We will now lead the reader into another and very different scene from any of those into which we have as yet conducted him. It is a small but cheerful sitting-room, or parlour, in the house of a comfortable citizen of the town of Morseiul. There was every thing that could be required for comfort, and a little for show. The corner cupboard which protruded its round stomach into the room, like that of some fat alderman of the olden time, was ornamented with a variety of little gewgaws, and nick-nacks of silver, displayed in quaint array upon the shelves; and, besides several brass lamps and sconces wonderfully well polished, which were never lighted, were a number of articles of porcelain, of a kind which was then somewhat rare, and is now nearly invaluable. The two windows of this little parlour looked out upon the great square or market place, towards the southern corner of which it was situated, and commanded a view of a large blacksmith's forge on the opposite side, close by the gate leading down to what was called the Count's road. There was a door out of this parlour, a black oaken door, with panels richly carved and ornamented, which appeared to lead into a room at the back, and another similar door at the side, opening into the passage which went straight through the house from the square into the garden behind.

At the table in the midst of this room--which table, at the moment we speak of, that is, half past eight o'clock in the morning, was decorated with a large pewter dish, containing a savoury ragout of veal, flanked by two bottles of cider and four drinking cups--sat the burly person of good Paul Virlay, the rich blacksmith, who, being well to do in the world, and enabled by competence to take his ease, had not yet gone out to superintend the work which his men were carrying on at the forge opposite.

Another effect of his easy situation in life was, that he had time to perform those necessary ablutions too much required by the faces and hands of all blacksmiths, but which, alas! all blacksmiths are but too apt to neglect. It is true that, had he washed his face and hands for ever, or, after the prescribed rule of the Arabian Nights, had scoured them "forty times with alkali, and forty times with the ashes of the same plant," his face and hands would still have retained a certain glowing coppery brown hue, which they had acquired by the action of sun, and air, and fire, and hard work, and which they likewise possessed, it must be confessed, in some degree from nature. At the table with Paul Virlay were three other personages. The first was his daughter, a sweet little girl of thirteen or fourteen years of age, and the second his wife, a goodly dame, perhaps two years or three years older than himself, and who, being terribly marked with the smallpox, had never possessed any beauty. Thus, at his marriage, Virlay, who had been in much request amongst the young ladies of Morseiul, declared that he had taken the good working horse instead of the jennet. She had always been extremely careful, laborious, active, and economical; somewhat given to smartness of apparel, indeed, but by no means to extravagance, and though decorating herself with black velvet riband, and large ornaments of gold, yet careful that the riband was not worn out too soon, and the gold ornaments neither bruised nor broken.

On her right hand, between herself and her husband, sat the fourth person of the party, who was no other than the lady's brother, a stout, broad-made, determined-looking man, who had served long in the army under the Count; and had risen as high, by his daring courage and somewhat rash gallantry, as any person not of noble blood could rise, except under very extraordinary circumstances. He had accumulated, it was said, a considerable sum of money--perhaps not by the most justifiable of all dealings with the inhabitants of conquered districts--so that Armand Herval was an object of not a little attention, and what we may call cupidity, to the unmarried young ladies of Morseiul. That town was not, indeed, his regular dwelling place, for his abode was at a small town nearer to the sea coast, some five or six miles off; but he frequently came to visit his sister and brother-in-law, over both of whom he exercised very considerable influence, although, as frequently is the case, the latter was naturally a man of much stronger natural sense than himself. It is in almost all instances, indeed, energy that gives power; and with persons not well educated, or not very highly endowed by nature, that energy loses none of its effect from approaching somewhat towards rashness. Such then was the case with Paul Virlay and his brother-in-law. When unmoved by any strong passions, however, Armand Herval was quite the man to lead and to seduce. He was gay, blithe, cheerful, full of frolic, fearless of consequences, specious in reasoning, possessing much jest and repartee, overflowing with tales, or anecdotes, of what he had seen, or heard, or done in the wars; and it was only when crossed, or opposed, or excited by wine or anger, that the darker and more fiery spirit of the somewhat ruthless trooper would break forth and overawe those that surrounded him.

On the present morning there was a strange mixture in his demeanour of a sad and serious thoughtfulness, with gaiety and even merriment. He laughed and jested with his niece, he took a pleasure in teasing his sister, but he spoke, once or twice, in a low and bitter tone to Paul Virlay upon various matters which were taking place in the neighbourhood, and did not even altogether spare the Count de Morseiul himself. At that, however, Virlay bristled up; and his brother-in-law, who had done it more from a spirit of teasing than aught else, only laughed at his anger, and turned the discourse to something else. He eat and drank abundantly of the breakfast set before him; laughed at the cleanness of Virlay's face and hands, and the smartness of his brown jerkin, and insisted that his little niece should run to the window to see whether the men were working properly, saying that her father was no longer fit for his trade.

The girl did as she was bid, and replied immediately, "I do not see the men at all, but I see the young Count just turning the corner."

"That is early," cried Virlay, laying down his fork. "Is he on horseback?"

