CHAPTER XLVII.

Before that little porch Dr. Winthorne pulled in his rein and floundered off his horse, and Soubise and Edward Langdale followed. In the first room on the left hand they found three or four clerks; and at a separate desk, which he could not have overtopped without assistance, was seated a little old man with very keen features and a back and chest which assumed a menacing posture in regard to the head.

"Ah, doctor," he said, slipping off the high stool which raised him up to the desk, "what brings you so early to Buckley? Odds-my-life! Why, I can hardly believe my eyes! Master Ned grown into a bearded man of war! My dear boy, how are you? Oh, how I have missed you!—missed the trout in the month of May,—missed the partridges in September,—missed the snipes and the woodcocks in the cold weather, when I have my annual abscess in the lungs,—missed thy handsome face at all those times when a kind word in a youthful voice cheers an old man like me!"

Edward shook him warmly by the hand, and asked after all his ailments kindly, but speedily turned to their companion, saying, "Mr. Sykes, this is the Prince de Soubise, an old friend of both my parents."

"I remember him well," said Mr. Sykes. "That is to say, I do not remember him at all. I mean, in person I do not remember him, for he might as well be Goliath of Gath as Prince de Soubise, so far as any identification on my part could go; but I remember quite well a young gentleman of that name, in purfled silk philimot velvet laced with gold, slashed velvet breeches, and a sword as long as a barbecuing-spit by his side, being present at your father's wedding and witnessing the marriage-contract."

"He has got me exactly," said Monsieur de Soubise. "I have had, Mr. Notary, to take to lighter but more serviceable weapons since; but, if my person is so much changed that you cannot remember me, there are plenty of witnesses here to swear to whom I am; and I expect in a few days my good friend Monsieur Clement Tournon, syndic of the goldsmiths of Rochelle, who made and brought over a set of jewels for my friend's bride, and who saw me witness the contract with his own eyes. He remembers the whole deed, he says; for it was read over to us before the signature."

"He will be an important witness, sir," said Martin Sykes; "and your Highness will be more so. It is all coming right, as I thought it would," he continued, turning to Dr. Winthorne and rubbing his thin, bony hands. "Somewhat long we have been about it; but step by step we are making way. Every thing takes time, doctor,—even a sermon, as the poor people here know well. The great difference between a lawsuit and a sermon is, that during the first the people sleep often and sleep badly, and during the second they sleep once and they sleep well. Now, Master Ned, I calculate that we shall get to the end of this suit and have a decree in our favor—let me see: you are about twenty, are not you?—in about forty-nine years and seven months." He paused a single instant, and rubbed his hands, and then added, with a smile slightly triumphant, "That is to say, if we cannot get the original settlement. But I think we shall get it, Ned, my boy. I think I can guess where it is. It is most likely badly damaged; but just give me sufficient of it left to show some of the signatures and the date, and then come in these gentlemen as witnesses to prove what it originally contained. Oh, we will make a fine little case of it! But parties: we want parties,—somebody to fight us,—Master Ned."

"But if the fight is to last so long as you have said, my dear friend," remarked Edward Langdale, "and I am only to succeed when I am sixty-nine years and seven months old, I think I had better not begin the battle."

"Ay, but you forget the if," said Martin Sykes, with a laugh. "An if makes every thing in law. It is as potent as 'any thing hereinbefore contained to the contrary notwithstanding,' or 'always provided nevertheless,' or any other of those sweet phrases with which we double up the sense of our documents or give a sweet and polite contradiction to what we have just been saying the moment before. As to the battle, my dear young friend, it has begun already. Acting on your behalf, as your next friend, I have managed to get possession of Buckley, have served Sir Richard's lawyer and agent with all sorts of processes,—some sixteen or seventeen, I think,—ejectments, quo warrantos, rules nisi, and others; and the poor fool, who is nothing at all unless he has a Londoner at his back, has let me have very nearly my own way, having no orders, not knowing where to get any, and standing like a goose under the first drops of a thunder-shower, with his eyes staring and his mouth half open."

"But where is the contract?" asked Monsieur de Soubise, in French. "If I understood him aright, he said he knew where it was."

Edward interpreted, feeling very sure that good Mr. Sykes was not very abundantly provided with French; but the little lawyer shook his head, saying, "No, no; I did not profess to know absolutely where it is; but there is one not very far from here who I think does know. I think he does,—I am sure he does. He tells me a box of valuable papers were lost at the great fire; and he shakes his head, and looks wise, and talks of its being 'made worth his while.' He is the most avaricious old devil in the world. It is a curious thing, Ned, all sextons are avaricious. They deal so much with dust and ashes that they learn to like the only sort of dross which does not decay when you bury it. He is a very old man now, and could not enjoy for more than a few months any thing he had, were it millions."

"What! you are not speaking of the old sexton at Langley, are you?" asked Edward,—"the man with the lame hip? He used to say he got that injury at the fire; and my father gave him many a guinea for it. I used to give him shillings and sixpences, too, to make him tell me all about the fire, till one day I caught him taking away a groat I had given to a poor child, and then I knocked him over the shoulder with my fishing-rod. He has never liked me after, but hobbles away into his cottage whenever he sees me, and shuts the door tight."

What there was in this little anecdote which peculiarly struck good Mr. Sykes I cannot tell, but he fell into a fit of thought, still standing,—for there were no chairs in the room, except one, which had lost a leg, (in what action I do not know,) and the high stools on which the clerks were sitting, if they could be called chairs. He kept a finger of his right hand resting on the side of his nose, however, for two or three minutes; and then, suddenly rousing himself, he said, "Let us go into the house. We can sit down there and talk. This is a poor place for such company. It does well enough for roystering farmers' sons who have been breaking each others' heads, or for a deputy tax-collector, or for gossiping women who have been slandering and being slandered. I don't want them to sit down at all; and that is the reason I have only one chair with a broken leg, to which I always hand old Mistress Skillet, the doctor's widow, who abuses every young girl in the place who has got a pretty face and wears a pink ribbon. Then down she comes, and declares she has broken her hip-bone, and walks away in great indignation, never coming back until she has another peck of lies upon her stomach. I must not do it any more, for she has grown as large as an elephant; and the last time she tumbled she had nearly shaken the office down. Besides, it cost me two ounces of peppermint to bring all those boys there out of their convulsions. But come, gentlemen, let us go."

