It was night, and the scene was a somewhat curious one. A large chamber, with a vaulted roof, long square windows, and decorations neither new nor in a modern taste, a tall four-post bedstead with green velvet hangings a good deal tarnished, a brick floor well waxed and polished, an immense armory or wardrobe quaintly carved, three or four tall straight-backed chairs, and one large arm-chair well stuffed, together with a table of black oak, the legs of which were cut into the forms of some nondescript species of devil,—not the conventional gentleman with hoofs and tail and pitchfork, but somebody not a whit less hideous,—presented the aspect of a chamber quite of the olden time, it might be of the reign of Francis I. or Louis XII.

All days have their olden times; and I believe the olden times have always been praised,—such is the tendency of the human mind to regret.

When we are school-boys we wish we were children again, and think of the caresses without the pangs and inconveniences of infancy; when we are men we wish we were school-boys again, and forget the heavy task, the ferule, and the rod; old age looks back to youth and sorrows over its lost powers; and only one man I know of has written in praise of life's declining stage. But even Cicero upon such a theme could only indite an eloquent lie.

Possession is always paid for by regret; and we take out the small change in hope.

Nevertheless, it would appear, notwithstanding the excellencies of those old times, that some improvements have been made in the march of society,—at least, in the manufacture of chairs. Although they were not famous for that fabric in Louis the Thirteenth's time, Edward Langdale felt that seats were certainly much more inconvenient at a former period. "Men must once have had back-bones of quite a different construction," he thought. "They must have either been so supple as to bend into all kinds of corners, or so hard as not to care for any corners at all."

Such thoughts passed through his mind as he sat in a straight-backed sort of rack in the Castle of MauzÉ, just opposite to the Cardinal de Richelieu, who, having cast off cuirass and scarlet robe, was seated, in an easy gown of deep purple, in that comfortable arm-chair. The light fell upon his magnificent head and easy graceful figure from a sconce upon the wall; and the fine flowing lines of the drapery and half-concealed limbs, with the broad high forehead and slightly gray hair, gave him the look of some antique picture, and made the whole person harmonize well with the room in which he sat.

The figure of Edward Langdale would have spoiled all, for it was full of youth,—I might almost call it youngness; but, as I have said before, his garments, though cut in what was then the modern fashion, were all of a sober color; and about the square brow, the delicately-chiselled nose, and the firm, determined mouth, there was an antique, if not a classical, character.

With the cuirass and the scarlet robe Richelieu seemed to have cast off the heavy cares and hard sternness of the day, and with the satin pantoufles to have put on the ease and relaxation of spirit which no man enjoyed more intensely than himself, if we may believe the stray admissions even of his enemies and calumniators. It is greatly to be regretted that Bois Robert did not write his history; for, although we might not have had a true picture of his many-sided character, we should have had another,—a more amiable and perhaps even a grander view of the man than any historian has given us, except by accident.

He had sent for Edward Langdale about half an hour before the time he had appointed. His orders for the night and the following morning had been given; his letters and despatches had been written or dictated; audiences had been afforded to several gentlemen on business; even the minute details of his household had been attended to; and he had sat down for that repose of the mind which can only be obtained by complete change of subject. The young Englishman had pleased him from the first, and, without knowing it, had flattered his vanity on its most sensitive point,—for Richelieu had his weaknesses as well as other men. Where, indeed, is there any one who can boast that he is without either the hair of the Hebrew giant or the heel of the Greek demigod? The cardinal knew, too,—had, indeed, very soon perceived,—that Edward's mind had been early imbued, in an irregular manner, perhaps, but to a deep degree, with that sort of graceful literature of which he was himself most fond, and that he was full of that refined and delicate taste on which he prided himself. He was the very person Richelieu sought for the social converse of hours which were unfilled by any weighty employment,—hours which he would not give to his military officers, because his plans were all formed, his resolutions were all taken, and he neither sought advice nor remonstrance; hours which he would not bestow upon his almoner nor upon his chaplain, for he did not wish to sleep just then; hours that he wished to pass very lightly indeed, as a wise man takes nothing very heavy for his supper before he goes to bed.

