CHAPTER XIII.

The table, the book, the pallet, the grinning emblem of death, and a little black crucifix hung up against the wall, were—with the exception of a large pitcher of very clear, cold water—all that the cell contained; and yet it was by no means without ornament, for each of those chambers looking to the western cloister had a window divided into two by a beautiful mullion and was garnished all round, even in the interior, with mouldings a foot in depth. The original small panes of stained glass were also there, but Edward could at first form no idea of the richness of the coloring; for, although the moon had now risen several hours, the face of heaven was black with clouds, and all without was darkness. About five minutes after he had entered the cell, however, the whole interior of the little room, where the feeble oil-lamp had only made the darkness visible, was pervaded by intense light, and an image of the stained-glass window was thrown upon the floor and opposite wall in colors the most intense and beautiful. Still, the thunder did not follow for several seconds; but when it did come the roar was awful. It seemed as if some one were pouring rocks and mountains in a stream upon the roof of the abbey, making the very solid walls and foundations shake. Edward drew forth his watch,—one of the rude contrivances of those days, but with the great advantage of having the figures on the dial plain and distinct,—and, holding it to the lamp, perceived it was a quarter past one. "Lucette must be awake," he thought: "she could not sleep through such a crash as that. I will wait five minutes and then go and call her."

In the mean time the flashes of lightning became more frequent, some followed by heavy thunder, some passing away in silence, till at length they grew so rapid in succession that one could not attach the roar to the flame. Edward's first knock brought Lucette, completely dressed, to the door; and he was surprised to see her cheek so pale. The thought of danger had never entered his own mind; but he clearly saw that she was much agitated. "You are not afraid, dear girl?" he asked: "it is but a little thunder."

"It is not fear, but awe, Edward," she said. "But is it time to go? I am ready."

"Not yet," he answered; "but we may as well stay here in the passage. If the storm should alarm the monks, and any one come out, we can say we are frightened too."

"Is not that some one crossing there?" asked Lucette; but almost as she spoke a sudden flash showed that what she took for a man was but a short pillar. Edward drew her closer to him and put his arm round her. She did not feel at all angry, but rather clung to his side. Fear is a great smoother away of all prudery; and, to say sooth, Lucette had very little of it to be planed down. The fact is, she was innocent in heart and mind as a young child; and innocence is never prudish,—nor is real delicacy.

says an old French song about two lovers somewhat similarly situated; but Edward and Lucette ran no danger from any thing but the lightning. It, however, was now really terrific. The clouds, crammed with electricity, were evidently directly over the abbey, and every instant the blaze was running across the windows, the various colors of which gave the flashes the effect of fireworks more brilliant than any that ever were constructed by the hand of man.

At length a sound, not the roaring roll of thunder, but an explosion, as it were, as if some mighty cannon had burst, shook the very ground on which they stood. Then came a moment's pause, and then a peculiar noise,—it might be thunder, or it might not, but it seemed more like the sound of stones rolling rapidly and heavily over each other and then falling from a height to the ground. The next instant a heavy bell began to toll, but ceased after three or four strokes had been struck, mingling strangely with a peal of thunder which was then echoing through the building.

A spirit of confusion now seemed to seize upon the abbey: the door at the end of the corridor was thrown open; monks were seen hurrying across, moving a little way up the passage and disappearing by another door. There were voices calling and screaming too, and Edward thought he could distinguish groans and shrieks; while ever and anon a little bell was heard ringing with a small, tinkling sound; and, in strange discord with all the rest, a solemn strain of music burst upon the ear whenever the little door on the left was opened.

Edward tried to ascertain from one of the passing monks what was the matter; but he could get no intelligible answer; and it was with infinite satisfaction that at length he saw Pierrot appear, coming toward them in haste.

"The great tower has been struck, sir," said the man, in answer to his inquiries; "and Heaven knows how much of it has tumbled down over the other cloisters. One of the monks is killed, they say, and several other people are crushed under the stones; but, what is worse than all, just as they were ringing the great bell, they found out that the lightning when it struck had set the tower on fire, for the rope broke short off, and the end that came down upon the sacristan's head was burning. There is no hope of getting it put out; for some are carrying off the ornaments of the church, some are praying, some are singing, some are whipping themselves; and the best thing we can do is to get out to the bank of the canal,—if we can find the way; for, though the hour you told me is not quite come, we can wait there more safely than here, where we are likely to have the roofs and buttresses on our heads every minute."

Edward pressed Lucette a little closer to him and whispered something, to which she answered, "Anywhere you will.—Trust you? Oh, yes!" And, getting her large hat from the cell, Edward placed it on her head so as to conceal as far as possible her wonderfully luxuriant hair: then, leading her down the passage, opened the door which the soldier had pointed out to him. Instantly a flash of lightning crossed their eyes; but it served to show, though it lived but a second, the dull, heavy features of the Marais, with not one, but half a dozen, streams of zigzag lightning playing through the sky,—some, as the levin-bolt is usually represented, darting down to earth like a flaming javelin, others twisting into all shapes, and even running up, like fiery serpents disporting themselves in the horrors of the storm. What was of more importance, however, to Edward and Lucette, that flash displayed, close before them, one of those long rows of willows and ash-trees which in that part of the country denote the course of the larger canals, and also showed a break in the line of wood, where the monks probably went down to fish from their own boats.

All the noises of the abbey were now heard far more distinctly, the thunder notwithstanding; and through every window of the great church, with its tall square tower, might be seen a red, ominous glare. But onward Edward supported Lucette, with Pierrot feeling his way before them, till a few steps brought them to the very edge of the water. Two boats were fastened to the bank by chains; but there was no boatman apparent, and Edward and his good servant consulted for a moment, with a running accompaniment of lightning, as to whether it would not be better to unloose one of the skiffs and seek safety somewhere.

"I can break the chain in a moment with a big stone, Master Ned," said Pierrot; "but, as we do not know where to go, we had better wait for some one to show us. Master George Brin, the good corporal, promised that some one should be here at two; and, depend on it, he will keep his word. Hark! I hear oars. It is not quite two yet; but you had better put the young lady under that ash-tree, for it is beginning to rain, thank God. That will soon put the thunder out; and pray Heaven it quenches the fire in the church, too! Those monks are good, simple souls and merry."

Not more than two minutes after he had done speaking, a boat came up quickly to the little landing-place, rowed by an elderly man, as far as Edward could see by the lightning, who carefully avoided touching the abbey boats, but, as soon as he backed his oars, looked round over the bank.