Thus saying, he led the way through a little door at the back of the office, across a small passage, into an exceedingly neat old fashioned parlor, where, having seated his guests, he rushed at a corner cupboard and brought forth some tall-stalked cut and gilded wineglasses, and a square-sided bottle, likewise cut and gilded, from which he pressed his visitors to help themselves. Monsieur de Soubise remarked it was too early to drink wine; but the old man pressed them, saying, "It is not wine at all. It is fine old Dutch cinnamon." And, each having taken a little, good Mr. Sykes leaned his arms upon the table, remarking, "Now, this looks really like the commencement of a conspiracy; and a conspiracy we must have. I have settled it all. We must go over to the old place,—that is, old Langley Court, prince. I will enact my own character. The doctor here is too reverent to undergo transformation. You, my noble sir, must be a French nobleman about to buy Langley Court, and Buckley too,—in fact, half the estates in the neighborhood. Edward here must be your cornet of horse. There will be no need to mention his name; but the old wretch, who is as sharp as Satan, will most likely know him. He is aware, however, that Master Ned has been over in the wars in France: so the story will go down."

"It seems to me, my good friend Sykes," said Dr. Winthorne, "that you are going to tell a vast quantity of lies. Mark you, now: I will have nothing to do with them. I don't even know that I ought to stand by and hear them."

"You shall not hear a lie come out of my mouth," said Sykes, laughing. "My lord the prince, I dare say you are willing enough to buy Langley Court and the estate, if I will sell it to you for a gold crown,—what you call in France an écu d'or?"

"Oh, very willingly," answered Soubise: "this cinnamon is worth an écu d'or." And he helped himself to some more.

"Well, then, I will sell you the whole estate for that sum,—if ever I can prove my title to it," said Sykes. "It is a bargain. Now, Dr. Winthorne, do not you by any scruples spoil your young friend's only chance, if you would not have us take you for a cropped-eared Puritan instead of a good old sound Church-of-England man."

"Well, then, don't you lie too much, Mr. Attorney. I will swallow as much as I can; but keep within bounds, or you may chance to find me break out."

"All you have to do is to hold your tongue. I will do all the speaking," replied Sykes. "The prince here may talk as much French as ever he likes, and Master Ned may answer him in the same tongue. I will answer for it that neither old Grimes the sexton nor Martin Sykes the lawyer will be a bit the wiser for it."

"But when is this to be done?" asked Dr. Winthorne. "We have ridden ten miles already to-day."

"Well," said Mr. Sykes, "if we go over by the Barford road, that is but ten miles; and then we can go to Applethorpe, where you intend to give me a bed: that is but nine miles more. You would not mind going thirty miles any day for a fox-hunt."

"I never go fox-hunting," grumbled Dr. Winthorne.

"No, but you used once," said Mr. Sykes. And, bearing down all opposition, being strongly supported, it must be owned, by Edward and the Prince de Soubise, Mr. Sykes carried his point, ordered his own easy-going cob to be brought round, and had a bag fixed to the saddle with such little articles of dress as he wanted.

When the four gentlemen issued forth into the street to proceed upon their way, a certain rosyness of Pierrot's nose, which, together with some dewy drops in his eye, gave his face somewhat the aspect of a morning landscape, induced Edward to believe that he had been engaged in the pious employment of breaking a good resolution. But Pierrot declared manfully that he had only been following his young master's orders with his French companion. "You told me to treat them hospitably, sir," he said; "and how can I treat them hospitably without drinking with them?" Edward gave him a caution to keep himself sober at all events, and on they went some nine miles upon their way at a brisk pace.

"Now," said Sykes, as they approached the old park-wall, which had fallen down in several places, "we won't go nearer the old rascal. We must be perfectly indifferent."

"I recollect this park well," said the Prince de Soubise. "What a splendid place it was before the fire!"

"Hush! hush!" cried Sykes. "That is English." And, riding on, he pulled up his horse at a spot where some cottages were built between the road and the river, just fronting the old iron gates of what was called the grass court, beyond which, some two hundred yards off, appeared the blackened ruins of Langley.

The walls were all down,—at least, those of the main building; for not only had the fire overthrown them, but the pick and shovel had been busy for several weeks after the catastrophe, turning over the principal ruins in search of plate and other articles of value which had not been carried out during the fire.

There the gentlemen dismounted. The servants tied the horses to the iron gates, and the whole party entered the grass court and looked around. At that moment an old wizened face appeared at one of the small lozenges of a cottage-window, and the next a chink of the door was opened the mean and the same face gazed out. In time Mr. Sykes, with his riding-whip in his hand, was pointing out to Soubise all the wonders of the place, telling him where the great hall used to stand, where the guest-chambers were, and where were the private apartments of the Lady of Langley. Never before in his life was he so eloquent. While he went on, an old man of perhaps eighty hobbled across the road and came close up to the side of Dr. Winthorne. Just at that moment Mr. Sykes pointed with his whip to a tower a little detached from the main building, and apparently of more ancient architecture, saying, "That was the wine and ale cellar; and I have heard people say that during the fire the casks burst with an explosion like so many cannon."

"That is not true," said the old man, who had just come up; "for there had not been a thing or a body in that tower for thirty years before. Why, the stairs were half worn away; and Sir Richard would have pulled it down if it had not been for my lady, who liked the look of it."

"Ah, is that you, old Grimes?" said Mr. Sykes. "Why, you look younger than ever."

"I shall live to bury you yet," said the old sexton. "Don't make me wait long, for I am tired enough of life, I am sure. Who is that you have got with you, Sykes?"

"This is a French nobleman, the Prince de Soubise," replied the attorney. "As he cannot live in his own country, on account of the troubles, he has come over to England. We have been talking about his buying this place. Indeed, it is almost a bargain. He will have all these ruins cleared away," he continued, in a confidential tone, and somewhat dropping his voice, to prevent Dr. Winthorne from hearing too much.

The old sexton's face had turned a little pale; but the next instant he said, a little gruffly, "You can't sell him the place, Sykes."

"No; but Sir Richard can," replied the lawyer.

The old man grunted forth something which nobody heard distinctly, but which had some reference to "Sir Richard," and to "not paying a pension," and "giving no orders."

Sykes kept his eye fixed upon him steadily, and thought he saw an uneasy look come upon the old man's face, which was turned at that moment toward the ruined tower; and, looking round, the attorney saw that the servants, having left the horses at the gate, were sporting about the court-yard, and that Pierrot had mounted upon a pile of stones which had fallen from the tall wall above.

"What were you saying, Grimes?" asked Mr. Sykes. "That Sir Richard had not paid your pension? That is strange. The agent has plenty of money in his hands, for he has got all the rents of Langley, and Sir Richard has not drawn a farthing."

"Ay, but he says he has no orders," said Grimes, with a hasty and uneasy manner. "But what I am saying now is, that man will break his neck if he goes up there: I tell you he will. I put my hip out once doing just the same thing."

"Ha!" exclaimed Sykes: "I thought that was at the fire, Grimes. But what you say is very true. He will break his neck. Call him down, sir,—call him down: he is your servant."

