CHAPTER VII.

THE DUC DE BROGLIE.

There was one other present whom I could very well have spared—the Count de Bourgneuf—the stern young colonel, who eyed me steadily with a glance of a very mingled cast—at least, I thought so, for he was the husband of Jacqueline de Broglie.

The Duke, her father, a venerable and stately soldier, who wore the uniform of a maréchal of France, but of a fashion somewhat old, and who had his hair profusely powdered, received me with a polite salute.

The room in which we met was a vaulted chamber of the old castle. In a corner thereof stood a cornette, a standard peculiar to the French Light Cavalry, and from its pole there still hung the white silk scarf which was usually tied to these cornettes when the dragoons went into action, to render them conspicuous, so that they might be rallied round it; and this scarf had doubtless been there since the duke's own regiment had fled at a gallop from Minden. In a corner were embroidered the initials "J. de B." Had Jacqueline's fair fingers worked that scarf and standard? In another corner stood a pair of kettledrums and a few muskets.

A table, whereon lay some maps of Germany by Herman Moll, several French newspapers—particularly the Mercure—the Gazette de Bruxelles; bundles of dispatches and writing materials stood near the arched Gothic fireplace. A few antique chairs were round it, and on these were seated two or three field-officers of the Regiment de Bretagne, Monjoy, the engineer, and the Comte de Bourgneuf, all in full uniform, powdered and aiguiletted, with their swords, sashes, and orders on.

All these details I saw at a glance, and again my eyes rested on the benign face of the old Duc de Broglie, in whom, however, I failed to trace any resemblance to his daughter.

At the door of the room stood a sentinel of the Volontaires de Clermont, with his musket "ordered" and bayonet fixed—the same fellow who had so violently possessed himself of my emerald ring.

"Monsieur le prisonnier is an officer?" said the Duke, bowing again.

"I have the honour," said I, while Bourgneuf eyed me superciliously through his eyeglass.

"In the British service, as I see by your uniform."

"The Ecossais Gris."

"Bien!" said the Duke, smiling; "I remember some of them. Your rank?"

"Cornet."

"Ah—it is unfortunate to be taken thus, with a rank so junior; an old fellow like me might wish for a rest; but you—ah monsieur! you may be long a prisoner if this war continues."

My heart sank at this remark, but I said,

"I am not without hope of effecting an exchange."

"You were taken prisoner at the bridge of the Lahn?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Your people blew it up, M. Monjoy says. How was it that they did so without permitting you to repass it?"

"I know not, monseigneur," said I, for I would not own in that place that a British officer would act so basely as Shirley had done. The Duke repeated his question, but I simply bowed with the same answer.

"What forces are there?" he inquired.

"Only the Light Troop of my regiment—the 2nd Dragoons, or Ecossais Gris."

"The rest of the Regiment?"

"Are cantoned further down the river."

"Your strength, monsieur?" continued the Duke, glancing at a paper on the table.

"Six troops."

"That we know," said Count Bourgneuf, brusquely, "there is a troop of your Scottish Grey Horse in each of the six villages along the Lahn; but what is their numerical strength?"

"I have had no means of knowing since our rapid pursuit at Minden," said I, with reserve.

De Bourgneuf eyed me fiercely through his glass; but the Duke smiled, and asked,

"Where are the other regiments of milord Granby's Cavalry division?"

"I beg to be excused giving such information," replied I.

"Then, monsieur," said the Duke, suavely, "have you any idea of when Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick proposes to break up from winter quarters and take the field?"

"Happily I have no means of knowing—being merely a subaltern officer; but," added I, haughtily, "if I did know, most assuredly I should decline informing the General of the enemy!"

"Très bien—of course," said the old Duke, shrugging his shoulders.

"Beware, sir!" said the Comte de Bourgneuf, with a dark frown on his stern visage; "you would not tell, even if you knew, say you?"

"No, by Heaven!" said I, loftily.

"Monseigneur le Duc, have I your permission to summon a file of the guard with a piece of cord? Ha, coquin!" he added, imperiously turning to me, "I have ere now forced a more unwilling tongue to speak, by tying a cord round a prisoner's head, and wrenching it with my pistol-barrel or sword-hilt till half the scalp came off. And this I did in a district named the Morbihan, a part of France with which you once affected to be familiar."

This remark, and the keen, feverish glance which accompanied it, showed me at once that I stood on perilous ground.

"M. le Comte," exclaimed Monjoy, "bethink you of what you say and do. Monsieur is a prisoner of war. Ma foi! this will never pass."

"When I have been robbed by a French soldier under arms I need not be surprised by this display of ruffianism in one of his officers," said I, calmly, but while my heart swelled with anger and apprehension. The Count started to his feet; but the Duke raised his hand and voice authoritatively:

"Halt, Bourgneuf. In this matter your zeal goes beyond my wishes. But how say you, monsieur?" he added, turning sharply to me; "you speak of being robbed. Who has robbed you?"

"Men of the regiment of Count de Clermont, deprived me of my cloak, of my haversack—there was little in it, save three days' half-rations; of my purse—there was little in it, so they were welcome to that too; but this man, who is now sentinel at your door, with the muzzle of his cocked musket at my head, like a common footpad or cutpurse, robbed me of a valuable ring, on which, for the memory of past days, I set a singular value."

Such was my dread of M. de Bourgneuf, that circumstanced as I then was I dared not tell when, or where, or for what service I had received the ring.

"Is this true, fellow?" demanded the Duke, turning sternly to the sentinel, who was too terrified to reply either in the affirmative or the negative.

"You will find it in his haversack," said I.

De Bourgneuf, without ceremony, plunged his hand into the canvas bag which was slung over the poor wretch's right shoulder, and among his ration biscuits, hair and shoe-brushes, &c., drew forth the ring, which he handed to the Duke. On beholding it the latter started and visibly changed colour.

"Is this your ring, monsieur?" he asked, while surveying me and it alternately.

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Mon Dieu!" he exclaimed, with growing perplexity; "this is most singular—most marvellous! Whence had you this ring? for on my honour as peer and maréchal of France, it belonged to my dead wife and was my parting gift to my dear daughter when I left Paris to command the army in Germany."

"I got it, monseigneur, while serving with the first expedition to Brittany," said I, evasively, and to gather time for thought, as the sharp glittering eyes of Bourgneuf were fixed on me with stern scrutiny.

"May I inquire from whom?"

"From Mademoiselle Jacqueline De Broglie on the morning when I saved her life from a galley-slave, a felon escaped from St. Malo, named Theophile Hautois, whom I afterwards flung into the Black Torrent at St. Aubin du Cormier."

"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed the Duke.

"Tres bon! Marvellous!" added Monjoy, and all present save Bourgneuf, who muttered audibly the offensive epithet, "Marmiton!"

