AS a young member of what is technically called the lower house, or otherwise the House of Commons, when first he goes down after his election to take the oaths and his seat, his heart fluttering both with pride and timidity, most conscientiously resolves to be independent in all his opinions, and determines heroically to have no party: so had I, when I entered upon the arduous duties of giving this work to the public in its present form, determined heroically to have no hero; but to do equal justice to all the several characters, and let each reader find a hero for himself.

However, pursuing the course of the abovementioned young member of the Commons House of Parliament, who soon begins to perceive, that it is as easy to eat oysters and brown sugar, as to vote with a party to whom he has a natural antipathy; or for the needle to fly from the magnet as for him to keep aloof from that faction to which individual interests, long-indulged habits, and early prejudices attach him; so, I soon began to find that my own feelings more particularly inclining me to the Count de Blenau, I unconsciously made him the hero of my tale, dilated on his history, enlarged upon his character, quitted him with regret, and returned to him with pleasure.

At present, however, the course of my tale naturally conducts me once more to the gloomy walls of the Bastille, to give some account of the circumstances which led to the latter events of the last chapter; and consequently I feel no hesitation in once more taking up the history of my Hero.

The sleep of the Count de Blenau was fully as sound within the Bastille as ever it had been in his own hotel at St. Germain: nor was it till the day was risen high that he awoke, on the first morning after his imprisonment.

It was some moments before he could remember his precise situation, so profound had been his sleep. But the unpleasant parts of our fate soon recall themselves to our senses, though we may forget them for a time; and the narrow windows, the iron door, and the untapestried walls, speedily brought back to De Blenau’s recollection many a painful particular, to which sleep had given a temporary oblivion.

On rising, he missed in some degree the attendance to which he was accustomed; but nevertheless he contrived to get through the business of the toilet, without much difficulty; although no page was ready at his call, no groom prepared to adjust every part of his apparel. He then proceeded into the outer chamber, which he mentally termed his saloon, and would willingly have ordered his breakfast, but his apartments afforded no means of communicating with those below, except by the iron door already mentioned; the secret of which was of too great importance to be lost upon so trifling an occasion.

No remedy presented itself but patience, and proceeding to the window, which opened at will to admit the air, but which was strongly secured on the outside with massy iron bars, he endeavoured to amuse the time by looking into the court below, in which he could occasionally catch a glimpse of some of his fellow-prisoners, appearing and disappearing, as they sometimes emerged into the open space within his sight, and sometimes retired into the part, which the thickness of the walls in which the window was placed, hid from his view.

They were now apparently taking their morning’s walk, and enjoying the privilege of conversing with each other—a privilege which De Blenau began to value more highly than ever he had done. Amongst those that he beheld were many whom he recognised, as having either known them personally, or having seen them at the court, or with the army; and the strange assemblage of all different parties which met his eye in the court-yard of the Bastille, fully convinced him, that under the administration of a man who lived in constant fear that his ill-gotten power would be snatched from him, safety was to be found in no tenets and in no station.

Here he beheld some that had been of the party of Mary de Medicis, and some who had been the avowed followers of Richelieu himself; some that the Minister suspected of being too much favoured by the King, and some, as in his own case, who had been attached to the Queen. One he saw who was supposed to have favoured the Huguenots in France, and one that had assisted the Catholic party in Germany.

“Well,” thought De Blenau, “I am but one out of the many, and whatever plan I had pursued, most probably I should have found my way here somehow. Wealth and influence, in despotic governments, are generally like the plumes of the ostrich, which often cause her to be hunted down, but will not help her to fly.”

Whilst engaged in such reflections, De Blenau heard the bolts of the door undrawn, and the Governor of the prison entered, followed by his servant loaded with the various requisites for so substantial a meal as a breakfast of that period. De Blenau and the Governor saluted each other with every outward form of civility; and the Count, perceiving that his custodier still lingered after the servant had disposed the various articles upon the table and had taken his departure, luckily remembered that this was one of the jours maigres of which he had heard, and invited his companion to partake of his morning meal. The Governor agreed to the proposal sans cÉrÉmonie, and having done ample justice to the dish of stewed partridges, which formed the principal ornament of the table, he himself finished a bottle of the celebrated wine of Suresnes, which is one of the things now lost to the bons vivants of Paris.

