"A good philosophy, upon my word," said Edward. "But now our thought must be, where we can find Monsieur de Soubise."

"You might as well try to ride in a carriage after a hawk," answered Jacques: "he is here and there and everywhere in a day. But Monsieur de Rohan you will find more easily. He is probably at St. Martin des Rivières, the little castle which, just in the fork of the two rivers, can be defended by a handful against an army."

"There, then, we must go," said Edward. "But it is strange, dear Lucette, that we have seen no one for the last three hours. I thought Monsieur de Tronson said he would rejoin us."

Edward little knew the multitude of events which were passing within the sombre walls of that chateau,—some great, some small, but all tending more or less to the promotion of those mighty results which were now marching on in France, all full of deep personal concern to the various personages around him, and amongst which the fate of himself and his Lucette was but as a petty interlude, which could excite nothing but a transient feeling of interest or amusement.

Half an hour more went by; and then was heard the sound of many feet passing along through some chamber near. At the end of above five minutes the door opened, and Monsieur de Tronson led in an elderly lady habited as if for a journey.

"Madame de Langdale," said the secretary of the cabinet, addressing Lucette, "Madame de Lagny, with whom you passed last night, will have the pleasure of accompanying you and Monsieur de Langdale on your journey. The carriage has been ready for an hour; but, the council having sat later than usual, I could not leave my post. Monsieur will do me the honor of accompanying me to his chamber below, where I will put him in possession of his money and his safe-conduct, together with his baggage, while you prepare for travelling, which, as it is, must, I fear, be protracted into the night."

Edward followed him down several flights of steps, conversing with him, as he went, upon the arrangements for their journey, telling him that he feared from his servant's information they would be obliged to proceed beyond Niort to St. Martin des Rivières, and that, consequently, at least two days more than he had calculated upon must pass ere he could fulfil the promise he had given to return.

But De Tronson seemed thoughtful and absent; for, in truth, he had just come from a painful scene;[3] and, although he heard, and answered all his young companion said, it was by an effort, and evidently without interest.

All the arrangements were soon made, however. Edward's property was restored to him; the tradesmen he and Lucette had employed were paid; and then the secretary led him to the little court, where stood one of the large clumsy carriages of the day with four tall horses. A stout man on horseback was also there, holding by the rein the horse which Jacques Beaupré had ridden to Nantes, and, as no beast had been provided for Pierrot, he mounted beside the coachman. Lucette and her companion were already in the vehicle, and, with a kind adieu from M. de Tronson, Edward took his place beside them, and the vehicle rolled on.

CHAPTER XXI.

It was a beautiful evening in July when the carriage which contained Lucette, Edward, and Madame de Lagny arrived in sight of the chateau of St. Martin des Rivières; but, when they did come in sight, how to get at it became a question of some difficulty. There, on a little mound, stood the building,—not large, but apparently very massive and well fortified,—within a hundred yards of the confluence of two deep and rapid rivers, the passage of each commanded by the guns on the ramparts and on the keep. No bridge, no boat, was to be seen, and for some time the party of visitors made various signals to the dwellers in the chateau; but it was all in vain, and at length Edward Langdale resolved to mount the good strong horse of Jacques Beaupré and swim the nearest stream.

Educated in a city, it was not without terror and a sweet, low remonstrance that Lucette saw her young husband undertake and perform a feat she had never seen attempted before; but Edward, though borne with his horse a good way down the stream by the force of the water, reached the other side in safety, and his companions could see him ride to the draw-bridge and enter the castle.

During some twenty minutes nothing further could be descried; and then, at a point where one of the outworks came down to the river, what I think was called in those days a water-gate was opened, and a boat shot out with two strong rowers.

Edward Langdale himself did not appear; but one of the boatmen walked up to the carriage and informed the ladies that his lord, the Duc de Rohan, would be happy to receive them in the chateau, but that the carriage and the men must remain on that side of the river, as the boat could only contain four persons and none other could be had.

"Ah, that is the reason Monsieur de Langdale did not return for us," said Madame de Lagny, with whom Edward had become a great favorite. "I was sure he had too much politeness to send servants for his lady if he could come himself."

A few minutes passed in placing Lucette's little wardrobe in the boat, and then, with a heart somewhat faint and sad, she followed Madame de Lagny to the water-side, remembering but too acutely that on the opposite bank she was to be received by persons who, however near akin, were but strangers to her, and there, too, very soon to part from him whom she was not now ashamed to own to herself she loved better than any one on earth.

The boat shot off from the shore, and though carried so far down by the force of the current that the water-gate could not be reached, yet after some hard pulling the shore was gained, and the two ladies turned toward the drawbridge over which they had seen Edward Langdale pass. Madame de Lagny looked toward the great gate, but the young husband did not appear. In his place, however, was seen a stout middle-aged man, with hair somewhat silvered, and his breast covered by a plain corslet of steel. There were two or three other persons a step farther under the arch; and Madame de Lagny whispered, "That must be the duke himself. But where can Monsieur Edward be?"

Lucette's heart was asking her the same question; but by this time the Duc de Rohan was advancing to meet her and her companion, and in a moment more he was near enough to take Madame de Lagny's hand and raise it courteously to his lips.

"You have come to a rude place, madame," he said, "and among somewhat rude men; but we must do what we can to make your stay tolerable."

"Oh, my lord duke," replied the lady, with a courtly inclination of the head, "I must away as soon as possible. I am expected back at the court directly. But where is Monsieur de Langdale? I do not see him."

"He is in the chateau, madame," replied the duke; "but he has been telling me so strange a tale that I have judged it best, before he and this—["girl," he was in the act of saying; but he checked himself, and substituted the words "young lady"]—before he and this young lady meet again, to have from her lips and from yours what are the facts of the case. Pray, let us go in."

"The facts of the case are very simple, my lord," replied the old lady, with some stiffness. "Monsieur de Langdale is the husband of this young lady, formerly Mademoiselle de Mirepoix, whom you do not seem to recognise, my lord duke, though she is your near of kin. He married her in the presence of the cardinal and the whole court."

"More impudent varlet he!" exclaimed the duke, angrily. "And you, mademoiselle,—what have you to say to all this fine affair? Why, you are a mere child! This marriage can never stand!—without any one's consent! It is a folly!"

"Not at all, duke," said Madame de Lagny. "Pray, recollect, sir, that Madame de Rambouillet was married at twelve,—I myself at sixteen. Madame is nearly fifteen, she tells me; and, as to the marriage not standing, you will find yourself much mistaken. The man who made it is not one to leave any thing he undertakes incomplete, as you will discover. They are as firmly married as any couple in the land, and that with the full authority of the king, which in this realm of France supersedes the necessity for any other consent whatever. She is a ward of the crown, sir; and her father having died in rebellion is no bar to the rights of the monarch."

