CHAPTER XLIII.

"Your Eminence, they will not accept it," he said. "There are things which you do not consider. True, they are, as you say, pressed by famine. They may, or they may not,—for I have no correct information,—be forced to surrender or die for want of food within four days; but, if I know the people of Rochelle, they will die rather than surrender, unless they have better terms than these. It is useless to propose them. I should be in some sort deceiving your Eminence were I to be the bearer of such offers. I know that, without the free exercise of their religion being assured to my fellow-citizens, die they will,—of famine or pestilence, or by cannon-balls. I cannot undertake to propose such terms."

"Are you aware," asked Richelieu, in slow but emphatic language, "that, seven days ago, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was stabbed at Portsmouth, by an assassin named Felton, and died upon the spot?"

Edward Langdale turned pale at the terrible news; but not the slightest mark of emotion was apparent upon the face of Clement Tournon. Old men are not easily moved; and he was thinking only of Rochelle.

"Possibly," he said, in a quiet tone: "I always thought he would die a violent death. But the hopes of the people of Rochelle never rested, my lord cardinal, upon the Duke of Buckingham."

"Upon what, then, did they rest?" asked Richelieu, in some surprise.

"Upon the hand of God," replied Clement Tournon; "upon the winds and waves, his ministers. The storms which annually visit this coast have been long delayed this year. But when they do come they will come more fiercely; and every man in Rochelle well knows that the marvellous dyke your Eminence has built will be but as a bed of reeds before them. Succor will pour in the moment the port is open, and the citizens, refreshed and comforted, will be ready to resist again all efforts to control their consciences."

"Pshaw!" said Richelieu: "this point of religion is but a name."

"Not for the people of Rochelle," said Clement Tournon. "We are loyal subjects of the King of France. We are willing to be obedient in all temporal things; but we will never profess one faith while we hold another: we will never resign our right to worship God according to our own belief."

"Well, well, that will be easily settled," said the cardinal, taking a pen and striking three or four lines from a writing on the table. "I am not fighting against any man's sincere faith. I am warring against rebellion. Read that, sir. Will that be received?"

"Not without a clause securing to the people of Rochelle the full and free exercise of their religion," said the old syndic, resolutely.

"That is what I mean to grant," said the cardinal,—though a slight cloud passed over his brow and seemed to indicate that the concession was made less willingly than he pretended. But, in truth, Richelieu had heard that very day that the English fleet had sailed, notwithstanding the death of the high-admiral. One severe storm, and all the labor of long months might be destroyed, and Rochelle be as safe as ever. There were indications in the sky, too, which threatened such an event. "That is what I mean to grant," he repeated. "Have it put in what words you will, so that nothing be inserted which shall give a turbulent people pretence for levying war upon their king. Call me a secretary, Monsieur Langdale."

Edward obeyed; and the terms offered by the cardinal were written out fair, with a clause guaranteeing to the Rochellois the full and unmolested exercise of their religion. This paper formed the basis of that remarkable treaty, soon afterward signed, which for its moderation has been the wonder of all historians. It is true that the Cardinal de Richelieu had many reasons for desiring peace as speedily as possible. It is true that the Rochellois had good reason to hope that relief of some kind would be afforded them ere long. But it is no less true that thousands had perished of famine within those walls, and that in a few days more no soldiers would have been found to man the walls, and corpses only would have opposed the entrance of the royal troops. There can be no doubt that a wise and politic clemency characterized the proceedings of the minister, and that, had he waited till the sick king's return to the camp, harder conditions would have been imposed. He seems not to have heeded where the glory of success or the honor of clemency might fall, so that his great purposes were accomplished; and, applied to his conduct toward Rochelle, as applied to a later period of his life, the words of one of his historians are neither fulsome nor unjust when he said, "France triumphed within and without the realm. Foreign enemies themselves proclaimed the superior genius of the cardinal; and the Huguenots, even while sighing over the ruins of their fortresses dismantled by his orders and under his eyes, could not but acknowledge his affability, his readiness to adopt all gentle expedients, and the fidelity with which all his engagements were observed."

And what became of Edward Langdale all this time? He remained in the royal camp, not as a prisoner, not exactly free. It was impossible for him to travel through France and to pass into England without safe-conduct of some kind; and Edward soon divined that—whether from suspicion, or from some other motive, he knew not—Richelieu had determined not to let him depart till Rochelle had surrendered. The minister became more difficult of access, also, after the king had returned to the camp, and the long and more familiar conversations which Edward had enjoyed with him previously were altogether at an end. He was courteous and kind when the young man was admitted to his presence; but, when Edward pressed for permission to depart, the answer always was, "In a few days." On one occasion, indeed, the natural impatience of Edward Langdale's disposition caused him to burst forth with something beyond frankness, and he said, bluntly, "Your Eminence has promised to let me go for the last six weeks. Now, six weeks are nothing to you, but they are all-important to me; for I have only one crown and two livres in my pocket, with two servants and myself to furnish, to say nothing of the horses, who are as badly off as if they were citizens of Rochelle; and, besides——"

"That will be soon amended," said Richelieu, with a slight smile. "Give me some more paper off that table." And he wrote an order upon the treasurer of his household for the payment to Monsieur Edward Langdale of the usual salary of a gentleman-in-ordinary to the king.

"My lord cardinal, how am I to take this money?" asked Edward. "England and France are still at war."

"Then take it as a prisoner," said Richelieu, somewhat sternly. "Do not talk nonsense, lad. But you said 'besides.' What is there besides?"

"If you had read the letter I showed your Eminence," replied Edward, "you would have seen that my presence is absolutely required in England upon business of much importance to myself."

"What letter? When? Oh, I remember,—when you brought me the cup. I cannot help thinking, notwithstanding, you are as well here for the time. But, speaking of the cup, I pray you put a price upon it."

"I cannot sell a gift that was given me by my father on my birthday. The very act of giving places an obligation on the receiver not to sell, but none not to give; and I trust your Eminence will condescend to receive it on the only terms on which I can part with it."

"Well," said Richelieu, "I will take it on those terms, and will direct my good friend Monsieur Mulot to give you back the papers that enveloped it. They seem to belong to you; for I see the name of Langdale frequently mentioned. Guard them safely till some more learned head than your own has examined them, for few men know the value of scraps of old paper. Sometimes they will raise a man to wealth and power, sometimes throw him headlong down. God knows whether that same art of writing has done more good or harm in the world. Cadmus, who invented letters, they say, was the same man who sowed the serpents' teeth and reaped an iron harvest. Is not this an allegory, Master Langdale? Go and consider of it; for I am busy just now."