De Blenau was not so much importuned by hunger as to envy the Governor the very large share he appropriated of the viands before him; and he had plenty of leisure to remark, that his companion performed his feats of mastication with a wonderful degree of velocity. But the Governor had a reason for thus wishing to hurry, what was to him a very agreeable occupation, to its conclusion; for he had scarcely poured out the last goblet of his wine, and was still wiping and folding up his case-knife, (which, by the way, was the constant companion of high and low in those days, and the only implement they had for cutting their food,) when the door opened, and a servant appeared, giving the Governor a significant nod, which was answered by a sign of the same kind.

Upon this the man retired, and the door being closed, the well-filled official turned to De Blenau,—“I did not tell you before, Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “for fear of taking away your appetite; but we have had a message this morning from Monsieur Lafemas,—you have heard of Monsieur Lafemas, doubtless?—importing that he would soon be here to put some questions to you. Now, Monsieur de Blenau, you are a gentleman for whom I have a great regard, and I will give you a hint which may be of service to you. If in the examination which you are about to undergo, there be any questions to which you do not find it convenient to reply, do not refuse to answer them, but speak always in such a manner as to bear two interpretations, by which means I have known many a prisoner avoid the torture, and sometimes go on from examination to examination, till they gave him his liberty from pure weariness.”

De Blenau bowed, already determined as to the course he should pursue. “When do you expect this worthy Judge?” he demanded. “I am perfectly unconcerned as to his coming, let me assure you, though I feel obliged by your consideration for my appetite.”

“He is here now, Sir,” replied the Governor; “we had better, if you please, join him in the audience-hall. That servant came to announce his arrival.”

“I will follow you instantly,” replied the Count; upon which the Governor rose and opened the door.

The moment De Blenau had passed out, the guard, who had been stationed at the head of the stairs, followed at the distance of a couple of paces, while the Governor led the way. In this order they proceeded to the inner court, which they had to pass before they could reach the audience-chamber. This open space was still filled by the prisoners, who, glad of the little liberty allowed them, seldom retired to their cells, except when obliged by the regulations of the prison. The moment De Blenau appeared in the court, there was a slight stir amongst its tenants, and the question of, “Who is he? who is he?” circulated rapidly among them.

“It is the Count de Blenau, by St. Louis!” exclaimed a deep voice, which De Blenau remembered to have heard somewhere before; but, though on looking round he saw several persons that he knew, he could not fix upon any one in particular as the one who had spoken.

He had not time, however, for more than a momentary glance, and was obliged to pass on to the door of the audience-hall, which opened into a little narrow passage leading from the court. Here De Blenau paused for an instant to collect his thoughts, and then followed the Governor, who had already entered.

The audience-hall of the Bastille was a large oblong chamber, dimly lighted by two high Gothic windows, which looked into the outer court. The scanty gleam of daylight which would have thus entered, had the space been open, was impeded by the dust and dirt of many a century, and by the thick crossing of the leaden framework, while its progress into the hall itself was also farther obstructed by several heavy columns which supported the high pointed arches of the roof.

This roof, the apartment having been originally intended for the chapel, would have afforded a relief to the dullness of the rest by its beautiful proportions, and the highly finished tracery with which it was adorned, had the eye been able to reach it; but the rays, which from the causes above mentioned were barely enough to illuminate the lower part of the hall, were lost before they could attain its height, leaving it in that profound obscurity, which cast a double gloom upon the space below.

The pavement of this melancholy hall was damp and decayed, many of the stones having strayed from their bed of mortar, and become vagrant about the apartment; and the furniture, if it might be so called, far from filling it, served only to show its size and emptiness. At the farther extremity was a long table, at the end of which, in a chair somewhat elevated, sat the Judge Lafemas, with a Clerk at a desk below him, and two or three Exempts standing round about.

Near the end next De Blenau was another chair, which he conceived to be placed for his use; while between two of the pillars, sitting on a curious machine, the use of which De Blenau at once suspected, appeared an ill-favoured muscular old man, whose lowering brow and doggedness of aspect seemed to speak of many a ruthless deed.

As the Count entered, the door closed after him with a loud clang; and advancing to the table, he took his seat in the vacant chair, while the Governor placed himself at a little distance between him and the Judge.

“Well, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Lafemas in that sweet mild tone which he always assumed when not irritated by the taunts of Chavigni, “This is the last place where I could have wished to meet a nobleman whose general character has always engaged my most affectionate esteem.”

