CHAPTER XVI.

Neither St. Real nor his companion spoke much as they advanced towards Meudon. The rapid pace at which they proceeded, and the still more rapid thoughts that were passing in the mind of each, left little room for conversation. Each, however, seemed so instinctively to appreciate the character of the other, that the few words which did occasionally pass between them conveyed far more than much longer communication might have accomplished between persons whose ideas flowed in a less direct and straightforward channel. So rapidly did their horses bear them forward indeed, that but a few minutes elapsed ere they beheld the pleasant little upland supporting the village in which the witty but licentious Rabelais poured forth the biting and sarcastic torrent of satire that, however ill understood by after ages, has rendered his name immortal; and in which also he exercised all those clerical functions that were far less adapted to the character of his mind.

Coming from the side of St. Cloud, and bearing about his person those conventional signs which were understood to indicate an officer of the royalist party, Monsieur de Sancy, accompanied by his young companion, was permitted to go forward, with scarcely any interruption almost to the gates of the old chateau in which Henry of Navarre had fixed his head-quarters. Here, however, they were challenged by the sentinels; but, giving the word, they passed on, and meeting with an inferior officer attached to the prince, inquired if he had yet gone forth.

"More than an hour," was the reply; "but he may certainly be found with the advance guard at the _Pré aux Clercs_."

Without farther question, and somewhat mortified at the loss of time, De Sancy and St. Real turned their horses' heads, and at some risk galloped down the steep descent; nor pulled a bridle rein till they reached the large open plain called the _Pré aux Clercs_, which at this time offered a singular and not unpicturesque exhibition. From the spot where the road which they followed entered the plain, the country lay flat and unvaried to the very suburbs of the city of Paris, which rose behind, forming a dense back-ground of grey buildings, towering up one beyond another in the misty light of a summer's day. The open ground between was not exactly covered with multitudes, but was living with a hundred groups of gay and glittering cavaliers; while two strong bodies of infantry, and a squadron of horse, covered the several roads which led from that part of Paris to Meudon and St. Cloud. The groups of horsemen of which we have spoken, armed at all points, and, in general, bearing the old knightly lance--some decorated with the colours of the League, some displaying those of the Catholic Royalists, and some carrying the white scarfs and sword-knots of the Huguenots--were seen, now wheeling about the plain, endeavouring to gain the vantage ground of a party of opponents; now standing still, waiting in firm ranks the attack of a body of the enemy; now hurled in impetuous charge against the foe, and mingling in brief but desperate struggle; with the armour, and the pennons, and the scarfs, and the rich caparisons, glancing in and out of the clouds of dust that covered them. Every now and then, also, when any of the Leaguers advanced too near, the arquebusiers, who covered the roads, would keep up upon them a rolling fire from their levelled pieces; and occasionally some of the batteries erected for the defence of the suburbs would pour forth flame and thunder upon the position of the Huguenot infantry, though with but little effect.

About a hundred yards in advance of the foot, upon one of the few slight rises which the plain afforded, appeared a group, consisting of about twenty horsemen, principally distinguished by the Huguenot scarf, who took no further part in the skirmishes which were going on than by every now and then detaching a messenger from their body, apparently to bear directions or commands to other parts of the field. At the head of this group, armed at all points except the head, appeared Henry, King of Navarre, with his fine, but strong-marked features, full of animation and excitement from the scene before him. St. Real was the first who remarked his position; and, pointing it out to Monsieur de Sancy, paused only till they had ordered their attendants to remain near the body of infantry, and then spurred on with his companion to the spot where the monarch was watching the progress of the morning's skirmish--an amusement of which he rarely deprived his soldiery. Turning round as they came up, he welcomed St. Real with a look of surprise and satisfaction, and greeted De Sancy with a smile.

"This is unexpected and gladsome, my good young friend," he said, grasping St. Real's hand. "I heard you were in Paris; and, though your cousin declared you would certainly visit us ere you decided, yet, good faith! I thought the cunning of the League would be too much for you."

"It was, I believe, too much for themselves, your Majesty," replied St. Real; "for I am not only here, but purpose to remain. We have, however, something of more importance to tell your Majesty, if you will give us your ear for one moment."

