What say you to a quick ride and a short chapter, reader? We have stood wasting our time too long with cardinals and secretaries and courtiers. Let us set out on our journey toward Paris, with three strong horses, each under the saddle, two stout men, and a young lad, who, ride as hard as they will, still keeps ahead of them. They are not troubled with much baggage; but they have good long pistols at their saddle-bows, swords by their sides, and eke daggers in their belts.

The apparel of the two men had nothing remarkable in it. Each had the common slashed and laced pourpoint with the short cloak of the times, and their lower limbs were clad in that very peculiar and ugly garment, between trousers and breeches, which distinguished the epoch of Louis XIII. The boots, like a pair of gigantic funnels, however, covered not only the foot and ankle, but the whole of the lower part of the leg, and hid in a degree the monstrous chausses. The young man was dressed with somewhat greater taste and richness; and there was something in his air and his wondrous horsemanship which would have distinguished him at once from his two followers without the accessories of dress. In vain his horse—which he had bought in Nantes for a mere trifle, on account of its vicious propensities—darted to the right or left at every suspicious object, reared, plunged, and kicked; not all its efforts could shake him in the saddle for a moment: in vain the brute galloped at full speed when he was only required to trot; the youth only whipped and spurred him the more, till at length the fierce beast, finding that he had indeed got his master on his back, yielded with a good grace; and by the time the party reached Ancenis he was as quiet as a lamb.

But, though Ancenis is a pretty little town, and the fare is good and the wine by no means bad, Edward Langdale was not inclined to lose time by the way. One hour for refreshment was all that was allowed for man or horse, and then on again they went toward Angers. It is true that Angers is somewhat more than fifty miles from Nantes, that the road in those days was not remarkable for its excellence, and that a broiling July sun had shone upon the travellers from break of day till night; but Edward saw with his own eyes that the horses were well cared for; and all was prepared for departure early the next morning. Here, however, for the first and only time during the journey, the safe-conduct was demanded by an officer of the governor. All was in order, however; no suspicion was entertained, and on the little party went, to Suette, Duretal, La Fleche. The sweet little valley of the Loire passed with all its beauties unseen; and, after two hours' repose at La Fleche, Fouletourte, Guecelard, and Le Mans were reached. Nearly one-half of the journey between Nantes and the first place to which Edward had been directed was now accomplished; but the horses—especially the two ridden by Pierrot and Jacques—showed evident signs of fatigue, and it was found necessary to have their shoes removed and give them somewhat more time for repose.

Edward could not reach Chartres upon the third night, as he had hoped; but reflecting, with some apprehension, that if one of the horses were to fall sick he had not funds sufficient to purchase another, he proceeded more quietly to Nogent le Rotrou, where he paused for the night before the sun had gone down.

Now, the dear but hasty reader has come to a conclusion that I have been engaged in writing an itinerancy, rather than a romance or a true history. But in this he is mistaken; for it was necessary to mention two little incidents which befell Lord Montagu's page on his way toward Paris; and one of these occurred at Nogent le Rotrou. It was therefore requisite to show that Edward got there; for an incident cannot happen to a man at a place where he is not. It was necessary, also, to explain how he arrived at that place later by some eight hours than he at first expected; for, if he had been able to continue the same galloping pace with which he set out from Nantes, the incident would not have happened at all.

At Nogent, the young Englishman—as is the case with most Englishmen—had looked to the accommodation of the horses in the first instance, and, having seen that they had a good dry stable, that the saddles were taken off and that they were well rubbed down, he directed them to be walked up and down before the house for a few minutes; when, to his consternation, he perceived that one of them was going somewhat lame. It was the horse ridden by long Pierrot la Grange, and one of the best of the three; and a consultation in regard to the poor animal was held immediately. One proposed one thing, another another; but, none being particularly skilful in the veterinary art, and as Edward did not choose to trust to a common blacksmith, it was determined to rest upon cold water applied to the lame foot and fetlock, and the horse was led back to the stable.

The inn was a neat little auberge, and the landlord a fat, well-doing, clean-looking sinner as ever shortened a flagon or lengthened a bill. He promised worlds in the way of edible refreshment, trout and crayfish from the Huisne, pigeons from his own dove-cot, and capons equal to those of Maine; and, while all these delicacies were in preparation, Edward took post before the door, standing beside the tall pole with a garland upon it, which in those days appeared at the entrance of many a little cabaret in France.

As he thus stood, in not a very happy mood, two new travellers on horseback trotted up. Their dress was coarse, and evidently not the costume of any part of France that the young gentleman was acquainted with; but that which attracted his attention more particularly was the lameness of one of their horses, who limped much after the fashion of Pierrot's beast, but a great deal worse. The riders dismounted, and one of them, passing him, gave him "Bong jou," in a strange sort of patois. Edward advanced to the side of the other, who was holding the beasts, saying, "That horse seems very lame, my good friend."

"Oh, it is nothing," answered the man, in the same sort of jargon as that of his companion. "He'll be well before morning: we are marÉchaux de chevaux, and will soon set him right. You see us go away to-morrow: he not lame then."