"Madame, I beseech you, use softer words," said the duke, in a calmer tone. "My good cousin De Mirepoix died in defence of his religion, without one thought of rebellion, and really in the service of his Majesty, whose plighted word had been violated not by himself, but by bad ministers who usurped his name. Make room, gentlemen. This way, madame. We shall find in this hall a more private place for our conference."

So saying, he led the way into the large room in the lower story of the keep, and there begged Madame de Lagny to be seated. Lucette he took by the arm and gazed into her face for a moment, saying,—

"Yes; she is very like. Here, take this stool, child: we have no fauteuils here. Now, answer my question. What had you to do with this marriage? Did it take place at his request or yours?"

Lucette's heart had at first sunk with alarm and disappointment at the harsh reception she had received, having little idea what a chattel—what a mere piece of goods—a rich orphan relation was looked upon amongst most of the noble families of France. But the very harshness which had terrified her at first at length roused her spirit; and, though she colored highly, she replied, in a firm tone, "At neither his request nor mine, my lord."

"Ah! good!" cried the duke. "Then neither of you consented? The marriage of course——"

"We did both consent," said Lucette, interposing. "Did he not tell you the circumstances? Did he not give you the cardinal's message?"

"He told me a good deal, and he said something about the Eminence; but, by my faith, I was so heated by the tale that I did not much attend to the particulars. Let me hear your story, mademoiselle. What did the cardinal say?"

"My lord, we had been stopped near Mauzé by some of the royal officers, and sent on under guard toward Nantes——"

"Oh, I know all about that," interrupted the duke. "What have you been doing since? I trust, not masquerading about Nantes dressed up as a page; though, by my faith, ladies are now getting so fond of men's clothes that they will soon leave us none to wear ourselves. Why, there was my good cousin De Chevreuse, with her young daughter, rode across the country, both in cavaliers' habits, and, finding no other gîte, stayed all night with the good simple curé of the parish, who never found out they were women till they were gone. Well, where have you been, and what have you been doing, since that affair at Mauzé?"

"The Abbey de Moreilles was burned by lightning, my lord," replied Lucette, whose cheek had not lost any part of its red from De Rohan's language. "We escaped into the Marais, where I was taken ill of the fever common there. As soon as I could travel, we went direct to Nantes, intending to come round at once and seek for Monsieur de Soubise. In consequence of his having sent a man with some of my husband's baggage to that city, we were discovered and arrested."

"Your husband, little child?" exclaimed the duke. "But go on; go on. What happened next?"

"I was separated from Edward, who had treated me with the kindness of a brother," said Lucette.

"Ay, I dare say," again interrupted De Rohan;—"with something more than the kindness of a brother."

"For shame, Monsieur le Duc!" said Madame de Lagny, sharply. "You said very truly just now that we had come to a rude place and amongst rude men. If the cardinal had known what sort of reception this poor lady would meet with, I am sure he would have followed the course Monsieur de Tronson hinted at and given her up to Madame de Chevreuse. There at least she would have been treated with respect and kindness."

At the mere name of Madame de Chevreuse the duke's countenance changed. Without knowing it, good old Madame de Lagny had touched a chord which was sure to vibrate in the heart of any of the Rohan Rohans as soon as one of the Rohan Montbazons was mentioned; and after a moment's pause the prince answered, with a very much less excited air, "His Eminence acted courteously and well in not giving up my fair young cousin to a lady who has no right to her guardianship, who was her father's enemy, whose conduct is not fit for the eyes of a young girl even to witness. But tell me, mademoiselle, what was the message his Eminence sent to my brother to account for his conduct in bestowing—in attempting to bestow—your hand upon an unknown English lad, who may be of good family or may not, but who is no match for any one of the name of Rohan?"

"He said, sir," answered Lucette, "that we were to tell you or the Prince de Soubise, whichever we might find, that, under the peculiar circumstances of the case,—by which, I presume, he meant our having travelled so long together,—the cardinal prime minister had judged it imperatively necessary we should be married, and had himself seen the ceremony performed; that for two years Edward should leave me with you, but that at the end of that time he should claim me and take me, and that all his Eminence's power should be exerted to give me to him. He added, in a lower tone, 'They will find me more difficult to frustrate than Madame de Chevreuse.'"

"That is true, as I live!" said the duke. "But yet this is hard. Why, girl, it will drive my brother Soubise quite mad,—if he be not mad already, as I sometimes think he is."

"His madness will not serve him much against the cardinal," said Madame de Lagny, dryly. "But, my lord, we must bring this discussion to an end, for it is growing dark, and I and Monsieur de Langdale must be treading our way back to Nantes. He is but, as it were, a prisoner upon parole; and I promised my cousin De Tronson I would make no delay."

"Madame, in all the agitation and annoyance this affair has cost me," said Rohan, "I have somewhat, I am afraid, forgotten courtesy. I ordered refreshments for you, indeed, as soon as I heard of your coming; but I did not remember to ask you to partake of them. They will be here in a moment."

"We can hardly stay," said the old lady. "But I beg, sir, you would let Monsieur Edouard be called, both to accompany me and to take leave of his wife."

The duke bit his lips; but after a moment's thought he answered, "Pray, madame, take some refreshment. As to this lad, he may come and wish her good-bye; but no private interview, if you please!"

The old marquise was a good deal offended at all that had passed, and it was not without satisfaction she replied, "Oh, I dare say they have said all to each other they want to say, Monsieur le Duc. They have had private interviews enough since their marriage to make all their arrangements. Is it not so, dear Lucette?"

But Lucette was weeping, and De Rohan, with a cloudy brow, quitted the room.

In a few moments some refreshments were brought in and placed upon the table, and the duke appeared, accompanied by Edward Langdale. The youth's look was serious, and even angry, but that of De Rohan a good deal more calm. "Sit down, monsieur, and take some food," said the latter as they entered; but Edward answered at once, "I neither eat nor drink in your house, sir. I did you and your family what service I could, honestly and faithfully; and—because, under force I could not resist, and to save myself and your fair cousin from a fate which you would not have wished to fall upon her nor I wish to encounter for myself, I yielded to a measure which God and she know I never proposed when it was fully in our power—you treat me with indignity. You much mistake English gentlemen, sir, if you suppose that such conduct can be forgotten in a few short minutes."

