The one thought that dwelt in my mind the entire day was that Marie de Rochfort was Charles de Meudon's sister. The fact once known, seemed to explain that secret power she exercised over my hopes and longings. The spell her presence threw around ever as she passed me in the park; that strange influence with which the few words I had heard her speak still remained fast rooted in my memory,—all these did I attribute to the hold her name had taken of my heart as I sat night after night listening to her brother's stories. And then, why had I not guessed it earlier? why had I not perceived the striking resemblance which it now seemed impossible to overlook? The dark eye, beaming beneath a brow squarely chiselled like an antique cameo; the straight nose, and short, up-turned lip, where a half-saucy look seemed struggling with a sweet smile; and then the voice,—was it not his own rich. Southern accent, tempered by her softer nature? Yes; I should have known her.

In reflections like these I made my round of duty, my whole heart wrapped up in this discovery. I never thought of De Beauvais, or his letter. It seemed to me as though I had known her long and intimately. She was not the Rose de Provence of the Court, the admired of the Tuileries, the worshipped belle of Versailles; but Marie de Meudon, the sister of one who loved me as a brother.

There was a dark alley near the Trianon that led along the side of a little lake, where rocks and creeping plants, rudely grouped together, gave a half-wild aspect to the scene; the tall beech and the drooping ash-trees that grew along the bank threw their shadows far across the still water. And here I had remarked that Mademoiselle de Meudon came frequently alone. It was a place, from its look of shade and gloom, little likely to attract the gay visitors of the Court, who better loved the smoothly-shaven grass of the Palace walks, or the broad terraces where bright fountains were plashing. Since I discovered that she avoided me when we met, I had never taken this path on my rounds, although leading directly to one of my outposts, but preferred rather a different and longer route.

Now, however, I sought it eagerly; and as I hurried on, I dreaded lest my unwonted haste might excite suspicion. I resolved to see and speak to her. It was her brother's wish that I should know her; and till now I felt as though my great object in coming to France was unobtained, if I knew not her whose name was hallowed in my memory. Poor Charles used to tell me she would be a sister to me. How my heart trembled at the thought! As I drew near I stopped to think how she might receive me; with what feelings hear me speak of one who was the cause of all her unhappiness. But then they said she loved De Beauvais. What! was poor Claude forgotten? Was all the lovedream of her first affection passed?

My thoughts ran wild as different impulses struggled through them, and I could resolve on nothing. Before me, scarcely a dozen paces, and alone, she stood looking on the calm lake, where the light in golden and green patches played, as it struggled through the dense foliage. The clattering of my sabre startled her, and without looking back, she dropped her veil, and moved slowly on.

“Mademoiselle de Meudon!” said I, taking off my shako, and bowing deeply before her.

“What! how! Why this name, sir? Don't you know it's forbidden here?”

“I know it, Madame. But it is by that name alone I dare to speak to you. It was by that I learned to know you,—from one who loved you, and who did not reject my humble heart; one who, amid all the trials of hard fate, felt the hardest to be,—the wrong he did his sister.”

“Did you speak of my brother Charles?” said she, in a voice low and tremulous.

“I did, Madame. The last message his lips ever uttered was given to me,—and for you. Not until last night did I know that I was every hour of the day so near to one whose name was treasured in my heart.”

“Oh, tell me of him! tell me of my dear Charles!” cried she, as the tears ran fast down her pale cheeks. “Where was his death? Was it among strangers that he breathed his last? Was there one there who loved him?”

“There was! there was!” cried I, passionately, unable to say more.

“And where was that youth that loved him so tenderly? I heard of him as one who never left his side,—tending him in sickness, and watching beside him in sorrow. Was he not there?”

“I was! I was! My hand held his; in my ear his last sigh was breathed.”

