The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, August 31, 1902, Page 5

Blackness surrounded the post earriage n whic nd it seemed to stand afire at one end. Two branches and all, were burn- big hearth, stc glowing under and figures with long beards, in k robes, passed betwixt me and the stirring a caldron. If ever witches' i was seen, it looked like that. . .‘\:" «;*l eclipse of mind had come upon e f.( 10Ul rending and tearing the head, §$19 facts returned clearly and directly. aw the black-robed figures were Jews cooking supper at a larn ge fireplace, and we 1 driven upon th ' bt Hogl 8 e brick floor of a h had a door nearly the At that end Spreyad a pen land. forest and sky. “pon cushions, as well as 4 permit, and was aware Which came between me and that Skenedonk stood at the ghostly film of of 1 lay stretched v the vehicle woul by a shadow the Jews step “What are you about?" are ut?" T spoke wit ® rush of chsgrin sitting up. p"A:ew,“; on the road to Parig? 1 “Yes." he answered. n ‘e made a mistake, Skene- he maintalned. *w:. " | i ait o (o Some supper. After sup- Per at onc gl ¢ then, for T ¥ ,‘(". quite awake?" 5. € awake. How long aia it last this “Bring the su o &M going to tal “Are u vo days “We N z Mittays "0t ™0 days’ journey out ot when you have horses Veil, 3 s put in ifimorrow morning, turn them back to Skenedonk went to the g, s k gantic hearth, end one of the Jews ladled him out a 'b:fi‘u;}fi o] ;;: caldron stew, which he he stuff was . o & not offensive and 1 was 3 brought another bowlfu! ’hlmwa f, and we ate as we had onm 'dlfii pr;‘(’he wo0ds. The fire shone on his bald Poven "2 Fave out the liquid lights of his “I have made a fool E tay, Skencaons. of myself In Mit- wWhy do you want to go back?” Because T am not going to be thrown out of the palace without a hearing.” “What is the use?’ sald Skenedonk. +The old fat chief will not let you stay. He doesn't want to hear you talk. He wants to be King himself.” “Did you see me sprawling on the floor lke the idiot?” idiot. “Not like the ou see the Duchess?” Your face was dow *“Did *“Yes. “What did she do?” “Nothing. She leaned on the women and they took her away.” *“Tell me all you saw.” “When you went in to hold council, I watched. and saw a priest and Bellenger &nd the boy that God had touched, ali go in after you. So I knew the council would be bad for you, Lazarre. and I stood by the door with my knife in my hand. When the ta had gone on awhile I heard something like the dropping of a buck to the ground, and sprang in, and the men drew their swords and the wom- en screamed. The priest pointed at you and said, ‘God has smitten the pretender! Then they all went out of the room ex- cept the priest, and we opened your col- lar. I told him you had fallen like that before, and the stroke passed off in sleep. our carriage waited, and iIf I valued your safety 1 would put you in it and take you out of Russia. He called servants to heip carry you. I thought about your jewels; but some drums be[l‘r! to beat, and 1 thought about your life! “But, Skenedonk, didn’t my sister—the lady 1 led by the hand, you remember— gpeak to me again, or look at me, or try to revive me?”’ No. She went away with the women carrying her.” r She believed in me—at first! Before I £ald & word she knew ma! She wouldn't jeave me merely because her uncle and & priest thought me an impostor! She §e the tenderest creature on earth, Sken- edonk—she is more like a saint than & on the altar are blind and e Stnes “1 think she observed the Oneida have nearly killed her! And I have - ha";.b?;d uyul of Mittau 8s & pre- are here. Get some men to fight, will go back.” a stroke—to lose my senses at the moment I needed them most! . ki your scalp.” “And not much else. No! If you refuse to follow me, and wait here at lhl'!"polt- house, 1 am going back to Mittau! “] go where you go,” said Skenedonk. .« best go to sleep mow.” This T was not able to do until long tossing on the thorns of chagrin wore me 1 was ashamed like a prodigal, out baffied, and hurt to the bruising of my soul. A young man's chastened confidence n himself is hard to bear, but the loss 2!; what was given as a heritage at birth tice not to be endured. rone of France was never my be reached through blood and Perhaps the democratic mo- my father's breast have found wider scope in mine. I wanted to influ- ence men,.and felt even at that time that 1@ do it; but being King was less to ind than being acknowledged dau- , and brother, and named with my ok my fists in my hands and swore recognition, if I battered a life- on Mittau. ight our post-horses were put to and I gave the postilion orders f. The little fellow bowed himself double, and said that troops were hind us to join the allied forces Napoleon. once the prospect of belng snared emong armies and cut off from all re- turn to Paris appalled me as a greater resent calamity than being cast out of Mittau could wait for another Sittau “Take the road to n. - y well,” I sald. France.” We met August rains. We were bogged. A bridge broke under us. We dodged Austrian troops. It seemed even then a fated thing that a Frenchman should re- treat ignominiously from Russia. There is a devilish antagonism of in- snimate and senseless things, begun by discord in ourselves, which works unrea- sonable torture. Our return was an abom- inable journey which 1 will not recount, &nd going with it was a mortifying facil- ity for drawing opposing forces. However, I knew my friend, the Mar- quis, expected me to return defeated. He gave me my opportunity as a child is indulged with a dangerous plaything, to teach it caution. He would be in his chateau of Plessy, cutting off two days’ posting to Paris. And after the first sharp pangs of cha- grin and shame at losing the fortune he bad placed in my hands, I looked forward with impatience to our meeting. “We have nothing, Skenedonk!” I ex- claimed the first time there was occasion for money on the road. “How have you been able to post? The money and the Jewel-case are gone.” “We have two bags of money and the #nuffbox,” said the Oneida. “I hid them in the post-carriage. . I had the key of the jewel-case.” @re a good sieeper,” responded k. ed him heartil for his fore- . 2nd he said if he had known I was a fool he would not have told me @ve carried the jewel-case into Russia. 1 dared not let myself think of Madame de Ferricr. The plan of buying back her estates, which I had nurtured in the bot- tom of my heart, was now more remote than America. One bag of coin was spent in Paris, but three remained there with Doctor Chantry. We had money, though the more valuable treasure stayed in Mittau, 4n the sloping hills and green vines of Champagne we were no longer harassed dodging troops, and slept the last night of our posting at Epernay. Taking the road early mext morning, I began to watch for Plessy too soon, without fore- casting that 1 was not to set foot within its walls. We came within the Marquis’ boundar- fes upon a little goose girl, knitting beside her flock. Her bright hair was bound with a woolen cap. Deliclous grass, and the shadow of an oak, under which she stood, was not to be resisted, the carriage on. She looked open- mouthed after Skenedonk, and bobbed Qutiful, frightened courtesy at me. The Marquis’ peasants were by no means under the influence of the empire, as I knew from observing the lad whom he had sought among the drowned in the mertuary chapel of the Hotel Dieu, and who w efterward found in a remote wine shop seeing sights. The goose girl dared not speak to me unless I required it of her, and the unusual notive was an honor she would have avoided. “What do you do here?” I inquired. Her little heart palpitated in the ans- wer “Oh, guard the geese.” Do they give you trouble?" ' *“Not much, except that wicked gander.” THE SUNDAY CALL. She pointed out with her knitting-needle & sleek white fellow, who flirted his tail and turned an eye, quavering as he sald La, la, la!” 