CHAPTER XL.

Nevertheless, it would appear, notwithstanding the excellencies of those old times, that some improvements have been made in the march of society,—at least, in the manufacture of chairs. Although they were not famous for that fabric in Louis the Thirteenth's time, Edward Langdale felt that seats were certainly much more inconvenient at a former period. "Men must once have had back-bones of quite a different construction," he thought. "They must have either been so supple as to bend into all kinds of corners, or so hard as not to care for any corners at all."

Such thoughts passed through his mind as he sat in a straight-backed sort of rack in the Castle of Mauzé, just opposite to the Cardinal de Richelieu, who, having cast off cuirass and scarlet robe, was seated, in an easy gown of deep purple, in that comfortable arm-chair. The light fell upon his magnificent head and easy graceful figure from a sconce upon the wall; and the fine flowing lines of the drapery and half-concealed limbs, with the broad high forehead and slightly gray hair, gave him the look of some antique picture, and made the whole person harmonize well with the room in which he sat.

The figure of Edward Langdale would have spoiled all, for it was full of youth,—I might almost call it youngness; but, as I have said before, his garments, though cut in what was then the modern fashion, were all of a sober color; and about the square brow, the delicately-chiselled nose, and the firm, determined mouth, there was an antique, if not a classical, character.

With the cuirass and the scarlet robe Richelieu seemed to have cast off the heavy cares and hard sternness of the day, and with the satin pantoufles to have put on the ease and relaxation of spirit which no man enjoyed more intensely than himself, if we may believe the stray admissions even of his enemies and calumniators. It is greatly to be regretted that Bois Robert did not write his history; for, although we might not have had a true picture of his many-sided character, we should have had another,—a more amiable and perhaps even a grander view of the man than any historian has given us, except by accident.

He had sent for Edward Langdale about half an hour before the time he had appointed. His orders for the night and the following morning had been given; his letters and despatches had been written or dictated; audiences had been afforded to several gentlemen on business; even the minute details of his household had been attended to; and he had sat down for that repose of the mind which can only be obtained by complete change of subject. The young Englishman had pleased him from the first, and, without knowing it, had flattered his vanity on its most sensitive point,—for Richelieu had his weaknesses as well as other men. Where, indeed, is there any one who can boast that he is without either the hair of the Hebrew giant or the heel of the Greek demigod? The cardinal knew, too,—had, indeed, very soon perceived,—that Edward's mind had been early imbued, in an irregular manner, perhaps, but to a deep degree, with that sort of graceful literature of which he was himself most fond, and that he was full of that refined and delicate taste on which he prided himself. He was the very person Richelieu sought for the social converse of hours which were unfilled by any weighty employment,—hours which he would not give to his military officers, because his plans were all formed, his resolutions were all taken, and he neither sought advice nor remonstrance; hours which he would not bestow upon his almoner nor upon his chaplain, for he did not wish to sleep just then; hours that he wished to pass very lightly indeed, as a wise man takes nothing very heavy for his supper before he goes to bed.

"Welcome, Monsieur Langdale," said the great minister, as Edward followed a servant into the room. "I have not had time to welcome you yet; for, in the first place, I did not recognise you, your beard having grown into somewhat leonine proportions. Since then I have not had time; for I have been engaged with what the people of this world call weighty business,—weighty enough, God wot, for those who have to handle it, and which somewhat tries the arm that has to wield it. But let us leave that and talk of other things. How have you fared? Poor Lord Montagu, your friend, could not keep his nose out of a rat-trap; and yet it was badly baited."

"He would not have gone near the wires if he had taken my advice," said Edward. "I ventured to guess, not at the designs of your Eminence, but at your probable conduct; and I warned Lord Montagu not to come too close to you."

"Perhaps I have let you see me too close, young gentleman," said Richelieu, with a good-humored smile. "And yet it is probable bable you served me when you did not intend it. There be some men, my young friend, and they very sensible men too, who will take no advice which comes from younger and less experienced persons; but yet things, as the Scripture says,—I speak with all reverence,—are often revealed to the poor and simple and are hidden from the wise and great. Now, I have a strong idea that you know more of Cardinal Richelieu, poor Bishop of Luçon, than that great diplomatist, Lord Montagu."

Edward shook his head. "I cannot pretend to do that," he said; "but my lord thought he might venture to pass over a quarter of a league of French territory, when some time before you had suffered him to roam for weeks over the whole of France."

"He had not got the papers then," said Richelieu, with a short laugh. "I did not want Montagu's skin: it was his letters and his papers that I arrested; and for that matter one quarter of a league is as good as a thousand miles. As for yourself, you have told me something new to-day. I heard of you at Aix, where your hot spirit had brought some damage on your skin. You had been wounded, I mean to say,—by your own brother I believe they told me. Very foolish, Master Edward Langdale, to fight with one's own brother!"

"I did not fight with him, may it please your Eminence. My sword was never drawn."

"Ha!" said the cardinal. "That is well. But then I heard of your making a hole in another man's skin. How was that?"

"Why, I told the two men you sent after me, sir," replied Edward, frankly, "that I would shoot them if they kept dogging me; and I always hold to my word. They not only kept dogging me, but betrayed my lord into the hands of Monsieur de Bourbonne; and so I shot one of them. I am sorry to say I had not time to shoot the other, or probably your Eminence would not have heard so much of me as you have done."

"Oh, yes," replied Richelieu, calmly: "the man got well, and was here some two months ago. Besides, I never depend upon one informant. But every one may be deceived; and no one told me that the good count had got you in limbo all this time. You say he denied you the means of communicating with me. Did you show him your safe-conduct?"

"I did, sir," answered Edward; "and it had a very good effect, for it made him give me beef and wine instead of bread and water, with which he began my diet. I demanded also to be sent to your Eminence; but Monsieur de Bourbonne did not see fit to do so."

"Enough," said Richelieu; "enough." And, taking a scrap of paper from the table, he wrote a few words thereon and laid it down again. "And now tell me all about your escape," he continued. "How did you get away from this giant of the castle?"

Edward narrated, with perfect gravity of manner, but with some quiet pleasantry of language, every particular of his escape from Coiffy; and Richelieu listened, evidently amused, but without any comment.

"Then you did not pass through Paris?" said the cardinal. "That is a pity: you would have seen some interesting things there. We are improving the drama greatly; and the Marais has a good troupe, they tell me. I am building a house, too, there, and I should like to have your opinion of it."

Edward smiled. "My opinion would be little worth," he answered. "I have but little experience in those things of which your Eminence has a thorough knowledge."

