CHAPTER XXVII.

CLARA'S MINIATURE, AND HOW IT PROVED A TALISMAN.

At luncheon M. de Brissac and I were joined by the Earl of Irvine and several young sparks of the French Guards, glittering with jewels, velvets, and cloth of gold. We were attended by servants in the royal livery of France. The collation was luxurious; the wines rare beyond price, and served up in a lofty apartment, the walls of which were painted azure, powdered with silver lilies, and the ceiling was decorated by an allegorical subject, representing France as a beautiful woman, in whose half nude and wholly voluptuous figure, I recognized Clara d'Amboise, seated in a car drawn by white swans, and attended by Ceres, Flora, Pomona, and other goddesses, whose faces were those of Chevreuse, de Guerchi, and other court beauties, who were conducting her to the temple of Virtue.

The war, duels, and girls were the usual topics of conversation. I detailed all the particulars of our brilliant charge at Bitche; on which Lord Irvine said, with an air of pique,

'So it was only an affair of horse—a little charivari—nothing more.'

'Rather more successful than your marshal's at Bormio, however!'

'Oh, do not speak of Bormio; we had there a more dreadful day than I shall ever see until the day of doom! There, gentlemen, the best blood in France was battening in the sun upon the Alps, and dying the waters of the Fredolfo purple. My dearest friend was there mortally wounded by my side in dragging me wounded, as you see, from the press, and expired that night placing his wife in my arms as a sacred trust.'

'A pleasant little arrangement,' said De Brissac gaily; 'I hope the lady was handsome.'

'I do not understand you, monsieur,' replied the young Earl, gravely; 'my faith is for my friend—my sword is at the service of the King.'

'So is mine, my Lord,' said the gay Brissac; 'and moreover my hand and moustache are at the service of all fair ladies of his court. Morbleu! don't let us quarrel over this excellent wine; but tell us, M. Blane, got you much plunder in Alsace?'

'A younger son's share only; but whose stately château is that, on the other side of the water?' I asked, pointing to a large edifice which was visible between the elms.

'That is Trianon, a retreat of the King's. He comes to Versailles when tired of Paris; and goes lo Trianon when tired of Versailles.'

'Of which he will soon tire now,' said a chevalier of the French guards, with a wicked wink.

'You smile, monsieur?' said I.

'Of course.'

'Why?'

'Madame d'Amboise is there just now.'

'At Trianon?'

'Yes.'

'And Anne of Austria—'

'Is no doubt busy with M. le Cardinal, adjusting the boundaries of France at the Rhine.'

There was such a loud explosion of laughter at this remark, that I am sure 'M. le Cardinal' would have knit his brows had he heard it.

Trianon was in the form of an oval; in the centre was a large iron gate, having two sentinels of the French line, pacing before it. It had numerous pavilions crowned by glittering vanes; and its cornice was surmounted by an elaborate balustrade, and row of porcelain vases. It was gaily beautiful, for everywhere flowers bloomed, fountains played, and golden fish swam in the ponds around it.

Again my old emotions of pique at the Countess returned, and I resolved to depart at once to Paris, after thanking M. de Brissac for his courtesy, and drinking a farewell bumper to the Earl of Irvine.

This young peer was a son of Archibald seventh Earl of Argyle. He had served long against the Spaniards, and obtained a Scottish earldom from Charles I.; but died without heirs-male, and his title became extinct. He was brave, handsome, and a mirror of military honour.

I did not leave immediately for Paris, but wandered irresolutely about Versailles. The afternoon proved hot and sultry. There was not a breath of wind to stir a leaf of the three avenues of giant elms that diverge from the castle. The air and the canals between the latter and Trianon were alike still and motionless. The sun played with a golden gleam between the glittering fountains, on the yellow fruit of the orangery, and cast long flakes of hazy light athwart the deep shady vistas of the greater avenue; and now since the hunting-train had dispersed, all seemed lifeless and calm about this beautiful summer residence of Louis XIII.

While gazing at Trianon, across the verdant lawns, (then studded with the little daisy called in France "la belle Marguerite," from the Virgin of Cortona,) and pondering which apartment of that long façade, that is sixty-four fathoms broad, was occupied by the Countess, I seated myself upon a rustic sofa under a broad umbrageous elm, and drawing her miniature from my breast, unclasped and looked upon it, remembering her remarkable advice to wear it constantly for her sake, as it might 'prove a talisman, should I ever get into trouble.'

Something of the old and dangerous tenderness this fascinating woman had excited in my young breast rose again within me, as I gazed upon her beautiful face and winning smile; but while these thoughts coursed through my heart and head, the hot champagne seemed bubbling to my brain; the avenue, the palace and its fountains swam around me, and overcome by the languor of the day, the toil of my late journey, and the potent wine of the most Christian king, I fell into a sound sleep, with the miniature open in my hand—the miniature of the King's mistress, whose face was as well known to the court as the great clock of Notre Dame de Paris; and this was within a pistol-shot of the gate of Versailles!'

How long I slept I know not, but I awoke chilled and stiff.

The lengthened shadows of the elm-trees, and the deepening gloom that fell across the courts of Versailles, warned me that the day was past, and I started up.

'The miniature!' thought I.

Anxious and bewildered I searched for it on every side, but searched in vain. It had been stolen from me while I slept; and not daring to make any inquiry after it, I was glad to mount and ride back at a furious pace to Paris, with a vague hope of leaving danger behind me.

I had soon reason to repent the loss of my talisman.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

MARION DE L'ORME.

After putting my costume in proper order, I placed a new plume in my hat, pointed up my moustache, perfumed my hair like a court gallant, and sent little Poquelin about dusk for a fiacre, in which I was driven to the house of Marion de l'Orme, for whom I had no less than six billets, one of which was from my friend the Marquis de Toneins, son of the Marechal Duke de la Force.

I felt confused and anxious while I was driven through the streets; and amid the clatter of wooden shoes and the cries of dealers in nicotina, perfumed wash-balls, walking canes, and bonbons, I thought only of the loss of the miniature, and its probable results if it fell into evil hands. Mademoiselle de l'Orme's residence was in the Rue St. Jacques, and adjoined an old house which was one of the sights of Paris, for therein Alexander II. of Scotland, when on a visit to Queen Blanche, the mother of Louis IX., visited St. Dominique, the confessor, in 1219, so it was old enough, you may be assured.

As I rang the bell at the gate of the Hôtel de l'Orme—for so was her handsome mansion styled—and gazed upward at its row of illuminated windows, I felt a glow of interest at the anticipation of being tête-à-tête with this remarkable woman, who had become so celebrated throughout all France for her gallantries, the number of her lovers, the lustre of her beauty, and the reckless manner in which she broke through and trampled under her pretty foot all the rules by which the women of the Christian world have hitherto been guided.

