About a month after I came to live in the “pension,” I was sitting one evening at the window, watching, with the interest an idle man will ever attach to slight things,—the budding leaves of an early spring,—when I heard a step approach my chair, and on turning my head perceived Madame de Langeac. She carried her taboret in her hand, and came slowly towards me.

“I am come to steal some of your sunshine, Monsieur Burke,” said the old lady, smiling good-naturedly, as I rose to present a chair, “but not to drive you away, if you will be generous enough to keep me company.”

I stammered out some commonplace civility in reply, and was silent, for my thoughts were bent upon my future, and I was ill disposed to interruption.

“You are fond of flowers, I have remarked,” continued she, as if perceiving my preoccupation, and willing to relieve it by taking the burden of the conversation. “And it is a taste I love to witness; it seems to me like the evidence of a homely habit. It is only in childhood we learn this love; we may cultivate it in after life as we will.”

“My mother was passionately fond of them,” said I, calling up a long-buried memory of home and kindred.

“I thought so. These simple tastes are the inheritance a mother gives her child; and happily they survive every change of fortune.”

I sighed heavily as she spoke, for thus accidentally was touched the weakest chord of my heart.

“And, better still,” resumed she, “they are the links that unite us to the past, that bind the heart of manhood to infancy, that can bring down pride and haughtiness, and call forth guileless affection and childlike faith.”

“They are happy,”' said I, musing, “who can mingle such early memories with the present.”

“And who cannot?” interrupted she, rapidly. “Who has not felt the love of parents,—the halo of a home? Old as I am, even I can recall the little walks I trod in infancy, and the hand that used to guide me. I can bring up the very tones of that voice which vibrated on my heart as they spoke my name. But how much happier they to whom these memories are linked with tokens of present affection, and who, in their manhood's joys, can feel a father's or a mother's love!”

“I was left an orphan when a mere child,” said I, as though the observation had been specially addressed to me.

“But you have brothers,—sisters, perhaps.”

I shook my head. “A brother, indeed; but we have never met since we were children.”

“And yet your country has not suffered the dreadful convulsion of ours; no social wreck has scattered those who once lived in close affection together. It is sad when such ties are broken. You came early to France, I think you told me?”

“Yes, Madame. When a mere child my heart conceived a kind of devotion to the Emperor: his fame, his great exploits, seemed something more than human,—filled every thought of my brain; and to be a soldier,his soldier, was the limit of my ambition. I fancied, too, that the cause he asserted was that of freedom; that liberty, universal liberty, was the watchword that led to victory.”

“And you have discovered your error,” interrupted she. “Alas! it were better to have followed the illusion. A faith once shaken leaves an unsettled spirit, and with such there is little energy.”

“And less of hope,” said I, despondingly.

“Not so, if there be youth. Come, you must tell me your story. It is from no mere curiosity I ask you; but that I have seen much of the world, and am better able than you to offer counsel and advice. I have remarked, for some time past, that you appear to have no acquaintance in Paris,—no friend. Let me be such. If the confidence have no other result, it will relieve your heart of some portion of its burden; besides, the others here will learn to regard you with less distrust.”

“And is such their feeling towards me?”

“Forgive me; I did not exactly use the word I sought for. But now that I have ventured so far, I may as well confess that you are an object of the greatest interest in their eyes; nor can they divest themselves of the impression that some deep-laid plot had led you hither.”

“Had I known this before—”

“You had left us. I guessed as much: I have remarked it in your character already, that a morbid dread of being suspected is ever uppermost in your thoughts; and accounted for it by supposing that you might have been thrown at too early an age into life. But you must not feel angry with us here. As for me, I have no merit in my right appreciation of you: Monsieur Rubichon told me how you met,—a mere accident, at the bureau of the prÉfet.”

“It was so; nor have I been able to divine why he addressed himself to me, nor what circumstance could have led him to believe my sentiments in accordance with those of his guests.”