"Welcome, Monsieur Langdale," said the great minister, as Edward followed a servant into the room. "I have not had time to welcome you yet; for, in the first place, I did not recognise you, your beard having grown into somewhat leonine proportions. Since then I have not had time; for I have been engaged with what the people of this world call weighty business,—weighty enough, God wot, for those who have to handle it, and which somewhat tries the arm that has to wield it. But let us leave that and talk of other things. How have you fared? Poor Lord Montagu, your friend, could not keep his nose out of a rat-trap; and yet it was badly baited."

"He would not have gone near the wires if he had taken my advice," said Edward. "I ventured to guess, not at the designs of your Eminence, but at your probable conduct; and I warned Lord Montagu not to come too close to you."

"Perhaps I have let you see me too close, young gentleman," said Richelieu, with a good-humored smile. "And yet it is probable bable you served me when you did not intend it. There be some men, my young friend, and they very sensible men too, who will take no advice which comes from younger and less experienced persons; but yet things, as the Scripture says,—I speak with all reverence,—are often revealed to the poor and simple and are hidden from the wise and great. Now, I have a strong idea that you know more of Cardinal Richelieu, poor Bishop of LuÇon, than that great diplomatist, Lord Montagu."

Edward shook his head. "I cannot pretend to do that," he said; "but my lord thought he might venture to pass over a quarter of a league of French territory, when some time before you had suffered him to roam for weeks over the whole of France."

"He had not got the papers then," said Richelieu, with a short laugh. "I did not want Montagu's skin: it was his letters and his papers that I arrested; and for that matter one quarter of a league is as good as a thousand miles. As for yourself, you have told me something new to-day. I heard of you at Aix, where your hot spirit had brought some damage on your skin. You had been wounded, I mean to say,—by your own brother I believe they told me. Very foolish, Master Edward Langdale, to fight with one's own brother!"

"I did not fight with him, may it please your Eminence. My sword was never drawn."

"Ha!" said the cardinal. "That is well. But then I heard of your making a hole in another man's skin. How was that?"

"Why, I told the two men you sent after me, sir," replied Edward, frankly, "that I would shoot them if they kept dogging me; and I always hold to my word. They not only kept dogging me, but betrayed my lord into the hands of Monsieur de Bourbonne; and so I shot one of them. I am sorry to say I had not time to shoot the other, or probably your Eminence would not have heard so much of me as you have done."

"Oh, yes," replied Richelieu, calmly: "the man got well, and was here some two months ago. Besides, I never depend upon one informant. But every one may be deceived; and no one told me that the good count had got you in limbo all this time. You say he denied you the means of communicating with me. Did you show him your safe-conduct?"

"I did, sir," answered Edward; "and it had a very good effect, for it made him give me beef and wine instead of bread and water, with which he began my diet. I demanded also to be sent to your Eminence; but Monsieur de Bourbonne did not see fit to do so."

"Enough," said Richelieu; "enough." And, taking a scrap of paper from the table, he wrote a few words thereon and laid it down again. "And now tell me all about your escape," he continued. "How did you get away from this giant of the castle?"

Edward narrated, with perfect gravity of manner, but with some quiet pleasantry of language, every particular of his escape from Coiffy; and Richelieu listened, evidently amused, but without any comment.

"Then you did not pass through Paris?" said the cardinal. "That is a pity: you would have seen some interesting things there. We are improving the drama greatly; and the Marais has a good troupe, they tell me. I am building a house, too, there, and I should like to have your opinion of it."

Edward smiled. "My opinion would be little worth," he answered. "I have but little experience in those things of which your Eminence has a thorough knowledge."

"And yet," said Richelieu, "I am told that you have great taste and skill in arts which reached their height not long ago, but which we have nearly lost in these days: I mean the designing in precious metals. A very extraordinary man told me you were a thorough connoisseur."

"The little knowledge I possess," answered Edward, "is derived from seeing every day in my early youth some very precious specimens which my father brought over from Italy. They are all gone, alas! but one; and that, I am afraid, will soon be lost also."

"Nay," said Richelieu, rather eagerly; "if you want to part with it I will buy it. I am making a collection of the works of Cellini and the men of his time."