I gave my name to a porter in the court; he, in turn, gave it to a valet in the vestibule, who repeated to a third on the staircase, and in due time I was ushered into a magnificent saloon, where waxlights, perfume, persons in glittering dresses, gorgeous furniture, and rich hangings appeared on all sides, like a brilliant scene at the Opera Française, and forming a strange contrast to those which I had seen for some time past—the trenches of La Mothe and the tents of Hepburn's army.

On three sides of this saloon, the tapestry of silk represented an allegory of Fame proclaiming by trumpet-sound the happiness of France; while Justice, sword in hand, drove away whole legions of Sedition, Discord, and Envy. The fourth side portrayed the proudest scene in the military history of 'Scotland's ancient enemies'—the brave Black Prince waiting at supper upon the King of France, on the same day he had conquered and taken him prisoner. The furniture was all of walnut (each piece a miracle of carving), or of buhl, and beautifully inlaid with shell and mother-of-pearl. Statues, bronzes, pictures, and countless objects of virtù and bijouterie were strewed around the tables of this long saloon, the carpets of which were of the softest Persian manufacture. As I perceived all these details at a glance, a gentleman, clad almost entirely in blue velvet and cloth of silver, started forward from amid the splendid group that were lounging around the low fauteuil, on which Marion de l'Orme was seated like a princess. He was my new acquaintance, M. de Brissac, then her most favoured lover; and, taking me by the hand, he at once presented me as 'a gentleman of the Guard, just arrived from the camp of the Chevalier Hepburn.' She received me with the most enchanting grace; and, giving me her perfumed hand to kiss, placed the six billets in a casket, to be read or burned when she was more at leisure.

She made me sit beside her on the fauteuil, for she had a hundred questions to ask—about the charge at Bitche; the storming of La Mothe; who were killed, who were wounded, and who had escaped; and whether I thought the ladies of Lorraine as charming as those of Paris. Then, in her inquiries, she strung together the names of counts, marquises, and chevaliers, captains, lieutenants, and musketeers, without giving me time to reply; and among the names of her friends she enumerated nearly all the cuirassiers of the Garde du Corps Ecossais. The brilliance of her manner, her wit and vivacity, dazzled and charmed, while it silenced and at times almost stunned me.

Her face was perfect in feature and regal in contour; her eyes were dark, but full of light, and a hundred varying expressions passed through them; her teeth and lips were as those of a child; her jet-black hair was gathered in braids and folds, which displayed to perfection the form and pure whiteness of her temples, her slender neck, and little ears, from each of which hung a diamond pendant worth six thousand francs, the gift, as I was afterwards informed, of the young marquis, our captain. She was attired in rose-coloured satin, trimmed with four flounces of black lace; her long peaked stomacher was golden cloth; her necklace, bracelets, rings, and the jewels among her hair, were sparkling with diamonds, which enhanced the splendour and the delicacy of her beauty.

The passionate light that filled the eyes of this dangerous woman made my heart flutter when she smiled on me, and caused me to dream of the joy of being loved by her as she twice gave me her hand to kiss—the loveliest hand in Paris.

Marion de l'Orme was then in her twenty-fourth year, having been born at Chalons sur Marne, in Champagne. Her father was a gentleman of property, who could have given her about sixty thousand francs as a marriage portion; but she preferred a life of gallantry and freedom, such as the reigns of Henry IV. and his successors had made fashionable, and thus she wickedly despised a reputable settlement.

Lovers taught her soon—too soon—that she was beautiful, that she was witty, and that there was a divine grace in all she did. She sang well, excelled in the guitar, and was wont to admit that she had loved passionately—at least while the love lasted—eight or nine consecutive lovers. The first was Des Barreaux, the next was Rouville, of whom she soon wearied, as he was not handsome enough; but the poor fellow fought a duel about her with his successor, La Ferte Senecterre, and left this valley of tears with three feet of a rapier in his body. Then came Miossens, to whom she took a fancy as he caracoled his horse along the Boulevardes, and to whom she bluntly sent a little pink note, inviting him to come and sup with her. Then followed Arnauld, the unfortunate Cinq Mars, who was beheaded by Richelieu; M. de Chatillon; the Marquis de Gordon, who was forgotten as soon as our drums died away on the road to Lorraine; and lastly, my new friend, M. de Brissac, whom I should have found little difficulty in supplanting had I been so disposed. Cardinal Richelieu himself was among her lovers. He gave her a cane worth six hundred francs, and she used to visit his Eminence dressed as a page; for her whims were ever rash, fantastic, and unaccountable.

Love excepted, Marion had no frailty, and she had many virtues. She chatted away of her past amours with a coolness which surprised me. Perceiving that M. de Brissac was admiring Cupid and Psyche, a beautiful group in bronze—

'Ah!' said she, 'that was a gift from poor Senecterre; and the buhl pedestal on which it stands, was given to me by that wretch Miossens, whose moustache had always such a horrid odour of nicotina.'

'And this beautiful casket,' said I, 'excels that of the Duchess d'Ancre.'

'Scarcely, in size at least,' said Marion; 'for the Duchess, in her famous casket, carried all her jewels, together with her best locks and bosom. The buhl table that it stands on was a present from dear Cinq Mars, who thought himself so handsome. There was a time when I thought him so too, but then he was such a self-willed toad that he bored me. And so, M. Blane, my gay friend, the little Marquis de Toneins was actually wounded at your terrible La Mothe?'

'Yes, mademoiselle, in ascending the breach.'

'Ah! he sought the bubble reputation even at the cannon's mouth, but in lieu of the bubble got the ball, which M. Shakespeare forgot to consider. I doubt not, my dear M. Blane, your despatches will cause many a tear to be shed in France.'

'True, mademoiselle,' said De Brissac, with a sentimental air; 'many an eye, lovely as your own, that God made only for smiling, now is compelled to weep.'

'But their tears will only render brighter the laurels which bedeck the brows of the survivors. The number who have fallen saddens, doubtless, our glory and triumph, but,' she added, with her fine eyes flashing, 'they fell for France, bequeathing victory to her and to their comrades. Is it not so, my dear M. Blane?'

A burst of applause from her admirers prevented me from replying; and then she asked, in a low voice—

'Is the wound of De Toneins severe?'

'Rather, mademoiselle; yet I know of a pain greater than even a musket-shot can inflict.'

'Indeed; what is it, pray?'

'To feign indifference where we feel but—love,' said I, with an air so gallant and tender that it won me an approving smile from Marion and a frown from M. de Brissac, of which mark of displeasure I was resolved to be quite oblivious; for what the deuce was M. de Brissac to me?

'And you feel this often, M. Blane?' she asked, with an inexplicable glance, in which drollery predominated.

'Nay, mademoiselle, I never felt it until now,' I replied, sinking my voice, as an irresistible spirit of gallantry urged me on; 'I am unused to the society of one so beautiful; so pray, mademoiselle, excuse my diffidence.'

