To have judged by the affable and agreeable smile which Louvois bore upon his countenance as he passed the young Count de Morseuil in one of the anterooms, a stranger to that minister would have imagined that he was extremely well disposed towards the gentleman whom he was in fact labouring to ruin. No such error, however, could have taken place with regard to the aspect with which the King received the young Count, which, though not frowning and severe, was grave and somewhat stern.

The countenance and conduct of Albert of Morseiul was calm, tranquil, and serene; and Louis, who, intending to cut the interview as short as possible, had risen, could not help saying within himself, "That looks not like the face of a man conscious of crime."

As the King paused while he made this remark to himself, the Count imagined that he waited for him to begin and open the cause of his coming; and, consequently, he said at once, "Sire, I have ventured to intrude upon your Majesty, notwithstanding your intimation that you would send for me when your convenience served, inasmuch as I have matters of some importance to lay before you, which would bear no delay."

"Pray," demanded Louis, "pray, Monsieur de Morseiul, before you proceed further, be so good as to inform me, whether the matters to which you allude refer to yourself or to the state?"

"By no means to myself," replied the Count, who was not altogether satisfied with the King's tone and manner. "They refer entirely to the safety of the state and your Majesty. On my own affairs I would not have presumed to intrude upon you again."

"Very well, then," said the King dryly, "since such is the case, you will be good enough to communicate whatever you may have to say upon such subjects to Monsieur de Louvois, Monsieur de Seignelai, or Monsieur Colbert de Croissy, as the case may be; such being the usual course by which matters of importance are brought to my ears. And now, Monsieur de Morseiul, though I have but a single moment to attend to any thing at this particular time, let me ask you one question,--Is there or is there not any hope of my receiving the great gratification of being enabled to show you as much favour and distinction as I could wish, by your abjuring the heresy in which you have been unfortunately brought up, and seeking repose in the bosom of the Catholic church?"

The Count de Morseiul felt that a crisis in his fate had arrived; but, with the question put to him so simply and straight-forwardly, he felt that he could not evade the decision, and he would not prevaricate even for safety.

"If, Sire," he said, "what your Majesty demands is to know my own opinion upon the subject at this moment--"

"I mean, Sir," said the King, "plainly, Do you believe that there exists a likelihood of your becoming converted to the Catholic faith?"

"I do not believe so, Sire," replied the Count. "With deep and profound respect for your Majesty, with much veneration and regard for Monsieur Bossuet, and with all the advantage of being even now reading some of his works upon religion, I should be deceiving your Majesty, I should be wronging myself, I should be showing myself unworthy of the high opinion which Monsieur de Meaux has expressed of me, if I did not clearly and distinctly state that I see no likelihood whatsoever of my changing opinions instilled into me in infancy."

"Nay, nay," cried the King, considerably moved and struck by the calm, yet respectful dignity of the young Count's demeanour. "Think better of it! In God's name think better of it! Let me hope that the eloquence of Bossuet will prevail--let me hope that I may yet have the opportunity of conferring upon you all those favours that I am most eager to bestow."

There was an eagerness and sincerity in the King's manner, which affected the Count in turn. "Alas, Sire," he said, "what would I not do to merit the favour of such a King? but still I must not deceive you. Whatever hopes your Majesty is pleased to entertain of my conversion to the established religion of the realm, may be derived from the knowledge--from the powerful gratitude--which your Majesty's generosity and high qualities of every kind must call up in your subjects and your servants; or they may arise from your knowledge of the deep and persuasive eloquence of the Bishop of Meaux: but they must not arise from any thing that I have said, or can say, regarding the state of my mind at this moment."

