The ride was long and hot, for it was just the middle of the month of June; and though the scenery is perhaps without its parallel in the whole world, combining more beauties and more varieties of beauty than ever I saw anywhere else, though every now and then the road was shaded with trees attaining a height and breadth which would shame the forest-giants, yet toward evening Edward was forced to acknowledge to himself that he was very much exhausted. The horse which bore him was excellent, strong, willing, but not easy in its gait; and it also, ere they reached St. Andeal, showed the effects of the heat, preceding though it had not had the journey from Ners to Alais. At St. Audral he had but little difficulty in extracting from the towns-people an account of the position of the Duc de Rohan's camp, and Edward rode on under the shade of the mountains somewhat more slowly, calculating that he would have time both to take some rest and return to Alais before noon on the following day.

It was dark when he arrived; and all that he could discover of the position of the camp was that it was very strong, while a number of mountain-gorges radiating from a centre offered the means of retreat in almost any direction. After some difficulties and delays at the outposts, he gave up his horse to one of the soldiers, who regarded him with a somewhat gloomy look, and was led to a little, rudely-constructed hut, where a sentry kept guard before the door. He found the Duc de Rohan perfectly alone; and, advancing to meet him, he was received in a much more courteous and friendly manner than at their last interview.

"Monsieur Langdale," said the duke, holding out his hand, "I am glad to see you. Pray, be seated. I can only offer you a stool in this place, for we are obliged to fare hardly here. What brings you now I know not; but I am glad of an opportunity of apologizing for some rudeness and heat which I displayed at our last meeting. By your bearing the cardinal's safe-conduct, I presume you come from him. What have you to say?"

"First let me hand you this," said Edward, giving him the letter of credence, over which the duke ran his eye hastily. "And next," said Edward, "that, in answer to your message, his Eminence says, 'One hundred thousand crowns, to be paid in four days, in money.'"

"Is that all he said?" said De Rohan. "Are you to act as negotiator in this business, sir?"

"Not in the least," replied Edward. "I merely bear you a message, and am perfectly ignorant of the whole circumstances, even of the contents of this package,—though I have been told that it contains the conditions, which, if you assent to them, you will sign, and enable me to return them to the cardinal by noon to-morrow."

The duke took the packet, broke open the seal, and looked at the writing, which was very brief, consisting only of three paragraphs. There was a second paper, however, apparently briefer still. As he read, de Rohan knit his brows and bit his lip.

"Am I to understand that you know nothing of these papers?" he asked.

"Nothing whatever," replied Edward; and the duke, rising from his stool, walked up and down the hut for some minutes in deep thought.

"It must be done," he said, at length. "There is no use taking counsel in the matter, for it is what they all wish. And thus ends the Protestant cause in France! Monsieur Langdale, the only part of these papers which is personal to myself is that." And he laid the second enclosure before the young Englishman. "Why the cardinal has made this a condition all along I cannot conceive, unless it be a point of pride with him."

Edward read the paper, and perceived these words:—"I do hereby solemnly consent to and affirm the marriage of my cousin Lucette Marie de Mirepoix du Valais with Edward Langdale, of Buckley, in the county of Huntingdon, England, as solemnized at Nantes, on the 3d of July, in the year of grace 1627."

"I do assure you, my lord," said Edward, "this is none of my doing; and, sooner than be any impediment to a peace so necessary to the poor Protestants of France, I say, tear it. I will win Lucette by other means."

"No," said the duke: "I will sign it; I will sign all. And when a Rohan pledges his word the cardinal may be assured that it will be kept."

He took a little ink-horn from a neighboring table and signed the two papers; then, shaking Edward by the hand again, he said, "Give you joy, cousin! But you look ill and tired."

"I have ridden some sixty miles," said Edward, "with hardly any food, and no rest."

The duke heard his reply with a rueful smile, but called a man from without, telling him to bring the best he had for a young gentleman's supper. The best was merely a bone of ham and some brown bread; but there was added a flagon of very good wine.

"I require a little rest more than any thing," said Edward; "and I would fain, my lord, lie down to sleep for a few minutes, if your people will take care of my horse and wake me at four o'clock when they change the sentries."

"That shall be done," said Rohan. "No chance of sleep for me to-night after signing these papers. Here; you can sleep on my bed. It is as good as any in the camp, I suppose." And, opening a door in the boarded partition, he pointed to a great pile of rosemary and wild mountain-herbs, saying, "It is a little better than the ground; but fatigue gives balm to sleep."

