In one of the sweetest situations that it is possible to conceive—with green sloping hills, covered with the richest vegetation, rising on the four sides thereof, and forming, as it were, a beautiful basin, with four long valleys, each of which bears onward its stream of clear and sparkling water—is the little town of Bourgoin, which was at that time, as now, neat, clean, and fresh-looking, with perhaps fewer inhabitants than it can at present boast, but without any of the manufactories which have since somewhat diminished its beauty, if they have increased its wealth.

It was the custom in those days for the signs to hang out far from the doors of the inn; and often at each side of the doorway was placed the name of the landlord, with a long recommendation of the fare and lodging to be found within, with the price of the various meals which were to be furnished to a visiter. A bench was there also, and a wide door, giving entrance to a courtyard.

Such was not, however, altogether the aspect of the little auberge at Bourgoin. The village was too small to have a regular inn, or gÎte, and the homely symbol of a bush, suspended from a long pole, thrust forth horizontally from the front of the building, was the only sign that it could boast. The landlord and landlady were in their green old age, and were what they term in France bonasse, though that word has been applied to a beast who, if one may judge by his look, is of a very opposite sort of disposition to that which I wish to describe. They were, in short, good-humoured, honest country-people; and when the landlady beheld a considerable company of horsemen draw in their bridles at her door, with a young lady and her maid in a litter in the midst, her first thought was really not of self-interest, but of what she could best do to make her fair guest happy and comfortable during the time that she was about to stay in her dwelling.

The Count de Meyrand sprang to the side of the litter which contained Isabel de Brienne; and, as if with an instinctive insight into their lord's wishes, all his attendants but one, who was holding back the curtain, and one at the head of the nearest horse, kept aloof while the lady descended.

"Monsieur de Meyrand," said Isabel de Brienne, as she quitted the litter, "I cannot help repeating again that it is much against my inclination I have come hither. If you did not choose to conduct me, as I asked you, on the direct road to Grenoble, you might, at least, have suffered me to remain for the night at Latour."

"Indeed, dear lady," replied the count, still with an air of perfect deference, "it would have been dangerous for you to do so. There, but a few leagues from Chambery, and still less from Beauvoisin, we should have been entirely at the mercy of the enemy. In regard to Grenoble, I only besought you to pause till you could hear my reasons. You are too much fatigued to attend to them now; but, ere you set out to-morrow, you shall hear them at full."

"Your politeness, my good lord," replied Isabel de Brienne, with an air of grief and vexation, "is somewhat compulsory." Thus saying, she advanced towards the landlady, who had kept back at a sign from one of the count's attendants, but not so far as to prevent her from noting all that had passed; the ears of aubergistes and aubergistes' wives acquiring by long and peculiar practice a facility of hearing everything and not hearing anything, according to circumstances, which is truly astonishing.

The Count de Meyrand bowed low, and, following to the door, he ordered apartments immediately to be prepared for his fair charge, and then took leave of her for the night, while a slight smile played upon his lip as he turned away, and he said in his heart, "If I could trust this man of Masseran, I would humour the girl, and see what might be done by softness. She smiled upon me this morning, and made me almost forget her former insolence. It were as well, however, to bring down this high temper; and, now the storm is somewhat roused, it may as well go on. No one can say I do her wrong in using some gentle force to bring her to Paris to the presence of her lawful king, who will soon judge whether that ring be to remain upon her finger or not."

As he thus thought, he pictured to his own imagination the marriage of fair Isabel de Brienne with Bernard de Rohan annulled by the royal authority. He fancied his own claim to her hand heard and conceded. He thought of how her travelling alone with him by slow journeys across the whole of France might render her own consent a matter more of necessity than choice; and, with inward satisfaction, he revolved the air of cool indifference with which he would treat the whole proceedings, as if there were absolutely nothing on earth worth the attention of so high a gentleman.

In the mean while Isabel de Brienne was led to her chamber by the hostess, who asked many a kindly question, not directly pertinent to the conversation which she had overheard, but tending to elicit the cause of that anxiety and distress of mind which she witnessed. Isabel did not satisfy her, it is true; but she replied so sweetly and gently, that the good woman went away with her mind made up that she was the most amiable young lady she had ever seen, and that she was, moreover, very much ill used by some one. Who that was she could not very well satisfy herself; but, nevertheless, she looked with no very favourable eye upon the Count de Meyrand, and made but short replies to the various questions which he asked her when she came down again.

After giving various directions to the soubrette, to which that taciturn person replied less than ever, Isabel seated herself near the window in melancholy thought. Removed almost by force from Latour, where the good priest, Father Willand, expected to find her, and having been now fully convinced, by the conduct of this Count de Meyrand, that she was little better than a prisoner in his hands, she knew not whence to hope for succour or deliverance. There was many a dark and painful point in her situation on which we must not dwell; many a present and many a future danger to herself, to him she loved, and to their mutual happiness. The thoughts connected with these points mingled with the chief strain of her reflections, and rendered them, bitter as they were, still more bitter and grievous to be borne.