"Instantly," replied the king; and then turning to some of those behind him, he pointed with his leading-staff to one of the groups of skirmishers, exclaiming, "Some one ride in there, and bring out Rosny! The lad is mad with sorrow for the loss of his wife. Ventre Saint Gris! 'Tis a strange thing that what would make one man mad for joy, should make another man mad for grief! He will get himself killed now, in order to go to heaven after his wife; while there are many men who would almost to the other place, to get out of the way of theirs. But ride in, ride in, and bring him out--tell him I want him! Now, St. Real! now, Monsieur de Sancy! I am for you!"

Thus speaking, he rode on twenty or thirty paces in advance of his attendants, and looked first to St. Real, and then to De Sancy, as if requiring them to give him their tidings. The latter then spoke: "We have to communicate to your Majesty," he said, "an event that has occurred at St. Cloud, and which may be productive of great and sorrowful results--which pray God avert!"

"Amen!" cried Henry; "but what is it, what is it?"

"This, my lord," replied de Sancy. "About an hour ago, while Monsieur de St. Real and myself were both in the audience-chamber of his Majesty, the king was wounded severely by a Dominican friar, and I have many fears that the result will be fatal."

Henry made no reply, but gazed upon Monsieur de Sancy's face with a look of anxiety and horror. "This is ruin indeed!" he exclaimed--"to be killed at the very moment that our united arms had so nearly seated him securely on the throne! This is ruin indeed!"

"I trust not, your Majesty," replied St. Real. "First, the king is not yet dead, and may recover; and next, even should he die, you, my lord, have not only a righteous cause to support you, but a more fair renown. You would then be as much king of France as he is now, and many a subject who serves him unwillingly will draw his sword with joy for you."

"At all events, my lord," said De Sancy, "whatever may be the conduct of others, and whatever may be the result of this most lamentable affair, your Majesty will find that two at least of the French nobles, without consulting or considering any other interest but that of their country, will be ready, should fate place the crown of France upon your head, to serve your Majesty with their whole heart and soul. I, for my part, engage at once to bring over the Swiss to your Majesty's service; and, if I have understood him right, Monsieur de St. Real here present will immediately move his troops from Senlis to your support."

"Without a moment's hesitation," added St. Real; "and if I have hitherto even entertained a scruple in regard to joining the royal forces, that scruple would not exist after your Majesty's accession to the throne."

"Thank you, thank you, my friends!" exclaimed Henry, "this is noble! This is generous! But still let us hope that the calamity will be averted, which, by the death of the king, would cast amongst us a fresh ball of discord, when so many already exist. Still it is necessary for me to be prepared; but while I speed to St. Cloud, in order to learn, as far as possible, what is proceeding there, let me beg you, my friends, to converse over the matter with those you can trust, and ascertain upon whom I may rely--who are likely to be doubtful friends, and who will prove open enemies."

St. Real and his companion promised obedience; and the king, after speaking a few moments with some of the gentlemen of his train, turned his horse's head towards St. Cloud, and galloped off. De Sancy and St. Real returned more leisurely, conversing over the event that had occurred, and its probable results.

"You, Monsieur de Sancy, and the King of Navarre also, seem to apprehend much more danger from the death of the king," said St. Real, "than I can conceive likely to accrue. Far be it from me to speak evil of a man who, even now, may be dying; yet who can doubt that in virtues as a man, and in high qualities as a sovereign, the monarch who has just left us is as superior to him who now reigns in France as light is to darkness? As a military leader, too, his renown is justly among the first in Europe; and with the sole command of the army, which is now divided, the affection of all that is noble and good in the land, and the warm co-operation of many of those who have held aloof from the present sovereign, he would surely be able to accomplish far more towards reducing the land to a state of tranquillity and subordination, than a king who is not only hated but despised."

De Sancy shook his head, with a somewhat melancholy smile, at calculations made upon grounds so very different from the motives which actuated the generality of men in the disorganized land wherein they lived.

