"Hope tells a flattering tale,
Delusive, vain, and hollow.
Ah! let not Hope prevail,
Lest disappointment follow."

Not many hours later saw me seeking admittance to the stately but dilapidated hÔtel of the Comtesse de Baloit in the Faubourg St. Germain. I was determined to see Pelagie, and if possible alone, so I sent up word that a messenger from the First Consul desired to see Mademoiselle la Comtesse on business of importance. I feared, should I send up my own name, that the duchesse would not permit her to see me, but, had I known it, I could have sent no message less likely to win Pelagie's consent to an interview. It was only through a lurking suspicion of whom the messenger might be that she consented to see me.

I was ushered into a room very luxuriously furnished, but in which everything had an air of faded grandeur—as if belonging to another age. The tapestries were not only faded but rapidly growing thread-bare, and the gold of the buhl furniture was peeling off in strips, and in tables inlaid with fine mosaics many of the stones were wanting. All this lack of care or evidence of poverty rather surprised me, remembering the magnificent coach and gorgeously liveried servants I had twice seen on the avenue. Then I recalled what I had often heard since coming to Paris, that the nobility of the old rÉgime would starve and go cold at home to make the display in public they considered befitting their dignity. It seemed very sad to me, and I wondered if it could be because mademoiselle did not have enough to eat that she had seemed of late to be growing thin and pale. To me, who am both somewhat of an epicure and a valiant trencherman (and remembering the abundance she had been used to in America), nothing could seem more pitiful than to think of my little Pelagie as going hungry.

Yet when, in a few minutes, she came in, radiantly beautiful in some Frenchy flowing gown of pale rose-color and much soft lace and ribbons, no one could think of her as hungry or poverty-pinched in any way, but only as some wonderful fairy queen who dined on peacocks' tongues and supped on nectar and ambrosia.

She was greatly surprised to see me; I think she thought of me as a kind of Daniel venturing into the lion's den. But the old lioness, the duchesse, was not with her, only the same companion I had seen in the carriage on the Champs-ÉlysÉes, and I felt once more that fate smiled on me. It meant much to me, for I knew not whether I should ever see her again, and I longed greatly to have a few minutes' untrammeled conversation with her, such as I had often had in St. Louis in those days that seemed so far away.

Perhaps my eyes dwelt too eagerly upon her. I never could quite remember how beautiful she was when I was away from her, and so every time I saw her I was dazzled afresh. This time, too, I was trying to fasten every lovely curve of cheek and throat, and glowing scarlet of lips, and shadowy glory of dark eyes and waving hair, and witching little curls about white brow and neck, yes, and every knot of lace and ribbon, so firmly in my mind that I might always have the beautiful picture to look on when there was no longer any hope of seeing again the bright reality.

So absorbed was I in fixing fast in memory every little detail of the bright picture that I think I must have forgot my manners: it was only seeing the long lashes on the rose-tinted cheek that brought me to myself. I bent low over her hand and then put into it the packet the First Consul had intrusted me to give to her.

"For me? From the First Consul?" she said, in slow surprise.

"Yes," I said; "and when you have opened it, Mademoiselle, then I crave a few minutes' speech with you."

I turned and walked to one of the windows and stood looking down into the courtyard where CÆsar was holding our horses, that mademoiselle might examine its contents unobserved.

I knew not what was in the package nor the contents of the note that accompanied it, but somehow I had had a feeling (perhaps because the First Consul had seemed so kind in his manner at our last interview, or perhaps only because my hopes pointed that way) that the Consul's note was to use his influence with her in my behalf, as he had once used it for the chevalier. Therefore as I stood with my back to her, looking down into the courtyard, my eyes saw not what they were looking at, for they were filled with a vision of future happiness and I was trembling with the beauty of the vision.

"Monsieur!" I turned quickly, for the voice was cold and hard, and it fell on my heart like the sleet of early spring falling on opening buds to chill them to death. And when I turned, the Pelagie that met my gaze was the Pelagie I had first seen in Mr. Gratiot's house: eyes blazing with wrath, little teeth close set between scarlet lips, and little hands tightly clenched. My heart froze at the sight. Could the Consul's plea for me have been so distasteful to her?

"Monsieur," she repeated, every word a poniard, "how did you dare bring me such a message!"

