There was a loud knocking in the old castle of Rohan Rohan about half-past four o'clock in the morning, and then various other sounds, which seemed to indicate that people had been roused from their beds by some unusual summons. Horses' feet were heard stamping in the court-yard, too, and two or three persons talking below the windows; and Edward rose up, pulled on his boots, and lighted another candle in one of the sconces which was nearly extinguished. In those days people were more matutinal in their habits than in our times; but still half-past four was a somewhat early hour, and Edward had not slept well or long. He was bathing his face and head, however, in cold water, to waken up his sleepy faculties, when some person knocked at the door of his room. He bade them come in; and old Matthew, with the inevitable candle in his hand, entered, introducing a young man in military attire, who, having satisfied himself of Edward's name, presented a letter bearing his address.

Edward opened it, and, approaching the light, read the contents:—

"M. de Lude begs to inform Monsieur de Langdale that the cardinal will receive him this morning half an hour before daybreak. The bearer will be his guide to the quarters of his Eminence."

"We have hardly time," said Edward.

"Oh, yes," answered the other, with a smile. "The cardinal sometimes keeps people waiting; and I took the liberty of ordering your people and your horses to be brought forth, wherever they might be."

"Thanks for the precaution," said Edward, looking at his watch, and shrewdly suspecting that the messenger had somewhere dallied on the way. "It wants now a quarter to five o'clock. I will not detain you a moment, sir." And, catching up his beaver and his cloak, and a few other articles that lay about the room, he descended to the court-yard, taking an opportunity of slipping some money into the hand of the old servant.

Pierrot was already there with two horses, and Jacques BeauprÉ appeared the instant after, leading the other. No time was lost, and Edward was immediately in the saddle. Three or four troopers followed; and the whole party set out down the steep streets from the castle toward the Pont de CossÉ.

Edward asked no questions as to the course in which their ride was directed; and hardly a word passed between him and his companion as they trotted rapidly on. The fact was, the young man's mind was full of the coming interview. On some points his determination was formed; but upon others he was doubtful. To tell all that happened at Coiffy he was resolved, and to demand redress; but, turn it in his thoughts as he would, he could fix upon no way beforehand of introducing his proposed visit to Rochelle, and in the end he was obliged to leave it to chance and circumstance.

Very little of the country did he see as they rode on, for the moonlight was checkered with cloudy shadows; and faint gleams, and deep shades, and hazy hollows, and brown knolls, were all that caught the eye as the travellers passed along.

At length, after several miles' ride, a gleam of light rested for a minute or two upon a little elevation, and on the walls of an old castle, not unlike that of Rohan Rohan; and the young officer by Edward's side pointed forward, saying, "There is MauzÉ, where his Eminence has passed the last four days."

"How far is it?" said Edward.

"About two miles," replied the young man; "but we shall soon be there. The road is good and even."

The light passed away, and Edward caught no other distinct view of the chateau till, about twenty minutes after, they began to ascend the little slope. He then perceived a red and garish glow ascending from amidst some old walls, and in a minute more was in the court-yard, where a number of torches were burning and several men and horses were collected.

"Stay here," said the young officer. "I will go and announce you." And, leaving him there, he entered the chateau.

He had not been gone two minutes, however, when there was a bustle on the steps of the great hall, and some six or seven persons came forth, with a tall, fine-looking man at their head, habited certainly more in military than ecclesiastical costume; for, though he had a loose scarlet robe thrown over his shoulders, there was the gleam of a cuirass underneath, and he bore a heavy sword by his side. Edward pushed his horse forward, seeing at once it was the cardinal; but the great minister was evidently fully occupied. He spoke a few words to one of the little crowd which surrounded him, gave some papers to another, listened for a moment to a third, and then mounted a powerful charger which was held for him at the foot of the steps. His fine but somewhat stern face was full of thought, and the glare of the torches gave it even a look of harshness, which Edward had never remarked there before. His eye turned upon everybody around, and rested longer perhaps on the face of Edward Langdale than upon that of any other. But he did not seem to recognise him, and probably only remarked him because he remained on horseback while all the rest were on foot.

"Follow!" said Richelieu, and rode away; while a faint tinge of gray began to spread itself through the dark sky, announcing the coming sunrise.