"I have heard of some of those things," said the Duke, extending his hands to me, "and so I pray you to keep the ring and accept my sincere gratitude for your brave protection of my child. Comte Guillaume De Boisguiller, our kinsman, who commands at St. Malo, has told me of those passages. Bourgneuf, have you nothing to say to the protector of Jacqueline—of your wife?"

The Count had heard, perhaps, more than I wished, for he merely made a French grimace, and presented two fingers of his hand, and then turned on his heel.

"Monsieur le prisonnier," said the Duke, "you shall dine with me to-day. To-morrow you shall be sent across the Lahn to your regiment free, and you will have no reason to forget your interview with one so old in harness as the Maréchal De Broglie; but meanwhile you shall see how we in France punish the soldier who dishonours his colours, and degrades himself by acts of plunder. Count, make that sentinel a prisoner; assemble a drumhead court-martial, and desire the drummers of the Volontaires de Clermont to beat to arms."

The Count retired. A great bustle reigned for a time in the old castle of Ysembourg. The man who had plundered me was taken into a room adjoining that in which the Duke continued to write his letters and orders, and to take a pinch of rappee from time to time while conversing most affably with me; and I could glean that Madame De Bourgneuf had never informed him of my enacting the part of her niece's soubrette. How the Count knew of it was more than I could learn; but his grim hint about "the Morbihan" sufficed to show that he knew all. The Duke studiously abstained from all reference to military matters, save a few remarks about the new and then famous Prussian discipline and manoeuvres. I listened to the old man with pleasure, and looked forward with joy and impatience to my rejoining the Greys, and to the punishment I meant to inflict upon Major Shirley.

Meanwhile I heard the tread of feet, the clatter of accoutrements, and loud words of command uttered where the Volontaires de Clermont were parading in open column of companies on the plateau before the gate. The trial was soon over, as the sentence had been resolved on even before the drumhead court—a mere formality—had assembled. The battalion formed a hollow square, and then the Duke led me to a window from whence I could see the whole parade and ceremony.

A sergeant of the company, to which the culprit belonged, led him into the centre in heavy marching order, and fully accoutred, but having his arms tied with a rope. The brief proceedings of the court and its sentence were read by the adjutant, and then the sergeant said in a loud voice,

"Finding thee, Silvain de Pricorbin, unworthy to bear arms, we thus degrade and render thee incapable of carrying them."

He then took the musket from his shoulder backwards, cut away his epaulettes and knapsack, drew off his cross-belts, sword and bayonet, and giving him a most deliberate kick upon the hinder part of his person, repeated,

"Te trouvant indigne de porter les armes, nous t'en dégradons. So thus art thou, Silvain de Pricorbin, degraded—begone!"

The sergeant then withdrew, on which the provost marshal advanced and laid his hand upon the poor pale wretch, whom, to my dismay, I saw hanged upon a tree about fifty yards from the gates, and in presence, it would seem, of a brother.

The drums beat a ruffle; all was over, and the Volontaires de Clermont were dismissed to resume their games of piquet, trictrac, or dominoes, and to smoke and joke in the frosty sunshine, as if nothing so terrible had occurred; and so ended the first episode of my compulsory visit to the old castle of Ysembourg.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN OLD FRIEND ARRIVES.

According to his invitation, I dined with the brave Duc de Broglie, in the hall of the old Schloss, the walls and roof of which still bore all the frescoes, heraldic devices and ornaments with which Count Josias had decorated it many years before. Bourgneuf declined to be present, and I cannot say that I regretted his absence; but we had M. Monjoy and some officers of the Regiments of Clermont and Bretagne, all pleasant, gay and affable men save the engineer, who was somewhat reserved, even sad in manner.

The Duke talked freely of the folly and loss of life occasioned by our unmeaning expeditions to the coast of France, and dilated particularly on the third (a service which the Greys escaped, by receiving the route for Germany), which ended in the unfortunate battle of St. Cas, where General Durie, Sir John Armitage, and one thousand of our finest troops, particularly of the 1st Foot Guards, were slaughtered on the beach, while four hundred were drowned in their disastrous flight.

Minden, however, he and those present tacitly ignored; the defeat there was too recent to be a pleasant French souvenir.

He spoke frequently and always with praise of my regiment, the Ecossais Gris, which he knew well, having often encountered them on service. He knew Colonel Preston too, and laughed at his quaint old buff coat. He had met the corps at Dettingen, and acknowledged that it was from his hand that one of the Greys wrenched away the famous White Standard—the Cornette Blanche—of the Gendarmes du Roi, and he perfectly remembered the retort, recorded in our first volume as having been made by Colonel Preston to Louis Philippe Duc d'Orleans, at the review of the Scots Greys in Hyde Park.

"A greater dishonour than the loss of that banner was never suffered by the Household Cavalry of France," continued the Duc de Broglie; "the Cornette Blanche is a royal standard, which was substituted for the ancient Pennon Royal, and was never unfurled save when the King in person led the army; those who served immediately under it were the princes, nobles, and maréchals of France, with old field-officers who received orders from his Majesty direct; so, messieurs, you may imagine what I felt on finding myself unhorsed, and seeing it borne through the slaughter in the hands of a Scottish Grey trooper!"

Amid all the topics which we discussed over the wine of the defunct Prince of Ysembourg, with the contents of whose cellars, hewn deep in the old castle rock, Monseigneur le Duc and his epauletted and aiguiletted staff made most free, I could glean nothing about Jacqueline, where she resided, how she had married her cousin, the stern Count, or why, or wherefore; nor did I venture to ask—a natural delicacy, with a difficulty of approaching the subject, together with something of pique, restrained me.

When I looked on the old Duc de Broglie, dispensing the honours of his table with an air so courtly in his powdered hair, with his star and ribbon of St. Louis, and when I thought of the passionate love I had borne his daughter, and how she had responded to it—how I had sorrowed for her supposed death, and so terribly avenged it—of all that had been and never could be again,—I asked of myself, were not all those days we had spent together at that quaint château in Brittany, amid its arbours trained by old Urbain, its rose-gardens and leafy labyrinth, a dream, or was I dreaming now?

That she should be the wife of this Count de Bourgneuf—a Frenchman all the more jealous because his mother was a Spanish lady of Alava—who knew more than I wished him to know about those love passages in Brittany, and thus hated me accordingly, seemed strange and difficult to realize; but of that hate I had good proof ere long.

Dinner was nearly over when the Chevalier de Boisguiller, of the Hussars de la Reine, was announced, and this gay fellow, all travel-stained and with his face looking very red, after a long ride against a keen, frosty wind, entered with his sabre under his left arm, and carrying his fur cap with plume and scarlet kalpeck, in his right hand.

"Welcome, kinsman Guillaume," said the host, rising and presenting his hand; "what news bring you from the head-quarters of M. de Contades?"

"This despatch, monseigneur," replied the hussar, delivering an oblong letter sealed with yellow wax, and making a profound salute.