The last words were addressed to Edward, who instantly called to Pierrot to come down,—which the good man unwillingly did; for he had imbibed just a sufficient quantity of liquor to make him full of sport without shaking his nerves.

Now, it is to be hoped that the reader read and pondered well the description given of that old tower in the seventh chapter of this eventful history; but, as there are some readers, and a great number of them, who will skip certain passages which they in their superciliousness think of little importance, I may as well recall the words of Edward Langdale while he was narrating the scenes of his early life to Clement Tournon and Lucette. "The whole of the house was burned," he said, on that occasion; "and the greater part of the walls fell in, with the exception of those of the ivy-tower, which were very ancient, and much thicker than the rest. Even there the woodwork was all consumed, and the staircase fell, except where a few of the stone steps, about half-way up, clung to the masonry."

Since Edward had seen the place or marked it with any particular attention, some changes had come over that tower, though they were not very apparent. We shall be compelled to notice them more in a moment or two. Suffice it for the present to say that those stone steps which Edward had mentioned were still sticking out about half-way up the tower, and that, somehow or another, Pierrot had contrived nearly to reach them.

However, Mr. Sykes took no notice of the careful forethought of an old sexton for a foreign servant's life, though he thought his benevolence strange, but went on round the old building, the piles of rubbish, and the blackberry-bushes which encumbered them, speaking a word or two every now and then to Dr. Winthorne, and keeping Mr. Grimes in pretty constant conversation. There is a game which young people play at, called, I think, "Hide-and-Seek;" and Mr. Sykes was determined to have a game with the old sexton. The seeker, when he approaches the object of his search, is told that he is hot; when he goes far from it, that he is cold. Now, in the neighborhood of most parts of the old building Grimes's face said, as plainly as possible, "Cold; cold as ice;" but when Mr. Sykes brought him near to the old ivy-tower again there was a tremulous motion of the hanging under lip, an anxious twinkle of the eye, and a fidgety motion of the hands, which said, as plainly as possible, "Warm; warm; very hot." This was the more apparent when the party came in face of that part of the tower where about a third of the wall, rent from top to bottom by the great heat, had fallen and strewn the ground with ruins. Mr. Sykes did not look up at the tower at all. His eyes were fixed upon the face of Mr. Grimes, and he was reading it as a book. Dr. Winthorne was reading it too. Edward Langdale and the Prince de Soubise were talking together in French; but their eyes were about them all the time.

Suddenly Edward exclaimed, in English, "Why, Pierrot could have gone up very easily. There is a stone taken out of the wall every two or three feet, and between them somebody has made steps by jamming in large blocks of wood with smaller stones. Besides, the tough old stems of ivy would take any one up who has hands to hold by. Pierrot! Pierrot!"

"No, no!" cried Dr. Winthorne: "send for a ladder from the church. My man shall go."

"Doctor, doctor," said Mr. Grimes, with a face as pale as death, "I want to speak to your Reverence."

"Well, speak out!" cried the bluff parson; but the old man drew him a little aside, and said, "If they will give me a hundred pounds sterling I will tell them something."

"Not a penny, you old sinner," said Dr. Winthorne. "Go down for the ladder to the church, William: get some men and bring it up, and be quick."

"Oh, doctor, I am an old man, and have suffered very much for the last fifteen years——"

"What is that he is saying? what is that he is saying?" said Sykes. "I have a notion you are very like the boy who went up the apple-tree to steal his neighbor's fruit: the branch broke, and he cracked his leg, and ever after he used to say that it had pleased God to afflict him."

At that moment a loud shout was heard from the tower above; and Pierrot, who had run up like a squirrel, put out his head, shouting, "A pie's nest! a pie's nest! Here are all manner of things!"

"Well, stay there and guard them," cried Dr. Winthorne.

"They are all mine!" cried the old man Grimes, wringing his hands, and speaking with the air and tone of a disappointed demon. "Well, I will not speak a word. I have done nothing. What business have you to take my things? I shall go home. If there is law in England, I will have it." And he was turning away toward the gates, when Mr. Sykes took him by the arm, saying, "John Grimes, I apprehend you for robbery on the night of the fire at Langley. Master Ned, tell that servant not to let him depart. I will be responsible: I know my man, and have had my eye upon him for many years. The old fool could not keep his tongue from babbling, and boasted what he could do if he liked."

A few minutes passed in almost perfect silence, till the church-ladder was brought and reared against the tower, and then all the younger men ran up. Dr. Winthorne and Mr. Sykes kept guard over the prisoner, having no great confidence in their own agility, not being much accustomed to mount ladders; and, for a moment or two, Mr. Grimes, now evidently panic-struck, continued to whisper eagerly to Dr. Winthorne, while Mr. Sykes's eyes were turned with impatience toward the tower.

"I can promise you nothing," answered the clergyman, bluffly. "It is no great matter to them what you confess or what you don't; but perhaps, if you do tell the whole truth, Ned Langdale, in consideration of your great age, may spare you. It is a horrible thing to see a man hanged at eighty."

At that moment the servants began to come down, bringing between them a chest of no very great size but bound with brass and somewhat ornamented, though its color and appearance showed it to have been a good deal scorched with fire. Though its weight did not seem great, the men carried it with much care, the occasion of which became evident when they reached the ground; for the top had been rudely forced open, and they were afraid of its falling back and the contents tumbling out.

A number of other objects were subsequently brought down,—a chalice, evidently the property of some church, a silver waiter, a clergyman's cassock, a number of silver spoons bearing the arms of the family of Langdale, and a whole mass of miscellaneous articles, some valuable, some perfectly worthless. But Mr. Sykes put his foot firmly upon the chest after it was laid upon the ground, saying, "Take notice, doctor, that I do not open this till there are plenty of witnesses." The moment, however, that the Prince de Soubise and Edward had descended, he called upon them to remark what the chest contained, and proceeded to the examination.

It is not my intention to give a descriptive catalogue of old papers; but, after turning over many documents of no great importance, a parchment was found and opened, and the Prince de Soubise instantly put his finger on the lowest part of the fifth sheet, saying, "There stands my name."

"Well," said Dr. Winthorne, "I can easily conceive this old man stealing the sacrament-cup and the silver spoons. I remember the robbery of the church quite well. Those he could melt down, and he was a great fool for not doing it. But why he should take Brother Wynstone's gown, which he could never dare to wear, and why he should steal this box of papers, which he could make no use of, I cannot imagine."

It is impossible for any writer of history to discover and describe the real motives of one-half the actions he relates; and what it was that moved old Grimes the sexton at that moment I cannot at all pretend to say, but he certainly mumbled, in low and tremulous accents, and with some tears, "I thought it was my lady's jewel-case."