"And yet," said Richelieu, "I am told that you have great taste and skill in arts which reached their height not long ago, but which we have nearly lost in these days: I mean the designing in precious metals. A very extraordinary man told me you were a thorough connoisseur."

"The little knowledge I possess," answered Edward, "is derived from seeing every day in my early youth some very precious specimens which my father brought over from Italy. They are all gone, alas! but one; and that, I am afraid, will soon be lost also."

"Nay," said Richelieu, rather eagerly; "if you want to part with it I will buy it. I am making a collection of the works of Cellini and the men of his time."

"Could I obtain it," answered Edward, "I would humbly offer it to your Eminence without price, as a token of my gratitude. And, indeed, it is beyond price. But some day soon I fear it will be in less worthy hands, or melted down into gold crowns and the jewels picked out to adorn the brown neck of some Parisian seamstress. It is within the walls of yon devoted town, my lord. I was foolish not to bring it away with me."

Richelieu paused, and did not speak for a moment or two; but then he asked, "What sort of object is it?"

"It is a golden cup, or what we in England call a hanap," answered Edward, "with figures exquisitely sculptured, and the rim surrounded by a garland of jewels in the form of flowers. The figures are in high relief, and with their hands seem to support the garland."

"It must be beautiful indeed!" said Richelieu.

"The only defect," continued Edward, "is that my name is engraved upon the stem."

"What may be its value?" asked the cardinal: "it is a pity indeed so rare an object should be lost."

"I never heard it valued," replied the young man; "and I will sell it to no one on this earth,—though I should have pride to see it in the hands of a benefactor."

"Well, it is a pity," said the cardinal. "But, as there is no help, let us change the theme. Have you seen or heard from Mademoiselle de Mirepoix—I should say Madame de Langdale—lately?" He spoke with a smile. But Edward had learned that Richelieu's questions, even in his lightest moments, always meant something, and he replied, at once, "Not very lately, my lord. I have seen her once since we parted in Aunis, as she was passing through Aix on her way to Venice; and she has written to me once since her arrival, by the hands of a gentleman whom you know,—Signor Morini."

"He is a very singular man," said Richelieu, in a meditative tone. "Do you know, young gentleman, he says that your fate and mine are connected by an inseparable link?—that we were born under the same aspect?"

"Your star must have been in the ascendant, sir," said Edward, with a smile. "Yet there must be some truth in it; for who could have thought a year ago that I should be sitting here, conversing with your Eminence as calmly as if you were some ordinary literary man? who could have thought that I should be indebted to you for more than life?"

"Act honestly and truly by me, young gentleman, and my friendship shall go further still," replied Richelieu. "As to these visions of astrologers," he continued, "they are only to be regarded as curious speculations. The star of a man's destiny is in his heart or in his brain. It is that star raises to power, shields against danger, guides amidst intrigue. God's will is above all; but he it is who gives the clear mind and the strong will, the wisdom and the courage; he renders them successful as far as their success is necessary to his own wise purposes, and then throws a bean-stalk in their way, and they stumble and fall. We have naught to do but to bow the head and say, Thy will be done!"

He ceased, and fell into a fit of thought, and Edward rose and took up his hat as if about to retire; but Richelieu motioned him to his chair again, saying, "Sit, sit! I have yet an hour. Have you read any of this man Corneille's verses?"

Edward, luckily, could say he had not, for Richelieu's dislike for Corneille was already strong, and, taking up a book from the table, he read some lines, commenting severely upon what he called their rudeness. He went on with his criticisms for some ten minutes, to an attentive ear; but Edward fancied he perceived an under-current of thought running through his literary disquisition.

"Perhaps I may be wrong," said Richelieu; "but in all matters of taste I like the graceful and the polished better than the strong and rude. This cup which you were speaking of must be a beautiful specimen of art. The design as you have described it shows the conception of a great genius. Is it known who was the artist?"

"I cannot assure your Eminence with certainty," replied Edward; "but he was always said to be a countryman and rival of Benvenuto Cellini. I forget the name; but it is engraved on the inside of the foot."

"John of Bologna," said the cardinal,—"probably John of Bologna."

"The same, the same," said the young Englishman. "I now remember that is the name."

"It is invaluable!" exclaimed Richelieu, warmly. "His works are much more rare than those of Cellini, and some are amongst the most triumphant efforts of genius. There is a Mercury, for instance: the heavy bronze seems instinct with godlike life,—actually springing from the ground. What a pity that a work of his should be lost! Is there no way of getting it out of Rochelle, think you?"

"But one," answered Edward, gravely; "and that I do not suppose either your Eminence or the people of Rochelle would permit."

"What is it?" demanded Richelieu, abruptly.

Edward's heart beat high, for he had brought him to the very point he desired; but yet a single misplaced word might spoil all, and he struggled against his eagerness with sufficient success to answer with seeming indifference. "I left the cup," he said, "in the hands of the syndic of the goldsmiths, one Clement Tournon, who had taken me to his house and nursed me most kindly——"

"He is a pestilent heretic," said the cardinal, sharply.

"And so am I, my lord," answered Edward; "but he is an honest and a good man. I am willing, if your Eminence desires it, to try and get back into La Rochelle and bring you the cup; but I could only do so on being permitted to offer poor old Monsieur Tournon a pass to quit the city and escape the famine which they say is raging there."

Richelieu sat silent for a minute or two, and Edward then added, "I am not sure I shall be able to accomplish what I desire; but I will do my best, and shall be well pleased to see such a treasure of art in the hands of one who can appreciate it as your Eminence can."

"I could not accept it," said Richelieu, "except on making compensation."

"Nothing like sale, my lord," replied Edward: "the price has been paid beforehand, and it must be an offering of gratitude, or not at all. But I much fear that the Rochellois will not admit me within their walls. I can but make the attempt, however."

"But this Clement Tournon," said Richelieu, thoughtfully. "You know not what you ask, young man. Every mouth within that city hastens its fall; and I have been obliged already to show myself obdurate to all entreaties,—to see women and children and old men driven back into their rebellious nest. They say, too, your great Duke of Buckingham is preparing another fleet for their relief. He will find himself mistaken; but still we must waste no time."

"Old Clement Tournon is no great eater," said Edward, bluntly. "His feeble jaws will not hasten the fall of the city five minutes; and it is possible that, if admitted to your Eminence's presence, he might be the means of persuading his fellow-citizens to submission, if he sees that defence is hopeless and that favorable terms may be obtained."

