It was eleven o'clock on the following day when Edward Langdale appeared at the door of Monsieur de Tronson. The laquais said he did not know whether his master was visible or not, but he would see; and, leaving the young Englishman in an ante-chamber, he went in and remained some five minutes. At his return he asked Edward to follow, and introduced him into the bed-chamber of the secretary, who welcomed him, he thought, rather coldly.

"I hear, Monsieur de Langdale," said De Tronson, "that you have accurately fulfilled the injunctions of his Eminence and your word. That, my good cousin, Madame de Lagny, has told me; but I think you should have been here earlier."

"It was my intention, sir," replied Edward, seating himself in a chair to which the secretary pointed, near that in which he himself sat, wrapped in a large dressing-gown, by the fire, though it was the month of July.

"After having left my name in the ante-chamber of his Eminence, I went to my auberge for a few minutes, and then came out, with the intention of paying my respects to you; but I was stopped by a great crowd of people and forced to witness a dreadful scene, which rendered me incapable of holding any rational conversation with any one."

"Ha! you were there!" exclaimed the secretary, suddenly roused from the sort of listless mood in which he seemed plunged when Edward entered. "What happened? Tell me all. But first shut that door, if you please. I am ill, or I would not trouble you; but it is well to have no listening ears in this place, whatever one has to say."

Edward closed the door, and, although unwillingly, detailed all that he had witnessed of the execution of the unhappy Chalais.

De Tronson was moved far more than the young man expected. He put his hand over his eyes, murmuring, "Poor lady! Unhappy young man!" and Edward thought he saw some tears steal down his cheek. "I call God to witness," he exclaimed, at length, "that I had no share in this affair! Though my relations with Monsieur de Chalais were very slight, I would have saved him if I could,—saved him from himself, I mean."

He sank into silence; and, to change the conversation, Edward said, "I would have been here earlier this morning, but I thought you would probably be at the council."

"There will be no council to-day," replied the secretary, shaking his head: "we are all made sick by this affair. It has been like one of those epidemic blasts that sweep over the marshes, filling every one they touch with fever. I did not know you had waited on his Eminence: that was what I alluded to,—not a mere formal visit to me. That was all well; but you had better let him know that you are here. I know not that he will see you; but you must show every token of respect—especially just now."

"Shall I go to his apartments, then?" asked Edward.

"No, no," said De Tronson, with somewhat of the petulance of illness: "call a servant."

The servant was soon called, and De Tronson bade him go to the apartment of his Eminence. "Seek out one of his secretaries," he said, "and, if you cannot find one, ask for his chaplain. Request him to present my duty to the cardinal and tell him that Monsieur de Langdale, the young English gentleman he knows of, is with me, waiting his Eminence's pleasure. Say I would have come myself, but I am ill of fever."

The man retired and was absent only a few minutes ere he returned with the simple words, "His Eminence cannot be interrupted to-day." Edward heard the reply with regret; for time was passing away, his journey was just beginning when those who sent him imagined it was ended, and his funds were diminishing every hour. But, even while taking leave of Monsieur de Tronson and expressing a sincere hope that he would soon be better, a servant in purple livery entered, and, bowing to Monsieur de Tronson, announced that his Eminence would see Monsieur de Langdale.

"Go, go! quickly!" said De Tronson, in a low voice; "but be careful." And Edward followed the attendant from the room.

"Now for my fate," thought the young man, as he crossed the little bridge over the moat. "Such scenes as that of yesterday harden rather than soften. Methinks I could meet death more easily now than I could have done four-and-twenty hours ago. Yet why should I think the cardinal wishes me ill? He has been kind to me, however cruel he may be to others. But why should I call him cruel? I know nothing of that young count's guilt or innocence; and the horrid accessories of his fate were certainly none of the minister's devising."

Thus thinking, he followed through the long passages of the castle till he came to a door where stood one of the cardinal's guard, and there the servant paused and knocked. A page opened it, and to his guidance Edward was consigned. He was then led through an ante-room, and then through the room where he had seen Richelieu before, to another smaller chamber, where he once more found himself in the presence of the man whose life and power were so often in the balance, but whose will in reality, from that time forward, was fate in France.

