The day was breaking when I was up and stirring, resolving to visit the pickets before De Beauvais awoke; for even still the tone of ridicule he assumed was strong before me. I passed stealthily through the room where he was still sleeping; the faint light streamed through the half-closed shutters, and fell upon a face so pale, so haggard, and so worn, that I started back in horror. How altered was he, indeed, from what I had seen him first! The cheek once ruddy with the flush of youth was now pinched and drawn in; the very lips were bloodless, as if not illness alone, but long fasting from food, had pressed upon him. His hair, too, which used to fall upon his shoulders and on his neck in rich and perfumed locks, silky and delicate as a girl's, was now tangled and matted, and hung across his face and temples wild and straggling. Even to his hands his changed condition was apparent, for they were torn and bleeding; while in the attitude of sleep, you could trace the heavy unconscious slumber of one utterly worn out and exhausted. His dress was of the coarse stuff the peasants wear in their blouses; and even that seemed old and worn. What strange career had brought him down to this I could not think; for poor as all seemed about him, his well-stocked purse showed that his costume was worn rather for disguise than necessity.

Such was my first thought; my second, more painful still, recurred to her he loved, by whom he was perhaps beloved in turn. Oh! if anything can add to the bitter smart of jealousy, it is the dreadful conviction that she for whom our heart's best blood would flow to insure one hour of happiness, has placed her whole life's fortune on the veriest chance,—bestowing her love on one whose life gives no guarantee for the future,—no hope, no pledge, that the world's wildest schemes of daring and ambition are not dearer to his eyes than all her charms and affections. How does our own deep devotion come up before us contrasted with this! and how, in the consciousness of higher motives and more ennobling thoughts, do we still feel inferior to him who, if poor in all besides, is rich in her love!

Such envious feelings filled my heart as I looked on him; and with slow, sad step I moved on, when by accident I came against a chair, and threw it down. The noise awoke him, and with a spring he was on his legs, and drawing a pistol from his bosom, cried out,—

“Ha! what is 't? Why, Burke, it 's you! What hour is it?”

“Not four yet. I 'm sorry to have disturbed you, De Beauvais; but the chair here—”

“Yes, yes; I placed it so last night. I felt so very heavy that I could not trust myself with waking to a slight noise. Where to, so early? Ah! these pickets; I forgot.” And with that he lay down again, and before I left the house was fast asleep once more.

Some trifling details of duty detained me at one or two of the outposts, and it was beyond my usual time when I turned homeward. I had but just reached the broad alley that leads to the foot of the great terrace, when I saw a figure before me hastening on towards the chÂteau. The flutter of the dress showed it to be a woman; and then the thought flashed on me,—it was Mademoiselle de Meudon. Yes, it was her step; I knew it well. She had left the place thus early to meet De Beauvais.

Without well knowing what I did, I had increased my speed, and was now rapidly overtaking her, when the noise of my footsteps on the ground made her turn about and look back. I stopped short suddenly. An indistinct sense of something culpable on my part in thus pursuing her flitted across my mind, and I could not move. There she stood, too, motionless; but for a second or two only, and then beckoned to me with her hand. I could scarcely trust my eyes, nor did I dare to stir till she had repeated the motion twice or thrice.

As I drew near, I remarked that her eyes were red with weeping, and her face pale as death. For a moment she gazed steadfastly at me, and then, with a voice whose accent I can never forget, she said,—

“And you, too, the dearest friend of my own Charles, whose very deathbed spoke of loyalty to him, how have you been drawn from your allegiance?”

I stood amazed and astounded, unable to utter a word in reply, when she resumed,—

“For them there is reason, too: they lived, or their fathers did, in the sunshine of the old Monarchy; wealth, rank, riches, power,—all were theirs. But you, who came amongst us with high hopes of greatness, where others have earned them on the field of battle,—whose youth is a guarantee that base and unworthy thoughts should form no part of his motives, and whose high career began under the very eyes of him, the idol of every soldier's heart,—oh I why turn from such a path as this, to dark and crooked ways, where low intrigue and plot and treachery are better weapons than your own stout heart and your own bright sword?”