I found no words to answer her, for if the message was what I had hoped, then I began to wonder how I had dared, though my spirit, as proud as hers, brooked not that she should take it as an insult. But she did not wait for any answer.

"You!" she said, with inexpressible bitterness. "Has wearing the First Consul's uniform so changed you from the American gentleman I once knew that you delight to humiliate a poor and helpless lady of France?"

"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," I said coldly, for still the foolish idea clung to my brain that the First Consul had wished to further my suit, and that mademoiselle had regarded it as humiliating that I should so presume, "I know not the contents of the First Consul's note, but I think la Comtesse knows I would never willingly humiliate her."

"You know not!" and she half extended the note toward me, as if to show it to me, and then drew it quickly back, a sudden change in her manner from proud anger to shrinking shame. She turned to her companion and said in a cool tone of command:

"You may wait for me, Henriette, in the blue salon; I have something to say to Monsieur."

Henriette seemed to hesitate. No doubt in France it was not permitted to see a young gentleman alone, or perhaps Henriette had instructions from the duchesse to be ever on guard when she herself could not be present. Mademoiselle saw her hesitation.

"Go!" she said haughtily, and I believe no being on earth would have dared disobey that ringing tone of command. Henriette shrank from it, and as she hastened to obey, mademoiselle added in a gentler tone:

"You may return in five minutes."

As she left the room, mademoiselle turned quickly to me, as if to lose no moment of the few she had given herself.

"Monsieur," she said, and her manner was the manner of the old Pelagie, "I hope you will forgive me for supposing for a moment that you knew the contents of the First Consul's note. I cannot show it to you, but I am going to place a great trust in you. Monsieur, I cannot stay longer in France. Between the duchesse, the chevalier, and the First Consul, I will be driven to marry the chevalier, or—worse. Ah, Monsieur, if I had never left St. Louis!"

She had spoken hurriedly, as if fearing to lose courage otherwise, but she looked not at me as she spoke, and her face was dyed with painful blushes. A horrible suspicion of the contents of that note almost froze my blood, but the next thought, that mademoiselle must fly from France, sent it rushing hotly through my veins.

"Mademoiselle," I cried impetuously, "go home with me to America."

I saw her turn pale and draw herself up proudly. I did not dream she could misunderstand me: I only thought she scorned so humble a suitor. And the thought set fire to a pride that was equal to her own.

"Mademoiselle," I said sternly, "I cannot set you upon a throne nor place a crown upon your head, but in America the wife of an honorable gentleman is a queen always, his heart is her throne, his home is her kingdom, his love is her crown."

To my amazement, she was all soft and drooping and rosy and smiling. I was ready to pick her up and fly with her that moment, so adorable was she in this mood, but she would not let me come near her.

"Monsieur," she said, looking up at me most sweetly, "to be the wife of an honorable American gentleman, it seems to me, would be great happiness; but you have not your father's permission to marry: he would not thank you for bringing home an ÉmigrÉ bride."

There came to me a sudden vision of my stern father. He would certainly think that was a matter on which he should be first consulted. He was capable of making it very unpleasant for my wife should I bring one home unannounced, and if he did not cut me off with a shilling, he might easily put me on so small an allowance as would make it impossible for me to maintain her in the luxury suited to her position. I would be glad to work for her, early and late, but I knew nothing about earning my own bread, and while I was learning to earn hers she might suffer for the comforts of life.

Mademoiselle was quick to see my embarrassment, and I suppose her pride was touched, for when she spoke it was with her old hauteur.

"It is very kind of Monsieur to think of offering me a refuge, but my plans are made."

I hardly heard her, for I was busy with my own thoughts. I interrupted her eagerly:

"Mademoiselle, let me take you back to St. Louis and put you in Dr. Saugrain's care; then I will make all necessary arrangements with my father and come for you."

"You did not understand me, Monsieur," she answered coldly; "my plans are made: I am going to my cousin the Duc d'Enghien."

"The Duc d'Enghien!" I repeated, in a dazed fashion. Had I not heard that her cousin would marry her into one of the royal families of Europe? This, then, was the knell to all my hopes! This was the reason she answered me so coldly: there was something better in store for her than to be the wife of a simple American gentleman.

Well, I had never cherished any hopes; had I not told both my uncle FranÇois and the First Consul so? Ah, but had I not? Had not every moment since I had first known her been a fluctuation between hope and despair? I had told the First Consul she had not given me any reason to hope; but had she not? Did she not seem a few minutes ago almost willing to become the wife of an American gentleman? What had changed her mood?

