The Chevalier d'Auriac

I turned round sharply. There was no one whom I could recognise as the person who had addressed me. On the other hand, however, I blessed him in my heart, for not ten feet away was Madame, radiant and beautiful, with Palin by her side, and M. d'Ayen, with his arm in a silken sling, bowing before her. He was pressing the tips of her fingers to his lips when our eyes met, and, drawing away her hand, she made a half-movement towards me. I was by her side in a moment, and as we shook hands she said with a smile:

'So we have met again, chevalier! In the Louvre, above all places! 'This with a slight rising of colour.

'I thought I had missed you. I was looking for you everywhere, and had given you up. I of course knew you were in Paris.'

'But the Rue Varenne was too distant a land to journey to? Come,' she added as I began to protest, 'give me your arm and take me there' – she indicated the upper end of the room – 'the crush is not so great there. It is frightful here. M. d'Ayen will, I know, excuse me.'

Here d'Ayen, who stood glaring at me and biting at the red feathers in his hat which he held in his hand, interposed:

'I was in hopes that Madame would give me the pleasure,' he began.

'Another day, perhaps, baron,' I cut in rudely enough. 'I trust,' I added in a kinder tone, 'that your arm does not incommode you?'

'It will heal soon,' he said in a thick voice, and turned away abruptly.

'He is very angry,' Madame said, following him with her eyes.

'That will heal too, I hope. This way is easiest, I think,' and I moved onwards with my charge, still, however, keeping an eye on the door of the cabinet.

'Do you know,' I said a moment or so later, 'I am indebted to an unknown friend for finding out you were here?'

'Indeed!' she replied seriously enough, though her eyes were smiling; 'perhaps I ought not to tell you, but I saw you and told Coiffier to let you know I was here.'

'Coiffier, the astrologer!'

'Yes – do you not see him there? He is a brother of Pantin, and devoted to my house; a strange man though, and at times I almost fear him.'

I looked in the direction she indicated, and saw a tall man, dressed like any ordinary cavalier of the court, except for his cloak, which was of extreme length, and fell almost to his heels. He, however, wore no sword, but held in his hand a small rod of ebony, with a golden ball at the end. This was the celebrated astrologer Coiffier, who had foretold the death of Henry III., and who, it is said, never died, but was taken away bodily by the Evil One. How far this is true I know not, but it was common report when he disappeared for ever.

'He is much unlike Pantin,' I remarked; 'no one would take them for brothers.'

'And yet they are – and Pantin always says he is the younger, too.'

And now, as we made our way slowly towards the upper end of the room, I began to get tongue-tied, and Madame, too, said nothing. Finally, I blurted out, 'I am to see the King in a few minutes.'

She looked down and half-whispered, 'God give you success.'

'Amen!' I echoed to her prayer.

And then, in a way that people have when their hearts are full of grave things, we began to talk of matters light as air.

'The King is late to-day,' Madame said, glancing at the still closed door of the cabinet, near which a curious crowd had gathered; 'perhaps the cinque-pace will not come off,' she ran on, 'Monsieur de Guiche told me that the King was to open it with Mademoiselle d'Entragues. Do you not see her there? That lovely, black-eyed girl, talking to half-a-dozen people at once.'

'Is she so very beautiful?'

'What a question to ask! I do not see a woman in the room to compare with her.'

'To my mind her profile is too hard.'

'Indeed!' Madame's face, with its soft though clear outlines, was half turned from me as she spoke. 'I suppose, then, you do not care for her – a man never thinks with a woman in the matter of beauty. But I did think you would admire Mademoiselle.'

'Why should I, even supposing she was beautiful? To my mind there are two kinds of beauty.'

And here I was interrupted by the sound of cheering from the Petite Galerie, and the sudden hush that fell on the room. As we moved down to see for whom the crush was parting on either side, we discovered that it was the Marshal himself, and close at his heels were Lafin, with his sinister smile, and a dozen gentlemen, amongst whom I observed the grim figure of Adam de Gomeron. Madame saw the free-lance, too, and then turned her eyes to mine. She read the unspoken question in my look, her eyes met mine, and through her half-parted lips a low whisper came to me – 'Never – never.'

