CHAPTER XXXVI.

And where was Edward Langdale all this time? On the day which saw Lord Montagu a prisoner in the Bastille, the poor lad had been just a month in the Chateau de Coiffy; and his captivity was not yet at an end. Care had been taken that he should have no opportunity of seeing Lord Montagu; and, though he was well treated, and his personal liberty seemed but little abridged within the walls, there was a cold, silent guard kept over him which tended a good deal to subdue his impatient spirit. If he spoke to any one, he received a civil answer; but it was confined to two or three words, and never afforded any information. If he asked for writing-materials, they were promised, but never came. If he walked on one of the ramparts, there was a soldier at each end, who never lost sight of him; and his own chamber, with one or two of the passages near, was the only place where he found himself free from supervision. His principal resort was the walls, where on fine days he would sit and think, and gaze over the undulating country round, for hours,—pondering his own fate, dreaming of Lucette, or asking himself what the conduct of Monsieur de Bourbonne could mean.

It certainly had its meaning; and the secret was a very simple one. The reader has already the key in the few words spoken by the count on the first night of Edward's captivity. He had determined that the youth should have no communication with Richelieu till he himself had reaped the reward he expected for the valuable services he believed he had rendered.

For many reasons, however, the cardinal was slower in bestowing that reward than the count anticipated. In the first place, his mind was profoundly occupied with matters which we shall have to touch upon hereafter. In the next place, the service of the count was not so great as he imagined. Lord Montagu was a prisoner, it is true; the treaty with Spain, Lorraine, and Savoy was in the minister's hands; and the schemes of the external enemies of France were dissipated or deranged; but there were few names in France itself implicated by the papers which had been seized, and fewer letters found which could bring home to Richelieu's foes the treason which many of them had certainly meditated. Thus, day after day passed without bringing to Monsieur de Bourbonne the expected recompense; and it suited well with the cardinal's policy to keep the nobility of the kingdom expectants upon the bounty of the minister, as they were now daily becoming, rather than dictators to the Government, as they had too long been. Poor Edward suffered without the minister knowing it, and, at the end of three long months, the youth determined to endure but a few days longer. He contrived, with some oil and the soot of his lamp, to fabricate a sort of ink. A leaf torn out of one of the books which were amongst the baggage returned to him served him for paper sufficient to write on; and with such rude materials he contrived to indite a letter to Monsieur de Bourbonne, which will explain itself.

"Sir," he said, "you informed me that you would send me to the cardinal prime minister by the very first opportunity; and on that understanding I gave my parole not to escape. You have broken your word; and I might be held justifiable in breaking mine: but the word of an English gentleman is too sacred to be trifled with. I therefore give you notice of my intention to leave the Castle of Coiffy as soon as I find an opportunity of doing so after this letter has had full time to reach you and you have had full time to take your measures accordingly. Your men have debarred me the use of pen and ink and cut me off from all communication with others. They may neglect or refuse to carry this letter; but I shall give it to one of them for that purpose, and if it do not reach you the fault is not that of Edward Langdale.

"Postscriptum.—I shall not set out for fourteen days."

This epistle was given to the servant who brought his food, with an injunction to have it given to the post-courier. At first the man hesitated to take it; but, on seeing that it was directed to his master, he ultimately consented; and Edward applied all his thoughts to devise the means of carrying the resolution he had expressed into execution, let Monsieur de Bourbonne take what precautions he would. The fourteen days passed without any answer, and all seemed dull and tranquil as before; but some messengers had been coming and going, and Edward little doubted that one of them bore directions in regard to himself. To test the fact, on the fifteenth morning he walked out upon the walls and approached quietly one of the little flights of steps that led down from the ramparts toward some of the outworks. Instantly the sentinel presented his musketoon, saying, "You cannot pass here."

"Why not?" asked the youth. "I have passed before."

"The orders are changed," answered the man, gruffly. "Keep off, I say."

Edward was satisfied. Monsieur de Bourbonne had received his letter: his parole was at an end; and he felt almost as if he were already free. Two days passed without his making any attempt to escape; but he carefully selected every thing from amongst his baggage which was most valuable, including money, and packed it in the smallest compass. Sometimes, indeed, he was tempted to leave all behind him, for he foresaw that he should have to swim the canal; but the absolute necessity of money in almost every transaction of life he had learned early, and he remembered that he had a large piece of France to traverse. His attention was next directed to ascertain if, by passing boldly through the interior of the chateau, he could not turn the position of the sentinels upon the walls just in face of his windows, and emerge upon the opposite ramparts, which, from all he recollected of the approach to the castle, and from various other circumstances which had come to his knowledge during his long stay, he imagined were neither very high nor very well guarded. Away he went, then, along the passage through which he had always been allowed to pass, to a door at the end on the left-hand side, where there had usually sat a servant, and which he had understood,—believed would be the better word, for he knew not what had led him to the conclusion,—which he believed led to the apartments of the Countess of Bourbonne. But now no servant sat there, either to question or let him pass. The door, however, was shut; and when he tried it he found it locked.

It was a great disappointment; for the servant who usually sat there was sometimes male, sometimes female, and he had calculated that he could devise some means of getting either out of the way. The ramparts before his windows were too steep for him to attempt the leap. Had the fosse been immediately below, he might have risked it, trusting that the water would soften his fall; but a ridge of dry ground ran along under the wall, and the breaking or dislocation of a limb, with his consequent recapture, was inevitable. He returned to his room, then, disappointed but not disheartened, and instantly applied himself to form some new scheme. The first thought that struck him was that a rope ladder might be constructed from the ropes which in those days garnished every bedstead in France. It would be short, indeed, but at all events it might diminish the distance between the parapet and the ground, and by dropping from the last round he would not, he thought, have more than eight or ten feet to fall. He instantly set to work to detach the ropes from the sacking; but he had not unlaced a yard before he asked himself how, when it was constructed, he was to fasten the upper end of his ladder to the parapet. With all his ingenuity, he was puzzled. There was nothing in the room of which he could make a hook,—nothing in the world, except an ancient pair of tongs for putting wood upon the fire; and he might as well have tried to make a hook out of the Colossus of Rhodes. He looked round and round in vain, when suddenly, as his eyes rested upon the heavy key in the lock of the door, he thought that keys would sometimes fit more locks than one. He took it out at once, greased it well with oil from the lamp, and walked quietly along to the door at the end of the passage. It was still locked, and by applying his eye to the key-hole he saw that there was no obstruction. The key had been taken away,—probably to prevent any tampering with the servants on the part of the young prisoner. But he saw also three persons sitting by a large fireplace in the long gallery before him. They were a lady of two or three and twenty,—probably Madame de Bourbonne,—a very beautiful child, three years old perhaps, and another woman, whose dress betrayed the soubrette.