Edward's eyes were closed in a moment, and he knew nothing more till the duke himself called him at four. "Your horse is at the door," he said. "There are the papers. I hope his Eminence will be punctual in the payment; for I cannot turn ten thousand men loose amongst the mountains with no money in their pockets. Let the man who has brought the horse walk by your side and give the passwords."

Edward rode away well pleased with his success, and about half-past eleven reached the small town of Alais. There he was informed that the cardinal had not returned from Ners, but that Monsieur Rossignol would see him; and, on being admitted to the well-known secretary, an order to deliver the papers which he brought, signed by Richelieu, was given him. Edward obeyed; and good Monsieur Rossignol, a man of great talent, though originally a peasant, said, in a significant tone, "It will be better for monsieur to ride out to the castle at Bourillaut, near Ners, where he will find the cardinal."

"My good sir, I am tired to death, and my horse can hardly move a leg. You forget what these mountain-roads are like."

"You can rest below for three or four hours," said the secretary. "Get some refreshment,—by which time your own horse will have had rest sufficient,—and then ride to Bourillaut in the cool of the evening. It will be better. His Eminence desired it."

The thought that perhaps Richelieu might have obtained, through his many-eyed communications, some news of Lucette gave Edward fresh spirit; but still he followed the secretary's advice, for, after having ridden so hard for many days, some more repose was absolutely needful. Toward four o'clock, however, he set out toward Ners, having ascertained that the chateau to which he was directed lay on the right of the road some two or three miles before he reached the village; and all that need be said of his journey is that the road, as every one knows, is beautiful, and that his thoughts were like all young men's thoughts,—a little wild and chaotic, perhaps, but with Lucette prominent above all. Some two miles before the castle appeared in sight, however, he was met by a large cavalcade of gentlemen, ladies, guards, and pack-mules, with Richelieu at its head, going back apparently to Alais. The cardinal drew up his horse, saying, "I have heard of you, my young friend. Rossignol has sent me a messenger. Our good friend the syndic is well and gone to Nismes, but will be back in two days. Go on to the chateau, where I have ordered every thing to be prepared for you. There rest in peace for the night. You will find nobody there to plague you, unless it be a few women, who, if they are wise, will let you alone."

The cardinal moved on as he spoke; and Edward was fain to pursue his way to Bourillaut. He found some servants on the drawbridge, loitering about in the fine summer sunset; but as soon as his name was given the omnipotent commands of the cardinal made them all activity and attention. His horse was taken to the stable by one man; another ushered him into a handsome room, communicating with a bedroom beyond; and a third ran to bring the supper which he said his Eminence had ordered for him. All around had a very comfortable aspect; and Edward thought, as he threw himself into a chair, "A man with a wife whom he loved, and some little ones to cheer him, might pass his life very happily even here."

The supper was soon brought, and was evidently the handiwork of some courtly cook; the wine was delicate and good; and Edward, according to the English fashion of all times, chose to take the moderate portion he did take after his meal. Telling the man who waited on him to leave him, he was about to pass the evening quietly, when, soon after the servant had quitted the room, the door was opened and some one looked in. One glance at the figure showed Edward that it was the lady with whom he had ridden some way from Montargis; and, to say the truth, the young Englishman would willingly have been spared her company. She still wore the black velvet loup over her face, which Edward thought was somewhat too coquettish, considering that it was now dark and the candles lighted; but of course he found himself bound to be polite, though he was determined to be as cold as ice. Yet there was something timid and hesitating in her manner that surprised him. As she came forward he could see that she trembled, and, rising, he placed a chair for her, saying, "To what am I indebted for this honor?"

"I have come to pass the evening with you," she said, in a low voice: "I cannot let you be here all alone."

Edward did not well know what to reply, and he answered at random:—"Let me beseech you, at all events, madam, to lay aside your mask now. Your complexion runs no risk here."

"No," said the lady, shaking her head; "not till you tell me you love me and will marry me."

"Are you not married already?" exclaimed Edward.

"Yes," she answered, "I am; but that makes no difference. Do you love me?"

"I have told you, dear lady," said Edward, in as calm a tone as he could assume, "that it is impossible. If you are the lady whom I saw at the HÔtel de Bourgogne, doubtless I could have loved you if my whole heart and soul had not been given to another; for I have seldom seen anybody more lovely."

"But who is this you love so well?" said the lady. "Give me her name,—her full name."

"Lucette Marie de Mirepoix du Valais," said Edward, impatiently.

The mask was off in a moment. "Am I so changed, Edward?" said Lucette, throwing her arm round his neck. "I know I am taller,—much taller; but I did not think you would ever forget me."