“Hear me, I pray you,” said I, bursting into impatience,—“hear me but one word, and know that you accuse me wrongfully. I have no part in, nor have I knowledge of, any treason.”

“Oh, speak not thus to me! There are those who may call their acts by high-sounding titles, and say, 'We are but restoring our own sovereigns to the land they owned.' But you are free to think and feel; no prestige of long years blinds your reason or obstructs your sense of right.”

“Once more I swear, that though I can but guess at where your suspicions point, my faith is now as true, my loyalty as firm, as when I pledged myself at your dear brother's side to be a soldier.”

“Then why have you mixed yourself with their intrigues? Why are you already suspected? Why has Madame Bonaparte received orders to omit your name in all the invitations to the chÂteau?”

“Alas! I know not. I learn now, for the first time that suspicion ever attached to me.”

“It is said, too,—for already such things are spoken of,—that you know that dreadful man whose very presence is contamination. Oh! does it not seem like fate that his dark path should traverse every portion of my destiny?”

The sobs that burst from her at these words seemed to rend her very bosom. “They say,” continued she, while her voice trembled with strong emotion,—“they say he has been here.”

“I know not of whom you speak,” said I, as a cold chill ran through my blood.

“MehÉe de la Touche,” replied she, with an effort.

“I never heard of him till now; the very name is unknown to me.”

“Thank God for this!” muttered she between her teeth. “I thought, perhaps, that De Beauvais had made you known to each other.”

“No; De Beauvais never introduced me, save to some friends of his one evening at a supper, several months back; and only one of them have I ever seen since,—an AbbÉ, d'Ervan. And, indeed, if I am guilty of any breach of duty, I did not think the reproach was to come from you.”

The bitterness of these last words was wrung from me in a moment of wounded pride.

“How! what mean you?” said she, impetuously. “No one has dared to call my fidelity into question, nor speak of me as false to those who cherish and protect me.”

“You mistake my meaning,” said I, sadly and slowly. Then hesitating how far I should dare allude to De Beauvais's affection, I stopped, when suddenly her face became deeply flushed, and a tear started to her eye.

“Alas, she loves him!” said I to my heart, and a sickness like death passed over me. “Leave me, leave me quickly!” cried she. “I see persons watching us from the terrace.” And with that she moved hastily on towards the chÂteau, and I turned into one of the narrow walks that led into the wood.

Two trains of thought struggled for mastery in my mind: how had I become suspected? how should I wipe out the stain upon my honor?

There was not an incident of my life since my landing in France I did not call to mind; and yet, save in the unhappy meeting with De Beauvais, I could not see the slightest probability that even malevolence could attach anything to my reputation. “From d'Ervan, it is true, I heard more than once opinions that startled me; less, however, by anything direct in their meaning, than that they were totally new and strange. And yet the abbÉ, I had every reason to believe, was a friend of the present Government; at least it was evident he was on terms of close intimacy with Monsieur Savary.

“De Beauvais must clear up some of these doubts for me,” thought I; “he must inform me more particularly as to those to whom he introduced me. I shall endeavor to learn, too, something of their schemes, and thus guard myself against the mere chance of suspicion; for unquestionably he is not in ignorance of the movement, whatever it be.” And with such intentions I hurried onwards, eager to reach my quarters.

As I entered my room, a low, heavy sob broke on my ear; I started back with surprise. It was De Beauvais, who sat, his head buried in his hands, leaning on the table.

“Ha!” said he, springing up, and passing his hand hurriedly across his eyes, “so soon back! I scarcely expected you.”

“It is past ten o'clock,—a full hour later than my usual return.”

“Indeed!” rejoined he, with an air of impertinent surprise. “So then your pickets have been arresting and detaining some poor devils gathering fagots or acorns? or have you unfathomed the depth of this terrible plot your PrÉfet de Police has become insane about?”

“Neither,” said I, affecting a careless tone. “The Government of the Consul is sufficiently strong to make men's minds easy on that score. Whatever intrigues are at work, they are as little likely to escape his keen eye as their perpetrators are, when taken, the fire of a grenadier company.”