Edward had to return to his room again and wait with impatience for the trial of the key. As he meditated by the remains of his fire, he remembered having heard that, but a year or two before, the famous Duke of Buckingham himself, while ambassador in Paris, in a wild frolic had passed through the whole of the royal palace disguised as the White Lady.

"Some sort of disguise might not be amiss," thought Edward. "Each of these old chateaux has some superstitious tale attached to it. A sheet and a little lampblack will make a very good ghost. But it is not yet time."

His impatience had wellnigh ruined all, however; for, just as he was about to take one of the sheets from the bed to tear a hole for his head to pass through, the servant entered his room with a fresh supply of wood.

"When does Monsieur de Bourbonne return?" asked Edward "I hope when he does he will give me a warmer room."

"I do not know," answered the man, piling some more wood on the fire. "Some say he comes Saturday. That is the day after to-morrow."

Edward let him depart, and then sat and listened. For at least two hours sounds were still to be heard in the chateau; but they gradually died away. At midnight the password was heard upon the walls; then there was some tramping up and down; and then all was silent. Edward knew that there was a snug, warm pavilion, or look-out, thrown forth from the walls, whence the whole line of the curtain on that side could be seen, but which was sheltered from all rude winds; and he doubted not the two guards had retreated to its friendly covering,—for it was a cold spring night, and the keen blast was sweeping over the open country round. He waited some five minutes longer, and then wrapped the sheet round him, smeared his face with the soot of the lamp, and sallied out with the key in his hand. All was darkness in the passage, and he had to feel with his fingers along the wall, not without some anxiety as to how he should find his way through the part of the house with which he was not acquainted. Liberty was at stake, however, and on he went. Fortune favored him: at the end of the passage a faint light came through the key-hole of the door he was in search of. It was red, though dim; and he at once comprehended that it did not proceed from any lamp left burning, but from the embers of a half-exhausted fire. Then came the all-important moment. Quietly and slowly he applied the key to the lock. It entered readily; but when he came to turn it there was some resistance. He was almost in despair; but, thinking he might not have pressed the key home, he pushed hard, and it started forward with some noise. He paused to listen, but there was no sound, and, twisting it slowly round, the lock gave way, the door opened, and the gallery he had seen through the key-hole was before him, with the wood fire burnt low in a large fireplace on the left-hand side. There were a number of doors on the right, tight shut, to keep out the wintry air; but the gallery was vacant, and the fire gave light enough. On then he strode toward the opposite end, calculating that he was now in the great tower or lodging-part of the castle, and soon reached the farther extremity of the gallery, where another door presented itself, with the key in the lock. The moment he opened it, the cold air rushed in, and he found himself in a little garden upon the inner ramparts. All was still; and there seemed nothing there but one or two bare apple-trees and some withered shrubs and flowers.

The rampart, however, was very high, and all the young man's trouble would have been in vain had he not divined that there must be some lower outwork to defend the foot of the wall. The moon was not yet up: there was no light but that of the stars; and he walked cautiously along under the parapet till he came to some descending steps. He could see no one on the walls; but the dry leaves crackled under his footsteps and more than once made him stop, thinking a sentinel was near. At the bottom of the steps was another wall, with embrasures and a solitary cannon, evidently commanding the approach from some work below; and, making his way along for about forty steps, Edward reached some more stairs, which led him down to what seemed a small bastion.

At the foot he paused, for upon the wall of the outwork he perceived some dark object, which he could not clearly make out. It was too large for a man, he thought, and it remained motionless; and after gazing for several minutes he quietly mounted the five steps which led up to the platform. He then perceived that the object which had alarmed him was a rude sentry-box, with a cannon hard by; and, having ascertained that it was empty, he looked over and beheld the river flowing quietly through the fosse at the foot.

The wall was about eleven feet in height, and he certainly would not have feared to leap. But noise was to be avoided; and, tying the end of the sheet to one of the trunnions of the cannon, the young adventurer let himself down by his hands as far as he could, and then dropped into the water. A slight splash was all the sound; but he sunk deep, and his feet touched the bottom. He rose again, however, and, thanking in heart the harsh angler who had first counselled him to learn to swim, he struck out for the other side of the fosse, and reached it in a moment. It was a sharp night, it is true, for cold bathing; but his heart felt warm with the consciousness of freedom, and, getting amongst the low bushes which covered a good part of the ground on the Lorraine side of the castle, he walked rapidly round to the other side, and then struck across the country directly toward the heart of Burgundy.

Edward had many motives for so shaping his course. He had heard a vague rumor that the Duke of Lorraine had made his peace with France, and therefore he was as likely to be interrupted in the duke's territories as anywhere. In the next place, he knew that his evasion must be discovered early on the following morning, and the pursuit was of course likely to be directed on the side where the open doors and the sheet tied to the cannon gave evidence of the course he had first taken. But, after all, there was a certain degree of whim, or character, or call it what you like, in it. He had told Monsieur de Bourbonne that if at liberty he would go straight to the Cardinal de Richelieu. Some people might have thought that it was going straight into a lion's den. But Edward did not fear; and he determined to go frankly and at once throw himself upon the cardinal's generosity, tell him all he had done and all he had suffered, and show him that he had kept his word in coming back to him, though only seven months, instead of two years, had passed since they had parted. He anticipated no obstruction in that direction if he could once get at a distance from Coiffy; for he still had the cardinal's safe-conduct about him.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

Twenty miles in a day is no great walking. I myself have walked forty in ten hours. But the great point is what we walk over. It is the great point in life, too; for the worthy patriarchs, I have no doubt, journeyed through life for two or three hundred years without getting weary, simply because they had such an easy road to travel. Abraham had to fight now and then, it is true, and from time to time there was a quarrel amongst the herdsmen; but these were little incidents that only served to enliven the way; and the rest of the travel was without excitement of mind or great exertion of body. If Abraham or Isaac or Jacob had passed through nothing but low entangling bushes,—bilberries and cranberries, and sometimes blackberries, with their long prickly arms,—they would have laid themselves down to rest much sooner, and felt themselves as tired as Edward Langdale when, just about daybreak, he reached the end of the twentieth mile from the Chateau of Coiffy.

Edward had then arrived at a country somewhat more open; and he sat himself down to rest not far from a little country-road, which he could trace by the eye, running on, almost in a straight line, toward the tall square tower of a village-church. But that village-church was at least six miles distant; and Edward had not tasted food during fourteen or fifteen hours. His wet clothes had dried upon him, too, under the cold night-wind, stiffening every limb; and he had no comfortable little brandy-bottle, such as so often cheers the way for the modern romantic traveller.

The spot where he stopped, however, was a dry grassy mound, with some yellow broken ground before it; and out of the bank welled a little clear rivulet, where he quenched his thirst after the olden fashion before ladles or goblets were invented.

