CHAPTER XIV

THE COUNCILLOR FLACHSINFINGEN

The next day after Létorière's visit to Dr. Sphex, there was an extraordinary disturbance in the house of the Aulic Councillor Flachsinfingen. It was eleven o'clock in the morning; Madame Martha Flachsinfingen, a large woman, about forty years of age, lean, pale, and solemn, clothed in a long brown dress, with a starched neckerchief and a kind of loose sack of black velvet, was conversing with her husband, the councillor, a great abdominous, rubicund man, with a jolly and simple look.

Enveloped in a Chinese silk dressing-gown, his head covered with a night-cap bound with a flame-colored ribbon, the councillor seemed to listen to his wife with mingled deference and impatience.

She held in her scraggy hands a note which she was reading for the second time, with profound attention, weighing each word.

This note read thus:

"Monsieur the Marquis of Létorière will have the honor of presenting himself at noon, to-day, to Madame la Conseillère de Flachsinfingen, if she will deign to receive him."

After reading it, she repeated:

"'Will present himself to Madame la Conseillère.' What impudence!"

"But, Martha," said the councillor, humbly, "I don't see any impudence in . . ."

"You don't see! oh! certainly, you are so penetrating! you don't see that such a letter, from a libertine, from a débauché, from a Nebuchadnezzar like this Marquis of Létorière, is worse than an insult! for it is, so to speak, a premeditation and threat of insult!"

"How so, Martha?"

"Have you forgotten all that we have heard of this abominable man, who leaves behind him, they say, only ruined girls and guilty wives? . . . Don't you know that he is a Pharaoh, who thinks he can bewitch one with a glance . . . a kind of unbridled Tarquin, who the first time he meets a woman dares to address her in the most wicked language of gallantry?"

"The fact is, he is one of those brisk sparks whom husbands, fathers and mothers send to the devil twenty times a day. Ha, ha, ha!" answered the councillor, with a horse-laugh.

This fit of inopportune laughter was severely punished by the conseillère, who sharply pinched him, crying:

"And are you such a wretch that you can laugh like a fool when you have in your hand the proof that such a dissolute fellow perhaps intends to crown his infernal triumphs by attacking the honor of your wife? . . ."

The councillor looked at his wife wonderingly, clasping his hands:

"Attack your honor; Martha! Ah, good heavens! Who thought of that?"

"Oh! what a man! what a man! Listen, then!"

And the conseillère read the letter for the third time! . . .

"'Mons. de Létorière will have the honor of presenting himself to-day, at noon, at the house of Madame Flachsinfingen.'

"Do you comprehend that? At Madame's house. Is not that clear? It is not at the house of the councillor that he will present himself, but at the house of the councillor's wife. Tis a kind of rendezvous which he asks of me. He does not hide it; he attempts no subterfuge; he avows it without shame; and you,—you do not trouble yourself, you stand there, careless of the affront! Go along! go along, Flachsinfingen! you are not worthy to have an honest wife! To ask a rendezvous of me! The impudent fellow!"

"How, Martha, do you really believe that the Marquis dreamed of it? . . . Come, now, you are foolish and ridiculous!" cried the councillor. "If he asks a rendezvous, it is to speak to you about his lawsuit; nothing is more simple. He, like all the rest of the world, knows that I place entire confidence in you; that is to say, you lead me by the nose. So, in order to influence me, he very naturally wishes to act upon you, Martha."

"To act upon me!! How to act upon me!! I will prevent it at the peril of my life!" cried the conseillère, in heroic accents.

At this moment they heard a carriage stop at the door.

"Heavens! that is he," said the conseillère, leaning upon her husband's chair. "I have not a drop of blood in my veins! Flachsinfingen, do not quit me! In heaven's name defend me from this audacious fellow!"

But the carriage continued on its way it was a false alarm.

Martha passed her hand over her forehead, saying with emotion:

"My heart failed me, I confess; but a woman cannot always control her fears."

"Well, if you fear this Marquis, why the devil do you receive him? Why do you face him?" innocently asked the councillor.

"Why? why?" repeated Martha, indignantly—and pointing towards her husband with a gesture of sovereign contempt—"he asks me why! That is the question of a soul shamefully abandoned to gluttony! Why? Why is the warrior who basely flees before his enemy dishonored? Why is gold tried by fire? Why is the just man who has valiantly fought, who has resisted, superior to him who has never struggled? Why does the Scripture"—and Martha pointed to her Bible, opened at the Book of Judges—"why does the Scripture say: 'Ye who offered yourselves willingly to bless the Lord. Speak ye that ride on white she-asses, ye that sit in judgment, and walk without fear—'"

"But," cried the councillor, interrupting his wife impatiently, "I tell you again, you are a fool! Who thinks of fighting you on your she-ass? of attacking you? of wrestling with you? of proving you by fire? At your age, you . . . ah, bah! . . . be quiet, then. . . . You will make me say something foolish, Martha!"

"Now add insult to vulgarity; nothing from you will astonish me."

"Well, once more, do not receive this Marquis,—do not receive him!" cried the councillor, exasperated; "my mind is made up to sustain the rights of the German princes, since you desire it! so whatever you may say to this Nebuchadnezzar, this Pharaoh, this Tarquin, will change nothing. Be quiet! I have no wish that he should attack you, as you say, or that you should resist him in order to prove yourself the most virtuous woman in all Germany. So don't think of it any more; close your door, and let me go to peep into Lipper's ovens; my stomach warns me that it is almost noon, and I depend so much on a certain baked pike, with gooseberry jelly sauce, that I have dreamt of it all night."

Having suffered her husband to speak, Madame Flachsinfingen replied with an air of calm and concentrated contempt: "I know, sir, that you think of nothing but your beastly gormandizing, when the virtue of your wife is in peril. . . . So it devolves on me to defend your honor and my own. A new Judith, I will brave this Holofernes, and like her, I will say:"

'Give me, oh Lord, courage to scorn him and strength to destroy him.'

"But notwithstanding my resolution," continued Martha, "as I am, after all, but a weak woman, as this miscreant is capable of going to the most frightful lengths . . . all that I ask of you is, to hold yourself well armed, and ready to succor me, if my own efforts are unhappily vain!"

"But, Martha, reassure yourself . . . reassure yourself; one cannot always judge one's self aright; and I swear to you that there is something in you . . . a certain air . . . a certain 'I know not what' . . . which would deter any impertinent fellow from showing a want of respect to you. . . . So I shall have no need to arm myself in order to . . ."

