The Count de Meyrand and his horsemen wound slowly away from the door of the little cabaret, leaving Isabel de Brienne and her maid the only tenants of the place. Both were extremely tired; and the lady herself would have desired to lie down to rest at once rather than wait for the preparation of any kind of food, but that she was also anxious to converse over her situation with her attendant, and to see if, between them, they could not devise some plan of future conduct which might obviate the difficulties which surrounded her. She, therefore, did not even propose to take rest, and began the conversation at once; but, taciturn as the woman always was, she was at present more so than ever. There was not only a sort of sullenness in her manner, which somewhat displeased Isabel, but she spoke rather in the tone of one who had been injured than in compassion for the greater sufferings of her mistress. In answer to all inquiries regarding what had been done in the chapel after her lady had lost the power of observing what was passing, she replied merely that she had been as frightened as anybody, and thought of nobody but herself.

"You seem to be grieved, Marguerite," said Isabel de Brienne, after this sort of conduct had proceeded some time, "you seem to be grieved, Marguerite, that you have aided me in this business, and so brought some inconveniences upon yourself."

"No, mademoiselle," she said, shortly, "but I am very tired."

"Then I think you had better go to bed," replied Isabel; "I shall not want you for some hours."

"I will, presently, mademoiselle," replied the maid; "but I am very hungry."

Isabel had not the heart to smile, as she might have done on another occasion; for selfishness is, perhaps, less offensive when it stands out in its plain simplicity than when it is discovered through a hypocritical disguise. In fact, like ugliness, it is more ugly when painted. Almost as the soubrette spoke, however, the good woman of the house, who was a widow, brought in with her own hands and the hands of a maid-servant—which were exactly like another pair of her own, for they enacted nothing without her orders—several dishes for the morning meal, which were placed with all due reverence before Isabel de Brienne. The young lady tried to eat; but, as she did so, the thought of many painful things, of the probable situation of him she loved best, and of the dark fate that might be hanging over him, came across her mind; and, to use the homely but expressive words of old John Hall, when describing the conduct of the first famous Duke of Buckingham between his arrest and his execution, "The meat would not down."

The soubrette, however, made up for her mistress's want of appetite, and ate plentifully of all that was set before her. When she had done, Isabel bade her retire to rest, and, at the same time, ordered the food to be taken away. The soubrette at once obeyed, and left the room; and the kind-hearted hostess remarking that the young lady had taken nothing, was pressing her at least to drink some wine, for the excellence of which she vouched, when Isabel de Brienne, whose face was towards the window, gave a slight start, and replied almost immediately, "No, my good dame; the first thing that will do me good is a little quiet reflection. I think," she added, "that I saw just now a good monk, seemingly a pilgrim by the scallop on his shoulder pass close to the window, as if to sit down on the bench at the door. Give him that dish of meat, and tell him a lady sent it who begs a prayer of him, as she has been in some trouble since last night."

The worthy dame of the cabaret gladly took up the dish with her own hands and carried it forth to the wanderer. She then returned to remove some other things, and Isabel asked, somewhat eagerly, "What did he say?"

"Oh! madam, he sent you thanks," replied the hostess, "and took out a rosary, which he said had hung up at Loretto for many years, and began immediately to repeat as many paters and aves as would cost a score of crowns from our parish priest."

"Did he say nothing else?" asked Isabel, with a somewhat disappointed look.

The hostess replied in the negative, and shortly after left the young lady alone to repose. A deeper shade of melancholy then came over her. She sat and leaned her head upon her hand, and again and again the thoughts of her own situation, and that of him she loved, came across her mind with the painful, fruitless reiteration which is the most wearying, perhaps, of all the forms of care. To know and feel that activity and exertion are absolutely necessary; to have hope only just sufficient to deprive one of the courage of despair; to believe that there is a possibility of changing our situation, yet not to know how that change can be by any means effected, how exertion should be directed, or where hope would guide; such is the state into which, from time to time, we fall in our passage through life, and stand like men in one of those thick, impervious mists which are not absolutely darkness, but which are worse than darkness itself, from not being, like it, dissolvable by light.

She thought not, indeed, so much of herself as of another. She thought of Bernard de Rohan with deep, with strong, with tender affection; and, after some minutes of vague and wild inquiries as to what she could do next, she was obliged to turn to chance and fortune to find a footing for hope to rest upon—no, not to chance and fortune, but to the beneficence and mercy of God. There, then, her hope fixed, ay, and seemed to refresh itself. "Could she not," she asked herself, "could she not be, by some means, instrumental in aiding him she loved, let his situation be what it might?"

She had gathered from the struggle that had taken place in the chapel, from the want of all sounds of clashing steel or other indications of actual combat, and also from the manner in which she had been herself dealt with, that her lover had been overpowered and made a prisoner before he could resist. She did not believe that the Lord of Masseran would dare to attempt his life. The risk, she thought, would be far too great for the object to be attained; for, in truth, she knew not what that object was, and believed it to be less than it really was, and far different. If, then, he were a captive in the chateau of Masseran, could she not, she asked herself, find means to procure his deliverance? She had heard of such things being done—ay, in the very age and times in which she lived. She had heard of woman's weak hand and persevering affection executing what man's strength and wisdom had failed to perform, and hers was a heart which, though gentle, kind, and yielding in the moment of happiness and security, was conscious of fortitude, and strength, and courage, when danger and evil assailed those that she loved.

"My father's spirit," she said, "the spirit of him who endured the whole wrath and indignation of a despotic king sooner than abandon the friend of his youth, will bear me up through any trials, while I have the object of delivering him I love."

But how, how? was the question; what means could she take, what stratagems could she employ, while she was watched by the eyes of Adrian de Meyrand? Should she confide her purposes to him? Should she appeal to his courtesy—to his friendship for her lover—to his generosity? Should she confide in him? Dared she to do so?

As she asked herself these questions, something darkened the light, as if passing across the window. She looked up. It was all clear again. The day was bright and sunshiny, and the rays pouring in from the southwest. The window was a narrow cottage lattice, in a stone frame, divided into three partitions. It might have been a branch of the honeysuckle that climbed around it, which had been blown across by the wind, and caused the shadow. It might have been but a cloud passing over the sun; and she bent her head again, and fell once more into thought. The instant after, the shadow came again, and a voice said, "Are you quite alone?"

Isabel looked up. The pilgrim, whom she had before seen, was standing near the window, leaning on his staff, not exactly turned towards her, but standing with his shoulder towards the open lattice, and his eyes apparently bent onward towards Savoy. There was something in his air familiar to her, though she could not tell in what it consisted. It had struck her before as he passed: even more, perhaps, in that momentary glance than it did now, when she saw him fully; and she could scarcely think that it was the pilgrim who spoke, or, if so, that it was to her that he addressed himself. After a moment, however, he turned his face again for an instant towards the window, repeating,

"Are you quite alone?"

