‘What is it?—what has happened?’ cried Gerald, as he awoke suddenly from a deep sleep, the first he had enjoyed after some nights of pain. ‘Oh, it is you, Count Dillon,’ and he tried to smile an apology for his abruptness.

‘Lie down again, my lad, and listen to me, patiently too, if you can, for I have tidings that might try your patience.’

‘I see you have bad news for me,’ said Gerald calmly; ‘out with it at once.’

The other made no reply, but turned toward him a look of compassionate tenderness.

‘Come, Count, uncertainty is the worst of penalties—what are your tidings?’

‘Tell me, first of all, Gerald, is it true that you supped on Friday last at Paris with a party, at the house of a certain Monsieur du Saillant, and there met Desmoulins, Rivarol, and several others of that party?’

‘Yes, quite true.’

‘And they drank patriotic toasts—which means that they pledged bumpers in insult to the court?’

‘They made an attempt to do so, which I resisted. I said that I would not sit there and hear one word to disparage my sovereign or his cause, on which one of them cried out, “And who are you who dares to prescribe to us how we are to speak, or what to toast?” “He is my friend,” said Du Saillant, “and that is enough.” “Nay,” broke in the others, “it is not enough. We have placed our necks in a halter, if this youth should turn out a spy of the court, or a Garde du Corps.” “And I am a Garde du Corps,” said I. “Parbleu!” said one, “I know him well now; he is the fellow they call the Ecossais—the Queen’s minion.” With that I struck him across the face—the others fell upon me, and pressed me toward the window, I believe, to throw me out; at all events there was a severe struggle, from which I escaped, roughly handled and bruised, into an adjoining room. Here they followed and arranged that meeting of which you have heard.’

‘You ran him through?’

‘Yes, a bad wound, I fear; but it was no time to measure consequences; besides, three others claimed to fight me.’

‘And did they?’

‘No, the affair stands over; for Carcassone—that’s his name—they thought was dying, and all their care was turned to him. Meanwhile I was bleeding tremendously, for he had cut a blood-vessel in my arm.’

‘Well, and then——’

‘Then I can’t well tell you what happened. I found myself in the street, with my cravat bound round my arm, and one man, they called Boulet, beside me. He said all he could to cheer me, bade me be of good heart, and that if I liked to make my fortune he would show me the way. “Come with me,” said he, “to the ‘Trois Étoiles,’ declare yourself for us: you are well known in Paris—every one has heard how the Queen likes you.” I tried to strike him, but I only tore off the bandage by my effort, and fell all bathed in blood on the pavement.’

‘And it was in that state you were found underneath the Queen’s window?’

‘I know no more,’ said Gerald drearily, as he lay back, and crossed his eyes with his hand. ‘I have a hundred confused memories of what followed, but can trust none of them. I can recall something of a calÈche driven furiously along, while I lay half-fainting within; something of wine or brandy poured down my throat; something of being carried in men’s arms, but through all these are drifting other thoughts, vague, incoherent, almost impossible.’

‘Is it true that the Queen, with one of her ladies, found you still lying in the garden when day broke?’

‘It may have been the Queen—I did not know her,’ said he despondently. ‘Now, then, for your tidings.’

‘You remember, of course, the events which have occurred since your illness, that you have been examined by a military commission, in presence of two persons deputed by the “States-General?”

‘Yes—yes, I have had two weary days of it; ten minutes might have sufficed for all I was going to tell them.’

‘So you really did refuse to answer the questions asked of you?’

‘I refused to speak of what was intrusted to my honour to preserve secret.’

‘Or even to tell by whom you were so intrusted?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you thus encountered the far worse peril of involving in an infamous slander the highest and purest name in France.’

‘I do not understand you,’ cried Gerald wildly.

‘Surely you know the drift of all this inquiry—you cannot be ignorant that it was to assail her Majesty with a base scandal that you were placed beneath her window, and so discovered in the morning, at the very moment of her finding you there. Are you not aware that no falsehood is too gross nor too barefaced not to meet credence if she be its object? Do not all they who plan the downfall of the monarchy despair of success while her graceful virtues adorn her high station? Is not every effort of the vile faction directed solely against her? Have you not witnessed how, one by one, have been abandoned all the innocent pleasures to which scandal attached a blame. The Trianon deserted—the graceful amusements she loved so well—all given up. Unable to meet slander face to face, she has tried to make it impossible, as if one yet could obliterate the venomous poison of this rancorous hate!’

