"I am astonished, Sir, that you should presume to interfere," said the Chevalier d'Evran, speaking to the Intendant of the province, whom he had found on riding down to the post of the second in command, in order to ascertain what was the cause of the attack having been so long delayed in that quarter. "I am astonished that you should presume to interfere at all. The weak gentlemen who have hitherto been commanding in this country have been indulgent to such insolence: but you will find very different consequences if you attempt to practise it upon me."

"Insolence, Sir!--Insolence!" exclaimed the intendant, foaming with rage and mortified pride at being thus addressed in the presence of many hundreds of witnesses. "Insolence in me!--Why, who am I, Sir? Am I not the intendant of justice, police, and finance in this province?"

"Yes, Sir, insolence!" replied the Chevalier d'Evran. "You are the intendant of justice, police, and finance; but before I assumed the command of the King's forces in this province, you yourself had required martial law to be proclaimed, so that you not only put every one else under the authority of the military power, but yourself also; and, by heavens, if you stare in my face in that manner one moment longer, I will have you hanged up to yonder tree. Bring a drum here," he continued, "and summon four officers from the regiments of Lorraine and Berry. We will soon see who is to command here."

The unfortunate intendant turned as pale as ashes; for the gallantry and decision which the Chevalier d'Evran had shown since he assumed the command, were of a very impressive character, and gave weight to his threats. The officer who had laid the complaint against him, however, now interfered. "For God's sake, General," he said, "have mercy upon this poor man, and consider what will be the result of calling a drum-head court-martial."

"I should always be very willing, Sir," replied the Chevalier, drawing up his fine person to its full height, "I should always be very willing to attend to your recommendations; but, Sir, in the course of this night and the preceding day, I have obtained two great and signal successes over this body of insurgents; and I think that those successes will fully justify me in the eyes of the King, for punishing with such authority as is vested in my hands the person to whom we may attribute that our success was not complete, by the annihilation of the Huguenot party in the province. If the intendant chooses immediately to make a humble apology for what has passed, and to promise in the most solemn manner never to interfere in any one thing in my camp, or under my command, I will so far overlook the matter for the time, as not to carry this extreme measure into execution against him at once. But, in the mean time, I will hold it suspended over his head, and if required, execute it on the moment."

The apologies and promises were as full and ample as the Chevalier could demand; and, leaving strict orders that the worthy intendant should be kept in a sort of honourable surveillance in the camp, the Chevalier turned his horse's head, and rode back with his staff towards the village, smiling slightly over what had just passed, for, to say the truth, he had been acting a part much more harsh and severe than he was inclined to pursue in reality. The truth is, that after the engagement of the preceding morning, the intendant had shown some disposition to take possession of one or two prisoners that had fallen into the royalists' hands, for the purpose of employing the rack and the wheel in their conversion; but the Chevalier, having determined from the first to put a stop to such measures, had evaded all discussion for the time, very sure that ere long the intendant would give him an opportunity of depriving him, at least for the time, of all authority in the province.

The smile, however, was soon succeeded by a somewhat more anxious expression; for knowing as he did that ClÉmence de Marly was in the camp of the Huguenots, he was not a little apprehensive of what might have been her fate in the course of the struggle of that night. He had given particular instructions regarding her, however; had made it so fully understood, that he would have no unnecessary bloodshed, and had exhorted his troops and inferior officers so eloquently to regard the Protestants merely as erring brothers, as soon as the arms were out of their hands, that he felt little or no apprehension of any excesses being committed after the engagement. As soon, then, as he had ascertained that Mademoiselle de Marly was in the farmhouse on the top of the hill, and was perfectly safe, he contented himself with sending a message to her, telling her that he would visit her in the morning, and begging her in the mean time to put her mind completely at ease. He then proceeded to investigate the amount of his own loss, and that of the Huguenots. Nearly an equal number had fallen on each side; but the army of the Chevalier d'Evran could afford to lose a thousand men without any serious diminution of its strength, while the same loss on the part of the Protestant force reduced it in a lamentable degree.