Not long after this conversation, the good but stupid Father Mulot brought to the young gentleman the bundle of papers in which the cup had been enveloped, and entered into a long disquisition upon the various differences between the Catholic and Protestant faiths. He was evidently bent upon converting his hearer from his religious errors; but Edward was obdurate to the kind of eloquence which he displayed, and the good man left him rather in pity than in anger. To examine the papers was Edward's next task; but he could make nothing of them. Some pages were wanting; others were mutilated; and, though he saw his father's and his mother's name in many places, yet but little light could be obtained as to the import of the documents in which they were mentioned. Only one gleam of significance appeared throughout the whole. There was one passage which stated that "Richard Langdale, baronet, with the full and free consent of his wife, Dame Heleonora Langdale, in virtue of the last will and testament of Henry Barmont, her uncle, lord of the manor of Buckley as aforesaid, which consent was testified by her hand and seal unto the within-written lease and demise, did lease, give, and grant unto William Watson, his heirs and assigns, for the term of twenty-one years from the fifth day of——"

There the manuscript stopped, the page which followed being torn off; but at the same time, though he had no knowledge of law, Edward could perceive that an admission of the absolute rights of his mother over the manor of Buckley, under the will of her uncle, was implied. He resolved, then, to follow the advice of the cardinal and preserve the papers with care. But still his detention in France was exceedingly annoying. The letter of Dr. Winthorne had pressed him earnestly to return to England; and other thoughts and feelings were busy in his bosom urging him in the same direction. He felt himself something more than bound—shackled—by his engagement with Lord Montagu. Without any definite cause of complaint, the links which attached him to that nobleman had been broken. He felt that he had been doubted without cause, that he had been neglected and forgotten in a moment of difficulty and peril, and that the confidence which had at one time existed between his lord and himself could never be fully restored. Such were the reasons which he urged upon himself to explain the desire he felt for severing the connection. But perhaps there was another motive which he did not choose to scrutinize so accurately. Fifteen months had passed since he had promised the Cardinal de Richelieu not to seek his young bride for the space of two years, and Richelieu had promised him that at the end of those two years she should be his. He had no absolute certainty of where she was; he knew not what might have become of her; he could only frame vague, wild plans for finding and recovering her; and nine months, without a long journey to England, seemed to his impatient heart not more than time sufficient to vanquish all the obstacles which might lie between him and her.

In the idleness of the camp, without post, duty, or occupation, his mind naturally rested for hours each day upon youth's favorite theme. The imaginative—perhaps I may say the poetical—temperament which he had inherited from his mother, and which had hitherto in life found few opportunities of development and little or no encouragement amidst the hard realities with which he had had to deal, had now full sway, and sometimes soothed, sometimes tormented him with alternate hopes and fears.

Lucette was often the theme of his conversation with good Clement Tournon, who was daily regaining health and strength. The old syndic asked many questions as to Lucette's journey, and told Edward many of the rumors which had reached Rochelle; but it was evident that he knew nothing of that part of Lucette's history which was the most interesting to his young hearer. Feelings which it is needless to dwell upon prevented Edward from referring to it himself; and day after day he would ride forth into the country alone, or walk up and down in the neighborhood of the cardinal's residence, buried in solitary thought.

To the country-house now inhabited by Richelieu was attached a garden in an antique taste, where roses had now ceased to bloom and the flowers of summer had all passed away. But it was a quiet and solitary place, for the taste of neither soldiers nor courtiers led them that way, and, though the gates were always open, it was rarely that any one trod the walks, except one of the cooks with white night-cap on head seeking pot-herbs in a bed which lay at the lower part of the ground. Edward Langdale was more frequently there than anywhere else; and one day, toward evening, as he was walking up and down in one of the cross-walks, he saw the cardinal come forth from the building alone and take his way straight down the centre alley, looking first down upon the ground and then up toward the sky, as a man wearied with the thoughts and cares and business of the day. It seemed no moment to approach him; and Edward somewhat hurried his pace toward a small gate at the end of the garden. He had nearly reached it when the cardinal's voice stopped him.

"Come hither," said Richelieu, "and, if you are inclined to talk of no business, walk here by me. It is strange that amongst all who are here there is hardly one man with whom one's mind can refresh itself. My friend Bois Robert is too full of jest. It becomes tiresome. Good Father Mulot (whom they should have called Mulet) is full of one idea,—the conversion of heretics, by fire and sword, pestilence and famine, or what else you like,—though I cannot see why to prevent them from being damned in the other world I should be damned in this. I know the verses of Horace are against me, and that every man unreasonably complains of his fate; but I cannot help thinking that of all the conditions in the world the fate of a prime minister is the most anxious, laborious, and tiresome."

"I should think so indeed, your Eminence," said Edward, with a sigh.

"Ha!" said Richelieu: "then you are so little ambitious as to deem it has no advantages?"

"Not so, my lord," replied Edward. "It has vast and magnificent advantages,—the power to do good, to stop evil, to reward the worthy, ay, and even to punish the bad,—to save and elevate one's country. But great and valuable things must always be purchased at a high price; and I can easily conceive that the sense of responsibility, the opposition of petty factions and base intrigues, the stupidity of some men, the cunning devices of others, the importunity and the ingratitude of all, the want of domestic peace, the continual sacrifice of personal comfort, must make the high position your Eminence speaks of any thing but a bed of roses."

"You shall have your safe-conduct to-morrow morning," said Richelieu. "Such sentiments are sufficient to corrupt the whole court of France. Sir, if they were to become general, and men would but act upon them, I should have nothing to do. There would be nobody to envy me. Nobody would try to overthrow me. They would only look upon me as the wheel-horse of the car of state, and wonder that I could pull along so patiently. The ingratitude of all!" he repeated, in a meditative tone. "Ay, it is but too true! Those are the petrifying waters which harden the heart and seem to turn the very spirit into stone. Do you know what has been done within this hour, Monsieur Langdale?"

"No," replied the young Englishman: "I have heard of nothing important, sir."

