just arrived."

"He was here a quarter of an hour, or nearly so."

"Then he will return-"

"I much doubt it."

"Leave us, Magnet," said Dixmer. The femme-de-chambre had assumed the name from hatred to that of Maria, from its unfortunately being the same as that of the Austrian. She rose at the command of her master, and quitted the room. "Well, dear Genevieve," said Dixmer, "is peace restored between you and Maurice-"

"On the contrary, mon ami, I think we are cooler than ever."

"And this time, who is to blame-" said Dixmer. "Maurice, without the slightest doubt."

"Permit me to judge."

"You cannot guess," said Genevieve, blushing. "Why he is angry- No."

"It seems to me, it is some whim about Magnet."

"Bah! truly; then you must send the girl away. I will not deprive myself of a friend like Maurice for the sake of a femme-de-chambre."

"Oh!" said Genevieve, "he is not, I think, so angry as to require her to be sent away, it will suffice to- "What-"

"To exile her from my chamber."

"And Maurice is right," said Dixmer; "it is you he comes to visit, and not Magnet; it is therefore quite unnecessary that she should be present."

"But, my dear Dixmer," replied she, regarding her husband with astonishment. "Genevieve," replied Dixmer, "I hoped to have found in you an ally who would render more easy the task imposed upon, me, and find, on the contrary, that your fears redouble our dangers and difficulties. Four days since I thought all was arranged between us, and now all must commence over again. Have I not told you that I confide in you, in your honour- have I not told you that it is positively necessary that Maurice should become our friend, more intimately than before, but less suspicious than ever. Oh! mon Dieu! these women are an everlasting obstacle to our projects."

"But, mon Dieu! is there no other way- I have told you before, that for all our sakes it would be better if Monsieur Maurice returned here no more."

"Yes, for our sakes, perhaps, but for the sake of those far above us, those for whom we have promised to sacrifice our lives, fortune, and happiness, it is necessary that this young man should return. Are you aware they begin to suspect Turgy, and talk of placing another servant near the queen-"

"Well, I will send away Magnet."

"Mon Dieu! Genevieve," said Dixmer, with a movement of impatience, very unusual with him, "why do you speak to me thus- why stifle the ardour of my ideas by your own- why strive to create difficulties where too many already exist- Genevieve, act like an honourable, devoted woman, act as you feel you ought to act. I tell you, to-morrow I go out-to-morrow I take Morand's place as engineer. I shall not dine with you, but he will, he has something to ask Maurice, and will explain to you what it is. What he has to request you may imagine, Genevieve, is a thing of vital import; it is not only the goal to which we march, but the way leading to it. It is the last hope of that devoted, noble-minded man, our protector, to whom we are bound to dedicate our lives."

"And for whom I will freely give mine," cried Genevieve, with enthusiasm. "Well, this man, Genevieve, I cannot tell why, as you must have seen, is not loved by Maurice, by whom, above all things, it is necessary he should be respected. In short, from the bad temper in which you have put Maurice to-day, he may perhaps refuse Morand that which it is so imperative we should obtain at any price. Will you, now that I have told you, Genevieve, assist Morand with all your tact and delicacy of sentiment-"

"Oh! monsieur," cried Genevieve, clasping her hands and turning pale, "let us speak no more on this subject."

"Then," said Dixmer, pressing his lips on his wife's forehead, "reflect upon it, and form your resolution." And he went out. "Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" murmured Genevieve, with anguish, "they compel me to accept this love by violence, towards which my whole soul inclines!" The next day, as we have already said, was Sunday. It was customary in the family of Dixmer, as in all the bourgeois families at that period, that the dinner should be longer and more ceremonious on that day than on any other. Since their intimacy, Maurice having received a general invitation, never omitted to dine with them on that day. Although they did not dine till two o'clock. Maurice had not arrived at noon. Prom the manner of their parting, Genevieve had almost despaired of seeing him. In short, twelve o'clock struck, then half-past, then one. It would be impossible to describe during this period what passed in the heart of Genevieve. She was at first dressed with the greatest simplicity; then, seeing that he delayed his coming, she, with a feeling of coquetry natural to the heart of woman, had placed a flower at her side, a flower in her hair, and still listened, her heart each moment more and more compressed. The dinner-hour had almost arrived, and Maurice had not appeared. About ten minutes to two, Genevieve heard the sound of horse's steps, that sound she knew so well. "Oh!" cried she, "his pride could not wrestle against his love. He loves me! he loves me!" Maurice dismounted, and gave his horse to the gardener, desiring him to remain where he was. Genevieve saw with anxiety that the gardener did not lead the horse to the stables. Maurice on this day looked superlatively handsome. A splendid black coat, a white waistcoat, breeches of chamois leather, designed for limbs after the model of Apollo, a white cambric stock, and his waving hair, displaying a fresh, a beaming face, formed altogether a type of manly beauty. He entered. As we have already said, his presence dilated the heart of Genevieve, who received him joyfully. "Ah!" said she, holding out her hand, "you are come to dine with us, are you not-"

"On the contrary, citoyenne," said Maurice, coldly, "I come to ask your permission to absent myself."

"To absent yourself-"

"Yes, the sectional affairs claim my attention. I feared you might wait, and would accuse me of being wanting in politeness, therefore came to make my excuses in person." Genevieve again felt her heart sink within her. "Ah! mon Dieu," cried she, "and Dixmer, who does not dine at home, counted upon finding you here on his return, and desired me to detain you."

"Ah! then, madame, I comprehend your insistence, it is a command of your husband's; and I not to guess all this. I shall never cure myself of conceit."

"Maurice!"

"It is for me, madame, to draw my inference from your actions rather than your words; it is for me, therefore, to comprehend, that if Dixmer is absent the greater the reason I should not remain. His absence would surely add to your constraint."

"Why so-" timidly inquired Genevieve. "Because you appear, since my return, sedulously to avoid me, because I returned for your sake, and yours only; you well know, mon Dieu, that ever since my return I have invariably found some one with you."

"Then," said Genevieve, "you are still angry, mon ami, although I endeavour to act for the best."

"No, Genevieve, you would do much better to receive me as before, or drive me away altogether."

"Maurice," said Genevieve, tenderly, "understand my situation, consider my anguish, and do not enact the tyrant over me any longer." And the young woman regarded him mournfully.

Maurice remained silent. "What do you require, then-" continued she. "I require your love, Genevieve, since I now feel I cannot live without that love."

"Maurice! have pity on me."

"Then, madame, you leave me to die."

"To die-"

"Yes, to die; or to forget."

"You could, then, forget-" said Genevieve, the tears rushing from her heart to her eyes. "Ah! no, no," said Maurice, falling on his knees before her; "no, Genevieve, I may die, perhaps, but forget you, never, never."

"And yet," replied Genevieve, with firmness, "that would be the best, Maurice, for this love is criminal."

"Have you said this to Monsieur Morand-" said Maurice, suddenly resuming his frigidity of manner. "Monsieur Morand is not a madman like yourself, and has never yet compelled me to indicate to him how he should conduct himself in the house of a friend."

"We wager," said Maurice, smiling ironically, "that if Dixmer dines out Morand is not absent. Ah! I see, this is necessary to deter me, for while Morand is there, Genevieve, for ever at your side, not quitting you even for a single moment," continued he, contemptuously, "I should not love you, or rather I should not declare that I loved you."

"And I," cried Genevieve, driven to extremity by this eternal suspicion, and seizing the young man's arm with a species of frenzy, "I swear solemnly, Maurice, and let it be once for all, that whether you ever return here again or not, Morand has never breathed a word of love, that he neither loves me or ever will love me. I swear this on my honour-I swear this by the soul of my mother."

"Alas! alas!" said Maurice, "I wish I could believe you."

"Oh! believe me, poor fool," said she, with a smile (which, although anything but jealous, might have been a charming confession), "believe me. Besides, if you wish to know more, Morand loves a woman in whose presence all others sink into insignificance, as the flowers of the field fade before the stars of heaven."

"And who is this woman, able to eclipse all other women-" demanded Maurice, "when among the number we find Genevieve."

"Do we not always," said Genevieve, smiling, "consider the one we love as the chef d'oeuvre of the creation-"

"Then," said Maurice, if you do not love me, Genevieve-The young woman waited with anxiety the end of the sentence. "If you do not love me," continued Maurice, "will you swear never to love another-"

"Ah! that, Maurice, I will swear with all my heart," cried the young woman, delighted that he had thus compromised with her conscience.

Maurice seized her raised hands, and covered them with ardent kisses. "And now," said he, "I will be kind, indulgent, and confiding. I will even be generous. I wish to see you smile, and myself to be happy."

"And you will ask me nothing more-"

"I will endeavour."

"And now," said Genevieve, I think it will he useless to hold the horse any longer. The Section will wait."

"Oh, Genevieve! the whole world might wait, if I could only stay with you!" Steps were heard in the court-yard. "They come to tell us that dinner is ready," said Genevieve. They silently pressed each other's hands." It was Morand, who came to tell them they only awaited their presence at table. He, also, was in full dress for the Sunday's dinner.

CHAPTER XIX. THE REQUEST.

IN THE MEANTIME Morand did not a little excite the curiosity of Maurice. The most refined of fops could not discover a fault in the tie of his cravat, the folds of his boots, or the texture of his linen; but it must be allowed his hair and spectacles were always the same. It then appeared to Maurice, so much was he reassured by the oath of Genevieve, that he now, for the first time, viewed these locks and spectacles in a proper light. "The devil!" said Maurice, to himself; "the devil take me if I am now ever again jealous of this worthy citizen Morand. Put on every day, if you choose, your full dress coat, or even make yourself one of cloth of gold, since from this time I promise to see nothing but your wig and spectacles, and above all, never again to accuse you of loving Genevieve." We can easily understand the shake of the hand bestowed upon the Citizen Morand at the conclusion of this soliloquy was more frank and cordial than usual. Contrary to custom, the party was small, covers being placed for only three on a narrow table. Genevieve was seated nearly opposite Maurice, between himself and the light, which reflected on her luxuriant black curls, tinged them with the blue hue of the raven's wing, enhancing the brilliancy of her eyes and complexion. Beyond his pigeon-coloured suit, Morand appeared to have dismissed all recollection of the day from his mind-that brilliant mind, which Maurice had sometimes heard burst fresh from the lips of this singular man, which would no doubt have been accompanied by the flashes from his eyes, had they not been totally obscured by the green spectacles. He uttered a thousand witticisms, but never himself smiled; indeed, what added piquancy to his witticisms, and a strange charm to his sallies, was his own impenetrable gravity. This merchant, who had made numerous voyages, and visited various countries, trading in every sort of skin, from the skin of the panther to that of the rabbit; this chemist, with arms dyed with his own chemical preparations, was as conversant with Egypt as Herodotus, Africa as Lavaillant, and the opera and the boudoir as any fop. "But the devil take me, Monsieur Morand," said Maurice, "you are not only a clever man, but a scholar also."

"Ah! I have both seen and read much," said Morand; "and then it is necessary I should prepare myself in some degree for the life of pleasure I intend to lead, when I retire on my fortune. It is time, Citizen Maurice, it is time."

"Bah!" said Maurice; "you talk like an old man. What age, then, are you-" Morand turned round, startled by this question, natural as it certainly was. "I am thirty-eight," said he. "Ah! see what it is to be a scholar, as you term it. It makes one old." Genevieve began to laugh, and Maurice joined in; but Morand merely smiled. "You have, then, made several voyages-" demanded Maurice, pressing Genevieve's foot between his own. "Part of my youth," replied Morand, "was passed among foreigners."

"And you have seen much- Pardon me, I ought to say, have observed much: for a man like yourself cannot see without observing," replied Maurice. "Ma foi! yes; seen much-" replied Morand, "I have almost seen everything."

"Everything, citizen," replied Maurice, laughing, "that is saying a great deal. If you were to search- "Ah! yes, you are right; there are two things I have never seen. It is true, in our days, these two things have become rare."

"What are they, then-" demanded Maurice. "The first," said Morand, "is a god."

"Ah!" said Maurice, "but in lieu of a god I shall be able to show you a goddess, Citizen Morand."

"How so-" interrupted Genevieve. "Yes, a goddess of modern creation-the Goddess Reason. I have a friend, of whom you have sometimes heard me speak-my dear and brave Louis, with a heart of gold, whose only fault is that of making verses and vile puns."

"Well-"

"Well, he selected for Paris a Goddess Reason, of good repute, and in whom they can discover nothing at all objectionable. It is the Citizen Arthemise, ex-dancer to the Opera, and at present parfumeuse, Rue Martin. As soon as she is definitely received as goddess, I will show her to you." Morand bowed his head in token of thanks, and continued- "The other," said he, gravely, "is a king."

"Ah! that is more difficult," said Genevieve; "there are no more of them," she added, forcing a smile. "You should have seen the last," said Maurice; "it would have been prudent to have done so."

"The result is," said Morand, "I have not the least idea of a crowned head; it must be very sad-"

"Very sad, indeed," said Maurice; "I respond to you, I who see one nearly every month."

"A crowned head-" demanded Genevieve. "At least," said Maurice, "one that has borne the weight and miserable burden of a crown."

"Ah! yes, the Queen," said Morand;" truly, Monsieur Maurice, it must be a melancholy sight-"

"Is she as proud and beautiful as they say-" demanded Genevieve. "Have you never seen her, then, madame-" demanded Maurice, surprised in his turn. "I- never!" replied the young woman. "Indeed-" said Maurice, "that is strange."

"And why strange-" said Genevieve. "We lived in the province till '91; since '91 we have resided in the old Rue St. Jacques, which much resembles the province, only there they have neither light nor air, and still less flowers. You are acquainted with my life, Monsieur Maurice. It has always been the same. How do you suppose I could have seen the Queen, when I have had no opportunity whatever of so doing-" And I do not think you will avail yourself of that which, unfortunately, perhaps, may present itself," said Maurice. "What do you mean to say-" demanded Genevieve. "The citizen Maurice," replied Morand, "alludes to one thing no longer a secret."

"To what-" demanded Genevieve. "To the probable condemnation of Marie Antoinette, and to her death upon the same scaffold where her husband died The citizen said, in short, that you would not avail yourself of the opportunity offered you of seeing her the day when she will quit the Temple for La Place de la Revolution."

"Oh, certainly not!" cried Genevieve, us Morand pronounced these words with the greatest sang-froid. "Then you can only lament," said the impassible chemist; "for the Austrian is well guarded, and the Republic a fairy that renders invisible what seems best to her."

"I acknowledge, however," said Genevieve, "I have been very much wishing to see this poor woman."

"Let us see," said Maurice, anxious to gratify all the wishes of Genevieve; "have you really such an inclination- Then only say the word. I agree with the Citizen Morand, the Republic is a fairy; but I, in quality of municipal, am somewhat of a wizard."

"Could you allow me a sight of the Queen, you, monsieur-" cried Genevieve. "Certainly, I can."

"And how-" exclaimed Morand, exchanging a rapid glance with Genevieve, which escaped the notice of the young man. "Nothing more simple," said Maurice. "There are certainly some municipals of whom they are mistrustful; but as for me, I have given sufficient evidence of my devotion to the cause of liberty to render me above all suspicion. Besides, admittance to the Temple depends conjointly on the municipals and the chiefs of the post. Now, the chief of the post is, just at this moment, my friend Louis, who appears to me to be called indubitably to replace General Santerre, seeing that, in three months, he has risen from the rank of corporal to that of adjutant major. Well, come to me the day I shall be on guard, that is to say, next Thursday, at the Temple."

"Well," said Morand, "I hope now your wishes may be gratified. Take care that you find him."

"Oh! no, no," said Genevieve, "indeed, I cannot."

"And wherefore not-" said Maurice, who only anticipated in this visit to the Temple an opportunity of seeing Genevieve on a day when he could enjoy this happiness alone without the presence of others. "Because it might, perhaps, dear Maurice, expose you to some unpleasant dispute; and if anything were to happen to you through gratifying a whim of mine, I should never, while I lived, forgive myself."

"You have spoken wisely, Genevieve," said Morand. "Suspicion is very great, the best patriots are now even suspected. Renounce this project, which, as you say, is, after all, a mere caprice of curiosity."

"They will say that you are envious, Morand, and that, not having yourself seen either King or Queen, you do not wish others to do so. Come, to end all discussion, join the party."

"Me! ma foi! No."

"It is then no longer the citoyenne Dixmer who wishes to visit the Temple; it is I who entreat you to come there, to divert a poor prisoner. For, the great door once closed upon me, I remain for twenty-four hours as much a prisoner as the king would be, or a prince of the blood." And pressing between his own the foot of Genevieve-" Come then," said he, "I entreat you!"

"Voyons! Morand," said Genevieve, "come with me."

"It will be losing a day," said Morand, "and will prevent my going where I ought on business."

"Then I shall not go," said Genevieve. "But why-" demanded Morand. "Because I cannot depend upon my husband to escort me; and if you will not accompany me-you, a respectable man, thirty-eight years of age-I have not the hardihood to encounter alone all the chasseurs, cannoniers, and grenadiers, requesting to speak to one of the municipals only three or four years older than myself."

"Then," said Morand, "since you deem my presence indispensable, citoyenne- "Allons! allons! learned citizen, be as gallant as if you were a kind-hearted, ordinary man, and sacrifice half a day to the wife of your friend," said Maurice. "Well, let it be so," said Morand. "Now," said Maurice. "I only require one thing from you, that is discretion. Any one visiting the Temple is considered a suspicious proceeding, and consequently, should any accident occur afterwards, we should all be guillotined. The Jacobins do not jest. Peste! you see how they have treated the Girondins."

"Diable!" said Morand, "this observation of the citizen Maurice requires consideration. It would be a sort of retiring from business if I could not go out at all."

"Have you not heard," said Genevieve, smiling, "that the citizen Maurice said all-"

"Eh, bien! all-"

"All."

"Yes, without doubt," said Morand, "your company is very agreeable, but I much prefer, belle sentimentale, to live in your society than to die in it."

"What the devil was I thinking of-" said Maurice to himself, "when I imagined this man loved Genevieve-"

"Then it is all settled," said Genevieve. "I address myself to you, Morand, thoughtful, absent man that you are; remember it is on Thursday next; so do not on the Wednesday evening commence some chemical experiment that will occupy your time and attention for the next twenty-four hours, as it very frequently happens."

"You may be perfectly easy on that point," said Morand. "Besides, you can remind me." Genevieve then rose from table, and Maurice followed her example. Morand was about to leave also, and perhaps to follow them, when one of the workmen brought the chemist a small vial containing some liquid, which instantly engrossed all his attention. "Let us make haste," said Maurice, drawing away Genevieve. "Oh! be assured," said she, "he will remain there for an hour at the very least.'" And the young woman allowed him to take her hand, which he tenderly pressed between his own. She felt remorse for her treachery, and compensated for it by her kindness. "Do you see," said she to Maurice,' crossing the garden, and showing him the carnations, which had been removed into the air, with the hope of reviving them, "do you see my flowers are all dead-"

"What killed them-" said Maurice; "your neglect- Poor carnations!"

"It was not my neglect, but your desertion, mon ami."

"They required, my little Genevieve, some water; that was all; besides my absence should have left you plenty of time."

"Ah!" said Genevieve, "but if the flowers were watered with tears, the poor carnations, as you call them, would they not then die-" Maurice threw his arms round Genevieve, and, drawing her to him, before she had time to prevent him, pressed his lips upon the half-smiling, half-languishing eye, now fixed upon the drooping, dying flowers. Genevieve felt so much self-reproach, it made her lenient to others.

Dixmer returned home late, and on his return found Morand, Maurice, and Genevieve botanising in the garden.

CHAPTER XX. THE FLOWER GIRL.

AT LENGTH THE anticipated Thursday, the day of Maurice's guard, arrived. It was now the month of June. The sky was of a deep and cloudless blue, and against this sheet of blue rose the heavy white mass of nine houses. The coming of that dreadful day was already foreseen, represented by the ancients as thirsting with an unquenchable thirst, and which, to borrow the phraseology of the plebeian Parisians, licked the pavement very dry. Paris was clean as a carpet, and perfumes filled the air, mounting to the trees, emanating from the flowers, circulating and intoxicating with joy, as if to render the inhabitants of the capital forgetful for a few moments of that vapour of blood which rose without intermission from the pavement of these places.

It was Maurice's duty to enter the Temple at nine o'clock; his two colleagues were Meruvault and Agricola. At eight o'clock he was in Rue Vieille Saint Jacques, in grand costume as citizen municipal, that is to say, with a tricoloured scarf tightly fastened around his tall and elegant frame. He as usual rode there on horseback, and on his route had an opportunity of receiving the sincere approbation, admiration, and eulogiums of the worthy patriots who saw him pass. Genevieve was already prepared; she wore a simple muslin dress, a species of light taffeta mantle, and a small bonnet, ornamented with a tri-coloured cockade. Thus attired, she appeared of dazzling beauty. Morand, who, as we have seen, had been earnestly solicited to accompany them, had, no doubt for fear of being mistaken for an aristocrat, attired himself in his usual costume-half-bourgeois, half-artisan. He entered alone, and his countenance betrayed great fatigue; he pretended to have been at work all night, in order to complete some urgent business.

Dixmer had gone out immediately after the return of his friend Morand. "Well," demanded Genevieve, "what have you decided on, Maurice; and how are we to see the Queen-"

"Listen," said Maurice, "I have arranged everything. I shall arrive at the Temple with you, and then introduce you to my friend Louis, who commands the guard; I then take my post, and at a favourable moment I will come to see you."

"But," demanded Morand, "when are we to see the prisoners, and how are we to see them-"

"At either their breakfast or their dinner, if that will suit you, through the glazed partition of the Municipal."

"Perfectly," said Morand.

Maurice then saw Morand approach a sideboard at the further end of the salle-a-manger, and drink hastily a glass of pure wine, which rather surprised him, Morand being usually very abstemious, and indulging only in wine and water.

Genevieve saw that he regarded him with astonishment. "Can you not fancy," said she, "he must be half dead with fatigue- he has taken nothing since yesterday morning."

"Did he not dine here-" asked Maurice. "No, he Was trying some experiments in the city." Genevieve took a useless precaution with respect to Maurice, since lover-like he was an egotist, and had merely bestowed upon the action of Morand that superficial attention which an amorous man might accord to any one, except the woman whom he loves. To his glass of wine Morand added a crust of bread, which he hastily swallowed. "And now," said he, "dear Citizen Maurice, I am quite ready; when you choose we will depart." Maurice, who was stripping the decayed petals from one of the dead carnations he had plucked in passing, now offered his arm to Genevieve, saying-" Let us set out." They went, in short, Maurice so happy he could scarcely contain himself; he would have uttered cries of joy had he not restrained his emotion. What could he desire more- Not only had he acquired the certainty that she did not love Morand, but also the hope that he possessed her affection. The glorious sun shone upon the world, the arm of Genevieve was reposing within his own, whilst the public criers, shouting at the top of their voices the triumph of the Jacobins and the defeat of Brissot and his companions, announced that the country was saved.

There are truly moments of life when the heart of man seems too small to contain the joy or grief concentred there. "Oh! what a lovely day," exclaimed Morand.

Maurice turned round in surprise. This was the first burst of feeling he had ever heard issue from the lips of this singularly reserved and absent man. "Oh! yes, it is indeed lovely," said Genevieve, pressing closer the arm of Maurice, "if it would only continue till evening, pure and cloudless as it is now!" Maurice applied this word, and his happiness redoubled each moment. Morand at the same time regarded Genevieve through his green spectacles with a peculiar expression. Perhaps he also applied her expressions. They thus crossed Le Petit-Pont, La Rue de la Janerie, and the bridge Notre Dame, they then proceeded to La Place de 1'Hotel de Ville, La Rue Bur-du-Bec and La Rue Sainte-Avoye. As they progressed, Maurice's step became more and more elastic, while on the contrary, those of his male and female companions waxed slower and slower. They had reached the corner of La Rue des Vieilles Audriettes, when all at once a flowergirl impeded their passage, by offering them her basket filled with flowers. "Oh! what magnificent carnations!" cried Maurice. "Oh! yes, very beautiful," said Genevieve, "it seems the cultivator of these had no other pre-occupation, for they are not withered and dead." This speech sank deep into the heart of the young man. "Ah! my brave municipal," said the flower-girl, "purchase a bouquet for the pretty citoyenne. She is dressed in white; look at these superb crimson carnations; white and purple look well together; she will place the bouquet upon her heart, and as her heart is near to your blue coat, there you have the national colours." The flowergirl was young and pretty, her compliment was well turned and well chosen, for had it been made expressly for that occasion, it could not better have applied to the circumstances. Besides the flowers were almost symbolical; they were similar to those now dead. "I will purchase one," said Maurice, "since they are carnations; all other flowers I detest."

"Ah! Maurice," said Genevieve, "it is useless, we have so many of them in the garden." But although her lips uttered the refusal, her eyes expressed a longing desire to possess them.

Maurice selected the most beautiful of the bouquets. It was the one the pretty flowergirl had presented to him. It consisted of twenty deep red carnations, emitting an odour at once sweet and pungent; in the centre, towering above the rest, rose a magnificent carnation. "Here," said Maurice to the marchande, throwing on her basket an assignat of five livres, "that is for you."

"Thanks, my brave municipal," said the flower-girl, "a thousand thanks." And she went towards another couple, trusting the day commenced thus auspiciously would so continue till its close. During this apparently simple scene, which had only occupied a few seconds at most, Morand seemed scarcely able to support himself, and wiped the perspiration from his pallid brow, while Genevieve also turned pale and trembled.

She received the nosegay which Maurice presented to her, and clasping it in her lovely hand, held it to her face, less to inhale the odour than to conceal her emotion. The remainder of the journey was pleasant, at least as far as concerned Maurice. As for Genevieve, his gaiety was a constraint upon her, and Morand passed his day in a fashion peculiar to himself, that is to say, in smothered sighs or startling bursts of laughter, and occasionally uttering some formidable witticism, which fell upon the passers-by like sparks of fire.

At nine o'clock they reached the Temple.

Santerre called over the municipals. "I am here," said Maurice, leaving Genevieve under the care of Morand. "Welcome," said Santerre, holding out his hand to the young man.

Maurice took care not to refuse the hand thus offered to him. The friendship of Santerre was certainly most valuable at this epoch. At sight of this man who had commanded the famous rolling of drums, Genevieve shuddered, and Morand turned pale. "Who is this handsome citoyenne-" demanded Santerre of Maurice, "and what does she do here-"

"She is the wife of the brave Citizen Dixmer; you have heard this excellent patriot spoken of, Citizen General-"

"Yes, yes," replied Santerre, "the chief of a tannery, captain of chasseurs of the legion Victor."

"The same."

"Bon! bon! Ma foi, she is pretty. And this ugly fellow who has given her his arm-"

"That is the Citizen Morand, her husband's partner, and chasseur in Dixmer's company." Santerre approached Genevieve. "Bonjour, citoyenne," said he.

Genevieve made an effort. "Bonjour, Citizen General," replied she, smiling.

Santerre felt flattered by both title and smile. "And what brings you here, belle patriote-" continued Santerre. "The citoyenne," replied Maurice, "has never seen the Widow Capet, and she wishes to see her."

"Yes," said Santerre, "before-," and he made an atrocious gesture. "Precisely," replied Maurice, coldly. "Very well," said Sauterre, "only mind they are not seen entering the keep; it would be a bad example; besides, I confide all to you." Santerre again shook hands with Maurice, made an inclination of his head to Genevieve in a friendly and protecting manner, and quitted them to attend to his other various engagements.

After a great many evolutions of gendarmes and chasseurs, after some manoeuvring with cannon, the dull resounding of which, it was considered, carried to the environs a salutary lesson or admonition, Maurice took Genevieve's arm, and followed closely by Morand, advanced towards the post, at the door of which Louis was vociferating loudly, commanding the manoeuvres of his battalion. "Bon!" cried he, "why there is Maurice; peste! with a female, too, who appears to me rather agreeable. Does the stupid fellow wish to compare her with my Goddess Reason- If it were so, poor Arthemise!"

"Well! Citizen Adjutant," said the Captain. "Ah! that's right; attention," said Louis; "files to the left, left-bonjour, Maurice; not so quickly-" The guns rolled, the company dispersed to their respective places, and when each was at his post, Louis hastened away to exchange compliments with his friend. Maurice presented Louis to Genevieve and Morand. Then an explanation commenced as to the purport of their visit. "Yes, I understand," said Louis, "yon wish your friends to enter the keep; that is easily managed. I will go directly and station the sentinels, then I will order them to admit you and your friends." In ten minutes afterwards Genevieve and Morand entered the suite of the three municipals, and placed themselves behind the glazed partition.

CHAPTER XXI. THE CRIMSON CARNATIONS.

THE QUEEN ROSE alone. Having been indisposed for two or three days, she had remained in bed longer than usual, but having heard from her sister that the sun was rising magnificently, she made an effort to quit her couch, and that she might so enabled to breathe the pure air with her daughter, had requested permission to walk on the platform, which had been granted her without the slightest difficulty. She had also been induced to act thus from another cause. Once, and it is true, once only, from the height of the tower, she had seen the Dauphin playing in the garden. But at the first signal of recognition between the mother and child Simon interfered, and compelled the boy to retire immediately. Never mind, she had seen him, that was a great source of happiness to her. True, the poor little prisoner was very pale and much changed. Then he was dressed as a child of the people, in a blouse and large trousers. But his beautiful fair waving curls were still left him, forming around him a glory which God no doubt intended to guard the infant martyr to heaven. If she could only see him once again, oh! what a cordial to the heart of the unhappy mother! There was yet another motive. "My sister," Madame Elizabeth had said to her, "you know we found in the corridor a straw standing upright in an angle of the wall. In the language of our signs this desires us to pay attention to everything around us, and to warn us of the approach of a friend."

"That is true," replied the Queen; who, regarding her sister and child with pity, had even herself encouraged them not to despair of their ultimate safety. The duties of the service accomplished, Maurice was then higher in authority in the keep of the Temple, since chance had elected him as guard during the day, and the other municipals, Agricola and Meruvault, as guards during the night. These municipals had left, after laying their "proces-verbal" before the council of the Temple. "Eh bien. Citizen Municipal," said the woman Tison, coming forward to salute Maurice, "you bring company, then, to see our caged pigeons- It is only I who am condemned no more to see my poor Heloise."

"They are friends of mine," said Maurice, "who have never yet seen the female Capet."

"Ah! well, they will see admirably behind the partition."

"Assuredly," said Morand. "Only," said Genevieve, "we shall present the appearance of the cruel impertinents who come from the other side of the iron grate to mock the misery of the unfortunate prisoners."

"Eh bien! why should not your friends see them on their way to the tower, since the woman will walk there to-day, with her sister and her daughter, for they have left her a daughter, while I who am not guilty they have deprived of mine. Oh these aristocrats! it will always be the case; let them do what they will, favour is always shown to them, Citizen Maurice."

"But they have removed her son," replied he. "Ah! if I had a son," murmured the gaoleress, "I should lament my daughter less." Genevieve during this time had exchanged looks with Morand several times. "Mon ami," said the young woman to Maurice, "the citoyenne is in the right. If you could by any means place me in the way of Marie Antoinette, it would be less repugnant to my feelings than gazing at her here. It seems to me this manner of viewing people is at once humiliating both to them and us."

"Kind Genevieve," said Maurice, "you possess true delicacy of mind."

"Pardieu! citoyenne," said one of Maurice's colleagues, who was at that moment breakfasting in the antechamber on bread and sausages, "if you were the prisoner, and Capet's wife felt curiosity to see you, she would not be so very particular about the indulgence of her fancy-the jade." Genevieve, with a movement quicker than lightning, threw a rapid glance towards Morand, to note the effect of these words upon him. In effect, Morand started, a strange phosphorescent light gleamed from under his eyelids, and his hands were clenched for an instant, but all this was so momentary that it passed unperceived. "What is the name of this municipal-" asked she of Maurice. "It is the Citizen Meruvault," replied the young man; and then added, as if to apologize for his coarseness, "a stone-cutter." Meruvault heard it, and in his turn stared at Maurice. "Allons! Allons!" said the woman Tison; "finish your sausage and your half bottle, that I may take away."

"It is not the fault of the Austrian if I finish them now," grumbled the municipal; "for if she could have murdered me on the 10th of August she would have done so; thus the day when she 'sneezes in the sack' I shall be in the first rank, firm at my post." Morand turned pale as death. "Allons! Citizen Maurice," said Genevieve, "let us go where you promised to take us; here it seems as if I were a prisoner; I feel suffocated." Maurice conducted Genevieve and Morand out, when the sentinels, previously instructed by Louis, allowed them to pass without any difficulty. They installed themselves in a little passage on the upper story, so that the moment when the Queen, Madame Royale, or Madame Elizabeth ascended to the gallery, these august personages could not do otherwise than pass before them.

As the promenade was fixed for ten o'clock, and they had only a few minutes to wait, Maurice not only did not quit his friends, but farther, in order that the slightest suspicion might not be excited by this rather illegal proceeding, having met Agricola, he took him with him. It struck ten. "Open!" cried a voice from the base of the tower, which Maurice knew to be of that General Santerre. Immediately the guard assumed arms and closed the iron gratings; the sentinels also prepared arms. There was then heard in all the court a confused noise of iron, stones, and footsteps, which vividly impressed both Morand and Genevieve, for Maurice observed them both turn pale. "And all these precautions to guard three poor women," murmured Genevieve. "Yes," said Morand, endeavouring to smile; "if those who tempt them to escape were now here, and in our place saw what we see, it would disgust them with the trade."

"In fact," continued Genevieve, "I begin to think they will not save themselves."

"And I to hope," said Maurice, inclining towards the staircase as he spoke. "Attention," cried he; "here are the prisoners."

"Name them to me," said Genevieve, "for I do not know either of them."

"The two first who are ascending are the sister and daughter of Capet. The last one, preceded by a little dog, is Marie Antoinette." Genevieve made a step in advance. Morand, on the contrary, instead of looking at them, pressed himself close against the wall, his lips more livid and earthy than the stones of the keep.

Genevieve, with her white robe and bright pure eyes, appeared like an angel awaiting the prisoners to cheer them on their dark and dreary road, and to administer in passing a ray of comfort to their desolate and blighted hearts. Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale pursued their way, having only thrown a glance of astonishment at the strangers. No doubt the former imagined they were those whom the signals announced, for turning round quickly to Madame Royale, she pressed her hand, and while so doing, dropped her pocket handkerchief, as if to inform the Queen. "Pay attention, my sister," said she; "I have dropped my pocket handkerchief." And she passed on with the young princess.

The Queen, with panting breath, accompanied with a short dry cough, indicating ill health, stooped to pick up the handkerchief which had fallen at her feet, when her little dog, more agile than its mistress, seized it, and ran forward to convey it to Madame Elizabeth. The Queen continued her ascent slowly, and after some steps found herself in her turn before Genevieve, Morand, and the young municipal. "Flowers!" cried she; "oh! how long it is since I have seen any flowers. How deliciously they smell. You are happy to possess these flowers, Madame." Quick as the idea formed in her mind, prompted by these melancholy words, Genevieve extended her hand to offer her bouquet to the Queen.

Then Marie Antoinette raised her head, looked at her, and an almost imperceptible blush passed over her colourless face.

But by a natural movement from an habitual passive obedience to regulation, Maurice put out his hand to arrest the arm of Genevieve. The Queen then remained hesitating, when, looking at Maurice, she recognised him as the young municipal who had always spoken to her with so much firmness, but at the same time tempered with equal respect. "Is this forbidden, Monsieur-" said she. "No, no, Madame. Genevieve, you can offer your bouquet," said Maurice. "Oh! thanks, thanks, Monsieur," said the Queen with grateful acknowledgments; and bowing with gracious affability to Genevieve, the Queen extended her emaciated hand, and selected at hazard a single carnation from the mass of flowers. "Take all, madame, take all," timidly said Genevieve. "No," said the Queen, with a fascinating smile, "this bouquet may come perhaps from one you love. I will not deprive you of it." Genevieve blushed, and at this blush the Queen smiled. "Allons, allons! Citoyenne Capet," said Agricola, "you must continue your route." The Queen bowed, and ascended the steps, but before she disappeared, turned round and murmured-" The carnations smell very sweet, and she is very lovely."

"She has not seen me," murmured Morand, who, almost kneeling in the shade, had effectively escaped the notice of the Queen. "But you had a good view of her, had you not, Morand- had not you, Genevieve-" said Maurice, doubly happy, first from the sight he had procured his friends, and also that he had afforded ever so slight a gratification to the unhappy prisoner. "Oh! yes, yes," said Genevieve, "and were I to live for a thousand years, I should never forget her."

"And what do you think of her-"

"She is charming."

"And you, Morand-" Morand clasped his hands, but made no reply. "Tell me," said Maurice, in a whisper to Genevieve, "is it the Queen whom Morand worships-' Genevieve started, but recovering herself instantly, replied smilingly, "It really looks like it."

"You have not yet told me what you think of her, Morand," persisted Maurice. "I thought her very pale," replied he.

Maurice retook the aim of Genevieve, to descend towards the court. In the dark staircase it seemed to him that Genevieve kissed his hand. "What does that mean, Genevieve-"

"It means, Maurice, that I shall never forget, that to gratify a whim of mine you have risked your life."

"Oh!" said Maurice, "what exaggeration of danger, Genevieve. Between you and I, you well know that gratitude is not the sentiment I wish to inspire you with," Genevieve pressed his arm softly.

Morand followed with faltering steps.

On quitting the court, Louis came to identify the two visitors, who then left the Temple, but before quitting it Genevieve made Maurice promise to dine the next day in the old Hue Saint Jacques.

CHAPTER XXII. SIMON THE CENSOR.

WHEN Maurice returned to his post, in a state of transcendent happiness, he found Tison's wife weeping. "What have they done to you now, mother-" asked Maurice. "All this makes me furious," replied the gaoleress. "What-"

"Because there is nothing but injustice for poor people in this world."

"But how-"

"You are rich, you are a bourgeois, you come here only for a day, and they permit pretty women to visit you here, who present bouquets to the prisoners; whilst I who nestle everlastingly in this dove-cot am not allowed to see my poor Sophie." Maurice took her hand and slipped into it an assignat of ten livres. "There, good woman, take that, and do not despair. Mon Dieu! the Austrian will not last for ever."

"Ten livres," said the gaoleress, "that is kind of you; but I would rather have even a papilotte that had curled my poor girl's hair." As she finished these words, Simon, who was then coming up, heard them, and saw the gaoleress place in her pocket the money Maurice had given her. We will mention what sort of a temper Simon was in. As he entered the court he encountered Louis. Now a decided antipathy existed between these two men. This hatred was less induced by the violent scenes with which our readers are already familiar, than by the difference of race, an everlasting source of detestation, which, however mysterious it may at first appear, is easily explained. Simon was hideous, Louis handsome; Simon was low, Louis the very opposite; Simon was a republican bully, Louis one of those ardent patriots who had sacrificed everything to the revolution; and then, if they must come to blows, Simon instinctively felt that the fist of the fop lost none of its elegance when Maurice had decreed him to a plebian punishment.

Simon, on perceiving Louis, stopped short, and turned pale. "It is still this battalion that mounts guard," growled he. "Well," said a grenadier, who overheard this apostrophe, "one is as good as another, it seems to me." Simon drew a pencil from his pocket, and pretended to note down something on a piece of paper almost as black as his own hands. "Ah!" said Louis, "you know how to write, then, Simon, since you are tutor to young Capet- Look, citizens, upon my honour he takes notes; it is Simon the Censor." A universal shout of laughter proceeded from the ranks of the young national guards, almost all men of education, at the ridiculous title bestowed upon the wretched cobbler. "Very well, very well," said he, grinding his teeth, and colouring with rage; "they say you have permitted strangers to enter the keep, and that without the consent of the Commune. Very well, I am going to draw out the proces-verbal for the municipal."

"At least he knows how to write that," said Louis; "it is Maurice, you know, brave Simon-Maurice with the Iron Hand, you remember that." At this moment Morand and Genevieve went out. At this sight, Simon rushed into the keep, at the very moment, as we have said, when Maurice, by the way of consoling her, presented the woman Tison with the assignat for ten livres. Maurice paid no attention to the presence of this miserable wretch, whom by a natural instinct he always avoided if he by any chance encountered him, regarding him in the light of a disgusting and venomous reptile. "Ah, well!" said Simon to Tison's wife; "so you wish to bring yourself to be guillotined, citoyenne-"

"I!" said the woman, who had just dried her eyes with her apron; "and why is that-"

"Why! because you receive money from the municipal for allowing aristocrats entrance to the Austrian."

"I!" said, the woman Tison; "be silent, you are mad!"

"This shall be consigned to the proces-verbal," said Simon, emphatically. "Well, then, they are friends of the municipal Maurice, one of the best patriots that ever existed."

"Conspirators, I tell you; besides, the Commune shall be informed; it will judge for itself."

"Allons; you mean to denounce me, then, spy of the police!"

"Exactly so, if you do not denounce yourself."

"Denounce what- what do you wish me to denounce-"

"All that has happened, then."

"But nothing has happened."

"Where were these aristocrats-"

"There, upon the staircase."

"Has Capet's wife ascended the stairs-"

"Yes."

"And they spoke to her-"

"They exchanged two words."

"Two words! and what perfume of this aristocrat's do I smell here-'' "It is the scent of the carnations."

"Carnations! what carnations-"

"Why, the citoyenne had a bunch of them, which perfumed the whole place."

"What citoyenne-"

"The one who saw the Queen pass."

"You see plainly-and tell the Queen so-that conversing with these aristocrats will be your ruin. But what is this I am treading upon-" continued Simon, stooping down. "Ah!" said the woman Tison, "it is a flower, a carnation; it must have fallen from the hand of the Citoyenne Dixmer, when Marie Antoinette took one from her bouquet."

"The woman Capet took a flower from the Citoyenne Dixmer's bouquet-" said Simon. "Yes, and it was given her by me," said Maurice, in a loud and menacing tone, who had been for some moments listening to this colloquy till his patience was nearly exhausted. "It is all very well, it is all very well; one sees what one does see, and one knows what one says," growled Simon, who still held in his hand the carnation crushed by his huge foot. "And I also know one thing," replied Maurice, "which I am now going to tell you; it is that you have nothing whatever to do in this keep, and that your honourable post of tormentor is down there with the little Capet, whom I would, for your own sake, recommend you not to chastise to-day, as I am here to defend him."

"Do you threaten me- do you call me tormentor-" cried Simon, crushing the flower in his hand. "Ah! we shall see if it is permitted these aristocrats-Why, what can this be-"

"What-" asked Maurice. "That I feel in this carnation- Ah! ah!" The eyes of Maurice were transfixed with astonishment, as Simon drew from the calyx of the flower a small paper, rolled with the most exquisite care, which had been artistically introduced into the centre of the clustering leaves. "Oh! mon Dieu!" said Maurice, "what can this mean-"

"We will know, we will know," said Simon, approaching the window. "Ah! you and your friend Louis told me I did not know how to read. Well! you shall see." Louis had calumniated Simon; he had learned both to read and write. But the billet was so minute that Simon was obliged to have recourse to his spectacles. He consequently placed it on the window, while he proceeded to take an inventory of the contents of his pockets; but while thus engaged, the Citizen Agricola opened the door of the ante-chamber exactly facing the little window, thereby causing a current of air, which blew away the little paper, light as a feather from a bird's wing, so that when Simon, after a momentary exploration, had discovered his spectacles, placed them on his nose, and turned himself round, his search was useless-the paper had disappeared. "There was a paper here," screamed Simon, crimson with rage; "there was a paper here. Look to yourself, citizen municipal, for it must and shall be found." And he descended precipitately, leaving Maurice in a state of stupefaction. Ten minutes afterwards three members of the Commune entered the keep. The Queen was still upon the platform, and strict orders had been issued that she should remain in total ignorance of all that had just occurred. The members of the Commune desired to be conducted to her presence. The first object which met their view was the crimson carnation, which she still retained in her hand. They regarded her with surprise, arid approaching her,-" Give us this flower," said the president of the deputation. The Queen, who had not previously noticed this interruption, started, and hesitated. "Surrender your flower, madame," said Maurice, in terror, "I entreat you." The Queen tendered them the carnation. The president took it and retired, followed by his colleagues, into a neighbouring apartment, to make an examination, and draw up the proces-verbal. They opened the flower-it was empty. Maurice breathed afresh. "Wait a moment," said one of the members, "the heart of the carnation has been removed. The socket is empty, it is true, but in this socket, most unquestionably, a letter has been introduced."

"I am quite ready and willing," said Maurice, "to furnish all necessary explanation; "but first of all, I request that I may be arrested."

"It would not be right to avail ourselves of your proposition," said the president. "You are known as a staunch patriot. Citizen Lindey."

"And I will answer with my life for the friends I had the imprudence to bring with me."

"Answer for no one," replied the procurator.

A great conversation was now heard in the court. It was Simon, who, having long, and vainly sought for the little billet wafted away by the wind, now went to inform Santerre that an attempt had been made to carry off the Queen, with all the accessories which the charms of his excited imagination could lend to such an event. Santerre was in great haste-he investigated the Temple and changed the guard, to the great disgust of Louis, who strongly protested against this offence offered to his battalion. "Ah! vile cobbler," said he to Simon, menacing him with his sabre, "I have you to thank for this; but only wait a little, I will have my revenge, and pay you in your own coin."

"I think rather that the nation will pay you," said the shoemaker, rubbing his hands. "Citizen Maurice," said Santerre, "hold yourself in readiness for the command of the Commune, who will examine you."

"I await your orders, commandant; but I have already told you I desire to be arrested, and I again repeat my former request."

"Wait, wait," murmured Simon, sullenly; "since you feel so sure, we will soon settle that business for you." And he went to find the woman Tison.

CHAPTER XXIII. THE GODDESS REASON.

THEY SEARCHED during the whole day in the court, in the garden and its environs, for the little billet which had caused all this tumult, and which they no longer doubted contained the whole plot. They interrogated the Queen, after having first separated her from her daughter and sister, but elicited nothing more from her than having, on the staircase, encountered a young woman carrying a bouquet, she had drawn a single flower from the centre. "Had she not plucked this flower with the consent of the municipal Maurice-" She had nothing more to tell. This was the truth in all its force and simplicity. This was all reported to Maurice, and he in his turn declared the deposition of the Queen to be quite correct. "But," said the president, "there was still a plot."

"Impossible," said Maurice; "I was dining at Madame Dixmer's, and proposed that she should see the prisoners, hearing her remark she had never done so; but neither the day nor the manner of so doing was arranged."

"But the flowers were purchased," said the president; "the bouquet had been made beforehand."

"Not at all; I myself purchased these flowers from a flower-girl, who offered them to us at the corner of La Rue des Vieilles-Audriettes."

"But at least this flower-girl presented the bouquet to you-"

"No, citizen; I selected it myself from ten or twelve others. Certainly, I purchased the most beautiful."

"But was there a possibility of secreting this billet on your road to the tower-"

"Impossible, citizen. I never quitted Madame Dixmer's side for a moment, and to perform the operation named on each flower-for remark that every flower, according to Simon's account, contained a like billet-would at least occupy half a day or more."

"But, in short, could not two prepared billets have been placed in the flowers-"

"It was in my presence the prisoner took one at hazard, after having declined the rest."

"Then, in your opinion, Citizen Lindey, there was not a plot at all-"

"If it were a plot," replied Maurice, "and I am the first not only to believe but to affirm it, my friends were not concerned in it. However, as the nation must necessarily experience alarm, I offer security by constituting myself prisoner."

"Not at all," said Santerre, "this act alone is sufficient proof. If you constitute yourself prisoner to answer for your friends, I constitute myself prisoner to answer for you. The thing is simple enough. There is no positive denunciation. Is it not so- No one will know what has passed. Inspect every occurrence more strictly, redouble your own vigilance especially, and we shall arrive at the bottom of this thing by avoiding publicity."

"Thanks, commandant," said Maurice; "but I reply to you as you would answer were you in my place. We ought not to stop here, it is necessary that the flower-girl should be discovered."

"The flower-girl is far away, but be perfectly easy on that point; she shall be sought after. As for you, watch your friends, whilst I will guard the prison correspondence." No one had thought of Simon, but he had formed his own project. He arrived towards the conclusion of the sitting, and learned the decision of the Commune. "Ah! then, it only requires a regular denunciation," said he, "to settle this affair. Wait five minutes and I will bring it to you."

