The days of vis-À-vis lined with sky-blue velvet had not come, though, as any one who is read in the pleasant Antoine Hamilton must know, one generation was sufficient to produce them. But, had they been in existence, there were no roads for them to travel upon; for we hear that just about this time one of the presidents of the Parliament of Paris lost his life by the great imprudence of travelling in a large heavy coach over a French country-road.

I was in great hope at this place to be enabled to introduce, for the gratification of my readers, a solitary horseman. But I am disappointed; for Edward Langdale, now that I have again to bring him on the scene, had good Pierrot la Grange with him. And it would never do to have a solitary horseman two.

It was on a road, then, leading from London into the heart of the country, that Lord Montagu's page—Lord Montagu's page no longer, for he had formally resigned his attendance upon that nobleman—rode along, on a cold, bright, wintry evening, with the renowned Pierrot la Grange, whose face, by adherence to the total-abstinence system, though much less brilliant in hue, had become much smoother, plumper, and fairer. Both he and his master were well armed, as was the custom of the day, and each was a likely man enough to repel any thing like attack on the part of others; for be it remarked that Edward Langdale was very much changed by the passage of twenty months over his head since first we introduced him to the reader. He was broader, stronger, older, in appearance; and, though of course there was nothing of the mould of age about him, yet all the batterings and bruisings he had gone through had certainly stamped manhood both on his face and form. He had a very tolerable beard also,—at least as far as mustache and royal were concerned,—trimmed in that shape which the pencil of Vandyke has transmitted to us in his portraits of some of the most memorable characters in modern history. It is probable that he had grown a little also; for at his age men will grow, notwithstanding all the world will do to keep them down. He was, in short, somewhat above the middle height, though not a very tall man,—of that height which is more serviceable in the field than in the ring.

At the crossing of two roads, one of which ran into Cambridgeshire, while the other took toward Huntingdon, was a small, low inn: I mean low in structure, for it was by no means low in character. It was one of the neatest inns I ever set my eyes on,—for it was standing in my day and is probably standing still,—with its neat well-whitewashed front, its carved doorway, its various gables, and its mullioned windows and the lozenge-shaped panes set in primitive lead. To the right of the inn, as you looked from the door upon the road, was a very neat farm-yard, half full of golden straw, with a barn and innumerable chickens,—chanticleers of all hues and colors, and dame partlets of every breed. Beyond the barn, at the distance of fifty or sixty yards, ran a beautiful clear stream, which crossed both the roads very nearly at their bifurcation, and which, though so shallow as only to wash gently the fetlocks of the passengers' horses, was, and must be still, renowned for its beautiful trout, silvery, with gold and crimson spots and the flesh the color of a blush-rose. On the other side of the stream, about a quarter of a mile farther up, was a picturesque little mill, with a group of towering Huntingdon poplars shading it on the east.

Here Edward Langdale drew in his horse, although the sun was not fully down.

God knows what made him do so, for he had proposed to ride farther: but there was an aspect of peace and rural beauty and contented happiness about the whole place which might touch that latent poetry in his disposition already alluded to. Or it might be that all the fierce scenes of strife and turmoil and care and danger he had passed through in the last twenty months had made his heart thirsty for a little calm repose; and where could he find it so well as there? Expectation, however, is always destined to be disappointed. This is the great moral of the fable of life. The people of the house, who had much respect for a man who came with an armed servant and whose saddle-bags were well stuffed, gave him a clean, comfortable room looking over the court-yard to the river, and served him his supper in the chamber underneath.

It was night before he sat down; but, before the fine broiled trout had disappeared, the sound of several horses' feet was heard from the road, and then that of voices calling for hostlers and stable-boys.

Edward had easily divined, from his first entrance into the house, that this which he now occupied was the only comfortable public room in the inn,—although there was another on the other side of the passage, where neighboring farmers held their meetings and smoked their pipes. He expected, therefore, that his calm little supper would be interrupted, and was not at all surprised to see a gentleman of good mien, a little below the middle age, followed by two or three attendants, enter the parlor and throw himself into a chair.

The stranger cast a hasty and careless glance around, and then gave some directions to one of his followers in the French language. It was not the sort of half French spoken a good deal in the court of England at that time, but whole, absolute, perfect French, with French idioms and a French tongue.

As long as the conversation referred to nothing more than boots and baggage and supper and good wine, Edward took no notice, but went on with his meal, anxious to finish it as soon as possible. But soon after, when the person the stranger had been speaking to had left the room, that gentleman began a different sort of discourse with another of his followers, and commented pretty freely, and with some wit, upon the state of parties at the court of England.

"Your pardon for interrupting you," said Edward at once. "My servant and myself both understand French; and it would be neither civil nor honest to overhear your conversation without giving you that warning."

