CHAPTER XV.

AN ELOPEMENT FROM A DILIGENCE.

But the non-existence of any one who would desire to see Squire Bullcott's removal avenged, promised eventual safety for Sir Hilary's person; and the general forgetfulness of things past would in time enable him to return home without risk of reviving interest in the affair at the Pelican, although he was forever officially branded by the coroner's verdict as having caused the death of Bullcott under circumstances to be further determined.

And now, at the fourth bottle, Sir Hilary insisted on repaying Mr. Wetheral, with interest, for having silenced the landlord of the Pelican. It seemed that Sir Hilary received plenty of money from his estate, and, being given to amusements of the country, knew not how to spend it on the pleasures of Paris. He required that Dick should go along immediately to a tailor's, and fit himself out handsomely, and Dick, seeing how much gratification the Englishman really took in this kind of generosity, made no protest. Nor did he object when the bountiful Berkshire baronet thrust upon him a well-filled purse. In those days, gentlemen had not the petty vanity of refusing to put themselves under obligations to one another. Without any affectation of pride, they readily accepted favors which they knew they would as readily bestow were conditions reversed.

So Dick remained Sir Hilary's guest at the hotel that day and night, and the next morning they took post-horses and rode to Samers, Sir Hilary's intention being to proceed in a leisurely way, seeing as much country and drinking as much wine as they could, to Paris. As for Dick, recalling that memorable afternoon's journey of his childhood, he considered now that the words of old Tom MacAlister had been those of an oracle, and that fate designed his road to lead to Paris, whatever plans he might make for himself.

Moreover, a definite purpose now formed in his mind, which purpose of itself called him Parisward. In the auberge at Samers, where Sir Hilary prolonged their stop to try thoroughly the wine of the country, Dick overheard a conversation between a voluble petit maître and a short-gowned Capuchin monk, in which the name of Washington instantly caught his ear. He soon found that the talk was on the American war, and that the talkers sympathized with the Americans. He learned that a recent daring blow struck by Washington at Trenton, and another victory, won at Princeton, had offset the effect of the British occupation of New York and the British victories connected therewith. He learned, too, that Franklin, a name spoken with as great honor at this little French inn as at home, had come to France as an agent of the Americans, and was now with his fellow agent, Mr. Silas Deane, at the Hotel d'Hambourg, in the Rue l'Université, in Paris. This news, at which Dick glowed inwardly, gave him the idea of offering his services to Franklin, to be used in any way and in any place proposable.

That same day the fellow travellers rode on, over the undulating country of the Boulonnois, by woods and streams, to Montreuil, where they had to give their names to a polite guard officer at the gates; leaped from their horses at the sign of the Crown of France, paid their post, and took lodging for the night.

Sir Hilary promptly ordered a roasted capon, a fricasseed hare, a wild duck, a salad, and a flask of Burgundy, the two gentlemen having chosen a table at a window. While they sat eating, they saw drive up to the inn a lumbering four-wheeled carriage, which let out a severe, stately, slender old lady, a demure-looking, black-eyed girl of seventeen, and a gaunt, gray-haired man-servant, in well-worn livery. Waiting while the old lady oversaw the removal of several ancient portmanteaus, the girl looked with indifferent curiosity at the inn. Her eyes, swiftly moving, met Dick's through the window, and rested a moment,—a moment only, but time sufficient to give him that sensation which fine eyes, so encountered, usually produce. The girl soon looked elsewhere, the old lady led the way into the inn, and the carriage moved off. Dick saw no more of the black-eyed girl that evening, yet he did not forget that she was under the same roof with him.

The next morning, at breakfast, Sir Hilary raised the question as to what means of conveyance they should next take. At that moment, Dick saw the gray-haired man-servant taking out the ladies' luggage to the Paris diligence, which great, unshapely vehicle, drawn by gaunt horses, now stood before the door.

"What conveyance?" echoed Dick. "How can you ask? Why, the diligence, of course!"

And there was more haste than Sir Hilary saw the need of, in finishing the breakfast, paying the bill, and getting Sir Hilary's baggage down-stairs in time to make sure of not being left behind.

Dick and Sir Hilary had been aboard some minutes, before the ladies appeared. Dick leaped out and gave his hand to them, the old lady first, to assist them into the diligence. The old lady bowed, but looked distrustful; the girl said, "Merci, monsieur," in a low but appreciative voice, and turned her eyes on his for a considerable part of a second. Dick took a seat where he could get a view of the girl's face without staring directly at her, and the diligence rumbled off with many a violent jolt.

"They call these machines turgotines," said Sir Hilary, alluding to the diligence, and speaking in French purposely to be heard by the other passengers, "because they were introduced during the ministry of Monseer Turgot, but if I were Monseer Turgot I shouldn't be proud on that account."

A Picardy abbé replying with a polite question as to stage-coaches in England, the conversation soon became general. One of the passengers was an old lieutenant who had served in Canada, and, through some remark of his, the American war became the topic,—a topic at that time held in far greater interest throughout Europe than Dick had imagined it would be. A difference arising among the passengers as to the relative situations of Boston and Philadelphia, Dick undertook to set them right; but his statement was doubted by the majority. Thereupon, the black-eyed girl, who had of course kept silent hitherto, spoke out in a somewhat embarrassed manner, confirming Dick's assertion.

"Thanks, mademoiselle!" said Dick, gratefully. "The word of mademoiselle must be final, ladies and gentlemen,—she is doubtless more recently from school than any of us."

Mademoiselle smiled slightly, and said no more, the old lady's look being directed at her in severe rebuke.

The stop for dinner caused a rearrangement of the passengers as to the places in the diligence. Dick now found himself beside the dark-eyed girl, at whose other hand, in a corner, sat the old lady. At Dick's other side was Sir Hilary. The ladies' man-servant was outside. Having dined heavily, Sir Hilary fell asleep before the coach had gone far. And, to Dick's unexpected pleasure, the old lady, after several preliminary nods, followed the fox-hunter's example. The other passengers became engrossed in the adventures of the lieutenant and the comic stories of the abbé.

"Have you ever been in America, mademoiselle," said Dick, softly, "that you are so well informed about its towns?"

"No, monsieur," she answered, in as low a tone as his, "but, as you said, I am very recently from school. I have often studied the maps at the convent I left but yesterday."