As the party rode on, Edward remarked that Richelieu spoke a few words to those immediately about him; and presently after one of them fell back to his side and asked if his name were Langdale. He answered in the affirmative; and the gentleman then told him to ride up near his Eminence. Edward did so; but the cardinal took no notice, and continued to push on at a quick pace till they reached the top of one of those abrupt little eminences which are scattered over the flatter ground upon the western coast of France. Upon the very summit Richelieu pulled in his horse; and by this time the pale bluish twilight had gained sufficient strength to show the brown moors and yellow sands, and the towers and pinnacles of Rochelle, with a gleam of the sea beyond. An odor of sea-weed also came sweeping up from the northwest, and a saltish taste was felt upon the lips of those who sat there and gazed.

"Edward Langdale!" said Richelieu, after a moment or two; and Edward spurred his horse up to his side.

"You have kept your word in coming back," said the cardinal; "but I did not expect you so soon."

"That was because your Eminence did not know all the circumstances," answered the young man, with that mixture of frankness and respect which is always well pleasing to the great.

Richelieu raised what was then called a perspective glass—a very feeble sort of telescope—to his eye, and gazed toward Rochelle, the long lines of which were becoming more distinct every moment. Edward was silent, seeing that the mind of the great minister was fully occupied; and no one spoke a word for nearly ten minutes. Then occurred one of those phenomena by no means uncommon, and easily accounted for in these days, but to which the superstition of old times lent a significance they do not now possess. Away out to the east the sun began to rise, somewhat pale and sickly in look, and with a whitish glare around him; while in the west, rising over the sea, appeared another sun, exactly of the same aspect and keeping as it ascended the same height in the sky.

"Two suns in the same heaven!" exclaimed Richelieu, with an accent of surprise.

"Yes, your Eminence," replied Edward. "But one is much brighter than the other, and its light will last after the other has gone out."

Richelieu turned suddenly round and gazed in his face with an inquiring look, as if he thought there might be something beneath his words more significant than the words themselves; then, bowing his head with a well-pleased smile, he said, "True, true! one is fading already."

Whether Edward had spoken to his thoughts or not must be always a mystery; but it is certain that minds of great fire and eagerness, even without much fancy, will snatch at images supplied by external nature to figure forth without danger thoughts, dreams, purposes in their own hearts which they dare not utter. The parable is always a resource of ambition, and often a resource of love. Certain it is, too, that there were at that time two suns in the sky of France, and that one was already fading into an obscurity becoming darker and more dark till the faint figure of the dying monarch was hardly seen or felt, while the other was destined to go on increasing in splendor and power till it set forever. Here the comparison may be supposed to halt; for some may say that the real sun was fading while the false one was increasing in splendor. But that depends, after all, upon how men appreciate greatness,—whether genius or birth be the real sun.

However that may be, it is certain that Louis XIII. was at all events endowed with military genius; but even in the splendor of that most dazzling—to the eyes of men—of human gifts, his rays were paling before the superior endowments of his minister. Sickness, weariness, disgust, despondency—we know not well what—had already induced him to withdraw from the siege of Rochelle, and to leave Richelieu to carry on the operations with a force, an energy, a talent, which would have won fame for the most distinguished general or engineer. The cardinal might well, therefore, apply the words of Edward Langdale to himself, feeling them a compliment which, like the misty light of a summer's day, was the more warm because it was in some degree indefinite. Richelieu did not wish to have it otherwise, and, without further words, turned his eyes once more upon the scene before them. A small battery opened its fire upon the walls of the devoted town as they sat there and gazed; but nobody could see whether it produced any effect or not. Richelieu, at all events, paid little attention to it, and only murmured to himself, "Waste of saltpetre!" Shortly after, he sent off two gentlemen on horseback with messages written in pencil on small scraps of paper, and then turned to gaze again. Some five minutes after, a man on horseback came back, galloping up from the rear, and gave him some information in a low voice. For a short space his brow contracted as if with anger; but the emotion lasted evidently only a moment, and the next instant he smiled almost gayly, and he said, aloud, "Well, one may have too many rats in a rat-trap. Monsieur Langdale, come hither."

Edward rode close up, and the cardinal asked, "Do you know any thing of the Duc de Rohan?"