“Simple enough the reason. He heard from your own lips you were a stranger, without any acquaintance in Paris. The police for a time have been somewhat frequent in their visits here, when the exclusively Royalist feature of the 'pension' excited some dissatisfaction. To overcome the impression, M. Rubichon determined to wait each day at the bureau of the prÉfet, and solicit at hazard among the persons there to patronize his house. We all here consented to the plan, feeling its necessity. Our good fortune sent us you. Still, you must not be surprised if long sorrows and much suffering have engendered suspicion, nor that the old followers of a king look distrustfully on the soldier of”—she hesitated and blushed slightly, then added, in a low voice—“of the Emperor.”

The word seemed to have cost a pang in its utterance; for she did not speak for several minutes after.

“And these gentlemen,—am I to conclude that they cherish disaffection to the present Government, or harbor a hope of its downfall?”

Whether some accidental expression of disdain escaped me as I said this, I cannot say; but Madame de Langeao quickly replied,—

“They are good Frenchmen, sir, and loyal gentlemen; what they hope must be a matter for their own hearts.”

“I entreat your pardon, Madame, if I have said one syllable which could reflect upon their motives.”

“I forgive you readily,” said she, smiling courteously; “he who has worn a sabre so long, may well deem its influence all-powerful. But believe me, young man, there is that within the heart of a nation against which mere force is nothing; opposed to it, armed squadrons and dense ranks are powerless. Devotion to a sovereign, whose claim comes hallowed by a long line of kings, is a faith to which religion lends its sanction and tradition its hope. Look on these very persons here; see, has adversity chilled their affection, or poverty damped their ardor? You know them not; but I will tell you who they are.

“There, at the fire, that venerable old man with the high, bold forehead, he is Monsieur de Plessis (Comte Plessis de Riancourt). His grandfather entertained Louis the Fourteenth and his suite within his chÂteau; he himself was grand falconer to the king. And what is he now? I shame to speak it,—a fencing-master at an humble school of the Faubourg.

“And the other opposite to him (he is stooping to pick something from the floor), I myself saw him kneel at the levÉe of his Majesty, and beheld the king assist him to rise, as he said, 'Monsieur de Maurepas, I would make you a duke, but that no title could be so dear to a Maurepas as that his ancestors have borne for six hundred years.' And he, whose signature was but inferior to the royal command, copies pleadings of a lawyer to earn his support.

“And that tall man yonder, who has just risen from the table,—neither years nor poverty have erased the stamp of nobility from his graceful figure,—Comte Felix d'Ancelot, captain of the Gardes du Corps; the same who was left for dead on the stairs at Versailles pierced by eleven wounds. He gives lessons in drawing! two leagues from this, at the other extremity of Paris.

“You ask me if they hope; what else than hope, what other comforter, could make such men as these live on in want and indigence, declining every proffer of advancement, refusing every temptation that should warp their allegiance? I have read of great deeds of your Emperor,—I have heard traits of heroism of his generals, compared to which the famed actions of the Crusaders paled away; but tell me if you think that all the glory ever won by gallant soldier, tried the courage or tested the stout heart like the long struggle of such men as these? And here, if I mistake not, comes another, not inferior to any.”

As she spoke, the steps of a calÈche at the door were suddenly lowered, and a tall and powerfully built man stepped lightly out. In an instant we heard his footstep in the hall, and in another moment the door of the salon opened, and M. Rubichon announced “Le GÉnÉral Count Burke.”

The general had just time to divest himself of his travelling pelisse as he entered, and was immediately surrounded by the others, who welcomed him with the greatest enthusiasm.

“Madame la Marquise de Langeac,” said he, approaching the old lady, as she sat in the recess of the window, and lifted her hand to his lips, “I am overjoyed to see you in such health. I passed three days with your amiable cousin, Arnold de Rambuteau; who, like yourself, enjoys the happiest temperament and the most gifted mind.”

“If you flatter thus, General,” said Madame de Langeac, “my young friend here will scarcely recognize in you a countryman,—a kinsman, perhaps. Let me present Mr. Burke.”

The general's face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, as taking my hand in both of his own, he said,—

“Are you indeed from Ireland? Is your name Burke? Alas! that I cannot speak one word of English to you. I left my country thirty-eight years since, and have never revisited it.”