De Blenau knew Lafemas to be one of the meanest and most viperous of the Cardinal’s tools, and not feeling much moved to exchange courtesies with him, he merely acknowledged the Judge’s salutation by a silent bow, while the other proceeded: “I have requested the pleasure of your society for a space, in order to ask you a few questions; your reply to which will, doubtless, soon procure your liberation from this unpleasant place.”

“I trust so, Sir,” replied the Count, “as the detention of an innocent person must occasion fully as much discredit to his Majesty’s Government, as it does inconvenience to the person himself.”

“You are quite right, you are quite right,” rejoined the sweet-tongued Judge. “Indeed, my very object in coming is to obtain such answers from you as will convince the Cardinal de Richelieu, who, though a profound minister, is somewhat suspicious withal,—to convince him, I say, that you are innocent; of which, on my conscience, and as I believe in the Saviour, I have no doubt myself.—In the first place, then,” he continued, “tell me as a friend, have you any acquaintance in Brussels?”

“I have!” replied De Blenau decidedly.

“That is honourable,—that is candid,” said the Judge. “I told you, Monsieur le Gouverneur, that we should have no difficulty, and that Monsieur de Blenau would enable me easily to establish his innocence.—Pray do you correspond with these friends,” he continued, “and by what means?”

“I do correspond with them; but seldom: and then by any means that occur.”

“Monsieur de Blenau,” exclaimed Lafemas, “I am enchanted with this frankness; but be a little more specific about the means. If you have no particular objection to confide in me, mention any channel that you call to mind, by which you have sent letters to the Low Countries.”

De Blenau felt somewhat disgusted with the sweet and friendly manner of a man whose deeds spoke him as cruel and as bloody-minded as a famished tiger; and unwilling to be longer mocked with soft words, he replied, “Sometimes by the King’s courier, Sir; sometimes by the Cardinal’s: and once I remember having sent one by your cousin De Merceau, but I believe that letter never reached its destination; for you must recollect that De Merceau was hanged by Don Francisco de Mello, for ripping open the bag, and purloining the despatches.”

“We have nothing to do with that, my dear Count,” said Lafemas, struggling to maintain his placidity of demeanour.—“The next thing I have to inquire is,"—and he looked at a paper he held in his hand: “Have you ever conveyed any letters to the Low Countries for any one else?”

De Blenau answered in the affirmative; and the Judge proceeded with a series of questions, very similar to those which had been asked by Richelieu himself, artfully striving to entangle the prisoner by means of his own admissions, so as to force him into farther confessions by the impossibility of receding. But beyond a certain point De Blenau would not proceed.

“Monsieur Lafemas,” said he in a calm firm tone, “I perceive that you are going into questions which have already been asked me by his Eminence the Cardinal Prime Minister. The object in doing so is evidently to extort from me some contradiction which may criminate myself; and therefore henceforward I will reply to no such questions whatsoever. The Cardinal is in possession of my answers; and if you want them, you must apply to him.”

“You mistake entirely, my dear Count,” said Lafemas; “on my salvation, my only object is to serve you. You have already acknowledged that you have forwarded letters from the Queen,—why not now inform me to whom those letters were addressed? If those letters were not of a treasonable nature, why did she not send them by one of her own servants?”

“When a Queen of France is not allowed the common attendants which a simple gentlewoman can command, she may often be glad to use the servants and services of her friends. My own retinue, Sir, trebles that which the Queen has ever possessed at St. Germain’s. But, without going into these particulars, your question is at once replied to by reminding you, that I am her Majesty’s Chamberlain, and therefore her servant.”

“Without there were something wrong, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Lafemas, “you could have no objection to state whether you have or have not conveyed some letters from her Majesty to Don John of Austria, Don Francisco de Mello, or King Philip of Spain. It is very natural for a Queen to write to her near relations, surely!”

“I have already said,” replied De Blenau, “that I shall reply to no such questions, the object of which is alone to entangle me.”

“You know not what you are exposing yourself to,” rejoined the Judge; “there are means within this prison which would easily compel an answer.”

“None,” replied De Blenau, firmly. “My resolution is taken, and no power on earth can shake it.”

“Really, Monsieur de Blenau, it would hurt me to the heart to leave you to the dreadful fate which your mistaken determination is likely to call upon you. I could weep, truly I could weep, to think of what you are calling upon your own head;” and the Judge glanced his eye towards the machine, which we have already noticed, and from which the old man rose up, as if preparing for his task.

