Space is growing short, and we have much to tell. It was several weeks after the period of which we have just been writing when Edward Langdale and old Clement Tournon, now restored to health and some degree of strength, were in the cabinet of the great minister of France. Manifold papers were before them, and Richelieu's brow was cloudy and stern; but the old syndic of the goldsmiths of Rochelle was as calm, and seemingly as much at ease, as when he first encountered Edward Langdale in the streets of his city.

"Your Eminence, they will not accept it," he said. "There are things which you do not consider. True, they are, as you say, pressed by famine. They may, or they may not,—for I have no correct information,—be forced to surrender or die for want of food within four days; but, if I know the people of Rochelle, they will die rather than surrender, unless they have better terms than these. It is useless to propose them. I should be in some sort deceiving your Eminence were I to be the bearer of such offers. I know that, without the free exercise of their religion being assured to my fellow-citizens, die they will,—of famine or pestilence, or by cannon-balls. I cannot undertake to propose such terms."

"Are you aware," asked Richelieu, in slow but emphatic language, "that, seven days ago, George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, was stabbed at Portsmouth, by an assassin named Felton, and died upon the spot?"

Edward Langdale turned pale at the terrible news; but not the slightest mark of emotion was apparent upon the face of Clement Tournon. Old men are not easily moved; and he was thinking only of Rochelle.

"Possibly," he said, in a quiet tone: "I always thought he would die a violent death. But the hopes of the people of Rochelle never rested, my lord cardinal, upon the Duke of Buckingham."

"Upon what, then, did they rest?" asked Richelieu, in some surprise.

"Upon the hand of God," replied Clement Tournon; "upon the winds and waves, his ministers. The storms which annually visit this coast have been long delayed this year. But when they do come they will come more fiercely; and every man in Rochelle well knows that the marvellous dyke your Eminence has built will be but as a bed of reeds before them. Succor will pour in the moment the port is open, and the citizens, refreshed and comforted, will be ready to resist again all efforts to control their consciences."

"Pshaw!" said Richelieu: "this point of religion is but a name."

"Not for the people of Rochelle," said Clement Tournon. "We are loyal subjects of the King of France. We are willing to be obedient in all temporal things; but we will never profess one faith while we hold another: we will never resign our right to worship God according to our own belief."

"Well, well, that will be easily settled," said the cardinal, taking a pen and striking three or four lines from a writing on the table. "I am not fighting against any man's sincere faith. I am warring against rebellion. Read that, sir. Will that be received?"

"Not without a clause securing to the people of Rochelle the full and free exercise of their religion," said the old syndic, resolutely.

"That is what I mean to grant," said the cardinal,—though a slight cloud passed over his brow and seemed to indicate that the concession was made less willingly than he pretended. But, in truth, Richelieu had heard that very day that the English fleet had sailed, notwithstanding the death of the high-admiral. One severe storm, and all the labor of long months might be destroyed, and Rochelle be as safe as ever. There were indications in the sky, too, which threatened such an event. "That is what I mean to grant," he repeated. "Have it put in what words you will, so that nothing be inserted which shall give a turbulent people pretence for levying war upon their king. Call me a secretary, Monsieur Langdale."

Edward obeyed; and the terms offered by the cardinal were written out fair, with a clause guaranteeing to the Rochellois the full and unmolested exercise of their religion. This paper formed the basis of that remarkable treaty, soon afterward signed, which for its moderation has been the wonder of all historians. It is true that the Cardinal de Richelieu had many reasons for desiring peace as speedily as possible. It is true that the Rochellois had good reason to hope that relief of some kind would be afforded them ere long. But it is no less true that thousands had perished of famine within those walls, and that in a few days more no soldiers would have been found to man the walls, and corpses only would have opposed the entrance of the royal troops. There can be no doubt that a wise and politic clemency characterized the proceedings of the minister, and that, had he waited till the sick king's return to the camp, harder conditions would have been imposed. He seems not to have heeded where the glory of success or the honor of clemency might fall, so that his great purposes were accomplished; and, applied to his conduct toward Rochelle, as applied to a later period of his life, the words of one of his historians are neither fulsome nor unjust when he said, "France triumphed within and without the realm. Foreign enemies themselves proclaimed the superior genius of the cardinal; and the Huguenots, even while sighing over the ruins of their fortresses dismantled by his orders and under his eyes, could not but acknowledge his affability, his readiness to adopt all gentle expedients, and the fidelity with which all his engagements were observed."

