I had taken up my quarters in one of the small streets which lead from the Strand to the river; a very humble abode it was, and such as suited very humble fortune. When I arrived there, after the interview I have related, I sat down and wrote a short account of the events of my life, so far as they were known to me. I subjoined any letters and documents that I possessed which gave confirmation to my statement, addressing the entire to the minister, with the request that if my capacity could fit me for any employment in the public service, he would graciously make a trial of me; and if not, that he would enable me to return to France, where a livelihood at least was procurable.

This I despatched on a Tuesday morning, and it was not until the following Saturday that I obtained my reply. I cannot think of that painful interval even now without a shudder. The torture of suspense had risen to a fever, and for the last day and night I neither ate nor slept. On Saturday came a brief note, in these words: “J. C. may call at Hounslow before ten to-morrow.”

It was not signed, nor even dated; and so I was left to surmise if it had reached me in fitting time. It was scarcely eight o'clock on Sunday morning as I found myself standing beside the wicket of the garden, which seemed as deserted and desolate as before. At an open window, however, on the ground floor I saw a breakfast-table laid out; and as I looked, a lady and gentleman entered, and took their places at it. One was, I knew, the minister. The lady, who was a tall and dignified person rather than a handsome one, bore some resemblance to him. Her quick glance detected me from afar, and as quickly she called attention to my presence there. Mr. Pitt arose and beckoned me to come forward, which I did, with no small shame and embarrassment.

While I stood at the hall-door, uncertain whether to knock or wait, it was opened by the minister himself, who kindly wished me good-morning, and desired me to follow him.

“This is the youth himself, Hester,” said he, as we entered the room; “and I have no doubt he will be happy to answer any questions you may put to him.”

The lady motioned to me to be seated, and in a grave, almost severe tone, said,—

“Who composed this paper,—this narrative of yours?”

“I did, madam.”

“The whole of it?”

“Yes, madam, the whole of it.”

“Where have you been educated?”

“At Reichenau, madam.”

“Where is that?”

“In Switzerland, on the frontiers of the Vorarlberg.”

“And your parents are both dead, and you have actually none in the shape of relatives?”

“Not one, madam.”

She whispered something here to the minister, who quickly said,—

“Certainly, if you wish it.”

“Tell me, sir,” said she, addressing me again, “who is this same Count de Gabriac, of whom mention is made here. Is he the person called Couvre-TÊte in the circles of the Jacobins?”

“I never have heard him so called, madam.”

“You know him at least to be of that party?”

“No, madam. The very little I do know of him personally would induce me to suppose the opposite.”

She shook her head, and gave a faint supercilious smile, as though in total disbelief of my words.

“If you have read my memoir, madam,” said I, hastily, “you will perceive how few have been the occasions of my meeting with the Count, and that, whatever his politics, I may be excused for not knowing them.”

“You say that you went along with him to Paris?”

“Yes, madam, and never saw him afterwards.”

“You have heard from him, however, and are, in fact, in correspondence with him?”

“No, madam, nothing of the kind.”

As I said this, she threw the paper indignantly on the table, and walked away to the window. The minister followed her, and said something in a low whisper, to which she replied aloud,—

“Well, it's not my opinion. Time will tell which of us was more right.”

“Tell me something of the condition of parties in France,” said he, drawing his chair in front of mine. “Are the divisions as wide as heretofore?”

I will not go over the conversation that ensued, since I was myself the principal speaker. Enough if I say that I told him whatever I knew or had heard of the various subdivisions of party: of the decline of the terrorists, and the advent to power of men who, with equal determination and firmness, yet were resolute to uphold the laws and provide for the security of life and property. In the course of this I had to speak of the financial condition of the country; and in the few words that fell from me, came the glimpses of some of that teaching I had obtained from the Herr Robert.

“You appear to have devoted attention to these topics,” said he, with a smile. “They are scarcely the subjects most attractive to youth. How came that to pass?”

“By an accident, sir, that made me acquainted with the son of one who, if not a great financier, was at least the most notorious one the world has ever seen,—Robert Law, of Lauriston.” And at a sign from him to continue, I related the whole incident I referred to. He listened to me throughout with deep attention.

“These papers that you speak of,” said he, interrupting, “would certainly be curious, if not actually valuable. They are still at the Rue Quincampoix?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Well, the day may come when they may be obtainable. Meanwhile, of this Count, this Monsieur de Gabriac,—for I want to hear more of him,—when did he arrive in England?”

“I did not know that he was here, sir.”

He looked at me calmly, but with great intentness, as I said this; and then, as if satisfied with his scrutiny, drew a small case from his pocket, and, opening it, held it before me.

“Is this a portrait of the Count de Gabriac?”

“Yes, and a striking likeness,” replied I, promptly.

“And you know his business in England, young man?” said the lady, turning suddenly from the window to address me.