"Do you not know that if I set out to do a thing, I will do it?" said the conseillère, interrupting her husband, and fixing on him a look which seemed to fascinate him. "Although I am sorry to delay your dinner-hour, you will nevertheless take a blunderbuss, and, concealed under this table, will be present at this interview . . . ready to come to my aid, if need be, when I cry, 'To me, Flachsinfingen!'"

"I hide myself under this table with a blunderbuss! And what for? Heavens!"

"I tell you, sir, that this will be, and it will be!"

This scene took place in the councillor's library, where many arms of the middle ages were hung up on the wainscot as objects of curiosity.

The lady selected a blunderbuss and a poniard, which she laid on the table; she examined, also, a light Persian shield and a steel coat of mail, and was on the point of investing herself with these defences in order more surely to resist the expected attack of the Marquis; but, deciding that she was sufficiently guarded by the poniard, she again approached her husband.

"This poniard will do for me; this blunderbuss for you. Deborah was armed with nothing but a nail; Judith, with a sword; Dalilah, with scissors. . . . Martha will have a poniard."

"But, Martha, take care! this blunderbuss has been loaded ever since the day I intended to try it. . . . Good heavens! what's the use of all these implements?"

Again a carriage stopped at the gate. Once more, Martha felt a strong emotion of terror, when the servant came to say to her:

"It is a French Marquis who asks for you, madame." . . .

"Good heavens! 'tis he . . . courage!" . . . said she, in a low voice; and added: "when I ring the bell, Claire, you may introduce this stranger."

The servant went out; the conseillère solemnly embraced her husband, and said to him in an agitated voice:

"Now, Flachsinfingen, the moment has come . . . take your blunderbuss; and may God save me!" . . .

And she raised the cover, making a gesture to her husband to slip under the table.

"But, my dear wife, I shall stifle under there. . . . How absurd!"

"Do you hear me?" said Martha, imperiously.

"But, 'tis useless . . ."

"Flachsinfingen, did you hear me?" cried the furious woman, seizing her husband by the arm, and accentuating, so to speak, every word with a sharp pinch.

"I must be, by Jupiter! as foolish and weak as you are mad, to lend myself to this nonsense," said the councillor, rubbing his arm, and painfully crawling under the table.

"Now, when I cry 'To me, Flachsinfingen!' come out, and fire without mercy on this Philistine!" said his wife; then she drew down the cloth which stifled the councillor's last murmurs.

Sure of this concealed auxilliary, Martha made scientific preparations for defence. The table which sheltered the councillor was placed between herself and the dreaded adversary. On her flanks she placed two chairs, with another as a screen; and at her side she had a long Toledo poniard.

Then, with a beating heart, she rang her bell, and murmured in a low voice: "Be ready, Flachsinfingen!" . . .

Some inarticulate sounds escaped from beneath the table-cloth; the door was opened; Létorière entered, and the lady put her hand upon her weapon.

CHAPTER XV

THE INTERVIEW

This time, also, the metamorphosis of the Marquis was complete. He seemed to be not more than twenty years of age; his chestnut hair, without powder, parted in the middle over his forehead, framed his charming face, candid and ingenuous. He was clothed in black; he dropped his eyes timidly, twirled his hat in his hands with an embarrassed air, and remained near the door without daring to move a step.

The conseillère, agitated, irritated and threatening, with her hand upon the poniard, expecting to see a bold and brilliant gentleman of audacious mien and free speech, stood stupefied at the appearance of this youth of such rare beauty, who, quite intimidated, seemed to hesitate to approach her.

Hardly believing her eyes, and fearing some mistake, Martha said to him sharply:

"Are you really the Marquis de Létorière!"

"Yes, madame la conseillère," replied the Marquis, with a trembling voice, not lifting his eyes, and blushing deeply.

"Do you come from France?"

"Yes, madame la conseillère; I arrived here three days ago." . . .

At the sound of this sweet voice, so pure and youthful in tone, Martha's astonishment was doubled; she dropped her poniard, leaned towards the Marquis, and said in a milder voice:

"You are, then, the Marquis de Létorière, a party in a lawsuit?"

"Yes, madame la conseillère". . .

"In a lawsuit against the Dukes of Brunswick and Brandenbourg?"

"Yes, madame la conseillère."

Hearing these answers, almost childlike in simplicity, and stammered out timidly, Martha, reassured, rose and took two steps towards the door, saying to the Marquis:

"Come nearer, sir!" . . .

Létorière, for the first time, raised his great tender and melancholy eyes, looked earnestly at the lady, and then lowered them under his long eyelashes.

In her whole life Martha had never encountered a look at once so sweet and so seductive; she was moved, and said to the Marquis, with a sort of quick impatience:

"Come nearer, sir! . . . one would say that I frightened you." . . .

"Oh, no, madame la conseillère; you do not frighten me. . . . 'For the virtuous woman is an excellent gift, and she shall be given to man for his good deeds,' says the Scripture."

"He quotes Scripture!" cried Martha, with admiration, her fears quite dispelled. "But I do really intimidate you?"

"Madame . . . it is because you are so majestic . . . you resemble so much one of the daughters of our king, that my heart beats in spite of myself;" and the Marquis placed his hand upon his heart with a movement full of grace. "Mercy on me, I can hardly speak! Ah! do not wish me to do it, madame. Self-command is impossible in circumstances like these," said Létorière, casting a look at once timid and imploring upon the lady, who was flattered by the effect she produced, and by her resemblance to one of the daughters of the King of France.

"I don't know whether I am asleep or awake," said Martha to herself; "how is it that he has been called shameless? audacious? a pitiless seducer? But perhaps he is playing with me! perhaps this appearance of candor is only an abominable feint of the evil spirit! Perhaps it is only the artifice of the tiger, who approaches his prey with soft steps, the better to seize and devour it!"

As this suspicion took possession of her mind, imitating, to a certain extent, in her retreat, the side-ling and stealthy step of the tiger, she prudently regained her fortress, that is to say, the table, and said softly to her husband:

"Prepare your blunderbuss, Flachsinfingen . . . the moment approaches . . ."

By quick movement under the cover, it was impossible to guess whether the councillor raised his blunderbuss or made an impatient gesture.

Once safely intrenched, with her poniard near at hand, the lady resumed her imperious tone, her repulsive physiognomy, and said, harshly, to Létorière:

"Well! and what do you want, sir? My husband is convinced of the justice of the claims of the German princes, and all your efforts will be useless."

"Adieu, then, madame, since you will not deign to hear me! I have no longer any hope. . . . Alas! ye Fates, how unhappy I am!"

The Marquis, putting one of his hands before his eyes, turned towards the door in profound dejection.