"I grieve, Monsieur de Morseiul, I grieve bitterly to hear it," replied the King; and he then paused, looking down thoughtfully for some moments; after which he added, "Let me remonstrate with you, that nothing may be left undone, which I can do, to justify me in treating you as I could wish. Surely, Monsieur de Morseiul, there can be nothing very difficult to believe in that which so many--nay, I may say all the holiest, the wisest, and the best have believed, since the first preaching of our religion. Surely, the great body of authority which has accumulated throughout ages, in favour of the Catholic church, is not to be shaken by such men as Luther and Calvin. You yourselves acknowledge that there are--as there must ever be when heavenly things are revealed to earthly understanding--mysteries which we cannot subject to the ordinary test of human knowledge, in the whole scheme of our redemption--you acknowledge it; and yet with faith you believe in those mysteries, rejecting only those which do not suit you, and pretending that the Scripture does not warrant them. But let me ask you, upon what authority we are to rely for the right interpretation of those very passages? Is it to be upon the word of two such men as Luther and Calvin, learned though they might be, or on the authority of the church, throughout all ages, supported by the unbiassed opinions of a whole host of the learned and the wise in every century? Are we to rely upon the opinion of two men, originally stirred up by avarice and bad passions, in preference to the whole body of saints and martyrs, who have lived long lives of piety and holiness, meditating upon those very mysteries which you reject. I am but a weak and feeble advocate, Monsieur de Morseiul, and should not, perhaps, have raised my voice at all after the eloquence of a Bossuet has failed to produce its effect; but my zealous and anxious wish both to see you reunited to the church, and to show you that favour which such a conversion would justify, have made me say thus much."

The young Count was too prudent by far to enter into any theological discussions with the King, and he, therefore, contented himself with replying, "I fear, Sire, that our belief is not in our own power. Most sincerely do I hope and trust, that, if I be now in the wrong, God may open my eyes to the truth. At present however----"

"Say no more, Sir! say no more!" said the King, bending his head as a signal that the young nobleman might retire. "I am heartily sorry for your state of mind! I had hoped better things. As to any other information you may have to communicate, you will be pleased to give it to one of the secretaries of state, according to the department to which it naturally refers itself."

The King once more bowed his head, and the Count with a low inclination retired. "I had better go at once to the apartments of Louvois," he thought; "for this affair of HatrÉaumont may be already on the eve of bursting forth, and I would fain have the last act of my stay in my native land one of loyalty to the King who drives me forth."

When he reached the open air, then, he turned to the right, to seek the apartments of Louvois; but, ere he reached them, he was met by the Chevalier de Rohan, whom we have already mentioned, who stopped him with a gay and nonchalant air, saying, "Oh, my dear Count, you have made my fortune! The hundred louis that you lent me have brought good luck, and I am now a richer man than I have been for the last twelve months. I won ten thousand franks yesterday."

"And, doubtless, will lose them again today," answered the Count. "I wish to Heaven you would change this life--but, my dear Chevalier, I must hasten on, for I am on business."

"When shall I have an hour to talk with you, Count?" exclaimed the Chevalier de Rohan, still detaining him. "I want very much to explain to you my plan for raising myself--I am down low enough, certainly, just now."

"When next we meet, Chevalier--when next we meet!" said the Count, smiling as he thought of his approaching departure. "I am in great haste now."

But ere he could disengage himself from the hold of the persevering Chevalier de Rohan, he felt a hand laid gently upon his arm, and turning round, saw a gentleman whose face was not familiar to him.

"Monsieur le Comte de Morseiul, I believe," said the stranger; and, on the Count bowing his head, he went on. "I have to apologise for interrupting your conversation; but I have a word for your private ear of some importance."

The Chevalier de Rohan had by this time turned away, with a nod of the head; and the Count replied to the other, "I am in some haste, Sir. Pray, what may be your pleasure?"

"I have an unpleasant task to perform towards you, Monsieur de Morseiul," said the stranger; "but it is my wish to execute it as gently and delicately as possible. My orders are to arrest and convey you to the Bastille."

The Count de Morseiul felt that painful tightening of the heart which every man, thus suddenly stopped in the full career of liberty, and destined to be conveyed to long and uncertain imprisonment, to be shut out from all the happy sounds and sights of earth, to be debarred all the sweet intercourses of friendship and affection, has felt and must feel. At the same time all the various points of anxiety and difficulty in his situation rushed through his mind with such rapidity as to turn him dizzy with the whirling numbers of such painful thoughts. ClÉmence de Marly, whose hand was to have been his that very night, the good old pastor, his friends, his servants, all might, for aught he knew, be kept in utter ignorance of his fate for many days. The hands, too, of the unscrupulous and feelingless instruments of despotic power, would be in every cabinet of his house and his chÂteau, invading all the little storehouses of past affections, perhaps scattering to the winds all the fond memorials of the loved and dead. The dark lock of his mother's hair, which he had preserved from boyhood--the few fragments of her handwriting, and some verses that she had composed shortly before her death--all his father's letters to him, from the time that he first sent him forth, a gallant boy girt with the sword of a high race, to win renown, through all that period when the son, growing up in glory, shone back upon his father's name the light that he had thence received, and paid amply all the cares which had been bestowed upon him, by the joy of his great deeds, up to that sad moment, when, with a trembling hand, the dying parent announced to his son the commencement and progress of the fatal malady that carried him to the grave.--All these were to be opened, examined, perhaps dispersed by the cold, if not by the scornful; and all the sanctities of private affection violated.