'Gentlemen are ever telling me that I am beautiful,' said Marion, pettishly; 'I would rather be beloved.'

Fortunately—for there was a malevolent gleam in the eyes of De Brissac—the servants appeared with a cold collation, served up in silver and Bohemian crystal of crimson flowered with gold. We had wines of the most expensive description to overflowing, and a hundred gay anecdotes and witty remarks were given on all sides; for the boudoir of Marion de l'Orme was not a place to repress the liveliest sallies of the wits and sparks who hovered about her, and who courted her smiles. I remember that De Brissac made us all laugh by the pointed and satirical manner in which he related a droll story of the Bishop of Auvergne, who was sorely tried and tempted by the devil, who met him in his cathedral church at night in the form of a handsome woman with very scanty garments. Then Marion assumed her guitar, and sang to us first an old ballad of the Palatines of Champagne; and then a Spanish romance, in which a lover declared that once when thinking of his mistress he fell into a pond, where the heat of his passion had such an effect on the water, that it bubbled up and boiled all the fish—the trout, perch, and carp—so that his friends who came to hook him out, forgot all about him in the delicious repast afforded them by the ready-cooked spoil of the waters.

These songs, stories, and the generous wine put us all in excellent humour.

'Everything here is princely,' said I to a grave-looking cavalier, who wore the Grand Cross of Malta.

'Yes,' he replied with a sardonic grin; 'for the love of Mademoiselle is a commodity that rises in value according to the season in Paris, and the rank of her adorers.'

This was evidently a disappointed man; but Marion gave more to the poor than any ten Priors of his order.

'Fill your glasses, gentlemen,' exclaimed De Brissac, standing on one of the rich tapestry chairs; 'fill them to the brim. I mean to parody old Martial for the occasion, thus:—

'Let six full cups to Nævia's health go round,
And fair de l'Orme's with seven full cups be crowned.'

'Vivat, messieurs! off with them!' and the mad cavaliers drained seven in succession; but after this it pleased M. de Brissac to become very cross, jealous, and suspicious; and, assuming his plumed hat and long sword, he proposed to leave.

'Well, if you are determined to be unpleasant, assuredly I shall not detain you,' said Marion, with a tone of pique; 'but,' she added in a kinder whisper, 'when am I to have that diamond necklace from the queen's jeweller?'

'I know not,' he answered, gloomily; 'and I care not.'

'Indeed!'

'Yes,' he replied, twisting his right moustache.

'It is only six hundred paltry crowns.'

'Crowns of the sun—mordieu! my wife's cost but two hundred.'

'What is Madame to me?'

'More than I am, apparently,' retorted de Brissac, as he thrust his broad beaver on his head, and retired in a gust of wine and passion; but not without levelling a dark glance at me.

In an hour after, I tired of this witty and brilliant but loose company, and bade Marion adieu. As I kissed her hand, she gave me a glance so bright and tender, that I would not have given a brass bodle for the chances of M. de Brissac, had I deemed it worth my while to attempt supplanting him in her favour; for the silver saltire of the Scottish Guard bore all before it in Paris; but, save once in her coach on the Boulevards, I never saw Marion again.

This wild and remarkable girl, whose beauty turned the heads of all the gallants in Paris, died at the early age of thirty-nine, after four days' illness, when she was still lovely as ever. Of the cause of her death, I dare not trust myself to write; and but for the reckless life she led, she might have preserved her wondrous beauty longer. She had divine hands, and never wore a pair of gloves for more than three hours. She left sixty thousand francs' worth of dresses and ornaments. She never accepted a denier from a lover; but yet had presents of dresses, jewellery, plate, and furniture sufficient to stock the Louvre.

During her last illness, which made a great sensation in Paris and in the French camp, she confessed ten times to a priest, having always something new, some little forgotten sin to communicate. The gallants of Paris, and all her former admirers, laid her body in state for twenty-four hours, with a maiden crown on her head; but the austere curé of St. Gervais very properly denounced this proceeding as a ridiculous scandal, and tore it from the corpse; yet Marion looked so beautiful in her pure white shroud, that the 'Gazette Historique de Loret,' of the 30th June, 1650, has the following epigram upon her:—

'Le pauvre Marion de l'Orme,
De si rare et plaisante forme;
A saissi ravis au tombeau,
Son corps si charmant et si beau!'

Marion had three sisters, all very attractive girls. The eldest, Madame de la Montague, a beautiful blonde, was wont somewhat rashly to boast—'we have no riches, but we have honour;' yet my friend Viscount Dundrennan, like M. de Moret, nearly broke his neck when descending one night from her chamber window.

The youngest and least artful was married, to M. Maugiron, Treasurer of the Artillery du Roi, who served with me in the campaign of Alsace. As they lived in the arsenal, old Marechal de la Meilleraye, though he had not a tooth in his head, fell in love with her; but finding that she was carrying on an intrigue with the Cardinal de Retz, he revengefully deprived her poor husband of his commission; and this is all that I know of the family of the gayest woman that ever influenced the scandalous, joyous, and immoral city of Paris.

CHAPTER XXIX.

ARRESTED.

To resume my own narrative: I had proceeded from the Rue St. Jacques, after a somewhat devious course, along the Rue Betizi and the Fosses St. Germain l'Auxerrois, when at the place where the latter is intersected by the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, a dark and ancient street that leads from the Rue St. Honoré to the Seine, I found all the oil-lamps extinguished, and a fiacre, surrounded by twelve foot musketeers of the Comte de Treville's company, standing fairly in the centre of the way. At that moment the clock of St. Germain tolled two; but daybreak seemed far distant, as the shadows lay deep and black in the quaint and overhanging streets of Paris.

'Halt, monsieur, and give up your sword,' said a muffled man, whose voice was familiar to me.

'Not to a mere mousquetaire,' said I, unsheathing it, and standing on my guard; 'and least of all to one of your rank, my ex-captain of horse; for now I recognise you, worthy Monsieur de Brissac.'

'Bah! did not Francis I. of France give up his to the son of a butcher?'

'True, when only three of the Scottish Guard remained on their feet beside him, and a mountain of slain lay round them. By St. Andrew—'

'Hark!' said a musketeer; 'a Huguenot swears by St. Andrew.'

'Surrender your sword, Monsieur Arthur Blane, I command you!' reiterated Brissac.

'You have a warrant, I presume?'

'Peste! you are particular!—'

'Most people usually are, under these circumstances.'

'My word and sword should be warrant enough; but here is the document,' said he, holding a paper close lo one of the lamps of the fiacre. 'Louis, par la Grace de Dieu, Roi de France et de Navarre,' &c. &c., 'signed at our castle of Versailles,' and so forth, all in due form. 'What the devil would you have more? I have arrested a Bishop and a Marechal of France—ay, Monseigneur de Montmorenci himself—with infinitely less ceremony.'

Inflamed with anger and alarm, and irresolute whether to fight, fly, or yield, I still kept my point towards him.