"Forget you! Oh, no, no, Lucette!" cried Edward, circling her in his arms and covering her with kisses. "Have I ever forgotten you? have I ever ceased to think of you? But I saw you but for a moment across the dull and misty air of a theatre; and you are changed,—more charming, more beautiful than ever. But even Lucette unknown could not rob Lucette long known of the love that has been hers always. When for a moment I saw your face I did not hear your voice, and when I heard your voice I did not see your face. But now I see all these loved features distinctly, and wonder how I could be deceived."

"We shall both change still more, Edward," she said, almost sadly. "And will you love me still?"

"Better,—still better," said Edward, clasping her to his heart. "If, Lucette, I loved you still after long absence, when you yourself tried to make me love another, do you suppose that affection will wane when the change comes over us together and you yourself engage me to love you still? Oh, yes, Lucette; I will not deny it; you are more beautiful than you used to be; but it was my young Lucette I loved; and how could I love any other?"

"Well, I own that it was wrong," said Lucette, "to play with you and tease you as I did; but it was not to try you, for I was sure I knew your heart right well. It was the cardinal's command, however, and I feared to disobey him. He brought us all from Paris,—some for one reason, some for another: one that she might not intrigue against him at the court of the queen-mother; another, to remove her from poor Anne of Austria; others, for the amusement of the king and court, and perhaps to assist him in his own views. Why he brought me I know not,—perhaps to tease you on the road. No, no: I do him injustice. I sincerely believe it was to unite us in the end. But do you forgive me, Edward? Do you forgive me for acting a part that is not in my nature? A hundred times the mask was nearly taken from my face. My joy to find that you loved me still, and that you were faithful to your poor Lucette, passed all bounds, and made me almost faint with happiness. It is nearly eighteen months since I saw you at Aix; and since then how much I have suffered! And I have heard that you have suffered too,—that you have been apprehended and kept in prison, wounded again——"

"Oh, that is nothing!" answered Edward. "All has been followed by joy and success. I never valued wealth, Lucette, till I met with you; but now I have beyond doubt recovered one-half of my patrimonial property,—all that belongs to me; but enough, and more than enough, to secure my Lucette against all those grinding cares and petty annoyances which, though less sharp than the fierce blows of misfortune, are more wearing to the spirit and the heart. But tell me, my Lucette: how came you here? I had feared, from what they said at Venice, that you had fallen into the hands of Madame de Chevreuse."

"Oh, no," she answered: "that was a mistake. The council notified Madame de la Cour that I was demanded by those who had a right to demand me in France; but, with their usual secrecy, gave no further information. At first I resolved to fly; but whither could I go? To Madame de Rohan I could not apply; for her life in Venice has been one of great scandal and disgrace. Madame de la Cour could not or would not help me. But in the end I found that it was the ambassador from France who claimed me; and, when assured that I was to be under the guardianship of the cardinal himself, I went joyfully. He forbade me to write to you, saying you promised soon to rejoin him; and on the night I saw you at the theatre he told me to look at his loge, but to take no notice whatever I might see. The only thing I now fear is the opposition of my high relations. The Duc de Rohan is the head of the house; and, though he was kind to me—very kind—while I was with him, I know him to be the proudest man on earth, and as obdurate in his determinations as a rock."

"You are my wife," said Edward, pressing her to his heart,—"my wife by every tie, human and divine. Soubise may oppose, Madame de Chevreuse may oppose; but their opposition is nothing. Look here what authority the cardinal gave me when I was setting out for Venice." Lucette looked at the paper which he gave her.

"It was unkind of him to let you go," she said, "when he knew that I was within two days' journey of Suza; but that was to punish you for leaving that little Morini on the road."

"Do you know why I left him?" said Edward, kissing her rosy lips. "It was because a very beautiful lady said she would make me love her before our journey was ended; and I was resolved to love nobody but Lucette. No, my Lucette: our journey together has never ended, and through life never must end. You are mine, as I have said, by every tie. The Duc de Rohan, the only one who had any real authority, I saw last night. His opposition was entirely withdrawn, and his formal approval of our marriage at Nantes was given in writing."

Lucette was silent for a moment or two, and turned a little pale; and Edward asked, in a low tone, "What ladies are there here in the castle?"

"None," said Lucette. "Except my maid, we are all alone. Now I understand: I think I see why the cardinal took every one else away and insisted on my staying."

"Assuredly," replied Edward, "because you are my wife, Lucette, and he did not wish that we should be separated any more."

Her face was now as rosy as the dawn, and her breath came thick with agitation.

"You are mine, Lucette! are you not mine?" said Edward,—"my own, my wife, my beloved?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" sobbed Lucette, casting herself upon his bosom,—"my husband, my own dear husband!" And they parted no more.