"By the Lord!" said De Rohan, with a laugh, "it is well you did not meet with Soubise; for you might have had his dagger in you for half what you have said."

"Or mine in him, if he had insulted me further," answered Edward, walking toward Lucette and taking her hand.

"A pretty bold gallant," said the duke, with a smile. "Madame de Lagny, I pray you, do more honor to my poor house than your young friend."

Now, it must be confessed, the good old lady was hungry; and hunger is an overruling passion. The duke helped her to food and wine, and then, having done what second thoughts had shown him was only courteous to a lady, he turned, under the influence of the same better thoughts, toward Edward, who was still talking in a whisper to Lucette, while she, on her part, could hardly answer a word for weeping.

"Young gentleman," said De Rohan, holding out his hand, "do not let us part bad friends. Remember, first, that if there be any validity in this marriage it is always better to keep well with a wife's relatives; and, secondly, that one of my house, above all others, may well feel mortified and enraged at an alliance which under no circumstances we could have desired or sanctioned. Recollect our family motto,—'Roi ne puis; prince ne daigne: Rohan je suis;' and pride is not so bad a thing as you may think it now. If it be pride of a right kind, it keeps a man from a world of meannesses. As to this young lady, I will take care of her, and, now that my first fit of passion is past, will treat her kindly. Be sure of that, Lucette; for I have even got a notion, by some bad experience, that a portion of love is no evil in the cup of matrimony. However, the question of this marriage must be a matter of consultation between my brother Soubise and myself, and the lawyers too; for I will not conceal from either of you that Soubise, who has more to do with the business than I have, will break it if he can."

Edward took the proffered hand; but he only replied, "His Eminence the cardinal said that he had made it so fast there was no power on earth or in hell to break it. But that must be determined hereafter, my lord duke. At the end of two years I will claim my wife. In the mean time, where is Monsieur de Soubise?"

"Go not near him! go not near him!" said De Rohan. "By my honor, there would be blood-shed soon! He is at Blavet, I fancy, now, on his way to England; but I will write to him this night, and, if possible, you shall have his answer at Nantes. You must not expect any thing very favorable to your pretensions; but, whatever it is, it shall be sent."

"My lord, if I might ask one favor, I would do it," said Edward. "It is this. From what you have yourself said, and from what others have told me, I infer that Monsieur de Soubise is of no very placable nor temperate disposition. He himself has had some share in producing both what you look upon as a misfortune and what had nearly proved the destruction of Lucette and myself, by sending—with very good intentions, doubtless, but I think very unadvisedly—letters and other matters to the very residence of the court, which betrayed our coming to his Eminence the cardinal. Had that not been done, we should in all probability have passed without question, and I should have been able to restore this dear girl to her relations as Mademoiselle de Mirepoix. As it is, my wife she is and must remain; but I would rather that she was under your care than that of the prince, for she has this evening suffered too much for an event, which she could not avoid without dooming herself and me to destruction; and I would fain that the same or perhaps more should not be inflicted upon her from another quarter. Lucette will explain to you much that I have not time to tell, for I see Madame de Lagny has risen, and it is growing so dark that I fear we must depart."

"I can promise nothing," said the duke, "but that I will do my best."

Thus saying, he turned toward Madame de Lagny, who by this time had some lights on the table before her, and addressed to her all those ceremonious politenesses which no one knew better how to display, when not moved by passion, than the Duc de Rohan.

In the mean time, Edward and Lucette remained at the darker side of the room; but, had it been the broadest daylight, their natural feelings would have suffered little restraint. The contrast of Edward's love and tenderness with the cold harshness of her own relations made all her affections cling closer round him than ever, and she hung upon his breast and mingled kisses with his, while the tears covered her cheeks and sobs interrupted her words. "Oh, Edward," she said, "I wish to Heaven that I were indeed but the grandchild of good Clement Tournon, of Rochelle, as you once thought me! We might be very happy then."

Mingled with his words of politeness to Madame de Lagny, the duke had been giving some orders to his own attendants; and at length he said, "Now, young gentleman, it is time to depart. Madame is ready."

One last, long embrace, and Edward advanced to the side of the duke. He did not venture to look at Lucette again, but followed Rohan and Madame de Lagny closely into the outer hall, thence through a small court and a place d'armes, in each of which were a number of soldiers fully armed, and then by a covered way to the water-gate, to which point the small boat had by this time been brought round. There was still a faint light upon the river; but a lantern had been placed lighted in the bow of the boat, and in a few minutes the old lady and her young companion were landed on the other side. One of the boatmen lighted them up to the carriage, and Edward, after bestowing a piece of money upon the man, took his seat beside Madame de Lagny, who gave orders to proceed toward Nantes, stopping, however, at the first auberge where any thing like tolerable accommodation could be found.

"Ah, poor Monsieur de Rohan!" she said, with perhaps not the most compassionate feelings in the world. "He is much to be pitied; and, indeed, he ought to feel, as he said, that some love in marriage is a very good ingredient. He ought to know it by experience; for his own good-for-nothing dame cares not, and never did care, for him; and it is the common phrase in Paris that she has so large a heart she can find room in it for everybody except her husband. Why, I know at least ten lovers she has had besides the Duc de Candale, who is more her slave than her lover, and who"——

Just at that moment, the horses having been put to, the coachman gave a sharp crack of his the whip, the coach a tremendous jolt, and Madame de Lagny brought her story to an end, somewhat to the relief of her young companion.

CHAPTER XXII.

For the first time in life—and it was very early to begin—Edward Langdale felt that loneliness of heart which parting for an indefinite time from one we dearly love produces in all but the very light or the very hard. He had never loved before; he had never even thought of love; but now he loved truly and well. He might not indeed have loved even now, for he and Lucette were both so young that the idea might not have come into the mind of either; but their love had been a growth rather than a passion; and, as the reader skilled in such mysteries must have seen, it had been watered and trained and nourished by all those accidents which raise affection from a small germ to a beautiful flower. First, she had nursed him so tenderly that he could not but feel grateful to her; then she had been cast upon his care in dangers and difficulties of many kinds, so that deep interest in her had sprung up. Then, again, she was so beautiful, in her first fresh youth, that he could not but admire what he protected and cherished. Then she was so innocent, so gentle, so ductile, and yet so good in every thought, that he could not but esteem and reverence what he admired. Then had come his turn of nursing, and the interest became warmer, more tender; and at length, when the mere thought of stating, in order to account for their companionship, that they sought to be married first entered the mind of each, it let a world of light into their hearts, and the whole was pointed, directed, confirmed, by the sudden ceremony which bound them together. They had promised at the altar to love each other forever, and they felt that they could keep their word.