While he was still stooping down he heard the beat of horses' feet upon the road; and, with that strong consciousness of running away which makes every man who possesses it more or less timid, he hid himself under the bank as well as he could.

Presently, as well as the footfalls, he heard the sound of voices; and for a moment his apprehension was increased by one of the voices sounding familiar to his ear.

He was relieved in a moment, however,—and very much relieved.

"Why, you are drunk already, you beast!" said one voice; and then came the thick and juicy tones of good Pierrot la Grange, with the music of brandy very strong in them. "To-be-sure I am," answered Pierrot. "Have I not had sorrow and trouble enough to make me drunk every day of the week for the last three months? My noble lord in prison; Master Ned no one knows where,—the only lad in all this world that could keep me straight."

"Pierrot! Pierrot!" shouted Edward; "Jacques Beaupré! halt there! I am nearer than you think."

The two horsemen stopped, the one with a dumb and stupefied gaze around, a little conscience-stricken, perhaps, at the state in which he had to present himself to his young master, the other with an observation in a low tone as to the consequences of talking of the devil. But Edward was soon by their side, and they were not long upon their horses' backs. Each was sincerely glad to see the young Englishman; for force of character as often wins affection as respect. Edward's adventures were soon told; and luckily the two men had some solid provisions with them, as well as Pierrot's brandy-bottle,—which was now nearly vacant of its contents. While the young gentleman ate and drank, the history of the two servants was related, at somewhat greater length than his own, though it was a very monotonous one. They had remained at Nancy with the rest of Lord Montagu's servants for some time, they said, before they heard of that nobleman's capture. After the news reached them, a week was spent, according to Jacques Beaupré, in active deliberations, at the end of which, as they had a sufficiency of money, their wages having been paid for some time in advance, it was determined to stay quietly where they were till they received some orders. One or two of their comrades, however, dropped off from time to time, till the two French-men and young Freeland only remained of the whole party. For week after week no news came; but at length, some four days previous to that on which they spoke, a messenger had arrived from Lord Montagu, announcing his liberation and bearing funds to pay all expenses. At the same time, they said, Master Freeland was ordered to give them their discharge, and they were actually on their way back to their own part of France.

"And so his lordship is liberated?" said Edward, with a slight touch of bitterness in his tone; for he could not imagine such an event to have happened so suddenly that Montagu, who had found time to take care of common servants, had none to bestow a thought on him. "You are going back to Aunis, you say. Well, my good fellows, if you have a mind for such a companion, I will go with you. I will be no charge to you, for I have money enough with me. All I want is a horse and some arms."

"Charge, Master Ned!" exclaimed Pierrot, in a burst of semi-drunken enthusiasm. "What care we about charges? If it were the last crown I had in the world, I would share it with you. And as to a horse, here, get upon mine. I can walk well enough to that big village there, which they say is called Vitell. But here; let me take the pistols out of the holsters. I won't trust you with them, by the Lord!"

"Nonsense!" answered Edward. "I will not use them, man, upon my honor."

"No, no," said Pierrot, deliberately taking the pistols from his saddle-bow. "If once you get your hand upon the stock, there is no knowing where the bullets may go flying; and my legs have got lead enough in them already this morning."

"Your head has got brandy enough in it," said Jacques Beaupré: "that's what puts the lead in your heels. Here; let me hold the horse while our young master mounts, or you'll be down with your nose in the water and set the fountain boiling."

"If all the water in the world could wash it white," answered Pierrot, "I would tumble into a pond every day. It is that nose of mine gets me a bad reputation and makes men say I drink. Why, every man drinks. It entirely depends upon what men drink. But, after all, I think I had better try the cold water; for somehow I have a notion if I try to walk to Vitell with nothing but brandy in my stomach I shall make the distance three times as long with zigzags and vagaries."

Thus saying, while Edward mounted, very well pleased with some relief to his tired legs, Pierrot knelt down by the side of a tolerably deep little pool formed by the rivulet at the side of the road, and, putting his lips to the clear water, took a deep draught. Jacques Beaupré, however, seemed to think that the water had better be applied externally also, and, giving him a push with his foot, sent him headlong into the pool.

The good man started up with a furious look; but we have already seen the singular effect which liquor had upon poor Pierrot la Grange,—an effect quite contrary to that which it produces on most men. The reader will not be surprised, then, that, though really angry, Pierrot sought no vengeance upon his assailant.

Had we time, and were it worth while, I might be inclined to examine psychologically into this peculiarity of Pierrot's idiosyncrasy; but suffice it to say that the result probably proceeded from one of two causes. Nothing cows like shame carried to a certain degree; and Pierrot at heart was always ashamed of being drunk. On the other hand, as when he did drink he never stopped at that point where liquor merely exhilarates, but generally went far enough to deprive both brain and limbs of vigor, he might feel very doubtful of his capability to combat an enemy even much weaker than himself.

However that might be, his immersion in cold water produced its usual effect. I do not say that it sobered him entirely: that would be too much; but it certainly greatly relieved his head, and gave his limbs a capability of direct progression which they had not previously possessed.

"Come, come, Pierrot," said Edward, interrupting him in the midst of terrible threats against Jacques, "we have no time to lose, my good friend. Did I not tell you that it is likely that I shall be pursued at once? We must get to the village as fast as possible, and then ride hard for the rest of the day, in order to put as great a distance between us and Coiffy as we can."

"Go on, then; go on," cried Pierrot: "I will come after as fast as I can. You can be buying a horse and arms in the mean time, if you can find them. If not, I suppose you must take to franc étrier."

Edward took him at his word, and, accompanied by Jacques Beaupré, rode on, running over in his mind, with his usual quickness, his chances of escape and the best means of securing it. He did not know, indeed, how far the local jurisdiction, either as seigneur or Government officer, of the Count de Bourbonne extended; but he felt certain that, if he could once get beyond its limits, no other governor or Government officer would recognise it in opposition to the safe-conduct under the cardinal's own hand. Speed, therefore, was every thing; and, though he had neither whip nor spur with him, his light hand and thorough horsemanship easily kept Pierrot's horse at a swift trot till they reached the village of Vitell.

France has always been a comfortable country to travel in. Most villages have always possessed a tolerable inn, though the external man was sometimes not so well provided for as the internal. But what Edward principally wanted at that moment was generally in those days to be found in almost any part of France. People then almost universally travelled on horse-back, and very rarely went without arms. Pistols and a good sword, therefore, were soon found in Vitell. But a horse took longer to obtain, not from any want of the commodity,—for there were plenty of very excellent nags in the town,—but from the invariable and unextinguishable propensity inherent in horse-dealers to cheat the chapman, and never to sell a good horse under any circumstances if they can sell a bad one. Six were brought in succession to the door of the inn for Edward's inspection, without remaining for more than a minute before he ordered them away. At length, however, one of the dealers, perceiving that he had not to do with a novice, as Edward's youth had at first led him to imagine, thought fit to bring forth from the stable a beast which, though not very handsome and somewhat vicious,—if not so great a devil as that which Edward rode from Angers,—was a good serviceable beast enough. All these things cost but a small sum compared with the price which we should pay for them in the present day; and bridle, saddle, and a pair of spurs were quite within the young gentleman's means.