"Ha! say you so?" exclaimed Richelieu; and, leaning his head upon his hand, he fell into profound thought. Edward would not say a word more, and after some five or ten minutes the cardinal looked up and shook his head. "They will receive no messengers, reject all offers: even the king's proclamation sent by a herald they would not admit within the walls, and Montjoie had to leave it before the gates."

"Perhaps they have learned better by this time," said Edward; "and, if not, they can but drive me back with bullets and cannon-balls."

"Well," said Richelieu, with a clearer brow, "you give me a better reason now for suffering you to go. So help me Heaven as I would spare this poor infatuated people the horrors they now suffer, if they would let me! But rebellion must not exist in this land, and shall not while I live. They must submit; but they shall have terms that even you will call fair. So you may tell them if you can but find your way in."

Edward saw that the message was vague and not at all likely to have any effect upon the people of Rochelle; but he did not try to bring the cardinal to any thing more definite, for he had no inclination to take part in a negotiation for the surrender of Rochelle, remembering that all the plans of his own Government might be frustrated by such a result.

He and the cardinal both kept silent for several minutes, Richelieu's eyes remaining fixed upon the table, and his face continuing perfectly motionless, though he was evidently deep in thought. At length he said, abruptly, "You will come back yourself?"

"Upon my honor, sir," replied Edward, "if I live and they will let me. They shall either keep me as a prisoner, or I will be here in four-and-twenty hours."

"So be it, then," said the cardinal. "You shall not only have a pass, but some one shall be sent with you to the very outmost post; for there is something uncommonly suspicious in your appearance. Twice in your case already men have set at naught my hand and seal. The second case shall be punished: the third, for your sake and my own, must be guarded against. As to your entrance into Rochelle, there may be—probably will be—some difficulty; but if you are skilful—and I think you are—you may succeed. I need not recommend to you caution in what you say and do. We have some disease in the camp, it is true; but they have pestilence in the city. Our supplies are not over-abundant; but they are suffering from the direst famine. Every day increases our supplies and diminishes theirs."

"I shall say as little as possible, your Eminence," answered Edward. "First, because I cannot, knowing what I know, advise them to hold out; secondly, because if I advise them to surrender I might be wrong. Clement Tournon, when he has seen your Eminence, after having witnessed what is passing in the city, can advise better, and will be more readily believed. It is well you should have some means of communication with the Rochellois. I know none of their chief men, even by name; and they would put no faith in me."

"In a week from this time," said Richelieu, "they must surrender. The dyke will be finished which shuts them out from all the world. Vain will be English fleets, vain all their imaginary armies. The gaunt spectre which already strides through their streets will have knocked at every door. Where will be the hand to fire the cannon? where the arm to defend the gate? The dead and the dying will be the garrison; and the soldiers of the king will rush in to wrest the undefended plunder from a host of skeletons. I would fain avoid such a result, young man," he added, with a shudder. "I delight not in misery and suffering; I have no pleasure in tears and woe. But France must have peace, the king must have loyal subjects; and, were my brother amongst those rebels, they should be forced to obey. You are frank, and I believe you honest. I therefore expect that you bear them no message from the enemies of France, that you delude them with no vain hopes, that you return yourself as speedily as possible, and that you bring this old man with you if he will come. Remember that I am not to be trifled with, and that I bear open enmity more patiently than deceit."

"I have no fear, sir," answered Edward. "I have come back and placed myself in your power without the least hesitation, and I will do so again; but then I will beseech your Eminence to let me pass over into England. I am nearly without money; and, although I have sufficient on the other side of the Channel, I cannot get it without going for it."

"We will talk of that hereafter," answered Richelieu. "I think I will let you go; but, at all events, you shall not want for money. What is money, Monsieur Langdale? It is but dross,—at least, so the poets tell us; and yet I have found few men who like it better than the poets."

"Without it men cannot travel," replied Edward,—"cannot eat or drink or even sleep; and it would be hard for want of money to want meat and drink and sleep when I have plenty for all my wants on the other side of that arm of the sea; but harder still, my lord cardinal, to take from any man money that does not belong to me."

"How proud these islanders are!" said Richelieu, with a smile. "Why, there is hardly a Frenchman in the land who would not thank me for a crown."

"If I had worked for it," answered Edward, "I might thank you too; but till there be peace between France and England I can do your Eminence no service."

"Now, let any one say," exclaimed the cardinal, with a laugh, "that I am not the sweetest-tempered man in all this realm of France,—ay, as sweet and gentle as Signor Mazarin himself. Why, no man will believe that you say to me such things and I do not send you to the Bastille at once. Oh, tell it not in the camp, or you will lose credit forever."

"I do not intend to tell it anywhere, my lord," replied Edward. "I know it would be foolish, and perhaps it might be dangerous. I am not ungrateful for your condescension to me; but it is a sort of thing I should not like to sport with."

"Right," said Richelieu: "you are right. You know the fact in natural history that tigers may be tamed; but if any one suffers them, in playing with them, to draw blood, he seldom goes away as full of life as he came. I see you understand me. Now go away and sleep. Be here by daybreak to-morrow, and you shall find the passes ready and somebody prepared to ride with you to the outposts. He will wait there four-and-twenty hours for your return. But if I should find you in Rochelle when it is taken, except in a dungeon, beware of the tiger."

Edward bowed and withdrew; but he retired not to rest. His first object was to inquire for Beaupré and Pierrot. They were not in the castle, and he had to seek them in the village below, where, after passing through many of the wild scenes of camp-life, he found them at length in a small wooden shed, where some sort of food, such as it was, could be procured by those who had money to pay for it. Much to the surprise of good Pierrot la Grange, the young gentleman's first order, after directing his horse to be prepared half an hour before daylight, was to have his flask filled with the best brandy he could procure and brought up to his room that night.

"Has the cardinal given you leave to go into the city?" asked Jacques Beaupré, in astonishment.

"He has given me leave to try," replied Edward.

"Pray, then, let me go with you," said the good man.

"Impossible!" was the answer. "I must go alone, and take my fate alone, whatever it may be. See that the brandy be good, Pierrot, if you can find it. But be quick, for I would fain sleep before I go." And, retiring to his room in the castle, he waited till the man brought a small flat bottle well filled, and then, casting himself down upon the bed, fell sound asleep, exhausted less by fatigue than by emotions which he had felt deeply, though he had concealed them well.

CHAPTER XLI.

"You had better take some more breakfast, sir," said an old officer commanding at the advance-posts. "You will get none in there; and, though we are forbidden to suffer the slightest morsel to go in, I presume that does not apply to what a man can carry in his stomach."