"Who is it-" said the president. "It is," said Simon, "the courageous Citoyenne Tison who denounces the secret practices of that partisan of aristocracy, Maurice, and the intrigues of another equally false patriot, one of his friends, named Louis."

"Take care, take care, Simon; your zeal for the nation perhaps misleads you. Maurice and Louis are tried and proved patriots."

"That will be seen at the tribunal," replied Simon. "Consider well, Simon; this will be a disgraceful proceeding for all true patriots."

"Disgraceful or not, what difference will that make to me- Do I dread disgrace- They shall at least learn all the truth concerning those who wish to betray them."

"Then, you persist in a denunciation in the name of the woman Tison-"

"I will denounce myself, even this very night, to the Cordeliers, and you among the rest, Citizen President, if you are still unwilling to command the arrest of the traitor Maurice."

"Well, let it be so," said the president, who, according to custom in these miserable times, trembled before those who clamoured the loudest, "they shall be arrested." While this decision was forming against him, Maurice had returned to the Temple, where the following billet awaited him:- "Our guard being violently broken up, I shall not be able, in all probability, to see you before to-morrow morning. Come, then, and breakfast with me; during that meal you shall give me a true and particular account of the plots and conspiracies discovered by Simon.-Yours faithfully,

Maurice replied- "There is nothing new, so sleep in peace to-night, and breakfast without me to-morrow, as, on reviewing the incidents of the day, I find I shall not, in all probability, be able to leave till noon.-Yours faithfully, "MAURICE. "P.S.-As to the rest, I believe the conspiracy was only a false alarm, after all." Louis had, indeed, left at one o'clock, with the whole of his battalion, thanks to the brutal conduct of the shoemaker; he, however, consoled himself with a quatrain, and went to visit Arthemise. Arthemise was delighted to see Louis. The weather, as we have said, was magnificent, she therefore proposed a walk along the quay, to which Louis of course assented. They had walked some distance, discoursing on politics, Louis recounting his expulsion from the Temple, and vainly endeavouring to divine the cause, when, on reaching the height of La Rue des Barres, they perceived a flower-girl, who, like themselves, remounted the bank to the right of the Seine. "Ah! Citizen Louis," said Arthemise, "I hope you are going to present me with a bouquet-"

"Two, if you wish it," said Louis; and they both redoubled their speed to overtake the flower-girl, who walked at a rapid pace. On arriving at the bridge Marie, the young girl stopped, and stooping under the parapet, emptied the contents of her basket into the river. The flowers separated, whirled round for an instant in the air, whilst the bouquets, dragged down by their own weight, fell more quickly, till at last both flowers and bouquets floated upon the surface, following the course of the water. "Stop!" said Arthemise, regarding the flower-girl thus strangely occupied; "it is said-but yes-but no-but it-ah! this is strange." The flower-girl placed her finger on her lips, as if to entreat her silence, and disappeared. "Who is this, then-" said Louis; "do you know this mortal goddess-"

"No; I fancied at first-but certainly I am deceived."

"She, however, made a sign to you," persisted Louis. "But why is she a flower-girl this morning-" said Arthemise to herself. "You acknowledge, then, that you know her, Arthemise-" said Louis. "Yes," replied Arthemise, "she is a flowergirl I sometimes deal with."

"At all events," said Louis, "she has a strange method of disposing of her merchandise." And both, after having looked for the last time at the flowers, which, already arrived at the wooden bridge, had received a fresh impetus from the arm of the river which passed under its arches, continued their route towards the Rapee, where they anticipated dining tete-a-tete. This incident was forgotten for the moment, but as it was at least singular, and of rather a mysterious character, it vividly impressed Louis's poetical imagination. In the meantime, the denunciation brought by Tison's wife against Maurice and Louis caused a great tumult at the club of the Jacobins; and Maurice was informed at the Temple by the Commune that his safety was endangered by the public indignation. This was a recommendation to the young municipal to conceal himself if he were guilty; but with conscious rectitude, Maurice remained at the Temple, where he was found at his post when they came to arrest him. At the same time, Maurice was interrogated. Remaining firm in his resolution not to endanger the safety of his friends, in whom he felt the most implicit confidence, Maurice yet was not the man to sacrifice himself by a ridiculous silence worthy of a hero of romance, and therefore demanded the flowergirl should be tried. It was five o'clock in the afternoon when Louis returned home, and heard, at the same moment, the arrest of Maurice, and also the demand made by him. The flower-girl of the bridge Marie instantly recurred to his mind like a sudden revelation. This singular individual casting her flowers into the Seine; the coincidence of quarters; the half admission of Arthemise; all these facts combined, instinctively convinced him this was the solution of the mystery demanded by Maurice. He bounded from his chamber, flew rather than ran down four flights of stairs, and precipitated himself into the presence of the Goddess Reason, who was engaged in embroidering golden stars on a robe of azure blue. It was her robe of divinity. "A truce to the stars, chere amie," said Louis; "they have arrested Maurice, and in all human probability, before evening, I shall share the same fate."

"Maurice arrested!"

"Mon Dieu! yes. In these times nothing is more common than the recurrence of these events; but they excite little attention, because they come in troops, that is all. Almost all great events originate in trifles. Never neglect trifles. Who was that flowergirl we met this morning, chere amie'-' Arthemise started. What flower-girl-"

"The one who so recklessly cast her flowers into the Seine."

"Eh! mon Dieu!" said Arthemise; "is this circumstance, then, so serious, that you return to urge me on that point-"

"So serious, chere amie, that I entreat you to answer my question without loss of time."

"Mon ami, I cannot do so."

"Goddess, with you nothing is impossible."

"I am in honour bound to keep silence."

"And I am bound in honour to make you speak."

"But why do you insist upon it thus-"

"Why-Corblieu! that Maurice may not have his throat cut."

"Mon Dieu! Maurice guillotined-" cried the young woman, much alarmed. "Unless you speak; indeed, unless you dare to reply while my head still remains upon my shoulders."

"Ah! No, no," said Arthemise, "it would be utter ruin." At this moment Louis's official rushed into the apartment, "Ah! citizen," cried he, "save yourself! save yourself!"

"And why-" demanded Louis. "Because the gendarmes have arrived; and whilst they were forcing an entrance, I gained the next house by the roof, and hastened to prevent your return." Arthemise uttered a heartrending cry, for she truly loved Louis. "Arthemise," said Louis, "do you really place the' life of a flower-girl in comparison with that of Maurice, and of your lover- If it is so, I declare to you that I no longer regard you as the Goddess Reason, but shall proclaim you the Goddess Folly."

"Poor Heloise!" exclaimed the ex-danseuse of the Opera; "if I betray you, it is not my fault."

"Well, well, chere amie," said Louis, presenting a paper to Arthemise, "you have already favoured me with her Christian name, oblige me now with her surname and address."

"Oh! write it, never, never!" cried Arthemise; "I would rather tell you."

"Tell me, then, and rest assured I will not forget." And Arthemise, in an agitated voice, gave the name and address of the false flower-girl to Louis. "She is called Heloise Tison, and lives, Rue des Nonandieres, No. 24." At this name, Louis uttered an exclamation, and fled. He had not reached the corner of the street when a letter was delivered to Arthemise. It only contained three lines. "Not a word concerning me, dear friend; the revelation of my name would infallibly ruin me. Wait till to-morrow. I quit Paris this night. Thine,-HELOISE."

"Oh! mon Dieu!" cried the future goddess, "if I could only have divined this, I would have waited till to-morrow," and she glanced from the window to recall Louis, if there was yet time, but he had disappeared.

CHAPTER XXIV. THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.

WE HAVE ALREADY said that in a few hours the news of this event had circulated through Paris. In short, there were at this epoch various indiscretions easy to comprehend on the part of a government of which the political schemes were concocted and unravelled in the street. This rumour gradually gained ground, till it at length reached the old Rue Saint Jacques, and two hours after the arrest of Maurice, they heard of his detention. Thanks to the activity of Simon, the details of the plot were quickly reported beyond the Temple; but, as of course every one added to the original, the news arrived in an unintelligible form at the master tanner's. One said a poisoned flower had been conveyed to the Queen, by means of which the Austrian would stupefy her guards, and thus be enabled to escape from the Temple; others said the report originated from certain suspicions entertained of the fidelity of the battalion dismissed by Santerre on the preceding evening. Already more victims were designated for the hatred of the people.

But the inhabitants of the old Rue Saint Jacques were not, of course, deceived as to the real nature of this event, and Morand on one side, Dixmer on the other, went out immediately, leaving Genevieve a victim to the most violent despair. If this misfortune had befallen Maurice, it was she who had been the sole cause of it. It was her hand that conducted this young man blindfold to the entrance of the dungeon which now enclosed him, and which, in all human probability, he would quit only for the scaffold. But, under any circumstances, Maurice should not lose his head on account of his devotion to her wishes. If Maurice were condemned, she would accuse herself before the tribunal, and would then confess all. She would take all the responsibility upon herself, to feel assured that, at the expense of her life, she might save Maurice. And Genevieve, instead of feeling any fear of death, experienced, on the contrary, almost a degree of happiness at the idea of dying for Maurice.

On quitting the house, Dixmer and Morand separated, the former took the road to La Rue de la Corderie, the latter hastened to La Rue des Nonandieres. Arriving at the end of the bridge Marie, Morand perceived a crowd of idlers and common people, at that time stationed at Paris, had congregated at the scene of the late event, as crows assemble on the field of battle. At this sight, Morand stopped short, a universal tremor shook his frame, and he leant for support against the parapet. At length, after a few seconds, he regained the almost miraculous power which under trying circumstances he exercised over his feelings, and mingling with the various groups, commenced his inquiries, and learnt that a short time before they had taken from La Rue des Nonandieres, 24, a young woman, most certainly guilty of the crime of which she stood then accused, as they surprised her while occupied in forming these packets. Morand inquired before what club the poor girl would be interrogated, and found they had conducted her to the section Mere, where he immediately followed her.

The club was thronged, but by making free use of his elbows and fists, he succeeded in forcing an entrance. The first sight he encountered was the tall and noble figure of Maurice, standing haughtily before the bench of the accused, and annihilating Simon by his looks.

THE FIRST SIGHT HE ENCOUNTERED WAS THE TALL AND NOBLE FIGURE OF MAURICE, STANDING HAUGHTILY BEFORE THE BENCH OF THE ACCUSED. "Yes, citizens," cried Simon, "the Citoyenne Tison accuses the Citizen Lindey and the Citizen Louis. The Citizen Lindey mentions a flower-girl, upon whom he endeavours to cast all the blame; but, as I told you before, the flower-girl will not return, or be found again, and that it is a vile plot formed by a body of aristocrats, who toss back the ball from one to the other, like cowards, as they are. You have seen, besides, that the Citizen Louis had decamped when his presence was required; and he will return no more than the flower-girl."

"Then you have lied, Simon," cried a furious voice: "and he will return, for he is here." And Louis strode into the hull. "Room for me," said he, pushing aside the spectators. "Room for me." And he placed himself near Maurice.

The entrance of Louis, so natural, and without affectation, yet combining all the freedom and strength inherent in the character of the young man, produced an immense effect upon the Tribunes, who instantly greeted him with cries of applause. Maurice contented himself by smiling and holding out his hand to his friend-the friend concerning whom he had said to himself, "I shall not long stand alone at the bench of the accused." The spectators gazed with visible interest on these two handsome young men, accused (like a demon envious of their youth and beauty) by the foul shoemaker of the Temple. He soon perceived the unfavourable impression he had made, and determined to strike the last blow. "Citizens!" roared he; "I demand that the generous Citoyenne Tison should be heard, that she may speak, and bring forward her accusation."

"Citizens," said Louis, "I demand that the flower-girl, who is about to be arrested, and who no doubt will be brought before you, may be first heard."

"No, no," said Simon; "it is just some false evidence-some partisan of the aristocrats. Besides, the woman Tison is most impatient to forward the means of justice." During this time Louis took the opportunity to whisper to Maurice. "Yes," cried the Tribunes; "the deposition of the woman Tison; let her depose."

"Is the woman Tison in the hall-" demanded the president. "Without doubt she is here," cried Simon. "Citoyenne Tison, answer for yourself."

"I am here, president; but if I depose, will they give me back my daughter-" said the gaoleress. "Your daughter has nothing, at all to do with the affair with which we are at present engaged," said the president. "Make your deposition first, and then appeal to the Commune to redeem your child."

"Do you hear-" said Simon; "the citizen president commands you to make your deposition. Do it quickly."

"A moment," said the president, turning towards Maurice, astonished at the calmness of a man generally so impetuous. "One moment. Citizen municipal, have you nothing to say first-"

"No, citizen president-except that before Simon attached the words 'traitor and coward' to a man like myself, it would have been better to have waited till he was more correctly informed on that subject, that is all."

"You say that- you say that-" replied Simon, with the blustering accent peculiar to the plebeian Parisian. "I say, Simon," replied Maurice, with more of sorrow than anger, "that you will experience your punishment when you see who it is will presently be brought here."

"Who will arrive here, then-" demanded Simon. "Citizen president," said Maurice, without deigning to notice the question of his hideous accuser, "I unite with my friend Louis, in demanding that the young girl about to be arrested may be heard before this poor woman is compelled to speak, who, no doubt, has been prompted to this deposition."

"Listen, citoyenne," said Simon; "listen. They say down there that you are a false witness."

"I a false witness!" cried the woman Tison. "You shall see-you shall see. Wait."

"Citizen," said Maurice, "in pity desire this woman to remain silent."

"Ah! you are afraid," said Simon; "you are afraid."

"Citizen president, I require the deposition of the woman Tison."

"Yes! yes! the deposition!" cried the Tribunes. "Silence!" cried the president; "the Commune returns." At this moment the sound of a voiture was heard rolling outside, amidst the noise of shouts and arms.

Simon turned uneasily towards the door. "Quit the box," said the president to him; "you have nothing more to tell." Simon descended.

At this moment some gendarmes entered, with the tide of curious idlers, which soon ebbed, and a woman was pushed towards the judgment hall. "Is it her-" whispered Louis to Maurice. "Yes it is," replied Maurice. "Miserable woman, she is utterly ruined and lost."

"The flower-girl! the flower-girl!" murmured the Tribunes, whose curiosity was raised to the highest pitch. "Is this the flower-girl-"

"I demand, before everything else," roared Simon, "the deposition of the woman Tison. Yon commanded her to depose, president, and she has not yet done so." The woman was recalled, and entered upon a dreadful and circumstantial deposition. The flower-girl, it was true, was alone criminal, but Maurice and Louis were her accomplices. This denunciation produced an incredible effect upon the public mind, and now, indeed, Simon was in the ascendant. "Gendarmes," said the president, "bring forward the flower-girl."

"Oh! this is frightful," said Maurice, concealing his face in his hands.

The flower-girl was called and placed before the tribune, exactly opposite to Tison's wife, whose testimony had convicted her of a capital crime the moment before. She raised her veil. "Heloise!" cried the woman Tison; "my child. You here-"

"Yes, ma mere," replied the young woman in a low tone. "And why do you enter between two gendarmes-"

"Because I am accused, ma mere."

"You! accused, and by whom-" cried the startled woman. "By you, ma mere." A frightful silence, like the precursor of death, fell suddenly upon this noisy assemblage, while the miserable feeling excited by this affecting scene weighed down every heart. "Her daughter," was whispered, as if by voices in the distance, "her daughter!" Unhappy woman! Maurice and Louis regarded both the accuser and the accused with sentiments of deep commiseration, mingled with respectful pity for their unhappy fate. Simon, anxious to witness the conclusion of this tragedy, in which he hoped both Maurice and Louis would remain actors, endeavoured to concentrate the attention of the woman, who gazed wildly around. "What is your name, citoyenne-" said the president to the young girl, himself affected at the scene. "Heloise Tison, citizen."

"What is your age-"

"Nineteen years."

"Where do you reside-"

"Rue des Nonandieres, 24."

"Did you sell the Citizen Lindey, whom you now see on the bench, a bouquet of carnations this morning-" The young girl turned round and looked at Maurice. "Yes, citizen, I did," said she.

The mother herself gazed at her daughter, her eyes dilated with terror. "Are you aware that every carnation contained a billet addressed to the widow of Capet-"

"I know it," replied the accused.

A movement of horror and admiration spread itself through the hall. "Why did you offer these carnations to the Citizen Maurice-"

"Because I perceived that he wore the scarf of a municipal, and I imagined he was going to the Temple."

"Who are your accomplices-"

"I have none."

"What! have you then concocted this plot alone-"

"If it is a plot, I alone am concerned in it."

"But the Citizen Maurice- "Did he know that the flowers contained these billets-"

"Yes."

"The Citizen Maurice is a municipal, the Citizen Maurice could converse with the Queen at any hour of the day or the night. The Citizen Maurice, if he wished to say anything to the Queen, had no occasion to write, he could speak."

"And you do not know the Citizen Maurice Lindey-"

"I have sometimes seen him come to the Temple, whilst I was there, with my poor mother, but I only know him by sight."

"Do you see, miserable wretch," said Louis, shaking his ringer at Simon, who, dismayed at the turn of affairs, with his head lowered, was attempting to sneak away unperceived, "do you see what you have done-" Every one regarded Simon with looks of deep indignation.

The president continued. "Since you made up these bouquets, you, of course, are aware that each one contained a paper, and therefore must know also what was written upon that paper-"

"Of course I know it."

"Well, then, tell us what it was-"

"Citizen," said the young girl, with firmness, "I have told all I either can or will tell."

"Then you refuse to answer this question-"

"Yes."

"Do you know to what you expose yourself-"

"Yes."

"You trust perhaps to your youth and beauty-"

"I trust in God."

"Citizen Maurice Lindey, Citizen Hyacinth Louis," said the president, "you are free. The Commune recognises your innocence, and admires your loyal spirit. Gendarmes, conduct the Citoyenne Heloise to the prison of the section." At these words the woman Tison seemed to awake, and, uttering a piercing cry, attempted to rush forward once more to embrace her daughter, but was withheld by the guards. "I forgive you, mother," said the young girl, as they led her away.

The woman Tison rushed forward, uttered a savage roar, and fell down as if dead. "Noble girl!" murmured Morand, filled with emotions too miserable to describe.

THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON ROUGE.

CHAPTER XXV. THE BILLET.

IMMEDIATELY following the events we are about to relate, the last scene of the drama unrolled itself, as a sad finale to this sudden change in the wheel of fortune. The woman Tison, struck as by a thunderbolt at what had occurred, and totally abandoned by those who had escorted her (for there is something even revolting in an involuntary crime, and it certainly amounts to a great crime, when, a mother condemns her own daughter to an ignominious death, were it even from excess of zealous patriotism)-the woman after remaining for some time in a state of insensibility, at length raised her head, looked wildly around, and finding herself deserted and alone, uttered a loud cry, and rushed towards the door.

At this door a few idlers more curious than the rest still remained congregated together, who dispersed when they beheld her, and pointing with their fingers, said one to another, "Do you see that woman- It is she who denounced her daughter." The wretched woman uttered a cry of despair, and rushed towards the Temple. But on reaching the third of la Rue Michel le Comte, a man placed himself in front of her, impeding her progress, and concealing his face and figure in his mantle. "Are you content," said he, "now you have killed your child-"

"Killed my child!" cried the poor woman, "killed my child! no, no, it is not possible."

"It is so, notwithstanding, for your daughter has been arrested."

"And where have they taken her-"

"To the Conciergerie; from there she will be sent to the Revolutionary Tribunal, and you know what becomes of those who are sent there."

"Stand aside," said the woman Tison," and let me pass."

"Where are you going-"

"To the Conciergerie."

"What are you going there for-"

"To see her again."

"They will not allow you to enter."

"They will permit me to lie at the door, to live there, to sleep there. I will remain there till she goes out, and then at least I shall see her once more."

"Suppose some one promised to restore you your child-"

"What is that you say-"

"I ask you, supposing a man were to promise to give you back your child, would you do what this man required of you in return-"

"Everything for my child; all for my Heloise!" cried the woman, wringing her hands. "All! all! all!"

"Listen," said the Unknown. "It is God who now punishes you."

"And for what-"

"For the tortures you have inflicted so mercilessly on a poor mother as unhappy as yourself."

"Of whom do you speak- What do you mean-"

"You have often driven the unhappy prisoner to the very verge of despair, where you are yourself at this moment, by your revelations and brutalities. God now punishes you for all this by conducting this daughter, whom you love so much, to the scaffold."

"You said there was some man who could save her, where is this man- what does he want- what will he demand-"

"This man requires that you cease to persecute the Queen, that you demand pardon for the outrages already committed against her, and if at any time you perceive that this woman, who is also a weeping, despairing mother, by any unforeseen circumstance, or by some miracle from Heaven, is upon the point of saving herself, instead of opposing her flight, you do all in your power to aid and abet it."

"Listen, citizen," said the woman Tison.

You are the man-is it not so-"

"Well."

"It is you who promise to save my child-" The Unknown remained silent. "Will you engage to do it- Will you promise; will you swear it- Answer me."

"All that a man can do to save a woman I will do to save your daughter."

"He cannot save her," cried the woman, uttering piercing cries, "he cannot save her. When he promised me he lied."

"Do what you can for the Queen, and I will do all in my power for your daughter."

"What care I for the Queen- She is not my daughter. If they must decapitate some one it shall not be my daughter, it shall be her. They may cut my throat so that they spare my child's. They may lead me to the guillotine, so that they do not harm a hair of her head, and I will go there singing- "Ah! ca ira, ca ira, ca ira." And she commenced singing in a frightful voice, then suddenly stopped short, and burst into a fit of frenzied laughter. The man in the mantle himself appeared alarmed at this burst of folly, and retreated a step or two from her. "Ah! you shall not escape me thus," said the woman Tison in despair, and retaining her hold of his mantle; "you shall not at one moment say 'do this, and I will rescue your child,' and afterwards say 'perhaps.' Will you save her-"

"Yes."

"How-"

"The day she is conducted from the Conciergerie to the scaffold."

"But why wait-why not to-night- this evening-this moment, even-"

"Because I cannot do so."

"Ah! you know you cannot, you well know you cannot," cried the woman Tison; "but as for me, I can."

"What can you do-"

"I can persecute the prisoner, I can watch the Queen, as you term her, aristocrat as you are, and I can enter the prison any hour of the day or night. All this will I do. We will see how much she shall escape; we will see. Yes, we shall see, since they will not save my daughter, who ought to do so if they could. Head for head. Do you like that- Marie-Antoinette has been Queen. Heloise Tison is only a poor girl. I know all this very well; but on the guillotine they are equals-all distinction ceases there."

"Well, it may be so," said the man in the mantle. "But you perform your part, and I will fulfil mine."

"Swear."

"I swear it."

"By what do you swear-"

"Anything you choose."

"Have you a child-"

"No."

"Well then," said the woman, in a disappointed tone, "by what can you swear-"

"Listen. I swear by God."

"Bah!" exclaimed the woman Tison, "you know very well they have demolished the ancient and have not yet decided on the new."

"I swear by the tomb of my father."

"Swear not by a tomb, for that is prophetic of evil. Oh, my God! my God! When I think that perhaps in three days I may swear by the tomb of my child also. My daughter! My poor Heloise!" cried the woman Tison, frantically; till at the sound of her voice, raised to a shrill scream, several windows were opened. At sight of the opened windows, another man, who seemed to detach himself from the wall, advanced towards the first. "There is nothing can be done with this woman," said he; "she is mad."

"No: she is a mother," replied the former, and dragged his companion away. When she saw them leaving her, the woman Tison again returned to the subject. "Where are you going-" cried she. "Are you going to rescue Heloise- Wait for me then-I will go with you. Wait for me; do wait for me." And the poor wretch followed them, screaming, till at the corner of the nearest street she lost sight of them altogether; and not knowing which way to turn, she remained for an instant undecided, looking on every side, when seeing only in the silence and darkness of the night a double symbol of death, she uttered a cry of horror and fell on the pavement without sense or motion. The clock struck ten. During this time, and whilst the same hour was resounding from the Temple clock, the Queen as usual sat in her chamber, between her daughter and her sister. Near her was a lighted lamp, concealed from the sight of the municipal, by Madame Royale, who pretended to embrace her mother, who was reading over again a small billet written on the smallest piece of paper imaginable, and in characters so minute, that her eyes, already nearly blinded by her scalding tears, scarcely retained strength to decipher it. The billet contained the following lines: "To-morrow, Tuesday, demand permission to walk in the garden; this will be accorded without any difficulty, as an order has been issued to grant you this favour whenever you think proper to solicit it. After two or three turns, feign to feel fatigued, approach the cabin, and ask the widow Plumeau to allow you to sit down. Then, in a moment, pretend to feel worse, and faint away. They will then close all the doors, that they may be able to render you assistance, and you will remain with Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale. Immediately the trap door of the cellar will open. Precipitate yourself, your sister and daughter through this aperture, and you are all three saved."

"Mon Dieu!" said Madame Royale, "our evil destiny tires in the pursuit."

"If this billet should prove only a trap," said Madame Elizabeth. "No, no," said the Queen, "these characters have always indicated to me the presence of a mysterious but equally brave and faithful friend."

"Is it the Chevalier-" demanded Madame Royale. "He himself," replied the Queen.

Madame Elizabeth clasped her hands. "Let us each read the billet again very softly," replied the Queen, "so that if one of us forget any particulars, the others can supply them." They all three re-read the letter, and had just finished so doing, when they heard the door of their chamber turn slowly on its hinges. The two princesses turned round; the Queen alone remained stationary, except by an imperceptible movement, she raised her hand to her hair and hid the billet in her head-dress. It was a municipal who opened the door. "What is your business, monsieur-" demanded Madame Elizabeth and Madame Royale, at the same moment. "Hum!" said the municipal, "it appears to me that you retire very late tonight-"

"Is there, then," said the Queen, with her usual dignity, "a new decree from the Commune, stating the hour at which I am to go to bed-"

"No, citoyenne," said the municipal; "but if necessary they will make one."

"In the meantime, monsieur," said Marie Antoinette, "respect-I do not say the chamber of the Queen-but that of a woman."

"Truly," growled the municipal, "these aristocrats always speak as if they were something-" But in the meantime, subdued by the haughty dignity of her prosperity, but which three years of suffering had calmed down, he withdrew. An instant afterwards the lamp was extinguished, and the three females retired in darkness, as usual.

The next morning at nine o'clock, the Queen having re-read the letter before she arose, in order that she might not misconstrue any of the instructions contained there, tore it into almost invisible fragments. She then hastily finished her toilet, awoke her sister, and entered the chamber of the princess. A minute afterwards she came out, and called the municipals on guard. "What do you want, citoyenne-" said one of them, appearing at the door, while the other did not even discontinue his breakfast to answer the royal appeal. "Monsieur," said Marie Antoinette," I have just left my daughter's chamber, and found her very ill. Her limbs are swollen for want of exercise; and you know, monsieur, it is I who have doomed her to this life of inaction. I received permission to walk in the garden, but in descending I must necessarily pass before the door of the room occupied by my husband in his lifetime. When I made the attempt my heart failed me, and I had not courage to do so, and have since limited my walks to the platform. Now, however, I find this exercise insufficient for my poor child. I therefore entreat you, Citizen municipal, in my name, to claim of General Santerre the renewal of this privilege." The Queen had pronounced these words in a manner at once so mild, yet dignified; had so strenuously avoided all allusions to anything that could wound the feelings of the Republican, that he who had entered her presence with his head covered, as for the most part was the custom of these men, gradually raised the bonnet rouge, and when she had finished, said, bowing respectfully to her- "Rest assured, madame, your petition shall be laid before the Citizen General." Then on retiring, as if to convince himself he had yielded to justice rather than weakness, "It is just," said he, "after all; it is only right."

"What is just-" demanded the other municipal. "That this woman should be permitted to walk in the garden with her child, who is an invalid."

"Bah!" said the other; "when she asks to be allowed to walk from the Temple to la Place de la Revolution, that will be permitted her fast enough." The Queen heard these words, and turned very pale, but still drew from them fresh courage for the great attempt she meditated. The municipal finished his breakfast, and descended. The Queen requested she might take hers in her daughter's room, which was granted. Madame Royale, to confirm the statement concerning her ill health, did not quit her bed; the Queen and Madame Elizabeth remained near her.

At one o'clock, as usual, Santerre arrived. His coming was announced by the drums beating the march, and by the entrance of a fresh battalion, and other municipals, who came in their turn to relieve those on guard. When Sauterre had fully reviewed the battalion leaving, and the one about to take its place, and had paraded his large heavy-limbed horse round the court of the Temple, he stood still for a moment. This was for the purpose of receiving any claims, denunciations, or requests. The municipal, availing himself of this halt, approached him. "Well, what do you want-" said Santerre, brusquely. "Citizen," said the municipal, "I come to entreat on the part of the Queen-"

"Who is the Queen-" interrupted Sauterre. "True!" said the municipal, astonished at his own mistake. "What have I said-I must be mad- I came to speak on the part of Madame Veto."

"All in good time," said Santerre. "Now I understand you, what have you to say to me-"

"The young Veto is ill, it appears, from want of proper air and exercise."

"Well, is it necessary again to bring this before the public- The nation granted her permission to walk in the garden, and she refused it. Bon soir."

"That is exactly it. She regrets this now, and requests you will permit her to do so."

"There is no difficulty about that. You all hear," said Santerre, "that Capet's wife will come down to walk in the garden. Now," addressing the whole battalion, "take care she does not abuse this favour granted her by the nation, by making her escape over the wall; for if that happens I will cut off every one of your heads." A roar of laughter followed this pleasantry of the Citizen General. "Now that is settled," said Santerre, "adieu. I am going to the Convention. It appears they are about to reunite Roland and Barbaroux, and the question is to deliver their passport to another world." It was this intelligence that had put the Citizen General in such good humour. He then galloped away. The battalion just quitted guard followed him, then the municipals also gave place to those who had received Santerre's instructions respecting the Queen. One of the municipals who went up to Marie Antoinette perceived, while thanking him, that her daughter turned from red to pale, while the sister seemed engaged in thanks to God. "Ah!'' thought she, looking through the window towards Heaven, "your soul reposes there, seigneur; but will your terrible doom be allowed to fall heavily on us-"

"Thanks, monsieur," said she, with that fascinating smile which had proved the ruin of Bernane, and turned the heads of so many of his fellow-men; "thanks!" Then turning round to her little dog, who leapt after her, walking on his hind-legs, for he well understood from the looks of his mistress that something unusual was about to take place: "Come, Jet," said she, "we are going for a walk." The little animal began to frisk and jump, and, after looking at the municipal attentively, comprehending, no doubt, that from this man originated the intelligence which had made his mistress so happy, ran towards him, and, wagging his long and silky tail, ventured even to caress him. This man, who perhaps might be insensible to the prayers of a Queen, could not resist the caresses of a little dog. "If only on account of this little beast, you should go out more frequently, Citoyenne Capet. Humanity commands us to take care of every creature."

"At what hour shall we go out, monsieur-" demanded the queen. "Do you not think the sun would do us good-"

"You can go out when you please," said the municipal; "there has been no restriction on the subject. If you like to go out at mid-day, as that is the time they change the sentinels, there will be less bustle in the court."

"Then let it be at mid-day," said the Queen, pressing her hand to her side, to still the beating of her heart. And she regarded this man, who appeared to her less stern than his associates, and who, perhaps, for kindly yielding to the wishes of a prisoner, might fall a sacrifice to the conspiracy which they meditated. But at the moment when compassion was stealing over the heart of the woman, the mind of the Queen was aroused. She thought of the corpses of her faithful friends strewed upon the floors of the palace on the tenth of August; she recalled to memory the second of September, and the head of the Princess Lamballe, carried on a pike before her windows; she remembered the twenty-first of January, when her husband died upon the scaffold, the noise of drums extinguishing his feeble voice; then again she thought of her son, whose cries of distress had more than once reached her ears; and her heart became hardened. "Alas!" cried she, "misfortune is like the blood of the ancient Hydras-it is teemful of crops of future evils!"

CHAPTER XXVI. THE LITTLE DOG JET.

THE MUNICIPAL LEFT to call his colleagues, and to read the proces-verbal left by the former municipals. The Queen remained alone with her sister and child. They all three regarded each other. Then Madame Royale threw her arms round the Queen, and warmly embraced her. Madame Elizabeth approached her sister, and held out her hand. "Let us offer up our prayers to God," said the Queen, "but in a manner that no one hears us." It was one of those fatal epochs when prayer, that natural hymn of praise which God has implanted in every human heart, became suspicious in the eyes of these men, since prayer is an act of praise and acknowledgment for mercies received. But in the ideas of these guardians hope and gratitude afforded subject for inquietude, since the Queen could hope only for flight, and could thank God only for affording her the means of effecting it. This mental prayer concluded, all three remained without uttering a word.

Twelve o'clock struck, then three-quarters, then one. But the moment when the last stroke resounded from the bronze timbre, the noise of arms was heard on the spiral staircase ascending to the Queen. "They are relieving sentinels," said she; "they come to seek us." She saw her sister and daughter turn very pale. "Courage!" said she, trembling herself with emotion. "It is one o'clock," said a voice from below. "Let the prisoners descend."

"We are here, gentlemen," replied the Queen, who, with a sentiment almost of regret, embraced at a glance the black walls and the rude appurtenances which had been more or less the companions of her captivity.

The first wicket opened, they gained the corridor, which, being dark, enabled the three captives to conceal their emotions. Before them frolicked little Jet; but when they arrived at the second-that is to say, the door from which Marie Antoinette endeavoured to turn her eyes-the faithful little animal first placed his nose to the ground, then laid his head upon his paws, and gave utterance to a succession of plaintive cries, which terminated in a prolonged howl. The queen passed on quickly, not having strength sufficient to recall her dog, and supported herself against the wall; then essaying to advance again a few steps, her limbs refused their office, and she felt herself compelled to stop. Her sister and daughter approached her, and for a few moments the three females remained motionless, forming a melancholy group, the mother resting her face upon the head of her daughter, when little Jet rejoined them. "Well!" cried the voice, "do you or do you not mean to come down-"

"We are coming," said the municipal, who had remained standing, respecting this grief in all its simplicity. "Let us go now," said the Queen, as she prepared to descend.

When the prisoners had reached the bottom of the staircase, opposite the doer, under which the sun shed his rays of bright gold, the rolling of the drum was heard summoning the guard; then a profound silence, the effect of curiosity, ensued, and the massive door opened, revolving slowly upon its creaking hinges. A woman was seated on the ground, or rather on the corner of the stone contiguous to this door. It was the woman Tison, whom the Queen had not seen for four-and-twenty hours, and whose absence at supper the preceding evening, and at their morning's meal, had excited her surprise. The Queen already saw the light, the trees, the garden, and beyond the barrier which enclosed the garden her eyes eagerly sought the little hut of the canteen, where her friends so impatiently awaited her coming; when, at the sound of footsteps, the woman removed her hands, and the Queen beheld a pale and care-worn face beneath a mass of gray dishevelled locks. The change wrought in these few hours was so great that the Queen stood overwhelmed with astonishment. Then, with the deliberation peculiar to those deficient in reason, she knelt down before the door, impeding the passage of Marie Antoinette. "What do you want, my good woman-" demanded the Queen. "He said it was necessary that you should pardon me."

"Who said so-" demanded the Queen. "The man in the mantle," replied the woman Tison.

The Queen looked at Madame Elizabeth and her daughter, surprised at this appeal. "Go along, go," said the municipal; "let the widow Capet pass; she has permission to walk in the garden."

"I know it," said the old woman; "that is why I came to wait for her here, since they will not allow me to go up; and I ought to ask her forgiveness. I was obliged to wait for her coming out, to see her."

"But why, then, are you not permitted to go up-" demanded the Queen.

The woman began to laugh. "Because they pretend that I am mad," said she.

The Queen looked at her, and saw indeed that the wild eyes of the unhappy being reflected a strange light-that vague expression denoting all absence of intellect. "Oh, mon Dieu!" said she. "Poor woman! what has happened-"

"Happened! Do you not know-" said the woman; "but if-you know very well, since it was on your account she was condemned."

"Who-"

"Heloise."

"Your daughter-"

"Yes, she-my poor child!"

"Condemned! by whom- How- Why-"

"Because she sold a bouquet."

"What bouquet-"

"A bouquet of carnations. She is not a flower-girl," continued the old woman, as if endeavouring to collect her thoughts, "then how could she sell this bouquet-" The Queen shuddered; she felt an invisible link connected this scene with her present situation, and convinced her the time must not be lost in useless conversation. "My good woman," said she, "allow me to pass, I entreat you; you can tell me all this by-and-by."

"No, now; you must pardon me, and I must assist you to escape, that he may save my daughter." The Queen turned pale as death. "Mon Dieu!" murmured she, raising her eyes to heaven, then turning towards the municipal, "Monsieur," said she, "have the kindness to remove this woman; you see that she is mad."

"Go, go, mother," said the municipal; "decamp." But the woman clung to the wall, still reiterating, "She must pardon me, that he may save my daughter."

"But who is he-"

"The man in the mantle."

"Sister," said Madame Elizabeth, "try to console her."

"Oh, willingly," said the Queen; "I believe, indeed, that will be the shortest way;" then turning towards the mad woman, "What do you desire, good woman-" said she. "I wish you to pardon me all the suffering I have caused you by my unjust behaviour-all the denunciations I have made; and trust that when you see the man in he mantle, you will command him to save my daughter; for he will do all that you desire."

"I do not know whom you mean by the man in the mantle," said the Queen; "but that is not the question. If it is necessary to your piece of mind to obtain my pardon for all the offences you imagine you have committed against me, I freely forgive you, my poor woman, from the depths of my heart, and trust only that any one I may have offended will as sincerely pardon me."

"Oh!" cried the woman Tison, with an indescribable accent of joy, "he will save my child, since you have forgiven me. Your hand, madame! your hand-" The Queen astonished, and at a loss to comprehend the meaning, presented her hand to the woman, who seized it, and ardently pressed her lips upon it. At this moment the hoarse voice of a hawker was heard in the Temple resounding from the street. "This," cried he, "is the judgment and decree condemning Heloise Tison to the penalty of death for the crime of conspiracy." Scarcely had these words reached the ears of the woman Tison, than rising from her knees, with an air of dogged resolution, she extended her arms to impede the passage of the Queen. "Oh, mon Dieu!" cried the Queen, who had not lost one word of this sentence, so dreadful to her ears. "Condemned to death!" cried the mother; "my child condemned!-my Heloise lost! He has not then saved her-and now he cannot save her! Too late-too late!"

"Poor woman," said the Queen, "believe me, I feel for you."

"You!" said she, looking at her fiercely with her blood-shot eyes. "You pity me- Never-never!"

"You are mistaken. I pity you from my heart; but do pray allow me to pass." The woman burst into a hoarse laugh. "Let you pass- No, no. I would have assisted you to escape, because he promised, if I did so, he would rescue my daughter; but since she is condemned to death you shall not alone be saved."

"Messieurs!" cried the Queen, "come to my aid. Do you not see that this woman is quite mad-"

"No, I am not mad; I know well what I am saying!" cried the woman. "It is the truth-there was a conspiracy, and Simon discovered all. It was my poor daughter who sold the bouquet. She confessed it before the revolutionary tribunal… A bouquet of carnations… they had some papers concealed in them."

"Madame," said the Queen, "in the name of Heaven!" The voice of the crier was again heard, repeating- "This is the judgment and decree condemning the girl Heloise Tison to the punishment of death for the crime of conspiracy."

"Do you hear it-" screamed the lunatic to the groups of national guards scattered around: "do you hear- Condemned to death: it is you who have killed my daughter-you, Austrian, you!"

"Messieurs," said the Queen, "if you will not release me from this mad woman, allow me at least to return to my apartments. I cannot support the reproaches of this woman, unjust as they are; it crushes my heart," and she turned away, sighing deeply. "Yes, yes-weep, hypocrite!" cried the maddened wretch; "your bouquet will cost you dear… She must have suspected you. Thus it is you doom all those to death who serve you. You carry misery, Austrian, everywhere! Your friends are dead-your husband and your defenders have all perished-and now they will sacrifice my unhappy child! When will your turn come, that no more may die for you-" And the miserable creature accompanied these last words with threatening gestures. The Queen hid her face between her hands. "Unhappy woman," observed Madame Elizabeth, venturing to speak, "are you aware that she whom you address is the Queen-"

"The Queen!" repeated the maniac, whose madness every moment increased, "if she is the Queen, let her defend my poor girl against the hangman, who seeks her life… Who will show mercy to my poor Heloise-… Kings can show mercy… Render me back my child, and I will acknowledge her as queen. Till then, she is only a woman, and a woman who brings misery upon all, and kills all-"

"Oh! have pity, madame!" cried Marie Antoinette; "you see my tears and distress," and she again made an attempt to pass, not from any hope of escape, but to free herself from this cruel attack. "You shall not pass!" roared the old woman. "You want to escape, Madame Veto… I know it all, the man in the mantle told me you want to go and rejoin the Prussians. But you shall not escape," continued she, clasping the robe of the Queen. "I will prevent you. A la lanterne, Madame Veto! To arms, citizens! let us march-" And with her arms wrestling, her grizzled locks dishevelled, and hanging over her haggard countenance-her blood-shot eyes-the unfortunate creature fell to the ground, in her fall tearing the robe she still held in her hand. The Queen, terrified, but disembarrassed at least of the maniac, was flying to the side of the garden, when all at once a terrible cry resounded, mingled with loud barking, and accompanied with a strange uproar, arousing the national guards from their stupor, who, attracted by the scene, immediately surrounded Marie Antoinette. "To arms! to arms! Treason!" shouted a man, whom from his voice the Queen recognised as the shoemaker Simon. Near this man, who, sword in hand, guarded the threshold of the cabin, little Jet was barking furiously. "To arms! every one to his post!" cried Simon; "we are betrayed. Compel the Austrian to turn back. To arms! to arms!" An officer ran forward, when Simon spoke to him, pointing with enraged gestures to the interior of the hut. The officer in his turn then cried "To arms!"

"Jet! Jet!" called the Queen, advancing some steps. But the dog only continued to bark more furiously. The national guard ran to arms, and rushed towards the hut, whilst the municipals took possession of the Queen, her daughter and sister, and compelled them to re-enter the wicket, which they closed behind them. "Prepare your arms!" cried the municipals to the sentinels. And the sound of firearms was heard. "It is there! it is there!'' cried Simon. "under the trap I saw it shut again, I am certain of it. Besides, the Austrian's dog, a good little animal, who was not in the plot, barked at the conspirators, who are no doubt still in the cave. Hold! he barks again." Indeed Jet, instigated by Simon's cries and shouts, began to bark again more strenuously than before. The officer seized the ring of the trap, but seeing he was unable to raise it, two of the grenadiers went to his assistance, but without the slightest success. "You perceive they hold the trap-door from below. Fire through the trap-door, my friends, fire!" said Simon. "Oh!" cried Madame Plumeau, "you will break my bottles."

"Fire!" repeated Simon, "fire!"

"Be silent, brawler," said the officer, "and bring some hatchets, and begin to open the planks. Now let a few men hold themselves in readiness, and fire into the trap-door the instant an opening is made." The groaning of planks and a sudden jerk informed the national guards that some movement was taking place in the interior. Directly afterwards they heard a motion under ground, like an iron portcullis being closed. "Courage!" said the officer to the sappers, who worked indefatigably. The hatchets entered the planks. Twenty guns were lowered in the direction of the opening, which enlarged every moment. But through the aperture no one could be seen. The officer lighted a torch and threw it into the cave. It was empty. They then raised the trap-door, which now offered no resistance. "Follow me!" said the officer, bravely descending the ladder. "COURAGE!" SAID THE OFFICER TO THE SAPPERS, WHO WORKED INDEFATIGABLY. "En avant! en avant!" cried the national guards, following the example of their officer. "Ah! Madame Plumeau," said Simon, "you lent your cellar to the aristocrats." The wall was broken down, the humid soil was trampled by numerous feet, and a conduit of three feet wide and five feet high, like the branch of a trench, plunged in the direction of "la Rue de la Corderie," The officer ventured into this opening, resolved to follow these aristocrats into the bowels of the earth; but when he had advanced three or four steps, he found all further progress impeded by an iron grating. "Stop!" said he to those who were closely pressing behind him; "we can proceed no longer, here is a physical impediment."

"Well," said the municipal, who, having placed the prisoners in security, anxiously awaited the news; "well, what have you discovered-"

"Parbleu!" said the officer, reappearing, "it was doubtless a conspiracy; the aristocrats wanted to carry off the Queen, and of course she connived with them."

"Peste!" cried the municipal, "send some one after the citizen Santerre, that he may inform the Commune."

"Soldiers," said the officer, "remain in this cellar, and if any one presents himself, kill him." And the officer, having issued his orders, remounted to make his report. "Ah! ah!" said Simon, rubbing his hands-" ah! ah! will they still say I am a fool- Brave Jet! Jet is a famous patriot, Jet has saved the Republic. Come here, Jet, come." And the brute who had coaxed the poor little dog, the moment he approached him, raised his foot, and kicked him to a distance of several feet. "I like you, Jet," said he; "ah! you will cut your mistress's throat. Come here, Jet, come." But instead this time of obeying him, Jet ran away howling, on the road towards the keep.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE TUSCADIN.

IT WAS NEAR TWO o'clock. Louis was promenading up and down in Maurice's room, while Agesilas polished his master's boots in the antechamber, only for the greater convenience of conversation the door remained open, and during his walk Louis stopped, and often addressed a few questions to the official. "And you say, citizen Agesilas, that your master left home this morning-"

"Oh! mon Dieu! yes."

"At the usual hour-"

"It might be ten minutes earlier, or ten minutes later, I cannot say exactly."

"And you have not seen him since-"

"No, citizen." Louis continued his walk, and after three or four turns again stopped, and renewed his questions. "Had he his sword with him-" demanded he. "When he goes to the section, he invariably carries it."

"Are you sure he has gone to the section-"

"At least he told me so."

"In that case I shall join him," said Louis, "and if we miss one another, tell him I have been, and left to rejoin him."

"Wait," said Agesilas. "Why-"

"I hear his footstep on the staircase." Almost at the same moment the door opened, and Maurice entered. Louis bestowed a hasty glance upon him, and perceived nothing extraordinary in his appearance. "So you are come at last," said he. "I have been waiting here these two hours."

"So much the better," said Maurice, smiling, "that has afforded you plenty of time to compose distichs and quatrains."

"Alas! mon ami, I have made none."

"Why, is the world coming to an end-"

"My dear Maurice, I am very unhappy."

"You unhappy-"

"Yes, I am miserable. I am suffering from remorse."

"Remorse-"

"Eh! mon Dieu! Yes," said Louis. "Between you and her there was no alternative-between you and her I would not hesitate, but, you see, Arthemise is in despair, for she was her friend."

"Poor girl!"

"And it was she who gave me her address."

"Yon had much better have allowed things to take their natural course."

"Yes; and at this very moment you would have been condemned in her stead."

"Powerfully argued, dear friend. But I who come to ask your advice, think you are too wise for that."

"Never mind, ask away."

"This poor girl: do you understand- I wish to attempt some means of saving her. Even if I could only give or receive a blow in her defence, I feel as if it would do me good."

"You are mad, Louis," said Maurice, shrugging his shoulders. "If I made an appeal to the revolutionary tribunal-'' "It is too late, she is condemned."

"Truly," said Louis, "it is dreadful to see this poor girl sacrificed thus."

"The more so, since it was my safety has entailed her death. But after all, Louis, we have one consolation. She was a conspirator."

"Mon Dieu," said Louis, "does not every one conspire now-a-days- She has done no more, poor girl, than every one else does."

"Neither complain too much, nor too loudly, my friend," said Maurice, "for we have to bear our share in this trouble. Believe me, we are not so fully cleared from the accusation of being her accomplices, that no stain remains behind. To-day, at the section, I was termed 'Girondin,' by the Captain of Chasseurs of Saint Leu; and I, at the same time, found it necessary to convince him, by a blow from my sword, that he was mistaken."

"Then, that was the reason you returned so late-"

"Just so."

"But why did you not inform me-"

"Because in affairs of this nature one cannot restrain oneself, and it is necessary to conclude them immediately, that they may make no noise."