While I was trying to collect my scattered thoughts she spoke again, hurriedly:

"I am telling you this in great confidence, Monsieur, because I can trust you. No one must know—least of all, any one in this house."

For a moment I could not speak. I turned away to the window and looked down once more into the courtyard with unseeing eyes. But it was no beautiful vision of the future that dimmed their gaze this time: it was the black darkness of despair that blinded them like a pall.

Then I made a great resolve. The Comtesse de Baloit, the Bourbon princess, was not for such as I; but to mademoiselle, to my little Pelagie, I might still be loyal friend and offer devoted service. I turned toward her again.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I will go with you to the Duc d'Enghien. I will never leave you until I see you safe under the protection of your cousin."

"What! The young officer of the First Consul aiding and abetting an ÉmigrÉ who flees from the First Consul! It is rank treason, Monsieur!" and Pelagie smiled with something of her old merry raillery.

"I am no longer an aide, Mademoiselle," I said seriously. "I have been called home by the illness of my father, and General Bonaparte has relieved me from duty."

Her quick sympathy was sweet to see and to feel, but I did not dare linger in its warmth, for the five minutes, I knew, must be nearly up.

"Now, Mademoiselle," I said, "since I am no longer in service to the First Consul, there will be no treason in helping you in your flight—"

But she interrupted me: "No, Monsieur, it is not necessary; the Prince de Polignac has made every arrangement and will see me safe to my cousin."

"The Prince de Polignac!" I exclaimed, in surprise. "But he is in exile, and almost as much under the First Consul's ban as Cadoudal himself; how can he help you?"

In my astonishment that she should think of relying upon Polignac, whose life I believed would be forfeit if he dared to enter Paris, I had unconsciously spoken his name with raised voice. We had heretofore been speaking almost in whispers for fear of a possible listener. As I uttered his name Pelagie started and looked nervously toward the door of the blue salon.

"I beg you to be careful, Monsieur," she said anxiously. "As you say, his life would be forfeit if any one suspected his presence in Paris. I do not know that he is here, but I am hourly expecting to hear from him. There is no one in the world I would have trusted this secret to but you, and I am relying on your discretion as well as your honor."

I bowed my thanks, grateful for her confidence and ashamed of the indiscretion that might so easily have betrayed her secret. But I had not gained my point.

"You will let me help in this flight, too, Mademoiselle! It is a great peril you are undertaking, and one more sword, whose owner will lightly risk his life for you, cannot come amiss."

But she only shook her head and whispered, "It is impossible," and at that moment Henriette entered the room.

"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," she said timidly (I fear Pelagie must have been at times something of a little tyrant, to make her companion stand in such awe of her), "I have stayed away, not five minutes, but ten. I come to remind you that the hour has arrived at which Madame la Duchesse returns."

"Thanks, my good Henriette," said Pelagie, sweetly; "it is true, and I had forgotten it."

She turned quickly to me: "You must go at once, Monsieur! It is much better the duchesse should not find you here."

"And can I not see you again? Shall I never see you again?" I asked eagerly, in English.

"No, no! Do not try—I will send word," she answered, also in English, and then put out her hand, "Go, Monsieur," she said in French, "and farewell!"

I took her hand and bent low over it.

"Farewell, Mademoiselle," I said, for it cut me to the quick that she had not said "Au revoir," as she had said it on La Belle RiviÈre.

Down in the courtyard, in the act of throwing my leg over Fatima's back, there rode under the arch of the entrance the countryman who had overtaken us in the morning, leading the magnificent horse he had said was for Mademoiselle la Comtesse, and riding another. It was not strange that he should be bringing mademoiselle her hunter, but it struck me as somewhat strange that the moment he caught sight of me a quick scowl should darken his brow and as quickly be cleared away: as if it had come unbidden and been driven away from a sense of expediency. As I passed him on the way out he touched his cap to me politely, and the sleeve of his rough jerkin falling away a little in the act, I thought I caught a glimpse of a lace wrist-ruffle.

"Perhaps CÆsar was not mistaken, after all," I said to myself; "if he wears lace ruffles at his wrist he may well wear a gold belt and poniard at his waist. A strange countryman, forsooth!" And a secret uneasiness that I could neither explain nor dismiss returned to me as often as he came into my thoughts.