But Edward, as he rolled along by the side of Madame de Lagny, could not help asking himself painful questions: "I shall love her ever," he said to himself; "but she is so young, so very young,—a mere child! Will her love last through a long separation? will not her feelings change with changing years? does she even love me now as I love her?"

Luckily he asked himself the last question, for it went some way to answer the others to his satisfaction. There had been something in her embrace, in her kiss, in her eyes, in her clinging tenderness, which told him that she did love as he did; and he, feeling, or at least believing, that he would love still, however long they might be separated, learned to credit the sweet tale of Hope and believe that she would love constantly too.

Nevertheless, he felt very sad; and yet he exerted himself eagerly and successfully to make the journey pass as pleasantly as he could to poor Madame de Lagny, who, though she had not undertaken her disagreeable task out of any affection to either Edward or Lucette, but merely in obedience to the wishes of Richelieu, had learned to love both her young companions, and had taken their part sincerely in the discussion with the Duc de Rohan. She was both a keen-sighted and a clear-minded old lady; and she saw well the gloomy sadness of Edward Langdale, and understood its cause; but she saw likewise that he was making every effort to show her courteous attention; and no old women are ever ungrateful for the attention of young men.

For three days the weary journey back to Nantes continued; and in that time the good marquise contrived to store the young Englishman's mind with many of her own peculiar apothegms, some good and some indifferent, but all the fruit of much worldly experience grafted upon a keen and sensible mind.

"Never despair, my son," she said. "Many a man is lighted on his way by a candle; nobody by a stone. Of a misfortune you can remove, think as much as you like; of a situation you cannot change, think as little as possible. If you have a marsh to go through, gallop as fast as you can; and, if you have a heavy hour, fill it with action. A wasp will not sting you if you do not touch it; and we do not feel sorrow when we do not think of it."

Such were a few of the old lady's maxims, and one of them struck Edward Langdale's fancy very much. "If you have a marsh to go through," he repeated to himself, "gallop as fast as you can; and, if you have a heavy hour, fill it with action." He thought that the next two years would indeed be a marsh to him, and he resolved to gallop through them as fast as he could. But there was one sad reflection which he could not banish, one point in his situation which gave him anxiety rather than pain. He knew not how to hold any communication with his young bride. He was well aware that every effort would be made to prevent it. Lucette had been once sent to England to keep her out of the hands of the Duchesse de Chevreuse: where might she not be sent now? Her two cousins Soubise and Rohan were constantly roving from place to place, and there was as little chance of any letter from him finding her as of any news of where she was reaching him.

The old fable of Midas telling his misfortune to the reeds is founded upon a deep knowledge of human nature. Man must have some one to share the burden of heavy thoughts, and Edward told his to Madame de Lagny. The old lady was better than the reeds, for she whispered consolation. "I can help you but little, my son," she said; "but, if you could attach yourself to the cardinal, he could help you a great deal. However, I will do the best I can for you and the dear child your little wife. If you want to write to her, send your letter to me at the court, wherever it is, and the letter shall reach her sooner or later. I will find means to let her know that she must send hers to me likewise, and they shall reach you; if you will keep me always informed of where you are."

Edward not only pressed her hand, but kissed it; and not five minutes after, when they were within ten miles of the city of Nantes, a man came riding at full speed after the carriage, drew up his horse at the great leathern excrescence called the portière, and asked, in a brusque tone, if Monsieur Langdale was in the coach.

"Yes; I am he," answered Edward. "What want you with me?"

"A letter," replied the man. And, handing in a sealed packet, he turned his horse's head and rode away.

It was still early in the day, and the youth, breaking open the letter, read the contents. They ran thus:—

"My Lord and Brother:—

"On the wing for England, I have received your letter. Tell the insolent varlet that he shall never see her face again, the devil and the pope and the cardinal to boot, or my name is not "Soubise."

Edward's brow became fearfully contracted, and he muttered, "At the end of the earth."

"Show it to me! show it to me!" exclaimed Madame de Lagny, who was not without her share of woman's curiosity. "What is it makes you look so angry, my son?"

Edward handed her the letter, and she read it with attention, but not with the indignation he expected to see. On the contrary, she seemed pleased and amused. "Let me keep this," she said. "Methinks that Monsieur de Soubise may find the triple alliance of the devil, the pope, and the cardinal to boot somewhat too much for him. The cardinal alone might be enough, without two such powerful auxiliaries. But let me keep it. It can be of no value to you."

"Oh, none!" answered Edward. "Keep it if you will, madame. But the Prince de Soubise shall find that, if he have a strong will, I have a strong will also; and, if he have some advantages, we have youth and activity and resolution."

"And the Cardinal de Richelieu," said Madame de Lagny, emphatically: "he is not the man to leave any work incomplete, nor to be bearded by any one. However, we must be near Nantes by this time. Now let us consider what your course is to be when we arrive."

The good marquise then proceeded to indoctrinate her young companion with all the forms of a court, which, though not so rigid as they afterward became,—for Louis XIV. was the father of etiquette,—were sufficiently numerous and arbitrary to puzzle a young man like Edward. He found that, although he had once by the force of circumstances won easy access to the cardinal prime minister, he had now various ceremonies to go through before he could hope for an audience. To call, to put down his name and address in a book, to see principal and secondary officers, and to give as it were an abstract of his business, were all proceedings absolutely necessary, Madame de Lagny thought, before he could see the cardinal; and Edward, with a faint smile, asked her if she did not think it would be better for him to commit a little treason as the shortest way to the minister's presence.

"Heaven forbid!" cried the old lady. "But in the mean time you must go to an auberge near the chateau, where his Eminence can find you at any moment." And she proceeded to recommend the house of an excellent man, who had been cook to poor Monsieur de Lagny, and now, she assured Edward, kept the very best auberge in Nantes.

At length the city was reached, and the coach drove straight to the castle, where Madame de Lagny took a really affectionate leave of Edward and retired to her own apartments. The young Englishman then proceeded to inquire for Richelieu, found he was absent at a small distance from the town, and, having written his name in a book, betook himself to the inn which his travelling-companion had mentioned. In the court of the castle he had seen no one but a guard or two and some servants at the door of the hall. In the great place there was hardly a human being to be seen,—no gay cavaliers on horseback or on foot, no heavy carrosse with its crowd of laquais. At the other side of the square, indeed, near the end of the little street which led toward the dwelling of Monsieur de Tronson, was a group of workmen; and another larger group just appeared beyond some buildings close by the river-side. But, altogether, the whole town had a melancholy and deserted look. A sort of ominous silence reigned around, too, which Edward felt to be very depressing to the spirits, especially in a country celebrated even then for the light hilarity of its population.