'Mere musketeers have not status sufficient to arrest a gentleman of the Scottish Guard;—we rank with field-officers of the French line,' said I.

'M. Blane forgets that I am noble.'

'By marriage with a lady descended from Joan of Arc's family; but you forget, my dear M. Brissac, that by the edict of Louis XIII., (whose agreeable warrant you bear,) passed in 1614, "females descended from La Pucelle, shall no longer ennoble their husbands," so that heraldic force is at an end.'

'Pardieu! beat him down, messieurs, with the butts of your muskets, for I am weary of this!' exclaimed de Brissac, with sudden passion; and finding, on reflection, the danger and futility of further resistance, I surrendered my weapon, saying, with a lightness, I was far from feeling,

'Here is my spit—but pray be careful of it, for a dainty demoiselle's pink glove, is, or should be at the shell of it.'

'Little Babette's of the Fleur-de-lis, in the Rue d'Ecosse, I presume,' said he, scornfully; but as Marion de l'Orme usually wore pink gloves, he shook with rage, as he thrust me into the carriage and took his place beside me. The fiacre was put in motion; the musketeers ran at a double quick march on each side of it, which dispelled my first idea that they meant to assassinate me; and as we drove on, I taxed my memory in vain for any offence or crime I might have committed.

'Oh—you are angry at finding me at little De l'Orme's, perhaps?' said I.

'What care I for Mademoiselle de l'Orme?' said he; 'who is her lover now?'

'Rumour says a certain M. de Brissac—but I know 'tis the young Marquis de Toneins.'

'Bah—her affections are of the most rapid nature!'

'Well, my dear M. de Brissac,' said I, in that sneering fashion which the Parisians were fast teaching me; 'if you are not jealous of me, you will perhaps have the kindness to acquaint me with my crime.'

'You have been in love with the King's mistress.'

My heart trembled at these words; but I resolved to put a bold face on the affair.

'Nay, nay, M. Brissac! she is in love with me.'

'Oh, fie, M. Blane! But no matter; I have known a man branded with the fleur-de-lis, or sent in chains to the galleys at Toulon for less.'

'Pleasant reminiscences!'

'Very; suggestive, too: I hope you like them.'

'This arrest is an infamous violation of the privileges of the Scottish Guard,' said I, losing all temper; 'these privileges were given us by the predecessors of Louis XIII.—by kings better and braver than he—privileges won in battle, and which he cannot, dare not revoke!'

'Dare not?'

'No!'

'Peste! do they include the right of intromitting with the King's mistress?'

'King Louis will hear more of this; if he wishes, a town taken in Lorraine, or a castle stormed on the Rhine.'

'Your Scottish government may, if they choose, place a French gentleman in the castle of Edinburgh, by way of reprisal,' sneered De Brissac.

'That will comfort me mightily.'

'I presume there is no lack of French fiddlers and dancing masters in Scotland?'

'There are twenty thousand Scots now under Hepburn and La Force; I would they were all to-night in Paris.'

'The Marechal de la Force is a brave fellow.'

'Ay, none is braver. He will face the devil or a cannon-ball—'

'But he cannot face his angry wife.'

'In all things he excels M. de Brissac.'

'Thank you; but for the place to which we are going, I would ask you to alight and measure swords with me.'

'Now that you speak of it, where are we going?'

'Cannot you guess?'

'No; but your musketeers must be well nigh out of breath by this time.'

'We are en route to the Bastille.'

'The Bastille!' I exclaimed, while my blood ran cold.

'Yes; 'tis occasionally fashionable to visit it at the French court.'

'I would prefer any other prison—'

'The Château d'Amboise, perhaps; but we cannot always choose our own quarters, M. Blane,' said De Brissac, as the fiacre, to the great relief of messieurs the twelve breathless musketeers, halted close by the Porte St. Antoine; and vainly I recalled the warning of the Marquis de Gordon, when first I met him at Clara's—

'Be wary, for her chamber has occasionally led to the Bastille, or to the more dreadful oubliettes of the Louvre!'

CHAPTER XXX.

THE BASTILLE.

When I alighted, the musketeers closed round me. We were under the shadow of an immense dark building, the massive outline of which was broken at intervals by eight round towers. A jagged gateway frowned above the carriage; there was a clanking of iron bars; a horrible jarring of bolts upon the pavement as an iron gate was opened and shut; a swinging of chains and exchange of papers as De Brissac gave my sword to the governor with a malicious and undisguised smile of triumph; and then I found myself in the custody of the Bastille—fairly enclosed within its walls.

The Bastille!

How much of terror had not that name conjured up within me; and now visions of dungeons and of sufferings inconceivable came vaguely before me, as I was requested, with cold politeness, to 'step this way,' and mechanically I followed, my heart sinking lower at every step, along passages, vaulted, dark, and strong, on the slimy or cold and whitewashed walls of which the torches of the gaolors flared and gleamed; and a horror came over me, that if I did not reach a pestilential vault at the end of these devious corridors, some secret plank or paving-stone might suddenly sink beneath my feet, and precipitate me, crushed and mangled, into some hideous oubliette or subterranean tributary of the Seine, where, among the festering bones of former victims, mine would rot, unburied and forgotten. I had often heard of such things; and was there aught too horrible to be associated with that edifice?

Bastille meant simply an ancient castle; but that of Paris alone retained the name; though we in some manner adopted it in Scotland by designating our fortified mansions Bastel-houses.

The terrible Bastille of Paris, begun by order of Charles V. in 1383 for the defence of the city, was completed by his successor, Charles the Well-beloved; and since then it had been the infernal abode of misery and of tears, dedicated solely to the secret purposes of despotism and tyranny.

As we advanced into the interior of its vast and gloomy keep, I was deeply impressed by the number and complication of low-browed doorways, steep staircases, and narrow corridors by which its enormous walls were perforated; and by the number of huge iron locks, bolts, bars, and chains by which all the entrances were secured. At last we crossed a high and spacious hall, having a roof and floor of stone. In the centre stood a square mass of stone-work, having one little orifice or window, but all cramped and bound together by bars of iron run into the stone with lead. It was one of those terrible cages made by the decrepit tyrant, Louis XI., for the confinement of great state-prisoners—a notable invention of the Cardinal de Baluc, who was the first to experience the comforts of them. The Most Christian King was charmed by the invention, however, and had several made; thus they were styled by the lively French, 'the King's little daughters.' Each had a door of stone—a slab like the lid of a coffin; and none on whom that dreadful door was closed ever came out again—alive, at least. In this vast sepulchral-looking hall the torches flared and gleamed with a red and smoking light.

Rage and hatred began to mingle with my alarm as we passed from thence along a corridor beyond the hall, and I was ushered through a Gothic doorway into an apartment. Then the Captain of the Bastille turned to me, and said—

'M. Blane, this is your chamber and sleeping-place.'