"Why, I thought it must be at the gates of Paris by this time," said Richelieu. "A treaty has been signed with Rochelle; and a good man—a marvellous good man in his way—says I am no true Catholic, because I will not starve some thousands of men to death or make them take the mass with a lie upon their mouths. I do not understand his reasoning, but that is my fault, of course; but through this very treaty of Rochelle I think I shall make more real Catholics than he would make false ones. But now, Monsieur Langdale, you think I have kept you here unreasonably; but you are mistaken. I wished to have news from various quarters ere I suffered you to go back to England. I need not tell you to return by the month of July next; but, for many reasons, I desire you should return before. I leave it to yourself to do so or not; but you will find it for your benefit. To-morrow you shall have all necessary passes,—though it is probable that the fall of this very city of Rochelle will lead to peace between France and England. If it do so, remember a conversation which took place between us a good many months ago."

"I will not forget it, my lord," replied Edward. "I believe I have always kept my word to your Eminence."

"You have," said Richelieu. "You have. Would to God I could say the same of all men! And, now, what money will you want for your passage?"

"None, your Eminence," replied Edward. "I have a little property in England, the rents of which accumulated while I was lodged and fed by good Monsieur de Bourbonne; and I can get what I want at Rochelle."

"Oh, go not into that miserable place!" said Richelieu,—"at least not till all the bodies are interred and it is free from pestilence. This siege will ever be memorable in the annals of the world for the sufferings of the people, and for the resolution of their leaders also. I can admire great qualities even in my enemies. But here comes Tronson to call me to the king. Come to me to-morrow."

CHAPTER XLIV.

The cardinal himself he could not see before his departure, for those were very busy times; but on the sixth day the young gentleman re-entered the city of Rochelle with his good friend Clement Tournon, and went direct to the syndic's house. The royal soldiers were in possession of the place; the walls were in progress of demolition; and there was an aspect of disappointment and sadness upon the faces of the people generally, though some were rejoicing openly in the return of peace and plenty, little heeding the loss of a certain degree of that liberty which they had at one time cherished as the best of human possessions.

The royal forces, however, had not confined themselves to razing the fortifications, but, with that good-humor which is one of the chief and most amiable characteristics of the French people, had aided the citizens in burying the dead, in cleansing the streets, and in purifying the town generally, so that, on the whole, the city bore a much more cheerful and happy appearance than it had done when Edward had last visited it. In the court before the house of the old syndic, two of the apprentices were busy rooting out the grass from between the stones; and Marton herself, with a gay face, though it was still somewhat pale and thin, came running down to greet her old master. These were all that remained of the once numerous household; and the joy of his return to his ancient dwelling was mingled with sufficient bitterness to draw some natural tears from Clement Tournon's eyes.

Many little incidents occurred to Edward Langdale during his short stay in Rochelle which we need not dwell upon here. Amongst the servants of his host he was in some sort a hero for the part he had taken in saving their beloved master. Several of the citizens, too, came to visit him; and, in the stormy night of the 2d of November, Guiton himself, wrapped in his large mantle, presented himself to pass an hour or two with his old friend and the syndic's young guest.

It was a night very memorable,—much like that on which Edward had crossed the seas some eighteen months before. The winds burst in sharp gusts over the town, still rising in force, and howling as they rose; the casement shook and rattled, the tiles were swept from the roofs and dashed to pieces in the streets, and rain mingled with sleet dashed in the faces of the passers-by. Many died that night of those who were still sick in the hospitals. The conversation of the mayor was by no means cheerful. He had been forced into his high position against his own desire; he had drawn the sword unwillingly, but, full of energy and hope, he had sheathed it with even less willingness, and saw in the surrender of Rochelle the ruin of the Protestant cause and the destruction of the religious liberties of France. His heart was depressed, and all his thoughts seemed gloomy. Once, when one of the fiercest gusts shook the house, he burst forth in an absent tone, exclaiming, "Ay, blow! blow! You may blow now without doing any damage to Fortune's favorite! By the Lord in Heaven, Mr. Langdale, it would seem that this man Richelieu's fortunes have even bent the clouds and storms to his subjection! Here that tempestuous sea which was never known for six weeks to an end to be without storm and ship-wreck has been as calm and tranquil as a fish-pond in a garden for months—ever since that accursed dyke was first commenced; and now no sooner is Rochelle lost than up rises the spirit of the tempest. Hark how it howls! At high tide half the dyke that has ruined us will be swept away! Mark my words, young gentleman: by this time to-morrow all the succors which we needed so many months will be able to enter our port in safety."

And it was so. On the following day, more than forty toises of the dyke were carried away, and a fleet of small wine-vessels from the neighboring country entered the harbor without difficulty.

The storm raged fiercely for the next two days; and the time was spent in friendly intercourse by Clement Tournon and Edward Langdale, who wished to embark from Rochelle but could find no vessel ready or willing to put to sea.

Of all the remarkable changes which have taken place in the state of society during the last two hundred years—changes which produce and will daily produce other changes—none is so wonderful as in the facility of locomotion. The change from the caterpillar to the butterfly is not so great. Go back two hundred years, and you will find nothing but delay and uncertainty. Ay, within a shorter space than that, the back of your own horse, the inconvenient inside of a heavy coach going three miles in an hour, or the still slower wagon with its miscellaneous denizens, or the post-horse with its postilion riding beside it, were, in every part of Europe, the only means afforded to the traveller of journeying from place to place over the land; while over the water slow ships could only be found occasionally at certain ports, and their departure and arrival depended upon a thousand other chances and events than the pleasure of the winds and waves. It is only wonderful that a voyage did not occupy a lifetime. Now——But it is no use telling my reader what this now is. He knows it so well that he forgets even the inconveniences that he himself has suffered, perhaps a score or two of years ago, and can hardly conceive the possibility of the hardships, the troubles and disappointments, of a journey in the seventeenth century, till he takes up some of the memoirs or romances of that day, and finds a whole host of minor miseries recorded which render an expedition to Mount Sinai at present but a joke in comparison. It is true that our present system has its evils as well as its benefits, viewed by different persons according to their different professional or habitual tastes. The picturesque traveller will tell you that you lose one-half of the scenery; the timid traveller, that you risk breaking your neck; the police-officer, that thieves and swindlers get off much more easily than they used to do; and members of Parliament, that their constituents are a great deal too near at hand. But there are compensations for all these little troubles and especially in the case of those of the police-officer; for, if the thief or swindler has easy means of getting away, there are—thanks to electric telegraphs—more easy means still of catching him.

All Edward's preparations were made: the calculation of what rents had accumulated in the hands of good Dr. Winthorne was easy also, and to get the amount in gold and silver was easier still, with Clement Tournon at his right hand. But, as there seemed, upon inquiry, no probability whatever of a ship sailing from Rochelle within a reasonable time, Edward determined to run across the country to Calais, between which port and England there always has been a desultory trade carried on, even in time of war, down to the reign of the third George.