The inn, however, was fresh-looking and clean, and the landlord, who soon appeared, although he was not at the entrance as usual when the coach stopped, was the perfection of a French aubergist,—as polished as a prince, and full of smiles. While Pierrot la Grange and Jacques Beaupré stayed by the carriage, at their master's desire, to take out the little sum of his baggage and to bestow a small gratuity upon the coachman, the host led his guest up to a large, somewhat gloomy chamber floored with polished tiles, recommended his fish—the best in the world—and his poultry, which he asseverated strongly were the genuine production of Maine, and took the young gentleman's pleasure as to his dinner.

He had hardly gone when the two servants appeared, bringing various articles; but their principal load was evidently in the mind. The face of Pierrot, which temperate habits had not yet improved in fatness, though it had become somewhat blanched in hue, was at least three inches longer since they entered Nantes; and Jacques Beaupré, always solemn even in the midst of his fun, was now not only solemn, but gloomy.

"I wish we were safe out of this place, sir," said Pierrot, shutting the door after him. "It is a horrible place!"

"What is the matter?" asked Edward: "the whole town looks sad, and you both seem to have caught the infection."

"Did not the landlord tell you, sir?" said Jacques Beaupré. "I thought landlords always told all they knew, and a little more. But I suppose he has lived long enough near a court to keep his tongue in his mouth, for fear somebody should cut it out."

"The matter, sir, is this," said Pierrot: "the poor young Count de Chalais, who was confined in the dungeons close under the room where they put you, has been condemned to die this morning,—they say, for a few light words."

"Indeed!" said Edward, with a somewhat sickening memory of the dangers he himself had seen: "that is very sad. But probably the king will pardon him."

"Oh, not he," answered Pierrot: "they say the poor countess, his mother, has moved heaven and earth to save him, without the least effect. His head is probably off by this time."

"No, no; that cannot be," rejoined Jacques: "did not the boy tell us that the two executioners had both been spirited away?"

"Yes, but he said that a soldier—a prisoner—had been found to undertake the job," answered Pierrot. "Oh, it is a bad business, Master Ned! They say the queen herself has been brought before the council, and the Duke of Anjou threatened with death, and half the court exiled, and the cardinal in such a humor that——"

"That every one as he walks along is feeling his ears, to be sure that there is any head upon his shoulders," added Jacques Beaupré. "Would it not be better for you, sir, to go to that good Monsieur de Tronson, and be civil to him, and make as many friends as possible?"

Edward paused in thought for a moment, and then replied, "That is well bethought, Beaupré; for though I think I have nothing to fear, yet in common courtesy I owe my second visit to one who has been so kind to me. I will go directly. Let the landlord know that I may be a little later than I mentioned at dinner."

Edward put on his hat and went out into the place, taking care to mark particularly the position of the auberge, that he might not be forced to inquire his way in a town where so many dangers lurked on every side. The road to Monsieur de Tronson's house was easy; and, crossing the square, the young gentleman directed his course toward the end of the street where, when passing in the coach, he had seen a crowd of workmen, who were still gathered round a spot about a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards in advance. On approaching nearer, Edward caught sight of a platform of wood raised some eight or ten steps from the ground. He could only discern a part, for the people had gathered thickly round; but, though he had never before seen the preparations for a public execution, it flashed through his mind at once that this was the scaffold on which the unhappy Chalais was to suffer. To avoid the terrible scene, he turned toward the left; but, just as he was approaching the end of the street, a shout came up from the water-side and a dull rushing sound from the southeast. A large crowd poured into the square from both sides; and before Edward could escape he was caught by the two currents and forced along to within thirty yards of the scaffold. He tried to free himself and force his way out, but a warning voice sounded in his ear.

"Be quiet, young gentleman," said an elderly man close by, speaking in a low tone. "This young count has to die, and, if he be your best friend, take no notice. Suspicion is as good as proof here just now. Look where he comes!"

Edward turned his eyes in the direction to which the old man was looking, and beheld a sight which was but a mere prologue to the horrors that were to follow, but which could never be banished from his memory. Surrounded by a body of guards came a tall, handsome young man, without his cloak, as if he had been torn from his dungeon unprepared, but still showing, in such habiliments as he did wear, all the extravagant splendor of the times. By his side, with her hand passed through his arm, as if to support him, and pouring a torrent of words into his ear, was an elderly lady in a widow's dress. Her face and carriage were noble and dignified, though lines of past grief and present anguish were strongly marked upon her countenance; but when she lifted her eyes toward the scaffold, and beheld there a stout, bad-looking man leaning on a large, heavy sword, a sort of spasm passed over her features.

"That is his mother," whispered the same voice which Edward had heard before.

Behind the mother and the son came the confessor, a dull-faced, heavy monk; and then a good number of guards, and one or two men in black robes,—probably exempts, or other inferior officers of the court. But the eyes of Edward Langdale were fixed upon the mother and her son; and the thought of his own dear mother gave him the power—I might almost call it the faculty—of sympathizing with the noble-minded woman, to a degree that made the whole scene one of actual agony.

"I wish I could get out," he said, speaking to the old man, who was jammed up against him: "this is horrible. Can you not make way?"

"Try to force your way through the castle-wall," replied the other, cynically: "you have but to see a man die, young gentleman."

"Ay, but how?" said Edward.

"By the sword," said the old man: "it is an interesting sight,—much better than by the cord. I have seen every execution that has taken place in the city for twenty years. Perhaps I may see yours some day. They are fine sights,—the only sights that interest me now; but this is likely to be a bungled business, for the old countess there bribed both the executioners to get out of the way, and this fellow does not understand the trade. He is paler than the criminal. See how he shakes!"

Edward raised his eyes for an instant and saw the unhappy mother supporting her luckless son up the very steps of the scaffold,—not that he wanted aid, for his step was firm and his look bold and frowning. There was a fearful sort of fascination in the sight; and the lad gazed on till he saw the last embrace taken and the young count make a sign and speak a word to the executioner. Then he withdrew his eyes, till, a moment after, there was a shrill cry of anguish and a murmur amongst the crowd; and he looked up again only to see the wretched young man, all bleeding, leaning his wounded head upon his mother's bosom.

The executioner had missed his stroke. Again and again he missed it. He complained of the sword: a heavier one was handed up to him; but still his shaking arm refused to perform its hideous office, till, after more than thirty blows,[4] the head of the unhappy young man was literally hacked off, almost at his mother's feet.