‘And now,’ said Gerald, drawing a long breath, ‘and now for my part in this infernal web of falsehood.’

‘If you refused to state where you had passed the evening—why you wore a disguise, how you came by your wound—you must allow you furnished matter for whatever suspicion they desired to attach to you.’

‘They are free to believe of me what they may.’ ‘Ay, but not to include others in the imputation.’

‘I never so much as dreamed of that!’ said Gerald, with a weary sigh.

‘Well, boy, it is just what has happened; not that there lives one base enough to believe this slander, though ten thousand are ready to repeat it. There, see how the Gazette de Paris treats it, a journal that once held a high place in public favour. Read that.’

Gerald bent over the paper, and read, half aloud, the following paragraph:—

‘The young officer of the Garde du Corps examined by the Special Commission as to the extraordinary circumstances under which he was lately discovered in the garden of her Majesty, having refused all explanation either as to his disguise, his recent wound, or any reason for his presence there, has been adjudged guilty under the following heads: First, breach of military duty in absence from the Garde without leave; secondly, infraction of discipline in exchanging his uniform.’

‘Well, well!’ cried Gerald, ‘what is the end of all this?’

‘You are dismissed the service, boy!’ said Dillon sternly.

‘Dismissed the service!’ echoed he, in a broken voice.

‘Your comrades bore you no goodwill, Gerald; even that last scene in the Salle des Gardes had its unhappy influence on your lot. It was to the comment of the journalist, however, I had directed your attention. See there!’

And Gerald read:—

‘France will not, we assert, accept the degradation of this young officer as a sufficient expiation for what, if it means anything at all, implies a grave insult to the Majesty of the realm. In the name of an outraged public, we demand more than this. We insist on knowing how this youth, so devoid of friends, family, and fortune, became a soldier of the Garde—whence his title—who his patrons. To these questions, if not satisfactorily answered within a week, we purpose to append such explanations as mere rumour affords; and we dare promise our readers, if not all the rigid accuracy of an attested document, some compensation in what may fairly claim the interest of a very romantic story. Not ours the blame if our narrative comprise names of more exalted station than that of this fortunate adventurer.’

‘Fortunate adventurer! I am well called by such a title,’ exclaimed he bitterly. ‘And so I am dismissed the service!’

‘The sentence was pronounced yesterday, but they thought you too ill to hear it. I have, however, appealed against it. I have promised that if re-examined——’

‘Promise nothing for me, Count; I should reject the boon if they reinstated me to-morrow,’ said Gerald haughtily.

‘But remember, too, you must have other thoughts here than for yourself.’

‘I will leave France; I will seek my fortune elsewhere; I cannot live in a network of intrigue; I have no head for plots, no heart for subtleties. Leave me, therefore, Count, to my fate.’

In broken, unconnected sentences the youth declined all aid or counsel. There are moments of such misery that all the offices of friendship bring less comfort to the heart than a stern self-reliance. A rugged sense of independence supplies at such times both energy and determination. Mayhap it is in moments like these more of real character is formed than even years accomplish in the slower accidents of fortune.

‘This journalist, at least, shall render me satisfaction for his words,’ thought he to himself. ‘I cannot meet the whole array of these slanderers, but upon this one I will fix.’

‘By what mischance, Gerald, have you made Monsieur your enemy?’ asked the Count.

‘Monsieur my enemy!’ repeated Gerald, in utter amazement.

‘Yes. The rumour goes that when the commission returned their report to the King, his Majesty was mercifully inclined, and might have felt disposed to inflict a mere reprimand, or some slight arrest, when Monsieur’s persuasions prevailed on him to take a severer course.’

‘I cannot bring myself to credit this!’ cried Fitzgerald.

‘It is generally believed, nay, it is doubted by none, and all are speculating how you came to incur this dislike.’

‘It is hard to say,’ muttered Gerald bitterly.

‘This is for you, Fitzgerald,’ said a sergeant of the Corps, entering the room hastily. ‘You are to appear on the parade to-morrow, and hear it read at the head of your company,’ and with these words he threw an open paper on the table and withdrew.

‘Open shame and insult—this is too much,’ said Gerald. ‘You must appeal, Gerald; I insist upon it,’ cried Dillon.

‘No, sir. I have done with princes and royal guards. I could not put on their livery again with the sense of loyalty that once stirred my heart. Leave me, I pray, an hour or two to collect my thoughts and grow calm again. Good-bye for a short while.