He was neither old nor white-haired. He was, as well as I, in my childish way could judge, about thirty-five years of age, pale, slight, dark-eyed, delicate-looking. His chains did not rattle as he walked, for the simple reason that, being a prisoner on parole, he suffered no kind of restraint, but was as free as myself of the ChÂteau and grounds. He wore his hair long, tied behind with a narrow black ribbon, and very slightly powdered; and he dressed always in deep mourning—black, all black, from head to foot, even to his shoe-buckles. He was a Frenchman, and he went by the name of Monsieur Maurice.

I cannot tell how I knew that this was only his Christian name; but so it was, and I knew him by no other, neither did my father. I have, indeed, evidence among our private papers to show that neither by those in authority at Berlin, nor by the prisoner himself, was he at any time informed either of the family name of Monsieur Maurice, or of the nature of the offence, whether military or political, for which that gentleman was consigned to his keeping at BrÜhl.

“Of one thing at least I am certain,” said my father, holding out his pipe for me to fill it. “He is a soldier.”

It was just after dinner, the second day following our prisoner's arrival, and I was sitting on my father's knee before the fire, as was our pleasant custom of an afternoon.

“I see it in his eye,” my father went on to say. “I see it in his walk. I see it in the way he arranges his papers on the table. Everything in order. Everything put away into the smallest possible compass. All this bespeaketh the camp.”

“I don't believe he is a soldier, for all that,” said I, thoughtfully. “He is too gentle.”

“The bravest soldiers, my little Gretchen, are ofttimes the gentlest,” replied my father. “The great French hero, Bayard, and the great English hero, Sir Philip Sidney, about whom thou wert reading 'tother day, were both as tender and gentle as women.”

“But he neither smokes, nor swears, nor talks loud,” said I, persisting in my opinion.

My father smiled, and pinched my ear.

“Nay, little one,” said he, “Monsieur Maurice is not like thy father—a rough German Dragoon risen from the ranks. He is a gentleman, and a Frenchman; and he hath all the polish of what the Frenchman calls the vieille École. And there again he puzzles me with his court-manners and his powdered hair! He's no Bonapartist, I'll be sworn—yet if he be o' the King's side, what doth he here, with the usurper at Saint Helena, and Louis the Eighteenth come to his own again?”

“But he is a Bonapartist, father,” said I, “for he carries the Emperor's portrait on his snuff-box.”

My father laid down his pipe, and drew a long breath expressive of astonishment.

“He showed thee his snuff-box!” exclaimed he.

“Ay—and told me it was the Emperor's own gift.”

“Thunder and Mars! And when was this, my little Gretchen?”

“Yesterday morning, on the terrace. And he asked my name; and told me I should go up some day to his room and see his sketches; and he kissed me when he said good-bye; and—and I like Monsieur Maurice very much, father, and I'm sure it's very wicked of the King to keep him here in prison!”

My father looked at me, shook his head, and twirled his long grey moustache.

“Bonapartist or Legitimist, again I say what doth he here?” muttered he presently, more to himself than to me. “If Legitimist, why not with his King? If Bonapartist—then he is his King's prisoner; not ours. It passeth my comprehension how we should hold him at BrÜhl.”

“Let him run away, father dear, and don't run after him!” whispered I, putting my arms coaxingly about his neck.

“But 'tis some cursed mess of politics at bottom, depend on't!” continued my father, still talking to himself. “Ah, you don't know what politics are, my little Gretchen!—so much the better for you!”

“I do know what politics are,” replied I, with great dignity. “They are the chef-d'oeuvre of Satan. I heard you say so the other day.”

My father burst into a Titanic roar of laughter.

“Said I so?” shouted he. “Thunder and Mars! I did not remember that I had ever said anything half so epigrammatic!”

Now from this it will be seen that the prisoner and I were already acquainted. We had, indeed, taken to each other from the first, and our mutual liking ripened so rapidly that before a week was gone by we had become the fastest friends in the world.

Our first meeting, as I have already said, took place upon the terrace. Our second, which befell on the afternoon of the same day when my father and I had held the conversation just recorded, happened on the stairs. Monsieur Maurice was coming up with his hat on; I was running down. He stopped, and held out both his hands.

“Bonjour, petite,” he said, smiling. “Whither away so fast?”

The hoar frost was clinging to his coat, where he had brushed against the trees in his walk, and he looked pale and tired.

“I am going home,” I replied.

“Home? Did you not tell me you lived in the ChÂteau?”

“So I do, Monsieur; but at the other side, up the other staircase. This is the side of the state-apartments.”