The noble woman raised her hands and her eyes to heaven, exclaiming, "I thank thee, O God, that my son has died a martyr and not a criminal!"

The last acts of the terrible drama Edward did not see. He felt as if his heart would burst with the mingled feelings of indignation and horror which all he had beheld awakened; and after the second or third blow he kept his eyes resolutely bent down, till the pressure of the crowd relaxed as the spectators of the bloody scene began to disperse. Then, sick at heart, and with a strange feeling of hatred for the world, he turned his steps back to the inn. He was in no mood for conversation with any one.

CHAPTER XXIII.

"Ha! you were there!" exclaimed the secretary, suddenly roused from the sort of listless mood in which he seemed plunged when Edward entered. "What happened? Tell me all. But first shut that door, if you please. I am ill, or I would not trouble you; but it is well to have no listening ears in this place, whatever one has to say."

Edward closed the door, and, although unwillingly, detailed all that he had witnessed of the execution of the unhappy Chalais.

De Tronson was moved far more than the young man expected. He put his hand over his eyes, murmuring, "Poor lady! Unhappy young man!" and Edward thought he saw some tears steal down his cheek. "I call God to witness," he exclaimed, at length, "that I had no share in this affair! Though my relations with Monsieur de Chalais were very slight, I would have saved him if I could,—saved him from himself, I mean."

He sank into silence; and, to change the conversation, Edward said, "I would have been here earlier this morning, but I thought you would probably be at the council."

"There will be no council to-day," replied the secretary, shaking his head: "we are all made sick by this affair. It has been like one of those epidemic blasts that sweep over the marshes, filling every one they touch with fever. I did not know you had waited on his Eminence: that was what I alluded to,—not a mere formal visit to me. That was all well; but you had better let him know that you are here. I know not that he will see you; but you must show every token of respect—especially just now."

"Shall I go to his apartments, then?" asked Edward.

"No, no," said De Tronson, with somewhat of the petulance of illness: "call a servant."

The servant was soon called, and De Tronson bade him go to the apartment of his Eminence. "Seek out one of his secretaries," he said, "and, if you cannot find one, ask for his chaplain. Request him to present my duty to the cardinal and tell him that Monsieur de Langdale, the young English gentleman he knows of, is with me, waiting his Eminence's pleasure. Say I would have come myself, but I am ill of fever."

The man retired and was absent only a few minutes ere he returned with the simple words, "His Eminence cannot be interrupted to-day." Edward heard the reply with regret; for time was passing away, his journey was just beginning when those who sent him imagined it was ended, and his funds were diminishing every hour. But, even while taking leave of Monsieur de Tronson and expressing a sincere hope that he would soon be better, a servant in purple livery entered, and, bowing to Monsieur de Tronson, announced that his Eminence would see Monsieur de Langdale.

"Go, go! quickly!" said De Tronson, in a low voice; "but be careful." And Edward followed the attendant from the room.

"Now for my fate," thought the young man, as he crossed the little bridge over the moat. "Such scenes as that of yesterday harden rather than soften. Methinks I could meet death more easily now than I could have done four-and-twenty hours ago. Yet why should I think the cardinal wishes me ill? He has been kind to me, however cruel he may be to others. But why should I call him cruel? I know nothing of that young count's guilt or innocence; and the horrid accessories of his fate were certainly none of the minister's devising."

Thus thinking, he followed through the long passages of the castle till he came to a door where stood one of the cardinal's guard, and there the servant paused and knocked. A page opened it, and to his guidance Edward was consigned. He was then led through an ante-room, and then through the room where he had seen Richelieu before, to another smaller chamber, where he once more found himself in the presence of the man whose life and power were so often in the balance, but whose will in reality, from that time forward, was fate in France.

Richelieu, though habited in clerical garb, was in what may be called half-dress, and the robe de chambre which he wore above his cassock was of bright colors and a mere mundane form. His pointed beard, or royal, as it was then called, with the dark mustache and the rich lace collar, which might have suited any gay cavalier of the court, also had a very lay appearance; and at once it flashed across the mind of the young Englishman that he had seen him somewhere in another costume. Where, for an instant he could not recollect; but he had not half traversed the room before the magic power of association brought back a night not more than a week before, when, walking in one of the corridors of that very chateau, he had met a man descending to the dungeons in which the unhappy Chalais was confined; and that man was before him. He shuddered when his mind instinctively combined the visit of that night with the scene of the day before; but in the look and manner of the cardinal at that moment there was nothing to inspire awe or indicate any cruelty or even harshness of character. His face was grave,—very grave; but with a mild gravity much like that of the famous bust which is, perhaps, the only good likeness of that extraordinary man. In his hand was a book,—the famous Imitation of Christ; but he had let it drop upon his knee when the door opened; and one who did not know him would have said, to see him, "There is some calm student of theology a little disturbed by being interrupted."

"Come in, young gentleman, and take a seat," said Richelieu, as the page closed the door. "You have kept your word well with me, I find."

"I always try to do so, my lord cardinal," replied Edward, seating himself near the minister.

"Lord cardinal!" said Richelieu, with a faint smile: "that is English, and somewhat Roman too. But what matters it? You heretics from the other side of the sea sometimes give us a lesson about dignities. Eminence! Any man can reach that title of right in other paths besides the Church, if he be wise, and brave, and firm,—ay, firm: he must be firm! Many a man who might be great, by some small weakness in his own nature yielded to, even once too often, mars all the results of higher qualities. Well, you have returned, as you promised; but you have come at a time when we are all sad,—very sad. I thought I would not see any one this morning, but take counsel with the only happy ones,—the dead. However, on second thoughts, I resolved to admit you, as you had performed your part of our bargain well, and your last conversation pleased me."

He spoke in a sort of meditative tone, and, when he stopped, Edward had nothing to reply but, "Your Eminence is gracious."

"Not so," answered Richelieu: "I am not gracious. I was not formed so by nature. I can be kind, I think, to those who love me,—affectionate, merciful; but graciousness implies some tenderness, and I am not tender. Nay, not even tender to myself; for I declare to Heaven that, did I find in my own heart the weakness that would yield right and justice to prayers and tears and entreaties, I would pluck out that heart and trample it under foot!"

His tone was somewhat vehement, and his eye sparkled; but after a moment or two all was calm again; and he asked, even with a smile, "What think you, young gentleman, men will say of me hereafter?"

"I have neither wisdom, your Eminence, nor experience sufficient to divine," answered Edward; "neither can any one say till a period, I trust, far, far distant."