Shortly after the horses were led into the stable, and the young gentleman's dinner was announced; but, before partaking of any of the good things, he followed the two strangers, and found that they were provided with all the tools of the blacksmith and all the oils and essences of the veterinary surgeon of that day. "Let him cool, and then we see," said the master, speaking to his companion; and the whole party adjourned to the salle-À-manger. Five more hungry men never sat down to dinner, if they might be judged by their consumption of food; but all the other guests, and the landlord more particularly, remarked that the two last-arrived strangers ate none of the admirable crayfish. Now, when at a house of public entertainment you eat none of the especial dish of the place, it is not only an affront to your host, but an insult to his country. The landlord shook his head and declared the men must be some outlandish cannibals, for they neither spoke French nor ate crayfish. In this conclusion nobody gainsaid him,—not even the two men themselves, who did not seem to understand, but finished their dinner and went to attend to the lame horse.

Now, it may seem very strange in the author to entertain a reader with a lame horse, with which, though fully as good as a dead ass, that reader seems to have nothing on earth to do. But I declare it is neither for the purpose of filling up a vacant chapter, nor in any spirit of perversity,—such as frequently seizes every writer,—nor from a desire to delay till I have made up my mind how to proceed, nor from any caprice, that I pause upon that lame horse. On the contrary, it is a piece of genuine, serious history,—in fact, the only pure and dignified piece of history in this whole book,—mentioned by authors of high repute, and confirmed by a long train of consequences, which involved at least the three next years of Edward Langdale's life in their network; and so the fate of that lame horse cannot be omitted. With one of those sympathetic movements of the mind which we can neither direct nor restrain, and which lead us on the course of destiny whether we will or not, the youth felt a personal interest in that lame horse,—was not one of his own horses lame?—and he went to the stable to see the treatment the animal was to undergo. Need I pause to tell how one of the uncouth travellers took off the shoe, examined the foot, poured some fluid which he called oil of vipers into the hole left by one of the nails, wrapped an old rag round the hoof, and did sundry other beneficent acts to the affected part? No: suffice it to say that he seemed to treat it so skilfully, and with so much of that decision which continually passes for skill and nine times out of ten has as good a result, that Edward determined he should try his hand on Pierrot's horse also.

The immediate result was relief to both the beasts, and when their several riders mounted next morning no sign of lameness was visible.

The score was paid, and Edward with his party rode away first; but they had not gone half a mile before they were over-taken by the two blacksmiths, who seemed to desire company on the way, which they accounted for by telling the companions of the young cavalier that they were wandering Savoyards, who, having some skill in horse-medicine, had come to France, made a little money, and were returning to their own country to live upon the fruits of their toil.

Now, Savoy is a fine country, and the people are a very good people, very much like other people who live amongst rocks and stones,—not quite so wise as serpents nor so innocent as doves. "Poor, patient, quiet, honest people," says Sterne, "fear not. Your poverty, the treasury of your simple virtues, will not be envied you by the world, nor will your valleys be invaded by it." Now, why I quoted this author in regard to Savoy was simply because the most interesting account of any country is always given by a man who knows nothing about it. He has such a wide field to expatiate in! There are exceedingly good people in Savoy, and exceedingly good people come out of it; but there is a tolerably large minority as cunning and as selfish as I ever met with. Now, Edward Langdale had few prejudices upon the matter. He had never seen a Savoyard before, or one who pretended to be so; but he had heard a good deal of their "simple virtues," and, therefore, if the balance leaned either way it was in their favor. But somehow the faces of his two new companions did not please him, and he said not a word of the probability that he would himself be obliged in the end to direct his steps toward their mountain-land. Indeed, with a remarkable degree of discretion in one so young, he had kept his own two immediate followers in ignorance of that and many other facts, and they went like lambs to the slaughter with their heads hanging down, and thinking the journey somewhat long, but without the slightest idea where it was to end. When they had reached Chartres, however, he had to make many inquiries as to his further course; and, though he conferred with the landlord of the Ecu Royal himself, Pierrot la Grange stood provokingly near, and it is probable—for his ears were long and sharp—he heard every word that was said, and drew his own conclusions.

The two Savoyards, or whatever they might be, had adhered to Edward and his two companions with the tenacity of a bramble-shoot, and Edward had no objection to their accompanying him a stage or two farther; but, as he was now coming to one of the dangerous passes of his expedition, he determined to cut them loose at the end of the first thirty miles. Those thirty miles, however, were destined to be performed slowly and with difficulty.

The morning, when they quitted Chartres, was bright and beautiful; a pale pink tint was in the sky, varied by brown clouds with golden edges; but ere they had half crossed the rich plain which lies between Chartres and Maintenon the rain began to fall, and a deluge poured down from the sky, rendering the roads wellnigh impassable. Still Edward rode on, passed Maintenon without stopping, and first drew bridle at Rambouillet. It was then beginning to grow dark, for the progress made had been very slow, and every man in the party was drenched to the skin. To go farther immediately was out of the question and not exactly suited to Edward's plans. Indeed, what between fatigue and a sudden change in the weather, the face of Pierrot la Grange had become very blue, his limbs shivered, and his teeth chattered. Dinner—or rather, as they called it, supper—was soon served, and the young gentleman so far relaxed his stern rule as to order some bottles of good wine for his drenched companions, bidding Pierrot himself partake. The long man looked somewhat doubtfully at his master, but the temptation was too strong, and the fatal cup approached his lips. Edward soon left the party and went out to make some inquiries. No one attempted to follow him, for the room was warm and comfortable, and mirth and conviviality reigned.