"Ah, there you are!" he said, in a tongue which, though it was not French at all, was a jargon quite understandable. "Get in! get in, quick! Here, young man, give me your hand." And, catching Lucette's arm, he lifted her in rather than aided her to embark. Edward and Pierrot followed, and without another word the boatman pushed off. It was all over in less than thirty seconds, and the boat had made some two hundred yards over the water, the man pushing her along with a pole, before he relinquished that instrument and sat down as if to resume his oars. The rain was now beginning to fall thick in heavy drops, and the boatman, as he pushed his bark along, had been scanning his party of passengers earnestly. "Here," he said, at length, dragging something large and shaggy from beneath one of the seats,—"here, you one in the large hat, put this on, or you will get wet. The sky may come down in drops without going through that."

"What is it?" asked Lucette, taking what the man offered, but not comprehending what it was.

"A peau de bique, to-be-sure," replied the boatman. "You are the girl that Georgy Brin told me of, are not you? I must not let you get wet; for he says you are weakly. 'Tis a bad business, anyhow!" And, with this sage reflection, he began vigorously to handle his oars.

Edward aided his fair companion to envelop herself in the water-proof garment then and still common in that part of France; and the boat shot on rapidly under the branches of the trees, which may be said to have interlaced above them. For about a quarter of a mile all was darkness, but at the end of that distance the boatman began to look up toward the sky wherever a small patch of the heavens could be seen through the overhanging trees. Edward, too, saw from time to time gleams of red light upon the water; and it seemed as if the sky itself had caught fire from the lightning and would soon be in one general blaze. Another quarter of a mile brought the travellers to a spot where were two reed cabins and an open space of ground round them; and there the boatman lay upon his oars. All eyes were now turned toward the abbey, where a sight at once sad and grand presented itself. The top of the great square tower, like an immense altar, bore a pyramid of flame up to the skies; and from every window and loop-hole issued forth a tongue of fire, licking the gray walls. The windows even of the church were painted in red upon the dark stone-work, whenever the cloud of smoke which surrounded the whole of the lower part of the building like a vast shroud suffered the masonry to appear.

"Alas for the poor monks!" said the boatman, with an unaffected sigh: "if they did not do much good, they did not do any harm; and we might have had worse people amongst us. That abbey has stood wellnigh four hundred years, they tell me; and it was never touched by lightning until now,—doubtless because they have given it to a lay abbot, and he turns all the revenues to the works of man which were devoted to the works of God. Well, we cannot help the poor souls." And, without further thought of the burning edifice, he plied his oars again, and the boat cut her way smoothly through the glassy waters, leaving long, fiery ripples behind her.

Two miles more of hard rowing brought the party to a small farm, where two or three of the same huts of mud, bushes, and reeds appeared close together on the bank; and the rower paused before the largest of the humble edifices, calling, in a loud voice, to persons who might not be without ear-shot but who were certainly not within sight, to inform them that he would not be home till daybreak. "The rain is falling," he said, as if speaking to himself, "but the whole abbey will be down: that is clear."

He then rowed on, pursuing for some three hundred yards the larger canal; but at the end of that distance he turned into a very narrow and sinuous channel, where he laid down his oars and propelled the boat solely with the pole. The labor seemed hard, and the progress slow, and Edward took the occasion to ask quietly whither they were going.

"To La Caponnière, to-be-sure," replied the man. "Did you not know that?"

"No," replied the youth: "Monsieur Brin merely told me that he would procure me a boat at two o'clock to carry us to a place of safety."

"Well, here is the boat," answered the man, "and La Caponnière is a place of safety. There are no better people in the world than old Madame Brin and her sons and daughters. They are cousins of his, you know, and by this time they are ready to receive you. She was his cousin before her marriage, you know, and then she married his first-cousin, who left Niort in the time of the troubles; and so they are doubly cousins, you know."

But, as Edward did not know any thing about it, he thought it better not to show his ignorance, and resumed his English conversation with Lucette.

The voyage—for we cannot call that a journey which was performed at night upon the water—was somewhat long and fatiguing to the boatman; but at length,—it must have been at least four o'clock in the morning,—after turning and twisting, and sometimes grating against the banks, the boat reached a spot where suddenly appeared a small, star-like light from what seemed the window of a better house than any they had yet passed, which, skipping over various indistinct objects, rested more fully on a small skiff at the shore. Some one started up as they approached: their boatman threw him a rope, and they were speedily drawn up to the bank and moored.

"Come this way," said the lad who had been waiting for them, holding out a great coarse hand to Lucette. "Here, mother; they are come." And, leading the poor girl on, followed by Edward, he conducted her through a little garden in which various kitchen-vegetables were more plentiful than flowers. Half-way between the house and the canal they were met by a goodly-sized dame of forty and a girl of some sixteen or seventeen, who took Lucette frankly in their arms and gave her a warm embrace. "So this is your young man, poor thing?" said the elder, looking at Edward; but then, immediately turning to the boatman, she inquired, eagerly, "What has been the meaning of all that red light out by the abbey?"

"There's no abbey by this time," answered the man. "But come, good dame, let us in to your kitchen-fire, if you've got one, and I will tell you all about it. We are all as wet as bull-frogs, except the girl; and I gave her my peau de bique."

Thus saying, he pushed past the rest and entered a large, roomy kitchen, well stored with every sort of salted and dried provisions, dependent from great racks suspended from the ceiling.

There a hearty welcome awaited the poor wayfarers: the fire, which had nearly gone out, was soon blown up into a cheerful blaze; warm soup was produced; and to Lucette the good dame of the house, though she weighed at least two hundred pounds, showed the tenderness and gentleness associated by poets and romance-writers solely with sylphlike forms and nymphlike graces. Her two good, buxom girls, who to very pretty faces added in form a promise of future extent worthy of the stock from which they sprang, joined in, somewhat more shyly, but with real kindness; and, for the first time since they left Rochelle, Edward and Lucette experienced that feeling of security which—to plagiarize a little—"wraps the whole heart up like a blanket."

CHAPTER XIV.

This was the amount of young Brin's foreign intelligence,—for such to him it was; and as soon as it was given he proceeded to describe and eulogize his mother's farm, which he had not quitted more than two or three times in his life, and which he seemed to think both the richest and most beautiful spot of earth. Rich indeed it was; but to explain its sort of riches I must have recourse to that old author whom I have already quoted. I must premise, however, that the spot on which Edward Langdale now found himself was just at the edge of what are called the dried marshes, where they join on to the marais mouillans, which, at the time I write of, were much more extensive than at present. The farm, then, of La Caponnière comprised a portion of both; and, as the marais desséchés have been already described from the account of an eye-witness, I may be permitted a word or two from the same source in regard to the marais mouillans. "All these marshes," says my author, "are not equally inundated; and, in consequence, all parts are not equally sterile. The highest parts [of the marais mouillans] are under water from the middle of October to the middle of June, and sometimes later. The lower parts never dry; and, to make something of them, they have been cut by innumerable canals, all communicating, and only separated from each other by earth-banks of from twelve to fifteen feet in width, piled up from the excavated earth of the canals. These earth-banks are of prodigious fertility, many of them planted with willows, ashes, poplars, and sometimes oaks; so that one is often astonished to see so vigorous a forest springing out of the middle of the waters."