The conversation thus entered upon continued during the whole afternoon, and was marked by an uninterrupted progress in mutual acquaintance and confidence. Under certain conditions, and between congenial persons, a closer intimacy may be reached in a half day's fellow-travelling than may otherwise be attained in a lifetime of occasional meetings. By the time the diligence neared Abbeville la Pucelle, Dick was the young lady's confidant as to these facts:

She was leaving her convent school to be married in Paris to a Chevalier of St. Louis, whom she regarded with aversion for the reason that he was almost old enough to be her grandfather. The marriage had been arranged by her father, an officer of the regiment of Picardy, whose sister was the old lady now taking her to Paris. With such antipathy and dread did the girl look forward to the marriage, that she had almost dared to meditate rebellion and flight, for she was not closely attached to her father, whose military duties kept him away from her, and she inherited from her dead mother a moderate fortune that could not be alienated from her. But she was under the domination of her aunt, who had helped arrange the marriage, the girl's father being on service.

"What else can I do?" she asked Dick, helplessly. "I dare not disobey my aunt, I have not the courage to resist her. I have felt like one half dead, since I left the convent, and in that condition I shall be led passively through it all, till I find myself—oh, how can I endure it?"

"You shall not!" said Dick, with impulsive eagerness to play the chivalrous part. "You must not! I will save you from the intolerable fate!"

The girl looked at him in wonder. "If you could!" she whispered slowly, half in despair, half in newly risen hope.

At that moment, the diligence coming to a stop at the post inn at Abbeville, the aunt showed signs of waking. "Rely on me, I shall not desert you!" whispered Dick, and then very gallantly stooped and restored a handkerchief dropped by the aunt in the act of waking.

That evening, while Sir Hilary celebrated in many bumpers the beauty of the girls of Abbeville, Dick thought over the situation of her whose eyes made the Abbeville virgins colorless and uninteresting. The only practicable way for her to avoid the marriage was by physical flight. She might become a nun, but Dick could not tolerate the idea of so much charm buried for life in a convent, and she herself had not spoken of such a refuge. She might have friends or relations who would shelter and conceal her in her rebellion. But if this were not the case she would have only the protection and guidance of Dick, and there was but one condition on which she could accept those with safety to her honor. Well, Dick was not a man to turn back after having given his assurance; the girl was certainly charming and amiable, she had a small fortune to ensure her own comfort, and the thought of her perturbing glances reserved exclusively for some other man filled Dick with a kind of chagrin. Moreover, her name was Collette, and she looked the name.

The next day he got no chance to speak to her until the afternoon. Then, protected as before by the slumbering aunt on one side and the drowsy baronet on the other, the young people resumed their conversation. Was she still as much opposed to the marriage as ever? Oh, decidedly, far more so!—with a little terrified look at Dick. Had she any friends to whom she might go? None who would not betray her. No refuge whatever in mind? None whatever. Would she risk her father's displeasure and her aunt's, provided there were some one to stand between her and that displeasure? Why, yes, if such a situation were possible,—anything rather than the marriage. Would she be resigned to a marriage with a younger gentleman? Why, yes, if—that is to say—if—

"If," said Dick, in low tones, but with all due signs of feeling, "if the gentleman were an American, carried from his country by the wind of circumstance, with nothing in the world but the clothes on his back, a few louis in his pocket, and some land in the wilderness of Pennsylvania, but with a prospect of honorable employment for his country on reaching Paris, and with a hand that could be turned to anything and would ever be devoted to your honor and happiness?"

She raised her eyes, which had been lowered, and in meeting his their jetty brilliance took a humid softness as she answered, gently, "Is it of yourself that you speak, monsieur?"

So it was agreed upon, while the diligence rumbled past a gentle hillside crowned by a fair chateau flanked by oak woods. When they came in sight of the oak-topped ramparts of Amiens, their plans were complete. Dick was to have a hired carriage and post-horses ready near the inn, and Collette was to join him at the inn door as soon as her aunt and the servant should be abed. Riding all night and part of the next day, they could defy pursuit, and carry out their purpose at leisure. Though they should continue towards Paris, there would be no danger of being overtaken, especially by the diligence, which, because of bad weather and bad roads, was then making smaller than the usual daily stages, as any one acquainted with the country traversed will have seen. Dick preferred not yet to take Sir Hilary into confidence; he knew where to communicate with the baronet in due time in Paris.

Amiens was a large town with fine streets of well-built houses, and with a beautiful cathedral containing the head of John the Baptist; but Dick had no eye for these things on this occasion. At the inn Sir Hilary met two officers of the regiment of the Prince of Condé, on leave, and was soon lost in conversation and champagne, so that Dick was free to make his arrangements.

Fortunately, the purse pressed upon Dick by the baronet in Boulogne was still nearly full. He obtained a carriage from the diligence company, and two horses and a postilion from the postman at the inn. Soon after supper, while he paced before the inn door, in the cold evening, the cloaked and hooded figure of Collette appeared from within, noiselessly; whereupon he took her hand, and the pair hastened like ghosts to the waiting carriage, which rattled away with them a minute later. A twenty-four-sous piece, handed to the sentinel, caused the city gates, which had been closed for the night, to fly open, and the jack-booted postilion was soon swearing and singing, and whipping his horses, in the open country, on the road to Chantilly. Inside the carriage, the two young people sat silent, the girl perhaps trembling now and then at thought of the leap she had taken into the unknown, Dick somewhat sobered at the responsibility he had so speedily assumed. But he was, as usual, ready for anything, and often he pressed her hand to reassure her.

It was the night of Thursday, February 27, 1777. Evening had set in with increasing cold and a howling wind. Engrossed in their thoughts, Dick and Collette for two or three hours noticed not that the wind was constantly gaining in force and fury. Suddenly the carriage stopped, there was a brief wait, and the door was flung open.

"It is impossible to go farther to-night, monsieur," said the postilion, thrusting in his head. "One of the horses has cast a shoe and is very lame."

"But we must go on," said Dick. "It is a matter of life and death."

"It is simply impossible," said the postilion, stubbornly.

"It cannot be impossible. Have I not paid half the post hire in advance?"

"Monsieur can go on, in the morning. There is an auberge a little distance ahead, where he and madame can pass the night. I will find a smith and have the horse shod in time to set out early."