Pierrot had arrived in time to give his opinion in regard to the purchase of the horse, and, as he was now sober, that opinion was worth having. But the first moment he found himself alone with his former master he was eloquent in his excuses for his relapse; and Edward could not but admit to himself that, left alone in a great city where he knew no one, uncertain of his fate from day to day, and with sufficient money, no poor sinner had ever better cause to plead temptation.

The young Englishman contented himself, however, with telling him that as he was no longer his master he could pretend to no control over his conduct.

"Ah, Master Ned," cried the honest fellow, "do not say I am no longer your servant! Pray, do control me. I am sure I cannot control myself. You are the only one who ever could; and I do believe if I could but stay with you for a couple of years I should get over my bad habits. See what an effect good training had. All the time I was at Nancy, I declare, I did not drink two quarts till this very morning. Ask Jacques Beaupré: he will tell you the same; and if you will but let me serve you for two years you may read my name backward if I ever drink again."

"I am afraid, my good friend," answered Edward, "you would always be what the Catholics call a relapsed convert. As to serving me two years, Pierrot, God knows what will become of me before two years are over, and in the mean time I have little enough money for myself,—and none to keep a man upon."

"Well, well," cried Pierrot, joyfully, "I will run fortune with you! Only don't send me away, and don't fire at me any more, unless you see me drunk,—when it will be natural. But now tell me, Master Ned, where are you going now?"

"Into the lion's den, Pierrot," replied Edward, with a somewhat rueful smile: "I am going straight to the Cardinal de Richelieu."

"In the name of Heaven!" exclaimed Pierrot, with a look of astonishment, "do you know he is now besieging Rochelle with a powerful army? The king has fallen sick and gone back to Paris. The cardinal has tucked up his gown and turned soldier; and our poor friends in the city are already, they say, so badly off for food that they will soon have to eat each other. The cardinal will not let a mouse stir out, and if any one ventures beyond the walls they send a shot at him and drive him in again."

Edward mused without reply for some moments; and, while he was still silent, Jacques Beaupré came back to the little salle-à-manger and stood by the young gentleman's side.

"Poor Clement Tournon!" cried Edward, still musing.

"Ay, poor Clement Tournon!" said Jacques Beaupré, in a sad tone: "he is a good man, sir, and took care of me from my boyhood."

"I would give the world to save him," answered Edward. "Come, let us ride."

They were soon upon their horses. Edward mounted first and Pierrot last, having stopped to answer some questions of the host.

"What did he ask you?" said Edward, as they rode on.

"He asked where your lordship was going," answered Pierrot, "and I told him straight to the cardinal."

"Right," said Edward. "And did he call me lordship, Pierrot? My lordship is a very small one."

"Ay, sir, but you have got quite a grand air now, though your doublet is somewhat soiled by dust and wet. You cannot think how you are changed since we left Nantes. What between riding, and getting stuck, and being in prison, you have grown broad and brown, and your mustache is an inch long. Those who saw you before would never know you."

"I hope they will," answered Edward, with a smile followed by a sigh; "and, as for my doublet, I must get a new one, whenever I can afford to stop without danger. All my baggage I left with the discreet Monsieur de Bourbonne. But, if I am not mistaken, Pierrot, I will make him pay all he owes me before I have done."

"At the pistol's point?" asked Pierrot, with a grim smile.

"No, no," replied Edward,—"in another way, and by other hands. But let us ride on fast; for I have a great notion the news you left with the aubergist will sharpen the spurs of any who may be pursuing us."

The whole party accordingly rode forward more quickly, but not at so headlong a pace as to risk any damage to their horses; and before night all fear of pursuit was ended by their entrance into another province, where, at a small walled town, which they reached just after sunset, Edward was obliged to produce his safe-conduct before the soldiers at the gates would give them admission.

The officer to whom it was shown, at the first sight of the broad seal of France and the name of Richelieu, respectfully came out of the guard-house to bid the bearer welcome, and asked, with great politeness, where he was going to lodge in the town, and whither his journey was directed.

"I am going straight to Rochelle, or wherever his Eminence of Richelieu may be," replied the young Englishman. "As to the place where I shall lodge, I shall be glad of advice; for I am a stranger here, and must depart early to-morrow."

"Your horses look tired, sir," said the officer, "and you had better give them some rest."

"No wonder they are tired," replied the young man; "for we have ridden from the frontiers of Lorraine, where I was somewhat badly treated, lost all my baggage, but luckily saved my purse."

"By brigands?" asked the officer.

"No better," answered Edward, somewhat bitterly. "But may I ask you the way to the best inn?"

The officer, all politeness, sent one of the soldiers to show him the way; and in a large, comfortable, though somewhat gloomy, old auberge the young Englishman passed the first night for several months with a feeling of freedom and security.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

We left Edward Langdale at nightfall, and, by the reader's good leave, may as well take him up again about the same hour, but with an interval of some ten days. The interval measured upon the earth's surface must be equally great. When we last saw him he was entering a little town on the frontiers of Burgundy, just after the cool sunset of a chilly spring day. He was now riding out of the fine old town of Niort after a warm day's journey; for even under the genial sky of France ten days will make a great difference, and bring the warm breath of the South to expand the flowers, though winter even there will sometimes linger in the lap of spring.

"Well, sir," said Jacques Beaupré, who was a good deal tired with a longer day's ride than usual, "everybody says you will find the town full of soldiers; and we all know where fighting men are there is no room for civil men."

"We will find room, Jacques," replied Edward, in a light, confident tone; "and, as to civility, if we don't show ourselves too militant, the fighting-men will be civil enough, depend on it. But, my good friend, I must, if possible, see the cardinal to-morrow. They tell me that an assault upon Rochelle will be made shortly; and, if I could but get into the town for a few hours——"

Jacques Beaupré shook his head, saying, "Ah, sir, it is all in vain. I will go as far to help poor old Clement Tournon as any man; but the good syndic is most likely dead of starvation by this time; and, if he is not, you might as well try to persuade a cat to let a mouse get out of her jaws as attempt to persuade his Eminence to let one single soul, old or young, get out of Rochelle."

"I will try, at all events," answered Edward. "He who makes no effort never succeeds. He who makes an effort may fail, but he may succeed. The man who helped me at my utmost need shall never say that I did not try to help him when he was in a harder scrape. Ride on, ride on: we have still three leagues to go."