Such and a thousand other such feelings, rapid, innumerable, and, in some instances, contradictory to and opposing each other, rushed through his bosom in a moment at the announcement of the officer's errand. The whole facts of his situation, in short, with every minute particular, were conjured up before his eyes, as in a picture, by those few words; and the first effort of deliberate thought was made while De Cantal went on to say, "As I have said, Monsieur de Morseiul, it is my wish to save you any unnecessary pain, and therefore I have ordered the carriage, which is to convey you to the Bastille, to wait at the further end of the first street. A couple of musketeers and myself will accompany you inside; so that there will be no unnecessary parade about the matter: and I doubt not that you will be liberated shortly."

"I trust it may be so, Sir," replied the Count; "and am obliged to you for your kindness. I have violated no law, divine or human; and though, of course, I have many sins to atone towards my God, yet I have none towards my King. I am quite ready to accompany you, but I suppose that I shall not be permitted to return to my own house, even to seek those things which may be necessary for my comfort in the Bastille."

"Quite impossible, Sir," replied the officer. "It would be as much as my head is worth to permit you to set foot in your own dwelling."

The thoughts of the young Count, as may well be supposed, were turned, at that moment, particularly to ClÉmence de Marly; and he was most anxious, on every account, to make his servants acquainted with the fact of his having been arrested, in the hope that Riquet would have the good sense to convey the tidings to the HÔtel de RouvrÉ. To have explained this, in any degree, to the officer who had him in charge, would have been to frustrate the whole design; and therefore he replied,

"Far be it from me, Sir, to wish you to do any thing but your duty: but you see, as I have been accustomed, throughout my life, to somewhat perhaps too much luxury, I should be very desirous of procuring some changes of apparel. That, I am aware, may be permitted to me unless I am to be in the strictest and most severe kind of imprisonment which the Bastille admits of. You know by the orders you have received whether such is to be the case or not, and of course I do not wish you to deviate from your orders. Am I to be kept au secret?"

"Oh dear no, not at all," replied the officer. "The order merely implies your safe custody; and, probably, unless some private commands are given farther, you will have what is called the great liberties of the Bastille: but still that would not, by any means, justify me in permitting you to go to your own house."

"No," replied the Count; "but it renders it perfectly possible--if you are, as I believe, disposed to treat a person in my unfortunate situation with kindness and liberality--for you to send down one of your own attendants to my valet, Jerome Riquet, with my orders to send me up, in the course of the day, such clothes as may be necessary for a week. Let the message be verbal, so as to guard against any dangerous communication; and let the clothes be addressed to the care of the governor of the prison, in order that they may be inspected before they are given to me."

"Oh, to that, of course, there can be no objection," replied the young officer. "We will do it immediately. But we must lose no time, Monsieur de Morseiul, for the order is countersigned by Monsieur de Louvois, and you know he likes prompt obedience."

The Count accompanied him at a rapid pace, deriving no slight consolation under the unhappy circumstances in which he was placed, at the idea of ClÉmence being fully informed of the cause of his not appearing at the time he had promised. At the spot which Monsieur de Cantal had mentioned, was found a plain carriage, with a coachman and lackey in grey, and two musketeers of the guard seated quietly in the inside. While the Count was entering the vehicle, the officer called the lackey to his side and said, "Run down as fast as possible to the house of the Count de Morseiul, and inquire for his valet. What did you say his name is, Monsieur de Morseiul?"

"Jerome Riquet," said the Count.