"You mean when I am dead," said Richelieu. "Who can say how soon that may be? How long can a poor human frame bear the labors, the anxieties, the cares that I undergo,—the struggle against factions, the struggle against oneself, the crushing out of sympathies, the resistance of all kindly feelings, the endurance of ingratitude, falsehood, treachery, the malice and the envy of the many, the undeserved hatred of not a few? Happy the monk in his cloister! happy the ecclesiastic in his chair! Miserable, miserable is the man whom either personal ambition, or idle vanity, or the desire of serving his country, leads to the thorny paths of state or places on the tottering pinnacle of power!"

"Thank Heaven!" said Edward, interested deeply, "there can be no chance of my ever having to verify the truth of what your Eminence says."

"Who can tell?" rejoined Richelieu. "I have seen many rise to high place with less opportunity than you. I myself,—did I ever think at your age of being seated where I am now? You have talents, daring, firmness. Ambition grows like a worm upon a leaf, destroying what supports it. The moth may have laid its egg in your heart even now; and in ten years hence you may be what you dream not. But let us talk of other things. I am sorry you have come here just now, young gentleman."

"May I presume to ask why, my lord?" said Edward.

Richelieu paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then raised his keen dark eyes to the young man's face. "To answer you fully I must say what ought to flatter you and what cannot do so. You have pleased me; you have high qualities which I esteem; I think you will be faithful to any one to whom you attach yourself; and you have talents and courage to serve him well. But your mind is not clear enough, your experience is too little, your prejudices too great, for you to judge sanely of acts which have lately been done here. In bidding you return after your late journey and see me before you went farther, I wished to gain you to my service,—not by bribes, not by promises, but by winning your esteem and showing you friendship; and I can be a good friend. What is it that passes over your brow? I thought so: you judge I can be a deadly enemy also. Sir, I tell you, on my life and on my faith, I know no enemies but those of France. I have endured much, but I have never struck a blow but for the best interests of my king and my country. Even that young man who perished yesterday, had he not warning sufficient? Had I not passed over follies without number? Had I not forgiven designs against my own power and life? They were nothing so long as the safety of France was not involved. But when his pertinacious treason went into schemes to bring foreign troops into the land, to overthrow a mighty policy, to thwart his sovereign's will, to shake his throne, ay, and, perchance to touch his life, what were mercy but folly? what were clemency but treason?"

"I presume not, your Eminence," said Edward, bewildered by a conversation so strange and unexpected, "to judge even in my own heart of your conduct in circumstances of which I know nothing. I will own that a great part of the scene I was yesterday forced to witness struck me with horror; but even now, as I passed the bridge, I said to myself, 'I know nothing of that young man's guilt or innocence; and the dreadful accessories of his death were certainly not of the cardinal's devising.'"

"You did me that justice, did you?" said Richelieu, with a well-pleased look: "let me tell you, sir, there is many a man in France who will deny it to me. Ay, it was horrible, they tell me. But I had naught to do with that. Did I steal away the executioner of the court or of the city? Did I have any share in any of the details left to the common justice of the land? Inexorable I was bound to be, even to a mother's prayers and tears, though they wrung my heart. This court—this turbulent and factious court—needed an example; a traitor deserved a traitor's death. Both have been given; for there was not one mitigating circumstance, not one palliation or excuse. Death was his doom; but God knows, could I have spared one additional pang to his poor mother or to himself, I would have done it."

"Indeed, I believe you, my lord cardinal," replied Edward, moved by the apparent sincerity of the minister and the warmth and fire with which he spoke.

"And yet," said Richelieu, more calmly, "were it to be done over again, I would do it: nay, I will do it; for, though the medicine be strong, the malady of this land of France cannot be cured by a single dose. I will advise my king, as I have advised him, to show no mercy to persisting traitors. Let the blame fall on me: I care not. But save France!"

When men high in power have been forced into severe and terrible measures by motives which seem to them perfectly sufficient at the time, they sometimes feel a doubt when the execution of their purpose is over, and, though they may scorn to make a defence before the world, they will seek out some individual, however insignificant, who will listen while they plead their own cause,—apparently to him, but in reality to themselves. They will go over again all the reasoning, state all the motives afresh, which at first carried them forward, in order to prove to conscience that there was in the deed none of the selfishness which each human sinner of us all knows too well is in his own heart. Such, doubtless, was the case with Richelieu at the moment when the visit of Edward Langdale gave him the opportunity of justifying the death of Chalais to a foreign and impartial ear.

There might be a little deceit in this,—self-deceit; but in his eagerness, in the strong current of his language, and in the earnest vehemence of his manner, there was much that struck, ay, and captivated, his young companion. Let any one suppose himself in the presence of Cromwell or Cæsar,—and Richelieu was little less, if at all,—hearing him defend his most doubtful actions, and motive his most ruthless course, and they can conceive the sensations of Edward Langdale. Edward compared the cardinal to neither; but he knew that he was in the presence of the greatest and most powerful man who had yet appeared in that age,—a man famous for stern discretion and unfaltering firmness of purpose,—and that some strong and terrible emotions within him had led him to pour forth in his presence views, principles, purposes, but dimly discerned by any one at that time. It was a somewhat awful confidence Richelieu placed in him; and when the minister paused the youth knew not what to reply, but repeated, mechanically, not knowing why, the words, "Ay, save France!"

Richelieu gazed at him for a moment with his bright eyes, full of thought. It is known how, like most great men, he was somewhat superstitious, and, forgetting probably that he had himself used the words a moment before, he answered, "Young man, that is my oracle. Save France! I will, if it be in me, though a thousand heads should fall, and my own the last,—though it should cost a river of blood and a river of tears. I will save France. I will put her upon the pinnacle of countries, where she ought to stand; and after my day men shall say of her, 'This is the great leader of the nations, in arts, in science, and in arms.'"

He stopped and gazed into vacancy, as if he already saw the beautiful future of which he spoke, and then, as if feeling that the vehemence of his feelings had carried him beyond his usual reserve, he composed his countenance; the fire of the eye went out; the features, which had been much moved, became calm and still; and the phantasmagoric light which had covered his face with great images passed away, leaving almost a blank behind.

"Let us talk of what we were speaking about a few minutes since," he said, not losing the expression of sympathy and admiration which had come upon young Langdale's face. "I was referring to the possibility of your attaching yourself to me, and meriting and meeting higher honors and distinction than there seems any likelihood of your obtaining in your own country. I offer you no unworthy incentive, for, if I understand you, you are incapable of being moved by such; but I offer you my friendship. Have I not given you the best proof of it?—not by bestowing on you the hand of a noble French heiress,—that is nothing,—but by speaking to you as Richelieu rarely speaks to any one,—by showing you the things that lie within this bosom?"