The traveller then goes on to tell the uses these forests are put to,—how the fagots are sent to Rochelle and the Isle de Rhé, and how the trunks of the trees, cut into firewood and called cosses de marais, are highly valued throughout the whole of the neighboring country, and burn better than any other trees. But, as the reader will probably never dabble in the cultivation of the marshes of Brétagne, he shall be spared the details. My author, however, goes on to state that the farms vary in extent from two hundred and forty to twelve hundred acres, and that each is divided by little canals into squares of about thirty acres, each canal being large enough to carry a small boat.

Now fancy, dear reader, what an interminable network of water-communication these canals, each hidden from the other by trees and shrubs, must form; how impossible for any but one born and bred in the country to find one's way along there; how easy for any one acquainted with their involutions to baffle the most skilful pursuer, to lie hid from the eyes of the most clear-sighted enemy. The Minotaur did not feel himself more safe in the depths of the Cretan labyrinth than Edward Langdale after their morning's row; and Edward was more safe than the Minotaur.

"Here," he thought, "we may stay till all pursuit is ended and all suspicions forgotten, till dear Lucette has recovered strength,—and, perhaps, till I can communicate with Mauzé or Rochelle."

All very well as a matter of probability; but where any thing is joined together by mere tacks—as is indeed the case with the fate of every one,—and not alone with his fate for years or months, but for a single hour—it is much better to remember, before we make any calculation at all, what tacks may fall out or get broken and the whole piece of machinery tumble to atoms.

Edward Langdale could shoot a duck; and, though the birding-piece which the young farmer trusted to his hands was a single barrelled gun of rather primitive construction, and the shot merely bits of lead cut small, not a bird got away from him,—more to the admiration than the liking of his companion, who had fancied that he could display some skill in the eyes of one whom he believed to be city bred.

However, the boat was plentifully loaded before they returned; and the young farmer guided it back by a different course from the marais mouillans to the firm land near the house, pointing out to Edward, with an air of pride and satisfaction, six or seven woolly beasts upon a tongue of the terrier, and telling him they were sheep.

At their return to the house they found the whole household up, with the exception of Lucette; but the result of their sport was very much commended, and one of the hearty breakfasts of the country was prepared. The living, indeed, seemed profuse, and, what though the cooking was for the land somewhat coarse, yet it was French, and therefore better than it would have been anywhere else in the same circumstances. There were ducks, and good bacon, and eggs, and fine fowls, and a ragout, and plenty of galette. Alas! there was no coffee, no chocolate,—nay, no tea; but there was excellent white wine of Logé, and there was as good red wine of Fay Moreau; for the age of hot stops had not yet arrived, and Noah's discovery blessed the land within ten leagues of them.

Lucette joined them before they sat down; and, for some reason, she blushed more at her boy's dress when there were women round her than she had done before; but her cheek soon became pale, and Edward thought, with some alarm, she did not look well. She assured him, however, that she merely suffered from fatigue.

The meal was not concluded when several of the peasantry from the neighboring country came to La Caponnière in their boats, bearing with them tidings of the fire of the preceding night, and of various other serious accidents which had occurred during the great storm. Numberless trees had been struck and two men killed by the lightning; but the facts of most interest—at least to Edward and Lucette—were those connected with the destruction of the abbey. One of the visitors had come that morning from Moreilles, and of course was the oracle of the occasion. Two-thirds of the great tower had fallen, he said, crushing the dormitory and the southern cloisters. The whole church was seriously injured, the Lady chapel being the only part preserved; and, although the monks themselves with one exception had escaped unhurt, it was generally rumored, the good man said, that some five or six persons—either guests, or people who came to assist—had been crushed under the part of the tower which first fell. Who they were the peasant could not tell; but the mention of the sad fact set both Lucette and Edward upon the track of imagination. It was then for the first time that Edward perceived that Pierrot la Grange had not been at the breakfast-table. On inquiring for him, Master Ned was answered by good Madame Brin's son that his servant had gone with the man who had rowed them the night before, to inquire about the fire,—a very imprudent act as it seemed to Edward; and yet he had a good deal of confidence in Pierrot's tact,—which was not ill placed. About twelve, his long figure appeared in the kitchen; and now the whole details were given. They were interesting to the good Cabanier family, for the principal new fact was that Monsieur George Brin, their relative, was safe and well, and had set out for the lines under Mauzé. The other soldiers, he said, had perished, with the exception of one, who still lived, terribly mangled. He was so drunk when he left the parlor, Pierrot said, that he could not get to the assigned sleeping-place, but fell upon the stairs, where he still lay when the tower was struck. Thus, though sadly beaten by detached stones, he had escaped crushing by the great mass of masonry.

Lucette felt very sorry for the poor soldiers; for hers was a very kindly and tender heart. Edward gave them a passing "Poor fellows!" and at his heart wished he had not made them so drunk. But still, as a man's mind is always a more business sort of article than a woman's, he argued from the premises that all chances of further pursuit and detention were at an end; and thus, though the troopers were to be pitied, their removal from this scene of care was no misfortune to him.

Now, all this shows, or may be supposed to show, that Master Ned was not of a very sensitive or sentimental disposition. In truth, dear reader, it only shows that he had mingled a good deal more with the world than most lads of his age, and that time and storms had hardened the outer shell. There was much that was soft within,—not about the head, but at the heart. That very night proved it; for Lucette, after having been somewhat languid all day, was suddenly seized about seven o'clock with a violent fit of shivering, and Edward had to behold the marsh-fever in all its horrors. Good old Madame Brin took upon herself to be physician: indeed, there was no other within thirty miles, except the barber at Fontenay le Comte; and he could not be got at. The eldest daughter was to be head nurse; but Lucette had another and a good one. She had nursed Edward through a severe illness, and he was resolved to nurse her in return. Happily, they were good, simple people there, and had no false notions of proprieties and decorums, so that Edward had his own way; and it was very sweet to poor Lucette to take her tisanes of écorce de chêne and thyme-flowers from his hand, and to gaze into his eyes as he bent over her and drink in a better medicine from his looks than any up to that time discovered,—or since, to say the truth.