"Now," thought the Chevalier, when he heard the result of the inquiries that he caused to be made, "if I can but drive Albert of Morseiul to the sea, and force him to embark with the most determined of his sect, while the others lay down their arms and conform, we shall do very well. These battles were necessary to dishearten the desperate fellows, and to give me power to do them good, and treat them mercifully. But we may change our system now, and press them hard without losing the lives of gallant men. What this old Cecil tells me of the mistake about the liberation, may, if properly shown, mitigate a part of the King's anger towards Albert; but it will never do the whole, and I fear flight is his only resource. This offer that he has made, however, stands desperately in the way, and yet it must be communicated to the King. I dare not conceal it."

While he thus thought, sitting in the room of one of the cottages, information was brought him that one of the wounded Huguenots, who was kept with other prisoners in a barn hard by, was very anxious to see him.

"I will come immediately," he replied to the officer, and then sitting down, he wrote a brief despatch to Louvois, in which he detailed all the events that had occurred; but at the same time, knowing the views of the minister, he intimated that the only means of keeping the extent of the insurrection from the King's knowledge, and from general publicity throughout the whole of Europe, would be to give him the full power of pardoning all men on laying down their arms. He begged the minister to believe that he had not the slightest desire whatsoever that the little services he had performed should be reported to Louis; but at the same time he pointed out that those services could not be ultimately beneficial, unless the power that he demanded was granted to him, and all other authority in the province superseded for at least one month. He felt very sure that this would be granted by Louvois, as that minister had become greatly alarmed, and had openly expressed to the young commander his anxiety lest the extent of the revolt which had taken place in consequence of measures he had advised, should ruin him for ever with the King. The Chevalier trusted, also--although he was obliged, in the end of his epistle, to state the proposal made by the Count de Morseiul--that the powers granted by the minister would be such as to enable him to serve that nobleman.

When this despatch was concluded, and sent off, he demanded where the person was who had wished to see him, and was led to a small out-house close by the farm in which ClÉmence abode. The door, which was padlocked, and at which a sentry appeared, was opened to give him admission, and he found stretched upon piles of straw on the floor of the building two or three men, apparently in a dying state, and another seated in a somewhat extraordinary attitude in one corner of the shed. The sight was very horrible; the straw in many parts was stained with blood, and anguish was legibly written on the pale countenances of the dying.

"Who was the prisoner that wished to speak with me?" said the Chevalier, going in; but they each answered by claiming to be heard: one demanding a little water, one asking to be taken into the open air, and one who, before the words had fully passed his lips, lay a corpse upon the straw, asking pardon and life, and promising obedience and conversion. The Chevalier ordered every thing that could make them comfortable to be supplied as far as possible, adding some sharp reproaches to his own people for the state in which he found the wounded: and he then said, "But there was some one who, as I understood, wished to speak with me more particularly."

"It was I," said the man who was sitting down in the corner, at once starting up into the likeness of Jerome Riquet; while at the same moment another faint voice from the farther part of the building said, "It was I, General. I told the officer who came here, that I would fain see you about the Count de Morseiul."

"Riquet," said the Chevalier, "I will attend to you presently. You seem well, and unhurt; answer me three questions, and I may say something that will satisfy you in return. Have you been engaged in this unfortunate business simply as the servant of the Count de Morseiul?"

"As nothing else, upon my word, Sir," replied Riquet.

"Are you a Catholic or a Protestant?"

"As Catholic as salt fish on a Friday," replied Riquet. "Surrounded on all sides by heretics, I was at one time in great fear for myself, like a man in a city where there is a plague. But bless you, Sir, I found it was not catching, and here I am more Catholic than ever."

"Have you, then, in any instance, borne arms in this war?" demanded the Chevalier.

"No, on my honour, Chevalier," replied the valet. "No arms have I borne except a shaving-brush, a razor, a pair of tweezers, and a toothpick."