"No, he is on foot," replied the girl, "and nobody with him."--"He is coming over here, I declare he is coming over here," cried the girl, clapping her hands.

"Nonsense," cried Virlay, starting up, as well as his wife and brother-in-law.

"Not nonsense at all, Paul," cried Herval. "He is making straight for the house, so I shall be off as fast as I can by the back door. I am not fond of making low bows, and standing with my hat in my hand, when I can help it."

"Stay, stay," cried Virlay; "do not go yet, Armand, I have much to talk with you about."

But his brother-in-law shook his head, and darted through the oak door we have mentioned, into the room beyond. Madame Virlay bestirred herself to give order and dignity to the breakfast table; but before she could accomplish that purpose the Count was in the open passage, and knocking at the door of the room for admission.

Virlay opened it immediately, and the young nobleman entered with that frank and graceful bearing which was part, indeed, of his inheritance, but which secured to him that hereditary love for his race which the virtues and kindness of his forefathers had established amongst the people.

"Good morrow, Virlay," he said. "Good morrow, Madame Virlay! Oh, my pretty Margette, why you have grown so great a girl that I must call you so no longer, lest the people say that I am making love to you.--Virlay," he added, in a graver tone, "I would fain speak a word or two with you on business. I would not send for you to the chÂteau for various reasons, but cannot we go into the next room for a moment or two?"

Virlay made a sign to his wife and daughter to retire, and placed a seat for the Count. "No, my lord," he said, "you shall not give yourself that trouble. Shot the door, wife, and remember, no eves-dropping!"

"Bless thee, Paul," exclaimed his wife, bridling with a little indignation; "do you think I would listen to what my Lord Count says to you? I know better, I trust," and she shut the door.

Perhaps neither the Count, however, nor Virlay were quite certain of the lady's discretion under such circumstances, and they, therefore, both remained near the window, and conversed in low tones.

"I come to speak to you, Virlay," said the Count, in somewhat of a grave tone, "both as an influential man and as a sensible man--though he may have his little faults," he added, fixing his eyes somewhat meaningly upon the blacksmith's face, "and who may suffer himself to be a little too much led by others; but who, nevertheless, has the best intentions, I know, and who will always, sooner or later, remember that one must not do wrong that right may come of it."

The blacksmith replied nothing, but kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, though the red became somewhat deeper in his brown cheek, and an expression of consciousness was to be seen in every feature of his countenance.

"What I want to speak with you about is this," continued the Count: "since I have been away, during this last campaign, there has sprung up, it seems, a dangerous band in this part of the province; consisting of men who are carrying on a system of violence, depredation, and intimidation, which must be put a stop to. What I want to consult with you in regard to, is the best means of putting down this band, for put down I am determined it shall be, and that right speedily."

"You will not be able to put them down, my lord!" replied the blacksmith. "If mere simple plunder were the object of these persons, the thing would be easily done. You would have the whole people to aid you, and nothing would be more easy. But, my lord, such is not the case. The men may plunder--I do not say that it is not so--but they only plunder their enemies. It has always been so in this part of the country, as the good Count, your father, well knew, and always will be so to the end of the world. People have given these bands different names, at different times, and from different circumstances. Once they were called les Faucons, because, at that time, the minister was sending down men into the country, taxing the salt and the fish, and when any of them came, one of these bands stooped upon him, like a falcon, carried him off, and he was never heard of more. At another time they were called les Eperviers, the hawks, because they hovered over all the country and caught what they could. That was the time when the King sent down so many soldiers, that they could not carry off the collectors without hovering round them for a long time. Now they call them les Chauve-souris, or the bats, because they fly about just at the setting-in of night, and woe be to the persecuting Papist that falls in their way. To-morrow, if obliged to do the work later at night, they may be called les Hiboux, or the owls; and the time may come, perhaps, when they will be called les Loups or les Chouettes, the wolves or the screech-owls: but they will do no harm to any one but their enemies. An honest man, who seeks to harm nobody, may go from one end of the province to another,--ay, and through all Brittany, too, as well as Poitou, without meeting with the least annoyance. But if it be different, if he be an oppressor of the people, a seller of men's souls, let him see that he travels by daylight only, and even then he wo'n't be very safe."

"I do not know," said the Count, "that I am either an oppressor of the people, or a buyer and seller of men's souls; and yet, my good friend Virlay, these Chauve-souris, as you call them, fastened their claws upon me, and put me to no slight inconvenience and discomfort. They might have shot me, too, for they fired right at my horse. You may have heard of all this before, I dare say," he added, with a smile.

The blacksmith did not reply for a moment; but then he said, "I dare say, my lord, it was some mistake. I doubt not that they did not know you; or that some foolish fellow, as will happen sometimes, went beyond his orders."

"But then again," said the Count, "they both attacked and plundered two ladies, defenceless women, who could have given them no offence."

"Some hangers-on of a governor that was sent down to oppress the province," replied the blacksmith. "These bands, my lord, know all that's passing through the country better than you do yourself."