Richelieu, though habited in clerical garb, was in what may be called half-dress, and the robe de chambre which he wore above his cassock was of bright colors and a mere mundane form. His pointed beard, or royal, as it was then called, with the dark mustache and the rich lace collar, which might have suited any gay cavalier of the court, also had a very lay appearance; and at once it flashed across the mind of the young Englishman that he had seen him somewhere in another costume. Where, for an instant he could not recollect; but he had not half traversed the room before the magic power of association brought back a night not more than a week before, when, walking in one of the corridors of that very chateau, he had met a man descending to the dungeons in which the unhappy Chalais was confined; and that man was before him. He shuddered when his mind instinctively combined the visit of that night with the scene of the day before; but in the look and manner of the cardinal at that moment there was nothing to inspire awe or indicate any cruelty or even harshness of character. His face was grave,—very grave; but with a mild gravity much like that of the famous bust which is, perhaps, the only good likeness of that extraordinary man. In his hand was a book,—the famous Imitation of Christ; but he had let it drop upon his knee when the door opened; and one who did not know him would have said, to see him, "There is some calm student of theology a little disturbed by being interrupted."

"Come in, young gentleman, and take a seat," said Richelieu, as the page closed the door. "You have kept your word well with me, I find."

"I always try to do so, my lord cardinal," replied Edward, seating himself near the minister.

"Lord cardinal!" said Richelieu, with a faint smile: "that is English, and somewhat Roman too. But what matters it? You heretics from the other side of the sea sometimes give us a lesson about dignities. Eminence! Any man can reach that title of right in other paths besides the Church, if he be wise, and brave, and firm,—ay, firm: he must be firm! Many a man who might be great, by some small weakness in his own nature yielded to, even once too often, mars all the results of higher qualities. Well, you have returned, as you promised; but you have come at a time when we are all sad,—very sad. I thought I would not see any one this morning, but take counsel with the only happy ones,—the dead. However, on second thoughts, I resolved to admit you, as you had performed your part of our bargain well, and your last conversation pleased me."

He spoke in a sort of meditative tone, and, when he stopped, Edward had nothing to reply but, "Your Eminence is gracious."

"Not so," answered Richelieu: "I am not gracious. I was not formed so by nature. I can be kind, I think, to those who love me,—affectionate, merciful; but graciousness implies some tenderness, and I am not tender. Nay, not even tender to myself; for I declare to Heaven that, did I find in my own heart the weakness that would yield right and justice to prayers and tears and entreaties, I would pluck out that heart and trample it under foot!"

His tone was somewhat vehement, and his eye sparkled; but after a moment or two all was calm again; and he asked, even with a smile, "What think you, young gentleman, men will say of me hereafter?"

"I have neither wisdom, your Eminence, nor experience sufficient to divine," answered Edward; "neither can any one say till a period, I trust, far, far distant."

"You mean when I am dead," said Richelieu. "Who can say how soon that may be? How long can a poor human frame bear the labors, the anxieties, the cares that I undergo,—the struggle against factions, the struggle against oneself, the crushing out of sympathies, the resistance of all kindly feelings, the endurance of ingratitude, falsehood, treachery, the malice and the envy of the many, the undeserved hatred of not a few? Happy the monk in his cloister! happy the ecclesiastic in his chair! Miserable, miserable is the man whom either personal ambition, or idle vanity, or the desire of serving his country, leads to the thorny paths of state or places on the tottering pinnacle of power!"

"Thank Heaven!" said Edward, interested deeply, "there can be no chance of my ever having to verify the truth of what your Eminence says."

"Who can tell?" rejoined Richelieu. "I have seen many rise to high place with less opportunity than you. I myself,—did I ever think at your age of being seated where I am now? You have talents, daring, firmness. Ambition grows like a worm upon a leaf, destroying what supports it. The moth may have laid its egg in your heart even now; and in ten years hence you may be what you dream not. But let us talk of other things. I am sorry you have come here just now, young gentleman."