'They are coming straight towards us,' I said, 'we will stand here and let them pass,' and with her fingers still resting on my arm we moved a pace or so aside. As Biron came up there was almost a shout of welcome, and he bowed to the right and left of him as though he were the King himself. He was then the foremost subject in France, and in the heyday of his strength and power. In person he was of middle height, but carried himself with unexampled grace and dignity of manner. His short beard was cut to a peak, and from beneath his straight eyebrows, his keen and deep-set eyes, those eyes which Marie de Medici said hall-marked him for a traitor, avec ses yeux noirs enfoncés, seemed to turn their searchlights here, there, and everywhere at once. His dress, like all about the man, was full of display. He wore a suit of grey satin, a short black velvet cloak held by a splendid emerald and diamond clasp, and carried a hat plumed with white and black feathers. His sword hilt and the buckles on his shoes flashed with gems. As he came onwards, making straight for the door of the cabinet, Coiffier stepped out of the crowd and held him lightly by his cloak. The Marshal turned on him sharply: 'Let me go, I have no time for mummeries.' 'Very well, my lord, only I should advise Monseigneur never again to wear a suit such as he is attired in at present.'

Biron stopped, and we all gathered closer.

'Why, Coiffier?' he asked, in a tone of affected gaiety, but with a nervous manner.

'Because, monseigneur, I dreamed that I saw you early one morning standing, dressed as you are just now, by the block in the yard of the Bastille.'

One or two of the women almost shrieked, and a murmur went up from those who heard the words. As for the Marshal, his face grew pale and then flushed darkly.

'You are mad, my friend,' he said hoarsely, and then, with his head down, went straight to the door of the cabinet. It seemed to open of its own accord as he came up to it, and, leaving his suite behind, he passed in to the King.

Little did I think of the prophecy until that August dawn, when I stood by the side of the Lieutenant of Montigny and saw the head of Charles de Gontaut, Duc de Biron, and Marshal of France, held up to the shuddering spectators in the red hand of Monsieur of Paris.

'It almost seems as if I shall not have my interview,' I said to Madame a minute or so later, when the commotion caused by Coiffier had ceased.

'When were you to go in?' she asked.

'As soon as ever M. de Belin came out to summon me.'

'Then here he is,' and as she spoke I saw the door open, and Belin looked out. 'Go,' she said, and then our eyes met and I stepped up to the cabinet.

'Courage,' whispered Belin, and I was before the King. In the first two steps I took on entering the room, I perceived that there had been a scene; Sully was standing against the open window, his back to the light, and gravely stroking his beard. The Marshal was pacing backwards and forwards in an agitated manner, and the King himself was leaning against a high desk, beating a tattoo with his fingers on the veneer.

As de Belin presented me, I bent to my knee, and there was a dead silence, broken only by Henry renewing the quick, impatient tapping of his fingers on the woodwork of the desk. He was, what was unusual with him when in Paris, in half armour, and perhaps in compliment to the King of Spain, for it was the anniversary of the treaty of Vervins, wore the scarlet and ermine-lined mantle of the Toison d'Or. In the silence my eyes unconsciously caught the glitter of the collar, and I could almost read the device, 'Pretium non vile laborum,' on the pendant fleece.

'You may rise, monsieur,' the King said at last coldly, and added, 'and you may speak. It is because I understand that you broke the laws unwittingly that I have for the moment excused you – now what have you to say?'

As he spoke his piercing eyes met me full in the face, and for the moment I could not find words.

'Ventre St. Gris!' and Henry picked up a melocotin from a salver that was by him and played with it between his fingers; 'you could not have been born under the two cows on a field or, else you would have found tongue ere this, M. d'Auriac. You are not of the south, are you?'

'No, sire, though my father was Governor of Provence, and married into the Foix Candale.'

'If so, you should be a perfect Chrysostom. What have you to say?'

I had regained my courage by this and took the matter in both hands. 'Your Majesty, I will speak – I charge the Marshal, Duc de Biron, with being a traitor to you and to France, I charge him with conspiring – '

'You liar!'

It was Biron's voice, furious and cracked with rage, that rang through the room; but Henry stopped him with a word, and then I went on repeating exactly what is known, and what I have described before. When it was over the King turned to the Marshal, who burst out in a passion of upbraiding, calling God and his own services to witness that his hands were clean, 'and is the word of this man to be believed?' he concluded, 'this man who was openly in arms against his King, who is known as a brawler in the streets, who is even now trying to win the hand of a royal ward with not a penny piece to line his doublet pockets, who is excluded from the King's Peace – is his oath to be taken before the word of a peer of France? Sire, my father died by your side – and I – I will say no more. Believe him if you will. Here is my sword! It has served you well,' and unbuckling his sword the Marshal flung himself on his knees before the King and presented him with the hilt of his blade.