"Quite!" replied Isabel.

"Then come near the window," said the same voice: "sit in the window-seat as if you were looking out. I will rest on this stepping-stone hard by. Let our words be short, and few, and low in tone; each word well pondered before it is spoken, and your eyes upon the door of the room from time to time."

The view which Isabel had of his face had shown her the features of an old man, somewhat sharp and keen, though they were much hidden under his hood, which was formed like that of a Capuchin. His beard, which was very white, was not so long as that of the generality of monks, and she concluded that it had been only suffered to grow during the period of his pilgrimage. He was a venerable-looking man, however; and, as it was evident that he knew something of her situation, she imagined that he bore her some message, and hastened to follow his directions. The moment she had taken her place at the window, he sat down on one of the stepping-stones placed to aid travellers in mounting their horses, and there, with his face still turned away from her, commenced the conversation by asking, "Do you not know me?"

"Your voice and your air," she said, "are familiar to me, but I know nothing more."

"I am Father Willand," said the pilgrim, "who baptized you in your infancy, watched you for the first nine years of your life, till your father procured me what he thought advancement in Paris, and who united you last night to the man for whom that father had ever destined you."

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Isabel; "I thought you had fallen into the power of that evil Piedmontese; for I could not conceive it possible, when we were all so completely surrounded, that you should make your way out."

"They caught the other priest instead of me," replied Father Willand, "and I lay hid behind the altar till they were all dispersed and gone. Your husband, lady, however, has fallen into the power of one enemy, and you into the power of another, or, what is worse than an enemy, a daring, treacherous, unhesitating lover."

"Call him not so, Father Willand! call him not so!" replied Isabel. "Love elevates, ennobles, and purifies—"

"Do not let us discuss love, lady," replied the priest; "I have nothing to do with it, but yet understand it, perhaps, better than you do. Love is applied to a thousand different things, and what is its right meaning were of long argument. All I know is, that you must not remain with this man an hour longer than you can help."

"Tell me how I can escape from him," said Isabel, in the same low tone. "Nothing I desire more! But still let me do him justice: he has this day behaved well and kindly towards me; perilled his life to save me, and treated me with respect and delicacy."

"Perilled his life!" said Father Willand; "guns fired without balls, lady! swords drawn without bloodshed! a farce that would not have deceived a child! They knew you to be but a child, or they would not have tried it! Did you see one man fall or fallen? Did you see one drop of blood shed for all the powder expended?"

"But still," said Isabel, though she had certainly neither seen wounds nor death follow the apparently smart encounter between the Count de Meyrand and the Lord of Masseran, "but still, he has been gentle and kind, and professes to leave me entirely to decide upon my own conduct."

"Try him, try him," said the priest: "use the liberty he professes to give, and you will find yourself a stricter prisoner than you were when in the castle of Masseran. Hearken," he continued, "for I must not be here long. I have followed you from last night till now; taking shorter paths than you have been led by, it is true; but still, lady, I am somewhat old and somewhat fat: and, though of the quick tribe, an old greyhound will not run as long as a young one. I must have some repose; but to-night I shall be ready to give you aid wherever you may then be. When it comes, take it at a moment's warning; and, in the mean time, to make yourself sure of what you are about, exercise this liberty that you think you have. The Count de Meyrand judges you are about to set out for Paris to-morrow morning direct; tell him to-night that you have considered, and determined upon going to Grenoble to meet your brother Harry. Then see what he says. If he agree thereunto honestly, well and good; trust him! If, on the contrary, he teach you to feel that his will must be your law, then trust me, and come with me whithersoever I shall guide you!"

Isabel paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Not to Grenoble," she said at length; "I must not go to Grenoble yet! That is too far; but if any one would convey intelligence to my brother of where I am, and bid him join me instantly at Latour, then, indeed, I might succeed—"

"Succeed in what?" demanded the priest.

"In freeing him," replied Isabel; and, though the blood rose up in her cheek as she said it, she added, the more resolutely from a slight smile that came from the priest's countenance as he turned for an instant towards her, "in freeing my husband."

"Oh, fear not, fear not, pretty one!" replied the priest. "We'll get your bird out of the cage yet, never fear. Indeed, I did not come hither without taking care that those should have information of where he is, and how he is, who may best contrive the means for his escape."

"Still," replied Isabel, "I would rather not be far absent from the spot until I see him free."

"If you fancy, child," replied the priest, "that I want you to go to Grenoble, you must fancy a fox to be a more stupid beast than a sheep. I only told you to propose it, that you may try this fair Count of Meyrand. Trust him in nothing, child, till you see a dove drop her eggs in a hawk's nest, or till the sweet days come back again when the lamb lies down with the lion! The nature of the wolf does not change, and he who would insult you one day would not protect you the next! Mark my words, then, lady, and follow my counsel: lie down and take rest even now, so that your mind may be quick and prompt, and your limbs free and active this night. When this count returns, go on with him to Latour, then tell him your intention is to turn aside to Grenoble. You will see in a moment whether you may trust him or me. Decide between us at once when you have so tried him; and, after that, do not lay down your head upon your pillow till you have seen me and given me a reply."

"But how shall I see you?" demanded Isabel; "how shall I know where—"

"I will find the means," replied the priest, interrupting her. "We must use bad things to good ends, lady; and a brown gown, which, between Paris and Loretto, covers more sin and wickedness, year after year, than all the pope's indulgences can well clear away, will carry me into many a house where no other key could gain me entrance. If you should satisfy yourself that you are in danger where you are, be prepared to follow me at a moment's notice. I will at least set you free to go where you will, and will help you in all good purposes if I can. But, above all, be as secret, my child, as the grave; utter not a word of this to any one. I have heard by tradition that a woman once kept a secret four-and-twenty hours: all I ask of you is to keep one six; and now farewell, for we must talk together no more."

Thus saying, he left her; and Isabel continued to gaze from the window, pondering thoughtfully over all that had been said. It is a terrible question, the first time that man has to put it to his own heart, Whom can we trust? But this, alas! was not the first time that Isabel had to ask herself that painful and bitter thing. With her, as with every one in advancing into life, the question had been often and sadly repeated, and the bounds of the reply had become narrow and more narrow. Oh, how few are there throughout all existence that we can trust—fully, entirely, confidently trust! The faith of one; the wisdom of another; the courage of a third; the resolution of a fourth; the activity, the energy, the zeal of others; all! all! may be doubtful; and, alas! in looking back through life, the sad and terrible summing up will ever be, that our confidence has been far too often misplaced than wrongly withheld.