I glanced round me. The room was circular, as it was in one of the towers attached to the keep. Its walls were covered by pale leather stamped over with gilded flowers. It had one long and narrow window, having a pointed arch, well barred without and glazed with stained glass charged with the arms of France, and latticed with brass wire within. The furniture was very plain, but a comfortable fire of wood was blazing on the stone hearth.

'Monsieur's apartment is quite historical,' said the Captain of the Bastille, with a well-bred smile, which to me seemed then a hideous leer; 'it was in this place that the Scottish archer, a Huguenot who was accused of a design to fire the city of Paris, was tortured to death; and here the Comte d'Auvergne, son of Charles IX., was confined until 1616.'

'Confined—how long?'

'About fifty years, I think, monsieur.'

I made no reply, for my tongue seemed cleaving unto the roof of my parched mouth. He bowed and left me; and the clatter of bolts and locks as the door was secured, together with the sound of retiring footsteps, as the Captain and his people withdrew, sank like iron into my soul.

My bed, which was destitute of curtains, stood close by me, and I flung myself upon it, exclaiming with bitterness—

'And this is the reward of my service to a faithless King! Send a fool to France and he will still be a fool—'tis our old Scottish proverb, and truly it applies to me.'

It seemed almost incredible that the events of the last hour, or of the past day, were reality; that within so short a period, I had been graciously received by the King at Versailles, and had delivered those triumphant despatches which filled all Paris with joy; that within an hour, I had been in the gay and brilliant salon of the beautiful Marion de l'Orme, surrounded by the chief wits of Paris; and now, that I was a lonely state prisoner, without an accuser and without a crime; a prisoner, perhaps to remain so in secret during the caprice of the King; to be handed over, as others have been, from gaoler to gaoler, from chatelain to chatelain; for my name a number substituted, until my hair became white, and even my oldest friends had forgotten that I had once lived and mysteriously disappeared from among them!

These thoughts were bitter agony!

I thought of the Countess d'Amboise, and the Marquis de Gordon; but I had no means of communicating with either of them, and thus they would remain probably in ignorance of my situation. Who was my enemy—who were my accusers? I started up and traversed my room to and fro, with impatient strides, until I grew weary, and again seated myself on the bed to watch the embers on the hearth as they flickered, reddened, and died in the uncertain currents of air that came down the huge chimney, the aperture of which was secured by an iron grating; and so the long, long night wore away and the lingering dawn began to brighten over sleeping Paris and the distant country.

I opened the stained-glass casement and looked out. Far down below, beyond the outer rampart of the Bastille, I saw all the chimneys of Paris vomiting smoke; the arsenal of Henry IV., a spacious pile, having three great courts and a portal, the pillars of which were cannon set on end. Beyond lay the Seine and the Isles of St. Louis and the Cité—the Paris of the kings of the first race and of Philip Augustus—rising like a mass of rugged castles, moated round by the river, which was bridged across by the quaint piles of the Pont de Notre Dame and the Pont de la Cité. Nearer still, waved the green trees which covered all the Isle Louviers. A yellow flush spread across the eastern quarter of the sky; above it rolled clouds of murky amber, rendered darker by the morning smoke; and as the sun ascended behind the horizontal stripes of cloud, which his rays turned to bars of seeming gold and fire; he tipped with a rosy gleam the countless quaint façades and features of the city, which spread around me, with all its churches, spires, and glittering vanes; and chief of all, the huge dark double towers of Notre Dame, whose foundations were laid by Charles the Great. The queen of French cathedrals, she rose from a sea of ancient roofs, steep, sharp, and conical; and there, too, yawned the Parvis, a handsome old square, overhung by quaint houses, full of bustling shops, hurrying passengers, and a hundred varying noises. Then, as morning advanced, I heard the bells ringing in all the convents, monasteries, and steeples—St. Landry, St. Pierre aux Boeuf, St. Denis du Pas, St. Germain l'Auxerrois, and all the old churches of Paris as the city awoke, and roused itself to life and business, prayer and sin.

The live-long day, from my lofty perch, I watched far down below the sights and sounds of Paris passing and buzzing round me, until the rattle of fiacres and the clatter of hoofs died away, and the arteries of life that intersected the town became dark and still as night drew on again, and, with a sigh of weariness, I threw myself on my bed, to sigh and pray, and to utter futile imprecations and maledictions on the hour I came to France. My gaoler was a kind but taciturn fellow. He had served a long apprenticeship to chains and groans, and to sighs of unavailing anguish; thus he seldom spoke; yet, when he did, it was only to drop casual hints of the horrors by which I was surrounded, but quite in a common-place way, for the man had scarcely an idea of anything beyond the precincts of the Bastille; and from him I learned that in this living tomb were state prisoners who had been committed to it on no better warrant than a lettre-de-cachet, of which letters any French noble might get a dozen from the premier any forenoon; prisoners who had not seen the blessed light of day for more than forty years; poor creatures whose crimes, if any, had long since been forgotten, even as their names were forgotten by their keepers, and as their existence was forgotten by the world; like the dead of forty years ago; and the whole record of whose mysterious disappearance from life and upper air, if record of it existed at all, might be found in some mouldy portfolio of Richelieu or his predecessors.

Such were the inmates of the Bastille!

One day I beheld a long train of personages on foot pass through the gate of St. Antoine. There were gentlemen guards, grooms, pages, and lacqueys. Six of the former bore a blue-silk canopy over the head of a tall and stately lady, who was also on foot, and carried in her right hand a lighted taper. As she passed along, cries of 'Vive la Reine' reached me.

'What is all this?' I inquired of my keeper, who chanced to be in my apartment.

'It is her Majesty, Madame Anne of Austria, proceeding on a pilgrimage to the shrine of St. Fiacre, to pray for the health of the King, who is ill, and to return thanks for her own cure.'

'Cure from what?'

'A dangerous issue of blood, which M. Richelieu affirmed to be the malice of sorcerers, and which had baffled her physicians with all their skill.'

'You believe in all this?'

'Parbleu, yes! If M. Seguier, Bishop of Meaux in 1649, and Jean, Comte de Blois, bore testimony to the wonderful cures wrought upon them by praying to St. Fiacre, why should not a poor unlettered fellow such as I?'

'True; this is unanswerable.'

'And we all know, monsieur, that M. Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, began a novena of prayers to implore the divine intercession for the Queen, who was thereafter safely delivered of a boy, who may be Louis XIV. if he lives, yet is as unlike his father as I am.'

'Perhaps you resemble the Cardinal,' said I.

'If court scandal is dangerous in the open air, monsieur, it is much more dangerous in the Bastille,' replied the man, with a hasty glance around him, as he withdrew.

'It is strange,' said I to him on the sixth or seventh day of my captivity, 'that your face seems familiar to me.'

'Perhaps, monsieur,' said he, smiling, 'those who see our faces here, remember them for ever.'