Astonished and silenced by this audacious outburst, I could say nothing, but saw Sully and de Belin exchange a strange smile. The King, however, was much moved. Putting his hands on Biron's shoulders, he lifted him to his feet. 'Biron, my old friend,' he said, 'the oaths of this man and of a hundred such as he are but as a feather weight against your simple word. Messieurs, it is because I wished the Marshal to know that I would hear nothing behind a man's back that I would not repeat to his own face that I have allowed M. d'Auriac a free rein to his tongue. In fine, I believe no word of this incredible tale. M. d'Auriac,' and he turned to me, 'I give you twenty-four hours to quit France, and never cross my path again.' And here the reckless Biron interposed hotly, 'But I must have satisfaction, sire.'

'Is it not satisfaction enough to know that the King believes your word?' said Sully.

'That may do for the house of Béthune, but not for Biron.'

The taunt told. It was the one tender point with the great minister. 'The house of Béthune,' he began.

'Was old with the Ark, duc – we all know that,' said Henry; 'but truly I know not what satisfaction the Marshal wants.'

'If not for me, sire, for my friends. There is M. de Gomeron who has been much wronged too.'

'I see, you are coming to the old point again. I tell you, Biron, plainly, and once for all, I will not have it – my word is given to d'Ayen. And now let us go.'

When the King had warned me out of France, I had made a half-movement to bow and retire and then glanced round to Belin for a hint as to what I should do. I could not see him, and not knowing whether to leave the cabinet or not, I remained standing irresolutely where I was, and thus was a witness to the little passage described above. As Henry refused Biron's request he, however, at the same time linked his arm in that of the Marshal, and stepped towards the door of the cabinet. Sully followed immediately behind, and I brought up the rear.

In this manner we entered the Galerie d'Apollon, and as we passed in the King looked round and saw me. He stared hard for a moment, and then said in loud tones, 'Twenty-four hours is a short time to reach the frontier, M. d'Auriac,' and then he turned his back on me.

Everyone heard the words, and I caught de Gie's mocking voice as he spoke to Mademoiselle d'Entragues, 'His cloak was short enough to see the King in, I observe,' and then there was a feminine titter.

With my heart boiling with rage I made for the stairway. I did not dare to look for Madame. There was enough despair on my face to enable her to read it like a book were she to see me, and I had no doubt she had. I felt I had miserably failed. There was one chance, however, and that was to urge her to instant flight, and I determined to ride straight to the Rue Varenne and there await either Madame's or Palin's return and induce them to adopt this course.

At this moment someone came in my way, and, stepping aside to let him pass, I caught sight of Madame with both de Belin and the Huguenot at her side. She was not three feet from me, and held out her hand saying, 'Courage; I know all.' I held her small fingers for a moment, and then the ribbon by which her fan was slung to her wrist somehow slipped and the fan fell to the ground. I picked it up, and, on handing it to her, caught a whisper, 'Coiffier, to-night,' and then with a bow I went on. Ten steps more brought me to the head of the stairway, and Coiffier was standing there. 'Would you have your fortune told, monsieur?' he asked.

'Will to-night suit you?' I answered, taking his humour.

'To-night will be too late, monsieur le chevalier. Look in that as you ride home and you will see – and now go.'

With a turn of his wrist he produced a small red ball of polished wood and placed it in my hands, and then moved backwards amongst the crowd.

It did not take me five minutes more to find Couronne, but as I turned her head on reaching the gates of the town towards the river face, I heard de Belin's quiet voice behind:

'Not that way, d'Auriac; you come with me.'

CHAPTER XIV
UNDER THE LIMES

It mattered little to me if I rode a portion of my way back with de Belin, and so I turned Couronne's head as he wished. Before setting off, however, he gave some rapid and whispered orders to Vallon, emphasising them with a loud 'Quick, mind you, and do not fail.'

'It is not likely, monsieur,' answered Vallon, and then set off.

The crowd was as great as ever, and we were compelled to go slowly. Looking for a moment to my right as we went forwards, I saw Vallon making as much haste as he could in the delivery of his message, and I wished to myself that my own stout-hearted knave were with me. One blade such as his was worth a half-dozen hired swords.

It was my intention to leave de Belin at his hotel and make my way as quickly as possible to my lodging, and thence, taking the risk of the King's warning, go straight to the Rue Varenne and urge Madame to instant flight. My house of cards had come down, a fluttering heap, as the first story was raised, and to my mind there was nothing for it but a sharp spur and a loose rein. I wished, too, for a moment of leisure to examine Coiffier's gift. I had little doubt that it conveyed a message or a warning, and the sooner I got at its contents the better.