The question, however, which Isabel had now to address to herself was more limited in its nature and character. It was only, Which of these two men shall I choose to trust? that she had now to ask herself. Those she had to choose between were limited to two. One of those two she had already had occasion to doubt and dislike, to fear and to avoid; and she could not but feel that, over all he had since done to remove the first evil impression of his conduct, there was a tinge of suspicion which she could not remove. Of the other, indeed, she knew little; but that little seemed to prove his attachment to herself and to him whom she loved. Acts that have made us very happy leave behind them a sort of tender but imperishable light, which invests all who have had any share in them, and brings them all out in brightness to the eye of memory from the twilight gloom of the past, like those salient objects in an evening landscape upon which we still catch the rays of a sun that has long set to our own eyes. Not only the willing agents of our happiness, but those that bore an uninterested part therein—objects animate or inanimate alike—the spot, the accessories, the very scene itself, all still retain a portion of that light, and shine to remembrance when other things are forgotten.

The priest with whom she had just spoken, however, had not only borne a willing, but an active part in uniting her to Bernard de Rohan. For that reason she believed that she might trust him; but, besides this, he had referred to former years; and though there was a long lapse of time between, spreading a dimness like a light sea-mist between herself and the objects of those days, yet there were vague and pleasant recollections which attached themselves by the fine links of association to the tones of the old man's voice, to his manner, even to the rough and somewhat reckless jests which he mingled with his discourse. She remembered such a person a frequent guest in her father's house; she remembered that father's often-repeated commendations of his honesty of purpose, of his sincerity of heart, of his zeal and disinterestedness; and whether it was that she herself strove to find some excuse for anything that seemed harsh or irreverent in his manner, or that her father had really pronounced such words, she thought that she remembered his having said that Father Willand's abhorrence of hypocrisy had driven him into an opposite extreme. It is true that she could not have recalled his features sufficiently to recognise him under any other circumstances; but, when once told who he was, they seemed to grow more and more familiar to her, and she determined to trust him, let the result of the trial which he had suggested for the Count de Meyrand be what it would.

In one of the sweetest situations that it is possible to conceive—with green sloping hills, covered with the richest vegetation, rising on the four sides thereof, and forming, as it were, a beautiful basin, with four long valleys, each of which bears onward its stream of clear and sparkling water—is the little town of Bourgoin, which was at that time, as now, neat, clean, and fresh-looking, with perhaps fewer inhabitants than it can at present boast, but without any of the manufactories which have since somewhat diminished its beauty, if they have increased its wealth.

It was the custom in those days for the signs to hang out far from the doors of the inn; and often at each side of the doorway was placed the name of the landlord, with a long recommendation of the fare and lodging to be found within, with the price of the various meals which were to be furnished to a visiter. A bench was there also, and a wide door, giving entrance to a courtyard.

Such was not, however, altogether the aspect of the little auberge at Bourgoin. The village was too small to have a regular inn, or gîte, and the homely symbol of a bush, suspended from a long pole, thrust forth horizontally from the front of the building, was the only sign that it could boast. The landlord and landlady were in their green old age, and were what they term in France bonasse, though that word has been applied to a beast who, if one may judge by his look, is of a very opposite sort of disposition to that which I wish to describe. They were, in short, good-humoured, honest country-people; and when the landlady beheld a considerable company of horsemen draw in their bridles at her door, with a young lady and her maid in a litter in the midst, her first thought was really not of self-interest, but of what she could best do to make her fair guest happy and comfortable during the time that she was about to stay in her dwelling.

The Count de Meyrand sprang to the side of the litter which contained Isabel de Brienne; and, as if with an instinctive insight into their lord's wishes, all his attendants but one, who was holding back the curtain, and one at the head of the nearest horse, kept aloof while the lady descended.

"Monsieur de Meyrand," said Isabel de Brienne, as she quitted the litter, "I cannot help repeating again that it is much against my inclination I have come hither. If you did not choose to conduct me, as I asked you, on the direct road to Grenoble, you might, at least, have suffered me to remain for the night at Latour."

"Indeed, dear lady," replied the count, still with an air of perfect deference, "it would have been dangerous for you to do so. There, but a few leagues from Chambery, and still less from Beauvoisin, we should have been entirely at the mercy of the enemy. In regard to Grenoble, I only besought you to pause till you could hear my reasons. You are too much fatigued to attend to them now; but, ere you set out to-morrow, you shall hear them at full."

"Your politeness, my good lord," replied Isabel de Brienne, with an air of grief and vexation, "is somewhat compulsory." Thus saying, she advanced towards the landlady, who had kept back at a sign from one of the count's attendants, but not so far as to prevent her from noting all that had passed; the ears of aubergistes and aubergistes' wives acquiring by long and peculiar practice a facility of hearing everything and not hearing anything, according to circumstances, which is truly astonishing.

The Count de Meyrand bowed low, and, following to the door, he ordered apartments immediately to be prepared for his fair charge, and then took leave of her for the night, while a slight smile played upon his lip as he turned away, and he said in his heart, "If I could trust this man of Masseran, I would humour the girl, and see what might be done by softness. She smiled upon me this morning, and made me almost forget her former insolence. It were as well, however, to bring down this high temper; and, now the storm is somewhat roused, it may as well go on. No one can say I do her wrong in using some gentle force to bring her to Paris to the presence of her lawful king, who will soon judge whether that ring be to remain upon her finger or not."

As he thus thought, he pictured to his own imagination the marriage of fair Isabel de Brienne with Bernard de Rohan annulled by the royal authority. He fancied his own claim to her hand heard and conceded. He thought of how her travelling alone with him by slow journeys across the whole of France might render her own consent a matter more of necessity than choice; and, with inward satisfaction, he revolved the air of cool indifference with which he would treat the whole proceedings, as if there were absolutely nothing on earth worth the attention of so high a gentleman.

In the mean while Isabel de Brienne was led to her chamber by the hostess, who asked many a kindly question, not directly pertinent to the conversation which she had overheard, but tending to elicit the cause of that anxiety and distress of mind which she witnessed. Isabel did not satisfy her, it is true; but she replied so sweetly and gently, that the good woman went away with her mind made up that she was the most amiable young lady she had ever seen, and that she was, moreover, very much ill used by some one. Who that was she could not very well satisfy herself; but, nevertheless, she looked with no very favourable eye upon the Count de Meyrand, and made but short replies to the various questions which he asked her when she came down again.