"I shall soon be back again if they let me in at all," answered Edward. "Can any one give me a white flag? for I may as well not draw the fire. That is a sort of breakfast I have no inclination for."

A small white flag was soon procured, and, leaving his horse with Pierrot and Beaupré, who had followed him down the hill, Edward set out on foot. He carried the white flag in his hand and approached the gate with a calm, steady pace. He saw some men walk quickly along the wall toward the same point to which his own course was directed; but the flag of truce was respected, and he was permitted to come within five or six yards of the heavy gate. Then, however, a voice shouted from behind a small grated wicket, "Stand back! What seek you here?"

"I seek to speak with the syndic Clement Tournon," said Edward; "and, if not with him, with Monsieur Guiton, mayor of the city."

"Stand back! You cannot enter here," said the man on the other side.

"Will you cause the mayor to be informed," said Edward, "that Master Edward Langdale, an English gentleman well known in Rochelle, stands without and desires admittance, if it be but for an hour?"

The man grumbled something which Edward did not hear, and there seemed to be a consultation held within, at the end of which the same voice told him to keep on the other side of the drawbridge while they informed the mayor. The young gentleman accordingly retired, and seated himself on a large stone at the end of the bridge, where for nearly an hour he had nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts, with every now and then a puff of smoke from one of the royalist batteries, which had lately begun firing, and one gun replying from the walls. It seemed all child's play, however; and he soon ceased to think of the matter at all. His mind then turned to his own position and the curious fact of Richelieu having suffered him to visit Rochelle with so very little opposition. He could not but ask himself how much the gold cup had to do with the minister's acquiescence; but, as he reflected more deeply upon the cardinal's character and upon various incidents which had come to his knowledge, he concluded in his own mind that Richelieu might be well pleased to make another effort to open a communication with the citizens without compromising his own dignity. The position of the besieging force, he thought, might not be so good as it appeared. The dyke, on which so much depended, and which he had had no means of examining closely, might not be sufficiently solid to resist the action of the sea and winds. The English armament might be, to Richelieu's knowledge, of a more formidable character and more advanced state of preparation than was admitted; and all these circumstances might render the speedy capture of Rochelle upon any terms absolutely necessary.

In little more than an hour, the same voice he had heard before called him up to the gate, and the wicket was partly opened to give him admittance under the archway, where he found five or six men with halberds on their shoulders and otherwise well armed, while a young man bearing the appearance of an officer advanced to meet him. The steel caps of the soldiers in some degree concealed their faces; but the broad-brimmed, plumed hat of the young officer served in no degree to hide the gaunt, pallid features, the high cheek-bones, the fallen-in cheeks, the hollow eyes, and the strong marking of the temples, which told a sad tale of the ravages of famine, even amongst the higher and more wealthy classes of the town. A feeling of delicacy made Edward withdraw his eyes after one hasty glance at the young gentleman's countenance; and, as the other paused without speaking for a moment, he said, "May I ask, sir, if any one has conveyed my message to the syndic Clement Tournon or to the mayor?"

"Monsieur Tournon is ill in his own house," replied the young officer: "but Monsieur Guiton, the mayor, has come down to a house near this gate, and will receive you there, as it might be inconvenient to invite you to the town-house, for fear of any disturbance."

"I am ready to wait upon him," replied Edward, "wherever he pleases."

"I am sorry to say," replied the young officer, "that even for so short a distance you must give up your arms and suffer your eyes to be bandaged."

"I have no arms," replied Edward, "as you may see. I purposely came without. As to bandaging my eyes, do as you please. I am no spy nor agent of the French Government." He pulled off his hat as he spoke, bending down his head for the handkerchief to be tied over his eyes; and, as soon as that somewhat disagreeable operation was performed, the young officer took him by the hand, and, with one of the soldiers following, led him into Rochelle. When they had passed on perhaps a hundred yards, Edward received a painful intimation of the state of the city. As they seemed to turn into another street, the young officer caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply aside, saying to the soldier, "Have that body removed. These sights serve to scare the people and make them clamorous."

"I don't think she is dead yet," said the soldier.

"Then have her carried to the hospital as quickly as possible. Don't let her lie there and die."

He then led Edward on, and in two or three minutes more stopped at the door of a house and entered what seemed a small passage, where he removed the handkerchief from Edward's eyes. "Monsieur Guiton is here," he said, opening a door where, in a little room and at a small table, was seated a man of middle age with a dagger by his side and a sword lying on the table. His form seemed once to have been exceedingly powerful and his face firm and resolute; but there was that gaunt and worn expression in every line which Edward had seen in the countenance of his guide.

"Who are you, sir?" said the mayor; "and what is the motive of so rare a thing as the visit of a stranger to the town of Rochelle?"

"My name is Edward Langdale," replied the young Englishman,—"a poor follower of my Lord Montagu, who once bore letters from his Grace of Buckingham to the city of Rochelle."

"Ay, I remember," said the mayor, thoughtfully: "you were roughly used, if I remember right. But now, sir, to your business."

"It is in a great degree personal," replied Edward; "but, as it is private, I would rather speak to you alone."

"Leave us," said the mayor, addressing the young officer, who at once quitted the room and closed the door. "Now, sir," continued Guiton, "I am ready to hear. But be brief, I pray you. Occupation here is more plenty than time, and time more plenty than provisions. Therefore I cannot offer you refreshment nor show you much courtesy."

"I require neither, sir," answered Edward. "My business refers to Monsieur Clement Tournon. He is aged,—infirm; and I have with some difficulty obtained from the Cardinal de Richelieu permission and a pass for him to quit Rochelle."

"Ha!" said the mayor. "Ha! This is strange, young gentleman! You must be in mighty favor! Why, sir, he has driven back women and children and old men—all starving—from the French lines into this city of famine! You, an Englishman, an enemy,—he show such favor to you! Pah! There must be something under this. Have you no message for me?"

"No distinct message, sir," replied Edward: "the cardinal indeed said, in terms so vague that I cannot and will not counsel any reliance upon them, that if Rochelle would submit she should have favorable terms,—as favorable as even I could expect. But I am not his messenger, sir. Neither is there any thing that I know under the plain fact which I have stated."

"Let me see your pass," said Guiton, abruptly. Edward handed it to him, and he examined it minutely. "'Edward Langdale and one companion,—to wit, the syndic Clement Tournon'!" he said. "Well, this is marvellous strange! I cannot let this pass without some further knowledge of so unaccountable a matter."