In the meantime Belin rode by my side, whistling a march to himself, whilst a couple of lackeys immediately behind us shouted themselves hoarse with an insistent 'Way, way for Monsieur le Compte!'

This cry of theirs was being constantly echoed by a Capuchin, who, mounted on a mule, with his hood drawn over his face so as to show little but his eyes and a portion of a grey beard, kept alternately flinging an 'Ave!' and a 'Way! way!' to the crowd, the whiles he stuck close to our heels, having evidently made up his mind to follow the old saw – the stronger the company the freer the road.

I know not why it was, but the jingling notes of the tune my friend whistled irritated me beyond measure, and at last, at the corner of the Rue Perrault, I could stand it no longer, and, reining in, held out my hand.

'I must say good-bye here, Belin. We will meet again, and meet in better times, I trust, for me. In the meanwhile let me thank you, my friend. The rest of my business lies in my own hand.'

He laughed and said, 'Not yet good-bye; and as for your business, there is some of it in Coiffier's wooden ball. I would open that here before you decide to leave me.'

'Morbleu! You all seem to be determined to speak to me in riddles. Why can you not say plainly what you mean? And, besides, this is no place to read.'

'It is as good as any other. See here, d'Auriac! I slipped out of the King's cabinet as he spoke to you, and told Madame how your affair was progressing. She herself had something to communicate to you. The matter was pressing, and as things stood she could not tell you there. As for your being treated like a pawn, I give you my word it was beyond me to help that. But if you come with me you will learn many things within the hour. In the meantime open the ball, man! It was a lucky thing Coiffier was there.'

Without any further hesitation I drew forth Coiffier's gift. It was, as I have said, a hollow, wooden globe, and was made in two parts, which could be joined together or separated by a turn of the wrist. I held it in my hands for a moment or so and then opened it, and had just pulled forth the paper it contained, when by ill chance, as it seemed, the Capuchin, who was urging his mule past us, brushed violently against my horse, with the result that the paper slipped from between my fingers and fluttered to earth. Couronne, after her first start, was steady enough, but the monk's ill-conditioned mule kicked and plunged, bringing him apparently heavily to the ground. He fell exactly over the paper and lay there for a moment, face downwards, resting on one elbow. I sprang down, as much to get the paper as to assist him, but as I did so, he scrambled to his feet with 'A hundred pardons, monsieur, for my clumsiness,' and then hastily turned and hurried after his mule, which was already many yards ahead, behaving after its kind, and whose speed was not diminished by the sticks, stones, and oaths flung at him; and there was a roar of laughter – a mob will laugh or hiss at the merest trifles – as the lank figure of the Capuchin sped along in pursuit of his beast and vanished after him down a side street.

Belin himself joined in the merriment, and I picked up the paper, muddy and much soiled. Smoothening it out against the flap of my saddle, I made out the words, 'To-night, under the limes in the Tuileries – at compline.' There was no doubt about the writing, and, thrusting the precious scrap into my breast-pocket, I remounted. As I did so de Belin said:

'Well, have you changed your plans?'

'Partly, but I think I shall go back to my lodging.'

'Do nothing of the kind as yet. I have asked Pantin to meet us at the Two Ecus, your own ordinary. Vallon has gone to call him. You can give him any orders there. You owe me as much as to yield to me in this.'

It would have been ungracious not to have agreed, and I told Lisois I would go with him.

'Hasten, then! The road is clearer now, thanks to the Capuchin, or rather to his mule. By the way, did you see the monk's face?'

'No!'

'A pity! I tried to, but failed in the attempt. His voice was familiar to me, and he seemed wonderfully active for an old man.'

'You are suspicion itself, Belin.'

'I have slept with the dogs and risen with the fleas. Harkee, Hubert! And you, Pierre! If you see that Capuchin again let me know at once; keep your eyes open. If you can persuade him to speak to me, it will be worth five crowns a-piece to you.'

'Monsieur's wishes shall be obeyed,' said both men in a breath, and now finding the road free enough we set off at a canter, and kept the pace up until almost at the door of the Two Ecus.

As we pulled up at the ordinary and dismounted, Belin exclaimed: 'Now for our supper. I am of those who can only fight under a full belt, and I would advise you, d'Auriac – you who will have fighting to do very soon perhaps – to follow my advice, and make the best use you can of your knife.'