"Well, then," replied the Chevalier, "I can promise you pardon; but remember you are a prisoner on parole. Do you give me your word that you will not try to escape?"

"Lord bless you, Sir," replied the man, "I would not escape for the world. I am with the winning side. You don't suppose Riquet's a fool, to go over to the poor devils that you're driving into the sea!"

"Scoundrel!" said a deep but faint voice from the other side of the building; and telling Riquet to bring the light with him, the Chevalier advanced to the spot, where, stretched upon the straw, in the most remote corner of the shed, lay the unfortunate Armand Herval, dying from the effects of at least twenty wounds. As soon as the eyes of the wounded man fell upon Riquet, he exclaimed, angrily,--"Get thee hence, traitor! Let me not see your face, scoundrel! To abandon thus your noble lord at the first moment of misfortune!"

"You mistake, Monsieur," replied Riquet quietly--"I am not a bit more of a scoundrel than you are, Monsieur Herval, nor, indeed, of a traitor either: every one serves his lord in his own way, Master Herval, that's all. You in your way, and I in mine. If you had waited a little, to hear what I had to say to the Chevalier, you would have seen that I was quite as ready to make sacrifices for my Lord as yourself."

"Herval!" said the Chevalier, as he listened to their conversation; "that name is surely familiar to me."

"Well it might be," answered Riquet; "for I dare say my Lord must have told you, Monsieur le Chevalier. This man, or I am much mistaken, would have killed the King himself, if my Lord had not prevented him."

"Indeed!" demanded the Chevalier. "Can we get any proof of this?"

"Proof, Sir?" replied the dying man; "it was on that account I sent for you. The Count de Morseiul is ruined; and the cause of the reformed church is over; and all this evil has happened through my fault. I have heard, too, that he has offered to surrender himself to the axe, in order to buy safety for the rest of us. But surely the King--let him be as great a tyrant as he may--will not murder the man that saved his life."

"The King, Sir, is no tyrant," replied the Chevalier, "but a generous and noble master to those who are obedient and loyal: even to the disobedient he is most merciful; and if this fact could be made known to him, and proved beyond all doubt, I feel perfectly convinced that he would not only pardon the Count de Morseiul for his past errors, but show him some mark of favour, in gratitude for what he has done."

"The King does know it," replied Herval, sharply; "the King must know it; for I have heard that the whole papers of HatrÉaumont fell into the hands of Louvois; and I have myself seen that foul tiger's name written to an order for my arrest as one of HatrÉaumont's accomplices."

"But that does not prove," replied the Chevalier, "that either the King or Louvois knew of this act of the Count's."

"It does prove it," replied the dying man; "for the only letter I ever wrote to HatrÉaumont in my life was to tell him that I had failed in my purpose of killing the tyrant; that every thing had gone fair till the Count de Morseiul came in between me and him, and declared, that I should take his life first. I told him all, every thing--how I got into the gardens of Versailles at night, and hid under the terrace where the King walked alone--how yon babbling fool betrayed my purpose to the Count, and he came and prevented me doing the deed I ought to have done, even if I had taken his life first. I told him all this, and I cursed the Count of Morseiul in my madness, over again and again--and now the man whose life he saved is seeking to bring him to the block."

"This is extraordinary and important," said the Chevalier: "I cannot believe that the King knows it. Louvois must have kept it from his ears. Will you make a deposition of this, my good fellow, as early to-morrow as we can get proper witnesses and a notary?"

"Early to-morrow?" said the man faintly, "early to-morrow, Chevalier?--I shall never see a to-morrow. Now is your only moment, and as for witnesses, quick, get paper and pen and ink. There is not half an hour's life in me. If you had come when first I sent, there would have been plenty of time. But now every moment is a loss."

"Quick, Riquet," cried the Chevalier, "bid the officer at the door run to my quarters, and bring down pen and ink and paper, without a moment's delay."