"Ay, Jerome Riquet," said the officer. "Inquire for his valet, Jerome Riquet: tell him that the King has judged it right that his master should pass a short time in the Bastille, and that, therefore, he must send up thither to-night, addressed to the care of the governor, what clothes he judges the Count may require. The house is next door but one to that of Monsieur de Meaux. Run quick, and take the little alley at the end of the street, so that you may join us at the corner of the road."

The young officer then entered the carriage, and the coachman drove on; but before they proceeded along the high road they were obliged to pause for a moment or two, in order to give time for the arrival of the lackey, who, when he came, spoke a few words through the window to Monsieur de Cantal, in the course of which the word "Exempt" was frequently audible.

"That is unpleasant," said the young officer, turning to the Count: "I find that an Exempt has been sent to your house already,--to seal up your papers, I suppose; and, on hearing the man give the message to one of your servants, he was very angry, it seems, sending word to wait for him here; but, as I am not under his orders or authority, I think I shall even tell the coachman to go on."

He said this in a hesitating tone, however, evidently afraid that he had done wrong; and before he could execute his purpose of bidding the carriage proceed, the lackey said, "Here comes the Exempt, Sir. Here he is!"

In a moment after, a tall, meager, gaunt-looking man, dressed in the peculiar robes of an Exempt of the court, with a nose extraordinarily red, scarcely any eyebrows, and a mouth which seemed capable of swallowing the vehicle that he approached and all that it contained, came up to the side of the carriage, and spoke to the young officer through the window. The words that passed between them seemed to be sharp; and, at length, the Exempt exclaimed, in a louder tone, so as to be completely audible to the Count--although his articulation was of that round spluttering kind which rendered it very difficult to make out what he said--"I shall do so, however, Sir; I shall do so, however. I have authority for what I do. I will suffer no such communications as these, and I will not quit the carriage till I have seen the prisoner safely lodged in the hands of the governor of the Bastille."

"Well, Sir," replied the officer, a little heated; "if you choose to overstep your duty I cannot help it, and certainly shall not attempt to prevent your going with the coachman if you think fit. In the inside of the carriage you shall not come, for there I will guard my prisoner myself."

"That you may do, Sir, if you like," cried the Exempt, shaking the awful mass of wig in which his head was plunged: "but I will take care that there shall be no more communications.--Linen! What the devil does a prisoner in the Bastille want with linen? Why, in the very first packet sent to him there might be all sorts of treasonable things written upon the linen. Have we not heard of ink of sympathy and all manner of things?"

"Well, well, Sir," exclaimed the young officer: "I saw no harm in what I was doing, or else I should not have done it. But get up, if you are going to get up, for I shall order the coachman to go on."

The Exempt sprang up the high and difficult ascent which led to a coachbox of those days, with a degree of activity which could hardly have been expected from a person of his pompous dignity, and the coach then drove on upon its weary way to Paris.

"A very violent and self-conceited person, indeed, that seems to be," said the Count. "Do you know him?"

"Not I," replied the young officer, "though he threatens to make me know him pretty sufficiently, by complaining to Louvois about sending for these cursed clothes of yours."

The officer was evidently out of temper; and the Count, therefore, left him to himself, and fell into a fit of musing over his own situation. That fit of musing, dark and painful as it was, lasted, without cessation, till the vehicle entered one of the suburbs of the great city of Paris. There, however, it met with an interruption of a very unexpected kind; for, in trying to pass between two heavy carts, which were going along in opposite directions, the coachman contrived to get the wheels of the carriage locked with those of both the other vehicles; and with such force was this done that the lackey behind was thrown down and hurt, the Exempt himself nearly pitched off the coachbox, and obliged to cling with both his hands, while the coachman lost his hat and the reins.

The idea of making his escape crossed the mind of the Count de Morseiul; but he evidently saw that even if he were out of the carriage, surrounded as he was by a great number of people, without any large sum of money upon his person, and with the eyes of the officer, the musketeers, and the Exempt upon him, it would be vain to make the attempt.