"If every one were Monsieur de St. Real," he answered, "if every one--I do not mean in France, but even in this camp and army--were actuated by the same pure and patriotic feelings as yourself, your calculations would be undoubtedly right, and the extinction of the line of Valois would be the signal for tranquillity and happiness to resume their place in our distracted land. But the men that we see around us are divided into many classes, and actuated by many motives. The Huguenots have among them one principle of action--I mean religious fanaticism. But, taking all the rest of the united armies, I suppose there are not ten men of rank amongst us who have any general principle whatsover."

"You give a sad picture of our countrymen, Monsieur de Sancy," replied St. Real; "but if your view be correct, how happen such discordant elements to have adhered so long?"

"From causes as numerous," replied De Sancy, "as the men themselves. Some have adhered to the king out of gratitude for favours conferred, and from a knowledge that their fortune, almost their very existence itself, depended upon that monarch. Such are the minions, the favourites, the priests. Others again, of a nobler nature, have remained attached to the same party equally from gratitude for favours conferred, but without entertaining any further hopes from, or being bound by any tie of interest to, the king. Such is the Duke of Epernon, and several more. Others, again, serve the monarch because their own dignity and power are connected by various ties to his. Such are the princes of the blood. An immense number follow him only because, seeing the country split into factions, and knowing that they must attach themselves to some party, they judge that they can obtain most from the court; and, at all events, can sell themselves to the League hereafter, in case they find their first expectations disappointed. Many, too, have some individual object in view, which they may obtain from the king, but could not obtain from the League; and many serve the monarch from personal hatred to some one in the opposite camp. Monsieur de St. Real, I could go on for an hour, and yet leave half the motives unreckoned by which men of different parties are actuated in every civil strife. All these motives are at work amongst us; and patriotism, depend upon it, comes in for but a very small share, when there are so many other greedy passions to divide with her the hearts of the multitude."

St. Real was silent for a few moments, and thoughtful too; for in the picture of the manifold hues and shades of human baseness thus presented to his sight, there was something very painful to a mind accustomed to view the world in a brighter light. After having considered for a short time, however, letting his mind roam to more general thoughts, he returned to the immediate matter of their conversation. "I am sorry to hear," he said, "that such is the composition of an army from which I had hoped better things. But tell me, Monsieur de Sancy, will not the same motives which have hitherto bound them to the present king bind them also to his successor?"

"By no means," replied De Sancy. "In the first place, the difference of religion will be a great objection to many, and an excellent pretext to more. A thousand to one all the zealous Catholics will abandon the heretic monarch at once. Those who personally love him will seek to make him change his religion; those who love him not will leave him without any question. All who are already doubtful will seize this favourable opportunity of going over to the League. All who are serving upon interested motives will demand place, preferment, or promise, as the price of their future assistance. Of these--and I am sorry to say that at least one half of the royal camp is composed of such--of these there will be a general market--a buying and selling, as in the halls of Paris; and if the king cannot outbid the League, they will go over together."

"Well, let them go," cried St. Real. "By Heaven! Monsieur de Sancy, I hold that we shall be better without such false and doubtful allies. Our swords will strike more firmly, our confidence in ourselves and in each other will be redoubled, when the army is purified from such a nest of mercenary villains."

"Ah! my young friend," replied De Sancy, "you may make a good soldier; but you are not yet fit for a politician in this bad world of ours. Call them by some softer name, too, than mercenary villains," he added, with a laugh; "for, till you see the event, you do not know whom you may find amongst them."

St. Real was silent; for his mind was not without some shade of doubt as to what would be the conduct of his own cousin in the event of the king's death breaking asunder all those ties which, for the time, united the incoherent parts of the royalist army together. However much St. Real might love the Count d'Aubin, and however much he might strive to conceal from himself the faults and failings which disfigured his character, he could not help experiencing a vague internal conviction that his actions were more the effect of impulse than of principle, and that there was not sufficient firmness in his character to restrain him from following where his passions or his interests led him, if to the path which he thus chose no very signal disgrace was attached in the eyes of the world.

He was silent then, and a few minutes more brought them back to St. Cloud, which exhibited all the usual marks of a small place in which some great event has happened. The eager faces; the gliding up and down of important-looking persons; the whispering groups at every corner, and at every house-door; the loud-tongued politicians, demonstrating to their little assemblage of hearers the events that were to follow, or the events that were past; and here and there the mercenary soldier, sauntering indifferently through the streets, and caring not who died, or who survived, provided that his pay was sure, and that the blessed trade of war was not brought to an untimely end.

