The day had not yet dawned when Gerald, admirably disguised as a ProvenÇal peasant, arrived at the Avenue aux Abois. The night had been hot and sultry, and many of the windows of the houses were left open; but from none save one were any lights seen to gleam. This one was brilliant with the glare of wax-lights; and the sounds of merriment from within showed it was the scene of some festivity. Light muslin curtains filled the spaces of the open casements, through which at moments the shadowy traces of figures could be detected.

While Gerald stood watching, with some curiosity, this strange contrast to the unbroken silence around, a rich deep voice caught his ear, and seemed to awaken within him some singular memory. Where, and when, and how he had heard it before, he knew not; but every accent and every tone struck him as well known.

‘No, no, Mirabeau,’ broke in another; ‘when men throw down their houses, it is not to rebuild them with the old material.’

‘I did not speak of throwing down,’ interposed the same deep voice; ‘I suggested some safe and easy alteration. I would have the doors larger, for easy access; the windows wider, for more light.’

‘And more wood, generally, in the construction, for easy burning, I hope,’ chimed in a third.

‘Make your best provisions for stability: destruction will always be a simple task,’ cried the deep voice. ‘You talk of burning,’ cried he, in a louder tone; ‘what do you mean to do when your fire goes out? materials must fail you at last. What then? You will have heaped many a good and useful thing upon that pile you will live to regret the loss of. What will you do, besides, with those you have taught to dance round these bonfires?’

‘Langeac says it is an experiment we are trying,’ replied another; ‘and, for my part, I am satisfied to accept it as such.’

‘Nay, nay,’ interposed a soft, low voice; ‘I said that untried elements in government are an experiment only warrantable in extreme cases; just as the physician essays even a dangerous remedy, when he deems his patient hopeless.’

‘But it’s your own quackeries here have made all the mischief,’ broke in the deep voice. ‘If the sick man sink, it is yourselves have been the cause.’

‘Was there ever a royal cause that had not its own fatal influences?’ said another.

‘There is an absurd reliance on prestige, a trust in that phantom called Divine right, that blinds men against their better reason. This holiday faith is but a sorry creed in times of trouble.’

‘Far from this being the case,’ said the deep voice, ‘you will not concede to kings what you would freely grant to your equals. You reject their word, you distrust their oath, you prejudge their intentions, and suspect their honour.’

‘Why, Mirabeau, you ought to be at Versailles,’ said another, laughing. ‘The pavilion of the Queen is more your place than the table of the Tiers-État.’

‘So thinks he himself,’ broke in the low voice. ‘He expects to pilot the wreck after we have gone off on the raft.’

‘Four o’clock,’ exclaimed another, pushing his chair hastily back as he arose; ‘and here is D’Entraigues fast asleep these two hours.’

‘No, parbleu! muttered a drowsy voice. ‘I closed my eyes when the Bordeaux was finished, and began to reflect on Lafayette’s breakfast. Isn’t this the day?’

‘To be sure. You are coming, Mirabeau?’

‘Of course, we will all be there.’

‘I must be at St. Frotin by seven o’clock,’ said one.

‘And I have to see Marigni at the mill of Montmorency, by the same hour.’

‘A duel?’

‘Yes; they are both VendÉans, and may kill each other without damage to the State.’

‘He was going to say Republic!’ cried another, laughing.

‘Who talks of a Republic?’ interposed a rough voice angrily.

‘Be calm, messieurs—all religions are to be respected,’

‘True, Mirabeau; but this is to proclaim none.’

‘Who knows? They never excavate near Rome but they discover some long-forgotten deity! Can you or I venture to say what new faith may not arise out of these ashes?’

‘Let it but repudiate the law of debt and discountenance marriage,’ said another, ‘and I am its first convert.’

‘Good-bye, Mirabeau, adieu,’ cried several together, and they were now heard descending the stairs. Meanwhile, Mirabeau drew back the curtain and looked out upon the street.

‘Whom have we got here?’ said the first who issued forth from the door, and saw Gerald standing before him.

‘What is it? who does he want?’ cried Mirabeau, as he saw them in conversation.

‘One of your peasants, Mirabeau, with, doubtless, a Provencal cheese and some olives for you.’

‘Or a letter of loving tidings from that dear uncle,’ cried another; ‘the only one who ever knew the real goodness of your nature.’

‘Let him come up,’ said Mirabeau, as he closed the window.

When Gerald reached the top of the stair, he saw in front of him a large, powerfully-built man, who, standing with his back to the light, had his features in deep shadow.

‘You are the Count de Mirabeau?’ began Gerald.

‘And you—who are you?’ responded he quickly.

‘That you shall know, when I am certain of whom I am addressing/

‘Come in,’ said the Count, and walked before him into the room. He turned about just as the door closed, and Gerald, fixing his eyes upon him, cried out, ‘Good heavens! is it possible? Signor Gabriel!’

‘Now for your own name, my friend,’ said Mirabeau calmly.

‘Don’t you know me, then? don’t you remember the boy you saved years ago from death in the Roman Maremma—Fitzgerald?’

‘What!’ said Mirabeau, in the same calm voice, ‘you Fitzgerald? I should never have recognised you.’

‘And are you really the Count de Mirabeau?’

‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, is my name,’ replied he slowly. ‘How did you find me out? What chance led you here?’

‘No chance, nor accident. I have come expressly to see and speak with you. I am a Garde du Corps, and have assumed this disguise to gain access to you unremarked.’

‘A Garde du Corps!’ said the Count, in some surprise.

‘Yes, Signor Gabriel. My life has had its turns of good and ill fortune since we parted—the best being that I serve a great prince and a kind master.’

‘Well said, but not over-prudent words to utter in the Faubourg St. Antoine,’ rejoined the Count, smiling. ‘Go on.’