"No, your Eminence," replied Edward; "I have not seen or heard of him for nearly nine months."

"You did not see him last night?" said Richelieu.

"The Duc de Rohan!" exclaimed Edward, in a tone of surprise. "I passed all last night, sir, in the Chateau de Fontenay; but the duke certainly was not there, to my knowledge."

"Nevertheless," said Richelieu, in a quiet tone, "he passed from right to left of our army in the rear with his whole force: so I understand."

"Now I comprehend what I saw last night," said Edward; and he detailed all he had observed from the window of the chateau.

"It was no phantom," said Richelieu, gravely; "but it is as well. I wonder if there were other people in the town or castle who took men for shadows as well as you. How long are you from Savoy, where I last heard of you?"

"A long time, may it please your Eminence," replied the young Englishman; "but only eleven days from the Chateau of Coiffy,—whence you certainly should have heard of me if they had not debarred me the use of pen and ink and kept me a close prisoner for months."

"Ha!" said the minister, with a grave, stern face, "Monsieur de Bourbonne thinks he can play with me, does he? and now he fancies he has got his reward. But we must talk more of this when I have some leisure. At present, that little black line there," he continued, pointing toward Rochelle, "occupies much of my thoughts. The battery has not yet ceased firing. These men of trumpet and broad-sword, Monsieur Langdale, attribute more virtue to gunpowder and cannon-balls than I do. There are much more efficient elements in war."

"Indeed, your Eminence!" exclaimed Edward: "may I ask what?"

"The impudent young cur," said one of the old officers near, to another, in a low voice, "talks to the cardinal as if he were his bottle-companion."

Richelieu answered calmly, but with emphasis, "A pickaxe and a shovel, followed up by the movements of those two great officers, Pestilence and Famine. When you announced in Rochelle, Master Langdale, the coming of Lord Denbigh's fleet, and those wise men of the East refused to receive it in their port, they little thought, I ween, that those two mighty commanders would be so soon amongst them. But how was it," he continued, changing his tone and speaking rapidly, "that they dared, in such perilous circumstances, to send away King Charles's ships upon the pretext that they had not been warned, when you yourself had warned them?"

"Your Eminence's pardon," answered Edward; "but Master Jargeau, who of course told you all this, should also have said that I had not been an hour in Rochelle before I had my head broken, and lay for nearly a week incapable of delivering any of my letters. It was a pretext, as your Eminence calls it; but the Rochellois had really not been warned when Lord Denbigh's fleet arrived."

"You are mistaken, young man," said Richelieu, with a slight curl of the lip: "you jump at your conclusions too rapidly. There have been more Jargeaus than one in Rochelle; and this one, though a very serviceable fellow, I am told, never saw me in his life. Ay, it is a pity that he would not keep his neck out of the noose; but he forced us to hang him,—which was a severe loss to the king's service. He was in the case of those men who, as the Scriptures say, are exceedingly fond of serving both God and mammon. God abandoned him, and mammon could not save him; for though he offered Bassompierre the whole value of a cargo of fish he had contrived to get into Rochelle,—and every fish was worth an ounce of gold, be it remarked,—Bassompierre, whose intelligence is very good, seized the gold where he had hidden it, and hanged him according to proclamation."

All this was said with much coolness and deliberation; and from time to time the great minister raised his glass to his eye and gazed at the battery, which had not yet ceased firing. He waited about ten minutes more, and then beckoned up some of the superior officers round him, asking if they thought his messenger had not had time to reach the lines. They all agreed that there had been plenty of time; but one of them added, in a careless tone, "It is possible, your Eminence, that he may not have carried either his head or his message with him. There has been a puff or two of smoke from the walls, and nobody can tell where the shot may have gone. A man may have a tierce major in his favor and yet lose the game after all."

"Possibly," replied Richelieu, and then resumed his watch. During some five minutes after, the line of the battery showed no more smoke or fire; the wreaths of sulphurous vapor curled away; the town also ceased firing, the whole scene lay quiet and peaceful beneath their eyes, and nothing was seen but a few horsemen riding about, with one apart from the rest, galloping quickly up toward the hill on which they were.

The cardinal waited his arrival and put some questions, which Edward Langdale, who had fallen a little back, did not hear.