"Are you sure it is the lameness of the horse, that moves you, or a desire to get indoors from the cold?" queried Dick.

"Monsieur l'Anglois has the privilege of thinking as it may please him. Will he have me drive to the auberge, or will he remain here in the road all night?"

"Let him drive to the auberge, for heaven's sake!" whispered Collette, somewhat terrified.

The auberge, when reached, proved to be a miserable hut of three apartments,—stable, kitchen, and common sleeping-room. The host and his wife, visible by light of candle and by kitchen fire, were an evil-looking pair.

"Oh," said Collette, drawing back from the doorway, "I can never stay here!"

"There is no other place," said the postilion, with an impudent grin.

"I will find another place," said Dick, beginning to feel ugly towards the postilion. "I see a light on the hill yonder. It comes from the window of a chateau. Such a house will not refuse us hospitality, my Collette! You will drive us to that house, fellow!" And Dick lifted Mademoiselle Collette into the carriage.

"I will not drive one step!" said the postilion, insolently, with a careless crack of his whip.

Dick looked at the fellow a moment, strode up to him, wrenched the whip from his hand by an unexpected movement, and struck him two quick blows across the face with it.

"Drive us to that house!" said Dick.

The postilion mounted, without a word, and Dick, retaining the whip, joined Collette inside the carriage.

At the chateau, while Collette remained in the carriage, Dick got out to speak to the servant who opened the door in response to the postilion's knock. Dick so framed his message to the master of the house, that the latter himself came to the door, Dick remaining outside to guard Collette and the carriage. The master of the house, lighted by the candles in the entrance-hall, was an elderly gentleman, tall and slender, with a bright eye and a face at once kindly, distinguished, and intellectual.

"Monsieur," said Dick, in as good French as he could command, "a circumstance has made it impossible for me to continue to-night a journey I began in that carriage a few hours ago. The only inn near at hand is one where it would be equally impossible for the lady whom I have the honor to protect, to pass the night. The lady is now in the carriage, and—"

"Monsieur need say no more," replied the gentleman, in a most courteous and sympathetic tone. "My house shall be the lady's inn and your own. There is no hostess yet to welcome her, but fortunately there is a maid, whom I shall send immediately. As for you, monsieur, when you have seen the lady cared for, Etienne will show you, if you choose, to the room in which I shall be at supper. The lady will doubtless prefer to sup in her own apartment."

"I thank you, monsieur, but we have supped already. I will do myself the honor to join you, nevertheless, and make myself better acquainted with so courteous a gentleman."

The gentleman smiled, bowed, and disappeared through an inner door. Dick returned to Collette.

"A maid will come for you in a moment," said he. "Our host is a most charming gentleman, both in act and in appearance."

"I did not look out of the carriage to see him," said Collette, taking Dick's hand and stepping to the ground. "Why, how strange that I should be a guest at this house! I recognize it now. It is one that I have often noticed while riding past in the road below. I have always wished I might live in it."

A maid now appeared at the doorway. Collette took leave of Dick for the night, saying she desired nothing further and would defer till morning her meeting with the master of the house. Dick thereupon sent the shivering postilion, with horses, carriage, and whip, back to the auberge, and asked Etienne, the servant who had let him in, and who still stood in the entrance-hall, to show him to the supper table.

In a richly furnished room, softly lighted by wax candles, and warmed by fragrant fagots in a small fireplace, he found his considerate host seated at a well-filled table, opposite a round-faced priest, still under middle age, who beamed with merriment and good nature. Dick announced his name, and was thereupon introduced to the Abbé Foyard by the master of the house, who then said:

"Monsieur will pardon me, I am sure, if I adhere—merely for the sake of habit—to the incognito I am preserving in this neighborhood at present. I do not wish my name to get abroad as the new purchaser of this estate."

"My obligations are no less for my not knowing to whom they are due, monsieur," said Dick, taking the seat to which his host motioned him, at the table. He would eat nothing, but he would drink some wine, and he joined in a toast of Burgundy, proposed by the Abbé, with a twinkling eye, to "Madame la Comtesse that is to be."

From the fact that in the ensuing conversation the Abbé addressed the master of the house as Monsieur le Comte, Dick soon understood the toast, the Abbé's look of sly merriment, and the half pleased, half chiding expression of the Count himself. The bottle went round often, and the talk became unconstrained. Dick made it known that he was an American, whereupon he was plied with many questions concerning the war, and particularly concerning the personality of Washington. The Count then said he had seen that great philosopher, Franklin, in Paris, honored by beautiful women and celebrated men, among whom he appeared in his plain coat, as if the simplicity of the ancient sages had been in him revived.

"It is in the hope of meeting him," said Dick, "that I am now on the way to Paris."

"Then you have a pleasure very near at hand," said the Count.

"I trust it is near at hand," said Dick. "It may be delayed by another matter that must intervene,—also a pleasure."

"You speak and look as if it were a matter of some doubt or difficulty," said the Count. "If I can be of assistance—"

"I thank you, monsieur, but it is a matter in which the aid of Monsieur l'Abbé would be more to the point."

"Command me, monsieur," put in the Abbé. "My aid is for whoever asks it."

"I begin to understand," said the Count, with a kindly smile. "The lady in the carriage—"

"Precisely," said Dick. "Monsieur le Comte is very penetrating."

"Oh, no, very stupid, usually," said the Count. "But at present there is a reason why my perception is keen wherever a love affair or a marriage is concerned."

"Then it is true, as the toast of Monsieur l'Abbé indicated, that you also are about to achieve happiness? We have to felicitate each other!"

"Yes, it is true. And so great is my happiness that I would have the whole world happy at the same time. I was saying this to the Abbé only an hour ago, and wishing for opportunities to make others similarly happy, when, behold, the good God grants my wish by sending you to my door. You would have the aid of the Abbé, you say? Very well. I use the power I have over the Abbé's actions, through his affection for me, to compel his aid in your behalf."

"But that is not necessary," said the Abbé. "You know I dote upon runaway matches. I need not apologize, Monsieur Wetheral,—one can easily see, by the circumstances, that yours is a runaway match. It is therefore a love match."

"You are right, Monsieur l'Abbé. The young lady was to have been sacrificed, according to the custom that prevails everywhere but in my country. Her horror at the match arranged for her would have distressed you, gentlemen, if you could have witnessed it."

