The Count de Meyrand was awake early, and dressed with the most scrupulous exactness of appearance, without a riband tumbled or a point out of place. He descended slowly about seven of the clock from the chamber in which he had passed the night, by the long black double-railed staircase, that led at once from the rooms above into the kitchen, which, as I have said before, served also as the saloon of the inn. His air and his countenance bore the same appearance of indifference which they usually displayed, and he made no inquiry whatsoever regarding the events of the preceding evening, although he had retired to rest more than an hour before Bernard de Rohan had returned to the inn. His servants came and went, seeking directions concerning this thing and that, and communicating with him, from time to time, in a low tone. The aubergiste, with many a lowly reverence, asked his distinguished guest manifold questions concerning his breakfast; but still the Count de Meyrand was not heard to ask any questions either regarding the fate of his friend, or the somewhat remarkable events which had lately taken place.

At length, however, the jovial priest made his appearance; and whether it was that the count was in a better humour for raillery than on the night before, or whether he remarked, by the keen twinkling of the other's eye, that he was about to commence an attack upon him, which would not easily cease, he chose to be the first to open the encounter, saying, "Well, good father, though I know it is not an easy thing to cool a priest's courage, yet I trust your last night's expedition has rather diminished your chivalrous ardour."

"Not a whit," replied the priest. "Everything depends upon how much a man's courage wants cooling. Yours, noble count, seems not of a quality very likely to boil over; and, doubtless, ten steps from the door of the inn would have sent you home shivering. Mine carried me, however, a little farther."

"Ay, doubtless," interrupted the count, "up to the point where you met with these rogues; and then you waited behind a great stone to see who had the best of the fray. Is it not so? I see you have brought home no desperate wounds with you."

"None," replied the priest, "that I cannot bear as tranquilly and well as you, my noble lord, could bear the sorrow of your best friend. My trade, however, is not bloodshed; I love not hard blows, and shall always keep out of their way as far as I can. So my confession is made; but here comes one who has a greater liking for wounds and bruises than I have; and now Heaven send us all as good food as I have a good stomach. Mine host! mine host! that omelet will be overdone, and the sin of burned eggs is one to which I refuse absolution. By Hercules! as the Romans used to say—Body of Bacchus! as the Italians say—Dame! as we say in France, did ever mortal man see such a basket of fine trouts? Why, it is a gift for an abbot! Look! my noble baron, look!" he continued, turning to Bernhard de Rohan, who now made his appearance; "did you ever see such fair river-gods in your life? Put them upon the ashes, host, put them upon the ashes!"

Bernard de Rohan did not pay so much attention to the fishes as the priest, by his commendation, seemed to think they deserved; but, turning to his friend, he shook him by the hand, saying, "Well, Meyrand, you certainly always were a very unaccountable sort of personage, or I should be inclined seriously to quarrel with you for suffering me to go last night without assistance, at the imminent risk of getting my throat cut for want of your help."

"If you risked getting your throat cut, De Rohan," replied his companion, "that was your fault; I had nothing to do with that; I even deviated so far from my usual habits as to ask you to stay, and not do it. I have always a reason for everything I do, good Sir Bernard, and I take it for granted that other people have a reason too. I supposed that you had some motive for going and getting your throat cut, and therefore did not in the least blame you for doing so, if you chose; but I had no reason for anything of the kind, and therefore I stayed where I was. Indeed, I had every reason in the world not to go: I was warm and comfortable, and had good wine and good viands before me; I was tired with a long day's hunting, and had got my boots off. Then what to me was the Lord of Masseran, that I should try to save his life or liberty? I had no motive for serving him: indeed, quite the contrary. Every one knows him to be an egregious scoundrel, and at this moment he owes me thirty thousand crowns, which he will never pay, and which I have no chance of getting, unless some honest brigand should cut his throat, when the King of France would doubtless take possession of his lands and pay his creditors."

"Good faith, you are better acquainted with him than I am," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Pray let me know something of his history; for I never heard anything of him till some six months ago, when letters from France informed me that the widowed Countess of Brienne, the mother of my friend and comrade, Henry of Brienne, was about to be married to a Marquis of Masseran."

"Oh! his history is told in a few words," replied the Count de Meyrand, laughing; "but serve the breakfast, my good host, and do not stand with your mouth open listening to the venerable character of your noble lord, for I take it we are here upon his domain."