"In five days, your Eminence," replied the officer, aloud. "He says that at present no boat bigger than a cockle-shell can get in or out, and, unless there be a very high tide or a gale of wind, the place will be sealed up as tight as a bottle of old Burgundy."

"Well," said Richelieu; "it is well. Have they made no attempt to interrupt the works?"

"None whatever, your Eminence," replied the other: "they are trusting to God's good providence and a high tide,—doubtless praying in all their temples for storm and tempest with profound devotion; but the devil and the wind do not seem inclined to help them, and the poor creatures whom they drove out have been received into the town again to eat them up, so that they cannot hold out many weeks longer."

The cardinal smiled, and, turning his horse, rode slowly back toward the Chateau of MauzÉ, without saying a word to any one, and seemingly buried in profound thought.

Edward Langdale followed, not knowing well what to do; and not one word did Richelieu speak to him or any one till they reached the gates leading into the court-yard. The cardinal dismounted and entered the building, followed by some of his immediate attendants. The military men scattered in different directions, each to his own quarters, without taking any notice whatever of the young stranger; and Edward remained upon his horse in the court-yard, while a curious smile upon the lip and a raising of the eyebrow of Jacques BeauprÉ read an unpleasant commentary upon his disappointed expectations.

"You must seek lodgings in the little town, Pierrot," said Lord Montagu's page. "Get the best you can,—though bad, I fancy, will be the best,—and make some arrangement for obtaining food. We must have something to eat,—though the poor folks in Rochelle are worse off than we, it would seem."

"It is a small place, MauzÉ, sir, and quite full of soldiery," said Pierrot. "But I will do my best, and get something at all events; for I know some of the people here, who, I think, would kill a hog for me, if we can do no better. But I am afraid quarters will be worse to find than rations."

"We must seek for both," answered Edward, "and something for the horses too."

He was turning toward the gates again, to ride down the slope into the little town, or rather village,—for it was no better then,—when a man dressed in a dark suit and bearing somewhat the appearance of a servant came down the steps and approached the young gentleman's horse. "His Eminence the Cardinal de Richelieu," he said, in a low, sweet voice, "has commanded me to tell Monsieur de Langdale that he will see him as soon as the business of the day is over,—about nine o'clock to-night. In the mean time, I will show Monsieur de Langdale a chamber,—somewhat high up, it is true; but the castle is very full. Monsieur de Langdale will take his meals with the officers of the cardinal's guard. His servants must provide for themselves in the village, as we have no room. The cardinal allows them a crown a day as livery."

Edward dismounted and followed him to a chamber convenient enough, though very near the top of the main tower; and, knowing the policy of saying as little as possible in such places, he only asked if at nine o'clock he should present himself before the cardinal, or if his Eminence would summon him.

"He did not say," replied the man. "But monsieur had better go to the ante-chamber at that hour and speak with the almoner, whom he will find there." Thus saying, he left him, seemingly as much indisposed to say a word more than was necessary as Edward could be himself.

The reader may probably have no great opinion, from the facts already related in this true history, of Edward Langdale's prudence; but, as I have shown, he had been undergoing for the last nine months a course of discipline under which he had greatly improved. Much was at stake at that moment, and he resolved to act as cautiously as possible; and during the whole morning he never quitted the chamber which had been assigned to him,—passing the time partly in sleep, partly in deep meditation over the character of the great minister, which had now appeared to him in a new point of view. The coldness, the somewhat sarcastic indifference with which Richelieu had spoken of the hanging of the unfortunate Jargeau and of the miseries of the people of Rochelle, would have given the impression that he was merely a hard, selfish politician, had it not been for the deep emotions which had stirred him in the case of Chalais and the lighter and more graceful feelings which Edward had seen him display in their first interview.

It was matter of study for the young man; but, as he thought over his own conduct, he determined to make no change. He had hitherto followed the promptings of the moment; and he had acquired a conviction that with the cardinal unpremeditated frankness was the best policy.

He was still indulging in this strain of thought, when a servant came to inform him that the officers of the cardinal's guard were at dinner, and led him to the great hall, where he found a seat reserved for him at the table. There was no sympathy, however, between him and those with whom he had to associate for a few minutes: they were civil,—which was all he could expect; and hardly ten words passed his lips before he retired once more to his chamber.