"But in this instance," said the Count, "they certainly knew not what they were about, for instead of a governor sent down to oppress the province, Monsieur de RouvrÉ is the very man to stand between the province and oppression, and, from all I hear, is likely to give up the post and the court, and retire to Ruffigny, if the measures of the council are what he judges unfair towards us."

"If he do that," said the blacksmith, "he will have a better body guard at Ruffigny than ever he had at Poitiers. But what is it you want me to do, Monsieur le Comte? I have no power to put down these bands. I have no sway with them or against them."

"What I want you to do," replied the Count, "is to use your whole power and influence in every way, to put a stop to a system which cannot be suffered to go on. Sorry should I be to draw the sword against these mistaken people, but I must have them no more on the lands and lordships of Morseiul, where they have quartered themselves I find during my absence. I must have my forests free of such deer, and you know, Virlay, when I say a thing I will keep my word. I have been in their hands, and they were civil to me, respected my person, did something towards obeying my directions; and, although I know two of them, however well concealed they might be," he added, laying strong emphasis on the words, "I will in no degree betray the knowledge I acquired. I only wish to make it fully understood, that I wish this band to be dispersed. I am well aware of the evil custom that you allude to, and how deeply it has rooted itself in the habits of the people; but I tell you, Virlay, that this is likely to produce more evil to the cause of the reformed church than any thing that could be devised. At all events, it is contrary altogether to the laws of the land, and to civil order, and whatever be the pretext, I will not tolerate it on my lands. I wish the bands to be dispersed, the night meetings to be abandoned, the men to pursue their lawful employments, and in other hours to take their necessary rest. But, at all events, as I have said before, within my jurisdiction they shall not remain. If they go to the lands of other lords, I cannot of course help it; but I trust that those other lords will have spirit and decision enough to drive them off their territories. Let us say no more about it, Virlay. You understand me distinctly, and know my whole meaning; and now, let me know when, and how, I may best obtain a meeting with a person called Brown Keroual, for I must make him hear reason also."

The blacksmith paused for two or three minutes before he answered. "Why, my lord," he said at length, "I ought not to tell you any thing about him, perhaps, by that name. On all accounts, perhaps I ought not; but yet I know I can trust you; and I am sure you will take no advantage. So I'll only ask you one thing, not to go down to where he is, with too many people about you, for fear of bad consequences if there should be any of his folks about."

"I shall go down," said the Count, "towards the place where I hear he is generally to be met with, with only two servants; and when I come near enough, I shall give the horse to the servants, and walk forward on foot."

"You will be as safe as in your own chÂteau, then," said the blacksmith; "but you must not go for a couple of days, as where he will be tomorrow, and next day, I cannot tell. But if, on the day after, you will be just at the hour when the but begins to flit, at a little turn of the river about six miles down.--You know the high rock just between the river and the forest, with the tall tree upon it, which they call the chÊne vert."

"I know it well. I know it well," said the Count. "But on which side of the rock do you mean? the tall face flanks the river, the back slopes away towards the wood."

"At the back, at the back," replied the blacksmith. "Amongst the old hawthorns that lie scattered down the slope. You will find him there at the hour I mention."

"I will be there," said the Count in reply, "and I will allow the intervening time for the band to quit the woods of Morseiul. But if it have not done so by the morning after, there will be a difference between us, which I should be sorry for."

Thus saying, the Count left the worthy townsman, and took his way back to the chÂteau.

In the two days that intervened, nothing occurred to vary the course of his existence. He entertained some expectation of receiving letters from Poitiers, but none arrived. He heard nothing from the governor, from the Chevalier d'Evran, or from ClÉmence de Marly; and from Paris, also, the ordinary courier brought no tidings for the young Count. A lull had come over the tempestuous season of his days, and we shall now follow him on his expedition to the chÊnt vert, under which, be it said, we have ourselves sat many an hour thinking over and commenting upon the deeds we now record.

The Count, as he had said, took but two servants with him, and rode slowly on through, the evening air, with his mind somewhat relieved by the absence of any fresh excitement, and by the calm refreshing commune of his spirit with itself. On the preceding day there had been another thunder storm; but the two which had occurred had served to clear and somewhat cool the atmosphere, though the breath of the air was still full of summer.

When at the distance of about a mile and a half from the spot which the blacksmith had indicated, the Count gave his horse to his servants, and bade them wait there for his return. He wandered on slowly, slackening his pace as much to enjoy the beauty and brightness of the scene around, as to let the appointed time arrive for his meeting with the leader of the band we have mentioned. When he had gone on about a hundred yards, however, he heard in the distance the wild but characteristic notes of a little instrument, at that time, and even in the present day, delighted in throughout Poitou, and known there by the pleasant and harmonious name of the musette. Sooth to say, it differs but little, though it does in a degree, from the ordinary bagpipe; and yet there is not a peasant in Poitou, and scarcely a noble of the province either, who will not tell you that it is the sweetest and most harmonious instrument in the world. It requires, however, to be heard in a peculiar manner, and at peculiar seasons: either, as very often happens in the small towns of that district, in the dead of the night, when it breaks upon the ear as the player walks along the street beneath your window, with a solemn and plaintive melody, that seems scarcely of the earth; or else in the morning and evening tide, heard at some little distance amongst the hills and valleys of that sunny land, when it sounds like the spirit of the winds, singing a wild ditty to the loveliness of the scene.