The twilight grew fainter as they went, and it was quite dark when they emerged from the little wood which lies about a quarter of a league from the small old town of Fontenay, then universally called Rohan Rohan. It is now a mere insignificant burgh; but in those times and in the time before it was a small city of some importance,—if not for its commerce, at least for its capabilities for defence. It had even ventured a short time before to set at defiance the arms of France, and had made an obstinate resistance, but, having fallen at length, had suffered severely from the captors.

It was night, as I have said, when Edward and his two companions first came within sight; and very little of the place would have been visible had not a large body of men, which formed the rear-guard of the royal army, been marched out some days before and encamped a mile beyond the town. Every one who has seen a camp must have remarked how much more light finds its way to the sky from amongst the tents in the early part of the night than arises from amongst the houses of a city, though, perhaps, much more populous; and now the blaze from watchfires and lamps and torches threw out the dark masses of the town of Rohan Rohan, with its fine old castle, in strong relief.

It is rarely that the rear of an army is guarded with as much care as its van. Few captains are as careful as Earl Percy. But in this case negligence was more excusable; for no one in all the camp ever dreamed of such a thing as an attack in the rear. Moreover, to say the truth, that rear-guard in advance of Rohan Rohan was composed of a somewhat disorderly set, gentlemen and soldiers alike, not one of whom wished particularly to see the fall of Rochelle.

To explain the cause of this indifference would take up too much time; but the words of Bassompierre revealed the fact when he said, "You will see we shall be fools enough to take Rochelle."

However that might be, Edward and his companions had passed the centre of the town before they saw a single soldier. It was badly lighted, it is true; but the cause of their not seeing any was that there were none to be seen. The young gentleman looked for guard, or picquet, or patrol, in vain, till he arrived within a hundred yards of the end of the street which leads up from Pont de Cossé to the castle. There, however, he was challenged for the first time,—one of a group of musketeers who were drinking at the door of a house starting up and demanding the password.

Edward, unable to give it, requested to see the man's officer, and was led unceremoniously into the house, where he found an old gray-headed gentleman seated reading, with his steel cap upon the table. To him the young gentleman's errand was soon explained, and his safe-conduct exhibited.

"I cannot let you pass, young gentleman, without further orders," said the old man; "but if you will wait here for an hour I will send on your name and the description of your pass to our commander. He will soon let us hear from him. I am rather curiously situated myself, and therefore must be careful."

"I must wait the leisure of the king's officers," answered Edward, in a civil tone. "But, in the mean while, perhaps my two men, who are without, can get some forage for the horses and some food for themselves. I have not seen an inn open in the whole place."

"I suppose not," said the old officer, dryly. "But some of my people will easily find for yours what they want. Pray, be seated and wait till my return."

He was not gone more than five minutes; and then about an hour passed in broken and desultory conversation between him and his visitor, whom he treated with every sort of distinction,—for by this time Edward was once more equipped in the garments of a gentleman of the court, which were none the less gentlemanly for being plain and sober. Some of the old man's questions and observations seemed to his young companion somewhat strange: he asked if Edward had met any parties of armed men on the road, how long he had travelled, which way he had come, and remarked that this siege was a weary business, but that the cardinal was determined to carry Rochelle whatever it might cost.

Edward replied as shortly as politeness permitted, and only put a few questions in return. Amongst them, however, he inquired who was the officer commanding the troops in front, and heard, with sensations not altogether pleasant, that his name was Monsieur de Lude, into whose hands he had fallen once before.

At the end of an hour he was relieved, however; for a soldier, entering the room with every appearance of haste, gave a letter into the hands of the old officer, who opened and read it with a good deal of merriment.

"Monsieur de Lude writes thus," he said: "'Present my compliments to Monsieur de Langdale and inform him that I cannot let him pass the posts till I have the cardinal's permission, which I have no doubt will be given as soon as he hears his name.' Shall I read the rest?" asked the old officer.

Edward nodded, and he went on thus:—"'I got into a devil of a scrape last summer about him and a girl he had with him. Who the mischief he is I don't know; but, by what the cardinal said when I saw him, I think he must be his Eminence's pet cat turned into a cavalier. On your life, be as civil to him as possible; give him the best rooms in the castle, and feed and drink him well, till I can come over myself,—which will be as soon as I hear from the cardinal to-morrow. I am half afraid to stop him. But what can I do? The orders are strict not to let any one pass the posts, because'——The rest," continued the old man, abruptly, "refers to matters of no consequence. You will find the rooms of the castle very comfortable, for they were inhabited by the Duc de Rohan but a few weeks before we sat down before the place, and some of the old servants have been suffered to remain till the king's pleasure is known. Heaven grant there be no ghosts there to disturb you!—though there are some strange tales, as in regard to every old country-house."

"I am not afraid of any thing unsubstantial," answered Edward. "Do you know what has become of the Duc de Rohan?"

"No,—not rightly," replied the old officer, with some slight hesitation. "They did say he was threatening the right flank of the army with a body of horse; but he must have found out by this time it was of no use. Men must submit to circumstances, sir. But let us go. I will have the honor of escorting you. We shall find your servants somewhere about." And, calling aloud for torches, he led the way out of the low house where he had taken up his quarters, and gave some orders to the men about the door.

Before the torches were lighted and Edward Langdale and his companion, with two men before them, had proceeded a hundred yards up the hill, Jacques Beaupré and Pierrot had joined them, leading the horses. In sooth, the party proceeded exceedingly slowly; and it took a full quarter of an hour to reach the gates of the chateau. All watch and ward was gone; and at the inner door of the lodging-part of the building appeared a tremulous old man with a candle in his hand. The old officer called him "Matthew," as if they had been long acquainted, and ordered him briefly to pay every attention to the guest and give him the best chambers in the house.

"Those are the duchess's apartments," said the old major-domo. "We will have a fire lighted in a moment, gentlemen; but I fear me there is not much in the house to eat. However, I will tell old Henri Borgne, who was cook here before Maître Grondin's father came, to get something ready with all speed."

"No, no," said the old officer: "this gentleman is not fond of antediluvian sauces. I will make shift to send him up a roast chicken and a pottage. We are not particularly well off for provisions down below; but I can find something, and I think, Matthew, you can find the wine."

"Hush, hush, sir," said the old man, in a low voice: "if your soldiers did but hear."

"I will break the first man's neck that climbs the hill," replied the officer.

"I want nothing," said Edward. "We supped at Cossé, and my men have taken care of themselves below, depend upon it. Where is the duchess now, Monsieur Matthew? and who has she got with her?"

"Oh, she is in Venice still," replied the old man; "and there are Madame St. Aignan, and Mademoiselle de Mirepoix, and three or four maids, and the serving-men. Do you know her, sir? She's a fine lady, and mighty gay."

"I have not the honor," said Edward. "But now, my good man, let the fire be lighted: I shall go to bed soon, for I have ridden long and hard. I trust," he continued, addressing the old officer, "that Monsieur de Lude will communicate my coming to his Eminence as soon as possible; for it is very necessary that I should see him without delay."