Noting this movement, which was far from announcing hostile intentions, and hearing this accent of despair, the councillor's wife forgot all her suspicions, emerged for the second time from her fortress, approached the Marquis, and said to him in a softer voice, but which betrayed a little pettishness:

"Who told you I would not listen to you, young man? Why are you going away? Although the question of your lawsuit may be settled, it is my husband's duty to listen to your claims. . . . Confide in me, then . . . reassure yourself. Have I such a terrifying look? See, come near me,—don't be afraid!" And thus speaking, Martha took the Marquis by the hand and led him slowly to a scat, repeating: "Tranquillize yourself; you must not be afraid of me any more, my child."

At this moment a burst of roaring laughter was heard, the cloth on the table was suddenly thrust aside, and the great fat councillor appeared, blunderbuss in hand, crying with increasing merriment:

"Where is your poniard now? where is your helmet? where is your buckler, Martha? It is you who have to soothe this Pharaoh! this Nebuchadnezzar. . . . Ah, ha! behold Judith calming the emotion of Holofernes!"

All this was utterly incomprehensible to Létorière, who, for the moment, surprised by the sudden apparition of the councillor, could hardly control the desire to laugh which the grotesque figure of Flachsinfingen excited.

But Martha, as much irritated as humiliated by her husband's raillery at the foolish precautions she had taken, rushed towards him angrily, crying:

"Are you not ashamed to employ such vile means to play the spy upon your wife? Oh, you odious tyrant! Oh, you abominably jealous man! God o' mercy! have I ever given you cause to doubt my virtue?"

And Martha raised her eyes towards heaven to call God to witness the injustice of the poor councillor's suspicion, who, astonished, stupefied by such unexpected reproaches, stood with open mouth, the blunderbuss in his hand.

"How then, my wife," said he; "you? . . ."

"I will hear nothing from you," said Martha, taking him by the arm . . . "Leave me." . . .

"But, . . ."

"Go away, sir . . . go away . . . your presence makes me sick!" and Martha rudely pushed her husband towards the door of a closet which opened from the room.

"But . . . my wife!" . . . said the councillor, still expostulating.

"And before this young man, too! Heavens! what will he think of me?" cried Martha.

"But, what the devil! . . . it is you who . . ."

"To lie in ambush there traitorously, with a blunderbuss!" added Martha.

"But really . . . my wife!"—and the councillor, losing ground, was still pushed towards the door.

"A veritable assassin! worthy of an Italian bandit!" continued Martha, with horror.

"Nevertheless, wife, it was you who . . ."

"An Aulic Councillor to play such a part! You disgust me! . . . go out! . . . go out!" . . .

And after a pretty long struggle, Flachsinfingen disappeared in the closet, of which his wife drew the bolts.

"Well done!" said Létorière, laughing inwardly at seeing himself shut up with Martha; "it is no longer she, but myself now, who has need of defence. . . . I don't like the presence of the man with the blunderbuss," he added, looking round him with a frightened air.

Martha soon returned, her eyes cast down like an offended prude's.

"I am so confused at this scene, sir! . . . Alas! my husband is unhappily jealous . . . frightfully jealous! Good gracious! without the least reason! He is, in short, so fanciful, that, knowing I was going to have an interview with you . . . with a young gentleman" . . . and the lady hesitated, "whom they say; . . . in short . . . whose reputation is such; . . . in a word . . . my husband hid himself . . . for . . . my grief! you comprehend the rest!"

"Yes, madame, I have already been told that the councillor was very jealous," said the Marquis, timidly.

"Ah! . . . you have been told that!"—and Martha simpered.

"Yes, madame, I have been told that the councillor was very jealous of the influence which you exercise over his clients, who always address themselves to you rather than to him. . . . You are known to be so good . . . to possess such a correct judgment . . . and yet your husband ought to bless you every day; for the Scripture says, The husband who has a good wife is happy, and that the number of his years shall be doubled." This was said with an expression of such virgin innocence, with so gentle and pious an accent, that Martha, stupefied, after taking a long look at the enchanting face, said to herself: "He is a true paschal lamb. . . . Poor innocent! . . . sacred texts always in his mind! . . . how he interests me!" . . . and she added aloud:

"Tell me how it is, that, young as you are, your parents allow you to travel alone? How is it that they confide so important a lawsuit to your inexperience?"

"Alas, madame, I am an orphan. . . . I am poor. . . . I have no one to help me, and my only friend and guide is my old preceptor."

"But how is it that, pleasing as you are, you have such a reputation?"

"I, madame?" asked Létorière, with angelic simplicity, "what reputation?"

The councillor's wife was confounded; she could easily understand that stories had been exaggerated; but that a youth of such rare candor, and of such a pious education, could pass for an heartless seducer, was beyond her comprehension.

"Have you no relative of your name at the French court?" she asked, anxiously.

"No, madame." . . .

"It is plain that the German princes have spread these injurious reports about their adversary," thought Martha. "But tell me, what steps have you taken hitherto?"

"Alas! most useless ones, madame. . . . I went first to the castle of the Baron of Henferester." . . .

"Good heavens! poor child, did you venture into the den of that frightful Polyphemus?"

"Yes, madame; oh, he frightened me so! And then . . ."

"Go on, go on! Tell me all; and in order to put you at your ease, I will tell you that my husband and myself both cordially detest the baron."

"I did not know that, madame; that is why I feared . . . to tell you . . ."

"No, no, tell me all!"

"Well, madame, I went to the castle of Henferester. The baron began to ridicule me because I went in a carriage instead of on horseback."

"The wicked old centaur! . . . He thinks that everybody is like himself, all iron and steel," said Martha, contemptuously.

"Then, when I began to speak to him of my lawsuit, he said to me in his loud voice 'Dinner first, . . . we can talk better glass in hand.'"

"The drunkard! I recognize him there."

"Not daring to oppose the baron, I went to the table; but at the risk of displeasing him, as he had not said grace, I asked his permission to say it."

"Poor little martyr! . . . Well done, my child! and the brute let you say it, I hope?"

"Yes, madame, but he afterwards laughed so much that I felt scandalized." . . .

"I believe it. . . . Unfortunate lamb! . . . where were you straying, God of heaven!"

"As I ate but little, the baron said to me, 'You have dined, then?' 'No sir,' I answered, 'but the Scripture says: Be not eager at the feast.'" . . .

"Well answered . . . to this glutton; my child, you might have added as a prediction that sleeplessness, and colic, and pains in the belly, are the inheritance of the intemperate,[18] and that is truly what I wish to him, the wicked brute!"

