I will not dwell upon the horrors of the streets of Rochelle. They have been described by an able pen: at least, I believe so; for I have not seen the work of Madame de Genlis since my boyhood, and that, dear reader, is a long time ago,—quite long enough to forget more than that.

The part of the town in which stood the house of Clement Tournon seemed quite deserted, and the house itself showed no signs of being inhabited. The windows were all closed; and the little court before the building, which separated it from the general line of the street, and which was once so trimly kept, was now all overgrown with grass. It was knee-high; and even the path of smooth white stones which led to the principal door hardly showed a trace of the unfrequent footfall. With a sinking heart, Edward looked up; but all was still and silent. The door stood open, and he approached and knocked with his knuckles. There was no reply, however: no voices were heard from the once merry kitchen, no sound of hammer or file from the workshop.

Edward Langdale had learned to know the house well, and, entering, he mounted the stairs and entered the room on the right. It was vacant and dark also, for the windows were all closed. He then turned to another; but it was empty likewise. He saw some light, however, stream from the room at the back,—the little room where he had lain in sickness for so many days,—Lucette's room, where he had first seen that dear face. It was a place full of memories for him; and, even if he had not seen that ray of sunshine crossing the top of the stairs, he would have entered. Pushing open the door, which stood a little ajar, he went in; and there was the object of his search straight before him.

Seated in the great arm-chair in which he himself had sat when first recovering was good old Clement Tournon, the shadow of his former self. The palms of his hands rested on his knees; his head was bent forward on his chest; his eyes were shut, and his lips and cheeks were of a bluish white. Had it not been for a slight rocking motion of his body as he sat, Edward would have thought him dead. Behind his chair, silent and still as a statue, stood the good woman Marton. She, too, was as pale as her helmet-shaped white cap, and the frank, good-humored expression of her countenance was supplanted by a cold, hard, stony look which seemed to say that every energy was dead. That such was not really the case, however, Edward soon saw; for, the moment her eyes lighted on him as he passed the door, the old bright light came into them again, and she walked quietly but hastily across the floor in her little blue socks, holding up her finger as a sign to keep silence.

"He sleeps," she said; "he sleeps. It is wellnigh as good as food for him. But how came you here, Master Ned? What has brought you? Has the English fleet arrived?"

"Alas, no," replied Edward, in the same low tone which she herself had used; "and it could not enter the port if it had. But I come, if possible, to save that good old man. I have a little food here with me. Go get me a cup and some water; for I have a little of that which will be better to him at first even than food."

"God bless you, sir!" said the good woman: "there is not a drop of wine in all the city, and with him the tide of life is nearly gone out. I thought he would have died this morning; but he would rise. You stay with him, and I will be back in a minute. But keep silent and still, for sleep always does him good." So saying, she hurried away and brought a silver cup and some fresh water.

All was silent during her absence: the old man slept on, and Edward Langdale seated himself near, as quietly as possible. Marton took her place again without a word; and for about three-quarters of an hour the slumber of old Clement Tournon continued unbroken. Then a voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, crying, "Rations!" and Marton hurried down.

Either the voice or the movement in the room disturbed the old man. He moved in his chair, raised his head a little, and Edward, with some of the strong waters well diluted in the cup, approached and put it to his lips.

"What is it?" said Clement Tournon, putting the cup feebly aside with his hand. "I thought it might have pleased God I should die in that sleep."

"Take a little," said Edward, in a low tone: "it will refresh you." And Clement Tournon suffered him to raise the cup again to his lips, aiding with his own feeble hands, and drank a deep draught, as if he were very thirsty. Then, suddenly raising his eyes to Edward's face, he exclaimed, "Good Heavens! who are you? Edward Langdale! Is it all a dream?—a horrible dream?"

"I have come to see you and take you away, Monsieur Tournon," said Edward, as calmly as he could. "Keep yourself quite tranquil, and I will tell you more presently. At present be as silent as I used to be when I was sick and you were well."

The old syndic sat without speaking for a moment or two, and then said, "I know not what you have given me; but it seems to have strengthened and revived me. But pray, tell me more: I cannot make this out at all."