Then, again, the household was a cheerful household. Though they lived in the midst of swamps and ponds and canals, like a family of frogs, there was nothing cold or chilly about them. Madame Brin had had the fever twice herself, she said: all her children had had it. She would soon get the dear little girl well; and a shake or two they thought nothing of in their country. Her poor dead husband had had hundreds of them, and died, drowned, at sixty and upward. The eldest girl and the young one, too, were also all kind cheerfulness; and Edward, who was certainly the most melancholy and apprehensive of the party, took care to hide that such was the case whenever he was in Lucette's room. When he was unwillingly away, his thoughts were very heavy; for, though it must be confessed they rested principally on his fair young companion, yet they would often turn to other subjects of care. Leave her amongst perfect strangers he could not,—he would not; but when he considered that he had lost valuable letters, much money, much time still more valuable, and asked himself whether he should still find Lord Montagu at the place of rendezvous, where he should find him, what secrets might not have been revealed to the enemy by his losses, how much he himself might be compromised and his passage through France endangered by the discoveries which probably had been made, there appeared a very tolerable bundle of cares for one young pair of shoulders to carry.

Nevertheless, good nursing, and that skill which is given by experience, did their usual services to poor Lucette. The fits of fever were retarded, lessened, ceased; and at the end of a fortnight she could sit at the door in the sunshine and look out. Often would she now gaze up at Edward; and at length she summoned courage to ask, in English, "Is it not time we should go forward?"

It did require a great effort of courage to put that question, for, what between weakness and some other sensations, Lucette had got into a frame of mind which would have made it even pleasant for her to remain there in the Marais all her life,—if Edward Langdale had remained with her.

There is always a good effect produced by looking difficulties and unpleasant things of all sorts in the face. We either discover some mode of getting rid of them, or else we learn to endure them. Very soon Edward and Lucette talked composedly over their future plans; and both agreed, with a sigh, that to proceed upon their journey as soon as she had recovered sufficient strength was unavoidable. They might both, perchance, have dreamed, and their dreams might have been somewhat wild; but with calm thought the sense of serious reality returned, and they felt that they must soon proceed together to part very soon.

"And when shall we meet again, Edward?" said Lucette, in a low voice.

Edward laid his hand upon hers, saying, sadly, "God only knows, Lucette. But I know and am sure we shall meet again. Till then, let us never part in heart. We cannot forget each other after all that has passed; and, oh, let the memory be as dear to you as it is to me, so that, when we do meet, it may be with the same feelings we now experience."

Lucette bent down her eyes, and there was a tear in them; but that tear seemed to Edward Langdale a promise.

This was the only word of love that passed between them; but there were other matters pressing for consideration. Neither of them knew the country round. Pierrot was as ignorant as themselves; and it was necessary to take Madame Brin not only into consultation but in some degree into their confidence. She was naturally a woman of strong sense; but she was wonderfully ignorant of the world beyond the Marais.

"This is a mad scheme," she said,—taking for granted all that she had heard from her cousin George, and never imagining that a corporal in the king's army could have been deceived. "You are both very young to run away and be married. Why, this boy can hardly be nineteen, and you, my child, cannot be more than fifteen; but, now you have been away so long together, it is the best thing for you. We can send for the minister to-morrow, and he can be here on Friday. But if you be Papists you will find the matter more difficult; for——"

Edward cut her short by informing her of the fact that they were both Huguenots, and at the same time attempting to undeceive her as to the purposes with which they left Rochelle. He told her briefly the principal events of the last month, and besought her to aid them in reaching at least Niort, where the number of Protestants still remaining insured them the means of ascertaining where the principal Huguenot leaders were to be found.

All this sudden intelligence threw the good lady into a deep fit of thought. "So you do not want to be married?" she said, in some bewilderment.

"Not immediately," answered Edward, with a smile he could not repress. "But I tell you, my dear lady, I do wish to be married to Lucette as soon as ever she wishes to be married to me." Lucette looked at him almost reproachfully; but he went on to say, "Her relations have of course to be consulted first; and, as I undertook to escort her safely to them, I must do so before I can even pretend to her hand."

"Well, then," said the mistress of La Caponnière, after several minutes' thought, "there is no way for you but to go boldly to Nantes. They will never suspect you there. 'Those who are nearest to the cardinal are safer from him than those who are far off,' they say. His arms are so long that they do not easily reach what is close by. You can then easily go round to Niort, and thence where you like; but go to Nantes first; go to Nantes first. It is the safest place."

This suggestion required long and much consideration; but at length it was adopted, though the minor arrangements afterward devised removed a great many of the objections which at first presented themselves. Edward was to be transformed into a young farmer of the Marais, and Lucette to appear as his sister, while Pierrot assumed the garb of one of the peasants. It took two days to procure the long-waisted, square-cut coat, and wide breeches for Master Ned, and a similar but coarser dress for Pierrot; for tailors were not plenty in the Marais, and clothing-shops were none,—so that the wardrobes of neighbors were to be ransacked. Lucette was more easily supplied with the manifold petticoats and the white cap to cover her immense luxuriance of hair. Changes of apparel, provisions of many kinds, and good wine, were stored in a boat; and, after about three weeks' residence in that wild and strange but not uninteresting district, with two stout boatmen for their guides, Lucette and her companions took their departure from La Caponnière, and entered upon a tract perhaps even more desolate and intricate than that which they quitted. By Tallemont, by La Motte Achard, and by Logé, they proceeded on the country-road, as it was called, toward Nantes, and at the end of the third day they began to approach a city the glory of which certainly has departed, but the interest of which—a melancholy interest—remains.

Before I close the chapter, however,—a chapter devoted to quiet if not dull subjects,—I may as well say a few words—a very few—upon the actual state of France, and the changes which had taken place within the last five weeks, which were not without their significance.

Every day had seen La Rochelle more and more closely hemmed in by the royal forces. Slowly, quietly, but steadily, troops had poured into the Sevres and the Aunis, and the ports in the neighborhood of the threatened city had become crowded with small armed vessels. Invested by land, the citizens of Rochelle might have felt alarm if their fine port had been also subjected to blockade; but their own powerful fleets, and the certain aid of England, made them contemn the small though numerous ships of the enemy, and they never comprehended, till too late, that the gigantic mind of their enemy was then planning a vast undertaking destined to deprive them of all the advantages of their position. Their egregious confidence was perhaps further increased by a knowledge that the court of France, and, indeed, the whole country, was fermenting with plots against the man whom they had most to dread; and it is not at all impossible that they were more or less aware that the most formidable conspiracy which had ever threatened the power of Richelieu was upon the very eve of explosion.

CHAPTER XV.

The uplifted cane had nearly descended upon his head; but the moment the young coxcomb beheld the face of the intruder his countenance changed, the color came into his face, and he turned the descending blow away, though he could not stop it entirely.