The Count de Morseiul had quite sufficient national, or perhaps we should say provincial, feeling to love the sound of the musette; and he paused to listen, as, with a peculiar beauty and delicacy of touch, the player poured on the sounds from the very direction in which he was proceeding. He did not hasten his pace, however, enjoying it as he went; and still the nearer and nearer he came to the chÊnt vert, the closer he seemed to approach to the spot whence the sounds issued. It is true the player could not see him, as he came in an oblique line from the side of the water, to which at various places the wood approached very near. But the moment that the Count turned the angle of the rock which we have mentioned, and on the top of which stood the large evergreen oak, from which it took its name, he beheld a group which might well have furnished a picture for a Phyllis and a Corydon to any pastoral poet that ever penned an idyl or an eclogue.

Seated on a little grassy knoll, under one of the green hawthorns, was a girl apparently above the common class, with a veil, which she seemed to have lately worn over her head, cast down beside her, and with her dark hair falling partly upon her face as it bent over that of a man, seated, or rather stretched, at her feet, who, supporting himself on one elbow, was producing from the favourite instrument of the country the sounds which the Count had heard.

Lying before them, and turning its sagacious eyes from the face of the one to the face of the other, was a large rough dog, and the girl's hand, which was fair and small, was engaged in gently caressing the animal's head as the Count came up. So occupied were they with each other, and so full were the tones of the music, that it was the dog who first perceived the approach of a stranger, and bounded barking forward towards the Count, as if the young nobleman were undoubtedly an intruder. The girl and her lover--for who could doubt that he was such?--both rose at the same time, and she, casting her veil over her head, darted away with all speed towards the wood, while her companion called after her, "Not far, not far."

The Count then perceived, somewhat to his surprise, that the veil she wore was that of a novice in a convent. Notwithstanding the barking of the dog, and the somewhat fierce and uncertain aspect of his master, the Count advanced with the same slow, steady pace, and in a minute or two after was standing within five steps of Armand Herval. That good personage had remained fixed to his place, and for sometime had not recognised the young Count; but the moment he did so, a change came over his countenance, and he saluted him with an air of military respect.

"Good day, Armand," said the Count, "I am afraid I have disturbed your young friend; but pray go after her, and tell her that I am neither spy nor enemy, so she need not be alarmed. Come back and speak to me, however, for I want a few minutes' conversation with you.--Have you seen your brother-in-law Virlay, lately?"

"Not for several days," replied Armand; "but I will go after her, my Lord, and see her safe, and come back to you in a minute."

"Do so," replied the Count, "and I will wait for you here. Will you not stay with me, good dog?" he added, patting the dog's head and casting himself down upon the ground; but the dog followed his master, and the Count remained alone, thinking over the little picture which had been so unexpectedly presented to his eyes.

"This lets me into much of the history," he thought. "Here is a motive and an object both for accumulating wealth and intimidating the Papists! But how can he contrive to get the girl out of a convent to sit with him here, listening to him playing the musette, while it is yet the open day? It is true, we are at a great distance from any town or village. The only religious house near, either, is that upon the hill two miles farther down. Though I cannot prevent this business, I must give him some caution;" and then he set himself to think over the whole affair again, and to endeavour to account for an event which was less likely perhaps to take place in that province, in the midst of a Protestant population, than in any other part of France.

Some time passed ere Armand Herval returned, and by this time the twilight was growing thick and grey.

"It is later than I thought, Herval," said the young Count, rising from the ground, on which he had been stretched, as the other came up; "I shall hardly have time to say all I had to say, even if the person were here that I came to converse with."

"Then you did not come to see me, my Lord?" demanded Herval, in a tone perhaps expressive of a little mortification.

"No, Herval," replied the Count with a slight smile, "I came to see a person called Brown Keroual: but," he added, after a moment's pause, "if you are likely to stay here, I will leave the message with you."

The Count stopped as if for a reply, and his companion answered, "Speak, speak, my Lord Count! Your message shall not fail to reach him."

"Well then, Armand," replied the nobleman, "tell Keroual this for me: first, that I know him--that I recognised him the moment he spoke when last we met; but that having some regard for him, I do not intend to take any advantage whatever of that knowledge to his prejudice, although he be engaged in wrong and unlawful deeds. However, I came here to meet him, in order to reason with him on his conduct, for he is a good and a gallant soldier, and would now have been an officer--for I recommended him for advancement--had it not been for that plundering of the priory of St. Amand, which was thrown in my teeth by Monsieur de Louvois whenever I mentioned his name."