“You mean the torture?” said De Blenau, looking at it without a change of countenance. “But let me tell you, Monsieur Lafemas, that you dare not order it to a man of my rank, without an express warrant for the purpose; and, even if you had such authority, not all the torture in the world would wring one word from me. Ask that instrument of tyranny, Sir,” and he pointed to the Executioner,—“ask him how the noble Caply died; and so would De Blenau also.”

Lafemas looked at the Governor, and the Governor at the Executioner, and so round. One of the dreadful secrets of the Bastille had evidently escaped beyond those precincts to which they were fearfully confined; no one could divine how this had occurred, and each suspected the other. A temporary silence ensued, and then Lafemas proceeded:

“The torture! no, Monsieur de Blenau: God forbid that I should think of ordering such a thing! But let me advise you to answer; for I must, of course, report your refusal to the Cardinal Prime Minister, and you know that he is not likely to consider either your rank or your fortune, but will, in all probability, order you the Question ordinary and extraordinary instantly.”

“The guilt be his then!” said De Blenau. “I have already told you my resolution, Sir; act upon it as you think fit.”

Lafemas seemed at a loss, and a whispering consultation took place between him and the Secretary, who seemed to urge more vigorous measures than the Judge himself thought proper to pursue; for their conference was terminated by Lafemas exclaiming in a tone not sufficiently low to escape De Blenau’s ear, “I dare not, I tell you—I dare not—I have no orders.—Monsieur de Blenau,” he continued aloud, “you may now retire, and I must report your answers to the Cardinal. But let me advise you, as a sincere friend, to be prepared with a reply to the questions you have now refused to answer, before we next meet; for by that time I shall have received his Eminence’s commands, which, I fear, will be more severe than my heart could wish.”

De Blenau made no reply, but withdrew, escorted as before; and it were needless to deny, that, notwithstanding the coolness with which he had borne his examination, and the fortitude with which he was prepared to repel the worst that could be inflicted, his heart beat high as the door of the audience-hall closed behind him, and he looked forward to returning to his apartments with more pleasure than a captive usually regards the place of his confinement.

The many agitating circumstances which had passed since, had completely banished from his thoughts the voice which he had heard pronounce his name, on the first time of his crossing the court; but as he returned, his eye fell upon the form of a tall, strong man, standing under the archway; and he instantly recognized the Woodman of the forest of Mantes.

De Blenau had spoken to him a thousand times in his various hunting-excursions, and he could not help being astonished to meet him in such a place, little dreaming that he himself was the cause. “What, in the name of Heaven!” thought he, “can that man have done to merit confinement here? Surely, Richelieu, who affects to be an eagle of the highest flight, might stoop on nobler prey than that.”

As these thoughts crossed his mind, he passed by the foot of the little tower, containing the staircase which communicated with his apartments by the iron door in the inner chamber. This had evidently been long disused; and on remembering the position of the two chambers which he occupied, he conceived that they must have been at one time quite distinct, with a separate entrance to each, the one being arrived at by the turret, and the other by the chief staircase. He had, however, only time to take a casual glance, and wisely refrained from making that very apparent; for the Governor, who walked beside him, kept his eyes almost constantly fixed upon him, as if to prevent any communication even by a sign with the other prisoners.

On arriving at his chamber, the Governor allowed him to pass in alone, and having fastened the door, returned to Lafemas, leaving De Blenau to meditate over his situation in solitude. The first pleasure of having escaped from immediate danger having subsided, there was nothing very cheering to contemplate in his position. His fate, though postponed, seemed inevitable. Richelieu, he knew, was no way scrupulous; and the only thing which honour could permit him to do, was to defend the Queen’s secret with his life.

The Queen herself indeed might relieve him from his difficulty, if he could find any way of communicating with her. But in looking round for the means, absolute impossibility seemed to present itself on all sides. In vain he sought for expedients; his mind suggested none that a second thought confirmed. He once contemplated inducing the Governor to forward a letter by the temptation of a large bribe; but a moment’s reflection showed him that it was a thousand to one that the smooth-spoken officer both accepted his bribe and betrayed his trust.

Many other plans were rejected in a like manner, from a conviction of their impracticability, till at length a vague thought of gaining an interview with the Woodman of Mantes, and, if possible, engaging him to bribe some of the inferior officers of the prison, crossed De Blenau’s mind; and he was still endeavouring to regulate his ideas on the subject, when the bolts were once more withdrawn, and the Governor again entered the apartment.