And what became of Edward Langdale all this time? He remained in the royal camp, not as a prisoner, not exactly free. It was impossible for him to travel through France and to pass into England without safe-conduct of some kind; and Edward soon divined that—whether from suspicion, or from some other motive, he knew not—Richelieu had determined not to let him depart till Rochelle had surrendered. The minister became more difficult of access, also, after the king had returned to the camp, and the long and more familiar conversations which Edward had enjoyed with him previously were altogether at an end. He was courteous and kind when the young man was admitted to his presence; but, when Edward pressed for permission to depart, the answer always was, "In a few days." On one occasion, indeed, the natural impatience of Edward Langdale's disposition caused him to burst forth with something beyond frankness, and he said, bluntly, "Your Eminence has promised to let me go for the last six weeks. Now, six weeks are nothing to you, but they are all-important to me; for I have only one crown and two livres in my pocket, with two servants and myself to furnish, to say nothing of the horses, who are as badly off as if they were citizens of Rochelle; and, besides——"

"That will be soon amended," said Richelieu, with a slight smile. "Give me some more paper off that table." And he wrote an order upon the treasurer of his household for the payment to Monsieur Edward Langdale of the usual salary of a gentleman-in-ordinary to the king.

"My lord cardinal, how am I to take this money?" asked Edward. "England and France are still at war."

"Then take it as a prisoner," said Richelieu, somewhat sternly. "Do not talk nonsense, lad. But you said 'besides.' What is there besides?"

"If you had read the letter I showed your Eminence," replied Edward, "you would have seen that my presence is absolutely required in England upon business of much importance to myself."

"What letter? When? Oh, I remember,—when you brought me the cup. I cannot help thinking, notwithstanding, you are as well here for the time. But, speaking of the cup, I pray you put a price upon it."

"I cannot sell a gift that was given me by my father on my birthday. The very act of giving places an obligation on the receiver not to sell, but none not to give; and I trust your Eminence will condescend to receive it on the only terms on which I can part with it."

"Well," said Richelieu, "I will take it on those terms, and will direct my good friend Monsieur Mulot to give you back the papers that enveloped it. They seem to belong to you; for I see the name of Langdale frequently mentioned. Guard them safely till some more learned head than your own has examined them, for few men know the value of scraps of old paper. Sometimes they will raise a man to wealth and power, sometimes throw him headlong down. God knows whether that same art of writing has done more good or harm in the world. Cadmus, who invented letters, they say, was the same man who sowed the serpents' teeth and reaped an iron harvest. Is not this an allegory, Master Langdale? Go and consider of it; for I am busy just now."

Not long after this conversation, the good but stupid Father Mulot brought to the young gentleman the bundle of papers in which the cup had been enveloped, and entered into a long disquisition upon the various differences between the Catholic and Protestant faiths. He was evidently bent upon converting his hearer from his religious errors; but Edward was obdurate to the kind of eloquence which he displayed, and the good man left him rather in pity than in anger. To examine the papers was Edward's next task; but he could make nothing of them. Some pages were wanting; others were mutilated; and, though he saw his father's and his mother's name in many places, yet but little light could be obtained as to the import of the documents in which they were mentioned. Only one gleam of significance appeared throughout the whole. There was one passage which stated that "Richard Langdale, baronet, with the full and free consent of his wife, Dame Heleonora Langdale, in virtue of the last will and testament of Henry Barmont, her uncle, lord of the manor of Buckley as aforesaid, which consent was testified by her hand and seal unto the within-written lease and demise, did lease, give, and grant unto William Watson, his heirs and assigns, for the term of twenty-one years from the fifth day of——"

There the manuscript stopped, the page which followed being torn off; but at the same time, though he had no knowledge of law, Edward could perceive that an admission of the absolute rights of his mother over the manor of Buckley, under the will of her uncle, was implied. He resolved, then, to follow the advice of the cardinal and preserve the papers with care. But still his detention in France was exceedingly annoying. The letter of Dr. Winthorne had pressed him earnestly to return to England; and other thoughts and feelings were busy in his bosom urging him in the same direction. He felt himself something more than bound—shackled—by his engagement with Lord Montagu. Without any definite cause of complaint, the links which attached him to that nobleman had been broken. He felt that he had been doubted without cause, that he had been neglected and forgotten in a moment of difficulty and peril, and that the confidence which had at one time existed between his lord and himself could never be fully restored. Such were the reasons which he urged upon himself to explain the desire he felt for severing the connection. But perhaps there was another motive which he did not choose to scrutinize so accurately. Fifteen months had passed since he had promised the Cardinal de Richelieu not to seek his young bride for the space of two years, and Richelieu had promised him that at the end of those two years she should be his. He had no absolute certainty of where she was; he knew not what might have become of her; he could only frame vague, wild plans for finding and recovering her; and nine months, without a long journey to England, seemed to his impatient heart not more than time sufficient to vanquish all the obstacles which might lie between him and her.

In the idleness of the camp, without post, duty, or occupation, his mind naturally rested for hours each day upon youth's favorite theme. The imaginative—perhaps I may say the poetical—temperament which he had inherited from his mother, and which had hitherto in life found few opportunities of development and little or no encouragement amidst the hard realities with which he had had to deal, had now full sway, and sometimes soothed, sometimes tormented him with alternate hopes and fears.