"I have seen all that has passed, Monsieur des Louches," said the stranger in black: "be so good as to retire into the chateau. His Majesty, as you know, is determined to stop all insolent brawls. It will be my duty to report your conduct to these two young people as soon as I return; and you shall hear the result."

The young gentleman said something about his only having said a word or two to some peasants of the Marais; but the other cut him short, observing that the treatment of the peasantry by the petite noblesse was at that very time attracting the royal attention.

"Petite noblesse, sir! Petite noblesse!" cried Monsieur des Louches, with a face as red as fire: "do you call me of the petite noblesse?"

"Certainly," replied the other; "but, as you do not retire as I have told you, it will be better that you should go in a different manner. Guard!" And he raised his hand toward the bridge of the chateau, where two or three of the king's soldiers were standing.

Two of the guard instantly ran up; but, before they arrived, Monsieur des Louches was moving sullenly toward the gate, and the stranger in black, without taking any further notice of him, turned to those who had gathered round, saying, "Have the goodness to disperse, gentlemen. I will take care of these young people."

The gay gallants of the French court might possibly have indulged in some merriment at the expense of the elderly gentleman who had taken a young girl out of their companion's hands; but there were at that moment some sinister rumors hovering about the city of Nantes, which a good deal depressed the courtly circle, although the courtiers endeavored still to keep up an air of sprightly carelessness, and sometimes, probably, overacted their part in public. On the present occasion, however, they dispersed quietly, one giving the good-day to the stranger by the name of Monsieur Tronson. As soon as the rest had passed away, the face of the stranger cleared, and, looking at Edward and Lucette with a good-humored smile, he asked, "And now, young people, where is it you want to go to?"

"To the Auberge du Soleil," answered Edward, using as few words as possible, for he remembered, perhaps a little too late, that his language and his dress did not correspond, and that, though his garb was that of the Marais, his tongue was not at all imbued with the jargon of its inhabitants.

Monsieur Tronson took no notice, however, and said he would show them how to find it; but, in walking slowly and soberly along, he began to chat about many things, asked if ever they had been in Nantes before, and not only proposed to show them some of the objects most worthy of attention in the place, but actually, as he admitted, led them a little out of their way to point out the crosses of Lorraine which had been scattered over one of the faces of the chateau when it was in the hands of the League. The cathedral, too, with its stunted towers and gigantic nave, he must needs show them; and he asked so many questions, waiting for replies, that both Edward and Lucette were forced to speak much more good French than was at all desirable.

At length a slight twinkle in their good companion's eye, and a little curl of the upper lip, led Master Ned to the complete certainty that they were discovered; and, taking a moment when M. Tronson, who seemed to be determined to know the whole party, was speaking with Pierrot, Edward suddenly bent down his head and whispered a few words in English to Lucette. "We are discovered, I fear," he said. "If any questions are asked, remember the words of the safe-conduct I showed you: tell how we were stopped in trying to quit Rochelle, and say that when the abbey was burned we escaped in a boat as best we could and came on here."

Lucette was about to remind him that she could no longer pass for the page named in the safe-conduct; but Monsieur Tronson finished his brief conversation with Pierrot and turned to the young people again, saying, with his placid air, "Now we will turn this way, and you will soon be at your resting-place. So I suppose you two are the children of some good rich proprietors of the Marais, and have got leave to come and see the world now the court is at Nantes?"

"No, sir, we are not," answered Edward, with perfect calmness; for he had now determined upon his course.

"Then, in Heaven's name, what are you, young people?" asked their companion. "Yours are not peasants' manners, nor peasants' tongues; but let me tell you that it is somewhat dangerous to be masquerading here just now."

"Very likely, sir," replied Edward; "but we shall not masquerade long,—if we are doing so at all. As to who we are, I shall have to explain that to a very high personage shortly, and to ask him if he will suffer his name and handwriting to be set at naught. I shall not show him so little respect as to talk to any one else about the affair before I talk to him, as I must see him, if possible, before I quit Nantes."

"You are discreet," said M. Tronson, leading the way through a street which ran down to the Loire at the back of the chateau. "There, where you see that tall pole and bush, is the Soleil; but, if you would take my advice, you would choose another auberge. That is not fit for your station; and, besides," he added, with a shrewd smile, "you will find nobody there who speaks any thing but the patois des Marais; and I suspect that would puzzle you."

Edward persisted, however, and the next moment their companion stopped at the door of a heavy stone house of small size, the back of which must have nearly touched the ditch of the old castle. "Here I stop," he said: "you see the inn. Good-evening."

They gladly bade him adieu, and hurried on down the street, Pierrot thanking Heaven that they had got so well out of his clutches. "He is a spy, I am sure," said Pierrot; "but, if we order the coach we were talking of, to be at the door by daybreak, we can get through the gates and be off before he has time to get his orders."

"His orders from whom?" demanded Edward, in some surprise.

"From the cardinal, to-be-sure," replied the other. "Do you not know that——" But by this time the three had reached the door of the Auberge du Soleil, and Edward had paused, not at all satisfied with the look of the place. There was an air, not exactly of discomfort, but of loose, disorderly carelessness about it which pained him to think of in connection with Lucette. She herself entered the passage without a word, but she looked sad and, as it were, bewildered; and the sallow walls, the dirty tiles of the floor, and various noises of singing and riot from neighboring rooms, did not serve to reassure her. Edward was at her side in a moment, and, laying his hand gently upon her arm, he said, "Lucette, this will not do. We must seek some other place."

The appearance of the landlord, who now presented himself, was not at all calculated to change this resolution; and, as he was somewhat inclined to be uncivil when he found that his guests were likely to go elsewhere, Edward left him to the management of Pierrot, and turned toward the door. There, however, he found, looking in, a servant in the livery of the court, with two men in military garb; and the former immediately saluted him civilly, saying, "I am ordered by my master to request your presence with the young lady and your servant."

"And who may be your master?" asked Edward, not at all liking the look of the guard.

"Monsieur Tronson, sir, secretary of the king's cabinet," replied the man.

"It is enough, sir," replied Edward: "we will accompany you if you will lead the way."

The servant bowed, and preceded them, and the two guards followed; but now Lucette and Edward found the great advantage of speaking two languages. Few were the minutes which they had to spare; but those few minutes were filled with words upon which, though their companions comprehended them not, depended their safety, and perhaps the life of one of them.

"We shall assuredly be asked, dear Lucette," said Edward, "how you came first to travel with me as a page, and since then have resumed your woman's apparel. May I, dear girl, say, in case of need, that we sought to be married in a foreign land because our friends at home thought us too young? Your liberty and my life may be perilled by any other course."

"Yes, say so; say so," replied Lucette. "Good Clement Tournon told me twice that if the Catholics caught me they certainly would shut me up in a convent till I adopted their faith."