“Oh! was it you indeed who were my brother's friend?” said she, seizing my hand, and pressing it to her lips. The hot tears dropped heavily on my wrist, and in my ecstasy I knew not where I was. “Oh,” cried she, passionately, “I did not think that in my loneliness such a happiness as this remained for me! I never dreamed to see and speak to one who knew and loved my own dear Charles; who could tell me of his solitary hours of exile,—what hopes and fears stirred that proud heart of his; who could bring back to me in all their force again the bright hours of our happy youth, when we were all to each other,—when our childhood knew no greater bliss than that we loved. Alas, alas! how short-lived was it all! He lies buried beyond the sea in the soil of the stranger; and I live on to mourn over the past and shudder at the future. But come, let us sit down upon this bank; you must not leave me till I hear all about him. Where did you meet first?”

We sat down upon a grassy bench beside the stream, where I at once began the narrative of my first acquaintance with De Meudon. At first the rush of sensations that came crowding on me made me speak with difficulty and effort. The flutter of her dress as the soft wind waved it to and fro, the melody of her voice, and her full, languid eye, where sorrow and long-buried affection mingled their expression, sent thrilling through my heart thoughts that I dared not dwell upon. Gradually, as I proceeded, my mind recurred to my poor friend, and I warmed as I spoke of his heroic darings and his bold counsels. All his high-souled ardor, all the nobleness of his great nature,—his self-devotion, and his suffering,—were again before me, mingled with those traits of womanly softness which only belong to those whose courage was almost fanaticism. How her dark eyes grew darker as she listened, and her parted lips and her fast-heaving bosom betrayed the agitation that she felt! And how that proud look melted into sorrow when I told of the day when his outpouring heart recurred to home and her, the loved one of his boyhood. Every walk in that old terraced garden, each grassy alley and each shady seat, I knew as though I saw them.

Although I did not mention Claude, nor even distinctly allude to the circumstances which led to their unhappiness, I could see that her cheek became paler and paler; and that, despite an effort to seem calm, the features moved with a slight jerking motion, her lip trembled convulsively, and, with a low, sad sigh she fell back fainting.

I sprang down the bank towards the lake, and in an Instant dipped my shako in the water; and as I hastened back, she was sitting up, her eyes staring madly 'round her, her look wild almost to insanity, while her outstretched finger pointed to the copse of low beech near us.

“There, there! I saw him!” said she. “He was there now. Look! look!”

Shocked at the terrified expression of her features, and alarmed lest ray story had conjured up before her disordered imagination the image of her lost brother, I spoke to her in words of encouragement.

“No, no!” replied she to my words, “I saw him,—I heard his voice, too. Let us leave this; bring me to the Trianon; and—”

The terrified and eager look she threw around at each word did not admit of longer parley, and I drew her arm within mine to lead her forward. “This is no fancy, as you deem it,” said she, in a low and broken tone, to which an accent of bitterness lent a terrible power; “nor could the grave give up before me one so full of terror to my heart as him I saw there.”

Her head sank heavily as she uttered this; and, notwithstanding every effort I made, she spoke no more, nor would give me any answer to my questions regarding the cause of her fears.

As we walked forward we heard the sound of voices, which she at once recognized as belonging to the Court party, and pressing my hand slightly, she motioned me to leave her. I pressed the pale fingers to my lips, and darted away, my every thought bent on discovering the cause of her late fright.

In an instant I was back beside the lake. I searched every copse and every brake; I wandered for hours through the dark woods; but nothing could I see. I stooped to examine the ground, but could not even detect the pressure of a footstep. The dried branches lay unbroken, and the leaves unpressed around; and I at last became convinced that an excited brain, and a mind harassed by a long sorrow, had conjured up the image she spoke of. As I approached the picket, which was one of the most remote in my rounds, I resolved to ask the sentry had he seen any one.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said the soldier; “a man passed some short time ago in an undress uniform. He gave the word, and I let him proceed.”

“Was he old or young?”

“Middle-aged, and of your height.”

“Which way did he take?”

“He turned towards the left as he passed out; I lost sight of him then.”

I hurried immediately onward, and entered the wood by the path in the direction mentioned, my mind painfully excited by what I heard, and resolved to do everything to probe this matter to the bottom. But, though I walked miles in every direction, I met none save a few fagot-gatherers, and they had not seen any one like him I sought for.