'What does he do?" “He would be at the vines and corn, monsieu Bad gander! 3 “I switch him,” she informed me, like a magistrate. »‘But that would only make him run.” “Also I have a string in my pocset, and I tie him by the leg to a _tree.” “Serves him right. Is the Marquis du Plessy at the chateau?” Her face grew shaded, as a cloud chases sunlight before it across a meadow. “Do_you mean the new Mar- quis, the old Marquis' cousin, monsieur He went away directly after the burial.” “What burial?” “The o'd Marquis' burial. That was be- fore St. John's day.” *‘Be careful what you sayv. my child!” ‘Didn’t you know he was dead, mon- sieur?” “l have been on a journey. Was his death sudden?” “He was killed in a duel in Paris.” 1 sat down on the grass with my head in my hands. Bellenger had told the truth. One scant month the Marquis du Plessy fostercd me llke a son. To this hour my slow heart aches for the companionship of the lightest, most delicate spirit I ever encountered in man. Once 1 lifted my head and insisted, “It can’t be true!” “Monsieur,” the goose girl asserted sol- emnly, “it is true. The blessed St. Alpin, my patron_ forget me if I teil a lie." Around the shadowed spot where I sat I heard trees whispering on the hills, and a cart rumbling along the hardened dust of the road, *Monsieur,” spoke the goose girl out of her good heart, “if you want to go to his chapel I will show you the path.” She tied a_string around the leg of the wicked gander and attached him to the tree, shaking a wand at him in warning. He nipped her sleeve, and hissed, and hopped, his wives remonstrating softly; the but his guardian left him bound and car- ried her knitting down a to a stream, across the bridge, and near an opening In the bushes at the foot of a hill. “Go all to the right, monsieur,” she said. “and you will come to the chapel where the Du Plessys are buried.” I gave her the largest coin in my pocket and she flew back as well as the spirit of childhood could fly in wooden shoes. All the geese, formed in a line, waddled to meet her perhaps bearing a memorial of wrongs from their husband. The climb was steep, rounding a dark- ened ferny shoulder of lush forest, vet fromising more and more a top of sun- ight. At the summit was a carriage road which ascended by some easier plane. Keeping all to the right as the goose girl directed, I found a chapel like a shrine. It was locked. Through the latticed door I could see an altar, whereunder the last Du Plessy who had come to rest there doubtless lay with his kin. I sat down on one of the benches under the trees. The ache within me went deep. But all that sunny hillcrest seemed brightened by the Marquis. It was cheer- ful as his smile. “Let us have a glass of wine and enjoy the sun.” he said in the breeze flowing around his chapel. *“And do you hear that little citizen of the three trunks, Lazarre?” The perfume of the woods rose invisibly to a cloudless sky. My last tryst with my friend was an hour in paradise's ante- chamber. The light quick stepping of horses and their rattling brought Madame de Fer- rier's carriage quickly around the curve fronting the chapel. Her presence was tha one touch which the place lacked, and I forgot grief, shame, impatience at being found out in my trouble. and stood at her step with my hat in my hand, She =ald—"0 Lazarre!”"—and Paul beat on Ernestine’s knee, echoing—"0O Zar!" and my comfort was absolute as release from pain, because she had come to visit her old friend the Marquis 1 helped her down and stood with her at the latticed door. “How bright it is here!" said Eagle. “It is very bright. I came up the hill from a dark place.” “Did the news of his death meet you on the postroad?” “It met me at the foot of this hill. The oose girl told me.” % g"Qh. you have been hurt!” she said, looking at me. “Your face is all seamed. Don't tell me about Mittau to-day. .aul and I are taking possession of the es- ates!” 2 “Napoleon has given them béck to you!" “Yes, he has! I begged the De Chau- monts to let me come alone! By hard posting we reached Mont Louis last night. You are the only person in France to whom I would give that vacant seat in the carriage to-day.” 1 cared no longer for my own loss, as I am afraid has been too much my way all through life; or whether I was a prince or not. Like par@iélise after death, as so many of our best days come, this perfect day was given me by the Marquis himself. Eagle's summer dress touched me. Paul and Ernestire sat facing us, and Paul ate cherries from a little basket, and had his fingers wiped, beating the cushion with his heels In excess of impatience to begin again. We paused at a turn of the height be- fore descending, where fields could be seen stretching to the horizon, woods fair and clean as parks, without the wildness of the American forest, and vineyards of bushy vines that bore the small black grapes. Eagle showed me the far boun- Garies of Paul's estates. Then we drove where holly spread its prickly foliage near the ground, where springs from cliffs trickled across deliclous lanes. Hoary stone farmhouses, built four- square like a fortress, each aving a stately archway, saluted us as we passed by. The patron and his wife came out, and laborers, pulling their caps, dropped down from high-yoked horses. But when the long single street of stone cottages which formed the village opened its arms, I could see her breast swelling all with comprehensive rush. ‘An elderly man, shaking some salad in a wire basket, dropped it at his feet and bowed and bowed. sweeping his cap to the ground. Some women who were washing around a roofed pool left their paddles and ran, wlmn% suds from their arms, and houses discharged their in- mates, babies in children’s armes, wives, old men, the simplicity of their lives and the openness of their labor manifest. They surrounded the carriage. Eagle stood Paul upon his feet that they might worship him, and his mouth corners curl- ed upward, his blue-eyed fearless look traveled from face to face, while her gloved hand was kissed and God was praised that she had come back. ““Oh, Jean,” she cried, *is your mother alive?” and “Marguerite! have you a son 80 tall?” An old creature bent double, walked out on four feet, two of them being sticks, fifted her voice and blessed Eagle and the child for a quarter of an hour. Paul's mother listened reverently and sent him in Ernestine’s arms for the warped human being to look upon at close range with her failing sight. He stared at her un- afrald nng experimentally put his finger on her knotted cheek, at which all the women broke into chorus as I have heard blackbirds rejoice. “] have not seen them for so long!" Madame de Ferrier said, wiping her eyes. “We have all forgotten our behavior!” An inverted pine tree hung over the inn door and dinner was laid for us in its best room, where host and hostess served the Marquise and the young Marquis almost on their knees. Vhen we passed out at the other end of the village, Eagle showed me a square- towered_church.’ “The De Ferriers are buried there—ex- cepting my father. T shall Kut a tablet in the wall for Cousin Philippe. Few Protestants in’ France had their rights and privileges protected as ours were bv the t] ne. I mention this fact, sire, that ou may lay it up in your mind! We have Yeen good subjects, well worth our salt in time of war.” Best of all was coming to the chateau when the sun was about an hour high. The stone pillars of the gateway let us upon a terraced lawn, where a fountain [ayed keeping bent plumes of water in he alr. The lofty chateau of white stone had a broad front, with wings. Eagle bade me note the two dovecotes or pigeon towers, distinctly separate structures, one flanking each wing. and demonstrating the antiquity of the house. For only nobles in medieval days were accorded the prlvflege of keeping doves. Should there be such another evenin for me when I come to paradise. if Go. in His mercy brings me there, I shall be rateful, but hardly with such fresh- Braried Joy. Night descends with special benediction on remote ancient homes like Mont Louis. We walked until sun- set in the park, by lake and brideed stream and hollied path. Ernestine carrying Paul or letting him pat behind, drh?' her by her long cap ribbons while he explored his mother's playground. But when the birds began to nest and dewfall could be felt he was taken to his, supper and his bed, giving his mother a generous kiss, and me a ile of “his upcurled mouth corners. His forehead was white and broad and his blue eyes were set well l%lfl‘ can yet see the child looking over Ernestine’s shoulder. She carried him up stairs of oak worn hollow like stone, a i hand-wrought balustrade rising them from hail to roof. We had our supper in a paneled room, where the lights were refiected as on mir- rors of polished oak, and the man who served us had served Madame de Ferrier's father and grandfather. Thc gentle o.d provincial went about his duty as a re- ligious rite. There was a pleached walk like that in the Marquis' Paris garden, of branches flattened and plaited to form an arbor supported by three columns, which lcd o a summer house of stone smothered in ivy. We walked back and forth under this thick roof of verdure. Eagle's cap of brown hair was roughened over her ra- diant face, and the open throat of her gown showed pulses beating in her neck. Her lifted chin almost touched my arm as I told her all the Mittau story, at her request. “Poor Madame d'Angouleme! The cau- tious priest and the King should not have taken you from me like that! She knew you as'1 knew you; and a woman's know- ing is better than a man's proofs. She will have times of doubting their policy. ~She will remember the expression of your mouth, your shrugs and gestures—the lit- tle traits of the child Louis, that reap- pear in the man.” “I wish 1 had never gone to Mitlau to give her a moment'’s distress.” “Is she very beautiful?"” “She is like a lily made flesh. She has her strong dislikes, and one of them is Louis Philippe—"" “Naturally,” said Eagle. “But she seems sacred to me. Perhaps a woman brings that hallowedness out of martyrdom." "'G'gd be with the royal lady! sire! “*And you—may you be always with me, Eagle!” “This journey to Mittau changes noth- ing. You are willful. You would go to the island in Lake George—you would go to Mittau.” “‘Both times you sent me.” “Both times 1 brought you home! us not be sorrowful to-night.” “Sorrowful! Iam so happy it seems {m- possible that I come from Mittau, and this day the Marquis du Plessy dled to me! I wish the sun had been tied to the trces, as the goose girl tied her gander.” “But I want another day,” sald Eagle. “1 want all the days that are my due at home.” We ascended the steps of the stone pa- And you, Let vilion and sat down in an arch like a balcony over the sunken gar- den. Pears and apricots, their branches flattened against the wall, showed ruddy garnered sunlight _through the ~dusk. The tangled _enclosure sloped down to the stream, from which a fairy wisp of mist wavered over flow- er bed and tree. Dew and herbs and the fragrance of late roses sent up a divine breath, invisibly submerging us, like a tide rising out of the night. Madame de Ferrier's individual traits were surprised in the nearness, as they never had been when I saw her at a dis- tance in alien surroundings. A swift rip- ple, involuntary and glad, coursed- down her body: she shuddered for joy half a minute or so. Two feet away, I worshiped her smil- ing eyes and their curved ivory lids, her rounded head with its abundant cap of hair, her chin, her shoulders, her bust, the hands in her lap, the very sweep of her scant gown about her feet. The flash of extreme happiness passing, she said gravely: “But that was a strange thing—that you should fall unconscious!" “Not so strange.” 1 said; and told her how many times before the eclipse—under the edge of which my boyhood was passed—had completely shadowed me. At the account of Ste. Pelagie she leaned to- ward me, her hands clenched on her breast. When we came to the Hotel Dieu she leaned back pallid against the stone. “Dear Marquis du Plessy,” she whis- pered, as his name entered the story. When it was ended she drew some deep breaths in the silence. “Sire, you must be very careful. That Bellenger is an evil man.” “But a weak one."” “There may be a strength of court policy behind him.” ““The policy of the court at Mittau Is evidently a policy of denial.” ““Your sister belleved in you.” “‘Yes, she believed in me.” T don't understand,” said Madame de Ferrier, leaning forward on her arms, “why Bellenger had you in London and another boy on the mountain.” t'::Perhaps we shall never understand “I_don't understand why he makes it his business to follow you."” “Let us not trouble ourselves about Bellenger.” “But are you safe in France since the Marquis du Plessy’s death?"” “I am safe to-night, at least.” “Yes, far safer than you would be in Paris.” “And Skenedonk is my guard.” “I have sent a messenger to Plessy for Lim,” Madame de Ferrier said. “He will be here in the morning.” I thanked her for remembering him in the excitement of her home-coming. We heard a far sweet call through a cleft of hills, and Eagle turned her head. - “That must be the shepherd of Les Rochers. He has missed a lamb. Les Rochers is the most dis- tant of our farms, but its night noises can be heard through an opening in the forest. Paul_will soon be listening for all these sounds! We