"But what name shall I give you?" asked the youth, just as they reached the door of the house into which M. Tronson had turned.

"Call me Lucette de Mirepoix," answered the young girl: "it is one of my names, so that I have a right to take it."

"This way, sir," said the valet: "Monsieur Tronson is in the castle." And, passing the door, he led the way through a narrow building which from the street seemed like an ordinary dwelling-house, but which in reality was merely a sort of outwork of the chateau, with which it was connected by a bridge over the fosse.

Edward saw the two guards following; but he merely said, with a cold air, "Are you taking us to prison, sir?"

"No, monsieur; I am taking you to Monsieur de Tronson," replied the valet. "Please to step into this room." By this time they had passed the bridge and had taken some half-dozen steps along a dark passage through the thicker part of the outer walls; and, as the man spoke, he opened the door of a small room with one of those deep windows which almost formed another chamber within the first. The room was quite vacant, and, as soon as the travellers had entered, the servant left them with the door partly open, showing them the soldiers without as if upon guard. Poor Lucette trembled a good deal, but she lost not her presence of mind; and another hasty consultation took place between herself, Edward, and Pierrot, in the course of which their plans were finally settled,—as far as any plans can be settled when the events against which they are provided are still uncertain. They remained undisturbed for some five minutes, and then the servant reappeared with some glasses, a bottle of apparently very old wine, and a page carrying some cakes and comfits on a salver. These were hardly placed on the table and some seats drawn round, when Monsieur de Tronson himself appeared with a smiling countenance, and desired his young friends to sit down, as if they were honored guests. "Retire, and wait without," he added, turning to the valet and page: "we can serve ourselves. Take that good man with you, and see that he be well attended to. Now, Monsieur Apsley, have the kindness to taste this wine after I have helped the young lady, and tell me whether you could find any as good at the poor little cabaret where you were inclined to bestow yourself. My auberge is the best of the two, believe me."

"While we are treated with so much courtesy, sir," replied Edward, filling his glass. "But may I ask what has led you to believe that my name is Apsley?"

Monsieur de Tronson, who was pressing some of the confectionary upon Lucette, did not answer for a moment, but then, turning round, said, with his usual placid smile, "What was that? Oh, how I knew you? Why, my good sir, we have been expecting you for some time. His Eminence has letters for you, and very nearly a thousand crowns in gold, which a good man, called Jacques Beaupré, brought in about ten days ago. How I know you? Why, my young friend, do you suppose any thing is unknown at this court?"

He paused and looked straight in Edward's face. But the young man had passed through scenes which had given him a resolute firmness of character not easily discomposed; and he answered at once, without a change of countenance, "True, you may have known that Sir Peter Apsley was about to visit Nantes,—though that could be but a guess, for I did not intend to come this way till I was compelled; but it must have been a still shrewder guess to lead you to suppose a young man dressed as a peasant of the Marais to be an English gentleman."

"Guesses are good things," said Tronson: "in fact, almost every thing that man knows, or thinks he knows, is a mere guess. But, when we have good hooks to hang them on, we can shape them almost into certainties. You have heard of birds who when they hide their heads fancy their whole bodies hidden. Now, my young friend, when next you want to hide yourself in a peasant's dress, take the air as well as the garb; have something of the patois, and do not speak English to a fair companion when there are sharp ears near. Our good friends of the Marais speak little English, and when they walk they carry their shoulders round, and their heads somewhat slouching,—so." And he imitated the air of one of the peasants so well that even Lucette could hardly refrain a smile.

"Besides," continued their companion, "you hinted that you wished to see the cardinal before you quitted Nantes. Now, putting a good number of other facts to those I have just mentioned, it was easy to divine that you were the personage Jacques Beaupré was in search of."

"True," replied Edward; "and probably I should have taken more care if I had wished to be concealed much longer. But, as you say, sir, I must, if possible, have the honor of seeing his Eminence the prime minister. When do you think I can be so favored?"

"It will be somewhat difficult just now," said the other, with a much graver countenence than he had hitherto borne. "The cardinal is full of very serious and painful business. Certainly you cannot see him to-night."

"Then," said Edward, in a firm and confident tone, "we had better retire and seek some good inn, and I can send and crave an audience to-morrow."

"Nay, you will have to wait close at hand and snatch your audience when you can get it," replied Monsieur de Tronson,—adding, laughingly, "my auberge is the best for your purpose, depend upon it. But tell me, Monsieur Apsley, why did you disguise yourself at all, when, I have been told, you have a proper safe-conduct?"

"You mean, sir, why we put on Breton dresses?" replied Edward. "That was done for the best reason in the world:—because we had none other fit to wear. My whole baggage was lost, and one of my servants stopped, when it pleased some good officers near Mauzé to turn me from my straight road and send me toward Nantes. I trust Master Jacques has brought our clothing with him. If not, we must purchase more."

"I cannot tell," replied Monsieur de Tronson, gravely: "all he did bring is in the hands of his Eminence."

A consciousness that what the man had brought might prove his destruction, perhaps, induced Edward to imagine that M. Tronson laid a particular emphasis on the words "in the hands of his Eminence;" but still he lost not his coolness, and he replied, "Well, then, we had better proceed to our inn,—if you will recommend us to one; for that we saw but now will certainly not suit us. It is growing dusk, and I shall scarcely have time to-night to purchase clothing fit to appear in before the cardinal."

As he spoke, he rose; but the secretary of the king's cabinet repeated what he had before said:—"This is the best auberge for your purpose; and I will send for one of those tailors who always follow courts to relieve you from your unseemly attire. The young lady, too, had better have other clothing. That, too, shall be attended to."

Edward now saw that nothing but a direct question would bring forth the truth as to whether he was to consider himself a prisoner or not; and he put it much in the same words as he had used to the officer near Mauzé.

"You have been very discreet with your answers, my young friend," said Monsieur Tronson, still smiling: "let me advise you to be as discreet with your questions. But I can excuse a little anxiety, and therefore tell you that you must look upon yourself as a prisoner or not, just as you please. You will not be treated as such further than being lodged in this chateau, with a slight hint that you had better not try to leave it till you have seen his Eminence. If you will give me your word as an English gentleman not to make the attempt, you shall have all the liberty possible, and you shall be only like one of your good English lords kept in-doors by a fit of gout. You shall have as good a table at least as any auberge here could furnish, and you will save money by living at the king's expense. But if you do not make me that promise I am afraid there must be such things as keys sent for, and a turning of locks which might be disagreeable to the ear."

"I understand, sir," replied Edward, "and, of course, make the promise; but I certainly did not expect that when I came here furnished with a pass from his Eminence, it would imply so little."

"Let me see the pass," said the secretary, somewhat abruptly: "have you it with you?"