"When did you leave?"

"This morning, monseigneur."

"Ma foi! you must have come at a good pace to reach Ysembourg by this time."

"I dined early at Helingenstadt, and when I have dined well and drunk good wine, somehow my horse always goes well. The wine communicates itself through the spur-rowels, I think. 'Tis sixty miles and more from Helingenstadt to this, so as the sight of these viands makes me hungry again, I shall join you gentlemen. Thus hunger, a long ride over a snow-covered country—snow—ouf! it is six feet deep at Hesse Cassel—with a young appetite, are capital sauce to a meal, and if your cook equals your maitre d'hôtel, my dear maréchal—Grands Dieux! what have we here?—a ragout—delightful!—gigot de mouton, with force-meat balls, like grape and canister shot. Monjoy, I shall trouble you for a slice. Parbleu! my friends, where did you pick up all these dainties? I thought those active devils, the Black Hussars of His Prussian Majesty, had swept everything but snow and icicles out of Hesse and Westphalia. Monjoy, mon cher, what does that silver jug contain?"

"Champagne-punch, chevalier."

"Made how?"

"One bottle of claret to three of champagne, with some sugar, a little hot water, a squeeze or so of a lemon, and after a few glasses——"

"One may see all the sentinels and outposts double their usual number, and the main body quite what M. le Maréchal wishes it to be, before beating up the quarters of Prince Ferdinand, mon brave; hand it over here!"

"Pardieu!" he exclaimed, setting down the silver jug after a long draught, "what do I see—Monsieur Gauntlet of the Grey Scots—a prisoner, eh? In the dusk I took you in your red coat for a mousquetaire rouge."

"Monsieur is a prisoner, who, for the service he has done my family, returns free to the allied lines to-morrow," said the Duke, who had been rapidly skimming the despatch, while Boisguiller had been keeping up a running fire of small talk. "I must leave you, messieurs; Monjoy will take my place at the head of the table, as this despatch requires immediate attention. Contades returns to France for a time; the entire command is vested in me, and the army is to be augmented to a hundred thousand men, while thirty thousand more are to be formed upon the Rhine, under the orders of the Comte St. Germain. My brother's regiment of Cuirassiers must ride towards Wetzler, as the King of Prussia's Death's-head Hussars are marching in that direction. We move from this early——"

Loud cries of "Bravo—Vive le Roi! Vive le Maréchal Duc!" rang round the table.

"And the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg may soon have some powder burnt before them. You see, M. Gauntlet, I have no secrets from you, though you were so reserved with me this morning. Adieu, messieurs—make yourselves at home; I am an old campaigner, but must keep my head clear for the work of the bureau."

And with a smiling bow the stately old Maréchal left us. Then around the table the conversation became more gay, free, and unrestrained; the wine-decanters were circulated with a rapidity that loosened every tongue, and as usual with Frenchmen, they all talked at once without listening much to each other.

CHAPTER IX.

MONJOY.

When most of the officers had withdrawn, Monjoy drew close to me and said,—

"There is more in the Maréchal's dispatch than met our ears—matters not pleasant to the pride of de Broglie."

"How?" said I.

"You must know, monsieur, that since the time that Prince Ferdinand possessed himself of the castle of Marburg, and indeed ever since Minden, Maréchal de Contades has been very unpopular with our troops. He charged the Duc de Broglie with misconduct. The Duc recriminated, and gained credit with the Court at Versailles, when a victim was required to satisfy popular clamour. That victim was M. de Contades, so our camp, like your own, in the case of milord Sackville, has not been without dissensions. But permit me to inquire, did you ever meet the Comte de Bourgneuf before that day when we came for the body of Prince Xavier of Saxony?"

"No—but why do you ask?"

"Parbleu!—'tis strange! and you never did him any wrong?" continued Monjoy, earnestly.

"Wrong—I know of none; but wherefore these inquiries?" said I.

"Because during the execution of that Volontaire de Clermont——"

"The poor wretch who appropriated my ring?"

"Yes—well, I overheard him swear, a low voice, to Armand de Pricorbin, who accompanied his brother Silvain to the gallows, that you should never reach the allied lines alive, and the man gave him a fierce and rapid glance, as much as to say, we understand each other. I was not supposed to observe, or to overhear all this, and could neither control nor take the Count, my superior officer, to task for it."

"But I shall—he is not my superior officer. I thank you, M. Monjoy, and shall challenge him for this," said I, wrathfully.

"You would be extremely rash, and if a duel ensued the Duc de Broglie would severely punish the survivor, especially one in your circumstances."

"Then what is to be done, for at this moment a plot for my assassination may be forming?"

"Return as quickly as possible to the other side of the Lahn," said Boisguiller, who had listened in silence to the foregoing. "I know more of this matter than you, Monjoy, and while disapproving of the sentiments of my kinsman, de Bourgneuf, am most anxious to serve M. Gauntlet, as an old friend who saved and served me when in a desperate and degrading position. Grands Dieux! I am not likely to forget that prison-ship, the Alceste, for some time to come!"

For a minute or more, I remained in doubt what to do. My first idea suggested a report of the affair to the Duc de Broglie; but that would avail me little unless he gave me an armed escort, to apply for which would argue either guilt or timidity. To take the count bluntly and boldly to task would be, my friends averred, perilous work; and to seek an interview with Jacqueline, his countess, and beg her advice in the matter—even if I knew where she resided—was a measure more perilous still, and one to be dreaded.

"You really think that Bourgneuf is capable of having me waylaid and cut off?" said I.

"Quite," replied Monjoy; "excuse me talking thus of your kinsman, Boisguiller; but his mother was an Espagnole of Alava, and we all know the spirit he is likely to inherit. My advice to you is, monsieur, immediately on receiving the signed passport of the Duc de Broglie, to set out ostensibly for Hesse Cassel—observe this map; it is about seven leagues from here, according to Herman Mall. But go not there; strike off towards Frankenburg, and push on for the Lahn, while Bourgneuf and his people may be searching for you in the direction of the Weser."

"And pray start to-night, and bon voyage, mon ami!" said Boisguiller, draining his glass.

"In my ignorance of the country and the language—on foot, too—I shall never reach the Lahn alone."

"Of course not, mon camarade, we never meant you to do so," replied Monjoy. "Boisguiller cannot accompany you, as he returns to Helingenstadt to-morrow; but I shall do so with pleasure, at least a few leagues of the way, for to-morrow at noon, I have to lay before the Duc de Broglie plans of the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg, with the intended approaches and lines of circumvallation."

I was thanking this frank friend in suitable terms, when a gold locket became disengaged from the ribbon by which it was suspended at his neck, and fell at my feet. When handing it across the table to him, I could perceive that it contained the miniature of a girl, young, lovely, and fairhaired.

"Morbleu! Gervais Monjoy," exclaimed Boisguiller; "is it thus, my fine fellow, that you treasure the image of Madame d'Escombas?"