must drive to Les Rochers to-morrow. It was there that Cousin Philippe_died.” I could not say how opporturiely Cousin Philippe had died. The violation of her childhood by such a marriage rose up that instant a wordless tragedy. ‘“‘Sire, we are not observing etiquette in Mont Louis as they observe it at Mit- tau. I have been talking very familiarly my King. I will keep silent. You speak.” “Madame, you have forbidden me to speak!” She gave me a startled look and sald: “Did you know Jerome Bonaparte has come back? He left his wife in America. She cannot be received in France, be- cause she has committed the crime of marrying a Prince. She is to be divorced for nolitical reasons.” “Jerome Bonaparte is a hound!” I spoke hotly. “And his wife a venturesome woman-- to marry even a temporary Prince.” “I like her sort, madame!” “Do you, sire?” “Yes, I like a woman who can love nd ruin?"” ow could you ruin me?” ‘The Saint Michels brought me uap,” said Eagle. “They taught me what is lawful and unlawful. I will never do an unlawful thing, to the disgrace and shame of my house. A woman should build her house, not tear it down.” “What is unlawful?"* “It is unlawful for me to encourage the suit of my sovereign.” . “Am I ever likely to be anything but what they call in Mittau pretender, Eagle?” “That we do not know. You shall keep vourself free from entanglements.” “I am free from them—God knows I am free enough—the lonesomest, most un- friended savage that ever set out to con- queyr his own/l” w “You were born to things will come to you. et “If you loved me I could make them come!” ’ “‘Sire, it isn’t healthy to sit in the night air. We must go out of the dew.” “Oh, who would be healthy! Come to that, who would be such a royal beggar as I am?” “Remember,” she sald gravely, “that your claim was in a manner recognized by one of the most cautious, one of the least ardent royalists in France.” The recognition she knew nothing about came to my lips and I told her the whole story of the jewels. The snuffbox was in my pocket. Sophle Saint Michel had often des!‘srlhed 1t dtoI h;r.fl e e sat and looked at me, conf the stupendous loss. - yiAne “The Maraquis advised me not to them into Russia.” I acknowledged. ok ‘‘There is no robbery so terrible as the robbery committed by those who think they are doing right.” *I am one of the losing Bourbons." “Can anything be hidden in that closet in the Queen’s dressing-room wall > mus- ed Eagle. “I believe I could find it in the dark, Sophie told me o0 often where the secret spring may be touched. When the De Chaumonts took me to the Tufleries 1 wanted to search for it. But all the state apartments are now on the second floor, and Madame Bonaparte has her own rooms below. Evidently she knows noth- ing of the secrets of the place. The Queen kept her most beautiful robes in that closet. It has no visible door. The wall opens. And we have heard that a door was made through the back of it to let upon a spiral staircase of stone, and throu‘h! :h{;at:l:“:nynl ‘funltlg made thelr escape rennes, when the; - Tested and brought back. o T ore 8F We fell into silence at mention of the unsuccessful flight which could have chaneed historv: and she rose and said, *Good night, sire.” Next morning there was such a delicious world to live in that breathing was a pleasure. Dew gauze spread far and wide tness. -sat the night before. over the radiant domain. Sounds from cattle and stables, and the voices of ser- vants drifted on the air. Doves wheeled around their towers and arcund the chateau standing like a white chiif. 1 waiked under the green canopy watch- ing the sun mount and waiting for Mad- ame de Ferrier. When she did appear the old man who had served her father fol- lowed with a tray. I could only say, “Good morning. madame,” not daring to add. have scarcely slept for thinking of you.” “We will have our coffee right here,” she told me. It was placed on the broad stone seat under the arch of the pavilion where we Bread, unsalted but- ter from the iarms, the coifee, the cream, the loaf sugar. Madame de Ferrier her- seif opened a door in the end of the wall and plunged into the dew of the garden. Her old servant exclaimed. She caught her hair in briers and laughed, tucking it up from falling, and brought off two great roses, each the head and the strength of a stem, to lay beside our plates. The breath of roses to this hour sends through my veins the joy of that. Then the cold servant gathered wall fruit for us, and she sent some in his hapd to Paul. Through a festooned arch o pavilion glving upen the terraces we saw a bird dart down to the fountain, tiit and drink, tilt and drink again, and flash away. Immediately the multitudinous re- jolcing of a skylark dropped from upper air. When' men would send thanks to the very gate of heaven their envoy should be a skylark. Bagle was [like a little girl as she listened. l‘"rhia is the first day of September, sire.” “Is it? I thought it was the first day of creation.” “T mention the date that you may not forget it. Because I am going to give vou something to-day.” My heart leaped like a conquereror's. Her skin was as fresh as the roses, looking marvelous to touch. The shock of imminent discovery went through me. For how can a man consider a woman Zorever as a picture? A picture she was, in the short-waisted gown of the empire, of that white stuff Napoleon praised be- . cause it was manufactured in France. It showed the line of her throat, being parted half way down the bosom by a ruff which encircled her neck and stood high behind it. The transparent sleeves clung to her arms, and the slight outline of her figure looked long in its close casing. The gown tail curled around her slip- pered foot damp from the plunge in the garden. She gave it a little kick, and rippled again suddenly throughout her length. Then her face went grave, like a ehild’s when it is surprised in wickedness. “But our fathers and mothers would have us forget their suffering in the fes. tival of coming home, wouldn't they, La- zarre?” “Surely, Eagle.” “Then why are you looking at me with reproach?"” “1m_ not.” “‘Perhaps you don’t like my dress? I told her it was the first time I had ever noticed anything she wore, and I lked fit. “I used to wear my mother's clothes, Ernestine and I made them over. But this is new; for the new day and the new life here.” “And the day.” I reminded her, “is the first of September.” She laughed, and opened her left hand, showing me two squat keys so small that Dboth had lain concealed under two of her finger tips. “I am going to give you a key, sire.” ‘Will it unlock a woman’s mind?” “It will open a padlocked book. Last night I found a little blank-leaved book, with wooden covers. It was fastened by a padlock, and these keys were tled to it. You may have one key: I will keep the other.” “The key to a padlocked book with nothing in"it.” 1 Her eyes tantalized me. “I am going to put something in fit. Sophie Saint Michel sald I had a gift for putting down my thoughts. If the gift appeared to Sophie when I was a child, it must grow in me by use. Every day I shall put some of my life into the book. And when I die I will bequeath it to ou!