“I do not, madam.”

“Then I will tell you,” said she.

“No, no, Hester,” said the minister; “this is not necessary. You say that this is like him,—like enough to lead to his recognition; that is quite sufficient. Now, for yourself, Mr. Carew, for it is time I should speak of you. You have rendered a very considerable service to this Government, and I am ready to requite it. What are your own wishes in this respect?”

I bethought me for a moment what reply to make; but the more I considered, the more difficult became the reply. I might, by possibility, look too highly; or, by an equally probable error, I might place myself on too humble a level. He waited with courteous patience while this struggle lasted; and then, as if seeing all the force of my embarrassment, he hastened to relieve it.

“My question was perhaps ill-judged,” said he, kindly. “I should have remembered that your knowledge of this country and its habits is necessarily limited; and, consequently, that to choose a career in it must be difficult. If you will permit me, I will myself make the choice for you; meanwhile, and until the opportunity offer, I will employ you. You speak foreign languages—at least, French and German—fluently. Well, these are exactly the qualifications I desire to find at this moment.”

He paused for a second or two, and then, as though abandoning some half-formed intention, he named a day for me to wait on him at his official residence, and dismissed me.

I have now come to a portion of my history of which I scruple to follow rigorously the details. I cannot speak of myself without introducing facts, and names, and events which became known to me, some in strict confidence, some under solemn pledges of secrecy, and some from the accident of my position. I have practised neither disguise nor mystery with my reader, nor do I desire to do so now. No false shame, as regards myself, would induce me to stoop to this. But as I glance over the notes and journals before me, as I read, at random, snatches of the letters that litter my table, I half regret that I have been led into revelations which I must necessarily leave incomplete, or rashly involve myself in disclosures which I have no right to publish to the world.

So far as I can venture, however, I will dare to go. And to resume where I left off: From the time I saw the minister at Hounslow, I never beheld him again. A certain Mr. Addington—one of his secretaries, I believe—received me when I called, and was the means of intercourse between us. He was uniformly polite in his manner, but still cold and distant with me; treating me with courtesy, but strenuously declining all intimacy. For some weeks I continued to wait in expectancy of some employment. I sat my weary hours in the antechamber, and walked the lobbies with all the anxiety of a suitor; but to all appearance I was utterly forgotten, and the service I had rendered ignored. At last (it was about ten weeks after my interview), as I was proceeding one morning to my accustomed haunt,—hope had almost deserted me, and I persisted, more from habit than any prospect of success,—a servant, in the undress livery of one of the departments of state, met me in the street.

“Mr. Carew, I believe?” said he, touching his hat. “I have been over half the town this morning, sir, in search of you. You are wanted immediately, sir, at the Foreign Office.”

How my heart jumped at the words! What a new spring of hope burst up within me! I questioned and cross-questioned the man, in the foolish expectation that he could tell me anything I desired to know; and in this eager pursuit of some clew to the future, I found myself ascending the stairs to Mr. Addington's office. No sooner had I appeared in the antechamber than I was ushered into the presence of the secretary. There were several persons—all strangers to me—present, who were conversing so eagerly together that my entrance was for some minutes unnoticed.

“Oh! here is Carew,” said Mr. Addington, turning hastily from the rest. “He can identify him at once.”

A large elderly man, who I afterwards learned was a city magistrate, came up at this, and, regarding me steadily for a few seconds, said,—

“You are well acquainted with the person of a certain Count de Gabriac?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And could swear to his identity, if required?”

“I could.”

How long I had known him, where, and under what circumstances, were also asked of me; and, finally, what space of time had elapsed since I had last seen him.

While this inquiry was going forward, I was not unmindful of the remarks and observations around me, and, although apparently only occupied with my own examination, was shrewdly attending to every chance word that fell at either side of me. I collected quite enough from these to perceive that the Count was at that moment in England, and in custody under some very weighty charge; that the difficulty of identification was one of the obstacles to his committal; and that this was believed to be surmountable by my aid. Now, I never loved him, nor did he me; but yet I could not forget how every care of my infancy and childhood was owing to her who bore his name and shared his fortunes, and that for me to repay such kindness with an injury would have been the very blackest ingratitude.

These thoughts passed rapidly through my mind, and as hastily I determined to act upon them. I asked Mr. Addington to give me a couple of minutes' audience in private, and he at once led me into an inner room. In scarcely more words than I have used here to mention the fact, I told him in what relationship I stood towards the Count, and how impossible it would be for me to use any knowledge I might possess, to his detriment.

“I don't think that you have much option in the matter, sir,” was his cold reply. “You can be compelled to give the evidence in question, so that your very excellent scruples need in no wise be offended.”

“Compelled to speak, sir!” cried I, in amazement.

“Just so,” said he, with a faint smile.

“And if I still refuse, sir?”

“Then the law must deal with you. Have you anything more to say to me?”