"Yes, it is here," answered Edward, drawing it forth. "As it is my only security in the present unfortunate state of affairs between the two countries, I have taken care not to lose that."

Tronson took it from his hand and carried it to the window to see better, saying, after he had gazed at it for a minute or two, "Yes, it is in due form. That is the signature of his Eminence, beyond all doubt. Here are mentioned Sir Peter Apsley, a page, and two serving-men. Am I to presume that mademoiselle is or was the page? Why, here are no end of transformations, it would seem."

People talk of blushing like a rose,—a very bad figure indeed. Roses do not blush. Their gentle color knows no sudden change. The soft emotion of the heart which sends the tell-tale blood into the cheek they never feel, but, as an image of eternal health, keep the same hue unchanged. No: Lucette blushed like the morning sky when, conscious of the coming of the sun, the whole face of heaven grows rosy and more rosy.

"May I ask you, sir," continued the secretary, "if you are married to this young lady? is she your wife? is she your sister?"

"Neither, sir," replied Edward,—"neither as yet. She may be some day my wife: till then she is to me as a sister. But, Monsieur Tronson, if I am to submit to interrogatories at all, I should prefer that they be put by his Eminence the cardinal himself."

"One more, and I have done," said the secretary. "How happens it that you two have been so long on the road? Could you find no means of coming to Nantes sooner?"

"If you know the time we have spent on the road, sir," replied Edward, "you should know likewise that Mademoiselle de Mirepoix's illness detained us."

"Mademoiselle de Mirepoix!" said De Tronson, with an air of surprise: "this is altogether a somewhat strange affair. But, as you say, it will be better all reserved for the cardinal himself. But as Mademoiselle Mirepoix is neither your wife nor your sister, Sir Peter, it will be necessary to place her under a lady's care while here."

"But," said Edward, fearing a longer and stricter separation from Lucette than he had calculated upon; but Monsieur de Tronson cut him short, gravely. "No buts, my young friend. It must be now as I say," he replied. "Wait here, mademoiselle: I will send some women to you in a few minutes. You, sir, follow me, and I will show you your apartment."

Resistance, of course, was not to be thought of; but Edward could not part from Lucette coldly, and, before going, he took her in his arms and kissed her warmly, whispering in English the first real words of love which had yet been spoken between them. "Love me, Lucette," he said; "love me, whatever befalls."

The tears rose in her beautiful eyes; but it was a moment when she felt there could be no coyness. "I do; I will," she murmured.

"Ho! ho!" said the secretary, with a smile: "is it so far gone?" And he led the youth from the room.

Passage after passage seemed to Edward to be placing a terrible distance between him and her he loved, and cold and dreary appeared, and indeed was, his walk through the palace of the king. At length, however, Monsieur de Tronson opened a door at the foot of some steps, and there, in a short sort of long vestibule, appeared the first human beings they had seen since they quitted the room of the secretary. The first person they beheld was the valet whom Edward had before seen; but at the other end of the corridor, near a heavy iron-plated door, was a guard with a halberd on his shoulder.

"The room is quite ready, sir," said the valet, addressing Monsieur de Tronson, and at the same time opening a door on the right. "I lighted the fire, as the chamber has not been occupied since Monsieur de Laval left."

"That was well," replied Tronson; "and you will remember to attend diligently upon this gentleman and see he has all he wants. You can put his own servant a bed in the dressing-closet, and let a tailor be sent for as soon as may be. And now, Monsieur Apsley, I will leave you for to-night. You can, when you desire exercise, take your walk in this passage and the neighboring rooms on that side; but a gentleman so well educated will, I know, remember that this is a palace, and not carry his peregrinations too far. On that side your walks will be impeded by the sentinel. Can I send you a book or any thing to amuse you?"

"If you have got a copy of Homer or Horace," said Edward.

Monsieur de Tronson shook his head with a laugh. "I fear you are too learned for us," he answered; "but I will see, and send you something, at all events. The room looks cheerful enough, does it not? and in the daytime there is a fine view over the Loire. The moon is late to-night. You had better bring more candles, Guillaume." And, with these words, he left the young Englishman, who, though the room was indeed a cheerful one and bright with lights and a warm fire, could not but feel that he was a prisoner.

CHAPTER XVI.

The first sensation in Edward's heart was certainly that of the loss of liberty. The next was of the loss of Lucette. But then came many unpleasant recollections; and not amongst the least unpleasant was the remembrance that he might very likely have incurred the loss of life. To take a false name, to enter a country with which his own was at war, with a false passport, to come, from a town actually in rebellion against her king, into that king's camp, and to be the bearer of letters to his enemies,—all gave him very much the character of a spy. Edward did not like his position at all; he did not like the steps which had led to it; he did not altogether like his own conduct. Yet what could he have done, when ordered by those he was bound to obey? He would do it again, he thought, if the same circumstances were to come over again; and yet to be hanged in a foreign country as a spy was a matter for which not all the orders of all the princes or potentates in the world could offer any consolation.

He had walked some fifty times up and down the room, the simmering of his heart and brain acting upon him like the boiler of a locomotive steam-engine, when an ecclesiastic entered with some books, and spoke a few words of bad Latin to him, to which Edward replied in so much better Latinity that the good man speedily beat a retreat.

Then came the tailor; and a tailor is always a relief, except when he makes garments too tight, or makes them too loose in one place for the purpose of making them too close in another. But this tailor was really a great man in his way; and he did succeed in amusing Edward's mind in a slight degree by the importance he attached to his calling and to every one of its accessories. He also estimated very highly his own station in that calling. He told Edward that although he had not the honor of clothing his Majesty,—because all the world knew he was very careless in his dress,—yet he made for all the handsomest young noblemen of the court. He himself, he assured his listener,—and he dropped his voice while he spoke,—had composed the dress in which the poor Count de Chalais had been arrayed on the very day of his arrest.

"Indeed!" said Edward. "Is he arrested? What are they going to do with him?"

"They will cut off his head, to a certainty," said the tailor. "Though he was the king's greatest favorite, his Eminence was his greatest enemy; and the enemies of the cardinal never escape."

This was such cold comfort to Edward Langdale that he brought the subject back to the matter of his own clothing. "I shall want one suit as soon to-morrow as possible," he said; "for I trust I shall have an early audience of his Eminence; and of course I cannot present myself before him in this garb."

"Of course, of course, seigneur," said the tailor, with a look of horror: "that would be as good as a confession. Of what may your lordship have been guilty to assume such a dress?—high treason?"

"I hope not," said the young man: "at least, if I have committed lèse-majesté, it must have been in my sleep. But what about the clothes, my good friend? Can I have them?"