"No, no!" replied the host, "he is no lord of mine, noble sir; this is ducal domain we stand upon."

"It matters not," answered the count; "this Lord of Masseran, then, Bernard, though his mother was a Frenchwoman, was born on the other side of those Alps, a Piedmontese vagabond; half Frenchman, half Italian; a sort of water-snake, neither adder nor eel; though a sort of third-size sovereign, an underling of the Duke of Savoy. He who would have been beggarly for a French gentleman, was ten times more beggarly for a prince; and thus, in all probability, he would have gone on living—filled with all the small Italian vices of our day; sharing, it is said, with the brigands who take refuge on the territories of such small lords; and employing the stiletto or the drug when it suited his purpose to get rid of troublesome friends—thus, I say, he would have gone on living what is considered in Italy a very respectable, quiet, insignificant life, had a fancy not suddenly come into the head of our worthy king to take possession of the dominions of his friend and cousin, the Duke of Savoy, which fancy at once raises this Lord of Masseran into a person of importance. He has, it seems, upon his lands one or two small towns and one or two small castles; but these towns and these castles are so situated as to command several passes and defiles valuable to France. Now my Lord of Masseran is a conscientious man, and, of course, nothing would ever induce him to take part with any one who could not pay him for the same. From the poor Duke of Savoy not a livre tournois was to be expected. The King of France himself, though a perfect Cr[oe]sus in promises, was known to be somewhat threadbare in the treasury. He, however, was the more hopeful speculation of the two, for he had power if he had not money, and there was a probability of his paying one friend out of what he pillaged from another. With him, then, my Lord of Masseran chose to deal, and promised to give free passage to the troops of France upon certain conditions, which are, of course, a secret. One thing, however, is evident; my Lord of Masseran did with the king as some of our followers do when they take service of us. He asked, in short, for something in hand. Now the worthy monarch of France had nothing to give but the hand of a fair widow in her fortieth year. With that hand, however, went a dowry of some twenty thousand crowns a year, and the Lord of Masseran came to Paris and opened the campaign against the widow's heart. She has the repute, as you should know better than any one, of being somewhat hard and stern in her purpose, and cutting with her tongue. She was inconsolable, too, for the death of her noble husband; always wore black, like the mother of the late king, and looked the picture of widowhood. My Lord of Masseran, however, with his Piedmontese eloquence, found means to win the widow, with the support of the king. The lady thought, it would seem, to spend her days in Paris; but that city soon became a residence unsuited to the health of her new husband. There were strange stories current regarding him; but there was one thing certain, namely, that he was marvellously fond of those small, square, spotted pieces of mischief, which have the art of conveying so many fortunes from hand to hand. He played largely; he won generally; and his fortune seemed immense. One night, at the Louvre, he borrowed from me the large sum I have named, with a promise to repay it the next morning; but it would seem that, after I left the hall, either fortune went against him, or he took an irresistible longing for Savoy. His lady raved and raged, we are told: but she found that she had now to do with one, upon whose dull ear the sweet sounds of a woman's tongue, raised to ever so high a pitch, had no effect. The Lord of Masseran paid not the least attention to anything that she said; he did not seem to hear her; but, with the most kind courtesy and ceremonious respect, handed her to the carriage which was prepared to bear her away; and she found herself on the road to Savoy before she could arrange any scheme for resistance. This is his history; mine is soon told: I choose not so easily to abandon my hold of my Lord of Masseran; and I am here hunting his game, riding through his woods, and visiting his castle gate; for he seems to me to be as deaf to my sweet solicitations for repayment as he showed himself to the melodious intonations of his lady's voice. Now, priest, though your clerical appetite may be good, do not devour all the trout in the dish, for I am hungry as well as you, and have told a long story."

"And a good one too," replied the priest, laughing, and putting over the dish to the count; but he suddenly added, "Have you never got within the gates of his castle, then, my noble lord?" and he fixed his eyes full upon the face of the Count de Meyrand.

A very slight change of colour took place on the count's cheek; but he replied at once, "Oh yes, I have been within, but to no purpose."

"He must be an obdurate man indeed," said the priest, "if your persuasions, my noble lord, can have no effect upon him. I wonder what mine would have! Perhaps he might listen to the voice of the Church: I will go up and try."

"Why what hast thou to do with him?" demanded the count, suddenly turning his eyes sharply upon the priest. "On what pretext wilt thou go thither?"