"I am sure it would have distressed me," said the Count. "But it is now averted, and need be thought of no more. The Abbé shall perform your marriage before you leave my roof, under which you are safe from all pursuit."

"Imagine Monsieur le Comte aiding and abetting a runaway marriage a year ago!" said the Abbé, with a roguish smile.

"The Abbé is right, young gentleman. A year ago I should no more have thought of violating a universal custom of our civilization than of joining a conspiracy against the King. But a year ago I had not loved. I knew not what it might be for a man to see the woman he loved given into the possession of another. I now consider love as having first right. It is to be obeyed against all other considerations. Moreover, if I now do Love a service in aiding this match of yours, Love will owe me a favor. It may repay me by—giving me—" The Count ceased talking, and sighed.

"Monsieur le Comte has a strange fancy he does not receive back as much love as he bestows," explained the Abbé, gently. "He does not allow for the lady's youth, which makes her naturally shy and undemonstrative in his presence."

"I am sure there can be no reason for his fancy," said Dick, glancing with genuine admiration at the singularly noble and gentle countenance of his host.

"And if there were," said the Abbé, noting that the Count still looked pensive, "what woman's heart could continue long unsusceptible to such munificence? What think you of this château, with its princely parks, as a wedding present, monsieur,—a little surprise, after the jewels, the house in Paris, and the other trinkets shall have been surveyed? Do you not think that, if anything be wanting to make the lady's heart respond, it will be supplied when she is told that she is mistress of this house, which, as Monsieur le Comte has learned, she has coveted since her childhood?"

Dick's thought that the Abbé knew less of how women are constituted than abbés are supposed to know, was suddenly driven out by another thought,—that it was strange two young ladies should both have coveted this château since childhood.

"You now understand," said the Count to Dick, "my desire to remain unknown as the purchaser of this place. I would not have the news reach her ears and spoil the surprise. And I congratulate myself on being here, superintending the last alterations, and on having brought the Abbé with me as company; for that your love match may be somewhat facilitated through us. Come, Abbé, rejoice with me that we are enabled to serve love, and to baffle those who would do it violence! What greater crime can there be than to force a girl to a marriage of interest? Your rival, monsieur, will deserve his discomfiture! I should really like to witness his chagrin. To conspire selfishly, with a young girl's natural protectors, against her happiness! Yes, it pleases me to think how crestfallen he will be! Monsieur, you have drunk already to my future countess; let us drink now to the lady whom the Abbé shall unite to you in this house at whatever time she may select!"

The toast was drunk heartily, and Dick, letting his eyes rove lazily among the many signs of wealth and luxurious comfort in the room, inwardly contrasted the possible future of the girl whose fate he was to take in charge, with that of her whose destiny was to be in the keeping of the rich and generous Count.

"To think that her house should serve the romantic purpose of a runaway love match!" said the Count, with a smile. "It will amuse Collette."

Dick turned pale. "Collette!" he echoed. "You said Collette!"

"That is the first name of the lady who is to be my wife," explained the Count. "Why does it startle you?"

"Oh, because I have heard that name so recently. My own fiancée has a friend of that name,—a schoolmate, at a convent somewhere near Montreuil."

"'Tis the very same!" cried the Count, with great pleasure. "To think, Abbé, that we should be of service to one of her friends! That surely will delight her!"

"But," faltered Dick, "is it certain? There may be two of that name at the same convent. The one of whom I speak has left it very recently, with her aunt—"

"It is she!" said the Count, more and more rejoiced at corroborative details. "She ought to be at this moment at Abbeville or Amiens, on the way to Paris to be married. She will pass this house and look up at it, wishing it were hers, as she has so often done, and never dreaming I am here making it ready for her! Yes, there can be no doubt, it is the same Collette,—Mademoiselle de Sarton!"

When Dick was shown to a round chamber in a turret-shaped corner of the château that night, he asked for pen, ink, and paper, saying he always wrote his letters late. By the light of a small candelabra, and after much thought and many beginnings, he composed two documents before he went to bed.

At earliest dawn he dressed and went down-stairs, told the only servant he found up that he was going for a short walk, and left with the servant the two letters, each to be taken to the chamber of its intended recipient. Then Dick hastened to the auberge where his horses and postilion had passed the night.

One letter was to Collette, and read as follows:

"Mademoiselle:

"You are now in your own house, which you have so long wished to possess. Its master, the noblest, kindest, and handsomest gentleman in the world, with boundless will and means to make you happy, is he from whom I, a worthless adventurer with neither possessions nor prospects, would have taken you, in my ignorance and folly. You should thank God for your escape and for giving you a husband such as Monsieur le Comte, whose years have but added to his graces and his merits. I have written him to such effect that he will understand all, and that, when he comes to greet you, nothing will be necessary on your part but for you to give him your hand, and offer your brow for the caress which a princess might be rejoiced and honored to receive."

The other letter was to the Count himself, and, whatever it contained, there is plentiful record, in the family history of the Counts de Rollincourt, to show that it accomplished its purpose. By the time the aunt of Mlle. de Sarton reached the newly bought estate of the Count de Rollincourt, in mad search of her fugitive niece, servants were in waiting at the road to conduct her to the château, where her amazement to find the Count in possession was promptly doubled on seeing Collette installed as mistress,—for, if the Count's little surprise was spoiled, his plan of having the Abbé Foyard perform an impromptu marriage was carried out, after all.

Meanwhile, long before this happy issue of affairs, Dick Wetheral had roused the cowed postilion and set out on horseback towards Paris, leaving the carriage to be taken back when the postilion should return. Dismissing this postilion at the first post, he took new horses, and, riding all day, despite weather and bad roads, he arrived at evening at St. Denis, and dismounted at the principal inn,—tired, hungry, and bespattered with mud. Before going to bed, he sent for a servant to give his clothes a thorough cleaning, that he might in the morning make his triumphal entry into Paris in a state of attire befitting so important an event. When his head rested on the pillow, it was with a pleasant thrill at the realization that his road, roundabout as it had been, had indeed led him to the very portals of Paris, and that it would take him across those portals on the early morrow.

He little knew in what manner he was to cross those portals, how he was to pass through the city yet see it not, and what a vast loop his road was to describe, over strange perils and through wild heart-burnings, ere it should land him in Paris with free feet and open eyes.

CHAPTER XVI.