"And this canaille called you 'Girondin,' Maurice-"

"Eh, mon Dieu! yes; and this will convince you that another adventure of this nature, and we become unpopular; and you well know, Louis, in these times, unpopular is a symbolical term for suspect."

"I well know it," said Louis; "and that word appals the bravest heart; hut never mind… It is repugnant to my feelings to allow this poor gill to die without soliciting her pardon, this poor Heloise to be led to the guillotine without asking her forgiveness."

"What do you wish to do-"

"I wish you to remain here; you have nothing to reproach yourself with. With me, you see, the case is very different. Since I can do nothing for her, I will meet her on her way. I wish to go there, Maurice; do you comprehend me- She might even only give me her hand."

"I will accompany you, then," said Maurice. "Impossible, my friend: you are a municipal, secretary to a section, and you have been tried, whilst I have only been your defender; they will think you guilty, therefore remain here. As for me, it is quite another thing. I risk nothing, and therefore may go."

"Go, then," said he; "but be prudent." Louis smiled, shook Maurice's hand, and went out. Maurice opened his window, and looked a sad adieu; but before Louis had turned the corner of the street, he looked back more than once, and each time, as if drawn by magnetic influence and sympathy, Louis turned round, looked at him, and smiled. At last, when he disappeared at the corner of the quay, Maurice closed the window, threw himself into a fauteuil, and fell into one of those dreamy moods which in people of strong mind and vigorous constitution, often are the presentiments of misfortune, as they resemble the calm generally precursor of the storm. He was softly awakened from his reverie, or rather state of stupor, by his official, who, on returning from the execution of some commission, entered with the sprightly air of a servant anxious to communicate his budget of news. Seeing his master pre-occupied, he dared not interrupt him, and therefore consoled himself by constantly passing and re-passing before him, without any reasonable cause for so doing. "What is it-" at length said Maurice; "speak, if you have anything to tell me."

"Ah! citizen, another desperate conspiracy." Maurice merely shrugged his shoulders. "A conspiracy enough to make the hair of one's head stand upright," continued Agesilas. "Indeed!" replied Maurice, like a man accustomed to hear daily of thirty conspiracies at this epoch. "Yes, citizen," replied Agesilas; "it drives me to frenzy, you see. Nothing else is thought of-it makes one's flesh creep."

"Let us hear this conspiracy," said Maurice. "The Austrian has failed in her attempt to escape."

"Nonsense," said Maurice, beginning to listen with the greatest avidity. "It seems," continued Agesilas. "that the widow Capet was in communication with the girl Tison, who is to be guillotined to-day. She has not escaped, unfortunate creature!"

"How had the Queen communication with this girl-" demanded Maurice, who felt the perspiration exuding at every pore. "Through a carnation. Can you imagine, citizen, how they could have conveyed the plan to her in a carnation-"

"In a carnation- Who did this-"

"Monsieur le Chevalier de-wait then. He bears a fine title-but as for me, I forget all these names. A Chevalier de Chateau-what a fool I am! it is not a Chateau-a Chevalier de Maison."

"De Maison Rouge-"

"That is it."

"Impossible!"

"How impossible- when I told you they have found the trap-door, the subterranean passage and coaches."

"On the contrary, you have told me nothing about all this."

"Well, I am going to tell you, then."

"Go on, then. If it is a story, it is at least a good one."

"No, citizen, it is not a story; and, in proof of that, I had it from a citizen porter. The aristocrats had dug a mine, and this mine commenced at la Hue de la Corderie, and terminated in the cellar of the little cabin belonging to Madame Plumeau, who has narrowly escaped being arrested as an accomplice. This widow Plumeau-you see it all now, I hope-"

"Yes," replied Maurice; "but afterwards-"

"Capet's wife was to escape by the subterranean passage. She already had her foot on the first step, when Simon caught her by her robe. They beat to arms in the city, and the recall in the sections. Do you not hear the drum- There! It is said that the Prussians are at Dumartin, and have reconnoitred as far as the frontiers." In the midst of this flow of words, a mixture of truth and falsehood, probability and impossibility, Maurice seized the winding thread. All sprung from the carnation presented before his eyes to the Queen, and purchased by himself from the poor miserable flower-girl. This carnation contained the plan of the plot, the whole of which now burst upon him, connected as it was with the events, more or less true, detailed by Agesilas. At this moment the noise of the drum was heard still, and Maurice listened to the crier in the street. "Tremendous conspiracy discovered at the Temple by the Citizen Simon. Grand conspiracy in favour of the widow Capet, discovered at the Temple."

"Yes, yes," said Maurice; "it is just as I thought. There is some truth in all this. And Louis, in the midst of this popular excitation, goes to offer himself to this girl, and make himself a suspect." Maurice took up his hat, clasped his swordbelt, and with two bounds was in the street. "Where can he be-" said Maurice to himself. "Probably on the road to the concierge." And he rushed towards the quay.

At the extreme end of the Quai de la Megisserie, some pikes and bayonets, standing in the midst of the crowd, attracted his attention, and he fancied in the centre he could distinguish the costume of a National Guard, and in the group signs of hostile movements. He ran, his heart oppressed with the dread of impending misfortune, towards the assemblage on the banks of the river. The National Guard pressed by the company of Marseillais was Louis. He was very pale, his lips compressed, his eyes menacing: his hand upon the handle of his sword, measuring the place best calculated to strike the blows he fully intended to inflict on his cowardly assailants. Within two feet from Louis stood Simon. He was laughing ferociously, and pointing him out to the Marseillais and the populace, saying- "Look at him! look well at him! He is one of those that I drove from the Temple yesterday for an aristocrat. He is one of those who favoured the correspondence with the carnations. This is an accomplice of the girl Tison, who will pass here presently. Well, do you see-he walks quietly on the quay whilst his coadjutor goes to the guillotine; and, perhaps, she was even more to him than an assistant. She might be his mistress, and he is here to bid her farewell, or to try and save her!" Louis was not the man to endure much more. He drew his sword from its scabbard. At the same time the crowd opened to admit a man, who rushed headlong into the group, whose broad shoulders had already knocked down two or three spectators who were preparing to become actors in this scene. "Be happy, Simon," said Maurice. "You regretted no doubt, that I was not with my friend to enable you to turn your new title of Denunciator to full account. Denounce! Simon, denounce! I am here."

"Ma foi! Yes!" said Simon, with his hideous laugh; "and your arrival is very apropos. This," continued he, "is the elegant Maurice Lindey, who was accused at the same time as the girl Tison, but was acquitted because he was rich."

"A la lanterne! A la lanterne!" cried the Marseillais. "Yes, forsooth, you had better make the attempt," said Maurice, and advancing a step he pricked one of the foremost of the cutthroats in the forehead, so that the blood from his wound nearly blinded him. "Have at the murderer!" cried the latter.

The Marseillais lowered their pikes, raised their hatchets, and loaded their guns, while the frightened crowd dispersed, leaving the two friends to contend alone against this storm of blows. They regarded each other with a last sad, yet sublime smile, while calmly awaiting their destruction from the whirlwind of iron and flame which threatened them, when, all at once, the door of the house against which they were leaning suddenly opened, and a swarm of young people, attired in the habits of those termed "Muscadins," or Fops, each wearing a sword and brace of pistols in his girdle, rushed upon the Marseillais, and were instantly engaged in a terrific contest. "Hurrah! hurrah!" cried Maurice and Louis simultaneously, animated by this unexpected relief, without reflecting that to fight in the ranks of the new-comers was to confirm Simon's accusation, "Hurrah!" But if they were forgetful of their own safety, another thought for them. A short young man, about five-and-twenty years of age, with blue eyes, who fought without any intermission, with infinite science and valour, with a heavy sword, which any one would have thought his delicate and feminine hand incapable of wielding, perceiving that Maurice and Louis, instead of escaping by the door, which seemed to have been left open with that intention, remained fighting by his side, turned round, saying in a low voice: "Fly directly through this door; pay no attention to what we may do here, or you will uselessly compromise yourselves." Then, seeing the two friends hesitate, he suddenly cried out, addressing himself to Maurice: "Away," said he; "no patriots among us, Citizen Lindey; we are aristocrats here." At these words, united to the audacity which would induce a man publicly to accuse himself of what at this period must lead to certain death, the crowd uttered a loud shout. But the fair young man, without evincing any symptoms of alarm, pushed Maurice and Louis into the alley, where he closed the door behind them. He then, with the three or four friends who had been assisting him, threw himself into the melee, which was now considerably augmented by the approach of the fatal cart. Maurice and Louis, thus miraculously saved, regarded each other in amazement; but comprehending they had no time to lose, sought for some outlet. This seemed to have been managed expressly for them. They entered a court, and at the end discovered a small door concealed, which opened into la Hue Saint-Germaine-l'Auxerrois. At this moment a detachment of gendarmes opened from Pont au Change, who had soon swept over the quay, although, from the traverse street where our two friends had concealed themselves, they heard for an instant the noise of an obstinate struggle. They preceded the cart which conducted the hapless Heloise to the scaffold. "Gallop!" cried a voice, "gallop!" The cart preceded at a quick pace, and Louis saw the unfortunate girl standing, a smile upon her lips, and calm reliance in her eye, but was unable to exchange even a gesture with her, as she passed without seeing him, in the midst of a whirlwind of people, shouting, "To the guillotine with the aristocrat! to the guillotine!" The noise decreased in the distance till they reached the Tuileries. Then the little door through which Maurice and Louis had escaped again opened, and three or four Muscadins, with their clothes torn and stained with blood, passed through. It was probably all that remained of the little troop. The fair young man went through the last. "Alas!" said he, "this cause is then accursed." And casting from him his sword, notched and bloody, he rushed towards la Rue des Lavandieres.

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CHEVALIER DE MAISON ROUGE.

MAURICE hastened to return to the section to enter a complaint against Simon. It is true that before quitting Maurice, Louis had found a more expeditious way; this was to collect some Thermopyles to lie in wait for him, and kill him in a pitched battle. But Maurice was strenuously opposed to this plan. "You are ruined," said he, "if you make use of these means. Crush Simon, but do it legally. That ought to be an easy thing enough to the lawyers." Consequently, the next morning, Maurice laid a formal complaint before the section, but was both astonished and annoyed when the President turned a deaf ear, excusing himself by saying he could not interfere between two good citizens, each incited by the love of country. "Good," said Maurice. "I know now how to act to merit the reputation of a good citizen. To assemble the people, and to assassinate a man who displeases you; this you call being 'incited by love of country.' Well, I return to Louis's opinion, which I was wrong to dispute. After today, as you hear, I shall adopt patriotism, and shall first experimentalize upon Simon."

"Citizen Maurice," said the President, "you are, after all; perhaps more to blame in this affair than Simon. He has discovered a conspiracy, which it was not his province to do so. You have seen nothing, although the discovery formed part of your duty; and more, you have held communication, accidentally or intentionally we know not which, with the enemies of the nation."

"I-" said Maurice. "Well, this is something new. And with whom, pray, Citizen President-"

"With the Citizen Maison Rouge."

"I-" said Maurice, stupefied. "I had communication with the Chevalier de Maison Rouge- I do not even know him-I never-"

"You have been seen speaking to him."

"I-"

"To shake his hand."

"I-"

"Yes."

"Where- When, Citizen President-" said Maurice, carried away by the firm conviction of his own innocence. "You have lied."

"Your zeal for your country carries you too far, Citizen Maurice," said the President, "and you will regret what you have said, when I tell you I can prove what I say to be true. I have advanced nothing but the truth. Here are three different reports accusing you."

"Now," said Maurice, "do you really think me simple enough to believe in your 'Chevalier de Maison Rouge-'"

"And why should you not believe it-"

"Because it is only the ghost of a conspirator, with whom you always have a conspiracy ready to amuse your enemies."

"Read the denunciations."

"I will read nothing," said Maurice. "I protest I have never seen the Chevalier-never spoken to him. Let any one who doubts my word of honour come and tell me so. I shall know how to answer him." The President shrugged his shoulders. Maurice, who did not wish to be in arrears with any one, did the same. An air of gloomy silence pervaded the remainder of the sitting. After the meeting was concluded, the President, a staunch patriot, raised to the highest rank in the district by the votes of his fellow-citizens, approached Maurice, and said-" Come, Maurice, I want to speak to you." Maurice followed the President, who conducted him into a little cabinet contiguous to that where the sittings were held. On arriving there, he regarded Maurice for a moment in silence; then placing his hand on his shoulder- "Maurice," said he, "I knew and esteemed your father; this makes me esteem and love you. Believe me, you incur great danger from want of faith-the first falling off of a truly revolutionary spirit. Maurice, my friend, they who lose their faith also lose their fidelity. You do not believe in the enemies of the nation, therefore you pass near without seeing them, and become the instrument in their plots without being aware of it."

"What, the devil!" said Maurice. "I know, Citizen, I am a man of feeling, and possess some share of patriotic zeal, but my zeal does not render me a fanatic. There are twenty pretended conspiracies, to which the public assign the same name. I demand to face my accuser."

"You will not believe in the conspirator, Maurice," said the President; "then tell me, do you believe in the red carnations, for which Heloise Tison was yesterday guillotined-" Maurice started. "Do you believe in the subterranean passage, under the Temple garden, communicating from the cellar of the Citoyenne Plumeau to a certain house in La Rue de la Corderie-"

"No," said Maurice. "Then do as Thomas the Apostle did-'Go and see.'"

"I am not on guard at the Temple, and they would not allow me to enter there."

"Any one may enter the Temple now."

"How is that-"

"Read the report, since you are so incredulous. I shall only proceed by official information."

"Well," said Maurice, reading the report, "this is to the point."

"Continue."

"They have transported the Queen to the Conciergerie," cried Maurice. "Do you think that from a dream, or what you call an imaginary idea, or an idle story, that the Committee of Public Safety would have adopted so grave a measure-"

"This measure has been adopted, but will never be executed like many more I have seen, and all-"

"Read to the end," said the president, and he presented him with the last paper. "The receipt of Richard, the gaoler of the Conciergerie," cried Maurice; "she has been there these two hours." This time Maurice remained deep in thought. "The Commune, as you know," continued the president, "acts with profound judgment. It is digging a furrow long and straight in its course; its measures are not puerile, and it has put in execution the principle of Cromwell-'It is not necessary to strike the king except upon the head.' Read this secret note from the minister of the police." Maurice read:-"Seeing that we possess the certainty that the ci-devant Chevalier de Maison Rouge is in Paris-that he has been in several places-that he has left traces of his appearance in various plots happily frustrated, I request all chiefs of the different sections to redouble their vigilance-"

"Well-" said the president. "I must believe this," said Maurice, and he continued: "Description of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge. In height, five feet three inches, fair hair, blue eyes, straight nose, chestnut coloured beard,' dimpled chin, soft voice, and hands like a female's." At this description a strange light burst upon Maurice; he thought of the young man who commanded the troop of Muscadins, and who, on the preceding evening, saved the lives of himself and Louis, and so valiantly drew his sword upon the Marseillais in their defence. "Mordieu!" exclaimed Maurice, "it must be he; in that case the denomination would not be false. I spoke to him, but I cannot remember taking his hand."

"Maurice," said the president, "what do you say to all this now, mon ami-"

"That I believe it," said Maurice, musing sadly, who for some time past, without understanding what evil influence saddened his life, had noticed everything darkening around him. "Do not jest thus with popularity," said the president. "In these days, Maurice, popularity is life. As for unpopularity, it is to be suspected of treason, and the Citizen Maurice Lindey ought not even to be suspected of being a traitor." Maurice had nothing to reply to sentiments so much in accordance with his own. He thanked his old friend and quitted the section. "Ah!" murmured he, "there is too much suspicion and skirmishing. Now," drawing a deep breath, "now for peace, innocence, and joy-now to Genevieve." And Maurice took the road to the old Rue St. Jacques.

When he reached the abode of the master tanner, Dixmer and Morand were supporting Genevieve, who was suffering from a violent attack of hysterics. Thus, instead of entering unceremoniously as he was accustomed to do, a servant met him in the passage. "Announce me," said he, "and if Dixmer cannot conveniently receive me, I will retire." The domestic entered the little pavilion, whilst Maurice remained in the garden. It seemed to him that something strange was going on in the house, and the workmen, instead of being occupied in their usual employment, were walking listlessly about the garden. At length Dixmer himself appeared. "Come in, dear Maurice," said he; "come in, you are not one of those against whom the door is closed."

"What is the matter-" inquired the young man. "Genevieve is ill," said Dixmer; "indeed, more than ill-she is delirious."

"Ah, mon Dieu!" cried the young man, overcome at again encountering trial and suffering; "what, then, is the matter with her-"

"You are aware, mon cher," said Dixmer, "one never knows anything concerning the illness of women, especially their husbands." Genevieve was lying down on a chaise-lounge: near her stood Morand, offering her some salts, which she smelt occasionally. "Well-" said Dixmer. "Always the same thing," replied Morand. "Heloise! Heloise!" murmured the young woman, from between her closed teeth and white lips. "Heloise!" repeated Maurice, in much surprise. "Mon Dieu! yes," replied Dixmer, quickly; "Genevieve most unfortunately saw the cart pass conveying the unhappy girl to the scaffold. Since then she has had five or six attacks of hysterics, and keeps on continually calling upon Heloise. But the most astonishing thing of all is, that in her she recognised the girl who sold the carnations, which you already know about," said Morand. "Certainly, I do know," said Maurice, "when they barely failed of cutting my throat."

"Ah! we have heard all that, dear Maurice, and, believe me, we have not been slightly alarmed; but Morand was at the sitting, and saw you fully acquitted and liberated."

"Silence!" said Maurice; "she again speaks."

"Oh! those empty, unintelligible words," said Dixmer. "Maurice," murmured Genevieve; "they are going to kill Maurice. To him, Chevalier-to him!" A profound silence followed these words. "Maison Rouge," again murmured Genevieve; "Maison Rouge." Maurice felt a slight suspicion, but he could make out nothing clearly, and was too much affected by the suffering of Genevieve to comment much upon her words. "Have you called in a physician-" demanded Maurice. "Oh! it will prove nothing," said Dixmer; "a slight delusion, that is all." And he shook his wife so violently by the arm, that she revived, and uttering a shrill cry, opened her eyes, which till now had remained closed. ''Ah, you are both here, and Maurice with you. Oh! I am so glad to see you, mon ami; if you knew what I have-" she corrected herself-" what we have suffered for the last two days."

"Yes, we are all here," said Maurice; "have no more terror on that account. But there is one name above all others you must not accustom yourself to pronounce, seeing that at this moment it does not bear a very high repute."

"What name-" quickly demanded Genevieve. "The Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"Have I named the Chevalier de Mason Rouge-" inquired Genevieve, bewildered. "Without doubt you have," said Dixmer; "but understand, Maurice, there is nothing surprising in that, since it is said he was an accomplice with the girl Tison, and that it was he who concocted the whole plan of escape so happily frustrated yesterday."

"I do not say there is anything surprising," said Maurice; "I only say it is better to keep it concealed."

"Who-" demanded Dixmer. "The Chevalier de Maison Rouge, parbleu! The Commune seeks for him, and the bloodhounds have a fine scent."

"Provided that, before they arrest him," said Morand, "he has not accomplished some new enterprise that may succeed better than the last."

"At all events," said Maurice, "it will not be in favour of the Queen."

"Why not-" demanded Morand. "Because she is henceforth shielded from his bold attempts."

"Where is she, then-" inquired Dixmer. "At the Conciergerie," replied Maurice; "she was taken there this evening." Dixmer, Genevieve, and Morand uttered a cry which Maurice mistook for one of surprise. "Thus you see," continued he, "adieu to the Chevalier's plans for the Queen. The Conciergerie is more secure than the Temple." Morand and Dixmer exchanged looks unperceived by Maurice. "Ah! mon Dieu!" said Maurice; "Madame Dixmer has turned faint again."

"Genevieve!" said Dixmer; "you must go to bed, my child; you suffer." Maurice took the hint. He respectfully kissed Genevieve's hand, and quitted the house. Morand left with him, and accompanied him as far as the old Rue St. Jacques, where he parted with him to exchange some words with a man, a superior sort of domestic, who held a horse ready saddled and bridled. Maurice was so much occupied with his own thoughts, that he did not even inquire the man's name; indeed, he and Morand had not exchanged a word since they quitted the house together. He took the road to la Rue des Fosses Saint Victor, and gained the quay. "It is strange," said he, walking on. "Is my mind weakened, or are these events assuming importance- But everything appears to me as if viewed through a magnifying glass." And to recover his equanimity. Maurice presented his face to the breeze, and leaning against the parapet of the bridge, was soon lost in thought.

CHAPTER XXIX. THE PATROL.

AS HE LOST HIMSELF in these reflections, and leaning against the parapet of the bridge enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in gazing on the dark still water, he heard the measured tread of a little troop, like that of a patrol. Maurice turned round; it was a company of the National Guard, arrived by the other extremity; and in the obscurity he fancied he recognised Louis. It was he, indeed. The instant he saw his friend Maurice he ran towards him with open arms. "Found at last," cried Louis. "Morbleu! it is not without some trouble that we have rejoined you. 'But since I find a friend so fond, My fate assumes an aspect new.' This time you will not complain, I hope, for I have given you Racine instead of Louis."

"But what do you do here as patrol-" inquired Maurice, anxiously. "I am chief of the expedition, mon ami; the business is to establish our blemished reputation upon its original footing." Then turning towards his company-" Carry arms! Present arms! Shoulder arms!"

"There, mes enfans, it is not yet sufficiently dark, so you can talk over your little affairs, while we follow your example." Then returning to Maurice, "I have heard great news at the Section to-day," continued Louis.

What-"

"First, that you and I are beginning to be suspected."

"I know it. What next-"

"Secondly, that the whole conspiracy of the carnations was conducted by the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"I know that also."

"But this you do not know; that the conspiracy of the carnations and that of the subterranean passage are one and the same."

"Again, I know it."

"Then let us pass on to the third piece of news. This I am certain you cannot know. We go, this night, to capture the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"To take the Chevalier de Maison Rouge-"

"Yes."

"Have you then turned gendarme-"

"No, but I am a patriot. A patriot owes something to his country. Now my country is horribly ravaged by this Chevalier, who forms plot upon plot. Well, my country commands me, being a patriot, to free her from this Chevalier de Maison Rouge, who distresses her horribly, and I obey my country."

"It is all the same," said Maurice, "but it is singular that you should be charged with this commission."

"I am not charged, I charge myself, or rather I should say I solicited the commission. It required a brilliant stroke to reinstate us in our former position, while our re-establishment will not only prove security for our lives, hut still more the right of putting, at the very first opportunity offered, six ounces of lead into the belly of that hideous Simon."

"But how are they sure it was the Chevalier who was the instigator of this subterranean plot-"

"They are not yet certain, but they presume so."

"You proceed, then, upon inference-"

"No, we proceed by certainty."

"How have you arranged all this-"

"Listen."

"I am listening."

"I had scarcely heard the cry 'Grand conspiracy discovered by the Citizen Simon,' that beast Simon (the miserable is everywhere), than I wished to judge of the truth for myself. Then, they named the subterranean passage."

"Does it really exist-"

"It does; I have seen it; seen it with both my eyes. That I call seeing. "There, why do you not whistle-"

"Because that is Moliere, and besides, these events, I must confess, appear to me rather too serious for pleasantry."

"What could we jest about, if we did not jest about serious things-"

"You say, then, that you have seen it-"

"I repeat that I have seen the subterranean passage. It extends from the cellar of the widow Plumeau, to a house in La Rue de la Corderie, number twelve or fourteen, I cannot remember which."

"Have you passed through it, Louis-"

"I have, the whole length, and, ma foi, it is a trench prettily cut, I can assure you, and moreover it was divided by three iron gratings, which they have been obliged to drive out one after the other, but which in case these conspirators had succeeded, would have given them time, by sacrificing two or three of them, to have placed Madame widow Capet in a place of safety. Happily it is not so, and this hideous Simon has discovered all."

"But it appears to me," said Maurice, "those who ought to have been first arrested were the inhabitants of the house in La Rue de la Corderie."

"This would have been, had they not found the house perfectly uninhabited."

"But at least this house must belong to some one-"

"Yes, to a new proprietor, but no one knows who; they know the house changed masters three weeks since, and that is all. The neighbours have often heard a noise, but the house being very old, they had imagined it was undergoing thorough repair. As to the late proprietor, he has left Paris. In the meantime I arrived. "'Pour Dieu!' said I to Santerre, drawing him aside, 'you are in an awkward situation.' "'Indeed we are,' replied he. "'This house has been sold, has it not-' "'Yes it was, about three weeks ago.' "'Was it sold in the presence of a notary-' "'Yes.' "'Then we must find out all the notaries in Paris, to discover which of them sold this house, and then make him produce the agreement, and underneath will be found the name of the purchaser.' "'Well and good!' said Santerre, 'that is capital advice, and coming too from a man they accuse of not being a good patriot. Louis! Louis! I will re-establish you, or may the foul fiend seize me!' To be brief," continued Louis, "this was what was said and done. The notary was sought for, the act was found, and upon the agreement the name of the culprit was signed. Then Santerre took me aside, and I have engaged to arrest him."

"Was this man the Chevalier de Maison Rouge-"

"No, only his accomplice, that is to say, in all probability he was so."

"Then how is it you say you are going to arrest the Chevalier de Maison Rouge-"

"We are going to arrest them all together."

"Do you, then, know this Chevalier de Maison Rouge-"

"Perfectly."

"Have you seen the description of him-"

"Parbleu! Santerre gave it to me. Five feet two or three inches, fair hair, blue eyes, straight nose, besides, I have seen him."

"When-"

"This very day."

"Yon have seen him-"

"And so have you also." Maurice started. "The short, fair young man who rescued us this morning-he who commanded the troop of Muscadins, who fought so valiantly and struck so hard."

"Was that the Chevalier-" demanded Maurice. "Himself. They followed and lost him in the environs of the domicile of our proprietor of La Rue de la Corderie, so that we surmise they live together."

"It seems probable."

"It is certain."

"But it seems to me, Louis," added Maurice, "that if this evening you arrest those who rescued you this very morning, you are much wanting in gratitude."

"Go along, then," said Louis; "why you don't suppose he saved us for our own sakes, do you-"

"For what else, then-"

"Not at all; they were in ambush to carry off the poor girl, Heloise Tison, as she passed to the scaffold. Our cutthroats embarrassed them, so they fell upon the cutthroats; that was the whole of it. We have been saved by a contre-coup. Now, as the intention is everything, and there was no intention, I have nothing to accuse myself with on the score of ingratitude. Besides, do you see, Maurice, the capital point is necessity, and the necessity is that we should reinstate ourselves by a brilliant achievement. And then I have promised him for you."

"To whom-"

"To Santerre; he knows that you command this expedition."

"How can that be-"

"'Are you sure of arresting these criminals-' said he to me. "'Yes,' I replied; 'if Maurice is with me.' "'But are you sure of Maurice- Some time since he was looked upon as rather lukewarm.' "'Those who say that are totally deceived. Maurice is no more lukewarm in the cause than I am myself.' "'And you will answer for his fidelity-' "'As for my own.' I then went to your house, but could not find you at home. I took this round first because it lay in my way, and then I remembered it was the one you usually frequented; so at last we have met."

"My dear Louis, I am in despair. I do not feel the slightest taste for this expedition. Say that you were not able to find me."

"Impossible! all our men have seen you."

"Well, then, say you met me and I was not willing to join you."

"Again impossible."

"But why so-"

"Because this time you will not only be considered lukewarm, but 'un suspect,' and you well know the fate of these suspects; they are conducted to La Place de la Revolution, and there invited to salute the statue of Liberty, only instead of doing so with the hat they substitute the head."

"Well, Louis, I hardly care how soon; but without doubt it seems strange to you to hear me say so." Louis opened his eyes wide, and looked at Maurice. "Well," said Maurice, "I am weary of life." Louis burst into a roar of laughter. "Ah! ah!" said Louis, "we have a quarrel with our beloved, and that fills us with melancholy ideas. Allons! bel Amadis! let us return to the man, and from that we shall pass to the citizen. As for me, I am never a better patriot than when I am embroiled with Arthemise. Apropos, her Divinity, the Goddess Reason, charged me with a thousand gracious messages for you."

"Pray thank her for me. Adieu, Louis."

"Adieu! how adieu-'' "Yes, I am going."

"Where are you going-"

"I am going home."

"Maurice, you will ruin yourself."

"I laugh at the idea."

"Maurice, reflect; my friend, reflect."

"I have done so."

"I have not repeated all-"

"What-"

"That Santerre said to me."

"What did he say-"

"When I asked for you to be chief of this expedition, he said to me, 'Take care.'"

"Of whom-"

"Of Maurice."

"Of me-"

"Yes, Maurice; and he also added, 'he often goes into that quarter.'"

"Into what quarter-"

"Into that of Maison Rouge."

"How-" cried Maurice, "it is not here he hides himself."

"They fancy so, since it is here his supposed accomplice resides, the purchaser of the house in La Rue de la Corderie."

"Faubourg Victor-" demanded Maurice. "Yes; Faubourg Victor."

"And in what street-"

"In the old Rue St. Jacques."

"Ah! mon Dieu!" murmured Maurice, as if struck by a thunderbolt. And he pressed his hand before his eyes. But after a moment's interval, during which he had collected all his courage- "What trade said he-"

"A master tanner."

"His name-"

"Dixmer."

"You are right, Louis," said Maurice, by a violent effort controlling his emotion; "I will go with you."

"And you do well; are you armed-"

"I always carry my sword." ' "Then also take a pair of pistols."

"And you-". "I have my gun. Carry arms! lower arms! en avant, march!" The patrol commenced its march, accompanied by Maurice, who walked near Louis. They were preceded by a man dressed in grey, who directed their movements. This was an agent of police. From time to time a shadow might be seen emerging from the angles of the streets or the doors of the houses, exchanging some words with the man in grey. This was the inspector. On arriving at the little street, the man in grey did not hesitate for an instant. He was well instructed, and entered the street at once. Before the door of the garden where Maurice had been so nearly garrotted, he stopped. "It is here," said he. "What is here-" demanded Louis. "It is here we shall find the two principals." Maurice supported himself against the wall; he felt as if he were sinking to the ground. "Now," said the man in grey, "there are three entrances-the principal entrance, this one, and another which leads into a pavilion. I shall enter with six or eight men through the principal entrance, in the meantime keep guard here with four or five men, and place three sure men at the entrance to the pavilion."

"I will get over the wall," said Maurice, "and watch in the garden."

"The very thing," said Louis, "as from the interior you can open the door to us."

"Willingly," said Maurice, "but do not ungarrison the passage, or come till I call you. All that passes in the interior I shall see from the garden."

"You are acquainted with the house, then-" demanded Louis. "Some time back I wished to buy it." Louis proceeded to conceal his men in the corners of the hedges and angles of the doors, while the agent of police retired with six or eight national guards to force his way by the principal entrance. In an instant the noise of their receding steps was deadened in the distance, without having awakened the least suspicion. Maurice's men were at their post. They declared everything had remained perfectly quiet, and that nothing extraordinary was passing in the old street St. Jacques. Maurice then began to climb the wall. "Listen," said Louis. "To what-"

"The word-"

"Right."

"Carnation and Vault. Stop all those who cannot repeat these two words. Permit all to pass who can. This is the pass-word."

"Thanks," said Maurice, dropping from the top of the wall into the garden.

CHAPTER XXX. THE PASS-WORD.

THE FIRST BLOW was terrible. It indeed required all Maurice's self-command to enable him to conceal from Louis how powerfully he was affected by these startling events, but once in the garden, once alone, in the silence of night, his mind became more calm, and his ideas, instead of running disordered through his brain, became once more under the control of reason.

What! this house that Maurice had so often visited with the purest pleasure, this house which had formed for him a paradise on earth, was in reality only a den of sanguinary intrigues; the kind and nattering receptions bestowed on his ardent friendship, resulted then from sheer hypocrisy; the love of Genevieve from fear. The plan of the garden is well known, our readers having more than once followed our young folks there. Maurice glided from bush to bush till he was shaded from the moon's rays by the little outhouse where he had been imprisoned previous to his first introduction to the house. This outhouse was opposite the pavilion inhabited by Genevieve. But this evening, instead of a stationary light gleaming from her chamber, it moved frequently from one window to another. Maurice saw Genevieve through the curtain, evidently raised by accident, hastily packing some things in a portmanteau, and with astonishment beheld some weapons in her hands. He raised himself upon a post to enable him to penetrate farther into the room. A large fire was blazing on the hearth, where Genevieve was destroying papers. In a moment the door opened and a young man entered the room. At first Maurice imagined this man was Dixmer. The young woman ran towards him, seized his hands, and held them for an instant, while they stood facing each other, evidently the subjects of some deep emotion. What this emotion meant he could not divine, as their words did not reach his hiding-place. But all at once Maurice measured his height with his eye. "This is not Dixmer," murmured he. Indeed the man who had entered was small and delicate, while Dixmer was tall and masculine. Jealousy is an active stimulant, and in a second he had analysed the height of this man in contrast to her husband. "This is not Dixmer!" murmured he, compelled as it were to repeat it, to convince himself in reality of the perfidy of Genevieve.

He approached still nearer to the window, but the nearer he came the less he saw. His brain was on fire. Near him stood a ladder, the window was seven or eight feet high. He seized it, and planting it firmly against the wall, ascended and placed his eye at an aperture in the curtain.

Genevieve's unknown visitor was a fair young man, about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, with blue eyes and an elegant demeanour; he retained both the young woman's hands within his own, and was speaking soothingly, endeavouring fruitlessly to assuage the grief of Genevieve, which was plainly evinced by the tears which suffused her charming countenance. A slight noise, accidentally made by Maurice, caused the young man to turn his face towards the window. Maurice suppressed a cry of astonishment, he recognised his mysterious deliverer of the Place du Chatelet. At this moment Genevieve withdrew her hands from those of the Unknown, and went towards the fireplace to ascertain that the papers were utterly consumed.

Maurice could no longer command his indignation. All those fierce passions which torture the heart of man-Love, vengeance, and jealousy-lacerated him with their fangs of fire. He knew his time, pressed with violence against the badly-closed window, and vaulted into the chamber. At the same moment two pistols were pointed at his breast.

Genevieve, who had turned round at the noise, remained dumb on perceiving Maurice. "Monsieur," said the young Republican, coldly, to him who for the second time held his life at his disposal, "Monsieur, you are the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"And what if I am-" replied the Chevalier. "It is this-you are a brave man, and consequently a cool man; and I am about to say a few words to you."

"Speak," said the Chevalier, without lowering his pistols. "You can kill me if you choose, but you cannot do so before I have uttered a cry, or rather I will not die without giving an alarm. Should I do so, the thousand men who surround this house will have reduced it to ashes ere the lapse of ten minutes; so lower your pistols and listen to what I have to say to Madame."

"To Genevieve!" said the Chevalier. "To me!" murmured the young woman. "Yes, to you." Genevieve, pale as a statue, seized his arm, but he repulsed her coolly. "You know what you have affirmed, Madame," said Maurice, with profound contempt. "I now see that you have told the truth. You, indeed, do not love Monsieur Morand."

"Maurice! listen to me," said Genevieve. "I have nothing to hear, Madame; you have severed with a single stroke every cord that united my heart with your own. You told me you did not love Morand, but you did not tell me you loved another."

"Monsieur," said the Chevalier, "you spoke of Morand; of what Morand do you speak-"

"Of Morand, the chemist."

"Morand, the chemist, stands before you. Morand, the chemist, is the Chevalier de Maison Rouge." And extending his hand towards the table, he in an instant replaced his black wig which for so long a period had concealed him from the young Republican. "Ah, yes," said he, with redoubled disdain; "yes, I understand it is not Morand that you love, since Morand does not exist, but his subterfuge; but, to speak more plainly, this is not the less contemptible." The Chevalier made a threatening movement. "Monsieur," said Maurice, "will you permit me to speak for a moment to Madame- Join in the conversation if you like, she will not be long, and then I will answer you." Genevieve made a sign to Maison Rouge to entreat his patience. "Thus, Genevieve, thus," continued Maurice, "you have made me a laughing-stock for my friends and a curse to myself. You have rendered me, blind fool that I was, an instrument in all your plots, and an easy tool in your hands. Listen to me. It was an infamous deed, but you will be punished, Madame, and Monsieur, who was going to kill me before your eyes. Before five minutes have elapsed he will be there, lying at your feet; and if his life be spared it will only be to lose his head upon the scaffold."

"He die!" cried Genevieve, "he lose his head upon the scaffold! But you do not know then, Maurice, that he is my protector, and that of my family; that I will give my life for his, that if he dies I will die, and that if you are my love he is my religion!"

"Ah!" said Maurice, "perhaps you still mean to pretend that you love me. Really women are sadly weak and contemptible." Then turning to the young royalist, "Now, Monsieur," said he, "you must either kill me or die yourself."

"Why so-"

"Because, if you do not kill me, I shall arrest you." Maurice extended his hand to seize him by the collar. "I shall not dispute my life with you," said the Chevalier de Maison Rouge. And he flung his pistols on a chair. "And why do you not dispute your life-"

"Because my life is not equivalent in value to the remorse I should experience in feeling that I had killed a brave man, and more than all since Genevieve loves you."

"Ah!" cried the young woman, clasping her hands, "you are always kind, brave, loyal, and generous, Armand!" Maurice regarded them both almost stupefied with astonishment. "Allow me," said the Chevalier," to return to my chamber. I give you my word of honour it is not to escape; I wish to conceal a portrait." Maurice turned his eyes quickly towards that of Genevieve; it hung as usual in its place. Perhaps the Chevalier divined Maurice's thoughts; perhaps he wished to try his generosity to the utmost. "I know," said he, "you are a republican, but I know also that you possess a pure and loyal heart. I will trust you to the end." And he drew a miniature from his breast, and displayed it to Maurice. He beheld before him the portrait of the Queen. Maurice bowed his head, and rested his forehead on his hand. "I await your orders, monsieur," said Maison Rouge; "if you still desire my arrest, will you knock at this door when it is time to give myself up to you- I value my life only while it is sustained by the hope of serving the Queen." The Chevalier quitted the room without a gesture from Maurice offering to detain him.

As he left the chamber Genevieve cast herself at the young man's feet. "Pardon, Maurice," sobbed she, "pardon for all the evil I have done: forgive my deception, forgive me, if only on account of my tears and suffering, for believe me I have wept much and suffered much. My husband left me this morning; I do not know where he is gone, and perhaps I may see him no more. And now I have only one friend left, a more than friend, a brother, and you will destroy him. Pardon, Maurice, pardon!" Maurice raised the young woman. "What do you wish-" said he. "There is fatality in all this. Every one stakes his life in these days; the Chevalier de Maison Rouge has played like all the rest, but he has lost the game, and he must therefore pay."

"That means that he must die, if I understand you rightly-"

"Yes."

"He must die, and it is you who tell me this-"

"It is not I, Genevieve; it is fatality."

"Fatality has not uttered the last word, since you can save him."

"At the expense of my word, and consequently of my honour. I comprehend, Genevieve."

"Shut your eyes, Maurice; it is all that I ask; and as far as a woman may evince her gratitude I will promise you mine."

"' I should close my eyes to little purpose, madame, I assure you; there is a password given, and without this password no one could go out. Besides, the house, as I have told you, is already surrounded."

"And you know it-"

"Doubtless I know it."

"Maurice!"

"Well-"

"Mon ami, my dear Maurice, tell me this password, I must know it."

"Genevieve," cried Maurice, "do you mean to say to me, 'Maurice, for the love I bear you, sacrifice your word and your honour, betray your cause, abjure your opinions.' What do you offer me, Genevieve, in exchange for all this- you who tempt me thus."

"Oh! Maurice, save him, save him first, and then ask of me my life."

"Genevieve," replied Maurice, in a desponding tone, "listen to me. I have one foot on the road to infamy; before I make a final descent I wish at least to find a sufficient excuse for so doing. Genevieve! swear to me you do not love the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"I love him as a sister and a friend: not otherwise, I swear."

"Genevieve, do you love me-"

"Maurice, I do love you; it is true, as God now hears me."

"If I do what you ask me, will you thenceforth abandon relatives, friends, country, and fly with the traitor-"

"Maurice! Maurice!"

"She hesitates! she hesitates!" And he turned from her with all the violence of disdain. Genevieve, who was leaning upon him, feeling suddenly her support give way, fell upon her knees. "Maurice," said she, rising, and wringing her hands, "I will swear to do all that you require of me. Order, and I will obey."

"You will be mine, Genevieve-"

"I will."

"Swear it, by Christ." Genevieve extended her arms. "Mon Dieu," cried she, "thou didst pardon one poor sinful creature; I trust in thy mercy thou wilt also pardon me." And the large tears rained down her cheeks, falling upon her long curls hanging dishevelled on her bosom. "Not thus!" said Maurice, "swear not thus! or I cannot accept that oath."

"Mon Dieu!" replied she, "I swear to devote my life to Maurice, to die with him, and, if requisite, for him, if he will save my friend, my brother, my protector, the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"He shall be saved," said Maurice.

And he went towards his chamber. "Monsieur," said he, "resume your costume of the tanner Morand; I return your parole, you are free. And you, madame," said he, turning to Genevieve, "these are the two passwords, 'Carnation and Vault.'" And as if he entertained a horror of visiting the chamber where he had just pronounced the words which constituted him a traitor, he opened the window, and sprung from the room into the garden below.

CHAPTER XXXI. THE SEARCH.

MAURICE had returned to his post in the garden, opposite the window of Genevieve, only it was now quite dark, she having left her apartment to enter that of the Chevalier.

It was time Maurice returned, for scarcely had he reached the angle of the out-house when the garden-door opened, and the man in grey appeared, followed by Louis, and five or six grenadiers. "Well-" asked Louis. "You see I am at my post," said Maurice. "And no one has attempted to force the watchword from you-'' said Louis. "No one," replied Maurice, happy to escape by an evasion from the way in which the question was put to him. "No one. And what have you done-"

"Why, we have acquired the certainty that the Chevalier entered the house an hour ago, and has not left it since," replied the agent of police. "Do you know his chamber-" said Louis. "His room is only separated from the Citoyenne Dixmer by a corridor."

"Ah! Ah!" said Louis. "It appears this Chevalier de Maison Rouge is a gallant." Maurice felt the hot blood rush to his forehead; he closed his eyes, yet saw a thousand lights. "Let us see," said he, in a choking voice; "upon what do we decide-"

"We have decided," said the police agent, "to arrest him in his chamber, perhaps in his bed."

"He does not, then, suspect anything-"

"Absolutely nothing."

"What is the ground-plan-" inquired Louis. "We have had an exact plan," said the man in grey. "A pavilion situated at an angle of the garden, there it is; you ascend four steps, do you see them here- and find yourself on a landing; to the right is the apartment of the Citoyenne Dixmer, no doubt it is that of which we see the window. Facing this window, at the back part, is a door opening on the corridor, and in this corridor the entrance to the chamber of the traitor."

"Well, with so careful a specimen of topography," said Louis, "we might, I think, as easily find our way blindfold as with our eyes open. Let us march."

"Are the streets well guarded-" said Maurice, with an interest which the assistants very naturally attributed to his fear lest the Chevalier should escape. "The streets, the passages, even the crossings," said the man in grey. "I defy any one to pass who has not the watchword." Maurice shuddered; all these precautions being taken, made him fear that he had uselessly parted with his honour to add to his happiness. "Now," said the man in grey, "how many men do you require to secure the Chevalier-"

"How many men-" said Louis. "I hope Maurice and I are sufficient for that. Is it not so, Maurice-"

"Yes," murmured he, "we are certainly sufficient."

"Attend!" said the police agent; "now no pretending. Do you mean to take him-"

"Morbleu! Do we mean-" said Louis; "I should think so! Is it not, Maurice, necessary that we should take him-" Louis laid a stress upon these words, for, as he had truly said, suspicion began to settle upon them, and it was not wise to allow time for suspicion (which marched with such rapid strides at this epoch) to assume a firmer consistence, for Louis comprehended that no one would presume to doubt the staunch patriotism of two men who captured the Chevalier de Maison Rouge. "Well, then," said the police agent, "if you are in earnest, better take three men than two, and four than three, with you. The Chevalier invariably sleeps with pistols under his pillow, and his sword on a table by his side."

"Eh! mordieu!" said one of the grenadiers of Louis' company. "Let us go in without preference for any one; if he resists, we will cut him to pieces; if he surrender, we will reserve him for the guillotine."

"Well done," said Louis; "do we go in by the door or the window-"

"By the door," said the agent of police; "perhaps by chance the key may remain in it, and if we enter by the window we must break some panes, and that would make a noise."

"Let us go by the door, then," said Louis, "as long as we enter, it little matters how. Aliens! sword in hand, Maurice." Maurice mechanically drew his sword from the scabbard, and the little troop advanced towards the pavilion. The information of the man in grey proved perfectly correct; they first found the steps, then the landing, and at last entered the vestibule. "Ah!" cried Louis, joyfully, "the key is in the door." In short, extending his hand in the dark, his fingers had encountered the cold key. "Then open it, citizen lieutenant," said the man in grey.

Louis cautiously turned the key in the lock. The door opened. Maurice wiped the perspiration from his brow. "We shall find him here," said Louis. "Not yet," said the man in grey, "if our chart is correct, this is the apartment of the Citoyenne Dixmer."

"We can soon ascertain that," said Louis; "light the was candle, some fire still remains."

"Light the torches," said the man in grey, "they are not so soon extinguished as candles," at the same time taking two torches from the hand of a grenadier, which he lighted by the dying embers. He placed one in the hand of Maurice, the other of Louis. "You see," said he, "I was not deceived; here is the door opening into the Citoyenne Dixmer's sleeping apartment, and here the one opening into the corridor."

"Now, for the corridor," said Louis. They opened the door at the further end, which was not more firmly secured than the first, and found themselves fronting the door of the Chevalier's chamber. Maurice had seen this door twenty times before, and never thought of inquiring where it led to. All his world was centred in the room where he was received by Genevieve. "Oh! oh!" said Louis, in a low voice, "we must change our tactics, no more keys, and the door locked."

"Are you," asked Maurice, at length able to articulate, "sure that he is here-"

"If our plan is correct, it ought to be here," replied the police agent; "besides, we are about to ascertain that. Grenadiers, force open the door; and you, citizens, hold yourselves in readiness, and the instant the door is opened, precipitate yourselves into the chamber." Four men, selected by the emissary of police, raised the butt-end of their muskets, and on a signal from the man who conducted this enterprise, gave one blow all together, when the door flew into a thousand fragments. "Surrender! or you are a dead man," cried Louis, rushing into the chamber. No one replied, and the curtains of the bed were closely drawn. "Make way," said the emissary of police, "and at the first movement of the curtains, fire!"

"Wait," said Maurice, "I will open them." And no doubt, in the hope that the Chevalier de Maison Rouge might be concealed behind them, Maurice hastily pulled back the curtain, which, rolling along the iron rods, left the tenantless bed exposed to view. "Mordieu!" said Louis, "there is no one here."

"He must have escaped," murmured Maurice. "Impossible, citizens, impossible," said the man in grey. "I tell you he was seen to enter here an hour ago, and no one has been seen to go out, and all the outlets from the garden are well guarded." Louis opened the cabinets, the wardrobes, and looked everywhere, even where it was morally impossible a man could be concealed. "You see, however, that no one is here."

"No one!" repeated Maurice, with emotion, easily understood; "you see no one is here."

"To the chamber of the Citoyenne Dixmer," said the police agent, "perhaps he may be there!"

"Eh!" said Maurice, "respect the chamber of a woman."

"Certainly we will respect it, and the Citoyenne Dixmer also, but for all that we must visit it."

"What, the Citoyenne Dixmer-" said one of the grenadiers, delighted at the idea of making a wretched joke. "No," Said Louis, "the chamber only."

"Then," said Maurice, "permit me to pass first."

"Pass on, then," said Louis, "you are captain in all honour," and leaving two men to guard the apartment, they returned to that where they had lighted their torches. Maurice approached the door, passing into the chamber of Genevieve. It was the first time he had ever entered there. His heart beat violently. The key was in the door. Maurice laid his hand upon the key, but still hesitated. "Well," said Louis, "open!"

"But," said Maurice, "if the Citoyenne Dixmer should be in bed-"

"We will look in her bed, under her bed, in the chimney, in the wardrobes, and then if we find no one there but herself, we will wish her good night," said Louis. "No, not so," said the police agent, "we shall arrest her; the Citoyenne Genevieve Dixmer is an aristocrat, who has been recognised as an accomplice of the girl Tison, and the Chevalier de Maison Rouge."