"I shall see you soon again, Edward," said old Clement Tournon, as the young gentleman descended the stairs to mount his horse.

"I trust so," said Edward. "But I really cannot tell how soon I shall return."

"Nor I how soon I shall go over," said the old man, with a smile. "I have business myself at Huntingdon; and if you are in that neighborhood a month hence we shall meet there. You have told me all the places where you intend to stop, and I have made a note of it,—so that I shall easily find you wherever you are."

Edward was surprised, but not so much, perhaps, as might be expected; for, from vague hints which his good old host had let drop, he had gathered that Clement Tournon, steadfast and perhaps a little bigoted in the Protestant faith, had a strong inclination to make England his future home. He had been there often; he loved the country and the people, and still more the religion; and most of the ties between him and Rochelle seemed to have been severed when the city lost its independence. Often in Edward's hearing he had called England the land of comfort and peace,—alas! it was not destined long to remain so,—and even that very day he had remarked that the state of France, with its constant broils, intrigues, and factions, might suit a young and aspiring spirit, but was not fitted for declining years.

He and his young friend parted with deep and mutual regret. It is seldom that so much friendship ever exists between the old and the young; but each might feel that he owed the other his life, not by any sudden act which might be the result of a momentary impulse, but by calm, determined, persevering kindness, which could not but have a deeper source.

This has been a very short chapter: but we may as well change the scene; for our space, according to the law of Goths and Vandals, which altereth not, is very short, alas!

CHAPTER XLV.

It was on a road, then, leading from London into the heart of the country, that Lord Montagu's page—Lord Montagu's page no longer, for he had formally resigned his attendance upon that nobleman—rode along, on a cold, bright, wintry evening, with the renowned Pierrot la Grange, whose face, by adherence to the total-abstinence system, though much less brilliant in hue, had become much smoother, plumper, and fairer. Both he and his master were well armed, as was the custom of the day, and each was a likely man enough to repel any thing like attack on the part of others; for be it remarked that Edward Langdale was very much changed by the passage of twenty months over his head since first we introduced him to the reader. He was broader, stronger, older, in appearance; and, though of course there was nothing of the mould of age about him, yet all the batterings and bruisings he had gone through had certainly stamped manhood both on his face and form. He had a very tolerable beard also,—at least as far as mustache and royal were concerned,—trimmed in that shape which the pencil of Vandyke has transmitted to us in his portraits of some of the most memorable characters in modern history. It is probable that he had grown a little also; for at his age men will grow, notwithstanding all the world will do to keep them down. He was, in short, somewhat above the middle height, though not a very tall man,—of that height which is more serviceable in the field than in the ring.

At the crossing of two roads, one of which ran into Cambridgeshire, while the other took toward Huntingdon, was a small, low inn: I mean low in structure, for it was by no means low in character. It was one of the neatest inns I ever set my eyes on,—for it was standing in my day and is probably standing still,—with its neat well-whitewashed front, its carved doorway, its various gables, and its mullioned windows and the lozenge-shaped panes set in primitive lead. To the right of the inn, as you looked from the door upon the road, was a very neat farm-yard, half full of golden straw, with a barn and innumerable chickens,—chanticleers of all hues and colors, and dame partlets of every breed. Beyond the barn, at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, ran a beautiful clear stream, which crossed both the roads very nearly at their bifurcation, and which, though so shallow as only to wash gently the fetlocks of the passengers' horses, was, and must be still, renowned for its beautiful trout, silvery, with gold and crimson spots and the flesh the color of a blush-rose. On the other side of the stream, about a quarter of a mile farther up, was a picturesque little mill, with a group of towering Huntingdon poplars shading it on the east.

Here Edward Langdale drew in his horse, although the sun was not fully down.

God knows what made him do so, for he had proposed to ride farther: but there was an aspect of peace and rural beauty and contented happiness about the whole place which might touch that latent poetry in his disposition already alluded to. Or it might be that all the fierce scenes of strife and turmoil and care and danger he had passed through in the last twenty months had made his heart thirsty for a little calm repose; and where could he find it so well as there? Expectation, however, is always destined to be disappointed. This is the great moral of the fable of life. The people of the house, who had much respect for a man who came with an armed servant and whose saddle-bags were well stuffed, gave him a clean, comfortable room looking over the court-yard to the river, and served him his supper in the chamber underneath.

It was night before he sat down; but, before the fine broiled trout had disappeared, the sound of several horses' feet was heard from the road, and then that of voices calling for hostlers and stable-boys.

Edward had easily divined, from his first entrance into the house, that this which he now occupied was the only comfortable public room in the inn,—although there was another on the other side of the passage, where neighboring farmers held their meetings and smoked their pipes. He expected, therefore, that his calm little supper would be interrupted, and was not at all surprised to see a gentleman of good mien, a little below the middle age, followed by two or three attendants, enter the parlor and throw himself into a chair.

The stranger cast a hasty and careless glance around, and then gave some directions to one of his followers in the French language. It was not the sort of half French spoken a good deal in the court of England at that time, but whole, absolute, perfect French, with French idioms and a French tongue.

As long as the conversation referred to nothing more than boots and baggage and supper and good wine, Edward took no notice, but went on with his meal, anxious to finish it as soon as possible. But soon after, when the person the stranger had been speaking to had left the room, that gentleman began a different sort of discourse with another of his followers, and commented pretty freely, and with some wit, upon the state of parties at the court of England.

"Your pardon for interrupting you," said Edward at once. "My servant and myself both understand French; and it would be neither civil nor honest to overhear your conversation without giving you that warning."

The other thanked him for his courtesy, adding, "You are a Frenchman, of course?"

"Not so," answered Edward. "I am an Englishman; but I have spent some time in France."

Next came a great number of those questions which nobody can put so directly without any lack of politeness as a Frenchman:—how long he had lived in France; whom he knew there; when he had left it.

Edward answered all very vaguely, for he never had any great relaxation of tongue; but the stranger caught at the admission that he had been only a fortnight in England, exclaiming, "Then you must have been in France when Rochelle surrendered."

"I was," answered the young gentleman: "it is not quite three weeks since I left that city."

"Ha!" said the stranger, eyeing him from head to foot. "Will you favor me, sir, by telling me the state of the place and the condition of its inhabitants? It is a subject in which I take a great interest. Methinks they surrendered somewhat promptly when succor was so near."