After giving various directions to the soubrette, to which that taciturn person replied less than ever, Isabel seated herself near the window in melancholy thought. Removed almost by force from Latour, where the good priest, Father Willand, expected to find her, and having been now fully convinced, by the conduct of this Count de Meyrand, that she was little better than a prisoner in his hands, she knew not whence to hope for succour or deliverance. There was many a dark and painful point in her situation on which we must not dwell; many a present and many a future danger to herself, to him she loved, and to their mutual happiness. The thoughts connected with these points mingled with the chief strain of her reflections, and rendered them, bitter as they were, still more bitter and grievous to be borne.

As she thus sat and gazed out of the window—at some distance from it, indeed, so that those who were immediately beneath did not see where she was placed—she suddenly saw a small body of horsemen come over the brow of the gentle hill opposite, and ride down into the village. Isabel instinctively drew back; for, though her actual situation was painful in no slight degree, yet among those horsemen she recognised the colours of the Lord of Masseran, and it seemed to her that it would be even more terrible to fall into his power than to remain in that of the Count de Meyrand. The men came on at a quick rate, some four or five in number, and were passing by the door of the little auberge without pausing, when she heard the voice of the Count de Meyrand call to them, and bid them stop to speak with him. The first questions which he asked were put in a low voice, but the man whom he addressed spoke louder in reply, and Isabel heard the latter say distinctly, "Yes, my lord, he is gone on with all speed to Paris, and we are following him as fast as we can. We hope to come up with him at Lyons."

"By my faith, this is somewhat strange," answered the count; and then again what he said farther was lost to the ear.

In a few minutes the Count de Meyrand suffered the horsemen to go on; but he seemed much moved by what he had heard, saying aloud, "This man will never be honest. We must not let him be long in advance. The horses must be ready by daybreak to-morrow, Matthew. Pierre, put your foot in the stirrup, and ride after those men: I saw one of them turn away from the road just now, by the clump of trees on the top of the hill. If they put their hand into the wolf's mouth, they must bear a bite."

Before the daylight failed, the man to whom he last spoke returned, informing him that, as far as he could discover, the whole party had gone on towards Lyons; and the count, better satisfied, turned once more into the inn, and sat himself down to supper in a musing mood. He sent up, indeed, an humble entreaty that the fair lady whom he had the honour to escort, as he termed it, would join him at the evening meal; but the reply returned was, that Mademoiselle de Brienne had retired to rest.

The count soon after sought his pillow himself; but, accustomed by old habits to wake at any particular hour assigned, he started up with the first gleam of daylight, and gave instant orders for preparing to set out. There were few persons yet up in the inn; but the good landlady was roused, unwillingly, from her bed, and ordered instantly to wake Mademoiselle de Brienne, and give her notice that it was time to depart. The count himself stood at the bottom of the stairs, with his arms folded upon his chest, in that gloomy frame of mind to which dissatisfaction with ourselves is even more sure to give birth than dissatisfaction with the things around us. But he was roused from his revery by hearing some bustle and anxious exclamations above, the voice of the hostess raised to the tones of wonder and astonishment, the tongue of the silent maid heard at a considerably louder pitch than was at all usual, and other indications so decided of something having gone wrong as to induce the Count de Meyrand himself to quit his usual calm deliberation, and spring up the stairs with a quick step and an angry brow.

He found the door of the room which had been assigned to Mademoiselle de Brienne unclosed, the hostess standing a few steps within, the soubrette near the bedside, the window wide open, with the morning air sighing quietly through the lattice, and Isabel herself nowhere to be seen.

"Where is your mistress?" demanded the count, furiously, fixing his eyes upon the soubrette.

"I know not, sir," replied the woman.

"Her bed has never been slept in all night," replied the hostess. "Her sweet cheek has never rested on that pillow, poor thing. She must have got out of the window, that is clear; and, if any ill have happened to her, somebody is to blame for it, I am sure."

"Silence!" said the count, looking at her sternly. "Did you not undertake," he continued, turning to the soubrette, "never to lose sight of her?"

"I can't sleep with my eyes open," replied the woman.

"This is that scoundrel Masseran's doing," said the count: "but he shall find himself deceived, for I will be in Paris as soon as he is. You, madam, will be good enough to come along with me; so put your dress in some better array, and lose no time."

He looked as if he could have said a great deal more, but he restrained himself; and, though the anger that he felt at heart found relief in a bitter and sneering smile, unaccompanied by any words, he turned upon his heel, walked down to the inn door, and remained for a few minutes looking forth upon the morning as if nothing had happened. In a minute or two after, seeing one of his men pass, he beckoned to him, spoke a word or two in his ear, and suffered him to depart. The man returned in a few minutes, and replied, "They are all ignorant of anything of the kind, sir. It is evident none of the people of the place know aught about it."

"Have you seen the landlord?" demanded the count.

"No!"

"Go and make inquiries regarding him."

The man did as he was bid, and the reply was, "That the landlord had gone away towards the market of St. Laurent an hour or two before daybreak, as was always his custom."

"That is sufficient," said the count, with a sneer. "Quick with the horses; let us mount and go on."

The great tamers of strong spirits, the quellers of the rebellious heart, the conquerors of the obdurate, the determined, and the enduring, Silence and Solitude, were upon Bernard de Rohan. To know nothing of what is passing without; to have no marker of the steps of time; to see no sun rise or set; to have not even the moving shadow upon the wall to tell us that another lapse of the wearisome hours has taken place; to have nothing, in short, to link us on to human destinies, and to show us that we are wending on our way with our fellow-beings—nothing but the dull beatings of the heavy heart, and the grinding succession of bitter thoughts—this, surely, is not life; and if it be not death, it is something worse. Where there is no change of anything to mark its passing, time seems, in truth, to sink back into that ocean from which it was called at first, Eternity: and, wanting all means of calculating its flight, Bernard de Rohan did indeed feel each moment to be an age. Actual pain would have been almost a relief to the despairing vacuity of that which must have been the second day of his confinement. We can scarcely doubt that the punishment of Prometheus would have been more complete, had he been left in the solitude of the frowning heavens, without the vulture as his companion, though his tormentor.

No one came near the young cavalier throughout the whole day. The food which had been left for him was just sufficient for the four-and-twenty hours: more than sufficient, as it proved, indeed, for he tasted it not; and when, at the end of that period, it was renewed, so quick was the passing in and out of him who brought the fresh supply, that the young cavalier scarcely saw the man's entrance ere the door was again closed, and he was once more alone.

It seemed to him several hours after this brief visitation had been made—and true it is, he had gone through so many ranges of painful thought, that they might well have furnished occupation and bitterness for more than one long day—when he heard a sound at the door of the dungeon, as if some one endeavoured, with an unaccustomed hand, to draw back the heavy bolts and turn a key in the lock. At the same time, he heard a low, deep voice murmur, "The fool should have left a lamp!" "Ay, that is right!" and the next moment the key turned, the lock gave way, and the door was thrown open.