"Could I obtain it," answered Edward, "I would humbly offer it to your Eminence without price, as a token of my gratitude. And, indeed, it is beyond price. But some day soon I fear it will be in less worthy hands, or melted down into gold crowns and the jewels picked out to adorn the brown neck of some Parisian seamstress. It is within the walls of yon devoted town, my lord. I was foolish not to bring it away with me."

Richelieu paused, and did not speak for a moment or two; but then he asked, "What sort of object is it?"

"It is a golden cup, or what we in England call a hanap," answered Edward, "with figures exquisitely sculptured, and the rim surrounded by a garland of jewels in the form of flowers. The figures are in high relief, and with their hands seem to support the garland."

"It must be beautiful indeed!" said Richelieu.

"The only defect," continued Edward, "is that my name is engraved upon the stem."

"What may be its value?" asked the cardinal: "it is a pity indeed so rare an object should be lost."

"I never heard it valued," replied the young man; "and I will sell it to no one on this earth,—though I should have pride to see it in the hands of a benefactor."

"Well, it is a pity," said the cardinal. "But, as there is no help, let us change the theme. Have you seen or heard from Mademoiselle de Mirepoix—I should say Madame de Langdale—lately?" He spoke with a smile. But Edward had learned that Richelieu's questions, even in his lightest moments, always meant something, and he replied, at once, "Not very lately, my lord. I have seen her once since we parted in Aunis, as she was passing through Aix on her way to Venice; and she has written to me once since her arrival, by the hands of a gentleman whom you know,—Signor Morini."

"He is a very singular man," said Richelieu, in a meditative tone. "Do you know, young gentleman, he says that your fate and mine are connected by an inseparable link?—that we were born under the same aspect?"

"Your star must have been in the ascendant, sir," said Edward, with a smile. "Yet there must be some truth in it; for who could have thought a year ago that I should be sitting here, conversing with your Eminence as calmly as if you were some ordinary literary man? who could have thought that I should be indebted to you for more than life?"

"Act honestly and truly by me, young gentleman, and my friendship shall go further still," replied Richelieu. "As to these visions of astrologers," he continued, "they are only to be regarded as curious speculations. The star of a man's destiny is in his heart or in his brain. It is that star raises to power, shields against danger, guides amidst intrigue. God's will is above all; but he it is who gives the clear mind and the strong will, the wisdom and the courage; he renders them successful as far as their success is necessary to his own wise purposes, and then throws a bean-stalk in their way, and they stumble and fall. We have naught to do but to bow the head and say, Thy will be done!"

He ceased, and fell into a fit of thought, and Edward rose and took up his hat as if about to retire; but Richelieu motioned him to his chair again, saying, "Sit, sit! I have yet an hour. Have you read any of this man Corneille's verses?"

Edward, luckily, could say he had not, for Richelieu's dislike for Corneille was already strong, and, taking up a book from the table, he read some lines, commenting severely upon what he called their rudeness. He went on with his criticisms for some ten minutes, to an attentive ear; but Edward fancied he perceived an under-current of thought running through his literary disquisition.

"Perhaps I may be wrong," said Richelieu; "but in all matters of taste I like the graceful and the polished better than the strong and rude. This cup which you were speaking of must be a beautiful specimen of art. The design as you have described it shows the conception of a great genius. Is it known who was the artist?"

"I cannot assure your Eminence with certainty," replied Edward; "but he was always said to be a countryman and rival of Benvenuto Cellini. I forget the name; but it is engraved on the inside of the foot."

"John of Bologna," said the cardinal,—"probably John of Bologna."

"The same, the same," said the young Englishman. "I now remember that is the name."

"It is invaluable!" exclaimed Richelieu, warmly. "His works are much more rare than those of Cellini, and some are amongst the most triumphant efforts of genius. There is a Mercury, for instance: the heavy bronze seems instinct with godlike life,—actually springing from the ground. What a pity that a work of his should be lost! Is there no way of getting it out of Rochelle, think you?"

"But one," answered Edward, gravely; "and that I do not suppose either your Eminence or the people of Rochelle would permit."

"What is it?" demanded Richelieu, abruptly.