The scene which then took place is not worthy of description. Let the reader imagine the congratulations that were poured upon Edward Langdale, how all his friends shook hands with him heartily, how Pierrot, who from his knowledge of English understood the whole, almost danced with joy, and how the servant of the Prince de Soubise, seeing all the rest do it, shook hands with him too, and wished monsieur a good morning, being the two principal words he possessed. A cart was procured, and also a constable; under whose charge, escorted by Dr. Winthorne's servant, Mr. Grimes and the contents of his magpie's nest—with the exception of the all-important settlement, which Mr. Sykes would not part with—were carried over to Applethorpe that night.

Dr. Winthorne and his party had preceded them by nearly an hour, and very important business occupied the remainder of the day till it was time to retire to rest. On that business we need not dwell at present; but in order not to be obliged to turn back to a character which, however important, has appeared but briefly, let me say that that very night Mr. Grimes, in the first terror of detection, made a full and frank confession of all he had done. He had been one of the first to enter the house on the night of the fire, and had met Lady Langdale carrying the case which contained her marriage-settlement. He had instantly asked her after her boy; and, dropping the case, she had flown to Edward's room to see if he had been rescued by his father. The sexton, concluding that the case contained her jewels, had seized upon it and carried it off. At first he had concealed it under some of the bushes, but had afterward carried it up into what was called the ivy-tower, which, having been vacant and in ruins for some years, he imagined would never be searched. When asked why he had not carried it to his own cottage, he replied, "Because that was certain to be examined as soon as they discovered that any thing was lost." He was never prosecuted for the thefts he had committed; but he died some seven weeks after,—perhaps as much from shame and disappointment as disease; and thus he never had the pleasure of burying Mr. Martin Sykes.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

The scene of this conversation was the rector's library at Applethorpe, for Dr. Winthorne had a headache and had retired to rest; and, as soon as the prince was gone, Edward took forth some letters he had received that morning, and, approaching the table where the candles stood, he read them again with an eager look. No French post, to his knowledge, had come in; but the letters were evidently from France, and one, addressed to Clement Tournon, was sent open to him; whilst another,—very short, but in Lucette's own hand,—tied and sealed, came to him direct.

Both were of a date which surprised and alarmed the young Englishman,—that from Clement Tournon dated only two days after he had left Rochelle, that from Lucette fully seven weeks previous. The letter of the good goldsmith which enclosed the other was somewhat long. It told Edward a great deal about Rochelle, and contained much matter that need not be recapitulated; but the point of greatest interest was his mention of Lucette. "Probably," he said, "she has told you in the enclosed all she has told to me, and therefore I need not repeat it. She calls upon us both for aid, and, as far as a feeble old man can give it, she shall not want it. But alas, my dear Edward, it is very wrongly that men attribute power to wealth. I have proved it, and know that there are times when heaps of gold will not buy a loaf of bread. However, if my last livre will help that dear girl, she shall have it. In the mean time, do you, young, active, enterprising as you are, follow her directions to the letter. You can do more than I can. I set out this night; but, considering that you may want money for so long and expensive a journey, I have left such directions that all your drafts upon me will be paid to any reasonable amount. In a month I will be in Huntingdon, where I am assured by one I can depend upon that my presence is required for your benefit."

Lucette's letter was but a note.

"Fly to me, my beloved husband." So it said. "If you love your poor Lucette as she loves you, come to me without the delay of an hour. There are people here who want to take me away and carry me to France. They have no authority from Monsieur de Rohan,—otherwise, as hard as he is, I should feel myself secure,—but they have great power with the rulers of this republic, it seems. Madame de la Cour is an excellent woman, but weak and timid. She says that she dares not resist them, that she is but a poor exile herself, and that when they are ready to go she must yield me up to them. I would rather die were it not that, when I think of you, hope still comes in to give me a ray of light which all these sorrows and troubles cannot darken. Oh, come soon to your Lucette."

Edward looked at the date again. There was no time to be lost, if he were not already too late; and at once he determined on his course. The two years during which he had promised not to seek Lucette were nearly at an end. The words of Monsieur de Soubise had given him no encouragement to wait for the consent of her family: the only course was to make her his own irrevocably, then let them scoff at the marriage between them if they would. He would go to Richelieu, he thought; he would lay before him the letters he had received; he would beseech the cardinal to free him for the few short weeks that remained from the promise he had made, and to speed him to Venice with the power which only he possessed. Once side by side with his dear little bride, he thought, it would not be in the power of worlds to tear them apart.

The determined and impetuous spirit roused itself; recent success had refreshed hope; he had found more money waiting for him than he expected, so that none of the small material obstacles which so frequently trip up eagerness were present; and he determined to set out that very night.

Not more than half an hour was occupied in his preparations, and then he went to Dr. Winthorne's room and knocked at the door. After the second knock a somewhat testy voice told him to come in, and there he remained for a full hour in earnest conversation. Whatever took place, nothing Dr. Winthorne said induced him to alter his resolution; but about midnight he and Pierrot mounted in the court-yard and set out for London.

Let us pass over all the little impediments of the road,—the horse-shoes and the blacksmiths, and the trouble about a pass from Dover to Calais, which, as the relations between France and England had become much more amicable, presented no great difficulties after all,—and let us carry Edward at once to the gates of Paris, where the gay and glittering crowd was as dense and perhaps more brilliant in those days than it is in ours. The young man's brain felt almost confused at the numbers before his eyes and the whirling rapidity of every thing around him. As he knew nothing of the town, he had to ask his way to an inn which had been recommended to him, and met with all the urbanity and real good-humor which have always distinguished the Parisian population.

The master of the auberge—for there were no hotels in Paris till the nobility who had hotels, broken in fortune and deprived of power, were forced to sell their dwellings to the affable receivers of all men—welcomed him, as he himself would have called it, with all distinction; and his reverence was greatly increased when the young stranger called for pen and ink and paper and indited a note to the cardinal prime minister, telling him of his arrival in Paris, and craving an audience as soon as possible on business of the utmost importance. He had the good faith to tell him that the business was of importance to himself; but that frankness was not thrown away upon the cardinal.

He sealed the letter with the great seal of his arms, and begged the aubergist to send it immediately by a messenger who would if possible obtain an answer.

The good man remarked that it was the hour of the cardinal's dinner, and that men said that his Eminence was to set off on the following day upon a long journey.

"The more reason he should have that letter as soon as possible," said Edward. "Pray, let it go without delay; and if the man brings me back an answer I will give him a gold crown."