To render the situation of the vehicle as bad as possible, one of the horses, either irritated by the uncouth and not very gentle terms with which the coachman attempted to back out of the difficulty, or galled by part of the cart pressing upon it, began to kick most vehemently; and Monsieur de Cantal, the officer, having previously sent the two musketeers to aid the coachman and the Exempt in disentangling the carriage, now showed a strong inclination to go himself. After looking anxiously at the Count de Morseiul for a moment, he at length said, "I must either go and set those men right, or suffer the carriage to be kicked to pieces. If I go, Monsieur de Morseiul, will you give me your word not to try to escape?"

The Count paused for an instant; but then the same consideration returned upon him, and he replied, "Go, Sir, go: I do give you my word."

The officer then sprang out; but scarcely had he been away a moment, when the head of the Exempt appeared looking in at the window. "Hist, hist, Monsieur de Morseiul!" he said, in a voice totally different from that which he had used before, and which was wonderfully familiar to the ears of the Count; "hist, hist! On the very first linen you receive, there will be information written for you. It will be invisible to all eyes till it is held to the fire. But the flame of a strong lamp will do, if you cannot sham an ague and get some wood to warm you."

"I can scarcely believe my eyes," said the Count, in the same low voice.

"Do not doubt them, do not doubt them," said the Exempt. "I knew of your arrest before you knew of it yourself, but could not warn you, and was making all ready when the man came to the hotel. I have sacrificed much for you, Count; as goodly a pair of eyebrows as ever valet had in this world; and I dare not blow my nose for fear of wiping off the paint: Louvois outwitted me this morning, and now I'll outwit him if I have but time. Heavens, how that beast is plunging and kicking! The pin I ran into its stomach is sticking there yet I suppose; ay, she's quieter now; here they come, and I must splutter.--Monsieur," he said, as the officer now returned to the side of the carriage, "Monsieur, this is guarding your prisoner securely, is it not? Here I come to the window and find not a single soul to prevent his escaping, when he might have got out in a moment, and run up the Rue de BiÈvre, and passed through the Rue de l'Ecole, and across the Place de l'UniversitÉ, and then down to the river----"

"Psha!" said the officer impatiently; "let me have no more of this impertinence, Sir. The Count gave me his word that he would not escape. If I deliver my prisoner safely at the Bastille, that is sufficient, and I will not have my conduct questioned. If you have any complaint to make, make it to Monsieur de Louvois. Come, get up, Sir, don't answer; the carriage is now clear, and enough of it left together to carry us to the Bastille. Go on, coachman."

The coachman, however, pertinaciously remained in a state of tranquillity, till the Exempt was once more comfortably seated by his side; and then the carriage rolling on through the back streets of the capital, made a little turn by the Rue de Jean Beausire, into the Rue St. Antoine, and approached the gates of that redoubted prison, in which so many of the best and noblest in France have lingered out, at different times, a part of their existence. To few, to very few, have the tall gloomy towers of that awful fortress appeared without creating feelings of pain and apprehension; and however confident he might be of his own innocence, however great might be his trust in the good providence and protection of God, however strong he might be in a good cause and a firm spirit, it cannot be denied that Albert of Morseiul felt deeply and painfully, and with an anxious and a sickening heart, his entrance into that dark solitary abode of crime, and sorrow, and suffering.

The carriage drew up just opposite the drawbridge, and the officer getting out, left his prisoner in charge of the two musketeers, and went forward to speak to the officer on guard at the gates. To him he notified, in due form, that he had brought a prisoner, with orders from the King for his incarceration; and the carriage, was kept for some time standing there, while the officer on guard proceeded to the dwelling of the governor, to demand the keys of the great gates. When he had obtained them and returned, the doors were opened; the guard was turned out under arms; the great drawbridge let down; the bell which communicated with the interior of the building rung; and the vehicle containing the Count, slowly rolled on into the outer court, called the Cour du Gouvernement.

There the carriage paused, the governor of the prison having expressed his intention of coming down to receive the prisoner from the hands of the officer who brought him: otherwise, the carriage would have gone on into the inner court. A short pause ensued, and at length the well-known Besmaux was seen approaching, presenting exactly that appearance which might be expected from his character; for the traits of debauchery, levity, and ferocity, which distinguished his actual life, had stamped themselves upon his countenance in ineffacable characters.

"Ah, good day, Monsieur de Morseiul," he said, as the door of the carriage opened, and the Count descended. "Monsieur de Cantal, your very humble servant. Gentlemen, both, you had better step into the Corps de Garde, where I will receive your prisoner, Monsieur de Cantal, and read the letters for his detention."