"Be you sure he will do that," replied the other. "De Lude is not a man to burn his fingers twice with the same chestnut."

He then took his leave. The old servant with the candle marshalled the way ceremoniously to a very splendid suite of apartments which had escaped, I know not how, from the rude hands of the soldiers when the town was taken. Pierrot and Jacques Beaupré disposed of themselves, doubtless very comfortably; and Edward sat down to meditate. The reader need not ask what was the subject of his thoughts, if he remembers that those were the halls and dwelling-place of the ancestors of Lucette.

"Was it a dream?" he asked himself. Hardly nine months before, had he passed with her not many miles from that very spot? had they wandered alone together for weeks without restraint? had they borne suffering, anxiety, danger in dear companionship which made even danger sweet? had they been married, parted, met again, and again parted?

There are times when a sensation of the unreality of all things upon this earth comes over us,—when memory seems but a dream, our past acts a vision, our hopes, our fears, our enjoyments, but the fancies of the fleeting hour.

For an instant it was so with Edward Langdale as he sat and gazed into the flickering and phantasm-begetting fire. But when he turned his eyes around upon those old walls, whose scrolls and sconces and fantastic ornaments all spoke of the past,—all told that he was in the dwelling of the Rohan Rohans,—the strange, shadowy doubts vanished: he felt that there was something real in the world,—something more real than mere tangible objects; that, if all else died or passed away like a show, the realities of heart and mind must remain forever,—that esteem, affection, love, truth, honesty and honor, genius and wisdom, can never perish.

How long he sat he knew not; but his meditations were interrupted by the old servant bringing in fresh wood, with a man from the town below, bearing a tray of provisions.

The former he was glad to have, for the night had grown chilly; but the latter he sent away to Pierrot and Beaupré, bidding them eat and then go to rest, as he wanted nothing more. The old man, after reverent offers of service, put some fresh candles in the sconces and left him, assuring him that he should have had candlesticks,—fine silver flambeaux,—but that they had been taken away.

Edward, left alone, began to pace up and down the room. He looked at the bed, which seemed comfortable enough, and thought of lying down; but he had no inclination to sleep. The chamber was a square room in an angle of the tower, one side looking to the south and the other to the east. The windows were without blinds or shutters. Edward advanced to one on the southern side, from which there was a view over a considerable part of the camp. The glow which had risen in that direction some hours before had considerably diminished: the watchfires were dying out; the torches no longer moved about from place to place. He lifted his eyes to the sky, studded with stars, and saw a planet with a pure mild light moving upward untwinkling amongst the more steadfast watchers of the night.

"Can there be any truth," he thought, "in those tales of the astrologers? Can the fate of many men, of many nations, depend upon the course of such a pale, silent orb as that?" And, turning to the table again, he sat down and let his thoughts run on in the new course they had assumed. Every thing grew more and more silent around. The village clock struck. He did not count its sounds, but he felt it must be near midnight.

Who can tell what it is which, when alone and in silence, at that still spectral hour, seems to chill the warm blood of the heart, and fills the brain with ideas vague, and awful, and sublime,—with fancies gloomy, if not fearful?

Edward sat thoughtfully for nearly half an hour longer. The fire had fallen low, and he rose and threw some more wood upon it; but it would not burn. He then rose and went to the other window, which looked eastward. The moon was just rising, and he could see over a wide extent of country, with the wood which he had passed on his way to Fontenay on the left of the picture, then half a mile or so of open sandy ground, then another wood to the right, and farther still, on the same side, but more distant, the spires and towers of some other little town. There was the haziness of moonlight over the whole scene; but the moon, though she was strong enough to cast long shadows from every elevated object, so flooded the whole scene with light that the more distant features were not distinct.

Suddenly Edward raised his hand half open to his brow, and gazed from underneath. He saw something that surprised him. A dark figure issued from the wood; more followed; line after line of black, soldier-like phantoms swept over the sandy ground from the one wood toward the other, disappearing as they entered. But still more followed, horse and foot. They seemed to be a moving host; but there was something so quiet and gliding in their motions that Edward could hardly believe they were substantial. He opened the window quietly and listened. There was no noise; there was no beat of drum, or sound of fife, or clang of arms, or tramp of marching men. Yet still the line went on, troop after troop and squadron after squadron, in the same silent, stealthy way; and where he stood he could discern no shadows cast by the moon from the passing multitude.

At length he thought that fatigue must have affected his mind or body strangely; and, retiring from the window, he closed it, and lay down to sleep without undressing.

His eyes closed heavily in a few minutes; but, ere an hour was over, he started up and gazed around him, wondering where he was. Then, as remembrance came back, he approached the window again and gazed out. The moon was higher in the heaven, and shining with great splendor; but the phantom host had disappeared, and nothing was to be seen but the misty landscape and the shadows of the trees.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

"Thanks for the precaution," said Edward, looking at his watch, and shrewdly suspecting that the messenger had somewhere dallied on the way. "It wants now a quarter to five o'clock. I will not detain you a moment, sir." And, catching up his beaver and his cloak, and a few other articles that lay about the room, he descended to the court-yard, taking an opportunity of slipping some money into the hand of the old servant.

Pierrot was already there with two horses, and Jacques Beaupré appeared the instant after, leading the other. No time was lost, and Edward was immediately in the saddle. Three or four troopers followed; and the whole party set out down the steep streets from the castle toward the Pont de Cossé.

Edward asked no questions as to the course in which their ride was directed; and hardly a word passed between him and his companion as they trotted rapidly on. The fact was, the young man's mind was full of the coming interview. On some points his determination was formed; but upon others he was doubtful. To tell all that happened at Coiffy he was resolved, and to demand redress; but, turn it in his thoughts as he would, he could fix upon no way beforehand of introducing his proposed visit to Rochelle, and in the end he was obliged to leave it to chance and circumstance.

Very little of the country did he see as they rode on, for the moonlight was checkered with cloudy shadows; and faint gleams, and deep shades, and hazy hollows, and brown knolls, were all that caught the eye as the travellers passed along.

At length, after several miles' ride, a gleam of light rested for a minute or two upon a little elevation, and on the walls of an old castle, not unlike that of Rohan Rohan; and the young officer by Edward's side pointed forward, saying, "There is Mauzé, where his Eminence has passed the last four days."

"How far is it?" said Edward.

"About two miles," replied the young man; "but we shall soon be there. The road is good and even."

The light passed away, and Edward caught no other distinct view of the chateau till, about twenty minutes after, they began to ascend the little slope. He then perceived a red and garish glow ascending from amidst some old walls, and in a minute more was in the court-yard, where a number of torches were burning and several men and horses were collected.

"Stay here," said the young officer. "I will go and announce you." And, leaving him there, he entered the chateau.