What took place at the cardinal's palace—a smaller building than the magnificent edifice he afterward erected, long known first as the Palais Cardinal and afterward as the Palais Royal—I do not know; but at the end of an hour and a half the man returned, and, with a happy grin, demanded his gold crown, handing Edward a sealed paper. The contents were as follows:—

"I am commanded by his Eminence to inform Monsieur de Langdale that, though he cannot give him a formal audience, he will see him to-night at the theatre of the Hôtel de Bourgogne, when he will hear whatever he has to communicate. This letter presented at the door will be his introduction."Rossignol."

Edward Langdale took care to obtain every information he could from the landlord in regard to the Parisian theatre, which was at that time just beginning to rise into some degree of importance. Some years before, the theatres of Paris were merely the resort of bad women and dissolute men and the scene of very bad actors; but Richelieu, with that fine taste which was one of his remarkable characteristics, had not only seen that the stage might easily be refined, but had absolutely refined it. Excellent actors were engaged at both the great theatres of Paris; authors, not alone of merit, but of real genius, pressed forward in a new career of literature; and the highest and purest ladies of the French court graced the theatre, perhaps as much to please and flatter the great minister as for any entertainment they received.

At the hour which had been indicated by the landlord Edward was at the door of the Hôtel de Bourgogne; and as he saw that everybody was paying for entrance he did the same, and then exhibited the letter of the secretary Rossignol. The moment it was seen by the people at the door the effect was magical. Two men started forward, bowing to the ground, reproached the young stranger in somewhat stilted terms for not showing the note before he had paid for admission, and begged to lead him to the cardinal, who they informed him had just entered. The arrangement of a theatre in those days was very different from that of modern times; but yet Richelieu had his little room, or box, as we should call it now, at the Hôtel de Bourgogne, close to the stage, but not upon it. Into this room no one was admitted but those specially invited, and at the door stood two of his guards, who, however, gave instant ingress to Edward as soon as they saw the letter he carried in his hand. In the box were some eight or nine people, with the cardinal himself on the left-hand side, where he had a full view of the stage but could hardly be seen from the body of the house. The play had not commenced, and he turned his head at the sound of the door as Edward entered. The moment he saw him he beckoned him up to his side, before Edward had seen the other persons in the box, who, be it remarked, were all standing. Richelieu's first question was what had brought his young friend—as he was pleased to call him—to Paris before the stipulated time. Edward, in his usual brief style, explained all the circumstances, and, without hesitation, placed the two letters he had received in the minister's hands. Richelieu read them and smiled, saying, "So you are both still very much in love with each other? Well, I have done one good work at least in life pour l'amour de Dieu. Now, what do you intend to do, Monsieur Langdale?"

"To go post-haste to Venice, may it please your Eminence," replied Edward; "and when I arrive there, as it will not want much more than six weeks of the time I promised you not to seek her as my wife, I intend to ask you to free me from that promise, let me claim her as my own, and trust to my good luck and your power to sustain me."

The cardinal seemed half inclined to laugh. "Take her when you can get her," he said, with something more than a smile. "But you cannot get to Venice, my good boy, till the king opens the pass of Suza. Don't you know that the very impracticable Duke of Savoy holds all the passes closed and thinks he can resist the power of France?"

"By the Lord! I wish I had the power of France," said Edward: "I would soon make him open them."

"Ha, ha!" said Richelieu, with a significant nod of the head. "Did I not tell you that one day you would become ambitious? But the power of France is just as well as it is; and I think the king can open the passes as well as you could. He has gone there now, and I am going after him to witness his victory. But hush! they are going to begin the play. Mark it well, and tell me what you think of it."

Almost as he spoke the comedy commenced, and Edward withdrew from Richelieu's side into the little crowd behind. It was a piece of no great merit,—one of the failures of the great Corneille; and, to say the truth, Edward's thoughts were deeply engaged with other things.

While he was trying to attend, however, his hand was gently pressed by some one near, and, turning round, he beheld the diminutive figure of Morini the Italian adventurer.

There was something in the man that Edward could not altogether dislike, especially after the kindness he had shown him on two or three occasions, and he shook hands with him warmly. The little man stood on tiptoes, and said, in a whisper, "Good fortune to you. You and the cardinal will always have good fortune unless you quarrel. Look just opposite. Did you ever see so beautiful a creature?"

Edward cast his eyes across the theatre, which was not very well lighted, and saw a group of ladies splendidly dressed and well deserving commendation; but there was only one who struck him particularly, seated somewhat behind, and with the profile alone displayed. There was something, however, so exquisitely beautiful in the line of the face and the whole turn of the head, that Edward moved a little on one side to see her more distinctly. There, however, the head-dress of another lady interposed, and he was disappointed.

At that moment the first act ended, and Richelieu beckoned him to his side again. "What are you staring at there, young man? What would your Lucette say? I am afraid you are faithless."

"Oh, no, my lord," replied Edward. "That lady is very beautiful, but Lucette is more so,—to my mind at least."

"Do you think so?" said Richelieu. "I do not know which you were looking at, but one of them is my niece, the Duchesse d'Aiguillon. What do you think of the comedy?"

"Not much," replied Edward. "But I really am no judge, my lord."

"I think you are a good judge," said Richelieu, whose dislike to Corneille is well known. "Now I will tell you what you had better do. Go on with me to Suza. You can help to force the pass as a volunteer, if you like, and then proceed to Venice should you feel disposed. You shall have Morini for a companion, and I will give you one of the king's foragers to see that you are not starved on the road."

No proposal could be more agreeable to Edward Langdale; but there was one impediment, which he frankly told the cardinal. As always happens, he had miscalculated his expenses, and found that the money he had brought from England would hardly suffice till he arrived at Venice. "I can get more to-morrow, your Eminence, I believe," he said, "for I have full authority to draw on my good friend Clement Tournon, whose credit is good in Paris; but that will take time; and your Eminence, I presume, sets out early."

"Not very early," answered Richelieu; "but if you follow me the next day you will catch me on the road. You can ride fast, I know, for you nearly killed the poor Basques who were sent to ride after you when you left Nantes. Morini will help you to get the money. Don't you know he is an alchemist, and can change any thing into gold? But he will take you to my banker,—who is the best alchemist, after all. So Clement Tournon trusts you, does he? He is the first goldsmith of the kind, I fancy."

"I can well afford to pay him whatever he lends me now, my lord," replied Edward. "For on one lucky day, which the Romans would have marked with a white stone, I recovered the deeds which secured to me my mother's large property, which deeds had been lost for several years."

"What day was that?" asked Richelieu, in a somewhat eager tone.

Edward told him, for he remembered it well; and the cardinal immediately called Morini to his side, and spoke to him for a moment or two in a low tone.

"The very same day, your Eminence sees," replied Morini, with an air of triumph. "Such small coincidences may be necessary to confirm your belief: with me it is not so. The stars never lie, my lord cardinal."