Riquet lost no time, and the Chevalier endeavoured as far as possible to keep Herval quiet till the means of writing were brought. The dying man would go on speaking, however, but with his voice becoming lower and lower, and his ideas evidently in some degree confused. Once or twice he spoke as if he were at Versailles, and in the presence of the King: then seemed as if he fancied himself conversing with HatrÉaumont; and then again pronounced the name of Claire more than once, and talked of happiness. When Riquet and the officer returned, however, with the materials for writing, he had still strength and recollection enough to commence his declaration in a formal manner.

"I, Armand Herval," he said, "do hereby declare, and on the bed of death affirm most solemnly, that had it not been that the Count de Morseiul prevented me, I would have shot the King of France, upon the terrace at Versailles, after the play, on the night before the arrest of the Chevalier de Rohan, and that all I said was perfectly true, in a letter which was written by me to Monsieur de HatrÉaumont, dated on the--I cannot recollect the day:" he added, in a lower tone, "it seems as if a mist had come over that part of my memory."

"Never mind," said the Chevalier, "go on, my good friend, go on, the date is unimportant."

"Was it the twenty-fourth or the twenty-fifth?" continued the man. "I cannot recollect for the life of me, your Majesty. It's a short life, too. Mine will soon be spent, and Claire's is all gone----"

He spoke very faintly, indeed; and the Chevalier said, "You forget, my friend, you forget. We were talking of the Count de Morseiul."

"Ah!" cried the man, with a greater effort, and starting up on the straw--"Ah, so we were.--What a fool I am!--Write it down, quick!--Write it down, quick!--But take your fingers off my throat!--Take your fingers off my throat!--I cannot speak if you stop my breath!--What's the use of putting out the light?--Why do you put out the light?--Oh, Heaven, it is death, it is death," and, falling back upon the straw, the strong frame shook for a moment, as if an ague had seized him, and then all was still.

The Chevalier d'Evran shut his teeth close, saying, "This is unfortunate. However, you are a witness, Riquet, to all that he said."

"Lord bless you, noble Sir," replied the valet, "nobody will believe a word that I say. I should consider my character ruined for ever if there was any body, in all Europe, that would believe me upon my oath."

"I had forgot," said the Chevalier, dryly; "your character is in no danger, I believe, on that score. But my word will be believed, and my voice, at least, shall be heard."

"Well, Sir," replied Riquet, perhaps a little piqued at the Chevalier's reply, "let me add my voice too; for though they may believe me in nothing else, they may, perhaps, believe me in a confession which will go to twist my own neck. I wish to be sent to the King, Sir; though if you can find out when he is in a good humour I should prefer it. But my object is to inform him that it was altogether my fault, and my foolishness, and my crime, that prevented the Count de Morseiul from going to Versailles as soon as he was liberated from the Bastille to throw himself at the King's feet. If it had not been for that aforesaid foolishness of mine he would never have come hither, would never have led the rebels at all, and most likely, by this time, would have been as high in the King's good graces as ever."

"I have heard all this before," said the Chevalier. "But are you positively resolved, my good friend, to go voluntarily and make confession of all these things?--Do you remember the consequences?--Do you think of the risks?"

"No, Sir," replied Riquet, "I do quite the contrary. I try to forget them all as fast as possible, being resolved to go at any rate, and, therefore, judging that the less I think about risks and consequences the better."

"By Heaven, thou art right," replied the Chevalier, "and thou shalt have a bottle of Burgundy, if there be one in the camp, to keep warm thy good philosophy. See, there is the grey of the morning coming in, and I may well go away satisfied with having found one man in the world who is not so great a scoundrel as I thought him."

The Chevalier returned to the hut in which he had established his quarters, and cast himself down for an hour's repose; but before the daylight had been long in the sky he was on foot again, and at the door of the farm-house which contained ClÉmence de Marly. He was immediately admitted; and, strange as it may seem, if the Count de Morseiul had witnessed that meeting, it would certainly have wrung his heart more than the loss of a great battle. The royalist commander advanced at once to his fair prisoner, and, putting his arms slightly round her, kissed her cheek without any apparent reluctance on her part; and her first exclamation was, "Oh, Louis, I am glad to see you safe! You know not how my heart is torn!"