"Madame! is this girl, a child almost, married?" said I, perhaps imprudently.

"Hush, gentlemen—hush, for God's sake and for hers—upon your honour, hush!" said Monjoy, in a husky voice, as he replaced the locket in his breast, and his cheek grew very pale.

"I know your sad story, and hers too," said the chevalier in a whisper; "but are you wise to carry this trinket about with you?"

"'Tis all of her that evil fate has left me!" sighed Monjoy, filling his glass with wine.

"But—but suppose you were killed in action, and this portrait was found upon you?"

"Well?"

"Would it not compromise the honour of madame?"

"With none who knew our wretched history," replied Monjoy, in a broken voice, and with a tremulous manner; "but let us return to the affair of our friend."

"The Duc de Broglie knows not all the on dits of Paris and Versailles," said the chevalier, with an air of annoyance.

"The old man thinks only of brigades and squadrons, of advances and retreats, and of pontoon-bridges on the Rhine and Weser; but—a word in your ear, M. Gauntlet: if he knew all that was reported, you might perhaps have not fared quite so well in Ysembourg to-day."

"I do not comprehend," said I, coldly, perhaps haughtily.

"Well, mon ami, it was reported in the Chroniques Scandaleuses at Versailles and Paris, that the young countess, then Mademoiselle de Broglie, had a lover disguised as her soubrette, and that the fellow actually carried her off. Thus you see how rumour wove you and the outlaw Hautois into one."

"Rumour might have added, that it was revenue for Bourgneuf's abduction of the sister Hautois of and the demolition of his mother's cottage that made this man the wretch we found him," said I, bitterly "But oh! Boisguiller," I added, suddenly and passionately, as the fumes of the wine mounted to my head; "you know the truth and the falsehood of this affair; you must know that I loved Jacqueline purely and honourably, that I loved her to despair, and how I sorrowed for her supposed death!"

"Ah, mon garçon! I cheated you nicely at that old chaumière in the wood, and all for the best, was it not? But pray don't give way to such outbursts here; ma foi! no, they will never do; so be wary and be off, ere worse come to pass. Bourgneuf has some fellows in his Regiment de Bretagne who would skin their own fathers—people from his own estates who would chop you into mincemeat if such were his supreme will and pleasure, and if quietly shooting you down did not suit his purpose quite as well."

I took another glass of wine and snapped my fingers, as a spirit of bravado next possessed me.

"Tell me, is the countess here?" I asked.

"Madame de Bourgneuf, née Broglie? well, she is not exactly at Ysembourg, but we shall not say where. Awkward, is it not?" said the chevalier, playing with the gold tassel of his hussar pelisse.

"Awkward!—what—how!" stammered I.

"Diable! without condescending to be more plain, my friend, I think that under all the circumstances, it is exceedingly awkward that the countess, and you, a former lover, are, with the knowledge of such a man as Bourgneuf, within a few miles of each other. How do you feel about it?"

"Simply, my dear chevalier," said I, as the wax lights began to multiply strangely, and the room seemed to swim round me, "that my naturally fine appetite is in no way impaired by the circumstance, and I have dined as well as ever I did on that deuced tough ration beef of the Hessians; and as for Monsieur de Bourgneuf——"

"He is at your service, monsieur!" said a harsh voice in my car, while a hand was laid, almost with a clutch, on my right shoulder. I turned and encountered that which sobered me in a moment; the stern and sallow face, and dark, glittering, almond-shaped, and rather wicked eyes of the Count de Bourgneuf, who had entered unseen, and had overheard, how much or how little of the past conversation, we knew not. He delivered to me a paper, saying, "Monsieur, this is your signed pass to the nearest British cantonment; and you can depart when you please, and by any route; so delay is unadvisable," he added, with a keen glance.

"I thank you, Monsieur le Comte," said I.

"By the way of Hesse Cassel, I have advised," said Monjoy hastily.

"The Lahn lies in an opposite direction—but Hesse Cassel be it," said the Count, with a deep smile. "Ah, Boisguiller, thou unconscionable tosspot—art bibbing still? Good evening, monsieur," he added to me, as he bowed and withdrew; "a pleasant and a safe journey to you."

"Did you remark his smile?" asked Monjoy in a low voice, while twitching my sleeve.

"Yes," replied I; "and it reminded me of one who never smiled thus save when planning mischief."

I thought of the aide-de-camp, Shirley.

"Boisguiller, assist me in getting a horse for our comrade," said Monjoy, looking at his watch: "it is now eight, and we shall depart from this within an hour."

CHAPTER X.

THE STORY OF MONJOY.

It was long past midnight, however, before we were prepared to leave Ysembourg. To set out with the conviction that every tree, hedge, or thicket might conceal at least one musket, the contents of which were intended for my person, was more exciting than pleasing.

The horse provided for me was one of our grey troopers. It had been wounded by a pistol-ball at Minden, and halted on the off hind leg, thus our progress was slower than we could have wished.

As my purse had been taken by my captors, Boisguiller gave me a couple of louis d'ors, which sum I was to give in turn to the first French officer whom we took prisoner.

"Bon voyage!" cried he, with a loud voice, as we mounted at the arched gateway of the old castle; "which way do you ride?"

"Towards Hesse Cassel," replied Monjoy in the same tone, intended specially for the ears of those who loitered about; and among them was Armand de Pricorbin, who at once withdrew, and entered the castle, no doubt to report our departure to Bourgneuf.

"Hesse Cassel," continued Boisguiller; "ah, I was quartered there for three months before Minden, and added considerably to the debts and general discomfort of the citizens. Adieu, messieurs!"

"Adieu, M. le Chevalier!" and we rode off.

Though considerably hardened by campaigning and warfare—for had I not seen Lindsay, Charters, Keith, and many others who were dear friends and comrades perish?—I shuddered on passing where the corpse of Silvain de Pricorbin still swung as a warning to pillagers, from the arm of a tree above the pathway; there it swayed mournfully to and fro in the night wind, and I felt some remorse with the conviction, that by an almost heedless complaint, I had procured the death of this man—and for what? Abstracting a ring—a bauble—the gift of a girl who had discarded me for a man who was now perhaps tracking me to destruction.

The stars shone brightly and keenly in a calm sky as we rode down the hill from Ysembourg, and saw a few lights twinkling dimly in the little town of that name.

By the foraging and skirmishing of the light cavalry, the whole country between the Maine and Lahn had been reduced to a desert; and from Ysembourg to the Weser it was pretty much the same, for, according to their usual system, whatever the French did not require they burned or destroyed.

On our route I committed myself entirely to the guidance of the intelligent and friendly Monjoy—a pleasing young man, whose bearing impressed me with the decided conviction that something had happened in his life, which, to him, cast a shadow over the present and the future.