"If they speak at all, I suppose they do not," said Richelieu.

"They have spoken very plainly in this case," replied the astrologer. "But the actors are going to begin again." And he was about to retire.

"Never mind," said the cardinal; "stay here. I have orders to give you, and I want them obeyed to the letter."

Edward knew that it was sometimes dangerous to overhear too much of the minister's conversation. He had heard of a man's finding his way into the Bastille merely because he had been very near his Eminence while he was conversing with a friend; and he therefore prudently withdrew to the farther part of the box. While the second act went on, Richelieu continued to talk with Morini, in a low tone, it is true, but with an indifference not at all complimentary to the actors or the piece. To the last acts he was somewhat more attentive, but went away before the play was concluded, merely saying to Edward as he passed, "Go with this good signor, Monsieur Langdale, and follow his counsels. He has heard my opinion upon several matters; and, until we meet again, you had better be guided by him even in what may seem things of small consequence."

Edward Langdale bowed, and the minister passed out; but Morini approached Edward's side, saying, "Let us go also, my young friend. There is no use of staying to see this stupid play."

The young gentleman's eyes, however, were fixed upon the opposite side of the theatre, where the cardinal's niece and the ladies in her company were also preparing to take their departure. He had caught another glance of that beautiful face, though it was but for a moment; and now the figure as she was moving away showed lines as lovely as the profile. Taller than most of her companions, and yet not very tall, every movement seemed grace itself; and, just as she was passing the door, she turned round and gave a quick glance at the cardinal's box, which certainly did not diminish the admiration of the young Englishman.

"How very beautiful the Duchess of Aiguillon is!" said Edward, turning to Morini.

"Oh, yes," replied the other. "She is perhaps the most beautiful woman in France. But take care of what you are about; for some people say the cardinal is in love with her himself, and he will bear no rival."

"Oh, love," said Edward, "is out of the question. I look at her, Signor Morini, merely as I should look at a beautiful statue. I love one, as you know, fully as beautiful, and to me a thousand times more dear than she could ever become."

"Now you mention it," said Morini, "it strikes me there is some likeness between them."

"There is," said Edward; "but Lucette is much younger, and not so tall. Now I will follow you, my good sir." And they went out of the theatre together.

CHAPTER XLIX.

"Oh, no; they make no objections," said Morini. "They only want a little time to consider. They are not all in love. They do not all want to get to Venice. They do business in a business-like way, and have no idea of firing off large sums like cannon-shot."

However, the whole of that day passed without the money being procured; and the second day had seen the sun rise several hours, when at length Signor Morini thought fit to whisper two words in the ear of Monsieur Philippon, the banker, which, as if by magic, brought forth the thousand crowns about which there had been so much difficulty.

Nevertheless, it was three o'clock in the evening before Edward Langdale could depart; and then, besides Signor Morini himself and the king's forager who had been promised, were half a dozen lackeys and pages, and a good deal of baggage,—which did not promise to accelerate the journey. Once started, however, and with sufficient money in his pocket, Edward resolved to delay for no man, and to be at Suza as soon as the cardinal. He was somewhat mistaken in his calculation, indeed; for Richelieu pursued his way, wherever he could, by water; and, though the prime minister could always command boats, the young English gentleman could not obtain the same accommodation in a country where the passage of troops and the court had rendered all means of progression scarce. In every other respect, the first part of Edward's journey was without accident,—I might almost have said without incident. But it so happened that at Montargis, where the young gentleman arrived in the afternoon, a large party of ladies were setting out on horseback just at the moment he entered the little town. The number of servants with them, and a small body of the cardinal's guard, showed that they belonged to the court, which could not otherwise have been discovered by their faces, as each, according to the general custom of that day, wore a little black velvet mask, called a loup, to guard her complexion when travelling. Signor Morini, however, either divined who each was by her figure, or else, with Italian carelessness, took his chance of mistakes; for he dashed at once amidst the party, talked first to one and then to another, and seemed very well received by all. Edward had ridden up by his side; but, as he knew nobody, he spoke to nobody till one of the ladies observed, in a very sweet voice, "You do not seem so sociable as your companion, sir."

"I could not presume," said Edward, "to address ladies whom I have never seen before, unless they gave me some encouragement to do so."

"I do not know whether you have seen me," said the lady; "but I have seen you."

"Pray, where?" asked Edward,—"that I may give that wild bird, Fancy, some notion how to fly."

"I saw you last with the cardinal, at the Hôtel de Bourgogne," said the lady, with that sort of timid, trembling accents which are so attractive on young and beautiful lips,—small drops of honey to young ears and hearts.

"Last?" said Edward. "Had I ever the pleasure of seeing you before that night?"

"I did not mean to say that," answered the lady. "But you imply that you did see me then."

"I saw two or three very beautiful persons," said Edward, "but have no means of knowing which of those you are."

"No, nor shall you have any," she replied, bowing her head gracefully, "neither to-day, nor to-morrow, nor the next day; but if you are very good, and behave yourself very well, I may take off my loup some time between this and Michaelmas. But now tell me: where are you riding so fast?—to get yourself killed at Suza?"

"No," answered Edward: "such is certainly not my object; but I am going toward Venice, and wish to reach that city as soon as my horse can carry me."

"Oh, that is a long way off," said the lady. "I think I must keep you near me. You shall be my cavalier along the road. I will find out some crime you have committed, and put you to all sorts of penances."

"But what if I have committed no crime?" asked the young gentleman.

"Oh, but you have," she said. "You should have known me the moment you saw me. No mask should be sufficient to hide a lady from a gallant and courteous cavalier. You ought to be able to see my face through my loup, as if it were made of glass."

Edward smiled, but made no reply; but he thought within himself, "Lucette would not have spoken so to a mere stranger. What a difference there is between her pure, sweet simplicity and the free manners of these courtly ladies!"

"You do not answer," continued the lady: "I am afraid we do not ride fast enough for you. Now, what is it makes you so anxious to run forward to Venice? Now, I warrant it is some of the beautiful black eyes of the City of the Sea."

"No, indeed, it is not," replied Edward. "I never was in Venice in my life."

"Well," she continued, "love of some kind, at all events. Nothing but love could make a man in such a hurry. Now, tell me what kind of love it is."

"Why, the most extraordinary love in the world," answered Edward. "The love of a man for his wife,—a love they recognise little in France, not at all in Italy, and so dilute in Turkey that it is not worth having."

"Very marvellous love indeed," replied the lady. "Yet I think if I were a man, and were married, I should love my wife better than you do."

"I defy you," said Edward, laughing.

"Now, I will catechize you," returned the lady. "Do you think of her every day?"

"Every hour, every moment," said Edward.

"Do you make her your chief object in life?—pray for her, work for her?"