'What is your name?' I asked.

'Martin Omelette.'

'How? any relation to my maitre d'hôtel, Pierre Omelette?'

'Who keeps the Fleur-de-lis, in the Rue d'Ecosse?'

'Yes.'

'I am his brother, M. Blane, and have had the pleasure of seeing you, and M. le Vicomte Dundrennan, and other gentlemen of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, there often.'

'Alas! times are changed with me now, my friend Martin; I am alike poor and unfortunate.'

'Take courage, monsieur; you have been here only seven days.'

'D—n, only seven!'

'We have had prisoners here for seven-and-forty, and yet they have been released at last—released when their minds had sunk to such apathy, however, that they would as readily have remained.'

'Martin, you torture me!'

'We had one for forty-six years in this very room; see, he has scribbled the walls all over with invocations of St. Fiacre, his patron, and the dates will show you an ordinary lifetime spent within this little place.'

'Martin,' said I, in a voice like a sob, 'I should die of this place in one month.'

'So at first they all say who come here; yet they get used to it—even those who are secret prisoners, and who, without date or name, are handed over per list from chatelain to chatelain. Ma foi! we have one in the lowest vaults who is so old that he has worn out a set of fetters, and is supposed to have been put in when M. de Salvaison was captain of the Bastille.'

'In what time did this worthy flourish?'

'In the days of Henry II.—about 1560.'

'Impossible!'

'Seventy-five years ago, monsieur.'

'It is alike horrible and incredible!'

Martin smiled faintly, and whispered,—

'He is supposed to be a kinsman of Anne du Bourg, whom the Cardinal de Lorraine, a fierce and passionate man, hanged and burned in the Place de la Grève; but only supposed, monsieur, since he never speaks now, and we know not his name.'

As if he had said too much, Martin Omelette hastily withdrew, leaving me to torture myself with dark anticipations of the future, and to spell over the prayers with which my hapless predecessor had supplicated the intercession of St. Fiacre. But my mind would recur again and again with stinging poignancy to my present predicament. I thought now of all my futile aspirations after fame; of all I had done at Bitche, at Ingweiler, and La Mothe, in the service of this ungrateful Louis of France, whose wanton war against Duke Charles of Lorraine I saw in all its wickedness. Then I thought of my distant home and the scenes I never more might see; of the green pastoral hills and the woods of Blanerne, that cast their shadows on the Dee, whose waters rush to meet the Solway; of the birchen glen, on the brow of which the towers of old Tungland Abbey raised their gray-worn pinnacles above the waving coppice; of the breezy upland slopes, where the yellow corn ripened on the long golden rigs, where the bonneted ploughboy whistled, nor dreamed there was such a thing as tyranny in the world; where the black crow and the eagle that had their eyry in St. Mark's lovely isle were wheeling aloft, and I panted for freedom and for home!

Home! Alas! I had more friends in the grave than in the world; yet their graves were in Scottish earth, and that was all the world to me.

I thought of my unavenged quarrel with the house of Nithsdale; of my slaughtered father, as he lay all 'boltered' in his blood by Lochar Moss; of our ravaged lands and ruined homes, all sunk in smoke and flame, as I had last seen the tower of Blanerne when I, a fugitive, looked back from the green hills of Galloway, and saw the weapons of the Maxwell troopers glitter on my track, as I forded the foaming waters of Urr. Then I thought of the horrors of the Bastille, and dashed my head upon my bed, as I longed—madly longed for liberty!

Louis XIII. I abhorred, but could not petition either him or the Countess d'Amboise, for paper and ink were denied me. How had our petty intrigue—if intrigue it could be called—been discovered?

I remembered the loss of the miniature at Versailles, and the malevolent smile of the jealous De Brissac, and planned a hundred impossible schemes of escape and revenge; and so, amid all these bitter, burning, and impatient thoughts, the second weary week of my captivity wore slowly and monotonously away.

CHAPTER XXXI.

'NUMBER 32.'

Perceiving that I was becoming very dull and miserable, Martin Omelette brought me an old book, which he said had been left by my predecessor. It was a manuscript, and was entitled La Vie de Monseigneur St. Fiacre.

'St. Fiacre again!' said I.

'Yes, monsieur,' said he, 'and I hope it may serve to amuse you as much as it amused and consoled the poor chevalier, who for six-and-forty years——'

'Leave me, in the devil's name!' I groaned.

'Yes, monsieur,' said Martin, bowing, for he never forgot his politeness, and withdrew.

Mechanically I turned over the leaves and read. The first line interested me, and I read on. It was the quaint monkish story of an ancient saint, and as this exalted personage, whose name is now 'familiar as a household word' to the Parisians, was a countryman of my own, I found some amusement, if I did not discover consolation, in the volume with which honest Martin had favoured me. The history was copiously interspersed by prayers, pious invocations, and occasional bursts of wild enthusiasm, for the admiration of the writer—an old canon of Notre Dame—were at times uncontrollable when writing of the 'Glorieux ami de Dieu, Monseigneur St. Fiacre.'

'The 30th of August is the anniversary of St. Fiacre,' began the volume, 'son of Ewen IV., king of Scotland, who began his reign in the year of our Redemption 605—a king who was educated, as the Black Book of Paisley saith, piously and carefully, under St. Culme, the abbot of Iona, by whom he was reared in all manner of human learning, and in the love of God in works of piety; yet he swerved from the precepts of his peaceful master, by being grievously addicted to war, as the king of Strathclyde and the half-savage Saxons then inhabiting the land now called England found to their cost, in many a battle fought and lost between the Tyne and Humber.'

Then the old legendary proceeded to tell us how Fiacre, the son of Ewen and his queen Frivola of Ross, was born in Dunstaffnage, and educated by Conan, Bishop of the Western Isles; and how he proved a brave, valiant, and virtuous prince: till once, when hunting on the wild shores of the Bay of Nigg, a strange adventure befel him.

Near a fountain, at which his horse was drinking, he saw a maiden of more than mortal beauty, with snow-white skin and golden hair—the spirit of the water. This was on the 30th of August, the festival of St. Rose of Lima. Of this spirit-woman he became deeply enamoured, and was wont to meet her again and again in the mirk hour, between midnight and morning, until he who sought to give her a human soul was in danger of losing his own, for the spirit was a fiend, who sought the youth's destruction; but Saint Fergus, the Bishop and Confessor, whose cell was hewn in the old craig of Inverugie, and whose right arm is now preserved in the cathedral of Aberdeen, besought the Prince to abandon the fountain, which he blessed and purified, by saying a solemn mass on the spot, after which the spirit appeared no more; but that fountain is still named St. Fiacre's Well, and is famous among the northern peasantry for the miraculous cures accomplished by its waters.