Pierrot's first cup was the Rubicon. It was but wine, it is true; but he had drunk nothing but water for wellnigh two months, and the first draught made him feel so comfortable that the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth were added in rapid succession. His tongue, which had been marvellously still for many weeks, was unloosed, and the unruly member did its part in setting free every thing that was a secret, or which he thought was one. In five minutes he was in full career, and by the time that Edward returned—he had not been absent half an hour—the two Savoyards were made aware that the young gentleman had probably gone to inquire his way minutely to Dampierre, the place of retreat of the Duchesse de Chevreuse. "For," said Pierrot, "he was asking about it at Chartres; and the people there could not give him half the information he seemed to want."

On their part, too, the Savoyards were wonderfully free and confidential; and the only one who retained his full discretion was Jacques BeauprÉ, who was remarkably taciturn, and kicked Pierrot's shins under the table,—a hint which he did not choose to take.

The entrance of Edward Langdale instantly silenced Master Pierrot, however, for he was not in the least drunk. In the ladder of inebriety there are many rounds, and he had only reached the first, which with him was always talkativeness. But Edward looked grave, for he had heard much speaking, with Pierrot's voice predominant; and, when the host entered to inquire whether the guests would take some more wine, the young gentleman's "No" was uttered in a tone that went home to his follower's consciousness.

"What a fool I am!" thought Pierrot. "If it had been brandy, now, instead of wine, I should have been drunk again to a certainty."

The following morning at an early hour the whole party were once more in the saddle, and the two Savoyards were ready as soon as the rest, seeming to think that they had fixed them-selves upon the young gentleman's party. Edward examined the priming of his pistols before he set out, and ordered his followers to do so likewise; but, as the day before had been rainy, the precaution excited no remark, and the day's journey was begun.

Four or five miles only had passed, however, when, at a spot where a road branched off through the forest to the left, the young Englishman suddenly drew in his rein and turned to the Savoyards, saying, "Here, my good friends, we have to part. That is your road, and this is mine."

The two men seemed much surprised, and even ventured to remonstrate, commending highly the safety and sociability of travelling in company, and magnifying the great advantage it would be to him to have two such skilful smiths and horse-doctors in his train. They offered even to wait for him, if he had business on the road, and to attend to his horses without pay.

But Edward Langdale was peremptory. "You said you were going to Savoy," he remarked. "The only way to get there is to follow the road before you. Moreover, it will be safer for you to go in other company than mine; for I am subject to fits of choler, and apt to shoot people if they offend me, as that good gentleman, Monsieur Pierrot la Grange, can inform you."

"Ay, that he is!" exclaimed Pierrot. "I have got the bullet in my leg now."

The two men looked at each other in astonishment, and made some exclamation in a language which Edward did not understand, but which did not sound like any species of Italian.

"Ah!" said Jacques BeauprÉ, solemnly, "it is a sad infirmity he has. I always ride on the right side of him, for he does not aim so well on that side as on the left."

The two men smiled; but a slight movement of Edward's hand toward his pistols soon restored their gravity, and he added, "Take my advice. Go on your way, and let me see you go, for I do not choose to be followed."

A shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the rein was their only answer, and they rode away along the highroad before them.

Edward watched them for some distance, and then turned into the smaller path on the left. "I do not like those men," he said, speaking to his followers. "Both their countenances are bad; and, as for the taller one of the two, I am certain I have seen him at Nantes. I think it was in the court of the chateau, the day we set out for Deux RiviÈres."

"I think so too," said Jacques BeauprÉ. "He is too ugly to be forgotten easily; and, as for their tongue, I think it is Basque. I once heard that language spoken; and theirs is much more like it than Savoyard."

Poor Pierrot was conscience-stricken, and heartily wished his tongue had been cut out before it had run away from his discretion on the preceding evening; but he kept his own counsel, and Jacques BeauprÉ had too much of the laquais' spirit about him to tell of a companion before he was found out.

The day was dull and gray, but not actually raining, and the road was muddy and heavy to travel; but the forest was soon passed, and at the end of two hours Edward judged, by the descriptions he had received, that he was entering the vale of Chevreuse. Hidden in a dense shroud of mist, it did not indeed look beautiful to his eyes, as he had been led to believe; and, in some doubt, he stopped to ask a peasant, whom they overtook driving an ox-cart, if the Chateau of Dampierre was near.

"Why, there it is, seigneur," said the man. "Dame! don't you see it?" And, looking forward, Edward caught a faint sight of some towers and pinnacles rising over the distant trees.