"From what passed between you and the Chevalier de Boisguiller," said he, "am I right in supposing that a deadly rivalry existed between you and Bourgneuf prior to his marriage?"

"No, Monjoy; I repeat to you that I never saw the Count until the day subsequent to Minden, and I did not know him even then, or until yesterday, when we stood together in the presence of Maréchal Broglie."

"Parbleu! 'tis most singular!"

"What?"

"How all this hostility on his part came to pass."

"I shall tell you, and the narrative may serve to shorten our journey."

I then related to him the whole story of my adventures in Brittany; my love for Jacqueline, and how strangely we were thrown together in that sequestered château; her abduction, and her supposed death. He seemed much struck by the recital, and when I concluded he sighed and said—

"I, too, have not been fortunate in the field of Cupid, and could tell you a story, not so stirring as yours certainly, but nevertheless full of most mournful interest to me."

"Ah! I now remember the miniature of that beautiful girl concerning whom Boisguiller rallied and warned you."

"Boisguiller is thoughtless," replied the young Frenchman, "but good-hearted and brave; yet he is not the kind of man to understand the depth of a passion such as mine—a passion all the deeper because its object is lost for ever!"

"Dead?"

"Worse, monsieur, she is married to another, and this little locket is all I possess to remind me of many happy, happy days that can never come again. I shall be equally confiding with you, monsieur, and will relate how I came to suffer so deeply."

After a little pause, he began thus.

"My aunt is Prioress of the Convent of Les Dames de Notre Dame de Charité, in the Rue St. Jacques, at Paris, where they occupy the ancient house of the Nuns of the Visitation. Her devotees observe the general vows of the four monastic orders, and occupy themselves with the education of young ladies of good family, who are boarded in the convent to acquire accomplishments.

"When a mere youth attending school, I used frequently to visit my aunt, and spent all my holidays at her convent in the Rue St. Jacques, and thus among the boarders I first saw Isabelle du Platel, who was placed there for her education. She was just past girlhood; her family were old Normans, and hence that exquisite fairness of complexion and golden-tinted hair which you remarked in her miniature.

"We were always playmates and companions in the convent garden; but after a time this was interdicted by my aunt the Prioress, who, foreseeing what might happen, wisely exiled me from the convent, and would only consent to receive me in the parlour, and then on stated days and certain occasions.

"I was in despair at this change in my affairs; but a friend and brother student, Boisguiller, then a sub-lieutenant in the French Guards, enabled me to circumvent to some degree the precautions of my worthy relative, as he possessed an old and unoccupied house in the Rue St. Jacques, the windows of which overlooked the convent garden; and thereat I spent the hours that were not devoted to the study of fortification, regular, irregular, and defensive, of Coehorn, de Ville, and Vauban, in watching for Isabelle, and exchanging the most passionate little billets by the simple process of lowering them by a string from the windows, which, fortunately perhaps, were too high up and too strongly grated to permit nearer meetings.

"For three years our love affair was conducted thus, and we were happy in the secrecy of our passion, which was all the deeper that (Boisguiller excepted) others knew it not, and could neither by jest or taunt bring the ready blush to our young cheeks; and so time passed, till Isabelle was sixteen and I was three years her senior, with an epaulette on my left shoulder.

"I can painfully recall the last day on which I repaired to the accustomed place, with a trinket I had brought for Isabelle, and tying it to the cord, waited impatiently, with my eyes fixed on the flowery vista of the garden walk by which she usually approached; but hour after hour passed, and there came no Isabelle to me!

"The next day and the next I met with no better success, and a terror filled my heart. Had we been betrayed or discovered? Isabelle was ill—dying, perhaps! I rushed to the convent gate, and sought an interview with my aunt. The old porteress had special orders to keep me out; but my excitement was too much for the good dame's nerves, and my impetuosity swept all her scruples away. Thus, she admitted me into the parlour and when my aunt came—a woman tall, thin, and stately in bearing, with a severe expression on her brow that boded evil fortune to me—I besought her to pardon me, and to say if Mademoiselle du Platel was ill!

"'I am most happy to inform you, my dear Gervais, that she is not—but she has left this——'

"'Left the convent,' I exclaimed; 'and for where?'

"'Her father's house.'

"'In the Rue de Tournon?'

"'Near the palace of the Luxembourg—yes.'

"'And she will return?' I continued, impetuously.

"'No more,' said my aunt, with a sad smile.

"'No more?' I repeated, with perplexity.

"At least, not as Mademoiselle du Platel.'

"'In heaven's name, madame—my dear aunt, I conjure you to tell me what you mean? See how I am trembling!'

"'Compose yourself, my dear boy; when next we see her, she will be Madame d'Escombas.'

"'Oh, impossible—absurd!' I exclaimed, with a perplexed heart and a flushing cheek; 'do you mean old M. d'Escombas, who also resides in the Rue de Tournon, whose copper-coloured nose is the laughing-stock of all Paris, and whom I have caricatured, with his wig, large buckles, and round shoulders, a dozen of times?'

"'Yes.'

"'But that hideous old man has no son to marry Isabelle?'

"'He is to marry her himself.'

"'Monstrous, madame!' I exclaimed, furiously; 'how can this be?'

"'Because the father of Isabelle is poor, and M. d'Escombas is rich enough to buy the Luxembourg and all that is in it. Such is the world, my poor Gervais, and such are its ways and vanities!'

"Seeing that my eyes were full of tears, she continued—

"'Gervais, listen to me, my dear boy. M. du Platel, though he has been unable to accumulate riches, for the acquisition of which his desire is a passion very strong, if not stronger than that of love itself—has enough, but barely so, to maintain a numerous family. God has given him a daughter lovely in the extreme—good, amiable, and gentle too. M. d'Escombas is fired by her beauty: he is old and coarse certainly; he has a nose covered with rappee, cheeks that are rouged, and false teeth; but then, he is so rich! Ah, mon Dieu, my dear boy, how you groan and grind your teeth!'

"I had heard enough, and retired, choking with resentment, indignation, love, jealousy, and pity; and with all the thoughts, fierce, bitter, and stinging, that could madden a young and loving heart, I found myself going I knew not, cared not whither, jostling and staggering like a blind man among the passers in the sunlit Rue St. Jacques. I was full of vague plots and wild plans—full of schemes of bitter vengeance, none of which could take any tangible form, until I met my friend Guillaume de Boisguiller, who had just come off guard at the Louvre, and who advised me to see Isabelle at once—to run off with her. But whither? Diable! I had no money—nothing but my silver epaulette. Then he suggested that I should run d'Escombas through the body. That would be simple enough; but I knew that a duel between an old man and a mere boy was not to be thought of, even in Paris, where all kinds of absurdities are committed every hour; and then he was a near kinsman of the Governor of the Conciergerie du Palais, and the very thought of that grim personage, and his horrid place, made my blood run cold."

(Poor gentle and amiable Monjoy! while speaking to me how little did he foresee that some of his last hours would be spent in that degrading prison!)