"If Louvois had been in it," replied his companion, "it would not have escaped half as well as it did; for I think, according to the very doctrines of their popish church, the good act of burning one Louvois would be quite enough to obtain pardon for the sin of burning a whole score of monks along with him. But what were you going to say farther, sir?"

"Why, to Brown Keroual," continued the Count, "I was going to say, that he is engaged in a matter contrary to all law and order, heading a band of robbers which must be----"

"I beg your pardon, sir," interrupted Herval somewhat impatiently, "not robbers! If you please, a band of chauve-souris. They rob no man: they only plunder the enemy; and let me tell you, my Lord Count, that there is many a man more or less joined with that band, who would just as soon think of robbing another as you would.--Has any thing been asked for the ring, though it was the ring of a Papist? Was not the money that was taken from you restored?"

"It was," replied the Count; "but we must not be too nice about our terms, Herval. I do not know any law, human or divine, that allows a man to pick and choose at his own will and pleasure whom he will rob, and whom he will murder."

"Ay, my noble Lord," answered the man, getting warm; "but there is a law of nature, which, after all, is a law of God, and which not only justifies but requires us to destroy him who would destroy us; and, whether it be straightforwardly that he is seeking our destruction, or by cunning and crooked paths, it matters not, we have a right to prevent him by every means in our power, and if we catch hold of him, to knock him on the head like a viper or any other noxious vermin."

"In all cases but direct attack," answered the Count, "civil society gives our defence into the hands of the law."

"But when the law and its ministers are leagued with the destroyers, with the real plunderers, with the real disturbers of the public peace," exclaimed the man vehemently, "we must make a new law for ourselves, and be its officers also."

The Count did not interrupt him, as he was very well pleased to be made acquainted clearly with all the views and opinions of that body of men whom Armand Herval might be supposed to represent; and the soldier went on with great volubility, and some eloquence, to defend the right of resistance with all the well-known arguments upon the subject, which have been repeated and combated a thousand times; but he came not a bit nearer than any who had gone before him to the real question at issue, namely, where the duty of submission ceased and the right of resistance began. We must remember that not only the higher orders, but also the lower classes of French Protestants were at that time much more generally enlightened and accustomed to the use of their own reason, than the Catholics, and the natural consequence of any attempt to oppress them, was to render such arguments as those used by Herval, very common amongst them. Neither was the Count de Morseiul prepared to oppose the general scope of the man's reasoning, though he was determined to resist the practical misapplication of it, which was then actively going on in the province.

"I will not argue with you, Herval," he said, "nor will I attempt to persuade you that what the council is doing now, and may do against us poor Protestants, is right, feeling it as I do to be wrong. But, nevertheless, I think--nay, I am sure--that such proceedings, as those of the band we speak of, are perfectly incompatible with our duty to the King and our fellow-subjects, and likely to produce infinitely greater evil to the reformed religion than good. The existence of such bands will give an excuse for sending a large military force into the province, for persecuting the Protestants still farther, and for taking such precautions that even, if a crisis were to come, in which the resistance to oppression which you speak of were necessary, it would be rendered hopeless by the prepared state of the enemy. In the mean time it is wrong, because, at the best, it is carrying on what you call hostilities without a declaration of war; it is dangerous to the peaceful even of our own friends, as has been shown in my case, and in that of two ladies of the governor's family, who is most warmly interested in our behalf; and it is degrading a powerful and just cause in the eyes of all men, by giving its supporters the air of night plunderers."

"As for a declaration of war," replied Herval, "they have made that themselves by their own acts, and as to the rest of what you say, sir, there are objections certainly. Did I but see our noblemen like yourself, and our ministers preparing a good resistance to tyranny and injustice, I would be as quiet as a lamb. But I see nothing of the kind; you are all sitting still in your houses, and waiting till they come to cut your throats. So as there must and shall be resistance of some kind, and it must begin by the lower instead of the higher, we must even take the lesser of two evils, and go on as we have done."

Armand Herval spoke, as was common with him when at all heated, with very little reverence or respect in his tone; but Albert of Morseiul was not of a character to suffer himself to be irritated in the slightest degree by any want of formal respect. No man knew better how to preserve his own dignity without making any exaction, and he accordingly replied, with perfect calmness,--

"I should be sorry, Armand, that our good friend Brown Keroual should persist in conduct which may make a division amongst different classes of the Protestants, at the very moment that we require union for our common safety. You will therefore let him know at once, that I am determined, upon my own lands, to put an end to this system; that my forest and my moors shall no longer hold these chauve-souris. The day after to-morrow I shall begin my operations, and as I know the country as well as any man in it, shall have no difficulty in putting my plans in execution. Keroual knows me for a man of my word, and I must not have one single man disguised and in arms any where within my jurisdiction at the end of three days from this time."

The man smiled with a grim but less dissatisfied look than the Count had expected. "They none of them wish to give you offence, sir," he replied, "and can easily move off your lands to others."

"That they must do," replied the Count, "but there is something more still to be said. When once off my lands, they may doubtless consider that the matter is at an end; but such is not the case."