"Not so, sir," replied Edward. "When men have nothing to eat,—when they have seen their fathers, and their brothers, and their mothers, and their sisters, die of famine in their streets,—when the very rats and mice of a city are all consumed, and the wharves have been stripped of mussels and limpets,—they must either die or surrender. There is no use of dying; for death is the worst sort of capitulation, and the city becomes the enemy's without even a parchment promise."

"Ay; and was it really so bad?" said the other.

"More than one-third of the inhabitants had died," said Edward; "another third were dying; and the rest were so feeble that the walls might be said to be manned by living corpses."

"You excite my curiosity and my compassion," said the other. "May I ask if you had any command in Rochelle?"

"None," replied the young gentleman. "By accident I was in it for a day during the siege, and saw how much they could endure. I was in it also immediately after the siege, and saw how much they had endured. Though Rochelle fell at last, her defence is one of the most glorious facts in French history."

The stranger looked down upon the ground and replied nothing for several minutes; but his companion with whom he had been conversing familiarly took up the conversation, and asked after several of the citizens of Rochelle whom Edward was personally acquainted with or knew by name. The solemn words, "He is dead," "She is dead," "All the family died by famine," "He died of the pestilence," were of sad recurrence. "But then," the stranger remarked, "we know that Guiton is alive; for he signed the treaty."

"He tried hard to die first," said Edward. "But nothing seemed to break his iron frame, and the people became clamorous."

"And what became of the good old syndic Tournon?" asked the first stranger.

"He is alive and well," answered Edward.

"Ah! but he would have been dead and buried," exclaimed Pierrot, who could refrain no longer, "if it had not been for you, sir."

"Indeed?" said the stranger. "Let me inquire how that happened."

"It matters not, sir," replied Edward, making a sign to Pierrot to hold his tongue. "What the man says may be partly true, partly mistaken; but, although I am willing to give any one interested general news, I must decline referring to matters entirely personal when conversing with strangers."

"Well, then, let us talk of other subjects," said the first stranger. "I cannot consent to part with a gentleman lately from my own land, so soon as that movement of your plate seems to imply. Supper I shall take none; for the news that has flowed in upon me for the last fortnight, has not tended to strengthen my appetite. Wine, however,—the resource of the sad and the sorry,—I must have. They tell me it is good here. Will you allow me to try some of that which stands at your right hand?"

Edward ordered Pierrot to bring some fresh glasses, and put the bottle over to his self-invited guest. The stranger drank some, and, saying, "It is very fair," immediately ordered more to be brought, while Pierrot, bending over Edward's chair as if to remove the dish before him, whispered in his ear, "It is the Prince de Soubise."

With all his habitual self-command, Edward could not refrain from a slight start. The color, too, mounted in his cheek with some feelings of anger; but he was glad of the warning, and did not suffer what was passing in his heart to appear. The conversation turned in a different course from that which it had before assumed, Soubise referring no more to the subject of Rochelle, though his companion, who seemed a friend of inferior rank, often turned toward that topic. Whenever he did so, the prince immediately asked some question as to Edward's knowledge of France and its inhabitants; and the young gentleman, to say the truth, took some pleasure, after the first effects of surprise were over, in puzzling him by his answers. He had passed over so much of France that his intimate acquaintance with the country excited Soubise's astonishment; and from localities his questions turned to persons. "As you have been in Lorraine," he said, "you have probably seen the beautiful and witty Duchesse de Chevreuse."

"I have the honor of knowing her well," replied Edward.

"Do you know the Duc de Montbazon?" asked the prince.

"Not in the least," replied Edward.

"The Cardinal de Richelieu?" continued Soubise.

"I have seen his Eminence frequently," said the young gentleman, "and have had audiences of him; but, as to knowing the cardinal, that can be said but by few, I imagine."

Soubise smiled. "The duchess is more easily known," he answered; "but the death of her lover Chalais must have affected her much,—poor thing! Did you ever meet with him?"

"Not exactly," replied Edward, with a slight shudder at the memory. "I saw his head cut off, but did not know him personally."

The reference caused a momentary pause in the conversation; and then Soubise said, in an indifferent tone, "As you have been much in that part of the country, you must have probably seen a Duc de Rohan."

"I had the honor of meeting him once," replied Edward, fully on his guard.

"He is a relation of mine," said Soubise.

Edward merely bowed his head, and the prince proceeded to ask if there had been any news of him current when the young gentleman was in France.

"The last I heard of him," said Edward, "was a rumor that, after menacing the right of the king's army till a party had been sent out to cut off his retreat, he had, by a skilful night-march through the woods in the rear, effected his escape and fallen back upon Saintonge."

Soubise seemed desirous of prolonging the conversation; but Edward soon after retired to his chamber, resolved to be up by sunrise and pursue his way. His determination was vain, however. Though he was on foot early, Soubise was up before him; and they met at the door of the inn, where their horses were already standing. A quiet bow on either part was their only salutation; and, as there were two roads, Edward would willingly have seen which the prince selected. As he did not mount, however, the young gentleman followed the path he had previously proposed to take,—namely, that toward Huntingdon,—and three or four minutes after heard the more numerous party of Soubise coming up at good speed.

"Ah, young gentleman," said the prince, riding up to his side, "so we are going the same way. Permit me to bear you company."

Edward bowed his head somewhat coldly, for he did not desire the companionship. He might have learned some policy in the varied life he had led, and it certainly would have been politic in him to court the good opinion of the man by his side; but, even had the nature of his character permitted it, he believed it would be of no use. Generous and frank, Soubise was known to be somewhat obstinate as well as hasty; and Edward thought, "I would rather win her in spite of him than by his aid."

Their journey, therefore, did not promise to be very agreeable; and, when the prince demanded which way his course ultimately lay, the young gentleman replied, "I go toward Huntingdon, sir; but, if that is the direction of your journey, I shall have to leave you before we reach the town, for I have to turn off the highroad some miles on this side of Buckden."

"And so have I," said Soubise; "but we may as well make the way pleasant by each other's society as long as our roads lie together. Do you know this country as well as you know France?"

"This part of the country," replied Edward; "for I was born and brought up not many miles from where we are now riding."

"Indeed!" said the prince. "I should have thought by your speech you had passed the greater part of your life in my own land. Do you know what that little river is just before us?"

"It is the Ivil," answered Edward, "which runs into the Ouse lower down."

"The Ouse!" said Soubise. "I do not know much English, but that seems to me an ugly name. If I recollect, Ouse means mud,—slime."