"Open it yourself, then," said Maurice, "I do not arrest women." The agent of police looked at Maurice sideways, and the men murmured among themselves. "OPEN IT YOURSELF, THEN," SAID MAURICE, "I DO NOT ARREST WOMEN."

"Oh! you grumble, do you-" said Louis; "then you shall have two to grumble about. I am of Maurice's opinion," and he made a step forward.

The man in grey seized the key, opened the door, and the soldiers rushed into the chamber. Two wax lights burned upon a little table, but the chamber of Genevieve, like that of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge, was uninhabited. "Empty!" cried the police agent. "Empty!" cried Maurice, turning pale; "where is she, then-" Louis regarded Maurice with astonishment. "Let us search," said the agent of police, and, closely followed by the militia, he began to rummage the house from the cellars to the workshops. At length, when their backs were turned, Maurice, who had followed them impatiently with his eyes, in his turn darted into the chamber, opening the presses, which had already been opened, and calling, in a voice replete with anxiety, "Genevieve! Genevieve!" But Genevieve made no reply; the chamber was indeed vacated. Then he began to search the house in a species of frenzy, the greenhouse, even the outhouses, nothing was omitted, but all without success. Suddenly a noise was heard, a troop of armed men presented themselves at the door, exchanged the password with the sentinel, entered the garden, and dispersed themselves over the house. At the head of this reinforcement waved the red plume of Henriot.** The name of Santerre has been incorrectly introduced, as since the 3rd of May Henriot commanded the National Guard. "Well!" said he to Louis, "where is the conspirator-"

"How! where is the conspirator-"

"Yes! I ask what have you done with him-"

"I shall ask you that question. If your detachment had guarded the outlets properly, ere this he must have been arrested, since he was not in the house when we entered it."

"What! do you mean to say," cried the furious general, "that you have really allowed him to escape-"

"We could not allow him to escape since we have never taken him."

"Then I can comprehend nothing," said Henriot. "Why-" said Louis. "Of the message you sent me by your envoy."

"We have sent none."

"Yes; a man in a brown coat, with black hair, and green spectacles, who came from you to inform me you were on the eve of capturing Maison Rouge, but that he defended himself like a lion, upon hearing which I hastened to your assistance."

"A man in a brown coat, black hair, and green spectacles-" repeated Louis. "Yes, with a female on his arm."

"Young and pretty-" cried Maurice, glancing towards the general. "Yes, young and pretty."

"It was her! the Citoyenne Dixmer."

"And he- Maison Rouge. Oh! miserable that I am not to hare killed them both!"

"Let us go, Citizen Lindey," said Henriot; "we may perhaps overtake them."

"But how the devil," said Louis, "came you to let them pass-"

"Pardieu!" said Henriot, "I allowed them to pass because they knew the password."

"They had the password-" said Louis; "then there is surely a traitor amongst us."

"No, no, Citizen Louis; you know, and we all know, we have no traitors among us." Louis looked around him as if to detect the miscreant, and publicly proclaim his shame. He encountered the gloomy face and wandering eye of Maurice. "Ah!" murmured he, "who could have foretold this-"

"This man cannot be very far off," said Henriot; "let us search the environs; perhaps he has fallen in with some patrol who, more clever than ourselves, will not fail to secure him."

"Yes, yes; let us search," said Louis; and, under the pretence of so doing, he seized Man rice by the arm, and drew him into the garden. "Yes, let us search," said the soldiers. "But before we search-" and one of them flung his still burning torch into an adjacent outhouse, filled with bundles of dried cow hair and rotten planks. "Come," said Louis, "come." Maurice offered no resistance. He followed Louis like a child; they both ran as far as the bridge without speaking again; when there they stopped, and Maurice turned round. The sky was red from the horizon to the Faubourg, and from above the houses ascended innumerable crimson stars.

CHAPTER XXXII. THE FIRE.

MAURICE shuddered as he extended his hand towards La Rue Saint Jacques. "The fire!" said he, "the fire!"

"Yes," said Louis, "the fire; what then-"

"Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! if she has returned."

"Who-"

"Genevieve."

"Genevieve means Madame Dixmer, does it not-"

"Yes."

"There is no danger of her return; she did not go away for that purpose."

"Louis, I must find her. I will have my revenge."

"Oh, oh!" said Louis. "You will assist me in my search, will you not, Louis-"

"Pardieu! there will be no difficulty in that."

"Why so-"

"Without doubt, if you are so much interested, as far as I am able to form an opinion on the Citoyenne Dixmer's fate, you being intimate with her, ought, knowing her, also to know her friends. She has not quitted Paris; it is all the rage to remain there; she has taken refuge in the house of some confidential acquaintance, and to-morrow morning you will receive a billet from some 'Rose,' or some 'Meuton,' requesting you to present yourself at the house of the concierge, such a number, such a street, and inquire for Madame***; that is all." Maurice shrugged his shoulders; he well knew there was no one with whom Genevieve could take refuge. "We shall not find her," said he. "Will you permit me to say one thing, Maurice-"

"What-"

"That it will be no great misfortune if we should not find her."

"If we do not, Louis, I shall die."

"Diable!" said the young man, "it is only this love, then, that has hitherto kept you alive."

"Yes," replied Maurice.

Louis reflected an instant. "Maurice," said he, "it is now nearly eleven o'clock, this quarter is deserted; here is a stone seat, particularly adapted for the reception of two friends. Accord me the favour of a private interview, as they described it under the ancient regime." They both seated themselves upon the bench. "Speak," said Maurice, resting his aching head upon his hand. "I give you my word of honour I will speak only in prose, mon ami, without exordium, periphrase, or commentary; I tell you one thing, it is, that we are ruining ourselves, or rather, you are ruining us."

"Why so-" demanded Maurice. "There is, my friend, a decree issued by the Committee of Public Safety, which declares every man a traitor to his country who enters into any relationship with the acknowledged enemies of the said country. Alas! do you know this decree-"

"Doubtless I do," said Maurice. "Well, it seems to me, you are not a vile traitor to your country. What say you- as Manlius says."

"Louis! At least you do not regard with idolatry in this country those who give house room, table and bed to Monsieur le Chevalier de Maison Rouge, who is not a high Republican, as I suppose, and has not been accused at any time of having taken part in the days of September. Ah! Louis," said Maurice, sighing heavily. "Still, it appears to me," continued the moralist, "that you have been, and still are, too intimate with the enemies of your country. Aliens! allons! cher ami, do not rebel, and, like the fire, Enceladus, you will remove the mountain as you turn back." Louis pronounced these words in the kindest manner possible, and glossed them over with an artifice truly Ciceronian. Maurice merely made a gesture of assent, but the gesture was considered an admission, and Louis continued. "If we exist in a green-house temperature, a healthy atmosphere, where the barometer invariably points to sixteen degrees (this, my dear Maurice, is elegant, comme il faut, we are occasionally rather aristocratic), we flourish and do well, but if scorched in a heat of thirty or forty degrees, the sap burns, so that it rises slowly, and from the excess of heat seems cold; when cold, then comes the blight of suspicion, you know this Maurice, and once suspected, you possess too much good sense not to know that we shall ere long be no more."

"Well, then," said Maurice, "they can kill me, and there will be an end of me, for I am weary of my life."

"A quarter of an hour ago, indeed scarcely so long," said Louis, "I left you to act according to your own pleasure on this subject; and then to die now, it is necessary to die a Republican, whilst you would die an aristocrat."

"Ah!" said Maurice, whose blood began to boil from impassioned grief, resulting from the consciousness of his own criminality, "you go too far, mon ami."

"I shall go further still, and inform you, that if you turn aristocrat-"

"You will denounce me-"

"For shame! No. I will confine you in a vault, and have you sought after to the sound of the drum, like a wild object, then I will proclaim that the aristocrats, knowing what was in reserve, had seized, victimized, and starved you, so that, like the prevot Elie de Beaumont, Monsieur Latude, and others, when found, you will be publicly crowned with flowers by the ladies of La Halle, and the rag-pickers of the section. Make haste, then, to appear an Aristides, else your business is quite concluded."

"Louis! Louis! I feel that you are right, but I am dragged along. I am sliding down the precipice. Leave me to my fate, for I am drawn to it."

"I shall not leave you, but I shall quarrel with you. Call to mind a few of the scenes enacted daily between Pylacles and Orestes-scenes which prove beyond all doubt that friendship is a paradox, since these model friends quarrelled without ceasing."

"Leave me to my fate, Louis, you had much better do so."

"I will never abandon you."

"Then, allow me to love, to be mad, at my ease; to be criminal, perhaps, for if I again see her, I fear I shall kill her."

"Or fall upon your knees. Ah, ah, Maurice, Maurice, to have loved an aristocrat, I never could have credited it. It is like poor Asselin with the Marquise de Charry."

"No more, Louis, I beseech you."

"Maurice, I will cure you, or may the devil take mo. I do not wish you to be drawn in the lottery of Saint Guillotine, as the grocer of la Rue des Lombards observes. Maurice, you will exasperate me! Maurice, you will render me bloodthirsty! I feel as if I wanted to set fire to the isle of St. Louis! A torch! a firebrand!" Maurice smiled in spite of himself. "You exasperate me with your folly," continued Louis. "Drink, Maurice, become a drunkard, do anything; study political economy; but, for the love of Jupiter, let us fall in love with nothing but Liberty."

"Or Reason-"

"Ah! the goddess talks much about you. She thinks you u charming mortal."

"Are you not jealous-"

"Maurice, to save a friend I feel capable of any sacrifice."

"Thanks, my poor Louis, and I truly appreciate your devotion; but the best way to console me is to saturate me in my grief. Adieu! Louis, go to Arthemise."

"And you; where are you going-"

"I shall return home." And Maurice turned towards the bridge. "You live, then, on the side of the old Rue St. Jacques now-"

"No; but it pleases me to go that way."

"To look once again upon the place inhabited by your fair inconstant-"

"To see if she has not returned where she knows I am awaiting her. Ah! Genevieve, I could not have believed you capable of so much deceit."

"Maurice, a tyrant who well knew the fair sex, since he died from having loved them too well, said- Woe to the man who trusts his heart To woman, changeful as the breeze." Maurice sighed, and the two friends took the road to the old Rue St. Jacques. As they approached they heard a great noise, and saw the light increase; they listened to patriotic chants, which, on a brilliant day, in the glorious sunshine, or in the atmosphere of combat, sounded like hymns of heroism; but which, by the red light of an incendiary fire, savoured more of the degrading accents of a drunken rabble. "Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" cried Maurice, forgetting that God was abolished, as he wiped the perspiration from his face.

Louis watched him attentively and muttered- Alas! when caught in Cupid's snare, To Prudence we must bid adieu.

All the inhabitants of Paris appeared moving towards the theatre of these events we are about to narrate. Maurice was obliged to cross a hedge formed by the grenadiers, the range of the sections, then the impetuous crowd of this always furious populace, at this epoch easily aroused, and who ran howling from spectacle to spectacle, without intermission. As they approached, Maurice impatiently hastened his steps; Louis, with some trouble, kept close behind him, for he did not like to leave him to himself for a moment. It was nearly all over. The fire had communicated from the outhouses, where the soldier had flung his torch, to the workshops, constructed of planks, so put together as to allow the free circulation of air, the merchandise was consumed, and the house itself was now in flames. "Oh! mon Dieu!" said Maurice; "if she has returned, should she find herself in a chamber encircled by the devouring element, waiting for me, calling on me…" and Maurice, nearly insensible from grief, liked better to think of the folly of those who loved than of his treason. Maurice stooped, and entered the door he caught sight of through the mass of burning flame. Louis still followed him. He would have pursued him to the confines of hell. The whole was in flames; the fire had now indeed commenced its work of destruction on the staircase. Maurice hastened to visit the first floor, the salon, the chamber of Genevieve, of the Chevalier de Maison Rouge, and the corridors, calling, in a choking voice, "Genevieve! Genevieve!" No one replied. On returning from the search our two friends saw volumes of flame now entering the door; but not heeding the shouts of Louis, who had clambered to the window, Maurice passed through the midst of them, then ran to the house, crossed, notwithstanding all impediments, a court-yard, strewed with broken marbles, discovered the salle-a-manger, the salon of Dixmer, Morand's cabinet of chemistry, all filled with smoke, with fragments and broken glass. The fire had reached this part of the house, and the work of destruction would soon be complete. Maurice, as in the pavilion, did not omit visiting a single chamber, or leave unexamined even a corridor. He then descended to the cellars; perhaps Genevieve had taken refuge from the fire there. He found no one. "Morbleu!" said Louis; "no one but a salamander could take refuge here, and it is not that fabulous animal that you are in search of. Let us go; we can make inquiry in this assemblage. Some one has perhaps seen her." It needed all Louis's force to drag away Maurice-hope still detained him there. Then they commenced their investigation; they visited the environs, stopped all the females who passed, searched all the alleys, without any result. It was now one o'clock in the morning, and Maurice, notwithstanding his athletic vigour, was over powered and broken down with fatigue, and at length desisted from his worse than useless efforts. A carriage passed; Louis hailed it. "Mon cher," said he to Maurice, "we have done all in the range of human possibility that we can do to recover Genevieve. We have broken our backs, been roasted, and have been cruelly cuffed for her. Cupid, however exacting he may be, could require no more from a man in love, and above all, from one who is not. So jump into the carriage and let us return home." Maurice submitted without making any reply. They arrived at Maurice's door without either of the friends having uttered a single word. As he descended from the carriage, they heard the window of his apartment closed. "All right!" said Louis, "he is waiting; I shall rest easy now. Knock, however." Maurice knocked, the door opened. "Bon soir!" said Louis, "wait for me tomorrow morning to go out."

"Bon soir," said Maurice, mechanically, as the door closed behind him. Upon the first steps of the staircase he met his official. "Ah! citizen Lindey," said he, "how much uneasiness you have caused us." The word "us" struck Maurice. "You-" said he. "Yes, I, and the little lady, who is waiting for you."

"The little lady," repeated Maurice, feeling the moment ill chosen to remind him of his former loves, "you were right to tell me. I shall sleep at Louis's."

"That is impossible; she was at the window, and saw you alight, and cried out, 'There he is!'"

"What can it matter anything she knows to me- I have no heart for love. Go upstairs, and tell this woman she is deceived." The official made a movement as if to obey him, then stopped. "Ah! citizen," said he, "you are wrong. The little lady is already very sad; your message will drive her to despair."

"But," said Maurice, "who is this woman-"

"Citizen, I have not seen her face; it is concealed by her mantle, and weeps, that is all I know."

"She weeps-" said Maurice. "Yes, but very softly, stifling her sobs."

"She weeps," again repeated Maurice; "there is then some one in the world who loves me sufficiently to feel anxious in my absence-" and he ascended slowly behind the official. "Here he is, Citoyenne, here he is," cried he, rushing into the chamber. Maurice entered behind him.

He beheld, then, in the corner of the room, the trembling form (its face hid in the cushions) of a woman, whom he would have thought dead, but for the convulsive groaning, which made him start. He signed to his official to leave the room, who went out, closing the door behind him. Then Maurice ran to the young woman, who raised her head; "Genevieve!'' cried the young man, "Genevieve here, mon Dieu! am I then mad-"

"No, you are in possession of your senses, mon ami," replied the young woman. "I had promised to be with you if you would save the Chevalier de Maison Rouge. You have saved him, and I am here; I await you." Maurice mistook the meaning of these words; he recoiled a step, and looked sadly at the young woman. "Genevieve," said he, "you do not love me." Genevieve regarded him with tearful eyes; then turning from him, leaned her head on the pillow of the sofa, and gave free utterance to her sobs and tears. "Alas!" said Maurice, "it is evident that you no longer love me, and not only that you love me no more, Genevieve, but that you must entertain a feeling of hatred towards me, to experience this despair." Maurice had spoken so nobly, yet with so much feeling, that Genevieve, anxious to correct him, took his hand, and attempted some explanation. "Mon Dieu!" said she, "those we think the best will always be egotists."

"Egotists, Genevieve! what do you mean to say-"

"Can you not then imagine what I suffer- My husband a fugitive, my brother proscribed, our house in flames, and all this in one night: and then that dreadful scene between you and the Chevalier was added to the rest." Maurice listened with delight, for it was impossible even for the most foolish passion not to admit that this accumulation of trouble was more than sufficient excuse for Genevieve's deep and violent grief. "And now you are come, I shall keep you; you will not leave me more-" Genevieve started. "Where should I go-" replied she, with bitterness. "Have I an asylum, a shelter, a protector, save he who has put a price upon his protection- Oh! rash and foolish that I am; I stepped over the Pont Neuf, Maurice, and in passing I stopped to gaze at the dark water, dashing angrily against the angles of the arches; it attracted and fascinated me. Then, said I to myself, there, poor woman, is a shelter for you, there a grave, rest, and obliviousness."

"Genevieve! Genevieve!'' said Maurice, "you said that- then you do not love me-"

"I promised," replied Genevieve, "I promised to come, and I am here." Maurice drew a deep breath, and cast his eyes upon the floor. "Genevieve," murmured he, "weep no more. Genevieve, console yourself for all your grief, since you love me. Tell me, Genevieve, for the sake of Heaven, that it was not the violence of my menaces that brought you hither. Assure me, that even had you not seen me this evening, on finding yourself alone, isolated and without an asylum, you would have come and received my oath, to return you that which I had compelled you to take." Genevieve regarded the young man with a look of intense gratitude. "Generous!" said she; "oh! mon Dieu! I thank thee, he is generous."

"Listen, Genevieve," said Maurice. "God, whom they have here driven from their temples, they cannot expel from our hearts, where he has implanted love. This evening, apparently so dark and gloomy, conceals behind its sombre curtain a silvery cloud. God has conducted you to me, Genevieve, and speaks to you through me. God is at length willing to compensate us for all the sufferings we have endured, for the virtue we have displayed in combating this love, as if this sentiment so long entertained, and so profound, could be a crime. Weep no more, Genevieve, weep no more; give me your hand. Do you wish to live in the house of your brother- do you wish he should kiss the hem of your robe, and pass over the threshold of his door without turning his head- Well; say but one word, make but one sign, and I am gone, and you are free. But on the other side, my adored Genevieve, will you call to mind how ardently I have loved you, and have only existed in this love, which it remains with you to render so fatal or so fortunate to me. I have been a traitor to my friends, and am become vile and contemptible in my own eyes; will you now remember that in all this I regarded your happiness for the present and the future- Ah! Genevieve, what will you reply- Ah! Genevieve, you who are an angel of mercy, will you render a man so happy, that he no longer regrets life, and ceases to desire eternal felicity- Then, instead of repelling me, smile, my Genevieve; let me place your hand upon my heart, and incline towards one who worships you from the inmost recesses of his soul. Genevieve, my love, my life, do not take back your vow!" The heart of the young woman swelled at these words. The fatigue of her late suffering had worn out her strength, and though her tears no longer flowed, occasional sobs relieved her overcharged bosom. "You still weep, my Genevieve," continued Maurice, with profound melancholy; "you still weep. Oh! reassure yourself. I will never impose my love on scornful grief, and never soil my lips with a kiss poisoned by a single tear of regret." He averted his face, and coldly turned away. "Ah! Maurice," murmured Genevieve, "do not abandon me, Maurice; I have no one left me in the world but you."

CHAPTER XXXIII. THE MORROW.

A BEAUTIFUL SUN beamed across the green window-blinds, gilding the leaves of three large roses placed in a flower-stand before the window of Maurice. These flowers, more precious as the season was on the decline, perfumed with a delicious fragrance the little salle-a-m anger of spotless neatness, where at a table served with every elegancy, but without profusion, sat Maurice and Genevieve. The door was closed, for as the table contained all that was requisite, it was understood they waited on themselves. They heard the official stirring in the adjoining room. The warmth and life of the last few lovely days entered through the half open jalousie, making glitter like emeralds and rubies the rose-leaves caressed by the rays of the sun. Genevieve let fall upon her plate the golden fruit she held in her hand. She appeared to be deep in thought and smiling only with her lips, while her eyes languished with a melancholy expression. She remained thus silent, abstracted, and happy in the sun of her love, as the beautiful flowers in the sun of heaven. Soon her eyes sought those of Maurice, and encountered his gazing upon her. She placed her soft white arm upon the young man's shoulder, and leaned against his breast with that faith and confidence far exceeding love. Genevieve looked at him without speaking, and blushed as she regarded him. Maurice slightly inclined his head to imprint a kiss upon the half open lips of Genevieve. He bent his head, whilst she turned pale, and closed her eyes, as the delicate flower conceals its calyx from the rays of light. They remained dreaming thus, when a sharp ring at the door-bell suddenly startled them.

The official entered mysteriously, and closed the door. "Here is the citizen Louis," said he. "Ah! dear Louis," said Maurice, "I will go and dismiss him. Pardon, Genevieve." Genevieve stopped him. "Dismiss your friend, Maurice-" said she, "and such a friend; one who has consoled, assisted, and sustained you- No; I would no more drive such a friend from your house than from your heart. Let him come in, Maurice; let him come in."

"With your permission," said Maurice. "I wish it," said Genevieve. "Ah! you will find that to love you is not enough," cried Maurice, delighted with her delicacy; "it is necessary to adore you!" Genevieve held her blushing face to the young man. He opened the door, and Louis entered, smart as usual in his costume of demi-muscadin. On perceiving Genevieve he manifested great surprise, which was succeeded by a respectful salute. "Come here, Louis, come here, and look at madame; you are dethroned, Louis. I have now some one I prefer. I would have given my life for you; for her-I tell you nothing new, Louis-for her I have sacrificed my honour."

"Madame," replied Louis, in accents of deep emotion, "I shall endeavour to love Maurice the more, that he has not altogether ceased to love me."

"Sit down, monsieur," said Genevieve, smiling. "Yes, sit down," said Maurice, who having pressed in his right hand that of his friend, and in his left that of his mistress, presented the appearance of a man arrived at the height of human felicity. "Then you do not wish to die now- do not wish any longer to kill yourself-"

"What was that-" said Genevieve. "Ah! mon Dieu!" said Louis, "man is a most versatile animal, and philosophers have good cause to despise his levity. Here is one, would you believe it, madame, who no later than yesterday evening wished to fling himself into the fire, throw himself into the water; who declared there was no more happiness for him in this world, and behold him this morning, gay, joyous, with a smile upon his lips, his countenance resplendent with happiness, life in his heart, seated at a well-furnished table; it is true he has not eaten much, but that does not prove he is unhappy."

"Did he wish to do all this-" said Genevieve. "All this, and much more still. I will tell you all, some day, but at this moment I am very hungry; it is all Maurice's fault for making me yesterday evening run all over the quarter Saint Jacques. Permit me, then, to make an attack upon the breakfast, which I perceive you have neither of you yet touched."

"That is right," said Maurice, with childish joy; "I have not breakfasted, neither have you, Genevieve." He watched Louis's eyes as he uttered her name, but he evinced no surprise. "Ah!'' said Maurice, "you have already surmised who it was, Louis."

"Parbleu!" said Louis, cutting himself a large slice of white and rosy ham. "I, also, am hungry," said Genevieve, holding her plate. "Louis," said Maurice, "I was ill yesterday."

"You were worse than ill; you were mad."

"Well, I think it is you who are suffering at this moment."

"Why-"

"You have not yet given us any verses."

"I will sing you one this moment," said Louis. "Phoebus, in the midst of the Graces, The lyre in his hand still retained, Till following of Venus the traces, 'Twas lost, and could not be regained.' "Always ready with a quatrain," said Maurice, laughing. "I am glad you are contented, as it is now necessary to turn our attention to more serious affairs."

"Has anything new occurred, then-" said Maurice, anxiously. "I am ordered on guard at the Conciergerie."

"At the Conciergerie!" said Genevieve, "near the Queen-"

"Near the Queen. I believe so, madame." Genevieve turned pale. Maurice frowned, and made a sign to Louis, who cut himself another slice of ham, double the size of the first. The Queen had indeed been removed to the Conciergerie, where we will follow.

CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CONCIERGERIE.

AT AN ANGLE OF the Pont au Change, and of the Quai aux Fleurs, rose the remains of the old palace of Saint Louis, called par excellence, the palace, as Rome is called the city, and which still continues to retain the royal cognomen, when the only kings who inhabit it are the registrars, the judges, and the pleaders. The house of justice was a large and sombre building, exciting more fear than love for the goddess. There might be seen united in this narrow space all the instruments and attributes of human vengeance. In the first ward were those who had been arraigned for crime; further on where they were tried; and lower down the dungeons of the condemned. By the door was a small space, where the red-hot iron stamped its mark of infamy; and about one hundred and fifty paces from the first, another space, far more extensive, where the last act of the fearful tragedy took place, that is to say, La Greve, where they finished the work previously sketched out for them at the palace.

Justice, as we see, reigned paramount over all. All these portions of the edifice joined one with another, sullen-looking, dark and grey, pierced by iron-grated windows, where the gaping arches resemble the grated dens extending along the side of the Quai des Lunettes. This is the Conciergerie. This prison contains dens washed by the black mud from the waters of the Seine; it also possesses mysterious issues, by which are conveniently conducted to the river those miserable victims whom it is their interest to remove. Seen in 1793, the Conciergerie liberally disgorged its prisoners, within the hour arrested and condemned to die upon the scaffold. At this epoch the old prison of Saint Louis was literally the Hold of Death. Under the arches some gates were hung, and at night a red lantern was suspended there, fit emblem of this abode of misery and despair.

The evening preceding the day when Louis, Maurice, and Genevieve were breakfasting together, a dull rumbling shook the pavement of the quay, and rattled the windows of the prison, then ceased before the arched gate. The gendarmes knocked with the handles of their swords, the gate opened, and a voiture entered the court; when the hinges had turned and the rusty bolt ground round, a female descended. The gaping wicket opened immediately to receive her, and closed upon her. Three or four curious heads protruded to gaze upon the prisoner by the light of the flambeau appeared in mezzo-tinto, then vanished in the darkness, while vulgar jokes and rude laughter passed between the men leaving, who could be heard though not Been. The person thus brought remained at the wicket with the gendarmes; she saw it would be necessary to pass through a second, but forgot at the same time to raise the foot and lower the head, as there is a step to ascend and a beam which descends. The prisoner, although unfortunately habituated to prison architecture, notwithstanding her long sojourn there, omitted to stoop, and struck her forehead violently against the bar. "Are you much hurt, citoyenne-" demanded one of the gendarmes. "Nothing can hurt me now," she replied tranquilly, and passed on without uttering a single complaint, although sanguinary traces of the injury remained upon her brow.

Shortly the arm-chair of the porter became visible-a chair more venerated by the prisoners than the throne of the king by his courtiers; for the concierge of a prison is the dispenser of favour, and all mercy is important to a prisoner, as sometimes the smallest kindness may change the darkest gloom to a heaven of light. The concierge, Richard, installed in his arm-chair, felt a due perception of his own importance. He remained undisturbed even when the rumbling of the carriage announced a new arrival. He inhaled some snuff, regarded the prisoner, opened a large register, and looked for a pen in the little ink-horn of black wood, where the ink, encrusted on the sides, retained in the centre a mouldy humidity, as in the midst of the crater of Vesuvius there always remains a certain degree of heat. "Citizen Concierge," said the chief of the escort, "write, and write quickly, for they are impatiently awaiting us at the commune."

"I will not be long," said the concierge, at the same time emptying into the inkstand some drops of wine remaining at the bottom of his glass; "we are a good hand at this, thank God. Your name and surname, citoyenne," said he, and dipping his pen at the same time into this improvisatory ink, he commenced writing at the bottom of a page already nearly filled. The new arrival, whilst standing behind his chair, the citoyenne Richard, a female of benevolent aspect, contemplated with a mixture of astonishment and respect, this woman, so sad, so noble, and so proud. "Marie Antoinette Jeanne Josephe de Lorraine," replied the prisoner, "Archduchess of Austria and Queen of France."

"Queen of France!" repeated the concierge, raising himself in astonishment by the arms of his chair. "Queen of France," repeated the prisoner, in the same voice. "Otherwise called the widow of Capet," said the chief of the escort. "Under which of these names am I to designate her-" demanded the concierge. "Whichever you please, only do it quickly," said the chief of the escort.

The concierge reseated himself, and with a trembling hand wrote down the name, surname, and titles given him by the prisoner, inscriptions of which the ink still appears visible to this day upon the register of which the revolutionary rats of the Conciergerie have nibbled the leaf but respected the parts most precious. Richard's wife still retained her position behind her husband's chair, and remained standing with her hands clasped together, commiserating the situation of the unfortunate being before her. "Your age-" continued the concierge. "Thirty-seven years and nine months," replied the Queen. Richard wrote this down, then the description, and finished with the regular notes and forms. "There," said he, "that is completed."

"Where shall we conduct the prisoner-" said the chief of the escort.

Richard helped himself to a second pinch of snuff, and looked at his wife. "Dame," said he, "we did not anticipate this, and have not long known it."

"You must find out," said the brigadier. "There is the council chamber," said Richard's wife. "Too large," murmured Richard. "So much the better, you can the more easily place the guards."

"Go to the council chamber," said Richard. "But it is not habitable at this moment, it has no bed."

"True," replied his wife, "I had quite forgotten that."

"Bah!" said one of the gendarmes, "you can put a bed there to-morrow, and to-morrow will soon be here."

"Besides, the citoyenne could occupy our chamber for one night; could she not, my man-" said Richard's wife. "And what are we to do-" said the concierge. "Oh! we can do without a bed for one night; and, as the citizen gendarme observes, the night is nearly gone."

"Then," said Richard, "conduct the citoyenne to my chamber."

"And in the meanwhile you will prepare our receipt-"

"It shall be ready on your return." Pilchard's wife took the candle from the table, and went first to lead the way. Marie Antoinette followed without uttering a word, calm and pale as usual. Two turnkeys, at a sign from Richard's wife, accompanied them. The Queen was shown her bed, on which the woman proceeded to place clean sheets. The turnkeys installed themselves outside; the door was closed, then double locked. And Marie Antoinette was left at last alone. How she passed that night no one ever knew. Probably in close communion with her God. On the next day the Queen was conducted to the council chamber. This was a long four-sided room, of which the wicket-door opened upon a corridor of the Conciergerie, divided the whole length by a partition, which did not reach the height of the ceiling. One of these compartments was occupied by the men on guard. The other was the chamber of the Queen. A window, thickly grated with small iron bars, lighted both these cells. A folding-screen, the substitute for a door, secluded the Queen from the guards, and closed the aperture in the middle. The whole of this room was paved with brick. The walls, at one period or another, had been decorated with gilt picture-frames, where still hung some shreds of paper fleur-de-lis. A bed was placed opposite the window, and a single chair near the light. This was all the furniture the royal prison contained. On entering, the Queen requested her books and work might be forwarded to her. They brought her the "Revolutions d'Angleterre," which she had commenced in the Temple, the "Voyages de Jeune Anacharse," and her tapestry. The gendarmes established themselves in the adjoining compartment. History has preserved their names, as it has done that of many others more infamous, associated by destiny in these great events, and who saw reflected on them a fragment of that light cast by the thunderbolt which destroys the thrones of kings, perhaps even the kings themselves. They were called Duchesne and Gilbert. These two men were selected by the Commune, who knew them to be staunch patriots. They were to remain at their post in their cell till the sentence of Marie Antoinette. They hoped by this measure to avoid the irregularities consequent upon a change of office several times during the day, and therefore laid the guards under a heavy responsibility. The Queen first became acquainted with this new regulation from the conversation of the gendarmes, who omitting to speak softly, their discourse reached her ears. She experienced at once joy and disquietude; for if, on the one hand, she felt that these men ought to be trustworthy since they had been chosen from a multitude; on the other side, she reflected her friends might more easily corrupt two known men at their post, than a hundred unknown individuals selected by chance, passing near her occasionally, and then only for a single day. On the first night before she retired one of the gendarmes, according to his usual custom, began to smoke. The noxious vapour glided imperceptibly round the screen, and through the aperture, enveloping the unfortunate Queen, whose misfortunes had irritated instead of deadening her nerves. She soon felt herself seized with nausea and swimming in the head; but true to her indomitable system of firmness, she uttered no complaint. During her melancholy vigil, whilst nothing disturbed the deep silence of the night, she fancied she heard plaintive cries outside. These cries were mournful and prolonged, there was about them something unearthly and piercing, like the howling of wind in the dark and deserted corridor, when the tempest borrows the human voice to animate the passions of the elements. She soon recognised the noises that had at first startled her, the doleful and persevering cry, as that of a dog running along the quay. She immediately remembered her poor little Jet, whom she never thought of when they removed her from the Temple, and now believed she could recognise his voice. Indeed, the poor little animal, who by his mistaken vigilance had ruined his mistress, had unperceived descended behind her, had followed the carriage as far as the grating of the Conciergerie, where he continued till he narrowly escaped being cut in two by the double door of iron which closed behind her. But the faithful creature had soon returned, and comprehending that his mistress was confined in this great stone building, he whined and howled, waiting, within ten feet of the sentinel, a caressive reply. The Queen replied by a heart-broken sigh, which reached the ears of her guards; but as this sigh was not repeated, and no other sound proceeded from the Queen's chamber, they again composed themselves, and relapsed into their former state of drowsiness.

At break of day the Queen rose and dressed herself, then took her seat near the window, the light from which, intercepted by the grating of iron bars, fell with a bluish tint upon her emaciated hands, in which she held a book. She was apparently reading, but her thoughts were far away. The gendarme Gilbert half opened the screen, and regarded her in silence. The Queen heard the noise of the screen, but did not turn her head. She was so seated that the gendarme could see her head bathed in the morning light. Gilbert made a sign to his comrade to advance, and look through the opening with him. Duchesne approached. "Look," said Gilbert, in a low tone; "how very pale she is; it is frightful. Those red circles round her eyes denote her suffering. She has surely been weeping."

"You well know," said Duchesne, "Capet's widow never weeps. She is too proud for that."

"Then she must be ill," said Gilbert, and raising his voice," Tell me, Citoyenne Capet," said he, "are you ill-" The Queen slowly raised her eyes, and fixed an inquiring look upon the two men. "Did you address me. Messieurs-" demanded she, in a voice full of sweetness, for she fancied she detected the accent of kindness in him who had spoken to her. "Yes, citoyenne, we spoke to you," replied Gilbert; "we feared you were ill."

"Why so-"

"Because your eyes are so red."

"And at the same time you are so pale," added Duchesne. "No, thank you, Messieurs, I am not ill, only I suffered much last night."

"Ah! yes, your misfortunes!"

"No, Messieurs, my miseries are always the same; and my religion having taught me to carry them to the foot of the cross, I do not suffer more one day than another. No; I am ill because I could not rest last night."

"Ah! your new lodging, and different bed," said Duchesne. "And then the lodging is not very comfortable," added Gilbert. "Ah! it is not that, Messieurs," said the Queen, shaking her head. "Lofty or lowly, it is all the same to me."

"What is it then-"

"I ask pardon for telling you; but I have suffered much inconvenience from the smell of tobacco, which Monsieur is inhaling at this moment." Indeed, Gilbert was smoking, for, like many others, it was his habitual occupation. "Mon Dieu!" cried he, much grieved, from the kindness with which the Queen had expressed herself. "Why did you not tell me so, citoyenne-"

"Because I thought I had no right to deprive you of any enjoyment."

"Well, you shall be incommoded no more-by me at least," said Gilbert, casting away his pipe, which broke upon the tiles, "for I will smoke no more." He turned round, his companion followed, and he closed the screen. "Possibly they may cut off her head, that is an affair of the nation; but why should we cause her any suffering, this poor woman- We are soldiers, and not hangmen, like Simon."

"It rather savours of the aristocrat, comrade, what you did just now," said Duchesne, shaking his head. "What do you term an aristocrat- Explain yourself."

"I call aristocrats all those who annoy the nation, and succour its enemies."

"Then, according to your theory, I annoy the nation because I discontinue smoking the widow of Capet- Go along, then. As for me, I remember my oath to my country, and the order of my brigadier. As for my order, I know it by heart. Not to permit the prisoner to escape; not to allow any one to see her; to resist all correspondence she may endeavour to continue; and to die at my post. This is what I promised, and to this will I keep. Vive la nation!'' "That is what I tell you," said Duchesne. "It is not that I wish you to do so, but from my fear lest you should compromise yourself."

"Hush! here is some one." The Queen had not lost one word of this last conversation, although carried on in a low voice. Captivity had rendered her hearing doubly acute.

The noise which had attracted his attention of the two guards was the sound of several steps approaching the door. It opened, and two municipals entered, followed by the concierge and some of the turnkeys. "Well," they inquired, "where is the prisoner-"

"Here she is," replied the two gendarmes. "How is she lodged-"

"You can see." And Gilbert touched the screen. "What do you wish-" demanded the Queen. "It is the visit of the Commune, Citoyenne Capet."

"This man is kind," thought the Queen; "and if my friends-"

"Very good, very good," said the municipals, both entering the Queen's chamber; "there is not much ceremony requisite here." The Queen did not even raise her head, and it might have been believed from her impassibility that she neither saw nor heard them, but fancied herself alone. The delegates of the Commune curiously observed everything around the chamber, sounded the wainscoting, the bed, shaking the grating of the window which looked upon the court of the Commune, and then having recommended to the gendarmes the utmost vigilance, took their departure without having addressed a word to the Queen, who on her part seemed not to have been aware of their presence.

CHAPTER XXXV. LA SALLE DES PAS-PERDUS.

TOWARDS THE DECLINE of the day on which we have seen the municipals so carefully inspecting the Queen's prison, a man attired in a grey blouse, his head covered with a mass of black hair, and on his head one of those hairy bonnets, which then amongst the people was a distinguishing mark of the most exaggerated patriotism, walked into the large hall so philosophically termed "La Salle des Pas-Perdus," and seemed most attentively observing all the goers and comers forming the general population of this hall, a population considerably augmented at this period, when actions had acquired greater importance, and when the only pleading was to dispute their heads with the hangman and with Fouquier Tinville, their indefatigable purveyor.

The attitude assumed by this man whose portrait we are about to sketch was in very good taste. Society at this epoch was divided into two classes; the lambs and the wolves. The one naturally inspired the other with fear, since one-half of society devoured the other. Our fierce promenader was rather short, and wielded in his dirty black hand one of those knotted cudgels then called "constitutions." It is true the hand that nourished this horrible weapon might have appeared rather small to any one who might amuse himself by acting vis-a-vis to this strange visitor who arrogated to himself the right to do so to others, but no one felt the least inclined to risk it, for this man's aspect was far too terrible. Indeed, it was supposed this man with the cudgel caused much disquietude to several groups of scribes engaged in this discussion of public affairs, which at this time daily progressed from bad to worse, or from better to better, according as they were considered in a conservative or revolutionary point of view. These valorous folks looked askance at his black beard, his green eyes surmounted by overhanging eyebrows of tufted hair, and trembled whenever the promenade of the mighty patriot (a promenade the whole length of the hall) brought them in near contact with each other. This terror was augmented when each time they saw him approaching, or even looked at him too attentively; the man with the cudgel struck with its full weight upon the pavement his powerful weapon, which almost tore up the stones upon which it fell with a sonorous and clashing sound. But it was not only these brave men among the scribes, designated generally as the "rats of Paris," who received this formidable impression; it was also the various individuals who entered the "La Salle des Pas-Perdus" by the great door, or through some of its narrow vomitaries, who also quickened their pace on perceiving the man with the cudgel, who obstinately continued his journey from one end of the hall to the other, finding each moment some pretext for dashing his weapon on the pavement. If these writers had been less timorous and the promenaders more clear-sighted, they would have discovered that our patriot, capricious like all eccentric or extreme natures, appeared to evince a preference for certain flagstones, those for instance situated a little distance from the wall on the right, near the centre of the hall, emitting a clear and ringing sound. He even finished by concentrating his anger upon some particular stones in the centre of the hall. At the same time he so far forgot himself as to stop and measure with his eye something in the distance. True, it was a momentary absence only, and he immediately resumed his former expression, which a gleam of pleasure had for a moment obliterated. Almost at the same moment another patriot-for at this epoch every one wore his opinions on his forehead, or rather on his dress-almost at the same moment, say we, another patriot entered by the door of the gallery, and without appearing the least in the world to partake of the fear generated by the former occupant, began to cross the hall at a pace equal to his own, so that in the centre of the promenade they encountered each other. The new arrival had, like the former, a hairy bonnet, a grey blouse, dirty hands, and in one of them a cudgel; indeed, in addition he carried a sword, which, struck against the stones at every step; and on the whole he appeared a greater subject for terror than his predecessor. The first had an air of ferocity, the last seemed replete with sinister cunning.

Although these two men appeared to belong to the same cause, and partook of the same opinions, the assembly ventured to watch the result, not of their meeting, for they were not walking in the same line, but their approach towards each other. At the first turn they were disappointed, as the patriots contented themselves with exchanging looks; at the same time the smaller of the two turned slightly pale, only from an involuntary movement of the lips it was evident it was not caused by fear, but by nausea. However, at the second turn, as if the patriot had made a violent effort, his countenance, till now so overcast, cleared up suddenly, and something like a smile passed over his lips as he inclined slightly to the left, with the evident intention of stopping the second patriot on his course. Near the centre they joined each other. "Eh! Pardieu! here is the Citizen Simon," said the first patriot. "Himself. But what do you want with the Citizen Simon- and who are you, first-"

"It seems, then, that you do not know me."

"I do not know you, and for an excellent reason-I never saw you."

"Not recognise me!-when I had the honour to carry the head of the Princess Lamballe!" At these words, pronounced with savage fury, and bursting passionately from the mouth of the patriot, Simon started. "You-" said he, "you-"

"Well, that is surprising! I thought that you would remember your friends better than that, faith! Ah, citizen! you have forgotten me."

"That is all very well," said Simon; "but I do not recognise you."

"It is a great privilege to act as guardian to the young Capet; it brings you into notice. As for myself, I both know and esteem you."

"Ah! Thank you."

"It is not that-Are you taking a walk-"

"Yes; I am waiting for some one. And you-"

"I also."

"What is your name- I will make mention of you at the club."

"I am called Theodore."

"What else-"

"Nothing else: is not that quite sufficient-"

"Oh, perfectly. Who are you waiting for, Citizen Theodore-"

"A friend to whom I wish to make a pretty little denunciation."

"Indeed! Tell me, then."

"A whole covey of aristocrats."

"What are their names-"

"No, indeed; I only tell that to my friend."

"You are wrong; for here is mine advancing towards us, who, it seems to me, is sufficiently acquainted with business to settle at once all this affair."

"Fouquier Tinville!'' cried the first patriot. "No one else, cher ami."

"That's all right."

"Yes. Good day, Citizen Fouquier." Fouquier Tinville, calm and pule, opening wide, according to habit, his large black eyes, shaded by his bushy eyebrows, at this moment entered by a door at the end of the hall, his register in his hand, and a bundle of papers under his arm. "Good day, Simon," said he; "anything new-"

"Several things. The first, a denunciation from Citizen Theodore, who carried the head of the Princess Lamballe. I will introduce him to you." Fouquier fixed his scrutinizing glance upon the patriot, who, notwithstanding his strong nerves, felt rather uneasy while undergoing this examination. "Theodore!" said he; "and who is Theodore-"

"I!" said the man in the blouse. "You carried the head of the Princess Lamballe-" said the public accuser, with a great expression of doubt. "I. Rue St. Antoine."

"But I know a person who boasts that he did so," said Fouquier. "I know ten," replied the Citizen Theodore, courageously; "but, indeed, as they all make some demand, and I ask nothing, at least I ought to have the preference, I hope." This reply excited Simon's laughter, and dispersed the cloud on the accuser's brow. "Eight," said he; "and if you did not do it, you ought to have done so. But leave me now; Simon has some business to transact with me." Theodore retired, rather wounded by the frankness of the public accuser. "One moment," cried Simon. "Do not send him away so; let us first hear his denunciation."

"Ah!" said Fouquier Tinville, with an absent air, "a denunciation-"

"Yes; a covey," replied Simon. "All in good time. Speak-what is the matter now-"

"Ah! not much; only the Chevalier de Maison Rouge and some of his friends." Fouquier advanced a step, while Simon raised his arms towards heaven. "Is this the truth-" they exclaimed, both together. "The pure truth; will you take them-"

"Directly. Where are they-"

"I met the Chevalier de Maison Rouge in La Rue de la Grande Tissanderie."

"You are mistaken; he is not in Paris," replied Fouquier. "I tell you I have seen him."

"Impossible! they have sent a hundred men in pursuit of him; he would not show himself in the streets of Paris."

"It was him," said the patriot. "Very brown, and a beard like a bear." Fouquier shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. "More folly," said he; "the Chevalier de Maison Rouge is short, pale, and has not the sign of a beard." The patriot dropped his weapon with an air of consternation. "Never mind, your good intention was all the same. Come, Simon, we must both make haste; they require the register, this is the time for the carts."

"Well, there is nothing new; the child is well." The patriot turned his back that he might not appear indiscreet, but remained in a position which enabled him to listen. "I will go," said he, "lest I should intrude."

"Adieu!" said Simon. "Good day," said Fouquier. "Tell your friend that you were deceived," added Simon. "Well, I shall wait." And Theodore removed to a short distance, and stood resting on his cudgel. "So the child goes on well-" said Fouquier; "but the rest-I mould him to my will."

"He will speak, then-"

"When I choose."

"I think he will be afraid in the trial of Antoinette-"

"I think not; indeed, I am sure." Theodore was leaning against a pillar, his eyes directed towards the door. But his eye was wandering, while his ears were erect and uncovered under the hairy bonnet he wore. Perhaps he saw nothing, but most assuredly he heard something. "Reflect well," said Fouquier, "and do not make what is termed a blunder of this commission. "You feel sure that Capet will speak-"

"He will say all that I require."

"Has he told you what we are going to ask him-"

"He has told me."

"It is important, Simon, that you should promise this; the child's evidence is fatal to the mother."

"I count upon that, pardieu!"

"There will have been nothing equal to it seen since the intimacy between Neron and Narcisse. Once more, reflect, Simon."

"One would fancy you took me for a brute, repeating constantly the same thing. Take this as an example; when I put leather in water it becomes supple, does it not-"

"But-1 do not know," replied Fouquier. "It becomes soft, then. Well, in my hands the little Capet becomes supple as the softest leather. I have my own method for that."

"It may be so," said Fouquier. "Have you anything else to say-"

"I forgot. There is a denunciation."

"Again- You will overwhelm me with business," said Fouquier. "One must serve the country." Simon presented a small paper, black as the leather he had just mentioned, but certainly less supple. Fouquier received it and read the contents.

Again the Citizen Louis; you have a great hatred for this man."

"I am always at daggers drawn with him. He said adieu, madame, to a woman who saluted him from a window yesterday evening. To-morrow, I hope to give you a little information concerning another 'suspect;' that Maurice who was Municipal at the Temple when that affair of the red carnation occurred."

"Precisely, precisely," said Fouquier, smiling at Simon.

He held out his hand, and then turned away with an eagerness that evinced little favour towards the shoemaker. "What the devil do you want more- Many have been guillotined for much less."

"Patience," replied Fouquier, quietly; "everything cannot be done at the same time," and he passed quickly through the wicket.

Simon looked round for the Citizen Theodore, to console himself with him. He was no longer to be seen. He had hardly gone beyond the western iron gate, when Theodore re-appeared at the corner of a writer's hut. The occupant of the hut accompanied him. "At what hour are the iron gates closed-" said Theodore to this man. "At five o'clock."

"And then what do they do here-"

"Nothing; the hall remains empty till to-morrow."

"No rounds, no visits-"

"No, monsieur; oar barracks are locked." The word monsieur made Theodore knit his brows, and look round with defiance. "Are the crowbar and pistols safe in the barracks-" said he. "Yes, under the carpet."

"Return home, then… Apropos, show me again the chamber of the tribunal that has not a grated window, and looks upon the court near La Place Dauphine."

"To the left, between the pillars under the lantern."

"Go, now, and have the horse ready at the place assigned."

"A glorious chance!-a glorious chance!-depend fully upon me."

"Now is your time… No one is looking… Open your barrack."

"It is done, monsieur; I will pray for you."