"Then, madame, he gave me a great glass filled with pure wine, telling me to pledge him. . . . 'But, sir,' said I, 'I never drink clear wine.' Then, madame, he shouted with laughter, and answered me: 'That's no matter . . . drink away' . . . to your mistress!'"

"To say such things to a child of that age! What abominable corruption!" and the conseillère lifted up her hands to heaven.

"I did not understand what the baron said to me; I touched my lips to the great glass, and put it back on the table without drinking a drop. Then the baron looked me through and through, saying, in a loud voice, 'You do not drink wine, you eat nothing, you do not talk. Perhaps you would be more communicative between a tankard of kirchenwasser and a pipe well filled with tobacco.'"

"Kirchenwasser! a pipe! oh, the old sinner! to want to impart his odious barrack tastes to this youth, who seems more like a young girl than a young man!"

"But" I answered the baron, 'I never drink strong liquors, and I have never smoked.' . . . Then he began to swear—and how he did swear!—till I was ashamed for him, and he said: 'You don't smoke, you don't drink; I see that we shall not come to an understanding, for I interest myself only in people who resemble me! At least you hunt?' 'Yes sir, I have shot larks with a mirror.' Then, madame, he began to laugh, and to swear harder than ever, and said: 'Young man, excuse my frankness, but the Lord of Henferester would rather never touch wine, a bridle, or a gun again, than to take the part of a shooter of larks. . . I can do nothing for you.' And so, madame, I quitted the baron, and came away in utter despair."

"And Doctor Sphex,—have you seen him?" asked Martha, thoughtfully.

"Yes, madame, but he asked me, the first thing, if I was acquainted with profane literature . . . and a certain heathen author named Persius, which I have been told is improper for one of my age to read. I told him no; then he said that my cause was bad, and that my adversaries had the right of the case. . . . So I saw that there was no more hope in that quarter than in the other."

The conseillère felt profoundly moved.

"Listen, my child!" said she; "you interest me more than I can tell you. . . . I am pained to see the other councillors so opposed to your interests; I can do nothing with them; all that I can do, is to endeavor to secure for you my husband's vote." . . .

"Ah! madame, can it be true?" cried Létorière, with an expression of the most lively gratitude. "Ah! the Scripture is right in saying: The virtuous woman is the joy of her husband; she makes him pass all the years of his life in peace. . . . Yes, madame, for I will bless your husband, and he will be proud of having—thanks to you—made the just cause to triumph."

"Always Scripture! he might truly be called a little clergyman," said Martha, with enthusiasm. "But," continued she, "don't indulge in foolish hopes, nor despair utterly; the baron and the doctor may yet revise their resolutions." . . . And Martha added to herself: "How much it costs me to deceive him so! He has very little chance, but I have not the heart to undeceive him."

"Ah, madame!" cried Létorière, throwing himself on his knees, "I feel it,—you will be my good angel. . . . To you I shall owe all the happiness of my future life. . . . Heavens! madame, how good and generous you are! Oh, let me here, at your feet, thank you again and again!"

The lady, very much moved and softened, turned her head, and said gently to the Marquis, giving him her hand to kiss . . .

"Come, come, my child, get up; don't stay there!" . . .

The Marquis, still on his knees, resolutely took the hand which she offered to him, carried it bravely to his lips, shutting his eyes, and saying, in a grateful and passionate voice:

"Oh, madame, how can I ever be grateful enough for all your kindness!" . . .

"Well, well, little simpleton," said Martha, softly disengaging her hand, and giving Létorière a slight tap with the other, "are you going to make me repent of my kindness?" . . .

After the Marquis had thrown himself at Martha's feet, the jolly face of the councillor, still armed with his blunderbuss, had cautiously appeared at an oval window over the door of the closet in which he was shut up.

Seeing his wife so little disposed to use her poniard to repulse this Holofernes, this Tarquin, this Nebuchadnezzar, the councillor, wishing playfully to revenge himself for his incarceration, fired his blunderbuss in the air, exclaiming, "Martha, did you not cry, 'To me, Flachsinfingen!'"

Then resting his elbows on the window, he began to laugh boisterously.

His wife, provoked by this new outburst of factiousness, fell in feigned convulsions.

Létorière escaped, calling for help, and left Martha in the hands of her women and her husband, who, seeing the unhappy issue of his pleasantry, hastily came out to seek pardon for his impertinence.

CHAPTER XVI

THE JUDGMENT

On the day of judgment on Létorière's lawsuit, the three councillor's met at the palace. Their ballot was to be secret, the votes being deposited in an urn.

Before the session, Henferester, Flachsinfingen, and Sphex exchanged some cool civilities, at the same time scrutinizing each other with some anxiety; once the doctor thought of interesting Flachsinfingen in Létorière's favor; but he was afraid of compromising his protégé's cause instead of helping it. The others, feeling a similar fear, concealed their intentions, and chattered about matters remote from the lawsuit.

"This fine young man is surely going to lose his lawsuit; he will be the victim of the unjust partiality of my associates, but my voice at least shall be raised in his favor."

Such was the private reflection of each judge.

When the merits of the case had been set forth anew by the lawyers, after a long session occupied in listening to, not in discussing the facts, the three councillors arose and solemnly deposited their votes in the urn.

The Baron of Henferester, who on that day presided over the court, ordered the recorder to examine the ballot.

Each councillor had written on a slip of paper the name of the party who, in his opinion, had the right of the cause.

The recorder plunged his hand into the urn, drew out a ballot, and read: The Marquis of Létorière.

"That is my vote," said each councillor to himself.

At the second ballot the recorder read again: The Marquis of Létorière.

The councillors began to look at each other uneasily.

On the third ballot the recorder again read: The Marquis of Létorière.

The stupefaction of the three magistrates was complete.

The recorder registered the judgment. All the judicial formalities having been fulfilled, the councillors returned to the council-room.

Notwithstanding their joy at the Marquis's triumph, they were greatly astonished by this strange coincidence of opinion; so they were eager for an explanation.

"How the devil did you ever come to vote for the Marquis?" impetuously cried the baron, addressing Flachsinfingen and Sphex.

"I was going to ask you the same question," replied Sphex. "How is it that you decided to give him your vote? And you, too, Flachsinfingen?"

"Oh, with me it is very different," said the baron. "Between ourselves we can speak frankly. You must admit that one founds his preferences on similarity of pursuits; is it not so? Well, it is because my dogs and those of the Marquis hunt together, as the saying is, that I have given my vote to him. In a word, he is a man whose character, manners, and habits please me. I promised him my vote, feeling that his cause was hopeless, knowing well that both of you would be hostile to him. I am delighted that he has gained it; but, may the devil strangle me if I can understand how and why you voted for him!"