"We are a plain-spoken people," answered the young man, "and usually give things the name we think they deserve. The Ouse in many places is a sluggish, muddy stream; and our good ancestors applied the name they judged most appropriate."

"'Tis as well they do," said Soubise, with a sigh. "We in France have a different habit. Our more excitable imaginations take fire at a name, and we are apt to decorate very plain things with fanciful appellations; but this leads to frequent disappointment. Which is the happiest people must depend upon whether it is best in a hard world to see things as they are, or to see them as we would have them."

"We are often forced to see them as they are," replied Edward; "and if we always did so there would be no disappointments."

"Nor much happiness," said Soubise.

Thus conversing, they rode on. But we must pass lightly over the talk with which they enlivened the way, merely observing that Lucette's cousin rose not inconsiderably in Edward's opinion as they went. Nay, more: his manners were so graceful, his thoughts so just, his conversation so varied, that the young Englishman could not but feel pleased with his company and inclined to like himself. Still, in the true English spirit, he said, in his own heart, "Oh, yes, he is very charming now he is in a good humor. The devil is so when he is pleased; but methinks I could conjure forth the horns and hoofs if I were but to tell him who I am."

At length the scenes through which they passed became painfully familiar to Edward's eye,—spots he had known well, cottages he had visited, houses belonging to old friends of his family. The very trees and shrubs and little water-courses seemed like old acquaintances calling back times past and appealing to regret. He grew grave and cold. The chilly feeling which had first fallen upon him not many years before, but which had somewhat passed away during the last few months, returned, and many memories, as ever, brought their long train of sorrows with them.

Not far from Little Barford, a fine sloping lawn came down to the road-side, separated from the highway merely by a thick, well-trimmed hedge broken by some fine groups of trees; and, looking up, a large square house with many windows, and a trim garden terraced and ornamented with urns and statues, could be seen at the distance of a quarter of a mile. There were several men in the grounds engaged in various country-employments, and Edward said, within himself, "He is taking care of the place, at all events."

At the same moment Soubise observed, "That is a fine chateau! Do you know to whom it belongs, and what it is called? It is so long since I was in this part of England that I forget the places."

"That is called Buckley Hall," replied Edward. "It belongs to Sir Richard Langdale."

"How is that?" said Soubise, suddenly, as if something surprised him. But Edward did not answer, and the prince merely said, "Let us pull up for an instant and look at it."

It was torture to Edward to stay; but he paused for a moment, and then said, "I fear I must go on, for I have still some distance to ride. My road, too, lies here to the left."

"Ay?" said Soubise; "so does mine. Let us go on."

"Are you sure you are right?" asked Edward Langdale. "Huntingdon is straight before you."

"Oh, I am right," answered the prince: "I turn just beyond Buckley."

Edward had nothing more to say; but he could not help beginning to think that his adventure with the two blacksmiths seemed likely to come over again. Somewhat quickening their pace, they rode on, and Edward made an effort to cast off the melancholy mood which had fallen upon him, and even the impression which the unsought society of a man who had spoken of him in such insulting terms had produced at first, and the conversation between him and Soubise became lively and cheerful. Mile after mile passed; and at length, after proceeding for more than an hour and a half, on a little bank by the side of the river appeared an old church with its gray ivy-clad tower and groups of yews in the churchyard. Beyond, at the distance of some two or three hundred yards, was one of those fine antique houses, built of stone, which were erected in the end of Elizabeth's reign and in the earlier part of that of the most pompous and conceited of kings. Thick walls, small square windows, little useless towers, and somewhat peaked roofs, spoke a good deal of King James. But the lawn, as soft as velvet, the groups of shrubs, and the garden, well trimmed and swept even in the winter-time, told a tale of more modern taste.

"I fear I shall have to quit you here, sir," said Edward, as they approached the gate with its two massy stone pillars and large balls at the top. "This is the end of my journey."

"What is the name of this place?" asked Soubise.

"Applethorpe," answered Edward,—"the residence of Dr. Winthorne."

"Ha?" said Soubise; "then we shall not part so soon. This is the end of my journey also."

Edward could not refrain from turning round and gazing in his face with a look of most profound surprise; but the prince made no further remark, and, after pulling in their horses while one of the servants dismounted and opened the gates they rode up to the large arched door of the house. A heavy bell hanging outside soon brought forth an old domestic, dressed in dark gray, who gazed earnestly first at Soubise and then at Edward, both of whom had sprung to the ground while he was opening the door. At first he evidently recognised neither; but a moment after the light of honest satisfaction brightened his countenance, and, holding forth his hand to Edward, he exclaimed, "Oh, Master Ned, how glad I am to see you, and how glad the doctor will be! He has been looking for you for months. But he is not at home now, and may not come back for an hour. But come in; come in. Every thing is ready for you. Your old room is just as you left it,—not a book moved, nor a gun, nor a fishing-rod: only when I went in to-day to dust the things, I saw the ink had dried up in the horn, and was going to put in fresh this very day."

Edward shook the old man warmly by the hand; and, turning to the Prince de Soubise, he said, "If I understood you right, sir, you came to visit Dr. Winthorne. He is out, the servant says; but I have interest enough in this house to invite you to enter till his return. He will be back in an hour, and happy, I am sure, to entertain you. But, knowing my old preceptor's habits well, allow me to hint that it will be necessary to send your attendants into the village, as I shall send my servant; for, being a clergyman, he objects to have in his house what he calls 'swash-buckler serving-men;' and his rule apply to all, however high the quality of his guests."

Soubise smiled; and, ushering him into the library, Edward proceeded, amidst the somewhat garrulous joy of the old footman, to direct Pierrot to take the other men down to the village inn, to tell the host there to attend on them well, "for Master Ned's sake," and then to return as soon as might be with his saddle-bags.

The prince merely ordered his baggage to be brought up, directing his men to take care of themselves, and seeming fully satisfied that he would be a welcome guest. He took some books from the shelves of the library, examined them cursorily, and put them back, saying, "The good doctor seems to have improved much in worldly matters. He has attained, apparently, the state he always desired,—competency, and enough to have a good library. Can any one imagine a man more happy?"

"Perhaps not," said Edward, gravely. "I believe circumscribed desires and moderate fortunes attain the height of human felicity."

"Not so," said Soubise. "I believe every human life must be looked at as an aggregate; and skilful would be the calculator who could reduce to an exact sum how much joy and how much sorrow are required to equivale a given portion of calm and unimpassioned existence. All these things are as the individual views them. We have nothing in this life by which to measure the real value of any object but our own tastes. You may like a pearl better than a diamond; I may esteem the flashing lustre of the one more than the calm serenity of the other. That man is only happy who obtains what he really desires. But here come our men, I see, with the baggage."