“Ma foi! sir, you speak confidently,” replied he, in an accent of pride totally different from his former tone. “And yet I have heard of persons just as confident, too, who afterwards confessed they had been mistaken. But perhaps it seems less strange to you that a sous-lieutenant of artillery should rule the destinies of France, than that the King of the country should resume the throne of his ancestors.”

“Take care, De Beauvais, with whom you speak. I warn you; and be assured I 'll not be trifled with. One word more, and I put you under arrest.”

“Not here, surely,” replied he, in a low and searching voice,—“not here. Let us walk out into the park. Let it be in the great alley, or on the terrace yonder; or, better still, let the capture take place in the wood; but do not let your loyalty violate the hospitality of your home.”

“Forgive me, I pray; I knew not what I said. You tempted me sorely, though. Think but for a moment, De Beauvais, how I stand here, and let your own heart judge me. I am an alien,—a friendless stranger. There lives not one in all the length and breadth of France who would raise a finger, or speak one word, to save me were my head in peril. My sword and my fidelity are all my hope; that both should remain pure and unblemished is all my wish. The grade I have I owe to him—”

“Great cause for gratitude, truly!” he broke in. “The chief ÉlÈve of the Polytechnique is made a sous-lieutenant of cavalry, with functions of a sergeant of the gendarmerie, with orders to stop all travellers, and search their pockets. Shame on it! It was not thus the rightful sovereigns of France regarded those who wore their epaulettes; not thus did they esteem the soldier's part. Think, for a second, what you are, and then reflect what you might be. Cold and unimpassioned as you call yourself, I know your heart better. There lives not one who treasures a higher ambition in his breast than you. Ah! your eyes sparkle already. Think, then, I say, what a career opens before you, if you have courage to embrace it. It 's a great game that enables a man to spring from sous-lieutenant to colonel of a regiment. Come, Burke! I can have no reason, save your welfare, to press these considerations on you. What are you writing there?”

“A report to the PrÉfet de Police. I see now, however late it is, the unworthiness of the part I 've acted, in remaining in a service where I 've listened to statements such as these. I shall ask to have my grade withdrawn, and be reduced to the ranks; there, perhaps, I may be permitted to carry a soldier's musket without a stain upon my honor.”

“You can do better, sir,” interrupted he, as his face grew purple with passion, and his eyes flashed fire, “far better: call up your dragoons yonder, and place me, where you threatened, under arrest; forward your report to the minister, that Henri de Beauvais, Marquis et Pair de France when such things were, has been taken with the 'Croix de St. Louis' and the cordon in his possession.” Here he took from his bosom the decoration, and waved it above his head. “Add, too, that he came prepared to tempt your loyalty with this.” He drew forth at the words a parchment document, and dashed it on the table before me. “There, sir, read it; it is the King's own handwriting,—your brevet of colonel to a regiment of the Gardes. Such proofs of your devotion can scarcely go unrewarded. They may raise you to the rank of police spy. There is a lady yonder, too, who should also share in your elevation, as she does in your loyal sentiments; Mademoiselle de Meudon may be too quick for you. Lose no time, sir; such chances as these are not the fruit of every day. After all, I can scarcely go to the guillotine under better auspices than with my cousin and my friend as my betrayers. Mayhap, too, they 'll do you the honor to make you mount guard beside the scaffold. Such an occasion to display your devotion should not escape you,—David found it profitable to catch the expiring agonies of his own friends, as with easel and brush he sat beside the guillotine: the hint should not be lost.”

The insulting emphasis with which he spoke the last words cut me to the very heart, and I stood speechless before him, trembling like a criminal.

“Let us part, De Beauvais,” said I, at length, as I held my hand towards him. “Let us say adieu to each other, and forever. I can forgive all you have said to me, far better than I could myself had I listened to your persuasions. What may be honorable and just in you, would be black ingratitude and dark treachery in me. I shall now endeavor to forget we have ever met, and once more, good-by!”

“You are right,” replied he, after a pause of some seconds, and in a tone of great sadness; “we never should have met. Adieu!”