The lamp which had been left with Bernard de Rohan burned but dimly, for it had been long untrimmed, so that at first the young cavalier did not recognise the person who entered. The next instant, however, his visiter spoke, and the deep but melodious voice instantly brought to the prisoner's recollection his wild companion, Corse de Leon.

"Ah! Monsieur de Rohan," said the brigand, looking around him as he entered, "I have not forgotten you you see. Out upon that scoundrel! How dared he put you in such a place as this? He might have given you a befitting chamber, at all events."

Bernard de Rohan grasped his hand; and, needing no words to assure him that the brigand came to set him free, he thanked him again and again, but mingled, however, his thanks with some marvellings to see him within the chateau of Masseran.

The brigand smiled. "There is nothing wonderful in it, Monsieur de Rohan," he replied. "There is not a door in this castle that does not open to me as readily as to its lord. All these things are easily explained. Some of the poor people with whom I have to do think me half a magician, and it is not worth while to undeceive them, though I seek not for any such reputation. Truth is marvellous enough, without trying to make it more wonderful," he continued, in a musing tone; "and all that I do which seems strange may, nine times out of ten, be explained by a single word. I believe that it is so, too, with the wonders of creation. We gaze with surprised and astonished eyes upon thousands of things that seem miracles to our earthly nature: we are, ourselves, miracles to ourselves; but I do believe that all the wonders that we see, the marvel of our very existence, the linking of fates together, and the long network of events and their causes, from the beginning of all things to eternity, might all be explained to us by some simple word which God's good pleasure now withholds; by some short, brief explanation, which is not fitted for this mass of moving clay to receive."

As he spoke, he sat himself quietly down on the edge of the bed, took up the lamp, trimmed it in a careless manner, and then added abstractedly, "We must wait a few minutes, Monsieur de Rohan, for the horses are not come yet, and it is as well to stay here as upon the hillside."

"But is there no danger of our being stopped?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

Corse de Leon smiled. "It were difficult to stop me," he said; "but nobody will try to do it. You know the Lord of Masseran is gone to Paris?"

"No, indeed," replied the young cavalier; "I know nothing, and I have heard nothing, since I have been a prisoner in this dreary place. He has, of course, taken, my Isabel with him?"

"Oh, no," replied the brigand. "He set out for Paris with great speed for several reasons: first, because he knew suspicions are entertained of him in regard to his dealings with the King of Spain; next, because he feared that inquiry would be made as to what has become of you, and he wished to justify himself; and, next, because he did not choose to trust your goodly friend, the Count of Meyrand, in anything, but especially—"

"But where, then, is Isabel?" demanded the young cavalier.

"Ay, who can say!" rejoined Corse de Leon.

Bernard de Rohan started up eagerly. "Let us seek for her at once, then," he said. "If, as you say, all the doors of this castle open to you as easily as to their lord, let us seek her through every room in the place, and take her with us when we go. In Heaven's name leave her not here!"

"She is not here, wherever she is," replied the brigand; "and I trust that by this time she is free; but I will tell you more by-and-by, for I hear the clock striking one, and we shall have just time to reach the hillside before the horses arrive. Come, Monsieur de Rohan, come. They have taken your arms from you, I see. Well, we must find you others."

Thus saying, he raised the lamp, and led the way towards the door. As he went, however, the light fell upon the fetters which hung against the wall, and he paused, gazing upon them and frowning heavily. "Ah, ah, accursed implements of tyranny!" he muttered, "When, when will the time come that ye shall be no longer known! God of Heaven! even then it must be remembered that such things have been. It must be written in books. It must be told in tradition, that men were found to chain their fellow-creatures with heavy bars of iron, to make them linger out the bright space given them for activity and enjoyment in dungeons and in fetters, till the dull flame was extinguished, and dust returned to dust. Would to Heaven that there were no such thing as history, to perpetuate, even unto times when man shall have purified his heart from the filthy baseness of these days, the memory of such enormous deeds as fetters like that record! Out upon it! Was it for this that man learned to dig the ore from the mine, and forge the hard metal in the fire? But come, come! I am forgetting myself;" and he led the way forth along the same path by which Bernard de Rohan had been brought from the chapel. The ponderous doors in the solid rock were all open; but the young cavalier remarked that Corse de Leon closed them one by one behind him, till at length they stood in the open air at the foot of the hill.

It were difficult, nay, impossible, to describe the sensations which the first breath of that free air produced in Bernard de Rohan. It would require to have been a captive, and yet full of the spirit of freedom, to have contemplated long imprisonment, and to be suddenly set free, even to comprehend what he then felt. His sensations, however, found vent but in one exclamation. "Thank God!" he said, and followed his companion, who now, with rapid strides, climbed the opposite side of the hill, till he reached the spot where he had waited for Bernard de Rohan on the night when first they met. No horses were there, however, and Corse de Leon seated himself on a point of the crag, and seemed about to fall into one of his fits of revery; but his young companion was not disposed to rest satisfied without some farther information.

"Now," he said, "now! You promised to tell me more—you promised to tell me more concerning Isabel. With whom is she? In whose hands is she, if not in those of the Lord of Masseran?"

"She was," replied Corse de Leon, "she was in the hands of your bright friend, the Count de Meyrand."

Bernard de Rohan's hand grasped for the hilt of his sword, but it was gone; and he only muttered the words "Villain, villain! I thought I heard that treacherous voice. Who shall one depend upon in this world?"

"Upon none of those," replied Corse de Leon, "whom men are accustomed to depend upon. Not upon the gay companion of the winecup, who aids us pleasantly to spend our wealth or to squander our more precious time: not upon him, not upon him, young gentleman! Not upon the smooth-spoken and the plausible adviser, who counsels with us on things where our own interest and his are combined, and who uses our exertions and our means to share in our fortune and our success: not upon him, I say, not upon him! Not upon the sweet flatterer, who either dexterously insinuates how virtuous, and great, and good and wise we are, or who boldly overloads us with praise, in the hope of some, at least, being received: not upon him, I say. Not upon the pander to our vices or our follies, even though he sell his soul to pamper us with gratification: not upon him. Not upon the light wanton, who yields us what she should refuse, vowing that it is love for us which conquers, when love for many another has gone before: not upon her. Neither on the priest that preaches virtue without practising it; neither upon the soft hypocrite, nor upon the rude hypocrite; neither upon the one who assumes sleek sanctity, nor upon the other who builds the reputation of honesty upon a rough outside. There are some that will weep with you, and some that will laugh with you; some that will discourse, and some that will sport with you; but trust in none but him that you have tried, but him whom you know to be honest to himself, and who has proved himself honest to you. We were speaking of the Count de Meyrand. That he has betrayed you and deceived you most shamefully is his fault, not yours; for, though you believed him honest, you did not weakly trust him. It were well, when you find him, to nail his ears to the doorpost; but still you have nothing to reproach yourself with. I trust, however, that sweet and good lady is by this time freed from his hands, for one who loves her very well has undertaken that part of the task."