"Taking a hint from the plot of a comedy we had seen at the Théâtre Français—then the only one in Paris in which regular tragedies and comedies could be acted, and which had an exclusive right to represent the plays of Corneille, Racine, Molière, and Voltaire—Boisguiller borrowed the gown, hat, and trinket-box of a Jew who was patronized by the officers of his regiment, and by adopting a false beard, a pair of horn spectacles, and painting a few wrinkles round his eyes, made his disguise complete. He then set out for the residence of M. du Platel in the twilight of an October evening.

"I was too nervous and too excited to have done this in person; so Boisguiller, whose coolness—impudence he was pleased to term it—was invincible, became my ambassador.

"He was not a chevalier then, not having won his cross of St. Louis. He contrived to introduce himself to Isabelle, and while she was looking over the trinkets in his box, to whisper my name in her ear, and to slip into her hand a note from me, to which he begged an answer ere he went away.

"'You are a friend of Gervais,' she whispered; 'and in disguise?'

"His friend and companion—Boisguiller, an officer of the French Guards.'

"'I thank you, monsieur, from my soul! Oh, tell Gervais it is true about this marriage—all too true, too true! Despite my love for him, a love of which I told them in my agony, my parents sell me to that odious and pitiless old man. Sell me,' she continued, while her blue eyes sparkled with grief and anger, and her soft cheek glowed with a feverish red, 'even as a Circassian girl is sold in a Turkish bazaar! I have been taken—torn from my convent, and am kept here till my purchaser arranges his household. Oh, vile system! How my soul revolts at the life, the hopeless future, to which I am doomed!'

"'And you will meet Gervais?'

"'But once, and then all is over, and for ever!'

"'When—where will you meet him?' urged my friend.

"'In the garden of the Luxembourg, near the white marble lions, at noon to-morrow; and failing that, on the next day at the same hour.'

"Exulting in his diplomacy, Boisguiller hurried back to me, relinquished his disguise and resumed his uniform, talking the while with noisy admiration of the beauty and high spirit of Mademoiselle du Platel. Spirit? mon Dieu! he little knew how, by all the appliances of domestic and parental tyranny it had been crushed and broken.

"With a soul inspired by tenderness and anxiety, I repaired at the appointed hour to the place of rendezvous—the avenue to the garden nursery, containing specimens of every kind of fruit then cultivated in the provinces of France; and there I leaned, so great was my emotion, against the base of one of the white marble lions, and my heart fluttered at the sight of every female figure. But the clocks of Paris struck the hour in vain; it passed away; another hour succeeded, and there came no Isabelle.

"Had they discovered our assignation, those venal parents? Was she ill—what had happened?

"It was, however, merely a visit of that provoking Monsieur d'Escombas which interfered with her arrangements, as he insisted on escorting her, wherever she was going. But next day, when I sought the same place and pressed her to my breast, we retired to a secluded part of the garden, where we could converse and freely deplore the hard destiny which was about to separate us for ever.

"Grand Dieu! Monsieur Gauntlet, why should I weary you with all this, and what interest can it possibly have for you?" exclaimed the Frenchman, suddenly interrupting himself; but I pressed him to continue, for the modulated tones of his voice, a certain pathos in it, and his sorrowful earnestness, gave his story an interest which cannot be imparted to it here.

"I implored Isabelle to elope with me; but she trembled, closed her eyes, and whispered, in a broken voice, that she dared not.

"'You are but sixteen, Isabelle, and they would consign you to a man of sixty—a sweet young girl like you surrendered to the cold arms of one whose heart is but the dregs and lees of a life spent in Paris! Oh, it is piteous!'

"'And bitterly they taunt me——'

"'Who taunt you?'

"'My father and mother,' said she, shuddering and closing her eyes, 'taunt me with you, Gervais. I ask for a husband who will love me as I would wish to be loved, and in reply they lay diamonds, jewels, fans and feathers at my feet. Away with these, I exclaimed, lest I tread upon them!'

"And then the poor young girl wept passionately—

"'My beloved Isabelle,' I exclaimed, 'how shall I survive seeing you consigned to a fate so miserable—to such a hopeless life—to a lord and master whose age, ideas, tastes, and ways are all so unbearable and uncongenial? Whose scorn and cruelty—oh, I know him well—will make you shrink as the frosty wind withers the early flowers of spring, and whose sordid coldness will crush your little heart! God preserve you, Isabelle, from the fate of many others who are similarly mated and lost in our worthy city of Paris!'

"'I have to thank you for the character you give of me, friend Monjoy, but 'twill avail you little,' said a voice behind us, and we found ourselves in the presence of M. du Platel, and M. d'Escombas who had just spoken, and also of his grim kinsman, the governor of the Conciergerie du Palais.

"Fortunately the latter personage, of whom I had—I know not why—an instinctive horror, was present; for we were in a solitary part of the garden. I had my sword on, and the malevolent smile on the thick lips and coarse dark visage of M. d'Escombas, with the furious scorn and indignation of M. du Platel, might have prompted me to commit some desperate extravagance.

"'Oh, my father, my father!' implored Isabelle; 'let me go back to my convent. Mother St. Rosalie de Sicile assures me that I have a true vocation!'

"'So it seems,' sneered M. d'Escombas, 'by your coming here to meet a young spark three days before your marriage.'

"'Father, it is better to endure the poverty, the vows, the life-long self-abnegation of all in a convent, than an union without love to a man who is older even than thee.'

"Her voice was most touching—her expression lovely; but the old barbarians heard her unmoved.

"'Child, you know not what you say,' replied M. de Platel, in great wrath. 'I provide a rich marriage, a wealthy husband, who will prove a kind one, too; a splendid house here, close by the Luxembourg; a life of freedom and gaiety; and, diable! what more would you have? unless it is this rascal of a student, who would be better inside La Force than here, creating mischief and dispeace.'

"'Oh, why torture me thus?' she replied, faintly, while pressing her hands on her heart.

"'Torture—bon diable! she talks of torture, with a suitor here who has ever so many thousand livres per annum,' said M. du Platel, shrugging up his shoulders.

"'Mon père,' she demanded, with her little nostrils quivering, and her blue eyes flashing fire; 'for how many thousand purses do the Circassians sell?'

"'Morbleu! she is always speaking about Circassians,' growled M. d'Escombas; 'what do we know of them, save that they are pagans who eat horseflesh on Friday, and never sign the cross or keep the month of Mary.'

"'And yet they sell their daughters, M. d'Escombas, just like the subjects of the Most Christian king.'

"'Child, this is treason and blasphemy—and close to the walls of the Luxembourg, too!'

"''Tis truth and despair.'

"'Summon a fiacre, M. d'Escombas—a thousand devils, 'tis time to end this!' exclaimed du Platel, grinding his teeth, and then they bore her away from me.