"It is not for me you ought to pray. Adieu." And the Citizen Theodore, after an eloquent look, glided so adroitly under the low roof of the barrack, that he disappeared like the shadow of the writer who closed the door. The worthy scribe drew the key from the lock, took some papers under his arm, and went out of the vast saloon with the delightful thought that the stroke of five would disperse all these registers like an arreur guard of idle bees.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE CITIZEN THEODORE.

THE IMMENSE SALOON was enshrouded by the grey veil of night, of which the wretched echoes had learnt to repeat the severe words of the advocates, and the suppliant ones of the pleaders. From afar, in the distance, in the midst of the obscurity, upright and immovable, a white column seemed watching, in the centre of the hall, like a phantom protector over the sacred place. The only noise heard in this darkness was the nibbling and galloping of innumerable rats, who rummaged the papers enclosed in the writers huts, having first commenced by gnawing the wood. Sometimes the sound of a carriage penetrated as far as this sanctuary of Themis (an Academician, so called), and the loose clashing of keys, which appeared to proceed from under the ground; but all this only reverberated in the distance, and nothing resembling a noise ever interrupted the silent darkness, which was not even broken upon by the apparition of a star. Most unquestionably, much terror was occasioned at this horn by the saloon of a palace, whose walls of the exterior were yet stained with the blood of the victims of September-whose staircases had witnessed the descent in one day of twenty-five human beings condemned to an ignominious death, and separated only by a few feet from the cells of the Conciergerie, peopled with bleached skeletons. Notwithstanding, in the middle of this frightful night-in the midst of this almost solemn silence, a low grinding was heard; the door of a writer's hut turned upon its creaking hinges, and a shadow, darker than the shadow of night, glided cautiously out of the barrack. Then the fierce patriot we have heard addressed as "Monsieur," but who called himself Theodore, stepped lightly over the uneven stones. He held in his right hand a ponderous iron lever, and with his left felt in his belt to ascertain the safety of his double-barreled pistol. "I reckoned twelve stones to this part of the cell, and here is the end of the first!" murmured he; and, as he calculated, groping with the point of his foot, to discover the chinks which time had rendered daily more perceptible. "Let me see," said he, stopping; "have I taken my measurement correctly- shall I possess strength sufficient- and she-will she have the courage- Oh, yes, her courage is known to me. Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! When I shall take her hand-when I can say, Madame, you are saved!" He suddenly paused, as if crushing this hope beneath his feet. "Ah!" replied he, "fearful and foolish project. They say the others hid themselves under their bedclothes, or contented themselves by roaming about dressed as lacqueys through the Conciergerie; but they have not my motive for daring all-it is, that I not only desire to serve the Queen, but the woman. Well, to work; we will sum up the whole. To raise the stone is nothing, to leave it open is the danger-they may perhaps come the rounds; but yet they never do so. They cannot suspect anything, for I have not any accomplices, and what is required with an ardour like mine to overcome the dark passage- In three minutes I am under her chamber; in five minutes I raise the stone which is on the hearth. She will hear me working, but has too much firmness to feel alarmed; on the contrary, she will understand that a friend is near, and labouring for her deliverance. She is guarded by two men, who will doubtless hasten to the spot. Well, after all," said the patriot, with a melancholy smile, looking first at the weapons concealed in his girdle, and then at the one he held poised in his hand, "a double shot from this pistol, or a couple of strokes from this iron bar. Poor creatures!-they will die like others not more culpable than themselves." And the Citizen Theodore resolutely pressed his lever between the chinks of the flagstones. At this moment a vivid light gleamed like a ray of gold across the stones, and a noise, repeated by the echoes of the vault, caused the conspirator to turn, and then with a single bound to conceal himself in the stall. Soon voices, weakened by the distance, and softened by the emotion experienced by every one at night in a large and desolate building, reached the cars of Theodore. He stooped down, and through an aperture in the stall perceived first a man in military costume, whose large sabre, dangling against the pavement, partly produced the sound which had attracted his attention; then a man in a pistachio-coloured suit, holding a rule in his hand and a roll of papers under his arm; thirdly, a man in a large waistcoat of rateen and fur bonnet; and lastly, a fourth, with wooden shoes and a blouse. The iron gate, des Merciers, ground upon its sonorous hinges, rattling the chain intended to keep it open during the day. The four men entered. "A round," murmured Theodore. "God be praised! five minutes later and I should have been ruined." He then with the utmost attention endeavoured to recognise the individuals who composed the round-indeed, three of them were known to him. He who walked first, clad in the costume of a general, was Henriot; the man in the hairy bonnet was Richard the concierge, and the man in the blouse was in all probability a turnkey. But the man in the pistachio-coloured coat he had never seen-he was totally unknown to him. Who or what could this man be- and what brought, at ten o'clock at night, to the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the general of the Commune, the guardian of the Conciergerie, a turnkey, and this man unknown- The Citizen Theodore remained kneeling, with one hand on his loaded pistol, whilst with the other he replaced his bonnet, which his precipitous movement had somewhat disarranged.

Up to this moment the nocturnal visitors had kept silence, or if they had spoken, their words had not reached the ears of the conspirator; but when about ten paces from his lurking place Henriot spoke, and his voice was distinctly heard by the Citizen Theodore. "We are now," said he, "in la Salle des Pas-Perdus. It is for you now to guide us, Citizen Architect, and to endeavour to convince us that your revelation is no idle story; for you see the revolution has done justice to all this folly, and we believe no more in these subterranean passages than in ghosts. What do you say, Citizen Richard-" added Henriot, turning towards the man in the fur bonnet and rateen vest. "I have never said there was any subterranean passage under the Conciergerie," said he. "There is Gracchus, who has been turnkey for ten years, and consequently is acquainted with the whole of the Conciergerie, and he ignores the existence of the vault of which the Citizen Giraud has spoken. However, as the Citizen Giraud is the city architect, he ought to know better than any of us. It is his business." Theodore shivered from head to foot on hearing these words. ''"Fortunately," murmured he, "the saloon is large, and before they find what they search for, two days at least must expire." But the architect opened his great roll of papers, put on his spectacles, and knelt down to examine more fully the plan by the trembling light of the lantern which Gracchus held in his hand. "I fear," said Henriot, ironically, "that the Citizen Giraud has been dreaming."

"You will see, Citizen General, if I am a dreamer. Wait a little; wait."

"You see we are waiting," said Henriot. "Good," said the architect; and he began to calculate. "Twelve and four make sixteen," said he, "and eight are twenty-four, which, divided by six, makes four, and then half remains; that is it. I maintain my opinion, and if I am deceived call me an ignoramus, that's all." The architect pronounced these words with an assurance which terrified the Citizen Theodore.

Henriot regarded the plan with a species of respect, seeing he admired more than he comprehended it. "Now follow what I say."

"Where-" said Henriot. "Upon this chart, which I have drawn. Pardieu! here we are! three feet from the wall is a moveable stone, I have marked A; do you see-"

"Certainly, I see A," said Henriot. "Do you think I do not know how to read-"

"Under this stone," continued the architect, "is a staircase; do you see- It is marked B."

"B!" said Henriot; "I see B, but I do not see the staircase," and the General smiled at his own facetiousness. "When once the stone is raised, the foot once upon the last step, count fifty paces, look up, and you will find yourself exactly at the register where the subterraneous passage terminates, passing under the cell of the Queen."

"Capet's widow, you mean, Citizen Giraud," said Henriot, knitting his brows. "Yes, Capet's widow."

"Why did you say the Queen-"

"The old custom."

"You say, then, it may be found under the register-" demanded Richard. "Not only in the register, but also I will tell you in what part you will discover it: under the stone."

"That is curious," said Gracchus, "for I have noticed that every time I dropped a lug in that place the stone resounded. In short, if we find your statement correct, Citizen Architect, I shall pronounce geometry a tine thing."

"Then declare it, Citizen Henriot, for I am now going to conduct you to the place indicated by the letter A." The Citizen Theodore made his nails pierce his flesh. "When I have seen it," said Henriot, "when I have seen it; I rather resemble St. Thomas."

"Ah! you said St. Thomas."

"Yes, as you said 'the Queen,' from mere habit; but they cannot accuse me of conspiring with him."

"Nor I with the Queen." After this retort the architect delicately placed his rule, reckoned the distance, then stopped, having apparently finished his calculation, and struck upon a particular stone. This was the identical stone struck by the Citizen Theodore in his fit of frantic rage. "It is here, Citizen General," said the architect. "You fancy so, Citizen Giraud." Our concealed patriot so far forgot himself as to strike his thigh with his clenched hand, with difficulty suppressing a deep groan. "lam positive," said Giraud; "and your examination, combined with my report, will prove to the Convention I have not been deceived."

"Yes, Citizen General," continued the architect, with emphasis, "this stone opens upon a subterranean passage, terminating at the register, and passing below the cell of the widow Capet. Let us raise the stone; descend with me, and I will convince you that two men, even one man, could effect a rescue in a single night, without any one suspecting it." A murmur of terror and admiration, elicited by the architect's words, ran through the group, and faintly reached the Citizen Theodore, who seemed turned to stone. "Look at the danger we run," continued Giraud. "Well, now with a grating which I shall place in the middle of this underground passage, before it reaches the cell of the widow Capet, I shall save the country."

"Ah! Citizen Henriot," said Giraud, "that is an idea bordering on the sublime."

"Perdition seize you, addle pated fool!" grumbled the patriot with redoubled fury. "Now raise the stone," said the architect to the Citizen Gracchus, who in addition to a lantern carried a crowbar. He commenced his work, and in a second the stone was raised. The passage appeared open, with the staircase lost in its profundity, while the moist air escaped like a pestilent vapour. "Another abortive attempt," murmured the Citizen Theodore. "Alas! Heaven does not will that she should escape, and her cause must be accursed!"

CHAPTER XXXVII. THE CITIZEN GRACCHUS.

FOR AN INSTANT the three men remained petrified at the entrance to the vault, while the turnkey plunged his lantern into the opening without being able to penetrate its depth. The architect triumphantly exulted over his companions from the summit of his genius. "Well!" said he, at length. "Ma foi! yes," replied Henriot, "here incontestably is the passage. It only remains to know where it leads to."

"Yes," repeated Richard, "it remains to know that."

"Well, then, descend yourself, Citizen Richard, and then you will see if I have told you the truth."

"I have something better to do than go in there," said the concierge. "We will return with you and the General to the Conciergerie. There you can raise the hearth-stone, and we shall see."

"Very well," said Henriot, "we will return."

"But we must be careful," said the architect; "this stone remaining unclosed, may offer an idea to some one."

"Who the devil do you imagine ever comes here at this hour-" said Henriot. "Besides," said Richard, "the hall is deserted, and to leave Gracchus here is sufficient. Remain here, Citizen Gracchus, and we will return to you from the other side of the subterranean passage."

"Let it be so, then," said Gracchus. "Are you armed-" demanded Henriot. "I have my sword, and this crowbar. Citizen General."

"Keep strict watch; in ten minutes we will be with you." And having closed the iron gate, the three took their departure by the Gallery des Merciers, to find this particular entrance to the Conciergerie.

The turnkey watched their receding footsteps, and followed them with his eyes as far as he could see, and listened as long as he had anything to hear; then all relapsed into silence, and supposing himself in perfect solitude, he placed his lantern on the ground, then sat down, his legs overhanging the depths of the vault, and began to dream. The turnkeys did dream sometimes, but did not often trouble themselves to find out what was the subject of their dreams. All at once, in the midst of this profound reverie, he felt a hand pressed upon his shoulder. He turned round, and attempted, on seeing a stranger, to give the alarm, but at the same instant a pistol gleamed before his eyes. The accents were arrested in this throat, his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his eyes assumed the most suppliant expression. "Not a word," said the intruder, "or you are a dead man!"

"What do you want, Monsieur-'' said the turnkey.

Even in '93, there were moments when they had not sufficiently tutored themselves, and omitted to say "Citizen."

"I wish," said the Citizen Theodore, "to be allowed to enter down there."

"What for-"

"Never mind." The turnkey regarded the person who proffered this request with the most profound astonishment; but in the meantime his interlocutor fancied he detected a ray of intelligence on the man's countenance. He lowered the pistol. "Do you refuse to make your fortune-"

"I don't know. Hitherto no one has ever made me a proposition on the subject."

"Well, then, I will begin."

"You offer to make my fortune-"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by a fortune-"

"Fifty thousand golden livres, for instance."

"Money is scarce, and fifty thousand livres now are worth a million."

"Well, I offer you that sum."

"To go down there-"

"Yes; but on condition that you come with me, and afford me your assistance in my undertaking."

"But what are you going to do- In five minutes this passage will be filled with soldiers, who will arrest you." The Citizen Theodore was forcibly struck by this argument. "Cannot you prevent the soldiers from descending there-"

"I have no means of so doing, I know none, I search in vain." Indeed, it was evident the turnkey taxed all the powers of his mental energies to discover some means of realizing the sum of fifty thousand livres. "But," demanded the Citizen Theodore, "could we not enter to-morrow-"

"Yes, but to-morrow a grate of iron will be placed across the passage, occupying the whole width, and for the greater security it is arranged that this partition should be entirely solid, and without even a door."

"Then we must think of something else," said Theodore. "Yes, we must find some other way," said the turnkey.

It may seem from the manner in which Gracchus had been experimentalized, that an alliance was already formed between himself and the Citizen Theodore. "Look at me," said Theodore. "What do you do at the Conciergerie-"

"I am a turnkey."

"What do you do-"

"I open the doors and shut them."

"Do you sleep there-"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"Do you take your meals there-"

"Not always. I have my hours of recreation."

"And then-"

"I avail myself of them."

"What to do-"

"To pay my respects to the mistress of a Cabaret du Puits-de-Noe, who has promised to marry me when I am possessed of twelve hundred francs."

"Where is the Cabaret du Puits-de-Noe-"

"Near the Rue de la Vieille-Draperie."

"Very well."

"Hush, Monsieur." The patriot listened. "Ah! ah!" said he. "Do you hear-"

"Yes. Voices and footsteps."

"They are returning."

"You see we should not have had time." This momentarily became more evident. "That is true. You are a brave youth, citizen, and are through me predestinated-"

"To what-"

"To be rich one day."

"God grant it."

"You then still believe in God-"

"Sometimes one thing, sometimes another. To-day, for example."

"Well-"

"I willingly believe."

"Believe, then," said the Citizen Theodore, putting ten louis into the man's hand. "The devil!" said he, regarding the gold by the light of the lantern. "Is it serious-"

"It could not be more so."

"What must I do-"

"Meet me to-morrow at the Puits-de-Noe, I will then tell you what I require of you. What is your name-"

"Gracchus."

"Well, Citizen Gracchus, get yourself dismissed from here to-morrow by the Concierge Richard."

"Dismissed! give up my place!"

"Do you reckon on remaining a turnkey, with fifty thousand livres-"

"No; but being a turnkey and poor, I am certain of not being guillotined."

"Certain-"

"Or nearly so; whilst being free and rich-"

"You will hide your money, and make love to a tricoleuse, instead of the mistress of Puits-de-Noe-"

"Well, then, it is settled."

"To-morrow at the cabaret."

"At what hour!'"

"At six in the evening."

"Flee quickly; there they are. I tell you to be quick, because, I presume, you descend and go through the arches."

"To-morrow," repeated Theodore, hastening away.

And not before it was time, for the voices and steps approached, and lights were already visible in the obscurity of the underground passage. Theodore gained the gate indicated by the owner of the hut, then opened the lock with his crowbar, reached the window, threw it open, dropped softly into the street, and found himself upon the pavement of the Republic once again. Before quitting the Salle des Pas-Perdus he heard the Citizen Gracchus again question Richard, and also his reply. "The Citizen Architect was quite right, the passage passes below the chamber of the widow Capet, and it was dangerous."

"I believe it," said Gracchus; and in this instance he told the entire truth.

Henriot reappeared at the opening of the staircase. "And the workmen, Citizen Architect-" demanded he of Giraud. "Before daybreak they will be here, the supporters fixed, and the gate hung," replied a voice which seemed to proceed from the bowels of the earth. "And you will have saved the country," said Henriot, half in jest, half in earnest. "You little know the truth of what you say, Citizen General," murmured Gracchus.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE ROYAL CHILD.

IN THE MEANTIME, as we have seen in the chapter preceding, the Queen's trial was about to take place. It was already surmised that, by the sacrifice of this illustrious head, the popular hatred, so long since displayed in murmurs, would at length be satisfied. The means were not wanting for the completion of this tragedy, and in the meantime Fonquier Tinville, that fatal accuser, had resolved not to neglect the new mode of accusation which Simon had promised to place in his hands. The day after he and Simon had met in the Salle des Pas-Perdus, the noise of arms still continued to startle the prisoners who remained in the Temple. These prisoners were Madame Elizabeth, Madame Royale, and the child, who, after having been called "Your Majesty" from his cradle, was now styled the "little Capet." General Henriot, with his tricoloured plume, his splendid horse, and large sword, followed by several of the National Guard, dismounted, and entered the dungeon where the royal child languished. By the General's side walked a registrar of a very unprepossessing appearance, carrying a writing-desk, a large roll of paper, and waving in his hand a pen of immoderate length. Behind the scribe walked the public accuser.

We have seen, we know, and shall find that at a still later period, this dry, jaundiced, cold man, with his bloodshot eyes, made tremble before him the ferocious Henriot, even when cased in his armour. Several National Guards and a lieutenant followed them. Simon, smiling hypocritically, and holding his bonnet in one hand, and his shoemaker's stirrup in the other, walked before to show them the way. They arrived at a very dirty chamber, spacious and cold, at the end of which, seated upon his bed, was the young Louis, in a state of perfect immobility. When we have seen the poor child fleeing from the brutal anger of Simon, he still retained a species of vitality, resenting the unworthy treatment of the shoemaker of the Temple; he fled, he wept, he prayed; then he feared and suffered, but still he hoped. But now both fear and hope had vanished; without doubt the suffering still existed, but if it still remained, the infant martyr, whom they had made pay after so cruel a fashion for his' parents' faults, buried it in the depths of his heart, and veiled it under an appearance of total insensibility, and did not even raise his head when the commissioners walked up to him. Without further ceremony, they instantly installed themselves. The public accuser seated himself at the head of the bed, Simon at the foot, the registrar near the window, the National Guard and their lieutenant on the side, and rather in the shade. Those among them who regarded the little prisoner with the slightest interest, or even curiosity, remarked the child's pallor, his extraordinary embonpoint, resulting from his bloated appearance and the curvature of his legs, of which the joints began already to swell. "The child is very ill," said the lieutenant, with an assurance that caused Fouquier to turn round, though already seated, and prepared to question his victim.

The little Capet raised his eyes to discover who had uttered these words, and recognised the same young man who had already once before saved him from Simon's cruelty in the court of the Temple. A sweet and intelligent glance shot from his deep blue eye, and that was all. "Ah, ah! is that you, Citizen Louis-" said Simon, thus calling the attention of Fouquier Tinville to the friend of Maurice. "Myself, Citizen Simon," said Louis, with his usual nonchalance. And as Louis, though always ready to face danger, was not a man uselessly to seek it, he availed himself of this circumstance to bow to Fouquier Tinville, which salutation was politely returned. "You observed, I think, citizen," said the public accuser, "that the child was ill; are you a doctor-"

"I have studied medicine, at least, if I am not a medical man."

"Well, and what do you discover in him-"

"What symptoms do you mean-" said Louis. "Yes."

"I find the cheeks and eyes puffed up, the hands thin and white, the knees swollen; and were I to feel his pulse, I should certainly count eighty or ninety pulsations in a minute." The child appeared insensible to the enumeration of his sufferings. "And to what does science attribute the condition of the prisoner-" Louis rubbed the tip of his nose, murmuring- "Phyllis wants to make me speak, I am not the least inclined."

"Ma foi! citizen," replied he, "I am not sufficiently acquainted with the little Capet's constitution to reply. However-" Simon lent an attentive ear, and laughed in his sleeve to find his enemy so near committing himself. "However," said Louis, "I think he does not have sufficient exercise."

"I believe the little scoundrel," said Simon, "does not choose to walk." The child remained quite unmoved by this apostrophe of the shoemaker. Fouquier Tinville arose, advanced to Louis, and addressed some words to him in a low tone. No one heard the words, but it was evident they assumed the form of interrogatories. "Oh! oh! do you believe that, citizen- It is a serious charge for a mother-"

"Under any circumstances, we shall find out. Simon pretends he has heard him say so, and has engaged to make him acknowledge it."

"This would be frightful," said Louis; "but indeed it is possible; the Austrian is not exempt from sin, and right or wrong, does not concern me… they have made her out a Messalina; but not content with that, they wish to make her an Agrippina. I must acknowledge it appears to me rather hard."

"This is what has been reported by Simon," said the impassible Fouquier. "I do not doubt that Simon has said all this. There are some men who stick at nothing, even the most impossible accusations. But do you not find," said Louis, fixing his eyes steadily on Fouquier; "do you not find-you, an intelligent and upright man, possessed with a strong mind-that to inquire of a child concerning such circumstances as those which all the most natural and most sacred laws of nature command us to respect, is to insult the whole human nature in the person of a child-" The accuser did not frown, but took a note from his pocket and showed it to Louis. "The Convention enjoins me to inform," said he; "the rest does not concern me. I inform."

"It is just," said Louis; "and I declare that if this child acknowledges-" And the young man shook his head, expressive of disgust. "Besides," continued Fouquier, "it is not only upon the denunciation of Simon that we proceed; the accusation is public." And Fouquier drew a second paper from his pocket. This was a number of a work entitled "Le Pere Duchesne;" which, as it is well known, was written by Hebert. The accusation indeed appeared there in full. "It is written, and even printed," said Louis, "but till I hear a similar declaration proved from the lips of the child-mind, I mean voluntarily, freely, and without menaces, notwithstanding Simon and Hebert. I shall disbelieve it, much as you in reality do yourself." Simon impatiently awaited the issue of this conversation.

The miserable creature was not aware of the power exercised upon an intelligent man, the looks which he receives from the crowd, expressive either of sympathy or subtle hatred. But Fouquier Tinville had felt the keen observance of Louis, and was anxious to be fully understood by him. "The examination is now about to commence," said the public accuser. "Registrar, resume your pen." This individual, who came to draw out the proces-verbal, was waiting, like Henriot, Simon, and all the rest, till the colloquy between Fouquier and Louis bad ceased. The child alone appeared perfectly a stranger to the scene in which he was soon to become the principal actor, and had withdrawn the look which for an instant had gleamed with such bright intelligence. "Silence," said Henriot, "the Citizen Fouquier is going to interrogate the child."

"Capet," said the public accuser, "do you know what has become of your mother-" The little Louis turned from an ashy paleness to a brilliant red, but made no reply. "Did you hear me, Capet-" He still remained silent. "Oh! he hears well enough," said Simon. "only he is like the ape, he will not reply for fear he should be taken for a man, and so made to work."

"Reply, Capet," said Henriot; "it is the commission from the Convention that interrogates you. You must show obedience to its laws." The child turned pale, but did not reply. Simon made a frantic gesture of rage. With natures so stupid and brutal as his, anger becomes madness, more especially when accompanied by symptoms of drunkenness. "Will you reply, wolf's cub-" showing him the strap. "Be quiet, Simon," said Fouquier Tinville; "you have not the parole."

"This word, which had taken its rise from the revolutionary tribunal, had escaped him. "Do you hear, Simon-" said Louis. '' This is the second time you have been told this in my presence: the first was when you accused Tison's daughter, whom you had the pleasure of bringing to the scaffold." Simon was silent. "Does your mother love you, Capet-" asked Fouquier.

Still the same silence. "They say not," continued the Accuser.

Something like a ghastly smile passed over the child's pale lips. "But then, I say," roared Simon, "he has told me she loves him too much."

"Look here, Simon," said Louis, "you're angry that the little Capet chatters so much when you are together, and remains silent before company to-day."

"Oh! if we were together," said Simon. "Yes, if you were alone; but unfortunately you are not alone."

"Oh! if you were, brave Simon, excellent patriot, how you would belabour the poor child, hey- But you are not alone, and dare not show your rage before honest men like us, who know that the ancients, whom we endeavour to take for our models, respected all who were weak. You dare not, for you are not valiant, my worthy man, when you have children of five feet six inches to combat with."

"Oh!'' muttered Simon, grinding his teeth. "Capet," said Fouquier, "have you confided any secrets to Simon-" The child never turned round, but his face assumed an expression of irony impossible to describe. "About your mother-" continued Fouquier.

A look of supreme contempt passed over his countenance. "Reply, yes or no," cried Henriot. "Say yes," roared Simon, holding his leather stirrup over the child's head.

The child shuddered, but made no movement to avoid the blow. Those present uttered a cry expressive of their disgust. Louis did more. Before the wretch could lower his arm he darted forward and seized him by the wrist. "Will you let me go-" roared Simon, purple with rage. "There is no harm," said Fouquier, "in a mother loving her child. Tell us in what way your mother loved you, Capet. It may be useful to her." The young prisoner started at the idea of being useful to his mother. "She loves me as a mother loves her son, monsieur," said he; "there are not two ways for mothers to love their sons, or sons to love their mothers."

"And I, little serpent, declare that you have told me your mother…"

"You have dreamt that," interrupted Louis, quietly. "You must often have the nightmare, Simon."

"Louis, Louis," growled Simon, grinding his teeth. "Yes again, Louis. There is no way of beating Louis since he chastises the wicked; there is no way to denounce him for what he did in arresting your arm, as it was done before General Henriot and Fouquier Tinville, who approved it, and they are not lukewarm in the cause. There is then no way to bring him to the guillotine, as you did poor Heloise Tison. It is very grievous, very vexatious, very enraging; still it is so, my poor Simon."

"Too late! too late!" replied the shoemaker, with his mocking laugh. "Yes, dear friends," said Louis, "I hope with the help of the Supreme Being-Ah! you expected I was going to say with the help of God, but I hope with the assistance of the Supreme Being, and my sword, to disembowel you first; but more aside, Simon, you prevent me from seeing."

"Brigand!"

"Be silent, you prevent me from hearing." And Louis silenced him with a threatening look. Simon clenched his black hands and shook his fists, but, as Louis had told him, he was obliged to keep within bounds. "Now he has begun to speak," said Henriot, "he will continue no doubt. Go on, Fouquier."

"Will you reply now-" demanded Fouquier.

The child returned to his former silence. "You see, citizen, you see," said Simon, "the obstinacy of tills child is strange," troubled in spite of himself at this royal firmness. "lie is badly advised," said Louis. "By whom-" demanded Henriot. "By his patron."

"Do you accuse me-" cried Simon-"do you denounce me- Ah! that is curious-"

"Take it coolly," said Fouquier. Then turning towards the child, who, as we have said, remained perfectly insensible: "My child," said he, "reply to the National Commission; do not aggravate your situation by refusing us any useful information. You have spoken to the citizen Simon about your mother, how you caress her and love her; how she caresses and loves you-" Louis threw a glance around the assembly, which gleamed with hatred when it rested on Simon, but he did not reply. "Do you feel yourself unhappy-" demanded the accuser; "are you uncomfortably lodged- and badly fed- and unkindly treated- Would you wish more liberty, better food, another prison, another guardian- Would you like a horse to ride upon, and some companions of your own age-" Louis still maintained the profound silence he had only once broken, to defend his mother. The commission was utterly confounded at so much firmness and intelligence evinced by a child. "These kings," said Henriot, in a low voice, "what a race! They are like tigers, and all the young ones inherit their wickedness."

"How are we to write the proces-verbal-" asked the registrar, much embarrassed. "As there is no charge, Simon, there is nothing to write," said Louis; "that will settle your affair exactly." Simon again shook ins fist at his implacable enemy.

Louis began to laugh. "You will not laugh like that the day you will sneeze in the sack," said Simon, drunk with fury. "I do not know whether I shall precede or follow you in the little ceremony you menace me with," said Louis; "but tin's I do know, that many will laugh when your turn comes. Gods! I have spoken in the plural, gods! you will not be ugly then, Simon; you will be hideous." And Louis retired behind the commission, with a fresh burst of laughter. The commission having nothing more to attend to, withdrew, when the poor child, released from his tormentors, threw himself upon his bed, and began to sing a melancholy song which had been a great favourite of his deceased father.

CHAPTER XXXIX. THE BOUQUET OF VIOLETS.

AS IT MIGHT BE foreseen, the felicity of Genevieve and Maurice was not of long continuance. In the tempest which unchains the wind and hurls the thunderbolt, the nest of the dove is shaken in the tree where it had retired for shelter. Genevieve passed from one terror to another. She no longer feared for Maison Rouge, she now trembled for Maurice. She knew her husband sufficiently well to feel convinced, the moment of his disappearance, he was saved, but sure of his safety, she thought now of her own. She dared not confide her griefs to the man, the least timid, at this epoch when no one was devoid of fear, but it was plainly evinced by her red eyes and pallid cheeks.

One day Maurice softly entered, so quietly indeed, that Genevieve, buried in a profound reverie, did not notice his entrance. He stopped upon the threshold and saw Genevieve sitting immovable, her eyes fixed on vacancy, her hands lying listlessly on her knees, her head hanging pensively upon her bosom. He gazed at her for a moment, with an expression of sadness, for all that was passing in the young girl's heart was suddenly revealed, as if he had read even to her latest thought. He stepped up to her. "You have ceased to care for France, Genevieve; confess it is so. You fly from the air you breathe, and not without the greatest reluctance will you even approach the window."

"Alas!" said Genevieve, "I know I cannot conceal my thoughts from you, Maurice; you have divined rightly."

"It is nevertheless a fine country," said the young man; "life is here important, and well-occupied now. This bustling activity of the tribune, the clubs, the conspiracies, etc., renders sweeter the hours spent by our own fireside. One loves it the more ardently, may be from the fear of not being able to love it on the morrow, for on the morrow one may have ceased to exist." Genevieve shook her head. "An ungrateful country to serve," said she. "Why so-"

"Yes, you who have laboured so much for the cause of liberty, are you not to-day more than half suspected-"

"But you, dear Genevieve," said Maurice, with a look of tenderness, "you a sworn enemy to this liberty, you who have done so much against it, you yet sleep peaceable and inviolate beneath the roof of a Republican, and there, you see, is my recompense."

"Yes," said Genevieve, "but that cannot last long, that which is wrong cannot endure."

"What do you mean-"

"I mean to say that I, that is to say an aristocrat, that I who dream quietly of the defeat of your party, and the ruin of your plans; I who conspire, even in your house, the return of the ancient regime; I who, recognised, you would condemn to death and dishonour, pursuant to your opinions at least, I, Maurice, will not remain here as the evil genius of your house, I will not drag you to the scaffold."

"And where would you go, Genevieve-"

"Where shall I go, Maurice- One day when you are out I shall go and denounce myself, without saying where I come from."

"Oh!" cried the young man, wounded to the heart's core, "already ungrateful-"

"No," cried the young woman, throwing her arms round Maurice's neck, "it is love, and the most devoted love, I swear. I did not wish my brother should be taken and slaughtered as a rebel; I do not wish my lover to be arrested and guillotined as a traitor."

"And you will do this, Genevieve-"

"As truly as there is a God in heaven," replied the young woman; "besides, I not only experience fear but remorse," and she bowed her head as if it were a burden too heavy to be borne. "Oh, Genevieve!" said Maurice. "You will understand all that I say, all that I feel, Maurice, for you yourself experience this remorse. You know I gave myself to you whilst I belonged to another, and you have taken me without my possessing the right to dispose of myself."

"Enough," said Maurice, "enough." He turned pale, and a melancholy expression suffused his countenance, and firm resolution burned in his clear eyes. "I will show you, Genevieve, how entirely I love you," said the young man. "I will prove to you that no sacrifice is beyond my love. You hate France. Well, let it be so. We will quit France." Genevieve clasped her hands, and regarded her lover with enthusiastic admiration. "You will not deceive me, Maurice," murmured she. "Have lever deceived you-" said Maurice, "and is this the time- lam dishonouring myself for you." Genevieve approached her lips to Maurice's, and remained hanging on the neck of her lover. "Yes, you are right," said Genevieve. "it is I who deceive myself. What I feel is not remorse, perhaps it is a degradation to my love, but you will comprehend at least I love you far too much to feel any other emotion than the all-engrossing one, the fear of losing you. Let us go far away, Maurice; let us go far away where no one can ever reach us."

"Oh! thanks," said Maurice, transported with joy. "But how can we flee-" said Genevieve, trembling at the thought. "It is not so easy to escape now-a-days from the poignard of the assassins of the Second of September, or the hatchet of the hangman of the Twenty-first of January."

"Genevieve," said Maurice, "God will protect us. Listen to me. A good action which I endeavoured to perform, apropos to this Second of September, which you have just named, is now about to receive the reward. I wished to save a poor priest who had studied with me. I went to Danton, and at his request the Committee of Public Safety signed a passport for the unfortunate man and his sister. This passport Danton forwarded to me, but the unhappy man, instead of seeking it at my house, as I had recommended him to do, was shut up by the Carmelites, and there he died."

"And the passport-" said Genevieve. "I have it now. It is worth a million. It is worth more than that, Genevieve, it comprises both life and happiness."

"Oh! God be praised," cried the young woman. "Now, my property, as you are aware, consists of an estate, managed by an old servant of the family, a staunch patriot, and strictly loyal, in whom we may confide. He will send a remittance whenever I wish. On arriving at Boulogne, we will go to his house."

"Where does he reside, then-"

"At Abbeville."

"When shall we go, Maurice-"

"Within an hour."

"No one need know of our departure."

"No one will know it. I will run to Louis; he has a cabriolet and no horse, whilst I have a horse and no carriage. We will set out immediately on my return. You remain here, Genevieve, and prepare everything for our departure. We want but little luggage; we can purchase all that we require in England. I shall give Scevola some commission that will remove him out of the way. Louis will explain our departure to him this evening. In that time we shall be far away."

"But if we should be stopped upon the road-"

"Have we not our passports- We shall go to Hubert's house; that is the steward's name. Hubert forms part of the municipality of Abbeville; from Abbeville to Boulogne he will accompany us as safeguard. At Boulogne we will purchase and freight a vessel. I could, besides, proceed to the Committee, and make them give me a mission to Abbeville. But no, not by fraud, Genevieve. Is it not better to risk our lives to save and secure our happiness-"

"Yes, yes, mon ami; and we shall succeed. But how you are perfumed this morning," said the young woman, concealing her face on Maurice's breast. "True; I purchased a bunch of violets for you this morning, passing before the Palace d'Egalite; but, on my return, finding you so sad, I thought of nothing but inquiring the cause of your distress."

"Oh, give it to me; I will return it." Genevieve inhaled the odour of the bouquet with intense delight, when suddenly her eyes suffused with tears. "What is it-" said Maurice. "Poor Heloise!" murmured Genevieve. "Ah, yes!" said Maurice, with a sigh; "but let us think of ourselves, and leave the dead, wherever they may be, to rest in the grave dug by their devotion. Adieu! I am going."

"Return quickly."

"In less than half an hour I shall be here again."

"But if Louis is not at home-"

"What does it matter- his servant knows me. And even in his absence I can take what I please, as he would do here in mine."

"Very well."

"Now, my Genevieve, prepare everything; but, as I have told you, confine yourself to necessaries. I do not wish our departure to appear like a removal." The young man advanced a step towards the door. "Maurice," said Genevieve.

He turned round, and saw the young woman extend her arms towards him. "Au revoir! au revoir! dear love," said he; "in half an hour I shall be here." Genevieve remained alone, occupied, as we have said, in preparations for their departure. She accomplished her task in feverish haste. As long as she remained in Paris, the part she was acting appeared to her doubly culpable. Once out of France, once among strangers, it seemed that her crime-a crime rather of fatality than her own, would weigh the less heavily on her conscience. She even hoped, isolated and in solitude, she might finish by forgetting the existence of any other man than Maurice. They would fly to England, everything was arranged. There they would hire a little cottage, standing alone, very retired, shut out from all eyes; they would change their names, and instead of two names would have one. Then they would have two servants, who would be perfectly ignorant of the past. Fortunately, both Genevieve and Maurice spoke English. Neither the one nor the other left anything to regret in France. Thus Genevieve commenced making preparations for their voyage, or rather flight. She took singular pleasure in selecting from the rest those objects for which Maurice had evinced any predilection. The coat setting off his tall figure to advantage, the cravat and waistcoat suitable to his complexion, the books whose leaves he had most frequently drawn upon. She had already made her selection, already the waiting trunks were on the floor, while clothes, linen and books strewed the chairs, the sofa, and the piano. Suddenly she heard the key turn in the lock. "Why Scevola has returned," said she: "surely Maurice could not have met him." And she continued her occupation. The doors of the saloon were open, and she heard Scevola moving in the antechamber. She held a roll of music in her hand, and was looking for some string to tie round it. "Scevola," cried she.

An approaching step sounded in the adjoining room. "I am here," said a voice.

At the sound of this voice Genevieve turned quickly round, and uttered a terrific cry. "My husband!" cried she. "Himself," said Dixmer, coolly.

Genevieve was upon a chair, searching for some string in the wardrobe. She felt her head turn round, and extending her arms, fell backwards, wishing she could precipitate herself into an abyss beneath. Dixmer took her in his arms, and carried her to a sofa, where he seated himself also. "What is the matter, my dear- What is it- My presence seems to have produced a most disagreeable effect upon you."

"I am dying," murmured Genevieve, turning from him, and pressing both hands over her eyes that she might shut out the frightful apparition. "What," said Dixmer, "did you believe me dead, my dear, and did you take me for a ghost-" Genevieve looked round her with a bewildered air, when, perceiving the portrait of Maurice, she glided from the sofa and fell upon her knees, as if to implore the assistance of this powerless and insensible image, which still continued to smile. The miserable woman fully comprehended the menaces concealed by Dixmer under his affected calmness. "Oh, my dear child," continued the master tanner, "it was as well for me, perhaps, that you thought I was far from Paris; but I remained there. The day after I had quitted the house, I returned, and found in its stead a heap of ruins. I inquired after you. No one had seen you. I then commenced a search after you, and have had much trouble to find you. I vow I did not think you were here; however, I had my suspicions. So, as you see, I came. So here I am, and you see me. And how is dear Maurice- Indeed, I fear you have suffered much. You so staunch a Royalist, compelled to seek shelter under the roof of a Republican."

"My God! my God!" murmured Genevieve, "take pity upon me."

"After all, my dear," continued Dixmer, "what serves to console me most, is that you are so comfortably lodged here, and that you do not appear to have suffered much from the proscription. As for myself, since the burning of our house, and the ruin of our fortune, I have had my share of wandering adventures, sometimes living in a cave, another time a boat, and sometimes even in the common sewers with which the Seine abounds."

"Monsieur!" said Genevieve. "You have there some beautiful fruit; as for me, I have often gone without any dessert, not having had any dinner." Genevieve, sobbing bitterly, supported her head between her hands. Not," continued Dixmer, "that I was destitute of money. I have, thank God! generally carried with me thirty thousand francs in gold, which at this time is worth five hundred thousand francs; by means of which the 'collier,' the 'fisherman,' or the 'rag merchant,' drew the louis from his pocket to purchase a morsel of cheese or a sausage. Eh! my God! yes, Madame, I have successively adopted these three costumes. To-day, the better to disguise myself, I am 'en Patriot,' 'en exagere,' en Marseillais.' I lisp, and I swear; an outlaw cannot conceal himself as easily in Paris, as a young and pretty woman, and I have not the happiness of knowing an ardent young Republican, who would hide me from every eye."

"Monsieur! monsieur!" cried Genevieve, "have mercy upon me; you see that I am dying."

"Anxiety; I can understand you have had much anxiety about me, but console yourself, you see me now. I have returned, and we will now part no more, madame."

"Oh! you will kill me!" cried Genevieve.

Dixmer regarded her with a frightful smile. "Kill an innocent woman! Oh, madame! what makes you say so- It must be that grief for my absence has turned your brain."

"Monsieur!" said Genevieve, "monsieur! I beseech you to kill me at once, rather than torture me with these cruel railleries. No, I am not innocent, yes, I am criminal, yes, I merit death. Kill me, monsieur, kill me!-"

"Then you acknowledge that you merit death-"

"Yes! Yes!"

"And to expiate this crime of which you accuse yourself, you will submit to death without complaint-"

"Strike, monsieur; I will not utter a cry, and instead of cursing I will bless the hand that strikes me."

"No, madame, I do not wish to strike you, though in all probability you will die. Only your death instead of being as you seem to fear an ignominious one, shall be most glorious. Thank me, madame, whilst punishing, I will immortalize you."

"What then will you do, monsieur-"

"You will follow the end to which we were tending when interrupted on our route. In your own eyes and in mine, you die guilty, in the eyes of the world you will die a martyr."

"Oh! my God! you will drive me mad by speaking thus. Where are you conducting me- where are you dragging me-"

"In all probability to death."

"Leave me to offer up one prayer."

"To whom-"

"It matters not to you. The moment you deprive me of life, my debt is cancelled-my debt paid, I owe you nothing."

"True," said Dixmer, retiring into another room; "I will await you." And he left her once more alone.

Genevieve sank on her knees before the portrait, pressing her hands against her bursting heart. "Maurice," said she, in a low tone, "pardon me; I could not expect to be happy, but I hoped to have made you so. Maurice, I am depriving you of a joy that constituted your life; pardon me for causing your death, my best beloved." Then severing a ringlet from her mass of curls, she bound it round the bouquet of violets, and placed them beneath the portrait, which, insensible and speechless as it was, still appeared to assume an expression of grief at her departure. At least so it appeared to the unfortunate Genevieve, as she gazed at it through her tears. "Well, are you ready, madame-" demanded Dixmer. "So soon-" murmured Genevieve. "Oh! take your time, madame," replied Dixmer; "I am in no hurry. Besides, I dare say Maurice will not be long, and I shall be delighted to thank him for all his kindness and hospitality towards you." Genevieve trembled with terror at the idea of a meeting between her lover and husband. She raised herself by an effort, saying calmly, "It is finished, monsieur, and I am ready now." Dixmer went out first, and the trembling Genevieve followed him. With half-closed eyes, her head turned round to look her last. She ascended the carriage which was waiting at the door. It rolled away. As Genevieve had truly said: "It was finished."

CHAPTER XL. THE CABARET DU PUITS DE NOE.

THIS MAN, ATTIRED in the blouse, whom we have seen traversing with long and rapid strides the Salle des Pas-Perdus, whom we have heard (during the expedition of the architect Giraud, General Henriot and Richard) conversing with the turnkey left to guard the subterranean passage, this enraged patriot, who had introduced himself to Simon as having carried the head of the Princess de Lamballe, found himself, on the next evening, about seven o'clock, at the Cabaret du Puits de Noe, situated, as we have said, at the corner of La Rue de la Vieille Drapene. He was seated at the end of a dirty room, redolent of tobacco and candles, pretending to devour a plate of fish, swimming in black butter. The room where he supped was nearly deserted; two or three habitues of the house alone remained after the rest who enjoyed the privilege of a daily visit to this establishment. The tables were for the most part empty; but we ought to remark, in honour to the Cabaret du Puits de Noe, that the stained tablecloths denoted the departure of a satisfactory number of satisfied guests. The three last successively disappeared, and at about a quarter to eight the patriot found himself alone. Then, with true aristocratic disgust, he pushed away the greasy plate, which an instant before he had appeared to think so delicious, and drew from his pocket a tablet of Spanish chocolate, which he ate slowly, and with a very different expression to that we have endeavoured to portray, on his countenance. From time to time, whilst eating his chocolate and black bread, he cast towards a glass door, shaded by a red and blue-checked curtain, anxious and impatient glances. Sometimes he interrupted his frugal repast to listen; in short, evinced an absence of mind sufficient to induce the mistress of the mansion (seated at her counter, and near the door on which the patriot so eagerly fixed his eyes) to conclude, that she might without vanity consider herself as the object of his pre-occupation. At length the door-bell sounded in' a way that made him start; he drew the plate again before him, and without attracting the woman's observation, threw half the contents to a famished-looking dog, and the remainder to a cat, who, spitefully seizing the dog's dainties, received in return some strokes from his paws. The door opened, and a man entered dressed almost the same as the patriot with the exception of the hairy cap which he had replaced with the bonnet-rouge. An enormous bunch of keys hung from his girdle, from which also depended a sword. "My soup! my chop!" cried the man, entering the public room without removing his bonnet, or even saluting the mistress of the house by an inclination of his head, but with a sigh of fatigue seated himself at a table adjoining that where our patriot was discussing his black bread and chocolate. The mistress of the cabaret, in consequence of the deference she entertained for the newcomer, rose herself to order the requisite viands The two men turned-one to look into the street, the other towards the end of the room-not a word was exchanged between them till the mistress of the cabaret had totally disappeared. When the door had closed behind her, and the light from a single candle, suspended from the end of an iron wire so as to divide the light equally between the two guests, when at length the man in the bearskin bonnet-thanks to the light placed before him-saw that the room was deserted: "Bon soir!" said he to his companion, without turning round. "Bon soir!" said the new comer. "Well," said the patriot, with the same affected indifference, "where are we now-"

"Well! it is done!"

"What is done-"

"As we agreed, I have had some conversation with Father Richard about the situation. I complained of swimming in the head, dimness of eyesight-in short, of general ill-health, and continual pain altogether."

"What then-"

"Father Richard called his wife, and she rubbed my temples with vinegar, and that revived me. Then, as we had arranged between us, I said that want of air produced this swimming in the head, that I made blood too fast, and that the duty at the Conciergerie, which contains at the present moment four hundred prisoners, was killing me."

"What did they say to that-"

"Richard's wife pitied me, and he took me to the door."

"It was not enough to take you to the door."

"But wait. Then his wife, who is a good soul, reproached him with having no h;-art, seeing that I was the father of a family."

"What did he say to that-"

"He said that she was right; but that the very first condition annexed to the situation of turnkey, was to remain within the prison to which he was attached; that the Republic did not jest, but would without ceremony cut the throats of those who grew dizzy in the exercise of their duty."

"Diable!" said the patriot. "And he was not far wrong either; for since the Austrian has been there, it is a perfect hell of surveillance. Confound her." The patriot here gave his plate to the dog to lick, who was directly bitten by the cat. "Go on," said he, without turning round. "At last, monsieur, I began to groan, and to say that I felt very ill; asked concerning the infirmary, and said I was certain my children would die of hunger if this pain was not removed."

"And Father Richard-"

"The Father Richard replied that turnkeys had no business with children."

"But you had his wife on your side, I suppose-"

"Fortunately! She made a great to do with her husband, reproached him with possessing a bad and hard heart, and Richard finished by saying to me: "Well! Citizen Gracchus, speak to some one of your friends who will give you some security for his attendance, present him to me, and I promise to accept him as your substitute.' Upon which I left him, saying: "'Very good, Father Richard, I will directly seek one.'"

"And you have found one, my brave fellow." At this moment the mistress of the establishment entered, bringing the Citizen Gracchus his soup and chop. This did not suit either the patriot or Gracchus, who had still some communication to make. "Citoyenne," said the turnkey, "I have received a slight remuneration from Father Richard to-day, which will permit me to treat myself to some better fare. So bring me some pork, a drinking horn, and a bottle of Burgundy wine; send your servant to fetch the one from the pork-butcher's, and bring me the other yourself fresh from the cellar." The hostess immediately left to execute his orders. "Well," said the patriot, "you are an intelligent lad."

"So far intelligent, that I do not hide from myself what, notwithstanding all your fine promises, will be the end of us both. Do you suspect what it may be-"

"Yes, perfectly."

"We stake both our necks."

"Do not be uneasy about mine."

"It is not yours, monsieur, I must confess, that causes me the greatest uneasiness."

"It is your own-"

"Yes."

"But what if I estimate it at double its worth-"

"Ah! monsieur, there is nothing more precious than one's neck."

"Not yours."

"Why not mine-"

"At this moment at least."

"What do you mean by that-"

"I mean to say your neck is not worth an old coin, seeing that, if I, for example, were an agent of the Committee of Public Safety, you would be guillotined to-morrow." The turnkey suddenly turned round so brusquely, that the dog barked at him. He was pale as death. "Neither turn round nor turn pale," said the patriot, "but on the contrary finish your soup quietly. I am not an agent, friend. Let me once enter the Conciergerie, install me in your situation, give me the keys, and to-morrow I will count out to you 50,000 livres in gold."