"Well, Monsieur Guiton," answered Edward, firmly, "pray remember that I, comparatively, a stranger to him, have perilled much to aid and rescue a man who once showed me kindness, nursed me like a father when I was sick, and trusted me as he would his son when I had recovered; and that it is you—his ancient friend, as I am told—who keep him here to die of famine or of sickness when he can be of no further service either with hand or head. I have done my duty. Probably you think you are doing yours."

The mayor waved his hand. "Not so many words," he said. "Can you give me any explanation of this strange matter?"

"None," replied Edward, boldly.

"Does Clement Tournon wish to leave the city?" demanded the mayor again.

"I do not know," replied the young Englishman. "He is old, infirm, and, I am told, sick. I have had no communication with him. But he knows that he can be of no further service in Rochelle, or I believe he would remain in it till the last man died and the last tower fell."

"He is sick," said the mayor, "of a very common disease here. But yet we are not so badly off that we cannot maintain the city till the English fleet arrives."

"The dyke!" said Edward, emphatically.

"Oh," replied Guiton, with a scoffing and unnatural-sounding laugh, "the first storm, such as I have seen many, will sweep that dyke away."

"But, if it stands fourteen days," said Edward, "will you not have a storm within these walls which will sweep away the people of Rochelle?"

Guiton covered his eyes with his hands and remained silent.

"But I have nothing to do with these things, sir," said Edward. "It was only to give aid, to give safety, to a friend, an old noble-minded man who befriended me when I had need of friendship, that I came into Rochelle at all. May I ask what is this sickness that you speak of so lightly?"

"Famine, sir! famine!" said Guiton, sharply. "An ounce of meat,—God knows of what kind,—two ounces of dried peas, and a draught of cold water, is but a meagre diet for old men and babes. We strong men can bear it; but there be some who are foolish enough to die rather than endure it a little longer."

"And have you the heart, sir," asked Edward, with some indignation in his tone, "to refuse the means of escape offered to an old man, and that man Clement Tournon, and to speak lightly of his sufferings,—his martyrdom, I might say?"

"No! no! no!" cried the mayor, vehemently, stretching forth his hands. "Young man, you mistake me! Could my blood nourish him, he should have the last drop. What! old Clement Tournon, my dear, dear friend,—would I deprive him of one hour's life? But it is that I cannot comprehend how you are here,—why you are here. This story that you tell is mere nonsense."

"It is true, nevertheless," said Edward. "But if my word will not satisfy you,—as, indeed, I see no reason why it should,—come with me to Clement Tournon, and he perhaps can tell you how much I can dare to serve a friend."

"I will!" cried Guiton, starting up; but then he sat down again immediately, saying, "No, no! I cannot bear those faces in the streets. Can you find your way yourself?—for I can spare no men."

"Not if I am to be blindfolded," said Edward: "otherwise I could find it, I am sure."

"Pshaw!" said the mayor, "what use of blindfolding you? You will see dying and dead, plague-eaten, famine-stricken. But you can go and tell the Cardinal de Richelieu how the citizens of Rochelle can die rather than see their privileges torn from them, their religion trodden under foot. You can tell him, too, that I will defend those walls as long as there is one soldier left to man them and one hand capable of firing a gun, unless we have security for our faith. You are sure he said nothing more?"

"No, nothing more," answered Edward: "merely that he would give you the most favorable terms, but that he would not have rebellion in the land."

"Rebellion!" muttered Guiton, scornfully. "Who first drew the sword? But let us think of Clement Tournon. I am willing to believe you, young gentleman. If I remember rightly, I have heard the old man speak well of you. And, after all, what harm can you do? You can but repeat a story of our sufferings which I am aware they already know too well in yonder camp. What they do not know is the courage with which we can bear them. Go to the syndic. He has not come forth for several days. Go to him, and see if the prospect of relief can give fresh strength to those enfeebled limbs, fresh energy to that crushed and scarcely-beating heart. Tell him that I not only permit but beseech him to go with you,—that even one mouth less in Rochelle is a relief. He has done his duty manfully to the last. He can do it no longer. Beseech him to go. And yet," he continued, in a sad tone, "I much doubt his strength. Could he have crawled even to the council-chamber, we should have seen his face. Could he have lifted his voice, we should have heard his inspiring words. He was alive last night, I know. But to-day——Alas, alas, my poor friend!" And some tears ran down the worn cheek of the gallant defender of Rochelle.

"I have some brandy under my coat," whispered Edward. "I brought it on purpose for him. It may give him strength at least to reach the outposts."

Guiton seized his hand and wrung it hard. "Noble young man! well bethought!" he said. "But he must have a little food. Stay; he shall have my dinner. I do not want it. By Heaven! the thought that we have saved old Clement Tournon will be better than the best of meals to me!"

He rose from the table, and, approaching the door, gave some orders to those without, and then returned, saying, "There is still much to be thought of, young gentleman, and we have little time to think. I fear if you go out in the daytime the people will pour forth after you, and all will be driven back by cannon-shots."

"It must now be near one o'clock," said Edward, "and it will probably take some time to restore his strength a little. If you, sir, nobly give him up your own food, it must be administered to him by slow degrees, and——"

"What! an ounce of meat?" said Guiton, with a miserable smile: "my fare is the same as the rest, sir. But I must leave all that to you. His own ration will be served to him in an hour. Mine you shall take and give him as it seems best to you. I will write a pass for you and him, that you may not be stopped at any hour of the night or day; and then I must go back to the town-hall, lest men should wonder at my long absence. My only fear is that the good old man will not take my ration if he knows it comes from me."

"Take a little of these strong waters, sir," said Edward, drawing the flask from beneath his coat. Guiton hesitated, and Edward added, "There is much more than he can or ought to use; and, if I tell him that I brought you some supply, he will take the food you send more readily."

The mayor took the flask and drank a very little, giving it back again and saying, "Mix it with water ere you give him any. By Heaven, it is like fire! Yet it will keep me up, I do believe. Hark! there are steps. Put it up, quick. They might murder you for it, if any of the common people were to see it."

The steps were those of a soldier bringing the scanty meal, which was all the mayor allowed himself. A pen and ink and a scrap of paper were then procured, and the pass for Edward and Clement Tournon was soon written. To make all sure, Guiton called the young officer, in whom he seemed to have much confidence, and asked if he would be on guard at the gates that night. The young man answered in the affirmative; and the mayor gave strict directions that Monsieur Edward Langdale and the syndic Tournon should be passed safely and unmolested on their way toward the royal camp. A smile of hope and pleasure came upon the officer's face, and Guiton added, "Do not deceive yourself, Bernard. This is no treaty for surrender. We must suffer a little longer; and then we shall have relief. Here, go with Monsieur Langdale, first to the gate by which he entered, then to the end of the Rue de l'Horloge. There leave him. Farewell, sir," he continued, turning to Edward, and then adding, in a lower tone, "Mark well the turnings from the gate, and walk somewhat slow and feebly, so as not to draw attention. The people are in an irritable state."