As she thus sat and gazed out of the window—at some distance from it, indeed, so that those who were immediately beneath did not see where she was placed—she suddenly saw a small body of horsemen come over the brow of the gentle hill opposite, and ride down into the village. Isabel instinctively drew back; for, though her actual situation was painful in no slight degree, yet among those horsemen she recognised the colours of the Lord of Masseran, and it seemed to her that it would be even more terrible to fall into his power than to remain in that of the Count de Meyrand. The men came on at a quick rate, some four or five in number, and were passing by the door of the little auberge without pausing, when she heard the voice of the Count de Meyrand call to them, and bid them stop to speak with him. The first questions which he asked were put in a low voice, but the man whom he addressed spoke louder in reply, and Isabel heard the latter say distinctly, "Yes, my lord, he is gone on with all speed to Paris, and we are following him as fast as we can. We hope to come up with him at Lyons."

"By my faith, this is somewhat strange," answered the count; and then again what he said farther was lost to the ear.

In a few minutes the Count de Meyrand suffered the horsemen to go on; but he seemed much moved by what he had heard, saying aloud, "This man will never be honest. We must not let him be long in advance. The horses must be ready by daybreak to-morrow, Matthew. Pierre, put your foot in the stirrup, and ride after those men: I saw one of them turn away from the road just now, by the clump of trees on the top of the hill. If they put their hand into the wolf's mouth, they must bear a bite."

Before the daylight failed, the man to whom he last spoke returned, informing him that, as far as he could discover, the whole party had gone on towards Lyons; and the count, better satisfied, turned once more into the inn, and sat himself down to supper in a musing mood. He sent up, indeed, an humble entreaty that the fair lady whom he had the honour to escort, as he termed it, would join him at the evening meal; but the reply returned was, that Mademoiselle de Brienne had retired to rest.

The count soon after sought his pillow himself; but, accustomed by old habits to wake at any particular hour assigned, he started up with the first gleam of daylight, and gave instant orders for preparing to set out. There were few persons yet up in the inn; but the good landlady was roused, unwillingly, from her bed, and ordered instantly to wake Mademoiselle de Brienne, and give her notice that it was time to depart. The count himself stood at the bottom of the stairs, with his arms folded upon his chest, in that gloomy frame of mind to which dissatisfaction with ourselves is even more sure to give birth than dissatisfaction with the things around us. But he was roused from his revery by hearing some bustle and anxious exclamations above, the voice of the hostess raised to the tones of wonder and astonishment, the tongue of the silent maid heard at a considerably louder pitch than was at all usual, and other indications so decided of something having gone wrong as to induce the Count de Meyrand himself to quit his usual calm deliberation, and spring up the stairs with a quick step and an angry brow.

He found the door of the room which had been assigned to Mademoiselle de Brienne unclosed, the hostess standing a few steps within, the soubrette near the bedside, the window wide open, with the morning air sighing quietly through the lattice, and Isabel herself nowhere to be seen.

"Where is your mistress?" demanded the count, furiously, fixing his eyes upon the soubrette.

"I know not, sir," replied the woman.

"Her bed has never been slept in all night," replied the hostess. "Her sweet cheek has never rested on that pillow, poor thing. She must have got out of the window, that is clear; and, if any ill have happened to her, somebody is to blame for it, I am sure."

"Silence!" said the count, looking at her sternly. "Did you not undertake," he continued, turning to the soubrette, "never to lose sight of her?"

"I can't sleep with my eyes open," replied the woman.

"This is that scoundrel Masseran's doing," said the count: "but he shall find himself deceived, for I will be in Paris as soon as he is. You, madam, will be good enough to come along with me; so put your dress in some better array, and lose no time."

He looked as if he could have said a great deal more, but he restrained himself; and, though the anger that he felt at heart found relief in a bitter and sneering smile, unaccompanied by any words, he turned upon his heel, walked down to the inn door, and remained for a few minutes looking forth upon the morning as if nothing had happened. In a minute or two after, seeing one of his men pass, he beckoned to him, spoke a word or two in his ear, and suffered him to depart. The man returned in a few minutes, and replied, "They are all ignorant of anything of the kind, sir. It is evident none of the people of the place know aught about it."

"Have you seen the landlord?" demanded the count.

"No!"

"Go and make inquiries regarding him."

The man did as he was bid, and the reply was, "That the landlord had gone away towards the market of St. Laurent an hour or two before daybreak, as was always his custom."

"That is sufficient," said the count, with a sneer. "Quick with the horses; let us mount and go on."