"Every thing else in life," said Edward, "is but valuable to me as it has reference to her. Ambition becomes splendid when I think it may elevate her. Money, which is but dross, seems to gain real worth if she is to share it."

"And do you ever," continued the lady, laughing, "stare at pretty faces across a theatre and dream for a minute or two as to what might be your luck if you had not tied yourself to another?"

"No!" replied Edward, boldly. "I sometimes may stare at pretty faces, and think them very beautiful, when I think there is a fanciful resemblance to that which I think most beautiful of all."

The lady was silent for a minute or two; but at length she answered, "Well, I think you are very rude. You must be an Englishman, you are so uncivil. You dare me so that I have a great mind to make you in love with me, just to punish you. Nay, do not shake your head: I could do it in five minutes. All men are as weak as water,—at least, so I have always been told; and I could soon bring you to my feet if I chose to employ a few little simple arts upon you."

"I doubt not your power, dear lady," replied Edward, "upon any heart not preoccupied like mine; but Helen of Troy, or her bright mistress, Venus herself, could have no effect upon one who loves as I do."

"Well, this is too bad," said the lady. "We shall see. We have a long journey to take together; and if before it is over I do not make you tell me you love me, my name is not—what it is."

Just at this moment one of the young cavaliers rode up, with the gay and dashing air of his country and his class, and addressed the lady in some commonplace terms of gallant attention. In an instant she seemed turned into ice,—answered a few words politely, but in so cold a tone that Edward could not but see at once the dangerous preference she seemed to show him. The young man appeared to feel it too; and, after staying by her side for about five minutes, he directed his horse to another group, where his society seemed more welcome. The conversation was renewed between Edward and his fair companion as soon as the officer was gone, and did not much vary in character from the specimen already given. It was late, however, when the party arrived at Chatillon, and the ladies retired at once to the apartments which had been prepared for them; but at eight o'clock on the following morning none of them had quitted their chambers, nor did Edward see any preparation among guards or attendants for pursuing the journey before a late hour. Calling Pierrot without much deliberation, the young Englishman ordered his horses to be saddled, and was in the act of mounting, when Morini, whom he had not yet seen that day, appeared at the door, exclaiming, "Hi? Where are you going?"

"To Suza," replied Edward, springing on his horse's back; and, without waiting to hear any remonstrances from the little Italian, he rode off as fast as he could go.

We will not pursue him on his journey, nor even dwell upon the forcing of the pass at Suza. Suffice it to say that Edward arrived, just in time to volunteer, the night before the attack. Richelieu he did not see, although he heard he was in the camp. But one of the first persons he met with was the young officer who had gone down with him to the outposts before Rochelle, and who now gayly marched up with him against the entrenchments at Suza. It is well known how they were taken at the first rush, with no great resistance on the part of the troops of Savoy. But Edward and his companion both received slight pike-wounds,—one in the arm and the other in the shoulder,—sufficient to show they had been in the heat of the battle, but not severe enough to obtain much commiseration. The king, as was usual with him, retired to his quarters as soon as the pass was carried, without inquiring the amount of his loss or taking any notice of the wounded. Not so Richelieu; for as soon as the particulars could be ascertained he caused a list of all who had suffered much, or little, to be laid before him.

On the following morning, somewhat to his surprise, Edward received a summons to attend the cardinal, and, when he presented himself, met with a somewhat sharp rebuke for having left Morini and his party.

"They tell me you are wounded," said Richelieu. "It serves you very right, for having disobeyed my commands."

"It is but a scratch, sir," said Edward. "A rusty nail in an old door would inflict a worse; and I was anxious to show that in all cases, except against my own country, I am really desirous of serving your Eminence."

"That is all very well," replied the cardinal. "But I like to be obeyed. You could not tell my views or purposes in the directions which I gave. But, as it is done, it cannot be helped. And now, I suppose, you are longing to go on to Venice?"

"Most anxiously," replied Edward, "if I understand your Eminence rightly, that you free me from the promise I made to you some two years ago, and authorize me to claim my bride wherever I may find her."

"That is soon settled," said Richelieu; and, taking up a pen, he wrote:—"Lucette Marie de Mirepoix du Valais is the wife of Edward Langdale, of Buckley; and these are to summon and require all persons who have or have had any control or custody of the said Lucette to give her up to the said Edward Langdale, her husband, and, in the king's name, to warn all persons to refrain from opposing the rights of the said Edward Langdale in regard to the said Lucette de Mirepoix, under pretence of relationship, guardianship, or any other cause whatever."

He signed it with his name, and gave it to Edward, saying, "Get it sealed, and then away to Venice as soon as you please. Peace will be signed in three days, if I am not mistaken; and not only peace with Savoy, young gentleman, but with England also,—hard-headed England! In the mean time, you can pass freely. My safe-conduct—which of course you have with you—is as good now, I imagine, in Italy as in France. Only one thing more. Let it be understood that you return and join me as soon as you have fulfilled your mission; and bring your bride with you, if you find her." He paused, with a smile of much good-humor, and then added, "When you come back I may have a little negotiation for you; for the first steps to the surrender of Rochelle I owe to you."

The political events which followed are well known. The peace of Suza with Savoy and England, the raising of the siege of Casal, and the relinquishment of Mantua to the house of Nevers, succeeded with the utmost rapidity; and the Cardinal de Richelieu saw every thing that his mind conceived or his hand touched perfectly successful.

In the mean time, Edward Langdale hastened over the Alps, crossed the whole breadth of Italy, and, taking boat at Mestré, landed in Venice. But he was not so successful as the great man he had just left. Richelieu's safe-conduct obtained for him instant access to all the authorities of the republic; and, with more frankness than they usually displayed, they informed him at once that the young lady he sought was no longer in the city. She had been claimed, they said, some months before, by authority which their laws prevented them from opposing, and had been carried, they believed, into Savoy. Edward then asked for Madame de la Cour; but he found that she also had left Venice, and had gone, they believed, to Paris. The only person, they said, who knew any thing of Mademoiselle de Mirepoix was an old merchant who had arrived some days before and was living at a goldsmith's on the Sclavonian quay. Edward hurried there, and, as he expected, found old Clement Tournon. But the worthy syndic could give him no information, and was in almost as much distress about his Lucette as Edward himself.

"Depend upon it," he said, "that horrid Madame de Chevreuse has got possession of the dear girl at last; and our only resource will be an appeal to the cardinal. He has eyes everywhere, and will both know where to find her and how to recover her."