‘I have come with a message from Monsieur, to desire you will hasten immediately to St. Cloud, where he will meet you. Secrecy and speed are both essential, for which reasons he intrusted me with a mere verbal message, but to secure me your confidence he gave me this ring.’

Mirabeau smiled, and with such a scoffing significance that Gerald stopped, unable to proceed further.

‘And then?’ said Mirabeau.

‘I have no more to add, Monsieur,’ said Gerald haughtily. ‘My commission is fulfilled already.’

‘Take some wine; you are heated with your long ride,’ said the Count, filling out a large goblet, while he motioned to Gerald to be seated.

‘Nay, sir; it is not of me there is time to think now. Pray, let me have your answer to my message, for Monsieur told me, if I either failed to find you, or from any casualty you were unable to repair to St. Cloud, that I should come back with all speed to apprise him, my not returning being the sign that all went well.’

‘All went well,’ muttered Mirabeau to himself. ‘How could it go worse?’

Gerald sat gazing in wonderment at the massive, stern features before him, calling up all that he could remember of their first meeting, and scarcely able, even yet to persuade himself that he had been the companion of that great Count de Mirabeau whose fame filled all France.

‘In the event of my compliance, you were then to accompany me to St. Cloud?’ said the Count, in a tone of inquiry.

‘Yes, sir; so I understood my orders.’

‘There is mention in history of a certain Duc de Guise——’

He stopped short, and walked to and fro for some time in silence; then, turning abruptly around, he asked: ‘How came it that you stood so high in Monsieur’s confidence that he selected you for this mission?’

‘By mere accident,’ said Gerald, and he recounted how the incident had occurred.

‘And your horse—what has become of him?’ asked the Count.

‘He is fastened to the ring of the large porte cochÈre—the third house from this.’

Mirabeau leaned out of the window as if to satisfy himself that this statement was true.

‘Supposing, then, that I agree to your request, what means have you to convey me to St. Cloud?—what preparations are made?’

‘None, sir. There was no time for preparation. It was, as I have told you, late last night when Monsieur gave me this order. It was in the briefest of words.’

‘"Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau that his Majesty would speak with him,”’ said the Count, suggesting to Gerald’s memory the tenor of his message.

‘No, sir. “Tell Monsieur de Mirabeau to hasten to St. Cloud, where I will meet him.”’

‘How did you become a noble guard?’ asked he quickly. ‘They say abroad that the difficulties to admission are great?’

‘I owe my admission to the favour of Madame de Bauflremont, sir.’

‘A great patron, none more so. She would have befriended me once,’ added he, with an insolent sneer, ‘but that my ugliness displeased the Queen. Since that time, however, her Majesty has condescended to accustom herself to these harsh features, and even smiles benignly on them. There is little time to criticise the visage of your pilot, while the breakers are before and the rocks beside you. I will go, Gerald. Give me that ring.’

Gerald hesitated for a second; the Prince had not bestowed the ring on him, but only confided it to his care.

‘I will not compromise you, young man,’ said Mirabeau gravely: ‘I will simply enclose that ring in a letter which you shall see, when I have written it,’ and he immediately sat down to a table, and in a rapid hand dashed off some lines, which he threw across to Gerald to read. They ran thus:

‘Dear Friend and Nephew,—I am summoned to a meeting at St. Cloud, by the owner of the ring which I enclose. If I do not return to Paris by noon on Saturday, it is because ill has befallen yours,

‘Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau.

‘To Mons. du Saillant, Rue d’Ascour, 170. ‘Friday, 3 a.m,’

‘There is the ring,’ said Gerald, as he took it from his finger.

Mirabeau sealed the note, enclosing it in a strong envelope, and placing it on the table among other letters, ready sealed and addressed.

‘You will carry this letter to its address, Gerald, and you will remain there till—till my return.’

‘I understand,’ said Gerald; ‘I am a hostage.’

‘You a hostage for me!’ cried the other haughtily. ‘Do you fancy, young man, that the whole corps you belong to could requite the loss of Gabriel Riquetti? Would the Court—would the Assembly—would France accept such a price? Go, sir, and tell Monsieur du Saillant that if any evil befall his uncle, he is to make use of you as the clue to trace it, and be sure that you discharge this trust well.’

‘And if I refuse this mission?’

‘If you refuse, you shall bear back to Monseigneur the reasons for which I have not obeyed his commands,’ said Mirabeau coldly. ‘Methought you remembered me better. I had fancied you knew me as one who had such confidence in himself, that he believed his own counsels the wisest, and who never turned from them. There is the letter—yes or no?’

‘Yes—I will take it.’

‘I will, with your leave, avail myself of your horse till I pass the barrier. You can meanwhile take some rest here. You will be early enough with Du Saillant by eight o’clock,’ and with this the Count withdrew into a room adjoining to complete his preparations for the road. While thus occupied, he left the door partly open, and continued to converse with Gerald, asking him various questions as to what had befallen him after having quitted the Tana, and eagerly entering into the strange vicissitudes of his life as a stroller.

‘I met your poet, I think it was at Milan. We were rivals at the time, and I the victor. A double insult to him, since he hated France and Frenchmen,’ said the Count carelessly. ‘There was a story of his having cut the fingers of his right hand to the bone with a razor, to prevent his assassinating me. What strange stuff your men of imagination are made of—ordinary good sense had reserved the razor for the enemy!’

‘His is a great and noble nature,’ exclaimed Gerald enthusiastically.

‘So much the better, then, is it exercised upon fiction: real events and real men are sore tests to such temperaments. There, I am ready now; one glass to our next meeting, and good-bye.’

With a hearty shake-hands they parted, and as Gerald looked from the window, he saw the Count ride slowly down the street. Closing the window, he threw himself upon a couch and slept soundly.