After this, full of gratitude to Heaven for his narrow escape from perdition, Fiacre became a preacher, and renouncing his sword and buckle, his high estate and place, he quitted secretly, in the night, his royal home, among the dark mountains of Lorn, and became a teacher and preacher of the gospels. Visiting France when Clotaire II., son of the infamous and lewd queen Bredegonda, was king, he proceeded throughout all the land, leading the wild Franks to God, and working marvellous miracles by the way. At Toppaia, in Florence, he delivered a certain rich man of a devil which possessed him, but which immediately possessed his wife, who thereupon became frantic, and hanged herself upon an orange-tree. In memory of this riddance—whether of the wife, or the devil, or both, the chronicler doth not say—the rich man founded a chapel in honour of St. Fiacre, and the Dukes of Florence have since endowed and adorned it nobly.

The legendary then proceeded to state how St. Fiacre was assailed from time to time by the beautiful spirit of the fountain, which appeared to him, ever and anon, from the waters and wayside wells near which he passed, for he lived in forests and lonely places, subsisting on roots and herbs; and thus he resisted more temptations than ever did honest St. Anthony of old: and now, when his father, king Ewen, died in Lorn, in 622, as Camerarius and Bishop Leslie tell us, St. Fiacre was visited by a train of chiefs and priests from Scotland, summoning him to the throne; but he answered, that 'for the inheritance of an eternal crown, he had renounced all earthly claims,' and, turning away, continued the task at which they found him—covering the roof of his hut with turf. So his brother Ferquhard was chosen, in his place, King of Scotland, a prince who fell into the Pelagian heresy, and fought with his nobles, who threw him into a prison, where he perished miserably by casting himself upon his own sword.

Meanwhile, St. Fiacre lived in peace at his solitary cell, in a deep forest at Brieul, in Brie, where a place had been assigned him by St. Fars, Bishop of Meaux. There, with his own hands, the pious prince cleared the ground of its old primeval oaks and sharp briars, and there he built a chapel to the Virgin, where he gave to prayer the hours that were not spent in the cultivation of his little garden, the proceeds of which he gave to the poor. There he died on the 30th of August, the feast of St. Rose, in the year 670, and there he was buried.

Thereafter, for ages, his shrine was visited by crowds of pilgrims from all parts of France; till the 30th of August, eight centuries after, when a spring of pure water suddenly burst up from the chapel floor, and the monks of Meaux, recalling the legend of the spirit of the fountain which had tormented the saint of old, translated his relics to their cathedral in 1562; and the name of Fiacre was first given to hackney-coaches in Paris, because these vehicles were greatly used by sick and infirm pilgrims who visited the shrine of the Scottish saint, for which they usually set out from the hotel of Maître Nicholas Sauvage, which bore the sign of St. Fiacre, and stood in the Rue St. Martin, opposite to the Rue de Montmorenci, where it swung in the wind until 1645.

My hapless predecessor had probably, nay I have no doubt must have been one of those who adhered to the ancient faith, otherwise he could not have drawn much comfort from this old monkish story. I yawned over it wearily, and in all the prayers to, and pious invocations of, St. Fiacre, trusted less than to the virtues of a rope ladder, a sharp dagger, and a brace of loaded pistols.

An occasional leaf of the Mercure Française, which I received wrapped round bread, butter, or fruit, acquainted me with the progress of events in the great world without, and thus I Learned that war was still waged against Charles IV. of Lorraine, that his daughter Marie Louise was still lurking undiscovered in Paris, in spite of rewards offered for her capture; and I learned, too, that my noble comrades of the Guard—how I longed to be with them!—were still under Hepburn, who, on the 19th of December, with a train of cannon, and six regiments of infantry, three of which were Scots—viz., his own, Ramsay's, and Lesly's—and with seven squadrons of horse, had boldly crossed the Rhine, repulsed the Imperialists, and captured Mannheim, thus securing the passage of the whole French army, under the Duke de la Force; that after this he had relieved the Swedish garrison in Heidelburg, and again destroyed the proud Imperialists before that magnificent electoral fortress. Then from another stray leaf I learned how, by one brilliant charge, the cuirassiers of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, led by the Marquis de Gordon and Sir John Hepburn, had completely swept the Germans from the valley of the Neckar.

My brave comrades! who among them were now alive, and who were slain? In fancy they all came before me, that brilliant line of horsemen—old Patrick Gordon with gray locks, and eagle eye; the fiery Sir Quentin Home; Viscount Dundrennan, so handsome and gay; Tushielaw, and Raynold Cheyne of Dundargle; the brilliant Chevalier Livingstone d'Angoulême, and other Scottish hearts, all charging holster to holster, and bridle to bridle!

These achievements made my breast swell with agony, and pant with impatience.

The Marquis d'Aytona was so repeatedly baffled by Hepburn's flying column, that the Emperor of Germany, reflecting on his lack of skill, put his finger on a part of the map, saying,

'You ought to have anticipated him, by crossing the Rhine there.'

'True,' replied the Marquis; 'but your imperial finger is not a pontoon bridge, and Hepburn, with all his devilish Scots, are not here to cut it off.'

When the last tidings left the army of Lorraine, (as I learned from the envelope of my butter for breakfast,) Hepburn with his regiment of Scots, eight thousand strong, the Cardinal Duke de Lavalette, and Bernard Duke of Saxe Weimar, were besieging the strong town of Elsace-Zaberne, which was expected daily to capitulate; and in the assault of which Lieutenant-Colonel Robert Hanna of Kirkdale, and other gallant Scots, had left their bodies in the breach. I learned, too, how the government of Louis XIII. watched with growing interest the expected war between England and Scotland, for France yet held—or pretended to hold—to her ancient alliance with the latter. As a proof of this, in 1626, during the quarrel which brought Marshal Bassompierre to England, when the British merchant ships were suddenly seized in all the ports of France, those of Scotland, on hoisting St. Andrew's Cross above the Union flag, were at once released by the French admirals, and stood out to sea.

These scraps of the French Mercury, which told of politics, war, and battle, and of all the busy life that was still revolving round my silent and solitary prison, were to me a far greater source of interest than the musty miracles of Monseigneur St. Fiacre.

Poor Martin Omelette had now become rather friendly to me, and this served to lighten the tedium of my confinement, but when I hinted at a bribe, and strove to tempt him about winking at an escape, he was wont to smile, shrug his shoulders, and say,

'You are brave, M. Blane; but wealth and bravery, like a long sword and a long purse, seldom go together. You cannot offer me aught that would compensate for the loss of my head, by the executioner's sword, in the Place de la Grève—no—no!'

So months wore slowly, heavily, and miserably away. They seemed a long, long unmarked lapse of time, for nothing broke the monotony to me. I had ceased to reckon days and weeks; but I knew that the spring of 1635 was passing into summer, and I began to fear my poor heart would burst in its throbbings after freedom and my home!

All I thought, and all I endured, in those long days and dreary nights, are known only to God and to myself. I had ceased to have a name, or existence.