With a weary and a heavy heart I turned towards my quarters, all the happiness of the morning dashed by the strange event I have related. My night was feverish and disturbed; for a long time I could not sleep, and, when I did, wild and terrible fancies came on me, and I started up in terror. A horrible face recurred at every instant to my mind's eye; and even when awake, the least noise, the slightest rustling of the leaves in the park, agitated and excited me. At last, worn out with the painful struggle, between sleep and waking, I arose and dressed.

The day was breaking, and already the birds were carolling to the rising sun. I strolled out into the park. The fresh and bracing air of morning cooled my burning brow; the mild influences of the hour, when sweet perfumes float softly in the dew-loaded breeze, soothed and calmed me; and I wandered back in thought to her who already had given a charm to my existence I never knew before.

The long-wished-for dream of my boyhood was realized at last. I knew the sister of my friend; I sat beside her, and heard her speak to me in tones so like his own. I was no longer the friendless alien, without one to care for, one to feel interested in his fortunes. The isolation that pressed so painfully on me fled before that thought: and now I felt raised in my own esteem by those dark eyes that thanked me as I spoke of poor Charles. What a thrill that look sent through my heart! Oh, did she know the power of that glance! Could she foresee what seeds of high ambition her every smile was sowing! The round of my duty was to me devoid of all fatigue, and I returned to my quarters with a light step and a lighter heart.

The entire day I lingered about the Trianon and near the lake; but Marie never came, nor did she appear in the walks at all. “Was she ill? Had the vision, whatever it was, of yesterday, preyed upon her health?” were my first thoughts, and I inquired eagerly if any doctor had been seen about the chÂteau. But no, nothing unusual seemed to have occurred, and a ball was to take place that very evening. I would have given worlds, were they mine, even to know in what part of the Palace she was lodged; and fifty times did I affect to have some duty, as an excuse to cross the terrace and steal a cautious glance towards the windows,—but in vain.

So engrossed was my mind with thoughts of her that I forgot all else. The pickets, too, I had not visited since daybreak, and my report to the minister remained unfilled. It was late in the evening when I sallied forth to my duty, and night, with scarce a star, was falling fast. My preoccupation prevented my feeling the way as I walked along; and I had already visited all the outposts except one, when a low, faint whistle, that seemed to issue from the copse near me, startled me. It was repeated after a moment, and I called out,—

“Who 's there? Advance.”

“Ah, I thought it was you, Burke!” said a voice I at once knew to be Beauvais's. “You broke faith with me at the town-gate yonder, and so I had to come down here.”

“How? You surely were not there when I passed?”

“Yes, but I was, though. Did you not see the woodcutter, with his blouse on his arm, lighting his pipe at the door of the guardhouse?”

“Yes; but you can't mean that it was you.”

“Do you remember his saying, 'Buy a cheap charretie of wood, Lieutenant; I 'll leave it at your quarters? '”

“De Beauvais,” said I, gravely, “these risks may be fatal to us both. My orders are positive; and if I disobey them, there are no powerful friends nor high relatives to screen me from a deserving punishment.”

“What folly you speak, Burke! If I did not know you better, I should say you grudged me the hospitality I have myself asked you for. One night to rest,—and I need it much, if you knew but all,—and one day to speak to Marie, and you have done with me. Is that too much?”

“No,—not if I did not betray a trust in sheltering you, far too little to speak of, much less thank me for. But—”

“Do spare me these scruples, and let us take the shortest way to your quarters. A supper and three chairs to sleep on, are worth all your arguments, eloquent though they be.”

We walked on together, almost in silence: I overwhelmed with fear for the result should my conduct ever become known; he evidently chagrined at my reception of him, and little disposed to make allowances for scruples he would not have respected himself.

“So here we are at last,” said he, as he threw himself on my little sofa, seemingly worn out with exhaustion. I had now time to look at him by the light, and almost started back at the spectacle that presented itself. His dress, which was that of the meanest peasant, was ragged and torn; his shoes scarce held together with coarse thongs; and his beard, unshaven for weeks past, increased the haggard look of features where actual want and starvation seemed impressed.