Monsieur de Sancy and St. Real drew up their horses at the first group of respectable persons they met with, and demanded news of the king. The reply was favourable: "the monarch was better," the people said; "the surgeons apprehended no evil; and the consequences of the crime had fallen upon the head of him who perpetrated it."

After receiving this answer, St. Real and De Sancy separated, each well pleased with the other, and promising mutually to meet again before night, whatever might be the result of the events which had brought them first together.

St. Real then directed his course up the road towards the small _auberge_, in which he had hired the only apartments that on his first arrival were to be found vacant in the village, and at which he had left a part of his attendants to prepare for his return. The door of the inn, like that of every other house in the place, was surrounded by its own little group, discussing the events of the time; and as St. Real approached, he distinguished amongst the crowd his dwarf page Bartholo, together with the handsome Italian boy, who had been left in his service by Henry of Navarre. The young marquis--whose mind was not of that indifferent cast which looks with philosophical coolness upon the dangers or discomforts of every person except its own particular proprietor--had been not a little anxious for the fate of the fair delicate youth amidst the troubles and perils of the capital and its environs, and was in no slight degree rejoiced to see him in safety in a spot where he could afford him protection.

Leonard de Monte sprang forward as soon as he beheld his lord, and welcomed him on his arrival, with all that peculiar grace which we have before had occasion to notice in his demeanour. There was something in his manner that expressed a willingness to serve and to obey; but, at the same time, it appeared to be the willingness of a free and generous mind to perform that which depended solely upon its own volition. There was a dignity withal in his tone and demeanour, that made his obedience seem a condescension rather than a duty; and yet, as we have said, it was all so cheerfully done, that St. Real, although he felt more as if he were speaking to a friend or a younger brother, than to one who was bound to obey, nevertheless did not feel the difference disagreeable, but rather looked with more interest upon a person whose demeanour was so superior to that of others in his station.

"I have had some fears for you, my good boy," said St. Real, "since I heard that you had come hither to seek me."

"Oh, never fear for me, sir!" replied the youth, speaking with that confidence in his own fortune, which is one of the many happy deceits whereby the human heart beguiles itself to forget the weariness, and the difficulties, and the dangers of the long and perilous path of life; "oh, never fear for me, sir! In my short day, I have passed through so many scenes, where others have found every sort of danger and tribulation, without receiving so much as a scratch of my hand, that I begin to believe myself enchanted against peril: besides, I had the two stout fellows you gave me to accompany me from Maine; and if I had met with any danger, I should have left them to fight it out, and have slipped away, finding safety under cover of my littleness."

"Well, well, we must not try your fortune too far, my good Leonard," replied the young noble. "But come hither with me, Bartholo, seek me wherewithal to write; and bid Martin and Paul hold themselves ready to set out in half an hour to Senlis. Have you seen the Count d'Aubin?"

"I saw him not half an hour ago," replied Leonard de Monte, ere the dwarf could answer. "He was riding forth with a gay company to the _Pré aux Clercs_."

"That is unfortunate!" observed St. Real; "I would fain have spoken with him. But hark! there is the drum beating to arms, and the clarions sounding a march! See what that may mean, Leonard."

The boy sped away quickly; and during his absence St. Real proceeded to his own apartments, and wrote to the officer whom he had left in command of his troops near Senlis, directing him, in as few words as possible, to advance without loss of time to the distance of half a march from the royal army. Ere he had concluded, Leonard de Monte returned, and, in reply to St. Real's eager question of what news, informed him, that an order had just been given out to put the royal forces under arms, as it was supposed that those who had instigated the attempt at assassination, not knowing that it had failed, would endeavour to take advantage of the confusion they expected to follow its success amongst the royalists.

"A wise precaution!" said St. Real--"a wise precaution, marking that Henry of Navarre is in the camp, even if one did not know it from other circumstances. Now, tell me, Leonard," he continued, after having sealed and despatched his letter, "how long have you been here?"