No time was lost. The old man and Edward set off together, directing their course by Turin and Suza. But again they were disappointed. The king, who in time of war forgot all his slothful inactivity and showed the fire and eagerness of his father, had by this time turned upon the Cevennes,—the last refuge of the Protestants in France,—and Richelieu had followed—or, rather, accompanied—him. With the delay of one day at Chambéry, to rest the old man, Edward pushed on after the cardinal toward Nismes, hearing nothing as he went but tales of Louis's exploits. The army of the Duc de Rohan, which had opposed successfully several of the best generals of France, had seemed paralyzed by the fierce energy of the king. Town after town had fallen; and Montauban itself, the people said, could not hold out three days. Such was the last intelligence which Edward received just after his entrance into Ners; but at the same time came the news, far more satisfactory to him, that Richelieu himself was at Alais, but a few miles distant. No horses were to be procured: his own were tired nearly to foundering; and poor Clement Tournon, in his eagerness to keep up with his young companion, had greatly over-tasked his strength. Nothing remained but to pass the night at Ners, a mere village, where almost every house was occupied by some of the followers of the court. But though the accommodation was as poor as it could be, yet Edward saw the next morning that Clement Tournon must still remain at Ners. His bodily powers were not equal to carry him farther without long repose; and Edward set out for Alais alone, leaving Pierrot to attend upon the old man.

The little town, when the young gentleman entered it, was all alive. Courtiers and soldiers were fluttering about in every direction; and the gay dresses, unspotted and fresh, showing that the court had been some days there, contrasted sadly with Edward's dusty garments and travel-soiled apparel. Nevertheless, he rode straight forward, through what is now called the Place de la Maréchale, to a house where the numerous groups, both on foot and horseback, before the door, led him to believe the cardinal's quarters were established. There he sprang to the ground under the arcade, and, leaving his tired horse, with the perfect certainty that he would not run away, he was pushing his way through the little crowd around, noticed very little by anybody, when the voice of his young companion in the attack at Suza met his ear, exclaiming, "Ah, Monsieur de Langdale! Have you heard Montauban has been taken? But do not let me stop you; for his Eminence was asking for you yesterday."

"As you are of his household," said Edward, "will you have the kindness to tell his Eminence that I am here?—for I know none of these people. They do not know me; and I suspect I am not a very courtier-like figure to seek an audience of the prime minister."

"I will do it directly," said the young officer. "He is very busy, but I know he wishes to see you: so follow me up."

Edward mounted the stairs close after his companion, and, entering a chamber to which there was no ante-room, as he had expected, found himself immediately in the presence of Richelieu, who was seated at a table near the window, while two secretaries were writing at his right hand. The room was half full of people, some of whom were waiting silently, as if for audience, while others were conversing in low voices; and one middle-aged man was speaking to the cardinal, with a paper in his hand, as if making a report. Richelieu raised his eyes as Edward entered, but took no notice, and continued to listen attentively to the gentleman who was speaking. As soon as he was done, the cardinal said, "Well, be it so. See that it is done;" and wrote a few words on a sheet of paper. Another and another succeeded, spoke a few words to the minister, and received their answer; and then Richelieu, rising, said, aloud, "No more audiences this morning." The young Englishman was about to retire with the rest, who were slowly going out; but the cardinal added the next moment, "Monsieur Langdale, I wish to speak to you."

Thus saying, he passed into a room beyond, and Edward followed, leaving none but the secretaries in that which they had just quitted. It was a bed-chamber they now entered, (for, when campaigning, prime ministers, as well as others, must put up with such accommodation as they can get,) and Richelieu neither seated himself nor asked his companion to be seated.

"You have come at an important moment," said the cardinal, abruptly, "and I almost feared you would not be here in time. Are you willing to undertake a mission for me to Monsieur le Duc de Rohan, some forty miles hence?"

"Certainly, your Eminence," replied Edward. "But I must make three conditions, though to you. They are very slight ones."

"Ha!" said Richelieu, his brow somewhat darkening. "I am not accustomed to conditions. But let me hear what they are. You are an original, like most of your countrymen. Perhaps I shall be able to grant them."

"Simply these three, my lord cardinal:—That while I am gone you shall cause search to be made for my young wife, who is not in Venice, has been brought to France, and is beyond doubt, I think, in the hands of Madame de Chevreuse."

"Granted," said Richelieu. "The next."

"That you shall send over a physician to good old Clement Tournon, whom I have left ill at Ners."

"Ah!" said Richelieu. "Is he at Ners? That is most lucky. That man Morini said truly. Fortune goes with you. He may help me to raise the money, so that there may be no delay; for you must know, Master Langdale, that even kings and prime ministers, when they carry on expensive wars, sometimes come to the end of their finances at the very moment when large sums are most necessary. Clement Tournon: he is connected with all the goldsmiths of Nismes, is he not?"

"I heard him say on the journey that he had a number of friends there, and also in Avignon," replied Edward.

"It will do," said Richelieu. "Your second condition is granted. What is the third?"

"That your Eminence lends me a fresh horse, for my own is knocked up. I could wish also that I had some servant with me,—some one who knows the way."

"The horse you shall have," said Richelieu; "but as for the servant," he continued, thoughtfully, "I think you must go alone. I do not wish to send any Frenchman to that camp. Nay, more: nobody must know where you are going. Look at this map. This is the road." And he pointed with his finger to a map of the Cevennes. "First you go there,—to St. Martin,—then on to Mas Dieu. There you must inquire where the duke is encamped. I think it is somewhere near St. Andeal; but you will soon learn."

He ceased, and fell into a fit of thought; and, after waiting two or three minutes, Edward inquired, "And what am I to say to him? or will your Eminence write?"

"No, I will negotiate no more," answered Richelieu. "Say to him I have received his message; and I answer, 'One hundred thousand crowns in money, in four days, on the conditions expressed before;' and I wish his answer, Yes or No, before mid-day to-morrow."

"One horse will not carry me there and back—if it be forty miles—in that time over those mountains," said Edward.

"Pshaw! Kill the horse and buy another!" exclaimed Richelieu. "It is worth ten horses for me to have the news to-morrow. Stay; you must have some credence."

Thus saying, he went into the other room again, was absent a few minutes, and returned with a small packet and a sheet of paper. Both were addressed to the Duc de Rohan, and on the latter was written, "Hear and believe the bearer, Edward Langdale, to you already known;" and then followed the great scrawl of "Richelieu." The packet was sealed; but, as the cardinal gave it to his young friend, he said, "That contains the terms which he must sign and return by your hand. Go down and get yourself some breakfast in the eating-hall while the horse is getting ready. You will find good wine here. But remember: silence!"

Edward went down, and soon procured refreshment; but, ere he had eaten more than a few mouthfuls or drank more than one draught of wine, one of the secretaries whom he had seen above came in, with a very reverential bow, saying, "His Eminence desires me to ask if Monsieur de Langdale requires any money for his journey."