“You are surprised at my costume,” said he, with a sad smile; “and, certes, Crillac would not court a customer habited as I am just now. But what will you say when I assure you that the outward man—and you will not accuse him of any voluptuous extravagance—has a very great advantage over the inner one? In plain words, Lieutenant, you 'd hurry your cook, if you knew I have not tasted food, save what the hedges afford, for two days: not from poverty neither; there 's wherewithal there to dine, even at Beauvilliers's.” He rattled a well-filled purse as he spoke.

“Come, come, De Beauvais! you accuse me of doing the honors with a bad grace; and, in truth, I wish I were your host outside the pickets. But let me retrieve my character a little. Taste this capon.”

“If you never dined with a wolf, you shall now,” said he, drawing his chair to the table and filling a large goblet with Burgundy.

For ten or fifteen minutes he ate on like a man whom long starvation had rendered half savage; then ceasing suddenly, he looked up, and said, “Lieutenant, the cuisine here might tempt a more fastidious man than I am; and if these people are not hospitable enough to invite you to their soiries, they certainly do not starve you at home.”

“How knew you that I was not asked to the chÂteau?” said I, reddening with a sense of offended pride I could not conceal.

“Know it? Why, man, these things are known at once. People talk of them in saloons and morning visits, and comment on them in promenades; and though I seem not to have been keeping company with the beau monde latterly, I hear what goes on there too. But trust me, boy, if your favor stands not high with the Court of to-day, you may perhaps be preparing the road to fortune with that of to-morrow.”

“Though you speak in riddle, De Beauvais, so long as I suspect that what you mean would offer insult to those I serve, let me say,—and I say it in all temper, but in all firmness,—you 'll find no ready listener in me. The highest favor I aspire to is the praise of our great chief, General Bonaparte; and here I pledge his health.”

“I'll drink no more wine to-night,” said he, sulkily pushing his glass before him. “Is this to be my bed?”

“Of course not; mine is ready for you. I 'll rest on the sofa there, for I shall have to visit my pickets by daybreak.”

“In Heaven's name, for what?” said he, with a half sneer. “What can that poor Savary be dreaming of? Is there any one about to steal the staircase of the Louvre, or the clock from the pavilion of the Tuileries? Or is it the savants of the Institute he 's afraid of losing?”

“Rail on, my good friend; you 'll find it very hard to make an old scholar of the Polytechnique think poorly of the man that gains battles.”

“Well, well, I give up my faith in physiognomy. Do you remember that same evening in the Tuileries when I asked your pardon, and begged to be your friend? I thought you a different fellow then from what I see you now; that silly hussar pelisse has turned many a head before yours.”

“You wish to make me angry, De Beauvais, and you 'll not succeed. A night's rest will bring you to better temper with all the world.”

“Will it, faith! In that case a tolerably large portion of it must take leave of it before morning; for I promise you, my worthy hussar, there are some I don't expect to feel so very charitably towards as you expect.”

“Well, well! What say you to bed?”

“I 'll sleep where I am,” said he, with some harshness in his tone. “Good-night.”

The words were scarcely uttered when he turned on his side, and, shading his eyes from the light with his hand, fell fast asleep.

It was already past midnight, and as I was fatigued with my day's walking, I soon retired to my bed, but not to rest. Whenever I closed my eyes, Beauvais's pale and worn face seemed before me,—the haggard expression of suffering and privation. And then I fell to thinking what enterprise of danger could involve him in such necessities as these. It must be one of peril, or he had not become what now I saw him. His very voice was changed,—its clear, manly tone was now harsh and dissonant; his frank and cheerful look was downcast and suspicious.

At last, worn out with thinking, I fell asleep; but was suddenly awakened by a voice shouting from the outer room. I sat up and listened. It was De Beauvais, calling wildly for help; the cry grew fainter, and soon sank into the long-drawn respiration of repose. Poor fellow! even in his dreams his thoughts were of strife and danger.