PASTORAL AND TRAGEDY.

He went in the morning to the famous abbey church where the kings of France were buried; and after that he walked to the banks of the Seine, whose waters sparkled in the sunlight or flowed green beneath the trees along the edge. Doing as he saw some others do, Dick hired a boat, with a boatman, and started to row up the Seine,—that is to say, southward, towards St. Ouen and the more immediate environs of Paris.

Keeping to the right or eastern bank of the river, the boat had reached a place between an island and a terraced park, when it was suddenly run into by a larger craft, which contained a pleasure party rowing down the river. Dick's boat was upset, and himself thrown out in such a way that he had to dive to save his head from collision. He made a few powerful strokes under water, to put himself clear of the boats, and when he came to the surface he found that his boatman had been taken aboard by the pleasure party and was proceeding down the river, the smaller boat in tow. There was evidently no intention, on any one's part, to pick up Dick.

"French politeness, in the lower classes, is so thick on the top that there's none left at bottom," thought Dick, thus abandoned; and then he struck out for the noble park that rose on the right bank of the river. Thanks to the evergreens among its trees, and to its grass streaked here and there with sunshine, this park had even now a verdant appearance, and it was made inviting by little pavilions and summer-houses here and there, and by glimpses of a charming château in its midst.

Dick had no sooner clambered ashore and risen to let the water drip from his clothes, than a slender girl, eleven years old, came out of a summer-house, carrying a cane, as was the fashion of the time, and accompanied on one side by a footman who held a parasol over her, and on the other by a large, bounding black dog. She had an extremely intelligent face, the hair turning back from a thoughtful forehead. Her manner and, as Dick soon found out, her speech were those of a woman twice her age.

"Monsieur has been emulating Leander," said this young lady of eleven, the instant she was within speaking distance of Dick, one glance of her fine eyes having enabled her to estimate him to her own satisfaction.

Surprised at such a speech, made with such nonchalance by such a child, Dick gazed for a moment in silence. She bore his gaze with perfect sang-froid. So he said, smiling:

"It would be worth while, if mademoiselle were the daughter of Sestos."

"Has monsieur swum all the way from England?" asked the girl, evidently to show that she recognized his way of speaking French.

"Mademoiselle mistakes, doubtless for the first time in her life," said Dick. "I am an American, and if I have not swum all the way from America, I am at least as wet as if I had."

"Monsieur is indeed a veritable rain-storm. Alphonse, show monsieur to a room where he may dry his clothes. If he went home in them as they are, he might catch cold,—America is some distance away. You may leave me alone,—yonder comes Monsieur Marmontel."

The footman, resigning to her the parasol at a gesture, immediately led Dick, over gravel walks flanked by lime-trees and foliage, to a side entrance of the handsome house, and thence up-stairs to a chamber, in which another servant soon started a fire. After taking off his clothes to dry them, Dick donned a dressing-gown brought him by the footman. The chamber having been placed entirely at his service, he made use of its toilet articles to restore his best appearance. This done, and his clothes dried, he put them on again, and went out the way he had come, looking around, when he reached the front of the house, for some one to thank.

"The weather has changed as to monsieur," came a voice from a clump of shrubs, and the girl stepped into view, attended, as before, by the footman.

"It is true, mademoiselle. I no longer weep tears of Seine water. Instead, I smile in my heart with gratitude. May I know to whom my thanks are due? I am—"

"No, no, do not say who you are! One is far more interesting who remains unknown, and I am dying to meet an interesting person."

"I am sure mademoiselle would remain interesting, even if I knew her name."

"No, for as long as you don't know me I shall be just as interesting to you as your imagination can make me. Besides, the luxury of being unknown, at St. Ouen, where everybody knows me, is refreshing. It makes me seem another person."

She had led the way farther from the château while talking, and now she sat down on a rustic bench, and motioned Alphonse to take away the parasol. Dick saw no reason for an immediate departure, so he stood behind the bench, looking now at the girl, now at the large trees on the terrace.

"Do you know, an idea has come to me," said the girl, when Alphonse had taken his station some distance away. The dog now came bursting through some leafless foliage, and stood beside her, receiving her light caresses while the conversation went on.

"If ideas are as uncommon in France as they are elsewhere," said Dick, "you will be famous."

"I shall doubtless be famous some day, but not through this idea. It is not original. The Abbé Raynal and I used to amuse ourselves by means of it, but I knew all the while that he was the Abbé Raynal, and he knew that I was Germaine—mon Dieu, I nearly spoiled all by telling my name!"

"Germaine," repeated Dick. "I shall remember that, at least."

"I give you permission to remember it, only on condition that you promise not to find out who I am, or whose house this is."

"Very well. After all, I like mystery. I promise."

"So much the better. This is the idea. When I was younger, I used to have a little make-believe theatre, with miniature actors that I cut out of paper. The Abbé overheard me one day rehearsing them in a little comedy I had written, and offered to act with me whatever pieces required only two characters. We began with a piece containing a shepherd and a shepherdess, and, from acting that, we went a step farther, and continued to pretend that we were the shepherds, carrying out the illusion without premeditated speech or action. The Abbé had done similar things at Sceaux, in the time of the Duchess du Maine."

"I have read of the French nobility having amused themselves in that way," said Dick.

"Yes, when all the world was reading 'Astrée,' and a hundred years later, when Watteau and the opera brought shepherds into fashion again," replied this youthful prodigy of information. "It was a charming amusement, was it not? But the trouble was, when we attempted it, that no amount of imagination could transform the Abbé, with his 'History of the Two Indies' in mind, into a shepherd. You understand, I knew him so well. But you, of whom I know nothing, and who have come into my view in so strange a manner—"

"More like a river god than like a shepherd," commented Dick.

"Oh, shepherds often fell into brooks! Nothing could be more in character. Well, we are to play that you are a shepherd called—not Celadon; we sha'n't take our names from d'Urfé,—let me think—"

"Silvius," suggested Dick, remembering the shepherds of Arden, in Shakespeare.

"Yes, Silvius is a good name. And I shall be Amaryllis."

"And where are the sheep?"

"We shall have to imagine the sheep at present, though I can obtain some easily enough. Well, you shall come every day in a boat, in the afternoon, and I will be waiting somewhere near the place at which you landed this morning."

"And must I come as wet as I was this morning?"