"I reached Paris some five days since," replied the boy, "and waited two days there, in hopes of your coming; but, finding that you did not arrive, I grew anxious, knowing that there are wily men and unscrupulous of all parties in these places. Then, when you did not appear the third day, I set off hither to see whether you had been delayed against your will at the king's quarters; and ever since then I have been coming and going between the camp and the city of Paris, till I learned this morning that you were here."

"But were you never stopped at the outposts?" demanded St. Real; "your pass extended only to the capital?"

"Oh, no!" replied the boy, in a gay tone; "I passed and repassed as often as I liked, and will do it again whensoever it pleases me. I have the secret of making myself invisible; and they must be sharper eyes than either those of the League or of the Huguenots that will spy me out to stop me as I go."

"Indeed!" said St. Real: "that were a secret worth knowing."

"Easy to learn, but not so easy to practise," answered the boy. "I had first to consider the sentry as I came up to him; then, if I found him a Huguenot Gascon, to stop a quarter of an hour to listen to all the great exploits he had performed at Montcontour, Jarnac, or any other place; then--seeming to believe the whole--to tell him as great a lie as any that he told me, vowing that I was the truant son of some Huguenot lord, going back to hear Du Plessis Mornay preach against the Pope of Rome; and thus might I pass by without farther question. If, on the contrary, it were a royalist, I vowed I was King Henry's new page, and talked about Monsieur de Biron, and the good Duke of Epernon. If it were a Swiss, I boldly said, 'What is your price?' put the crowns in his hands, and walked on. And when I came back to the sentinels of the League, I had but to throw this toy over my shoulders," he continued, drawing a black-and-green scarf from the bosom of his vest, which, according to the custom of those days, was made very large and full, and often served the purpose of a pocket--"I had only to throw this toy over my shoulders, and swear by the holy mass that I had gone out to kill the king, and would have done it, too, if I had not, by mischance, trod on the toes of one of his Polish puppies, and been turned out of the ante-room for that grave offence."

St. Real laughed. "You are a brave boy," he said, "and seem to know these people thoroughly--perhaps better than I do."

"Perhaps I may," replied the youth: "but still, call me not a brave boy, for I am not; on the contrary, I am as arrant a coward as ever lived; so, if you intend to take me with you into a pitched battle, or even a skirmish, or so much as the siege of a town, you are very much mistaken, for I shall certainly lag behind."

"You jest," said St. Real, smiling; "for, though you are too young to be led into battles, or to sieges either, yet you are one of those whereof, some day, men may make good soldiers."

"Not I," answered the boy, seriously, and with a sigh; "not I, my lord!--I have a vow against it. Faith, I think that heretic Du Plessis Mornay has converted even me; and I hold, that for hundreds of honest men to shed each other's blood, for the sake of making their favourite sit in a great ivory chair, wear a gilt cap with a tassel, and call himself king, is not only a folly, but a madness, and not only a madness, but a crime. Be not offended, my lord," he added, seeing a slight cloud come over St. Real's brow, as he listened to doctrines very different from those which his own bold and chivalrous heart entertained; "be not offended, nor doubt me either; for you may well rest sure that, should danger threaten you, or misfortune overtake you, when I am your follower, this heart--though not so bold as a falcon's--would find courage for the time; this hand--though not so strong as a giant's--should do its best to defend or aid you."

"I believe you in that, at least, my good Leonard," replied St. Real; "yet, nevertheless, I have always held that life is valueless without honour, and that the drops of our heart's best blood can never be weighed against the service of our country, our king, or our friend. However, you are not my sworn soldier, so I shall not try you; and, to speak of matters whereon we shall better agree, tell me--for, amongst all your wanderings, you must have heard--how go men's opinions upon the events that are taking place here?"

"Opinions!" cried the youth. "They go, my lord, as the waves of the sea. Looked at from a distance, and at first sight, they seem innumerable, and all distinct one from the other; but when one examines a little more closely, they are found to be nothing but one great flow of the same things, following the first that comes forward and dashes upon the shore. I know not well what the word _opinion_ used to mean in the days of old, but now, I know it means the portrait of every man's selfishness, painted as he likes it to appear. One man has a strong desire to be governor of Dijon, and he represents it under the form of a sincere admiration of the Catholic faith; another wishes to be made marechal of France, and he displays his wish under a full approbation of the murder of the Guises."

