Two days later we arrived at Hugues's house, and were received with great joy by him and Mathilde. Here the Countess, now happily improved in health, resumed the attire of her sex, which she had there put off. My father then accompanied her to the Chateau de Lavardin, and made her known to the guardsman in command, by whom she was treated with the utmost consideration. With Mathilde to attend her, she remained a few days at the chateau, and then removed with her personal possessions to the house of Hugues, whose marriage to Mathilde was no longer delayed.

But meanwhile my father and I stayed only a day at Montoire, lodging at the inn there. I did not go to the chateau, but my father took thither the two keys, and brought away my sword and dagger, which had been hanging undisturbed in the hall. My farewell to the Countess was spoken in front of Hugues's gate when she started thence for the chateau, and not much was said, for my father and Hugues were there, as well as Mathilde, and the horses were waiting. But something was looked, and never did I cease to carry in my heart the tender and solicitous expression of her sweet eyes as they rested on me for a silent moment ere she turned away.

My father and I, on our homeward journey, stopped at La FlÈche and ascertained that Monsieur de Merri's relations had learned of his fate and taken all care for the repose of his body and soul. It appeared that he lived at Orleans, and was used to visit cousins in Brittany: thus, then, had he chanced to stop at Montoire and fall in with the Count de Lavardin. Alas! poor young gentleman!

And now we arrived home, to the great relief of my mother; and Blaise Tripault would hardly speak to my father or me, for envy of the adventures we had passed through without him. But he spread great reports of what I had done,—or rather what I had not done, for he made me a chief hero in the destruction of the band of robbers. But this unmerited fame scarcely annoyed me at all, for my thoughts were elsewhere, and I was restless and melancholy. In a few days I resolved to go to Paris,—by way of Montoire. But before I started, I took a walk one fine afternoon along the stream that bounded our estate: and, as I had expected, there was Mlle. Celeste on the other side, with her drowsy old guardian. She blushed and looked embarrassed, and I wondered why I had ever thought her charming. Her self-confidence returned in a moment, and she greeted me with her old sauciness, though it seemed a trifle forced:

"Ah, Monsieur, so you have come back without going to Paris after all, I hear."

"Yes, Mademoiselle," I answered coldly. "But I have taken your advice and looked a little into the eyes of danger; and I find it does make a difference in one."

"Oh, yes: I believe you fought a duel, and were present when some highway robbers were taken; and now you have come back to rest on your laurels."

"No; I came back to give you these, as I promised." And I threw her the packet containing the moustaches of Brignan de Brignan. She opened it, and regarded the contents with amazement. I laughed.

She looked at me now with real wonder, and I perceived I had grown several inches in her estimation.

"But don't think I took them against his will," said I. "I admit I never could have done that. He gave me them in jest, and the proudest claim I can make in regard to him is that he honours me with his friendship. Good day, Mademoiselle."

I came away, leaving her surprised and discomfited, for which I was not sorry. She had expected to find me still her slave, and to expend her pertness on me as before: though she might have known that if danger would make a man of me, it would give me a man's eyes to see the difference between a real woman and a scornful miss.

I went to Paris, careful this time to avoid conflict with bold-speaking young gentlemen at inns; and on the way I had one precious hour at Hugues's house, wherein—upon his marriage to Mathilde—the Countess had established herself, to the wonder of all who heard of it. She continued to lodge there, her affairs turning out so that she was able to repay Hugues liberally. She occupied herself in good works for the poor about Montoire, and so two years passed, each day making her happier and more beautiful. Many times I went between La Tournoire and Paris,—always by way of Montoire. In Paris I saw much of Brignan de Brignan, whose moustaches had soon grown back to their old magnitude. And one day whom should I meet in the Rue St. HonorÉ but that excellent spy of Sully's, Monsieur de Pepicot?

I begged him to come into a tavern. "There is something you owe me," said I, when we were seated; "an account of how you got out of the Chateau de Lavardin that night without leaving any trace."

"It was nothing," said the long-nosed man meekly. "I found an empty room with a mullioned window, on the floor beneath ours, and let myself down to the terrace with a knotted rope I had brought in my portmanteau."

"But I never heard that any rope was found."

"I had passed it round the inside of the window-mullion and lowered both ends to the ground, attached to my portmanteau. In descending I kept hold of both parts. When I was down, I had only to release one part and pull the rope after me. I found a gardener's tool-shed, and in it some poles for trellis-work. I placed two of these side by side against the garden wall, at the postern door, and managed to clamber to the top."

"But I heard of nothing being found against the wall."

"Oh, I drew the poles up after me, and also my portmanteau, by means of the rope, which I had fastened to them and to my waist. I let them down to a plank which crossed the moat there, as I had observed before ever entering the chateau. I dropped after them, and was lucky enough to avoid falling into the moat. I hid the poles among the bushes: not that it mattered, but I thought it would amuse the Count to conjecture how I had got away. One likes to give people something to think of.—As for my horse, I had seen to it that he was kept in an unlocked penthouse.—Ah, well! that Count thought he was a great chess-player." And Monsieur de Pepicot smiled faintly and shook his head.

At the prospect of war, I joined the army assembling at Chalons, but the lamentable murder of the King put an end to his great plans, and I resumed my former way, swinging like a pendulum between Paris and La Tournoire. One soft, pink evening in the second summer after my adventure at Lavardin, I was privileged to walk alone with the Countess in the meadows behind Hugues's mill. Health and serenity had raised her beauty to perfection, and there was no trace of her sorrows but the humble dignity and brave gentleness of her look and manner.

"You are the loveliest woman in the world," I said, without any sort of warning. "Ah, Louise—surely I may call you that now—how I adore you! I cannot any longer keep back what is in my heart. See yonder where the sun has set—that is where La Tournoire is. It seems to beckon us—not me alone, but us—together. When will you come?—when may I take you to my father and mother, and hear them say I could not have found a sweeter wife in all France?"

Trembling, she raised her moist eyes to mine, and said in a voice like a low sigh:

"Ah, Henri, if it were possible! But you forget the barrier: we are not of the same religion. I know your mother changed her faith for your father's sake; but I could never do so."

"But what if I changed for your sake?" I said, taking her hand.

"Henri! will you do that?" she cried, with a joy that told all I wished to know.

In truth, I had often thought of going over to the national form of worship. As soon, therefore, as I got to La Tournoire after this meeting, I opened the matter to my father.

"Why," said he, "I think it a sensible resolve. The times are changed; since King Henri's death, there is no longer any hope of us Huguenots maintaining a balance. As a party, we have done our work, and are doomed to pass away. Those who persist will only keep up a division in the nation, from which they can gain nothing, and which will be a source of useless troubles. As for the religious side of the question, some people prefer artificial forms of expression, some do not. It is a matter of externals: and if one must needs subscribe to a few doctrines he does not believe, who is harmed by that? These things are much to women, and we, to whom they are less, can afford to yield. I often fancy your mother would like to go back to the faith of her childhood,—and if she ever expresses the wish, I will not hinder her. When I married her, all was different: I could not have become a Catholic then. Nor indeed can I do so now. Blaise Tripault and I are too old for new tricks: we must not change our colours at this late day: we are survivals from a bygone state of things. But you, my son, belong to a new France. Our great Henri said. 'Surely Paris is worth a mass': and I dare say this lady is as much to you as Paris was to him."

So the Church gained a convert and I a wife. Hugues and Mathilde came to live on our estate. And Mlle. Celeste, in course of time, was married to a raw young Gascon as lean as a lath, as poor as a fiddler, and as thirsty as a Dutchman, but with moustaches twice as long as those of Brignan de Brignan.

THE END.