Then, seeing in his face a look half of surprise, half of curiosity, I added:—

“I often go there in the afternoon, when it is too cold, or too late for out-of-doors. They are such beautiful rooms, and full of such beautiful pictures! Would you like to see them?”

He smiled, and shook his head.

“Thanks, petite,” he said, “I am too cold now, and too tired; but you shall show them to me some other day. Meanwhile, suppose you come up and pay me that promised visit?”

I assented joyfully, and slipping my hand into his with the ready confidence of childhood, turned back at once and went with him to his rooms on the second floor.

Here, finding the fire in the salon nearly out, we went down upon our knees and blew the embers with our breath, and laughed so merrily over our work that by the time the new logs had caught, I was as much at home as if I had known Monsieur Maurice all my life.

“Tiens!” he said, taking me presently upon his knee and brushing the specks of white ash from my clothes and hair, “what a little Cinderella I have made of my guest! This must not happen again, Gretchen. Did you not tell me yesterday that your name was Gretchen?”

“Yes, but Gretchen, you know, is not my real name,” said I, “my real name is Marguerite. Gretchen is only my pet name.”

“Then you will always be Gretchen for me,” said Monsieur Maurice, with the sweetest smile in the world.

There were books upon the table; there was a thing like a telescope on a brass stand in the window; there was a guitar lying on the couch. The fire, too, was burning brightly now, and the room altogether wore a cheerful air of habitation.

“It looks more like a lady's boudoir than a prison,” said Monsieur Maurice, reading my thoughts. “I wonder whose rooms they were before I came here!”

“They were nobody's rooms,” said I. “They were quite empty.”

And then I told him where we had found the furniture, and how the ornamental part thereof had been of my choosing.

“I don't know who the ladies are,” I said, referring to the portraits. “I only chose them for their pretty faces.”

“Their lovers probably did the same, petite, a hundred years ago,” replied Monsieur Maurice. “And the clock—did you choose that also?”

“Yes; but the clock doesn't go.”

“So much the better. I would that time might stand still also—till I am free! till I am free!”

The tears rushed to my eyes. It was the tone more than the words that touched my heart. He stooped and kissed me on the forehead.

“Come to the window, little one,” said he, “and I will show you something very beautiful. Do you know what this is?”

“A telescope!”

“No; a solar microscope. Now look down into this tube, and tell me what you see. A piece of Persian carpet? No—a butterfly's wing magnified hundreds and hundreds of times. And this which looks like an aigrette of jewels? Will you believe that it is just the tiny plume which waves on the head of every little gnat that buzzes round you on a Summer's evening?”

I uttered exclamation after exclamation of delight. Every fresh object seemed more wonderful and beautiful than the last, and I felt as if I could go on looking down that magic tube for ever. Meanwhile Monsieur Maurice, whose good-nature was at least as inexhaustible as my curiosity, went on changing the slides till we had gone through a whole boxfull.

By this time it was getting rapidly dusk, and I could see no longer.

“You will show me some more another day?” said I, giving up reluctantly.

“That I will, petite, I have at least a dozen more boxes full of slides.”

“And—and you said I should see your sketches, Monsieur Maurice.”

“All in good time, little Gretchen,” he said, smiling. “All in good time. See—those are the sketches, in yonder folio; that mahogany case under the couch contains a collection of gems in glass and paste; those red books in the bookcase are full of pictures. You shall see them all by degrees; but only by degrees. For if I did not keep something back to tempt my little guest, she would not care to visit the solitary prisoner.”

I felt myself colour crimson.

“But—but indeed I would care to come, Monsieur Maurice, if you had nothing at all to show me,” I said, half hurt, half angry.

He gave me a strange look that I could not understand, and stroked my hair caressingly.

“Come often, then, little one,” he said. “Come very often; and when we are tired of pictures and microscopes, we will sit upon the floor, and tell sad stories of the deaths of kings.”

Then, seeing my look puzzled, he laughed and added:—

“'Tis a great English poet says that, Gretchen, in one of his plays.”

Here a shrill trumpet-call in the court-yard, followed by the prolonged roll of many drums, warned me that evening parade was called, and that as soon as it was over my father would be home and looking for me. So I started up, and put out my hand to say good-bye.

Monsieur Maurice took it between both his own.

“I don't like parting from you so soon, little MÄdchen,” he said. “Will you come again to-morrow?”

“Every day, if you like!” I replied eagerly.

“Then every day it shall be; and—let me see—you shall improve my bad German, and I will teach you French.”

I could have clapped my hands for joy. I was longing to learn French, and I knew how much it would also please my father; so I thanked Monsieur Maurice again and again, and ran home with a light heart to tell of all the wonders I had seen.

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