"I dare say it is, my pretty ClÉmence," replied the Chevalier, in his usual light tone; "but you, who have been doing nothing else but tearing other people's hearts for the last five years, must take your turn now. You have placed me in a terrible predicament, however, thoughtless girl," he added. "You are obstinate as an Arragonese mule about this matter of religion, and will not be contented till you have got yourself roasted in this world as preparatory to----"

"But tell me, Louis--tell me about him!" demanded ClÉmence. "Is he safe? Has he escaped from this awful night?"

"I suppose you mean Morseiul, by he and him," said the Chevalier, "and if so, he is safe, as far as I know. He has escaped. That is to say, he has not been taken, thank God--though one time he was very near it; for, by the flash of the guns, I saw his face in the middle of our men:--but I dare say now, ClÉmence, that you would a thousand-fold rather have me killed than this heretic of yours?"

"Do not be unkind, Louis," replied ClÉmence--"I would of course rather have neither of you killed; but now that you have got me, tell me what is to be my fate?"

"Why, that question is difficult to answer," said the Chevalier; "Heaven knows, I did not want you, Madam. I was obliged to write you a formal summons to return, for mere decency's sake; but I certainly never expected you would obey it. You might have said, No, silly girl, without telling all the world that you had turned Huguenot--all for the love of a gallant knight."

"Nonsense, Louis! Do speak seriously," replied ClÉmence: "you very well know I was what you call a Huguenot long before."

"Not quite, ClÉmence! not quite!" cried the Chevalier: "you were what may be called Huguenoting. But this rash and imprudent determination of declaring your feelings, doubts, or whatever they may be, at the very moment when the sword of persecution is drawn, was, indeed, very silly, ClÉmence. What is to be done now is rendered doubly difficult, and I suppose I must of course connive at your escape. We must take means to have an intimation conveyed for some trading vessels to hover about the coast, to give you an opportunity of getting away till this fierce bigotry has gone by. It will not last long; and in a year or two, I doubt not, exiles will be permitted to return. The only difficulty will be to have the ships opportunely; but I think I can manage that."

"Oh, do, do, Louis!" exclaimed ClÉmence, eagerly. "That is all that can be desired; and pray try to persuade Albert to fly at once."

"Nay, nay," replied the Chevalier, laughing, "that must not be my task, ClÉmence. On that subject I dare not say a word. But you may well do what you will. I will take care that the means of flight to another country shall be provided for you, and you may take with you any one that is willing to go."

"But then," exclaimed ClÉmence, "I must have the opportunity of persuading him."

"Certainly," exclaimed the Chevalier: "the first thing you have to do is to get out of my camp as fast as you can. I would not have you three days here for the world; for as affairs go at present, I cannot answer that the power of protecting you will be left to me for three days. However," he added, after a moment's thought, "to-day you must stay and march on with us, and before to-morrow, I trust I shall be able to put you under such protection as will insure you safety and support in your flight; and now, pretty maid, I must leave you. We shall begin to march about noon. In the mean time there is a courier going to Montaigu, so send off thither for whatever you may need to make you comfortable. An easy horse shall be ready for you; and if at any time you may feel yourself inclined to gallop away, you may take him with you as a present from me. By the way, little heretic," he added, when he got to the door, "you will want money for your peregrinations."

"Oh, no," replied ClÉmence, "I have plenty. I have plenty, I assure you. I have near two hundred double louis which I took to the prison in hopes----."

"Little do you know of what you may want, silly girl," replied the Chevalier. "Why one of these very merchant ships may demand the half of that for carrying you over. Here," he added, drawing forth a leathern purse embroidered in gold--"I don't know how much there is here, but you must take it too; and if by any unforeseen circumstance you should need more when in England, draw on me what they call a bill of exchange."

ClÉmence took the money without ceremony, as if it were a mere matter of course, and only added, "Come and see me again before we march, Louis."

The Chevalier nodded his head and left her.