Edward's heart beat high, for he had brought him to the very point he desired; but yet a single misplaced word might spoil all, and he struggled against his eagerness with sufficient success to answer with seeming indifference. "I left the cup," he said, "in the hands of the syndic of the goldsmiths, one Clement Tournon, who had taken me to his house and nursed me most kindly——"

"He is a pestilent heretic," said the cardinal, sharply.

"And so am I, my lord," answered Edward; "but he is an honest and a good man. I am willing, if your Eminence desires it, to try and get back into La Rochelle and bring you the cup; but I could only do so on being permitted to offer poor old Monsieur Tournon a pass to quit the city and escape the famine which they say is raging there."

Richelieu sat silent for a minute or two, and Edward then added, "I am not sure I shall be able to accomplish what I desire; but I will do my best, and shall be well pleased to see such a treasure of art in the hands of one who can appreciate it as your Eminence can."

"I could not accept it," said Richelieu, "except on making compensation."

"Nothing like sale, my lord," replied Edward: "the price has been paid beforehand, and it must be an offering of gratitude, or not at all. But I much fear that the Rochellois will not admit me within their walls. I can but make the attempt, however."

"But this Clement Tournon," said Richelieu, thoughtfully. "You know not what you ask, young man. Every mouth within that city hastens its fall; and I have been obliged already to show myself obdurate to all entreaties,—to see women and children and old men driven back into their rebellious nest. They say, too, your great Duke of Buckingham is preparing another fleet for their relief. He will find himself mistaken; but still we must waste no time."

"Old Clement Tournon is no great eater," said Edward, bluntly. "His feeble jaws will not hasten the fall of the city five minutes; and it is possible that, if admitted to your Eminence's presence, he might be the means of persuading his fellow-citizens to submission, if he sees that defence is hopeless and that favorable terms may be obtained."

"Ha! say you so?" exclaimed Richelieu; and, leaning his head upon his hand, he fell into profound thought. Edward would not say a word more, and after some five or ten minutes the cardinal looked up and shook his head. "They will receive no messengers, reject all offers: even the king's proclamation sent by a herald they would not admit within the walls, and Montjoie had to leave it before the gates."

"Perhaps they have learned better by this time," said Edward; "and, if not, they can but drive me back with bullets and cannon-balls."

"Well," said Richelieu, with a clearer brow, "you give me a better reason now for suffering you to go. So help me Heaven as I would spare this poor infatuated people the horrors they now suffer, if they would let me! But rebellion must not exist in this land, and shall not while I live. They must submit; but they shall have terms that even you will call fair. So you may tell them if you can but find your way in."

Edward saw that the message was vague and not at all likely to have any effect upon the people of Rochelle; but he did not try to bring the cardinal to any thing more definite, for he had no inclination to take part in a negotiation for the surrender of Rochelle, remembering that all the plans of his own Government might be frustrated by such a result.

He and the cardinal both kept silent for several minutes, Richelieu's eyes remaining fixed upon the table, and his face continuing perfectly motionless, though he was evidently deep in thought. At length he said, abruptly, "You will come back yourself?"

"Upon my honor, sir," replied Edward, "if I live and they will let me. They shall either keep me as a prisoner, or I will be here in four-and-twenty hours."

"So be it, then," said the cardinal. "You shall not only have a pass, but some one shall be sent with you to the very outmost post; for there is something uncommonly suspicious in your appearance. Twice in your case already men have set at naught my hand and seal. The second case shall be punished: the third, for your sake and my own, must be guarded against. As to your entrance into Rochelle, there may be—probably will be—some difficulty; but if you are skilful—and I think you are—you may succeed. I need not recommend to you caution in what you say and do. We have some disease in the camp, it is true; but they have pestilence in the city. Our supplies are not over-abundant; but they are suffering from the direst famine. Every day increases our supplies and diminishes theirs."

"I shall say as little as possible, your Eminence," answered Edward. "First, because I cannot, knowing what I know, advise them to hold out; secondly, because if I advise them to surrender I might be wrong. Clement Tournon, when he has seen your Eminence, after having witnessed what is passing in the city, can advise better, and will be more readily believed. It is well you should have some means of communication with the Rochellois. I know none of their chief men, even by name; and they would put no faith in me."

