I sat on my bed in the little chamber allotted me, and as the bright moonlight streamed along the floor, and lit up the wide landscape without, I hesitated within myself whether I should await the morning, or at once set forth on my way to the coast. It was true the abbÉ had not arrived; and without him I knew nothing of the vessel, nor where she lay, much less by what means I should induce the crew to receive me as a passenger. But my heart was fixed on gaining the coast; once there, I felt that the sea alone rolled between me and my country, and I had little doubt some means of escape would present itself.

The desire to return to Ireland, long stilled, was now become a passion. I thought some new career must there open for me, and in its active vicissitudes I should make amends for the wearisome languor of my late life. What this novel path was to be, and where to lead, I cannot say; nor am I able now, in looking back, to guess by what sophistry I persuaded myself into this belief. It was the last ray of hope within me, however, and I cherished it only the more fondly for its very uncertainty.

As I sat thus deliberating with myself what course to take, the door was cautiously opened, and the landlord entered.

“He is come,” whispered he; “and, thank Heaven! not too late.”

“The abbÉ?” inquired I.

“No, not the abbÉ; but the Comte de Chambord. The abbÉ will not venture; but it matters not, if you will. The letters are all ready; the sloop is off the coast; the wind is fair—”

“And not a moment to be lost,” added a deep, low voice, as the figure of a tall man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, darkened the doorway. “Leave us, Pierre; this is the gentleman, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” said the landlord. “Should you need a light, I 'll bring one.”

“Thank you, friend; we can dispense with any, save what the moon affords us.”

As the door closed on the retiring figure of the host, the stranger took his place beside me on the bed, and in a low voice thus began:—

“I only know, sir, that you have the full confidence of one of my stanchest and best friends, who tells me that you are willing to incur great risk, provided you gain the chance of reaching your native land. That chance—nay, I will call it that certainty—lies in my power; and, in return for the assistance, are you willing to do me a service?”

“I served the Emperor, sir; ask me not anything unworthy of one who wore his epaulette. Aught else, if it be but honorable and fair, I 'll do.”

“I have no leisure for casuistry, nor is it my humor, sir,” replied he angrily. “Neither do I seek any wondrous devotion at your hands. The service is an easy one: costs nothing at the present; involves nothing for the future.”

“The slight value you place upon it may detract but little from my objection,” said I.

“SacrÉ ciel!” exclaimed he, in a louder voice, as he sprang from the bed and clasped his hands before him. “Is it to be ever thus? Is every step we take to be marred by some unlooked for casualty? Is the stamp of fear and vacillation to be on every act of our lives? This abbÉ, the creature we have made, the man whose fortune is our handiwork, could render but one service to our cause; and he fails us in our need. And now, you—”

“Beware, sir, how you speak to one who has never been accustomed to hear his name slightingly used nor his honor impugned. With your cause, whatever it be, I have no sympathy. Remember that; and remember, also, we are strangers to each other.”

“No, par Saint Denis! that we are not!” said he, seizing me by the arm, as he turned his head round, and stared me steadfastly in the face. “It was but this instant I deemed my fortune at the worst; and now I find myself mistaken. Do you know me now?” said he, throwing off his travelling cap, and letting his cloak fall from his shoulders to the ground.

“De Beauvais!” exclaimed I, thunderstruck at the sight.

“Yes, sir; the same De Beauvais whose fortunes you have blighted, whose honor you have tarnished—Interrupt me not. The mill at HÔlbrun witnessed the latter, if even the former were an error; and now we meet once more.”

“Not as enemies, however; at least on my side. You may persist, if you will, in attributing to me wrongs I never inflicted. I can better bear the imputation, unjust though it be, than involve myself in any quarrel with one I feel no anger towards. I was in hopes a few hours hence might have seen me on my way from France forever; but here, or elsewhere, I will not reply to your enmity.”

De Beauvais made no reply as I concluded, but with his arms crossed, and head bent down, seemed lost in thought.