"The character and the habits of the Marquis please you?" cried Sphex and Flachsinfingen, with one voice, both astounded.

"Certainly, never a bolder hunter has sounded his trumpet in our forests . . . never a gayer companion, never a freer drinker has emptied his tankard supernaculum, as the French say!"

The two councillors laughed in the baron's face.

"A bold hunter! . . . A blower of trumpets, he! a poor young Latinist! a poor scholar!" said Sphex, giving way to his hilarity, and shrugging his shoulders with pity.

"A hard drinker! . . . a gay companion! . . . this ingenuous youth who quotes the Bible so apropos! this timid lad who cannot look at my wife without blushing up to his ears!" cried Flachsinfingen, with a laugh not less sardonic.

"The . . . the Marquis! a scholar and a Latinist! . . . The Marquis quoting the Bible and blushing before a woman!" repeated the baron, laughing immoderately. "Ha, ha! my friends, you are fools, or rather you see everything through your own glasses."

"You are a fool yourself, with your hunting-horns and your tankards," cried Sphex, angrily. "What can there be in common, I should like to know, between the Marquis and the course amusements of gladiators and drunkards?" added the doctor, with an expression of supreme contempt. "You wouldn't have fallen into such an error, my dear baron, if you had heard Létorière recite and comment upon the admirable verses of the king of the Latin poets of antiquity!" . . .

"I!"—cried the baron in a rage—"I believe what my eyes have seen, and not the dream of a sickly imagination! In my presence the Marquis has killed a deer with the finest possible stroke of the knife! In my presence he has wound a horn better than the first huntsman of the imperial hounds! In two days he has drank, in my presence, more beer, more Rhine wine and more kirchenwasser than you ever drank in all your life, Dr. Sphex! In my presence he has mounted my old Elphin, which many huntsmen have found difficult! Well, once again I tell you, you and Flachsinfingen both, that Létorière, a rough and bold cavalier, is too well acquainted with the spear, the hunting-horn and the glass, to lose his time in turning pale before old he-goats, or blushing before a woman! Again I tell you, you are two dreamers."

At this outburst the two other councillors fell foul of one another, and the discussion soon became so violent, that the three judges, all speaking at once, could not make themselves heard.

The presence of an usher of the council was necessary to put a stop to this incomprehensible conversation.

The usher approached Flachsinfingen, and whispered in his ear. . . .

"Gentlemen," said he, "my wife desires to speak to me; will you listen to her? She will inevitably throw light on this discussion, for she has conversed for two whole hours with M. de Létorière. . . . Listen to her, and you will see that what I have said is the exact truth."

"Let her come in, if she wishes," cried the baron. "But in spite of all the petticoats in Germany, I repeat that I have seen Létorière kill a deer with his own hand, and that he can drink as much as I can."

"And in spite of all the hunters, whippers-in, and drinkers in Germany," cried Dr. Sphex, "I maintain that I have heard Létorière recite verses of Persius, and comment upon them more learnedly than the most learned professors of our universities could do. And you will never make me believe, baron, that so erudite a man, with such a refined mind, could hunt in the forest like a poacher, or drink like a pandour."

"And I, in spite of all the professors, all the huntsmen, all the drinkers in the empire, will maintain that I have seen Létorière tremble like a child before my wife, who was obliged to reassure him, and that I heard him quote Scripture as piously as a minister," cried Flachsinfingen,—exasperated in his turn. "One need only to see the Marquis to be assured there is nothing in his appearance or manner that smacks of the gladiator."

The conseillère entered in the midst of these contradictory allegations.

"I doubt not, gentlemen," said Flachsinfingen, "that my wife will be able to bring you into agreement; thus far she has been a stranger to our discussion, and—"

But Martha did not let her husband finish; addressing the doctor and baron with an affable and complimentary air,—

"Nothing is talked of, gentlemen, but the success of the Marquis of Létorière; permit me to congratulate you on this unexpected unanimity of judgment. . . . Thanks to your wise agreement, gentlemen, it may be said that the cause of innocence and religion has triumphed! In my opinion this poor child Létorière represents, in a wonderful degree, innocence and religion in their moral as well as physical aspects, if I may so express myself, for he has the look of an angel."

"There,—what did I tell you, gentlemen?" cried Flachsinfingen.

"And what devil of an angel and a child are you talking about, if you please, madam?" asked the baron.

The lady replied, rather sharply:

"I speak, sir, of a poor child whom you know as well as I do, for you tried to make him drink, smoke and hunt, the innocent creature! when he went to visit you in order to interest you in his lawsuit. Oh, I know all, Monsieur le Baron; but escaping from your temptations, this angel courageously resisted; he drank water, as pure as his soul, and was not afraid to remind you of your religious duties, which you had forgotten . . ."

"But, zounds, madame!" cried the baron, "you don't know him." . . .

"I know all, I know all, I tell you," replied the lady, volubly; "but I forgive you, seeing by your vote that the might of innocence has been sufficient to overcome your unjust prejudices."

The baron was confounded, and said to himself: "If this lasts ten minutes longer, I shall have an apoplectic fit, I'm sure of it." . . .

"But, madame," cried Dr. Sphex, "you are sadly mistaken . . . and . . ."

"And you, too, sir," replied the councillor's wife, "have given him your vote, much to your credit! You have done well; but now tell me, how could you believe that a youth so religiously brought up . . . so religiously nourished on the Scriptures . . . would have stained his chaste mind with all your abominable profane literature! Why make it a crime in him for not knowing the verses of a certain . . . Persius . . . who, they say, is the most shameless of satirists?"

"By Hercules, madame, it was he who . . ."

"Ah, by Hercules! What a frightful pagan oath!" cried the lady, raising her hands towards heaven. "I know all, I tell you . . . but I will say to you as I did to the baron: since you have dismissed your unjust prejudices . . . and have joined my husband in helping the cause of our innocent protégé to triumph . . . all glory and honor to you!"

"My dear baron . . . my nerves are horribly shaken by this scene," said the doctor, turning pale and seizing the baron's hands; "I am not well." . . .

"And I, my poor doctor, I am suffocating . . . I have vertigo . . . my head is splitting! I'm stifling . . . I need air!"

The door opened, and the ushers entered to announce that the Marquis of Létorière begged to have the honor of saluting and thanking the councillors. . . .

"'Tis God who sends him to us!" cried the conseillère. "Let him come in . . . let him come in! the sweet paschal lamb." . . .

"Now you will see this lamb-like drinker of pure water!" said the baron, with a sardonic laugh.