"May I presume to ask why, my lord?" said Edward.

Richelieu paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then raised his keen dark eyes to the young man's face. "To answer you fully I must say what ought to flatter you and what cannot do so. You have pleased me; you have high qualities which I esteem; I think you will be faithful to any one to whom you attach yourself; and you have talents and courage to serve him well. But your mind is not clear enough, your experience is too little, your prejudices too great, for you to judge sanely of acts which have lately been done here. In bidding you return after your late journey and see me before you went farther, I wished to gain you to my service,—not by bribes, not by promises, but by winning your esteem and showing you friendship; and I can be a good friend. What is it that passes over your brow? I thought so: you judge I can be a deadly enemy also. Sir, I tell you, on my life and on my faith, I know no enemies but those of France. I have endured much, but I have never struck a blow but for the best interests of my king and my country. Even that young man who perished yesterday, had he not warning sufficient? Had I not passed over follies without number? Had I not forgiven designs against my own power and life? They were nothing so long as the safety of France was not involved. But when his pertinacious treason went into schemes to bring foreign troops into the land, to overthrow a mighty policy, to thwart his sovereign's will, to shake his throne, ay, and, perchance to touch his life, what were mercy but folly? what were clemency but treason?"

"I presume not, your Eminence," said Edward, bewildered by a conversation so strange and unexpected, "to judge even in my own heart of your conduct in circumstances of which I know nothing. I will own that a great part of the scene I was yesterday forced to witness struck me with horror; but even now, as I passed the bridge, I said to myself, 'I know nothing of that young man's guilt or innocence; and the dreadful accessories of his death were certainly not of the cardinal's devising.'"

"You did me that justice, did you?" said Richelieu, with a well-pleased look: "let me tell you, sir, there is many a man in France who will deny it to me. Ay, it was horrible, they tell me. But I had naught to do with that. Did I steal away the executioner of the court or of the city? Did I have any share in any of the details left to the common justice of the land? Inexorable I was bound to be, even to a mother's prayers and tears, though they wrung my heart. This court—this turbulent and factious court—needed an example; a traitor deserved a traitor's death. Both have been given; for there was not one mitigating circumstance, not one palliation or excuse. Death was his doom; but God knows, could I have spared one additional pang to his poor mother or to himself, I would have done it."

"Indeed, I believe you, my lord cardinal," replied Edward, moved by the apparent sincerity of the minister and the warmth and fire with which he spoke.

"And yet," said Richelieu, more calmly, "were it to be done over again, I would do it: nay, I will do it; for, though the medicine be strong, the malady of this land of France cannot be cured by a single dose. I will advise my king, as I have advised him, to show no mercy to persisting traitors. Let the blame fall on me: I care not. But save France!"

When men high in power have been forced into severe and terrible measures by motives which seem to them perfectly sufficient at the time, they sometimes feel a doubt when the execution of their purpose is over, and, though they may scorn to make a defence before the world, they will seek out some individual, however insignificant, who will listen while they plead their own cause,—apparently to him, but in reality to themselves. They will go over again all the reasoning, state all the motives afresh, which at first carried them forward, in order to prove to conscience that there was in the deed none of the selfishness which each human sinner of us all knows too well is in his own heart. Such, doubtless, was the case with Richelieu at the moment when the visit of Edward Langdale gave him the opportunity of justifying the death of Chalais to a foreign and impartial ear.

There might be a little deceit in this,—self-deceit; but in his eagerness, in the strong current of his language, and in the earnest vehemence of his manner, there was much that struck, ay, and captivated, his young companion. Let any one suppose himself in the presence of Cromwell or CÆsar,—and Richelieu was little less, if at all,—hearing him defend his most doubtful actions, and motive his most ruthless course, and they can conceive the sensations of Edward Langdale. Edward compared the cardinal to neither; but he knew that he was in the presence of the greatest and most powerful man who had yet appeared in that age,—a man famous for stern discretion and unfaltering firmness of purpose,—and that some strong and terrible emotions within him had led him to pour forth in his presence views, principles, purposes, but dimly discerned by any one at that time. It was a somewhat awful confidence Richelieu placed in him; and when the minister paused the youth knew not what to reply, but repeated, mechanically, not knowing why, the words, "Ay, save France!"