I was simply NUMBER THIRTY-TWO in the accursed Bastille!

CHAPTER XXXII.

HAPPINESS.

One night I had fallen into an uneasy slumber, and without undressing lay on my bed untrimmed and unshaven, for I was fast becoming careless of an existence so monotonous. As usual, I was dreaming of freedom and of home, and I saw the broad blue Dee sweeping on its course, past the old turreted stronghold of the Maclellans; I saw St. Mary's Isle, with all its waving woods and ruined pinnacles of the monkish times; I heard the bell of St. Cuthbert's ancient kirk, as it jangled in its spire of stone, and the notes of the mavis and merle, as they soared aloft with wings outspread on the glittering air; and I seemed to feel the pure breeze that came from the purple muirlands, laden with the perfumes of the blooming heather, and the golden broom; all—all spoke to me of home, my native land, and I wept in my sleep with joy.

'Number thirty-two!' cried a voice.

Suddenly a light flashed into my eyes, and I awoke. Martin Omelette stood before me, bearing a lamp, and in the shadowy background were two female figures masked and muffled.

'Pardon, monsieur,' said Martin; 'but here are two ladies who bear an order to the Governor of the Bastille, permitting them to visit you; so I shall set down the lamp, and wait outside.'

He bowed and withdrew.

As he did so one of my visitors removed her mask, and I recognised the Countess d'Amboise, with her bewitching eyes, her full white bosom displayed as much as ever, her charming embonpoint, her grace and winning sweetness. A golden tress which escaped between the broad hat and mask of her companion acquainted me that she was the attendant Nicola the little Lorrainer.

Clara d'Ische certainly looked dazzling, and her dress was magnificent; yet I gazed at her coldly, for I remembered, that with all her powerful interest she had allowed me to pine a prisoner for months in the Bastille.

'Alas! M. Arthur, have you nothing to say to me?'

'Yes, madame—this visit is most welcome—for save the voice of honest Martin my gaoler, no other has broken the solitude of this chamber for months.'

'Poor Monsieur Blane!' said the soft voice of Nicola.

'You knew that I was here, I presume, Madame la Comtesse?' said I, with some asperity.

'I knew that you were arrested—'

'Indeed—I thought so.'

'Arrested,' she continued, her hazel eyes flashing, 'when coming from the house of the base courtesan De l'Orme, in the Rue de St. Jacques.'

'I merely visited Mademoiselle de l'Orme to deliver six letters from the camp. On my honour I had no other purpose.'

'Keep your own secrets, Monsieur, they are nothing to me. I might have had you released within a week, had I chosen.'

'But you did not choose it, madame?'

'No.'

'Alas!—it was very cruel of you. Had any one told me that I should have lived in this place so long without my heart breaking I could not have believed it.'

The Countess gazed at me fully and pitilessly; but little Nicola cast down her soft eyes sadly as I spoke.

'And was my visit to the Rue de St. Jacques my sole crime?' I asked furiously.

'It was not.'

'Then madame will perhaps have the kindness to inform me whether I am indebted to the King or to M. de Brissac for my quarters here?'

'To Louis of France himself.'

'But he was most gracious to me when I delivered my standard and the despatches.'

'He who knows not how to dissemble knows not how to reign,' said the Countess, smiling again; ''tis an old regal proverb—but at that moment the King was in no way incensed at you.'

'My crime—my error, Countess,' said I, angrily; 'to the point, madame.'

'You fell asleep on the terrace at Versailles, M. Blane, under an elm-tree. The King passed near you, and saw the miniature of a lady openly suspended from your neck. He loves pretty women after his own maudlin fashion, and curiosity prompted him to draw near. He recognised my features, and then jealousy urged him to send you here, where, but for me, you might remain with many others until France hails as Louis XIV. the infant son of Anne of Austria; and I fear that your black, curly hair would be silvery enough by that time, my dear M. Blane.'

'I should attempt to escape, or perish!'

'Escape!—for what purpose?'

'To return home.'

'Home—poor M. Blane, you forget—'

'True, madame,' said I, clasping my hands; 'alas! proscribed and expatriated, I dare not; but I can turn my steps to Holland.'

'To make love to clumsy vrows, and Dutch dairy-maids with coarse red fingers—to learn the mysteries of cheese-making and tulip-rearing?'

'No, madame! to fight against France, perhaps—to serve under the banner of the Scottish Brigade.'

'Hush—if you value life!'

'And so this was all my mighty crime—my error!'

'Nay, you also committed another most grievous one.'

'Indeed! I am all attention,' said I, bitterly.

'You delivered your despatches to the King instead of the Cardinal.'

'Heavens, madame! the despatches from the army were for the eye of Louis alone.'

'So are his Majesty's love-letters—yet his Eminence contrives to receive and read them all first. Then why not a mere despatch?'

'How many wheels revolve within each other at this wretched court of France!' I exclaimed.

'You were justly punished for your falsehood to me,' said the Countess, with one of her most seductive smiles, and an artful droop of the eyelid; 'for I will not understand all about your visit to the Rue de St. Jacques. But listen,' she added, laying her soft, pretty hand engagingly on mine: 'his Majesty's private ring has opened up to me every avenue of this terrible chatelet, to the governor of which he had previously sent M. de Brissac with instructions that I was to be obeyed in all things—hence I am here, to free and to forgive you.'

'Ah, Madame d'Amboise!' I exclaimed, kissing her hand with a greater burst of joy than gratitude at this delightful intelligence, 'my heart, my life, my sword are yours from this moment.'

I heard a sigh behind me, and turning, met the timid blue eyes of Nicola.

'Dear Mademoiselle Nicola,' said I, taking her hands in mine (and plump, warm little hands they were), 'I have thought of you and your kindness to me often, very often, in my loneliness here.'

I dared not kiss her pretty hands before the Countess; for, with all her loveliness, Nicola was but a waiting-maid; yet there was a difference in the manner and style of these two women that impressed me, and gave me occasion for much grave reflection afterwards.

'So, M. Blane, I have come to take you from the Bastille, whither the unfortunate work of M. Poussin brought you; and in future, when going to sleep under a tree, pray take care to button up your pourpoint—though never again shall you have a miniature of mine.'

'It would be needless; my heart bears all that is requisite.'

'Madame,' said Nicola, impatiently, 'the clock of the Bastille is striking two.'

'Let us go, then,' said Clara, resuming her velvet mask; and preceded by Martin Omelette and a few other armed officials, we descended the hateful labyrinth of passages, stairs, and corridors to the court of the fortress, where the governor, hastily wrapped in a cloak, stood near the gate to receive the credentials of my release from the Countess, whose face he endeavoured, but in vain, to discover through the holes in her black velvet mask. He restored to me my sword and belt, and a fierce and proud emotion swelled within me as I buckled them on.

'When free,' I whispered impetuously to Clara, 'I will no longer be the slave of a capricious king.'