"Now you will see this enemy of profane antiquity!" said the doctor in the same tone, joyfully rubbing his hands.

"Now you will see this Nimrod!". . . said Flachsinfingen.

"Now you will see the pearl of young men!" said Martha, with the most profound and full conviction.

CHAPTER XVII

THE ADIEUX

Létorière entered.

The surprise of the four spectators was at its height; they stood petrified, and looked at each other with astonishment.

The Marquis was dressed with the most remarkable elegance. He wore a coat of sky-blue velvet, embroidered with gold and silver leaves of extreme delicacy; his vest of silver cloth was spangled with gold, as were also his small-clothes, of the same color as his coat; his rose-colored silk stockings were clocked with gold; his shoes had red heels; a sword mounted in gold, covered with ornaments of silver, most beautifully wrought; a shoulder-knot of blue, silver, and gold, and a chapeau, with white plumes, which the Marquis held in his hand, completed this magnificent costume.

This complete metamorphosis had already upset all their conjectures, or rather confounded all the recollections of the councillors and Martha; but what still more excited their astonishment, was the impossibility of finding in Létorière's face any of the expressions which had struck them individually.

Thus, in this charming gentleman so magnificently dressed, with an air at once spiritual and malicious, with such elegant manners and such perfect grace, although it was a little effeminate, the baron could not recognize his uncouth huntsman, so careless and negligé; . . . the doctor sought in vain his learned grammarian, who looked like a half-starved poet; and Madame Martha as futilely tried to see in the black and brilliant eyes of the Marquis, the timid and downcast look of the youthful quoter of Scripture.

Létorière felt the necessity of putting an end to the amazement of his judges. He saluted them profoundly, and said:

"May I be permitted, gentlemen, here to express to you my profound gratitude, and to declare it to each of you?"

The three Germans looked at each other in dismay, and awaited in silence the termination of this strange scene.

Létorière advanced towards Madame Flachsinfingen. Taking her hand with a movement of the most amiable gallantry, he raised it to his lips, and said to her in a sweet and grave voice: "I knew beforehand, madame, that in order to merit your interest, to reach the level of your noble character, it would be necessary to have, like you, a pure and religious soul . . . in showing myself to you under this exterior, I have not deceived. I did, for a moment, borrow your language, madame; and believe me, it is too noble and too beautiful for me ever to forget it. . . ." And he saluted her respectfully.

"As for you, Monsieur le Baron, in order to prove to you that I am still worthy to take part in the brotherhood of joyful huntsmen, I can do no better way than to beg you to come next year to pass St. Hubert at my castle of Obbreuse. . . . If you will deign to accompany him," said the Marquis to Dr. Sphex, "we will continue our commentaries on our favorite poet. In short, gentlemen, formerly I liked the chase, reading the ancient poets and the Scripture merely from inclination . . . but now I shall like them from the remembrance of your precious interest." . . .

Thus speaking, Létorière saluted the three councillors, who remained dumb, and went out.

Radiant with this success, which made his marriage with Mademoiselle de Soissons sure, Létorière went home, where he found a note which the princess had sent to him by a courier:

"The King is dying. . . . My liberty, our future, are threatened. . . . Come! come!" . . .

Sinking from the highest hope to the depths of anguish, the Marquis instantly started for Paris.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE RETURN

The day of his return to Paris, just as he was taking off his boots, getting ready to go to Versailles, in great haste to approach the king, he was called upon by the Baron of Ugeon, a relative of Madame Soubise. Accompanied by two seconds, this gentleman came to demand satisfaction for the discourtesy which the Marquis had shown towards Madame Rohan Soubise at her hotel.

Very much astonished at this revengefulness, for which there was no reason, Monsieur de Létorière, without declining the challenge, declared that having ridden post from Vienna to see the king, his master, for the last time, who was said to be dying, he could consent to fight only after having fulfilled this sacred duty.

The bravery of the Marquis was so well known, that his proposition could not be rejected. It was settled that when he was ready for the meeting, the seconds should inform Monsieur d'Ugeon.

After begging Dominique to go to the Abbey of Montmartre, and carry a letter from him to the princess Julie, the Marquis started for Versailles.

Louis XV. was dying with the confluent small-pox.

This terrible malady, so rapidly contagious, and which left such frightful traces, had caused great alarm in the court. Létorière found the small rooms occupied by the dying king almost deserted. The panic was much greater, as vaccination was not then known. Even the officers on duty were hardly to be found at their posts. Louis XV. had strictly forbidden the dauphin and the other princes and princesses to enter his apartment, for fear of exposing the royal family to the fatal contagion. The Viscount of T***, one of the gentlemen of the bedchamber, then on duty, was in the room next to that of the king, when Létorière arrived, pale and agitated.

The Marquis, forgetting court etiquette in this dreadful moment, was about to raise the curtain of the king's chamber, when the viscount hurriedly advanced, and said in a low voice, laying his hand upon the Marquis's arm:

"Stop, sir, you have not the entrée to his majesty's chamber."

"It is said, sir, that the king is almost deserted by his attendants; they fear contagion. . . . If it be true that death reigns in this chamber, one can brave all etiquette to enter it," said Létorière, bitterly, and he made a movement to enter.

"Once more, you cannot go into the presence of his majesty, sir," replied the Viscount T***. "I am not sure that he will consent to receive you."

"Go, then, and ask him, sir; the king will not refuse the services of one whom he has always loaded with favors."

The proposition to enter the king's chamber seemed to frighten Monsieur T***, who haughtily answered the Marquis, still in a low voice:

"I receive orders only from the first gentleman-in-waiting, sir."

At that instant a feeble voice, well known to both who heard it, asked:

"Who is there? Who is speaking in whispers?"

"It is the king! . . . He has heard you, sir. You are responsible for the consequences of this," said Monsieur T***; and he replied aloud: "Will his majesty deign to excuse me if I answer him without entering? but I only execute his formal orders. The person who is here, Sire, is . . ."

"'Tis Létorière, who supplicates the king to be permitted to approach him," said the marquis aloud, interrupting M. T***.

"Indeed, . . . is it you, my child? You have returned, then?" cried Louis XV., in a tone of great pleasure. Then reflecting that he should expose the Marquis to the danger of contagion in permitting him to enter his chamber, he added:

"No . . . no . . . the air of this apartment is fatal . . . don't come in; I forbid it." . . .

"For the first time in my life I shall dare to disobey an order of the king. . . . But I have a duty to accomplish, and I will accomplish it," cried Létorière; and raising the curtain, he advanced towards the monarch's bed.

"Go out . . . go out this instant, ill-fated child!" cried the prince, raising himself to a sitting posture, and extending his hand towards the door with an imperious air.