Thus saying, with a slow and important step he walked into the building, seated himself, called for pen and ink, and a light, and then read the King's letter for the arrest and imprisonment of the Count de Morseiul.

"Monsieur de Louvois is varying these letters every day," he said; "one never knows what one is doing. However, there stands the King's name, and that is quite enough; so, Monsieur de Morseiul, you are welcome to the Bastille. You are to have our great liberties, I suppose. I must beg you to give me your sword, however, and also every thing you have about your person, if you please; letters, papers, money, jewels, and every thing else, in short, except your seal, or your signet ring, which you keep for the purposes about to be explained to you."

With very painful feelings the Count unbuckled his sword, and laid it down upon the table. He then gave up all the money that he possessed, one or two ordinary papers of no import, and the other usual articles of the same kind, which are borne about the person. The note which he had received from ClÉmence in the morning, he had luckily destroyed. While this was doing, the governor continued to write, examining the different things that he put down before him, and he then said, "Is this all, Sir?"

"It is," replied the Count, "upon my word."

"One of the men must put his hands in your pocket, Count," said the governor; "that is a ceremony everyone has to undergo here." The prisoner shut his teeth hard, but made no remark, and offered no resistance, though, if he had given way to his feelings, he would certainly have dashed the man to the ground at once, who, with unceremonious hands, now searched his person. When that also was over, Besmaux wrote down a few more words at the end of the list of things he had made out, and handed it to the Count to read. The only observation that the young nobleman made, was, that the governor had put down his sword as having a silver hilt, when the hilt was of gold.

"Ah, it is of gold, is it?" said de Besmaux, taking it up and looking at it, while several of the attendants who stood round grinned from ear to ear. "Well, we will alter it, and put it down gold. Now, Monsieur de Morseiul, will you have the goodness to sign that paper, which, with these letters, we fold up thus? and now with the seal which you retain, you will have the goodness to seal them, and write your name round the seal."

With all these forms the Count complied, and the governor then intimated to him, that he was ready to conduct him into the interior of the Bastille, the spot where they then were, though within the walls and drawbridge, being actually considered as without the chÂteau.

"Here, then, I take leave of you, Monsieur de Morseiul," said the officer who had brought him thither, "and I will do my best, on my return to Versailles, to insure that the clothes you want shall be sent, notwithstanding the interference of that impertinent Exempt, who took himself off on the outside of the drawbridge, and has doubtless gone back to lay his complaint against me before Louvois. I know the King, however; and knowing that he wishes no one to be treated with harshness or severity, have therefore no fear of the consequences."

The Count held out his hand to him frankly. "I am very much obliged to you, Monsieur de Cantal," he said, "for the kindness and politeness you have shown me. It is at such moments as these, that kindness and politeness become real benefits."

The officer took his hand respectfully, and then, without more words, retired; the carriage passed out; the gates creaked upon their hinges; and the heavy drawbridge swung slowly up, with a jarring sound of chains, and heavy iron work, sadly harmonious with the uses of the building, which they shut out from the world.

The governor then led the way towards the large and heavy mass of gloomy masonry, with its eight tall gaunt towers, which formed the real prison of the Bastille, and approached the gate in the centre, that looked towards the gardens and buildings of the arsenal. The drawbridge there was by this time down, and the gates were open for the admission of the prisoner; while what was called the staff of the Bastille stood ready to receive him, and the guard of the grand court was drawn up in line on either side.

"You see we have an extensive court here," said the governor, leading the way. "It is somewhat dark to be sure, on account of the buildings being so high; but, however, some of our people, when they have been accustomed to it for a year or two, find it cheerful enough. We will put you, I think, Monsieur de Morseiul, into what is called the Tower of Liberty, both because the name is a pleasant name--though it is but a name after all, either here or elsewhere--and also because it is close to the library, and as long as you have the great liberties, as they are called, you may go in there, and amuse yourself. Most of you Huguenots, I believe, are somewhat of bookworms, and when a man cannot find many of the living to talk to, he likes just as well to talk to the dead. I do not suppose, that, like some of our inmates here on their first arrival, you are going to mope and pine like a half-starved cat, or a sick hen. It is hard to bear at first I acknowledge; but there's nothing like bearing a thing gaily after all. This way, Monsieur de Morseiul, this way, and I will show you your apartment."