"Is this true at least-"

"Well, you have excellent security. My head." The turnkey considered for some seconds. "Come," said the patriot, who could see him in the glass, "do not indulge in meditations of evil. If you denounce me, as you will only have done your duty, you will not receive a sou from the Republic; if you serve me, and on the contrary are deficient in this same duty, as it is unjust in this world to do anything for nothing, I will give you 50,000 livres."

"I understand perfectly," said the turnkey. "I have all the inclination to do what you require, but I fear the results…"

"The results! And what have you to fear- I will not denounce you; on the contrary."

"No doubt."

"The day after I am duly installed, take a turn through the Conciergerie, and I will count you twenty-five rouleaux each containing 2000 francs. These you can easily dispose of in your two pockets. With the money I will give you a card to leave France. You go, and wherever you are you will be not only rich, but independent."

"Well! it is settled, monsieur, let what will happen. I am a poor devil, who never meddled in politics. France has always got on very well without me, and will not perish through any fault of mine; if you do a wicked action so much the worse for you."

"At all events," said the patriot, "I think I shall never do worse than they are doing at this moment."

"Monsieur, permit me to decline passing an opinion upon the politics of the National Convention."

"You are a pattern of philosophy and carelessness. When, however, will you present me to Father Richard-"

"This evening, if you please."

"Yes, certainly; but who am I-"

"My cousin Murdoch."

"Murdoch, let it be then; the name pleases me. What trade-"

"A breeches-maker."

"Either breeches-maker or tanner. I have that at my fingers' ends."

"Are you a tanner-"

"I could be one."

"True."

"At what time will you present me-"

"In half au hour if you like."

"At nine o'clock, then."

"When shall I have the money-"

"To-morrow."

"You must be enormously rich-"

"I am in easy circumstances."

"A ci-devant- is it not so-"

"What does it matter-"

"To possess money, and give it away to run the risk of being guillotined; surely the ci-devants must be great blockheads."

"What would you have- The sansculottes have too much sense to leave any for others."

"Hush! here is my wine."

"This evening, in front of the Conciergerie."

"Yes." The patriot, paid his bill and went out. At the door was heard the stentorian voice, "Come, citoyenne! quick; the ribs of pork and the drinking-horn, my cousin Gracchus is dying of hunger."

"Murdoch is a good fellow," said the turnkey, tasting the wine poured out for him by the "cabaretiere," and regarding her tenderly.

CHAPTER XLI. THE REGISTRAR OF THE MINISTER OF WAR.

THE PATRIOT LEFT, but he had not gone far. Through the curtained window he kept watch over the turnkey to discover if he entered into conversation with any of the agents of the republican police, one of the best that ever existed, since one half of society closely watched the other, less from the great glory of government than for the still greater security of their heads. But nothing occurred to excite the patriot's fears. At a few minutes before nine the turnkey rose, pinched the chin of the hostess, and went out. The patriot rejoined him at the quay of the Conciergerie, and they entered the prison together. On the same evening the affair was concluded, and Father Richard accepted Murdoch as a substitute for Gracchus. Two hours before this arrangement took place, another scene had been enacted in a different part of the prison, which, although apparently of no interest, was possessed of vital importance to the principal personages of this history. The registrar of the Conciergerie, fatigued with his day's labour, was folding up his papers, and preparing to leave, when a man, conducted by the Citoyenne Richard, presented himself in his office. "Citizen Registrar," said she. "here is your fellow registrar of the Minister of War, who comes on the part of the Citizen Minister, to hasten some military matters."

"Ah, citizen," said the registrar, "you are too late; I have just put away all my papers."

"Dear brother, pardon me," said the newcomer, "but we are really so overwhelmed with business, that even running does not make up for lost moments, and our lost moments only are those occupied by others in eating and sleeping."

"That alters the case, my dear fellow; so make haste, for, as you observe, it is near supper time, and I am very hungry. Have you your documents-"

"Here they are," said the registrar of the Minister of War, exhibiting a portfolio of papers, which his brother, busy as he was, scrutinized with the strictest attention. ''Oh! they arc all right," said Richard's wife, "and my husband has already thoroughly inspected them."

"Never mind, never mind," said the registrar, continuing his examination. The registrar remained like a man patiently awaiting the accomplishment of all due formalities. "Perfectly correct," said the registrar of the Conciergerie, "and you can now commence as soon as you please. Have you many entries to make-"

"A hundred."

"That will occupy you for several days. Therefore, dear brother, I wish to form a small establishment near you; that is to say if you will permit me."

"How am I to understand you-" said the registrar of the Conciergerie. "I will explain it to you fully, if you will join us at supper this evening. You say you are hungry."

"I do not deny it."

"Well, you shall see my wife, who is a good housekeeper, and you know me, and will acknowledge me for a good companion."

"Ma foi! yes, you strike me as such, my dear brother; yet, notwithstanding-"

"Oh! come without ceremony, and partake of some oysters that I will purchase as I pass La Place du Chatelet, a poulet of our own roasting, and a few dishes which Madame Durand excels in."

"You tempt me, my brother," said the registrar of the Conciergerie, astonished at the bill of fare, to which he was totally unaccustomed as a registrar paid by the revolutionary tribunal, at the rate of ten livres, in assignats, equal to two francs at the utmost. "Then you will accept my invitation-'' "Yes, willingly."

"In that case, to work to-morrow; till this evening we part."

"Sow we must part."

"You will come early-"

"In an instant, only I must first inform the gendarmes who guard the Austrian."

"Why must you tell them-"

"So that when they know that I am absent, and that there is no one at the wicket, they may become suspicious of every noise."

"Ah! that is a very wise precaution, faith!"

"You understand now-"

"Perfectly."

"Go, then." The registrar of the Conciergerie proceeded hastily to the wicket, which was opened by one of the gendarmes. "Who is there-"

"I, the registrar, you know. I am going out. Bon soir; Citizen Gracchus."

"Bon soir, Citizen Registrar," and the wicket was shut.

The registrar of the Minister of War had paid the greatest attention to this scene, and whilst the door of the Queen's prison remained open, his looks rapidly penetrated to the first compartment, where, seeing the other gendarme, Duchesne, seated at table, he felt perfectly assured the Queen had only two guards, and when the registrar of the Conciergerie turned round, his face had resumed its expression of perfect stolid indifference. As they went out of the Conciergerie two men entered. They were the Citizen Gracchus and his cousin Murdoch. The cousin Murdoch and the registrar of the Minister of War, each by a simultaneous movement arising from the same feeling, appeared to shrink, the one at the sight of the hairy bonnet, the other from the broad-brimmed hat pulled down over the eyes. "Who are these men-" asked the registrar of the Minister of War. "I only know one of them; it is a turnkey named Gracchus."

"Ah!" said the other, with affected indifference, "do the turnkeys then go out of the Conciergerie-"

"They have their day." The investigation did not proceed any further, and the new friends took the road to the Pont-au-Change. At the corner of the Place du Chatelet, the registrar of the Minister of War, according to agreement, purchased some oysters, and continued his way by the Quai de Greve. The dwelling of this individual was simple. The Citizen Durand inhabited three rooms on La Place de Greve, in a house without any porter. Each tenant had a key of the door in the passage, and it was agreed that if any one had omitted to take his key, he should intimate the same by one, two, or three raps with the knocker, according to the story he inhabited, and any one who was waiting, and heard the signal, then descended and opened the door; but the Citizen Durand having provided himself with his key, had nut any occasion to knock. They ascended two flights of stairs, when the Citizen Durand drew another key from his pocket, and they both entered. The registrar of the palace found his friend's wife much to his taste. She was a charming woman; indeed, an expression of profound melancholy diffused over her countenance, stamped it with an expression of deep interest. It has always been allowed that sadness is seductive in women, especially pretty women. It attracts all men without exception, even turnkeys; and turnkeys are but men after all; and what man possessed with natural feeling would not wish to console a pretty woman in affliction, and as the Citizen Dorut remarks, "To change the pale tint of the white rose to a roseate hue-" The two registrars did full justice to their excellent supper; it was only Madame Durand who eat nothing. In the meantime conversation proceeded. The registrar inquired of his brother registrar (with a curiosity the more remarkable in these days, when such frightful dramas were daily enacted) concerning the customs of Paris, the days of judgment, and the means of surveillance. The registrar of the palace, delighted at being listened to with so much deference, replied with the greatest complaisance, spoke of the manners of jailors, of Fouquier-Tinville, and lastly of the Citoyen Sanson, the principal actor in the tragedy daily performed upon La Place de la Revolution. Then in his turn, addressing his colleague and host, he made various inquiries concerning his vocation and ministry. "Oh!" said Durand, "I am not so well informed as yourself, being a person of much less importance, seeing that I am rather secretary to the registrar than the incumbent of the place. I do the work of the registrar-in-chief-an obscure employment for me at least, but highly profitable to them; but that is the way with all these revolutionary commissioners. Heaven and earth may perhaps change one day, but these things never."

"Well, I will assist you, citizen," said the registrar of the palace, charmed with the excellence of his host's wine, and above all with the beaux yeux of Madame Durand. "Thanks," said he to whom this offer had been made, "anything to vary the habits and locality is some distraction to a poor employee. I wish to hasten my work at the Conciergerie rather than to procrastinate it, and therefore thought if I might every day bring Madame Durand with me to the office, who is very dull here-"

"I do not see any inconvenience in that," said the registrar of the palace, delighted with the prospect of the charming recreation afforded him by his colleague. "She can dictate the papers," said the Citizen Durand, "and occasionally when our work is finished, if you have not found this evening unpleasant, you can return, and spend an hour or two with us."

"Yes; but not too often," replied the registrar of the palace, foppishly; "for I declare I shall be scolded if my visits are less frequent than usual at a small house in La Rue du Petit Muse."

"Well! here is some one who will settle all these affairs. Is it not so, chere amie-" Madame Durand, pale and melancholy as usual, raised her eyes towards her husband, and replied, "What you wish shall be done." Eleven o'clock struck, announcing it was time to retire. The registrar of the palace arose, and took leave of his two friends, expressing the great pleasure he felt in making their acquaintance. The Citizen Durand conducted his friend to the landing, then re-entered the apartment. "Go, Genevieve, go to bed," said he.

The young woman made no reply, but rose directly, took her lamp, and withdrew to the bedroom on the right. Durand, or rather Dixmer, watched her departure, remained stationary for a moment with an expression of deep grief depicted upon his countenance, then passed into his own chamber on the opposite side.

CHAPTER XLII. THE TWO BILLETS.

FROM THIS TIME the registrar of the Minister of War worked every evening indefatigably in his colleague's office, while Madame Durand dictated from the registers previously prepared, which Durand copied with avidity. Durand strictly examined everything, whilst appearing to notice nothing. He had remarked that every evening, at nine o'clock, a basket of provisions, carried by either Richard or his wife, was placed at the door. The instant the registrar said to the gendarme, "I am going, citizen," one of the guards, either Gilbert or Duchesne, came out, took the basket, and carried it to Marie Antoinette. During three consecutive evenings, when Durand had remained rather later at his post, the basket also was left untouched; since it was only when opening the door to say adieu to the registrar that the gendarme took in the basket containing the provisions, which, a quarter of an hour afterwards, was returned empty to the same place by one of the two guards. On the evening of the fourth day, it was the beginning of October, when, after the ordinary sitting, the registrar of the palace had withdrawn, and Durand, or rather Dixmer, remained alone with his wife; he laid down his pen, looked around and listened, as if his very life was at stake; he then rose hastily, and running towards the door of the wicket, raised the cloth which covered the contents of the basket, and in the new bread destined for the prisoner concealed a small silver purse. Pale and trembling with emotion, he quickly regained his seat, and sunk clown overpowered, placing one hand on his forehead, the other on his heart. Genevieve regarded him in silence; indeed, since the day her husband had taken her from Maurice, she had never spoken till he addressed her first. But this time she first broke silence. "Is it to be this evening-" she inquired. "No; to-morrow," replied Dixmer. He then rose, and having again looked and listened, closed the registers, and approaching the wicket, knocked at the door. "What-" said Gilbert. "Citizen," said he, "I am now going."

"Well," said the gendarme, from the end of the cell, "good night."

"Good night, Citizen Gilbert." Durand heard the grinding of the bolt and knew that the gendarme was opening the door. He went out.

In the passage leading to the apartment of Father Richard by the court, he rushed against a turnkey dressed in a bear-skin bonnet, and dangling a heavy bunch of keys. Dixmer was much alarmed. Perhaps this man, brutal as the generality of his species, was about to interrogate him, to watch him, and perhaps finally to recognise him. He drew his hat over his eyes, while Genevieve concealed herself, as she best could, in the folds of her cloak. But he was mistaken. "Pardon!" said the turnkey only, although he was the man who had been nearly overthrown. Dixmer trembled at the sound of that sweet, soft voice. But the turnkey was doubtless pressed for time; he glided into the passage, opened Richard's door, and disappeared. Dixmer continued his road, leading Genevieve. "It is strange," said he, when outside, and the gate had closed behind them, and the freshening breeze had cooled his fevered brow. "Oh!-yes-'tis very strange!" murmured Genevieve. In former times they would have communicated to each other the cause of their astonishment, but Dixmer now confined his thoughts to his own breast, and combated them as an hallucination; while Genevieve contented herself, on turning the angle of the Pont au Change, by casting a last look at the dark and gloomy palace, where something like the phantom of a lost friend awoke in her memory many sweet and bitter remembrances. Thus they both reached La Greve without having exchanged a single word. During this time the gendarme Gilbert had brought in the basket of provisions intended for the Queen. It contained some fruit, a cold chicken, a bottle of white wine, a "carafe" of water, and half a loaf. Having first raised the napkin, and ascertained that everything was arranged as usual, he opened the screen. "Citizen," said he, "here is your supper." Marie Antoinette divided the bread, but as her fingers pressed it, they came in contact with the silver. In an instant she comprehended the bread contained something unusual. When she looked around her the guard had disappeared. The Queen remained a moment immovable, calculating his retiring footsteps. When she felt certain he was seated by his comrade, and not till then, she drew the purse from its place of concealment. It contained a billet, which she opened, and read as follows:- "Madame, be ready to-morrow at the hour when you receive this billet, as to-morrow at this hour a female will be introduced into your majesty's prison. This female will exchange dresses with you, and you will then quit the Conciergerie on the arm of one of your most devoted servants. Do not be alarmed at any noise that passes in the first compartment; let neither cries nor groans deter you, only attire yourself quickly in the dress and mantle of the female who conies to take your majesty's place."

"This is devotion!" murmured the Queen. "Thank God, I am not, as it is said, an object of execration to all!" She then re-read the billet, when the second part attracted her attention-"Let neither cries nor groans deter you."

"Oh! that means they will sacrifice my two guards. Poor men! who have evinced so much kindness and pity towards me! Oh!-never!-never!" She tore off part of the letter, and, having no pen or ink, pricked on the paper the following words:- "I neither can nor will accept the sacrifice of any one's life in exchange for my own.

She then replaced the paper in the purse, which she concealed in the other half of the broken bread. This operation was just completed when ten o'clock struck, and the Queen, holding the piece of bread in her hand, sadly counted the strokes which vibrated slowly and distantly, when she heard at one of the windows opening upon the court termed "la cour des femmes" a grating sound, like that produced by a diamond dividing the glass. This noise was followed by a clash upon the window, and was several times repeated, intended to conceal the cough of a man. Then at the corner of the glass a small roll of paper appeared, which glided slowly, and fell on the inside of the wall. The Queen then heard the sound of keys jingling and clashing against each other, and receding footsteps on the pavement. She was aware that the window was perforated at this corner, and that through this aperture the departing individual had conveyed a paper, which doubtless contained a billet. It was now lying on the ground. The Queen covered her eyes, listening if either of her guards were approaching, but heard them conversing in a low tone as usual, as if with the intention of not annoying her with their voices. Then she moved softly, holding her breath, and secured the paper, which contained some minute and hard substance concealed in a case, which, falling on the bricks, sounded like metal. It was the most exquisite file that could be imagined-more of the jewel than the tool-one of those inventions in steel with which the most feeble and uninitiated hand could, in a quarter of an hour, divide a bar of iron. "Madame," said the paper, "to-morrow, at half-past nine, a man will be conversing with the gendarmes who guard you through the window of the Gourdes Femmes. During this time your majesty will saw the bar of your window, going from the left to the right. Cut slanting; a quarter of an hour will suffice for your majesty; and then be prepared to escape through the window. This advice reaches you from one of your most devoted and faithful subjects, one who has consecrated his life to your majesty's service, and would be happy also to sacrifice it for you."

"Oh!" murmured the Queen, "it must be a snare. But no; this writing appears familiar to me-it is the same as at the Temple. It is-it must be the Chevalier do Maison Rouge! God is perhaps willing that I should escape." And the Queen fell on her knees, and took refuge in prayer, the only balm and consolation undenied to the unfortunate prisoner.

CHAPTER XLIII. THE PREPARATIONS OF DIXMER.

THE MORROW, PREFACED by a sleepless night, at length arrived. The day broke at last, presenting a terrible appearance, when it might, without exaggeration, be said the sky was the colour of blood; indeed, each day at this epoch, and in this year, however beautiful the sun, had a livid hue. The Queen at length slept, but it was a sleep without repose. With her eyes closed, she saw nothing but blood; with her understanding deadened, she heard nothing but smothered cries of despair. She had dropped asleep with the file in her hand. One part of the day was devoted by her to prayer, and the guards seeing her often thus engaged, did not feel any alarm at what they considered an increase of religious feeling. From time to time, however, she examined the file transmitted to her by one of her intended deliverers, and compared the fragility of the instrument with the strength of the bar. Fortunately, these bars were only secured in the wall on one side-that is to say, at the lower part. The upper part was set in a cross-bar: the lower part divided, there was only to pull the bar, and it of course would yield. But it was not these physical difficulties which arrested the Queen. She perfectly comprehended the thing was practicable, and it was this very possibility which caused hope, like a brilliant meteor, to flash before her eyes. She felt that, to reach her, her friends must necessarily sacrifice her guards; and could she at any price consent to the death of the only individuals who, for a length of time, had evinced any interest in her, or pity for her- Then, opposed to this argument were the iron bars she was to saw asunder, and the bodies of these two men on the other side, who must fall in preventing her friends from coming to her deliverance. This comprised life, liberty, and perhaps vengeance-three things, above all, so sweet, that she asked pardon of God for so earnestly desiring them. She believed as to the rest, that not the slightest suspicion agitated the minds of her guards, that they had not any idea of a snare (if such a thing existed) into which it was intended the prisoner should fall. These simple men would have betrayed themselves to eyes so much exercised as those of this woman, habituated to detect evil from having so severely suffered from it. The Queen entirely abandoned the idea that these combined overtures were contrived as a trap; but as the fear of being betrayed into this snare disappeared, the still greater apprehension increased of some bloody scene being enacted before her very eyes. "Strange destiny! sublime sight!" murmured she: "two conspiracies united to save a poor Queen, or rather a poor female prisoner, who has had no means of inducing or encouraging these conspiracies, which are about to take place at the same moment! Who knows- Perhaps there may be one only. Perhaps it may be a double mine, leading to one and the same point. If I will it, I might then be saved. But a poor woman sacrificed in my stead!-two men killed before this woman could reach me! God might perhaps forgive me. Impossible! impossible!" Then passed and repassed in her mind visions of the great devotion of serviteurs for their masters, and the ancient tradition of the right exercised by masters over the lives of their retainers-a phantasy almost effaced by the royal doom and death. "Anne of Austria might have accepted this," said she. "Anne of Austria would have yielded every consideration to the safety of the royal person. Anne of Austria is of the same blood, and was almost in the same situation as myself. What madness to be following the royal career of Anne of Austria in France! Was I not brought hither- Two Kings said, it is important that two royal children, who have never seen or loved each other, who perhaps never may love each other, should be married at the same altar, to die upon the same scaffold. And then will not my death accelerate that of my poor child, who in the eyes of my few friends is still King of France! And when my son, like his father, is dead, will not their shades both smile on me in pity, seeing that to spare some drops of plebeian blood I have stained with my blood the remains of the throne of St. Louis- In this anguish of thought, this fever of doubt, every pulsation redoubled, and in a tempest of terror and fear the unhappy Queen continued till the arrival of night. She had several times closely scrutinized her guards, but they exhibited an air of the greatest calm. Never had she been more forcibly struck by the invariable kindness and attention of these two uneducated men. When the darkness of night reigned in the cell, when the steps of the round, the noise of resounding arms, and the barking of dogs, awoke the echoes of the gloomy vaults; when all the horrors of the prison revealed themselves, gloomy and hopeless, Marie Antoinette, subdued by the natural weakness of a woman, succumbed to terror. "Oh! I will fly! I will fly!" said she. "Yes-yes; I will fly! When he comes, when he speaks, I will saw the bar. I will await what God and my deliverers ordain me. I owe it to my children; they shall not murder them. And if they are sacrificed, and I am free-oh, then, at least-" She did not conclude; her eyes closed, and her deep emotion checked all utterance. This was a frightful vision to the unfortunate Queen, enclosed with gratings and iron bars. But, as usual, it soon disappeared, and in its stead another presented itself to her view. She saw herself in the midst of a dark, stern, inflexible army; she orders the fire to consume, the swords to be drawn, and vengeance to be taken on a nation she will no longer claim as her own.

During this time Gilbert and Duchesne were tranquilly preparing their evening repast. At this time, also, Dixmer and Genevieve entered the Conciergerie, and installed themselves in the office as usual. At the end of an hour the Registrar of the Palace, having completed his business, according to custom took his departure, leaving them alone to themselves. Directly the door had closed on his colleague, Dixmer rushed towards the empty basket placed at the door in exchange for that of the evening. Then seizing the bread, he found the purse, and turned pale whilst reading the letter of the Queen. Genevieve observed him tear it into a thousand pieces, and throw them into the mouth of the burning stove. "It is well," said he; "all is arranged." Then turning towards Genevieve-"Come here, Madame," said he; "I must speak with you." Genevieve, motionless and cold as marble, gave a gesture of assent, and approached him. "The time has arrived, Madame; listen to me."

"Yes, Monsieur."

"You prefer a death beneficial to your cause; a death that will ensure you blessings from one part and pity from the whole of the nation. Is it not so-to an ignominious and revengeful end of life-"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"I might have killed you on the spot when I recognised you at the house of your lover; but a man who, like myself, consecrates his life to a holy and honourable cause, ought to be able to fling aside and forget his own private griefs, by rendering them subservient to this cause. This I have done, or rather I intend to do. I am, as you see, denied the pleasure of doing myself justice, and have also spared your lover." Something resembling a bitter but fugitive smile flitted over the lips of Genevieve. "But as for your lover, you who know me should well be aware, I only bide my time."

"Monsieur," said Genevieve, "I await my fate. Then wherefore all this prelude-"

"Are you ready-"

"Yes, I am ready. Kill me, if you choose; you have good cause to do so." Dixmer looked at Genevieve, and started, in spite of himself. She at this moment appeared sublimely beautiful; a glory the most brilliant of all shone around her,-the glory that emanated from love. "To continue," said Dixmer, "I have informed the Queen; she expects you, notwithstanding she will in all probability raise numerous objections. You must overrule them all."

"Give me your orders, Monsieur, and I will execute them."

"At the moment," continued Dixmer, "I knock at the door, Gilbert opens it, and with this poniard "-here Dixmer threw open his coat, and half drawing from its scabbard a double-edged poniard-"with this I shall kill him." Genevieve shuddered. Dixmer made a motion with his hand to command her attention. "The instant I strike him, dart into the second chamber, that of the Queen. There is, as you are aware, no door, only a screen. You will exchange clothes with her, whilst I despatch the other man. Then I shall take the Queen's arm, and pass through the wicket with her."

"Very well," said Genevieve, coldly. "You understand me-" said Dixmer. "You have been seen each evening in your black taffeta mantle, which conceals your face. Place your mantle upon her Majesty, and dress her precisely as you have been accustomed to dress yourself."

"All shall be done as you desire me, Monsieur."

"It remains now for me to pardon, and to thank you, Madame." Genevieve shook her head with a scornful smile. "I neither want your pardon nor your thanks, Monsieur," said she, extending her hand. "What I have done, or rather am about to do, effaces my crime. I have only been guilty of weakness; and, again, this weakness (recall your own conduct), Monsieur, you all but forced me to commit. I withdrew myself from him; you drove me into his arms; so you are at the same time instigator, judge, and avenger. It remains for me to pardon you my death; and I do pardon you. It is I who should thank you for death, since life has become insupportable to me, separated from the only man I love; since that hour especially when you severed by your savage vengeance every tie that bound me to him." Dixmer drove his nails into his flesh. He strove to reply, but his voice failed him. He moved towards the wicket. "Time passes," said he, at last. "Madame, every moment is of consequence. Are you ready-"

"I have told you, Monsieur," replied Genevieve, with the calmness and courage of a martyr, "I attend you." Dixmer collected his papers, saw the gates were fast closed, so that no one could enter the wicket, and then wished to reiterate his instructions. "It is unnecessary, Monsieur," said Genevieve. "I know perfectly well all I have to do."

"Then adieu!" and Dixmer extended his hand, as if at this supreme moment all recrimination was effaced before the grandeur of the situation, and the sublimity of the sacrifice. Genevieve, shuddering, touched with the tips of her fingers the proffered hand of her husband. "Place yourself near me, Madame, and the moment I have struck Gilbert, pass on."

"I am ready." Then Dixmer pressed with his right hand his large poniard; with his left he knocked at the gate.

CHAPTER XLIV. THE PREPARATIONS OF THE CHEVALIER.

DURING THE SCENE described in the preceding chapter as passing at the door of the wicket leading into the prison of the Queen, or rather into the first compartment occupied by the two gendarmes, other preparations were also taking place on the opposite side,-that is to say, in the Cour des Femmes. Suddenly a man appeared, like a statue of stone which had detached itself from the wall. He was followed by two dogs, and was humming the "Ca ira," a song much in fashion at this period. He held in his hand a large bunch of keys, which, in passing, he had rattled against the bars which barricaded the window of the Queen. The royal prisoner at first started; but recognising the signal, immediately opened her window softly, to commence her work, with a hand more experienced than would have been believed, for more than once (in the blacksmith's shop, where her royal husband amused himself by passing part of the day) she had often with her delicate fingers handled instruments similar to that upon which at this moment depended her every chance of safety and deliverance. Directly the man with the keys heard the Queen's window open, he knocked at that of the gendarmes. "Ah! Ah!" said Gilbert, looking through the window, "here is the Citizen Murdoch."

"Himself," said the turnkey. "Well, but it appears you keep strict watch-"

"Much as usual, citizen key-bearer. It seems to me you do not often find us at fault-"

"Ah!" said Murdoch; "and vigilance is more than ever necessary to-night."

"Bah!" said Duchesne, who had now approached. "Truly."

"Why, then-"

"Open the window, and I will tell you all about it." Gilbert opened it, and shook hands with Murdoch, who had already made friends with the two gendarmes. "What is it, Citizen Murdoch-" repeated Gilbert. "The sitting of the Convention has been rather warm to-day. Have you read it-"

"No. What passed, then-"

"It was first stated the Citizen Hebert had made a discovery."

"What-"

"It is, that the conspirators believed to be dead are found to be living. There are three living."

"Oh! yes," said Gilbert; "Delessert and Thierry; I have heard speak of that. They are in England, the scoundrels."

"And the Chevalier de Maison Rouge," said the key-bearer, raising his voice so that the Queen might hear. "What, is he in England also-"

"Not at all," said Murdoch; "he is in France," still speaking in the same loud key. "He has returned, then-"

"He has never quitted it."

"Well, he has good courage," said Duchesne. "Indeed he has."

"Well, are they going to arrest him-"

"Certainly; but that is much easier said than done." At this moment the Queen's file grated so forcibly upon the iron bar that the key-bearer feared it might be heard, notwithstanding all his efforts at concealment. He hastily trod upon the paw of the nearest dog, who uttered a prolonged howl of pain. "Oh! poor beast," said Gilbert. "Bah!" said the key-bearer, "he had not put on his sabots. Be quiet, Girondin; will you be quiet-"

"Is your dog named Girondin, Citizen Murdoch-"

"Yes; that is the name I have given him."

"And you say this-" said Duchesne, who, imprisoned himself, took a lively interest in all that related to prisoners-"you say this-"

"Truly, I say this, that in the Citizen Hebert you see a good patriot. I say that the Citizen Hebert has made a proposition to return the Austrian to the Temple. Dam; because they pretend she has only been withdrawn from the Temple to remove her from the immediate inspection of the Commune of Paris."

"Yes; and from the attempts of this cursed Maison Rouge," said Gilbert, "it seems that the subterranean passage did exist."

"That was the reply the Citizen Saintez made; but Hebert said, the instant that was defeated, there was no more danger; that at the Temple, fewer precautions were requisite for the security of Marie Antoinette than here; and finally, that the Temple was differently enclosed to the Conciergerie, and another thing altogether."

"Ma foi!" said Gilbert, "I wish they would remove her to the Temple."

"I understand, you are tired of the confinement-"

"No; but it makes me melancholy." Maison Rouge coughed loudly, as the noise of the file biting through the iron bar was distinctly heard. "What have they decided on-" said Duchesne, when the key-bearer's cough had subsided. "It is settled that she remains here; but her trial will take place immediately."

"Poor woman!" said Gilbert.

Duchesne, whose sense of hearing was no doubt more acute than that of his colleague, or his attention less engrossed by the recital of Murdoch, stooped down to listen on the left side of the compartment.

The key-bearer saw the movement. "So you see, Citizen Duchesne, the attempts of the conspirators will become the more desperate, from the fact of their having less time before them for their execution. They are going to double the guards of the prisons, so look out, Citizen Gendarme, since the matter in question is nothing less than the irruption of an armed force into the Conciergerie. They will murder all, sacrifice every impediment, till they effect an entrance to the Queen-to the widow of Capet, I tell you."

"Ah! bah! How can they get in-"' "Disguised as patriots, they will appear to recommence the 2nd of September. Poor wretches, and when once the gates are open! Bon soir." There was an instant's silence, produced by the astonishment of the guards, while the key-bearer heard with emotions of joy and terror the continued grating of the file. Nine o'clock struck. At the same moment there was a knock at the wicket, but the gendarmes, preoccupied, did not reply. "Well, we shall see, we shall see," said Gilbert. "And if necessary, will die at our post like stanch republicans," said Duchesne. "She ought soon to have finished," said the key-bearer to himself, wiping the drops of perspiration from his face. "And you on your side," said Gilbert, "keep on the look-out, I presume- They would spare you no more than us were such an event to take place."

"I should think so," said the key-bearer. "I pass the night in going the round, thus I am always on the alert; the rest of you, at least those who are relieved, can sleep every other night." At this moment a second summons at the wicket was heard. Murdoch started; any event, however trifling, might mar the execution of his project. "What is it, then-" demanded he in spite of himself. "Nothing, nothing," said Gilbert; "it is only the registrar of the Minister of War. He is going now, and come to inform me of it."

"Oh! very well," said Murdoch.

The registrar still continued to knock. "Bon! bon!" cried Gilbert without leaving the window. "Bon soir! Adieu!"

"I think he is speaking," said Duchesne, turning towards the door. The voice of the registrar was then heard. "Come here, Citizen Gendarme," said he; "I wish to speak to you." This voice, which appeared overpowered by emotion, and deprived of its natural accent, startled the key-bearer, who fancied he recognised it. "What do you want, Citizen Durand-" said Gilbert. "I wish to speak a word with you."

"Well, you can tell me to-morrow."

"No, this evening; it must be this evening," replied the same voice. "Oh!" murmured the key-bearer, "what is about to happen now- It is Dixmer s voice." Sinister and vibrating, this voice seemed to borrow something funereal from the far off echoes of the gloomy corridor. Duchesne turned round. "Well," said Gilbert, "if he wishes it I must go," and he directed his steps towards the door.

The key-bearer availed himself of this moment, when the attention of the two gendarmes was thus occupied by this unforeseen circumstance. He ran towards the window of the Queen. "Is it done-" said he. "I have more than half finished," said the Queen. "Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" murmured he; "make haste! make haste!"' "Well, Citizen Murdoch," said Duchesne, "what has become of you-"

"Here I am," said the key-bearer, returning quickly to the window of the first compartment. At that very same moment, even as he turned to resume his former station, a frightful cry resounded through the prison, then an imprecation, and noise of a sword being drawn from the scabbard. "Villain! brigand!" cried Gilbert, and the sound of a struggle was heard in the corridor. The door then opened, displaying to the eyes of the turnkey two shadows struggling in the wicket, and thus affording free passage to a female, who, pushing aside Duchesne, rushed into the Queen's chamber. Duchesne, without noticing the woman, ran to his comrade's assistance. The turnkey sprang towards the other window, and beheld the female on her knees before the Queen, praying and supplicating her Majesty to exchange dresses with her. He lowered his burning eyes, endeavouring to gain a clearer view of this woman whom he feared he had already recognised. All at once he uttered a dreadful cry. "Genevieve! Genevieve!" murmured he.

The Queen had dropped the file from her hand, and seemed transfixed with despair. Here, alas! was another attempt rendered abortive.

The turnkey seized the bar with both hands, shook it with all his strength, but the file had not accomplished its work; the bar of iron would not yield to his efforts. During this time Dixmer had, wrestling, struggling with Gilbert, reached the prison, and there attempted to force his entrance with him, but Duchesne leaning against the door prevented him. But he was unable to close it, for Dixmer in despair had placed his arm between the gate and wall. In his hand he still retained the poniard, which in the contest, blunted by the buckle of the belt, had glided over the turnkey's breast, tearing open his coat and lacerating his flesh. The two men encouraged each other to reunite their efforts, at the same time calling loudly for assistance. Dixmer felt his arm must break: he placed his shoulder against the door, shook it violently, and succeeded in withdrawing his bruised arm. The door closed with a great noise; Duchesne drew the bolts, whilst Gilbert turned the key; a rapid step was heard in the corridor, then all was over. The two gendarmes searched everywhere around them. They detected the sound of the assumed turnkey wrenching the bar; then Gilbert rushed into the Queen's chamber, where he found Genevieve entreating her Majesty on her knees to exchange clothes with her. Duchesne seized his gun, and ran to the window; he discovered a man hanging to the bar, which he shook with rage, frantically endeavouring in vain to break it.

He pointed his gun: the young man saw it levelled at him. "Oh yes! yes!" said he, "kill me! kill me!" and, sublime in his despair, he bared his breast to the storm. "Chevalier," said the Queen, "Chevalier, I entreat you to live." At the sound of the Queen's voice the Chevalier sank upon his knees. The gun was discharged, but this movement saved him; the ball passed over his head. Genevieve, imagining her friend was dead, fell upon the ground without sense or motion. When the smoke was dissipated, no one remained in La Cour des Femmes. Ten minutes afterwards, thirty soldiers, led by two Commissaries, searched the whole of the Conciergerie, even its most inaccessible retreats. They discovered no one; the registrar had passed, calm and smiling, before Father Richard's arm-chair. As to the turnkey, he had gone out crying, "Alarm! Alarm!" The sentinel opposed his egress with his bayonet, but the two dogs seized him by the throat. It was only Genevieve who was arrested, interrogated, and imprisoned.

CHAPTER XLV. THE INQUIRY.

WE CAN NO LONGER leave in forgetfulness one of the principal personages of this history, he who, during the accomplishment of the various incidents of the preceding chapter, had suffered most of all, and whose anxieties merit the liveliest sympathy on the part of our readers. The sun shone gloriously in La Rue de la Monnaie, and the gossips were discoursing merrily at their doors (as if for the last ten months a mist of blood had not hung over the city, tinging all nature with its sanguinary hue), when Maurice returned home, bringing, as he had promised, the cabriolet with him. He gave the bridle of the horse to a shoeblack on the pavement of Saint Eustache, and hastily ran up stairs, his heart filled with joy.

Love is a vivifying sentiment. It animates hearts long deadened to every other sensation-it peoples the desert-it resuscitates before the eyes the shade of the beloved object-it causes the voice which sings in the soul of the lover to display before him the entire creation illumined by the brilliant rays of hope and happiness, at the same time it is egotistical, blinding him who loves to all but the existence of the beloved object.

Maurice neither saw these women nor listened to their commentaries, he alone saw Genevieve preparing for a departure which was at last to bring them durable happiness; he only heard Genevieve singing carelessly her customary song, and this little song burred so sweetly in his ear that he might have sworn he was listening to the varied modulations of her voice, mingled with the less harmonious sound of closing locks. Upon the landing Maurice stopped; the door was half open, it was generally kept closed, and this circumstance surprised Maurice. He looked all round, thinking Genevieve was in the corridor. She was not there. He entered, looked in the antechamber, the dining-room, the saloon. He visited the bed-chamber, but anteroom, saloon, and bed-chamber were all empty. He loudly called. No one replied. The official, as he knew, had gone out. Maurice imagined that, during his absence, Genevieve had perhaps required some cord to fasten her trunk, or provision de voyage to store in the carriage, and had gone out to purchase it. He thought it imprudent, but, although every moment his anxiety increased, he in reality feared nothing.

Maurice waited for some time, walking up and down the room with long impatient strides, and occasionally leaning out of the window, which, half-opened, admitted puffs of air charged heavily with rain. But soon he fancied he heard a step upon the staircase: he listened, it was not that of Genevieve; he ran to the landing, looked over the palisade, and recognised the official, who leisurely mounted the stairs after the manner of domestics. "Scevola!" cried he. The official raised his head. "Ah! is it you, citizen-"

"Yes. Where is the citoyenne-"

"The citoyenne-" demanded Scevola, with much surprise, as he continued mounting the stairs. "Have you seen her below-"

"No."

"Go down, then, and ask the porter, and inquire of all the neighbours." Scevola descended. "Quicker! quicker!" said his master; "do you not see I am burning with impatience-" After waiting five or six minutes, and Scevola not having made his appearance, Maurice re-entered the apartment, and again leaned out of the window. He saw Scevola enter several shops and leave them without having gained any fresh intelligence. He called him. The official raised his head, and saw his master impatiently looking from the window. Maurice signed to him to come up. "It is impossible she can have gone out," said Maurice to himself, and again he called, "Genevieve! Genevieve!'' All was silent as death; even the solitary chamber appeared no longer to have an echo. Scevola reappeared. "Well-" demanded Maurice. "The porter is the only person who has seen her."

"The porter has seen her; how was that-"

"He saw her go out."

"She is gone out, then-"

"It seems so."

"Alone! It is impossible Genevieve would go out alone."

"She was not alone, citizen; she had a man with her."

"How! a man with her-"

"That is what the porter says, at least."

"Go and seek him. I must find out who this man is." Scevola made a step towards the door, then, turning, "Wait," said he, appearing to reflect. "What is it-" said Maurice. "Speak, or you will be the death of me."

"Perhaps it was the man who ran after me."

"What for-"

"To ask me for the key."

"What key-"

"The key of your apartment."

"You gave the key of the apartment to a stranger-" cried Maurice, seizing with both hands the official by the collar. "It was not to a stranger, Monsieur, it was to one of your friends."

"Ah! yes, to one of my friends. It is Louis, no doubt it is so. She has gone out with Louis," and smiling a ghastly smile Maurice wiped away the drops of agony which had gathered on his brow. "No, Monsieur; no, it was not he. I know Monsieur Louis very well."

"Who was it, then-"

"You know the man came here one day-"

"What day-"

"The day when you were so sad, and he took you away with him, and you returned so happy." Scevola had remarked all these things. Maurice regarded him with a bewildered air; a cold shudder ran through all his veins. Then, after a long silence, "Dixmer!" cried he. "Ma foi! yes. I think it was him, Citizen." Maurice tottered, and fell back upon the chair. "Oh! my God!" murmured he. When he re-opened his eyes they encountered the violets, forgotten, or rather left there by Genevieve. He rushed towards them, seized and kissed them; then, remarking where she had placed them: "Doubtless," said he, "these violets… it is her last adieu." When Maurice turned round he perceived for the first time the trunk was half full, the rest of the linen remained on the ground, or in the half-opened wardrobe. The cord which lay upon the ground had no doubt fallen from Genevieve's hand at the apparition of Dixmer. It was all explained now. The scene rose vivid and terrible before his eyes, between those four walls that had lately witnessed so much happiness. Till now Maurice had remained crushed and heartbroken. Now the reaction was fearful. His rage was bordering on frenzy. He rose, closed the window, took from the top of his secretaire a pair of pistols, ready loaded for their intended journey, looked to the priming, and finding all right placed them in his pocket. He also furnished himself with two rouleaux of louis, which, notwithstanding his patriotism, he had thought it political to conceal at the bottom of a drawer, and taking his sabre in his hand: "Scevola," said he, "you are attached to me, I think; you have served my father and myself for fifteen years."

"Yes, citizen," replied the official, terrified at the pallor and nervous trembling he had never before remarked in his master, who had always been justly considered one of the most courageous and vigorous of men, "yes, what are your orders for me-"

"Listen! if this lady who lived here…" He stopped-his voice trembled so much in pronouncing these words he was unable to proceed. "If she should return," continued he, after a moment's pause, "receive her, close the door after her, take this gun, and station yourself upon the staircase, and, for your head, for your life, for your soul, do not permit a single person to enter here. If any one should force the door, defend it. Strike! kill! kill! and fear nothing, Scevola, for I will answer for all." The young man's impetuous harangue, his vehement confidence, electrified Scevola. "I will not only kill, but will even suffer death for the Citoyenne Genevieve," said he. "Thanks. Now attend. This apartment is odious to me, and since I cannot find her I will no longer remain here; if she has been able to effect her escape, if she has returned, place before the window the Japan vase, with the pearls, which she loves so much. That is, during the day. At night, put a lantern. Every time I pass the end of the street I shall know, and if I see neither vase nor lantern I shall still continue my researches."

"Be prudent, Monsieur! Oh! pray be prudent!" continued Scevola. His master made no reply, but rushing from the chamber flew down the staircase as if possessed of wings, and ran towards Louis's house. It would be difficult to paint the astonishment and rage of our worthy poet when he heard the news, much as he wished to recommence the touching elegies addressed by Orestes to Pylades. "And you do not know where she is-" he repeated incessantly. "Lost! disappeared!" shrieked Maurice, in a tone of despair, "he has killed her, Louis, he has killed her!"

"No, my dear friend; no, Maurice; he has not killed her; it is not after so many days of reflection that he would be likely to kill a woman like Genevieve. If he had thought of doing so, he would have done it on the spot, and have left her corpse there in token of his just vengeance. No, no; he has taken her away, only too happy at having regained his lost treasure."

"You do not know, Louis-you do not know; this man had something fatal in his look."

"You are mistaken," said Louis, "he always struck me as a brave man. He has taken her as the sacrifice. He will stop with her, and they will die together. Where, then, is the danger-" These words redoubled Maurice's fury. "I will find her! I will find her, or perish in the attempt!" cried he. "Oh! as to that, we are certain to find her," said Louis; "only calm yourself. They fail in success who do not reflect; and when agitated as you are, we reflect badly and unwisely."

"Adieu, Louis, adieu!"

"Where are you going, then-"

"I am going."

"You will leave me, then- Why is that-"

"Because this concerns me only. I alone should risk my life to save Genevieve's."

"Do you wish to die-"

"I will face all. I will find out the president of the Committee of Surveillance. I will speak to Hebert, to Danton, to Robespierre. I will avow all, that she may be restored to me."

"Very well," said Louis; and without adding another word, he rose, adjusted his belt, put on his military cap; and as Maurice had done, provided himself with a pair of pistols, ready loaded, which he put in his pocket. "Let us go," said he, simply. "But you will compromise yourself," said Maurice. "Well, what next-"

"Where shall we seek her first-" said Maurice. "We will first search in the old quarter; you know- Vieille Rue Saint Jacques; then we will watch for Maison Rouge, as where he will be, doubtless Dixmer will be also; then we will draw near the houses in La Vieille Corderie. Yon know they talk of transferring Marie Antoinette to the Temple; believe me, men like them will not, till the last moment, abandon the hope of serving her."

"Yes," repeated Maurice, "you are right… Maison Rouge, do you think he is in Paris-"

"Dixmer is there."

"It is true, it is true; of course they will be together," said Maurice, to whom these vague ideas seemed partially to restore reason.

The two friends went out to commence their search immediately, but all in vain. Paris is large, and well adapted for concealment. Never was a pit known to conceal more obscurely the secret confided to its keeping by crime or misery. A hundred times Maurice and Louis passed over La Place de Greve; a hundred times glanced at the house that contained Genevieve, watching without ceasing for Dixmer, as the priests watch the victim destined for a sacrifice. Genevieve, on her side, seeing herself destined to perish, like all generous souls, accepted the sacrifice, and only wished to die quietly and unnoticed; besides, she dreaded less for Dixmer than the cause of the Queen-the publicity that Maurice would not fail to give to his vengeance. She kept, then, a silence as profound as if death had already sealed her lips.

In the meantime, without saying anything to Louis, Maurice had applied to the members of the terrible Committee of Public Safety; and Louis, without speaking to Maurice, had, on his part, determined on a similar proceeding. Thus, on the same day, a red cross was affixed by Fouquier-Tinville to both their names, and the word "Suspects" united them in a sanguinary embrace.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE SENTENCE.

ON THE 23D DAY of the month of the second year of the French Republic, one and indivisible, corresponding to the 14th of October, 1793, old style, as it was then called, a curious crowd had since the morning invaded the galleries of the hall where the revolutionary sittings were held. The passages of the Palace, the avenues of the Conciergerie, were lined with greedy and impatient spectators, who made over one to another their reports and passions, as the waves transmit 'their froth and foam. Notwithstanding the curiosity which agitated each spectator-an agitation caused by this curiosity-every wave of this troubled sea, enclosed between two barriers-the exterior one which propelled them, and the interior which repelled them-this flux and reflux of human beings were thus kept almost stationary in the places they had at first taken. Thus, those more conveniently situated, comprehending it was necessary they should obtain forgiveness for their good fortune, kept this object in view by transmitting to these, their neighbours less comfortably and commodiously placed than themselves, and who in their turn recounted to others, the first words they heard, and all they saw.

Near the door of the tribunal a group of men were collected, rudely disputing for ten lines of space in width and height-for ten lines in breath sufficed to see between two shoulders the corner of the hall and the form of the judges-for ten lines in height was sufficient to overlook the entire hall and the figure of the accused. Unfortunately, this entrance to the passage of the hall, this narrow defile, was almost entirely filled by a man with broad shoulders, and his arms akimbo, who most effectually excluded the wavering crowd, ready to drop into the hall, if this rampart of flesh were to give way.

This immovable man was young and handsome, and at every push bestowed on him by the crowd, he shook his head of hair, thick as a lion's mane, under which gleamed a dark and resolute expression; then, when either by a look or a movement he had repelled the crowd and resisted their violent attacks, he fell back into his attentive immobility. A hundred times this compact mass had, notwithstanding, striven hard to overthrow him-as from his great height, to see anything behind him was utterly impossible-but, as we have said, firm as a rock he stood his ground. In the meantime, at the other extremity of this human sea, in the midst of the crushing crowd, another man was forcing a passage, with a perseverance almost amounting to ferocity. Nothing impeded his indefatigable exertions; neither the cries of those he left behind, the fearful imprecations of those he almost stifled in passing, nor the wails of the women-for there were many females in this crowd.

To blows he responded with blows; to imprecations, by a look before which the most courageous quailed; to complaints, by a carelessness bordering on disdain. At last he arrived behind the powerful young man, who, so to speak, closed the entrance to the hall. In the midst of the general expectation-for all were anxious to see how the contest between two such rude antagonists would terminate-he essayed his peculiar method, which consisted in planting his elbows between two spectators, and thus breaking through. He was, notwithstanding, a short young man, whose wan face and emaciated appearance betokened latent illness.

His elbows had scarcely touched the young man before him, when he, indignant at the aggression, turned sharply round, at the same moment raising his clenched fist, which threatened, in falling, to crush the slender form of the intruder.

The two antagonists now found themselves face to face, when a cry of recognition escaped from each. "Ah! Monsieur Maurice," said the delicate young man, with an accent of inexpressible anguish, "permit me to pass; only let me see her, I entreat you; then kill me afterwards." Maurice-for it was he-felt himself affected by admiration and compassion, excited by this ceaseless devotion, this adventurous daring. "You here!" murmured he. "How imprudent!"