But Létorière threw himself on the king's hand; which, despite his majesty's resistance, he kissed respectfully several times. Then he knelt near the bed, saying:

"May the king pardon my audacity . . . but there is now no longer any reason for forbidding my presence." . . .

"Go away . . . leave me;" replied Louis XV.

"Four years ago I was happier . . . the king deigned to allow me to kiss his royal hand in the garden of Versailles," said the Marquis, with an accent of filial veneration.

"But four years ago . . . my hand could not communicate a frightful disease . . . death, perhaps!" said the sovereign, much moved.

The courageous pertinacity of Létorière touched more deeply this excellent prince, because, save by some inside servants, he had been abandoned by nearly all the courtiers.

The high officials of the crown, whose duty it was to remain near his person, had obeyed only too faithfully his orders, which forbade them to stay.

The fine features of the king, disfigured by his disease, already indicated the approach of death. At this supreme moment the unfortunate dissensions, the threatening political agitation which had darkened the latter part of his reign, filled him with new anxieties. Létorière's noble devotion for a moment diverted his thoughts from these painful themes which saddened his last moments.

"You are a madman, . . . you deserve all my anger for daring to disobey me and expose yourself thus," . . . cried Louis XV., with an expression rather of grief than of wrath, and casting a tender look on Létorière, who, still kneeling near the bed, kept profound silence.

"Oh, may the king have pity on me! this may perhaps be the last time I can show him my gratitude."

"Again, I tell you this disease is contagious. . . . Do you not see that they have abandoned me . . . that I am alone . . . that I wish to be alone?" the prince hastened to add with bitterness, as if he wished to disguise from himself his first thought; the devotion of the Marquis made the ingratitude of the courtiers appear yet more shameful to him.

"Brave and noble heart!" added Louis XV., looking at the Marquis tenderly. "That hast no fear; thou art faithful!"

"Then let the king recompense my fidelity by granting me what he grants to no other person . . . the right to serve him, to remain near him!" . . . said Létorière, joining his hands in supplication.

"It must be so . . . now" . . . said Louis XV. Then he added, almost in despair: "But you are young! you are handsome! you are beloved! and all that you risk to come to me! all that you will sacrifice to me, perhaps, poor young man! . . . when so many others". . . and, after a moment of silence, Louis continued: "There is probably a crowd around the dauphin to salute the King, Louis XVI."

"Sire, what do you say?"

"That is the fate of kings when they are departing, my child. . . . Ah! if I had only oblivion, only death to dread! But France . . . France . . . what will become of her? And my grandson, what will his future be?" . . .

"Sire, France has named you the Well-beloved; for a long time you have borne that name, and his highness the dauphin will one day merit it." . . .

"I am not mistaken . . . I am feeble . . . I approach my end," . . . said the king, shaking his head sadly; "and then, I believe certain deaths are significant; the Marshal of Armantières, the Marquis of Chauvelin, have suddenly died before me . . . in my court. . . . It is a warning from heaven."

"Do not think of this, Sire. This illness is dangerous, but care . . ."

"Care is powerless,—I feel it; thus it is frightful for me to think that I have, perhaps, uselessly compromised your life . . . but now it is too late. Your imprudence . . . no, no, . . . your generous devotion has rendered all regret vain. . . . But tell me, I have heard with joy of the gaining of your lawsuit. Now, nothing can prevent your marriage with the princess Julie. . . . Oh! I have had to break many lances for you against the Maréchale and against the House of Savoy," he added, with a kind smile. "I have been obliged to use all my authority to prevent them from shutting up Mademoiselle de Soissons in the convent of Montmartre."

"Ah! Sire, what goodness! you deign to think . . ."

"It is now or never; to-morrow, perhaps, it will be too late. . . . My only fear is, that when I am gone the princess Julie will not find a friend in my grandson. . . . But if God spares me a few days, I will advise her; it will be sweet to me to leave you as happy as you deserve to be, my dear child." . . .

* * * * * * *

The illness of the king made rapid and frightful progress. Létorière did not quit him for a moment. It would be impossible to tell with what tender, respectful, and touching cares he surrounded the dying monarch. The sight of the Marquis seemed to calm the pains of Louis XV. Several times he offered him his hand in silence, with a sweet expression of gratitude. Soon all hope of saving the prince vanished, and Létorière stood with fixed and mournful eyes at the moment of death, the end of the sovereign who had shown for him all the affection of a father. . . .

CHAPTER XIX

THE DUEL

After the death of Louis XV., the Marquis of Létorière quitted Versailles in order to return with all speed to Paris, and to the convent of Montmartre, in order to see the princess Julie. Feeling, on the road, alternate chills and fever, he attributed his indisposition to the painful emotions which had recently agitated him. As soon as he arrived, he questioned Dominique about the princess. The dying Louis XV. had only too clearly foreseen the future. A provost-guard was established in the abbey, by order of Louis XVI., to prevent Mlle. de Soissons from going out or receiving persons who were not furnished with the permission of Madame Soubise. So Dominique had not been able to see the princess, or to deliver to her the Marquis's letters.

This news fell like a thunderbolt on Létorière. He doubtless trusted much to the firmness of Mlle. de Soissons; but he also knew the immense power of the House of Savoy, and of Madame Soubise's influence in the new court. He was plunged in the bitterness of these reflections, when the seconds of the Baron of Ugeon came to inquire when it would suit him to appoint a time for the promised encounter. It seemed cruel to the Marquis to run the risk of a duel before seeing the princess Julie; but he had already asked for delay, and he could not beg it a second time. He agreed, therefore, to appear with his seconds at three o'clock the next day, behind the walls of the Mathurins farm-house, then a very isolated spot.

The Marquis had thirty-six hours before him; in this time he hoped to find means to obtain an interview with, or at least to convey a letter to Mlle. de Soissons.

Dame Landry was despatched to the Abbey of Montmartre, disguised as a pedler. She had a complete assortment of linens, cambrics, crapes, ribbons and laces. In order to make friends with the portress, she gave her a beautiful hood. The sister, delighted, promised to allow her to enter the court at the hour of promenade, when the ladies would surely make many purchases. Madelaine inquired who were the ladies of distinction resident in the abbey. The portress named the princess Julie.

"Is Madame Martha, Mlle. de Soisson's nurse, with her?" asked the tailor's wife.

"Undoubtedly," replied the sister, "and you will see her in a moment, for she almost always comes down at this hour in her mistress's service."