He accordingly led him to the extreme angle of the grand court on the left hand, where a large transverse mass of architecture, containing the library, the hall of the council, and various other apartments, separated that part from the lesser court, called the Court of the well. A small stone doorway opened the way to a narrow spiral staircase, which made the head dizzy with its manifold turning; and about halfway up the steps the governor paused, and opened a door which communicated by a narrow but crooked passage, with a single tolerable sized chamber, handsomely furnished.

"You see we treat you well, Monsieur de Morseiul," said Besmaux; "and if any thing can be done to make your residence here pleasant, we shall not fail to do it. There is but little use, if any, of causing doors to be locked or sentries to be placed. Some of the guards, or some of the officers of the staff, will be very willing to show you as much as is right of the rest of the building: and, in the mean time, can I serve you?"

"In nothing, I am afraid," replied the Count. "I have neither clothes, nor baggage, nor any thing else with me, which will put me to some inconvenience till they send it to me; but I understand that orders have been given to that effect already; and I should only be glad to have any clothes and linen that may arrive as soon as possible."

"I will see to it, I will see to it," replied Besmaux. "You have dined of course, Count; but to-night you will sup with me."

"If my stay here is to be long," said the Count, after thanking the governor for his invitation, "I should, of course, be very glad to have the attendance of a domestic. I care not much, indeed, whether it be one of my own, or whether it be one with which you can supply me for the time, but I am not used to be without some sort of attendance."

The governor smiled. "You must not be nice in the Bastille, Monsieur de Morseiul," he said; "we all do with few attendants here, but we will see what can be done for you. At present we know nothing, but that here you are. The order for your reception is of that kind which leaves every thing doubtful but the fact that, for the time, you are not to be confined very strictly; and, indeed, as the letter is somewhat informal, as every thing is that comes from the hands of Monsieur de Louvois, I must write to him again for farther information. As soon as I receive it, the whole shall be arranged as far as I can to your satisfaction. In the mean time we will give you every indulgence, as far as our own general rules will allow, though, perhaps, you will think that share of indulgence very small."

The Count expressed his thanks in commonplace terms, well knowing the character of Besmaux, and that his fair speeches only promised a degree of courtesy which his actions generally failed to fulfil.

After lingering for a moment or two, the governor left his prisoner in the abode assigned to him, and returned to his own dwelling, without locking the door of the apartment.

There are states of mind in which the necessity of calm contemplation is so strong and overpowering, that none of the ordinary motives which affect our nature have any influence upon us for the time,--states in which even vanity the most irritable, and curiosity the most active of our moral prompters in this world, slumber inactive, and leave thought and judgment paramount. Such was the case with the Count de Morseiul. Although he had certainly been interested with every thing concerning the prison, which was to be his abode for an undefined length of time; although all that took place indicative of his future destiny was, of course, not without attraction and excitement, he had grown weary of the formalities of his entrance into the Bastille, less because they were wearisome in themselves than because he longed to be alone, and to have a few minutes for calm and silent reflection.

When he did come to reflect, however, the prospect presented was dark, gloomy, and sad. He was cut off from the escape he had meditated. The only thing that could have saved him from the most imminent dangers and difficulties, the only scheme which he had been able to fall upon to secure even the probability of peace and safety upon earth, had been now frustrated. The charges likely to be brought against him, if once averred by the decision of a court of justice, were such as, he well knew, could not and would not be followed by pardon; and when he looked at the chances that existed of those charges being sanctioned, confirmed, and declared just, by any commission that might sit to try him, he found that the probabilities were altogether against him; and that if party feeling biassed the opinion of one single magistrate, his cause was utterly lost. In cases where circumstantial evidence is every thing--and therein lies the horror and danger of judging by circumstantial evidence--so light a word, so small a turn will give a completely different view to the whole circumstances of any case, will so completely prejudice the question, and bias the minds of hearers, that he was quite aware if any zealous Catholics should be engaged in the task of persecuting him to the last, he could scarcely hope to escape from such serious imputations, as would justify perhaps his permanent detention, if not his death. He had been at the meeting of the Protestants on the moor, which though not illegal at the time, had been declared to be so since. He had then addressed the people, and had exhorted them to tranquillity and to peace; but where were the witnesses to come from in order to prove that such was the case. He had gone unarmed to that meeting; but others had been there in arms and with arms concealed. He, himself, with his own hand, had struck the first blow, from which such awful consequences had sprung; but how was he to prove the provocation which he had, in the first instance, received; or the protection which he had afterwards given to the base and unworthy young man, who had escaped from death by his means, only to become a murderer the moment after. The only witnesses that he could call were persons of the party inimical to the court, who might now be found with difficulty--when emigration was taking place from every part of France,--who would only be partially believed if they could be heard, and who would place themselves in danger by bearing testimony on his behalf.