"But how," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "how came she in his power at all?"

Corse de Leon replied briefly, but with sufficient detail to show his hearer at one glance all that had taken place in regard to Isabel de Brienne since he had seen her. The deep and bitter indignation that gathered at the young cavalier's heart as his companion went on, was not of a nature that wasted itself in many words. "This must be looked to!" he said; "this must be looked to! And now, my friend, to think of this dear girl's escape. Can we trust to good Father Willand? Not his faith, I mean, but his power. He is there, it would seem, alone, unaided, unsupported, to cope with a man artful, rich, powerful, and numerously followed."

"We may trust him, I am sure," replied the other. "This count's art, like all pitiful art, will help to deceive himself; and in quiet wisdom he cannot compete with the good priest. Besides, Father Willand is not so unsupported as you think. It may seem strange to you to hear, but many of your own men, nay, I believe all, are with him or round about him."

"No," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that surprises me not. Most of them were born within sight of the lands of Brienne—most of them have often seen and know her well, and there is none who has seen her that would not willingly sacrifice life to serve her."

Corse de Leon smiled with somewhat of a melancholy expression. In life, when we have lost any of those sweet delusions which, like the radiant colours of the morning sky, clothe, at the dawning of our youth, thin air itself and unsubstantial vapours, nay, perhaps even the cloudy home of the future storm, with loveliness and radiance, and the most glowing hues of Heaven's own golden treasury—when we have lost those sweet delusions, I say, and any one with whom they still remain speaks of the reality of things whose emptiness we have proved, how sad, how profoundly sad, is the contrast suddenly presented to us, of what we were and what we are! how melancholy is the conviction of the emptiness of our dream-like life! And yet there is something sweet which mingles even with our sadness, to see others enjoying and believing what we can no longer enjoy or believe; something ennobling and elevating that shares in our melancholy, if the feeling of how unreal are life's best joys lead us to sigh for those that are more true and lasting.

Bernard de Rohan saw not the expression upon the countenance of his companion, although the night was clear and bright, and sufficient light remained in the heavens to make even small objects visible; but his eyes were at that moment fixed upon the castle of Masseran, and more especially upon one of the outstanding towers to the northeast, separated from the rest of the building by a space of two or three hundred yards, and only attached to it by walls and minor fortifications. In that tower there appeared a great light, at first streaming through some of the upper loopholes only. After a moment or two, however, it became brighter and brighter, and poured through all the windows of the story below. Bernard de Rohan could almost have imagined that, as he gazed, he saw flames come forth and lick the dark stonework of the tower; and he was soon confirmed in the belief that it was so, by the wreaths of pale white smoke which began to ascend into the dark air, and in a minute or two formed a cloud above the tower, acquiring a red and ominous hue as the fire below increased.

"Look there! look there!" he exclaimed, catching Corse de Leon's arm; but, even as he spoke, the roof of the tower fell in, and a pyramid of flame shot upward into the sky.

"Yes, I see," replied Corse de Leon; "but here come the horses! and we must go quick to the spot where I trust we shall find her whom you seek for. Then, get you across the frontier into France as soon as may be. Your own men will be sufficient to protect you, and will be glad to see you; for, notwithstanding that they may, as you think, love your fair Isabel well, they would not have gone unless we had put a light deceit upon them, and had left them to think, more than told them it was so, that you and the lady were together. Those I have with me here dare not set foot within that land, and the other friends I have are far distant. That was the reason I did not make her free myself, and punish that slight traitor as he deserves."

While he spoke, three or four horsemen appeared, leading two other horses, and, without taking any farther notice of the conflagration, Corse de Leon put his foot in the stirrup, and, springing into the saddle, rode on towards the little inn which we have often before had occasion to mention.

The young cavalier followed his example; but, before they had gone a hundred yards, a loud explosion took place, which shook the rocks around, and echoed afar through the valley. Their horses started at the sound, and Bernard and his companion turned their eyes towards the castle of Masseran. The burning tower had now lost all shape and form, though part of the walls still remained, with the fire clinging to them in various places.

"Do you know what that is?" demanded Corse de Leon; and, ere Bernard de Rohan could reply, he went on. "It is an act of folly worthy of a king or a prime minister. There are people in that castle," he said, "who, knowing of my coming and of your escape, have done the act, the effects of which you see flaming yonder, in order that the tower may fall in and crush the dungeon into which they had thrust you, solely to prevent the Lord of Masseran from discovering how you have escaped. Thus it is with the world; every one act of weakness, of folly, or of crime, we judge must be followed by another, to conceal or to justify it. Let men or ministers place themselves in a dangerous situation by some capital fault, and then they think expediency requires them to commit another to obviate the effects of the first, forgetting that each fault is written down in the two eternal books—the Book of Fate, God's servant, and the Book of God himself; and that there must be a reckoning, a terrible reckoning, for the whole amount, in this world and in the next. Let us ride on."

We must now entirely change the scene. The spot is no longer the same—the actors different. From the mountains of Savoy, the feudal castle, the lonely chapel, and the humble inn, let us turn to the capital of France, her stately palaces, and the gay and glittering hall where laughed and revelled the bright, the brave, the fair, and the witty of that splendid epoch which began with Francis the First, and ended with his immediate successor. The personages, too, have changed with the scene. The young warrior and his fair bride, the wily Italian and the supercilious and unprincipled Count de Meyrand, are no longer before us. Even good Father Willand himself is left behind, and one for whom we owe no slight affection, Corse de Leon, is, for the time, off the stage.

At the door—or rather, we may say, beyond the door, for they were not actually in the chamber—stood two of the king's guard, with their halberds resting on their shoulders, embroidered on which appeared the well-known cognisance of the salamander. They were there merely to perform the place of a living gate, barring the way against any who would enter, till such time as the orders of the king threw open the halls of the Louvre.