“And so,” said he, at length, in a slow, sad voice, “you have not found the service of the Usurper as full of promise as you hoped; you have followed his banner long enough to learn how mean a thing even ambition may be, and how miserably selfish is the highest aspiration of an adventurer!”

“The Emperor was my good master,” said I, sternly; “it would ill become me to vent my disappointment on aught save my own demerits.”

“I have seen as slight deservings bring a high reward, notwithstanding,” replied he; “ay, and win their meed of praise from lips whose eulogy was honor. There was a service, Burke—”

“Stay, no more of this!” said I. “You are unjust to your own cause and to me, if you deem that the hour of baffled hopes is that in which I could see its justice. You are true and faithful to one whose fortunes look darkly. I respect the fidelity, while I will not follow its dictates. I leave the path where fame and riches abound; I only ask you to believe that I do so with honor. Let us part, then.”

“Where do you mean to go, hence?”

“I know not; a prospect of escape had led me hither. I must now bethink me of some other course.”

“Burke, I am your debtor for one kindness, at least,” said De Beauvais, after a brief pause. “You saved my life at the risk of your own. The night at the ChÂteau d'Ancre should never be forgotten by me; nor had it been, if I did not revenge my own disappointed hopes, in not seducing you to our cause, upon yourself. It may be that I wrong you in everything as in this.”

“Believe me, that you do, De Beauvais.”

“Be it as it may, I am your debtor. I came here to-night to meet one who had pledged himself to perform a service. He has failed in his promise; will you take his place? The same means of escape shall be yours. All the precautions for his safety and sure conduct shall be taken in your behalf. I ask no pledge for the honorable discharge of what I seek at your hands, save your mere assent.”

“What is it you require of me?”

“That you deliver these letters to their several addresses; that you do so with your own hands; that when questioned, as you may be, on the state of France, you will not answer as the partisan of the Usurper.”

“I understand you. Enough: I refuse your offer. Your zeal for the cause you serve must indeed be great when it blinds you to all consideration for one placed as I am.”

“It has made me forget more, sir, far more than that, as I might prove to you, were I to tell what my life has been for two years past. But for such forgetfulness there is an ample recompense, a glorious one,—the memory of our king.” He paused at these words, and in his tremulous voice and excited gesture I could read the passion that worked within him. “Come, then; there shall be no more question of a compact between us. I ask no conditions, I seek for no benefits: you shall escape. Take my horse; my servant, who is also mounted, will accompany you to Beudron, where you will find fresh horses in readiness. This passport will prevent all interruption or delay; it is countersigned by FouchÉ himself. At Lisieux, which you will reach by sunset, you can leave the cattle, and the boy of the cabaret will be your guide to the Falaise de Biville. The tide will ebb at eleven o'clock, and a rocket from the sloop will be your signal to embark.”

“And for this I can render nothing in return?” said I, sadly.

“Yes. It may be that in your own country you will hear the followers of our king scoffed at and derided,—called fools or fanatics, perhaps worse. I would only ask of you to bear witness that they are at least ardent in the cause they have sworn to uphold, and firm to the faith to which they have pledged themselves. This is the only service you can render us, but it is no mean one. And now, farewell!”

“Farewell, De Beauvais! But ere we separate forever, let me hear from your lips that you bear me no enmity; that we are friends, as we used to be.”

“Here is my hand. I care not if you injured me once; we can be friends now, for we are little likely to meet again as enemies. Adieu!”

While De Beauvais left the room to order the horses to be in readiness, the landlord entered it, and seemed to busy himself most eagerly in preparing my knapsack for the road.

“I trust you will be many a mile hence ere the day breaks,” said he, with an anxiety I could ill comprehend, but which at the time I attributed to his desire for the safety of one intrusted with an important mission. “And now, here come the horses.'”

A moment more, and I was seated in the saddle. A brief word at parting was all De Beauvais spoke, and turned away; and the minute after I was hurrying onward towards Beudron.