I laughed out some reply, and then, turning to mine host, ordered refreshment for both man and beast, and directed that our supper should be served in a private room.

'And observe,' cut in Belin, 'if Maître Pantin arrives, let him be shown up to us at once.'

'Monsieur.'

Before we went in de Belin asked his men if they had seen any more of the monk, and received an answer in the negative. Bidding them remember his orders on the subject, he linked his arm in mine and we went within.

'You seem in a way about the monk,' I said.

'My dear friend, I cannot get it out of my head that I have seen him before, and I don't like a riddle like that to be unsolved.'

'This comes of your court intrigues, de Belin. You were not wont to be so.'

'Other times, other manners,' he answered, a little grimly, and we sat at our table.

How well do I remember that small room in the Two Ecus, with the dark oak wainscoting, the furniture that age had polished, the open window showing the yellow sunset between the high-roofed and many-gabled houses, the red Frontignac sparkling like rubies in our long-necked glasses, and the deft service of Susette, the landlord's daughter, whose pretty lips pouted with disappointment, because no notice was taken of her good looks by the two cavaliers who supped together, whose faces were so grave, and whose speech was in tones so low as to be heard only by each other. At last we were left to ourselves, and Belin, who had been explaining many things to me that I knew not before, suddenly rose and began to pace the room, saying: 'You take the position now, d'Auriac. If not, let me put the points again before you briefly. There are men like Sully, Villeroi, Forget, and I myself, who understand and grasp the King's views, and know that if he has his way France will be the greatest country on earth. On the other hand, Henry is bound by ties of much service rendered to him by men like Sancy, who disgraces his name by plundering the state, and Zamet, who cannot disgrace himself by anything he does. These men, and such as they, exhaust our resources if they do nothing else, and serve the cause of the great nobles, such as Epernon, Turenne, Tremouille, and above all Biron, whose ambition knows no bounds, and who, I am certain, will never be still unless his head is on a crown-piece or else on the block.'

'But what has that to do with me?'

'Listen! Great as the King is, he has one failing – you know what it is; and it is on this the Sancys and Birons play. To carry out his own designs it is necessary that Henry should be saved from himself. The Italian embassy is with us, and whilst d'Ossat and the Cardinal performed the ostensible object of their mission, they affected another and secret object – and that was the arrangement of the King's marriage with Marie de Medici.'

'The King's marriage!'

'Yes.'

'But the Queen still lives.'

'And long may she live; but not as Queen.'

'Ah!'

'Exactly; you begin to see now. If we can make this move we get the support of the Quirinal, and, more, the help of the Florentine coffers. We will paralyse the great conspiracy which Biron heads – rather a league than a conspiracy. We can dispense with the expensive services of Sancy, of Ornano, and of Zamet, and then Henry will be free to carry out his great designs.'

'If, however, Biron is as strong as you say?'

'Permit me – we are providing for that. He has been kept close to the King. Sully, as Master-General of the ordnance, has ordered the guns at Dijon to be sent to Paris with a view of replacing them with new ones. None are going, and by the time that the King's betrothal is announced, Burgundy will be as much Henry's as it is the Marshal's now.'

'But he will believe nothing against Biron.'

'Other people have nursed vipers before, but the King is not himself now. He can think of nothing but one thing. See here, d'Auriac, I have helped you for two reasons: one, because I love France; and the other, because I love you. Henry has ordered the marriage of Madame de Bidache with d'Ayen to be celebrated to-morrow. He gave that order to-day, to put an end to the importunities of the Marshal in regard to de Gomeron. I know this, and Madame knows it too. In plain language you must play a bold stroke for the woman you love – take her away to-night.'

'That was partly arranged – we are to go to Switzerland.'

'You will never reach the frontier. Look – there is my castle of Mourmeton in Champagne. It is old and half in ruins. See, here is my signet. Take it, show it to Gringel, the old forester there – he will take you to a hiding place. Stay there until the affair blows over, and then to Switzerland or elsewhere, if you will; in the meantime I pledge you the faith of de Belin that no stone will be left unturned to effect your pardon.'

I took the ring he gave me and slipped it on, and then our hands met in a hearty clasp that expressed more than words. It was at this moment that Susette announced Pantin, and the little notary came in with his quick, short step.

'I am late, messieurs, I know,' he said, 'but I was not at home when Vallon arrived, or else I had been here sooner.'