"I will tell you after you have eaten something," said Edward. "I have brought something with me for you. But first sip a little more of this draught."

The old man drank again, and then ate a little of the food which had been brought him; but the forces of life had so much diminished that it was long before the weight of the body seemed to give the mind liberty to act. At first he would wander a little, less with what seemed delirium than with forgetfulness. The brain appeared to sleep or faint; but with judicious care—an instinctive knowledge, as it were, of what was best for him—Edward administered support and stimulus by slow degrees till the mind fully wakened up. Quietly and cautiously the young man told him what he had done, why he came, and the certain prospect there was of his escape from that city of horror and famine if he could but summon strength to pass the gates.

"But Guiton,—but my friend Guiton," said Clement Tournon. "What will he think of me?"

"He begs you, he beseeches you, to go," said Edward. "He says you have done all you can for Rochelle, that you can do no more, that every mouth out of the city is a relief, and that, now you can go in safety, you ought to go."

"Oh, my son," said Clement Tournon, "you know not what it is to ask me to quit the home of many years. I have travelled, it is true; I have left my domestic hearth; I have left the earth that holds my wife and children; but it was always with a thought of coming back and dying here. Now, if I go, I go forever,—never to see Rochelle more."

"Nay, I hope that is not so," answered Edward. "The cardinal assured me that he would give the most favorable terms to the city; and I cannot but think that your presence may be the means of rendering those terms really and not nominally favorable. You can tell him of the determination of the people, of your certain expectation of succor——"

The old man shook his head. "No succor," he said; "no succor."

"But at all events it is probable," replied Edward, "that you may be able to obtain terms for Rochelle which she can accept honorably. You can aid no one here; you may do good service there. In this instance the paths of duty and of safety are one."

"Oh, I will go," said Clement Tournon, languidly. "I need no persuading. But what am I to do with this poor creature?" he continued, looking at Marton, who continued still in the room. "How can I leave her behind me?"

A sort of spasm passed her countenance; but she answered, with the real devotion of woman, "Go, old master; go. Never mind me. I can do well enough. My light heart keeps me up; and old women live upon little. When the young gentleman has risked every thing to save you, you cannot disappoint him."

"No indeed, Marton," said the syndic; "but yet——"

"Never talk about yet," said Marton. "You have got to go, that is clear; and perhaps you may be able to make a treaty by which we shall be all fed and comforted. MaÎtre Guiton should have done it long ago; but he is a hard man, and would see us all die of famine, and himself too, before he would bate an inch of his pride."

"Hush, hush!" said Edward: "he is a good and noble man, Marton; and times far distant shall talk of the famous defence of Rochelle by the Mayor Guiton. Bring your master a little more food, Marton. The sun is beginning to go down, and we shall soon be able to set out."

The poor old syndic bent his eyes down upon his hands and wept tears of age, of weakness, and of manifold emotions; and Edward, thinking it better to distract his thoughts, spoke of the gold cup which he had promised to bring to Richelieu, and asked where he could find it.

"What! a bribe?" exclaimed Clement Tournon, with more energy than the young man thought he had possessed. "The great Cardinal de Richelieu take a bribe?"

"No, no!" replied Edward: "do not misunderstand me. This cup was mentioned but incidentally as a curious and beautiful object of art, and I promised to bring it to him: therefore I must keep my word. But, if I must tell the truth, I believe the cardinal's inducement to give me a pass for you was that through you he might open some communication with the citizens, who have refused all overtures."

"Ay, there is that Mayor Guiton again," said Marton.

"The cardinal assured me," continued Edward, "that he had no wish to crush Rochelle, and would grant such favorable terms as could not honestly be rejected."

"God grant it!" said Clement Tournon; "but he has us at his mercy, and he knows it. As to the cup, my son, you will find it in the armory, where it stood when you were here before. Where are the keys, Marton? You will find it all safe, and the papers with it,—a letter for you amongst the rest; but I knew not where you were. All the gold and silver is safe; for when the people broke into the house it was food they sought, poor fools! They cared not for gold and silver: they could not eat them."