CHAPTER XLVI.

The Prince de Soubise stood at the window of the library of Applethorpe alone; for Edward had made an excuse to leave him, not thinking himself bound to play the host in a house which was not his, nor to act as the entertainer of a man whom he had some good cause, as he thought, to dislike. Soubise was then past forty, however, and he did not—as indeed who does in middle life?—look upon trifles with the serious view which one takes of them in earlier years. "Hasty and quick in quarrel" applies to small as well as great things; and Heaven knows how much patience we acquire each day by the mere habit of endurance. He received the young man's apology in good part, then; and, while Edward Langdale went to speak to every old servant and then to change his travel-stained dress, he stood, as I have said, at the window and gazed forth upon a scene to be viewed in no other country under the sky,—a home scene of English life. It is probably of no age, of no time; for it is an impress of the mind and character of the people. But I must not dwell upon it. The chapter of descriptions has gone by. Soubise gazed out, compared that which was before his eyes with that on which they might have rested in his own country, admired what he saw, and perhaps, in the desponding mood which certainly then affected him, felt sorry that France had not so calm, so peaceful, and so happy a look as an English country-village.

After he had continued gazing for some ten minutes, upon the road before him appeared an elderly man upon a fine stout horse, with clerical hat and cassock turned up, and a servant following him on a still better beast. They both rode fast; and, though the first sat his steed somewhat after the fashion of a sack of wheat, it was clear that the saddle was quite familiar to him, and the slouching shoulders and negligent air were more the consequences of perfect ease and habit than of awkwardness. The servant pulled back the gate: his master dashed through, and in a moment after Dr. Winthorne was at the door.

The old footman ran forth to give him entrance, and a few words passed, of which Soubise only heard the words, "Ned come back? Tell the dear fellow to come down. A stranger? Well, we must see strangers." And the door of the library opened.

Dr. Winthorne gazed at Soubise, and the prince at him, without any sign of recognition as they approached each other. But suddenly the reverend gentleman stopped, exclaiming, "God bless me! Monsieur Soubise! On my life, sir, I am glad to see you. When did you come over? How fares it with you? You are older by a good deal, but you look well. I am right?—surely the Prince de Soubise?"

"The same, my good old friend," said the prince. "I am not surprised you doubt, for I feel I am much changed. It is ten long years since we met, and with me they have been stormy years."

"So I have heard," said the good doctor, "though news travels but slowly in our poor country. But I have watched your noble struggles as closely as I could; and I have felt great interest in them all, though you—every one of you—made great mistakes. And now Rochelle is lost. God help us! It is a sad case; but she could hold out no longer; and that Mayor Guiton is a noble man."

"He is indeed," said Soubise; "and his character has risen in my opinion by what has been told me by a young gentleman who came hither with me——"

"Odds-my-life!" cried the old doctor, "my boy Ned!—Ned Langdale! I must go, prince,—I must go and hug him. Sir, he is as fine a youth as ever lived, and ought to be a great man. God send he may escape it! But I have not seen him yet. Excuse me: I will be back in a minute. Make yourself at home; make yourself at home. All shall be prepared for you before you can say Amen."

With this somewhat unconnected speech, Dr. Winthorne left the room, and in a few minutes returned with Edward Langdale, who allowed himself to be introduced to the prince with cold ceremony. "He says," observed Dr. Winthorne, "that somehow you have not treated him well. But we will talk of that after supper. Every thing should be explained between all people; but no explanation should take place fasting. The humors are then in a bad condition; and, as there is no chance in my house of people heating them by potations, we will just calmly regulate them by wholesome food and moderate drink, and then have a clear understanding."

"I am perfectly unconscious——" said the prince; but the doctor cut him short, exclaiming, "After supper, after supper, my lord! Your apartments are quite ready. Let me conduct you."

The old clergyman and the Protestant prince retired from the room, and Dr. Winthorne was nearly half an hour absent. When he returned, however, he shook Edward once more warmly by the hand, saying, "Why, Ned, my boy, you are grown quite a man. Heaven show us mercy! you have a beard an ell long. But now tell me all that has happened to you. As to this man up-stairs, he is a good man, a very good man,—hasty, but noble and generous, steady in his friend-ships, true to his cause. There is some mistake between you and him. He says your brother Richard wrote to him, or visited him, or something, and he might have treated him with some indignity; but he never saw or heard of you in his life till last night, when he met you at an inn."

Edward smiled, saying, "He must have a short memory."

"Well, well," said Dr. Winthorne, "we will have it all after supper. Now tell me every thing you have done and seen and suffered; for I doubt not you have suffered too, my poor boy. We shall have plenty of time if this prince takes as long to bedizen himself as he used to do. He was a mighty fop in other years; but he has a more soldier-like look now. Well, Ned, give me the whole story."

Edward Langdale willingly enough related succinctly what had befallen him since he parted from the good doctor nearly two years before. There was a good deal, indeed, he did not tell, for he knew that the explanations required would be too long for the limited space before him. Indeed, before even the abbreviated narrative was brought to a close, the Prince de Soubise joined them, and they retired into another chamber to supper.

The meal passed over in great cheerfulness; the wine was good, and of that quality which parsons loved in those days, but all partook moderately; and as soon as the servants had withdrawn—for supper at that period of the world's history was served with very nearly the same forms as dinner in the present times—Soubise bowed his head to Edward Langdale, saying, in not very good English, "There must be some mistake between us, sir. I should like to have it set right, for your father was one of my dearest friends. We travelled long together with this worthy minister; and I wish much to remove any thing like coldness between myself and his son."

"I really do not know, Monsieur de Soubise," replied Edward, in French, "what mistake there can be. But may I ask if in June of last year you did not write a letter to your brother the Duc de Rohan, in which you styled me an insolent varlet? The duke sent me the letter, and my eyes, I think, cannot have deceived me."

"No, no!" cried Soubise. "Stay; let me remember. I applied that term," he continued, more slowly, "to Sir Richard Langdale, your father's eldest son, who, as I have been told and as I have still reason to believe, had robbed you of your property,—of your mother's as well as your father's inheritance. To the latter he might have some claim: even that is doubtful. To the former he had none."

