"No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight."

It was ten o'clock when I reached Monsieur Marbois's house and found my aunt anxiously awaiting me. I had to explain the lateness of my return and the bespattered condition of my garments by telling her I had lost my way in the Boulogne woods (which was true, for in those winding roads Fatima did for a time go astray), and such was her horror at the thought of the perils to which I had been exposed in that forest of evil repute that she questioned me not at all about my visit to St. Cloud, for which I was devoutly thankful. She had expected that my uncle would be detained all night, so that I had no explanations to make in his behalf.

The dinner-hour was long past, but she insisted on having a hot supper prepared for me, and though my conscience assured me I deserved to go to bed hungry, the little fillet of beef with mushrooms, flanked by an omelet au gratin, which Jacques, my aunt's accomplished chef, sent up to my room piping hot, with a glass of fine old Burgundy, tasted a little better to me than I ever remembered anything to have tasted before. Le petit souper was served in my room, because my aunt had insisted that my wet clothes should be removed (it had begun to rain long before we reached the streets of Paris) and I should get into a hot bath at once to prevent, if possible, the cold she was sure I had contracted on my wet and perilous ride.

Safe in my own comfortable room, warm and refreshed from my bath, with a delicious supper smoking before me, the memory of my exciting adventures and the discomforts of the latter part of the ride, lost in the dismal woods and chilled to the bone by the cold rain, already began to grow dim and hazy.

The April rain driving against my windows added to my sense of comfort and security. It had been a good friend to me in at least two respects: it had washed out every trace of Fatima's hoof-prints, so that not even Monsieur FouchÉ's lynx-eyed police could track me when the morning light should start them on the trail; and it had ruined my new puce-colored costume. Remembering how I had rejoiced in the wearing of it that very morning, its destruction might not seem to be a cause for thankfulness. But I would never dare to wear it again, lest some one who had seen me at St. Cloud (most of all, the chevalier) should recognize it; and yet I might have found it difficult to frame excuses for not wearing it that would satisfy my aunt's minute and anxious care for me, which extended to seeing that I wore the proper suit for every occasion.

But I did not feel quite so secure the next morning, when I saw posted all over the city flaming accounts of an attack upon the First Consul's life when he was in his bath, frustrated by the vigilance of his faithful Mameluke. There followed descriptions of the assassin as given by various witnesses who had had deadly hand-to-hand encounters with him, no two descriptions agreeing in any particulars, except that he was of great stature and rode a mysterious steed that bore him away on the wings of the wind.

There was great excitement throughout all Paris, and there were not wanting those who hinted at supernatural agencies. Some of those who had stood gaping at our swift flight through St. Cloud village were ready to swear that the horse the assassin rode had wings from his shoulders and his feet, and one poor lout added a tail and a pair of horns for the rider!

I might have been amused at all this if it had not been for the Chevalier Le Moyne. It was almost inevitable that I should meet him some day in the city, and when he should come to know of my presence in Paris he would at once connect the assassin of great size and his wonderful horse with the horse and rider that had snatched Mademoiselle Pelagie from his grasp at Rock Spring. And I was quite sure, also, that no considerations of gratitude for his life spared when he was in my power would deter him from handing me over to the merciless police with the greatest delight, now that I was in his power.

So it was not with a perfect sense of security that I went about Paris for the next day or two, and I left Fatima to pine in her stable rather than to run the risk of suggesting a resemblance to some St. Cloud villager while yet the apparition of horse and rider was fresh in his mind.

I did not see my uncle until late on Tuesday afternoon. He had gone direct to the Treasury office on Monday morning, and had been summoned to St. Cloud again Monday afternoon to spend the night. I had fully made up my mind to make a clean breast of it to him when I should see him, though I dreaded much the just reprimands I knew I should receive. It was with a very trembling heart, but striving to keep as courageous a front as possible, that I obeyed a summons to his private library late Tuesday afternoon. My uncle was sternness itself.

"Sit down, sir," he said as I entered, scarcely returning my greeting.