"Assuredly, seigneur; assuredly," answered the man. "I have a beautiful haut-de-chausses, and a pourpoint, which will fit you exactly: they are in the best taste,—philimot velvet, opened with blue, and silver points. They were made for poor Monsieur de Courmerin; but he never had the opportunity of wearing them, for he put off doing so for one single day, and that night he was arrested and his head cut off before the end of the week. They will suit you perfectly. But the cloak I must make myself. I will keep the workmen up all night, sooner than disappoint you, however. You had better trust the whole arrangement to me,—the boots, the collar, the hat; and then all will correspond."

Edward readily agreed to the proposal; and, merely stipulating for a certain price, as his funds were running short, he dismissed the tailor, whose conversation had a certain ominous croak about it, which was all the more painful from the frivolities with which it was mixed.

Not ten minutes more passed ere supper was brought in,—good fare and excellent wine; and perhaps of the latter the poor youth did take more than he usually did, from a feeling that something was needful to raise his spirits. He felt more compassion that night for the faults of Pierrot la Grange than he had ever known before; but he did not follow his good servant's example, drinking not enough even to have the effect desired.

After supper he felt more melancholy than before; and that sensation increased as all noises died away in the castle and in the neighborhood, and the dull gloomy ripple of the Loire was the only sound that broke the stillness. The air of the room seemed oppressive to him. He looked at the door, and wondered if the last time the valet had gone out he had locked it; and he walked toward it and opened it. All in the corridor was as he had seen it before,—the guard at the door on the right, with his halberd on his shoulder, and two lamps burning pendant from the ceiling. The air seemed less oppressive there; and Edward determined to go forth and take his walk without, as he had been permitted. He turned to one side, and then to the other, without any notice being taken by the soldier, till once, approaching within some five paces of the iron-plated door, the man drew himself up, and, in a stern tone, told him to keep off. Edward retrod his steps, and passed up and down several times, till at length the door at the other end of the passage opened, and a tall, fine-looking man, in a large cloak, with hat and feathers, and a small silver candlestick in his hand, appeared, and walked straight toward him. The stranger's eyes were bent upon the ground, and at first he did not seem to see the youth; but, when he did, he stopped suddenly, and gazed at him from head to foot.

Edward walked quietly on, and passed the other without taking much notice, though he thought his stare somewhat rude. At the end of the corridor he turned again, just in time to see the stranger opening the iron-plated door with a key, while the guard stood in a statue-like attitude before him, with presented arms. When the door was opened, the light of the candle served just to show the top of a flight of stone steps, and all the rest was darkness. The door shut to with a bang the next moment, and the youth pursued his walk, feeling it would be impossible for him to sleep for some hours to come. Well nigh an hour went by, and the young Englishman was returning to his room, to try at least to sleep, when that heavy door opened, banged to, was locked, and the stranger, whom he had before seen, again passed him. This time, however, his head was borne high, and there was a strange look of triumph on his face; but he was evidently in haste, and, though he fixed his eyes upon Edward with a gaze that seemed to pierce through him, he paused not an instant, but passed on.

Why he could not tell, but all this excited the youth's imagination. There was something strange in it, he thought. Who could that man be to whom the guard paid such respect? It could not be the king, for Louis was not so tall, and had no such commanding carriage. It might be some high officer of the royal prison; and that door, with the dark stone steps beyond, might lead to the ancient dungeons, where many a prisoner, in ancient and in modern times, had awaited, au secret, as it was called, judgment or death.

"Such may soon be my fate," thought Edward; and, with that pleasant reflection, he re-entered his chamber, and, casting off his clothes, lay down to rest. It was long before sleep came; and then troublous dreams took from it the character of repose. He felt himself, in fancy, in the hands of the hang-man: the gibbet was over his head, and on a scroll fixed to his breast was written, in large letters, "A spy!"

Then, again, his dead body was lying in a chapel, and close by, at an illuminated altar, appeared Lucette, with a bright train of fair girls, just about to give her hand to a cavalier much older than herself, whose face bore a strange resemblance to that of the man who had twice passed him in the corridor, and with a start he awoke, crying, "She is mine!"

It was already day; and but a few minutes went by ere Pierrot presented himself. "I have seen Jacques Beaupré, Master Ned," he said, "and I trust all is safe. That fellow is shrewd; and he vows that he has not said a word. He escaped the troopers at Mauzé, found his way to the castle, and gave up the bags to Monsieur le Prince de Soubise. The prince opened them without any ceremony, took out a letter to himself, read it, and then sent him on with one of the bags, telling him to find you out at all risks. He was stopped immediately he reached Nantes; but he vows, even to my face, that he only knows you as Sir Peter Apsley; though I heard good old syndic Tournon call you by your right name to him himself. He says that the prince put several letters into the bag with the money and the clothes; and there is the only danger."

"How did you contrive to see him?" asked Edward, abruptly; for he feared every moment to be interrupted.

"Why, sir, there are various sorts of detention," said Pierrot: "there is imprisonment au plus grand secret; there is imprisonment au secret; there is simple arrest and imprisonment; there is surveillance; but there is nothing more. Now, as you, Master Ned, are simply under surveillance, they have left me, as your servant, to roam about as I please; and I made the best use of my time. Jacques Beaupré, I found——"

But, as he spoke, Monsieur de Tronson's valet entered, to tell Edward that breakfast would be served to him in a moment, and began to set the room in order. Edward tried to get rid of him, perhaps too apparently; but he did not succeed. In vain the young gentleman hinted that the tailor had not brought the clothes he had promised. The man replied, coolly, that he would seek him as soon as the breakfast was served; and, before there could be any further question upon the subject, two lackeys and a page appeared. Before the breakfast was carried away, the tailor was in the room; and before Edward was fairly dressed in his new apparel, Monsieur de Tronson himself appeared, and sent every one from the room,—Pierrot amongst the rest.

"I come to tell you," said the secretary, "that his Eminence will receive you at ten o'clock;" and then, after a short pause, during which he seemed to think deeply, he added, "If you will allow me, sir, as a friend, to advise you, you will deal in every thing frankly and sincerely with the cardinal. Men are often much mistaken as to his character. Deceit and trickery upon the part of his enemies have of course made him suspicious; but candor is soon perceived by him, and always appreciated."

"I really do not know to what you particularly refer," replied Edward; "but I shall certainly answer any questions his Eminence chooses to propound to me truly."

"That is well," said the other, somewhat dryly. "But will you answer me one question? Is not Mademoiselle de Mirepoix a near relation of the Duchess de Chevreuse? Reply frankly, I beg of you."

"I do not know," answered Edward, at once. "I only know that she is connected with the Prince de Soubise, and——"

"The same, the same," said his companion, interrupting him. "That is rather unfortunate; for neither Madame de Chevreuse nor the prince are in good odor at this court."