The general overwhelmed me with questions: first about my family, of which I could tell him little; and then of my own adventures, at which, to my astonishment, he never evinced those symptoms of displeasure I so confidently expected from an old follower of the Bourbons. This he continued to do, as he ate a hurried meal which was laid out for him in the salon; all the rest standing in a circle around, and pressing him with questions for this friend or that at every pause he made.

“You see, gentlemen,” cried he, as I replied to some inquiry about my campaign, “this is an instance of what I have so often spoken to you. Here is a youth who leaves his country solely for fighting sake; he does not care much for the epaulette, he cares less for the cause. Come, come, don't interrupt me; I know you better than you know yourself. You longed for the conflict and the struggle and the victory; and, parbleu! we may say as we will, but you could have scarcely made a better selection than with his Majesty, Emperor and King, as they style him.”

This speech met with a sorry reception from the bystanders, and in the dissatisfied expression of their faces, a less confident speaker might have read his condemnation; but the general felt not this, or, if he did, he effectually concealed it.

“You have not inquired for Gustave de Me is in,” said he, looking round at the circle.

“You have not seen him, surely?” cried several together; “we heard he was at Vienna.”

“No, parbleu! he lives about a league from his old home,—the very house we spent our Christmas at eighteen years ago. They have made a barrack of his chÂteau, and thrown his park into a royal chasse; but he has built a hut on the river-side, and walks every day through his own ground, which he says he never saw so well stocked for many a year. He is as happy as ever, and loves to look out on the Seine before his door when the bright stream is rippling through many a broad leaf; ay, Messieurs, of good augury, too,—the lilies of France.” He lifted a bumper to his lips as he spoke, and drank the toast with enthusiasm.

This sudden return to loyalty, so boldly announced, served to reinstate him in their estimation; and once again all their former pleasure at his appearance came back, and again the questions poured in from every quarter.

“And the abbÉ,” said one; “what of him? Has he made up his mind yet?”

“To be sure he has, and changed it too, at least twice every twenty-four hours. He is ever full of confidence and brimming with hope when the wind is from the eastward; but let it only come a point west, his spirits fall at once, and he dreams of frigates and gunboats, and the hulks in the Thames; and though they offered him a cardinal's hat, he 'd not venture out to sea.”

The warning looks of the bystanders, and even some signals to be cautious, here interrupted the speaker, who paused for a few seconds, and then fixed his eyes on me.

“I have no fears, gentlemen, on that score. I know my countrymen well, though I have lived little among them. My namesake here may like the service of the Emperor better than that of a king,—he may prefer the glitter of the eagle to the war-cry of Saint Louis,—but he 'll never betray the private conversations nor expose the opinions expressed before him in all the confidence of social intercourse.

“We are speaking, Mr. Burke, of an abbÉ who is about to visit Ireland, and whose fears of the English cruisers seem little reasonable to some of my friends here, though you can explain, perhaps, that they are not groundless. I forgot,—you were but a boy when you crossed that sea.”

“But he will go at last,” said Madame de Langeac; “I suppose we may rely on that?”

“We hope,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders with an air of doubt, “because, when we can do nothing else, we can always hope.” And so saying he arose from the table, and taking a courteous leave of each person in turn, pleading the fatigue of his journey, he retired for the night.

I left the saloon soon after, and went to my room full of all I had heard, and pondering many thoughts about the abbÉ and his intended voyage. I spent a sleepless night. Thoughts of home, long lost in the excitement of my career, came flocking to my brain, and a desire to revisit my country—stronger, perhaps, because undefined in its object—made me restless and feverish. It was with delight I perceived the day dawning, and dressing myself hastily, I descended into the garden. To my surprise, I found General Burke already there. He was sauntering along slowly by himself, and seemed wrapped in meditation. The noise of my approach startled him, and he looked up.

“Ah! my countryman,—so early astir?” said he, saluting me courteously. “Is this a habit of yours?”

“No, sir; I cannot claim the merit of such wakefulness. But last night I never closed my eyes. A few words you dropped in conversation in the drawing-room kept possession of my heart, and even yet I cannot expel them.”