The other thanked him for his courtesy, adding, "You are a Frenchman, of course?"

"Not so," answered Edward. "I am an Englishman; but I have spent some time in France."

Next came a great number of those questions which nobody can put so directly without any lack of politeness as a Frenchman:—how long he had lived in France; whom he knew there; when he had left it.

Edward answered all very vaguely, for he never had any great relaxation of tongue; but the stranger caught at the admission that he had been only a fortnight in England, exclaiming, "Then you must have been in France when Rochelle surrendered."

"I was," answered the young gentleman: "it is not quite three weeks since I left that city."

"Ha!" said the stranger, eyeing him from head to foot. "Will you favor me, sir, by telling me the state of the place and the condition of its inhabitants? It is a subject in which I take a great interest. Methinks they surrendered somewhat promptly when succor was so near."

"Not so, sir," replied Edward. "When men have nothing to eat,—when they have seen their fathers, and their brothers, and their mothers, and their sisters, die of famine in their streets,—when the very rats and mice of a city are all consumed, and the wharves have been stripped of mussels and limpets,—they must either die or surrender. There is no use of dying; for death is the worst sort of capitulation, and the city becomes the enemy's without even a parchment promise."

"Ay; and was it really so bad?" said the other.

"More than one-third of the inhabitants had died," said Edward; "another third were dying; and the rest were so feeble that the walls might be said to be manned by living corpses."

"You excite my curiosity and my compassion," said the other. "May I ask if you had any command in Rochelle?"

"None," replied the young gentleman. "By accident I was in it for a day during the siege, and saw how much they could endure. I was in it also immediately after the siege, and saw how much they had endured. Though Rochelle fell at last, her defence is one of the most glorious facts in French history."

The stranger looked down upon the ground and replied nothing for several minutes; but his companion with whom he had been conversing familiarly took up the conversation, and asked after several of the citizens of Rochelle whom Edward was personally acquainted with or knew by name. The solemn words, "He is dead," "She is dead," "All the family died by famine," "He died of the pestilence," were of sad recurrence. "But then," the stranger remarked, "we know that Guiton is alive; for he signed the treaty."

"He tried hard to die first," said Edward. "But nothing seemed to break his iron frame, and the people became clamorous."

"And what became of the good old syndic Tournon?" asked the first stranger.

"He is alive and well," answered Edward.

"Ah! but he would have been dead and buried," exclaimed Pierrot, who could refrain no longer, "if it had not been for you, sir."

"Indeed?" said the stranger. "Let me inquire how that happened."

"It matters not, sir," replied Edward, making a sign to Pierrot to hold his tongue. "What the man says may be partly true, partly mistaken; but, although I am willing to give any one interested general news, I must decline referring to matters entirely personal when conversing with strangers."

"Well, then, let us talk of other subjects," said the first stranger. "I cannot consent to part with a gentleman lately from my own land, so soon as that movement of your plate seems to imply. Supper I shall take none; for the news that has flowed in upon me for the last fortnight, has not tended to strengthen my appetite. Wine, however,—the resource of the sad and the sorry,—I must have. They tell me it is good here. Will you allow me to try some of that which stands at your right hand?"

Edward ordered Pierrot to bring some fresh glasses, and put the bottle over to his self-invited guest. The stranger drank some, and, saying, "It is very fair," immediately ordered more to be brought, while Pierrot, bending over Edward's chair as if to remove the dish before him, whispered in his ear, "It is the Prince de Soubise."

With all his habitual self-command, Edward could not refrain from a slight start. The color, too, mounted in his cheek with some feelings of anger; but he was glad of the warning, and did not suffer what was passing in his heart to appear. The conversation turned in a different course from that which it had before assumed, Soubise referring no more to the subject of Rochelle, though his companion, who seemed a friend of inferior rank, often turned toward that topic. Whenever he did so, the prince immediately asked some question as to Edward's knowledge of France and its inhabitants; and the young gentleman, to say the truth, took some pleasure, after the first effects of surprise were over, in puzzling him by his answers. He had passed over so much of France that his intimate acquaintance with the country excited Soubise's astonishment; and from localities his questions turned to persons. "As you have been in Lorraine," he said, "you have probably seen the beautiful and witty Duchesse de Chevreuse."

"I have the honor of knowing her well," replied Edward.

"Do you know the Duc de Montbazon?" asked the prince.

"Not in the least," replied Edward.

"The Cardinal de Richelieu?" continued Soubise.

"I have seen his Eminence frequently," said the young gentleman, "and have had audiences of him; but, as to knowing the cardinal, that can be said but by few, I imagine."

Soubise smiled. "The duchess is more easily known," he answered; "but the death of her lover Chalais must have affected her much,—poor thing! Did you ever meet with him?"