"No. You shall be a dry shepherd hereafter. Come about two o'clock, if the weather is clear; but remember, I am not to know where you come from, or whither you go when you leave, any more than you are to know who I am. Now, that is all settled! Till to-morrow, Silvius!"

"But how am I to get home to-day? Would you have me swim?"

"No. Alphonse will show you out by the gate to-day, and you can go by land to your lodge,—remember, shepherds dwell in lodges. But after this you will come in a boat, and leave it at the shore to return by. So, till to-morrow, Silvius!"

"Till to-morrow, Amaryllis!" said Dick, with a bow not very shepherd-like. Obedient to a word from the girl, Alphonse, who had heeded nothing of her talk if he had heard it, conducted Dick past the house and through more of the park, to a gate, which opened on a tree-lined avenue. Dick turned to the left, and a walk of about a mile and a half brought him to St. Denis, where he dined and spent the rest of the day thinking of his odd adventure.

He found himself looking forward to the next day with pleasure. The bright face and the expressive eyes seemed to draw him back towards St. Ouen. He could not get them out of his mind. The knowledge of their proximity gave the whole neighborhood a new life and charm. He no longer wished to hasten from that neighborhood. Paris no longer lured him as with irresistible seductions. He found it now quite easy to tarry at the very threshold of the city.

"Can it be possible," he thought, "that I am falling in love with this child?"

He knew not that men twice and thrice his age—great men, whose names sounded through the world of philosophy and letters—had asked themselves the same question, regarding the same child.

The next morning, Dick visited one or two small shops in St. Denis, and added to his meagre supply of linen, handkerchiefs, and hosiery. Considering the small stock of money he had left, this was a piece of extravagance, but he counted on immediate employment by Mr. Franklin, on reaching Paris. Such is the confidence of youth.

In the afternoon he hired a boat, this time without a boatman, and rowed alone to the appointed landing-place. As soon as he had made his boat fast, he saw his shepherdess approaching down the terrace, herself carrying the parasol, the footman standing back within hearing distance.

"Good day, Amaryllis!" he called out.

"Good day, Silvius! Follow me to my lodge." She led the way to a rustic open summer-house veiled by a clump of trees, the smaller ones forming a semicircle that enclosed a sunlit, grassy space descending gradually from the summer-house to a row of shrubs that grew along the river.

"This is my lodge," she said, sitting on the bench that ran around the inside of the structure.

Dick sat on the step at the entrance, near her feet, and said, glancing at the clear space before them:

"I see your lodge is situated so that you can sit in it and keep your sheep in sight while they graze."

"Yes, this spot is their favorite pasture, as you can see."

Dick looked at the invisible sheep dotting the clean sward. "So I perceive. But let me understand. Is this flock yours alone, or are my sheep also here?"

"Oh, you have left your flock on your own hillside, and have come up the stream to see me. Neglectful shepherd!"

"When a shepherd neglects his own sheep, and hies to the lodge of a neighboring shepherdess, you know what it is a sign of," said Dick.

"It is a sign that he likes to gossip."

"No; it is a sign that Cupid is at work."

Amaryllis blushed ever so slightly, but seemed pleased, and did not lose her composure. "Well, to be sure, that is what invariably occurs between shepherds and shepherdesses. I suppose there is no way of getting around it."

"Not when Amaryllis is the shepherdess, by Jupiter!" said Dick, with genuine enthusiasm.

So the game went on, and, whether or not it was all fun with Amaryllis, it soon became half in earnest with Silvius. By a miracle, the balmy weather, a premature promise of spring, lasted a week. Every day Silvius came to the tryst, and, when he did not find Amaryllis waiting, he had not long to wait for her. They strolled along the wooded banks of the Seine, fancying those banks to be now those of the Lignon, now those of the Tiber, now those of some Hellenic or Sicilian stream.

Sometimes a dainty luncheon, set out in the lodge or under the trees, varied the monotony of this shepherd life. Sometimes the conversation rose far out of the ken of ordinary shepherds, and invaded such subjects as philosophy and religion, sentiment and the passions, art and letters, music and the drama. Amaryllis described the acting of LeKain, and Silvius gave an account of the last appearance of Garrick, which Dick had witnessed from the first gallery of Drury Lane Theatre the previous June 10th, when the English actor played "Don Felix" in "The Wonder" and made a farewell speech that drew tears from himself and his brilliant audience. But Dick learned far more than he could impart. His week of make-believe pastoral was an education, and did more to fit him for the fine world than all his former years had done. Of course that week had results of the heart as well as of the intellect.

One afternoon, the second Tuesday of their acquaintance, after they had sat some time at the lodge in silence, Dick gazing pensively at the green space before him, he let his thought take the form of speech:

"After all, when you are eighteen I shall be only twenty-six."

"That will be seven years from now," she said, lightly. "Seven years is a very long time."

"So much the better. It gives a man like me time to attain a position worthy of a woman like you."

"Oh, position, rank, and that sort of thing, what are they, after all? Have you heard what the Empress of Russia said to Monsieur Diderot? You know that by devoting himself to the encyclopædia, Monsieur Diderot has kept himself poor, and his threadbare coat is no affectation. Well, Catherine II., aware of this, and appreciating the great sacrifice made in the interest of knowledge, bought Monsieur Diderot's library at a fine price, and then ordered it left in Paris, and appointed him her librarian to take care of it. Monsieur Diderot went to St. Petersburg four years ago, to thank her in person, and while he was there Catherine and he got into many disputes on questions of philosophy. One day Diderot hinted that he was at a disadvantage in arguing with the Empress of all the Russias. 'Nonsense,' said Catherine, 'is there any difference between men?'"

Dick sighed, perceiving that she had sought to divert him from the topic he had broached. He rowed back to St. Denis that evening an unmistakably love-sick youth. He could hardly wait for the next afternoon, that he might renew the subject at any hazard.

On the morrow, to his dismay, the sky was dark, and chill winds were blowing. Spring, having thrust her sunny face in at the door too soon, had been frightened far away, and might never have been present, so different was to-day's world from yesterday's. Dick resolved, nevertheless, to make his usual voyage.

Rain had already begun to fall on the agitated surface of the river, when he landed at the park. He hastened to the lodge and found it empty. How bleak and utterly forlorn the place now seemed! How disconsolate in heart was Dick! Well, he ought not to have expected her on such a day. He gazed with a heavy sigh at the spot where she usually sat.