“I saw it at the time I spoke,” replied the general, with a keen, quick glance; “you changed color twice as I mentioned the AbbÉ Gernon. Do you know him?”

“No, sir; it was his intended journey, not himself, for which I felt interested.”

“You would wish to accompany him, perhaps. Well, the matter is not impossible; but as time presses, and we have little leisure for mysteries, tell me frankly why are you here?”

In few words, and without a comment on any portion of my conduct, I told him the principal circumstances of my life, down to the decisive moment of my leaving the army.

“After that step,” said I, “feeling that no career can open to me here, I wish to regain my own country.”

“You are right,” said the general, slowly; “it is your only course now. The venture is not without risk,—less from the English cruisers than the French, for the abbÉ is well known in England, and Ireland too; but his Royalist character would find slight favor with FouchÉ. You are willing to run the risk, I suppose?”

“I am.”

“And to travel as the abbe's servant, at least to Falaise? there the disguise will end.”

“Perfectly so.”

“And for this service, are you also ready to render us one in return?” said he, peering at me beneath his eyelashes.

“If it involve the good faith I once swore to preserve towards the Emperor Napoleon, I refuse it at once. On such a condition, I cannot accept your aid.”

“And does your heart still linger where your pride has been so insulted?”

“It does, it does; to be his soldier once more, I would submit to everything but dishonor.”

“In that case,” said he, smiling good-naturedly, “my conscience is a clear one; and I may forward your escape with the satisfying reflection that I have diminished the enemies of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth by one most inveterate follower of Napoleon. I shall ask no conditions of you. When are you ready?”

“To-day,—now.”

“Let me see; to-morrow will be the 8th,—to-morrow will do. I will write about it at once. Meanwhile, it is as well you should not drop any hint of your intended departure, except to Madame de Langeac, whose secrecy may be relied on.”

“May I ask,” said I, “if you run any risk in thus befriending me? It is an office, believe me, of little promise.”

“None whatever. Rarely a month passes over without some one or other leaving this for England. The intercourse between Rome and Ireland is uninterrupted, and has been so during the hottest period of the war.”

“This seems most unaccountable to me; I cannot understand it.”

“There is a key to the mystery, however,” said he, smiling. “The English Government have confidence in the peaceful efforts of the priesthood as regards Ireland, and permit them to hold unlimited intercourse with the Holy See, which fears France and the spirit of her Emperor. The Bourbons look to the Church as the last hope of the Restoration. It is in the Catholic religion of this country, and its traditions, that monarchy has its root. Sap one, and you undermine the other. Legitimacy is a holy relic,—like any other, the priests are the guardians of it; and as for the present ruler of France, he trusts in the spirit of the Church to increase its converts, and believes that Ireland is ripening to revolt through the agency of the priests. FouchÉ alone is not deceived. Between him and the Church the war is to the knife; and but for him the high seas would be more open than the road to Strasburg,—at least, to all with a shaven crown and a silk frock. Here, then, is the simple explanation of what seemed so difficult; and I believe you will find it the true one.”

“But two out of the three parties must be deceived,” said I.

“Perhaps all three are,” replied he, smiling sarcastically. “There are some, at least, who deem the return of the rightful sovereign is more to be hoped from the sabre than the crosier, and think that Rome never was true except to Rome. As to your journey, however, its only difficulty or danger is the transit through France; once at the coast, and all is safe. Your passport shall be made out as a retired sous-officier returning to his home. You will take Marboeuf in the route, and I will give you the necessary directions for discovering the abbÉ.”

“Is it not possible,” said I, “that he may feel no inclination to encumber himself with a fellow-traveller, and particularly one a stranger to him?”

“Have no fear on that head. Your presence, on the contrary, will give him courage, and we must let him suppose you accompany him at our suggestion.”

“Not with any implied knowledge or any connection with your views, however,” said I. “This is well understood between us?”

“Perfectly so. And now meet me here this evening, after coffee, and I will give you your final instructions, Adieu, for the present.”

He waved his hand and left me. Then, after walking a few paces, turned quickly round, and said,—

“You will remember, a blouse and knapsack are indispensable for your equipment. Adieu!”