Marton found the keys and handed them to Edward, by Clement Tournon's orders; and the cup, wrapped in manifold papers and enveloped in an old parchment bag, was soon found. The whole packet was inscribed, in the old goldsmith's own handwriting, with the words, "The cup within belongs to Master Edward Langdale, of Buckley, in the county of Huntingdon, England, left with me for safe-keeping." By the side of the cup lay a letter, surrounded, as was common in those days, with a silken string, tied and sealed; and, on taking it up, Edward instantly recognised the handwriting of good Dr. Winthorne. That was no time for reading, however, and he put the letter in his breast; but his eye could not help glancing over the vast quantity of plate, both gold and silver, which even that one cupboard contained. Taking the cup in his hands, he locked the door, and, returning to the room of the syndic, inquired, with some anxiety, what was to be done for the protection of his property while he was gone.

"Dross, dross, my son," said Clement Tournon. "Yet the door of the room may be as well locked and bolted. Give Marton the key."

"We will take care of it, Master Ned," said Marton. "The boys come back every night,—all who are left of them, poor fellows! but stout John died of the fever, and William the filigree-man soon gave way when we came to want food. Old men and old women have borne it best. But nobody will think of touching the gold and silver. What could they do with it if they had it? All the gold in that room would not buy a pound of beef in Rochelle."

"It were as well to make all safe, however," answered Edward. "I will go and lock all the doors."

"I will come with you," said Clement Tournon, "and see whether I can walk. What you have given me seems to have revived me much, very much. What is it?"

"What you probably never tasted in your life before," said Edward,—"strong waters; and it shows the benefit of reserving the use of them for cases of need. That which kills many a man who uses it freely is now giving you back life, because you have never used it at all. All I have in that flask would not have the slightest effect upon Pierrot la Grange. I trust there is enough there to afford you strength to reach the camp."

"Oh, more than enough,—more than enough," said the good old syndic, whose holy horror of drunkenness made him almost shudder at the idea of what he had been imbibing, although he could not but feel that it had wrought a great and beneficial change upon him. "Now let me see how I can walk."

Edward gave him his arm; but the old man showed much more strength than he expected,—tottered a little in his gait, it is true, and lost his breath before he reached his arm-chair again. But Edward and Marton applied themselves diligently during the next two hours to confirm the progress he had already made, and were not unsuccessful.

I cannot say whether the good woman, whose love and devotion toward her master were extreme, did or did not secretly bestow upon him her own scanty portion of the common food which was doled out to all those who had given up their own stores to be disposed of by the city; but certain it is that, till the sun had nearly set, she and Edward contrived every quarter of an hour to furnish the old man a small piece of meat and a mouthful of pea-bread, with a few spoonfuls of the brandy-and-water.

At length the hour for departure came; and the parting between the old syndic and the faithful Marton was a very painful one. They said nothing, it is true; but she kissed his hand, and her tears, whether she would or not, fell upon it. Clement Tournon wept too; but Edward drew him slowly away, and once more he went out into the streets of Rochelle.

Those streets were nearly vacant, for almost everybody not wanted on the walls had retired to their miserable dwellings, there in solitude and famine to wait the return of the daylight which brought no comfort and very little hope.

Two men indeed passed by at a slow pace, and turned to look. "There goes old Clement Tournon," said one,—"up to the town-house, I suppose, as usual."

"I thought he was dead," said the other. "Old Dr. Cavillac died last night."

They spoke aloud, for those were no times of delicacy; and Edward, fearful that the old syndic had heard such depressing words, whispered, "I trust, Monsieur Tournon, you will be able to obtain such terms as the city can accept."

"Pray God I may!" said the old man, not perceiving Edward's little stroke of art in playing off hope against despair. "Oh, it would be the brightest day of my life!"

They walked slowly, very slowly; but at length they reached the gate, over which a very feeble oil-lamp was burning under the heavy stone arch; for by this time even an article of such common necessity as oil was terribly scarce in Rochelle. The common soldiers on guard were evidently indisposed to let Edward and his companion pass; but the young officer whom the mayor had called Bernard was soon summoned forth from the guard-house, and with a reverent pressure of the hand he welcomed the old syndic. "God bless you, sir!" he said. "I was right glad to hear what Monsieur Guiton told me. Would to Heaven I had a horse or mule to give you to help you across! but it is not half a mile, and I trust you have strength for that."