Lucette was often the theme of his conversation with good Clement Tournon, who was daily regaining health and strength. The old syndic asked many questions as to Lucette's journey, and told Edward many of the rumors which had reached Rochelle; but it was evident that he knew nothing of that part of Lucette's history which was the most interesting to his young hearer. Feelings which it is needless to dwell upon prevented Edward from referring to it himself; and day after day he would ride forth into the country alone, or walk up and down in the neighborhood of the cardinal's residence, buried in solitary thought.

To the country-house now inhabited by Richelieu was attached a garden in an antique taste, where roses had now ceased to bloom and the flowers of summer had all passed away. But it was a quiet and solitary place, for the taste of neither soldiers nor courtiers led them that way, and, though the gates were always open, it was rarely that any one trod the walks, except one of the cooks with white night-cap on head seeking pot-herbs in a bed which lay at the lower part of the ground. Edward Langdale was more frequently there than anywhere else; and one day, toward evening, as he was walking up and down in one of the cross-walks, he saw the cardinal come forth from the building alone and take his way straight down the centre alley, looking first down upon the ground and then up toward the sky, as a man wearied with the thoughts and cares and business of the day. It seemed no moment to approach him; and Edward somewhat hurried his pace toward a small gate at the end of the garden. He had nearly reached it when the cardinal's voice stopped him.

"Come hither," said Richelieu, "and, if you are inclined to talk of no business, walk here by me. It is strange that amongst all who are here there is hardly one man with whom one's mind can refresh itself. My friend Bois Robert is too full of jest. It becomes tiresome. Good Father Mulot (whom they should have called Mulet) is full of one idea,—the conversion of heretics, by fire and sword, pestilence and famine, or what else you like,—though I cannot see why to prevent them from being damned in the other world I should be damned in this. I know the verses of Horace are against me, and that every man unreasonably complains of his fate; but I cannot help thinking that of all the conditions in the world the fate of a prime minister is the most anxious, laborious, and tiresome."

"I should think so indeed, your Eminence," said Edward, with a sigh.

"Ha!" said Richelieu: "then you are so little ambitious as to deem it has no advantages?"

"Not so, my lord," replied Edward. "It has vast and magnificent advantages,—the power to do good, to stop evil, to reward the worthy, ay, and even to punish the bad,—to save and elevate one's country. But great and valuable things must always be purchased at a high price; and I can easily conceive that the sense of responsibility, the opposition of petty factions and base intrigues, the stupidity of some men, the cunning devices of others, the importunity and the ingratitude of all, the want of domestic peace, the continual sacrifice of personal comfort, must make the high position your Eminence speaks of any thing but a bed of roses."

"You shall have your safe-conduct to-morrow morning," said Richelieu. "Such sentiments are sufficient to corrupt the whole court of France. Sir, if they were to become general, and men would but act upon them, I should have nothing to do. There would be nobody to envy me. Nobody would try to overthrow me. They would only look upon me as the wheel-horse of the car of state, and wonder that I could pull along so patiently. The ingratitude of all!" he repeated, in a meditative tone. "Ay, it is but too true! Those are the petrifying waters which harden the heart and seem to turn the very spirit into stone. Do you know what has been done within this hour, Monsieur Langdale?"

"No," replied the young Englishman: "I have heard of nothing important, sir."

"Why, I thought it must be at the gates of Paris by this time," said Richelieu. "A treaty has been signed with Rochelle; and a good man—a marvellous good man in his way—says I am no true Catholic, because I will not starve some thousands of men to death or make them take the mass with a lie upon their mouths. I do not understand his reasoning, but that is my fault, of course; but through this very treaty of Rochelle I think I shall make more real Catholics than he would make false ones. But now, Monsieur Langdale, you think I have kept you here unreasonably; but you are mistaken. I wished to have news from various quarters ere I suffered you to go back to England. I need not tell you to return by the month of July next; but, for many reasons, I desire you should return before. I leave it to yourself to do so or not; but you will find it for your benefit. To-morrow you shall have all necessary passes,—though it is probable that the fall of this very city of Rochelle will lead to peace between France and England. If it do so, remember a conversation which took place between us a good many months ago."

"I will not forget it, my lord," replied Edward. "I believe I have always kept my word to your Eminence."

"You have," said Richelieu. "You have. Would to God I could say the same of all men! And, now, what money will you want for your passage?"

"None, your Eminence," replied Edward. "I have a little property in England, the rents of which accumulated while I was lodged and fed by good Monsieur de Bourbonne; and I can get what I want at Rochelle."

"Oh, go not into that miserable place!" said Richelieu,—"at least not till all the bodies are interred and it is free from pestilence. This siege will ever be memorable in the annals of the world for the sufferings of the people, and for the resolution of their leaders also. I can admire great qualities even in my enemies. But here comes Tronson to call me to the king. Come to me to-morrow."