"My Lord, if you follow us off your lands," said Armand, dropping farther disguise, and making use of the pronoun of the first person, "if you follow us off your own lands, you must take the consequences."

"I am always prepared to do so," replied the Count. "My purpose is not of course to follow any of you off my own lands, unless I am summoned to do so; but if I am summoned, which will immediately be the case if there be any renewal of outrages whatsoever, I shall most assuredly use my whole power, and employ my whole means, to put down that which I know to be wrong."

The man to whom he spoke gazed sternly upon the ground for a moment or two, and seemed to be struggling with various contending feelings. "Come, my Lord Count," he said at length, "I will tell you what. Every one who has served under you knows that you are as brave a man, as kind an officer, and as skilful a commander as any that ever lived, and we are all willing to do what we can to please you in your own way. If you would put yourself at our head, there is not a man amongst us that would not follow you to death itself.--No, but hear me out, my Lord; don't answer till you have heard.--We get quicker information than even you can get, for with us it flies from mouth to mouth like lightning. We have no long written letters, but as soon as a thing is known, one man tells it to another, and so it comes down here. Now we know what most likely you don't know, that every thing is settled in Paris for putting down the reformed religion altogether. We know, too, which I see you don't know, that the Duc de RouvrÉ has received orders from the court to resign the government of the province, and retire to Ruffigny, without presenting himself at the court. Now depend upon it, my Lord, before a fortnight be over, you will have to rouse yourself against this oppression, to make the voice of remonstrance heard in firmer tones, and with arms in your hand. You know it as well as I do, and I know you are no more afraid of doing it than I am; but only, like all the rest of the people about the court, you have gone mad concerning a thing called loyalty, and have got your head filled with ideas of respect and veneration for the King--simply because he is the King and wears a crown--when if the truth were known, he is not so much worthy of respect and veneration as any of our peasants who drive a team of oxen, with a whip of sheep leather, from one end of the field to the other. A selfish, voluptuous, adulterous tyrant----"

"Hush, hush," exclaimed the Count, "I can neither stay nor hear, if you proceed in such terms as those."

"Well, well," said the man, "though what I say is true, and you know it, my Lord Count, I wo'n't go on if it offends you. But what I was going to say besides is this. You have got your head filled with these ideas; you wish to do every thing respectfully and loyally; you wish to show the most profound respect for the law, and be compelled to resist before you do resist. But are our enemies doing the same towards us? Are they showing any respect for the law, or for justice, or good faith, honour, honesty, or treaties? No, no, they are taking step by step, and ruining us piecemeal! My Lord, you are like a man in a fortress, with a truce between him and a perfidious enemy, who takes advantage of his good nature to get possession of one outpost after another, then marches over the glacis, lodges himself on the counterscarp, erects his batteries, points his cannon, and says, 'Now, surrender, or I'll blow you to pieces!' This is what you are suffering to be done, my Lord; and, at one word, if you, Count, will come and put yourself at our head to resist oppression, you shall have two hundred men at one whistle; and ere five days be over you shall have two thousand; before ten days ten thousand. Will you do it?"

"Undoubtedly not," replied the Count. "Were the time to come that all other means having failed, I should be forced to stand upon my own defence, and the defence of my fellow Protestants, I would openly plant my banner on the hill of Morseiul, stand upon the straightforward justice of my cause, point to the unvarying loyalty of my life, and demand simple justice for myself and my brethren."

"And you would find all confusion and consternation in your own party," replied the man, "not a skeleton even of a regiment ready to support you, the timid abandoning you, and the brave unprepared. You would find, on the other side, the enemy upon you before you knew where you were; instead of justice you would get persecution, and, before a fortnight was over, your head would be rolling about the Place de GrÈve. Well, well, be it so!--I will help you yet, my Lord, whether you like it or not, and when the day of danger comes, you may find Brown Keroual and his band nearer to your hand than you imagine. In the mean time, we will keep as quiet as may be. But if you hear of a few Jesuits and Lazarites being hung, you must not be surprised, that's all.--Have you any thing farther to say to me, my Lord? for it is now quite dark; and, like a sober peaceable man," he added with a laugh, "I must be going home to supper. One or two of my companions may come to fetch me, too."

"I have nothing farther to say, Armand," replied the Count, "except, perhaps, it were a word of caution about that young person I saw with you just now; and who, I must say, I was sorry to see with you."

"Why, my Lord, why?" demanded the man quickly; "you don't suppose I would do her hurt. I would not injure her, so help me God! for the whole world. If you had not come up, I should have taken her back in five minutes."

"I do not suppose you would wrong her, Herval," said the Count, "by no means do I suppose such a thing; but she out here with you, with a novice's veil on! She is evidently some Roman Catholic girl in a monastery, and I would have you cautious on that account."