"If you will permit me, I would prefer to stand until I have made an explanation and my most heart-felt apologies," I replied, determined to speak quickly and have it over before my courage should desert me.

"I desire no apologies," returned my uncle, a little less sternly, I thought, "and I particularly desire that you make me no explanations. If you had any connection with the mysterious assassin and his horse, I prefer to be able to say that I know nothing at all about it. I may have my suspicions that only a daredevil young American could accomplish such feats of prowess as were ascribed to this 'assassin,'—over-power single-handed all the guards of the palace, and make good his escape on a steed of supernatural swiftness,—but I prefer that they should remain suspicions; do you understand?"

I bowed silently, too mortified to make any reply.

"I may have my theories, also," continued my uncle, "as to this young daredevil's presence in the First Consul's closet, and they would certainly not be those entertained by the police. Yet it would be a difficult matter to convince any one, least of all the First Consul and FouchÉ, that he could be there for any other purpose than assassination; and should his identity be discovered, I fear no influence could be brought to bear strong enough to save his life. Permit me to add, also, that an insatiable curiosity to be present at councils of state, such as I have no doubt led this young man to contrive an entrance into the Consul's private apartments, seems to me only one degree less culpable than the dastardly designs of an assassin."

It is impossible to describe the scathing tone with which my uncle uttered this last sentence. Nor, had I been receiving condemnation from a just judge for the most dastardly crimes, could I have felt keener humiliation. I dared not lift my eyes, and every pulse in my body sent the blood in waves to my already scarlet countenance. I broke out into a great sweat all over my body as I realized that I had forever forfeited the respect and confidence of my uncle, whom I greatly honored and admired. I felt that I must make one desperate effort to regain a little of what I had lost. Not until that moment did I dream that I would be suspected of deliberately hiding in that closet for the purpose of eavesdropping, and not to be allowed to explain to my uncle that my presence there was by accident was almost more than I could bear.

"Sir," I began, still not lifting my eyes, "you will not permit me to tell you anything when I had desired to tell you all, but I beg that you will allow me to say that it was not a spirit of mean curiosity that moved that young man, but a spirit of foolish and reckless adventure, of which he bitterly repents—most of all, because he has forever forfeited the respect and esteem of him whose good opinion he most prizes. He will return at once to America, where he will be in no danger of disgracing those whom he honors so highly. That his visit to Paris, so kindly planned by you, looked forward to with such delight, and, until the present moment, enjoyed so keenly, should end in such failure, is a greater bitterness than you can comprehend; but he feels that he has richly deserved it for his foolish recklessness. He only prays that in condemning his actions you will not judge too harshly of his motives, and that if it is possible to retain affection where esteem is forfeited, he may still be permitted to retain a little of yours."

I stood with my head bowed for what seemed to me a very long time before my uncle spoke. Then he said in the kindest of tones:

"Sit down, my boy; 'tis not quite so bad as that."

I looked up quickly. My uncle was actually smiling, and a great load rolled off my heart. For whereas a moment before I had thought I could never look any man in the face again, least of all my uncle, it now seemed to me that there was almost as much of kindly affection in his glance as I had ever found there. Yet I would not sit down, as my uncle so kindly insisted, feeling that I deserved still to retain the attitude of culprit; seeing which, my uncle softened still more.

"Perhaps I have been too hard on you," he said; "it was a foolish trick, without doubt, and you deserve some punishment for your thoughtlessness and recklessness. From what I know of you, I can charge you with no mean motive, and I am not sure but that at your age an adventure of such kind would have tempted me greatly. I do not mind saying, also, that I am rather proud of the way you got yourself out of your scrape, and I am glad there were no more serious results than a sprained ankle for the Chevalier Le Moyne and a temporary aberration of mind for the sentry. I am told you sent him spinning in such fashion that his brains flew out of the top of his head, and it was some hours before he got them back again. I hear, too, that he insists it could have been no less a personage than his Satanic Majesty himself who with a touch of the hand sent his gun flying when he was in the very act of firing, and then gave him a twirl that sent him spinning down the terraces in the dark."