"Unfortunately, by the laws of this country he had," said Edward. "But all this is past and over, and——"

"Stay, stay," said Soubise, interrupting him. "It is not all over yet: it is the very cause of my coming here. I was a witness, sir, to the marriage-contract—or settlement, as you call it here, I believe—between your father and your mother, by which it was agreed that all the property she possessed, not only at the time, but which might descend to her from her uncle, should belong to her and descend to her children. In his last letter, when he thought himself dying, good old Clement Tournon informed me that this very property had been taken from you by him whom I may well call your base-born brother. Having done all that I had to do, and been disappointed in all,—having seen the noble Buckingham die at my feet, and borne the loss of Rochelle,—my first business was to come on here to see right done if it could be done."

"There, Edward! there!" said Dr. Winthorne. "I told you he was noble and true."

"I doubted it not, my dear friend," replied Edward. "But still the words his Highness used were somewhat galling."

"They never were applied to you, upon my honor," said the prince. "As far as I recollect now,—for it was a time of great hurry and confusion,—I had heard that Richard Langdale, whose whole history I knew as well as my daily service, was at the court of France soliciting some place from his Majesty. My brother wrote to me, mentioning only Monsieur de Langdale. Probably it was to you he referred. Probably he was deceived as well as myself, although he did not know so much of the circumstances as I did. My cousin left his child with his dying breath to my charge, enjoining me strictly to have her educated in the Protestant faith, and never to suffer her to fall into the hands——"

"What!" exclaimed Dr. Winthorne, interrupting him,—"dear child? little Lucette? How is the sweet where is she? Oh that I could see her again for an hour! for she was an angel. Do you remember, Edward, that you once had a little sister, and that when you were ill of fever she disappeared?"

"Was that Lucette?" exclaimed Edward. "Remember her, my dear sir? Oh, yes! But how can that be? her death killed my mother, I think. Lucette my sister!" And he gazed down upon the table with a bewildered mind and a chilly, painful feeling at the heart, such as he never had experienced in life before. "I cannot comprehend," he added. "Lucette my sister! My sister not dead!"

"No, no," said Dr. Winthorne. "Tell him all, my lord the prince. Lucette is not your sister: she merely passed as such. Your father and your mother took her in very early years to hide her from her Roman Catholic relations in France, out of love and friendship for this noble gentleman. Those relations were powerful here as well as in the neighboring country; and at length they discovered where she was, but Monsieur de Soubise came over and removed her, first to the town of Brixham, where she remained some years, and thence to France. I had some share in all this, too. But you are mistaken, my son, about your mother's death. She grieved to lose her little pet, and wept often and bitterly at her loss; but the origin of her illness was a terrible fire which consumed your father's house when you were very young. Then, exposure and injuries received before she could escape sowed the seeds of that sad malady which, in this land of ours, like Death's gardener, culls the sweetest and most beautiful flowers to decorate the grave."

"Then she is not my sister?" exclaimed Edward. "She is not dead! Thank God for that!"

It might be difficult for those who heard it to know which he thanked God for most; and the exclamation produced a slight smile upon the countenance of Dr. Winthorne.

"Methinks, prince," he said, "this young man must have met Lucette since. You dog, you told me nothing of that."

But the Prince de Soubise was very grave. "Let us not talk of that part of the subject to-night," he said. "I fear there are painful conclusions before us. But, Mr. Langdale, my friendship for your father and my deep gratitude to your saintly mother make me most anxious to see you reinstated in her fine property. Let us consult what can be done. I am here ready to swear I signed the deed as witness with my own hand."

"That will not be sufficient," said Dr. Winthorne, with somewhat of a smile on his countenance. "In this land we shall require the deed itself. But let us ride over to-morrow to Buckley and see our old friend Sykes, the hunch-backed attorney; for I cannot help thinking that he knows something more than he will tell me. For the last six months he has been keeping up the place at his own expense; for I dare say you have heard, Edward, that no one has known any thing of Sir Richard for more than twelve months. He draws no rents, sends over no orders. His lawyer here has written and sent to Turin, but no intelligence whatever can be procured; and many people think that he is dead."

"It is very strange," said the Prince de Soubise. "But I have no belief in the report of his death. Most likely he is wandering somewhere, and does not wish the place of his abode to be known. He was always very eccentric."

"Then you know him, my lord?" said Edward, who had not lately mingled in the conversation; for some words which had fallen from Soubise had saddened him.

"I have not seen him for many years," replied the prince; "but even then he was as strange a boy as I ever saw. There was insanity in the family of his mother, and some people thought that the child would grow up an idiot. It was not so, however. Though he was very strange, this strangeness never reached to madness. Fits of moody gloom would come upon him, and he often would not speak a word for hours. If he did, it would be with a bitter and supercilious tone, very extraordinary in a mere child. Then, again, at times he would fly into the most violent fits of passion, and then sink into melancholy. The way I learned all this is easily explained. At your father's request I took some charge of him after his mother's death in the convent; but his behavior became so bad that I had to relinquish the trust."

"You applied to him, a short time since," said Edward, "a somewhat hard and unpleasant expression. You said that you might almost call him base-born. Is it too much to ask that you would give me some information on that point?"

"I know not well how to explain," replied Soubise, looking down thoughtfully.

"His mother was a very light Italian woman, of a low, bad race. Your father married her, beyond doubt, before this child was born; but it was only just before, and that with half a dozen stilettos at his throat; for they caught him alone with her and forced the marriage. Almost as soon as it was over, he separated from her and she went into a convent,—her relations spreading absurd stories that they had caused the separation because your father was a Protestant. This gained them some favor at the court of Rome, and one of them obtained advancement in the Church, where, after leading a very dissolute life, he was struck with remorse and retired into the most austere seclusion. This is nearly all I know of the matter; but it was this knowledge of the young man's birth, character, and connections which made me use the term 'insolent varlet' which gave you so much offence. I pledge you my honor, however, it was not intended for you; and I should not have applied it, probably, to him, had I not been in haste and irritated at the moment."

"Then I hope, my good lord," replied Edward, "that, as the expression was not applied to me, I may look upon all the sentiments and resolutions contained in that letter as unsaid also?"

"Do not press me to-night," said Soubise, very gravely. "I am afraid if I speak now my reply will pain you. The house of Rohan is a proud house, and I have much to think of. Give me a few days for reflection, and I will meet you fairly. But in the mean time let us be friends. Your father was the companion of my youth and my most intimate associate; your mother, now a saint in heaven, was an angel upon earth; and I would fain have their son's regard."

As he spoke, he held out his hand to the young man, who took it respectfully; and shortly after the prince retired to rest.