Richelieu gazed at him for a moment with his bright eyes, full of thought. It is known how, like most great men, he was somewhat superstitious, and, forgetting probably that he had himself used the words a moment before, he answered, "Young man, that is my oracle. Save France! I will, if it be in me, though a thousand heads should fall, and my own the last,—though it should cost a river of blood and a river of tears. I will save France. I will put her upon the pinnacle of countries, where she ought to stand; and after my day men shall say of her, 'This is the great leader of the nations, in arts, in science, and in arms.'"

He stopped and gazed into vacancy, as if he already saw the beautiful future of which he spoke, and then, as if feeling that the vehemence of his feelings had carried him beyond his usual reserve, he composed his countenance; the fire of the eye went out; the features, which had been much moved, became calm and still; and the phantasmagoric light which had covered his face with great images passed away, leaving almost a blank behind.

"Let us talk of what we were speaking about a few minutes since," he said, not losing the expression of sympathy and admiration which had come upon young Langdale's face. "I was referring to the possibility of your attaching yourself to me, and meriting and meeting higher honors and distinction than there seems any likelihood of your obtaining in your own country. I offer you no unworthy incentive, for, if I understand you, you are incapable of being moved by such; but I offer you my friendship. Have I not given you the best proof of it?—not by bestowing on you the hand of a noble French heiress,—that is nothing,—but by speaking to you as Richelieu rarely speaks to any one,—by showing you the things that lie within this bosom?"

Keen and acute as the young Englishman had become, he saw that he was perhaps in more danger now than he had ever been before; that he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and that the very confidence which the cardinal had accidentally placed in him was only the tottering stone which might fall and hurl him over the brink. Habitual boldness came to his aid, however. "Let me recall to your Eminence," he said, "that England and France are at war." A slightly scornful smile, at what he thought a subterfuge, curled Richelieu's lip. "I assure you, sir," continued Edward, earnestly, "that, were such not the case, I would grasp eagerly at an offer which can be rarely made to any one. I fear not danger, though I know your service might be dangerous, (pardon my plain speaking.) But on that score I should have no apprehension; for I am convinced that if that service proved fatal to me it would be by my own fault. But what your Eminence wants is one who will be faithful and true to you. What would you think of me if, at the first prospect of somewhat higher fortunes, I were not only to abandon my country, but to leave those who have treated me most kindly, educated, trusted me? Would not all the good opinions you have entertained of me vanish? Would you not view me as base, treacherous, worthless? Could you ever confide in me, esteem me more? Should I thenceforward be the man you want?"

"There is some truth in what you say," said the minister, slowly. "Yet, after what has passed, there may be something to consider. Are you aware, young gentleman, that I know more of you than I have seemed to know?—that I know all?"

"Yes," answered Edward, at once: "I have seen that some time. I know that if you were to hang me on that tree the world would hold you justified. But I do not think you will do it."

"Pshaw!" said Richelieu, "I care not for the world. But what makes you think I will not do it?"

"Because your Eminence has shown me the principles on which you act," said Edward; "and such a deed would not be within those principles. If you hanged me now, it would be because I refused to serve a country at war with my own,—not because I came into France under a false name and with the safe-conduct of another."

"Good," said the cardinal, "and true! But you forget another reason,—or from the idle babble of the day you may have learned to believe it not a good one: you do not mention that I promised to let you go on to your journey's end."

"I had forgotten it," said the lad; "but there might be many an excuse, or I may say reason, for passing over that promise. You may have learned more since you made it."

"Young man, do you wish to be hanged?" asked the cardinal, with a smile.

"Far from it, monseigneur," said Edward, gravely; "but I wish to act honestly and bravely. I told your Eminence that my only motive for not grasping eagerly at your generous proposal was, that France and England are at war, that if I now took service here you yourself could never trust me, and that I should feel myself unworthy of the trust of any one."