"Oh, my lord," replied the man, "the time for caution is all over now. We are soon coming to a setting to rights of all those things. Quiet cannot be kept up above a fortnight longer, and then the doors of more than one convent will be as wide open as the sea. One of three things must then happen. We shall either have established our rights, and my little novice will be out of her fetters; or we shall be defeated and I killed, and that matter over; or defeated, yet living and flying away with her, pretty soul, to some country where we may be united in peace."

"Yes, yes," replied the Count; "but you do not reflect what you may bring upon her head in the mean time. She may be removed from that convent to another, where you can never reach her. If these wanderings with you are detected, she may be subjected too to punishments and penances, such as you have no idea of."

The man laughed aloud. "No fear, my Lord, no fear," he said; "the good mothers dare no more send her away than they dare lose their right hand. They would fancy the convent in flames the very first night she slept out of it. Why, she is their guardian angel, at least so they think; and she is specially appointed to bring their tribute, consisting of a silver crown and a flask of wine, twice in the week to Brown Keroual, in virtue of which they obtain his protection against all bands and companies whatsoever. The only stipulation they made when the tribute was demanded, was, that he was on no account to tell the director; and when the director, who is a greater old woman than any one amongst them, heard it in confession, he added, a fifteen sous piece once a week for himself, with no other stipulation than that Brown Keroual was not to tell the Bishop; so that twice in the week the dear child brings me the tribute--ay, and the real tribute, for which I sought, of her own sweet company. Nobody dares watch her, nobody dares follow her; and as she is always absent the same time, and always back again before the bat's wing is to be seen flitting in the air, they ask no questions, but judging the distance long, exempt her from vespers, that she may accomplish it more easily. And now, my Lord Count," he continued, "I must leave you, for my people will be waiting for me. I think where we now stand is off your lordship's ground, for I could not well give up this meeting place. But farther than this, I shall not come, till the time when you shall be very willing to thank Brown Keroual for his help."

The Count made no reply to his words, but wishing him good night, he left him, and rejoined his servants. He then rode quickly homeward, but was somewhat surprised, as he climbed the steep towards the castle, to see a full blaze of light pouring through the windows of the lesser hall. On entering the gates, however, he saw several horses and servants in the liveries of the Chevalier d'Evran, and found his friend seated at supper in the hall above.

"You see, Albert," said the Chevalier, rising and grasping his hand as he came in, "you see what liberties I take, and what account I make of your friendship. Here I come, and order all sorts of viands without ceremony, simply because I have ridden hard and am desperately an hungred."

His countenance was frank and open, though not perhaps so cheerful in its expression as usual; his manner was free and unembarrassed, and seemed not as if any thing that had occurred at Poitiers would have the slightest tendency to diminish the friendship and intimacy that existed between him and the Count. Albert of Morseiul, however, could not feel exactly the same. He could not divest his mind of a vague feeling of jealous disquietude in regard to the confident intimacy which seemed to exist between the Chevalier d'Evran and ClÉmence de Marly. However hopeless might be his own love towards her--however much he might have taught himself that despair was in his case wisdom--however strong might be his resolutions to resist every temptation to seek her society any more, there was something painful to him that he could not overcome, in the idea of the Chevalier being constantly at her side; and although his regard and affection for his friend were not diminished, yet there was an unpleasant feeling at his heart when he saw him, which perhaps might make some difference in his manner.

"Many thanks for doing so, Louis," he answered, struggling hard against his own feelings, "many thanks for doing so. What news bring you from Poitiers?"

The Chevalier did not appear to feel any difference in the manner of his friend, and replied, "But little news, Albert, and that not good. I was but one day in Poitiers before I set off in haste. I found every thing in confusion and derangement. The states split into factions; the governor, the intendant, and the bishop, at open war with each other; cabals of the basest and blackest character going on in every quarter of the town; good Madame de RouvrÉ wishing her husband any thing but a governor; and ClÉmence de Marly looking pale, ill, and sorrowful. I stayed but a sufficient time," he continued, not giving the Count an opportunity to make any observations, "I stayed but a sufficient time to make myself thoroughly acquainted with all that was proceeding, and then set off at once for the purpose of proceeding to Paris with all speed. I came to spend two or three hours with you, Albert, at the most, for I must hurry on without delay. The King, you know, is my godfather, and I trust that my representation of what is taking place at Poitiers may do some good. If it do not, de RouvrÉ is ruined, and a most pitiful intrigue triumphant."

"I trust in Heaven that you may be successful," replied the Count; "but proceed with your supper, d'Evran."

"I will, I will," replied the Chevalier, "but will you let me give you one more proof of how much at home I can make myself in your house, by giving an order to your servants?"

"Most assuredly," replied the Count; "you have nothing to do but to speak."

"It is this, then," said the Chevalier; "you will be good enough, Master Jerome Riquet, to make all these worthy gentlemen who are assisting you to serve my supper march out of the room in single file. Now come, Master Riquet, do it in an officer-like way. You have seen service, I know."