"Yes; but I am exhausted-Oh, mon Dieu! she speaks. Let me see her-let me listen to her." Maurice drew aside, and the young man passed before him, and being at the head of the crowd there was nothing now to intercept the view of him who had undergone so many blows, so much buffeting to attain his end. All this scene, and the murmurs it occasioned, aroused the curiosity of the judges. The accused also turned round, and immediately perceived and recognised the Chevalier. A shudder ran through the Queen's frame, seated in the iron arm-chair. The interrogation, conducted by the President Harmand, interpreted by Fouquier-Tinville, discussed by Cheveau Lagarde, the defender for the Queen, lasted as long as the strength of the judges and the accused permitted. During all this time, Maurice remained motionless in his place, whilst several times already the concourse was renewed both in the hall and the corridors. The Chevalier leaned against a pillar. He was no less pale than the marble that supported him. The day was succeeded by a dark night; some lighted candles on the tables of the jurors, and some smoky lamps on the walls of the hall, threw a red and sinister expression on the noble face of that woman who had formed the bright and beautiful ornament of the splendid fetes at Versailles. She was alone there, replying in brief and dignified language to the questions of the President, and occasionally addressed some words to her counsel in a low voice. Her white and polished forehead retained all its original pride. She was neither humbled nor cast down. She was attired in a black dress, which she had worn ever since her husband's death. The judges retired from the hall. The sitting had terminated. "Have I evinced too much hauteur, monsieur-" said she, addressing herself to Cheveau Lagarde. "Ah, madame," replied he, "you are always right when you act like yourself."

"How proud she is!" cried a woman among the audience, as if a voice from the people had replied to the question of the unfortunate Queen to her advocate.

The Queen turned and looked at her. "Yes," repeated the woman, "you are proud, Antoinette; and I tell you, pride has been the ruin of you." The Queen blushed. The Chevalier turned towards the female who had uttered these words, and replied, softly, "She was Queen." Maurice, seized him by the wrist, saying, in a low tone, "Take care; do not forget yourself."

"Oh, Monsieur Maurice," replied the Chevalier, "you are a man yourself, and you know you are speaking to a man. Tell me, oh, tell me, do you think they will condemn her-"

"I do not think," said Maurice; "I am sure of it."

"What! a woman!" said the Chevalier, with a deep groan. "No, a Queen," said Maurice; "you have yourself said so." The Chevalier in his turn seized Maurice by the wrist, and with a force of which he appeared incapable, compelled him to bend his ear. It was half-past three in the morning. Many vacuums were visible amongst the spectators, and a few lights burning here and there served only to render darkness visible. In one of the most obscure parts of the hall were the Chevalier arid Maurice, listening to what the former was telling him. "Why are you here- what brings you here-" demanded the Chevalier; "you, monsieur, who have not a tiger's heart-"

"Alas!" said Maurice, "to discover what has become of an unfortunate woman."

"Yes, yes," said Maison Rouge, "she whom her husband forced into the Queen's cell- the female it surprised me so to see-"

"Genevieve-"

"Yes, Genevieve."

"Then Genevieve is a prisoner, sacrificed by her husband, killed by Dixmer. Oh! I comprehend all, I understand all now. Chevalier, tell me all that has occurred, tell me where she is, tell me where I can find her. Chevalier! this woman constitutes my life; do you hear me-"

"I witnessed all. I was there when she was arrested. I was there also to effect the escape of the Queen, but our different projects not having been communicated to each other, injured instead of assisting our mutual cause."

"Why did you not save her, at least- your sister, Genevieve!"

"How could I when an iron bar divided us- Oh! if you had only been there, if you had united your efforts with mine, the bar must have yielded, and both might have been saved."

"Genevieve! Genevieve!" murmured Maurice. Then regarding Maison Rouge with an indefinable expression of hatred and rage, "And Dixmer- Where is he-" demanded he. "I know not; he saved himself, as I did also."

"Oh!" said Maurice, grinding his teeth, "if ever I meet him… "

"Yes; I understand. But there is nothing yet to despair about concerning Genevieve," said Maison Rouge; "her case is not yet desperate; but the Queen… Oh! stop, Maurice, you are a sensitive man, an influential man. You have friends… Oh! I pray to you as I would to my God… Maurice, help me te save the Queen. Maurice! Genevieve supplicates you through me."

"Pronounce not that name, monsieur. Who knows, but that, like Dixmer, you may have sacrificed this unhappy woman;'"

"Monsieur," replied the Chevalier, haughtily, "when I attach myself to a cause, I know better than to sacrifice any one but myself." Maurice was about to reply, when the door of the chamber of debate opened. "Silence! monsieur, silence," said the Chevalier, "the judges are returning." And Maurice felt the hand tremble which Maison Rouge had placed upon his arm. "Ah!" murmured the Chevalier, "my heart fails me now."

"Have courage and constrain yourself, or you are lost," said Maurice.

The tribunal re-entered, and the news of its return spread rapidly through the corridors and galleries. The crowd again congregated in the hall, and even the dim lights appeared to burn brighter at this solemn and decisive moment. The Queen rose, and stood erect, haughty, and immovable, her eyes fixed, her lips closed. The decree was then read which doomed the Queen to death. She heard her sentence without even turning pale, or uttering a sigh; her countenance evinced not the slightest emotion. Then turning towards the Chevalier, she regarded him with a long and eloquent look, as if to indicate her gratitude to this man whom she had ever seen a living statue of devotion, and supported on the arm of the officer of the gendarmes who commanded the forces, with a calm and dignified demeanour she quitted the court.

Maurice drew a deep sigh. "Thank God," said he, "nothing in this declaration can compromise Genevieve; there is yet hope."

"Thank God!" murmured the Chevalier on his side. "It is all finished, and the struggle at length terminated. I have not strength to go farther."

"Courage! monsieur," said Maurice, in a low voice. "I will take courage, monsieur," replied the Chevalier; and having shaken hands, they disappeared by different outlets. The Queen was re-conducted to the Conciergerie, the large clock struck four as she entered. At the end of Pont Neuf, Maurice was stopped by Louis. "Halt!" said he; "you do not pass here."

"Why-"

"First, where are you going-"

"I am going home. I can return there now, since I know what has become of her."

"So much the better; but you must not enter there."

"For what reason-"

"The reason is, that two hours ago the gendarmes went there to arrest you."

"Ah!" cried Maurice. "Well, there is the greater reason."

"Are you mad- And Genevieve-"

"You are right. But where are we to go-" ' "To my house. Pardieu!"

"But I shall ruin you."

"The more reason," said Louis, dragging Maurice away with him.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE PRIEST AND THE EXECUTIONER.

ON LEAVING THE COURT, the Queen had been conducted back to the Conciergerie. On reaching her chamber she had taken a pair of scissors, and cut off her long and beautiful curls, rendered still more so from the absence of powder, which had been totally abolished two years since; these she enclosed in a packet, and on the paper was inscribed, "For my son and daughter." She then seated herself, or rather sank into a chair, and worn out with fatigue, the trial having lasted eighteen hours, she fell asleep. At seven o'clock the noise of the opening screen roused her from her troubled sleep, and turning round, she beheld a man perfectly unknown to her. "What do you want-" demanded she.

He approached and saluted her as respectfully as if she had not been the Queen. "I am called Sanson," said he.

The name was sufficient. The Queen slightly shuddered. "You are here in good time, monsieur; could you not have made it rather later-"

"No, madame," replied Sanson; "I received orders to come." As he uttered these words, he advanced still nearer to the Queen. At this moment everything about this man was expressive and terrible. "I understand," said the prisoner, "you wish to cut off my hair-"

"It is necessary, madame," replied the executioner. "I know it, monsieur; and I wished to spare you the trouble. My hair is on the table." Sanson followed the direction of the Queen's hand. "Only," said she, "I wish these curls sent to my children, to-night."

"Madame," said Sanson, "this does not concern me."

"However, I thought… notwithstanding…"

"Oh! I get nothing," replied the executioner; "the clothes, the jewels, unless formally made over to me, all go to La Salpetriere, and are allotted to the poor of the hospital. The Committee of Public Safety arrange these things."

"But, monsieur," persisted Marie Antoinette, "may I at least depend upon this packet being forwarded to my children-" Sanson remained silent. "I will endeavour to do so," said Gilbert.

The prisoner cast upon him a look of deep gratitude. "I came," said Sanson, "to cut off your hair; but since you have done so, I can, if you wish it, leave you for a short period alone."

"I entreat you to do so, monsieur. I wish to collect my scattered thoughts, and offer up a prayer." Sanson bowed, and retired, when the Queen once more found herself in solitude. Whilst the condemned threw herself upon her knees before a low chair which served her as a prie-Dieu, a scene no less terrible was passing in the parsonage of the small church Saint Laudry, in the city. The cure' was dressing, the old housekeeper had prepared the humble morning meal, when a loud summons at the gate was heard. Even in our day, an unexpected visit is in general the precursor of some event, either a baptism, a marriage, "in extremis," or a confession: but at this epoch the visit of a stranger would announce some matter of far graver import. Indeed, at this period the priest was no longer the mandatory of God, but rendered his account to man. However, the Abbe Giraud was of the number of those who had least cause for fear, as he had taken an oath to the Constitution-in him conscience and probity had spoken louder than amour-propre or religious spirit. No doubt the Abbe Giraud admitted the possibility of a proficiency in the government, and much regretted the abuses committed under the name of the Divine will, and had, while retaining his God, accepted the fraternity of the Republican regime. "Go and see, Dame Jacinthe," said he, "who disturbs us at this early hour, and if the business is of no very pressing nature, say that this morning I have been sent for to the Conciergerie, and must go there directly." Dame Jacinthe, otherwise called Madeline, had accepted this flowery appellation in lieu of her own, as the Cure Giraud had taken the title of citizen instead of that of abbe. At the suggestion of her master, Jacinthe hastened down the steps to the little garden leading to the entrance gate. She drew back the bolts, when a thin pale young man, much agitated, but with a frank and sweet expression, presented himself before her. "Monsieur 1'Abbe Giraud-" said he.

Jacinthe, not slow to remark the disordered dress, the neglected beard, and the nervous tremor of the new comer, augured unfavourably of him. "Citizen," said she, "there is here neither monsieur nor abbe."

"Pardon me, madame," replied the young man, "I meant to say the Cure of St. Laudry." Jacinthe, notwithstanding her patriotism, was struck by the word "madame," with which they ought only have addressed an empress. She, however, replied- "You cannot see him now; he is repeating his breviary."

"In that case, I will wait," replied the young man. "But," said Jacinthe, in whom this obstinate persistence revived the first unfavourable impression, "you will wait in vain, for he is summoned to the Conciergerie, and must go there immediately." The young man turned frightfully pale, or rather from pale to livid. "It is, then, true," murmured he; then, raising his voice, "This, madame, is the subject which brings me to the Abbe Giraud." And in spite of the old woman, he had, whilst speaking, effected an entrance; then coolly but firmly drawing the bolts, and notwithstanding the expostulations and even menaces of Dame Jacinthe, he not only entered the house, but also the chamber of the cure, who on perceiving him uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Forgive me, Monsieur le Cure," immediately said the young man, "I wish to speak to you on a very serious subject; permit us to be alone." The aged priest had experienced deep sorrow, and knew what it was to endure. He discerned deep and devouring passion in the confusion of the young man, and intense emotion in his fevered tones. "Leave us, Dame Jacinthe," said he.

The visitor impatiently followed with his eyes the receding steps of the housekeeper, who, from being accustomed to the confidence of her master, hesitated to comply; then when at length the door was closed, "Monsieur le Cure," said the unknown, "you will first wish to know who I am. I will tell you. I am a proscribed man, doomed to death, who only at this moment lives from the power of audacity; I am the Chevalier de Maison Rouge." The abbe started in horror from his armchair. "Fear nothing!" said the Chevalier, "no one has seen me enter here, and those who even might see me would never know me. I have altered much these last two months."

"But what do you wish, citizen-" asked the cure. "You are going this morning to the Conciergerie, is it not so-"

"Yes, the Concierge has sent for me."

"Do you know why-"

"To an invalid, or some dying person, perhaps even to one condemned."

"You are right; it is to one condemned." The old priest regarded the Chevalier with astonishment. "But do you know who this person is-" demanded Maison Rouge. "No; I do not know."

"This person is the Queen." The abbe uttered an exclamation of grief. "The Queen! oh! my God!"

"Yes, monsieur, the Queen. I made inquiry as to the priest who would attend her, and learned it was you. I therefore came directly to seek an interview."

"But what do you require of me-" asked the cure, alarmed at the wild accents of the Chevalier. "I wish-I wish nothing, monsieur. I implore, I entreat, I supplicate you.". "For what, then-"

"To allow me to enter with you into the presence of her Majesty-"

"You are mad," said the cure; "you would not only ruin me, but would sacrifice yourself."

"Fear nothing."

"The poor woman is condemned, and that is the end of her,"

"I know it, and it is not to make any attempt to save her that I wish to see her, it is… but listen to me, my father, you are not listening."

"I do not listen to you, since what you ask is impossible; I do not listen to you, since you act like a man bereft of his senses," said the aged man. "I do not listen to you, because you terrify me."

"My father, reassure yourself," said the young man, endeavouring to calm himself; "believe me, my father, I am in my senses. The Queen, I know, is lost; but if I could only for an instant prostrate myself at her feet, it would save my life. If I do not see her, I will kill myself, and as you will have caused my despair, you will, at the same moment, destroy both body and soul."

"My son! my son!" replied the priest, "you ask me to sacrifice my life for you. Old as I am, my existence is still necessary to the unfortunate; old as I am, to precipitate my own death, is to commit an act of suicide."

"Do not refuse me, my father," replied the Chevalier; "you must have a curate, an acolothist; take me, let me go with you." The priest tried to maintain his firmness, which was gradually giving way. "No, no," said he; "this would be a defalcation from duty; I have sworn to the Constitution, and I am bound heart, soul, and conscience. The unhappy woman condemned to death is a guilty Queen; I would accept death if by so doing I could benefit a fellow creature, but I will not depart from the path of duty."

"But," cried the Chevalier, "when I have told you, and again repeat, even swear to you, I do not want to save the Queen; here by the Evangelist, by the crucifix I swear I do not go to the Conciergerie to prevent her death."

"What is your motive, then-" said the old man, affected by his undisguised accents of despair. "Hearken," said the Chevalier, whose soul seemed to speak from his lips; "she was my benefactress, she is attached to me, to see me for the last time will afford her happiness, and will, I am certain, prove a consolation to her."

"And this is all that you desire-" demanded the cure, yielding to these irresistible accents. "Absolutely all."

"And you have woven no plot to attempt to rescue the condemned-"

"None. I am a Christian, my father; and if there rests in my heart a shadow of deceit; if, as I hope to live, I deal falsely in this, may God visit me with eternal damnation."

"No, no," said the cure; "I can promise nothing," as the innumerable dangers attendant on an act so imprudent returned to his mind. "Now listen to me, my father," said the Chevalier, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "I have spoken like a submissive child, I have not uttered one bitter word or uncharitable sentiment, no menace has escaped my lips; yet now my head whirls, fever burns in my veins, now despair rushes into my heart; now I am armed: behold! here is my dagger." And the young man drew from his bosom a polished blade which threw a livid reflection on his trembling hand. The cure drew back quickly. "Fear nothing," said the Chevalier, with a mournful smile; "others knowing you to be so strict an observer of your word, would have terrified you into an oath. But no' I have supplicated, and I still continue to supplicate, with hands clasped, my forehead in the dust, that I may see her for a single moment. Look! here is your guarantee." And he drew from his pocket a billet, which he presented to Giraud, who opened it, and read as follows:- "I, Rene, Chevalier de Maison Rouge, declare by God and my honour, that I have by threats of death compelled the worthy cure of Saint Laudry to carry me to the Conciergerie, notwithstanding his refusal and great repugnance to do so. In proof of which I have signed- "MAISON ROUGE."

"It is well," said the priest; "but swear to me once again that you will be guilty of no imprudence; it is not sufficient that my life is saved, I am answerable also for yours."

"Think not of that," said the Chevalier. "Then you consent-"

"I must, since you so absolutely insist. You can wait outside, and when she comes to the wicket, you will see her." The Chevalier seized the hand of the old priest, and kissed it with all the ardour and respect he would the crucifix. "Oh!" murmured the Chevalier: "she shall die at least like a Queen, and the hand of the executioner shall never touch her."

CHAPTER XLVIII. THE CART.

IMMEDIATELY after having obtained this permission from the cure of Saint Laudry, Maison Rouge withdrew into a cabinet, the door of which being half opened, he had recognised as the priest's dressing-room. There his long beard and mustachios speedily disappeared under the stroke of the razor; and then only he was fully aware of his frightful pallor and altered appearance. It was terrible to behold. He re-entered perfectly calm, and seemed to have forgotten that notwithstanding the absence of his beard and mustachios, he might still probably be known at the Conciergerie. He followed the abbe, whom, during his momentary absence, two officials were seeking; and with the cool audacity which casts aside suspicion, entered the iron gate at this time opening into the court of the palace. He was, like the Abbe Giraud, dressed in black, sacerdotal habits at that period being abolished. In the register they found about fifty persons assembled; some employed about the prison, some deputies, some commissaries, all waiting in the expectation of seeing the Queen pass; there might be some mandatories, and many idlers. His heart bounded so violently on finding himself opposite the wicket, that he heard not even the parley that ensued between the abbe, the gendarmes, and the Concierge. Only a man with a pair of scissors in his hand, and a piece of stuff newly cut, pushed against Maison Rouge upon the threshold. He turned round and recognised the executioner. "What do you want, citizen-" demanded Sanson.

The Chevalier endeavoured to repress the shudder which, in spite of himself, ran through his veins. "You see, Citizen Sanson," replied the Chevalier, "that I accompany the cure of Saint Laudry."

"Oh! very well," said the executioner, drawing himself on one side, and issuing orders to his assistant.

During this time Maison Rouge had passed into the interior of the register, and from there into the compartment inhabited by the two gendarmes. These men were overcome by contending emotions. Proud and haughty as she had been to others, how sweet and condescending see had ever been to them! They seemed more like her servants than her guards. In his present position the Chevalier could not obtain a view of the Queen-the screen was closed! It had opened to give entrance to the cure, but directly closed behind him. When the Chevalier entered, the conversation had already commenced. "Monsieur," said the Queen, in a clear and firm voice, "since you have sworn yourself to the Republic-to those who have condemned me to death-I have no confidence in you. We do not worship the same God!"

"Madame," said Giraud, struck by this profession of faith so unworthy of her, "a Christian about to die should dismiss all hatred from her heart, and ought not to repulse her God, under whatever form he may be presented to her." Maison Rouge advanced a step to open the screen, hoping that when she saw him, and knew what brought him, she would change her opinion in regard to the cure; but the gendarmes detected the movement. "But," said Maison Rouge, "I am acolothist to the cure!"

"Then, since she refuses the cure," said Duchesne, "she does not require you."

"But still, perhaps, she may accept me," said he, raising his voice; "it is impossible she would refuse me." But Marie Antoinette was too much engrossed by the sentiment which agitated her either to hear or recognise the Chevalier's voice. "Go, monsieur," continued she; "leave me," addressing Giraud, "since at this time we in France live under the regime of liberty, I claim the right to die according to my own fashion." Giraud offered some resistance. "Leave me, monsieur," said she. "I desire you to leave me." Giraud endeavoured to speak. "I will not hear you," said she; "leave me!" with the gesture of Marie Therese.

Giraud went out.

Maison Rouge essayed to gain a glimpse of her through the opening in the screen, but the prisoner had turned her back. The executioner's assistant crossed before the cure; he came in holding a cord in his hand. The two gendarmes pushed the Chevalier towards the door; before, amazed, despairing, and utterly bewildered, he had been able to utter a cry, or make the slightest movement to effect his purpose, he found himself, with the cure, in the corridor of the turnkey. This corridor brought them again into the register, where the news of the Queen's refusal had already circulated, where the Austrian pride of Marie Antoinette was to some the pretext of the coarsest invectives, and to others the subject of secret admiration. "Go," said Richard, to the abbe, "return home, since she repulses you, and let her die as she likes."

"She is in the right," said Richard's wife, "and I would act the same."

"Then you would do wrong, citoyenne," said the cure. "Be silent," said the concierge, opening his eyes very wide; "what does this concern you- Go, abbe, go!"

"No," said Giraud, "no; I will, notwithstanding all, accompany her; one word, only one word, if she will listen, might bring her back to duty; besides, I am sent by the order of the Commune, and I must discharge my office."

"Send back your sexton, then," brutally observed the adjutant-major, commandant of the armed forces. He had been formerly an actor of French comedy, named Grammont. The eyes of the Chevalier flashed lightning, as he thrust his hand into his breast, where Giraud knew he had concealed a poniard. He arrested him with a suppliant look. "Spare my life," said he, in a low voice; "you see all your hopes are lost, do not ruin hers. I will mention you on the route; I swear to you I will tell her you risked your life that you might see her once more on earth." These words calmed the effervescence of the young man, and the ordinary reaction taking place, he sank into a state of quiescence. This man of heroic mind, of marvellous power, had arrived at the termination of both strength and will, and glided irresolute, or rather exhausted and vanquished, into a state of torpor that might have been imagined to be the precursor of death. "Yes, I believe," said he, "it should be thus; the cross for Jesus, the scaffold for her, Gods and Kings drink deep of the chalice presented to them by men." This thought produced resignation, and now, totally prostrated, he allowed himself to be pushed without offering any resistance, except an occasional involuntary groan, to the outer gate, passive as Ophelia when, devoted to death, she found herself borne away by the remorseless waves.

At the foot of the gate, and at the doors of the Conciergerie, a crowd was assembled, which, unless once seen, it was impossible to describe. Impatience rules every passion, and each passion speaks its own language, and these combined formed an immense and prolonged uproar, as if the whole noise and the entire population of Paris were on this occasion concentrated in the quarter of the Palais de Justice. In front of this crowd the whole army was encamped, with guns intended to guard the procession, and also to secure the enjoyment to those who came to witness the last act of the tragedy.

It would have been vain to attempt to pierce this profound rampart, increasing gradually, since the condemnation of the Queen was now known not only at Paris, but by the patriots of the Faubourgs, Maison Rouge, expelled from the Conciergerie, naturally found himself in the first rank among the soldiers, who instantly demanded who he was. He replied, "he was the curate of the Abbe Giraud, but having bound himself by the same oath, he, like the cure, had been dismissed, and refused by the Queen," on which the soldiers, in their turn, pushed him into the first row of spectators, where he was again compelled to repeat what he had previously told them.

Then the cry arose, "He has just left."

"He has seen her."

"What did she say-"

"What did she do-"

"Is she as haughty as usual-"

"Is she cast down-"

"Does she weep-" The Chevalier replied to all these questions in a feeble but sweet and affable tone, as if his voice was the last manifestation of life suspended on his lips. His answer was couched in the language of truth and simplicity. It contained an eulogium of the firmness of Marie Antoinette, and that which he recounted with the sublimity and faith of an evangelist cast sorrow and remorse over many hearts.

When he spoke of the little Dauphin, and of Madame Royale; of this Queen without a throne; of this wife without a husband; this mother bereft of her children; this woman alone, and abandoned, without a friend, surrounded by executioners, more than one face here and there assumed a sad expression, and more than one tear of regret was clandestinely wiped from eyes previously animated by hatred. The palace clock struck eleven. All murmuring at this moment ceased. One hundred thousand human beings counted these strokes, echoed by the pulsations of their own hearts. When the last vibration had ceased and died away in the distance, a loud noise was heard within the gates, and, at the same time, a cart advancing from the side of the Quai aux Fleurs broke through the crowd, then the guards, and drew up at the bottom of the steps. The Queen soon appeared on the top of the staircase; she made a motion of astonishment and horror, her respiration was laborious and slow; her hair was cut short, the greater portion had turned gray during her captivity, and this shade of silver rendered still more delicate the mother-of-pearl pallor which at this moment lent an almost angelic beauty to this daughter of the Caesars. She was attired in a white robe, her hands were fastened at her back. When she appeared with the Abbe Giraud on her right, who, notwithstanding all opposition, would still accompany her, and the executioner on her left, both dressed in black, there ran throughout the crowd a murmur, that God alone, who reads all hearts, could comprehend and sum up the truth. A man passed between the executioner and Marie Antoinette; it was Grammont. He conducted her to the fatal car. The Queen recoiled. "Mount!" said Grammont. This word was distinctly heard by all. Emotion held every breath suspended on the lips of the spectators. A blush suffused the face of the Queen, mounting even to the roots of her hair, but immediately receded, leaving her face a ghastly paleness, and blanching her half-open lips. "Why a car for me," said she, "when the King had a carriage to convey him to the scaffold-" The Abbe Giraud advanced, and addressed a few words to her in a low tone; doubtless he condemned this last cry of royal pride. The Queen remained silent, but tottered so much, that Sanson held out his arms to support her; but she recovered her self-possession before he could touch her. She then descended the staircase, whilst the assistants placed a foot-board behind the car. The Queen went first, the abbe followed her. When the car was in motion it caused a great movement in the assemblage; and the soldiers, at the same time, ignorant of its cause, united their efforts to push back the crowd, and consequently a large space was cleared between the people and the vehicle of death, when suddenly a mournful howling was heard. The Queen started, and instantly rose, looking around her. She then saw her little dog, which had been lost for two months, who unable to follow her into the Conciergerie, regardless of kicks, blows, and thrusts, rushed towards the car; but almost directly poor Jet, thin even to emaciation, starving and bruised, disappeared under the horses' feet. The Queen followed him with her eyes; she could not speak, for her voice was drowned in the noise; she could not raise her hands, for they were tied; and had she been able to do either, who would have listened to her- Having closed her eyes for an instant, she soon revived. He was in the arms of a pale young man, who, standing on a cannon, was conspicuous above the crowd, and prompted by an inexplicable impulse, pointed towards heaven. Marie Antoinette looked upwards and smiled sweetly.

The Chevalier uttered a groan, as if this smile had broken his heart; and as the fatal car turned towards the Pont-au-Change, he fell back amongst the crowd, and disappeared.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE SCAFFOLD.

UPON LA PLACE DE LA REVOLUTION, leaning against a lamp-post, two men were waiting. Of those who followed with the crowd, some were carried to La Place du Palais, others to La Place de la Revolution, whilst the rest spread, impatient and tumultuous, over the whole road separating the two places. When the Queen reached the instrument of punishment, which, defaced by the sun and storm, worn by the hand of the executioner, and, most horrible, blunted by too frequent contact with its victims, it reared its head with a sinister pride over the subjacent mass, like a queen ruling her people. The two men, arm-in-arm, and speaking by fits and starts, with pale lips and contracted brows, were Louis and Maurice. Lost in the crowd, but not in a way calculated to excite suspicion, they continued in a low tone their conversation, which was perhaps not the least interesting one circulating amongst the various groups, which, like an electric chain, agitated this living sea from the Pont-au-Change to the Pont de la Revolution. "See," said Maurice, as the hideous monster reared her red arms; "might it not be said that she calls us, and smiles from her wicket, in anticipation of a frightful mouthful-"

"I," said Louis, "must confess I do not belong to the school of poetry which sees everything couleur de rouge. I see it en rose, and even at the foot of this dreadful machine I will sing and hope still. 'Dum spiro spero.'"

"You hope, when they murder women-"

"Maurice," said Louis, "child of the Revolution, do not deny your mother. Ah! Maurice, remain a staunch and loyal patriot. She who is condemned to die is unlike all other women, she is the evil genius of France."

"Oh! it is not her that I regret; it is not for her I weep!" cried Maurice. "Yes, I understand, it is Genevieve."

"Ah!" said Maurice, "there is one thought that drives me mad. It is that Genevieve is in the hands of those purveyors to the guillotine, Hebert and Fouquier Tinville, in the hands of the men who sent here the poor Heloise, and are now sending the proud Mane Antoinette."

"Well!" said Louis, "it is this thought that inspires me with hope. When the anger of the people has feasted two tyrants it will be for some time satiated at least, like the boa constrictor, who requires three months to digest what he has devoured. Then it will swallow no more; and, as it is said by the prophets of the Faubourg, 'the lesser morsels will have no cause for fear.'"

"Louis! Louis!" said Maurice, "I am more positive than you, and I say it in a whisper, but am ready to repeat it aloud, Louis, I hate the new Queen, who seems destined to succeed the Austrian whom she destroys. It is a sad queen whose purple is daily dyed in blood, and to whom Sanson is prime minister."

"Bah! we shall escape."

"I do not believe it," said Maurice, shaking his head, "to avoid being arrested at your house we have no resource but to live in the street."

"Bah! we can quit Paris; there is nothing to prevent us. We need not complain then. My uncle will await us at St. Omer; money, passport, nothing will be wanting. There exists not the gendarme who shall arrest us; what do you think- We remain in Paris because we choose to do so."-"No, that is not correct, excellent friend, devoted and faithful as you are. You remain because I wish to continue here."

"And you wish to remain to discover Genevieve. Well! nothing is more simple, just, or natural. You think she is in prison; nothing more probable. You wish to keep watch over her, and on that account we cannot quit Paris." Maurice drew a deep sigh; it was evident his thoughts were wandering. "Do you remember the death of Louis XVI-" said he. "I can see him yet, pale with pride and emotion. I was then one of the chiefs in this crowd, where I conceal myself to-day. I was greater at the foot of the scaffold than the King upon it had ever been. What changes, Louis! and when one thinks that nine short months have sufficed to work this change."

"Nine months of love, Maurice!… Love lost Troy!" Maurice sighed; his wandering thoughts now took another direction. "Poor Maison Rouge," said he; "it is a sad thing for him!'' "Helas!" said Louis, "shall I tell you what appears to me the most melancholy thing about the revolution-"

"Yes," said Maurice. "It is that one often has for friends those we should prefer as enemies, and for enemies those we would wish…"

"It gives me much pain to think of one thing," interrupted Maurice. "What-"

"It is that he did not invent some project to save the Queen. He must be mad!"

"A man with the strength of ten thousand."

"I tell you he was mad. I know that to save Genevieve…" Louis frowned. "I again tell you, Maurice," said he, "you are wild. No; even were it possible for you to save Genevieve, you would only become a bad citizen. But enough of this. Maurice, let us listen. Look how the heads undulate; see, there is Sanson's valet raising himself from under the basket, and looking in the distance. The Austrian arrives." In short, as if to accompany this movement which Louis had remarked, a shuddering, prolonged and unceasing, pervaded the crowd. It was one of those hurricanes which commence with a whistle and terminate with a bellow. Maurice raised himself by the help of the lamp-post, and looked towards la Rue Saint Honore. "Yes," said he, shuddering, "there it is." And another machine now made its appearance, almost as revolting as the guillotine. It was the fatal car. On the right and left glittered the arms of the escort, while in front marched Grammont, replying with flashes of his sabre to the shouts and cries of some fanatics. But even as the cart advanced these cries subsided under the haughty courage of the condemned. Never had a countenance commanded more respect, never had Marie Antoinette looked more the Queen. Her proud courage inspired her assistants with terror. Indifferent to the exhortations of the Abbe Giraud, who still accompanied her, her face moved neither to the right nor left; her deep thought was as immutable as her look; even the jolting motion of the cart upon the uneven pavement did not by its violence disturb the rigidity of her features; she might have been taken for a royal statue riding in the car, had it not been for her brilliant eyes, and her hair, which had escaped from her cap, being waved about by the wind. A silence equal to that of the desert fell suddenly upon those three hundred thousand spectators of this scene, witnessed by the heavens for the first time by the light of the sun. On the right, where Maurice and Louis were standing, the wheels of the cart were heard, and the breathing of the horse. The car stopped at the foot of the scaffold. The Queen, who doubtless was not conscious at the moment, awoke, and understood it all; she threw a haughty glance upon the crowd, and again encountered the restless eyes of the pale young man she had previously seen standing on the cannon. He was now mounted on a stone, and repeated the respectful salutation he had before offered her as she left the Conciergerie. He then disappeared. Many persons seeing him, it was soon reported, from his being dressed in black, that a priest was in attendance on Marie Antoinette, to give her absolution ere she ascended the scaffold. As to the rest, no one disturbed the Chevalier. There is in the highest moments a supreme respect for certain things. The Queen cautiously descended the steps from the car, supported by Sanson, who to the last moment, in accomplishing the task to which he himself appeared to be condemned, treated her with the most marked respect.

As the Queen walked towards the steps of the scaffold some of the horses reared, and several of the foot guards and soldiers appeared to oscillate and lose their equilibrium; then a shadow was seen to glide under the scaffold, but tranquillity was almost instantaneously re-established, since no one was willing to quit his place at this solemn moment-no one was willing to lose the minutest detail in the dreadful tragedy about to be accomplished. All eyes were directed towards the condemned. The Queen was already on the platform of the scaffold. The priest still continued to address her; an assistant softly placed himself behind her, while another removed the handkerchief from her shoulders. Marie Antoinette felt the touch of the infamous hand upon her neck, and making a brusque movement trod upon Sanson's foot, who, without her having seen him, was engaged in fixing the fatal plank. Sanson drew back. "Excuse me, Monsieur," said the Queen; "I did not do it intentionally." These were the last words pronounced by the daughter of the Caesars, the Queen of France, the widow of Louis XVI.

As the clock of the Tuileries struck a quarter after twelve, the Queen was launched into eternity. A terrible cry-a shout comprising at once joy, terror, sorrow, triumph, expiation-rose like a storm, smothering in its birth a feeble burst of lamentation which issued from beneath the scaffold. The gendarmes heard it notwithstanding, feeble as it was, and advanced some steps in front. The crowd, now less compact, expanded like a river whose dike has been enlarged, threw down the fence, dispersed the guards, and rushed like the returning tide to beat the foot of the scaffold, which was already shaking. Each one wished for a nearer view of the royal remains of her whom they had considered the destruction of France. But the gendarmes had another object in view-they sought the shadow which had repassed their lines, and glided beneath the scaffold. Two of them returned leading between them by the collar a pale young man, whose hand contained a blood-stained handkerchief, which he pressed to his heart; he was followed by a little spaniel howling piteously. "Death to the aristocrat! death to the ci-devant!" cried some men of the people; "he has dipped his handkerchief in the Austrian's blood-to death with him!"

"Great God," said Maurice to Louis, "do you recognise him- do you recognise him-"

"Death to the royalist!" repeated these madmen; "take away the handkerchief he wishes to preserve as a relic, wrest it from him, tear it from him." A haughty smile flitted across the young man's lips, he tore open his shirt, bared his breast, and dropped the handkerchief. "Gentlemen," said he, "this blood is not the Queen's but my own. Let me die in peace." And a deep gushing wound appeared widely gaping under the left breast. The crowd uttered one cry and retired. The young man sank slowly upon his knees, and gazed upon the scaffold as a martyr looks upon the altar. "Maison Rouge," whispered Louis to Maurice. "Adieu!" murmured the young man, bowing his head with an angelic smile, "adieu! or rather, au revoir!" and he expired in the midst of the stupefied guards. "There is still this expedient, Louis," said Maurice, "before becoming an unworthy citizen." The little spaniel turned towards the corpse, terrified and howling lamentably. "Why, here is Jet," said a man, holding a large club in his hand,-" why, here is Jet; come here, old fellow." The dog advanced towards him, but was scarcely within arm's length of the man who had called him, when the brutal wretch raised his club and dashed out his brains, at the same time bursting into a hoarse laugh. "Cowardly wretch!" cried Maurice. "Silence!" said Louis, "or we are lost. It is Simon."

CHAPTER L. THE VISIT TO THE DOMICILE.

LOUIS AND MAURICE returned to their mutual home, but the latter, in order not to compromise his friend too openly, usually absented himself during the day, and returned at night. In the midst of these events, being present always at the removal of the prisoners to the Conciergerie, he watched daily for the sight of Genevieve, not having been yet able to discover her place of imprisonment. Louis, since his visit to Fouquier Tinville, had succeeded in convincing him that on the first ostensible act he was lost, and would then have sacrificed himself without having benefited Genevieve, and Maurice, who would willingly have thrown himself into prison in the hope of being united to his mistress, became prudent from the fear of being separated from her for ever. He went every morning to the Carmelites at Port Libre, the Madelonnettes at St. Lazare, from La Force to the Luxembourg; he stationed himself before these prisons to watch the cars as they came out to convey the accused to the revolutionary tribunal. Then, when he had scanned the victims, he proceeded to the other prisons to prosecute this hopeless search, as he soon became aware that the activity of ten men would prove inadequate to keep watch over the thirty-three prisons which Paris could boast of at this period. He therefore contented himself by going daily to the tribunal, there to await the coming of Genevieve. He was already beginning to despair. Indeed, what resource; remained to a person condemned, after their arrest- Sometimes the tribunal, whose sittings commenced at ten o'clock, had condemned twenty or thirty people by four o'clock: those first condemned, had six hours to live, but the last, sentenced at a quarter to four, fell at half-past beneath the axe. To resign Genevieve to submit to a similar fate, would be ceasing to fight then against destiny. Oh! if he had known beforehand of the imprisonment of Genevieve, how Maurice would have tracked the blind human justice of this epoch; how easily and promptly he had torn Genevieve from prison! Never were escapes more easy, and it may be said never were they so rare. All the nobles once placed in prison, installed themselves as in a chateau, and died at leisure. To fly was to withdraw from the consequences of a duel; the women even blushed at liberty acquired at this price.

But Maurice would not have shown himself so scrupulous. To kill the dogs, to alter the door keys, what more simple- Genevieve was not one of those splendid names calculated to attract general attention… She would not dishonour herself by flying, and besides… when could she be disgraced! Oh! as he bitterly called to mind the gardens of Port Libre, so easy to scale, the chambers of Madelonnettes, so easy of access to the street, the low walls of the Luxembourg, and the dark corridors of the Carmelites, where a resolute man could so easily penetrate by opening a window.

But was Genevieve in one of these prisons- Then devoured by doubt, and worn out with anxiety, he loaded Dixmer with imprecations, he threatened, and nourished his hatred against this man, whose cowardly vengeance concealed itself under an apparent devotion to the royal cause. "I will find him out thus," thought Maurice, "if he wishes to save the unhappy woman, he will show himself; if he wishes to ruin her, he will insult her… I will find him out, the scoundrel, and it will be an evil day for him!" On the morning of the day, when the events occurred which we are about to relate, Maurice went out early to take his usual station at the revolutionary tribunal, leaving Louis asleep.

He was suddenly awakened by a loud noise at the door, the voices of women, and the butt-ends of guns. He threw around him the startled glance of a surprised man, who wished to convince himself that nothing that could compromise him was in view. Four sectionaries, two gendarmes, and a commissary entered at the same moment. This visit was sufficiently significant, and Louis hastened to dress himself. "Do you come to arrest me-" said he. "Yes, Citizen Louis."

"What for-"

"Because you are suspected."

"Ah! all right." The commissary muttered some words in a low tone, about arrest by proces-verbal. "Where is your friend-" said he immediately. "What friend-"

"The Citizen Maurice Lindey."

"At home, probably."

"No; he lodges here."

"He! go along! Search, and if you find… "

"Here is the denunciation," said the commissary, "it is plain enough;" offering Louis a paper with vile writing and enigmatical orthography.

It stated that every morning the Citizen Lindey was seen going out of the Citizen Louis's house, suspected, and ordered for arrest. The denunciation was signed "Simon."

"Why, the cobbler will lose his practice if he follows two trades at the same time-a spy and boot-mender. He is a Caesar, this Monsieur Simon," and he burst into a fit of laughter. "The Citizen Maurice, where is the Citizen Maurice-" said the commissary. "We summon you to deliver him up."

"When I tell you he is not here!" The commissary passed into the chamber adjoining, then ascended to the loft where Louis's official slept, and at last opened a lower apartment, but found no trace of Maurice. But upon the dining-room table a recently written letter attracted the attention of the commissary. It was from Maurice, who had deposited it there on leaving in the morning (as they slept together) without awakening his friend. "I go to the tribunal," said Maurice; "take breakfast without me. I shall not return till night."

"Citizens," said Louis, "however anxious I may feel to obey your commands, I cannot follow you en chemise. Allow my official to assist me."

"Aristocrat," said a voice, "do you require assistance to put on your breeches-"

"Ah! mon Dieu! yes," said Louis; "I resemble the Citizen Dagobert,-mind, I did not say king."

"Well, dress," said the commissary, "but make haste." The official came down to help his master to dress. However, it was not exactly that Louis required a valet de chambre, it was that nothing might escape the notice of the official, and that consequently he might detail everything to Maurice. "Now, messieurs,-pardon, citizens. Now, citizens, I am ready, and will follow you; but permit me, I beg, to carry with me the last volume of Lettres a Emile, by Monsieur Demonstier, which has just appeared, and I have not read. It will enliven the hours of my captivity."

"Your captivity," said Simon, sharply, now become municipal in his turn, and entering, followed by four sectionaries, "that will not last long. You figure in the proces of the woman who wanted to assist the Austrian to escape. They try her to-day, and to-morrow your turn will come."

"Cobbler," said Louis, "you cut your soles too quickly."

"Yes; but what a nice stroke from the leather-cutting knife!" replied Simon; "you will see, you will see, my fine grenadier." Louis shrugged his shoulders. "Well," said he, "let us go; I am waiting for you." As each one turned round to descend the staircase Louis bestowed on the municipal Simon so vigorous a kick with his foot that he sent him rolling and howling down the entire flight of stairs. The sectionaries could not restrain their laughter. Louis put his hands in his pockets. "In the exercise of my functions," said Simon, livid with rage. "Pardieu!" said Louis, "are we not all here in the exercise of our functions-" He got into the carriage, and was conducted by the commissary to the Palais de Justice.

CHAPTER LI. LOUIS.

IF FOR THE SECOND time the reader is willing to follow us to the revolutionary tribunal, we shall find Maurice in the same place where we have already seen him, only now infinitely more pale and agitated. At the moment our scene again opens upon the lugubrious theatre, whither we are led by a tissue of events rather than by our own inclinations, the jury were deliberating, a cause had just been tried: two of the accused had already, by one of those insolent precautions by which they ridiculed the judges, attired themselves for the scaffold, and were conversing with their counsel, whose words somewhat resembled those of a physician who despairs of the life of his patient. The people of the tribune were this day in a ferocious mood, calculated to excite the severity of the jury placed under the immediate surveillance of the tricoteuses and inhabitants of the suburbs. The juries under these circumstances became more excited and energetic, resembling an actor who redoubles his efforts beneath the eyes of a censorious public. Since ten in the morning five condemnations had already taken place under the decisions of these harsh and insatiable juries. The two individuals who now found themselves on the bench of the accused awaited the decisive moment, when "yes" or "no" would return them to life or doom them to death. The people of the nation, rendered savage by the daily occurrence of these spectacles, now become their favourite pastime, prepared themselves by exclamations and anticipations for the awful moment. "There! there! look at the tall one," said a tricoteuse, who, not having a bonnet, wore a tricoloured cockade, large as a hand, on her breast,-"there! is he not pale- they say he is almost dead now." The condemned regarded the woman with a contemptuous smile. "What do you say-" said her neighbour; "why, he is smiling."

"Yes, the wrong side of his mouth." One of the men looked at his watch. "What is the time-" inquired his companion. "A quarter to one. This has lasted three-quarters of an hour."

"The same as at Dagobert, that unfortunate town, where you arrive at noon, and are hung in an hour."

"And the short one! the short one!" cried another person, "will he not be ugly when he sneezes in the sack-"

"Bah! it is done so quickly, you will barely have time to perceive it."

"Then we will demand the head from Sanson; one has a right to see it."

"Look, what a beautiful blue coat he has on, the tyrant. It is rather a pleasant thing that the poor can shorten the rich and well-dressed people." Indeed, as the executioner had told the Queen, the poor inherited the spoils of each victim; they were carried immediately to the Salpetriere, after the execution, and distributed among the indigent; and there even the clothes of the unfortunate Queen had been conveyed.

Maurice heard this whirlwind of words without paying any attention; every moment was occupied by one engrossing thought, to the exclusion of all else. For several days his heart beat only at certain moments, and by fits and starts, as from time to time hope or fear appeared to suspend all vital action, and these perpetual oscillations to bruise the most tender sensibilities of his soul.

The jury returned to their places, and as had been fully anticipated, the President pronounced the condemnation of the two accused, who were directly removed, walking with a firm and erect step; for at this epoch every one learnt how to die boldly.

The solemn and sinister voice of the usher was again heard. "Citizen, the public accuser against the Citoyenne Genevieve Dixmer." A shudder ran through Maurice's frame, and a cold sweat bedewed his brow. The little door by which the accused entered suddenly opened, and Genevieve appeared. She was dressed in white; her ringlets were tastefully arranged, instead of being cut short, hanging in long masses of clustering curls. Doubtless, at the last Genevieve wishes to create a favourable impression on those who would see her.

Maurice beheld Genevieve, and felt that all the strength he had collected was inadequate to this occasion, notwithstanding he had awaited this blow, since for twelve days he had not omitted a single sitting, and three times already had the name of Genevieve proceeded from the mouth of the public accuser, and reached his ear: but there are certain griefs and miseries so profound that it is quite impossible to sound the depths of the abyss.

All those who witnessed the appearance of this young female, so lovely, so pale and innocent, uttered a simultaneous cry: some of fury-for at this period there existed a class of people who detested everything bordering on superiority of beauty, riches, and even of birth-others of admiration, and some of pity. Genevieve, doubtless, amongst all these cries, had recognised one cry, amidst all these voices had distinguished one voice, for she turned in the direction of Maurice, whilst the President, looking up from time to time, turned over the law papers of the accused.

At the first glance she discovered Maurice, concealed as his features were under the broad brim of a large hat which he wore; and, turning round with a sweet smile, and a gesture still more engaging, she pressed her rosy but trembling hands upon her lips, and depositing her whole soul with her breath, she gave wings to a last kiss, which only one in this vast crowd had the right to appropriate to himself. A murmur of interest ran through the hall. Genevieve recalled, turned towards her judges, but stopping suddenly in the midst of this movement, her eyes dilated, and fixed with an indefinable expression of horror towards one point of the hall. Maurice in vain raised himself on his toes; he saw nothing, or rather something of more consequence claimed his attention upon this scene-that is to say, the tribunal.

Fouquier Tinville had commenced reading the act of accusation. This act stated that Genevieve Dixmer was the wife of an obstinate conspirator, suspected of having assisted the ex-Chevalier de Maison Rouge in all his successive attempts to rescue the Queen. She had, besides, been surprised at the feet of the Queen, entreating her to exchange garments with her, and offering to die in her stead. This absurd fanaticism, continued the act, merited, no doubt, the admiration of the centre-revolutionists; but in our day every French citizen owes his life to the nation; it is therefore double treason to sacrifice it to the enemies of France.

Genevieve, when interrogated as to having been recognised on her knees before the Queen, as stated by the two gendarmes, Gilbert and Duchesne, and entreating her to exchange vestments, simply replied, "Yes."

"Then," said the president, "inform us of your plan, and what hope you entertained of its success." Genevieve smiled. "A woman might conceive hopes," said she, "but a woman could not form a plan like this of which I am the victim."

"How came you there, then-"

"Not of my own accord. I was driven to it."

"Who compelled you-" demanded the public accuser. "Those who menaced me with death if I did not obey;" and again the agitated look of the young woman was centred on that part of the hall invisible to Maurice. "But to escape from this death which menaced you, did you face death which must result from your condemnation."

"When I consented, the knife was at my throat, whilst the guillotine was only in perspective. I succumbed under present violence."

"Why did you not call for assistance- all good citizens would have defended you."

"Alas! Monsieur," said Genevieve, in a voice at once so sad and sweet, that caused Maurice's heart to beat tumultuously, "I had no one near me." Commiseration succeeded to interest, as interest had succeeded to curiosity. Many heads were lowered, some to conceal their tears, many to allow them to flow freely. Just then Maurice perceived on his left an immovable head and an inflexible countenance. It was Dixmer, standing dark, gloomy, and implacable, never for a moment losing sight of Genevieve or of the tribunal.

The blood rushed to the young man's temples, rage mounted from his heart to his forehead, filling his whole being with intense desire for vengeance. He flung at Dixmer a look so replete with burning hatred, so condensed and powerful, that he, as if attracted by the electric fluid, turned his head towards his enemy. Their glances encountered like two flashes. "Tell us the names of your instigators," said the president. "There was only one, Monsieur."

"Who-"

"My husband."

"Do you know where he is-"

"Yes."