"I have been recommended to Madame Martha," said Madelaine, "and I am sure that, under her countenance, I shall sell a great many things to the princess; I have here a piece of lace which would not be unworthy the dress of a queen;" and the tailor's wife, unfolding a napkin, showed a magnificent pattern to the portress.

"Ah! splendid! How beautiful that is! The archbishop has nothing finer on his surplice when he comes to officiate here."

"And it is very probable," said Madelaine, "that the princess may buy this marvel to make a present to his lordship; at least that's what the person said who recommended me to Dame Martha."

"Here she comes, now," said the portress.

Martha entered, looking sad and mournful.

"Here's a pedler who has been recommended to you, Madame Martha," said the portress. "She has the most beautiful laces in the world."

"I have no need of them," said Martha, impatiently. "But, madame," . . . said Madelaine, hesitating, and trying to make a signal of intelligence to the nurse, "I have been told that the princess . . . wished to purchase some laces, and . . ."

"You have been deceived, or rather you wish to deceive me, my friend," sourly replied Dame Martha. "You have the appearance of one of those travelling vendors, who never return to see if people are satisfied with what they have bought."

"You would not confound me with those miserable creatures, madame," said Madelaine, redoubling her signals of intelligence, "if you knew who the person is who has recommended me to you."

"And who is it?"

"The Marquis of Létorière." . . .

At this name Dame Martha exchanged a rapid and meaning look with Madelaine. The two women understood each other. The portress was ignorant of the name, and even the existence of the Marquis.

Nevertheless the nurse, not wishing to excite her suspicions by recognizing too soon the name, replied roughly:

"Seek other dupes, my friend; I don't know this Marquis." . . .

"He is, nevertheless, the nephew of the Abbé de Vighan," replied Madelaine.

"The nephew of the Abbé de Vighan! . . . that's very different," answered the nurse; "why didn't you tell me that sooner? The nephew of M. de Vighan would recommend none but honest persons. And what have you to sell?"

"This piece of lace." And Madelaine cast an expressive glance on Martha. "It is very precious and beautiful from one end to the other; the princess may unroll it, and she will not find a defect in it."

"I will go and show it to her. . . And have you nothing else?"

"I have nothing that is worthy of your mistress."

"Wait, then; I will come back."

Inside the package of lace was a letter from the Marquis, inquiring of Julie the means of penetrating to her presence. Mlle. de Soissons answered that she considered herself his wife before God, that she was resolved to flee from the abbey, if she could by any possibility escape the surveillance which was maintained over her. She could go at all hours to pray in the chapel. This chapel was separated from the garden of the cloister by a long subterranean passage. A part of the wall looked out upon the fields; by scaling at it one point which Mlle. de Soissons designated, might be reached in the garden, by the side of a fountain, the door of this subterranean passage. By forcing this door one could gain the chapel. Mlle. de Soissons informed Létorière that every night, at one o'clock, she would wait there, to swear to him at the foot of the altar to be only his, and to concert with him a plan of fleeing to England and escaping the persecutions of her family.

The princess Julie put this hastily-written letter into the roll of lace, and Martha carried it back to Madelaine, telling her that the princess thought it not fine enough.

Informed of Mlle. de Soissons's determination, the Marquis sent Jerome Sicard to examine the locality. The walls of the cloister were very high, but surrounded by desert marshes. They could easily be scaled. Unhappily, the preparations indispensable to this enterprise would not permit the Marquis to attempt it until the night of the next day.

For the first time he feared death, for he reflected that his duel must precede his interview with Mlle. de Soissons.

He passed a night of painful agitation. His sleep was troubled by strange dreams. When he arose, he felt feeble and depressed. For the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he was a victim to contagion and his devotion to Louis XV. In fact, his physician recognized the alarming symptoms of confluent small-pox; but the disease would not be developed before the next day. Moved by an over-nice sense of honor, and contrary to the advice of his two seconds, the Marquis, notwithstanding his weakness, insisted on fighting with the Baron of Ugeon that very day.

At quarter past three, the meeting took place. The friends of the Marquis, seeing his feverish color and his weakness, believed it their duty, without consulting Létorière, to appeal to the courtesy of M. d'Ugeon, and request him to put off the duel. But a cruel and offensive word from M. d'Ugeon, at the suggestion of this new delay, having rendered an adjustment impossible, the combat began. Létorière fenced with superior force; his bravery was unquestionable; but the rapid approach of disease had weakened him so seriously, that he lost all his advantages, and received a sword-thrust directly in his breast. The seconds carried him home, and left him to the care of poor Dominique.

CHAPTER XX

THE ABBEY

Eleven o'clock had just struck in the cloisters of the abbey of Montmartre. The night was stormy; the heavens gray and veiled, notwithstanding the brightness of the moon, which peeped out at long intervals beneath dank clouds rent by the wind. In order to reach the chapel, Mlle. de Soissons was obliged, after leaving her apartment, to cross an open gallery, whose arches opened on one of the interior courts of the abbey.

In the midst of this court was the tomb of the Countess of Egmont, the charming and unhappy daughter of Marshal Richelieu. The princess Julie had received, by the aid of her nurse and Dame Landry, a message from Létorière. He announced to her that he should endeavor to introduce himself into the abbey that very night. It was eleven o'clock; Mlle. de Soissons, oppressed by inexplicable presentiments, was praying on the steps of Madame Egmont's tomb. At any moment the Marquis might arrive by the subterranean passage. The silence was profound, and interrupted only by the groaning of the wind which whirled through the arches. Despite her resolution, despite the noble and religious purpose which dictated her action, and the purity of her soul, the princess Julie was almost frightened at having given a rendezvous to Létorière in the chapel of the abbey. It seemed to her a sacrilege. Little by little her terrors ceased, giving place to anxiety and devouring uneasiness.

A lamp burning in the chapel threw a dim light upon the gloom. Mlle. de Soissons, kneeling near the door which communicated with the subterranean passage of the cloister, listened eagerly on that side. Presently steps were heard, the lock was broken, and Létorière appeared before the princess, who could not repress a cry of surprise and love.

"At last it is you! . . . I see you again . . . my friend!" . . . cried she with delirious joy; and added immediately: "But come into the gallery; let us leave this holy place."

When the light of the moon permitted the princess to see the Marquis, she was struck by the pallor of his countenance. He was enveloped in a brown cloak, and walked with difficulty. In spite of his wound received that very day, in spite of the progress of the disease, and the tears and supplications of Dominique, the Marquis, accompanied by Jerome Sicard, had succeeded in scaling the walls of the Abbey.

"I see you once again, Julie!" said he, with an accent of inexpressible tenderness. . . .

"Soon nothing shall separate us again, my friend!" said the princess, extending her hand towards the Marquis.