CHAPTER XLII.

Seated in the great arm-chair in which he himself had sat when first recovering was good old Clement Tournon, the shadow of his former self. The palms of his hands rested on his knees; his head was bent forward on his chest; his eyes were shut, and his lips and cheeks were of a bluish white. Had it not been for a slight rocking motion of his body as he sat, Edward would have thought him dead. Behind his chair, silent and still as a statue, stood the good woman Marton. She, too, was as pale as her helmet-shaped white cap, and the frank, good-humored expression of her countenance was supplanted by a cold, hard, stony look which seemed to say that every energy was dead. That such was not really the case, however, Edward soon saw; for, the moment her eyes lighted on him as he passed the door, the old bright light came into them again, and she walked quietly but hastily across the floor in her little blue socks, holding up her finger as a sign to keep silence.

"He sleeps," she said; "he sleeps. It is wellnigh as good as food for him. But how came you here, Master Ned? What has brought you? Has the English fleet arrived?"

"Alas, no," replied Edward, in the same low tone which she herself had used; "and it could not enter the port if it had. But I come, if possible, to save that good old man. I have a little food here with me. Go get me a cup and some water; for I have a little of that which will be better to him at first even than food."

"God bless you, sir!" said the good woman: "there is not a drop of wine in all the city, and with him the tide of life is nearly gone out. I thought he would have died this morning; but he would rise. You stay with him, and I will be back in a minute. But keep silent and still, for sleep always does him good." So saying, she hurried away and brought a silver cup and some fresh water.

All was silent during her absence: the old man slept on, and Edward Langdale seated himself near, as quietly as possible. Marton took her place again without a word; and for about three-quarters of an hour the slumber of old Clement Tournon continued unbroken. Then a voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, crying, "Rations!" and Marton hurried down.

Either the voice or the movement in the room disturbed the old man. He moved in his chair, raised his head a little, and Edward, with some of the strong waters well diluted in the cup, approached and put it to his lips.

"What is it?" said Clement Tournon, putting the cup feebly aside with his hand. "I thought it might have pleased God I should die in that sleep."

"Take a little," said Edward, in a low tone: "it will refresh you." And Clement Tournon suffered him to raise the cup again to his lips, aiding with his own feeble hands, and drank a deep draught, as if he were very thirsty. Then, suddenly raising his eyes to Edward's face, he exclaimed, "Good Heavens! who are you? Edward Langdale! Is it all a dream?—a horrible dream?"

"I have come to see you and take you away, Monsieur Tournon," said Edward, as calmly as he could. "Keep yourself quite tranquil, and I will tell you more presently. At present be as silent as I used to be when I was sick and you were well."

The old syndic sat without speaking for a moment or two, and then said, "I know not what you have given me; but it seems to have strengthened and revived me. But pray, tell me more: I cannot make this out at all."

"I will tell you after you have eaten something," said Edward. "I have brought something with me for you. But first sip a little more of this draught."

The old man drank again, and then ate a little of the food which had been brought him; but the forces of life had so much diminished that it was long before the weight of the body seemed to give the mind liberty to act. At first he would wander a little, less with what seemed delirium than with forgetfulness. The brain appeared to sleep or faint; but with judicious care—an instinctive knowledge, as it were, of what was best for him—Edward administered support and stimulus by slow degrees till the mind fully wakened up. Quietly and cautiously the young man told him what he had done, why he came, and the certain prospect there was of his escape from that city of horror and famine if he could but summon strength to pass the gates.

"But Guiton,—but my friend Guiton," said Clement Tournon. "What will he think of me?"

"He begs you, he beseeches you, to go," said Edward. "He says you have done all you can for Rochelle, that you can do no more, that every mouth out of the city is a relief, and that, now you can go in safety, you ought to go."

"Oh, my son," said Clement Tournon, "you know not what it is to ask me to quit the home of many years. I have travelled, it is true; I have left my domestic hearth; I have left the earth that holds my wife and children; but it was always with a thought of coming back and dying here. Now, if I go, I go forever,—never to see Rochelle more."

"Nay, I hope that is not so," answered Edward. "The cardinal assured me that he would give the most favorable terms to the city; and I cannot but think that your presence may be the means of rendering those terms really and not nominally favorable. You can tell him of the determination of the people, of your certain expectation of succor——"

The old man shook his head. "No succor," he said; "no succor."

"But at all events it is probable," replied Edward, "that you may be able to obtain terms for Rochelle which she can accept honorably. You can aid no one here; you may do good service there. In this instance the paths of duty and of safety are one."

"Oh, I will go," said Clement Tournon, languidly. "I need no persuading. But what am I to do with this poor creature?" he continued, looking at Marton, who continued still in the room. "How can I leave her behind me?"

A sort of spasm passed her countenance; but she answered, with the real devotion of woman, "Go, old master; go. Never mind me. I can do well enough. My light heart keeps me up; and old women live upon little. When the young gentleman has risked every thing to save you, you cannot disappoint him."

"No indeed, Marton," said the syndic; "but yet——"

"Never talk about yet," said Marton. "You have got to go, that is clear; and perhaps you may be able to make a treaty by which we shall be all fed and comforted. Maître Guiton should have done it long ago; but he is a hard man, and would see us all die of famine, and himself too, before he would bate an inch of his pride."

"Hush, hush!" said Edward: "he is a good and noble man, Marton; and times far distant shall talk of the famous defence of Rochelle by the Mayor Guiton. Bring your master a little more food, Marton. The sun is beginning to go down, and we shall soon be able to set out."

The poor old syndic bent his eyes down upon his hands and wept tears of age, of weakness, and of manifold emotions; and Edward, thinking it better to distract his thoughts, spoke of the gold cup which he had promised to bring to Richelieu, and asked where he could find it.

"What! a bribe?" exclaimed Clement Tournon, with more energy than the young man thought he had possessed. "The great Cardinal de Richelieu take a bribe?"

"No, no!" replied Edward: "do not misunderstand me. This cup was mentioned but incidentally as a curious and beautiful object of art, and I promised to bring it to him: therefore I must keep my word. But, if I must tell the truth, I believe the cardinal's inducement to give me a pass for you was that through you he might open some communication with the citizens, who have refused all overtures."