Henry himself, in the prime of his years, graceful, handsome, vigorous, with a countenance full of fire, but still kindly and good-humoured, stood at the farther end of the large and nearly vacant reception room, close to one of the windows, which looked out upon the river Seine, speaking with a lady, on whose appearance we may well be expected to pause for a moment. That lady was the celebrated Diana of Poitiers; and, though the period had by this time passed by when her dazzling beauty captivated all eyes as well as those of her royal lover, she was certainly still very handsome. But she had also in her countenance an expression of power and resolution, of quickness of understanding and of sparkling vivacity, which at once displayed many of the chief points of her character. As one stood and looked at her, and saw the play of her fine features, the rapid changes, the sudden lighting up of the eyes, the occasional look of intense eagerness, the shade of momentary meditation, succeeded by the bright smile, the gay laugh, the eyes cast up to heaven, it was easy to understand what manifold powers of charming and persuading lay beneath, and to perceive that, whatever might have been at any time the mere beauty of feature and expression, the chief loveliness of that lovely countenance must ever have been in its wonderful variety.

What was it that moved her now? What was the eager scheme that she was urging upon the king with such a host of wiles, and charms, and graces, that it was hardly possible to expect that he should resist? Lo! how she hangs upon his arm with those two fair hands, and gazes up into his face with those speaking eyes! Now comes a shade of vexation over her brow. One hand drops from his arm. Her head is partly turned away: a tear dims the eye for an instant, then leaves it brighter than before. Now, again, how merrily she laughs, with the clear, joyous, ringing laugh that we so seldom hear but from the lips of infancy; and then, again, that look of bright and eloquent thoughtfulness, while with her extended hand she argues with the monarch on some mighty theme, and carries high conviction on her lofty brow! What a wonderful picture does she form there, even at this very moment, changing by her words the destinies of Europe, and with smiles, and tears, and laughter, and high thoughts, all mingled in a wondrous antidote, curing one of those spoiled children of fortune that we call kings of that venomous and pestilential sickness, the love of war!

"Well," said the king, "well, you have triumphed. He shall have the powers, although it goes against my soul to yield anything to that cold and haughty Spaniard. What though Fortune have, with all her fickleness, left at the last a momentary balance in the scale against France, have we not already retrieved much, and are we not daily retrieving?"

"True, sire, true," replied Diana of Poitiers, "your armies are retrieving all that was once lost. But your country, sire, alas! your country is not. France suffers, France groans even, while Spain is wounded, and each blow that you strike at the enemy but injures yourself far more."

The king was about to reply, but she stopped him eagerly: "I am foolish to argue with you," she continued; "You have said I have triumphed, you have said I shall have the powers; and, though he may conquer me in argument, my Henry's word is never broken. Besides," she added, "have I not a private suit to be heard and granted also?"

"Ha!" said the king, after pausing thoughtfully for a moment or two, as if he were still unconvinced, and unwilling to leave the subject on which they had just been conversing, "ha! I had forgot! You did mention some private suit—what, I remember not now, sweet Diana. But yet it is hard even to hear of peace after defeat. Were we just hot from victory—were we flushed with triumph, and our enemy reduced to lowly supplication—then, indeed, then we might hear of terms of peace, and grant them liberally and willingly. But after this accursed battle of St. Laurence; after so total, so signal, and terrible a defeat—the constable himself taken, one half of the nobility of the land wounded or slain, our soldiers scattered, and our provinces, invaded—it is bitter indeed to hear the name of peace."

"As bitter to Henry's heart," replied the lady, "as the sound of war to many another man. But you have promised, sire. You have promised Montmorency the full powers, and—you have forgotten my petition."

"Well, well," said the king, with a sigh, "what is your petition? I know that you have no private interest in this matter, Diana, You never were a friend to Montmorency."

The lady coloured slightly, but replied at once. "I never was his friend, sire, while haughty fortune smiled upon him, and when he urged measures harsh and injurious to the country upon your majesty; but I will own that I am his friend now, when, bearing his adversity with calmness and with dignity, he would fain persuade your majesty to that which is most necessary for the safety of your realm. So much, indeed, am I his friend, your majesty, now, that I have promised to mingle our families together by the marriage of our sweet Henrietta with his son Damville. Nay, start not, sire, I told you of this before."

"Did you?" exclaimed the king, "did you? I recollect it not. Yet now methinks I do remember something thereof; but I must have been thinking of other things. How can I consent to such a contract?" continued the king. "Recollect, dear lady! Is there not a story current of Damville, like his brother, having bound himself by a secret marriage to an Italian woman?"

"There is some tale of the kind, sire," replied the Duchess of Valentinois, "but I believe without foundation. Even were it so, however, sire," she continued, eagerly, "what matters it, in truth? The connexion has long ceased: the pope will annul the marriage instantly; and, not many months ago, your majesty vowed that you would give an edict rendering clandestine marriages of no effect, and declaring all illegal but such as have the full consent of the nearest surviving relative of both parties, always under your majesty's good pleasure."

"I recollect," replied the king. "The edict was drawn up, but never signed, because, as it deeply affected ecclesiastical matters, it was thought best to have the sanction of our holy father in Rome, and he made manifold objections. But that edict, even had it issued, could not affect the past."

"Your majesty will pardon me," replied the lady. "It had a clause which rendered it retrospective—at least I am so informed, in a letter which I received not many hours ago from your faithful subject the good Count of Meyrand, whom you intrusted to carry the edict to Rome. Had it not that retrospective sense," she added, eagerly, "the hopes and expectations of Montmorency and myself would both be very bitterly disappointed."

The king's brow grew somewhat cloudy, and she added suddenly, "Not for myself, sire! I speak not for myself, and with no reference to this proposed marriage between Henriette de la Mark and the young Damville. But there is one thing for which I know the good constable has long sighed. The duke, his eldest son, is more ambitious than your majesty dreams of."

"Indeed!" said the king, with a slight smile. "What do you mean, fair lady? Is his ambition dangerous to the state?"

"Nay, nay, sire, not so," replied the duchess, with a smile, seeing that the king, while affecting ignorance, in reality understood what she meant. "There is a certain lovely lady bearing the same name as my more humble self, and somewhat near to the affections of your royal person—near, even as a daughter, some men say. She has now wept for some time in widowhood; and the young Duke of Montmorency, daringly priding himself upon the royal blood that flows also in his veins, has ventured to sigh for this fair lady's hand. But the great impediment is that fatal contract which he signed with Mademoiselle de Pienne, without his father's knowledge and consent."

"I have heard something of this before," said the king, to whom the idea of uniting his natural daughter to the high race of Montmorency was not a little grateful. "But does the constable desire this marriage for his son? If so, why did he not speak long since?"

"Most humbly, sire, does he desire it," replied the lady, "and has commissioned me to sue, by every means of persuasion and entreaty, that your majesty would condescend to grant your consent to the union of his son with Madame de Farnese. He overrates my means, I know; but he does calculate that your majesty has some affection still for me, as well as some regard and esteem for him."