"To exercise my calling," replied the priest, with a sly smile; "to exercise my calling in one of its various ways."

"I knew not that your calling had various ways," replied the count, his usual air of indifference verging into a look of supercilious contempt.

"Oh yes it has," replied the priest, well pleased, as it seemed to Bernard de Rohan, that he had piqued the count out of his apathy. "Our calling has various ways of exercising itself. We address ourselves to all grades and classes. If I convert not the Lord of Masseran, I may convert his cook, you know. My efforts for the good of his soul may prove for the benefit of my own body; and the discourse that is held over venison and capons comes with a fervour and an unction which is marvellously convincing."

There was a sly and jocular smile upon the priest's countenance, especially while addressing the Count de Meyrand, that somewhat puzzled Bernard de Rohan, and evidently annoyed the count himself. It was not difficult to see that, in the most serious things he said—though, indeed, there were few that he did say which were serious at all—there was a lurking jest, that seemed pointed at something which the hearer did not clearly see, but which might or might not be something in his own character, purposes, or pursuits.

The significance of his tone towards the Count de Meyrand, however, did not pass without that gentleman's observation; and, after listening to him for several minutes more, while the party concluded their breakfast, he turned towards him as he rose, saying, "It seems to me, priest, that you would fain be insolent. Now let me tell you, that, though you are very reverend personages in Savoy, and men meddle with you warily, in France we have a way of curing clerical insolence, which is a good scourging with hunting-whips. Perhaps you do not know that this is the way French gentlemen treat those who are insolent."

"I know it well," replied the priest, turning upon him sharply, "I know it well, as I happen to be a French gentleman myself."

He instantly changed his tone, however, and added, with his wonted smile, "Nay, but now, Heaven forbid! that I should be insolent to the noble Count de Meyrand. He being a generous and well-bred gentleman, and, like every other gentleman, indifferent to all things upon earth, can never take offence where no offence is meant; but, as he looks furious, I will take myself out of harm's way. The blessing of a whole skin is great. Adieu, my son! adieu! We shall meet some time again, when I shall find you, I trust, restored to temper, and as lamb-like and meek as myself."

While he thus spoke, the priest gradually made his way to the door and issued forth; while the Count of Meyrand, calling one of his attendants to him, whispered something which Bernard de Rohan construed into an order unfavourable to the safety of the jovial priest's shoulders.

"Nay, nay, Meyrand," he said, "let him have his jest, for pity's sake. Recollect he is a priest."

"His gown sha'n't save him," replied the count. "Those priests have too much immunity already in all parts of the world. But what do you now, de Rohan? Will you hunt with me to-day, and we will drive this Lord of Masseran's deer from one end of Savoy to the other? or do you go on to Paris at once, and deny me your good company?"

"I write to Paris," replied the cavalier, "and send off a messenger immediately. But I myself go up to seek this Lord of Masseran. I have despatches for him from the MarÉchal de Brissac, and also some orders to give by word of mouth."

"I hope they are not disagreeable orders," replied the count, turning towards the door of the inn; "for he is not one of those whom I should like to offend in his own castle."

"Oh no, I shall say nothing that should offend him," replied Bernard de Rohan. "But, besides that, I shall not go till after the arrival of the rest of my men, who come across the mountain this morning; and he might find it rather dangerous to do me harm."

"His ways of dealing with troublesome friends are various," replied the count. "I should love neither to dine nor to sleep in his dwelling. A word to the wise, good friend, a word to the wise! Now, my men, quick! quick! get ready the horses, bring out the dogs. You will not be tempted, De Rohan?"

"I cannot now," replied his friend. "Another day, if I stay so long. I wish you sport, I wish you good sport;" and, turning towards his chamber, he caused a table to be brought, and materials for writing to be placed before him. He there remained for nearly an hour and a half, busily tracing upon paper those small black characters which, since some man—whether Cadmus, who, if he did it, may well be said to have sown dragons' teeth and reaped a harvest of strife, or whoever else the learned world may have it—those black characters, I say, which, since some man, not contented with what mischief the tongue can do, invented writing for the propagation thereof, have worked more of wo and mischief, as well as of happiness and prosperity, than any other invention that the prolific mind of man ever brought forth. At length the sound of a trumpet coming down the hill saluted his ear, and in a few minutes after it was announced to him that the rest of his train had arrived.