He had not been gone two minutes, however, when there was a bustle on the steps of the great hall, and some six or seven persons came forth, with a tall, fine-looking man at their head, habited certainly more in military than ecclesiastical costume; for, though he had a loose scarlet robe thrown over his shoulders, there was the gleam of a cuirass underneath, and he bore a heavy sword by his side. Edward pushed his horse forward, seeing at once it was the cardinal; but the great minister was evidently fully occupied. He spoke a few words to one of the little crowd which surrounded him, gave some papers to another, listened for a moment to a third, and then mounted a powerful charger which was held for him at the foot of the steps. His fine but somewhat stern face was full of thought, and the glare of the torches gave it even a look of harshness, which Edward had never remarked there before. His eye turned upon everybody around, and rested longer perhaps on the face of Edward Langdale than upon that of any other. But he did not seem to recognise him, and probably only remarked him because he remained on horseback while all the rest were on foot.

"Follow!" said Richelieu, and rode away; while a faint tinge of gray began to spread itself through the dark sky, announcing the coming sunrise.

As the party rode on, Edward remarked that Richelieu spoke a few words to those immediately about him; and presently after one of them fell back to his side and asked if his name were Langdale. He answered in the affirmative; and the gentleman then told him to ride up near his Eminence. Edward did so; but the cardinal took no notice, and continued to push on at a quick pace till they reached the top of one of those abrupt little eminences which are scattered over the flatter ground upon the western coast of France. Upon the very summit Richelieu pulled in his horse; and by this time the pale bluish twilight had gained sufficient strength to show the brown moors and yellow sands, and the towers and pinnacles of Rochelle, with a gleam of the sea beyond. An odor of sea-weed also came sweeping up from the northwest, and a saltish taste was felt upon the lips of those who sat there and gazed.

"Edward Langdale!" said Richelieu, after a moment or two; and Edward spurred his horse up to his side.

"You have kept your word in coming back," said the cardinal; "but I did not expect you so soon."

"That was because your Eminence did not know all the circumstances," answered the young man, with that mixture of frankness and respect which is always well pleasing to the great.

Richelieu raised what was then called a perspective glass—a very feeble sort of telescope—to his eye, and gazed toward Rochelle, the long lines of which were becoming more distinct every moment. Edward was silent, seeing that the mind of the great minister was fully occupied; and no one spoke a word for nearly ten minutes. Then occurred one of those phenomena by no means uncommon, and easily accounted for in these days, but to which the superstition of old times lent a significance they do not now possess. Away out to the east the sun began to rise, somewhat pale and sickly in look, and with a whitish glare around him; while in the west, rising over the sea, appeared another sun, exactly of the same aspect and keeping as it ascended the same height in the sky.

"Two suns in the same heaven!" exclaimed Richelieu, with an accent of surprise.

"Yes, your Eminence," replied Edward. "But one is much brighter than the other, and its light will last after the other has gone out."

Richelieu turned suddenly round and gazed in his face with an inquiring look, as if he thought there might be something beneath his words more significant than the words themselves; then, bowing his head with a well-pleased smile, he said, "True, true! one is fading already."

Whether Edward had spoken to his thoughts or not must be always a mystery; but it is certain that minds of great fire and eagerness, even without much fancy, will snatch at images supplied by external nature to figure forth without danger thoughts, dreams, purposes in their own hearts which they dare not utter. The parable is always a resource of ambition, and often a resource of love. Certain it is, too, that there were at that time two suns in the sky of France, and that one was already fading into an obscurity becoming darker and more dark till the faint figure of the dying monarch was hardly seen or felt, while the other was destined to go on increasing in splendor and power till it set forever. Here the comparison may be supposed to halt; for some may say that the real sun was fading while the false one was increasing in splendor. But that depends, after all, upon how men appreciate greatness,—whether genius or birth be the real sun.

However that may be, it is certain that Louis XIII. was at all events endowed with military genius; but even in the splendor of that most dazzling—to the eyes of men—of human gifts, his rays were paling before the superior endowments of his minister. Sickness, weariness, disgust, despondency—we know not well what—had already induced him to withdraw from the siege of Rochelle, and to leave Richelieu to carry on the operations with a force, an energy, a talent, which would have won fame for the most distinguished general or engineer. The cardinal might well, therefore, apply the words of Edward Langdale to himself, feeling them a compliment which, like the misty light of a summer's day, was the more warm because it was in some degree indefinite. Richelieu did not wish to have it otherwise, and, without further words, turned his eyes once more upon the scene before them. A small battery opened its fire upon the walls of the devoted town as they sat there and gazed; but nobody could see whether it produced any effect or not. Richelieu, at all events, paid little attention to it, and only murmured to himself, "Waste of saltpetre!" Shortly after, he sent off two gentlemen on horseback with messages written in pencil on small scraps of paper, and then turned to gaze again. Some five minutes after, a man on horseback came back, galloping up from the rear, and gave him some information in a low voice. For a short space his brow contracted as if with anger; but the emotion lasted evidently only a moment, and the next instant he smiled almost gayly, and he said, aloud, "Well, one may have too many rats in a rat-trap. Monsieur Langdale, come hither."

Edward rode close up, and the cardinal asked, "Do you know any thing of the Duc de Rohan?"

"No, your Eminence," replied Edward; "I have not seen or heard of him for nearly nine months."

"You did not see him last night?" said Richelieu.

"The Duc de Rohan!" exclaimed Edward, in a tone of surprise. "I passed all last night, sir, in the Chateau de Fontenay; but the duke certainly was not there, to my knowledge."

"Nevertheless," said Richelieu, in a quiet tone, "he passed from right to left of our army in the rear with his whole force: so I understand."

"Now I comprehend what I saw last night," said Edward; and he detailed all he had observed from the window of the chateau.

"It was no phantom," said Richelieu, gravely; "but it is as well. I wonder if there were other people in the town or castle who took men for shadows as well as you. How long are you from Savoy, where I last heard of you?"

"A long time, may it please your Eminence," replied the young Englishman; "but only eleven days from the Chateau of Coiffy,—whence you certainly should have heard of me if they had not debarred me the use of pen and ink and kept me a close prisoner for months."

"Ha!" said the minister, with a grave, stern face, "Monsieur de Bourbonne thinks he can play with me, does he? and now he fancies he has got his reward. But we must talk more of this when I have some leisure. At present, that little black line there," he continued, pointing toward Rochelle, "occupies much of my thoughts. The battery has not yet ceased firing. These men of trumpet and broad-sword, Monsieur Langdale, attribute more virtue to gunpowder and cannon-balls than I do. There are much more efficient elements in war."

"Indeed, your Eminence!" exclaimed Edward: "may I ask what?"

"The impudent young cur," said one of the old officers near, to another, in a low voice, "talks to the cardinal as if he were his bottle-companion."