Keen and acute as the young Englishman had become, he saw that he was perhaps in more danger now than he had ever been before; that he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and that the very confidence which the cardinal had accidentally placed in him was only the tottering stone which might fall and hurl him over the brink. Habitual boldness came to his aid, however. "Let me recall to your Eminence," he said, "that England and France are at war." A slightly scornful smile, at what he thought a subterfuge, curled Richelieu's lip. "I assure you, sir," continued Edward, earnestly, "that, were such not the case, I would grasp eagerly at an offer which can be rarely made to any one. I fear not danger, though I know your service might be dangerous, (pardon my plain speaking.) But on that score I should have no apprehension; for I am convinced that if that service proved fatal to me it would be by my own fault. But what your Eminence wants is one who will be faithful and true to you. What would you think of me if, at the first prospect of somewhat higher fortunes, I were not only to abandon my country, but to leave those who have treated me most kindly, educated, trusted me? Would not all the good opinions you have entertained of me vanish? Would you not view me as base, treacherous, worthless? Could you ever confide in me, esteem me more? Should I thenceforward be the man you want?"

"There is some truth in what you say," said the minister, slowly. "Yet, after what has passed, there may be something to consider. Are you aware, young gentleman, that I know more of you than I have seemed to know?—that I know all?"

"Yes," answered Edward, at once: "I have seen that some time. I know that if you were to hang me on that tree the world would hold you justified. But I do not think you will do it."

"Pshaw!" said Richelieu, "I care not for the world. But what makes you think I will not do it?"

"Because your Eminence has shown me the principles on which you act," said Edward; "and such a deed would not be within those principles. If you hanged me now, it would be because I refused to serve a country at war with my own,—not because I came into France under a false name and with the safe-conduct of another."

"Good," said the cardinal, "and true! But you forget another reason,—or from the idle babble of the day you may have learned to believe it not a good one: you do not mention that I promised to let you go on to your journey's end."

"I had forgotten it," said the lad; "but there might be many an excuse, or I may say reason, for passing over that promise. You may have learned more since you made it."

"Young man, do you wish to be hanged?" asked the cardinal, with a smile.

"Far from it, monseigneur," said Edward, gravely; "but I wish to act honestly and bravely. I told your Eminence that my only motive for not grasping eagerly at your generous proposal was, that France and England are at war, that if I now took service here you yourself could never trust me, and that I should feel myself unworthy of the trust of any one."

"That objection may be sooner removed than you imagine," said Richelieu. "Your gilded butterfly—your Buckingham—cannot flaunt it in the sunshine forever. Already he has plunged his monarch into difficulties which may, and will, produce sad consequences hereafter. An unnatural war of a brother-in-law against his wife's brother, for no reasonable cause, cannot long please the people of England. The Parliament—that handcuff of kings—is already screwing the bolt tighter; and we may leave it safely to compel a peace before your journey to the east is over. I will exact one promise from you, which keep as I keep mine. It is the only condition I put to your safety. Go on your way. Serve your lord faithfully: I will take no umbrage at that: then return to France as soon as you hear that peace is concluded between our two countries;—nay, I know you will return, for there is a lure you will not miss to follow, my young hawk; but come to visit me, and have your best hopes confirmed by serving one who can reward as well as punish. Do you promise me this?"

"I do, most readily," replied Edward, "and most gratefully thank your Eminence for kindness I have perhaps not deserved."

"You have deserved better by refusing me just now," said Richelieu, "than you would have done by yielding. I could not have trusted you. Go to, now. Men say that everybody must obey me, or I am a fiend. You have judged better of the Cardinal de Richelieu."

"You gave me the means of judging, my lord," said Edward; "if all men had the same, perhaps——"

"They would misconstrue me," said the minister. "But one thing remember: If, in an open and unguarded moment, I have been led to show you thoughts and feelings I do not usually suffer to appear, as you are a man of honor, you will keep them to yourself. Breathe not one word to any one of aught that has passed here. Say not to Lord Montagu, or any one, Richelieu says this, or, Richelieu said that. By this I will test your discretion."

"I will not forget," said Edward; "but, if I hear any one assail your Eminence's motives, I may be permitted, surely, to defend them by the means you yourself have afforded me."

"Let my motives take care of themselves, young man," said the minister, sternly. "You may say that the cardinal treated you well,—kindly, liberally,—and, although he had every right to stop you, sent you on to Lord Montagu, though he knew your errand and his. Compliment his lordship for me. And now farewell. I will to work. My spirit was somewhat crushed with care, anxiety, and thought; but I am better for this conversation."

Edward rose to retire, but the cardinal made him a sign to stay, saying, "I forgot to ask what reception you met from the fiery Soubise."

"I did not see the prince, my lord," replied Edward: "he had gone to the sea-coast. But we found the Duc de Rohan at Deux Rivières, and he was fiery enough. He calmed his passion before I left, however, and promised to convey what I had said to his brother, which he did, as I know by a letter sent after me by that nobleman himself."

"Ha! De Rohan is a good man, and might be a great one," said Richelieu: "he will be a loyal subject before two years have passed. As for Soubise, he is weak and full of passions. What said his letter?"

"It is in the hands of Madame de Lagny, my lord," replied Edward; "but I think I can repeat it word for word;" and he did so without omitting a syllable.

Richelieu listened attentively; and at the words, "Tell the insolent varlet that he shall never see her face again, the devil, the pope, and the cardinal to boot," he laughed low, remarking, "We will dispense with the devil, and need not trouble the pope: but the cardinal says you shall see her face again; and she shall be your wife in the face of the whole world, or my name is not Richelieu. One of the two brothers shall sign the contract, or both shall rot in exile. Now, fare you well, my young friend. The time is not far distant when not even a Huguenot prince shall dare to name me, or the pope either, in such company. Have you money sufficient?"

"Enough till I can get more, I thank your Eminence," replied Edward.

He would have made the same answer if he had possessed much less; for he would not have had any man say that he had received a livre from the cardinal, had it been to save him from starving. He was turning to depart; but the memory of all that great but terrible man had done for him within the last few days came flashing across his mind, and he paused, saying, with true emotion, "I will make no professions, my lord cardinal, but this: Your great and extraordinary kindness shall never be forgotten as long as Edward Langdale lives." Richelieu waved his hand, but with a well-pleased look, and the youth retired.

"I have heard of such long memories before," said the minister to himself. "Well, we shall see."