"It is wonderful," said St. Real, with a smile, "how soon, in the camp and in the court, the wisdom of the brow of sixty years finds its way down to the curly head of sixteen! Do you know, Leonard, I have just heard this morning from Monsieur de Sancy the same fine sarcastic character of the good folks around me that you have given me now?"

"Then you have heard the truth from two people in one day," replied the boy gravely. "It is worth marking with white chalk! and, though you think that I ape the sententiousness of wiser persons than myself, you will find, that one who has lived amongst these scenes from his earliest years knows the characters that appear in the mystery as well as one of themselves. At all events, my lord, hope not to find Spartan virtues even in your dearest friend; or, if he do possess such jewels as patriotism, and firmness, and integrity, happy--thrice and fully happy, is he in this place; for nothing is so saleable here as virtue and a tolerably good reputation."

"Spartan virtue in my dearest friend!" said St. Real, repeating the words on which the youth had laid the strongest emphasis. "What mean you by that, Leonard? Tell me, are you frank and honest? If so, you have some meaning! Now, make it a plain one!"

The boy coloured a good deal, and, for a moment, seemed struggling between two emotions; but at length he replied, "I am frank and honest, sir, and I will make my meaning plain, feeling sure that you will not let my candour hurt me. When I spoke as I did speak, I thought of your noble cousin; for it is the common report of camp and city, that a large dower, and a lady's unwilling hand, will soon convert the Count d'Aubin from a bold Royalist to a zealous Leaguer."

It was now St. Real's turn to feel troubled, and the blood irrepressibly mounted to his cheek. "I trust that the camp and the city are both mistaken," he replied, at length; "and that Philip d'Aubin, if he do change his party, which may, perchance, happen, will have nobler motives to assign than any selfish advantages. One thing, however, is certain, no lady's _unwilling_ hand can be the object, for no man will or can force her inclination."

The boy shrugged his shoulders. "These are times, sir," he replied, "when men can do anything; but, nevertheless----"

Ere he could finish his sentence, the door of the little saloon in which he stood was thrown quickly open; and, as so often occurs, the very object of the conversation which had just passed appeared, and put an end to any farther observations. The boy, indeed, coloured deeply, and glided out of the room; but St. Real, whose consciousness of upright purpose and integrity of heart had restored his calmness and confidence in himself, turned to greet his cousin kindly, and prepared to speak with him upon the great events of the day, avoiding, as far as possible, those subjects which might renew any painful feelings between them. "I heard that you had gone to the _Prés aux Clercs_," he said, looking at his cousin's dusty garb; "but you are not armed, I see."

"Oh, that matters not!" answered D'Aubin; "it is as well sometimes to show these gentlemen of the League that, in a velvet pourpoint and silken hose, we can overthrow their best cavaliers, clothed from head to heel in good hard iron. I had not time to arm, and therefore ran two lances in my jerkin, having promised to give a course to Duverne and Maubeuge. So the king is wounded, they say! You have heard of it, of course. Should he die now, Huon--should he die, 'twould make a great difference in men's fates."

"I do not see why or how," replied St. Real; and then--not remarking that his cousin, whose very speech had been rambling and unconnected, suffered his mind to wander inattentive to what any one else said--went on to give all his reasons for thinking that the death of Henry III. should make no earthly change in the conduct of any honourable man hitherto attached to the royal cause.

"Huon!" interrupted D'Aubin, at length, "I have been thinking over what passed between us this morning, and I have come to crave a boon of you. Your safe-conduct from Mayenne is not yet near its end; and I would fain have you make one more journey to Paris. As I said before, I would trust you with aught on earth, such is my confidence in your honour; and you have great influence with Eugenie de Menancourt. She esteems and respects you, which is a very different thing from love, you know; no woman loves a man that she respects----"

"Nay, nay, nay, Philip!" said St. Real, somewhat sickened with his cousin's conduct, and yet pained to remark the evident anxiety and distress which D'Aubin strove in vain to cover under a tone, half jest, half earnest. "Nay, nay, Philip! speak not thus of those who form more than one half of man's happiness or misery--speak not thus if you would ever win the love of those whose love is worth possessing."