Richelieu answered calmly, but with emphasis, "A pickaxe and a shovel, followed up by the movements of those two great officers, Pestilence and Famine. When you announced in Rochelle, Master Langdale, the coming of Lord Denbigh's fleet, and those wise men of the East refused to receive it in their port, they little thought, I ween, that those two mighty commanders would be so soon amongst them. But how was it," he continued, changing his tone and speaking rapidly, "that they dared, in such perilous circumstances, to send away King Charles's ships upon the pretext that they had not been warned, when you yourself had warned them?"

"Your Eminence's pardon," answered Edward; "but Master Jargeau, who of course told you all this, should also have said that I had not been an hour in Rochelle before I had my head broken, and lay for nearly a week incapable of delivering any of my letters. It was a pretext, as your Eminence calls it; but the Rochellois had really not been warned when Lord Denbigh's fleet arrived."

"You are mistaken, young man," said Richelieu, with a slight curl of the lip: "you jump at your conclusions too rapidly. There have been more Jargeaus than one in Rochelle; and this one, though a very serviceable fellow, I am told, never saw me in his life. Ay, it is a pity that he would not keep his neck out of the noose; but he forced us to hang him,—which was a severe loss to the king's service. He was in the case of those men who, as the Scriptures say, are exceedingly fond of serving both God and mammon. God abandoned him, and mammon could not save him; for though he offered Bassompierre the whole value of a cargo of fish he had contrived to get into Rochelle,—and every fish was worth an ounce of gold, be it remarked,—Bassompierre, whose intelligence is very good, seized the gold where he had hidden it, and hanged him according to proclamation."

All this was said with much coolness and deliberation; and from time to time the great minister raised his glass to his eye and gazed at the battery, which had not yet ceased firing. He waited about ten minutes more, and then beckoned up some of the superior officers round him, asking if they thought his messenger had not had time to reach the lines. They all agreed that there had been plenty of time; but one of them added, in a careless tone, "It is possible, your Eminence, that he may not have carried either his head or his message with him. There has been a puff or two of smoke from the walls, and nobody can tell where the shot may have gone. A man may have a tierce major in his favor and yet lose the game after all."

"Possibly," replied Richelieu, and then resumed his watch. During some five minutes after, the line of the battery showed no more smoke or fire; the wreaths of sulphurous vapor curled away; the town also ceased firing, the whole scene lay quiet and peaceful beneath their eyes, and nothing was seen but a few horsemen riding about, with one apart from the rest, galloping quickly up toward the hill on which they were.

The cardinal waited his arrival and put some questions, which Edward Langdale, who had fallen a little back, did not hear.

"In five days, your Eminence," replied the officer, aloud. "He says that at present no boat bigger than a cockle-shell can get in or out, and, unless there be a very high tide or a gale of wind, the place will be sealed up as tight as a bottle of old Burgundy."

"Well," said Richelieu; "it is well. Have they made no attempt to interrupt the works?"

"None whatever, your Eminence," replied the other: "they are trusting to God's good providence and a high tide,—doubtless praying in all their temples for storm and tempest with profound devotion; but the devil and the wind do not seem inclined to help them, and the poor creatures whom they drove out have been received into the town again to eat them up, so that they cannot hold out many weeks longer."

The cardinal smiled, and, turning his horse, rode slowly back toward the Chateau of Mauzé, without saying a word to any one, and seemingly buried in profound thought.

Edward Langdale followed, not knowing well what to do; and not one word did Richelieu speak to him or any one till they reached the gates leading into the court-yard. The cardinal dismounted and entered the building, followed by some of his immediate attendants. The military men scattered in different directions, each to his own quarters, without taking any notice whatever of the young stranger; and Edward remained upon his horse in the court-yard, while a curious smile upon the lip and a raising of the eyebrow of Jacques Beaupré read an unpleasant commentary upon his disappointed expectations.

"You must seek lodgings in the little town, Pierrot," said Lord Montagu's page. "Get the best you can,—though bad, I fancy, will be the best,—and make some arrangement for obtaining food. We must have something to eat,—though the poor folks in Rochelle are worse off than we, it would seem."

"It is a small place, Mauzé, sir, and quite full of soldiery," said Pierrot. "But I will do my best, and get something at all events; for I know some of the people here, who, I think, would kill a hog for me, if we can do no better. But I am afraid quarters will be worse to find than rations."

"We must seek for both," answered Edward, "and something for the horses too."

He was turning toward the gates again, to ride down the slope into the little town, or rather village,—for it was no better then,—when a man dressed in a dark suit and bearing somewhat the appearance of a servant came down the steps and approached the young gentleman's horse. "His Eminence the Cardinal de Richelieu," he said, in a low, sweet voice, "has commanded me to tell Monsieur de Langdale that he will see him as soon as the business of the day is over,—about nine o'clock to-night. In the mean time, I will show Monsieur de Langdale a chamber,—somewhat high up, it is true; but the castle is very full. Monsieur de Langdale will take his meals with the officers of the cardinal's guard. His servants must provide for themselves in the village, as we have no room. The cardinal allows them a crown a day as livery."

Edward dismounted and followed him to a chamber convenient enough, though very near the top of the main tower; and, knowing the policy of saying as little as possible in such places, he only asked if at nine o'clock he should present himself before the cardinal, or if his Eminence would summon him.

"He did not say," replied the man. "But monsieur had better go to the ante-chamber at that hour and speak with the almoner, whom he will find there." Thus saying, he left him, seemingly as much indisposed to say a word more than was necessary as Edward could be himself.

The reader may probably have no great opinion, from the facts already related in this true history, of Edward Langdale's prudence; but, as I have shown, he had been undergoing for the last nine months a course of discipline under which he had greatly improved. Much was at stake at that moment, and he resolved to act as cautiously as possible; and during the whole morning he never quitted the chamber which had been assigned to him,—passing the time partly in sleep, partly in deep meditation over the character of the great minister, which had now appeared to him in a new point of view. The coldness, the somewhat sarcastic indifference with which Richelieu had spoken of the hanging of the unfortunate Jargeau and of the miseries of the people of Rochelle, would have given the impression that he was merely a hard, selfish politician, had it not been for the deep emotions which had stirred him in the case of Chalais and the lighter and more graceful feelings which Edward had seen him display in their first interview.

It was matter of study for the young man; but, as he thought over his own conduct, he determined to make no change. He had hitherto followed the promptings of the moment; and he had acquired a conviction that with the cardinal unpremeditated frankness was the best policy.

He was still indulging in this strain of thought, when a servant came to inform him that the officers of the cardinal's guard were at dinner, and led him to the great hall, where he found a seat reserved for him at the table. There was no sympathy, however, between him and those with whom he had to associate for a few minutes: they were civil,—which was all he could expect; and hardly ten words passed his lips before he retired once more to his chamber.