What was that white thing, lying under a pebble, on that very spot? Dick seized it eagerly, saw the name "Silvius" written on it, opened it out hastily with trembling fingers. It was indeed a note, written in a charming hand, and signed "Amaryllis." His disappointment turned to gladness,—for the first sight of the beloved's handwriting, addressed to oneself, is as good as an interview,—and he read:

"For a few days I must be away, yet Silvius will come as usual to the lodge, will he not? On the day of her return, he will find Amaryllis waiting. Since I last saw Silvius I have been thinking. It is true, seven years is not a very long time!"

One knows, without being told, what demonstrations Silvius made over this letter, how often he re-read it, what other things he did to it, and where he finally bestowed it as he returned to his boat to row back to St. Denis. He scarcely knew what he was doing, as he pulled his boat out into the current, or how disturbed the river was, how heavily the rain came down. So overjoyed was he by the promise contained in the last line of the letter, that he was not cognizant of outward circumstances until he was half-way between St. Ouen and St. Denis. Then he became aware of the work of wind and water. He saw, moreover, that the day was as dark as late evening, and that all signs were growing more threatening every minute.

"The devil!" thought he. "This is not a time for taking chances, now that such prospects await me. I must guard my life and health, and achieve great things during those seven years."

He therefore rowed to an old, abandoned landing, which led to a ruined garden, within whose crumbling walls stood a deserted house of rough gray stone. On Dick's first row up the river, he had been told by the boatman that this house had long been unoccupied.

Making his boat fast to a wooden spile, Dick went through the half unhinged, half opened gate which was partly sunk into the earth, and up the weed-grown garden walk, to the house. The door yielded to his pressure, and he passed through a bare, dark, damp, mouldy corridor, into a room whose windows opened on the garden. Though otherwise empty, this room contained an old oak table, and several rough wooden chairs. Dick sat down and waited for the storm to abate.

The doors and windows creaked, the wind sighed through the corridors and chambers overhead, the rains beat on what glass remained in the casements. But what was that other sound? Surely it was of the footsteps of men. Peering through the window, Dick saw forms approaching through the shrubbery, from a small side gate in the garden wall. These were, doubtless, the last of a party whose foremost members were already in the corridor.

The intruders came cautiously, but as if familiar with the place. Evidently some organized meeting was at hand in this empty house. Dick noticed the chairs and table anew. What were these men? A social club, a gang of thieves, or a band of conspirators? In any one of these cases Dick felt that he would be de trop. Manifestly the men were approaching the room in which he sat. They were already too near the door for him to escape unseen by the corridor. So he slipped into the wide, empty fireplace with which the room was provided, and whose rear was quite in shadow. A moment later three men entered the room.

Each took from beneath his cloak a bundle wrapped in cloth, and laid it on the table, then sat down and waited. Other men arrived, almost immediately, and the number kept increasing at short intervals until perhaps fifteen were gathered. Their conversation so far had consisted of brief remarks about the weather. They now sat in an irregular semicircle, facing the table. The man who had first entered arose and opened the bundles. The gray light of the stormy afternoon disclosed the contents of these bundles as three swords and several pistols.

"Messieurs," said the man who had risen,—an erect, powerful, handsome man of thirty,—"the hour is almost at hand. That all of us may participate in the intention, though but one of us may strike the blow, I am to describe fully the plan agreed upon by the Committee of Three. As each one of us is potentially the chosen arm of the Brotherhood in this honorable deed, it behooves each one to attend every detail as if he were, in fact, already the selected instrument."

The men sat in perfect silence, their eyes fixed upon the speaker, every attitude being that of breathless attention.

"In this silken bag," continued the orator, producing from beneath his cloak that which he mentioned, "are a number of beans. One of them is red, four are black, the others white. As soon as the plan of action shall have been made known, each man shall draw from the bag a single bean, in the order in which his name appears on our list. When all have drawn, and not till then, each man shall disclose his bean to view at the table. The possessor of the red bean will be God's choice for the performance of this holy mission. He shall choose one of these swords, which differ in weight and size, though all have been blessed and devoted to our righteous purpose. The four who hold black beans shall guide and guard the chosen instrument, both to protect him, and to assure the Brotherhood against the consequences of any possible weakness on his part. The holders of the white beans shall not act in the present task; but, in the improbable event of its failure, the whole Brotherhood shall assist the four, if necessary, as avengers against the brother who will have failed, as spies to seek him out should he hide, as hounds upon his track should he flee, as executioners to compass his death when he is brought before us. Is it agreed?"

"Agreed!" said every man, resolutely, with clenched fingers, set teeth, and gleaming eyes.

"The procedure shall be in this wise," went on the leader. "In an hour, a carriage will be waiting outside the gate of this garden. The chosen man, armed with the sword, shall be conducted to it by the four, each provided with two of these pistols. Two of the four shall enter the carriage with him, the other two shall take the place of the coachman, who will be dismissed. The carriage shall set forth at once. The Committee of Three has provided already for its passage through the barrier, unhindered by the revenue collectors. The carriage will proceed through the Faubourg de St. Denis, cross the boulevard, turn into the Rue Clery, and so continue to the corner of the Rue du Petit Carreau, at which corner, as we all know, the house is situated. The two gentlemen of the black bean, in the carriage, shall accompany him of the red bean to the door, their hands upon their pistols beneath their cloaks. When the servant responds to their knock, the chosen man shall give the name of Victor Mayet, and say that he must see Monsieur Necker immediately. Victor Mayet is a clerk in the General Control Office, and Necker will suppose he comes on a matter of urgent importance. Necker also will surely receive him alone. When the man enters, his two comrades shall return to the carriage, and wait for his reappearance. The man himself will keep his sword concealed until he is alone with Necker. At that moment, taking our enemy by surprise, he will thrust his sword into Necker's body as many times as may be necessary to assure its reaching a vital spot. So shall fall the haughty bourgeois Protestant, whom the King in his blindness has raised to the most powerful post in the land, and would doubtless soon, but for our intervention, raise higher; thus shall God's holy religion and the nobility of France obtain revenge and triumph at our hands."

There were murmurs of applause, repressed exclamations of "Vive le roi!" and other signs of intense enthusiasm.