The witnesses against him would be the hired miscreants who had fired into a body of unoffending people, but who were of the religion of the judges, the unscrupulous adherents of the cause to which those judges were bound by every tie of interest and of prejudice, and who were serving under a monarch that, on one terrible occasion, had stepped in to overrule the decision of a court of justice, and to inflict severer punishment than even his own creatures had dared to assign. Death, therefore, seemed to be the only probable end of his imprisonment, death, or eternal loss of liberty! and the Count knew the court, and the character of those with whom he had to deal, too well, to derive any degree of consolation from the lenity with which he was treated at first.

Had he been now in heart and mind, as he was not very long before, when quitting the army on the signature of the truce he had returned to the home of his ancestors, the prospect would have been far less terrible to him, far less painful. His heart was then in some degree solitary, his mind was comparatively alone in the world. He had spent the whole of his active life in scenes of danger and of strife. He had confronted death so often, that the lean and horrid monster had lost his terrors and become familiar with one, who had seemed to seek his acquaintance as if in sport. His ties to the world had been few; for the existence of bright days, and happy careless moments, and splendid fortune, and the means of luxury and enjoyment at command, are not the things that bind and attach us to life. The tie, the strong, the mighty tie of deep and powerful affection to some being, or beings, like himself, had been wanting. There were many that he liked; there were many that he esteemed; there were many he protected and supported even at that time; but he knew and felt that if he were gone the next moment, they would be liked, and esteemed, and supported, and protected by others, and would feel the same, or nearly the same, towards those who succeeded as towards him, when he had passed away from the green and sunny earth and left them to the care of newer friends.

But now other ties had arisen around him--ties, the strength, the durability, the firm pressure of which he had never known before. There was now a being on the earth to whom he was attached by feelings that can only once be felt, for whom he, himself, would have been ready to sacrifice every thing else; who for him, and for his love, had shewn herself willing to cast from her all of those bright and pageant-like days of splendour, in which she had once seemed to take so much delight. The tie, the strong tie of human affection--the rending of which is the great and agonising pang of death--had twined itself round his heart, and bound every feeling and every thought. The great, the surpassing quality of sentient being, the capability of loving, and being loved, had risen up to crush and to leave void all the lesser things of life, but also to give death terrors that it knew not before; to make the grave the bitter parting place where joy ends for ever, and to poison the shaft that lays us low with venom that is felt in agony ere the dark, dreamless sleep succeeds and extinguishes all.

But was this all that rendered his situation now more terrible than it had been before? Alas, no! The sense of religion was strong, and he might confidently trust that though earthly passion ended with the grave, and the mortal fire of his love for ClÉmence de Marly would there become extinct--he might confidently trust that, in another world, with his love for her exalted as well as purified, rendered more intense and sublime, though less passionate and human, they should meet again, known to each other, bound together by the immortal memory of vast affection, and only distinct from other spirits, bright and happy as themselves, by the glorious consciousness of love, and the intense happiness of having loved well, loved nobly, and to the last.

Such might have been his consolation in the prospect of parting with her who had become so dear to him, if he had left her in calm and peaceful security, in a happy land, and without danger or difficulty surrounding her. But when he thought of the religion she had embraced, of the perils which surrounded her at every step, of the anguish which would fall upon her at his fate, of the utterly unprotected, uncomforted, unconsoled state in which she must remain, the heart of the strong warrior failed, and the trust of the Christian was drowned in human tears.