“Let me congratulate you, Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, with a look of sincere pleasure, which probably sprang more from the prospect of continued gain to himself than any abstract gratification in De Blenau’s safety. “Monsieur Lafemas is gone, and as the Cardinal is at Chantilly, you will be safe for three or four days at least, as nothing can be decided till his Eminence returns.”

De Blenau well knew how to estimate the kindness of his friend the Governor; but though he put its proper value upon it, and no more, he felt the necessity of striving to make his interested meanness act the part of real friendship.

“Well, Monsieur le Gouverneur,” said he, assuming a cheerful air, “I suppose, then, that I shall remain with you a day or two longer; nor should I, indeed, care so much for the confinement, where I am so well treated, if I had some one to wait upon me whom I have been accustomed to.”

“I do not know how that could be arranged,” replied the Governor thoughtfully; “I would do any thing to serve you, Monsieur de Blenau, consistent with my duty, but this is quite contrary to my orders; and if I were to allow you one of my own servants, it would put me completely in his power.”

“Oh, that would not do at all,” said De Blenau; “but are there not some of the inferior prisoners—” The Governor’s brow darkened.—“Of course,” continued the Count, “you would have to pay them for their trouble—and I, of course, would reimburse you. If you think that three hundred crowns would induce one of them to wait on me for the time I am here, I would willingly pay the money into your hands, and you could make all the necessary arrangements for the purpose.”

The countenance of the Governor gradually cleared up as De Blenau spoke, like a sheltered lake that, after having been agitated for a moment by some unwonted breeze, soon relapses into its calm tranquillity, when that which disturbed it has passed away. The idea of appropriating, with such unquestioned facility, the greater part of three hundred crowns, was the sun which thus speedily dispersed the clouds upon his brow: and he mused for a moment, calculating shrewdly the means of attaining his object.

“The worst of it is,” said he at length, “that we have no inferior prisoners. They are all prisoners of State in the Bastille—— But stay,” he added, a felicitous idea crossing his mind, “I remember there was a man brought here this morning by Chavigni’s people, and they told me to give him all possible liberty, and employ him in the prison if I could.”

“That will just do then,” said De Blenau, inwardly praying that it might be the honest Woodman of Mantes. “He can visit me here occasionally during the day, to see if I have need of him, and the guard at the door can take good care that I do not follow him out, which is all that your duty demands.”

“Of course, of course,” replied the Governor; “it is your safe custody alone which I have to look to: and farther, I am ordered to give you every convenience and attention, which warrants me in allowing you an attendant at least. But here comes your dinner, Sir.”

“Dinner!” exclaimed De Blenau, “it surely is not yet noon.” But so it proved: the time had passed more quickly than he thought: nor indeed had he any reason to regret the appearance of dinner, for the substantial and luxurious meal which was served up at his expense on that jour maigre did not prove any bad auxiliary in overcoming whatever scruple yet lingered about the mind of Monsieur le Gouverneur. At every mouthful of Becasse, his countenance became more placable and complacent, and while he was busily occupied in sopping the last morsels of his Dorade in the sauce au cornichons, and conveying them to the capacious aperture which stood open to receive them, our prisoner obtained his full consent that the person he had mentioned should have egress and regress of the apartment; for which liberty, however, De Blenau was obliged to pay down the sum of three hundred crowns under the specious name of wages to the attendant.

This arrangement, and the dinner, came to a conclusion much about the same time; and the Governor, who had probably been engaged with De Blenau’s good cheer much longer than was quite consistent with his other duties, rose and retired, to seek the inferior prisoner whose name he could not remember, but whom he piously resolved to reward with a crown per diem, thinking that such unparalleled liberality ought to be recorded in letters of gold.

In regard to De Blenau, the Governor looked upon him as the goose with the golden eggs; but more prudent than the boy in the fable, he resolved to prolong his life to the utmost of his power, so long, at least, as he continued to produce that glittering ore which possessed such wonderful attraction in his eyes. De Blenau, however, was not the goose he thought him; and though he waited with some impatience to see if the person on whom so much might depend, were or were not his honest friend the Woodman, yet his thoughts were deeply engaged in revolving every means by which the cupidity of the Governor might be turned to his own advantage.