"Then, messieurs, he whose arm shall have struck this glorious blow, shall hasten back to the carriage, and it shall be driven at once to my lodgings in the Rue St. Honore, which, though not large enough for such meetings as this, will serve as a hiding-place for the five gentlemen until news comes, from other sources than the chosen man himself, of the death of Necker. When such news comes, the four guards shall release the happy Instrument of the Brotherhood. Until such news comes, they shall guard him unremittingly; and, if it turn out that Necker still lives, the man who ought to have slain him shall die in his place, at the hands of the four. Thus are we assured against treason, weakness, or bungling, on the part of him whom God, in the guise of chance, shall elect to do our Brotherhood and France this service. Messieurs, each of you remembering that the red bean or a black one may fall to him, are you still agreed?"

The expressions of assent were as prompt and determined as before.

"Let us proceed at once to the drawing," said the leader.

"Pardon, brother," spoke up another. "It is so dark that, when we come to show what beans we have drawn, we shall hardly be able to distinguish the colors."

"Bring the candles, then, from the mantel to the table, and light them," said the leader.

Dick's heart underwent a sudden jump. Two men came straight for the fireplace. Accustomed, now, to the half darkness of the room, both descried his form vaguely, and at the same moment. "The devil! A spy!" cried one. The other drew a pistol of his own, and instantly brought it to bear.

"One moment!" cried Dick, stepping forth. "I am an unintentional intruder. Rather, it was you that intruded upon me. I had sought shelter here from the rain, when I heard you coming. Foolishly, thinking this might be a refuge of thieves, I hid in the fireplace, hoping to remain unseen till you had gone."

The assembled men, all of whom had risen, looked at Dick and then at one another.

"I quite believe you, monsieur," said the speaker of the meeting, courteously, after some moments, "not only because it is my gift to perceive when a man is telling the truth, but also because a spy would be sure of discovery in such a hiding-place. Nevertheless, you have overheard everything that has been said here this afternoon."

"How could I avoid doing so?" said Dick.

"I do not say it was a fault on your part to overhear, monsieur," said the other, whose authority over his comrades was manifestly so complete that they left the present matter entirely to him, only waiting with silent attention to carry out what orders he might give. "But what you have heard, you would doubtless feel called upon, sooner or later, to reveal, unless you were entirely of the same mind with us."

Here he paused, but Dick said nothing, for Dick did not choose to risk certain death by admitting that he would feel so called upon. After a moment, during which the speaker seemed to read Dick's thoughts, he went on:

"You might give us an assurance that you would remember nothing of what has passed here, but how could we let you go, on that assurance, monsieur? For, if you secretly meant to betray us, you would feel justified in giving that assurance, for the sake of your life and of defeating our purpose. Or, you might give your word in all honesty, and yet at some future time feel justified in breaking it. You can plainly see, monsieur, that there is nothing for us to do but to kill you on the spot—"

Dick read the quiet resolution in the speaker's eyes, and the more impetuous determination in the eyes of the others; considered his unarmed condition and the utter impossibility of a rush through the line of stalwart forms that encircled him; and thought of Amaryllis, the seven years, and the long and brilliant future that seemed about to burst like a soap-bubble in a moment.

"Or to receive you as a member of our Brotherhood," concluded the leader, calmly. Used to judging men instantly, he had doubtless estimated Dick as a gentleman worthy of membership.

Forgetting for the moment what this alternative entailed, seeing only the unexpected chance of life held out, Dick instantly grasped at the latter. "Very well, I will join," he said.

But the matter had to be thoroughly considered by the assembly, and there was a careful discussion of it for half an hour, while Dick sat silent before the table, on which, in the meantime, candles had been placed and lighted. During this talk, he began to realize all that he was taking on himself in joining what was neither more nor less than a secret society, whose present purpose was assassination. But a man with his life in his hand must seize the first means of gaining time that offers, and face each consequence when it occurs. The chances were in favor of his having nothing to do with the sanguinary affair to be immediately attempted; and he could probably give the Brotherhood the slip in the near future. In any case, it was impossible to prevent the attempt now under way, and the question as to whether he should eventually expose that attempt, was a river not to be crossed till he should come to it. Perhaps, after all, this Necker, whose name he knew only as that of Councillor of Finance and General Director of the Royal Treasury, was a rascal who merited death, as many public officials did; certainly the Brotherhood showed a humane disposition in considering an alternative by which Dick's life might be saved. Perhaps the removal of their chosen victim, even by death, would benefit humanity,—so little was Dick acquainted with matters of state.

Well, it was decided to admit him. He had to repeat a long oath after the leader, kiss one of the swords, which, having been blessed, served in place of a Bible, and sign his name at the foot of a list that the secretary produced from a leather bag, which that officer carried to and from the meetings, and which contained materials for what few records the society required.

"And now," said the leader, "it is growing late. The carriage will be at the gate at any moment. Let us draw for the honor that God holds ready for one of us."

He held the bag in his left hand, and thrust his right hand inside; when he withdrew the latter, he kept it closed, and passed silently, with the bag, from man to man; knowing, without reference to the list, in what order their names stood. Before this, he had put an additional white bean into the bag, having been provided with several surplus ones. Each man kept his hand closed on withdrawing it. When the bag reached Dick, there was only one bean left. He did as the others had done. Then, not a word being said, the leader laid aside the bag, and all pressed close to the table, which they quite surrounded. Every right hand was laid out, palm down, on the bare oak surface. The leader was the first to disclose.

"A black bean!" he cried. "That is something, at least! Who has the red one?"

Every eye turned with intense eagerness, from the bean immediately before it, to the beans right and left,—every eye but Dick Wetheral's, that is to say, for his remained fastened, with a kind of mild astonishment, on the palm of his hand, whereon lay a bean that was red.

"Come, brother," the leader was saying, when Dick at last looked up. "Choose a sword. I hear the carriage at the gate."

Before he had recovered from his bewilderment, Dick was passing through the rain, towards the gate, clasping one of the swords tightly beneath his coat. At his right arm was the leader, who carried one of the other two swords, as well as a pistol in each outer pocket; at the left arm was a second man, similarly armed. Two other men mounted the coachman's place.

"Which way, monsieur?" said one of these latter, in joking imitation of a driver, when Dick and his guards were seated in the dark carriage.

"The road to Paris," said the leader, and drew the coach door after him with a bang.