"Pshaw, Huon! you know them not!" replied the Count. "Respect and esteem may be the foundation of man's love for woman, but not of woman's love for man. Fear, jealousy, revenge, scorn, even hate itself, are nearer roads to woman's love than respect and esteem. You may disappoint her wishes, contradict her opinions, insult her understanding, pain her heart, ay, even cross her caprices! and yet win her love, if you will but pique her vanity. But a truce to such dissertations. Mark me, Huon! I think you love me, and wish me well; and I tell you sincerely, it imports much and deeply to my peace and comfort, that Eugenie de Menancourt should yield me a willing consent."

"Not, I trust, from any pecuniary consideration," said St. Real, who entertained some vague suspicions that his cousin had outstepped even his princely revenues in the gay and thoughtless course he had pursued for many a year. "If so, speak at once, Philip, for you know the extent of my resources; and you likewise know, I trust, that those resources are your own, when you choose to command them."

"No, no, Huon!" replied the Count, while his brow and cheek grew as red as fire. "No, no! I thank you for your kindness, good cousin; but there are many causes which make it as necessary to me as life, that Eugenie de Menancourt should become my wife. Why, think," he continued, raising his tone, "I should become the talk and the pity of all Paris!--the laughing-stock of every friend I have!"

St. Real bent down his eyes without reply, merely muttering to himself the word, "Friend!" while his cousin went on. "What I wish then, Huon, is this, that you would return to Paris, and seeing Eugenie, represent to her that my claim to her hand in consequence of her father's promise is indubitable; that I would sooner part with life than resign that claim; and that, in order to atone for aught I may have done to offend her, and to remove whatever objections she may have, I will change my course of living, cast from me those faults that appear so much blacker in her eyes than in those of our fair dames in the capital, and live a life as pure and holy as any nun was ever reputed to do, if she will promise at the end of a certain period to fulfil her father's engagement towards me. Will you do this for me, Huon, and exert all your eloquence?"

"Philip, it would be in vain," replied St. Real; "last night, I said all that I could say in your behalf--I promised even more for you than I well knew that you would perform--on my life, on my honour, Philip, I urged all that could be urged in your exculpation and in your favour; but she remained firm; and nothing I could say made any change in her replies. Your conduct, she said, had produced its natural effect; that effect was not to be effaced. Her father's promise was conditional; and, free from any engagement herself, she was resolved, she said, never to give her hand to one who had not sought her affection, and did not----"

St. Real hesitated, but his cousin finished the sentence boldly for him. "And did not possess her esteem, or deserve her love, or something of that kind," he said; "all that she told me before! It is but the ringing of the same chime! But by Heavens! it shall go hard if I do not find means to ring that chime backwards! Yet, listen, St. Real; yesterday, you were not empowered by me to say anything, and therefore she might doubt. I now empower you on my part to vow constancy, and promise amendment, and so forth. Will you undertake it?--will you go?"

"No, Philip, no," replied St. Real, in a tone of firm determination, "I will not; I love Eugenie de Menancourt too well myself, to cheat her with promises made in so light a tone as that. Nay, frown not on me, Philip d'Aubin, for you shall hear more, that you may never say your cousin deceived you. I refuse to go back to Eugenie to plead your cause, not alone because I believe it to be both a bad and a hopeless one, but, because I feel that it would be dangerous to my own peace; and might make me unhappy without serving you."

"Ho, ho!" cried D'Aubin, his brow darkening, "is such the case? Then I see somewhat more clearly how all this may end!"

"I trust you do," replied St. Real; "I trust from my conduct through life, and from my conduct now, that you may plainly see what will be that conduct still."

D'Aubin's lip curled into a cold, unpleasant smile; but his brow did not relax, and he answered, "What your conduct may be, like all future things, must be left to fate; but I shall certainly take means to ensure myself against what it seems it might be. I give you good evening, Huon, for I find it time to bestir myself! Farewell!"

So saying, he turned upon his heel, and left the apartment. At the foot of the stairs he paused for a moment to speak a few eager words with the dwarf Bartholo, and then springing on his horse galloped back to his own abode.