"That objection may be sooner removed than you imagine," said Richelieu. "Your gilded butterfly—your Buckingham—cannot flaunt it in the sunshine forever. Already he has plunged his monarch into difficulties which may, and will, produce sad consequences hereafter. An unnatural war of a brother-in-law against his wife's brother, for no reasonable cause, cannot long please the people of England. The Parliament—that handcuff of kings—is already screwing the bolt tighter; and we may leave it safely to compel a peace before your journey to the east is over. I will exact one promise from you, which keep as I keep mine. It is the only condition I put to your safety. Go on your way. Serve your lord faithfully: I will take no umbrage at that: then return to France as soon as you hear that peace is concluded between our two countries;—nay, I know you will return, for there is a lure you will not miss to follow, my young hawk; but come to visit me, and have your best hopes confirmed by serving one who can reward as well as punish. Do you promise me this?"

"I do, most readily," replied Edward, "and most gratefully thank your Eminence for kindness I have perhaps not deserved."

"You have deserved better by refusing me just now," said Richelieu, "than you would have done by yielding. I could not have trusted you. Go to, now. Men say that everybody must obey me, or I am a fiend. You have judged better of the Cardinal de Richelieu."

"You gave me the means of judging, my lord," said Edward; "if all men had the same, perhaps——"

"They would misconstrue me," said the minister. "But one thing remember: If, in an open and unguarded moment, I have been led to show you thoughts and feelings I do not usually suffer to appear, as you are a man of honor, you will keep them to yourself. Breathe not one word to any one of aught that has passed here. Say not to Lord Montagu, or any one, Richelieu says this, or, Richelieu said that. By this I will test your discretion."

"I will not forget," said Edward; "but, if I hear any one assail your Eminence's motives, I may be permitted, surely, to defend them by the means you yourself have afforded me."

"Let my motives take care of themselves, young man," said the minister, sternly. "You may say that the cardinal treated you well,—kindly, liberally,—and, although he had every right to stop you, sent you on to Lord Montagu, though he knew your errand and his. Compliment his lordship for me. And now farewell. I will to work. My spirit was somewhat crushed with care, anxiety, and thought; but I am better for this conversation."

Edward rose to retire, but the cardinal made him a sign to stay, saying, "I forgot to ask what reception you met from the fiery Soubise."

"I did not see the prince, my lord," replied Edward: "he had gone to the sea-coast. But we found the Duc de Rohan at Deux RiviÈres, and he was fiery enough. He calmed his passion before I left, however, and promised to convey what I had said to his brother, which he did, as I know by a letter sent after me by that nobleman himself."

"Ha! De Rohan is a good man, and might be a great one," said Richelieu: "he will be a loyal subject before two years have passed. As for Soubise, he is weak and full of passions. What said his letter?"

"It is in the hands of Madame de Lagny, my lord," replied Edward; "but I think I can repeat it word for word;" and he did so without omitting a syllable.

Richelieu listened attentively; and at the words, "Tell the insolent varlet that he shall never see her face again, the devil, the pope, and the cardinal to boot," he laughed low, remarking, "We will dispense with the devil, and need not trouble the pope: but the cardinal says you shall see her face again; and she shall be your wife in the face of the whole world, or my name is not Richelieu. One of the two brothers shall sign the contract, or both shall rot in exile. Now, fare you well, my young friend. The time is not far distant when not even a Huguenot prince shall dare to name me, or the pope either, in such company. Have you money sufficient?"

"Enough till I can get more, I thank your Eminence," replied Edward.

He would have made the same answer if he had possessed much less; for he would not have had any man say that he had received a livre from the cardinal, had it been to save him from starving. He was turning to depart; but the memory of all that great but terrible man had done for him within the last few days came flashing across his mind, and he paused, saying, with true emotion, "I will make no professions, my lord cardinal, but this: Your great and extraordinary kindness shall never be forgotten as long as Edward Langdale lives." Richelieu waved his hand, but with a well-pleased look, and the youth retired.

"I have heard of such long memories before," said the minister to himself. "Well, we shall see."