™ 3 ““Take back the key, madame. no_desire to look into your coffin.” She extended her hand. ““Then our good and kind friend Count de Chaumont =hall have it."” “He shall not!” I held to her hand and kept my key. She slipped away from me., The laugh- ter of the child yvet rose through the dig- nity of the woman. “When may I read this book, Eagle?” “Never, of my free will, sire. How could I set down all I thought about you, for instance, if the certainty was han, ing over me that you would read my can- did opinions and punish me for them! “Then of what use {s the key?" “You would rather have it than give it to another, wouldn’t you?” “Decidedly.” “Well, you will have the key to my thoughts!"” “And if the book ever falls into my hands—"" “I will see that it doesn't!" “I will say, years from now—"" “Twenty?” O, Eagle!” “Twenty? “Ten." “Months? That's too long!” No, ten years, sire.” Not ten years, Eagle. No, nine.” ‘Seven. If the book falls into my hands :\ttm'the end of seven years, may I open I have Say elght.” “I may safely promise you that,” she laughed. *“The book will never fall into your hands."” I took from my pocket the gold snuff- box with the portraits on the 1id, and placed my key carefully therein. Eagle leaned forward to look at them, he took the box in her hand, and gazed ws‘h long reverence, drooping her head. Young-as I was, and unskilled in the ways of women, that key worked magic comfort. She had given me a link to hold us together. The inconsistent, contradic- tory being, old one instant with the wis- dom of the Saint Michels, ripping full of unrestraired life the next, denying me all hope, vet indefinitely tantalizing, was adorable beyond words. I closed my eyes the blinding sunshine struck = them through the ivied arch. Turning my head as I opened them, I gaw an old man come out on the terrace. He tried to search In every direction, his gray head and faded eyes moving anxiously. Madame de Ferrier was still. I heard her lay the snuffbox on the seat. I knew, though I could not I t my- self watch her, that she stood up against the wall, a woman of stone, her lips chiseled apart. “Eagle—Eagle!” the old man cried from the terrace. She whispered—*"Yes, Cousin Philippe!” XI. Bwiftly as she passed between the tree columns, more swiftly her youth and vi- tality died in that walk of a few yards. We had been boy and girl together brief half hour, heedless and Ka¥; ‘When she reached the arbor end, our chapter of yeuth was ended. I saw her bloodless face as she stepped upon the terrace. The man stretched his arms to her. As if the blight of her spirit fell upon him, the light died out of his face and he drop- ped his arms at his sides. He was a country gentleman, cadave: ous and shabby as he stood, all the breed- ing of past generations appearing in him. “Eagle?” he sald. The tone of piteous apology went through me like a sword. She took his hands and herself drew them around her neck. He kissed her on both checks. “O Cousin Philippe!” “l have frightened you, child! T meant to send a message first—but I wanted to see you—I wanted to come home!" ‘Cousin’ Philippe, who wrote that let- The notary, child. 1 made him do it.” g was cruel!” She gave way, and broenly sobbed, leaning helpless against im The old Marquis smoothed her head, and plucked his forehead under the su: l\:‘ht, casting his eyes around like a cul- Tit. i “It was desperate. But I could do nothing else! You see it has succeeded. While T lay in hiding, the sight of the child, and your youth, has softened Bo: aparte. That was my intention, Eagle “The peasants should have told me you were living!” “They didn't know I came back. Many of them think I died in America. The family at Les Rochers have been very faithful; and the notary has held Lig tongue. We must reward them, Eagle. 1 have been hidden very closely. I am tired of such long hiding! He looked toward the chateau and lift- ed his voice sharply— eihhere's the baby? 1 haven't seen the aby!"” 5 ‘With gracious courtesy, restraining an impulse to plunge up the nex., he gave her his arm; and she swayed against it as they entered. ‘me; and disappeared. When I could see them no more, I rose, and put my snuffbox in my breast. The key rattled in it. * A savage geed of hiding when so ‘wounded, worl first through the disor- der that let me see none of the amenities of leave-taking, self-command, conduct. I was béyond the gates, bare-headed, walking with long strides, when an old mill caught my eye, and I turned toward i, as we turn ‘to trifles to relieve us from unendurable tension. The water dripped over the wheel, and long green beard trailed from its chin down the sluice. In this quieting company Skene- donk spied me as he rattled past with the post-carriage; and considering my beha- vior at other times, he was not enough surprised to waste any good words of Oneida. He stopped the carriage and I got in. He pointed ghead toward a curtain of trees which screened the chateau. e "’ 1 answered. " “Paris,” he repeated to the };osuuon.' and we turned about. I looked from hill to stream, from the fruited brambles of blackberry to reaches of noble forest, realizing that I should never see those lands again, or the neighboring crest where my friend the marquis slept. dn‘:{: posted the distance to Paris in two What the country was like or what towns we passed I could not this hour de- clare with any certainty. At first making effort and groping numbly in my mind, but the second day grasping determina- tion, I formed my plans, and talked them over with Skenedonk. We would sail for America on the first convenient ship; wnmng in Paris only long enough to pre- pare for the post journey to a port. Charges must at once be settled with Dr. Chantry, who would willingly stay in Paris while the De Chaumonts remained there. Beyond the voyage I did not look. The firsg faint tugging of my foster country began to pull me as it has pulled many a broken wretch out of the conditions of the older world. Paris was horrible, with a lonesomeness no one could have foreseen in its crowded streets. A taste of war was in the air. Troops passed to review. Our post-car- riage met the dashing coaches of gay young men I knew, who stared at me rv‘vétll;cru.u;"re;ognluon. 2 Marquis du Plessy ade way for me y me at his side. ¥ F e I drove to his hotel in the Faubourg St. Germain for my possessions. It was closed; the distant relative who inherited after him being an heir with no Parisian tastes. The care-taker, however, that gentle old valet like a_woman, who had dressed me in my first Parisian finery, let us in, and waited upon us with food I sent him out to buy. He gave me a letter from my friend, which he had held to de- liver on my return, In case any accident befell the Marquis.’ He was tremulous in his mourning, and all his ardent care of me was service rendered to the dead. I sat in the garden, with the letter spread upon the table where we had dined. Its brevity was gay. The writer Would have gone under the knife with a Jest. He dld not burden me with any kind f;ugfiuge;li.n Wlet had touched. We might ¥ was as i Ll it a soul sailed - wDeta:; Boy: anted you, but it was best vou should not stay and behold the depravity ot"i';:; ;g.:lers. It tls about a woman. come to a bet the unsteady one of F“mt:r R e “Your friend and servant, o , my bo; no questions abou: s in which he had been engmged‘: (Ihteh: f;fi,é ;:r-ted me to know he would have to.d The garden was more than I could en- dure. I lay down early and slept late, as soon as I awoke In the morning be- ginning preparation for leaving France. Yet two days passed, for we were obliged to exchange our worn post-carriage for another after waiting for repairs. The old valet packed my belongings; thoush I wondered what I was going to.do_wi h them ltn tAn-’nlelrlca. T‘X;a outfit of a youns man of fashion overdressed a 2 diminished fortune. e of For no sooner was I on the street than a sense of being unmistakably watched grew upon me. [ scarcely caught any- body In the act. A succession a? vanish- ing people passed me from one to an- other. A workingman in his blouse eyed In the afternoon it was a soldler who had turned up near my elbow, and in the evening he was suc- ceeded by an equally interested old wom- an. I might not have remembered these with distrust if Skenedonk had not told me he was tralled by changing figures, :nd he thought it was time to get behind rees. , Bellenger might have returned to Parls and set Napoleon’s spies on the least be- friended Bourbon of all; or the police upon a man escaped from Ste. Pelagle after choking a sacristan. The Indian and I were not skilled in disguises as our watchers were. Our safety lay in getting out of Paris. Skene- donk undertook to stow our belongings in the post-chaise at the last minute. I went to De Chaumont’s hotel to bring the money from Doctor Chantry and to take leave without appearing to do s Mademoliselle de Chaumont seized me as I entered. Her carrriage stodd in the court. Miss Chantry was waiting in it while Annabel's maid fastened her glove. “O Lazarre!” the poppet cried, her heartiness going through me like wine. “Are you ? And how you have changed! They must have abused you in Russia. We heard you went to Rus- sia. But since dear Marquis, du Plessy died we never hear the truth about any- m;gicknowledged that I had been to Rus- 8l " 1d you go there? Tell your dear- zstvx}xlzsx'\ghel.y She won't tell.” L0 S B ok her fretwork of misty h:fl%h‘“ treason to me. Is she beauti- ful?” “very. ety “Perfectly. Ly 're not. By the way, why are yoflgzlliligus‘:wan if she is beautiful and b K00 % gian't say she was beautitul and kind for me: dif 17\ She has iited you, e bel “will . Your dearest Annabel Wi ého;’;get;gl“' Lazarre!” She cll!pedpmy arm with both hands. ‘Madame de Fer- band is alive!” = e solation Is there in that? wA great deal for me. She has her es- tates back, and he was only mdm‘) unm the ot them. 1 know the funniest thing! Annabel _hooked her finger and led me to a small study or cabinet at the end . wing-room. °‘A'-‘;‘,.§{‘},m',, ‘the most beautitul stuffs was arranged there for flll'pllx. “Look!” the witch exclaime: 3 pinching my wrist in her rapture. “Indla musiin il lluuu‘1 Turkish vel- vet, ball dresses for a bride, ribbons of all colors, white blcmflx re shawls, veils in Engl poin! :entsl‘elfizs. gloves, fans, essences, a bridal purse of gold links—and, worse than all— except this string of perfect pearls—his ortrait on a medallion of ivory, palnted gy". Isabey!” What is this collection?” ‘A corhm'c‘;-beumr' 3 w Hiows Am‘bel crossed her hands in despera~ tion. “Oh, haven’t you been in Paris long enough to know what a corbellle is? It's S llection of gifts a bridegroom makes for his bride. He puts his taste—his sen- timent, his'’—she waved her fingers in the alr—''as well as bis money, Into it. corbeiile shows what a man is. He must have been collecting it ever since he came to France. 1 feel proud of him. I want to pat him on his dear old back! ot having him there to pat she patted me. 2 ing to be married?” X oho & T was going to be married?” «“Isp’t this your corbellle?” Annabel lifted herself to my ear. “Jt was Madame de Ferrler's.” . “What!" e 3 sure "Wmho bought it?" “Count de Chaumont, of course.” “Was Madame de Ferrler going to mar- 7" ry"slvlfi-b wouldn't marry a man with such a cnrbelllfi'l"" “ # s| +#Don’t grind your teeth at your dearest Annabel. ‘Shs hadn’t seen it, but it must have decided her. I'm sure he intended to marry Madame de Ferrier, and he does most things he undertakes to do. That {nconsiderate wretch of a Marquis de Fer- rier—to spoil such a corbeille as this! But Lazarre!” She patetd her gloved hands. “Here's the consolation—my father will be obliged to turn his corbellle into my trousseau when I am married.” “What's a_trousseau?"” “Goose! It's a bride’s wardrobe. I knew he had something in this cabinet, ‘but he never left the key in the door un- He was so completely upset Into Paris!” “Are they in Paris?” “Yes, at thelr own hotel, The old Mar- quis has posted here to thank the Em- peror! The Emperor is away with the troops, so he is determined at last to thank the EmpreSs at the assembly to- night.” . “Will Madame de Ferrier go to the Tuileries?” “Assuredly. Fancy how furious my father must be!” “may 1 enter?’ sajd the humblest of ‘volces outside the door. ‘We heard a shuftling step. Annabel made a face and clenched her hands. The sprite was so harmiess [ laughed at her mischief. She brought in Doctor Chantry as she had brought me, to behoid the corbeille; covering her father's folly with transparent fabrica- tions, which anybody but the literal Briton must have seen through. He scarcely greeted me at all, folding his hands, pale and crushed, the sharp tip of his nose standing up more than ever like a porcelain candle-extinguisher, while I was anxious to have him aside, to get my money and take my leave. “'See this beautiful corbeilie, Doctor Chantry! Doesn’t it surprise you Lazarre should have such taste? We are going this morning to the Mayor of the arron- dissement. Nothing is so easy as civil marriage under the empire! Of course the religious sacrament in the church of the Capuchins follows, and celebrating that five minutes before midnight will make all Paris talk! Go with us to the Mayor, Doctor Chantry!” “No,” he answered, “no!” “‘My father joins us there. We have kept Miss Chantry waiting too long. She will be tired of sitting in the carriage.” Chattering with every breath Annabel entrained us both to the court, my poor master hobbling after her a victim, and staring at me with hatred when I tried to get a word in undertone. I put Annabel into the ccach, and Miss Chantry made frigid room for me. “‘Hasten yourself, Lazarre,” sald Mademoiselle de Chaumont. I looked back at the poor man who was being played with, and she cried out laughing— “Did you go to Russla a Parisian to come back a bear?” I entered her coach, intending to take my leave as soon as I had seen Count de Chaumont. Annabel chattered all the way about ecivil marriage, and directed Miss Chantry to wait for us while we Wwent in to the Mayor. I was perhaps too indifferent to the trick. The usually sharp ?0verneal, undecided and piqued, sat still. The Count was not in