Riquet seemed well pleased at the honourable task conferred upon him, and according to the Chevalier's direction made the servants troop out of the room one by one, he himself preparing to remain as a confidential person to serve the Count and his friend during the conversation which he doubted not was to ensue. The Chevalier, however, as soon as he saw himself obeyed so far, again raised his voice, saying,--

"Now, Master Riquet, you have executed the manoeuvre so well, that it is a pity your men should be without their officer. You will be good enough to follow them."

Riquet made a sort of semi-pirouette on the tips of his toes, and disappointed, though perhaps not surprised, marched out of the room, and shut the door.

"Albert," said the Chevalier, as soon as he was gone, "I am afraid, very much afraid, that all is lost for the cause of you Huguenots. There are people about the King, who must be mad to counsel him as they do. All the news I have, which perhaps you know already, is as sad as it can be. There wants but one more step to be taken for the utter abolition of what you call the reformed religion in France--I mean the abolition of the privileges granted by the edict of Nantes--and perhaps that step will be taken before I can reach Paris."

"So quickly?" exclaimed the Count.

"Even so!" rejoined his friend. "All the mad-like steps which have been taken by the council have been applauded by one general roar of the whole clergy of France. Petition after petition has come in from every Catholic body through the land, beseeching the King to do you every sort of injustice, and I feel convinced that they are persuading him, while he is risking a civil war, ruining his provinces, and exasperating some of his most faithful subjects, that he is acting justly, politicly and religiously, and is, in short, a saint upon earth, notwithstanding all his mistresses. I pretend to no power over the King or influence with him, except inasmuch as I can often say to him, in my wild rambling way, things that nobody else could say, and dare to tell him under the same cloak many an unpleasant fact that others will not tell him. However, my object now is to open his eyes about de RouvrÉ, to whom I am too deeply bound by ties of gratitude to see him injured and calumniated, if I can help it. I would fain ask you, Albert, what you intend to do, how you intend to act, when these rash measures are pushed to the extreme against you; but yet it is unfair to give you the pain of refusing me, and perhaps unwise to seek a share in secrets which I ought not to know, or, knowing, to reveal."

"As far as any thing has yet passed," replied the Count, "there is nothing either to conceal or to reveal, Louis. It will be difficult for the King to tire out my loyalty. I am determined to bear to the very utmost. What I shall do when the very utmost bound of endurance is passed I do not know, having as yet settled nothing in my own mind."

"I cannot think," continued the Chevalier, "that the King will individually treat you ill, who have served him so well; but with regard to your religion, depend upon it the utmost extremes are determined upon already."

"I grieve to hear it," replied the Count, "but it is not more than I expected. The rapidity of these measures gives no time for calm and loyal remonstrance or petition to make the King aware of the real truth."

"Such is indeed the case," said the Chevalier. "Couriers are arriving at Poitiers and taking their departure again five or six times in the day, killing the horses on the road, setting off fat men themselves and returning thin.--I know this is no joking matter, Albert, and I am anxious to do what little good I can. I am therefore going to follow the example of these couriers, and as soon as I have seen the King, and obtained some satisfaction on these matters, I shall return hither with all speed to watch the progress of events, and if possible to shield and protect my friends. In this quarter of the world," he added, holding out his hand to the Count with a frank smile, "in this quarter of the world are all those for whom I entertain any very sincere affection; de RouvrÉ, who has befriended me from my youth, and never lost an opportunity of serving me; you, Albert, who have been my companion for many years in perils and dangers, to whom I owe the immense benefit of a good example, and the no less inestimable blessing of a noble mind to communicate with under all circumstances."

"And ClÉmence de Marly," said the Count, with a melancholy smile, "of course you will add ClÉmence de Marly, Chevalier."

"Assuredly," replied the Chevalier, "assuredly, Albert, I will add ClÉmence de Marly. I will not ask you, Albert, why you look at me reproachfully. ClÉmence, I believe from my heart, loves you, and I scruple not to tell you so. If it were not for the cursed obstacle of your religion, you might both be happy. That is a terrible obstacle, it is true; but were it not for that--I say--you might both be happy, and your example and her love for you might do away the only faults she has, and make her to you a perfect angel, though there is not one other man in France, perhaps, whom she could endure or render happy. She also, and her fate, are amongst the objects of my journey to Paris; but of that I shall tell you nothing till I can tell you all."

"I know you are a man of mysteries," said the Count with a faint smile, "and therefore I suppose I must neither attempt to investigate this, nor to enquire how it is, that the gay and gallant Chevalier d'Evran is in one way insensible to charms which he is so sensible of in other respects."

"You are right, Albert, not to make any such attempt," replied the Chevalier. "With respect to love for ClÉmence, a thousand causes may have produced the peculiar feelings I entertain towards her. I may have loved and been cured."

The Count made no reply, but fell into a reverie; and after gazing on him for a minute or two the Chevalier added, "You, Albert, love her, and are not cured."

His friend, however, was still silent, and, changing the conversation, the Chevalier talked of indifferent things, and did not return to subjects of such painful interest, till midnight came, and he once more took his departure from the chÂteau of Morseiul.