I did not want to laugh, but I could not quite suppress a sheepish grin at this picture of the dazed sentry, seeing which my uncle threw back his head and laughed in a way I am sure he learned in America, for I have never heard the like from these ever-smiling Parisians. I would have liked to laugh with him, so jolly did it sound, and my heart growing lighter every moment; but I did not quite dare. In a minute my uncle stopped as suddenly as he had begun, and was all seriousness again.

"Well, well, my boy, it's all over," he said, "and I am thankful there was no bloodshed, and not very sorry that the chevalier must go limping for a while. I like not that fellow, and I don't understand why he is hanging around the First Consul so much of late. As to your going back to America, it would be the worst possible thing to do. You might as well make a confession at once. No; you must go about exactly as you have always done, no more, no less—certainly no less. And you must ride Fatima, but always at a moderate pace, and be sure you make no exhibitions of her training."

I hardly knew how to thank my uncle, and I told him so. I was indeed glad not to be sent back to America, and I had no doubt that he was right about the wisdom of showing myself in public places with Fatima. I was glad, too, to hear him say that he did not like the Chevalier Le Moyne. I thought I could have enlightened him as to the chevalier's reasons for hanging around the First Consul, but my uncle did not know that I had ever seen Chevalier Le Moyne before, and I could not explain to him without telling him also about the Comtesse de Baloit; and—I knew not why, but I shrank greatly from mentioning her name to my uncle. So I held my peace about the chevalier, and instead made many promises as to my future conduct, and expressed many regrets for the past.

I was leaving the room, feeling myself partly at least restored to my self-respect, when my uncle called me back.

"I've a piece of news that may interest you," he said. "The President's envoy, Mr. Monroe, has arrived, and I am going to call on him at Mr. Livingston's this evening. Would you like to go with me?"

I thanked him much, and assured him that I was greatly honored and pleased at his invitation (which did, indeed, seem to me like a sign that his confidence in me had returned), and then I hastily left the room with my head in a whirl. Mr. Monroe had arrived! Then so also had mademoiselle. I knew of no way to quiet the tumult of my heart and brain but to go for a ride on Fatima, though in my state of excitement it was hard work keeping her down to the moderate pace my uncle had recommended.

I sought the Champs-ÉlysÉes, for it was the fashionable hour for driving, and I hoped that she might be taking the air there with all the rest of the world, though I hardly thought it probable so soon after her arrival. I rode slowly up and down the avenue, bowing to many acquaintances, and looking eagerly at every beautiful woman, whether I knew her or not, for fear that, seeing her in a strange city with strange surroundings, I might pass her and not know her.

I was about to give up the quest and go home, when I saw coming toward me a carriage that had just turned into the avenue from a street leading to the Faubourg St. Germain. It was more magnificent than any I had seen, with outriders in gorgeous liveries, but I thought that hardly accounted for the way people were staring, stopping to look back when the carriage had passed, and the young men bowing to the ground. My heart began to beat tumultuously, as if it knew what my eyes were soon to look upon; yet I am not sure that I really believed it until it burst upon me, a vision of dazzling loveliness. Had I forgotten how beautiful she was? or was it that the fine Parisian hat and dress had added the transcendent touch? Unconsciously I drew Fatima to one side, so dazzled was I by her radiance; and so she did not see me, though she was looking eagerly from side to side, trying to take in at once all this wonderful Paris of which she had heard so much. She seemed to me like a happy child, eyes and lips smiling with delight, and I was happy just to be looking at her, though I liked not the face of the proud and haughty lady who sat beside her, and who, I feared, would never let her speak to her old St. Louis friend.

The carriage passed, and I, too, looked back, as did all the rest of the world. Alas! in one moment was my joy turned to bitterness; for, sitting with his back to the horses and facing Pelagie, a proud smile as of ownership on his evil but handsome face, sat the Chevalier Le Moyne!