'You are in ample time for what we want, Pantin,' I said, 'though there is no time to waste. I am leaving Paris to-night, and will not return to the Rue des Deux Mondes, but start from here. My business concerns the safety and honour of Madame de la Bidache, and when I say that I know I can rely on you. Is it not so?'

'It is, monsieur.'

'Well, then, should anyone ask for me, say I have gone you know not where. You do not know, as a matter of fact. If Jacques, my servant, returns, bid him go straight to M. le Compte. He will get orders from him.'

'I understand perfectly, monsieur.'

'There is yet another thing. Hasten to Maître Palin and bid him await me now outside the Porte St. Denis with two spare horses; he will understand what I mean. And now, my friend, adieu. This will pay what I owe you,' and I thrust a half-dozen pistoles into his hand.

But he resolutely refused. 'No, no, monsieur le chevalier.'

'But dame Annette?' interposed Belin.

'Um!' said the notary, scratching his chin, 'that is another matter. I had for the moment forgotten I was a married man. Very well, monsieur, I will take the money – not that I need it, but for the sake of peace; and now there is little time to lose. I go to do all you have asked me to, and rest assured, messieurs, it will be faithfully done.'

'I have no doubt of that, Pantin.'

'We had better make a start, too,' I said, and Belin shouted for the horses. We stayed for a moment or so after the notary's departure, during which time Belin urged me to take Vallon and a couple of men with me to my tryst, but, fearing no complications, I refused, saying that this was a matter that were best done with one hand. Belin would have come himself but that, his friendship with me being known, it was necessary for him to avoid all suspicion of his being in the affair.

'I shall go to the Louvre,' he said, 'and engage d'Ayen at play. Pimental and others will be there, and, if I mistake not M. le Baron will have a sore head for his wedding,' and he chuckled here.

Then I settled the score with mine host, and, mounting our horses, we rode back the way we came. It was at the Magasins that we wished each other good-bye, and, with a last grip of the hand and a last warning to hasten to Mourmeton, Belin turned towards the Louvre, whilst I went on towards the Tuileries, keeping the northern road, and not the more frequented street along the river face. I chose this way because, although it was a little longer, yet there was still a half-hour for my appointment, and it would not do for me to arrive too early, as by hanging about at the trysting-place I might attract attention, and, perhaps, ruin the game. As I rode on I caught myself wondering if I could play the same hand that Sully, Villeroi, and de Belin were throwing to. I knew they were honest men – their positions removed them from such temptations as might assail even a great noble, and that they were loyally trying to serve their country and their King. If such service, however good its object, meant, as it clearly did, that one must be up to the elbows in intrigue, then I thanked God that I belonged to no party, and inwardly resolved that, whether I won or lost my hazard, the court would see me no more; and as for the King! Pardieu! It is not good to know a hero too well.

There was a strong moon, and the night was as clear as crystal. One side of the street was in shadow, illumined here and there by the dim light of a few lanterns set high up in niches in the old and moss-grown walls of the buildings. The houses here were old even for this part of Paris, and, with their sloping roofs and many gables, rose in irregular outlines on either side – outlines, however, so softened by the moonlight, in which they seemed to quiver, that it was as if some fantastic creation of fairyland had been set down here – a phantom city that would melt into nothingness with the warm rays of the morning sun.

Away in the distance it still seemed as if I could hear the hum of the city behind me, but here all was quiet and still and the iron-shod hoofs of Couronne rang out with a strange clearness into the night. Occasionally I met a passer on the road, but he or she, whoever they were, took care to give me a wide berth, and once a woman who had opened her door to look out, for some reason or other, hurried in and shut it with a little cry of alarm as I passed.

I had now come to the gardens of the Tuileries, and, putting Couronne at the wall which was just being raised around them, found myself within a quarter-mile of our place of meeting. The turf was soft and level here, and I let Couronne go at a half-gallop, keeping in the chequered shade of the huge trees, which whispered strange things to each other in the breeze. At this moment it seemed as if I heard the smothered neigh of a horse. I knew the sound well, for often had my old Norman tried to serve me in this way through the scarf by which his jaws were bound together when we lay in ambuscade. With a touch of my hand I stayed my beast and stopped to listen. Beyond me stretched the avenue, at the end of which stood the great lime trees. I could see nothing but the ghostly line of trunks, lit up here by the moon, there standing out black against the night, or fading away into a lacework of leaves and branches. There was no sound except the tinkle of the leaves and the sullen creaking of the boughs overhead. 'It must be her horse or Palings,' I said aloud to myself; and then the compline came to me clear and sweet from the spire of St. Germain.