"Inform us of his retreat-"

"He has been brutal, but I will not be a coward. It is not for me to tell you his retreat, but for you to find him." Maurice looked at Dixmer. He never moved. One idea flitted through the young man's brain. It was to denounce him himself: but he quickly suppressed the thought. "No," said he, "it is not thus that he should die."

"Then you refuse to assist us in our search-" said the president. "I think, Monsieur, I could not do so without rendering myself as contemptible in the eyes of others as he is in mine."

"Are there any witnesses-" demanded the president. "There is one," replied the usher. "Call the witness."

"Maximilien Jean Louis!" shouted the usher. "Louis!" cried Maurice, "oh! mon Dieu! what has happened, then." This scene took place the same day that Louis had been arrested, and Maurice was in utter ignorance of all that had occurred. "Louis!" murmured Genevieve, looking round with anxious solicitude. "Why does not the witness answer to the call-" demanded the president. "Citizen President," said Fouquier Tinville, "upon a recent denunciation the witness was arrested at his own house, he will be here directly." Maurice started. "There is another still more important witness, but we have not yet been able to find him." Dixmer turned towards Maurice smiling. Perhaps the same idea flitted through the mind of the husband which had before entered that of the lover. Genevieve, pale and horror-stricken, uttered a low groan.

At this moment Louis entered followed by two gendarmes. After him, and by the same door, Simon appeared, who came to take his seat in the judgment hall, according to custom in that locality. "Your name and surname-", inquired the president. "Maximilien Jean Louis."

"Your trade-"

"An independent gentleman."

"You will not remain so long," muttered Simon, shaking his fist. "Are you related to the prisoner at the bar-"

"No; but I have the honour of being one of her friends."

"Did you know there was a conspiracy to carry off the Queen-"

"How could I know it-"

"She might have confided in you-"

"In me! a member of the section of the Thermopyles-"

"Notwithstanding, you have sometimes been seen with her."

"That might have been seen often."

"Did you recognise her as an aristocrat-"

"I knew her as the wife of a master tanner."

"But her husband did not in reality follow the business which he pretended to."

"Of that I am ignorant; her husband was not one of my friends."

"Tell me what you know of this husband."

"Oh! very willingly. He is a villain, who-"

"Monsieur Louis," said Genevieve, "have mercy." Louis continued unmoved. "He is a villain, who has sacrificed the poor woman before you, not even to his political opinions but to private hatred. Pooh! I look upon him as lower and more degraded even than Simon." Dixmer became livid with rage. Simon wished to speak, but a gesture from the president imposed silence. "You appear to know the whole history, Citizen Louis," said Fouquier; "continue your account."

"Pardon me, Citizen Fouquier," said Louis, rising; "I know nothing more." He bowed, and reseated himself. "Citizen Louis," said Fouquier, "it is your bounden duty to enlighten this tribunal."

"It will not be much enlightened by all I have to say. As to this poor woman, I again repeat she has only acted under compulsion. Look at her; does she look like a conspirator- What she has done she was compelled to do. That is all."

"You think so-"

"I know so."

"In the name of the law," said Fouquier, "I require that the witness Louis shall be placed before this tribunal as an accomplice of this woman." Maurice groaned, whilst Genevieve buried her face in her hands. Sanson screamed out in a transport of joy, "Citizen accuser, you are the saviour of your country!" As to Louis, he leapt over the balustrade without making any reply, and seating himself near to Genevieve, took her hand, and respectfully kissed it, saying, "Bon jour, madame," with a coolness which electrified the assembly; "how do you find yourself-'' Then he took his seat on the bench of the accused.

CHAPTER LII. SEQUEL TO THE PRECEDING.

ALL THIS SCENE had passed before Maurice like a fantastic vision. Leaning upon the handle of his sword, which he had never quitted, he saw his friends precipitated one after another into that gulf which never yields back its victims; and this dangerous fancy so affected him that be asked himself why he, the companion of these unfortunates, should still cling to the brink of the precipice, and not surrender himself to the infatuation which was dragging him with them. In leaping the balustrade Louis saw the dark figure and sneering features of Dixmer. When, as we have said, he had placed himself near her, Genevieve whispered in his ear. "Ah! mon Dieu!" said she, "do you know that Maurice is here-"

"Where- Do not look round directly; one look might prove his ruin. Calm yourself."

"Behind us, near the door. What a trial for him if we are all condemned!" Louis regarded the young woman with tender sympathy. "We shall be," said he. "I conjure you not to doubt it. The deception would be too cruel if you were to permit yourself to hope."

"Oh! mon Dieu!" said Genevieve, "pity our poor friend, who will remain alone in the world." Louis then turned round towards Maurice, and Genevieve also could not refrain from glancing at him. His eyes were fixed upon them both, and one hand was placed upon his heart. "There is one way to save you," said Louis. "Are you sure-" said Genevieve, her eyes sparkling with joy. "Oh! of that one I am sure," replied Louis. "Oh! if you can save me how I will bless you-"

"But this way," replied the young man.

Genevieve read his hesitation in his eyes. "You have also seen him-" said she. "Yes, I saw him. Will you be saved- Let him, in his turn, take his seat in the iron arm-chair, and you shall be safe." Dixmer, doubtless from Louis's look and the expression of his countenance, divined what he uttered. He at first turned pale, but soon recovered his satanic look and sinister smile. "Impossible!" said Genevieve; "the most I can do is to hate him."

"Say that he knows your generous nature, and defies you."

"No doubt; for he is sure of him, of me, of us all."

"Genevieve! Genevieve! I am less perfect than yourself. Let me entreat you. Let him perish."

"No, Louis, I conjure you. Nothing in common with this man, not even death. It seems to me I should be unfaithful to Maurice were I to die with Dixmer."

"But you will not die."

"To live by his death."

"Ah!" said Louis, "Maurice has reason to love you; you are an angel, and heaven is the angel's home. Poor dear Maurice!" In the meantime Simon, who could not overhear the conversation between the accused devoured their looks instead of their words. "Citizen gendarme," said he, "prevent those conspirators from continuing their plots against the republic, even in the revolutionary tribunal."

"You know, Citizen Simon," replied the gendarme, "they will conspire here no more, and if they do so now it will not be for long. These citizens are only conversing together, and since the law does not forbid them to do so in the car, why should it be forbidden at the tribunal-" This gendarme was Gilbert, who, having recognised the prisoner taken in the Queen's chamber, avowed with his ordinary honesty the interest which he could not help according to her courage and devotion. The president having consulted the benchers, by the request of Fouquier Tinville, commenced his questions. "Accused Louis," demanded he, "of what nature was your acquaintance with the Citoyenne Dixmer-"

"Of what nature, Citizen President- Friendship's pure flame bound us to one another. She loved me as a sister, I loved her as a brother."

"Citizen Louis," said Fouquier Tinville, "your poetry is out of season here, and the rhyme is bad."

"Why so-"

"You have a syllable too long."

"Cut it off! cut it off! citizen accuser, that is your trade, you know." The imperturbable countenance of Fouquier Tinville assumed a pallid hue at this horrible pleasantry. "And in what light," demanded the president, "did the Citizen Dixmer view this liaison of a man, a pretended republican, with his wife-"

"As to that I can tell you nothing, declaring to never having been intimate with the Citizen Dixmer, and never having felt any desire to be so."

"But," said Fouquier Tinville, "you did not tell us that your friend Maurice Lindey formed the link of this pure friendship between yourself and the accused."

"If I did not say so," replied Louis, "it was because it seemed to me wrong so to speak, and I find that you even might take example from me."

"The citizen jury," said Fouquier Tinville, "will appreciate this singular alliance between an aristocrat and two republicans, and at the very moment even when this aristocrat is convicted of the blackest plot that could be concocted against the nation."

"How should I know anything concerning this plot you speak of-" demanded Louis, disgusted by the brutality of the argument. "You were acquainted with this woman, you were her friend, you term yourself her brother, you speak of her as your sister, and you knew all her proceedings. Is it then probable, as you have yourself remarked," continued the president, "that she would have committed this act imputed to her, alone-"

"She did not commit it alone," replied Louis, repeating the technical words used by the president; "since, as she has told you and I have told you, and again repeat it, her husband compelled her."

"Then how is it you are not acquainted with the husband," said Fouquier Tinville, "since the husband was united with the wife-" It remained only for Louis to recount the first disappearance of Dixmer, to mention the amours of Genevieve and his friend, and, in short, to relate the manner in which Dixmer had carried off and concealed his wife in some impenetrable retreat. It needed only this to exculpate himself from all connivance, and to elucidate the whole mystery. But for this he must betray the secrets of his two friends; to do this would be to shame Genevieve before five hundred people. Louis shook his head as if saying no to himself. "Well," demanded the president, "what do you reply to the public accuser-"

"That his logic is crushing," said Louis; "and I am now convinced of one thing which I never even suspected before."

"What is that-"

"That I am, it appears, one of the most frightful conspirators that has ever been seen." This declaration elicited a roar of laughter; even the jury could not refrain, so ludicrous was the young man's pronunciation of these words. Fouquier felt the ridicule; and since with his usual indefatigable perseverance he had managed to possess himself of all the secrets of the accused, as well known to him as to themselves, he could not help feeling towards Louis a sentiment of pity mingled with admiration. "Citizen Louis," said he, "speak and defend yourself. The tribunal will lend a willing ear. We are acquainted with your previous conduct, and it has always been that of a staunch republican." Simon essayed to speak; but the president made him a signal to remain silent. "Speak, Citizen Louis," said he; "we are all attention." But Louis only shook his head. "This silence is confession," said the president. "Not so," said Louis; "silence is silence, that is all."

"Once more," said Fouquier Tinville, "will you speak-" Louis turned towards the audience to encounter the eyes of Maurice, and to learn from them what course he would wish him to pursue; but Maurice made no sign to him to speak, and Louis maintained his former silence. This was self-condemnation. All that followed was quickly executed. Fouquier resumed his accusation, the president continued the debates, the jury retired, and unanimously returned a verdict of "guilty" against Louis and Genevieve. The president condemned them both to suffer the penalty of death. Two o'clock sounded from the large clock of the palace. The president had just time sufficient to pronounce the condemnation as the clock struck. Maurice heard the double sound, and confounded one with another. When the vibration had ceased, his strength was utterly exhausted. The gendarmes led away Genevieve and Louis, who had offered her his arm. Both saluted Maurice, but in different ways. Louis smiled; but Genevieve, pale and trembling, wafted him a last kiss upon her fingers, bathed in tears. She had till the last moment nourished the hope of life, and now wept, not the loss of life, but love, which must perish with her. Maurice, half mad, had not replied to his friends' farewell. He rose, pale and bewildered, from the bench on which he had fallen. His friends had disappeared. He felt only one sentiment alive within him. It was the hatred which corroded his heart. He threw a last look around him and recognised Dixmer, who was leaving with the rest of the spectators, and at that moment stooped to pass under the arched door of the passage. With the eagerness of a prohibited cause, Maurice sprang from bench to bench, and reached the door. Dixmer had already passed through, and descended into the darkened corridor. Maurice followed behind him. At the moment Dixmer planted his foot on the pavement of the grand hall, Maurice placed his hand upon his shoulder.

CHAPTER LIII. THE DUEL.

AT THIS EPOCH it was always a serious thing to feel a touch upon the shoulder. Dixmer turned, and recognised Maurice. "Ah! bon jour, citizen republican," said Dixmer, without evincing any other emotion than an almost imperceptible start, which he immediately repressed. "Bon jour, citizen coward," replied Maurice. "You were waiting for me, were you not-"

"That is to say," replied Dixmer, "that, on the contrary, I had ceased to expect you."

"Why was that-"

"Because I expected you sooner."

"I still arrive too soon for you, assassin!" added Maurice, with a voice, or rather a murmured growl, since it resembled the grumbling of a storm, gathered in his heart, as his looks were like the lightning's flashes. "You fling fire from your eyes, citizen," replied Dixmer. "We shall be recognised, and followed."

"Yes, and you fear to be arrested, do you not- You dread lest you might be conducted to the scaffold, where you send others. Let them arrest us, so much the better; for it seems to me, that not to do so now is a culpable omission on the part of national justice."

"Like omitting your name in the list of people of honour. Is it not so-since yours has disappeared-"

"Well, we shall speak about all that, I hope; but, in the meantime, you are revenged-miserably revenged-upon a woman. Why, since you have waited for me elsewhere, did you not do so at my house, when you stole away Genevieve- "You were the first thief, I believe."

"Neither by your spirit nor your words have I ever estimated you, monsieur. I judge you better by your actions-witness the day when you wanted to murder me. That day your true nature displayed itself-that day your genuine nature spoke."

"And I have more than once regretted I did not listen to it," said Dixmer, coolly. "Well," said Maurice, touching his sword, "I offer you your revenge."

"To-morrow, if you like, but not to-day."

"And why to-morrow-"

"Or this evening."

"Why not directly-"

"Because I am engaged till five o'clock."

"Another hideous project!" said Maurice; "another ambush!"

"Really, Monsieur Maurice, you are rather ungrateful," replied Dixmer. "In truth you are. Here, for six months I have allowed you to make love to my wife-for six months have permitted your meetings, and have not noticed your smiles. Never man, you must confess, has evinced so little of the tiger in his composition as myself."

"That is to say, you thought I might be useful, and you could mould me to your purpose."

"Without doubt," returned Dixmer, calmly, who ruled his own passion to increase that of Maurice. "Without doubt; whilst, that you might betray your republic, rob me of the affections of my wife, that you might dishonour yourselves-you by your treason, she by her adulterous love-I remained the sage and hero. I waited, and I triumphed."

"Horrible!" said Maurice. "Is it not- Yes, you appreciate your own conduct fully, monsieur. It is horrible!-it is infamous-"

"You deceive yourself, monsieur; the conduct I term horrible and infamous is that of the man, to whom the honour of a woman being confided had sworn to guard this honour pure and unsullied, and who, instead of keeping his word and oath, employed her beauty as a shameful bait where love had already ensnared her feeble heart. It was your sacred duty beyond all others to protect this woman, and, instead of protecting her, you have sold her."

"That is what I had to do, monsieur," replied Dixmer. "I am going to tell you I had to save my friend who united with me in this sacred cause. Even as I have sacrificed my property to this cause, so have I sacrificed my honour. As for me, I am completely forgotten, completely struck out; I have considered myself the last. Now my friend is no more; he died by the poniard. My Queen is no more; she died an ignominious death on the scaffold. Now! now! I can think of my revenge."

"Say of your assassination."

"One does not kill an adulteress at a blow; she is punished for her crime."

"This sin you imposed upon her, therefore it was rendered lawful."

"You think so," said Dixmer with a devilish smile. "Judge from her remorse if she believes she has acted lawfully."

"Those who punish strike at once. You, you do not punish, for while striking you fly, and whilst casting her head to the guillotine you conceal yourself."

"Me! I fly! I hide myself! when did you see that, poor idiot that you are-" demanded Dixmer. "Is it concealing myself to assist in her condemnation- Is it flying when I go into the Salle des Morts to fling her my last adieu."

"You are going to see her again! to fling her a last adieu!" cried Maurice. "Decidedly you are not expert at revenge, citizen," replied Dixmer, shrugging his shoulders. "Thus in my situation you would abandon these events to their strength alone, these circumstances to their natural course; thus, for example, the adulterous woman having merited death, the moment she has received the punishment of death I am quits with her, or rather she is quits with me. No, Citizen Maurice, I know better than that. I have discovered a way to return this woman the evil she has done me. She loves you, and will die far from you; she detests me, and I will be near her again. There!" said he, drawing a pocket-book from his pocket; "do you see this- It contains a card signed by the registrar of the palace. With this card I can gain near access to the condemned. I will penetrate to Genevieve; I will call her 'Adulteress!' I shall see her curls fall under the hand of the vile executioner, and as they are severed she shall still hear my voice repeating, 'Adulteress!' I will even accompany her to the fatal car, and, as she plants her foot upon the scaffold, the long, last sound that greets her ear, shall be the word, 'Adulteress!' "

"Take care; she has not strength to support so much cowardice; she will denounce you."

"No," cried Dixmer, "she hates me too much for that. If she had wished to denounce me she would have done so when her friend urged her so softly. If she did not denounce me to save her life, she will not do so that I may die with her, for she well knows in that case I should retard her execution for a day; she well knows that if she denounces me, I shall go with her not only to the lowest step of the Palais, but even to the scaffold; she well knows that, instead of leaving her at the foot of the ladder, I will ascend into the car with her, and that, seated by her side, the whole length of the road I will constantly repeat the one dreadful word, 'Adulteress;' that even on the scaffold I will continue to do so till the moment she sinks into eternity and the accusation falls with her." Dixmer was frightful in this state of anger and hatred. He seized Maurice by the hand and shook it with a force unknown to the young man, upon whom this had acted with a contrary effect: as Dixmer became excited Maurice grew calm. "Listen," said the young man, "in your vengeance you have omitted one thing."

"What-"

"That you will be able to tell her, on leaving the tribunal, I have seen your lover, and have killed him."

"On the contrary, I prefer telling her that you live, and will suffer for the remainder of your days, from the spectacle of her death."

"You shall kill me, notwithstanding," said Maurice, "or," added he, turning round, and finding himself nearly master of his position, "I will kill you." And pale with emotion and excited by fury, finding his strength redoubled, from the restraint he had imposed upon his feelings, while listening to the unfolding of Dixmer's horrible project, he seized him by the throat, and drew him backwards towards a staircase, which led towards the high bank of the river. At the contact with his hand, Dixmer, in his turn, felt hatred rush over him like a boundless wave. "You need not compel me by force, I will follow."

"Come, then. Are you armed-"

"I will follow you."

"No, go first; but I give you notice, at the least sign or gesture, I will cleave your skull in twain with my sword."

"You know I am a stranger to fear," said Dixmer, with a smile rendered frightful from his pallor. "Fear of my sword," said Maurice, "no; but fear of losing your revenge. Now, however, we are face to face-dismiss that fear." They had, indeed, arrived at the water's brink; and had any one seen and followed them, they could not have arrived in time to prevent the duel from taking place; besides, an equal desire for vengeance now animated both. Whilst speaking, they had descended the little staircase, and gained the nearly deserted quay; for as the condemnations continued, seeing it was two o'clock at least, the crowd still filled the judgment-hall, the corridors, and the courts. They appeared equally to thirst for each other's blood.

They plunged themselves under one of those arches, leading from the cells of the Conciergerie to the river; at this time drained, but then foul and saturated with water, serving more than once as a means of conveyance for the corpses, which floated far away from the dungeons, leaving no trace behind. Maurice placed himself between Dixmer and the water. "I decidedly think I shall kill you, Maurice," said Dixmer, "you tremble so much."

"And I, Dixmer," said Maurice, taking his sword in hand, and carefully enclosing him, so as to cut off all retreat, "I, on the contrary, believe that I shall kill you; and having killed you, shall remove from your pocket-book the card signed by the registrar of the Palace."

"Ah! you have buttoned up your coat beautifully; but my sword shall open it, were it even formed of brass like the cuirasses of old."

"And this paper," roared Dixmer, "you will take it, will you-"

"Yes," said Maurice, "I will make use of this card. I with this talisman will secure an entrance to Genevieve. I will sit next her in the car-I will murmur in her ear while life remains, 'I love thee:' and when the last stroke has fallen, I will murmur still 'I have loved thee.'" Dixmer made a movement with his left hand to take the card from his right, and together with the pocket-book to cast them into the river, when rapid as a thunderbolt, sharp as a hatchet, Maurice's sword fell upon his hand, nearly severing it from the wrist. The wounded man uttered a cry, and shaking his mutilated limb, flung himself furiously on his antagonist. There in the obscurity of this gloomy vault, the deadly combat commenced. The two men were enclosed in a space so narrow that the sword strokes, swerving from the line of body, glided upon the humid pavement, and were with difficulty prevented from striking the sides of the arch, more especially as these impediments redoubled the attacks and impatience of the combatants. Dixmer, who, as he felt his lifeblood flow, was aware that his strength diminished, also charged Maurice so furiously, that he was compelled to step backward; in so doing he lost his footing, and his enemy's sword entered his breast. But by a movement rapid as thought, kneeling as he was, he raised the blade with his left arm, and turned the point towards Dixmer, who maddened with rage, darted forward, and impelled by the inclining ground, fell on the sword, the point of which entered his body. Thus impaled, and uttering a fearful imprecation, the two bodies rolled to the outside of the arch. One only rose. It was Maurice-Maurice covered with blood, but that blood the blood of his enemy. He drew his sword towards him, and as he slowly raised it the blade appeared to him even to thirst for the remnant of life which still agitated with a nervous shuddering the limbs of Dixmer. Then, when assured that he was dead, he stooped towards the corpse, opened the dead man's coat, withdrew the card, and hurried away directly. But on looking at himself, he felt assured that in his present state he should not proceed far without being arrested. He was literally covered with blood. He approached the water's edge, and bending towards the river, washed his hands and coat, and then rapidly ascended the staircase, casting a last look towards the arch, from whence a red smoking stream issued, advancing slowly towards the river. On arriving near the palace, he opened the pocket-book, and there found the card signed by the registrar. "Thanks, just God!" murmured he, and he rapidly mounted the steps leading to la Salle des Morts. It struck three.

CHAPTER LIV. LA SALLE DES MORTS.

IT MUST BE REMEMBERED that the registrar of the palace had opened his jailor's book to Dixmer, and had also entered into an arrangement with him which the presence of "Madame" rendered peculiarly agreeable. This man, it may be imagined, was terribly alarmed when the news of Dixmer's plot was communicated to him. He would doubtless be considered as nothing less than an accomplice of Dixmer, his false colleague, and therefore condemned to die with the wretched Genevieve. Fouquier Tinville had summoned him to appear before him. It may easily be understood that this poor man would have some trouble to prove himself innocent in the eyes of the public accuser; he had, however, succeeded in so doing, thanks to Genevieve, whose declaration had clearly established his utter ignorance of the plot of her husband. He had succeeded, thanks to Dixmer's flight, and above all from the interest excited in Fouquier Tinville, who wished to preserve his administration free from all stain. "Citizen," said he, flinging himself upon his knees before Fouquier, "pardon me, for I have been deceived."

"Citizen," replied the public accuser, "a man who in these days permits himself to be deceived deserves to be guillotined."

"I may have been a blockhead, citizen," replied the registrar, who was longing to call Fouquier Tinville Monseigneur. "Blockhead or not," replied the rigid accuser, "no one should allow his love for the Republic to sleep. The spies of the Capitol were only geese, yet they were sufficiently awake to save Rome." The registrar looked upon this argument as totally unanswerable; he groaned, and remained waiting. "I pardon you," said Fouquier Tinville. "I will go so far as to defend you, since I do not wish one of my employees to be even suspected; but you will bear in mind that at the least word that reaches my ears, the least revival of this affair, you will leave instantly." It is scarcely necessary to say with what anxiety this man sought the newspapers, always ready to tell what they know, and sometimes more than they can certify, even if they caused the heads of ten men to fall on the scaffold. He sought Dixmer everywhere, to recommend him to keep his own counsel; but he had very naturally changed his apartments, and was nowhere to be found. Genevieve had been placed on the bench of the accused, but had already, without any reservation, declared that neither herself or husband had any accomplices, and he thanked the poor woman with his eyes as she passed before him to surrender herself to the tribunal. Whilst she was passing, and he was returning to the office to fetch some law papers for Fouquier Tinville, he all at once saw Dixmer's apparition approaching him with a calm and quiet step. This vision petrified him. "Oh!" said he, as if he had seen a spectre. "Do you not know me-" said the newcomer. "Do I know you- You are the Citizen Durand, or rather the Citizen Dixmer."

"Just so."

"But are you dead, citizen-"

"Not yet, as you see."

"I wish to tell you they will arrest you."

"Who wants to arrest me-no one knows me."

"But I know you, and it only needs one word from me to send you to the guillotine."

"And two words from me only will send you there with me."

"It is too bad of you to say that."

"No; it is logic."

"How do you make that out-" Make haste-speak quickly; for the less time we are together the less danger we incur from each other."

"My wife is about to be condemned, is it not so-"

"I greatly fear for her; poor woman!"

"Well, I wish to see her once more, to bid her adieu."

"Where-"

"In the Salle des Morts."

"Would you dare to enter there-"

"Why not-"

"Oh!" said the registrar, like a man whose thoughts made him shudder. "There must be some way," continued Dixmer. "To enter the Salle des Morts-" Without doubt there is."

"How-"

"To procure a card."

"And where are these cards procured-" The registrar turned frightfully pale, and murmured, "Where are they procured, you ask-"

"I inquire where are they to be procured-" replied Dixmer; "the question is plain enough, I think."

"They are procured-here."

"Ah! true; and who usually signs them-"

"The registrar."

"But you are the registrar-"

"Doubtless I am."

"Then, as it has so happened," said Dixmer, seating himself, "you can sign a card for me-" The registrar made one bound. "Do you ask for my head, citizen-" said he. "No, I ask you for a card, that is all."

"I am going to arrest you, unhappy man," said he, summoning all his energy. "Do," said Dixmer, "and the next moment I will denounce you as an accomplice, and instead of leaving me to enter the famous saloon alone, you shall accompany me." The registrar turned ghastly pale. "Villain!" said he. "There is no villany in that," said Dixmer; "I wish to speak to my wife, and all I require of you is a card to enable me to do so."

"Is it then so imperative that you should speak to her-"

"It seems so, since I risk my head by coming here." This appeared very plausible to the registrar, and Dixmer immediately perceived that this staggered him. "Rest assured," said he, "no one shall know anything. The devil! why surely sometimes a similar case to mine must present itself to your notice."

"Very rarely; it is by no means a common occurrence."

"Well, then, let us arrange it in another way."

"If it is possible. I should ask nothing better."

"Nothing is more possible. Enter by the door of the condemned; there a card is not required: then, when you have spoken to your wife, call me, and I will let you out."

"That will not answer," said Dixmer; "unfortunately there is a story current in the city."

"What story-"

"The history of a poor hunchback, who mistook the door, thinking to enter the archives, but instead of so doing, found himself in the saloon, of which we are now speaking. Only since he had entered by the door of the condemned, in lieu of the large door, as he had no card to prove his identity, once there, he was not permitted to go out. They strenuously maintained that since he entered the door with the other condemned, he was condemned likewise. In vain he protested, swore, appealed; no one believed him, no one came to his assistance, no one helped him to get out. So that, notwithstanding his protestations, his imprecations, and supplications, the executioner first cut off his hair, and then finished by cutting his throat. Is this anecdote true, citizen registrar- You ought to know better than any one else."

"Alas! yes, it is too true," said the registrar, trembling. "Yon must see then that, with such antecedents, I should be a fool to enter this cutthroat place without a card."

"But I shall be there. I tell you."

"If when you were called you should be otherwise engaged- If you should forget-" Dixmer laid particular stress on these last words, "if you should forget."

"But then I promise you."

"No; besides it would compromise you. They would see me speaking to you; and, in short, it does not suit me; I prefer having a card."

"Impossible!"

"Then, cher ami, I will speak, and we will both take a journey together to La Place de la Revolution." The registrar, frantic with terror, and half dead with fear, signed the pass for a citizen. Dixmer rose and went out precipitately, to take his station in the judgment-hall, where we have already recognised his presence. The rest is known to us. At the same moment the registrar, to avoid all accusation of connivance, seated himself near Fonquier Tinville, leaving the management of the office to his head clerk. At ten minutes before three, Maurice, furnished with a card, crossing a hedge of turnkeys and gendarmes, arrived without interruption at the fatal door. When we say fatal, we exaggerate, for there were two doors, the principal one by which those possessing cards entered and returned, and the door of the condemned, by which no one departed except to the scaffold. The place that Maurice entered was divided into two compartments, one of these was set apart for those employed in registering the name of the arrivals, the other, furnished only with wooden benches, was appropriated for the reception of those who were arrested and those who were condemned, which at this period amounted to pretty much the same thing. The hall was very dark, lighted only from a glass window of the partition which divided it from the register office. A female dressed in white, in a half fainting attitude, lay in a corner, supported against the wall. A man was standing in front of her, from time to time shaking his head. His arms were crossed upon his breast, and he hesitated to speak to her, as if fearful of restoring her to the consciousness she appeared to have lost. Around these two individuals several condemned persons were scattered promiscuously, some giving vent to their feelings in sobs and groans, others joining in patriotic songs, whilst the remainder walked rapidly up and down, as if to chase away the thoughts which devoured them. This was indeed the antechamber of death, and the furniture rendered it worthy of the name. Here were seen half-opened coffins filled with straw, seeming as if to invite the living to their beds of repose, the provisional receptacles for the ashes of the dead. A large wardrobe was erected in the wall opposite the window.

A prisoner, prompted by curiosity, opened it, but recoiled with horror. It contained the blood-stained garments of those executed on the preceding evening; long tresses of hair hanging here and there, the executioners perquisites, who sold them to the relatives when not enjoined by the authorities to burn these precious relics. Maurice, trembling with emotion, at length opened the door, when the whole tableau at once presented itself to his view. He advanced three steps into the hall and fell at Genevieve's feet. The unfortunate woman uttered a cry, which Maurice stifled on her lips. Louis, weeping, pressed his friend in his arms; these were the first tears he had shed. Strange it was that all these unhappy individuals, assembled to die together, scarcely looked even at the touching tableau presented to their view by their unfortunate fellow-creatures, but every one suffered too much himself to take part in the miseries of others. The three friends remained for a moment united in a deep silence, happy, almost joyous. Louis first disengaged himself from the wretched group. "Are you, then, condemned also-" said he, to Maurice. "Yes," replied he. "O, happiness!" murmured Genevieve.

But the joy of those who have only one hour to live cannot last even as long as their life. Maurice having contemplated Genevieve with looks of ardent and profound affection, turned towards Louis. "Now," said he, taking Genevieve's hands within his own, "let us talk together."

"Yes!" said Louis, "let us converse while the time remains to us. It is only right so to do. What do you wish to say to me, Maurice-"

"You have been arrested through me, condemned for her; as for Genevieve and I, let us pay our debt; it is not fair, at the same time, that you should be made to pay also."

"I do not understand you."

"Louis, you are free."

"I free- you are mad," said Louis. "No, I am not mad; I repeat that you are free; see, here is the pass. They will inquire who you are; you are employed at the register of the Carmelites, and are going to speak to the registrar of the Palace; you have, from motives of curiosity, requested a pass from him to see the condemned; you have seen them, and are now leaving, perfectly satisfied with your visit."

"This is a joke, is it not-"

"No, indeed, my friend, here is the card, take advantage of it. You are not a lover, like myself; you do not wish to die that you may be enabled to pass a few more minutes in the society of the well-beloved of your heart, and not to lose a second of eternity with her."

"But, Maurice," replied Louis, "if one might be able to get out from here-a circumstance I swear to you I could not have believed possible-why do you not save madame first- as to yourself, we will consider afterwards about that."

"Impossible!" said Maurice, with a frightful oppression at his heart; "this card is for a citizen, not for a citoyenne; besides, Genevieve would not depart and leave me here to live herself, while knowing that I remained to die."

"If she would not, then why should I- Do you imagine I possess less courage than a woman-"

"No, dear friend; I know and acknowledge your bravery, but nothing can excuse your obstinacy in this case. Then profit by this moment, and allow us the supreme felicity of knowing and feeling that you are free and happy."

"Happy!" said Louis; "you are facetious, surely- happy without you, eh- What the devil am I to do in this world without you- In Paris, without my usual avocations, without seeing you again; to weary you no more with my bouts-rimes; ah, pardieu, no!"

"Louis, my friend-"

"Exactly; it is because I am your friend that I persist in my opinion, with the prospect of recovering you both; were I a prisoner as I now am I would tear down the walls, but to save myself, and go out from here alone into the streets, my head bowed down with a feeling resembling remorse, and a continued cry in my ears: 'Maurice!-Genevieve!' To pass into certain quarters and before certain houses where I have seen your persons, but shall now only recognise your shadows; to arrive at last to execrate this dear Paris that I love so well; ah, ma foi, no! And I find there was good reason to proscribe these kings; might not this be the motive of King Dagobert-"

"And what relation has King Dagobert with what concerns us-"

"What- Did not this frightful tyrant say of the grand Eloi: 'He is not such good company that one cannot quit him-' Ah, well! I am a Republican. I say one never ought to quit good company, even the guillotine; I feel very comfortable here, and I will remain."

"Poor fellow! poor fellow!" said Maurice.

Genevieve said nothing, but looked at them with eyes suffused with tears. "You regret your life, then-" said Louis. "Yes, on her account."

"And I have nothing to regret in mine, not even on account of the Goddess Reason, who, I had forgotten to tell you, has latterly behaved most shamefully to me; who will not take the trouble even to console herself, like the other Arthemises of old. I shall go to my death perfectly cool and rather facetious. I will amuse all the beggarly wretches who follow the car. I will repeat a pretty quatrain to Monsieur Sanson, and wish the company good-night-that is to say-wait then"-Louis interrupted himself. "Ah! if so," said he, "I will go out. I well know I love no one, but I forgot that I hated some one. The time, Maurice, the time-"

"Half-past three."

"I have time, mon Dieu! there is time."

"Certainly!" cried Maurice; "there are nine more accused persons still to be tried, this will not terminate before five o'clock; we have therefore nearly two hours' respite."

"That is all that I require; lend me your card, and also twenty sous."

"Ah, mon Dieu! what are you going to do-" murmured Genevieve. Maurice pressed his hand; it was important to him that Louis should go out. "I have my own plan," said Louis.

Maurice drew his purse from his pocket, and placed it in his friend's hand. "Now, the card, for the love of God-I ought to say for the love of the Supreme Being." Maurice gave him the pass. Louis kissed Genevieve's hand, and availing himself of the moment when a fresh batch of the condemned were ushered in, he leapt the benches, and presented himself before the principal entrance. "Eh!" said the gendarme, "here is one, it appears to me, trying to escape."

Louis drew himself up, and presented his card. "Hold, citizen gendarme," said he, "and learn to know people better."

The gendarme recognised the signature of the registrar, but belonging to a class of functionaries rather wanting in confidence, and as at this moment the registrar himself came down from the tribunal with a nervous shudder, which had not left him since he had so imprudently hazarded his signature, "Citizen registrar," said he, "here is a pass bearing your signature, with which this person wishes to leave the Salle des Morts; is it all right-" The registrar turned pale with fright, and feeling convinced that if he turned his eyes in that direction it would only be to encounter the terrible figure of Dixmer, hastily seizing the card, quickly replied, "Yes, yes, it is my signature."

"Then," cried Louis, "if it is your signature, return it to me."

"No," said the registrar, tearing it into a thousand pieces, "these cards can only be once available." Louis remained for a moment irresolute. "So much the worse," said he; "but above all things it is necessary I should kill him;" and he passed through the office.

Maurice had followed Louis with an emotion easy to comprehend. When he had disappeared, Maurice returned, saying with an exultation nearly amounting to joy, "He is saved! Genevieve; the card is destroyed, therefore he cannot return. Besides, even if he were able to do so, the sitting of the Tribunal will have terminated at five o'clock. He will return, but we shall have ceased to live." Genevieve shuddered, and breathed a deep sigh.." Oh, press me in your arms," said she, "and let us separate no more. Why is it not possible, oh, my God! for one blow to annihilate us both, that together we might breathe our last sigh-" Then retiring into the deep shade of the gloomy hall, Genevieve placed herself near Maurice, who closely twined his arms around her. Thus they remained, rendered by the strength of their love insensible to the surrounding scene, almost to the approach of even death itself. Half-an-hour passed thus.

CHAPTER LV. WHY LOUIS WENT OUT.

SUDDENLY A LOUD noise was heard; the gendarmes opened the lower door, behind them appeared Sanson and his assistants, the latter carrying rolls of cord. "Oh! mon ami! mon ami!" said Genevieve; "the fatal moment has arrived, and I feel that my senses are leaving me."

"There you are wrong," said the cheering voice of Louis: "Here you are wrong, en verite, Since death is now la liberte."

"Louis!" cried Maurice, in despair. "Well, that is good, now, is it not- I have adopted your opinion since yesterday evening, and could not be so contemptible-"

"Ah! that is the question. You are returned, unhappy man, you are returned."

"I considered that was our agreement. But listen, as what I have to say to you will also interest madame."

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!"

"Allow me to speak, or I shall not have time to tell you all. I wished to go out that I might purchase a knife in la Rue de la Baullerie."

"What did you want with a knife-"

"I wished to despatch this nice Monsieur Dixmer." Genevieve shuddered. "Ah!" said Maurice, "I comprehend."

"I purchased it. Listen attentively to what I tell you, and you will understand your friend has a soul for logic; indeed, I begin to think I should have been a mathematician instead of a poet. Unfortunately, it is now too late. This is the way I reasoned: Monsieur Dixmer has compromised his wife; Monsieur Dixmer came to be present at her trial; and Monsieur Dixmer will not deprive himself of the pleasure of seeing her pass in the fatal car; and, above all, he will accompany us. I will then look for him in the foremost of the spectators. I will glide near him, and say, 'Bonjour, Monsieur Dixmer;' and then I will drive my knife into his ribs, or his heart."

"Louis!" cried Genevieve. "Rest assured, dear friend, Providence had arranged all. Picture to yourself the spectators, instead of remaining stationary in front of the palace, according to their usual custom, make a demi-turn to the right, and assemble on the borders of the quay. "Oh! said I to myself, it is doubtless a dog drowned. Why should not Dixmer be there- Even a dog drowning will serve to pass away the time. I approached the parapet, and beheld all along the high bank a troop of people, who, throwing their arms aloft into the air, and uttering loud exclamations, stooped down to gaze into the water beneath. I joined them and also looked down… there was something… guess what it was…"

"Dixmer!" said Maurice, in a gloomy tone. "Yes. How could you guess that- Yes, it was Dixmer, severely wounded. The unfortunate wretch killed himself in expiation, no doubt."

"Ah!" said Maurice, with a sad smile, "do you think so-" Genevieve let her head droop between her two hands. She was too feeble to support these successive emotions. "Yes, I thought so, from his blood-stained sword being found near him… at least sometimes… he had not met any one"…

Maurice, without reply, availing himself of the moment when Genevieve, overpowered by emotion, did not observe him, opened his coat and displayed to Louis his waistcoat and shirt stained with blood. "Ah! this alters the case," said Louis, as he held out his hand to Maurice. "Now," said he, whispering in his ear, "they have not searched me, seeing that I entered in Sanson's suite. I have the weapon still if the guillotine is too revolting to your feelings." Maurice seized his arm with a joyful expression. "No," said he, "she would suffer too much." And he returned the knife to Louis. "You are right," said he, "long live Monsieur Guillotine. Why, what is it, after all- a fillip on the neck, as I observed to Danton. And what is that, after all-" And he flung his knife in the midst of a group of the condemned, one of whom immediately seized and buried it in his breast. He was dead in an instant. At the same moment Genevieve awoke and uttered a piercing cry. She felt the pressure of the executioner's hand upon her shoulder.

CHAPTER LVI. LONG LIVE SIMON!

AT THE SOUND of this cry Maurice understood that the struggle was about to commence. The influence of love may be able to exalt the love to heroism-it may, against natural instinct, impel a human being to desire death, but it had not in this instance extinguished the fear of pain. It was evident that Genevieve resigned herself the more patiently to death since Maurice was to die with her; but resignation did not exclude suffering, and to quit this world is not only to fall into the abyss termed fathomless and unknown, but also to suffer in the descent. Maurice, at a glance, embraced the entire scene, and thought of what would follow. In the centre of the hall lay the suicide, from whose breast the gendarme had just torn the weapon of destruction, fearing, probably, it might be useful to some others. Around him were several individuals mute with despair, and scarcely heeding him, inscribing in their pocket-books some indistinct words, or pressing each other's hands; some repeating, without any intermission, a cherished name, as if imbecile; or bathing with tears a portrait, a ring, or tress of hair; some hurling imprecations against tyranny, a word banished and cursed by each one in turn, and sometimes even by the tyrants themselves. In the midst of these unfortunates, Sanson, grown old, less from his fifty years than his miserable and dispiriting occupation; Sanson, of a mild disposition, and as much their consoler as his terrible vocation permitted him to be, to this one offered advice, to that one some sad consolation or encouragement, finding some Christian responses to their accents of despair as well as to bravado. "Citoyenne," said he to Genevieve, "I must remove the handkerchief, and raise or cut off your hair, if you please." Genevieve began to tremble. "Come, m'amie," said Louis, softly, ''take courage."

"May I remove madame's hair-" demanded Maurice. "Oh, yes," cried Genevieve; "I entreat you to permit him to do so, Monsieur Sanson."

"Do so, then," said the old man, turning away his head.

Maurice gently removed the handkerchief from her neck, and Genevieve, stooping, fell on her knees before the young man, presenting her charming head, appearing more beautiful in her grief than she had ever been in her days of sunshine and happiness.

M hen Maurice had completed his funeral operation, his hands were so tremulous and his countenance betrayed so much grief, that Genevieve exclaimed, "Ah! I am courageous, Maurice." Sanson turned round. "Is it not so, monsieur!" said she-"am I not courageous-"

"Certainly, citoyenne," replied the executioner, in a mild voice, "for yours is true courage." In the meantime the first assistant had run over the list forwarded by Fouquier Tinville. "Fourteen," said he.

Sanson counted the condemned. "Fifteen, including the dead," said he; "why, how is this-" Maurice and Genevieve counted after him, both struck by the same thought. "You say there are only fourteen condemned, and that there are fifteen," said she. "Yes; the Citizen Fouquier Tinville must have been mistaken."

"Ah! you spoke falsely, then," said Genevieve, turning to Maurice; "you were not condemned."

"And why wait for to-morrow, when you die to-day-" said Maurice. "Ami," said she, smiling, "you reassure me: I now am convinced it is easy to die."

"Louis," said Maurice, "now for the last time… no one here can recognize you… say that you came to bid me adieu… say that you have been shut in by mistake… call the gendarme who saw you go out. I will be the true condemned who ought to die. But you, my friend, we supplicate to live to guard our memory: there is yet time, Louis; we entreat you." Genevieve joined her hands in an attitude of prayer. Louis took both her hands and kissed them. "I have said no, and I mean no," said Louis, in a firm voice; "say no more on the subject, or I shall think I am a constraint upon you."

"Fourteen," repeated Sanson, "and here are fifteen;" then elevating his voice, "Is there any one here who can protest against this-" said he; "is there anyone here who can prove he is here by mistake-" Perhaps some lips half opened at this question, but closed again without uttering a single word, since those who might have lied were ashamed to do so, and those who would not have lied were determined not to speak.

A silence of several minutes ensued, during which the assistants continued their mournful office. "Citizens, we are ready…" was then pronounced in the dull and solemn tones of old Sanson. He was answered only by sobs and groans. "Well!" said Louis, "let it be so. 'To die for our country Is of all fates the best!' Yes, to die for our country; but decidedly I begin to think we do not die for her, but for the pleasure of those who witness our deaths. Ma foi, Maurice, I have adopted your opinion. I am disgusted with the Republic."

"The call!" said a commissary, at the door. Several gendarmes entered the hall, closing up the issues, thus placing themselves between life and the condemned, as if to prevent them from returning to it. The summons was repeated. Maurice, who had seen the condemned who had destroyed himself, when his name was called answered in his stead, and then found the number was correct. The corpse was removed from the hall, but if his identity had been established, and he had been recognised as one condemned, he would have been guillotined with the rest, though already dead. The survivors were pushed towards the outlet, in order that as each passed before the wicket their hands might be tied behind their backs. For the space of ten minutes not a word was exchanged between these unfortunates, the executioners alone seemed endowed with life or motion.

Maurice, Genevieve, and Louis, not being any longer able to retain their hold of each other, successively presented themselves, that they might not be separated. When the condemned were removed from the Conciergerie into the court, the scene became truly appalling. Several fainted at the sight of the carts, and the turnkeys were compelled to assist them to mount the steps of these vehicles of death. Behind the still closed doors was heard the confused murmur of the crowd, and it might be imagined from the sound that the concourse was immense. Genevieve courageously ascended the car; Maurice at her side sustained her; he sprang in rapidly after her. Louis did not hurry himself, but carefully selected his seat at the left of Maurice. The doors opened, and foremost in the crowd stood Simon. The two friends immediately recognized him; indeed the recognition was mutual. He was standing upon a stone near which the cars must pass, for there were three of them. The car containing our three friends moved first. "Eh! bonjour, brave grenadier," said Simon to Louis; "you are going to try the effect of my leather-cutting machine, I suppose-"

"Yes," said Louis, "and I will be careful not to notch it, that it may be ready when your turn comes." The two remaining cars now followed the direction of the first. And now commenced a terrific tempest of cries, shouts, groans, and maledictions, surrounding and following the condemned. "Courage, Genevieve, take courage," murmured Maurice. "Oh!" replied the young woman, "I do not regret life, since I die with you: I regret only that my hands are tied, and I cannot embrace you before I die."

"Louis," said Maurice. "feel in my waistcoat pocket, there you will find a knife."

"Mon Dieu!" said Louis, "a penknife; I should be ashamed to die, garroted like a calf." Maurice placed his pocket on a level with his friend's hands; Louis found the knife, which between them they succeeded in opening. Maurice then placed it between his teeth, and severed the cord which bound Louis's hands, who, the moment they were free, performed the same office for Maurice. "Make haste," said the young man; "Genevieve is fainting." In fact, to accomplish this operation Maurice had for a moment turned from Genevieve, when, as if all her strength had been derived from him, her eyes closed, and her head sank upon her breast. "Genevieve, open your eyes, mon ami," said Maurice; "we have only a few minutes more to see each other in this world."

"The cords wound me," murmured the veiling woman.

Maurice unbound them. She immediately reopened her eyes, and rose, radiant with almost celestial beauty. She threw one fair arm around Maurice's neck, with the other hand seized that of Louis, and thus, all three standing in the cart, with two more victims lying at their feet, wrapt in the stupor of anticipated death, they gazed towards heaven with a look of ardent gratitude for having been permitted to support and console each other, whilst those who had outraged and insulted them previously were now perfectly silent. The scaffold was in sight. Maurice and Louis beheld it. Genevieve did not: she saw nought beside her lover. The car stopped. "I love thee," said Maurice to Genevieve; "I love thee."

"The woman first, the woman first," shouted a thousand voices. "Thanks, good people," said Maurice;; "who then can call you cruel-" He took Genevieve within his arms, pressed his lips fondly upon hers, and delivered her to Sanson. "Courage!" cried Louis; "courage!"

"I have it," slid Genevieve; "I have it. "I love thee," murmured Maurice; "I love thee." They were no longer victims about to be slaughtered, but friends making a festival of death. "Adieu!" cried Genevieve to Louis. "Au revoir!" replied he.

And Genevieve disappeared under the fatal swinging-gate. "To thee! Louis. To thee! Maurice."

"Hark she calls you." At this moment Genevieve uttered the last cry. "Come," said she.

A furious uproar ascended from the crowd. The fair and graceful head had fallen. Maurice rushed forward. "It is exactly correct," said Louis; "let us follow logic. Are you listening, Maurice-"

"Yes."

"She loved you, and they have murdered her first: you are not condemned, and therefore die the second; and I, who have done nothing, being the greater criminal of the three, die the last. 'And thus you see 'tis all explained Through studying logic.' Ma foi, Citizen Sanson, I promised you a quatrain, but you must be content with a distich."

"I did love thee!" murmured Maurice, lying on the fatal plank, and smiling at the head of his beloved, "I did lo-" The knife cut short the last word. "Now for my turn," said Louis, bounding on the scaffold, "and be quick, or I shall lose my head. Citizen Sanson, I have committed bankruptcy for two verses, instead of which I offer you a pun." Sanson placed him in his turn. "Let us see," said Louis, "it is the fashion to cry long live something, when dying. Once it was, Vive le Roi, but now there is no king; then once the cry was, Vive la Liberte, but there is no more liberty. Ma foi, Long live Simon, who unites us all three." And the head of the generous and noble-hearted young man fell near those of Maurice and Genevieve.

THE END.

Title Info

author: Alexandre Dumas

title: Marie Antoinette Romances

Document Info

program used:  Book Designer 5.0

id: BD-C61ED2-DBA3-8C4E-A793-EC07-AFEB-4334B2

version: 1.0

This file was created with

BookDesigner program

bookdesigner@the-ebook.org

8/30/2009

Date:

8/30/2009