"God knows, Bernard," said the old man, who was leaning very heavily upon Edward's arm. "I trust my going may be good for the city. Were it not for that hope, I should be well contented to stay and die here. God knows how often during the last week I have wished that it were all over and these eyes closed."

"Nay, nay, sir," said the other, in a kindly tone: "you are reserved for better things, I trust. But the wicket is open. You had better pass through, lest any people should come."

The syndic and his young companion passed out into the darkness; but Clement Tournon's steps became so feeble as they crossed the drawbridge that Edward proposed to sit down and rest a while upon the same stone where he had sat in the morning; and there, to amuse his mind for the time, he spoke of his last visit to the city, and even, under shadow of the night, alluded to Lucette.

"Ah, dear child!" said the old man. "I heard that she had reached safely the care of the Duc de Rohan, for he wrote to me. But such a letter! I could not comprehend it at all. It was full of heat and anger about something,—I know not what; for there has been no means of inquiring since. He surely would not have had me keep her in Rochelle to suffer as we have suffered; but yet he seemed displeased that I had sent her away."

"He knew not all the circumstances," answered Edward; "and these great men are impetuous. Have you heard from her?"

"Not a word," said the syndic, with a sigh. "And yet God knows I loved her as a father."

"And she loved you," said Edward; "but it was some months ere she could possibly write, and since then Rochelle has been strictly blockaded."

"Ah, Edward Langdale," said the old man, in a sad tone, "the young soon forget. Joys and pleasures and the freshness of all things around them wipe away the memories of all early affections. And it is well it should be so. Old people forget too; but the sponge that blots out their remembrance is filled with bitterness and gall and decay."

Edward felt that Clement Tournon was doing injustice to Lucette; yet the words were painful to him to hear, and he changed the subject, trying to converse upon indifferent things, but with his mind still recurring to the question, "Can Lucette forget so easily?"

At the end of some half-hour he said, "Let us try now, sir, to reach the outposts. But first take some more of this cordial. Remember what we have at stake."

The old man rose; but he was still very feeble, and he stumbled amongst the low bushes at the end of the bridge. Immediately there was a call from the walls above of "Who goes there?" and the next instant a shot from a musket passed close by. Another succeeded, but went more wide; and, hurrying forward Clement Tournon, Edward put as much space between them and the walls as possible, saying, in a light tone, "Hard to be shot at by our friends. I trust that it is an omen we shall be well received by our enemies."

"I cannot go so fast," said the old man. "Go you on, Master Ned: I will follow. If they shoot me I cannot hurry."

"No, no! we go together," replied Edward. "Here; keep along this path, straight for that watch-fire." And, placing the old syndic before him, he sheltered him completely from the walls with his own body. But there was no more firing; and the only result was to scare the unhappy Rochellois with a report that a party of the enemy had approached close to the gates to reconnoitre.

The distance was really very short, as we have seen, from the walls to the royal lines; but it was long to poor Clement Tournon, and it required all Edward's care and skill and attention to get the old man across. But at length the challenge of the sentinel came; and it was the most welcome sound that at that moment could meet Edward Langdale's ear. His flask was at the last drop, and the good syndic seemed to have no strength left. All difficulties, however, were now over. In five minutes the young officer who had accompanied Edward from MauzÉ was by their side, with Jacques BeauprÉ and Pierrot; and, by the demonstrative joy of the two latter when they beheld Clement Tournon, one would have thought it was their father who had been rescued from death.

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Jacques, addressing Edward, "I will never doubt that you can do any thing again. Nobody but you in the whole world could have done it."

"I must beg of you, sir," said Edward to the young officer, "to obtain some place of repose for my poor old friend here. He is incapable of going any farther to-night; and I must away to the cardinal. These two men can, I presume, procure wine and meat for him; for food and rest are all that is needful."

"Be assured, sir, all shall be attended to properly," said the young officer, in the most courteous tone. "Monsieur de Bassompierre will be here himself in a moment, for he says he knows and esteems this gentleman, and we could not leave him in better hands, as I myself must accompany you back to his Eminence, who has moved down to what they call the Petit Chateau, some miles nearer the city."