"In three days after this sorrowful meeting I heard the bells of St. Germain de Prè ringing gaily for the marriage of Isabelle to the wealthy citizen d'Escombas, who was willing to take her without a portion—a circumstance that had quite sufficient influence with one so sordid and cruel as her father, without considering on the other hand the vast wealth of her suitor.

"After this, I was long ill and tired of life, and believe that but for the unwearying friendship of Guillaume de Boisguiller I should have died—if indeed people ever die for love, which I don't think they do.

"It was about this time that all Paris, and all France, too, rung with the terrible story of the conspiracy, the trial, and execution of Robert Francis Damien; and M. d'Escombas, on hearing that I was ill, affected to pity me, and begged of Boisguiller that he might be permitted to pay me a visit. Then I—urged I know not by what motive or impulse—consented. On hearing this, what think you my fortunate rival did?—for all his plans we discovered after—how, need not be related here.

"He unlocked the secret drawer of an iron strong-box, and taking therefrom a ring, placed it, with a peculiar smile, upon a finger of his right hand. It was a large and antique ring, which his father, who was a dealer in jewellery, had procured in Venice at a sale of the trinkets of the old Doge, Marc Antonio Mocenigo, who became the spouse of the Adriatic in 1701. This gold ornament was what was then termed a Death Ring, used when acts of poisoning were common in the seventeenth century. It was of the purest metal; but attached to the outside were two lion's claws, made of the keenest steel, and having in each a cleft that was filled with the most deadly poison.

"In crowds, or balls, or elsewhere, the wearer of such a ring could exercise his secret revenge by the slightest scratch, in pressing the hand of the doomed person, who would next day be found, perhaps, in bed dead, no one knew why or how. So, armed with this most fatal trinket, M. d'Escombas came with Boisguiller to visit me.

"I have but a vague recollection of the interview. He knew how passionately I had loved Isabelle, and I saw the savage gleam that crossed his eyes, when I inquired for her, but as one might inquire for a sister. He assured me in brief and hurried terms that she was well, content, and happy. Then I congratulated him with a tongue that clove to the roof of my mouth.

"He rose, at last, to retire; bade me be of good heart, said his adieux, and pressing my hand, left me, with a dark smile in his eyes, which were small, black, glittering, and half obscured by their shaggy overhanging brows of grizzly hair, which, in fact, were like mustachios placed over his nose instead of below it.

"Scarcely was he gone before I felt an indescribable sensation pass over all my body; my eyesight grew dim; my brain reeled, and my thoughts became delirious. Then every faculty seemed to become paralysed, and the doctors—in his excitement Boisguiller soon had half the medical faculty of Paris at my bedside—declared that I had been poisoned by some mineral substance. But poisoned by whom, and how? Ah, le brigand! how little did we suspect!

"Strong antidotes were applied, and after a time I recovered, for the poison in the ring had been placed there so many years ago that it had not retained sufficient strength to destroy life; but I leave you, Monsieur Gauntlet, to imagine the hatred and horror I had of the traitor d'Escombas when I came to know the actual object of his visit.

"I recovered fully, and joined the army under the Marshals Contades and de Broglie, in Germany. So my Isabelle is still the wife of that man; but there is a sweet composure, a sadness of heart and of eye about her, a silence and enduring gentleness under the most insulting jealousy and coarse petty tyranny, which make all who know, pity her, and deplore the fate to which she has been consigned.

"Had she died I should have sorrowed for her long and deeply, and have eventually recovered from the shock; but to know that she lives, and for another, is enough to—but, hola! what have we here?"

CHAPTER XI.

A SAD CONCLUSION.

The interruption to the story was caused by Gervais Monjoy observing that before us rose the ivy-covered ruins of an ancient schloss, which seemed to inform him, as he said, that in the interest which he took in his unfortunate love affair he had lost or mistaken the way.

We were on the brow of a high eminence, and far away in distance spread the snowy landscape. In the foreground were some leafless woods and ridges of rock, which like the ruins of the old castle shone in russet and pink, as the yellow and rosy dawn stole across the eastern quarter of the sky. A star or two still twinkled overhead, and one shone brightly through the gaping windows of the square keep of the old schloss.

"Morbleu, my friend! my mind has been so full of Isabelle that I have proved but an indifferent guide. We are on the road to Waldeck. That is the old castle of Count Heinrich, who slew Ferdinand of Brunswick at Fritzlar, in 1400. Let me consider. We are not very far from Zuschen, and a bend of the Lahn lies about two miles distant on our right. Fortunately here is a peasant. Halloa! my friend, who or what are you?" asked Monjoy, in German, as a man attired in an overcoat of some dark stuff trimmed with black wolf's fur, and wearing a cap and boots of deerskin, with a horn-hafted knife in his girdle, a musket in his hand, and attended by a dog, appeared by the wayside, where he was leisurely lighting his large pipe, and quietly surveying us while doing so.

"I am a woodman," he answered somewhat gruffly.

"You are abroad betimes, friend."

"Those who have their bread to earn in a country swarming with soldiers, who help themselves to the best of everything, have need to be so, Mein Herr."

"Do you know the Lahn?"

"Right well. I am Karl Karsseboom, a forester of the Baron Von Freyenthal. This path to the right will bring you to it straight. Two miles from this is the ford; the water is shallow and frozen; but the King of Prussia's Black Hussars are in a village on the other side, so be wary."

"My friend, we thank you," said Monjoy, as the peasant touched his fur cap respectfully, and, with his musket shouldered, strode off, not in search of game, as we thought then, but to fulfil his duty of scout, by acquainting some followers of Bourgneuf that I was to cross the Lahn at the frozen ford.

"I have seen you some fifteen miles or so on your way," said my companion, gradually reining in his horse, "and further would I go, monsieur, but for those plans of Dillenburg which I must lay before the maréchal, and which our friend Boisguiller must convey to head-quarters. Farewell: I have enjoyed much the few hours we have had of your society; but the best we can wish each other, if this war lasts, is that we may seldom or never meet again, as we shall only do so when bayonets are fixed and bullets are flying."

Monjoy shook my hand, and wheeling round his horse, rode off. I remained for some minutes watching his retiring figure, the shadow of which was thrown across the snow by the rising sun, in the light of which his silver epaulettes flashed and glittered, and in the clear frosty air the echoes of his horse's hoofs long came distinctly ringing to the car.

I felt depressed and lonely now, for the suavity of manner and gentleness of expression possessed by this young officer made him a singularly winning and pleasing companion.

How much more would I have been interested in him then, could I have foreseen his terrible future!

Turning, I rode slowly along the path indicated. It was distinctly visible even amid the snow, as day had dawned and the sun was up; and while I traversed it at an easy pace (my horse being indifferently frosted in the shoes, and halting at every step), with the reader's permission I will give him—may I add, her?—the sad sequel to the story of Monjoy, as I afterwards read it in the Mercure Français, and the Gazette de Bruxelles, in our camp at Warburg in Prussian Westphalia.