the Mayor's of- fice. A civil marriage was going forward, and a strange bridal party looked at us. “Now, Lazarre,” the fided, ‘“your dearest going to cover herself with Pa- risian disgrace. You don’t know how maddening it is to have every step dog- ged by a woman who never was, never could have been—and manifestly never will be—young! Wasn't that a divine flash about the corbeille and the mayor? Miss Chantry will wait outside half a day. As I said, she will be very tired of sitting in the carriage. This is what you must do: Smuggie me out another way; call another carriage, and take me for a drive and wicked dinner. I don't snrgt vhat the consequences are, if you on \ I said I certainly didn’t, and that I was ready to throw myself ni the Seine if that would amuse her: and vhe commended my imoprovement in manners. We had a drive, with a sympathitic coachman; and a wicked dinner in the suburb, which would have been quite harmless on Amer- ican ground. The child was as full of spirits as she might have been the night she mounted the cab.n chimney. But I realized that more of my goid pieces were slipping away, and I had not seen Doctor Chantry. “We were going to the mayor’s,” she maintained, when reproached. “My fath- er would have joined us if he had been there. He would certalnly have joined us if he had seen me alone with you. Nothing is so easy as civil marriage un- der the empire. Of course the religious sacrament follows, when people want it, and if it is ceiebrated in the Church of the Cavuchins—or any other church— tive minutes before midnight, it will make lll“ lfaris talk! Every word I sald was rue!” *‘But Doctor Chantry belleved thing entirely different.” “You can’'t do anything for the Eng- lish,” said Annabel. " “Next week he whl say haw-haw.” Doctor Chantry could not be found when we returned to her father's hotel. She gave me her fingers to kiss in good- by, and told me I was less doleful. “We thought you were the Marquis du Plessy’'s son, Lazarre. I always have be- lleved that story the Holland woman told me in the cabin, about your rank be- ing superior to mine. Don’t be cut up about Madame de Ferrler! You may have ;lo g0 Russia again for her, but you'll get er!"” The witch shook the mist of hair at the side of her pretty aquiline face, blew a kiss at me, and ran up the stalrcase and out of my life. After waiting long for Doctor Chantry I hurried to Skene- donk and sent him with instructions to find my master and conclude our affair before coming back. The Indian silently entered the Du Plessy hotel after dusk, crestfallen and suspicious. He brought nothing but a letter, left in Doctor Chantry’s room; and no other trace remanied of Doctor Chan’ try. : ""What has_ he done with himself, Skenedonk?” I exclaimed. The Oneida begged me to read that we might trail him. It was a long and very tiresome letter written in my master’s spider tracks, containing long and tiresome enu: erations his He pre- sented a large bill for his guardianship on the voyage and across France. Hs said I was not only a Rich Man through his Influence, but I had proved myself an ungrateful one, and had robbed him of his cnly sentiment after a disappointed Existence. My Impudence was equaled only by my astonishing Success, and he chose not to contemplate me as the Hus- band of Beauty and Lofty Station, whose Shoes he in his Modesty and Worth felt unworthy to unlatch. Therefore he with- drew that very day from Paris and would embrace the Opportunity of going into pensive Retirement and rural Contem- glat!on in his native Kingdom, where his ister would join him when she could do s0 with Dignity and Pro%flety. 1 glanced from line to line smiling, but the postscript brought me to my feet. “The Deposit which you left with me I shall carry with me, as no more than my Due for lifting low Savagery to high Gentility, and beg to subscribe my Thanks ful& at least this small Tribute of Grati- ude.” “Dr. Chantry is gone with the money!"” Skenedonk bounded up, sping his knife, which he always carried in a sheagh huw‘ng from his belt. “Which way did the old woman go?” “Stop,” I said. S The Indian half crouched for counsel. “T'll be a Prince! Let him have it.” “Let him rob you?”’ “We're quits, now. I've pald him for the Jancet stab I gave = 1 ‘t"But you haven’'t a whole bagful of coin eft."” ““We brought nothing Into.France, and it seems certain we shall take nothing but experience out of it. And I'm /young, Skenedonk. He isn’t.” The Oneida grunted. He was angrier than I had ever seen him. “We ought to have knocked the old woman_on the head at Saratoga,” he re- sponded. Annabel’s trick had swept away my lit- tle fortune. With recklessness which re- peated loss engenders I proposed we scat- ter the remaining coin in the streét, but Skenedonk prudently saild we would di- vide and conceal it in our clothes. I gave the kind valet a handful to Keep his heart warm and our anxieties about our valu- ables were much lightened. Then we consulted about our immi- nent start and I told my servant it would be better to send the post chaise across the Seine. He agreed with me. And for me to come to it as if by accident the moment we were ready to join each othexr on the road. He agreed to that. All of our belongings would be put into it by the valet and himself and when we met we would make a circuit and go by the t. Denis. byir! Sl T told him, “at 1 some- e will meet,” o’clock in front of the Tuileries.” Skenedonk looked 2t me without mov- ing a muscle. “I want to see the palace of the Tuller- fes before I leave France.” He still gazed at me. “At any risk, I am going to the Tuiler- {es to-night!” My Iroquols grunted. A glow spread all over his copper face and head. If I had told him 1 was going to the enemy's cen- tral camp fire to shake a club in the face of the biggest chief, he could not have thought more of my daring or less of my common sense. *You will never come out.” “If I don't, Skenedonk, go without me.” He passed small heroics unnoticed. “Why do you do it?" I couldn’t tell. Neither could I leave Parls without doing it. I assured him many carriages would be there, near the entrance, which was called, I believe, the pavilion of Flora; and by showing bold- ness we might start from that spot as well as from any other. He abetted the reckless devil in me, and the outcome was that 1 crossed the Seine bridge by ‘myself about 10 o’chu? remembering my _escape from Ste. Pelagle; remembering that [ should never see the gargoyles on Notre Dame any more, or the goiden dome of the Invalidés, or hear the night hum of Paris, whether I succeeded or not. For if T succeeded I should be away toward the coast by morning: and If {did not ::sctcted, I should be somewhere under ar- 1 can see the boy in white court dress, With no hint of the traveler about him, Wwho stepped jauntily out of a carriage and added himsell 10 Broups enteriug tue i Ui leries. The white court dress was armor which he put on to serve him in the dan- gerous allempt to vk Once more on a woman's face. He mounted with a strut toward the guardians of the imperial court, not knowing how he migit be chai- lenged; and fortune was with him. “‘Lazarre!"” exclaimed Count de Chau- mont, hurrying behind to take my elbow. *1 want you to heip me! Rememoering witn sudden remorse An- nabel's escape and our wicked dinner, I haited, eager to do um service. He was pernaps used to Annavel's escapes, for a very different annoyance puckered his forehead as he drew me aside within the entrance. “Have you heard the Marquis de Ferrier is ahive?” 