"Ay, there is that Mayor Guiton again," said Marton.

"The cardinal assured me," continued Edward, "that he had no wish to crush Rochelle, and would grant such favorable terms as could not honestly be rejected."

"God grant it!" said Clement Tournon; "but he has us at his mercy, and he knows it. As to the cup, my son, you will find it in the armory, where it stood when you were here before. Where are the keys, Marton? You will find it all safe, and the papers with it,—a letter for you amongst the rest; but I knew not where you were. All the gold and silver is safe; for when the people broke into the house it was food they sought, poor fools! They cared not for gold and silver: they could not eat them."

Marton found the keys and handed them to Edward, by Clement Tournon's orders; and the cup, wrapped in manifold papers and enveloped in an old parchment bag, was soon found. The whole packet was inscribed, in the old goldsmith's own handwriting, with the words, "The cup within belongs to Master Edward Langdale, of Buckley, in the county of Huntingdon, England, left with me for safe-keeping." By the side of the cup lay a letter, surrounded, as was common in those days, with a silken string, tied and sealed; and, on taking it up, Edward instantly recognised the handwriting of good Dr. Winthorne. That was no time for reading, however, and he put the letter in his breast; but his eye could not help glancing over the vast quantity of plate, both gold and silver, which even that one cupboard contained. Taking the cup in his hands, he locked the door, and, returning to the room of the syndic, inquired, with some anxiety, what was to be done for the protection of his property while he was gone.

"Dross, dross, my son," said Clement Tournon. "Yet the door of the room may be as well locked and bolted. Give Marton the key."

"We will take care of it, Master Ned," said Marton. "The boys come back every night,—all who are left of them, poor fellows! but stout John died of the fever, and William the filigree-man soon gave way when we came to want food. Old men and old women have borne it best. But nobody will think of touching the gold and silver. What could they do with it if they had it? All the gold in that room would not buy a pound of beef in Rochelle."

"It were as well to make all safe, however," answered Edward. "I will go and lock all the doors."

"I will come with you," said Clement Tournon, "and see whether I can walk. What you have given me seems to have revived me much, very much. What is it?"

"What you probably never tasted in your life before," said Edward,—"strong waters; and it shows the benefit of reserving the use of them for cases of need. That which kills many a man who uses it freely is now giving you back life, because you have never used it at all. All I have in that flask would not have the slightest effect upon Pierrot la Grange. I trust there is enough there to afford you strength to reach the camp."

"Oh, more than enough,—more than enough," said the good old syndic, whose holy horror of drunkenness made him almost shudder at the idea of what he had been imbibing, although he could not but feel that it had wrought a great and beneficial change upon him. "Now let me see how I can walk."

Edward gave him his arm; but the old man showed much more strength than he expected,—tottered a little in his gait, it is true, and lost his breath before he reached his arm-chair again. But Edward and Marton applied themselves diligently during the next two hours to confirm the progress he had already made, and were not unsuccessful.

I cannot say whether the good woman, whose love and devotion toward her master were extreme, did or did not secretly bestow upon him her own scanty portion of the common food which was doled out to all those who had given up their own stores to be disposed of by the city; but certain it is that, till the sun had nearly set, she and Edward contrived every quarter of an hour to furnish the old man a small piece of meat and a mouthful of pea-bread, with a few spoonfuls of the brandy-and-water.

At length the hour for departure came; and the parting between the old syndic and the faithful Marton was a very painful one. They said nothing, it is true; but she kissed his hand, and her tears, whether she would or not, fell upon it. Clement Tournon wept too; but Edward drew him slowly away, and once more he went out into the streets of Rochelle.

Those streets were nearly vacant, for almost everybody not wanted on the walls had retired to their miserable dwellings, there in solitude and famine to wait the return of the daylight which brought no comfort and very little hope.

Two men indeed passed by at a slow pace, and turned to look. "There goes old Clement Tournon," said one,—"up to the town-house, I suppose, as usual."

"I thought he was dead," said the other. "Old Dr. Cavillac died last night."

They spoke aloud, for those were no times of delicacy; and Edward, fearful that the old syndic had heard such depressing words, whispered, "I trust, Monsieur Tournon, you will be able to obtain such terms as the city can accept."

"Pray God I may!" said the old man, not perceiving Edward's little stroke of art in playing off hope against despair. "Oh, it would be the brightest day of my life!"

They walked slowly, very slowly; but at length they reached the gate, over which a very feeble oil-lamp was burning under the heavy stone arch; for by this time even an article of such common necessity as oil was terribly scarce in Rochelle. The common soldiers on guard were evidently indisposed to let Edward and his companion pass; but the young officer whom the mayor had called Bernard was soon summoned forth from the guard-house, and with a reverent pressure of the hand he welcomed the old syndic. "God bless you, sir!" he said. "I was right glad to hear what Monsieur Guiton told me. Would to Heaven I had a horse or mule to give you to help you across! but it is not half a mile, and I trust you have strength for that."

"God knows, Bernard," said the old man, who was leaning very heavily upon Edward's arm. "I trust my going may be good for the city. Were it not for that hope, I should be well contented to stay and die here. God knows how often during the last week I have wished that it were all over and these eyes closed."

"Nay, nay, sir," said the other, in a kindly tone: "you are reserved for better things, I trust. But the wicket is open. You had better pass through, lest any people should come."

The syndic and his young companion passed out into the darkness; but Clement Tournon's steps became so feeble as they crossed the drawbridge that Edward proposed to sit down and rest a while upon the same stone where he had sat in the morning; and there, to amuse his mind for the time, he spoke of his last visit to the city, and even, under shadow of the night, alluded to Lucette.

"Ah, dear child!" said the old man. "I heard that she had reached safely the care of the Duc de Rohan, for he wrote to me. But such a letter! I could not comprehend it at all. It was full of heat and anger about something,—I know not what; for there has been no means of inquiring since. He surely would not have had me keep her in Rochelle to suffer as we have suffered; but yet he seemed displeased that I had sent her away."

"He knew not all the circumstances," answered Edward; "and these great men are impetuous. Have you heard from her?"

"Not a word," said the syndic, with a sigh. "And yet God knows I loved her as a father."

"And she loved you," said Edward; "but it was some months ere she could possibly write, and since then Rochelle has been strictly blockaded."

"Ah, Edward Langdale," said the old man, in a sad tone, "the young soon forget. Joys and pleasures and the freshness of all things around them wipe away the memories of all early affections. And it is well it should be so. Old people forget too; but the sponge that blots out their remembrance is filled with bitterness and gall and decay."