"In a week from this time," said Richelieu, "they must surrender. The dyke will be finished which shuts them out from all the world. Vain will be English fleets, vain all their imaginary armies. The gaunt spectre which already strides through their streets will have knocked at every door. Where will be the hand to fire the cannon? where the arm to defend the gate? The dead and the dying will be the garrison; and the soldiers of the king will rush in to wrest the undefended plunder from a host of skeletons. I would fain avoid such a result, young man," he added, with a shudder. "I delight not in misery and suffering; I have no pleasure in tears and woe. But France must have peace, the king must have loyal subjects; and, were my brother amongst those rebels, they should be forced to obey. You are frank, and I believe you honest. I therefore expect that you bear them no message from the enemies of France, that you delude them with no vain hopes, that you return yourself as speedily as possible, and that you bring this old man with you if he will come. Remember that I am not to be trifled with, and that I bear open enmity more patiently than deceit."

"I have no fear, sir," answered Edward. "I have come back and placed myself in your power without the least hesitation, and I will do so again; but then I will beseech your Eminence to let me pass over into England. I am nearly without money; and, although I have sufficient on the other side of the Channel, I cannot get it without going for it."

"We will talk of that hereafter," answered Richelieu. "I think I will let you go; but, at all events, you shall not want for money. What is money, Monsieur Langdale? It is but dross,—at least, so the poets tell us; and yet I have found few men who like it better than the poets."

"Without it men cannot travel," replied Edward,—"cannot eat or drink or even sleep; and it would be hard for want of money to want meat and drink and sleep when I have plenty for all my wants on the other side of that arm of the sea; but harder still, my lord cardinal, to take from any man money that does not belong to me."

"How proud these islanders are!" said Richelieu, with a smile. "Why, there is hardly a Frenchman in the land who would not thank me for a crown."

"If I had worked for it," answered Edward, "I might thank you too; but till there be peace between France and England I can do your Eminence no service."

"Now, let any one say," exclaimed the cardinal, with a laugh, "that I am not the sweetest-tempered man in all this realm of France,—ay, as sweet and gentle as Signor Mazarin himself. Why, no man will believe that you say to me such things and I do not send you to the Bastille at once. Oh, tell it not in the camp, or you will lose credit forever."

"I do not intend to tell it anywhere, my lord," replied Edward. "I know it would be foolish, and perhaps it might be dangerous. I am not ungrateful for your condescension to me; but it is a sort of thing I should not like to sport with."

"Right," said Richelieu: "you are right. You know the fact in natural history that tigers may be tamed; but if any one suffers them, in playing with them, to draw blood, he seldom goes away as full of life as he came. I see you understand me. Now go away and sleep. Be here by daybreak to-morrow, and you shall find the passes ready and somebody prepared to ride with you to the outposts. He will wait there four-and-twenty hours for your return. But if I should find you in Rochelle when it is taken, except in a dungeon, beware of the tiger."

Edward bowed and withdrew; but he retired not to rest. His first object was to inquire for BeauprÉ and Pierrot. They were not in the castle, and he had to seek them in the village below, where, after passing through many of the wild scenes of camp-life, he found them at length in a small wooden shed, where some sort of food, such as it was, could be procured by those who had money to pay for it. Much to the surprise of good Pierrot la Grange, the young gentleman's first order, after directing his horse to be prepared half an hour before daylight, was to have his flask filled with the best brandy he could procure and brought up to his room that night.

"Has the cardinal given you leave to go into the city?" asked Jacques BeauprÉ, in astonishment.

"He has given me leave to try," replied Edward.

"Pray, then, let me go with you," said the good man.

"Impossible!" was the answer. "I must go alone, and take my fate alone, whatever it may be. See that the brandy be good, Pierrot, if you can find it. But be quick, for I would fain sleep before I go." And, retiring to his room in the castle, he waited till the man brought a small flat bottle well filled, and then, casting himself down upon the bed, fell sound asleep, exhausted less by fatigue than by emotions which he had felt deeply, though he had concealed them well.