1 told him I had heard it. “Damned old fox! He lay in hiding un- til the estates were recovered. Then out he creeps to enjoy them! “IU's a shame!” said the Count. It was a shame, 1 sald. “And now he's posted into Paris to make a,’lool of himself. ow?"” ave you seen Madame de Ferrier?” , I have not seen her.” ‘I believe we are in timé to intercept him. You have a clever nead, boy. Use it. How shall we get this old fellow out of the Tuilleries without letting him speak to the Emperor?” “Easlily, 1 should think, since Napoleon isn’t here.” “Yes, he is. He dashed into Paris a lit- tle while ago, and may leave to-night. But he is here.” “Why shouidn’t the Marquis de Ferrier speak to Napoleon?” ‘‘Because he is going to make an ass of himself before the court, and what's worse, he’ll make a laughing stock of me."” How can he do that?” “He is determined to thank the Em- peror for restoring his estates. He might thank the Empress, and she wouldn't know what he was talking about. But the Emperor know everything. I have used aii the arguments I dared to use against it, but he is a pig for stubborn- ness. For my sake, for Madame de Fer- rier's sake, Lazarre, help me to get him harmlessly out of the Tulleries, without making a public scandal about the resti- tution of tne land!” “‘What scandal can there be, monsieur? And why shouldn’t he thank Napoleon for giving him back his estates after the fortunes of revolution and war?” “‘Because the Emperor didn't do it. I bought them!™ Your “Yes, I bought them. Come to that, they are my property!” “‘Madame de Ferrier doesn’t know this?"” “Certainly not. I meant to settle them on her. Saints and angels, boy, any! could see what my intentions werel” “Then she is as poor as she was In America?” “Poorer. She has the Marquls de Fer- er We two who loved her, youth and man, rich and powerful, or poor and fugitive, felt the passionate need of protecting her. “She wouldn't accept taem If she knew it.” “‘Neither would the Marquis,” sald De Chaumont. “The ‘Marquis de Ferrier might live on the estates his lifetime without interference. But if he will see the Emperor, and I can’t prevent it any other way, I shall have to tell him!* “Yes, you will have to tell him! I thought of Eagle in the village and the old woman who blessed her a quarter of an hour and Paul standing on the seat to be worshiped. How could T go to Amer- ica and leave her? And what could I do for her when a rich man like De Chau- . mont was powerless? “Can’t you see Napoleon.” I suggested, “and ask him to give the Marquis a momens::u private audience and accept his thank: “No" groaned De Chaumont. “He I couldn’t put myself in wouldn't do it. such a position!"” “If Napoleon came In so hurriedly he may not show himself in the state apart- ments to-night.! “But he is accessible, wherever he is. He doesn’t deny himseif to the meanest’ soldier. Why shculd he refuse to see a noble of the class he is always coneciliat- ing whea he can “Introduce me te the Marquis dc Fer- rier,”” 1 finally said, “and let me. see if I can talk agai time while you get your Fmperor out of kis way.” I thought desperately of revealing to the old royalist what I believed myself to be, what Eagle and he believed me to be, and commanding him, as his rightful Prince, to content himself with less fusive and less public gratitude to =& usurper. He would live in the country, st rinking so natursiiv from. the court that a self-imposed appearance there need never be repeated. 1 believe this would have succeeded. A half hour more of time might have saved years of comfort to Eagle—for De Chau- mont was generbus—and have changed the outccme of my own life. But in scant fif- teen minutes our fate was decided. De Chaumont and I had moved with our heads together, from corridor to ante- chamber, from antechamber to curtained salon of the lower floor. The private apartments of the Bonaparte family were thrown open, and in the mahogany fur- nished rccm, all hung with yellow satin, I noticed a Swiss clock which pointed its minute finger to a_quarter before eleven. I made no hurry. My errand was not ac- complished. Skenedonk would wait for me, and even dare a search if he became suspicious. The Count, knowing what Madame de Ferrier considered me perhaps knew my pian. He turned back at once assenting. The Marquis and the Marquise de Fer- rier were that instant going up the staircase, and would be announced. e turned her face above me, the long line of her throat uplifted, and went courage- ous and smiling on her way. The quis had adapted himself to the court re- quirements of the empire. Noble gentle- man of another period, he stalked a pite- ous masquerader where he had once at_home. Count de Chaumont grasped my arm and we hurried the stairs after them. The end of a great and deep room was visible. and-I had a glimpse, between heads and shoulders, of a woman stand- ing in the light of many lusters. She was of exquisite shape, her face and arms and !(.]mlwmt hnvlhr;f a cle:l; fair pounh“l.i'n elicate whiteness a magnol have since seen that flower in bloom. wore a small diaiem in short-waisted robe among her ladies. I knew told that this was the Empress of French. f " it De Chaumont's hand was on arm, but another had touched R-:M der. looked time it was not laborer in a blouse, or a soldier; knew my pursuer in his white court dress. Officer of the law, writ in the lines ms face, to my eyes appeared all over m. “Monsieur Veeleeum!" As soon as he sald that I_understood it was the refugee from Ste. Pelagle that he wanted. “Certainly,”” T answered. “Don’t make a disturbance. “You will take my arm and come with me, Monsieur Veeleeum.™ “I will do nothing of the kind untll my err?nd is finished,” I answered desper- ately. De Chaumont looked sharply at the man, but his own salvation required him to lay hold on the Marquis. As he did Eagle’s face and my face encoun- tered in a panel of mirror, two flashes of palior; and I took my last look. “You will come with me now,” sald the gendarme at my ear. Ehde saw him, and understood his er- rand. There was no chance. De Chaumont wheeled ready to introduce me to Marquis. 1 was not permitted to speak to him. But 8 and moved dewn the corridor me. Decently and at once gen- darme fell behind w! could watch every muscle without alarming Madame de Ferrier. She :gmred not to see him. 1 have no @oubt he praised himself for his delicacy and her m’!‘ :‘m ot think “You must n you can run away from me,” she sald. “I was coming back,” I answered, mak. mg talk. y _captor’s person heaved behind a signifying that he silently laughed. kept within touch. “Do_you know the Tuileries well?” in- quired E-tle. “No. I have never been In the palace befors. “Nor I, in the state apartments.” &Continued Next Week.)