Monjoy returned to Paris with Maréchal de Contades, the Marquis de Voyer, the Comte de Luc, and other officers who declined for various admitted reasons to serve under the Duc de Broglie, and he lived there a somewhat secluded life, exerting himself sedulously in the study of his profession. But he could not fail to hear from time to time of her he had lost, and how the neglect, and what was worse, the querulous tyranny, even the blows, of M. d'Escombas she endured with meek and silent patience—a patience that galled Monjoy; for as year succeeded year she had become the mere nurse of a petulant and selfish old man.

"Many a good woman's life is no more cheerful," says a certain writer; "a spring of beauty and sunshine; a bitter disappointment, followed by pangs and frantic tears, and then a long, long and monotonous story of submission."

As yet such had been the tenor of the life of Isabelle, but never did she and Gervais meet, save once in the boxes of the Opera House of the Palais Royal—the same theatre which had been built of old by Cardinal Richelieu, and was burned down four years after Minden.

They were seated very near each other. She seemed wondrously pale and beautiful; she was clad in light blue silk, her delicate neck, her white taper arms, and her golden hair all glittering with diamonds—the badges of her wedded slavery.

Both were deeply agitated, but neither spoke, till Isabelle, unable to restrain her emotion, whispered to Monjoy behind her fan—

"I can read your secret in your eyes, my poor Gervais, and so will others if you do not retire."

"My secret?" he faltered.

"That you love me—love me still, though I am the slave of this Dives. Oh, my God! fly me—leave me to my misery—a misery known to myself and Heaven only!"

Almost suffocated by his emotions—the grief and tenderness the familiar sound of her voice and this pathetic appeal all served to kindle in his breast, he rose abruptly and quitted the theatre, followed by a threatening glance from d'Escombas.

That evening he wandered long about the streets, but an irresistible fatality always lured him towards the Rue de Tournon, where Isabelle resided.

The night came on, clear and cold; there was no moon, but the stars shone brightly, and he saw all the windows of the street glittering in their pale light, and those also in that noble façade of the palace of the Luxembourg which faces the Rue de Tournon, with its pavilions at each end, and the great cupola which rises above the entrance door.

While wandering here, a person jostled him with great rudeness, and turning with a hand on his sword, he encountered the remarkably forbidding and somewhat grizzled visage of——M. d'Escombas!

"Monsieur will apologize?" said Monjoy in a husky voice, after recovering from his surprise.

"Monsieur will do nothing of the kind," growled the old man. "What the devil brings you here, Gervais Monjoy? But it matters nothing to me—so you had better walk off, and take your hand from your sword, or parbleu! remember that I have the same cane for you that has made Madame d'Escombas wince more than once!"

Maddened by the insult, the man, his words and the inferences to be drawn from them, Monjoy prayed aloud—

"Great source of strength, assist me! Beware! old man," he added, "lest you drive me to despair. Remember that it is neither the sixth nor the seventh commandment in the Decalogue that may prevent me from punishing you as you deserve, and rescuing a poor victim from your tyranny."

M. d'Escombas, who was insanely jealous, grew white and livid with rage at these words; and, as he did not want for courage, laid his hand on his walking sword, for people still wore such weapons at night in the streets of Paris.

"Dare you say this to me?" he exclaimed.

"Oui, monsieur le scélérat, and more if I choose. A selfish father sells his timid daughter to a sordid wretch who buys her for rank. Was it not so, old man?"

"Granted—though she preferred a beggarly student who should have stuck to his Vauban and his Coehorn," said the other, grinding his teeth; "and what then?"

"Coldness and placid endurance of life—perhaps contentment, might have followed; but never happiness."

"But for what, you would say?"

"Your querulous tyranny—your unmanly cruelty, with the story of which all Paris rings. You have even dared to strike her—to strike her with your clenched hand, and even with your cane. Oh, malediction, my gentle Isabelle! and here, old man, I tell you you are a coward!"

"A coward—and your Isabelle! ha—we shall see what we shall see," exclaimed d'Escombas, boiling with ungovernable fury, as he swiftly drew his sword, and rushing upon Monjoy before the latter was aware, wounded him severely in the side.

This was too much for human endurance. The engineer drew his sword, and locking in, tossed up, or wrenched away the weapon of M. d'Escombas, which glittered in the starlight as the blade went twenty feet into the air. At the same moment the sword of Monjoy pierced the lungs of his adversary, who, as he whirled round in his agony before falling, received it a second time in his back. He fell on his face and expired without a groan, and Monjoy fled, full of horror, leaving his weapon in the street, behind him.

All that dreadful night he wandered about the streets, the quays, and bridges of Paris, haunted by what seemed a dream, a nightmare, to endure for ever; and when day dawned he repaired straight to a Commissary (an official similar to our justice of the peace) and declared upon oath "that he had slain M. d'Escombas in the Rue de Tournon; but in a fair duel, sword in hand, in self-defence."

The Commissary deplored the circumstance, but accepted the declaration, and perceiving that he was dreadfully agitated, gave him some wine and water.

"And now, dear Isabelle," he muttered wildly, "you are free—but by my hand—alas, by my hand!"

"How, monsieur," exclaimed the Commissary, sharply, looking up from his desk, and surveying the miserable Monjoy through his spectacles—"what's this you say?"

Monjoy remained silent, but grew, if possible, paler.

"Hah! mon Dieu!" exclaimed the Commissary, changing colour; "I remember now. Is it true that you were a discarded lover of Madame, when she was Mademoiselle du Platel, and a boarder with les dames de Notre Dame de Charité on du réfuge de St. Michel, in the Rue de St. Jacques?"

"Yes," moaned Monjoy; "it is too true."

"Detain M. Gervais Monjoy in custody; send for a surgeon; bring the body of M. d'Escombas here, and let us have it examined," said the other to his officials.

In less than an hour all this was done.

"How is this?" exclaimed the surgeon, the Commissary; and all present; "there is a sword wound in the back, and the sword is still remaining there!"

"He has been murdered!" said the Commissary, sternly.

"Dare you say so?" exclaimed Monjoy, with equal fury and indignation.

"In my official capacity, I may say anything," replied the commissary, with a grimace—"to La Force with the prisoner!"

Within another hour Monjoy found himself in that formidable prison—formerly the hotel of the Maréchal Duc de la Force—accused of murder. Maréchal de Contades was in disfavour at court; Maréchal de Broglie was still in Germany, where the Seven Years' War was raging as fiercely as ever; his aunt the Prioress was dead. Thus Monjoy had no friend in Paris, save one, for whom he dare not send; so he remained in his vault, sunk in misery, and careless for the future.

In this prison are detained until the day of trial those who are accused of crimes. It is a spacious edifice, divided into several departments, and having eight courts, all watched and guarded well.