Edward felt that Clement Tournon was doing injustice to Lucette; yet the words were painful to him to hear, and he changed the subject, trying to converse upon indifferent things, but with his mind still recurring to the question, "Can Lucette forget so easily?"

At the end of some half-hour he said, "Let us try now, sir, to reach the outposts. But first take some more of this cordial. Remember what we have at stake."

The old man rose; but he was still very feeble, and he stumbled amongst the low bushes at the end of the bridge. Immediately there was a call from the walls above of "Who goes there?" and the next instant a shot from a musket passed close by. Another succeeded, but went more wide; and, hurrying forward Clement Tournon, Edward put as much space between them and the walls as possible, saying, in a light tone, "Hard to be shot at by our friends. I trust that it is an omen we shall be well received by our enemies."

"I cannot go so fast," said the old man. "Go you on, Master Ned: I will follow. If they shoot me I cannot hurry."

"No, no! we go together," replied Edward. "Here; keep along this path, straight for that watch-fire." And, placing the old syndic before him, he sheltered him completely from the walls with his own body. But there was no more firing; and the only result was to scare the unhappy Rochellois with a report that a party of the enemy had approached close to the gates to reconnoitre.

The distance was really very short, as we have seen, from the walls to the royal lines; but it was long to poor Clement Tournon, and it required all Edward's care and skill and attention to get the old man across. But at length the challenge of the sentinel came; and it was the most welcome sound that at that moment could meet Edward Langdale's ear. His flask was at the last drop, and the good syndic seemed to have no strength left. All difficulties, however, were now over. In five minutes the young officer who had accompanied Edward from Mauzé was by their side, with Jacques Beaupré and Pierrot; and, by the demonstrative joy of the two latter when they beheld Clement Tournon, one would have thought it was their father who had been rescued from death.

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Jacques, addressing Edward, "I will never doubt that you can do any thing again. Nobody but you in the whole world could have done it."

"I must beg of you, sir," said Edward to the young officer, "to obtain some place of repose for my poor old friend here. He is incapable of going any farther to-night; and I must away to the cardinal. These two men can, I presume, procure wine and meat for him; for food and rest are all that is needful."

"Be assured, sir, all shall be attended to properly," said the young officer, in the most courteous tone. "Monsieur de Bassompierre will be here himself in a moment, for he says he knows and esteems this gentleman, and we could not leave him in better hands, as I myself must accompany you back to his Eminence, who has moved down to what they call the Petit Chateau, some miles nearer the city."

This brief conversation took place some fifty yards from where Clement Tournon was seated between Pierrot and Jacques Beaupré; and at the moment Edward uttered the last words he heard a bluff, good-humored voice saying, "Ah! Clement Tournon, my old friend, right glad am I to see you. So his Eminence has let you out of the cage. What, man! never droop! we will soon restore your strength. This cardinal of ours has heard how men tame wild beasts by keeping them on low diet, and he has determined to try the same plan with you people of Rochelle. But I have a nice cabin for you here in a corner of the trench, and a good soft bed, all ready, with a boiled pullet; and we will have a good stoup of wine together, as we had when you sold me that diamond signet."

"Ah, sir," said the feeble voice of Clement Tournon, "you drank seven-eighths of the stoup yourself, saying you were thirsty and needed it. I need it most now, I fear."

"And so you shall drink the seven-eighths now," said Bassompierre, gayly. "Here! some one bring us a litter. We will carry him home in triumph. The best of goldsmiths shall have the best of welcomes."

"Farewell for a few hours," said Edward, in a low voice, approaching the old man's side and pressing his hand. "I must away up to the cardinal, to show him that I keep faith. But I leave you in good hands, dear friend, and will be with you again early to-morrow."

Thus saying, he turned away, rejoined the young officer, and rode off with him as fast as he could go, in order to present himself before Richelieu had retired to rest. Though probably burning with curiosity, Edward's companion did not venture to ask any questions in regard to La Rochelle, but merely pointed to the large packet containing the cup which Edward carried slung to his cross-belt, saying, in a jocular tone, "I suppose, Monsieur Langdale, that is not a havresac of provision; for they do say that article is somewhat scanty in the city."

"Oh, no," said Edward: "this is something too hard to eat: it belongs not to me, but to his Eminence. I wish it contained something I could eat; for I have tasted nothing since I left you this morning."

"They fast long in Rochelle," said the young man, dryly; "but you will be able to get something up at the chateau."

"I must report myself first," answered Edward; and on they rode without further conversation.

Edward was destined to wait longer for his supper than he expected, for he was detained in the cardinal's ante-chamber nearly an hour. At the end of that time, some five or six gentlemen came forth from Richelieu's room, and Edward's name was called by the usher. The minister was standing when the young gentleman entered, and was evidently in no humor for prolonged conversation.

"Have you brought the old man?" he said.

"Yes, my lord cardinal," replied Edward. "I left him at the outposts: he was too weak to come on."

"Then the famine in the city is severe, I suppose," observed the cardinal.

"It is, your Eminence," answered Edward; "but I was permitted to see very little."

"Blindfolded?" asked Richelieu.

"Yes," answered Edward. "But they may hold out some time, I think."

"How long?" demanded the minister.

"With their spirit, perhaps a month," replied Edward.

"A month!" repeated Richelieu. "Impossible! Did you hear of no tumults?"

"None whatever," replied Edward.

"What have you there?" next demanded the cardinal, pointing to the cup and its covers, which Edward had now detached from his belt.

"It is that work of art I mentioned, sire," replied the young man, taking it from the parchment bag and unwrapping the many papers which enfolded it.

Richelieu took it from his hands, gazed at it for a moment or two with evident admiration, and then set it down on the table, saying, "Beautiful! beautiful indeed! Have you heard any thing from England?" he continued, abruptly.

"No," answered Edward; but, instantly correcting himself, he added, "Yes: I forgot. I found a letter waiting me; but I have not opened it. It is merely from my old tutor."

"Let me see it," said Richelieu, in a tone that admitted of no refusal.

Edward took it from the pocket of his coat and gave it to him in silence.

Without the least ceremony, Richelieu opened it, and, after looking at the date, gave it back again, saying, "Why, it is six months old; and I have news not much more than seven days. The English fleet is just ready to sail, it seems, and only waits for your mighty duke to lead them. He will find some stones in his way before he harbors in Rochelle. But now good-night, Monsieur Edward Langdale. Be here to-morrow betimes, and we will talk more. Just now I am tired, and must to rest."