"Not exactly," replied Edward, with a slight shudder at the memory. "I saw his head cut off, but did not know him personally."

The reference caused a momentary pause in the conversation; and then Soubise said, in an indifferent tone, "As you have been much in that part of the country, you must have probably seen a Duc de Rohan."

"I had the honor of meeting him once," replied Edward, fully on his guard.

"He is a relation of mine," said Soubise.

Edward merely bowed his head, and the prince proceeded to ask if there had been any news of him current when the young gentleman was in France.

"The last I heard of him," said Edward, "was a rumor that, after menacing the right of the king's army till a party had been sent out to cut off his retreat, he had, by a skilful night-march through the woods in the rear, effected his escape and fallen back upon Saintonge."

Soubise seemed desirous of prolonging the conversation; but Edward soon after retired to his chamber, resolved to be up by sunrise and pursue his way. His determination was vain, however. Though he was on foot early, Soubise was up before him; and they met at the door of the inn, where their horses were already standing. A quiet bow on either part was their only salutation; and, as there were two roads, Edward would willingly have seen which the prince selected. As he did not mount, however, the young gentleman followed the path he had previously proposed to take,—namely, that toward Huntingdon,—and three or four minutes after heard the more numerous party of Soubise coming up at good speed.

"Ah, young gentleman," said the prince, riding up to his side, "so we are going the same way. Permit me to bear you company."

Edward bowed his head somewhat coldly, for he did not desire the companionship. He might have learned some policy in the varied life he had led, and it certainly would have been politic in him to court the good opinion of the man by his side; but, even had the nature of his character permitted it, he believed it would be of no use. Generous and frank, Soubise was known to be somewhat obstinate as well as hasty; and Edward thought, "I would rather win her in spite of him than by his aid."

Their journey, therefore, did not promise to be very agreeable; and, when the prince demanded which way his course ultimately lay, the young gentleman replied, "I go toward Huntingdon, sir; but, if that is the direction of your journey, I shall have to leave you before we reach the town, for I have to turn off the highroad some miles on this side of Buckden."

"And so have I," said Soubise; "but we may as well make the way pleasant by each other's society as long as our roads lie together. Do you know this country as well as you know France?"

"This part of the country," replied Edward; "for I was born and brought up not many miles from where we are now riding."

"Indeed!" said the prince. "I should have thought by your speech you had passed the greater part of your life in my own land. Do you know what that little river is just before us?"

"It is the Ivil," answered Edward, "which runs into the Ouse lower down."

"The Ouse!" said Soubise. "I do not know much English, but that seems to me an ugly name. If I recollect, Ouse means mud,—slime."

"We are a plain-spoken people," answered the young man, "and usually give things the name we think they deserve. The Ouse in many places is a sluggish, muddy stream; and our good ancestors applied the name they judged most appropriate."

"'Tis as well they do," said Soubise, with a sigh. "We in France have a different habit. Our more excitable imaginations take fire at a name, and we are apt to decorate very plain things with fanciful appellations; but this leads to frequent disappointment. Which is the happiest people must depend upon whether it is best in a hard world to see things as they are, or to see them as we would have them."

"We are often forced to see them as they are," replied Edward; "and if we always did so there would be no disappointments."

"Nor much happiness," said Soubise.

Thus conversing, they rode on. But we must pass lightly over the talk with which they enlivened the way, merely observing that Lucette's cousin rose not inconsiderably in Edward's opinion as they went. Nay, more: his manners were so graceful, his thoughts so just, his conversation so varied, that the young Englishman could not but feel pleased with his company and inclined to like himself. Still, in the true English spirit, he said, in his own heart, "Oh, yes, he is very charming now he is in a good humor. The devil is so when he is pleased; but methinks I could conjure forth the horns and hoofs if I were but to tell him who I am."

At length the scenes through which they passed became painfully familiar to Edward's eye,—spots he had known well, cottages he had visited, houses belonging to old friends of his family. The very trees and shrubs and little water-courses seemed like old acquaintances calling back times past and appealing to regret. He grew grave and cold. The chilly feeling which had first fallen upon him not many years before, but which had somewhat passed away during the last few months, returned, and many memories, as ever, brought their long train of sorrows with them.

Not far from Little Barford, a fine sloping lawn came down to the road-side, separated from the highway merely by a thick, well-trimmed hedge broken by some fine groups of trees; and, looking up, a large square house with many windows, and a trim garden terraced and ornamented with urns and statues, could be seen at the distance of a quarter of a mile. There were several men in the grounds engaged in various country-employments, and Edward said, within himself, "He is taking care of the place, at all events."