“Nothing,” said I, resolutely; for now my mind was determined, and I no longer hesitated what course to pursue.

Mr. Addington now returned to the adjoining room, and I followed him. For a few moments a whispered conversation was maintained between him and one or two of the others, after which the magistrate, a certain Mr. Kirby, said to me,—

“It appears, young man, that you have a reluctance, from conscientious scruples, about giving your evidence in this case; but probably when I tell you all that is required of you is a simple act of identification, and, moreover, that the charge against the prisoner is the very weightiest in the catalogue of crime, you will not any longer hesitate about your obvious duty.”

He waited for a few seconds; but as I made no reply, he went on:—

“This Frenchman is accused of nothing less than the premeditation of a murder; that he is, in fact, a hired assassin, paid for the crime of murdering the exiled King of France. The evidence against him is exceedingly strong; but, of course, the law will place within his reach every possible means of defence. It is needless to say that no private or personal feeling can exist in such a case, and I really do not see how you can decline your aid to the cause of justice.”

I was still silent; my difficulties were increasing every moment; and as they thickened around me, I needed time to decide how to proceed.

Perhaps my anxious appearance may have struck him, for he quickly said,—

“You will be specially warned against saying anything which might criminate yourself, so that you need have no fears on that account.”

These words at once suggested my course to me; and whatever peril there might lie in the way, I determined to take shelter under the pretence that I was myself implicated in the conspiracy. I do not seek to excuse myself for such a subterfuge; it was the last refuge I saw in the midst of my difficulties, and I sought it in all the misery of half-desperation.

“I am not going to betray my confederates, sir,” was my dogged reply to his appeal; and no other could all their argument and entreaties obtain from me.

Some of those present could not believe me guilty, and warmly pressed me to rescue myself, ere too late, from the odious imputation; others but saw their previous impressions confirmed by what they called my confession; and, between them, my poor head was racked and tortured by turns. The scene ended at last by my being committed to Newgate, under suspicion, and till further evidence could be adduced against me.

It was clear that either they greatly doubted of my guilt, or were disposed to regard me as very slightly implicated, for I was not confined in a cell or with the other prisoners, but accommodated with a room in the jailer's own apartment, and received as a guest at his table.

I was not only treated with kindness and attention here, but with a degree of candor that amazed me. The daily papers were freely placed before me, and I read how a well-known member of the “French Convention,” popularly called Couvre-TÊte, but styling himself the Count de Gabriac, had been brought up before the magistrates under a charge of a grave description, which, for the ends of justice, had been investigated with closed doors. Several others were in custody for their implication in the same charge, it was added, and great hopes maintained that the guilty parties would be made amenable to the law.

Mr. Holt, the jailer, spoke of all the passing events of the day freely in my presence, and discussed the politics and position of France, and the condition of parties, with all the ease of old intimacy between us. At first, I half suspected this to be a mere artifice to lure me on to some unguarded expression, or even some frank admission about myself; but I gradually grew out of this impression, and saw him as he really was, a straightforward, honorable man, endeavoring to lighten the gloom of a dreary duty by acts of generosity and benevolence. Save that it was captivity, I really had nothing to complain of in my life at this period. Mr. Holt's family was numerous, and daily some two or three guests, generally persons in some degree placed similarly to myself, were present at his table; and with these my time passed smoothly and even swiftly along.

The confinement, however, and a depression, of which I was not conscious myself, at length made their impression on my health, and one morning Mr. Holt remarked to me that I was scarcely looking so well as usual.

“It is this place, I have no doubt,” said he, “disagrees with you; but you will be liberated in a day or two.”

“How so?” asked I, in some surprise.

“Have you not heard of Gabriac's death,” said he, “by suicide? He was to have been brought up a second time for examination on Friday last, but he was found dead in his cell, by poison, on Thursday evening.”

I scarcely heard him through the details which followed. I only could catch a stray expression here and there; but I collected enough to learn that he had written a full exculpation of all the others who had been accused with himself, and specially with regard to me, of whom, also, it was said, he forwarded some important papers to some one high in station.

This conversation occurred on a Saturday, and on the following Monday I was liberated.

“I told you how it would be, Mr. Carew,” said Holt, as he read me out the order, “and I hope sincerely there are now better and pleasanter days before you. More prosperous ones they are likely to be, for I have a Secretary of State's order to hand you one hundred pounds, which, I can assure you, is a rare event with those who leave this.”

While I stood amazed at this intelligence, he went on:

“You are also requested to present yourself at Treverton House, Richmond, to-morrow, at eleven o'clock, where a person desires to see and speak with you. This comes somewhat in the shape of a command, and I hope you'll not neglect it.”

I promised rigid obedience to the direction; and after a very grateful recognition of all I owed my kind host, we parted, warm and cordial friends, and as such I have never ceased to believe and regard him.