"Much, much for both, dear lady," replied the king; and then, falling into a fit of thought, he added, as if speaking to himself, "This marriage is most unfortunate. But that a rash boy should pay, by a whole life of celibacy and regret, for the idle folly of signing his name to a promise extracted from him by an artful woman, is indeed too much. I would fain see the draught of the edict which was proposed."

"Here is the chancellor, sire, hard by," replied the lady, pointing to a group of three or four persons who had followed her into the hall at her first entrance, but who had remained gathered together in a group at the other end of the chamber, conversing in a low voice. "Here is the chancellor, sire: perhaps he may have a copy of the edict with him now."

"Perchance he may, fair dame," replied the king, laying his hand fondly upon her shoulder, and smiling, at the same time, at the evident preparation of the whole affair, "perchance he may. Ho! my good chancellor, we would fain speak with you here a while."

At the very first word the king addressed to him, a tall and somewhat meager man, in the rich and gorgeous habit of one of the princes of the Roman Church, took a step forward from the rest of the group, and, bowing low, advanced towards the king. He was dark and pale in countenance, and his features were of an Italian cast, while a look of shrewd, calm cunning, which that cast is so well calculated to assume, was the predominant expression.

"His majesty, my Lord Cardinal," said the duchess, addressing the famous John Bertrandi, and having marked well the shrewd smile upon the king's countenance, "his majesty, my Lord Cardinal, would fain see a copy of that edict referring to clandestine marriages, which was drawn up some months ago, but never signed. I besought you this morning to seek for it: has it been found?"

"I have it here, madam," replied the chancellor at once, opening a portfolio which he carried under his arm; "may I present it to your majesty:" and, selecting from among a number of papers which the portfolio contained the one that was required at the moment, he put it into the hands of Henry the Second.

The king took and read it attentively. "And is this, my lord," he demanded, "in all due form, and ready for promulgation?"

"It is, sire," replied the chancellor: "wanting nothing but your majesty's signature and the seal."

Henry paused thoughtfully. "And is it," he asked, "and is it altogether, and in all parts, in strict accordance with the laws of France?"

"Que veut le roi, veut le loi," replied the chancellor. "What the king wills, the law wills;" and, with that tyrannical axiom, the attempted enforcement of which, in France, has caused more bloodshed than perhaps any other line that ever was written, John Bertrandi satisfied his conscience in sanctioning that which was contrary to the true spirit of all law.

Henry himself, however, was not satisfied! Although it is so easy for base counsellors—on whom be eternal shame—to find specious arguments in favour of those things which monarchs wish, however evil; and although it certainly was the case that the King of France himself, eagerly desiring the marriage of his natural daughter with the heir of Montmorency, had potent tempters in his own bosom to second the words of Bertrandi, still he was not satisfied that the retrospective act proposed to him was right. He looked first at the cardinal; next turned his eyes for a moment to the countenance of Diana of Poitiers; smiled doubtfully, and then said, "Put it up, my Lord Cardinal, put it up! I will take one day more to consider of it. Nay, look not grieved, fair dame, it shall have favourable consideration. Forget not that both our wishes run in the same way. Now let us speak of other things, Diana. Do you come to our gay hall to-night? Nay, you must not be absent," he added, seeing that the duchess looked down somewhat mournfully; "Henriette de la Mark must dance a gaillarde with her lover Damville."

"But can her lover ever be her husband?" demanded Diana, gazing reproachfully in the king's face; and then adding, with consummate skill in the management of that monarch, "It matters not! Since I have accomplished what I sought for the good of the country, even if I have failed in what I sought for my own pleasure, it matters not! My good Lord Chancellor, the king has been pleased to promise that powers shall be immediately granted to the noble constable of Montmorency to treat with Spain and with the empire for a good and perfect peace. Let it be said that this has been obtained by the solicitations of one who could obtain nothing for herself! but still, not to her honour let it be, but to the king's, inasmuch as he overcame in his own heart the love of glory and the thirst of victory for the sake of his good land of France. Will you, sire," she continued, "will you not order the chancellor at once to expedite the powers for the good constable? It cannot be done too rapidly."

"Why so?" demanded Henry. "There is, surely, no such haste."

"Because, sire," replied the lady, "there are two great and fortunate men, whose first wish must be to change your majesty's counsels in this regard. The conqueror of Calais may well have a say in matters of peace and war. The Cardinal of Lorraine is still at your majesty's ear. The purpose may evaporate and pass away, war be continued gloriously and long, and France be ruined."

"Nay, nay," replied the king, looking at the duchess reproachfully, "I am not so vacillating in my purposes. The Guises have not the influence you think."

"They have had the influence, sire," replied Diana, boldly, "they have had the influence to delay, for months, that very edict, drawn up by the orders of the king himself, for the security and protection of the French people, and to guard against the evils under which half of the noble families of France now smart, from alliances contracted in wild youth with races of inferior blood."

"The Guises had nothing to do with that—have nothing to do with it," replied the king, impatiently. "What interest have they in this matter? I remember, it is true, the Cardinal of Lorraine did oppose the edict, but upon motives of general justice. What interest had he, or his brother either, for or against the edict?"

"To keep down the house of Montmorency," replied Diana of Poitiers. "To blast the expectations of the young duke, in the hopes which he, perhaps presumptuously, had entertained."

"I believe that it is so, indeed, sire," said the chancellor. "There is much reason to think that the opposition of our holy father the pope was raised up by the instigations of the Cardinal of Lorraine. You are well aware, sire, that a messenger from the cardinal outstripped even the Count de Meyrand, and that the latter gentleman found the holy father already prepared to oppose the edict."

"I will think of the matter," said the king again. "If the opposition be but factious, we will give it no head; but I would fain, before I promulgate the edict, have some cause before me to justify it, in which my own personal wishes, and yours, fair lady, are not interested. I must have time for thought upon it. Now let the doors be opened, for we have kept our court too long without."

The doors of the anteroom were accordingly thrown open. The guards, with their halberds, drew back, and in a few minutes the great hall of reception was crowded with the nobles of France. While the king, with affable condescension, received his subjects, spoke with many of them, and smiled upon all, and the buzz of voices, steps, and rustling garments raised a sort of whispering murmur through the halls, the chancellor was seen speaking, in a low voice, to the Duchess of Valentinois; and some one who was passing heard the latter say, "Not only that, my lord, but the abbey of St. Martin also, if we succeed. The revenues are twelve thousand crowns a year."

The chancellor bowed low, with an humble and obsequious smile, and the duchess turned to speak to some one else.