This brief conversation took place some fifty yards from where Clement Tournon was seated between Pierrot and Jacques BeauprÉ; and at the moment Edward uttered the last words he heard a bluff, good-humored voice saying, "Ah! Clement Tournon, my old friend, right glad am I to see you. So his Eminence has let you out of the cage. What, man! never droop! we will soon restore your strength. This cardinal of ours has heard how men tame wild beasts by keeping them on low diet, and he has determined to try the same plan with you people of Rochelle. But I have a nice cabin for you here in a corner of the trench, and a good soft bed, all ready, with a boiled pullet; and we will have a good stoup of wine together, as we had when you sold me that diamond signet."

"Ah, sir," said the feeble voice of Clement Tournon, "you drank seven-eighths of the stoup yourself, saying you were thirsty and needed it. I need it most now, I fear."

"And so you shall drink the seven-eighths now," said Bassompierre, gayly. "Here! some one bring us a litter. We will carry him home in triumph. The best of goldsmiths shall have the best of welcomes."

"Farewell for a few hours," said Edward, in a low voice, approaching the old man's side and pressing his hand. "I must away up to the cardinal, to show him that I keep faith. But I leave you in good hands, dear friend, and will be with you again early to-morrow."

Thus saying, he turned away, rejoined the young officer, and rode off with him as fast as he could go, in order to present himself before Richelieu had retired to rest. Though probably burning with curiosity, Edward's companion did not venture to ask any questions in regard to La Rochelle, but merely pointed to the large packet containing the cup which Edward carried slung to his cross-belt, saying, in a jocular tone, "I suppose, Monsieur Langdale, that is not a havresac of provision; for they do say that article is somewhat scanty in the city."

"Oh, no," said Edward: "this is something too hard to eat: it belongs not to me, but to his Eminence. I wish it contained something I could eat; for I have tasted nothing since I left you this morning."

"They fast long in Rochelle," said the young man, dryly; "but you will be able to get something up at the chateau."

"I must report myself first," answered Edward; and on they rode without further conversation.

Edward was destined to wait longer for his supper than he expected, for he was detained in the cardinal's ante-chamber nearly an hour. At the end of that time, some five or six gentlemen came forth from Richelieu's room, and Edward's name was called by the usher. The minister was standing when the young gentleman entered, and was evidently in no humor for prolonged conversation.

"Have you brought the old man?" he said.

"Yes, my lord cardinal," replied Edward. "I left him at the outposts: he was too weak to come on."

"Then the famine in the city is severe, I suppose," observed the cardinal.

"It is, your Eminence," answered Edward; "but I was permitted to see very little."

"Blindfolded?" asked Richelieu.

"Yes," answered Edward. "But they may hold out some time, I think."

"How long?" demanded the minister.

"With their spirit, perhaps a month," replied Edward.

"A month!" repeated Richelieu. "Impossible! Did you hear of no tumults?"

"None whatever," replied Edward.

"What have you there?" next demanded the cardinal, pointing to the cup and its covers, which Edward had now detached from his belt.

"It is that work of art I mentioned, sire," replied the young man, taking it from the parchment bag and unwrapping the many papers which enfolded it.

Richelieu took it from his hands, gazed at it for a moment or two with evident admiration, and then set it down on the table, saying, "Beautiful! beautiful indeed! Have you heard any thing from England?" he continued, abruptly.

"No," answered Edward; but, instantly correcting himself, he added, "Yes: I forgot. I found a letter waiting me; but I have not opened it. It is merely from my old tutor."

"Let me see it," said Richelieu, in a tone that admitted of no refusal.

Edward took it from the pocket of his coat and gave it to him in silence.

Without the least ceremony, Richelieu opened it, and, after looking at the date, gave it back again, saying, "Why, it is six months old; and I have news not much more than seven days. The English fleet is just ready to sail, it seems, and only waits for your mighty duke to lead them. He will find some stones in his way before he harbors in Rochelle. But now good-night, Monsieur Edward Langdale. Be here to-morrow betimes, and we will talk more. Just now I am tired, and must to rest."