At length the bolts were undrawn, and the prisoner, fixing his eyes upon the door, beheld a little old man enter, with withered cheeks and sunken eyes; a greasy night-cap on his head, and a large knife suspended by the side of a long thin sword, which sometimes trailed upon the ground, and sometimes with reiterated blows upon the tendons of his meagre shanks, seemed to reproach them for the bent and cringing posture in which they carried the woodcock-like body that surmounted them.

“Well, Sir!” said De Blenau, not a little disappointed with this apparition; “are you the person whom the Governor has appointed to wait upon me?”

“Oui, Monsieur,” said the little man, laying his hand upon his heart, with a profound inclination of his head, in which he contrived to get that organ completely out of sight, and, like a tortoise, to have nothing but his back visible. “Oui, Monsieur; I am Cuisinier Vivandier, that is to say, formerly Vivandier; at present, Cuisinier Aubergiste ici À la porte de la Bastille, tout prÈs. I have the honour to furnish the dinner for Monseigneur, and I have come for the plates.”

“Oh, is that all!” cried De Blenau; “take them, take them, my good friend, and begone.”

The little man vowed that Monseigneur did him too much honour, and gathering up his dishes with admirable dexterity, he held the heap with his left arm, reserving his right to lay upon his heart, in which position he addressed another profound bow to De Blenau, and left the apartment. The prisoner now waited some time, getting more and more impatient as the day wore on. At length, however, the door once more opened, and Philip the woodman himself appeared.

Between Philip and the young Count there was of course much to be explained, which, requiring no explanation to the reader, shall not be here recapitulated. Every circumstance, however, that Philip told, whether of his writing the letter to inform him of the plots of Chavigni and Lafemas, or of the manner and apparent reason of his being dragged from his cottage to the Bastille, concurred to give De Blenau greater confidence in his new ally; and perhaps Philip himself, from having suffered a good deal on De Blenau’s account, felt but the greater inclination to hazard still more. Between two persons so inclined, preliminaries are soon adjusted: nor had De Blenau time to proceed with diplomatic caution, even had he had reason to suspect the sincerity of the Woodman. The dangers of his situation admitted no finesse; and, overleaping all ceremonies, he at once demanded if Philip would and could convey a letter from him to the Queen.

Of his willingness, the Woodman said, there was no doubt; and after a moment’s thought he added, that he had reason to hope that opportunity also would be afforded him. “It will be dangerous,” said he, “but I think I can do it.”

“Tell me how, good friend,” demanded De Blenau, “and depend upon it, whatever risks you run on my account, whether I live or die, you will be rewarded.”

“I want no reward, Sir,” answered Philip, “but a good cause and a good conscience; and I am sure, if I serve you, I am as well engaged as if I were cutting all the fagots in Mantes. But my plan is this: They tell me, that my children shall always be allowed to see me. Now I know my boy Charles, who is as active as a picvert, will not be long before he follows me. He will be here before nightfall, I am sure, and he shall take your letter to the Queen.”

De Blenau remained silent for a moment. “Was it your son who brought your letter to me?” demanded he. The Woodman assented; and the Count continued: “He was a shrewd boy, then. At all events, it must be risked. Wait, I will write, and depend upon you.”

The Woodman, however, urged that if he stayed so long, suspicion might be excited; and De Blenau suffered him to depart, desiring him to return in an hour, when the letter would be ready. During his absence, the prisoner wrote that epistle which we have already seen delivered. In it he told his situation, and the nature of the questions which had been asked him by Lafemas. He hinted also that his fate was soon likely to be decided; and desired, that any communication which it might be necessary to make to him, might be conveyed through the Woodman of Mantes.

More than one hour elapsed after this letter was written before Philip again appeared. When he did so, however, he seemed in some haste. “Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “my son is here. They have let me take him into my cell to rest, but I dare not be absent more than a moment, for fear they suspect something. Is the letter ready?”

De Blenau placed it in his hand, and would fain have added some gold. “The Queen is at Chantilly,” said he, “and your son will want money for his journey.”

“No, no, Sir,” replied Philip, “that is no stuff for a child. Let him have a broad-piece, if you like, to help him on, but no more.”

“Well then,” said the Count, “accept the rest for your services. I have more in that valise.”

“Not so, either, Monseigneur,” answered the Woodman. “Pay for what is done, when it is done;” and taking the letter and one gold piece, he left the apartment.