At the same moment Soubise observed, "That is a fine chateau! Do you know to whom it belongs, and what it is called? It is so long since I was in this part of England that I forget the places."

"That is called Buckley Hall," replied Edward. "It belongs to Sir Richard Langdale."

"How is that?" said Soubise, suddenly, as if something surprised him. But Edward did not answer, and the prince merely said, "Let us pull up for an instant and look at it."

It was torture to Edward to stay; but he paused for a moment, and then said, "I fear I must go on, for I have still some distance to ride. My road, too, lies here to the left."

"Ay?" said Soubise; "so does mine. Let us go on."

"Are you sure you are right?" asked Edward Langdale. "Huntingdon is straight before you."

"Oh, I am right," answered the prince: "I turn just beyond Buckley."

Edward had nothing more to say; but he could not help beginning to think that his adventure with the two blacksmiths seemed likely to come over again. Somewhat quickening their pace, they rode on, and Edward made an effort to cast off the melancholy mood which had fallen upon him, and even the impression which the unsought society of a man who had spoken of him in such insulting terms had produced at first, and the conversation between him and Soubise became lively and cheerful. Mile after mile passed; and at length, after proceeding for more than an hour and a half, on a little bank by the side of the river appeared an old church with its gray ivy-clad tower and groups of yews in the churchyard. Beyond, at the distance of some two or three hundred yards, was one of those fine antique houses, built of stone, which were erected in the end of Elizabeth's reign and in the earlier part of that of the most pompous and conceited of kings. Thick walls, small square windows, little useless towers, and somewhat peaked roofs, spoke a good deal of King James. But the lawn, as soft as velvet, the groups of shrubs, and the garden, well trimmed and swept even in the winter-time, told a tale of more modern taste.

"I fear I shall have to quit you here, sir," said Edward, as they approached the gate with its two massy stone pillars and large balls at the top. "This is the end of my journey."

"What is the name of this place?" asked Soubise.

"Applethorpe," answered Edward,—"the residence of Dr. Winthorne."

"Ha?" said Soubise; "then we shall not part so soon. This is the end of my journey also."

Edward could not refrain from turning round and gazing in his face with a look of most profound surprise; but the prince made no further remark, and, after pulling in their horses while one of the servants dismounted and opened the gates they rode up to the large arched door of the house. A heavy bell hanging outside soon brought forth an old domestic, dressed in dark gray, who gazed earnestly first at Soubise and then at Edward, both of whom had sprung to the ground while he was opening the door. At first he evidently recognised neither; but a moment after the light of honest satisfaction brightened his countenance, and, holding forth his hand to Edward, he exclaimed, "Oh, Master Ned, how glad I am to see you, and how glad the doctor will be! He has been looking for you for months. But he is not at home now, and may not come back for an hour. But come in; come in. Every thing is ready for you. Your old room is just as you left it,—not a book moved, nor a gun, nor a fishing-rod: only when I went in to-day to dust the things, I saw the ink had dried up in the horn, and was going to put in fresh this very day."

Edward shook the old man warmly by the hand; and, turning to the Prince de Soubise, he said, "If I understood you right, sir, you came to visit Dr. Winthorne. He is out, the servant says; but I have interest enough in this house to invite you to enter till his return. He will be back in an hour, and happy, I am sure, to entertain you. But, knowing my old preceptor's habits well, allow me to hint that it will be necessary to send your attendants into the village, as I shall send my servant; for, being a clergyman, he objects to have in his house what he calls 'swash-buckler serving-men;' and his rule apply to all, however high the quality of his guests."

Soubise smiled; and, ushering him into the library, Edward proceeded, amidst the somewhat garrulous joy of the old footman, to direct Pierrot to take the other men down to the village inn, to tell the host there to attend on them well, "for Master Ned's sake," and then to return as soon as might be with his saddle-bags.

The prince merely ordered his baggage to be brought up, directing his men to take care of themselves, and seeming fully satisfied that he would be a welcome guest. He took some books from the shelves of the library, examined them cursorily, and put them back, saying, "The good doctor seems to have improved much in worldly matters. He has attained, apparently, the state he always desired,—competency, and enough to have a good library. Can any one imagine a man more happy?"

"Perhaps not," said Edward, gravely. "I believe circumscribed desires and moderate fortunes attain the height of human felicity."

"Not so," said Soubise. "I believe every human life must be looked at as an aggregate; and skilful would be the calculator who could reduce to an exact sum how much joy and how much sorrow are required to equivale a given portion of calm and unimpassioned existence. All these things are as the individual views them. We have nothing in this life by which to measure the real value of any object but our own tastes. You may like a pearl better than a diamond; I may esteem the flashing lustre of the one more than the calm serenity of the other. That man is only happy who obtains what he really desires. But here come our men, I see, with the baggage."