“One word more, De Beauvais. I find that I have been suspected of some treasonable intercourse; that even here I am watched and spied upon. Tell me, I beseech you, before you go, from what quarter comes this danger, that I may guard against it.”

“In good truth, you give me credit for quicker perceptions than I have any right to. How so loyal a gentleman should lie under such an imputation I cannot even guess.”

“Your sneers shall not provoke me. The fact is as I state it; and if you will not help me to the discovery, tell me, at least, who are the persons to whom you introduced me formerly at Beauvilliers's?”

“Very excellent company! I trust none of them have cheated you at Écarte.”

“Pray, have done with jesting, and answer me. Who is your AbbÉ?”

“Ma foi, he is the AbbÉ, d'Ervan. What part of France he comes from, who are his family, friends, and resources,—are all questions I have never thought proper to ask him; possibly because I am not so scrupulous on the score of my acquaintances as you are. He is a very clever, amusing, witty person; knows almost every one; has the entrÉe into every house in the Faubourg St. Germain; can compose a couplet and sing it; make a mayonnaise or a madrigal better than any man I know; and, in fact, if he were one of these days to be a minister of France, I should not be so very much surprised as you appear this moment at my not knowing more about him. As to the other, the Russian secretary,—or spy, if you like the phrase better, he was unlucky enough to have one of his couriers robbed by a party of brigands, which scandal says were sent out for the purpose by Monsieur de Talleyrand. His secret despatches were opened and read; and as they were found to implicate the Russian Government in certain intrigues carrying on, the Czar had only one course open, which was to recall the secretary and disavow his whole proceedings. The better to evince his displeasure, I hear they have slit his nose, and sent him to pass the winter at Tobolsk. Lastly, the prÉfet. What shall I say of him, save that he was a prÉfet in the South, and wants to be one again? His greatest endeavors in any cause will be to pledge its success in Burgundy, or, if you wish, drink the downfall of its enemy; and as to his enthusiasm, he cares a devilish deal more for a change of weather than a change of dynasty, particularly in the truffle season, or when the vines are ripening. Such are the truly dangerous associates you have kept company with. It now only remains to speak of my humble self, whose history, I need scarcely say, is far more at your service than worth the hearing. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite so, as regards me; by no means so, however, as to your fate. Short as our intimacy has been, I have seen enough of you to know that qualities like yours should not be wasted in a mad or hopeless enterprise.”

“Who told you it was either?” interrupted he, impetuously. “Who dares to say that the rule of a Usurper is more firmly placed than the prestige of a Monarchy that goes back to Hugues Capet? Come, come! I will not discuss these questions with you, nor have I temper now left to do so. Give me the countersign to pass the sentry, and let us part.”

“Not in anger, though, De Beauvais.”

“Not in friendship, sir,” replied he, proudly, as he waved back, with his, my proffered hand. “Adieu!” said he, in a softened tone, as he moved from the room; and then, turning quickly round, he added, “We may meet again hereafter, and scarcely can do so on equal terms. If fortune stand by you I must be a beggar; should I win, yours is indeed a sorry lot. When that time comes, let him with whom the world goes best not forget the other. Good-by!” And with that he turned away, and left the house.

I watched him as he strode along the silent alleys, careless and free as though he had no cause for fear, till he disappeared in the dark wood: and then I sat down at the door to think over our interview. Never had my heart felt more depressed. My own weakness in having ever admitted the intimacy of men whose dangerous designs were apparent had totally undermined the strong principle of rectitude I should have relied upon in such a trial, and on which I could have thrown myself for support. What had I to guide me after all, save my devotion to the cause of Bonaparte himself? The prejudices of education, the leanings of family opinion, the inclinations of friends, exist not for the alien. He has to choose his allegiance; it is not born with him. His loyalty is not the growth of a hundred different sympathies, that have twined round his heart in childhood and grown with him to manhood; speaking of home and infancy, of his own native streams and mountains, of a land that was his father's. No! with him it is not a conviction,—it is but a feeling.

Such was the substance of my reverie; and as I arose and strolled out into the park, it was with a deeply-uttered vow to be true to him and his fortunes whose name first lit the spark of ambition in my heart, and through weal or woe to devote myself to him.